“What’s going on?” Hildebrandt asked a soldier next to him.
The knight had taken his helmet off, and his jet-black hair cascaded in curls almost to his shoulder. He looked young. No more than twenty summers. The battle hardly seemed to have touched him.
“Can’t you hear it?” he replied in an aristocratic accent, inclining his head towards the doors. “It’s unsettled him.”
Hildebrandt paused, and listened carefully. For a moment, there was nothing. Just the ragged breathing of the men around him and the muffled sounds of soldiers coming up the stairs behind them.
But then he caught it. A high, wandering voice. Like a little girl’s. It was some kind of whimsical tune. Hildebrandt thought he recognised it, but he couldn’t quite place the name. Then it came to him. It was a lullaby. He’d sung it to his own daughter Hannelore. Beyond the mighty oak doors, right at the bitter summit of the dark citadel, in the heart of the pitiless mountains and surrounded by the dead and dying of two armies, someone was singing a lullaby.
Hildebrandt couldn’t believe it. He looked over at Scharnhorst. For the first time Hildebrandt could remember, the general looked nonplussed. He stood by the doors, unmoving, his naked sword still in his hand. Around him, the knights waited for their orders. The assault had come to a grinding halt. Men waited on the stairs below, their vigour transformed into uncertainty. The singing continued, reedy and insubstantial. In the lurid green glow, the effect was more than strange. It was otherwordly.
At length, Scharnhorst turned from the doors. He had a strange expression on his face.
“There’s some devilry here,” he muttered, before turning to Kruger. “These doors are unlocked. We must enter and see this thing through. Come with me.”
Scharnhorst’s eyes swept the assembled throng, and settled on Hildebrandt.
“You too,” he said. “And bring one of those charges. Just in case.”
Without waiting for a reply, he turned and placed his hand on the doors. Kruger and Hildebrandt pushed their way through the crowd of soldiers to stand at his shoulder. The general hesitated a final time, and then pushed. With a long, sighing creak, the doors swung inwards. From inside, green light flooded the antechamber. The three men walked forward. This was the final room. There was nowhere else to go. They were at the pinnacle of Morgramgar. They entered the chamber.
Magnus froze, his own weapon by his side. He could feel the heat of another body close to his. A man’s breath grazed against his cheek.
“Brave,” came a voice, close by. “Very brave. But useless.”
The voice sounded sad, like a child who has had to put away his toys at the end of the day. Magnus stayed perfectly still. The gun’s muzzle rested against his flesh. If he moved, he was dead. His mind raced, his heart thumped, but he resisted the urge to flail or plead. He would never plead.
There was a sigh from the darkness beside him.
“I really don’t want to do this,” said Rathmor, resignedly. “Do you think I desire the fate of two Ironbloods on my name? It’s hard enough having responsibility for one. Though I don’t feel I should share all the blame for that.”
Magnus kept his position with difficulty. His only chance lay in Rathmor making a mistake. If the man wanted to talk, so much the better. These moments were precious. He was painfully aware they could be his last.
“Why didn’t you finish the Blutschreiben yourself?” the traitor engineer asked, and his voice became wheedling again. “If you’d been open to persuasion, we could have completed it together. Then I wouldn’t have had to go behind your back. You’ve seen that I’ve nearly perfected it. There are a dozen more down here, almost finished. Imagine them on the battlefield at once! Nothing could stop them. Even here at Morgramgar, the only thing that could break its armour was a half-finished machine of your own design. And I’ve improved it since Nuln. It’s almost there, Ironblood.”
The voice broke a little. It sounded as if Rathmor was trying to convince himself.
“Almost there,” he said again, bitterly. “I just needed a little more time.”
The pressure of the muzzle lessened. Rathmor was drifting into some kind of reverie. This was the moment.
Magnus spun round, wheeling in the dark, and knocked Rathmor back. There was a cry, and a dull thud. Magnus sprinted forward, blind and terrified, waiting for the blast to finish him. In the dark he ran straight into a wall, and fell heavily. Blood streamed from his nose. Frantically, he scrambled along the stone, certain to feel the explosion of pain at any moment.
It didn’t come. Trembling, Magnus turned back. He could see nothing, just the endless black of the tunnel.
Rathmor didn’t speak. He didn’t fire his gun. It was as if he’d never existed at all.
Suddenly, a spark lit. A flame burst into being nearby. The mouth of the tunnel was illuminated, and Magnus could see how narrow it was. The walls of the subterranean cavern soared upwards into the preternatural gloom. The far end was lost in shadow.
His eyes adjusted slowly. Rathmor lay a few yards away, his limbs twisted awkwardly. His neck was severed nearly straight through. Dark blood still pumped down his jerkin and over the stone. His eyes were unfocussed, but his face was set into a mask of surprise. His pistol lay on the floor, forgotten.
The fire had come from a flint-strike onto a flaming brand. As the flame grew, the red light blossomed. The torch was held low to the ground. For a moment, it was hard to see who the bearer was. Then the dark shape of Thorgad emerged. The blade of Glamrist was red from the flame and from Rathmor’s blood. The dwarf had a strange look in his eyes, at once full of triumph and emptiness.
“I told you,” he said gruffly, and his eyes glinted like jewels in the darkness. “You’ll be glad to have me along, I said. And I was right, was I not, Ironblood?”
Hildebrandt looked around him with amazement. In all his years of service, he had seen nothing like it. The room was circular, and huge. Great stained glass windows had been constructed on all sides. The moonlight streamed through them. Just as it had been outside, the glass was green. The panes were irregularly shaped, and threw odd patterns of emerald light across the floor.
Everything was bathed in the lurid glow. More lanterns hung from the distant ceiling, also throwing a green light across the space. Hildebrandt felt a tremor of nausea just looking at it all. There was no escape. The effect was sickening. He fingered the last of his blackpowder charges nervously.
The walls of the chamber were covered in paintings. They looked like the daubings of a child. In fact, crude representations of children were everywhere. There was a portrait of what might have been the goddess Shallya too, and another of some kind of Sigmarite betrothal ceremony. The brushstrokes were heavy and artless. Some images had been scored out with thick black ink. Others had been savaged, slashed apart, and from these the canvas hung down in tatters. Those that were left were bizarre and malformed.
Across the floor, wooden toys were scattered. Most of them lay forlorn in the sickly shadows, forgotten or broken. There were ceramic dolls with no eyes. Wooden soldiers were everywhere. All were mutilated in some way. Many had no heads. There was a wooden rocking cradle near the far side of the room. The sheets had been ripped from it, and several of the legs were broken. A music box lay next to it. It looked exquisitely made, with silver bindings on the rosewood case. But it too was broken. Shards of metal were scattered around it, and the lid was cracked. It would never play again.
Hildebrandt felt a horror well up within him as he gazed around. The men beside him said nothing. It seemed almost indecent to be there, as if they had intruded into some profoundly personal nightmare. Reluctantly, the big man let his eyes follow the sound of singing. Part of him didn’t want to look. But it was impossible to avoid. In the very centre of the chamber, the margravine was sitting, staring at them.
She was in bed. Her huge four-poster bedframe dominated the room. It was lined with silk sheets and linen hangings. Once they must have been fine th
ings, fit for a lady of noble birth. Now they were stained and tattered, and fluttered limply. The bedclothes were strewn with more dolls. One hung from the frame over the centre, a little noose around its diminutive neck. Others had been warped or disfigured.
Propped up by enormous bolsters, Anna-Louisa Margarete Emeludt von Kleister, commander of the rebel armies and mistress of Morgramgar, looked at them with glassy eyes. She kept singing mumbling the words over and again. As she did so, she tugged weakly at her straggling dark hair. Strands of it lay all over the sheets in clumps. Her flesh was pallid. Dark lines had been scored under her eyes. What little she had left of her looks had been pasted over with heavy layers of rouge. Her lips were haphazardly painted. She looked a little like one of her own dolls. The stench of perfume was everywhere, powerful and pungent. It was a scene of madness and degradation.
She kept staring, but said nothing. Her singing petered out. The chamber fell silent. Eventually, Scharnhorst took a deep breath.
“Madam,” he said, falteringly. “By the warrant of Count Ludenhof of Hochland, Elector of the Empire, I have come to end your treachery.”
Anna-Louisa didn’t reply at once. It looked as if her mind, or what was left of it, was wondering. Then her eyes seemed to gather some focus. She gazed dreamily at the general.
“Have you come to marry me?” she said. “It’s about time. I’ve been waiting so long.”
A stray tear ran down her cheek, blurring the heavy make-up. Scharnhorst looked at Kruger, and his brow furrowed in confusion. The knight raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. Then Anna-Louisa shook her head, and laughed. It was a strained, gurgling sound.
“Of course you’re not here to marry me!” she said, brushing her tear away. “You’re soldiers. They told me you would come. To take away my gold.”
She picked up one of her dolls, looked at it dispassionately for a moment and in a casual gesture twisted its head off. As she did so, a faint growl passed her cracked lips.
“My gold,” she said again. “That’s what they want me for. That clever man Rathmor. And my soldier man, Esselman. They told me they could buy men with it. And then we could break down the Emperor’s palace, and he would have to marry me. And then I would have an heir. A little child. To play with. It’s been so lonely here without one. So I gave them my gold. That’s how it happened.”
A strange eagerness seemed to strike up in her eyes, and she leaned forward. As she did so, the blankets fell from around her. Hildebrandt could see that she was emaciated under her flimsy nightdress. Her movements were like that of a spider, stilted and creeping. Scharnhorst remained silent. He looked horrified.
“Do you know how much gold there is under these mountains, soldier man?” asked Anna-Louisa, looking suddenly delighted. “Endless gold! The little men mine it for me, and then I buy more of them. Every day, more men come to serve me. Soon we will have enough, and Esselman will take them to break open the Emperor’s palace. It won’t be long now!”
Scharnhorst took a deep breath. Now that the shock of the sight was wearing off, he looked like he was tiring of the woman’s babbling.
“My lady,” he said, choosing his words carefully. “I fear you have been deluded. Your mind is deranged. Whatever plans you had have ended. Your armies are destroyed. Your citadel is taken. Any gold you have will be confiscated and withdrawn to the treasury of Count Ludenhof.”
As he spoke, Anna-Louisa’s eyes seemed to lose their focus again. She started playing with one of her toys.
“My orders were to destroy your citadel and execute you for high treason,” said Scharnhorst, his expression full of doubt and his speech slow. “Now that I see the truth, I must surmise that you have been misled. The real traitors are those who have told you such lies. I cannot judge this matter. I will take you to Hergig. Wiser heads shall determine what shall be done with you. You are ill, my lady. Very ill. Will you relinquish yourself to my stewardship? You will not be harmed. It may do your cause some favour, were you to come of your own free will.”
Anna-Louisa looked up vaguely.
“Give myself up?” she said, in her child-like, wandering voice. “They told me you would say that. Let me think. My soldier man told me you would say that. And there was something I had to say. What was it?”
Scharnhorst looked sourly at the scene before him. Anna-Louisa was clearly too far gone in madness to debate with.
“Enough,” he said. “Whatever your commander told you is not important now. The citadel is ours. At first light, you will come with me to Hergig.”
At that, Anna-Louisa suddenly leapt up from the bolsters. Her hair flew wildly, and settled in straggling lumps about her face.
“That’s it!” she cried. “I remember now!”
She giggled maniacally.
“There was something I had to tell you when you got here,” she said, in a girlish whisper, looking inordinately pleased with herself. “That man said that you would come up the tower. Then I had to say that he is still on the second level, hiding. When you’re all up here, he will come out. And there are special fireworks all over the second level. They were made by that clever man Rathmor. And he’s going to set them off! We are all going to burn! Isn’t that very funny? We’re all going to burn!”
Scharnhorst looked at her intently, a sudden sharp concern in his eyes.
“What do you mean?” he snapped.
Before Anna-Louisa could reply, there was a commotion behind them. Hildebrandt turned round to see Lukas pushing his way through the crowded antechamber and into the room. The lad was dishevelled and panting heavily. He must have shoved and jostled his way up through the whole company of men lining the spiral stairs.
“Sir!” he cried, his voice desperate. “You must withdraw! It’s a trap! There are explosives lining the citadel! We’ve been drawn up here!”
For a second, panic rippled across Scharnhorst’s features. He turned back to Anna-Louisa, then to Lukas again. He didn’t know what to do. Despite the general’s rank, Lukas looked exasperated. He was at the end of his strength, and a dreadful certainty was in his expression.
“Sir, we have to withdraw!” he cried again. “There are enemy troops hidden on the second level. They will detonate the charges!”
Still Scharnhorst hesitated. The men looked to him desperately. Some began to shuffle back towards the stairway nervously.
“I—” he began, but he was cut off.
Deep below, a familiar booming had started. There was a distant crack of blackpowder. The green windows were tinged with the red of fire. Screams filtered up from the lower levels. Rathmor’s final trap had been sprung. Down in the courtyards and armouries, the corridors and mess halls, the storerooms and cellars, the bombs were going off.
Magnus sank back against the hard stone walls. His heart was still racing. His head was hammering from the impact of his fall. He felt as if his stitches had opened again. There was a sharp pain in his side, and a hot, sticky feeling of blood against his ribs.
Thorgad blew softly on his brand, and fed it some powdery substance. The flame flared up, throwing long shadows up the rock walls. The dwarf placed the torch against the wall, where it continued to burn.
The two of them were standing in a wide, tall cavern. Behind Magnus, the tunnel led back to the forge level.
On the far side of the chamber, more tunnels led off into the endless night beyond. They were roughly hewn from the bare rock, and showed signs of recent wear and tear. The stone floor was littered with rubbish. Old leather gourds, discarded rags, animal bones and broken tools cluttered the dark recesses of the cavern.
Thorgad looked at Rathmor’s corpse dispassionately. Magnus felt his equanimity gradually returning. His heartbeat slowed to nearly normal.
“So, what are you doing down here?” he said at last, looking at Thorgad with a mixture of relief, fatigue and confusion.
Thorgad turned from Rathmor, and rested his gnarled hands on Glamrist. In the half-light, he looked like a graven image o
f one of the dwarf lords of old. He could have been made of stone himself.
“I might ask you the same thing, umgi,” he said. There was a resentful edge in his voice. “Your people don’t belong here. These are our delvings. The fortress above is a mockery of what was once here.”
Magnus leaned back against the rock, weighing the dwarf’s words carefully. He had a feeling some truths were about to be revealed.
“You intimated as much when we met,” he said. “So you wanted to revisit the place. I can understand that. A dangerous way to go sightseeing, though.”
Thorgad scowled. He looked in no mood to humour Magnus.
“Don’t mock me,” he said, and his voice had a low, warning tone. “These mines are older than your Empire. Older than your race itself, maybe. Do you think I would come here lightly? It has been many hundreds of years since the dawi dwelt here. Only in song do we remember this place. And many have forgotten even that. Shame on them.”
Magnus looked at Thorgad afresh. The dwarf spoke with a voice of reverence. The engineer said nothing in reply, but sat and listened.
“Perhaps you know something of grudges,” continued Thorgad, leaning heavily on his axe. “They are debts of our race, to be paid in respect of some great wrong. They can stretch back for a thousand years, longer even than the long lives of my people. They are recorded with care, set down on tablets of stone and in the iron-bound books of the Karak archives. Though years may pass before they may be returned to, they are never forgotten. Such is the way of my race. We cannot let the debt go. Though the whole world may fall into fire and the Karaks sink into shadow forever, while there is still a single dwarf alive the list of grudges shall be in his mind, driving him to rectify the wrongs done to us through all the long bitter years.”
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