[Angelika Fleischer 01] - Honour of the Grave

by Robin D. Laws - (ebook by Undead)

  His head turned on its beefy neck as Gelfrat felt the tickle of Angelika’s dagger tip on it. He threw Benno to the floor. He turned to her and laughed, moving away. “You can try it, strumpet. But I say for certain, there’s no chance of your getting that all the way in. Not on the first try, which is all you’d get.”

  “How about a deal?” Angelika proposed. “Let the three of us leave, and you can have your brother all to yourself.”

  “Half-brother.”

  “What say you?”

  “I say I’ll kill all four of you.”

  She cut open his leg, above the knee. She skirted back. He drew an oversized sabre and hacked down at Benno, who rolled out of the way and onto his feet.

  Renald pulled a knife and rushed at Lukas. Franziskus stepped into his path and the two went sprawling onto the floor, where the oil burned.

  Gelfrat clanged his sword into Benno’s, knocking him into Nino. Nino moved his hand from his bloody cheek to punch Benno in the kidney. Benno elbowed him in the face, enlarging his wound. Blood spattered the wall.

  Lukas took his chance and ran with uncertain balance for the open doorway. Nino navigated wide of Benno to pursue the prisoner. He slammed himself into his quarry, pinning Lukas against the wall of the curving stairwell.

  Angelika ran for the doorway. Gelfrat, widening his stance, obstructed her. She crouched with her knife. He feinted at her, then turned to parry an incoming blow from Benno’s sabre. The two Kopfs grunted and pushed their swords together. Angelika couldn’t get past them.

  Lukas butted his forehead into Nino’s cheek. Nino shoved him back, but twisted his ankle on the steps. Lukas ran up the stairs.

  “You idiot!” Angelika groaned. “Don’t run up!” Then Lukas was gone.

  Renald rolled on top of Franziskus. His helmet teetered off and clunked onto the floor. Franziskus butted him in the head, stunning him long enough to flip him onto his side.

  Benno manoeuvred Gelfrat into turning his back on Angelika. She cut across Gelfrat’s shoulder, tearing a gash below his neck and notching the leather strap that held his breastplate in place. He roared and swung at her with his sword. The blow went wide. While he was off-stride, she dashed around him and out onto the steps. He turned to deflect a blow from Benno’s sabre. She had a good opportunity to strike at the back of his neck, but declined to take it. She ran.

  Nino came at her, grabbing at her ankles. She turned to kick him. He pulled her off her feet. She went down, shuddering as her tailbone landed on a stair edge. She ground her heel in Nino’s eye. He whimpered and let himself slide away from her. She hopped to her feet and resumed her upstairs run.

  Franziskus had lost track of his rapier. Renald was lying on it, as well as his own. Franziskus got up and seized him by the armour straps. Renald dug fingers into his leg. Franziskus kneed him in the temple. The guard rolled off the weapons and tottered up. Franziskus kicked his knife out of reach, then ducked to grab the hilt. Renald kicked at his throat, scoring only a glancing blow, but which prevented Franziskus from rearming. Franziskus launched himself at Renald, grabbing his wrists and pinning him against the wall.

  Benno and Gelfrat traded swooshing sabre swings; none came sufficiently close to so much as ting against the other sword. Gelfrat backed Benno against a wall. He lunged in, sabre slashing. Benno tripped him. He fell into the wall. His sabre-blade landed on Renald’s left hand—Franziskus still held it by the wrist—chopping through his middle, ring and little fingers. Severed digits hit the floor at Franziskus’ feet. Renald only realised what had happened when he saw Franziskus’ horror and followed his eye-line. He saw his shattered hand just as the gore began to spurt from it. He sank to his knees and, cradling his hand in his good one, crawled on his knees into the corner, to scream hideously.

  Franziskus’ first thought was to go to the poor fellow’s side, but he cleared his head of this ridiculousness and rushed for the door. Gelfrat stepped free of his duel with Benno long enough to smash Franziskus in the throat with his forearm. An airless gasp issued from Franziskus’ gaping mouth. He staggered back, hitting the support beam.

  Gelfrat glanced back at Franziskus for the merest moment, checking the results of his handiwork. This gave Benno an opening. Benno brought his sabre ringing down on Gelfrat’s steel helmet, pounding a pronounced dent into it, and knocking it off-kilter. The force of his strike sent him reeling off balance, erasing the chance for a follow-up blow.

  Franziskus dashed at Gelfrat, spearing the back of his calf with his rapier’s sharp tip. He saw his hit draw blood but Gelfrat paid it no heed. Instead, the big man prepared for a heaving swing at his half-brother’s legs. Benno leapt over the blow, then fell far short with an ill-timed overhead chop with his own sabre. Gelfrat bashed his weapon into the side of Benno’s breastplate. Franziskus saw Benno’s eyes widen from the impact, then dashed for the open doorway. He pelted up the stairs.

  Lukas hit the top of the stone stairs. They terminated in a small stone room, scarcely bigger than his cell. A set of rough wooden steps led up into open air. Through this opening, he saw starlight. He hesitated. Battle sounds clattered up from below. He eked his way up the steps.

  He’d clambered his way to the top of the watchtower. The observation deck was square: about twenty feet on each side. Crenellated battlements surmounted its walls, embrasures alternating with merlons. Four men stood watch there, manning a ballista. There was a cannon, too, but none of them attended it. They wore Averlandish uniforms, though not the Black Field crest. Several glass lanterns, mounted on metal poles, spread orange light on their startled faces. Three of them reached to their belts for long swords, thicker than Franziskus’ rapier, but lighter than von Kopf sabres. The fourth pulled a matchlock pistol from his sack, and knelt to load it. The others scolded him as they charged the escaped prisoner.

  The first to reach him was Thomas Steinhauer, who was tall and lanky and, at the age of sixty, was considered ancient by his fellow soldiers. He was far too old, they persisted in telling him, to be breaking his back lugging his weapons and armour about, or to be wearing out his feet marching from one battle to the next or even to be straining his eyes peering out from his watch post here on top of the south wall. Secretly, he agreed with them, but his pride did not let him make any such admission. He had served in Averland’s army when both Jurgen and Count Marius were mere infants. Now, after the failure of his masonry firm, he was back in it again, cursing fortune’s fickle gods. He threw himself at Lukas and clouted the spindly lad across the side of the head with the guard of his sword-hilt, sending him crashing to the stone floor. His mouth leaking spittle, he kicked at Lukas’ throat, until the boy rolled over to protect it. Then Thomas kicked at his ribs.

  The gunner, whose name was Werther Weiss, who had yet to do anything of interest to anyone, including himself, fumbled in his pack, looking for his tinderbox. He had never had a chance to fire his pistol, except at targets, and he was determined not to lose this opportunity, even though his mates were yelling at him.

  The second to reach Lukas was Sebastian Arzt, who was short, with cheeks like a forest rodent puffed up with nuts. Sebastian was young and wished to become a field medic, and from there, when he had completely his military duties, a real physician. This would enable him, he reckoned, to quickly enrich himself, so that he could marry into a family with a good name. He kicked at Lukas’ hands, which the boy had put out to protect his face.

  Werther Weiss found his tinderbox. He teased the fuse from his matchlock between its steel and flint.

  Theophilus Ruprecht, bow-legged and irritable, was the third to reach Lukas. When he was annoyed, which was frequently, he showed it by hunching his shoulders back and forth, in a curious lateral motion that any of his comrades could distinguish from up to half a mile away. He was about thirty years old, or so his mother told him. He wanted to die a soldier, though he did not care who he fought for. By his reckoning, he’d killed four orcs, sixteen goblins, two elves, and three people, over th
e course of his career. Two of those goblins, he’d killed with the same blow. He was proud of that. He took his sword, reversed it, clasped mail-gloved hands around the blade, and used the hilt as a bat, to smash down on Lukas’ vertebrae.

  Werther Weiss struck his flint.

  A knife flew into Theophilus Ruprecht’s eye. He fell to his hands and knees and bellowed out his pain and fear.

  Angelika had appeared at the top of the wooden stairs.

  Weiss’ flint failed to light his fuse.

  Arzt and Steinhauer looked at each other as they each kicked at Lukas. Both hoped the other would run to engage the lithe, black-clad woman who now sprinted at them. Steinhauer turned to meet her charge, gripping his longsword tightly. She ran at him headlong. Ruprecht briefly stopped his moaning, and for a prolonged moment the only sound came from her soles scuffing lightly on the stone flooring. Arzt paused his kicking and watched her. Abruptly she altered her trajectory and curved toward him, leaving Steinhauer stupidly braced for a nonexistent impact.

  Lukas crawled away from him. He put his foot on the back of the boy’s neck.

  Arzt swung his sword at Angelika. She dived at his legs.

  Weiss had finally got an ember going on the end of his fuse.

  Angelika landed on Arzt, slashing with her knife, cutting a hole in his trousers, and injuring his leg. He caught her in the face with the flat of his sword.

  Weiss’ fuse sparked into life.

  “Not now you stinking fool!” Steinhauer shouted at him. “You’ll hit Sebastian!” Lukas was motionless under Steinhauer’s boot.

  Weiss smiled. He did not like Sebastian Arzt well enough to give up such an excellently good chance to try his gun. He took aim at the two figures wrestling on the floor. He was reasonably sure he could hit the woman in the head.

  Arzt knocked the knife from Angelika’s hand. It skidded into the middle of the deck.

  Cutting it close, Weiss watched his fuse burn down.

  Angelika seized Arzt’s wrist and twisted; the sword slid from his hand. She rose up, straddling him. She balled twin fists and pummelled his face with them.

  Weiss followed her movement with the barrel of his gun. By sucking her head up, she’d removed any chance of his hitting Arzt. He pulled the trigger.

  The burning fuse slammed down onto the firing pan. It extinguished itself. No bullet flew.

  Weiss had forgotten to load his pistol.

  He cursed and leapt for his pack, for his box of shot and powder.

  Blood, cascading from Angelika’s nose, mingled with Arzt’s own, and dripped into his eyes. He punched out; she weaved so he only hit her shoulder. The blow was powerful, though, and knocked her off him and to the side.

  Steinhauer left Lukas to lie on the stone floor. He stepped to Angelika and stood over her with sword upraised. He couldn’t bring it down without the risk of hitting Arzt if he missed her. He dropped the sword at his side.

  Weiss found his tin box and fumbled with its lid.

  Steinhauer grabbed Angelika from behind, wrapping both hands around her neck. He dug his fingers into her windpipe; she flailed her arms. Arzt punched her in the stomach. Steinhauer tightened his grip on her throat, making her sputter.

  Ruprecht, the knife still buried in his eye, collapsed. He rolled over on his back. He resumed his pitiful groaning.

  Franziskus made it to the top of the steps. Without breaking stride, he pounded toward Arzt and Steinhauer. Ruprecht’s cries masked the sound of his approach.

  From his box, Weiss took a paper cartridge of gunpowder.

  Franziskus wheeled his sword at Steinhauer. He laid a crimson slash across the side of the old man’s face and neck. Franziskus tried to reprise his move, but his opponent got his forearms up and in the way. Franziskus’ rapier cut open a yellow sleeve and a black sleeve, as well as a little bit of flesh beneath.

  Lukas struggled to his feet, looked about for a weapon. His mouth dropped open in horror as he watched the fight.

  Angelika, released from Steinhauer’s grip, jammed the heel of her hand into Arzt’s codpiece. He huffed and cursed but recovered and trapped her between his legs.

  Ruprecht flopped himself over on his back, chest heaving. Blood bubbled from his mouth.

  Steinhauer looked at his sword, lying on the floor. “You’d run through an unarmed man?” he demanded of Franziskus.

  Franziskus stepped back and gestured to the sword. Steinhauer stooped to sweep up his blade. He grinned. “Stupid sack of dung,” he said.

  Weiss stuffed his cartridge down the muzzle of his pistol.

  Ruprecht died.

  Arzt squeezed Angelika between his legs and rolled, smashing her into the floor.

  Steinhauer came in hard and fast to hack at Franziskus. Franziskus parried, his wrist twisting from the blow. Steinhauer followed up with a surprise underhand; Franziskus danced back. He hit the battlement and ducked fast to miss a third blow.

  Angelika wrapped her fingers around the hilt of the dagger that jutted out of Ruprecht’s dead eye.

  Franziskus elbowed Steinhauer in the side. Steinhauer turned to interpose his breastplate between himself and the blow. Franziskus suffered the force of his own strike; lightning pain reached all the way up into the bones of his hand. Steinhauer pressed his advantage; Franziskus put up his left forearm, and got it badly cut.

  Weiss loaded shot into the muzzle of his gun.

  Angelika drove the dagger deep into Arzt’s thigh. He jerked, freeing her. She seized him by the helmet straps and smashed his head down on the floor. Again, and again.

  Steinhauer forced Franziskus backwards. He scraped his back on the battlements as he bobbed and twisted to duck or parry the older man’s blows. He saw that Steinhauer’s breaths were laboured.

  “You’re tiring,” he said.

  Weiss sparked his tinder.

  “Don’t make me kill an old man,” Franziskus told Steinhauer.

  Steinhauer’s face went white with fury. He dived at Franziskus.

  A mottled dove flapped above them.

  Arzt shuddered and went limp. Angelika stopped pummelling his head.

  Weiss lit his fuse.

  Franziskus braced for Steinhauer’s charge and smashed him in the jaw, visibly unmooring it from its hinges.

  Angelika stood up.

  Weiss aimed at her.

  Steinhauer crumpled.

  Weiss pulled his trigger.

  At the head of the stairs, Gelfrat appeared, breastplate wet with blood.

  The mechanism of Weiss’ matchlock drove the fuse into the firing pan, lighting the powder. It sent a ball of shot cutting through the air.

  Angelika ducked.

  The shot hit Gelfrat.

  It fell, flattened, from a dent in the big man’s breastplate.

  Weiss gulped.

  “Bastard!” Gelfrat screamed. “You shot me!”

  Weiss stammered out a denial.

  Gelfrat ran at him.

  Weiss pulled his useless trigger.

  “You shot me!” Gelfrat said.

  He closed the distance between them. Weiss quivered. Gelfrat seized him by the belt and collar. Groaning, he heaved the begging, burbling soldier over his head.

  Angelika and Franziskus ran to Lukas.

  “What’s your name?” Gelfrat demanded of Weiss, but gave him no time to answer. “I just killed one brother. This is his blood on me! I’m about to kill another! What makes you think you can shoot me, and not have me kill you, too?” Dried tears marked Gelfrat’s cheeks, like snail’s trails.

  Angelika and Franziskus tried to get Lukas to his feet.

  “Please!” Weiss pleaded.

  Gelfrat dropped to one knee. He lowered Weiss onto it, pressing him down. He broke Weiss’ back; vertebrae crunched and popped. Gelfrat lifted Weiss once more over his head. He threw the gunman off the parapet. He stepped up to watch him fall, waited for the thud of impact, and watched appreciatively as a red pool spread around Weiss’ shattered body.

&
nbsp; Lukas was upright, tottering at first, and then leaning on both Angelika and Franziskus.

  Gelfrat wheeled.

  They tried to turn Lukas around, but he tangled his legs in theirs. They grabbed him before he could pitch face-first onto the floor, but then Gelfrat was upon them. He tore Angelika off the boy, pulling her off her feet with one powerful arm. She landed on her side and rolled, ending up about ten feet from the fray.

  Gelfrat punched at Franziskus’ face. Franziskus ducked the blow, but caught the next, a jab to his kidneys, delivered by Gelfrat’s free hand. He felt himself doubling over but exercised all the control he could muster to stay upright. He saw Arzt’s prone form behind Gelfrat and pushed on him, hoping to trip him. Franziskus slid down the big man’s gore-slicked breastplate.

  Gelfrat smacked him in the ear, punched him in the stomach, kicked him in the head, and stomped on his back.

  Lukas turned to run. He got halfway to the stairs. Gelfrat slung a choking arm under his chin, dragging him backwards.

  “Lukas, I want you to think about something as I murder you,” he said.

  Angelika crept to Arzt’s body. She pulled the blade from his thigh. He was breathing, shallowly.

  “You aren’t a hundredth of the man Benno was,” wheezed Gelfrat, “yet he gave his life for you.”

  Angelika jumped on Gelfrat’s back. She jammed the dagger between his shoulder blades. He swatted her off before she could drive it the rest of the way in. She landed on her tail-bone. The blade waggled back and forth; it was stuck in about an inch. If it had gone in any less, it would have fallen out of its own accord; any more, and it might have done the kind of harm needed to bring him down.

  Angelika rose. Her legs refused to cooperate. She sat.

  “You, who aren’t even good enough for the maggots you’re about to feed,” Gelfrat continued. He reached around to his back, located the dagger in it, plucked it out, and tossed it down the stairs. He leaned down, heaved Lukas over his shoulder, and strolled over to the edge of the parapet’s southward edge. It faced out onto the city and south, toward the Blackfire Pass. He’d thrown Weiss into the town, but had evidently decided that Lukas did not deserve even the shelter of Grenzstadt’s walls. “Can you speak, boy?” he asked, standing at the edge.