Ottmar had made his way back to the rocks, discovering the carnage left behind by the battle that had raged there. He saw the path the survivors had taken, Ghrum’s enormous prints convincing him it was his comrades and not the brigands who had departed that way. The rest of the day, he had struggled to follow after them, but his wound vexed him terribly and he had never quite been able to catch up. Indeed, he had almost despaired of ever achieving his objective until he saw the light of their fire beckoning to him in the night.
“No, I saw no sign that anyone but me followed you,” Ottmar replied to Eugen’s question. The knight breathed a sigh of relief.
“That is something, at least,” he decided. “We can strike out for the river, recover at the first village we come across and send word back to Count Eberfeld regarding our losses.”
“We won’t be staying that long,” Kessler told him. Eugen’s eyes narrowed at the swordsman’s reproach. “We’ll be here for just long enough to take what we need before we press on.” The statement brought incredulous curses from the soldiers and an impious oath from Gerhard.
“What we need is more men,” Eugen pointed out. “We’re not even strong enough to fight off a pack of bandits, much less go gallivanting through the Black Mountains. There’s still a fair number of orcs prowling the mountains and more goblins living beneath them than a weirdroot fiend’s worst nightmare could conjure!”
“Then we’ll get more men,” Kessler countered.
“Where?” Eugen objected. “Count Eberfeld has picked the region clean of militia and guardsmen to fight Zahaak.”
Kessler shook his head, glancing back at the wagon. “I don’t know, but we’ll find a way. The baron would want me to try.”
“You?” protested Gerhard. “Surely you don’t think we’re going to take that seriously? You’re a baron’s champion, an arena fighter, a trained killer. What do you know about command? Marshal Eugen is the natural choice to carry on as leader.”
Kessler glared back at the outraged young knight. “Everything you say is true, but the baron trusted me more than the marshal to see this thing through. I intend to follow his final order.”
“We should put it to a vote,” suggested one of the soldiers. “I say we follow Marshal Eugen. He has the right of it. We’ve done everything we could do. There’s no shame in turning back.” The sentiment was echoed by the man’s comrades, and brought a satisfied grin to Gerhard’s face.
“There will be no voting,” Eugen said, silencing the dissent. “Kessler is right, the baron made his choice and we are bound to that decision.”
“But the runefang!” Gerhard exclaimed. “You said yourself it is more important that the Southern Sword is recovered, regardless of who gets the glory of doing so.”
“Yes, I did,” Eugen conceded, “but maybe I was wrong. Maybe the baron was right. There are lives in the balance, lives that are not rightly ours to spend.”
The argument might have continued, but for Ottmar’s decisive interruption. With a loud, piercing whistle, he silenced the conversation. All eyes turned upon the wounded sergeant. “This bickering gets no one anywhere,” he said. “Why not wait until you reach civilisation again? See what Kessler can do before you go making any rash decisions.
“Besides,” Ottmar added, pleased with the effect his words had had, “wouldn’t it be better to wait until you are certain there are no enemies on your tail before falling out?”
That seemed to settle the matter and the conference broke apart as each man found his bedroll and tried to capture such sleep as the night might yet allow him.
Kessler found Ottmar before the sergeant could fall asleep. “I want to thank you,” he told the soldier. Ottmar waved aside his gratitude.
“There’s nothing to thank,” he said. “I’ve been leading soldiers around by the nose for longer than I care to remember. The trick is to cloak your coercion in a bit of common sense. It gives them the illusion that they’re making their own decisions.”
“I’ll bear that in mind,” Kessler said.
Ottmar shifted deeper into the heavy blankets he had been given. “You’ve got better things to think about,” he told Kessler, closing his eyes, “like what you’re going to do when you reach the river. It’ll have to be pretty good to keep this lot together after what they’ve been through.”
Kessler turned away, stalking back towards the wagon. The sergeant was right, he would need to do something to prevent the entire expedition from disintegrating. He stared down into Ernst von Rabwald’s cold, pained face. That was a question that would wait. Now he had a friend to bury.
* * *
Theodo smacked his head against the side of the oak as he tried to dredge up whatever was left in his capricious stomach. Nothing came up, so he decided that the worst was over, although his body didn’t seem to agree, reflexively convulsing and heaving to purge itself of the fermented poisons the halfling had tortured it with the night before. He squinted at the faint glow on the horizon. Dawn was such an unholy hour, something to be shunned every bit as much a physical labour. It always reminded him of such thankless drudgery, the long years on his father’s farm. There were much better ways to make a living.
Tending wounded tall folk wasn’t one of them. Theodo shuddered again as he considered all that cut and torn humanity he had struggled so mightily to attend. He tried to prevent himself from empathising with others, it was a quality no serious-minded gambler could afford, but it was very hard not to absorb some of that suffering when you were so close to it. That was why he had let himself go so badly, guzzling down the last of his extremely private, extremely secret and extremely final supply of schnapps. At the time it had seemed like a good idea, and improved with every snort he drew from the flask. The spirits had helped so marvellously to blur all those ugly images swirling around in his head, all those ugly memories of screaming, dying men he simply couldn’t help.
Now, all Theodo could think about was what a waste it all was. Drinking for enjoyment, he could understand and approve of. Drinking to forget, guzzling down expensive, quality stock until its very taste became an abstraction, that he could never condone. He didn’t care for drunkards, they were weak, miserable, foolish things, even when their name was Theodo Hobshollow.
The halfling pulled away from the tree and his self-recriminations. He shook his head, trying to clear the butterflies from his skull. The creeping rays of the sun weren’t helping matters, not in the slightest. Reflexively, he turned his back to the fiery despot, wondering if he could somehow convince Kessler to delay the march until noon.
Suddenly the halfling pulled back, blinking his eyes in alarm. He’d heard snippets, snatches of hushed conversation between Kessler and the baron before they had reached Murzklein, suspicious whispers about ranger signs and strange messages left by someone in the camp. Theodo turned around, looking over his shoulder at the men busily packing what meagre gear they had left. Were any of them looking his way? Was anybody watching him?
Theodo dismissed the paranoia. Tall folk never paid much attention to the doings of halflings. They might as well be invisible for all that men cared most of the time. It was a frustrating, insulting tendency, he admitted, but an enterprising fellow never lacked opportunity to put it to good use. He decided to put it to good use now.
The halfling crept forward, timidly approaching the crude stone arrow that his sharp eyes had discerned. Silently, he followed in the direction it indicated, discovering a big old oak with a knobby, nose-like knot in the trunk. Above the knot was a narrow hollow and in the hollow…
Theodo stared at the little scrap of goatskin for sometime before deciding that whatever was written on it was beyond his capacity to understand. He glanced back at the camp and a cold smile wormed its way onto his face. Somebody back there understood what it said. The gibberish written on the hide would be valuable to them.
With an avaricious twinkle in his eye, Theodo secreted the goatskin securely in the vest pocket that had formerly held
his flask of schnapps. His step was a good deal more confident when he returned to the camp. The butterflies were all gone. Like scruples, they simply had no place when a fellow’s mind turned towards business.
CHAPTER TEN
Count Eberfeld kept his face set, his expression firm and confident. The effect was somewhat spoiled by Captain Markus standing beside him. The officer was the embodiment of anxiety, shifting nervously from one foot to the other, head constantly turning as he struggled to watch every corner of the tent simultaneously. His fingers tapped against the hilt of his sword, as though he was frightened to have the weapon away from his touch. That was something, at least, the count considered. The Averlanders hadn’t requested their weapons.
Of course that fact didn’t really comfort Markus. Armed or unarmed, there was little mischief the captain and the twenty knights who had accompanied Count Eberfeld across the border could work against the considerable host Count Achim had assembled. They’d be like mites nibbling at a dragon’s scaly hide, and could be crushed just as easily.
Eberfeld thought about that vast encampment, the immense field of tents and pavilions, the timber corrals filled with warhorses and the wooden racks filled with spears and lances. From even a casual glance, he could see that Averland had worked hard to recover her strength after the last war. He knew that every man in the encampment was a tried and tested fighter, rotated from across the province to guard the notorious Black Fire Pass against greenskin marauders from the mountains and ruthless raiders from the lawless realms of the Border Princes. He could see the echoes of battle in the eyes of the soldiers, who turned their smouldering, hateful gaze on him as he was led through the camp to meet with their leader.
These men knew the ways of sword and spear, and had practised the art of war in pitched battle time and again. In the heart of each burned the sting of defeat, the slight against their national pride visited upon their people in the aftermath of invasion. Eberfeld knew well how far a man could drive himself out of love and loyalty and devotion. He also knew that hate could carry a man further. Beside the soldiers dressed in the black and yellow of Averland, Eberfeld’s troops were little more than a motley collection of peasant militia.
The colours of Averland were not the only ones in evidence among the banners of Achim’s army. Eberfeld noted the standards of several mercenary companies, their tents pitched well away from the regular soldiery. A loud and raucous band of horsemen, practising their reckless brand of mounted acrobatics, galloped around the edge of the camp, their shaved heads and long top-knots marking them as Ungols from the lands of the Tzar. More disturbing still was the bright blue banner with the green griffon splayed across it. Eberfeld knew the heraldry well, and knew what manner of soldiers rode beneath it. The Order of the Griffon, one of the knightly orders devoted to the protection of Altdorf and the Great Cathedral of Sigmar, served the Prince of Reikland and for them to be present in Count Achim’s camp meant that the pretender to the crown of the Empire had sent them. Averland would be a staunch ally for the prince, helping him against the other claimants to the crown, the Count of Middenheim and Lady Magritta of Marienburg. Eberfeld frowned as he considered how much deeper Reikland’s commitment to Achim might run and how substantial their support would be if Averland moved against him.
The tent they had been led into was clearly that of some knight or officer rather than Count Achim’s own pavilion. Their escort had conducted Eberfeld and Markus into the canvas-walled room, and left promising to bring news of his presence to Count Achim. There was no hiding the hostility in the voices of the Averlanders, but as Eberfeld had hoped, the sheer audacity of his visit in person to their camp had confounded them. If that confusion rose as far as Achim, he might get his audience, might be allowed his desperate gamble to convince his neighbour that he was not his father and that Wissenland’s troubles were genuine, her plight authentic. He had to trust that Achim would take his presence in the Averland camp as an act of faith, a testament to the truth of his words.
Of course, even if Achim believed him, there was the possibility that Averland would move across the border anyway. It depended how deeply ambition and hate ran in the old count, and how strongly the virtues of honour and humanity held his heart. If Eberfeld had overplayed his hand, rather than driving the wolf from his door he might be inviting it in.
The tent flap was suddenly pulled back, snapping Eberfeld from his troubled thoughts. Two men entered, stalking into the room with a wary, cautious quality. The foremost was a thin, middle-aged man with sharp patrician features and finely cut clothes trimmed in ermine. Behind him came a taller more powerfully built specimen, his imposing frame encased in an elaborately engraved suit of plates, the armour shining a steely blue as the flickering light of the tent’s lamp glistened off it. The older man glared at Eberfeld with the same smouldering hostility the soldiers had regarded him with, but the knight’s expression was more subdued, an unimpassioned watchfulness, the calculating regard of a predator sizing up its prey.
The thin Averlander studied Eberfeld, his sullen eyes scrutinising every inch of the nobleman. The man’s gaze lingered on the jewelled cavalry sabre hanging from the count’s belt, and his lean face pulled up into a sneer. Eberfeld clenched his jaw. At General Hock’s insistence, he’d left the runefang of Wissenland behind. It was bad enough to risk the ruler of the province in such a dangerous and reckless endeavour, but to risk the symbol of the legitimacy of that rule was something Eberfeld was unwilling to do. The ruin of Solland was an imposing example of what happened to a land that lost its power to rule.
The Averlander’s impertinent air of superiority grew as he reached beneath the heavy fur-trimmed cloak he wore, eyes still fixed on the mundane blade in Eberfeld’s scabbard. The count could almost read the thoughts in the Averlander’s mind, the understanding that the bold Wissenlander was not as confident as he pretended to be. The old man drew a sword from beneath his cloak, the blade almost seeming to glow in the gloom of the tent. Captain Markus muttered an oath and started to draw his own steel, but all Eberfeld could do was gasp and stare.
Before Markus could react to what he imagined was an attack against his lord, the thin Averlander plunged the blade he had drawn into the ground between him and Eberfeld, stabbing the sword deep into the living earth. Eberfeld only dimly heard the sigh of relief from his officer, his attention fully riveted upon the sword. There were slight differences in ornamentation, in the scroll work upon the jewelled hilt and the engraving upon the guard, the stylised flames that writhed along the dark metal of the blade, but there was no doubting its kinship with the blade Eberfeld had left behind with General Hock. There were only twelve such swords in all the world, and Eberfeld knew that he gazed upon the runefang of Averland, the legendary sword sometimes known as Mother’s Ruin.
The thin Averlander gloated in Eberfeld’s shock, folding his arms before him and waiting for the nobleman to regain his composure. When he was satisfied that Eberfeld would attend, the man spoke, his words at once snide and imperious. “I am Graf Dietrich Kuhlmann,” the Averlander introduced himself, feigning only the rudest approximation of a courtly bow, “seneschal to His Imperial Excellency Count Ludo Exeter Johannes Achim von Leitdorf, Warden of the River Aver, Guardian of the Grey Forest and Protector of the Black Fire.” Kuhlmann bowed again as he recited the titles of his lord and master. “Count Achim extends the courtesy of his camp to the delegation from our neighbour. Courtesy, and nothing more.” The old man’s hand extended in a casual gesture, pointing at the runefang thrust into the ground. “I was told to bring this talisman to display the sincerity of my master’s promise of safety. If any sword in this camp were to be raised against Eberfeld of Wissenberg, it would be this one. Count Achim would never endure any hand but his own to strike down an Eberfeld.”
Eberfeld looked from the sword into Kuhlmann’s leering face. “Am I to take it then that Count Achim will not allow me a personal audience and that I must make do with one of his… functi
onaries?”
“Count Achim fears that if he were to be in the same room as you, the compulsion to avenge himself would be too great to deny,” Kuhlmann replied coldly. There was such intensity in the seneschal’s words that Eberfeld almost forgot the ridiculousness of the scene they evoked. Achim was an old man, more than half again as old as himself. Eberfeld’s agents in Averland had repeatedly described the eccentricities of Achim, but never had they reported anything that suggested delusions or madness. “His sons were murdered in the Rape of Averheim,” Kuhlmann continued. “The impulse to kill the son of the man who killed his sons is one that has haunted his excellency ever since you succeeded your infamous predecessor.”
“Why then has your lord not acted before now?” Eberfeld growled. “Why does he wait to pounce upon my lands when they are already besieged? I know there can never be friendship between Wissenberg and Averheim, but I had thought Achim a man of honour, the noble eagle who would swoop down from the open sky to strike his enemy. Instead I find him playing the part of a lurking vulture, waiting to pick clean the carcass of a land already struggling to survive!”
For the first time, Kuhlmann’s smile was genuine and almost warm. “Count Achim’s dispute is with the House of Eberfeld, not with our brothers in Wissenland. We have no ambitions to seize territory or plunder the countryside. We are content to leave such tactics to Eberfelds and orcs. This army, this great host drawn from every corner of the province is not here to invade Wissenland, it is here to aid our neighbour in her time of need. We have ten thousand infantry, two thousand cavalry and a dozen ogres from the hills of Ostland, all ready to march to the aid of Wissenland’s people. There are stores of grain and bread, which Count Achim, in his benevolence, intends to bestow upon the people displaced by the conflict being waged within Wissenland. As a people who have suffered the ravages of war, we Averlanders understand what it is to spend winter with an empty belly.”
[Warhammer] - Runefang Page 17