“I’m sorry about that, sir, he’s not right in the head and shouldn’t be bothering you,” he said apologetically.
“What is his name?” asked Grunwald.
“Otto. Idiot son of my dead sister,” he said, lowering his voice conspiratorially, as if speaking to one who would understand his sentiments. “If he weren’t family he would have been out on his arse years ago. Still might be, the way the useless cripple carries on. Upsets the customers.” He chuckled to himself and nudged Udo. “And we can’t be having customers the likes of you bein’ upset by the likes of him, family or no.”
Grunwald looked into the eyes of the repugnant barkeeper. “Touch me one more time and I will break your face,” he said quietly. Fiedler visibly paled. Ignoring him, Grunwald addressed the servant cowering at the barkeeper’s side. “Thank you, Otto.”
The simpleton grinned at him broadly.
“Your presence repulses me, you foetid little man,” said Grunwald, addressing Fiedler, who was still hovering at his side. He didn’t move away, however, and Grunwald looked at him, an eyebrow raised. “Leave,” he said slowly and menacingly. “Now!”
Udo sighed. He gained nothing by threatening the man except for spit or something worse in his meal if he ever ate here again. But he wouldn’t be eating here again—he would leave before dawn, and would eat on the road. He still had some way to travel, and the sooner he was away from here the better. Briefly he considered taking his money back and leaving, to sleep rough on the road, but the promise of a pallet was too enticing, even if it was in a hovel such as the Hanging Donkey.
Grunwald had just decided to turn in early when a ruckus erupted across the room. A patron’s head was slammed into a table, breaking his nose and leaving a smear of blood on the wood.
“We don’t want your type round here no more,” shouted a burly, drunk local, lifting the dazed man roughly to his feet. The thug’s friends tried to calm him down, but he shook off their hands angrily.
“No!” bellowed the drunk, and he rocked on his heels, unsteady with drink. He slammed a fist into the man’s stomach, and he folded under the force of the blow, falling to the ground.
“Now Rikard, that’s enough,” said Fiedler, approaching the drunk with his sweating hands held out before him.
“S’alright for you,” slurred the drunk. “You are gettin’ fat off the money of all these travellers. But not me,” he said, tapping himself on the chest. “They come here—any one of ’em could be bringin’ plague. Shouldn’t be allowed here anymore, I say!”
A hearty, drunken cheer from more than half the patrons in the bar followed this pronouncement. The travellers, many sitting with their wives and children as they fled the ravages of plague and war, looked around nervously, feeling the hostility within the room directed towards them. Heartened, the drunken local thug kicked the downed man hard in the face.
“I say make a stand—make sure there won’t be no one passing through here ’til the plague is long gone,” he bellowed, to another hearty cheer. He emphasised his point by kicking the fallen man again.
“Now Rikard, I think you’ve had enough for one night. Go home and sleep it off, eh?” said Fiedler, taking another wary step towards the swaying thug. The drunkard rumbled at his belt and drew a short-bladed knife, which he levelled at the barkeeper’s throat.
“Keep back with you, or I’ll gut you like the swine you are, Fiedler,” he snarled. He nodded his head towards the fallen man. “I’m gonna string this bastard up. Word’ll spread, and there won’t be any more damn outsiders passin’ through. Pick him up,” he barked to his friends. They immediately lifted the near unconscious man, and followed the drunkard as he stomped outside.
There were scattered cheers, and the sound of chairs being pushed back as more patrons rose to follow the thuggish trio, clearly wanting to witness the outcome of the confrontation.
Udo sighed and stood up. He pressed a coin into the malformed hand of the simpleton servant, Otto. “Don’t let anyone touch my crossbow,” he said. “And don’t tell your uncle that I gave you this coin,” he added. Otto grinned at him, and Udo stalked through the packed inn, pushing people out of his way as he followed the crowd.
Outside, the beaten man was on his knees in the middle of the street.
“Please, Sigmar no!” he pleaded, tears and blood running down his face. “I am travelling to my wife and child in Averheim! I sent them on ahead! If you kill me, you kill them too! Please, you cannot do this!”
Ignoring his pleas, the drunkard grabbed the man by his hair, pulling his head back for the killing blow. The crowd roared for blood.
Pushing people roughly out of his way, Udo stalked into the centre of the circle.
“Kill that man and you die next,” he said. His voice was not loud, but he spoke with such authority and menace that it gave the villagers pause. Grunwald had drawn one of his ornate, embossed pistols and it was levelled at the drunken would-be murderer’s head. The roaring died down, and the fallen man looked up at him, desperate hope in his eyes.
“Who is this?” snarled the drunk, gesturing with his knife towards the dark clad figure of Grunwald, eyes trying to focus on the barrel of the gun pointed at him.
“Grunwald,” he said loudly, his deep voice pitched perfectly to carry to all those crowded around. His next words were said slowly and clearly, so that none could mistake them. “Udo Grunwald, witch hunter of the Temple of Sigmar.” There was sudden silence, and several within the crowd began to inch away from him. “And I say again—you kill that man and you will die next. I promise you that.”
Blinking his eyes heavily, the drunk glanced at the crowd around him. His motives were easily read—he was gauging the crowd’s reaction, trying to judge if they would tackle the witch hunter if things got more serious. He looked once more at the pistol held before him, and he spat a thick ball of phlegm onto the ground at Grunwald’s feet before sheathing his knife.
“This ’aint over,” he snarled, and turned and stomped unsteadily away. He made to kick the fallen man once more as he left, and smirked as the beaten man flinched. The crowd rapidly dissipated. Grunwald was soon left alone bar the bruised man who was thanking him through his tears. He was surprised to see the dwarf Thorrik standing a few paces away, his axe in his hands.
“Thought I was going to have to come to your aid this time round,” he said, his voice grave.
“Glad they saw sense and it was not needed,” said Grunwald darkly.
“Bah. That manling had murder in his eyes. Though I think he saw the sense in not arguing with a loaded gun—even if it is a shoddy weapon made by the clumsy hands of men.”
Grunwald snorted. “Come,” he said, as the pair walked back to the inn, helping the wounded man inside. “I’ll buy you a drink.”
They saw Fiedler standing in the door of the inn, wringing his hands nervously.
“See that this man is taken to a room and his wounds tended to. If he is not well cared for, I will hold you personally responsible,” Udo said to him. The barkeeper’s face was pale, but he nodded, and helped the man inside.
“Repugnant little troll,” commented Thorrik, his face curled as if he had stepped in something unpleasant.
“A bit unfair, perhaps,” said Grunwald mildly. “On trolls, I mean.”
The dwarf looked seriously at Udo for a moment before his eyes creased with humour, and he gave a throaty chuckle.
“Aye,” he said. “You may be right.”
Annaliese stopped to rest for a moment, leaning her hand against a tree, her breath ragged. Though it was freezing cold, she was sweating inside her heavy, fur-lined coat. She stared up the steep incline to where the elf stood, his face turned back towards her. He beckoned sharply for her to continue, and she steeled herself for the climb.
She had always prided herself on her physical fitness. She regularly did fourteen-hour shifts at the Golden Wheatsheaf and was on her feet all day, carrying trays of food back and forth from the kitchen and cle
aring up at the day’s end, but she had never been more exhausted than over the past two days. She knew the elf was frustrated at the pace they were travelling. His stamina was astounding—she would not have been surprised if he was able to run for days without slowing. He also moved with unnerving silence, and she had been startled on several occasions by him appearing at her side while she thought she had been alone.
She had no idea where the elf was leading her, but he was insistent, and seemed to know exactly where he was going. It seemed that he could not, or would not, speak a word of Reikspiel, and though she had questioned him as to their destination, silence was his only response.
They were passing deeper into the Westenholz than Annaliese had ever ventured, and in truth perhaps they were already beyond that wood and into unknown territory. These woods were dangerous, a refuge for brigands, wild beasts and worse.
She thought back to the words of the village warden, who had said that this elf was one of the murderers of the family on the road. Was she his captive now? He had not bound her arms, and indeed he had saved her from the mutant back in the village. She shivered. Everything that had happened to her seemed unreal, like a nightmare. But it was all too real.
For a night and a day they had been travelling together in silence, the elf’s impatience clear on his inhuman face. Still, he allowed her to stop and rest when she needed it, and he gave her food—strange, savoury flat cakes that stemmed her hunger instantly.
Was she his slave now? Would he take advantage of her once he deemed them far enough away from the village, and beyond pursuit? She had decided that she would not sleep the previous night at all—she would wait until the elf was asleep, and she would escape from him. That plan had come to nothing, for she had dropped into a deep and fitful sleep. She had been plagued by horrible dreams—she saw her father’s face, twisted and grinning, burning blue orbs where his eyes should have been. When she had finally woken, the elf was already up and waiting for her. Tonight, she thought. Tonight I will escape from him. Having caught her breath, she began clambering up the incline, slipping in the dark, moist earth, the muscles of her legs burning. Drawing near the pale-skinned elf she raised her gaze to meet his, her eyes defiant. His hard, cold, lavender eyes held hers for a moment before he indicated for her to continue up the incline with a quick nod of his pointed chin.
He was tall, taller even than her father had been, though he was inhumanly slender. But not weak, she decided. No, he was far from weak. He was lean and sinewy, like a rangy wolf, and his every move was perfectly balanced and elegant. There was a harshness to him that made every movement he made seem fuelled by bitterness, and she often jumped at his swift, sharp movements.
Dressed in soft, grey leather, he wore a pair of thin, empty scabbards strapped to his thighs. Over his back were two empty quivers. The soldiers had clearly taken his weapons away from him. Still, he did not seem any less dangerous for being unarmed.
His eyes seemed to mock her, to speak of her frailty. Annaliese was determined not to show weakness in front of him.
With her head held high, she moved past him and continued climbing the hill, trying to ignore the pain in her legs.
She rose over the incline and began to move along the ridge. Lost in her own misery, she walked for some time before she felt a hand upon her shoulder. She gasped involuntarily.
It was the elf, of course, and Annaliese cursed herself for showing her fear.
He pointed into the undergrowth, but she couldn’t see anything. She shrugged, furrowing her brow, and the elf gave a slight, disdainful shake of his head, and indicated for her to follow him.
They moved some thirty yards through the ferns towards an ancient and contorted oak tree, where the elf halted. He swept off his long grey cloak in a quick movement and threw it over a low-hanging branch, fixing it there with simple leather ties. He pinned the corners of the cloak into the ground, using twigs a makeshift pegs. It had taken only seconds, but he had constructed a basic, yet highly effective one-man shelter. He indicated for her to sit beneath the cloak; but she stayed where she was standing, glaring at him, After a moment, he shrugged his shoulders, and pulled the twig-pegs from the moist soil and swung the cloak back over his shoulder. He pulled the hood over his head, so that his face was all but hidden in it depths, his eyes glittering.
A moment later it began to sleet, icy rain coming down in sheets. The water slipped off the elf’s hood like oil, and Annaliese pulled her coat around her tighter. She thought she saw a hint of amusement in the eyes of the elf, and she lifted her head high, her mouth set in a grim line.
The elf stabbed a finger towards her, then at the ground. He was telling her to stay here. He repeated the action, and she nodded her head.
Then he was gone, slipping away into the trees like a shadow. In an instant he had disappeared.
This was her chance to escape, she knew. But she had no idea where she was, and if there were more of those monsters lurking nearby. These dense woods were rife with outlaws and killers. There were even some who claimed to have seen hulking creatures here with horns sprouting from their bestial heads and walking like men, but upon cloven hooves. In stories she had heard as a child these woods were haunted by the shades of the criminals hung on its outskirts, and that they walked amongst the trees in the dead of night, seeking the living. Her childhood fears rose within her.
If she died out here no one would mourn her.
She shivered again, and crouched down in the lee of the twisted oak tree, trying to get out of the biting wind and relentless sleet. She pulled her hands within the sleeves of her coat to warm them. She realised that she had nowhere to run. Tears ran down her face, invisible against the icy sleet.
How had she come to be in this situation, she wondered? Her legs were stiff and sore and she sat down on a twisted root, uncaring of the mud. She pushed herself back against the tree and hugged herself tightly. Despite the wind, the sleet lashing the tree and the uncomfortable position she was in, she fell asleep within moments.
Annaliese woke to the delicious aroma of cooking meat. The wind and rain had stopped, and dusk had fallen.
She sat up. She was aching from the awkward position she had slept in. Standing, she stretched like a cat, loosening her cold, cramped muscles. She saw the elf tending a small, smokeless fire-pit dug into the earth. He was cooking what looked like a pair of spherical shaped green objects, but the smell coming from them was divine.
Rolling them from the fire, the elf moved them skilfully onto a pair of flat stones with sticks.
He gestured for her to approach, and she did so cautiously. He placed one of the flat stones at Annaliese’s side, then sat himself back down across from her on the other side of the small, glowing fire-pit.
She took a seat on a fallen log, and looked at her meal, intrigued. Glancing over the glowing embers, she watched as the elf deftly prized the greenery away with one hand and a stick. A whoosh of steam rose from within. Feeling her looking at him, his almond-shaped eyes rose, and she hastily dropped her gaze to the meal in front of her.
She saw the green ball was a series of leaves carefully woven together and overlapped to form a spherical container. It was beautiful in its simplicity and the obvious care that had gone into it. With her hand and a stick she opened it up, trying to emulate the elf’s deft movements, and steam billowed from within. It brought with it the aroma of rabbit and all manner of herbs, many that she did not recognise.
Her stomach groaned loudly, but she hesitated. The elf was picking at his food delicately, watching her. What if it was poisoned, she thought? Then you will be dead, but at least you will die with warm food in your belly, she answered herself.
She tried a piece of rabbit tentatively. It was exquisite, and she smiled shyly to the elf before eating her meal hungrily. The elf regarded her coldly. She didn’t care.
Afterwards she realised that she must have appeared like some ravenous barbarian thanks to the speed that she devoured the delicious me
al. As she licked her fingers, she found herself staring over the glowing embers at the elf.
Long and black, his hair was drawn over his head and pulled into a tight ponytail, and there was a thin black tattoo upon his cheek. It showed an alien symbol of curling lines and elegantly tapered flourishes. It was beautiful and powerful, and she wondered what it signified. The elf ate his food slowly, delicately picking at the pieces with his long, pale fingers that for some reason reminded her of the legs of spiders—delicate, their movements measured, concealing their deadly power.
Annaliese looked away quickly. There was something chilling about him. She was fearful of him, of that there was no doubt; everything about him was just so… inhuman.
Still, despite her fear, she was curious.
“I—” began Annaliese, realising that she had no idea what to say to him. “I don’t think you can understand me,” she said. He stared at her blankly.
“Did you kill that family? Did you murder those poor little girls?” she said. “And are you going to kill me as well?”
The elf shrugged his shoulders and stood, moving around the campfire towards her. She recoiled back away from him. He squatted down in front of her, and held out his hands. Looking down, she saw that he was offering her his meal—he had not eaten it all. She felt foolish suddenly, and a blush rose over her lightly freckled face. She shook her head. He offered her his meal again, his face emotionless, and this time she accepted it. She touched his hands as she took it from him—though they looked as cold and hard as the whitest marble, they were warm and soft.
She blushed again, and began to eat as he moved away. After she had finished this second meal, she tried talking to him again.
“Thank you for the meal,” she said. She felt somewhat foolish talking to this silent, aloof figure—it was like talking to a blank stone wall. But she was determined to attempt to communicate. His impassive, ghostly white face gave away not a hint of what he was thinking.
[Age of Reckoning 01] - Empire in Chaos Page 5
