Mannfred looked down and then up, letting the rain wash the blood from his face. And for a moment, just a moment, between the shadows and the rain, Erikan thought he saw something terrible looming over Mannfred, shaking in silent glee.
SEVEN
The empty bottle shattered as it struck the wall. Wendel Volker scrambled to his feet and darted out of the commandant’s grimy office. Otto Kross stormed after him, as quickly as a man on the wrong end of a three-day drunk could manage. Kross was bald, with a thick beard and sideburns, which hid his heavy jowls, and a neck that was more an unsightly outgrowth of shoulder than anything else.
‘I told you that I’d have you, popinjay, if you countermanded me again. Those men deserved a lashing! Their hides were mine,’ Kross bellowed as he lunged, red-faced, after Volker, fists windmilling.
‘I didn’t countermand anything,’ Volker yelped, scooting across the courtyard on his backside, trying to get enough room between himself and his commandant so that he could get to his feet without receiving a faceful of Kross’s scarred knuckles. ‘I simply placed them on punishment detail. How was I to know you meant they needed a flogging?’
That was a lie, of course. He had known, and hadn’t approved. Punishment was all well and good when the men in question had committed an actual infraction or crime. But flogging was a step too far, especially when their only real crime had been to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. He’d placed them on night soil duty, reckoning that would keep them out of Kross’s sight until he’d sobered up and forgotten why he wanted them punished in the first place. Unfortunately, someone had spilled the beans. The next thing Volker knew, he was dodging bottles and Kross’s fists.
‘I’ll stop your squawking, popinjay,’ Kross snarled. He lurched drunkenly for Volker, tripped over his own foot, and fell face-first to the ground. Volker took the opportunity to get to his feet and made to flee, until he noted the gathering crowd of men. It looked as if every trooper assigned to the Heldenhame garrison was piling into the wide, long courtyard that linked the Rostmeyer and Sigmundas bastions.
It wasn’t surprising. The past few weeks had seen a steady increase in tensions among the men. There was something growing in Sylvania, behind those blasted walls; they could all feel it. Not to mention the reports coming from the north. For every ten men who’d marched for the Kislev border, only seven reached their destination, thanks to beastmen, greenskins and plague. The fighting along the border had spilled into Ostermark and Talabecland, and the armies of those provinces were hard-pressed to hold the tide back.
Many men wanted to travel north, to fight the enemy. Others wanted to stay put, out of the way, safe behind Heldenhame’s walls. Luckily for the latter, Leitdorf was obsessed with keeping his eyes firmly fixed on Sylvania. Or, as some lackwits whispered, he just wanted to stay good and close to the centre of the Empire, in order to take advantage of what many were coming to see as the inevitable conclusion of recent events.
Sometimes, Volker thought that was why Thyrus Gormann had come. It would be difficult for Leitdorf to get up to any mischief with the Patriarch of the Bright College looking over his shoulder.
Volker heard a voice growl, ‘Two bits on the commandant.’ He looked over and saw the scowling features of Captain Deinroth. Kross’s second-in-command had never warmed to Volker. He shared his commandant’s opinion, and indeed that of most of the other captains, that Volker was a man who had bought his rank with gold, rather than blood, and was thus no sort of man at all. Which was a bit unfair, Volker thought; it had been his father’s gold after all, not his.
Deinroth, he thought, was the likely instigator of the current situation. In his years as Kross’s second-in-command, Deinroth had learned well the art of winding his belligerent superior up and setting him loose like a demigryph in a glassblower’s shop. He’d been poking and prodding at Kross to lay in to Volker for weeks now, and it looked as if he’d finally got his wish.
‘Three on the popinjay,’ a second voice cut through the rising tumult like the peal of a hammer on an anvil. Men fell silent as a robed figure strode to the front of the growing crowd. Stern-featured and grizzled by decades of service on the Sylvanian frontier, Father Janos Odkrier was a welcome enough face. Odkrier wasn’t quite a friend, but he was as close as Volker had in Heldenhame.
Odkrier winked at Volker. Around him, money changed hands and men shouted out bets. Kross staggered to his feet, face flushed, teeth bared. He swayed slightly, but didn’t fall. He raised his fists. ‘I’ll wipe that smirk off your chinless face, Volker,’ he spat.
‘There’s no need for this, commandant,’ Volker said hurriedly. A brawl wasn’t quite as bad as a duel, but the knights frowned on it regardless. Especially in times like these, with northmen howling south in ever-increasing numbers, green comets raining down out of the sky, and a great bloody wall of bone towering over Sylvania’s borders. The whole world was coming undone around them. ‘If Leitdorf finds out, we’ll both get our necks stretched,’ he said. He cut a glance towards Deinroth, who was smirking in his usual unpleasant fashion, and wondered if that was what Kross’s right hand man wanted. ‘You know how he feels about his officers brawling in front of the rank and file.’
Kross smiled maliciously. ‘Leitdorf isn’t here, popinjay.’ He shuffled forward and threw a blow that would have broken Volker’s jaw, had it connected. Volker slid aside, the way his swordmaster had taught him, and drove his fist into Kross’s side. The big man spun, quicker than Volker had expected, and caught him a stinging blow on the cheek. Volker fell back onto his rear, and only just managed to bob aside as Kross’s iron-shod boot slammed down where he’d been sitting.
Volker’s hand flew to his sword. As much as the thought turned his stomach, he knew that he could draw it and have it through Kross’s fat gut in a wink and a nod. He was a better swordsman than any of those present. Indeed, he fancied he could even match one of Leitdorf’s armoured thugs in a fair bout. But killing a superior officer was even worse than getting into a round of fisticuffs with one. Leitdorf already despised him; Volker had spent the months since his arrival avoiding the Grand Master of the Knights of Sigmar’s Blood at every opportunity. Sigmar alone knew what Leitdorf would do to him if he pinked Kross even slightly. He pulled his hand away as Kross gave a bull bellow and charged towards him.
He caught Volker and swept him up in a bear hug. Volker groaned as he felt his ribs flex. Fat as he was, Kross was still strong enough to knock a dray horse off its hooves with a punch. The commandant’s alcoholic breath washed over his face, and Volker was suddenly reminded that he had been headed to the tavern, before Kross had called him in. The crowd was cheering and catcalling in equal measure, their faces a blur as Kross spun him about. Volker slithered an arm free and poked Kross in the eye with his thumb. Kross roared and released him. The commandant stumbled back, clawing at his face. He belched curses and snatched his dagger from his belt. Volker backed away, hands raised. Kross staggered after him, blade raised.