The riders followed the path deep into the forest. Now, at last, there were
clear signs of habitation. Neatly stacked piles of stones and hewn logs, the
wheel from a cart, the debris of everyday living. Nothing out of the ordinary,
but Stefan had the sense that all was far from well. Soon they could smell it:
the slightly sweet scent of wood-smoke mixed with something else: the sharper
odour of charred or burning meat, a smell that was becoming thicker and more
pungent by the moment.
Bea had sensed it too. “This isn’t right,” she said, her voice small and
anxious.
Stefan made no reply, but he was now certain his fears were justified. There
was something very wrong here. Soon they came to the first building, its shape emerging out of a smoky mist woven
around the trees. Sturdily built from thick-cut stone, the house had probably
stood for a hundred years and might well stand for a hundred more. But it was a
home no longer. The walls were blackened, scorched by the fire, and yellow
tongues of flame still licked across what remained of its brushwood roof. The
single door hung open, a gaping, broken mouth.
Further along they came upon a second burned out shell, and then a third. In
front of the fourth house they found the first body, lying face down upon the
forest path. A dark red bloom was spreading from a wound in the man’s back.
Stefan climbed down and turned the body over. The dead man was of middle years,
with solid, weather-tanned features. Dead, vacant eyes stared up at Stefan. If
the man had ever been armed, then his weapon had been taken from him. He had not
died in battle. This was murder.
The toll of death mounted as they neared the centre of the village. The
bodies were not soldiers or mercenaries. They were farmers, simple labourers.
Men dressed in peasant smocks, some still clutching the tools of their trades:
pitchforks, spades or hunting knives. Tools they had used to mount a last,
futile defence against their executioners.
There were perhaps a dozen more houses in the village. All had been
destroyed, all surrendered to the flames. At the heart of the village the trees
had been cut down to make a small clearing, a patch of bare earth barely big
enough to call a square. In the centre of the clearing was a neat stone chapel,
and inside the chapel they found the women and children.
Bea turned away, covering her face with her hands. Bruno left Stefan alone
for a moment or two, standing in the doorway of the desecrated shrine.
“How many?” he asked at last. Stefan turned to face him, pulling the door to
the chapel closed behind him.
“Twenty, maybe more,” he said, his voice subdued.
Stefan imagined their terror as the attackers closed in. Imagined them
praying for Sigmar to spare them, or for their tormentors to show them some
small vestige of mercy.
“Are they all—” Bea began. “I mean are there any—”
Bruno shook his head. The chapel had become a tomb. “None survived,” he said.
“Whoever was here made quite certain of that.”
“It looks like the village has been plundered,” Stefan observed. “Food,
provisions. Anything of any use taken.”
“A raid, then. But why destroy the whole village into the bargain?” Bruno
asked.
Bea shivered. “It looks like some cruel punishment,” she said.
“Cruel indeed,” Stefan agreed. Cruel, and methodical.
Across the village the fires still crackled, otherwise a silence, almost
serene in its totality, hung over the place. Stefan moved away from Bruno, and
sat alone upon the bed of an abandoned cart, staring at the ruins in silence.
When at last he looked round, Bea was seated next to him.
“This is a terrible thing,” she began, then hesitated. “It touches something
for you, doesn’t it? Something buried deep. A deep, terrible sorrow.”
Stefan raised his head, and looked at Bea intently, taking in her features.
She was young, but there was a wisdom there that outweighed her years.
“Do you know me that well already?”
“I have a power of healing,” she said. “To heal, you must be able to know
pain.”
She met his gaze steadily, waiting patiently for whatever answer Stefan might
give.
“I came from a place like this,” he said at last. “A small village. A place
far away, in Kislev. It was a simple life, not much to it. But people worked
hard, and they looked after each other. It was enough. Then, one day, raiders
came—savage riders from Norsca. They came, and when they’d left, there wasn’t
any village anymore. I was eleven years old.”
“Your family,” Bea said. “Were they all…”
“My brother and I survived,” Stefan said. He smiled, briefly. “Mikhal’s a
merchant now, back in Altdorf. But our father died along with all the others,
defending the village. They were just ordinary, hard-working people. Fishermen,
not warriors. But they fought just the same, fought to save their village, their
home. They fought, and they died. Just like they died here.”
He scanned the smoking ruins. “You asked me why I have to keep searching until
we’ve found the man we’re looking for. This is why,” he said. “My life changed
forever on that day. That was the day I made my vow to avenge my father, and all
those who had suffered like him.”
He lifted his head, and looked around at the smoking ruins of the village.
“Whoever did this,” he said, “we’ll find them. Find them and make them pay.”
He stepped forward, and ran the length of his hand across the facade of the
chapel, just above the door. The brick was charred and blackened, but, carved
into the pitted surface, a single word was still legible.
“Grunwald,” Stefan spoke the word softly, with reverence. “Remember that
name,” he told Bea. “Hold it in your heart. For that is all that remains of this
village now.”
Bruno appeared, running back towards the chapel from the trees at the edge of
the village. “Stefan,” he called out, breathlessly. “Come and have a look at
this.”
It was another body, all but hidden in the long grass on the edge of the
village. The body was burnt, so badly charred as to be almost beyond
recognition. Bruno had thought at first it was another of the villagers. But it
was not a villager. In fact, as Stefan now clearly saw, it wasn’t even human.
“Sigmar protect us,” Bea said, quietly. “A mutant.”
Stefan raked through the ashes with his sword. The charred remains gave off a
pungent, rancid smell, and where not totally burnt, the flesh was a grey-green
in colour. Whatever the creature was, it had once been human. But twisted horns
protruded from what was left of its skull, and the creature’s single remaining
eye was a disc of sickly yellow.
“That’s our answer then,” Bruno said grimly. “This is what happened to
Grunwald. Some consolation at least that the villagers managed to destroy one of
the vermin that attacked them.”
“There must be others,” Stefan said. “The rest of the mutants can’t be far.”
“There are tracks,” Bruno told Stefan. “Horses’ hooves, heading away from the
village. They look pretty recent to me.”
“How many?” Stefan asked.
“Hard to be sure, but at least half a dozen.”
Stefan said a silent prayer for the dead of the village and climbed back into
the saddle.
“You might want to think about staying here for now,” he said to Bea. “We have
to go after the mutants.”
But Bea was already back on her horse, following Bruno out towards the woods.
“I’d rather take my chances with you than stay here alone. Besides,” she added,
“you may have need of me before long.”
“Wait a minute,” Stefan caught up with the other horse and took hold of the
reins, bringing the animal to a halt. “Whatever we’re about to get into, it’s
going to be dangerous,” he said. “You’ll need something to protect yourself at
the very least. Here,” he slid a blade from the saddlebag slung at the side of
his horse. “Take this. It’s light enough to wield, and it could save your life.”
The healer looked at the blade held out before her and seemed, Stefan
thought, to back away from it. “It’s all right,” she replied at last. She patted
a side pocket with the flat of her hand. “I carry my own weapon,” she said. “One
I’m used to. I’ll be fine with that.”
Stefan was unconvinced, and looked towards Bruno. His comrade turned his
horse back on to the path. “We need to get moving,” he urged. “They already have
a head start on us. Don’t worry,” he said to Bea. “We’ll see you safe.”
She smiled. “I know you will,” she said. “Come on. Bruno’s right. We need to
get going.”
They followed the tracks through to the far side of the wood and back out
onto the open plain. By now day had given way to night, the two moons shining
like ghostly orbs through a thin curtain of mist spread low across the empty
land. The hoof prints they were following cut a trail across the thin grass then
disappeared abruptly as the grass gave way to stone.
“We’ve lost them,” Bruno declared. Stefan searched the desolate landscape,
looking for any clue left by the riders. Just when it seemed their pursuit was to end in frustration, a shout rang out
across the plain. A shout, followed by two long notes on a hunting horn.
The three riders raced towards the sound, closing the distance between them
and their quarry. The horn sounded again, two, three more times. Soon they could
hear voices and the unmistakable sound of clashing steel. Stefan had no idea
exactly what they were riding into, what kind of men or monsters they were about
to encounter, or how many. But at the moment that didn’t matter. After weeks of
futile searching they had found a purpose again. The creatures who destroyed the
village would not elude them now.
The mist had thickened to a choking fog, snuffing out all light from the
moons. Stefan could barely see Bruno riding five yards ahead of him. Then, out
of the gloom, came the outline of a horseman riding hard towards them, his
progress marked by a flaming torch held low by his side.
Stefan felt his heart pounding in his chest as his body tensed itself for the
coming battle. Moonlight glinted on polished steel as he drew his sword from out
of its scabbard. Had the other rider not seen them? If he had, the sight of
Stefan and Bruno closing in upon him had given him cause to vary neither his
course nor the thunderous pace of his horse. Inevitably, the thought flashed
through Stefan’s mind: could it be him?
The possibility vanished almost as quickly as it appeared. Too small, too
lightly built. This was not Alexei Zucharov. But if this horseman had been with
those who had ridden into the village of Grunwald, then Stefan would kill him
all the same.
“Hold fast,” he shouted to Bruno. “Here he comes!”
At the last moment the other rider looked up, and seemed to see Stefan and
the others as if for the first time. He called out, words that were lost in the
wind. But as Stefan swung his sword, ready to aim the first strike, he heard
Bruno call-out to him.
“Don’t strike, Stefan!”
Stefan pulled back from the blow, and the rider thundered past. There was a
flash of vivid red, and a shouted cry.
Stefan now saw the ugly gash that was causing the rider to clutch his side
just below his ribs. Blood was flowing freely from the wound, all but invisible
against the bright scarlet tunic that he wore over his chainmail vest. A moment
later the rider lost control of his horse and tumbled from the saddle onto the
ground.
The rider lay, groaning in pain, then twisted his body round to look up at
Stefan and Bruno. The look of anguish in his face suggested he was unsure
whether they were going to attack him or not, but his strength was all but
spent. He sagged forward, clutching feebly at the fallen torch with one hand,
and pointing back the way he had come with the other.
Just in time, Stefan heard the heavy pounding of horses, riding in hard
pursuit. The beasts and their riders materialised out of nowhere to appear on
the path ahead of them. These were the living, breathing incarnations of the
body left behind in the village. Stefan thrust out his sword to fend off a blow.
Somewhere to his left he heard Bruno cry out, and the sound of metal slicing the
air. In the next moment four—no, five—riders streaked past them, creatures
clearly marked by the hand of Chaos. They rode upon hideous, altered steeds:
horses with cloven hooves and eyes that glowed like burning coals.
The mutants thundered past, disappearing into the fog. The drumming of hooves
receded, then grew louder again, beating a pounding tattoo upon the hard earth.
“Get ready!” Stefan shouted. “They’re coming back.”
This time he was ready for them, but the mutants rode with astonishing speed.
His blade cut nothing but thin air, but the answering blow found its mark, razor
sharp steel cutting a line across Stefan’s cheek. As the riders sped past he had
a fleeting glimpse of a gaunt, bloodless face, and an arm that looked more like
the claw of a crab. Then they were gone again, melted into the murky gloom.
Stefan heard the hooves recede, then turn to launch yet another assault.
Blood from the cut on his cheek dribbled into his mouth, a warm, metallic
taste of mortality. Stefan spat and cursed. Again the pounding beat of onrushing
hooves. Stefan held his nerve as the hideous riders bore down upon them yet again, at the last
possible moment striking out with his sword. He made only glancing contact,
unseating one rider from its monstrous steed.
The mutant bellowed its rage at Stefan. It had the body and features of a
man, but the pale, almost translucent flesh of one arm tapered off into a curved
claw-like blade where the hand should have been. The sinuous limb flexed and
lashed at Stefan, the claw-end missing his face by inches. Stefan pressed home
his attack. Still the mutant fought back, coiling and unleashing the
tentacle-like limb in a single movement. Stefan met the blow and cut cleanly
through the creature’s arm, severing the lethal claw. The mutant pulled away,
but Stefan blocked its retreat and aimed another blow square into the creature’s
neck. A gout of dark blood sprayed from the creature’s mouth, and the mutant
crumpled upon the ground.