“How unfriendly,” Theodo whined. The halfling clapped his little hands together and an avaricious gleam filled his eyes. “That makes me the winner! Would somebody be kind enough to hand me Karl’s boots?”
“You’ve been winning an awful lot, burrow rat,” one of the other soldiers spat. Theodo sighed again.
“It’s not my fault if you fellows can’t concentrate on what you’re doing,” he objected. “Sword and Drake is not so much a game of chance as a contest of skill, a test of nerves.” Theodo spread his arms in an apologetic shrug.
The soldier’s expression turned livid. “Why you miserable little maggot!” He took a pace forwards, his hand clenched into a fist. Theodo scrambled up onto his hay bale, cringing away from the furious man. A brief sneer of triumph flickered on the soldier’s grizzled countenance, and then his eyes grew wide with horror as realisation of what he was doing overcame the emotion commanding his body. Before he could react, the soldier felt giant fingers close around his shoulder with all the tenderness of a wolftrap. His feet kicked weakly as he was lifted into the air.
“You sit! Be nice! No cheat!” Each of the truncated sentences was spoken in a grinding bellow that pounded against the soldier’s ears like a kettledrum. He crashed against the ground as his captor released him, none-too-gently. The ogre glowered at him for a moment, and then stuffed the head of the hog he had been eating into his massive maw, cracking the skull with one noisy bite.
Theodo smoothed his vest and recovered his grin, sitting back down on his hay bale perch with all the dignity of a king upon his throne. He waved at Ghrum, and the ogre slowly lumbered back to his place by the pigsty. The halfling smiled at the soldier who had threatened him, enjoying the way the man’s body continued to shake like a leaf after his experience.
“Could someone fetch Brueller a blanket? He seems to have caught a chill,” Theodo said, his voice loud enough to reach the other gamblers. A few notes of nervous laughter answered the halfling’s jest. The trembling soldier glared back at Theodo.
“Sometime I’ll catch you when your damn monster ain’t around,” Brueller promised, darkly, his voice low.
Theodo assumed a pained expression. “Ghrum is only here to keep the game honest,” he protested, “to make sure no big people try to take advantage of a poor little cook from the Moot. Surely you have nothing against fair play and honesty?” The last question was a bit distorted by Theodo’s efforts to keep from laughing as he said it.
Brueller continued to glare at Theodo, but he pushed a few silver crowns onto the blanket all the same. Men were so terribly predictable, something that had allowed Theodo to prosper quite well indeed since his forced emigration from his homeland. One could always depend on the tall folk’s arrogance and greed.
The Mare and Mule was the largest of Koeblitz’s three taverns, a rambling two-storey structure that loomed on the outskirts of the town. In better times, the tavern had served as a way-stop for the coach lines that plied the roads between Wissenburg and Averheim. Now, however, few travelled that brigand-haunted route. The bitter relations between the provinces of Averland and Wissenland had broken into full-out fighting far too many times in the recent past to allow open trade between their capital cities. The maintenance of the road had been allowed to slide. The wardens who had once patrolled it and kept it free from the attentions of highwaymen and goblins had been posted to less neglected regions. With the demise of the road, the fortunes of those who depended upon it for their livelihood had fallen.
The Mare and Mule was only one of many businesses that wallowed in the mire of fading custom. The plaster walls displayed jagged cracks and patches discoloured by the attentions of sun and rain. The wood shingle roof was visibly decaying, the splintered shingles ravaged by summer heat and winter snow. The stone wall that surrounded the tavern’s courtyard was pitted with holes where mortar and rock had succumbed to the elements, and the courtyard was overgrown with weeds and strewn with the refuse of better days. The only coach that resided within the yard was a crumbling wreck pushed against a sagging wall to help support it.
On an ordinary day, the Mare and Mule would play host only to a rabble of farmers and tradesmen, those too poor or too apathetic about the quality of their ale to patronise the other drinking halls in Koeblitz. However, with Count Eberfeld’s army bivouacked in the town, times were anything but ordinary, and the dilapidated tavern was playing host to the remains of the Brotherhood of Schwerstetten. The great hall of the tavern echoed with the sullen curses and angry boasts of the grizzled mercenaries, who had requisitioned the establishment for their billet and appropriated its cheap, watery fare as recompense for grievances suffered in the battle, and grievances suffered since.
Captain Valdner watched his men nurse their grudges, the treacle-like ale they poured down their gullets scarcely strong enough to slur their tongues, much less make them forget their hurts. Few of these were physical, since the hideous enemy they had confronted at the crossroads hadn’t fought like a mortal foe, but had hacked and stabbed any wounded soldier until the last spark of life had fled from his carcass before seeking out a new enemy to strike down. Valdner grimly accepted that it had been this single-mindedness on the part of the undead horrors that had allowed any of them to escape at all, leaving their dying comrades to occupy the skeletal warriors while the other mercenaries fled.
It was an ugly memory, one that Valdner was certain would disturb him for many a night to come, the cries of abandoned men as the skeletons chopped them to bits, haunting his dreams. That was a hurt each of his men carried inside him, the guilt and shame of leaving friends to die while they saved their own skins. Even those who understood Valdner’s decision, understood that by lingering they would only have been killed, but even those who appreciated his tactical judgement could not rout the self-loathing that clawed at their hearts.
There was a more practical reason for their ugly humour, too. A mercenary company was only as profitable as its reputation and, rightly or wrongly, that reputation was measured by the success of its last venture. Their part in the defeat suffered by the Wissenlanders would not ennoble them to prospective employers, and it would drive down the price they could command. It would also be difficult to replace the losses they had suffered. Certainly, it was no great task to round out the ranks with a gaggle of brick-headed farm louts with delusions of fame and fortune, but to attract genuine professionals who knew what they were doing was another matter entirely. Valdner did not look forward to that prospect. He had entered Count Eberfeld’s employ with nearly three score hardened fighters: swordsmen from the Reikland, axemen from Middenland, halberdiers from Ostermark, marines from Marienburg, kossars from Nordland. Now, his command numbered a little over twenty. Even the pragmatic observation that the survivors would enjoy a larger share of the count’s gold did little to improve their spirits.
Valdner stared hard at the scarred oak table he sat at, his thin, delicate hands tracing the network of knife marks gouged into the wood. Perhaps if they saw some of the count’s gold it would help matters along. The promise of gold could lead a man far, but the feel of gold in his hands, the smell of it in his nose, the shine of it in his eyes, that was a power that even the gods envied.
The mercenary captain looked up as two of his men approached the table. He nodded in greeting to them as they sat down. One was a tall Nordlander, his elaborate moustache teased into blond tusks that bisected his cheeks. He wore a tattered brigandine, the armour patched a dozen times over, and a heavy fur coat that all but swept the floor behind him as he walked. A big bearskin hat was smashed down about his ears, the black fur making a stark contrast to his pale complexion and ruddy cheeks. A big axe nestled in a loop on his belt, a pair of small daggers sheltering in sheathes stitched into the breast of his armour. The other man was short, almost plump, dressed in a leather hauberk and an extravagant grey cloak with silver buttons. A leather hat with a ridiculously wide brim perched atop the Reiklander’s head, casting his features
in shadow. Eelskin gloves covered the man’s hands. Valdner was not surprised to find that one of them rested on the pommel of the slender steel blade that swung from his belt, while the other fiercely clutched the tiny silver hammer that hung from a chain around his neck.
“Raban,” Valdner said, addressing the axeman. The Nordlander took a seat at the table, slamming the leather flagon he held against the tabletop, sloshing its contents across the wood. He released the flagon and shook the damp from his fingers. The swordsman made no move to sit, standing to the side of the table between Valdner and Raban, instead.
“Captain,” Raban responded. The axeman took a pull from his flagon, letting it crash back to the table with similar results as before. He sucked beads of ale from his moustache and smiled at Valdner.
“He said he’d talk to the count about our money,” Valdner told the axeman. Raban shrugged his shoulders. Valdner felt fire sear through his veins at the Nordlander’s doubtful air. “I’ve had dealings with Baron von Rabwald before. He is a man of his word, a man of honour and breeding. I trust him to honour his agreement with us.”
“If you say so,” Raban muttered, dipping his finger in the dregs of ale collecting in the pitted surface of the table, “but I haven’t met a nob yet who didn’t value gold more than his word.”
“I trust Baron von Rabwald,” Valdner said, a warning note in his voice.
“You can’t trust any of these Wissenlanders,” sneered the cloaked swordsman. “Filthy heathen scavengers all of them! Spitting on the sovereignty of Altdorf! Placing other gods above Lord Sigmar!” The Reiklander clenched the silver icon tighter, the eelskin creaking with the force of his gesture.
“You’re working yourself up again, Anselm,” Valdner said. “You know the rules of the Brotherhood. So long as there is gold, we play no favourites either with Emperors or with gods.”
“That’s just the point, captain,” interjected Raban, licking ale from his finger. “So far there hasn’t been any gold, just a lot of talk and promises, and a lot of our men lying dead on the battlefield.”
Valdner leaned back in his chair, his hand slowly moving to the dagger in his belt. He cast a suspicious glance across the tavern, relaxing only slightly when he found the rest of his men still engaged with their libations. He turned his gaze back to Raban, staring into the Nordlander’s cold eyes. “You think I’ve dealt false with you?” Valdner asked, measuring every word for the right mixture of disbelief and challenge.
“Not you, captain, them Wissenlanders,” Raban replied, shaking his head. “I’ve got a good sense for when somebody is trying to do me wrong. Right now, it’s telling me that this baron isn’t going to give us enough to plant our dead, allowing them bone-bags left anything to bury when they got through.”
“I trust Baron von Rabwald,” Valdner repeated. “He wouldn’t go back on his word, not with me.”
“These Wissenlanders are all heathens,” Anselm cautioned, his words coming out in a hiss. “That is why the ground spits up its dead, to visit the just wrath of Sigmar upon these—”
“Enough!” Valdner growled, slamming his hand against the table. “What would you have me do? Walk away from what is owed us? Stick a knife in Baron von Rabwald? Slit General Hock’s throat? Why stop there? Why don’t we just call Count Eberfeld a thief and a liar? I’m certain that will get us our gold!” The outburst caused Raban to tilt his head downward, keeping his eyes from meeting those of his captain. Anselm fidgeted nervously, his thumb rubbing the chain around his neck as it always did when he was anxious.
“Any time either of you wants to be captain, just let me know,” Valdner said, challenging the two mercenaries. “When the baron gets here we’ll get our pay.”
“And then we clear out,” Raban was quick to add. There was a trace of fear in his voice, a fear that was in all of the men. It was the main reason they were so eager to get their pay. None of them relished the prospect of fighting the undead a second time. Once they had their pay, Count Eberfeld would lose his hold over them. They could leave Wissenland to its fate with never a backward glance. At least, most of them wouldn’t look back.
“If that is what everyone still wants to do,” Valdner said. “As soon as the baron returns we can gather up our gear and put this place behind us.”
Like many of the settlements of Wissenland, the town of Koeblitz was surrounded by fields. Foolish indeed was the community that did not attempt to provide for its own needs. Even big cities like Nuln sometimes suffered for growing too big to feed its populace, depending on the ever-capricious fates to deliver sustenance from abroad for the growling bellies of its people.
Koeblitz was not too large to feed its own, and a maze of wheat fields ringed the town to its west and north, filling the landscape with tall golden stalks for miles, before succumbing to the encroaching forest and marsh. The peasants of Koeblitz depended on their fields for their livelihood and were as attentive to them as any shepherd with his flock. Day or night, rain or shine, it was a rare thing not to find some of the farmers prowling their fields, nervously watching for any trace of weevil or blight.
The three men who prowled the fields this day, however, were neither farmers nor any other inhabitant of Koeblitz. The ragged tunics of hide and leather that they wore had been tanned from the hides of deer and wisent from the forests far to the south. The yellow-tinted wood that formed the slender bows each man bore was from the pines of the Black Mountains. Each man had the rugged stamp of the wild frontier about him. The face of each was anxious, eyes scanning the rows of wheat with a scrutiny more intense even than that of the farmers. The men moved with cautious, furtive steps, slipping into the uncomfortable role of hunted instead of hunter. With every second step, one of the bowmen would glance over his shoulder, watching the timber walls of Koeblitz for any sign that they had been seen.
It was not until they had won free from the concealment of the wheat that the three men realised they had been discovered. Several fields had been left fallow, allowing the soil to recover for a season before more seed was sown. The fallow fields offered no cover for the fugitives, leaving them bare before the eyes of any sentinel patrolling the walls of the town. It was not, however, from behind that their challenge came.
A slender, long-armed man stood at the edge of the nearest open field. He wore black leather breeches and tunic, steel bow guards binding his forearms. A slim sword hung from his belt and he held a longbow in his gloved hands. A brown felt hat rested on the archer’s head of steel-grey hair, the white eagle feather tucked in its band shivering in the breeze. The face beneath the hat was not unlike the rugged countenances of the men emerging from the wheat rows, a hard lean face with the cold gleam of the predator in the eye and the stamp of wild desolation in the leathery skin.
The three fugitives froze when they saw the archer standing before them. They looked around, hastily, but found that the bowman was alone. The observation did little to ease their anxiety. They knew the man they faced.
“Go back,” the bowman told them, his voice full of command. For a moment, the three hunters seemed to consider the prospect, and then one of them, a sandy-haired man with a scar over his eye, stepped forward.
“It’s no good, Ekdahl,” he said, a quiver of nervousness in his words, “we’ve made up our minds. We’re not going to throw our lives away fighting the count’s wars.”
Ekdahl’s intense stare burrowed into the hunter’s eyes. “You didn’t think it was the count’s war when you marched with me from the Sol Valley. You didn’t think it was the count’s war when those things came down from the Black Mountains and slaughtered every living thing in Bernbruck.”
“They’re heading north now, away from the mountains,” one of the other men said. Ekdahl looked over at him and shook his head.
“That makes it proper to abandon the rest of the province to these devils?” he demanded. “That gives you the right to renounce the oaths of service you have sworn to the count?”
“You go too
far calling us cowards, Ekdahl!” protested the third fugitive, fingering the wood-axe thrust beneath his belt.
“I don’t call you cowards,” Ekdahl said, his voice like the snarl of a wolf. “I call you deserters.” The word lingered in the air after he said it, stinging the three Sollanders like a lash. Some of their bravado drained out of them, but not their desire to escape. The hunter with the axe pulled the weapon from his belt. The others produced knife and dagger from their boots. Ekdahl did not move a muscle, but kept his chilly gaze trained on them.
“We don’t want to kill you, Ekdahl,” the sandy-haired deserter said. “Give us your word you won’t give alarm until after we’re gone.” The last was spoken more as plea than a demand. These were desperate men, but they had not yet allowed themselves to become so desperate as to countenance murder.
Ekdahl nodded his head sadly. “Be on your way then,” he told them. “I won’t move from this spot until you’re well away in the trees.” He raised a gloved hand and pointed at the looming edge of the forest, some three hundred yards away. The three fugitives stared at him suspiciously for a moment, and then turned and hurried across the fallow fields. Ekdahl watched them run, cold deliberation turning his heart to steel, his nerves to iron. He had brought these men up from the south to serve Count Eberfeld. He was responsible for them, both in glory and in disgrace.
The deserters were a hundred yards away. Ekdahl calmly, slowly, nocked an arrow to his bow. Straightening, he pulled his arm back, letting the tension on the bow string gather. He squinted down the length of the arrow, watching the little fleeing figures. He drew a final breath, and then released the arrow. His target crumpled into the dirt and stayed there. He could faintly hear the other two shouting, giving voice to their fear and rage. Ekdahl dismissed their cries, thinking only of the dishonour they had brought upon him.
[Warhammer] - Runefang Page 4
