by Nathan Long
‘Is that why you’re here?’ asked Reiner, for he liked the look of the pair—sturdy sons of toil with an alert air—and wanted to know more about them. ‘Did your mouths dig a hole your fists couldn’t fill?’
‘No, my lord,’ said the thin pikeman. ‘Entirely innocent we are. Victims of circumstance. Our captain…’
‘Blundering half-wit who couldn’t fall out of bed without a map,’ interjected Hals.
‘Our captain,’ repeated his friend, ‘was found with a pair of pikes stuck in his back, and somehow the brass came to blame us for it. But as the coward was running from a charge at the time, we reckon it was Kurgan done for him.’
Hals laughed darkly. ‘Aye. The Kurgan.’
There was a giggle from the shadows near the door. A fellow with white teeth and a curling black moustache grinned at them. ‘Is no need to make stories, boys,’ he said in a Tilean accent. ‘We all in boats the same, hey?’
‘What do you know about it, garlic-eater?’ growled Hals. ‘I suppose you’re as pure as snow. What are you in for?’
‘A mis-standing-under,’ said the Tilean. ‘I sell some guns I find to some Kossar boys. How I know the Empire so stingy? How I know they don’t share with allies?’
‘The Empire has no allies, you thieving mercenary,’ said a knight who sat near the door. ‘Only grateful neighbours who flock to it in times of need like sheep to the shepherd.’
Reiner eyed the man warily. He was the only other man of noble blood in the brig, but Reiner felt no kinship for him. He was tall and powerfully built, with a fierce blond beard and piercing blue eyes, a hero of the Empire from head to toe. Reiner was certain the fellow saluted in his sleep.
‘You seem awfully keen for a man whose Empire has locked him up,’ he said dryly.
‘A mistake, certain to be rectified,’ said the knight. ‘I killed a man in an affair of honour. There’s no crime in that.’
‘Somebody must have thought so.’
The knight waved a dismissive hand. ‘They said he was a boy.’
‘And how did he run afoul of you?’
‘We were tent-pegging. The fool blundered across my line and cost me a win.’
‘A killing offence indeed,’ said Reiner.
‘Do you mock me, sir?’
‘Not at all, my lord. I wouldn’t dare.’
Reiner looked beyond the knight to a beardless archer, a dark-haired boy more pretty than handsome. ‘And you, lad. How comes one so young to such dire straits?’
‘Aye,’ said Hals. ‘Did y’bite yer nursie’s tit?’
The boy looked up, eyes flashing. ‘I killed a man! My tent mate. He…’ The boy swallowed. ‘He tried to put his hands on me. And I’ll do for any of you as I did for him, if you try the like.’
Hals barked a laugh. ‘Lovers’ tiff was it?’
The boy leapt to his feet. ‘You’ll take that back.’
Reiner sighed. Another hothead. Too bad. He liked the boy’s spirit. A sparrow undaunted in an eyrie of hawks.
‘Peace, lad,’ said the thin pikeman. “Twas only a jest. You leave him be, Hals.’
A tall, thin figure stood up from the wall, a nervous looking artilleryman with a trim beard and wild eyes. ‘I ran from my gun. Fire fell from the sky. Fire that moved like a man. It reached for me. I…’ He shivered and hung his head, then sat back down abruptly.
For a moment no one spoke, or met anyone else’s eye. He’s honest, at least, thought Reiner, poor fellow.
There was one last man in the room, who had not spoken or seemed to take any interest in the conversation: a plump, tidy fellow dressed in the white canvas jerkin of a field surgeon. He sat with his face to the wall.
‘And you, bone-cutter,’ Reiner called to him. ‘What’s your folly?’
The others looked at the man, relieved to turn to a new subject after the artilleryman’s embarrassing admission.
The surgeon didn’t raise his head or look around. ‘Never you mind what ain’t your business.’
‘Oh, come sir,’ said Reiner. ‘We’re all dead men here. No one will betray your secrets.’
But the man said nothing, only hunched his shoulders further and continued to stare at the wall.
Reiner shrugged and leaned back, looking over his cellmates again, contemplating his choices. Not the knight: too hotheaded. Nor the engineer: too moody. The pikemen perhaps, though they were a right pair of villains.
The sound of footsteps outside the cell door interrupted his thoughts. Everyone looked up. A key turned in the lock, the door squealed open, and two guards entered followed by a sergeant. ‘On your feet, scum,’ he said.
‘Taking us to our last meal?’ asked Hals.
‘Yer last meal’ll be my boot if y’don’t move. Now file out.’
The prisoners shuffled out of the cell. Two more guards waited outside. They led the way with the sergeant into the chilly evening, and across the muddy grounds of the castle in which the garrison was housed.
Thick flakes of wet snow were falling. The hackles rose on Reiner’s neck as he passed the gallows in the centre of the courtyard.
They entered the castle keep through a small door, and after descending many a twisting stair, were ordered into a low-ceilinged chamber that smelled of wood smoke and hot iron. Reiner swallowed nervously as he looked around. Manacles and cages lined the walls, as well as instruments of torture—racks, gridirons, metal boots. In a corner, a man in a leather apron tended brands that glowed in beds of hot coals.
‘Eyes front!’ bawled the sergeant. ‘Dress ranks! Attention!’
The prisoners came to attention in the centre of the room with varying degrees of alacrity, and then stood rigid for what seemed like an hour while the sergeant glared at them. At last, just as Reiner felt his knees couldn’t take it any longer, a door opened behind them.
‘Eyes front, curse you!’ shouted the sergeant. He snapped to attention himself as two men stepped into Reiner’s line of vision.
The first man Reiner didn’t know: a scarred old soldier with iron grey hair and a hitch in his walk. His face was grim and heavily lined, with eyes like slits hidden under shaggy brows. He wore the black-slashed-with-red doublet and breeks of an Ostland captain of pike.
The second man Reiner had once or twice seen at a distance—Baron Albrecht Valdenheim, younger brother to Count Manfred Valdenheim of Nordbergbruche, and second-in-command of his army. He was tall and barrel-chested, with a powerful frame running a little to fat, and he had a lantern jaw. His reputation for ruthlessness showed in his face, which was as cold and closed as an iron door. He wore dark blue velvet under a fur coat that swept the floor.
The sergeant saluted. ‘The prisoners, my lord.’
Albrecht nodded absently, his ice-blue eyes surveying them from under a fringe of short, dark hair.
‘Ulf Urquart, my lord,’ said the sergeant as Albrecht and the scarred captain stopped in front of the brooding giant. ‘Engineer. Charged with the murder of a fellow sapper. Killed him with a maul.’
They moved to Hals and his skinny friend. ‘Hals Kiir and Pavel Voss. Pikemen. Murdered their captain while in battle.’
‘We didn’t, though,’ said Hals.
‘Silence, scum!’ shouted the sergeant and backhanded him with a gloved hand.
‘That’s all right, sergeant,’ said Albrecht. ‘Who’s this?’ He indicated the pretty youth.
‘Franz Shoentag, archer. Killed his tentmate, claims self-defence.’
Albrecht and the captain grunted and moved on to the angular artilleryman.
‘Oskar Lichtmar, cannon. Cowardice in front of the enemy. He left his gun.’
The grizzled captain pursed his lips. Albrecht shrugged and stepped to the blond knight, who stared straight ahead, perfectly at attention.
‘Erich von Eisenberg, Novitiate Knight in the Order of the Sceptre,’ said the sergeant. ‘Killed Viscount Olin Marburg in a duel.’
Albrecht raised an eyebrow. ‘A capital offence?’
&
nbsp; ‘The viscount had only fifteen summers.’
‘Ah.’
They next came to the Tilean.
‘Giano Ostini,’ said the brig captain. ‘Mercenary crossbowman. Stole Empire handguns and sold ‘em to foreigners.’
Albrecht nodded and stepped to the plump man who had refused to name his crime. The sergeant eyed him with distaste. ‘Gustaf Schlecht, surgeon. Charged with doing violence to a person bringing provisions to the forces.’
Albrecht looked up. ‘Not familiar with that one.’
The sergeant looked uneasy. ‘He, er, molested and killed the daughter of the farmer his unit was billeted with.’
‘Charming.’
The men stepped in front of Reiner. Albrecht and the captain of pike looked him up and down coolly. The sergeant glared at him. ‘Reiner Hetzau, pistolier. The worst of the lot. A sorcerer who murdered a holy woman and summoned foul creatures to attack his camp. Don’t know as I recommend him, my lord. The others are wicked men, but this one, he’s the enemy.’
‘Nonsense,’ said the captain of pike, speaking for the first time. He had a voice like gravel under iron wheels. ‘He ain’t Chaos. I’d smell it.’
‘Of course he isn’t,’ agreed Albrecht.
Reiner’s jaw dropped. He was stunned. ‘But… but then, my lord, surely the charges against me must be false. If you know I am no sorcerer, then it is impossible that I summoned those creatures, and…’
The sergeant kicked him in the stomach. ‘Silence! You horrible man!’
Reiner bent double, retching and clutching his belly.
‘I read your account, sir,’ said Albrecht, as if nothing had happened. ‘And I believe it.’
‘Then… you’ll let me go?’
‘I think not. For it proves that you are something infinitely more dangerous than a sorcerer. You are a greedy fool who would allow the land of his birth to burn if he thought he could make a gold crown from it.’
‘My lord, I beseech you. I may have made a few lapses in judgement, but if you know I am innocent…’
Albrecht sniffed and turned away from him. ‘Well, captain?’ he asked.
The old captain curled his lip. ‘I wouldn’t pay a penny for the lot of them.’
‘I’m afraid they’re all we have at the moment.’
‘Then I’ll have to make do, won’t I?’
‘Indeed.’ Albrecht turned to the sergeant. ‘Sergeant, prepare them.’
‘Aye sir.’ The man signalled the guards. ‘Into the cell with them. All but Orc-heart here.’
‘I am not an orc!’ said Ulf as two guards stuffed Reiner and the rest into a tiny steel cage on the left wall. The other two led Ulf to the far side of the room where the man in the leather apron stirred his coals. The guards kicked Ulfs legs until he kneeled, then flattened his hand on a wooden tabletop.
‘What are you doing?’ asked the big man uneasily.
One of the guards put a spear to his neck. ‘Just hold still.’
The man in the apron picked a brand out of the fire. The glowing tip was in the shape of a hammer.
Ulfs eyes went wide. ‘No! You can’t! This isn’t right!’ He struggled. The other guards hurried over and held him down.
The guard with the spear pricked his skin. ‘Easy now.’
The torturer pressed the brand into the flesh of Ulf’s hand. It sizzled. Ulf screamed and slumped in a dead faint.
Reiner swallowed queasily as he smelled the unpleasantly pleasant odour of cooking meat.
‘Right,’ said the sergeant. ‘Next.’
Reiner suppressed a shudder. Next to him, Oskar, the artilleryman, was weeping like a child.
REINER WOKE WITH a sensation of cold on his cheek and searing agony on the back of his hand. He opened his eyes and found that he was lying on the flagstones of the torture chamber. Apparently he too had passed out when they had branded him.
Someone kicked his legs. The sergeant. ‘On your feet, sorcerer.’
It was hard to understand the order. His mind was far away—detached from his body like a kite at the end of a string. The world seemed to revolve around him behind a wall of thick glass. He tried to stand—thought he had, in fact—but when he focused again, he found he was still on the floor, the pain in his hand rolling up his arm in waves like heavy surf.
‘Stand at attention, curse you!’ roared the sergeant, and kicked him again.
This time he managed it, though not without mishap, and joined the others who formed a ragged line before Albrecht and the captain. Each prisoner had an ugly, blistering, hammer-shaped burn on his hand. Reiner resisted the urge to look at his. He didn’t want to see it.
‘Sergeant,’ Albrecht barked. ‘Give the surgeon fellow some bandages and have him dress those wounds.’
The torturer in the leather apron produced some unguents and dressings which he gave to Schlecht. The plump surgeon salved and bound first his own burn, then started on the others.
‘Now then,’ said Albrecht, as Schlecht worked. ‘Now that we have you leashed, we can proceed.’
Reiner snarled under his breath. They had leashed him indeed. They had scarred him for life. The hammer brand told all who saw it that the man who wore it was a deserter and could be killed on sight.
‘I am here to offer you something you did not have an hour ago,’ said Albrecht. ‘A choice. You can serve your Emperor on a mission of great importance, or you can be hanged from the gallows this very evening and go to the fate that awaits you.’
Reiner cursed. Hanged this evening? He was to escape at midnight. Now the fiends had stolen even that from him.
‘The chances of surviving the mission are slim, I warrant you,’ continued Albrecht. ‘But the rewards will be great. You will receive a full pardon for your crimes and be given your weight in gold crowns.’
‘What good is all that when you also gave us this?’ growled Hals, holding up the back of his ruined hand.
‘The Emperor values your service in this matter so highly that he will command a sage of the Order of Light to remove the brands when you return successful.’
This sounded too good to be true, thought Reiner. The sort of thing he himself would say if he was trying to con a mark into some foolish course of action.
‘What’s the job?’ asked Pavel, sullen.
Albrecht smirked. ‘You mean to haggle? You will learn the nature of the mission once you have volunteered for it. Now, sirs, give me your answers.’
There was much hesitation, but one by one the others voiced or nodded their assent. Reiner damned Albrecht under his breath. A choice, he called it. What choice was there? Wearing the hammer brand, Reiner could never again travel easily within the Empire. It was early spring now. He might still wear gloves for a while, but come summer he would stick out like a sheep in a wolf pack. Never would he be able to go back to his beloved Altdorf, to the card rooms and cafes, the theatres and dog pits and brothels that he thought of as home. Even if he could somehow escape the brig, he would have to leave the Empire for foreign lands and never come back. And now that Albrecht had moved his execution to this evening instead of tomorrow at dawn, and thus foiling his only plan, even that unappetising option was closed to him.
Only by accepting the mission did he gain any chance of escape. Somewhere along the road he could perhaps slip away: west to Marienburg, or south to Tilea or the Border Princes or some other foul hole. Or perhaps the mission wouldn’t be as dangerous as Albrecht made out. Perhaps he would see it through to the finish and take his reward—if Albrecht truly meant to give him one.
All that was certain was that if he declined the mission, he would die tonight, and there would be no more perhapses.
‘Aye,’ he said at last. ‘Aye, my lord. I’m your man.’
TWO
A Task Simple In The Telling
‘VERY GOOD.’ SAID Albrecht, when all the prisoners had volunteered. ‘Now you shall hear your mission.’ He indicated the grizzled veteran at his side. ‘Under the command of Cap
tain Veirt here, you shall escort Lady Magda Bandauer, an abbess of Shallya, to a Shallyan convent in the foothills of the Middle Mountains. A holy relic lies there in a hidden crypt. Lady Magda shall open the crypt, then you will escort her and the relic back here to me with all possible speed. Time is of the essence.’ He smiled. ‘It is a task simple in the telling, but I have no need to remind soldiers of the Empire, no matter how debased, that the lands ‘twixt here and the mountains are not yet entirely reclaimed, and that the mountains have become the refuge of Chaos marauders—Kurgan, Norse and worse things. We have word that the convent was recently pillaged by Kurgan. They may still be in the area. You will be sorely pressed, but for those who survive, and return the relic and the abbess to me, the Empire’s munificence will know no bounds.’
Reiner heard little of Albrecht’s speech. He had stopped listening after ‘abbess of Shallya.’ Another sister of Shallya? He had barely survived his last encounter with one such. Granted, that one had been a sorceress in disguise, but once bitten twice shy, as he always said. He wanted no more to do with that order. They weren’t to be trusted.
Erich, the blond knight, seemed to have some objections to the plan as well. ‘Do you mean to tell me,’ he burst out indignantly, ‘that we are to be led by this… this foot soldier? I am a Knight of the Sceptre. My horse and armour cost more than he has made in his whole career.’
‘Bloody jagger,’ muttered Hals. ‘My spear’s killed more northers than his horse and armour ever will.’
‘Captain Veirt also outranks you,’ said Albrecht. ‘He has thirty years of battles under his belt, while you are, what? Vexillary? Bugle? Have you even blooded your lance yet?’
‘I am a nobleman. I cannot take orders from a common peasant. My father is Frederich von Eisenberg, Baron of…’
‘I know your father, boy,’ said Albrecht. ‘Would you like me to tell him how many young knights you have slain and maimed in “affairs of honour?” You deprive the Empire of good men and call it sport.’