by epubBillie
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 why. As if it mattered. Some of the skeletons were hundreds of years old, he thought. Their armour and weapons long 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 sword-hilt 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 recognized the icons of Ulric, Manann, Myrmidua, Taal, Verena, and Ranald. Also, of the Chaos Powers, including the dreaded Khorne; the Gods of Law, Alluminas, Solkan; Grungni, Dwarven 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 remnant 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 civilized 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 realized, 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.
The hall was sub-divided into sleeping chambers. Several of the villagers scuttled off to them when the eating was done, and Johann heard bolts being drawn. Kleinzack produced some foul roots, and proceeded to smoke them. Johann refused his kind offer of a pipe. Anna - who didn't speak - fussed with the dishes and cutlery, while Darvi drew ale from casks. Dirt shuffled around, keeping out of the way.
"You're a far from home, Baron von Mecklenberg," announced Kleinzack, puffing a cloud of vile smoke.
"Yes. I'm searching for my brother."
"A-ha," mused the dwarf, sucking at his pipe, "run away from home, has he?"
"Kidnapped by bandits."
"I see. Bad things, bandits." He found something funny, and laughed at it. Dirt joined in, but was silenced by a cuff around the head. "How long have you been after these bandits?"
"A long time."
"Long, eh? That's bad. You have my sympathy. All the troubled peoples of the world have my sympathy."
He stroked Dirt's tangled hair, and the bent boy huddled close to him like a dog to his master.
Something fell out of Dirt's clothing, and glinted on the floor. Kleinzack's face clouded, and Johann noticed how quiet everyone else was.
With elaborate off-handedness, Kleinzack downed his pipe and picked up his goblet. He drank. "Dirt," he said, suavely, "you've dropped a bauble. Pick it up and bring it to me."
The boy froze for a moment, then scuttled to the object. His fingers wouldn't work, but he finally managed to squeeze the thing between thumb and forefinger. He laid it on the table in front of Kleinzack. It was a ring, with a red stone.
"Hmmn. A nice piece. Silver, I do believe. And a ruby, carved into a skull. Very nice."
He tossed it to Johann.
"What do you think?"
Johann could hardly bear to handle the thing. It was somehow unpleasant to the touch. Perhaps he had been seeing too many skulls lately. This one was slashed diagonally. It was a familiar scar. Cicatrice was nearby.
"Crude workmanship, but it has a certain vitality, eh? Your excellency doubtless has many finer jewels than this."
Johann put it down on the table. Kleinzack snapped his fingers, and Anna brought the ring to him. He gazed into its jewel.
"Dirt." The boy looked up. "Dirt, you evidently want this trinket for your own." The boy was doubtful. A rope of spittle dangled from his lips. "Very well, you shall have it. Come here."
Dirt shambled forwards on his knees and elbows, advancing like an insect. He held out his hand, and Kleinzack took it.
"Which finger, I wonder..."
The dwarf jammed the ring onto Dirt's little finger, then bent it savagely back. Johann heard the snap as the bone went. Dirt looked at his hand, with its finger sticking out at an unfamiliar angle. There was blood on the ruby. He smiled.
Then the din started outside.
Johann had been in enough battles to recognize the noise. The clash of steel on steel, the cries and screams of men in the heat of combat, the unforgettable sound of rent flesh. Outside the village hall, a full-scale war was being fought. It was as if armies had appeared out of the air, and set at each other with the ferocity of wild animals. Johann heard horses neighing in agony, arrows thudding home in wood or meat, shouted commands, oaths. The hall shuddered, as heavy bodies slammed into it. A little dust was dislodged from the beams.
Kleinzack was unperturbed, and continued to drink and smoke with an elaborate pretence of casualness. Anna kept efficiently refilling the dwarfs goblet, but was white under her filth, shaking with barely suppressed terror. Dirt tried to cram himself under a chair, hands pressed over his ears, eyes screwed shut as clams. Darvi glumly stood by his bar, eyes down, peering into his pint-pot. Katinka bared her teeth, apparently giggling, but Johann couldn't hear her over the cacophony of war. Mischa was in his corner, kneeling before a composite altar to all his gods, begging at random for his own skin.
Outside, one faction charged another. Hooves thundered, cannons boomed, men went down in the mud and died. Johann's ears hurt. He noticed that Darvi, Katinka and a few of the others had padded wads of rag into their ears. Kleinzack, however, did without; evidently, he was far gone enough to last a night of this.
They were all mad, Johann realized, maddened by this ghost of battle. Could it be like this every night?
He went to Vukotich, and found his friend awake but rigid, staring in the dark. The Iron Man took his hand, and held it tight.
Eventually, incredibly, Johann slept.
He awoke to silence. Rather, to the absence of clamour. His head still rung with the memory of the battle sounds, but outside the hall it was quiet. He felt hung-over, and unrested by his sleep. His teeth were furred, and his muscles ached from sleeping sitting up.
He was alone in the hall with Vukotich. Light streamed in through slit windows. His tutor was still in deep sleep, and Johann had to work hard to slip his hand out of the Iron Man's grip. His fingers were white, bloodless, and tingled as his circulation crept back.
Puzzled, he went to the door, and found it hanging open. He put a head round it, and saw nothing threatening. Hand on sword, he went outside, and climbed up the steps cut into the earth. The air was still, and smelled of death.
The village stood in the middle of a field of the dead and dying. There were fires burning, carrying on the wind the stink of scorching flesh, and weak voices cried out in unknown tongues. Their mea
ning was clear, though. Johann had heard the like after many a combat. The wounded, calling for succour, or for a merciful blade.
At the hitching post, he found what was left of Would-Have-Been-Tsar. An intact head still in its bridle, hanging loose from the wood. The rest of the horse was a blasted, blackened and trampled mess, frosted with icy dew. It was mixed in with the limbless remnant of something small. A dwarf or a goblin. It was hard to tell, the head being mashed to a paste in the hardened mud. From now on, Johann would walk.
Ghosts or not, the armies of night left corpses behind. He scanned the flat landscape, finding nothing by the remains of war. Where did they come from? Where did they go? All the dead bore the marks of the warpstone. He could sense no pattern to the battle, as if a multitude of individuals had fought each other for no reason, each striving to kill as many of the others as possible.
That made as much sense as many of the wars he had seen on his travels.
Dirt came from the other side of the hall, his body strapped into the semblance of straightness by leather and metal appliances. He was still a puppet with too many broken strings, but he was upright, even if his head did loll like a hanged man's, and he was walking as normally as he ever would. Johann noticed his broken finger splinted and bandaged, and wondered if he'd come by his other twisted bones in the same manner. He was carrying a double armful of swords, wrapped in bloody cloth. He smiled, revealing surprisingly white and even teeth, and dropped his burden onto the earth by the hall. The cloth came apart, and Johann saw red on the blades. He had learned about weapons - formally and by experience - and recognized a diversity of killing tools: Tilean duelling epees, Cathay dragon swords, two-handed Norse battle blades, curved scimitars of Araby. Dirt grinned again, proud of his findings, and fussed with the swords, arranging them on the ground, wiping the blood off, bringing out the shine.
Johann left him to his business, and went among the dead.