Runefang

by C. L. Werner - (ebook by Undead)

  Even if Father Vadian had not asked her, she would have held back from partaking in the ritual. She wondered if the priest felt it too, that overwhelming sense of threat clawing at the edge of awareness, like a wolf prowling just beyond a campfire. In Count Eberfeld’s tent, as she called upon the ancient spirits, it had taken all of her will to keep that other from sensing her, to keep it from invading her mind. Now, as Vadian and the other priests called upon Morr for guidance, as they sought wisdom from the departed dead, Carlinda could feel the unseen menace hovering all around them. She felt another tremor of fear. Father Vadian was right to exclude her.

  The priests began their low, muffled chant, folding their hands before them and bowing their hooded heads. The smoke billowing from the altar grew brighter, fading into an ashy hue. It swirled above the priests, contorting into a spiral that danced above their heads. The chanting increased in tempo and speed, the motions of the smoke responding in kind. As the voices of the priests grew louder, the volume of grey haze above them swelled, becoming a foggy cloud that seemed to push back the ceiling of the shrine to accommodate it.

  Carlinda watched as the cloud began to split, figures beginning to form within the haze. Father Vadian had broken away from the chanting, his voice ringing out loud above the chants of his acolytes. The figures began to take on distinct forms, the outlines of heads and shoulders becoming clear. At the periphery of the cloud, Carlinda saw three tiny shapes form, three little things with huge, infant heads and stumpy infant arms.

  With a gasp, Carlinda looked away, a burning hurt searing her from the inside. At once the chanting became muffled, as though something was trying to smother the sounds. Father Vadian’s voice became a shout, yet this too was being smothered. Horror displaced the old pain that stabbed at Carlinda, her eyes wide with terror. She’d allowed her control to slip and, without fully realising it, she’d opened herself to that trio of tiny wraiths, those pitiable things that were forever reaching out for her. But there was something else reaching out for her now, something much more powerful.

  The smoke above the priests had grown dark, like a noxious fume. The figures that had been forming in the haze vanished, scattered before the onrushing wave of force that rushed into the vacuum. The ashen hue blackened until it was darker than the night. The swirling smoke collapsed upon itself, converging into a mass of shadow. Carlinda could see a shape mustering within that shadow, could see the smoke forming the outline of an immense skull. Nests of worms squirmed within the sockets of that fleshless face, writhing with something too unclean to be called life. The chants of the priests turned to muted cries of terror, and they scrambled away from the altar.

  Hurriedly, Carlinda concentrated on closing off the cord of power that had allowed the thing to find her. She concentrated, her pulse roaring like thunder, her soul cowering within its fleshy shell. She tried to close her mind to the morbid energies of Morr’s breath. The hideous skull turned in the air above the altar, shifting its maggot-filled sockets in every direction, looking, searching. Sweat beaded on Carlinda’s brow and dripped down her spine. Her breast heaved with the rapid, desperate breaths she gasped down into her lungs. I will not think his name, she told herself. I will not think his name. I will not think his name.

  Zahaak, the Worm.

  The shadowy apparition spun around the altar, glaring full into Carlinda’s face. The rictus grin of the sending seemed to laugh at her feeble efforts to deny it. Maggots dripped down from the sockets of the skull, writhing tendrils of black evil. Like great eels, they slithered across the shrine towards her. Carlinda watched the worms crawl towards her, unable to move, unable even to scream. She had to concentrate, had to keep her mind closed to the energies swirling around her. If she opened up to them now, if she opened up to them here, then the thing in the shadow would rush in, would fill her and would discover all that she knew.

  The shadow maggots continued to writhe across the shrine, flopping with loathsome undulations. Carlinda felt her resolve falter as she imagined those slimy, ropy bodies twining around her legs. Her flesh crawled in anticipation of their cold, clammy touch. The death’s head grin of the sending seemed to gloat at her weakness. Soon, it said to her, you will belong to me.

  From Carlinda’s left, an armoured figure forced itself towards the spectral worms. The Black Guardsman held his sword in both hands, straining to cut his way through the invisible force that strove to hold him back. Carlinda tore her eyes from the templar, refusing to be distracted by his efforts. She forced herself to stare into the sneering visage of the sending, forced herself to watch the endless stream of maggots dripping from its eyes.

  Every movement strained his muscles, every step was a burning agony in his flesh, yet the templar struggled onwards. It was like fighting against a powerful current, a current that bit and clawed as it swept past. The Black Guardsman ground his teeth against the pain. There was room in his mind for only one thing: the stream of worms crawling towards the Crone of Morr. He would stop those shadowy maggots from reaching her, or he would die in the attempt. Victory or death, the only choices a Black Guardsman could ever accept.

  The worms were slithering nearer to Carlinda, their oozing shapes causing the grass to wither beneath them. Perhaps the sending had intended to break Carlinda’s concentration so that it could rush into her body, using the worms only as a means to distract her. Now, however, the worms moved with a new urgency, an awful new sense of purpose about them. The stink of unclean death filled the shrine, gagging those who drew its filth into their lungs.

  Carlinda’s gaze wavered, and she stared down at the ground where the worms were nearly upon her. A few more feet and the first would touch her, would place its slimy coils around her. She forced her eyes shut.

  The templar reached the worm just as it reared back to launch itself at the woman. His thick-bladed sword lashed out, cutting through the current of force that strove to hold him back, chopping through the shadowy essence of the worm. The thing faded like mist as the knight’s sword caught it, leaving no sign of its existence except the withered grass left in its wake. The templar felt the current draw back and he leapt forwards, placing his body between the carpet of black maggots and Carlinda.

  In that instant, there was a tremendous flash of cold, icy light. The smell of death was vanquished, and the horde of worms vanished as though they had never been. The sending and the smoke it had inhabited were gone, only a thin wisp rising from the clutter of twigs and bones lying strewn across the altar. Father Vadian clutched one arm to his chest, the sleeve of his robe still smoking from where he had swept his arm through the ritual fire, breaking the awful spell.

  The old priest turned to Carlinda, striding towards her as the other priests slowly filtered back into the profaned shrine. The oracle looked back at him, studying the grim intensity on his face.

  “The enemy is more powerful than we dreaded,” Vadian said. “To profane a rite of Morr, in a place sacred to the god of death…” He suppressed the panic that was edging his words. “He already knows of you. How much more might he also know?” The priest shook his head. “You should not go with them when they leave tomorrow.”

  Carlinda took a hesitant, ungainly step towards the priest. The templar caught her before she could fall. “I must go,” she rasped, her voice hoarse from her exertions. “They are going because of what the spirits have told me. Whatever happens to them, it will be my responsibility.”

  “What if this happens again?” Vadian demanded, his voice hard but without cruelty.

  “I will stay closed to the breath of Morr,” she answered. “Not until we are far from here will I call out to the spirits again.”

  “Who can say how far is far enough against something with that kind of power?” Father Vadian frowned when he saw that his words were not weakening the woman’s resolve. He glanced away from her, looking instead into the iron mask of the templar.

  “Sergeant-acolyte Kant will accompany you,” Father Vadian said. “If the e
nemy is able to profane the sacred rites of Morr, at least it respects steel blessed in Morr’s name.”

  The barn that had been commandeered by the archers from the Sol Valley was a rambling, half-timbered structure leaning precariously against a motley array of wooden struts and beams. Cows and mules had been turned out from the building, forced to shelter in the field behind the farmer’s house, but their animal reek lingered on, soaked into the walls of the barn. More polished soldiers would have found the billet untenable, but the rough woodsmen and hunters from the Solland were used to far worse conditions. So long as there was a roof over their heads and soft straw under their backs, they were content.

  General Hock wrinkled his nose at the stench as he walked into the barn. His appearance caused some of the archers to leap from their pallets, hurriedly saluting their commander. Others, those without even the discipline of town militiamen in their background, simply nodded their heads, if they bothered to acknowledge the officer at all. Hock gave no notice to either discipline or disorder, but continued on his way, deeper into the makeshift barracks. Soldiers hurried to hide the evidence of a small campfire, a half-cooked chicken disappearing even more rapidly. Even quicker to vanish were several jars of cheap wine and tepid beer that the Sollanders had broken out as soon as they were certain there were no officers around. Hock paid even these sights little mind; many Koeblitz farmers would be missing chickens before the army moved on, and the bottled spirits were a problem that could wait until later. Right now, the general had bigger fish to fry.

  He found his man in the loft, rubbing a pungent-smelling polish into a long yew pole. General Hock climbed the short ladder leading up into the loft, feeling it sigh beneath his weight. He felt comfortable only when the solid planking of the loft was under his feet. That comfort faded when his eyes chanced to fall upon the coarse leather quiver resting beside the bowman. It was scarred with a riotous array of hash marks, too many to be easily counted. Hock knew that each mark represented a life that had ended with an arrow. Three of the hash marks stood bright and livid, freshly scarred into the leather.

  “General,” the bowman sitting in the loft said, though his eyes never left the yew bow he was polishing. “If I had known you were going to pay a visit, I would have kept the men in some semblance of order.”

  “Not at all, Ekdahl,” Hock replied. “I keep your mob around to fight, not to look pretty. The count has the Sablebacks for that sort of thing.” The general snickered at his own joke, but the levity brought no response from Ekdahl. Feeling awkward, Hock glanced around the loft, moving to a bale of hay situated across from the bowman. With a grunt, the heavy-set officer lowered himself onto the improvised chair. His eyes again turned to the quiver and its freshly cut notches.

  “You’re short some men, I hear,” the general said.

  “Expired from injuries sustained in battle,” Ekdahl explained. He dipped the rag he was holding into a small clay pot and began rubbing a fresh layer of polish into his bow.

  “I understood they were caught deserting and killed.”

  “You understood wrong,” Ekdahl rejoined. “It is all in my report. Their families can use the restitution. It is still three crowns for any man killed while serving in the count’s army?”

  General Hock stroked his long moustache. He didn’t feel like challenging Ekdahl over the matter. The bowman kept a strange sort of order among his Solland ruffians, but there was no denying that he did keep order. Besides, he had more important matters to discuss with him.

  “Ekdahl, I have a job for you,” General Hock told the archer. He wasn’t a man to mince words or waste time over pleasantries, much less in a setting as pungent as the old barn. “Baron von Rabwald is leading a small force into the Solland.”

  “Mustering more troops is what the men think,” Ekdahl said, continuing the maintenance of his bow.

  General Hock’s voice fell to a hush. “The men have it wrong.” The statement caused Ekdahl to lift his eyes from his weapon for the first time since Hock had entered the loft. “The count has consulted the Crone of Morr and her ghosts,” Hock said. “They’ve told him that our enemy is a good deal worse than some vengeful necromancer. It’s one of the Dark Lords of Nagash.” That brought a touch of fear into even Ekdahl’s steely eyes. “They’ve also told the count how to destroy the enemy. Baron von Rabwald isn’t leaving to gather more troops. He’s going to look for the lost Runefang of Solland.”

  Ekdahl set down his bow, leaning forwards, studying the general’s face, searching for any sign of jest. “I thought the baron a better man than to be squandered on a fool’s errand!” he scoffed. “Find Grudge Settler? Are they mad? It’s a little late to try to pick up the Ironclaw’s trail!” Ekdahl shook his head in disbelief as he saw General Hock’s expression remain grave. “They really think they can find it?” he asked.

  Hock shrugged his shoulders. “The witch thinks she can, and they’re taking a dwarf along who claims it might be locked away in some old crypt in the Black Mountains. The whole thing stinks of sorcery, but the count is convinced. He feels we have nothing to lose trying to find Grudge Settler, and everything to gain.”

  “Grudge Settler,” Ekdahl muttered. Like any Sollander, he had been reared on tales of the lost realm of Solland, and the vanished glories and honours that had been theirs until the Ironclaw’s horde had despoiled the land. The runefang that had been stolen from Count Eldred’s butchered corpse was a thing of legend to the people of the Solland, a link between their miserable present and their glorious past.

  “I don’t need to impress on you what the sword means,” General Hock continued. “The count is considering it as only a weapon, a tool to use against his enemy, but it is more than that, much more. It’s a symbol, a symbol of power, and symbol of rule.” Hock’s voice dropped into a low hiss. “If the sword is found, the count isn’t the only one who will want it.”

  Ekdahl’s face tightened into a stony mask. “What are you saying?”

  “You were a road warden, Ekdahl, back when the count could still afford to have them in Solland. If there are six men alive who know that area better than you, I’m a goblin with the gout. Von Rabwald’s little gang has a dwarf to guide them in the mountains and a witch to guide them to the sword. I want you to go along to make sure they get to the mountains.”

  “And to make sure the right people get the sword, if they find the sword?”

  General Hock smiled, his eyes dropping again to the scarred quiver. “I am quite confident that you are perfectly suited to addressing that contingency as well.”

  The halfling let his head linger over the pot, drinking in the aromatic smell trapped within the steam. He patted the bulge of his belly as it grumbled in response to the teasing of his senses. Soon enough now, soon enough. It wouldn’t be seemly not to let the stew simmer fully. The hardest thing for any halfling devoted to the culinary arts was allowing his endeavours to cook for long enough. The rich, savoury smells were torture to a halfling’s delicate senses and rapacious appetite.

  Most cooks would alleviate the problem by snacking while they worked, but Theodo found that led to distraction and, worse, a befouling of the taste buds. What was the sense in slaving to create some fantastic delicacy if an aftertaste of raw turnip was lingering in your mouth? No, far better to firm the old resolve and tighten the belt. The tall folk had some proverb about the artist suffering for his art, and Theodo could think of nothing more artistic than a lavish meal and its satellite soups, sauces and entrees.

  It was not, however, as if the current expression of his talents was particularly extravagant. There weren’t enough raw materials to be had in Koeblitz to make that happen, even for somebody with a purse full of army silver. Radishes were about the most exotic thing to be had in this little Wissenland backwater. One had to be closer to the river to get anything really fantastic. Perhaps he’d see about a furlough to Nuln in the near future, to see if that little shop in the Tilean quarter was still selling basil and making th
ose stringy little egg noodles he was so fond of.

  Theodo’s ruminations over his future meal faded away when a shadow fell over him. He turned to scold Ghrum for what felt like the hundredth time. If a halfling had little patience waiting for food to cook, an ogre had absolutely none. He’d had to give Ghrum the better part of the beef he was cooking just to placate him. Theodo had no delusions that the concession would satisfy Ghrum’s prodigious appetite, but he had hoped it would keep him busy until the rest of the meat had finished cooking.

  When he turned around, however, it wasn’t Ghrum looming over him, but a slim-faced man with greying hair and a steel breastplate. Theodo’s first impulse was to reach for one of his cooking knives, but he quickly recognised that his visitor wasn’t Brueller or one of his friends. Officers didn’t mix with the common soldiery, at least not officers from General Hock’s staff.

  The officer leaned over Theodo’s pot, letting the savoury smell wash over his face. The man’s lean face pulled into a smile and he closed his eyes, losing himself in the moment. Theodo took the opportunity to ransack his memory. There were so many officers, barons, margraves and knights running around the camp that it was hard to keep them all straight. Most of these blasted Wissenlanders looked alike to him anyway. Finally a name suggested itself from the depths of Theodo’s mind, and a swift glance reassured him that there was a silver eagle on the officer’s scabbard.

  “Captain Markus,” Theodo beamed with a fellowship he didn’t feel. “What a pleasant surprise. If I’d known you were coming I would have prepared better and arranged some schnapps or something.” The halfling bit down on his thumb, considering how stupid it was to mention the schnapps and wondering if he’d remembered to hide what was left or if he’d left it sitting out in the open next to the salt.