“Not sure it’s in me anymore. I only joined to escape the past. This’ll be the last time I don armour and uniform,” he said.
Unlike Lenkmann, Karlich felt ill at ease in the dress attire he’d been given. The coronation not only celebrated the crowning of the new Emperor, it also commemorated and honoured those who had fallen to secure Reikland’s sovereignty almost five years ago. Karlich was amongst the esteemed guests, one of few that no longer served but had survived the battle.
“Ledner’s dead you know. You’ve nothing to fear from him or his lackeys anymore.”
He’d told them all, those who still lived amongst his closest companions, about Vanhans and even Grelle the Confessor. Not a man amongst them raised so much as an accusing eyebrow, not even Von Rauken. It was past, another life.
“Lung rot, I heard.”
“Painful way to go,” said Lenkmann.
“He’d earned it.”
“Yes he had.”
Karlich took out his pipe. Smoke drifted on the breeze after he’d fired it up, carried down to the city below them. “Did you bring it?”
When Karlich faced him again, he saw Lenkmann was cradling a dusky-looking bottle in his arm.
“Wasn’t easy to procure.” Lenkmann held it up to his eye. “But this is it. Middenland hooch. Rechts must’ve had a stomach like a horse.”
“And a face to match,” added Karlich.
They laughed at that, but not for long.
Karlich surveyed the sloping outcrop behind them. It was studded with rocks and wild grass, but nothing else.
“Doesn’t look like he’s coming. Shame that,” he said genuinely.
“Let’s get to it, then. Captain Vogen will flay me if I’m late for the Emperor-elect.”
Lenkmann offered the bottle to Karlich, who declined. “First honours are yours, Bader.”
Lenkmann gave his old sergeant a reproachful glance, before uncorking the hooch and taking a swig.
Coughing and spluttering, he handed it over to Karlich. The ex-sergeant was more of a hardened drinker and took the pull without complaint.
“Not to your taste,” he smiled, wiping a trickle of brown liquid from his lip.
“I prefer something with taste other than that of neat alcohol, if that’s what you mean.”
Karlich grinned, before assuming a solemn expression. He turned to the horizon and slowly upended the bottle. The dark liquid trickled out over the grass, a last drink to old friends.
“To the fallen,” he said, drawing Stahler’s sword and planting it in the alcohol-soaked ground.
“Aye, to Varveiter and Eber, to Keller and Rechts…”
“To Volker and Masbrecht,” said Karlich, “to all the Grimblades. And to Stahler,” he added.
“May Morr take them to his breast and Sigmar welcome them in the halls of heroes.”
Karlich let the bottle fall after Lenkmann had finished.
“It’s done then.”
“It’s done.”
Lenkmann faced him, saluted once and outstretched his hand. “It’s been an honour, sir.”
Karlich ignored the hand and hugged him warmly like a brother.
Lenkmann was taken aback at first but reciprocated the gesture.
“Come on,” said Karlich as they parted. “Mustn’t keep Emperor Wilhelm waiting.”
They left the outcrop together just as a shaft of sunlight poked through the clouds.
When they were gone, another figure came out of hiding to stand upon the rocky ridge overlooking the city, a mean looking mastiff following at his heel.
Remembrances were best observed alone, Brand always thought. Besides, a reunion would only raise awkward questions. He had no intention of returning to Altdorf or the army. An old profession had come calling again and Brand meant to heed it. This would be his last act as a Grimblade.
He regarded the spilled alcohol and the gleaming sword. He was tempted to take it, such was its craftsmanship, but that would dishonour the captain and he couldn’t have that. Instead, he saluted once, a final acknowledgement to old friends and an old life.
Brand didn’t linger. He was bound for the port of Marienburg where a ship would take him to Tilea. He hadn’t been there since he was sixteen but had heard of openings in various guilds for men of his calibre.
The small parcel in his hands contained his old uniform. Beneath the paper, it was still stained with blood. Brand laid it down and walked away.
“Come, Volker!” he snapped, and the mastiff dutifully followed.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Nick Kyme hails from Grimsby, a small town on the east coast of England. Nick moved to Nottingham in 2003 to work on White Dwarf magazine as a Layout Designer. Since then, he has made the switch to the Black Library’s hallowed halls as an editor and has been involved in a multitude of diverse projects. His writing credits include several published short stories, background books and novels.
You can catch up with Nick and read about all of his other published works at his website: www.nickkyme.com
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