“When did the attacks begin?” he repeated. “You’ve obviously fought bravely
in defence of your dukedom, and presumably with such a great castle as this came
a force of some size. How it was that things started to turn against you?”
Luneberg flicked his hair to one side, revealing a set of thick, gold hoops
that dangled from his ear. “Things were ever against me, Brother Wolff. When I
came to this province I had nothing to live for.” Gryphius looked up at these
words, but the duke continued, oblivious to his friend’s pained expression. “So
I pitted myself against these unending hordes that plague the Ostlanders. I had
some skill with a sword and plenty of money to buy and equip an army. And, most
of all, I was looking for something to distract me from my past.” His words
trembled with growing anger. “And yes, you’re right, I
have
fought
bravely, and not just in the defence of this wretched backwater. I’ve marched
alongside the Elector Count in countless hopeless engagements, but to what end?
What was my glittering prize?” He waved at the broken windows and the pitch dark
outside. “A dukedom on the edge of sanity and the unruly damned on my doorstep.
They’ve drunk my southern soul like an exotic wine.” He waved his hand in a
theatrical flourish and his gold rings flashed in the candlelight. “I have
already passed beyond.”
Wolff leant across the table. “Are
all
your men dead then?”
Luneberg shook his head. “Vanity would have finished them though, every one,
if I’d let it. Even blind, I thought I could lead them to victory. Even after a
thousand mindless, mournful endings I thought I could deliver them. I thought I
could loose the cord around their throats, but I only pulled it tighter.”
The duke turned his head vaguely in Wolff’s direction and spoke with a sudden
urgency. “But what are you doing out here, father? I know Hugo’s story—it’s a
sad one, and his wounds run even deeper than mine. I know the bitter discontent
that haunts him, but
you
still have strength left. I can hear it in your
voice. Why would you squander it here? Why did you not head south, while you
could? Von Raukov has assembled a great army in Wolfenberg to fight this latest
abomination. A man of your faith could have been of use to him.”
Wolff was a little taken aback by the duke’s words, “I do intend to find the
main force. I mean to aid the Elector Count in any way I can,” he hesitated,
“and also, I’m seeking my brother, Fabian Wolff, who I believe is fighting in a
regiment called the Ostland Black Guard.”
“But you’re too far north,” cried the duke, with surprising vehemence. The
rowdy officers at the other end of the table fell silent, looking over at him in
surprise. “The enemy has already swept though this whole region,” continued the
duke, shaking his head in confusion. “You must have passed them in the night
somehow. Don’t you realise? You’re already
behind
the invasion. They
marched through here two days past, slaughtering everything in their path. While
my servants cowered in the cellars I threw myself at the monsters and begged
them for death; but they saw that it would be crueller to let me live. My grief
is a torment worse than anything they could have inflicted.” He shivered.
“There’s a gentle-tongued devil leading them, a giggling grotesque that
introduced himself as Mormius. The fiend charged through here so fast he didn’t
even wait to see his army destroy me. He did, however, pause long enough to do
this.” The duke lifted his bandage briefly, to reveal two swollen lines of
stitches where his eyes should have been.
Wolff grimaced at the sight of the thick, red scars. “Why would he blind you
but let you live?”
“He’s utterly insane. Even by the standards of his own kind. He’d somehow
heard of my love for literature, and as his soldiers tore down the walls and
butchered my friends, he attempted to discuss poetry with me. I told him it was
impossible that such a drooling animal could ever understand anything of beauty
or the arts.” The duke shook his head. “Something about my words seemed to amuse
him—he became quite hysterical in fact. Then he threw me against the wall and
gouged out my eyes with his thumbs. A day later, unable to even see my own
sword, I tried to lead these poor wretches against his army as they rushed
south.” His voice hitched with emotion. “It was a shameful farce. They turned
their full force against us and I ordered a retreat, but it was far too late.
Half of the townsfolk had already been ripped to pieces by those dogs. What
madness made me lead them into battle I’ll never know.” He shook his head. “So
much death…” He lifted one of his ring-laden hands to his mouth, as though he
could not bear to hear any more of his own words.
“You did what you thought best,” said a soft voice.
To his shock, Ratboy realised the words were Anna’s. Tears were flowing
freely from her eyes as she looked up at the blind duke. It was the first time
she had spoken to anyone since Wolff had told her that the abbess was dead.
Luneberg flinched at her words, as though she were insulting him, but he drew
a deep breath and lowered his hand from his mouth, seeming to regain control of
himself. He took a sip of wine and turned towards Wolff. “I wouldn’t hold out
much hope of a reunion with your brother. If he’s spent any amount of time in
von Raukov’s army, he’s probably dead by now, but even if he isn’t, there’s no
way you could reach him. You’ve come too far to the north-east. We’re completely
surrounded out here. The only way you could rejoin von Raukov’s men now would be
to fight back through Mormius’ entire army from behind. It’s impossible.”
The rest of the officers were now following the duke’s words in attentive
silence. At the word “impossible” they looked towards their general for his
response. Conscious of all eyes being on him, Gryphius puffed out his small
chest and placed his hands firmly on the table. “Impossible? I don’t think so,
old friend.” He shrugged off the gloom that had settled over him and grinned at
his captains, raising his glass aloft. “Finally, it sounds like we have a fight
on our hands!”
The officers exploded into raucous cheers and whistles, banging their fists
on the table and filling each other’s glasses.
Luneberg frowned. “I understand your reasons Hugo, but there are others here
who might not be so eager for the cold embrace of the grave.” He gave a grim
laugh. “Well, I suppose you would have the element of surprise though. They
won’t expect anything to come from this direction, other than more of their own
kind.”
“Where was this Mormius headed?” asked Wolff.
“Wolfenberg,” replied Luneberg. “His only strategy is to race to the capital
as fast as possible. But they have one last hurdle to cross before they can head
south unimpeded. There’s a young captain named Andreas Felhamer whose banner has
become something of a rallying point. He’s gathered the last of the northern
garrisons together into a single force. He’s quite the firebrand and his passion
does him credit, but I’m not sure his judgment is sound. He’s gathered all this
flotsam and jetsam into an old ruined keep, named Muhlberg. The locals call it
Mercy’s End, in memory of its former glories, but these days the old place
barely has the strength to support Felhamer’s banners.”
“What of von Raukov?” asked Wolff. “You mentioned that he’s gathered a great
force. Where does he intend to strike? Maybe we could join him in the
counterattack?”
“He’s racing north as we speak. He’s heard of Felhamer’s heroics and ordered
him to hold Mercy’s End, until the main force arrives to relieve him.” Luneberg
shook his head. “The poor, brave child. They’ll all be dead a long time before
that. Mormius drives his army with a fierce determination. I’ve never seen
anything like it. He’s careless of anything but the race south. Felhamer’s
military career will be a short one, I’m afraid. I imagine von Raukov knows that
though.” Luneberg patted the table till he found a fork, and shovelled some food
into his mouth. “I fear that the Elector Count is simply using the captain as a
sponge, to soak up some of the enemy’s fury for a while, and buy him a little
marching time. No one expects him to leave Mercy’s End alive.”
Gryphius leant forward, so that his eyes glinted mischievously in the
candlelight. “Well, Captain Felhamer might find he has a little Averland steel
to keep him company in his final watch.” He lurched unsteadily to his feet and
clambered onto the table, raising his sword to his men and sending food and wine
clattering across the floor. “Tomorrow, we march to war, my friends.” The
officers lurched unsteadily to their feet and drew their own swords in a solemn
reply. The general took a swig of wine and grinned at them. “But tonight, I
think we need a little dancing.” He jumped down from the table and marched
towards the musicians, grabbing a serving girl’s hand as he went. The officers
scrambled after him, laughing and shouting as they barged past Ratboy and left
Wolff, Luneberg and Anna alone at the table.
The music swelled in volume and the room filled with whirling, dancing
shapes. The officers began spinning drunkenly in and out of the shifting
shadows, as vague and insubstantial as the ghosts they might soon become.
Luneberg smiled indulgently. “He makes a good show of it, doesn’t he? You’d
think him quite the hero. It wasn’t always so. He’s not the man he pretends to
be.” He winced suddenly and placed a hand over his bandage.
Anna rose from her chair and rushed to his side. She placed her hands over
his and lowered her head, whispering a few soft words in his ear as she did so.
At first the duke looked irritated at being manhandled in such a way, but
then a relieved smile spread across his face. “Who is this worker of miracles?”
he asked, squeezing her hands gratefully.
A faint smile played around Anna’s mouth as she replied. “No miracle worker,
my lord, just someone with a little compassion for a tired old soldier.”
Luneberg held onto her hands for a while longer. “A Sister of Shallya, then?”
Anna frowned. “I think so, my lord. In truth, I’ve been quite lost these last
few days, even from myself; but hearing the pain in your voice reminded me who I
am.” She freed her hand from his and placed it on his shoulder. “You can’t carry
the fate of a whole nation on your shoulders, my lord. If you hadn’t led these
people to war, someone else would simply have had to do it in your stead.”
Luneberg nodded slowly and chuckled. “It’s been decades since I last saw
Hugo, but he obviously hasn’t lost the knack of surrounding himself with
powerful women.”
Anna blushed and returned to her seat. As she stepped past Ratboy she gave
him a shy nod, as though seeing him for the first time in days.
He smiled awkwardly in reply, relieved to see a little of the old
determination back in her steely eyes.
“So, tell me, duke,” said Wolff, a little while later, “how did you find
yourself so far from Averland? Did you and von Gryphius set out together?”
“Ah, therein lies a tale, Brother Wolff,” replied Luneberg with a wry smile.
“And not a happy one I’m afraid. Hugo was not always the valiant hero you see
now. As a youth, his only interest was in the arts, and the idea of dirtying his
hands in combat repulsed him.” He waved over to where Gryphius and his men were
dancing drunkenly around the ruined hall. “There comes a time however, when all
men must fight for what they love. Averland is a land of rich pastures and even
richer palaces. The sun smiles down on Sigmar’s southern heirs with the kind of
indulgence his hardy northern offspring can hardly imagine. But even in such a
paradise, there are wars to be won, and enemies to repel. Hugo knew this, but
his head has always been full of music and poetry.” The duke paused and tilted
his head to one side, trying to reassure himself Gryphius was still out of
earshot. “He has a big heart, that one, but it is the heart of a child—easily
distracted by new passions, and new ideas; sometimes he’s neglectful of the
things that really matter.” Luneberg fanned out his tanned, bejeweled fingers
across the table. “These are not the hands of a natural fighter, but it was
these hands that Gryphius entrusted with the safety of his young wife. Not once
in his short life had he heeded the call of battle, and as bandits struck closer
and closer to his ancestral home, he found an excuse to be elsewhere. The
artist, Schuzzelwanst had opened a new exhibition in Altdorf and, despite the
danger looming over his home, he decided he had to meet the great man, leaving
me in charge of his garrison.
“Even if Gryphius had been fighting by my side, he couldn’t have saved his
wife, but in his heart he knows he should have been there.” Luneberg shook his
head. “If only so he could have died by her side.”
Ratboy was so caught up in the duke’s tale he forgot himself and leant across
the table to speak. “But how was it that you survived?”
Luneberg shrugged. “It seems to be my destiny to fail those I’m responsible
for and live to tell the tale.” He lifted his clothes to reveal a thick old
scar, snaking down through the grey hairs on his chest, all the way to his
groin. “They gutted me like a fish, and the pain was unimaginable,” he gave a
grim laugh; “but I couldn’t bear to die until I’d seen Gryphius, and confronted
him over his cowardice. To see a man’s wife destroyed in such a way, when he
should have been there to defend his home, gave me a bitter vitality. When he
finally did return though, he blamed me for her death and we—” He paused and
took a sip of wine. “Well, let’s just say, her death changed things. Our
friendship was over, and neither of us could bear our pampered, pointless
existence for a minute longer. We exiled ourselves from our homeland. My shame
drove me north to war and Gryphius, well, he adopted the role of a rootless
hedonist. He has to avoid his own thoughts at all costs, and any distraction
will do: wine, food, bloodshed, fear or even death, it’s all the same to him
now. He just wants to be dazzled by experience, feeling everything to the full,
with no concern for the consequences. He won’t rest until he’s ruined himself in
some glorious endeavour. It’s ironic, really, that we are surrounded by so much
death and the one man who would welcome it has survived.”