by ich du
Hors hesitated until the shaman hissed at him, baring his fangs. Glad to be away from Jakob's disturbing presence, he walked quickly out of the tavern. Jakob watched him leave and then turned to Gird.
'Fetch me water.' the shaman said, sitting down at one end of a long bench near to the fireplace.
Bjordrin sat opposite Jakob as Gird shuffled away. The glow from his rune-stones glittered over Bjordrin's metallic skin, dappling it with pools of yellow and green.
'What did you see?' Bjordrin asked.
'We will wait for Kul.' the shaman replied. 'I don't want to explain this twice.'
Gird returned with a waterskin clasped in his clawed hands, and passed it to Jakob. Unstoppering it with his teeth, the shaman upended the skin over his face, letting the cool water splash over him. It ran in rivulets down his gnarled skin and soaked into his dirty furs. With a snort, Jakob cleared his nose and tossed the empty waterskin onto the table before wiping his hand across his face.
'That's much better.' he said and he leaned forward, resting his arms on the table, the fused mess of his hand and staff held out in front of him. 'For a long while I didn't think I would make it back.'
'What went wrong?' Gird asked, seating himself awkwardly at the far end of the bench from Jakob.
'I was caught unawares.' Jakob admitted, shaking his head. 'I will not make the same mistake again.'
'Caught by what?' Bjordrin pressed for a fuller answer.
'There is one among them who has the sight.' Jakob told them, looking impatiently towards the tavern door. 'He has little power, but he can feel the breath of the gods. He untwined them with his spells, like a man who would use teased-out threads instead of rope. He is no threat.'
'Well, he seemed to have given you a fright.' said Gird, whose grin faded as the shaman turned an acidic stare in his direction.
The door banged open and Kul strode in, the stocky warlord advancing with a bow-legged gait gained from a life in the saddle.
'You asked for me?' he said, glaring at Jakob with narrow eyes.
'I sent for you.' Jakob replied, gesturing with a nod of his head for the Kurgan warrior to sit down. 'Listen carefully, I have instructions for you all.'
CHAPTER SEVEN
The Trap
Kislev, Early autumn 1712
'IT IS CERTAINLY not natural, my lord.' Magnus said as he stood next to Vapold watching the storm clouds skidding towards the encampment from the north.
'Really?' the count replied sarcastically.
'They are using the weather to shield their movements from our scouts, my lord.' the astrologer added.
'I thought you were paid to tell me things I did not already know.' said the count, shaking his head.
His mood had been foul ever since riders had come back to the camp during the night, bringing news of the blizzard bearing down across the Urskoy. They had lost sight of a large force of marauders heading east, probably towards the ford at Eskivaya some ten miles further along the river. To make matters worse, Ungol tribesmen, the horse archers of the Tsar, had reported a growing number of enemy horsemen moving westwards towards Erengrad. There were two crossings available to them between Vapold and the walled port, the bridges at Mursk and another ford at Gobri Danesk. Three places where the enemy could come at him, across a forty mile expanse.
Vapold knew he could not defend them all unless he split his forces, and to do that risked one part of his army meeting a much more numerous foe. The accursed blizzard the northerners had summoned to their aid made matters even worse, making it almost impossible to find the foe unless a scout almost literally ran into them.
Captain Felsturm was with them, a sheaf of papers in his hand. He scowled heavily at the dark clouds.
'Well, we can be pleased about one thing,' the captain said. 'Our Kislevite friends have done an admirable job keeping those damned Kurgan horsemen on the far side of the river. They're as blind to our position as we are.'
Felsturm's words sent a tremor of nervousness through Magnus as he recalled the apparition that had confronted him two nights before. The awful visage was etched on his mind, the fanged maw and glowing golden eye staring at him within arm's reach. He shuddered at the recollection.
Magnus alone knew the falsehood of Felsturm's words. The enemy knew exactly where they were, through arcane means. He had no way of warning the count though. He couldn't simply tell him that he had the ghostsight, could he? The lessons of his old master had been well learned and he was not about to betray his secret to these ignorant men.
But the knowledge burned at Magnus's thoughts like a hot iron. The enemy were trying to lead them around by the nose, and there was nothing he could do to stop them. Could he really let the count take his army into a trap to be annihilated? If only he knew what the enemy's true intentions were, he might somehow advise the count against making the wrong move, perhaps guide his decisions in the right direction.
'Did you hear me, Magnus?' Vapold's voice cut through Magnus's cogitation.
'I am sorry, my lord, I was lost in thought,' Magnus admitted. 'You were saying?'
'I asked if you would kindly send word for my council to be gathered at my pavilion within the hour,' the count said impatiently. 'We have to decide on what course of action to take.'
'Of course, my lord,' said Magnus with a bow of his head. 'I will attend to it immediately.'
AS HE WALKED back through the mud of the camp towards the tents and pavilions of the nobles, Magnus wracked his brain for an answer to his dilemma. Should he risk everything and admit what he knew? Did his loyalty to the count really run that deep? Or perhaps there was another person he could confide in, with more surety of secrecy. Ursula? He dismissed the idea as soon as it had occurred to him. Religious fanatics were the worst of them all, he told himself. Was it not the Grand Theogonist himself who sent his templars across the land, hunting and burning those who had the same extraordinary gifts as Magnus?
One by one he crossed names off a mental list as being either too ignorant or too prejudiced for his trust. So caught up in his own thoughts was Magnus, he almost walked into a company of gunners marching between the tents. Quickly moving aside, he tripped over a discarded barrel stave lying in the mud and sprawled face first in the dirt. He could hear the laughs of the soldiers behind him as he pushed himself to his knees, quickly silenced by the irate shouting of their captain.
Someone loomed over him and crouched down, offering him a gauntleted hand. At first he took it to be a gauntlet, but then realised that it was not a glove at all. Looking up he saw Ruprecht.
'Can I help?' he asked.
Magnus pushed himself to his feet, ineffectually swiping at the mud on his robes.
'Thank you, but no,' Magnus replied turning away. He then stopped and turned back. 'Actually, perhaps you can.'
RUPRECHT ACCOMPANIED THE astrologer back to his tent and followed him inside. Magnus had been silent since asking if he had a little time to spare, and he did not speak as he signalled for Ruprecht to take a seat. He watched as the count's advisor rummaged in the pile of scrolls and books beside his cot. Magnus turned and without meeting Ruprecht's gaze, tossed a slim volume into his lap. Ruprecht picked it up and looked at it. The cover was vellum, unadorned with any title. He opened it to the first page and read. It was handwritten in small, neat letters, with alchemical and mystical symbols penned along the edge. Not quite believing the evidence of his own eyes, he read it again.
'A spellbook?' he said, almost choking as he looked up at Magnus, eyes wide with surprise.
'My grimoire.' Magnus corrected him. 'Penned by my own hand from years of hard study.'
Ruprecht said nothing, shocked by Magnus's brazen revelation. He knew he shouldn't have been surprised, after all he had harboured suspicions about the man for several months now. But this admission of guilt was the last thing Ruprecht had expected.
'I need you to help me,' Magnus said, and Ruprecht realised that he could be even more surprised.
'You need my help?' he said slowly, eyes narrowing. 'I am sure you know about my past, and you are asking me for help?'
'It is precisely because of what you used to do that I am appealing to you,' Magnus said earnestly, stepping forward. Ruprecht stood up and backed away. 'You are the only man amongst these thousands who might perhaps understand what I have to tell you.'
'You're a warlock,' Ruprecht said flatly, as if finally stating it would make it seem more real. It didn't.
'I prefer the word seer,' Magnus said. 'Warlock is such a pejorative term, like witch, or sorcerer, or enchanter.'
'I knew a seer,' Ruprecht said shaking his head. 'Every month he was visited by priests, who prayed for him, and he wore protective holy icons to ward away evil influences. It didn't help, he was still possessed by a daemon in the end and tried to attack us. You are no seer.'
'A name does not change what I am.' Magnus said. 'It also does not change what I know. Listen to what I have to say. After that, I trust to your mercy and good judgement.'
'Mercy is something I have become short of lately.' warned Ruprecht. There was something sincere about Magnus's words, and his earnest admission of guilt had piqued Ruprecht's curiosity. He nodded. 'I make no promises though.'
'And I expect none.' Magnus replied. 'We do not have much time, the count will be devising his next stage of the campaign within the hour and we must act quickly. I need your help to cast an enchantment.'
Ruprecht spluttered and laughed loudly.
'Just when I thought this couldn't get any stranger.' he said.
'I cannot do this without you.' Magnus said, ignoring Ruprecht's reaction. 'And if I cannot do this, the army may be doomed.'
Ruprecht stopped laughing and stared at the warlock. He seemed serious. Magnus continued before he could say anything in reply.
'You have seen the sorcery that the northmen have unleashed.' he said. 'They have other magic at their disposal. Two nights ago I witnessed something terrible, a haggard apparition loitering in this very tent.'
Ruprecht cast his eyes around uneasily.
'An apparition?' he said.
'It was the spirit of one of the shamans.' Magnus replied. 'It was not of corporeal form, but created from the magic that surrounds us all. It was a spy, one of their foul shamans, watching our every move. They know exactly where we are, and what we are doing. The northmen are guiding us skilfully into a trap of their own devising.'
'How can you be sure of this?' asked Ruprecht. 'Those who dabble in the black arts are often plagued by supernatural occurrences. What makes this anything more significant?'
'I saw him again last night.' Magnus said, starting to pacing towards the bed and then turning and walking back again, head bowed in thought, 'Though he was very far away, I could feel his presence. I will never forget the disturbing sensation that rippled through me that first time.'
'And with that knowledge, they can anticipate what we are going to do next.' Ruprecht said, leaning forward with one elbow on his knee, his chin rested on his fist. 'Assuming I believe you, and don't turn you in out of hand, what do you expect of me? Why should I risk my soul dabbling in sorcery with you?'
'Because if we are successful, we might destroy this foe in one mighty battle.' Magnus said, his eyes gleaming with the thought. 'I am not an evil man, Ruprecht, you must believe me. Why else would I come to you, unless I wanted to avert the disaster that we are even now being lured into?'
'But I don't understand why you did come to me.' Ruprecht said, leaning back in the chair. He dropped the grimoire onto the rug beneath the chair and stood up. 'I know nothing of magic.'
'Your experiences with the witch hunter are unique, Ruprecht.' Magnus said. 'Surely he taught you prayers of protection, litanies of warding? The templars call them blessings, granted by the gods, but prayers and magic are not so dissimilar. Believe me, I have witnessed that very much lately. You learned some of the secret symbols of my art, the better to notice them, did you not?'
Ruprecht did not reply, afraid to admit the truth of the warlock's words.
'There is one other thing, the most important of all,' Magnus continued. 'Your experiences have hardened you to the lure of the art, the deceptions it can weave upon you. I trained for years with my old master to harness the powers I was born with, but all men can shape the energies that flow across the world, if they but knew how and dedicated themselves to its practice. But it takes character, and strength of will, and you have both in abundance. You will be in little danger, but your very loathing of magic will protect you against even the small threat there is.'
'And you will submit yourself to my mercy when we are done?' Ruprecht asked.
'I will,' said Magnus, stooping to retrieve the grimoire fronr the ground. 'Later, after the count's council of war, we should meet again.'
'And this spell will stop the eyes of the enemy seeing our every move?' Ruprecht sought more assurance, still amazed at himself for having listened as long as he had.
'Better than that,' Magnus replied with a cruel smile. 'Much better than that.'
MAGNUS SAT HALFWAY along the table set at the centre of the count's pavilion, flanked by two scribes with piles of parchment ready to write the orders that were to be issued to the troops. To his left, at the end of the table, Count Vapold sat studying a cloth map, Lord Bayard to the count's right leaning over and running his finger along some feature shown on the chart. On the count's other side sat Ursula, her head bowed in thought, or perhaps in prayer. At the other end of the table, his mud-spattered riding cloak flung untidily over the back of his chair, sat Commander Iversson, recently arrived with messages from Count Steinhardt who waited with his army some fifteen miles to the east. Captain Felsturm sat next to the Ostermarker, flicking through the reports and letters the emissary had brought with him. Various other knights and officers of the army sat around the rest of the table, amongst them Felix Lothar, son of Bayard's predecessor who had been slain in the fighting in Bechafen when Steinhardt had claimed rulership of the Ostermark.
It had been a close-run thing, but after his meeting with Ruprecht, Magnus had scurried madly about the camp, sending messengers to assemble everyone who needed to be at the council of war. Only Boyar Streltzyn, leader of the winged lancers, had not arrived yet.
'We can't wait any more,' said Vapold, the conversations that had been buzzing around the table stopping quickly at the sound of his voice. 'We'll start without Streltzyn and if he deigns to turn up, he'll have to get up to speed on his own.'
Vapold stood and looked down the length of the table. The walls of the pavilion flapped noisily in the growing wind as the snowstorm unleashed by the northmen came ever closer. Vapold leaned forward onto the table.
'The enemy is close.' he began. 'They have been seen within thirty miles of the Urskoy, and I expect battle to be joined tomorrow, or the day after. They have displayed an unusual level of coordination and cooperation thus far, but it would be a false hope to assume that they will revert to their normal barbaric ways at this late stage. Their leader does not think like them; he was once one of our own.'
Vapold glanced at Bayard at this point and the knight's expression was dark.
'We cannot expect this horde to simply run at our guns.' Bayard picked up the thread of the count's words. 'The man who leads them was from the Empire, and fought in our armies. He knows the way we wage war, and we can expect him to have spent much time devising a strategy to outthink us. In this respect, we must do something unexpected, something unorthodox. This coming battle, or battles as it may turn out, might well be unlike anything you have encountered before.'
Bayard stopped and sternly regarded the other men around the table.
'We cannot afford to be dogmatic.' he warned. 'The plan we devise here must take the enemy by surprise, create a weakness that we can exploit, and then we must do so with ruthless aggression. We can afford no mistakes, for our foe is the very worst spawn of the world, a barbaric horde that will, if we fail, bring ruin
and death to the lands we now stand guard before.
'Your men must know this. You must assure them that whatever they face, whatever the horrors that confront them, they must stand against the enemy at all costs. We cannot have pity or mercy, for these savages will allow none for us.'
Vapold paused before speaking, to allow the lord's words to sink in, though he knew that every man at the table, and each and every soldier out in the camp were very aware of what was at stake. He cleared his throat and took a sip of wine to compose his thoughts.
'Now is not the time to question the wisdom of our strategy.' the count said. 'All doubts must be put aside. The questions of whether we should have stayed and defended our homes rather than march to meet the enemy in open battle must be put aside. It is this stand, this positive response, that has granted us the opportunity to crush this hideous foe before our home and loved ones are in danger.'
'We understand.' said Commander Iversson. 'Perhaps we should move on to the business of how we might achieve this crushing victory? My count awaits your recommendations.'
'Then let us begin in earnest.' said Vapold, sitting down. 'Captain Felsturm?'
The Ostland officer stacked the papers he was holding in a neat pile and stroked a finger down across his moustache, gathering his thoughts. He nodded to one of his subordinates who stood and walked around the table handing out a crudely drawn map to each of the council members. Magnus glanced at his, noting that it covered only the most basic features and terrain within a few miles of each bank of the Urskoy.
'We know that the enemy have divided into two forces.' he told them. 'A large number of cavalry have been sighted heading to the west, possibly to take the ford at Gobri Danesk or to cross the Urskoy at Mursk. Gobri Danesk is too far from our current position, but does lie within twenty miles of Erengrad. It is not beyond the realms of hope that our Kislevite comrades can guard the crossing against attack, and so we should discount it from our plans. This leaves us with a possible attack at Mursk.'
