Hoffmann stared at him. “Sigmar’s balls, man, didn’t they use all their gunpowder this evening?”
“No.” His neck ached. “The crater in the Konigplatz wasn’t deep enough. I reckon they’ve got four or five hundred pounds left.”
Hoffmann stared across the dark room. “An hour’s sleep,” he said. “No more. Then we search the cathedral from top to bottom.”
Something clanged, and Grenner was instantly awake. It knelled again and he realised what he was hearing: the great bell of the cathedral, ringing to summon the faithful to worship. Light streamed through the windows. He threw off his blanket and shook Johansen on the next bed. “We’ve overslept! We’ve bloody overslept!”
Johansen was alert in a second. “What happened to Hoffmann? He was going to wake us.”
“No idea.”
Johansen began throwing on his torn and filthy clothes. “You know he’s an Ulrican?”
“Who?”
“Hoffmann.”
“What are you saying?” Grenner stared at him. “Nothing. Just an observation.”
“I hope you’re right.” They rushed downstairs and out into the street. Nobody turned to look at them: there were too many ragged, haggard people in the city that morning. Thin grey dust coated everything. Two horses stood at a hitching-post outside a building opposite. Grenner caught Johansen’s eye. A moment later they were on horseback, galloping towards the great cathedral of Sigmar.
“How would they have got barrels of gunpowder into the cathedral?” Grenner shouted above the clatter of hoofs on cobbles.
Johansen gestured with one hand. “Bribery. Concealment. The powder may not be in barrels anymore. Where the hell’s Hoffmann?”
“How should I know?”
Ahead, they could see a crowd around the cathedral’s high doors. Many people had come to worship alongside the Empire’s greatest citizens today, to mourn loved ones, or ask for divine retribution on their killers. Grenner could see armoured guards by the doors, swords drawn.
“Stop,” he shouted. Johansen reined in his horse.
“Why?” he said.
“We need to think about this.”
“Every second counts.”
“They’re not going to let us into the cathedral looking like this.” He paused. “How much gunpowder did you say the Ulricans had left? Enough to bring down the building?”
“Enough to make a hole in it, maybe.”
“They want more than that.” Grenner grimaced, thinking. “Maybe they’re going to crash a Bretonnian wineseller’s cart stuffed with gunpowder through the doors and blow themselves up.”
“Not funny.”
“I wasn’t joking.” Grenner wiped his brow and stared up at the huge building, its buttresses rearing up into the sky around the peaked slates of the pitched roof. Between their stone arms, hanging over the high crenellated wall around the top of the building, a scarlet flag was blowing in the wind.
“What would five hundred pounds of gunpowder do to the roof?” he asked.
Johansen furrowed his brow. “You could collapse the whole thing.” He raised an eyebrow. “Why do you think they’re up there?”
Grenner pointed at the flag that had caught his eye. “Recognise that?”
“No.”
“You should pay more attention to fashion. That’s Hoffmann’s cloak.”
Johansen was silent for a second. Then: “How do we get up there?”
Grenner grinned. “Follow my lead.” He dug his heels into his horse and galloped down the street, heading for the crowd around the cathedral doors, Johansen hard on his heels. Heads turned as people heard their approaching hoofbeats, there were shouts, and a path opened. Grenner rode down it, heading for the doorway, holding his reins tight to keep the horse straight.
The guards tried to block them with their swords but they weren’t fast enough and their blades weren’t long enough: Grenner thanked the gods that they hadn’t been pikemen. He flashed past them and into the cathedral’s antechamber, glanced back to check Johansen was still behind him, then crouched low as the horse plunged through the smaller arch into the vaulted expanse of the long nave.
People in the pews either side leaped to their feet as the two horses galloped down the cathedral’s central aisle. There were shouts of surprise and anger. Grenner ignored them. He knew a stairway in the south-east transept; it led up past the gallery where the Elector Counts sat to watch the service, then spiralled upwards to the roof. That was their way up.
He galloped past the choir. Almost there. People behind them were chasing on foot, but he was well ahead of them. The horse cantered into the shadows of the transept, Grenner leaped from its saddle, drew his sword and ran to the stairs, taking them three at a time. Johansen was right behind him.
A wall of armed men blocked their way.
Oh Sigmar, he thought. The Electors’ guards. There was no way through. He twisted round, to see more soldiers behind him. No way out either. Trapped.
There was a strange hush in the cathedral at this invasion of a holy place. Off to one side Grenner could see the open gallery where the Electors were seated. He recognised faces among them. He’d saved some of their lives, but they wouldn’t know him.
No, he thought, one would. Grand Prince Valmir von Raukov, Elector Count of Ostland.
“Prince Valmir,” he shouted. “The men who killed Anastasia are on the roof.”
The Elector’s head jerked up and he stared at the Palisades officers as if woken from a dream. He looked surprised and alarmed. Startled, Grenner thought, to hear his mistress’ name echo across the cathedral. It was a risk. If the prince was a typical cold-blooded noble he could ignore them and the guards would cut them down. But if, as Grenner had guessed, he had really loved the girl…
The prince stood. “Let them pass,” he said.
The guards moved aside. Grenner pushed between them and headed up. Behind him, Johansen paused to take a loaded crossbow from one of the soldiers. “I’ll borrow that,” he said, and followed his partner.
The door at the top of the stairs was closed. Grenner shoulder-charged it and it flew open with a crash. Outside, in the narrow trough between the low wall of battlements and the steep pitch of the roof, three men looked up. One grabbed for a lit lantern, one for a bow, and one did not move because he was bound hand and foot, gagged and leant against the wall with his cloak flapping in the cold wind. Hoffmann.
Grenner dived to one side. Behind him, Johansen raised his borrowed weapon and shot the other bowman in the head. He fell.
The second man, dark and heavily built, ducked behind Hoffmann, wrapping an arm round his neck, using him as a shield. “You cannot win,” he shouted. “This is Ulric’s year! The false god Sigmar has been destroyed and his temple and priests shall perish too! It is ordained!” His voice had a northern accent and the hectoring tone of a true believer.
“Morning, sir,” Johansen said, looking at the network of oil-soaked cords running over the roof, doubtless leading to caches of gunpowder. Grenner had been right: they were planning to bring the roof down on the worshippers below.
“Don’t move, or the nobleman dies!” the Ulrican shouted, pulling Hoffmann with him. The fuses were joined into a single twist of cord, Johansen saw. So they were all linked. Any fuse lit would ignite the others. Thirty feet away the Ulrican was moving towards the cords, lantern in one hand, Hoffmann in the other.
Johansen slowly raised his hands. “Don’t kill the nobleman,” he said.
“It’d look bad on our records if you did,” said Grenner from behind him. “Sorry about this, sir.” A throwing-knife flashed from his hand and embedded itself in Hoffmann’s thigh. The general’s leg gave way and he collapsed. Johansen was already drawing his small crossbow from its shoulder-holster and firing, running forwards.
The Ulrican took the bolt in the temple and fell, throwing the lantern at the cords. It struck the stonework of the gutter at an angle and rolled, the oil inside blazing up.
<
br /> Johansen sprinted and kicked it as hard as he could, away from the fuses. Glass shattered and glistening liquid sprayed out as the lantern soared away over the battlements and down into the city below. He didn’t hear a crash.
He turned. Grenner was crouched beside Hoffmann, cutting his bonds. Johansen made an abrupt gesture and Grenner stopped.
“What?”
“Remember last night?”
Grenner’s eyes widened. “Back-up guy.”
“Where?” There was no sign of anyone else. Johansen took a few paces, checking around the exit to the stairway.
There was a scream from the top of the roof and a figure hurtled down the steep slope full-tilt, a lantern in one hand, a sword in the other.
The sword slashed at Johansen’s arm. He dodged sideways, grabbing for the man’s jerkin, lifting him as he ran, using his momentum to throw him over the wall.
The man screamed all the way down.
“I can’t believe Hoffmann went to start the search on his own,” Grenner said as they walked away from the cathedral, leaving the oblivious crowds behind them. “He must have known the Ulricans would have left people on guard.”
“Why didn’t they kill him when they caught him?”
“They wanted him to distract people like us. They only needed a few seconds.”
“They almost got them.” Johansen looked around. “Where are you taking me?”
“Since the Black Goat is out of commission,” Grenner said, “I thought I’d treat you to Hexenstag breakfast at a place I know by the west gate.”
“I’d rather have a wash and get some sleep.”
“You’ll sleep better with a full stomach.” Grenner paused. “Have you noticed that nobody thanked us?”
“Hoffmann did.”
“Hoffmann is deducting his surgeon’s bill from my wages. That’s hardly thanks.”
There was silence as the two men walked on through the city. Some things didn’t need to be said out loud. The watery sun was warm on their skin and the light breeze helped them forget how dirty and tired they both were.
There was a queue of carts, wagons and pedestrians at the west gate, waiting to leave the city. Already security had been tightened after the Konigplatz explosion, and every guard wanted to be seen doing his job. Grenner felt Johansen’s elbow dig into his ribs and looked up. His partner was pointing at a familiar cart in the queue. “You owe someone an apology,” he said.
Grenner gave him a long look, then sighed and walked up to the cart, its cargo of wide barrels stacked upright and roped together for travel. He reached up a hand in greeting.
“It is Hexenstag morning, a time of goodwill, monsieur,” he said, “and I owe you an apology.”
The Bretonnian wineseller in the driver’s seat looked startled and scared. He groped for his reins to jolt his horses into motion. Grenner stepped back, raising his hands in appeasement.
“We were looking for the men who caused the explosion last night. I thought you might be involved. I was wrong. So,” he added, “you’re leaving Altdorf.”
The short man nodded sourly. “Zis city, she is not friendly to strangers, you know? And zis thing last night, very bad. I go home.”
“Did you sell your wine in the end?” The Bretonnian nodded.
“Oui. In the end.”
“Well, that’s something. Travel safely.” Grenner nodded farewell and walked away from the cart and back to Johansen. “Stop looking so smug,” he said.
Johansen grinned. “Hexenstag morning, a time of goodwill,” he said. “You hate admitting you’re wrong, that’s your problem. You should keep some goodwill in your heart the rest of the… What?”
Grenner was staring at the back of the Bretonnians head. “If he’s sold his wine,” he said, “why’s he still got the barrels on his cart?”
Johansen turned to look. “I don’t know,” he said. “Do you want to ask?”
“You do it.”
The queue of carts had moved and the Bretonnian was almost at the gatehouse. Grenner waited as Johansen walked up to the cart, then went to its rear, climbed up and stood between the upright casks. He drew his sword, turned it and smashed the hilt down on the lid. It cracked and splintered. A female face, gagged and bound, terrified, streaked with tears, stared up at him from inside. The Bretonnian leaped from his seat and ran for the gate, but the guards were ready for him. They caught him, holding his arms as he struggled and hissed.
Five barrels on the cart. Five missing women. And he’d known there had been something strange about the wineseller from the moment he’d met him. Johansen hadn’t believed him, but he’d known. The man was a kidnapper, a slaver or something worse.
From the ground, Johansen looked up at him. “Result?”
Grenner nodded. “Happy Hexenstag,” he said. He stared up at the sun, letting its warmth massage the weariness from his body. “The nights start getting shorter now.”
“They’ll get longer again soon enough.”
“I know. So enjoy them while you can.” He tugged the rest of the barrel lid away and reached in to help the woman inside to her feet. “I know you’re not much use at handling women, but I could use some help here.”
They set to work.
GRUNSONN’S MARAUDERS
Andy Jones
“Gentlemen, the deal is done. Your honour, sorry, our honour is at stake!”
The young man stood defiantly in front of the rough wooden table, around which three travel-worn characters played cards and drank from battered tankards. Two tankards were full of frothy ale in which suspicious shapes surfaced now and then. The other held a liquid golden glitter, which the owner refilled from a delicate bottle every so often.
“Raise yer ten, and throw in me spare dagger of wotsit slaying.” The gruff voice was that of a dwarf of indeterminate age and very few teeth. His black beard was streaked with silver grey (and gravy stains), his face a mass of scars from old wounds, weather-beaten and rugged. His armour was dented and scratched, and two fingers were missing from his left hand. A huge, rune-encrusted axe leaned against the table next to him. Unlike everything else about the dwarf, the axe gleamed and shone, even in the fuggy gloom of Ye Broken Bones Inne. Grimcrag Grunsonn peered at his cards through beady black eyes.
“Ach, Grimcrak, ven to admit Defeat! Dat Kard is nozzink bot a Seven.” The heavily-accented growl came from the lips of a wolfish barbarian sitting opposite the dwarf. Heavily muscled, with a bearskin draped across his broad shoulders, the barbarian glanced at Johan Anstein and grinned, showing white teeth. “I got ’im now, ja?”
Johan threw his eyes heavenwards and tapped an impatient foot on the worn floorboards. “Look, we’ve been sitting around for weeks now. So I’ve sorted us a job out, and—”
“What sort of a job, lad? More wetnursing ladies on the way to court? You know what happened last time! Hah! Wetnurses!” Jiriki the elf laughed quietly, a knowing look shining in his eyes.
Keanu the Reaver, the fur-clad barbarian, emitted something halfway between a belch and a throaty guffaw. “Vetnurse! Ha! Zome joke dat, eh, Grimcrak?”
The dwarf stared stony-faced at his cards. “Weren’t no fault of mine. Should’ve had good dwarf buckets ’stead of them shoddy things.”
Johan winced at the memory, but pressed on bravely. “No, a proper job. You know, underground—with monsters and danger and stuff, a real quest.” The young would-be hero looked dreamily across the bar, already envisaging the many brave and daring deeds awaiting them.
The others ignored him. They’d heard it all before; Johan’s pipe-dreams rarely came to anything.
“Okey-dokey, Grimcrak, da dagger it is.” The Reaver held his cards to his massive chest in a conspiratorial fashion.
“It’s a wizard, see, lives here in town, wants us to find a long-lost magical item.”
“They all do, lad, they all do,” Grimcrag muttered. “Let’s see you, then.”
“Funf tenz!” proclaimed the barbarian.
&nb
sp; “Damn!”
“Ja!” Keanu grinned viciously. “I vin! I vin! Da dagger, if ya pleez…”
Johan drew in a deep breath and threw a sizeable bag down on the table. It clinked with an instantly recognisable metallic sound. “He’s given me a down-payment.”
Expecting a row for dubious tactics, Keanu was more than a little surprised when Grimcrag handed over the dagger, but the Barbarian did notice that a familiar glazed look had come over the dwarf’s craggy features. Even as Grimcrag’s left hand passed over the weapon, his right sidled of its own accord towards the bag, giving it a nudge. The bag jingled again.
“It’s—” Johan began.
“Shush now, lad, I knows what this is.” Grimcrag’s features had taken on a look of rapturous awe. “Bretonnian gold, brought back from the new lands of Luscitara.”
“Lustria actually,” Jiriki corrected. “And you only had to ask; we’ve known about the humid, swampy, jungle infested place for…”
“Never mind that. Their gold is second to none.” Grimcrag felt the bag again. After a few more investigative pokes, a secretive, greedy look came over the dwarf’s craggy face, and he paused, before continuing in a disappointed tone.
“Actually, on second thoughts, I’m wrong y’know.” He dragged the bag towards him across the table.
“Vot meanink?” Keanu asked, his razor-sharp intuition picking up the change in the dwarf’s manner.
“He’s gone all goldsome on us. They all go like that,” the elf sighed. “He’ll be alright in a minute or two.”
“Can we get on with it? The wizard is waiting.” Johan was getting more exasperated by the second. “You’ve got… sorry, we’ve got the gold. It’s just a down-payment; we’ve got to meet him at his tower within the hour.”
Grimcrag shook his head, a sly look in his eye. Jiriki gave a short barking laugh and drew his dagger. From past experience, the elf knew what was about to happen.
“You’ve bin done, lad,” the dwarf said, peering inside the bag. “Yup, just as I thought: brass and copper, brass and copper—just enough to pay back what you owes me for the sword and stuff I gave you.” Tutting disappointedly to himself, Grimcrag made to put the bag into his pack, moving with startling speed—but the elf and barbarian proved faster.
Tales of the Old World Page 30
