Blackhearts: The Omnibus

by Nathan Long

  Reiner cursed Veirt for dying. The old bear would have found a way out of this mess in an eyeblink. If he hadn’t died, the duel would never have happened. He would have put Erich in his place with a single glare and they would have been off down the mountain long before the Kurgan host came into view.

  Though he put on a brave front for the men, Reiner was in a panic. He didn’t know what he was doing. The only reason he had taken command was that following Erich would have led to disaster. Of course, he seemed to be leading them to disaster at a brisk trot himself.

  Half an hour later, as the purple twilight was thickening into murky blue, the trail finally divided. It had been hugging a steep mountainside, but then widened into a broad, boulder-strewn shoulder that rose at its far end into a razor-backed ridge. The path split around this, the left way swinging wide and angling down the ridge’s outer slope, the right rising up into the cleft ‘twixt it and the mountain. To Reiner’s annoyance, both were wide enough to accommodate a marching column. The men examined the ground of each in the dim half light.

  ‘Plenty of hoofprints up this side,’ called Hals.

  ‘Here too,’ said Oskar.

  Reiner groaned. Why couldn’t it be a simple decision? Why couldn’t he say boldly, ‘This is the one, lads. Clearly this is the path less travelled.’ Now he had to guess, take an even-odds gamble. He never made a wager at even odds. Gambling was for fools. Though laymen often called Ranald the god of gamblers, in reality, followers of the Trickster gambled as little as possible. Rigging the odds in one’s favour was a holy duty, a sacrament. One never entered a game of chance without an edge of some kind: loaded dice, marked cards, an accomplice. Here there was no way to force an advantage. Here there was no mark to gull, no extra ace to palm. He had to roll clean dice with fate like some rustic peasant, and hope.

  ‘What do you think, lads?’ he asked. ‘Which way looks more promising?’

  ‘Both the same,’ said Giano shrugging.

  ‘This one might be a little sparse,’ said Hals uncertainly. ‘Then again it might not.’

  ‘What if we wait at the fork?’ said Franz. ‘See which way they mean to go, then go the other.’

  The company turned to stare at him. Reiner gaped. It was a good idea.

  ‘But they’ll see us,’ said Oskar.

  ‘No. No they won’t,’ said Reiner, heart pounding with newfound hope. ‘They’ll have torches by now. We’ll stay dark, invisible. And the path splits early enough that we’ll know which way they’re heading long before they’re upon us.’ He patted Franz on the shoulder. ‘Good thinking, lad.’

  The boy beamed.

  Reiner looked back down the trail. It was so dark now he could hardly see five yards. ‘We’ll sit right here. Wear your cloaks over your packs, and wrap your swords. We don’t want any steel reflecting their torchlight. Might as well have a bite to eat while we wait.’

  They huddled together at the blunt tip of the ridge, gnawing on nearly frozen bread and sipping from canteens they had to bang against rocks in order to break the skins of ice that stoppered them. Fast-moving clouds nearly filled the sky. The rising moons were only rarely visible. Finally, almost an hour after full dark, the Kurgan host arrived. The men heard them before they saw them, a faint rumble like a far-off avalanche that never stopped: the sound of boots and hooves on stone, chains dragging through gravel, the crack of whips and the guttural marching cadences of the raider infantry.

  By the time the men put away their food and made ready to move, a dim orange glow began to rim the path where it curved around the mountain. The glow grew brighter and the rumble louder until at last the Kurgan column appeared around the bend. Three slaves on long leashes came first. They held aloft torches on tall poles that cast a baleful light upon the Kurgan horsemen that followed them. Reiner swallowed as he saw them. He heard Franz moan beside him.

  Though it was difficult to judge scale at this distance, all of the mounted marauders looked enormous, larger even than the monstrous men they had faced in the convent, but in the centre of the first rank rode a veritable giant. Mounted on a barded warhorse that made the largest destrier Reiner had ever seen look like a pony, was a knight—if a daemon-worshipping northern vandal could be given so noble a title—in full plate armour, lacquered a deep blood red and chased with bronze accents. His head was entirely encased in an elaborate helmet, built to look like a dragons head. The resemblance was heightened by the two double-headed axes that rose from behind his massive shoulders like steel wings. Each must have been as tall as a man. The very sight of him turned Reiner’s blood to water. The knight seemed to radiate fear like a stove radiates heat. Reiner wanted to run and hide, to curl up and weep.

  His retinue was only less fearsome by comparison. Had the evil knight not been there, the marauders alone would have been quite enough to make Reiner quake in his boots. They were massive, muscular northmen, most in horned helmets and armour of ringmail, leather and the occasional gorget or breastplate. Some rode bare-chested, their sinewy arms and knotted torsos seemingly impervious to cold. But all had the same fell look. Their eyes were hooded and hidden. Not a glint of light reflected from them, not even those who wore no covering helmet, and they stared dead ahead, looking neither left nor right, though Reiner’s skin crawled with the feeling that their awareness was examining every part of him like the beam of some glowing eye. Every fibre of his being told him to run.

  ‘Wait for it, lads,’ he whispered, as jauntily as he could manage. ‘Wait for it.’

  The horsemen continued pouring around the curve five abreast until more than a hundred rode behind the knight, then came foot soldiers, a ragged group who walked rather than marched into the valley.

  ‘Look at ‘em,’ sneered Hals. ‘Not one of ‘em in step. No discipline.’

  Just as the ranks of slaves began shuffling into view and the head of the column had reached the widening shoulder, one of the fell knight’s lieutenants peeled off from the squad of riders and faced about. As the others rode on, he raised his hand and began bellowing orders in a bestial voice.

  ‘Do they set up camp?’ asked Erich uneasily.

  Reiner hoped that it was true, for it would give the party some time to find a way around them, but he wasn’t so lucky. There was movement in the ranks: captains shouting at their companies, overseers roaring at their slaves, wagon masters calling to each other, and for a moment all seemed chaos and confusion.

  Hals squinted at the reforming column. ‘What are they about? Oskar, you’ve got the eyes. What are they doing?’

  ‘They are… They are…’ said the artilleryman as he tried to make it out.

  But by then it was clear to everyone what the Kurgan force was doing. As the mounted lieutenant stood in his saddle, motioning and shouting, the column began to split to his left and right like a river breaking around an island, some going one way, some the other.

  Reiner’s heart sunk. He groaned. ‘The cursed heathen. They’re splitting up. They’re taking both paths.’

  ‘Myrmidia, protect us,’ said Ulf.

  Oskar was whimpering, high in his throat.

  Reiner wanted to cut and run, but he forced his fear down with both hands and remained where he was.

  Erich turned on Franz. ‘Foolish boy, we could have been far away by now. Now they are upon us.’ ‘Lay off him, von Eisenberg,’ said Reiner. ‘He suggested it. I ordered it.’

  ‘But which way do we go?’ asked Gustaf, querulously.

  ‘Whichever way he doesn’t,’ muttered Hals, and no one had to ask who ‘he’ was. They could feel the fell knight’s presence growing stronger as he neared.

  ‘We go the way the slaves go,’ said Reiner, relieved to be able to give an order he had some confidence in. ‘They’ll slow the train.’

  The slaves went right, and the company breathed a simultaneous sigh of relief, for the red knight and most of his retinue had angled left, followed by half of the foot soldiers. A smaller company of horsemen led the slav
es and the rest of the infantry.

  ‘Right, lads,’ said Reiner, letting the tension out of his shoulders. ‘That’s decided. Off we go.’

  The party stood and hurried up the right-hand path into the dark cleft. No, thought Reiner. Though he hated to admit it, they didn’t hurry. They fled.

  NINE

  Trapped Like Rats

  REINER AND THE rest ran up the path in almost total darkness, tripping and cursing, but not daring to light a torch. When the wind-whipped clouds allowed it, the light of Morrslieb and Mannslieb illuminated the mountain tops, but the two moons hadn’t yet risen high enough to shine down into the tight crevasse through which the company stumbled. They might have passed any number of branching paths, but they were invisible, blending into the dark basalt of the cliff sides.

  All around Reiner came the hoarse breathing of the men. He recognised Franz’s light quick breaths, Pavel’s thready wheeze, Ulfs deep inhalations. They were exhausted. Waiting for the Chaos army had refreshed them a little, but it had been no replacement for sleep. They must stop soon. Even in the midst of their panicked flight, Reiner felt his eyelids drooping. It was pitch dark anyway. He might as well walk with his eyes closed.

  After that Reiner was often unsure whether he was walking or sleeping—whether he was walking in a dream, or dreaming that he was walking. He drifted in and out of consciousness so often that he had no sense of the passage of time. He had no idea how long they had been travelling when, just as they topped a rise in the path, the steep ridges that had hemmed them in for so long opened away from them and they found themselves standing on the lip of a deep valley carpeted with a thousand points of light.

  Reiner frowned sleepily. The lights looked like stars, but stars belonged in the sky. Maybe it was a lake.

  ‘Torches,’ said Oskar.

  Reiner shook his head, clearing the fog from his brain. They were torches.

  He stepped back into the shadows, heart thudding, and surveyed the valley. The others did the same. As if on cue, the clouds parted again and the two moons shone down on the scene.

  The curving walls of the valley were rusty orange stone, and terraced like some giant’s staircase. There were holes in the walls on each level, and odd ramshackle structures clinging precariously to the steps: little shacks, wooden sluice runs, scaffolding—except where one of the terraces had collapsed and slid in a heap to the valley floor. The furthest third of the valley was walled off by thick stone battlements, beyond which the party could just make out a confusion of low buildings built around the glowing orange mouth of what looked like a giant cave. But the sight that drew all their eyes was what was in front of the battlements: a sprawling camp of leather tents and blazing campfires, wagons and horses, and laughing, drinking, fighting barbarians.

  Kurgan.

  ‘Sigmar preserve us,’ whimpered Oskar.

  Reiner clamped a hand over the artilleryman’s mouth, for he had suddenly noticed, not twenty paces to their left, a stone watch tower carved out of the valley wall. Oskar grunted in protest. The others turned. Reiner pointed to the tower. There were no torches visible, but Reiner was sure he’d seen a hulking figure moving above the crenellations. He motioned the others to retreat. When they were out of sight, Reiner slumped against the rocky wall and closed his eyes. The others gathered around him.

  He rubbed his face with his hands. ‘Well, we’re in a spot, and no mistake.’

  ‘Trapped like rats,’ quavered Oskar.

  ‘Kurgan in front of us,’ said Ulf.

  ‘Kurgan behind us,’ said Pavel.

  ‘Kurgan up our bloody fundaments,’ growled Hals.

  Reiner chuckled mirthlessly. ‘I suppose, Erich, this is where you tell me “I told you so”.’

  There was no answer. Reiner looked up. He didn’t see the blond knight. ‘Where’s von Eisenberg?’

  The others looked around. Erich wasn’t with them.

  Reiner frowned. ‘Any of you hear him drop back?’

  Everyone shook their heads.

  ‘Any of you slip a knife in his back?’

  Silence.

  ‘I wouldn’t blame you if you did, but I want to know.’

  More headshaking and ‘not I’s’ answered him.

  ‘Then where’s he got to?’

  ‘Maybe he’s having a piss,’ muttered Gustaf.

  ‘That one don’t piss,’ said Hals. ‘He’s perfect.’

  ‘Probably found a little hidey hole back there in the dark,’ said Pavel. ‘And didn’t see fit to tell us. He’ll slip around the northers once they’ve passed.’

  ‘Aye,’ said Giano. ‘Stupid schoolboy. All he want is to tattle tales to Valdenheim.’

  ‘A lot of good that’ll do him,’ said Franz.

  ‘Well, never mind about him,’ said Reiner. ‘He’s made his decision. We have to make ours. This place, whatever it is, is obviously the destination of the fellows behind us.’

  ‘It’s a mine,’ said Ulf. ‘An iron mine.’

  The others looked up at him.

  ‘Myrmidia’s mercy,’ said Franz. ‘The slaves. They’re bringing them here for the mine.’

  ‘And mining iron for weapons and armour,’ said Ulf.

  ‘Bad news for the Empire,’ said Hals.

  ‘But good news for us,’ said Reiner. ‘At least I hope so.’ He turned to Ulf. ‘Urquart, those holes in the walls. They’re mine-heads, yes?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Then they’ll be deep enough to hide in?’

  ‘Oh, certainly.’

  ‘Then here’s the plan. We slip past the tower, sneak along one of those ledges, duck into a hole and wait there until tomorrow night. By that time, the enemy troops behind us will have made camp, and we can sneak back out and away from these damned mountains with none the wiser.’

  ‘Hear hear,’ said Franz.

  ‘You make it sound so easy,’ said Gustaf. ‘What if we’re seen passing the tower? What if another force comes up the path tomorrow night?’

  ‘I’ll take any suggestions,’ said Reiner.

  Gustaf grunted, but said nothing.

  The party edged back to the lip of the valley, standing just within the shadow of the canyon walls, and looked up at the tower. The Kurgan guard appeared and disappeared at regular intervals as he paced the top of the tower.

  ‘Now?’ asked Franz as the guard turned away again.

  Reiner looked at the sky, another armada of clouds was sailing in from the north east. ‘A moment.’

  The clouds ate the moons once again and darkness covered the valley.

  ‘Now we go.’

  The men tiptoed swiftly to the nearest terrace, each of which connected to the path as it sloped down the hill. There was a collapsed shack near the close end. They crowded in behind it and waited, listening for the guard to call a challenge. None came.

  ‘Come on. Before the clouds pass,’ said Reiner.

  They crept along the terrace to the first entrance. It was boarded up. Reiner tugged experimentally on the planks. They creaked alarmingly.

  ‘Let’s try further on.’

  But the next entrance was walled up with brick and mortar.

  ‘Why would anyone go to the trouble?’ asked Reiner, annoyed.

  ‘Cave-ins,’ said Ulf. ‘Or sink holes. You saw the landslide. This wall was probably overmined and became unstable.’

  Oskar gulped. ‘Unstable?’

  The third hole was boarded up as well, but the boards were so weathered and warped that they had pulled away almost entirely from their nails. A trickle of water ran out from under the barricade and had carved a channel in the terrace.

  ‘This looks promising,’ said Reiner.

  He and Hals and Giano began pulling the boards away as quietly as possible and set them aside. Some were so rotten they crumbled in their hands.

  At last they had cleared the opening, and the timber-framed entrance yawned before them. It was easy to see why it had been closed. Water dripped from above, and it was
clear that it had eaten away much of the ceiling. An attempt had been made to shore it up with wide boards propped up by posts, beams and bits of scrap lumber—so many that the entrance looked like a forest of thin, limbless trees—but the water had seeped into all of these, and they were bowed and rotting. The floor of the tunnel was muddy and calf-deep in loose rock and earth which had fallen from above. Reiner didn’t like the look of it at all, but the clouds were thinning. There was no time to find another.

  ‘Come on, then,’ he said. ‘In we go. And each of you carry a board. We’ll have to close it up again from the inside or they’ll notice.’

  The others trooped in, each with a board under one arm, picking their way through the thicket of supports, but Oskar hung back, looking at the gaping hole with trepidation.

  ‘Come on, gunner,’ said Reiner.

  The artilleryman shook his head. ‘I don’t like holes.’

  Reiner rolled his eyes, impatient. ‘Nor do I. But in we must go’

  ‘I cannot,’ whimpered Oskar. ‘I cannot.’

  ‘You’ll have to. There’s no help for it.’ Reiner stepped toward Oskar, reaching out to him.

  The gunner pulled back. ‘No.’

  Reiner shot a glance over his shoulder and clenched his fists. ‘Oskar! Stop messing about!’ he hissed. He grabbed for Oskar’s elbow.

  Oskar flinched away and kicked a discarded beam with his heel. It tottered on the lip of the ledge, then tumbled down to the level below.

  Reiner groaned and looked back toward the tower. It was too dark out to see it. But he thought he heard a guttural voice call a question.

  Reiner lost his temper. ‘Curse you, you craven ninny!’ he whispered hoarsely, ‘Get in there!’ He leapt forward, grabbed Oskar by the arm and flung him into the opening.

  He regretted the action instantly, for the artilleryman flew into the first rank of props and knocked them hither and thither. One snapped in half. A shower of dirt and small stones rained down on the fallen Oskar and the ceiling groaned ominously.