Runefang

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

  “I ask for none,” Lord Hugo responded. He gestured a steel-clad arm at the ranks of armoured knights behind him. “If you are truly beset by the black curse of Nagash, I have three-score and six seasoned warriors who would ride with you. All they demand is the opportunity to bring Sigmar’s holy wrath down upon the skulls of these abominations!”

  The count’s sword hissed back into its sheath and he extended his hand to Lord Hugo, welcoming the strong grasp of his stern grip. “If that is all your men ask, they shall find more than enough where we are going.”

  The Knights of the Griffon stood their horses upon the small rise, staring down at the grey fog that had settled around the town of Neuwald, the towers of the settlement rising above the murk like the masts of a sunken ship reaching up from the black clutch of the sea. Screams and shouts rose intermittently from the unseen walls of the city, but within the fog, almost perfect silence held dominion, broken only by the snap-crack of catapults hurling missiles into Neuwald.

  Lord Hugo had ridden to the battlefield with Count Eberfeld. They encountered General Hock’s army in a shambles, a desolate, dejected body of men held together only by their common fear. Twice they had marched into the fog, and twice they had been repulsed by the rotting warriors of the legion. It was a testament to their discipline that they had not routed long before Count Eberfeld’s arrival. That the count, with a few words and a display of his determination, was able to rally his men towards a third effort spoke of how well he was loved by his people.

  The weakness in General Hock’s desperate but ill-advised effort against the legion lay, Lord Hugo was convinced, in his attempt to engage the enemy across too broad a front. This was no living foe, to be broken by force of arms. They had to be destroyed, destroyed to the last warrior. Hock, in his despair, had gambled that a half-effort would be enough.

  Count Eberfeld was yet unwilling to abandon the town, however, and so conferred with his officers to decide on a plausible course of action. While they had no immediate means to break the siege, it was decided that a concentrated attack might be able to punch through the lines of the legion. Their object would be to destroy the legion’s onagers and spare Neuwald from at least the attentions of the siege engines. Lord Hugo had insisted his knights spearhead the charge. Supported by the Sablebacks and a regiment of irregular cavalry from Bergdorf, it was believed that they would be able to drive straight to the catapults. The legion was an infantry force, and though its ranks were deep and its mindless warriors devoid of fear or doubt, the onagers needed room to operate, and the ranks could not be thick around them.

  Lord Hugo stared into the fog, watching the still, fence-like line of shadows standing just within the veil. The sound of the catapults told him that here was a good place to strike, since the onagers could not be more than a few hundred yards behind that fence of living corpses. He raised his sword high, shouting a prayer to Sigmar. The oath was echoed by the knights behind him, even a few of the Sablebacks and cavalrymen on his flanks picking up the cry. Then Lord Hugo lowered his sword. Hundreds of horsemen galloped forward as one, roaring their war cries at the silent enemy.

  There was movement within the fog as the knights barrelled down the rise. A ragged, stumbling mass emerged from the mist. Shouts of horror rose from the charging cavalry as their eyes closed upon the grisly things. Torn flesh clung to broken bones, strips of bloodied cloth dripping around mangled frames. The things moved in stiff, awkward stumbles, sightless eyes staring emptily at the oncoming chargers. The Wissenlanders were struck dumb with revulsion as they saw the things, as they recognised the liveries of Heufurth and Kreutzhofen among the rags the things wore, as they found a ghastly familiarity in some of the decaying faces that gawped at them from the fog. From some of the zombies, those in which a faint echo of life stubbornly clung, there issued low, anguished moans, the sound both piteous and terrible.

  Horses shied and panicked as the stench of unburied carrion struck their senses, as the unholy taint of the zombies reached them. The animals jerked against the men who tried to command them, spilling riders into the dust. The charge degenerated into a confused mess of desperate men and terrified beasts. Lord Hugo tried to maintain some cohesion among his knights, tried to pursue the attack despite their animals’ fear. Scarcely a third of the men who had followed him down the slope were still in control of their animals and still able to lend themselves to the charge.

  The empty, rotting visages of the zombies watched the men thunder towards them, oblivious to the pounding hooves, the lowered lances and the bared swords. Slowly, the things raised their own swords and spears, holding them with ungainly hands and vacant stares. They seemed almost to welcome the destruction descending upon them.

  As Lord Hugo’s charge neared the waiting line of zombies, more shadows emerged from the fog. These moved not with the uncertain, stiff motions of the zombies, but with a horrible grace and speed, an abominable parody of the galloping horses of the Sigmarites. When the Wissenlanders had fought the legion on the Dobrin road, there had been no cavalry among the lifeless horde. Horsemen had not been a fixture of warfare when Zahaak had walked the land as a mortal king, nor had they been part of the legion it had led into the Black Mountains to support its infernal master. Zahaak, however, was not like the mindless things it controlled, it still had intelligence. It could adapt to the tactics of an enemy, and even use them.

  In life, they had been the Knights of the Southern Sword, these horrors that galloped from the fog. Now they were knights of Nagash, loathsome shadows of the warriors they had once been. Their flesh was withered against their bones, shrivelled by the fell sorcery of Zahaak, their faces were empty skulls picked clean by the beaks of carrion crows. Their armour was tarnished with decay and the filth of battle, the steeds beneath them were the skeletal husks of their stalwart destriers. Hooded cloaks of flayed skin covered their wasted frames while shroud-like tabards billowed about their mounts. Upon the breast of each cloak, instead of the Southern Sword, they bore the cruel whorl of the Ghoul Star, that ancient symbol of horror and madness passed down from the hoary lore of Nehekhara.

  The undead knights did not hesitate in their charge to meet Lord Hugo’s men. Zombies were crushed beneath dead hooves as the lifeless riders spurred towards the battle, the rotting things remaining eerily silent even as their bones snapped beneath the galloping knights. Again coils of unnatural terror closed around the charging riders, this time striking man and beast alike. Men wrenched desperately at the reins of their steeds, trying frantically to turn their animals about. Horses pitched screaming to the ground as their terrified riders struggled too recklessly to turn them, and men hurtled screaming from saddles as their animals refused their efforts to control them.

  Into this rout came the legion’s riders, charging into the confused ranks with cold, passionless havoc. Blades black with crusted blood slashed down into the bodies of floundering men, hacking at them like cordwood. Neither scream nor curse caused the swords of the undead to hesitate. Horses pitched to the earth, their necks cut open by the blades of the dead, men falling in butchered heaps to breath their last in the blood-drenched dust.

  Lord Hugo and a handful of his knights tried to fight back, to blunt the awful counter-attack of the undead riders. He slammed his sword into the collar of one wight, nearly severing the faceless head from its unclean body. The hooded skull flopped obscenely against its shoulder, grinning malevolently at Lord Hugo as it continued to slash at him with its sword. The knight tried to finish the job with another strike at its neck, but even as he did so, his horse screamed beneath him. The animal pitched to the ground, its lung punctured by the thrust of another wight’s sword. Lord Hugo was thrown by the dying beast, tossed through the air like a child’s doll. He landed in a blinding burst of agony, feeling his leg snap like a twig beneath him.

  The knight groped for his sword, horrified by its loss in his fall. Lord Hugo looked frantically for his men, but the only ones close were the mangled, dying bodi
es strewn across the ground. He could see the undead riders pursuing the rest, driving them from the field. The sight had broken the faltering spirit of Wissenland’s army, and they were retreating from the battleground in a disordered mob, defying the best efforts of Count Eberfeld to rally them. If the count was lucky, they’d stop running once they reached Bergdorf.

  The sound of movement close by brought Lord Hugo’s attention back to his immediate distress. The black knights had pressed their attack across the field, chasing after the fleeing horsemen, but they were not the only elements of the legion stalking out of the fog. Lord Hugo gasped in horror as he saw the festering zombies shambling forwards, limping and crawling on their snapped and broken limbs. He tried to lift his body from the ground, but fell flat as his leg buckled under him.

  Driven by despair and fear, Lord Hugo began to crawl. A prayer to Sigmar whispered across his lips as he tried to scramble away. Behind him, the zombies loped onwards, slowly gaining on the wounded man. The knight redoubled his efforts, frantic energy crackling through his nerves. He cried out as the bones in his leg scraped against each other, and then bit down on his tongue, horrified that the cry might spur his pursuers to greater efforts. The zombies displayed no eagerness, however, pursuing him with the same mindless persistence.

  Lord Hugo’s desperate fight for escape ended as he felt again the icy, unnatural terror close over him. He saw armoured boots lined across the ground before him. Lifting his eyes, he found himself staring into the empty skulls of the undead knights. The creatures, dismounted from their ghastly steeds, stared back at him with the pitiless regard of the dead. Lord Hugo screamed, covering his head with his arms as the wights lifted their swords. The blades chopped down into his body, slicing through flesh and bone. Again and again, the swords of the undead rose and fell, rose and fell, never pausing, never relenting, attacking until the last drop of life had been driven from the knight’s veins.

  It was a long time before the knights of Nagash sheathed their swords. When they did, what they left behind them could scarcely still be called a man.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The gloom of night cast its ebony shroud across the slopes of the Black Mountains, smothering the twisted trees and misshapen bushes in a lightless murk of shadow. The hard stones and piled rocks cast down from the mountains took on weird, lurking shapes in the darkness, like a legion of hungry monsters waiting to pounce upon their unsuspecting prey.

  Schmitt was not much given to imagination or deep thought, yet even the rat-faced outlaw could not fail to be impressed by the almost tangible menace of his surroundings. He was a hard man who had led a hard life, with only a knot of greed where most men had a conscience. Yet even he couldn’t quite suppress a shudder as he watched the upper slopes of the mountains, wondering what else might be up there staring back at him. The cries coming from the camp behind him did little to ease his nerves.

  Before the orcs attacked, there had been over forty men in Baldur’s band of brigands, poachers and outlaws. Now they numbered seven, clustered around a tiny fire that was shielded by a motley array of cloaks and coats, lest some flicker of light betray their presence to some prowler of the night. The survivors were clustered around the fire, nursing their wounds with fistfuls of damp leaves and bandages torn from blankets. Baldur was no stranger to such sorry spectacles, indeed, the aftermath of the border skirmish that had seen him exiled from Averland had been still more miserable in its scope and enormity. For all that the men he looked upon were criminal vermin, Baldur could not set aside his sense of responsibility for them. As their leader, he still felt some obligation towards them.

  Baldur clenched his fist and turned on his patron. Rambrecht sat in a canvas camp chair, honing the edge of his blade with a stone, eyes intent upon the sparks that slid from the steel. He was less concerned with the pitiful moaning that rose from the worst of the wounded. It was Rambrecht’s ruthless leadership that had allowed them to escape the orc ambush, at the expense of their comrades. Gathering what men were close to hand, Rambrecht had given the order to withdraw while the orcs were still engaged with the bandits further up the slope. It was a decision that sat ill with Baldur. He still considered himself an officer, a captain, and no captain liked to abandon his men in the middle of a fight.

  “Something you want?” Rambrecht asked, looking up to find Baldur standing before him. The aristocrat set his sword across his lap, tossing the sharpening stone into the brush. He gave the disgraced officer a superior, challenging glower that dug at what remained of Baldur’s pride.

  “I want to know when we turn back,” Baldur said. “We’ve lost too many men, and those that are left haven’t the strength to go on.”

  Rambrecht laughed. “Those dogs? Wave enough gold under their noses and watch them pick themselves back up. They’ll go to the walls of Khemri for us if we promise them enough gold!”

  “And what will they be when they get there?” Baldur snarled back. “Tired, broken men facing trained soldiers and mercenaries. Don’t forget, the Wissenlanders outnumber us, and we’ve certainly lost the element of surprise.” As if to punctuate Baldur’s words, a sharp moan rose from the camp.

  A sinister gleam came to Rambrecht’s eyes. “Don’t forget that we still have a man on the inside,” the aristocrat said. “That counts for a lot. When the time comes, we’ll surprise them.”

  Baldur shook his head, biting back a curse. “We’re too weak to go wandering around the mountains!” He stabbed a hand in the direction of the brooding black peaks. “We don’t know what we’ll find up there!”

  “On the contrary,” Rambrecht corrected him, “we know exactly what we’ll find: a ragtag mob of Wissenlanders and a relic that means power and wealth for both of us!” The aristocrat’s lips were moist as he imagined the bounty he would claim when he presented the lost runefang of Solland to the royal court in Averheim. A barony would be the least he might expect. Count Achim had a granddaughter as yet unwed, and it was not impossible to dream of gaining entrance into the royal family if he brought his bold scheme to fruition.

  Baldur could see in Rambrecht’s face that he had lost his argument, but with the tenacity of an old soldier, he tried again to make the aristocrat see reason. “What about what else we might find up there? What about the orcs? What if they pick up our trail again? What if they are out there even now looking for us? Do you think they’d have a hard time finding us if they wanted to?” Again, a piteous moan of pain rose from the camp. Rambrecht looked past Baldur at the bandits gathered around the fire. He singled one of them out.

  “You! Kopff, isn’t it?” the aristocrat snapped. The squat brigand nodded sheepishly and took a step forwards, his hands folded across his chest. “Who’s making all that racket?”

  “It’s Stampf, Herr Rambrecht, your lordship, sir,” Kopff replied, keeping his voice at what he hoped was a servile tone. “Half his arm was chopped off by an orc—”

  “Shut him up,” Rambrecht growled, “unless you want his whining to lead every greenskin in the Black Mountains to us!”

  Kopff licked his lips and bobbed his head in agreement as he backed away, almost stumbling over his own feet. Rambrecht dismissed the bandit from his thoughts, turning again to glower at Baldur.

  “Maybe you’ve lost sight of what you have at stake, captain,” Rambrecht hissed. “Maybe I was wrong seeking you out. What’s wrong, captain? Now that what you have dreamed of for so many years is nearly within your grasp you find it frightening? Don’t you want your commission restored? Don’t you want to return to your family and see your home again? To stop living like an animal out here among this scum?”

  The anguished moan started to rise again, and then was cut off, replaced by a ghastly gurgle. Baldur felt his stomach lurch as he heard the sound, and saw the triumphant superiority written across Rambrecht’s face. Kopff emerged from the darkness, wiping a bloody knife on his leggings.

  “Herr Rambrecht, sir, your lordship,” the toad-faced bandit whined, “Sta
mpf’s going to be quiet now.” Kopff blinked and drew away when he saw the enraged look that Baldur directed at him. Quickly, the bandit leader turned on Rambrecht. Before the aristocrat could react, the ex-soldier’s hands had closed around his collar, pulling him from his seat.

  “Damn you!” Baldur raged. “It was bad enough leaving men behind to be butchered by orcs, but now we’re murdering our wounded! I’m still an officer, Rambrecht, whatever they say in Averheim. I still have honour. I still have a sense of duty and obligation.” He glared into Rambrecht’s eyes, pleased to find, for the first time, a tinge of fear in them. “These are my men! Mine! I won’t let you slaughter them for your own mad ambition.”

  The other bandits from the camp had drawn close during the exchange, watching as their leader argued with his patron, nervously gazing from one to the other. Rambrecht saw the uncertainty on their crude faces, the blind stupidity of a mob just rousing to action. The aristocrat’s breath was laboured, his pulse quickening as he realised which way they would turn when that action came. They had all heard Baldur’s arguments, and had time to digest his words in their villainous minds.

  Then, suddenly, the situation changed, in a way that Rambrecht was quick to turn to his advantage.

  Schmitt came scrambling into the camp. Words were tumbling from his mouth even before he was aware of the tense stand-off he had intruded upon. “Lights!” he cried. “Lights on the mountain, just like you said to look for!”

  The smile was back on Rambrecht’s face and he pulled himself free of Baldur’s suddenly slackened grip. “Lights on the mountain,” he repeated for Baldur’s benefit. He looked at Schmitt, and they stared at the other bandits. “Tell them what kind of lights you saw.”

  Schmitt nodded and hurried to obey. “Just like the nob said to look for,” he stammered. “A light that burned long, then short, then long, like a pattern.”