04 - Grimblades

by Nick Kyme - (ebook by Undead)

  “Too clean, too obvious,” Brand replied without even catching his sergeant’s look. “If you wanted to confess, why stab yourself in the neck and then use your own blood to write it?”

  “Guilt can do strange things to a man,” suggested Lenkmann. His hollow voice reminded them all of poor Keller.

  Brand shook his head. “Doesn’t feel like something Masbrecht would do. He’d go to Vogen, the prince even, confess and then await judgement. He wouldn’t kill himself.”

  “How can you be sure?” asked Greiss.

  Brand turned and held the recruit’s gaze. “I just know.”

  “So he was murdered,” said Greiss, “and in his dying moments, unburdened his soul to Sigmar. Sounds like the actions of a devout man.”

  No one spoke for a few moments as reality sank in.

  Masbrecht was dead. Someone had murdered him.

  “We can do nothing about the confession,” said Karlich at last. “That horse has bolted. Ledner may have us all hanged on account of it. We’ll tackle that in turn.” He turned to Volker. “Any sign of Rechts?”

  It was the first time anyone had mentioned the drummer’s name, but long after they’d all been thinking it.

  “Would he…”

  “I don’t know.”

  “How deep did their enmity go?” asked Greiss.

  “Shut up!” Karlich snapped. The two men had almost come to blows before. The argument outside the tavern had been one of the worst. What if this time they’d met again and no one had been there to stop them? Premeditated murder was not in Rechts, but a fight that got out of hand… and if he was still drunk?

  “Lenkmann,” said Karlich, “wait here for the watch. Vogen or even Ledner may follow.” Karlich glared at the banner bearer intently to emphasise the import of his next words. “Say nothing,” he said, turning briefly and taking in the other Grimblades in a glance, “that goes for all of you. We keep quiet, try and fathom what happened. Lenkmann, you found Masbrecht here and have no idea why he did it or what his bloodied confession refers to. If anyone asks, I’m gathering the last of the regiment for the muster. Understand?”

  Lenkmann nodded.

  “The rest of you,” added Karlich, already walking out of the temple. “Every alehouse, every tavern in Wurtbad. Find him.”

  No drunkard in all of Wurtbad would have visited as many alehouses as they had in such short order. Rechts was at none of them, and now Karlich was beginning to despair they’d ever find him. A niggle at the back of his head mooted that the drummer had killed Masbrecht and fled town for fear of repercussions. Karlich crushed that voice mentally underfoot and trusted in his instincts that Rechts was a good man in a bad way.

  He was alone. By splitting up, the Grimblades had a better chance of finding Rechts quickly and quietly. As Karlich gazed around, something caught his eye. Like a lot of Stirland towns, Wurtbad’s rugged landscape encroached within its walls. It had several hills and narrow winding lanes that led to their summits. One such grassy knoll caught his attention. A thin smoke trail emanated from it.

  Karlich turned abruptly, half expecting to see someone behind him, but the townsfolk had moved on and scowled less. Putting it down to tension, he made for the hill in long, determined strides.

  The knoll was at the outskirts of town and overlooked much of its rural market. Even early as it was, traders were setting up stalls and wares for the coming morning. There were many gaps. Much of the usual bustle had been dented by the invasion. People still needed to eat, though. Trade offered a sense of order and normality fearful and superstitious folk needed. Count Krieglitz was a wise ruler, not a mere peasant lord as some of his contemporaries snidely branded him.

  Rechts was smoking a thin bone pipe when Karlich found him. In the other hand, he cradled a bottle of Middenland hooch. It was empty, barring the dregs.

  “Come to drag me to muster?” he asked without looking back.

  Karlich didn’t answer but walked closer and kept his dirk within reach.

  “Just needed a little peace,” Rechts continued. “Old memories sting when they’re poked at.” Now he faced Karlich. He looked crapulous and melancholic. “I wouldn’t have cut out his tongue, you know. Thumped him, yes,” he added, nodding at the idea, “but not cut him.”

  And then, as he experienced the ambivalence of feeling relief that Rechts hadn’t murdered Masbrecht but then concern that his killer was still unknown to him, Karlich noticed a shadow fall upon them both. Rechts’ eyes widened and he tried to stand when he saw who loomed behind his sergeant.

  Karlich moved just in time, ripping out his dirk and parrying Torveld’s thrust out of instinct. Another slash came at him, opening up the sergeant’s shoulder. Karlich yelped aloud, dropping his dagger as a hot dark line spoiled his tunic.

  “Southern dog,” spat Torveld, drunk with anger. “They’re all dead.” He lunged, and Karlich dodged aside.

  Comprehending that Torveld was alive and not slain with the other Steel Swords as he originally thought, it all made sudden, terrible sense to Karlich. The Middenlander had killed Masbrecht out of a misguided fit of revenge. Blood for blood—that was the Ulrican way.

  Torveld blamed the Grimblades for the death of his comrades and was here to exact the price he saw was owed.

  Rechts bull-charged him, even as Karlich was backing off to try and find some even footing, but Torveld barged the drunken Reiklander aside. The drummer’s momentum took him careening halfway down the hill, where he landed with a grunt.

  “Your brothers died in battle. It wasn’t down to us,” Karlich told him, glancing around for a weapon, anything. “This is murder, Middenlander. Vogen will see you swing for this.” It was an empty threat considering he’d killed already. As Torveld came on, Karlich decided to change approach. “I thought Ulricans were proud, honour-bound warriors—”

  Torveld thumped his chest. “Winter wolves are the fiercest and most honourable.”

  It was the most heartfelt and tragic affirmation Karlich had ever heard.

  “Then why slit a man’s throat? Why kill my brother in arms and try to hide it with deception?”

  Torveld’s face went blank for just a second. He had no notion of what Karlich was talking about.

  “I lost the other and followed you he—” was all he could manage before Greiss knocked him unconscious from behind.

  “Masbrecht is dead?” Rechts was scrambling up the hill, sometimes on four limbs, sometimes two but was dumbstruck when he realised what had happened.

  “Yes,” said Greiss, his iron-hard gaze fixed on Karlich. Even unarmed, the sergeant was at least sober and presented the greatest threat to his mission.

  “He killed him, Torsten,” said Karlich. “I’m sorry I ever doubted you.”

  Rechts’ confusion only grew. He struggled upright, still wavering. “What’s going on?”

  Karlich wasn’t really listening. His eyes were on Greiss.

  “Who do you serve? Ledner?”

  Greiss nodded, seeing no harm in the admission now. The assassin had clubbed Torveld over the head with a main gauche, parrying dagger. He also had a duelling pistol snug in his belt.

  Karlich gestured to the weapons. “Gifts from your master?”

  “These are mine,” said Greiss with a voice so cold it practically chilled the air. Ice flowed in his veins now. “Commendable,” he added. “Stalling for time, devising my true nature. Your time is almost up, yours and your men’s. If you don’t struggle, I’ll make it quick.”

  “So Ledner didn’t trust us to keep quiet after all,” said Karlich.

  “No more words,” Greiss told them. “Face away from me, kneel down and prepare to meet Sigmar.”

  Rechts roared and drove at Greiss. Maybe it was the grog, maybe he was just slower, but Greiss was able to turn and plant his dagger into Rechts’ neck before the drummer even got his hands up to try and choke him. Rechts burbled blood-flecked curses.

  Karlich saw a slim chance and went for the assassin himself
, but the pistol was in Greiss’ hand as if it had always been there. A shot boomed across the knoll and Karlich spun with the impact of it in his shoulder. He staggered and fell. The bone was shattered and he cried out, clutching at it through his oozing blood.

  Greiss withdrew the main gauche. Rechts was already dead when he slumped to the ground. Torveld was stirring too. Greiss lunged and pierced the Middenlander’s eye. He died instantly.

  Then Greiss turned to Karlich.

  “You and me left,” he said with the hint of a smile. “I offered you quick, you chose slow…”

  “How about a third choice?”

  The voice behind him made Greiss flinch.

  Brand stepped from the shadows creeping back down the knoll in the face of the rising sun. “Me.” He glanced at Rechts and his jaw clenched.

  Too late to save one…

  “Was hoping I’d kill you last,” Greiss replied. Karlich was in no shape to face a trained assassin but he kept half an eye on the sergeant anyway. “Thought I’d lost you in the market,” he muttered.

  “You’re not the only one who can follow a lamb.” Brand drew his dirk.

  There was the slightest of nods and then Greiss attacked.

  Steel flashed in a grey blur, thrusting, lunging slashing for any of several death-wounds. Brand parried or dodged them all.

  “Knew you were too good for a common soldier,” he snarled, raking his blade against the edge of Greiss’. Metal shards and sparks cascaded like flickering rain.

  Greiss growled at him though his gritted teeth. “So are you.”

  They broke off, circling before leaping in again, their dagger strokes ringing like a blacksmith’s anvil.

  “Campaigning’s made you rusty,” said Greiss, a second blade flashing into his hand from a concealed spring-mounted bracer. He plunged it into Brand’s shoulder, drawing a cry of pain from the Reiklander. With the other hand Greiss pressed for Brand’s throat. He dropped his dirk and held on to the assassin’s wrist. “One by one, you’re all dead men. I’ll gut y—urrghh!”

  Greiss spat a gob of blood that ruined his tunic with a long, viscous streak. He looked down at the gory length of steel rammed up into his back that punched out through his chest. Karlich whispered in his ear behind him before Greiss died.

  “Grimblades fight as one.”

  Brand pushed the main gauche away from his throat and pulled the dagger out of his shoulder with a wince. Both Reiklanders backed away. Karlich left the sword embedded and watched Greiss buckle and fall. He knew he had lost a fair amount of blood but he’d be damned if he was going to lie down yet. His breath rasped a little as he spoke.

  “Ledner really didn’t want us to talk, did he?”

  Brand had already strapped up his shoulder with a piece of cloth and knelt down by Greiss’ body.

  “Small wonder given he knew about the prince’s killer and used our liege-lord as bait to draw the assassin out,” the sergeant added. “Civil war be damned, Vogen is hearing of this.”

  “It is worse than that,” said Brand, turning Greiss’ head. There was a tattoo on the dead man’s neck which exactly matched the one they had found on the Tilean assassin. “No Marienburg gold this time.”

  “That bastard…” uttered Karlich.

  The killers were both Ledner’s. With that truth came a chilling revelation. Not only did he know of Prince Wilhelm’s assassination, he had orchestrated it. Ledner was the traitor.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  PATRIOTISM

  Outside the walls of Wurtbad, capital of Stirland,

  398 miles from Altdorf

  By now, all of Wurtbad and the mustering army beyond its walls knew of the foiled attempt on Prince Wilhelm’s life. Most of the common soldiery were shocked and angered, others simply assumed it was the price of being Reikland royalty. Officers expressed outrage. Privately, they harboured suspicions that the prince’s cousin, Emperor Dieter himself, was somehow responsible. This last rumour was perpetuated by cohorts of Adolphus Ledner. Like any good spy-master, he had many lackeys in his employ. But Ledner, usually ubiquitous in the presence of his lord, was not present when Wilhelm gave his reaction to the news.

  “It changes nothing,” he said, fastening his scabbarded sword and tightening the straps on his breastplate. He was in one of Krieglitz’s armouries, with the Lord Protector of Stirland looking on.

  “Defy the will of the Emperor and expect consequences, is that the way of it?” he said. “I heard the assassin’s bribe was Marienburg gold. What do you think that means?”

  Wilhelm glared at him as he was adjusting his leg greaves. “You should not speak ill of your liege-lord and Emperor. As for the burgomeisters,” he added, “who knows what those greedy merchants are up to. I had hoped Ledner would have discovered something by now.”

  “Nuln’s Golden Palace wasn’t gilded by taxes alone, I’d say.”

  Wilhelm paused in his battle preparation. “Be careful who you say that to, Neder.” It wasn’t a threat, more an expression of concern.

  Krieglitz smiled thinly. He changed tack. “Word will have reached most of the other provinces by next morning,” he said. “You’ll be a legend, Wilhelm—the noble Prince of Reikland who rode out to defend his Empire and crushed the vipers in his nest trying to stop him.”

  “Am I so glorious? What have I achieved? Averland is ruined, much of Stirland is also devastated,”—Krieglitz’s face darkened at this remark—“and now I’ve failed to dismantle the greenskin horde and left the Reikmark open to invasion. Assassin or no, it’s a bitter draught to swallow. Legendary is not how I would describe it.”

  “Even still, you’ve made friends of the other electors and nobles. Backbone and courage, that’s what the Empire needs most.”

  “Just not friendly enough, eh, Neder?” The bitterness in Wilhelm’s voice was obvious.

  Captain Vogen appeared at the armoury door before Krieglitz could reply.

  “Beg your pardon, lords,” he said, “we are all but ready to march.”

  Wilhelm nodded to the officer. “Get them into order, captain. The orcs move west, so will we, and get ahead of them if we can.”

  “Are we still bound for Nuln?” Vogen asked.

  Wilhelm sheathed a dagger at his hip, the last of his war trappings. “The beast will want to sack the capital and with it all but empty, there’s nothing to stop the greenskins doing it.”

  Vogen saluted and left to perform his duties. Just as he was going, Wilhelm stopped him.

  “Have you seen Captain Ledner?”

  “Not recently, my liege. But I could easily have missed him during the muster.”

  Wilhelm gestured that he could leave.

  “A concern?” asked Krieglitz when Vogen was gone.

  “No,” Wilhelm decided. “He’ll turn up when he’s needed, probably when I least expect it. Adolphus Ledner always does.”

  Karlich was hurrying through the Wurtbad streets, taking side alleys and backways to avoid the commotion outside the temple of Sigmar near the town square, when he heard a sharp dick from the shadows behind him. He stopped sharply and found a pistol trained on his torso as he turned.

  “Couldn’t let you run off to Vogen or the prince before we’d had a chance to talk,” said Ledner. His sibilant voice creaked like an old coffin.

  “Slay me here and you’ll bring the Watch running, quartermasters too and who knows who else,” countered Karlich, hiding his nerves.

  “There are a hundred ways I could explain the gunshot and your corpse,” Ledner told him, stepping closer so the errant shafts of sunlight bathing the backstreet hit his face. The contrast of light and shade only made it more forbidding.

  “For a man who claims to be a patriot, plotting to kill your own liege-lord seems like the deeds of a traitor,” said Karlich.

  “Where are the rest of your men?” asked Ledner. “The ones that still live,” he added without malice.

  Karlich imagined wrapping his hands around the spy-master’s t
hroat and squeezing until all vitality had left him. “Returned to the regiment, but you already knew that.”

  Ledner allowed himself a small grunt of amusement. “Yes, I did. Though, they are actually with my sergeants-at-arms, awaiting interrogation. Witnesses to murder,”—Ledner counted on his fingers—“four times over? Yes, the Middenlander makes four. Questions must be asked.”

  “As we’re about to march to Nuln? How did you explain that to the prince?”

  “Wilhelm trusts my counsel, sergeant. You should know that.”

  “Then he trusts a serpent!” Karlich spat, making fists. “You’re a snake in more than just your voice, captain.”

  “Barbs are only painful if they’re real,” Ledner told him. There were only a few feet between them. “You’re much too clever for a mere soldier—” A hacking cough stopped the spymaster. Karlich went to grab for him before the pistol came back up and Ledner regained his composure. “Don’t make me revise my opinion of you!” he snapped, still spluttering.

  “Choking on your own lies?” Karlich framed a bitter smile.

  “Amusing. You are quite a resourceful man. I never expected you or your footsloggers to best my Tilean, let alone kill Greiss,” said Ledner, more hoarsely than usual. “He was from the Border Princes, not Averland, by the way.”

  “Can’t say I care. Dead is dead. Is this where you ask me to join your brood?”

  “No,” Ledner said flatly. “You have the wit for it, but not the moral ambiguity or ruthless pragmatism I require in my agents.” He paused to size Karlich up, gauging whether to kill him or let him live. “I organised the assassination, the one I tasked you to foil,” he admitted at last. “You already know this. Wilhelm was either supposed to die or be badly injured in the attempt. Either way, sympathy for our cause and that of the Empire would soar. Martyrs are potent rallying symbols.”

  Karlich’s anger was almost palpable. “You said we could speak nothing of it, for fear of civil war.”

  “Don’t be naive. You’re better than that. Your success oh the road back to Mannsgard was as unexpected as your discovery of my messenger. The Marienburg coin you found—”