CHAPTER SEVEN

 

 

He could have gone anywhere that he chose, anywhere in the Empire, anywhere beyond—but there was nowhere that he wished to go, nothing that he wished to do.

His only profession was that of a soldier, and he could have sought employment as a mercenary in any land within the known world. There were always wars and battles; there was always fighting to be done, always killing and looting and destroying. He could have returned to Kislev, continued his role in the eternal battle against the incursion of the armies from the northern wastes. At least on the frontier one knew who one’s enemies were—unlike in Altdorf. Within the capital, members of the court of Karl-Franz could be Slaaneshi cultists, while the Emperor’s own guard might be manned by Chaos worshippers.

Konrad wanted to be as far away as possible from Altdorf and all its treachery and intrigue, but part of him still lay within the Imperial capital.

That was the memory of Elyssa, the brief moment when their eyes had met before he was swept into the culvert and out of the subterranean cavern. The girl had been so much a part of his life for so long that it was impossible to obliterate her from his mind. Even throughout the years when he believed she was dead, she had never been far from his thoughts. Now that he knew she was alive, he spent more and more time thinking of her.

Konrad was exactly the way he had been before he and Elyssa had ever met. All he had owned then were his clothes and his knife. That was all he had now, and all that he needed.

Krysten had died, died in his arms, and Konrad tried to make himself accept that Elyssa was also lost to him. Physically she may still have lived, but her soul must have been ensnared long ago. If Krysten had been corrupted in a few brief months, then Elyssa had surely become one of the damned during the years since she had been captured. She could not have been Skullface’s prisoner for so long without being tainted by his benighted influence. By now she must have been his consort and his ally, as much a creature of Chaos as he was.

For Krysten, the ordeal was over; but not for Elyssa.

And there was nothing that Konrad could do except try to forget her—yet that would be the hardest thing of all.

Konrad had gone to Altdorf because of Silver Eye, pursuing the skaven and the mysterious shield which he carried; but now that his master was dead, perhaps the warrior rat had departed from the tunnels below the Imperial city. The conspiracy to replace the Emperor with a doppelganger must have ended with the death of Gaxar.

After escaping from the Imperial capital, Konrad travelled south through the Reikwald Forest. It reminded him of the woodlands where he had spent his early life, and for the first few days he seemed to have returned to that kind of existence, surviving on the animals that he could trap.

There was plenty of wildlife in these woodlands, which was a sure sign that there were few mutated predators in the vicinity. Most of the birds were not carrion eaters, the majority of the animals not scavengers: they did not survive by eating what remained after the beastmen had mutilated and devoured their prey.

The Forest of Shadows had seemed far older, full of ancient trees, many of which were rotten and covered with fungus. Konrad had taken the all-embracing miasma of decomposition for granted at the time, because he knew nothing else. Now he was aware that it was not simply age which had caused the trees to become twisted and decayed—it was the touch of Chaos. In Ost-land, the forest was still inhabited by numerous beastmen, the descendants of those who had taken part in the last great Chaos invasion two centuries ago; and the woodlands were themselves still corrupted by the effects of the incursion, as well as by the infection of the ugly creatures who still lurked within the darkest depths.

They existed throughout the known world, but there were fewer such deformities in this part of the Empire, or so close to the capital. When he had been young, Konrad’s gift of foresight had saved him from the beastmen on many an occasion. But even without his extra vision, he felt safer in this forest than he had ever done in his native valley. The trees here were more healthy and did not seem threatening. In the Forest of Shadows the rows of trunks often appeared to form impenetrable walls to keep out intruders, or seemed arrayed in maze-like patterns to prevent escape.

Winter was fast approaching, and Konrad had no intention of staying in the forest for an hour longer than necessary. Without a horse he would not be able to travel far, which meant he would have to remain in the first village that he found; but he had no money to pay for a room at the inn.

The village was larger than the one where he had grown up, and was situated at a crossroads. The signpost showed that one highway led to the city-state of Carroburg in one direction, to Grunburg in the other; the second road led to Bogenhafen, whilst the other direction was the route Konrad had followed from Altdorf to bring him here. The largest building was the tavern, which was also a coaching inn. The sign which hung outside bore the name The Grey Stoat, plus an illustration of such an animal.

He needed something to trade, and he wished that he had a bow and quiver of arrows to make his task easier; but he was able to snare a young deer. He bled and gutted the animal, slung it over his shoulders, and headed for the village.

As he did so, Konrad remembered when he had entered Ferlangen. He had been carrying a rabbit which he hoped to sell, but had ended up being sentenced to death for poaching. It was Baron Otto Krieshmier who had condemned him to death, the man who Elyssa was to have married.

Krieshmier and Elyssa—another strand of the web in which Konrad was ensnared.

He had been saved by Wolf, who had fought and killed Krieshmier because the baron had once cheated him out of some money.

Wolf and Krieshmier—yet another strand…

This time Konrad could fight his own battles. He was no longer the frightened youth that he had been five and a half years ago.

No one would dare accuse him of poaching, not without a handful of armed men to back up the charge. But he would be a lot more careful this time, which was why he waited until dark before he entered the Grey Stoat, and why he used the back door, and why he left his prize hidden outside behind a row of barrels.

There was a boy by the kitchen fire, turning a pig on a spit; and there was a man chewing a piece of meat, his feet up on a table, his chair tilted back on two legs. Neither of them noticed as Konrad silently shut the door and walked slowly up behind them. Suddenly the man turned. He saw Konrad and lost his balance, falling to the floor. He lay on his back, his hand clutching for the hilt of his sword. The hilt was embossed with the Imperial crown; it was an Imperial guard sword.

“Don’t come any closer,” he warned. “I’m in the Imperial guard.”

Despite the sword, Konrad very much doubted that. The man’s hair was too long and he wore a beard, but his accent was far too common for that of an officer. In any case, despite being of the necessary height, he was too overweight to be a member of the Emperor’s elite fighting force.

“Are you the landlord?”

“Why?”

“I’m asking the questions. Are you the landlord?”

“No,” replied the man, as he stood up and backed away. He held the hilt of his sword, but having taken the measure of Konrad he had evidently decided it would be unwise to draw the blade.

“Fetch him,” said Konrad.

“Go get Netzler,” the man told the boy.

“I told you to get him,” said Konrad, picking up the chair and sitting down.

The man stared at him for a few seconds before he opened the inner door and left the kitchen. The boy watched him leave, then he looked at Konrad. >

“Dieter is in the Imperial guard,” said the boy, and he laughed as if he had never heard anything so stupid. “He can’t even guard the kitchen,” he added, and he laughed again.

Konrad also laughed. The boy was about eight or nine years old, his face dirty, his clothes ragged, and he was doing exactly the kind of work which Konrad had done a decade and a half ago. In Brandenheimer’s tavern, Konrad had to do all the most menial, most boring, most dirty of jobs. That had been the whole of his early life; but unlike this boy, Konrad had never had any occasion to laugh. He had always kept silent, pretending that he could not even speak. Until he met Elyssa, there had been no one that he wished to talk to.

“You’d better start turning the spit before that hog burns,” said Konrad, and the boy did so.

A moment later, the door swung open again and the landlord entered the kitchen. Slimly built, without the expansive beer belly that usually denoted his trade, he looked more like a prosperous merchant. Dieter followed him through the door, and he stood to attention, as though on sentry duty.

“What’s going on?” the landlord demanded.

“I have a business proposition which might be to our mutual benefit, Herr Netzler,” said Konrad.

“That always interests me, Herr…?”

“Taungar,” said Konrad. The sergeant no longer had any use for his name, while Konrad had no reason to reveal his own.

“Bring Herr Taungar a drink, Dieter. What would you like?”

“A beer,” said Konrad.

“A beer,” echoed Netzler, as he sat down opposite Konrad.

“Hans,” Dieter said to the kitchen boy, “a beer.”

“You fetch it,” Netzler told Dieter. “Then get to work.” When the door behind him closed, he said to Konrad: “He’s in the Imperial guard.” He smiled, and Hans laughed.

“And he comes here to work while he’s off duty?” said Konrad.

“He’s always off duty, it seems. But enough of this, what can I do for you?”

“It’s more what I can do for you.”

“I thought that’s what you were going to say.”

“I have some fresh local produce you might like to buy.”

“What?”

Konrad glanced at the spit. “Venison,” he said.

“Not the Emperor’s venison, I hope.”

“Only if he comes here to eat it.”

“Karl-Franz has dined here, and sampled what else we have to offer.”

Dieter came back, carrying a tankard of ale. He slammed it on the table, slid it towards Konrad, then returned the way he had come.

The stein was only half full.

“Outside, to the left, behind the barrels,” said Konrad, sipping the ale, then swallowing it down in two thirsty gulps.

Netzler went out through the back door, came in again, nodded and asked, “How much?”

They haggled over the price.

“…and that’s my final offer,” said the landlord.

“A deal.”

“And I won’t charge you for the tankard of ale.”

“In that case,” said Konrad, nodding to the empty stein, “I’ll have the other half.”

 

A few more beers, a meal of bread and pork and turnips, the price of a bed for the night, and half of Konrad’s money was already accounted for. Little wonder that Netzler was clad as a wealthy merchant, because that was what he was.

The Grey Stoat was bigger than Konrad had first realized. It was more than a tavern which served the villagers, more than a coaching inn for travellers to spend a night before renewing their journey across the Empire. Upstairs were other private rooms set aside for entertaining the noblemen from Altdorf who rode out from the capital for a night of pleasure. For these, the Grey Stoat provided not only board and lodgings.

Konrad drank slowly, alone in a corner, watching all that was happening around him. He noticed the curtains on the far side which hid the flight of stairs up to the next floor. The clientele on the gallery preferred to drink imported wines and exotic liqueurs rather than local ale; the maids were the youngest and prettiest in the tavern—and they provided more than mere alcoholic refreshment.

Most of all, Konrad kept watching Dieter. It seemed he was employed to keep order throughout the establishment, and he was good at beating up drunks and throwing them out. Konrad looked through the window, and it had begun to snow again. It would cost a deer every two days to stay in the inn, he realized. Or maybe there was an alternative…

Dieter appeared to spend most of his time drinking with two friends. Konrad had noticed that it was he who always collected the fresh tankards of ale, refilling them from one of the huge barrels but never paying. Every now and then, Dieter would walk around the taproom, his hand on his sword hilt as though he were on patrol. Invariably while he was doing this, Netzler would show his face a minute later, looking from one of the doors which led into the drinking hall, or leaning down over the balcony.

“Dieter!” shouted Konrad, as the man began one of his tours of inspection. “Over here.”

“What you want?” asked Dieter, approaching him.

Konrad waited until he was a yard away, then slid his tankard towards him. “Get me another beer.”

Dieter stared at him. “What?”

“You heard: get me another beer.”

“I’m not a sodding serving boy!”

“I’ve seen you. You’ve been serving your friends. And without paying. So get me a free beer—or I’ll tell Netzler.”

“Don’t you sodding threaten me! I’m in the Imperial guard.”

Konrad drew his dagger and put in on the table in front of him. The intricate pattern on the handle marked it as an Imperial guard blade. He spat on Dieter’s boots and said: “You’re a liar, you fat slug.”

“Say that again,” warned Dieter, drawing his sword, “and you’re dead!”

“Say what? That you’re a liar or a fat slug?”

“Both!”

“You’re both a liar and a fat slug.”

By now there was almost complete silence within the tavern. All eyes were focused on Konrad and Dieter, both in the taproom and from the gallery. Netzler was amongst those watching, and he was also the only person moving. He was pushing his way through the hall, towards the antagonists.

“Yaaahhhh!” yelled Dieter, and he thrust his sword at Konrad’s chest.

Konrad was still sitting down, and he simply leaned to one side and the point of the blade was driven into the plaster wall where he had sat. He slid away from the table, stood up, punched Dieter in the stomach, then chopped at the back of his neck as the man went down. Dieter collapsed in a heap on the ground. That was enough, but to show everyone that he was serious Konrad kicked him in the ribs a few times, and Dieter began spewing up some of the gallon of beer he had consumed in the previous two hours.

Sheathing his knife and then picking up Dieter’s sword, Konrad saw that the blade had once snapped at the hilt and then been badly welded back into place. Exactly how bad a weld was revealed by the ease with which it was broken again. Konrad stabbed the blade into the floorboards, then twisted the hilt. It came away in his hand, and he let it fall.

“He’s in the Imperial guard,” he told Netzler, as the landlord reached him. Everywhere else, people were returning to their drinks and conversations.

“What happened?”

“He’s a liar and a thief.”

“I know, but I need someone to do the job. His predecessor got himself stabbed a month ago, bled to death out in the courtyard.”

“You need someone better than him.”

“You, you mean?”

“Yes.”

Netzler glanced around to where Dieter’s drinking companions sat, then he looked back at Konrad. It was clear that he knew what had been going on. The two men did not seem bothered by what had happened to Dieter.

Konrad made his way to the table where the two men were drinking. He picked up the tankards in front of them and emptied them on the floor.

“You haven’t paid for it,” he told them, “so you don’t drink it.”

They argued angrily and tried to rise, but he grabbed each of them by the hair and cracked their heads together.

“And I think you should pay for what you’ve already drunk. That’s one pint. How about the second?” He was still holding them, and he made as if to bang their skulls hard together once again.

“No,” said one, while the other reached for his purse and emptied a handful of coins on the table.

“Thank you, gentlemen,” said Konrad, sweeping up the money. “Enjoy the rest of your evening.”

“Get rid of him,” said Netzler, when Konrad brought him the payment. He gestured at Dieter. “Then come and see me.”

Dieter was struggling to rise, and Konrad hauled him to his feet. He slid the broken blade into its scabbard and stuffed the hilt into Dieter’s shirt, then half-dragged him to the main entrance and shoved him out of the door and into the snow.

“All you have to do is make sure there’s no trouble,” the landlord told him, a minute later. “If there is, take care of it as you see fit. Do it quietly, discreetly, and I don’t want to know about it. Occasionally you may have to help out with the horses, or do whatever else is required.”

“I’m not serving drinks,” said Konrad, “or clearing tables, or sweeping the floor, or doing any cleaning.” He had done enough of that during the first part of his life.

“You won’t have to. You share a room with Hans, you get all your food, a reasonable amount to drink, and whenever the girls upstairs aren’t working you’re free to make your own arrangements with them.”

“With what? How much do I get paid?”

They haggled again, came to an agreement, and Netzler added, “And whenever you have free time, I’ll buy whatever you bring back from the forest.”

Konrad’s only profession was that of a soldier, and he could have sought employment as a mercenary in any land within the known world—but he had become a guard in a tavern.

Working in the coaching house was almost like returning to the start of his life, and at first he kept remembering his time at the inn in his native village. The aroma of the fermenting ale, the myriad daily tasks essential to the running of a tavern, they all reminded him of the past. But now there were plenty of others to do most of the work, and none of them were ever beaten the way that Otto Brandenheimer had whipped Konrad nearly every day.

The Grey Stoat had other compensations, and Konrad found himself spending much of his time with the girls who served drinks in the exclusive gallery, then later served their clients behind the doors which led off it. They and Konrad all worked together at the tavern and were colleagues, and sometimes after the last of the customers had gone home or fallen asleep, they would just talk and joke together, sharing a drink.

But he was sharing far more with Gina and Marcella the night that the riders came for him.

 

A new year had begun, the worst of the winter was over, and both the moons were high and at their brightest. Even though he was distracted, Konrad should have heard the approaching column of horses, but he was aware of nothing until the sound of a scream echoed chillingly through the night.

There were many types of scream, and during his life Konrad had heard them all. He recognized a scream of absolute terror, a scream which ended so abruptly that it could only have been terminated by death. It had been the scream of a man, and Konrad knew that it was Netzler who had just been murdered.

Konrad pushed away the two girls, who by now were holding on to him in fear instead of passion, and grabbed his clothes and his knife as he looked out of the window. That was when he saw the riders in front of the Grey Stoat. The moonlight glinted off their brass helmets and breastplates. Although he could distinguish no colours because of the darkness, Konrad knew they wore scarlet uniforms, decorated with pearl buttons, trimmed with braid, and that their flowing plumes denoted their rank within the force.

They were members of the Imperial guard.

Two of them were below the window, and there were two more riderless horses with them. There was something strange about the dark figures, but Konrad could not work out what it was, and neither did he have the time to wonder. He had to escape, which would not be easy. These were amongst the best troops in the whole Empire, they had the inn surrounded— and there was no doubt that they had come for him.

He now had a bow and full quiver of arrows, but they were down in the room he shared with the kitchen boy. It was evident that some of the guard were already in the tavern, but if he could get to his room before they did, he might be able to despatch a few of the horsemen and even up the odds.

Gina had ventured towards the window and glanced out, and she gasped as she saw the ominous figures waiting in the courtyard below.

“Don’t go,” she pleaded. “Look after us.”

“They won’t hurt you,” Konrad assured them both—and as he spoke there was another scream from elsewhere in the inn. This time it was a woman, but it was another death scream.

“Quickly” he said, beckoning to the girls. “Into the roof.”

They wrapped themselves in blankets and followed him out into the passage. They pushed open the other doors as they went, signalling for the girls inside to join them. By the time he reached the ladder to the attic, Konrad had all five of them with him.

“Not a sound,” he whispered, as he ushered the girls up the steps. “A single noise and we’re all dead.”

He had already investigated the attic space when examining the whole inn soon after he arrived. It was a vast dusty area, full of forgotten junk which had been stored beneath the rafters over the decades. As the girls climbed up into the loft, Konrad made his way back along the corridor and cautiously peered over the balcony. There were more screams now, more murders. It seemed that the intruders were putting everyone to the sword, acting more like a gang of brigands or invading marauders—but, he supposed, that was what the Imperial guard had become.

Like Taungar and Holwald, these must have been Slaaneshi cultists, and somehow they had tracked Konrad down to his hiding place. They could not be certain he was in the Grey Stoat, but that was of little consequence. Like all creatures of Chaos, they lived only for slaughter and for death. No one would be spared.

All Konrad had was his knife. There seemed little chance of reaching his bow and arrows. A moment later this was confirmed: the next death cry came from Hans. They must have found the boy cowering in his room and put an end to his brief existence. Very soon the killers would have slain everyone on the ground floor and ventured up to the next level. It would be futile for Konrad to sneak up into the attic, hoping to hide away in the darkness.

He might be able to surprise the first of the corrupted guardsmen who reached the gallery, finish him off with the knife, take his sword and hold back the rest of the attackers for a while. The stairs were narrow, and so only one of them could reach him at a time. He made his way back to the foot of the ladder.

“Hey!” he hissed, and Marcella’s worried face appeared above him. “I’m taking away the ladder. Close the hatch and they won’t know you’re there. Have you got your daggers?”

He saw the flash of blades. The girls all kept knives for their own protection—but they would not protect them from the Imperial guards.

“Cut through the thatch,” Konrad instructed. “If you have to, get out near the kitchen chimney.”

He lowered the wooden ladder, but could not leave it where it was because its purpose would be only too evident. He made his way back along the passageway and was about to hurl the ladder over the balcony when the first of the guards came into view at the top of the steps. In the dim illumination, Konrad only caught a glimpse of brass armour, but he charged straight at the figure, using the end of the ladder as a battering ram. He caught the guard in the chest and drove him back the way he had come.

He threw the ladder down from the balcony, drew his knife, and ran back into the room from which he had emerged less than two minutes earlier. Closing the door and wedging it shut with a chair, he silently opened the window and climbed onto the narrow ledge outside. The two riders were still below, as were the horses they held for two of those who were carrying out the massacre.

His only chance was to take one of the horses, and he could only do that by killing both guardsmen and escaping before the other riders realized what was happening. It was about twenty feet down to the ground, slightly less to where the armoured figures sat astride their mounts. They were too far apart for him to reach them both.

Konrad leapt down at the nearest rider, feet first, knocking him straight out of his saddle. Rolling over as he hit the ground, he was instantly on his feet and diving at the man he had dismounted—except he was not a man…

That was why the riders had seemed so strange. They were not human. They were beastmen. Beastmen wearing the uniforms of the Imperial guard!

The one Konrad had felled had the head of a bull, and its eyes were round and green, its fur very pale. Recovering from his astonishment, Konrad continued what he had begun, plunging his knife into the neck of the supine creature he held pinned down. Its hot blood spurted from the gaping wound in its throat, and it roared out its fatal agony.

While it was still writhing, Konrad sprang up, and immediately had to duck as the second bullman’s sword scythed through the air above his head. He dived forward, his own blade slipping between the leather straps of the bronze cuirass. More evil blood was spilled, and another bestial cry of pain and rage was heard.

There was not time to kill his second opponent, too many precious seconds were passing. The unattended horses were shying away, and Konrad managed to grab the reins of one of them. A moment later his left foot was in the stirrup, and he urged the animal forward even before he was in the saddle.

A sudden shadow appeared in front of the horse. Steel flashed in the moonlight, and then the horse was dropping. Konrad threw himself free before the animal pinned him to the ground with its dead weight.

He twisted his foot as he tried to rise, and he slipped back to the cobbles. Before he could regain his footing he was surrounded by beastmen: three, then four, then five. Their swordpoints touched his body, and he gripped his dagger even tighter. Five Imperial guard swords against one Imperial guard knife. A booted heel came down upon his hand, hard, and he let go of the knife. Another boot kicked the weapon away.

“That’s him, that’s him!” yelled a very human voice.

Dieter stood behind the shadowy figures of the beastmen. It must have been he who had led the riders here, but that was of little importance now. Konrad was counting the number of beast-men. He had killed one, wounded another, five had surrounded him, and there was another with Dieter.

“See? I am one of you,” claimed Dieter, speaking to the last of the guardsmen. “I am in the Imperial guard.”

The eighth beastman must have been the leader, and now he finally drew his sword. He beckoned to Dieter, and the man stepped closer. Then with a single sweeping blow, the bull creature severed Dieter’s head. The head rolled away into the darkness, and the acephalous corpse slowly collapsed to the ground.

The leader summoned two of the feral warriors, and they withdrew from Konrad. A few seconds later, they made their way back to the tavern once more.

Their inhuman commander walked slowly towards Konrad, limping. Beneath his armour his body must have been even more twisted and deformed than that of the others.

There was a sudden flare of light. The two marauders had lit torches, carrying the burning brands into the inn. In the afterglow Konrad glimpsed their leader’s face—and it was even more hideous than those of the bull-headed Slaaneshi beastmen who circled him.

He must once have been human, but he had survived some terrible ordeal. Although almost masked by his helmet, his face was a shapeless mass of blackened, melted flesh. He had no lips, no nose; his right eye seemed huge because the eyelids had been burned away, while the left was nothing but a raw hole in his skull.

He held the point of his sword at Konrad’s throat, and Dieter’s warm sticky blood dripped from the blade.

It was Taungar—or what was left of him.