A foreboding night had fallen upon Diesdorf.

Reibert was on his way, Adebar was sure of it. Von Bolstedt felt no fear, only the electric contrast of a body tense with restricted movement and a mind with the calmness of the ocean. He should have felt some form of fear or worry, but frankly, now that he sat here, hidden behind a pile of crates himself and Zech had piled up in the alley across the street from the Black Boar, the calm certainty of the hunter settled in his bones. He took it to be a good sign.

Zech waited across the way, in the doorway of the Black Boar. Von Bolstedt knew the innkeep was less than comfortable with this arrangement, but he could do nothing but hope Zech did not do anything stupid.

They’d waited for a few hours since nightfall. Mannslieb, the pale, white moon, stood high, round and full, robbing the night of much of its dark, yet the light it left was an eerie one, telling of evil and wickedness. At least its cursed, green twin hid its face tonight. There was hope.

Von Bolstedt had first heard the meandering, hurried step of riding boots, then the heavier plodding of Zech as he went to intercept Reibert.

He heard a few hushed words, already drawing the pistol from under his belt. The metal shone silvery, the wood felt worn, the apparition felt heavy in his hands.

‘Sigmar,’ he thought, ‘help us tonight.’ The Man-God gave no reply to the pretender.

A shrill cry tore him from his preparations, he sprang up, rapier in one, pistol in the other hand, vaulting over one of the barrels, seeing that it was indeed the mad swordsman. Reiberts blade danced a glittering arc through the air, passing through the stocky innkeeper’s abdomen; the madman hadn’t even feigned innocent intent!

He charged, blade stretching toward Reibert’s side, trying to ignore the stiffness of his injured leg, shock dampening the pain of the strained limb.

Reibert had already whirled to meet him, savagely leading his blade in a return-strike, smashing Adebar’s rapier aside with wild abandon, the wide motion clearly bringing pain to the madman.

His features were a death mask of fury, teeth bared, eyes torn wide open, growling like a demented blood hound. Von Bolstedt felt a twinge of fear, then disgust, then sheer, conceited righteous anger. He would stop this monster!

The two fighters met, steel clashed with steel, blood burned in their veins.

The duel had little of the forced grace that had ruled the competition days earlier, Reibert bashed his forehead against Adebar’s nose, blood poured onto his chin, scrawny fingers closed on von Bolstedt’s gullet, while both men tried to get their blade to an angle to end their opponent, a kick to the groin brought von Bolstedt low, dropping the precious pistol just as he’d brought it against his foe’s chest.

They discarded blades, Reibert forcing the stunned Adebar down onto the pavement, nails bit his skin, his skull hit stone, nauseating pain clouded his mind.

“You ruined it all! You lied, you lied the truth, and now you’ll pay for ever daring-”

Reibert’s tirade was cut short when he was grabbed from behind, torn away from von Bolstedt, who immediately used the reprieve to suck air into his tortured chest, before scrambling to his feet, just in time to see that he owed his life to the wounded Zech, who, much to his horror, was now wrestling the mad noble on his own, the portly and broad innkeep slowly overpowered by the idiot-strength of the insane.

Quickly he took up his sword, charging at Reibert again. This time he couldn’t wheel around, too focussed on- Taal’s Teeth, was he biting off Zech’s nose?!

Steel bit flesh, Zech slid to the ground, Reibert stared like an idiot child at the rapier’s point sticking out of his abdomen, before the stained metal treated backwards.

Adebar’s heart hammered in his chest, sweat dripped from his brow, his lips were stained with the coppery tang of his own blood. Surely…

The madman howled vengeance, turning once more on von Bolstedt, who, in sheer terror, threw a cut at his right arm, cutting deeply into the limb, drawing even more blood, glistening black in the pale moonlight.

“Why won’t you die?!” The question was earnest and fuelled by horror; Reibert just came on, using his left, uninjured arm to lock Adebar’s swordarm in a vicelike grip, raspy, unnatural sounds gibbered from his mouth, somewhere between the blowing of a bellow and a cackle fit only for the most demented.

“You are no holy man, you are nothing but a liar! You cannot spurn His will!”

Adebar threw his left fist into the madman’s face, knuckles connecting with temple, a sickening crack and sharp pain followed, again he pistoned back his arm, willing to break every finger if it meant he’d make it out of this alive!

His left foot slipped, his leg gave out, he hit the pavement too hard, swordhand twisting unnaturally, pain forcing him to relinquish his weapon.

For a long moment he did not know what had happened, whether he was alive or dead.

Was it over?

Reibert stood above him, visage made terrible by Mannslieb’s glow.

Adebar felt cold. He felt pain. He felt failure.

The madman howled in glee as he raised Adebar’s own weapon to end his life.

His actions were not his own, he would never be able to explain, suddenly he had held the pistol in his hand, raised it toward Reibert’s face and pulled the trigger, sparks flew all over his hand as the flintlock did its work. A sharp crack, then smoke seemed to envelop the madman. The lead ball found its mark with dull thud.

Twenty heartbeats passed before Adebar knew where he was again, before he stared at the gun in his hand, before he could look around, get to his feet, fight down the pain of his leg. The wound had opened up again, he was sure, if the blood was any indication.

Reibert lay dead. The lead ball had torn a wide hole through the temple, just clipping the eye socket and nose bridge.

A part of him was fascinated by the impact the weapon had had, another disgusted by the gory mess on display. He tugged the pistol back under his leather belt.

“Leadspitter.” He muttered under his breath, mirroring the only Tilean he had ever bothered to talk to about anything.

A groan tore him back to the here and now. Zech had fought himself back up, bleeding from his brow, his nose bled heavily. The madman had actually bitten him.

The worst wound seemed to be a long cut across Gottlieb’s gut, but he couldn’t say through the man’s clothes and all the blood clotting it.

Before any of the men could smile, or cry, or ask a thing, they were interrupted by the clattering approach of armed men. Guards, Adebar realized, without much instinct to flee. It was Zech who inspired the idea that being found next to a very clear fight scene wasn’t advisable. Yes, running was wise.

They hurtled through the cold autumn night, toward the river. A hoarse bellow signified that the body had been found, the clattering footsteps of the guards seemed to creep ever closer, driving Zech and von Bolstedt to a mad sprint. Both men hurried, but that only served to show how badly bruised they were; von Bolstedt basically dragged his left leg after him and kept spitting out blood, as he struggled to breathe through his bleeding nose, while Zech groaned and held his paunch, as if fearing his guts would spill out of him at any moment.

Shallya alone knew how true that was.

“Go, Herr, take one of the boats!”

Adebar had no compunctions about following the instructions, flight drove him onwards, drowning out any concerns for ownership or recompense.

Only when Zech made to run back into the streets did it dawn on him that the innkeeper wasn’t coming with him.

“Have you gone insane?” He shouted after Zech, in the midst of untangling his chosen boat. Where did he think he was going?!

“I’m holding them off, Herr!” What was he even saying? They were armed, he was wounded and without any defence at all! “They’ll want someone to blame for a dead noble.”

It was true. Adebar knew it was true, but, in truth, he’d barely considered the fact that the Count would intervene on his son’s behalf. He was a nobleman, and a hero of the common folk, he had connections, what fate could befall him?

He’d been foolish. The Count would have his justice, one way or another.

“You’ve done us all a service, Herr. My wife, the children, young Gerda…” The innkeeper’s voice was shaky, the moonlight betrayed the twinkle of tears on his full cheeks. “Reckon you may do some good elsewhere too.”

Zech looked at him with the certainty of the unrighteously martyred. Though every fibre within him cried out, pleading with him to get off the boat, to stand up for the injustice that was sure to follow, he nodded.

“Farewell, Zech. I can but pray that Sigmar knows your part today.”

The commoner shrugged, looking up to the darkling skies. Calls rose throughout Diesdorf, the guardsmen had called others. Soon they’d be swarming through the whole town. There was no way for Zech to get away now. He was bloodied, and even if he departed, it’d only shift suspicion on his family, and who knew what the Count was willing to do to lure the suspected murderer of his son out into the open?

The townsfolk had no way of retaliating outside of open rebellion. He doubted a mere lawyer from the streets of Altdorf would assuage the Count’s baying for blood.

The rope was loose, he took up the oars and started rowing, slowly disappearing onto the river Reik, a dark speck on the silvery water.

The cries of Diesdorf, its houses, and the waiting figure of Gottlieb Zech, soon were hidden behind the mist that announced the rising sun.