Anna smiled and shook her head. “Anyone can feel afraid, Ratboy, but with such a devoted friend as you by his side, I think he will find his way.”
Ratboy’s eyes widened. “Friend? I’m not sure he’d—”
“Ratboy,” called a voice from further down the valley.
They looked around and saw the towering figure of Wolff, shielding his eyes from the light as he walked out from beneath the blackened trees.
“Yes, master,” replied Ratboy, leaping to his feet and stepping nervously away from Anna. “I’m just here with the priestess. She needed to use my knife.”
“I’m sure she has little use for your weapons, my boy.”
Anna rose to her feet and made a futile effort to dust down her robes. She barely reached Wolff’s chest, but sounded undaunted as she addressed him. “Apparently, I’m in your debt, Brother Wolff,” she said brusquely. “Surman was quite determined to make charcoal of me.”
Wolff massaged his scarred jaw as he studied her. “Surman’s a clever man, sister, but I doubt he could’ve turned a whole village against you. Not without some cause.” He peered intently into her eyes. “What might that cause have been I wonder?”
Colour rushed into Anna’s face and she laughed incredulously as she turned to Ratboy. “What did I tell you? These hammer hurlers are all alike: sanctimonious killers, the lot of them.”
“I merely asked you a question, sister.”
Anna shook her head. “Questions lead to bonfires, Brother Wolff. At least where you and your brethren are concerned.” She turned to leave. “I’d be better taking my chances with the damned.”
Wolff placed one hand on her shoulder and the other on the haft of his warhammer. “An answer please, sister.”
There was an awkward silence as Anna looked from Wolff to Ratboy. Then her shoulders dropped and she nodded. “My crime was a simple one, Brother Wolff. I’ve been working my way around this province for months now, trying to salvage a little hope from the chaos.” She sat down heavily on the grass and sighed.
“It’s been a losing battle. The woods are crawling with…” she shook her head in despair, “unspeakable things. I was travelling with a regiment of halberdiers from Wendorf, but even they weren’t safe: with all their armour and weapons they were powerless to stop the awful things we saw. They were heading to the capital, but I decided to stay here and see if I could help these poor people. I suppose I’m deluding myself though. What could I really do? The whole of Ostland seems on the verge of collapse.”
“Believe me, sister, we’re well acquainted with the situation,” replied Wolff.
“Really? Do you know how scared these people are? Those villagers were so glad to see me when I arrived. They were terrified of their own shadows. They begged me for help, so I gave it to them. Healing those I could and praying for those I couldn’t. The Weeping Maiden doesn’t make petty distinctions though. I found a man, dressed in mockery of the creatures that haunted his nightmares. He was covered in his own filth and praying to his livestock, so I attempted to help him.”
“Was the man corrupted?” asked Wolff, crouching next to her.
Anna’s eyes filled with tears as she gestured at the smouldering ruins that surrounded them. “Look around, Brother Wolff. Everything is corrupted. This province has been ripped apart. Such terms have lost their meaning. Living or dead. Sane or mad. They’re the only distinctions worth making nowadays.” She took a slow breath to calm herself.
“I don’t think he was worshipping the Ruinous Powers, if that’s what you mean. I think he’d lost his reason in the face of all this madness, but who could blame him for that? The villagers didn’t agree though. They found me trying to help him and added me to their long list of suspicions. The witch hunter arrived the following day and happily took matters out of their hands.” She looked up at Wolff with a sneer of disdain. “I imagine you’d have done much the same.”
The priest shook his head. “Maybe not, sister. I’ve seen a good many things I’d rather forget, but I don’t think my mind has become quite as twisted as Surman’s. Not yet, at least.” He stood up and looked out across the glittering water. “You’re not the first Sister of Shallya to fall foul of an overzealous witch hunter and I’m sure you won’t be the last. Surman’s no brother of mine. Monsters like him are a stain on the good name of my order.” Wolff removed one of his gloves and held out a hand. “If there’s anything I can do that would give you a better opinion of us, I’d be glad to help.”
Anna looked at Wolff’s open hand with suspicion. His broad fingers were misshapen with calluses and scars and there was dried blood beneath his splintered fingernails. Finally, she placed a hesitant hand in his and gave a reluctant nod. “I think I should return to my temple. I imagine they’re quite overwhelmed by now, but I think I may need a little healing myself. It’s just a few miles north of Lubrecht. If you’re heading that way, maybe we could travel together?” She gave a hollow laugh, and looked down at her scorched, battered limbs. “I’m not sure I’d make it very far on my own.”
“Gladly,” replied Wolff, and helped her to her feet.
Ostland was a land long accustomed to war. From as far back as Ratboy could remember, the province had been fighting for its life, but recently the stout hearts of its people had begun to falter. As the trio rode north he looked out over its gloomy forests and meadows, lo the west reared the ragged outline of the Middle Mountains. He had never ventured any closer than the heavily-wooded foothills, but even Ratboy knew the legends associated with those towering peaks. The myriad caves and crevices all sheltered some terrifying abomination: ogres, beastmen, every kind of monstrosity that could keep an honest man awake at night. Then he looked east, to the distant realm of Kislev, Realm of the Ice Queen, with her fierce fur-clad hordes; and then, covering everything in between, the Forest of Shadows. The woods of Ostland had always been a fearsome place, but until now the villages and homesteads had stood firm: staking their claims with axes, muscle and sheer bloody-mindedness. Over the last few months, however, Ratboy had seen his countrymen driven from their homes by a foe so numerous, and terrifying, that even the province’s cities were now in ruins. Only the capital, Wolfenburg, was still fully intact. Every face he saw, from infantryman to farmer, was filled with the same terrible questions: how much longer can we hold out against this onslaught? How long before I am trampled under the cloven hooves of the enemy?
“This must be the village you were looking for,” called Anna, from further up the trail. The ancient trees leant wearily over the path, making it hard to see through the arboreal gloom, but Ratboy could clearly hear the concern in Anna’s voice.
He turned to Wolff, who was riding beside him, and grimaced. “That sounds like bad news to me.” The warrior priest’s only reply was a stern nod, as he spurred his horse onwards.
The village of Gotburg sat in a small clearing, not far from the road to Bosenfels. Wolff had insisted they make a slight detour so that he could visit the place, but Ratboy struggled to see why. It was a pitiful sight. Like every other village they had encountered, its stockade was breached and burned, and several of the houses had been levelled. Unlike some of the others, however, it still boasted a few signs of life. As the trio arrived at the ruined gate, they saw a crowd gathered in the village square.
Ratboy gasped in dismay as he saw what they were doing.
Several dozen villagers were on their knees, thrashing their naked torsos with barbed strips and chanting frantically as blood poured from their scarred flesh. As the rest of the crowd looked on, the penitents were gradually whipping themselves to death. It was not just this that made Ratboy gasp; it was also the man who was the focus of their prayers. They seemed to be worshipping a corpse. A skeletal body was strapped to a broken gatepost with a sign hung around its neck. Its pale, naked flesh was lacerated all over with countless knife wounds, many of which were in the shape of a hammer. Scrawled on the sign, in dark, bloody letters, was a single word: REPENT.
Wolff scowled back at him as he dismounted. “Don’t mention such things, boy. These are Sigmar’s children.”
Anna had already tied her horse to a fence and rushed over to one of the spectators. It was a ruddy-faced old woodcutter with a chinstrap beard. As she approached him, the man waved her away furiously. “Stay back, healer. We don’t need your meddling hands here. The flagellants will save us from further attacks.” He gestured to the emaciated figure that was leading the prayers. “Raphael has foretold it. But only if they sacrifice themselves in our place.” He grabbed her by the arm and pulled her close. “It’s what Sigmar demands! There’s nothing you can do for them now.”
Ratboy noticed several of the villagers blanched at the woodcutter’s words. They looked anxiously at Anna as their friends and family spilled themselves across the dusty ground; but none of them seemed brave enough to contradict him. As the priestess looked to them for support, they turned away, blushing with shame at the horror being perpetrated on their behalf.
“‘He that cleaves his flesh in my name, abideth in me’,” quoted the man strapped to the post, raising his voice to regain the crowd’s attention and rolling his bloodshot eyes at the heavens.
Ratboy stepped a little closer to the gruesome display and realised the man was repeating the same words over and over again: “He that cleaves his flesh in my name, abideth in me.” He couldn’t understand how such a skeletal wretch could still breathe, never mind drive dozens of normal people to such a sickening death.
“Wait,” cried a deep powerful voice, and Ratboy saw that Wolff had strode up to the front of the group.
The skeletal man faltered, stumbling over his words as he tried to focus on Wolff’s thick claret robes and ornate, burnished armour. As the man’s words slowed, so did the frantic, jerking movements of the crowd. They lowered their whips and looked up expectantly at Wolff from beneath sweaty, matted hair.
The priest unclasped a small leather-bound book from a strap on his forearm. A confused silence descended over the square, as Wolff began to leaf through the text, frowning as he searched for the right passage. Finally, he paused, and smiled to himself, before looking out over the panting, bleeding congregation and addressing them in a voice that boomed around the square. “The quote is from the Book of Eberlinus,” he cried. “It reads thus: ‘He that cleaves flesh and blood in my name, abideth in me, and I in him’.”
The crowd looked at him open mouthed, uncomprehending.
Wolff nodded, willing them to understand. “Your faith is a glorious gesture. A gesture of defiance. I heard tales of your devotion as far away as Haundorf. It’s a wonder to behold such belief in the face of the countless evils that assail us.” He gestured towards the surrounding forest. “Your very survival hinges on it. So many have fallen by the wayside, but you, my pious children of Sigmar have survived everything, simply by the virtue of your faith.” He closed the little book with a snap and when he spoke again, his voice trembled with emotion. “If I had an army of men with hearts like yours, the war would over by nightfall.”
The flagellants began to nod and smile at each other, revelling in the priest’s praise. A few of them climbed unsteadily to their feet, wiping the blood from their eyes, and trying to calm their breathing enough to speak. “Priest,” gasped a middle-aged woman, with tears welling in her eyes. “I don’t understand. What you said about the quote—are we doing wrong?”
Wolff shook his head. “You’re not doing wrong, child, far from it. This man…” He turned to the skeletal figure slumped behind him.
The man’s eyes bulged in their sunken sockets and he trembled in awe as Wolff addressed him. “Raphael,” he whispered.
“Raphael,” repeated Wolff, “has filled you with the light of Sigmar, and none of you will ever be the same again.”
The congregation gasped and moaned with delight. Several of them crawled forwards and pawed at the hem of Wolff’s robes, sobbing in ecstasy and pressing their faces into the embroidered cloth.
Ratboy and Anna watched in amazement at how quickly Wolff had entranced the crowd. Even the spectators began to fall to their knees, muttering prayers of thanks and crossing their chests with the sign of the hammer.
“No,” continued Wolff, “you’re very far from doing wrong, my children.” Wolff paused and strapped the book back onto his arm. “However…” he allowed the word to echo around the square, “if you have the strength for the task, I would ask a favour of you.”
Raphael strained to free himself from the post. “Anything, father,” he gasped, pulling at his bonds until fresh streams of blood erupted from his wounds. “Let us serve you, I beg.”
“Aye,” cried the middle-aged woman, rushing over to Wolff and falling at his feet. “Let us serve you, lord. What would you ask?” She waved a trembling, bleeding arm at the assembled crowd. “We’ve tried to be penitent.” She grabbed a knife from her belt and held it to her own throat. “Should we try harder?”
Wolff placed a hand on her arm and lowered the blade. “Wait, daughter of Sigmar. Eberlinus’ words were not ‘He that cleaves his flesh in my name,’ they were ‘He that cleaves flesh in my name.’ The difference is subtle, but important.”
The woman frowned. “Then whose flesh should we cleave?”
“The enemy’s,” gasped Raphael, finally freeing himself and tumbling to the ground at Wolff’s feet. “You wish us to march with you.”
Wolff gave Raphael a paternal smile.
CHAPTER FOUR
BLOOD SPORTS
Music was drifting across the ruined landscape. As a merciful dusk fell over the crumbling farms and villages, chords echoed through the smoking wreckage and as the three riders steered their mounts north, ghostly harmonies drifted out of the dark to meet them.
Wolff rode up the side of a hill to find the source of the strange noise. “Hired swords,” he said, beckoning to Anna and Ratboy to come and see. They rode up beside him and saw a merry trail of lights snaking through the hills towards them. Several regiments of soldiers were travelling north. Proud, armoured knights on barded mounts. Over their heads fluttered banners bearing a symbol Ratboy didn’t recognise: a pair of bright yellow swords, emblazoned on a black background. The men wore the most incredible uniforms Ratboy had ever seen. Huge, plumed hats and elaborately frilled collars, all dyed with a yellow pigment so bright that even the chill gloom of an Ostland evening failed to dampen its cheeriness.
“Who are they?” he asked, turning to his master.
Wolff wrinkled his nose with distaste. “Southerners,” he muttered.
“Southerners?” asked Ratboy. “From Reikland?”
Wolff shook his head. “No. They’re a long way from home, by the looks of them. Averland, maybe, although half of them look like Tilean freelancers. Sigmar knows what would drag them so far north, but I’m glad to see them here—whatever the reason.” He leant forward in his saddle and peered through the darkness. “Although, I fear their general may have already been injured. See how he rolls in his saddle?”
Ratboy and Anna followed Wolff’s gaze. Near to the front of the regiment, surrounded by standard bearers and musicians rode a knight whose armour was even more ornate than the others. His winged helmet was trimmed with gold, and as he lolled back and forth on his horse, the metal flashed in the moonlight, drawing attention to his lurching movements.
“Strange music for times such as these,” said Anna.
The drummers and pipers that surrounded the general were skipping merrily through the long grass, oblivious to the gentle Ostland rain that was banking over the hills. They were playing a jig and the snatches of song that reached Wolff and the others sounded oddly raucous. In the face of the shattered homes and towers that covered the landscape, it seemed almost disrespectful.
Wolff nodded. “Indeed.” He turned his horse aro
und to face the shambling figures that were staggering up the hillside behind them. Raphael was too weak to walk, so the rest of the flagellants had fashioned a makeshift litter to drag him along on. As they climbed slowly towards the priest, the sound of their whips could be clearly heard, along with their frantic prayers. “Just a little further,” he called out to them. “There’s an army ahead. I must speak with the general. Wait here and I’ll send word if it’s safe to approach.”
Raphael waved weakly in reply.
Anna watched as the penitents stumbled towards them. She shook her head in dismay at the awful violence they were inflicting on their own flesh. “At a word from you they would drop those whips,” she said, glaring at Wolff. “Have you no pity?”
Ratboy flinched at the venom in her voice, but Wolff simply ignored her.
As the three of them rode down the hill towards the troops, they saw the injured general summon an officer to his side, who then rode out to meet them. As he approached, they saw he was rake-thin with a long aristocratic face that sneered disdainfully at them as he approached. He carried a brightly polished shield, engraved with the same yellow swords as the banners, and as he reached the top of the hill Ratboy marvelled at the fine, gold embroidery that covered his clothes. He’d never seen such a flamboyantly dressed man. He wore a wide drooping hat, topped with ostrich feathers and studded with pearls, and his slashed leather jerkin was stretched tightly over a bright yellow silk doublet that shimmered as he moved. His short cloak was edged with lace and even his elaborate codpiece was stitched with gold thread. With his fine attire and twirled, waxed moustaches, Ratboy imagined he would be more at home on an elegant, sunlit boulevard than a muddy Ostland battlefield.
05 - Warrior Priest Page 4
