“Felix?” came Kat’s voice.
“Coming,” he called over the wind. “Sorry.”
He pushed on faster, trying to go straight, but having to go out wider and wider to his right around the tangled brush. He fought for balance as the angle of the hill got steeper under his feet.
Then behind him he heard the thud of hooves and a garble of inhuman voices.
“Hurry, Felix,” Kat hissed. “They’re coming!”
“Move, girl!” shouted Rodi.
Felix shoved at the brush but it wouldn’t give. He sidestepped desperately, trying to find a way through. His ankle banged into something hard and immovable on the ground. He fell sideways, flailing with his arms for purchase. His fingers caught at twigs but they snapped, and he was tumbling down the hill in a flopping sprawl of limbs, upside down, then right side up, then crashing into invisible tree trunks, rocks and bushes before slamming hard on his side at the bottom of the slope and cracking his head on another invisible obstacle.
The only thing he could see was stars.
He woke again to the sound of distant fighting. For a long moment he had no idea where he was, or what the sound meant, or why he couldn’t see, or what had caused the horrible throbbing in his head. He only knew that lying there in the dark was infinitely preferable to moving in any way. Moving hurt like a hangover, and he didn’t care for it. Besides, the wind and the patter of snowflakes on his face were comforting somehow.
Then bubbles of memory began to float up through the mud of his brain and burst one by one on the surface. He had fallen. From where? A hill. Why had he been on a hill? There had been some desperate reason to get somewhere. At that memory his heart filled with dread, though he couldn’t remember the cause. He had been trying to reach someone. Who? He knew he had to help them. Had to save them. A girl. She was running from…
Suddenly it all flooded back and he sat up with a gasp. At least he tried to. Really. He flopped over on his side and vomited — while his brain smashed around inside his skull like an iron mace that might shatter it from the inside.
On a second try he made it to his hands and knees, which made it very convenient to vomit again — so he did. He was tempted to stay that way for a while, but the sounds of the fighting were still going on. Gotrek and Kat and the others still lived. He had to help them.
He forced himself to his feet with the aid of a tree. It was so black around him that he could see nothing at all — not the snow, not the sky, nothing. For all he knew the crack on the head might have blinded him. But he could hear the fight, above him and off to the left, some distance away.
He staggered forwards, wading through the snow and the blackness with his hands out in front of him. Every step hurt. He had bruises from head to toe, and he had smashed his left knee and twisted his right ankle. At least nothing seemed broken. He stumbled on at a snail’s pace, feeling with both his hands and his feet. He wanted to run, but he wasn’t sure he’d be able to get up if he fell again.
After a few more steps, the trees thinned out and the ground sloped down a little before him. This was encouraging. He might be able to make better speed in the clear. At the bottom of the little slope the ground under the snow became very flat and smooth. He took another step and his heel shot out to the side. He was on ice!
He scrambled to catch his balance, but his other foot went and he fell backwards. There was a loud crack and the ice gave beneath him. His heart stopped, as the image of plunging into some frozen lake or river and sinking to the bottom in his chainmail flashed through his mind.
Nothing so dramatic happened. He landed flat on his back in a foot of snow, and for a moment thought that he hadn’t broken through the ice after all. Then he felt freezing cold water seeping though the seat of his breeches and the back of the leather jerkin he wore under his mail.
With a curse he fought to sit up. Soaking wet in the middle of a snowstorm was not good at all. He put his hand down on the ice to lever himself up. It broke through. His hand hit bottom almost instantly, his sleeve soaked to the elbow. He must be in some frozen pond or stream. He tried to be cautious, but no matter where he put his weight, the ice broke under it, and by the time he dragged himself to the edge he was soaked to the skin from the waist down. His cloak and both sleeves were wet through too.
“This is bad,” he murmured. And then he realised something worse.
He couldn’t hear the fight anymore. He paused and strained to listen over the howling and moaning of the wind, but there was nothing.
No. There it was. A clash.
He stood and started towards it. No. That way was the water. He’d have to go a little further down to the left. He stumbled on, his teeth chattering and his feet and leg joints aching with cold as his wet breeches slapped around them. His pack felt as if it weighed as much as Gotrek.
He listened again. “Come on, curse you!” he muttered. “Keep fighting! Let me hear you!”
He laughed as he realised that all of a sudden he was hurrying to the fight to be rescued, rather than to be the rescuer.
Another clang. He reorientated himself and started ahead again. At least he thought he was moving in the right direction. The wind made it hard to pinpoint the sound. After a few more steps he braved a move to the left and found the stream again. This time he shuffled across as cautiously as an old man — though to be honest, his wet clothes and his muscles were so stiff now he could hardly do anything else.
He reached the opposite bank without incident and listened again. He heard nothing. He moved a little further on. Still nothing. Had he got turned around? Shouldn’t he have come to the hill by now? He pressed on, shivering as the wind pressed his ice-crusted clothes against his skin. Another ten steps. Still nothing. Was he even going in a straight line? He couldn’t tell.
“Gotrek!” he called. “Kat! Snorri!” But his voice came out in a plaintive whisper that was whipped away in the wind. He could hardly hear it over the ceaseless chattering of his teeth. And in this wind, he doubted his friends could have heard him even if he had shouted at the top of his lungs. Was that why he couldn’t hear them? Or perhaps they were all dead, killed by the blue-painted monsters. Perhaps he was all alone in the Drakwald but for the beastmen — the only living man for a hundred miles.
It came to him then that he was going to die there — that his corpse would be buried in the snow, frozen to the marrow until the spring, when it would thaw and rot, to become food for the beetles and worms of the forest. Maybe some scout or forester would find his bones and wonder who they had belonged to. Just another victim of the war, they would say. And all because he had walked the wrong way around a tree and lost the others. It seemed an impossibly silly reason to die.
A sob lodged painfully in his throat as he thought of all the things he had left unfinished. He would never witness Gotrek’s doom or complete his epic. He would never have vengeance upon the skaven sorcerer who had ordered his father’s death. He would never see Ulrika again. He would never—
He shook himself. Sigmar, he was having brain fever! He had to stop ruminating and do something or he would die indeed. He had to make a fire and get warm. But, no, if he made a fire, the beastmen would find him.
He shrugged. He didn’t care. He would rather die warm than frozen. Besides, if Gotrek and the others had won the fight, the light might lead them to him.
He stopped and struggled to take his pack off. He was shaking so violently now he could hardly get his arms out of the straps. Finally he got it off his shoulders and it thudded to the ground behind him. He turned and felt around until he found it. His heart sank. No wonder it had felt so heavy. The leather was wet and crackled with ice. The bedroll and blanket that he had strapped to the bottom of it were soaked through.
He groaned in despair. A wet blanket, no dry clothes to change into. He really was going to die.
He fumbled for the buckles of his pack with fingers so numb that he couldn’t feel what he was touching. It seemed to take him an hour to get the straps l
oose and the flap open — an hour when the cold from his ice-hardened clothes seeped into his skin to the bone. He felt made of lead — cold lead. It was almost impossible to move his arms.
He dug painfully through the contents of the pack, all wet and ruined, until he found his flint and steel and tinderbox. The box was smashed, probably during his fall, and the little pine shavings wet and limp.
“It’s not fair!” he said, sobbing, then was glad that no one had been there to hear him.
Pushing to his feet hurt more than a sword wound. It felt like he had Altdorf’s temple of Sigmar on his back — like all his joints were wrapped tight with leather straps. He staggered around until he found a bush, then snapped twigs off it until he had a shaking fistful. He turned and went back to where his pack was. It wasn’t there. He whimpered and started feeling around. He’d lost it in the dark. It was probably a foot from him and he’d lost it. He found it at last behind him, and knelt beside it, breathing a shuddering sigh of relief and sweeping away the snow in front of him so he could pile the little handful of twigs on the bare ground. Then he found the flint and steel again and struck them together. At least he tried to. His fingers were so stiff, and his shaking so violent that he missed. He tried again. This time they clashed together, but they were too wet to strike a spark.
With a grunt of frustration he slipped them down between his jack and his shirt, the only place on him that was fully dry. The cold steel against his chest made him flinch, but it had to be done. After a second he fumbled them back out and tried again. A spark!
It flew away on the wind, never coming close to the twigs. He shifted around so that his back was to the gale and tried again. Still the spark flew. He sobbed. Every muscle in his body was cramping with cold. He felt made of wood now. His arms could barely hold their position. His fingers couldn’t hold the steel. It slipped out of his hand and fell on the snowy ground. He struggled to pick it up again. It was like trying to grab something with one’s elbow. He could only push it around.
At last he got the little bar trapped against his leg and fumbled it up into his grip. He struck it against the flint again, and again, and again. The sparks hopped onto the twigs and died — snuffed by the ice or blown out by the wind.
He paused. He was tired. He couldn’t lift his arms anymore. He needed to rest. Yes, that was it — a little rest and he would try again. He laid his arms on his knees and bowed his head. All he needed was a few minutes and he would get his strength back. Just a few minutes. He closed his eyes. That was better. He was feeling better already. Warmer even. A gentle heat seemed to be flowing through his veins. He felt cosy. Maybe he would just lie down for a bit. Yes, that was best. A little nap.
He eased over on his side, letting the flint and the steel fall from his fingers and curling into a ball. All was well. A cosy little nap and everything would be fine.
But then, just as he was drifting off into a drowsy dream of hearths and warm brandy, there was a noise in the darkness. His heart lurched. Something was coming for him. He tried to open his eyes, tried to move his arms and legs, to force himself to sit up, to draw his sword. He couldn’t. He was pressed to the ground by weariness and petrified with stiffness. His body would not answer his call.
The thing in the darkness got closer. He could hear it behind him. He could hear it breathing.
ELEVEN
“Felix! Felix, wake up!”
Someone was shaking him. It hurt. His muscles screamed. He tried to shrug the person off, tried to complain, but he couldn’t move, couldn’t stop his jaws from trembling long enough to speak. The person stepped in front of him and held a slotted lantern to his face. Though the light was dim, after so long in the dark it blinded him. He cringed away.
“Rhya be praised,” said the person. “You’re alive!”
Felix knew the voice. A voice from the distant past. A girl he used to know. Kirsten? Ulrika? Was he dreaming? He couldn’t tell.
A warm hand touched his face and felt at his neck.
“Gods, not by much. Wait here.”
He heard the person set down the lantern and move away. He squinted against the light, looking around only with his eyes, for he couldn’t move his head. Through a screen of slashing snow he saw a little bundled-up form was bustling in and out of his field of vision, taking off her pack, looking though his.
Kat. It was Kat. He wasn’t sure if he was disappointed or relieved.
“All wet,” she said to herself. “Felix, what happened? How did you do this to yourself?”
There was a sharp scraping noise and a flash, and then after a moment, the space in front of him got brighter. Kat moved away and he saw she had started a little fire. It almost made him cry. How had she done it so easily? Why had it been so hard for him? He saw her digging away the snow around him as if she were a dog burying a bone, then she vanished again for a moment. Something was laid over him, and then Kat was kneeling beside him, raising it on sticks. She was making a tent around him.
Then she vanished again, and for long enough that he grew worried. Had she left him? Had something grabbed her?
Finally she stepped back in front of him, a big bundle of dead branches and twigs in her arms. She dropped them beside the little fire and then began to lay them carefully on top of it. The heat of it was reaching his face now. It stung like ice.
When she had built up the fire, she placed her canteen and his next to it, then crawled into the tent and spread out her bedroll beside him, then turned to him and pulled off his cloak, which was stiff and heavy with ice. She threw it out beside the fire, then started on the wool coat he wore over his chainmail.
“Wh… wh… what are you doing?” he managed.
“Your clothes are killing you,” she said. “They are wet and frozen and taking your heat. You must get out of them or you will die.”
He tried to protest but more for form’s sake than anything else. He knew she was right, it was just that, though he had more than once pictured her taking his clothes off, it hadn’t been like this. Not with him helpless as a baby. Not when it was a matter of life or death.
She had terrible trouble with his chainmail, but he could do little to help her. She had to raise his arms so that she could tug it off over his head, for he couldn’t move them himself. At last, after much grunting and cursing, she dragged it off him and threw it aside. The rest came much easier, and soon he was lying naked under the tent with all his clothes drying around the fire.
Still he couldn’t move except to shiver. Also, though he shook so much that he thought he would break his teeth with their chattering, he was burning up. He felt like he was back in the desert of Khemri, dying in the sun. With a grunt of effort, Kat rolled him onto her bedroll and pulled the blanket over him, then started taking off her hat and coat and scarf.
“Don’t do that,” said Felix. “You’ll freeze too.”
“I am going to lie with you. The blankets are not enough. You need true warmth.”
Felix was alarmed. Again, he had dreamed of this, but not like this! “But… but I’m too hot already.”
“You are not,” said Kat, unbuckling and shucking her leather armour. “You’re as cold as a fish. You only think you’re hot. It is the madness that comes before the end.”
“M-madness?” stuttered Felix as Kat pulled her wool undertunic off over her head and revealed her naked torso.
She was as lean and wiry as a greyhound, but most definitely a woman. She shucked her boots and breeches, then reached out of the tent and grabbed her canteen from beside the fire. She hissed as it burned her fingers, then pulled it into the tent by the strap. When she had it, she quickly rolled under the blanket with him and wrapped an arm around him, while she gingerly unscrewed the cap of the canteen.
“Kat,” he said. “I… this…”
“Shhhh,” she said, and lifted the canteen to his mouth. “Drink this.”
He jerked back, yelping, as the water scalded his lips. “It’s too hot! I can’t!”
“You must. You must warm your insides. Drink!”
Felix opened his mouth again and did his best to swallow as she poured it into him, though it felt as if the water were blistering his mouth and throat as it went down. Finally she relented and set the canteen aside, and he lay back, panting and gasping.
She rested her head on his chest and hugged him hard. It felt remarkably good, but Felix remained rigid. He wasn’t sure if he should return the gesture, or if he wanted to, or even if he could.
“Listen, Kat…” he said, then couldn’t think of what to say.
“Forget it, Felix,” she said. “I remember what you said. Just rest.”
From the way that she said it he could tell it still stung her. He grunted, frustrated. He didn’t want her thinking that he didn’t love her. It wasn’t that. It was… His mind was too jumbled with the cold and the warmth and the dizziness from drinking the hot water so fast. He gave up. He dragged his lumpish, unresponsive arms up and put them around her. She remained tense for a moment, but then relaxed and nestled her head under his chin, very like a cat indeed. It was such a sweet, cosy gesture he almost cried.
“Damn it, Kat,” he sighed, his words slurring a little with drowsiness. “What is the matter with you?”
“What do you mean?” she murmured.
“Do you like me? And don’t say you’re in love with the hero I was to you when you were young. You’re smarter than that, and I was never that hero anyway.” He snorted. “It was you who saved me that day, not the other way around. And…” His shivers overcame him again for a moment and he had to stop. “And here you’ve done it again, so it can’t be that.”
Kat was silent for a long time, and Felix wondered with mixed feelings if he had actually convinced her of her folly and that she would say, “You’re right, Felix. It was my memories of you I loved. I’ve been a foolish girl—”
But after a moment she squeezed him again and said, “You are a hero to me, Felix. Not for killing that woman, but for trying to stop her even though you knew she would kill you. But…” She paused again. “But it isn’t that — not just that.” She stared out of the tent at the fire. “There are many men I know who accept me as a scout, but not as a woman.” Her eyes narrowed. “They call me she-beast, or tom-cat, or… other names.” She paused again, and Felix could feel angry tension in her arms, then she continued. “And there are other men, like Milo, who would accept me as a woman, but not as a scout.” She turned her head and looked up at him, her brown eyes liquid in the glow of the fire. “You accept me as both. That…” She swallowed, then buried her head against his chest again. “That doesn’t happen very often.”
[Gotrek & Felix 11] - Shamanslayer Page 16