At least that was how it should have worked, but just as Theodo began to feel pleased with himself, he spotted another familiar face stalking in his direction, another of his late gaming companions. There weren’t two soldiers after him, there were three. The halfling smiled nervously as the soldier stomped nearer, shoving pedestrians from his path, his hand closing around the hilt of the sword sheathed at his side. Theodo’s eyes darted from side to side, looking for some avenue of escape. Looking back the way he had come, he could see the first two soldiers turning around, probably having caught sight of their comrade. No escape in that direction, he considered. Looking to the other side of the street, he saw the clutter of refuse and buzzing flies that marked the black mouth of an alleyway. Hardly an inviting proposition, but there was an old saying in the Moot, “any burrow in a storm”. Theodo could scramble down the alley, race out the other end and lose himself on the next street.
A good plan, Theodo thought, but sadly reality was at odds with him again. As the halfling ran into the shadowy, narrow alleyway, his bare feet squishing through stinking garbage and mucky slime, he found himself staring at the grimy face of a brick wall not thirty feet from the mouth of the alley, closing it entirely. The term “dead end” flared up in Theodo’s mind and he rolled his eyes as he considered how appropriate the term was.
“There he is,” a voice snarled from behind him. Theodo turned to see the shadowy silhouettes of the three soldiers filling the neck of the alley. “Mr Lucky,” Brueller added, ripping his sword from its scabbard, his comrades following his lead.
“Let’s see just how lucky you really are,” the man growled as he began to slowly make his way down the alley, murder burning in his eyes.
Theodo watched as the men began to stalk towards him. The halfling reached for the dagger he wore on his belt, and then cursed anew as his hand closed over empty space. He’d left it behind in the kitchen! He’d been so furious at Ghrum for wandering off, so desperate to find the ogre that he’d completely forgotten it! Theodo lowered his gaze, looking around him for anything he might use as a weapon. His hands came up with a jagged length of wood. Brueller stopped advancing, a look of fear crossing his harsh features. He took a step back, raising his hands in a placating gesture. Theodo felt a swell of pride as he saw his enemy retreat before his fierce defiance. It came as a crushing blow to his ego when he realised that the man’s fright was far too theatrical to be genuine.
“Oh no,” Brueller chuckled. “He’s got a stick!” The man’s comrades laughed evilly at his jest. “I’d better be careful or I might get hurt!”
Theodo felt his face grow bright with embarrassment as the men continued to laugh at him. Wasn’t whatever they had in mind nasty enough, did they really need to mock him as well.
“I should tell you,” Theodo growled through clenched teeth, “that when I used to cook the soup for the guards’ mess, I always made it a point to clean my feet in the bowl first.” The eyes of all three of his foemen glared down at the halfling’s hairy, grimy, muck-encrusted feet.
“You filthy sow-nuzzling piglet!” roared Brueller. He rushed forwards, his rage overcoming any semblance of caution or training. The sword gripped in his gloved hand flashed downwards, directed in a stroke that should have cleaved the halfling from collar to groin.
Theodo had learned long ago that there was one good thing about being smaller than men. Men were used to fighting folk much closer to their own size, and, of course, there was the little matter of speed to take into consideration. Most men tended to discount that as well. Since a halfling resembled a chubby six-year old, men often thought of them as such, ungainly and indecisive. Theodo ducked past Brueller’s blade, slipping inside his guard as the man overextended. A jagged scrap of wood smacked into the soldier’s groin.
“Bad day to forget your codpiece,” Theodo chided Brueller. The sword had fallen from his stunned fingers and he had dropped to the filthy cobbles, shuddering as red pain coursed through his body. “You’ll be pissing splinters for weeks,” Theodo added. The other two soldiers stepped forwards. The halfling considered the broken remains of his improvised club, and then looked at the steel swords clenched in his enemies’ hands. There was no doubt about it, he had certainly overplayed this hand, and been left holding the jester.
“I’m gonna shove that stick right up your arse,” declared one of the soldiers, a scowling brute with a livid white scar running down his cheek. Theodo’s attention fixed upon the man for an instant, and then he was springing away from the lunge of Scar’s companion. A bluff, get his attention in one direction while the real action is taking place behind his back. Theodo was too old a scoundrel at the card table to fall for that. The other soldier, a red-haired scoundrel with the bulbous wreck of a nose that had been broken once too often, recovered from his failed attack, scowling at the halfling.
Red-hair announced his intention with an almost bestial growl, swiping at Theodo with a stroke that should have sent the halfling’s head dancing down the alleyway if it had connected. As it was, he could feel the cold breeze of the blade’s passing as he dodged beyond its reach. The sword swept past him, slashing into the pile of garbage heaped against the wall of the alleyway, sparks dancing in the thick shadow.
Thick shadow? It had been dingy, grimy and loathsome in this little pest hole when Theodo had scrambled into it, but he couldn’t say it had been quite so dark. He looked past the glowering, would-be murderers. A smug smile flashed on Theodo’s face and there was a swagger in his movement as he stepped back, casting aside his club and hooking his thumbs in the pockets of his vest. The two soldiers took a menacing step towards the halfling, and then all the colour drained from their faces. There was only one reason Theodo would be smiling like that.
The men turned as one, overcome with horror as they saw the immense shape that completely filled the mouth of the alleyway, the source of the sudden shadow that had overwhelmed the dingy light. The ogre’s hostile gaze canvassed them, his tiny eyes glaring into the gloom. Theodo’s attackers were as still as statues, even the man writhing on the cobblestones had grown silent, the terrifying sight of the hulking monster overcame even the pain throbbing between his legs. The moment grew, stretching the silence into an almost tangible thing.
Fear still paralysed Red-hair when Ghrum lurched towards him. An enormous arm reached forwards, a gigantic hand grizzled with scars and calluses closing around the blade of his sword. There was a dull, crumpling noise, and when Ghrum opened his hand again, Red-hair’s sword had been curled as neatly as a horseshoe. The soldier’s eyes grew still wider, and with a shriek he threw down the useless weapon and turned to flee the alleyway. The ogre lashed out instinctively, swatting Red-hair with the back of his immense, hairy hand. Red-hair was thrown across the alley as though he’d been launched from a catapult. Theodo closed his eyes as the sickening sound of the man’s impact cracked through the air. Red-hair’s body wilted against the wall, trickles of dust tumbling down from where his impact had damaged the bricks.
Scar dropped his weapon and backed away, blubbering like a baby. Ghrum’s monstrous face showed his annoyance. Ogres didn’t have any real concept of pity and they certainly didn’t respect cowardice. Ghrum stomped after the retreating soldier, looming over him like an angry mountain. The man was sobbing now, digging through his pockets for coins, bits of food, anything he thought the ogre might accept to let him live. Ghrum just glowered down at Scar. He lowered a fist, holding it in front of the man’s face. With a quick motion, one mammoth finger snapped out, smacking into Scar’s forehead like a cudgel. The soldier’s eyes rolled back in his head and he collapsed into a stagnant heap of garbage.
Theodo hurried to the fallen man, checking that the ogre hadn’t hit him too hard, and also being sure to retrieve the silver he had tried to bribe Ghrum with. Scar was alive, but he’d have a nice dent in his face when he woke up. Red-hair was alive too, but it didn’t take a surgeon to realise that there were some broken bones among the twisted wreck
age crumpled against the wall. With an almost dainty touch, Theodo relieved the moaning soldier of the gold arm band he wore. Then he turned and glared up at the huge shape filling the alley.
“And just where did you get off to, eh?” Theodo snapped. Ghrum lowered his eyes, a gesture that didn’t really work too well with someone as small as Theodo.
“They was gettin’ rid of the bad horses,” the ogre explained. Theodo rolled his eyes as he saw the entire flank of a stallion tucked into Ghrum’s belt. Several of the horses injured during the battle had to be destroyed and it had become common practice among General Hock’s cavalry to give the carcasses to Ghrum, the best way they knew to ensure some frugal officer didn’t get the idea to put them in their cook pots.
“So while you are out stuffing that gigantic gut of yours, you leave me to get knifed like a dog!” Theodo exploded. “Is there anything approaching a brain in that misshapen head of yours?”
“Ghrum sorry,” the ogre answered sheepishly. “Ghrum not do anything good,” he added with a touch of despondency. Theodo shook his head, rolling his eyes. For all his immense size and strength, the ogre was as thin-skinned as a maiden-child.
Theodo sighed. “Just don’t do it again, okay.” As frustrating as Ghrum could be at times, the halfling simply couldn’t find it in him to stay mad at the lummox, even over so serious a breach of common sense as the current predicament. The ogre nodded, but his expression was still downcast. Theodo patted the ogre’s tree-like leg. “Let’s get back to the kitchen and we’ll see about simmering that old horse leg you’ve got there. I still have some of those nice Drakwald spices you like stashed away.” That bit of news dispelled the ogre’s funk and he lumbered after the halfling.
Theodo paused at the mouth of the alley, looking down at the still-reeling figure of Brueller. “See you get a surgeon down here for your friends,” he advised, “and I wouldn’t suggest trying this sort of thing again. Next time my friend here won’t be so restrained.”
Brueller glared back at the halfling. “This isn’t over you muck-sucking—”
Theodo looked up at Ghrum. The ogre reached down, grabbing Brueller’s arm. With a quick tug he popped it from the socket. The soldier’s howling scream was almost deafening.
“Worrying about that arm should slow you down,” Theodo commented, marching out into the street, Ghrum following in his wake. “Trust me, it’s going to hurt twice as much going back in as it did coming out.”
* * *
Few places in Koeblitz were quite as active as the guildhall where Ernst had billeted his soldiers. The men hurriedly packed their gear, an energy in their actions that was absent from the rest of the camp. These men weren’t making ready for another brutal foray against the undead, and that was what set them apart from their fellows. They were out of the fight and on their way to hearth and home where the cold, lifeless legions of Zahaak would plague them only in memories and dreams.
They were not cowards, these men their baron had led down from the green fields of the north. Against any normal foe, they would have protested being dismissed in so summary a fashion. Zahaak, however, was no natural foe, but a thing of death and darkness. Many felt it was hopeless to try to stand against such an enemy, a thing already dead yet imbued with a cruel, profane vitality. No man wanted to sell his life on the impossible, to bleed his last for a cause that was already lost. Worse, it was whispered through the camp that those who fell in battle against Zahaak’s legion rose again to join it. Myth or truth, the prospect was enough to chill the hardiest soul.
No, he did not hold the anxious enthusiasm of his men against them as they shouldered their crossbows and halberds. They had fought well in battle, as well as any man could against such terrible power. They had earned their reprieve, earned it with the blood of the kin they had left behind on the battlefield. Even so, Ernst felt a sickness in his heart as he watched his men form ranks, as he listened to their surviving officers bark orders. Part of him wished he was going with them, back to the deep forests and rolling hills of their home. Part of him wished that they were coming with him, these old comrades in arms, but he knew that Rabwald needed them more than their baron did. If the enemy found its way to the barony, Rabwald would need every man to defend it.
Some of the soldiers had offered to stay with their baron in a show of loyalty that had moved the nobleman deeply. He had turned them all away, and when he saw the flash of relief on the faces of his men when he did so, he knew that he had made the right choice. Let them return to their homes and their families. Let them use whatever time they had as best they could. Who could say how late the hour had grown for Wissenland? If the count could not stop Zahaak’s legion, then all their hopes rested on the prophecies of a witch.
The soldiers of Rabwald snapped to attention at a command from their sergeant. The men turned and faced the baron, snapping their heels and saluting their ruler with all the precision and dignity of an elector count’s royal guard. Only the tears rolling down the faces of many of them spoiled the effect. They wanted to return to their homes with all their hearts, but that fact couldn’t keep them from feeling that they were abandoning their baron, couldn’t keep tiny knives of guilt from stabbing at their conscience. Ernst returned their salute, standing as still as a statue while he watched his troops march from the guildhall. A sense of aloneness coursed through him. It was a ridiculous feeling to entertain while standing in the middle of Count Eberfeld’s army, but he felt it just the same as the last of his soldiers tramped past the double-doors of the hall.
A shadow moved against the plaster wall of the guildhall, drawing Ernst’s lingering gaze away from the open doors. He smiled when he saw the figure advancing towards him, the shadows doing little to hide the brutish, mangled face that stared back at him. Kessler strode to his baron’s side, offering him a little silver flask. The baron accepted the flask and let the stinging warmth of the brandy slide down his throat. Kessler upended the flask as it was returned to him, taking a long pull. He coughed and wiped the fiery residue from his lips with his sleeve.
“You should be a bit more careful,” Ernst reprimanded his champion.
Max Kessler smiled back at him, that crooked, broken smile that told of a jaw broken too many times to retain its symmetry. “Not used to a nobleman’s brew,” he said. “Bit too fine for my tastes.”
“You can still leave with them, you know,” the baron reminded Kessler. The swordsman grunted and shook his head.
“Them you can send away,” he said. “Me, I’m staying. There aren’t any warm beds to entice me back to Rabwald, no crops waiting for me to tend them. My place is here, with my baron.”
Ernst recovered the flask from Kessler and took another sip of the rich Estalian brandy. “It could be nothing more than a fool’s errand. We’ve only the words of a witch to go by, after all. All of us might be doing nothing more than chasing shadows while all of the real fighting is happening back here.”
Kessler’s broken smile broadened. “If it’s a fool’s errand then you should have at least one fool along for the ride,” he said. “That way you’ll have somebody to blame if we wind up chasing our tails.”
Grey smoke filled the small shrine, billowing around the polished marble archway that opened onto a bare stone wall. The doorway was a symbol, a talisman of the gate that no mortal could cross, the bridge between the land of the living and the gardens of the dead. A small fire smouldered in the depression of the stone altar that stood before the doorway to nowhere, acrid fumes rising from the dried twigs and raven bones the priests of Morr had cast into the flames. The priests stood in a silent circle around the altar, letting the smoke billow around them. Sometimes their gaunt shadows vanished completely within the fumes, as though shrouded in fog. Sometimes the smoke seemed to shrink away from them, almost like a living thing, repulsed by their morbid mantles of black.
Carlinda stood well away from the altar and the smoke. The rituals of the priests were different from those that she practised,
for all that they were bound upon the same purpose. Father Vadian had explained it to her once, likening the difference as being that between a man and a fish: a man must learn to swim, must think about how to swim, must concentrate his body and mind to swim, but a fish simply does.
It was the same way with her “gift”. The priests had to train their minds and souls, had to spend years learning the proper rites and prayers to do what Carlinda was able to do simply by opening her mind to the power. It frightened her, and she knew that it frightened the priests. The voices frightened her, the whispers that were always there, scratching at her brain, trying to force their way in; the little grey shapes that flickered at the corner of her vision, vanishing whenever she tried to focus upon them. Father Vadian had explained it to her, saying that it was the breath of Morr, swirling around her like a veil, filling her with his sombre energies. The wall between the realm of the living and the realm of the dead was thin around her, allowing Carlinda to cross that inviolate barrier, to see into the gardens of the dead, enabling other things to see into the world of the living.
Carlinda felt a flutter of fear pass through her and she pulled the coarse black robe she wore more tightly around her. She had been warned that without control, her “gift” would destroy her, that the breath of Morr would consume her, that things from beyond might infest her body and send her soul shrieking into the darkness. She had tried so desperately to learn that control, but she knew it was still beyond her. The priests learned control before they were ever allowed even the slightest invocation of Morr’s dark power. She, a simple widow from a simple village, had such power that even the scions of the temple held her in reverence and fear. Perhaps that made it too late to learn to control it. Perhaps it was already too strong to control.
[Warhammer] - Runefang Page 8
