Ratboy looked over at the general, stumbling and leaping gaily around the
room. Maybe it was his imagination, but as he studied Gryphius’ round, grinning
face, he thought he could pinpoint a subtle hardness behind his eyes; and
perhaps even a glimmer of fear.
Wolff talked to Luneberg for a little longer, probing him for descriptions of
the surrounding countryside and the nature of Mormius’ army, but the life
seemed to have left the duke, and eventually he rose from the table and gave
them a small bow. “Wake me in the morning, before you leave, and I’ll set you on
the right road,” he yawned.
“But won’t you join us?” asked Anna, her voice full of dismay.
The duke shook his head sadly, as one of Gryphius’ servants took his arm and
began to lead him away. “No, child, it sounds like you have a hard road ahead of
you and my fighting days are long over.” He waved at the ruined hall as he
shuffled away from them. “This seems as good a place as any to meet my end. Good
evening, my friends.”
Wolff and Anna retired to their rooms shortly after, but the tale of Luneberg
and Gryphius haunted Ratboy, and even after a long day’s marching, he felt oddly
restless. Once he was sure his master had no further need for him, he sat on a
stool to watch the duke and his men dancing. The entertainment was short-lived,
though. Tiredness and alcohol gradually overcame the company and one by one they
slumped to the floor. Finally, there was just a single fiddle player, dressed as
a goose and playing a series of discordant notes as he skipped around the room,
leading the duke in a ragged, lurching jig around the hall.
The duke was still drinking heavily as he danced and something about his
desire for oblivion repulsed Ratboy. He wandered out onto the battlements, to
clear his head. As he stepped out into the moonlight he turned his collar up
against the cold and looked down on the sleeping army. Gaudy yellow and black
tents were pitched all over the courtyard and the lights of torches moved back
and forth between them, as the quartermaster and his men prepared for the next
day’s march. The rain had eased to a fine, billowing drizzle, but it quickly
seeped through Ratboy’s clothes, chilling his slender limbs. After a few minutes
he headed back inside to find a corner to curl up in.
As he approached the door, a strange noise caught his
attention and he looked out over the other side of the tower. The scene below
chilled him even more than the rain and the memory of it stayed with him for a
long time afterwards. The penitent villagers from Gotburg were still awake and
had crowded around Raphael’s litter in prayer. They had propped up his twisted,
broken corpse with a stick and as his glassy eyes stared lifelessly out over the
courtyard, they called out to him for guidance and lashed themselves repeatedly
with sticks, mingling their blood with the soft Ostland rain.
They headed west, with the sun at their backs, looking for the war.
Ratboy gazed back over his shoulder at Castle Luneberg, silhouetted against
the dawn glow. He thought he could still just make out the lonely figure of the
duke, with his hand raised in a silent farewell. “What will become of him?” he
muttered, turning to his master.
The priest replied with a hint of irritation in his voice. “What concern is
that of yours? He’s made his choice and we must respect it.” He shrugged his
hammer into a more comfortable position on his back and kept his gaze on the
road ahead. “Such hedonism rarely ends well.”
Gryphius’ army marched behind them, carving a noisy path through the dewy
forest glades, like a fast flowing river of yellow cloth and burnished metal.
Wolff, Anna and Ratboy rode at the head of the column, alongside the general
and his officers. Trailing behind the main force came the flagellants, still
carrying Raphael’s corpse on the slowly disintegrating litter. Ratboy looked
back at them in confusion. “Master,” he said, “the villagers from Gotburg—there seems to be more of them than before.”
Wolff nodded, without turning to face his acolyte. “Such fervour is
infectious. In times such as these, people are forever on the look out for
salvation. Raphael’s new followers are mostly Luneberg’s former servants, plus
some of the injured soldiers who were still hiding out in the castle. I imagine
their numbers will continue to swell as we approach Mercy’s End.”
Ratboy shook his head in amazement, looking at the broken body on the litter.
“But don’t they realise that Raphael has died?”
Wolff looked around with a dangerous glint in his eyes. “Watch your words,
boy. Who knows what they think. Some of them may believe he’s in a trance, and
that he is communicating directly with Sigmar himself. And it may even be that
they see things more clearly than you. The edifying effects of hunger, and
constant pain can have unforeseen results. Who are you to be so mocking of their
faith?” He slowed his horse, until he was riding beside Ratboy. “Such scepticism
does not become you. If you truly wish to enter the priesthood you must
understand how important such fierce belief can be. It’s all too easy to let
physical comfort come between you and religious truth.”
“So you think they might be right?” replied Ratboy, incredulously. “That he
hasn’t thrashed himself to death, he’s just in some kind of holy sleep?”
Wolff shrugged. “My thoughts on the matter are irrelevant. I’ve seen many
things that defy explanation, and have learned enough humility to bite my tongue
rather than make rash judgements. The only thing I’m sure of is the limits of my
own knowledge. My understanding of the spiritual realm is like a single candle,
flickering in the dark. There is much that I cannot see.”
Ratboy blushed and looked away from his master, feeling that he had made a
fool of himself.
Wolff noticed his embarrassment and softened his voice. “There are other
considerations, too. The role of a warrior priest is to ensure the survival of
Sigmar’s heirs and also the survival of His doctrine. Sometimes that relies as
much on tactical thought as it does on revelation. Soon, we’ll need to fight our
way through an army of immense size. From what the duke told me last night,
Mormius’ army numbers in the thousands. And somehow we must slice through that
foul canker to reach von Raukov’s men.”
He looked Ratboy in the eye, lowering his voice even more. “You know that
I’ve had doubts of my own recently. Even I began to question my purpose, Anselm.
After all these years of fruitless, endless war, I had begun to doubt that I
could have any effect.” He pounded his fist against the dull metal of his
breastplate with a hollow
clang.
“But now I
know
I have a duty to
fulfil. My own brother is ahead of us, marching with von Raukov’s army. And I
know now he’s filled with corruption of the worst kind. Who can say what he
intends to do, but I have to find him.” He patted the broad knife wedged in his
belt. “And stop him, somehow.”
He waved his gauntleted hand at the lurching, bloody figures trailing behind
the litter. “I have a suspicion that such fanatical faith will be invaluable. I
can guarantee you that even if every man in Gryphius’ army lay dead around them
those villagers would still be defending their prophet. With their hands and
teeth if they had to.”
After that Ratboy rode in silence, mulling over his master’s words. Was Wolff
saying that Raphael’s followers were inspired, or merely useful? Surely they
were indulging in a kind of idolatry? The litter was strewn with a strange
mixture of objects, all placed there by the flagellants. Mounds of herbs and
berries were draped over the corpse, and sheets of parchment were nailed to the
wood, covered in manically scrawled prayers and poems. Someone had even fastened
a wooden hammer to Raphael’s rigid right hand, which bounced from side to side
as the litter gouged its way along the forest path. Ratboy shivered. He couldn’t
be sure whether he was imagining it or not, but he thought there was a sickly
sweet smell of rotting meat on the breeze, coming from Raphael’s discoloured
flesh.
The morning wore on and Ratboy’s thoughts wandered onto less gruesome
matters. Anna was riding a few horses ahead of him and each time she turned to
give him an encouraging smile, he felt his stomach flip. Since talking to the
duke she had regained a little of her straight-backed dignity and even seemed
eager for the challenge ahead. Ratboy sensed that despite the horror of losing
her matriarch and fellow sisters, there was still a mysterious strength in her.
She fascinated him. Even riding alongside such strutting, feathered popinjays as
Gryphius’ captains, Ratboy found her simple white robe utterly hypnotic. He
followed the cloth as it shifted up and down her pale, slender arms.
With a rush of shame, he noticed that Wolff was studying him intently. He
smiled awkwardly at his master and returned his gaze to the road ahead.
There was a clatter of boots and hooves as the army crossed an old wooden
bridge and left the shelter of the trees for a while, marching out across an
expanse of wide, open grassland that stretched ahead of them for several miles.
The musicians struck up a jaunty tune and danced around the marching troops,
leaping up and down in the tall grass and trailing brightly coloured streamers
behind them as they sang. As the hours wore on, Ratboy grew to hate their piping
whistles and clanging bells. He glared at their painted, bestial masks, willing
them to be silent, but their energy seemed boundless.
Gradually, the sun overtook the army and began to descend ahead of them,
causing the soldiers to pull their helmets down a little lower over their faces
and squint as they rode.
“What’s this?” slurred Gryphius as a rider headed back towards him out of the
sunset. The general’s face was flushed from the previous night’s drinking and as
he leant forward in his saddle to see who was approaching, he clutched
protectively at his bloated stomach.
The slender figure of Christoff made his way down the line of men with his
chin lifted haughtily. It looked to Ratboy as though he imagined himself to be
the Emperor himself, inspecting a trooping of the colour. He bowed almost
imperceptibly to the general. “Obermarshall,” he said, “the scouts have spotted
an abandoned farmhouse and they suggest it would make an ideal place to camp
tonight. The owners have all been slaughtered, but not before they dug several
trenches, and fortified the outbuildings, so it will be easily defended.”
“Much good it did the previous occupants,” said Gryphius, trying to smile
through his nausea. “Very well, let’s head for the farm.” He grabbed Christoff’s
puffed sleeve. “Just make sure there’s a reasonable meal waiting for me when I
get there. No more of this northern rubbish. I want something with a little
flavour, not another bucket of grey mud.”
Christoff tipped his plumed hat. “Of course, Obermarshall.”
The army pitched its tents with the quick efficiency of men eager to get
their heads down. As twilight fell over the old farm, Ratboy hunkered down next
to a fire with the other servants, while Wolff and the general’s captains pored
over maps and discussed the impending battle. He stretched his aching limbs out
across the grass with a groan of relief, and as he drifted off to sleep a
strange jumble of images filled his head: Anna’s delicate features morphed and
decayed into Raphael’s greying flesh, before being replaced by his master’s
flashing eyes, scowling down at him from a pulpit.
“Sigmar’s blood,” exclaimed Gryphius, as he reined in his horse and looked
down over the valley below. “Is that an army or a nation?”
A silver thread of sunlight was just beginning to glimmer on the horizon and
as the dawn light grew, it picked out tens of thousands of men, sprawled across
the landscape, carpeting the fields as far as the eye could see in either
direction. Pitched in the centre of the valley were a couple of command tents,
but mostly the soldiers had just fallen where they stopped, sleeping in ditches
and the hollows of trees.
Ratboy grimaced at the sight of the army. It marred the landscape like a
dark, ugly scar. Severed heads dangled from their bloodstained banners and
brutal, iron weapons lay scattered across the grass. A few of the soldiers were
already beginning to rise; pouring filthy water over their greasy manes and
flexing their fur-clad muscles as they looked across the fields towards the
growing dawn.
“Down,” hissed Wolff, steering his horse back away from the brow of the hill
and dismounting. “A few more minutes and we’ll be visible.”
The others followed suit, leading their horses back down the hill and then
crawling back up to the hilltop to peer out through the tall grass at the
marauders.
“That’s it,” said Gryphius, grinning at his captains and pointing past
Mormius’ army to a tall, slender shape on the horizon. It was hard to see
clearly in the half-light, but the general had no doubt as to the building’s
name. “Mercy’s End,” he hissed, drumming his fists against the ground like an
excited child. “It’s the ruined castle that Luneberg told us about.
That’s
Ostland’s final hope. And we’re just in time to join arms with our northern
brothers, before they make their last stand.” He turned to Wolff. “We must
strike now while the enemy are still rising. We could slaughter half of them in
their sleep. It’s all they deserve, the filthy blasphemers.”
Wolff shook his head. “There are so many of them,” he muttered, clenching and
unclenching his gauntleted hands as he looked down on the monstrous shapes.
“We’d never make it through them all.” He signalled for the others to crawl back
down the hill. Once they were sure it was safe they climbed to their feet.
Gryphius’ captains all looked to Wolff for his guidance, a little unnerved by
the brittle grin on their general’s face.