01 - Honour of the Grave (41 page)

Neither did. Franziskus’ rapier had been wrecked back in the tavern;
Angelika had left her last knife in Jurgen. “Why?” asked Angelika.

“I’ve made a decision,” Lukas said. “I’m going
north. I’ll find the troops.
I’ll locate the Sabres. It’s me who should lead them now. I am the heir; it is
my blood. So say the ancient laws of my lineage. If anyone attempts to stop me,
I’ll fight them. Then I’ll lead my company against the greenskins, when they
come.” He waited for a reaction.

“Why?” Angelika asked, after a pause.

“It is what you said. I should do something useful for someone.”

“When did I say that?”

“The Empire must be defended. What else could be more useful?”

Franziskus cleared his throat. “But, Lukas. You’re no trained warrior.”

The boy held his look of determination. “Battle will test me. I’ve seen the
two of you. Henty and the others, they were stronger than you. You fought them
and won. My father, he outmatched you, too. Yet you didn’t flee, even when you
could have, to be free and clear. All that you’ve done for me—what will it
matter if I wasn’t worth saving in the first place?”

Angelika gazed away in the opposite direction. A rain of fine ashes fell. She
brushed them from her arms. “Don’t look to us as exemplars of anything. A corpse
robber and a… a…”

Franziskus completed the sentence for her. “And a deserter,” he said.

“I know what I saw. What I will do now, I do to honour you.”

She shoved him into the wall. She grabbed him by the ears. “Do nothing for
honour!” she cried. “Or for us! Are you doing this to impress us? Is that it?”

He writhed away from her, stepping back over the low wall. He sucked in a
breath, marshalling steely calm. “I do it because it must be done.”

“And who do you do it
for?”
she demanded.

He thought for a moment. “Myself. I do it for myself.”

She turned from him. “Good. That’s the answer I’ll accept.”

Lukas stood there.

Franziskus leapt the wall. He clapped a hand on the young man’s shoulder.
“Farewell,” he said. The two junior nobles embraced; Angelika huffed
disapproval. Franziskus broke the embrace and studied Lukas’ dirtied, resolute
features. “What you do now—you are braver than me.”

Lukas gently smiled. “I’ll try not to be too brave. So one day we can meet
again.” He moved toward Angelika. He said her name.

She held him off with a warning hand. “If you think this is your chance to
grope me, you haven’t been paying attention.” Lukas forced a comradely laugh.
“Go,” she said. “Get going. And if you get your head removed, don’t come whining
to either of us about it. We’re off to find new idiots to rescue.”

“Even if you won’t admit it,” Lukas said, “I owe you everything.”

“Oh, sod off.”

She started walking south. Lukas waved and said goodbye and she did not turn
back. Franziskus returned the gesture for her, and then hurried to catch up,
leaving Lukas to watch them depart.

They walked back toward the mouth of the pass, seeking cover whenever they
heard the hissings and growlings of straying orcs. They passed overturned carts,
half-eaten livestock, stripped bodies and smouldering cottages.

They travelled without speaking. In his mind, Franziskus turned over various
ways in which to broach the subject of Marius and Elennath, and their almost
identical scars. A matter of interest lay therein. But, seeing the black mood
that had descended on her, he could not conceive of a way to ask.

At dusk, they reached the pass. The mountains looked different, with so many
of their trees burnt, and the brush gone. The forests would regrow, Franziskus
thought. The occasional fire kept them strong.

“Which one,” asked Angelika, “do you feel sorry for—Benno or Gelfrat?”

Franziskus thought for a while, as they walked. “I don’t think either of
them,” he finally said. “What about you?”

“I’m not certain.”

They kept going.

In a gully, they came upon the corpses of cavalrymen, twisted in amongst the
long limbs and muscular bodies of their dead stallions. Angelika waded into
their midst. She bent down to unbuckle the belt of a rider skewered to his
horse’s haunch by a long, crude lance. His sabre had never cleared its sheath.
She pulled it out now and admired it; it was a display piece, with a hilt of
filigreed brass.

“Now this is the sort of battle that profits a looter,” Angelika said.

Scanning by Flandrel,
formatting and basic
proofing by Undead.