by ich du
To ignore the pain, Kurt concentrated on his foe's face. In a single glance, he took in every detail. The marauder was grinning with a few stubby teeth, despite the blood flowing from a cut in his forehead where Kurt's earlier blow had smashed his helm through the skin. The man's eyes were blood-shot and slightly askew, so that the knight was not sure where the marauder was looking. His beard was matted with filth, and Kurt noticed that the bindings that held the plait in place were carved from bone. On each was inscribed the eight-pointed star, mirroring the icon on the banner. Shocked that he had not recognised it before, Kurt realised the enemy was no natural foe, they were touched by the curse that men in the south dared not name: Chaos.
With a shout that boiled up from the bottom of his lungs, and was fuelled by disgust and righteous anger, Kurt cleaved his sword towards the marauder's neck. The force of the blow knocked aside the axe raised to parry the attack and severed the man's head completely, sending it spinning through the air, blood splashing across the churned and muddy snow. Some of it spattered across Kurt's visor. The unnatural stench that accompanied the blood made Kurt gag and he fell to one knee, retching violently. He tore his helmet free and gasped deeply. Tossing the helm aside, he pushed himself to his feet just in time to see Leofe prising the enemy standard from the dead grip of Sigurd.
Too weary to intervene, the pain from his shoulder dulling him, Kurt cast his gaze around for a sign of Heldred. The horse was well trained and would have broken clear of the fighting, and would be waiting for Kurt to return.
As he picked his way through the corpses of marauders and squires Kurt heard the chanting.
It was indistinct at first, masked by the noise of the wind, but quickly grew in volume. The words were indistinguishable, shouted out in guttural syllables that struck a chill into Kurt's heart. It was the language of the Chaos gods, the Dark Tongue. Accompanied by the beating of drums and the crash of weapons on shields, the prayer to the Dark Gods grew louder and louder. Seeking the source of the cacophony, Kurt peered through the snow and smoke, and saw a wall of black advancing through the burning remnants of the camp. To his right a horse whinnied in terror and bolted, hurling the squire on its back to the ground.
Like a plague, the warriors of Chaos advanced closer. They were a fearsome sight: clad head to foot in grime-encrusted armour, carrying full length shields inscribed with twisted markings, and armed with maces, axes, swords, cleavers and flails. The air around them seemed darker and churned with a life of its own. The sonorous chanting reached a peak, accompanied by the clanging of metal, the thumping of drums, and the atonal ringing of brass bells. Kurt thought he would go deaf, such was the wall of sound that swept over him.
Kurt held his ground, though his legs felt weak from blood loss, and his stomach rebelled at the stench the wind swept to his nostrils. He saw a handful of the squires break and run, but the others mastered their nerves and formed up once more, prepared to meet the slowly advancing enemy. Hearing a shouted command, Kurt looked to his left and saw two ranks of crossbowmen, thirty in all, preparing to loose a volley. Their sergeant raised and then dropped his hand and red-feathered bolts flew through the night air. The dark cloud landed amidst the Chaos warriors, many of them bouncing harmlessly off their shields and armour. Kurt watched as bolts pierced the metal skin of one of the warriors, knocking him to the ground. The warrior pushed himself to his feet and ripped the bolts out of his torso, tossing them aside in derision.
The warriors were perhaps only thirty yards away, still advancing patiently, a few of their number felled by a second volley of bolts. Suddenly, the chanting stopped and they halted. The clamour of beaten shields reached a crescendo, a deafening artificial thunder, and ragged banners rose up from the ranks, daubed with savage runes and symbols of the dark gods. As one, the armoured warriors broke into a run. Kurt stood transfixed by fear as the wall of spiked, distorted metal rushed towards him. The ground trembled under the weight of the massive warriors hurtling themselves across the blood-spattered snow.
Their leader, at the front of the charge, was half as tall again as Kurt, a veritable giant of a man whose broad shoulders were wider than a horse's. On one arm he carried a shield almost as tall as a man, with three circles of crude rivets set in a triangular pattern. A massive mace was held high above his head, and fumes of smoke seemed to issue from cracks in the weapon. His face was bare, and Kurt looked in horror at the glowing green eyes that stared back at him. The warrior was shouting, displaying teeth filed into pointed fangs, and his face was a criss-cross of scars, boils and scabs.
When the warrior was only half a dozen strides away Kurt realised that the man's teeth were actually proper fangs, longer than a dog's and dripping with black saliva. The darkness around the warriors was real and tangible, and a great buzzing filled Kurt's ears as the cloud of flies swept around him. His vision blocked, his nose and ears clogged with the flies, Kurt flailed around for a moment, completely disorientated. Something charged through the living fog only a yard away and Kurt flung up his shield just as the warrior's mace crashed against it, hurling him from his feet.
The force of the blow had winded Kurt and he desperately rolled through the snow and mud as the warrior loomed over him. A metal-booted foot crashed into his right arm, numbing his shoulder, as the other warriors pressed forward, heedless of the knight. His shielddeflected another blow wide, the force of the attack jarring Kurt's left arm. Pain lanced up from his elbow, and he panicked for a moment thinking it was broken. Swinging wildly with his sword to give him a momentary respite, Kurt glanced at his arm and saw that one of the spikes of the warrior's mace had pierced his shield and was stuck in his arm. The Chaos warrior almost wrenched Kurt's arm off as he tried to pull his weapon free, but gritting his teeth against the pain the Imperial knight twisted and pulled the warrior downwards.
With a wordless snarl on his lips, Kurt struck out with his sword, every ounce of his dissipating strength behind the blow. The blade crashed against the Chaos warrior's body, shards of the sword's metal splintering into the air, opening a rent in the chest plate. A fountain of thick black fluid gushed from the wound, spilling on to the ground where it hissed and sputtered in the snow. The warrior let go of the mace and clasped a gauntleted hand to the bleeding gash to stem the flow. Mustering what little power he had left, Kurt hauled himself to one knee and chopped at the Chaos follower's legs, the dented and blunted edge of his sword biting halfway into an armoured knee and toppling the giant.
All around Kurt were screams, groans, grunting and shouts as the fight carried on in full fury. He heard the sound of a horn and the ground began to tremble. Kurt pushed himself to his feet, fearful of what horror the northmen would unleash upon them next. His fears were to prove misplaced.
With a mighty splintering of wood and the screech of tearing metal, the lances of fifty knights of the Osterknacht crashed into the warriors of Norsca. Spitted bodies were hurled to the ground to be trampled by the hooves of the knight's horses, the blaring of the horn beautiful and sweet in Kurt's ears.
Lord Lothar himself was there, swinging left and right with a sword that glowed with a red light, each touch of its blade slicing through armour as if it were paper, severing limbs and decapitating heads. Under the full force of the Empire Knights' charge the warriors of Chaos broke, and tried to flee. The knights were much swifter, riding down the twisted Norsemen with lance and sword, leaving none alive. As the knights swept past him, Kurt let out a shout of triumph before his legs gave way and he collapsed into the snow, his sword dropping from his unconscious grasp.
THE NEXT NIGHT, Kurt was wandering around the camp, his wounds freshly bandaged and sore, but otherwise he had not paid too dearly for his bravery. He bumped into Lord Militant Trevigar relieving himself just outside the perimeter of the tents. He turned to walk away but Trevigar called out to him.
'Yes, my lord?' Kurt asked turning back to the ageing knight.
'That was one of the damnedest things I've ever seen, and
I've been campaigning for over thirty years,' the lord militant told him, running a hand through his coarse grey whiskers. He was heavily built but shorter than Kurt, and even without his armour gave an impression of stocky power and stubbornness.
'What was, my lord?' Kurt asked, confused. Trevigar walked up to him and clapped a hand on Kurt's shoulder.
'A knight leading a charge of squires!' laughed the lord militant. 'Never seen such foolishness and courage at the same time.'
'I... Thank you, my lord, I did what was necessary,' stammered Kurt. It was the first time he had ever spoken to a lord militant and to be praised gave him a moment of heady pride.
'Yes you did, and more the credit to you for seeing that.' Trevigar agreed. 'What with that business back in Bechafen and now this, you're presenting us with a bit of a problem.'
'Us, my lord? I don't understand.' Kurt fidgeted under the scrutiny of his commander's deputy, thinking perhaps that his duel with Bayen continued to be viewed badly.
'Well, young man,' Trevigar said, laying an arm across Kurt's shoulder and walking him back towards the camp, 'we had you down as a bit of a troublemaker. I mean, picking a fight with the count's cousin, you'd have to have been kicked in the head as a babe.'
'I was well-' started Kurt.
'I don't care if you were right or wrong, it was still a stupid thing to do.' Trevigar cut him off. 'Being a knight isn't just about flashing a sword around and riding a horse well. It's political these days as well. The Osterknacht is a powerful organisation even now, and he who commands it wields great power and responsibility. But that's another matter. We think you a bit of a fool and troublemaker, and what do you then go and do?'
'I don't know, my lord.' Kurt replied weakly.
'You rally a bunch of squires and lead an attack on the enemy almost single-handedly.' explained the lord militant. 'You showed just the kind of bravery and initiative that we need in the higher ranks, but you'll have to calm your temper a bit.'
'I'm not sure if I can, my lord.' admitted Kurt. 'Not on some subjects.'
'Ah, your woman.' Trevigar said with a nod. 'Well, you're young and hot-headed, that's to be expected. But if you want to climb up the order, you'll have to show some patience. Either marry her and be done with it, or find someone more suitable.'
Kurt did not particularly like Trevigar's advice, and they walked on in silence for a bit, passing one of the many campfires, when something occurred to Kurt.
'May I ask a question?' he said.
'Of course, but that doesn't mean I have to answer it!' joked Trevigar.
'Why did Lord Lothar not order a pursuit last night or today?' Kurt had been surprised that they had not harried the northmen to prevent them gathering again and becoming a threat once more.
'Well, between you and me, we've got new orders,' Trevigar winked conspiratorially. 'It seems there's some growing trouble back near the capital. A messenger arrived yesterday saying that growing unrest in some of the towns around Bechafen is threatening to become a full blown riot. Who can tell what might spread from that, and what will happen at the capital? Lord Lothar received word from the count that he wants the Osterknacht to return to restore some sense of peace.'
'What sort of trouble, if you don't mind my asking, my lord?' Kurt's first thought was for Ursula. If there was trouble near Bechafen, it could easily spread to Badenhof.
'It's been a very harsh winter, famine is threatening the whole northern Ostermark,' explained Trevigar, stopping and looking at the flames of the fire, his gaze distant. 'Not only are the people in danger of rising up, we have to maintain supplies for the count and the order. And into this mess enters more trouble in the form of a witch hunter who's crossed over the border from Ostland. Word has it that he's heading to Badenhof to root out some cult or other.'
'A witch hunter?' Kurt whispered, a sudden shiver of fear passing down his spine.
'That's right, some rowdy fellow by the name of Marius van Diesl,' confirmed Trevigar. 'Sounds like he's from the Wastelands, name like that.'
Trevigar continued talking but Kurt heard none of it. His mind was a sudden storm of thoughts. Was van Diesl coming after him? Would he learn of Kurt's connection with Ursula? A sudden panic filled Kurt, his heart trembling with foreboding. There was only one thing he could do, but he was afraid to do it. With sudden resolve, he realised that he had no real choice in the matter, and with the decision made he felt better for it, whether it turned out for good or ill.
'...listening to me, Leitzig?' Trevigar asked with a scowl.
'Sorry, my lord, I am still fatigued from yesterday's battle,' Kurt apologised quickly, hoping his dismay had not been too obvious.
'I said that I'll put you in the detachment we send to Badenhof,' Trevigar repeated himself. 'You'll be going home a lot sooner than you thought.'
Not soon enough, Kurt thought to himself, making his excuses and leaving the bemused lord militant standing alone.
'WHO'S THERE?' A heavily accented voice called from the darkness. Kurt halted, his grip on Heldred's reins tightening with anxiety.
'Keep your voice down, Jakob, it's me, Kurt,' the knight hissed, pulling his horse towards the sound of the servant's voice.
'Leaving?' Jakob asked shrewdly as his moustached face appeared out of the darkness.
'None of your business,' snapped Kurt, shouldering the half-Kislevite aside.
'You'll be flogged and quartered for desertion,' Jakob told him in a whisper.
'What concern of yours is it?' Kurt snarled back, agitated at the delay.
Jakob hesitated, glancing around into the darkness, before stepping closer. 'I'll come with you,' he said suddenly, looking Kurt in the eye.
'What?' Kurt said, taken aback. 'Why do you want to leave?'
'Doesn't matter, I tell later,' Jakob said. 'What your reasons?'
'My reasons?' Kurt hissed, recollection flaring painfully. 'Oh, I have very good reasons.'
Jakob looked at him for a long time, disbelief on his face.
'I have to return to Badenhof,' Kurt told quickly Jakob. 'Ursula, my lady, is in great danger. But why should I care about you?'
Jakob looked at Kurt for a moment more before stepping back.
'It would be a shame if someone discovers you are leaving.' the servant said slowly, his meaning clear.
'You wouldn't!' growled Kurt, nudging Heldred forward. Jakob's shrug effectively conveyed that he would. 'Alright, meet me half a mile to the east, but I won't wait long.'
KURT'S NERVES WERE raw as he waited in the darkness, illuminated only slightly by the distant campfires. The slightest hint of a noise caused him to jump in the saddle, setting Heldred's harness jangling and causing Kurt more worry. He was about to head off without Jakob when his ear caught the distinctive sound of a horse approaching. He glanced behind him and saw a dun steed nosing through the snow, and he recognised it as Bayen's horse. His hand reached to his sword and partly drew it, but his grip relaxed when he saw the rider was not the knight, but Jakob.
'You stole Achelka? Are you mad? Bayen will be after you like the wrath of Ulric!' Kurt berated the half-Kislevite.
'He deserves it.' snorted Jakob. 'He is fine horse. Bayen will be angry, will confuse pursuit with his interference.'
'Perhaps.' Kurt agreed, knowing that the noble would demand to lead the hunt, a task he was not particularly qualified to do. 'Let's get going, we have to put as much distance as we can between us and the camp. The snow should cover our tracks before anyone notices we've gone.'
CHAPTER SIX
Trial
Badenhof, Winter early 1709
URSULA WOKE WITH a start and sat up abruptly. A trickle of cold water from the thawing snow had run through the window and along the floor, before pooling under her feet. Shaking the droplets free, she stood up, causing scurried movements in the far corner of the cell. Raking her fingers through her knotted hair, she padded barefoot across the cell. The rat scurried for the door but she was quicker, pouncing on the ro
dent and grabbing it around the neck. With a crack, she snapped its spine and tossed the twitching corpse onto the small pile in the corner along with the rest of the week's haul. Two and a half shillings she'd earned, more even than last week when it had seemed the whole gaol had been swarming with vermin. Glancing out of the window, she judged from the cold, watery light that it was not long after daybreak. It was time for her prayers and she creaked open the cell door and slipped out, trying not to disturb the other prisoners.
She wasn't sure how many other unfortunates were in here with her; the lower levels of the dungeon were a warren of oubliettes, corridors and cells. Most seemed to keep to their cells, occasionally she would see one of them in the exercise yard, pale-faced, thin and weary. Some muttered to themselves, others seemed sane enough but avoided her. Then there was the one who screamed in her sleep, screeched profanities at the empty air, talked to the shadows and gibbered about having rats for friends. She had asked Lowl about her, and had found out that she was called Aliss and had been locked up here for years, long before he took over a little under a decade ago. She decided not to inquire further.
It had been two months now since her incarceration had begun. After her initial fear and anger, she had settled into a routine, just as she had with every other adverse situation with which her unfortunate life had seen fit to burden her. The warden, Dirk Lowl, had proved to be true to his word and life in the dungeon had been uncomfortable but bearable. It was not the worst time she had ever experienced, she had been hungrier and colder before, and she wasn't beaten regularly as she had been when she had lived with her grandparents.