The Ambassador (Warhammer Fantasy) by Graham McNeill

Author:Graham McNeill [McNeill, Graham]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Black Library
Published: 2011-07-14T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER SEVEN

I

Kaspar knelt beside the blood-spattered bed, twisting the fabric of its red and gold silk sheets in frustration and grief. Broken glass lay strewn about the floor of Matthias Gerhard’s bedroom and several pieces of furniture had been overturned and smashed to matchwood. A grand mirror in its carved mahogany frame lay in splinters, each jagged, reflective shard throwing back the faces of the men that gathered in this abattoir and multiple images of the words written in blood upon the walls.

Blood coated almost every surface, the floor, the walls and even the ceiling.

Kaspar looked up at the daubings on the wall opposite the bed. The bloody words had been written in a childlike hand in halting, grammatically incorrect Reikspiel, and Kaspar knew the macabre graffiti must have been written while Stefan lay dying.

It read: ‘It all was her for.’

Stefan had died in this room and Sofia had been… what? Abducted? Killed?

The fear of what Sofia might even now be suffering was a physical pain in Kaspar’s chest and, while they had only known each other a few months, they had slipped easily into the familiarity of old friends, and the thought of her in pain scared him more than he imagined possible.

Vladimir Pashenko pointed to a huge plum-coloured stain on the expensive carpeting next to Kurt Bremen, its fabric now matted and stinking with blood.

‘That is where we found your manservant. It would appear that he died from a single wound to the throat that severed the main artery in his neck.’

‘His name was Stefan,’ growled Kaspar.

‘Indeed,’ continued Pashenko. ‘Whoever killed him used an exceptionally sharp blade and knew exactly where to strike.’

‘Or took them by surprise, which seems unlikely given that the door to the house has been broken down and my knights had made their way downstairs to fight the bastard,’ said Kurt Bremen, furious at having two of his warriors defeated with such apparent ease. One knight lay beneath a shroud in the temple of Morr, while the other would probably lose his leg below the knee.

‘The wound in his neck is the only injury that was done to the victim,’ went on Pashenko, reading from a black leather notebook. ‘There were no defensive wounds.’

‘Defensive wounds?’ asked Kaspar, pulling himself to his feet.

‘Yes, when someone is being attacked by a person armed with a knife, they typically raise their hands in front of them to ward off the blows, and they are often found missing fingers or with their forearms slashed to ribbons.’

‘But Stefan had none of these?’ asked Kaspar.

Pashenko checked his notes. ‘No, none at all.’

‘Do you have any idea why that might be?’

Pashenko shrugged. ‘I do not know. Perhaps the killer was so swift in his attack that his victim had no chance to defend himself.’

Kaspar nodded. ‘Have you found anything else that might help you catch this bastard?’

‘Not a great deal,’ admitted Pashenko.

‘But surely someone must have seen something?’ said Bremen.

Pashenko shook his head. ‘The attack happened in darkness and those few souls who would be abroad at that time are not the sort to come forward and talk to me.

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