05 - Warrior Priest

by Darius Hinks - (ebook by Undead)

  Ratboy nodded mutely as he helped Wolff lift Anna down from the saddle. She was as limp as a doll as they placed her on the ground and there was no hint of life in her eyes as Wolff gently took her arm and led her over to the general.

  “Obermarshall,” said Wolff, gesturing to the destruction that surrounded them. “This battle has already been lost. There’s nothing to be done here now. I suggest we just—”

  Gryphius rounded angrily on the priest. “Luneberg was my friend,” he cried, in a voice that cracked with emotion. “I must see him again.”

  An awkward silence followed his words. Gryphius saw how shocked his men were by his outburst and colour rushed to his cheeks. When he spoke again, his voice was softer. “There are things we need to discuss. It’s important that I find out what’s happened to him.”

  Wolff shrugged and waved at the bodies. “Very well, Obermarshall, but I’m not sure you’ll like what you find.”

  A rolling, musical cry echoed around the courtyard: “Oh, sweet, tender voice! Slicing through time’s torpid veil.” Hands reached out into the rain from a vine-covered balcony above them. “What bliss is this? Can it be that when everything seems darkest, I hear the beloved voice of Hugo von Gryphius?”

  “Casper!” cried the general and his face lit up with pleasure. He stepped backwards into the centre of the courtyard to get a better view of the balcony. “Is that really you?” He slapped a hand against his breastplate and fell to his knees. “Old friend, I never thought I’d see you again.”

  Gryphius’ servants had quickly filled the dying castle with the illusion of life. Candlelight, song and the comforting smell of roasting meat filled the great hall for one last time. As the torches burst into flame, they gave the slashed tapestries and bloodstained walls a homely warmth, despite the broken windows that lined one side of the room.

  As Ratboy stepped awkwardly to his master’s side to serve him, the flickering light from the candelabras revealed his blushes. He had insisted that this duty was his alone, but as he carried the steaming food towards Wolff, he suddenly felt ashamed of his dusty travelling clothes and his simple, country manners. His stomach knotted as he looked at the grand nobles arrayed before him. Casper Gregorius von Luneherg, Duke of Ruckendorf, was seated directly opposite Wolff, wearing a beautifully embroidered black tabard and a thick gold chain around his neck, from which dangled his badge of office: a proud, brass bull. Next to him sat his old friend, Obermarshall von Gryphius. The general had insisted on changing before dinner and was now squeezed into a plush, ruby red doublet that stretched snugly over his potbelly and tapered down towards his oversized codpiece. Gryphius had also replaced his collar with an even higher one, and as he leant hungrily over his venison, the starched lace tinkled and shimmered with tiny jewels.

  As Ratboy placed the food down before his master and stood discretely behind him, he noted the priest’s lack of pretension with pride. Wolff’s only concession to vanity had been to let Ratboy remove his plate armour and wipe a little of the mud from his vestments, but even in such simple attire, he carried himself with a quiet dignity that, to Ratboy’s mind, set him above all the other guests.

  Sat silently next to Wolff was the forlorn, mute figure of Anna, and the rest of the seats were filled with Gryphius’ officers, heedlessly splashing wine over their canary yellow doublets as they lunged playfully after the serving girls.

  At the far end of the hall, next to a raging fire, the general’s musicians launched into another frenzied jig, giving the room the feel of a joyous, rowdy tavern, rather than a doomed citadel at the edge of the world.

  Casper Luneberg was as short as Gryphius, with the same olive skin and dark, oily hair, but he carried none of the Obermarshall’s extra weight. He was a slender, ethereal figure, who waved his arms like a conjuror as he spoke and let his unruly, black locks trail down to his goatee beard as he addressed them. “Foes and maladies unnumbered; murmuring terrors and the mindless multitudes; none could touch me, in such crystal company as this!”

  Gryphius grinned proudly at Wolff over the jellies and guinea fowl that sat between them. “See? I told you he had a way with people! Such beautiful words!” He wrapped an arm around their host’s shoulders, giving him a fierce hug and planting a loud kiss on his cheek. “By Sigmar, Casper, it’s good to see you!”

  Luneberg smiled wistfully. “Your voice is like an old, beloved song, Hugo. It would rekindle my soul to see your blessed face one last time.”

  The smile fell from Gryphius’ lips as he looked at the bandage over Luneberg’s eyes. “What caused this blindness, Casper? Was it old age?”

  Luneberg chuckled. “Remember, I’m two months younger than you, old man. No, for once time was not the enemy; this veil was lowered by another hand.” The smile dropped from his face and he took Gryphius’ hand, speaking so softly that Ratboy could only just catch his words over the music. “How did we come to end our days so far from home, Hugo? What a lachrymose end to our ridiculous tragedy.”

  The mood at the table changed noticeably. Gryphius’ shoulders sagged and his mouth twisted into a grimace. “Old friend,” he muttered, before lowering his gaze to the table and falling silent.

  There was obviously some unresolved tension between the two men and Wolff left them to their thoughts for a while. He turned to the other diners and grimaced with distaste, as they grew loud and clumsy with drink. Eventually, he sipped from a glass of water, cleared his throat and addressed von Luneberg. “Tell me, Duke, when did the attacks begin?”

  Luneberg did not seem to hear the priest at first; then he shook his head. “Sorry, Brother Wolff, what was that?”

  “When did the attacks begin?” he repeated. “You’ve obviously fought bravely in defence of your dukedom, and presumably with such a great castle as this came a force of some size. How it was that things started to turn against you?”

  Luneberg flicked his hair to one side, revealing a set of thick, gold hoops that dangled from his ear. “Things were ever against me, Brother Wolff. When I came to this province I had nothing to live for.” Gryphius looked up at these words, but the duke continued, oblivious to his friend’s pained expression. “So I pitted myself against these unending hordes that plague the Ostlanders. I had some skill with a sword and plenty of money to buy and equip an army. And, most of all, I was looking for something to distract me from my past.” His words trembled with growing anger. “And yes, you’re right, I have fought bravely, and not just in the defence of this wretched backwater. I’ve marched alongside the Elector Count in countless hopeless engagements, but to what end? What was my glittering prize?” He waved at the broken windows and the pitch dark outside. “A dukedom on the edge of sanity and the unruly damned on my doorstep. They’ve drunk my southern soul like an exotic wine.” He waved his hand in a theatrical flourish and his gold rings flashed in the candlelight. “I have already passed beyond.”

  Wolff leant across the table. “Are all your men dead then?”

  Luneberg shook his head. “Vanity would have finished them though, every one, if I’d let it. Even blind, I thought I could lead them to victory. Even after a thousand mindless, mournful endings I thought I could deliver them. I thought I could loose the cord around their throats, but I only pulled it tighter.”

  The duke turned his head vaguely in Wolff’s direction and spoke with a sudden urgency. “But what are you doing out here, father? I know Hugo’s story—it’s a sad one, and his wounds run even deeper than mine. I know the bitter discontent that haunts him, but you still have strength left. I can hear it in your voice. Why would you squander it here? Why did you not head south, while you could? Von Raukov has assembled a great army in Wolfenberg to fight this latest abomination. A man of your faith could have been of use to him.”

  Wolff was a little taken aback by the duke’s words, “I do intend to find the main force. I mean to aid the Elector Count in any way I can,” he hesitated, “and also, I’m seeking my brother, Fabian Wolff, who I believe is fig
hting in a regiment called the Ostland Black Guard.”

  “But you’re too far north,” cried the duke, with surprising vehemence. The rowdy officers at the other end of the table fell silent, looking over at him in surprise. “The enemy has already swept though this whole region,” continued the duke, shaking his head in confusion. “You must have passed them in the night somehow. Don’t you realise? You’re already behind the invasion. They marched through here two days past, slaughtering everything in their path. While my servants cowered in the cellars I threw myself at the monsters and begged them for death; but they saw that it would be crueller to let me live. My grief is a torment worse than anything they could have inflicted.” He shivered. “There’s a gentle-tongued devil leading them, a giggling grotesque that introduced himself as Mormius. The fiend charged through here so fast he didn’t even wait to see his army destroy me. He did, however, pause long enough to do this.” The duke lifted his bandage briefly, to reveal two swollen lines of stitches where his eyes should have been.

  Wolff grimaced at the sight of the thick, red scars. “Why would he blind you but let you live?”

  “He’s utterly insane. Even by the standards of his own kind. He’d somehow heard of my love for literature, and as his soldiers tore down the walls and butchered my friends, he attempted to discuss poetry with me. I told him it was impossible that such a drooling animal could ever understand anything of beauty or the arts.” The duke shook his head. “Something about my words seemed to amuse him—he became quite hysterical in fact. Then he threw me against the wall and gouged out my eyes with his thumbs. A day later, unable to even see my own sword, I tried to lead these poor wretches against his army as they rushed south.” His voice hitched with emotion. “It was a shameful farce. They turned their full force against us and I ordered a retreat, but it was far too late. Half of the townsfolk had already been ripped to pieces by those dogs. What madness made me lead them into battle I’ll never know.” He shook his head. “So much death…” He lifted one of his ring-laden hands to his mouth, as though he could not bear to hear any more of his own words.

  “You did what you thought best,” said a soft voice.

  To his shock, Ratboy realised the words were Anna’s. Tears were flowing freely from her eyes as she looked up at the blind duke. It was the first time she had spoken to anyone since Wolff had told her that the abbess was dead.

  Luneberg flinched at her words, as though she were insulting him, but he drew a deep breath and lowered his hand from his mouth, seeming to regain control of himself. He took a sip of wine and turned towards Wolff. “I wouldn’t hold out much hope of a reunion with your brother. If he’s spent any amount of time in von Raukov’s army, he’s probably dead by now, but even if he isn’t, there’s no way you could reach him. You’ve come too far to the north-east. We’re completely surrounded out here. The only way you could rejoin von Raukov’s men now would be to fight back through Mormius’ entire army from behind. It’s impossible.”

  The rest of the officers were now following the duke’s words in attentive silence. At the word “impossible” they looked towards their general for his response. Conscious of all eyes being on him, Gryphius puffed out his small chest and placed his hands firmly on the table. “Impossible? I don’t think so, old friend.” He shrugged off the gloom that had settled over him and grinned at his captains, raising his glass aloft. “Finally, it sounds like we have a fight on our hands!”

  The officers exploded into raucous cheers and whistles, banging their fists on the table and filling each other’s glasses.

  Luneberg frowned. “I understand your reasons Hugo, but there are others here who might not be so eager for the cold embrace of the grave.” He gave a grim laugh. “Well, I suppose you would have the element of surprise though. They won’t expect anything to come from this direction, other than more of their own kind.”

  “Where was this Mormius headed?” asked Wolff.

  “Wolfenberg,” replied Luneberg. “His only strategy is to race to the capital as fast as possible. But they have one last hurdle to cross before they can head south unimpeded. There’s a young captain named Andreas Felhamer whose banner has become something of a rallying point. He’s gathered the last of the northern garrisons together into a single force. He’s quite the firebrand and his passion does him credit, but I’m not sure his judgment is sound. He’s gathered all this flotsam and jetsam into an old ruined keep, named Muhlberg. The locals call it Mercy’s End, in memory of its former glories, but these days the old place barely has the strength to support Felhamer’s banners.”

  “What of von Raukov?” asked Wolff. “You mentioned that he’s gathered a great force. Where does he intend to strike? Maybe we could join him in the counterattack?”

  “He’s racing north as we speak. He’s heard of Felhamer’s heroics and ordered him to hold Mercy’s End, until the main force arrives to relieve him.” Luneberg shook his head. “The poor, brave child. They’ll all be dead a long time before that. Mormius drives his army with a fierce determination. I’ve never seen anything like it. He’s careless of anything but the race south. Felhamer’s military career will be a short one, I’m afraid. I imagine von Raukov knows that though.” Luneberg patted the table till he found a fork, and shovelled some food into his mouth. “I fear that the Elector Count is simply using the captain as a sponge, to soak up some of the enemy’s fury for a while, and buy him a little marching time. No one expects him to leave Mercy’s End alive.”

  Gryphius leant forward, so that his eyes glinted mischievously in the candlelight. “Well, Captain Felhamer might find he has a little Averland steel to keep him company in his final watch.” He lurched unsteadily to his feet and clambered onto the table, raising his sword to his men and sending food and wine clattering across the floor. “Tomorrow, we march to war, my friends.” The officers lurched unsteadily to their feet and drew their own swords in a solemn reply. The general took a swig of wine and grinned at them. “But tonight, I think we need a little dancing.” He jumped down from the table and marched towards the musicians, grabbing a serving girl’s hand as he went. The officers scrambled after him, laughing and shouting as they barged past Ratboy and left Wolff, Luneberg and Anna alone at the table.

  The music swelled in volume and the room filled with whirling, dancing shapes. The officers began spinning drunkenly in and out of the shifting shadows, as vague and insubstantial as the ghosts they might soon become.

  Luneberg smiled indulgently. “He makes a good show of it, doesn’t he? You’d think him quite the hero. It wasn’t always so. He’s not the man he pretends to be.” He winced suddenly and placed a hand over his bandage.

  Anna rose from her chair and rushed to his side. She placed her hands over his and lowered her head, whispering a few soft words in his ear as she did so.

  At first the duke looked irritated at being manhandled in such a way, but then a relieved smile spread across his face. “Who is this worker of miracles?” he asked, squeezing her hands gratefully.

  A faint smile played around Anna’s mouth as she replied. “No miracle worker, my lord, just someone with a little compassion for a tired old soldier.”

  Luneberg held onto her hands for a while longer. “A Sister of Shallya, then?”

  Anna frowned. “I think so, my lord. In truth, I’ve been quite lost these last few days, even from myself; but hearing the pain in your voice reminded me who I am.” She freed her hand from his and placed it on his shoulder. “You can’t carry the fate of a whole nation on your shoulders, my lord. If you hadn’t led these people to war, someone else would simply have had to do it in your stead.”

  Luneberg nodded slowly and chuckled. “It’s been decades since I last saw Hugo, but he obviously hasn’t lost the knack of surrounding himself with powerful women.”

  Anna blushed and returned to her seat. As she stepped past Ratboy she gave him a shy nod, as though seeing him for the first time in days.

  He smiled awkwardly in rep
ly, relieved to see a little of the old determination back in her steely eyes.

  “So, tell me, duke,” said Wolff, a little while later, “how did you find yourself so far from Averland? Did you and von Gryphius set out together?”

  “Ah, therein lies a tale, Brother Wolff,” replied Luneberg with a wry smile. “And not a happy one I’m afraid. Hugo was not always the valiant hero you see now. As a youth, his only interest was in the arts, and the idea of dirtying his hands in combat repulsed him.” He waved over to where Gryphius and his men were dancing drunkenly around the ruined hall. “There comes a time however, when all men must fight for what they love. Averland is a land of rich pastures and even richer palaces. The sun smiles down on Sigmar’s southern heirs with the kind of indulgence his hardy northern offspring can hardly imagine. But even in such a paradise, there are wars to be won, and enemies to repel. Hugo knew this, but his head has always been full of music and poetry.” The duke paused and tilted his head to one side, trying to reassure himself Gryphius was still out of earshot. “He has a big heart, that one, but it is the heart of a child—easily distracted by new passions, and new ideas; sometimes he’s neglectful of the things that really matter.” Luneberg fanned out his tanned, bejeweled fingers across the table. “These are not the hands of a natural fighter, but it was these hands that Gryphius entrusted with the safety of his young wife. Not once in his short life had he heeded the call of battle, and as bandits struck closer and closer to his ancestral home, he found an excuse to be elsewhere. The artist, Schuzzelwanst had opened a new exhibition in Altdorf and, despite the danger looming over his home, he decided he had to meet the great man, leaving me in charge of his garrison.

  “Even if Gryphius had been fighting by my side, he couldn’t have saved his wife, but in his heart he knows he should have been there.” Luneberg shook his head. “If only so he could have died by her side.”