At this remark, Preceptor Kogswald stepped forward.
‘A local baron has marshalled a small army and moves westward,’ said the knight commander, his tone as hard and haughty as his bearing. ‘There are other temple knights with him and a small portion of state troops. We will intercept them, gather what information we can of Averheim’s plight and march to the capital.’ He brushed aside a clutch of scattered reports to get to the provincial map underneath. Kogswald’s gauntleted finger pressed down on a dark blue band running along Averland’s north-east border. ‘The river Aver,’ he said. ‘We are currently on its north-east side. If we are to enter Averheim, we must find a large enough crossing to get us to the south-east side. That is our first obstacle, for the greenskins will be guarding the bridges, most likely destroying all but the few they require to move up from Averland and into Stirland.’
‘Do we know how our military assets compare to that of the orcs?’ asked Vogen, striking up his pipe.
‘We are fewer by at least ten to one,’ Ledner answered flatly, causing Vogen to almost choke.
‘Breath of Myrmidia…’ uttered Hornschaft. He failed to notice the raised eyebrow from Father Untervash at the invoking of a lesser deity’s name. ‘How can we prevail against that?’
‘With faith in Sigmar, captain,’ said Untervash.
Hornschaft turned on the man. ‘We will need more than that, priest. I hear the Paunch’s forces are not merely restricted to greenskins,’ he added. ‘That there are trolls and other beasts amongst the horde. I even hear tell of a shaman, one that rides a flying lizard!’
‘A wyvern,’ said a deep voice. It rumbled low and steady like an undercurrent of thunder. Karlich looked again to the shadows from where the voice had come and saw a cerulean flash light up the darkness, which came from a man’s eyes. He was hooded and wore dark robes, but Karlich sensed they merely hid some grander attire underneath. Though the mysterious man was illuminated only briefly, Karlich saw he carried a jagged silver staff with a comet symbol at its tip. He had a forked beard that jutted impossibly from his chin, and there was the suggestion of a skullcap beneath his voluminous cowl. When he spoke again, Karlich felt a charge in the air and was put in mind of tempestuous storms and raging winds.
‘The goblin’s pet sorcerer rides a wyvern,’ he confirmed. ‘Do not fear it, though…’ he added, opening his palm flat. Within, a tiny ball of lightning coruscated and forked, ‘we are not without magic of our own.’
Karlich swallowed audibly. Truly, he was rubbing shoulders with gods and giants. When the council of war was finally over, he couldn’t wait to get back to his men.
Eber shovelled the last of the earth onto the grave and wiped his brow with the back of his forearm. His back was sore from all the digging, but he had insisted on doing it alone. Varveiter’s final rest was upon a grassy hill, radiated by shafts of sunlight. Eber had made it deep and buried the old soldier face down. He’d wept as he’d dug, the other Grimblades who knew Varveiter best looking on silently.
Rechts had left before Masbrecht could utter a benediction, walking away from the site with a bottle in hand and a scowl on his face. Keller had followed soon after, a dark mood over him that veiled his ordinary good humour. The other mourners thought it was grief. Only Brand, as still and lifeless as stone, knew it was actually guilt. When it was done and the others had started to walk away, Brand remained. None questioned it, or intervened in any way. They knew better.
Lenkmann did look back though and saw the man kneel and mouth a silent vow to the dead. Before he turned away, he watched Brand pull out his knife and cut his palm. He didn’t know the ritual. To him it looked barbaric, but each of them would have to deal with Siegen Varveiter’s death in a different way.
The old soldier was not alone, of course. Others joined him in death. A way outside Blösstadt tiny mounds littered the grassy knolls and plains. They were marked by blade hilts, broken helms or shields. Father Untervash blessed every single one to ward away necromantic interference. The village itself was no more. Greenskin spore blighted it. Fire had ravaged many of its buildings and destroyed large sections of the gate and stockade wall. Blood soaked its lanes and violence tainted its memory and spirit. Its people were dead. All of them. Wilhelm had ordered it burned down and razed from existence. Nothing good could come of its lingering ruins. Dark creatures, carrion and bandits would be drawn to its rotting shell as parasites are to a corpse. There were enough shadowed places in the Empire already without adding to them.
‘Looks like the war council is over,’ said Masbrecht, nodding towards the distant figures emerging from Wilhelm’s tent. The encampment had been erected hastily, a few miles from Blösstadt and upwind so the smell of burning flesh from the pyres didn’t infect it. The village was just an orange smudge on the horizon that no one cared to look at for the dark memories it held.
‘So, does this mean Karlich will be leading the footsloggers in Captain Stahler’s absence?’ asked Volker. He’d knelt down to pet the mastiff, his newfound companion that he had named ‘Dog’. The creature licked his face eagerly.
Lenkmann opened his mouth to answer when another spoke in his stead.
‘The beast likely has pox or worms.’ It was Torveld, passing by the Grimblades’ pitch with two other Middenlanders. ‘You’d do well not to let it lap at you, southerner. Better still, let me slit its throat so it can’t spread disease.’
Volker stood and drew his dirk. ‘Try it,’ he warned. Dog knew its enemies, and growled.
Torveld had stopped to level his threat and laughed out loud at the Reiklander. ‘Still have the stomach to fight, eh?’
Eber stepped forward, balling his fists.
‘Move on,’ he said in a low voice. Varveiter was dead. His comrades in arms were dead. But they had fought and lived. That meant something. He would be cowed by bullies no longer. His strength was not just in his arm, it was in his heart too. Varveiter had taught him that. To do anything less than stand up would besmirch his memory. Eber took another step forward but kept his weapons sheathed. For the honour of his regiment and the memory of the dead, he would crush the Middenlander’s skull with his bare hands if he had to.
‘Hold your bear back, southerner,’ Torveld warned Volker, all the sarcasm and cruel mirth disappearing from his face.
‘Please, we are all allies here,’ said Lenkmann, hands raised plaintively. ‘We fought alongside one another. There is no need for this. We are all at war together, on the same side.’
Torveld snarled. ‘It is not our war, though, is it Reiklander?’
Lenkmann was slightly dumbfounded. ‘It will come to us all if we do not act now and together. We are all sons of Sig–’
‘We are not,’ Torveld cut him off. ‘We are winter wolves and our borders are far from here to the north. Don’t forget that.’ The Middenlander looked like he wanted more, that he wanted to vent his wrath against the southerners. His fists clenched. There were only a few feet between the two groups and now more swordsmen had joined Torveld and his companions.
‘Bury your dead,’ came Brand’s voice from Torveld’s left. The swordsmen turned to see him walking slowly towards them. ‘Before they start to rot,’ the Reiklander added.
Torveld paused. He could sense the danger, the potential violence of this man. It made even his northern blood run a little colder.
‘Torveld,’ said the gruff voice of Sturnbled from behind him. The grey-haired sergeant looked as grim as ever. He needn’t say anything further. Muttering beneath his breath, Torveld turned and walked away taking the other Steel Swords with him.
‘They are belligerent bastards,’ said Lenkmann when they were gone. The others looked around at him. The standard bearer rarely swore, but he was clearly shaken and angry at what he saw as a breach of the soldier’s code. Men who had fought side-by-side, shed blood together for the same cause, should have respect for one another.
It offended his sense of honour and propriety that the Middenlanders did not.
‘What did you expect,’ said Karlich, stepping in amongst his men. ‘They are northerners.’
Lenkmann saluted crisply at the sudden return of his sergeant. The others mainly nodded. Brand just looked him in the eye. Rechts lazily waved a hand.
‘So what now, sergeant,’ asked Volker, ‘or should we call you “captain”?’
The corner of Karlich’s mouth twitched in what could have been a grin. ‘You sorry lot aren’t shut of me yet,’ he replied. ‘I’m still a Grimblade, thank Sigmar.’
‘When will Altdorf and Nuln join us?’ asked Lenkmann.
‘They won’t,’ Karlich answered flatly, not waiting for questions or protests. ‘We march on to Averheim to death or glory, by the grace of Sigmar.’
Chapter Eight
On the road to Averheim
Near the town of Streissen, Averland,
378 miles from Altdorf
The way to Averheim was paved with misery and hopelessness. The closer they got to the capital, the more frequently they came across bedraggled regiments in Averland black and yellow. In truth, they were scraps of soldiers. Most were deserters or utterly routed troops. Encountered at a distance on the opposite side of the Aver, the broken merely trudged onwards, aimless and despairing. Those on the same side of the river fled like scared rabbits when they saw the column of Reikland troops. They wanted neither succour nor aid, instead fearing to be pressed into service by another lord. Many were wounded. Some carried dead and injured comrades over their shoulders, ignoring the stench of gangrene and decomposition.
There were human refugees too, alone and alongside the broken Averland troops, much like the ones the foot regiments had met earlier when Stahler was still in command. Dour priests of Morr walked with them, ministering to the dead and dying, flocks of ravens shadowing their every step.
Amongst a copse of trees, the army’s scouts found a trio of hanged soldiers. From the scattered rocks beneath their dangling, bootless feet, it appeared they had committed suicide. Two more Averlanders were found slumped against the bole of the hanging tree. Their wrists were slit and bloodied daggers lay in their dead hands. Evidently, the desperate men had run out of rope for all five of them and didn’t want to cut down the others to reuse what they had.
Mercifully the army did not meet any more orcs, nor did it stop at any other villages, empty or not. Deserters, refugees and suicides were not their only encounters, however. Late into the evening, just before the captains announced they would break camp, a single rider and a ragged band of followers on foot joined them, having come from the west.
Karlich shuddered inwardly when he recognised the same witch hunter from Hobsklein. The man had almost forty degenerates in tow. Around half were armoured to the hilt and carried an assortment of weapons. An eclectic mix, including a pair of dwarfs and several dark-skinned men foreign to the Empire, they could be nothing other than mercenaries. The rest were made up of flagellants and seekers, the latter being the homeless, pitiless wretches who had lost everything to the dark creatures that predated on the innocent and weak, and who longed only for vengeance or death. Dangerous men all, but nothing compared to their mounted leader.
‘In search of gold and retribution,’ remarked Volker from the second rank when he noticed Karlich looking at them. The Grimblades marched in column, three files wide, like the rest of the foot regiments. They were midway down the order of march, unfortunately, right behind the Steel Swords.
‘Aye,’ Karlich replied, keeping his feelings hidden from his men. ‘Not a good combination.’
‘Parasites and degenerates,’ muttered Rechts to the sergeant’s right, spitting out a gobbet of phlegm.
‘Undesirable allies, indeed,’ noted Lenkmann.
‘All faithful men are soldiers of Sigmar,’ said Masbrecht. ‘We should not judge them harshly for that.’
Rechts glared over his shoulder at the man. ‘Shut up, Masbrecht! No one cares what you think.’
‘Both of you be quiet,’ snapped Karlich, quickly nipping the situation in the bud before it could develop. ‘Silence until we break camp,’ he added afterwards.
The witch hunter and his ‘soldiers of faith’ joined the rear of the column, happiest with the militia companies and baggage train. Runners informed the prince of their presence. Encouraged by Father Untervash, Wilhelm tolerated them. He needed every man he could get if he was to lift the siege over Averheim.
Once they were out of sight, the rest of the army almost forgot about them. All except Karlich that is. The image of the witch hunter, attired in black and carrying his silver talisman like a death warrant, was burned into his mind. He could no more forget the man’s presence than he could his own name. Was it just war and suffering that had drawn him to them, or did the Templar of Sigmar ride the plains of Averland for another reason? Was he, in fact, looking for someone?
Karlich did not consider himself to be a paranoid man. He met fate head on and didn’t look over his shoulder for shadows in the night. The appearance of the witch hunter from Hobsklein had changed all that though.
Baron Ernst Blaselocker lolled in his saddle like an overweight klown. His steed, a stubby-legged mare, was as bulky as her master. Its bright yellow caparison hurt the eyes if looked at too long. Rings filled the baron’s fat fingers and a great golden amulet rested on his breastplate which stuck out on account of his girth. A peppering of stubble swathed his triple chins but made him look neither swarthy nor rugged. All it actually did was to reinforce the baron’s gluttonous image. His yellow and black tunic, echoed by the tiny pennant banner affixed to the back of his cuirass, affirmed his allegiance to Averland. A helmet, its visor raised, sat upon his head and failed to hide his thinning ginger hair. A broadsword sat in a scabbard at his waist which slapped against the man’s bulging thigh in time with his wobbling jowls.
‘Prince Wilhelm!’ exclaimed the baron, throwing out an arm in over-enthusiastic greeting. ‘It does my heart good to see that Reikland has not abandoned its brothers.’
The prince rode ahead of the army with Ledner, Preceptor Kogswald and a small contingent of Griffonkorps.
‘Ernst,’ the prince replied. The man was known to Wilhelm. They had attended Imperial functions together at the Emperor’s Palace in Nuln. Baron Blaselocker was a toady, a lower ranked noble who sought to improve his station by association. More than once he had tried to court the prince’s favour with offers of banquets or rides through his lands around the town of Streissen. Wilhelm had refused every one. Politely, of course. Emperor Dieter’s functions were a trial he had no choice but to bear; Blaselocker’s company was not.
Had he been able to choose his allies, Wilhelm would have placed the baron near the bottom of a long list. But such luxuries were not available to him. Every sword was welcomed to the cause, even Blaselocker’s. To his credit, the baron had brought a decent-sized force with him. True to Preceptor Kogswald’s word, there were a number of temple knights alongside the footslogging state troops. Wilhelm didn’t recognise the order but judged them to be Sigmarite given the blazing comet device on their shields and banner. The rest of the army comprised spearmen and crossbows, with a few free companies. It was about a third the size of Wilhelm’s force.
‘A large army to escort a noble of my mere stature,’ said the baron when he saw the marching column of men behind the prince’s small entourage.
Wilhelm’s brow furrowed. ‘You misunderstand, Ernst. We aren’t here to escort you anywhere. We march to Averheim to try and lift the siege.’
The baron’s ruddy face paled at once.
‘W-what? I thought…’ The good humour vanished and his hands started to tremble a little.
‘We march to Averheim, and so do you,’ asserted Wilhelm. ‘Now tell me, how bad are things at the capital? What forces do we face?’
The
baron swallowed deeply and started to shake his head. ‘N-no, no, no,’ he blathered. ‘You don’t want to go there. We should head west to Reikland. I’m sure the Emperor will grant us protection in Nuln.’
‘The Emperor has moved west himself already and resides at Altdorf,’ snapped Ledner, ‘you’ll find no protection there. Now, do as your prince bids before I smack you off that horse, you fat oaf!’
As quickly as it came, Ledner’s anger subsided, leaving Blaselocker dumbstruck.
‘Speak to me, Ernst,’ said the prince. ‘Tell me what you know, and do it now.’
Keller shook the dirt and stones from his boot, sitting by the side of the road and trying not to lift his gaze from the ground. He’d been seeing things in the shadows, in the lee of trees, at the crest of hills, in the cool quiet of valleys. During the march from Blösstadt, he’d noticed a shape flitting occasionally at the edge of his vision. But when he went to catch it the shape had gone, evaporated like mist before the hot sun. He knew what it was and begged for it to stop, before telling himself to get a grip on his senses. The shadow didn’t listen. It dogged him every step he took. It haunted his every waking thought and came again, as a much more grisly apparition, not merely a shadow at all, in his nightmares. Even now, basking in the glory of the midday sun, whilst the regiments from Averland were integrated into the order of march, he felt it. There at his shoulder, he perched like a harbinger of Keller’s own inexorable fate. His penance. Thankfully, none of the other Grimblades had noticed. At least not yet.
They rested briefly in a grassy plain with a few dotted trees and near a shallow stream. It was a minor tributary of the mighty Aver, which was visible as a glittering silver-blue band in the distance.
Almost as long and wide as the Reik, the river was an impressive sight. Ordinarily, skiffs and boats would ply its depths for trade and passage across. The Aver was strangely empty this day, and had been for several days before it. Even the river birds, the fishermen and waterborne creatures were few and far between. It was as if life had ceased to be along its banks, as if the river were abandoned in the face of the greenskin invasion, its own refugee columns passing unheeded in the night.
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