Death and Dishonour by unknow

Author:unknow
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Black Library
Published: 2011-09-15T00:00:00+00:00

The Last Ride of Heiner Rothstein

by

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 Herzklüge 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,’ Herzklüge 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, Herzklüge 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 Herzklüge is no ordinary man!’ The greybeard leant forward conspiratorially. Herzklüge, flattered, held an impressive pose and smiled. ‘He,’ Adler crowed, ‘shot down the moon!’

Herzklüge’s smile vanished, his face flushed pink. Adler rocked back in his saddle, cackling. The listeners looked away, their rapture stolen. ‘Rest assured,’ said Herzklüge, 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; Herzklüge’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.

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