Tales of the Old World (61 page)

“Groff,” Manfred said quietly. “Lock up your son. He has been tainted and
cannot be trusted.” He turned to one of his knights. “Strieger, rouse the others
and make ready. And lock the prisoners in the carriage. We ride within the
hour.”

“You’re not leaving?” exclaimed Lord Groff. “Not now?”

“We must,” said Manfred. “This was obviously an attempt to corrupt your house
from the inside, but now that they know we know of their existence and their
intent, they will try to stop us from warning Altdorf. We must be away before
they surround us.”

“But they’ll slaughter us!” cried Groff.

“Twenty knights would do nothing to change that outcome,” said Manfred,
striding down the hall. “We will pass Boecher’s garrison on our way south. I
will ask them to send reinforcements.”

Groff trotted after Manfred, mewling his distress, as Manfred’s knights took
Reiner and Franka in tow while Groff’s guards did the same with Udo.

“But my lady doesn’t wish to hurt anyone,” whined Udo. “She wants us all to
live only for pleasure.”

A half hour later, the Blackhearts were back in the cramped coach, bouncing
and jolting uncomfortably as they raced down the rough track that led to the
main Altdorf road. The thunder of Manfred’s knights riding at full gallop
drowned out all other sound and made conversation impossible.

A quarter of an hour out, there came a cry of “Ware, bandits!” and the
Blackhearts heard the knights draw steel.

Reiner and the others crowded to the slatted windows. On both sides of the
road was a large, hastily made camp. Bandits caught in the act of raising tents
and starting fires were backing towards the woods as they gaped at Manfred’s
retinue. Others were snatching up weapons and preparing to fight. But when it
became clear that the knights didn’t intend to stop, some of the bandits waved
their arms and called out after them.

“What they say?” asked Giano.

Pavel swallowed, nervous. “They said, ‘Turn back.’”

Only a few minutes later there was another cry from the knights, and the
coach reined to a sudden, slewing stop. Reiner and his companions again pressed
to the windows. It was impossible for them to see forward, but they heard
anxious muttering from the knights, and on both sides of the coach the forest
crowded too close to the road. “It’s blocked,” said a knight.

The forest was changed as well. Choking the tall pines and stout oaks were
twisted vines, black of leaf, and heavy with purple, pendulous fruit that gave
off a cloying odour.

“The vines,” whispered Giano. “They move.”

“Dortman!” came Manfred’s voice. “See if a way can be cut.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Hooves trotted forward and the Blackhearts heard a thwacking of sword on
vine. “It is very thick, my lord. I can see no end to…”

His words were cut off by a whistling thud, and a crash of armour hitting
hard-packed dirt.

“Archers!” cried a knight, and suddenly the air was hissing with arrows. They
thudded and rattled off the coach and the Blackhearts jerked back from the
windows and dropped to the floor in a frightened pile.

“Fall back!” cried Manfred. “Back to the castle!” As the coach lurched around
awkwardly, arrow heads splintered through the back wall. They glistened with
green putrescence. Hals hissed. “Poison.”

Three knights died in the ambush, and two more were dying from cuts that
barely bled, screaming in agony as poison burned through their veins. The
coachman too had died. Klaus had manned the reins in their headlong flight to
the castle.

Now Manfred conferred again with Groff in the courtyard while his knights
stood by, and the Blackhearts, who waited with Klaus.

“How many men do you have?” asked Manfred.

“Sixteen knights, my lord,” said Groff. “And forty foot, most with bows and
spears, And I’ve pressed the staff into service, though they’ve to make do with
pitchforks and fire-irons. Isn’t much, I’m afraid.”

Reiner followed Manfred’s gaze as the count surveyed the broken walls, where
a collection of peasant conscripts, cooks and pot-boys made an inadequate
defence. Groff’s “knights”—beardless youths pressed into armour after their
older brothers had died in the recent conflict—guarded the widest, most easily
breached gaps in the walls. They were spread very thin. Manfred looked grim.
Reiner wanted to throw up.

“Pull half those boys off the wall,” Manfred said, “and set them to tearing
apart that scaffolding. Sharpen the ends of the poles and plant them at an angle
before the gaps in the walls. Next, use the wood of the stables to make bonfires
fifty yards from the walls in all directions so we may see the enemy before
they’re at our throats. Pour all the lamp oil you have into the moat and be
ready to light it when they attempt to cross. It will not be enough. We will
die, but at least we will take as many with us as…”

“My lord,” said Reiner. “Might I make a suggestion?”

“You may not,” snapped Manfred.

“A suggestion that may allow us to win, my lord.” Manfred turned on him,
glaring. “What is it?”

“The bandits, my lord. They are trained men, armed with bow and sword. If…”

“Absolutely not,” said Manfred. “They are deserters. We cannot count on their
loyalty, or their courage.”

“They are trapped just as we are, my lord. They have little choice but…”

“Silence! I have said no.”

“Stiff-necked fool,” said Reiner, furious. “His righteousness will get us
killed.”

The Blackhearts sat on a pile of rubble in a gap in the north wall.

“Don’t know why he cares,” said Hals. “He don’t have a problem using us, and
I’ll lay odds we’re a nastier lot than them bandits.”

“Aye,” said Reiner. “But he doesn’t have the leash around their necks he has
around ours.”

Reiner looked below them where Groff’s conscripts were wedging sharpened poles
into the rubble. Beyond the moat, a wagon full of scrap lumber and brush was
crossing the field as more conscripts built bonfires at regular intervals.

“I no want to die,” said Giano. “Not for foolishnesses.”

“Nor do I,” growled Hals.

Reiner sighed. “I think it’s up to us to save ourselves, lads. What do you
say we go find those bandits? It’s a poor chance, but it’s better than sitting
here waiting for death.”

The others shot nervous glances at Klaus, then leaned in.

“I’m in,” whispered Hals. “If you’ve a way.”

“Won’t Manfred unleash the poison?” asked Franka.

“Not until he knows we’re gone,” said Reiner. “And when the battle begins,
he’ll be too busy to check on us.”

“But we’ll have to dispose of him,” said Hals, nodding at Klaus.

“Kill him?” asked Franka uneasily.

Reiner smirked. “No need to go so far. Plenty of places in all this mess to
hide him until we get back.” He looked up. “Hoy, sergeant. I seem to have cut
myself. I don’t think I can participate in forthcoming conflict.”

“Hey?” cried Klaus. “Not participate? Damned if you won’t. Let me see this
cut
of yours.” Hals grinned and balled his fists as Klaus climbed down to
them.

“Stand where you are, dead men!”

The Blackhearts raised their arms as a score of spears and five times as many
arrows pointed their way.

After binding and gagging Klaus and tucking him behind a fall of rubble, then
crossing the moat with the help of a scaffolding ladder, they had stolen one of
the wagons which had been building the bonfires, and rode towards the bandit
camp. Now, having found it, Reiner was having second thoughts.

A huge, broad-chested villain with matted grey hair and a filthy beard
stepped through the outlaws, a scrawny boy at his side with the swaying gait and
roving eye of an idiot.

“Brother,” said Reiner. “We come…”

“Shut yer gob!” said the giant. He urged the boy forward. “Sniff’em out,
Ludo. See if they’ve the taint.”

The boy wove to the Blackhearts’ wagon like a dreamer and reached out limp
hands. Reiner recoiled. Giano made the sign of Shallya, but they dared not move.
The idiot sniffed and fondled them like a dog with hands, then with a whimpering
sigh lay his head on Reiner’s leg. At this the outlaws relaxed a little.

“Well,” said the giant. “Yer not touched ones at any rate. What do y’want?”

“We come to ask a boon,” said Reiner, trying not flinch from the idiot’s
fawning. “The touched ones, as you call them, mount an attack on Lord Groff’s
castle, which is grievously undermanned. He and Count Manfred need your help.”

The outlaws roared with laugher.

“Groff needs
our
help?” asked the leader. “Groff, who hangs us for
hunting the deer of the forest. And another jagger who’s no doubt just as bad?
Why should we help the likes of them?”

“Because the alternative is worse.”

“Yer mad. I’ll dance a jig when Groff is dead.”

“Would you rather the touched ones ruled here in Groff’s stead?” asked Reiner.
“Where would you be then?”

The outlaws were silent.

“Groff may hang you now and then,” Reiner continued, “but at least that death
comes quick. How many have you lost to the dark lady’s seduction? Good men gone
rotten, running naked in the woods, stealing your children to sacrifice to their
daemon masters. Is that what you want?”

The outlaws muttered among themselves.

The giant crossed his arms. “Nobody wants that. But we don’t care to walk
into a noose either. What’s our guarantee that Groff, or this Manfred, won’t
turn around and hang us after we’ve saved their worthless hides?”

“I can offer you no guarantee,” said Reiner, “but I have some sway with
Manfred at least, and I will do what I can. Count Manfred is an honourable man.
He may even reward you.”

Franka shot him a look at that. Reiner shrugged. He hoped it wasn’t a lie,
but he had to say something.

After a moment’s conversation with his lieutenants, the big man turned back
to Reiner. He nodded. “Alright, silver-tongue, you’ve convinced us. Lead on.”

A red glow above the trees as the Blackhearts and the bandits approached the
castle gave evidence that battle had already been joined. The noise came next.
The clash of steel on steel, the cries of men and the screams of horses. When
they reached the fields, Manfred’s bonfires illuminated a grim scene. The massed
cultists—one couldn’t call them an army—attacked the ruined castle from all
sides, undisciplined but bloodthirsty. They had bridged the moat with
tree-trunks, and pressed Groff’s meagre forces and Manfred’s few knights fiercely
at every gap in the walls.

Hals gaped when he saw them. “The madmen! What’re they about?”

Franka giggled.

Reiner grimaced. “Some things are better covered by darkness.”

The cultists, despite the cold of the spring night, were naked, their only
covering swirls of purple and red, which looked more like smeared fruit and
blood than paint. But, though naked, they were armed. Men and women, young and
old, wielded swords and spears and clubs and bows, and though many seemed
unlearned in their use, there were so many of them, and they were so frenzied in
their unholy ecstasy that even alone they might have carried the day.
Unfortunately they were not alone.

Leading them were troops of a different calibre altogether. Fighting at the
wall were immense warriors in black and purple armour, while, further out,
purple-clad bowmen cut down defenders with impossible accuracy. “Northmens,”
whispered Giano.

“We fought that sort at Brozny,” said Pavel, shuddering. “Their swords had
spikes in the hilts which pierce their own hands as they fight.”

Hals nodded. “Pain was like drink to them. They loved it.”

“Well,” said Reiner. “There ain’t enough of them to take the castle without
their followers. If we can drive them off we’ll at least give Groff a fighting
chance.”

Loche, the bandit leader, smiled. “You leave that to me.”

Loche brought his men to the wood’s edge and spread them out.

“You’ll never hit them from here,” said Reiner, priming his handgun.

“No,” said the bandit. “Groff’s cut the woods back two bow shots for that
very reason. We’ll have to come up to the first hedgerow.”

He signalled his men forward and they and the Blackhearts advanced at a jog.
Fortunately the cultists, expecting no reinforcements, had posted no rear guard.
The bandits reached the hedgerow with no alarm raised. “Ready boys?” asked
Loche.

The bandits put arrows to strings and flexed their bows. Franka did as well.
Reiner and Giano raised their handguns. Hals and Pavel, pikemen with no skill
with a bow, stood by with second guns, ready to reload while Reiner and Giano
fired.

“Fire.”

With a thrum like a hundred guitars, the bandits loosed their shafts.
Reiner’s and Giano’s guns cracked like snare drums. The arrows disappeared into
the night, but reappeared as if by magic in the bare flesh of the cultists, who
screamed and fell by the score.

It took the madmen a moment to understand their plight, and by then, more
feathered shafts were cutting them down. A wave of panic overcame them and they
ran in all directions, dropping their weapons. Reiner wondered that men so
frenzied that they stormed a castle naked would lose courage under fire, but
facing an enemy you can see is very different from invisible death speeding from
the night.

“Don’t waste arrows on the runners, boys,” said Loche. “Let’s circle and…”

But suddenly it was the bandits who were falling and screaming as feathered
death whistled among them. Worse, even those only scratched were falling and
writhing in agony, clawing at their wounds as if they were on fire.

Reiner looked at the arrows. They were the same that had riddled the coach on
their flight from the ambush.

“The purple archers,” growled Loche, as his men pressed into the hedgerow.
“Concentrate yer fire, boys.”