‘My steward, Ghedren, saw your men pursue my son into the forest,’ said Junica, indicating the unassuming man in the chainmail hauberk. ‘They were drunk, seeking sport. My firstborn son. Aldrec was a strong, brave boy, and your men ran him down like a dog. At your order, no doubt.’
‘My soldiers did nothing of the sort. Yet I know that you yourself resort to murder all too quickly, Junica,’ snarled Dezraed. ‘As did your son. On the very night you claim he was assaulted, it was he who murdered a Dezraed man in cold blood, then fled the scene of the crime rather than face the consequences. Half a dozen more of my men have disappeared also. No doubt their bodies have been dumped in some stinking bog with Junica daggers in their backs.’
‘You witnessed this altercation?’ Callis asked Ghedren.
‘I did,’ the man said, nodding. ‘It is as the Lord Junica states. Words were exchanged and swords were drawn. I do not know who struck the first blow, but Aldrec was wounded on the arm in the struggle. He fled on horseback. The Dezraeds chased him.’ The man spoke with a soft, lilting accent, quite at odds with his coarse and weathered face. Callis guessed that Ghedren was in his third decade or thereabouts, but he had the rough look of a man who plied his trade in the wilds. Callis noticed the familiar curling lines of blue-ink tattoos emerging from under the man’s collar. A fellow Reclaimed. A descendent of the nomadic tribes who had once lived here, before Sigmar’s Tempest brought the light of the heavens back into the realms, rather than a great, Azyr-born family like his masters. Perhaps that was why he appeared to possess some humility.
‘They went beyond the eastern gate and into the Ulwhyr,’ he continued. ‘I followed after them, but they were horsed and I was not. I lost them in the darkness, but I heard screams, so returned to seek help.’
‘The words of a low-born mercenary employed by the Junica,’ said Captain Celtegar, with a dismissive snort. ‘How utterly convincing. I tell you now, upon my honour and that of my men, no such incident took place. This one lies.’
Ghedren simply shrugged. ‘It is what I saw.’
‘How many days past was this?’ asked Toll.
‘Five days, sire.’
‘And you have returned since to search the area?’
‘We have. We found no sign of Master Junica, nor of his pursuers.’
‘It is possible, then, that something else could have occurred within the Ulwhyr? Not murder?’ Toll continued.
Ghedren shrugged. ‘Perhaps, but the Dezraed soldiers were after blood.’
‘You will take me and my associate there,’ said Toll. ‘You will guide us to the spot where you lost track of them. If what you say is true, there will be traces of their passing.’
Ghedren looked at his master for confirmation. Lord Junica nodded slightly.
‘Captain Celtegar will accompany you,’ said Lord Dezraed. ‘Along with two men of his choosing. Just to ensure that this is not some foolish attempt at revenge.’
‘I have such a thing as honour, you bloated fiend,’ snapped Junica. ‘A concept that escapes you entirely.’
Their bickering was about to start over anew, when Toll slammed his fist on the table.
‘Silence,’ he barked. ‘At dawn, we will enter the Ulwhyr and find out the truth of this. My lords, you will remain in Marshpoint until I tell you otherwise. And I warn you both, if blood is shed on these streets, I promise I will ensure that a price is paid. Now leave.’
Callis followed Toll out of the eastern gate of Marshpoint early the next morning, rubbing at his itching eyes. It had not been a relaxing sleep in the cramped guest chambers of the Moss Throne. The room had smelled of mildew and rot, and he had been kept awake by the sounds of buzzing insects and a slow, steady dripping from the roof above his head.
‘So, what do you think of our Lords Junica and Dezraed?’ Toll asked.
Callis scratched his beard and yawned.
‘They would each see the other destroyed if they could,’ he said. ‘That’s clear. But I am not sure about a murder plot. Lord Dezraed hardly seems like a master schemer.’
‘Do not underestimate him,’ said Toll. ‘Marshpoint may not be a glamorous place, but the silksteel plantations are of great value to both houses. They would not send lackwits out here to oversee one of their most valuable trades. Fenrol Dezraed looks like a greedy fool, but clever men often hide behind the mummer’s mask.’
‘Why the firstborn son?’ said Callis. ‘Why not the old man himself? If you’re going to start a war, why not make that your opening move? If this is a Dezraed scheme, what’s the end goal?’
Toll rolled his hat in his hands and nodded thoughtfully.
‘Be watchful as we enter the Ulwhyr,’ he said, checking the firing pan of his four-barrelled pistol. ‘Observe all. Discount nothing.’
‘I’ve patrolled the wilds before,’ said Callis. ‘I know well what it’s like out here.’
‘I do not just mean the forest,’ Toll replied, but before Callis could ask what he meant, the witch hunter strode over to greet the Junica steward, Ghedren, who was waiting for them on a flooded path that led out towards the distant spectre of the Ulwhyr Forest. The man carried a well-made composite bow and a heavy-bladed knife at his hip. He was wrapped in a large wolf-skin cloak that smelled strongly of wet fur. He dipped his head in greeting as they approached. The vast, ominous expanse of woodland that was the Ulwhyr lurked on the eastern edge of the town, emerging out of the early morning murk. The canopy was an impenetrable carpet of dark green, the trunks of the trees below gnarled and twisted, leading into darkness. A tide of sickly green mist rolled out from the bog, swirling around the mouth of the forest like the breath of a fallen giant.
‘So that’s where we’re headed?’ Callis said. ‘Seems like an inviting sort of place.’
Ghedren smiled. ‘The Ulwhyr is dangerous, yes. But it is also a place of life. For many years, my people walked its secret paths, hidden from those that wished us harm. It protected us, granted us all that we required. One need only show the forest the proper respect and they can walk amongst its shadows unscathed.’
‘You almost sound as though it’s a sentient thing,’ said Callis.
‘Perhaps it is. These lands are rife with magic. Within the Ulwhyr dwells things more ancient than a mortal could possibly contemplate,’ said Ghedren. ‘The forest belongs to them, not us.’
‘For now,’ interrupted Toll. ‘In time, the light of the God-King will reach even the darkest corners of these lands. We will tame this place, and then we will burn away the shadows.’
‘Some evils cannot be banished so easily.’
‘I did not say that it would be easy,’ said Toll, who then went to converse with the gaggle of nervous-looking guards manning the east gate, leaving Ghedren and Callis alone.
‘You were raised in the city?’ asked the steward.
‘I was,’ Callis replied. ‘Though my family weren’t Azyrite. I served in the Freeguild for many years.’
Callis briefly thought to mention his regiment, but decided against it. The Coldguard of Excelsis had been entirely liquidated for their part in the heretical plot to overthrow the city, after all, and he was the sole survivor. That fact tended to set people on edge, for some unfathomable reason.
‘I thought as much,’ said Ghedren, nodding. ‘You have a soldier’s bearing. It is surprising to me that a man so young – one of the Reclaimed, no less – is in the employ of the Order. You must be a man of rare talents to be elevated so high.’
‘I’m merely a soldier, as you say. Just doing what is asked of me.’
Ghedren gave an awkward, sad smile.
‘Aren’t we all?’ he said. ‘Yet it seems that we must work twice as hard for half the praise.’
‘Aye,’ said Callis. ‘I won’t disagree with you there.’
‘Your master… This witch hunter,’ said Ghedren. ‘He is Azyr-born,
I take it.’
Callis blinked in surprise as he realised he had never thought to ask.
‘I confess, I have no idea,’ he said.
‘He’s more alike to them than us, I think,’ said Ghedren. ‘I worry that he does not understand this place, not truly. He is a creature of the crowded street, the shadowed back-alley…’
They heard boots squelching through the mud, and turned to see Toll leading three soldiers along the muddy path towards them – two Dezraed guards and the captain, Celtegar. All had pistols strapped to their belts and had ditched their spears for more practical longswords.
‘Corporals Brujda,’ said the captain, indicating the shaven-headed woman, ‘and Yol.’ The latter was a short, stocky red-headed man with a wispy beard and lazy eyes. The two soldiers gave perfunctory nods, all business. Celtegar cast a withering look at Ghedren.
‘Where do you insist that this fiction occurred?’
‘They pursued the Junica boy this way, along the path and into the forest,’ said Ghedren.
‘Lies.’
‘He was bleeding from his wounds, and they were striking him with lances.’
‘When this farce is over, I’ll have your head for this, savage,’ snapped Celtegar.
‘You’ll keep a civil tongue in your head,’ snarled Callis, moving to within an inch of Celtegar’s face, enjoying the look of surprised fury on the man’s angular features. ‘The only justice here will be served by the Order of Azyr.’
For a moment, Callis thought Celtegar would swing for him. He tensed his arms, ready to block the man’s punch and return it in kind.
‘Stand down, Armand,’ said Toll. ‘This is not the time nor the place.’
Callis stared into the captain’s grey eyes a moment longer, just to let him know the time had long passed where he would suffer the insults and barbs of blue-blooded fools. When he stepped back, Celtegar was all but trembling with rage.
‘Lead on, Ghedren,’ the witch hunter said. ‘I would have us get to the truth of this as soon as possible.’
Callis had never much liked forests. He’d fought in several during his time in the Freeguilds, and these had been amongst his most miserable experiences. The deep woods played tricks on a soldier’s mind, made one jump at every sound and every flickering shadow. The Ulwhyr was worse than most. It was a twisted labyrinth of curling boughs, smothered in darkness. Its mist swirled around their legs and up to their knees, making every step a potential hazard. Callis had expected the usual cacophony of sounds, the chattering of insects and the hooting of birds, yet the ominous canopy above them was startlingly silent. He winced at every snapped stick and muttered curse from his companions. If anyone was lurking in wait for them, they would hear the approach from a mile away.
They had been walking for perhaps two hours when Yol stumbled, then let out a curse in shock when he realised what had caught his foot. It was a corpse, face down in the soil. The grey flesh and stiffness of the limbs suggested this was at least a few days old. A man armoured in the silver of House Dezraed.
Callis rolled the body over with his boot. The dead man’s eyes were wide, crazed even, like a frightened deer. His mouth was open in a scream, and blood had caked around his eyes and mouth.
‘Lartach,’ breathed the Dezraed woman, Brujda. ‘He went missing a few days back. Around the same time as the Junica boy. He was an idiot and a drunkard, but a decent enough sort otherwise.’
‘There are no wounds,’ mused Callis. ‘Nowhere. How did this man die?’
‘The White Witch,’ muttered Yol, shaking his head.
‘Enough with that nonsense,’ snorted Captain Celtegar.
‘What’s that you say?’ asked Callis. ‘The guard at the gate mentioned that name.’
‘Just a legend,’ said Celtegar, waving a dismissive hand. ‘A tale concocted by the natives of this region. It’s all they ever talk about. The dreaded White Witch of the Ulwhyr, the taker of children. A ghost, whose screams can stop the heart of mortals.’
‘Oh, she is real,’ said Ghedren softly. ‘These are her lands.’
‘All you people ever talk about are ghosts, spriggans, tolmickles and bog-devils,’ mocked Celtegar. ‘Backward nonsense. This is probably just another fool who got drunk and choked on his own spew.’
Ghedren stood and slowly moved off deeper into the treeline.
‘Horse tracks,’ he said. ‘They lead this way.’
‘Continue,’ said Toll.
Callis squinted. ‘I don’t know how you can see anything in this fog.’
‘My father taught me to hunt in these woods,’ said Ghedren. ‘He taught me to track, to move unseen, to hide my trail. To understand and respect the dangers of the wild. These men we seek, the Dezraed guards, they may have lived here for many years now, but they have learned no such lessons. Such superstition is beneath them, so they say. They believe only in the power of the God-King, and scorn the wild tales of uncivilised folk.’
‘If Celtegar is what counts as civilised, I’ll gladly remain a so-called savage,’ muttered Callis, and Ghedren chuckled.
They were losing light now, despite the fact that it could not have been more than a few hours since they had set off. The thick canopy overhead cast them into near pitch-black darkness. Every tangled cluster of vine seemed to take the form of a skulking beast of the forest, and every wisping curl of fog seemed almost alive in its movement, drifting towards them out of the murk. Callis shook his head, angry with himself for allowing this miserable place to unsettle him. Eventually, they came to a wide, enclosed clearing, hemmed in on all sides by fat-trunked oaks. A great pool of greenish water spread out before them, dotted by clusters of drooping reeds and sharp rocks. At the far end of the pool, a bank of discoloured leaves rose into a steep mound dominated by a huge, long-dead blackwood tree. In the centre of the marsh was a small island of pale flesh and shining metal.
‘Another body,’ said Ghedren.
They waded out into the morass to get a closer look. It was a dead horse, half submerged in the foetid water, pallid and bloated. Something had torn great chunks out of the beast’s hide, devoured most of its innards. They shoved against the carcass and found a rider beneath, pinned by the animal’s weight. The dead man’s face was horribly swollen and his skin a pale green.
‘Scavengers,’ said Ghedren, noticing Callis’ uncomfortable look. ‘These are the bites of several creatures. These, however…’
He indicated scores of smaller slices across the flank of the horse and on the body of the dead man. They looked like gouges, ragged and imprecise, rather than the neat cut of a blade. One such tear had ripped open the unfortunate soldier’s cheek, and another had torn a bloody line across his throat. It looked as if the horse had been dragged down into the mud, and the rider had become trapped underneath its weight, helpless against his attackers.
‘There’s something out here,’ growled Captain Celtegar. ‘Watching us. I can feel it. Whatever did this, it isn’t far away.’
Ghedren knelt, placed a hand on the mossy earth and stared off into the blackness of the forest. After a moment, he shook his head.
‘I do not sense anything nearby,’ he said.
‘Who cares a damn what you sense, curseblood?’ snapped Celtegar.
Callis had heard that term before. Several of the officers in his regiment had muttered the same insult behind his back, not caring if he heard. It was used to denigrate any who did not hail from blessed Azyr, anyone who was – in their eyes – tainted by native blood.
‘Use that word again and I’ll break your jaw, you preening shit,’ said Callis, slowly and deliberately.
Celtegar’s men squared up, their hands on the hilts of their swords. The captain stepped close to Callis, who had to lean his head back to maintain eye contact. He was a big brute, this one, but still, Callis had fought bigger.
‘You will w
ithdraw that insult,’ said Celtegar.
‘You shall first,’ said Callis. ‘You forget who I represent here, captain. Strike a member of the Order, and see the consequences.’
‘Silence,’ hissed Toll. The witch hunter’s pistol was raised, aimed out into the swirling fog. In a matter of moments, the mist had grown as thick as smoke, and now formed an opaque wall around them. They could barely see more than a dozen feet in any direction. Something stirred with a splash in the water nearby, and they all started, drawing their blades and forming a circle, hostility temporarily forgotten.
‘I told you,’ said Celtegar, his voice tight with fear. ‘Something is coming.’
He had barely finished speaking when something broke the surface of the bog and closed around his leg. Celtegar shrieked in surprise and toppled backwards, sending up a great wave of water as he splashed onto his rear. An arm, rotted through and draped in weeds, was clamped tightly around his ankle. A head emerged, flaps of decaying skin hanging loosely from a grinning skull. The undead thing began to haul itself along the captain’s prone form, reaching for his neck with creaking fingers. Callis put a boot against the undead’s chest, kicking it off the screaming Celtegar and into the murky water. He hacked at its neck with his blade. The head came free, sinking into the bog.
Another figure erupted from the water behind Corporal Brujda, wrapping its arms around her neck, teeth tearing at her neck and shattering as they crunched into her plate gorget. She gasped in revulsion and began to awkwardly swipe and slash at its forearms, trying to cut it loose. Yol smashed the pommel of his blade into the undead thing’s head, and it fell back into the water, but another was already rising in its place. This corpse looked fresher than the others, and was clad in the same shining metal plate as the Dezraed warriors. Its head lolled at a strange, unnatural angle, but Callis could make out a thin, cruel face with eyes glazed and vacant.
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