by Jack Yeovil
VII
Otho Waernicke felt as if someone had just run him through the gut with a red-hot poker, and dug around a bit in his vitals.
He didn't know where he was in the forest. And he was more frightened than he'd ever been.
Brawling was more his line. Going out into the Altdorf fog with his League mates and tangling with the Hooks or the Fish on the docks, or with the thumb tax rioters along the Street of a Hundred Taverns, or with the blasted revolutionists. That was real fighting, real bravery, real honour. A good brawl, with a good booze up and a good bedding afterwards.
Rudiger was just a maniac out to slaughter him. The Graf von Unheimlich was no better than the Beast, that altered revolutionist who had ripped apart half a dozen whores in Altdorf two years ago. Otho had brawled well the night they had exposed the fiend.
Yefimovich was the sort of creature who should be hunted through the night. He would probably take to it.
His feet hurt in the unfamiliar boots, and he was cold to the bone.
Where was Sylvana? She had got him into this; now it was her duty to save his fat from the furnace.
His fat was weighing him down now. It had never been such a nuisance before. Meat and drink gave a fellow a figure.
Running was all very well, but he kept banging into trees and cutting his face open or ripping his clothes. He had fallen on his ankle a few minutes ago. It was already throbbing, and he was afraid he had broken something.
This was a nightmare.
He couldn't remember how it had happened. He had only been on that harlot Sylvana a moment or two when he was being hauled off, and slapped silly.
Graf Rudiger had hit him.
That was why he had been so sick.
A treebranch, ridiculously low, came out of the dark and smashed his face. He felt blood pouring out of his nose, and just knew his teeth were loose.
He wished he were back in Altdorf, snoring in his bed at the League's lodge house, dreaming of hot women and cold ale.
If he got out of this, he would enter the Order of Sigmar. He would take vows of temperance, celibacy and poverty. He would offer to all the gods. He would donate his money to the poor. He would volunteer for missionary work in the Dark Lands.
If only he were allowed to live
He ducked under the branch, and stepped forwards.
All the blood he had been spilling and the trees he had been bashing would be a trail the graf could follow. Huntsmen were good at all that rot, tracking their quarry through scratches on bark and bent twigs on the ground.
Merciful Shallya, he wanted to live!
He kept seeing the graf's arrow going through the unicorn's head, the amber eye bursting, arrowpoint prodding out of the mane.
At once, there wasn't any ground under his feet, and Otho fell. His knee struck stone, and then his back, his head, his arse. He rolled down a slope, stabbed by stones and branches. Finally, he came to a halt, face up.
He would just lie and wait for the graf's arrow.
It couldn't be any worse than running in the dark.
Above him he saw the moons, Mannslieb and Morrslieb.
He prayed to Morr, god of death, pleading with him to hold off. He had exams to pass, a life to live.
He remembered the pain in his stomach, and rolled over. There couldn't be anything more inside him to come out, but his belly clenched and he coughed, choking on bile.
This was how he would die.
He ground his face into the icy dirt, and waited for the arrow in his back.
Behind him he would leave three unacknowledged bastards that he knew of, and unpaid bills in a dozen taverns. He didn't know if he had killed any men, but he had thrown stones and knives in brawls and any number of his opponents might have died of the pummellings he had given them. He had served his Emperor, and he had looked forward to a lifetime of defending the House of the Second Wilhelm from his enemies.
A point jabbed him between the shoulderblades, and he knew it was over.
'Kill me,' he said, rolling over to present his belly to the sword. 'Kill me to my face.'
The graf was not standing over him.
Instead, he found himself staring into a pair of huge amber eyes, set either side of a long face. A sparkling horn stuck out from between the animal's eyes and prodded him.
The unicorn mare breathed out, and plumes of frost shot from its nostrils.
Unicorns are horses with horns, but horses have no range of expression.
This unicorn was smiling at him, mocking him. The stallions' eyes had been cloudy, but the mare's were bright, glowing, alarming.
He froze, and felt his bladder giving out, flooding his trousers with warm wetness.
The unicorn whinnied a laugh at him, and took its horn away.
It was taller than the tallest cavalry horse Otho had ever seen, and long-maned, powerfully muscled. Immensely strong, it was also sleekly feminine.
Horrified at himself, Otho couldn't help but respond to it as he would to a woman.
For the first time in his life, Otho Waernicke saw something he considered beautiful.
Then, with a ripple of white in the darkness, it was gone.
Otho could not believe his luck. He sobbed relief, and laughed out loud, choking on the emotions unloosed from him.
Then he heard the other animals coming.
They were growling, barking, tearing across the distance between him and them.
The two dogs exploded out of the night, and sank their teeth into his fat.
Otho screamed.
* * *
VIII
Doremus skidded down the slope, arms out to keep his balance, towards the yapping, screeching tangle.
'Karl! Franz!'
He called the dogs, but they didn't hear or didn't care.
Behind him, Rudiger stood on the crest of the ridge, watching the dogs go for Otho.
This had gone far enough. He wasn't going to let the fat idiot get killed. It wasn't as if his father really cared about his mistress. As far as Doremus could judge, he would have thrown Sylvana away soon. It was only natural the woman should cast around for another protector. Admittedly, she had shown poor taste, but Otho was a duke, albeit a thin-blooded parvenu of a duke.
'Karl,' he shouted, and the dog looked up, red on its teeth.
He took Karl's collar and pulled him away. Franz was chewing Otho's knee, tearing through cloth to get to the flesh.
The lodge master was still alive. He didn't even seem to be hurt that much. He had scratches on his face and neck, but the dogs hadn't a taste for human meat.
Doremus pulled Franz away.
Calmed, the dogs sat and slavered. Doremus patted their heads.
Otho moaned and cried.
For some reason, Doremus remembered Schlichter von Durrenmatt, the undersized lad who hadn't passed the initiation into the League of Karl-Franz. Otho and his fellows had mercilessly kicked and pummelled the boy, throwing him naked into the Reik, advising him to swim home to mother. Doremus wished Schlichter, now a novice of Manaan, were here to see Otho Waernicke fouled and humiliated.
Doremus threw Otho a kerchief.
'Clean yourself up,' he said.
His father and Magnus were with them now. Rudiger made no attempt to intervene, and watched coldly as the sobbing Otho, his boy's eyes streaming in his fat libertine's face, wiped his wounds, wincing as he touched the cuts.
'This quarry was poor,' Rudiger said. 'Not worth taking a trophy from.'
'You should clip his ears, at least,' Magnus said, half-smiling to show he was joking.
Otho, who didn't see the smile, whimpered.
'I should have his balls for what he's done,' Rudiger said, not smiling. 'But a man's a man, and bears little responsibility for the actions of his loins.'
'The mare,' Otho said. 'She was here'
Rudiger smiled, 'Was she, indeed? A finer quarry than you, jostling for position. But it's no use. The unicorn is tomorrow's animal. Tonight we're after
man's mare.'
Magnus was concerned. 'It could be dangerous. Unicorns don't believe in hunters' etiquette.'
Otho was hugging himself, shivering with fear and the cold.
'Master Waernicke,' Rudiger said, 'listen well'
Otho shut up, and half-sat, looking to the graf.
'Go back to the hunting lodge, and a carriage will take you to Middenheim. Tell the coachman to leave before I return from this hunt.'
Otho nodded, relief dawning on his face. He bent forward, to kiss Rudiger's boot. The graf prodded him in the chest, and snarled disgust.
'My son will be the next lodge master?'
Otho said 'yes' several times, tears flowing freely.
'And he will restore the honour of the League of Karl-Franz.'
Magnus helped Otho stand up. It was clear the quarry had wet his trousers. Even Doremus had no more disgust for the fool.
'Get out of my sight,' Rudiger said.
Otho bowed nervously, and scrambled up the slope, grunting and huffing, foam falling from his mouth.
The last Doremus saw of Otho was his ample behind vanishing over the crest of the ridge.
'He'll find his way back by dawn,' Magnus said. Rudiger shrugged, and plodded on.
'The woman took the left fork back there,' he said. 'She'd have headed for the stream, to break her scent.'
'Father?' Doremus said.
Rudiger and Magnus both turned to him.
'What?' Rudiger asked, glaring dangerously.
'Nothing.'
'Come on then. It'll be dawn in an hour, and the quarry will have flown.'
Doremus felt shamed, but fell in step with the two huntsmen.
Rudiger had been right. The dogs followed Sylvana's trail to the stream, then hesitated. The graf set them loose, knowing they would find their own way back to the lodge.
'It's just us now. A man hunts a woman. That's the way of the world, my son. A man hunts a woman.'
'Until she catches him,' Magnus said, completing the saying.
They followed the stream into the woods. The pre-dawn light was already in the skies, filtering down through the trees as an eerie glowing.
'Plenty of time,' Rudiger said.
'We're near Khorne's Cleft,' Magnus said, making the sign of Sigmar at the mention of the dread power's name.
Khorne's Cleft was a deep subsidence, some three or four hundred feet, cutting through the forest as if a giant axe had struck the hillside. There was a waterfall gushing into the Cleft, and local legend had it that the water ran red whenever a mortal crime was committed by the fall. That, of course, was nonsense, although Doremus had heard the waters did have unusual properties. Natural healing, the woodsmen's wives called it. As a child, he had cut himself badly on the forehead and Magnus had washed his face with waters from Khorne's Cleft, wiping away and closing up the wound as if it had never been.
'Good,' the graf commented. 'She can't get over that.'
They emerged from the trees, and stood on the edge of the Cleft. Doremus heard the water crashing to the thin, deep lake at the bottom, and saw the rush of the fall from the opposite side of the gorge.
'Where is that harlot?' Rudiger swore, nocking an arrow and drawing back his bow.
It was impossible that Sylvana could have climbed down. The Cleft had no bottom, just the lake. Too many woodsmen had left their bones down there.
Doremus looked down, around and, finally, up.
The Cleft was the beyond the length of even an athlete's jump, but the spreading trees above met and mingled, creating one canopy. He couldn't see the woman, but he could see where the branches were moving, weighed down by something heavy.
Doremus said nothing, but his father looked up anyway.
'Cunning minx,' he said, aiming at the moving branches.
Magnus laid a hand on his friend's shoulder.
'Rudiger,' he said. 'No. This ends here. Your honour is restored.'
The graf shook off Magnus, and cold fury burned in his face.
'My honour, Magnus? That has not always been your first concern.'
Magnus stood back as if slapped, and his eyes fell. Rudiger took aim again. Doremus could see Sylvana now. She was almost across, her legs hanging down over the waterfall.
'Rudiger,' Magnus shouted
Then, things happened, quickly and together. Doremus was whirling around, trying to follow it. Inside his mind, there were explosions of clarity.
His father let loose his arrow, and it flew straight. Nearby, in the woods, there was a crashing as something large loomed. Sylvana didn't scream as the arrow pierced her side, but Doremus heard the tearing of her clothes and flesh as the barb slid into her. Magnus' protest died in his mouth. Hooves struck hard ground, and young trees bent aside. A huge head burst from the trees behind them, amber eyes aflame, hornpoint flashing like lightning. Rudiger had another arrow ready and away. Sylvana shook the branches she was clinging to, and leaves fluttered down like dead birds, swept away by the torrent of the fall. The mare's horn sliced through the distance, and Doremus knew the unicorn would stab his father, spearing him, shoving him from the edge of Khorne's Cleft. Rudiger's second arrow took Sylvana higher up, in the shoulder, and she lost one handgrip. Boughs creaked and cracked. Magnus made a wrestler's grasp for the unicorn's neck, and she turned her horn to slice at him.
The unicorn mare was a vast, awesome creature, silver-white and ancient. Sylvana fell, impossibly slow, towards the waters. The mare's horn caught Magnus below the ribs, and gored him. With a splash, Sylvana hit the lip of the waterfall, and scrabbled at a rock which divided the rushing waters. The unicorn tossed its head, and Magnus was lifted off the horn, a rope of blood bursting from his wound. Rudiger had still another arrow ready.
Magnus hit the ground, spilling over the edge of the Cleft and Doremus, unfrozen at last, reached for him. Sylvana's hands were torn from the rock, and she was swept over the fall. The unicorn bellowed, its sound joining with the woman's scream. Rudiger turned from his kill, and met eyes with the mare. Doremus had hold of Magnus, and was hauling him back from the precipice. Sunlight broke through, and shone off Rudiger's arrowpoint and the tip of the mare's horn. Magnus was babbling. Rudiger and the unicorn looked at each other, his arrow pointed to the ground, her horn to the sky.
'My boy,' Magnus said, through agony. The unicorn withdrew, without turning, and was gone into the woods.
It was over, for the moment.
'My boy, I must tell you'
Doremus listened, but Magnus had fainted. His chest still rose and fell, but his furs were soaked with blood.
'Father,' Doremus said. 'Help me with uncle, help me.'
He looked at the graf, who had relaxed his bow. Doremus' father was staring across the Cleft.
In the first light of day, the waters of the fall seemed red with blood.
* * *
IX
First, Otho had limped out of the night, dogs at his heels, screaming for a coachman. One was ready, and without a word to Genevieve, the lodge master of the League of Karl-Franz left, his hastily packed bags rattling around the carriage with him.
Then, shortly after dawn, the others came back, Rudiger and Doremus supporting Magnus.
'Keep away from him, leech,' Doremus warned her as she went to help.
Magnus, barely awake, shook his head at him.
The count broke away from his companions, and Genevieve took his weight in her arms. It was nothing to her.
She laid him down on cushions in the dining hall, and tore his clothes away from his wound.
'It's deep,' she said, 'but clean. And nothing has been broken or punctured. He's been lucky.'
She had picked up a deal of doctoring in her years, among many other skills. Balthus tore up a tablecloth for bandages. Magnus, drifting in and out of consciousness, winced as she wrapped him up tight. A little blood seeped through his bandage.
'The wound should knit,' she told the others.
Doremus was concerned for the Inv
incible, but Rudiger hung back, not interested in the count's survival.
'We should go out soon,' the graf said. 'The mare is still around.'
Genevieve couldn't understand the man she was supposed to kill. His best friend was sorely hurt, and he thought only of chasing a unicorn.
'He'll be avenged,' he explained, answering her unasked question.
'He's not dead; he doesn't need vengeance.'
Magnus was quiet, compliant.
'Balthus,' Rudiger ordered. 'Be ready to leave within half an hour. Today, we'll bring back the ivory.'
Balthus saluted, and went off to get his hunting gear.
A door opened, and Anulka wandered in, eyes vacant, bodice badly laced, hair in rat-tails.
'You,' Rudiger said. 'Look after Count Magnus.'
The servant obviously didn't understand. Her lips and chin were blue with weirdjuice.
'Vampire,' Rudiger said. 'You come with us.'
At that moment, Genevieve decided×Tybalt or no×that she would kill the Graf von Unheimlich. She knew there was blood on his hands. He must have killed his mistress. And Sylvana de Castries had not been the first 'hunting accident' in the vicinity of Rudiger's lodge.
Magnus, exhausted, was looking at the portrait of the graf's dead wife.
'Serafina,' he said to himself. He was exhausted, hurt, delirious.
'Anulka,' she said to the maid, using her vampire eyes to penetrate the dreamfog. 'Get some weirdroot. I know you have it. Grind a little into a herbal tea. Give it to the count. You understand?'
The servant nodded, fearful. Weirdjuice, much diluted, could help take away Magnus' pain.
She let Anulka take Magnus, and stood up.
'Get ready,' Rudiger told her. 'Perhaps you'll learn something about hunting by daylight.'
Genevieve bowed and withdrew, trotting down the corridor to her quarters.
Balthus was already dressed in jerkin and furs, and taking his knives and snares down from the shrine of Taal.
'We'll do it today,' she told him. He nodded, his back to her.
'You keep Doremus occupied, and I'll finish the graf. Then we'll be free of Tybalt.'
Genevieve pulled on trousers and a waistcoat. She took one of Balthus' feathered caps, and tucked her hair under it.