by ich du
'What does my hair have to do with this?' Ursula asked, taken aback.
'All learned men know.' the magistrate said with the assurance of one who considers himself such a scholar, 'that orange or red hair shows a child to be of wayward temperament and ill fortune. Your behaviour has proven that beyond doubt.'
Ursula stared open-mouthed at Fenster. She was dumbstruck by the magistrate's prejudice.
'I was prepared to give you a chance earlier.' the magistrate continued relentlessly. 'I was simply going to give you a short flogging in the square as a public example. However, I now see that your behaviour is entirely anti-social and you are indeed a menace and a violent incident cannot be far away, I fear. In these troubled times, you are a lit tinder next to a blackpowder keg and I cannot risk the consequences. As for the more spiritual charges of witchcraft and heresy, I was going to simply dismiss them but now I see that there is cause for concern. However, I shall leave that to the judgement of others.'
'Witchcraft? What do you mean?' demanded Ursula, a chill creeping up her spine.
'I shall confine you to the gaol to await the inquiry of the respected witch hunter, Marius van Diesl who is, I am led to believe, even now on a journey to this town.'
'Gaol?' shrieked Ursula lunging across the desk, and grabbing the magistrate's robes at the front.
'Harm me and you'll hang before nightfall!' rasped Fenster, unperturbed. Ursula let go and stepped back, her head spinning. This was worse than she had thought. Charges of heresy and witchcraft were far beyond the spitefulness of Frau Linde, or so she had thought. Fenster reached out and picked up a small silver hammer from his desk, and struck the hanging bell twice. 'The guards will be here shortly to take you to your new accommodation.'
URSULA STUMBLED DOWN the spiralling steps, the pommel of the guard's sword nudging her between the shoulder blades. Reaching the bottom she found herself in a small hallway, with an iron gate to the right and a half-open door to the left past which she could see an untidy rough wooden desk littered with scraps of parchment, a set of manacles and a half-eaten apple. The clank of metal drew her attention back to the iron gate.
Creaking the gate open, the prison warden stepped through. He was quite handsome, with a thin moustache and goatee beard that gave him a slightly dashing appearance. He was dressed well but not lavishly, with a short red jerkin, tight black breeches and knee-high leather boots that glistened with polish in the dim light from the lantern hung from the centre of the ceiling. The guard stepped forward and proffered a small slip of parchment, which the warden took, glanced at and then crumpled into the pocket of his jerkin.
'Ursula Schek,' he said quietly, his voice deep and confident. 'Disturbing the peace, jailed awaiting trial.'
'I haven't done anything wrong!' protested Ursula.
'The piece of paper in my pocket says otherwise,' the man pointed out. 'I am Dirk Lowl, the gaol warden. How much money do you have?'
'I'm sorry?' Ursula barked. 'What does that have to do with anything?'
'It's three pennies a week for a straw mattress,' Lowl told her placidly. 'I give you bread and water, you can have stew for another two pennies a week. You go into the communal cell unless you want to pay two shillings a month for your own chamber, and you can swap water for beer for another shilling a month. It's also five pennies a month for a blanket.'
'You charge people for being imprisoned?' Ursula asked incredulously, having had no real experience of law and justice. Whenever she had been in trouble when she was younger, she had always been quick and nimble enough to give her pursuers the slip. She could barely believe what was happening to her. Her thoughts were in turmoil, it all seemed somehow unreal. It was still only mid-morning and now she was being locked up because of the gossiping of her vengeful neighbour, for Sigmar knew how long.
'The council pays me barely enough to run the gaol.' Lowl explained without rancour. 'I clean the cells out every other week, I pay a rat-catcher to come in twice a week, and I won't brutalise you, or take advantage of you. No chains, no manacles, no thumb locks or scold's bridle for you. You have free roam of the cell block and exercise yard between sunrise and sunset, and if you like I will organise for a priest to visit you on whatever is your holy day.'
'Sigmar.' muttered Ursula.
'A Sigmarite?' confirmed Lowl. 'Then you're in luck, because this is the town gaol and there's still what's left of a shrine out on the other end of the exercise yard. I'm supposed to pay to have it maintained but perhaps we can sort out something else.'
'What do you have in mind?' said Ursula.
'If you want to renovate it for me, I'll give you a shilling a week in perks.' explained Lowl. 'If you want more money, you can also get a penny back for every rat you kill. The rat-catcher's a drunken swine, and I've got two terriers that have the run of the place, but the last six months we've been knee-deep in the vicious little buggers.'
'There's rats in here?' Ursula asked with a shiver of apprehension.
'Oh, every gaol has rats, but it seems like we've become a bit of a haven for them lately.' the warden explained casually, opening the gate again and leading Ursula gently through by the arm. A corridor flanked by cell doors stretched into the darkness. 'Look, I'm not a bad warden, don't look so frightened. It'll take some getting used to, but you'll get by.'
Ursula looked down the dank corridor, heard the coughing and groans of some poor inmate and the skittering of clawed feet. A wave of sickness swept through her and she blacked out.
CHAPTER FIVE
Battle
North of Erengrad, Late winter 1708
THE ROAD TO the northeast was clogged with a line of refugees, trudging disconsolately through the slush and snow. Kurt looked out at the river of people from his vantage point atop Heldred. Swathed in blankets, cloaks and furs, the miserable line of Kislevites was made up of men and women of all ages, from young mothers carrying babes cradled in their arms to bewhiskered old boyars who could barely take another step.
Three northern towns had fallen to the predations of the Norsemen, many of the inhabitants slain or enslaved. The thousands who had made the exodus south were the lucky few who had fled before the storm of war had fallen onto their homes. The army of the barbaric northmen had swept out of Norsca with no warning. Driving down the coast, they had been supplied and reinforced by longships making the daring crossing of the storm-tossed Sea of Claws. The quickly mustered force sent by the Tsar had been swept aside after a single bloody battle, and that was when the messengers had been sent southwards.
Looking back, Kurt watched the Osterknacht making camp beside the rough road. Four hundred and fifty knights had been assembled in the past two months, three hundred squires and twice as many men-at-arms, all drawn from chapter houses across the Ostermark. Some thirty leagues ahead were the scattered Kislevite forces, and Lord Lothar had made it his priority to link up with their commanders and help them form into a fighting army once more. However, the whereabouts of the northmen had not been known for several days. Lothar's scouts either had failed to return or had come back with no sighting to report. There was quiet debate as to whether the missing scouts had simply fallen foul of the harsh northern climate or been killed or captured. If it were the latter, then the enemy force might be within a days march.
Since they had crossed the river Urskoy, Lord Lothar had pushed them hard: they had been forced to march every two nights out of three to cover the vast snow-covered plains of southern Kislev. They had turned westwards to Erengrad to great celebration, the populace welcoming them as the old allies they were. From Erengrad the column had marched northwards along the coast, in the hope that the northmen had not turned east and headed for Praag or the capital Kislev. If that was the case, there was little they could do except perhaps arrive in time to lift the resulting siege. Now the snows had closed in again with a vengeance, the blizzard forcing the Imperial force to camp down for the night.
Since his duel, Kurt had kept himself busy with training
and readying for the march. Bayen had made a stilted apology at the great banquet held in honour of the count's birthday three weeks later, an occasion that had further delayed the army setting off. Bayen and his cronies had kept clear of Kurt, and an uneasy truce had been tacitly agreed in the preparations for battle. On the march itself, he had only seen Bayen once, as Kurt was in the vanguard with Lord Lothar, while Bayen was part of the main body.
THAT EVENING KURT was riding back from patrol duty to the north, and as Heldred pushed through the thick snow, the sun was dipping over the horizon. Kurt thought he heard something in the distance over the howling wind. Pausing to listen more carefully, he heard it again. It was a muffled shout. More than one, he realised as the wind slackened briefly. In the next lull, the shouts were louder and clearer and there was a distinctive ring of metal on metal. There was fighting back at the camp!
Kurt kicked in his spurs, and Heldred leapt into a gallop. The knight could see nothing through the swirling snow, but as he rode on, he could hear the fighting even over the noise of Heldred's panting and the whirl of wind around his head. Dragging his sword free from its scabbard, he slowed his mount to a trot as he started to make out the glow of campfires in the twilight. The tents were spread out over several wide concentric circles, and fires were burning at regular intervals around the circles. At the centre were the kitchens and arms store, and it was towards this that he rode.
As he came closer, Kurt could make out more detail. It wasn't just the campfires that were burning; there were also several of the large tents ablaze. The din of fighting grew louder and Kurt saw men running back and forth against the flames, and heard hoarse shouts in a foreign language. Realising that the Norse marauders were attacking, he spurred Heldred again and galloped into the fray.
Everything was confusion but Kurt picked out the distinctive shape of horned helmets and fur-clad warriors and steered Heldred between the rows of tents, sword ready. He chose his first target, a tall barbarian wielding a double-headed hammer in whirling arcs, keeping three spearmen at bay. Guiding Heldred to the left, Kurt struck downward with his sword, the blade cleaving through the back of the marauder's head. The men-at-arms leapt aside as Heldred sprang between them, kicking up snow as Kurt hauled him further left towards a knot of knights who were still struggling to strap on their armour. Amongst them was Viksson, who waved Kurt in the direction of the main fighting.
'Just grab a sword and follow me!' Kurt bellowed, racing past. Ahead he could see a thicket of spears as a group of thirty or more men-at-arms hastily assembled. They were still milling around when a shrieking war cry sounded out and a score of Norse burst out of the darkness and snow, waving axes, swords and maces above their heads.
'Form up, present to the front!' Kurt shouted at them, reining in behind the spearmen. They were slow to respond and the second rank was still ordering itself when the barbarians crashed into them. The spear wall almost buckled under the initial onslaught of the Norsemen, who drove like a wedge into their midst.
'Hold them!' Kurt commanded. 'Get round the back!'
The spearmen, outnumbering their opponents, started to encircle the marauders, and despite losing more of their number than they felled, the fight swung in their favour. Feeling confident that the breakthrough had been prevented, Kurt left the men-at-arms to finish off the Norscans and headed in the direction Viksson had indicated. On the way, he met up with Jakob, who was trotting through the snow with his arms wrapped around a bundle of lances.
'Here, I'll have one of those,' Kurt told him, reining in alongside. Sheathing his sword, the knight grabbed the shaft of one of the lances and pulled it free. 'Put them down and get my shield on.'
Jakob did as he was told, taking Kurt's shield from behind Heldred's saddle and offering it up.
'They was on us, before sentries shouted,' Jakob told him, moving back to the pile of lances. 'Came right through blizzard. Old Norscan trick, knew where we was. They was waiting for the snows to come.'
'Where are you going with those?' asked Kurt, walking Heldred forward alongside the retainer.
'Lord Lothar has gone for fifty knights for counter-attack, left squires and infantry to hold out,' explained Jakob. 'More than half of the knights aren't mounted yet.'
'Which way?' demanded Kurt, looking over his shoulder as Heldred broke into a canter.
'West, that way, other side of camp,' Jakob told him, waving a hand in a vague direction. Kurt gave him a nod and dug in his spurs again, riding past a row of burning tents towards the sounds of clashing weapons and shields.
The battle was a scrappy, disordered affair amongst the tents and fires. The fighting was perfectly suited to the more open style of the marauders, who roved in groups of ten to twenty warriors, hunting down and outflanking the more disciplined but less flexible blocks of halberdiers, swordsmen and spearmen. The squires, who had mounted quickly having no armour to put on, trotted around the edges, darting in with spear and sword where an opportunity presented itself, but neither skilled nor well armed enough for a proper full charge. Kurt rode up to the nearest group.
'You boys, come with me.' he commanded them. One, who he recognised as Leofe, squire to Lord Helfen, turned and looked at him with a scowl.
'Why?' Leofe rasped. Aggravated by the young man's insolence, Kurt slapped him across the face with his shield, knocking the squire from his horse. Leofe scrabbled to his feet, his nose bleeding profusely, his left eye already beginning to swell.
'Helfen will hear about this, you'll pay for that!' spat Leofe, wiping blood from his chin.
'Disobey me again and I'll use my sword on you.' warned Kurt, locking at the others. Their fearful nods were all the sign he needed, and he kicked at Heldred, who jumped into a gallop, the squires hurriedly forming up around him. Kurt could not make out too much of the battle, but the largest concentration of men seemed to be to his left, gathered around three crude standards made out of animal skins and dangling bones.
'There'll be a fine reward for the man who takes that banner.' Kurt told the squires, using his lance to point out a massive totem decked with bells and carved bones, topped with an iron eight-pointed star.
Kurt allowed Heldred to forge ahead slightly, knowing that his lance and armour offered the best chance of ploughing a gap into the Norsemen for the small group of squires to dash into and wreak havoc with their spears. Snow churned up beneath Heldred's hooves and Kurt's ears were filled with the rushing of his own blood and his heart hammering at his ribs. Exaltation surged through him. This is why the Osterknacht existed: the glorious charge, the bite of lance through armour and flesh, the crash of sword on shield. He could feel the pull and release of Heldred's muscles and took joy in the power he felt. Like the breaking of a storm, Kurt fell on the Norscans.
'For the Osterknacht! For Lord Lothar!' he bellowed, the tip of his lance piercing the shield of a marauder who hurriedly turned at his battle cry, passing easily through the wood and punching into the bearded man's chest. Ripping the lance free he plunged it through the stomach of another marauder, then pulled it out and used the butt to stove in the face of a howling Norseman. He heard rather than saw the squires attacking just behind him. As the marauders turned to face him, he hurled the lance at the closest and pulled his sword free. Heldred reared and flailed his hooves as the Norse counter-attacked, his iron shoes smashing two of them from their feet while Kurt's sword cut through the thick leather breastplate of another.
Hacking left and right, unable to miss in the press of bodies, Kurt advanced through the enemy horde, Heldred stepping neatly over the dead and wounded. The squires followed in his bloody wake, protecting him from encirclement. Kurt's blade was slick with blood, but there was no relenting; the Norse hurled themselves at him with unflinching ferocity. A snarling northman with bristling blond whiskers came running at Kurt with a long axe gripped in both hands, and swung at Heldred's legs. The horse reared, nearly toppling Kurt, and swung around. The next blow smashed against Kurt's shield, threat
ening to unseat him, and Kurt struggled to bring Heldred back under control. Just then, a spear jutted out of the norseman's chest and Kurt looked up to see Sigurd, squire of Odel Dasteg. Parrying an axe blow, Kurt wheeled Heldred around to knock the man to the ground, trampling him beneath the horse's hooves. It was then that he realised Sigurd was not one of the squires who had ridden in with him; others had seen the attack and joined in, and looking around Kurt could see the mounted men battling their way through the throng of marauders.
There were now just a few Norsemen between Kurt and the standard he had chosen as his objective. They backed away as he closed in, clad in bristling furs, their faces covered with long plaited beards, helmets sprouting all manner of improbable horns and daemonic faces. One stood his ground a little longer, an axe in each hand, and Kurt spurred Heldred towards him. With a shrieking cry, the marauder threw one of the axes, which buried itself into Kurt's shield and knocked him sideways. He grappled at the reins, causing Heldred to stumble in his stride, and fell to his right, rolling off the horse's back. The Norseman was on him as he got to his knees. Kurt's raised shield fended off the first two blows as he struggled to his feet and freed his sword from under him. The third blow swung low towards Kurt's knees but his sword was down to meet it. As the axe blade rang off his weapon, Kurt's cut upwards and the sword bounced off the metal horn protruding from the brow of the Norscan's helm, stunning the raider. A sweep with his shield put the northman on his back foot and Kurt moved in for the kill, driving his blade straight at the Norseman's throat.
At that moment, a dagger swept up towards Kurt's exposed armpit and he twisted quickly, catching it on his breastplate, his sword passing harmlessly over the northerner's head. Horrified, his gaze moved from the clawed fingers gripping the knife, up a twisted arm that pulsated with exposed muscle and connected just below the norseman's ribcage. How could he have not noticed the man had a third arm? His stomach churning with disgust, Kurt clumsily parried the next few blows on his shield, distracted and confused by what he had seen. He had heard tales that the northmen were brutal and ferocious fighters, but had ignored the more fantastical stories that claimed they were physically tainted. Face to face with the truth, he was unprepared for how revolting the sight was. His thoughts were focussed once more though, when the Norseman's axe clanged off his left shoulder, driving the plate into the flesh and onto the bone. Kurt could feel blood trickling into his armpit and the pain seared down his arm and across his chest.
