Hands clasped behind his back, Curran hunched over the pile of rubble on Hochmoor’s fortress hill, stubborn annoyance tightening his rounded features. Strands of Angelika’s dark hair still clung to the cuffs of his shirt and to his perspiring palms. At Curran’s side hovered his gaunt human friend.
“But Gundred,” Curran said to him, “it only took you and Ingwold here half a week to move that garden wall from the old Hide property.” He hiked his thumb at a freckled young man, Gundred’s cousin, who lingered nearby, eager to be assigned an important task.
Wind gusts seized smoke from the town’s smouldering homes and pulled it like spun sugar into the sky above them.
“I think we should leave it,” Gundred said.
“Leave it? We can’t leave it,” said Curran.
Gundred called back to Ingwold. “How about you? Do you think we should leave it?”
Curran did not wait for Ingwold’s opinion. “Who knows what contagions his corpse will release as it rots? We must get it out of there and burn it. It is a thing of the enemy.”
“He may worship that dread force, but he is a man.”
“A man from the lands of madness. After all we’ve been through, do you wish a plague on us besides?”
Ingwold wandered closer. He kicked tentatively at a mortar chunk on the pile’s edge. “You don’t think he could still be alive under there, do you?”
Curran grunted his exasperation. “Of course not. If he was, he’d have crawled out from under there already. Wouldn’t he?”
“I suppose,” Ingwold allowed.
Curran stalked over to a wheelbarrow some feet away from the pile, seizing a shovel and thrusting it into Ingwold’s callused hands. Ingwold took the spade but made no move toward the heap of stones. Curran snorted contemptuously at him. Ingwold gestured feebly and thrust the point of the spade into the pile. He overturned one stone, then another and they tumbled down into the grass.
Ortak Nalgar erupted up through the rocks, mortar dust plastering his face and unfettered, shaggy hair. He snatched the shovel from Ingwold’s hands and brained him with it. Terror locked Gundred’s feet in place. The chieftain stepped carelessly over Ingwold’s twitching body. Bellowing for help, Curran ran to his spear, which leaned against the fortress wall. Gundred collected himself and drew his knife. Ortak Nalgar clamped a hand over the gaunt man’s wrist and snapped its bones, releasing the blade. Gundred tripped back as Nalgar stooped to claim it. The barbarian charged him, sweeping the knife before him.
Gundred felt his throat: wet blood gushed from a deep slit opened by Nalgar’s wide swipe. The gaunt man fell to his knees. Nalgar left him to bleed and turned his attention to the halfling. A chortle rattled in his throat as Curran bolted at him. He rocked back in his boots, bracing for the charge. The halfling’s spear hit the centre of Nalgar’s breastplate, barely swaying the much larger man.
“Curran,” a voice cried. A townsman peeked up over the lip of the hill. Nalgar turned to look and without further utterance, the man reversed himself and fled.
“Help me,” Curran keened.
Nalgar grabbed the spear haft to pull the halfling toward him. Curran let go, turning to sprint for the road. Nalgar pursued him, outpacing him without effort. He tripped the fleeing halfling, bouncing him like a ball across the grassy hilltop. Curran struggled to right himself, but then the chieftain was on him. Nalgar placed one wide hand between his legs and another on his neck.
Groaning in gleeful exertion, he hoisted the squirming halfling up into the air, then brought his spine down on the point of his armoured knee. Curran felt himself instantly paralyzed; the barbarian tossed him onto the ground to gasp for air. The last thing he saw, before his fatal impalement, was his own spear in the chieftain’s hand, poised to pierce his throat.
Ortak Nalgar cast his eyes about for his great-axe. When he did not see it, he strode confidently down the hillside. It would be somewhere in this town. And once he had recovered it, he would assemble for himself a new troop of raiders for a second assault on the Empire. He would go to the mountains.
CHAPTER TEN
The Gerolsbruch Swordsmen hiked out of the valley and into hillier terrain. As the high summer dusk filled the sky with pink and orange light, the unit passed a series of stone markers, some recently overturned. They marked sheep pastures, explained one archer who knew the country. They trudged on. Angelika was still slumped over Jonas’ horse; it made a hard ascent up ever-steeper slopes. Franziskus kept by her side, to catch her if she slipped from the saddle. A pulsing, organic sound buzzed up ahead.
Clearing a rise, they beheld clouds of blowflies, shining blue and green, swarming around the corpses of slain sheep. Their meat had rotted and was falling from exposed femurs and ribcages. The animals were two or three days dead. Further ahead lay a large wooden structure, partially burned: a sheep-herder’s barn. Beside it stood a set of stone foundations, half-buried by wood ash—the remains of a home. A smaller hayloft, only lightly scorched, sat a few dozen yards away from the main structures. Fire-red sumacs, arrayed like a horseshoe, surrounded the enclosure on three sides.
Jonas conferred with Emil. He ordered his men to take the barn as their base, and to set up a perimeter including the hayloft. He returned to his horse. Angelika was awake and blinking, rubbing the back of her head with the heel of her palm. Franziskus stood by, to help her dismount. She slung herself down into the stirrup. Wavering only slightly, she stepped down onto the grassy ground. Franziskus went to her, to hold her up. Jonas moved to take up position on her other shoulder.
“We’ll get you into that hayloft over there,” Jonas grunted. “Get you some privacy, away from the men.”
“I’m fine,” Angelika muttered. She squirmed, but both the men kept a tight hold on her.
“You need to rest a bit more—then you’ll be fine,” Franziskus said.
“What kind of a delicate blossom do you think I am?” Angelika twisted free of them, then pitched forward onto her knees. They came to help her but she waved them off. “I’ve been awake for hours,” she said. “What I need is to walk around for a while. And some food, if you have it.”
Jonas gestured to Emil, who barked out an order to the supply chief. He went ahead into the hayloft, with sausages, cheeses and a smallish cask of brandy. A swordsman laid a fraying blanket out on the straw-covered floor. Jonas, Angelika and Franziskus dug into the provisions in relative silence. Only after repeated invitations did the latter two accept the lieutenant’s brandy. Angelika sipped gingerly, then rolled her eyes. “My head isn’t ready for this,” she said.
Emil knocked lightly on the loft’s open doorframe and Jonas leapt up to hear him. They spoke softly; evidently, the men had found bodies in the barn. Jonas shook his head. “Bury them out back, behind that grove of trees.”
He sat on the floor, placing his back against a support beam, eating nothing more. Angelika and Franziskus kept ravenously chewing.
“This is good food,” said Angelika.
“It isn’t, but you’re hungry. A shock can do that to you.” Jonas closed his eyes; for a moment, it seemed as if he’d nod off to sleep.
Angelika cocked her head charily. “I suppose I owe you thanks for rescuing me from that tiny lunatic.”
“I suppose you do,” replied Jonas, eyes still shut.
Silence returned.
Angelika was the one to break it. “Perhaps I was dreaming, but it seemed to me like the two of you were talking the whole way, like long-lost brothers.”
“We spoke for part of the way,” said Franziskus.
Jonas hunched forward. “Franziskus and I were acquainting ourselves with one another, alone. I’m hoping he’ll excuse himself, so that you and I can do the same.”
Franziskus remained in place.
“I owe you the courtesy of a chat,” said Angelika, “but your rescue party has taken us in the wrong direction. I’m not going with you.”
Jonas smiled. “Your candour is appreciated. However, you
may be the last woman I see for a long time. You can’t deny me a few pleasantries, can you?”
Angelika dragged herself over to a beam opposite Jonas’. “You heard him,” she said to Franziskus. “He’d like to flirt with me a while.”
Franziskus slowly stood. He stalked gradually out of the loft, taking care to step close to Jonas’ feet on the way out.
“He’s protective of you,” said Jonas, when he’d gone.
Now Angelika’s eyes closed. “Do you require a bodyguard? He’ll soon be at a loose end.”
“It’s a scout I need.”
“He might do a passable job of that. There’s probably a warrant for desertion out on him. You could help him clear that up, reunite him with his family.”
“Your young friend is a deserter?”
“I’m telling you nothing you haven’t already figured out on your own.”
“It is rather plain.”
“Then belay the gamesmanship. He needs your help. You need his. What could be more perfect?”
“I’ll do all you ask for him—if you come with us.”
She swatted the air dismissively. “That would repay his services, not mine.”
He positioned himself next to her. She let him. “What fee do you desire?”
“I’m not for hire.”
“Franziskus says you don’t like taking orders.”
“Who does?”
“Most men, as a matter of fact, but let’s not distract ourselves with philosophy.” He held up his brandy cup and made a toasting motion.
Angelika inserted a pause, then mirrored his gesture.
“I feel sorry for him,” he said.
“Who? Franziskus?”
“He loves you.”
“I, too, feel sorry for anyone in love with me.”
“You can’t be that horrid, can you?”
“I most certainly can.”
“His chances are nil, then?”
“Did he promise to talk me into going with you, if you pitched woo for him?”
“He told me I’d never convince you.”
“He’s right on that count.”
“He’s glad you’re giving up your unwomanly ways, to live in a manner more fitting to your sex.”
Angelika sat up. “He said that?”
“Ah. I’ve committed a gaffe. Please consider that I have paraphrased him liberally.”
“What else did he say?”
“You can’t blame him if he’s a mite possessive.”
“I suppose you’re the same way.”
Jonas laughed. “No, the opposite.”
“You flee from women?”
“Only afterwards.”
“My policy also. Avoid romantic entanglements.”
“No wedding ring will yoke you?”
“A woman should buy her own ring, that’s my theory.”
“Is that so?” Jonas appeared lost in thought for a moment.
Angelika leaned forward to take more brandy. This time she filled her cup near to the top, and drank heartily from it. “I can’t believe Franziskus came out and said that.”
“Perhaps I’m exaggerating.”
“He didn’t say he loved me.”
“No, but it’s plain after half a minute, isn’t it?”
“I try to ignore it.”
“You prefer a fellow with a bit more meat on him, and a few more years.”
“Not too much more of either.”
“Most of all, you prefer a man who’s about to depart for a long journey.” He placed his hand on her knee.
She let it lie there. “One I’m not going on.”
“Me, I like a sharp-edged woman. You know, a spot of trouble.”
She placed her hand on his. “Everybody makes a foolish mistake now and then.”
Franziskus sat among the men of Jonas’ unit, in the barn as they drank well-watered grog and chewed on hardtack. The Gerolsbruchers laughed and told bawdy jokes, each one filthier than its predecessor. One of the men suffered an epic bout of flatulence and his fellows guffawed until tears filled the creases of their cheeks. They threw dice and laid copper-penny bets. The archers took seats apart from the swordsmen, muttering amongst themselves. The stragglers from other regiments sat even further away. Emil leaned himself in a distant corner, cataloguing the scene through half-open eyes.
Franziskus thought he perhaps ought to be doing the same, but another matter occupied his mind. He couldn’t believe it. All that time Jonas had been prying information from him, and it hadn’t been for a noble purpose at all. It wasn’t about saving the Empire, or receiving a gift from Sigmar, or requiring a scout for his regiment. His plans for Angelika were of the most selfish, basest kind. And Franziskus had been entirely taken in.
He left the barn. The situation demanded the most delicate circumspection. Though resistant to his advice in general, Angelika would not tolerate even the tiniest intervention in her amatory activities. Yet, if his vow was to protect her, the attentions of this snake—this wolf—were surely as ripe a danger as a pit trap or goblin nest. She’d recently been hit in the head. By definition, then, she was in no shape to make decisions, especially not of a delicate nature.
Franziskus paced outside the barn, hoping to summon the proper argument, or simply a credible diversion to pry the two of them apart.
Watchers posted by Emil followed his movements.
He forced himself to calm down. He was aware that he wore his emotions like an emblazoned tunic, rendering them all too clear to casual observers. If he hoped to be successful, he would have to conceal his feelings behind a hard and neutral mask—the way Angelika did.
He required a pretence. A reason to casually appear. To split them up, or merely to interpose himself. Without giving himself away. Then later he could think of the right thing to say to Angelika, once they were apart. Franziskus thought. And thought, until perspiration soaked his collar.
To blazes with it, he thought. That was his problem—he thought too long, and never acted. He would go to them, and then something appropriate would pop to mind. As would occur for any true man of action.
No, wait. He would pretend to be heading out back, to—well, to attend to bodily needs, of course. And he would simply walk past them, and see.
Franziskus walked past the open doorway and saw Jonas and Angelika locked in an embrace.
Shaking sweat-drenched locks, he stomped away from the buildings.
A rustling arose in the high bushes a few yards away. He glimpsed a spearhead.
Not again! “Intruders!” he cried. “Intruders!”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Two small figures wriggled from the bushes at Franziskus as he drew his sabre. They hit his legs, giving a clear chance to bring his sword slashing down into either attacker’s spine, but instinct told him not to do it. One of the tiny men wormed his way behind Franziskus’ right leg; the other pushed, to trip him. Franziskus shifted his weight, to throw them off, but misjudged and the three of them plummeted to the ground in a thicket of battling limbs.
Soldiers ran from the barn, the light of swinging lanterns playing wildly over them. A third figure emerged from the bushes, pulling and tugging at the two who’d positioned themselves on Franziskus’ chest and legs. “No, no,” he shouted. “That’s Franziskus!”
Tired of playing patsy, Franziskus got his fingers around the throat of the halfling sitting on his chest.
Lantern light briefly filled his face but Franziskus did not recognise his gurgling assailant. “Will you get off me?” he demanded. The halfling, though limited by the choking grip on his windpipe, nodded and rolled away. Franziskus kicked at the other attacker, bringing his boot heel into solid contact with a halfling shoulder. Rassau’s swordsmen reached them, pulling the halflings to their feet and holding them fast. They fruitlessly kicked and squirmed.
The unimpeded halfling stepped into the light, palms up in surrender. It was Filch. He grinned, as if in expectation of a hearty welcome. “We’ve come to
join you.”
Franziskus helped himself to a soldier’s lantern and held it to his two captured fellows. “Who is we?” he enquired. He saw Emil joining the crowd from the barn, and both Angelika and Jonas emerging from the hayloft, but, as the aggrieved party, felt he had standing to lead the interrogation.
Filch attempted to sidle his way, but found himself restrained by a pair of Gerolsbruch sabres across his chest. Through his feathery brows a sense of concern belatedly flickered. “You know we’ve come to join you, don’t you? It was his speech that told us to come. We want to fight for our people. Go the mountains with you.”
“Release them,” Jonas commanded.
The captured halflings brushed daintily at their calfskin coat-sleeves. One still bore the red imprints of Franziskus’ fingers on his throat: at a full four feet, he stood a few inches taller than the average halfling. “This is Bodo,” Filch announced. Bodo’s face was bony and hard, lacking the wreathing of fat typical of his food-fond race. His eyes were wet with bottled fury. “You said we’d be well-greeted here,” he said to Filch, accusingly.
“You should have approached us openly, then,” Franziskus said, smacking dirt from his trousers.
“And this is my other friend, Merwin,” Filch said. Merwin’s gaze shot around the encampment; his thick, shoeless feet jittered anxiously beneath him. Beside the broad-shouldered Bodo and slender Filch, Merwin seemed an altogether average exemplar of his kind: nearly four feet tall, with a rounded face and a roll of fat shelved over the rope-belt that held up his short-legged trousers. Of the three, it was Merwin, with veiny nose and florid cheeks, whose features most clearly reflected his people’s reputation as a race of prodigious drinkers. An unmistakeable whiff of spirits clouded the air around him.
“As Filch has said, we have come to fight with you,” said Bodo. Implicit in his tone was a demand for an apology. He held himself more like a miniature man than the typical hunched and furtive halfling.
“You’re right,” Filch said to Franziskus, “we should have better announced our coming. But we wasn’t sure entirely that you were who you are, so we thought it best to have ourselves a recce first. You understand—in case you was more barbarians.”
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