The Last Ride of Heiner Rothstein Ross O’Brien They rode along the course of the stream: two hundred men, an honour guard. Each man kept his thoughts to himself, and his horse in line. The hunt was almost at its end; they would pass through the gates of the Ulricsberg tomorrow as triumphant men, trophies held high. Wolfram brought them to a halt at the rise of the hill. They were in a clearing in the Drakwald, big enough for their campfires. He gave the familiar orders and men broke from formation, dismounted, and set about their tasks. He doubled the number of sentries to twenty. Finally he came to the pistoliers’ former commander. The body of Heiner Rothstein sat on his old palomino, propped up against the standard he had captured from the marauders. He seemed to be staring at Wolfram, waiting for orders. Wolfram took a flask from his belt and began to drink. ‘Now we celebrate, father,’ he said. Around him, the men began to remember Heiner’s glories. Erik Herzkluge stood, pistol raised, feet apart, legs bent in the stance of a rider. He struck quite the pose in the flickering campfire light: blond-haired, bold-featured, and unblemished by the ravages of age or battle. He would not have looked out of place recounting his story in an Altdorf theatre, where bravado was tantamount to bravery. Riders of Middenheim, hardened by Ulric, had different standards. But then the listeners were young, and it was their first campaign. ‘From here to that tree,’ Herzkluge bragged, the pistol pointing at a birch some two hundred yards distant. He mimed the cock of the pistol and the firing of the shot, and he jerked his head back a second later, conveying the marauder falling from his horse. To some applause, Herzkluge flourished by rearing his ‘horse’ and turning away to reload and regain distance. ‘But the ball kept going!’ called Keefer Adler. The outrider had perched his saddle on a tree stump behind the seated pistoliers, so when they turned they had to look up at him. ‘There aren’t many men who could shoot one beast off another at that distance, but Erik Herzkluge is no ordinary man!’ The greybeard leant forward conspiratorially. Herzkluge, flattered, held an impressive pose and smiled. ‘He,’ Adler crowed, ‘shot down the moon!’ Herzkluge’s smile vanished, his face flushed pink. Adler rocked back in his saddle, cackling. The listeners looked away, their rapture stolen. ‘Rest assured,’ said Herzkluge, cold as the grave, ‘if I had hit the moon, it would have landed on your head.’ ‘Enough!’ called Wolfram Rothstein, stepping into the circle, between the two men. ‘Or I will shoot both moons, one for each of your heads!’ His right hand rested meaningfully near the pistol in his belt. It was a dangerous suggestion, he knew, and an invitation to stupidity; Herzkluge’s pistol was already drawn, and Adler had a lifetime’s experience of shooting. ‘Erik,’ Wolfram said, more softly, ‘put your pistol away, and tell your story. Keefer, go see to the horse. We ride into Middenheim tomorrow, he needs to look good.’ Another moment passed. ‘Now, gentlemen.’ They looked contemptuously at him rather than at each other, and nodded. Wolfram turned and stepped away. Out of their sight, he could wipe his palms down his lean face and wring the sweat from them. He touched a finger to his temple, feeling his headache begin to fade. It was not, Wolfram decided, a moment worthy of Ulric’s halls. Adler knew better than to heckle a story told on the night after a battle, but Herzkluge made a target of himself. He hadn’t yet learned the art of telling stories in which other people could be heroes. He was a good shot, though, almost half as good as he boasted. Another year or two and the Knights of the Howling Wolf might take him, if he survived that long. Wolfram regretted the thought instantly, but the bitterness remained. His own commission waited for him in Middenheim, and the men knew it. He could not command the same respect that his father had, and they only respected him now because his father had fallen. Without a Rothstein in command, there was every chance they would be disbanded upon their return. ‘We didn’t plan for them,’ he said softly. His gaze moved once more to the banner, and the body which lay beneath it. ‘The entire korps is here, but you didn’t think about them, father. Just the family name. Just the honour. You die in battle, I become a knight. What about them?’ His father, unsurprisingly, did not respond. The banner wafted impassively over his head. Wolfram averted his gaze. There was something intensely uncomfortable about it, though that was to be expected. It was a patchwork of jagged leather pieces, each daubed with obscene runes. In battle they had glowed ablaze. Now they were a dull orange, but no less disturbing. Each piece was a different texture, and Wolfram thought they had been torn from the hides of many mutated beasts. Some had probably been human. Instead he moved to better inspect his father’s appearance. Blankets covered the bandages where the bone staff had pierced his chest, and his scarlet cloak covered the blankets. His sabre and pistols, meticulously cleaned and polished, were at his side. He was thin, despite the good foraging and his investment in good rations. His face looked serene. That was good. For Heiner to have died silver-haired, wasted away and nauseous in bed, would have terrified him and shamed them both. But it could have been days, even weeks from now. As Ulric judged fates, this was a good death. ‘Wolfram!’ The urgency of the voice turned Wolfram’s head. Four men were brawling in the dirt behind him. Other men had gathered around to cheer them on. Could they not keep their tempers for one night? The rightmost man was easiest to recognise. Ghislain Langmeier, his father’s old lieutenant, was a tall man resembling a walrus, bald and bearing a great white moustache, waxed in the outrider tradition. It was he who had shouted Wolfram’s name. He had grappled Steffan Drescher from behind, hooking his arms around the other’s wiry frame, and was trying to pull him out of the fight. The sweat from the exertion made his head shine. Not four men brawling, Wolfram realised. Two men brawling, and two men trying to end it. ‘Good man, Ghislain! Hold him down!’ shouted broadly built Konrad Trauss, stepping after the two. His right arm moved back, fingers clenching into a fist. The last man, Magnus Gloeck, grabbed at the arm from behind, but Trauss smashed his elbow back into the man’s jaw. Gloeck twisted on one foot and collapsed to the ground. Drescher struggled to escape Langmeier’s grip. ‘Let go, Ghis! I can’t knock his lying teeth out from here!’ ‘Come on, Wolfram!’ called Langmeier. Wolfram lowered his shoulder and charged into Trauss’s side. Even forewarned, Trauss was caught off balance and went down with a yell. The big man’s weight forced them both into a roll away from Drescher. Wolfram’s head thudded across the earth, dizzying him. Trauss barrelled over the immobile Gloeck, flattening the young man. The impact brought them to a halt with Wolfram’s left arm trapped under Trauss. ‘Some bloody gratitude,’ swore Trauss, and he threw a punch at Wolfram. It was clumsy and lacked power, but it stung his cheek. Fury swept through Wolfram and he thrust his free hand forward, grabbed Trauss’s shoulder and dragged him into a head-butt. Trauss cried out and fell back over Gloeck’s prone form. Wolfram pushed himself up quickly and sat on Trauss’s chest, pinning him down. He rubbed his bruised left arm. Trauss made no effort to rise, but stroked his fingers under his nose, touching blood. Langmeier sat back, holding Drescher in his resolute grip. ‘What is the meaning of this?’ Wolfram asked. ‘I sabed his hibe from the naraubers,’ whined Trauss. Wolfram looked to Langmeier for explanation. Langmeier sighed. ‘Stories told around a fire, Wolfram,’ he said. ‘Konrad said he shot an axeman on horseback, bearing down on Steffan here.’ ‘Shod him through the gneck.’ ‘Lying scum,’ said Drescher. ‘His head fell off! Heiner cleaved through his neck with his sabre.’ Drescher’s face broke into a grin. ‘He dropped his axe, he was that surprised.’ At the mention of his father, Wolfram turned his piercing gaze on Trauss, looking for any intent to offend. He raised his fist to strike. The big man was still grimacing in pain, but his eyes were open, challenging – and honest. As Trauss saw things, he hadn’t lied or exaggerated. Wolfram tried to recall such a moment in the battle. His head throbbed with the effort. Then he gave up, unable to remember. No doubt he had been busy fighting other marauders at the time. He returned his attention to Trauss, who looked around him. Suddenly aware of the men standing around them, Wolfram forced his fingers to unclench. He eased himself up and addressed Drescher. ‘I’m damned if I know what this is about, but this ends now. Get whatever you need from wherever you can find it. Treat their wounds,’ he indicated Trauss and Gloeck, ‘then stay away from Konrad for the rest of the night. Are we clear?’ Drescher struggled again in Langmeier’s grip. Langmeier gasped but held tight, then squeezed his arms together, reminding Drescher of his strength. Drescher thought better of his predicament and then bowed his head. ‘Yes.’ Wolfram nodded to Langmeier, who released his grip. Drescher reached his hand to his neck, which seemed to be irritating him, then set about his task. Langmeier grabbed at his left shoulder, which was causing him some discomfort. He got to his feet and stepped away from the fallen men to stand nearer to Heiner and the banner. The gathered crowd dispersed, their entertainment over. Wolfram’s anger flared and then evaporated. He could not blame them. Their comrades had fought over some point of honour and they had stood in support. There was no shame there. ‘You took your time,’ Langmeier grumbled, behind him. Wolfram turned to face the veteran. Langmeier had been his father’s brother-in-arms, always riding by his side or guarding his back. He had the distinction of having fought beside Heiner for longer than any other man in the korps, and they greatly respected him. Few others could have interrupted a vigil without condemnation. Langmeier reached out his hand towards the standard. The wind flicked up around them at that instant and the banner snapped at him. He withdrew his hand and reappraised the banner as he would an opponent. Wolfram began to think he was wondering in which direction to circle it. ‘It’s an unholy trophy, Wolfram,’ he said. ‘I can’t say I’m comfortable riding through the Ulricsberg under this thing.’ ‘You’re right,’ said Wolfram, dryly. ‘We should only fight marauders who can embroider properly.’ Langmeier stared at the banner a while longer, and then he got the joke and laughed. His shoulders shook stiffly, still sore. ‘You should get that seen to.’ ‘No point,’ replied Langmeier. ‘I have reached the age where it will never heal completely. It will be one of those wounds that aches when rain or battle approaches. But you, you should get your head seen to. You’ve been jabbing your fingers into your temples all evening.’ ‘Only when the men fight,’ said Wolfram. ‘Then it hurts. Why are they so restless?’ ‘Perhaps it’s the spirits,’ Langmeier quipped. He produced a small wooden flask from a pouch, uncorked it and proffered it. Wolfram took the bottle. He sniffed at its neck. ‘What,’ he winced, ‘is this?’ ‘It’s good. You’ll like it,’ said Langmeier, mischievously. ‘Does wonders for headaches.’ Wolfram took a swig. He spluttered some of it across Langmeier’s breastplate before he could cover his mouth completely. ‘Wonderful,’ he croaked. Both curious and anxious, he inspected the sticky amber liquid on his hand. ‘What is it?’ Langmeier grinned. He already had another flask in hand. ‘To your father,’ he said. Wolfram raised his flask in kind. ‘And Rothstein’s Pistoliers.’ They drank. The headache eased off. ‘Did you see my father draw his sabre?’ Langmeier considered a moment. ‘I don’t remember. Who do you believe?’ ‘I should believe Konrad. He aimed and fired his pistol. I don’t know where Steffan’s attention was, but he was too close to the marauder to save himself.’ ‘You want to believe your father saved him?’ ‘That doesn’t matter. I’ve been walking the camp half the night. I’ve heard men argue about battles they’ve fought, victories they’ve won, glories they’ve achieved… but I’m sure most of it never happened. They’re not rowdy, or drunk, or upset. They’re just misremembering everything.’ He lowered his head, looking at the body in its fine scarlet cloak. ‘It’s his last ride tomorrow. Sitting on that white horse, propped up by that damned banner, escorted into his home city…’ Wolfram thought for a moment, sighed, and continued.‘ Surrounded by two hundred of his best friends who can’t remember what he’s done.’ Wolfram stopped talking, ashamed he’d failed to keep his doubts to himself, afraid to let any more slip. No one, not even this long-trusted friend, knew about his father’s malady and his desperation for a glorious end. He had only spoken to his father about it. Langmeier took another swallow from his flask. ‘You’re keeping them together. No one’s shot anyone yet.’ ‘Yet,’ repeated Wolfram. ‘Yet,’ agreed Langmeier, shrugging. Wolfram realised that Langmeier wasn’t simply in a congratulatory mood. There was something on his mind too, but it was neither grief nor pride. Langmeier leaned forward, smiling easily, and pointed a finger at Wolfram’s facial hair. ‘Wolfram,’ he said, ‘have you considered waxing that moustache?’ ‘No,’ Wolfram said. He grimaced, working out what Langmeier was really getting at. Then things came together in his mind. ‘I thought that brawl was strange. You’ve been a fighting man longer than any man here. You know how to end squabbles. Konrad’s a big man, and ten years younger than Steffan. Young Magnus never fought a battle before today. He didn’t stand a chance against Konrad. So why did you take on Steffan? You wanted me involved,’ accused Wolfram. ‘You wanted to make me feel needed.’ Langmeier stopped smiling. He twitched uncomfortably. ‘Rothstein’s Pistoliers is a pistolkorps with a noble history, Wolfram, but it is also a name with a lineage, and you are now the last of that line. Without you it is only a name. I am proud of you and your father, for getting you your commission, but the korps ends with you. No one here can afford to buy it and its reputation. No one here wants it to end.’ ‘You want to trap me in my own name, and keep me here for your own comfort?’ said Wolfram. ‘This was not what my father wanted.’ ‘Your father wanted you to be a knight. To command respect. You could have ended the fight with just your voice. Instead you took a tumble in the muck with Trauss. I wonder now if you could command him into battle if we were attacked tomorrow.’ Wolfram’s eyes narrowed, but he did not rise to the bait. Nothing could be gained from it. Instead he raised his flask. ‘To my father,’ he said, ‘and to the future.’ ‘Better,’ said Langmeier. He repeated the sentiment. They drank. Somewhere behind him, around another campfire, he heard more voices rising in anger. Two of the buglers, Wolfram recognised. ‘If he cannot play the full overtures into battle, he has no place playing them into the gates of the Ulricsberg!’ Predictably one’s fist cracked against the other’s skull, but by then Wolfram was rushing in, his head already pounding. The clouds brightened in the east, shielding the sun. For Wolfram Rothstein, the night had never ended. At shifts of the moons, he would retire the scouts and the sentries to let them sleep or enjoy the fires, and rouse their replacements from their warm blankets. Men continued to drink and argue. His headache came and went, usually with one disgruntled rider or the other being ordered to check the horses’ blankets and tack, or stand watch. The arguments had been petty. Forgotten details from one skirmish or another, the confusion of who killed what, or where. A few scuffles over seniority, and the right or rank to ride nearer to Heiner’s horse as they entered the city. Ulric’s beard, but there were protocols for that! Traditions, ways to spare a grieving family of the frustrations of deciding which old friend took the senior position, and which feuds were more politically affordable. His head swam, unable to track the details. ‘You’re going around in circles, boy,’ Adler told him. The greybeard had returned to his saddle upon the tree stump where Herzkluge was still recounting his extraordinary battles, and had caught Wolfram’s attention during a circuit around the camp. ‘Sit down a while.’ ‘I’ll stand,’ said Wolfram. He was in no mood to be talked down to. Langmeier hadn’t been the only man during the night to suggest he join the outriders instead of the knights. ‘Has he stopped talking at all?’ ‘I doubt it. You’ll want to sit for this,’ Adler said. ‘I think Erik has a new opponent.’ Wolfram looked towards the blond pistolier. One of Herzkluge’s younger friends had just play-acted a fall to the ground, and Herzkluge was strutting in victory. Thirty others, sitting around the fire, had cheered or banged their pistol butts against their helmets in applause, and in the new silence Herzkluge began his latest tale. ‘The last beast was the biggest of them all,’ he started. He gestured to the largest man in the circle. ‘Reiniger, come here. The beast was twice as big as Reiniger, can you believe it? Reiniger, lift your thumbs to your ears, point your fingers to the stars. Yes, yes, he looked exactly like that!’ Reiniger grinned. Unlike Herzkluge, who had only supped enough to stop his throat from drying, Reiniger had indulged in somewhat more drink. He gambolled on the spot in pretence of riding a horse, and several young pistoliers cupped their hands in applause to make the clip-clop noise. ‘You don’t like Erik,’ said Wolfram to Adler. ‘You never have. You’ll find a way to spoil this story like all the others. Why can’t you just… do something else for one night?’ ‘I enjoy his stories,’ Adler said. ‘You’re right, I can’t stand the man. Tremendously self-important. But he is good fun to listen to when he’s wrong.’ ‘My pistol spent,’ said Herzkluge, theatrically returning the pointed fingers to his side, ‘I drew my sabre.’ The hand emerged again, forefingers touching the thumb as though holding a weapon, and flourished a figure eight. Absent an actual sword, the gesture was dramatically pathetic, but the young men cheered anyway. Except for Reiniger, who for his part had started to snort and growl. ‘The beast was huge,’ Herzkluge insisted. ‘Their leader, no doubt. With his thick right arm he wielded an immense sword, as long as a man is tall, twisted as a snake.’ A wavy branch of pale-coloured yew was produced. Reiniger held it like a weapon and flicked his wrist constantly to wobble the end. A few men sniggered. Reiniger made a number of more suggestive gestures at them, and more of the men sniggered. ‘Wolfram,’ Adler whispered, ‘I think, when the day is done, and you’ve taken up your commission, I might offer to buy the pistolkorps from you.’ Wolfram fought to retain his composure. Adler wasn’t a stupid man. As one of his father’s lieutenants, a certain shrewd counsel and independence of thought was required. What Adler had chosen to say, he was saying where everyone would try to ignore him. ‘I can’t afford your name, of course,’ he continued. ‘Rothstein’s Pistoliers ends with your father’s victory, as it should be. But the rest of us need keeping out of trouble.’ Reiniger was waving his branch in one hand, and had taken up another branch, aflame, from the fire in the other. Men were covering their bottles and their beards. ‘It’s not just a name and an academy,’ said Wolfram. ‘It’s a responsibility.’ ‘I may have to settle down a little,’ Adler admitted, chuckling. ‘The only way I can make it work anyway is with a dowry. What do you think Erik will do when I ask for his sister’s hand in marriage?’ Wolfram smiled. ‘He’ll make sure that’s the only bit of her you get.’ Adler cackled dryly. ‘Yes. It’ll annoy him plenty. He’ll find a way to win from it, though. He’s quick-witted, that one.’ ‘Quiet. Someone might hear you saying something nice about him.’ It didn’t appear so, though. The crowd was rapt with the action. Herzkluge sidestepped to circle Reiniger, right hand to right hand, fingers-sabre to sapwood. Some of the men were still making clip-clop noises. ‘I’ll tell you something, Wolfram,’ Adler confided. ‘Erik can’t remember the battle. Look at him. He’s prancing from side to side. He’s trying to picture Reiniger as the marauder, and he knows he’d have broken away or been killed. But he also has a crowd to please.’ Wolfram watched Herzkluge’s eyes, his focus on the big man in front of him, the ‘sword’, the torch. He only vaguely recalled such a marauder on the battlefield himself. ‘He’s been making up opponents all night. Reiniger, Horstern, they’ve all stepped up and fought him, and he’s beaten them all, but he can’t remember what he actually did in the heat of the moment. Ulric’s blood, I can’t remember what I did either.’ ‘I charged him,’ said Herzkluge, fingers drawn back to swing at Reiniger. Reiniger held back the sapwood, posing as to take Herzkluge’s head off with it. Wolfram kept his attention on Herzkluge, on how much the young man was concentrating. Herzkluge pulled his left hand up, fingers in another formation. ‘Stupid brute. My other pistol was still loaded!’ There was another cheer for Herzkluge’s cleverness in battle. Wolfram cheered. Adler didn’t, of course. Herzkluge grabbed at Reiniger, reaching to grab the torch in one hand. ‘I pointed it into his chin,’ Herzkluge said, wrestling Reiniger around him, fingers to his throat, ‘and…’ The fingers folded into a fist and connected with Reiniger’s jaw. The big man smiled and fell over backwards, his fall broken by another man’s lap. Wine was spilled. They laughed. ‘And I took the banner!’ Herzkluge crowed triumphantly. Wolfram’s head snapped up. There were more cheers, at first, before the meaning of Herzkluge’s words sank in. Herzkluge was shaking the torch in his raised hand like a trophy, smiling. He was the last to notice the silence, or that his audience had grown in number, as men gathered to check that they had heard him correctly. The firelight reflected their faces, young and old. Perhaps Erik Herzkluge realised the magnitude of his insult, in that moment; perhaps not. Wolfram broke the silence, his words pained. ‘Heiner Rothstein cap–’ There was a shot, and Herzkluge’s body dropped. It was Adler who had fired, pistol drawn and smoking, stood beside his commander. ‘Stupid brute,’ Adler said. He swore, and muttered something else, which only Wolfram heard. It involved a girl’s name. Horstern cautiously crept across the embers and put his head over Herzkluge’s chest, listening for a heartbeat or sign of breathing. When he stood again he pointed his pistol at Adler. Then thirty men, all of them young and the worse for drinking, stood and drew their pistols, pointing them at Adler. Adler, and thirty more, all older and no better for drinking, raised their own pistols. Wolfram, drawing his pistol, stood wondering where to point it. And then they heard the sound of a bugle, and a shout from the eastern sentry. ‘Marauders!’ Thank Ulric, Wolfram thought; an enemy. Rothstein’s Pistoliers retained enough discipline to move quickly and smartly. The remaining fires were doused. Pistols were holstered, sabres were checked, and flasks were returned to pouches in belts. Blankets were folded and stowed in saddlebags. Breastplates were fastened, lanyards were untangled and ruffles in sleeves were smoothed out. Men put on their helmets and mounted their horses. Wolfram and Langmeier stood at the edge of the camp. Langmeier had the spyglass. ‘How many?’ Wolfram asked. ‘Sixty, or near enough,’ said Langmeier. ‘They look ready for a fight.’ ‘Good. Our orders were to find them and give them one,’ said Wolfram. Numerically the pistoliers were superior, he thought, but some of them hadn’t slept and many had been drinking. He took in the lay of the land. The route east was rough but open ground, with plenty of space for a horseman to manoeuvre. The marauders were riding through the centre of the fold and directly towards the camp, staying far from the stretches of the Drakwald to their north and south. Wolfram took the spyglass. The marauders’ mounts were huge, muscular creatures, black as ash, thundering across the ground. The warriors who rode them wore blood-matted furs over plates of bronze and iron and darkened oily leathers. They bore jagged-edged shields daubed in lava-coloured symbols, and were loosening long hammers from straps and sheaths. He sought out the leader, the one who would be keeping them all in line. To his dismay the largest warrior was at the point of the charge, bellowing orders. Such a foe led by fear and purpose. The marauders were coming for them. To the leader’s left rode a wizened fighter wearing a helm capped with rams’ horns, his beard white but stained a deep blood-red. He carried a bone-white staff. The icon at the top end of the staff was ornate but undeniably sharp. Wolfram pointed out the fighter to Langmeier. ‘That’s the one who stabbed Heiner.’ ‘Didn’t we kill him yesterday?’ ‘Perhaps Ulric has gifted us the chance to kill him again.’ The remaining lieutenants gathered around them on horseback. As Adler joined the lieutenants, the younger pistoliers cued their horses to keep their distance, and to face him as he passed. If he noticed, he showed no sign of it. The men, once mounted, congregated by lieutenants wearing the same colour sleeves. Adler wore blue sleeves. Several men had already exchanged coins and bottles for white-sleeved shirts. Adler took a look at the advancing horde through the spyglass. ‘They could have waited until after breakfast,’ he said. Wolfram pointed to either side of the oncoming warband. ‘Adler, you’ll take the blues down the south side. I’ll take the north.’ ‘Hit and run, hit and run,’ Adler confirmed. Wolfram noticed that none of them addressed him as they would a commander, but neither did anyone question his orders. He remembered that they were used to fighting in smaller companies for other generals, and competed amongst themselves for glory. Perhaps none of them wanted to challenge his authority in front of the others. Perhaps that was the best he could hope for. Langmeier accepted the reins of his mount from Drescher. Wolfram cast his gaze back into the camp, looking for men who weren’t ready yet. The western sentries crested the rise and made haste towards the remaining horses. In the centre of the camp, still, stood the captured banner. Like the marauders’ shields, the symbols upon it were radiant, no doubt sensing the foul stench in the wind. Wolfram knelt beside it and uprooted it. An unpleasantly sticky slime had oozed along the pole of the banner, but it unnaturally receded around Wolfram’s fingers, leaving enough room to grip it and feel its warmth. Langmeier spat. ‘You think we should ride into battle under a piece of filth like that?’ Wolfram hefted the banner. ‘It might make them think twice before attacking us. And in a strange way, we are fighting for it.’ ‘I’ll ride with Keefer,’ said Langmeier. Only one of the saddles had been fitted so the banner could be lashed to it and borne triumphantly forward. So Wolfram sat high upon his father’s white horse, the pole strapped in front of his left leg, the fervent cloth flapping behind him in the wind. He turned in the saddle to address his troops. ‘Rothstein’s Pistoliers! White sleeves, with me. Blue, with Adler. For Middenheim and Heiner, we ride!’ With a swift kick, he led off. The pistoliers cascaded down the slope behind him. He flicked at the reins, urging his horse into a gallop, then looped them around his wrist and pulled to the left, Horstern and Trauss at his sides. Adler and Langmeier broke off to the right, a hundred blue-sleeved pistoliers behind them. They pounded across the scrub, keeping the marauders to their right. The white-sleeves had the advantage: they were right-handed and the marauders held their shields to the south. They drew their pistols, pointing them to the right, finding spaces between each other to pick out victims, keeping pace. Wolfram picked out the lead marauder, gauging his distance. The warrior’s head, between the horns protruding from his helmet, seemed the most exposed part. A hundred and fifty yards, he reckoned. If the marauders intended to attack, rather than riding past, then now was the time for their leader to decide on which formation to charge. Wolfram kept pace and direction, his attention snapping between his horse and his enemy’s. A hundred yards. A little closer. He started to drift his aim to the right, ahead of the pack. Up and down, up and down with the horse’s thundering steps. The lead marauder veered his horse to the north. From the rear of the warband, warriors peeled off, heaving their hammers up and around. They’ve picked us, Wolfram thought, flicking his reins again. Closer, closer. He couldn’t think to the riders behind him, only trust that perhaps forty had a clear view to fire. ‘Fire!’ he yelled, pulling the trigger. A ripple of explosions thundered behind him, a startling noise for all the horses. The lead marauder twitched in the saddle, and the man to his right screamed from a shot through the chest. Wolfram kept his mount in check, allowing his pistol to swing from its lanyard and drawing the other. The second volley fired like the first. This time it rippled along the flank of the marauders. Black steeds toppled over broken legs, pitching their masters to the ground. The pistoliers rode on, east and away from the wheeling warriors. They turned in their saddles to reload their pistols. South of them, Adler’s riders emptied their pistols at the marauders’ rear and veered north and around to get a second shot. The white-sleeves fanned out into a long row and wheeled tightly, individually. Once more they reformed behind Wolfram, charging back towards the camp. The marauders, too, had spread out for a wider frontage. Coruscating lights drew his attention to the warrior bearing the bone staff. Sorcerer, Wolfram realised. ‘Again! South,’ Wolfram shouted. Horstern, several horses behind him, blew at his bugle, two short blasts. The pistoliers veered to the left. Wolfram furiously reloaded his second pistol, spilling powder across his thighs. Men who hadn’t fired picked out individual marauders. Wolfram trained his eye on a broad-chested barbarian with a great axe and no breastplate. The man to Wolfram’s left fired, sudden and alone. Wolfram swivelled. Keefer Adler, far to his left, slid from his horse mid-wheel. He could not close his eyes before Langmeier’s horse inevitably trampled him. Herzkluge – Herzkluge? – smoothly swapped his pistols and pointed the second past Wolfram’s back, at the sorceror. Wolfram’s fingers tightened around the reins. His head was pounding, pounding again. He held his own pistol out to the right, aiming for the marauders’ right flank. He could hear chanting. He fired, fired wild, and it continued. He heard the discordant reverberations of forty more shots, and forty more, cracking, cracking to the right. A howl and roar of heavy cavalry riding into battle; the screams of anguished riders and their steeds suffering burns to the head and face. Then… silence. No sound of hooves, nor crack of gunfire. No battle cries, nor cries of pain. No chants. He could smell heather, thick and fragrant. ‘The veil is lifted,’ he heard. The cacophony of battle returned, as suddenly as it left, in all its screaming glory. The damned banner burst into flames. Thick, burning amber pus splattered over him, scorching his face. He clutched at his eyes to clear his vision, pulling hard at the reins. His horse, shrieking in agony, careened from the formation. ‘You can hear me,’ Wolfram heard. He whirled in his place, seeking the origin of the voice. Hurriedly he waved his sleeves across his horse’s back, wiping the foul liquid away. He drew his knife from his boot, and razored it swiftly across the banner straps. They were bound tight, and hard to cut. ‘I can see the colours of Rothstein beneath that foul banner.’ He heaved the horse to a halt and looked around. The pistoliers, their divisions indistinguishable, surrounded the marauders’ position on all sides. He could see Langmeier to the north, drawing his sabre. Horsten, blasting his bugle, sounding the call to break away again. Brave, stoic Drescher at the south, aiming his pistol at Trauss’s back. Keefer Adler, impossibly alive, riding once more into the fray. A cold chill took him, turning his breath to steam. An awareness of things not right. The banner still sat, warm in the saddle, urging him to surrender his awareness and return to battle. Magic, he thought, cursing. Sorcery. ‘Show yourself!’ he demanded. ‘Look upon us,’ he heard. He sought the bone-white staff above the wall of riders. A rod, gleaming white, rose and fell, here and there. A gap appeared briefly among the pistoliers, and thirteen great horses penetrated it. Thirteen great warriors rode them. Twelve wore wolfskin pelts over their shoulders, grey and dusty. Their armour shone silver. Fur tails hung from their immense warhammers, which were hooded in black cloth. Their breastplates were blue, their livery red. The last wore a black cloak over black armour, and bore a great sword. White Wolves. Red Company, to be specific, and a templar of the Black Guard of Morr. ‘Do you see your crime, Rothstein?’ the voice accused. ‘Can you perceive the pain you have wrought, the wrath invoked, the vengeance demanded?’ The sorcerer emerged into view: a haggard wizard, his amber cloak ragged and blackened by shot. His white staff crackled with power. The banner erupted once more. Wolfram shoved the banner away, staggering the horse to one side. The oily fluid singed and bit at his wrists and his steed’s mane, but most of it splashed harmlessly to the ground. ‘Surrender your illusions, Rothstein!’ ordered the wizard. ‘Cast aside your taint. It is not foul marauders you have hunted and slain these past four months. They were innocents! Foresters and woodsmen. Timber merchants and their wagons. Travellers across the Middenland. Men! Women! Children!’ ‘Lies!’ Wolfram snarled. They had hunted the warriors who had preyed on the innocent. They had slain them all. They had been glorious. Yet now they were killing Ulric’s own templars. He couldn’t deny it. No marauders, he realised. Sorcery. He sawed frantically at the straps now, severing one, starting another. No honour, he cursed. Four months! A second cord split. The banner pitched to his right, spewing in protest. What atrocities have we committed under you, he fumed. How many dead? ‘It is not enough to discard the standard, Rothstein,’ said the wizard. ‘It must be destroyed utterly. Bring it to me.’ He cut the final strap, and looked again to the fight, the spiralling riders, indiscriminate now in their carnage. Reiniger shot at a Wolf and hit Langmeier. Horstern cleaved his sabre at Adler and decapitated a Wolf. Petty feuds perpetuated, amplified. Tainted. The White Wolves fell, and Rothstein’s Pistoliers endured. No more, he decided. He drew both pistols, aimed them into the air, and discharged them. He tore open the saddlebag of black powder and let it spill. Then he hefted the banner pole under his arm like a lance, and kicked his heels against the flanks of his steed. I shall shoot both moons, he had said to Adler and Herzkluge. Now he would bring them down upon their heads. He charged towards the wizard. The whitebeard lowered the staff and cast an invocation. The staff crackled once more with white lightning, and struck out at him. The banner, defiant, pounded in resistance in his head. Wolfram held true. With every juddering step his horse took, a piece of flaming leather snapped off and fluttered to the ground. He remembered. He remembered the pain. The axeman who severed Drescher’s head from his neck. The warrior who broke Langmeier’s shoulders and ribs with his great snaking sword. The dying marauder with no teeth, throwing with his last breath the almighty hammer which had crushed his own skull. All these and more, the pistoliers had killed. He let it all burn away. The horned totem atop the pole roared with fury, screeched its last, and died. His head felt clear, elated. He rocked back in his saddle, victorious. The sounds of tankards thumping on oak tables and of hearty salutations filled his mind. This was a tale worthy of Ulric’s halls, he thought. He would enjoy telling it to his father. The pistoliers’ ghosts, as one, vanished. Leaving one pistolier still riding. The banner pole lanced the sorcerer through the chest, thudding between his ribs, and snapped. He cannoned from the horse and struck the ground, his limbs suddenly slack. The bone staff whirled away into the scrub. Heiner Rothstein tossed the broken stick aside and looked around for more enemies. When he couldn’t see any, he swore, turned his horse around and whipped the reins, kicking it into a gallop. His scarlet cloak thrashed in the wind. The sorcerer’s mount, a chestnut creature, heard the pounding of hooves behind it and accelerated. He urged his horse to match its velocity, and drew his pistol from his belt. He couldn’t get closer than fifty yards; his steed was tired. Heiner fired and the chestnut fell, driving its nose into the earth. He returned to the field of carnage and picked a warhammer from the weapons of the fallen. It didn’t do to leave a horse suffering. As he pulled the black cloth from the warhammer he heard a deep voice behind him. He turned. Perhaps there was still a chance. A pale-skinned man wrapped in a black cloak knelt beside a dead warrior, performing rites over the body. A dark helm, resembling that of a templar of the Black Guard, sat at his foot. Heiner concentrated on it, disturbed by the lack of corruption. It had no horns or teeth. The man looked at him and then stood, the flow of his robes betraying the outline of his black breastplate and a scabbard, at his left side. Surprisingly he made no attempt to draw the sword, or attack. He stood still. In the man’s left hand, Heiner recognised the shard of the banner pole he had discarded only minutes earlier. The loss of the standard was fresh in his mind and he roiled at the thought of even a piece of it being recaptured. ‘The sorcery has ended,’ said the man. ‘The unquiet souls are free.’ Heiner gripped the warhammer’s haft more tightly. ‘Draw your weapon,’ he challenged. The man’s voice was soft and measured, entrancing and without anger, rejecting him without confrontation. ‘This foul artefact has ended enough lives already. We will not serve it further.’ What new marauder trick is this, Heiner thought? ‘My duty, Rothstein, is to those deceased who were denied Morr’s peace by this ruinous standard, and enslaved to battle by your desires for glory. I must ensure their final rest, and you are my best chance of finding and consecrating their remains. But make no mistake: this is your only chance for penance, and if you make any other choice I will send you to the father of Death myself. Will you yield your quest?’ The question hung in the air between them. Heiner’s eyes narrowed, his gaze hunting in the other man’s eyes for the twitch before the inevitable attack. ‘Rothstein, for the sake of your son, will you yield?’ ‘For the sake of my son, I will not!’ Heiner yelled. Suddenly he swung the hammer upwards. The warrior threw himself backwards but it crashed against his breastplate, sending him thundering to the ground. He struggled to rise but Heiner hit him again, cracking his ribs. ‘My son. My glory. Nothing else matters! Draw your weapon, maggot!’ The man drew his sword between difficult, heaving breaths, and fought to hold it upright, towards Heiner’s heart. Heiner lifted the hammer again and brought it down, at the same time pushing his chest upon the point of the blade. Frustratingly, the man spasmed and died. The sword clattered to the floor. He cursed. Could none of these whoresons kill him in battle? The men were quiet tonight. It made a change. Most nights they argued constantly; it kept him awake. The boy irritated him especially, talking incessantly. Heiner turned the leg over the fire until the smoke blocked out the smells of the carnage around him, the fumes of intestine and bowel. The horseflesh was all he had found worth eating. It would do. It wasn’t salted beef, and he hadn’t any red wine, but such was war. The rations would only stretch so far, and the men would need to save something for the ride home. The boy in particular was fond of the port, and he’d kept a flask aside for the boy to toast his memory with after he was gone. He chewed slowly, and swallowed with difficulty. He hoped his face wasn’t too blotchy. He was taking a strange pride in looking his best at the moment, and he was running out of wax to keep his moustache springy. His hair was getting patchier. If they couldn’t track down something to kill him soon he was sure he would go demented. Crows flew overhead, drawing his attention to the east. There, Heiner Rothstein saw the dust of more riders cresting the horizon.