05 - Warrior Priest (6 page)

Wolff placed a hand on her arm and lowered the blade. “Wait, daughter of
Sigmar. Eberlinus’ words were not ‘He that cleaves
his
flesh in my
name,’ they were ‘He that cleaves flesh in my name.’ The difference is
subtle, but important.”

The woman frowned. “Then whose flesh should we cleave?”

“The enemy’s,” gasped Raphael, finally freeing himself and tumbling to the
ground at Wolff’s feet. “You wish us to march with you.”

Wolff gave Raphael a paternal smile.

Music was drifting across the ruined landscape. As a merciful dusk fell over
the crumbling farms and villages, chords echoed through the smoking wreckage and
as the three riders steered their mounts north, ghostly harmonies drifted out of
the dark to meet them.

Wolff rode up the side of a hill to find the source of the strange noise.
“Hired swords,” he said, beckoning to Anna and Ratboy to come and see. They rode
up beside him and saw a merry trail of lights snaking through the hills towards
them. Several regiments of soldiers were travelling north. Proud, armoured
knights on barded mounts. Over their heads fluttered banners bearing a symbol
Ratboy didn’t recognise: a pair of bright yellow swords, emblazoned on a black
background. The men wore the most incredible uniforms Ratboy had ever seen.
Huge, plumed hats and elaborately frilled collars, all dyed with a yellow
pigment so bright that even the chill gloom of an Ostland evening failed to
dampen its cheeriness.

“Who are they?” he asked, turning to his master.

Wolff wrinkled his nose with distaste. “Southerners,” he muttered.

“Southerners?” asked Ratboy. “From Reikland?”

Wolff shook his head. “No. They’re a long way from home, by the looks of
them. Averland, maybe, although half of them look like Tilean freelancers.
Sigmar knows what would drag them so far north, but I’m glad to see them here—whatever the reason.” He leant forward in his saddle and peered through the
darkness. “Although, I fear their general may have already been injured. See how
he rolls in his saddle?”

Ratboy and Anna followed Wolff’s gaze. Near to the front of the regiment,
surrounded by standard bearers and musicians rode a knight whose armour was even
more ornate than the others. His winged helmet was trimmed with gold, and as he
lolled back and forth on his horse, the metal flashed in the moonlight, drawing
attention to his lurching movements.

“Strange music for times such as these,” said Anna.

The drummers and pipers that surrounded the general were skipping merrily
through the long grass, oblivious to the gentle Ostland rain that was banking
over the hills. They were playing a jig and the snatches of song that reached
Wolff and the others sounded oddly raucous. In the face of the shattered homes
and towers that covered the landscape, it seemed almost disrespectful.

Wolff nodded. “Indeed.” He turned his horse around to face the shambling
figures that were staggering up the hillside behind them. Raphael was too weak
to walk, so the rest of the flagellants had fashioned a makeshift litter to drag
him along on. As they climbed slowly towards the priest, the sound of their
whips could be clearly heard, along with their frantic prayers. “Just a little
further,” he called out to them. “There’s an army ahead. I must speak with the
general. Wait here and I’ll send word if it’s safe to approach.”

Raphael waved weakly in reply.

Anna watched as the penitents stumbled towards them. She shook her head in
dismay at the awful violence they were inflicting on their own flesh. “At a word
from you they would drop those whips,” she said, glaring at Wolff. “Have you no
pity?”

Ratboy flinched at the venom in her voice, but Wolff simply ignored her.

As the three of them rode down the hill towards the troops, they saw the
injured general summon an officer to his side, who then rode out to meet them.
As he approached, they saw he was rake-thin with a long aristocratic face that
sneered disdainfully at them as he approached. He carried a brightly polished
shield, engraved with the same yellow swords as the banners, and as he reached
the top of the hill Ratboy marvelled at the fine, gold embroidery that covered
his clothes. He’d never seen such a flamboyantly dressed man. He wore a wide
drooping hat, topped with ostrich feathers and studded with pearls, and his
slashed leather jerkin was stretched tightly over a bright yellow silk doublet
that shimmered as he moved. His short cloak was edged with lace and even his
elaborate codpiece was stitched with gold thread. With his fine attire and
twirled, waxed moustaches, Ratboy imagined he would be more at home on an
elegant, sunlit boulevard than a muddy Ostland battlefield.

“Good evening, father,” he said, with a curt nod to Wolff. “I’m Obermarshall
Hugo von Gryphius’ adjutant. He sends you his regards and offers you his
hospitality.” The valet looked less than hospitable however, and his thickly
accented voice was cool as he continued. “We’ll be making camp soon and
Obermarshall von Gryphius would be interested to hear news of the war,
especially from a senior priest such as yourself.”

“We’d be glad of the general’s protection,” replied Wolff, “but I’m afraid
we’re only just heading north ourselves. I doubt we know much more than your
lord.”

The valet pursed his lips in irritation, but gave a stiff bow all the same.
“Very well, I’m sure my lord would still be keen to speak to you.” He looked
briefly at Anna and then waved his frilled sleeve down the hill, signalling for
them to lead the way. “He generally takes pleasure in good company.”

“I have a group of followers with me—” began Wolff.

“I’ll see to them,” snapped the valet, and gestured towards the army again.

As they followed the soldier down the hill, Ratboy felt as though he were
entering a strange dream. The musicians were dancing in and out of the horses,
dressed in elaborate animal costumes and banging tambourines as they whirled
back and forth through the rain. The swarthy soldiers eyed the new arrivals
suspiciously from beneath their sallet helmets, but they seemed too exhausted to
give them much attention and soon looked back down at their mud-splattered
horses, riding onwards through the valley with a slow determination that hinted
at months of travel.

The Obermarshall was as unlike his adjutant as he could possibly be: a short,
pot-bellied lump, with a soft, ebullient face that seemed quite out place in his
finely wrought helmet. His small, ebony eyes sparkled with pleasure as he saw
Anna, and his olive skin fractured into a network of wrinkles. “What a joy to
encounter friendly faces in such grim surroundings,” he said in a thin, piping
voice.

Ratboy frowned. The general seemed barely able to stay in his saddle, but
bore no obvious signs of injury and he wondered what ailed the man. As they
reached his side, however, he had his answer: rather than wielding weapons, the
general had a bottle of sherry in one hand and a large glass in the other. As he
enthusiastically hugged each of his guests in turn, they winced at the thick
stench of garlic and alcohol that surrounded him.

“You poor things—what’s happened to you?” he asked, noticing their
scorched, bloody clothes.

Wolff studied the wine and food stains that covered the general’s armour,
before replying. “We’re at war, Obermarshall, like the rest of this forsaken
province.”

The general seemed oblivious to the disapproving tone in Wolff’s voice. His
eyes lit up with excitement and he leant forward in his saddle. “Ah, yes, the
war. That’s exactly why we’re here.” He took a swig of sherry, spilling most of
it down his tunic. “In fact, once we’ve made camp, I’d like to pick your brains.
I believe it’s all happening north of here somewhere? Is that right?” He
chuckled and slapped Wolff’s armour. “These things usually happen somewhere in
the north, don’t they?”

Wolff’s nostrils flared and he drew a breath to answer, but then he seemed to
think better of it and simply nodded.

“Christoff,” cried the general. “Pitch my tent over there, near that willow
tree. I think it would make a pleasant subject for a sketch or two.”

The old valet gave a little bow and backed away, snapping orders to the
surrounding guards and stewards as he went.

The general tumbled awkwardly from his warhorse, and gestured for Wolff and
the others to sit next to him on the grass. “So,” he continued, once they had
dismounted, “tell me about yourselves. What are your names?”

“I’m Brother Jakob Wolff, and this is my acolyte, Anselm, although he goes by
the name of Ratboy.”

Gryphius took in Ratboy’s scrawny frame and tattered tunic and burst into
laughter. “Ratboy! Of course he is! That’s wonderful.” He grabbed Ratboy’s
shoulder and gave it a firm squeeze. “Ratboy,” he repeated, “that’s why I love
you country folk. Always so quick to laugh at yourselves.”

Wolff raised his eyebrows and remained silent until the general managed to
stifle his mirth.

“And this is Anna…” he looked over at her enquiringly.

“Fleck,” she snapped, glaring at the priest. “I’m a Sister of Shallya, lord,”
she continued, softening her voice and turning to the general, “and I’m trained
in the healing arts, so if any of your men have injuries, I’d be happy to assist
them.”

“Of course,” replied the general, taking another swig of his sherry.
“There’ll be plenty of time for that kind of thing later though. You all look
quite ravenous.” He lurched to his feet and looked out over a teetering mass of
tent poles, flaming torches and ascending banners. “Christoff,” he cried.
“People are starving over here. Bring food for my guests, man. Where are you?”

“On my way, lord,” came a reply from out of the darkness.

“You look as though you may need medical assistance yourself,” said Gryphius,
sitting down again and looking at Anna’s scorched, shaven head. “And I’m sure we
could find you some more feminine clothes.”

“These will be fine,” she replied, clutching her tatty white robes
protectively. “Although a needle and thread would be appreciated.”

“Christoff,” bawled the general, “bring the seamstress too.”

“I don’t recognise your heraldry, Obermarshall,” said Wolff, gesturing to the
swords on Gryphius’ ornate chest armour. “Where have you travelled from?
Averland?”

“Averhiem,” replied the general.

Wolff nodded, but Ratboy gave the general a look of helpless confusion.

Gryphius frowned. “It’s the home of the artists Tilmann and Donatus, and the
composer, Ortlieb. You must have heard of the playwright Eustacius at least?”

Ratboy shook his head.

Colour flushed into the general’s round cheeks and he gave an embarrassed
cough. “Well, I can assure you, he’s quite a talent. Prince Eustacius enjoys the
patronage of the Emperor himself.”

“But what brings you so far from home?” asked Wolff, keen to change the
subject. “Of all the provinces in the Empire, Ostland’s not the safest place to
be at the moment. These are dangerous times to be abroad, Obermarshall. You’re
lucky to have got this far without encountering the enemy.”

The general grinned, revealing a row of small, uneven teeth. “But that’s
exactly why I’m here.” He patted the rapier on his lap. “I wish to test my
mettle against the minions of the Dark Gods.” He puffed out his chest and
attempted to suck in his paunch. “In Averheim, the name von Gryphius is a byword
for fearless heroism. There are few foes I have yet to pit myself against:
greenskins, dragons, necromancers; all have learned to fear my name.” He leant
forward and spoke in a conspiratorial tone. “I’ve heard there’s a great champion
leading this new incursion into your Empire—even greater than the one called
Archaon who preceded him.” He drew his sword, narrowly missing Ratboy’s face as
he waved it at the sky.

“Imagine the glory of slaying such a monster! The name von Gryphius would
echo down the centuries.”

“But my lord,” replied Anna, “the whole province is overrun with marauders
and bandits. Even the capital’s half ruined. Those who can have fled south, to
Reikland. Is it wise for you to risk your men in such a campaign?”

The smile slipped from von Gryphius’ face. “I can assure you, Anna, I’m not
one to avoid danger. Your Elector Count needs brave men at his side in times
such as these, and mine are amongst the bravest. If there’s anything we can do
to help von Raukov repel these fiends, then we’ll do it.” He sheathed his sword
and smiled again, picturing his glorious, impending victory. Then, remembering
his guests, he patted Ratboy’s leg. “But enough about me, what drags you three
so far north?”

“We’re looking for a regiment named the Ostland Black Guard,” Wolff replied.
“I believe they’re engaged in the same conflict you’re heading towards. And, of
course, I wish to lend my support to the army. They will need great spiritual
fortitude in the face of such foes. ‘By Sigmar’s light may we know what is to
be done; and only through his strength may we avoid the abyss.’”

“Indeed,” replied Gryphius, winking at Anna and taking another swig of
sherry. “My thoughts exactly.” He offered the bottle to his guests and when they
declined, he shrugged and drank a little more. “I can see that you would wish to
join the army as quickly as possible, but what is the importance of this Black
Guard? Is that a regiment you have connections with?”

Wolff paused before replying. “Of a sort,” he said, making it clear he did
not wish to discuss the matter further.

“I see.” Gryphius slapped his thigh and lurched to his feet. “Well, I believe
that’s my tent ready,” he said, offering Anna his hand. “Let’s go and make
ourselves a little more comfortable. I’ll see if Christoff has found you some
food yet.”

A grand pavilion had appeared behind them, and as Gryphius staggered towards
its black and yellow domes, he regaled them with tales of his chef’s wonderful
creations.