Castle of Blood, page 3
‘It has happened at last,’ he announced triumphantly. He waited for his audience to respond.
The chair to his right was occupied by a girl wearing a long white dress. Curly locks of blonde hair fell around her lace-covered shoulders. Her cherubic face brightened when she saw Roald, and she set down her knitting to devote her full attention to her father.
Seated in the other chair was a woman in her middle years. Her face was lean and aristocratic, in much the same mould as that of her husband. Baroness Hiltrude von Woernhoer was of the old blood, just as Roald was. Their families had been the first to bring civilisation to Ravensbach after the Stormcasts swept away the barbaric hordes of Chaos. The von Woernhoers were an old peerage and a proud name, so much so that Roald had surrendered his own title to adopt his wife’s.
Hiltrude’s current attitude was a reminder of that fact. She did not look up when Roald spoke, but just kept working at her knitting.
Roald waited. Normally he would wait as long as it took, but not today. Today he was going to demand Hiltrude’s interest. ‘Confound you,’ he barked. ‘This is important.’
‘Do not be so dramatic, Roald,’ the baroness countered. ‘Nothing you can say could be of the slightest importance.’
Roald pounced on her dismissive words like a hungry wolf. ‘Not important! Confound it, woman, put down that blasted knitting and listen!’ The irritation in his tone or the persistence of his intrusion finally made Hiltrude look up. The instant she did, he thrust the message in her face. He laughed victoriously as he watched shock and wonder play through her expression.
‘Is it something good, papa?’ the blonde-headed girl asked.
‘Better than good, Liebgarde,’ Roald boasted. ‘Better than your best dreams, little one.’
Hiltrude leaned back in her chair and pulled at one of her mahogany earrings. ‘Can this really be?’
‘You can see the count’s seal right there at the bottom!’ Roald stabbed his finger at the blob of wax and the impression of a castle surrounded by lightning.
‘What can it mean?’ Hiltrude wondered.
‘Mean? Mean? Why, it means that what I’ve worked towards all these years is finally going to be mine.’ Roald looked out of the window and watched the gardeners working in the luxurious flower beds. He despised flowers. Of all the extravagances he’d invested in, he found them the most insipid. But now he no longer resented what he’d spent on them, what he’d spent on anything. Because his name had spread throughout the great and powerful of Ravensbach. His position had grown in such stature that even Count Wulfsige had taken notice of him.
‘An invitation to dinner at Mhurghast,’ Roald said. ‘An invitation to all of us. We are to dine with the count as his guests tomorrow.’
‘But what does it mean?’ Hiltrude persisted.
A cold smile crawled across Roald’s patrician features. ‘Count Wulfsige is old, so old it is a wonder he isn’t a gheist. He has no family, no heirs to carry on his name or inherit his wealth.’ His eyes gleamed as he looked at his wife and daughter. ‘Don’t you see? The count needs an heir. That is why he is asking us to the castle. He wants to make me his heir.’
Hiltrude was more guarded in her estimate. ‘Why should he just give you what you have schemed and plotted to steal from him all these years? I know you think you are clever and hid your tracks, but maybe the count is even cleverer.’
Roald laughed at that. ‘Clever? Clever? The old fool never leaves that damn castle. He’s kept himself locked away in there for decades. Half of Ravensbach thinks he’s already dead and it is just his servants maintaining the illusion he’s alive so they don’t lose their jobs. Trust me, Hiltrude, he couldn’t be more oblivious if he was an ogor shopping for drapes.’
‘You are always so certain of yourself, aren’t you?’
‘When I set my mind to something, I get it,’ Roald told her. ‘Though sometimes it is not quite what I thought it would be,’ he added with a sneer.
‘This could be one of those times,’ Hiltrude warned. She directed his attention back to the invitation.
Roald read the sheet again. ‘You notice it is not made out to Baroness Hiltrude von Woernhoer, but to me,’ he said.
‘It is not made out to Baron Roald von Woernhoer either,’ Hiltrude said. This time it was her tone that had a ring of triumph to it.
Roald looked again. For an instant it escaped him, and then he finally understood what he’d glossed over in his reading of the invitation. It wasn’t made out to Baron Roald von Woernhoer and family. It was addressed to Baron Roald von Rodion, his name before marrying Hiltrude.
A name he had not used in twenty years.
Chapter II
No one in Ravensbach was unaware of Mhurghast Castle. Built upon a high hill that overlooked the city, the ancient fortress was visible from every quarter. Its iron shadow lay across the land like a shroud, a whisper of death. Its ragged parapets stared down at the streets below with grim judgement, a merciless gaze in which all were found wanting. The central tower, its roof edged in long spikes, clawed up into the sky, blood bats and carrion crows nesting in its battlements.
When the carriage started to ascend the winding path that led to the castle, a chill of fear closed around Magda’s heart. She had never been this close to Mhurghast, and now that she was all the stories from her childhood came flooding back into her mind. The children of Ravensbach often challenged one another to climb the hill and touch the castle wall. Many claimed to have done so, but they would ascend only far enough to be out of sight of their friends and duck behind one of the jagged rocks that lined the path, waiting until enough time should pass until they could return and claim to have accomplished the dare. Certainly that was what Magda had done when put to the test.
Now she was going to actually enter the site of those childhood fears. It was strange how Magda had thought herself beyond such foolishness until they were almost at their destination. She looked across the carriage to where her parents sat. Neither of them appeared uneasy in the slightest. Her mother looked excited, eager to be the guest of so wealthy a man as Count Wulfsige. Her father wasn’t anxious either. He was slumped against the door, his face flushed and his eyes closed. Magda could smell the bilious liquor on his breath every time he exhaled.
Inge glanced over at Magda and rolled her eyes. ‘I know,’ she said. ‘Your father couldn’t even stay out of the bottle for one night.’ She looked over at Ottokar and reached across his body to tug at the sleeve of his shirt. It had hiked up quite a bit and exposed several inches of the silver arm. As she did, her fingers struck against the hollow metal and sent a sharp sound ringing through the carriage. The noise awoke Ottokar, who spluttered and swung his bleary gaze around the carriage.
‘Huh? Are we there already?’
‘We’re going up the hill now,’ Magda said. Ottokar drew the drapery that hung over the window further back. Magda could see the steep drop on that side of the path. A matter of less than a foot and the carriage would be careening down the side to be smashed to splinters on the rocks below. A shudder swept through her, and she could feel the colour draining from her face. Ottokar was not so drunk that he didn’t notice his daughter’s anxiety. He quickly closed the curtain.
‘It will not be long now,’ Inge said, settling back in her seat. ‘I rarely ask much from you, Ottokar, but this one time I expect you to not embarrass me. Just for tonight, try to be a man and not a sot.’
Ottokar didn’t respond. He just turned and stared at the closed window. It was Magda who attempted to defend him. ‘Mother, you asked us to come. Father is doing his best…’
Inge sighed, long and deep. ‘No. He hasn’t been at his best for many years now.’ She gave her husband a look that was at once both pitying and scornful. She turned back to Magda. ‘Count Wulfsige invited all of us. The whole family. You don’t ignore a summons like that.’
‘I still don’t understand why he invited us.’
‘Listen,’ Inge said, holding up her gloved hand. She gestured with a lace-covered finger. ‘Do you hear them?’
Magda strained her ears. She could hear the rattle of their coach as it climbed the hill, but it was curiously echoed. She thought it might be some trick of the rocks throwing the sound around, until she faintly heard a horse neigh somewhere below. ‘There are other coaches.’
‘There are other coaches,’ Inge said, her face glowing with pleasure. ‘The dinner isn’t just for us. Count Wulfsige is hosting a banquet.’ She clapped her hands together like a little girl. ‘Oh, the count used to hold the most magnificent parties. Everyone of any significance at all was there! In those days the Hauslers meant something. Your grandfather made blades fit for kings. My family, they were the richest goldmongers in the city. Oh, the feasts back then! There’d be music and dance long into the night. Sometimes it would take the first rays of dawn to put a finish to the merriment.’
‘Count Wulfsige hasn’t left the castle in decades,’ Magda reasoned. ‘Why’d he suddenly decide to host a banquet?’
‘He’s very old,’ Inge said. ‘He has no children, nothing to make him look ahead to tomorrow. So all he has are his memories of the past. Maybe he was thinking on the past and remembered the lavish parties he once held. Maybe he decided to relive those times.
‘Everyone of consequence will be there,’ she told Magda. ‘The best families and their sons. You must be on your best behaviour. Make a good impression.’ Inge frowned as she studied the understated blue dress Magda wore. ‘I do wish you’d taken one of my old gowns. You need sugar to catch flies, you know.’
‘I’m not interested in catching anyone,’ Magda reminded her mother, hoping they weren’t going to argue on the subject again. She returned Inge’s gaze, evaluating her mother’s low-cut gown. The shoulders were bare and the neckline plunged. The waist was drawn tight against her curves, so much so that Magda wondered how her mother was going to walk, much less dance, in the garment. ‘It seems to me you’ve more than enough bait on display.’
Inge ignored the barb and pressed on with her attack. ‘You can do better than Klueger. You should do better than him. If not for yourself, think of your children. What kind of life can a man in his profession–’
Whatever else Inge might have added to her argument went unspoken. The carriage lurched to a sudden halt. It shuddered as the coachman dropped down from his seat and walked to the door. As he opened it, Magda felt a shiver rush through her.
They were in the courtyard of Mhurghast Castle.
Iron walls surrounded them on every side, rising forty feet from the flagstones. Magda looked back at the massive gate and the steel portcullis that rose above it. Its sharpened ends seemed like fangs hanging over the gateway’s gaping maw, as though at any moment it would bite down and swallow those inside the courtyard.
Magda stepped down from the carriage and turned her eyes towards the keep. The building was as grim as the outer walls, a fortress of blackened iron. Gargoyles leered from the battlements, their mouths crusted with corrosion. The windows that peppered the imposing facade were all narrow and recessed into the edifice. The tower rose above everything, a spindle of metal ringed with savage-looking spikes near its summit. From the very peak of its roof a banner snapped in the wind, a red field with a black castle flanked by golden lightning bolts.
‘Mhurghast was more cheerful back then,’ Inge said as she climbed down from the carriage. She pointed to the many iron eagles that jutted from the inside walls. ‘Those haven’t changed though. I could never shake the impression that they were watching me.’
Following her mother’s direction, Magda gave the sculptures closer scrutiny. She was surprised to find that each eagle was slightly different. Perhaps that was what accounted for their eerie, lifelike aspect. It did feel as though they were watching. More than watching – they seemed to be judging.
‘They’re unsettling, aren’t they?’
Magda jumped. She spun around, her hand flying to her hip where her sword would be. Of course, it wasn’t there. Inge might not have got her way with squeezing Magda into one of her old gowns, but she had been adamant that her daughter wasn’t wearing a sword to a formal dinner.
The young man who had spoken took a step back, surprise in his eyes. ‘You must be quick,’ he said.
‘It depends how you mean that,’ Magda said coldly.
The man removed the fur cap he wore and bowed his head. ‘My apologies. I didn’t mean to startle you.’ He smiled and nodded at the iron eagles. ‘To be honest, I’m just happy to see I’m not the only one who finds those things creepy.’
Magda looked him over. He was around her own age, handsome in a kind of rakish fashion. His clothing was respectable, if not overly opulent. Gold buttons on his vest, silver buckles on his boots. He had an ebony ring on one finger and… and she realised she was acting like her mother, evaluating people based on their appearance and how much wealth they displayed. She looked around the courtyard again. There were a few other people there, obviously guests who had arrived before the Hauslers. She saw that her mother was speaking with a man wearing the coat and hat of a Freeguild officer. He bore some resemblance to the youth who had surprised her. Magda noted with annoyance that the officer had worn his sword to the castle.
‘Who says I find them creepy?’ she asked, perturbed.
‘I think you’d need to be one of Sigmar’s chosen not to shudder with those things watching you,’ the man replied. He punctuated his statement with a dramatic shiver. Such was its ridiculous excess that Magda couldn’t help but laugh.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, and extended her hand. ‘Magda Hausler.’
The man took her hand and bowed. ‘Bernger Walkenhorst.’ His expression became thoughtful, and he glanced at the gloved hand he held. ‘You… Forgive me for saying, but this is the wrong hand.’
Magda’s cheeks turned crimson as she withdrew her left hand from him. ‘I’m afraid this isn’t quite… I mean, this isn’t the sort…’
‘It’s all right,’ Bernger said. His expression still showed a marked curiosity. ‘This isn’t my kind of thing either. I’m not really accustomed to society, as it were.’
‘Then this time it’s me who is relieved to not be the only one,’ Magda said. She pointed to the man speaking with her mother. ‘Your father? He looks like an officer.’
Bernger nodded. ‘He was,’ he replied. ‘That was a long time ago,’ he added hurriedly. His eyes still had that curious look in them. ‘Forgive me if I’m impertinent, but the way you offered your hand – that’s the way duellists greet people. And, well, it seemed when I startled you, you were reaching for a sword.’
Magda could see her mother looking over at them. There was an imploring sternness in her expression. ‘Bad habits I’ve picked up,’ she said. ‘Not terribly ladylike, I know.’
‘Of course,’ Bernger said, snapping his fingers. ‘Hausler. You must be the daughter of Ottokar Hausler, the swordsmith. Why, I’ve heard that he could not only make the finest blades, he could use them too.’ The youth looked around the courtyard, obviously searching for her father.
Magda took Bernger by the arm and indicated the man he was looking for. She could actually feel the disappointment run through him, like water draining out of a waterskin. Ottokar was leaning against a short stone wall. Despite Inge’s attentions, his coat was rumpled and the sleeve of his tunic had pulled back to expose part of his false arm. As though to draw further attention to his disability, Ottokar was wearing a left-handed swordbelt.
‘They still tell stories about the time he was ambushed by the Karver brothers,’ Bernger said. ‘Just his sword against five murderers out for his blood, and it was only your father who walked away.’ He turned his head and smiled at Magda. ‘It’s going to be an honour to break bread with a man like him.’
‘Thank you for saying so.’ Magda knew the words were pretence, a courtesy to salve her own disappointment. Even so, she appreciated Bernger’s sympathy.
Another coach was drawing into the courtyard. Magda waited while the coachman opened the door for the occupants. A young man stepped out, his doublet and hose finer than anything either Hauslers or Walkenhorsts could afford. After him emerged an older woman with a pale complexion and deep, haunted eyes. She was followed by a man in flowing robes. The dark blue garb was edged in gold and embroidered with curious symbols and figures. The man’s face had a dark, mysterious quality to it, his eyes fierce and commanding. His black hair was slicked back in a widow’s peak, and when he gestured to the coachman, Magda saw that his fingers were long and sinuous, moving with an almost boneless fluidity.
‘Lothar Krebs,’ Bernger muttered, uneasiness in his tone. He saw the bafflement in Magda’s eyes. ‘The alchemist,’ he added. ‘I’ve… visited him, on occasion.’
‘Perhaps my mother’s right. Maybe all the people of importance have been invited to the castle.’
Bernger quickly turned away when Lothar looked in his direction. ‘Shall we go inside? I’m sure the interior must be more comfortable than out here.’
Magda was rather doubtful on that score. As her eyes turned to the keep’s entrance, she was struck with a sense of foreboding. The doors were standing open, huge oaken portals banded in steel, the heraldry of the von Koeterbergs branded into them. Enormous chains ran from the top of each to some mechanism buried behind the iron facade. The slabs of iron that formed the doorway were colossal, ten feet wide and half again as tall. Magda suspected they were no less imposing in their depth. How such heavy, enormous blocks of metal could have been raised to the hilltop was beyond her imagining. Legends said that Mhurghast predated the city, built by ancient wizardry long since forgotten by mortals. Gazing on it now, standing at the threshold of the keep, she could easily believe such tales.
