05 - Warrior Priest (11 page)

He noticed Ratboy’s downcast expression and shook his head, adopting his
usual cheerful grin. “Anna will recover, lad, don’t you worry. She’s an
Ostlander.” His eyes widened with surprise as a long, rattling belch erupted
from his mouth. Then he patted his prodigious belly and looked up the clouds. “I
hope Casper still keeps a well stocked larder.”

Ratboy gave a weak smile and twisted in his saddle to look back through the
forest of spears and banners. Wolff and his ragtag band of followers were
trailing a little way behind them, and he could just about see the figure of
Anna, slumped on the back of Wolff’s horse, with her head nodding listlessly in
the rain. “I’m sure you’re right. She probably just needs a little time to
grieve,” he said.

A shimmering figure loomed out of the rain, riding along the grass verge at
the side of the road. As it came closer it gradually assumed the form of a
scout. “Ruckendorf, sir,” he cried, pointing down the road, “around the next
bend.” He paused, and shook his head. “The enemy’s already been there. The
buildings are ruined.”

“Really?” snapped Gryphius in a shrill voice, clutching at the hilt of his
sword. Then, remembering Ratboy was at his side, he adopted a stern expression
and raised his chins proudly. “We may not get the friendly welcome we were
expecting.” He turned to one of his captains. “Tell the men to ready their
weapons. We’re finally going to fight through something other than mud.”

They entered the small town through the west gate and found most of the
locals waiting for them. A huge mound of bodies was piled in the market square:
soldiers, woodsmen, merchants and farmers, all jumbled together in a bloody
mound of twisted limbs and broken weapons. The gabled townhouses and inns were
blackened and smashed and the blood of the townsfolk had been daubed across
their own ruined homes.

“Sigmar,” whispered Ratboy, grimacing at the smell of rotting meat as he
steered his horse slowly through the ruins. “Is anyone in Ostland still alive?”

Von Gryphius eyed the bodies warily as he rode towards them and lifted a
perfumed handkerchief to his nose. Then he nodded towards a large building on
the far side of the square. Its proud pillars and wide steps must have once been
the dominating feature of Ruckendorf. “Looks like the town hall is still
occupied.”

Ratboy followed his gaze and saw a few sodden figures, cowering pitifully
behind a decapitated statue of the Emperor.

Gryphius led his army towards them. The horses’ hooves clattered across the
square as they skirted around the morbid display at its centre. For once,
though, the men rode in silence, with swords and halberds at the ready as they
eyed the wreckage for signs of the enemy.

“What happened here?” cried the general, as they neared the statue.

The cowering figures hesitated for a few moments, before one of them, a
grizzled old infantryman, stepped out of the shadows. His jerkin was stained and
torn and one of his arms was strapped across his chest in a bloody sling. His
eyes were wide and unblinking as he addressed them. “Ostland is doomed,
stranger. I’d start running now if I were you. It’s probably already too late,
but maybe a few of you might still survive.”

“I’m an old friend of your lord,” answered Gryphius, ignoring the man’s
gloomy tone. “Is Castle Luneberg near here?”

The infantryman’s face twisted into a snarl. “An old friend, you say?” He
took in Gryphius’ yellow, silk breeches and high, lacy collar with a sneer of
disdain. “That would make sense.” He pointed his broken sword at the pile of
corpses. “That’s what happens to old friends of Casper von Luneberg.”

Wolff steered his horse across the square and halted next to Gryphius.
“That’s no way to speak of your lord, soldier.”

The soldier glared back at the warrior priest with a mixture of fear and
pride. “I have no lord anymore, priest,” he cried, sending his sword clanging
down the steps of the town hall. “Save perhaps Morr, and I’ve already made my
peace with him.” As he turned to leave, he waved dismissively around the side of
the building. “Keep going as you are. Meet your end with that old fool, if
that’s what you wish.”

Gryphius turned to Wolff with a confused expression. “It’s odd that he should
be so rude. Casper always used to have such a way with people.”

Castle Luneberg was perched high up on a rocky promontory, overlooking the
town: a picturesque mass of twisting spires and gracefully arching buttresses,
looming watchfully over Ruckendorf. The duke’s black and white banner was still
flapping bravely against the driving rain, but as Gryphius’ men trudged up the
steep, twisting road to its gates, their hopes gradually sank. As they
approached the castle, they saw that many of the doors had been smashed from
their hinges and ragged holes had been blasted through the outer wall, leaving
several of the chambers exposed to the elements.

A horse and trap was hurtling down the road towards them. Its canvas sides
bulged with servants and their belongings and as the driver steered the cart in
their direction, a long trail of buckets and pans clattered in its wake.

At the sight of Gryphius’ army, the driver pulled over to the side of the
road and stared in amazement. As the troops in the vanguard marched past the
cart, a row of shocked, pale faces gawped out from beneath the tarpaulin,
whispering to each other and pointing at the soldiers’ outlandish uniforms.

“I would have expected more of Ostlanders,” called von Gryphius, lifting his
chin haughtily as his horse trotted past them, “than to abandon their master in
his hour of need.”

Most of the servants were too terrified to reply to such an august personage,
but after a few seconds a buck-toothed girl popped her head out of the back of
the cart. She yelled defiantly at the receding general. “We didn’t want to go
nowhere, milord. The master’s banished us, on pain of death. We hung on longer
than most. He’s swore to kill us on sight if we return. We ain’t abandoning no
one.”

“A likely story,” called back Gryphius. “Why would Casper wish to be without
his servants, even if the wolves
are
at his door?”

“He ain’t got no need of anyone anymore,” answered the girl. “You’ll see.
’Cept perhaps some pallbearers—I guess he’ll be needing them soon enough.”

Gryphius rolled his eyes at Ratboy, and led the way through the castle gates
and into the courtyard. He opened his mouth to hurl another insult back at the
woman, but the scene that met him stopped the words short. There were more
bodies, scattered all around the central keep: sprawled across the flagstones
and slumped against broken doorframes. From their bloodstained black and white
armour, it was obvious that most of the dead were state troops. There were other
corpses too, though: fur-clad marauders from the north, clutching brutal-looking
axes and scarred with the grotesque sigils of the Dark Gods. The whole place was
stained with drying blood. As the rest of the troops filed in behind Gryphius,
the eerie silence snatched the words from their lips. Even the general seemed
reluctant to break it, shaking his head at the carnage as his servants rushed to
help him dismount.

With a horrendous scraping sound, the flagellants dragged Raphael’s litter
into the castle. They were still muttering prayers to him and lashing their
naked, emaciated bodies with straps as they stumbled, barefoot over the broken
masonry. As Ratboy looked back at them, he winced at the sight of their prophet.
Raphael’s skeletal frame was arched in pain, and his anguished face was raised
up to the brooding clouds in supplication, but as the litter bounced across the
flagstones, his body remained frozen in a motionless spasm. His pale, scarred
flesh was as rigid as the statues that lined the courtyard.

“Master,” said Ratboy, turning to Wolff, “is that man—?”

“Hush, boy,” said Wolff, giving him a stern look as he climbed down from his
horse. “Raphael is their inspiration. He fills them with hope.” He placed a hand
on Ratboy’s shoulder. “And hope is a rare thing.”

Ratboy nodded mutely as he helped Wolff lift Anna down from the saddle. She
was as limp as a doll as they placed her on the ground and there was no hint of
life in her eyes as Wolff gently took her arm and led her over to the general.

“Obermarshall,” said Wolff, gesturing to the destruction that surrounded
them. “This battle has already been lost. There’s nothing to be done here now. I
suggest we just—”

Gryphius rounded angrily on the priest. “Luneberg was my friend,” he cried,
in a voice that cracked with emotion. “I
must
see him again.”

An awkward silence followed his words. Gryphius saw how shocked his men were
by his outburst and colour rushed to his cheeks. When he spoke again, his voice
was softer. “There are things we need to discuss. It’s important that I find out
what’s happened to him.”

Wolff shrugged and waved at the bodies. “Very well, Obermarshall, but I’m not
sure you’ll like what you find.”

A rolling, musical cry echoed around the courtyard: “Oh, sweet, tender voice!
Slicing through time’s torpid veil.” Hands reached out into the rain from a
vine-covered balcony above them. “What bliss is this? Can it be that when
everything seems darkest, I hear the beloved voice of Hugo von Gryphius?”

“Casper!” cried the general and his face lit up with pleasure. He stepped
backwards into the centre of the courtyard to get a better view of the balcony.
“Is that really you?” He slapped a hand against his breastplate and fell to his
knees. “Old friend, I never thought I’d see you again.”

Gryphius’ servants had quickly filled the dying castle with the illusion of
life. Candlelight, song and the comforting smell of roasting meat filled the
great hall for one last time. As the torches burst into flame, they gave the
slashed tapestries and bloodstained walls a homely warmth, despite the broken
windows that lined one side of the room.

As Ratboy stepped awkwardly to his master’s side to serve him, the flickering
light from the candelabras revealed his blushes. He had insisted that this duty
was his alone, but as he carried the steaming food towards Wolff, he suddenly
felt ashamed of his dusty travelling clothes and his simple, country manners.
His stomach knotted as he looked at the grand nobles arrayed before him. Casper
Gregorius von Luneherg, Duke of Ruckendorf, was seated directly opposite Wolff,
wearing a beautifully embroidered black tabard and a thick gold chain around his
neck, from which dangled his badge of office: a proud, brass bull. Next to him
sat his old friend, Obermarshall von Gryphius. The general had insisted on
changing before dinner and was now squeezed into a plush, ruby red doublet that
stretched snugly over his potbelly and tapered down towards his oversized
codpiece. Gryphius had also replaced his collar with an even higher one, and as
he leant hungrily over his venison, the starched lace tinkled and shimmered with
tiny jewels.

As Ratboy placed the food down before his master and stood discretely behind
him, he noted the priest’s lack of pretension with pride. Wolff’s only
concession to vanity had been to let Ratboy remove his plate armour and wipe a
little of the mud from his vestments, but even in such simple attire, he carried
himself with a quiet dignity that, to Ratboy’s mind, set him above all the other
guests.

Sat silently next to Wolff was the forlorn, mute figure of Anna, and the rest
of the seats were filled with Gryphius’ officers, heedlessly splashing wine
over their canary yellow doublets as they lunged playfully after the serving
girls.

At the far end of the hall, next to a raging fire, the general’s musicians
launched into another frenzied jig, giving the room the feel of a joyous, rowdy
tavern, rather than a doomed citadel at the edge of the world.

Casper Luneberg was as short as Gryphius, with the same olive skin and dark,
oily hair, but he carried none of the Obermarshall’s extra weight. He was a
slender, ethereal figure, who waved his arms like a conjuror as he spoke and let
his unruly, black locks trail down to his goatee beard as he addressed them.
“Foes and maladies unnumbered; murmuring terrors and the mindless multitudes;
none could touch me, in such crystal company as this!”

Gryphius grinned proudly at Wolff over the jellies and guinea fowl that sat
between them. “See? I told you he had a way with people! Such beautiful words!”
He wrapped an arm around their host’s shoulders, giving him a fierce hug and
planting a loud kiss on his cheek. “By Sigmar, Casper, it’s good to see you!”

Luneberg smiled wistfully. “Your voice is like an old, beloved song, Hugo. It
would rekindle my soul to see your blessed face one last time.”

The smile fell from Gryphius’ lips as he looked at the bandage over
Luneberg’s eyes. “What caused this blindness, Casper? Was it old age?”

Luneberg chuckled. “Remember, I’m two months younger than you, old man. No,
for once time was not the enemy; this veil was lowered by another hand.” The
smile dropped from his face and he took Gryphius’ hand, speaking so softly that
Ratboy could only just catch his words over the music. “How did we come to end
our days so far from home, Hugo? What a lachrymose end to our ridiculous
tragedy.”

The mood at the table changed noticeably. Gryphius’ shoulders sagged and his
mouth twisted into a grimace. “Old friend,” he muttered, before lowering his
gaze to the table and falling silent.

There was obviously some unresolved tension between the two men and Wolff
left them to their thoughts for a while. He turned to the other diners and
grimaced with distaste, as they grew loud and clumsy with drink. Eventually, he
sipped from a glass of water, cleared his throat and addressed von Luneberg.
“Tell me, Duke, when did the attacks begin?”

Luneberg did not seem to hear the priest at first; then he shook his head.
“Sorry, Brother Wolff, what was that?”