'Andreas, we were friends once. This wasn't your fault. Wolf. Where's Wolf? Is he still alive? Where is Cicatrice taking him?'
The dying man smiled crooked. 'North,' he gasped, broken bones knifing inside his flesh as he spoke, 'to the Wastes, to the Battle. Not far now. The Battle.'
'What battle? Andreas, it's important. What battle?'
The ghost of the laughter came again. 'Baron,' Andreas said, 'we were never friends.'
The stable boy was dead.
* * * * *
Vukotich was hurt. The toadman had lost his dagger early in their struggle and his barbed hands hadn't proved a threat. But, when cut, he bled poison. The green stuff ate through clothing, discoloured skin, and seeped dangerously into the body. Vukotich had spilled a lot of it on himself. When the morning light penetrated to the clearing, Johann saw the irregular holes in Vukotich's leggings, and realised his tutor was having trouble standing. He tottered and fell.
'Leave me,' Vukotich said through clenched teeth. 'I'll slow you down.'
That was what Johann had been taught to do, but he had never been a model pupil. With handfuls of snow, he rubbed at Vukotich's wounds, working away until most of the poison was gone. He had no idea how deep the blight had sunk into his flesh, and also didn't know anything about the properties of the toadman's blood. But if it were fatal, Vukotich would have told him so, in an attempt to get Johann to leave him. He tore a spare shirt into rags, and bandaged where he could. Vukotich was quiet, but winced throughout. Johann didn't ask him if he were in pain.
With branches, and strips of leather from their fallen enemies' clothes, Johann made a stretcher which he fixed to Would-Have-Been-Tsar's halter. It was rough, but padded with furs it sufficed. He helped the unprotesting Vukotich onto the stretcher and wrapped him warmly. The old soldier lay still, gripping a sword as a child grips a favoured toy, his face still stained green in patches.
'We're going north,' Johann said. 'We'll be out of this forest by night. There'll be some settlement before the steppes.'
That was true, but didn't necessarily imply a welcome, a healer and a warm bed. There was a saying: 'In the forests, there is no law; on the steppe, there are no gods.' This was still Kislev, but no tsar reigned here. Beyond the steppes were the Wastes, where the warpstone was the only rule, changing men's minds and bodies, distorting souls, working its evil on all. It was Cicatrice's spiritual homeland, and the only surprise was that his trail hadn't brought them there earlier.
They travelled slowly, and Johann was proved wrong. By nightfall, they were still in the forest. Vukotich slept fitfully as he was dragged, voicing the pains he would never admit to when awake. Would-Have-Been-Tsar plodded on like a machine, but Johann knew the horse wouldn't outlive the moon. They'd need fresh horses on the steppes if they were to keep up with Cicatrice, and Vukotich would need healing.
The next day, after an undisturbed night's camp, the trees began thinning and the gloom lifted. There was even a trace of sun in the dead sky. Johann had seen tracks, had found the spot where Cicatrice had camped×the gutted corpse hanging by its feet from a tree was an obvious signpost×and knew they continued on the right trail. Beneath the corpse, someone had scrawled TURN BACK NOW in the snow in fresh blood. Johann spat at the message.
It took a while to realise how strange this country was. There was no birdsong, and he had long since ceased to notice any animals. At first, he was so relieved not to be constantly on guard against wolf and bear×he had three rakemarks on his back to remind him of an old encounter×that it didn't occur to him quite how ominous the lack of life was.
The forest finally died. Johann passed through a thick stretch where tree corpses leaned against each other, or rotted where they lay, and emerged onto the barren steppe. It was like passing from night into day. Looking back, he saw the edge of the forest like a wall extending to the horizon on either side. The trees were packed together like the fortifications of a castle, and didn't seem to fall outward.
If the forest was dead, the steppe was deader. There were scraggy clumps of grass and areas of naked, frozen earth. The snows had been thin, but still remained here and there. In a hundred years, this would be desert.
In the distance, a trail of grey smoke spiralled up into the empty sky, and something large and ungainly with wings flapped slowly through the air.
'There's a village ahead, Vukotich.'
They rested a while, and Johann dripped some water×they had been reduced to melting snow×into his tutor's mouth, then fed the horse. It had been over a month since they'd seen another creature who'd not tried to kill them. Perhaps, by some miracle, there would be some hospitality to be bought at the village. Johann wasn't too hopeful, but hadn't developed Vukotich's automatic distrust. Men still had to earn his enmity.
Vukotich wasn't speaking, conserving his strength, but Johann could tell his tutor was mending. In him, life was like a seed that lives through the arctic winter to sprout when spring brings a trace of warmth. Twice, Johann had thought him dead and been proved wrong. Cicatrice's bandits had given him the name Iron Man.
Johann chewed a long strip of Tsarina as he rode towards the smoke, and tried not to think about Andreas, not to think about Wolf. He remembered the stable lad as a cheerful youth, and could not see in him the beginnings of the Chaos Knight. But they had been there. Perhaps it had always rankled with Andreas that he was born to serve, while Johann and Wolf were born to the barony. The ways of the warpstone were subtle. They could steal into a man's heart×a child's heart×and find the resentments, the petty injuries, the flaws, then work on them until the heart was rotten as a worm-holed apple. Then, the outer changes began. In Andreas, in the toad-thing, in the many others they had seen over the years. The goat-headed altered that had killed Corin the Fletcher had once been a simple cleric of Verena, Goddess of Learning and Justice, lured into evil by a desire to glance at the Forbidden Books. Cicatrice himself had been a distant relative of the Prince-Elector of Ostland, posted to the Wastes by a jealous rival during a family feud, changed now beyond recognition.
What could warpstone have done to Wolf? Would his brother remember the unlucky arrow in his shoulder, and greet his rescuers with a murderous attack? Would he even recognise Johann? With each year, the likelihood of his putting up any resistance diminished. Now, most probably, he would have to be rescued against his will. And even then, he might prove too far gone in the ways of darkness to help.
Johann and Vukotich had not discussed the end of their search. It had always been assumed between them that Wolf would be rescued. But just lately, Johann had begun to wonder. He knew that he could never bring himself to raise an arm against his brother, but what of Vukotich? Did the Iron Man feel it would be his duty, if Wolf could not be saved, to put an end to him by the sword? Vukotich had mercy-killed before, in his wars, even along their trail. Would it be so different? And would Johann try to stop him? He suspected that, even wounded, Vukotich was the better duellist.
Something crunched under Would-Have-Been-Tsar's hooves, jolting Johann out of his unhappy reverie. He looked down. The animal was standing on a clean skeleton, his right foreleg buried in a ribcage that gripped his ankle like a trap. Johann dismounted, and pulled the old bones away. The skeleton was nearly human, but for the horns on the skull and the extra rows of teeth.
They were in the middle of a sea of bones, stretching as far as the horizon. This must be the site of some ancient plague, or some calamitous conflict
Andreas had spoken of a battle.
Johann got up on the horse, and continued, proceeding slowly. The stretcher dragged through long-undisturbed bones. Some of the skeletons were barely recognizable. Johann shuddered and kept his eyes on the smoke. He could see now that it was coming from a group of low buildings, more an outpost than a village. But there would be people. What kind of people would live among the detritus of massacre?
When Vukotich awoke, Johann would ask him about the battle. He would know who had fought here, and w
hy. As if it mattered.
Some of the skeletons were hundreds of years old, he thought. Their armour and weapons long since stolen away, only their useless bones remained.
Then the smell hit him. The smell he'd become used to. The smell of the zombie that had been with Andreas, the smell of all recently-dead things. The stench of decay.
The quality of the dead had changed. These skeletons were clothed with rags of flesh. They were more recently dead, or else preserved by the cold. They didn't crumble under the horse's hooves or the trailing edge of Vukotich's stretcher.
It was a bumpy ride. Johann half-turned in the saddle, and saw Vukotich waking up. The stretcher rose over a huddled corpse, dragging it a few feet before leaving it behind. Empty eye sockets looked up, and a second mouth gaped in its throat. One of its arms was a man-length clump of tentacles, now withered like dry seaweed. It had been stripped naked.
'The Battlefield,' said Vukotich.
'What is this place?'
'Evil. We're close to Cicatrice. This is what he's come for.'
Vukotich was in pain again. Talking hurt him, Johann knew. The tutor slumped back on his stretcher, breathing hard.
The dead were around them in heaps. Some were obviously fresh-killed. There were birds now. Unclean carrion-pickers, tearing at exposed flesh, pecking out eyes, fighting over scraps. Johann hated the carrion birds. There was nothing worse than living off the slaughtered.
Armies had passed this way, less than a day ago by the looks of some of their leavings. And yet they had been following a band of raiders, not an army. Cicatrice could command only a hundred Knights at his best, and his band was well below strength since their exploits in the Troll Country.
'The gathering,' Vukotich got out, 'is here. Cicatrice will be one among many.'
A pack of rats, close together like a writhing carpet, swarmed over a skeleton horse, and swept towards the stretcher. They skittered up over the branches and fastened on Vukotich's legs. He waved his sword and sent them flying away. The cutting edge was red. Johann could see his tutor had been bitten.
'Damn. The plague'll get me yet.'
'Easy. We're nearly at the village.'
Vukotich coughed, and shook on his stretcher. He spat pink froth. 'By nightfall,' he gasped. 'We must be there by nightfall.'
* * * * *
The skies were reddening when they reached the village. It consisted of a scattering of shacks around a central long, low hall. The buildings were all sunken, little more than roofed cellars with slit windows and fortifications. Johann was reminded of the shelters he had seen in lands afflicted by tornadoes and hurricanes.
There were no dead among the buildings. Indeed, the corpses seemed to have been cleared away from a rough circle around the village. There was a hitching rail by the hall. Johann dismounted and tied Would-Have-Been-Tsar to it.
'Yo,' he shouted, 'is anyone here?'
Vukotich was awake again, shivering in his wrappings.
Johann shouted again, and a door opened. There was a depression in the earth beside the hall, and the entrance was in it, surrounded by bags of dirt. Two men came out of the hall. Johann touched his swordhilt until they were in full view. Neither was significantly altered. One, who stayed back near the door, was a beefy, middle-aged man with a leather apron and a gleaming bald pate. The other, who came forward, was scarecrow thin, a wild-haired individual with a tatty mitre perched on his head. He was weighed down with amulets, badges, medals and tokens.
Johann recognised the icons of Ulric, Manann, Myrmidia, Taal, Verena and Ranald. Also, of the Chaos Powers, including the dreaded Khorne; the Gods of Law, Alluminas, Solkan; Grungni, Dwarf God of Mining; Liadriel, Elven God of Song and Wine. The hammer of Sigmar Heldenhammer, Patron Deity of the Empire, was there. No priest could truly bear the talismans of so many disparate, mutually hostile gods. This was a madman, not a cleric.
Still, it is best to treat the mad with courtesy.
'Johann,' he said, extending his empty hand, 'Baron von Mecklenberg.'
The man approached sideways, his gods tinkling as he did, smiling the smile of an imbecile.
'I'm Mischa, the priest.'
They shook hands. Mischa darted away, cautious. Johann noticed he wore the dagger of Khaine, Lord of Murder, as well as the dove of Shallya, Goddess of Healing and Mercy.
'We mean no harm. My friend has been injured.'
'Bring them inside,' barked the bald man. 'Now, before nightfall.'
Vukotich had mentioned nightfall. Johann had a bad feeling about that. He had had an unrelishable experience with a certain vampire family in the Black Mountains.
'Come, come,' said Mischa, gesturing to Johann to come inside the hall. He danced a little on one foot and waved a loose-wristed hand in the air. Johann saw the blood in his eyes, and held back.
He turned to Vukotich, who was struggling to sit up, and helped his friend. The Iron Man was unsteady on his feet, but could stumble towards the hall. Johann supported him. The bald man came out of his hole in the ground and lifted Vukotich's other shoulder. Johann sensed strength in him. Between them, while Mischa darted around uselessly, they got Vukotich through the door.
When Mischa was in, the bald man slammed the door behind him and slid fast a series of heavy bolts. It took Johann a few moments to get used to the semi-darkness inside the hall, but he gathered immediately that there were others inside.
'Darvi,' asked someone, 'who are they?'
The bald man let Vukotich sag against Johann, and stepped forward to reply. The interrogator was a dwarf who held himself oddly.
'This one calls himself a baron. Johann von Mecklenberg. The other hasn't spoken'
'Vukotich,' said the Iron Man.
'Vukotich,' said the dwarf, 'a good name. And von Mecklenberg. An elector unless I miss my guess, and I never miss my guess.'
'I've abdicated that responsibility, sir,' said Johann. 'Who might I be addressing?'
The dwarf came out of the shadows, and Johann saw why his movements were strange.
'Who might you be addressing?' The dwarf chortled, and bowed very carefully, the hilt of the sword shoved through his chest scraping the beaten earth floor. 'Why, the mayor of this nameless township. I'm Kleinzack the Giant.'
Kleinzack's sword was held in place by a complicated arrangement of leather straps and buckles. It stuck out a full foot from his back, and seemed honed to razor sharpness. Johann was reminded of the apparatus used by actors to simulate death, two pieces fixed to a body to look like one speared through it.
'I know just what you're thinking, your excellency. No, this isn't a trick. It goes all the way through. A miracle I wasn't killed, of course. The blade passed through without puncturing anything vital, and now I daren't have it removed for fear the miracle won't be repeated. You can learn to live with anything, you know.'
'I can believe it, Mr Mayor.'
'You've met Mischa, our spiritual adviser. And Darvi, who is the keeper of this inn. Come share our meagre fare, and be introduced to the rest of us. Dirt, take his cloak.'
A hunched young man with limbs that bent the wrong way shuffled out of the shadow at Kleinzack's order, and took Johann's cloak from his shoulders, carefully wrapping it as he crept away.
A madman, a cripple, a dwarf This was truly a peculiar community.
Kleinzack took a lantern and twisted up the flame. The interior of the hall became visible now. There was a long table, with benches either side.
A young woman in the remnants of a dress that mightn't have been out of place at one of the tsar's famous balls passed by the diners, doling out a stew into their bowls. They were as tattered a collection of outcasts as Johann had ever broken bread with.
Kleinzack climbed a throne-shaped chair at the end of the table, and settled his sword into a well-worn notch in the back.
'Sit by me, your excellency. Eat with us.'
Johann took his place, and found himself looking across the table at an incredibly ancient creature×
perhaps a woman×who was enthusiastically sawing at a hunk of raw meat with a large knife.
'Katinka doesn't favour civilised cuisine,' said Kleinzack. 'She's a native of this region, and only eats her meat raw. At least it's helped her keep her teeth.'
The crone grinned, and Johann saw teeth filed to nasty points. She raised a chunk of flesh to her mouth, and tore into it. Her cheeks were tattooed, the designs crumpled by her wrinkles.
'She's a healer,' said the dwarf, 'later, she will tend to your friend. She can do all manner of things with herbs and the insides of small animals.'
The young woman splashed stew into Johann's bowl. He smelled spices, and saw vegetables floating in the gravy.
'This is Anna,' the woman curtsied with surprising daintiness, balancing the pot of stew on her generous hip. 'She was travelling with a fine gentleman of Praag when he tired of her, and left her for our village as repayment for our hospitality.'
Anna's eyes shone dully. She had red hair, and would have been quite pretty cleaned up. Of course, Johann realised, he wasn't himself much used to baths and scents and etiquette. That part of his life was long gone.
'Naturally,' laughed Kleinzack, 'we don't expect such gratitude from all our guests.'
Various diners joined in, and banged their fists on the table as they guffawed. Johann didn't find the hilarity pleasant, although the stew was excellent. The food was the best he'd tasted in some months, certainly better than smoked horse.
The meal passed without incident. No one asked Johann what his business was, and he refrained from asking anyone how this village came to be in the middle of a battlefield. The villagers were too busy eating, and Mischa the priest made the most conversation, invoking the blessings of a grab-bag of gods upon the night. Again, Johann felt uneasy about that.
Katinka took a look at Vukotich, and produced some herb balms which, when applied, soothed his wounds a little. The Iron Man was asleep again, now, and didn't seem to be suffering much.
Warhammer - [Genevieve 04] - Silver Nails Page 11
