[Warhammer] - The Wine of Dreams

by Brian Craig - (ebook by Undead)

  Matthias Vaedecker followed him. He moved in a more careful fashion but he had given up all hope of remaining concealed.

  As he drew closer to the waiting men Reinmar saw, not at all to his surprise, that the two monks were Noel and Almeric. Theirs was by far the greater shock as they recognised the figure running towards them as Marcilla. Almeric was white with amazement, and Noel’s eyes blazed with alarm. The monks knew full well that the gypsy girl had never been dead, but they certainly had not expected her to emerge into the light of day again. When Ulick ran to meet his sister the two monks stood still, rooted by confusion.

  By the time Reinmar had drawn level with the girl again he knew that the monks must have guessed how it had come about that the gypsy was here. The fact that she was clad in a monk’s robe, whose drying stains were very obvious, had told them that she had been won back by force, and that the fight had been bloody. The monks could see as well as Reinmar, however, how severe their disadvantage was. Even if they and Zygmund had been well armed, they would have stood no chance at all in a fight against Sigurd and Vaedecker. Brother Noel put a calming hand on Almeric’s arm, and whispered a command to Zygmund, presumably instructing him to be still. By the time Marcilla had embraced her brother, while the sergeant had arrived alongside Reinmar so that the two of them stood face to face with the two monks, Noel had decided his policy.

  “You do not understand what you have done, Master Wieland,” said Brother Noel, quietly. “You would have been wiser by far to leave quietly, when you had the chance. How many innocent men have you harmed?”

  “I have saved an innocent girl from a horrible death-in-life,” Reinmar retorted, having had just as much time as his adversary to make ready for a battle of words. “I have harmed none who did not deserve to be harmed, and every mortal blow I struck was in self-defence.”

  Almeric winced when he heard the word “mortal” but Noel had already turned his head to meet Matthias Vaedecker’s eyes. “And you, I suppose, are Machar von Spurzheim’s man? You have come out of hiding to assist this fool in his mistaken endeavour.”

  The fact that Vaedecker had managed to enter the valley, Reinmar deduced, must have been the substance of the whispered message that had changed Noel’s attitude to him. Perhaps one of Zygmund’s labourers had been sent out to investigate Reinmar’s account of the broken wagon and had stayed long enough to learn—presumably from one of the gypsies who had come to collect their kin—how many passengers it had carried, and how many had followed the bemused girl when she wandered off.

  “I am a soldier,” was Vaedecker’s calm reply to Noel’s taunt. “I do my duty, to Reikland and the Empire, and the good gods.”

  “Duty that compels you to spill the blood of unarmed men,” Brother Noel observed, somewhat inaccurately. “Well, we all have our obligations. You had better go back the way you came, since we cannot stop you—but you had better tell the witch hunter that he will never find this valley, though he searches for a century—and you would be very wise to leave the girl and boy with us, where they belong.”

  “No!” said Reinmar, anxiously.

  Vaedecker was not about to make any concession to a man he regarded as an enemy and an agent of evil. “I think not,” the soldier said. “While they are in our care we might be better equipped to find this place again than if they were not—and I certainly intend to return when I can, with an army at my back. There is work to be done here.”

  Reinmar could see the bitter anger in Brother Noel’s bright eyes, but the monk was well in command of himself and his voice remained quite level. “You have not the slightest inkling of what you have done here,” he said, “or what its consequences will be. One draught of the wine of dreams might have been enough to save you, Master Wieland, but I fear that it may be too late now.”

  Wait until you find out what I have done to your precious stores, Reinmar thought. You will understand then that it is later than you think. But what he said aloud was: “One draught was all it took to send Marcilla to horrid damnation—or would have been, had I not loved her enough to prevent it.”

  “Is that what you think, Master Wieland?” Noel countered. “If so, you’re a fool and worse. You have not even begun to understand the world in which we live, or what it means to live at all. I believe that you might now have appointed yourself to that majority of the human race which is fated to die young and wretchedly, when you might have joined the ranks of the chosen—and in cheating the girl of her destiny you have robbed her of the kindest fate of all. You came here as an invader, accepted our hospitality, told us lies and then turned violently against us. I do not know how many you have hurt and killed, but you should not have drawn your sword at all, and you will have the penalty to pay. You have turned your back on hope, and there is nothing in the world for you henceforth but suffering. You might have enjoyed a good life enriched by the wine of dreams, but your inheritance now will be a desiccating thirst that can never be properly slaked no matter how you try. You have one last chance to do a virtuous thing, and I ask you one last time: leave the girl and her brother here!”

  Reinmar put his hand on the hilt of his sword, and it required a considerable effort of his will not to release it from its scabbard. “I have seen everything!” he said, waspishly “I have seen exactly what is done with those who are chosen by whatever vile god you worship. I have descended into your little hell, and I have come out of it a better and wiser man than I could ever otherwise have been. I know now what life is worth, and how it must be defended. I am ready to do what I must—and the girl will stay with me, until she and I have yielded our last breaths in defence of our humanity. I have nothing more to say.”

  When Reinmar had concluded his bold speech he saw Matthias Vaedecker smiling, albeit grimly, and he knew that he had pleased the soldier at last. Brother Noel and Brother Almeric, on the other hand, wore expressions of a more thunderous kind—but they seemed to have conceded that there was nothing more to be said.

  “We should go now, Master Wieland,” Sigurd said, speaking for the first time. “The gypsies are with Godrich. They will help him to defend the cart if anyone or anything should attack it, so he is perfectly safe, but we ought to be on our way. Your father will want us to see you safely home without further delay, and I will not disappoint him.” Reinmar understood that the giant was issuing a subtle warning to the monks.

  “He’s right, Master Wieland,” Vaedecker said. “This argument is nothing but a delaying tactic. We should not allow it to distract us.”

  “Do you think we will chase you?” Almeric demanded, bitterly. “Shall frail ascetics harass you with sticks and curses, while you cut us to ribbons with your blades? Go—but never think that you are free. You have incurred a debt this day that will not easily be settled.”

  Reinmar reached out to take Marcilla’s hand again. “Come,” he said. “We must go now. You too, Ulick. The call you heard was bait in a terrible trap, intended to draw you to your doom. You must come with us, to Eilhart. It is the only place of safety available to you.”

  The monks said nothing to that, but Zygmund contrived a wry grin. Somehow, it seemed more threatening than anything the monks had said, for they seemed hardly human now in Reinmar’s eyes, while the farmer was a man like a million others in Reikland.

  “You who are chosen would do better to stay, child,” Noel said—but he clearly did not expect his words to have any effect. It only required Sigurd to extend a huge hand and place it on the boy’s shoulder to dispel any possibility of hesitation.

  “Did they hurt you?” Ulick asked Marcilla.

  She shook her head, slowly. “It seems so,” she said, wonderingly, “but I hardly know what was hurt and what was merely dreaming. I have seen this man in my dreams, but it seems that he is real, and my deliverer.”

  Matthias Vaedecker did not wait for this speech to be concluded. He had hurried ahead to lead the way, leaving Reinmar to grab the girl’s hand and follow swiftly behind. Sigurd pushed the boy g
ently ahead of him before he brought up the rear, looking behind him all the while to make sure that no one came after them. The farmer and the monks would have been fools to try, and they remained standing where they were, watching the five hurry past the farmhouse towards the neck of the valley and the wood beyond.

  Reinmar looked back into the valley once while he was still able to see the expressions on the monks’ faces. He found them still very sullen—but whatever anger there had been had already ebbed away, to be replaced with perplexity and anxiety. They were afraid, he supposed, of what they would find when they went into the underworld—as they had every cause to be. They would have need of their burial-ground now, not merely as a ruse but as a final resting-place for at least half a dozen of their company—and when they went to inspect their reserves of the wine of dreams, they would know the true extent of the blow that had been struck against their trade.

  While Reinmar was still looking back, Brother Almeric took something from his pouch. Reinmar thought at first that it must be a weapon, but when the monk lifted it a little higher out he saw that it was a crystal flask, half-full of amber liquid. The troubled monk put it to his lips and took a sip, then passed it to his companion.

  Reinmar turned away—but even as he turned he heard a mysterious voice whispering in his ear, which said: “You do not know what you have done. She is already chosen. You may believe that you have saved her for another wedding, but she can never be yours. And for what have you saved her, after all, but a short and brutish life full of trials and tribulations, and an end in misery and pain?”

  The voice was sourceless, and Reinmar was certain that none of his companions had heard it—but he was not afraid, and he felt no need to reply. He had done what he had to do, and he was proud of himself for having done it. Marcilla was his now, until she was Morr’s, and he intended to keep her.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  They passed through the wood without incident, marching steadily in spite of their wretched state. They found a dozen gypsies waiting with the mended wagon, including Rollo and Tarn. The travellers were astonished and displeased to see the manner in which Marcilla was dressed, but Godrich—seeing the parlous condition that Reinmar and Vaedecker were in—asked them to wait for an explanation.

  Exhaustion caught up with Reinmar almost as soon as he reached the cart, but he managed to give the steward a muttered and sketchy account of what had occurred.

  The sergeant confirmed his story at every stage with swift nods. “We must go, and go quickly,” Vaedecker said, when Reinmar had finished. “The monk poured scorn on the notion that they might chase us, but the attendants of the underworld were only too ready to fight, even when they had no weapons to hand. If they stay where they are it will be because they can work greater mischief there. Can you persuade the gypsy and his chieftain to let us take his son and daughter with us—or, better still, to come with us to Eilhart himself?”

  “I’ll try,” Godrich said. “But you must let Sigurd see to your wounds while I do it.”

  Until that moment, Reinmar had not noticed that he was wounded, but when he took stock his bruises and grazes seemed trivial enough.

  Vaedecker asked for water in which they might both bathe, and insisted that Reinmar clean himself. “We must put on our spare clothes,” the soldier said. “A man who keeps the blood and filth of his enemies about his person is asking for infection. Ulick, you must ask one of the women to see to it that Marcilla is bathed and properly dressed.”

  The boy nodded, and drew Marcilla away while Godrich went into a huddle with Rollo, Tarn and an older man. By the time that Reinmar was washed and dressed in clean clothes the discussion was over, and Godrich was able to report back to him. Reinmar had put on his belt again, and his pouch with it, although both were flecked with drying blood. He had no intention of leaving the pouch to one side, or transferring its contents to another, while it still held the phial that he had taken from the storehouse in the underworld. Nor had he any intention of telling Vaedecker or Godrich that he had the phial. For the present, it was his secret and his alone.

  “They’re scared,” Godrich eventually reported, meaning the gypsies. “They’ve seen the body of the beastman. They know that the local people will think them in league with the monsters, even though the elder has no more idea what the monsters are, or why they are here, than we have. I have managed to persuade him—not without difficulty—that there is no privilege in being chosen, and that the path to the hidden valley leads only to death and destruction. He says that we can look after Ulick and Marcilla, since we are willing, but that Rollo and Tarn have work to do, spreading the word of what has occurred among the gypsy folk. There must be a meeting of some sort, it seems—and petty magic to be worked, I dare say. They do not know what the result will be, but Rollo says that he will come for his kin as soon as he can, when the time is right. I agreed to that—don’t contradict me, Master Reinmar, I beg of you, whatever your own intentions may be. We must go, and swiftly. I don’t know what we shall find at home, but we must hope that your father has the situation under control.”

  Vaedecker, who had been listening, said: “Whatever control is exerted now, there will surely be trouble soon. What we must hope is that von Spurzheim has gathered an adequate fighting force and that it is ready to march. This is war, my friend, and the crucial conflict will be upon us far sooner than we had expected.”

  Godrich contented himself with a nod byway of reply, and he went back to the gypsies to bid them a friendly farewell. Then he got up onto the cart, and called out that anyone who intended to ride should get aboard. The only one who did not respond was Sigurd; Matthias Vaedecker was far too tired to walk.

  Almost as soon as they were under way it began to rain again, but it was a mere drizzle compared with the storm that had hurried them into their confrontation with the beastmen. The four who were riding on the cart with the casks found shelter enough under pieces of the ruined awning, which they draped over their shoulders. It was not strictly necessary for them to huddle together, but Ulick and Marcilla wanted to be as close as possible, and Reinmar wanted to be close to Marcilla, so the three of them ended up side by side.

  As the horses picked up speed Marcilla asked Reinmar what had happened to her before she awoke in the underworld and put on the bloodstained robe. Reinmar was not certain at first how much he ought to tell her, but in the end he decided that she might need to know the truth, so he told her the full story, in as much detail as he could remember. Ulick listened raptly—and so did Matthias Vaedecker, although he kept his eyes half-closed.

  “I remember the flower,” Marcilla confessed at one point. “I thought I had dreamed it, and that in my dream I was a flower myself, with no desire but to meet and merge with my mate.”

  “It was the wine of dreams,” Reinmar said. “It is seductive, but it is evil. Whatever you have been told by its consumers is a lie.”

  “But you are in the trade yourself,” Ulick objected. “You told me so.”

  “So I did, and so I am,” Reinmar agreed, quietly. “But I am no consumer. I am beginning to understand now, what a wreck the wine of dreams has made of my grandfather, and I do not think that it has done his brother any good. Had my father been less of a man than he is, I too might have had the sickness in me that might have called me to the valley.”

  “You found it,” Ulick reminded him. “It’s said-”

  “Because I was with Marcilla,” Reinmar was quick to put in. “She was the one who led us there, as you led Sigurd.”

  “Who was it that brought the message while you were tasting the wine, Master Wieland?” Matthias Vaedecker said suddenly. “Anyone could have told them that I had entered the valley, and that I am a soldier without colours—but who told them that I am Machar von Spurzheim’s man?”

  “I did not see the messenger; only the monk who conveyed the news to Brother Noel,” Reinmar answered. “Rumour moves rapidly in these parts. It isn’t surprising that news of von S
purzheim’s arrival in Eilhart travelled as quickly as we did. Anyone could have carried it.”

  “Your great-uncle’s housekeeper is a gypsy,” Vaedecker reminded him unnecessarily “She was not there when we arrested him.”

  “Eilhart is a market town of two thousand souls, and an important river port,” Reinmar reminded the soldier, in his turn. “There are always travellers passing through—hundreds of them, brought by road and river alike. Anyone could have brought the news.”

  “Including Albrecht’s son, Wirnt,” Vaedecker said. “Could it have been him?”

  Reinmar was momentarily at a loss for words. By the time he realised that his silence might be as eloquent as any confession it was too late to speak.

  “Don’t worry, Master Wieland,” the sergeant said. “I mention the name because I trust you now, not because I don’t. You have proved yourself to me, and I’ll gladly tell von Spurzheim that we can rely on you. I don’t blame you for letting the name rest unspoken, given that you are kin—but I think you know now how dangerous that kind of kin might be.”

  “I think I do,” Reinmar agreed.

  “When it comes to a fight, Master Wieland—and it will—you had better remember that danger. The greatest power our enemies have is not that they can release daemons upon the world, but that they can twist their knives inside the hearts of those we know and love, turning cousin against cousin, brother against brother.”

  While he spoke, Reinmar felt Marcilla’s head slump against his shoulder, and knew that she had gone to sleep again. That made him very anxious, for there was no way to know how natural her sleep might be or what dreadful dreams might visit her therein—but he knew that he ought to pay attention to what Vaedecker was saying.

  “Can men like Noel and Almeric really release daemons upon the world?” Reinmar asked, wonderingly.