“The prince is in Wissenland, or on his way at least.”
As they’d left the town behind, they’d seen Prince Wilhelm and his Griffonkorps riding hard for the provincial border. They needed to move swiftly. Not only were greenskins abroad, but with every day that went by Averheim was squeezed further by Grom the Paunch. If Wilhelm’s army didn’t march soon, the goblin king might have crushed the Averland capital to rubble by the time they arrived.
“Come on,” Brand called from inside. He lingered just beyond the stable threshold, not willing to commit himself in case he found a goblin dagger in his back.
Lenkmann gave the skeletal structure a sour look. The wasted timbers reminded him of bones. Shadows loomed within the stable’s creaking confines and he could hear the buzzing of flies against the wind. Lenkmann was not a cowardly man. He’d do his duty to the Empire, fighting greenskins or beastmen. Even marauders from the north held no true terror for him.
But the unquiet, the revenant scratching at its coffin lid, digging through its earthy grave, that did unsettle him. “Masbrecht…” he said.
The other Reiklander smiled and made the sign of the hammer.
“I always feel better when you do it,” Lenkmann admitted.
“There’s nothing to fear, brother. Sigmar is always with us.”
“I’m not afraid,” snapped the banner bearer. “Just being careful,” he added, striding into the stables with unnecessary gusto.
The farmhouse was quiet except for the creaking of its only door on broken hinges. Karlich was the first inside, pushing the door with his sword tip so it was wide enough to enter.
The stench in the room had faded, but Eber still wrinkled his nose.
“That’s a foul reek,” he said, peering over Karlich’s shoulder to get a better look.
“Don’t blame me,” snapped Keller. He held his arm low instinctively, trying to conceal the stain on his hose. The tang of it still lingered in his nostrils, even though it had long since gone. Like Karlich, his mind was also on other things. He kept his gaze ahead, not wanting to look at the lonely cart dumped next to the house with no mule to pull it. Something else was standing by it. Keller had glimpsed its presence in his peripheral vision before looking away. He didn’t want to see it directly. It had… changed in the last few days. To look upon it now… Keller feared he’d cry out in spite of himself.
Though he’d secured the door, Karlich still heard creaking. It got louder as he went inside. The house had one room. There was a simple bed, table and chair. A wool rug, dirty from use, covered a small patch on the stone floor. A thatch roof overhead filtered the sun in thin, grainy beams. Though gloomy, there was enough light to see the farmer hanging two feet from the ground.
“Sacred Morr,” breathed Eber when he noticed the corpse.
Keller made the sign of the hammer, determined to make the penitent streak stick. “How long?” he asked.
“A while,” said Karlich, approaching the body. Its sunken flesh was grey and ghoulish. Empty sockets remained where the eyes had been. Rigor mortis curled the farmer’s toes and fingers into claws. Rough clothes hung off the body like flaying skin.
There was no sign of greenskins, none at all. Karlich supposed the farmer had heard of the invasion while in town for market day, returned to his farm and decided it was better to take his own life than face possible torture and certain death by the orcs. How could he have known the greenskins would miss him? At least the house was clear. It was bitter compensation.
“Shallya’s mercy,” Karlich muttered. He sounded weary. “Cut him down.”
Rechts was still dizzy. The open air was doing nothing for him. About to enter the barn, he staggered and would have fallen if not for Volker catching his arm.
“Easy does it,” said the huntsman in a low voice. “Let me go first.”
Rechts gladly moved aside and followed Volker in through the half-open barn door.
Despite the shafts of sunlight lancing the cracks in its roof, it was dark inside the barn. The air was stale and smelled of hay and dung. Bales were bound up with string in the two far corners. Stacked on top of one another, they stretched halfway to the door. Vertical beams supported the roof, hung with chains, sickles and scythes. It didn’t look like they’d been used for a long time. A loft loomed above. It was the perfect place for an ambush, so Volker kept his eyes on it.
“Something’s off,” he said to Rechts, who had just sidled through the door.
“Hot in here.” The drummer looked nauseous.
“Quiet!” hissed Volker. The huntsman had moved under the trapdoor that led up to the hayloft. A length of rope dangled to the ground from it. Volker wrapped the rope around his fist and pulled. The trapdoor doubled up as a ramp, and an entire section of the loft floor came down to rest on the ground. Standing near the foot of the ramp, Volker secured the rope on a hook attached to a wooden beam and waited.
Now Rechts could smell it too. Something was definitely off in the barn, and it was coming from the hayloft. Hangover forgotten, he edged closer to Volker. They needed to be careful. Karlich had split them up to search all three structures at the same time. Help, if they needed it, would be a little way off.
Volker whistled sharply. A few seconds later, Dog trotted into the barn from where it had been told to wait outside. After a gesture from its master, the mutt ran up the ramp and into the hayloft.
“Now we wait,” said Volker, the sound of snuffling and rooting coming from above them. Then Dog barked, low at first but building in pitch with each successive sound.
Volker moved up the ramp, keeping low.
Rechts followed, amazed at his comrade’s stealth. Volker barely made a sound.
The hayloft was almost full. A pitchfork stuck out of the loose stacks like a marker, but Dog wasn’t interested in this. It was scatting at the far end of the loft, pushing its muzzle eagerly into the piled hay. It was a gloomy spot. The loft’s open window was on the opposite side. Glancing at it only seemed to make the patch where Dog stood even darker.
“Come!” said Volker, and the mastiff stopped rooting to rejoin its master.
Crossing the loft to the site of Dog’s interest felt farther than it actually was. Volker kept his eyes on the stack the entire time, his dirk held low and close to his body. A faint crunch of hay assured the huntsman that Rechts was right behind him.
“Grab that,” he said, indicating the pitchfork.
Rechts went over and took the implement. He then passed it to Volker, who hadn’t moved and was waiting for him. Stalking the last few feet to the haystack, Volker prodded carefully with the fork. The first attempt went straight through, the second hit something. He lunged harder and the pitchfork came back with blood on it. Using the pitchfork in a scraping motion, Volker dragged away some of the hay. There was a body lying beneath, dead a few days but no more. The seal on its tunic was familiar. It was the griffon rampant of the Emperor.
“Go find Sergeant Karlich,” Volker said, stepping away. His hands were shaking, but he couldn’t explain why. “Right now!” he snapped, when Rechts didn’t move straight away.
Stumbling a little at first, and not from the hangover, Rechts ran out of the hayloft and across the barn. Only when he reached Karlich at the house, did he stop to puke. An already long day was about to get much longer.
The dead messenger lay on the floor of the hayloft in full view. After Rechts had gone to get the others, Volker had carefully cleared away the hay concealing the body.
“Altdorf colours,” said Karlich, under his breath. Under a long tan cloak, the dead messenger’s tunic was red and blue. His garments looked fine and unroughed. His boots were expensive and polished. One of them lay on the floor alongside the body. Even the man’s stockings were clean and white. He looked lean and healthy, except for the dagger sticking out of his chest.
“From the royal house,” said Masbrecht. He noted the dead messenger’s hands: they were clean, his nails manicured. “An aide, perhaps?”<
br />
“This is how you found him?” asked Karlich, weighing up Masbrecht’s theory with some of his own.
Volker was crouching next to the body, examining the wound, and nodded.
Except for Brand, who knew something about dagger wounds himself, the rest of the Grimblades were down in the barn. Rechts was sitting on a hay bale, nursing his head and stomach. Keller kept to himself, his eyes on the ground, whilst Lenkmann and Eber watched the door.
“That’s no orc blade; it’s Empire,” said Karlich, stooping to get a better look at the dagger.
“Greenskins didn’t kill him,” said Brand, lurking in the shadows. “The cut is too precise, one thrust right into the heart.”
Karlich turned, suddenly feeling a little colder. “And?”
“It’s assassination work.”
And you would know, I suppose, thought Karlich. Sometimes he wondered how they all slept at night with Brand around, then he remembered the man was on their side and that was how. Since Varveiter’s death, Brand had retreated further into himself. They all missed the old warhorse, Karlich especially. But for Brand, Varveiter had been the one stable element in his life. Now he was gone, bloodily, and that bothered Karlich, more than he wanted to admit.
“You search him?” he asked Volker.
“Found this.” The huntsman gave Karlich a scroll of parchment. “Hidden in his boot.”
“What’s on it?” Karlich asked, noting the broken seal as he unfurled it. The scroll was actually a map that showed Averland and Wissenland. Several landmarks were detailed, including Mannsgard and Pfeildorf, the capital of Wissenland and Prince Wilhelm’s destination. A route was marked out between the two locations with a line that ended in an arrow leading back to Mannsgard. A small red “X” fell about halfway along it where some hills were also sketched.
“What does it mean?” asked Volker.
Karlich looked back down at the body, then at the Reikland dagger plunged into its dead heart. Brand was already heading down again. He knew they were going back.
“I don’t know,” Karlich lied. He had some ideas. “We should return to Mannsgard and report it. We go now.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
TO SAVE A PRINCE
Outside Mannsgard, Averland,
386 miles from Altdorf
The Grimblades ran the five miles back to camp. The high grass made hard work of it and all except for Brand were gasping for breath by the time they reached Mannsgard’s gates.
Old Varveiter would have been complaining, the last to come in. Eber missed it. They all did. Or at least, that’s how it appeared. Keller had said nothing since the barn. He was finding it increasingly difficult to lift his eyes off the ground lately. Masbrecht had asked him about it, but Keller just mumbled something and walked away. Masbrecht dropped it after that.
Karlich had said nothing to those who were down in the barn when the body was being examined. Rechts knew of it, of course, and they knew what he knew, but only Volker, Brand and Masbrecht were privy to the map and the dagger. Karlich had worried at it all the way to Mannsgard, trying not to jump to conclusions. Captain Stahler would know what to do. He was billeted in an old counting house close to the gate. At least they wouldn’t have to slog through the streets to reach him.
“You three, come with me,” said Karlich, upon entering the town. “The rest of you will wait at The One-Eyed Dwarf until I come and get you. Understood?”
Brand, Masbrecht and Volker stayed with the sergeant. As the others were moving off, Karlich added, “And stay out of trouble.”
Lenkmann saluted, and assured the sergeant that wouldn’t be a problem.
When they were out of earshot, Masbrecht asked in a low voice, “Why meet so close to Mannsgard? The messenger and his would-be killer, I mean.”
“Closeness to his mark,” said Brand. “He can observe and predict, gather information first hand if he needs to. The messenger obviously came from the prince’s camp. He served his purpose and was silenced.”
“Perhaps Templar Vanhans or one of his faithful saw something,” offered Masbrecht.
Karlich stiffened at the mention of the witch hunter’s name. He tried not to react and focused on getting to the counting house.
“Scouts and patrols are leaving the town all the time,” said Brand. “A lone rider would be lost with the rest.”
“Shut up, both of you.” Disturbed also by Brand’s knowledge of contract killing, Karlich had finally listened to all he could take. Bad enough that they’d found the dead messenger at all, they didn’t need someone overhearing them on the street. Things were complicated as it was. When they reached Stahler’s billet, the matter became tangled even further.
The counting house was a dusty place with grey walls, full of wooden furniture. It had two floors, the upper one had an archive and vault but was boarded over; the lower had a hallway leading to a small office with a writing desk and was full of old ledgers. A side room contained a bed and chair. It was close to the Temple of Shallya, so Stahler was in reach of ministration if he needed it.
The shutters were drawn and the counting house was dark when the four Grimblades entered. Smoke hung in the air, obscuring the view further.
Karlich went in first, his men a few paces behind. Their steps sounded loud and echoing as they walked down the hallway. Upon reaching the office, Karlich saw a silhouette sitting at the writing desk. Stahler was smoking a pipe, though it didn’t smell like his usual tobacco. Perhaps the priestesses had provided a curative leaf. Karlich had heard of such things, though didn’t place much stock in them.
“Sir,” he ventured. “We’ve made a disturbing discovery.” Stahler was little more than a black outline against a dark-grey canvas, but he sat up when Karlich spoke. The sergeant took it as an invitation to speak further.
“There’s an old farmstead about five miles west of Mannsgard. The farmer was dead. There was also another body,” Karlich paused, choosing his next words carefully. “It was hidden in a hay loft and wore the trappings of an Altdorf messenger, one from Prince Wilhelm’s camp.”
As his sight adjusted, Karlich began to see Stahler’s eyes in the gloom. They narrowed at the mention of the prince and suddenly the sergeant felt that something was wrong.
“You’re not Captain Stabler,” he said flatly, straightening his back to show his annoyance. Karlich didn’t like being fooled. He liked liars and charlatans even less. “Who are you?”
The silhouette struck a match, lighting up a nearby lamp. Ledner was revealed in its wan glow. Shadows pooled the crevices of his thin face, making him appear gaunter than he actually was. Ledner kept the light behind him, blinding his visitors but enabling him to see them clearly.
“You were saying, sergeant?”
“I thought I was speaking to my captain. I’m sorry, sir. There’s been a mistake.” Karlich went to go, not sure what Ledner would make of what he had heard so far, when the voice of the prince’s spymaster stopped him.
“The only mistake would be to leave this room,” Ledner said calmly. “Please go on. Captain Stahler is with the sisters of mercy having his wounds redressed.”
Karlich wished he had had the temerity to ask what then Ledner was doing in his captain’s billet with his aide obviously elsewhere. In the circumstances, he didn’t think it wise. He took the map scroll from where he’d secured it in his belt and unfurled it on the desk.
“And what is this?” Ledner asked.
“A map of Averland and Wissenland,” said Volker, nonplussed. Karlich glared at him and the huntsman shut his mouth like a trap.
Ledner smiled thinly. His eyes were predatory as he regarded Volker.
“What is its meaning?”
“The messenger was carrying it when he died,” said Karlich.
Ledner began to study the map. He traced a thin finger down the line describing Wilhelm’s route. “How was he killed?”
Karlich cleared his throat, making Ledner look up.
“We think he was
assassinated. An Empire dagger had pierced his heart.”
Ledner sighed, rolling up the parchment. “Well, that would do it I suppose.”
When the spymaster permitted a long silence to descend, Karlich told him, “Something must be done.”
Ledner fixed the sergeant with a cold stare that bled all heat from the lamp. Karlich felt a shiver but suppressed it.
“About what? What is it you think is happening here, sergeant?” Ledner was enjoying the inquisition and suddenly Karlich could imagine many men who had fallen under the spymaster’s scrutiny. He thought those “conversations” would be markedly less pleasant than this one. That they would end with hot steel and fire, maybe the noose or rack. Ledner was famed for his strong stomach and his sociopathic nature. A keen combination in a torturer and confessor.
Karlich drew off his courage, speaking aloud what he had believed since finding the body and seeing the map.
“Prince Wilhelm is in danger, my lord. I think someone’s planning to kill him.”
Ledner smiled again. There was no warmth in it. It was a gesture as far from humour as it was possible to get.
“You were wise to come to me, sergeant. Even if it was by accident,” said Ledner. “You are certain this messenger was slain by an assassin, the same man you think is after the prince?”
“It may already be too late,” said Karlich. “If the prince’s would-be killer attacked him on the way to Pfeildorf… My lord, I must speak to my captain at once. Something must be done.”
“No you won’t,” Ledner replied, standing.
“I beg your par—”
“You won’t, because the fewer people who know about this the better.” Ledner opened up the lamp’s shutter, exposing the flame within. “Who else was with you?” he asked, “fust these three?”
“No. There were four others, all men of my regiment.”
“Where are these men now?”
Karlich’s brow furrowed. “At a tavern in the town. What does it matter?”
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