Warhammer - Wolf Riders

by William King

  He was too abashed to speak. Girls whose noble families kept them from the Academy attended religious festivals, and he feared this court had been assigned to their secluded use.

  "I beg your pardon, Sir." It was she who apologized, improbably, to him. "I thought it would be allowable to use this fountain, while I was waiting for the Festival to begin." Her voice was very clear and carefully pronounced, without a trace of accent, as though her upbringing had been so refined that it was protected from any infection by the multitudinous brogues which rose clamouring from the alleys of the city.

  "Of course it is. May I help you to a drink?" He carefully washed and filled one of the cups which sat beside the spring. "I do not believe we have met. Is this the first time you have attended the Spring Festival here?"

  "Here, yes. But I am familiar with all of the festival dances and customs."

  "Oh." Tongue-tied, Peredur racked his brain for something to say to this exquisite beauty. "Er, I have heard that the... dances performed at the Festival are... doubtful... dangerous stuff... rather like those performed in foreign places."

  "Oh! Yes, I suppose you might have heard that. The festival is, of course, international. It takes place in all the lands where Great Ulric and Holy Taal are venerated, and there are similarities in the rituals and dances. As for dangerous, yes, you could say that. But the gods protect their own."

  "I... don't quite see what you mean."

  "Not everyone chooses to participate in the rites. No, not everyone would choose to do that. But some are called, and that call, if it is powerful enough, may not be refused."

  There was something infinitely distant in that perfect voice, something he did not understand and wished to hear no more. "You are well informed, yet I have not seen you at the Academy."

  "No, I have not visited the Academy. Most of my education has come from my family. But I would like to visit Verena's..."

  "D'vorah! Come." A young woman in a loose dress of fine, pale-blue material appeared at the door, but did not enter. They looked almost to be twins, but the newcomer's hair was strikingly pale, like the light honey called Bee's Milk. The other smiled wanly at him, gave a little curtsey, turned and left quickly.

  "Who was that woman?" a sharp voice interrupted. He saw his mother had arrived, and thought it was she who had spoken. Then he realized Saskia Whiteflower was with her, in one of her angry moods.

  "I... don't know. She seemed well-bred, I suppose she is from a family which keeps its girls from the Academy." He offered this, realizing he no longer believed it.

  "Well." His mother, Elen, did not seem annoyed. "You scholars can mix in the best circles. Remember that."

  But Whiteflower was less impressed. Her bad mood persisted through the festival, and worsened when the Graf led the warriors of the city out on parade: "Look! All the squires but us!"

  It was a poor display. Nobles rode in fine but handed-down armour which seldom fitted, as their fathers had weighed less. The squires were similar: few would follow military careers. Rhenhardt's men were best: war was their trade, not their duty.

  Then the visitors, true men of Ulric, went through their paces. The manoeuvres lasted a long time, but few remembered the detail, perhaps because of what came after.

  It was nearly sundown, and the arena cleared of men. Two wooden towers were trundled forward, and a wire was tightened between them. While this was being done, K'nuth the Stout spoke: "Friends, we have honoured Ulric, Lord of Winter. Now we welcome Spring, in the name of Taal of the Wild Places!"

  At his words, the assembly fell silent. Into the arena came the strangest sight: a huge bison ridden by a man! The beast was oddly coloured - brown to the shoulder, with a white mane. It easily bore its rider, despite his size: he had to be N'dru the Strong, though his face was covered by the mask of a white wolfskin, from a beast he must have killed himself. Some of the audience fell to their knees, believing for an instant that Ulric had ridden the Winter into the city and they could worship him.

  The sun lowered redly to the Western hill. K'nuth announced: "Behold, Winter ends, and Ulric quits the land!" The warrior leapt from the bison's back, vaulted easily over the barrier. "Now, life returns to the world as the Dancer of Spring."

  "What dancer is this?" Peredur whispered to Whiteflower.

  "Look!" She hissed. "Your noble little friend!"

  His blood quickened. A figure moved, slow but graceful, up the steps of the eastern tower. He knew the blue embroidered robe, the hair now garlanded with green. She paused before the taut wire, appearing calm, but he sensed a tremor of fear run through her. A trumpet sounded, strange music, and she threw her arms upward, her cloak back: it did not fall, but fanned out around her like a parasol. The assembly gasped: it was lined with silver mirrors, brightly reflecting the dying sun. Beneath, her arms and legs were bare, browned almost to the colour of her golden cuirass. The music rose, and she moved forward onto the wire, dancing along it, her delicate feet never missing a step.

  She pranced to the far tower; whirled the cloak up, tossed it on to the platform, blue side up, so her golden body shone dominant over it. Light flashed onto the ends of two batons she held, which burst into flame. As the crowd gasped, Peredur hoped the show was over, but it was not finished. N'dru stared at the bison, holding his hammer up: its runes glowed with more than reflected light. The beast moved toward him: as it passed under the wire, the girl stepped easily into the air, landing with both feet on its back, sank almost to one knee, but stood upright in triumph, twirling her torches like juggler's clubs.

  She leaned forward and somehow attached the brands to the beast's great horns, then jumped off the tail, landing clean. The bison turned to look to the insult to its dignity: instead of fleeing, she ran lightly to it and vaulted over its head, her golden armour flashing fire between the two torches as she somersaulted.

  How could any cult, Peredur thought, allow so fair a girl to run such a risk, however well she took it? The bison angrily speeded up, trying to shake her off. Twice more she skipped nimbly down, turning to vault again between the flames. Their heat enraged the creature: she could not cope with its faster charge - or did intense sympathy transfer Peredur's fear to her, disrupt her concentration? That final time, she slipped, fell heavily from the bison's back, lay still as it turned, then tried to scramble up as it thundered angrily at her.

  A moan of sympathy rose all round. Peredur jumped up, wild with terror, and made a futile grab for his short sword, as though he were near. No one could rush between her and the monster: but N'dru had other resources. Leaping onto the barrier, he swung his great hammer and threw it. The bison was almost on the struggling girl, but the hammer was faster: runes glowing on its fearsome head, it struck the animal between the eyes, smashing its skull and hurling it backward onto its haunches. Nor was this all: runes glowing now on the mammoth shaft, it bounced into the air, and flew back surely to its master's mighty hand, as though it was a dove or homing bird.

  The squires who served at the evening feast all chattered about the magic weapon, the amazing rescue. Whiteflower and Peredur were included because of their better manners; they were in fact to serve the top table. N'dru sat next to the Graf, then Rhenhardt, K'nuth, and the two beautiful maidens, D'vorah the dancer, subdued by her ordeal, and C'tlain, the light-haired one. These were the sisters of N'dru. There were also notables of Wurtbad present, including Brother Martin.

  Peredur took care of D'vorah, giving her the best portions. He tried clumsily to express in words the beauty of the dance. She replied graciously but briefly. Time was short: the menu was complex, and the visitors had brought contributions. The first was a brown pepper from Achillesia, which N'dru warned might be too hot for their taste; hardly anyone had much, just a dash for politeness, while the strangers swamped their food with the stuff. Martin also: he looked worried, not just hot.

  D'vorah ate little; Peredur offered her other dishes. She seemed pleased, but wanted nothing. N'dru beckoned him, and said to t
he Graf: "Your hospitality is excellent, but I must ask if it is common among you for squires to make eyes at a guest's sister?"

  Peredur almost sank into the floor, and did his best not to fear this huge, outlandish man. But it was hard, and he dared not upset the Graf. Manfred at least invited him to defend himself.

  "I mean no offence. I wish to see the lady lacks nothing, as she has endured much more today than anyone else."

  N'dru frowned, a barbarous figure who even wore his mail at table: "Give equal care to all the guests. Our stock is inured to hardship and danger: my sister needs none of your fawning."

  Peredur was isolated - the Graf would not defend a fatherless scholar, and his family, especially his mother, would frown on attention to a foreign adventuress - but he could not keep silent: "Here we do not submit our women to the attentions of wild animals and deny them those of civilized men!"

  N'dru sat right up, and many feared him then. "Men! Since when have boys who don't even parade with the squires been men? If you hope to worm into my company via my sister, forget it!

  If you have other designs on her, why, I'd sooner see her marry a half-orc! Now, get to pouring wine, before I lose patience!"

  One person supported Peredur readily. Whiteflower had been working quietly and busily. For some reason, she had hennaed her hair, and put so much rouge powder on her face, which was really quite pretty, that it looked like a doll's mask - though now it was redder still with rage: "What do you know, you ignorant savage? Peredur Mappavrauch is the best of all the squires, the son of a great knight, a champion - but far too serious a scholar to join your band of tramps and gypsies!"

  The room froze. N'dru seemed past words, like a bombard with the fire lit and creeping along the fuse. But K'nuth had seen the Graf's arms on Whiteflower's gold brooch, and he cut in: "Lord Count, please forgive my cousin his concern for D'vorah's honour. Our married women are always true, but while single they can be tempted. I lost my own sister to an idle charlatan, a wolf who blathered his way into our fold. This young man is no more eager to join our company than we to have him. It's all a misunderstanding."

  People started to relax. Even N'dru took the mood. "That is so. And we have things to give and do! I have a present for you, my lord. Wine of Fallerion, the best vintage! Let even the squires drink it: it may make men of them!"

  The wine was white, but with an odd bright hue, like quicksilver. Peredur only pretended to drink; he wanted no gift of N'dru! Nor did Whiteflower drink, and they noticed that Brother Martin's cup also remained full. Libations were poured to Taal and Ulric. Music was played.

  As the company drank deeper, N'dru made a request: "Do you know Honorius? The 'Riddle Song of the Seals'? In most cities, they have verses which are not sung elsewhere. We would love to hear yours. My cousin K'nuth the Wise knows many verses, from many towns. Later, he will play them all for you."

  Martin beckoned to Peredur and whispered: "You are better away from here. Do not argue, I have a task for you. Here is the key to my study. Bring these books to the private shrine: The Book of Honorius, the Commentary of Xnagacius and the Alchemicon. Go!"

  Peredur hurried through the night of Wurtbad, and saw men of N'dru's company plying the sentries with wine and wild, hypnotic music. It took ages to find the books, but at last he had them. When he reached the palace again, that same music was throbbing from the hall.

  He found Brother Martin and Saskia Whiteflower in the Graf's little shrine to Our Lady, who presided in the form of a lifesize statue with her sword and scales. Whiteflower was pale beneath the powder: ''Do you think, Brother, they are trying to use enchantment?"

  "Not here. But they can hypnotize." Martin fumbled through the Alchemicon. "Alas, it's as I feared! 'The Silver Wine of Fallerion! This wine is more potent than any other. A man who has drunk deeply of it shall succumb swiftly to hypnotic chants or mesmeric songs!' Why didn't I recall more clearly! 'Protection can be got from herbs and seeds, most notably the Brown Pepper of Achillesia.'" He snatched the Commentary. "Here: 'Scholars call the Riddle Song a parable of the soul's path to perfection. But the old view has not been refuted, namely that the Seals were real sacred objects of great magic power, not symbols, and the Riddles refer to their location.'"

  Whiteflower was very excited: "There was a mention in the 'Wurtbad' verse of the Lord's Escape. How closely the savage and his man listened to that! And to the Sealing of the Stone! There's a passage below the cellars which the Old Lords used as an escape tunnel, with a picture on the wall of an Elf Queen placing a seal on a stone. Perhaps a clue to a hidden door!"

  Martin read on: "Some say the whole 'Riddle Song' has a greater secret woven into it - the way to an even older and more sacred item: the Hammer of the Stars. Its use cannot be attained without the mastery of the Seven Seals. It is protected by the mesmeric influence of the song: one cannot hear it and remember it all." He closed the great book. "Alas, the dry scholars of the Academy have long ignored the wise words of Xnagacius!"

  They ran to the Great Hall. Terror rose within them: not a man was moving there. All the nobles of the city lay slumped in their seats, the guards and servants in like plight around them. They seemed not ill, but in more than a drunken stupor: a trance. Of N'dru and his companions, there was no sign - but the door to the cellars was open!

  Only three remained to defend the Seal of Wurtbad, who had not drunk the Silver Wine. But they were unarmed. Peredur had a meagre store of weapons in Rhenhardt's house. As he rushed in, and rummaged for his light mailshirt, his mother hurried into the room. She had left the banquet early: "What are you up to? I knew no good could come from you mixing and brawling with those mountebanks, and making eyes at gypsy women!"

  "I have started nothing! They are our enemies! They have drugged the garrison, and plan to rob us of the Sacred Seal!"

  Shaken, Elen insisted: "Our Lady rewards holiness. She does not require such a material object to channel her protection."

  Martin came in: "He is right. Verena would not grant us her favour if we allowed so sacred a thing to be purloined. Stop complaining, and hurry to Shallya's Temple where they may know a remedy for what has been done to our soldiers!"

  Elen went pale, looking about to feint, but her voice firmed: "If this is so, you must swear by Our Lady that you put on armour in her cause, not in some quarrel over a dancing girl."

  Peredur took that oath, as fast as permissible. His mother became decisive. "Then I will give you the one bequest I have to pass down from your father." She led the way to her own chamber, and used a small gold key to unlock a heavy box. "The Iron Coat of Edvard Mappavrauch, the greatest knight ever to live in this country. They say it has the property that no man who puts it on in a righteous cause can take a fatal wound."

  The armour was of heavy plates riveted together, sculpted so it could be put on quickly like a coat. There was a shield of similar design, and a long sword. Whiteflower had already put Peredur's mail shirt over her dress, and picked up a halberd. As Elen hurried off, the three descended into the dark cellars.

  They traversed the gloomy way beside the ancient hall, and slipped through the hidden door of the Lord's Escape. Half way down the stairway, Whiteflower shone her lamp on an inlaid fresco: "Look! The Elf Queen seals an ancient stone to an armring, as in the Riddle. How real her ringstone looks! I wonder..."

  She touched the jewel: at once a door swung open. Beyond lay more steps; but these ran up. They were not quite dark: a faint and flickering light came from above. There were also voices, singing a strange chant that could not be called music, and again the scent of burning oil and sandalwood. "I thought as much! Those foreigners were interpreting the Riddle!"

  Up they crept, quiet as they could. They came to an arch between more of the huge pillars. Perhaps there had once been a door: now one could see into the chamber. Torches had been put in brackets on the weirdly-carved walls, where gargoyles, Elven they supposed, sought vainly to be ugly. The giant N'dru knelt before a black ancient chest; th
e stocky K'nuth held his staff across it, chanting words they did not understand. Behind, the sisters - D'vorah replying to the chant, C'tlain silent. Suddenly the chest opened of its own accord. N'dru reached for something within, hesitated, then brought out a hinged armband of heavy gold. It had a number of jewels, glowing in strange colours as by their own light, but the centrepiece was a blade of obsidian like a stone spearhead, held to the band by a golden seal.

  "A Dawnstone!" Martin breathed. Then he stormed forward. "How dare you, guests in this city, try to steal its most holy treasure, its ward against the spirits of the night!"

  N'dru stared at him: "So! Someone is awake in this slothful town! I dare what I dare, for a place like this can claim no ownership of so powerful a thing. You slumber cheerfully here, ignoring the world without where the empire of evil grows ever stronger. Not surprising, when flabby burghers of provincial places hoard selfishly things they cannot use or understand!"

  Peredur was amazed: "Did you not swear by the holy gods that whatever you think of us and our city, you will not harm us?"

  "Yes. I have sworn to do you good. I have seen the face of evil in this world, dark lands where brutes beyond description swarm hideous out of the earth. And I have beheld that which can overcome them - that which is death to all unnatural things."

  Martin gasped. "You mean... The Hammer of the Stars?"

  "Yes. I have seen that... fashioned by the Slann, those who were before men, who travelled lightly to the Otherworld - but only, as yet, in visions. Those who guard it are like you; lazy in the crusade, they seek only its protection for themselves. But I shall see it with these eyes; will touch it myself, and with these hands will turn its head against the dark."