Chapter 20
Interlude. Nuln.
Margrave Olger Hock had a headache, and his intestines gave him such colic that his belly felt like it was being sliced with a knife. He had to admit that sausages with sauerkraut and a flight on a Gryphon did not mix well. He had been flying a lot lately. Before his absence in Nuln, Hock had conducted an aerial reconnaissance of the key trails before the pass. He could not allow the horde to attack the fortress in his absence. However, Olger found no large enemy forces. The Margrave then decided to briefly visit the Empire's armaments capital to personally speak with an important prisoner.
Olger Hock knew how to impose order among soldiers, but he was unable to calm his stomach, which was rebelling in his old age. Every high step of the staircase leading to the dungeons felt like a true ordeal. But finally, a metal-clad door with a barred window appeared before Olger's eyes.
— Your Grace the Count, — a nervous guardsman addressed him. — Allow me to accompany you. Who knows what this...
— No, — the Margrave lazily replied. — He is not a madman, nor a spawn of Chaos. Just a scoundrel and a villain. In my years in the army, I have learned not to give quarter to such scum.
Worry was still legible on the guardsman's face, but he dared not argue further with the Margrave. His two comrades remained silent, standing rigidly at attention.
— The keys, — Olger demanded.
He received what he wanted. The Dwarf-made lock clanged. The door opened. Behind it was a short corridor and another sturdy door.
"They've secured this bastard well," Olger thought, closing the first door and opening the second.
The cell was cramped, dark, and damp. Only one dim beam fell inside through a narrow embrasure. Olger took a small reliquary from his belt and opened it. A warm, golden light illuminated the cell. A round stone shone brightly inside the trinket. It was a contraption made by Arabiyan djinn casters. It had cost Olger a hefty sum, but had bailed the old Margrave out of unpleasant situations a couple of times.
— Put that garbage away, — a hoarse grunt sounded. — It hurts my eyes.
A pile of rags stirred on the prison cot. Soon, a narrow face with a tangled grey beard emerged from it.
This was Litpold the Black. Also known as Litpold the Thrice-Cursed, or simply the Butcher. His list of "feats" could be the envy of any northern horde chieftain. However, Litpold did his evil deeds not in the name of the Dark Gods, but only to indulge his own greed.
The commander of mercenaries, shrouded in dark fame, had earned himself the title of Border Prince. However, his domain was now a reeking pile of ashes. Tamurkhan's horde had crushed the so-called League of the Gryphon, the alliance of Border Princes. Litpold fled, deceiving and abandoning his men. Yet even such carrion was useful. Thanks to the fugitives from the Border Princes, the Empire learned of the horde's approach.
— You sleep soundly for a man condemned to death, — Olger said sternly, closing the door behind him.
— Getting used to eternal sleep, — the condottiere sneered with an Estalian accent. — But your executioner is in no hurry. Have you perhaps caught many prisoners more important than me?
— Countess Emmanuelle has decided to postpone the execution of the sentence.
— How kind. Kiss the young Countess's hand for me. Or her foot. Whichever you prefer.
— Save the lewd jokes for the jailers. I came to talk business. Describe Tamurkhan's horde to me. Size, composition, weaknesses, all the most important things. Cooperate, and you'll get wine and tobacco. Remain silent...
— The only thing I hate more than keeping silent is praying, — Litpold grinned. — But you won't understand one thing... I've already told you everything. Poured out my soul to that sour whip. What's his name? Fritz von Halstadt.
— Herr Halstadt is a man of note, but not a military man. I would not want to rely solely on his reports.
Litpold chuckled.
— And what did that official write based on my words? Decided not to bother the Countess and downplayed the threat? Lest the girl's hair turn grey or she lose her monthly flow.
— Enough! — Olger roared. — Another offensive word towards the Countess and you will live here on water and stale bread.
— Offense? What are you saying, Señor! I insult far dirtier. But alright. I'll spare your noble ears. Tamurkhan's horde, you say? I have strong nerves. The only nightmare I sometimes see is losing a large sum of gold. But now another one has been added to it. I dream of the outlines of this monstrous army emerging through a magical fog. How many are there? Even Tamurkhan himself barely knows. My estimate: more than ten thousand. I cannot say more precisely.
— Did they overwhelm you with numbers? Surround you?
— No. We were crushed. There's no other way to put it. This army is not like the usual Northmen. Norse marauders are most often just thick-headed barbarians whose iron axe smeared with shit is the pinnacle of weaponsmithing. But there, warriors encased in full plate armor, off of whom arrows bounced, marched against us.
— Chosen, — Hock nodded. — I've heard of them. So, you simply couldn't thin the horde with ranged fire and were routed in melee?
— You really want to hear "yes," — Litpold smirked. — But the truth is much worse. There weren't only heavily armored warriors. Monsters of all stripes. You could stand there and write a new bestiary. Thousands of riders. Three dozen War Mammoths. Giants. Not just big, dumb brutes like the ones you've seen among the Greenskins. These were clad in armor. Huge hooked blades instead of hands. Flying monsters, including several Dragons. Trolls and Ogres, rotting alive, but all the more vicious for it. And cannons, Hock. They had dozens of powerful artillery pieces. Iron machines spewing fire. The ground trembled. Hundreds died in the blink of an eye. Some were struck down by projectiles, others by dark sorcery. The weaknesses of this horde? They have no weaknesses. Melee or ranged combat, they will be stronger than you. They have heavier armor, more monsters, more powerful cannons, plenty of cavalry, and a horde of sorcerers.
Olger Hock regarded the former condottiere's words with a fair amount of skepticism.
— Victory breeds pride. Defeat breeds eloquence, — the Margrave replied.
— You don't believe me? You think I just ran away and want to justify myself? I had to abandon everything, Hock. These were MY men, MY principality. I have betrayed many times in my life and with great pleasure, but abandoning my own!? — Litpold snarled. — If there had been even a chance of victory, I would have fought to the end!
These words from the condottiere pierced through Hock's disbelief. Litpold was a scoundrel for whom the noose had been waiting for years. A liar, a traitor, a perjurer. Everyone knew that perfectly well. But everyone also knew about his phenomenal greed. And a man like that ran, literally abandoning everything he had acquired. It seemed that Litpold truly saw no chance of victory for himself that day.
However, the Margrave was not going to panic. His army was superior in every way to the rabble of the Border Princes. Yet Hock understood that this time Wissenland was threatened not just by a warband or a mob of cultists. He had to do everything possible and even a little impossible to repel Tamurkhan's invasion.
— Release me, Hock. You need experienced commanders, and I have been at war my whole life. My services used to cost a fortune. For you, I'm ready to work for my freedom and the opportunity to take revenge on the bastards. Why, right here in this prison, I could gather a squad of such vicious convicts that any Chaos Lord would be fucking amazed!
Hock silently unlocked the door. The former condottiere smirked and rose from the cot, also clearly wanting to leave the cell. However, when he headed towards the exit, the Margrave stepped across the threshold and slammed the door shut right in front of Litpold's nose. The sound of the lock clicking shut echoed.
— You'll get your wine and tobacco, — Hock declared. — I keep my word. Your fate will be decided by the Countess.
— Your Countess will be eaten and shat out by Trolls! — Litpold screamed after him. — Come back, you bastard! Cretins! You're all dead, hear me! You Imperial son of a bit...
The Margrave paid no attention to the condottiere's cursing. His thoughts were already occupied with preparing for the invasion. It was time to return to the Black Fire Pass. Only this time, absolutely no sauerkraut before take-off.
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The first night near the Imperial camp went reasonably well. However, in the morning, several pressing problems emerged, souring our stay near the pass. Margrave Olger Hock was not in the camp, which meant there was no one to consider the matter of our joining the service. Consequently, we were also not entitled to rations. In other words, they refused to feed us.
We had practically no food left in our supplies. But we had an Ogre, ready to finish off those paltry crumbs in one sitting. A culinary-logistical dilemma, if you will.
To solve this problem, Adora, Marcus, and I went to the Priestess of Verena, who had recently interrogated me. Helen Adenauer considered our demands quite fair, but stated that she could not yet provide us with full army rations. The local quartermaster was unyielding on such matters. The fact that we were given dinner yesterday had already caused his displeasure. The Priestess offered a compromise: she would write us a couple of passes to the nearby town so that we could buy provisions ourselves. And later, if Olger Hock did accept us into service, the cost of the food would be reimbursed.
The town was called Friedrichsburg. It was currently closed due to the influx of refugees, but soldiers were allowed in with papers signed by army brass. Imperial infantry went there to buy tobacco, proper food, and probably get all the other pleasures not permitted by regulation.
— Jurgen and I will go in, — Eric suggested. — We'll buy a pony or a mule, another cart, and then load it up properly with provisions.
Different options for who would go were considered, but in the end, they settled on me and the halfling. Although a small detachment accompanied us all the way to the town. Marcus, his Sigmarites, a few of Adora's followers, and the Mute Woman, who followed behind us but did not come close, went along.
The walk to the town was short. We constantly encountered cheerful soldiers or bustling quartermasters on the road. By order of Olger Hock, camp followers were not allowed near the main army camp. The Margrave was probably trying to preserve the warriors' discipline from the corrupting influence of drink and women. Therefore, the trading was done in Friedrichsburg, away from the camp.
The walk was easy. We were walking downhill, listening to Marcus Schlossberg's edifying stories from the lives of the saints. The old man didn't know very many of them, so he quickly started repeating himself. However, his diction and manner of speaking were even more captivating than the narrative itself. He probably could have become a preacher, but the former shoemaker's knowledge of Sigmarite lore was still at a layman's level.
Soon we could look down on Friedrichsburg. From a distance, its tall, narrow houses with red-tiled roofs and whitewashed walls looked clean and neat. But I soon noticed cracks in the walls and holes in the roofs. The town reminded me of a refugee wrapped in rags. It wasn't well fortified, but it did have walls and a couple of watchtowers at the gates. Local guards were on duty there now, not Imperial soldiers. They were plump, red-faced men in quilted jackets and simple helmets similar to the one I once wore myself. Incidentally, if there is an armorer in town, it might be worth visiting him. To exchange my gold and silver for good steel.
— No refugees allowed, — one of the guards loudly bellowed, raising his halberd.
— Fuck off, you vagrants! — the archer on the low tower expressed himself far more categorically.
— Easy there, friends, — Eric smiled kindly at them and showed the signed passes. — We are from the military camp. We came to trade and buy supplies. Food for us, gold for you. Everyone's happy.
— Come here for a minute, nose-less, — one of the guards called him over crudely.
The halfling, still smiling radiantly, came level with the man. They discussed something on the side for about three minutes. The guard poked our papers with a fat finger and scowled until Eric slipped something into his sleeve. The man immediately softened.
— Let these ones in! — he roared. — The nose-less one and the lad. The rest wait here.
Extorting a bribe. Charming. You could immediately see how people had united in the face of a common enemy.
Well, in any case, the gates opened for us. I entered the first town of the new world. After the cool, clean mountain air, Friedrichsburg proved to be a test for the sense of smell. And the sight wasn't particularly cheering here either. Were Nurgle's followers sure they hadn't captured this place yet?
After the gates, Eric and I entered a narrow street in the shadow of the overhanging houses. The alleyways and courtyards on either side were piled with garbage. Hungry dogs ran from one heap of rotting vegetables to another, freely defecating right on the streets. A heavy smell of urine emanated from the rough pavement. The stones near the houses were covered with slime and spilled kitchen grease. Apparently, slop was poured down directly from the windows.
To allow the filth to drain away, there was a small gutter in the center of the pavement, but it clearly wasn't coping with its task. I felt sorry for treading these streets with my trophy boots.
— It's a bit rough, but there's a market here, — Eric, still limping after his encounter with the Beastman's hoof, encouraged me. — Let's have a mug of cold ale, then stock up and return to our comrades.
I felt a little guilty that Marcus would be waiting outside for a long time, but patience is an important virtue for a Sigmarite, after all. And if it weren't for us, the old man would be swinging a pickaxe in a Skaven mine right now.
We managed to turn out of the narrow streets onto the market square, which looked like a real labyrinth of stalls, tents, and hastily erected trading booths. The town was clearly experiencing a capital influx thanks to the army stationed at the pass. There was a genuine crowd here. I stopped for a second, trying to compose myself amidst this riot of colors, smells, and noise. Voices crashed down on us from all sides:
— Gingerbread, gingerbread with cinnamon!
— Needles! Pins! Knitting needles!
— Tobacco! Pipes!
Many people were screaming their lungs out, shaking their wares. This was not like online shopping where you press a button and that's it. Here, the invisible hand of the market hits harder than alcohol.
"What a meaningless place," Loam-Pia commented. "So much effort just to make the air vibrate."
I didn't particularly like this place either, but we needed to stock up. Especially since we had the money. It was time to convert the trophies from the Skaven mine and the loot from the mutants into all sorts of useful things. But first, we decided to wet our throats and get a quick bite. The day promised to be long.
Hoping to avoid potential trouble, we chose a more respectable tavern. The establishment was called "The Sleeping Dragon."
— I've been to many small towns, — Eric remarked. — One in every four or five has an establishment with this name. The only thing more numerous in the Empire than "Sleeping Dragons" is "Hammers of Sigmar."
Inside, it was noticeably cozier than the town streets. The tables were not crammed together. People were mostly decently, or at least normally, dressed. Three girls in not particularly modest dresses carried large glass mugs of beer and plates of various refreshments.
Eric and I sat down at a table, waiting for service. The atmosphere around us, the many people, the eatery—everything here resonated well with the memory of my past life. To be honest, I relaxed. Too much, even. And yet, one should never forget for a second what a dark world fate had carried me into.
Before Eric and I could order beer, a young, ringing voice called out to us:
— Well, well, has the circus come to town?!
A few snickers followed.
— Don't pay any attention, — Eric whispered to me.
As a non-human, he was probably used to enduring various insults and attacks. I nodded. I had just been thinking that patience is a virtue. After all the trials, I didn't want to start a brawl here.
— Hey, you asses! I asked: has the circus come to town? — the bully persisted.
I glanced stealthily in his direction. It was a young dandy, quite richly dressed. His bearded face with an aquiline nose expressed a mixture of aggression and contempt.
Eric smiled at him, replying without any aggression:
— No, Mein Herr. We are just travelers. We want to buy some things in town for our comrades and enlist in the army.
— Travelers? — the dandy snorted. — To me, you look more like vagrants. How were you even allowed into the town?
— We have documents, Mein Herr, — Eric continued the conversation just as peaceably.
I was lucky the halfling was with me. It would have been difficult for me to talk to this idiot without resorting to insults. And he was clearly from a wealthy family. Probably a noble or a merchant's son. A quarrel with him could put an end to our plans to buy supplies in town.
I looked around at the other patrons of the tavern. Most of them watched the show with smiles and barely concealed malicious laughter. There was no hope of help. Even the innkeeper behind the counter wasn't trying to restrain the bastard. A very bad sign.
— Documents? Nonsense! You probably stole them from drunk soldiers, halfling. Otto, Hermann, Werner! I can't stand the stench of these savages any longer. Throw them out of the tavern.
— That won't be necessary, — Eric said, still calmly but now without a smile, rising from the table. — We will leave the establishment ourselves. Come on, Jurgen.
I stood up, feeling my heart pounding wildly and my hand itching for my sword. We had beaten Goblins and Skaven, destroyed a Chaos cult, and this jerk was picking a fight with us during a well-deserved rest. However, I tried to contain my anger for now.
We headed away, but they weren't going to let us go so easily.
— Leaving? — the malicious rich boy sneered. — That's right. But you still need to be taught a lesson.
Alas. A fight was inevitable this time. Although some part of me was even glad...
Translator's Note: I apologize for the delay in chapters—I had other business. I believe the stable release of translations has resumed. And perhaps I might even catch up to the original in bursts and arrange a marathon—it depends on my mood.
If you don't want to wait, you can contact me, and I will provide you with the original chapters in Russian, concatenated, up to chapter 58. And then you can machine-translate them yourself using Google—there's a function for that.
That's if you want to consume everything at once without waiting. I plan to translate everything that's available and continue.