by James Wallis
Karl looked up. Half-way between the village and the river, Erwin Rhinehart raised his crossbow and pulled back its suing to prepare another shot.
On the near side of the ford, the last of the crusade’s cavalry had fallen. Four riderless horses moved across the muddied pasture, and a fifth galloped away trailing loose reins. By Karl’s count five of the Knights Panther had been unseated, three of them permanently. Two of those had been Kuster’s victories. The knights reformed and began to ride back up the slope towards the farm buildings.
“Form up!” Karl shouted and his voice sounded hoarse. “Pikemen first! Arrowhead formation! Hammers of Sigmar, fill in behind them!”
“In here?” someone asked.
“Outside!” Karl ordered.
“Are we going to fight?” Gottschalk asked.
“No. We’re going to the village, to rejoin the body of the crusade. But they won’t attack us. You’re a defensive force, that’s what you’ve been trained for. Kuster forgot that. And we’re going to work together this time, damn it!”
“Are you—” someone started.
“No!” Karl lied. “Would Huss have let me near the crusade if I was? Would he have let me train you? Who do you believe, Luthor Huss or—” what had Huss’ phrase been? “—the mouthpiece for a false leader?”
There was a general hesitation among the men.
“Go on, move!” Karl roared. It might not have been the same charismatic tone of command that Luthor Huss used, but they moved. Outside, the rain grew harder. The raven he had seen earlier swooped low over the village and landed on the gate, furling its wide wings and giving a mocking caw. At the back of the column Erwin Rhinehart raised his crossbow, sighted along it, and shot the bird dead.
Anyone watching from the Rottfurt stockade would have seen the body of men taking up position outside the farm on the opposite side of the river. The forty pikemen were arranged in a V-formation, their long pikes raised, the arrowhead shape pointed down the hill. Behind them, rows of hammer-bearers brought up the rear. They would not have seen Karl Hoche.
Karl crouched low among the hammer-bearers, a borrowed leather cap pulled down over his mane of hair. He peered out through the massed bodies. The Templars at the bottom of the slope had not moved, but were observing.
“March,” he said to Gottschalk beside him.
“March!” Gottschalk instructed. The band of tightly packed men began to move forward. There was silence apart from the slow squelching of feet and the pelting of rain.
“Get them to sing something,” Karl said.
“What?”
“Something off-putting.” Karl racked his memory. He had heard so many hymns and prayers in the last few days but none of them seemed appropriate. Then it came to him. “The Hymn to the Glorious Dead,” he said.
Gottschalk did not give the order; but began the ancient chant, and the men picked it up. The soldiers and priests among them knew the old Reman words, the others recognised the rhythm of the cantillation and followed the tune. The alien syllables and the curious formation of the notes coming from deep in the singers’ chests soared out across the meadow. It was strange and yet familiar, and curiously peaceful. Rest now, it told the fallen. Your sacrifice is acknowledged, your valour praised. We honour our dead and our enemies’ dead. We thank you for your bravery. As long as we live we will not forget you, and when we die we hope to lie beside you.
Karl kept low among his soldiers as they moved towards the river, hating himself for this subterfuge, and tried to peer out. He could not see the Templars. Had they moved aside? If they blocked the ford, all was lost: he would be found and tried, the village would fall, Huss would be arrested, the crusade would falter, the reborn Sigmar—
Stop being so self-obsessed, something told him. Think of the glorious dead. Think of Kuster, lying facedown in the stream. Think of the other dead defenders who fell for their faith, doing what you taught them to do—to follow orders. Think of Schulze. Think of Pabst, who may have tried to give him away but did not deserve to die for it. Think of Braubach.
He stopped and let the mantra of the chant fill his mind. As he did, over the voices of his men, he heard another chorus complement theirs, swelling the sound. The Knights Panther had joined the chant, mourning their own dead, commending their spirits to Morr, speeding their souls to the afterlife. Two groups of men, divided by doctrine but united by their devotion to the same god and the same cause, gave thanks for the lives of their comrades together.
As they reached the river, the Templars moved aside to let them pass. Karl briefly wondered why, then guessed that the knights were probably letting them retrieve the bodies of their cavalry. The arrowhead formation broke briefly as the men moved across the ford: overnight the rain had raised its level and the current broke hard against their legs. Karl was careful to keep his face turned away from the Empire’s soldiers. On the muddy shallows of the far bank he saw Kuster’s body, the crossbow bolt in the back of his head and trickles of blood still flowing from it, swirled away by the stream. They could not leave him here.
“Give me a hand,” Karl said to the man next to him. They lifted the corpse by its hands and feet and hefted it up the bank. His body was heavy and limp, and streams of water ran from his clothes to soak the ground.
Karl glanced up. The knights behind them were still chanting, but were beginning to follow the last of the pikemen at a respectful distance. In front of the group, outside the gate, the rest of the column sat where it was, watching them approach. Their voices were raised in the chant for the dead. They had not moved yet.
The group of crusaders began to walk slowly up the slope towards the stockade, still chanting the Reman words of the hymn. Karl pulled his head down and concentrated on carrying Kuster’s dead weight. Above them, on the road, he heard hoofbeats, and Kratz’s voice raised in a shout: “Charge them, damn you! Charge them!”
“They are priests and peasants,” someone replied. Karl risked a glance: an older man with a dark, pointed beard, riding in the second rank of the column. The Templars’ leader, he guessed.
“They are protecting criminals!” Kratz insisted.
“They are carrying pikes,” the calm voice said. “I will not risk men and horses against them.”
“They’re going to reach the village.”
“Then we will have them trapped. And I remind you, we have warrants for only three of them. It is not our job to attack the innocent.”
“What are they saying?” Gottschalk said in Karl’s ear. Karl shook his head and kept his head down. The village was close now. From inside its walls Karl could hear a new sound. The crusaders too had taken up the hymn to the glorious dead. And it was glorious.
Kratz shouted something, lost in the rising sound of the chant, and there were more hoofbeats, moving along the road.
Karl peered forward through the pikemen. Kratz and Rhinehart had ridden forward and stood outside the village gate, weapons drawn. The arrowhead formation was only thirty yards away now.
“What do we do?” Gottschalk asked.
“You’re in charge. If I speak they’ll hear me,” Karl said in a low voice. Gottschalk looked alarmed, then resolute. The body of men drew nearer to the two witch hunters.
“Lower pikes!” Gottschalk commanded and the front two rows brought their long weapons to bear, the long shafts and sharpened points projecting outwards like the spikes of a chestnut shell. The arrowhead had developed barbs. They continued forward at the same inexorable pace.
Kratz and Rhinehart did not move. Karl could feel their eyes scanning the soldiers, looking for a face they recognised, a familiar broken nose, anything that might tell them where he was.
“Karl Hoche! Show yourself and we will let your comrades enter!” he heard Kratz shout above the sound of the chant.
Would any of his men crack? Surely some of them must have doubts about him, or some of the Hammers of Sigmar resent his treatment of Pabst? Was their loyalty and their trust as strong as their
faith?
“Where are you, you Chaos-loving bastard?” Rhinehart yelled.
The wall of pike-tips pressed against the witch hunters’ horses. “Hoche!” Rhinehart shouted as the pressure of the weapons forced his mount away from the gate, pushing him and Kratz out of the way. It was slow and peaceful, as if the men of Sigmar and the chant had formed a giant hand that was carefully moving the witch hunters aside.
“Wheel!” Karl shouted. “Hammers to the gate, pike-men outwards!”
“I hear your voice, Hoche!” Rhinehart shouted. His voice sounded hoarse, ragged and stressed. He lifted his crossbow and fired into the mass of men. Two places from Karl, a dark-haired hammer-bearer gasped and dropped, the bolt protruding from his eye. The chant faltered for a moment. Rhinehart was reloading. The Templars sat on their horses, watching. Then he heard the scraping of a wooden crossbar being drawn back and the village gate swung open. The Hammers of Sig-mar began to push inside.
“I’ll carry him, brother,” one of them said, taking Kuster’s arms from Karl.
“Thank you,” Karl said. He watched the last of the hammers enter, and the pikemen follow. The outer row of pikemen held steady, like a shield around the entrance, preventing Rhinehart and Kratz from getting close. Rhinehart had finished reloading and had his crossbow raised.
“Fall back!” Karl shouted. Rhinehart heard him, saw him and aimed at him. There was hatred in his eyes. Karl threw himself backwards and sideways, through the gate, rolling across the road. A bolt buried itself in the mud beside him. As the last pikeman slipped through the gate Rhinehart spurred his horse into a charge, hurtling towards it, but powerful hands slammed the wooden barrier closed and slammed the crossbar home. Only Rhinehart’s oaths penetrated the heavy elm planks.
Karl looked up to see who his saviour was. Oswald stood over him.
“You need to speak to Huss,” he said.
Karl staggered to his feet, trying to shake the stress of the last few minutes out of his head. “You mean Huss needs to speak to me.”
Oswald shook his head. He looked grave.
The small building was dilapidated, little better than a shed. It stood against the palisade, about fifteen yards from the gate. Outside the hut members of the crusade huddled, talked in low voices and waited for word. Brother Dominic stood on one side of the door, Brother Martinus the other, both silent. There were holes in the ceiling and a loose canvas curtain over the doorway. It looked inhospitable, uncomfortable, dark and gloomy.
“He’s been here since he saw Kuster killed,” Oswald said quietly. “He wanted me to open the gate and let the Templars in. I told him to wait until you had spoken to him.”
“Is that all you can tell me?” Karl asked.
“I’ve tried talking to him,” Oswald said. “He won’t answer me. Nor his lieutenants.” He indicated Dominic and Martinus. They did not acknowledge it. Oswald looked at Karl, shrugged, and pulled aside the canvas mesh. They went in.
Inside, the air was damp, earthy and still. Luthor Huss sat huddled in one corner, his warhammer in his lap. His head was lowered and his eyes closed. He said nothing. Karl sat down on the bare earth floor in front of him.
“Luthor, it’s me,” he said. “I brought the pikemen and the Hammers of Sigmar to the village.”
Huss did not look up. “How many more dead?” he asked in a voice heavy with sorrow.
“One.”
“One too many.”
“We can defend ourselves now. They can hold us to siege.”
Oswald touched his arm. “The village has no water-source except the river,” he said, “and very little food. We could resist a siege for perhaps a day, maybe a day and a half.’
“I will give myself up,” Huss said. He did not move. “Karl, give yourself up too. Brother Oswald, Brother Dominic and Brother Martinus can lead the crusade from here.”
“We can fight them.”
“I cannot fight them.” He was still staring at the floor. “No longer. I did not ask for this. I did not want a crusade. I did not ask these men to die to protect me. I cannot carry this burden anymore.”
“Luthor,” Karl said, leaning towards him, “you must. You cannot stop now. You are too close to finding Sigmar.”
“I will find him in the afterlife.” Huss raised his eyes and they were full of hopelessness.
“He exists, Luthor. Many people believe it, and not just the—” he gestured to the doorway “—the cranks and fanatics who follow you. Chaos worshippers believe it, and are looking for him too. Luthor, imagine what will happen if they find him first!”
“Brave words,” Huss said, “from the man who has brought down the witch hunters on me. I am declared excommunicant, heretic, protector of criminals and a partner with the forces of Chaos. I have never wished for a martyr’s death, but it seems one has found me.”
“Claim you didn’t know about me,” Karl said. “Blame—”
“Blame me,” Oswald said quietly. “I brought him to you. The fault and the crime is mine.”
“But I did know. And even if I can convince them that I didn’t, heresy is still a capital offence,” Huss said. He held out a piece of folded parchment with a broken seal on it. Karl opened it and squinted at the words in the faint light. It was the warrant for arrest which the Templars had given to Brother Martinus. Its sentences included Huss, Kuster and himself. He stuffed it in his pocket.
“Ignore it. This is too important,” he said. “You must go on and find Sigmar.”
“How? In a place surrounded by Templars?”
“I don’t know. Give me ten minutes to scout the place. I’ll make a plan.” He nodded to Oswald and together the two men left the hut.
“What do you have in mind?” Oswald asked.
“Just keep him talking,” Karl said. “Talk about Sigmar, or about Dominic and Martinus. You heard what the Cloaked Brothers said. Huss has to find the reborn Sigmar. I’ll be back soon.”
Oswald disappeared back into the hut. Karl walked away, then dug the arrest warrant out of his pocket and looked at it again, then pulled his pack off his shoulder and rummaged through it till he found a square of folded parchment at the bottom, where it had been since Nuln. He unfolded it and reread the familiar words: “Come to the Oldenhaller quay on the docks at ten bells, where I will await you. Faithfully, Herr Scharlach.”
His first impressions in the hut had been correct. In the light of day there was no doubt: the signature on the warrant was unfamiliar and illegible, but the handwriting was identical to the note.
“No such person as Herr Scharlach, my arse,” he said under his voice. He had questions for the Cloaked Brothers.
It took Karl less than four minutes to walk around the stockade, examining the defences, and the signs were not good. Rottfurt was not large, and its few lanes and alleys were stuffed with scared crusaders. The villagers had retreated into their houses and barricaded the doors, frightened of what was happening to them and their community. The walls looked solid from the outside but would not withstand a single attack with a battering-ram. He would have to trust that the Templars’ leader would keep his word about not attacking innocents.
He went in search of Lutz and Dagobert. He found their travelling companions in the village shrine, but they had not seen the two men since the previous night. Neither had the people who had been sitting around the fire with them four nights before. The men of the Hammers of Sigmar had not seen them, nor had Brother Dominic. Karl walked through the village, his eyes scanning the crowds of dark-robed travellers for a familiar head with short-cropped blond hair or a man with spaniel-like curls. There was no sign of them.
He climbed onto the base of the stone monument in the centre of the village, commemorating those who had fallen during the Great Incursion of Chaos, and shouted, “Brother Dagobert! Brother Lutz!” There was no response from anywhere in the village.
They had gone. Nobody could say where, but they were no longer with the crusade. For a second Karl wondered if they ha
d found accommodation somewhere outside the village, but there was none apart from the farm.
What had they known? And where had they gone?
He pushed the canvas to one side and re-entered the dark hut. Huss had not moved. Oswald squatted beside the leader, and looked up as he came in.
“Here is the plan,” he said. “The village has two gates. All through the day we’ll sound an advance, open the gate, move out a few yards, wait for the Templars to ride round, then retreat. A quarter-hour later we do it again with the other gate. By nightfall they’ll be tired out and frustrated.” He paused. Huss had not reacted. Talk as if it’s already decided, he thought. Don’t give him a choice or a way to back out. I’m not asking his permission, I’m telling him how it will be.
“At dawn, Brothers Martinus and Dominic will open the village gates and invite the Templars in, explaining that you and I have fled in the night. They will lead the crusade slowly westwards, spreading Sigmar’s word. They’re strong enough, and they have learned well from you.”
Huss raised his head and looked at him with bleary eyes. “Meanwhile we hide in a fruit-cellar until the Templars leave? We become fugitives, wasting our lives fleeing from justice?”
“No, we leave in the night.”
He sighed. “The Templars may be tired but that won’t make them stupid. They’ll be watching both gates.”
“There’s a third way out, a crawl-through under the fence into a thicket of bushes. The local boys use it to get out at night.” He’d known there had to be one. A thin coin to a small boy had been all it took to learn where it was. “You take fifteen of the Hammers of Sigmar and make all speed to Lachenbad. Go cross-country, as the crow flies. Make it hard for horsemen to follow you. You can be there before tomorrow evening, without the crusade to slow you.”
Huss gave him a despairing look. Karl kneeled in front of him, grasped him by the shoulders and shook him. The man felt limp. “Find Sigmar!” Karl said. “The gods sent the vision to you, nobody else! If Sigmar has returned then it is for a purpose, and you are part of that purpose. And you sit here in the dark, feeling sorry for yourself. Be a man. Be a leader. Be your god’s right hand. Right now you’re just pathetic.”