by Nathan Long
The others nodded, and turned to Reiner.
‘Aye,’ he sighed. ‘There is that. And I’ve no answer for you. But there must be one honourable count in the Empire?’
‘You’d know better than us, my lord,’ sneered Pavel.
‘It’s a risk, I’ll warrant you, but what’s the alternative? Do you want to spend the rest of your life in foreign lands? Or living the life of an outlaw here, hiding your hands and skulking from place to place, with the law of the Empire always sniffing at your heels like a wolfhound? Do you want to never go home again? I say Manfred is the best of a lot of bad choices.’ ‘Not to mention that it’s the right thing to do,’ said Franz.
Reiner smirked. Hals and Pavel burst out laughing. Giano giggled.
Hals wiped his eyes, ‘Oh laddie, you shame us all.’
Reiner looked around. ‘So are we decided? Do we seek out Manfred?’
The men answered with ‘Ayes’ and grunts of approval, but Erich, who had been standing with his arms crossed at the edge of the circle at last spoke up.
‘No, we are not decided,’ he said. ‘You’ve a smooth tongue, Hetzau, but I remain unconvinced. The right thing to do…’ He shot a withering glance at Franz, ‘Is to follow the orders we were given by Baron Albrecht and complete the mission. And as the ranking officer now that Veirt is dead, that is exactly what I command you to do.’
Pavel and Hals laughed again, and the rest glared at the lancer mutinously. Reiner groaned. Things would move much more smoothly without this parade-ground popinjay gumming up the works, but he was the best sword among them, and if Reiner wanted to get back to civilisation he would need around him all the swords they had. ‘The Empire’s authority doesn’t mean much this far from Altdorf, von Eisenberg. We could kill you where you stand and no one would ever know, but if you want to play at rank, I’m not entirely sure you outrank me.’
‘I am a novitiate knight of the Order of the Sceptre!’ said Erich, drawing himself up.
‘Aye,’ drawled Reiner. ‘Doesn’t that mean that you polish the boots and fetch the beer?’
The men laughed.
Erich was turning red. ‘I was to win my commission after my first battle!’
Reiner gaped in mock surprise. ‘So you’ve yet to blood your lance? And you want to lead us? Laddie, my father may not have had the coin to buy me a position in an order, but at least I’ve seen battle. I was wounded at Kiirstad.’
Erich sputtered, but it was a charge he couldn’t answer.
Reiner shrugged. ‘My preference is that we have no leader. We’re all worldly men—most of us anyway. Why don’t we put the decision to a vote? All who want to return to Baron Valdenheim, step left, all who want to seek out and warn his brother the count, step right.’
‘Vote?’ bellowed Erich before anyone could move. ‘There is no voting in the army. One does as one’s commander orders. This is not the council of elector counts.’ He glared at Reiner. ‘If you mean to flout my authority in this way, then we will decide who commands here in the proper way. We will settle the matter on the field of honour.’
And with that he pulled off his left glove and threw it at Reiner’s feet.
EIGHT
They Still Come
REINER STARED AT the glove with his stomach sinking. The last thing he wanted to do was fight Erich. Reiner had always been an indifferent blade, his strong suits in the area of martial endeavours being riding and shooting. He knew Erich was the better man by far. And yet fight him he must.
Though the temptation to just kill the knight when his back was turned was almost overwhelming, he would be a fool to do it. In the first place, he needed Erich’s sword for the dangerous journey ahead. In the second, for all his talk of not wanting to be leader, Reiner thought himself the coolest, wisest head among the motley band, and wanted the others to listen to him and do as he suggested. Though some of them might at first applaud him for shooting Erich in the back, he knew that the more they thought about it, the less they would trust him, and the more they would be worried that they might be next.
No, if he wanted to get home in one piece he needed all the men he had, and if he wanted them to guard his back he needed their trust. He would have to fight Erich and, sadly, fight him cleanly. Reiner was certain that the traditions of honour were so deeply entrenched in Erich that if Reiner won the duel fairly Erich would reluctantly obey its stipulations and agree to be led by him. But if Reiner cheated, Erich would refuse to be bound by the outcome. The only difficulty was that the odds of Reiner winning the fight without cheating were slim to none.
Of course if Reiner lost, and Erich commanded them to return to Albrecht, then something else might be done, but he would worry about that if it happened.
He looked up at Erich. ‘To first blood?’
Erich sneered. ‘If that is all you are prepared to risk.’
‘I will need your blade when I win. If you had any sense you would realise that you will need mine if you become leader.’
Erich flushed, embarrassed not to have thought of it on his own. ‘And if I win you will submit to my command?’
Reiner nodded. ‘I will. As will you if I win, yes?’
Erich hesitated unhappily, then nodded. ‘You have my word.’
‘Very well.’ Reiner pulled his cavalry sabre and scabbard from his belt. ‘I’m afraid I cannot match the length of your longsword, so you will have to match mine. Would you care to select the ground?’
‘Fine.’
After a hasty colloquy they determined that Oskar’s sword matched Reiner’s in length, and Erich took a few practice lunges with it to get the feel. The novitiate knight felt it would be unseemly to conduct an affair of honour in a convent, so they marked out the lists just outside the convent’s gates. Here also they laid to rest the body of Veirt, for it didn’t feel right to leave him unburied among the horrors and desecrations of the convent garden. The ground was rocky and they had nothing to dig with so instead they covered him with loose rocks—though not before Reiner had emptied his pockets of all that was useful: gold crowns, a whetstone, a compass, charms and fetishes to ward off harm and bring luck. Finally, much to Pavel’s disappointment, Reiner posted him as lookout, telling him to keep his one eye on the paths leading to and away from the convent.
At last they were ready. Reiner swallowed queasily as the scent of the blood of the butchered horses in the hidden canyon reached his nose. It was too reminiscent of a slaughterhouse for his peace of mind at this particular moment. He rolled his shoulders and circled his arms to warm up, all the while watching Erich doing the same on the opposite side of the ground. Gustaf waited to one side with his field kit at the ready, and Giano, whose people were credited with making the practice of duelling into the ceremony it had become, stood in the centre ready to act as master of the lists. The rest of the men, Pavel, Hals, Oskar, Ulf and Franz, stood around the edges of the ground, their faces a mixture of anxiety and eagerness.
‘Gentlemen, please to come to centre?’ asked Giano.
Erich strode forward confidently, sword in hand and stripped to the waist despite the freezing wind. A look at the blond knight’s broad chest and chiselled midsection made Reiner glad he’d kept his shirt on. The comparison would have done nothing for his morale. He stepped to Giano with a tremor in his knees he hoped no one else could detect.
Giano bowed formally to both of them. ‘Weapons and ground alright by both gentlemen? Then we beginning. To the first bleeding, hey? If one gentleman can no continue, the contest go to the man who still stand. If no can see who strike first blood, then fight one more, hey?’
‘Fine,’ said Erich, sneering down his nose at Reiner.
‘Yes,’ said Reiner, looking at his boots.
‘Excellent. Gentlemen please to stand at ends of blades.’
Reiner and Erich stepped back and extended their arms and swords. Giano held them until their sword tips touched. ‘Gentlemen are ready?’
Erich and Reiner nodded.
‘Very good.’ Giano let go of the tips of the sabres and leapt back. ‘Then begin!’
Reiner and Erich dropped into guard and began to circle, eyeing each other alertly. Reiner tried desperately to remember all the lessons he had ignored on those interminable afternoons with his father’s master of the fence, when he would rather have been in the hayloft, learning a different sort of lunge and thrust from his second cousin Marina. Was he supposed to look into Erich’s eyes to watch for what he intended next, or was it best to focus on his chest? He couldn’t recall. He was so out of practice. All his life he had been able to talk his way out of fights, and when he hadn’t, when some angry rustic had caught him with weighted dice or an extra ace in his hand, he had fought dirty, throwing furniture, beer, sand, whatever came to hand. He had no experience fighting within a set of rules.
Erich lunged forward, executing a lightning thrust. Reiner parried, but much too wide. Erich’s blade dipped easily under his and slid directly for his heart. Only an undignified backwards hop saved Reiner from being cut to the bone.
‘Easy, sir,’ gasped Reiner. ‘Do you mean to mark me or kill me?’
‘My apologies,’ said Erich, looking not one whit apologetic. ‘I expected more resistance.’
Reiner danced back, sweating, as Erich advanced gracefully, pressing his advantage. Reiner parried and blocked like mad, stopping Erich’s blade mere inches from his face and chest time and again. There was no question of him riposting. He was too busy defending. If he tried an attack, Erich would slip past his guard and it would be over. He had to hope Erich would make some error, or lose his balance. It didn’t seem likely.
As he dodged this way and that, the faces of the men who surrounded them flashed by: Hals, leaning on his spear and watching with grim intensity, Ulf, his brow furrowed, Giano, eyes shining, Franz with his fingers over his mouth. The boy seemed almost more worried than Reiner himself.
Erich slashed again. Reiner stopped the blow, but it was so strong it drove his own blade back into his shoulder. As he jumped back Reiner felt his arm. No blood.
‘Nearly had you there,’ said Erich, grinning.
‘Nearly.’
Curse the man, thought Reiner. The lancer was so calm, so sure of himself. He had yet to break a sweat, while Reiner was perspiring so much the hilt of his sabre was twisting in his hand.
Erich came in again, jabbing and slashing. His blade seemed to be everywhere at once. Reiner could see it as little more than a blur. He backed away in a panic and his boot heel caught on a lip of rock. He started to fall and threw out his sword arm to try to regain his footing.
Even a lesser swordsman than Erich might have taken advantage of such an opening. Erich lunged like a striking cat, blade arrowing straight toward Reiner’s chest. There was no way Reiner could bring his sword to guard in time to stop it.
But then suddenly Erich was tripping himself, his sword arm flailing. Reiner watched amazed, while time seemed to slow to a crawl and his sword swung forward just as Erich’s arm fell into its path. It was the slightest touch. A scratch from a rose thorn, and yet there was blood—a line on Erich’s arm, a smear on Reiner’s blade.
Erich caught himself and jerked back again instantly, but not to press his attack. He spun to point his sabre accusingly at Hals. ‘You tripped me, you vermin! You stuck out your spear and tripped me.’
‘I didn’t, my lord!’ said Hals, his face as innocent as a newborn’s. ‘You tripped over it, certain. But I never moved it.’
‘Liar!’ Erich turned back to Reiner. ‘It doesn’t count. He tripped me. You saw him.’
‘I’m afraid I didn’t,’ said Reiner truthfully. ‘I was too busy tripping myself.’
Erich’s eyes narrowed. ‘Wait a moment. I see what it is. You’re in collusion, the two of you. You knew you couldn’t beat me fairly, so you conspired to cheat.’
‘Not at all,’ said Reiner. ‘At least I didn’t. Whether Hals tripped you on purpose you’ll have to take up with him.’
‘I swear, my lord,’ said Hals. ‘By Sigmar, I swear. I was leaning on my spear. I didn’t move it.’
Erich snorted derisively. ‘We’ll have to go again.’ He motioned to Giano brusquely. ‘Come, Tilean. Do the necessary.’
‘Sir,’ said Reiner. ‘You are bleeding.’
‘It wasn’t a fair touch,’ snapped Erich. ‘I told you. The man tripped me.’
‘I have only your word for it.’
‘Over that of a peasant. Surely there can be no question.’ Erich snatched up his shirt and pulled it on over his steaming chest.
Reiner turned to the others. ‘Did any of you see? Did Hals trip him?’
They all shook their heads.
He turned to Giano. ‘Master of the lists?’
Giano shrugged. ‘I see nothing. The contest go to Master Hetzau.’
Erich threw up his hands. ‘This is preposterous! You’re all in on it! You never intended for it to be a fair contest.’ He turned to Reiner. ‘You are a cheat, sir. The leader of a band of cheats.’
Reiner clenched his fists, affronted. The one time in his life that he had fought a duel cleanly, and he was accused of cheating anyway. Of course he had little doubt that Hals had tripped Erich, but for once he’d truly had nothing to do with it. He put the blame squarely on Erich’s shoulders. If the fellow hadn’t made himself so disliked by one and all he would have easily won the day. ‘I’m sorry, old man,’ he said to Erich, ‘But you agreed to abide by the outcome of the fight, and if you didn’t trust the impartiality of the master of the lists you should have said something before we began.’
‘This is intolerable!’ Erich cried. ‘I refuse to submit! We must go again! We must…’
‘Hoy!’ came a shout from the far end of the ledge.
They all turned. Pavel was running toward them, waving. ‘Kurgan coming!’ he called. ‘A whole bloody column!’
Reiner and Erich cursed in unison and ran with the others for the cliff edge, their argument for the moment forgotten.
Pavel pointed down and to the right. ‘There. See ‘em?’
Reiner squinted into the frosty haze. Coming up the broad southern path, like a gigantic metal snake winding around the curves of the mountain, was a long train of Kurgan, their bronze helmets and steel spearpoints glinting in the late afternoon sun. They were led by a large squadron of barbaric horsemen, resplendent in outlandish armour and huge swords scabbarded over their shoulders. Huge hounds like the ones Reiner and the others had fought in the thorny wood paced alongside their mounted masters. There were also shackled slaves, shuffling in step under the cracking whips of overseers. Wagons loaded with plunder and provisions brought up the rear of the column. They had not yet reached the point where their path joined the narrow path Reiner and the others had climbed, but they were close. Too close.
‘We’ll never make it down in time,’ said Hals.
‘We’ll have to hide somewhere,’ said Erich.
‘Yes, but where?’ asked Reiner.
Franz frowned. ‘In the convent? In the chapel?’
Reiner shook his head. ‘What if they make camp there? We’d be trapped.’
‘The hidden canyon?’ suggested Oskar. ‘Where we put the horses?’
‘No, lad,’ said Hals. ‘All that fresh meat? Those hounds’ll sniff it out in a second.’
‘If their masters don’t first.’ Pavel said with a shiver.
‘We’ll have to go further up,’ said Reiner. ‘Further into the mountains.’
‘Are you mad?’ asked Erich. ‘Run pell mell into unknown territory with an enemy at our back?’
‘Have you another suggestion?’
‘There would be no need for suggestions if we had gone after Lady Magda an hour ago as we should have.’
‘He didn’t ask for complaints, jagger,’ muttered Hals.
Reiner turned away from the cliff and started for the box canyon. ‘We’d best collect what we can from the packs, but don’t carry too much. We may
have occasion to run.’
The others followed after him. Erich sniffed, disgusted, but followed as well.
STEPPING QUEASILY AMONGST the scattered horse parts, the company salvaged what they could from the saddlebags, tied the contents up inside their back-and-breasts, and slung them over their shoulders. Pavel and Hals hung theirs off spears they took from the garden of horrors to replace the ones they had lost fighting the Kurgan warriors. As quickly as they could, they started up the wide path that rose from the convent’s ledge and wound further into the mountains. The Chaos column was less than half a league behind them.
Reiner took some comfort from the fact that, because of the slaves’ slow pace, the column was moving at half march. Reiner’s companions would outdistance them easily, but he was less than heartened to see that on this path too were signs of heavy traffic. What if they met another force coming down and found themselves trapped in the middle? Speed wouldn’t matter then.
It was less than an hour from nightfall. A cold wind bullied them along and blew high clouds across the lowering sun. The path was alternately bathed in red-gold sunshine or plunged into cold, purple shadows as the trail wound along steep cliffs and through tight defiles. Maddeningly, it didn’t divide. Through all its twists and turns it remained a single line, with no branches or crossings, and though they found a few places where two men could hide, or even three or four, there was no place large enough to conceal them all, or far enough from the path that the hounds wouldn’t scent them.
After they’d gone a few miles Reiner sent Giano back down the path to see if the Chaos troops had made camp at the convent. He returned just as the sun touched the horizon, mopping the sweat from his brow.
‘They still come,’ he said between breaths. ‘Pass the convent. And more fast than we think. They push slaves hard.’
Reiner frowned. ‘Are they gaining on us?’
‘No, no, but best we keep moving, hey?’
The nine companions marched on into the dwindling twilight. Reiner was becoming nervous. The wind was getting colder, and the clouds thickening. The men were slowing with fatigue. He was slowing. It had been a long day, and they had all received some hard knocks in the fight with the Kurgan. Pavel, still not recovered from his fever, was leaning on Hals and sweating like he was in the desert. Ulf was limping. They needed to find a safe place off the path to make camp.
