by ich du
'She's loyal and steady, just what a man needs to warm his hearth and bed, not a flighty bed-hopper like you,' Frau Linde replied venomously. 'I see your strange ceremonies, I see you talking to yourself. You're tainted - tainted by dark things.'
'The only dark thing in this town is its hospitality.' Ursula argued back. 'You've never shown me any charity or kindness since I arrived.'
It was an old argument, and Ursula resented it every time, and yet could not help herself been drawn into it whenever she met Emerelde Linde.
'Kindness and respect is earned.' sniped Frau Linde. 'You come to this town, drift in and expect to make a life here without working for it. You, a stranger from Taal knows where. You and your strange ways, your sly looks, pouting lips and wicked tongue. We can do without your type of loose morals.'
'My ways may be strange to you.' Ursula said hotly, 'but at least I worship our Lord Sigmar, not one of your old gods. You call on Taal, here outside a shrine to benevolent Sigmar, and you wonder why life has gifted me with love? Perhaps you should look to lay your blame closer to home before you point your accusing finger at me.'
'Blasphemous wench!' Emerelde spat back, with vehemence that shocked even Ursula, who was used to her baseless tirades. 'You dare talk of the gods, you who have perverted the teaching of the holy church? It's not Sigmar that guides your life, it's the darkest witchery, a curse upon those around you from the dark gods.'
With a look of utter disgust, Frau Linde spun on her heel and stalked back into the cottage, the heavy door slamming shut behind her. Ursula stood there for a moment looking at the portal, stunned by the turn of events. Even though she had argued many times with Emerelde, these latest accusations were getting dangerous. Shaking off the daze, she carried on up the road, her thoughts turning back to the vision that had plagued her this morning.
Frau Linde's accusations of witchcraft had shaken her, and she was glad of her decision not to disclose her gift to Kurt. No matter how understanding he might be, he had been brought up by the petty minds of provincial yokels like Linde, and even Ursula could not tell what his reaction would be.
CHAPTER TWO
Purge
Hastelkrentz, Autumn 1708
MARIUS WAS NOT often scared, but he was worried as the sun sank over the rooftops of the fishing village, dipping towards the great lake Krentz, which provided the settlement with its lifeblood. For three weeks he had been in Hastelkrentz, brought here by the auguries of the seer Filandantis. In those three weeks, cultists had made four separate attempts on his life, one even getting so close as to scratch a new scar across his already battered face. And here he was, only twenty men with him, torch in hand, about to storm what might well be the cultists' main hideout. The dockyards stank of fish, unsurprisingly, and the burning torch he held did little to combat the long shadows of the autumn evening. He could hear the men talking quietly amongst themselves and the deep breathing of his trusted lieutenant, Ruprecht, just behind him.
Nightfall was never a good time for a battle, and it was made all the worse by his ignorance of what they might face. His investigations into the missing people and the mutilated bodies found in the village had proved fairly fruitless, and his only lead had brought him in desperation to the supposedly abandoned warehouse he was now viewing. The building was low and long, built of ill-fitting wooden planks that were slimy with moss and mould. Someone was definitely inside though, he had seen lights passing through the cracks between the planks, and shadowy figures coming and going while he had watched. There was at least one sentry they could see. He was half-hidden behind a pile of rotting barrels a little further ahead.
'We should wait 'til morning.' Ruprecht said, cutting through Marius's reverie. 'We have no idea what awaits us in there.'
The man was soft-spoken for his size. Known by the men as The Bear, Ruprecht was barrel-chested, broad and well over six feet tall. Marius had once seen him push a horse cart over onto a pack of ghouls, when they had uncovered a vile necromancer in the town of Lowein.
'They might hear word that we have located them.' Marius argued. 'By dawn, they might vanish. Even now, they might be waiting for us, gathering their strength. No, we strike now, and strike hard!'
With that, the witch hunter turned and signalled the rest of the band forward. He wished he had been able to draw troops from the village militia, but he had no idea if the officers of the local watch could be trusted. No, he told himself, he would have to rely on the handpicked men who had been loyal to him for years.
They began to run along the street, down the hill towards the warehouse, quickly but with surprisingly little noise. They had done this many times before; too many times in Marius's eyes, for the darkness that now welled up within the Empire seemed to grow every month, despite the work of warrior bands like his that moved from town to town, rooting out the evil creatures of the world. Some of the men were faster than him, pulling slightly ahead, but he let them go. Speed and impetus would carry them inside better than any intricate plan. He trusted their discipline, and was proved right when the sentry suddenly stood up, eyes comically wide. Three arrows flitted through the air almost instantly, two burying themselves into the barricade of barrels, but one found its target, catching the man high in the chest and pitching him backwards without even a groan.
They were less than a dozen yards from the big double doors of the loading gate when there was a cry from their left. Another sentry sprinted for safety from under a pile of mouldy sacks, heading for a small door at the corner of the dilapidated building. Without pause, Marius and his men surged forward, and the witch hunter drew out his sword, its oiled blade gleaming red in the flames of the brand.
Ruprecht was ahead of the witch hunter, a warhammer clenched tightly in his left hand, a shield gripped in his right. With a thunderous crash he charged the gate, ripping the weak wood from its hinges, and pushed on inside, the others streaming after him. Marius heard a bellow from his second-in-command, and as he passed through the gap with two more men just behind him, he saw the giant warrior striking left and right with the hammer, smashing skulls and bones.
At first glance, Marius guessed they were facing over a score of cultists, men of all ages dressed in tattered rags, wielding rusty knives and short swords. They would be little match for his trained soldiers, who were already cutting into the ranks of the enemy with merciless efficiency.
The witch hunter joined the attack, parrying a wild sword thrust from a teenager with sores down one side of his face, thrusting the torch into the boy's face. The youth leapt backwards screaming, his sword falling from his grasp as he clutched at his seared eyes, and Marius ran his sword through his gut without a second thought. Turning, he leapt after a man even older than he, who was hobbling away towards a flight of stairs to the right. He caught the man at the bottom of the steps and drove the point of his sword between his shoulder blades, the weapon sticking slightly as it caught in the cultist's ribs. Marius glanced up as he struggled to pull the sword free and gave a gasp of horror at what he saw coming down the stairs.
'Sigmar's mercy,' he muttered to himself.
With a ragged black cloak swirling behind it, a skaven leapt down the full length of the stairwell with a single bound of inhuman agility. Nearly as tall as Marius, the ratman hissed malevolently as it landed just to his side, two notched blades in its hands, its tail whipping left and right. Its fur was matted and mangy, its sharp fangs glistened yellow in the poor light. Marius threw himself backwards as the twin swords lashed out, pulling his own blade free just in time to parry the blow. Without pause, the skaven continued its ferocious attack, forcing Marius back step after step with a flurry of lightning-quick blows.
More of the ratmen were pouring forth from the shadows, their clawed feet scratching on the wooden floor, their chittering screeches filling the warehouse. Marius had no time to see how his men were faring; all his attention was focussed on the creature attacking him. The witch hunter tried a riposte, but his blow was easi
ly turned aside by one of the creature's swords, the other ripping through the black cloth of his shirt across the belly, scoring the toughened leather armour he wore beneath.
With a yell, Marius threw himself forward suddenly, thrusting the burning brand into the midriff of the creature. Its cloak burst into flames instantly, and the fire leapt across its body filling the witch hunter's nostrils with the stench of burning hair. Shrieking, the skaven flailed around wildly, barrelling into its fellow creatures in its panic. Ruprecht appeared from the left, his shield smashing the beast away before the heavy head of the hammer swung down and shattered its skull.
'I want prisoners!' Marius bellowed over the din of the fighting, glancing around to see his men battling with the rat-things. The presence of the skaven boded something far more sinister than he had first realised and he needed answers. Remembering the stairway, Marius hacked the head off a ratman and ran through the throng towards the steps. Leaping up them two at a time, he found himself in a small attic that extended over half the length of the warehouse. There was barely room for him to stand straight, and in the flickering of the torchlight, he could see nothing in the gloom. Making his way forward cautiously, aware that more Chaos ratmen might be waiting in the darkness, he tried to filter out the noise of the fighting below. He thought he heard the chink of metal to his right, in the far corner, and stepped slowly forwards.
Sure enough, trying to hide behind a water cistern, were two men. One was young and fat, and his flabby cheeks were flushed red. The other was a little older, and wiry, his thin face and pointed nose making him look almost as rat-like as his skaven masters. Neither of them seemed armed and they held up their hands in surrender. Below, the noise of the fighting was dying out and he heard Ruprecht calling his name.
There was a creak on the stairs behind Marius and he stepped back so that he could keep his prisoners in view and watch the stairs at the same time. He relaxed when the bulky form of Ruprecht came into view, stooped under the low beams of the ceiling, squeezing his bulk into the attic.
'The skaven fled through the sewer grates.' the burly man reported, shuffling through the gloom. 'I've got the men guarding the entrances in case they come back, but thought it unwise to follow them down there.'
'You did the right thing,' Marius assured him. 'No need to pursue them tonight, no need at all to fight them on their home ground. We have more pressing matters.'
He turned to the two men and motioned them to their feet with his sword. Both had fear on their faces, their eyes were fixed on the grim-faced witch hunter.
'Search them.' Marius told Ruprecht, prodding the two forwards with the point of his blade, absently rubbing at the cut leather across his stomach.
Ruprecht worked efficiently, stripping out their pockets and searching their clothing with his large but nimble hands. Pushing them to their knees, he handed over what he had found to Marius. There were two pouches of coins, gold crowns and silver shillings amounting to a fairly substantial amount of money. There was also a letter, the wax seal broken. Handing the money back to Ruprecht, the witch hunter read the contents. It was addressed to Karl Schullig, apparently a wealthy local merchant. It seemed innocuous enough, a simple bill of lading for a barge, annotated with an invoice for payment.
'Which of you is Schullig?' demanded Marius, thrusting the letter at the captured pair. The younger one raised his hand cautiously.
'This says you shipped a variety of goods along the Talabec. What were you sending, where was it going?' Marius asked.
Schullig remained silent, and his companion's expression changed from fear to angry resentment.
'Who are you to question our business dealings?' the thin man demanded.
'When you consort with foul creatures of Chaos, then your business dealings are open to the scrutiny of any defender of the Empire,' Marius retorted. 'And who are you?'
'I am Klaus van Wenckel,' the man replied, as if his name would mean something.
'Head of the Stevedores' guild,' added Ruprecht. 'He runs half of the warehouses on the dock.'
'And I would bet the content of those pouches that you own this one, don't you?' Marius suggested to Schullig, who nodded mutely, earning himself a scowl from van Wenckel. 'So which of you is pulling the strings?'
Before either replied, a grunt from Ruprecht drew Marius's attention. At a glance from the big mercenary Marius went and stood next to him. Ruprecht passed him one of the coins taken from the men.
'This was minted in Bechafen,' whispered the giant. 'It's from the Ostermark.'
'Trading across the border? I thought the Ottilia had banned that?' Marius replied, turning the coin between his fingers.
'Perhaps that was the deal with the skaven?' suggested Ruprecht. 'Their goods would only go along the river as far as the Urskoy, but with some help from our underground friends that would be no problem. What I don't understand is what the ratmen get out of it.'
'Agents within our towns,' Marius replied bluntly. 'You can be sure that Schullig and van Wenckel were more than happy to perform the odd errand or favour in return. You can also be sure that there may be more of them here in Hastelkrentz.'
'And someone must be at the other end receiving the cargo...' realised Ruprecht. 'It seems our two merchants here will have a lot of talking to do tonight.'
'Take them back to the Swan's Wing, quietly.' Marius said. 'Who knows how many others are party to this conspiracy.' 'I'll start heating the tongs.' Ruprecht replied with a grin.
CHAPTER THREE
Honour
Bechafen, Late autumn 1708
KURT WAS LESS than joyful as he crested a hill in the early morning mist and saw the dark shape of Bechafen on the horizon. Pulling Heldred to a stop he sat there for a moment, looking at the city. Just coming into view from beyond the horizon was the great mount on which the Ostermark's capital was built, rising several hundred feet above the fields, farms and villages that clustered around the city like children hanging on the skirts of a protective mother. The high walls and dark towers of Bechafen stood out against the Ostermark Marches; where the forbidding forests that dominated most of the Empire's landscape gave way to treacherous fens and bogs, slowly rising eastwards into a maze of foothills which sat beneath the jagged, ancient peaks of the World's Edge Mountains some two hundred miles from where Kurt sat looking at the city.
Kurt was in a sombre mood on two accounts. Firstly, he already missed Ursula and her happy, selfless presence. Secondly, and in total contrast, he was returning to the chapterhouse of the Osterknacht, a bleak and dreary place where he was held by many of the knights as an upstart. Though he had some noble lineage - it was impossible to become a knight without some hereditary claim - many of them treated him as little more than a commoner who had been lucky enough to be squired by an ageing and eccentric knight. He had little time for them either, many were the pretentious young sons of local nobles playing at soldiers. Men with real military ambition went westwards to Ostland, Middenheim or Talabecland, where the state armies were still well funded and provisioned. Or they sold their services as dogs of war, their sword arms going to the highest bidder. The Ostermark could not afford mercenaries, and the pay for knights was woeful compared to what the claimants to the Emperor's throne could offer.
Once the Osterknacht had been the pride of the eastern Empire, rivalling the White Wolves of Middenheim and the Reiksguard who protected the princes of Altdorf. Now, as the long years of turmoil took their toll, corruption and nepotism had set in, and there were too few fighting soldiers left in the ranks of the Osterknacht. The mighty Osterknacht had once been the protectors of the Empire, watching the northern borders for foes, and acting as a bulwark against marauding bands from the mountains to the east. Now they were little more than an honour guard for a teenage count, kept in storage to be wheeled out to add a tarnished glitter to the decaying pomp and ceremony of holidays and parades.
Realising his foul mood would do little good, Kurt tried to lift his spirits. Nudgin
g his horse into a walk again, he gazed along the muddy road that wound its way to the capital and let his thoughts wander to better times to come. Perhaps by the summer, he would have enough money to bring Ursula to Bechafen and wed her. His pay from the Osterknacht, though good by the standards of many of the Empire's citizens, was only just enough to sustain a knight and his wife in the capital in a manner that would be deemed fitting. Ursula deserved the fine clothes and good food of the best hostelries that the wives of other knights took for granted. With the small bequest left him by Lord Gerhardt, he could find a small but well appointed apartment in one of the less fashionable districts of the city - enough for him and Ursula to feel comfortable. But before they could do that they needed to be wed, for not only were Ursula and Kurt both reluctant to live outside of wedlock, the laws of the Osterknacht strictly forbade such arrangements. And to be married would cost money, but Kurt felt confident that come summer he would have enough in the guardhouse treasury for a small, dignified service, even if it meant that for now he was forced to endure the heartache of leaving Ursula for three months out of every four while he was on duty. With these happier thoughts, Kurt let the miles pass him by without undue concern.
The hour had just passed midday when Kurt approached the gatehouse at the foot of the road leading up to Bechafen. The gates were thrown wide open as a steady stream of carts and people passed both ways along the road, which for the last mile had been paved with cracking flags and edged with brick. If the legends were to be believed, the road had once all been maintained in similar fashion for some 600 miles, along the old dwarf road from the mountains to Talabheim. Now the count's wealth was so diminished the east-west highway had fallen into disarray barely out of sight of his palaces atop the mount in the centre of Bechafen.
