by Warhammer
Gotrek growled and readied his axe.
‘He means,’ said Felix, hurrying to them, ‘that when the necromancer comes, he will raise the dead, foe and friend alike. If we don’t do this now, my lord, we will be facing these same men in battle later.’
Von Geldrecht sputtered, his red face growing redder, but with the evidence of Plaschke-Miesner’s corpse and the rest of the recently risen knights, there was no argument he could make.
‘If it must be done, it must be done,’ he said at last. ‘But we will tend to our own. Leave them alone.’
Gotrek shrugged and returned to helping the wounded, and Felix and Kat did too. But Kat nearly lost her grip on the first knight they helped, and hissed as she clenched the arm the dire wolf had bitten. The cuff of her wool coat was black with blood.
Felix cursed. ‘I thought you said it got mostly coat.’
‘Aye,’ said Kat. ‘Mostly, but not all.’
Felix wanted to tell her there was no need to play the hero, but he resisted. She had long ago made him promise not to coddle her. Instead he followed as she went in search of more wounded, and helped her carry a handful of knights to the column – but he made sure he did the bulk of the lifting.
Finally, they could find no more, and returned to Geert’s cart, where things had not gone well. Snorri was fine, and had crushed a dread rider with another tent pole, but Geert was binding a deep cut on his leg, and Dirk was dead, lying across the driving bench with an axe wound in his chest.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Felix, as he and Kat climbed aboard.
Geert shrugged. ‘If you’d stayed in yer chains it would have been all of us.’
They laid Dirk beside Snorri, and Felix closed his eyes while Kat whispered prayers to Taal and Morr over him, then pried the hatchet from his rigid hand and slipped it into her belt. Felix smiled as he sat down next to her. Respect and pragmatism – the marks of a veteran.
At the head of the column, von Volgen signalled the company forwards, and the last of the wounded were hurried to the wagons as the captains and sergeants relayed the order down the line.
As they moved out Gotrek returned and pulled himself up onto the tailgate. Rodi appeared a moment later and did the same.
‘You’re not leaving, Balkisson?’ asked Gotrek as Rodi sat. ‘You’re free now. And doom waits in the wood.’
Rodi shot Snorri a glance, then shook his head. ‘Doom will come to the castle too, Gurnisson. I can wait.’
FOUR
Men cheered from the walls of Castle Reikguard as von Volgen’s and Nordling’s knights rode over the drawbridge and under the arch of its massive gatehouse. Felix looked around at the defences as the wagons followed them in. The moat over which the drawbridge lay churned with swift-flowing river water, diverted from the Reik, which looked as if it could sweep away any attacker smaller than a giant. The high stone walls that surrounded the courtyard were thick, strong, and in good repair, and the inner keep, looming above the courtyard on top of a steep rocky hill and reachable only by a narrow and easily defended stair, looked even stronger – a square, brutish fortress of massive granite blocks.
The courtyard contained all the things a castle was expected to have – a smithy, a stables, a temple of Sigmar and half-timbered residences butted up against the inside of the exterior walls – but it also had a more unusual feature: a small harbour. The castle was built right on the bank of the Reik, and a water gate, almost directly opposite the main gate, opened to the river to let boats in and out. There were several boats moored at the wooden docks – two big sloops, kitted out with cannons and swivel guns, as well as a few smaller oar boats. There was also a warehouse and a two-storey barracks at the quayside.
What the place did not seem to have, at least not in any great abundance, was men. Felix had expected to see companies of spearmen ready to march out in aid of the knights. He expected scores of grooms standing by to receive their horses. He expected dozens of field surgeons and scores of servants rushing out to help the wounded. Instead, there was one surgeon, a hunched little crow of a man with a meagre handful of assistants, and a plump old Sister of Shallya with a few very young-looking initiates to help her. There were no more than a dozen grooms, and though the spearmen who manned the main gate looked hale enough, too many of the fighting men who hurried from the out-buildings and down from the walls to greet the returning knights were wounded and maimed.
There were spearmen on crutches, handgunners with slings on their arms, greatswords with bandaged heads, artillerymen with missing hands and legs. They limped and hobbled forwards along with their more whole comrades to help the battered knights off their horses with admirable selflessness, but they were hardly better off themselves. A chill came over Felix as he watched the scene. The garrison of Castle Reikguard didn’t look ready to stand up to an army of ten thousand undead.
Von Volgen, being helped from his baggage cart by his men, must have noticed this as well, for he rounded on Nordling, who was handing off his lance to a squire and swinging down from his horse.
‘General, what is this?’ he asked. ‘Where are the rest of your troops? Is your graf undefended?’
Nordling lifted his black-bearded chin, glaring. ‘The majority of Graf Reiklander’s troops are likely where many of yours are as well, in northern graves. Talabecland was not the only province to march against the invaders.’
‘I did not say–’ said von Volgen, but Steward von Geldrecht interrupted him.
‘The Reikland too gave of its best and bravest, Lord von Volgen,’ he puffed, stepping up beside the general. ‘My lord Reiklander marched north in support of his cousin, the Emperor Karl Franz, at the head of three-quarters of Castle Reikguard’s strength. Only a month ago he returned with less than one-quarter still with him, and many of those gravely wounded. Because of this, we are at less than half strength.’
Von Volgen’s jaw clenched. ‘That is… unfortunate. I– I had hoped Castle Reikguard would be a bulwark against this necromancer’s hordes.’
‘It will be, my lord,’ said Nordling, hard. ‘We may not be at full strength, but we will not falter for that.’ He turned to von Geldrecht. ‘Lord steward, consult with the graf. I will gather the officers and we will meet in the temple to hear his will.’
‘At once, general,’ said von Geldrecht, bowing, and hurried towards the stairs to the keep.
Nordling looked back at von Volgen. ‘My lord, if you are well enough, perhaps you will join us and tell us what you know of this threat.’
‘Of course,’ said von Volgen. ‘Once my wounds are bound, I am at your service.’
Felix watched, frowning, as Nordling bowed and strode towards the barracks, while von Volgen’s men helped him onto a stretcher and started to remove his armour. If Nordling was in command of the castle until Graf Reiklander recovered his wounds, why was it Steward von Geldrecht’s job to consult with the graf?
‘There will be a good doom here when the necromancer comes,’ said Rodi approvingly as they all started to get down from Geert’s cart.
Snorri nodded. ‘Snorri thinks so too.’
‘Aye,’ said Gotrek heavily.
Gotrek put his shoulder under Snorri’s arm and helped him as they crossed to where the wounded knights were waiting for the castle’s surgeon and Sister of Shallya to see them. They sat, and Kat shrugged out of her big wool jacket, then unlaced the sleeve of her hardened leather jerkin. Felix winced as she peeled it back. There was a dark, U-shaped bruise from the dead wolf’s jaws on her forearm, half a dozen bloody puncture wounds perforating it like rubies on a purple ribbon.
‘Wait here,’ he said. ‘I’ll get some water.’
‘I’ll go too,’ said Gotrek.
Snorri laughed at him. ‘Water? What does a dwarf need with water? Snorri thinks you should get beer instead.’
Felix too thought it was strange that Gotrek wanted water. The Slayer almost never drank the stuff, and hardly ever washed, but as Felix filled his canteen at the castle�
�s well, the reason was revealed.
‘You and the little one will take Nosebiter away tomorrow morning before the necromancer comes,’ said Gotrek, looking back at Snorri.
‘Aye, Gotrek,’ said Felix. ‘As I promised. To Karak Kadrin. Though… though it feels strange that I won’t be here to record your doom.’
Gotrek shrugged. ‘My epic is long enough.’ He spat on the ground and started back to the others. ‘Too long.’
Felix finished filling his canteen and followed the Slayer.
‘It will wait,’ said the pinch-faced little surgeon, glancing briefly at Kat’s bite before stepping to the knight who lay beside her.
The plump priestess of Shallya and an assistant followed behind him, making notes in a ledger.
Felix stared after them, then stood, angry. ‘Surgeon, the wounds are likely poisoned or diseased. Haven’t you some ointment, or–’
‘What I have,’ snapped the surgeon, rounding on him with a beaky black glare, ‘is a courtyard full of wounded fighting men, who will have to fight again, soon. Peasants, women and vagabonds will have to wait until those who contribute to our defence are seen to.’
‘How do you think she got that?’ asked Felix, pointing to the wound.
‘Aye,’ said Rodi. ‘The girl’s a match for any two of your fighting men.’
‘It’s all right,’ said Kat. ‘He’ll see me when he can.’
‘No it isn’t,’ said Felix levelly.
The priestess of Shallya looked over her shoulder, guilty, but the surgeon continued on, ignoring them, until Gotrek stepped in his way and folded his arms over his bearded chest.
The surgeon glared and opened his mouth, but Gotrek just kept staring at him, and whatever he had intended to say withered in his throat. Finally he snorted and turned back. ‘Very well. Very well.’
He crossed to Kat and pulled her arm straight with more force than was necessary. She stifled a hiss, then sat stoic and grim as he prodded and squeezed the bite.
‘A job for you, Sister Willentrude,’ the surgeon said at last. ‘Whatever poisons the beast carried are already in the bloodstream.’ He looked back at his assistant. ‘Fetterhoff, let the sister make her prayers, then salve it and bind it.’ He stood and started back to the wounded knight. ‘And be quick.’
‘Yes, Surgeon Tauber,’ said the assistant.
Felix and the Slayers watched him go with sullen eyes as the priestess and the assistant got to work. The sister took Kat’s arm in gentler hands than Tauber’s, and murmured over it while touching each of the punctures with her plump fingers. The assistant opened a leather case and took out a pot of salve and a length of gauze.
‘Where is the mess in this place?’ Rodi asked the assistant. ‘All that fighting made me hungry.’
‘And thirsty,’ said Snorri.
Before the assistant could answer, Sister Willentrude finished her prayers and smiled. ‘The mess hall is in the underkeep,’ she said, pointing to a pair of tall iron-bound doors set into the rocky hill upon which sat the keep. They were swung wide, revealing a shadowy interior. ‘Evening mess is at sunset, but there’s always food for valiant fighters at Castle Reikguard.’ She smiled over her shoulder as she started after the surgeon and the assistant started salving Kat’s arm. ‘And beer as well.’
The Slayers brightened considerably at this, and Gotrek and Rodi helped Snorri up, then put his arms over their shoulders. But before they could take a step towards the underkeep, a young knight in the mustard and burgundy of von Volgen’s troops hurried towards them and made a tight bow, blocking their way.
‘Your pardon, mein Herren,’ he said. ‘Lord von Volgen requests your presence in the temple of Sigmar. His son’s scouts say you have some knowledge of the necromancer behind all this.’
The Slayers glared at him and kept walking.
‘We don’t know any more than he does,’ said Gotrek.
‘Nevertheless,’ said the young knight, backing up before them. ‘I’m afraid I must insist.’
‘Will there be beer?’ asked Snorri.
‘Will there be food?’ asked Rodi.
The young knight scowled. ‘This is a council of war, mein Herren.’
‘Who has a war council on an empty stomach?’ asked Rodi. ‘Come see us after we’ve eaten.’
The young knight was turning red in the face. ‘But – but, mein Herren…’
Felix grunted. ‘I’ll go,’ he said, then stood and looked down at Kat, who was waiting as the assistant tied off her bandage. ‘I’ll find you in the mess.’
She smiled up at him. ‘I’ll make sure they save you some beer.’
The temple of Sigmar was just to the right of the main gate – a squat, sturdy stone building with a simple wooden hammer hung above heavy wooden doors. Felix followed the young knight into the stark, unadorned interior and made to stand behind the other men who were gathered there, but von Volgen, leaning wearily against the heavy stone altar next to Nordling and von Geldrecht, beckoned him forwards with a splinted hand. Despite his wounds, or perhaps because of them, he looked even more of a brute out of his armour than in, his battered head growing out of his shoulders without a hint of neck, and his broad chest swathed in bandages under his open doublet. Wounded, thought Felix, but in no way weak.
‘Mein Herr, welcome,’ he barked. ‘Now, tell us what you know of this cursed necromancer.’
Felix stepped to the altar, then turned, feeling awkward with all eyes upon him. The men were a hard-looking bunch, as befitted the officers of one of the great castles of the Empire, but also hard-used, with many a fresh scar and bandage among them. He saw no one he thought might be Graf Falken Reiklander.
‘Well,’ he said. ‘We first saw him as we were leaving Brasthof, on the trail of the beast herd. He said his name was Hans the Hermit, and he offered himself as a guide who knew the Barren Hills. He seemed… a bit mad, but he knew his business. He led us to the beasts, and then showed us tunnels – old barrows – that led under their camp to Tarnhalt’s Crown. He said he was a grave-robber.’ Felix smirked ruefully. ‘And he is at that, I suppose.’
Nobody laughed, so he continued. ‘We – we should have known he was more than he seemed. He smelled of death, and slipped out of shackles that he shouldn’t have been able to escape.’
‘Did he speak?’ asked General Nordling. ‘Did he betray any weaknesses, any schemes?’ Without his helmet, the black-browed knight revealed a ring of short black hair around a bald head.
‘Not before he raised the dead,’ said Felix. ‘But after… after, he spoke through the corpses as they closed on us, all of them talking in unison. He said the beast-shaman’s magic had interfered with his own, and he had led us to them because he knew Gotrek’s axe could destroy their herdstone, which was the source of their power.’ He turned to von Volgen. ‘I’m afraid that’s all I know of him. You were there for the rest, my lord. He set the dead against us and threatened to sack Altdorf.’
Von Volgen nodded, then looked around at the others. ‘Have any of you heard rumour of such a villain? Have any fought him before?’
The officers all mumbled and shook their heads, but then a gravel voice spoke from the back.
‘What did he look like, this necromancer?’
Felix looked up and saw a long-jawed old priest of Sigmar sitting on a stool behind the others. He might once have been a powerful man, but he was frail now, and blind. There was a rag wrapped around his eyes and he held a cane instead of the traditional hammer. A skinny Sigmarite acolyte stood at his left shoulder, and the plump old sister of Shallya stood at his right. Another woman stood beside her – a noblewoman of about forty years, with braided blonde hair coiled tightly to her head. She was beautiful and richly dressed, but carried a sadness in her eyes that was painful to look upon.
‘He looked like a beggar,’ said Felix to the priest. ‘A wild-eyed old madman with a long dirty beard and filthy robes. No one wanted to touch him, let alone stand downwind of him.’
�
��Do you know him, Father Ulfram?’ asked von Geldrecht.
The priest frowned, wrinkling the bandage over his eyes. ‘No, no. That is not the description I feared to hear. This man is unknown to me.’ He sighed. ‘There are so many wicked men now. So many turn away from Sigmar and… and…’ He trailed off, staring blindly at a point over the altar, his mouth still open. Felix stared. How did such a feeble old man come to be priest for a garrisoned castle? Why wasn’t there a warrior priest here?
After an uncomfortable second, his acolyte patted Father Ulfram on the shoulder and the old priest subsided, muttering, ‘Thank you, Danniken. Thank you. Was I saying something?’
‘Yes, Father Ulfram,’ murmured the acolyte. ‘And well said it was. Very well said.’
A sturdy handgunner captain with a short brown beard and a plain, open face stood and coughed. ‘Lord general,’ he said. ‘I don’t know about the others, but if this fellow can raise ten thousand corpses, it doesn’t matter if he’s mad. We haven’t enough men now to stop him.’
‘I’m with Hultz,’ drawled a scrawny, sandy-haired spear captain who slouched against a pillar. Despite a recent scar that puckered the whole left side of his face, his eyes glinted with the sly humour of a barracks tale-teller. ‘I went north with four hundred. I came back with seventy. We’ve done our bit. Let somebody else take the first charge for a change.’
The handgunner captain and a short red-cheeked, red-headed man in the canvas breeks and jacket of a boatman murmured their approval, but a tall young greatsword captain with a bushy blond beard stood and rounded on the spearman.
‘Our “bit” never ends, Zeismann!’ he barked. ‘We are soldiers of the Empire. We never shirk our duty.’
‘Easy, Bosendorfer,’ said Zeismann. ‘I didn’t say my lads wouldn’t fight. I just think we should do it from a better position.’
‘That is not an option,’ said General Nordling, then nodded to von Geldrecht. ‘The steward has informed me of Graf Reiklander’s decision. We are to defend Castle Reikguard to the end.’
