Robert Earl - Ancient blood

“Wait until I’ve found my horse. By Sigmar’s right fist we’ll run these vermin down before the day is through. Ah, there he is.” Stirland broke off as his gelding came trotting up to him. Its movements were still skittish, and its eyes rolled back and forth nervously. Stirland soothed it, holding its chin, and stroking it behind the ears, before swinging back into the saddle, “Had a fright, did you? Well, never mind. Nothing to worry about. Everybody seems to be here… Oh no.”

For the first time, he realised that, although most of his men seemed to have come through intact, Aver-land, that gods cursed, weak-kneed imbecile Averland, was nowhere to be seen.

“Averland!” he roared, making no attempt to hide the rage in his voice. “Where are you? Averland!”

“He’s up there, my lord,” one of his men said, waving his arm towards the forest. Stirland followed the man’s gesture, squinting as he peered into the darkness between the trees.

“Look up, my lord,” the huntsman said, and this time the contempt in his voice was unmistakeable.

Stirland looked up. Then he saw what his man was pointing at, and froze.

Of all the creatures Stirland had seen nesting in trees, his fellow elector count was the strangest. Aver-land’s legs dangled down on either side of a branch, his hose torn and his skinny knees bloodied by the scramble up into the tree. His fine cloak had gone, torn off by another branch, and his tunic was begrimed with dirt.

However, it was Averland’s face that broke Stirland’s self control.

Even as he started to laugh, he knew that he shouldn’t be doing it. He tried to stop, tried to bite back the mirth that was bursting out of him. He might even have managed it if it hadn’t been for Averland’s pale expression of comical terror.

“It isn’t funny,” Averland squeaked, and then fluttered his arms as he started to slip.

Stirland howled with laughter. Nor was he alone. The men all around were rocking in their saddles, the terror and the exhilaration of battle finding expression in their gale of hysterical laughter.

Stop it, Stirland told himself, his ribs aching. You have to stop laughing. It’s not funny.

Averland drew himself up into what was supposed to be an expression of dignity. He brushed his clothes down, and lifted himself up from his perch, so that he could stand and look down at the men. He put his hands on his hips and, with a haughty look on his face, slid one foot forward to complete the pose.

It was a mistake. His riding boots were as smooth as silk, even on the sole, and they whipped across the damp bark as easily as skates across a frozen pond. He squawked, as one of his legs shot up into a hip-jarring high kick that pirouetted him around on the branch.

For a moment, Stirland thought that he was going to regain his balance, but it wasn’t to be. With a cry, the Elector Count of Averland tumbled from the tree and hit the floor with a bone-jarring thump. His dislodged cape came fluttering down after him.

The noise of his fall was quite inaudible over the roaring laughter of his host and the men.

Oh Sigmar, please help me to stop laughing, Stirland thought, tears streaming down his face. Think about the alliance.

His sides still shaking, he dismounted, and walked over to help Averland to his feet. The man looked up at him, his face white with rage, apart from the red patches that burned on his cheeks. Their heat was nothing compared to the furnace of hatred that burned in Averland’s eyes. It looked hot enough to melt iron, hot enough to melt sanity.

It turned the last of Stirland’s humour to ashes, and he bent to offer Averland his hand. For a moment, he thought that his fellow nobleman was going to refuse to take it. Then Averland blinked, the hatred in his eyes dulled, and he allowed Stirland to help him up.

“Glad to see you’re all right,” Stirland said, brushing leaves from Averland’s shoulders. “We were damned worried about you, Averland old man, damned worried. That’s why we were all so pleased to find you.”

“Thank you for your concern,” Averland said, his voice as cold as a razor blade. He looked around at the ring of men surrounding him, and, for a moment, that hatred was back in his eyes, like Morrslieb revealed by a sudden gap in the clouds.

It was enough to still the last of the laughter. The men shifted uncomfortably in their saddles. Stirland cleared his throat, and tried to think of something to say.

“Where’s the hunt master?” he finally asked, noticing that the old man was not among the onlookers.

Their silence grew even more uncomfortable.

“He’s with his hounds, my lord, down in the gulley.”

“Well, I’d better go and talk to him,” Stirland said. “Coming with me, Averland?”

The other elector grunted, and followed in Stir-land’s wake. They found the hunt master and his pack of hounds in the ravine from where the beastmen had sprung their ambush. Nellie, the hound that had drawn the first blood of the fight, was in the midst of them.

She lay panting, her broken body cushioned on a mat of thorns. The grey fur of her muzzle was dark with the blood of her enemies, and her torn and splintered body was wet with her own blood. One eye was gone, the socket closed with bloody tears. The eye that remained rolled in mute agony.

Her pack gathered around her. She had been mother to some, grandmother to others. At first, they had licked her wounds, whining as they had cleaned the filth from the gouge marks that had broken her. Now, as her agony drew to an end, they sat and howled, their voices mingling into a chorus of loss that echoed through the dark labyrinth of the forest.

The hunt master sat among them, his gnarled hand stroking the patch of unbroken fur beneath Nellie’s chin. Although his voice was warm and soothing, his face was sodden with tears. They made rivers of the furrowed lines of his face, before dripping down to mix with Nellie’s blood.

Stirland swallowed, blinked and looked away. For the first time in his life, he felt old. The joy of the hunt, which usually sang through his whole being after the slaughter, was missing. He felt tired and sick, and his blood felt as though it was running as slowly as sap in the winter.

He sighed, and turned back to watch Nellie breathe out her last, long breath. Then she lay still.

The hunt master stroked her for a moment more, and then thumbed her eyelid closed, and stood up, his face shining in the forest gloom.

“We’ll take her back with us,” Stirland told him, grasping the man by the shoulder. “Have the lads make a bier, and we’ll give her a proper send-off. If ever a hound deserved to be praised into Sigmar’s halls, it’s that one.”

“Thank you, my lord,” the hunt master said, pride straightening his back, even though tears still dripped into the tangle of his beard.

“Make a bier?” Averland asked, looking at Stirland as if he’d gone mad. “We don’t have time for that. You saw those things, those horrible, horrible things.” He paused and wiped a shaking hand across his brow. “They’re no better than filthy Strigany.”

“Yes, we saw them,” Stirland told him, “saw them, killed them and drove them off. We’ll hunt them down though, don’t you worry.”

Averland’s mouth fell open, and he edged backwards. Now, it wasn’t rage in his eyes, it was panic.

“I mean,” Stirland said, embarrassed by his fellow nobleman’s cowardice, “we’ll return to the castle tonight. It’s too late, and we have injured men and hounds.”

“We should go now,” Averland insisted.

“It won’t take a minute to make a bier.”

“For Sigmar’s sake, Stirland, it’s only a damned dog.”

“Yes,” Stirland said, “for Sigmar’s sake.”