[Blood on the Reik 01] - Death's Messenger Read online

  “That’s what I’d say.” The forester nodded his agreement. The muted sunlight dappled his narrow face as he moved his head. “Scouting us out, do you think?”

  “Maybe.” Littman took a couple of steps towards the boundary of the clearing, limping slightly as he favoured his left leg. The right, as everyone knew, had been laid open to the bone by an orcish blade in a place called Black Fire Pass, and never mended right. Perhaps the village was luckier than it realised having Greta Reifenstal living in it. Littman and Gunther’s voices attenuated as they moved, and Rudi shifted his position again, eager to eavesdrop. Now the conversation was getting really interesting…

  “Mind where you’re going!” someone said, with unmistakably feigned good humour. Rudi felt a blow against his shoulder that knocked him slightly off balance. As he took an automatic step to regain it something hard nudged against his calves and tripped him. He went down hard, just missing one of the piles of stinking dung that still littered the grass. Raucous laughter echoed around the clearing.

  “What’s going on here?” Littman stomped over to investigate, and the half-dozen militiamen ranged about its perimeter went quiet at once. The sergeant’s leadership was based on the trust and affection of the men he led, but they had a healthy respect for his direct approach to enforcing discipline where necessary. That hadn’t been much in recent years, but when he first took on the job many of the men had resented being bossed about by an outsider, especially one who they thought was being paid to do nothing but sit around all day while they worked at their various trades. That had all changed the day Big Franz the blacksmith had failed to provide the new spear blades Littman had ordered on time because he had “real work to do”. The sergeant had laid him out with a single punch and the weapons had arrived the following week, and Franz had become so zealous in his part-time militia duties he was rapidly promoted to corporal, second only to the sergeant in authority.

  “Nothing, sarge.” The spotty-faced youth who’d tripped him held out a hand to help Rudi to his feet. “The kid here fell over my spearshaft, that’s all.”

  “Did he indeed?” Littman’s voice was noncommittal, although Rudi felt sure he knew what had really happened. Ignoring the proffered hand he clambered quickly to his feet. “Mind on the job, Katzenjammer.”

  “Right you are, sarge.” Hans Katzenjammer smirked at Rudi, who felt his face flushing with anger. The Katzenjammer brothers, Hans and Fritz, were bullies and troublemakers; everyone in the village knew it. At nineteen, Hans was big and stocky enough to intimidate pretty much anyone his junior, and his younger brother, just as big but more running to fat, followed his lead in everything. Fritz was smirking too, a couple of paces away from Hans as always; a year younger and soft in the head, he thought his brother was clever, daring, and tough. He was grievously mistaken in every particular, but longed to emulate him. He’d only joined the militia because his brother had, and Littman tolerated him because he followed orders and carried heavy bundles without complaint.

  “That’s sergeant or sir to you, Katzenjammer. And if you want to get out of here without a beastman skinning you alive you’d better pay a bit more attention to what’s going on around you. Understand?”

  “Yes sir.” Hans paled, and looked around at the surrounding undergrowth with thinly-veiled alarm. As Littman turned away Rudi caught a wink, and understood. Of course the beastmen would be miles away by now, or his father and the old soldier would have been far more alert, but the Katzenjammers wouldn’t realise that.

  The rest of the militiamen were quiet and nervy, jumping at every rustle in the bushes. None of them had ever seen a beastman, but they’d all heard the stories, and knew that in sufficient numbers they were capable of wiping an isolated village from the map as though it had never been. And even worse than the creatures’ legendary ferocity was the fact that they were the embodiment of Chaos, the great enemy of everything rational and civilised.

  “Rudi.” Gunther beckoned and he went to join his father, who was staring intently at a broken twig. “What do you make of this?”

  “Something big,” Rudi replied at once, an easy deduction as the damaged foliage was well above his head height. “Their leader, do you think?”

  “Probably.” Gunther nodded. “I heard they tend to be bigger than the rest.”

  “You heard right.” Littman limped across to join them. “The biggest, meanest one is always in charge. Like orcs.” He spat, as he always did whenever anyone mentioned the greenskins. “You can usually pick him out by his horns.”

  “I thought they all had horns,” Rudi said. Littman shrugged.

  “Some do, some don’t. The ones that don’t are scrawny little beggars by comparison. Even Katzenjammer could take one. Probably.” Out of the corner of his eye Rudi could see Hans Katzenjammer flushing angrily. He had overheard the remark, as he was no doubt supposed to. Rudi took a moment to savour the bully’s discomfiture. “But the bigger the horns the tougher they are, and the more scared the others are of them. Remember that, it might save your life.”

  “So you can pick him out and kill him first?” Rudi asked. Littman and Gunther both laughed.

  “So you can run like a halfling who’s heard there’s free cake before he gets close to you,” Gunther said. Littman nodded.

  “I wouldn’t like to take one on without a few mates to back me up. Preferably a wizard as well. They can be tough to kill.” Something of the apprehension Rudi felt at that must have shown on his face, because Gunther smiled and ruffled his hair.

  “Don’t worry about it,” he said. “They’ll be miles away by now.” Littman nodded.

  “Probably checked out the village, saw how well defended we were, and moved on in search of easier pickings.”

  “Then they won’t be coming back?” Rudi tried to make the question sound casual, but it came out a little too hesitant for his liking. Almost like wishful thinking.

  “With any luck.” Gunther and Littman exchanged glances. “But we’d better take a few precautions. lust to be on the safe side.”

  “Agreed.” Littman nodded. “Double the men on the gates, bring everyone from the outlying farms inside the village at night, that sort of thing.”

  “Including us?” Gunther looked amused at the idea. “Be honest, Heinrich, can you really see me settling down in some tavern bed instead of out here?”

  “It’s not really up to me, is it?” Littman said. “Although if it was I’d rather have your eyes and ears in the forest. If there were anything in the wind you’d be the one to spot it.” He shrugged. “I’ll talk to the burgomeister. In the end it’s his decision.”

  Rudi listened to the exchange with a strange sense of excitement stirring in his stomach, mixed with apprehension. Truth to tell he wasn’t sure which he’d prefer, remaining in the familiar hut on the edge of the forest despite the possibility of a beastmen incursion, or scuttling into the village for safety like a scared peasant. Certainly the thought of being cooped up with the Katzenjammers and the rest of the local folk, being glanced at and whispered about when no one thought he was looking, was unappealing. But so was the thought of being done to death by beastmen. And the villagers weren’t all bad, he supposed, there were a few he liked. Littman and his father had always got on well, for instance, and there was always Magnus. Staying with him might not be so bad…

  The burgomeister would make a big show of making a decision and announcing it, along with any other edicts he thought necessary, but despite being a bit of a windbag the man was no fool and would certainly listen to the counsel of Littman and Gunther.

  Leaving the two adults to debate the matter he moved on, following the trail left by the leader of the beastmen. It should be safe enough, both Gunther and Littman seemed convinced the creatures were long gone, and it was certain that no one else here would have the courage or expertise to do it. He might find some other clue to their whereabouts; that should make everyone sit up and take him seriously for once. After a moment he was d
eep in the underbrush, wriggling through thorns and snagging twigs with the ease of a lifetime of practice, although the passage of the monstrous bulk which had passed through ahead of him had left little enough obstruction. He tried to picture Hans out here alone in the forest, following the trail of a huge and dangerous beastman, and grinned. The hulking youth would probably have wet himself by now…

  He stopped abruptly. A large thorn bush barred the way, snapped and splintered barbs showing where the giant beastman had simply ploughed its way through the obstacle. He could have squirmed or hacked his way in pursuit, he supposed, but that would cut him off from the militia group, and he wasn’t stupid enough for that. Besides, something he couldn’t quite put a name to kept him back from the bush, a sense of unease he was at a loss to explain. It seemed tainted somehow, touched with an evil presence at odds with the peaceful forest surrounding it.

  Rudi looked closer, hoping to find some reason for his presentiment. There was nothing obvious to be seen, and yet…

  There. Duller eyes than his would surely have missed it, but his lifetime of practice reading the minute traces left by the creatures of the forest served him well. A patch of coarse hair, ripped from the creature’s hide by the ensnaring thorns, waved gently in the breeze which rippled the leaves above his head. He leaned a little closer, fighting the wave of revulsion which rose up within him. A dark patch lay on the twig and the thorns next to the tuft of hair. Could this be the blood of the creature, carelessly shed as it pushed its way through the barrier?

  Abruptly the subtle sense of dread he felt dropped away as though it had never been, to be replaced by a rising euphoria. This was surely an important discovery. Perhaps his father or Littman would be able to recognise the traces he’d found, identify the enemy they faced, and it was all due to him. Rudi Walder, the forest child, the shunned object of derision and pity. The villagers would have to respect him now, even the Katzenjammers and Hanna and all the others who mocked and despised him. He’d show them all right…

  Lost in these pleasant imaginings he suddenly became aware that his hand was stretched out towards the tuft of hair, on the verge of grasping it, and about to be impaled by the reaching thorns. With a gasp of fear he snatched it back. There was no telling what foulness such a thing might carry. Better to leave it intact, where Gunther would be able to read its secrets more easily.

  Heart thudding in his chest, for reasons he couldn’t quite identify, Rudi hurried back to the clearing, calling for Littman and his father.

  “That’s beastman fur all right,” Littman confirmed. He gazed at it narrowly from several feet away, clearly reluctant to get anywhere closer to the bush. Behind him the militiamen clustered nervously, the Katzenjammer boys elbowing their way to the fore as usual. For once the older men let them get away with it, clearly less than keen to be anywhere near such tangible evidence of the minions of Chaos. “You’ve got sharp eyes, lad.”

  “Thanks,” Rudi muttered. Now that the time had come he found he wasn’t as keen to be the centre of attention as he’d thought. Some of the men were looking at him suspiciously, as though they thought he might have found the cursed thing because of some affinity he might have with it. He could almost hear their thoughts echoing in the spaces between the trees. After all, nobody really knows where he came from…

  “It just looks like a bit of cow hide to me,” Hans muttered, loud enough to be overheard, and his brother snickered dutifully.

  “That’s because you’re an idiot,” Littman snapped, and Hans coloured visibly. Rudi couldn’t help grinning at his enemy’s embarrassment, and felt the youth’s eyes on him, marking his amusement for some future act of petty vengeance. Well, let him try, Rudi thought. Littman’s complement far outweighed any fear he might have had of the bully, at least for now, and Katzenjammer had a short attention span. By the time they met again he’d no doubt be carrying an equally petty grudge against someone else.

  “Can you tell what that stain is?” the sergeant asked Gunther. The forester examined the hairs and the faint discolouration of the leaves and thorns, which Rudi had noticed before. He was stooping closer than anyone else would have felt comfortable with. At length he leaned back.

  “Looks like blood,” he said at last. “But it smells… wrong. Tainted.”

  “Well I suppose it would,” Littman said. “They’re none too fresh close up, I can tell you.” Most of the militiamen exchanged apprehensive glances, anticipating another long story of past campaigns, but Littman was too professional to be deflected at this point. “Do you think it’s wounded?”

  “No.” Gunther shook his head. “There’s not nearly enough blood for that. It just scratched itself on the thorns as it pushed through, that’s all. Probably didn’t even notice.”

  “Probably not,” Littman agreed. “Their hides are thick enough.”

  Rudi looked again at the stain, and the barbed twig it marked. The discolouration looked slightly bigger somehow, as though it had spread, but surely that was impossible. Despite himself he leaned forward a little. The leaves were wilted along the whole branch, he could see now, as though the blood of the beastman was toxic, poisoning the bush which had dared to wound it. He’d heard something of the sort in stories and travellers’ tales, but somehow seeing it with his own eyes made it harder to believe.

  “Why not get a proper look?” someone asked, shoving him hard between the shoulder blades. With his attention on the puzzle before him he hadn’t noticed the Katzenjammer brothers moving up next to him until it was almost too late. Warned in the nick of time Rudi dropped to one knee, absorbing the impact, and swung his right shoulder down, deflecting the force of his enemy’s blow.

  Taken completely by surprise Hans yelped, stumbled forwards, and sprawled into the bush himself. Loud profanity followed, indicating that the thorns were definitely as sharp as they looked.

  “You pushed him!” Fritz Katzenjammer glared down at Rudi, his fists balled. For a moment the young forester flinched, anticipating a pummelling. But the podgy blond youth was abruptly jerked backwards by a hand round his collar.

  “He did no such thing.” Heinrich Littman glared at the two brothers, while Hans floundered loudly from the embrace of the thorn bush, his face and arms marred by livid scratches. He grabbed the older Katzenjammer with the other hand, and jerked him to his feet. “I’ve had just about enough of your feeble-minded horseplay, Katzenjammer. If you can’t get it into your head that this is serious, I don’t want you around. Get back to the village right now. I’ll deal with the pair of you later.”

  “On our own?” Hans’ cocky facade crumbled, and for a moment he looked truly frightened. Not so much at the prospect of the sergeant’s wrath, which was intimidating enough in itself, but at the sudden realisation that there was almost a league of forest between here and home. A forest which, like all the villagers, he was nervous about at the best of times, and which his imagination was now clearly filling with minions of Chaos lurking behind every bush. “Suppose the beastmen find us?”

  “I should be so lucky.” Littman dropped the two brothers. “Don’t worry. We’ll hear the noise.”

  Hans clearly wanted to say a great deal more, but in the end elected to salvage what dignity he could. Collecting his spear he marched off down the trail without a backward glance, his brother following in his wake as always. As they disappeared Fritz turned his head, catching Rudi’s eye just long enough to mouth a word, which looked like “Later.”

  “Nice move, son.” Gunther helped Rudi to his feet with a grin and a wink, and to his surprise the young forester noticed smiles on the faces of all the men around him. “Couldn’t have done it better myself.”

  Rudi supposed he should have been more worried at the prospect of some future retaliation from the Katzenjammers, but right now, basking in his father’s approval and the apparent respect of Littman and his men, he just couldn’t bring himself to care.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Rudi slipped through the gate in th
e high wooden wall which marked the boundary of the village of Kohlstadt. Stoutly constructed of logs from the forest it looked sturdy enough, and the gate itself, twice as high as a man, seemed reassuringly solid. One half of the gate was closed already, so that the roadway was half its usual width, part of Littman’s precautions he supposed. He wasn’t surprised to see Big Franz and a couple of militiamen standing next to it. Normally the gate would be unattended in the hours of daylight, with a solitary watchman left to guard them at night, but these times were far from normal.

  “Morning, young Walder.” Franz waved a greeting, raising a ham-like hand to the pot helm he’d made for himself as a mark of his authority. A genial man, he was one of the few in the village who habitually treated him with something approaching respect. Today he smiled at the young forester. “Not been treading in any thorn bushes today?” The two men with him laughed, glancing at Rudi with unaccustomed warmth. With a sudden sinking feeling Rudi realised that the tale of his humiliation of Hans Katzenjammer had spread rapidly throughout the militia, no doubt with many embellishments the youth was sure to resent. Well, there was no point worrying about it. He could hardly avoid him more than he’d already intended to, and besides he had business to deal with.

  “I’m not that clumsy,” he responded and trotted away down a familiar street. The comment raised another laugh from the spear-carrying artisans.

  Comfortably situated in the middle of a fertile valley, Kohlstadt had become the obvious location for the weekly market where the peasant farmers from the surrounding smallholdings came to buy and sell their surplus produce. And with the inexorable logic of trade other business had followed. Apart from Franz’s smithy, the village now boasted a couple of weavers, a brewer who kept the tavern well-supplied, and a handful of other tradesmen. And if you wanted anything that couldn’t be made in the vicinity, there was one man who could guarantee to get it for you. So long as the price was right…