“I’m surprised he hasn’t come in to burn and stake it all then. Watch him,” said Wilhelm, finishing up drying off. He handed the towel back to the priestess, who bowed and took her leave.
“Like a hawk, my lord.”
A pregnant pause invited Ledner’s next question. He waited to ask it until they were alone. “Would you like me to remonstrate with Blaselocker?”
Wilhelm pulled on his undergarments and hose. “If I wanted to find him hanging by his medallion from the rafters or drowned in his own drink, then yes. I’ll deal with him,” the prince asserted. “The Averlanders need a figurehead, even one as craven as he. What of Sirrius?”
“Weak from his exertions. It doesn’t take an augur to know he won’t be fighting again for a few days. Even if we wanted to move on Averheim tomorrow, I wouldn’t advise it, not without the wizard.”
Wilhelm considered that for a moment before his mind went elsewhere. “Any word from the other provinces?”
“Messengers were sent as requested, but none, as of yet, have returned. The scouting parties have come back though, some of them. They report Stirland is under almost perpetual siege and that greenskin armies are as far north as Talabecland.”
“So we are alone in this, after all, just as the Emperor predicted.” Wilhelm couldn’t hide his bitterness. After buttoning his tunic, he sat down heavily in the chair, his sword and armour now resting against the leg. “I love the Empire, Ledner…”
“As do we all, my liege.”
“But I love the Reik more. What are we doing here, old friend? Is this really our war? Was Markus right? Should I be back at Kemperbad, strengthening our border for the inevitable tide?”
“Someone must stand for the Empire when its emperor does not,” Ledner answered plainly. “I am not a righteous man. I have killed and bribed, extorted and committed larceny to keep my province safe. I do it knowing I must live a life of compromise, because that is who I am and my lot. You, my lord, are a righteous man.” Ledner paused to look outside, an old habit, to make sure no one was within earshot. He looked back at Wilhelm. “Dieter is a fatuous emperor. His time is ending. Whatever business he is brokering with Marienburg will undo him, and when he falls the Empire will have need of a decent man, a strong lineage to guide it.”
“I don’t make war five hundred miles from home as part of a bid for succession, Ledner,” said the prince, slightly perturbed.
“I know, my liege,” the captain replied, “and that is what makes you just.”
Wilhelm tugged on his boots and strapped on his breastplate. He cinched his runefang to his belt with care. What the sword stood for had faded in the current time, yet the prince still believed. “Perhaps, but it’ll all be for nothing if I cannot bring allies to my banner, Ledner. The only Empire left to govern might be a tattered ruin by the end.”
“So you still plan to ride to Wissenland. It’s several days’ journey from Mannsgard. Are you sure that’s wise?” said Ledner. “Send me in your stead.”
“I must go. If Pfeifraucher can be convinced to fight, then it will only be done by my intervention. I’ll have the Griffonkorps to protect me.” Wilhelm smiled, hooking his cloak to his pauldrons and picking up his helmet. “In any event, I need you here to be my eyes and maintain order in the ranks.”
Ledner bowed. “As I knew you would, my liege. As I also knew you would not rest at Mannsgard, either.”
“The soak has eased my bones. How can I rest when my land is in danger? If I am the just and noble heir apparent you say I am, then I must act.”
“Send the count my greetings,” said Ledner as Wilhelm was making for the door.
Outside the tavern, a small band of Griffonkorps were already gathering. The prince’s empty steed was with them.
“I want Pfeifraucher to join us, Ledner,” Wilhelm replied as he was leaving, “not lock his gates even tighter.”
Both men laughed, but their humour was fleeting. A dark road lay ahead for Wilhelm, darker than he realised.
When the prince had gone, Ledner’s face fell. If they could not unite their provincial brothers beneath one banner, this war would very likely be the death of them both.
All of the regiments in Prince Wilhelm’s army, together with their officers, were billeted in Mannsgard. Foreign soldiers outnumbered Averland citizens now. They would need to make the most of their respite. Word had already reached the masses that the prince rode with all haste to Wissenland, at least a three-day journey there and back. After that, irrespective of Count Pfeifraucher’s decision, they would march on Averheim and try to lift the siege. Some of the soldiers went carousing in the towns in what many had started to call “the last days”. Though most of Mannsgard was empty or simply waiting for death, there were still pleasures to be found, booze to be drank if you knew where to look. Others sought out notaries and scribes, eager to make their last will and testament before the march. Many went to the temples, to pray for their loved ones or make peace with Sigmar or Morr.
Keller was not a praying man, though he had given some thought to it recently. Instead, he had found a different vice to assuage his guilt. The One-Eyed Dwarf was one of the few taverns left in Mannsgard that still carried alcohol. Most of the others had already been drunk dry by the nervous townsfolk or their stock carried away in the refugee wagons. It wasn’t a wise move. Orcs and goblins ranked ale and spirits a close second to brawling and rampaging.
Rechts was asleep in one corner of the small establishment. He’d kicked off his boots and propped up his bare feet with a stool. The drummer’s drunken snoring echoed around the almost empty bar. Across the room was the tavern’s only other patron, a dwarf with an eye patch, a tramp by the look of his festering clothes. Keller wondered if it was coincidence or whether the dwarf had been there since the tavern existed, hence the name above the door outside. The dwarf held a dead fish in one gnarled hand and piped up when he saw Keller looking.
“Dead fish!” he raved, in thickly-accented Reikspiel. Obviously he was an ex-patriot, an exile from the Vaults or Black Mountains. “Keeps ogling me,” he added. With a shout he slammed the fish against the table where he was sitting. Judging by the stains and fish scales in the wood, it wasn’t the first time he’d done it. “Not natural when it’s dead.”
Keller moved on, ignoring the dwarf. There was no barkeep, so he poured himself a drink. The liquor was hot and abrasive when it hit his throat. Coughing, he poured another and then a third. He kept the bottle next to him like an old friend and had drained half of it when someone whispered in his ear.
“Drowning your sorrows or trying to take the edge off?”
Keller swallowed hard but could no longer taste the alcohol.
“Thought you said you wouldn’t do it in the back,” he said. His voice came out in a rasp.
“That’s why you’re going to turn around.”
So he did, and came face-to-face with Brand. Keller gave a half glance at Rechts.
“He won’t help you,” said Brand, his icy stare chilling Keller to the bone. “Shout out and I’ll do it here, now. It’ll be messy, painful.”
Keller nodded. Tears welled in his eyes.
“Drinking with a friend?” asked Brand, when he saw the two glasses on the bar. One of them looked untouched and had two shots of grain whisky in it.
“S-something like that…”
“He wouldn’t have drunk with you anyway.”
“Probably not.”
Silence fell in the tavern as Brand stared. His gaze was more piercing than steel.
“Are you sorry for what you’ve done?” he asked. “I am,” he added, without waiting for an answer. It was the most and the longest Keller had ever heard Brand speak, but he still wasn’t done. “I’ve killed men, lots of them. Innocent and guilty. It’s why I joined the army. I could tell you my upbringing was violent or some trauma made me this way, but it isn’t true. I’ve always needed to kill. I’m trying to make up for it, now,” Brand said, looking over at the empty
glass and the empty seat before it.
“Their faces come in the night, the ones I’ve killed.” He looked back at Keller. “Like you’re seeing a face right now, aren’t you, Krieger?”
Keller nodded meekly. Warm piss trickled down his leg, staining his hose.
“I scream for them. In the night, I find a quiet place and inside I scream,” Brand said. “War is one thing, but it takes a lot to kill a man in cold blood. A part of it clings to you, like their phantom unwilling to let go. It’ll drag you down, Krieger, if you don’t master it. You’re not like me…”
Krieger was shaking his head. He was crying. When he realised, he wiped at his face.
“You can’t keep the guilt,” Brand continued. “Bloody hands lead to retribution in the end. Mine will come one day. Yours has already found you.”
Keller pointed feebly at Brand. The other Reiklander nodded slowly.
“I won’t do it when your back is turned, you’re right. You’ll die with a weapon in your hand, but you will die. Varveiter’s honour demands it. Now,” said Brand finally, “take your dagger and come with me.”
Keller was already standing up, legs shaking, when Eber and Volker came in. The huntsman knew something was up at once.
“Too late for a drink, or are you moving on?” he asked.
Eber’s forehead wrinkled, as if he knew something wasn’t quite right but couldn’t put his finger on it.
Keller sat back down gratefully, trying to obscure the wet patch in his hose.
“I’ll take another.” He sounded a little breathless.
“Some other time,” said Brand, though it wasn’t clear if he was talking to Keller or Volker. He was heading for the door, about to leave, when more would-be patrons joined them.
Torveld, Wode and three other Steel Swords stood in Brand’s path.
“Popular place,” said Torveld, smiling thinly.
Brand backed up. So did the other Reiklanders. They moved farther into the room, pushing aside the few chairs and tables as they went.
The Middenlanders stepped after them slowly, Torveld taking the lead. A few feet of open floor stood between them.
“A good day for you at the Brigund Bridge,” said Torveld. He was armed. So were his compatriots. The Grimblades just carried dirks. Their halberds were stocked at an armoury in the town. Sturnbled must have dished out the blades to his men.
“What do you want, northerner?” Volker got straight to the point. Dog was with him and growled at the Middenlanders.
“Him,” Torveld snarled, pointing at Rechts.
Eber gave his slumbering comrade a shove. Unfortunately, the big Reiklander didn’t always know his own strength and Rechts was dumped off the chair and onto the ground.
“Whoreson! Wha—” he began, scrambling to his feet and reaching for his dagger before he saw Eber. Then he noticed the others, and Torveld glaring at him. Indignation became mockery on the drummer’s face. “Ah, the Yellow Baron’s lackeys have come to schlow their courage, have they?”
Wode balled his fists, prompting Eber to step forward, but Torveld kept the Middenlander back.
Rechts was steaming drunk. He slurred his words and belched loudly. Three empty bottles of hooch rolled around his feet as he stumbled a little before standing straight.
“What have you been saying, Rechts?” hissed Volker, one eye on the belligerent Middenlanders.
The drummer looked offended. “Jusht the truth,” he said, licking his lips. “They schwagger about, arrogant bashtards,”—he imitated the movement by swaying his shoulders and putting on a disdainful sneer—“but when push comes to shove, they run like milkmaids.”
“Shut up, Rechts,” Volker warned him.
Torveld was shaking his head. He and his countrymen had heard enough.
Eber made fists. Keller looked relieved that the attention was no longer on him. He wrapped his hand around the half empty whisky bottle. Brand just stood with his hands by his sides, taking it all in, planning to kill Torveld first.
“I’m going to gut you like a pig, southerner.” Torveld was looking at Rechts.
“Shure, you are…” he replied, before promptly passing out and crashing to the floor.
The Middenlanders had half drawn their blades when the tavern door opened again. Everyone turned to see who it was. Captain Stahler stood in the doorway, ashen-faced and looking far from pleased. Von Rauken and several of his greatsworders accompanied him.
“Put up your blades,” he said calmly to the Middenlanders.
“This is a matter of honour, they’ve—” Torveld began. “Put ’em up! Do it now!”
The Middenlanders obeyed, stepping aside as Stahler stalked into the room appraising all present with a filthy look.
“Get to your billet,” he said to the Steel Swords, “and tell Sergeant Sturnbled I want words. Go on, get out!”
Torveld was livid, but he held on to his temper. He nodded with a last look in the Grimblades’ direction before storming out with his men.
“Now you lot…” said Stahler, once the Middenlanders were gone. The captain wore his breastplate, but had yet to don his helmet. He walked with a limp and the effort clearly pained him, but he was still formidable. The greatsworders stood behind him like plate-clad sentinels. Von Rauken was doing his best to keep the smirk off his face. Concealed behind his beard, no one could see it anyway.
The Grimblades were downcast, suddenly ambivalent about their captain’s return. Volker was about to speak when Stahler cut him off.
“Not a damn word!” He looked over his shoulder. “Karlich, get in here.”
A stern-faced Sergeant Karlich entered the tavern, Lenkmann and Masbrecht in tow. He was shaking his head and scowling. He looked more annoyed than Stahler. “It appears my return was timely,” said Stahler. “Blaselocker is gone,” he added flatly. “I’m back and this kind of behaviour in my regiments won’t be tolerated. If we weren’t so short of bodies you’d be flogged. Some of you would swing. Do your killing on the battlefield. Don’t worry, you’ll get your chance, we all bloody will.” He glared for a few moments, regarding each man in turn before facing Karlich.
“I’ll leave this rabble to you.”
Karlich saluted, waiting for Stahler and the greatsworders to leave, before turning his attention on the Grimblades.
“Captain Stahler has recovered well enough to fight, praise Sigmar,” he recounted deadpan. “We are heading out. On patrol. Now.” Karlich punctuated the last word firmly.
“Those northern scum—”
Karlich cut Volker off.
“Are out for blood, I know. But it’ll be Stahler who has it if you carry on like this. All of you, with me, right now,” he said. As Karlich was leaving, he added, “Eber, get him up and make sure he’s sober by the time we reach the gate.”
Eber nodded and hauled Rechts onto his back, carrying him like a sack of grain. The big Reiklander remembered seeing a horse trough a little way from Mannsgard’s gate. Rechts would either be sober or drowned by the time he was done.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
A DARK DISCOVERY
Outside Mannsgard, Averland,
386 miles from Altdorf
Several miles outside Mannsgard, the land grew wilder. Though still largely flat and open, the Averland forests were thicker here. Men had not come with fire and axes to clear them. There were no other towns. Even villages were sparse, just smoking shadows on a distant horizon.
Volker noticed an isolated farm up ahead, not reported by the other patrols. The eight Reiklanders had met the last party on the way out, a tired-looking band of Averland pike. They had nodded and exchanged muted greetings as they’d passed one another, but that was all. The Averlanders had been south-east but found nothing. Volker had brought them westward and to the farm. He stopped a few hundred feet from it, waiting for the others.
“Looks deserted,” said Masbrecht as he joined the huntsmen.
The farm was ramshackle, comprising a small stone house, a barn and
some stables. There were wooden fences and several fields could also have been part of the farmer’s land, but no animals grazed in them and there weren’t any crops either. A stream ran through the land, its banks coloured by blood. Volker had followed the watercourse all the way to the farm.
“Best be sure,” said Karlich. The sergeant’s mood hadn’t improved. He had other things on his mind, too. Like the witch hunter’s encampment they’d passed when leaving Mannsgard. Of the templar, there’d been no sign. Small mercies. He looked at Rechts. “You first, soldier.”
Hung-over and red-eyed, but sober thanks to the liberal dunkings in the horse trough by Eber, Rechts nodded and headed up to the farm. The regimental drum and banner were back in Mannsgard, so at least he didn’t have anything to weigh him down. As Rechts came within the farm’s boundary line, he drew his short sword.
Volker looked nervously at his sergeant. Karlich sighed. “Try and make sure he doesn’t get himself killed.”
The huntsman saluted and jogged after Rechts. “The rest of you, come on,” added Karlich, and continued tramping through the high grass after the scouts.
Up close, the farm and its buildings looked even more wrecked than at a distance. Much of the wood from the barn was rotten. Several of the stones that made up the house had slipped or were cracked. After Rechts and Volker had scouted out the land around the buildings, to check for ambushers, Karlich had divided them into three groups to take the house, barn and stables respectively. A shallow wind howled across the plains. As it passed through the open buildings, it took on an unnatural sound. It disturbed Lenkmann greatly, who paused as he was about to enter the stables.
“Do we really need to go in?” he asked.
Brand shook his head and walked right past him.
“Orcs or goblins, more likely, could be hiding inside,” said Masbrecht. “Part of a vanguard or a splinter from the horde besieging Averheim. Either way, we have to know. How would Prince Wilhelm react if his troops allowed the greenskins to sneak up on us, waking up to find the walls of Mannsgard surrounded, as well as those of Averheim?”
04 - Grimblades Page 14
