CHAPTER THREE

It was a long, unpleasant night. When Dietz had been younger he had often aided his brothers Darulf and Darhun with pranks and petty thefts. Once they had been caught and had spent the night in the city jail. It was even worse now than Dietz remembered, filthy and stale and sour, each cell jammed with occupants. They had slept very little and were relieved when the guards came to escort them out early the next morning. At least until they stepped outside and the guards handed them over to several other men; men wearing the wide-brimmed hats, black breastplates and long black cloaks of the witch hunters. The men led them towards the palace itself, and with each step Dietz’s concerns mounted. In his experience attracting attention from those in power was never a good thing.

Alaric, however, was not worried. “We’ll soon have this sorted out,” he assured Dietz as they followed their new guards. He had been sure their case would be shunted off to some minor functionary who would not care about their innocence, but clearly someone had recognised their importance, since they were being conveyed to the impressive building before them. As they mounted the wide stone steps, Dietz examined his clothing, doing his best to brush away the dirt from their short incarceration, and he smoothed his hair as much as possible, regretting the absence of his cloak and his rapier.

Their escort hurried them into the building, down the wide stone hall, up a broad staircase, and at last through a pair of gilded, ornately carved doors. The witch hunters paused just inside the threshold and all but hurled Alaric and Dietz before them, using enough force to send the pair crashing to the floor, where they lay stunned for a moment on the inlaid tilework.

“What have we here?” The voice carried, cutting them where they lay, and Dietz raised his head enough to look around. The sight before him made him wish he could sink through the floor. They were in a large, handsome room, its walls covered in rich brocade hangings, and its vaulted ceiling painted with scenes of Ulric and the other gods at play.

Heavy curtains were pulled back, allowing light to pour through the large windows along one wall, and against the opposite wall was a low stone platform. A heavy golden throne sat at its centre, and a second chair, handsomely carved in gilded wood, had been set beside it. Despite the splendour of the surroundings, it was less the furnishings than the occupants that made Dietz blanch. For sitting on the throne was a stout man with a square, red-cheeked face and wispy blond hair, but ice-cold blue eyes—Boris Todbringer. Elector Count Boris Todbringer, ruler of Middenland.

Beside him was a tall, narrow man with sharp features and limp black hair—Dietz did not recognise him, but the man’s armour, cloak, and silver-encircled black hat showed him to be a senior witch hunter, most likely a witch hunter captain. They were in the presence of two of the most powerful men in the entire province, possibly the Empire. To make matters far worse, Alaric was already getting to his feet.

“Ah, good, an audience at last,” Alaric stated, making one last attempt to straighten his clothes. Then, giving them up as a bad job, he bowed towards the two men. “Alaric von Jungfreud, at your service,” he gestured to his side, “and this is my companion, Dietrich Froebel. I appreciate your seeing us so promptly, and I assure you that we will not take up much of your valuable time. Now then, I think it would be best…”

“Silence!” the man beside Todbringer snapped, his sharp tone cutting Alaric off neatly and leaving him staring, clearly offended and more than a little startled. “This is not an audience. It is a trial! You and your companion have been accused of treachery, of conspiracy, and of consorting with Chaos! How do you plead?”

“What?” Alaric glanced around and noticed for the first time that, rather than courtiers, the room was filled with more of those same sinister men who had accompanied them here. Right, he decided, time to set aside the niceties. “This is preposterous!” he replied coldly. “We are innocent, of course. It was only through our actions that your men learned of the danger at all! Yes yes, I know,” he said loudly, cutting off the thin man before he could speak. “We could have arranged that to conceal our own involvement. The guard captain suggested as much, but surely we would have known that you would see through such an obvious lie? Surely we would realise that you could not be fooled by so transparent a ploy?” As he’d hoped, the man sat back, a proud smile flashing across his lips as he accepted the compliments. This, Alaric thought to himself, would be far easier than debating the merits of the ancient trade routes with Professor Untegaar.

Dietz had finally stood up, but kept back a pace, watching Alaric work. He had to admit, he was impressed again—his employer often seemed a flighty young noble, but he could become intensely focussed when necessary, and he was still the most intelligent man Dietz had ever met. Right now, he was relating the incident to the men on the platform, which gave Dietz himself a chance to glance around a little. The one thing that struck him most forcefully was a clear absence.

There were no priests of Ulric present.

For that matter, since they had been accused of heresy, their trial should have taken place in the Great Temple and been overseen by a priest, if not the Ar-Ulric himself. The fact that they were here in the palace, being accused by a witch hunter captain and the elector count, made no sense.

“…and that is the extent of our involvement,” Alaric concluded with a second bow. “Of course your men apprehended us, a perfectly understandable precaution, but I think I have explained our presence adequately, and a simple check can verify when we entered the city and that we have been absent many months. I can also provide several character references, both here and in Altdorf, to verify that we are men of our word and loyal citizens of the Empire.”

“An impressive recitation,” the thin man acknowledged coldly after a moment, “but it does nothing to disprove your guilt. The servants of Chaos are cunning, and often conceal their true natures for years before daring to strike. You set these plans in motion during a previous visit to our city, or through intermediaries, and expected them to be finished by the time you returned.”

“Yes, but why weren’t they, then?” Alaric responded. “If I had planned this all so carefully, why was the last statue still sitting there when I arrived? Why not have it delivered to the warehouse like the other three and carted off by a wagon as they were? Why run the risk of being associated with it at all? You have a very low opinion of my so-called cunning if you believe I would be so careless.”

Todbringer leaned over and muttered something to the thin man, who whispered a reply. Alaric was too far away to hear what they said, but Dietz, who was a few steps behind him, could hear clearly—not the two of them, but the witch hunters guarding the door behind him.

“He’s not going to send us after them, is he?” one of them said.

“Not a chance,” another replied. “He can’t risk Valgeir’s gaining the upper hand again. If his knights rally, Halmeinger’ll need every one of us here to hold them back.”

“Can’t just leave those things out there, though,” a third commented, “could wind up causing all manner of havoc, and it’d reflect badly on us if anyone knew we’d known about them and done nothing.”

The snippet of conversation explained a great deal, and Dietz sidled forward until he was right next to Alaric. “Tell them we’ll do it,” he whispered, and his employer glanced over at him curiously.

“Do what? Speak up. I can barely hear you.”

“Tell them we’ll get rid of the other three,” Dietz explained, still whispering and watching the two men on the platform. They seemed to be finishing their own consultation, which meant they only had a moment.

Fortunately, Alaric understood immediately, and stepped forward, giving a discreet cough to recall the two men’s attention.

“My lords, I have a proposal,” he stated. “One which will both prove our innocence and eliminate any further danger these items might pose. Three of those sculptures have already been delivered to various points throughout the Empire, clearly intended for some nefarious—one might safely say daemonic—purpose. You,” he bowed to Todbringer, who nodded back, “are of course busy maintaining this city and this province and defending it from attack. You,” here he bowed to the thin man, whose only response was a slightly raised eyebrow, “must maintain constant vigilance against the foes of the Empire. These sculptures must be found and destroyed, yet surely this matter is beneath men such as you.” He smiled. “My companion and I, however, are lesser men and thus well suited to the task. I am also a scholar of Altdorf, and well-versed in ancient languages. We would happily undertake this mission on your behalf. Allow us to destroy these sculptures, bringing back proof of their destruction. Thus we can demonstrate our loyalty and remove the threat, all without requiring you to divert your own forces from their necessary duties.”

The two men seemed to consider the proposal, whispering back and forth. It was clear that Todbringer found merit in the idea, but Halmeinger did not approve. Finally they reached an agreement, and the elector count turned towards them. Just as he opened his mouth to speak, however, a loud thud echoed through the room.

It sounded again, and all eyes turned towards the double doors, still reverberating from the force of the blow. Once more it sounded, and then at a gesture from Todbringer the doors were pulled open to reveal a pair of men in the hall beyond. They wore fur pelts across their shoulders, but were unarmoured, and each carried a massive two-handed warhammer; even without the wolf’s-head clasps at their necks, everyone would have recognised them immediately.

They were the Knights of the White Wolf—Templars of the Cult of Ulric.

The two knights entered and stopped just inside the door, forcing the witch hunters there to retreat a few paces. Two more knights followed behind them, though these advanced to the centre of the room—Alaric and Dietz took the opportunity to move to one side. Behind the second set of knights strode a tall, powerfully built man in full armour, his breastplate adorned with the wolf’s head of Ulric and a thin silver circlet upon his thick white hair. A handsomely carved silver hammer hung from his belt, and his eyes were black as obsidian.

Though he had only seen the man a few times in his youth, Dietz knew immediately that this could only be Emil Valgeir, the Ar-Ulric.

“Greetings, my count,” announced Valgeir, inclining his head as one equal to another. He spared a single, hard glance at the man beside Todbringer. “Witch hunter captain,” he said in clipped tones. Then he forced a smile to his face. “I had hoped to discuss certain defensive repairs with you, count, but if you are otherwise involved I would be happy to wait.” His glance swept across Alaric and Dietz before returning to the throne, and the two of them admired the man’s move. Even Todbringer would not dare send the Ar-Ulric away, which meant either including him, or ending whatever they were doing in favour of discussing his own goals. He had probably heard of their arrest and had staged his entrance perfectly to interrupt the trial, which by rights was his to conduct.

“Not at all, my dear Ar-Ulric,” Todbringer replied, smiling with only a little awkwardness. “It is always the pleasure of the court to hear the wisdom of the Cult of Ulric, and the recovery of our city is of paramount importance.” He turned his attention to Alaric and Dietz, and then visibly dismissed them. “We were merely discussing a small journey these gentlemen proposed, and had just given them our permission to embark.” He gestured and a heavy-set man with a grey-flecked beard and a fine velvet cloak stepped to the edge of the platform. “Take care of the arrangements, Struber,” Todbringer instructed him, and the man nodded and stepped away, bowing to him and to the Ar-Ulric and the witch hunter captain before beckoning for Alaric and Dietz to follow him out. They did so quickly, with several bows to the three powerful men, each of whom pretended not to watch them depart.

“We will need our weapons back,” Alaric pointed out after they had descended to the main level, and Struber nodded impatiently.

“Yes yes,” he said quickly. “The guard have them. We can retrieve them now.” He stopped and turned to face them both. “You understand that if the Cult of Ulric takes an interest in your activities…”

Alaric spread his hands. “We are merely travelling the Empire in search of old ruins, a favourite occupation, but one that sadly yields little of value or significance. We had hoped to study several promising sites along the edges of Middenland, hence our asking the count’s permission.”

Struber nodded. “Just so.” He led them back to the jail, and they stepped inside just long enough for Alaric to retrieve his rapier and Dietz his club and knives. Just before they left, Dietz glanced up at the rafters and whistled.

“Glouste!” A dark form scuttled along a nearby beam and dropped to his shoulders, happily nuzzling his cheek as he stepped out and shut the door solidly behind him.

“Well,” Alaric commented. “Let’s get our horses and be off, then.”

Struber shook his head. “You will leave in the morning,” he informed them, leading them down another street to a small inn named the Dancing Frog. “You will spend the night here.”

“I’d really rather get started right—” Alaric began, but Struber shook his head again and pulled open the inn’s front door.

“The elector count insists,” he explained quietly, but clearly, putting an emphasis on the word “insists”. “You must be well rested before your journey.” He glared at them, as if daring them to object again, and glanced meaningfully behind him, where Alaric and Dietz suddenly noticed a pair of the same black-clad soldiers waiting a short distance away. Evidently their stay here was not a request.

“Yes, well, I suppose I could do with a good night’s sleep,” Alaric admitted gracefully, waving cheerfully at the soldiers and allowing the courtier to usher him into the inn. Dietz followed along, happy enough to be anywhere but jail, but unable to shake the feeling that he had merely traded up for a larger cell.

The Dancing Frog was a fine place, it turned out, not fancy, but clean and well tended. The food was hearty, the beds were solid, and there were real mattresses, one for each of them. The room even had a pitcher of water and a basin for washing in. They had certainly stayed in worse places.

Struber’s reasons for insisting on their stay became clear when a man approached them during dinner. Though of average height, the stranger’s broad shoulders made him seem to tower over their table, and his angular face peered clown at them from beneath his broad-brimmed hat.

“Alaric von Jungfreud and Dietrich Froebel?” he inquired with the bored tone of a man who already knew the answer. “I am Oswald Kleiber, witch hunter. I will be accompanying you.”

“Thanks all the same,” Alaric said, glancing up from his roast, “but we don’t need any assistance.”

Kleiber’s thin lips narrowed further. “It is not a request. Witch Hunter Captain Halmeinger has detailed me to escort you.” His gaze flickered across them. “Should you prove to be Chaos worshippers I will dispatch you and return with your heads.”

“We’ll do our best to pray quietly then,” Alaric muttered, and then winced as Dietz’s elbow struck him hard in the ribs. “We welcome the knowledge and spiritual guidance of a witch hunter,” he amended more loudly, but Kleiber bowed as if he thought the statement sincere.

“I will be waiting at first light,” he informed them, before turning and striding out of the inn.

“Charming,” Alaric commented, watching the man’s exit, “and just what we needed, our very own fanatic.”

“Better than our very own beheading,” Dietz pointed out, returning to his own food. He had barely managed two bites before another shadow fell across his plate.

“Kristoff Magnusson, at your service,” the gentleman announced, pulling out a chair and dropping into it. “May I?” Since he was already sitting down they couldn’t very well refuse, but his grin said he knew that. “The trading guild sent me,” he said, helping himself to a glass of wine. “I understand you’re off on a mission of some importance and delicacy. They thought an experienced trader might prove useful.”

More likely they want to know what Todbringer and Halmeinger are up to, and to get their hands on anything valuable we find, Dietz thought to himself, but he said nothing. He knew better than to voice such opinions, and besides he found himself liking the short man with the unruly brown hair and the needle-thin nose.

Kristoff proved an entertaining fellow, and was regaling them with a story about a seasick merchant and a lusty sailor when a tall, portly gentleman of middling years stepped up to their table. “I believe you are the gentlemen embarking for the Howling Hills?” he asked, hands resting on the back of an empty chair, and Alaric and Dietz exchanged glances. They had, in fact, chosen the Hills for their first stop, if only because it was the closest of the three locations. When they nodded the gentleman cleared his throat and, after Alaric nodded him to the chair, smiled graciously. “Fastred Albers is my name—” he began, but was cut off before he could finish.

“Albers?” Alaric leaned forward, his pose of nonchalance vanishing, “from the Guild of Explorers?” At Albers’ nod, he grinned and reached out to shake the man’s hand. “You lectured to us once in Altdorf, a few years ago, about establishing trade routes and their cultural significance, particularly to nomadic tribes.”

“Ah, yes,” Albers beamed, a wide smile above his neatly trimmed white beard. “My friend Waldemar asked me to speak—I’d just returned from Bretonnia and he said his students could do with a bit of practical knowledge.”

“Has the guild sent you to join us, then?” Alaric asked, and at Albers’ nod his own grin widened. “Excellent! Oh, I have many questions for you, and I would dearly like to tell you of my own travels—perhaps you’ll be able to help me make sense of them all.” He poured Albers a glass of wine, and soon they and Kristoff were happily engaged in swapping stories and comparing notes. Dietz took advantage of the time to finish his food—he was used to letting Alaric talk unheeded, and now he discovered he could manage that trick as easily with three as with one.

The next morning, after a solid night’s sleep, Alaric and Dietz gathered their belongings and stepped out of the inn. Albers and Kristoff were waiting for them, as was Kleiber. So were several others.

“Renke Jülicher,” a small, slender man informed them, stepping forward and bowing with precision. “Imperial Geographic Society.” His short tones, and the disapproving glance he gave Dietz, indicated his attitude clearly, and Dietz was quite pleased to let the man direct all his attention to Alaric.

The remaining strangers, however, stepped towards both of them, and so Dietz found himself dealing with them while Jülicher pulled a map from the long leather case at his back and began discussing probable routes. The newcomers were almost two dozen, most of them clearly soldiers from the count’s militia, wearing the Middenland tabard over chainmail and carrying swords and shields. One had a plume atop his helmet, designating him as squad leader. The last man wore leathers instead of mail and bore a longsword at his side and a longbow across his chest.

“Adelrich Jaarl,” he introduced himself, offering Dietz his hand. “Scout for the count’s army.” Adelrich was a rangy fellow with long features, weather-beaten skin and short black curls, and Dietz liked him immediately, sensing a kindred spirit. “This lot are along as well,” Adelrich added, gesturing towards the soldiers. “One full unit, twenty men, members of his guard, Sergeant Holst commanding. Orders are to assist in your mission and protect the other travellers as necessary.”

“Glad to have you,” Dietz said, and meant it. He could see that Kristoff and Albers might be useful for their knowledge, and Kleiber for his religious authority—even Jülicher might be handy in a pinch, but soldiers would definitely increase their chance of survival, and a good military scout was worth his weight in gold.

As they packed everyone’s gear and got ready to depart, Dietz found himself next to Adelrich, and they traded comments as they worked.

“He carries a fine blade,” Adelrich commented at one point, gesturing to where Alaric stood by his horse, his rapier visible at his side.

“Aye,” Dietz replied, trying to control his disgust, “and he makes a fine show with it, if you stand still long enough.” They both laughed, and Dietz admitted to himself that he felt better about this trip than he had since they’d agreed to it.

“I still don’t like taking orders, particularly from witch hunters,” he mentioned to Alaric as they led the others through the gate and out of Middenheim. “They should be doing their own dirty work.”

“Never mind that,” Alaric replied, his eyes already alight with a look Dietz knew all too well. “Think about what we’re doing, where we’re going! We’re in pursuit of real Chaos icons! And we’re going into the Howling Hills! I can’t wait to see what we find!”

“Oh, I can,” Dietz muttered softly. “I can definitely wait.”