Marks of Chaos

by James Wallis

  The Bretonnian wineseller in the driver’s seat looked startled and scared. He groped for his reins to jolt his horses into motion. Grenner stepped back, raising his hands in appeasement.

  “We were looking for the men who caused the explosion last night. I thought you might be involved. I was wrong. So,” he added, “you’re leaving Altdorf.”

  The short man nodded sourly. “Zis city, she is not friendly to strangers, you know? And zis thing last night, very bad. I go home.”

  “Did you sell your wine in the end?”

  The Bretonnian nodded. “Oui. In the end.”

  “Well, that’s something. Travel safely.” Grenner nodded farewell and walked away from the cart and back to Johansen.

  “Stop looking so smug,” he said.

  Johansen grinned. “‘Hexenstag morning, a time of goodwill’,” he said. “You hate admitting you’re wrong, that’s your problem. You should keep some goodwill in your heart the rest of the… What?”

  Grenner was staring at the back of the Bretonnian’s head. “If he’s sold his wine,” he said, “why’s he still got the barrels on his cart?”

  Johansen turned to look. “I don’t know,” he said. “Do you want to ask?”

  “You do it.”

  The queue of carts had moved and the Bretonnian was almost at the gatehouse. Grenner waited as Johansen walked up to the cart, then went to its rear, climbed up and stood between the upright casks. He drew his sword, turned it and smashed the hilt down on the lid. It cracked and splintered. A female face, gagged and bound, terrified, streaked with tears, stared up at him from inside. The Bretonnian leaped from his seat and ran for the gate, but the guards were ready for him. They caught him, holding his arms as he struggled and hissed.

  Five barrels on the cart. Five missing women. And he’d known there had been something strange about the wineseller from the moment he’d met him. Johansen hadn’t believed him, but he’d known. The man was a kidnapper, a slaver or something worse.

  From the ground, Johansen looked up at him. “Result?”

  Grenner nodded. “Happy Hexenstag,” he said. He stared up at the sun, letting its warmth massage the weariness from his body. “The nights start getting shorter now.”

  “They’ll get longer again soon enough.”

  “I know. So enjoy them while you can.” He tugged the rest of the barrel lid away and reached in to help the woman inside to her feet. “I know you’re not much use at handling women, but I could use some help here.”

  They set to work.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Patience

  The queen of wands fell on the king of swords, and the prince of coins on the queen of wands. Ten of cups on the prince, followed by a sequence of low-numbered sword cards. There was nothing there that he could use, and only a handful of cards still face-down. The pattern was blocked, the reds and the blacks balanced, a stalemate in the making.

  It was hard to read the cards. Outside, beyond the open door of the tent, the night was hot and still and the rest of the sleeping army camp was bathed in the pale silver-green light of the full moon, but only a little filtered through to reach the spread of cards on the floor near the back, where Karl Hoche was sat cross-legged, a glass of Kislevite kvas to his side, contemplating and listening to the silence. Nobody glancing into the tent could see he was awake, passing the night by playing cards, and waiting.

  Behind him Rudolf Schulze, his orderly, grunted in his sleep and twitched a leg. Hoche waited until he had settled again, then flipped a card from the deck he held in one hand. He frowned. It was the Wise Fool, the wild card that could work for any of the four suits. But that would be in a normal game, with opponents you could see. This game was played by different rules, and the Fool didn’t fit them. It shouldn’t have been in the deck, should have been removed from play before the game started. He put it down beside his glass, drew another card, and froze. He could hear horses.

  He sat absolutely still, listening. Five, maybe six horses moving through the camp, led by people on foot. If they were wearing tack then it was muffled: no bridles clinked, no saddle-leather squeaked. The soft footfalls walked down the path between the tents and he heard the animals’ breath as they were led past the open flaps of his tent. It was past midnight, the third watch, and these people were taking trouble not to be heard.

  The figures moved on and Hoche let out his breath silently. He had been right. Since the army had set up its summer camp here, every night that one of the two moons had been full he had heard horses and people moving in the late hours. This was the third time, but the first since he had vowed to discover the reason. Now the time had come.

  He put down the deck of cards, took a sip of kvas and moved towards Schulze’s bed, then paused for a second and flipped over the card that had been under the Fool. He grimaced. It was the two of hearts, an insignificant card, only useful at the start of the game. He could see no fortune or omen in it.

  Hoche leaned over Schulze’s sleeping form and put his hand gently over the man’s moustached face. “Shh, Schulze,” he whispered. “They’re about. Time to move.”

  Schulze’s eyes were instantly open and alert, and he nodded his understanding. Hoche smiled for a moment. Schulze always claimed that he’d been a farm-labourer before he joined the Empire’s armies three years ago, but Hoche knew he had the knowledge and instincts of an expert hunter. It was one of the reasons he’d chosen the man to be his orderly.

  Hoche picked up his sword from next to the field of cards, then crept to the tent door and peered out. To the west, directly under the full moon, lay the camp’s stables. He could see shapes moving there, and hear low murmurs of conversation. Behind him Schulze moved, and there was a tink as he knocked over the glass of kvas. Hoche held up a hand. “Stay,” he said. “The last thing we need is for them to know someone’s following.”

  He watched as the figures paused for a moment, then they moved off toward the centre of the camp. He counted six, but it was impossible to tell who they were or which regiment they belonged to. Long minutes passed. Clouds moved across the sky, west to east. Hoche watched them go, then he gestured to Schulze. Together, the two men stepped out into the moonlight and walked towards the stables, Schulze at Hoche’s right hand and a half-pace behind.

  The stables were at the corner of the camp, a fenced-in area with long tents on either side for cover and for the grooms’ quarters. Hoche walked to the entrance of the first of them, where the group had stood a handful of minutes earlier. Inside, a figure lay on its back on a straw mattress, snoring gently. Hoche observed it.

  “You’re not asleep,” he said.

  The figure sat up slowly. “No, sir, but I’m giving it my best try,” it replied. “Not helped by you.”

  “Nor by the men who brought their horses here a few minutes ago,” Hoche said. “Who were they?”

  The groom came to the mouth of the tent. Hoche recognised him but didn’t know his name: a man in his thirties with a Talabheim accent, a Tilean nose and the scars of smallpox across his face. His tunic was stained with soup and there was straw in his hair. The groom looked him up and down, registering Hoche’s white Reikland uniform with the ornate red tassels that marked him as a lieutenant. He said nothing.

  “You can tell me now,” said Hoche, “or you can tell the duke’s men in the morning.”

  The man looked from Hoche to the shorter figure of Schulze beside him. “No offence meant, masters,” he said, “but my mind is slow at night. They were officers of the Knights Panther, back from some hunting by moonlight. A good time for deer, it is, a night like this.”

  Hoche stared at him, not sure if the man believed his own story or not. “Show us the horses,” he said.

  “Sir?”

  “I want to see their horses.”

  The groom frowned. “With respect sir,” he said, “you Reiklanders are infantrymen. What are you wanting with the Knights Panthers’ horses? They’ll not be pleased when they hear.”

&n
bsp; Hoche bent towards him, using his advantage in height to stare down at the man, his face inches from the groom’s. “When an officer gives you an order, you obey, immediately and without thinking. You do not take word of it to anyone else. You are a disgrace to your uniform, which is also a disgrace. Smarten up, or you’ll be on a charge the moment the sun rises. Have you got that?”

  “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.” The groom dropped his head, unwilling to meet Hoche’s eyes, and silently led the two men into the stable. A single lantern lit the area, casting long shadows across the stalls, piles of straw and racks of equipment. Close to the entrance, six fine warhorses were tethered, each with a grey blanket across its back. Hoche walked over to the first.

  “Hunting, you say?” he asked.

  “Aye.”

  Hoche ran a hand across the flank of one of the huge beasts. Its coat was warm but not damp. “These horses haven’t been ridden hard. There’s no heat or sweat to them,” he said.

  “I rubbed them down, sir.”

  “All six, in the last few minutes? Don’t cover for your officers. They could be up to anything, and you know as well as I do that whatever they were doing tonight, it wasn’t chasing deer.” Hoche nodded to Schulze. Together they left the stable-tent, walking towards the camp gate.

  “Think he’ll go to the Knights Panther?” asked Schulze.

  “Of course,” Hoche said. “The question is how quickly. If he’s privy to their plans then he’ll inform them immediately that people have been asking questions, but the Knights Panther are too elite, too well-bred, too…”

  “Snobbish?”

  “Exactly. Too snobbish to involve lower ranks in their secrets. Whatever those might be. I think he’ll wait until morning.” Hoche paused and leaned against the side of a supply-cart that bracketed one end of a row of tents. “Schulze, do you feel like a walk?”

  “Where, sir?”

  “To learn what six Knights Panther do outside the camp, long past midnight, every full moon.”

  Schulze yawned. “In truth I’d prefer my sleep, sir, but if it’s an order—”

  “It’s not. This isn’t official business, but there’s a mystery here and I’d welcome your help in solving it. I trust your skills, your sword and your discretion. Will you come?”

  Schulze looked up and grinned. Hoche smiled back.

  “Good man. I knew I could depend on you. Good evening, gentlemen, a fine quiet night.” They had reached the gate and the sentries acknowledged Hoche’s greeting with a nod as he and Schulze left the camp. Hoche walked down the hard earth track that led away from the gate, stopped and looked back at the camp’s fortifications: its dry ditch, low earth ramparts and palisade of sharpened stakes hiding the rows of tents, carts and fires within. Beside him, Schulze moved to the side of the track, leaned against a lone tree and dabbed the sweat off his brow with a handkerchief. The air was still and hot, filled with the heavy dry-grass scent of late summer nights.

  “See anything?” Hoche asked.

  “What am I supposed to see, sir?”

  Hoche grimaced. “I’m not some master-sleuth like Zavant Konniger prancing through some penny-dreadful tale of deduction, Schulze. You’re the expert. It rained this afternoon and those horses should have left fresh tracks. Can you find them in this light?”

  Schulze looked at him, and Hoche knew he was considering what he saw: the young officer, fresh-faced and newly promoted, who had dragged him out of bed because he’d heard horses. But he knew Schulze was also seeing the man who had led his company of Reiklander pikemen at the Battle of Wissendorf last summer, the only company that had stood against the Bretonnian charge, the action that had turned the tide of the fight but had left the young officer close to death, his scalp ripped open by a Bretonnian lance.

  Hoche hoped Schulze trusted him as he hoped all his men trusted him: implicitly, no matter how seemingly foolish or foolhardy the job. Then Schulze smiled, and Hoche knew his hopes were justified.

  “I spotted them as we left the gate, sir,” Schulze said. “The tracks head straight out down the road. They come back in along the bank of the stream over there.” He pointed.

  “We’ll follow those ones, the return track,” Hoche said. “They may have taken a detour away from the camp to shake off followers.”

  Schulze looked at him askance. “On foot, sir? They could have ridden for miles.”

  “That,” said Hoche, “is what we have to find out.”

  The tracks of the horses followed the stream, and the stream followed the undulations of the heathland as it rose slowly towards the foothills of the Grey Mountains, their shapes visible on the horizon as dark masses against the star-filled sky. Schulze led the way, sure-footed through the half-seen scrub grass and heather. Small creatures scurried out of their path. From time to time they heard the screech of a hunting owl, and once sensed the shadowed form of a larger predator as it silently padded into sight ahead of them, sprang across the stream and loped away into the night. It did not bother them, and they did not bother it.

  “Wolf?” asked Hoche. Schulze shook his head.

  “Mountain cat,” he said, “but away from home. Maybe something’s driven it from its territory, fire or a lack of food. Could be the orc army moving north.”

  “I don’t believe the orc army exists,” Hoche said.

  “You don’t?”

  “No. There are warbands and we’ve tangled with some of them, but the greenskins are still regrouping from the pounding they got from the dwarfs last winter. They lost two or three leaders, and it’ll take a while for the new ones to get their forces together. I think the reports of early raiding’s were exaggerated and we’re wasting our time scouring the hills for an army that isn’t there.”

  “Hope you’re right, sir. I could do with being home in time for the harvest.”

  “I wouldn’t mind some leave myself,” said Hoche. His thoughts went to Grünburg where he had grown up, his family—his father in his black Sigmarite robes, leading the great services at the temple, his grey-haired mother boiling apples—and Marie, always Marie, the dark-haired angel from the house across the stream. Slow-eyed Marie who had smiled at him for twenty years, kissed him in secret for five, and would marry him within the next. “Home,” he said wistfully.

  Schulze looked back at him, moonlight leaving half his face in shadow. “So you’re bored, sir? Is that why we’re tramping across moorland tonight?”

  Hoche chuckled and shook his head. “I’m not bored, but I think some of our fellow soldiers may be. I want to see what they’ve found to fill their time.”

  “Deer hunting?”

  “Not likely. You, Schulze, I know you’d have a fine time stalking and poaching deer out here on foot with a crossbow. But only a lunatic would gallop a horse across ground like this by night. And even I can read these tracks and tell these horses weren’t chasing anything.”

  There was a silence. Schulze broke it. “Truth be told, sir, I used to use a longbow. Takes a touch more skill, but the range and penetration are better.”

  Hoche laughed.

  They walked another half-mile. The outlines of clouds moved silently across the sky. To the north, the half-crescent shape of Mannslieb, the second moon, was sinking below the horizon, but Morrslieb still poured its sickly light over the landscape. The stream curved away to the right, towards the woodlands that covered the nearer hills. Schulze stopped and studied the ground, then pointed left. Hoche stared up the side of the shallow valley to where his orderly was pointing. A copse of trees stood against the sky.

  “What is that place?” he asked

  “An old ruin,” Schulze said. “The locals avoid it.”

  As they drew close to it, Hoche could see that the copse was a wall of trees surrounding an open, overgrown area within. He’d seen similar things elsewhere: this was a fortified manor house or farm, abandoned for a couple of centuries and fallen into dilapidation, its protective boundary of elms and poplars now reaching high to the heavens
. In this lonely place, so close to the Grey Mountains, he could guess what had happened: overrun by greenskins, its inhabitants butchered, its shell used as a camp until the beasts’ own filth drove them from it and its walls were reclaimed by Taal, god of the wild places. If not greenskins then mutants or beastmen. The races changed but their methods were depressingly predictable.

  He could see the outlines of the buildings now, between the trees. One wall still stood but the rest were rubble, overgrown with brambles and young trees, ash and sycamore. He could make out the plan of the building; its stone floor had probably survived. Against the one remaining wall was a large rectangular block, probably the remains of a stone oven. Shapes moved around it, low and grey, sinuous in the moonlight. One raised its head towards them and bared gleaming, growling teeth.

  “Now those,” said Schulze in a low voice, “are wolves.”

  “What do we do?” Hoche asked.

  “Back off but don’t look away. Meet their eyes, stare back like you’re a predator too. If there’s only the three of them we’ll be safe. Scavengers, wolves are. They’ll only attack live prey if they have the weight of numbers.”

  “What are they scavenging?” Hoche said. His answer was a growl from behind them and he whirled, drawing his sword. Two more were there.

  “Oh, Sigmar,” Schulze said.

  “Stand back to back,” Hoche said urgently. “If they—” and the first wolf sprang at him. He slashed at it, cutting the air in front of its jaws, and it paced away, out of range, watching him with dark eyes. Behind him he heard a snarl, a slash, and Schulze’s oath. The next one was on him, biting at his arm as another leaped, and he was parrying, cutting, dodging, swinging for his life. No amount of sword practice or warring against the Bretonnians had prepared him for this. This wasn’t a battle, it was a brute animal struggle.

  A wolf came in from his left, snapping at his leg. He sidestepped and swept his sword at it, but the blade struck at an angle and glanced off. Hoche swore. It was the wrong weapon for this fight; a thrusting weapon, designed to pierce armour, its flat blade shaped for parrying, not cutting through thick fur and skin. At his rear he could tell Schulze was having a worse time of it: the man’s blows were frenzied, panicked, lacking in structure or strategy. Then two wolves closed in on him and he was lost in his own fight, ducking right as one lunged at him, slashing at its sleek form and swinging through to block the other’s run, smashing the edge of his blade into its face.