Dietz nodded and followed the witch hunter out of the ruins, cradling Alaric in his arms.
CHAPTER TWENTY
'Ah !' They were sitting in the clearing between the ruins and the trees, where they had thrown together a makeshift camp. It had seemed a better choice than staying in the ruins, but safer then venturing back under the trees. Dietz had a damp rag in one hand, and was using it to clean away the damage to Alaric's face. Unfortunately, that damage included most of his skin, and each touch of the cloth was agonising.
'How bad is it?' Alaric asked after several more minutes, trying to unclench his teeth enough to speak properly.
'Bad,' his friend admitted. 'You'll never be pretty again.'
'That may be a blessing in disguise,' Alaric said sharply, remembering how his looks had gotten him undesired attention more than once.
'You will survive, friend Alaric,' Kleiber said from nearby, 'and that is what matters. Your scars will bear witness to your courage.'
Alaric twitched, and then regretted it as the movement caused his cheeks to tighten, the air making the raw flesh sting. Courage? He'd been possessed by a daemon! He was having a hard time thinking about that. It was as if his mind refused to acknowledge what had happened to him. He remembered shoving the mask onto his face, and then he had only hazy images of battle, followed by a burst of pain as the mask had been torn free. Dietz had filled him in on what he'd said and done in between, but he couldn't recall any of it clearly, which was probably for the best. As it was, he felt he was barely keeping himself together; strange images, thoughts, and emotions kept swirling through him, leaving him breathless and confused, and he feared that the slightest pressure could destroy what was left of his mind.
'You survived,' Dietz pointed out quietly, 'that's something.' He shrugged. 'Not many could fight their way back, I'd say.'
Kleiber was nodding. 'Dietz is correct,' he assured Alaric. The fact that you forced the daemon from your body is proof of your courage and your faith, for without both your soul would surely have perished. We do, of course, need to perform a proper exorcism upon our return to Altdorf.'
'I'm just glad it's over,' Alaric replied, starting to shake his head, and then thinking better of it. 'No more tainted relics for me.' He saw the look on Dietz's face. 'I promise.'
Dietz snorted. 'We'll see.' The older man set aside the rag. 'Done.' He reached for a bowl filled with some greenish paste. 'I asked Lankdorf how to make this salve the other day. I thought it'd be good to have.' All of them were injured to some degree, but Dietz had insisted upon treating Alaric's injuries first, as they were the most severe. Alaric had been in no condition to argue, and sat still as his friend administered the salve, coating his damaged face with the concoction.
'We owe him a great deal,' Alaric said after a minute.
'Herr Lankdorf was a worthy ally,' Kleiber agreed, 'and a good man. Surely Sigmar sent him to aid us, and has gathered his soul that he may be rewarded for his bravery.'
That's all well and good,' Dietz said without turning around, 'but what about his body? He deserves a proper burial.'
'I agree.' The new voice made Alaric glance up, and he saw Wilcreitz standing beside them. 'He was worthy of respect, and should be buried with honour.'
Dietz looked surprised, and turned to nod his thanks to the stocky witch hunter.
'We will venture back into the ruins shortly,' Kleiber decided, taking the wineskin Wilcreitz offered him and drinking before passing it along to Dietz. 'I would retrieve whatever we can of the stolen weapons, to bring back to Altdorf with our remaining rifles as proof. We will collect Herr Lankdorf s remains, and those of our fallen mercenaries' He frowned. 'We cannot carry them back with us, but we will build a fine pyre for them, and give them all due rites.'
Dietz nodded, wiping a hand across his mouth and offering the wineskin to Alaric. Glouste, perched on his shoulder, burbled, and the sound increased in volume as Alaric reached across to scratch the tree fox behind her ears.
'No, I'm not angry at you, Glouste,' he assured her softly, taking the wineskin and drinking, careful not to touch it directly to his torn lips. 'I know you helped. Thank you.' The tree fox rubbed her forehead against his hand affectionately.
'How are the others?' Dietz asked, taking the wineskin back from Alaric and returning it to Wilcreitz. Their wounded were stretched out nearby, and the stocky witch hunter had been tending to them.
'Seven are severely wounded and may not live through the night,' the second witch hunter replied. 'Four are
injured, but in no serious danger, and with no loss of mobility. Two have only minor injuries.'
Alaric did the maths. Kleiber had brought thirty mercenaries, plus Lankdorf. Thirteen had survived. They had lost eighteen men in the attack.
It could have been considerably worse, if Bloodgore hadn't donned the gauntlet, if he hadn't remembered about Deathmaul's throat... Yes, it could have been much worse.
'What about that man?' Dietz asked. The tall one in the robes? Did he get away?'
'Varlek,' Alaric answered. 'He's a sorcerer, and Deathmaul's assistant, or perhaps ally.' He struggled to remember what the Chaos champion had said before the battle. Varlek killed the cultists and took the mask, and he brought back the gauntlet.'
'Most likely he was responsible for stealing the blackpowder weapons as well,' Kleiber commented. 'Since the tracks we followed were of normal boots, not of heavily armoured feet.' He scratched idly at his chin. 'Clearly, this Varlek was deeply involved in what occurred. I will inform my superiors when we return so we can attempt to capture him.'
'And then,' Wilcreitz added, 'we shall execute him.' His superior nodded, and Alaric couldn't help feeling a surge of relief. From what he'd seen, Varlek didn't deserve any mercy, and they'd all sleep better knowing that the sorcerer was dead.
He started to say as much, when a faint movement beyond their camp caught his eye. Watching closely, Alaric saw something shift in the trees just past the clearing.
'We're being watched,' he said softly to Dietz. His friend's eyes widened, but he didn't say anything, only nodded.
'I need another drink,' Dietz announced, scooping Glouste back into his jacket, rising to his feet and stepping over to retrieve the wineskin from Wilcreitz. As he took it
from the witch hunter, Dietz leaned in and whispered something in Wilcreitz's ear. Alaric saw the stocky witch hunter start, his eyes darting towards the forest, but Wilcreitz managed to control himself. It was not until after Dietz returned to Alaric's side that Wilcreitz leaned in and muttered something to Kleiber, whose hands immediately went to his sword and his pistol.
Kleiber had never been long on subtlety, and this was no exception. Rising to his feet, the witch hunter turned towards the forest's edge. 'Show yourself,' he shouted, 'or we will be forced to assume that you are hostile, and will react accordingly.' Behind him, the remaining mercenaries, startled by the sudden announcement, leapt to their feet and drew their weapons.
For a moment, nothing happened. Then, just as Kleiber opened his mouth to speak again, the trees rustled. Alaric watched as a shadow beneath one tree detached itself, shifting and gaining substance as it crossed the distance between them, until it stopped just beyond the light of their fire. From this short distance, Alaric could see the grey cloak and leaf-patterned armour, and the figure's hair shone silver even in the dim light.
No one spoke. The elf - whose name, Alaric somehow knew, was Lasalnean Silverleaf - and Kleiber stared at one another, no doubt sizing each other up. Alaric noticed that the elf leader had acquired another bow, but it remained across his back. His hands hovered near the long knives at his belt, but did not draw them, and Kleiber's hands rested on his pistol and his sword, but they too remained holstered and sheathed.
The beastmen are no more,' Lasalnean declared finally. 'The ruins are empty, and soon they will be cleansed of all remaining taint.' From his tone, Alaric suspected that included their touch. You have trespass
ed upon our sacred place, and upon these woods,' the elf continued, his tone sharp, even though his voice was musical. 'You must die.'
'What in Sigmar's name?' Wilcreitz rose to his feet and took a step forward, hands going to the sword and pistol at his side. 'Are you threatening us?' he shouted at the elf. 'We are servants of Sigmar, protected and shielded by his divine grace! You cannot-'
Whatever he had meant to say next was overpowered by a series of soft thrums, followed by several quick whistling sounds.
'Down!' Alaric felt an impact against his side and the ground rushed up to meet him, even as something sharp pricked his cheek. Then he was hitting the earth and rolling over, pushing Dietz off him.
'What was that?' Alaric demanded, trying to get back to his feet, but his friend had a hand on his shoulder and kept him from rising. Dietz didn't speak, but shook his head and gestured with one hand.
Turning to where Dietz had pointed, Alaric saw Wilcreitz. The stocky witch hunter was still standing, but now he swayed, his knees giving out. As he slid slowly to the ground, his body twisted, and Alaric could see the arrow piercing Wilcreitz's throat.
'By Sigmar!' Alaric raised a hand without really thinking about it and brushed the stinging spot on his cheek. His fingers came away sticky, and a quick glance showed that they were covered with salve and something darker: blood.
'Coward!' Kleiber was shouting, not at Lasalnean, but at the trees beyond him, both weapons in his hands. 'You would fell a warrior of Sigmar, and from under cover? Come forth and face me!' Somehow the witch hunter was unharmed, although Alaric saw what looked like a new tear along Kleiber's hat brim.
A figure emerged from the woods and drifted forward to join Lasalnean, its cloak blending into the shadows, creeping in as the sun drifted below the horizon. Another followed, and another, all of them moving without a sound, all with bows in hands and arrows nocked. Alaric
saw that their leader also had his bow in his hands. There were seven elves in all, and Alaric glanced behind him to do a quick count of their own forces. It was only then that he realised why he had heard so many thrums. Four of the mercenaries lay dead, arrows in their throats or eyes. Judging by what he saw, the sharp-eyed elves had carefully targeted the healthiest of Kleiber's men. Of the remaining nine, seven seemed unable to stand unaided.
That left two still capable of fighting, plus Kleiber, Dietz, and himself, against seven very angry elves.
Alaric felt laughter bubbling up in his throat, and could not prevent the hysterical giggle that escaped his bloodied lips. They had survived a daemon and its champion, and a battle with beastmen, and now they were going to die at the hands of a pack of elves? A race that most believed to be pure myth? He let the laughter sweep through him, knowing he seemed mad, and wondering if it were true.
Then he drew his rapier and leapt forward. He knew without looking that Dietz was right behind him.
EPILOGUE
'Sir!'
The harbourmaster looked up from his papers as the other man, one of his dockworkers, approached. "Yes, Fredrich?'
'You'd better have a look at this, sir.'
The harbourmaster followed as Fredrich led him to one of the outermost piers. Another dockworker, Hans, stood there with a long pole in his hand. The pole had a metal hook on its far end, and was used to pull waterbound items closer or push them farther away from the safety of the pier. The harbourmaster noticed that Hans's pole was angled down towards the water, but that he was not putting much pressure on it.
'Down there, sir,' Hans said as they approached, waggling the pole to indicate its far end. The harbourmaster glanced out over the piers edge, and stared.
It was a raft, or at least so he assumed. Really, from here, it looked like little more than random branches and
planks crudely tied together, yet the rough collection did seem to float. Stretched across it was a man, spread-eagled with his hands and feet wedged into the gaps in order for him to hold on.
'I noticed it as it bumped up against one o' the pilings,' Hans explained. 'Caught it without trouble and pulled it close to wait for you.' He glanced down at the man below. 'He ain't moved once.' All three of them looked at once towards the slender shafts protruding from both the raft and the man stretched upon it, their fletchings stiff from river water, but still discernible. Someone had not wanted this man to get away alive.
Then the man stirred. His hands twitched and his head shifted, turning to the side. Now they could see his face, and all three men gasped.
'Fetch a healer immediately,' the harbourmaster told Fredrich. 'Hurry!' Then he turned back to Hans. 'Get Jan and Pieter,' he instructed the dockworker. Tell them to take a skiff, bring it around, and pull that man onboard.'
'Yes, sir.' Hans set his pole down and ran off searching for his fellows, leaving the harbourmaster alone, looking down at the man on the raft.
At first glance, the harbourmaster had thought the man old, but now he saw that was not the case. It was the hair that had fooled him. It was white as snow, and so he had assumed the stranger to be elderly. Examined more carefully, the man could not be beyond middle- age. His face was horrible, mere shreds of flesh clinging to raw tissue, with bone showing through in several places, but beneath the terrible damage it did not seem the face of an old man. Nor did the hands and feet seem withered enough to be those of an older fellow. Why was his hair white? An illness? A family trait? Or some terrible shock?
The man was wearing tattered rags, and the harbourmaster doubted there would be anything in those cloth
scraps to identify the stranger. If he didn't wake up, they might never find out who he was.
'Welcome to Nuln,' the harbourmaster whispered finally. 'I hope, whoever you are, that you survive long enough to see it.' And, he added silently, for us to learn who you are, and to know what happened to leave you in this sorry state. For surely there was a tale there. He only hoped they would have a chance to hear it.
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