The only group he could see clearly was sat at a table directly opposite. Several young farmhands were crowded eagerly around an older woman, who was obviously delighted with all the attention. She was dressed in a gaudy array of flowery silks and cheap trinkets, and every now and then she would lift her heavily made-up face to the beamed ceiling and burst into trilling song. She was obviously some kind of entertainer and by her odd, lilting accent, Surman guessed that she was not from the province.
As he waited for his food, Surman found himself listening along with the spellbound youths as she spoke.
“Obermarshall Hugo von Gryphius is the kind of man who appreciates the charms of an older woman,” she said, batting her lashes and pursing her scarlet lips, as her audience erupted into a chorus of laughter and lewd comments. “But not only that,” she continued, adopting a more serious expression. “He appreciates the arts in all their forms. He employs actors and musicians from every corner of the Old World.” She leant across the table, distracting the boys with a brief display of her cleavage. “In fact, he wrote to the academy at Kleinberg, personally requesting my presence in his entourage.”
“But what’s this ‘Obermarshall’ doing in Ostland?” asked one of the farmhands.
“He sees warfare as just another one of the great arts,” she explained. “He heard that your province was battling against a terrible foe, and he was eager to join the performance.”
The farmhands’ laughter stalled as they recalled the war. “I’m not sure it will be as much fun as he imagines,” muttered one, taking a deep swig of his ale.
Adelman reappeared with a plate of nondescript meat and some grey bread. Surman grimaced at it, before starting to shovel down the hot food. Adelman began to speak, but Surman signalled for him to be silent and continued listening to the singer.
“So why are you no longer travelling with his army, then?” asked another youth.
The singer curled her lip with distaste. “He found another distraction.” She cried with disbelief. “A priestess of Shallya no less.”
Surman paused, with a fork of steaming offal hovering near his mouth.
“A priestess?” exclaimed one of the farmhands. “What kind of entertainment is he expecting from her?”
The boys all burst into hysterical laughter, and the singer had to raise her voice to be heard. “He’s obsessed with her, for some reason.” She shook her head. “And she hasn’t even got any hair!”
This last comment was greeted with such howls of laughter that even the innkeeper looked over to see what was so funny.
“What happened to her hair?” asked one of the farmhands.
“Well, apparently, she fell foul of some kind of witch hunter and he tried to burn her to death.”
The farmhands’ laughter tailed off again at the mention of a witch hunter. Their guffaws became quiet chuckles as they wiped the tears from their eyes.
Surman was already struggling to his feet as the woman continued. “Some warrior priest rescued her, but not before her golden locks had been burned clean off. She was called Anna something.”
“Fleck,” snapped Surman, staggering up to the table and slamming his hands down on the gnarled wood.
“Eh, what’s your game, mister?” cried the woman in surprise.
“Watch it,” growled the largest of the farmhands, as they all rose to their feet and stepped between Surman and the woman. “Just who might you be?”
Surman managed to stand erect and jabbed a bony finger into the lad’s chest. “I’m the witch hunter you were just discussing.” He pulled open the black robes Erasmus had loaned him, to reveal the hammer burnt across his flesh.
The youths fell silent and backed away from him, suddenly feeling very sober. “There’s no reason to get yourself all worked up, mister.”
“I’ve done nothing wrong,” cried the woman, with a note of panic rising in her voice, as her audience all dissolved into the shadows.
Surman gave her what he imagined was a reassuring smile and gestured to her chair. “Please, don’t be alarmed,” he said, sitting down next to her. “I just wanted to ask you a couple of questions.”
The woman’s face was pale with fear as she looked around the inn for help. The drunken farmers had started singing, however, and no one had noticed her predicament.
“Adelman,” snapped Surman, “fetch the lady another glass of wine.”
Once they were both seated, Surman took the woman’s hand. “Am I right,” he asked, “was the priestess called Anna Fleck?”
The woman was wide-eyed with terror as she replied. “Yes, I think so.” She shook her head urgently. “I had little to do with her though. I was simply employed as a dancer for von Gryphius. The priestess has been travelling with him for the last week or so, and I just asked her how she lost her hair.”
Surman nodded, and squeezed her hand a little tighter. “Is she still riding with von Gryphius?” he asked, looking hungrily into the woman’s eyes.
“She was, as of this morning. I think they had planned to leave her at some kind of temple, before they encounter the enemy, but when they got there, the temple was already destroyed. When I last saw her, she seemed to have lost all reason. There’s an important priest of some kind with her—a warrior priest, by the look of his armour—and she rides on the back of his horse now. She doesn’t even speak, or eat, or anything. She just clings on to the priest in silence as the army heads north.” The woman eased her hand from Surman’s and frowned. “I’m not sure she’s long for this world, to be honest.”
Surman allowed himself a little chuckle. “You’re right about that, if nothing else.” He slicked his long, lank hair into a side parting and looked at the woman thoughtfully. “There’s just one more thing,” he said, “do you have any idea where they’re headed?”
“Von Gryphius?” The woman shook her head. “Well, north, looking for the enemy, but that could mean anywhere.”
“Think,” urged Surman, with a hint of menace in his voice. “It’s very important. I must find this woman.”
The singer looked up at the ceiling, desperately trying to think of a place name. “Oh, wait!” she exclaimed, grabbing Surman’s hand. “I heard von Gryphius mention a friend. An old countryman of his. He wanted to visit his castle as they marched north. They were headed that way when I left them. It’s somewhere north of Lubrecht.” Her face lit up in a triumphant smile. “His name was Casper von Luneberg. That’s where they were headed—to Castle Luneberg!”
Surman leant back in his chair with a satisfied nod. Then, after a few minutes, he gave the singer a questioning look. “Did you say you spoke with Anna?” he asked, signalling for Adelman to approach the table. “What exactly would a dancer have to discuss with a sorceress?” He gave her a wolfish grin, as he lifted a long knife from his servant’s belt. “Unless, of course, the two of you had something in common.”
CHAPTER SIX
FAIR-WEATHER FRIENDS
Von Gryphius’ soldiers grimaced and pulled their thin, silk cloaks a little tighter as they rode into the bitter north. For the last week, the only change in the monotonous weather had been from cold, miserable rain to cold, miserable sleet. A grey mist lay over the tree-lined hills and the sun was no more than a silver ghost, hovering nervously behind mountainous clouds.
At the head of the long column of grumbling men, the general raised a gauntleted hand to shield his eyes against the fierce downpour and squinted down at the figure running beside him. His adjutant was jogging by the side of his warhorse, slipping through the mud and trying not to drop a silver tray piled high with small pastries. Gryphius puffed out his flabby cheeks in disgust, straining to be heard over the sound of the rain as it pinged off his winged helmet. “I am making allowances, Christoff, but it’s not even fit for the dogs.” He spat a mouthful into the mud. “Is there even any sugar on there?”
There was no hint of emotion in Christoff’s reply. “I believe the pastry chef thought the raspberry jam would add suffici
ent sweetness, milord. Would you like to try one of the custard tartlets?”
“What’s the point?” cried Gryphius in despair. He waved at the sodden musicians to his left. The ears of their animal costumes had drooped in the downpour and they made a pathetic sight as they tooted tunelessly on their waterlogged instruments. “No one seems to be prepared to make any effort today.”
“I’ll ask Chef to try again,” said Christoff, turning to leave.
“Wait,” cried Gryphius, shaking his head and grabbing a few pastries. “I need to eat something this morning.”
As the general chomped unhappily on his mushy breakfast, a horse broke ranks and trotted up alongside his. Its thin, hooded rider leant over to speak to him. “Will we reach Castle Luneberg today, Obermarshall?”
For a few seconds the general did not reply, pouting instead at the pastry disintegrating in his hand. “This has never been near a raspberry,” he muttered to himself, before realising he was being addressed. “Ah, Ratboy,” he replied finally. “Your province gives quite a welcome to its would-be rescuers,” he laughed, waving at the rain. “It’s enough to make one feel quite unwanted.”
Ratboy shrugged. “I’m afraid this is quite normal for this far north, Obermarshall. It’s only going to get worse as we approach the Sea of Claws.”
The general gave him a pastry and a smile. “You should come with me to Averheim some time, my boy, and get a bit of southern sun on those pallid cheeks of yours.” He washed his tart down with some sherry and waved the bottle vaguely at the waterlogged landscape. “Casper’s letter said he was just a few miles north of here. Next to a small town, called Ruckendorf. It should be somewhere around here.” He looked up at the rolling clouds. “If it hasn’t sunk, that is.” His eyes misted over as he remembered his old friend. “In his youth, Casper was a very promising poet, you know. Back in Averheim, the name of von Luneberg was often heard in the highest echelons of polite society.” An unusual note of regret entered his voice. “It’s strange the way things sometimes work out.”
He noticed Ratboy’s downcast expression and shook his head, adopting his usual cheerful grin. “Anna will recover, lad, don’t you worry. She’s an Ostlander.” His eyes widened with surprise as a long, rattling belch erupted from his mouth. Then he patted his prodigious belly and looked up the clouds. “I hope Casper still keeps a well stocked larder.”
Ratboy gave a weak smile and twisted in his saddle to look back through the forest of spears and banners. Wolff and his ragtag band of followers were trailing a little way behind them, and he could just about see the figure of Anna, slumped on the back of Wolff’s horse, with her head nodding listlessly in the rain. “I’m sure you’re right. She probably just needs a little time to grieve,” he said.
A shimmering figure loomed out of the rain, riding along the grass verge at the side of the road. As it came closer it gradually assumed the form of a scout. “Ruckendorf, sir,” he cried, pointing down the road, “around the next bend.” He paused, and shook his head. “The enemy’s already been there. The buildings are ruined.”
“Really?” snapped Gryphius in a shrill voice, clutching at the hilt of his sword. Then, remembering Ratboy was at his side, he adopted a stern expression and raised his chins proudly. “We may not get the friendly welcome we were expecting.” He turned to one of his captains. “Tell the men to ready their weapons. We’re finally going to fight through something other than mud.”
They entered the small town through the west gate and found most of the locals waiting for them. A huge mound of bodies was piled in the market square: soldiers, woodsmen, merchants and farmers, all jumbled together in a bloody mound of twisted limbs and broken weapons. The gabled townhouses and inns were blackened and smashed and the blood of the townsfolk had been daubed across their own ruined homes.
“Sigmar,” whispered Ratboy, grimacing at the smell of rotting meat as he steered his horse slowly through the ruins. “Is anyone in Ostland still alive?”
Von Gryphius eyed the bodies warily as he rode towards them and lifted a perfumed handkerchief to his nose. Then he nodded towards a large building on the far side of the square. Its proud pillars and wide steps must have once been the dominating feature of Ruckendorf. “Looks like the town hall is still occupied.”
Ratboy followed his gaze and saw a few sodden figures, cowering pitifully behind a decapitated statue of the Emperor.
Gryphius led his army towards them. The horses’ hooves clattered across the square as they skirted around the morbid display at its centre. For once, though, the men rode in silence, with swords and halberds at the ready as they eyed the wreckage for signs of the enemy.
“What happened here?” cried the general, as they neared the statue.
The cowering figures hesitated for a few moments, before one of them, a grizzled old infantryman, stepped out of the shadows. His jerkin was stained and torn and one of his arms was strapped across his chest in a bloody sling. His eyes were wide and unblinking as he addressed them. “Ostland is doomed, stranger. I’d start running now if I were you. It’s probably already too late, but maybe a few of you might still survive.”
“I’m an old friend of your lord,” answered Gryphius, ignoring the man’s gloomy tone. “Is Castle Luneberg near here?”
The infantryman’s face twisted into a snarl. “An old friend, you say?” He took in Gryphius’ yellow, silk breeches and high, lacy collar with a sneer of disdain. “That would make sense.” He pointed his broken sword at the pile of corpses. “That’s what happens to old friends of Casper von Luneberg.”
Wolff steered his horse across the square and halted next to Gryphius. “That’s no way to speak of your lord, soldier.”
The soldier glared back at the warrior priest with a mixture of fear and pride. “I have no lord anymore, priest,” he cried, sending his sword clanging down the steps of the town hall. “Save perhaps Morr, and I’ve already made my peace with him.” As he turned to leave, he waved dismissively around the side of the building. “Keep going as you are. Meet your end with that old fool, if that’s what you wish.”
Gryphius turned to Wolff with a confused expression. “It’s odd that he should be so rude. Casper always used to have such a way with people.”
Castle Luneberg was perched high up on a rocky promontory, overlooking the town: a picturesque mass of twisting spires and gracefully arching buttresses, looming watchfully over Ruckendorf. The duke’s black and white banner was still flapping bravely against the driving rain, but as Gryphius’ men trudged up the steep, twisting road to its gates, their hopes gradually sank. As they approached the castle, they saw that many of the doors had been smashed from their hinges and ragged holes had been blasted through the outer wall, leaving several of the chambers exposed to the elements.
A horse and trap was hurtling down the road towards them. Its canvas sides bulged with servants and their belongings and as the driver steered the cart in their direction, a long trail of buckets and pans clattered in its wake.
At the sight of Gryphius’ army, the driver pulled over to the side of the road and stared in amazement. As the troops in the vanguard marched past the cart, a row of shocked, pale faces gawped out from beneath the tarpaulin, whispering to each other and pointing at the soldiers’ outlandish uniforms.
“I would have expected more of Ostlanders,” called von Gryphius, lifting his chin haughtily as his horse trotted past them, “than to abandon their master in his hour of need.”
Most of the servants were too terrified to reply to such an august personage, but after a few seconds a buck-toothed girl popped her head out of the back of the cart. She yelled defiantly at the receding general. “We didn’t want to go nowhere, milord. The master’s banished us, on pain of death. We hung on longer than most. He’s swore to kill us on sight if we return. We ain’t abandoning no one.”
“A likely story,” called back Gryphius. “Why would Casper wish to be without his servants, even if the wolves are at his door?”
“He ain’t got no need of anyone anymore,” answered the girl. “You’ll see. ’Cept perhaps some pallbearers—I guess he’ll be needing them soon enough.”
Gryphius rolled his eyes at Ratboy, and led the way through the castle gates and into the courtyard. He opened his mouth to hurl another insult back at the woman, but the scene that met him stopped the words short. There were more bodies, scattered all around the central keep: sprawled across the flagstones and slumped against broken doorframes. From their bloodstained black and white armour, it was obvious that most of the dead were state troops. There were other corpses too, though: fur-clad marauders from the north, clutching brutal-looking axes and scarred with the grotesque sigils of the Dark Gods. The whole place was stained with drying blood. As the rest of the troops filed in behind Gryphius, the eerie silence snatched the words from their lips. Even the general seemed reluctant to break it, shaking his head at the carnage as his servants rushed to help him dismount.
With a horrendous scraping sound, the flagellants dragged Raphael’s litter into the castle. They were still muttering prayers to him and lashing their naked, emaciated bodies with straps as they stumbled, barefoot over the broken masonry. As Ratboy looked back at them, he winced at the sight of their prophet. Raphael’s skeletal frame was arched in pain, and his anguished face was raised up to the brooding clouds in supplication, but as the litter bounced across the flagstones, his body remained frozen in a motionless spasm. His pale, scarred flesh was as rigid as the statues that lined the courtyard.
“Master,” said Ratboy, turning to Wolff, “is that man—?”
“Hush, boy,” said Wolff, giving him a stern look as he climbed down from his horse. “Raphael is their inspiration. He fills them with hope.” He placed a hand on Ratboy’s shoulder. “And hope is a rare thing.”
[Empire Army 05] - Warrior Priest Page 8
