Helwyg strained his neck to look at the distant banner and grinned. “Priest
has priestly friends?” he asked, hobbling after Wolff and clutching at his
burnished armour.
Wolff gave a brusque nod. “It’s unusual to see Knights Griffon so far from
Altdorf,” he said.
“Knights Griffon?” asked Ratboy.
Wolff gave a sigh of annoyance at being asked so many questions. “Yes,
Knights Griffon. They’re closely linked to my own order,” he snapped. “As you
should well know.” At the sight of Ratboy’s blushes, he softened his voice a
little and gestured to the crowds of soldiers that surrounded them. “A familiar
face might be useful if we want to find out what’s happening here.”
As they neared the banner, Ratboy saw flashes of polished steel glinting
between the tents; then, as they turned a final corner, he saw the Knights
Griffon revealed in all their glory. Seemingly blind to the chaos that
surrounded them, the knights were lined up in calm, orderly ranks as their
captain rode slowly between them, carefully inspecting their gleaming armour and
their impressive array of weaponry. Ratboy had never seen such an obvious
display of wealth and power. Everything about the knights, from their polished,
plumed helmets, to the scalloped barding on their destriers, was intricately
worked and lovingly polished. Even the dour Ostland rain only added to the
effect, as it washed over the oiled steel of their visors.
The captain was a grizzled old veteran, whose short, silver beard seemed as
hard and glinting as his fluted helmet. At the sight of Wolff, his leathery face
split into a broad smile and he threw his arms open in greeting. “Brother Jakob
Wolff, as I live and breathe,” he said, with a voice like the rumble of thunder.
“What an unexpected blessing.”
The captain dismounted and the two towering figures embraced with a clatter
of armour. Then they stood back and peered into each other’s faces.
“I seem to remember a little black amongst the grey,” said Wolff, nodding to
the knight’s fringe of silver hair.
“Well, yes, some of us
were
young once, Jakob. Unlike your good self
of course—I’m reliably informed that you left the womb with a shaven head and
the Holy Scriptures in your fist.”
A strange growling noise came from Wolff’s throat and after a few seconds
Ratboy realised it was laughter. It was a sound he’d never heard before and he
turned to Anna with a bemused look on his face.
The priestess rolled her eyes.
“Maximilian von During,” sighed Wolff, visibly relaxing at the sight of his
old friend. “It’s good to see you, Baron. I have much to ask.”
Maximilian dismissed his knights with a wave of his hand and gestured for
Wolff to follow him to his tent. “If your squires speak to my quartermaster,
he’ll find them some food,” he said.
Anna’s eyes flashed with indignation and Wolff shook his head. “Ah, no,
Maximilian, let me introduce—”
He paused as he noticed the expectant face of Helwyg looking up at him.
“Thank you for your help,” he said, nodding to the warrener. “You may return to
your work.”
Helwyg looked a little disappointed at being dismissed, but nodded all the
same. “Always glad,” he slurred, before shuffling away into the jostling crowds
of lackeys and liegemen.
“As I was saying,” continued Wolff, “this is my noviciate Anselm, who goes
under the name of Ratboy, and our travelling companion is Sister Anna Fleck, of
the Order of the Bleeding Heart.”
Maximilian frowned and gave a deep bow. “Apologies,” he said. “I should have
noticed your clerical robes. This miserable Ostland weather paints everything a
muddy brown.”
Anna gave a brisk nod, but Ratboy mirrored the baron’s deep bow and his face
lit up at being greeted so graciously by a knight of such high rank.
“Let’s get out of this rain for a minute,” said the baron and gestured to his
tent. “Mobilising a force of this size takes a while. We still have an hour or
two at our disposal, I should think.”
The baron’s tent had the austere look of a monk’s cell. Beyond a few sheets
rolled up in the corner there was just a small table and a couple of books. The
four of them sat on the ground, just inside the door, as the rain drummed on the
canvas stretched above their heads.
“Something has changed in you since we last met,” decided Maximilian, once
they had finished exchanging the usual pleasantries. He peered closely into
Wolff’s eyes. “And I don’t just mean a few extra grey hairs.”
Wolff looked a little awkward under his friend’s intense stare and seemed
unsure how to reply to so direct a statement. He glanced at Ratboy, as though
ordering him to bite his tongue. Then he shrugged. “The last year or so has been
difficult for everyone. I imagine we’re all a little changed.”
The baron nodded, slowly. “That’s true, Jakob, but you of all people know how
to find comfort in the sacred texts and scriptures. Your belief has been a
constant inspiration to me whenever I felt afraid. I know the strength of your
faith: it is as immovable as the earth beneath our feet; but I see some kind of
doubt in your eyes that wasn’t there before.” He leant forward. “Tell me, old
friend, what’s brought you here, at this precise moment?”
Wolff examined the back of his gloves, spreading his fingers thoughtfully and
then clenching his fists, before meeting the baron’s gaze. “I entered the church
at a very young age,” he said quietly, “as you know. But I only intended to
become a sacristan or an archivist of some kind. My interest was chiefly in the
study of holy tracts and sacred artefacts, rather than in the martial aspects of
our faith.”
A look of surprise crossed Anna’s face and she moved to speak, but Wolff
continued.
“I only decided to devote myself to the life of a mendicant warrior priest as
penance for what I believed was a terrible betrayal,” he lowered his voice even
more, “of my own parents.”
Wolff paused, seemingly overcome with emotion at the memory.
His three listeners waited patiently for him to continue.
“However,” he continued, looking up at Ratboy, “penance can only carry one so
far. I’ve failed and abandoned so many stout-hearted friends that I began to
feel a fraud. I felt as though my faith was built on foundations of sand.” The
baron shook his head urgently, but Wolff continued. “And then, to top it all, I
recently discovered that the crime was never mine to pay penance for. It was
another man entirely who betrayed my parents.” He shrugged. “But, in a way, that
discovery gave me a new resolve. The man I speak of is a cultist of the worst
sort.” He looked desperately at Maximilian. “And I believe he’s right here,
marching in von Raukov’s army.”
The baron shook his head. “This army is von Raukov’s in name only. The
Elector Count was seriously injured during the recent defence of Wolfenberg.
He’ll be bedridden for weeks, if not months.”
“Then who’s leading you?”
The baron smiled. “A great general indeed,” he answered. “They call him the
Iron Duke. He shares your surname, actually,” he said with wry smile. “His name
is Kriegsmarshall Fabian Wolff.”
Helwyg shuffled slowly though the crowds as pavilions toppled all around him,
crumbling to the ground in great billowing piles of muddy canvas. Even the thick
hides that enveloped him could not hide the odd, jerking nature of his
movements. The soldiers were too busy checking their weapons and readying the
horses to pay him much attention, so he was able to snake undisturbed through
the encampment. After nearly an hour, he reached the command tents: towering,
bunting-clad behemoths that loomed over everything else. As he lurched towards
the largest tent, the Iron Duke’s honour guard eyed him with distaste from
beneath their lupine, sculpted helmets, but made no move to prevent him
entering.
Once inside, Helwyg fastened the doors behind him and looked around the tent
to make sure it was empty. Then he approached an ornate throne, silhouetted
against a row of torches at the back of the tent. He fell awkwardly to one knee
and lowered his head respectfully, then climbed to his feet again and began to
remove his grubby furs. They dropped to his feet in a stinking pool of sweat and
mud and he stepped to one side, completely naked. Deprived of its protective
covering, the extent of his body’s deformity was revealed. His limbs were
crooked and twisted almost beyond recognition and the serpentine curves of his
spine were clearly visible beneath his filthy skin.
He began to scratch at the greasy strands of hair that crowned his head,
digging his fingers deep into his scalp with such force that streams of dark
blood began to flow quickly over his face. He showed no sign of pain though, and
as his dirty fingernails sliced under the skin, he pulled it away from the bone.
A thick flap of scalp came free with a soft tearing sound. He pulled it
forwards, down over his face, to reveal a mass of blood-slick feathers beneath.
The streams of blood became rivers as he wrenched open his chest cavity,
spilling his organs across the ground in a steaming mass, revealing his true
form: a small, willowy man, covered in blue iridescent feathers that shimmered
as he moved. He stretched to his full height and sighed with relief. “I’ve found
him,” he said, with a proud smile spreading across his thin, avian features.
“Are you sure?” came a low voice from the throne.
“Yes, my lord,” piped the creature. He stepped closer, wiping the blood and
sinew from his feathers. “It was your brother. I heard his name quite clearly:
Jakob Wolff.”
A tall, slender knight rose from the throne and stepped slowly into the
torchlight. His face was long and aristocratic. The flames were reflected in his
coat of burnished mail, and in the jewels that adorned a leather patch over his
left eye. He stepped towards the feathered man and took his head in his hands,
stooping to plant a passionate kiss on his bloody forehead. “Then your soul is
assured its place alongside mine in eternity, Helwyg.” He twirled his elegant,
waxed moustache between his fingers and turned away from his servant. “How did
you discover him? Is his presence widely known?”
Helwyg skipped lightly after him. “In all truth, lord, he found me. I’d given
up the search. I was planning to return this very morning and inform you that
you must be mistaken. Then, as I took a brief nap, just outside camp, he
stumbled across me, looking for a guide.”
Fabian’s shoulders shook with laughter. “How delicious are the devices of our
master?” He looked down at Helwyg. “And who knows of his presence?”
“As you predicted, Kriegsmarshall, he made straight for the Knights Griffon
and has approached no one else.” He shrugged, “Wolff is a common enough surname,
and in a gathering of this size, no one will guess at any connection. He
wouldn’t be foolish enough to openly accuse you. Apart from maybe to his pious
friend, Maximilian; but what could they do alone? Who would believe them? After
all your glorious victories, these men would slit the throat of anyone who spoke
against you. And how could Jakob prove you’re his brother?” Helwyg looked up at
his master. “You don’t even look alike.”
Fabian nodded and a smile lit up his hawk-like features. “It’s true, I always
did take after mother.” He returned to his throne and sat down. “You’ve done
well, Helwyg. I now have my brother exactly where I wanted him. Whatever he has
planned, it’s safest that I keep him close to me. Watch him closely At
all
times.” He looked up at his servant. “You can’t leave like that though,
Helwyg,” he said, nodding to the shimmering feathers.
Helwyg’s narrow shoulders slumped dejectedly and he pouted. “I’ve been
limping around in that warrener’s body for weeks,” he said, wrinkling his nose.
“And he stank even before I killed him.”
Fabian narrowed his eyes.
“Very well,” muttered Helwyg, peevishly. He scoured the shadows of the tent
and after a few moments he pounced, flying across the room in a blur of talons
and feathers. There was a muffled squeak and then a rat scampered out of the
darkness. It nodded its head once at Fabian and slipped away, through a small
gap at the bottom of the tent doors.
Fabian leant back in his throne with a sigh of satisfaction. Then, he lifted
his patch to reveal a running black sore where his eye should have been. The
scab glistened with moisture and it swelled and bulged as a shape began to move
beneath it. After a few seconds, the scab parted like a small mouth, dangling
strands of white pus over a black, featureless orb. “O Great Schemer,” said the
general, “guide me.” The orb began to roll in its socket, as it perceived a
torrent of shapes and colours. For a while the general could not discern
anything beyond the vaguest outlines and textures, but soon he began to make out
specific images: tall, crooked trees, looming over a gloomy forest path; an
ancient grove, throbbing with eldritch light; a narrow defile, clogged with
weeping, dying men and finally, a glittering, winged knight bearing down on him
with a long sword in his hand. A breeze slipped beneath the canvas walls and
became a whisper, calling to Fabian from the shadows. “Deliver me from Mormius,”
it said. “Send him to the abyss. I will raise you up in his place.”
“But master,” replied Fabian, gripping the arms of his throne. “What of my
brother?”
There was no reply, and as suddenly as they had come, the
visions ceased. Fabian replaced the patch and sat back in his throne with a
frustrated sigh. “Oh, Jakob,” he breathed. “A promise is a promise, no matter
how many years have passed. How can you dare to approach me, even now?” He
closed his uncorrupted right eye, and cast his mind back through the decades, to
a distant summer’s day and a room in his father’s house.
“Fabian,” called a thin, musical voice. “Come and say hello to your brother.”