“Find your own!” a short, scruffy looter with scraggly hair and a mouth of brown teeth growled, trying to keep the other vultures at bay while he simultaneously discarded the threadbare brigandine he wore and doffed the studded hauberk he was stripping from a corpse. The other jackals jeered and snarled at him, one darting beneath his kicks in an effort to steal the body’s boots.
“Belay that, you scum!” a gravelly voice called out. “There’ll be time enough for that later! Keep your minds on what you’re being paid to do!” The human jackals scowled at the speaker, a slim grey-haired man with chiselled features and deep, brooding eyes. Like them, his armour was tattered and worn, his boots scuffed and scarred, but the sword at his belt was still sharp, as some within the motley band of killers and cut-throats had already learned.
“Yes sir,” called back the scraggly-headed scavenger. “We’ll find it straight away.” He slapped at one of the other looters, and then delivered a kick to the man still trying to pull the boots off the corpse. “C’mon,” he snarled. “Let’s find the damn thing and get it over with.”
Their leader watched the ruffians slowly spread out, scouring the plaza for a different kind of treasure. He shook his head in disgust.
“I told you to get me men, Baldur, not this vermin.” Baldur turned as he heard his name. The man who had accosted him was taller than him, with broad shoulders and an arrogant, aristocratic cast about his features. Unlike the rest of the men scouring the battlefield, the armour he wore was fine chainmail, the clothes he wore new and well-maintained. There was a sword hanging from his belt too, but he’d had no need to draw it. Why should he when he had Baldur to do all his killing for him.
“What did you expect, Rambrecht? The Averheim city guard?” Baldur pointed back at the scavengers picking around the plaza. “It takes time to get good men, and it takes money to buy their loyalty. Good men are expensive.”
“You weren’t,” observed Rambrecht. “Though I have not been terribly impressed by your performance thus far. Perhaps I should reconsider our arrangement.”
Baldur clenched his fist in silent rage. “The agreement stands,” he snapped. “I help you, you reinstate my commission. That’s the deal.”
“The deal also required you to provide me with soldiers, not this brigand trash,” Rambrecht growled. “I wouldn’t trust this vermin against a pack of street urchins, much less real fighters.”
“The goblins have made a dent in their strength,” Baldur pointed out. “Let’s hope your friend on the inside can skew the odds a bit more in our favour.”
Rambrecht nodded. “We’ll have to hit them before they reach anywhere they can take on new recruits.”
“It would help if we knew which way they were going,” Baldur said. A sudden shout from the plaza caused them both to turn around. A small cluster of bandits came running over, pushing and pawing at one another in their haste, fighting over the object they had found like dogs with a bone. Baldur glared at the men in disgust, snatching it away as soon as they were close enough. He handed the thin strip of goatskin to Rambrecht. The aristocrat studied the piece of hide, his eyes devouring the strange symbols scrawled on it. Laughing, he tossed it aside, walking across the plaza towards where they had tethered their horses.
“Ask and you will receive, Baldur,” Rambrecht laughed. “Ask and you will receive.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Count Eberfeld stared in consternation at the map spread across the dark polished wood of the table. No pavilion for him in Bergdorf; the banquet hall of Bergdorf’s magistrate was spacious enough to plot a dozen campaigns within. The footfalls of the scouts echoed hollowly from the brooding stone walls as they came and went. With each report, Eberfeld’s spirit darkened. Each mark General Hock made on the sprawled map to reflect those thoughts only added to the frustration and depression that threatened to overwhelm the count.
Heufurth was lost. After their defeat on the Dobrin road there had been nothing the count’s army could do to protect the town. Hock had sent riders to sound the alarm. Some of the town’s populace had evacuated. Many had stayed behind, placing their trust in the thick stone walls that surrounded the settlement. The undead legion had fallen upon the settlement in a great, silent host. For two days they had lingered outside the walls. Hock’s scouts reported siege engines among Zahaak’s horde, archaic scorpions and onagers. The antiquated weapons seemed unequal to the task of breaching the thick walls of Heufurth, yet on the second dawn that saw Zahaak laying siege to the town, the undead had quit the fields outside and were in possession of the town. In the course of a single night, somehow the deathless host had broken the defences. It did not make the count feel any easier that the scouts insisted the walls of Heufurth still stood largely intact, that there was no evidence of siege towers among the legion’s arms. Yet still Heufurth had fallen with such rapidity that it chilled Eberfeld to the core.
The legion had turned northward upon leaving Heufurth, following the road that would eventually bring it to Bergdorf. General Hock found reassurance in the fact. Resting upon a great hill that commanded the land for leagues, he considered that Bergdorf offered a significantly superior location from which to mount a defence. To heighten their advantage, Hock had sent entire regiments out to clear the surrounding forest and increase the range of visibility from the town. The felled timber was then used by the populace of Bergdorf to construct an outer palisade surrounding the stone walls of their town. Behind this, peasants from a dozen villages, pressed into service by Hock’s troops, were busy digging a series of trenches and pitfalls. Hock was determined that any siege engines Zahaak brought to Bergdorf would find getting within range of the walls a difficult, if not impossible, prospect.
Count Eberfeld felt a pang of conscience as he considered those indentured workers sweating to bolster the town’s defences. They had been dragged away from their farms at a time when the harvest was far too near. If they did not return to their homes quickly, their crops might spoil, leaving them with nothing. Even if his army crushed Zahaak’s horde, the centre of Wissenland might be trading invasion and massacre for famine.
Scouts and officers continued to report to him, announcing the arrival of fresh regiments drawn from all across his realm. From the bleak foothills of the Black Mountains to the tranquil banks of the River Aver, they had come, marching to answer the call of their liege: bowmen from the forests, peasant spearmen from the moors, knights resplendent in their armour of steel and chain. The sorry remnant that had left Koeblitz had swollen to three times its number and still they came. There was a bravado about these reinforcements, a sense of strength and purpose that bound them into something stronger than simple flesh and steel. These were men who had come to defend their count and their homeland; to what nobler purpose could they aspire? General Hock was careful to keep the veterans from Koeblitz well away from the newcomers. They would discover the horror of Zahaak’s legions soon enough. There was no sense having their courage eroded by the repeated tales of those who had already confronted the undead.
Some had not come, however. The call for men from Neuwald had gone unanswered, and Count Eberfeld wondered if even now the greedy burghers of the town were fleeing across the border to the safety of Nuln. Baron Volstadt had refused to bring his soldiers to Bergdorf, arguing that his own lands were more imminently imperilled by the enemy. Eisendorf was a settlement fully as large as Bergdorf, situated some distance to the west. Eberfeld had briefly considered mustering his forces there, but the greater defensibility of Bergdorf had finally decided him. If Bergdorf fell, then Eisendorf would soon follow. The argument had made little impact on Baron Volstadt, who maintained that he had to see to the safety of his own people and lands before he could meet his obligation to his count. Eberfeld realised that it would be useless to try and persuade him, and foolish squandering the troops necessary to impose his will on Volstadt. The Eisendorf militia were some of the best equipped in the district, sporting thick armour and heavy blades courtesy of th
e rich iron mines running beneath the town. They would be missed. Eberfeld knew that for all their quality, there was little the Eisendorfers could do by themselves against Zahaak, yet for all of that, he still wished Volstadt luck.
Count Eberfeld looked up as yet another scout appeared before the map table. The dust of the trail was still thick on the man, coating him from crown to heel in a dingy grey. The man’s face was almost black with dirt, a young face that tried to contain its weariness with the composure due a sovereign. Somewhere beneath the dirt and dust, Eberfeld recognised the livery of a river guard branded into the leather of the soldier’s hauberk. He’d drawn many troops from the border outposts, but they had arrived days ago. From the look of him, this man had ridden hard for at least that long. What had compelled him to set out so long after his comrades had already left to answer the count’s call to arms? The sickening feeling that had started to rise in his throat intensified when Eberfeld noted General Hock standing beside the scout.
“A report from the river,” Hock told him, his voice troubled. Count Eberfeld nodded and motioned for the scout to speak. The soldier dropped to one knee, genuflecting before his liege. Eberfeld waved aside the formalities, impatient to hear whatever dire news the man had to convey.
“I have ridden from the Upper Reik,” the soldier began, his voice a breathless wheeze. “Two days in the saddle, excellency, stopping only to change horses whenever I felt them expiring beneath me.”
Count Eberfeld handed the gilded goblet resting beside his maps to the soldier. He quickly upended the cup, all but draining it of wine in a single, ravenous gulp. Some semblance of vigour began to reassert itself in the man as he wiped a dirty sleeve across his mouth and continued.
“My post is a fortalice two leagues from where the Reik splits from the Sol. The fort sits on an outcropping, offering a good view of the river, and what is on the other side.”
Eberfeld glanced aside at Hock, catching the general’s grim expression. The far bank of the River Reik marked the territory of Averland. The river guard was officially a constabulary force, monitoring the river for smugglers and pirates. Averland maintained its own series of forts and towers on the other side of the river, expressly for the same purpose. However, it was a thinly veiled secret that the forts were too large and too well-manned to be there simply to deter smugglers. For the past two hundred years, the river forts had grown in both size and number, guarding not against pirates but against unwelcome advances from the other province. Sometimes, as in the recent past, the forts weren’t enough to deter the ambitions of the men they were built to keep away.
“What is happening in Averland?” Eberfeld asked, feeling his heart go cold. “What did you see?”
Even beneath the crust of dust, Eberfeld could see the soldier’s face go pale. “Excellency, Count Achim is massing troops on the other side of the border!”
Eberfeld smashed his fist against the table. He had dreaded as much, for all that he had expected it. The withdrawal of troops from the river forts had been necessary. They represented the single greatest concentration of soldiers he could draw upon within a week’s march. He had hoped, however, that it could be accomplished without their counterparts on the Averland shore becoming aware of what was going on. Strict orders had been issued that the men were only to leave at night and that the reduced garrisons left behind should take measures to deceive the Averlanders that the castles were still fully manned. Somewhere, however, the stratagem had failed.
“How many did you count?” The question came from General Hock. The soldier shrugged.
“More than I could number,” he answered. “Certainly more than I have ever seen before. Maybe not as great as the army encamped here, but if more Averlanders continue to muster they will not be far behind.”
“They have seen our soldiers leaving the forts,” General Hock mused aloud.
“That much is obvious,” Eberfeld snapped. “Otherwise, why would Achim move his army.” He turned his eyes back to the map, glaring at the river where even now the Averlanders might be ready to cross. Zahaak’s legion was enough of a plague to tax Wissenland’s resources. The last thing they needed was Achim deciding to seize the opportunity to redress old wrongs.
“Perhaps it is a defensive posture,” Hock suggested. “Perhaps Count Achim has misinterpreted the withdrawal of our troops. He may think we are pulling them back for an offensive into Averland.” The general averted his gaze, embarrassed to speak his next words, but knowing that he must. “That was what your father did before he mounted his invasion.”
Eberfeld shook his head. “Too many are already fleeing before the advance of Zahaak’s legion. Some of them will have scattered east, and even the border forts and the river won’t have stopped them. Achim knows full well our situation.”
“But does he believe it?” The general’s question lingered in the air, like a frosty wisp of doubt and confusion. Eberfeld leaned back in his chair, pondering the questions that Hock’s observation raised. It was possible, then, that Achim’s actions were not belligerent.
“The memory of your father casts a long shadow,” Hock said. “The siege of Averheim was not so long ago that it is easily forgotten. Would Count Achim truly believe that the land of his old enemy was beset by a supernatural foe torn straight from the pages of legend? Or would he consider it a ruse, a deceit to allow the armies of Wissenland to march again into his lands?”
“I would not countenance such deception,” Eberfeld said. “I have too much honour for that.”
General Hock smiled gravely. “To Achim, you are your father’s son.”
The count turned his eyes again to the map. This time he did not see the armies he had drawn from across his province, nor did he see the deathless legions of Zahaak. This time he looked at Averland, filling it with burning villages and slaughtered towns, mentally depopulating his neighbour the way his father had thirty years before. He rose from the table, a decision reached.
“General, gather the Sablebacks and whatever other cavalry we still have left from Koeblitz. Before we plan any action against Achim, and before we do anything that might force him to act, I think we had best send an emissary to the border and find out his intentions.”
Hock saluted, turning to leave, when a sudden thought occurred to him, a suspicion that quickly worked its way onto his face. “Excellency, who are you going to send?”
Eberfeld smiled at the officer’s suspicion. “The only emissary I can trust, general.
“Me.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Ernst dabbed the ragged strip of linen against his face for the umpteenth time, blood still pooling in the gash running beneath his right eye. Only his quick action had prevented the goblin spear from blinding him. Typical of the malicious creatures, the idea of killing an enemy cleanly was absolutely foreign to the goblin brain. The nobleman knew he should just relent and allow the injury to scab over, but he knew goblins often coated their weapons in the most unspeakable filth and was horrified by the thought of blood poisoning.
He was careful to keep his fears off his face as he walked through the camp. Laying over for the night in Murzklein had been out of the question. Even beyond the repugnance of sleeping among the bodies of so many slaughtered men and horses, there had been the very real concern that their vanquished foes would return in the dead of night. Many of the goblins had escaped when they found the battle going against them, scattering back into the hills. Skanir warned that as soon as they stopped running, their spiteful hearts would turn to thoughts of revenge. If there were more goblins in the hills, no doubt they would accompany the survivors on their vengeful foray. More unsettling had been Ekdahl’s concern. The evidence that orcs had taken no small part in the massacre of Murzklein’s populace was undeniable: the warband of Uhrghul, a warlord who had once threatened all of Wissenland. There was no telling how far the orcs had strayed from the massacre. They might be days away or they might be much closer. When the goblins returned, it might not be wit
h more of their own cringing kind, but with hulking orc warriors eager for the taste of blood and slaughter.
Walking past tents and cook fires, Ernst was struck by just how gravely the goblins had injured them. Scarcely a man among them did not have some cut or bruise to nurse, and three had such wounds that it was doubtful they would survive the night. More injurious to the expedition had been the loss of horses. Fully a dozen had been crippled by goblin arrows and blades, forcing them to be destroyed. Others had run off during the battle and there had been no time to round them up again. Aside from the massive destriers of the knights, there were only five other horses remaining among them. Now Ernst was confronted by the unpleasant decision of how they should proceed. Let those with mounts range ahead and leave the others to fare as they would, or slow their progress to allow the, again, dismounted infantry to keep up.
The thought sickened him, especially in light of Ekdahl’s continued warnings about orcs. There was little enough chance for them if they were beset by orcs, and if the remaining cavalry and Eugen’s knights were removed from the battle, the chances would drop to none at all. Count Eberfeld had impressed upon him, that time was of the essence, but Ernst could not bring himself to abandon men under his command.
The baron’s eye caught a group of figures standing around a roaring fire at the perimeter of the camp. He set his face grimly and strode over to join them. Ottmar and Eugen hastily saluted him as he emerged from the gloom surrounding the fire. Ekdahl continued to stare out into the night, eyes locked on the vague outlines of boulders and brush. Ernst went cold as he saw the intense concentration that was coiled throughout Ekdahl’s body. Did the scout think their enemies so near to warrant such vigilance? If the greenskins were to find them wounded and weary, they could overwhelm the camp almost without a fight.
[Warhammer] - Runefang Page 13
