[Warhammer] - Runefang Read online

  “Hold on a moment,” Eugen protested, raising his mailed hand. “We don’t even know how many there are. You propose we blindly charge in? I’ve fought orcs before and believe me when I say that such an attack won’t scatter them. They’ll recover from their confusion almost instantly and then make for the closest thing they can find to kill, laughing while they do so.”

  With one fluid motion, the scout slid down from his saddle. Landing on his feet, the black-garbed road warden began to unsling his bow. “Of course not,” he answered the knight’s challenge. “I’ll range ahead and find their numbers.” He turned, once more studying the treeline. Finally he pointed his hand into the brush. “You can take shelter among those rocks until I return,” he said. Ernst could dimly perceive a jumble of bluish grey stone behind the trees. He glanced back at the scout.

  “Whichever way we decide, it would be useful to know just how many of those monsters there are,” the baron said. Ernst stared hard at Ekdahl’s face, watching for any betrayal of hidden emotion. The strange message was still fresh in the baron’s mind, a message the scout had found only after Kessler had nearly tripped over it.

  Ottmar seemed to share the baron’s suspicions. “If it pleases your lordship, I should like to go with him,” he said. “If the orcs get one of us the other might still be able to get back to warn the rest.” Ekdahl gave the sergeant a curious look, but slowly nodded his head in acceptance.

  During the exchange, Kessler had advanced upon the scene, leading Carlinda’s horse by its reins. He glanced back at the woman. Her pale face was edged with concern, her dark eyes staring at him intently. He closed his hand around the augur’s, giving it a reassuring squeeze. Carlinda’s flesh was as cold as marble beneath his touch. Then he turned back to face Ernst.

  “I’ll go too,” Kessler told the baron. He didn’t even try to hide the heat in his gaze as he looked at Ekdahl. The scout favoured him with what might have been a mocking bow. Kessler grinned back, adjusting the enormous sword lashed across his back. “With three of us, there’s a better chance of everyone making it back.”

  “All right, Max,” Ernst agreed. “We’ll lay up in those rocks and wait for you to come back. Don’t worry about the crone, I’ll look after her while you’re gone.” The baron hoped he was able to suppress the shudder that shot up his spine as he considered the prospect. He knew how intimate Kessler had become with the witch, for all that he could not understand it. Grace to the gods that he should ever become desperate enough to take such an abomination into his bed.

  “It’s not far,” Kessler said. “Shouldn’t take too long to determine what’s what.” The swordsman sneered at Ekdahl, fingering the tassels dripping from the pommel of his weapon. The scout’s eyes narrowed, but his mouth stayed close. He turned and started into the underbrush beside the trail, leaving his horse behind. Ottmar and Kessler were soon following him, vanishing into the scraggly growth of bushes and saplings.

  Ernst waited until they were completely lost to sight, and then raised his fist, motioning for the column to withdraw towards the rocks. Foremost in his thoughts were his suspicions. He was sure Kessler could take care of himself; however great the odds, somehow the swordsman always managed to come out on top. He only hoped that whatever untoward thing was going on, they’d uncover it before it was too late.

  Sliding through the undergrowth, the three men sketched a path parallel with the trail. Ottmar acquitted himself well, making scarcely more noise than Ekdahl, but the subtlety and caution of the woodsmen was beyond Kessler. Several times, as a stick broke beneath his boot or a branch snapped beneath his hand, Ekdahl motioned for a quick halt. Sometimes the scout would give Kessler a venomous glance before turning his attention fully upon the wilderness around them. Like some granite effigy, Ekdahl would freeze, his every nerve trained upon his surroundings, listening for even the slightest sound. After what seemed an eternity, he would allow them to proceed.

  They advanced in such fashion for at least half a mile before they drew near their objective. Through the bushes, Kessler could see the encampment that had alarmed Ekdahl: a cluster of crude huts of straw and river mud, the shoddy things already sagging inward as they collapsed beneath their own weight. A jumble of rusty weapons was piled pell-mell all around the camp and in the centre a great pit had been dug. The stones that lined the pit were blackened with soot and the thing that was impaled upon the spit that hung above it was loathsomely human. Kessler felt his gorge rise at the thought of the hideous scene that must have unfolded here only hours before. He drew his sword, almost unconsciously drifting forward, eager to remind these beasts why it was unwise to feed upon man. Ottmar also produced a weapon and started to follow him.

  “Hold,” Ekdahl hissed and there was such command in his voice that both of the men froze. The scout had not moved from his position facing the camp, but his gloved hands had nocked an arrow to his longbow. His eyes were like chips of steel as he looked at the other men. “Get back here and keep quiet,” he said. Ottmar fingered his blade while Kessler’s scarred face twisted into a scowl. There was no choice, both men had seen the deadly precision of Ekdahl’s marksmanship.

  “Where are they?” Kessler wondered. He had braced himself to be confronted by a mob of murderous monsters. Prepared for such a sight, finding the camp empty was unsettling. Where were the orcs?

  “They’re asleep,” Ottmar snapped when he had fallen back. “We’ll never have a better chance at them!”

  Ekdahl just shook his head.

  “Something’s wrong,” he said. “Too clean and orderly for an orc camp.” He tapped the side of his nose. “Doesn’t smell right. You never forget the dung heap stink of an orc pack.”

  “Who else would cook a man’s body?” Kessler growled. “Or are you going to tell me that’s not what they have spitted over their fire?”

  “Oh, it’s a man all right,” Ekdahl conceded. He glanced aside at Ottmar. “You should recognise him, he’s one of yours. They must have brought him all the way from Murzklein. Same place they got those goblin weapons from.”

  Kessler felt the hairs rise at the back of his neck. Was Ekdahl admitting there was a spy? Admitting that someone was following them and that they had set this whole phoney camp up? The swordsman began calculating the distance between him and the scout, how many steps it would take him to bury his blade in the Sollander’s gut.

  “Just who is ‘they’?” Ottmar asked, giving voice to the question foremost on Kessler’s mind as well. Ekdahl stared at the two men for a long moment. Suddenly he spun, and before either man could react, he let loose the arrow from his bow. There was a sharp shriek, and a scruffy-looking man wearing a poorly mended hauberk toppled from the branches of a big oak tree, his bow falling from his hands as he hurtled to the earth.

  The scream acted as a signal. Soon the trees seemed alive with bowmen, their arrows slashing down through the brush. Kessler saw more men come rushing out of the “orc” huts, their hands full of brutal looking bludgeons and axes. Ekdahl had already loosed a second arrow, sending the shaft slamming into the chest of one of the attackers.

  “Ambush!” Kessler snarled, an arrow zipping past his ear.

  “Get back and warn Baron von Rabwald and the others!” Ottmar roared, keeping low and scrambling to join Ekdahl behind the cover of a tangled mass of briar. The shouts and war cries of the attackers intensified as arrows slammed all around their position. “We’ll keep them off!” the sergeant promised as Kessler lingered.

  The swordsman nodded, watching as Ekdahl sprang from cover to send an arrow shooting into the charging foe. Another man crumpled to the ground, his throat transfixed. Even with the scout’s keen aim, Kessler knew they would be overwhelmed. Ottmar was right, all they could do now was get word back to Ernst and warn him about the danger.

  With a last look back at the trapped men, Kessler sprinted away. Without the need for caution, he crashed through the undergrowth with all the grace of a mad bull, arms pumping as he urged his pow
erful frame on to greater effort. For a time, arrows continued to whistle around him, but soon he had drawn past the range of the unseen archers, losing them in the maze of trees. Behind him, the sounds of combat died away and he wondered if perhaps Ekdahl and Ottmar had already been overcome. Wondering if their killers were already redoubling their efforts to catch the man who had sprung free from their trap.

  Kessler expected to feel the sharp stab of an arrow in his back as he bulled his way through the forest. Every tree, every shrub was a potential hiding place for some lurking assassin, every shadow a refuge for some slinking killer. He was not afraid of death, the hardships of his life having inoculated him against that particular brand of terror. Even the pain of dying did not trouble him, and he almost welcomed the cruel bite of steel against his flesh. Ernst had often commented upon his capacity for pain, remarking that he seemed to enjoy it the way a dog enjoyed a bone or a drunkard his ale.

  No, the fear that drove Kessler, that spurred him on even as the air became thin and hot in his lungs, was the fear that he should fail, that he should let down Ernst and Carlinda. They had to be warned, had to know about the men who had set up the ambush. Somehow, Kessler felt there was more than simple banditry behind the attack.

  Screams and the clash of steel made Kessler pause in his race through the trees. The sounds came from ahead of him. For a moment, he wondered if he had somehow doubled back, if he had circled around to where Ekdahl and Ottmar continued to fight for their lives. He quickly disabused himself of the idea. Whatever fray was unfolding, it was greater than even two determined men could occasion. A horrible suspicion came over him and he ran forwards, a new determination firing him.

  It wasn’t the men he’d left behind he was hearing, it was Ernst and the column! The attackers hadn’t pursued Kessler; they’d made straight for the very people he intended to warn!

  Kessler bit back a curse. He was already too late to warn them. He might also be too late to save them, but as long as there was still a pulse in his body, he could still make their killers pay.

  Ernst von Rabwald thrust his sword into his attacker’s chest, watching dispassionately as a gout of blood erupted from the ruffian’s bearded face. The thug sagged weakly on his blade, threatening to tear the weapon from Ernst’s fingers. He tried desperately to pull his sword free, crying out in pain as he reflexively tried to lend his left arm to the effort. It wouldn’t move, pinned to his side by the arrow that had pierced it. Cursing, Ernst watched as the sword was torn from his grasp by the dying man. The baron quickly drew his dagger from his belt and limped away from his writhing victim. There were far too many of the man’s comrades to linger and finish him off.

  Their attackers had broken all around them with the fury of a tempest, smashing against them from all sides. They had taken refuge among the rocks that Ekdahl had directed them towards, there to await the return of the scout and his companions. The sounds of combat had drifted faintly back to them and he knew that the scouts were in trouble. Whether the orcs had discovered them or the Sollander had sprung whatever subterfuge was behind the strange message, Ernst knew that they needed his help. He had already unhitched the destriers from the wagon, anticipating that they would be needed in their former capacity. Eugen’s knights had strapped barding onto their reclaimed warhorses with a practiced speed that impressed even their marshal.

  Just as the baron and the mounted element of his force were emerging from the rocks, they had been met with a withering hail of arrows. At least a dozen archers had set upon them, their slipshod aim still sufficient to sink arrows into the horses. Ernst and his men were thrown from their stricken steeds, several of the men still struggling to recover from the fall when the second assault started. What seemed a score or more of men, all wearing shabby, piece-meal armour, had come rushing from the trees. They offered no quarter, falling upon the wounded with hideous glee. Ernst saw one of the knights stabbed through the visor of his helm with a skinning knife, and a soldier pinned to the ground by a brigand spear.

  His injuries were serious. He’d suffered the wound to his arm in the initial burst of bowfire, and his leg had snapped like a twig when his stricken horse had thrown him. Ernst fought to remain clear-headed, to keep command of the situation. He quickly looked across the battlefield. At least five of his men were down, two of them Eugen’s knights. Only a handful of brigands were on the ground, and it looked like they were losses the scum could easily afford. Eugen, his last knight, and a pair of soldiers were sorely beset by the bandits. Ignoring the melee, other bandits scrambled towards the rocks. The foremost fell back, his chest collapsed by Skanir’s hammer. The dwarf glowered at his attackers, spitting at their cowardice and taunting them to try again and share their friend’s fate. Some of the bandits tried to skirt around Skanir, but as they scrambled into the rocks they found something more terrible than the dwarf’s hammer waiting for them. They retreated, howling in fear, the slowest of them cut in half by a gigantic sword as Ghrum loped after them.

  Ernst spotted the ogre and saw more bandits rushing towards the rocks. Instantly he thought of the wounded men lying in the wagon and the sort of mercy they could expert from such brigand vermin. “Ghrum!” he shouted. The ogre skipped a step, turning his huge face in the baron’s direction. “The wagon! Get the wagon out of here!” The ogre nodded in understanding and turned to rush back to the rocks. Bandits scattered before him, their panic increased rather than lessened by the frantic bowfire that pursued the ogre back into his refuge.

  Sharp flaring pain in his back told Ernst that he had been stabbed. He started to turn to face his attacker, but was slashed again, this time from the side. He fell, blood gushing from his body in a torrent. Above him, he could hear his killers arguing.

  “Leave off! This one’s mine!” roared a short, scraggly ruffian with a thin, reedy voice.

  “You leave off Kopff! I’m the one that killed him!” shouted a taller scallywag with a grimy, weasel-like countenance.

  Kopff had already dropped to his knees beside Ernst, struggling to rip the medallion from the baron’s neck. “I stabbed him first Schmitt, that means he’s mine! Go and kill your own!”

  Schmitt brandished his sword at the smaller looter, displaying his brown teeth in a savage snarl. “He was still twitching when I slashed him. Makes him fair game.”

  The other bandit shook his head fiercely, stuffing the purloined medallion down his breeches as he glared back at Schmitt. “I’d like to see you take that up before a magistrate!” he sneered.

  Ernst bit down on his tongue, urging what little strength he had left into his right arm. He tightened his grip on the dagger, and started to raise his arm to lash out at the jackal perched on his chest.

  “Look out, Kopff! He’s still trying to stick you!” Kopff reacted swiftly, diving on Ernst’s rising arm and crushing it to the ground.

  “Oh, that’s a beauty!” Kopff chortled, straining to pry Ernst’s fingers apart. “Just look at that knife, Schmitt!”

  “It’s not decent Kopff, you taking all the choice gewgaws,” protested Schmitt.

  Kopff looked up, favouring the other bandit with an exasperated look. “Are you going to stand there gawking or are you going to help me get his hand open? He’s a strong bastard!”

  Schmitt started to help Kopff when an enraged roar brought both men scrambling to their feet. They turned to see a huge shape emerge from the forest, a massive sword clenched in his hands, his face a mass of scars and fury. The killers scattered before him, in their panic imagining that somehow the ogre had circled around from the rocks to come at them from behind.

  Kopff slashed ineffectually at the swordsman, only to have his blade batted aside by a brutal counterstroke. The bandit leapt back before the greatsword could cleave him from breastbone to hip. “He did it! He killed him!” he whined, stabbing a finger at Schmitt even as he retreated before the attacker.

  The look Kessler directed at the other bandit had the brigand cringing back like a whipped c
ur. He started after the retreating men, intent on cutting them to ribbons. Only the pained groan that came from the broken, bleeding thing at his feet brought him up short. The two bandits seized the opportunity, taking to their heels and plunging into the trees.

  Ernst uttered a pained laugh as he saw Kessler leaning over him.

  “Max,” he coughed. “I think… we walked… into… a trap.”

  Rambrecht watched from the trees as the brigands fell upon the Wissenlanders. With real soldiers, the ambush would have gone smoothly, especially with the intelligence they had been given. As it stood, they’d been forced to make a fight of things. Baldur knew the scum he had gathered well enough to direct them to fire at the horses rather than the riders, and even so the vermin had barely managed to hit their marks. Now they were in there among the survivors, trying to finish them off. It wasn’t going well, but well enough to satisfy him. It didn’t matter to Rambrecht how many men they lost, just so long as they got the job done.

  The knights that hadn’t been immediately killed after falling from their horses were putting up a hellish defence, as was the hammer-wielding dwarf who was holding his ground among the rocks. Rambrecht hoped the bandits remembered Baldur’s injunction that he wanted the dwarf alive. He didn’t care how many of them the dwarf killed, he wanted him taken alive.

  The ogre had been an unexpected surprise. The message left behind in Murzklein said that the beast had been injured, but he was still hale enough to toss Baldur’s dogs around like ninepins. It was fortunate that the big brute had retreated back into the rocks, re-emerging lugging a large wagon behind him. Those brigands who thought to capitalise on the ogre’s preoccupation were soon driven off by the distinctly accurate bowmanship of the Halfling perched atop the wagon. The escape of the wagon did not overly trouble Rambrecht, since there was nothing there that he needed.