Bloodsworn

by Nathan Long

  The men bowed and went out, and Morgenthau beckoned Ulrika to a chair with a clawed hand, then leaned in as she sat.

  ‘You think it would work? You think he would forgive me if I brought back all his troops?’

  Ulrika frowned, pretending to consider. ‘I think you would have to make some story, say that you meant to betray Kodrescu all along, but dared not tell anyone, even von Messinghof, for fear of spies in the camp. But with such a force at your back could he do anything but welcome you?’

  ‘That is true,’ said Morgenthau, his pink eyes brightening. ‘He cannot afford battle. It would be ruinous to his plans. He would have to take me back, but…’ He looked towards the door again. ‘But can we do it? Have we the strength?’

  Ulrika hid a smile. She had him now. The rest was just details. ‘I have Stahleker for certain. That leaves von Graal, Lady Celia and Kodrescu himself.’

  Morgenthau’s brow lowered. ‘I would send that strutting pig to the void with a stake through his heart for the humiliations he has put me through,’ he spat. ‘But he is the greatest blade in six centuries, even without Wolf’s Fang. I would not live if I faced him.’

  ‘Forget about him,’ she said. ‘I have a way. Can you best von Graal?’

  Morgenthau snorted. ‘That peacock? He is no swordsman. He is more concerned with the jewels on the hilt than the edge on the blade, but what of Lady Celia?’

  ‘I – I don’t know yet. We can’t kill her. Von Messinghof needs the undead she will bring, but–’

  Morgenthau snorted. ‘Fool! You can’t keep her alive! If that’s your plan, I want nothing to do with it. You mean to kill Kodrescu, her lover! She will never join you. She will kill you, and there would be nothing you could do to stop her.’

  Ulrika ground her teeth. ‘I am well aware of her powers. Von Messinghof briefed me on them. I was hoping that together, we might find some way–’

  ‘Together we will die,’ snapped Morgenthau. ‘No. I’ll join you when you agree to kill her and prove to me you can do it. Not before.’

  Ulrika glared at him, then bowed and backed towards the tent flap. ‘Thank you, lord. I will think on what is to be done and return.’

  Ulrika stepped out of Morgenthau’s tent and cursed. What was she to do now? The plot might be over before it began. Of course, she could agree to Morgenthau’s demands and prove that she could shoot Celia dead with her silver shot, but the vision of leading a mighty force of the living and the undead into von Messinghof’s camp was too powerful to deny. Anything less would be failure. She needed Celia alive.

  But how could she convince the necromancer to betray her lover of four hundred years? Ulrika might talk well enough to sway a whipped dog like Morgenthau, but it would take a tongue as cunning as that of Countess Gabriella to turn Celia against Kodrescu, and Ulrika’s tongue was more mallet than scalpel. Her mind turned of its own volition to Galiana, who had been the Lahmian Boyarina Evgena’s companion in Praag. She had served the boyarina for nearly as long as Celia had served Kodrescu, and when Evgena had died, she had been lost. She had not wanted to lead, and had begged Ulrika to stay and help her with her duties. The little doll had lived so long as Evgena’s pet that she knew no other role. Could the same be true of Celia? If she had served Kodrescu for four hundred years, it was likely she had little ambition to rule on her own. What would she do if he were gone? Would revenge consume her? Would she strike off on her own? Would she seek another master?

  Ulrika thought she could guess, but a guess was a flimsy thing to build a plan upon, and she certainly couldn’t expect Morgenthau to come on board on the strength of it. But did he have to know?

  Her thoughts swirled into mush as she tried to think it through. She pushed them from her head. She would sleep on them and see what revealed itself to her when she woke. But first it was time to find out if Stahleker admired her as much as he had professed.

  The mercenary was in his tent, sitting on his cot, weaving a braid of dark hair into the ginger locks of a red-faced, buxom woman of middle years, who was bandaging a wound in his leg. She glared suspiciously at Ulrika as she entered, but Stahleker murmured in her ear and she returned to her work.

  ‘You’ve recovered, then?’ he asked.

  ‘Somewhat,’ said Ulrika. ‘And I thank you for finding me that drink.’

  ‘I thank you for putting down that hammer priest. He would have finished us, I think.’ He eyed her breastplate, which still had the hole the witch hunter’s bullet had punched through it. ‘You come for new armour?’

  ‘In a way.’ She looked around. There was no furniture in the tent other than the cot, so she sat cross-legged on the bare earth. ‘There is another who may finish us, if he makes his play. I aim to put him down too, and I want your help in it.’

  Stahleker scowled. ‘We ain’t talkin’ about von Graal, are we?’

  ‘No. Nor Morgenthau.’

  Stahleker finished plaiting the braid into the woman’s hair and rubbed his bristly chin. ‘You’re asking me to turn on my employer.’

  ‘I’m asking you to return to your original employer.’

  ‘Gus, this is trouble,’ said the woman. ‘Stay out of it.’

  ‘Hush, Mags,’ said Stahleker. ‘The bloodsucker ain’t wrong. Old Kodrescu’s leading us down a bad path. Even if we beat von Messinghof we won’t last long. Kodrescu will throw himself at Karl Franz like von Graal threw himself against that priest, all swords and glory, and some fire wizard will burn him to the ground before he gets halfway across the field. He’s got no tactics.’

  ‘But the money–’ said Mags.

  ‘You can’t spend it when you’re dead.’

  ‘And who says we won’t be dead if we go back to von Messinghof?’ Mags asked. ‘He has no cause to love us, does he? Not any more.’

  Stahleker looked like he was going to shush her again, but then he turned to Ulrika. ‘That’s a good point. We broke our contract. Kodrescu may’ve tricked us, but we coulda walked away if we’d wanted. How can y’guarantee us the count won’t cut us down if we go back?’

  ‘You will be my troops, under my command and protection,’ said Ulrika. ‘I will vouch for you. Nobody will touch you, not even von Messinghof.’

  Mags rolled her eyes.

  Stahleker looked sceptical as well. ‘You’d go against the count for the likes of us?’

  Ulrika paused. Would she? She had pledged to serve von Messinghof, and she had vowed to take vengeance on humanity, yet here she was, saying she would stand up to the count for a mere man. But Stahleker wasn’t like other humans. He did not fear her. He did not hate her. He did not want to burn her or to be her swain. He seemed to admire her for who she was, not what she was. She had his loyalty, and he deserved the same from her.

  At the same time, she was not ready to cross the count without reason. She admired him as Stahleker admired her. Not because he was a Sylvanian count, but because he was a smart, forthright commander. He had been honest with her from the start – even about the silver – and had given her opportunities she had no right to expect. Did he deserve less loyalty than Stahleker?

  ‘I remain loyal to the count,’ she said at last. ‘And will not fight him, but neither will I stand by and see you hurt without reason. If he wants to punish you, I will challenge him on it. And if I cannot change his mind, then I will demand that whatever punishment he metes out to you, be served to me as well – whips, banishment, or death.’

  Stahleker and Mags stared at her.

  ‘Death?’

  ‘Aye,’ said Ulrika. ‘On one condition.’

  ‘Here it comes,’ said Mags.

  Stahleker waved her down. ‘What condition?’

  Ulrika put a hand to her breast. ‘That you pledge to me, not my purse. That you become my troops in truth, my personal troops, loyal only to me, no matter who waves gold in your face.’

 
Stahleker sat back, frowning, and exchanged a look with Mags.

  ‘I will pay you, of course,’ said Ulrika quickly. ‘And well. I won’t ask you to grow poor in my service. But I want more loyalty than money can buy.’

  ‘It ain’t how much you can pay,’ said Stahleker, shaking his head. ‘It’s… well, we’ve been masterless men since before our grandfathers’ grandfathers’ time. We want no lord. We trust no lord. We fight hard for those that employ us, but we serve at our own pleasure, no one else’s, and come and go as we please.’

  Ulrika held his eye. ‘Did you not say that you would follow me? Or did I mishear?’

  ‘I said I’d rather. I didn’t say I’d marry you.’

  Ulrika grinned in spite of herself. ‘Well, I won’t ask it, then. Instead I’ll just ask this – if you get a better offer, warn me before you leave.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ said Stahleker, but Mags leaned forwards, her eyes hard.

  ‘I have a condition too,’ she said. ‘Or there’s no deal.’

  Stahleker looked uncomfortable. ‘Mags–’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘You’ll take no blood from him. Never. For any reason.’ Tears sprung to her eyes. ‘He’ll be sergeant to you, not slave, or I’ll – I’ll…’

  Ulrika relaxed. ‘Fear not. I want no swains. I despise them. I want the men under me to follow me because I lead well, not because I’ve beglamoured them. Condition granted. I take my blood from my enemies.’

  ‘You swear it?’ asked Mags.

  ‘I swear it. On my father’s memory, I swear it,’ said Ulrika. ‘And gladly.’

  Stahleker patted Mags’ hand. ‘There, now. Can’t ask fairer than that, can you? And you know she already–’ He paused then looked up at Ulrika. ‘I – I heard what you did. Earlier.’

  Ulrika frowned. ‘What did I do?’

  ‘Rachman was riding nearby when you told Kodrescu what happened with von Graal and the hammer priest. He heard the general ask if you could prove your story, and heard you say you couldn’t.’ Stahleker raised his head and looked her directly in the eyes. ‘You could have, though. You could have called me to speak. You could have forced me to tell what I’d seen and put me up against von Graal, but you didn’t.’

  He put his hand on Mags’ knee and stroked it softly. ‘You’ll have our loyalty, bloodsucker. As long as we’re with you, we are your troops in truth – your personal troops. And you’ll have fair warning if we mean to leave you.’

  Ulrika’s chest tightened. She held out a hand. ‘That is all I can ask, sergeant. Thank you.’

  He shook her slim hand with his thick one. ‘Thank you, captain. Now, when do we make our move?’

  ‘Not until after we have done what we came here to do,’ she said. ‘And when you strike, I don’t want you to call me your captain. That honour will be another’s.’

  Stahleker frowned. ‘I don’t understand.’

  Ulrika smiled. ‘Then I will explain.’

  chapter twenty-one

  BRUCHBEN

  The camp woke again at sunset and assembled into three separate forces. Kodrescu, von Graal, Lady Celia and the bulk the army made up one, Morgenthau and thirty mounted wights made up a second, while Ulrika, Stahleker, Rachman and forty of their lancers made up a third, with the winged terror and ten wights added to their number to make sure the town-dwellers knew who was slaughtering them. Kodrescu and Morgenthau’s forces were to leave first, taking little-travelled forest paths to their positions around the town and at the bridge near the monastery respectively.

  Before they got under way, Ulrika mounted up and sought out Morgenthau. She found him upon his warhorse accepting his shield and lance from a slave. His mood had not improved.

  ‘Fool,’ he snapped, thrusting the lance back at the slave. ‘The point is as dull as your mind. Fetch me another!’

  Ulrika sidled Yasim to him as the slave scurried away. ‘It will be tonight,’ she said. ‘After the monastery has fallen.’

  Morgenthau glared at her. ‘Oh yes? And can you prove to me you can do it? Or will you attempt it without me?’

  ‘Von Graal and Kodrescu will have a falling-out. Under the guise of protecting Kodrescu, we will kill both of them. If Lady Celia fails to believe that von Graal was the villain, I have another way.’ Ulrika undid the thongs that tied her shot pouch to her saddlebow, then tossed it to him. ‘Have a look in there.’

  Morgenthau pulled open the draw strings and looked inside, then recoiled. ‘Silver! Where did you get this?’

  ‘From the witch hunters I killed.’ She patted her pistols in their saddle holsters. ‘Primed and double-shotted.’

  He looked askance at the guns and tossed the shot bag back to her. ‘Even that may not kill her. I told you, she is old and strong.’

  ‘It may not,’ said Ulrika. ‘But it should take her mind off incantations for long enough to sever her head.’

  Morgenthau chewed his lip with a jutting fang, his pink eyes anxious, but at last he nodded. ‘Very well, I will risk it. I cannot stand to live another night under the yoke of this fool. Sit and stay indeed!’

  Ulrika bowed in the saddle. ‘Thank you, lord. I am relieved to hear it. Look for my signal to begin.’

  As she waited to advance with the lancers, Ulrika noticed that Stahleker had a braid of ginger hair woven into his dark thatch. She smiled.

  ‘You and Mags have exchanged vows?’

  Rachman guffawed and Stahleker shrugged, embarrassed.

  ‘An old custom,’ he said. ‘They say back home that Ostermarkers don’t plight our troths, we plait ’em.’

  Ulrika chuckled. ‘What these two have woven together, let no man put asunder?’

  ‘Aye,’ said Stahleker, stroking the braid fondly.

  ‘That, and the braid will strangle him if he looks at another woman,’ said Rachman, grinning.

  ‘That too,’ said Stahleker, and Ulrika couldn’t tell if he was joking.

  For three hours more they waited as the lancers grew more and more restless and impatient, but at last a bat fluttered in with a message tied to its claw, and Ulrika mounted up with a sigh of relief and motioned for them to get under way. Unlike Kodrescu and Morgenthau, the lancers did not go by hidden forest paths. She and Stahleker led them to the main road and they trotted down it in brazen double file, torches and bronze-armoured, skull-faced mounted wights at the front, a banner made of a flayed human skin flying above them – and shadowy wings flapping above.

  Ulrika’s chest swelled with emotion as she rode at the head of the column. Everything was right. She was on the hunt with the wind in her hair and men at her back. The rumble of hooves, the creak and jingle of leather and harness, the moonlight and torchlight glinting off helmet and lance-tip, the shiver of anxious anticipation that always came before a battle – she had missed them more than breathing. This was where she was meant to be. This was what she was meant to do.

  A few miles later they came to the branching left that led to the town and Ulrika spurred her horse as she took it. The bone knights and the lancers followed suit, and the column boomed onto the ancient stone and wood bridge that crossed the Werkenau. Two guards at the far end hopped on to ponies and fled down the road as they saw the riders coming. Ulrika let them go. They would be their heralds.

  As the column broke from the trees, Ulrika saw the town ahead. It lay a quarter-mile away across the strip of farm and grazing land that surrounded it, the shadows of its shingle roofs peeking up above a wooden palisade wall. Her keen eyes saw the two guards riding their ponies through the main gate, and her sharp ears heard them shouting to the guards.

  ‘Close the gates! Riders are coming! The dead ride!’

  Ulrika stuck two fingers in her mouth and whistled, high and shrill. An answering shriek, too high-pitched for human ears to hear, echoed from the sky above, and black wings sped forwar
ds.

  ‘Charge!’ cried Ulrika, and spurred her horse into a gallop.

  Behind her, the bone knights and lancers increased their pace with perfect control, maintaining straight ranks as the strides of their horses lengthened and the ground shook under their hooves.

  At the gate, the guards were frantically shoving the doors closed, but at the last second, out of the sky streaked the black shape of the bat-headed, bat-winged griffon. It slammed into the men, knocking them back and sending the doors swinging wildly in. The guards picked themselves up and backed away, shooting futile pistols and arrows as the beast lunged at them with massive foreclaws.

  Stahleker’s lancers cheered and Ulrika let out a breath as she saw the doors open wide. It would have been a very different battle if the townsfolk had managed to lock the gates. They might have even had a chance. Now they were doomed.

  Ulrika whipped out her rapier as her troops bore down on the gates. ‘For Famke!’ She cried. ‘For vengeance!’

  Musket fire cracked from the walls and a youth with a spear ran out at her, wide-eyed with fear but stabbing bravely. She thrust through his chest without stopping and the knights and lancers thundered into the town as the remaining guards scattered before them.

  Bruchben was a substantial town, full of men who cut heavy blocks from a nearby limestone quarry and shipped them down the river. The houses were built of the stuff, and the main streets paved with it, and the place was large enough to have three inns, two banks, and a temple of Sigmar with a spire taller than the trees of the forest. It also had an actual town guard, with uniforms and well-maintained equipment, and had they had sufficient warning, they might have mounted a decent defence. As it was, with the winged terror flapping to the walls to tear the gunners from the parapet, and skeletal riders and villainous lancers already causing havoc within the gates, they lost themselves to terror and panic.

  Ulrika and the mounted wights trampled a handful of guards under their hooves as they sped down the high street, and lashed out at more that dodged left and right for alleys and doorways. Further on, loud bells were clanging from the spire of the temple. Good. That would alert the monastery.