Tauber nodded to Felix. “This is the real reason von Geldrecht had me locked up, mein herr, and why you could not convince him to let me go. He had me visit the grafin every day, telling the poor lunatic that the graf’s condition was worsening, and that he must get away swiftly to Altdorf with all the gold.” He shook his head. “The ruse still failed when last we tried it, but it seems he finally got her to do it—or perhaps he decided he couldn’t wait any longer, and fled without the gold. Either way, he is gone. And now,” he said, standing with a groan, “I must be getting back to my patients. Good day to you, gentlemen.”
He inclined his head to them all, then turned and limped to the next cot in the row.
The men looked around at each other, stunned.
“It must be lies,” said Bosendorfer. “It must be.”
“And if it isn’t?” asked the handgunner. “If the steward’s fled and Graf Reiklander is dead, is there any reason to stay here? Let’s find this secret passage and go meet the relief column.”
“Aye!” said the young spearman. “Now that is a plan.”
Von Volgen glared at them both. “The reason for staying is the same as it ever was. We stay to slow Kemmler’s hordes and allow a force to be assembled against him. No one will be taking that passage.”
Gotrek grunted his approval, as did Classen.
“I nominate Lord von Volgen as commander,” he said.
“Talabeclander or no, he is the wisest and most experienced of us.”
“Seconded,” said the artilleryman.
Classen looked around at the rest of them. The spearman and handgunner nodded, but Bosendorfer looked truculent.
“We must see if Graf Reiklander is truly dead first,” he said. “I’ll not give over command of the castle if our lord still lives.”
Von Volgen nodded. “On this I agree,” he said. “Let us go to the graf’s apartments and discover the truth of the surgeon’s story.”
Felix, Gotrek and the officers rose stiffly while Sergeant Leffler came forwards to help Bosendorfer to his feet, then tucked his shoulder under his arm. As they all followed von Volgen towards the door, Kat left Snorri snoring and joined them.
“What happened?” Kat whispered.
“Von Geldrecht has fled,” said Felix, “and we go to see if the graf still lives.”
“He fled?” she asked, surprised.
“Aye,” said Felix. “He had been waiting all this time while he tried to get some gold out of the grafin. We don’t know if he got it, or gave up, but he is gone.”
They stepped from the Reiksguard’s residence and blinked in the dreary light of an overcast afternoon. On the walls, the few remaining spearmen and handgunners shuffled through their patrols, while a mixed force of Reikland and Talabecland knights piled stones and barrels and whatever else they could find against the main gates to block them. Felix shivered. It would be night again soon, and the end would come at last.
A few moments later, after they had climbed to the middle floor of the keep, von Volgen knocked on the oak doors of the graf’s quarters.
“My lord!” he called. “Grafin Avelein, are you there?”
There was no answer. Felix and Kat and the others looked around at each other as they waited. Gotrek only stared at the door, arms folded across his massive chest.
Von Volgen knocked again. “Grafin Avelein, if you do not open the door, we will be forced to break it in for fear of your safety.”
There was still no answer. Von Volgen sighed and drew his sword, but Gotrek pulled his axe from his back.
“Let me,” he said.
Von Volgen stepped aside, and Gotrek smashed the lock plate, then kicked in the double doors.
A gust of hot cloying air boiled out of the dark room, and everyone choked and covered their noses. Felix’s eyes teared up. It smelled strongly of cinnamon and cloves and Estalian incense, but underneath all the spice was another, more worrying smell.
Felix and Kat followed Gotrek, von Volgen and the others into the dim interior. There were no lamps lit. The only light came from cracks between the drawn curtains, and was barely enough to see by.
“My lady Avelein?” called von Volgen, as he crossed the entry hall. “Are you here?”
A sobbing came from somewhere further inside the apartments. Von Volgen started towards it and the rest followed, edging uneasily through an arched doorway into a larger room. The incense was stronger here, as was the second, underlying stench, which Felix could no longer deny was the reek of rotting flesh. Von Volgen crossed to a window and threw back the drapes, letting the light of the overcast afternoon illuminate a strange sad scene.
The room was a grand and richly furnished bedchamber, with panelled walls and a massive canopied bed in the centre, and slumped beside the bed, head down, was Grafin Avelein Reiklander, her vermillion dresses spreading across the Araby rugs like a pool of velvet blood. Her right hand was stretched out to hold the shrivelled claw of a corpse that lay propped up amidst tasselled pillows upon the bed—and there was no doubt it was a corpse. The face was sunken and gaunt, its lips pulled back from its teeth and its eyes withered in hollowed sockets. A wound on its neck had been sewn shut, but the edges had pulled away from the stitches, revealing dry, black meat within. There were flies everywhere.
Bosendorfer stared, pole-axed. “He was telling the truth,” he mumbled. “Tauber was telling the truth.”
He let go of Leffler’s shoulder and sank, still staring, into a chair. Felix didn’t wonder at his reaction. The greatsword had erected his tower of rage against Tauber upon the belief that he was a villain and liar in all things, but here was proof that the story the surgeon had told of Graf Reiklander was true, and if that much was true…
Von Volgen stepped to the grafin and hovered above her, uncomfortable. “Lady—”
She flinched at his voice, but did not otherwise move. “Go away,” she sobbed. “Leave us alone!”
“Lady,” he said again. “I apologise for intruding upon your grief, but with your steward apparently fled, we had to learn if Graf Reiklander was dead so that—”
“He is not dead!” she shrieked, raising her head to glare at him with red-rimmed eyes. “He is only sick! Very sick!” She had a purpling bruise under one eye.
Von Volgen looked back at the others, his square, bulldog face a mask of discomfort, but no one else seemed inclined to speak up. He clenched his jaw, then turned back to her.
“Grafin,” he said, “I understand von Geldrecht and the surgeon, Tauber, told you that your husband lived, but… but they lied. He is dead, lady. I am sorry.”
Avelein stood, eyes blazing, and slapped him hard across the face. “He is not dead!” she cried. “I have been promised! He will rise from his bed! He will return to me!”
“Who promised you this?” asked von Volgen. “Von Geldrecht? Has he—”
Avelein turned away from him. “Von Geldrecht betrayed me!” she snapped. “I knew I shouldn’t have trusted him! I knew the old man was telling the truth.”
“Von Geldrecht betrayed you?” asked Classen. “How?”
Avelein put her hand to her bruised cheek and closed her eyes. “He said the necromancer’s hordes would overrun the castle before the old man could revive my lord, and he promised to take us away and use my lord’s gold to heal him in Altdorf, but…” She gestured to the wall. “But when I opened the secret chamber, he—he struck me and stole it all.”
Sobs overcame her again and von Volgen stepped forwards to comfort her, putting awkward hands on her shoulders.
“I am sorry, lady,” he said. “His deceptions have hurt us all.”
Felix glanced towards where Avelein had gestured. A panel on the far wall was not quite flush. He crossed to it with Gotrek and Kat as the grafin continued to weep.
“I should never have listened,” she said. “I knew he was lying. But he told me the outer walls had fallen.”
Felix pulled on the panel. It was heavier than he expected, and as it swung
out he saw it was affixed to a door of stone a foot thick. Inside was a small closet with jewellery and jewelled weapons on shelves, and in the middle, an iron-bound chest, its lid thrown back and entirely empty.
“I only I hope I haven’t offended the old man by losing faith in him,” continued the grafin as Felix blinked at the empty chest. “I only hope he still comes, now that I have opened the door for him.”
Von Volgen and the others froze at these words, and Felix, Kat and Gotrek looked around. Opened the door? What door? Suddenly the grafin’s fancy of the old man sounded more concrete, and more threatening. The image of Kemmler in his guise as Hans the Hermit flashed through Felix’s mind. If the necromancer could wear one guise, he could undoubtedly wear another. Had he been appearing to the impressionable grafin in her dreams?
“My lord,” said Felix, starting back towards the bed with Gotrek and Kat. “My lord, I fear I may know—”
Von Volgen waved him down and leaned towards the grafin, forcing a smile. “Forgive me, Grafin, but I was not listening closely before. Please tell me more of this old man, and the door you have—”
He broke off as footsteps clattered in the corridor. Everyone turned, hands falling to their weapons, but it was no undead host striding in, but Captain Draeger and his militiamen, with a few of the castle’s spearmen and handgunners skulking at the back—more than twenty men in all. Only Bosendorfer did not look up at their entrance, just continued to slump in his chair, staring at nothing.
Von Volgen glared at Draeger. “What is this, captain?”
“Aye,” said Classen. “You scum aren’t allowed in here!”
Draeger snorted. “Way I see it, everything’s allowed now. It’s every man for himself.” He jerked his thumb at his chest. “And this man wants to leave, so where’s this escape tunnel, then?”
Felix groaned. Apparently their discussion about von Geldrecht had been overheard.
Von Volgen’s face grew hard and cold. “There is no escape tunnel. No one will leave this castle. We will fight to the end or until we are relieved.”
“Very brave of you, m’lord,” said Draeger. “But I think I like the steward’s way better. Now—”
One of his lieutenants grabbed his arm and pointed towards the hidden closet, the door of which was still ajar. “Captain!” he cried. “The passage!”
Draeger’s eyes lit up and he started towards it. “Good eye, Mucker. This way, lads!”
“That is not the passage!” barked von Volgen. “Get away from there!”
He and Classen tried to block the way, but the militiamen swarmed past them, laughing and jeering, and Draeger hauled open the door to the closet. The laughing stopped as they looked in. Draeger cursed, and his men grumbled.
“You see, fool,” said von Volgen, pushing to him. “Only a closet. Now get back to your posts.”
Draeger ignored him and turned, laughing, to his men. “No tears, lads,” he said. “It ain’t a way out, but I do see our back-pay, eh?” He reached into the closet, grinning. “Look at all them sparklers.”
Von Volgen grabbed Draeger and threw him back into his men, then stepped in front of the panel. “Back to your posts.”
Gotrek, Felix, Kat and the young officers joined him and blocked the closet. Only Bosendorfer and Sergeant Leffler remained where they were, the captain still and unseeing in his chair and Leffler kneeling beside him.
Draeger snarled and drew his sword as his men went on guard. The officers reached for their weapons and Gotrek raised his fists, but von Volgen held up a hand.
“No blades, gentlemen,” he said. “These men must be fighting fit when we are done here.”
“Oh, we will be,” said Draeger. “Killing unarmed men is easy.”
A horrendous crash boomed overhead, jarring both sides from their fighting stances, and everyone looked up at the ceiling. Heavy mailed footsteps clanked across it—dozens of them.
“What is that?” asked Classen.
Grafin Avelein rose from her husband’s death bed and lifted her hands to the ceiling as if in welcome. “He has come,” she said. “The old man has come through the door.”
TWENTY
Before anyone could stop her, the grafin ran out of the bedchamber, calling joyously. “Old man! Thank Sigmar you’ve come! My husband awaits you!”
“Grafin! Stop!” barked von Volgen, and hurried after her.
Gotrek was right behind him, pulling his axe from his back, and Felix, Kat and Classen swiftly followed. The other young officers fell in behind them, the handgunner and artilleryman drawing their backswords, and the spearman brandishing his spear with trembling hands. Draeger, however, stayed where he was, staring at the ceiling with wide eyes while his men huddled around him. In his chair, Bosendorfer continued to stare at nothing as Sergeant Leffler whispered urgently in his ear.
“The escape tunnel,” murmured Classen as they trooped into the entry hall. “The madwoman has let them through Karl Franz’s escape tunnel.”
As Gotrek and von Volgen strode for the broken doors, a rank wind blew in at them, carrying with it a graveyard stench that overpowered the room’s incense and made Kat and Felix choke and retch. “Old man!” came Avelein’s voice from the corridor. “Old man, this way—”
Then suddenly her glad cries became a wail of abject terror, which was immediately eclipsed by a high, crazed laugh. Felix groaned as he heard it, all his fears confirmed. But as he and the others followed Gotrek and von Volgen into the corridor, it wasn’t Hans the Hermit that was waiting for them, but a figure infinitely more terrifying.
Grafin Avelein lay shrieking at the base of the flight of stairs that led up to Karl Franz’s private apartments as more than two dozen enormous, barbarically armoured wights clanked down towards her in a verdigrised tide, and a sinister figure on the landing above laughed like a jackal.
The figure looked nothing like the old hermit who had led them from Brasthof to the Barren Hills. His grin was not toothless, his shoulders were not hunched, nor were his robes and beard black with filth. Instead a tall, cadaverous sorcerer in a peaked hat and long grey robes grinned down at them, a gnarled, skull-topped staff clutched in one taloned hand. Gone was Hans the Hermit’s sagging scabrous flesh. Gone were his weak, watery eyes. In their place was skin like scarred leather stretched over bones as sharp as blades, and eyes like black pits of hate, five hundred years deep. Only his voice was the same.
“Greetings, my masters!” he said. “Are you not pleased to see old Hans again? Do you not like the bits of bone and bronze I found in those old tombs?”
Half the armoured wights trampled over Grafin Avelein and continued down the stairs to the ground floor, but the other half charged straight for Gotrek and the others, green-fired eye sockets blazing. Gotrek roared a wordless challenge and sprang to meet them, and his first axe swing sheared through the armour and bones of the leader like they were so much cheese and chalk. His second cut the legs out from under two more.
The Slayer couldn’t fight them all, however, and too many surged past him for von Volgen, Felix, Kat and the officers. Felix and Kat fell back instantly, the axe blows of the wights as heavy as a house falling, and the others were in trouble too. The young spearman was backing away, the head of his spear sheared off, and the handgunner and artilleryman were retreating with him, their backswords no match for the corroded axes. Von Volgen and Classen fought shoulder to shoulder, but staggered with every impact. Even Gotrek was having difficulty holding his ground, and his breath was again coming ragged and raw.
Felix glared back towards Reiklander’s apartments as he ducked a vicious swipe. “Draeger! Get out here! Fight for once in your miserable life!”
But it wasn’t Draeger and his militiamen who charged out of the door, but Bosendorfer, arm in arm with Sergeant Leffler, and lurching like they were in a three-legged race. Both had their side weapons out—a long sword for Bosendorfer and a mace for Leffler—and they threw themselves into the fray like men possessed. The sergeant s
hattered the skull of the wight that threatened the handgunner, and Bosendorfer knocked back another with a wild strike, then fell and dragged Leffler down as his bad leg buckled under him.
Cursing, Felix and Kat kicked back a wight and hauled the greatsword to his feet.
“Fall back, captain,” said Felix. “You can’t fight on one leg!”
“I tried to tell him, mein herr,” said Leffler, getting under Bosendorfer’s arm again.
“No, I must!” cried the greatsword, lunging forwards again. “I must do the work of the men I killed.”
Felix and Kat fought forwards with them, protecting their flanks as wights came in from all sides. Felix had a lump in his throat. Confronted at last with Tauber’s innocence, Bosendorfer had finally realised what he had done by keeping the surgeon from his work, and had decided he must die for it.
Nor was Bosendorfer the only one with regrets. At the same time as he flailed at the wights in suicidal fury, Grafin Avelein stood and shouted at Kemmler, tears streaming down her bruised cheeks.
“You promised me!” she cried. “You promised me my husband would rise from his bed. You promised me he would take me in his arms again!”
“And so he shall, dearest heart,” said Kemmler. “Indeed he comes to you even now. Look!”
Avelein turned towards the apartments and wailed, bringing everyone’s heads around. Staggering stiffly through the desperate melee came Graf Reiklander, a stained night shirt hanging loose about his shrunken limbs.
Felix and Kat stared at the graf as Classen and the younger officers fell back in superstitious horror, but Gotrek and von Volgen knew no fear and swung for his neck as he passed.
The wights blocked their strikes and crowded them back, allowing the graf to shamble on, and Avelein flew to him, weeping. “Grafin!” called Felix. “Beware!”
“Oh, Falken,” she sobbed, throwing herself into his arms. “I knew you weren’t dead. I knew it!” Graf Reiklander tore her throat out with his teeth. As she slumped in his bony arms, artery spurting, Gotrek at last broke through the wights, but he didn’t attack the zombie graf. Instead, with a roar of fury, he charged straight up the stairs for Kemmler, the rune on his axe flaring bright.
[Gotrek & Felix 12] - Zombieslayer Page 27