“I wouldn’t know.” Rudi hadn’t a clue what she was talking about.
“I suppose not,” Greta smiled at him, as though looking deeper than his outer appearance. “But you won’t be a forester all your life, you can be sure of that.”
“Why not?” The question came to his lips unbidden. Despite her friendliness Greta had strange powers, everyone knew that, and what in anyone else’s mouth would have been a simple pleasantry became charged with hidden meaning when she said it. Perhaps she was a seer as well as a healer. Perhaps he had some strange and magnificent destiny, and only she could see it. The woman smiled again, an everyday sign of friendliness, completely devoid of any deeper significance.
“You’re a bright lad. The gods have a way of finding a use for qualities like that, but it’s up to you to take the opportunities as they come. And something tells me you’re not the kind to let them pass you by.”
“I see.” He didn’t really, but he sensed that somehow she’d paid him a compliment.
“What did old Steiner want?” Hanna asked, as the last of the liquid left the cauldron. Greta shrugged.
“He wants to talk to me. About the fever cases.”
“Oh,” Hanna shrugged too, as though the matter was of little importance. “I don’t know what else he expects. If you start cramming people together behind a wall every night, then of course you start spreading diseases.”
“Diseases?” Rudi asked. Hanna looked at him disdainfully.
“I don’t suppose you’d notice living out in the forest, but a few of the villagers are getting sick. It’s the overcrowding.”
Rudi hadn’t, but then he didn’t interact with the majority of the villagers. He cast his mind back over the events of the day, trying to remember if anyone he’d met seemed unwell. There was Kirstin, of course, but she always looked like that, and had done ever since she started working for Magnus, if not before. Then there was Hans Katzenjammer, whose injuries seemed infected, but that would be due to the thorn bush he’d stumbled into. No one else seemed particularly afflicted. That is, apart from his father, of course, but his arm seemed fine except for the rash. Besides he wouldn’t have felt comfortable betraying Gunther’s confidence by mentioning that to the healer, so he held his tongue.
“No, I hadn’t,” he said. Then another thought struck him. This must have been what the burgomeister meant when he said they might have to relax their precautions against the beastmen earlier than he would have liked. If trying to keep everyone safe had simply exposed them to another kind of danger, then the burgomeister was faced with an extremely unenviable choice. No wonder he wanted to talk to the healer as quickly as possible; after all, he’d had the letter all ready to send, and Rudi’s arrival with the note from Magnus had been an opportunity too fortuitous to ignore.
This was too much for a simple forest lad to take in all at once, he told himself. He cast around for a distraction. Hanna was lifting the cauldron away from the bowl now, and he reached out to take hold of the handle.
“Here,” he said. “Let me help…”
“Look out!” Hanna’s voice took on an unmistakable air of alarm, and for a moment he failed to understand. Then his hand closed around the metal, and a searing pain scorched across his palm.
“Sigmar’s hammer!” The heavy brass pot clattered to the floor as his arm jerked reflexively, tearing it from the girl’s grip. Tears of pain flooded his eyes, and he clenched his throbbing fist.
“Open your hand,” Greta sounded calm and reassuring, as she always did attending to an injury. Fighting against instinct he did as she instructed, and waited while she inspected the damage. She shook her head sympathetically. “It’s just a minor burn. This should help.” She plucked one of the jars from the stockpile Rudi had noticed before, and spread some of the salve it contained across his agonised palm. It felt cool and soothing, muting the pain to a faint, barely perceptible throbbing, like the tingling of his hands on a frosty morning.
“I did try to warn you,” Hanna said, an unaccustomed tinge of defensiveness edging into her voice. She bent to pick up the cauldron, now slightly dented, and hung it on the hook over the fireplace without the faintest hint of discomfort. “I’m a bit more used to handling hot things.”
“So I see.” Rudi watched her with studied nonchalance, determined not to seem too perturbed by the incident. He felt vaguely embarrassed for making such a fuss over a simple domestic task the two women evidently thought nothing of, and brought the conversation back to business as quickly as possible to cover it. “Was there a reply to the message?”
“Just tell him I’ll come as soon as I can,” Greta said, “and not to worry. I’m sure the situation isn’t as bad as all that.”
“Right,” Hanna shrugged. “It’s not as though anybody’s died, is it?”
CHAPTER SIX
Hanna’s words might almost have been a challenge to the gods, because the first fatality occurred a couple of days later. Grandma Ostwald had been the oldest inhabitant of Kohlstadt, so her passing wouldn’t normally have incited much comment except for the fact that she had remained in robust good health for as long as anyone could remember. Her decline had been sharp and precipitous, accompanied by a high fever, sweating, and the eruption of boils across much of her body. By the time she expired over a dozen similar cases had been reported throughout the village, and everyone expected the toll to rise.
“It’s a bad business all right,” Magnus nodded sagely, his sombre expression reflecting that of the burgomeister, sitting opposite him in the parlour of the merchant’s home. Rudi was in the corner of the room, keeping as quiet as he could. He was almost unable to believe that he was witnessing such momentous events from so close at hand. Greta Reifenstal sat beside the two men, apparently at ease despite the faint traces of lines etched on her features by exhaustion.
“That barely begins to cover it.” Steiner turned to the young forester. “And you say the blight on the fields is spreading too?”
Rudi nodded. “About one farm in three looks affected now. As far out as the Altmans’ place, at least.”
“But no more cases of the fever?” Greta asked. Rudi nodded again. As the emergency had grown, his status as the eyes and ears of the burgomeister had grown along with it. He was still finding the novelty intoxicating.
“None outside the village that I’ve seen. At least so far.”
“Well that’s something at least.” Magnus inclined his head judiciously, looking almost like a magistrate apart from the colours he habitually wore. “So long as it’s contained here…”
“It’ll spread throughout the village,” Greta cut in. This was an old argument. She had repeatedly urged the burgomeister to rescind the edict requiring the local farmers to lodge inside the stockade at night. Magnus had just as vociferously argued the opposite, pointing out that there was still no hard evidence that the beastmen from the forest had really gone. Now the pair of them looked expectantly at Steiner, who quite clearly wished the decision could be made by someone else.
“If people are already infected, wouldn’t that simply spread whatever disease this is over a wider area?” he asked. Greta’s mouth tightened into a thin, unhappy line.
“So long as they remained in their homes, that wouldn’t be a problem,” she said. “If there were any more cases they’d be too isolated to infect anyone else. Unlike here.”
“We may be getting unduly alarmed,” Magnus put in smoothly. “So far we haven’t had any more deaths, and it’s hardly surprising that the one we have had was an old, frail woman…” Greta snorted.
“Grandma Ostwald was about as frail as an orc. She might have been old, but she was as vigorous as a woman half her age.”
“Be that as it may,” Magnus riposted, “one death hardly constitutes an epidemic. This pestilence is still a moot threat, whereas the beastmen are a clear and present one.”
“Except no one’s seen hide nor hair of them since young Rudi found their tracks in the forest.” St
einer turned to the young forester again. “And if there were traces to be found, I’m sure your father would have done so by now.”
Rudi nodded, not trusting himself to speak. If the peril was truly past, then his temporary rise in status would be over, and he would revert to being what he had always been: the forest child, the outsider. But he couldn’t contradict Gunther, who had indeed failed to find any further trace of the warband, despite repeated excursions into the forest.
Rudi had accompanied him on the last expedition, partly out of curiosity, and partly because his succession of errands for Magnus, Steiner, and now, it seemed, Greta Reifenstal, had deprived him of his father’s company of late. Despite the forester’s protestation that he’d never felt better the rash on his arm had spread across half his chest, and a couple of open sores had appeared that wept thin, watery fluid. Once or twice Rudi had tried broaching the subject, suggesting he ask Greta for a remedy while he was delivering one of Steiner’s notes to her cottage, but Gunther had been adamant that he didn’t want any such thing.
“I know you mean well, lad,” he’d said, “but I don’t want any more help from that quarter.” What his reasons were for such a statement Rudi couldn’t fathom, as the more he saw of Greta Reifenstal, the more he liked her. If it hadn’t been for Hanna’s brooding presence, that was still as icily reserved as ever, he would have almost looked forward to the errands to the cottage he had once done so much to avoid.
And so it was, the morning before the meeting in Magnus’ parlour, Rudi had rolled off his pallet as his father rose, and announced his intention of accompanying him on his rounds of the forest.
“There’s no need, lad.” Gunther looked surprised for a moment; almost as if he would rather his son remained at home. “And you’ve a lot to do for far more important folk than me.”
“There are no more important folk than you. Not as far as I’m concerned.” Rudi spoke with quiet sincerity. For a moment a flicker of an emotion he couldn’t read chased itself across the face of his adoptive father. Sensing awkwardness in Gunther’s demeanour he went on with a cheerfulness that was barely forced. “Besides, if I spend much more time in the village I’ll turn into a tradesman. You wouldn’t wish that on me, would you?”
“Taal forbid.” Gunther laughed, the uneasiness vanishing in a moment of simple bonding. “Besides, it’ll give you a chance to practise your archery. You’ve been letting it slide a bit.”
That much was true. And unfortunately the training was likely to take the edge off the pleasure Rudi would otherwise have taken in spending a warm summer day in the depths of the forest. But if that was the price he’d have to pay to keep an unobtrusive eye on his father then so be it. So he slipped the worn old quiver across his shoulders. It was filled with shafts that might be fine enough for most bowmen, but which no longer met his father’s exacting standards. He strung the bow Gunther had given him the previous summer; the string was new and freshly waxed. Like the arrows the bow had seen many years of hard use, the wood worn smooth where innumerable hands had gripped it to nock a shaft. Some archers, Rudi knew, preferred more elaborate weapons, wrapped with cord for a tighter grip, but Gunther always maintained that you needed to feel the bare wood in your hands to really know that it was an extension of your own body. He supposed his father was right, but so far this was a sensation he would have to take on trust. In his own hands the weapon felt ungainly and cumbersome.
He strapped the bracer to the inside of his left forearm with as much of an appearance of enthusiasm as he could manage. The pad of leather was supposed to let the string slide cleanly if it brushed against the limb when loosed instead of getting snagged in the sleeve of his jerkin. But truth to tell he felt safer wearing it, because his action was so uncoordinated it would actually strike his arm half the time, and would sting like nettle rash without the stout leather for protection.
They penetrated deep into the forest that day, further than Rudi had ever gone. His father was sure-footed, stepping over the small woodland streams that barred their way and insinuating himself through the underbrush as though he knew the route well. With quiet pride, Rudi matched him stride for stride, and kept pace with the older man with little effort. Occasionally he lagged behind, and Gunther would turn, grinning encouragement. He was enjoying the game, and clearly pleased with the level of woodcraft his son was displaying.
Except for one aspect. They paused for refreshment at about noon, judging by the angle of the shadows through the leaves, taking advantage of a large clearing they had found. Having lived in the forest all his life Rudi had a rough idea of where they were, despite the long, circuitous route they’d taken to get there. They’d travelled in an arc, setting out almost due west from Kohlstadt, gradually turning to the north, until now they were moving almost due east. Home lay directly to the south of them, no more than an hour or so away as the crow flew, although Gunther had made it plain that he intended to complete the circle they’d begun that morning.
“If any of those hellbeasts are moving about the village we’re bound to cross their trail somewhere,” he explained. Rudi nodded. That seemed reasonable. The signs they’d found before had been easy enough to spot, and the warband would have carved a swathe through the forest at least as noticeable as those.
“Unless they’re camped inside the circle we’ve made,” Rudi pointed out, and Gunther laughed.
“Smell any campfires?” he asked. Rudi shook his head. It was an obvious point, he supposed, but did the beastmen really need such things? He made a mental note to ask Sergeant Littman the next time he saw him. In the meantime his father seemed confident enough, and there was no one else in the Empire who knew these woods as well as he did, so he relaxed and tried to enjoy the day.
They made a pleasant lunch of bread and cheese; both these foodstuffs were rising in price now, so much of the local agriculture had been affected by whatever malaise was gripping the valley ever tighter. Fortunately the importance of Rudi and Gunther to the defence of the village meant that Steiner was inclined to be generous, so they were kept well supplied. With a faint pang of guilt Rudi found himself wondering if such bounty would continue if they continued to report no signs of the enemy.
After their repast, as he’d quietly dreaded, it was time for archery practice. The clearing was a good hundred-paces across, so there was plenty of room to set up an improvised butt. Gunther pointed out a bush about thirty paces away.
“See if you can hit that, lad.” The shot should have been an easy one, the range was close, and the tangle of leaves was at least a full span across. Trying to ignore the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, Rudi reached across his shoulder for an arrow and nocked it. He drew the bow as he’d been taught, raising it as he anchored the string below his chin with the index and middle fingers of his right hand either side of the arrow. Feeling the tension grow in his left arm, he dropped it slightly to extend the arms of the weapon fully. The belly of the bow snuggled more tightly into his left hand, between the thumb and his fingers, and for a moment he almost understood what his father meant about it being an extension of his body.
The arrow loosed as he straightened his fingers. The bow snapped taut with a faint whick, and the shaft sped straight towards the target, clipping the edge of the shrub before embedding itself in the grass beyond where the crimson fletchings stood out like a strange angular flower on a rigid stalk.
“I hit it!” For a moment he couldn’t quite believe it. All right, it had only caught the edge of the bush, but it hadn’t missed entirely. Gunther smiled at his son’s exuberance.
“Well done. Now try again.” Flushed with success and buoyed with a fresh confidence, Rudi nocked another arrow and let fly. The string smacked against the bracer on his arm, deflecting the arrow to the left, and missing the bush by almost a yard. He sighed in frustration.
“Don’t let it worry you. The only shot that counts is the next one. Where the last one went doesn’t matter.” Gunther’s voice was calm and his
advice sound, but Rudi was beyond hearing it. Frustration had him in its grip now, and his muscles tensed as he nocked the next arrow. “Just try to relax.”
This time his over-tensed muscles jerked as he loosed the shaft. The bow jumped in his hand and the arrow disappeared altogether, vanishing through the trees with a derisive swoosh of displaced vegetation. He swore under his breath.
“There’s no need for that sort of language,” Gunther chided gently, as he strolled over to the other two shafts. “You’ll get it in time.” He plucked them both from the dirt with the effortless ease of long practice and inspected them for damage, brushing a few specks of soil from the heads. “Just take a break for a minute and try again.”
“I’ll get the other one.” Rudi put down his bow and went to find it, grateful for the excuse to avoid his father’s sympathy. It was kindly meant, he knew, but somehow it made things worse. Ducking his head with movements so practiced they didn’t even register on his conscious mind he wriggled through the undergrowth surrounding the clearing. The arrow had left plenty of traces of its flight: a succession of torn leaves and broken twigs marked every tree and bush that had deflected it. The going was considerably harder for an almost fully-grown human, but Rudi persevered. Arrows were precious things, not to be thrown away lightly, and especially not as a result of his ineptitude…
His self-lacerating musings were interrupted by the realisation that the going was becoming easier, and that the undergrowth was thinning. There must be another clearing through here. Good. That would make it easier to find the errant arrow.
A faint odour tickled the membranes at the back of his nose, and he coughed. It wasn’t unpleasant, exactly, but it was pungent, like the mud that appeared at the bottom of the forest pools when they dried out in exceptionally hot weather.
“Taal preserve us!” He broke through a brittle tangle of twigs, devoid of vegetation, into a grove unlike any he had ever seen before. All thoughts of retrieving his errant arrow disappeared like smoke in the wind.
01 - Death's Messenger Page 5