by Gneisenau
"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
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.