The Justice of Kings, page 35
I sprinted across the cobbles. Despite Sir Radomir’s orders, there were still dozens of people and watchmen milling about the street, trying to catch a glimpse of what was happening.
“Move!” I shouted, shouldering my way through the crowds. A barrage of curses followed me as I pushed my way to the town gaol. I thrust the door open so hard the handle cracked the plaster on the wall behind.
“Dubine!” I shouted.
Bressinger appeared from the next room. “What?” he shouted, his features creased in confusion. “Where is Sir Konrad?”
Then we both turned sharply as the first screams and the ringing of steel on steel filled the air.
“What’s going on?” Bressinger asked, his hand going to his sword hilt.
“Westenholtz murdered Lady August!” I said breathlessly. “They are coming to get Fischer!”
Bressinger’s eyes were wide as he watched the margrave’s soldiers pour into the town. Perhaps two dozen made it through before the watchmen had the presence of mind to let the gate fall closed again. Immediately the soldiers started fighting their way up the gatehouse stairs. I watched Sir Radomir frantically directing men to fight.
“What do we do?” I asked, breathless with fear.
“We must guard the prisoners,” Bressinger said. “’Tis what Sir Konrad would expect.”
I groaned, on the verge of frustrated tears. “Must we always stick so rigidly to the rules?”
Bressinger pulled out his dagger and handed it to me. His expression was firm. “I was a soldier in the Reichskrieg, Helena,” he said. “I have seen what the world is like without the rules.”
Then he slammed the door closed and barred it.
XXVII
A Taste of Battle
“Only give battle in furtherance of a cause; one should never wage war as an end in itself.”
LORD ALEKSANDER CALLAN, 14TH MARGRAVE OF KONHOLT
I do not know how long we waited in that damp, cold gaol, but it could not have been more than a few minutes. I admit that I spent most of the time crying and praying to Nema. The sounds of fighting, of screaming, of swords and pikes clashing, of horses’ hooves on the cobblestones – all of it was a hellish cacophony that drove me near insane.
Fischer and Vogt shouted to us the whole time from their cells in the next room. Once they realised that Bressinger was not going to simply execute them, and emboldened by their pending rescue, they began to taunt us with all manner of threats. I shall not waste expensive ink repeating them here, but suffice it to say their words revealed plenty of their vile and ungodly natures. Of the three of them, only Bauer remained silent. He was a broken man, full of hate and regret.
The first blow on the door made me scream out. After that, the pounding was loud and constant. I clutched the dagger until it felt as though the skin of my fingers would burst. The door bulged against its hinges, fracturing under the force of the battering. Bressinger placed himself between it and me, his Grozodan blade held out in front of him.
“Fear not, Helena,” he said over his shoulder. “I will not let anything happen to you.”
The door was finally smashed off its hinges. Armoured fingers yanked the splintered wood away and the bar was pulled from its brackets. Three of Westenholtz’s men burst through the door, their surcoats already stained with blood. Beyond I watched cavalry charge through the streets, gleefully cutting down townsfolk.
Bressinger wasted no time. He dispatched the first man with a sword thrust through his eye socket. He collapsed to the floor like a sack of manure. The other two cursed violently. One of them swung his sword and landed a lucky blow on Bressinger’s left arm which took it most of the way off. Bressinger roared as he killed the man in turn with a flick of his side-sword across the throat.
Bressinger shuffled backwards away from the third soldier, gasping and swearing in Grozodan as his arm swung lifelessly from a thin strip of flesh. Blood ran from the wound like a crimson brook. I realised in that moment that if we were to have any hope of surviving I would have to put myself in harm’s way, as deeply offensive as it was to all my instincts. In a sudden flash of mad energy I screamed and charged the third soldier from the side, distracting him enough to allow Bressinger, with a classic Imperial sword gambit, to stab him under the armpit and straight into his heart. The soldier’s eyes widened, and a large exhalation of his foul breath hit me in the face as he collapsed to the floor.
“Nyiza!” Bressinger swore, before letting out a stream of Grozodan I could not understand, and following it up with “Fuck it all!” in Saxan over and over again, looking at his severed arm with horror.
“Dubine!” I shouted. My body felt as though it had been struck by lightning. I was trembling and nauseous, but also felt a strange sense of exultation.
“Get it off,” Bressinger said, nodding at his arm. “Quick, before I feel the pain of it!”
I backed away, revolted by the thought. “I can’t,” I murmured.
“You must!” Bressinger snapped. An appalling amount of blood was leaking from the wound, soaking his dangling arm and creating a large pool on the floor. “Quick, or I’ll die!”
“Oh… shit,” I groaned. I darted forwards and quickly and inexpertly cut through the strip of flesh like I was a butcher slicing fillets. The arm flopped to the floor like a large dead trout. Blood splattered my dress and I felt my gorge rise. But I had no time to dwell on it.
“Behind you!” I managed. Another soldier appeared in the doorway. Bressinger parried the man’s spear once, twice, then took the blade off the end of the haft. The man dropped it and tried to pull his sword from its scabbard, and Bressinger took the cap of his head off so that his brain was left steaming in the cold afternoon air like an opened boiled egg.
“Tie it off, quick!” Bressinger said, presenting the jetting stump to me again. With fumbling, shaking hands, I tore off a strip of my dress and tied it around the remains of his arm.
“Tighter!” Bressinger shouted. The veins on his neck were bulging. I could not imagine how much pain he was in. “Tighter!” he screamed.
I pulled the knot as tight as I could. The blood stopped trickling out. Bressinger’s face looked eerily white, his lips blue. He turned and sat against the desk. “No. No, I think that’s done for me,” he said. He sounded tired.
“No,” I said, frantic with fear and worry. “No, Dubine, you must be strong. Remember what you said, eh? That you wouldn’t let anyone hurt me? Well how can you do that if you’re dead?”
He smiled. “Aye, I said that.” Then he shoved me out of the way as another man appeared in the doorway.
“Stop!” he shouted. I whirled around. It was Vonvalt. He had a watchman’s sword in his hand and he had stripped off his formal robes. His white court blouse and breeches were stained with blood.
“Sir Konrad!” I shouted, a thrill of elation running through me.
“Dubine!” Vonvalt said, taking in the man’s ghastly wound and the corpses of the soldiers lying about the place. He looked visibly dazed. “Are you all right?”
Bressinger actually emitted a short bark of laughter. “Aren’t you supposed to be clever?”
“Your arm’s off,” Vonvalt said.
“Aye, now you have it. But the prisoners are alive.”
Vonvalt gripped his old friend’s good shoulder. His expression turned murderous. “Well done. We must move quickly. Sir Radomir’s men are fighting bravely, but I do not know which way the day will go. It is only thanks to that expensive plate Sauter has clothed them all in that they have not all already perished.”
He strode past me and into the chamber where the cells were. I heard bolts being slid open.
“Out!” he shouted. Fischer appeared in the doorway, looking frightened and confused. I took great pleasure in watching Bressinger grab him with his remaining hand and throw him across the room. Fischer tripped over the corpses and fell clumsily to the floor, crying out pathetically.
Then I froze. Bloodcurdling screams filled the air. For a moment I thought it was the battle cry of a pair of soldiers charging the gaol, but I quickly realised with horror that it was Bauer and Vogt.
“What?” I murmured to myself, frightened and confused. The screaming stopped, replaced with gurgling and choking and the grotesque sound of steel on flesh.
I pushed my way into the next room. The strong smell of shit and blood hit me first, then the scene which engendered it. It is something I can remember with perfect clarity to this day. Vonvalt stood over the corpses of Bauer and Vogt. The men had been hacked to pieces. Their arms were in shreds where they’d tried vainly to defend themselves. Blood marked the walls in great arcs. It wasn’t an execution, even an unlawful one; it was butchery.
“It is the Emperor’s justice,” Vonvalt said when he saw my horrified expression. “Fear not, Helena. I was within my rights. We do not have the time or strength to take them with us.”
Now, finally, I was sick. The meagre breakfast I had eaten and half a mugful’s worth of marsh ale sprayed the floor, adding to the mix of revolting smells. Vonvalt paid me no heed. He wiped his sword on the side of his leg and walked back into the main room.
“Sir Konrad—” I heard Bressinger start, but he was cut off. I turned and staggered back into the reception chamber, to see Vonvalt advancing on the cowering obenpatria.
“Don’t,” I called out hoarsely. It was strange. I thought I would relish in the deaths of these men. But this was evil work. The loss of August had seen Vonvalt come untethered from everything he believed in. I wanted no part in it. I would have seen both Vogt and Bauer released in an instant if it meant having the old Vonvalt back.
Vonvalt spat as he approached the miserable priest. “What is your connexion with Claver?” The Emperor’s Voice hit Fischer like a battering ram. Blood jetted from the man’s nose. He gasped.
“I have been paying him,” he wheezed.
“How much?”
“Too – too much to say! Nngg – thousands of marks!”
“Why?”
“To fund an army of Templars!” Fischer screeched.
“What is the purpose of this army?” Vonvalt roared, but he had gone too far. Fischer clutched his chest and his eyes rolled back into his head.
“You’ve killed him,” I whispered, tears streaming down my face.
“Don’t be dramatic, Helena, I have done no such thing,” Vonvalt said. He pointed his sword at the man’s chest. “Look: he is still breathing.”
He turned sharply as the sound of approaching battle reached us through the door.
“Nema,” Vonvalt swore. He turned back to Fischer, then to the door again. He grimaced. “I would have more out the wretch.”
“Please,” I said, itching to leave the gaol house. “We need to go.” I did not want to watch Vonvalt kill Fischer while he lay crumpled on the floor.
Vonvalt sighed, and rammed the sword into the scabbard hastily buckled about his hips. “We shall have to hope that he is still here when we return.” He took a step towards me. “It is time to go.” He made to grab my hand, but I pulled it away.
“What about Dubine?” I asked, my voice breaking. Vonvalt looked over to Bressinger, who had keeled over and was lying awkwardly on the table. Despite my best efforts, his shirt was soaked through with rich red blood and his skin was as white as a sheet. There was no doubt in my mind that the man was dead.
“He is gone,” Vonvalt said, almost baffled by my question. He could have been talking about a complete stranger.
“We cannot leave him here,” I said. The tears came now, running freely down my face. At least part of the reason I was crying was out of guilt, for however much I loved Bressinger, even I knew that we wouldn’t make much headway dragging his heavy corpse through the streets.
Vonvalt looked at me askance. He gestured roughly to his old friend. “The man is dead, Helena. Unless you want to join him in the afterlife, we must leave immediately.”
There was no denying Vonvalt’s brutal logic, but I was appalled by it all the same. Reluctantly I held out my hand, and without another word, Vonvalt grasped me roughly by the wrist and pulled me through the splintered wooden door.
Outside it was exactly as chaotic as my imagination had predicted. Westenholtz’s men had hacked through the meagre town watch and were now going about setting the place ablaze as though they were pagan rebels in the Northmark. The citizens of Galen’s Vale, Sovans to a man, were being killed where they stood. Of Sir Radomir’s volunteer companies there was no sign. I watched a woman of middling age walking as though in a daze, seemingly untouched until she turned and I saw that most of the side of her head had been sheared clean off by a cavalry sabre. Beyond the courthouse, I saw a small group of men-at-arms taunting a man on fire as he thrashed and screamed and vainly tried to douse the flames that were immolating him. Further on, near the Veldelin Gate, I saw a town watchman square off in a fit of reckless bravery against one of Westenholtz’s armoured knights wielding a two-handed greatsword. The knight took both of the watchman’s legs off in one terrible sweep, so quickly that the watchman’s legs from the knees down were left standing upright while the rest of him clattered to the floor. He was dead before he hit the cobbles.
I had always wondered, listening to Vonvalt and Bressinger’s brief and undetailed stories of the Reichskrieg, how I would react in such a situation. I was a resourceful person, and naturally brave, and I had always imagined myself fighting with valour. Besides, I had been in scrapes; the fight in Graves’s office in the town treasury, for example, or just a few minutes before in the gaol with Bressinger. I had not performed incredible martial feats, but I hadn’t run away.
But as it transpired, there was some quality to battle – or rather, a massacre, as it was at that point in time – which overrode one’s senses entirely. I was overwhelmed in the face of these horrors. I could look at a corpse on a slab in a physician’s basement without flinching, or watch an execution until the end. But these things, each appalling in its own way, were brief flashes in time, with one’s mind hardened in advance. Watching Westenholtz’s men brutalise the watchmen and citizens of Galen’s Vale paralysed me. I do not think I had felt so vulnerable, felt such animalistic fear, as I did in those moments. One would think that the compulsion to flee would be overwhelming, but the reverse was true. My legs felt as though someone had attached lead weights to them, my arms felt weak and my chest felt heavy, as though each breath was a great labour. I realised then that I was as much a dead weight on Vonvalt as Bressinger’s lifeless body back in the gaol.
“Helena, get down!” Vonvalt roared, and from the tone of his voice, not the first time. He tackled me as a sabre sang through the air where my neck had been but seconds before. In my reverie, I had not even heard the thunderous clattering of the destrier’s hooves.
The impact of cobblestones against my elbows was what jolted me from my trance. I looked about wildly, my breath rasping in my ears. Vonvalt was lying on the floor next to me, rubbing the back of his head, and for a horrible moment I thought the sabre had nicked his skull. But he examined his hand, and to both his and my relief, there was no blood there.
“Come on,” he said. He looked grim, as though attending to an unsavoury task, but never ruffled or frightened. His imperturbability was a foil to my own fear, and suddenly I understood how celebrated battlefield commanders were able to drive their soldiers to such incredible feats. Those two words, uttered with something approaching indifference, had a transformative effect on me. With every nerve in my body vibrating like a plucked string and my blood singing in my veins, I found myself latching onto him with an almost worshipful dependence. So many years after the event, I can still remember that charge of emotion, an even more powerful sense than that I had felt when watching Sir Radomir tell Westenholtz and his five hundred soldiers to fuck off from the town walls.
I pressed myself up off the ground and dashed after Vonvalt. Although initially it had looked as though Westenholtz’s men had killed everyone in sight, now I saw that small fights were taking place all around us. Those few surviving watchmen, as well as disparate groups of armed volunteers, were trying desperately to stem the flow of Westenholtz’s men into the town, though they were also paying a heavy price. For every corpse bearing Westenholtz’s livery I saw, there were two or three citizens of the Vale around them.
We reached the end of the street, where a large limestone Neman temple reared into the sky. A man-at-arms made a wild thrust at Vonvalt with his pike, which Vonvalt cut in half with his short-sword. The key, he had once told me, was to get inside a pikeman’s guard as quickly as possible and so to neutralise the advantage of range, and I watched this play out as Vonvalt barrelled into the man inexpertly but effectively, knocking him off his feet. From there it was an apparently simple matter of stabbing him repeatedly in the chest and neck until he died. It was a far cry from the expert swordplay I had seen Vonvalt employ in sparring sessions with Bressinger. Much like how I had seen Sir Radomir fighting in the kloster, real-life battles seemed to be chaotic and almost amateurish, with lots of clumsy hacking and stabbing and none of the flourish that abounded in training.
Another nearby knight turned away from a fresh corpse and made to move on Vonvalt. I screamed and without thinking threw my dagger at him. It hit his helmet hilt-first with a loud metallic clang, and bought Vonvalt a few valuable seconds in which he was able to right himself and stab the man just underneath the groin on the inside of the thigh. It was a vicious cut which saw the knight collapse onto his knees, and Vonvalt took his head off shortly after.
Vonvalt staggered back to his feet, sword in hand, heaving air deep into the pits of his lungs. I followed his gaze to see that the knights and men-at-arms of Westenholtz’s company were regrouping. The Veldelin Gate was now fully open, the gatehouse and surrounding walls littered with bodies bearing the blue and mustard yellow of Galen’s Vale. It was hopeless.
