by Rob Sanders
Dagobert, Giselle and Kastner stood in attendance about the smoking pyre, with Gorst ghosting the impromptu funeral a little way off. The fire struggled to take in the early morning drizzle and Kastner brooded in his blood-stained arming doublet and leggings, with a blanket about his shoulders. Dagobert conducted the swift service, saying some nice things about the squire and his family. When asked if he had anything to add, Kastner said nothing, limping back to the camp and wagon.
The knight spent the morning and part of the dreary afternoon the same way, sitting morosely in the saddle, guiding Oberon ahead of the wagon on the Drakwasser Road. Dagobert had tried several times to engage the templar in conversation but Kastner had been deaf to the priest’s entreaties.
Erupting like a pair of fat spear-points from the forest, the towers of Fort Denkh were a welcome sight. The sight of the towers drew a smile of relief from the priest, directed at Giselle sitting beside him on the wagon.
‘I will ask to speak with the company captain,’ Dagobert called to Kastner, but the templar rode on in silence. The priest’s syllables grew sour and accusatory. ‘You can be very surly sometimes.’
Kastner drew Oberon slowly to a stop. As the wagon caught up with him, the priest did the same. The templar gave him the grim gaze of his single eye, fresh bandages tied about his head, hiding the other. Giselle had offered him the dressings from the hospice wagon supplies but the knight had taken them from her in silence and changed the dressing himself. The material masked the darkness of the ruined socket and the dull glint of the protruding shard point. What it couldn’t hide was the septic star of bruising that threaded outwards from the wound, reaching through the pale flesh surrounding the injury.
‘You want to do this now?’ Kastner said.
‘You’re right I do,’ Dagobert said. ‘We had no choice with the chains.’
‘What does a paralysed patient need with chains?’
‘Lady Arabella lent us the wagon,’ the priest informed him, ‘for your transportation and comfort. She indicated the restraints as a precaution. We knew little of the nature of Emil’s injuries, or your own – and by Sigmar we were right to do so.’
‘You served me up like some kind of sacrifice.’
‘I can only say sorry so many times,’ the priest said. ‘I did what I thought was best. These are testing times, Diederick – but know that I am truly sorry my boy, for your suffering.’
‘What know you of my suffering?’ Kastner accused.
‘I know the pain of change unsought,’ Dagobert said. ‘I had raised you like my own. I had hoped you might want to serve with me at the temple. You wished to travel with Sieur Kastner, however – I could see that. There was a deep yearning inside you to fight for the God-King with more than words – for men’s souls – but not in their hearts, from before an altar. Sigmar had other plans for you and I accepted that. Loved and encouraged you. Arranged for your squireship. Your path from there you made yourself. Think not that it did not wound – it hurt me deeper than a sword can cut or a spear can pierce.’
The templar saw the priest’s eyes glisten and allowed the harshness of his own features to soften. ‘I cared for you then,’ Dagobert said, ‘as I care for you now. Which is why I want you to let me inspect your injuries.’
‘They heal,’ Kastner said.
‘The priestess said they could become infected,’ Dagobert said. ‘Your fever, your malaise. They could all be part of–’
‘I am returned to health,’ Kastner said. ‘With the sun, Sigmar gave me back my strength and my senses. I am his again as I am yours. My infirmity, Emil’s fate – these are all tests to be endured as part of the God-King’s work. It is dangerous but necessary. If I heard you right in the back of this wretched wagon – you carry burdens that deserve your attention far more, Father.’
‘You seem at the centre of those also,’ Dagobert admitted. He nodded to Giselle beside him. ‘If you hadn’t delivered this child and the dark treasures she carried from the forest and its dangers – paying dearly for it yourself – then we would be living the doom of the Empire. Nay, the world, if that damned volume is to be believed.’
‘Our concern with these dread, otherworldly matters will soon be at an end,’ Kastner told him as the towers of Fort Denkh reached into the sky above them. ‘Other servants of Sigmar will carry the weight of responsibility on their shoulders. Let ancient prophecies and Ruinous lunacy be Lutzenschlager’s concern. Let the people be yours and the bold advance of this invading warband mine. We shall all be the God-King’s hand in this – in our different ways, according to the gifts he has given us.’
‘It fills me with joy to hear you speak in such ways,’ Dagobert said with a bleak smile. ‘I thought I had lost you, boy.’
When Kastner didn’t reply, the priest looked to him and followed the templar’s glare. It was directed up at the towers and the smoke trails that wound about their rounded elevations and stained the sky.
‘Crossbow,’ Kastner said. Dagobert nodded, his chins wobbling with the sudden effort of passing the reins to Giselle. Stuffing the bulk of The Liber Caelestior and its primer – wrapped in soft cloth – into his robes, Dagobert climbed into the back of the wagon.
‘What is it?’ Giselle asked, but neither of the men answered the girl.
Changing places with the novice, Dagobert returned with the loaded crossbow and Emil’s quiver of bolts, standing about the driver seat like a coachman with a blunderbuss.
‘This cannot be,’ the priest said to himself. ‘This cannot be.’
Giselle heard Terminus clear its saddle-scabbard. Kastner held the sword upright, balancing the weight of the heavy blade. Without his plate, the templar wore only his doublet, leggings, boots and a blanket. He craned his head around and peered back at the sight of Gorst in his rags, chains and cage, tramping up the road some distance behind. The Knight of the Twin-Tailed Orb could see no one else on the road.
‘Eyes open, girl,’ Kastner said to Giselle at the wagon’s reins, digging his heels into Oberon’s side and prompting the horse ahead.
As Oberon and the hospice wagon rounded the corner approach and the fort crept out from behind the trees, the three of them saw bodies in the road. Some were merchants and farmers, cut down on the road with their packhorses and oxen where they had been waiting for admittance. The tall fort gates were open, however, with soldier sentries missing from the portly, conical-roofed half-towers of the gatehouse. Archers were also missing from the curtain wall of the fort. As they approached, Kastner cast a suspicious eye across the river but found only the fort’s lonely reflection in the slow, glassy waters.
As Oberon’s hooves and the wheels of the wagon hit the cobbles, the cacophony of their entrance bounced about the stone barbican and the courtyard beyond. It was eerily quiet. The buildings within the fort walls were black and burnt out, trailing a breeze-blown smoke of cinders. The stables, outhouses and market exchange were gone and the gallows toppled. Only the stone of the petitioners’ hall and barracks remained and the captain’s quarters and company chapel still quietly smouldered. The dead carpeted the courtyard, their bodies lay broken and butchered across the blood-splattered cobbles or dumped in mounds that buzzed with feasting flies. Crowds of crows launched themselves from the slaughter at the visitors’ approach, cawing about the courtyard before settling on the fort wall.
Kastner guided Oberon through the bodies, the steed’s mighty hooves stepping through travellers and traders. The horse passed over the blue and white of Middenland soldiers. State troops, garrison sentries, archers and halberdiers. All had been slaughtered where they stood. The bodies were not defiled or tainted with sorcery, neither did they bear corruptions or display the hallmarks of butchery for butchery’s sake. Despite the absence of these things, Kastner was confident that the massacre was the work of Chaotics or marauders. It wasn’t something that betrayed its
elf to the eye or would bear explanation. The destruction had a taste to it. A murderous economy. The elegant butchery of an unsuspecting, unprepared and outclassed force, torn through by their martial superiors. Veteran dealers in death. It was a massacre – but a purposeful one, by warriors who enjoyed their work but to whom the swift and circumspect execution of their enemies was the only thing on their minds. Kastner had sensed the self-same purity of purpose as they had passed through Gerzen and Bergendorf.
‘Take care, child,’ Dagobert said to Giselle as the wagon bumped through the bodies, before calling across the carnage, ‘Diederick?’
‘It’s them,’ the templar confirmed. ‘Expert bladework – one man, one mortal wound. No casualties. Some improvisation, with the fires. A distraction, maybe. Had to be something. The gates are open – bearing no damage of an assault. They were in without a fight.’ Kastner moved Oberon around a toppled artillery piece. ‘Cannon. Unfired.’
‘What do we do? What do we do?’ Dagobert said.
‘We can’t stay here,’ Kastner said. ‘That’s for sure. You say that they’re looking for that book. If they hit a provincial fort to find it, then your precious tome will only find security in the Altdorf, where the walls are thicker and their opponents more than just a borrowed weapon and a bright uniform.’
Kastner turned towards the far gate.
‘Do you hear that?’
‘Hear what?’ Dagobert said. Giselle’s confusion confirmed to the knight that he was the only one to hear the approach: the developing acuteness of his senses warning him of danger. Horses. Heavy – like his own. Plate and barding, rattling to the rhythm of a gallop. The deep breathing of both steed and rider. Eighteen. Kastner listened to the hoof falls. No. Twenty horses and riders. The knight turned to Dagobert and Giselle.
‘Riders approaching,’ Kastner said, turning his own steed. ‘Conceal yourselves.’
Dagobert cursed, getting down from the wagon with difficulty carrying the crossbow. Giselle jumped down lightly behind him.
‘Where?’ the priest called, already flustered.
‘Anywhere,’ Kastner said, sidling Oberon up against the inside of the fort wall beside the southern gatehouse. The portcullis was open and it was through the entrance that the horses thundered in – like a battlefield charge. Kastner cast a glance across the courtyard and found that Dagobert and the girl had disappeared into the charred remains of a domed chapel.
Destriers flashed by the templar. White, wearing red barding. In the saddle, Kastner saw armoured figures in gleaming silver plate. The lead rider carried a standard advertising the host as Knights of the Fiery Heart. Templars out of Altdorf and personal guardians of the Grand Theogonist and the Cathedral of Sigmar. In their plated fists the knights carried the long hafts of silver warhammers. Their tabards bore the striking red of Imperial crosses, the arrow-points of each end terminating in the shape of a heart. The visor sights of their crowned crusader helms were cut to accommodate a similar pattern.
Despite being a vision to behold in their armour and on their magnificent steeds, the templars drew from Kastner the wrinkle of his lip. This was not a new feeling. Many of the Sigmarite Orders felt that both the Knights of the Fiery Heart and the Knights Griffon – responsible for safeguarding the God-King’s temples in Altdorf and Nuln, capital city of the Empire – were glorious to behold. That they were expertly drilled and fearsome warriors. They also felt that they were far from the real work of the God-Emperor. Temples and personages needed protection but it was in the deep dark forests and provincial mountain ranges of the Empire that Sigmar’s will was prosecuted – slaying greenskins, beastmen and the servants of the Dark Gods in His name. It was dirty, desperate work and the duty of Orders like the Knights of the Twin-Tailed Orb, while the magnificent temples and cathedrals of the land, already situated in some of the most fortified areas of the Empire, were guarded by the Knights Griffon and the Knights of the Fiery Heart.
A preceptor riding behind the standard bearer raised the haft of his hammer, bringing the corpse-mulching entrance of the knights to a halt. As the horses slowed and stopped, the riders looked about the carnage – the smouldering of buildings and the sea of bodies. The preceptor raised his visor – a Reiklander, noble of face, black of hair and sporting the trimmed moustache and beard thought fashionable in the cities.
‘Brotherhood!’ the preceptor called crisply. ‘Dismount.’
The templars stepped down from their steeds with hammers in hand. As Kastner motioned Oberon on in front of the open south gate, he heard Dagobert bawl from the ruined chapel.
‘By Sigmar’s blood, it’s good to see you, sirs.’
As Dagobert and Giselle emerged – the priest resting the crossbow on a demolished wall – the preceptor ordered six of his knights forward. The templars were quite an intimidating sight, running forward in formation, glinting warhammers held in two gauntlets, their faces hidden in their crowned helms. As the Knights of the Fiery Heart surrounded them, Dagobert and Giselle slowed. Kastner felt his hand tighten about Terminus. Feeling the urgency of an explanation, Dagobert addressed the preceptor.
‘My name is Hieronymous Dagobert of Nordland,’ he said, his words fast and uncertain, ‘priest of Sigmar’s way temple on the Sudenpass near Esk.’
‘You are the priest?’ the preceptor asked.
‘I am, good sir,’ Dagobert replied, ‘last time I checked. This is Giselle Dantziger – Sister of the Imperial Cross, late of the Hammerfall, in the Middle Mountains.’ The priest looked to Giselle, not only to check that he had announced her name correctly but also to see the glow of pride on her face at hearing that she was now to be known as a Sister of the Imperial Cross. Dagobert didn’t think that there would be anyone left alive at the Hammerfall to dispute the fact. Besides – the priest believed that the girl had earned it.
‘Preceptor Riesenweiler of the Knights of the Fiery Heart,’ the warrior told him. ‘My orders come directly from the Grand Theogonist himself, Hedrich Lutzenschlager – though for the purposes of this conversation, sir, you may take them as coming from Sigmar himself.’
‘Well, I don’t know about tha–’
‘You still have the tome?’ Riesenweiler asked.
‘I do, sir – by the God-King’s good grace,’ Dagobert said, uncomfortable being within a cordon of hammer-wielding knights. ‘Though you can see from the massacre about us that you are not the only interested party.’
‘I sincerely hope that you are not attempting to bargain with me you foolish old man,’ Riesenweiler warned.
‘No, sir,’ Dagobert went on uncertainly, and with Giselle looking about them at the slowly closing templars.
‘We have ridden far, at the Grand Theogonist’s behest,’ Riesenweiler continued. ‘Be clear. Hedrich Lutzenschlager demands the whole truth of your heart, priest, and we nothing less.’
‘I only meant to say that there has already been a great deal of blood spilt over these heretical works.’
‘I swear, priest,’ Riesenweiler spat with the impatience of nobility, ‘that your man on the rack made more sense.’
‘What?’ Dagobert said. ‘You mean Berndt? You racked him?’
‘Speak up!’ the knight bellowed imperiously.
‘Why?’
‘Because Hedrich Lutzenschlager demanded the whole truth of his heart.’
‘But… he… he’s a mute…’
‘And yet on my master’s rack, the words fell right out of him,’ Riesenweiler said. ‘One last time, priest. Or I shall have my man here open your skull with his hammer and search for the answers in there.’
Dagobert looked to a terrified Giselle – and then back to the preceptor with a face of stone.
‘These poor fools died at the hand of marauders,’ Dagobert said, nodding at the slaughter around them. ‘Who, I suspect, would do as much as your master has emp
owered you to do – and more – to acquire the contents of the tome in our possession.’
‘At last, we understand one another,’ Riesenweiler said with a wolfish smile. ‘The Grand Theogonist was also told that you had with you a pair of invalids. Men in need of Shallya’s mercy.’
Dagobert’s eyes narrowed.
‘I should wonder that you did not send one of her priestesses to ease their suffering, sir,’ Dagobert said, ‘rather than a company of heavily armed knights. Men better equipped to inflict suffering than alleviate it.’
‘I see you know us well, sir,’ the preceptor said. ‘Now, these men…’
‘What does the Grand Theogonist want with them? Surely not to enquire as to their wellbeing?’
Riesenweiler nodded to one of the knights, who slammed the haft of his warhammer into Dagobert’s ample gut, drawing a savage grunt from the priest and putting him down on his knees.
‘Blackguards!’ Giselle screeched at the knights.
‘Do not make me ask again, you idiot provincials,’ Riesenweiler said.
‘The boy, Emil Eckhardt, passed,’ Dagobert managed, attempting to get back his wind. ‘Sieur Diederick Kastner–’
‘–is right behind you.’
The courtyard echoed with the clatter of plate, as Preceptor Riesenweiler and his Knights of the Fiery Heart turned around in unison. There Kastner sat, blocking the south gate, on Oberon. He was armourless, bloodied, bandaged and holding the greatsword Terminus out before him. ‘What would you have with him? And don’t make me ask again, you bloody genteels.’