Then Schroder fell, a spear-point into his left eye, and died most pitiously with a terrible thrashing and screaming.
I killed the Kul spearman who had killed him, and then slashed my sword outwards through the thick hip of another Kul. A third I gashed across the eyes. I ran to find Mariya.
Behind the onslaught of tribesmen, I had seen Jochrund winding his way up the hill on his black steed, leaning over in the saddle from pain.
I found her, and dragged her to her feet. Her wild blue eyes told me there was nowhere left to run. The Kul were driving in now, over the ancient rampart mounds, putting the valiant company to the sword, even though the best part of their tribe lay dead upon the flanks of the hill.
Jochrund rode into view, backlit by the winter sun, and smiled as he saw me. His hands were bare. He conjured with them.
'Jozef,' he called, mocking, 'You have done enough.'
A bone horn blew. There was a sound like thunder. Hooves.
Behind the urgent pace of Pyotr Gmelin, the rota of Kzarla tore into the Kul pack from the rear. The silverclad lancers loosed their javelins first, then came in with their lances, after which, once the lances were shattered, they took out their sabres. Silver death, from out of the winter's heart, fell upon the Kul.
Kzarla had not been prepared to accept the true ritual. In the face of it, even the women had broken down. The stern and noble rota had been sent off on a false trail to keep it out of the way for the duration of the ceremony. That had been Jochrund's doing too.
Now they had come back.
I heard Subarin cry out in glee.
The fell wizard came upon me then, his crackling hands upraised, but I had learned from our last encounter. The girl was the key. Mariya was so pure, so signified in magic, so central to the rite, she was inured against all conjuration. I swept her up between myself and Jochrund, and when his fearsome spell spat down at me, her very presence cast its power aside, unworked.
He cursed me then, and made to do upon me another enchantment. But from his left hand side came Subarin, who cut the wizard's head in twain at the cheek bone with his golden Scythian sword. How meet that was, I thought. Jochrund had been hell-bent on reviving the old ways, and now a blade preserved from that ancient time had ended his wretched life.
I have writ enough. My goat hides are all but full, and there is just tinkering of my nib in the spent flask of ink. I am done, and my story told. I will bury it under the cairn as I have said, wrapped in pigskin, and hope that someone finds it.
Or hope that I wake from winter and find it, and carry it forth. My country must know.
The winter now sets in, and contains us at Kzarla. It will be a long winter. I have guaranteed as much.
Signed and buried by my hand, that is Jozef von Kallen, Knight of the Reik.
THE SMALL ONES
by C. L. Werner
THE SOUND OF squealing laughter echoed across the northernmost of Eugen Duhring’s wheat fields. The wide patch of barren ground had been left fallow this season to allow the soil to replenish and revivify itself. Duhring was known as a miserly and mean-spirited man, hateful and bitter about his station in life. Some in the village of Marburg called the wheat farmer ”the Badger” because of his fierceness regarding trespassers on his property. Had Duhring heard the laughter and seen the small shapes scampering across his field, he would have set his brace of dogs on them. If the farmer happened to see who one of the shapes was, the children could have expected a swift and physical reprimand courtesy of a switch broken from one of the nearby trees.
Keren laughed even as she gasped for breath and danced away from the outstretched arms of her pursuer. She was a young girl, long locks of golden hair dancing in the bright sunlight, her white blouse and black dress offsetting the rich colour of her arms and face. The girl’s face was pretty, her button nose placed above a pair of pouting lips that were well-versed in the art of forestalling a scolding by means of a simple downward tremble. Her eyes had a slightly mischievous cast to them, the faintest arching of her brow that hinted at a cunning mind. She carried herself with an air of pride, and it would have been apparent to any observer that she considered herself better than her companions, a sense of station more befitting a great lady of some Bretonnian house than the daughter of Marburg’s miller.
Still, perhaps the girl was not to blame for her superior attitude. Her father, Bernd Mueller, considered himself something of a petty noble, the closest thing the village of Marburg had to an actual burgomeister. The prosperous miller was banker, landlord and, some would confess in confidence, robber baron to the farmers who made their living in the vicinity of Marburg. His was the only mill for many leagues in any direction, and Mueller made certain that his monopoly paid well. True, a farmer could take his wheat to some other village, perhaps Fallberg to the north or Giehsehoff to the east, but the expense and time to do so would cost the farmer more than it would to swallow his pride and pay Mueller’s extortionate rates. Mueller openly mocked his patrons, treating them as little better than indentured servants. It was small wonder then that the girl should hold herself as superior to the children of her father’s customers and deal with them in a manner befitting her eminent position.
Keren laughed again as Paul lunged for her and she danced away from his clumsy attempt to catch her. Paul was a tall, gangly boy, his face still bearing the moon-shaped depressions from the pox that had struck Marburg many years ago. He swore one of the colourful curses he often overheard in his father’s tavern and turned to again try and catch his quarry. A safe distance away from the hunter, Therese blushed when she heard the words leaving her playmate’s mouth. Beside her, the brawny figure of Kurt remained wary, lest the hunter turn his stumbling steps in his direction.
Keren started to dart away from Paul’s clutching hands once more, when suddenly a bright flash of pain tore at the back of her head. A hand slapped the small of her back and Paul’s figure pranced away from the girl in triumph.
‘Ha, now you have to try and catch us,’ the boy laughed as he sauntered toward the advancing Therese and Kurt. Keren dropped to her knees and stroked her long golden locks.
‘You pulled my hair, you stupid toad!’ the girl snarled in her most indignant tone.
‘I caught you,’ corrected the boy, noting with some concern the sullen look that had crawled across Kurt’s face.
Keren rose from the ground, glaring at Paul, venom in her eyes. ‘Doesn’t your family teach you any kind of manners? Just because you look like a monster doesn’t mean you have to act like one.’ The words left the girl’s mouth like daggers, her target visibly wilting at the assault.
‘Show your betters some respect,’ Kurt said in a low, menacing voice as he pushed Paul with a meaty hand. Kurt often helped his brothers in their profession as foresters and his size was quite beyond his years. He was entirely devoted to Keren, and many of the village children had received a beating at his hands when offence or her own malicious spite made Keren call upon the devotion of her brawny protector.
‘But I caught her,’ protested Paul, retreating from Kurt’s glowering form. Therese came to her brother’s aid.
‘Try and catch us!’ she cried, racing away into the woods that bordered the wheat field. Paul took that as an excuse to run away from Kurt and the threat of a short and one-sided fight. Kurt cast a confused look at Keren before deciding that he should hide as well or risk being tagged himself. Devoted or not, the young woodsman had no desire to bear the stigma of playing the hunter, even for Keren’s sake. In the matter of a few seconds, Keren was left standing alone in the barren field.
The girl let a few moments pass, trying to compose herself rather than actually intending to give her friends time to conceal themselves. It was humiliating for her to be the hunter. When she had proposed this game, she had never thought that she would ever have the shame of being the searcher. Indeed, if everyone had not already run off, Keren would have haughtily declared that the game was stupid and that they pla
y something else. Now she would have to show these farmers’ brats that she was much better at playing the hunter than any of them.
Keren entered the shadowy stand of trees and tried to pierce the dark bushes and bracken with her youthful gaze. She listened carefully for any aberrant sound that her quarry might make in seeking to elude her. Only the chirping of a few birds and the frightened scrambling of a startled squirrel rewarded her efforts. She continued to walk along the narrow game trail, her annoyance rising with every step. How dare these peasants force her down to their level? It was enough that she deigned to play with them at all, why should she endure this indignity? The girl loathed the role of hunter, playing alone, struggling through the bushes whilst having to endure the taunting elusiveness of the others. It was not for the daughter of Bernd Mueller to have to chase for friends, she thought, as if she really wanted to find a rabble of dirty peasants anyway. Keren had almost made up her mind to leave the others to their stupid play and go home when she heard the rustle of dead leaves behind a patch of bushes a few yards away. A crafty smile crept upon Keren’s face as she stalked toward the noise. She had found them much faster than Paul had and she would not be reduced to chasing them out into Duhring’s wheat field either. Slowly, with as much silence as she could manage, the girl made her way to the bushes. With a yell of victory, she jumped around the closest of them. Abruptly, her yell became a shriek as the girl realised what she had found.
It was not one of her friends lying behind the bush; indeed, it was no such creature as Keren had ever seen in her short, isolated life. It looked like a little man, certainly not more than five feet tall had it been standing. Its overall shape was that of a man but where human features should have rested there was the porcine countenance of a farmyard swine, its brutish flesh covered in a soft golden down, almost like the fur of a duckling. The creature was wearing a dark robe and Keren could see that one of its legs was twisted beneath the black fabric at an unnatural angle. As she watched, pale blue eyes stared at her from the swinish head with an almost human look of alarm.
Keren was still staring into those pale orbs when Kurt ran to her side, alarmed by the girl’s scream. When he saw the strange creature lying almost at Keren’s feet, he halted abruptly, his mind seized by fear. The two still stood there, frozen to the spot, when Paul and his sister joined them. Therese let out a shriek when she saw the beast, the sound seeming to jar the other children out of their paralysed fright. They all ran away from the bestial form, far enough to be out of its reach should it decide to lunge at them. The children were silent, not one daring to speak, though one and all peered through the bush, to make certain that the strange beast was truly there.
Keren caught a hint of the creature’s gold fur and looked away in disgust, the memory of the creature in its entirety refreshing itself in her mind. She regarded the other children, noting the faces of her playmates as she did so. They all bore expressions of horror tinged with childish fascination, yet none had the courage to take the lead. Keren forced her own face to curl into a haughty and disdainful sneer, adopting the expression she had seen the elder Mueller adopt on many occasions when addressing some cowed villager. She was not afraid, not like these farm whelps. She would show them what true superiority was.
Keren pushed Kurt toward the bush. The boy resisted her efforts, scrambling back to his original position. The girl glared at the brawny youth. ‘Don’t tell me you’re afraid of a dying pig,’ the girl scolded in her most imperious and high-handed tone. Kurt’s face reddened and the boy stomped toward the bush, determined to redeem himself. Keren followed the boy, at what she judged to be a safe enough distance. A glare brought Paul and Therese hurrying to be at her side. By degrees, the timid gang advanced upon the bush. At last all four children stood over the twisted, brutish shape once again. Kurt bent down and picked up a large stick. Timidly, the boy poked the tip of his improvised weapon into the creature’s side. A human-sounding groan emerged from the porcine snout.
‘Is it a monster?’ asked Kurt, his voice trembling.
Keren looked intently at the gruesome, bestial thing. It was hideous, certainly, but as she looked into its gentle, pleading, strangely human eyes, the girl was not so very certain that it was actually dangerous. It was very obviously hurt and weak. She knew, if she wished, she could have it crushed as a beetle. The other children gawped, fearfully, and Keren knew that they were unconsciously waiting for her judgement.
‘That’s stupid,’ she declared, ‘monsters are big and fierce. This poor little thing doesn’t look like it could scare anybody.’ She chose to ignore the sudden shock she had experienced when she had stumbled upon the creature. The others were afraid of it, and that made it all the more important that she showed them that she was not.
‘Goblins aren’t big,’ Paul protested, ‘and they’re monsters.’
Keren scoffed at the tavern boy’s argument. ‘Stupid, everybody knows goblins are just baby orcs. That is why they’re little.’ Keren returned her attention to the little creature, fascination overcoming her lingering horror. The little creature moved one of its delicate, long-fingered hands feebly as she watched it.
‘I am going to go get my father,’ Paul decided, pulling on his sister’s hand. Keren turned on the boy with her most venomous glare.
‘Paul Keppler, if you do that I will hate you!’ Keren screamed as the boy started to pull his sister away. Paul looked at the girl with an apprehensive gaze. Keren decided to press the attack. ‘If you go telling about this, you won’t be playing with me or any of my friends ever again!’
The threat was a dire one for any of the children of Marburg. Keren Mueller was the most popular child in the village; her whims of friendship and dislike decided the hierarchy among the children. Those she did not like, like the young bell-ringer at Marburg’s Sigmarite chapel, were virtual pariahs, teased and tormented by all the other children at every opportunity. With his scarred features, Paul was already the object of her ridicule; only his sister’s close relationship to Keren kept him from being an object of complete scorn. Paul looked at his sister for a moment and then released her hand. Keren’s bullying threat had been enough to cow the boy.
‘What are you going to do with it?’ Paul asked as he returned his gaze to the swine-headed creature.
‘He’s hurt, maybe sick,’ the girl declared. ‘If we help him get better, maybe he’ll get us presents.’ She was now certain that the creature was a bewitched prince and surely a prince would be able to give her gifts if she helped him recover.
‘But where will we take him?’ Paul asked, hoping yet to foil Keren’s plans with reason. There was something horrible about the creature; he could not understand why Keren was not frightened of it. ‘What will we do with it? We can’t very well take it home; mother would never let that thing sleep in the house.’
Keren thought about the problem for a moment before the light of an idea gleamed in her eyes. ‘I know a place!’ she declared. The girl swatted Kurt’s stomach with one of her dainty hands, rousing the boy from his embarrassed silence. ‘Help Paul pick the prince up and follow me,’ the girl commanded.
As the boys grabbed his arms and legs, a smile split the porcine features of the sorcerer Thyssen Krotzigk. None of the children noticed that smile, nor its malevolent twisting at the corners of his mouth.
KEREN LET ANOTHER distinctly unladylike oath escape her lips as the underbrush grabbed at her dress and scratched at her legs for the umpteenth time. She had not figured on the disused path to the old mill being in such a sorry state. Had she known that getting there would be such a chore, she would never have suggested the ruin. The girl looked over at the two boys, struggling to keep the creature’s body high enough to escape the clutching brambles. Their legs were even more scratched and bruised than her own. An impish smile graced Keren’s face as she saw the boys enduring their discomfort simply because she had told them to. Keren looked away from the gasping, sweating pair and looked again at the crumbling wooden
structure which was their destination. Once, it had been the business place of Ludwig Troost, the man who had dared to try and end her father’s monopoly. Herr Mueller had begun a campaign of sabotage and slander to destroy Marburg’s other miller. In the end, friendless and destitute, Troost had crushed himself beneath his own mill wheel. Keren’s father liked to talk about his vanquished rival, and he had shown his daughter Troost’s abandoned mill many times since the man’s suicide. Few other people would come here, believing the place to be haunted. It was the perfect place to hide their strange secret.
The inside of the mill was as decrepit as its exterior. Over the years some of the supporting beams had toppled from the roof to repose in angled pillar-like positions. The floor appeared to be the final resting-place for every dead leaf in the forest, filling the building with a rotting ankle-deep carpet. A brace of crows cawed from the shadowy top of the monstrous mill wheel. A rusted chain dangled from the end of the wooden yoke Troost had once hitched his mule to when working the wheel, swaying slightly in the breeze. Under Keren’s direction the children carried their patient to a raised wooden platform that was slightly less debris-laden than the floor proper. They set him down beside a pair of neglected barrels and quickly stepped away.
‘Kurt, go and see if you can get some blankets from your brothers,’ Keren told the burly boy. Kurt hesitated a moment and then made his way through the ruinous mill to the clean air outside. Keren turned her attention to Paul and Therese.
‘He needs some food. Why don’t you get some from the tavern?’ Keren said to Paul.
‘You mean steal it?’ the boy’s voice was almost incredulous. Keren’s eyes narrowed.
‘Your father owns the tavern. How can that be stealing?’ she demanded.
‘I don’t know,’ Paul confessed.
‘Maybe I should just have Therese do it, if you are too scared,’ sighed Keren.
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