“This we can say about humans in general:
They are ungrateful, fickle, double-faced, cowardly in danger and avaricious.”
– Niccolo Machiavelli, “Il Principe”, Chapter XVII

Contents
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII

Chapter I
33rd day of Ulriczeit
One hour before midnight

In the chronicles of castle Herringhausen, it is written that the great Leonardo of Miragliano, upon seeing the keep for the first time, exclaimed:
“’Tis true, should I ever be asked to name the peak of human ingenuity, I would not hesitate: It has to be this castle. A keep so solid, so confident and yet so appealing to the eye has never been crafted before, and will never be again.”
It is quite likely that this is nothing more than a fancy tale, especially since there is no proof that the famous Tilean has ever visited this part of the Reikland. But it is a nice tale, and the keep’s freeholders do never become tired of telling it.
The castle itself, its solid walls and high towers rising most elegantly from the stone they are built upon, is like a rock in the surge. All around there is the Reikwald, home to many dangers, not the least of which are the perverted creatures that dwell in places so foul and corrupted that even the bandits and outlaws keep away. For several hundred years, the castle has been a monument of imperial pride and fortitude in a dangerous area – a haven in the best of times, and an eye in the storm in the worst. It is not only the safest, it is the only safe place within fifty miles.

And tonight, it is the place where a great feast is celebrated. Mondstille, the day of winter solstice, will commence soon, and it has become traditional that this date is honoured by an excessive festivity. The current owner of the keep, Wilhelm von Kluge, makes sure that every noble family within the empire gets an invitation, and proudly states that even the most noble ones have attended the celebrations at least once in the past decade. It has indeed become a question of good manners amongst the aristocracy to pay a visit. And so, despite the facts that the castle is remote and the winter is grim and the beasts in the forest mad with hunger, many knights and barons and even the odd count make the effort and travel to castle Herringhausen to join the dining and dancing and quaffing.
Some even bring their children, for it is said that Wilhelm von Kluge is very fond of children.
The feast starts in the morning on the last day of Ulriczeit, and a feast it is indeed. Call it opulent, and the perfect opportunity to use the word “decadent” is wasted. Cold and hostile it is on the outside where the weary guests come from, but even more warm and intoxicatingly luxurious it is on the inside. Incoming travelers might never fail to be impressed by the tranquil sturdiness of the walls and fortifications, but the moment they enter, this impression is forgotten as they are engulfed by the seducing feeling of sweet vices and numbing luxury. The sheer amount of wealth that has been spent eradicates from every food, trinket, and decoration so that the air itself seems to be humming gently with wealth. The dishes are not only exquisite, they are beyond every imagination. Cherries are served in midwinter and yet are probably the cheapest thing on the tables. The wine is delicious, that goes without saying, and at least imported from Bretonia, or even from the elves. The cushions in the dining hall are made from nothing less than Cathayan silk. By merely looking at anything, one can see, feel, and taste the gold that has been spent. Wilhelm von Kluge seems eager to pour the incredible funds his father has left him down the drain on a single day.

There are people that consider such behaviour unfitting for somebody who, like Wilhelm, is of all things a priest of Sigmar. Some argue that a priest should not be rich beyond measure, that he should not help the nobles to indulge their vices. Some blame his political ambition and wonder whether piety is really his predominant character trait. Some people, who are of a nastier persuasion, admit that von Kluge is at least portly enough to be a priest. But those who are present tonight are not having such thoughts, not now. As midnight approaches, they have celebrated for more than twelve hours, and their host sees to it that they are well entertained. They are all sitting in the great dining hall at the huge horseshoe-shaped table that bends under the food, and are having the fifth meal this day. It is a merry company, as companies of the high society usually are, provided that there is expensive clothing for the women to dawdle about and exotic dancers for the men to drool at and enough alcohol for both to quaff and become even merrier. Outside the walls, the wind is howling around the towers and through the naked trees, mercilessly stripping away the warmth from any creature that is lost in the snow and the dark woods, but in here it is hot – the blazing fires in the chimneys and the presence of many happy people account for that. The air, so thick that one could cut it, is filled with laughter and the sweet fragrance of decadence, made up equally of the smell of rich food, perfume, and absolutely no sorrow at all. Wilhelm von Kluge, sitting at the top of the table under the huge gold-cast twin-tailed comet he has fixed on the wall, is behaving like a good host should, not drinking too much, eyeing his guests to see that their wishes are fulfilled, and occasionally ordering some servants around. Despite being indeed a tad overweighted even for his tall stature, he is still of an impressive appearance with his broad shoulders and chest, the well-trimmed beard, the curly hair, the manly face and his booming voice that resonates through the hall when he finds it prudent to laugh at the jokes his commensals are making. Has he just slapped that count next to him on the back? Has he just whispered something into that baroness’ ear that makes her both blush and giggle? They do not mind, not at all. They even try to please him, to make themselves appealing. The people present are used to float with the current, and it is clear where it is running these days.

He seems at ease, but not completely. If one was to watch him over several minutes, one could see that he is shooting glances to the opposite double-winged door occasionally. His guests, however, are too busy with laughing and enjoying themselves to notice. Now it is half an hour before midnight. Apprehension is rising as the question occurs what their host has thought out this time as a midnight surprise to herald the solstice. The large doors have been shut all evening, so it is general consensus that something will probably come through them. There has been a great variety of stunning surprises in the past years, and von Kluges ideas have never failed to baffle the round. Each and every year, he has managed to exceed last year’s surprise. Remember the year before last, when he presented the Nightstar, a black diamond the size of a man’s head which his mercenaries had retrieved under great peril from the Lands of the Dead? And remember last year, when he – think of it! – brought a dragon hatchling that was meant to be a gift to the zoo of Altdorf? There is no doubt that somehow, though it seems impossible, he has managed to acquire something even more valuable and mindbreaking for this night. But what?
And indeed, suddenly the doors burst open, letting in a draught of cool air, and in comes a man. Not everyone notices him, but one after the other, the noble guests note through their veil of drunkness that the person next to them has stopped talking and laughing and is staring at the newcomer. Slowly, the chatter, the merry laughter dies away. The guests stop talking. The fiddlers stop playing. The servants stop performing their tasks, right on the spot where they are. Eventually, every gaze in the room is locked on the man.

He does not heed the attention. Slowly, he walks, nay, he limps into the room and the space between the tables. His steps reverberate through the silent hall. He is appalling to look at. He is a man who has his best years quite behind him, as can be told by the grey strands in his beard and hair and the wrinkles in his weathered face. He is wearing a heavy travelling coat over his Reikland uniform, but both coat and uniform are bloodied and torn beyond repair. The ensign on his shoulder, covered with snow, tells that he ranks as captain. His full plate armour under the uniform is battered and notched, there are open wounds beneath it, so deep and many that it seems a miracle he is still standing upright. And indeed he is staggering, hardly finding the strength to move on. His right hand is clutching the handle of a sword tightly, and the appalled watchers notice with horror that the naked blade, so notched that the imperial crest is hardly visible, is dirty with dried blood. But that is not the worst thing.
In his left hand, he is holding a man’s head. He carries the terrible thing at the blond hair, his hand clutched so tightly that the knuckles shine white through the holes in the gloves. Despite the blood that crusts it, one can still see that the scarred and mutilated face has once been quite handsome. The eyes are still open. The cut at the neck is frayed, and it looks like several blows have been dealt to perform the deed. The blood, frozen to ice, melts in the heat of the dining hall and oozes out of the neck on the floor, leaving a dripping trail behind him.
If this is a joke, it is a very bad one. Even this company, and even after all the generous hospitality, will highly disapprove! But von Kluge is not laughing at all. He has become pale like a bedsheet and is staring at the man, who is approaching him, staggering, but determined. One word, one command, and the guards to the host’s left and right will cut this intruder down. Already they have risen from their seats, weapons at the ready. But the priest does not utter a sound, does not even move. He just stares in horror.

Now the old man has reached his table, his gaze firmly locked on the priest. As he lifts the hand with the severed head, right to the level of the sitting man’s face, blood is dripping out of it and on the plate with the half-eaten food. And then, after some moments that seem like an eternity, he drops the head. Women shriek, chairs are pushed back hastily. The head falls on the plate with an obnoxious sound, and with all the food beneath, it rolls so that its blue eyes face von Kluge.
There are outcries. People can be heard throwing up. Suddenly, all the vices in the world are not enough to shut away reality. Von Kluge has backed away in terror and is staring right into those open eyes, as if struck by the gods themselves. Only the old man has not moved. He looks down at the priest without mercy.
Finally, he turns, and unaffected by the turmoil around him, and oblivious of the many nobles shoving each other aside ruthlessly in panic just to avoid him, he walks back to the doors and out into the cold he came from.

Chapter II
21st day of Ulriczeit
12 days before

Corporal Johann Flechter used to have bad luck with drawing straws. Today, he had lost when it came to delivering a message.
Standing in his captain’s office, he was nervously watching the old man reading the scroll that had just been given to him. When asked, he would not have been able to state why exactly he was nervous. It was not as if the general anxiety of the garrison’s soldiers when being around the captain was warranted in any factual way. It was consensus among the more experienced Reikland soldiers that serving under Ludwig von Weiterstedt was one of the better things that could happen to a trooper these days. None of those who had retired after being under his command could express their uneasiness afterwards. Perhaps it was the suspicion that an officer with his abilities, a soldier who had performed such acts of bravery and courage, and yet still only ranked as captain despite his age, was bound to have done something terrible in the past. Perhaps it was the nagging feeling that this man was walking proof of the fact that while stories of heroism in war made excellent dishes, one should surely not go to the kitchen. The captain, having survived countless battles, which is despite the maundering of the bards an achievement on its own, was probably not mad. But he had achieved a clear-minded sobriety that sometimes seemed to meet madness the other way round. Looking at his cold, spartan office with the naked grey stone walls and floor that contained nothing else than a wardrobe, the desk and a weapons stand, one could not help but wonder whether this was the utmost and final state of sanity, or whether keeping such sanity for so many years in times of terror and carnage was a madness on its own.

Flechter saw the wrinkles on the captain’s forhead as he leaned over the table, and silently cursed fate. It had been such a nice day so far. Admittedly, it was freezing cold like it had been for weeks now, so cold that, whenever he was in the open, he hesitated to touch anything out of fear that his fingers might shatter. This morning, they had had to clear the garrison’s armaments from the masses of fresh snow that had fallen during the night, tedious work they had just done the mornings before. It seemed like it would never stop snowing. It seemed the Reikland was to be hidden under a gigantic white blanket that would obscure the wounds the land had taken during the war so that they could heal during the winter. Flechter liked this idea. The land looked so very peaceful now, almost tranquil, as it rested under the white masses. Even more, he had received a letter from his fiancé this morning that had made up for many longing hours he had spent alone at the garrison. It had indeed been such a nice day so far.

He realized that the captain was looking at him, and automatically drew himself to attention. “Excuse me, Sir?”
“Dreaming of home, soldier? I said, how many are there?”
“Can’t tell, Sir. There’s that man who gave us the letter, Sir, and besides that, there’s only the carriage. With darkened windows. No idea how many people are in there. Sir!” he added, hoping against hope that this would make things better.
Von Weiterstedt was staring out of the window into the garrison’s yard. Flechter used to wonder how old the captain actually was. In the cold sunlight falling through the frosted glass, he could see the grey strands in his beard and hair and the wrinkles in his face. The man was at least at an age in which most others were ranking as colonel, or even general. He should have left the army already, long ago. Perhaps he was beyond a stage where he could return to civil life.
“Posh bastards.” He rolled up the scroll and turned to the young man, who tried to give the impression that he had become temporarily deaf. “I’ll have a look. Get Kreutz out of his hole and tell him to meet me in the yard.”

*

Just like the outside fields, the garrison’s yard was covered with thick white snow that had piled up about two feet high. It was covering everything it could get a grip on, every thatched roof, every surface in the yard and even the small crevices between the blocks of the solid, grey walls. Given the sheer masses of huge white flocks that had fallen silently from the sky every recent night, there was really nothing that could be done against this. With the captain’s approval, the soldiers had restricted themselves to clearing the battlements, which provided enough hard work for a morning. A watcher high up in the sky would have spotted the garrison only as a dark square in the middle of a vast white desert. There were paths of downtrodden snow, created by the men’s daily routine, and there was a small area in the middle of the yard where those paths crossed.
And right there, the carriage was standing.

It was a travelling coach, fit for long journeys, designed by extraordinary craftsmanship: sturdy in built and made out of solid, dark wood. But somebody with infinite means and yet a very bad sense of taste had made every effort to demonstrate that this was a vehicle for very rich people. There was snow on it, but by far not enough to conceal the gaudy adornments all over it. The hub caps, still attached despite the skids the carriage was resting on, were designed as heavy golden imperial eagles. There were enormous black plumes flanking the seat where the driver was sitting, hunched as if cowed by all the sinister splendour, and even on the heads of the horses, which shivered in the cold despite their heavy black and golden blankets. Golden cherubs, attached all around the carriage, tried desperately to make the thing look elegant and failed miserably. It was mostly due to the fact that the artist had considered it necessary to add more ornamental skulls than any battlefield could have possibly yielded, and for some reason had coated them in gold. The sheer amount of sparkling made the eyes sore and yet made the thing look more sinister than any symbol of Morr could have ever achieved. The mere presence of it made the yard shrink around it. It seemed to emanate a gravitational field of its own, not dependent on mass, but on bad taste.

The few soldiers in the yard were staring at it, keeping a safe distance as if being afraid of getting drawn in. People in the Reikland were not easily impressed by splendour, since theirs was a rich country. But this vehicle was just too much to not to be stared at. They did not dare to show any appreciation, however. First, because there was just no reason for it, and second, due to the scowl on their sergeant’s face. Otto Rimscheid, battle-hardened and overweighted, regarded the carriage with open disapproval.
He turned when von Weiterstedt approached down the stairs from his office, shot the soldiers a glance, who hastily drew themselves up, and stood to attention. “Sir!”
“At ease, Sergeant. Report.” The captain examined the coach without any visible emotion, something that deserved admiration, given the look of the thing.
“They requested entrance, Sir.” The cold, clear air made talking hard, but he managed it with the experience of someone who had seen so many winters. “I told them to open the carriage, but they refused and ordered me to let them in. Their papers bear the sigil of General Heinrich von der Tann.”
“Do they.” The old man rested his eyes on the man that was leaning at the coach, seemingly not interested in the conversation. Then he nodded.
Slowly, he started pacing around the coach through the snow, scrutinizing it, but keeping the distance from it, like a man regarding something obnoxious that has just been thrown over the hedge into his garden and is yet unsure what to do with it.
Finally, he turned to face the sergeant again.
“Who exactly ordered you?”
“That man over there, Sir.”
“Reinhardt von Harrenfeld.“ Now the man drew himself up to full height and bowed. It was a movement of suavity, a bit wooden and not courtly the least, like a salute. His deep, rough voice filled out the yard easily. He was not large, but just as the carriage, seemed to shrink the space around him.
“My apologies if I have offended your men in any way. But we have a dangerous road behind us and were eager to enter safety.“
“Captain Ludwig von Weiterstedt. This is my garrison, and nobody enters it unless I can see him face to face.”
“My face will have to suffice, for now. We have no intentions to conceal anything, but this is a delicate matter. I would be grateful if I could speak to you in private.”
Von Weiterstedt stared at him, and then his face broke into a mirthless smile.
“I’m sure you would. Sergeant?”
“Yessir?”
“Open the door of that carriage.”
“With pleasure, Sir!” Rimscheid grunted. As he went to the coach, the other man kept both a faint smile on his face and the eyecontact with the captain. Something was weird about him, an aspect of his demeanor that distinguished him from all other men present, something that was apparent, but at the same time took some effort to be named. While all the soldiers in some way reacted to the cold, by clenching their fists, pulling up their shoulders, or moving slightly, he seemed to be oblivious of it, standing absolutely calm, his ungloved hand resting on the hilt of his sword. He was some inches taller than the captain, and wider in built. A worn-out military cloak with the ensigns ripped of covered his unadorned armour. He might have looked handsome with his bright blue eyes and the blond hair, a tad longer than what was military standard, crowning a tanned face that was only slightly deformed by a scar running down the right cheek. But all of his appearance indicated that he was not aware of this.

As Rimscheid fumbled with the lock with cold fingers, he eventually turned and raised his voice.
“It is alright, Mylord. No need to be startled. It is just…”
The sergeant finally managed to handle the lock and threw the door open. There was some murmuring amongst the soldiers. If possible, the inside of the carriage, being covered completely in thick, cream-coloured velvet, was even worse than the outside with regard to tastelessness. Three persons were staring back at the soldiers, two of them, a man and a woman around thirty, with a look of utmost contempt. The third was a little blond girl of no more than ten years, who was looking curious, albeit scared. All three were dressed like they were to attend a very expensive celebration, clad in velvet and silk clothing that looked in a silly way out of place in the freezing cold.
“…a routine control,” von Harrenfeld finished. He waited some moments, and then continued:
“Have you seen enough? I don’t know about you, but I think it is rather chilly today.”
Von Weiterstedt, who had not twitched a single muscle in his face, gave Rimscheid a brief nod, and the sergeant closed the door gingerly.
“Baron Siegmund von Kreisler, his wife Mathilda and daughter Gudrun,” von Harrenfeld said to no one in particular.
“All dressed up to attend von Kluges little solstice celebration,” the captain replied evenly.
“True. You must have gotten an invitation as well.”
“The Emperor disapproves if his soldiers indulge in quaffing contests of any kind.”
“Prudent of him. It has always been my opinion that the lack of quaffing in Reikland’s armies contributes to their strength on the battlefield.”
“Then I’m sure you understand that I disapprove that my soldiers are to march sixty miles through snow and beastmen-infested forest just so that some baron and his family can have an expensive dinner.”
Rimscheid scowled even more. More murmur broke out, and it was apparent what it was about.

The forest. The captain had said it, and those men, having been raised in the Reikland, knew what it meant. It was a place of peril and to be avoided unless it was utterly necessary to go there, and especially so in winter when the beasts were crazed with hunger. Those who entered it were usually lost to the world of men.
Von Harrenfeld waited until the muttering had died away. Then he nodded.
“Indeed.” To wait after a sentence seemed to be a habit of him, as if he was pondering his words so that he did not utter a single one in vain, as if they were something either too precious or too despicable to waste. “I have been guarding the carriage on my own ever since we left four days ago. It has not been a pleasant journey. Truly the shame is on the baron for not providing an escort. And he should have left much earlier instead of playing the posh noble he is.”
This time the pause was well deserved. Even in the Reikland, such statement could get a man a prison sentence. But von Harrenfeld did not seem to be aware of or care about this, just as he did not care about the cold.
“I have no interest of justifying any mistakes. I’m not of one of his retainers. I have no sympathy neither for him nor for this task. Alas, he is a friend of General von der Tann, and so am I, and therefor I have promised to guide him safely to castle Herringhausen.”
“A tough thing to promise,” sneered Rimscheid, not able to hold his anger any more.
“Quite so. Go ahead and picture a carriage guarded by a single man, in the forest in midwinter. It may be bravery for some, for the beasts it is just lunch.”
“On wheels,” the captain added, and there was some laughter.

“And safe Herringhausen road is not an option because you have eleven days left,” he continued when it had faded away. “You have to take the shortcut through the woods. Only that this shortcut won’t get you there any faster, but rather not at all. Least of all in one piece.”
“I’m aware of the danger.”
“You are? Your friendship to the general must be deep indeed if you have taken the mission nonetheless.”
Von Harrenfeld nodded.
„It is.“
„Where do you come from?“ corporal Wenger asked. “’Cause wherever it is, it seems to be an odd place. Do you know what the forest means here? It is not a place where fawns and bunnys are frolicking, or where young girls go collecting violets and anemones.”
“An evil place, that’s what it is.” This was Gossleitner, grim as everybody knew him. “Khorgoth’s pack is starving to death, and the Bleeding Tree’s foul power crazes them into madness.”
“I know what the beast is capable of,” von Harrenfeld replied calmly, disregarding the growing hostility. “I have been an imperial officer once, and I fought in the battle of Middenheim. I’d never thought something like this was possible in the Reikland. But here we are.”
“Us Reiklanders are no cowards,” Rimscheid growled. “Give us a task that involves honest bloody combat, and we’re all for it. We just don’t like bein’ butchered like cattle. I guess you don’t have apples or parsley with you for all of us?”
There was more murmuring amongst the soldiers. Brief conversations could be heard. “It shouldn’t be that bad. There have been no reports of beastmen raids on caravans for the past months.” – “Yeah, right. There have been no reports. Guess why.”

Wenger made a brief gesture to usher the men to silence. For some moments, not a single sound filled the cold air. Von Harrenfeld was just standing there, apparently unmoved by the anger directed at him. He had a strange smile on his face.
“Apples and parsley? I don’t think we need those, Sergeant. Not while there are swords and muskets around. I’ve beaten them before, and with worse odds than now if I get a decent escort.”
“And what makes you think that I’m going to sent my men on such a task?” the captain asked calmly.
“Orders, if necessary. The General gave me the means. But conviction is what I’d prefer.” He paused. “After all – protecting civilians is what the military is for, isn’t it?”
The captain remained silent for a while.
“No need for amiable chatter,” he said finally. “And no attempts to shift the responsibility. You want an escort, you make that an order. The general seems to esteem your judgment highly. We can only hope that he’s not mistaken.”
Von Harrenfeld seemed to be unmoved by this.
“Very well. By the authorization given to me, I order you to provide an escort, including at least twenty soldiers and your garrison’s priest.”
“Acknowledged.” The captain nodded. “I will lead the escort personally. Do what has to be done, Sergeant. Volunteers are preferred.”
“Of course, Sir.” Rimscheid turned to address Corporal Fletcher, who had just entered the yard – alone, and with the face of a man who was now having a very bad day indeed.
“The holy man has to grab his hammer and torch, he’s comin’ with us. The rest of you make up your minds whether you want to join this merry trip. Coporals report to me now.”
“Orders or not, captain,” von Harrenfeld said, watching as the soldiers hurried to their tasks, “the General will be quite thankful for this. In times like these, such gratitude can be a valuable thing.”
“I don’t give much on gratitude,” the captain replied sternly. “And may the times be as they are, one thing I surely rank higher than gratitude is the life of my men. Remember that when we are out in the woods.”
And with this, he turned and left.

Chapter III
26th day of Ulricszeit
7 days before

From horizon to horizon, there was nothing more than plain dull whiteness.
The human eye is not designed to accept that there is nothing to see. Facing monotony, it will inevitably focus on anything that is fit to distract it. The odd waypost or markstone that ruptured the blanket ignited a strange feeling of joy, and left a weird feeling of sadness when it was left behind. The fact that no crystal looks like another is interesting to know, but such knowledge does not help to overcome the monotony of snow when it covers everything.
They had left only hours after the carriage had appeared at the garrison. They had their equipment and supplies stuffed on two covered wagons on skids, each pulled by two strong oxen. A lot of men had volunteered to go, despite the imminent danger, and Rimscheid had selected twenty of them. There was Schmidtbauer, the garrison’s best marksman; he could shoot a man the pipe from the mouth from a distance of more than sixty feet. There was Gossleitner, old and scarred, who had some months ago refused the offer to join the Emperor’s personal guard so that he could stay with the comrades he had fought with at Middenheim. Rosenberg, tall and lean, of whom the captain knew that he had lied about his age so that he could join and fight in the war, Böttcher, who could bend horseshoes with frightening ease, Müller, who played the fiddle like a gleeman and used to tell the others that he would immortalize each and every of their deeds in poems. The captain knew them all, and knew that they were good men. Wearing heavy leather cloaks over their white Reikland uniforms, with scarfs and gloves and hats to fend of the merciless cold, they had been marching in front and behind the wagons and the carriage for days now, fighting both snow and weather, teasing each other, supporting each other. Two days ago, they had passed the last farm, derelict like everything else. Now there was nothing except themselves, some odd crows, and the everpresent snow all around them.

Usually, the captain was at the front, leading the way while von Harrenfeld kept close to the carriage. Rimscheid was doing the rearguard most of the time, watching that no-one got left behind. And amongst them, but not quite with them, was Hartmut Kreutz – priest of Sigmar and best-hated man within a hundred miles. Nobody had talked to him in these past days, and he had not uttered a single word. The look in his lean face and his cold grey eyes was enough for anybody to refrain from conversation with him, even from adressing him. This denial of every sane man’s need for communication, together with the hard stare he gave everybody with those eyes that never blinked, created an aura that was not so much holy as disturbing. The soldiers kept away from him whenever and as far as possible. Kreutz was a religious zealot who considered killing to be a way to solve many, if not all problems, either by smashing people’s heads with his enormous hammer or by burning reputed heretics at the stake. He was treated as if he was not there, which was in the end the only way to deal with him.

But as much as the captain in particular disliked the young man for his fanaticism, he had been even more appalled when he had seen him on the day they had left the garrison.

The priest had not left his rooms for months. He had started to behave weirdly some time after they had put an end to an undead incursion in the town of Langehringen in the past autumn. He had refrained from travelling around, and refrained from the merry witch-burning he previously had indulged in so happily, as far as Kreutz could be happy about anything. For most of the people in the vicinity, this was a vast improvement. Two months ago, he had locked himself up in his rooms – and had not left them ever since. Nobody knew what he did in there. But nobody really cared, as none of the soldiers had ever liked the man the least, despite the fact that he had shown great courage and fortitude in Langehringen. Von Weiterstedt was glad about this new behaviour, since he had been tired of arguing with the Church of Sigmar that burning innocent women was not a proper way of defending mankind. Yet now he could not help but wonder what Kreutz had done in all the time to look like this. The priest’s skin, which had used to be deeply tanned, was almost as pale as the snow, and there were dark, almost black circles around his bloodshot eyes. He was leaner than ever, making it hard to believe he would be able to even lift his heavy hammer, let alone wield it. He looked more like a ghost than a living human, and far older than any healthy man of his age should. Corporal Flechter had had a sick look on his face after he had entered his rooms as the first person to do so after the return from Langehringen, but the captain had been too busy to ask him what he had seen in there. However, contrary to his outer appearance, Kreutz’ steps were still firm, he never got exhausted on the tedious march, and he seemed to feel no cold under the shabby black cloak he always wore, come summer or winter. The religious fury burning inside him seemed to keep him going, how sickly his appearance might be.

A similar inexhaustible energy seemed to power von Harrenfeld, though it was hard to tell what its source was, since he was almost as elusive as Kreutz. Where the priest was indefatigable in the way of a clockwork, never stopping or accelerating, he was emanating pure energy, an incredible and contagious life force that belied his almost ragged appearance. Whenever he was adressed, he answered every question in a distinct and precise manner, but all of his demeanor discouraged talking, as if he dismissed the very idea of it as something expendable. Five days of travelling, of fighting snow and remorseless cold are usually sufficient to draw any group together, no matter what the differences are, but he was resistant to this basic human trait. Despite this, he was oddly likeable, like the people who have frequently seen mortal danger and survived it sometimes are. It is an attraction that dates from the animal roots of mankind, associating survivability with strength and thereby drawing humans towards such men, and it does not need words to be carried forward. Von Harrenfeld himself was apparently oblivious of it, and while he was always polite in his ways, he did not seem to hold human company in general in great esteem.

And then there was the carriage, the thing for which they were about to risk and give their lives. The hunchbacked driver turned out to be a deaf-mute, for neither did he ever utter a sound, nor did he react when talked to. He took his meals with them in silence, the only time when his face, so wrinkled and dark that it seemed to be carved from wood by an unskilled carpenter, and his greasy, long, grey hair appeared from under the rim of the huge hat he was wearing. Even the horses were more open to communication. They had been nicknamed Bertrám and Jacques by the soldiers, because Wenger had said they looked like two Bretonians he had met once. Nobody, expect von Harrenfeld, ever got a decent look on the passengers. They left it only for some minutes a day, averting their eyes, otherwise the doors and the curtains behind the darkened windows kept shut, as if they were afraid of the soldier’s company. During the days, the carriage would move in the middle of the trail, its tasteless pomposity looking as weirdly out of place amongst the plain wagons as the splendid, but shivering horses looked amongst the burly oxen. At night, it was a creepy thing to behold, looming over the men, dark against the snow. It was fit to make the proud Reikland soldiers angry, suffering cold and danger and exhaustion just for the people inside, who never expressed any gratitude in return. But Rimscheid managed to create the general belief that this was nothing more than some nobles’ spleen, that they would laugh about all this as soon as they reached castle Herringhausen, and then – count on it, boys! – their old captain would see to it that there was a suitable reward.

On the morning of the fifth day, they reached the rim of the Reikwald.

It had been visible on the horizon for quite some time, a black line that grew slowly, dark and sinister. Like in a nightmare, where unknown horrors lie right in front of one’s eyes, coming closer with every step, slowly, but inevitably, they had been approaching it. Now the wagons were halted. The lighter travelling equipment was packed away. Weapons and armour were unloaded and distributed, and the soldiers put on breastplates and pauldrons under their cloaks. Rimscheid paced around, mustering them, the hand on the hilt of his sword, his face red from the freezing cold.
“Okay boys. Fun’s over. Now let’s do some decent work to show that we’re worth the money our glorious emperor is payin’ us. We know the danger, but we know our job. Stay sharp and alert, and we’ll be fine. What are we?”
There was a muttered chorus of “Sharp and alert, Sarge!”.
“Bloody well we are. We have the trainin’. We have the weapons. We have the best goddamn captain in the whole world. This is our country. This is our forest. And if Gerhard Goaty dares to show his dirty horns, we’ll shove them up his ass!”
Von Weiterstedt was barely listening. He stood motionless with his arms folded, scrutinizing the dark trees, and did not turn when von Harrenfeld placed himself next to him.
“That view provokes thoughts every time,” the younger man said, almost to himself. “This place doesn’t belong to the world of men. Whenever I look at this, I have the feeling that I’m looking into the dark regions of our soul. There, every man is a villain, a killer, and – a beast.”

There was a pause. If the captain was surprised about hearing the other man utter more words in a row than he had done during the past days, he did not show it.
“There are people who would call you a heretic for such a statement.”
The young man shrugged. “They know nothing. The deeds of men like you and me are much more favored by Sigmar than allegedly pious waffle.”
“If it comes to the worst, we will soon be able to ask Sigmar Himself about this.”
“It seems you are not very pious,” von Harrenfeld noted, smiling lightly.
“There’s a limit to everything,” the captain stated, absent-mindedly.
“So true. When I was serving as a pistolier, I had a comrade who was – well, call it pious or superstitious, just as you like. He started with making prayers each time before we went to battle. He never took a scar. Then he’d make them just before every attack. He never got wounded. And then, during combat.”
“What happened to him?” the old man asked. He had been only half listening, but something in the voice of the other caught his attention.
“He had emptied his pistol, and while he was praying and trying to reload it, he got impaled by three goblins. Two spears in his chest, and one in his throat.” He made an indicating gesture with his finger. “Quite messy.” He smiled again. “And the moral? Sigmar helps only those who help themselves.”
Von Weiterstedt nodded.
“Could be. Or the moral is simply ‘when three goblins are poking spears at you, cut their heads of and don’t fuss around with your pistol’.”
The other man gave a brief laugh.
“Fair enough, captain. Could be that as well. Any ideas how to get the wagons through?”
“You see the gap over there?”
Two large beeches stood a little more apart than the other trees, their branches entangling a dozen feet above the ground. Behind them, some more light seemed to fall on the white ground. It looked like a gateway into an otherwordly place.
“Once there was a road through the forest. The Crow’s Way it was called. It went all the way up and met Herringhausen Road at the old Herringhausen stronghold. It hasn’t been used for years now, but the signposts should still be there, and it should be wide enough for the wagons.”
“That stronghold is derelict, isn’t it?”
“Yes, for more than two decades now. The ruins are still standing. Once we get there, we can travel the last six miles or so on Herringhausen road to the castle.”
“Sounds good.” He paused. “Just out of curiosity – what is the Bleeding Tree?”
The captain turned his head.
“A myth.”
“You hope,” the other observed.
“When people are afraid of something they cannot grasp, they will create an… epitome. Something solid. The myth goes that the bloodgod once planted a sapling of his own malevolence into these woods. It grew up to a huge tree, corrupting mere animals into beastmen and the forest into the evil place that it is.”
Von Harrenfeld’s laughter made the soldiers turn. It was the first time anyone saw him affected by emotions this much. Even Kreutz, standing aside and doing nothing but watching the trees, looked at him.
“The chaos gods have pet plants? A forest is not evil, captain. Not in itself. It’s just trees. There may be things in it you won’t want to quaff a pint with. But it’s not evil.”
The captain smiled thinly.
“I know that. But you go and tell it to the nurses who have been singing those tales for the last two centuries.”
“I see.” He was still smiling. “Seems like your men are ready.”
Von Weiterstedt nodded. “Let’s go.”

*

The moment they went into the forest, the air changed. The silence of the winter and the silence of the woods put together would not have been able to create the eerie utter absence of any sound engulfing them now. The black and naked trees loomed over them as they made their way along the old road in silence, following the rotten posts, the only signs that mankind had ever claimed this place as its own. Dark branches, pointing at them like dead fingers, shadowed the sunlight and turned it pale. They made slow progress, as the ground was covered with snow and the signposts were hard to make out. Some men looked up nervously when suddenly a crow cawed in a tree.
Noon came and went. They marched on. Eventually, the light grew blue: dusk was approaching, and with it came fear. A pair of branches is easily mistaken for a pair of horns in dim light by those who want to do so, or utterly want not to do so, and anxiety seized the men. They marched on for some time. Eventually, Rimscheid went past the wagons to approach the captain.
“With your permission, Sir?” he asked quietly. Von Weiterstedt gave a brief nod, and the Sergeant, while walking, turned and raised his voice. It rang through the silence like a clarion, startling the men.
“Listen up, boys. I’m a bit bored. You all remember ‘The Girl from Carroburg’, don’t you?”
He got no answer, and the captain could imagine the surprise in the men’s minds.
“Come on, I know at least some of the veterans do. Gossleitner? Wenger? The rest of you fall in, it’s not that hard!”
He turned again, cleared his throat, and then, with the mighty voice of someone who had spent half his life drilling recruits, started to sing, not very tidy, but loud.
“In Carroburg, I met a girl…”
Some of the soldiers joined, still hesitant and not with full volume.
“In Carroburg, I met a girl…”
“…her eyes were blue, her hair was fair!”
“…her eyes were blue, her hair was fair…”
“Can’t hear you, boys! A priest was her father, ‘No’ he said…”
“A priest was her father, ‘No’ he said…”
“I charmed her when he was asleep in bed!”
“I charmed her when he was asleep in bed!”
The captain, watching the dark forest while marching on, could not help it. In his head, he formed a picture of Kreutz, how he desperately swung his hammer to fend of suitors of the charming blond daughter he would never have, not if he lived for a hundred years. It made him smile, the second time in those last days.

*

When the last sunlight had faded away, and as soon as they had found a suitable place for the night, they halted. The wagons and the carriage were formed up into a triangle around a huge stump, with trees in the gaps between them. The animals were released and led in, and the snow was trodden down to make moving easier. Spiked fences were pulled over the outer sides of the wagons. The sky was clear, like a black cloth of velvet. Bright stars and the waning moon illuminated the scenery, their pale light reflected by the snow, turning everything grey and black except the ground itself, which glittered like a bluish, treacherous sea of jewelry. The night was more bright than the dusk had been, and the soldiers took the risk and lighted some fires to warm up and cook. Large veils of leather concealed the flames. Some brandy was passed around, and the alcohol and the hot stew lightened the hearts of the men. Stories were told, a flute was played, and after a while, there was even some laughter.

The sound carried through the night easily.

Von Weiterstedt did not participate. He had eaten quickly, and was now standing behind one of the drawbars, peering into the forest. Wenger was at the second edge of the triangle that formed their tiny and fragile fortress, and Kreutz, who for the first time in days was paying interest to something, had wordlessly ushered away the guard at the third edge. Von Harrenfeld, who had refrained from drinking, stood close to the carriage, his old coat open over his armour; apparently, he had had some argument with the passengers. When he noticed that the captain was shooting him a glance, he shrugged.
“They say it is a robust carriage. And who am I to judge? I’m but a humble servant.” He slammed the door shut and joined the old man. “You seem very convinced that there will be an attack tonight.”
“I hope we’ve seen to that,” von Weiterstedt returned. “You think we would make so much noise otherwise? Khorgoth’s herd scourges this part of the forest. We’ll have to fight them eventually, that’s for certain. Better now than in a few days, when we are all tired and exhausted.”
“Your men have used that name before. A beastmen lord? And one of the bloodgod’s retainers by the sound of it.”
“One of the worst we had for ages. Clever, alas. If he had a choice, he’d probably wait. But his herd must be mad with hunger. If they know that we’re here, he will have a hard time restraining them. Let’s just hope that he is not with them when they attack.”
Von Harrenfeld looked into the dark forest.
“Why? We could get rid of him here and now. What better chance could there be?”
The captain shook his head. “No point in fighting him. I know what he has done in those past years, and he is more than any man can handle. Favoured by the bloodgod more than any beast before, they say. We’ll lure him out of the forest in spring, meet him on open ground and shoot him and his retinue to pulp. For now, I’ll be satisfied if we make it alive.” He gave him a grim smile. “That’s what I was talking about, five days ago. That’s the risk we’re running here. Fighting and death is guaranteed. The question is just whether some of us will make it.”

There was some silence. Then the young man said:
“I’ve had my share in fighting them, but one can kill never too many. They are an abomination under the sun. There’s nothing honest about them.”
“Fighting is never honest, that much I’ve learned.”
Right in this moment, Wenger made a sharp whistle, silencing every voice.
“Sneak attack incoming! North-northeast!”
“Weapons at the ready!” Rimscheid barked, getting up, and the captain shouted: “Man the gaps! Linghoff, Böttcher, to the other edge, watch our backs!” The soldiers jumped to their feet and went into position. “Get those muskets!” The handgunners took cover behind the trees, while the other men fetched more guns from the wagons and lined them up next to them. “No-one’s playing the hero here. Keep the lines straight and stay close together!” As the soldiers went to their tasks, only Schmidtbauer did not join them, but seized a large wooden suitcase out of the wagon and went to the stump in the middle.

“Here they come, here they come!” The voice was unfamiliar at first. Kreutz had spoken. Nobody had seen him move. He was standing on the drivers’ seat next to the direction where Wenger had spotted the attackers, and was leaning on his enormous hammer, with his back to the forest, his mere stance indicating his contempt better than any words could have done. The flames illuminating his lean figure, their light playing on his pale face, gave him an infernal look. The sudden change in his behaviour was stunning. His quietly threatening appearance was gone, and he radiated with religious fury. His dark, booming voice vibrated with hatred and zeal. His eyes sparkled with inner fire. For the first time ever, they heard him roar.
“Little little beasty with its twisted horn and splintered hoove! There is shit in its fur and puke in its face! Have you seen the lands of the north? Villages burned, children massacred, women’s entrails hanging from their banners. That is what the beasty did. What are you going to do? Kill it, I say! Smash it! Slash it! Cripple it! Gore it! It wants blood? Make it choke on its own! No mercy tonight, sons of Sigmar!!”

“Hounds! Hounds!” somebody bawled, and in the next moment, both von Weiterstedt and Rimscheid shouted “Fire!”. Four shots rang through the night, and painful howling came in return. The pack outside was closing fast, huge, ugly, drooling creatures with fangs as long as a man’s hand and backs as high as his chest; the handgunners could not swap their weapons fast enough. But Schmidtbauer, standing on the stump, had taken aim with the multi-barrelled contraption he had taken out of the case, and his first shot went right into the head of the pack leader and let it burst in a fountain of brain and blood. Feral instincts got hold of the rest, and they turned and fled.
But the hounds had only been the vanguard. The beasts were making their way through the snow towards the men from between the trees. The pale, eerie light turned them almost black, and with their massive bodies, hunched in the anticipation, and their contorted horns, they were fearsome to behold. Roaring in their appalling language and banging their spears on their shields, they moved faster than any man could, closing in. There had to be at least thirty of them. Spittle was hanging from their mouths, and sharp bones under their mangy hide and the mad glitter in their eyes revealed how famished they were. At first sight, it appeared that they were moving a large rock with them, which in the next moment turned out to be a gigantic ogre, lumbering amongst them. Another fusillade from the handgunners sent two of them to the ground. Schmidtbauer fired three well aimed shots with his repeater handgun that hit the largest of the beasts, ruptured its chest into a fountain of black blood and made it fall into the snow. But the rest seemed to have forgotten all instincts in their frenzied hunger. Drawn by the smell of living flesh, they completely ignored the wagons and ran for the gaps were the soldiers were awaiting them.

The first impact made the lines shudder. Cold steel against horns, shield and armour against masses of muscles and fur, and blood spraying on both sides. The clashing of weapons, the screams of rage and pain, both part of the eternal music of carnage, disrupted the night. Imperial discipline was holding against feral madness and chaotic perversion. Wherever a man got wounded, a comrade pulled him away from danger, before the mad creatures could sink their fangs into him, and another one jumped to take his place. Wherever a beast was wounded, two others replaced it, hacking at it in order to reach the enemy, or trampling it down carelessly. No fear for their lives held them back, driven into madness by the hunger. Blood soaked the snow at the gaps.
A mighty strike hit the wagon. It shuddered, sinking deep into the soft snow. The ogre loomed over it, trying to smash the vehicle with its club. But Kreutz had anticipated this. He jumped under the wagon, rolled over, got to his feet outside in a cloud of snow, and before the stinking slate-coloured abomination could react, he hit its knee hard with his hammer. There was an ugly sound, and the huge creature shrieked and bent over, which only amplified the next blow that caught it right under the chin.
The priest, outside the wagon’s circle, surrounded by beastmen, did the only sensible thing. He kept close to the ogre, constantly raining blows on this heap of muscles and fat. Blood sprayed all around him as the soldiers shot those of the smaller creatures that tried to join the fight. The ogre’s club had fallen to the ground, its knee was twisted and its jaw smashed, but it reached out with its bare hands and grabbed the man, ignoring the ferocious strikes. Kreutz struggelled in the iron-hard grip, not able to breath, as the ogre drew him upwards. As he was at the level of its face, he let go of the hammer, and with a sudden movement, he seized the tongue of the creature that was hanging over the broken jaw like a slimy piece of leather. With a single forceful jerk, he ripped it out.

The ogre gave a terrible scream that rang over the noise of combat; it dropped the priest into the snow, clutching with both hands its mouth that oozed masses of blood, and fell to the ground. Kreutz, recovering quickly, tossed the tongue aside, jumped to the fallen creature, and with a roar, he swung the hammer in a wide arc and brought the weapons’ metal head down on its skull. There was a nasty cracking sound, then the beast was silent.
The priest did not lose a single heartbeat. Not heeding any need of protection, he flung himself into the mass of stinking bodies pressuring the gap. Heads were smashed, spraying black blood over the fighters. The captain threw away his battered shield, pierced by so many spears, and took his sword with both hands, swinging it into foul flesh. Without having to look, the heartbeat of combat told him that the men on the other gap were holding their line.

A horrible sound disrupted the combat, and for the shortest of all moments, both men and beasts hesitated. It seemed to have been made by a living thing, which was everything that could be said about it. Like a raging scream from ancient times, it hung between the trees before fading away. There was a sudden change in the behaviour of the creatures. They seemed to double their efforts, to craze themselves into a bloodthirst beyond measure. A shadow darted from tree to tree, using the paths in the snow cleared by the attackers. It was a beastman, but the hugest the captain had ever seen. Almost eight feet high, it surpassed any of the others by far in size and bulk, and as it raised its enormous head, one could make out not two, but a multitude of horns that seemed to form a contorted crown. Over its brick-red skin and dark fur, it wore a patched up armour of leather and chain that shone with a sick light, and on its forehead the vile sign of the bloodgod glittered. Muscles the size of a man’s chest flexed on its arms. A bullet hit it, doing nothing but slowing it down for a heartbeat. Eyes were glowing red, a gigantic two-handed blade was weilded by enormous claws. Steaming with sweat, it thundered towards the gap like a creature from the dawn of the world, shoving the smaller creatures aside ruthlessly, clearly with the intention to engage the captain, who pulled his sword free and prepared to fight. But in the moment Khorgoth arrived at the drawbar, Gossleitner jumped between them and thrust his weapon forward, aiming for the neck. It was a powerfull blow, but it merely scraped the skin, and Korgoth, with an aggravated hiss, brought his sword down vertically. It shattered the soldier’s shield with ease and hit him on the neck, crushing the man’s bones and digging deep down to the waist. Von Weiterstedt cursed. He jumped forward, ducked, and swung his sword vertically with two hands. The blade penetrated the tainted armour and hacked deep into the soft side of the creature.

The beast roared with pain and surprise, it let go of the hilt and hit the captain on the chest with its bare fist. The blow was horrible, he was lifted in the air, the air pressed from his lungs. He landed some feet away, only the snow softening the fall. His vision was swimming. He felt a sharp pain in the chest despite the thick breastplate, and struggled to get to his feet.

Khorgoth’s dark figure stood at the drawbar, and not minding the sword that was still buried into its side, it hurled the dead soldier of its own blade like a horrible puppet, focused its glowing eyes on the old man, lowered the weapon, and charged. Von Weiterstedt ducked under the first blow and just managed to snatch the sword Schmidtbauer had leaned against the stump. The creature’s stinking breath and the stench of its matted fur almost made him choke. After few seconds, he knew that he would lose the fight. Khorgoth was viciously strong and fast, an incarnation of power and primeval animalism that attacked him with relentless fury, trampling, butting, punching and slashing. Its coarse sword gleamed with magical energy. Against such an enemy, all experience was useless. This beast had slayed Grandmaster Jonathan von Steelen two years ago, and so many other, much younger brave men in their prime of life. All he could do was to parry and dodge, he had no time to make an attack himself. As he blocked a strike aimed for his thigh, the clashing of the swords sent sharp pain in his arms, and the creature lowered its head and drove its horns against his breastplate. The impact made him stumble backwards, over a root hidden under the downtrodden snow, and he fell to the ground. His enemy bleated triumphantly, and looming over him, its enormous muscles tensed, it raised its blade for a final blow.

It did not make it. Something large and flat hit it in the open mouth, stucking there. Teeth and blood were flying. It was a shield that had been thrown with tremendous force and precision, and Khorgoth backed away, pulling the steel-edged wood out of its bleeding yap and tossing it away furiously while looking for this new foe. Von Harrenfeld jumped down from the wagon he had been standing on, black stains of blood all over his cloak and skin and armour. He held his sword in both hands, pointing it like a spear on shoulder-height, and slowly, he circled the creature, which stood hunched, ready to fight, its eyes flickering madly, until he was between it and the captain.
For some moments, they stood like that, illuminated by dancing fire and moonlight. It later occurred to von Weiterstedt how calm the man had been. The huge beast was panting heavily, its breath steaming out of its mouth, and was trembling with anticipation. He just stood there. As if he was in a training area instead of facing a bloodthirsty creature of twice his strength, crazed into madness by pain, hunger, and the power of the dark gods, he just stood there.

And then, when Khorgoth attacked, he moved. The captain, who had fought with the greatest heroes of the empire in the battle of Middenheim, had never in his long life seen a man fight like that. Von Harrenfeld moved faster than the eye could perceive. As if by magic, he never was in the place be where the beast aimed its attacks at. The huge blade, which no living man would have been able to lift, cut the air, leaving glowing red tracks in it and making it sing, but never hitting anything. The creature ignored the first strikes, but soon, more and more blood was oozing out of its enormous body. And eventually, and against all odds, Khorgoth, the bloodgod’s hellish moloch, was the one to block and dodge to avoid getting hacked apart by the strikes that rained down on the weak spots in his armour without mercy. It was impossible to see each and every attack they were exchanging in their murderous dance, but finally, the man jumped back to enter his anticipating stance again. Khorgoth was bleeding heavily from numerous wounds, its armour of foul magic was cut in several places. Its enormous arms were shaking. It managed to raise its fearsome weapon again as the next attack came, but too slow: von Harrenfeld dodged the strike, and made an almost invisible blow before backing away again. Khorgoth fumbled for its head as something slowly slided of and fell to the ground, and realized that the man had sheared of half of its crown of horns.
The humiliation infuriated the creature beyond measure. It raised its blade, drawing unnatural strenght out of its mutilated body, and with a terrible roar that reverberated from the trees, it charged. But von Harrenfeld dodged aside, and with the quickest of movements, his sword hit the spot where the captain’s blade was buried into Khorgoth’s flesh, shoving it even deeper inwards. Then he spun, and came to a halt some feet away.

The beast had ceased moving. Hideous masses of dark blood were oozing out of the wound rapidly, more than any man’s body could hold, and tainted the whiteness. Khorgoth faltered. The huge sword slipped from its claws. After some moments of eternity, the mighty figure leaned over and fell into the darkened snow.

The captain was barely aware of what was happening all around him. He heard the soldiers shout in triumph, heard the bleating of the beasts, no longer menacing, but panicked and scared like animals in mortal fear as they turned and fled and got butchered by the pursuing men. He heard Rimscheid barking, trying to restrain the men, to keep them in the safety of the triangle. He could see Kreutz, staring at von Harrenfeld, oblivious of everything that happened around him. But all he could do was to look at the monstrous creature lying on the ground, the creature that had moments ago been the scourge of the Great Forest, the bane of so many brave humans – and the man that had killed it. Von Harrenfeld was still standing there, the fires revealing the blood clutting his blond hair, the blood on his face, the few cuts in his coat. He was looking transfixed at the dead beast, at the sea of blood it was lying in. His eyes were gleaming. Finally, he lowered his weapon, this common thing of imperial steel, wiped it clean, and put it in its sheath. It was so simple a movement that it was almost surreal. He did not utter a word of triumph.
“You saved my life,” the captain said eventually. “Thank you.”
It was the utmost stupid thing to say. But the young man took his eyes away from the thing on the ground, hesitating as if awaking from a dream, and his voice was nothing but honest when he said:
“It was a pleasure, captain.”
And that was it.

They covered their dead with blankets and put them in the wagons: Gossleitner, Silberstein, Weidener, Hellmann. Four against more than twenty beastmen. The fallen comrades were mourned in silence as the soldiers took care of the wounded. Many of them would feel pain, some would be marked for the rest of their lives, but they were alive and would be able to march on. And all the time, Khorgoth’s mighty corpse was lying in the middle of the camp, the black blood freezing slowly. Nobody approached it. Eventually, they would gingerly take the foul blade and store it safe in a wagon.
After an hour of silent work, the captain ordered everyone to rest. Exhaustion overcame the men. With the bittersweet feeling of a hard-paid triumph, they fell asleep.
After some time, snow was falling. White flocks muffled every sound and peacefully covered the remains of the carnage, the blood, the beastmen’s bodies, the wagons that stood so forlornly amidst the black trees, and the gigantic outstretched corpse in their middle.

Snow, everywhere.

When they woke up in the next morning, Hartmut Kreutz was gone.

Chapter IV
30th day of Ulricszeit
Three days before

Nobody had seen him leave. The soldiers on guard duty swore that they had been awake during their shifts, and yet they had not noticed how and when the priest had disappeared. There had been no sound of fighting. It was assumed that he had left out of his own volition. The fallen snow had covered the man’s trails.
Three days had passed since then.
Three days after the night of his departure, there were still no hints to his destination. And nobody could think of a reason why he would have wanted to leave the safety of the group and go on alone. As much as the priest was disliked, they had all seen him fight, and the idea was quickly dismissed that he could have returned to the garrison out of fear. The zealot may be despicable, but he is seldom a coward. And strangely enough, while getting rid of him had seemed quite appealing some days ago, now even the most battle-hardened and blunted soldiers missed his cold indifference, this evidence of social disability, but at the same time of an infinite and somewhat assuring self-confidence.

Not a single living creature had crossed their path in those last days. At first, they had not trusted the sudden peace. But Khorgoth had been slain, and his retainers seemed to have lost the courage and discipline to attack the trail again. On two occasions, the soldiers had found fresh corpses of them in the snow, with empty eyes, the yaps wide open in a frozen scream, disemboweled and fretted, the flesh torn from their bones by claws and teeth. Hungry as they were, and afraid of attacking the men again, the beasts were feeding from each other.
“An agreement we could have reached earlier,” von Weiterstedt said when they found the first corpse. Rimscheid was kicking the head of it hard, to general satisfaction. Frozen as it was, a creak appeared at the neck. “You eat yourselves and save us the trouble.”
“Increases our chances to make it in time,” Wenger added. “There’s not much left to delay us now.”

Not much, except something they had not foreseen. The signposts that had led them during the first day, those rotten, only remnants of the old Crow’s Way, were not there any more.
It seemed like the way had suddenly ceased, like a dead end in the woods. And the forest was too dense, too crowded with trees to get the wagons through. The old road had not run straight. They had left it without noticing it, and now they were slowed by the uneven ground beneath the snow, by hidden bushes, by roots catching the skids, permanently on the lookout for the next gap wide enough to proceed, and finally got lost in the labyrinth of trees. Once the initial triumph had faded, a leaden feeling weighed on the minds of the men. They had to march on, gritting their teeth, pulling and pushing the wagons forward, clearing the way to proceed, feet after feet, hour after hour. Time was running up. It had seemed, the morning after the battle, that this time could only possibly be the one it took to get the carriage to its destination. But with every mile they made, the deeper they went into the woods, the more they realized that it could be their own time that was ticking away without mercy.

Lost in the woods.

It was the worst thing to happen. The forest was a nightmare for each and every man. Nurses were singing dire songs about it. Mothers threatened children with it. The horrors it contained were the symbol of all evil. It was a creepy, inaccessible place were fear became true and horror solid to seize both body and soul. Those who entered it were lost to the world of men and never heard of. And now they had done so themselves. They had dared to travel into the darkness, and it was claiming its price.

Lost in the woods.

And Reinhardt von Harrenfeld got nervous. Thirty beastmen and their hellish leader had not been able to hasten his breath. He had never lost a word about the battle, never indicated even by his demeanor that he had done anything extraordinary, while he was regarded only with muted awe for what he had done. But now he was biting his lips and narrowing his eyes. No longer could he be found around the ever closed carriage, guarding it. Instead, he was pacing ahead of the wagons most of the time, guiding them through the labyrinth of black trees, running back and forth, helping out when the wagons got stuck, when a man struggelled from exhaustion or injury, and looking for the way again ahead of the trail in the next moment. Hardly did he sleep any more. He would take a soldier’s night shift, just so that they could march half an hour more the next day.

Lost for three days.
“Nature has put us in a situation where our own instincts serve our goal.” Von Harrenfeld had raised its voice so rarely in the past days that it was almost startling. He had got up and was adressing the soldiers, who were just having their first break of the day. Despite all the deprivation, he was as steady as ever. They looked up, attentive as if struck by a spell. “What we all want is to survive. What we have to do is bring that bloody thing to the castle. Turning is not an option. We are not here to do someone a favour, but because the law says we have to. Let’s just take care of surviving. Then the mission will take care of itself.”
It was crude, but not without effect. Von Weiterstedt, constantly keeping the men’s morale up despite the nagging feeling in his own head, had little sympathy for the passengers in the carriage, and even less when he thought about the men that had been killed so that they would reach the castle in time. It had never bothered him to fulfill the mission, and even less now. But they had ventured too deep into the the dead forest to just turn on the spot. And von Harrenfeld was right: The only way to safety was to reach Herringhausen fortress, just as their initial plan had been.

Lost for four days.
“Kreutz must have removed the wayposts,” Rimscheid muttered to the captain in a moment when no one was near. They were marching behind the foremost wagon. The sergeant had his face buried in a thick scarf to fend of the freezing cold. Von Weiterstedt did not answer.
“You now the place even better than I do, Sir. Those signposts were here for decades, and nobody bothered to remove them. Hardly anybody did march into the woods this far, and the goats are too stupid to do it. Now Mr Holiest Man Alive is missin’, and here we go! They’re gone. Coincidence? I don’t think so.”
“You think he wants us to die.”
“Dunno what he wants. We’re not goin’ to, I hope. Not while you’re still alive. We kicked Gerhard Goatie’s ass badly. They are eatin’ themselves, fine with me, that is. And say about Kreutz what you want, he’s not stupid. He’ll know it.”
“I’ve long stopped wondering on what is going on in his head.” Von Weiterstedt kept his voice down.
“Yes. But I keep myself askin’ – what does he get from this? Why would he do it?”
“He might know something about the people in the carriage we are not aware of.”
“Something political, you mean, Sir? I don’t know. He’s never seen them, has he?” He waited for some moments, as if hesitant to speak on.
“But he sure as hell has behaved weirdly after our return from Langehringen.”
The captain remained silent.
“I’ve been wondering what happened to him there. If it is able to shake a man like him like that…”
“Kreutz was pretty much shaken in the first place, Sergeant,” the captain said grimly. But Rimscheid shook his head.
“That’s just religion, Sir. Many people get mad about it. The end is nigh and all that stuff” He bit his lips.
“He has changed. We used to crack jokes about it, back in the garrison when it was all fine. But he has changed.”
“Enough of that.” He was not speaking sharply; if Rimscheid was troubled, there had to be a good cause. But his voice was firm. “I don’t care about Kreutz. He’s not with us. Let’s keep our minds on our own problems, and we will make it through these woods. Not in time, but alive.”
The sergeant nodded faintly. But as they marched on, von Weiterstedt could hear him murmuring to himself under the scarf.
“What has he seen? What has he found there?”

The captain could not deny that this very question had been haunting him for the last days. He knew his men were troubled about the forest, about the evil it represented, but after all the years of facing the horrors of this world, he knew that fear was only true if it was fear of the unknown. He knew about the peril that lurked in the forest, about the beasts in all their forms and the foul chaotic magic that had both created and corrupted them. They did not scare him. Kreutz, however, was only a lone man in a forest full of starving creatures. Whatever had happened to him in Langehringen, it was powerfull enough to keep him alive and safe. Von Weiterstedt was quite certain that it was not the divine light of Sigmar. But what explanation was left seemed to be more grim than any of the horrors the dead trees could conceal. The beasts were still animals, and as such, their instincts were better than those of men. It had to be something so horrifying that even the power of the dark gods was not enough to let their children overcome it.

What had he seen?

What had he found there?

When the last day of Ulricszeit dawned, most had forgotten about their initial task at all. It was almost certain that they would not make it in time. Only von Harrenfeld still seemed to believe it, as far as it could be told from the demeanor of someone who did not even let the merciless cold get control over his body, and least of all his own emotions. Still he was showing no sign of fatigue, and yet all his inhuman efforts were bound to be in vain. His energy seemed inexhaustible, but it would not be enough to make up for the time they had lost because of Kreutz.
“Captain?” One of the two soldiers who had been advancing the trek to look for a free way was approaching hastily. Von Weiterstedt looked up. The man had an impression on his face he had last seen when Corporal Fletcher had returned from the priests’ rooms.
“What is it, Steinhauer?”
“We’ve found something. You all better have a look at this.”

*

It started after some dozen steps on the trail Steinhauer had left in the snow. At first the captain blamed his heart. He was getting old and had been halfway expecting it to happen sometime soon. But after some moments, he realized that the persistant, wet pulse he was feeling was not created by his own flesh. It overshadowed his own heartbeat. As if his body had been attached to a much bigger, sick organ, an enervating thumping reverberated through blood and mind. It sent shivers down his spine that had nothing to do with the cold. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
Flayed bodies hanging from chains brass smeared red cracked skulls gaping…
He blinked. There were the woods, black, cold, and dead. It had been the briefest of impressions only, almost sub-conscious. He closed his eyes again.
Entrails dangling from open slashes empty eyes in howling wind a plain of bone…
He shook his head to get rid of the visions.
Walking next to him, Steinhauer was looking pale.
“How much more?” the captain asked, as soothingly as he could get his voice.
“Only a hundred feet, Sir.”
They walked on in silence. The air tasted metallic. Was there red mist in it? The steady beat made it hard to concentrate. He shook his head again. Behind him, he could hear distant voices. The men were having trouble making the animals move on.

They had found a clearing. It was quite a large one, and covered with snow all over. There was a rough, large circle of hubs under the white mass.
In the middle of it, there was a Thing standing.
It had a huge stem, about ten feet in diameter, hunched like a cripple, but still shadowing the trees around. Roots crawled over the snow. The grooved bark, gleaming and scarred like human skin, peeled from them. Skeletal branches reached as far as the rim of the clearing, shadowing the circle, almost reaching the trees, which curved and backed away from them. The ground was darker beneath, and on the second look one could see dark liquid oozing out of the wood, falling in damping drops down on the snow and tainting it. Over everything, there hang the metallic scent of blood. The twisted stem was pulsating slowly with the pulse of an enormous, putrid heart. Like a splinter in a festering wound, it erected from the earth that ached under the cooling blanket, stuck by corrupted godly hands. One expected it to hiss, to gurgle, or to make the least single sound that would indicate that it was just a repulsive animal. But under the drops on the snow, and under the pulse that was echoing through soul and body, there was a deadly silence.

The captain regarded it for a while. Eventually, he put his hat on and stepped into the circle. He could hear the astonishment of the soldiers that had been following him, he could hear Rimscheid say “Sir!” with a worried voice, but he did not heed it. Slowly he advanced, the hand on the hilt of his sword, ignoring the drops that fell on his clothes, moving through snow and the dark frozen crystals of vileness on it until he stood at the stem. Gingerly, he reached out and touched it. The visions returned in the same instance, racing through his mind like searing fire, but he ignored them. He could feel the obnoxious pulse under the bark. It was sickly warm to the touch. When he withdrew his hand, something dark and read smeared on his gloved fingers.
“Blood for the bloodgod!” he muttered.
There were footsteps behind him, crunching the snow. When he turned, he saw von Harrenfeld, his coat bloodied. The young man’s eyes were gazing, fixed on the tree. He did not seem to notice him. Neither did he heed the blood dripping on his hair and face that made him in a strange way look like a martyr.
His expression was inscrutable.
“The Bleeding Tree!” Wengers voice was breaking the spell. The captain turned. “I had hoped that I’d not be amongst those that would find it.”
One of the soldiers had screwed up his courage and entered the circle. More followed. They went around slowly, avoiding the dripping blood wherever possible.
“There’s something else here,” von Weiterstedt murmured. Near the trunk, something large was covered with blood-stained snow. It took him only some moments to uncover the thing partially. It was, or had been once, a creature, about ten feet high, massive in built and with a gigantic bull’s head. Its dark fur was clutted with blood, and its dead eyes were gazing into nowhere eerily. From its forehead, running over its skullcap, there was a jagged crack.
“Kreutz has been here,” he said.

There was silence. Only the dripping of the blood on the snow could be heard.
“What are we to do, captain?” Müller asked finally. Von Weitersted turned. Military training pulled its weight, as the men automatically turned their gazes away from the thing and towards him.
“We destroy it.”
“I guess Kreutz tried to do that as well,” Wenger said. “Doesn’t make sense otherwise. But he did not have the means.”
The captain nodded. “We do. Sergeant?”
“We?” Rimscheid replied grimly. “Blackpowder. We have enough Molsberg III left to blow up the gates of Karaz-A-Karak.”
“That should do it.”
“That will take some time, captain,” von Harrenfeld stated. He had been quiet so far, only looking at the tree. Still, he did not avert his eyes from it. But in the given situation, any objection against the destruction of the thing sounded utterly insensitive. There would have been probably shouting if it had not been him to say the words. Even so, some soliders murmured. He did not seem to care.
“The solstice is tonight, we’re late already.”
“Two, maybe three hours at most,” said Rimscheid. “We don’t have genuine demolition charges, so we have to wing it. But both Schmidtbauer here and myself have had gunnery training. We can do this in no-time.”
“Three hours?” Von Harrenfeld was strangely calm, as if his heart was not behind his words. “This is not our mission. We have done much more already than any man could expect. We know this place now. Let others do this.”
Some seemed to prepare to object, but remained silence when they met the captain’s gaze. He looked at the tree again, forcing his eyes not to avoid it. Then, after some time, he said: “We’re soldiers. Our mission is to protect the people of the empire.”
He turned to Rimscheid. “Take what you need, Sergeant. Schmidtbauer, you’re with us, and Rosenberg, Linghoff, Spengler, you three as well. The others stay with the wagons. Corporal Wenger, you are in charge until we get back. Move on, and don’t wait for us. You are to continue to Herringhausen fortress and then take the road to the castle. Don’t delay further.”
“Acknowledged, Sir.”
“And make sure you take care of my boys, Corporal,” Rimscheid said, patting him on the back.
“’Course, Sarge.” Wenger was looking gloomily.
The sergeant raised his voice. “Okay, boys. You heard the man. I want three powder kegs here. Heinrich, get me some fuses. Karl, Sebastian – some of the leather sheets. Cut ‘em into stripes while you’re at it. And get me those empty water pouches. Some axes as well. The rest of you prepare to hit the road again!”
“Objections?” the captain asked, adressing von Harrenfeld. At long last, the younger man turned his gaze away from the tree and regarded him as if seeing him for the first time. Eventually, he shook his head slowly.
“None.”
“As you said: you know the place now. If we don’t make it, then I rely on you to convince von der Tann that he comes back with a whole army. He owes you a boon now, I’d say.”
“That much I promise you.” Von Harrenfeld took a deep breath. “You’re probably doing the best for all of us. Just make sure that you make it. I’m relying on you to do so.”
“I value my life quite highly,” the captain said with a mirthless smile. He extended his hand, and the other man gripped it firmly. “We’ll catch up.”

*

They worked in grim silence for about an hour. One hundred and fifty pounds of gunpowder, stuffed in three barrels, were patiently waiting at the rim of the clearing. Rimscheid and Schmidtbauer were busy with building the improvised charges, and the captain had ordered Spengler and Rosenberg to both attend them and have an eye on the forest in case something turned up. He considered Linghoff to have the best stomach of all those present, and had chosen him to help preparing the tree. With two woodcutter axes, they hacked gaps in the repulsive thing, rough circles all around the stem so that the charges could be attached later on. The bark was tenacious and hard to penetrate, and the underlying wood was not so much like timber as like the flesh of a living being. Every hit caused a stream of blood, either oozing down the stem or erupting in a fountain. With every hit, the pulse accelerated more. It felt like cutting into a gigantic creature each time. The first gaps closed instantly, the blood clotting and drying to scurf. Only when they hacked deeper into the stem did they stay open, and continued to ooze blood. And all the time, blood was dripping from above, relentless and unnerving. Eventually, von Weitersted decided that it was enough. Linghoff’s uniform was stained red just like his own, and the man was green in the face and gritting his teeth, but he did neither faint nor throw up.

Attaching the charges on the slippery bark was a dirty job as well, but a bit less unpleasant since it involved less physical force. Rimscheid and Schmidtbauer had done their best to create charges out of empty leather pouches, and had made good use of the plethora of blackpowder. Each pouch was an unshaped thing, stuffed plump and with a fuse hanging out of it. They crammed them into the crevices they had just hacked, their hands and clothing slippery and smeared. It was deadly quiet all around them, and not a single word was uttered. Disgust was written in the eyes of the soldiers, but no-one dared to close them. Rosenberg, handing over charges and scanning the forest nervously, started to hum monotonously under his breath, apparently without even noticing it.

In Carroburg, I met a girl…
…her eyes were blue her hair was fair…
A priest was her father, “no” he said…

“That should do it,” Schmidtbauer said, and they all startled upon the sudden noise, including the man himself.
“We’ve run out of charges,” Rimscheid stated. “One terrifying amount of gunpowder buried into this thing now. Call me Francois if it survives.”
“Oh, I don’t want to risk that,” the captain replied, getting some nervous laughter from the soldiers. “Anything left?”
“Twenty pounds or so.”
“Pour them over it, just in case.”
They emptied the last barrel; the loose powder was soaked instantly. The Sergeant picked up the leather stripes and laid them on the ground, carefully forming a dry path on the tainted snow. Schmidtbauer was already connecting the fuses of the charges.
Alright, men, let the professionals do their job,” von Weiterstedt said, tossing aside the empty barrel. “Let’s get a decent place to watch the show.”

Schmidtbauer was so sunk in his work that he did not even look up when the others left. Absentmindedly, he pushed a strand of sand-coloured hair out of his face. A crease on his forhead gave prove of his concentration as he wove a net of knots and string that finally ended in contact with the beginning of the first stripe and the fuse. When it was done, he took a step back, and after he had regarded his work critically, he nodded approvingly to himself. Rimscheid, who, contradicting his outer appearance, could work stunningly fast if need be, was already back by his side and started to roll out a long, single piece of fuse on the leather.
“Sixty feet,” the younger man said, turning towards him and keeping up as the sergeant backed away, rolling the string out. “Still need to make a quick dash once it’s on fire.”
“Yeah.” Rimscheid seemed to consider this. “Tell you somethin’, boy, I’m getting too old for stuff like this. And too fat. I’ll have a nice hiding place with the captain and the rest, and you can get the honour of starting the firework.”
They had reached the end of the path. Rimscheid drew himself up and handed over the rest of the fuse. “There you go. Just wait a minute.”
The captain, lying in the snow in a small trough with the others some dozen feet away from the clearing, watched him approach and going down next to him wordlessly. They could see Schmidtbauer standing motionless, his tinderbox in his hand. He seemed to think about something. Eventually, he lit the box, and bent down to the fuse.

They had trodden down the snow that was on the way towards them, so that he could move faster. Still he was struggling hard with the effort to make it. The fuse sizzled menacingly. Schmidtbauer jumped into the trough and threw himself flat on the ground.
“Heads down, cover your ears!” Rimscheid bawled.
The detonation was horrible. The sound hit them like a hammer. A wake of compressed air thundered over them and covered them with snow and twigs a heartbeat later. After a few seconds, blood was showering on them in small drops, a fog of repulsive liquid. The air was humming for some moments. And then there was silence again.
Von Weiterstedt took his hands from his ears and looked up. The snow all around them was pink with sprayed blood, and the force of the explosion had mutilated the surrounding trees. But it had blown apart the stem on a length of almost ten feet. Thick branches were lying all over the clearing, bleeding obnoxiously like severed limbs. Of the stem, only a thick trunk was left. He could see it gushing a fountain of steaming blood in the air, just like a human’s neck. It was both appalling and perversely satisfying to behold.

Slowly, he got up, and so did the others. Linghoff was the first to react. He went down on one knee and raised his hands for a prayer.
“In your face, bloodgod!” Rimscheid boomed proudly. “How do you like that? This is an imperial boot stickin’ in your arsehole again!”
Rosenberg was grinning madly from ear to ear, while Spengler was making obscene gestures towards the crippled tree. Schmidtbauer was pinching the bridge of his red nose, apparently sunken in thought.
The captain did not interrupt them. After all the days of fear and sorrow behind them, his heart was lightened in a way that was almost ridiculous. He stared at the tree, at the enormous thing created by the mightiest of the chaotic gods himself to corrupt this place, and could not help it: he started to laugh. He laughed as if crazy, until his lungs hurt, laughed at the fact that six men armed with nothing but axes and gunpowder had just brought it down. The gods, be they good or evil, might be immortal and in their own way invincible, but to make a difference, they had to rely on their mortal servants. And while the life of men were short and the strength of their body far beneath the powers of the dark gods’ retailers, with so much effort, ever and ever again, they would be able to drive them back – in the past, in the present, and in the eternity that was the future.

Chapter V
33rd day of Ulricszeit
Eleven hours before

“We have put some sense in it, haven’t we?” Rosenberg asked.
They were making their way through the snow, following the trail the wagons had made.
“I mean – Moritz was a friend of mine. I’m sorry for him, but I know he’d be glad if he knew… Khorgoth death, and that thing blown to smithereens. Something he’d given his life for, of that I’m sure.” He shivered and shoved his hands into the pockets of his cloak.
“Wife? Children?”
“Know his girlfriend. I will accompany you when you tell her, captain, if you allow me.”
Von Weiterstedt nodded. It was decent behaviour for commanding officers to deliver the message of soldiers’ deaths to their families, but even after so many years it was a terrible duty.
“I will put up a dozen candles in the temple once we get back,” Linghoff said. “You know, when we left, I didn’t even bother with such a promise.”
“That’s something from your mouth,” Spengler returned.
“Right. I just didn’t expect that we make it. No offence, Sir.”
The captain shook his head.
“This world has become strange,” the soldier continued. “We even consider it acceptable if we lose comrades we held dear if we achieve something in return. That’s what the war is doing to us.”
“Take it easy, Sebastian,” Rosenberg said. “It was not our fault. They have died as heroes, and they are at Sigmar’s side now.”
“Ha! Nothing for me there,” Spengler added cheerfully, scratching the stubbles on his lean face. “If I have a choice, I’ll go for Ulric. I’ve heard that there’s oceans of beer and loads of naked women. Now that’s my vision of an afterlife!” He slapped Linghoff on the back, who sighed.
“You are a poor man, Heinrich. But I will make a prayer for you to Lord Sigmar.” He almost bumped into the captain, who had suddenly stopped and stood still. “Sorry, Sir…”
“Quiet!” the old man hissed. He made two sharp gestures with his hand, and the bewildered soldiers ducked down and went into cover behind some trees.
The wagons were in front of them, no more than some hundred feet away. They had been concealed from sight by a small mound, but the upper parts were clearly visible – two tarpaulins and the ornamented top of the carriage.
They were not moving.
The captain, who had taken cover behind a large stump, looked around. He could see the sudden tension in the eyes of the five men behind and next to him. He looked to his right and met Rimscheid’s gaze. The sergeant tapped his left ear twice and shook his head. No sound.
It was eerily quiet. They could hear a crow cawing in the distance. The absence of any noise was so consummate that von Weiterstedt thought he heard his heart beat. He could feel the strain of the men without even looking at them, and his expression became grim.
Alright. Let’s do it.

One gesture: attention. Another one: stay low. The third: move. Six men got up as one and darted towards the mound’s knoll where they threw themselves flat in the snow again. But the captain, being at the front, suddenly knew that it was all in vain.
The wagons and the carriage were forming a semi-circle. They were more or less intact, though one wagon had a skid broken away and its tarpaulin cut. The oxen and one horse were still reigned. Everywhere else, there was hell. Dead bodies were lying all around, contorted and mutilated. None looked as if the tiniest bit of life was still inside, or as if anyone could wish that it was. Blood was everywhere on the snow.
Von Weiterstedt, descending from the mound, felt like a black veil had been dropped in front of his eyes. He tried to avoid the faces as he walked into the scene, but they kept looking at him. He could see the distorted grimasses, the eyes full of terror. A cold more intense than anything else he had suffered these days crawled down his spine. And blood, blood everywhere. He shut his eyes and took a deep breath, but all that he did inhale was the stench of carnage. When he turned, he saw the rest of his men, and the disbelieving horror written in their faces.
“Check for survivors,” he ordered hoarsely.
There were none. He managed to close the eyes of those he came across. He heard Rosenberg cry like a child. The large man was down on his knees, covering his face with his hands. Spengler was running around madly, screaming at the top of his voice, his curses ringing through the deathly silent woods. Von Weiterstedt spotted Wenger, and almost wished that he had not. The young corporal was leaning against the broken wagon with his back. The right side of his skull had been smashed into a bloody pulp, and the jagged edges of the broken helmet’s metal had dug deep into flesh, bone and brain. The remaining eye was staring into nowhere. Carefully, the old man knelt down and closed it.

When he got up and turned, he could see Rimscheid standing behind him. In all the years, he had never seen the sergeant like this.
“They’re all dead, Sir,” he managed. “All of them. They’re all here, and dead. Except von Harrenfeld, and… and Kreutz.“
The captain’s eyes narrowed. He turned his head slowly. The carriage was standing there with all its solid gaudiness. The hunchbacked driver was sitting on the coach box as motionless as only a dead man could. He made some quick steps, and with one furious movement, he threw the door open.
The sight made his stomach turn. Somebody behind him threw up. Shutting the eyes was not enough, he knew. He had already seen it, the three shapes on the tainted velvet, bashed into a single bloody heap of clothing, hair, bare skin, naked bones and flesh. And he had seen the look in the dead eyes, and the small, white hand reaching out that had been the one of the little girl. He closed the door gingerly.
Never in the last days had he felt the chill of the wind like now.
As he turned, he spotted something written with blood on the intact tarpaulin. There was no point in concealing it, he knew that the soldiers’ gazes were fixed on him and that they, too, were seeing it.

REPENT

All sound seized as the men beheld the letters. Rosenberg stopped crying. The men approached the wagon, disbelieving. And then, realization dawned. It was Spengler who uttered what everyone was thinking.
“’Repent’?” he growled, his knuckles white. “Kreutz, I swear you by everything that is holy, I’ll have your nuts on a pike for this!”
“How did he do it?” Rosenberg had gotten up. His eyes were red. “We didn’t even hear a shot. I’d never thought he was that fast. Why didn’t we even hear a shot?”
“What happened to him in Langehringen?” Schmidtbauer asked. It was more a statement than anything else. He was even more pale than usual, and was speaking as if there was a lump in his throat. “No human could do anything like this. And no beast, either.”
Von Weiterstedt kept quiet.
Something was tied to the mane of the remaining horse, a piece of parchment. The creature regarded him with sorrowful eyes as he came near. He removed the thing and unrolled it. It was only small, and what little space it yielded for writing had been covered with sharp, neat letters.

Captain,
I tried to prevent this, but it was too late.
Evil things are at work.
I’m going after him.
Meet me at the fortress.
R.v.H.

„What are we to do, Captain?“ Linghoff finally asked.
The old man did not react. He seemed to be sunken in thought.
“Captain?” Rosenberg ventured.
Slowly, von Weiterstedt turned and looked at them. He seemed older than ever.
“Herringhausen castle,” he stated finally. “That’s were we’re going. The beasts will be on our trail soon. We have destroyed their gathering point, and the blood attracts them. Pick up one ration each, and some weapons. Replace you cloaks with clean ones, there’s too much blood on them, they can smell it. If we are quick, we make it in ten hours, before nightfall.”
“We’re not going after Kreutz?” Spengler asked, disbelieving.
“In the forest? Certainly not. He could be anywhere.”
“But…”
“If the goats eat us alive, nobody will ever know what happened here, soldier. No further discussion on the matter.”
“Isn’t the old fortress nearer?” Rimscheid asked as the others went to the wagons. Spengler was clutching his teeth. “We can hold out at night, and proceed to the castle the next day.”
“Easier to cover our trails if we head straight to the castle. There’s a river on the way.”
“So we let him get away with it.” It was barely a whisper, and it was shocking to hear from a man who had always spoken with a volume nothing short of shouting.
“Get away?” Von Weiterstedt sneered bitterly. “Far from it, Sergeant. But all in due time. I won’t lose any more men here.”
Rimscheid nodded, swallowing. “We should take Jacques here with us. He could be of use, and I hate the idea to let him end as beastmen fodder. I’ll unreign the oxen so that they have at least a chance.”
“Good. Do that.”
The sergeant was still standing there, biting his lips.
“We will mourn for them when we are in safety,” von Weiterstedt said grimly. “For now, let us focus on surviving.”
The men were already looting the wagons hastily. Linghoff kept muttering prayers under his breath, whereas Spengler was scowling and putting more force than necessary in every movement, like men do when they suppress terrible rage. Schmidtbauer was rummaging through the muskets, looking nervous.
“It’s not there, Captain,” he said. “The Repeater, it’s gone. It’s case is missing, too,” he added, as if this was the most appalling fact of all.
“Von Harrenfeld must have taken it,” the captain replied absent-mindedly as he fastened the girth of his battered breastplate. A howling came from deep out of the woods, and he looked up sharply. The men had startled; Rosenberg, who was in a sorry state, dropped his swordbelt and tried to pick it up with shaking hands. The horse neighed nervously.
“Still far enough. Any pistols left?”
“Loads, Sir.”
“Two for each of us.” He caught the belt Schmidtbauer was throwing him and put it around his hips. Rimscheid, already fully equipped, was cutting the reigns of the oxen with his sword. Spengler was helping Rosenberg, who was shaking so much that he failed to finish anything.
“Now listen. If we die, here and today, then nobody will ever know what happened. So if you don’t want to stay alive for your own’s sake, then do it to honour your comrades.” He paused. “We won’t outrun their hounds and monsters, no matter what, so there will be fighting. But perhaps we shake of the rest of them. We have a head start. Keep your eyes open all the time. We try to get to the river, that is our chance. Sergeant?”
“Ready to rumble, Sir!”
“Linghoff?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Rosenberg?” A faint nod. “I… think so.”
“Spengler?” A growl. “Let’s kick some ass.”
“Schmidtbauer?” The man had taken the biggest remaining musket and flung it on his back; now he nodded.
“Ready.”
“Then let’s go.”

*

You are too old for this. A man of your age should sit in front of a chimney. You are too old for running through the woods.
Von Weiterstedt felt the pain in his chest as he darted through the snow, but he did not slow down. His knees were aching. The freezing air stung in his throat and lungs, and the skin of his face felt numb. He could hear the men behind him breath heavily, disrupting the ghostly silence of the winter wood, he could hear the panting of the frightened horse, but also the howling in the distance. It definitely drew nearer.
They had not seen a trace of either Kreutz or von Harrenfeld. They were making their way through the woods as fast as reasonably possible, with a speed that would have made even the most hardened drill-sergeant beam with pride, yet it was not fast enough. They had run for more than an hour now, taking their turns riding on horseback for some minutes to recover. The captain was pushing forward as hard as he knew the men could suffer, but still the hounds were closing in.

It was futile in the end, he knew that. They were still miles away from the castle, and they could not keep up the pace much longer. A man frightened to the bone could perhaps keep running with their current speed on bare ground for such a time, but not through the deep snow . He caught a glimpse of Rimscheid’s face, already scarlet from the effort. Spengler was trying to surpress coughing fits; he was staggering, and only with incredible effort did he manage to stay upright. But the captain did not dare to slow down. There were several packs at their heels, that much he was able to make out from the howling, and they were fast.
And then he heard it, the most pleasant sound for hours. It was a faint gurgling, still distant, but carried by the crystal-clear air. They were approaching the stream, and with any luck, they would be able to cover their trail in it. It was a trick that would not fool beastmen, but they could get rid of the dogs at least. One thing at a time.
“Keep it up!” he shouted hoarsely. The soldiers had heard the gurgling as well, and they sped up even more. A howling and roaring from the right mocked the newly-found courage, and von Weiterstedt cursed silently. It had been much too close.
“Hurry, we’re almost there!” He changed the path slightly to the left. Some hundred feet ahead, he could make out a willow tree. Smiling darkly, still running, he felt for the catch of the pistol under his cloak.

As they ran up a small mound, he barked a brief command, and the men dropped into the snow, fighting for breath. They gathered behind the knoll, lying on the ground, and had barely time to recover when the pack broke out from between the trees: Hounds, lots of hounds, and a monster among them, a huge, dark creature made of nothing but bulging muscles and horn, drooling and bellowing bloodthirstily with steam coming from its nostrils. It brandished its huge axe with both claws and ran towards the hill. The thundering hooves on the snow made the ground shake. And suddenly, the sharp noise of exploding gunpowder disrupted the roaring.
It was the most magnificent shot the captain had ever witnessed. Schmidtbauer had just thrown himself into the snow, but he brought the musket round in a sweeping movement and aimed for nothing more than a split-second, targeting the only part of the creature where the bullet could do enough damage. The beast was still more than sixty feet away when the shot rang through the woods and its right eye erupted in a fountain of blood. Its roar turned into pathetic mowing as it continued to run some steps by its own impetus, then it toppled and fell over.
The hounds overtook it on the way uphill and were greeted with a barrage of pistolfire. Rosenberg, his hands shaking madly, missed his target, and just as he got up and reached for his sword, the beast bounded into him and sent him flat on the back, viciously savaging the man with its terrifying teeth. The captain jumped up and brought his sword down fiercely, cutting the creature’s spine. He caught a glimpse of what it had made out of Rosenberg’s face and knew in the same instance that the man was as good as dead.
The hounds were all around them the next moment. The creatures, red and reeking and larger than any dog bred by humans, were driven by pure hunger into madness too feral to be from this world, with all their animalism even crazier than the beastmen had been. Their ribcages and spines shone through their skin. A revolting stench of foulness and faeces filled the air. Von Weiterstedt could just see Spengler cursing and catching one of them in mid-air with a mighty blow of his shield before the first attacked him. He ducked to the right as it flung itself at him, and dodging the snapping teeth, he let it slide of his shield, sending it crashing into the tree behind him. At the same time, he thrust his sword into the open yap of the next one. A third hound did not make the mistake of jumping high in the air and was rewarded for this with the sharp lower end of his shield, which he brought down hard between the creatures’ eyes. A backhanded slice with the cold steel cut the lower jaw from the next. He heard two shots, and without even looking properly, he threw himself aside and bounced into a canine that was just about to attack Schmidtbauer from behind. Not bothering with getting up, he sliced open its belly as it struggled to recover. From one moment to the next, it was quiet again.

The mound was full with the hounds’ figures. There had to be almost two dozen of them, some motionless, some twitching and whining. Rosenberg was dead, lying in a red puddle of his own blood in the snow. Linghoff was leaning against a tree with glassy eyes, still holding sword and sield; he was barely breathing. Three slashed and mutilated beasts lay in front of him, but a fourth one, half lying in his lap, had managed to sink its fangs into the man’s side before he had cut its throat. It looked peacefull in an insane way, like a man playing with his pet.
Both Schmidtbauer and the captain hurried towards him. Spengler, having received only some deep scratches and coughing sickly, was already taking care of Rimscheid, who was lying in the snow, cursing. One of the hounds had ripped a large chunk of flesh from his thigh, and he was bleeding heavily, his uniform crimson. The black horse was lying on the ground. Its snuffling and neighing was heartbreaking; the brave creature had kicked one of the attackers to death before another from the pack, the one Schmidtbauer had shot moments later, had ripped open its waist. Bloody entrails were hanging out, steaming in the cold air.

“One hell of a fight you’ve put up, Sebastian,” Schmidtbauer said, as calm as possible with his racing breath. He gripped Linghoff firmly as the captain seized the jaws of the repulsive creature. “Four of them, for heaven’s sake. Maria will burst with pride once we tell her.” Linghoff gave a faint nod, all colour had drained from his face. Von Weiterstedt met the eyes of the handgunner, and the young man steadied his grip. With one forcefull movement, the captain broke the jaws open. It was like pulling at a bench vice, the sharp teeth ruptured his gloves and dug into his palms, but he pulled the fangs out of the flesh. Linghoff was so weak that he did not even utter a sound of pain. The captain shoved the corpse away. One look at the wound was sufficient to see that the soldier was making his last breaths.
The bleating of beasts could be heard in the distance.
“The horse!” Rimscheid gurgled painfully. “You take care of the horse!”
“Will you forget the bloody horse for a moment!” Spengler roared. He had ripped away a part of his shirt and was hastily arranging it as an already blood-soaked bandage. Rimscheid tried to clutch his arm.
“It’s… important…”
“Oh, to hell with it!” He drew his pistol and aimed it at the head of the stricken creature, turning his head away and clutching his teeth. There was a shot, and the painfull neighing ended.

“He’s dead.” Von Weiterstedt got up and turned. Schmidtbauer was searching Linghoff’s corpse hastily. “What about him?”
“I’m working at it,” Spengler shouted. “He won’t be able to walk.”
“’Course not, boy.” Rimscheid’s voice was faint. He was losing too much blood. “Leave me.”
“Shut up,” the captain said, kneeling down next to him and placing a hand on his forehead. He could feel warm liquid running down his cheek and a distant pain.
“You won’t make it with me, Captain. Don’t be a fool…”
“You tell the recruits that we leave nobody behind. Now do as you say, soldier!”
Spengler had finished fastening the bandage. It was looking makeshift at best, but it was just as much as they could do. “Alright, up with you!”
Together, they dragged him to his feet with some effort. Von Weiterstedt clenched his teeth under the weight.
“And you don’t leave me alone in this mess, you hear me?” he managed, supporting the heavy man.
“No Sir,” the other replied, faintly.
“Konrad, we’re leaving!” Spengler shouted. Schmidtbauer had stuffed two pieces of paper under his coat hastily and was reloading his guns as he followed them.
“Keep your eyes open how close they are!” the captain ordered as they went down to the river. The vivid, crystal clear stream was frozen on the edge. Faint mist was curling over the surface. He took a deep breath.
“Ready? Alright, go!”
The knee-deep water soaked through armour and clothing within a heartbeat. It felt like daggers had been put in the flesh. The captain gritted his teeth, shutting away any sound of pain. Spengler cursed horribly, while Rimscheid merely moaned. Dragging the sergeant between them, they moved downstream through the splashing water.
“I know all the stuff, Captain,” Rimscheid breathed. “Don’t let the guy know that he’s a burden. He’s wounded, and if he knows, he’ll give up. I know all the stuff. It’s my job to teach it, remember?”
“Sergeant, you are a bloody burden,” the captain replied, panting.
“I’ll have you back in basic trainin’ once we get home.” The voice was so faint that it could be barely heard above the splashing water and the bleating behind them.
“Yeah, and I’ll have you on a diet once we get home,” von Weiterstedt returned through clenched teeth. Spengler made a nasty, sickly cough, but managed to walk on while supporting the Sergeant, who kept on talking deliriously.
“And you stop smokin’ that… damn stuff, boy, it’s… bad for your health.”
“I’ve been telling you, Sir,” Spengler managed. Despite the cold, he was sweating, his face steaming. “It’s that damn winter.”
“You won’t like this, Captain,” Schmidtbauer shouted. He was running a dozen feet behind them, musket at the ready, facing the rear. “They’re closing in.”
“What about shooting them?”
“Won’t make a difference!”

Von Weiterstedt risked a glimpse over his shoulder. There had to be at least twenty beastmen in the distance, splashing water and stirring the fog as they approached, a mad horde of dark and hunched monstrosities.
“Oh, crap.” Schmidtbauer paused, aimed, and shot. The captain did not bother with looking what he had hit. The young man turned and reloaded as he caught up with them.
“Never say a word against our winter,” Rimscheid whispered. His head fell to the side. Von Weiterstedt released his hand for a short moment and hit him under the ribs forcefully. The pain seemed to bring him back, and his neck straightened again. “The winter… Know a guy who’s been to Arabia once…”
“Keep raving, Sergeant. Proves us that we don’t carry dead weight.”
“Really shitty place, he says. The heat, you know? Engulfs… you. Makes you unable to breath. And the sand. But most of all the heat. Really shitty place.”
“Can’t wait to hear more,” Spengler managed.
The sergeant took a deep breath.
“Someday, boy. Someday.”
With a sudden movement, he pulled his arms from the shoulders of the two men who had been supporting him. Splashing, he fell into the water, but pulled himself up the next moment.
“What the…” von Weiterstedt began, hurrying towards him. But Rimscheid had drawn his pistol from the holster.
“You stay right were you are, or I’ll bloody shoot you. Don’t ask, the gun is still dry.”
“Sergeant!” Spengler shouted.
“I’m goin’ to make that choice as long as I’m still able to. I’m dyin’ anyway.”
“Not as long as…”
“Bullshit!” He waved the pistol. “Now go! They want somethin’ to eat. I’ll give them somethin’ to eat! Get away while you can!”
“Sergeant, we won’t…” Schmidtbauer was still facing the beastmen who drew nearer and nearer.
“Oh no?” He held the gun to his temple. “I rather have you not witness that, boy!”
“Move on!” von Weiterstedt shouted, his eyes fixed on the beastmen.
“Captain!”
“I said move!” He pushed Spengler forward. The man stumbled and stared at him in disbelief. Schmidtbauer seized his arm and pulled him away.
“Good… that you see reason…”
Von Weiterstedt looked at the sergeant, their eyes meeting. Of all the words that were racing through his mind, none did the moment justice. Rimscheid drew himself upright, blood flowing from his wound, dispersing in the water. Standing on one leg, he tried to smile, but only managed a grimasse. Instead of an empty farewell, the captain just nodded.
Without a word, he turned to follow the others.
They did not hear a scream. There was only a shot, and the bleating of the beasts that grew louder for a short moment, and then became more and more distant with every step they made as the scene behind them vanished in the fog.

*

The cold began to fill up the whole body. Creeping through the legs where the water was soaking the clothing, it spread out to fill up every single fiber. The men moved on in silence, splashing water. Von Weiterstedts mind, while racing with so many things, was at the same time calm as ice as he kept track of their direction, leading the two soldiers. When the river made a turn, he went for the sloped bank and struggelled to get up through the snow.
The cold did not leave when they were on solid ground. If possible, it became even worse. Wind cut through the soaked fabric. They ran on in silence. The ground was hilly, small caves could be made out beneath the trees. Dusk was coming, the clouded sky turned to a leaden grey. They ran on.
Nothing could be heard under the wind soughing on their ears as they ran, panting, not feeling their own flesh anymore. Trees and snow and hills. Up and down, black and white. And then, Spengler was seized by a coughing fit, and stumbled, and fell to the ground.

The two others stopped instantly to help him up. He was still coughing, indicating with his hands that he needed no help.
“It’s alright,” he managed, breathing heavily. “I tripped. Some bloody root.”
He turned to look. Something dark was hidden under the snow. Oblong things were protruding out of it. He kicked it, removing more snow.
A beastman.
He had treaded on the ribcage, crushing it. There was little left besides bones and fur, but the corpse was fresh. The creatures had ripped away anything that could be eaten, even sinews and cheeks and eyes, leaving a hollow thing that seemed to be screaming with its fleshless yap.
“So what?” Spengler finally stated. “Cattle for its own kind.” He wanted to move on, but the captain held him back.
“They sleep after they feed.”
More heaps under the snow could be made out. What had appeared to be small hills turned out to be objects under the white blanket. They were standing in a middle of a whole field of it, stretching out between the trees as far as vision could distinguish in the grey light.
“Some of them must be dead,” Schmidtbauer whispered.
“But not all. Snow has fallen last night. They sleep for days at a time.”

And then they heard the bleating.

It was quiet yet, but coming from all around them, not more than a dozen feet away from where they were standing, from under trees, out of the small hills, out of raising ground.
“Out!” the captain hissed. “The blood on us wakes them! Stay together, and move with me!”
Forming a tight triangle, they moved, carefull to avoid the things on the ground. Horns turned up, then heads. More and more beastmen appeared, staggering after the long sleep.
“I’m so bloody fed up with you goats,” Spengler pressed between his teeth. “Disturbed you, have we?”
Von Weiterstedt was gripping his sword. “Move carefully, and when I say so, run!”
Snow was shifted away. Open caves appeared where no-one would have expected them. A smaller beast cleared itself from covering snow and staggered and stumbled towards Spengler. He hit it hard with his shield, cracking its head with the steel rim. It went to its knees.
“You like that taste? There’s more!” He hit it again.
“Be quiet!” But the soldier was losing his grip. Exhaustion, horror, hate, the fear of the last days mingled and shadowed his mind.
“What are you? Sucking goats that walk upright! Think that is impressive?” He stopped and faced the herd around them, gripping his shield tightly and pointing his sword.
“YOU THINK THAT IS IMPRESSIVE?”
“Heinrich, no!” But Spengler was already darting towards the nearest creature. They were still confused and moving clumsily. He hacked his sword into its groin. “Stinking goats! Pesky shitty animals!” He slashed the throat of the next one. Blood spilled, putting live into the others. One tried to clutch the raging man from behind, but had its legs pulled away beneath it by Schmidtbauer, who had followed his comrade and brought down his musket, firing the shot into the falling creatures’ yap.

It took the captain one mighty jump and a forcefull blow to give the man enough time to seize sword and shield. More and more beasts got up between the trees, surrounding them, closing in. Spengler was raging through the ones nearby, hacking at the emaciated, stinking creatures without mercy. But by the time a dozen of them were lying on the ground, bleeding, the others were fully awake, snatching their weapons. There were too many of them. One hit Spengler on the shoulder from behind, digging the spikes of its club through the pauldron. The man turned on the spot, driving his elbow into the creatures’ face and then his sword through its throat, but the pain made him lower his shield. A blow from the other side caught him under the chin, sending drops of blood through the air and himself to the ground.
Von Weiterstedt came too late. The beast loomed over the fallen soldier, but the old man swung his sword with precision, and the tip cut its throat, making it fall down. Three others jumped over its body immediately with horrid glee in their eyes, and he was forced to step back. Two blows he parried with sword and shield and deflected the third so that it cut of the outstretched claw of another beast. But more and more closed in, and there was no way of breaking free. Before they realized it, they were fighting with their backs to a tree, and for their lives. The captain’s breath was rattling, he knew he had been wounded. A brief pause of fighting behind him, just as he dodged a spear to hack through a beasts’ knee: Schmidtbauer had thrusted his sword into the snow and with one movement pulled and aimed his pistol. Painfull wailing followed the shot. The captain ignored the struggling thing on the ground and parried a blow by bringing his blade up again, and hammered his forehead against his foe’s nose the next moment. Another shot behind him, the smell of burnt powder, and wailing again. The beast in front stumbled backwards. Another one jumped in its place immediately; its greedy drooling turned into sick gurgling when the old man thrust his sword through the gaps in its shield and into its body. “Captain!”
A heavy blow had pushed the sword out of Schmidtbauers’ hand. His back against the tree, he managed to catch the next hit with his shield, but before von Weiterstedt could come to help, the beast lowered its head and drove its horns through the young man’s throat. His eyes widened. Huge masses of blood were flowing out of the wound. As the captain cut the creatures’ neck, he sank to the ground, the horn still stuck. He tried to say something, but no sound left his open mouth. His arm, half raised to clutch the wound, fell down.

Von Weiterstedt fought for his life, slashing, blocking, dodging, thrusting, and throwing in all the experience of decades as a soldier. Beast after beast sprayed its tainted blood over the snow, but so many more encircled him. His hands were shaking. The creatures were climbing over the dead bodies, drooling and stinking and all bleating with ecstasy, forming a solid wall of bodies. His limbs were getting tired, pain was searing through his body. Mustering all his strength, he threw his shield into the mass and seized his sword with both hands, wielding it like a mower in the harvest. Determined to take as many to death as possible, he flung himself onto the creatures, expecting the lethal blow to his unprotected back anytime.
One creature he impaled with the first thrust. The sword stuck, and he let it go, driving his armoured fist into the open yap of the next one. The surprise weakened its grip, and he wrested its axe from its claws within a moment. He could hear bleating behind him. The weapon was crude and heavy, and shattered flesh and bones with ease as he hacked into the armpit of the next attacker. And still no blow from behind. Something seemed to occupy the creatures even more than their own hunger. He snatched the dagger from his belt, and as the beast in front of him blocked the axe with its shield, he drove the blade in its eyeball. The creatures backed away. From the corner of his eye, he could see one flying through the air several feet and shattering on a tree. And suddenly, the beasts were fleeing, even those that had been about to attack him. Falling over each other, treading each other down into the snow, the mad playthings of chaos fled in sheer terror. Just as they had turned up from nowhere, they fled in the woods, dispersing between the trees. Their terrified voices could be heard fading away. Moments later, all where gone except those dead on the ground.

Wheezing, covered in blood, the heavy weapon still in his hand, the captain fought for breath. Whatever terrible thing was behind him, making no noise, patiently waiting for him to turn, he knew he owned his life to it. And yet moments passed when he stood absolutely still. Whatever it was, he did not know whether he wanted to find out about it.
Finally, as if ordered by a force other than his own will, his head turned. His gaze fell on nothing but a lonesome figure, a single man so ragged that it would have been hard to tell who he was, had it not been for the cold, grey eyes he recognized as those of Hartmut Kreutz.

Chapter VI
33rd day of Ulricszeit
Five hours before

The priest did not heed him. He dropped his hammer and knelt down next to Spengler, shoving aside the dead beast, before he lay his hands on the man’s chest and brow.
“Where is he?” he asked calmly. “Where is von Harrenfeld?”
It took some time until the captain had gathered enough breath to answer.
“On the way to the fortress.”
He took his hands away. “I cannot help him any more. It is too late. What happened to the rest of your men?”
Von Weiterstedt stared at him through the veil of exhaustion and pain. It suddenly occurred to him that, as much as he had always despised the younger man, it would have never crossed his mind that he was a liar. The mere concept of it was something that did not fit with the impression of Kreutz.
“You tell me,” he said.
The priest seemed to consider this.
“Dead, then. I had somewhat expected him to go that far.”
“Who?”
Kreutz looked up.
“Von Harrenfeld, of course.” He got up. “And, no doubt, he has blamed the deed on me.”
“He tried to.” His head was swimming.
“He underestimated you and me both.” It was a simple statement of fact, without any pride in it. “A mistake, finally.”
“You are telling me von Harrenfeld killed my men?” the captain asked. His mind felt as numb from the exhaustion as his body from the freezing cold.
“You were away, of course,” Kreutz continued, as if talking to his own. “You have found the tree. An interesting thing, was it not? I found the beast licking it, caressing it, nourishing itself from the blood. Easy to kill it was, its stomach so full. A piece of luck for him that you went this way. I wonder what he would have done otherwise?”
The old man stared at him. He could not think of anything to say except: “Why?”
“You must have lost much time when I removed the wayposts. He must have waited until the last moment. And then, the only way to reach the castle in time was to get rid of the burden. And at the same time, he could make me appear as a madman, so that he could all the easier justify killing me later on.”

The words reached the captain’s ears as if from a very large distance. He was barely aware of something trying to tell him that it was outrageous what he was hearing.
“There’s no point for him in hurrying. The baron and his family are dead as well.”
“The people in the carriage? Most certainly some peasants who were paid to wear poncy dresses and act posh for some days.” He looked at the old man for some moments, who returned the stare blankly.
“Most certainly he told them they should stay away from your men, otherwise the disguise would fail. Most certainly he forced them to stay in the carriage the night he killed Khorgoth.”
Von Weiterstedt looked at him with dreary eyes.
“You are mad,” he finally stated.
“Perhaps,” Kreutz returned evenly. “But death is proof.”
“For what? Why would he do it?”
“That I do not know. But the man who has sent him, about him I know. If all had turned out as he had planned, von Kluge would have been pleased. How nice a plan it was.”
Von Weiterstedt said nothing.
Neither did Kreutz. He seemed to be sunken in thought. For a while, the two men stood motionless amidst the dead bodies. Silence enclosed them. The fading light drained the colour from the scenery.
“Wilhelm von Kluge behind this?” the captain asked finally. “You are crazy, Kreutz.” He looked at the axe, then flung it away into the snow.
“You call me crazy, in this place where there is no sanity left? Here were plenty of opportunities for us to die. For me only, if everything would have worked out. You would have witnessed it, and given proof of my treachery.”
“You consider yourself so important in the eyes of von Kluge?” the captain asked, his voice quiet and dark.
“Not myself.”
Kreutz did not twitch a single muscle in his face. Carefully, he opened his cloak, and reaching in, he pulled out an oblong package. There were some rags, looking like a young woman’s dress, but they had been severely scorched. As he removed them, they revealed a battered book.
He looked at it for a moment. Finally, he proffered it to the captain so that the old man could read the title.

De Manducare et Implicare Mortui ex Sepulcris

“But this. I found it in the belltower of Langehringen.”
Von Weiterstedt stared at the book, and then at the priest, who returned the gaze without emotion.
He did not see it coming. The captain hit him in the face brutally, making his head fly back and sending him to the ground, into the deep snow. The next moment the old man was over him, pressing his arm against his throat. Kreutz struggeled, but could not escape the grip.
“Twentyfour people just died because you piece of shit had to take that bloody book with you?” he hissed. He pounded his fist into the others’ face again. “Answer me!”
Blood was streaming from Kreutz’ nose and from an ugly wound on his temple, but he did not seem to feel pain. “And how many men would have died if I had not?”
Von Weiterstedt hit him again, not feeling the pain in his knuckles. “Don’t come with that rubbish of a greater good you serve! That’s not something you are interested in!”
“Someone was bound to find it, eventually. Whom would you have preferred? When somebody like von Kluge is ready to kill for it, is it not likely that this is something to be killed with? What would you have done, had you been in my place?”
The captain hesitated. His grip losened. Eventually, he got up slowly, pushing the other back in the snow ruthlessly, a look of utmost contempt in his eyes. Kreutz struggelled to get to his feet, pulling himself upright by a branch, wiping the blood from his white face with his sleeve as he leaned his back against the stem behind him.
“But you were oh so lucky! And now you condemn me for what I have done! It is so simple for men like you, is it not? But I tell you, all your precious virtues and values, all this bullshit you are so proud of, that will not save the empire! Who is to bear the responsibility if we are defeated because we have not taken each and every measure at our disposal? Because the lifes of some dozen people, even some thousands were more important to us than the survival of mankind?”
He paused, breathing heavily. To utter few sentences in a row seemed to exhaust him more than the previous fighting.
“Von Kluge seems to be thinking on the same lines, then,” the captain replied hatefully, his fists clenched.
“Him?” Kreutz shook his head. “What do you know?” Blood was still streaming out of his nose, but he did not heed it. “You do not know anything.”
“I know you. Your are nothing short of a petty murderer. You always were, and I don’t think finding this did better you in any way. You surely didn’t give a damn about the people that would get killed when you took this.”
“He wants to become Archlector.”
“So what? He won’t be the only one who does.”
“Open your eyes for once!” Kreutz’ eyes were flickering. “Money and influence, that is all the church is about! And this man, he knows nothing about piety.” He spat some blood. “I hate the church more than you would believe. But we need it. We must not allow men like von Kluge to take over.”
“Politics,” von Weiterstedt sneered.
“Oh, do not be stupid,“ the priest shot back. He wiped his face again with his hand, smearing blood all over it. “What do you care about? The law? The law is about individuals. Politics is about all of them. When von Kluge turns the church into his playground, there will be sooner or later no church of Sigmar left and able to do anything for those people you care so much about. And then you can… wave your precious law in front of him like a rag on a stick, and he will not care shit about it!”

The captain stared at him. Even in the dim light of dusk, he could see the exhaustion and privations of the last days of travelling alone written into every inch of skin, the barely healed wounds in the unshaved, pale face, the tears and holes in his cloak, all telling of the terrible ordeal Kreutz must have been through, and realized how very much he must look alike. He shook his head and turned away.
“Oh, that is of course not enough for you.” the priest continued behind his back. “You want to know more about this monster? Why, then, do you think they say that he is so fond of children?” He paused.
“This makes you shudder? Think it is the worst to be imagined? You know nothing. But I, I have seen it. I have seen what he does in that castle. With my own eyes, I have seen what he hides, and believe me it makes your eyes never want to see anything again! I could make your blood freeze with my knowledge, if it was not such a waste of time!”
The captain turned to face him again.
“And all this you tell me, in this place, after all that happened – and you expect me to believe you?”
“I do? I could not care less about what you believe. But you will want to listen. Of all the men who entered this forest seven days ago, only three are still alive. Look at you. Do you really think you will survive on your own? Before you choose your side, should you not know more than you do now?”
He waited some moments, and when the captain remained silent, he continued, his voice suddenly calm again.
“You have just seen what very few men have ever witnessed with their eyes. But von Kluge knows about it. He must have known for a long time. Since I have revealed it to nobody, he even must have known that it was in this doomed town.”
“How…?”
“Oh, he has his sources. He is quite literate, you have to hand it to him. Illegal sources, of course. Sources which, would he ever have to reveal them, would get him a very intense interrogation indeed, followed by an even more intense appointment with the hangman. Who knows? Perhaps in some way, he had seen to it that the book’s previous owner came to Langehringen? It is not impossible. It would have been convenient.” For a moment, he seemed to wait for more words to arise.

“The best of all solutions. Take some men. Save the town. Be a hero. Get hold of the book, apparently by indicent. It would have been perfect. But as we turned up, then the plan was spoiled, since the book fell into my hands. The gods must have laughed heartily on this twist.” He was staring into nowhere, as if recollecting his memories.
“He must have been desperate. All the research – worthless. It was only miles away, but it could have been beyond the northern waste just as well. Like a brat staring at the forbidden cake, he must have stared at your garrison, where he would never get the tome away from as long as I did not leave.”
Von Weiterstedt was listening intensely, not paying attention to anything else. The other’s voice seemed to come from a great distance.
“And then, this man crosses his path. I do not know what his real name, who he really is. Probably von Kluge does neither. He is a man, at least that much we can say. How they met, and under what circumstances, we will never know either. But von Kluge realizes the possibilities this encounter brings.”
“He seems to be obsessed with blood.”
“You noticed that? It is weird. Giving his skills, one could assume that he was a vampire, or a servant of Khorne. But apparently, he is just human.”
“You admire him,” the captain observed with contempt, after a pause.
“You do not? I admire his creativity. Of course, there were other ways to lure us out of the garrison. But what could raise more trust than a single man looking for help? How can he possibly be a threat, how can possibly be a plan behind this? I had been suspicious, but I fell for the guise just like you. And behold! that oh so lovely blond girl, is there any way harm can come to us? It was the night he killed Khorgoth when I realized that we were doomed.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Whom would you have believed? Next to him, whom would anyone believe? Even now – whom do you believe?”

“He told me…” the captain said with a hollow voice. “He told me he would rely on me to make it.”
“So confident. He relies on you to find me if he fails, of course, and to retrieve the book yourself. He relies you to be a witness to everything. And to not believe me.”
Von Weiterstedt rubbed his brow.
“What about it, captain? Do you believe me?”
“I was ready to accept that something had driven you mad, as an explanation.” He stared at him. “This book… it is a tome on necromancy, right?”
“Not just any tome. It seems to contain the essence, the very idea of it. It could be used for the defense of mankind by the right man, and with great success.”
“Von Kluge is not famous for defending mankind.”
“He might not use it. But the man who finds it, so that it can be utilized, would be a hero. He could very well be the saviour of the empire. And that was his plan. Just think of who is present at his feast. People with influence. People who can make themselves heard.” He took some snow from the branch next to him, clearing his face with it before throwing it away.
“People who, with their accumulated influence, could even make him Archlector. And that is the reason why it must never fall into his hands. And when we were heading to the castle, like sheep into the wolf’s den, I saw no other way. Returning would have only delayed matters. As long as von Harrenfeld was on my track, the book would never be safe. I had to made him nervous, to make mistakes.”
“He killed fifteen people just because you made him nervous,” the captain replied darkly.
“Do not expect me to share your sentiments,” Kreutz said coldly. “Just as I do not expect you to share my views. I know you think I am evil. I have never been from your world. In other times, you would have arrested or killed me simply for reading this book. But those with eyes to see cannot fail to recognize the monster von Kluge is. Especially men of honour, which people consider you to be amongst.” He took a deep breath and straightened up.
“There are times, captain, when men of honour have no choice but to decide which evil they want to prevail.”

There was some silence.
“I don’t know much about evil,” von Weiterstedt finally said, grimly. “But I do know about justice. And if von Kluge has paid somebody to have twenty men killed, then I will get him for that.”
Kreutz smiled mercilessly. It was the first time ever that the captain saw him smile, and it was strangely disquieting.
“And then what? You march to the northern waste and kick the bloodgod in the face? There will be no proof, no proof at all. Even if you could arrest or kill von Harrenfeld, which no living man will be able to, von Kluge will deny everything. Again, who will people believe?” He picked up the book that was still lying in the snow, stared at it, wiped it clean and put it under his cloak. Perhaps it was nothing more than a trick of the eye in the oncoming darkness, but there seemed to be a mould on the ground where the tome had been lying, as if the snow had molten.
“But I could need your help. This thing has to be brought somewhere safe. It is to be protected, at all cost. The importance of this puts the task beyond the power of a single mortal.”
“And von Kluge?“
“Will perhaps become Archlector, someday. But not next year, and not the year after that. And he will not have this.” He felt for the book gingerly.
“Von Harrenfeld is still out here,” the captain said. “He’s waiting at the fortress.”
“He told you so? And you believe him?”
“Yes. He wants the book. He had some hours to look for you, but he has not found you. His last chance is that I have found you. He will wait there.”
“So?”
Carefully, von Weiterstedt took out one of the pistols and started to reload it. “You said I cared about the law. You’re wrong, Kreutz.” He finished loading while the priest watched his face without moving, then he took the second gun. “But I do care about justice. And because I do, and because all he has done, I will go there and kill him.”
“You saw him fight.”
“Indeed.”
“You think he will hold still for you to chop his head of?”
“No.” The old man was not looking up.
“The beasts we have survived. Him we have escaped, against the odds. Why…”
“You’ve had your talk, Kreutz,” von Weiterstedt interrupted. “Now you shut up and listen. Go ahead and take care of the world, and I will take care of justice. Not in general, but here and now. Read your monstrous books if you have to, become a traitor to all your principles, I don’t care. As far as I’m concerned, that’s a lesser crime than being a murderer. I won’t let him get away with this.” He tuck the guns away and fastened the waist belt.
“He will kill you.”
“Possibly. For his own good, he better had. Once I’ve got him, I will think of a way to handle von Kluge.”
“You are mad, captain,” Kreutz stated serenely. He picked up his hammer, attaching the leather band to his wrist. “You will fail. You should know by now that this war is not fought with the means you are accustomed to. But I cannot deny that madness is something I respect. We will not see each other again.” His voice contained neither reproach nor regret.
“Not even in death? And I thought you were pious.” The captain grinned mirthlessly. “I certainly wish you luck with saving the world, Kreutz.”
The priest nodded. Without so much as a farewell, he turned and marched away.

Von Weiterstedt could feel the power of his own will fade away. Exhaustion branded against mind and body in huge waves. He shut his eyes and mustered what force was left to fight it. For a long time, he stood there, taking deep breaths of the icy air. It had become night. Stars appeared, illuminating him: the old man standing lonely between the trees and the shapes lying in their black blood on the stark white snow.
After a while, he moved. He went to one of the beasts, and with fingers that were shaking only slightly, he pulled his sword out, cleaned it, and sheathed it. He knelt down next to Schmidtbauer’s cold corpse, and carefully, he reached into the cloak and pulled the letters out, putting them under his uniform. After he had covered the soldiers’ eyes, he looked at their dead bodies, and remained still for some moments.
Then he turned and started to make his way through the snow.

Chapter VII
33rd day of Ulricszeit
Two hours before

It took not more than half an hour for the pain to start. The cold he had ignored in the past days, and even got used to it. This was different. The skin of his face, only half-covered behind the scarf, seemed to be burning in the clear air as he fought his way through the deep snow. His legs under the soaked clothing felt like flayed. After a while, he could not feel them any more. He was sweating, soaking the uniform from inside. Fevery visions danced in front of his eyes. Stumbling through the snow, he desperately reached for a branch to support his weight, and paused, trying to get some breath.
Go ahead and picture a single man, deep in the Reikwald and in mid-winter.
A horrible coughing fit seized him. It felt like his lungs had been stabbed, like his throat would burst with pain.
For some, it might be bravery.
He wiped his mouth with his sleeve and saw some smeared blood on it. He banned the impression from his mind.
For me, you are just lunch.
With trembling fingers, he took the flask from his girdle. Clumsily, he fumbled for the lock with his gloved fingers. It was almost impossible to work with the thick leather, but he kept trying stubbornly, as if this was the most important task in his life, as if he had all the time in the world to do it, until the cold metal gave up.
He took a deep draught, rinsing his mouth with it. Then he spit it out.
When the next fit got him, he did not even stop. Like a madman, he continued to fight his way through the snow, heeding neither pain nor the blood nor the numbness in his skin and limbs and the rest of his old body. He did not know how much time had passed. He did not even slow down when he saw the rim of the wood in the distant, not even when he saw hoofprints in the snow, not even when he saw dark walls rising from all the whiteness. Only when he had reached the last trees, he stopped, and dropped himself into the snow behind one.

He could hear a sick, wheezing noise, and it took him some time to realize that it was his own breath. It did not matter anymore. Carefully, he eyed around the thick black stem, his vision still dancing. He could make out Herringhausen road, a wide belt of pure white ground without trees or bushes under which the old cobblestones waited for spring. Across the road, there was the fortress.
It had never been a large keep, since every inch of ground had to be fought for against the forest. It had once been in the middle of a vast clearing, which was now covered with the creeping vegetation that was always the vanguard for the larger trees that would eventually crumble the stone walls with their roots. For now, these walls were standing boldly upright, massive and black against the snow. But one could make out the deep crevices already, filled with snow and ice, were nature was launching its silent and invincible charge against the work of mankind. It had been years ago that he had seen it for the last time, and time had taken its toll. The battlement, running inside around the walls’ rectangle, had to be withered by now; it was made of wood, not of stone. The main gate was heading towards the road, its wings were open and rotting in the hinges. To its left, the single tower shadowed the keep, square and looming. The upper floors had collapsed long ago, blocking the front door that led to the part of the battlement which connected the tower with the open gatehouse. Yet the storey on the level of the battlement seemed to be intact, and for the shortest moment, there was the impression of a shadow moving behind the crenels.
Carefully, the captain felt for his weapons. He could feel his heart and breath calming. The excitement died away and made room for familiar sinsiter resolve. Pain returned, the stinging sensation of the freezing air in his lungs, the sharp ache in his heart. He shoved it aside. Slowly, he reached for a branch above him and pulled himself upright. When he was sure that his legs would support his weight, he started to walk towards the gate.
He half-expected to hear the deadly sound of a shot as he slowly walked over the plain white ground, and clenched his fists in anticipation. But there was nothing.

It was eerily quiet in the yard. The moonlight threw blue shadows on the snow and illuminated the blackened ruins of what had once been stables, lodgings, and storerooms. He felt like in a dream, only able to see and watch, but not to hear or do anything. For some moments, he wondered whether von Harrenfeld had deceived him, or whether he had taken too long; whether fever had mocked him and it was morning already. But a noise, the faintest scratch only, made him reach for his sword instinctively. He turned, and saw the black horse, tethered to a post, half-concealed by a wreckage of a wall. It looked at him with sad eyes. He stared at it. For some moments, he absurdly pondered on how the creature would deal with the horrors it had seen.

And then, he heard footsteps, muffled by the snow, and looked up.

“You’ve made it.” Von Harrenfeld was standing on the battlement, on the part leading to the remaining door of the tower. He was leaning on the wooden handrail, looking like a huge crow against the moon with his open cloak. The exertions of the last days, the exhaustion, the lack of sleep, were all written in his face as well, which was unshaven and dirty, the blond hair falling over his forhead. But not a single scratch could be seen. And still, despite the pale moonlight, there was the fierce vitality in his appearance, this odd trait that had been enigmatic twelve days ago and was now monstrous on a man who had been through the suffering of the last days.

Von Weiterstedt stared at the young man without moving, realizing that he had not prepared for this moment. His mind failed to yield any fitting words.
“What now?” he finally asked.
“Have you found Kreutz?” His steady breath became a small blue cloud in the starlight.
“You mean you haven’t?”
Against all odds, there was no visible reaction in the other’s face. He merely hesitated for a moment before shaking his head. He did not say anything. The captain nodded.
“You know… I’ve never been fond of him.”
“You are not a religious man,” von Harrenfeld returned softly.
“What about you? You never told me. I have recollected our talk, and you never gave away anything real about yourself.”
“I’m a servant. I had a task to do. This is all that matters.”
“And for this, you had to know me better. First bribing me, then testing my piety, then my reason. I wonder what you found?”
The other remained silent.
“Be quiet then, it’s not as if it wouldn’t matter any more.” He took a deep breath. “I know Kreutz’ interest in all this. And mine. I can even see how von Kluge would fit in. But looking at you, I find it hard to believe that a man of your abilities has chosen to become a petty murderer.”
He was fast, bloody fast. But von Weiterstedt had been ready for it. The moment he changed his grip to jump over the handrail, the captain’s hand shot out from under the coat, holding the pistol. Von Harrenfeld froze in the movement.
“Not so fast. I daresay not even you can dodge bullets.”
The younger man relaxed a bit, and his face broke into a smile. “You want to shoot me, captain?”
“Why not? A man without a name. You could be an outlaw for all I know. Why should I not?” He forced his outstretched arm to not shake, aiming the pistol.
“But contrary to your impression, you do know so much about me already. More then my employer will ever do, for example. What is a name, after all? I have so many, and none. One for you, one for von Kluge, one for everything.”
“Seems you do get around much.”
The smile widened.
“Of course. Things have to happen. I’m the one who sees to it that they do. Things that are so very convenient for people who are, of course, most definitely not involved at all. All over the empire. With all due modesty, I have never failed.”

The young man moved like lightning. He threw himself to the side with a mighty jump, rolled over, and vanished through the open door into the tower. The captain cursed, looking around hastily. The best cover was provided by some thick oak planks that had once formed the walls of the armoury. He jumped behind them just as he could see the reflection of the moonlight on metal through the door of the tower. The first shot scraped some splinters from the edge of the wood; von Harrenfeld had missed him only by inches.
“You see, I don’t want to break that record tonight.” The voice rang over the yard, calm and steady.
“Why don’t you tell me something more then, if you are so confident?” von Weiterstedt returned, remaining cowered behind the planks.
“Fools give away their plans before they are finished. And villains, in cheap storys. You think me any of these?”
He did not know how good his cover was. Apparently, von Harrenfeld did not want to waist any shots with trying. However, forcing him to reload was at the moment the only thing he could do.
He did not bother with aiming, but fired a shot vaguely in the direction of the tower while already moving. He jumped, and hit the wall on the other side hard, next to an old, splintered metal weapon stand. He could hear the shot a heartbeat later than he felt the pain in his leg. Blood dripped on the snow, and he clutched the wound. A quick look revealed that it was only a graze.
“You’re lacking the style to be a villain.” he said loudly, reloading the pistol. “But I have yet to think about the fool. Ever realized that a man like von Kluge will get the fruits of all this, while he has done nothing than sit on his fat arse? And paying you, of course. Hardly a compensation.”
“You do not suppose me to answer that, do you.”
“I just wondered. Doesn’t it gall you that a man like him would become archlector?”
The next shot went right through the planks, but von Weiterstedt had been wise enough to press himself hard on the opposite wall. Von Harrenfeld was talking calmly a moment later, as if nothing had happened.
“Why? Provided that I would care about it at all, what would make him less worthy than others?”
“This endeavour, in some eyes,” the captain returned, trying to ignore the fact that the last shot had missed him only by the width of a finger. “Whether he ordered you to kill or not, at least he certainly gave his approval. You call that piety?”
He thought he heard the young man laugh.
“Ah, what is piety? About suffering, about dying for a cause? That’s what we are supposed to believe these days. But the gods of our anchestors are deities of war and slaughter, captain. In their eyes, piety is just about killing a whole lot of people.”
Von Weiterstedt looked up.
“It is?” he managed, staring upwards. The man was certainly smart enough to know that he was talking for more time, but he seemed to enjoy it enough not to mind, for the moment.
“Kreutz understood that far better than you.”
“I’m sure he did,” the captain replied, pulling out his second pistol. “But I hardly call that an argument.” He ducked aside and fired both guns upwards. Splinters flew from the wall as von Harrenfeld returned fire. He could feel that some had penetrated the weak spots of his armour, but in the numbing cold, the pain was only distant. How many shots had he heard? Two? The other was shooting carefully, not waisting ammunition or concentration, but he had to get nervous. He might be up there, in a superior position, warm and relatively safe, but his time was running up. If it was not midnight already, it had to be quite close.

“You are remarkable,” came the voice from up in the tower. “A theological debate while we’re trying to shoot each other. I salute you for this, but you are wrong in this regard. You have been in combat, so many times. Where blood flows, holiest of all liquids. Never bother with wine when it comes to holiness! These are the places where piety manifests. When you stand in the middle of carnage and slaughter, when you don’t know whether it’s rain or sweat or blood running down your face, when your mind is racing with the fury of killing: That is a moment of holiness. And there, you can just… reach out and touch faith.”
The captain smiled, reloading the pistols once again. He did not have much blackpowder left, but it would suffice. “You are a strange man indeed, do you know that?”
“I wouldn’t have thought you to be sentimental.”
Von Weiterstedt got up. Within a heartbeat, he had left the armoury and darted towards the wooden staircase leading to the battlement. He fired the first, then the second gun to force von Harrenfeld into cover, then he was at the stairs and dashed upwards, taking three of the snow-covered and slithery steps at a time. There was another shot, which ricocheted from the handrail, then he had reached the battlement, sped up, reached the gatehouse and threw himself flat on the floor.
There was silence. He could hear his wheezing breath, and his heart beating like a hammer. White mist was dancing in front of his eyes. But he had made it, and if the other man had any shots left, he had decided not to use them.
The captain got up. The tower was not more than some dozen feet away, but as he had remembered, the door leading to the gatehouse was blocked by debris, and there were no windows on this side. Von Harrenfeld would have to leave it through the back door and move on the battlement to be able to shoot him.
Prior to that, he would probably have to reload.
“Very resourceful.” Now the young man sounded amused. “But don’t you consider this somewhat unworthy for both of us, captain?”
“Oh, I have fun,” von Weiterstedt replied, still panting. “What’s the matter with you? Can’t stand the heat?”
This got him some silence.

What he had hoped for was still there: an old catapult, initially built for the defence of the gate beneath it. It was crude, but solidly built and had survived the elements so far. He opened the hatch of the windlass. The rope was soaked and withered, but it would work. He would not need much tension.
“But of course, I forgot,” he continued, his breath calming down. “You are in a bit of a hurry. What will von Kluge do if you do not turn up at midnight?”
“Improvise, I guess. Why should I care? I told you I have no sympathy for him or his task. I didn’t lie.”
The captain, scrutinizing the catapult, could imagine the young man, sitting in the tower, calmly reloading his gun. He would do it with those hands that never shook, his breath as calm as it always was, regardless whether he talked, fought, or murdered, and he would reload the whole thing, barrel after barrel, not messing around hastily with just one as any lesser man would have done. He shook his head.
“Well, he definitely won’t be pleased. And he’s an influential man, you know.” The catapult was resting on a turn table, about four feet in diameter. Wedges were built-in to limit its moveability, so that it could only fire to the outside. Using fist and elbow, not even feeling the pain any more, he hit one of them until it broke apart.
“So what? For this task, he needs me. I will be the only one who dares to track Kreutz down here, or in Altdorf, where he will most certainly flee to. That is, provided that you have not met and killed him already.”
Your are clever indeed, the captain thought. And you will have checked this place thoroughly before I arrived. But I know you won’t shoot me as long as you can have close combat. Well, let’s see how clever you really are.
“He might try to kill you for spoiling his plan. For… failing,” he continued, just to keep the other busy. With some effort, he pulled the catapult’s arm down. The black wood creaked a bit, but it did not break. He took the rope from the windlass and placed the hook in the eye. The construction was ramshackle at best, but it seemed to hold. There was no ammunition in the bowl, only a huge mass of clean, white snow.
“You think so? That would be some fun. Some hitmen. Or assassins perhaps. There are some guilds that don’t appreciate my work at all. But with everything I know, I’m afraid he won’t take the risk.”
Now to the tricky part. He stemmed his shoulder against the catapult, and pushed. Luckily, the turn table was made of timber and not rusted like the metal screws and belts. He could feel the wood creak silently in protest, but it moved. He pushed it until the weapon was aiming at the battlement on the opposite side, and then waited for his breath to calm down before speaking again.
“In other times, I would have said your death was a loss. You could have done much for the empire.”
“Perhaps I am? Or perhaps not. I do not pretend to know what is good for the empire. And with all respect, neither should you.”
Von Weiterstedt nodded. “You mean being a killer, serving a greedy bastard and all that…” He took out the guns and reloaded them with the last bullets.
“In the end, what does it matter, captain? Everybody is bound to perish. You, me, von Kluge, even the empire, one day.”
“Certainly one of us today,” von Weiterstedt said quietly.

He could hear footsteps inside the tower, and some moments later, von Harrenfeld appeared behind the corner. He was holding the handgun at the ready, in perfect firing position, but he lowered it when he saw that the captain had put away both pistols and drawn his sword.
“I would have preferred if it hadn’t come to this.” He moved slowly to the back of the fortress, always keeping his eyes on the old man and the gun roughly pointed in his direction. Von Weiterstedt returned the stare.
“That choice is far behind you.”
The other man nodded. He had reached the rear side of the fortress. “We are both doing what our professions demand. It can be no other way. I just wanted you to know – after all we’ve been through, I regret that I have to kill you.” He moved on on the battlement until he was opposite to the gatehouse.
“Then you might grant me the answer to one last question.” The captain was regarding the notched blade of his sword that had seen so much blood in the past days. “Something that has been troubling me ever since I realized what you have done. I don’t care about the name you inherited. But who do you think you are, that you consider yourself above the law?”
Von Harrenfeld smiled faintly. “A man, captain. Just like those who created it.”
Von Weiterstedt nodded.
“I thought so.”
With a single fast movement, he spun round and cut the rope with his sword. The arm snapped and sent the snow towards the battlement. Von Harrenfeld dodged, but this was not ammunition, and the loose, flaky mass scattered so wide that he could not avoid it completely. Gracefully, he rolled over, coming up on the snowy planks on one knee and bringing the gun at the ready with the same movement. Snow covered his coat and hair. It took him a moment to realize what had just happened.
“You are throwing snowballs at me captain?” he asked, disbelieving.
Von Weiterstedt did not bother with answering. Slowly, he reached under his cloak, sheathed his sword and took out one of the pistols.
He somewhat credited the young man for his lack of reluctance. In the night’s silence, he could hear him pull the trigger of the handgun, the faint clicking of the catch being released. There was no shot. Von Harrenfeld looked down at the weapon, only to find the lock blocked with snow.

He could be mistaken in the darkness, but the smile the younger man was still keeping on his face seemed to become grim. With his incredible speed of movement, he got up, tossed the gun aside, drew his sword, and hunched behind the handrail, he darted over the battlement. When he was halfway towards the gatehouse, wood splintered. The rotten planks, wrecked by the captain’s two well-aimed shots before, broke away. With cat-like reflexes he reached for the handrail, but his fingers slipped of the snow, and he fell through the hole. Metal clanged as he hit the ground below.
Von Weiterstedt waited some moments. There was no sound at all, except the beating of his own heart. Carefully, he moved towards the staircase, and watching every step, he went down and to the armoury.

Von Harrenfeld was leaning against the wall, bleeding heavily. He was barely breathing, yet there was a strange smile on the face under the blond hair. His blue eyes were fixed on the captain. A man with his abilities, his reflexes could have probably survived the thirty-feet fall, even in armour. But the old weapon stand had had its own share. Rusty pieces of scrap were protruding out of his chest and lower body, dripping blood. Splinters had mutilated his face, turning it into a bleeding mass, but miraculously leaving his eyes unscathed. There was no hate in his expression as he looked at the old man, who was standing and watching him silently. He opened his mouth a few times without a sound leaving it. Finally, he managed some words.

“Reach out… and… touch faith, captain.”

And with this, he died.

Von Weiterstedt staggered. The pistol dropped into the snow. He stumbled backwards until he touched the wall of the armoury, and sunk down, watching the figure opposite to him, the nameless man with the almost peaceful smile on the face and the open blue eyes. The cold was creeping into his flesh, filling out all of it. His heart raced. His whole body shaked madly as exhaustion finally collected its toll. He buried his face in his hands.

Once I’ve got him, I will think of a way to handle von Kluge.

The thought glinted in his mind.

There will be no proof, no proof at all.

Kreutz had been right. There would be no proof. There would be no papers, no documents to read, no seals to give evidence. The only person able to give witness was dead, killed by himself. The man might have failed his task, but he had taken everything down to his cold grave – his name, his secrets, and every knowledge that had ever existed on the purpose of the past events.

What would Kreutz’ testimony be worth, if he survived at all?
What would his own testimony be worth?
It was over.

If von Kluge has paid somebody to have twenty men killed, then I will get him for that.

Whom will people believe?

The captain sat and stared. His limbs turned numb.

This war is not fought by the means you are accustomed to.

Think of who is present at his feast.

Eventually, and almost by itself, his head moved towards the black horse, standing shivering in the cold.

People with influence.

Carefully, he got up, staggering on his freezing legs, supporting himself by sheer willpower. In silence, he looked at the dead man for some time, at his mutilated body, at the sparkling blue eyes that still seemed to watch him.

People who can make themselves heard.

Slowly, Ludwig von Weiterstedt drew his sword.

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