Erasmus’ face drained of colour, as he finally realised the nature of the
man he had been treating. “Y-Yes, of course,” he stammered, rushing from the
room.
Surman’s feverish mind was still lurching in and out of reality as he
staggered into the Bull’s Head. He peered uncertainly into the lounge of the
tavern and flinched at the sight of the jostling figures moving through the
smoky candlelight. Most of the villagers were crowded around a huge inglenook
fireplace, warming themselves against the cold, drizzly evening that was tapping
against the mullioned windows. They were simple farmers and woodsmen mostly, but
to Surman, the raging fire seemed to be melting the flesh from their faces,
dripping rubbery strings of skin into their tankards. His stomach turned at the
sight and he felt his legs starting to give way. He spotted a chair in a dark
corner and collapsed into it, his head spinning. He closed his eyes for a few
moments and tried to calm his breathing.
“Is everything alright, sir?” someone asked.
Surman opened his eyes to see a barrel-chested man, clearly built from the
same mould as Bertram. He had a long, greying beard though, and from his apron
and the empty tankards in his hands, Surman guessed he was the innkeeper.
“No,” muttered Surman, pulling himself up in his seat and sneering at the
man. “No, it is not. My wretched servant is staying at your fleapit of an inn
and every penny he’s spending is pilfered from my purse.”
The innkeeper’s face flushed with anger, but he refrained from acknowledging
Surman’s insult. “What name’s he travelling under?”
Surman grimaced as he noticed the man’s skin growing translucent, revealing
the pulsing organs and arteries beneath. He shook his head and looked again, to
find the hallucination had passed. “The useless dog is called Adelman.”
The innkeeper gave a brusque nod and stormed away.
Adelman had once been a stevedore, working on the docks in Altdorf. His neck
was as thick as a tree trunk and his arms were like knotted steel, but Surman
had often wondered if he might have taken a blow to the head in his youth. As he
rushed through the busy inn towards Surman’s table, his mouth was hung open with
the same perpetual look of slack-jawed confusion he always wore. “Master,” he
exclaimed, dropping to his knees at Surman’s feet and hugging his legs. As he
did this, his broad shoulders connected with the next table and sent it toppling
over, scattering empty jugs and plates across the dusty floor.
“Watch yourself, you oaf,” hissed Surman, batting his servant around the head
until he loosed his legs and looked up at him. It always seemed to Surman that
Adelman’s features had fallen into the middle of his face somehow. His eyes were
nestled too close together, on either side of a small snub nose, surrounded by a
vast expanse of cheekbone. And as he smiled, Adelman revealed a row of gleaming,
tombstone teeth.
“You’re not dead,” he said in a bass rumble.
“Quick witted as ever, I see,” muttered Surman. “Are my things safe?”
Adelman nodded eagerly. “They’re locked in my room. Shall I fetch them?”
Surman shook his head. “If you’ve not spent all of my money on these
luxurious lodgings, would you be so good as to fetch me some food first?”
As Adelman rushed enthusiastically off to the bar, Surman tried again to take
in his surroundings. Seeing a familiar face, even one as ridiculous as
Adelman’s, had reassured him a little, and he felt his grasp on reality
tightening. Maybe the priest’s poison was finally wearing off? The woodsmen and
labourers gathered round the fire were little more than shifting silhouettes,
but from the raucous sound of their laughter, he could tell they had been
drinking for hours. Harvest time was long past, and the woodsmen probably spent
as little time in the forest as possible these days. Around the edges of the
long, rectangular lounge, various other groups were huddled in the shadows,
telling tales of the war and attempting to lift each other’s spirits for a
while.
The only group he could see clearly was sat at a table directly opposite.
Several young farmhands were crowded eagerly around an older woman, who was
obviously delighted with all the attention. She was dressed in a gaudy array of
flowery silks and cheap trinkets, and every now and then she would lift her
heavily made-up face to the beamed ceiling and burst into trilling song. She was
obviously some kind of entertainer and by her odd, lilting accent, Surman
guessed that she was not from the province.
As he waited for his food, Surman found himself listening along with the
spellbound youths as she spoke.
“Obermarshall Hugo von Gryphius is the kind of man who appreciates the charms
of an older woman,” she said, batting her lashes and pursing her scarlet lips,
as her audience erupted into a chorus of laughter and lewd comments. “But not
only that,” she continued, adopting a more serious expression. “He appreciates
the arts in all their forms. He employs actors and musicians from every corner
of the Old World.” She leant across the table, distracting the boys with a brief
display of her cleavage. “In fact, he wrote to the academy at Kleinberg,
personally requesting my presence in his entourage.”
“But what’s this ‘Obermarshall’ doing in Ostland?” asked one of the
farmhands.
“He sees warfare as just another one of the great arts,” she explained. “He
heard that your province was battling against a terrible foe, and he was eager
to join the performance.”
The farmhands’ laughter stalled as they recalled the war. “I’m not sure it
will be as much fun as he imagines,” muttered one, taking a deep swig of his
ale.
Adelman reappeared with a plate of nondescript meat and some grey bread.
Surman grimaced at it, before starting to shovel down the hot food. Adelman
began to speak, but Surman signalled for him to be silent and continued
listening to the singer.
“So why are you no longer travelling with his army, then?” asked another
youth.
The singer curled her lip with distaste. “He found another distraction.” She
cried with disbelief. “A priestess of Shallya no less.”
Surman paused, with a fork of steaming offal hovering near his mouth.
“A priestess?” exclaimed one of the farmhands. “What kind of entertainment is
he expecting from her?”
The boys all burst into hysterical laughter, and the singer had to raise her
voice to be heard. “He’s obsessed with her, for some reason.” She shook her
head. “And she hasn’t even got any hair!”
This last comment was greeted with such howls of laughter that even the
innkeeper looked over to see what was so funny.
“What happened to her hair?” asked one of the farmhands.
“Well, apparently, she fell foul of some kind of witch hunter and he tried to
burn her to death.”
The farmhands’ laughter tailed off again at the mention of a witch hunter.
Their guffaws became quiet chuckles as they wiped the tears from their eyes.
Surman was already struggling to his feet as the woman continued. “Some
warrior priest rescued her, but not before her golden locks had been burned
clean off. She was called Anna something.”
“Fleck,” snapped Surman, staggering up to the table and slamming his hands
down on the gnarled wood.
“Eh, what’s your game, mister?” cried the woman in surprise.
“Watch it,” growled the largest of the farmhands, as they all rose to their
feet and stepped between Surman and the woman. “Just who might you be?”
Surman managed to stand erect and jabbed a bony finger into the lad’s chest.
“I’m the witch hunter you were just discussing.” He pulled open the black robes
Erasmus had loaned him, to reveal the hammer burnt across his flesh.
The youths fell silent and backed away from him, suddenly feeling very sober.
“There’s no reason to get yourself all worked up, mister.”
“I’ve done nothing wrong,” cried the woman, with a note of panic rising in
her voice, as her audience all dissolved into the shadows.
Surman gave her what he imagined was a reassuring smile and gestured to her
chair. “Please, don’t be alarmed,” he said, sitting down next to her. “I just
wanted to ask you a couple of questions.”
The woman’s face was pale with fear as she looked around the inn for help.
The drunken farmers had started singing, however, and no one had noticed her
predicament.
“Adelman,” snapped Surman, “fetch the lady another glass of wine.”
Once they were both seated, Surman took the woman’s hand. “Am I right,” he
asked, “was the priestess called Anna Fleck?”
The woman was wide-eyed with terror as she replied. “Yes, I think so.” She
shook her head urgently. “I had little to do with her though. I was simply
employed as a dancer for von Gryphius. The priestess has been travelling with
him for the last week or so, and I just asked her how she lost her hair.”
Surman nodded, and squeezed her hand a little tighter. “Is she still riding
with von Gryphius?” he asked, looking hungrily into the woman’s eyes.
“She was, as of this morning. I think they had planned to leave her at some
kind of temple, before they encounter the enemy, but when they got there, the
temple was already destroyed. When I last saw her, she seemed to have lost all
reason. There’s an important priest of some kind with her—a warrior priest, by
the look of his armour—and she rides on the back of his horse now. She doesn’t
even speak, or eat, or anything. She just clings on to the priest in silence as
the army heads north.” The woman eased her hand from Surman’s and frowned. “I’m
not sure she’s long for this world, to be honest.”
Surman allowed himself a little chuckle. “You’re right about that, if nothing
else.” He slicked his long, lank hair into a side parting and looked at the
woman thoughtfully. “There’s just one more thing,” he said, “do you have any
idea where they’re headed?”
“Von Gryphius?” The woman shook her head. “Well, north, looking for the
enemy, but that could mean anywhere.”
“Think,” urged Surman, with a hint of menace in his voice. “It’s very
important. I must find this woman.”
The singer looked up at the ceiling, desperately trying to think of a place
name. “Oh, wait!” she exclaimed, grabbing Surman’s hand. “I heard von Gryphius
mention a friend. An old countryman of his. He wanted to visit his castle as
they marched north. They were headed that way when I left them. It’s somewhere
north of Lubrecht.” Her face lit up in a triumphant smile. “His name was Casper
von Luneberg. That’s where they were headed—to Castle Luneberg!”
Surman leant back in his chair with a satisfied nod. Then, after a few
minutes, he gave the singer a questioning look. “Did you say you spoke with
Anna?” he asked, signalling for Adelman to approach the table. “What exactly
would a dancer have to discuss with a sorceress?” He gave her a wolfish grin, as
he lifted a long knife from his servant’s belt. “Unless, of course, the two of
you had something in common.”
Von Gryphius’ soldiers grimaced and pulled their thin, silk cloaks a little
tighter as they rode into the bitter north. For the last week, the only change
in the monotonous weather had been from cold, miserable rain to cold, miserable
sleet. A grey mist lay over the tree-lined hills and the sun was no more than a
silver ghost, hovering nervously behind mountainous clouds.
At the head of the long column of grumbling men, the general raised a
gauntleted hand to shield his eyes against the fierce downpour and squinted down
at the figure running beside him. His adjutant was jogging by the side of his
warhorse, slipping through the mud and trying not to drop a silver tray piled
high with small pastries. Gryphius puffed out his flabby cheeks in disgust,
straining to be heard over the sound of the rain as it pinged off his winged
helmet. “I
am
making allowances, Christoff, but it’s not even fit for the
dogs.” He spat a mouthful into the mud. “Is there even any sugar on there?”
There was no hint of emotion in Christoff’s reply. “I believe the pastry chef
thought the raspberry jam would add sufficient sweetness, milord. Would you like
to try one of the custard tartlets?”
“What’s the point?” cried Gryphius in despair. He waved at the sodden
musicians to his left. The ears of their animal costumes had drooped in the
downpour and they made a pathetic sight as they tooted tunelessly on their
waterlogged instruments. “No one seems to be prepared to make any effort today.”
“I’ll ask Chef to try again,” said Christoff, turning to leave.
“Wait,” cried Gryphius, shaking his head and grabbing a few pastries. “I need
to eat
something
this morning.”
As the general chomped unhappily on his mushy breakfast, a horse broke ranks
and trotted up alongside his. Its thin, hooded rider leant over to speak to him.
“Will we reach Castle Luneberg today, Obermarshall?”
For a few seconds the general did not reply, pouting instead at the pastry
disintegrating in his hand. “This has never been near a raspberry,” he muttered
to himself, before realising he was being addressed. “Ah, Ratboy,” he replied
finally. “Your province gives quite a welcome to its would-be rescuers,” he
laughed, waving at the rain. “It’s enough to make one feel quite unwanted.”
Ratboy shrugged. “I’m afraid this is quite normal for this far north,
Obermarshall. It’s only going to get worse as we approach the Sea of Claws.”
The general gave him a pastry and a smile. “You should come with me to
Averheim some time, my boy, and get a bit of southern sun on those pallid cheeks
of yours.” He washed his tart down with some sherry and waved the bottle vaguely
at the waterlogged landscape. “Casper’s letter said he was just a few miles
north of here. Next to a small town, called Ruckendorf. It should be somewhere
around here.” He looked up at the rolling clouds. “If it hasn’t sunk, that is.”
His eyes misted over as he remembered his old friend. “In his youth, Casper was
a very promising poet, you know. Back in Averheim, the name of von Luneberg was
often heard in the highest echelons of polite society.” An unusual note of
regret entered his voice. “It’s strange the way things sometimes work out.”