Armin bellowed a command to his men, urging them to awareness of their danger. Then he saw it: a fourth line of skeletons, their ranks staggered in the chequer-board fashion of the others. They were yet more heavily armoured, their scrawny frames draped in scales of bronze and iron, their skulls encased in rounded helms with skirts of chain and horsehair plumes. They bore thick round shields of iron, if anything more massive than the rectangles carried by the middle ranks. Immense spears with barbed tips projected out from over the rims of their shields.
With the same eerie unison, the armoured skeletons turned towards Armin’s knights, the only cavalry that had won clear of the third rank. Relentlessly, they converged upon the knights, striving to pin them with their backs to the quickly re-forming third line. Armin’s bellowed commands became desperate shouts, urging his men to wheel their steeds into the swiftly narrowing gap between the units of the fourth line. There was no thought of challenging the massed ranks of the armoured spearmen. Grossly outnumbered and with the momentum of their attack already lost, Armin had no delusions about how his knights would fare against that field of spears. They had to drive through the fourth line before they could close ranks and cut off their chance for escape. The knights heard their hochmeister’s orders, spurring their warhorses to follow his lead. The rearmost riders were cut down as the undead units converged, pulled from their saddles by the barbed spears, the bellies of their destriers slashed open by the corroded polearms.
The tattered standard fluttered forlornly above the riders as they plunged through the gap. Lances were cast aside and swords drawn, as the knights slashed at the skeletons that closed upon them. Armin’s ears filled with the shrieks of horses and the cries of men as they died upon the ancient spears of the revenants. Still they drove onwards, steel flashing through the mist, shattering mouldering bones with every strike. Armin thought they would never win clear, Then, suddenly his warhorse plunged into open pasture, grinding the helm of one last wight beneath its hooves. Johannis Roth smashed his way to Armin’s side. Then Eugen joined him with a few dozen others. Behind them, the ranks of the fourth line became a solid wall of bloodied bronze and grinning bone. For an instant, Armin felt the urge to turn his men around, to charge back into the enemy with their silent, mocking smiles, but such mad thoughts died quickly. Armin felt as though his entire body shrivelled with the magnitude of his despair. Through the mists, he could see thin, shadowy shapes.
They had won through the fourth line only to find a fifth. Horsehair plumes and barbed spears slowly resolved, as the shadows marched out of the fog.
The croaking of crows was a ghastly din that scratched relentlessly at Armin’s mind. The morning sun was a smouldering crimson flame on the horizon, like a pool of molten blood. A crow landed on Armin’s shoulder, stabbing its beak cruelly into his cheek. Armin growled at the carrion eater, struggling to crawl away from its vile attentions. The black bird cawed angrily and hopped off its creeping perch, choosing to fasten onto the arm that the hochmeister left behind him.
Loss of blood caused sparks to dance before Armin’s eyes. His brain felt numb, unable to focus on the horrible things his eyes tried to fill it with. He could not summon any sense of intimacy for the broken, mangled things that were strewn all around him, the carcasses and corpses of his knights. Dark blood bubbled up from some ruptured organ, spraying from Armin’s red-stained teeth. He flopped down on his back, blinking as the gory spittle dripped down into his eyes. He had just blinked away his own gore when his gaze set upon the figure standing with its back to the rising sun, the rays turning its bronze spear into a shaft of fire, its plumed helm casting dark shadows over its skeletal face. One of its comrades stood beside it, one of the walking damned. Armin idly wondered if they were the ones that had slain him. He wondered if there was even enough life left within their bony husks to know any sense of accomplishment from killing the hochmeister of the Order of the Southern Sword.
The numb detachment that befuddled Armin’s mind was burned away as an icy chill swept through him. The blood that still clung to his veins grew cold and his eyes grew wide in terror. The croaking of the crows was drowned out by the thunder of his failing heart. The scream that tried to rip from his throat froze in paralysed lungs.
A shape loomed between the two skeletons, glaring down at Armin. Beneath the shadow of its hood, the knight could see amber witch-lights glowing in the sockets of a leering skull. He had the impression of an armoured body encased in black scales, of iron-clad claws closed around a bladed staff, of a ragged crimson cloak that billowed around the apparition, moved by no earthly wind. The thing stared at him for a time, and Armin could feel his soul shrivelling with each passing breath. Somehow, even as he felt his spirit being devoured, Armin understood that he was already dead. In the last moment of clarity, Armin von Starkberg felt the true measure of terror.
After a time, the apparition turned away from the dead knight, leaving the crows to their repast.
CHAPTER TWO
The small dirt streets of Koeblitz had been churned into a froth of mud by the arrival of Count Eberfeld’s army. Every stable, granary and storehouse in the town had been commandeered by General Hock, every house, hovel and business transformed into a bivouac for the ragged survivors of the ill-fated battle. The rustic peasantry of Wissenland was wary enough of soldiers at the best of times, but the air of despondency that clung to Eberfeld’s men was a contagion that soon spread to the farmers and tradesmen of Koeblitz, infecting them with the same raw fear they saw lurking in the eyes of the soldiers. As he prowled through the mire that slithered between the sagging, half-timbered buildings of Koeblitz, Baron Ernst von Rabwald could count on one hand the number of civilians he saw haunting the streets, the rest keeping behind shuttered windows and locked doors, anxiously waiting for the return of normality to their dull little lives.
The baron cut an incongruous figure as he marched down the muddy lanes. He was tall and possessed of a lean, panther’s build, wearing a silver-chased breastplate upon which was stamped the raven of his demesne, the barony of Rabwald. An azure cape flowed from his broad shoulders, the coat-of-arms of Rabwald woven into the garment with cloth of gold. The gloves that clothed his hands were of softest doeskin, matched rubies gleaming from each knuckle. One hand rested easily upon the golden hilt of the longsword that hung from his belt, the other scratched at the faint trace of stubble that marked his proud, aristocratic face.
Baron Ernst von Rabwald was accustomed to having his hair shorn and his face shaved every morning by his valet. Again and again, his mind turned to the petty annoyance of this break in his daily ritual, despite all the other concerns that crowded his thoughts.
Ernst watched as a small group of dismounted horsemen from Kreutzhofen wearily made their way down the lane. The Kreutzhofen Spears had suffered hideous losses in the battle, second only to those suffered by the Knights of the Southern Sword. These men had braved the belly of the beast, and had been spat out from the very mouth of the monster. Ernst watched the tired men slowly trudge through the mire, their hauberks filthy with blood and grime, their faces pinched and pale with fatigue. They had fought well, these horsemen, but at the end of the day they were still commoners. Ernst’s path did not waver as the soldiers marched towards him. He met their weary eyes for an instant, and then the soldiers made way for the nobleman, passing to either side of the baron as they continued down the street. Even in the aftermath of battle there were proprieties to be observed. Noble did not give ground to peasant. That was the kind of man Ernst had been raised to be.
Ernst continued to march past the mud-brick hovels that swarmed around the outskirts of Koeblitz, past the pig wallows and chicken coops that seemed to litter every inch of ground the townsfolk had not delineated as road. There was urgency in his step, an immediacy that was absent in the dejected, defeated countenances of the soldiers who watched him pass by from whatever hasty bivouac they had appropriated from the people of Koeblitz. Some huddled in the shado
ws of lean-tos, warming their hands over tiny campfires and trying to keep rust from their blades. Others watched him from the doorways of timber-framed houses, their shoulders draped in furs and blankets provided by their reluctant hosts.
Ernst did not appreciate the sullen gleam in the eyes of some of those who watched him, the envy and spite that a nobleman saw far too often. So long as it remained in the eye and did not slip onto the tongue, a noble was well advised to ignore such petty insurrection. He knew that most of the resentment grew from a belief that the nobility did not share in the same trials and hardships of their people. He could have ridden with the Sablebacks, his position and family entitled him to such prestigious company, yet he had decided to fight alongside the commoners who had followed him from Rabwald. It was a decision he had always made and would always make. Obligations and duties, as well as honours and privileges, went with the title of Baron von Rabwald. That was also the kind of man he had been raised to be.
In the baron’s wake, stalking after him as faithfully as his shadow, was a brutish hulk of humanity. A suit of chainmail struggled to contain swollen arms and muscled chest, the battered steel breastplate a shabby echo of the silvered armour worn by the baron. A conical spangenhelm framed a grisly countenance of smashed features and jagged scars, frosty blue eyes set above a great gash of a frown. The warrior carried an enormous sword across his powerful shoulder, the blade rippling like a steel lightning bolt, the leather grip wrapped in wire to prevent the weapon from slipping through fingers dampened by sweat and blood. A riot of black tassels dangled from the haft of the sword while a grinning steel skull formed its pommel. It was a weapon as ugly and intimidating as the man who bore it.
Max Kessler was a name spoken of in guarded whispers in the north of Wissenland, where custom and circumstance might bring a man into the demesne of Rabwald. The hulking warrior was one of the deadliest swordsmen in the region, a man who had walked away from more duels than were easily counted. The black tassels that were looped through the sockets of the sword’s pommel each denoted a man whose life had ended on that blade. For many years, Kessler had served as the baron’s champion, acting as his master’s proxy against all those who challenged his authority. By long tradition, any man could challenge any ruling of law by demanding trial by combat. Only the suicidal and the desperate continued to do so in Rabwald.
Ernst found his champion’s presence reassuring. There were few men he trusted so well as Max Kessler, and none he counted upon so fully. Even in the face of the walking dead, Kessler had not wavered, plying his giant sword with the same brutal deliberation as he did against any mortal foe. Few men had such nerve. If he was honest, Ernst would admit that even he had felt his determination falter as the undead had closed upon them. There was no better man to have watching his hack.
Ernst paused, staring at the mud beneath his boots as a sudden surge of melancholy swept through him. He hoped it would not come to that. He hoped he could make them see reason. The count’s decision sat ill with him, offending his sense of honour and chivalry. He knew his first duty was to the count and Wissenland, whatever his private concerns, however much the count’s order smacked of treachery.
“Is something wrong, my lord?” Kessler’s voice was a deep growl, like the snarl of a bear. Ernst turned and stared at the scarred swordsman.
“When we get there, let me do the talking,” Ernst told him. He scratched at the irritating stubble on his face. “If things go badly, try not to kill anyone,” he added.
“Shallya’s mercy! Can’t you stop that caterwauling!” The Kreutzhofener’s outburst was punctuated by a violent downward motion of his hand, the little wafer-thin strips of bone slapping angrily against the frayed cavalry blanket stretched across the ground. Theodo grinned at the sullen soldier.
“I take it you yield?” Theodo asked, rubbing salt into the wound. The soldier glared back at him, and then smashed his fist against the backs of the cards he had folded onto the blanket. A few of the other men, gathered around the blanket, snickered at the Kreutzhofener’s discomfort. A crimson flush blossomed in the faces of others, their eyes growing harder as some of the Kreutzhofener’s anger fed into their own.
Theodo Hobshollow leaned back, grinning his pearly smile, one thumb plucking at the breast of his striped vest, the other tapping the edges of the cards gripped firmly in his hand. There was something infuriatingly childlike about the little gambler, from his plump ruddy cheeks to his curly brown mop of hair, something that made the soldiers quick to forget the predatory gleam in his tiny eyes and the smug twist in his smile. It was easy to underestimate so slight a creature. The halfling barely rose to the waist of the smallest of his fellow gamblers. Indeed, he had required the appropriation of a hay bale to sit on, simply to stare the soldiers in the eye without wrenching his neck. He sat there, swinging his bare, hairy feet, his fat little hands wrapped around his cards with all the attentiveness of a miser clinging to his last shilling.
The game had been suggested to the soldiers shortly after their arrival in Koeblitz and they had thought to make an easy mark of the halfling. As General Hock’s cook, Theodo could be expected to have a purse as fat as the paunch that strained against his belt and disfigured his broadcloth breeches. A site had been chosen, a spot where they could conduct their games without any undue attention from officers and nobles. The grimy little yard that was squashed between some of the mud-brick hovels that squatted just beyond the township proper seemed an ideal choice when the halfling suggested it: isolated and far too squalid to be threatened by any wandering captains. Now the soldiers were regretting that decision.
“Who can concentrate with that racket going on?” the Kreutzhofener bellowed, waving his fist in the direction of the din that was grinding on his nerves. The other soldiers followed the sweep of the Kreutzhofener’s hand. Theodo kept staring at the cards lying flat against the blanket.
The gamblers were not the only denizens of the muddy little yard. It was not the occupants of the hovels who bedevilled them, for they had retreated into their homes with positively indecent haste as soon as the men had entered the yard. No, it was the chickens in the wicker coops and the pigs in their slatted sties that were causing the commotion that was grating on the Kreutzhofener’s nerves. Of course, it was difficult to fault the animals, not with that gigantic… thing looming over their cages, noisily smacking its lips.
If Theodo did not rise much higher than the waist of the shortest of the soldiers, the tallest of them was similarly dwarfed by the personage who caused the swine such fright. Immense was a word used far too liberally to truly convey the enormity of the mammoth shape, or to illustrate the timid awe it evoked.
Iron-shod boots as big as beer barrels supported legs as thick as tree trunks, wrapped in leggings that might have started life as tent canvas. The thick belt that circled the brute’s enormous gut had a dented shield for a buckle, the crude scabbard that hung from it appeared to have been stitched from the hides of a dozen wolves, the hilt of the gargantuan sword it contained resembling nothing so much as a wagon yoke. A ragged girdle of tarnished bronze, which looked as though it had been ripped from the carcass of a cannon, circled the monster’s waist above his belt, a crude bestial face scratched into the metal.
A deeply stained shirt of sailcloth failed miserably in its efforts to contain the gargantuan mass of corded muscles that rippled through the brute’s chest and arms, the rugged garment mended with scores of broad leather patches. A thick, stump-like neck rose from the yard-wide shoulders, supporting a craggy boulder of a head. The rounded steel helmet that covered that head was as big as a cart wheel, its rim fringed in fur, a serrated crest running along its top like the spiny back of some reptile.
The face beneath that helm was as monolithic as a mountain. A thick, low brow shadowed small, dull eyes. A crushed, blunted nose crouched above the immense gash of his mouth, like a craggy stone perched above a gaping canyon. Yellow, tusk-like teeth protruded past the leathery lips, the s
mallest bigger than a man’s thumb. The stamp of raw, primordial strength was written in every inch of the figure’s imposing frame, written in words that even the feeblest slackwit could not fail to understand. Even the most raging madman had enough sense to give an ogre a wide berth.
This ogre’s name was Ghrum and his current interest was cramming a joint of exceedingly fresh pork into his cavernous maw, an activity that the remaining pigs did not seem particularly pleased with. The only one who did not seem tortured by their incessant squealing was the ogre himself.
“Tell that animal to stop antagonising the swine!” the Kreutzhofener snapped. Theodo simply smiled at him, enjoying the hint of fear that intruded upon the man’s anger.
“Why don’t you go ask him?” the halfling suggested. For a moment, the Kreutzhofener’s face turned a most pleasant shade of green. Theodo paused, waiting for any of the soldiers to move. He wheezed a theatrical sigh. “Well, then, on to more important things. I notice that you’ve laid down your hand, Karl. Would it be fair to interpret that as yielding? That is how a player abandons the fray when they play Sword and Drake in Nuln.”
The Kreutzhofener scowled at the halfling, glanced at the blanket, and then scowled again. “Take it you pox-ridden toad!” The soldier rose and pushed his way through his comrades. Theodo watched him leave, a look of shock and hurt pulling at his cherubic face.
[Warhammer] - Runefang Page 3
