Maximilian looked around at the dismal clearing. “He wants us to rest here?”
The officer’s only reply was a nod and his helmet made it impossible to see
his expression.
“Very well,” said Wolff stepping to the baron’s side. “If the Iron Duke
wishes it.”
The officer studied Wolff in silence for a few seconds; then he gave another
brisk nod and moved on.
“We’re completely exposed up here,” said Maximilian, turning to Wolff with a
frown. “Why on earth would we sit out the night in a strange place like this?”
He waved at the crowds of tired soldiers flooding into the clearing. They were
watching the trees fearfully as they spread out on the long grass. “If these men
are meant to be hunting the marauders, why wait until the morning? They can
obviously sense there’s something odd about this place and anyway, if they don’t
move soon, the enemy will be long gone.”
“I expect most of the marauders have already made their escape,” replied
Wolff, drumming his fingers on the haft of his weapon. “My brother didn’t bring
these men up here to fight. He brought them up here to die.”
“Is he even here though?” asked Ratboy, scouring the hilltop. “I can see his
banner over there with the Oberhau, but I can’t actually see the general
anywhere.”
They looked over at the tattered black and white standard and the soldiers
milling around beneath it. Ratboy was right: there were dozens of Oberhau,
cleaning their long, two-handed greatswords and snapping orders at the other
Ostlanders, but there was no sign of the general himself. As they watched, a
young soldier crossed the clearing and approached Fabian’s honour guard. Ratboy
felt a chill of fear. He recognised the man immediately as the soldier who had
discovered Anna. The young officer spoke urgently to one of the guards and then,
after a few minutes he gestured over towards Ratboy and the others. Several of
the Oberhau crowded round, quizzing him intently and turning to look at
Maximilian and Wolff.
“This looks interesting,” said the baron, tugging at his short silver beard
as he watched the exchange. He turned to Wolff with an ironic grin. “I’m not
sure we’ll be getting that much rest after all.”
Ratboy gave a nervous cough and looked up at the pair of hoary old veterans.
“I think I might have spoken to that man earlier,” he muttered with a
shame-faced expression. “And accidentally mentioned that we were pursuing the
general.”
Wolff’s nostrils flared with anger, but when he spoke it was in clipped,
controlled tones. “Was it him, or not?”
Ratboy looked again and nodded. “It was him—I’m sure of it.”
Wolff grimaced with frustration and closed his eyes for a few seconds to
think. Then he turned to the baron. “Whatever happens,” he said, “I need to find
my brother. I can’t die here; not without confronting him.”
“I understand,” replied Maximilian with a stern nod. He looked at his men. It
was hard to believe they had just survived a fierce battle. During the whole
engagement, only six of their number had fallen and those that remained looked
as calm and lethal as if they had just emerged from their chapterhouse. They
stood in neat, gleaming rows at the edge of the trees and each of them had their
hands folded in exactly the same way across the hilt of their swords. “We can
hold off Fabian’s swordsmen for as long as you need us to,” said Maximilian. He
waved at the crowds of Ostlanders still shuffling fearfully into the clearing.
“I can’t guarantee what everyone else here will do though and even we couldn’t
hold off an entire army.”
“Leave that to me,” replied Wolff.
The Oberhau finished talking to the young officer and dismissed him. Then,
the most senior amongst them huddled together, looking repeatedly towards the
Knights Griffon as they talked. Finally, they came to some kind of accord and
drew themselves into ordered ranks, before marching over towards Maximilian and
his men. All across the clearing, the groups of resting soldiers watched the
scene with interest and several of them rose to their feet to get a better view.
The knight at the head of the Oberhau was slightly larger than the others and
looked to be their captain. He wore the same dark, burnished armour, but his
wolf-shaped helmet and two-handed greatsword were a little more ornate, and a
pair of huge, black and white feathers topped his sculpted helmet. Upon reaching
Maximilian and Wolff he threw back his visor with a
clunk.
His eyes
looked out from the dark metal with a dispassion that Ratboy found utterly
chilling. There wasn’t a trace of humanity in them. “Good evening, baron,” he
said, nodding at Maximilian. “I must congratulate you and your men on their work
this evening.” He spoke in flat, neutral tones and stood with the casual poise
of a relaxed athlete. “I noticed you were amongst the very last to retreat into
the valley.”
“Thank you, Captain von Groos,” replied Maximilian with a deep bow. “It’s a
pleasure to—”
A flash of movement interrupted Maximilian’s reply. It was so fast that for a
few seconds Ratboy struggled to work out what had happened. It was only when
Maximilian staggered backwards that the acolyte saw there was a greatsword,
buried deep in his chest. Von Groos had shoved it through the baron’s cuirass
with such force that the blade had sliced through the metal and emerged between
his shoulder blades. As he dropped to his knees, Maximilian tried to speak, but
all that emerged from his mouth was a thick torrent of dark blood. As he
collapsed into his men’s arms, with a confused expression on his face, he was
already dead.
Von Groos wrenched the blade free with a screech of grinding steel and
stepped back.
For once, the Knights Griffon forgot their training. With a chorus of despair
and rage, they launched themselves at the Oberhau. Ratboy just managed to drag
Anna aside as they slammed into the swordsmen.
There was an explosion of limbs and swords as the Oberhau defended themselves
against the vengeful knights. Captain von Groos was already on the floor. Wolff
had him by the throat and as Ratboy looked over, he saw the priest slam his
forehead into the captain’s face, shattering his nose with an audible
crunch.
The captain muttered a stream of indecipherable words and writhed snake-like
from Wolff’s grip. As he leapt to his feet, he turned lightly on his heel and
brought his two-handed sword down towards the priest’s head.
Wolff was nowhere near as fast as his opponent and before he could dodge the
blow, the blade slammed into his neck. His ornate gorget took most of the
impact, but the edge of the blade scraped across the side of his face, sending
up a thin arc of blood and causing him to bark in pain. He rolled forward and
rammed his head into the captain’s stomach.
Von Groos’ breath exploded from his lungs and Wolff lifted him up over his
shoulders. The priest draped one arm over the captain’s neck and the other over
his legs and before von Groos could raise his sword for a second strike, Wolff
jerked his elbows downwards and snapped the captain over his broad back,
cracking his spine in two. As the priest let him slide down his back onto the
floor, von Groos whispered pitifully, then, after a final, rasping breath he
fell silent. Wolff glared at the corpse for a few seconds, disappointed he could
only kill the man once.
The rest of the Oberhau were faring a little better. Despite their expensive
armour and years of training, the Knights Griffon could not seem to lay a single
blow on their opponents. As they fought, the Oberhau whispered strange, arcane
words and danced easily out of reach with lightning-fast movements.
Wolff backed away from von Groos’ corpse and raised a hand to his scarred
face to gauge the damage. With a nod of satisfaction he turned his attention to
the fight. The combatants were well matched. The Oberhau whirled and slashed
with incredible speed, but so far they had been unable to break the proud fury
of Maximilian’s knights.
Other soldiers had begun swarming around the fight, speechless with shock and
unsure what to do. None of them were willing to enter the fray without being
sure whose side to take.
Wolff wiped the blood from his cheek and rose up to his full height. He
looked out at the gathering crowds and raised his warhammer. “Men of Ostland,”
he cried, loud enough to be heard over the sound of the fighting. “I’m Jakob
Wolff: Templar of Sigmar and brother of Fabian Wolff, your Kriegsmarshall.”
A crowd immediately formed around him.
Blood flew from Wolff’s face as his booming voice filled the clearing. “Is
that natural?” he cried, waving at the Oberhau. “Who can fight with such speed?”
His voice rose even louder. “Other than the damned?”
At the sound of Wolff’s words, several of the Oberhau tried to break free and
rush towards him, but Maximilian’s stern-faced men blocked their way.
The soldiers surrounding Wolff looked at each other with confused
expressions. A young pistolier stepped forwards. His armour was dented and torn
and there was a bloodstained bandage over one side of his face, but he pointed
defiantly at the Oberhau. “They’re the Iron Duke’s own men,” he cried. “He’s
taught them to fight as well as he does.”
“And where do you think your Iron Duke learned such incredible skill?”
snapped Wolff, glaring at the pistolier. “He’s my brother, but I won’t defend
him. Only the Ruinous Powers give such unnatural strength.”
“He’s an Ostlander,” the pistolier cried back, looking around at his comrades
for support. “One thing we’ve all learned to do well is fight.”
A ragged cheer met his words and several of the soldiers raised their weapons
in agreement.
Wolff grabbed the man by his jerkin, pulled him close and roared into his
face. “Fight for what?” he cried. He waved at the surrounding trees. “What are
you doing here? The battle is won. Why has the Iron Duke led you to the black
heart of this forest? To a place where the enemy has all the advantage? I know
Fabian Wolff. He’s led you here as a sacrifice. You’re a gift. An offering to
the very enemy he claims to be hunting.”
There was a chorus of jeers and boos. “Never,” cried the pistolier, freeing
himself from Wolff’s grip with a shocked expression on his face. “How could you
accuse him of such a thing?”
“Tell me,” replied Wolff, looking out over the crowd. “Where’s your general
now?”
The soldiers looked nervously around the clearing, but the pistolier was
undaunted. “He’s most likely scouting the surrounding area, looking for the
enemy.”
Wolff shook his head. “Mormius is dead. His army is already defeated. Those
that survived have already fled. Fabian has abandoned you.” He waved at the
sinister, twisted trees that surrounded them. “Here, in this wretched forest.”
A fierce debate broke out amongst the crowd. Some of the soldiers already
felt unnerved by their frenzied journey through the trees. It almost felt as
though an external force had been driving them onwards. Many of them had been
eager to head home even before they reached the clearing and its ominous
atmosphere. Wolff’s accusations had only made them more anxious to leave. The
quarrel quickly grew louder. The men were tired and scared and Wolff’s speech
had put a name to their fear. There was rattle of swords being drawn and the
crowd fragmented into a morass of snarling faces and furious insults.
As the arguments became fights, Ratboy noticed that his master had turned
away from the troops. He was peering at something just outside the clearing and
Ratboy stepped to his side to see what it was. It was too dark beneath the trees
to see very clearly, but Ratboy thought he could make out a face, watching them.
“What is it?” he asked, looking up at the priest. “Is that Surman?”
Wolff frowned. “No, I don’t think so. I’m not sure it’s even…” his words were
lost beneath the din of the battle as he strode off towards the edge of the
clearing. He paused briefly at the edge of the trees and looked back at the
confusion he had created. The soldiers’ frenzy had returned, but now it was
directed at each other. It would be several minutes before they remembered the
priest who had caused their disagreement. Wolff gave a nod of satisfaction and
vanished from view.
Ratboy rushed after him, with Anna close behind. As they plunged into the
damp, arboreal gloom they had to reach out and feel their way through the
network of roots and shrubs, but Wolff rushed ahead, oblivious to the twigs and
branches that lacerated his flesh. Ratboy saw his prey: it was a small deer of
some kind, skipping easily through the trees.
“What’s he doing?” asked Anna. “His friend has just been butchered and he
decides to go hunting.”
Ratboy shook his head in confusion and cried out. “Master, where are you
going? What about Maximilian’s men?”
Wolff ignored his acolyte and blundered on through the trees, chasing the
terrified animal. They reached the banks of stagnant pool and the deer paused,
knee deep in the moonlit water, looking back at them expectantly. “Look at it,”
gasped Wolff, stopping to catch his breath.
Ratboy peered at the motionless creature. Now that he could see it more
clearly, he noticed that there was something very strange about it. Its limbs
were crooked and its hide bulged in places where it should have been smooth. It
reminded Ratboy of some of the stuffed animals he had seen in Castle Luneberg.
Its eyes were not those of a dumb animal and they gazed back at him with a cool,
human intelligence.
“What’s that along its back,” whispered Anna, trying not to scare the animal.
Ratboy followed her gaze and saw that all along the deer’s hunched,
undulating spine there was a flash of iridescent blue, bursting up from under
its skin. “Are they feathers?” he asked.
At the sound of Ratboy’s question, the deer bolted. It moved with lightning
speed but Wolff was almost as quick, splashing through the water and
disappearing back into the trees.