by Warhammer
Hendrick looked closer and realised that, behind her mask of professionalism, Morthan looked tired and close to panic.
‘What do you need from us?’ he asked.
‘The militia have stepped down their presence in line with Selvador’s decree, but I think I can get away with keeping the watch fully mobilised for another day, perhaps two under the justification that public order needs to be restored and the celebrations are likely to be rowdy. What I can’t do anything about is the feast of thanks that the regent militant is throwing at the palace tonight. He’s already ordered a minimal presence of both my watchmen and Kayl’s militia in case we “send the wrong message”. He’s forbidden either myself or the arch-lector from attending, if you can believe it. But I’ve managed to wrangle an invitation for all of you on the basis that you came to us with a warning that may well, in some way, have pertained to what’s transpired. At least in Selvador’s eyes, at any rate.’
‘You would have us attend the feast as, what, security?’ asked Romilla.
‘Just go along and watch for anything untoward,’ said Captain Morthan. ‘I don’t know what – Sigmar knows, I wish I did – but I can’t shake this dreadful feeling that today is merely the calm before the real storm.’
‘A disturbing notion, and not one without merit if what you say is true,’ said Bartiman. ‘But our duardin friend is not wrong. We do have another contract that is now quite pressing. We should really be away.’
‘I’ll find you extra coin for tonight, if payment is your concern,’ said Morthan, and Hendrick heard the deep worry that underlaid her voice. ‘Selvador may be a deeply infuriating man, but he is a good one. He is the beating heart of this city. If anything should happen to him, I fear Draconium might not recover.’
‘We’ll be there,’ said Hendrick, staring at Borik and daring the duardin to gainsay him. Borik just set his jaw and looked away angrily. ‘At best, we get paid to attend a feast. At worst…’
‘Just keep your eyes open and your wits about you, and keep the regent militant safe,’ said Morthan. ‘Please.’
The rest of the day was spent in preparation. Olt was no happier than Borik to be staying, and Hendrick half-expected both to be gone by the evening. Romilla seemed angry with him, but he left her alone; whatever conflict of faith she was undergoing, Hendrick trusted the priest to speak to him about it if it became a real issue. Aelyn, by comparison, confided quietly that she agreed with Captain Morthan. Something felt off, but even her keen aelven senses couldn’t place precisely what.
They were no closer to a solution by the time the Swords of Sigmar assembled before the Drake’s Crown, clad in what passed for their smartest attire. They were all there, Hendrick saw with relief. Everyone – except Olt, who lurked under his cloak with a sour expression – had made some effort to look presentable. Borik had buffed his armour. Bartiman appeared both splendid and ominous in his full wizardly regalia. Romilla looked the part of the noble priest, Eleanora the astute, if somewhat awkward-looking artisan, Aelyn the regal aelven Wanderer with her hooded cloak set aside and a thin circlet of bloodwood and silver on her brow. Hendrick wore his own approximation of an officer’s dress uniform, richly coloured and well starched garb he had put together with great care the year after he had been thrown from the Freeguild. It paid to be able to impress rich clients, after all, and showing up looking like the archetypal grubby sellsword rarely had the desired effect.
Their only concession to their true natures was that everyone went armed, with additional munitions, blades and other tools of the trade concealed about their persons.
‘After all,’ Hendrick had said earlier, ‘we’ll be damn all use if anything does occur, if we’re stood there empty-handed.’
‘Speak for yourself,’ Bartiman had replied with a sniff, while Olt had just smiled a wolf’s humourless smile.
The streets were thronging as their carriage pulled up and the Swords clambered on board. City folk drank and cheered, offering raucous praise to the skies above. The crowds had thickened throughout the day, at least in the more affluent parts of the city, and from what Hendrick had seen most of the population of High Drake, Gallowhill and Docksflow had taken to the streets.
‘I wonder what the poorer folk are doing?’ said Romilla as their carriage-driver shouted imprecations and herded jubilant drunkards from his path. ‘I doubt they have the means for such celebration.’
‘They remain in their homes, watchful and cautious,’ said Aelyn. ‘At least, those with homes left to hide in.’
‘It’s like prey beasts in the wild,’ said Olt darkly. ‘The rich, they can afford to take risks, and believe it when they’re told everything is okay. Pampered cattle. But the poor, they’ve got to watch for danger all the time. If the poor are still hiding, I’m inclined to believe Hendrick and Aelyn that something isn’t right.’
‘I moved all of the explosives and the firearms and the other inventions that I’ve been working on back to the inn earlier,’ said Eleanora. ‘If anything happens, we’ll be able to go and get them and use them to protect ourselves.’
‘Sigmar’s hammer, I hope you didn’t tell the innkeeper,’ said Hendrick.
‘They’re all perfectly safe unless they’re activated,’ said Eleanora, looking suddenly alarmed. ‘Do you think he would be angry if he knew they were in my room?’
‘I can’t imagine why anyone would be unhappy to find an arsenal of bespoke ordnance tucked under a bed in their establishment,’ said Bartiman with a chuckle.
‘Oh, all right,’ said Eleanora, looking uncertain. She counted quickly off on her fingers, then went back to looking out the window.
No one else spoke as their carriage ploughed through the crowds around the Holyheart Wall like a floe-breaker traversing icy waters. The claws of the team-beasts, the gnarlkyds, rang on the cobbles as they passed through the inner wall and into Draconium’s ruling district.
Beyond the gate, the crowds thinned. Those folk who promenaded the streets between the private manses, the temples and the buildings of office were well-to-do merchants, minor nobles and prominent holymen. They travelled with their own retinues and celebrated in an altogether more refined fashion than the raucous mobs who could still be heard beyond the walls.
‘He’s spared no expense here, has he?’ commented Bartiman as their carriage rumbled to a halt on the edge of the statue-lined square. As he alighted from the carriage into the warm evening air, Hendrick saw what Bartiman meant. The front of the palace had been illuminated with ornate crystal lanterns that lent it an artfully magical air. As the rich and powerful of Draconium approached the palace entrance they passed between a twin row of gold-robed palace guards, who held crackling spark-lanterns in their left hands and heavy ceremonial hammers in their right.
Off to one side of the palace entrance, Hendrick saw to his amazement that a troupe of entertainers was putting on an elaborate performance. A bulky iron fuel-wagon sat just out of the lantern-lights, hoses snaking out to power a huge mechanical pipe-organ and a number of burning braziers by whose firelight grease-painted figures capered and danced.
‘Is it a play of some sort?’ he asked as the Swords approached the palace.
‘I could be mistaken, but that looks like a mummers’ tale recounting the very events that have just transpired,’ said Bartiman.
‘That is in very poor taste,’ commented Romilla archly.
Hendrick couldn’t help but agree with her. Faces painted into grotesque masks or twisted by the addition of prosthetics into monstrous aspects, the players capered about in time to the music and imitated insect attacks, terrible nightmares, abductions and the eventual departure of Krysthenna’s cult. The Swords stood and watched for a few minutes, Hendrick feeling increasingly dismayed at the gruesome parody being played out before him. How would he feel, he wondered, if he saw Varlen’s end reduced so?
‘Can’t have been with
out cost, either,’ commented Borik.
‘In Hammerhal Aqsha, their fuel wagon would cost in the region of five hundred flaregilt,’ said Eleanora. ‘The organ is a Hegson’s Triumphal, which are only made to order and cost eight hundred flaregilt.’
‘No, not without cost,’ said Hendrick, shaking his head. ‘But cheapening, all the same.’
‘When desperate and fearful folk find sudden relief, they sometimes wish to lampoon that which terrified them,’ said Bartiman.
‘Doesn’t make it right,’ said Hendrick. ‘Come on, we’re wasting time here.’
The Swords moved on, striding between the palace guards and their shimmering lanterns. They were stopped at the foot of the steps by several more guards, who looked at them haughtily.
‘Weapons,’ said one, who wore a richly decorated tabard that Hendrick assumed denoted a rank of some sort.
‘I don’t think so,’ said Borik.
‘Weapons,’ repeated the officer, beckoning impatiently. Behind the Swords, a richly garbed couple waited with thinly veiled impatience. Hendrick thought quickly and decided to gamble on a slight stretching of the truth. There didn’t seem many other options. He motioned to the palace guardsman to lean closer, which the man did with a grimace.
‘Watch Captain Morthan has ordered us to attend this gathering in an official capacity, if you follow my meaning,’ he murmured. ‘She has some lingering concerns about certain elements within the local nobility and perceived sympathies with the heretics. We’re to apprehend them if anything untoward occurs, while your men protect the regent militant.’ Hendrick took in the man’s aquiline nose, his high cheekbones and sneering expression, and decided to push his gamble a little further. He’d learned enough about Draconium this past turning to make an educated guess at the officer’s prejudices. ‘There’s evidence to suggest that some of those who achieved their station through commerce rather than breeding may have patronised the cult.’
Hendrick shot a quick glance back at the gaudily bedecked man and woman behind them, and the equally haughty and irritated looking nobles now queuing up behind the pair.
He watched the calculation going on behind the guard’s eyes, saw him weighing his dislike of obvious mercenaries and his love of his own unquestioned authority against the possibility that he might be to blame if one of the mercantile class turned out to be a threat to the regent militant.
‘Very well, you hand over anything you can’t conceal, and you don’t go brandishing your blades without good cause,’ said the officer. ‘If I find out one of your ruffians got inebriated and menaced anyone with a weapon, it’ll be the scald-cells for the lot of you. Understood?’
Hendrick drew himself up to his full and considerable height and glared down at the officer.
‘Perfectly,’ he said.
It still took a good few minutes to part certain of the Swords from certain of their weapons, but eventually they were permitted entry to the palace still carrying an assortment of daggers, pistols and various other lethal accoutrements concealed about their persons.
Inside the building, spark-lanterns and smiling servants indicated the route feastgoers were expected to take. Hendrick led his comrades along a richly carpeted stone hallway, beneath the sombre gaze of gilded statues of Sigmarite saints, and into a vast hall lit from above by crystal chandeliers.
‘It’s beautiful,’ breathed Eleanora, and Hendrick had to agree. The floor was black and white marble, threaded through with whirling designs of rich gold. The walls were hung with rich tapestries depicting victories over the forces of Chaos, while fluted columns held up a vaulted ceiling that bore incredible frescoes. Through some visual illusion, the painted images seemed to recede up and up into the heavens themselves, depicting majestic storm clouds, wheeling stars, mighty Stormcast Eternals in their sigmarite armour and the gilded spires of high Sigmaron towering over all.
‘Quadratura,’ commented Bartiman, pointing upwards. ‘Style of painting that conjures a receding illusion. Clever stuff.’
‘You do know some rubbish, don’t you?’ said Romilla, shaking her head.
The hall was lined with rows of ironoak feasting tables, spread with rich red and blue tablecloths and piled high with cooked meats, cheeses, steaming vegetables, huge loafs of oat-bread, tureens of richly scented sauces and carafes of blood-red wine. The great and the good of Draconium lined the benches that ran along either side of each table and had clearly not thought to stand on ceremony. A number of platters were already piled high, and a number of faces were already flushed with an excess of alcohol.
‘They all look so damned happy,’ muttered Hendrick as they searched for a large enough gap to seat all the Swords together. ‘So why do I feel like there’s a knot the size of an ogor’s fist in my stomach?’
‘Their cheer feels forced, manic,’ said Aelyn quietly. ‘I am not sure that many of those here do not harbour misgivings of their own.’
‘Whistling past the boneyard, and dancing a merry jig in Nagash’s shadow,’ commented Bartiman with unseemly cheer.
‘There’s some protection, at least,’ said Hendrick, motioning to the palace guards who stood quietly back in shadowed alcoves along the walls.
‘Doing their best to look unobtrusive in case they panic all the delicate little nobles,’ muttered Borik.
‘I just don’t know,’ said Romilla, shaking her head. ‘It has been a long and trying turning, my friends. I fear you are all jumping at shadows. I agree that the excess displayed here is unseemly, and unwise considering the damage done in the past days to the city’s food stocks. What they have here must represent most of the city’s remaining reserve, even assuming private citizens held their own stores back and contributed them to this merriment. But if the regent militant received divine guidance from the God-King himself then who are we to second-guess? Perhaps we should simply sit, and enjoy this repast, and pray to Sigmar that what Captain Morthan saw last night were the final aftershocks of disquiet, and that whatever malign influence beset this city, it has been driven out.’
Hendrick smiled at Romilla, he couldn’t help himself.
‘It must be good to have such strength of faith,’ he said.
‘It is hard-won, as well you know,’ she said with a tired smile, reaching up to place one hand on his shoulder.
‘Let’s try it your way, then,’ said Hendrick. ‘But I’d ask you all to keep your wits about you. No alcohol for the time being, understood? And for Sigmar’s sake try not to offend the locals.’
Finally finding a suitable space near the front of the hall, Hendrick ushered his comrades to sit either side of a feasting table and fill their platters. He nodded to the small group of Sigmarite priests who sat just down from them, and the holymen and holywomen nodded back with reserved smiles that didn’t reach their eyes.
Hendrick applied himself to a haunch of runti, piling up roasted tubers, some kind of tough brown stalks with a spicy aroma, and a generous helping of khenouine gravy on his plate, then digging in. He attempted to look the part of the simple mercenary, eating better people’s food with great gusto. In truth, he was watching the hall, observing the feastgoers, cataloguing exits and escape routes, possible hazards and potential blind spots.
Yet the feast progressed and nothing untoward happened, beyond a relatively poor turn from a group of local musicians who looked frankly terrified to be playing to such a grand assemblage. Servants moved amongst the tables, replacing the empty carafes with small gold and black serving tuns fitted with gilded spigots. The meat course was replaced by a fresh selection of fish, fowl and dairy. People chattered animatedly, got steadily more inebriated, loudly thanked Sigmar for their city’s deliverance – as though daring any to challenge the assertion.
The best part of an hour had passed when at last Selvador Mathenio Aranesis himself graced the hall with his bombastic presence. He strode in amongst much fanfare, c
lad in his full sigmarite finery and flanked as ever by his aelven bodyguards. Priests followed him, bearing lit censers that gave off sweet-smelling lilac fumes. Selvador climbed a short flight of steps to a pulpit that overlooked the feasting hall and absorbed his guests’ applause and cries of thanks with a warm and humble smile.
After the tumult had gone on long enough for Hendrick to find it uncomfortable, the regent militant raised his hands for quiet. It fell slowly, the more drunk and raucous having to be quieted by their fellow guests. Hendrick’s heart thudded, and his eyes roamed the crowd, the shadows, the exits for any sign of a threat. He saw again his brother’s firelit features, twisted and tormented, and felt a dreadful foreboding settle upon him. A glance at Aelyn showed she felt it too. He longed for the comforting weight of Reckoner strapped to his back.
‘My friends, my friends, we are here this night to give thanks, but not to me,’ said Selvador, his smile widening until his wrinkles almost hid his eyes. His baritone voice rolled through the hall with the consummate skill of a born rhetorician. ‘We are here to give thanks to Sigmar, who in his wisdom and his mercy saw fit to test our faith and to reward our wisdom! Praise Sigmar, God-King of all the Mortal Realms!’
‘Praise Sigmar!’ cried the assembled masses, and it was several moments before the beaming regent militant could once again restore quiet. He laughed with what sounded to be genuine delight.
‘Your fervour does you credit, my friends, just as your faith and prayers bolstered my own and gave this city the strength it needed, when it needed it most. A toast, then, to all of you, and to Sigmar almighty, for without your strength and his guidance this humble old priest could never have sent the heretics out into the night to perish!’
Selvador motioned for one of his priests to bring forth another tun, and swiftly decant a measure of wine into a simple silver cup. This, the regent militant raised. The great and the good of Draconium echoed his gesture and, as he drank, so did they. To his irritation, Hendrick noticed Borik did too, in defiance of his orders.