‘I’ll ride ahead to announce you.’
Schwarzhelm nodded. His grey eyes glittered, in his craggy, unsmiling face.
‘You do that.’
Their arrival had been unexpected. Despite that, the Baron’s household managed to put on a good show. Servants preparing to turn in for the night were dragged from their chambers and put to work in the kitchens. The household was roused and told to put on its finery. By the time the sun had finally dipped below the western horizon, a banquet fit for their visitor had been thrown together. Detlef found the process intensely amusing. The combination of irritation and fear on the faces of the mansion staff was worth the long trek on its own.
Rauken’s banqueting hall, like all the rooms in the house, was a study in baroque excess. The high-beamed roof was decorated with tasteless frescos of Imperial myths, all lit by an oversized fire roaring in the marble-framed hearth. The floor was also marble, black and white chequers like the nave of an Imperial chapel. The table looked as if it had been carved from a single slab of wood, even though it was over thirty feet long. Its surface had been polished to a glassy sheen, reflecting the light of the dozens of candelabras and sending it winking and flashing from the crystal goblets and silver plates.
The guests, a dozen of them, were no less opulent. All looked well-fed and comfortably padded. The ladies were decked in frocks of wildly varied shades, draped with tassels, bows and lines of pearls. Even at such short notice they’d managed to arrange their greying hair in heaps of tottering grandeur, laced with lines of gold wire and emerald studs. Their sagging faces were plastered with lead whitener, their lips and cheeks heavily rouged. Their male companions were also finely turned out, replete with sashes, medals, powdered wigs and jewel-encrusted codpieces. They strutted to their places, jowls wobbling with anticipation as the food arrived.
From his seat on the edge of the chamber, Detlef watched them intently, trying to pick out the ones Schwarzhelm had told him about. Most of the party were Rauken’s blood-kin, but some of his more senior aides had been invited. Among them was Osbert Hulptraum, Rauken’s personal physician, a fat waddling grey-faced man with a balding pate and bags under his eyes. Next to him sat Julius Adenauer, the chancellor, all thin lips, clawed fingers and sidelong glances. His scraggy beard looked wispy even in the low light, and he minced around like a parody of a woman.
At the head of the table sat Rauken himself. He was massively corpulent, red-cheeked, with a bulbous nose laced with broken veins. He’d chosen to cover himself in robes of velvet, not that they did much to hide his generous belly. As he beckoned the guests to take their seats, his many chins shivered like jelly.
‘We are honoured,’ he said, his voice surprisingly high. ‘Truly honoured. It’s not every day this house hosts one of the finest heroes of the Empire.’
A murmur of appreciation ran across the throng. Schwarzhelm, sitting at Rauken’s right hand—the place of honour—remained impassive. He’d heard it all before. He’d exchanged his armour for simple robes in the red and white of the Imperial palace, but still looked by far the most regal presence in the room.
‘So let us eat,’ Rauken said, ‘and celebrate this happy occasion.’
The guests needed no encouragement. Soon they were shovelling heaps of food on to their plates—lambs’ livers, roast pigeon, jugged hare, moist sweetbreads, slabs of pheasant pie, slops of something dark brown with quail’s eggs floating in it, pig’s cheeks in jelly, all washed down with generous slugs of a dark red wine brought all the way, Detlef had learned, from the vines of the Duc d’Alembourg-Rauken in Guillet Marchand on the banks of the Brienne.
Like all the servants present, Detlef had been seated behind his master in case he was needed during the meal. His stomach growled as he watched the guests begin to cram the fine food into their mouths. At least his position let him hear the conversation.
‘So to what do we owe this honour, my lord?’ asked Rauken, munching delicately on a fig stuffed with mincemeat.
‘The Emperor likes me to meet all his subjects,’ said Schwarzhelm. He’d not touched the food, and had taken strips of dried meat from a pouch at his belt.
‘Well then, I hope we’ve not been amiss with the tithes. Adenauer, are we up to date?’
‘We are, my lord,’ replied the chancellor, dabbing grease from his chin. ‘The records are available for scrutiny.’
‘Very good,’ said Rauken, looking at Schwarzhelm nervously. ‘You’re not eating, my lord?’
‘Not muck like this. I prefer my own.’
Schwarzhelm’s flat refusal cut through the conversation like a blunt axe-blade. There was a nervous laugh from one of the women, soon cut off when she realised he wasn’t joking.
Detlef smiled to himself. The dinner promised to be an amusing one. It was only then that he caught the eye of the serving girl sitting beside him. She was as fleshy and rosy-cheeked as the rest of them, but much younger. He found his eyes drawn to her chest, appealingly exposed by a low-cut, tight-laced bodice.
She smiled at him, and her eyes shone in the candlelight.
‘Have you eaten?’ she whispered.
‘No,’ he hissed back. ‘I’m starving.’
‘Come and find me when this is over. We’ll see what we can do about that.’
Detlef grinned. This evening was getting better all the time.
By midnight, the chairs had been kicked back and the guests had tottered back to their rooms, belching and wiping their mouths. Baron von Rauken had taken his leave last of all, having heroically demolished a four-tier suet pudding arranged in a pretty good approximation of the Grand Belltower in Talabheim.
Soon the room was empty apart from Schwarzhelm and Detlef. The candles had burned low and the polished tabletop was slick with grease. Detlef found himself gazing at the extensive remains on the salvers, his stomach rumbling.
‘Avoid it,’ said Schwarzhelm. ‘This is no food for a soldier.’
‘Yes, my lord,’ said Detlef, privately hoping he’d go away so he could attack the pickled pig-shins.
‘Get some sleep.’
‘Yes, my lord.’
‘After you’ve cleaned my armour.’
‘Yes, my lord.’
Schwarzhelm looked at him carefully. As ever, his expression was inscrutable. It was like trying to read the granite cliffs of the Worlds Edge Mountains.
‘Where are your quarters?’
‘Above the kitchen.’
‘Stay in them tonight. And keep your sword by your bed.’
Detlef felt a sudden qualm. ‘Do you expect trouble?’
‘I don’t call on these fat wastrels for enjoyment,’ Schwarzhelm said, not hiding the contempt in his voice. ‘The Emperor’s worried about this one.’
‘Is he behind on his taxes?’ asked Detlef.
‘On the contrary. He’s paid them all.’
Detlef shook his head. The ways of the aristocracy were a mystery to him.
‘I’ll keep an eye out, then.’
Schwarzhelm grunted in what might have been approval.
‘Maybe I’ll take one of these for later,’ said the knight, pulling a juicy chunk of bull’s stomach from the table. Without a further look at his squire, he stalked off to his room, slamming the door behind him.
Detlef waited for the heavy footfalls to recede, then started to help himself. Knowing what was to come, his stomach gurgled with anticipation.
‘Take it easy,’ Detlef said to himself. ‘Just a few of the good bits to keep my strength up. Then I have an appointment to keep.’
An hour later, and the house was still and silent. High up in the west tower, the physician Hulptraum paced up and down inside his bedchamber. He was still dressed in the black robes of his office. His bed was untouched, and a large goblet of wine stood drained on his desk. He looked agitated, and his fingers twitched. Next to the goblet was a long, curved dagger. It was hard to see the hilt in the meagre candlelight, but the blade had some script engraved on it. The la
nguage wasn’t Reikspiel.
‘Tonight,’ he hissed. ‘Of all nights…’
There was a knock at the door. Hulptraum started, his eyes bulging. ‘Who is it?’
‘Adenauer. Can I come in?’
Hulptraum put the knife into the top drawer of the desk and slid it shut. ‘Of course.’
Adenauer entered, looking terrible. His skin, pale before, was now deathly white. His wispy beard seemed to have become little more than a curling fuzz and his eyes were rheumy and staring.
‘Osbert, you’ve got to help me,’ he said, through gritted teeth. One hand was clutching his distended stomach, the other was clasped against his temple.
‘You’re still here?’ asked the physician, not obviously evincing sympathy.
‘What do you mean? I’m ill, man. Surely you can see that?’
Hulptraum smiled coldly. ‘I’m a doctor. And yes, you’re ill. You should be down in the kitchen with the others.’
Adenauer looked bewildered. ‘Can’t you give me something? I… oh, gods below…’
He started to belch loudly. A thin line of sputum ran down his chin and his body bent double.
Hulptraum remained supremely indifferent. ‘I don’t have time for this, Julius. Nothing I could give you now would help. The fact is, this has been prepared for months. All for this night. This one night. The night he turned up.’
Adenauer was now on his knees. The sputum became a watery trail of blood. His stomach was writhing under his robes, as if an animal were trying to get out of it.
‘Sigmar!’ he cried, spasming in agony. ‘Help me!’
Hulptraum crouched down beside him, ignoring the increasingly putrid stench coming from the chancellor. ‘He can’t help you now, old friend. You’d better get down to the kitchen. You’ll find the others there too.’
Adenauer’s eyes didn’t look as if they were seeing very much. Sores had begun to pulse on his face, spreading with terrifying speed. His tongue flickered out, black as ink, leaving loops of saliva trailing down to his chest. He collapsed on the floor, clenched with pain.
Hulptraum got up and returned to the desk. He retrieved the dagger, ignoring the thrashing of the transforming chancellor.
‘You will not prevent this,’ he hissed, no longer talking to Adenauer. ‘I don’t care who you are. You will not prevent this.’
With that, he left the room, padding out into the corridor beyond. Behind him, Adenauer retched piteously. Caked lumps of bile slapped to the floor, steaming gently. He remained stricken for a few moments longer, heaving and weeping, streaming from every orifice.
Then something seemed to change. He lifted his thin face. It ran with mucus like tears. The eyes, or what was left of them, shone a pale marsh-gas green.
‘The kitchen!’ Adenauer gurgled, though the voice was more like that of an animal. It looked as if he’d finally understood something. ‘The kitchen!’
Then he too was gone, dragging himself across the floor leaving a trail of slime behind him. The door closed, and the candle shuddered out.
No candles burned in Schwarzhelm’s chamber. The shutters were locked tight and the darkness was absolute. Nothing moved. Deep down in the house, there was a distant creak, then silence again.
Heartbeats passed in the dark.
Slowly, silently, the door-handle began to turn. The door swung open on oiled hinges. It was just as dark outside as within. Something entered. Quietly, slowly, it made its way to the bed. A blade was raised over the mattress.
It hung there, invisible, unmoving, for a terrible moment.
Then it plunged down, once, twice, three times, stabbing into the soft flesh beneath. Still no noise. The knife was an artful weapon. It had killed many times before over many thousands of years and knew how to find the right spot.
Hulptraum stood, shaking, lost in the dark. He could feel the warm blood on the knife trickle over his fingers. It was done. Thank the Father, the feast was safe.
Moving carefully, he went over to a table on the far wall. He had to make sure.
He struck the flint and a flame sparked into life. He lit the candle’s wick and light spread across his hand. The shaking was subsiding. He’d done it. He’d saved it all. He turned around.
Schwarzhelm smashed him hard in the face, snapping his neck and sending him spinning across the table and slamming against the wall. Hulptraum slid to the floor. Blood foamed from his open mouth, locked in a final expression of shock. The dagger clanged to the stone floor.
‘Pathetic,’ Schwarzhelm muttered.
He walked over to where he’d hung his sword. The bull’s stomach was still leaking fluid across the bed. He took the holy blade and unsheathed it. Still dressed in his robes, he made for the door.
Rauken did have something to hide then. Time to uncover it.
Detlef belched loudly. Perhaps he’d overindulged. Still, at least he’d taken the edge off his hunger. Now he had an appointment to attend to. A final look around his bedchamber revealed Schwarzhelm’s armour lying in pieces in the corner, still mottled with grime from the journey. He could polish it all before dawn—the old curmudgeon wouldn’t need the suit before then.
Then he caught sight of his short sword lying by the bed, just where Schwarzhelm had warned him to keep it. Perhaps he ought to take that with him. He still wasn’t convinced there was anything much to worry about, but it might impress… what was her name? He’d have to remember before he found her. In his experience, women—even as willing and fruity as this one—liked to have the little things observed.
Gretta? Hildegard? Brunnhilde?
He grabbed the sword and crept out of the chamber. It would come back to him.
The corridor was drenched in shadow. It seemed almost preternaturally dark, as if the natural light had been sucked from the air and somehow disposed of. He held his candle ahead of him with one hand and kept a tight grip on the sword hilt with the other. There were no sounds, no signs of anyone else about. Now all he had to do was remember the way to her room.
Past the scullery and the game-hanging room, then down towards the kitchen. Should be easy enough.
Detlef shuffled along, feeling the old wooden floor flex under him. He passed a series of doors in the gloom, all closed. The house gently creaked and snapped around him. Dimly, he could hear the scratching of trees outside as the night winds ran through their emaciated branches.
At the end of the corridor, a staircase led directly downwards. From where he stood, it seemed like there was a little more light coming from the bottom of it. Detlef picked up the pace. Perhaps Gertrude had left a candle lit for him.
He reached the base of the stairs. Another corridor yawned away with fresh doors leading from it on either side. One of them was open. He thrust the candle through the doorframe. The light reflected from the corpses hanging there, eyes glinting like mirrors.
Pheasants, rabbits, hares, all strung out in bunches on iron hooks. The game-hanging room. He was close. Detlef pressed on, heading further down the corridor. There was a light at the end of it, leaking around the edges of a closed wooden door. Excitement began to build within him. Brigitta had been as good as her word.
He reached the door, making sure his sword was properly visible. All the nice girls liked a soldier. Then, with as much of a flourish as he could muster with both hands full, he pushed against the wood.
The door swung open easily. Marsh-green light flooded out from the space beyond, throwing Detlef’s shadow back down the corridor. What lay beyond wasn’t Gertrude, Brigitta or Brunnhilde.
Detlef found that, despite all his anticipation, he wasn’t really disappointed. He was too busy screaming.
Schwarzhelm hurried down the corridors, lantern in hand. There was no one about on the upper levels. The whole place was deserted. That in itself was cause for worry. He’d slammed open a dozen doors, uncaring whom he disturbed, and the chambers had all been empty.
He barged into Detlef’s room, keeping the light high. He saw his own a
rmour, untouched, heaped in the corner. There was a tin plate on the bed with a few crumbs on it and nothing else. There was no sword, and no squire.
‘Damned idiot,’ he muttered, heading back out. At the end of the corridor, a staircase led down. Very faintly, he could see a greenish glow. His heart went cold. He drew his sword, and the steel hummed gently as it left the scabbard. The Sword of Justice was ancient, and the spirit of the weapon knew when it would taste battle. Schwarzhelm could feel it thirsting already. There were unholy things close by.
He broke into a run, thudding down the stairs and past the empty, gaping doorways. He saw the open portal at the end of the corridor, glowing a pale green like phosphor. Shapes loomed beyond, hazy in a mist of swirling, stinking vapour.
‘Grace of Sigmar,’ Schwarzhelm whispered, maintaining his stride and letting the lantern smash to the floor—it would be no further use.
He charged through the doorway. Green light was everywhere, a sickly, cloying illumination that seemed to writhe in the air of its own accord. The walls dripped with slops of bile-yellow sludge that ran into the mortar and slithered over the stones. The stench was astonishing—a mix of rotting flesh, vomit, dung, sewage and bilge-water. He felt spores latch on him as he plunged in, popping and splattering as his powerful limbs worked.
Once this must have been the bakery. There was something that might have been an oven, now lost under polyps of mouldy dough-like growths. There were flies everywhere, buzzing and swarming over the slime-soaked surfaces. They were vast, shiny horrors, less like insects and more like pustules with wings.
‘Detlef!’ roared Schwarzhelm trying to spot the exit through the swirling miasma.
His call was answered, but not by his squire. The guests from the meal dragged themselves towards him, hauling their burst stomachs behind them. What was left of their skin hung like rags from glistening sinew, flapping against the tendons and their crumbling, yellow teeth.
‘Hail, Lord Schwarzhelm!’ they mocked, reaching for him with pudgy, blotched fingers. ‘Welcome to the Feast!’
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