Von Bolstedt had taken the rest of the day to acquaint himself with the lay of the land, wandering the better kept streets, making a point of following the path Lady Emilia’s coach had taken, leading up a slight incline, culminating in a slight hill, where a fortified manor, too cultured to be called a castle, too small to be a palace, stood silent guard. The Count’s personal land extended to the wooden wall at the western edge of the town. Behind the wall lay logging camps and some farms, irrigated by a small creek that ran back into town. Following the creek, on the other side of the Count’s grounds one was led through a district given over to crafts, tanning, judging by the acrid smell. Some potters had set up shop here too, though they were found closer to the flow of the River Reik itself. The riverside of Diesdorf was still largely natural, only one, rather large, warehouse had any form of waterfront reinforcement, where a middling pier stretched into the river itself, allowing the stream-bound vessels that brought Diesdorf’s timber away a convenient place to load and unload their wares.

The south-western corner of Diesdorf was given over to the town’s Garden of Morr, complete with a small temple to that God of Death. Adebar recalled a cold shiver passing the dark building, feeling the keen, expectant eyes of the stonewrought ravens sitting above the dark, oaken gate allowing access to the last place anyone would ever be.

Now, on the day of the Count’s most grandiose hunt, von Bolstedt was on the move again, using the paths he had scoured yesterday to make good headway toward the Count’s manor; it didn’t pay to come late. While the streets were far from filled, as the sun had nary risen above the horizon, the populace got to work and greeted the day.

Here and there he noticed the looks of the peasantry, hopeful and sceptical. Could he be the one, they must’ve mused.

Frankly, he was quite happy that it seemed his promise was known, the inescapability of his situation did something to alleviate his doubts.

Then, there was Emilia. Yes, he would kill her brother. For the glory of Sigmar of course.

His arrival at the estate of those of Diesdorf had been expectedly awkward. The two men keeping the gate had looked him up and down with some apprehension, and it’d only been then that Adebar noticed that, while he had taken a bath and instructed Frau Zech to wash his clothes with all the care she could muster, he still must’ve looked rather dishevelled. He hadn’t shaved in two days! He only hoped that Lady Emilia was willing to confess to inviting him, otherwise he’d just been made a right fool of!

Was she playing a game with him? Those eyes of hers were clever, no question, and he was sure she’d seen through his deception. Had she invited him just to show him the limits of his charade?

After a good long while one of the men returned, giving the other a nod. A thousand leaden weights fell of Adebar’s heart as he finally strode through the gate, into the courtyard within.

Much to his surprise, he was one of the earliest arrivals, finding himself faced with about six members of the court, all dressed finely but smartly, as to keep the morning chill away. Frankly, Adebar was comfortable in his garb, even though the cold seeped through to his gentle skin.

Von Bolstedt’s arrival drew a few eyes. He took it that most of these men were functionaries of the Count, his steward, his men at arms, and so forth, but there was no mistaking the Count himself. The man had the look of noble authority about him, something Adebar had developed an eye for ever since spotting its absence in most of his brothers. The accurate posture, the powerful facade, the appraising eyes. There was something no upstart merchant could ever buy his way into.

The Count was not particularly tall, but cut a good figure anyway, clad in a blue coat lined with sable. The Count’s hawkish features were framed by dark brown hair, well-kempt and of middling length, with a small, oiled beard beneath, showing his age. The man must’ve been somewhere in his forties, Adebar mused as he bowed, introducing himself to the Count.

“I am Gutrecht von Diesdorf-Narn, fifteenth Count of that name. My daughter has told me some stories about you, Vvon Bolstedt,” the Count looked him up and down, features betraying nothing, “we will see if they are true today, I believe.”

Adebar was caught in a delicate position between embarrassment and pride, but he knew the Count wouldn’t investigate now. He feared the Count would take him aside during the following hunt.

“Does old Leiberecht still hold the high house in Altdorf?”

The question was sudden, and there was a certain, easy manner about it that spoke of easy conversation.

“I am afraid my grandfather has been claimed by Morr’s scythe last Brauzeit, Herr. My father, Liutpold is his successor.” The news was old by now, but word could travel slowly amongst these backwater places, he knew. The Count grimaced in honest worry, a sheen of weariness tainting his features for a second.

“A shame, though I am sure the old fool lies in peace.” An instant, and then the Count had reassessed control.

“You knew Leiberecht?” Adebar asked, partly out of curiosity, partly because etiquette demanded it. Gutrecht the Elder smiled slightly, showing some clean teeth.

“I did not merely know him, I was his ward when I was but a child! I was raised side by side with your father and his brothers, though I’d always been under the impression that Mandrich was supposed to be the sole heir.”

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Uncle Mandrich, a touchy topic. It seemed Adebar’s discomfort showed clearly, as the Count quickly changed his topic.

“Alas, Liutpold was a good man then, and I am sure he will earn his house much praise.”

Gutrecht looked around once more, some of the men in attendance having already lost interest, chatting among themselves.

“Well, von Bolstedt, I hope you are a good rider. I am told you walk an unusual path, bereft of comforts. I assume that means you are without a mount?”

Adebar inclined his head. He’d feared this’d be a problem, but before he could explain his uncomfortable situation the Count was already moving on.

“I expected as much, so I had my stablemaster ready a horse for you. Careful with her though, she is my wife’s.” The man winked conspiratorially. “She won’t be needing it today.”

The mare was a bit timid, but seemingly used to the hunt’s wild course through the shrubs and through the forest.

They rode in three groups of six horsemen, driving the animals of the forest to a clearing not far away, where they’d encircle the animals and the Count could take his prize shot.

Adebar enjoyed the wind on his face, the speed of the horse. He hadn’t been out on a hunt with his family for five years, maybe longer. He would certainly feel his haunches tonight. The Altdorf student’s life did not allow much riding around.

He enjoyed the privilege of riding with the Count himself, even moreso honoured with the privilege of carrying his weapon, a short handgun.

It seemed his enthusiasm showed, as he suddenly saw the Count riding beside him, giving him an approving look.

“I see you take after Liutpold, young Adebar! Your father always was a talented rider.”

Adebar allowed himself a smile of boyish glee.

“I do not believe any of your own sons are in attendance, Herr?”

Count Gutrecht nodded, though the movement may as well have been caused by the movement of his mount, a powerful, jet-black beast, likely made for war, not hunting, but horses needed some challenge and work.

“Indeed. Most of my sons are away from my side for the time being. You will meet two of them later.” Away from his side. In one case in the army, in another cloistered away. A good way of not giving much away.

“Herr, if I may, my father never spoke of your time together, so I will admit that I was surprised when you said that you’d been my grandfather’s ward. If it would not be too much, I would ask that you tell me some stories, sometime. My father speaks little of his young life, so I believe you may be able to fill in some gaps.”

Gutrecht gave a thoughtful look before replying.

“I am sure I have some stories to share. Suffice to say your father and I weren’t friends, even though I would like to imagine we respected one another.”

His father? Respect someone? A strange prospect. Then again, maybe he’d been different once.

“Speaking of stories,” the Count began, setting the hairs on Adebar’s neck on edge, “my daughter tells me many things about you. That you claim to be guided by Sigmar.”

The cold mask of the Count returned, his eyes turned ahead. They could already see the edge of the clearing, watching a herd of deer sprint for their lives. It wouldn’t help them.

“She also tells me that you are determined to avenge the unfortunate death of Gerda Vollsweg.” They were at the edge of the clearing now. It was filled with teeming animals, rabbits here, two boars, a dozen deer, maybe.

“Your daughter speaks the truth, Herr.”

The Count sat immobile, eyeing the teeming beasts caught on the clearing.

“I fear, then, that you are already too late. The girl was savaged by a mad dog, regrettably. The animal was already slain and buried by the peasantry. Some mad superstition, I believe.”

Adebar swallowed while readying the Count’s carbine. He mustered his bravery and formulated a response he hoped wouldn’t anger the Count.

“I have been told that the murderer is still loose, Herr.”

The Count looked over at him, gesturing for him to hand over the carbine. It seemed he’d chosen his target.

“Told by who? Fearful peasants? Or Sigmar himself?”

The two men locked eyes as Adebar passed on the gun. It was the Count who broke eyesight first, focussing back on his prey. Von Bolstedt’s heart was running wild in his chest. The Count, most certainly, was not buying into his scheme.

“They locked Mandrich away, didn’t they?”

The words cut through the tense air like a razor. Count Gutrecht brought the butt of the carbine to his shoulder, taking aim. His courtiers just waited for the first shot, officially beginning the finale of the hunt.

“He wasn’t always afflicted, you know.? I remember him as a strapping young man.”

Adebar didn’t know what to say, Uncle Mandrich was locked away in a temple of Shallya, like so many madmen the priestesses took care of.

“Sometimes people have something happen to them. I do not think it is divine intervention, or unholy influence. Sometimes they see things that drive them to be who they are.” The shot rang out, fire spouted, a high wail informed the hunters that the prey had been struck, and soon whole barrages of crossbow bolts pelted the clearing.

The Count turned back to regard him, handing back the carbine for him to reload.

“We always tried to help him. We never gave up hope for him. I never did.”

It was clear this was no longer only about uncle Mandrich. This was about the Count’s own flesh and blood.

“That is what family is for, after all. There are no ties more unbreakable than those of blood.”

The Count was still staring at him intently, accusation writ large in his features.

“Wouldn’t you say so?”