CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

They camped that night, locating a small clearing in the forest once they were too tired to continue, and rose again at dawn to renew the search. Lankdorf had followed Rorschach’s boot prints to the edge of Fatandira’s camp the first day after the attack and knew roughly which direction to follow, assuming the treacherous guard had not deviated once he’d fled.

“How did you know?” Dietz asked as they walked. His question was directed to the bounty hunter, who was on his left. Alaric was on his right, whistling as he walked and grinning as the sun touched his face and the light breeze stirred his fair hair. Dietz was glad to see his friend looking cheerful. The younger man had looked almost mournful last night. Dietz found it both amusing and comforting that the young nobleman felt such sympathy towards a woman who had tried to seduce him and failed. It proved yet again that his young friend had a good heart, even if it was easily bruised.

“Know what?” Lankdorf asked, his eyes intent upon the ground.

“Rorschach,” Dietz said. “You knew he was dangerous.”

“Did you?” Alaric glanced over. “I hadn’t noticed.” He stared off into space, clearly thinking back to that night. “You did respond quickly when he attacked,” he agreed after a moment.

“He was mumbling,” Lankdorf replied.

“Mumbling?”

“When he came back in with Hammlich, he was mumbling,” the bounty hunter explained. “I heard him. It sounded like a prayer to Sigmar, and that didn’t make any sense.” Dietz nodded. Fatandira was too Arabyan to approve of the Empire’s principal god, and most of her people seemed to have the same heritage. “So I kept an eye on him,” Lankdorf finished.

“Good thing you did,” Dietz commented.

The bounty hunter nodded, and then dropped to one knee. “Aha! Gotcha!” He pointed at the ground and Dietz could see a depression there: Rorschach’s boot print. “Good thing it hasn’t rained these past few nights,” Lankdorf said, standing again. “The ground was damp enough to hold his print and dried around it afterwards, and he was walking off to one side, whereas the riders stick to the middle of the path.” He checked the ground a few paces to the south and nodded. “He went this way.”

They followed the tracks, which eventually led them to a break in the forest. A short stretch of tall grass filled the gap between the trees and a wide, deep river. Dietz suspected it was the southern branch of the Howling River, given what he remembered of Alaric’s map, and the strange whistling sound, almost like moaning, that rose from the water as it rushed by. Dietz could see a similar landscape on the far side. A wide furrow had been scraped in the shore not far from where they stood, and the boot prints were heavier beside it.

“A boat,” Lankdorf said, confirming Dietz’s own guess. “He pushed off from here and went across.”

Alaric peered across the water. “I don’t see anything,” the young nobleman said after a minute. “He must have hidden it once he reached the bank.”

“How do we get across?” Dietz asked, shuddering slightly. He hated water.

“Do you have a boat?” the bounty hunter asked him.

“No.”

“Then we swim,” Lankdorf said with a grin.

They tied their weapons and packs atop the mule and struck out into the cold water. Fortunately the current was not too strong, strong enough to tug them off-course but not strong enough to sweep them uncontrollably downriver. Dietz had never been much of a swimmer—Middenheim had no rivers—but he could tread water and he clutched the mule’s saddlebags, letting the animal pull him along. Lankdorf held the mule’s lead as he swam, and Alaric took to the water like a fish, moving rapidly and gracefully to the far side despite his recent injury. By the time Dietz pulled himself out of the water Alaric had lit a fire, and he collapsed gratefully next to it, letting the heat stop his shivers.

Lankdorf had suggested removing all but their breeches before entering the water, which meant they had dry shirts, socks and boots to wear. He and Alaric had spare trousers as well, but Dietz had only the one pair—the re of his clothing had been on their horse and had vanished into Zenres—so he was stuck in sopping-wet breeches until they finally dried. He distracted himself by cooking some soup over the fire, which both kept him near the flames and gave them all something warm to overcome the chills. While he cooked Lankdorf scouted the shore.

“Found the boat,” the bounty hunter said when he returned a short while later, “hidden over there, behind some bushes.”

“Well, at least we won’t have to swim back,” Dietz muttered.

“Tracks lead south and west,” Lankdorf continued, ignoring the remark, “still nice and clear. They shouldn’t be hard to follow.”

After they’d eaten they did just that, the bounty hunter taking the lead again. Since reaching Fatandira’s camp he and Dietz had spent some time together, and although he still didn’t entirely trust the bounty hunter, Dietz admitted to himself that the man was a good travelling companion. He was quiet and competent, and very efficient. Lankdorf was also an excellent hunter, and had proven as skilled with the sling as he had been with the crossbow, bringing down a bird one night and a fleeing rabbit another. The man had a sense of humour, too, even though he kept it well hidden. Dietz also suspected that Lankdorf was still uncomfortable with their changed status, and was still adjusting to the notion of him and Alaric as companions rather than captives. The more time they spent together however, the more accustomed they became to one another and the more easily they worked as a team.

The tracks led them across a shallow valley and then up a small hill. As they walked, Alaric sidled up to Dietz.

“Where do you think we’re going?” he asked. “I mean, where do you think this Rorschach fellow was heading?”

Then they topped the rise.

“Oh,” Alaric said. “There.”

A large armed camp was spread out before them, its tents neatly arrayed in rows. For a second Dietz thought they had somehow circled back to Fatandira’s headquarters, but that was impossible. They’d crossed the river and had not forded it a second time, and now that he looked more closely he could see the differences. This was someone else’s military.

The first thing he noticed was the absence of horses. Most of Fatandira’s men were cavalry, lightly armoured and fast. They wore leather, scale and some chain, and carried spears and short bows. They also seemed as comfortable on horseback as they were on the ground. He suspected, from what Alaric had said of the ruler’s background, that her Arabyan heritage made her more inclined towards combat from horseback, certainly her people were known for their fast horses and their lightning raids. The camp below had some horses but only a few, and even from here Dietz could tell they were larger and heavier than any of the sleek mounts in Fatandira’s camp. They were too far away to make out details but it looked as if the men also moved more slowly, and he had the feeling they wore heavier armour.

The one thing that really caught his attention was the banner that flapped above the central tent. It bore the hammer of Sigmar, proudly displayed.

“You said Rorschach was muttering a prayer to Sigmar?” Alaric asked, mirroring Dietz’s thoughts. Lankdorf nodded.

“Then I think we’ve found the right place,” Alaric said. He grinned. “Well, at least followers of Sigmar usually feed their guests. I’m starving!” he said, and began walking down the hill.

“Alaric, stop!” Dietz shouted, catching up with him in a few long strides and grabbing his young friend by the arm. “This isn’t a temple in Middenheim,” he pointed out crossly. “That’s an armed camp down there, and we’re strangers! They’ll most likely shoot us first and search our bodies for answers later.”

“I doubt that,” Alaric replied, pulling his arm free. “You know as well as I do that, if they really do follow Sigmar, they’ll wait to see if we share their faith.” He glanced around. “They’ve probably already seen us anyway. If we try to go around them or run it’ll look suspicious, better to walk right up to them and say hello.”

Dietz looked at Lankdorf, who had caught up, and the bounty hunter shook his head. “He may be right.” Lankdorf looked as if he hated saying those words. “Skulking past a Sigmarite’s practically a sign of guilt to them. If we approach them directly it looks like we’ve got nothing to hide.”

Dietz stared at both of them. “You’re both mad,” he said finally. Then he threw up his hands. “Fine, what are we waiting for?”

Alaric grinned and led the way. After a few paces he started whistling again. Dietz and Lankdorf exchanged another glance and then followed behind the young nobleman. Yes, the bounty hunter was fitting in just fine.

At first Dietz thought whoever controlled the camp below must be lax indeed. He had not seen a single guard since they began their approach, and no one had called out to them or interfered with their descent in any way. Perhaps Alaric had been wrong when he’d guessed that they’d already been seen?

As they drew closer, however, he saw his mistake because four men rode directly towards them, stopping just shy of stepping on Alaric’s feet. Clearly someone had been watching them, probably for quite some time, and had relayed that information back to the camp. Whoever was in charge must have felt they weren’t a significant threat, and he’d let them get this close to make sure they were not an advance party for a larger force.

The four riders all wore heavy mail, the leader in full plate, and carried shields. Three of them had spears in hand, and their shields had a strange irregular cross. The fourth, who was in the lead, carried a massive warhammer across his saddle. His shield bore the sign of Sigmar’s hammer, as did his battered but well-tended breastplate. A helmet hung from the saddle, and without it on they could see that he had rugged, almost handsome features, dark hair, and blue eyes lit with the flame of the fanatic. Great, thought Dietz, more religious fervour.

“Hold, strangers!” the man called out, his voice deep and resonant. “State your names and your purpose here.”

“Alaric von Jungfreud, sir,” Alaric replied, sweeping into a bow. Dietz was surprised but pleased to see only a slight hitch in his friend’s motion, a sign that he was all but healed. “These are my companions, Dietrich Froebel and Merkel Lankdorf.” Dietz managed a rough bow, as did Lankdorf beside him. “We are pursuing a man we must speak with, on a matter of great personal significance.” Alaric did not explain further, and Dietz was glad to see that his young friend was finally learning some tact. There was a good chance Rorschach had come here, and accusing him of theft to his own people might not be the best way to make new friends.

“I am Mir Haflok,” the strange knight told them, bowing from his saddle. “These are my lands, by the grace of Sigmar. Are you followers of his way?” The question had hints of impending judgement.

Fortunately Alaric was a noble, and when he chose he could be graceful both verbally and physically. “I am not an adherent,” he replied, “but I am a man of the Empire and I have only the greatest respect for Sigmar and his teachings.” He gestured to the two of them. “My friends, also, are of the Empire, and thus we owe allegiance to Sigmar through Karl-Franz, his spiritual heir.” Dietz was surprised, not by this argument but by the identification of Lankdorf as a fellow Empire man. Upon considering it, however, he realised that Alaric was right. The bounty hunter’s speech did bear traces of Empire upbringing, although he could not be sure which of the lands Lankdorf was from.

“Well met, then,” Haflok said heartily, apparently satisfied with Alaric’s answer. “Come, you will breakfast with us and we will speak of your business.” He turned and started back towards the camp. Alaric nodded and walked forwards, a safe distance behind the Sigmarite’s charger. Dietz and Lankdorf shrugged and joined him. The other horsemen held back until they had passed. Then two of them urged their mounts into walks, flanking the trio, and the fourth moved in behind them.

As they walked through the camp Dietz saw several other differences between this and Fatandira’s base. The other camp had seemed orderly and martial, but compared to this it was a swirling mass of colour and confusion. Every tent here was the same in size, shape, and colour. Most of the men had matching armour in one of three varieties. Weapons were consistent, as were hairstyles. Paths were perfectly straight and sentries were posted at regular intervals. This was a true military operation, and Dietz found himself both impressed and a little frightened. What was a commander like Haflok, a true Sigmarite, doing out here in the Border Princes, playing at being a petty noble?

Alaric had obviously wondered the same thing, and once they were seated with their host in the command tent—a tent no larger or fancier than the others but with the Sigmarite symbol flying above it—and eating a simple meal of bread, cheese, and meat, he made a polite inquiry.

“I am surprised to find a Sigmarite knight so far from home,” was how Alaric put it, sipping at the cool water in his glass. There was no sign of wine, beer or ale, not just here at the table but anywhere along their way through the camp. “May I ask your purpose here?”

“We seek to protect the holy Empire,” Haflok replied, lifting his glass. His hands, Dietz noticed, were surprisingly delicate, with long, tapering fingers. “The best way to shield her from her foes is not to battle them within her borders but to stop them well short.”

“So you are securing the Badlands?” Lankdorf guessed, tearing a piece of bread in half.

“That is correct,” the Sigmarite agreed. “My men and I hold the Blood River against the orcs and other foul creatures that would cross it. We protect not only the Empire but the rest of these lands from their corrupt incursions.”

“You hold the Blood River?” Dietz was so surprised he couldn’t stop himself from speaking, “With these men?”

Their host laughed. “We hold it as best we can,” he amended. “You are right, I would need a great many more warriors to secure its full length, or even the stretch between the mountains and the Starnak, which is my chosen ground, but at least we drive them back where the danger is greatest and prevent more than a handful from crossing in one go.”

“You came to defend the Empire, yet you rule here,” Alaric asked. “How is that?”

Haflok frowned. “In truth, I know not,” he admitted. “When we arrived my men and I were no more than warriors, set to guard the bank. Then people began sheltering with us, taking refuge behind our shields. More and more arrived, forming towns and villages in our wake, and calling me their prince.” He shrugged, although his eyes seemed troubled. “If Sigmar has chosen me to protect these people by ruling them, who am I to argue? Certainly he has not said otherwise.”

“Talk to him regularly, do you?” Lankdorf muttered, but the Sigmarite’s hearing proved as sharp as his own.

“Of course.” Haflok looked surprised that anyone would even ask. “He speaks to me in my dreams, guiding my hand. It was his will that I travel to this place and set myself here to deny his foes passage.”

“Truly you are blessed with his favour,” Alaric said quickly, cutting off any further comments from Lankdorf. “Now, if I might, this man we pursue?”

“Ah, yes,” Haflok said, draining his glass and setting it down. “Tell me of him. You say you must speak with him?”

“Yes, about a piece of armour,” Alaric replied. “It has great… personal value for me.” Dietz was certain that he alone heard Lankdorf’s snort. “I believe he may know its whereabouts. We still had it when we encountered him, as guests of your neighbour, Fatandira.” Dietz was impressed. His friend had managed to say “this man stole something from us while in your rival’s camp” and made it sound like a casual, friendly encounter.

An unreadable expression crossed the Sigmarite’s face, followed by another that Dietz could make out: guilt. “Ah, you speak of Rorschach,” he said softly.

“The very man,” Alaric agreed. “You know him, I take it?”

“Indeed, he is a devout follower of Sigmar,” Haflok admitted, “and I set him to observe Fatandira and inform me of her movements. She and my other neighbour, Levrellian, attack from time to time, although I have told them that I have no interest in their lands. I seek only to guard the borders and protect such people as have placed themselves in my care.” He shrugged. “Alas, my peers often fail to appreciate our motives and misinterpret our actions. I was forced to send Rorschach there if only to avoid any further damage to my own lands and any distractions to my men.”

“Shouldn’t he still be there, then?” Alaric asked. “It doesn’t do you much good if he’s here instead of there.”

Haflok looked genuinely displeased. “He was indeed instructed to remain in her camp,” he rumbled. “He arrived a few days past, saying he had urgent news for me, but he took ill crossing the river and has been in his tent since.” He gestured, and one of the guards stationed by the tent flap approached. “Bring Rorschach to me,” the Sigmarite leader commanded, “regardless of his health.” The man saluted and departed.

“Thank you, sir,” Alaric told him. “This armour is important to me, and I appreciate your aid in recovering it.”

“Of course,” Haflok said, waving one hand absently. “If this armour is yours it is only right for you to reclaim it, and if my man knows anything about it I will insist he tell you of it.” Then he lapsed into silence.

A moment later a different guard entered the tent and whispered something to Haflok, who nodded and said something in return. The man saluted and left again.

“Is there a problem?” Alaric asked cautiously.

“Nothing to concern yourself with,” their host replied, “only a status report from my men.” He glanced up at them. “Tell me, which way did you travel? Before encountering Fatandira, I mean.”

“We came from the east,” Alaric answered, “from the mountains. Why?”

Haflok had lost interest the minute he’d heard the word “east” and only shook his head.

“Trouble from the west?” Dietz asked, and started when the Sigmarite’s head whipped around to study him, his blue eyes narrowed.

“How did you know that?” Haflok demanded.

Dietz shrugged, trying to look unruffled. “You wanted to know where we’d been,” he answered. “It had to be north, east, or west to reach Fatandira’s camp. You didn’t care about the east and the north is on the other side of her lands, so are nothing to you, but the west butts up against you at the river.”

“That is correct,” the Sigmarite agreed, relaxing slightly. “My concern lies just above my own lands, at the edge of hers, where the halves of the Howling join.” He leaned forwards. “There is a town there, a place of true evil and infamy.”

“Vitrolle,” Alaric offered, and held up a hand when Haflok’s gaze swept to him. “We were warned against it by a fellow traveller, a Sigmarite named Heim.”

“Jurgen Heim?” Haflok’s eyes widened. They all nodded. “He is here, in the Border Princes?”

“In the mountains,” Dietz told him. “Or he was a week or more ago.”

“Ah, truly, his aid would be most welcome now,” Haflok said quietly, “for truly his deeds are mighty and his faith unassailable, but Sigmar has said nothing of his presence here, and thus Heim must be sent upon a separate mission. This task remains mine alone.”

“You’re going to destroy the town,” Dietz guessed, and this time it was the Sigmarite who nodded agreement.

“Truly it is a blight upon the land,” Haflok proclaimed, his words ringing. “They practise foul rituals there, and spread filth by their very touch. Sigmar himself has ordered them destroyed and their town razed, and it shall be done!” His eyes blazed with determination and piety, a combination Dietz had always found unsettling.

Haflok’s declarations were interrupted as a guard burst into the tent. “He is dead, lord,” the man blurted out.

“Who?” Haflok was on his feet in an instant, one hand reaching for the hammer at his side. Dietz and the others rose as well.

“Rorschach,” the guard replied, eliciting a groan from Alaric. “We found him in his tent.”

Haflok was already moving, and Dietz was right behind him as they exited the tent. The Sigmarite strode quickly past a row of tents, stopping at one whose flap had been tacked back. The stench of blood was overpowering.

“Who would do such a thing?” Haflok demanded, ducking inside. If the smell affected him he gave no sign.

Dietz and Lankdorf entered as well, but Alaric waited at the entrance.

Rorschach was certainly dead, that much was obvious. He had been carved open, and the tent walls all but painted with his blood. Several of the splashes seemed to form patterns, and Dietz heard Alaric gasp as he saw them.

“Runes,” the young noble said quietly.

“Runes?” Haflok whirled and confronted Alaric. “You say these are marks of the Dark Powers?” Alaric nodded. “How could such horrors have crept into my very camp, here beneath Sigmar’s watchful eye?”

“The gauntlet,” Alaric asked softly, “do you see it anywhere?”

Dietz and Lankdorf both looked. The tent had few furnishings so it was not hard to search, except for the blood and gore everywhere. The gauntlet was nowhere in sight.

“Gone again,” Alaric said with a sigh. “What is it about this thing? It just won’t stand still!”

“Clearly there is more to your story,” Haflok said with a trace of annoyance. “You will tell me the rest, that I might be better apprised of the evil loosed among my men.” He gestured to one of the nearby guards. “Marshall the men and check them against the rosters. If any are missing, or anyone has appeared unannounced, I would know of it at once.” The guard nodded and hurried away with two others, and Haflok returned his attention to Alaric.

“All right,” Alaric said, taking a deep breath. “You want to know what’s going on? Well, it all started in Ind…”