01 - Drachenfels by Jack Yeovil - (ebook by Undead)

Author:Jack Yeovil - (ebook by Undead) [Yeovil, Jack]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Warhammer
Published: 2010-11-12T07:00:00+00:00

IV

Genevieve took off her tinted glasses and looked up at the fortress of Drachenfels. It seemed different now, smaller. It was a pleasant spring day, and the ride up from the village was almost easy. The last time she had been this way, they had avoided the road—it was littered with the bones of those who had thought they could just walk up to the castle and knock on the door—and scaled the precipitous cliffs. There were other abandoned castles in the Grey Mountains, and they were no more imposing, no more haunted than this one. There were none of the traditional signs of an evil place: birds sang, the local vegetation flourished, milk went unsoured, animals were not mysteriously agitated. Even with her heightened awareness, Genevieve could sense nothing. It was as if the Great Enchanter had never been.

Of course, Oswald’s men had prepared the way. Henrik Kraly had sent out a squadron of cleaners, cooks, carpenters and servants to make the place ready for occupation. There had been some initial reluctance among the villagers who had lived all their lives in the shadow of Drachenfels to hire on with the company, but the crown prince’s gold had overcome many objections. The lad who saw to her horse after she dismounted must have been born well after the death of Drachenfels. The young of the region were reluctant to believe the stories told by their parents and grandparents. And some of the old were impressed enough by the ballads of Oswald and Genevieve to conquer their aversion to the ruin and take positions with Detlef’s troupe.

The genius was in good spirits as he rode at the head of his gypsy caravan of actors, musicians and show people. He was a good conversationalist, and eager to talk with Genevieve. They had been through the minutiae of Oswald’s quest, of course, but the dramatist was also interested in the rest of her long life, and was skilled at drawing out incidents she hadn’t spoken of for centuries. The breadth of his learning was impressive, and she found him well-informed about the great men and women of earlier eras. She had known Tarradasch, had seen his plays during their original runs, and cheered Detlef greatly with her opinion that the great dramatist was less skilled as an actor and director than as a writer.

“A regional touring company today could better the original Altdorf productions of Tarradasch’s masterpieces without breaking a sweat,” she opined.

“Quite! Yes! Exactly!” he agreed.

It was a performance in itself, moving the company from the von Konigswald palace in Altdorf to the remote mountain fastness, and they had been on the road for some weeks. But the journey flew by, with stop-overs at the best inns, and leisurely evenings with the cast discussing their roles and practising their swordfights. By comparison, the original journey had been long, uncomfortable and fraught with danger. Genevieve felt nothing as she passed the sites of battles long-since won. She had made brief pilgrimages to

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