Reinmar wanted to shout to the men behind them that they should let him be and save themselves, but it would have done no good. Sigurd was in service with the Wieland family, and nothing in the world could have persuaded him to retreat while Reinmar was in mortal danger. Sigurd grabbed Reinmar with one arm, while the other dropped the staff and picked up a discarded half-pike.
Reinmar could not help struggling against the restraining arm, and he felt his strength grow as he did so, as the strength of madmen was reputed to do—but Sigurd was a giant and he, when all was said and done, was still a boy. If the monster’s magic was irresistible, so was Sigurd’s resolve, and Sigurd was determined that the monster which had made Reinmar captive could not keep him. As the sting lashed out, so did the half-pike, and it was the exoskeleton supporting the sting that cracked and splintered.
The claws were already scything forward, and Sigurd had not time or space to avoid them. He had to bring both his hands into play then, but as it released Reinmar the giant’s arm spun him round like a top, sending him spinning and sprawling to one side, unable to follow the imperative that had asserted itself upon his mind.
The awful perfume still filled Reinmar’s head, refusing to let any impulse form in his brain but a determination to throw himself at the monster, but the fall jarred and bruised him, and knocked the breath out of his lungs, so that he had no alternative but to lie there like a puppet whose strings had been cut.
In the meantime, Sigurd attacked the monster with all the fury of which he was capable. One claw shattered, and the blade of the half-pike slashed through the creature’s bulbous eye—but the remaining claw clamped itself upon Sigurd’s neck like scissors, and squeezed with terrible force. A lesser man would have been beheaded in a trice, but Sigurd’s neck was as sturdy as the rest of him, and he had a second or two to react. The blade of the half-pike cut again, at the monster’s own neck.
It was the last stroke Sigurd made, but it had all the power of a conclusive blow. As the giant’s windpipe was crushed and the arteries to either side of his neck fountained blood, the loathsome creature that had killed him died in its turn, its horrid head half-severed from its compound body. Reinmar had thought that his inability to move was the worst of his utter subjection to the power of the creature’s vile musk, but now he found that it was not. What was worse, by far, was the alien emotion that exploded in his consciousness as he felt the rush of the fiend’s exultation in the destruction of Sigurd—and, simultaneously, the searing flash of Sigurd’s death-agony.
Like a cockroach deprived of its head the monster did not die immediately, but raced forward like a runaway carriage—but it no longer had the power to do any physical harm.
Alas, the power of its perfume was not so easily dissipated, and Reinmar felt as if the shock of its death was running through him from top to toe like a slow and turgid lightning bolt. The compulsion to hurl himself into the creature’s gaping embrace was gone, but its absence only made his senses reel, and he had to fight with all his mental might simply to remain conscious and to take stock of what was happening within the storehouse.
Within two or three minutes, fifteen or twenty men had been killed or disabled, while only one other attacker had fallen under the hail of crossbow bolts. The bolts had momentum enough to pierce the creatures’ natural armour, but whatever organs they struck within were not sufficiently vital to cause them to fall.
“Spears!” Vaedecker was shouting. “Throw anything that comes to hand—but stand clear! Stand clear, if you value your lives!”
Reinmar judged that Vaedecker’s own position was by no means remote enough, and as the monsters fanned out and rushed forward they moved swiftly enough to ensnare many of those who were trying to obey his order and move away from them. In their hurry to escape, men were bumping into one another and stumbling over fallen bodies. Some still tried to haul their victimised companions to safety, but for every one who succeeded another was captivated.
Still the arrows struck home, three and four at a time, but still the monsters did not fall.
Matthias Vaedecker picked up a spear, and hurled it with all his might at one creature that was heading straight for him. It seemed a do-or-die move, for he had to brace himself to do it, and the creature was scampering forward so swiftly that he had to leave himself within range of its deadly perfume—but the spear struck it squarely in what would have been its breast had that part of its anatomy been human, and the point passed clean through to jut out behind.
Reinmar’s vision was blurring, but there was no mistaking the expression of sheer joy on Vaedecker’s face. He had never seen a man so exultant. Remarkably, it called forth an echo in Reinmar’s captive soul: a renewal of the sensation that had flooded him when his subjection to the first fiend had forced him to share in the ecstatic quality of its murderous delight.
Vaedecker’s spear-thrust had done more damage than even a creature of that kind could take, and the monster collapsed—but it was not dead, and it continued to exude its seductive secretion.
Vaedecker should have moved back, but instead he moved forward, helplessly drawn. The exultation in his face collapsed into fear, with such astonishing alacrity that Reinmar could not help wondering whether exultation was anything more than terror in disguise. Reinmar wanted to get up, to race to the sergeant’s aid no matter how foolish the move might be, but the moment he managed to shift his arm slightly he was overwhelmed by the flood of pure pleasure that drowned his mind all over again and made him helpless.
Had the monster not been hurt Vaedecker might have died immediately, for the sting could have stabbed him—but the muscles controlling the creature’s sting seemed to have lost their power, and its claws were also flat on the ground, sabrelike no longer. All that remained to be faced was the writhing tongue, lashing reflexively back and forth. Reinmar contrived, in spite of his captivity, to fix his eyes on that tongue, and saw that Vaedecker would be drenched by its loathsome saliva within a matter of seconds.
Again, Reinmar struggled to rise, fighting the drug that had laid him low. He told himself that he had already tasted the wine of dreams, and had dreamed in consequence, but that he was not its slave, and that the resistance he had so far exerted against the wine must come to his aid now.
It did not.
It was left to one of Vaedecker’s own men to race forward, hurriedly but purposefully. If his expression was any guide, he too felt a rush of pure joy as he struck at the lashing tongue with his sword, severing it from the dilated mouth and sending it writhing out of harm’s way, like a worm cut by the plough.
That stroke should have saved Vaedecker’s life. In a fairer world, it would have—but there was one more monster yet to be struck down, and its sting was still busy. The creature scrambled over the body of its fallen ally, and while Vaedecker was still falling, unable to take control of his limbs, the point of the sting hit him squarely in the face, slicing through his cheek and into his jaw.
This time, mercifully, there was no echo in Reinmar’s own being; he was allowed the freedom to be anguished as he saw his friend die.
The monster was immediately hit by half a dozen spears and arrows, and it fell no more than ten seconds after its final victim, but Reinmar knew that Vaedecker was finished, and would never rise again. The battle for the storehouse might leave sixty or eighty survivors on Eilhart’s side, who would surely reckon themselves heroes and victors, but neither Sigurd nor Vaedecker would be among them—and that, to Reinmar, was defeat.
The entrancing perfume did not disappear when the sixth and last fiend fell, but its subjective meaning underwent a sudden shift in Reinmar’s fugitive consciousness, utter foulness replacing its seductive force so abruptly that he retched helplessly. He tried yet again to raise himself up, but yet again he failed. This time he lost his vision entirely, and with it any sense at all of time or space. He did not fall unconscious, but he could not locate himself, in the storehouse or within his own body. It was as if he had been sna
tched upwards to a great height, from which the whole world would surely seem tiny, if only he could see.
When sight of a sort came back, though, all he could see was Eilhart: Eilhart in flames, falling into charred ruins as the heat surrounded him; Eilhart with ogres and ghouls rampaging through its streets, the luckier fraction of its population put to the sword; Eilhart reclaimed by leprous vegetation and slimy vermin, naught but a scar on the land gathered about the stagnant marsh that had been the proud terminus of the Schilder’s trade. It was mere illusion, of course, no more real than that dream-castle in the clouds to which he had climbed after first tasting the wine of dreams.
When he found his body again, it was staggering to its feet, with nothing in its nostrils but the reek of blood and the stink of shit. He shook his head, attempting to clear it, but his vision was still blurred and he could not see where he ought to go, or what it was from which he needed to withdraw. For several seconds he was quite helpless—and then he felt strong arms grab him and draw him away.
There was a voice shouting very close to his ear, but it did not seem to be shouting at him. It was demanding more arrows and more spears, but it had a desperate edge to it that suggested that there were no more crossbow bolts to be fired and too few spears to be hurled. Reinmar’s body continued to resist the demands of his will, but not because he was any longer captivated by an odorous magic. He realised, somewhat to his surprise, that he had simply exhausted his strength. His limbs would not work properly, and his breathing was impossibly laboured. He needed to lie down, to be given a pause in which he could recover, but the battle was still going on, after a fashion. There were no more six-limbed horrors rampaging about the storehouse, scuttling this way and that, but a fair few beast-men still remained, lashing out with their claws and clubs.
“Come on!” the voice said, much clearer now that it was addressed to Reinmar alone. “Got to get you out. We’ve men enough to mop up.”
He was unceremoniously dumped on a floor that seemed to have become incredibly hard, and lay there for several seconds while the man who had helped him—for a moment he wondered whether it might have been Vaedecker, impossible though that was—answered a more urgent need.
The storehouse had become much darker as lanterns had expired or been dashed to the ground, but there was still light enough, when his vision cleared, to see the face that loomed over him when he was shifted on to his back. At first, it seemed like the face of a lovely woman—but then the features shifted and it became the face of a moth like those he had seen in his dream, and in that form, for some perverse reason, it seemed more beautiful still. Then it changed again, abruptly, and became the face of the infantryman who had spoken to Reinmar and Sigurd before the battle began.
That was real, he decided. The other had been illusion.
He felt a pressure pushing against his left leg, and realised that the soldier had taken his blade from his hand and resheathed it for him.
“It’s all right,” the man said, in a voice harsh with strain. “It’s over—here, at least. The corporal wants thirty to stand guard and thirty to go to the square to reinforce von Spurzheim’s position, but you’re in no shape to do either. Rest a while, and then go home, if you can.”
Reinmar struggled to focus his thoughts.
“Vaedecker?” he said, weakly.
“Dead,” the soldier told him. “The giant too. In the morning, they’ll say we won, but we didn’t. We didn’t stop them. No matter how many we killed, we didn’t stop them. You played your part, though, and you’ve survived. Bruised, but not cut—that makes a big difference, when there’s so much danger of infection. When you can walk, go home, but step carefully.”
All Reinmar could say was “Sigurd?”—but the soldier had already answered that question, and it was not the kind of news he was eager to repeat. What he repeated instead was the advice to go home. He was being kind, although he was absolutely right in his estimation that Reinmar was incapable of further exertion.
When he was left alone, Reinmar lay where he was. It took several minutes to work out exactly where that was, but he managed it eventually, and began to measure the distance that extended between himself and the door to the street. There was a mournful hush in the storehouse now, and the odour of smoke in the air—but the smoke had drifted in from elsewhere; the building was not on fire.
Eventually, Reinmar managed to stand up. His limbs were aching and his lungs felt as if they were full of filthy vapour, but he was indeed uncut, and might have been unbruised had he not been dumped on the hard floor so many times.
When he made his way to the door the men to either side of it did not challenge his right to go through it. One of them, indeed, murmured: “Well done, lad.”
The other said: “Be careful. The street’s secure again, but if you’re heading into town you might run across a stray.”
Once he was out in the street the scent of smoke became stronger, but in comparison to what he had recently endured it did not seem foul or dangerous. He had only taken half a dozen steps when he had to pause and lean against a wall, but he could feel reserves of strength of which he had been previously unaware taking possession of his heart and legs.
“Go home,” whispered a voice that he could not recognise, but which seemed very sweet and loving. “Go home and slake your thirst.”
There was no face to go with the voice, although something withdrew into the shadows when he looked around and he felt something that might have been fluttering wings brush his cheek. The strength that was flowing back into him continued to increase, but he became sharply aware of the dryness of his tongue and throat. He looked back along the street and then forward, taking stock of the bodies that lay about the doorway of the storehouse. Only one in four was a well-made human.
Here, as inside the warehouse, his own side had been victorious—but the victory had been costly. Had Reinmar been able to weep, he would have done so, because he felt he knew better than anyone exactly how costly it had been.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Reinmar had stood firm against swordsmen, against horned beastmen, and even against the transfigured scorpions, but he shivered now that he was alone with the dead. He was not alone for long, though. Other townsmen selected out by Vaedecker’s regulars were stumbling after him. One or two were retching reflexively in reaction to the poisonous stink, but none had anything left in their stomachs to expel. They all needed better stuff to breathe, and they were as grateful as Reinmar for air that had nothing to foul it but smoke.
There were buildings burning in the centre of town, Reinmar realised, but only a few. The town would not be destroyed, unless matters became far worse, and the enemy forces seemed to have exhausted their efforts. They had attacked in a fast and furious manner and had paid the price.
Reinmar continued to support himself against a wall while he retched again, but he felt better for it. The loss of everything in his stomach had certainly left him with a raging thirst, and he felt that he would surely die if he could not find a cup of water soon, or a goblet of good Reikish hock, but he knew that he was only a few minutes from home once he could persuade himself to move again.
When he finally managed that, he was able to place one foot in front of the other with reasonable steadiness. Two of his neighbours walked with him, but he did not speak to them nor they to him.
There were no bloodthirsty beastmen running amok in the street, although he and his companions passed half a hundred men not much less wretched than themselves, and their condition was a telling commentary on the fierceness of the greater battle. As he passed from street to street, Reinmar saw that although the attackers had been forced to withdraw from the district soon enough, they had not gone without leaving their mark.
Whether by magic or mere violence, the enemies of Eilhart had reached far beyond the defensive barricades to spread their malice. They had left blood in every street, and broken glass. Reinmar knew that it would be much worse in the marketplace and
on the docks, and did not doubt that morning would reveal scars on the houses of all the merchants and manufacturers who had built and kept the prosperity of Eilhart.
One of the sputtering fires, Reinmar saw when he came nearer, was burning in the immediate neighbourhood of the Wieland shop—but it was not the shop itself, and the neighbours who were chaining buckets of water from the nearest pump seemed to have it under control. He did not volunteer to help, but made instead for the door of his own home.
As he fumbled with the door-latch he looked down, and saw the condition of his clothing. He realised that he must be a frightening figure in the ruddy half-light, stained as he was by blood and ichor.
Why, he thought, I have become a monster of sorts myself.
The door was locked, and he knocked on it as loudly as he could, hoping that Marguerite was inside, and that she would not be too frightened to answer his summons.
He waited, but no one came.
He put his hand on the hilt of his sword, as if to feel the power that was within it now that it had drawn so much alien blood, but he did not draw it. His father would not like it if he forced the door, and he would have to put in enough work cleaning, sharpening and polishing his weapon without bending the blade by using it as a lever. He knew that he ought to climb up to the ledge of his window, as he had done so many times before, and slip in through the gap, but the thought of the effort and exertion that would be required made him hesitate. He hammered on the door for a second time, more loudly than before. The knock was not soon answered, and he eventually moved to turn away—but as he did so, he heard the sound of movement inside the shop, so he waited instead.
“Who is it?” asked a voice from within: Marguerite’s.
“Reinmar,” he replied.
“Are you alone? Are you hurt?”
Alone, yes. Hurt… perhaps a little. Not mortally.”
[Warhammer] - The Wine of Dreams Page 30
