05 - Warrior Priest

by Darius Hinks - (ebook by Undead)

  “Good evening, father,” he said, with a curt nod to Wolff. “I’m Obermarshall Hugo von Gryphius’ adjutant. He sends you his regards and offers you his hospitality.” The valet looked less than hospitable however, and his thickly accented voice was cool as he continued. “We’ll be making camp soon and Obermarshall von Gryphius would be interested to hear news of the war, especially from a senior priest such as yourself.”

  “We’d be glad of the general’s protection,” replied Wolff, “but I’m afraid we’re only just heading north ourselves. I doubt we know much more than your lord.”

  The valet pursed his lips in irritation, but gave a stiff bow all the same. “Very well, I’m sure my lord would still be keen to speak to you.” He looked briefly at Anna and then waved his frilled sleeve down the hill, signalling for them to lead the way. “He generally takes pleasure in good company.”

  “I have a group of followers with me—” began Wolff.

  “I’ll see to them,” snapped the valet, and gestured towards the army again.

  As they followed the soldier down the hill, Ratboy felt as though he were entering a strange dream. The musicians were dancing in and out of the horses, dressed in elaborate animal costumes and banging tambourines as they whirled back and forth through the rain. The swarthy soldiers eyed the new arrivals suspiciously from beneath their sallet helmets, but they seemed too exhausted to give them much attention and soon looked back down at their mud-splattered horses, riding onwards through the valley with a slow determination that hinted at months of travel.

  The Obermarshall was as unlike his adjutant as he could possibly be: a short, pot-bellied lump, with a soft, ebullient face that seemed quite out place in his finely wrought helmet. His small, ebony eyes sparkled with pleasure as he saw Anna, and his olive skin fractured into a network of wrinkles. “What a joy to encounter friendly faces in such grim surroundings,” he said in a thin, piping voice.

  Ratboy frowned. The general seemed barely able to stay in his saddle, but bore no obvious signs of injury and he wondered what ailed the man. As they reached his side, however, he had his answer: rather than wielding weapons, the general had a bottle of sherry in one hand and a large glass in the other. As he enthusiastically hugged each of his guests in turn, they winced at the thick stench of garlic and alcohol that surrounded him.

  “You poor things—what’s happened to you?” he asked, noticing their scorched, bloody clothes.

  Wolff studied the wine and food stains that covered the general’s armour, before replying. “We’re at war, Obermarshall, like the rest of this forsaken province.”

  The general seemed oblivious to the disapproving tone in Wolff’s voice. His eyes lit up with excitement and he leant forward in his saddle. “Ah, yes, the war. That’s exactly why we’re here.” He took a swig of sherry, spilling most of it down his tunic. “In fact, once we’ve made camp, I’d like to pick your brains. I believe it’s all happening north of here somewhere? Is that right?” He chuckled and slapped Wolff’s armour. “These things usually happen somewhere in the north, don’t they?”

  Wolff’s nostrils flared and he drew a breath to answer, but then he seemed to think better of it and simply nodded.

  “Christoff,” cried the general. “Pitch my tent over there, near that willow tree. I think it would make a pleasant subject for a sketch or two.”

  The old valet gave a little bow and backed away, snapping orders to the surrounding guards and stewards as he went.

  The general tumbled awkwardly from his warhorse, and gestured for Wolff and the others to sit next to him on the grass. “So,” he continued, once they had dismounted, “tell me about yourselves. What are your names?”

  “I’m Brother Jakob Wolff, and this is my acolyte, Anselm, although he goes by the name of Ratboy.”

  Gryphius took in Ratboy’s scrawny frame and tattered tunic and burst into laughter. “Ratboy! Of course he is! That’s wonderful.” He grabbed Ratboy’s shoulder and gave it a firm squeeze. “Ratboy,” he repeated, “that’s why I love you country folk. Always so quick to laugh at yourselves.”

  Wolff raised his eyebrows and remained silent until the general managed to stifle his mirth.

  “And this is Anna…” he looked over at her enquiringly.

  “Fleck,” she snapped, glaring at the priest. “I’m a Sister of Shallya, lord,” she continued, softening her voice and turning to the general, “and I’m trained in the healing arts, so if any of your men have injuries, I’d be happy to assist them.”

  “Of course,” replied the general, taking another swig of his sherry. “There’ll be plenty of time for that kind of thing later though. You all look quite ravenous.” He lurched to his feet and looked out over a teetering mass of tent poles, flaming torches and ascending banners. “Christoff,” he cried. “People are starving over here. Bring food for my guests, man. Where are you?”

  “On my way, lord,” came a reply from out of the darkness.

  “You look as though you may need medical assistance yourself,” said Gryphius, sitting down again and looking at Anna’s scorched, shaven head. “And I’m sure we could find you some more feminine clothes.”

  “These will be fine,” she replied, clutching her tatty white robes protectively. “Although a needle and thread would be appreciated.”

  “Christoff,” bawled the general, “bring the seamstress too.”

  “I don’t recognise your heraldry, Obermarshall,” said Wolff, gesturing to the swords on Gryphius’ ornate chest armour. “Where have you travelled from? Averland?”

  “Averhiem,” replied the general.

  Wolff nodded, but Ratboy gave the general a look of helpless confusion.

  Gryphius frowned. “It’s the home of the artists Tilmann and Donatus, and the composer, Ortlieb. You must have heard of the playwright Eustacius at least?”

  Ratboy shook his head.

  Colour flushed into the general’s round cheeks and he gave an embarrassed cough. “Well, I can assure you, he’s quite a talent. Prince Eustacius enjoys the patronage of the Emperor himself.”

  “But what brings you so far from home?” asked Wolff, keen to change the subject. “Of all the provinces in the Empire, Ostland’s not the safest place to be at the moment. These are dangerous times to be abroad, Obermarshall. You’re lucky to have got this far without encountering the enemy.”

  The general grinned, revealing a row of small, uneven teeth. “But that’s exactly why I’m here.” He patted the rapier on his lap. “I wish to test my mettle against the minions of the Dark Gods.” He puffed out his chest and attempted to suck in his paunch. “In Averheim, the name von Gryphius is a byword for fearless heroism. There are few foes I have yet to pit myself against: greenskins, dragons, necromancers; all have learned to fear my name.” He leant forward and spoke in a conspiratorial tone. “I’ve heard there’s a great champion leading this new incursion into your Empire—even greater than the one called Archaon who preceded him.” He drew his sword, narrowly missing Ratboy’s face as he waved it at the sky.

  “Imagine the glory of slaying such a monster! The name von Gryphius would echo down the centuries.”

  “But my lord,” replied Anna, “the whole province is overrun with marauders and bandits. Even the capital’s half ruined. Those who can have fled south, to Reikland. Is it wise for you to risk your men in such a campaign?”

  The smile slipped from von Gryphius’ face. “I can assure you, Anna, I’m not one to avoid danger. Your Elector Count needs brave men at his side in times such as these, and mine are amongst the bravest. If there’s anything we can do to help von Raukov repel these fiends, then we’ll do it.” He sheathed his sword and smiled again, picturing his glorious, impending victory. Then, remembering his guests, he patted Ratboy’s leg. “But enough about me, what drags you three so far north?”

  “We’re looking for a regiment named the Ostland Black Guard,” Wolff replied. “I believe they’re engaged in the same conflict you’re heading tow
ards. And, of course, I wish to lend my support to the army. They will need great spiritual fortitude in the face of such foes. ‘By Sigmar’s light may we know what is to be done; and only through his strength may we avoid the abyss.’”

  “Indeed,” replied Gryphius, winking at Anna and taking another swig of sherry. “My thoughts exactly.” He offered the bottle to his guests and when they declined, he shrugged and drank a little more. “I can see that you would wish to join the army as quickly as possible, but what is the importance of this Black Guard? Is that a regiment you have connections with?”

  Wolff paused before replying. “Of a sort,” he said, making it clear he did not wish to discuss the matter further.

  “I see.” Gryphius slapped his thigh and lurched to his feet. “Well, I believe that’s my tent ready,” he said, offering Anna his hand. “Let’s go and make ourselves a little more comfortable. I’ll see if Christoff has found you some food yet.”

  A grand pavilion had appeared behind them, and as Gryphius staggered towards its black and yellow domes, he regaled them with tales of his chef’s wonderful creations.

  “I feel it’s important to maintain one’s standards, even during times of hardship,” he explained. “At all times I include in my entourage a chef of the very best quality,”—he waved at the musicians dancing around the growing campsite—“as well as entertainers and artists of renown.” He paused and looked earnestly at Anna. “I’m something of a patron of the arts,” he said. “In fact, I’m more than just a patron.” As a bowing Christoff opened the door of the tent, Gryphius strode inside and gestured to an array of canvases that were scattered across the silk cushions within. “Many of these are my own work.”

  “Really?” replied Anna, feigning interest. They all paused to look at a large canvas that Gryphius held up to them. It was a seemingly random collection of black brushstrokes.

  “As you can see, it’s after Vridel,” he explained, looking at them eagerly. “Are you admirers of the Heinczel school?”

  Anna turned to Wolff and Ratboy for support.

  “Generally, Ostlanders don’t have a lot of time to study paintings,” answered Wolff.

  “Is that so?” replied the general, shaking his head sadly. He dropped the canvas to the floor and waved at the cushions that filled the tent. “Well, make yourselves comfortable, please.”

  “Did you mention food,” asked Ratboy, eyeing up a heavily laden table at the back of the tent.

  “Of course,” exclaimed the general, “tuck in, my boy, tuck in!”

  Ratboy and the others hesitated for a moment, daunted by the exotic array of strange dishes. Brightly coloured fruits with thick rubbery skins and unfamiliar cuts of meat were arrayed in a fantastically gaudy display. None of them had ever seen anything like it before; but Ratboy’s hunger soon overcame all other concerns and he began to wolf down the strange food, murmuring with pleasure as he devoured the rich morsels on offer.

  “Please, I insist,” said von Gryphius, nodding encouragingly to the two hesitant priests.

  “Well, maybe a little bread,” replied Wolff and began to eat.

  Anna followed suit and all conversation ceased for a few minutes as the grinning general watched them eating.

  A little while later, sprawled sleepily on silk cushions and surrounded by the soft glow of a dozen candles, the three travellers finally began to relax. They stretched out their aching, bruised limbs and massaged their stiff joints as von Gryphius’ servants flitted discreetly back and forth.

  The general was slumped on an ornate throne and the sherry was finally starting to take effect; every few minutes he would make himself jump with a little snore, and then gradually nod off to sleep again. At the far end of the tent, a harpist played a gentle lament while a dancer twirled back and forth, dressed as a signet.

  “Obermarshall,” said Wolff, causing the general to snort in surprise and sit bolt upright.

  “Yes?” he replied, giving the priest a bleary eyed grin. “Make yourself at home,” he muttered. “Christoff has seen to your men. You can sleep here in my tent tonight. We’ll sort out your own accommodation tomorrow.”

  “I just wondered, lord. If we might make a slight detour tomorrow.” He looked at Anna, struggling to stay awake at his side. “Sister Fleck’s hospital is not far from here. Could we escort her home? I’m sure she has little desire to travel any further in my company.”

  “Of course,” replied the general with a dismissive wave of his hand. He looked at Anna with heavy, half-lidded eyes. “I should be glad to assist her in any way possible. We can leave most of the troops to rest for the morning and head out by ourselves.” He grinned toothily at Anna. “In a more intimate group.”

  “I was a foundling—like many of the sisters,” explained Anna as her horse picked its way through a grey smudge of clinging mist and drooping, dew-laden boughs. “The matriarch is a wonderful, inspirational woman—an abbess, called Sister Gundram—and she made me a ward of temple. It’s a very isolated existence, as you can imagine. For the first ten years of my life I never so much as laid eyes on a man.”

  At this, Gryphius looked up from the churned muddy path they were following and gave her a sly smile, but Anna was lost in her reverie and carried on oblivious.

  “I couldn’t have wished for a more caring family—the sisters even taught me to read and write.” She nodded at Wolff, who was riding a few feet ahead, talking to some of Gryphius’ guards. “And, unlike other priesthoods, the Shallyan faith is not above explaining the beliefs of the other churches, so I gained an understanding of the less,” she paused, searching for the right word, “open-minded faiths.”

  “It sounds like an idyllic childhood,” said Gryphius, nodding his head and adopting a more serious expression.

  Anna nodded. “Having seen the conditions of other children in the province, I think I was probably very lucky.” She looked Gryphius in the eye. “You must understand though, the abbey is a working hospital, so from as soon as I was able to hold a pail of water, I’ve been helping the sick and the injured. It wasn’t always the easiest place to grow up. My childhood prayers were often drowned out by the screams of the dying.”

  Gryphius leant a little closer and placed a comforting hand on Anna’s arm.

  “Obermarshall,” called one of the soldiers and Anna and Gryphius followed the man’s finger to see an even darker smudge up ahead.

  “I think that’s the abbey,” muttered Anna, peering through the morning mist and frowning, “but I’m not sure. There’s something not right. Why does it look so dark?”

  Wolff’s heavy brow knotted in a frown as he led his warhorse towards the building.

  As they moved closer, the explanation for the darkness was clear: the Temple of the Bleeding Heart had been put to the torch.

  Ratboy felt Anna’s pain, as he saw that the simple, white-washed building was now little more than a blackened ruin.

  “What kind of monsters could do this?” Anna groaned, pawing desperately at her pale scalp as she rode closer. “What of my sisters? What of the children?”

  Wolff shook his head in anger, before steering his horse up the hill at a quick canter. Ratboy rode quickly after him, along with von Gryphius and his guardsmen.

  “We must find Sister Gundram. She’s the abbess,” gasped Anna, looking around desperately as they rode closer. The fear in her voice made Ratboy wince. “I beg you, help me find her.”

  The temple must once have been an impressive complex, thought Ratboy as they approached it: infirmaries, chapels and a domed chapterhouse in the centre, all surrounded by a low wall in the shape of a teardrop, but almost all of it had been razed to the ground. The violence went beyond mere vandalism, though. As they reached the top of the hill, they began to notice charred human remains littered throughout the ruins.

  The colour drained from von Gryphius’ face and he turned to Anna. “Wait here,” he snapped, signalling for his men to guard her. “Let us scout ahead first.”

&nbs
p; Anna’s eyes were wide with shock and she seemed too dazed to disagree. She gave a mute nod as Gryphius rode ahead.

  As they entered the central courtyard, Wolff dismounted and approached one of the corpses. The blackened bodies were barely recognisable as human, but as the priest crouched next to them, he gave a little sigh of relief. “These aren’t children,” he breathed through gritted teeth. “State troops by the looks of them.” He gestured to a broken sword lying on the ground. “There was some kind of defence here at least. The priestesses didn’t meet their fate alone.”

  “Maybe the children were evacuated then?” said Ratboy, dismounting and rushing to his master’s side.

  Wolff nodded. “It’s possible. We must look inside.” He looked up at the general in surprise as he realised he was unaccompanied. “We might need at least a few of your men, Obermarshall.”

  Von Gryphius gave a loud, slightly forced laugh. “What, and share all the fun? Is that wise, priest?” he asked. He gestured to the swords and pistols that hung from his belt. “I’m sure we can handle a few cowardly temple thieves.”

  “Obermarshall, the minions of the Dark Gods may not be the easy prey you’re expecting. These creatures are unlike anything you will have faced before.”

  The general grinned. “Of course, Brother Wolff—that’s why I’m here.” He looked at the shattered buildings. “I can’t imagine there’s anyone alive in there anyway.” He toppled from his charger and drew his rapier, swaying slightly as he squinted into the smoke-filled ruins. “Lead the way, priest.”

  More bodies were scattered around the cloistered pathways within. Ratboy tried to avert his gaze, but couldn’t help noticing that some of the shapes were clad in white robes and were clearly not soldiers. He pictured Anna, waiting on the hillside below, and felt his eyes prickle with tears. Who could do such a thing, he wondered?

  “It looks like we’ve found your prey, Obermarshall,” snapped Wolff, kicking one of the corpses.