[Blackhearts 01] - Valnir's Bane

by Nathan Long - (ebook by Undead)

  Braids snorted, but Horse-face waved an annoyed hand at him. “Leave off, Gherholt. You would suspect Sigmar himself.” He smiled at Reiner. “You’ve picked a busy destination. We spied Manfred marching toward Nordbergbruche this morning, and Chaos troops have been coming down out of the crags to defend it. We mean to go there after the battle, to pick the bones of the dead.”

  A thrill of fear ran up Reiner’s spine. “Do you think battle has already been joined, then? Did you see the troops of the count’s brother, Baron Albrecht?”

  “Afraid your nemesis might die without your help?” asked Pug-nose.

  “Precisely I don’t want some filthy norther cheating me of my vengeance.”

  Horse-face shook his head. “Manfred wouldn’t have reached Nordbergbruche before dark. They won’t form up until daybreak. We didn’t see his brother.”

  Reiner made a noise halfway between a sigh of relief and a moan. He was relieved that they hadn’t come too late, but almost undone by the realisation of what they must now do. “And how far is Nordbergbruche from here? Can we reach it by morning?”

  Pug-nose laughed. “In your condition? I doubt you’ll make it at all.”

  “Ye’ll walk all night,” said Horse-face. “But you’ll be there before dawn.”

  Reiner’s companions groaned.

  “Can y’tell us the way?” asked Hals.

  “Aye, we can,” said Pug-nose. . They waited for him to continue, but he didn’t.

  “Will y’tell us the way?” asked Pavel.

  Horse-face shrugged. “Well, friends, that depends on the contents of your purses.”

  Reiner smirked. He had known it would eventually come to this. Fortunately, unlike the cut and thrust of duelling, hard bargaining was a kind of melee he was comfortable engaging in. Here he could lead with confidence.

  “Well, we don’t have much to barter with, do we? For if you don’t like our offer you can just kill us and take what you want. Therefore I must call upon your honour as brothers of the brand to deal squarely with us, and to remind you that cornered rats bite. You will get a fair price for your help if we make a bargain. You will get more than you bargained for if you fight us.”

  Horse-face exchanged a look with his companions, then nodded. “Fair enough. Tell us what you want, and make your offer.”

  In the end, they got away with their lives, but it cost Reiner all Veirt’s gold crowns, one of his pistols, and the sword his father had given him to do it. He hadn’t minded giving away the gold. Gold always came and went. That was its purpose. And if Count Manfred rewarded them as he hoped, they would all soon be knee-deep in gold. The sword however was a painful parting. Certainly he could buy a better sword with Manfred’s gold, but it wouldn’t be his sword, would it?

  In addition to not killing them, the bandits had patched their wounds—though not as expertly as Gustaf would have—given them directions and provided them all with weapons: a lesser sword for Reiner, spears for Pavel and Hals—as well as a crutch—bows for Franka and Giano, and an enormous old blunderbuss for Oskar, but only enough powder or shot for a handful of charges.

  As per the bandits’ directions, they followed the stream down the mountain until it reached a rutted track, took that east until it crossed a main road, and then travelled north and east as fast as their bruised, exhausted bodies would carry them.

  Franka grinned as she walked beside Reiner. “Never have I heard someone lie like that. So fluently, so credibly. Hurrying to kill the man who branded us. Ha!”

  “Well, isn’t it the truth?” asked Reiner. “We may not have the pleasure of killing Albrecht with our own swords, but if we succeed, we will certainly cause his downfall.”

  “But that is not what you implied. You made us out to be the most bloodthirsty of villains, out for terrible vengeance. Never have I known such a master of deceit.”

  Reiner smirked. “Have you glanced in a looking glass lately?”

  Franka punched him and looked around anxiously to see if anyone else had heard.

  They followed the road all night, shambling like sleepwalkers for mile upon endless mile. Soon all conversations ceased. All pretences of vigilance fell by the wayside. Reiner felt in a dream. Sometimes it seemed he walked in place and the world rolled beneath him. Sometimes he seemed to float above himself, watching from the clouds the line of ragged, limping figures as they wound through the dark woods and moonlit wastelands. It grew colder as they marched into the early morning and the warmth of the fire became a distant memory. They huddled in their torn and threadbare jerkins, longing for the heavy cloaks they had been issued at the beginning of this mad journey.

  Long after the moons had set, they reached the turning the bandits had mentioned and began to climb back into the hills. Their pace became even slower. More than once Reiner caught himself just before his knees buckled. He wanted more than anything in the world to curl up and sleep, right in the middle of the road, if need be. His chin sank to his chest at regular intervals, and there were a few times when he opened his eyes and couldn’t be sure when he had closed them.

  At last, just as a faint pink light was touching the snowy peaks of the mountains, they crested a pass and saw in the distance a massive stone castle looming like a vulture over a shadowed valley. The valley opened before Reiner and his companions like a Y, with the castle perched on a high crag at the intersection of the two arms. At the base of the Y, just below where they stood, was a village. No lights shone there, but further up the valley, a cautious distance from the castle, the morning campfires of a great army shone in the darkness.

  “Come on, lads,” said Reiner. “Journey’s end.”

  “One way or the other,” grumbled Hals, but he was too tired to put much feeling into it.

  They marched wearily down the hill to the valley floor. As they reached the village they saw that it had been destroyed. Not a building had its roof, or all four of its walls. Most had been burned to the ground. The yawning holes of the burned-out windows stared at them reproachfully, like betrayed comrades come back from the dead. The silence was utter. Though dawn was breaking, not a bird sang. No wind stirred the blackened, leafless trees. It felt as if the world had died, had uttered its last breath, and lay cold and motionless at their feet.

  As they trudged up the dirt road that ran up the middle of the valley, the camp began to appear over the intervening trees and hedgerows—the white tents in their ordered ranks, the banners of the knights or companies housed within hanging limp above them, Manfred’s banner of a lion in white and gold rising over them all, and to Reiner’s relief, no sign what so ever of the manticore banner.

  Noise returned to the world as they got closer—pots and pans clanked, ropes and harnesses creaked, hooves thudded, grindstones whirred, sleepy soldiers coughed and grumbled. Smells followed the sounds: porridge and bacon, horse, man, leather and canvas, wood smoke and gunpowder. Reiner and his companions inhaled deeply. Though Reiner had enlisted with reluctance, and would have sworn that he’d hated every minute of his time in the army, the sounds and smells of the camp filled him with such homesick joy that there were tears in his eyes.

  He had to swallow a few times before he could speak. “Cover your brands. We don’t want to be thrown in the brig before we see Manfred.”

  At the perimeter of the camp a picket stopped them. “Who goes there!” cried a sentry.

  “Couriers, with news for Count Manfred,” said Reiner, with as much military brusqueness as he could muster.

  The picket stepped out of the shadows, eight men led by a sergeant—a square-shouldered, square-jawed swordsman. He wrinkled his nose and gave Reiner’s company a suspicious once over. “You look more like tinkers. Where is your seal?”

  “We have been set upon, as you can see,” said Reiner. “And have lost almost everything, but we have urgent news of Baron Albrecht’s advance that the count must hear.”

  “I’ll decide that. What’s the news?”

  “It isn’t for your ear
s, damn your eyes!” said Reiner drawing himself up. “Do you think I’d tell a mere sergeant what torture couldn’t get out of me? My name is Captain Reiner Hetzau and I demand to see Count Manfred!”

  The sergeant gave Reiner a dirty look for pulling rank, and turned to one of his men. “Hergig. Take his lordship and his men to see Captain Shaffer. I’ve had enough of him.”

  This comedy was repeated four times in front of various captains, lieutenants and knights—before Reiner and his companions were at last led to the majestic white tent with the gold and white pennons in the centre of the camp.

  “Your men will wait out here,” said the captain of the count’s guard. “And you will hand over your sword and daggers.”

  Reiner did as he was told and the knight ushered him through the canvas flap.

  In the tent, Count Manfred Valdenheim was at his breakfast. He sat at a big table, wolfing down ham and eggs and ale while his generals stood around him, splendid in their brightly polished armour and colourful capes, debating positions and strategies on the map spread out under the count’s plates and cups. Manfred was still in his small clothes and shirt, his hair rumpled from sleep. A soldier’s camp bed heaped with furs sat unmade in one corner, the count’s suit of gold-chased steel armour standing like a sentinel on a rack at its foot.

  The count was much like his younger brother in size and build, a large, barrel-chested man with the general aspect of an all-in wrestler, but where Albrecht’s face had a cruel, shrewd cast, Manfred, with silver touching his temples and streaking his beard, had a kindly, bemused look. He seemed, in fact, almost too gentle to be the leader of a great army. But when the captain who had ushered Reiner into the tent whispered in his ear and he looked up, the ice blue gaze he turned on Reiner showed the steel beneath his fatherly exterior. He wasn’t a wolf in sheep’s clothing, thought Reiner, for he sensed that the count’s easy nature was not a pretence, but rather a sheep who ate wolves for dinner—a man to be wary of, a man it would not be wise to lie to.

  “What news, courier?” he asked briskly.

  Reiner dropped to one knee, as much from exhaustion as deference. “My lord, I have news of your brother which I am afraid you will not want to hear or wish to believe.”

  The generals paused in their muttering and looked up at him.

  Manfred lowered his knife and fork. “Go on, my son.”

  Reiner swallowed. Now that it came time to speak, he was afraid to tell his tale. It seemed so damned implausible. “My lord, a fortnight ago, I and my companions were ordered by your brother to escort the Lady Magda Bandauer, an abbess of Shallya, to a Shallyan convent in the foothills of the Middle Mountains, where she was to open a sealed vault and retrieve from it a battle standard of great power.”

  “Valnir’s Bane,” said Manfred. “I know of it, though the nuns always denied they had it.”

  “And well they might, my lord,” said Reiner. “For it is no longer the mighty weapon for good it once was. The blood of Valnir has soaked into the very fibre of the banner and corrupted it, making it into a thing of great evil. But when we discovered this, Lady Magda was not dissuaded from taking it. Instead she attacked us with its malevolent power and escaped, killing our captain and leaving us to die.”

  Manfred raised an eyebrow.

  Reiner hurried on. “My lord, at the beginning of the journey we were led to believe that your brother hoped to use the banner to aid you in retaking Nordbergbruche, but I believe now that this is not the case.”

  The generals muttered in consternation. Manfred waved them silent.

  “I do not wish to speak ill of your brother,” continued Reiner. “But Lady Magda is an ambitious woman who longs for power, and I believe that under her influence, Albrecht has come to share her ambitions. It is my fear that he marches south under Valnir’s Bane not to help you win back Nordbergbruche, but to take it for his own.”

  “Lies!” cried a voice as the generals erupted in angry babbling. “It’s all lies!”

  Reiner turned with the others.

  Standing in the tent’s opening were Lady Magda, once again the stiff, stern sister of Shallya, and Erich von Eisenberg, resplendent in beautiful blued steel armour, a plumed helmet tucked under his arm. It was he who had spoken.

  SEVENTEEN

  The Banner Has Enslaved Them

  “This man is a traitor and a murderer,” said Lady Magda, pointing at Reiner. “Arrest him immediately.”

  “It is he, not the reverend abbess,” chimed in Erich, “who tried to take the banner for his own. It is he who murdered the valiant Captain Veirt and nearly slew me when I came to Lady Magda’s aid.”

  “My lord,” said Reiner, turning to Manfred. “I beseech you. Do not believe them. They mean you ill…”

  “Enough!” cried Manfred. “All of you.” He turned on Erich and Lady Magda. “What is this intrusion? What is your business here?”

  Erich saluted. “My lord, we come from your brother. He bids you a good morning and wishes to inform you that he is an hour away with a force of two thousand men. They are well rested and will be at your disposal upon their arrival.”

  The generals met these words with glad cries, but Manfred looked from Erich to Reiner and back with a scowl of uncertainty upon his brow. “Until a moment ago I would have welcomed this news, for two thousand men will almost double our army, but now…”

  “My lord,” said Erich, “you mustn’t believe him. This man is a traitor, a convicted sorcerer, charged with a hundred murders by witchcraft.”

  “That isn’t true, my lord,” countered Reiner. “Your brother himself acknowledged that the charges against me were false.”

  “If that is so,” said Erich, “then ask him to remove his left glove and explain the brand he wears there.”

  “You wear the hammer brand?” asked Manfred.

  Reiner pulled off his glove and raised his hand for Manfred to see. “We all do,” he said. “Baron Albrecht chose all the men for the mission in secret from the brig at Smallhof—more proof that his intentions were less than above board. He branded us all to make it more difficult for us to desert. Master von Eisenberg wears it as well.”

  Erich smiled. “He convicts himself out of his own mouth, my lord.” He drew off his mailed gauntlet and held up his hand. “I have no brand, as you can see.”

  Reiner stared. The back of Erich’s hand was smooth and unblemished. The scar was gone. Reiner thought he saw a cruel smirk flash across Lady Magda’s haughty face.

  “My lord,” Reiner cried. “It was part of the bargain! Baron Albrecht promised us that he would have a sage of the Order of Light remove the brands when we returned with Lady Magda and the banner! Von Eisenberg is as much a criminal as any of us. He was to be hanged for murdering a child.”

  “He piles lie upon lie, my lord,” said Erich. “He knows not when to stop.”

  “Nor do you, sir,” said Manfred, hotly. “Now be silent both of you and let me think.”

  Reiner closed his mouth on further protests and watched as Manfred eyed them both appraisingly Reiner groaned. Though he hoped against hope, he knew he had lost. Erich’s last thrust had struck home, and even if it hadn’t, he looked the hero of the piece, with his shining armour and handsome face, his golden beard and noble bearing, he was every inch a champion of the Empire. While Reiner, though he was loath to admit it, looked like a villain, with his half-starved, unshaven face, his unwashed black hair and gambler’s moustache, his filthy, shredded clothes, his ancient, rusty sword. Even freshly scrubbed and impeccably dressed he had always looked a bit of a rogue. In his present condition, he looked the worst sort of guttersnipe, an alley-basher and ne’er-do-well.

  A knight burst through the tent flap. “My lords! The Chaos troops are moving! They form up in front of the castle!”

  “What?” cried a general. “They leave the protection of the castle? Are they mad?”

  “Mad indeed,” said Manfred, standing and wiping his mouth. “They are warptouched. But there
is method here.” He crossed to his armour, snapping his fingers for his valets to begin dressing him. “If their look outs have told them of Albrecht’s approach then they may mean to destroy us before we double our strength.” He looked at his generals. “Call your men to arms. I will have all units in position within a half hour.”

  The generals saluted and filed out of the tent.

  The knight who had brought Reiner in stepped forward. “My lord, what would you have me do with this one?”

  Manfred glanced up at Reiner as if he had already forgotten who he was. He waved a hand. “Hold him and his companions until the battle is over. I will decide what to do with them later.” He turned to Erich and Lady Magda. “Return to my brother. Tell him to advance with all possible speed.”

  Erich saluted. “At once, my lord.”

  As he and Lady Magda turned to leave, Erich caught Reiner’s eye. He curled his lip in a triumphant sneer. Reiner tried to give him a rude gesture in response, but the knight grabbed his arm in a crushing grip and marched him out before he could get his fingers up.

  There was no brig in the camp, so after they had been fed and their wounds seen to by a hurried field surgeon, they were placed under guard in a dry-goods tent behind the camp kitchen. They could see nothing but the sacks of flour they sat on and the jars of cooking oil and lard and the dried peas and lentils that were stacked around them, but through the thin canvas they could hear the cries and horn blasts of captains calling their companies to order, the thudding thunder of cavalry galloping by, the trot of infantry quick-marching into position to the sharp tattoo of regimental drums.

  Pavel and Hals fidgeted at the sounds like the old warhorses they were, turning at every new sound, longing to be part of the action. Oskar sat huddled in a corner, shivering. He had asked Reiner twenty times for a sip from Gustaf’s bottle, forgetting each time that Reiner had lost it in the tunnels. In another corner Giano cursed and muttered to himself in his native tongue.