01 - Honour of the Grave (22 page)

When some time had passed, and no sound had come up from below, she took
another daring step toward the trap door. The board beneath her feet stayed
solid and silent. She took another step. And another. And another.

When she stole a third step onto a new plank, it groaned like a banshee. She
hesitated, alert for sounds. When none came she sprinted the remaining distance
to the trap door. Angelika placed her fingers on the rope handle and tugged. A
distinct metallic click sounded. The door was latched from the inside.

A muffled voice emanated from the depths. Angelika couldn’t make it out, but
it was a male voice, and could have belonged to either Toby or Henty. She held
the handle tight, to keep it from rattling. The shout from below was repeated;
Angelika thought he said, “Who goes there?” or something like that.

With steady caution, she released the handle and let the door sink back into
its frame. She studied its metal hinges. The metalwork was primitive, and
twisted wire took the place of pins. If the hinges were better made, they’d be
easier to circumvent; she could simply take her knife and slowly pry the pins
loose. But she couldn’t do that to these ones—she’d need to think of another
way in.

She rose and made her way steadily way back to the stairs, where Franziskus
anxiously waited. On her return trip, the boards let out only a pair of bad
creaks, and each time, more shouts echoed from inside Toby’s lair.

“They know we’re here,” Franziskus said, voice hushed.

“They know someone’s here,” Angelika corrected. She sat on a step. “But will
they come out to investigate?”

Franziskus sat beside her. “What is the purpose of a well-defended lair, if
you obligingly poke your head out every time someone knocks at the door?”

“No, they’re not stupid. Well, Henty is stupid. But the others aren’t.”

They watched the door. It remained stubbornly still.

Angelika turned and walked up the steps. She headed out of the clearing into
the surrounding woods, and stooped to gather armfuls of brown, dead weeds.

Franziskus stuck by her side. “Ah—you mean to smoke them out.”

“That’s the drawback of a wooden fortress, isn’t it?”

He ducked to help her collect the kindling. “If we set their redoubt on fire,
they’ll flee, sure enough. But will they bring Lukas out with them?”

“Probably not. So we’ll have to finish them off fast, then go in to pull him
from the flames.” She’d found as much tinder as she could carry, so she walked
back to the hole to pile it up.

Franziskus dumped his armful of weeds and wrinkled his nose at the closed
trap door. “I don’t fancy our odds, taking on those three again. We only beat
them the last time by a narrow margin—and that was only because they failed to
coordinate their attacks.”

“I’m not claiming this is a good plan,” she said, “but it is the only one I
can think of.” She ventured back into the woods for more dry brush.

They accumulated two more armfuls. They twisted the weeds together, to make
them easier to throw, and tossed them out onto the platform. Most landed near
the trap door, though some fell wide of the mark. Franziskus set to work with
his tinder box. They’d kept a few bundles in reserve; he set one alight. He
lobbed it at the pile of weeds. It hit, but bounced, rolling to a stop several
feet away. It burned out, without igniting the wood around it, leaving only a
black smudge on the planking. He lit another and handed it to Angelika. She
threw it right onto the kindling. A gust blew, that fed the fire. The flame made
an appreciative
whoomp
noise and consumed the weeds. Under his breath,
Franziskus egged it on, begging it to spread to the wood. It did. Grey smoke
curled around the weeds and charring planks. It seeped down through the cracks
between boards. A chorus of angry yells bubbled up Angelika and Franziskus dashed up the steps and stood on the edge. The trap
door flipped open, banging on the deck behind it. A halfling leapt out. It was
neither Toby nor Henty.

It was a woman, her complexion darker than any halfling Angelika had seen.
Her heart-shaped face was wrenched up into a snarl. Long, twisted curls of
glossy dark hair flew out behind her as she bounded across the platform,
shrieking a war cry and swinging a hatchet. Rows of copper rings pierced her
ears and lower lip. She wore a shirt of mail, and she had to adjust the sleeve
so that it would not droop over her free hand. A bronze buckle, so old that it
had taken on a brilliant green patina, clung to her elbow, a rusty spike jutting
from its centre.

Next to emerge from the trap door, now wreathed in a ball of smoke, was a
long-faced halfling with a steel helmet poised crookedly on top of his
rectangular head. He wore no other armour, just a woollen tunic and hide
leggings; his naked toes splayed wide across the burning boards as he charged
toward the steps. In each fist, he carried a long, curved blade; he scraped them
together to produce a sound that set Angelika’s teeth on edge.

Then a third halfling came from the smoke. He’d left his head unprotected;
grey hair feathered at his temples, beneath a thicker mop of reddish locks. His
features were lined and bulldoggish. He wore only leggings; the muscles of his
chest sagged, his gut jiggled above his waistline, but his arms bulged tight and
ropy. In his right hand, he carried a kite shield, nearly two-thirds his height.
On his left he wore a long, leather glove, which extended past his forearm;
small spikes ran along his knuckles and from wrist to elbow.

Then a fourth halfling pulled herself up through the doorway, lithe and
fair-haired, her porcelain skin ruined by smallpox scars. She held a rapier and
a dagger. A fifth appeared at her heels: bald, old, unshaven, with a wily, eager
look about him and a club of burly oak in his gnarled right fist.

That was the last of them. No Toby, no Henty, no Elennath. No Lukas, borne
forth as a hostage, a knife’s-edge at his jugular. Angelika and Franziskus
stepped back, and checked each other’s faces for signs of surprise. She said
something to the halflings about this all being a mistake, but they kept coming.

The halfling with the long black curls reached the stone stairway first.
Angelika kicked her in the throat, knocking her onto her backside. As she fell, the rim of her buckle caught Angelika’s leg,
and pulled her forward. Angelika fought for balance on the lip of the sinkhole,
then tumbled onto the smoke-shrouded platform. The scimitar-wielder dived in at
her, but she hopped up like a frog to evade his twin blows. She bounced into
Spike-Glove, who smashed her in the face with his shield and then followed up
with a punch to the head with his reinforced fist. Franziskus pushed off from
the sinkhole rim to land on him, and tear him off Angelika. Franziskus pressed
the flat of his elven sword to the man’s gullet, choking him. The poxy one
jabbed at him with her own slim sword, poking a hole through the fabric of his
tunic. He rolled, and her next blow speared in at Spike-Glove, who deflected it
with his shield.

“Hand over Lukas!” Franziskus shouted, at both of them. This halted them for
a moment, and they exchanged puzzled looks. Then, in tandem, they feinted at
Franziskus.

Curly-Locks swooped her hatchet at Angelika, who scooted backwards. Hatchet
hit flooring. Wood splinters flew. Curly-Locks lunged, punching forward with her
buckle-spike. Angelika danced back and around, seizing her shield-shoulder and
spinning her. Curly-Locks tripped, falling into the smoke, but regained her feet
before Angelika could find advantage. They crouched, each waiting for an
opening.

“You’re on fire,” Angelika told her.

“No I’m not,” she said.

“Suit yourself.” Curly-Locks looked down to see orange fire eating at the fabric of her
leggings. Her eyes bulged. She rolled to a part of the platform untouched by
flames.

Poxy and Spike-Glove flanked Franziskus. Spike-Glove punched him in the
stomach. He doubled over, shambling into the smoke. He choked, unable to
breathe. Spike-Glove came through the cloud at him, squinting, mouth clamped
shut. With his elf-sword’s razor tip, Franziskus speared the halfling’s upper
arm, so that he was forced to drop his kite shield. Franziskus stooped to grab
it and brought its sharp bottom edge down on his opponent’s neck. The gloved
halfling hit the platform, face first, and lay there moaning.

Angelika ran to the foot of the stairs. Scimitar and Baldy jostled shoulders,
each vying to be the first to engage her. Baldy grinned savagely and let
Scimitar step up. Scimitar grated his curved blades together. Angelika backed
off. She tried to angle around him.

“I’ve fought some crazy-stupid people in my day,” he drawled, “but you takes
the prize. Only the two of you, and you attacks a stronghold not knowing who
you’ll shake loose to fight you.”

The poxy one, waving her sword-hand to dispel the smoke before her face,
stepped through the cloud, saw Franziskus, and slashed at him. He skipped out of
the arc of her blow, then used his height advantage to tear open the front of
her tunic. He grimaced when the flap of cloth fell open; he’d cut her more
deeply than he’d intended: from cleavage to clavicle.

He backed up. “We’ve no desire to wound you,” he told the poxy halfling.
“Just let us get Lukas, and all will be—”

Her rapier cut at his legs. He jumped away. Their crossed blades rang. From
the corner of his eye, Franziskus saw that Spike-Glove had passed out, and that
high flames were about to roast him. Half crouching, Franziskus forked a path to
his fallen foe. He grabbed hold of the halfling’s legs and pulled him free of
the fire. He felt a push on his hips, and then he toppled on his side: Poxy had
kicked him over. He scrambled on the boards. She brought another blow raining
down on him, and as he parried it, sparks flew from his elven blade.

“Why did you save him?” she demanded. She sliced at him; he rolled.

He crawled over to her. “No one need die here. You’ve fought well; Toby
cannot blame you.”

Angelika seized Scimitar’s dropped weapon and swooped it at him. With a
sideways blow of his remaining blade, he knocked it from her hand. Pain radiated
through her fingers and up into her arm. He brought the curved sword bearing
down on her.

A crash came from behind him. He pivoted his head to see what it was. The
boards at the centre of the platform had been claimed by fire, and were
collapsing into the hideout.

She punched him in the ear. He sank to the boards.

“Toby?” the poxy halfling shrieked at Franziskus. “You serve Toby? Wretches!
We’ll fry your gizzards!” She lurched at Franziskus, then slumped, her features
twisted in agony. Her face wound up in his lap. Blood soaked her tunic down to
the waist.

Angelika heard footfalls behind her and dropped down. Curly-Locks tripped
over her and sailed, sprawling onto the boards. The spike of her buckle became
stuck between two planks. She fought to jerk it free, but gave up, and hurled a
third hatchet at Angelika. Angelika ducked, but the handle of the spinning
weapon still hit her on the temple. She blacked out.

Baldy bounded down the steps to run at Franziskus, dodging to skirt the
yawning, growing hole in the middle of the planking. About ten feet from
Franziskus, he slowed himself. Opening his mouth, he revealed nearly toothless
gums. Strands of saliva ran from the top layer to the bottom.

Pox/s eyes fluttered open. She called to Baldy: Toby sent them!

“Goatfield?” Baldy’s knuckles tightened around the grip of his club. “Tell us
where the back-stabbing pig is, and just maybe you’ll earn yourself the mercy of
a quick death!”

“We don’t know where he is! We came here—” Franziskus thought fast, “to kill
him!”

Baldy stretched his left arm out and up to bunch Franziskus’ collar into a
wad and shake him. Franziskus chose not to resist, allowing the halfling to pull
him down to his eye level.

“You lie!” Baldy shouted.

“You misunderstand! We came here looking for him!”

Curly-Locks dragged Angelika’s unconscious body over, and roughly tossed her
onto the platform, beside Franziskus. It bounced slightly as she landed. Another
plank had burned up and teetered into a hole. Franziskus gave it a long and
meaningful look, hoping that one of them, at least, would realise how little
time they had before the whole thing collapsed entirely. Baldy, however, was
only interested in shaking him.

“You make no sense!” he said, sprinkling the young Stirlander’s face with
rancid spittle.

“Toby’s our sworn enemy! He holds a friend of ours prisoner!” Franziskus aimed
yet another look at the flaming boards. “We came to get our friend, and deal
Goatfield the swift justice he deserves!”

Baldy butted Franziskus in the gut. Franziskus doubled over, glad that the
hard-skulled halfling wasn’t tall enough to head-butt him. Black smoke wreathed
them. He felt a pinching grip on his elbow, and followed it. The halflings led
him off the platform and stumbling up the steps.

He coughed and fell on the meadow floor, rolling onto his side and bringing
his knees up to his chin. The prickly stalk of a yellow wildflower spiked his
cheek. He heard a body fall beside him, and opened his eyes to see that it was
Angelika. She breathed shallowly. Someone yanked his hands behind his back and
tightly tied them. He watched as Curly-Locks bound Angelika, too.

Then the halflings left them alone for a while. Franziskus reckoned it was
about ten or fifteen minutes. He heard them muttering but they were too far away
to pick out any words. He wriggled over to see that they stood on the lip of
their hole, watching the rest of their home burn up. Quietly, Franziskus took
Sigmar’s name in vain.

The halflings strode back over. The terrible slash he’d given Poxy had been
crudely bound, with fabric torn from her trouser-legs. Any clean bandages they
might have had would now be smouldering in the wreckage below. Baldy reached
over and wrenched Franziskus up by the hair, into a sitting position. Franziskus
made an effort not to cry out. Curly-Locks pulled Angelika up, too.