by James Wallis
The two backed away and the pack followed. Hoche hoped for an instant that they had had enough of this prey that fought back. Instead they waited, circling, their eyes hard and greedy. Hoche watched them. One was limping badly, one had dark streaks of blood in its fur from a long cut along its back and a third was wounded across the face, blinded in one eye. But they were still five against two men.
Hoche studied the shapes of the predators, trying to identify the pack leader. There: larger than the rest, and darker too; perhaps only three summers old. A young leader, its movements confident, assured. The great wolf raised its head and stared back at him down its sharp muzzle. Hoche met its gaze, unblinking.
“How are you faring, Schulze?” he asked.
“Not well, sir.” Schulze’s voice was shaky. “What are we going to do?”
“If we defend, we die,” Hoche said and launched himself across the open space, his sword point low. The pack scattered but the dark leader stood firm, legs wide, its teeth bared in a snarl to receive his attack. Hoche swung the blade in a low arc and the wolf jerked its head up, leaping high at him to avoid the blade. Hoche had anticipated the leap, turned his arm and his swing became a straight thrust backed with all the weight of his charge. The sword met the wolf’s leap, pierced its throat and ran deep into its body. The animal fell, wrenching the sword hilt from Hoche’s grip as thick blood gushed from the open wound. The wolf convulsed. It tried to rise, tried to snarl, bared its teeth and died.
Hoche whirled, his arms raised to defend himself against another wolfs teeth, but the pack had scattered into the night. He bent to the dead leader and pulled his sword from its body. It had been an excellent thrust, fifteen inches deep: the steel had slipped in above its ribcage and must have hit heart and lungs on its way. Hoche nodded, satisfied with his work, and picked a handful of grass to clean the blade.
“That seems to have dealt with that, eh, Schulze?” he said.
Schulze didn’t reply, and as Hoche turned he saw why. The soldier was clutching his left arm, his tunic sleeve ripped to tatters and soaked with blood. Claws had raked across his face, tearing open one cheek. Schulze looked at him in speechless pain, and sank to his knees.
“By Shallya,” Hoche muttered, pulling off his own tunic and shirt, tearing the linen into strips for bandages. Schulze’s arm was a mess, the flesh torn where sharp fangs had ripped across the muscles. The cuts on his face were not as bad as they had first appeared, but they would leave scars. Schulze winced as Hoche swabbed the wound on his arm with a cloth soaked in kvas from his flask.
Hoche grinned. “You’ll live, old soldier. Come on, I need to know what those wolves were here to scavenge.”
The moat of the farmhouse was dry and overgrown with brambles, but there was an earth bridge across it. Schulze walked slowly up to it and studied the ground. “They tethered their horses to the trees over there,” he said. “Quite a few men, and one—no, two of them barefoot. The wolves must have come later.”
Hoche stared across the rubble at the end of the bridge to the dirt-deep stone floor of the old house, and knew why. Two shapes lay in broad moonlight where they had been tugged and torn by the scavenging wolves. Limbs lolled, spines contorted, heads twisted. There were dark holes in their naked bodies. Once, quite recently, they had been human.
Hoche stepped down from the rubble towards them. After a moment he realised that Schulze was staying back, wary of entering this place. Hoche didn’t blame him. There was something about the ruin, a sense of taint, of pollution. It raised the hairs on the back of his neck.
“Schulze, they’re only bodies,” he said. “You’ve seen plenty—you’ve created enough among the Bretonnians.” The older man scrambled, still clutching his bandaged arm, to stand at Hoche’s side as the young officer put the toe of his boot to the first body’s shoulder and pushed. It rolled over and lay flat on its back, staring sightlessly up at the stars that banded the heavens. The wolves had torn much of its flesh away, but the face was still whole and young. Hoche crouched down beside the body.
“I know this one,” Schulze said. “He’s one of the Bögenhafen boys that deserted last week.”
Hoche didn’t look up. “Deserted?”
“Always the same on a long campaign, men drifting away all the time. But these two—no word to their friends, and most of their equipment left behind.”
“I don’t think they deserted,” said Hoche, “though we were meant to believe so. This one’s flesh is still loose; no stink, no maggots, no putrefaction. He’s been dead no more than a few hours. Why desert to hide out for a week in a wood three miles from the camp you’ve left? It makes no sense.” He stared at the corpse’s face. The soldier couldn’t have been more than seventeen: his skin was clear, his torso hairless. A pit in his chest gaped wide, the ends of ribs showing. Whatever end the boy had met, it had been violent and not caused by wolves. But there wasn’t enough blood around to explain an ungentle death like this.
Hoche reached out towards him and closed his cold eyes. He hoped it would make the boy’s face look more at peace, but it didn’t; it made him look like a blind man in hell.
Schulze was standing over the second corpse. “There’s some marks on this one, sir. Come and see.” The body lay about twenty feet away, sprawled and twisted, face-down. A pattern of intersecting lines had been cut deep into the flesh of its back: a rectangle with horns that branched out over the man’s shoulder-blades. The wound was puffy and dribbles of blood had run from it over the skin. Hoche recognised the crossed bars and flinched. Sweat pricked against his skin.
“It’s a weird thing,” Schulze said, and knelt to touch the body.
“Don’t!” Hoche shouted. Schulze’s outstretched arm froze.
“What is it, sir?”
“It’s the mark of the being some call Khorne, the Blood God. These men weren’t killed by wolves and didn’t die in a fight—they were sacrificed. This place is unclean.” Hoche could feel a slight tremor in his voice and a rising tension in his mind, and fought it down. Orcs and wolves were one thing, but worshippers of the Dark Gods were in another, much more powerful league.
He had seen marks like these before, years ago, when his father had been called to cleanse a secret temple discovered in an abandoned warehouse by the town watch. He wished his father was here now; for his knowledge as a priest of Sigmar, and for the sense of support and moral certainty that only a father can give. He felt afraid in a way he had never known before, not of the two corpses before him but of what they meant.
“The Knights Panther…?” said Schulze, giving a name to the fear.
“I don’t know,” Hoche said. “I don’t know. Sigmar! This is very bad.”
“What do we do?”
“Let’s cover them up.” Hoche glanced around. A dark red cloth had been spread over the stone block he had noticed earlier. It had been used as an altar, he realised. “Get that cloth, bring it here.” He studied the marks. There could be no doubt: it was Khorne’s symbol, carved deep with a dagger. Here too, there seemed to be less blood than there should be.
Schulze cried out, and Hoche whirled. His orderly was standing by the altar, one hand extended and shaking. “The cloth, sir, it’s—” and Hoche suddenly knew what had happened to the men’s blood. He didn’t want to see it or even think about it, but he knew he must.
The cloth was soaked in blood. It dripped from the edges, congealing in strings that hung down to the ground and pooled there, crusting. It stank of death. Through the thickening, tar-like contours of the awful liquid, Hoche could make out the seams and patches of embroidery on the fabric below, forming a pattern he knew well. It was the crest of the Emperor, the banner of the Empire, the army’s battle-standard. Drenched in the blood of the Empire’s soldiers.
At the centre of the cloth lay two objects, bulbous and fleshy, strange and glistening. Hoche knew with a sickening revulsion what they were. The crushed ribcages, the holes in the men’s chests—these were their hearts.
There was a long silence filled with Hoche’s horrified thoughts. It was broken by Schulze staggering to a bush and being noisily sick. Hoche shook himself, and tried to regain I he cool composure, the self-assurance with which he had started the evening.
“Right,” he said. “One of us needs to get back to the camp and rouse the duke. The other needs to wait here under cover in case whoever did this comes back. We don’t know for sure it was the Knights Panther, and even if it was, we don’t know which of them are involved. Schulze, you’re wounded, and besides the duke is more likely to listen to me. Find yourself some cover and don’t move from it.”
Schulze spat a string of bile onto the ground and coughed. “What if the wolves come back?” he asked.
“It’s not likely but if they do then climb a tree.”
“With this arm?”
Hoche looked at him. “I give you an order, it’s up to you to obey it. If I don’t return in four hours, make your own way back to the camp.” Schulze grunted something about sleep and Hoche put a hand on his shoulder. “Look, if we can unearth a nest of Chaos worshippers, there’s a good chance of promotion for both of us. That’s worth a night’s sleep.” He laughed. The sound had a high, shrill edge, and he wished he hadn’t.
Hoche turned and began the long jog back towards the camp. Faint light lifted in the eastern sky and the landscape began to take on the day’s colours, grey fading into greens and browns. A new dawn was coming.
CHAPTER TWO
Challenge
As he ran, thoughts pounded through Hoche’s brain. Two men had been sacrificed to Khorne. Could one of the oldest and most elite regiments in the Emperor’s armies be involved in such a thing? Only six knights had ridden out, but the idea that even six of the Knights Panther might be worshippers of Khorne was shocking enough.
Khorne. The Blood God, the basest and most brute of the four foul lords of Chaos. Hoche knew little about the possessor of the Brass Throne, although when he was younger his father had tried to teach him something of Chaos, separating out some truth from the folklore, superstition and fear.
Most cultists and followers of the Dark Gods gathered in secret to practise their foul rites, but Khorne was another matter. The Blood God demanded sacrifice and slaughter from his adherents, and much of it. The civilized lands of the Empire made it impossible to hide such bloody worship, and so it was certain—no, Hoche thought, it was assumed—that there were no cults of Khorne in the Empire’s cities. The beastmen of the great forests were generally worshippers of the Blood God, and many of the fearsome warriors from the far north across the Sea of Claws or the frozen lands of Kislev were Khorne’s forces. But of the four Chaos Gods, most scholars assumed that Khorne was the one who affected the Empire least. So why had two men been sacrificed to the Blood God this night?
And he had heard horsemen riding out of the camp at full moon at least twice before. Had other men disappeared and been put down as deserters, to meet unholy deaths at the hands of cultists? If not missing soldiers, then perhaps people had been taken from nearby farms and villages?
There would have to be a full-scale investigation. And someone, Hoche thought, would have to be appointed to lead it. Commanding a company of Reikland pike-soldiers was all well, but he wanted a new challenge: one that would exercise his brain as well as his voice and sword-arm.
The sun was above the horizon by the time he reached the camp gates and the army was beginning to wake up. Two Reiklanders from the Sixth Pikemen, the sister-company to Hoche’s command, stood guard.
“Halt!” one of them shouted.
“For Sigmar’s sake,” said Hoche, “when you challenge someone, butt one end of your pike in the earth and point the other at their throat. You’re supposed to be stopping an attacker, not waving like a flag-signaller. Get it right next time.” He walked in.
Inside the camp, tent flaps were pulled back and men half-in, half-out of uniform were stretching, yawning, shaving, fetching water, walking to the latrines, polishing armour, talking to their friends. There was a smell of cooking oatmeal. It seemed like a completely normal morning, but Hoche felt separated from it by the things he had seen and the new knowledge he held.
The officers’ quarters were at the far end of the camp, the ground sloping up gently to reach them. The tents here were larger, newer and better spaced. Servants, orderlies and uniformed batmen were doing the menial tasks while the officers lay in bed a few minutes longer, or broke their fast in their tents. Hoche walked through them, towards Duke Heller’s tent.
“Hoi! Watch yourself, soldier!” someone shouted and Hoche, jerked from his thoughts, looked up to see a horse bearing down on him. On its back was an officer in Knights Panther colours, gesticulating, his proud face angry. Hoche froze. The rider pulled on his mount’s reins, and stared down at him with arrogant disdain.
Hoche stepped out of the way, staring back. Had he been recognised? Was this one of the men? What would he do if he was challenged?
After a long moment the knight turned his head away and horse and rider moved past and away between the rows of tents. Hoche watched them for a second, then strode on to the open area at the top of the row and the great high tent at its centre, from where Duke Heller, the hero of the Carroburg campaign, military legend thrice decorated by the Emperor himself, commanded the army below.
The guards at the tent mouth were in full armour, their breastplates and halberds shining. They stared ahead implacably as Hoche walked between them and into the cool canvas space beyond. Sunlight filtered through the pale fabric overhead, throwing soft light on the furniture, the hangings on the walls, the maps and papers on the table, and the patterned rug underfoot. A man sat at the table in the centre of the space, his back to Hoche, reading a roll of parchment. A messenger in the colours of the Imperial Service stood beside him, at attention. A curtain sectioned off the rear of the tent, a fold in its centre marking the way through. A servant moved between the tent poles, refilling the oil-lamps that hung from them.
Hoche halted and saluted smartly, clicking his heels together. The reader didn’t look round. Hoche coughed. Still no reaction. He waited a second, then strode to the far side of the table and saluted again before looking down at the man seated opposite him. The man looked up, an expression of irritation on his face. It wasn’t the duke. Hoche recognised him as the general’s aide-de-camp, but couldn’t remember his name.
“Lieutenant Karl Hoche, Fifth Reiklanders. I need to speak with Duke Heller on a matter of great urgency,” he said.
“Lieutenant,” the man said, drawing out the syllables of the word. “The general is dealing with Imperial business. I will pass him your message.” He smiled.
Bohr, that was his name. Johannes Bohr, Hoche recalled. He knew his reputation for cool efficiency, but something of this importance had to go to the duke before all other men.
“If he’s dealing with Imperial business, why aren’t you at his side?” Hoche asked, and didn’t wait for an answer. “Listen, I understand the niceties of protocol, but this matter is too serious and too urgent. I have to see the duke.”
“He is indisposed.”
“Then dispose him.” Hoche stared at Bohr. He guessed the man was only a year or two older than himself but his black hair was already streaked with lines of silver. A scar ran down one cheek to lose itself in the thick hair of a neatly trimmed beard. Bohr raised his head and stared back at Hoche. His eyes were vulpine and piercing blue. He did not blink.
“Are you sure he will want to hear your news?” he asked.
“It is news no commander wants to hear,” said Hoche. “That is what makes it important.”
Bohr stroked his beard for a second, impassive, then stood and rolled up the parchment. “We will have a reply in three hours,” he said to the messenger, who saluted and left the tent. The aide-de-camp went to the fold in the curtain and held it open to speak through it: “Lieutenant Karl Hoche of the Reiklanders, sir. I apologise
, but he has news he says is urgent.”
A voice came from the other side, muffled by the thick fabric. Hoche recognised it as the duke’s but couldn’t make out the words. Bohr could, however: “He will not tell me, sir,” he said. Another muffled sentence. “He’s most insistent.” He turned to Hoche. “The general will see you now.”
Hoche followed Bohr through the gap in the curtain, into the duke’s private quarters. There was a four-poster bed here, rich hangings on the walls and a smell of incense. The duke was being helped into the ornate folds of his uniform by a liveried servant. A table to one side carried the remains of a roast chicken, still steaming, and an open bottle of wine. The duke’s appetite for life was as well-known as his hunger for glory.
The great commander turned as they entered. His face was cragged and lined, like channels carved in rock by the passage of time. Hoche was surprised to see how thin and lank his hair was, in contrast to his great bush of a moustache.
Hoche saluted. He was conscious that Bohr, at his side, did not.
“At ease, Lieutenant Hoche,” the duke said. “I know you. You fought with me at Wissendorf.”
“It was my honour to command the fifth company there, sir, as I do here.”
The duke smiled. “Yes. Hope you do as well this time out. Now what’s so urgent that it interrupts my dressing?”
Hoche glanced at Bohr. The duke caught the movement, “Johannes is my personal secretary and aide-de-camp. I have no secrets from him. Speak freely.”
Hoche took a deep breath. “Sir, two soldiers were murdered last night by worshippers of Chaos.” He felt as if someone in the room had twisted a cord; the other men tensed with a twitch, as if a puppeteer had jerked their strings. He had been right: it was news that nobody wanted to hear.