The bitter wind of the mountains clawed at Kessler as his small command crawled up the barren, rocky slopes. Jagged stones tore at leather boots and naked hands with equal cruelly, heedless of the curses and moans of the men they savaged. Even the notoriously tough feet of a halfling were unequal to the trail, Theodo preferring the indignity of being carried by Ghrum than suffering the cuts and bruises that afflicted the others. The cook resembled nothing so much as a smug housecat, perched on the ogre’s mammoth shoulder.
For the rest of them, there was no relief from the inhospitable terrain. The horses they had managed to hold onto during the ambush would never have made such a steep and arduous assent. Reluctantly, Kessler had agreed to leave the animals hobbled in a clearing at the base of the mountains, hoping that the surrounding hills would shelter them from enemy eyes. Two days had passed since the ambush and they had seen no sign of either brigand or greenskin, but Kessler did not think such luck would hold forever. That the bandits were the same killers that had attacked them before was undeniable, and that the arrival of Uhrghul and his orcs was in retaliation for the battle in Murzklein was almost beyond doubt. Valdner suggested that the vengeful goblins had been tracking Kessler for quite some time, but at some key juncture they had mistaken the trail of the bandits who were also shadowing the Wissenlanders for that of their intended prey. Hence, when the orcs and goblins struck, the brigands had been the target of their assault.
Skanir was taking no chances that whichever foe had emerged victorious would find picking up the hunt an easy matter, and so he took them on a circuitous, winding route through the hills. It almost seemed that the dwarf had some sixth sense that allowed him to find the ugliest, hardest patches of earth the slopes had to offer. There was a cold logic behind Skanir’s insistence that they take the most arduous track. Any pursuer tracking them would be less than keen to follow in their footsteps.
At times, the rocky slopes of the mountains would sport stands of stunted, twisted trees somehow eking a precarious existence from the sheer, cliff-faces of the towering giants. These discoveries would greatly excite Kessler’s men. Early in their assent, Skanir had shown them that wherever they saw a tree on the slope they would find refuge from the biting attentions of the howling mountain wind, a place where the capricious formations of rock and earth had conspired to create a bastion against the fury of the elements. Such brief respites from the cold winds almost seemed like gifts from Skanir’s grim dwarf gods.
At other times, they would stumble upon evidence of those same gods, or at least the diminished culture that had worshipped them: patches of mountainside that were too smooth to be the work of wind and rain, stretches of slope too regular to be some freak of nature. Shards of broken stone sometimes suggested the mark of hammer and pick, and fragments of crumbling rock occasionally resembled ancient brickwork.
Finally, Skanir allowed them to abandon their circuitous route through the mountains, leading them along a path that was too easy to be any natural formation. It was the ruin of some ancient road, winding its way among the black rocks and jagged peaks. Rock slides and windstorms had worn it down, grinding away at it through the long centuries, but the dwarfs had built against the ages and still their ancient work managed to serve its original purpose. The elements had rendered the old roadway all but invisible to the eye, but there was no deceiving the feet that followed the path. Sometimes a jumble of stone would rise beside the road, and beneath the moss and rubble the vague suggestion of carving could be discerned. By degrees, Kessler recognised a kinship among the broken shapes. They might once have been life-sized representations of dwarfs, hands closed around large tablets or plaques, which they held against their stony breasts.
“Mile-rocks,” Skanir explained when he saw the swordsman examining one of the broken statues. “Markers to let those travelling the mountain paths know how far they had come and how far they still had to go.”
The dwarf nodded his head sadly as he bent to brush pebbles from the disembodied face of the worn statue. “The mountains were once full of them, watching over the travellers who traversed their roads. That was before the greenskins came, before my people abandoned the roads above for the security of the Underway beneath them.”
He straightened, gesturing with his hammer at the sweep of the mountains around them. “Once the strongholds of my people stretched across the spine of the world, from the steaming mire of the south to the icy shadow of the northern wastes. Then came the Time of Woes, when the mountains shook and the earth spewed its fires into our cities. Much was lost to earthquake and volcano. Those who were left no longer had the strength to cull the greenskins and had to retreat behind walls of stone and gates of iron.”
Skanir’s mouth twisted with bitterness and he nodded grimly as he turned away from the toppled mile-rock. “The days of glory are done, they will not come again.”
The dwarf marched down the roadway, slinging his great hammer over his shoulder. “This way, manlings,” he called. “The runes on the mile-rock say that we are not so very far from Drung-a-Uzkul. If you keep to a decent pace, we should be there in a few days.”
* * *
They did not leave the ancient dwarf trail to make camp. A sheer drop into the canyons marked one side of the path, the craggy slopes of the mountain the other. Instead, they settled themselves in the trail itself, finding what comfort they could in the few blankets and cloaks they had left. Teeth chattered in the bitter chill of the night, and men huddled together for warmth as the cold gnawed at their bones. No fire had been built, Valdner warning that at such height, a light could be seen for leagues. If Uhrghul or the bandits were still hunting for them, the smallest fire would be as good as a beacon to them. So, they were left to the dark and the cold.
Guards were posted at either end of the trail, the only approaches any enemy could use to sneak up on them. It was a lonely watch, long hours stretching into a small eternity as the numbing night crept beneath the watchers’ skins. The soothing blackness teased the eyes, tempting the mind behind them with the promise of succour and slumber.
It took a disciplined mind to stave off the lulling lure of the clammy caress of the night, to keep vigilant even as the tedium of the vigil dragged on. Raban the Nordlander was an uncultured, rough fighter, a man who lacked the spit and polish of many regular soldiers, but he knew his duty and he knew what was expected of him. When he heard rocks shift behind him, his axe was raised in an instant, his powerful frame spinning around. Raban’s eyes glared into the darkness, his face twisted in violent challenge. Even when he discerned the visage of the figure that approached him, the challenge did not leave his face.
“You!” Raban accused, tightening his hold on his battle axe. “I thought you were standing guard opposite me!”
“Have no fear,” the voice in the shadows assured him. “Nothing is going to overrun my post.”
The mercenary sneered. “You abandoned your position. I thought you were some kind of old hand at soldiering, not some young-blood to wander away from his duty as soon as he gets bored.”
“Don’t be stupid,” the man in the darkness retorted. “I wanted to speak to you. That is why I left my post.”
“You could have spoken to me any time today,” Raban said suspiciously.
“Not without someone else listening in. Listen, Raban, I think you are the sort of man I can confide in, someone I can trust.”
Raban laughed. “Save the flattery, Wissen-worm. If you’ve got something to say, spill it.”
“Very well. You heard the offer those bandits made just before the orcs attacked?” Raban shrugged his shoulders in response. “I happen to know that their offer was quite genuine and quite sincere. Furthermore, I am in a position to guarantee that the offer still stands.”
A grin crossed Raban’s brutal features. “You must have been watching a different fight than I was. I don’t think they’ll be paying anybody from the belly of an orc.”
“Then the men they were working fo
r will,” the voice snapped. “There are persons in Averland who would pay well to keep the runefang away from Count Eberfeld.”
“So that’s the deal, is it?” Raban asked.
“The Wissenlanders have betrayed you once, do you really think this thug Kessler will treat you fairly? Help me recover the runefang and I promise you more wealth than you can imagine.”
Raban considered that, resting his axe on the ground as he thought about what his visitor had said. “Is this offer just for me, or for all the Brethren?”
“All of you. We may need their help. I trust to your candour in broaching the subject with your fellows.”
Raban’s smile widened as his last concern was dispelled by the man’s words. Putting a knife in Kessler’s back would be easy, betraying the Schwerstetten Brotherhood was something else. There was only one other thing that nagged at Raban’s mind. He shook his head. “All right, I’ll be discreet mentioning this deal to the men, but there’s one thing bothering me. What’s your angle? I mean why should I trust a man who is betraying his own province, leaving Wissenland to her enemies?”
“Because Wissenland isn’t my home! I am a Sollander, one who has grown weary watching Wissenland pick clean the carcass of my home, stripping away our legacy until there is nothing left!”
“You think Averland will treat you better?”
“They already have,” came the response as Raban’s visitor drifted back into the night. Raban watched as the man’s shadow vanished in the darkness, his ears picking out the sound of his boots as they carefully moved back through the camp. He tried to follow their progress, but soon his attention was drawn to a faint light burning just beyond the camp, in the direction where his visitor should have been keeping watch.
The light burned for several minutes, and then was quickly snuffed out. lust the time, Raban judged, it would have taken his visitor to retrace his steps. The mercenary nodded his head grimly. It seemed that his visitor was hedging his bets: beacon to bring any surviving brigands, a bribe to woo the loyalties of the Schwerstetten Brotherhood.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Bergdorf’s defences were more monumental than when Count Eberfeld had last seen them. In his leader’s absence, General Hock’s army had been quite busy. A stone restraining wall had been constructed beyond the inner line of ditches. A long trench surrounded the crude wall, a zigzag ditch designed to disrupt the formations of the enemy and channel them into specific areas, areas where they would be easy prey for the army’s bowmen. As he looked upon the elaborate preparations his generals had made, the count felt reassured. Man, daemon or undead liche, Zahaak would not easily breach such defences. The slaughter of the wight’s legion was almost assured.
The count felt a chill run up his spine. What good did it do to kill a thousand, to kill ten thousand of the fiend’s host if they would not stay dead? Few bodies had been left behind by the legion on the Dobrin road. Both their own dead and those lost by the Wissenland army had vanished with the marching legion. He had a loathsome idea where they had gone.
A knot of horsemen rode out from Bergdorf to meet the returning count. He was surprised to find Baron von Weidinger leading the cavalry, a small retinue bearing the livery of Bergdorf. The riders’ faces were pale, their expressions grave. Count Eberfeld raised his eyes, noting for the first time the scarcity of defenders visible on the walls. Something terrible had happened, Hock’s fortifications had been completed, but there were no soldiers manning them. The count did not try to guess what had happened, training his intense gaze upon von Weidinger, waiting for the baron to give him an explanation.
“Your excellency!” the baron cried. “Praise all the gods that you are back!” The intensity of von Weidinger’s relief brought dampness to his eyes and a ragged choke to his voice.
“What has happened, baron? Where is Hock? Where is the army?” The questions came in rapid succession, the count keeping any trace of panic from his words and all hint of emotion from his face.
“Gone, excellency,” von Weidinger said. “General Hock has led the army to Neuwald!”
Count Eberfeld blinked in disbelief, unable to credit what his ears had heard. After all the careful preparations, all the cautious plotting of strategy, what had possessed General Hock to cast it all aside and march the army to Neuwald?
Von Weidinger answered the question before it could be asked. “General Hock ordered the army to Neuwald three days ago,” the baron said, regaining some control of his voice as he related events rather than emotion. “Two days before that, from these very walls, we watched the enemy march past us. Through the fog that surrounded them, we could see their ghastly shadows, tramping in eerie unison. Not once did they turn to face us, not once did their march falter. Arrows sent into the fog went unanswered, challenges shouted into the mist went unmet. It was as though, for the shapes within the fog, Bergdorf and all within the city didn’t exist.
“General Hock was sorely vexed by the puzzle, terrified that the enemy was following some stratagem he could not fathom, poring over his plans trying to spot any weakness in the defences that he had failed to see. He was convinced the legion would be back, that their silent march past the walls was simply a ploy to entice the army to sally out from behind the walls. He still expected the battle to be fought before Bergdorf’s walls when the first scouts arrived informing him that the legion was laying siege to Neuwald. It was then that Hock realised he had been tricked, that the legion had bypassed Bergdorf not to draw out the army but to attack a weaker target.”
“Hock rode out to lift the siege?” Count Eberfeld was unsuccessful in keeping the dread from his voice. He could imagine the general’s agonised deliberation before making such a pivotal decision. Staying safe behind the walls of Bergdorf while Neuwald was butchered was a decision that would have haunted him to the grave. The uncertainty of a quick, improvised attack was one that would have held little appeal for him, but at least he would know he had tried to do something.
Baron von Weidinger nodded slowly. “The general took all the cavalry and light infantry with him, anything he felt could move fast enough to do Neuwald some good. In all, he should have nearly three thousand fighting men.” The baron’s face grew pale again, his hand pulling close the neck of his sable cloak. “But what man can say how many the legion numbers, or how many of the living it takes to destroy the dead?”
“Compose yourself,” the count warned. He saw the way the baron’s display of fear was infecting the horsemen around him. Von Weidinger licked his lips, trying to keep the tremble from his face.
“Stay here,” Count Eberfeld told the baron. “Keep your men alert and see that the walls stay manned. I will ride on to Neuwald and assess the situation for myself. I’ll send word back to you about what I find.”
Von Weidinger saluted his count, worried that his leader was riding into such danger, but deeply relieved that he had not been asked to ride with him. Count Eberfeld turned away from the nobleman, regarding Captain Markus and the other members of his small entourage. Their expressions were no less grave than that of the riders from Bergdorf, a resigned sort of fear that the men were not ashamed to show. The count knew these men were not cowards. They had gone with him unquestioningly into the camp of Count Achim, Wissenland’s most determined foe before Zahaak had emerged from his lost tomb. Loyalty to their land and their sovereign had made them follow him, and he knew that they would not desert their honour now.
Count Eberfeld looked past his small bodyguard, eyes alerted to a cloud of dust that rose from the road beyond them. Their hands fell to the hilts of their swords as a company of horsemen appeared galloping towards Bergdorf. The count knew they could not be refugees from Hock’s army; Neufeld lay in the other direction. For a moment, he considered that they might be late answers to the general muster that he had proclaimed, perhaps knights who had gathered from the wilds of the Grey Mountains or the hinterlands of Solland.
Tensions, just beginning to ease, swelled back into full ho
stility as the identity of the riders became obvious. They were knights, but not knights of Wissenland. The shining steel armour and vivid crimson surcoats of the riders proclaimed them as Reiklanders, the warrior-monks of the Order of the Griffon. The massive figure of Lord Hugo von Rhineholt rode at their head. He raised his gauntlet as his company drew close to Count Eberfeld, bringing the riders to a swift and sudden halt. Lord Hugo lifted the visor of his helm and bowed his head to the count.
“I see Count Achim reconsidered allowing me to escape his hospitality,” Count Eberfeld remarked. The comment brought swords rasping from sheaths as the Wissenlanders bared their steel. Upon the walls of Bergdorf, arrows were nocked to bows.
The Sigmarite knights did not move, letting their blades rest within their scabbards. There was almost pain in Lord Hugo’s face as he gazed at the weapons bared before him.
“Count Achim is not my master,” Lord Hugo stated. “I answer to Lord Sigmar and Grand Theogonist Gottolf.”
“And they tell you to violate my borders, invade my land and ride against my people?” Count Eberfeld snarled.
“They tell me to ride against the enemies of mankind,” the knight snapped back, “to rise above the petty squabbles of counts and barons and strike against real threats to the empire that Sigmar forged.” The knight pointed a steel finger at Count Eberfeld. “Are you willing to do the same?”
Count Eberfeld was silent, feeling the weight of Lord Hugo’s words, feeling the accusation in them like a knife twisting in his gut. Doubt gnawed at his resolve. Was it the welfare of his land or the welfare of his pride that made him spurn Count Achim’s offer? Was it the survival of Wissenland or the survival of Count Eberfeld that was the object of his war?
“I make no promises of treaty or favour to Gottolf or the Prince of Altdorf,” the count said.
[Warhammer] - Runefang Page 21
