The War Hound and the World's Pain

by Michael Moorcock

  My horse was eating the sweet-smelling grass with some relish. The grass we had left behind was nourishing enough, but presumably it had had no taste. He looked like a prisoner who had dined too long on bread and water and is suddenly offered a rich repast. I let him eat his fill, then saddled him and, mounted once again, continued on my way until I came, very soon, upon a reasonably wide track through the forest. This I began to follow.

  By mid-morning I was riding across gentle hills towards a rich valley. Mist lay upon the tops of the hills and through it broke strong rays of sunshine which struck the deep greens of fields and hedgerows and illuminated them. There was a faint smell of wood smoke on the spring air and I was warmed, as the rain lifted, by a southwesterly wind.

  I made out old cottages and farmsteads, all apparently untouched by the War. I saw cattle and sheep grazing. I breathed in rich scents of the farmyard, of flowers and wet grass, and my skin felt cleaner than it had felt in months. So peaceful was the scene that I wondered if it might be another illusion, that it was designed to snare me somehow, but thankfully my rational, pragmatic mind refused such speculation. I had embarked upon an insane Quest, prompted by a being who could, Himself, be insane; I had need to maintain my sanity in small matters, at least.

  As I approached the nearest cottage I smelled baking and my mouth began to water, for I had eaten no hot food since before my encounter with Lucifer. I stopped outside the cottage door and cried a “halloo.” At first I thought that, in the manner of wary peasants, no one would answer me. I took a step or two towards the time-darkened oak of the door just as it opened. A small, plump woman of about forty-five stood there. Seeing my warlike finery, she automatically bobbed her head and said, in a thick accent which I did not recognize: “Good morrow, Your Honour.”

  “Good morning to you, sister,” I returned. “Is it possible for an honest man to purchase some hot food from you?”

  She laughed heartily at this. “Sir, if you were a thief and prepared to pay, you would receive the same fare. We have little coin, these days, and a pfennig or two would not go amiss when the time comes to go to town and buy ribbon for a new frock. My daughter is marrying two months from now.”

  She ushered me into the dark warmth of the cottage. As was typical of such places it was simple and neat, with rushes on the flagstones and a few holy pictures upon the walls. I noted from the pictures that these people were still loyal to Rome.

  She took my helmet and cloak and put them carefully upon a chest in the far corner. She told me that she was about to bring a meat pie and an apple pie from her oven, if I could wait but quarter of an hour, and that she could offer me some good, strong beer of her own brewing, should I partake of such drink. I said that I would greatly welcome a sample of everything on her list and she retired to the kitchen to fetch the beer, chatting about the uncertainty of the weather and the chances of the various crops.

  When she brought the beer I remarked that I was surprised the War had not touched them. Her little round face became serious and she nodded. “We believe that God hears our prayers.” She shook her head. “But I suppose that we are luckier than most. There is only one road into the valley and it goes nowhere, after our village, save the forest. You must have travelled a very great distance, sir.”

  “I have indeed,”

  She frowned as she considered this. “You came through the Silent Marches?”

  My ordinary caution made me lie. “I circled them,” I said, “if you mean the lifeless forest.”

  The woman crossed herself. “Only Satan’s followers can inhabit those marches.”

  I knew that she had tested me. For if I had admitted to having travelled through the Silent Marches she would have known that my soul was Lucifer’s, and I doubt if I should have been able to have enjoyed her hospitality as much as I did. Both pies were soon forthcoming and they were both delicious.

  As I ate I told her that I was an envoy for a prince and that I could not divulge his name. My mission was to attempt to bring peace to Germany, I said.

  At this the good frau looked pessimistic. She picked up my empty plate. “I fear there will be no peace for the world until the Day of Judgment, Your Honour. We can merely pray that it comes soon.”

  I agreed with her wholeheartedly, for, after all, if my Quest were successful, Judgement Day must surely follow rapidly upon Lucifer’s repentance.

  “We live,” said she, “in the century in which the world is bound to end.”

  “That is what many believe,” I agreed.

  “You suggest that you do not, sir.”

  “I might hope for that event,” said I, “but I am not convinced that it will occur.”

  She cleared away the dishes. She refilled my stein. I was offered a pipe of tobacco from her husband’s jar, but I told her that I did not take it. Her husband was at work in the fields, she told me, and would not be back until that evening. Her daughter was with her husband-to-be, helping with the spring planting.

  All this wonderful ordinariness had begun to lull me and I thought that perhaps I might stay with these people for a while. But I knew if I did so I should not be fulfilling my pledge to Lucifer and might bring His vengeance not only upon myself but upon these people, also. It comforted me to know that there was one small corner of Germany where War and Plague were unfamiliar.

  I finished my beer and asked directions for Nürnberg. The woman was vague, for she had never travelled very far from her village. But she gave me directions for Schweinfurt, which I decided to follow until I came to a larger settlement and more sophisticated people.

  I left the woman with a piece of silver, which, had she known its origin, she would not have taken with such joy or such gratitude, and was soon upon my way.

  The track wound through the valley, climbing gradually to the hills on the far side. I rode through widely spaced pines, over loamy, reddish soil, and looked back frequently at the cottages and farms with their heavy, peaceful smoke and their sense of dreamy security.

  The track led me to a wider road and a signpost for Teufenberg, the nearest town. It was almost sunset when I embarked upon this road, and I hoped that I might come upon an inn or at least a farm where I could beg a bale of hay in a barn for the night, but I was unlucky. I slept again in my cloak, in a ditch by the side of the road, but was undisturbed. I rose in the morning to warm sunshine and birdsong. Butterflies flew through the clumps of poppies and daisies at the edge of the track and the scents of those flowers were delicious to my nose. I regretted that I had not purchased a little more beer for my journey, but I had expected to be in Teufenberg by now. I promised myself that I would at least break my fast at the nearest inn, and when, by noon, I turned a bend and saw the carved gables of a substantial-looking hostelry, with outhouses, stables, and a little cluster of cottages at the back, I was glad of having made that promise.

  The inn was called The Black Friar and it stood upon the banks of a broad but shallow river. A good-sized stone bridge spanned the river (although it seemed possible to ford it without wetting the thighs) and farther up on the far bank I saw a mill, its wheel working slowly as it ground corn. I guessed that both mill and inn were, as was quite common, owned by the same family.

  I almost cantered into the courtyard, looking up at the wooden gallery, which went the entire circumference of the place, and crying out for the landlord as I dismounted.

  A black-browed fellow, very heavily built and with red arms to match his nose, came through a downstairs door and took the bridle.

  “I am Wilhelm Hippel and this is my tavern. You are welcome, Your Honour.”

  “It looks a well-kept place, landlord,” I said, handing him my cloak as an ostler appeared to take my horse.

  “We think so, Your Honour.”

  “And well-stocked, I hope.”

  I noticed a familiar peasant craftiness as he hesitated. “As best it can be in these times, sir.”

  I laughed at this. “Have no fear, landlord, I am not about to r
equisition your food and wine in the name of some warlike prince. I am on a mission of peace. I hope to be instrumental in putting an end to strife.”

  “Then you are doubly welcome, Your Honour.”

  I was taken into the main taproom and here enjoyed a mug of beer even better than that which I had had from the woman in the village. Venison and game were presented to me and I made my choice, feasting well and chatting with Heir Hippel about his trials and tribulations. These appeared extremely minor in comparison with those of men and women who had been directly touched by the War, but of course to him they were large enough.

  There were robbers on this road, he warned me, and although they did not give him much trouble, some of his guests had been robbed and badly beaten (one even killed) during the previous autumn. The winter had not been so bad, but now he heard that the robbers were returning, “like swallows in spring,” he said. I reassured him that I would journey warily. He said that he was expecting two or three more guests shortly and that it might be wise if we all travelled together to Teufenberg. I said that I would consider the idea, although privately I determined to continue alone, for I did not want the company of merchants or clerics on their slow, reliable horses.

  In the shadows of the far corner, half-asleep with his tankard in his hand, I noted a surly red-headed youth dressed in a stained blue silk shirt with cuffs and collar of tattered lace; red silk breeches, baggy and loose after the Turkish fashion, tucked into high folded-over riding boots. He had on an unbuttoned leather waistcoat of heavy hide, of a sort which swordsmen often wear in preference to a breastplate. There was a long, curved sabre propped near him on his bench, and round his waist I detected a long knife and a pistol, both in black and silver, looking almost Oriental in design.

  I had the youth for a Muscovite, since he was evidently no Turk. I raised a comradely tankard to him but he avoided my eye. The landlord whispered that he was well-behaved enough, but spoke poor German and seemed suspicious of even the friendliest action. He had been there since the day before and was apparently waiting for some soldier-priest who had agreed to meet him at the inn. The soldier-priest, said the landlord, had some sort of Latin name which the youth had misheard or else could not pronounce property. It was a little like Josephus Kreutzerling, he said. He seemed to hope that I might recognize it, but I shook my head. I had a wariness and dislike for those soldier-priests who, in my view, were capable of worse depredations, fouler cruelties, than almost anyone else I had ever encountered.

  Having discovered that I could reach Teufenberg by nightfall, I decided to be on my way, and was just rising when the doors of the taproom opened and in came a tall, thin individual with hard grey eyes in a cadaverous face, a black wide-brimmed hat upon his head, collar and cuffs of plain linen, coat and breeches of black wool, black buckled shoes and gaiters which, as he sat down upon a stool, he proceeded to remove, revealing white stockings. He had a plain, straight blade at his side and he wore gauntlets, carrying one in his left hand. The only fancy thing he wore was a purple plume in his hat, and even this gave the impression that he was in mourning for someone.

  He looked first at me and then at the landlord. Herr Hippel stood up.

  “Can I be of service, Your Honour?”

  “Some wine and a jug of water,” said the newcomer. He turned his head and looked back at the young Muscovite who had grown more alert. “You are Gregory Sedenko.”

  “I am Grigory Petrovitch Sedenko,” said the youth in his strange, rumbling accent, stressing vowels and consonants in a way which made me certain of his origin. He stood up “Who knows me?”

  “I am he who promised to meet you here.”

  I had, as I thought, recognised the face and manner of a soldier-priest. The man was typical of his kind; all human feeling had been turned into pride and cruelty in the name of his Crusade. “I am Johannes Klosterheim, Knight of Christ.”

  The young Muscovite crossed himself dutifully, but looked with boldness into the austere face of the fighting monk. “You have a commission for me, Brother Johannes, in Teufenberg.”

  “I have. I know the house. I have all the evidence. The case has been judged. It is left for you to execute it.”

  The boy frowned. “You are certain?”

  “There is no question.”

  I wondered if I was listening to a witch-hunter. But if Klosterheim were an ordinary witch-finder, he would not be here at this time, talking to the youth. Witch-finders travelled with an entourage, with all the paraphernalia of their calling. If they did not travel, they stayed in one town or one area. Few of them were soldiers.

  Gregory Sedenko reached for his scabbarded sabre and made to tuck it into his belt, but Klosterheim raised his naked hand and shook his head. “Not yet. There is time.”

  The landlord and myself listened in silence, for it seemed evident that Klosterheim had commissioned the boy to do murder, albeit murder in God’s name. Both of us were uncomfortable in the presence of the pair. The landlord wished to leave. My instinct was to take the boy aside and warn him not to involve himself in whatever disgusting venture the soldier-priest must surely be initiating. But I had made a virtue of silence and inactivity in recent years. It did not do to speak one’s mind in those days.

  The boy sat down again. “I would rather have it done,” he said, “as soon as possible.”

  “There are things I must tell you in private,” said Klosterheim. “This is no ordinary work.”

  At this Sedenko laughed. “Ordinary enough in Kieff,” he said. “It is how we spend our winters.”

  Klosterheim disapproved of his levity, even of his enthusiasm. “We must pray together first,” he said.

  “And pay?” said the youth.

  “Prayer first, pay second,” replied the soldier-priest. He looked at us as if to warn us not to interfere and preferably not to listen. The landlord went from the room, leaving only me as witness to what took place between the strange pair.

  I decided to speak:

  “I have not heard of the Knights of Christ, brother,” said I. “Is that an order from these parts?”

  “It is not an order, as such, at all,” said Klosterheim. “It is a society.”

  “Forgive me. I am not entirely conversant with Church lore.”

  “Then you should make it your task to become conversant, sir,” he said. His grey eyes were angry. “And you should consider your manners, also. You should think of making their improvement another goal.”

  “I’m much obliged for the advice, brother,” I said. “I shall consider it.”

  “Best do so, sir.”

  Against my saner judgment I remained where I was, even though the older man wished me to leave. Eventually he rose and went to sit beside Sedenko, speaking in a voice too low for me to overhear. I continued to drink my beer, however, and to give them my attention. The youth was undisturbed, but the soldier-priest remained uncomfortable, which, out of sheer devilment, I wished him to be.

  At last, with a curse ill-befitting a celibate man of God, he got up from the bench and drew the youth with him to the door. They went outside into the yard.

  I had amused myself long enough. I drained my tankard, shouted for the landlord, paid him and asked that my horse be fetched for me.

  In a little while I peered through the window to see that the ostler had returned with my steed. I donned my helmet, folded my cloak under my arm and opened the door.

  Klosterheim and the Muscovite were deep in conversation on the far side of the yard. As I emerged, Klosterheim turned his back on me.

  The sun was shining strong and hot as I mounted. I cried: “Farewell, brother. Farewell, Heir Sedenko.” And I urged the beast out of the courtyard toward the open road.

  The sun had gone down by the time I sighted, in the twilit mist, the spires and rooftops of Teufenberg. It was a pleasant enough little town with a population that was only reasonably suspicious of a man like myself, on a good horse and in armour, and I had hardly any difficulty findin
g a hostelry with room for me and my horse. Again, to relieve my host’s perturbation, I told the story of being an envoy commissioned to try to bring peace to the warring factions and, naturally enough, was given a much-improved welcome.

  In the morning I was directed onto the road for Schweinfurt and wished Godspeed in my mission by the landlord, his wife, his son-in-law and his three daughters. I had almost begun to believe that I was the hero I presented myself as being!

  On the outskirts of the town I passed a house which had a crowd surrounding it. Men, women and children stood packed together, watching wide-eyed as a group of people in black began to emerge from the house. The women were wailing and the boys and girls were pale and stunned. They were carrying three corpses from the house.

  I wondered if this had anything to do with the pair I had encountered on the previous day.

  I asked one fat townsman what had happened.

  “It’s the Jews,” he said. “All the men were struck down in the night by the Sword of God. It is His vengeance upon them for their crimes.”

  I was disgusted. Their fate was familiar enough, but I had not expected to witness such an event in the pleasant town of Teufenberg.

  I did not wait to hear the catalogue of crimes, for it would be the same wretched list one heard from the Baltic to the Black Sea.

  Grimly, I spurred my horse and was more than glad when I reached the highway. The air seemed purer. I galloped a few miles until Teufenberg was completely out of sight, then I let my horse walk for a while.

  In one sense I was grateful for what I had seen that morning in Teufenberg. I had been reminded of the realities of the world which lay ahead of me.

  Chapter V

  THE WEATHER GREW warmer and warmer as the miles between Teufenberg and Schweinfurt narrowed. It was almost like summer and I was tempted, against my ordinary caution, to divest myself of some of my armour. But I kept it on, pouring a dram of water into my shirt occasionally to cool me. The roads were fairly good, there having been little rain in recent days and few armies to churn them up, and I was lucky in that, every night, I found reasonably pleasant accommodation. Signs of the War began to increase, however. I passed the occasional gallows and more frequently came upon burnt-out ruins of farmsteads and churches.