Varveiter, lost at Blösstadt…
Eber, brutally stabbed and fighting for his life…
Keller, hung by the neck with his own rope…
Captain Stahler, cold and lifeless on a death priest’s cart…
It didn’t feel right. It wasn’t right. None of it was. As Masbrecht supped, filling his body with the poison he had renounced for over five years, the old docker slowly stirred. Like a child without its blanket, he missed the presence of the bottle. He awoke with a grunt, then was screaming unintelligibly at the man who had stolen his grog.
Surprised, Masbrecht pulled his dagger and brandished it at him.
‘Stay there, you old dog,’ he cried. ‘Stay there or I’ll cut you!’
The old docker recoiled, holding up his hands and pleading clemency.
‘Give mercy, milord. Don’t tar your blade with an old sot like me, I beg ya.’
Reality hit Masbrecht like a flood. The bottle shattered on the ground before he even knew he’d dropped it, waking up the other drunks.
‘In Sigmar’s name…’ He fled back out into the accusing night.
‘Bastard…’ he heard from down the alley. ‘My grog…’
Masbrecht got as far as a tinker’s before he had to stop and be sick. The liquor came back just as hot and unpleasant. Putting his fingers down his throat he puked again, just to be sure he was rid of it.
Kneeling in his own vomit, Masbrecht clasped his hands together in a desperate prayer. They were shaking.
‘Merciful Sigmar, guide me in my time of need. I am lost without your hand upon my shoulder.’
Somewhere in the distance, bells were tolling. Masbrecht had heard them before. They belonged to the Temple of Sigmar near the town square. Salvation was close. He made for the bells at once, unaware that someone was following him.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Hard truths
Wurtbad, capital of Stirland,
398 miles from Altdorf
Krieglitz’s hall was empty and echoing. The blazing hearth crackled, rudely invading the quietude and casting flickering grey slashes against the walls. A portrait hung above the fire, hinted at through the passing shadows. A noble bearing suggested itself and Wilhelm, pondering over his goblet of mulled spice-wine, thought it was probably Martin, one of Neder’s most famous ancestors.
The lambent light gave the room a warm impression. Thick, woollen rugs swathed the floor, a patch of flagstone visible here and there between them. Bare wooden beams stood in ranks along the walls and arched overhead like dark, embracing arms. A pair of crossed swords, a halberd and spear hung between the vertical beams. Tapestries were lost in shadow.
Wilhelm found the rustic aesthetic pleasing. It was a blessed rural tonic compared to Dieter’s lavishly appointed chambers. He eased into the furs draped across the back of his chair, still leafing through a series of missives and reports.
‘Averheim holds at least,’ he said with a hint of bitter irony.
‘The beast is moving, Wilhelm,’ said Krieglitz. ‘It has sated its lust for carnage in our hinterlands and seeks fresh enemies.’
Wilhelm looked up at Krieglitz, wearisome at the bleakness in the reports and returned petitions.
The two men faced each other across a table of rough-hewn oak. They had stripped out of their battle gear, in favour of light clothes and short cloaks. A change of attire was most welcome in Wilhelm’s opinion, though that and a bath had done nothing to cleanse the taint of defeat and loss. Six days in Wurtbad so far for the army to regroup and for Wilhelm to decide what to do next. Several officers had requested an immediate return to Reikland. The Lord Protector of Stirland was right, Grom and his horde were moving, likely westward to the heartlands of the Empire. The fact remained though that Wilhelm’s army, especially depleted as it was, could not match the greenskins. He needed allies. Petitions for aid had been sent to all states and provinces upon his arrival in the Stirland capital. The first replies to those missives had arrived that evening.
‘No word from Wissenland?’
‘Pfeifraucher hasn’t changed his position, nor will he,’ Krieglitz returned.
‘And what about you, Neder? What’s your position?’
The mounted head of a great boar, the cured and stuffed carcass of an elk caught Wilhelm’s eye. The shadows and the fire gave them a strange sense of verisimilitude. The prince suddenly imagined them roaming the wild, straying into the hunter’s sights… He felt an uncomfortable empathy with the beasts’ plight.
‘Orcs and goblins still rove my lands,’ replied Krieglitz. ‘Even if I wanted to, I can’t join your crusade, especially not with victory so uncertain. As Dieter’s regent, I can hardly go against him either.’ His face darkened as he drew back into shadow. Wilhelm thought it might be shame that made him do it.
‘And I cannot leave the Reikmark to be ravaged, either,’ he said. ‘Is there nothing you can do?’
‘I don’t think a prince has ever pleaded with me before.’
Wilhelm’s reply was curt.
‘Not pleading – asking.’
‘Sorry, brother.’ Krieglitz looked downcast. He was only a lord protector and had no right to address a royal son of Reikland like that. ‘I can provide an escort to the border but that’s all. Don’t forget, as well as greenskins, I have Sylvania stirring in the east.’
There was no better news in the returned missives. Wilhelm stood up abruptly.
‘Then there’s nothing further to discuss. Thank you for the wine, but I’ve lost my taste for it.’
‘Wilhelm…’
The prince was turning to leave and glanced back sharply.
‘Save your contrition, Neder. It counts for nothing on the battlefield.’
Wilhelm was walking away, disappearing into shadow, when Krieglitz spoke up.
‘What will you do?’
Wilhelm stopped.
‘Try to find more troops at Nuln, rally the townships and citizen militias, whatever I can. Perhaps Dieter will deploy his armies when the goblins are at his gates, but I doubt it.’
Krieglitz left an awkward pause before replying.
‘I am sorry, brother.’
‘The army will be gone by morning,’ said Wilhelm, then carried on walking.
Rechts and Masbrecht were missing. Outside Wurtbad in the pre-dawn light, a muster was forming. The Grimblades were supposed to be a part of it. Except Karlich and a small group were still in the town square, two bodies short. It was finally time to return to Reikland.
‘Find them both,’ he said to Volker, his annoyance obvious. ‘Bring them back here to me. We might have an hour before Vogen starts asking questions.’
With the tragic death of Captain Stahler, Vogen had taken over command of all the remaining infantry regiments. A tall order, but most of the soldiers that comprised it were veterans and could look to their sergeants for guidance. Vogen was enough of a pragmatist to let this happen and oversee where needed.
Volker nodded and jogged off into town.
‘And us, sergeant,’ asked Lenkmann, ‘what should we do?’
Brand stood silently alongside him, together with Greiss. The rest of the Grimblades were already outside Wurtbad’s gates on the mustering field, which now closely resembled a cesspool after several thousand men had been camped there. Small wonder that the Stirlanders were glad for the foreign exodus.
Karlich looked sour and he glared at the banner bearer.
‘We wait.’
Volker found Masbrecht in a pool of his own blood. The Temple of Sigmar was the first place he thought to look, but he was unhappy at the discovery he made there. Fortunately, there was no one else present save for the old priest who ministered it. From him, Volker learned that several Wurtbad folk had already seen the body. That in itself wouldn’t be such a problem were it not for the fact of w
hat was written in the blood.
Masbrecht was on his knees, as if in penitent genuflection. In death, he slumped against a statue of Sigmar, just below a set of stone steps leading up to the temple’s main altar. Dried blood streaked his neck where it looked like he’d slit his own throat. The wound gaped like a red smile that was anything but humorous. The tips of Masbrecht’s fingers were red too. His confession was written in blood alongside him. It told of the assassination attempt on Wilhelm, of a ‘traitor in the Reikland’ and his guilt in what he saw as complicity in keeping the threat of it secret.
‘Incredible that he wrote so much when his lifeblood was ebbing like that,’ said Lenkmann.
As soon as he’d found the body, Volker had instructed the old priest to seal the temple until his return, which he did along with Karlich and the others. They’d all been staring for almost a minute before Lenkmann had broken the silence.
‘I’ve seen men do more than that,’ offered Brand.
All except Karlich turned to regard the unsettling Reiklander.
‘What’s he holding in his left hand?’ asked the sergeant.
‘Must’ve missed that…’ muttered Volker and crouched beside the body. It was hard to see in the murky confines of the temple. Masbrecht’s left hand was also crushed up against the statue where he’d slumped.
Volker prised a scroll loose. The dead man’s body had yet to rigor.
It was a map Masbrecht was clutching in his bloodied fingers.
‘Where in Morr’s name did he get that?’ asked Volker.
Karlich recognised the self-same piece of parchment Ledner had showed him before they’d been charged with the prince’s preservation on the heath. Except, it couldn’t be. Ledner had burned it.
‘Who else has seen this?’ asked the sergeant.
‘Several of the townsfolk. News will be spreading,’ said Volker.
‘Like fire…’ muttered Brand, kneeling down next to Masbrecht. ‘It’s no suicide.’
Karlich glared at the Reiklander, demanding more.
‘Too clean, too obvious,’ Brand replied without even catching his sergeant’s look. ‘If you wanted to confess, why stab yourself in the neck and then use your own blood to write it?’
‘Guilt can do strange things to a man,’ suggested Lenkmann. His hollow voice reminded them all of poor Keller.
Brand shook his head. ‘Doesn’t feel like something Masbrecht would do. He’d go to Vogen, the prince even, confess and then await judgement. He wouldn’t kill himself.’
‘How can you be sure?’ asked Greiss.
Brand turned and held the recruit’s gaze. ‘I just know.’
‘So he was murdered,’ said Greiss, ‘and in his dying moments, unburdened his soul to Sigmar. Sounds like the actions of a devout man.’
No one spoke for a few moments as reality sank in.
Masbrecht was dead. Someone had murdered him.
‘We can do nothing about the confession,’ said Karlich at last. ‘That horse has bolted. Ledner may have us all hanged on account of it. We’ll tackle that in turn.’ He turned to Volker. ‘Any sign of Rechts?’
It was the first time anyone had mentioned the drummer’s name, but long after they’d all been thinking it.
‘Would he…’
‘I don’t know.’
‘How deep did their enmity go?’ asked Greiss.
‘Shut up!’ Karlich snapped. The two men had almost come to blows before. The argument outside the tavern had been one of the worst. What if this time they’d met again and no one had been there to stop them? Premeditated murder was not in Rechts, but a fight that got out of hand… and if he was still drunk?
‘Lenkmann,’ said Karlich, ‘wait here for the watch. Vogen or even Ledner may follow.’ Karlich glared at the banner bearer intently to emphasise the import of his next words. ‘Say nothing,’ he said, turning briefly and taking in the other Grimblades in a glance, ‘that goes for all of you. We keep quiet, try and fathom what happened. Lenkmann, you found Masbrecht here and have no idea why he did it or what his bloodied confession refers to. If anyone asks, I’m gathering the last of the regiment for the muster. Understand?’
Lenkmann nodded.
‘The rest of you,’ added Karlich, already walking out of the temple. ‘Every alehouse, every tavern in Wurtbad. Find him.’
No drunkard in all of Wurtbad would have visited as many alehouses as they had in such short order. Rechts was at none of them, and now Karlich was beginning to despair they’d ever find him. A niggle at the back of his head mooted that the drummer had killed Masbrecht and fled town for fear of repercussions. Karlich crushed that voice mentally underfoot and trusted in his instincts that Rechts was a good man in a bad way.
He was alone. By splitting up, the Grimblades had a better chance of finding Rechts quickly and quietly. As Karlich gazed around, something caught his eye. Like a lot of Stirland towns, Wurtbad’s rugged landscape encroached within its walls. It had several hills and narrow winding lanes that led to their summits. One such grassy knoll caught his attention. A thin smoke trail emanated from it.
Karlich turned abruptly, half expecting to see someone behind him, but the townsfolk had moved on and scowled less. Putting it down to tension, he made for the hill in long, determined strides.
The knoll was at the outskirts of town and overlooked much of its rural market. Even early as it was, traders were setting up stalls and wares for the coming morning. There were many gaps. Much of the usual bustle had been dented by the invasion. People still needed to eat, though. Trade offered a sense of order and normality fearful and superstitious folk needed. Count Krieglitz was a wise ruler, not a mere peasant lord as some of his contemporaries snidely branded him.
Rechts was smoking a thin bone pipe when Karlich found him. In the other hand, he cradled a bottle of Middenland hooch. It was empty, barring the dregs.
‘Come to drag me to muster?’ he asked without looking back.
Karlich didn’t answer but walked closer and kept his dirk within reach.
‘Just needed a little peace,’ Rechts continued. ‘Old memories sting when they’re poked at.’ Now he faced Karlich. He looked crapulous and melancholic. ‘I wouldn’t have cut out his tongue, you know. Thumped him, yes,’ he added, nodding at the idea, ‘but not cut him.’
And then, as he experienced the ambivalence of feeling relief that Rechts hadn’t murdered Masbrecht but then concern that his killer was still unknown to him, Karlich noticed a shadow fall upon them both. Rechts’s eyes widened and he tried to stand when he saw who loomed behind his sergeant.
Karlich moved just in time, ripping out his dirk and parrying Torveld’s thrust out of instinct. Another slash came at him, opening up the sergeant’s shoulder. Karlich yelped aloud, dropping his dagger as a hot dark line spoiled his tunic.
‘Southern dog,’ spat Torveld, drunk with anger. ‘They’re all dead.’ He lunged, and Karlich dodged aside.
Comprehending that Torveld was alive and not slain with the other Steel Swords as he originally thought, it all made sudden, terrible sense to Karlich. The Middenlander had killed Masbrecht out of a misguided fit of revenge. Blood for blood – that was the Ulrican way. Torveld blamed the Grimblades for the death of his comrades and was here to exact the price he saw was owed.
Rechts bull-charged him, even as Karlich was backing off to try and find some even footing, but Torveld barged the drunken Reiklander aside. The drummer’s momentum took him careening halfway down the hill, where he landed with a grunt.
‘Your brothers died in battle. It wasn’t down to us,’ Karlich told him, glancing around for a weapon, anything. ‘This is murder, Middenlander. Vogen will see you swing for this.’ It was an empty threat considering he’d killed already. As Torveld came on, Karlich decided to change approach. ‘I thought Ulricans were proud, honour-bound warriors–’
Torveld thumped his chest. ‘Winter wolves are the fiercest and most honourable.’
It was the most heartfelt and tragic affirmation Karlich had ever heard.
‘Then why slit a man’s throat? Why kill my brother in arms and try to hide it with deception?’
Torveld’s face went blank for just a second. He had no notion of what Karlich was talking about.
‘I lost the other and followed you he–’ was all he could manage before Greiss knocked him unconscious from behind.
‘Masbrecht is dead?’ Rechts was scrambling up the hill, sometimes on four limbs, sometimes two but was dumbstruck when he realised what had happened.
‘Yes,’ said Greiss, his iron-hard gaze fixed on Karlich. Even unarmed, the sergeant was at least sober and presented the greatest threat to his mission.
‘He killed him, Torsten,’ said Karlich. ‘I’m sorry I ever doubted you.’
Rechts’s confusion only grew. He struggled upright, still wavering. ‘What’s going on?’
Karlich wasn’t really listening. His eyes were on Greiss.
‘Who do you serve? Ledner?’
Greiss nodded, seeing no harm in the admission now. The assassin had clubbed Torveld over the head with a main gauche, parrying dagger. He also had a duelling pistol snug in his belt.
Karlich gestured to the weapons. ‘Gifts from your master?’
‘These are mine,’ said Greiss with a voice so cold it practically chilled the air. Ice flowed in his veins now. ‘Commendable,’ he added. ‘Stalling for time, devising my true nature. Your time is almost up, yours and your men’s. If you don’t struggle, I’ll make it quick.’
‘So Ledner didn’t trust us to keep quiet after all,’ said Karlich.
‘No more words,’ Greiss told them. ‘Face away from me, kneel down and prepare to meet Sigmar.’
Rechts roared and drove at Greiss. Maybe it was the grog, maybe he was just slower, but Greiss was able to turn and plant his dagger into Rechts’s neck before the drummer even got his hands up to try and choke him. Rechts burbled blood-flecked curses.
The Empire Omnibus Page 58
