Chapter Five

 

 

They had been assembled in a forest of tall birches. It was a good place. The trees towered up in cathedral columns into the high canopy above, and the ground between the mighty trunks was relatively free of undergrowth. Beams of dappled sunlight played across the detritus which lay on the ground. It flitted over the creatures which had assembled below as tirelessly as the swarms of buzzing flies which accompanied them.

Despite the heat of the summer it remained cool in this shadowed place, and Gulkroth was pleased. The flesh he had devoured had filled him out and thickened his fur to an unseasonable bulk, and he often found himself panting, long red tongue rolled out between the sharpness of his fangs.

But if he had grown in size he had also grown in other, more disturbing ways. The red of his eyes now glowed even in the light of the sun, and the glorious, liquid stink of his musk was enough to overwhelm even the proudest of his kind.

A hundred grovelled before him now, horns lowered in supplication and tails curling up between their goat legs. Behind them beasts of a purer form waited. These had none of the cursed taint of humanity about them. They were four-legged and thick-snouted. Vicious horns curled extravagantly from the thick bones of their skulls, and they bore tusks even bigger than those carried by the sweet-fleshed but vicious-natured boars which also inhabited the forest.

What was striking about the creatures was not their wholesome animal appearance. It was the contraptions into which they had been harnessed.

There was something about them which filled Gulkroth with an instinctive, unreasoning rage. A growl rose unbidden within the depths of his throat as he studied them, and the creatures which grovelled before him pressed themselves even lower down into the dirt of the forest floor.

Their lord calmed himself, although his feeling of disgust remained. It pained him to see the wild wood of the forest sawn and sectioned into ordered construction. It pained him even more to see the wheels. Of all of man’s devices this was one of the most repellent in its precision and symmetry.

And yet they are useful, Gulkroth thought, forcing himself to reason with the same vicious persistence with which a man will flog an exhausted horse. If only such noble beasts were not beholden to them.

He prowled over to where one of the quadrupeds stood between the traces of its chariot. It had a vicious glint to its eye and the long, chipped horns of an animal that has killed often and well. Although it weighed perhaps half a ton it whimpered in terror at Gulkroth’s approach.

The lord looked at it, and in that moment the animal fell calm, mesmerised by his awful presence. Gulkroth turned back to look at the two-legged beasts who cowered before their mounts.

“Who thought to build these things?” he asked, the snarl of his voice shredding through the last of their composure. None answered although slowly, like fleas leaving a corpse, the herd sidled away to abandon one of their brothers. Soon he was alone in a circle of isolation.

Gulkroth waited for the miserable creature to raise its head. The proud curls of its horns and the bovine bulges of its muscle were in sharp contrast to its eyes. They darted hither and thither, as panicked as rats in a cage.

Then it hit Gulkroth. With an urge that came as suddenly as a flash of summer lightning he despised the taint of humanity in this creature as much as he despised it in himself. With a bellow of animal rage he sprang forwards and, disdaining the device of his axe, he seized the creature’s horns and lifted it from the ground.

It struggled for its survival, all deference gone as it gouged at its lord with sharp hooves. Gulkroth ignored its pathetic attack as he twisted the head back from the dangling body and took a deep, tearing bite out of its neck. His teeth sheared through muscle and bone, artery and cartilage, and even as its black blood spurted out over its lord’s face the creature’s head was torn from its still-struggling body.

Gulkroth licked the blood from his muzzle and turned back to his victim’s cowering brethren.

“I have seen these things before,” he growled. “Keep them well maintained. When the time comes, I will hurl you into the enemy and you will smash him. Then we shall all feast on meat even sweeter than that of our own kind. Do you understand?”

There was an immediate yapping chorus of assent and Gulkroth, enjoying the taste of their leader’s blood even as he regretted giving in to the impulse to kill him, turned back to the sprawling anthill of the main encampment.

It was incredible that the humans, flat-faced and weak though they were, hadn’t been able to smell their approach. Their city lay less than two days’ march to the west, and it seemed inconceivable that they couldn’t yet taste the glorious stench of his mighty herd.

It was a miasma born of stale musk and suppurating wounds and rotten meat and trampled dung. It greased the air for miles around, and was why the only animals that approached were the flies. Swarms of them, fat and satiated, buzzed around the camp in a constant cloud. They crawled over everything, paying homage to the blood in which the herd had bathed. They even crawled over Gulkroth, although those which lingered had a tendency to swell up and die, falling from his hide like rotten figs.

The lord inhaled the heady perfume as he prowled around his herd. The smells of life and the smells of death mingled together within the caverns of his nostrils, and he revelled in the joy of existence. To fight. To kill. To dominate.

Life!

He passed Viles and his brothers, horse-bodied and as swift as the northern wind. He had used them to find this place, and he would use them tomorrow to scout forwards. His mouth watered at the thought of all the humans who awaited him, plump and juicy behind their walls. What a slaughter it would be, he thought, and bared his fangs in a grimace of pleasure that sent a quiver of unease running through even his own guards.

“My lord.” The voice was as hoarse as winter winds through withered trees.

Gulkroth turned and looked down to see Ruhrkar. He was bent almost double, and the patches of fur that remained on his wrinkled hide were as white as bone. Insects buzzed around the fluid which wept from his eyes, and when he spoke he revealed fangs that were little more than rotting stumps.

Only his horns gave any hint of what he once might have been. They had grown grotesque with time, and now the bulk of them weighed his aged head down so that he walked with a permanent stoop.

It was unusual for any of the herd to reach such an age. In the normal course of things such a weakling, even if he survived the rigours of the forest, would have long since been devoured by younger, stronger members of his herd.

But Ruhrkar was not normal.

Far from it.

“Ruhrkar.” Gulkroth acknowledged the withered old creature, who returned his gaze with rheumy eyes. He was one of the few creatures left that could still meet his eyes, but Gulkroth didn’t mind. It was resignation he saw in old Ruhrkar’s eyes, not defiance.

“My lord, I have grave news.”

Gulkroth waited. His visions, even since he had touched the stone, had never been the match of Ruhrkar’s. That was another reason the ancient was still alive.

“Tomorrow is the wrong time for battle. We must wait for the rising of the Chaos Moon. We are children of Khorne. The time for us to do battle is at the time of the holy slaughter, when the Chaos Moon bathes the land green and our power is at its strongest. Such is the way it has always been.”

Gulkroth regarded the ancient shaman. If there had been the slightest scent of fear or defiance about him then Gulkroth would have killed him, sorcerer or no. But there was nothing. Nothing but the calm disinterest of a creature which no longer feels attached to this world.

“Have you seen it?” he asked. “Have you seen our defeat?”

“No,” Ruhrkar answered with a shrug. “But that doesn’t matter. We are not supposed to fight tomorrow.”

Gulkroth thought about the ten thousand beasts he had hidden amongst these trees. Each one of them was a wild thing, born to be free. They were bound together with nothing but a hunger for destruction, and the strength of his will. Although none realised it, the hold he had over them was as fragile as the gossamer threads which drifted in the canopy above.

“We cannot delay,” he decided, then took a step forwards so that the shaman’s scrawny throat was just a claw-reach away. “If you tell anybody what you have told me, I will have you killed one piece at a time.”

Ruhrkar shrugged.

“It is as it should be,” he said, turned the bony column of his back and ambled away. Gulkroth was considering snapping the withered creature in two when, from the east, there came a shriek. The cry was sharp enough to cut through the hubbub of the packed forest, and it was followed by a deep-throated bellow that could almost have been laughter.

Gulkroth’s nostrils twitched, disturbing the flies that had been crawling over them, then grunted with satisfaction. Even through the stink of the camp, he recognised the scent of the newcomers. It was as clear as the avalanche rumble of their voices and the screams of their victims.

So, they were here. Something that might once have been called fear lifted the fur on the back of Gulkroth’s neck, and he unconsciously widened his shoulders and expanded his chest as he turned towards the newcomers. It was time to teach them who their new lord was.

Hefting his axe he stalked eagerly towards them, his blood already aflame with the instinct to dominate.

 

“Is this a joke?” Viksberg asked, holding a handkerchief to his nose.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Erikson told him, although he did. In the last two days they had worked hard, but however convincingly the company stood to attention there was no mistaking them for a regiment.

No regiment would have tolerated such a mismatch of ragged clothes, or allowed such bony and malnourished men to join. Nor would it have tolerated the bizarre mixture of weapons with which the men were armed. They seemed more like the contents of an eccentric’s collection than of an arsenal. Halberds, spears, axes, cutlasses, even hunting bows were present amongst the ranks.

Viksberg regarded them suspiciously. At first he had been relieved to have been assigned to the provost marshal’s staff rather than to a field command, but every time he met his new commander his paranoia grew. Steckler knew something, he was sure of it. The suspicion was always there, clear as day within his little piggy peasant’s eyes.

As Viksberg inspected the ragged men before him, the idea that this was some vast practical joke was growing.

“You,” he said and pointed to a man with ragged blond hair and twinkling blue eyes. “What’s your name?”

“Porter, your lordship. My mother always liked the name, she told me, ever since she was a little girl. And what with my father being such a kind-hearted man he agreed to let her call me that. Decent of her, don’t you think, your honour?”

Viksberg glared at the man, who smiled cheerfully back.

“What is that in your belt?”

“A ladle, your lordship,” the man said as though this was the most natural thing in the world.

“This man is the company cook, colonel,” Erikson explained, and contrived to move Viksberg along the line. The next man loomed over both of them. The double-handed sword which rested over his shoulder had a blade as big as a guillotine’s.

“And who are you?” Viksberg asked.

“Who?” the man asked.

“You,” Viksberg snapped. “Who are you?”

“Brandt. I’m his mate.”

“That’s me he’s talking about, your worship,” Porter explained helpfully. “He helps me with the cooking. Chopping things up and whatnot.”

“Yes, thank you, Porter,” Erikson told him, and all but pushed Viksberg further down the line. He next stopped in front of the solid figure of Gunter, who had the shaved head and dark robes of a warrior priest. He had the stern, judgemental gaze of one, too, and Viksberg tried not to quail beneath it.

“This is Gunter,” Erikson said proudly. “He was a Sigmarite priest before he joined up.”

Viksberg muttered something, uncorked his silver flask and drank deeply. He was trying not to think about the sisters who had died in the fire as he avoided Gunter’s steady gaze and walked quickly down the line.

“And this,” Erikson said, catching him up, “is our drummer. Every regiment needs a musician, don’t you agree?” he asked with forced bonhomie.

But Viksberg suddenly seemed beyond speech. The flask fell from his fingers to ring out on the cobbles, and his mouth gaped open in a perfect circle of shock.

Dolf, scrawnier than usual behind the fat tube of his drum, looked equally horrified. This was the arsonist, of that he had no doubt. The arsonist who had framed him.

“Are you all right, colonel?” Erikson asked, reaching out to touch Viksberg’s shoulder. The man jumped as if he’d been shot and swivelled around, a look of terror in his eyes. Then he swallowed, rubbed his hands on the front of his tunic and stooped to pick up his flask. It had gurgled empty on the cobbles and he pocketed it absent-mindedly.

“This one,” he finally managed to say. “He should be in gaol.”

Erikson felt his stomach drop.

“Why do you think I should be in gaol?” Dolf asked, his voice as smooth as a stiletto slipping through silk. “Have we met before?”

Viksberg turned back to him, realising the trap that he was walking into. Although the flames of that terrible night had burned his scapegoat’s face into his memory, he could hardly admit to knowing him.

“Don’t be so impudent,” he blustered, horrified at how much he had given away. “You look like a villain, that is all.”

“Do I?” Dolf asked coldly.

Viksberg’s mouth worked, but he had had enough. He turned on his heel and stalked out of the yard.

“So do we pass muster?” Erikson asked, hurrying after him.

“Yes,” Viksberg choked as he made his escape. “Why not?”

Erikson watched him go, disappearing out through the entrance to the square they had been assigned to. Then, with a sigh of relief, he turned back to the men.

“Porter, as soon as we fall out, start cooking lunch. That kind of near miss always gives me an appetite. And Dolf. Let’s me and you have a chat. The rest of you, well done. We are now on the muster of Baron Ludenhof. Sergeant, fall them out.”

Alter did so, and as the men dispersed around the yard Erikson filled his pipe and considered his good fortune. Today had been the final hurdle. Now all he had to do was to protect his flock until he could shepherd it out to the slaughterhouse of the battlefield.

 

It had taken Viksberg a lot of time and a lot of gold to track down the porters from the hospital. They hadn’t wanted to be found. The flames of the hospital were still bright in their memories. They danced through their nightmares, along with visions of the hangman’s noose. The last thing they wanted was to be seen with the mad man who had put them in such a hellish position.

But he had wanted to see them and so, in amongst the ebb and flow of the city, Viksberg had finally found their lair.

“Can’t fight,” a voice said as he banged on the door of their hovel. Since the hospital had burned down the porters had been left to fend for themselves; not an easy task in a city as crowded as Hergig.

“The sisters can’t spare us,” another voice added.

Viksberg, his nerves frayed by the expectation of the corning battle and pickled by the day’s gin, kicked the door open with a savage snarl. The two porters sprang to their feet, clutching at their staffs.

“No need for that,” Viksberg told them as he let himself into the stink of their room. The only furniture consisted of a table, a pair of chairs, a bunk bed and a slop bucket that appeared to be almost full. Even so there was barely room for all three of them.

“I’ve never seen you before in my life,” one of the porters said.

“Nor have I,” the other agreed.

Viksberg regarded them with undisguised contempt. Then he popped his head back out of the door to see that nobody had followed him, and closed it with a squeak of rusting hinges.

“We have a problem,” he said. “It seems that the arsonist responsible for the fire at the hospital has been released from gaol.”

“What fire?” asked one of the porters.

“What hospital?” asked the other.

If they had been smaller men Viksberg would have struck them. As it was he just pinched the bridge of his nose between finger and thumb. Why oh why had he agreed to accompany that idiot von Brechthold to battle? Everything had been going wrong ever since.

“Listen, morons,” he said. “If he has been released, it could be because he has convinced somebody.”

“Who?” asked one of the porters.

“Never mind that,” Viksberg told him. “Just somebody is all. That’s why you have to get rid of him before he can do any more convincing.”

“Get rid of him?”

Viksberg nodded.

“You’ll have to be careful. He’s in some sort of ragbag of a militia, Sigmar curse them. So now it’s down to you.”

“Why us?” one of the men asked.

“And not,” the other clarified, “you?”

“Because people know me.” Viksberg, who had expected the question, was ready with the answer. “And because if we don’t silence him we’re all for the chop.”

“Can’t be done,” was the immediate reply.

“Not if he’s in a militia. Got no individuality, those mugs.”

“Can’t do anything without help from their mates.”

“That’s right.”

“For Sigmar’s sake,” said Viksberg. “Just tell me what you want for doing the job so I can get out of this shithole.”

One man pursed his lips. The other shook his head.

“We’ll need gold,” said one.

“And we’ll need a gun,” said the other.

Viksberg snorted with laughter.

“A gun? You’d blow your own heads off.”

“Not us,” one said smugly.

“Dad was a hunter,” the other explained. “Taught us how to shoot as soon as we could walk.”

“Then why aren’t you in the long rifles?” Viksberg asked.

“Didn’t fancy the hours,” both men said, this time in perfect unison.

“Very well,” Viksberg decided. “I’ll bring you what you need. But it has to be done quickly. The longer we leave it, the more danger we’re in.”

“Right you are, chief,” said one.

“Leave it to us,” said the other.

With a final glance around the shack Viksberg hurried off to collect their tools.