“You’re troubled,” the Lady Melissa said. “Tell me your troubles.”
It was not a helpful suggestion. It was a command.
“I’ve been dreaming.”
“Nonsense, girl. Our kind don’t dream. You know as well as I do that we sleep the sleep of the dead.”
Genevieve saw the masked face in her mind, heard the chilling laughter. “And yet I’ve been dreaming.”
They were joined on the terrace by Honorio, the vampire dwarf who was the current elder of the order, and a party of others. One of the party was alive, and nervous. He was a young man, well enough dressed, but obviously not of the first rank. Something about him struck her as being not quite right.
Wietzak, the Truly Dead giant who had once ruled Karak Varn with unparalleled savagery, eyed the young man with obvious bloodlust. Wietzak was Honorio’s favoured attendant and would do nothing unsanctioned by the elder, but the visitor wasn’t to know that.
“My ladies, I hope you will pardon this interruption,” began Elder Honorio. “But it seems that though we have left the world behind, the world is not quite ready to abandon all its interest in us. A message—a summons—has been brought here. This gentleman is Henrik Kraly, from Altdorf, and he would have words with you, Genevieve. You may see him or not, as you wish.”
The messenger bowed to her, and presented her with a scroll. She recognized the seal, a crown against trees, and broke it at once.
Wietzak ground his teeth as she read. In the forest, there was a commotion as a bat took a wolf.
Within the hour, she was aboard the riverboat, prepared for a long journey. The Lady Melissa gave her a long lecture of farewell, cautioning her against the perils of the world outside and reminding her of the difficulties she would face. Genevieve loved the old lady-child too much to tell her that the hawthorn-wielding Inquisitors she spoke of were three centuries gone and that the cities she remembered as thriving sources of lifesblood were abandoned ruins. Lady Melissa had been with the order for an apparent eternity. They embraced, and the Lady Melissa returned to the jetty where Wietzak, one of those who couldn’t bear running water, awaited to accompany her back to the heights of the convent. As her grandmother-in-darkness waved goodbye to her, Genevieve had the disturbing feeling that they were both alive again, and that they were just dearest girlfriends, sixteen and twelve, being separated for a summer.
The next day, prone in her bunk as the oarsmen propelled the craft through the forests, she dreamed again.
The iron-masked man with the hellish laugh would not leave her sleep. Gone he might be, but forgotten was another matter entirely.
She was travelling now to Altdorf. But eventually, she knew, her journey would take her back to the Grey Mountains, back along the course she had followed twenty-five years ago.
Back to the fortress of Drachenfels.
III
When Szaradat came round with the rations, Kosinski let Kerreth keep a little less than usual. Detlef realized the little cobbler was going to die after a few more months of this treatment, and Kosinski would grow stronger. Then, the mad mercenary would need a new source for his extra rations. Guglielmo was nearly an old man, and his legs were spindle-thin. He would be Kosinski’s next supplier, his next victim. But, after that…? Manolo was still tough from the seas, and Justus had all the skills one would expect of a follower of the patron god of tricksters and thieves. Detlef knew he was out of condition. His weight only really got down to a comfortable level when he was in the middle of a production, and exercising vigorously every day. He was decidedly flabby now, even on short rations. And Kosinski kept looking stronger and meaner each morning. After Kerreth and Guglielmo died, Kosinski would start taking food from him. And Manolo and Justus would let him, just as he was letting Kosinski steal from Kerreth. As he would let the brute steal from Guglielmo, who was his closest friend in the cell. And if Kosinski took enough, Detlef would himself die.
It hardly seemed a fit fate for the author of The History of Sigmar, the brightest star of the Konigsgarten Theatre in Middenheim. He tried counting the broken hearts he had left among the daughters of Middenheim society, but he was still not cheered. He pondered the roles he had not yet played, the classics he had not yet staged, the masterpieces he had not yet written. Perhaps, if he were ever by some miracle, to get out of the keep, he should consider staging Tarradasch’s The Desolate Prisoner of Karak Kadrin as a starring vehicle. Only now, he felt, did he truly understand the plight of the disconsolate Baron Trister.
Someone prodded him out of his reverie. It was Szaradat, rattling his keys in his face.
“What do you want? More hair? Fingers and toes, perhaps, for a cannibal cookpot, or to use as corks for foul wines?”
The trusty spat in the corner.
“You’ve got a visitor, play-actor.”
“Ach! Gruenliebe again! Tell him I’m unwell, and unable to see him. No, that my social diary is overfull and that I can’t squeeze him in. No, that—”
Szaradat pulled Detlef upright, and slapped him across the face with the keys. He drew blood.
“You’ll see your visitor, or I’ll have you transferred to the punishment wing. You won’t have the luxuries you have here.”
Detlef did not relish the prospect of learning through their absence precisely with which luxuries his current cell was indeed invisibly equipped. To some, he supposed, it might be deemed a luxury to be in a cell without a ravening wolf in it. Or to have one’s bodily wastes taken away once a week. Or not to be neck-deep in the rotten waters of an oubliette.
Szaradat attached a chain to Detlef’s iron collar, and dragged him through the door. The genius was led like a dog through the prison, and exposed to the cries and pleas of the other inmates. The keep was centuries out of date, and still equipped with the torture chambers employed during the reign of Hjalmar the Tyrannical, Didrick the Unjust and Bloody Beatrice the Monumentally Cruel. Szaradat looked with longing at a dilapidated rack, and then with disgust at Detlef. It wasn’t hard to guess what the trusty was thinking. As emperors go, Karl-Franz was almost reasonable, but who knew what the electors would come up with next. Even Beatrice, to the historian’s eye an obvious maniac, had been voted into office by the unanimous decision of the Great and the Good. There was no guessing if or when Szaradat would get to dust off the Tilean boot, oil the spikes of the iron maiden of Kislev, or heat up again the array of tongs and branding implements that now hung forgotten under cobwebs. And when that happened, the trusty would be delighted as a new father… and Detlef would have further cause to regret the day the plausible elector of Middenland came calling at his theatre.
The Great and the Good, pah! Small-minded and Snake-like was more to the point. Vindictive and Verminous! Mean-spirited and Miserly!
At length, Detlef was pushed and jostled into a tiny courtyard. His bare feet froze on the icy stones. It was an overcast day, but the light still hurt his eyes. It was as if he were gazing directly at the sun. He realized how used he had become to the gloom of the cell.
A figure appeared on a balcony overlooking the courtyard. Detlef recognized the black robes, gold chains and superior expression of Governor van Zandt, who had upon his admission given him a lecture on self-denial and peace through suffering. He was one of those officials whose religiosity is such that Detlef suspected them of having taken a vow of stupidity.
“Sierck,” Van Zandt said, “you may be wondering what that smell is you’ve been unable to get rid of these last few weeks…”
Detlef grinned and nodded, just to keep in with the governor.
“Well, I’m sorry to have to be the one to tell you this, but I’m afraid the stink is you.”
Gargoyles just below the balcony disgorged streams of water, which fell like a rain of rocks upon Detlef. He was knocked to the ground, and floundered in the jets. He tried to get out of the way, but the streams were redirected and struck him down again. His rags fell apart under the pressure, and great swatches of dirt were scrape
d painfully from his body. He found fist-sized chunks of ice in the water, and realized he was being washed with melted snow from the roofs. Szaradat threw him a stiff-bristled brush that could well have been one of his prized instruments of torture, and ordered him to scrub himself.
The streams died away. Szaradat tore the remains of Detlef’s rags from his body, and prodded him in the bulge of his stomach. He smiled like a rat, showing unpleasantly yellowed teeth. Still dripping, and with the gooseflesh standing out all over, he was marched down a corridor into another room. Szaradat produced a plain robe, hardly stylish but better than nothing, and allowed Detlef to towel himself off before getting into it.
“Gruenliebe must be getting squeamish in his old age,” Detlef said, “to be offended by a smell far less unhealthy than that given off by his clients’ acts.”
Van Zandt came into the room. “You aren’t to see Gruenliebe today, Sierck. Your caller is far more distinguished.”
“Distinguished enough to require the personal attention of the governor of this deathpit?”
“Indeed.”
“You intrigue me. Lead on.”
Detlef waved imperiously, summoning some of the grandeur he had practiced for the roles of the seven emperors in Sutro’s great Magnus the Pious cycle. Van Zandt took Detlef’s arm impatiently, and steered him through another door. Warmth engulfed him as he stepped, for the first time since his incarceration, into a room properly heated by an open fire. There were unbarred windows to let in the light, and a bowl of fruit—yes, fruit!—stood casually on the table awaiting anyone who might chance to desire a bite or two between meals.
A man of perhaps forty was sitting at the table, polishing a red apple on his generous sleeve. Detlef was struck by his aristocratic bearing and his piercingly clear eyes. This was no ordinary charitable visitor.
“Detlef Sierck,” began Governor van Zandt, an awed quaver in his voice deferring to the man, “may I present you to Oswald von Konigswald, Defier of the Darkness, Adept of the Cult of Sigmar, Crown Prince and Acting Elector of Ostland.”
The crown prince smiled at Detlef. Detlef had a presentiment that his disasters were only beginning.
“Sit down,” said the man who defeated Drachenfels. “We have much to talk about, you and I.”
IV
The fate of the Empire was at stake. And the castle was the point that must be held, that must not fail. There were only twenty knights arrayed on the battlements, their plumes stiff on their helms, and barely a hundred common soldiers behind the walls, stoutly prepared to die for the Emperor. Set against them were an orcish horde of some five thousand, reinforced with giants, minotaurs, ogres, undead horsemen, snotlings, greater and lesser daemons and all manner of creatures of darkness. It all fell to the decision of the commander of the castle, His Highness Maximilian von Konigswald, Grand Prince of Ostland.
He pondered the situation, looked about him, and consulted the general. After a brief conference, he knew his plan of action. Maximilian returned the general to his top pocket and gave the order.
“Rain down fire upon the enemy.”
He touched a burning candle to his goblet of Bretonnian brandy, and cast it down at the battlefield. The flames spread, and a thousand or more of the forces of evil were engulfed. They melted, peeling, and the battlefield itself was eaten up by the fire. The smell was quite frightful, and Maximilian himself started back as the orcs hissed and exploded.
The commander-in-chief of the horde looked up and burst into tears.
“Mama, mama,” cried the orcish commander. “He’s burning my soldiers again.”
The commander’s mother, the grand prince’s nurse, came to the rescue with a pail of water. The soldiers were washed this way and that by the flood, but the fires were put out. The table-top castle became soggy and collapsed, tipping the grand prince’s painted lead forces into the melee. Maximilian giggled his high-pitched giggle, and picked out his favourite knights from the mess. Water cascaded onto the marble floors of the palace games room.
“Now, now, highness,” clucked the nurse, “we mustn’t burn down the palace must we? The Emperor would be most upset.”
“The Emperor,” shouted Maximilian, standing to attention despite the pains in his back and limbs, snapping a smart salute. “To die for the Emperor is the highest honour one can expect.”
The orcish commander, an outsize soldier’s helmet strapped to his undersize head, returned the elector’s salute.
“Yes, yes, quite,” said the nurse, “but don’t you think it’s time for your nap, highness? You’ve been fighting for the Emperor all morning.”
Maximilian bristled.
“Don’t want to nap,” he said, sticking out his lower lip, sucking in his white moustaches and holding his breath. His cheeks went red.
“But an elector needs his rest. You’ll be no use to the Emperor if you’re falling asleep all over the battlefield.”
“All right. Nap then.” Maximilian began to unbutton his uniform. The nurse stopped him before he dropped his trousers.
“It might be a good idea if you didn’t get undressed until you were in your bedchamber, highness. The corridors of the palace are drafty at this time of year and you might catch a nasty chill.”
“Chill? Nasty? Reminds me of the time the Emperor sent me to Norsca. Bloody chilly, Norsca. Lots of snow and ice and white wolves. But cold, mostly. Yes, mostly cold. Norsca is like that. Will there be eggs for supper?”
The nurse manoeuvred the elector away from his battle table as he talked, walking him through the hallways to his daybed room. Behind her, her son wailed. “Can I be the Emperor’s armies next time? I always have to be the orcs. It’s not fair.”
Maximilian coughed, deep, racking coughs that came from his lungs and brought stuff up with them. He missed the spittoon, and the nurse had to wipe his moustaches again. He was a very sick elector, they told him, and he needed his rest.
“Eggs, woman,” he thundered. “Will there be eggs?”
“I think cook had planned on quail, but if you’re good and nap until three I think eggs could be arranged.”
They passed a ticking pendulum clock, its face a smiling sun, its workings exposed under glass.
“Nap ’til three! That’s hours and hours and hours off.”
“Well, it’ll be quail then.”
Two distinguished men, priests of Ulric, saw Maximilian coming and bowed low to him. He poked his tongue out at them, and they passed on without passing comment. He didn’t care for priests of Ulric, dried-up old fools who looked down their long noses at heroes of the Empire and tried to get him to read boring papers and things.
“Don’t like quail. Like eggs. Good battle food, eggs. Keep you going all day, eggs for breakfast.”
The nurse helped the grand prince into his room. It was decorated with big, bright-coloured pictures of the old emperor, Luitpold, and of glorious battlefields. There was even a portrait of Maximilian von Konigsberg as a young man, with his wife and young son, dressed up for a court affair. Maximilian’s hand was on his sword-hilt.
“Sleep ’til three, highness, and perhaps eggs can be found.”
“Half past two.”
“Three.”
The nurse wiped dribble from the elector’s moustache.
“A quarter to three.”
“Done.”
The elector bounced on his bed, whooping for joy. “Eggs, eggs! I’m getting eggs for supper. You can’t have eggs, but I can, ’cause I’m a hero of the Empire. The Emperor himself said so.”
The nurse pulled the elector’s uniform off, and pulled his bedclothes up over him.
“Don’t forget the general.”
“So sorry, highness.” She took the lead soldier out of the elector’s jacket pocket and put it on the bedside table where he could see it from beneath his covers. He saluted the figure, who was perpetually saluting him back.
“Say sweet dreams to the general, highness.”
“Sweet dreams,
general…”
“And remember, when you’ve had your nap, you’re to see Crown Prince Oswald. You’re to put your seal to some papers.”
Oswald. As Maximilian fell asleep to dream of battles and wars, he tried to think of Oswald. There were two Oswalds. His father, the old grand prince, had been an Oswald. And there was another, a younger fellow. It must be his father he was to see, because Old Oswald was important, another hero of the Empire. But still… eggs!
V
Despite his hard-won distrust of the Great and the Good, Detlef Sierck was impressed with Crown Prince Oswald. Those who carve their names in the annals of history usually turn out to be drooling idiots. The general who kept back the hordes of darkness smells like a cesspool, picks his nose and has pieces of onion in his beard. The courtesan who decided the fate of a city has a missing tooth, a grating laugh and the habit of digging you painfully in the ribs whenever a double entendre creeps into the conversation. And the philosopher whose propositions changed the entire course of Imperial Thought is locked in an infantile battle with his neighbour over a barking dog. But Crown Prince Oswald still looked in every particular the hero who slew the monster, won the lady, saved the kingdom and honoured his father.
He was more handsome than any matinee idol, and his relaxed but alert posture suggested an athleticism superior to most professional swordsmen or tumblers. Detlef, used to being the object of all eyes in company, realized sadly that were a party of ladies to be introduced into the room, they would all, even if unaware of his position in society, flock to Oswald. Detlef would be left to make embarrassed conversation with the inevitable bespectacled, bad-complexioned frump all groups of pretty women haul about with them to throw their attributes into the spotlight.
[Genevieve 01] - Drachenfels Page 5