A hand, as cold as death itself, grabbed her by long blonde hair and wrenched her head back, and she saw the creature’s slashed face close to her own, mouth opened wide as it lunged for her throat. The ice chill that exuded from the monster burnt her, and she threw herself to the side in desperation, leaving a hair fill of hair in its grasp. Annaliese’s head crashed into the leg of the heavy wooden table, and pain shot through her.
Voices were all around her, and when her vision cleared, she looked up into the twisted face of the monster. It stood over her hefting a heavy chunk of wood above its head, ready to cave her skull in.
“Father, no!” she screamed in desperation, but if it understood her it gave no indication.
She slashed with her sword, the blow hitting the creature in the shin, splintering the bone. Its leg collapsed beneath it and it fell to its knees. Annaliese was on her feet in an instant, and she lashed out blindly. Her blade hacked into its neck, cutting to the bone. It lodged fast between the vertebrae, and the sword was wrenched from her hands as it fell to the ground.
Shaking frantically, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps, she burst through the door of the cabin and ran outside.
She fled blindly from the cabin, her home, stumbling through the snow, registering that there was the movement of people all around. She fell to her knees as she tripped over something—a dead body. She jumped to her feet with a moan of horror, adrenaline pumping through her.
People ran screaming, clutching their children protectively to them, fleeing in every direction. There was no order to the flight, for there was nothing but panic and terror in these people, and they fought each other in their haste to get away.
Annaliese was knocked to the ground by a middle-aged villager she knew, though she had never seen the look of abject horror on his face before, and he made no sign of recognition or apology as he fled blindly. Bodies were strewn across the ground, blood splattered over the snow and mixing with the muddy slush. There were shouts and screams of pain and fear all around and she swung her head from side to side, trying to see the enemy, or a safe direction to run.
Some people were defending themselves with drawn weapons, and she gasped as she saw one wildly flailing villager impaled on the shaft of a spear. He didn’t stop fighting then, either, but dragged himself further onto the haft of the weapon in his eagerness to get close enough to claw at the warrior.
A woman screamed as she was grabbed from behind. Her throat was ripped out by her attacker’s teeth, blood spraying madly from the fatal wound.
She saw a wasted and thin figure crouching over fallen woman. She began to back away, but as if feeling her gaze upon it, the emaciated creature raised its head, Its eyes were blazing blue orbs of fire and its mouth and chin dripped with blood. Clearly it had been feasting, but it dropped its meal and began staggering towards her, its movements jerky and uncoordinated but with deadly intent.
With no weapon to hand she knew she was no match for this creature, and she turned and ran through the mayhem. She saw an elderly man screaming and fighting frantically as he was pulled to the ground by two more plague victims, their eyes burning with cold intensity, and she faltered momentarily, seeing the desperate plea in the old man’s face. An instant later, his cries were silenced as one of the creatures smashed his head into the ground with a horrible crack.
A terrified looking soldier swung towards her, the long spike on the tip of his halberd pointing in her direction. His trousers were stained where he had clearly lost control of his bodily functions, and raised her hands up before her to show she meant no harm. The point of the halberd wavered dangerously before her, and she flicked a glance over her shoulder at the creature stumbling towards her.
“I’m not one of them,” she said as she turned back, though she may as well have been speaking a foreign language, for the soldier merely backed away from her, his weapon still lowered in her direction and his eyes wide with terror. He tripped over a severed arm, and fell backwards into the snow.
She darted past him and heard a horrible yelp from the fallen soldier. She did not look back. The only thing on her mind now was escape.
She found herself running into the village square. Disoriented amongst the surging crowd, her blind flight had brought her here, and she groaned in fear. The fighting was intense, and she saw that the doors of the guildhall had been smashed down from the inside. As she stood there despairing, she saw one of the boarded up windows blown out, and a pair of grinning, flaming eyed monsters crawled through the rotten wreckage of splintered wood.
The black iron cage still hung from the gibbet, and the dark haired elf was staring out across the madness below with wide eyes. As much as he shook the door of the cage, the rusted padlock imprisoning him within held fast.
Annaliese saw her chance—there was a thin alleyway between the butchers and the Golden Wheatsheaf, the inn where she worked. It backed onto farmland, and beyond were the woods. Seeing no one in the narrow passageway, she ran, sidestepping combatants that rolled in the slush and the grasping hands of zombie-like plague victims.
A heavy set villager, a local huntsman, was fighting for his life against two of the plague monsters, a woodsman’s axe in his grasp. He cut one of them down with a savage blow to the neck, but the other one reached for his face. He stumbled backwards to gain more room, swinging the axe over his shoulder.
On his backswing, the head of the axe struck the locking mechanism that held the gibbet cage aloft, freeing the chain and sending the cage plummeting towards the ground. The huntsman lost his grip on the axe, and the creature was upon him in an instant, tearing at his skin and flesh with skeletal hands curled like the talons of a bird of prey.
As he screamed in horror and pain, the black iron gibbet cage smashed into the earth with a clatter, and fell to its side. Several plague victims swung their heavy heads towards the sound, and broke off from their feasting to stagger towards the cage. Annaliese saw the elf shaking the bars of the cage frantically, but the lock held still.
She stopped short, biting her lip, glancing back towards the elf, still struggling against his imprisonment. It seemed an unnecessarily cruel way to die, even for one who had committed murderous, black acts.
Cursing herself, she rushed back into the fray, running lightly towards the cage. Several creatures went close to it now, and she heard the torrent of ungodly voices spilling from their throats raise in temporary excitement.
Stooping, she swept up the fallen axe from the human who was being eaten alive at the base of gibbet, and hefted it over her shoulder before dashing towards the cage. With all her force and with a scream of anger and fear, she brought the axe crashing down onto the head of one of the plague victims trying to claw at the elf through the bars of the cage. It cut through its skull, splattering blood and gore over her dress and across the pristine white face of the elf, and the figure fell to the ground.
Annaliese caught the gaze of the elf, and was struck by his alien, defiant eyes. They were not black as she had first thought, those eyes, but had a slight tinge of lavender to them that merely enhanced the impression of inhuman, otherworldliness about him.
Praying she was doing the right thing, she brought the head of the axe crashing down on the rusted lock imprisoning the elf, smashing it asunder beneath the blow. She dropped the axe with numbed fingers, and without waiting to see his escape she turned and ran. She had given the elf a chance—it was now up to him to do with it what he would.
Not pausing this time, she bolted into the thin alleyway, running up its narrow passageway towards the beckoning farmland and woods beyond.
Her foot caught on something and she fell heavily to the ground, the air driven from her lungs. She hadn’t even had time to get her hands in front of her to break her fall, and she gasped for air, winded, face down in the snow.
Something was holding onto her ankle, and she kicked out frantically, trying to free herself. Still trying to regain her breath, she gasped as pain flared up her leg.
Rolling over in the icy cold slush, she saw a hand clasped around her ankle, blackened fingernails biting through her leather leggings. The fingers of the hand were a bruised red colour, for the blood had clotted in the veins when the plague victim’s heart had stopped. She kicked at the hand with her free leg, feeling finger bones break beneath her heel, but still the grip did not relent.
She saw the creature’s face then, and it filled her with mindless terror. It was the face of a friend, Ilsa, a barmaid at the Golden Wheatsheaf, though her plump, pretty face was contorted and foul. Her lips were swollen and bloated, and her skin was drawn and so pale that she could see the network of blue veins within her flesh. Sickeningly, the bones of her skull were malformed and warped, a cluster of bony, branch-like protrusions pushing from the flesh on her right temple. As Annaliese watched in horror, the twig-like tips of this mutation waved in air, straining towards her as if they sensed the life in her. Ice-blue flames flared in the girl’s eye-sockets, and she opened her mouth wide, exposing blackened teeth. Where there should have been a tongue was a bulbous, staring eyeball, the iris iridescent blue and flecked with gold. That eye blinked slowly as it stared at her, and Annaliese thrashed against the grip of this foul creature, kicking at it again and again.
It did not release its grip, and it began to pull itself up her legs, the staring bulbous eye glaring at her from within the girl’s ever widening mouth.
Over the creature’s shoulder she saw a flash of movement, and she looked up, absolute panic in her eyes, to see the elf running towards her, the huntsman’s axe in his hands. He swung it back over his head, and hurled it towards her.
Annaliese screamed as the axe flew through the air, turning end over end.
The axe blade slammed into the back of the mutant girl’s head with a sickening, wet sound. Annaliese screamed again, pushing away from the now limp monster, kicking and scrabbling backwards.
Then the elf was at her side, pulling her to her feet with strength that belied his inhumanly slight, tall frame. His grip around her arm was strong, and painful, and her nostrils were filled with the scent of strange, unearthly spices and herbs.
The horror and shock of the day won out, and Annaliese saw stars of light for a second before she slumped to the ground unconscious, like a limp rag-doll.
Mouthing a curse in his native tongue, the elf stooped and lifted the girl up in his arms. Her head flopped back limply, her long blonde hair hanging to the ground.
Cursing himself for a fool, the elf, carrying the slender form of the human woman, loped away from the mayhem of the village, heading towards the beckoning trees in the distance.
CHAPTER FOUR
Udo Grunwald pushed open the small, ill-fitting door, lowering his head to avoid the low-hanging lintel and entered the seedy looking inn. It was called the Hanging Donkey, and outside its gateway hung the rotten, snow-covered corpse of said donkey, hanging by the noose around its neck. He wondered briefly what crime the animal had committed, what malefaction it had concocted within its devious criminal brain to warrant such punishment.
It had probably been the lover of the innkeeper’s wife, he thought, and smiled to himself. That smile did nothing but make his brutish, ugly face look even more dangerous.
The inn was dark and smoky, and silence descended as soon as he stepped inside. His heavy boots sounded loudly on the wooden floorboards, and he glared around him at the staring faces, daring any of them say a word.
Udo knew he was an intimidating figure, and he used to the way that people’s eyes quickly turned away from his gaze. Here was no different, though the hostility within the room was tangible, even if none of these farmers and travellers dared look him in the eye.
He could understand the reaction to his presence—none were safe on the roads these days, and the news from the north was grim. Brigands and outlaws roamed the countryside, preying on those fleeing the trouble, and there were whispers of far darker things within the forests that were growing restless. Witches, secret covens, foul mutants and Chaotic beasts that walked upright like men—these were all things to be feared by people of the Empire, and here was no different. Outsiders were regarded with fear and distrust, particularly with the growing rumours of the hideous plague that was spreading like wildfire through the towns and villages.
But more than this, he was a witch hunter, and his occupation was obvious. His presence inspired fear and twinges of guilt even in the guiltless.
The hushed chatter began to reassert itself as drinkers and cold travellers turned back to their private musings and discussions, pulling hats and hoods down over their faces so as not to draw the witch hunter’s attention to them. Udo strode towards the bar, removing the wide-brimmed hat and placing it down in front of him. Those standing nearby backed away. He saw one patron try to hide his malformed, club-like hand within his coat, and Udo shook his head slightly. It was always the same—any wretch who had a disability would try to hide it from the eyes of a witch hunter, fearing prosecution. Udo had no interest in burning. Apples or those afflicted with birth defects but he could understand the fear of these simple people—there were witch hunters who would see them cleansed in flame.
“What can I get for you, friend?” said the barkeeper, trying and failing to hide his nervousness. He was a pudgy man with eyeballs that protruded a little too far, giving him a goggle-eyed, startled expression like a fish. He also seemed to be sweating heavily, though it was not overly warm within the room. Udo instantly disliked him.
“A room. A meal. But first,” he said, “I want a drink.”
“If it’s no bother, good sir, I would see your coin beforehand,” said the innkeeper, wringing his moist hands nervously. “I don’t mean to be discourteous, but these are hard times, and I’m sure you can understand my reticence at serving a stranger without first knowing that he could pay. Can you, sir? Pay, I mean?”
Udo glared at the little man for a moment, his lip curling in distaste. The barkeeper fidgeted, his protruding eyes flicking left and right. Udo pulled the glove off one of his hands, finger by finger, and the pudgy, sweating innkeeper jumped as he slapped the black leather glove down on the bar. Still staring at the barkeeper, Grunwald lifted a clinking pouch of dark leather from his belt and pulled out a pair coins, which he slammed down onto the bar.
“Will this do?” he sneered.
“Most indeed, gracious sir! Most indeed!” said the barman. The coins disappeared in a flash, and he thrust his hand towards Grunwald. “I am Claus Fiedler, the owner of this fine establishment. I am happy to have such a fine upstanding gentleman such as you staying beneath my roof.”
Udo stared at the innkeeper’s proffered, sweating hand in distaste, and ignored it.
“I’ll take that drink now,” he said.
“Why, yes, of course sir.” He began enthusiastically pumping a grimy mug with ale, grinning like an idiot, sweat dripping down his brow.
Don’t fall in my ale, Grunwald thought, seeing a heavy bead of sweat hanging precariously over his pint from Fiedler’s eyebrow. Thankfully, it didn’t, though the image had already soured his enjoyment of the drink.
Taking the mug, he turned his back on the unpleasant barkeep. It was probably the barkeeper that had been caught with the donkey, he thought.
He looked for an isolated place to sit, having no wish to engage with anyone. He saw the dwarf he had met three days earlier smoking his dragon-headed pipe in the corner. Thorrik, wasn’t it? He inclined his head to the stocky dwarf warrior, who nodded his head solemnly in acknowledgement. He was not surprised to see the dwarf again—this was one of the few inns on the road to the south-east.
Pushing through the stinking crowd of travellers, farmers and local drinkers, Udo found himself a secluded bench in a dark corner, away from the press of bodies. He placed his ale on the table, shrugged off his crossbow which also went down on the table with a heavy thump, and shifted the bench so that it was up against the wall, glaring at the patrons who tutted and huffed as they
were bumped out of the way.
He slumped down in the seat with his back to the all and cracked his aching neck from side to side.
Lifting his ale, he took a tentative sip. It was weak, but not bad, and he gulped back a mouthful.
He was sore and tired, and he sighed as he rested his aching back against the wall. After the battle alongside the dwarf, he had recovered what coin he could from the bandits and returned to the Sigmarite shrine that they had robbed, intending to bequeath it to the priest there. He had found the priest lying on the floor of the holy shrine, his throat savagely cut and his body filled with stab wounds. For two days he searched for sign of the killers, but had found nothing. His failure to discover the culprits rankled him, and after burying the priest and putting the shrine in order, he had somewhat reluctantly continued on his way. His master was expecting him, and he had already wasted enough time.
It wasn’t long before the sweating figure of Fiedler was back at his side, putting a bowl of steaming grey slop down before him and a hunk of bread. It looked incredibly unappetising, and he poked at it with his spoon. Fiedler stood at his side, grinning like an idiot, clearly waiting for some complimentary reaction to his food.
“Go away,” said Udo, and the pudgy innkeeper nodded and stuttered before moving back behind the bar. Udo saw him cuff a servant hard over the back of the head.
“Out of the way!” he heard Fiedler shout, which got a laugh from some of the customers. The servant was clearly a simpleton, his head tilted to the side and his jaw slack. As he shuffled out of the way of his master, Udo saw that one of his legs was twisted awkwardly beneath him, giving him an ungainly loping gait.
Grunwald ate his fill, dipping the bread into the steaming slop, which wasn’t as bad as it looked, though he could not identify the chunks of meat in it. It was probably best that he didn’t know, he decided.
Upon the completion of his meal, the simpleton came to collect his plate, limping through the press of people. He lifted Udo’s used plate, his fleshy tongue protruding from the side of his mouth in concentration. In an instant, Fiedler was at his side, and he cuffed the servant over the head again, swearing at him, and took the plate from his hands.
[Age of Reckoning 01] - Empire in Chaos Page 4