[Gotrek & Felix 12] - Zombieslayer Read online

  “What did he look like, this necromancer?”

  Felix looked up and saw a long-jawed old priest of Sigmar sitting on a stool behind the others. He might once have been a powerful man, but he was frail now, and blind. There was a rag wrapped around his eyes and he held a cane instead of the traditional hammer. A skinny Sigmarite acolyte stood at his left shoulder, and the plump old sister of Shallya stood at his right. Another woman stood beside her—a noblewoman of about forty years, with braided blonde hair coiled tightly to her head. She was beautiful and richly dressed, but carried a sadness in her eyes that was painful to look upon.

  “He looked like a beggar,” said Felix to the priest. “A wild-eyed old madman with a long dirty beard and filthy robes. No one wanted to touch him, let alone stand downwind of him.”

  “Do you know him, Father Ulfram?” asked von Geldrecht.

  The priest frowned, wrinkling the bandage over his eyes. “No, no. That is not the description I feared to hear. This man is unknown to me.” He sighed. “There are so many wicked men now. So many turn away from Sigmar and… and…” He trailed off, staring blindly at a point over the altar, his mouth still open. Felix stared. How did such a feeble old man come to be priest for a garrisoned castle? Why wasn’t there a warrior priest here?

  After an uncomfortable second, his acolyte patted Father Ulfram on the shoulder and the old priest subsided, muttering, “Thank you, Danniken. Thank you. Was I saying something?”

  “Yes, Father Ulfram,” murmured the acolyte. “And well said it was. Very well said.”

  A sturdy handgunner captain with a short brown beard and a plain, open face stood and coughed. “Lord general,” he said. “I don’t know about the others, but if this fellow can raise ten thousand corpses, it doesn’t matter if he’s mad. We haven’t enough men now to stop him.”

  “I’m with Hultz,” drawled a scrawny, sandy-haired spear captain who slouched against a pillar. Despite a recent scar that puckered the whole left side of his face, his eyes glinted with the sly humour of a barracks taleteller. “I went north with four hundred. I came back with seventy. We’ve done our bit. Let somebody else take the first charge for a change.”

  The handgunner captain and a short red-cheeked, red-headed man in the canvas breeks and jacket of a boatman murmured their approval, but a tall young greatsword captain with a bushy blond beard stood and rounded on the spearman.

  “Our ‘bit’ never ends, Zeismann!” he barked. “We are soldiers of the Empire. We never shirk our duty.”

  “Easy, Bosendorfer,” said Zeismann. “I didn’t say my lads wouldn’t fight. I just think we should do it from a better position.”

  “That is not an option,” said General Nordling, then nodded to von Geldrecht. “The steward has informed me of Graf Reiklander’s decision. We are to defend Castle Reikguard to the end.”

  Von Volgen grunted, clearly unhappy. “Forgive me for speaking plainly, my lords, but I fear you are just not equipped to hold here. If—if you were to allow me to speak to Graf Reiklander, perhaps—”

  “You may not,” said Nordling, cutting him off. Von Geldrecht was more polite. “I’m afraid the graf is extremely ill from his wounds,” he said, “and must not be unduly disturbed. Is that not the case, Grafin Avelein?”

  The blonde woman at the back nodded dully. “Yes, steward. It is so.”

  Von Geldrecht leaned towards von Volgen, embarrassed. “She lets no one but myself see him,” he whispered. “I suppose because I am a cousin.” He shrugged. “It is an awkward situation. Please forgive it.”

  “I—I see,” said von Volgen, glancing from Avelein to von Geldrecht to Nordling. “I did not know his wounds were so grievous. Forgive me.”

  “The fault is ours for not telling you earlier.” Von Geldrecht turned to the officers and raised his voice again. “But the graf was adamant. He said that it matters not that we are at less than full strength. This is the ancestral seat of the Reikland princes. It is Karl Franz’s family home. It is the Reikland’s eastern bastion. For both strategic and symbolic reasons, it must not fall.”

  “The question, then,” said General Nordling, “is not whether we should defend the castle, but how? I have sent ten messenger pigeons to be certain that one reaches Altdorf. Once the message is received, it will take at least six days for a relief force to arrive, if one can be assembled quickly. We must therefore be prepared to hold out for a week or more.” He nodded to von Geldrecht. “The lord steward tells me we have enough food and fresh water for three months of siege. Now I wish to hear from each of you the status of your forces—men, supplies, weapons, ammunition.” He turned to von Volgen. “My lord, if you would begin.”

  Von Volgen winced and pressed a hand to the bandages around his ribs, then nodded. “I had roughly two hundred knights when I left the Barren Hills,” he said. “I lost more than a dozen to harrying attacks along the way, and many more during the fight today. I cannot say how many, but I would guess twenty or more dead, and as many wounded. So, perhaps one hundred and fifty ready to fight, though I’m afraid their kit is not of the best at the moment.”

  “Thank you, my lord,” said Nordling. “My knights will be happy to supply you with anything you need. Zeismann?”

  The spear captain touched his forelock with a hand that was missing its two middle fingers. “As I said, general, seventy men fighting fit. Maybe twenty more could fill in if things got desperate. The rest…” He showed his mutilated hand. “They got worse than I did, and can’t hold a spear with both hands no more. Our kit’s in good shape, though. We’ve more spears than men, sad to say.”

  Nordling nodded. “Hultz?”

  The handgunner captain saluted. “Not many of my boys left, as you know, general,” he said. “Too many buried at Grimminhagen.” He shrugged. “Fifty-two, counting me, but six of them in the sick tent. Our guns are in good order, and we have plenty of powder, but…” He shot a glance at the man beside him, a gaunt artillery captain with one white eye and one blue, and waxy burn scars all over his bald head. “But Captain Volk tells me…”

  Volk straightened. The burn scars made him look like a half-melted daemon, but he talked like an Ostermark farmer. “We’re low on shot, m’lord,” he said, “fer cannon and hand weapons both. Firing stock fell low up north and the new order from Nuln ain’t arrived yet.”

  “How soon is it meant to?” asked Nordling. “Any day now,” said Volk. “But I hear they been slow filling orders lately. Lot of folk looking to restock just now.”

  “Exactly how much shot have we left?” Volk pursed his lips. “Enough for a few small engagements, m’lord, but if we was to be asked to keep up a steady rate of fire…” He scratched his scarred chin. “Three hours or so with all seven cannons going. Less for the handguns, if all fifty o’ Hultz’s boys was firing away at speed. Maybe two hours.”

  “That is grave news,” said the general. “And your crews? Have you men for all seven cannon?”

  “Oh aye,” said Volk, then made a face. “Well, enough for five, at least. But these corpses won’t be sailing up on boats, will they? So we can likely leave the riverside guns cold.”

  “We can but hope,” said Nordling. He turned to the greatsword captain. “Bosendorfer?”

  The young man snapped a sharp salute. Too eager by half, thought Felix. “Yes, general,” he said. “Thirty men. Fighting fit and eager to serve. Our kit is polished and in good repair, and our greatswords sharp.”

  “Any wounded?”

  “Eight, my lord,” said Bosendorfer, “but recovering quickly. I did not include them in my count.”

  “Thank you, Bosendorfer. At ease.” Nordling turned to the red-headed boatman. “River Warden Yaekel?”

  The man saluted, but chewed his lip before answering. “You know we didn’t go north, general. Our duties on the river kept us here same as Steward von Geldrecht here. So we have a full complement—two fully armed and stocked river sloops, twenty-man crews for each, and a few skiffs and longboats, but
—but, my lord, I have to agree with Zeismann and Hultz. There ain’t no point in staying here. We’ll never hold for so long. We have to retreat.” He took an involuntary step forwards. “Please, let me and my men sail to Nadjagard and arrange things for your coming. We will—”

  “No, Yaekel,” sighed Nordling. “You won’t be going anywhere. No one will. The graf has spoken.” He turned to the last man in the group, a hangdog-looking fellow with greasy brown hair spilling from his cap. He wore a doublet that proclaimed he was a Nordland forester, but breeches that suggested he was an officer of the Nuln city guard. “And you, Captain…? Captain…?”

  “Captain Draeger, m’lord,” said the man in a voice that announced him as a native of Altdorf’s slums, and therefore not likely to have won any part of his uniform legitimately. “Beggin’ yer pardon but this ain’t our posting. My lads are on their way home to the old city and just stopped for the night—thank you kindly fer the hospitality. But if it’s all the same to you, we’ll be on our way again.”

  Nordling glared at him. “It is not all the same to me,” he said. “You’re Reikland militia, are you not?”

  “Aye,” said Draeger. “Altdorf muster. Gallows Lane’s finest.”

  “No doubt,” murmured the general. “Well, Captain Draeger, the Reikland still needs you. You will stay. How many men in your company?”

  “Er, about thirty,” said Draeger, his eyes widening. “But—but, m’lord, we was demobbed in Wolfenburg. They gave us our pay and sent us home. We—”

  “Don’t try it, my son,” said Zeismann. “‘We done our bit’ won’t fly for you any more than it did for us.”

  “It most certainly will not!” said Nordling. “You have officially re-enlisted, captain. And fear not,” he said, as Draeger began complaining again, “you will be paid.”

  “Rather be gone than paid,” muttered Draeger, and folded his arms.

  Nordling ignored him and stroked his black beard, thinking. “Well then,” he said. “Combined with the graf’s knights—at least those who are fighting fit—we have roughly five hundred men, and when all the tenant farmers are brought in from the graf’s lands, we will have another five hundred or so bowmen to add to our complement, making it an even thousand.”

  “Against ten times as many,” said Yaekel bitterly.

  Nordling turned hard eyes on him. “Enough, river warden. The walls of Castle Reikguard have never fallen. I have every confidence we will survive.”

  He turned and surveyed the others. “Now, are there any further questions? Any further objections?”

  No one said anything.

  “Very well,” he said. “Steward von Geldrecht will take the information you have given and consult with the graf as to strategy. In the meantime, you will inform your men of our situation and prepare for imminent attack, understood?”

  The men all grunted their assent.

  “Very good,” said Nordling, then saluted the others. “You are dismissed. Long live the Emperor and may Sigmar protect us all.”

  “Long live, Sigmar protect,” came the answering murmur, and the men began to talk amongst themselves as they started for the door.

  Felix watched them as he followed them out. Except for the river warden, Yaekel, and Draeger, the militia captain, he thought the defence of the castle seemed in good hands. Bosendorfer was young and excitable, but full of fire, and von Geldrecht was a pompous ass, but he only looked after the stores. All the rest seemed hard, seasoned men.

  “Herr Jaeger,” said a rough voice behind him.

  Felix turned. Von Volgen was limping up behind him.

  “My lord?” said Felix warily.

  Von Volgen read his expression and scowled, embarrassed. “I—I wanted to apologise, mein herr,” he said. “I treated you and your friends abominably on our journey here. I hold the rule of law sacred above all things, and do my best to live by it, but the death of my son… deranged me for a time, and I let anger rule instead of logic. Please forgive me for the lapse.”

  Felix blinked, surprised. The lord’s gruff manner had not prepared him for such a speech. He inclined his head. “I understand, my lord. It must have been a great shock. But it wasn’t me you swore to kill. You should speak to the slayers as well.”

  “I will,” he said. “And I thank you for your understanding.” And with that he bowed, and strode out through the temple door and into the courtyard.

  Felix watched him go, bemused. He had expected the bulldog to act like a bulldog. Strange to find him a nobleman after all.

  As he started to follow von Volgen out, he heard voices behind him and looked back. Avelein Reiklander was kneeling before the altar, head bowed to the hammer, while Sister Willentrude hovered behind her.

  “Grafin,” the sister whispered, “are you sure you wouldn’t like me to look at your husband? Shallya has been known to work miracles.”

  The grafin finished her prayer then stood, shaking her head. “Thank you, Sister Willentrude, but my husband needs nothing but rest and peace. He will recover.”

  The sister looked doubtful, but only bowed her head as the grafin turned for the door. Felix turned too, and hurried out, not wanting them to have caught him eavesdropping, and also wondering just what sort of wounds the graf had taken in the north.

  “You are welcome to stay in any empty room you find,” said Captain Zeismann as he handed Felix and Kat bowls of stew from the mess line. “And there’s plenty empty. Most of the former occupants are sleeping in the ground north of Grimminhagen now.” He waved a magnanimous hand. “Take some of the knights’ rooms. ’Y’don’t want to bunk with the likes of us. Filthy peasants, all of us.”

  This got a laugh from his men, who stood in line as well. They were in the cavernous underground mess, just one of the many chambers of the labyrinthine underkeep, which also contained barracks, store rooms, kitchens and workshops, as well as Tauber’s surgery and a Shallyan shrine. The mess hall was loud with a hundred conversations, and warm from the heat of a huge fireplace at one end of the hall and the kitchens at the other.

  “Very generous of you,” said Felix. “But shouldn’t we ask the knights first?”

  Zeismann scowled towards the household knights, who sat all together at a dozen tables on the right edge of the room. “Nah,” he said. “They’ll only say no if y’ask. But no one’ll say anything if y’just take ’em.”

  Felix smirked. “Well, if they do, I’ll tell ’em it was you who told us we could.”

  Zeismann laughed. “You do that.”

  “Snorri thinks your bowls are too small,” said Snorri, looking dubiously at what the serving girl had handed him.

  “Are you sure your stomach isn’t too big, Father Rustskull?” asked Rodi.

  “Come back for seconds if you like,” said Zeismann. “We’re always well stocked at Castle Reikguard.”

  “Aye,” said Artillery Captain Volk. “Till the war, the biggest danger the castle garrison ever faced was gettin’ fat.” He grinned down at his skinny frame. “Be a while ’fore we get some meat back on our bones after our long winter’s jaunt, though.”

  “Worry not, Captain Volk,” said Zeismann. “At least ye’ll be safe from the zombies. They’ll think yer one of them!”

  Everybody laughed, then started for the tables.

  Felix scanned the room as he, Kat and the slayers followed. The various companies seemed to stick to their own kind, the handgunners at one table, the spearmen at another, the river wardens closest to the kitchens, while the household knights sat at the tables closest to the right wall. Bosendorfer, the towering, blond-bearded young captain, was laughing with his greatswords at a table near the fire. They were all big, broad-shouldered fellows like himself, and all wearing slashed doublets and hose and the most elaborate facial hair they could manage. It seemed they were having a contest to see who could spit into the flames from where they sat.

  Von Volgen, as a noble guest, was dining with Nordling and von Geldrecht in their private quarters in t
he keep, which left his eight-score Talabeclander knights to eat here, sitting in a huddled crowd to one side, not quite comfortable in a room full of Reiklanders. The castle’s other guests, the slovenly free-company captain, Draeger, and his motley militiamen, sat whispering over a table as far from the others as they could find, and looking often over their shoulders.

  Felix, Kat and the slayers crowded in with Zeismann’s spearmen at their table as they shoved aside to make room. They seemed a cheerful bunch, but Felix noticed a gauntness of cheek and hardness of eye among them that he had seen in other soldiers returning from the fighting in the north. Some, at the edges of the group, didn’t join in the jokes and jibes at all, only stared dull-eyed at horrors hundreds of miles away and months in the past. Felix had seen that look before too.

  “All dwarf work,” said Gotrek, looking up at the arched stone ceiling as he shovelled stew. “All this underwork. And better built than that human pile that sits atop it.”

  “Reikguard is the finest human-made castle in the Empire,” said the artillery captain, Volk.

  “Human-made, aye,” said Rodi dryly.

  There were some glares at that, but Zeismann spoke up before things could get uncomfortable. “The slayer is right, though,” he said. “All this down here was built some eight hundred years ago, back when Gorbad Ironclaw was on his rampage. Emperor Sigismund ordered it to be converted into an Imperial fortress. It had to be turned from the Reikland princes’ family seat into a citadel capable of holding a thousand soldiers and staff, and there was no one he trusted more than the dwarfs to do the job. They carved this little hill into a honeycomb, and built the harbour and outer walls too.”

  “Trust dwarfs to put all our living quarters underground,” grumbled Volk. “The knights’ quarters have windows, air, the sun.”

  “Wooden shacks,” said Rodi, between swallows. “They’ll fall down if you fart in them. You’re safer here.”

  “You haven’t smelled Captain Volk’s farts,” said one of the artillerymen.

  Everybody laughed along with him, even Volk, and the tension eased. But as Felix took a swig from his mug, Kat trod on his toe under the table. He looked around and she nodded for him to bend down to her.