CHAPTER EIGHT

The witch hunters rode with the wild joy of the unleashed. Their nerves had been stretched as taut as bowstrings during the wasted days at the inn, and they galloped for the sense of release as much as anything.

Vaught led the column. His hood billowed out behind him, and the autumnal breeze chilled his shaved head even as it made his scars burn. Together with the sting of tears in his eyes and the strain of staying astride his galloping horse, it was a fine sensation. It was good to be alive, good to be doing what his god had made him to do.

Usually, he would have avoided using his horses and men so hard. Only a fool arrived at a battle exhausted, but he knew that the wizard must be days ahead of them. There would be enough time for rest at night, he’d decided. Until then, all they needed was speed.

The branches of the trees whipped past above him, and the foliage on either side of the road blurred. He didn’t stand a chance of spotting the rope that had been stretched across the road.

The first the column knew of the primitive trap was when Vaught’s horse tripped and fell, hurtling forwards onto the rutted earth.

The witch hunter snatched his feet from the stirrups as the horse collapsed beneath him, and vaulted from the saddle before it could catch him beneath its weight. He hit the ground hard, the smack of the impact driving the air out of him in a sickening rush, and rolled away from the thrashing hoofs.

Blinking tears from his eyes, the witch hunter struggled to his feet, staggered to one side, and then fell again. He looked down in time to see the rope that had tripped him.

It stretched across the track, as thick as his wrist and as strong as any hawser. Before he could shout a warning, the rest of the troop was upon it. The screaming of horses and the cries from his men ended in the thud of more bodies hitting the ground. There was a snap as loud as a firecracker, and a horse started screaming with the pain of a broken leg.

Vaught drew his sword and looked at the confusion into which his galloping column had fallen. At least five horses were down. Three were struggling back to their feet, whilst the fourth lay writhing on the ground. Some of the riders dodged amongst them, grabbing at bridles before they could bolt. Others remained where they had fallen.

The rest of the column had shuddered to a halt. They milled around in confusion. Vaught opened his mouth to shout for a remount when he noticed the stink that pervaded this part of the forest.

It was as sharp as an Altdorfian sewer, and as sweet as rotten fish. It greased the air so thickly that Vaught, already winded, felt a fist of nausea clench inside his stomach.

He was still fighting the urge to vomit when Peik shouted the first warning.

“To the left!” he yelled, his voice breaking. “To the left!”

Vaught followed the sword that the young man was waving towards the darkness of the forest. At first, he could see nothing, but that didn’t matter. He didn’t have to see anything. He could hear the unseen enemy as, with the sudden speed of an avalanche, they stampeded from out of the depths of the forest.

Vaught, his discomfort forgotten, vaulted into the empty saddle of somebody else’s horse and called his men to order.

“Face left,” he bellowed at them. They turned as neatly as if this rutted track had been a parade ground. Vaught turned to the nearest of them.

“Cut that rope,” he said, pointing to the hawser that had been stretched across the road.

“Yes, captain,” the man said, and drew a knife.

The noise of the approaching enemy had grown to a storm of thundering hooves and crashing branches. Birds rose screeching above the forest canopy, their panicked flight marking the extent of the enemies’ line.

“Rope’s cut, captain,” a voice shouted.

“Good,” Vaught said, eyes narrowing as he peered into the darkness that lay between the trees.

“Shall we withdraw?”

Back in the saddle, steel drawn and his face to the enemy, Vaught hadn’t even considered the option. Now he did. Their mission was more important than dealing with forest bandits. What price a few brigands’ scalps compared to a wizard’s head?

Before he could make a decision, the first of the attackers appeared from between the trees. At the sight of them, all thoughts of retreat vanished from Vaught’s mind. There could be no running, no compromise or withdrawal.

There could be no conclusion at all, except complete annihilation.

The horrors that were erupting from the tangled forest were no mere bandits. They were something infinitely worse. Their forms were a grim parody of the human, but there was no humanity about them.

Nor was there the honest appearance of true animals. Although their faces were as thickly snouted as those of bulls, no bulls Vaught had ever seen sported such fangs. Neither did true animals run on two legs, or have eyes that glimmered with such an insane intelligence.

And no animals, Vaught decided, had ever stunk of such abomination.

For a moment, he was blinded with rage at the blasphemy of their very existence. Shaking the emotion off, he turned to his men, listening to their muttered curses and whispered prayers. Here and there, a horse whinnied with fear, and the riders shifted uneasily.

“Wait for my signal,” Vaught snarled, and turned his attention back to the nearest of the things. Despite the undergrowth, it was charging forwards at an incredible speed, the massive axe it bore slashing through any obstructions it couldn’t vault.

Vaught had no doubt that this monstrosity was their leader. The spread of its horns was wider than his own chest, and when it threw back its head to roar its challenge even the trees shook.

Then, with a sound that was as chilling as the snap of a hangman’s noose, the cry was answered from behind the witch hunters.

Vaught turned in time to see the second wave closing in from their rear, and from the corner of his eye he could see more dark shapes pouring onto the road ahead to block their escape.

So many, he thought with something approaching awe, such an enemy.

“Company ready,” he cried, pointing towards the forest with his sword.

In the gloom, there were roots that threatened to break their horses’ legs, branches that jutted out as thickly as pikes, potholes and shale.

So be it, Vaught decided, if the enemy had left a weak point in their encirclement, then it would be here.

If they hadn’t, it made no difference anyway.

“For Sigmar.” The cry tore itself from his chest and, with a snarl that was almost a grin, he drove his heels into his horse’s flank and thundered into the slaughter.

Kerr had been sorry to see the witch hunters gallop away. Of course, after a lifetime spent in Altdorf’s gutters, he hated them on general principles. Too many of his acquaintances had sizzled on bonfires for him to trust Sigmar’s fanatics: too many of his acquaintances, and few enough of the fat burghers who paid the witch hunters’ wages.

Even so, he missed the grim faced men. In this vast wilderness, their brutal pragmatism didn’t seem so unreasonable, and after what Titus had done to the bandits, neither did their loathing of magic.

As the carriage creaked along the forest path, Kerr considered the practice of such magic. He considered it carefully. It was something that he had been doing ever since the wizard had made his offer. And what an offer it had been.

Kerr was deep in thought when the first sounds of battle cut through his reverie.

He brought the carriage to a halt and stood, listening to the confused rumours of galloping hoofs and pain-filled cries that came from the road ahead.

“What is it?”

Titus’ voice was loud enough to make Kerr jump.

“Don’t know, boss,” he replied, sitting back down and gesturing ahead, “something down the road. I can hear something.”

Titus pulled his head back in the window and a moment later stepped out onto the track. He stood there in silence, his head to one side as he listened.

A particularly shrill scream drifted through the forest, and the fat man scowled.

“This is most inconvenient,” he decided.

“You don’t think that the witch hunters have found the necromancer, do you?” Kerr asked.

“I doubt it,” Titus shook his head with such confidence that his jowls wobbled. “Not them. When all’s said and done, the fool Grendel is still a wizard, trained in our art. Even weakened, he’d be more than a match for that bunch of thugs.”

Kerr listened to the pride in his master’s voice. He suddenly found himself wondering what would happen if the witch hunters had found Grendel. Whose side would he find himself on?

“Perhaps we should wait here,” he suggested. “Wait until they’re finished fighting, whoever they are.”

A rumble that sounded more like the stampeding of cattle than the charge of horses vibrated through the soles of Titus’ feet. He frowned, curiosity furrowing his brows.

“Whoever or whatever,” he mused, “but no, we can’t waste any more time. If we grind to a halt at every little disturbance, we’ll never make it to Praag. We’ll go on.”

Kerr looked unhappy.

“You don’t think we should wait?”

The wizard shook his head as he climbed back into the carriage.

“Don’t worry,” he said, worryingly. “If we run into any trouble I will protect you. It is a great thing indeed to be a wizard of the Grey College.”

He gave Kerr a meaningful glance before clambering back up into the carriage. The horses, taking this as their signal, walked on.

Kerr’s thoughts turned back to Titus’ offer. Then he thought about dropping from the carriage and heading back to town.

Then he laughed bitterly.

What town was there to head back to? He wouldn’t survive the night, alone and on foot, and even if he did survive, what life would await his return? Penniless, friendless, landless: only a fool would regard returning to that as escape, and Kerr was no fool.

“So, it’s ever onwards,” Kerr told the horses. “Ever onwards, and may Sigmar smile upon us.”

His heart lifted with the decision, and he almost forgot himself enough to drive the carriage team into an unaccustomed trot.

He had decided to take Titus up on his offer after all.

Vaught’s thighs burned with the effort of keeping his horse gripped between his knees. The beast leapt through the crowding trees with the elegance of a dancer, his iron shod hooves glistening red in the darkness.

“To me!” the witch hunter bellowed, turning back to examine the carnage he had left behind him. His shoulder was still numb from the blow with which he had decapitated the first of the abominations, and blood dripped from the wounds on his arms.

Compared to the fate that had befallen so many of his comrades, though, such injuries were nothing.

“To me!” he cried again, lifting his notched and bloodied sword above his head. It gleamed as red as Morrslieb in the forest gloom.

The remains of the enemy line, scattered between here and the road, looked at him uncertainly, but there was no uncertainty amongst the surviving witch hunters. They raced to gather around their captain. Some of them, their horses slaughtered by the foe or crippled by the tangled roots, had to run.

Behind them, they left four dead men, killed before the charge had broken the encirclement. Their tender flesh was already proving too great a temptation for the cursed folk of this place. The slithering, ripping sound of raw flesh being devoured already whispered through the undergrowth. The fact that it was still warm obviously added to its savour.

“Look at what they’re doing!” Peik wailed. Despite the blood that dripped from his well-used sword, he sounded impossibly young, a child in a man’s body.

“They will pay in time,” Vaught told him. In truth, he was almost glad to see the unholy feast. The second wave of attackers had already reached the hungry ranks of their fellows, but instead of continuing the attack they had paused, eager to join the feasting.

Even as Vaught watched, a fight broke out between two of the creatures. In the resultant snarl of combat something was torn between their two sets of teeth; something that looked like an arm.

“Captain.”

Vaught tore his eyes away from the spectacle and found Fargo beside him.

“What is it?”

“We should go. We have a mission to complete.”

“What do you mean?” Peik interrupted, his voice high pitched with outrage. “Look at what they’re doing to… to Karl. We have to avenge him.”

There was a murmur of agreement.

“Well, whatever we’re going to do, we have to do it soon,” Fargo decided. “They’ll have finished with the dead soon enough, and then it will be our turn.”

“Only if Sigmar wills it,” Peik exclaimed.

Vaught cut short their discussion. He had reached his decision.

“We will ride in a loop back to the road,” he said. “The two dismounted men will ride with Bort and Gaspar, and Bort and Gaspar will lead the column. Fargo and I will form a rearguard, and be sure,” he said as the dismounted men rolled up behind their comrades, “that after we have completed our mission we will return to avenge our comrades.”

“Captain…” Peik began to complain, but the men were already trotting deeper into the forest, eager to be away from the stinking horde, which was already swarming behind them.