The Empire Omnibus

by Chris Wraight

  Maximilian looked around at the dismal clearing. ‘He wants us to rest here?’

  The officer’s only reply was a nod and his helmet made it impossible to see his expression.

  ‘Very well,’ said Wolff stepping to the baron’s side. ‘If the Iron Duke wishes it.’

  The officer studied Wolff in silence for a few seconds; then he gave another brisk nod and moved on.

  ‘We’re completely exposed up here,’ said Maximilian, turning to Wolff with a frown. ‘Why on earth would we sit out the night in a strange place like this?’ He waved at the crowds of tired soldiers flooding into the clearing. They were watching the trees fearfully as they spread out on the long grass. ‘If these men are meant to be hunting the marauders, why wait until the morning? They can obviously sense there’s something odd about this place and anyway, if they don’t move soon, the enemy will be long gone.’

  ‘I expect most of the marauders have already made their escape,’ replied Wolff, drumming his fingers on the haft of his weapon. ‘My brother didn’t bring these men up here to fight. He brought them up here to die.’

  ‘Is he even here though?’ asked Ratboy, scouring the hilltop. ‘I can see his banner over there with the Oberhau, but I can’t actually see the general anywhere.’

  They looked over at the tattered black and white standard and the soldiers milling around beneath it. Ratboy was right: there were dozens of Oberhau, cleaning their long, two-handed greatswords and snapping orders at the other Ostlanders, but there was no sign of the general himself. As they watched, a young soldier crossed the clearing and approached Fabian’s honour guard. Ratboy felt a chill of fear. He recognised the man immediately as the soldier who had discovered Anna. The young officer spoke urgently to one of the guards and then, after a few minutes he gestured over towards Ratboy and the others. Several of the Oberhau crowded round, quizzing him intently and turning to look at Maximilian and Wolff.

  ‘This looks interesting,’ said the baron, tugging at his short silver beard as he watched the exchange. He turned to Wolff with an ironic grin. ‘I’m not sure we’ll be getting that much rest after all.’

  Ratboy gave a nervous cough and looked up at the pair of hoary old veterans. ‘I think I might have spoken to that man earlier,’ he muttered with a shame-faced expression. ‘And accidentally mentioned that we were pursuing the general.’

  Wolff’s nostrils flared with anger, but when he spoke it was in clipped, controlled tones. ‘Was it him, or not?’

  Ratboy looked again and nodded. ‘It was him – I’m sure of it.’

  Wolff grimaced with frustration and closed his eyes for a few seconds to think. Then he turned to the baron. ‘Whatever happens,’ he said, ‘I need to find my brother. I can’t die here; not without confronting him.’

  ‘I understand,’ replied Maximilian with a stern nod. He looked at his men. It was hard to believe they had just survived a fierce battle. During the whole engagement, only six of their number had fallen and those that remained looked as calm and lethal as if they had just emerged from their chapterhouse. They stood in neat, gleaming rows at the edge of the trees and each of them had their hands folded in exactly the same way across the hilt of their swords. ‘We can hold off Fabian’s swordsmen for as long as you need us to,’ said Maximilian. He waved at the crowds of Ostlanders still shuffling fearfully into the clearing. ‘I can’t guarantee what everyone else here will do though and even we couldn’t hold off an entire army.’

  ‘Leave that to me,’ replied Wolff.

  The Oberhau finished talking to the young officer and dismissed him. Then, the most senior amongst them huddled together, looking repeatedly towards the Knights Griffon as they talked. Finally, they came to some kind of accord and drew themselves into ordered ranks, before marching over towards Maximilian and his men. All across the clearing, the groups of resting soldiers watched the scene with interest and several of them rose to their feet to get a better view.

  The knight at the head of the Oberhau was slightly larger than the others and looked to be their captain. He wore the same dark, burnished armour, but his wolf-shaped helmet and two-handed greatsword were a little more ornate, and a pair of huge, black and white feathers topped his sculpted helmet. Upon reaching Maximilian and Wolff he threw back his visor with a clunk. His eyes looked out from the dark metal with a dispassion that Ratboy found utterly chilling. There wasn’t a trace of humanity in them. ‘Good evening, baron,’ he said, nodding at Maximilian. ‘I must congratulate you and your men on their work this evening.’ He spoke in flat, neutral tones and stood with the casual poise of a relaxed athlete. ‘I noticed you were amongst the very last to retreat into the valley.’

  ‘Thank you, Captain von Groos,’ replied Maximilian with a deep bow. ‘It’s a pleasure to–’

  A flash of movement interrupted Maximilian’s reply. It was so fast that for a few seconds Ratboy struggled to work out what had happened. It was only when Maximilian staggered backwards that the acolyte saw there was a greatsword, buried deep in his chest. Von Groos had shoved it through the baron’s cuirass with such force that the blade had sliced through the metal and emerged between his shoulder blades. As he dropped to his knees, Maximilian tried to speak, but all that emerged from his mouth was a thick torrent of dark blood. As he collapsed into his men’s arms, with a confused expression on his face, he was already dead.

  Von Groos wrenched the blade free with a screech of grinding steel and stepped back.

  For once, the Knights Griffon forgot their training. With a chorus of despair and rage, they launched themselves at the Oberhau. Ratboy just managed to drag Anna aside as they slammed into the swordsmen.

  There was an explosion of limbs and swords as the Oberhau defended themselves against the vengeful knights. Captain von Groos was already on the floor. Wolff had him by the throat and as Ratboy looked over, he saw the priest slam his forehead into the captain’s face, shattering his nose with an audible crunch.

  The captain muttered a stream of indecipherable words and writhed snake-like from Wolff’s grip. As he leapt to his feet, he turned lightly on his heel and brought his two-handed sword down towards the priest’s head.

  Wolff was nowhere near as fast as his opponent and before he could dodge the blow, the blade slammed into his neck. His ornate gorget took most of the impact, but the edge of the blade scraped across the side of his face, sending up a thin arc of blood and causing him to bark in pain. He rolled forward and rammed his head into the captain’s stomach.

  Von Groos’s breath exploded from his lungs and Wolff lifted him up over his shoulders. The priest draped one arm over the captain’s neck and the other over his legs and before von Groos could raise his sword for a second strike, Wolff jerked his elbows downwards and snapped the captain over his broad back, cracking his spine in two. As the priest let him slide down his back onto the floor, von Groos whispered pitifully, then, after a final, rasping breath he fell silent. Wolff glared at the corpse for a few seconds, disappointed he could only kill the man once.

  The rest of the Oberhau were faring a little better. Despite their expensive armour and years of training, the Knights Griffon could not seem to lay a single blow on their opponents. As they fought, the Oberhau whispered strange, arcane words and danced easily out of reach with lightning-fast movements.

  Wolff backed away from von Groos’s corpse and raised a hand to his scarred face to gauge the damage. With a nod of satisfaction he turned his attention to the fight. The combatants were well matched. The Oberhau whirled and slashed with incredible speed, but so far they had been unable to break the proud fury of Maximilian’s knights.

  Other soldiers had begun swarming around the fight, speechless with shock and unsure what to do. None of them were willing to enter the fray without being sure whose side to take.

  Wolff wiped the blood from his cheek and rose up to his full height. He looked out at the gather
ing crowds and raised his warhammer. ‘Men of Ostland,’ he cried, loud enough to be heard over the sound of the fighting. ‘I’m Jakob Wolff: Templar of Sigmar and brother of Fabian Wolff, your kriegsmarshall.’

  A crowd immediately formed around him.

  Blood flew from Wolff’s face as his booming voice filled the clearing. ‘Is that natural?’ he cried, waving at the Oberhau. ‘Who can fight with such speed?’ His voice rose even louder. ‘Other than the damned?’

  At the sound of Wolff’s words, several of the Oberhau tried to break free and rush towards him, but Maximilian’s stern-faced men blocked their way.

  The soldiers surrounding Wolff looked at each other with confused expressions. A young pistolier stepped forwards. His armour was dented and torn and there was a bloodstained bandage over one side of his face, but he pointed defiantly at the Oberhau. ‘They’re the Iron Duke’s own men,’ he cried. ‘He’s taught them to fight as well as he does.’

  ‘And where do you think your Iron Duke learned such incredible skill?’ snapped Wolff, glaring at the pistolier. ‘He’s my brother, but I won’t defend him. Only the Ruinous Powers give such unnatural strength.’

  ‘He’s an Ostlander,’ the pistolier cried back, looking around at his comrades for support. ‘One thing we’ve all learned to do well is fight.’

  A ragged cheer met his words and several of the soldiers raised their weapons in agreement.

  Wolff grabbed the man by his jerkin, pulled him close and roared into his face. ‘Fight for what?’ he cried. He waved at the surrounding trees. ‘What are you doing here? The battle is won. Why has the Iron Duke led you to the black heart of this forest? To a place where the enemy has all the advantage? I know Fabian Wolff. He’s led you here as a sacrifice. You’re a gift. An offering to the very enemy he claims to be hunting.’

  There was a chorus of jeers and boos. ‘Never,’ cried the pistolier, freeing himself from Wolff’s grip with a shocked expression on his face. ‘How could you accuse him of such a thing?’

  ‘Tell me,’ replied Wolff, looking out over the crowd. ‘Where’s your general now?’

  The soldiers looked nervously around the clearing, but the pistolier was undaunted. ‘He’s most likely scouting the surrounding area, looking for the enemy.’

  Wolff shook his head. ‘Mormius is dead. His army is already defeated. Those that survived have already fled. Fabian has abandoned you.’ He waved at the sinister, twisted trees that surrounded them. ‘Here, in this wretched forest.’

  A fierce debate broke out amongst the crowd. Some of the soldiers already felt unnerved by their frenzied journey through the trees. It almost felt as though an external force had been driving them onwards. Many of them had been eager to head home even before they reached the clearing and its ominous atmosphere. Wolff’s accusations had only made them more anxious to leave. The quarrel quickly grew louder. The men were tired and scared and Wolff’s speech had put a name to their fear. There was rattle of swords being drawn and the crowd fragmented into a morass of snarling faces and furious insults.

  As the arguments became fights, Ratboy noticed that his master had turned away from the troops. He was peering at something just outside the clearing and Ratboy stepped to his side to see what it was. It was too dark beneath the trees to see very clearly, but Ratboy thought he could make out a face, watching them. ‘What is it?’ he asked, looking up at the priest. ‘Is that Sürman?’

  Wolff frowned. ‘No, I don’t think so. I’m not sure it’s even…’ his words were lost beneath the din of the battle as he strode off towards the edge of the clearing. He paused briefly at the edge of the trees and looked back at the confusion he had created. The soldiers’ frenzy had returned, but now it was directed at each other. It would be several minutes before they remembered the priest who had caused their disagreement. Wolff gave a nod of satisfaction and vanished from view.

  Ratboy rushed after him, with Anna close behind. As they plunged into the damp, arboreal gloom they had to reach out and feel their way through the network of roots and shrubs, but Wolff rushed ahead, oblivious to the twigs and branches that lacerated his flesh. Ratboy saw his prey: it was a small deer of some kind, skipping easily through the trees.

  ‘What’s he doing?’ asked Anna. ‘His friend has just been butchered and he decides to go hunting.’

  Ratboy shook his head in confusion and cried out. ‘Master, where are you going? What about Maximilian’s men?’

  Wolff ignored his acolyte and blundered on through the trees, chasing the terrified animal. They reached the banks of stagnant pool and the deer paused, knee deep in the moonlit water, looking back at them expectantly. ‘Look at it,’ gasped Wolff, stopping to catch his breath.

  Ratboy peered at the motionless creature. Now that he could see it more clearly, he noticed that there was something very strange about it. Its limbs were crooked and its hide bulged in places where it should have been smooth. It reminded Ratboy of some of the stuffed animals he had seen in Castle Lüneberg. Its eyes were not those of a dumb animal and they gazed back at him with a cool, human intelligence.

  ‘What’s that along its back,’ whispered Anna, trying not to scare the animal.

  Ratboy followed her gaze and saw that all along the deer’s hunched, undulating spine there was a flash of iridescent blue, bursting up from under its skin. ‘Are they feathers?’ he asked.

  At the sound of Ratboy’s question, the deer bolted. It moved with lightning speed but Wolff was almost as quick, splashing through the water and disappearing back into the trees.

  As Ratboy raced after him, he quickly realised that the growth beyond the pool was even more gnarled and closely packed. He and Anna did their best to clamber after the priest, but they felt as though the branches were deliberately lashing out and pressing their ancient weight down on top of them. The strange lights also began to reappear in the corner of Ratboy’s vision: flickering sprites that vanished as soon as he tried to pinpoint them. As they struggled deeper and deeper into the brooding heart of the forest, his eyes began to play other tricks on him too. Branches slipped out of reach as he reached for support and leering faces appeared in the knotted trunks, only to vanish when he looked a second time.

  ‘What’s that sound?’ asked Anna, panting and grunting as she fought through the undergrowth.

  Ratboy paused for a second and noticed that beneath the sound of his own laboured breathing, there was a low throbbing noise. It was barely perceptible, but it seemed to emanating from all around them, as though the forest itself were groaning with fear. He shook his head and stumbled onwards after Wolff, terrified at the thought of being left alone in such a place.

  After a few minutes, he noticed there was a pale green light pulsating through the trees ahead. He turned to Anna and guessed from her frown that she had seen it too. As they neared the light, the throbbing sound grew louder and Ratboy’s nervousness increased. He could no longer see his master, but as they scrambled through the undergrowth he began to make out the source of the strange radiance. There was a grove up ahead that seemed quite distinct from the rest of the forest. An arcade of tall silver birches led proudly towards it, before forming themselves into a perfect circle around the small, raised clearing. The light was bleeding between the gaps in the sentry-like birches, so Ratboy stumbled onto the avenue and raced up towards the clearing. The light was so bright in the grove that he had to shield his eyes as he ran into the dazzling circle of trees.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The Sacred Grove

  The grove was filled with blinding light. The glare was so intense Ratboy struggled to see for a few seconds. When his vision cleared, he saw that Wolff was stood just ahead of him, silhouetted against the brightness and watching the deer as it trotted across a carpet of mossy turf. Ratboy saw that the animal’s movements had become even more erratic. It lurched into the centre of the grove and dropped to its knees before the
hollowed-out bole of an old oak tree. As it fell, its internal organs slipped from beneath its skin in a steaming mess, spilling onto the grass like stew from a pot, to reveal a small, humanoid shape crouched within the hide.

  ‘Sigmar,’ whispered Ratboy, as the figure discarded the animal’s remains and climbed, gasping, to its feet. ‘What’s that?’

  The creature stretched its slender arms above its head and let out a sigh of satisfaction. As the rest of the deer’s innards slid down its back, they revealed a coat of blue feathers that shimmered in the throbbing light. ‘Kriegsmarshall,’ it said, bowing towards the tree stump, ‘the other two are close behind.’

  ‘They’re already here, Helwyg,’ replied a low voice from somewhere within the inferno of light.

  The feathered creature turned to look back at Ratboy and Anna in surprise. His eyes were bright yellow and widened in fear at the sight of them. He dashed away from the sodden remains and vanished into the light.

  ‘Master,’ cried Ratboy, rushing towards Wolff but, before he had gone more than a few feet, he froze. The light that washed over his skin felt thick and tangible and it rooted his feet firmly to the spot. He moaned in fear as he felt it entwining his limbs and snaking through his clothes. Within seconds, his entire body was paralysed. The most he could do was roll his eyes from side to side in terror. As he did so, he saw that Anna was frozen too, just a few feet to his left. Tendrils of light snaked between the two of them and Wolff, making a crackling, glimmering triangle. He tried to scream, but even his vocal chords refused to obey. His horror mounted as he realised that he had not seen Wolff move an inch since he and Anna entered the grove. They were all paralysed.

  ‘It’s been a long time, Jakob,’ said Fabian in an imperious voice, stepping out of the light. His regal features were flushed with pride as he surveyed his handiwork. In his left hand he held an old, battered book, bound in white leather, with a gold knife foiled on the front. Several of its pages were missing and scraps of mismatched parchment had been sewn clumsily into the jacket, but its power was unmistakable. Waves of emerald light were leaking from the paper, rippling through the grass and glittering in the stones on Fabian’s eye-patch. ‘But I’m sure you remember the promise I made you,’ he continued. ‘I swore not to hunt you down, but you’ve brought yourself to me. And I warned you that if we ever met again, I’d have no choice but to kill you.’