“So an optimist would say. Me, I’ll wager that there will be plenty of bloodshed to go around. You’ve heard the same stories I have. The orcs mass in the south, their armies daily swelling.” Spotting a faint path that wound through a thicket of boulders, she let go of the tree, and dropped down. Without looking back to Franziskus, she embarked on the treacherous path, holding her arms out like wings for balance, as she carefully put one foot in front of the other. She heard scraping on the rocks behind her: the sound of Franziskus keeping up.
“These men might face setbacks,” he said, “but all we’ve seen for weeks are Averlandish victories. Can’t you see what must have happened?” His ankle trapped between rocks, Franziskus pitched abruptly forward, and made a quick though graceless adjustment. It left him unsteady but upright.
“No, but I sense you’ll correct my ignorance.”
“The count must be well again.”
“The count?”
“Leitdorf, the Elector of Averland. He must have recovered from his latest bout of melancholy. Surely you know of him?”
“Mad Marius, you mean.”
A soldier turned toward them and Angelika froze. Franziskus did the same. The soldier was about two hundred yards off, and seemed to see little threat in them. He gave them an indifferent up-and-down, then returned to his task: refitting a wheel to a cart’s axle. Angelika resumed her journey through the boulders.
“So it’s Marius I have to blame for my slim pickings these past few weeks?” she said.
“It can only be so. Everyone knows that strange moods rule Marius Leitdorf, as he rules Averland. At times he burns across the field of battle on his mighty charger, sword swinging right and left to cleave his foes. Yet when he is gripped by some unquenchable gloom, he retreats to his flame-blackened castle, and locks himself inside his moldering library to brood. When last I was in Averland, wagging tongues had it that he’d cloistered himself again, that his functionaries had fallen back into corruption, and his soldiers, into laxity and drunkenness. But look upon those heaps of stinking, slaughtered orcs and the tiny tumbrel of slain Averlanders. That’s not the work of a demoralised force! Only one explanation is possible: Leitdorf rides again!”
They came out of the rocks and onto a grassy incline. Gravity tugged them, and it was hard not to go rushing down the slope to the flatland below.
“This is your chance to join them, then,” Angelika said, “and fight at your beloved Leitdorf’s side.”
Franziskus turned his head away from her. “I am from Stirland, not Averland. And I reek of failure. I am not worthy to fight under a hero as great as he.”
“Pah! Your hero is a butcher. You’re too far back to see him dearly.”
“Someday,” Franziskus said, “you’ll understand.”
“I understand only too well as it is.”
They reached the battlefield’s edge, where some crows tugged peevishly at the tough green flesh of a gaunt, beheaded orc. About eighty yards off, their bolder compatriots flapped around the cart loaded with human casualties. Hornet-clad soldiers kept them at bay with thrusts of their polearms. A sergeant spotted Angelika and Franziskus and waddled in their direction, waving his arms. The wind blew his way, so it took a while before Angelika could make out what he was saying.
“Away, away!” he shouted, in a town crier’s cadence. “We have no need for doxies here! Nor their panderers!”
Angelika felt her fingers wrap tight around her knife’s hilt. She hated to be mistaken for a camp follower. The sergeant kept on toward them. She braced herself. Franziskus raised a hand lightly to her shoulder. She shrugged it off. “No one calls me a whore,” she hissed.
Franziskus stepped around her. He returned the sergeant’s wave. The man’s square head and jowly jaw was characteristic of the southlands.
“You mistake our intentions, sir,” Franziskus said. “We are merely travellers, passing through. We’ll not disturb you, or your men.”
“Halt right there,” the sergeant said, reaching for the sabre that hung from his belt. Franziskus stopped, and the Averlander left his weapon in its scabbard. “You there. Why do you wear the coat of a Stirlandish officer? Did you bring an honest man to grief?”
“No sir, I did not.”
Angelika noticed a tremble in Franziskus’ chin. Despite herself, she felt embarrassed for him, and hoped that the sergeant wouldn’t remark on it. She reminded herself that Franziskus’ misfortune was none of her business, and that she should make an honest run for it if the Averlander decided to chop at him with his sabre.
“Did you perhaps lift that coat from a fallen officer? Eh, border rat? I’m told an expeditionary force from Stirland came to grief around here—and not too long ago, either.”
Franziskus tensed his jaw to end the quivering. Now his eyes began to betray him, by blinking rapidly.
“I bought it from a peddler,” Franziskus said. “Not knowing what its braids and epaulets signified. I merely thought it would be a warm coat.”
The sergeant pulled his sabre slowly from its sheath. “It will not warm your worthless hide, border rat. Drop that coat right here. Then be on your way.”
The Averlander’s attention was fully on Franziskus, so Angelika could sidle over. Her blade was out, resting against her palm and wrist, shielded from the sergeant’s view. She checked the other soldiers, marked out their positions, and estimated distances and running times. She calculated the arc of a throw that would send the point of her dagger into the side of the sergeant’s neck. She edged into the best position to make the throw.
Franziskus shrugged his shoulders, letting the coat drop from them. “You are right, sir,” he said. “I haven’t the honour to wear this coat.”
If Angelika were in his shoes, she thought, she would throw the coat over the sergeant’s head. Then she would stab him hard, three or four times, before getting out of there. But Franziskus just took the garment and folded it over an extended arm for the obnoxious man to take. The sergeant slid his weapon back into the scabbard and regarded Franziskus. He didn’t touch the coat draped over the young man’s outstretched arm.
“You wouldn’t be a deserter, now, would you?”
“No,” Franziskus said.
“Because even if he’s been marked down as dead, a man still has a duty to return to his unit.”
“I wouldn’t know that, sir. Like you say, I’m just a border rat.”
As they walked toward the Castello del Dimenticato, it seemed to Angelika that Franziskus was shivering more than his sudden lack of a coat warranted. Though the wind was a little sharp, it was a sunny spring day, and she’d been perfectly comfortable without an outer garment of any kind. A piercing comment came to her tongue, but she let it sit there, rather than give voice to it.
They’d quartered themselves at the Castello for nearly a month now, and had come to know it well. It was a walled town in the middle of nowhere, populated by people for whom anything was a step up. It was located just inside the gullet of the Blackfire Pass, south of Averland.
Their destination sat at a remove from the pass proper. It was hidden in a nearby basin where a quartet of lesser mountains met. Angelika and Franziskus dawdled along a rocky trail that connected pass to basin, taking care to avoid the many fist-sized stones strewn across it. An ancient cut in the rock, about twenty feet wide and at least forty high, loomed over them, sheltering the trail. Eroded crisscrosses from an ancient excavation marked its rocky surface. Though Angelika was no expert in such matters, she knew it had to have been made by dwarfs. Perhaps there had been diamonds or gold in the rocks, thousands of years ago, giving the dwarfs good reason for their excavations. They were gone now, at any rate, as were any traces of riches in the nearby hills. The founders of the Castello, however, had reason to appreciate the old handiwork. The cut provided the town with an easy approach to the pass, hidden from the view of any orc armies that might happen to rampage their way up to the Imperial border, which lay less than a week’s ride nor
th. Several residents of the Castello—including the cackling old man who’d rented them their small hovel—had assured Angelika that orcs had never spotted the Castello, and would continue to miss it in the future. It seemed a perfect perch from which to launch her looting sorties. She regretted not settling in it sooner.
The two wanderers reached the point where the rocky course opened into the muddy basin. The town sat flush against a cliff face on the opposite side of the basin. To reach its gates, they still had to cross half a mile of wet earth, denuded except for weeds and hardy grasses.
The Castello’s walls were twelve feet high and made of salvaged wood, reinforced on the inside with bands of rusted steel—also salvaged. They were grey from weathering and their planks were uneven, so that the tops of the wall reminded Angelika of an orc’s jagged tusks and teeth. Large boulders had been arranged on the field to direct enemies toward the front gate. Towers stood on either side of it, so that defenders could fire bolts from crossbows and ballistae on any orcs, skaven or bandits who might try to overrun it. As far as Angelika could gather, the Castello had never been seriously threatened. It looked stronger than it really was. If she were given the task of breaking it, she would do it with fire.
The founder was a former mercenary named Davio Maurizzi; she’d seen him from a distance a couple of times. Some called him a “border prince”, which was a tide anyone who lived in these lawless lands could claim for himself, especially if he occupied a defensible position and had a few men willing to pick up swords on his behalf. Maurizzi was Tilean, which explained his town’s strange foreign name. Apparently it meant Fortress of the Lost, or some such thing.
Arriving at the gates, they shouted up to the guardsman. He was called Halfhead, because he had a scar that ran all the way from his crown to his jaw; it was a souvenir of when he’d been clouted full in the face by an orcish war-axe. He should have lost half his head, but didn’t. The gate was open but it was the custom to shout up and pay respects anyhow. Halfhead smiled down at her, idiotically.
As they passed through, competing smells from four or five stalls reached them. The town’s vendors all clustered by the gates, so no one entering or leaving could avoid them. Food sizzled on iron plates, heated by coals, or boiled in pots suspended over logs whitened by low flame. There were soups and bratwursts and schnitzels and noodles (both northern and Tilean-style) and charred medallions of meat that were supposed to be beef. Angelika’s stomach churned; she’d had a bad sausage here, not long after they first arrived. Even though she knew that the fare in the tavern was not cooked under cleaner circumstances, her gut wouldn’t permit her to sample any of these wares. Anyway, her appetite hadn’t yet recovered from the sight of the dead and lime-caked orcs. A draught of liquor was what she needed now. She wended her way through the stalls, reaching the staggering laneway that would take them to the town’s least despicable tavern.
Franziskus, who had paused to contemplate a pan-sized, crispy schnitzel, broke away to catch up with her. He did not have to ask where they were going.
The Dolorosa La Bara shuddered at the end of a laneway, its dirt-grey timbers leaning slightly to the west. It was a one-storey structure large enough to accommodate a hundred drinkers, provided that they were willing to cluster a little. A faded sign hung above its creaking double doors; on it was a painted image of a coffin, its lid closed over the vociferously protesting form of a mercenary, clad like a jester. His wailing head, clawed fingers, and shoeless feet protruded from the casket, which was pierced through by a mammoth spike. Droplets of red blood shot from the point of impact—the artist had obviously relished this gruesome detail. Later hands had touched up his work, so that the blood stayed fresh, even though the rest of the cartoon had faded. Angelika had heard various translations of its Tilean name, ranging from the Not Quite Dead Tavern to Painful the Coffin. None of them seemed exactly right to her, and the Tileans in town never deigned to provide an accurate rendition, so she stuck with the foreign name.
It was early, and only the Castello’s most devout drunkards congregated in the tavern. Giacomo, the proprietor, sat on his high wooden stool behind the bar, one eye open. He was in his late sixties, an age few in these untamed parts had any great hope of reaching. He had thin bones and a large, round head, adorned by a meagre spread of silver hair. A snow-coloured moustache, kept trimmed to a strict minimum, dwelled above his narrow upper lip. When he saw Angelika, he leapt up from the stool and reached under the counter for a fat-bottomed, blackened bottle of brandy. He poured her two shots, judged by sight, into a chipped ceramic cup. She took a sip, wrinkled her face up, and carried the cup over to a corner table. Franziskus hesitated at the bar.
“What is it today, my son?” Giacomo asked him. “Whole or half?”
Franziskus gulped and said, “The sights I’ve seen today require a whole flagon. At least.”
Giacomo tutted and poured him a full tankard of ale. Franziskus carried it to the table Angelika had selected.
“If today teaches us anything,” he began, “it is that we must seek more honourable employment. The yellow and black will continue their march, and your days of easy plunder have ended.”
“One day tells us nothing. The course of any war swings like a pendulum. And if, contrary to its entire known history, the Blackfire Pass becomes a site of sudden peace, there are still plenty of other places with battlefields in need of my attention. Though of course I wouldn’t expect you to accompany me on any long journeys.”
Franziskus sighed and stopped arguing. She sipped her brandy and let it warm her. She closed her eyes and concentrated on its heat running up through her breastbone. Beads of sweat materialised on her forehead. Angelika leaned back to feel them slowly evaporate.
Heavy footfalls filled the tavern. The flooring shook under Angelika’s feet. Without seeming to do so, she turned to see who was coming in. More than a half dozen men were barging in together, jostling broad shoulders as they tried to navigate through the doorway two at a time. In front of them wavered a stall keeper—the bratwurst seller. While looking the other way, he crooked his baby finger at Angelika. The men looming over him all bore the colours of Averland. Close up, with their barrel chests and boxy fists, the men in the black and yellow uniforms seemed less amusing. Each wore a gleaming breastplate, in which Angelika could see a reflection of poor Giacomo, backed up against his shelf of bottles and kegs. The first two carried helmets under their arms, like extra green-plumed heads. The other men kept their helmets on, and their hands near the hilts of their swords. Their postures, in relation to the men in front of them, told Angelika that they held no rank. Their featherless helms confirmed this assumption.
The officers presented a mismatched pair. One was a giant, six and a half feet in height, his face a bony mass of jaw and cheekbone. His neck was as big as his head; he moved it around to direct an intimidating glare at each of the bar’s few patrons, Angelika and Franziskus excepted. The other paused to lean his slender frame against the back of a chair, assuming an attitude of impudence. His chestnut hair receded just a touch. The slightest of double chins formed and unformed itself under the line of his jaw. His eyes glittered intelligence; their irises were the colour of steel. He met Angelika’s gaze and held it, levelly, before stepping, with exaggerated delicacy, toward her. Without looking directly at it, he seized the back of a chair and dragged it close to him, its legs bumping the uneven planking of Giacomo’s floor. He set the chair down next to Franziskus’, touching it. Franziskus shifted his chair over, making room for the slim man. The officer smiled unamusedly and sat down, legs spread spider-wide, and took the liberty of a long and appraising look at Angelika.
“They call you Angelika Fleischer,” the slender man said.
She shrugged. “What do they call you?”
“I am Benno Kopf. My half-brother here is Gelfrat Kopf.” He indicated the other officer, the big man. “Perhaps our family name means something to you?”
“Perhaps not.” She kept
her hands on the table and remained still. One of the greatest flaws of the Dolorosa La Bara was its lack of alternative exits.
Benno Kopf reached down to his waist, and, unfastening the clasp of his pouch, withdrew a piece of jewellery, which he dangled in front of her. It was a pendant, swinging on a silver chain. The back was silver too. On the front, an emblem was marked out in marcasite, diamond, and obsidian: it depicted a sabre against a black shield, on a field of white.
“This emblem means something to you,” Benno said.
“And to you, also, I gather.”
“Eight weeks ago—or is it nine?—you who sold this piece of jewellery to a travelling merchant named Max Beckman.”
“Are you asking me a question?”
Benno smiled, showing her a mouth full of small and crooked teeth. “You’re a proud person and don’t like to be challenged. I bear no ill wishes towards you. I merely find myself in need of certain facts. If you choose to make this transaction difficult…” He leaned back, to give her a clear view of Gelfrat’s full height and bulk, and his glowering expression. “My half-brother and I respectfully urge you to cooperate,” he concluded.
“Yes, I sold that piece to Max Beckman. I hope he made a good profit on the sale.”
“Your associate knows how to smell the wind, and does not, I think, regret his dealings with us.” He flashed another charmless smile. The question Max could not answer for us is: from whom did you acquire this piece?” He started swinging the pendant again.
Angelika daintily scratched her face, just above her eyebrow. “You’ve learnt a lot about me. I assume you know how I make my living, then.”
“You steal from slain men, fallen on the field of valour.”
“Then that is where I got your pendant.”
“We need to know exactly where. It belonged to another of our half-brothers, Claus von Kopf. You unwrapped it from his dead fingers, perhaps?”
01 - Honour of the Grave Page 4