*****
A brooding malignance clung about the ruinous expanse of Starybogow. Wulf could feel it closing tight around him like the walls of a grave, pressing down upon like the lid of a coffin. Every shadow seemed to harbor some lurking menace. Strange shapes flitted at the edge of his vision, flashes of motion that evaporated as soon as he turned his head to focus upon them. Eerie sounds whispered across the fringes of his hearing, weird aromas teased his nose, uncanny chills plucked at his flesh. The hunter's every sense was tautened by the capricious gloom of the ruins. Despite his mind's best efforts to control his emotions, he couldn't quell the almost primal agitation that gripped him.
His horse had fled soon after he entered Starybogow. The animal had bucked in response to some threat unseen by Wulf. Surprised, he'd been thrown onto the cracked cobbles of the street while his steed went racing off toward the guarded city gates. The hurt of his fall didn't discomfit Wulf nearly so much as the loss of his horse. Docile or unruly, obedient or rebellious, at least the animal had provided a sense of companionship. A feeling that he wasn't alone. Alone among the roguish inhabitants and inhuman horrors that now ruled the city.
When Wulf found signs of von Auerbach's trail, the relief he felt was more than simply that of a hunter pursuing his quarry. To know that the Teutonic Knight was here, somewhere in the ruins served to provide a counterpoint to the unreal, phantasmal atmosphere of Starybogow. Pursuit of the knight provided Wulf with focus, something familiar to oppose the enigma of the fallen city.
Through the broken husks of warehouses and across the rubble of workshops, the hunter made his way. Here and there, in a patch of dust or on the splintered panes of a fallen window, Wulf would find the imprint of an armored boot. Patches of moss clinging to the crumbling walls rubbed away by something brushing past them. Weeds broken or crushed underfoot. Once, caught upon the jagged edge of a wooden doorway, he found a few threads of white cloth – perhaps torn from the white surcoat of a Teutonic Knight.
The uncanny, inexplicable wariness of his hunter's instincts brought Wulf to seek cover behind a dilapidated ox cart lying sprawled across the street. For several long minutes, he crouched against the side of the cart, his every sense keyed and sharpened to a razored edge. When the sound of a crow croaking in agitation and taking wing reached his ears, Wulf knew that something was drawing near. Soon the rattle of armor came into his hearing, the approach of someone in mail. His heart quickened as Wulf felt the certainty that his quarry was close at hand.
Across the street, cautiously making his way through the rubble of a devastated city, a tall man draped in white stepped into view. Sunlight glistened from the steel helm that enclosed the man's face, though the blued metal of the sword clenched in his mailed fist betrayed no such brilliance. The heavy white folds of the surcoat and cloak that fell about the man's body were marked with a great black cross, one upon his left breast and another that stretched across the back of his cloak. Only the Teutonic Knights displayed such insignia, and there was only one of that order Wulf expected to find prowling the streets of Starybogow alone. Klaus von Auerbach, the perpetrator of infamies in Westphalia, was before him.
The avenger kept silent as he watched the knight moving among the rubble. It was obvious to Wulf that von Auerbach was vigilant as he prowled the ruins. For a moment he worried that the knight had somehow discovered that the Freischoffe was on his trail. He quickly disabused himself of the idea. Perhaps in Westphalia he might have worried about the Vehmic Court hunting him, but here on the frontiers of Poland the knight would think himself beyond their reach.
The smell of blood gave Wulf a more reasonable explanation for the knight's caution. There was evidence of gore spattered about the white surcoat and dark stains on the sword in his hand. Much too fresh to be residue from the caravan raiders. Von Auerbach had found some enemy here in Starybogow. From the methodical way the knight inspected his surroundings it seemed he was trying to find his late foes rather than hide from them. Perhaps he'd found the rest of the Wends and their sorcerer-chieftain.
Wulf brushed aside such thoughts. The Wends and their volkhv were of no concern to him. He had only one enemy in Starybogow, and he was looking at him. Exhibiting a stealth that would have shamed the great jungle cats, Wulf slipped away from behind the ox cart and crept down a passageway between the crumbling shops and warehouses. His route put him parallel to his quarry and the faint rattle of the knight's armor allowed him to shadow von Auerbach as he marched deeper into the ruins.
Though resolute in his determination to carry out the judges' command, Wulf was realistic about the task set before him. The Teutonic Knights were dedicated warriors, trained to a hardness as cold and uncompromising as the armor they wore. Von Auerbach was a veteran of many battles, a warrior accustomed to the swift brutality of combat. It would be a grave mistake to let his loathing of the man's crimes discredit the formidable nature of his foe. To be certain of success, to ensure that justice was visited against the knight, Wulf would have to strike fast and without warning. If he gave von Auerbach any chance at all to defend himself, then the results might go against the judgment of Vehm.
Gauging the position of his quarry by the sound of his advance, Wulf hurried ahead and darted down an alleyway. Hastening to the opening at the far end, he held his breath and waited for the knight to appear. After what seemed to him an eternity, the rattle of armor drew closer. Tightening his grip upon his sword, Wulf lunged out from the alleyway and fell upon his enemy.
There was shock in the eyes that stared at Wulf from behind the knight's steel mask. Von Auerbach was stunned that an enemy had ambushed him despite his vigilance. Such was his incredulity that he made no move to raise his sword while the avenger drove upon him.
Then it was Wulf's turn to be surprised. Even as he brought his sword stabbing at the knight's body, a sudden gust of wind set the heavy surcoat and cloak whipping forward. The hunter's blade became snagged in the heavy cloth, fouling the impetus of his thrust. The keen edge raked harmlessly across the steel mail.
Wulf didn't waste time trying to free his weapon but instead caught at von Auerbach's arm as the knight started to bring his own blade into play. Straining against one another, the two men fought for control of the Teutonic sword, their struggle bringing them staggering against the wall of the building beside them. The knight's armored weight was taxing Wulf's resistance, forcing him to combat both the brawn and bulk of his foe. As plaster flaked away from the wall when the two men struck it, a desperate idea came to the avenger. Mustering such might as remained to him, he spun his foe around, slamming him full into the wall.
The rotten timbers and cracked plaster gave way beneath von Auerbach's mass. The knight went hurtling inside, dust and debris pelting his armored frame. Yet even as he went tumbling through the hole, he refused to relinquish hold of his sword. Wulf was dragged after the knight, crashing down upon him as both men struck the floor.
Wulf blinked dust from his eyes and glared down at his enemy. With one hand still locked about the knight's sword, he pawed among the debris around them, his hand curling around a piece of rubble. Viciously he brought the crude weapon slamming against von Auerbach's head. The chunk of plaster disintegrated as it cracked against the steel helm.
Heavy padding within the helm dulled the impact of Wulf's blow. Unfazed, von Auerbach brought his leg kicking up under the avenger's body. The strike broke Wulf's hold on the sword and sent him careening overhead, thrown across the room. Boards splintered under the impact and the hunter found himself plummeting into the cellar below.
All the breath was knocked out of Wulf as he slammed into cold, unyielding stone. Sparks flashed across his vision as his head bounced against the floor. Before his awareness was smothered by darkness, he could see the knight standing at the edge of the hole staring down at him.
Then the Freischoffe collapsed into unconsciousness.
*****
Wulf was not certain how long it was before he came to hi
s senses. The cold of the cellar had roused him, setting his flesh shivering and his teeth chattering. Tugging his cloak tighter, he tried his best to fend off the cold. The temptation to lie back down was, he knew, a dangerous one. Many men had perished in the chill of winter because they lacked the resolve to resist.
When Wulf struggled up from the floor, pain crackled through his body, stabbing into places he didn't know could hurt. He choked back the agony, refusing to give it voice. He wasn't going to betray his presence until he took stock of his surroundings.
Night must have descended upon Starybogow, for the building above the cellar was just an indistinct shadow. Wulf could discern the jagged edges of the hole he'd plunged down, but nothing more. He chided himself for the passing thought that von Auerbach was up there, as though the Teutonic Knight would linger around all day waiting for him to awaken and offer him honorable combat. The grim reality was that his quarry was long gone. He'd have to pick up his trail again. Once he found a way out of the cellar.
The avenger set to examining the cellar into which he'd fallen. Some perversity of nature had brought luminescent moss to flourish underground, rendering it brighter than the murky building above. The walls the moss grew from were constructed of heavy stone blocks, pitted with age. Certainly they were out of sorts with the building above, which had been nothing more profound than a granary in its day. It was obvious to Wulf that the vault represented some remnant of far older construction and as he looked about in vain for stairs leading up into the building, his suspicion was confirmed. Before his violent descent there had been no communication between the cellar and the granary.
Wulf looked again to the hole overhead. It was a little more than twenty feet, but well away from the walls. Without rope and grapple he wouldn't be leaving the way he'd come. He moved toward one of the walls, inspecting the construction. He scowled when he realized the stone was too tough to easily chip handholds into it with his knife. The effort would be daunting enough, but then he'd have to smash his way through the floor overhead.
Following the curve of the wall, Wulf discovered that the vault he was in wasn't isolated. There was a dark recess ahead, an opening into some further chamber or passageway. Appreciating the dismal prospects his current surroundings offered, he marched to the opening and made his way down the tunnel beyond.
Wulf's trek through the weirdly lit subterranean world was the strangest of his experience. Aside from rats, bats, and crawling vermin, he was alone in the vaults. At least so his senses told him. His hunter's instinct kept nagging at him, stirring him to a heightened wariness. Sometimes he would hear a distant sound that was uncomfortably like that of footsteps or catch a momentary impression of something too articulate to dismiss as the chirps of bats.
Then, amid the dank gloom of the tunnels, Wulf found tracks in a patch of slime on the floor. They were the marks of feet, at least four men judging by the print of their shoes. Scratches in a nearby wall made Wulf question whether they were the work of rat claws or a sign left to guide visitors to this underworld. He'd paid small notice to such marks before, but now, coupled with the evidence of human activity, the hunter kept a closer watch for them. When he noticed another of the peculiar scratches, he made a careful inspection of the surroundings. His effort was rewarded when he found the imprint of a heel captured by a splash of mud. It was enough for him. The marks were guiding someone through the tunnels. That meant one way or the other, they must lead to a way out.
Not knowing how far back the marks might have started, Wulf decided to press ahead, following the same path taken by those who'd preceded him. The knife he'd drawn from his boot felt small and puny in his hand when he considered who, or what, might be ahead of him.
The sound of voices carried back to him now, though in a language strange to him. Wulf hesitated a moment, then became aware of a hideous realization. He could hear sounds behind him as well, footfalls tramping through the mud and slime of the vaults. He was caught between two unknowns, trapped by those ahead of him and those following behind. Fingering his knife, Wulf decided that his best chance was to confront the nearer of the underworld travelers.
Wulf sprawled himself across the scummy floor, hiding his knife hand underneath him. He was depending on the curiosity of the owners of those footfalls, that they'd be more puzzled than alarmed at finding a strange body lying in their tunnels. A moment's incaution, and Wulf would have the advantage of them.
The footsteps drew closer. From where he lay upon the floor, Wulf could see the rough hide boots and fur leggings of three men. When they started talking among themselves in the same strange tongue, he decided there were at least five in the group. One against five were odds to sicken anyone's heart and Wulf had few illusions that the men approaching him would prove friendly. He'd seen rough clothes like theirs recently – on the corpses of Wendish raiders.
After some discussion among themselves, one of the Wends approached Wulf. He prodded the avenger's body with his boot, seeking to turn him over onto his back. The moment the pagan put pressure into his action, the 'dead' body erupted into violence. Wulf lunged up, catching the shocked Wend and slamming him against the floor. Before any of the other raiders could react, Wulf had his knife at the first pagan's throat.
“Back, or I'll kill him,” Wulf threatened.
One of the Wends, a bearded brute with several scars across the right side of his face, sneered at the hunter. “Kill him, Christ-man,” he laughed. “Send his spirit to Triglav! Then we take our revenge!”
“All I want is to be shown the way out,” Wulf said. He pressed the tip of his knife against his captive's throat, sending a bead of blood rolling down the blade. The other Wends laughed.
“Many Christ-man come into halls of Horjan,” the scarred Wend declared. “None of them leave.” As he spoke, the raider motioned his fellow pagans forward. The fate of their comrade meant less to them than the escape of an intruder. Wulf had staked everything on this gamble – and lost.
“Gott mit uns!” The cry boomed like thunder through the scummy vaults. The Wends, only a moment before ready to converge on Wulf, now swung around to face a new threat that came charging out at them from the darkness. The pagans snarled in fury when they saw the white mantle of von Auerbach and the fact that the Teutonic Knight was alone. Like starving dogs, the raiders rushed to meet the warrior's charge.
Wulf wasted no time seizing upon the reprieve he'd been given. In one vicious motion he slit the throat of his prisoner and ripped the iron sword from his belt. Leaping to his feet, the hunter charged at the other Wends. The scar-faced leader, belatedly remembering the avenger, turned back to deal with Wulf, parrying the German's attack with his own sword. The crash of steel against iron rang out through the tunnel.
It was with a sickening sensation that Wulf came to appreciate that his adversary was a better swordsman than himself. Where such an unwashed pagan had come by such skill was less important to the avenger than how he would overcome the man. Every thrust and slash was blocked by the Wend's intervening steel while Wulf's sword wasn't quick enough to prevent several cuts and slashes to his arms and shoulders. The heavier iron blade from his captive simply wasn't able to keep pace with the reaver's sword.
A mortal shriek rang out as von Auerbach finished one of his foes. Wulf could see the raider crumple, pierced through the breast by the knight. A second scream of agony sounded a moment later, but the hunter was too occupied by his own adversary to see what had happened, or to whom.
The Wendish reaver was prevailing. The blood seeping from the cuts he'd inflicted and the heavy iron sword were conspiring to weaken Wulf's resistance. Skill and strength were in the pagan's favor. All Wulf had left to him was ruthlessness and cunning. Feinting to the left with his heavy blade, distracting his foe with the promise of an opening, the German brought his knee smashing up into the raider's groin.
Coughing in misery, the Wend doubled over, his sword clattering to the floor. Wulf gave his foe the time to neither r
ecover his breath or his weapon. Gripping the heavy iron sword in both hands, he brought the edge cleaving down into the reaver's neck. The blow wasn't quite enough to sever the man's head, but it did reduce him to a twitching mass spurting blood across the walls.
Wulf looked up from his vanquished enemy. Von Auerbach was just putting down the last of the raiders, splitting the man's skull with a crosswise slash of his sword. The knight looked across the carnage to where the avenger stood. He held up his hand, motioning for Wulf to keep silent.
The hunter froze, recalling the voices he'd heard issuing from somewhere ahead. There was no saying how many more Wends were in the tunnels. If the sounds of the fight had carried back to them, an entire horde of angry pagans might even now be charging toward them. Keeping a wary eye on von Auerbach, Wulf listened to the distant voices. Though he couldn't understand their words, they seemed no more agitated than when he'd first heard them.
“It would seem this fray has gone unnoticed,” Wulf told the knight. Stooping down, he retrieved the steel sword of the Wendish reaver and tossed the iron blade to the ground.
Von Auerbach shook his head. “Now you would attack me. Then, I imagine that is what brought you all the way from Westphalia. You are fortunate I recognized you when I pursued you into the cellar.”
Wulf bristled at the knight's words, stung by the mercy he'd been shown. A moment's reflection only swelled his anger. “You know I'm the Freischoffe the Vehm sent after you! You used me to trail these pagans for you!” He spat on the floor. “That for your mercy!”
“We need each other,” von Auerbach warned Wulf. He pointed down the tunnel in the direction of the muted voices. “The only way out of here is through them.”
“My quarrel is with you, not them,” Wulf snarled.
“It will make no difference,” von Auerbach said. “Horjan has twisted the minds of his followers, turned them back to the old ways. He's filled them with visions of a pagan empire built on blood and magic. All civilized men are their enemy.” The knight closed his hand around the cross he wore about his neck. “Listen! They are invoking Triglav and the Old Gods, calling to them to accept their offering!”
City of the Gods - Starybogow Page 21
