No human would have detected his movement across the path, even if there’d been anyone watching. The few surviving local creatures, a scrawny rat picking at the dry remains of a bird carcass, while its mate plucked sadly at its battered feathers from the low branch of the nearest tree, didn’t so much as blink at his passing.
Within the hour, Gilead knew that whatever had belonged to the shadow that Brigida had shied from, was gone, or else had been a figment of her imagination. Everyone was jumpy. Everyone had been jumpy for a long time.
Gilead spent the next two hours foraging for what he would need to sustain him for the remainder of the day, for, once the mare was rested, he would continue his search for the elusive creature that had blighted the sunrise.
The soil was pale and poor, and would have been blown away on the breeze long ago if it weren’t for the tenacious hold of the woodland trees’ roots. They were stunted and twisted, wore greying or yellowing leaves, and their bark was pitted and sallow, but they clung on, the most ancient of life forms, biding their time until the tide should turn and the world should be rid of the plague that spread insidiously across its lands.
The shoots and leaves that Gilead favoured to flavour his meals and provide aromatic salads had not been seen for a dozen seasons or more, and he had taken to foraging a little below the surface of the earth for tubers, roots and corms that provided some meagre sustenance, though often their flesh was stringy and dry, and he had to pummel and mince them after long cooking to extract any nutrients buried within. He collected enough wood to make a small fire, the smoke from which would be dissipated among the lower branches of the trees, rendering his position undetectable from more than a dozen yards away. He sourced water from an old, shallow culvert, the contents surprisingly fresh and sweet in the otherwise inhospitable surroundings; no doubt because there were neither humans nor animals in any numbers to deplete the stream.
Gilead bathed, ate, and refreshed himself, and, when the time came, he packed his belongings and led the palfrey out onto the road. He followed in Brigida and Ignaz’s footsteps, keeping close to the ditch, crossing the road at its turns to ensure that his shadow was hidden, and he kept his mare relaxed and quiet.
He would be seen, and not seen. He would hide in plain sight, casting no scents nor sounds nor sudden movements into the air. The humans would hardly know he was there, yet, when they had need of him, he would respond.
His senses on full alert, Gilead tracked every sound, every movement, every scent on the air. As he came close to the subdued little town of Bortz, two hundred miles south-west of Bechafen, the natural smells and sounds of the open landscape drifted away, and the stink of fear and the sound of tremulous resentment tripping from the lips of the doleful humans filled his senses.
‘They say Brigida saw a shadow on the road, this morning,’ said one young woman as Gilead listened in.
‘We’re all seeing shadows,’ said the old dame with her, ‘and with good reason. Death casts the longest shadow, and he’s among us now. Sigmar help us all!’
‘Don’t say so,’ said the younger woman, clutching the old dame by the crook of her arm.’
‘I do say so,’ said the dame. ‘I shall say so until I come to Sigmar’s wondrous presence, and I shall be glad to go.’
Gilead moved on. This was only talk, an old woman frightening instead of reassuring the child. This was rumour, not fact.
‘Not much of a labour fair,’ said a young man, dragging a half-filled, tarpaulin-covered cart in his wake.
‘Nothing worth buying labour for,’ said his companion, ‘and the quality of the labour to be had, so weak and poor.’
‘Shall it end, father?’ asked the youth pulling the cart.’
‘Not in my lifetime,’ said his father. ‘Not while Sigmar gives me breath.’
As Gilead approached the main square of the market town that had clearly once been a busy, even thriving centre of commerce, he heard the tentative dull clang of a handbell being lifted by someone inexpert at handling it.
The bell clanged again.
Gilead slid silently off the palfrey as the people around him stopped and turned to see where the noise was coming from.
Gilead watched as an old, bent man took the bell gently from the faltering hands of a tall slender, tired-looking man, the man that the elf had seen on the road. Gilead watched as the old man lifted the bell to an inverted, upright position in his hand and then relaxed his hand away, letting the bell drop onto its clapper, sending a clear, high note resonating across the square and out to the ears of the milling people.
More people stopped and turned, and, one by one, they began to move slowly back to gather in the square.
‘Ignaz has something to say,’ said the old man, inverting the bell and placing his hand over the clapper inside.
Ignaz coughed and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, as if he didn’t want to let the words out.
‘I couldn’t admit it before,’ he said.
‘Speak out, lad,’ said a middle-aged woman from the rear of the crowd.
‘I didn’t like to admit it to Brigida, this morning. I didn’t like to say it when there was no one to hear it, and us so vulnerable on the road alone.’
He coughed again.
‘Only we weren’t alone,’ he said.
‘Get to the nub of it, lad, the sun won’t stay up forever, and you know it,’ shouted the woman again, before one or two of the older men around her glared in her direction and shushed her.
‘It’s here,’ he said. ‘It’s among us. Brigida saw it this morning, but I told her nay.’ Ignaz gestured towards his wife whose faced turned an even paler shade of sallow, and the hollows beneath her eyes appeared to fill with greenish-black shadows. ‘I saw it too, but I kept it from her.’
‘Saw what?’ someone called from the crowd in the shrill, tremulous voice of an eager boy or a terrified woman.
‘Brigida saw a shadow. Then I saw it too.’
A murmur began to pass through the crowd. Some believed every word and were frightened of what might come next out of the man’s mouth, others were more sceptical, longer in the tooth or made of sterner stuff, others still could feel their sap rising and their instincts to fight kick in. One or two shook their fists or howled improvised war cries.
‘It doesn’t sound like much... A shadow,’ said Ignaz, ‘but it was like nothing I’ve ever seen. It was too long and too lean, and too... too... It wasn’t human.’
Someone shouted from the crowd ‘What time did you see your shadow?’, brave enough to heckle, if nothing else, ‘Was it at dawn, perchance? ‘Oooh... Loook... Look how long the shadows are! Sigmar save me!’ I’m sooo scared!’ The voice broke into laughter, and Gilead watched, unsurprised as a gathering of cocky boys started pummeling each other, playing at daemons for they knew not what else to do.
‘It’s here,’ said Ignaz. ‘The thing we’ve heard talk of. The rumours were true.’
The scents on the air grew stronger as the sky, filling steadily with clouds, darkened and the lowering sun was swallowed into its grey depths. Gilead could smell their fear on the air.
He tugged ever-so slightly on the mare’s rein and turned into its body as it made a small circle to face the way they had come. The boy with the cart and his father were standing too close, and Gilead had to jink to avoid them. Their eyes were cast across the market square to watch as Ignaz tried to continue.
The palfrey was less lucky, and, as the tightening rein tugged at her head, she whinnied, her nostrils flaring slightly.
‘Watch out,’ said the boy, steadying his cart with the handrails he still gripped as the horse bumped against it. ‘Look where you’re going with that stupid beast.’
The boy was already unnerved by what was going on in the square. They were all in a state of tension from the rumours that were passing from one town to the next about the plague that was in their midst, and the daemon that rode in on its heels.
Once the cart was stable
, the lad dropped his hold on the handrails and it bumped onto its stop-feet, leaning slightly. The boy slapped the palfrey hard on the flanks, and it skittered on its rear hoofs.
Gilead loosened his grip on the mare’s reins and turned to the boy, but the space around them was so limited, and the youth so agitated there was nothing he could do to prevent what happened next.
The heckling boys were scuffling with each other, and Ignaz’s voice was drowned out by the commotion that was gradually building. More of the locals were drawing close to see what the fuss was about, or to spread talk of what was happening. Gilead didn’t like it. He was suddenly in the middle of a tight little group of stressed people; the situation was becoming less and less predictable, and he wanted to get him and his mount out of there.
The youth slapped the horse again, and it pulled its head up, extending Gilead’s arm as he reached for a tighter hold, close on the horse’s head. The boy was drawing attention to the mare, and the mare was drawing attention to him. He kept his head low and his grip on the reins steady, and worked his body away from the youth and his cart. There appeared to be no way out as the scuffling boys started to kick and punch at one of their number, falling against the cart, which inched across the paving stones with a squeak and a groan, blocking the mare’s exit.
Gilead stood very close to the horse, his side against her foreleg, his shoulder against her neck. He leaned in gently and made soothing noises close to her ear. There was not room to mount her, and he didn’t want more eyes on him.
Then he heard the odd clang, again, the sound of the bell being mishandled, and the market square was suddenly filled with the ringing of the bell, loud and shrill as someone swung it inexpertly and too fast.
The horse, already jittery and hemmed-in, tried to bolt, but got its legs caught in the hand cart. It panicked and struck out, kicking the boy that was being tortured by his friends, landing a heavy hoof in the victim’s shoulder as he lay with his back on the cart. The boy yelped, and his friends stopped pummeling him, laughed, and tried to help him out of Gilead’s way.
Gilead was impotent to do anything but try to keep his horse under control. He could not allow himself to be seen or recognised. He had to remain slumped under his cloak, his height disguised and his head covered. It was easier said than done.
Finally, the old man intervened. He grabbed the youth’s hand as he pulled it back to slap the mare for a third time, and gave the cart a hard shove out of the way. The scuffling boys skipped off, dancing through the crowd, and Gilead breathed a sigh of relief.
The bell had quietened the crowd for the moment, and Gilead was sure that he could get away. He rubbed the mare’s nose and patted her lightly on the shoulder. He turned the reins over in his hand, adjusting his grip, and clicked his tongue to encourage her to walk on.
Gilead did not see the child.
In the confusion of the busy market square, when things had begun to happen, a diligent father standing a few yards away, had quietly picked up his child, lifted him over his head and sat him on his shoulders.
The child was suddenly the tallest person in the square, and watched, smiling, as the scene unfolded beneath him. He saw the boys arguing and the handcart getting bumped. He saw the skittish mare and the old man. He saw a hand reach up to the horse’s head to hold the reins. He saw the long, tapering fingers, the narrow, elegant wrist. He saw the fine skin and the beautifully turned cuff of a type of garment that he didn’t recognise.
All things are new and wondrous to a child. All creatures are fascinating.
Gilead did not notice the child, but, as he walked past, still soothing the mare, the child reached his hand out and gently tugged at the hood of the elf’s cloak.
As the hood fell back to his shoulders, Gilead turned to see what had disturbed it. His eyes were more-or-less on a level with the child’s, and his cold stare made the colour drain from the child’s face, and his jaw quiver.
The child’s face went from long and pale to red and round, and, before Gilead had time to lift his hood and drop into his knees to reduce his height, the child was screaming.
The child wailed hard, pointing all the time at where Gilead had been standing.
The crowd, hushed by the ringing of the bell, turned to look. The man with the child on his shoulders stared at Gilead for a moment before lifting the child from his shoulders to comfort it. He did not need to take action. He was not the only one who had seen what his child had seen.
One hand still tight on the mare’s reins, Gilead turned his head in a slow circle, his body following. He came up to his full height, placed his feet shoulder-width apart and braced himself for what was to come.
Hours before, he had mistaken his shadow for that of whatever was terrorising these people. Now, they were mistaking him for their nemesis.
The first swing came, as it always did, from the youngest man, the most cocky, the keenest to prove something. Gilead dropped his shoulders back an inch or two, and the blow, which was never going to reach his face, was so poorly timed and imprecise that it failed even to connect with his chest. It did, however, turn the cocky kid and sent him staggering a step or two back into the tight circle that was forming around the elf.
Then a man stepped forward, and the gap in the circle closed behind him. This must be their champion. He was a tall, wiry man, young, but by no means a boy. Gilead weighed him up in a moment or two. He lifted a hand in front of him, not so much a warning as a gesture of retreat. The elf would walk away if he was allowed to do so.
No one was going to allow him to walk.
The champion clasped one fist in the other, briefly, and danced a fast step towards the elf, swinging a left hook low, into Gilead’s body. Gilead moved deftly to the right, and the champion was surprised when his fist connected with fresh air. He swung twice more, and twice more, Gilead ducked, while still managing to hold onto the mare’s reins.
When the next blow came, it came from Gilead’s left and a little behind him. It connected with his side, above his right hip. Gilead turned his head in time to see his assailant pulling a pained face and shaking out his punching hand.
It was two against one, if both the humans were prepared to continue.
Gilead handed his mare’s reins to the old man with the kid and the cart. He took them, without thinking, and then looked down at his hand, not a little surprised by the turn of events. He shrugged, shortened the rein and patted the mare on the shoulder to reassure her; after all, the horse wasn’t his enemy.
Gilead wound his cloak into a long rope and secured it around his waist, lest he trip over it. Before he was finished, a third man had his fists up and a fourth was weighing a length of wood in his hand that looked like some sort of paddle.
The paddle came first, swung out low to take his legs out from under him. Gilead stepped lightly over the paddle and waited for the next attack. The champion tried punching, again, but there were five assailants, now, surrounded by spectators, and the momentum was taken out of his swing when his fist, drawn back, landed in the armpit of the man next to him.
Gilead thought about turning and walking away from the farce, but that was impossible. The crowd was spoiling for a fight. The threat of the plague was bad enough, but to have the rumoured monster in their midst and do nothing was unthinkable. Any man would try to get his hands on the elf, and most of the women and children, too. Gilead must stand and fight.
When the next arm swung at him, Gilead caught it deftly by the wrist, turned it and its owner away, and shoved the man in the back, sending him sprawling into the arms of the crowd. Then he jinked to his left and tripped the youngest and cockiest of his opponents. The boy landed on his face, bloodying his nose.
The man who hurt his hand punching Gilead tried a double-handed swing at arm’s-length, but Gilead turned, and the fists landed in another man’s exposed gut, doubling him over and making him retch.
Several men, watching the fiasco, began to separate from their wives and children, r
emoved hats and jackets, and set pugnacious expressions on their faces.
Over the next few minutes, one or two blows found their targets, but none penetrated the elf’s defences completely enough to cause him any damage, however fleeting. He caught swinging arms and legs, ducked imprecise blows from fists and feet, banged a couple of heads together, and sidestepped one woman who began angrily swinging a bundle that she’d been carrying.
More and more men joined the fight, but soon they were brawling with each other, fighting to get to their mutual enemy, sure that they might succeed where others had failed. Frustration and exasperation overcame them, rendering them useless in the face of the elf’s vastly superior fighting skills.
Gilead had no intention of hurting any of them, and he’d rather not watch while they hurt each other.
The elf was ready when the old man dropped the mare’s reins and jostled the man next to him, who had thumped the youngster on his way into the fray. Gilead picked up the reins, ducked under the mare’s neck, and led her quietly away.
His information-gathering exercise had to be aborted, but it had born some fruit. The locals were terrified. They were afraid of the plague visited on their land and livestock, but they were more afraid of the rumoured creature.
Death was not a ghost, a myth or an idea. Here, now, death came in corporeal form.
Gilead retreated to the woods that bordered the town to the south. He lay low for days and then weeks, moving his small camp at regular intervals and leaving no signs of where he had passed through or spent time. There were hundreds of acres of woodland to forage, and, while food was not in plentiful supply there was enough to sustain him for as long as he needed.
Gradually, he began to weave his way closer to Bortz. He needed more information if he was to change the fates of the people who lived there, but he dared not be spotted again.
Hammer and Bolter 13 Page 2
