01 - Honour of the Grave

by Robin D. Laws - (ebook by Undead)

  “From the knee down.”

  “Good, because in that case I can get myself better and stick a peg on it. And then I’ll find all of them swine who was tearing down that fence, and if it takes me till the last of my days, I’ll gut them systematically. I memorised all their faces, and if I get them all, I can be sure I killed the one who chopped my leg.”

  “Did Davio take others with him? Will he still have a force?”

  Halfhead asked for more water; she let him take the skin and gurgle down as much as he wanted. He raised himself up on his elbows. He looked at his leg and made a face, like another man would at a cup of sour milk. “Davio’s finished as a mercenary chief, at least for the time being. It would take him, what, five years to rebuild what he had. Maybe more, when word of this trouncing gets about. Dogs of war, they ain’t anxious to sign on with a man if they think he’ll get them killed. But if Davio still breathes, you can be sure he’s working some way of extracting revenge from Jurgen and his boys.”

  Angelika knelt in close. “Listen very carefully. Now that none of this matters, tell me if Davio had a boy with him. Scrawny, skin like porcelain, hair long and scraggly?”

  “The prince was not that way.”

  “Not that kind of boy. A hostage. A von Kopf hostage.”

  Halfhead wrinkled his nose. “Not that I know of, and I would have known. Not anywhere in the Castello, that’s for certain.”

  Franziskus squatted beside him. “And was there a Bretonnian woman in his employ?”

  Halfhead chewed thoughtfully at his lips. “There was a Bretonnian he had a dally with, not long back. She was vocally enthusiastic, one might say. Or so said the boys on palace duty.”

  “Petrine Guillame?”

  “That might have been her name. Flaxen haired, you could say?”

  “That’s her.”

  “Yes, I seen that one. Last time was a little less than a week ago, I think. I saw her pass through the gate, heading away.”

  Franziskus caught Angelika’s gaze. “That could be just after she sent us on our wild goose chase.”

  “Was she with anyone?” Angelika asked Halfhead.

  “I wasn’t paying any great attention,” said the gateman, lying back down. “Though she was pretty to look at.”

  “Did she have a boy with her, like the one I just described?”

  Halfhead closed his eyes. “Could have, I suppose, but it wouldn’t have been him I was looking at.”

  “How about a couple of demented halflings and an elf with a bandage on his face?”

  “You mean Goatfield and his cronies? Swinish ne’er-do-wells! I never saw them with that Bretonny woman, though. Nor with a boy. Nor recently.”

  “The woman, then. When she left, did you happen to see which direction she headed?”

  “Why, the only sane direction anyone would go.”

  “Which would be…?”

  “With a greenskin horde on the march? The only safe way: towards the Empire. North. She went north.”

  “We’ll get you cared for, Halfhead.”

  “Call me Werther. I hate that name, Halfhead.”

  “Very well, Werther.”

  She and Franziskus ducked down so Halfhead could wrap an arm around each of their shoulders. They stood to support his weight. They hobbled him out of the prince’s ruined garden and—pausing periodically to huff and puff—through the maze of shattered buildings to their empty cottage. They sat him on the floor, propped against a wall. Angelika contemplated him for a moment. At no point in the journey had he made a complaint or allowed a cry of pain to escape his lips. She contrasted this with her own extravagant suffering in the pit, and felt a little ashamed.

  “We’ll get you taken care of,” she said. “You’re hungry, I’ll wager.”

  “Good luck finding anything edible in this smoking trash pile. The Averlanders cleaned this place bare. They did everything but lick the streets.”

  Without further comment, Angelika departed. Franziskus cleared his throat nervously and sat on the floor beside the injured man.

  “Where do you hail from, Werther?”

  “Up north. In Ostland, east of Wolfenburg.” Though the place Halfhead named was part of the Empire, it was distant; Franziskus was not sure he’d ever met another Ostlander.

  “Do you ever consider going back there?”

  Halfhead shrugged. “What for? It was so long ago I can’t even say my memories of the place are accurate. What few people I’d care to revisit are no doubt already in their graves. Give me some more water, please.”

  Franziskus handed him the waterskin. He slurped lustily.

  “Why did you leave in the first place?” Franziskus asked.

  “Because I hated everyone there and wanted to kill them,” he said, flatly. “But I didn’t want to hang for it, so I thought I’d find places where a man would get himself rewarded for all the killing he wanted to do.” With stubby fingers he screwed the skin’s cap back on. “Though once I got a true taste of it, I found it wasn’t all I’d made it out to be.” He regarded his leg. “Though eviscerating the ones who did this, that might feel right.”

  “You’ve travelled all about, then?”

  “More than most.”

  “Have you ever been to the Moot?”

  “Hah?”

  “Where the halflings dwell.”

  “Why would anyone want to go there? Hey, boy, tell me—you and the woman. You ever—?” He made the universal sign of sexual congress.

  Franziskus shook his head. “You’d have to ask your prince, Davio, about that.”

  “Ah, the lucky son of a whore. Tileans, they get all the—”

  The sound of creaking boot leather stopped him short. Angelika entered the one-room cottage, her arms piled high. Franziskus tried to look innocent. He could feel the burn of a blush on his cheeks. She gave him a questioning look. He leapt up to help unburden her arms.

  She’d found a pair of sausages, a bag of apples, some potatoes, a fistful of radishes, a wedge of Middenheimer cheese, and a clay jug full of watery rum. Halfhead’s eyes widened as she and Franziskus laid it out on the floor in front of him.

  “Sigmar’s wounds!” Halfhead swore. “I see a miracle before me!”

  “This is what I do,” Angelika said. She divided up her spoils, and, without speaking, the three of them ate. They were still hungry after the food was all gone. She took a white shirt she’d found and tore it into strips. She poured the rest of the rum on Halfhead’s stump and bandaged it. Though it seemed to bother him less than it should have, the wound was a terrible one, and privately she doubted whether he’d make it alone. Neither could they take him with them, and she couldn’t remain in the Castello to forage his food.

  She stood. “We must be on our way, Werther.”

  He waved her off. “Don’t let me keep you. You’ve already done more than others would.”

  As they left, Franziskus cast a guilty glance back at him; Angelika kept her eyes ahead. They saw that there was a stretch of still-extant town wall directly to the east, and, beside it, a breach that had been cleared of debris and would be easy to walk through. They meandered toward it, circumventing heaps of wreckage.

  “Where are we headed?” he asked her.

  “You heard him—north.”

  “Back to the Empire?”

  “If need be.”

  “But I have sworn never to return there.”

  “Then stay with Halfhead.”

  They cleared the breach. Something caught Franziskus’ eye and he turned to look at the wall. Pasted on its outer side was a handbill. It had their names on it, and crude drawings of their faces. It named them as Angelika Fleischer and Franziskus Stirlandzner—Franziskus of Stirland. It offered a hundred crowns for their capture, not specifying how much the reader would get if he only caught one of them. Neither did it say what they’d done to have a reward hung on them. The poster did, however, tell the reader that the amount would be payable by Jurgen von Kopf, and that
the prisoners should be taken to the barracks in Grenzstadt.

  “This is not good,” observed Franziskus.

  Suddenly some men rushed out from behind an upturned cart, spearheads out-thrust.

  * * *

  She stood shackled before Benno and Gelfrat. Franziskus was beside her, also chained. The ruins of the Castello were visible; they were slightly further north, and sheltered by a scattering of youngish trees. The Kopfs had about three-dozen men with them, and horses and carts, to boot.

  Gelfrat raised his hand to strike her face.

  “I knew you’d come here, sooner or later,” Benno said, a smile making its subtle way across his mouth. “I even risked the wrath of our father, by staying behind.”

  “Your astounding bravery has me weak-kneed,” she said. She saw Gelfrat suppress a chortle at his half-brother’s expense. The big man lowered his threatening hand, turned, and walked a few paces away.

  “I won’t ask you again,” said Benno. “Tell us where you’ve stashed him.”

  “I spoke the truth the first time,” she said.

  Benno moved in, standing nose-to-nose with her. “You mean for me to believe that you sold him to two halflings and an elf, but you had second thoughts, and you now search for them, because you know not where they are?”

  “I don’t control what you believe, Benno. I’ve told you the truth, because I see no reason not to. You can take or leave it, as you see fit.”

  He lunged to the side, directing a vicious underhand blow to Franziskus’ stomach. The Stirlander grunted in surprise and agony, doubling over.

  “Striking my companion will change nothing, Benno. We don’t have him; Davio’s people do. You’ve razed his town, but he has a last laugh still in store.”

  Benno hovered the heel of his boot over the toes of Franziskus’ right foot, silently threatening to grind it into him. Franziskus bit his lip.

  “Where did they say they were headed?”

  “Oddly enough, they chose to withhold that intelligence from me. But if you return to your father’s mansion, I’m sure he’ll receive a ransom message soon enough.”

  He seized her by the back of her neck, pulling her face toward his. “That is precisely what must not happen, you deceitful harlot. I—we—must be the ones to deliver him.”

  She smiled sweetly and blew into his eye, forcing him to blink. Taken aback, he let go of her. “Then I suggest you scour the hills for the mercenaries I named, or for Davio himself,” she said. “And a Bretonnian woman, called Petrine. Franziskus can describe her to you.”

  He broke away from her, kicking at the dirt. He took Gelfrat aside for a conference, away from the ears of his men. She sidestepped to Franziskus; the slight movement prompting the Black Sabre guards to lower spear-points at them.

  “Without wishing to complain,” he softly groaned, “this is perhaps not the best time to antagonise them.”

  “I’m sorry, Franziskus.”

  The half-brothers had finished their conference. Gelfrat wore an expression of mild disgust. Benno ground a fist into his palm. He gave orders for the soldiers to break camp. A thin young soldier with a beakish nose and a stunned, wide-eyed look approached the two prisoners and knelt to unshackle Angelika’s legs. With his comrades standing guard, spears ready, she briefly entertained the thought of kicking him in the face and making a run for it.

  He bent to turn the key in Franziskus’ shackles. Still cuffed at the wrists, Franziskus bent down to rub his ankles. One of the guards reversed his spear to poke the Stirlander in the ribs with its butt. Franziskus straightened. The beak-nosed fellow ordered the prisoners over to a pair of waiting horses, then commanded them to mount. These were sleek and healthy steeds, tall and muscular. Franziskus calmed his horse as he slung himself awkwardly into the stirrups. Two soldiers boosted him, compensating for his inability to use his hands by pushing on his backside. The mount turned its long head back to Franziskus and let loose a welcoming equine noise.

  The guardsmen turned to Angelika and grinned. She stepped peevishly to her horse. It glowered at her and flared its nostrils threateningly. The soldiers seized her; she struggled to get her a foothold in the stirrup. Groping her roughly, the men hoisted her up onto the horse’s back, with such enthusiasm that she was almost pitched over the opposite side. The horse made its displeasure known with a stamp of its front foot. The guardsmen also mounted and hemmed in the prisoners’ mounts with their own. They waited until their comrades were ready, and Benno gave the order to move out. In tight ranks, the Sabres rode north.

  The soldier with the beakish nose kept to his position on Franziskus’ left. “Ho there,” Franziskus said to him.

  The fellow, no older than he was, sniffed the air.

  “What’s your name, friend?” Franziskus asked.

  “We’ve been warned about you,” said the young Sabre. “Deserter,” he added.

  “How long a ride do we expect?” Franziskus persisted.

  Beaky looked away.

  “Is it to Grenzstadt we’re going? That would be, I’d say, a day and a half ride, with one night’s camp. Yes?”

  One of the older soldiers laughed gutturally; it was the closest to an answer they’d give him.

  The day was warm and hazy. The men rode with practiced boredom, rarely speaking. Franziskus glanced at Angelika, but read her inky mood and could tell she was in no frame of mind for conversation, either. The terrain around the pass, with its wide and muddied lowland and the jagged, tree-strewn rock walls, remained relentlessly predictable and uninteresting. Even the animals joined in a conspiracy to increase the journey’s tedium: Franziskus spotted no deer, no rabbits, not even any wild dogs; occasionally he saw small teams of swallows flit overhead, but the caws and chirps he’d come to associate with the Blackfire had all fallen silent. He brought this fact to Angelika’s attention.

  “Maybe it’s nothing,” she said, scanning the hills to left and right. The men around them overheard, and joined her in nervous scouting.

  Angelika looked up. Diffuse wisps of dark smoke snaked overhead, a slow wind carrying them from the south. She craned her head backwards, as if hoping to see the fire that went with the smoke. The guards couldn’t help but do the same.

  “What is it?” Franziskus asked.

  “Burning trees,” she said.

  He sneezed. And not wanting to beg his captors for a handkerchief, he let clear mucus spill down from his nose and onto the sparse moustache that had grown on his lip over the last week.

  “Orcs,” Angelika explained, to no one in particular.

  “Where?” the beaky one asked. His comrades tensed, hands drifted to weapons.

  “Tell my friend here your name,” Angelika commanded. “Engage in a few pleasantries.”

  Beaky met Franziskus’ eyes. “I am Renald. Renald Wechsler.”

  Franziskus nodded a greeting at him.

  “Well, Renald Wechsler,” Angelika finally said, “you can see that the smoke blows from the south. So the orcs are in the south, I’d venture to say.”

  “How far south?”

  “No way of telling.”

  “How do you know they are orcs?”

  “This happens when they mass for war. They set fire to the forests as they wait in the hills.”

  “What do they mean to accomplish?”

  “It’s hard to say if they have any aim at all. It may just be that they’re stupid, lazy despoilers, and they burn down their own staging places through idiotic carelessness. Some might say, on the other hand, that they do it purposefully, to stoke themselves before a fight. Or maybe it’s a sacrifice to their gods of destruction.” She shrugged. “All I can tell you is, it’s orcs, and probably a great deal of them. Getting ready.”

  Renald’s complexion turned to ash; he rode up next to the unit’s banner-bearers, and spoke to Benno and Gelfrat. Soon after, the column speeded its pace.

  Angelika saw that their guardians were all either looking up at the smoke, or behind them, search
ing the hills for orcs. With Renald still on his way back, there were spaces in what had been a tight formation. She scissored her legs into her horse’s side, ready to bolt through the distracted men.

  The horse reared a little, and whinnied in annoyance. It stayed put. Again she kicked at it. It waggled its muzzle into the air. Her guardians took notice of her efforts and ringed her tightly.

  She sat silently cursing: every time she had dealings with a horse, it gave her renewed reason to hate all of its kind.

  The column picked up speed, barely stopping to rest its horses as it continued on to Grenzstadt.

  * * *

  Black towers and gabled manses jutted up past Grenzstadt’s high stone walls like halberds on a rack of arms. The large town squatted at the mouth of the Blackfire Pass, interposing itself between the green pastures of the Empire and anyone who would enter it from the southern wildlands. Sun and weather had given its granite walls a tan coloration; clinging lichens added touches of green. Well-engineered and exactingly mortared, the walls rose to a uniform height. Angelika, still shackled on her truculent horse, reckoned that they had to be twenty feet high, at least. They bore no resemblance to the makeshift fortifications that had done so little to protect the Castello del Dimenticato. Atop the walls were walkways, and these were railed in oak and sheltered by shingled roofs. Averlandish soldiers, sporting the yellow and black, patrolled them, vigilantly toting crossbows.

  A multitude of banners flew from the town’s tallest pinnacles: the yellow and black of Averland, Sigmar’s hammer, the insignia of the Black Field Sabres, and, here and there, Count Marius’ solar ensign. Among these other flags were scattered, too, the meanings of which Angelika could not decode. They might be anything from the symbols of private militias to mercantile crests. Known or unknown, they all snapped in a high wind. The sky had grown dark, presaging a violent storm. The temperature had been dropping rapidly for about half an hour, and Angelika shuddered. At some point, probably back in the pit, she’d lost her cloak. Franziskus shivered, too. Benno’s men hemmed them in more tightly as they approached the town; there would be no confusion, no escapes. Whirling gusts gathered up tiny pebbles and handfuls of sand, throwing the mixture in the riders’ faces.