[Warhammer] - Runefang

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

  Another arrow was nocked and Ekdahl sighted along the shaft. He let his targets run, let them feel the fear that roared through their veins. The arrow was loosed, and a second body crumpled in the dirt, a feathered shaft sprouting from its back.

  Ekdahl could see the last deserter look back, terror on his face. The archer folded his arms around his bow, resting the tip of the weapon on the ground. The fugitive turned and fled, drawing on every speck of strength and energy in his body Ahead of him, the dark shadows of the forest beckoned, tormenting with its promise of sanctuary.

  Ekdahl watched the third man run, observing his desperate flight with the cold deliberation of the true predator. He waited, eyes fixed on the dwindling figure in the distance: two hundred yards, three hundred yards. The trees were almost within his reach, their branches stretching out to him, welcoming him to safety and refuge. The deserter’s flagging pace quickened as one last reserve of strength fired his frame, the vitality that only realised hope could bestow.

  In one fluid motion, Ekdahl raised his longbow, nocked an arrow and sent the missile flying. So swift did he strike, any who watched him would have thought the archer had fired wildly, for surely no man could take aim and let fly with such speed. Across the fields, at a distance of nearly three hundred and twenty yards, a running shape fell, dropping into the shadow of the forest.

  Ekdahl gave no further thought to the three bodies strewn across the field. He did not pause to bask in that last display of stunning marksmanship. The bowman slung his weapon over his shoulder and turned. With long, unhurried strides, he entered the rows of wheat that the deserters had so recently quitted, making his way back to Koeblitz and the leader the dead men had betrayed, the leader that Ekdahl had sworn to serve.

  Baron von Rabwald sighed as he approached the crumbling walls that ringed the Mare and Mule and its small courtyard, a bitter taste in his mouth. His depressed stare took in the handful of mercenaries sprawled in the courtyard, basking in the clean air and warm sun like lizards, bottles of cheap Reikland wine and jacks of even cheaper ale clasped in their grimy fists. He looked away from the sleeping sell-swords and glanced at the stern-faced crossbowmen, who patrolled the outside of the wall, the arms of their leather jerkins and the brims of their steel kettlehelms sporting the black sash of Kreutzhofen.

  General Hock had given strict orders that his men were not to patronise the three taverns of Koeblitz, wanting to keep the survivors of his army fit for a swift rendezvous with the force that Count Eberfeld’s viceroy was mustering at Wissenburg. The order had gone down poorly with the regular soldiers, but it had gone even worse with Captain Valdner’s mercenaries. A compromise had been reached, allowing the sellswords to bivouac at the Mare and Mule, an establishment that was far enough from the billets of the rest of the army to avoid any undue problems. To ensure that the regular Wissenland regiments followed his policy, however, General Hock had insisted on posting a guard on the tavern. Ernst wondered if it had occurred to Captain Valdner that the men the general had prowling outside the walls were not there so much to keep soldiers out, as to keep the mercenaries in.

  Ernst fingered the heavy silver pectoral that hung around his neck, tracing the embossed coat of arms. He sighed again. There was no way out, no way he could satisfy both his word to Valdner and his duty to Count Eberfeld. If only the captain weren’t so stubborn! If only he would change his mind about leaving! Ernst would be able to exact some concessions from Count Eberfeld if Valdner agreed to stay and fight.

  There was nothing else for it. Ernst nodded grimly to the sergeant posted at the courtyard gate. The sergeant returned his look and hurried off to carry out prearranged orders. Ernst marched past the remaining guards, Max Kessler’s brawny mass prowling after him. A few of the mercenaries in the courtyard looked up as the nobleman passed, one or two even muttering ugly oaths under their breath. One look at the baron’s formidable champion was enough to still such contemptuous whispers. Even sell-swords found Kessler’s reputation imposing.

  The interior of the tavern was a decaying shambles, the rotting husk of better days. The timbers that lined the soot-stained plaster walls displayed jagged scars where scroll-work and ornamentation had been pried loose and sold off. The tables were a motley collection of raw timber, log benches providing most of the seating, the few remaining chairs a mismatched collection that more properly belonged on a refuse heap. Niches in the wooden pillars that lined the hall might once have held brass-caged lanterns. Now they played host to cracked clay pots in which foul-smelling candles of pig fat smouldered. The long bar was scarred from long use, warped by water damage and pitted by termites, the wall behind it sporting a great blank space where once a mirror of polished glass had hung.

  The mercenaries had the run of the establishment. The elderly proprietor of the tavern had long ago given up attempting to restrain his guests, instead keeping to his room on the floor above to wait out the storm. Perhaps his raucous guests might feel some pity for their host and leave a few coins to pay for their custom, perhaps they wouldn’t. Fate had dealt so poorly with him that the tavern keeper no longer cared overmuch which way the winds blew.

  Ernst wrinkled his nose at the stench of unwashed humanity and cheap alcohol that filled the tavern. There were more catcalls from the sell-swords, some of the men inside so lost in drink that they did not care overmuch about Kessler’s presence, or else failed to recognise the warrior with the greatsword resting across his shoulders. Ernst ignored the surly jeers that struck at him from the shadows, training his attention on the table where he saw Captain Valdner sitting. There were two other sell-swords with him, a rakish fellow wearing an almost shapeless leather hat and another with the stamp of the savage north about him. The nobleman took a deep breath and strode over to the mercenary leader.

  Valdner did not meet the baron’s gaze as he approached. The moustached northerner glared at Ernst with almost murderous contempt, maintaining his hostile display even when Kessler glowered back at him. The way he sneered back at Kessler, the baron got the impression that the northerner knew Kessler’s reputation well, and would like nothing more than to put it to the test. Unlike most such bravos, Ernst considered that the ill-favoured mercenary might pose a serious challenge to his champion.

  “Captain Valdner,” the baron said, his words intruding upon the tense silence, “I would speak with you.” The mercenary commander looked up, as though noticing his guest for the first time. He caught the eye of the mercenary trying to stare down Kessler, gesturing with his head for the northerner to move. The axeman glared one last time at the two Wissenlanders, and then abandoned his seat, taking up a position behind Valdner’s chair. The swordsman with the hat moved to a spot at the other side of Valdner. Ernst took over the abandoned chair, Kessler standing behind him.

  “To what do I owe this honour, Herr Baron?” Valdner asked, sipping absently from his jack of ale. “Should I be so bold as to believe the count has seen fit to settle his debt with my men?”

  “I have brought your complaint before his excellency,” Ernst said, the words heavy on his tongue. “He wants you to reconsider your decision to leave his service.”

  A snarled oath escaped the moustached axeman, punctuated by the blob of spit he sent flying to the floor. Valdner raised his hand to still the stream of obscenities erupting from the northerner.

  “You will forgive Raban,” Valdner said. “Courtly manners are in short supply in his homeland. However, the sentiment he expresses is not as foreign as his manners. I’ve had a taste of the count’s service. It has cost me near two-thirds of my command. I have no intention of squandering the rest of my men fighting monsters.”

  “The count will make it worthwhile to stay,” Ernst promised. A thin smile stretched across Valdner’s face as he shook his head.

  “The dead find it difficult to spend gold, however rich the purse,” he pointed out. Valdner looked aside to Raban on his left and Anselm on his right. He shook his head again. “No, Herr Baron, I h
ave made my choice. I want what is owed my men and then we shall be on our way.”

  Ernst’s expression grew grimmer. “Forget the count for a moment. Think of the people. Think of all the towns and villages that lie exposed to those monsters. Think of all the lives that are in peril, of the women and children who will be slaughtered by these fiends if we don’t stop them. I’m not asking you to fight for the count, I’m asking you to fight for Wissenland.”

  Captain Valdner shook his head again. “None of my men have ties with this land. You ask them to risk their lives for strangers, for ground that is no more than dirt to them. They’ve already paid a heavy price, standing against these deathless horrors. I won’t ask them to pay anymore.”

  Ernst stared into Valdner’s eyes, feeling the tinge of pain in his voice as he spoke. He saw the way the officer looked aside at the mercenaries around him. “Can we speak alone, captain?”

  Valdner tapped his finger against the tabletop, considering the nobleman’s request. At length, he nodded. “Anselm, Raban, leave us,” he said. With suspicious looks at the baron, the two mercenaries slowly filed away. Kessler kept his eyes on them as the two men prowled towards the bar. The mercenary captain watched Kessler, waiting for him to follow the example set by his own men. Ernst caught Valdner’s stare. With a nod of his head, the baron motioned for his guard to likewise depart.

  “Your men are behind this, aren’t they Bruno?” the baron asked frankly. Colour flushed through Valdner’s features.

  “It is my decision, Ernst,” he said.

  Ernst leaned back in his seat, shaking his head in disbelief. “No, it isn’t. You wouldn’t abandon your home. You wouldn’t slink off like some damned coward—”

  “Coward?” Valdner growled, slamming his drink against the table. “You’ve a fine tongue today Ernst! My men might not be the count’s Sablebacks or the Emperor’s Reiksguard, but there’s more valour in any one of them than—”

  “Than a baron?” An icy chill seemed to accompany the question. Some of the colour faded from Valdner’s face.

  “I didn’t say that. Look, if it were a mortal foe, if the count asked us to fight Averlanders or orcs, I’m sure my men could be persuaded to fight, but this is different, these things aren’t mortal. I can’t ask my men to die for nothing.”

  “Not for nothing,” the baron persisted, “for Wissenland.”

  “I’ve already told you. To my men, that is nothing. They left that sort of sentiment behind when they took up the road of the sell-sword. They left any sense of loyalty behind when they saw their homes burned, their families butchered and their villages despoiled. The only thing most of them have left is greed. The lure of gold—”

  “Count Eberfeld won’t pay,” Ernst interrupted. Captain Valdner scowled as he heard the words, for all that he had expected to hear them. “He needs every crown to hire more men to fight the scourge. He won’t spend a groat on men who intend to leave.”

  Valdner was silent for a long moment. “Thank you, Ernst. I’ll adjust my plans accordingly.” The baron reached across the table and closed a firm grip around Valdner’s hand.

  “Don’t do anything stupid,” Ernst hissed.

  “They are my men,” Valdner replied, trying to pull away. The baron laughed cruelly.

  “They’re scum, Bruno, killers and brigands from half the Empire, vermin who would knife their own kinsmen if they saw a profit in it!”

  “They are my men,” Valdner repeated. “I am responsible for them. A man doesn’t abandon his responsibilities when it is convenient. I was raised to understand honour. Let me keep that much dignity.”

  Ernst released the mercenary’s arm, a sad look in his eyes. “I could engage you to protect my lands, the demesne of Rabwald. That would free up more of my own men. The count might agree to that. I’d trust you to keep your ruffians in line.”

  Captain Valdner grinned and shook his head. “I’m sure that would please the baroness no end,” he laughed. “How is the old witch, by the way?”

  “She’s well,” Ernst replied, his voice strained.

  “Sorry to hear it,” Valdner said, reaching down for his ale.

  “She’s my mother, Bruno,” the baron reminded him. Valdner laughed as he threw back his head and bolted the rest of his ale.

  “She’s not mine, thank all the gods!” The sound of raised voices in the courtyard broke into the mercenary’s grim humour. He could hear the clomp of armoured men rushing through the gate. Valdner started to his feet, reaching for his sword, staring in disbelief at the baron. Kessler’s immense blade stabbed across the length of the table, hovering inches from the captain’s neck. Valdner’s blade froze halfway from its scabbard.

  Soldiers in the livery of Kreutzhofen and Rabwald came trooping into the tavern, crossbows levelled, swords at the ready. Some of the mercenaries sprang to their feet, ready for a fight. Their courage wilted before the menace of the crossbows, however, realising that they would be struck down long before they reached any of their foes. A barrel-chested figure encased in resplendent platemail stalked past the crossbowmen, a thick-bladed sabre clenched in his gloved hand. The bald-headed officer glared at the surprised sell-swords through the misted glass of his monocle, a pitiless expression of contempt pulling at the flabby jowls of his face.

  “You did say the count wouldn’t pay,” Valdner growled, slamming his sword back into its scabbard. Ernst rose from the table, trying to keep the guilt from his face. He turned and strode towards the armoured officer.

  “I was told I would have time to change their mind,” he reprimanded the officer. General Hock’s stern expression didn’t alter.

  “These scum have used up all their chances,” the general growled. “Why his excellency allowed a fine nobleman like you to plead with these animals, I’ll never understand. All of that is over now.” He looked away from the baron, his eyes canvassing the mercenaries, their hands clutching at their weapons. He gave a short, grunting chuckle.

  “All right you vermin!” General Hock bellowed. “I want every sword, spear and bludgeon piled up on the floor! Right here!” He gestured with his sabre at a spot in the middle of the room. “One at a time, single file.” He sneered as he saw their hesitancy, as he watched the hate in their eyes smoulder. General Hock glanced aside at the crossbowmen. A flick of his hand had them raise their weapons to fire. With oaths and curses, the mercenaries began to file towards the centre of the room, depositing their weapons on the floor.

  “I want everything!” General Hock roared. “I catch a man holding back so much as a dagger, I’ll have him quartered! You scum don’t want to fight, fine. We’ll give your arms to somebody that does!”

  The general’s abuse grated on the restraint of the mercenaries, goading them with barbs of humiliation. The indignity was too much for Raban. With a roar, the Nordlander drew his axe. Before he could take a step towards General Hock, however, he was slammed to the ground, steel smashing into his back. Raban twisted his neck, staring up at the man who had struck him. His ferocity struggled against the pain dulling his senses and he started to lift himself from the floor. Kessler drove the pommel of his greatsword into Raban’s skull, knocking him back down. The axe dropped from the mercenary’s fingers and before he could reach for it again, the tip of Kessler’s sword sent it sliding across the tavern.

  “I’ll kill you for that!” Raban snarled. Kessler nodded his mangled face, accepting the Nordlander’s challenge.

  “Another tassel for my sword,” the Wissenlander said, and then gestured with his blade at the ring of crossbowmen. “Some other time, though, when the arena is less prejudiced.”

  The other mercenaries continued to file past the pile of weapons, dropping their arms with murderous scowls at General Hock and Baron von Rabwald.

  “You might have left them some dignity,” Ernst told the general. The officer laughed.

  “Leave this swine with swords and a grudge? They’d turn brigand in a heartbeat, looting the whole province while we w
ere busy fighting the battles they want no part in.” General Hock removed his monocle, cleaning it with a perfumed handkerchief. “No, it’s much better this way. Without weapons there is only so much mischief they can get up to, and that easily dealt with,” he promised, locking eyes with the last man approaching the pile.

  Captain Valdner glared back at him, and then shifted his gaze to the nobleman. With a quick move, Valdner brought the flat of his sword smashing down against his armoured knee, snapping the blade. Valdner tossed the broken sword at the feet of the two men and marched back across the tavern to join the other mercenaries.

  “Insolent dog!” General Hock snarled. He started to stalk after the departing Valdner, but the baron held him back.

  “Let him go,” Ernst said, a bitter sadness in his voice.

  “Just let him go.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  The atmosphere inside Count Eberfeld’s command tent was heavy with tension, subduing the effect of the warm carpets that covered the ground, the vibrant tapestries that concealed the canvas walls and the richness of the mahogany furniture. Even the taste of the heady Tilean wine being served from crystal decanters was lessened by the brooding intensity of the men gathered around the long table at the centre of the tent. Fear, guilt and despair mingled to form an angry, sullen humour that infected every man present.

  “We should have prevailed easily if those damn peasants had held our flank!” growled Baron von Schwalb, the bearded giant who had commanded the Sablebacks during the ill-fated battle. The nobleman’s white cloak was still stained with blood, one arm crushed against his breast where a sling of leather and wood held it firm. He glared across the table where the commanders of the commoner regiments stood. If he thought either his title or his anger would cow men who had so recently escaped the talons of the walking dead, then von Schwalb was greatly mistaken.