02 - Sacred Flesh

by Robin D. Laws - (ebook by Undead)

  “And Chaos leaking into the world,” added Stefan.

  “Yes, yes,” Lemoine nodded. “That goes without saying.”

  Angelika opened her mouth to speak. Franziskus moved his lips too, as if this could coax the words from her. “Got to get out of here,” she finally said.

  “What did she say?” Ivo Kirchgeld asked.

  “We’re easy prey for others now,” Angelika managed. “Find a secluded spot. To hole up.” She went limp in Franziskus’ arms. With effort, he steeled himself and stayed upright himself. Devorah’s face took on an unforgiving cast.

  “Who feels well enough to find us a better spot?” Franziskus asked.

  Richart sniffled. “I’m hale enough, so far.”

  “Once, aboard the Entenmuschel, I suffered simultaneously from scurvy and the shingles,” huffed Ludwig. “This is nothing compared to that.”

  “It’s too dangerous to go off into those orc-infested woods when we’re this weak,” Angelika said. “But if you can find us a more sheltered spot, as close by as possible…”

  “We’ll do it,” said Richart.

  Ludwig marched over to Rausch, who still slept soundly in his bedroll. “He doesn’t look sick. Not a drop of sweat on him. Let’s wake him up and take him with us.” He bent to shake Rausch by the shoulders. Rausch’s head lolled on his neck.

  “There’s something wrong with him,” Ivo said.

  Ludwig shook him more vigorously. “Claptrap! He’s malingering!” Rausch did not respond.

  Angelika lurched over to Ludwig, weakly shoving him aside. The old sailor yielded. She knelt down, put her fingers to Rausch’s neck. She shook her head. Under her breath, she told Muller’s spirit that he’d got the company he’d asked her for.

  “He’s dead?” Ivo gulped. “Just when we need a physic most, he’s gone and died on us?”

  “He doesn’t even look sick,” Ludwig said.

  Angelika pulled at Rausch’s bandage. She rolled him. His blood had stopped flowing; it was collecting in those parts of him that had been nearest to the ground. “He died before the disease had a chance to get at him,” she said.

  “From the head wound?” asked Waldemar, his complexion turning even paler than before.

  “Had to have been.” Angelika felt another tide of nausea wash through her; she concealed it by sitting down beside the corpse.

  “We slew him,” said Waldemar.

  Ludwig protested. “What we dealt to him weren’t more than a series of taps!”

  “Just go find us a new spot,” Angelika said. “We can blame each other later.”

  Ludwig peered down at the corpse. “Worthless pansy,” he said. “If you can’t take a knock on the head, you’ve no business getting into tussles.” He stomped off to the west, followed by a dubious Richart.

  They came back a few minutes later, reporting that there was a gully nearby, away from the main flow of travellers. Any enemies who wanted to come at them from the hills would have to climb down through a treacherous rock slope. Angelika lifted herself up to her feet; the others followed suit, the healthy aiding the sick. Tortuously hefting their packs and bags, they dragged themselves a distance of a few hundred yards, until they reached the gully. Angelika surveyed it through bleary eyes. It would not offer much protection. She checked the rock face: it might be hard going for human climbers, but neither orcs nor goblins would find it any great impediment. Still, she was too sick to go elsewhere, and some of the others were much worse off than she was. Waldemar dropped his pack and fell to his knees beside it. He propped himself up on all fours, dropping his head and opening his mouth, ready to retch.

  Ludwig placed his boot on Waldemar’s behind and shoved him with it. “Go off to the side and do that!” he bellowed.

  Waldemar meekly crawled on hands and knees to the hem of the rocky slope and then heaved extravagantly, his wretched groan echoing up the stony hillside. His companions cringed at the reverberant sound of his puke splashing into the rocks. Then a breeze caught hold of the smell and sent it drifting their way.

  Richart gulped, paled, ran to the rocks and threw up. He was quickly followed by Gerhold, Ivo and Devorah. Their efforts sent another malodorous wave rippling through the polluted air. Lemoine clutched at his gut. Udo’s hand clawed up to his throat. Ludwig inhaled deeply, to steady his rising sense of nausea. As one, the three of them stepped swiftly to the makeshift vomiting trough and began to disgorge.

  Their exodus left only Franziskus, Angelika and Recht standing. The stink of stomach bile intensified. Angelika pressed a hand to her breastbone, expecting to join them at any moment. But the urge did not quite come; she’d already retched up all she had in her. She waved a hand in front of her face.

  “Look on the bright side,” she choked.

  “There’s a bright side?” asked Franziskus.

  “There’s no creature that doesn’t instinctively shy away from the smell of puke,” Angelika explained, wiping water from her eyes. “Be you man, greenskin or skaven, you know it means sickness and misery, and you stay away.” She fumbled with the clasps on her pack. Franziskus took over for her, opening it up and laying out her bedroll.

  “What about beastmen?” asked the advocate. “Will it keep beastmen away?”

  As she fell into sleep, Angelika’s last thought was probably not.

  She awakened with morning light all around her and Franziskus sitting at her side, his long white fingers on his knees. “You’re awake,” he said.

  She pushed herself off the ground, but he crouched over her, placing gentle hands on her shoulders to move her back down. She let her eyes close again.

  “You’re not sick,” Angelika said.

  Franziskus laid his palm on her forehead. It felt like ice to her. “My lineage is known for its ridiculously strong constitution,” he said. “During the plague years, not a single one of my ancestors suffered so much as a single lesion.”

  “I owe them my thanks then, for bequeathing you such a hardy bloodline.”

  Franziskus arched a tawny eyebrow. “Grateful for my presence? You have gone delirious.”

  “Where’s your Devorah?”

  Franziskus’ shoulder twitched. “Over sleeping, with the others.”

  “Have we lost anyone, yet?”

  “Not so far, though Ivo Kirchgeld seems in a bad way. I’m worried about Waldemar, too.”

  “Anyone other than you who hasn’t fallen ill?”

  “The advocate appears unaffected, so far. Gerhold is already recovered, it seems.”

  “Maybe we’re in luck, then, if the sickness is virulent but quick in passing.”

  Waldemar crawled over on hands and knees.

  “Go back to your bedroll,” Angelika told him.

  “I heard my name spoken,” he croaked.

  “We worried about your condition,” Franziskus said. “So please don’t make us fret any further.”

  Waldemar clutched up at Franziskus’ fine coat. “If I am as ill as you fear, then the urgency of my purpose is increased,” he wheezed.

  “Shut up and sleep,” said Angelika.

  Franziskus crouched before the summoner, which seemed to calm him.

  “You love her too, don’t you?” Waldemar asked Franziskus.

  “We are partners,” said Franziskus, quickly.

  “See how she cannot even bear to look at me,” Waldemar moaned.

  Angelika stood, hoping to escape. She felt woozy.

  “I have offended her, Franziskus,” said Waldemar. “I poured my heart out, which is always a rash and often unasked-for thing. I deserve her scorn. I am unlucky in love. Not just unlucky. Cursed, utterly. I tried to love your Angelika in a selfish, commanding way, to armour my heart, but I have failed at that too. Now listen to me. Shamefully burbling.”

  “It is the illness speaking,” Franziskus said, crouching lower to shine his crystalline eyes into Waldemar’s face. “This is not you. You are a dignified, well-respected fellow. And you will go back to your bedroll
now and rest, and all you have said will pass and be forgotten, along with the other poisons of this sickness.”

  “Yes?” asked Waldemar.

  “Yes,” Franziskus affirmed.

  Waldemar did as instructed. He crept back to his musty field blanket, pulled it over his face and whimpered.

  “Well handled,” said Angelika, as Franziskus helped her back down to the ground.

  “Thank you.”

  “I should have you field all of my marriage proposals.”

  Now Franziskus looked a bit ill.

  The friar padded over. From her prone vantage point, Angelika saw that his toenails were bleeding and caked with dirt. He ducked down to her, handing over her own water skin, full and heavy, its metal cap dotted with moisture.

  “There’s a stream down the ways a bit,” he said. “I took everyone’s vessels down to refill them.”

  Angelika hesitated. “You made certain the stream was clean?”

  “I went past the muddy part.” He unscrewed the cap for her. “Go on, drink. You all need your waters back.”

  She drank tentatively at first, but then slurped it down with gusto. “I know I said no more god talk,” she said, when she was finally finished, “but answer me this, friar. We come all this way, reach the foot of your precious Holy Mountain, and now that it’s right within our reach, we’re all struck down, unable to so much as crawl toward it. If this isn’t proof the gods are laughing at us, what is?”

  “Despite your hard crust of scepticism, you hunger to believe, like everyone else.”

  Angelika drew back in annoyance. “Just like a priest. Never answering the question.”

  Gerhold’s mild features stiffened. “The real answer, then, is this. One cannot blame the gods of virtue for—”

  New boots strolled into the camp. Angelika looked up. Seven men strode in, cudgels in hand. All but one were blond and fair of skin, like Franziskus. The other, the bulkiest of the lot, had shaved his skull and sported a thick, black moustache. All wore the dove emblems of Shallya, embroidered on their quilted doublets. They walked to the sick, sleeping pilgrims.

  “Ho there!” Franziskus called, stepping quickly at them. “What purpose have you?”

  The bald man spoke, pointing the tip of his cudgel at Franziskus. “Hold now. We’ve no wish to hurt any of you.”

  Franziskus gripped his sabre, but left it sheathed. “Nor I, you.”

  The bald man smiled tightly. A vein quivered at his temple. He looked at his companions. They smiled back at him, more amused than he was. “That’s a sharp sword, I’m sure, but you’re outnumbered, boy. And as I said, we’ve no wish to bloody our hands.”

  Angelika fought for the energy to raise her body up. She slumped down onto her bedroll.

  Recht, who stood on the other side of the intruders, sidled around, warily seeking a good position. Two of the men turned to keep a watch on him.

  Gerhold moved to Franziskus’ side. “You bear the emblems of Shallya. Surely you intend nothing wicked.”

  The bald man bowed his head. “No, friar, we do not. We mean only to take what we need, from those who need it no longer.”

  “We have nothing to give you,” Franziskus said.

  “Perhaps if you enumerated your needs,” Gerhold said, placing a hand on Franziskus’ sword arm, “there are a few things we can spare.”

  The bald man looked again to his companions; they kept their chins thrust resolutely forward. “Shallya will understand,” he said. “We were robbed by other pilgrims, while we slept. We’ve nothing to haul water in, and hardly any food. All our money is gone.”

  One of the blond companions broke in. “So we’re doing to you what was done to us. If you stand back it won’t be painful.”

  Franziskus sneered. “We’re going to die of the croup anyway, so it’s acceptable to rob us? Is that what you mean to say?”

  “Restrain them,” the bald man told his men. Two advanced on Franziskus. Two marched at Stefan Recht.

  “What are your names?” Gerhold demanded. “Where do you hail from?”

  An intruder unslung a length of cord from his belt and headed behind the friar, to tie his hands. “If you want it to be easy on you, friar, you won’t be getting our blood up, now, will you?”

  Gerhold thrust his wrists behind him, ready to be tied. “It’s not my wrath you need worry about,” he said.

  The man looped the cord around the friar’s wrists and jerked on it viciously. “Don’t go threatening us with curses,” he threatened.

  Franziskus unleashed his sabre and lunged at one of the intruders, who confidently evaded his blow. The other got behind Franziskus and grabbed hold of his sword-arm, wrenching it in his socket. Franziskus kicked back at his legs but the other man out-wrestled him. The target of Franziskus’ blow danced from side to side, cudgel ready, waiting for a good chance to clonk his skull without hitting his partner.

  Two intruders inched toward Recht, who had his rapier ready. Suddenly he ran at them, slashing wildly. He hit one on the arm, tearing open his sleeve but drawing no blood. The other brought his club down on Recht’s back; it sent him stumbling to the ground. Recht flipped over and caught a cudgel blow on the edge of his chin. He stuck his rapier up at the intruder on his left, but the other got behind him and wrapped a beefy forearm around his throat. Recht dropped his weapon to claw with both hands at the choking arm.

  Franziskus lurched forward, shifting his body weight to slip free of the man holding him. He spun and swung his sabre, but the man stepped back. His second opponent took a cautious step at him; he turned and cleaved his sword through the air. Then he turned to swipe it again in the other man’s path.

  By now the sick pilgrims had woken and were crawling out of their bedrolls. Two of the intruders circled around them, blocking their escape.

  “This is absurd,” the bald man said. He drew a long straight knife from a sheath strapped across his chest and bent low over Angelika. She rolled over onto her stomach; he caught her by the hair and pulled on it until her throat was exposed. He held the knife to it. Angelika became still. Though the man hadn’t bothered to disarm her, he could cut her throat long before she could get one of her own daggers out.

  “Give up now, or she dies!” the bald man cried. Franziskus had already dropped his sabre. He held his arms up in the air. The intruder nearest him bent down to pick up the weapon. He moved to stash it in his own belt, then to unbuckle Franziskus’ belt and sheath.

  “What are you doing?” the bald man growled, his knife quivering at Angelika’s throat.

  “Taking his blade. And a belt to stick it in,” the intruder sullenly replied.

  “What did we agree on?” the bald one prompted.

  The sullen one threw the sabre down at Franziskus’ feet. Its hilt hit Franziskus on the toe; he winced in pain. “We only take the same things that was taken from us,” he said, like a scolded child repeating the household rules.

  The intruders herded the healthy members of the entourage—Franziskus, Gerhold, Stefan—up against the trunk of a stripped and dying spruce. They left the others on the ground. They tied kerchiefs around their mouths to block the ill humours in the air and moved quickly, frisking each of the pilgrims and emptying their packs. They took purses and water skins and cheeses and sausages. When their own packs were full, they commandeered Stefan’s, then Udo’s. “This is more than was taken from us,” one of the intruders said to the bald man, who looked anxiously back into the pass, as if fearing that some god-fearing sorts might come along to play havoc with their robbery.

  “We don’t have time to parcel out exact amounts,” the bald man said, letting his exasperation show. “Just take what we said we’d take.” He reached over to open Angelika’s pack. His hand darted in to grab at one of the leather purses inside. He clanked it. “Shallya’s teats, you’re no ordinary pilgrim,” he said. “What have you been up to?” He reached into her pocket and snatched out Heilwig’s silver dove pendant. “This wasn’t come by ho
nestly, was it?”

  Angelika’s hand itched for her dagger. She calculated: could she get it into her waylayer’s neck before he could slice her throat open? No, she concluded. She could not.

  The bald man ran his hands roughly along her body, taking a few moments to linger over her breasts and thighs. Angelika gritted her teeth. He reached down into her leggings, finding a thin leather purse strapped behind her knee. It was held only with a leather cord, which he cut with his blade. He took the purse and jammed it into his doublet.

  “You’ve been robbing pilgrims long before we fell into it, haven’t you?” he asked.

  She wanted to spit into his face. “Not like this,” she said.

  The bald man rose and placed his heel over her throat. “Time to go,” he called to his men. “Let’s depart carefully, yes? Don’t want our backs sprouting any knives in them.” His men withdrew, taking cautious backwards steps, clubs ready. He stayed in place, looking down at Angelika, his boot held steady at her face. “I understand now,” he said, his eyes darting up to the heavens. Angelika was not sure if he was addressing her, or merely speaking to himself. “When I came here, when I first proposed this, I thought I had fallen into villainy. But now I see that Shallya herself has guided my hand. You’re the villains and we are heroes still.” He had that faraway look on his face that came over religious fools when they got to talking their religious foolery. “By stripping you of your ill-gotten gains, I do heaven’s work. By letting you live, I show you Shallya’s mercy, so you can have a chance to mend your ways. So it all does make sense, doesn’t it?”

  Angelika placed her tongue between her teeth and held it there.

  The bald man waited until his men were well clear of the gully and then moved his boot from Angelika’s throat. With his knife stuck out at her, he jogged back a few paces, then turned to run. Angelika saw that her own dagger was in her hand. She lacked the strength to throw it.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Manfried Haupt turned sideways, sticking his shoulder outwards, to guide himself through the multitude of pilgrims. They’d invaded the abbey grounds! Scarcely a square yard of the flat and barren ground around the abbey was now free of thronging penitents. With the press of their bodies, they’d snapped the branches from its few, pathetic trees. There had to be at least a hundred of them. Maybe twice that number. Moneyed burghers in fine, dyed clothing jostled elbows with rag-clad wretches. Men, women and children alike stamped impatiently wailing and praying. Some carried tents in great bundles on their backs as Manfried’s men stopped anyone who tried to pitch one. It was the same with fires; fires would have to be lit on the rocks below.