Before the other soldiers realised that the main threat was no longer the deadly blur of the horses’ iron-shod hooves, it was already too late. Neither of the Strigany needed to be a marksman at this range, and, as soon as they had snapped the locks off of their victims’ crossbows, they fired, the bolts thudding through flesh and bone to skewer two more soldiers.
The final man, the sergeant, saw his men falling on either side of him, crossbow bolts sprouting out of them. He looked through the windmilling hooves of the horses and saw the others that lay at the feet of their captives. Then he ran.
“Calm the horses,” Dannie yelled at Mihai as he dodged past them to follow the fleeing soldier.
Mihai hesitated. Seeing that their mounts were already bleeding from self-inflicted wounds, he started singing another charm to still their terror. As the illusion he had inflicted upon them melted away, they quietened down, to stand, their chests billowing in and out, and their coats wet with blood and foam.
Meanwhile, Dannie was haring after his prey. The sergeant was weighed down by his harness, and unused to moving through the tangled confines of woodland. He was close to panic, too. When he looked back, his eyes were as wide as the horses’ had been, and when Dannie grabbed him by the ankles, he cried out in terror.
The cry was cut off as the soldier landed on his face. Dannie, not wanting to take any chances, kicked him hard. While the soldier writhed in agony, Dannie put a knee on his neck, twisted his arms back, and bound his wrists, with the cord with which he himself had been tied.
“Now then,” he said, smiling with a savage cheerfulness that wasn’t all for show, “let me show you how to tie a knot. Then I’ll show you how to ask questions, persuasively.”
The sergeant just whimpered.
“Domnu Rortchak,” Domnu Brock said, getting up from his seat to grip the man’s hand and pull him up into his wagon, “I am honoured that you have come.”
Rortchak, a small, round, red-faced man, nodded politely. He swept off his hat and turned to close the wagon door behind him, on the rest of Flintmar, and, particularly, on the line of other domnus, who had been waiting outside Domnu Brock’s wagon with him.
“How could I have refused an invitation from Domnu Brock?” he asked, “especially when everybody is speaking of the need for a Kazarkhan.”
Brock smiled and waved Rortchak to a seat.
“There’s no doubt that we do need one,” he said. “Will you take a bowl of wine?”
“Delighted to,” Rortchak said, and sat down. For the first time, he noticed Petru Engel. The old man sat wrapped in his black robes, silent and unmoving in his shadowy corner.
“Petru,” Rortchak said, raising his bowl in a toast to the old man before he drank.
Engel just nodded.
“It was about the Kazarkhan that I invited you over,” Brock said. “The thing is, quite a few of the other domnus have suggested that I take the job. It’s no secret that I wasted my youth fighting other men’s wars for them. Might be time to put all that experience to good use, but I was just wondering what you thought?”
Rortchak grinned widely.
“I think that it’s a good idea,” he said, nodding. “In fact, I think that it’s such a good idea that you don’t even need to get your raven here to convince me.”
He looked across at Petru Engel and winked. The petru’s poker face creased into a wide, gap-toothed grin.
“How do you know I haven’t already?” he asked. Rortchak just shook his head.
“I’ve been married to our own petru for long enough to know when craft is being used,” he said, “and anyway, old Domnu Matchelek convinced me before he invited me over. Everybody respects you, Brock, and we all know that you know how to fight a war as well as a skirmish. Now, do you want me to get Domnu Chavek and Spurn to come over and have a chat too? They’re reasonable men.”
Brock smiled and nodded his thanks.
“I’d be honoured if you would, Rortchak, and I won’t forget it.”
“Don’t worry,” the fat man said, draining the last of his wine, and getting to his feet. “If you do forget, I’ll remind you.”
And, with a wink, he climbed back out of the wagon.
One of the domnu’s men helped him on his way, and then put his head through the door.
“It’s Domnu Greisar to see you next, domnu,” he said.
“Send him in,” Brock said, and went to help the man into his wagon. He would be the twenty-seventh that day, and they still had a good five hours left before the council.
“Domnu Greisar,” he repeated for the twenty-seventh time, “I am honoured that you have come.”
“I don’t mind coming,” Greisar said. He was a thin-lipped man, immaculately dressed in embroidered cloth, and even more immaculate in his courtesy as he sat down, “but I might as well tell you, I think that all of this talk of Kazarkhans is unnecessary. We are a free people, and I can see no need to start bowing down to a war leader if we don’t have a war.”
“Have a bowl of wine,” Brock said, nodding sympathetically as he handed a bowl over. “I was wondering the same thing myself. Without good cause, none of us want a Kazarkhan. It isn’t our way. I was just wondering what you thought good cause might be.”
“I suppose that it would be…” Greisar began, and then paused. He had been about to say something about finding an army arrayed against them, but all of a sudden he thought of an ambush they had suffered on the road: of the confusion, of the uncertainty, of the feeling of isolation that he suddenly seemed to remember feeling at the time.
They needed a Kazarkhan. Of that, he was suddenly, completely, certain.
“Well, I suppose that we should appoint somebody,” he said vaguely. Then his eyes fastened on Brock. “You used to be a mercenary, didn’t you?”
“A mercenary captain,” Brock reminded him.
“Yes,” Greisar agreed and then frowned, as if he had forgotten why he had come. “Yes, well you’ve got my vote, Kazarkhan Brock. Just don’t let it go to your head.”
“You have my word, domnu,” Brock said, and bowed as Greisar left. When he was sure that the man had gone, he turned to the petru. “Was that you?”
“The thoughts were Greisar’s own. I just helped him to put them together.”
Brock barked with a humourless laugh.
“I bet you did,” he said. “Anyway, let’s see who’s next. Viles,” he called to the man who was guarding the wagon, “next one.”
Instead of the guard, or one of the assembled domnus, the sound of voices rose in protest, and then surprise. Then there was the distinctive bray of Mihai’s laughter.
Brock scowled.
“Gods curse it, what’s he doing now? Annoying the customers, no doubt.” He leapt to his feet and loped over to the wagon’s door. “Was ever a son so much trouble, Engel?”
“Oh yes,” the petru nodded, but Brock didn’t hear. He had already swung outside to see what all the noise was about.
He saw, almost immediately. A line of domnus had been waiting behind his wagon, some of them holding the flagons or pastries that his people had pressed on them. The line had coalesced into a mob of the Striganies’ most respected leaders. Those at the back shouted questions, while those at the front stared at the man who lay in the mud at their feet.
He was pale, apart from where he was bruised, and dried blood marked his broken nose and tightly bound wrists. He wore the harness of a soldier, although his scabbard was empty and his helmet was gone.
Mihai and Dannie stood over the unfortunate captive, busily arguing with the man that Brock had put on the door to greet his guests.
“I know you have your orders, Viles,” Dannie told him, “but this is important. You have to let us see him.”
“And you have to wait in line,” the man hissed back angrily. Even from behind him, Brock could see that his ears were red with embarrassment. He was a good lad, very respectful of his elders. If only, Brock thought, the same could be said of my own s
on.
“Would you question the hospitality of our caravan by pushing in front of your elders?” his guard asked.
“We wouldn’t if we didn’t have to,” Mihai said, “but we do. Where do you think he came down from? The last rain shower?”
“He’s right,” Dannie said, his tone more conciliatory. “These men are wise enough to understand that the sapling of custom must bend before the gale of necessity.”
“What’s this?” Brock barked, stepping down from his wagon. “Why are you inconveniencing your elders, Mihai?”
“Sorry domnu,” Mihai said, although he hardly sounded it. “It’s just that we’ve captured a prisoner from an—”
“We’ve captured a prisoner,” Dannie interrupted, and nudged his friend. “You should speak to him.”
Brock looked from the terrified whites of the captive’s eyes to the grey ranks of his assembled allies, his assembled potential allies. He made his decision.
“These men are more important than some damned spy!” he thundered, his brow furrowing in fake outrage. “Apologise at once.”
The two younger men looked at their domnu, their faces identical masks of surprise. Then, as Dannie’s cleared in understanding, Mihai’s darkened in rage. Brock looked at him, willing him to understand.
Whether he understood or not, he at least followed Dannie’s lead in turning to bow to the assembled dignitaries and mutter an apology.
“Very well,” Brock said. “Now, if you gentlemen will accept my apologies, I will have a quick chat with this man.” He gestured down towards the captive. “I am certainly interested to know what a soldier is doing in our lands, humble though they are.”
“We would expect nothing else from a Kazarkhan,” Domnu Petrechek said, and his fellows nodded their approval. Brock bowed solemnly, but inside he was grinning. This couldn’t have worked out better.
“Right then, hoist him up,” he said, and the two younger men dragged their captive, none too gently, into the wagon.
“My name is Viktor Marstein. I can’t remember who my mother was. An old woman looked after me for a while. I don’t remember much about her either: just the trembling of her blue-veined hands and the smell of cabbage; and the way that, one day, she sat down in the corner of our hovel, and started to rot. It was summer, and, at first, I didn’t know what was wrong.
“After that, I found the barracks. I ate the crusts the soldiers left, and the dregs of their pottage. In return, I polished armour, and stitched uniforms, and chopped turnips and firewood. I was hungry all the time, and exhausted.
“Sometimes, the men would get drunk. When that happened, I’d risk their company. They got generous as well as violent, and I’d get as many pennies as bruises. I only had bones broken a couple of times, and they healed all right.
“When I was almost grown, one of the sergeants started to teach me how to fight. His name was Mullen He is the one I remember on Geheimnisnacht, and I always give Morr something for his soul.
“Muller taught me how to fight with my hands and feet, and teeth. Then he gave me an old wooden training sword, and taught me how to use it. I still have it somewhere.
“Later, after I’d started to buy women instead of cakes with my coin, Muller let me start training with the company. Not long after that, he got the captain to sign me up, give me a uniform, and issue me with my first steel sword.
“It was the happiest day of my life, and this is the most miserable.”
Viktor paused, realising with a rush of something like vertigo what he had just said. Some of it, he had never told anybody before, and yet, here he was, beaten and bound, and baring his soul to the cadaverous old man, who sat above him like a vulture.
“It isn’t just the pain and humiliation of being taken captive that does it,” Viktor continued, his tongue apparently operating under its own power. “It’s the fact that I’ve been taken by a bunch of filthy Strigany. When I escape, I’ll have to cut some of your throats, maybe bring back a couple of heads. If I don’t, I’ll never make captain.”
He paused, horrified by what he had just said, but his interrogator didn’t seem to mind. He just nodded his head, as though he agreed with every word that Viktor had said.
The soldier clenched his jaws, muscles bulging in his cheeks as he tried not to look into the deep, dark void of this terrible old man’s eyes.
“I’ll say that a bunch of filthy Strigany spies fell upon me and the lads on sentry duty. I’ll say I was unconscious in the woods for a while,” he heard himself confiding.
“No need to mention being captured at all. That pig’s bladder Blyseden would have me killed if he thought I’d been taken prisoner. Can’t have you vicious animals getting away like rats from a burning barn, that’s what he said. This has to be total annihilation. We get a penny a head, too.”
Petru Engel’s expression remained mild. The same could not be said for the other three in the wagon. Brock’s jaws had clenched, Dannie had turned as white as his hair, and Mihai had opened the straight razor that he usually used for shaving.
The petru spared them a glance, making sure that none of them would do anything to break the hold he had on their captive.
“Blyseden’s a murderous bastard, all right. Some of the stories would make your hair stand on end, even the stuff he did to decent Empire folk. I mean, it’s not as though you Strigany will be a loss to anybody. Thieving scum, all of you. Although…”
Viktor trailed off, a troubled look on his face.
“I just wonder about the women and children, though. Do you think it’s still bad luck to kill ’em if they’re Strigany?”
Petru Engel didn’t say anything. He merely sat and watched, as unblinking as a cobra who has cornered a rat. When he spoke, his voice was as soothing as a cool hand on a fevered brow, and even the other Strigany felt their worries melting away.
“Do you think Muller would say that it’s lucky or not?” Engel said.
For once, Viktor said nothing. He just swallowed, and looked suddenly sick.
“I don’t know,” he eventually decided, “and I can’t find out. He’s dead.”
“Dead isn’t the same as silent,” the petru told him, and his words began to follow a silent melody that even Viktor could almost hear. “In fact, Viktor, Muller is right here, right here inside me.
“He wants to tell you something.
“Wants you to look at him.
“Look into my eyes, Viktor.
“Look deeply.
“Can you see him?
“See him?”
And Viktor did.
The sentry peered into the night, his halberd raised against the figure that came stumbling towards him. His pulse quickened until he realised that, whoever this man was, he was no danger. He was already bloodied and bruised, and even in the torchlight the sentry could see the dark circles of exhaustion beneath his eyes. Then, with a sudden start, the sentry realised that he knew who the man was. “Viktor! Where in Sigmar’s name have you been?”
“Ambushed,” Viktor said, and lurched to a halt in front of the sentry. Two others had emerged from the shelter behind him, their halberds held low as they approached the ragged man, but the sentry waved them back.
“It’s all right,” he said, “I know him. He’s Viktor Marstein, a sergeant with Captain Gruber’s lot. Got to say, Viktor,” he said, turning back to the exhausted man, “you look awful. Where is the rest of your patrol?”
“Dead,” Viktor said simply, and a shudder ran through him. “I have to talk to Blyseden.”
“That madman?” the sentry asked, doubtfully. “Sure you don’t want to tell your boss first? Let him bring the bad news.”
“No,” Viktor said, shaking his head emphatically, “it won’t wait. Take me to him.”
“All right,” the sentry said, and he frowned as he saw how glazed the man’s eyes were. “Sure you don’t want a drink first?”
“Take me to Blyseden,” Marstein repeated.
There was someth
ing in the tone of his voice that the sentry didn’t like, although he couldn’t quite decide what it was. Not that it mattered. Considering what this battered survivor had been through, his tone of voice was hardly a big deal.
“So, was it the Strigany?” the sentry asked, as he led Viktor towards their commander’s tent. At the mention of the word, Viktor shuddered again, and his teeth started chattering.
“It’s all right,” the sentry told him, and grabbed his shoulder. “You’re safe now.”
Viktor turned to look at him with a blank stare. If the sentry hadn’t liked the way that Viktor spoke, he liked that blank stare even less. He removed his hand from his shoulder and turned his attention back to the way ahead.
Blyseden’s tent was a massive circle of thick canvas and timber frame. A stockade had been built around it, and a pair of ogres stood at the entrance, the two creatures as still and silent as the wooden stakes of the fence.
“We want to see the boss,” the sentry told them.
“No visitors,” one of the ogres rumbled, not deigning to look down.
“One of our patrols has been ambushed. The survivor wants to make a report.”
“Make a report,” the ogre suggested.
“Only to Blyseden,” Viktor said, his voice barely audible after the ogre’s baritone rumble. “It’s about the Strigany.”
The ogres exchanged a single glance. Then one of them bellowed, so suddenly that the sentry jumped.
“Blyseden,” it called, loud enough to be heard on the other side of the camp.
A moment later, Blyseden’s clerk, Tubs, appeared from the depths of the tent. The privations of camp life, and the anxiety of dealing with the mercenaries, had melted the fat from him, and he looked like a man who had stolen a suit of skin that was two sizes too big. When he emerged from the safety of his master’s tent, it was as reluctantly as a mole emerging from its burrow.
“What is it?” he asked, glancing nervously up at the ogres, and preparing to run.
“This man claims to bring news of the Strigany,” one of them rumbled with perfect disinterest.
Ancient Blood Page 16
