Marks of Chaos

by James Wallis

  “Sir.”

  “And in the meantime, if you get some temporary officer and he’s not good enough for the Reiklanders, then you give him hell.”

  Braun saluted smartly. “That we’ll do, sir. That we’ll do.”

  It was not until Hoche, astride one of the horses that had escaped the Knights Panthers’ carnage and with the Imperial messenger riding beside him, had put fifteen long, dry miles between himself and the camp that it occurred to him that sending him far away, riding with only one companion through an area reputedly heavy with orcs would be the best way to begin a cover-up of the whole filthy business.

  He weighed the thought, trying various possibilities, remembering things that Bohr had said to him earlier in the day. Then he smiled wryly, placed the idea out of his mind and put the spurs to his horse, urging it on. Altdorf lay ahead, and great prospects.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Great Prospects

  The sun was setting and the guards were preparing to shut the great city gates as Hoche rode into Altdorf from the south. The journey had taken him over a fortnight, and on the last day the weather had turned, soaking his woollen cloak and slowing his pace to a trot. His muscles ached, and after eight nights sleeping in rough inns with bug-ridden beds or wrapped in a blanket beside the road he was looking forward to a decent meal and a night’s rest.

  Even with the sun partly hidden by grey clouds, Altdorf was magnificent. The tower of the Cathedral of Sigmar was visible from miles out, and as he had drawn closer Hoche had been able to see the roof of the Imperial Palace over the city’s foreboding stone walls. Inside, the streets were crowded with people moving fast, not looking at each other in that big-city way as they tried to get home before night fell. He hadn’t been in the capital for years, and he didn’t like it any better this time. He felt trapped, the overhang of the tall buildings on either side blocking out the light and closing in on him.

  Hoche rode across the Old Bridge and the river towards the Königplatz and the Black Goat Inn. The Reiklanders did not have a barracks in Altdorf, but the regiment’s officers had an agreement with the inn that gave them room and board on account. By the time he reached the square the daily market had been packed away, the barrows and carts had been pushed to the side of the road, and the Königplatz was empty apart from the cluster of tall statues of dead emperors at its centre. The entrance to the inn’s courtyard was open.

  “Seen any action lately, sir?” the stable-boy asked conversationally as Hoche handed him the reins of his horse and dismounted.

  “Not the kind you mean,” Hoche said. He stretched his arms and bent at the knees, exercising muscles stiff from the long ride, then began unstrapping his saddle-bags. The boy patted the horse’s nose.

  “What’s your business in Altdorf, sir?” he asked.

  “Upsetting people,” said Hoche. “What’s the time?”

  The boy stared at him oddly, then looked at the sky. “Eight bells soon enough,” he said.

  “Good. That’s very good.” There would be enough time for him to get to the Knights Panther barracks before they sat down to their evening meal, and Hoche felt it was important that they were told tonight, before the others. It was the honour of their regiment that was at stake, and besides, Bohr had told him to see them first. He dug in the saddlebags for the letters he had been given, pocketed them and dropped the bags at the boy’s feet with a couple of groats. “See to the horse, then take these inside. Lieutenant Hoche of the Reiklanders. I need a room for the night and a bloody good meal. I’ll be back in an hour.”

  He headed out into the darkening streets.

  The room was panelled with ornately carved oak, gold leaf highlighting the names of battles dating back a thousand years, and above it all the splendid crest of the Knights Panther, the great beast’s head snarling, white-fanged and lash-tongued, under a gold crown. Below, across the table, the three officers who faced Hoche were no less splendid: their faces lined by age and faded scars, unmarred by fat, loose skin or the signs of high living. Any of them would be glad of the chance to lead a battle-charge tomorrow. But they couldn’t. These men were the acting senior officers, crippled in battle, who stayed behind in Altdorf when the regiment and its generals went campaigning, left in charge of supplies, logistics, numbers and servants, dreaming of valour and glory.

  In front of them a leg of roast mutton lay uneaten, growing cold as Hoche had told his story. The three goblets of wine were empty, and the decanter was empty too. The three men sat still and silent in their chairs, digesting.

  “Circumstantial.” Colonel Jäger said, and pushed his heavy chair back. “Circumstantial, but utterly damning.”

  “Thirty men,” said Major Arnau, scratching absent-mindedly at his jewelled eye-patch. “Thirty of our finest, and Sir Valentin among them. What can have possessed them?”

  “Evidently the foul spirit of Khorne possessed them. What matters now is how we protect the regiment from this.” Colonel Raschke looked down at the piece of paper where he’d been jotting notes with a lead pencil as Hoche had described his experiences. He reached for the decanter, found it empty, and pulled the bell to summon a servant. The officers’ discussion paused as more wine was brought. Hoche felt it was as if he was not present. Even when one of them looked at him, it was as if he was a witness in a trial, or a letter containing bad news. A thing, not a person.

  “There will have to be an investigation,” Colonel Jäger said. “All loose ends must be found and tied up. The reputation of the Knights Panther is at stake and the taint of Chaos must not be allowed to stain it.” He touched the shirt over his heart in the quick outline of the hammer of Sigmar. “I trust you understand me, gentlemen?”

  “The regiment must be protected,” said Major Arnau.

  “Quite so,” Colonel Raschke said. He swallowed wine from his goblet and turned to Hoche. “No doubt you will be reporting this incident to other parties in Altdorf. Or have you already done so?”

  “I came to you directly I reached the city,” Hoche said. His throat was dry; he had had nothing to drink since arriving in Altdorf, nobody here had offered him water or wine, and telling his story and answering the men’s questions had taken over an hour. “At dawn tomorrow I see the witch hunters and the Untersuchung,” he added.

  “The Untersuchung. Hmm,” Raschke said. “It would be better if they were not involved in this. But you have orders from Duke Heller.” He glanced at his colleagues, then at the piece of paper in front of him. “Thank you for your news. Stay a while, have something to eat. We will arrange for an escort to return you to your inn.” He picked up the paper, wadded it and dropped it to the floor. “The streets of Altdorf are not safe for the unguarded,” he said.

  The stew was excellent. Hoche tasted both beef and venison in it, their flavours not masked but accentuated by the spiced gravy. The goblet of wine seemed to dear his head after the day’s long journey and he felt like a new man, revitalised, with new purpose. He sat back, alone in the chamber, and thought over the day.

  There was a knock on the door and two men entered. One was blond, young, crop-headed, moustached and slick, the other older and grey-haired with hands like a pound of sausages and a face that the sun had beaten against for too many years. Both wore dark cloaks, and Hoche could tell from the way the cloth hung at their hips that each man carried a sword.

  “Your escort, sire,” said the older of the two. Their faces did not have the aristocratic cast that Hoche expected of Knights Panther but then, he reflected, they were probably servants or guards. Cavalry officers could hardly be expected to escort a man through the city’s dark streets, no matter how important the information he carried.

  The two men led him through the Knights Panthers’ headquarters, and out into the night. The warm night air was a shock after the cool stone atmosphere of the rooms inside. Hoche did not recognise the street they were on, but the gothic bulk of the Imperial Palace loomed against the darkened sky to the west, so the Old Bridge must l
ie to the north.

  “This way,” said Grey-hair, nodding towards the east.

  Hoche stopped. “Isn’t it this direction?” he said.

  Grey-hair shook his head. “It’s past ten bells. The ferrymen have gone home and the Old Bridge and West Bridge are closed for the night. We’ll have to cross the river at the docks.” He set off, not looking back to see if Hoche was following. Blond took a burning, smoking torch from a bracket beside the door and waited to follow the young officer.

  Hoche steadied himself for a moment, feeling a little unstable, then walked after the man’s cloaked back. He was tired, and perhaps his hosts’ wine had been stronger than he had thought. Grey-hair walked on in front of him while Blond brought up the rear. Good defensive formation, he thought. The Knights Panther had planned well.

  The city was quiet, the day’s heat deadening the night air. Hoche and his silent protectors walked down unfamiliar streets towards the Reik. He could smell it over Altdorf’s familiar summer stink. They were moving into the docks district, past shuttered shops, tall warehouses, broad tenement buildings and the occasional tavern with low light and muted conversation drifting from its doorway. Only a few people were on the streets, most of them walking swiftly, not looking at other night-travellers. They hadn’t passed a single watch patrol.

  The first bridge was stone, wide enough for two carts to pass, the Reik below it oily in the faint light. Hoche took the chance to pause and lean on the stone parapet, feeling unsteady on his feet. He stared west, to where the river joined with the Talabec a few hundred yards downstream, the waters of the two merging to form a greater whole that flowed out to the great port of Marienburg hundreds of miles downstream, and the Sea of Claws. If Altdorf was the heart of the Empire, as men said, then the Reik was its spine. It might stink of garbage and human waste, but in the moonlight it was glorious.

  Beyond lay the docks, a shambles of warehouses and cheap houses, new dwellings crammed into every available space, and piled on top of each other. Hoche knew its reputation as a place of lowlifes and reprobates; and though he should have felt safe with his two guards, for some reason he shivered. The road narrowed, the cramped buildings almost meeting overhead, pathways and alleys twisting and intersecting with others like veins in a great sleeping creature. Hoche felt like a parasite, an alien, out of place. He shouldn’t be here. He thought about the army camp and about his men, now training under a new officer, and then for a moment he thought of home and Marie, smiling. How surprised she would be to see him, how proud of his lieutenant’s tassels. “Why didn’t you send word you were coming back?” she would say, and he…

  Grey-hair turned right off the street, away from the smell of the river, into a narrow lane dark with shadow.

  “Is this the way?” asked Hoche.

  “Short-cut to the second bridge,” Blond said from behind him. Hoche paused, looked up and down the street, failed to get his bearings, shrugged and followed.

  Grey-hair was waiting, of course, his sword drawn.

  A flood of realisation poured into Hoche’s mind and he turned to run, his hand groping for his own weapon. It was all a trap. His movements felt slow, as if he was swimming in the muggy air. Behind him the blond man had cut off his retreat. His sword was drawn too, but he had dropped the torch and the alley was deep in shadow.

  Hoche threw his eyes around the alley in desperation. The ground was rough cobbles with piles of garbage. The walls were flat plaster, featureless and dirty, with no handholds or pipes, much less a window or door. There was no way out.

  He backed towards the nearest wall, protecting his back, trying to watch both men as they edged closer. With his left hand he unfastened the laces that held his money-pouch to his belt. “Don’t hurt me,” he said, holding it out to the older man in front of him. “Here, I have money. Take it all.”

  “We’ll take it,” said Grey-hair, “and your life too.” Hoche hurled the open pouch at his face in a spray of gold and silver coins. Grey-hair threw up his hands to protect himself, and Hoche thrust high at him with his sword.

  He was aiming for the man’s throat but his aim was off and the blade pierced the right shoulder instead. It wasn’t deep but it was enough; Grey-hair dropped his weapon with a yowl. An instant later Hoche shoulder-rammed him, knocking him down and out of the way. Hoche heard him fall and shout, then the sound of Blond’s footsteps giving chase. He didn’t pause to look back: he ran.

  The alley twisted left and right, then ended in a wider street. Hoche went left, his boots ringing against the cobblestones. The sound of pursuit wasn’t far behind him, but as far as he could tell there was only one man on his heels.

  The sudden energy of the fight had cleared his mind but not his legs; he knew he was slower than his chaser. Normally he would have run until he reached the city wall or a guard patrol, but he knew they would catch him first. He didn’t try to work out why he’d been attacked. Time for that if he survived.

  He dived down another alley, turned right at the end, knowing that Blond was a few feet behind him, and there beyond a low wall was the river—not the Reik but the Talabec, the other branch, glistening, its dark banks broken with wharves and moored barges. The road ran beside it in either direction but the darkness of the water beyond seemed an implacable barrier. Stop, it said. You can run no further.

  Hoche gazed at it in despair, then in a desperate movement flung himself around, his body low, feet braced to steady himself, sword outstretched. Blond came hurtling out of the alley and saw the blade too late. He tried to throw himself sideways but his momentum was too strong and Hoche was too quick. The weight of Blond’s rush carried him onto the sword and down to its hilt as the steel slid into him below the ribs. Then his body slammed into Hoche and the impact carried them both backwards, face to face. Blond’s sword hit the ground with a clatter.

  Hoche’s buttocks whacked into the edge of the wall, and he felt himself begin to topple backwards, with the weight of the other man on top of him. With his left hand he tried to grasp the brickwork to steady himself. The wall was too smooth. Blond, dying, was pushing him over the edge into the river. He tried to release his right hand but it was trapped between them. For a frozen moment they hung there, balanced between land and water, life and death. Hoche stared up into Blond’s eyes, an inch from his. He could feel the heat of the dying man’s body pressed hard against him.

  “Who are you?” he said. “Who sent you?”

  Blond’s face twisted to almost a smile. He opened his mouth as if to speak and blood surged out, gushing over Hoche’s face, filling his eyes and mouth, matting his hair, soaking his uniform. He pushed back blindly and felt the man slump off him and fall to the ground. There was no other sound. Hoche leaned forward off the wall, wiped the blood from his face, and opened his eyes in time to see Grey-hair emerge from the alley at a run, sword in his left hand.

  The man stopped. “Sigmar’s balls!” he said.

  Hoche bent, picked up Blond’s sword, and took a duelling stance. Grey-hair disappeared back into the alley, the sound of his footfalls fading into the distance.

  Maybe he’s gone to fetch the watch, Hoche thought. That would be ironic: he had no way to prove his innocence or the other’s guilt. No way of finding out who the man was, either. He leaned back against the wall, feeling the cool air from the river brush over his face. Then something lurched inside him, and he turned and bent over the edge, emptying his stomach into the river below in a rush of vomit.

  He dropped Blond’s sword and tugged his own out of the corpse, wincing as it scraped against a bone. Then he untied the dead man’s cloak, pulled it from under his body and put it on. It was soaked with blood, but the stains wouldn’t show against the dark fabric as much as they did on his light uniform. His face must be caked in the drying blood of his would-be assassin.

  He looked both ways along the street. Nobody in sight. Hoche wiped his sword on the edge of the cloak, sheathed it, and stood for a moment, working out where he was. Fro
m the position of the bridges downstream he reckoned it should be a fifteen-minute walk to the Black Goat; time enough to think through what had just happened.

  By the time he reached the Königplatz he had three possibilities. Either the Knights Panther had tried to have him killed, to remove the last witness to the regiment’s dishonour. But that was ludicrous. Much more likely, he thought as he cleaned the blood from his face in a horse trough, was that the Knights’ porter had hired two street-toughs as linkmen to escort him, not knowing they were robbers. Or two of the Knights’ staff had resolved to rob and kill him—that wasn’t likely, but was less improbable than a regiment’s officers conspiring to have a messenger killed. This was a civilised time; nobody killed messengers any more.

  Whichever was right, it wasn’t the welcome to Altdorf that he had expected. He shivered, and hoped Frau Kolner had kept some food hot for him.

  He stepped into the inn. Nobody was around but an oil-lamp still burned in the cubby-hole where Frau Kolner’s idiot brother usually sat next to the stairs, waiting for bags to carry. There was no sign of a bell or rapper to bring attention, and no smell of food either. Then he heard heavy boots on the floor upstairs, and voices.

  Some instinct, he couldn’t say what, made him duck into the shadows under the staircase. Several pairs of footsteps rattled down above his head, and he caught snatches of conversation:

  “…for your help… tragedy… death.”

  “…important… be returned… regiment.”

  “A sad… collect his horse…”

  “I’m sorry to hear of it.” That was Frau Kolner’s voice, from the foot of the stairs. “That the city streets are so unsafe, it’s a worry. My sympathies to the young man’s family.”

  So someone staying at the inn had died. Hoche peered out from his hiding place, wondering how to emerge without looking a fool. Frau Kolner had her back to him as she talked to three soldiers. They wore tunics with the Knights Panther crest, and one carried saddlebags over his arm. They were Hoche’s saddlebags.