by James Wallis
“Fine, so I hear. Though the rumours are not true: he’s not… let’s say he doesn’t sympathise with our position.”
The duke laughed and paused. “Speaking of sympathisers, Thaddeus, I have not congratulated you on closing the Untersuchung. I had not suspected they might be followers of another dark lord. What were they? Tzeentch worshippers, I’ll be bound.”
A frisson ran up Karl’s spine and he bent closer to be sure he caught every word of Gamow’s answer. The noble priest’s voice was clipped and dry.
“Augustus,” he said. “Things are not as the reports claimed. The Untersuchung was not a cult front. One or two of them had been beguiled by dark forces, certainly, and that gave us the excuse to move against them. But they had begun to get an inkling of our great work, and were asking questions better left unsaid. So we got rid of them.”
“They weren’t cultists?” Duke Heller asked.
“Not at all.”
Karl’s mind filled with wild hatred. Up to now he had believed the accusation laid against his old order because in the depths of his heart he had believed it could be true. To hear the man who had put his old comrades and friends to death admit that it was done as a piece of politics, to remove an inconvenient barrier to his own plans…
He felt himself shaking with sorrow and fury. A wild part of his mind wanted to draw his sword and rush in, revenging himself on the two men who had conspired to destroy his life. A calmer voice told him this was not the time. Duke Heller would cut him down like a sapling. Even if he succeeded, the plan would be seen through by the other unknown cultists of Khorne in the camp.
He moved away from the curtain; he had heard enough. And there was another danger now. Duke Heller had previously thought the Untersuchung really were Chaos cultists. Now he knew that they were innocents, he would be sure to look again at whether Karl really was in sympathy with his plans. And if there was one thing Duke Heller did not tolerate in his officers, it was the slightest hint of betrayal. Karl’s life was in further danger.
He walked out of the tent. The sun was low in the sky and the officers had moved away to find beer or food.
He could not move against the duke or Lord Gamow; even if he succeeded in killing them their places would be taken before Mitterfruhl. He thought about rallying the officers, telling the troops the truth of what was going on, but he had no proof and would be dismissed as a madman—worse, a mutant, a thing of Chaos. He could flee and let fate take its course, but with what he had learned today, he could not do that.
That left only one option: the band of Chaos warriors, knights of Khorne, somewhere in the forest. Thirty of the most fearsome fighters in the world, with inhuman strength, cursed weapons, their bodies twisted and reshaped by the anvil of Chaos into forms built for war, bloodshed and death. He didn’t even know where they were. But they were the hand that would turn the key, the duke had said, and if they could be broken then the door could not be opened.
How could he do that?
When he returned to the camp the mercenaries were back. They had nothing to report. Normally Karl would have given them drill-practice until the gong sounded over the camp for the evening meal and retired to his tent to plan, but not this evening. He had too much on his mind to think clearly.
“Kurtz,” he said, “call the men.” And when they were gathered, disgruntled at having their recreations and conversations disturbed, he told them what he wanted to know.
“Most of you grew up within fifty miles of here,” he said, “and that makes you unique in this army. Somewhere in the forest, within a few hours’ ride, a band of thirty warriors has hidden itself so well that three thousand men cannot locate them. We need to find them.
“Think of everything you’ve ever heard about this valley, from the day your grandmother told you the first tale about the field of the cloth of blood, to this afternoon as you walked through the forest. Every thicket. Every ruined keep, house or hut. Every dell, cave, island, cliff, every legend and rumour, anything at all.”
There was a deep silence.
“Think about it tonight,” Karl said. “I’m not expecting the answer right now. But there’s a purse of twenty gold crowns to the man who gives me the right answer.”
The men shuffled, murmuring among themselves. Then young Ewald spoke up from the back.
“Wh-what about that island?” he said.
“What island?” Karl asked.
“Y-y-yesterday,” he said. “The island b-by the tracks we found y-yesterday.”
“Don’t be a bloody fool,” Karl said. “It’s twenty yards out in the river.”
The lad tried hard to speak, made nervous by the attention on him. “M-m-m-my brother’s a b-b-boatman,” he said. “I’ve travelled with him. He w-won’t take the west channel round that island. It’s t-t-too shallow, even for a river-barge.” He swallowed and sat down, red with embarrassment.
Karl stared at him. An unladen river-barge this far up the river wouldn’t draw more than three or four feet. A man could walk to the island if he didn’t mind getting wet.
“We’ve got them,” he said. “By Sigmar, we’ve got them.”
He was about to say more but the low thudding of the meal-gong reverberated out across the camp and the sense of tension broke, the men moving, talking, gathering their bowls and spoons.
“Stop!” Karl shouted. “Don’t eat the food!” Calm down, he told himself, or the men will think you’re mad. “There’s no time,” he said. “Eat what rations you have here, gather your kit, get your armour on and douse the fires. Prepare for a night assault. I’ll be back shortly.”
He set off up the hill.
Among the queue at the huge iron cauldrons he found men of the Fifth Reiklanders who he recognised and who recognised him. He greeted them, asked after their wives and girlfriends, gave sympathies for the death of Armin, and asked where he could find Sergeant Braun. They pointed him out, sitting on the benches with the enlisted men.
Karl walked over to them. The men around Braun looked up from their meal, and Karl restrained his urge to tell them what they were eating. It would not achieve anything, and he needed them on his side.
“Sergeant,” he said. “Can I have a moment? In private?” Braun nodded, and together they walked away from the ranks of men who chatted and laughed as they ate their dead comrades.
Karl turned to face him. “A few days ago you told me the men would still do anything for me,” he said. “Is that true, or were you being polite?”
“It’s true, sir,” said Braun. Karl did not hear the words but he watched the man’s face and listened for the stresses in his voice, and knew he did not lie.
“I have a mission for tonight,” he said. “We’ve located a small force of the enemy—not the main army, just thirty outriders. They’re on an island in the river, but it’s fordable. There’s going to be a night assault, but I’m afraid the sellswords aren’t up to it—they have no training in night-fighting. I need men from the Fifth to show them how it’s done.”
“How many men do you need?” Braun asked.
“As many as you can persuade to come. This isn’t an order. I’m asking for volunteers.”
Braun looked contemplative. “Night-fighting in the forest isn’t work for pikes,” he said, “but we’ve got plenty who are handy enough with swords. I’ll get you your men, don’t you worry, sir.”
Karl placed a heartfelt hand on his shoulder. “Thank you, Braun. I’m truly grateful. We’ll see you and the men outside the main gate in half an hour. If anyone asks, you’re helping to train the mercenaries in night-attacks.”
“Glad to be of service, sir. Be good to fight beside you again.” Braun smiled. “It’ll mean interrupting the men’s supper, though.”
“I’m sorry,” said Karl, not feeling sorry. “Tell them hunger sharpens the senses and quickens up the blood. And tell them that there’s glory to be had tonight, and legends to be made.”
“Is that true, sir?” Braun sounded incre
dulous.
“I’m afraid it may be,” said Karl.
The two forces met outside the main gate as the last of the sun was sinking below the rim of the valley, staining the clouds with vivid streaks of scarlet and gold. There were around a hundred men assembled, the two forces eyeing each other, and not mixing.
Sergeant Braun had brought four horses for the officers to ride out and the wounded to ride back. Karl mounted and gave the order to form a column, Reiklanders at the front and mercenaries to the rear. He was concerned that there would be trouble but his fears were allayed: both sets of men obeyed his command. He spoke a few words to them, repeating what he had already said: a small force of outriders camped on an island; a surprise night attack; glory to be had.
“Johan, you know the territory, you lead. I want dead silence in the forest. When we reach the island the two tallest men—Julius and you, there—ford the river, find the shallowest track. Take ropes, tie them to trees on the far bank. The rest of you follow, using the ropes as guides. Reiklanders first, fifteen at a time. Absolute silence. No talking, not even a whisper. Don’t lift your feet or splash, and don’t get out onto the island: stay in the river, the water will mask your footfalls. Wait for my command, then sack the place. Kill everything. We’ll be back in time for breakfast. Questions?”
“Sir?” asked a voice. Karl looked around and saw bald Johan. “Why tonight?”
“Because we don’t know when they’re going to change their location, so we have to art fast.” He couldn’t tell them the truth: that tomorrow he would be arrested by Gamow or Heller, and by Mitterfruhl night it would all be too late.
“When do I get my gold purse?” Ewald wanted to know, to a gale of laugher.
“When we get back,” Karl said. He was about to give the order to move off when Kurtz spoke up.
“I’ve brought flasks of lamp oil,” he said. “Rub it on your kit. It’ll stop leather squeaking and metal chinking. Your blade won’t get stuck in its scabbard and won’t rust from the wet neither.” He passed them out. Karl took one, grateful for his orderly’s forethought. Lamp oil was an old poacher’s trick, he remembered. Perhaps Kurtz and Schulze had more in common than he’d first thought.
They set off towards the forest at a steady march, Karl at the rear. Once a few soldiers had been relieved of equipment that creaked, clanked, grated or squeaked, the unit moved with a satisfying lack of noise, though the difference in discipline and professionalism between the two sets of men was obvious and, to Karl, worrying. The three days he had spent with the sellswords had sharpened their teamwork and attitude but they were still essentially untrained, handy with a weapon but with no battlefield experience. What right did he have bringing such a raw band to ambush a force of Chaos warriors? If this attack went wrong, the blame would be his alone.
As the head of the column entered the tree line, Karl turned to look back at the camp. The last rays of the sun reflected off the coloured clouds, tinting them, and for a moment the valley floor and the trees, the river, the tents of the army and the walls of the castle were all bathed in red. Under his uniform his second mouth writhed, and for a second he felt a spasm of last night’s inhuman hunger. He fought it away.
His eyes adapted quickly to the darkness of the forest and he was able to see the track that Johan had chosen. His horse seemed to have no problem picking its way through the gloom and shadow of the fading daylight, and he let it have its head, following the column of men. It gave him a chance to think about the day.
He still couldn’t fathom Reisefertig. The man had said he was here as an observer, but he had been involved in the cover-up last summer, and had sent Karl to Altdorf, out of the way. It was impossible to tell whether Reisefertig was telling the truth, lying or concealing how much he knew; and there was much he was concealing. Neither he nor his words could be trusted: he regarded Karl as an information source, not an ally. It was a shame. In quieter times, Karl felt the two men could have been friends.
Who was Reisefertig? Braubach’s journal might have revealed something, but it was gone now. Braubach had trained him and they had worked together for eight years. Then, after the failed raid, Reisefertig had left without a word and gone to Marienburg, where he had infiltrated a library controlled by Chaos cultists, and his actions had left an Untersuchung agent mindless and mute. From there he had gone to work for Duke Heller, where Karl had met him the previous summer. Whether there had ever been a real Johannes Bohr, he did not know.
Back in the torture-chamber under the temple in Altdorf, Lord Gamow had mentioned Reisefertig, asking where he was. Why would he do that? Why would he even know who Reisefertig was, or care? He’d put the question immediately after asking about the Untersuchung’s deep agent in the witch hunters. Was there a connection?
Karl chuckled to himself. He had not told Karin that he could not have betrayed her cover in prison because he did not know it. Evidently Braubach had trusted her with more information than he had given to Karl. But then Braubach had not trusted him. “I do not trust Lieutenant Hoche, and I do not think he will do well,” he had written in his journal. Now Karl was the only one of Braubach’s three apprentices who was still doing the work of the Untersuchung—or something like it.
At the front of the company Johan held up his hand: a quarter-mile to go. This was where they had found the track the day before. Karl and the others dismounted and wrapped cloths around their horses’ hoofs to muffle their sound. The dark sky cast everything in blacks and blues; neither moon was in the sky tonight but the band of stars across the heavens gave a cold, faint light. The troops moved on, the river beside them but running the other way, a wide band of shining grey pouring back towards the camp.
What had Karin meant in the carriage when she said Karl had a place in the scheme? Over the last two days, he had watched the pieces of the plan fit together, but had not felt there was a place for him. Now she said there was. Did she mean a place could be found for him, or was there a more sinister meaning to her words? Had the smooth coming-together of the threads of the conspiracy included him, possibly from the moment he had disturbed the doings of the Knights Panther at high summer? And would he ever be able to find the answers?
They reached the island. Karl tethered his horse downstream as the troops spread out along the bank. There was no sign of movement from the island, and no firelight broke its dark outline. That could be a good sign, or might mean that their quarry had already gone.
He watched as Sergeant Braun gestured silent orders to the men. Julius the mercenary and the tall Reiklander slipped into the chilly water carrying coils of thin rope and waded out into the stream, their steps careful. The water was lapping around their waists, but came no higher. It was slow going.
The two reached the far bank and tied their ropes on the trees that overhung the river. They signalled, and the first of the Reiklanders began to follow them, fording the stream, swords held high above the current, and taking up their places in the shallows on the other side as they waited for their comrades. A steady flow of men made their way out. This was the trickiest part of the operation, moving all the men into position without alerting the enemy. Compared to this, the killing should be easy. Karl watched from the undergrowth.
The last of the Reiklanders started across, the strong current cresting against their chests in waves. Their comrades were arrayed along the far bank, the water there up to their knees and thighs. Half the men were across now and the first of the mercenaries was in the water, one hand on the rope, the other holding their weapon. Others moved to follow him, the two slow lines of men in constant motion against the surface of the river.
In midstream one man missed his footing and slipped, losing his grip on the rope. He disappeared under the water, but didn’t flail or splash. In a second he had surfaced and the man next to him had grabbed his forearm, giving him the stability he needed to find his feet. He stood up, wiped the water from his eyes, found the rope again and waded on. All without a single shout
or splash, and he hadn’t even dropped his sword. Hoche’s heart swelled. His soldiers. They were everything he could have hoped.
Suddenly there was a cry dose to him, an alarm call, like the screech of a great black bird. It shattered the night, echoed from the far bank and rolled across the forest. The soldiers were frozen, the few men left on the shore startled and confused. Karl stared across the river. What had happened? Should he give the command to attack? Were they safe? Was it too late?
“What the hell was that?” he heard Sergeant Braun say.
The trees on the island were black against the dark sky. A shape moved against them, a hulking silhouette darker than the shadows. Another emerged further down. Great armoured men on great black horses, with swords and axes the size of doom.
They hear everything, Karl thought in terror, and they do not sleep.
“Attack!” he shouted but his command was lost in the roaring cry from the island as the horsemen charged forward. A horde of dark riders poured from the tree line, charging into the river and the lines of soldiers with great splashes, swinging their huge weapons.
The soldiers scrambled away but the water slowed their panicked legs. They staggered, tripped and fell as they were cut in half, decapitated, or crushed and drowned by the cruel hoofs of the horses.
A few men tried to charge forward, to meet the enemy, yelling battle-cries. They were cut down before their feet touched dry land.
The horses crashed on across the river. The ropes were severed and men clinging to them were swept away. On the riverbank, the men who had not crossed fell back, drawing their weapons. The first of the huge riders reached them, cutting down two with a single stroke.
They were magnificent, these knights of Khorne. As a salmon leaps or an eagle dives, so they killed. It was their purpose, the climax of their existence, and they did it spectacularly well. Karl felt himself awed by their skill even as his horrified eyes watched them massacre his troops, leaving blood and bodies to ebb downstream, staining the river red.
He bolted for his horse and leaped into its saddle, severed its reins with a stroke of his sword, and galloped away, his mind full of madness and confusion, the hordes of Chaos in pursuit. At least here he had the advantage: his horse was smaller, nimbler and had travelled this path already once tonight. He had to get back, to rouse the camp. The riders were coming.