“Did you really need to threaten him so?” she said.
“It would have been well within my writ as witch hunter to see the man dead for holding items such as these,” he said, indicating toward the fallen staff of trinkets and protective charms.
“Merciful Udo, that is what they should call you,” said Annaliese, her voice mocking.
Losing patience, Grunwald swung around and pointed a finger at her. His brutal face was flushed and angry, making the scars stand out in stark relief against his ruddy skin.
“Yes, damn you, I am merciful,” he said. “More than you know.”
The crowd parted and a pair of flagellating doomsayers drew near them, whipping themselves with long leather flails that had nails embedded in their tips. One of them had pushed fishhooks through the skin of his cheeks, and they wore pages of holy Sigmarite script upon their bare flesh, held in place with long nails that had been hammered into their bones.
They stared up from their self-mutilation and saw Grunwald and Annaliese. One of them bared his yellow teeth, and gargled something incoherent, drool and foam dripping from his lips. The other dropped to his knees and reached for the girl, grabbing her by her robe, grinning up at her insanely. The witch hunter placed his boot on the side of the flagellant’s neck and pushed him away, into the muddy slush of melted snow.
Giving the witch hunter a dark look, Annaliese dropped to her haunches to help the man back to his feet, ignoring the wet and the mud that stained her robe.
Grunwald’s face was thunderous as he stared at the girl. She had no idea of the depths of his mercy.
The witch hunter sighed, and turned away, walking through the crowd as something attracted his interest. He purchased a strip of cooking meat from a dirt-covered vendor, the spit roasted animal making his mouth water. It looked like a dog, but at the moment he didn’t really care, his hunger overcoming any delicate sensibilities.
As he looked around, his eyes locked onto those of a man in the crowd, standing no more than ten paces from the witch hunter. The man’s eyes were different colours—his left was a dark brown but his right was a startling, brilliant blue.
Grunwald saw this stranger’s face clearly for a second. It was heavily lined, and the man wore a dark, sour expression. He leant heavily on a tall staff that seemed to be hung with feathers, and Grunwald felt that time halted for a moment as he held the gaze of the man.
His years as a witch hunter had taught him to trust his instincts, and he knew with certainty that something about this man was wrong. Grunwald’s eye twitched, and he reached for one of his pistols.
“Sigmar be praised!” came the shout behind him, and the witch hunter flicked his gaze around to see the flagellant prostrate himself before Annaliese. By the time he swung his gaze back around to the mysterious figure in the crowd, he was gone. He pulled a pistol from its holster and took a step into the crowd, pushing people out of his way roughly, trying to sight the man.
“Our lord Sigmar with us!” came another shout, and Grunwald was suddenly fighting against a surge of people moving towards Annaliese, and he swore, violently knocking people out of his path. But the man that he knew with dread was an agent of the enemy was long gone, and he turned to witness the commotion.
Grunwald swore again as he saw what was transpiring, and began to move back towards the girl. The flagellant’s companion stared at the girl with wide eyes.
“Sigmar is with us in this girl! The maiden of Sigmar comes to fight the enemy!” the fanatic shouted at the top of his lungs, and more people crowded in. The second flagellant threw himself to the ground beside his companion, and Annaliese turned around frantically through the press, looking for aid.
“What have you done?” Grunwald said as he closed on her.
“Nothing!” she said quickly. “I helped him to his feet—nothing more!”
“I felt Sigmar’s divinity within her,” said the prostrate flagellant, grabbing at Grunwald’s boot. “We are blessed by her presence!”
A pair of purple and yellow liveried soldiers stepped forwards and unsheathed their swords. They dropped to their knees before her, holding their weapons before them like an offering.
“Give us Sigmar’s blessing, holy maiden!” one of them said. Within moments, there was a cluster of soldiers crowding around her, and Grunwald swore.
The face of the man in the crowd lingered in his mind. Yes, he was certain of it—there was an enemy within the Empire camp.
The ground was trampled to muddy slush beneath Grunwald’s feet, and the smell of meat cooking over fires made his mouth water. He pushed such thoughts from his mind, and concentrated on not losing sight of the purple and yellow liveried pageboy as he darted through the bustling crowd of Ostermark soldiers, leading him towards the impressive, opulent tent in the centre of the army encampment.
The boy, who couldn’t have been more than eleven, had approached him as he sat warming himself by a fire. He had been lost amongst his own thoughts when he had appeared, requesting Grunwald’s presence within the command tent of the Empire army.
“What do they want with me?” he had asked, but the boy had shrugged. Placing his broad brimmed hat on his shaved head, Grunwald had stood, and let the boy lead the way.
The tent was large, and a guard of soldiers stood to attention at its entrance, halberds upright in their hands. Banners of purple and yellow fluttered, and the boy led the witch hunter past the guards, whose eyes did not so much as flicker in his direction. A soldier barred their way. The boy nodded to the guard, and then ran off into the press of soldiers once more.
“Name?” said the soldier.
“Udo Grunwald, witch hunter,” he replied. The guard nodded in response, and motioning for silence, led him into the tent. The flap was dropped behind him, and it took a moment for Grunwald’s eyes to adjust to the light within.
Lanterns hung from the poles of the tent, casting their yellow light across the interior, and Grunwald saw that there were around a dozen soldiers there, gathered around a table where a map was spread. Karl stood alongside a clearly more senior member of the Blazing Sun, his ornate helmet held under one arm. The preceptor inclined his head slightly to the witch hunter.
A middle-aged man dominated the room, his beardless chin cupped in one hand. A huge ring of gold was worn over the leather of one glove, and his clothes were of rich purple and yellow silk, though he wore little in the way of adornment other than the imposing ring.
A sword was strapped at his side, its scabbard beautifully ornate, and its hilt gold and magnificently inlaid. Grunwald realised this was one of the famed Runefangs—awesomely powerful magical swords forged by the dwarfs and borne by the elector counts. It was a potent symbol of their office, and they were amongst the most treasured objects in all the Empire.
Grunwald stared at the Elector Count of the Ostermark, Wolfram Hertwig. He had never been so close to such a highly ranked noble.
The other men within the tent were grizzled veterans, clearly the elector’s most senior aides and military commanders. They talked in low tones, and Grunwald saw the elector count sigh and shake his head. It looked like the man had not slept in days.
Looking up, the count saw Grunwald standing in the shadows. His eyes were strong, and his face clearly bore the mark of nobility, but it was not the soft features common in upper classes of the southern states—this was a man of war.
“Who is this?” the elector said simply, his voice carrying a hint of the Ostermark accent slightly harsher than those of other states and some of his words sounding slightly Kislevite in their pronunciation. Long had the ties between the Ostermark and Kislev been strong.
“This is the witch hunter you sent for, my lord,” replied the guard at the witch hunter’s side. “Udo Grunwald.”
“Come forward so I can see you,” ordered the elector count.
Grunwald saluted sharply and stepped into the circle of light. The elector counts were the most powerful men in the Empire, and at their wor
d armies marched—they paid allegiance to the Emperor Karl Franz, an elector himself, but on the whole their rule was autonomous. They held the power of life and death, and the Elector of the Ostermark was said to be a hard and demanding, though fair, ruler. He held out his hand, and Grunwald crossed the tent and dropped to one knee before the man, lightly kissing the massive golden ring of office.
“Rise.”
“How may I be of service, my lord?” said Grunwald. Though he had never been comfortable around nobility, neither was he one to be cowed by any man, and his voice was strong and confident.
“I understand that you travel with a girl. A true paragon of Sigmar, so it is said.”
“So some would call her, my lord. She is in my charge.”
“The young preceptor here claims her to be quite the warrior,” said the elector, nodding his head towards Karl. Grunwald followed his gaze and stared at the knight for a moment, his face hard.
“And I have heard she has already made quite an impression with the soldiers,” said the elector evenly.
Grunwald’s jaw twitched. “A misunderstanding, my lord.”
“Oh?” said the elector count. “How so?”
“She is not endorsed by the Temple of Sigmar,” he said, choosing his words carefully. “She has not had any training, and is ill-equipped to act as Sigmar’s emissary.”
The elector took a long swig from a silver goblet that would have cost more money than Grunwald had ever seen. The noble savoured the drink, licking his lips.
“Let me be open, witch hunter. We have no priests with us. The last of them fell against the enemy. And now, the day before battle this girl appears. The Maiden of Sigmar, I believe is what the men are calling her.”
Grunwald’s gaze flickered to Karl, who had the grace to flush and look down.
“She is but a simple farm girl. Nothing more,” said Grunwald.
“To be frank, I do not care if she is a copper-coin whore or the Queen of Bretonnia. What I do care about is the fighting spirit of my soldiers. And they see her as the Maiden of Sigmar, rightly or wrongly—it matters not to me. All I care about is the men believing they can win the fight tomorrow, and that Sigmar is with us.”
“I understand, my lord,” said Grunwald.
“Good. I am sure you will do the right thing, then. Ensure that the girl is seen by the soldiers. Let her walk amongst them. Let them have hope. And tomorrow on the field of battle, make sure she stands amongst the soldiers. Make sure she stands firm against the enemy. Protect her well—I will give orders that she is to be guarded as if she were the Emperor himself.”
“She has never stood on the field of battle before, my lord,” said Grunwald.
“That matters not at all—she doesn’t have to fight in the front ranks. She just has to be seen,” said the elector. Then he sighed, and looked hard into Grunwald’s eyes.
“You were a soldier before you became a witch hunter, is that not so?”
“That is so, my lord,” said Grunwald in reply.
“I too am a soldier. And I do not exaggerate when I say that if we falter tomorrow, then the fate of the Empire hangs in the balance.”
“My lord?” said Grunwald, furrowing his brow, unable to see how this battle would effect the outcome of the war.
“Talabecland is a state under siege, witch hunter. It is attacked relentlessly from Ostland, which is under the control of the enemy. Our forces there are almost overwhelmed as they are. If we fail here, then this army facing us will march uncontested into Talabecland…”
“And strike against the rear of our forces already engaged there,” finished Grunwald, understanding.
“Indeed,” said the elector. “Talabecland will not be able to sustain a war on two fronts.”
Grunwald nodded his head, his face dark.
“I think you understand the importance of the girl now, witch hunter. If she can strengthen the resolve of the soldiers, then we would be negligent, nay seditious, not to make use of that.”
“I understand, my lord.”
“Good. That is all.” The elector returned to his discussion of troop dispositions and enemy movements. Grunwald made no move to leave, and the guard that had announced him tapped him on the shoulder, indicating for him to back away. He ignored the man and cleared his throat, stroking his long, silver-streaked moustache. The elector looked up, clearly surprised that he was still here.
“Was there something else, witch hunter?”
“Yes, my lord. I spotted someone amongst the citizens today—I believe it was an agent of the enemy, sir.”
There was muttering amongst the advisors. The elector raised a hand for silence.
“Explain yourself, witch hunter.”
“I saw the man only briefly, my lord, but I am certain that he was a witch—a magos, a sorcerer.”
“And you were not able to… apprehend this individual?”
“No, sir. He disappeared into the press. I have been scouring the area for any sign of him, but have thus far been unable to relocate him.”
The elector pinched the base of his nose between his eyes with his fingers as if trying to alleviate a headache.
“I see,” he said finally. “Speak to Captain Heldemund there on your way out,” he said, motioning towards the soldier at Grunwald’s side. “He will give you whatever men you need. Find him, witch hunter. An enemy launching an attack from within our camp is the last thing we need.”
Grunwald saluted and bowed low before retreating from the tent.
Stepping out into the cool air, he let out a long breath. He made his needs clear to the captain, and organised to meet the men that would be at his disposal in an hour’s time. Then, shaking his head and swearing quietly to himself, he stamped back through the snow to find Annaliese.
He found her seated outside a tent, dipping bread into a thick broth. Eldanair sat with her, though the elf did not touch any of the human food. Soldiers whispered and stared at the girl, though she seemed oblivious to the attention. She smiled at Grunwald as he approached, her cheeks stuffed with food.
“You should try this,” she said after swallowing her mouthful. Grunwald looked around, feeling prying eyes and ears all around him.
“Come with me,” he said harshly, and turned and stalked away through the press. People scrambled out of his way, and he pushed away those that were too slow for his liking. Annaliese ran after him, licking her fingers.
“What is it?” she said. The witch hunter ignored her, and walked into an open tent. A soldier lying on his back upon a simple unrolled pallet looked up from where he was in surprise.
“Get out,” Grunwald snarled. The soldier blinked, registering the witch hunter’s dark garb, then scrambled to his feet and left the tent. Grunwald pulled the tent flap down behind him.
“What is the matter with you?” said Annaliese.
“Your reputation proceeds you,” Grunwald said.
“I don’t understand.”
“The Maiden of Sigmar,” snarled Grunwald.
“It’s just something stupid that Karl has taken to calling me,” she said.
“Well, it has drawn the attention of the Elector Count of the Ostermark.”
“What? What does that mean?”
“It means,” said Grunwald, his voice low and dangerous, “that he wants you to live up to the name. It means you are to become the religious talisman of his army.”
“I know I am no priestess,” said Annaliese hotly. “And I have never claimed to be one.”
“It doesn’t matter what you claim to be, girl!” he barked. “What matters is what you appear to be! Tomorrow, the enemy will be upon us. And this army believes that Sigmar is with you—and so long as you stand in the battle-lines, their faith is strong. And so, you will stand in the battle lines, and you will not falter.”
“Is this what Sigmar has sent me here to do?” she said, her face pale.
“It doesn’t matter,” said Grunwald. “You are here, and you now have a duty to
do.”
“Why are you so angry? I didn’t ask for this?”
“I am angry because you have never stepped foot on a true battlefield, but now you must—and you must appear strong and confident.”
“You do not think I am ready for this.”
“I know you are not,” said Grunwald. “Priests of Sigmar train from childhood to face the enemy without showing fear. Only the strongest are chosen to represent Sigmar—if one of them allows fear to overcome him and he runs, the morale of the men would be shattered.”
“You think I will run?”
“I would not blame you if you did. But that cannot now be allowed to happen. And if for a second it looks like it will, I will kill you myself and claim that you are a witch. Better that than let the soldiers see their Maiden of Sigmar run.”
Karl smiled as he saw Annaliese approach through the press of soldiers. He had been dutifully oiling and shining his armour and weapons in anticipation of the coming battle, enjoying the camaraderie of being back amongst his order. He stood to greet the girl, his eyes lingering on her shapely form, and he shook his head at her beauty.
“Annaliese, you are a vision…” he began. She interrupted him by smashing her fist into his jaw, and his head rocked backwards from the sudden blow. Her eyes were blazing with simmering anger as he stared at her in shock and surprise, and not a small amount of pain. There was fear in her eyes as well, he noted.
“Why did you damn well come up with that stupid name?” she snarled.
He tongued the inside of his mouth, and spat blood onto the ground. The girl could punch, he would give her that.
“What are you talking about?” he said, bemused.
“The Maiden of Sigmar!” she spat.
“Ah,” said Karl.
“You are a self-centred fool, Karl Heiden.” Bristling with anger, Annaliese turned on her heel and stormed away from him. He rubbed at his jaw, and watched her go. He felt the amused gaze of his knights around him, and he coughed self-consciously. For a moment he stood immobile, caught between going after the girl or leaving her be.
01 - Empire in Chaos Page 26
