by ich du
Marius had also taught Ruprecht much about the perils of the nameless foe, and the means by which it could be rooted out and destroyed. Those instincts now nagged at Ruprecht, and so he walked beside Ursula, filtering out the droning of Johannes, and instead observed the city.
There was tension in the air. He could hear arguments in the street and from open windows. As he walked, he caught snippets of conversations, some of them everyday topics, others with stranger subjects. He heard a man discussing a dairy farm that had found all its cows dead in the fields, their udders filled with thick blood. From a merchant chatting to a stall holder in one of the side alleys he learned of a snake with two heads being found in the cellar of one of the city's inns.
These and others pricked at Ruprecht's thoughts. Strange occurrences, chance happenings, odd sightings. He knew what they pointed to, these symptoms of a much darker peril. It was witchcraft, drawing these bizarre events to itself like a lodestone draws iron. There was a warlock or witch in Wolfenburg, and Ruprecht had a good idea who it might be.
He realised with a start that Ursula and Johannes had stopped outside their destination and he had continued on several paces. They looked at him quizzically as he turned and grinned.
'Head in the clouds, sorry,' he said, masking his worries.
They were outside a blacksmith's, a hammer and small anvil hanging from a chain on the wall. The building was open-fronted, its wide double doors swung apart, hot air from the forge inside causing sweat to prickle on Ruprecht's skin. He had no idea why they were here, it had been Johannes's plan. He had said something about a surprise for Ursula. Grinning like a child, Johannes led them into the ruddy interior.
The smith, a heavily built young man, stood by the furnace, throwing in faggots of wood. He turned at Johannes's shout and waved. Tossing in a last piece of timber, he wiped his hands on his apron and strode over.
'Is it finished?' said Johannes.
'Finished it last night,' the smith replied with a smile. 'Wasn't too much bother in the end. Follow me.'
The smith turned and led them to a wooden door to one side of the smithy. He opened it and waved them through.
'Let me know if you need any adjustments,' he said, taking a step back but leaving the door open.
The room was cooler than the smithy, the walls lined with shelves and racks sporting swords and speartips, arrowheads and shields. Breastplates hung on pegs either side of the door, and in the middle of the room on a mannequin was an exquisitely crafted suit of armour.
Its polished plates gleamed in the light from the forge, chased with designs picked out in gold wire. It was small, and at first Ruprecht assumed it was for a teenager, until he noticed the overly rounded breastplate. It was very definitely designed for breasts, Ruprecht concluded. Ursula had come to the same realisation, and she stepped forward, running a hand over the armour, marvelling at the workmanship, drawing a finger along the gold beading of the vambraces.
'It's beautiful,' she said, turning and looking at Johannes. Her eyes shone with the same brightness as the armour. 'How?'
Johannes smiled and winked.
'A favour from the count,' he said. He glanced over at Ruprecht, who was glaring disapprovingly. 'No, really. You can check with him. It was his armour when he was young, and he donated it to you. There had to be a few, well, adjustments, but hopefully it'll be a snug enough fit. He paid for those as well, before you ask.'
'It's magnificent.' Ursula said, smiling. For the first time it was a genuinely warm smile, and Ursula skipped across the room and kissed Johannes on the cheek. If he had smiled any wider, Johannes's face would have split.
'You should try it on.' Ruprecht said. 'In case it needs any tinkering with, if you know what I mean.'
Ursula nodded and gestured for Johannes to help her. As they began to untie the buckles and straps, Ruprecht heard an exclamation from the forge. He ducked his head through the door and saw the smith standing with his hands on his hips in front of the furnace.
'Everything sound?' Ruprecht asked, stepping through the doorway.
'Well, have you ever seen anything like that?' the smith replied. As he stepped back, Ruprecht saw that the flames in the forge were burning blue and green.
'Something about the wood, perhaps.' suggested Ruprecht to hide his sudden discomfort.
They stood for a while watching the flames, and after a short while they resumed their normal orange and yellow.
'Mayhap.' the smith said, and then his eyes widened as he looked past Ruprecht.
Alarmed, Ruprecht spun on his heel to confront whatever new strangeness had assailed the smithy. He relaxed when he saw that his cause for surprise was Ursula. She was dressed in the armour, Ulfshard hanging in its scabbard at her belt. With her red hair and the gold of the armour, she looked stunning. Ruprecht realised his jaw was hanging slackly, as if he were some player in a comedy. Shutting his mouth, he swallowed hard.
'Fits then?' was all he could say.
WHEN THEY HAD returned to the castle, Ruprecht had sought out Magnus, determined to confront him. After inquiring of a servant, he was told that the counts were still negotiating their agreement. Johannes urged Ursula to go with Ruprecht, to show Vapold the results of his generosity. As the three walked along the winding corridors, Ruprecht was struck by the chill.
As a page opened the doors, Ruprecht looked around the room but could not see Magnus. He noticed servants hanging lanterns on the walls, and glanced up to see the sky was dark behind the high windows. He dismissed it as a summer storm coming in from the mountains and looked at the assembled people. The looks on the faces of the courtiers and scriptmasters was a picture as Ursula entered. One of the scribes, who Ursula had singled out during her speech of the previous day, clasped a hand across his mouth, and another dropped his goblet to the floor with a loud clatter. Vapold blinked heavily, while Steinhardt laughed and slapped his hand on the table.
'Well, it appears the maiden of Sigmar certainly looks the part now.' the count of Ostermark declared.
'I'm glad I never had it melted down.' Vapold said, standing up. 'I'm sure I never...'
He stopped as the sounds of shouting could be heard from outside the room. Frowning, the count strode down the hall, and Ruprecht turned as he heard the patter of running feet. Magnus came down the corridor at speed, the hem of his robe lifted above his knees to stop him tripping.
'My lords.' the astrologer gasped. 'Come quickly.'
'What is it?' snapped Steinhardt but Magnus had already turned and was hurrying back the way he had come.
Muttering to himself, Vapold set off at a jog after the astrologer, and the others followed close behind. Ruprecht could hear all manner of clamour through the walls of the castle: shouting, a cacophony of bells and the clatter of iron-shod boots on stone as soldiers ran to their posts.
They burst out into the courtyard, which was rapidly filling up with people, staring up into the sky, some ailing, others pointing or shielding their eyes. Ruprecht turned to look over the wall at the same time as the others.
'I think that's a sign.' said Magnus, gulping down panicked breaths.
'The hound will eat the sun.' said Ursula coldly, her hand resting on the pommel of Ulfshard.
'Oh shit.' muttered Ruprecht as a chill shadow fell over the world.
CHAPTER FOUR
Return
The High Pass, Late summer 1712
THE FREEZING WINDS of the pass had ceased to have any effect on Jakob's ravaged flesh. He stood on a ledge overlooking the valley below, and smiled to himself. The dark shapes of the assembled warriors sprawled across the landscape, the smoke from their cooking fires filling the pass.
Even here, high above the army, he could hear the bellowing of war beasts, the shouts of champions boasting to each other, the crackle of the fires. Undar had done well, better even than Jakob and Vlamdir. He had brought nearly ten thousand with him, most of them fierce Norse tribesmen, some of them Kurgan who he had encountered on his
way south, and several hundred bestial, mutated warriors from the pine forests of the Norsca mountains. Other creatures had been brought south as well, lured by the scent of war, pushed on by the strengthening breath of the gods. From the east, Jakob had sent seven thousand, all of them skilled horsemen of the steppes.
Soon it would be time to march south, Jakob told himself. The breath of the gods seemed to get stronger with every day, building in intensity, ascending to the triumphant climax that would be Kurt's return.
Muttering words of power, Jakob sprouted shadowy bat wings and stepped from the ledge, floating down the side of the cliff on the currents of magic. He landed in the snow not far from the area that had been claimed by Undar and the others, their low tents erected in the lee of a large boulder. The other warbands were spread out in semicircles from this point, each tribe keeping to itself.
Undar saw Jakob and beckoned him over. He was sitting on a felled log outside his tent, using his knife to pare the flesh from a human head, his bulbous muscles flexing as he scraped off fat and skin.
'Another one?' said Jakob, shuffling up to the giant warrior. Undar turned and pointed to a polished skull sat at the end of the log.
'Two today,' he grunted. 'I let Bjordrin take the other one.'
Jakob chuckled and Undar frowned at him.
'I don't think it's funny,' Undar snapped. 'The war leaders are growing restless. With each one that speaks out against waiting, there are others who begin to doubt. I can't kill them all.'
'You have so far,' Jakob said, still grinning.
'What's so funny?' Undar asked, flicking away gobbets of flesh from the point of his long knife.
'I was just remembering, Kurt, before we set sail for Araby.' Jakob told the warrior. He sat down on the log and picked up the skull, looking at the fine silver wire that fixed the jaw in place. 'Bjordrin will remember it too. Twelve heads Kurt took in leadership challenges before he realised that they would never stop. That's when he decided to raid the Arabyans, to prove himself mightier than any other Chosen.'
'And look where that ended up.' said Undar. 'I still can't see the joke.'
'Oh, I'm laughing at the stupidity of people.' Jakob explained. 'Myself included. Once again, good men are losing their heads waiting for Kurt to prove himself. I had my doubts, my own ambitions. It is much clearer now. I am content.'
'I remember when I first saw him.' Undar recalled, now smiling himself. 'He was going to fight every champion in the army if he had too.'
'He would have won.' Jakob whispered, and Undar nodded.
'I believe he might have done.' the grotesquely large warrior replied. He dropped the skull into the snow at his feet and turned to Jakob, his thick arms resting on his thighs. 'Anyway, you must speak to the champions. You have to convince them to stop fighting amongst each other for the right to lead the army. Kurdar and his Raeslings left this morning to head out on their own, and Vindrigan and Leshen Dru are talking of banding together and heading towards Praag.'
'The Kislevites will find them and kill them.' Jakob said. 'It is of no concern, they are only a few hundred warriors.'
'And what makes you think that the Kislevites won't stop us?' asked Undar. 'A small force may escape detection and make it to the Empire. An army this size, it's obvious that we'll have to fight our way south.'
Jakob leaned forward and grabbed a handful of snow.
'Perhaps not,' the shaman said, letting the ice fall from his gnarled fingers. 'I have a feeling that winter will come early this year.'
'You're a cunning bastard,' said Undar with a grin, retrieving his skull from the ground. 'I always knew that.'
'Cunning enough to stall these fools,' Jakob replied, nodding his head towards a large group of men who were marching up the valley from the rest of the camp, some two dozen or more of the warbands' leaders.
THE DELEGATION HAD agreed to wait for two more days, no more. If the sign that Jakob had promised them had not come by then, they were agreed that Andar Kul would become leader and would take the army south.
Jakob was not worried. He knew that the gods would see Kurt returned to him before his army left. If there was no sign in the next two days, Jakob would create one himself. Or perhaps he would bring the snowstorms even earlier, trapping the army in the pass. Whatever happened, the horde would not be going anywhere until he was ready.
He had told them to spread the word to all the champions to come together at the meeting fire on the morning of the third day. There they would make their decision, and everyone present would abide by it or leave. That gave Jakob two days to prepare.
THE MEETING FIRE blazed high in the air, located at the highest point of the pass. On felled logs and rugs, the assembled champions and chieftains, over fifty of them, gathered to discuss what to do. In a larger version of the Norse freigattur, the Free Gathering where no man could raise arms against another for the agreed duration, the champions haggled and argued with each other over who should take command. Though many had pledged their support to Andar Kul two days ago, some had changed their minds now that it looked like becoming a reality.
Hors Skalding had risen as a strong contender, leader of nearly five hundred men, by far the largest warband in the army. The Norseman now walked around the fire, stating his claim to the assembled crowd, who booed and cheered depending on their predetermined preference or in judgement of his arguments. He was a tall, lean man, with white hair that hung to his waist, tied in heavy gold clasps shaped like skulls. His armour was of fine scale mail, the links that hung to his knees a ripple of iron as he walked. He wore a heavy fur cloak edged with the teeth of cave bears and his bare arms were covered with dark tattoos. Jakob, stood leaning on his staff behind the seated warriors, thought he looked quite impressive.
'Three summers ago, I led my warriors to victory against the southerners of the mountains, where we are headed.' Hors told them. 'I struck inland for many miles, leaving my ships on the shore. Twenty farms gave their bounty to me, and three towns. They sent soldiers against us and we slaughtered them and took their weapons.'
He reached under his cloak and brought forth a heavy pistol. He cocked the eagle head-shaped lock and raised his arm into the air. With a flare and sharp retort he fired the pistol, grinning broadly. There was clapping from some of the champions, but others hissed their displeasure, voicing their traditional dislike for ranged combat.
'Twenty barrels of their fire powder we took from one of their ships.' said Hors, thrusting the pistol back into his belt. 'With this we are the match of any of you here. Two years ago, I raided far to the south, in the lands of the horsemen. That too was a bountiful endeavour.'
He once again reached into his cloak and, with a flourish, produced a tall green bottle. He tossed it to the crowd, who pushed each other aside to have a look at the gift. The scarred veteran who ended up with the bottle broke the neck with his knife and poured some into his mouth. He turned to the others, red liquid dribbling into his greying beard, and raised the bottle above his head.
'Booze!' Hors cried loudly, the cheers of the gathered men drowning out the words of the old chieftain. 'When I have brought you victory, I have enough drink for every man here and five of his most favoured fighters to share.' 'What about last year?' a voice called out. 'Last year?' Hors replied, his grin fading. His expression was one of exaggerated sadness. 'Last year I fell ill with a ravaging fever.'
There were hoots and cries of derision from the crowd, which did not quieten when he held up his hand.
'So I sent my son!' Hors shouted to be heard over the din of the gathered men, and they fell silent. 'He raided the coast of the Empire again, and like me the gods smiled upon his toil in their name.'
For a third time, Hors retrieved something concealed within his voluminous cloak. This time it was a small sack, about the size of a man's fist. He reached in and grabbed what was inside. The crowd were looking eagerly at him now, wondering what he would next produce. He stepped closer and lowered his voice. Tho
se men at the back stood and leaned forward to hear him.
'South to Marbrig they sailed,' Hors whispered, voice barely audible above the crackling flames behind him. 'To the mouth of the great river, where the warships prowl and lie in wait. Under cover of night, they stole into the sound and there they boarded a ship moored on the river bank. The crew were taken without a fight, and now clean out my pig sty. And in the hold of that galleon, what do you think they found?'
'Gold!' one man shouted out.
'Gems!' suggested another.
'Fine women!' came another voice, to much laughter from the others as Hors looked at the small sack dubiously.
'The first man to swear to me receives the contents of this bag,' Hors promised, grinning.
There was sudden clamour as a dozen men rose to their feet, each trying to shout louder than the others.
Hors pointed at one, a young man with armour of rivet-studded black leather.
'Catch.' Hors called out, tossing the contents of the bag towards the champion.
The man scrambled over those in front of him with his arms outstretched. His fingers closed around the brown object, and something wet splattered over his face.
'Turnips.' said Hors with a shake of his head. 'Bloody turnips.'
The young champion snarled and threw the remnants of the rotten vegetable back at Hors, further fuelling the uproar of shouts and laughter that had erupted around him.
'My son still has much to learn.' Hors told them with his arms spread wide in apology. His face then grew serious. 'The gods favour me, that much is certain. In my twelve years as chieftain we have doubled the number of slaves we have. Our homes are built from the finest wood from the forests and are hung with gold and silver. We have feasted upon the sheep of the south well. I know nothing about the Sutenvulf, and care even less. I am the northern wolf, the real thing. Follow me and our glory is assured!'
Many in the crowd cheered and stamped their feet, and some stood with weapons drawn, waving them in the air. There were others though, mostly the darker-skinned Kurgan who favoured Kul, who shook their heads and waved their hands dismissively. Jakob sighed as Kul stood and strode towards the fire. This could last all day, he realised.