by Warhammer
‘Dieter is a brusque man but you will get used to him.’
‘I’m sure I will, milord.’
‘Call me Manfred. We are on the frontier, not at the Court of the Countess of Nuln. Rank has less meaning here.’
‘Very well, milor– Manfred.’
‘I just wanted to tell you that you did the right thing last night. Standing up for the girl, even if she is the servant of that witch. I appreciate it.’
‘Thank you. May I ask a question?’
Manfred nodded. Felix cleared his throat. ‘The name of Manfred von Diehl is not unknown among the scholars of Altdorf, my home city. As a playwright.’
Manfred beamed broadly. ‘I am he. By Ulric, an educated man! Who would have thought to find one here? I can tell you and I are going to get along, Herr Jaeger. Have you seen Strange Flower? Did you like it?’
Felix considered his answer carefully. He had not cared for the play, which dealt with the degeneration of a noblewoman into madness when she found out that she was a mutant, devolving to beasthood. Strange Flower was lacking that open-hearted humanity to be found in the works of the Empire’s greatest playwright, Detlef Sierck. However, it had been very topical in these dark days when the number of mutations was apparently increasing. It had been banned by Countess Emmanuelle, Felix remembered.
‘It was very powerful, Manfred. Very haunting.’
‘Haunting, very good! Very good indeed! I must go now, visit my ailing uncle. I hope to talk to you again before the journey is complete.’
They bowed and the nobleman turned and walked away.
Felix stared after him, unable to reconcile this amiable eccentric young nobleman and the brooding, Chaos-haunted images of his work. Among the cognoscenti of Altdorf, Manfred von Diehl was known as a brilliant playwright – and a blasphemous one.
By mid-morning the exiles were ready to leave. At the front of the long, straggling line, Felix could see a tired-looking, white-haired old man, clad in a cloak of sable skin and mounted on a black charger. He rode under the unfurled wolf banner that was held by Dieter. Beside him Manfred leaned over to say something to the old man. The baron gestured and the whole caravan of his people began to roll forward.
Felix felt a thrill pass through him at the sight of it all. He drank in the spectacle of the line of wagons and carts with their armed escort of mounted and armoured warriors. He clambered aboard the supply wagon that he and Gotrek had commandeered from a crabbed old servant dressed in baronial livery.
Around them the mountains jutted skyward like grey giants. Trees dotted their sides and streams ran like quicksilver down their flanks towards the source of Thunder River. Rain, mingled with snow, softened the harsh outline of the landscape and lent it a wild loveliness.
‘Time to go again,’ Gotrek moaned, clutching his head, eyes bleary and hung-over.
They rumbled forward, taking their place in the line. Behind them men-at-arms shouldered their crossbows, drew their cloaks tight about themselves and began to march. Their oaths mingled with the curses and the whipcracks of the drivers and the lowing of the oxen. A baby started crying. Somewhere behind them a woman began to sing in a low musical voice. The child’s squalling quietened. Felix leaned forward, hoping to catch sight of Kirsten among the people trudging through the sleet towards the rolling hills that unfolded below them like a map.
He felt almost at peace, drawn in to all that human motion, as if he were being borne by a river towards his goal. He already felt part of this small itinerant community, a sensation he had not enjoyed for a long time. He smiled, but was drawn from his reverie by Gotrek’s elbow in his ribs.
‘Keep your eyes peeled, manling. Orcs and goblins haunt these mountains and the lands below.’
Felix glared at him, but when he gazed once more at his surroundings it was not to appreciate their wild beauty. He was keeping watch for possible ambush sites.
Felix looked back at the mountains. He was not sorry to be leaving those bleak highlands. Several times they had been assaulted by green-skinned goblins whose shields bore the sign of a crimson claw. The wolf-riders had been beaten back, but with casualties. Felix was red-eyed from lack of sleep. Like all the warriors, he had taken double stints on watch, for the raiders attacked at night. Only Gotrek seemed to be disappointed by the lack of pursuit.
‘By Grungni,’ the dwarf said. ‘We won’t see them again, not since Dieter shot their leader. They’re all cowards without the big bully-boys to put fire in their bellies. Pity! Nothing beats the slaughter of a few gobbos for working up an appetite. Healthy exercise is good for the digestion.’
Felix gave him a jaundiced look. He jerked a thumb towards a covered wagon from which Kirsten and a tall middle-aged woman descended. ‘I’m sure the wounded in that cart would disagree with your idea of healthy exercise, Gotrek.’
The dwarf shrugged. ‘In this life, manling, people get hurt. Just be glad it wasn’t your turn.’
Felix had had enough. He clambered down from the seat of the wagon and dropped off onto the muddy ground.
‘Don’t worry, Gotrek. I intend to be around to complete your saga. I wouldn’t want to break a sworn oath, would I?’
Gotrek stared at him, as if suspecting a hint of sarcasm. Felix made his expression carefully bland. The dwarf took the idea of Felix’s composition seriously; he wanted to be the hero of a saga after his death, and he kept the educated Felix around to make sure of it. Shaking his head, Felix walked over to where Kirsten and her mistress stood.
‘Good day, Frau Winter. Kirsten.’ The two women surveyed him wearily. A frown crossed the sorceress’s long face, although no expression seemed to flicker in her hooded, reptilian eyes. She adjusted one of the raven’s feathers pinned in her hair.
‘What’s good about it, Herr Jaeger? Two more men dead from wounds. Those arrows were poisoned. By Taal, I hate those wolf-riders.’
‘Where’s Doctor Stockhausen? I thought he would be helping you.’
The older woman smiled – a little cynically, Felix thought.
‘He’s seeing to the baron’s heir. Young Manfred got his arm nicked. Stockhausen would rather let good men die than have little Manfred injured.’
She turned and walked away. Her hair and cloak fluttered in the breeze.
‘Pay no attention to the mistress,’ Kirsten said. ‘Master Manfred lampooned her in one of his plays. She’s always resented it. She’s a good woman really.’
Felix looked at her, wondering why his heartbeat seemed so loud and his palms so sweaty. He remembered Gotrek’s words back in the tavern, and felt his face flush. All right, he admitted, he found Kirsten attractive. What was wrong with that? Maybe the fact that she might not be attracted to him. He looked around, feeling tongue-tied, trying to think of something to say. Nearby, children were playing soldiers.
‘How are you?’ he asked eventually.
She looked a little shaky. ‘Fine. I was afraid last night, with the howling of the wolves and the arrows coming down, but now… Well, during the day it all seems so unreal.’
Behind them, from the wagon, came the groans of a man in agony. She turned momentarily to look, then hardness passed across her face and settled like a mask.
‘It’s not nice working with the wounded,’ Felix said.
She shrugged. ‘You get used to it.’
Felix was chilled to see that expression on the face of a woman her age. It was one he had seen on the faces of mercenaries, men whose profession was death. Looking around, he could see children playing near the cart of the wounded. One was firing an imaginary crossbow; another gurgled, clutched his chest and fell over. Felix felt isolated and suddenly very far from home. The safe life of poet and scholar he had left back in the Empire seemed to have happened to someone else a long time ago. The laws and their enforcers he had taken for granted had been left behind at the Grey Mountains.
‘Life is cheap here, isn’t it?’ he said. Kirsten looked at him and her face softened. She linked her arm with
his.
‘Come, let’s go where the air is cleaner,’ she said.
Behind them the shrieks of the playing children mingled with the groans of the dying men.
Felix caught sight of the town as they emerged from the hills. It was late afternoon. To the left, the east, he could see the curve of the fast-flowing Thunder River and beyond that the mighty peaks of the Worlds Edge Mountains. South he could see another range of hills marching bleakly into the distance. They were bare and foreboding and something about them made Felix shudder.
In a valley between the two ranges nestled a small walled town. White shapes that could have been sheep were being herded through the gates. Felix thought he saw some figures moving on the walls, but at this distance he could not be sure.
Dieter beckoned for him to approach. ‘You are fair-spoken,’ he said. ‘Ride down and make parlay. Tell the people there that we mean them no harm.’
Felix just looked at the tall, gaunt man. What he means, thought Felix, is that I am expendable, just in case the people aren’t friendly. Felix considered telling him to go to hell. Dieter must have guessed his thoughts.
‘You took the baron’s crown,’ he said plainly.
It was true, Felix admitted. He also considered taking a hot bath and drinking in a real tavern, sleeping with a roof over his head – all the luxuries that even the most primitive frontier town could offer. The prospect was very tempting.
‘Get me a horse,’ he said. ‘And a truce banner.’
As he clambered up on to the skittish war-horse, he tried not to think about what suspicious people armed with bows might do to the messenger of a potential enemy.
A crossbow bolt hissed through the air and stuck quivering in the earth in front of the hooves of his steed. Felix struggled to control the animal, as it reared. At times like these he was glad his father had insisted that riding be part of the education of a wealthy young gentleman of means.
‘Come no closer, stranger, or, white banner or no, I’ll have you filled full of bolts.’ The voice was coarse but powerful. Its owner was obviously used to giving commands and having them obeyed. Felix wrestled his steed back under control.
‘I am the herald of Gottfried von Diehl, Baron of the Vennland Marches,’ Felix called. ‘We mean no harm. We seek only shelter from the elements and to renew our supplies.’
‘Well you can’t do that here! Tell your Baron Gottfried that if he’s so peaceful he can march on. This is the freistadt of Akendorf and we want no truck with nobles.’
Felix studied the man who shouted at him from the gate tower. Beneath a peaked metal cap his face was keen and intelligent. He was flanked by two men whose crossbows were pointed unwaveringly at Felix. Felix felt his mouth go dry and sweat run clammily down his back. He was wearing his mail shirt but he doubted it would be much good against their quarrels at such close range.
‘Sir, in the name of Sigmar, we seek only common hospitality…’
‘Begone, boy, you’ll get no hospitality in Akendorf nor in any other town in these lands. Not travelling with twenty armed knights and fifty men-at-arms.’
Felix wondered at the quality of scouts the freistadt must have, to know the numbers of their force so exactly. He saw the pattern of things in this land. The baron’s force was too powerful for any local warlord to open his town gates to them. It would be a threat to any ruler’s position in these isolated towns. Yet Felix doubted whether the baron’s force was strong enough to take a walled fort against determined resistance.
‘We have wounded,’ he shouted. ‘Will you at least take them?’
For the first time the man in the tower looked apologetic. ‘No. You brought those extra mouths here. You can feed them.’
‘In the name of Shallya, mistress of mercy, you must help them.’
‘I must do nothing, herald. I rule here, not your baron. Tell him to follow Thunder River south. Taal knows, there is enough unclaimed land there. Let him clear his own estate or claim one of the abandoned forts.’
Felix dispiritedly brought his horse around. He was keenly aware of the weapons pointed at his back.
‘Herald!’ the lord of Akendorf cried. Felix turned in the saddle to look at him. In the fading light the man’s face held a look of concern.
‘What?’
‘Tell the baron on no account to enter the hills to the south. Tell him to stay by Thunder River. I would not have it on my conscience that he ventured into the Geistenmund Hills unwarned.’
Something in the man’s tone made the hairs on the back of Felix’s neck prickle.
‘Those hills are haunted, herald, and no man should dare them, on peril of his immortal soul.’
‘They will not let us past their gates. It’s that simple,’ Felix concluded, looking round the faces that circled the fire. The baron gestured for him to sit down with a faint movement of his left hand, then turned his rheumy gaze to Dieter.
‘We cannot take Akendorf, at least not without great loss of life. I am no expert on sieges but even I can see that,’ the grey-haired man said. He leaned forward and put another branch on the fire. Sparks drifted upwards into the cold night air.
‘You are saying we must continue on,’ the baron said. His voice was weak and reminded Felix of the crackle of dry leaves.
Dieter nodded.
‘Perhaps we should go west,’ Manfred said. ‘Seek out land there. That way we could miss the hills, assuming there is anything there to fear.’
‘There is,’ the trapper, Hef, said. Even in the cheery glow of the fire his features looked pale and strained.
‘Going west is a foolish idea anyway,’ Frau Winter said. Felix saw that she was glaring right at Manfred.
‘Oh, how so?’ he asked.
‘Use your brain, boy. The mountains to the east are the haunt of goblins, now that the dwarf realm is sundered. So the best land will be that furthest away from Thunder River, safest from raids. It will be held by the strongest of the local rulers. Any place to the west will be better defended than Akendorf.’
‘I know my geography,’ Manfred sneered. He looked around the fire, meeting the gaze of every watcher. ‘If we continue south we will come to Blood River, where the wolf-riders are thicker than worms in a corpse.’
‘In every direction lies peril,’ the old baron wheezed. He looked straight at Felix and his blue eyes were very piercing. ‘Do you think that the Lord of Akendorf warned us to keep to the river simply to make us a tempting target for any raiding greenskins?’
Felix considered for a moment, weighing his judgement. How could he be expected to tell whether the man had been lying or not on the basis of a few minutes’ conversation? Felix was acutely conscious that he would influence the destiny of everyone in the caravan by what he said. For the first time in his life he felt a vague glimmer of the responsibilities of leadership. He took a deep breath.
‘The man seemed sincere, Herr Baron.’
‘He was tellin’ the truth,’ Hef said, tamping some smokeweed into the bowl of his pipe. Felix noted the way the man’s fingers played nervously with its stem. Hef leaned forward and pulled a twig from the fire, using it to light his pipe before continuing.
‘The Geistenmund Hills are an evil place. Folk say that centuries ago sorcerers came out of Bretonnia, necromancers exiled by the Sun King. They found the barrows of the folk who passed here in Elder days and used their spells to raise an army. Came very near to conquering the whole of the Border Princes afore the local lords made alliance with the dwarfs of the mountains and threw them back.’
Felix felt a shiver pass up his spine. He fought an urge to look back over his shoulder into the shadows.
‘Folk say that the sorcerers and their allies retreated into the barrows. These were sealed with dwarf stonework and powerful runes by the victors.’
‘But that was centuries ago,’ Frau Winter said. ‘Strong though their sorceries were, can they endure?’
‘I don’t know, mistress. But tomb robbers never return from t
he Geistenmunds. Some nights, unnatural lights can be seen in the hills and when both moons are full the dead lie unquiet in their tombs. They come to take the living so that their blood can renew the life of their dark lords.’
‘Surely that is nonsense,’ Dr Stockhausen said.
Felix himself was not so sure. The previous year on Geheimnisnacht he had seen terrible things. He pushed the memory back from his mind.
‘If we go west we face certain peril and no surety of finding haven,’ the baron said, his face made gaunt and angular by the underlight of the fire. ‘South it is claimed we will find clear land, guarded though it may be by a sorcerous foe. I think we should brave the southward way. It may be clear. We will follow Thunder River.’
His voice held no great hope. He sounded like a man who had resigned himself to his fate. Does the baron court death, wondered Felix? In the atmosphere created by the trapper’s dark tale Felix could almost believe it. He made a mental note to find out more about the von Diehl curse. Then he noticed the face of Manfred. The young noble was staring raptly into the fire, a look almost of pleasure on his face.
‘I believe I have found the inspiration for a new play,’ Manfred von Diehl said enthusiastically. ‘That delightful story the trapper told last night will be its core.’
Felix looked at him dubiously. They were walking along the west side of the caravan, keeping between the wagons and the ominous, barren hills.
‘It may be more than a simple trapper’s tale, Manfred. There is some truth to many old legends.’
‘Quite so! Quite so! Who should know that better than I? I think I shall call this play Where the Dead Men Walk. Think of it: silver rings clinking on bony fingers, the parchment skins of the restless dead glistening in the witchlight. Imagine a king who lies in state untouched by the worms and who rises every year to seek blood to prolong his shadowy reign.’
Looking at those brooding, blasted heights, Felix found it only too easy to imagine such things. Among the four hundred who followed Baron von Diehl, only three people dared enter the hills. During the day Doctor Stockhausen and Frau Winter would search among the mossy boulders on the rubble-strewn slopes for herbs. Sometimes they would encounter Gotrek Gurnisson if they returned late. The Trollslayer prowled the hillside by night, as if daring the powers of darkness to touch him.
