n. pl. in·cu·nab·u·la (-l)1. A book printed before 1501; an incunable.
2. An artifact of an early period.
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There are many tales of Niesenn Red-Hand, and all of them are true. This one is truer than most… # OSTLAND, 2521 IC “Are there any left who dare face me?” bellowed Count Hals into the alpine air. The answer brought a sneer to his crooked, bearded face. The Beastlord roared; hot, animal breath steaming, blood-drenched horns spraying rubies of gore as it shook its massive, knotted head, and raised its crude pole cleaver high enough to blot out the sun. Count Hals swung his long-handled axe with arrogant ease, waiting for the giant Chaos creature to commit itself to a charge. “Nothing but a goat to the slaughter. Come – be another notch on my blade!” Behind him he could hear the wails and cries of the women of Ostholz. He was the last defender – all that stood between them and a grisly death before this servant of the Dark Gods. The Beastlord charged with a screeching whinny, favouring its more heavily armoured left side, pole cleaver raised high over its right shoulder. Count Hals grinned. He feinted to his right, saw it begin to turn; just off-balance – now! He sprang left. His double axe-head flashed in the sunlight and slammed into the blackened chest armour, halting the thing’s charge and nearly lifting it off its feet. The beast’s pole cleaver – blade as long as Hals’ own arm – scythed down, biting into the hard-packed dirt at his heels. Hals allowed the swing of his own axe to carry him right round, spinning, crouching and then powering upwards, shoulders and legs heaving together. The axe caught the Beastlord under the chin and the Beastlord- -started crying. Niesenn Deners was already on her feet, her mended nets draped on the stool beside her. She had known something was going to happen – ‘snakes in her belly’ she called it. “Rudi!” she shouted. Her eldest son stood beside the salt barrels, wooden axe planted before him, a defiantly guilty look on his flushed face. Running towards her was her youngest son, bawling, blood streaming from his nose, his tree branch forgotten in the dust. “Rudi! I told you to be careful with your brother!” Rudi loved pretending to be one of the famous rulers of Ostland, but it almost always ended in blood or bruises. “Come here, Nisi.” Nisi plunged into Niesenn’s skirts, clamping both short arms around her waist. She put one hand under his chin, lifting his small, dust-streaked face. “No tears, now.” Her voice stern, though not unkind. Boys could get so squeamish about just a little blood – not unlike their fathers. “Greatfather Ulric will send His wolves if He sees you crying. You’ll have some honey, and we’ll say no more about it.” She wiped the blood away with her kirtle-hem and fixed Rudi with a fierce look. He had the sense to study the ground at his feet rather than return her glare. Her expression softened. “Your pivot was fast, but I could have seen the feint coming from the top of the pass. Practice your Fechtbuch, and work on that before your father returns.” She heard Gude and Frytha bickering before she saw them, and then they appeared around the corner of the smokehouse. Both stopped talking as soon as they saw her and began walking towards her in determined fashion. Gude, the youngest wife in the village and her belly already large with child, waddled a little slower than the lanky Frytha, so it was Frytha who got to speak first. “I strung my lines, so I did, and she,” a look of blackest affront, “starts putting her hooks on ‘em! I tells her-“ At this point a red-faced Gude interrupted, protesting that she had put her own lines up over the Flat Eight – the best fishing spot on the river – before Frytha, who had been drinking heavily last night, let’s not forget, had even got there. Niesenn tried not to smile, and put on her best serious expression, until the two women had let the wind out of their sails a little. She held up her hands. “Let the men play their silly games about who can string the most line the fastest. They’re not here, and there’s no reason for us to start acting like kinder. We are one village, with winter coming, and we will all be eating the same dried fish when Taal freezes the river.” A look quelled a rebellious Frytha. “Whose hooks and lines they are is not important. Back to your lines. The sun’s getting high and the fish won’t catch themselves.” She was about to tell Rudi to go help Gude and Frytha when Irmele began banging the gong. The harsh, metallic sound echoed off the wooded valley walls, and Niesenn felt the snakes writhe. There was someone on the road. When Niesenn arrived most of the women were already gathered by the shrine to Ulric near the blacksmith’s forge. Niesenn wasn’t the eldest – with only two children she was still in her twenties – but as the wife of the village headman, she was the one they turned to, now more than ever. Then Irmele came running from the lookout post atop the stables, her brick-red skirts flapping in the dust and her doe-like face wide with alarm. She stopped in front of Niesenn, panting. “One horse. A bay. One rider.” “Any weapons?” asked Niesenn. Please don’t let there be weapons. “Armour?” “No. I didn’t see-“ Thank the Gods. “Where away?” “At Ogre Belly. Riding hard.” Ogre Belly, a swollen outcrop of rock where the trees did not grow, and one of the few places where the road to Ostholz could be seen. Where Neisenn had last seen her husband, Jacob, riding off to Wolfenburg and war. He’d looked back, just once. The memory surprised her, made her heart flutter like a startled grouse, and she pushed it away. Jacob was not here now. Ridden hard, a fresh horse could get to the village from Ogre Belly in minutes. Niesenn glanced around at the other women; concern lurking just below their rough-hewn, mountain faces. In time of invasion, any visitor was cause for worry, but with every man and boy who could hold a weapon rushed away by Graf von Raukov to face the growing Chaos storm… “Then prepare a welcome!” Niesenn said, keeping her voice light and untroubled as she spread her arms wide. “Or does fair Ostholz now greet guests with dirty hands, dusty shawls and fish-guts?” She smiled a smile she did not feel. “Quickly, now, or we will give our visitor cause to think us slovenly hags!” As the women rushed for their homes to find something presentable to wear, Niesenn stopped the eldest, Gredechin, with a gentle hand on her elbow. “Please, grandmother, get the children out of sight,” she whispered. “Tell them some of your stories about the Pale Wolf to keep them quiet.” Gredechin nodded, and then winked one sunken eye at Niesenn, a nod of her head taking in the dispersing flock of women. “They are like hens who scent a ferret. You do your husband proud.” She patted Niesenn’s face, her crooked fingers tough as hide from a lifetime of casting nets in the icy river Eiskalt, and almost as cold. “But you need to go wash, too, my dear. You have blood on your hands.” Niesenn glanced down, saw the red smears from Nisi, and hurried away to the water barrels. # When the rider came out of the tree-line and began to cross the sloping field, scattering the goats, Niesenn saw the sword made fast against the saddle. She tightened the grip on the paring knife she held hidden under her shawl. When the rider leapt the brook with a clatter of hooves, Niesenn saw the bay was white-eyed with exhaustion and close to collapse. Just before the rider hauled on the traces to stop in front of the welcoming party and pulled the travelling hood back, Niesenn realised it was a woman. She dismounted, slowly, stiff from the saddle and perhaps not entirely at one with her horse since it moved aside, nearly spilling her to the close-cropped grass. The bay’s breath was ragged and steamed great clouds in the pure, cold air. Its flanks were coated with grime and sweat, and its haunches streaked with blood from the goad. Without immediate care and rest it would be dead before sunset. The woman was pale and tall with dark red hair – Ostlander, then, but Niesenn did not recognise her face. You’re not from any of the local villages. Young, too, still graced with that fragile, alpine beauty that so quickly withered before age and hard work. Niesenn felt like she was looking into a mirror. She stepped forward, white knuckles gripping the hidden knife handle. “Bid welcome,” she began, “in the name of the Greatfather and our village-“ “This is Ostholz?” The woman interrupted, her dark eyes flashing black lightning. She leaned against the horse to catch her breath. The sword remained untouched in the saddle. “Yes, we are-“ “Thank the Gods! I have dire news for you.” Niesenn felt the snakes again, coiling around her innards. “I beg pardon, in my haste I forget myself. My name is Elsebeth Fye, and I ride from Wolfenburg.” Niesenn felt hope and panic claw at her, but it was old Albrade spoke up first, in toothless voice. “Our menfolk are in Wolfenburg. What news on ‘em?” Elsebeth’s face drew tight, and Niesenn could see the exhaustion flood into her. “You have not heard? Oh, Gods. I did not want this; to bear this news. Six days ago, Wolfenburg was sacked and burned by the dark hordes from the north. I was lucky to get out alive.” Some of the women gasped, but Niesenn barely heard anything. Her world had suddenly shrunk to this field, this woman and the serpents that were swarming up her throat. It was Gude who stammered, “But have you word of our men? Did they…?” She couldn’t finish. Elsebeth nodded, swallowing hard. “I served as an Initiate of Ulric at the shrine in Wolfenburg, and met a man called Jacob of Ostholz.” She looked at Niesenn. “He was there to give offerings with his kin before battle, and he spoke to me of his wife – said I reminded him of her, although I fear he flattered me in the comparison. Thou art Niesenn?” Niesenn could barely move her head, let alone speak, but Elsebeth read the truth in her eyes and curtseyed. “Elector Von Raukov had asked for men to hold the walls while the city ran. All was hell-fire, death and fury, and Haargroth the Blooded One was at the gates. I have never been so afraid. I met your Jacob again, rushing to the walls, so proud to be standing beside von Raukov. He begged me bring word to you, brought me this horse from the stables of a long-gone merchant and I have been riding south ever since.” She paused. “The city burned as I fled. So many have died. I have met none on the road who say that any survived after the gates fell.” She paused again, tears in her eyes. “But that is not why I ride so hard. May Ulric damn me for what I am about to tell you. Hear me now. The Blooded One’s forces are all over Ostland, have destroyed Freiburg and Kirchzarten.” Niesenn drew a sharp breath – Kirchzarten was only two days’ ride away. “Thousands are fleeing the warbands along the main road for Ristedt. Behind me on this road is a marauder warband, dozens strong. I saw their campfires, heard their voices – more kin to beast than man. I barely scraped past them during the night, and I have ridden since then, fearing this horse would die under me before I reached you. The warband is not a day behind me, and it is heading for Ostholz.” The snakes in Niesenn’s belly became a nest of vipers. She stepped forward, a hundred questions crowding her tongue as a hundred fears clouded her mind, but then the exhausted bay collapsed with a mighty wheeze and a crash, and it was some time before the women had a chance to question Elsebeth further. # “We have to run! While we can. Take our-“ “That is false hope!” said Gude. “We can hide in the forest. The trapper’s lodge-“ “Dreidelburg is four days away on foot. Four days! We have no horses! What shall we ride? The goats?” “They will catch us and they will kill us all-“ Irmele’s voice was almost a shriek. “Quiet!” Niesenn shouted as more voices rose. “Are we jackdaws to cackle like this? We need to decide, and we need to do it quickly. We haven’t a moment to lose.” The low sun slanted jagged beams of pale gold through the packed forge where the women had gathered. Niesenn glanced at Gredechin, who nodded for her to continue. “If we stay we die-“ “But-!” Irmele began, before Gredechin’s loud cluck cut her off. “If we stay, we die,” repeated Niesenn. “I would fight. By Ulric, I would fight and die for Ostholz and my kin, but we have nothing to fight with. Fish-wives with fish-knives will not stop a warband from slaughtering us all. We have to go, and go now, before sunset. They have horses so we can’t use the road. We have to go into the forest.” The forge fell silent. There were wolves in the forest; hungry, winter wolves, and other, darker beasts. The snakes in her belly had quieted, now, but somehow that was worse. Niesenn wetted her dry lips and pressed on. “Most importantly, we have to ensure the children get away. We will put our own fates in the hands of Ulric, but the children must survive. Are we all agreed?” Slowly nodding heads in the dusty, fractured light as realisation dawned. Niesenn turned to Lype and Margarete. “The two of you know the forest below the falls better than anyone here. Take the children in the boats as far as there. We’ll cover your tracks here and –“ she faltered, drew breath and carried on, “– and then we’ll all split up and head into the woods.” She set her jaw. “With the Greatfather’s blessing, we will leave too many trails for them to follow us all. If we take as much food as we can each carry-” and if the Middle Mountains are made of fish-eggs, “-we might be able to return here after they have moved on.” “But they’ll burn our homes!” protested the hawk-faced Bytzel. “Yes, I know.” “If they don’t track and kill us all,” said old Albrade, “and if the wolves and the forest spare any of us who’re left, there’ll be no food here for those who return.” “I know.” “And the marauders will be between here and every other village that can help,” said Hette, the broad-shouldered fish-smoker. “We’re all going to…” “I know,” said Niesenn, with a finality that shocked her. “But the children will get out. Lype and Margarete will get them out, and we will buy them the time to do it.” Without the blacksmith’s fire raging in the hearth, the forge was cold, but it had never seemed colder to Niesenn than at that moment, as their fate closed around them like river ice. The snakes had gone, now. Niesenn felt hollow inside, and so very alone. Then Elsebeth Fey stood, the setting sunbeams gold-red in her hair. “You have another choice.” Niesenn stared at her, but her face was invisible within the gleaming halo her hair had become. “You can run, and die,” said Elsebeth, “but your children will probably die, too. The forest will not spare them. You know I speak the truth. Or-” she threw her unsheathed sword on the dark flagstones; the clamour was deafening and made Niesenn flinch, “-you can stand and fight. That is the merchant’s sword, but I know my Fechtbuch. And I…” she slowly shook her head, lips pursed, “…my horse can barely stand, but in truth I have had enough of running. I will stand with you. I have vengeance of my own to serve.” Niesenn gathered her skirts, stooped and picked up the sword. It was remarkably light, with a bull’s head carved into the pommel, and the broad blade still sang with the pure song of metal, just on the edge of hearing. She planted the point in the dirt between the flagstones. “Good sword this may be, but it is the only sword in Ostholz. The men took every weapon with them when they went.” She swept an arm outwards. “Look around you. This is all we have.” “All the more reason to fight for it, then.” Elsebeth reached up and unhooked one of the black, metal rods hanging from the high ceiling. She brought it crashing down on the stone edge of the hearth, sending splinters flying. This time, Niesenn did not flinch at the sudden, awful sound. Elsebeth brandished the rod before the women. “A blacksmith’s blank. There are dozens of them here.” She held it out to Niesenn. “Take it.” She began unhooking more and more and handing them around. “These are lighter than swords, softer, and have no edge, but add some hide for a handle and a better club you could not ask for. What need have you to split a man clean in half from brow to groin when you can stave in his skull or break his bones with one of these? He’s just as dead, either way.” She looked at Niesenn, challenging, daring, pleading. “They know your men are gone – it’s the same in every village here from Kirchzarten to Dreidelburg. They’re expecting women. They’re not expecting a fight. What’s your word?” Niesenn handed the sword back to Elsebeth, and held up the blank, turning it in the fading light. A chance to fight and – maybe – a fighting chance. A chance for revenge. Could Ulric himself promise any more than that, for all love? To her surprise she felt a grim smile tug at her face. “Is it not said,” spoke Gredechin, “fight with courage, and you fight with the White Wolf at your side?” Niesenn swung the blank as hard as she could, sending fresh stone chips from the hearth zinging through the air. One nicked her cheek; she felt the warm trickle of blood. The smile became a grin as the blood dripped onto her apron. “This is not much heavier than a well-soaked net, and I can swing one of those from dawn till dusk.” She glanced at Gredechin, saw the trust she needed to carry on, then faced the other women, daring them to speak against her. “Ulric has answered our prayers as He always does – He has told us to look to ourselves. I can starve to death in the woods, or be eaten by wolves. Or I can maybe, just maybe, save my village and my kin. I can see my own blood be spilled, or I can wet the soil with that of another first. I know my own mind. Fight! That’s my word.” She saw Elsebeth nodding out the corner of her eye. Where are you now, snakes? “Well? What’s your word, good women? What’s your word?” As the sun set, and the women talked into the night, preparations were made for the defense of Ostholz. # The line of torches wound their way through the forest on the other side of the river, moving agonisingly slowly. Niesenn had kissed Nisi goodbye. She shed no tears, and she had not dishonoured him by noticing his. Rudi had refused to let her kiss him; he was no child any more, he said. The next woman to kiss him, Rudi insisted, with a furrowed brow that reminded her painfully of his father, he would make his wife. She had settled for a momentary embrace, told Rudi to watch after his younger brother and the other children and to obey old Gredechin without question, and then handed them their torches and watched them go until all she could see was will-o-the-wisps winking amongst the unseen trees. They would cover their tracks, hide in the trapper’s lodge, and await word from the village. She ducked into the stables and knelt beside its only occupant; Elsebeth’s bay. It was weak, but well tended by Meckil and her sister. It was a fine, rare horse, and was recovering swiftly from its ordeal. Niesenn ran her hand through its warm, musty mane, then settled her head on the animal’s scrubbed flank, feeling the heat of its body, the breath within it rising and falling, the far-off thunder of its massive heart. I don’t know your name, but I will see us all through this. It is my promise, before Ulric. Niesenn heard a voice behind her and turned sharply, bringing her club up without thinking. Elsebeth and Gude stood in the open doorway, and it was the woman from Wolfenburg who was speaking. “I saw so many of my kin die. So many. It sounds like lunacy, but I do not think I could bear it if this horse died, too. I have not the words to thank your stablemaids.” Niesenn forced herself to relax. You’re more frightened than the children are. “Elsebeth. Gude. You put my heart in my mouth! I shouldn’t be in here – I am wasting time we don’t have. Would you lend an arm with the nets down-“ “Three of your women have gone in the last hour.” Elsebeth’s voice was soft but urgent. She and Gude stood back to let Niesenn out. Niesenn had dreaded this – the decision in the forge had not been unanimous, and it was one thing to agree to fight, quite another to stomach the reality. “Gone?” She slung her club through the loop she had crafted in her belt. “Left,” said Gude, keeping her voice low also. “Without a word. Katherine. Agnes. Hette, too.” “Gods, not Hette!” hissed Niesenn. “The other two I could have seen, but not Hette.” “Decisions taken by day look very different by night,” said Elsebeth. “I pray the wolves find them before the marauders do, though neither is a pleasant death.” Elsebeth paused. “More will go before dawn. Too many.” “But what would you have me do, for all love?” Niesenn rasped through gritted teeth. “Lock them up till sunrise? Who will dig the holes and plant the stakes and string the nets?” Elsebeth took Niesenn’s hands in her own, gripped them tightly. “Ulric is a fierce and dangerous god, which is why we love Him so, and I know He will see our will to fight and want to help us. It was this way in Wolfenburg. The priests of Rhya and Taal came together with priests of Ulric to buy the people time to flee. I did my part, and what little I possess of that same magic could help us now. We can still do this, Niesenn. Have everyone meet in the forge in an hour’s time. Everyone.” # Incense. Lavender and musk, vetiver and sandalwood. Niesenn smelled the forge before she saw it. Thick smoke coiled under the shingled eaves like ghostly snakes. Bright, warm light shot from the door and the cracks in the mud-plastered walls. The dancing shadows of the womenfolk gathered within lay sharp and black on the cold ground. Inside the forge the crackle-roar of the fire was much louder, as was the hiss of the bellows-vents. Elsebeth stood by the hearth, head bowed. She threw another handful of spices onto the fire and more smoke rushed out. The air in the forge was hot and thick and Niesenn felt the incense rushing to her head as the forge-heat hammered on her wind-chilled face. Irmele leaned close to Niesenn, her voice low. “She’s already started. You’re to stand beside her.” By the time Niesenn took her place next to the hearth, Elsebeth was already leading the women in prayer. Old prayers from when the Middle Mountains were young. The Gods had watched over these lands since the days of the Twelve Tribes, and some of the magic was as old as the mountains themselves. It was the men of the village who led the worship for Ulric, with the women maintaining the shrine and cairns for Rhya and Taal, and Niesenn lost her way in the unfamiliar prayers to the White Wolf, the words losing all meaning as the smoke grew thicker. As Elsebeth threw more dry incense on the coals, Niesenn knew that whatever Ulric was beseeched to do, there was going to be smoke. And blood, Niesenn realised, her eyes watering, as Elsebeth went behind the tool rack and brought out the goat. She led the goat – little more than a kid – by the twine halter round its neck. It brayed anxiously, and Niesenn prayed louder. She had known that blood was coming; torrents of it. It had to begin somewhere. “Our ancestors had little more than their courage, their faith in Ulric White-Wolf and their knowledge of these forests, but they held fast against the black tides of marauders from the North and now we are here, ages past, standing ready to do the same.” Elsebeth looked at Niesenn, who had been waiting in expectation. Niesenn slipped her bone-handled paring knife from her shawl and opened the kid’s throat in one swift movement. The hot blood splashed onto the hotter coals, summoning fresh clouds of smoke. She held the goat’s head tightly as its struggles grew weaker. Elsebeth caught the remainder of the blood in a wooden bowl, stirred some of the embers in. “Let the fog from the high passes come to the low valleys,” said Elsebeth, as she painted the blood on the eyes of the assembled women with her fingers. “Let it thicken as dawn approaches. Let it lie on the ground as heavy as this smoke we send to Our Father. Let it blind the bringers of war, but let it be pierced by the eyes of those faithful gathered here in Your name.” As Elsebeth’s fingers passed over Niesenn’s eyes the smoke cleared from the forge, although Niesenn felt no breeze on her face. Elsebeth turned to face her. “Now the waters are muddied and we are as pike who hide in the open river. They are the fry at the surface, and they will never see the coming of their doom.” Niesenn grabbed Elsebeth’s shoulders, seeing a fierce light in her eyes she knew matched that in her own. She pushed past Elsebeth and went outside. She could still smell the smoke, and she knew it was all around her, but her sight was as clear as day. Only the faintest haze could be seen against the night. We can do this. For all the love of Ulric, we can do this thing. It will be sung of for years to come. The marauders from the North will frighten their own children near to death with tales of the blood the morning will bring. Behind her, the voices of the other women rose, not the prattle of gossiping fisher-women but the strong voices of warriors. She looked out into the night, across the river in the direction of the trapper’s lodge. It is my promise. We can do this. # The morning sky was bright, but the valley was shrouded in gloom. Although the women could see through the fog the sunlight could not, and all was grey and dreamlike. “Bytzel,” said Niesenn to the stocky woman by her side. “Take Lype with you. Count their heads three times to be sure of their number, then come right back when the first of them crosses the brook.” It was uncanny; sound was deadened and close as in any fog, and if she closed her eyes she could feel the wet chill all around her, but still it was nothing more than the faintest of gauzes across her vision. The marauders won’t see their hands in front of their faces. Bytzel and Lype hurried away, and Niesenn passed word for the torches to be lit. She looked around. There were forty women in all, as still as statues in the unnatural gloom, hair carefully pleated or tightly bunched under a veil and all dressed in the finest clothes they owned. Ulric was with them this day, and none would have Him see them in their drudgery. Most held the iron bars, dripping with moisture, in one hand and a knife in the other, the edges whetted so fine as to draw blood from their weight alone. A few had axes or hunting-bows. Only one, Elsebeth, carried a sword. No-one spoke. There was no need. The warband were not travelling quietly, and regular bursts of forest birds from the canopy had told Irmele in the watch-tower how fast was their advance. Bytzel re-appeared, running hard. Grey though the world was, the goat’s blood across her eyes shone red. “How many?” They’ve razed Freiburg and Kirchzarten, pray Ulric that their number has been thinned. Bytzel held up five fingers. Like all those women who fished the river, she counted in eights – eight fish to a line, eight knots to a reel, eight nets to a sack. Forty marauders. Dear love, forty. The numbers are even, if not the odds. But Bytzel was holding something back. “Tell me everything.” “Horns. Some of them have horns. And worse.” Bytzel’s voice was low, but it carried in the strangely still air. “They are not men, if they ever were.” Niesenn nodded, hearing her son’s voice from a yesterday that seemed a lifetime ago. She made sure she was heard by all. “Horns, is it? We have slaughtered one goat already. A few more won’t make any difference.” She raised her arms. “Men or not, their blood will spill just the same. Now go. You all know what is demanded of you. Today, we are the fear that haunts the dark.” The women of Ostholz streamed past her in silence. Only Gude remained behind. “They are all dead, aren’t they?” she asked, looking away. “Part of me hoped – prayed – that they had made it out of Wolfenburg,” said Niesenn. “But now I know they didn’t. I can feel them, their spirits. They are with us. It gives me hope.” “The Greatfather is here too. I feel His presence.” Gude put a hand on her belly, and the softness of the gesture only emphasised the steel in her voice. “Johan will never see his son and, for that, I will have my vengeance.” Niesenn nodded, and they hurried off to meet the invaders. # They came slowly at first, warily, splitting into groups as they entered the village. Not even a blood-crazed marauder could have thought a fog that held off the noon-day sun to be natural, but they were careless and noisy in their war-lust and their arrogance. Niesenn saw the horns Bytzel had described on some of them, and below them the marauders’ faces, contorted into dark, hideous mockeries spawned by the Chaos wastes of the Northlands. They barked and growled in harsh, guttural voices. She crept closer as the group of four picked their way between shuttered windows and barred doors, close enough to smell the ordure that matted their hair and the filth that coated their armour. She was close enough to reach out and touch the nearest when he stopped and turned, looking straight at her. Her heart froze in terror, and then surged in delight as she realised he could not see her. His black eyes hunted the cloaking grey fog as she brought her hand closer and closer to his scar-wrecked face. Her fingertips were only a foot or two from him when his cat-like eyes widened in alarm. Niesenn’s iron rod was already sweeping round at head height. The man’s beard-covered cheek bone collapsed under the impact, knocking an eye and several teeth loose. He dropped loudly and wetly and Niesenn turned and ran, making as much noise as she could. The other three were right behind her, chasing blindly, screaming in fury. She wheeled around the corner of Hette’s outhouse into a narrow passage between two walls and threw herself to the ground, rolling aside as she hit. The three marauders charged round the corner behind her. The passage was crisscrossed with fishing-line, dozens and dozens of barbed hooks dangling at face-hieght. Niesenn heard the screams before she had finished rolling. Before she was on her feet, little Gerburg and blonde-haired Contzel had come up behind the stricken invaders and were pummelling the nearest two about the neck and shoulders with savage blows. The crack of breaking bone echoed in the still air. The third, closest to Niesenn, had dropped his sword and was holding his face in both hands, blood streaming down his filth-crusted forearms. Niesenn crept low and severed the tendons behind his right knee with one slash of her knife. He fell with a scream and Niesenn opened his throat. For Jacob. She took his sword and was off, moving as fast as she dared. Behind her the marauder died in bubbling agony, while above him one of his eyes pendulumed back and forth, spitted on a barbed hook. As Niesenn raced away, she heard more and more cries filling the air. She stopped beside the ladder to the hayloft. Irmele’s head appeared through the opening at the top. “They’ve left their horses on the outskirts of the village, just past the winter pens,” Irmele called down in a hoarse whisper. “There were some of ‘em there, too, guarding the horses, but they heard the cries and ran into the village.” Gude and Margarete appeared, breathing heavily. Both were spattered with fresh blood, and Margarete was holding her right arm tightly. “We’ve taught them to move in groups,” said Gude, and with a gesture at Margarete, “and they taught us the value of silence. There are two of them who’ll breath no more.” Niesenn nodded, as Gerburg and Contzel arrived, grim-faced and resolute. “Take their weapons where you can. Margarete, are you-?” The look in the tall woman’s eyes told Niesenn all she needed to know. Margarete let her right arm fall free. Blood dripped from the motionless fingertips to the chilly earth as she hefted her iron rod in her left hand, resting it lightly on her shoulder. Fight with courage and you fight with the White Wolf at your side. And He is here. I can feel Him with us. “Gude. Margarete. Get behind them, try and cut them off from their mounts. Don’t spook the horses, though. If they hear the horses, they’ll know what way to go. Quickly.” Niesenn took a torch from inside the stables and hurried away, Gerburg and Contzel close behind. # Some of the buildings were on fire now. Whether the marauders had done it to try and dispel the fog or whether the women had done it to add to the chaos Niesenn did not know. Part of her noticed that her house was one of those ablaze, but she gave no more thought to it than the continual sounds of battle and pain that came leadenly to her ears. She saw a group of seven or eight, moving slowly, bunched together, swords held out against an invisible enemy. She waved her torch, but either they could not see it, or were now wary of the dangers of chasing phantoms in Ostholz. No matter. There were other ways to startle beasts into flight. Innocuous-looking piles of river pebbles provided the ammunition. Ostholz held monthly feats, with the men and women lining up by the side of the river after a day of drinking and dancing, competing to see who could throw river stones the farthest or the truest. The women of Ostholz, while never excelling in the former, could at least compete in the latter. At this range, it was like stoning fish in a barrel. Two of the first three stones hit unprotected faces. Spitting blood and broken teeth, the marauders howled their rage and lashed out with their weapons, cutting nothing but fog. After three more volleys and several direct hits, two of the men were on their knees, skulls cracked and the rest so enraged that they charged as one. Contzel grabbed the torch and ran, trying to lead them on. Niesenn and Gerburg split apart, hoping to let the mass of men pass between them. Niesenn swung her sword low, sending one of them crashing to the dirt with his thigh opened to the bone. Gerburg landed a glancing blow with her iron rod but an aimless, lucky strike from a marauder’s handaxe caught her in the head and she collapsed without a word. The remaining marauders, howling their bloodlust, followed Contzel past the pig-pens. On their low roof, Fat Becht and Leipmayt waited. They heaved the stone-weighted net on top of the group as they rushed past – a perfect cast. While the two women above dropped yet more heavy stones on the screaming, writhing mass, Contzel and Niesenn hacked at limbs and heads with grim determination. The bloodied forms had ceased moving a full minute before the two women stopped. Niesenn stared at her sword arm for a long moment, drenched in crimson to the elbow, the hand and the handle lacquered with gore. For Jacob. Old Albrade hobbled down a lane towards them, dragging one broken foot behind her, her face ashen in the greyness, blood staining the ground in her wake. Her voice rose above the muted screams and cries of the dying that filled the deadened air, “A few of the filth have escaped over the ford. Gele and Ayla are already after them, but Irmele sent me to find you. They’ve stumbled on the path for the lodge.” Niesenn started to run, Contzel fast on her heels, the torch flaring. Rudi. Nisi. Oh, Gods, no. Behind them, Albrade picked up a fallen axe and began slowly hacking at the corpses. # Niesenn could smell the blood in the dank forest air before she reached the lodge, and then she heard the screams that cut the heart from her chest and left only hatred and rage to fill the void. She ran on, heedless of the thorns and brambles ripping at her clothes and skin. She stopped, lungs aflame despite the chill. In the small clearing outside the lodge stood Gele Onehand, a middle-aged fisherwoman with hair like steel shavings, and young, shy Ayla. The lodge was set back against a rocky mound, solidly built and windowless, with thick logs for walls and a turfed roof, and it squatted like a massive toad in the gloom. The screams were only echoes now and, as Niesenn walked towards Gele and Ayla, her boots slipped in the blood. Gele didn’t turn, her attention fixed on the door. “They were inside the lodge when we arrived. The little ones were…were…Ulric damn us for worms, we weren’t fast enough!” Gele pointed at two marauder corpses, hacked to pieces, lying in the undergrowth. “We killed that one; and that, but the rest were inside – they heard us and barred the door.” “We saw inside, Niesenn,” said Ayla, her voice devoid of all emotion. “So much blood. So much…” Now only low laughter could be heard, coming from inside the lodge. Twisted, bestial laughter. There’s no way we can force that door, and they know it. They’re safe until this fog lifts and then they’ll come out. If there had been but one voice, just one human cry… “Burn it,” she said. The words were acid on her tongue. The women stacked what brushwood they could against the door while Niesenn broke the hasp on the small timberhut and began passing the dry logs and kindling out. In moments they had a stack as high as the eaves before the door. Niesenn grabbed the lamp-oil vase from the hut and emptied it out. Contzel pushed her torch into the kindling, which caught quickly. Still the women stacked more and more logs until the hut was empty and the wet brushwood at the door was crackling, thick, grey clouds billowing. The laughter had stopped. The flames were leaping now, eager, well-fed and hungry for more, licking tenderly at the eaves. The heat was so great Niesenn had to back away, but still the fire spread. The walls of the lodge started to char and blister. Then smoke began rising through the turf, seeping up in strands here and there – the fire was inside the roof. There was a roar of flame from the area of the door as the piled timbers collapsed inwards. Niesenn raised her sword, as did the others, but if any of the marauders tried to make it through the inferno, none of them reached the outside. When nothing of the lodge could be seen for smoke and flames, and when the fury of the fire was the only sound left in the world, Niesenn hurried back to the village. # Ostholz was strangely quiet. Only isolated, sporadic sounds could be heard, and Niesenn could not tell what they were in the unnatural air. Were they cries or the sounds of fighting? How can you think about anything after what happened at the lodge? “We’ll go to Irmele in the hayloft. See where we’re needed.” Because they still need me. Once this is done, I can lie down and die, but not before. That is my promise. “I need more of them to kill,” said Contzel. “I need more.” “Not enough have died. Not nearly enough,” spat Gele. Niesenn nodded. “I know. There is not enough marauder blood in Ostland to answer for what has happened here. We’ll find them and kill them. Kill their wounded. Kill their horses. Kill everything.” She felt the words catch at the back of her throat, and knew she could not stop it. She could not stop the tears, and when they came they would dissolve her. They could not see that, not now. She turned away, struggling to control her voice. “You go. I will attend shortly.” She felt a hand on her shoulder. Gele. “You should-“ “Go!” So nearly a scream. So close to ragged agony and chaos. She heard them leave, then walked back in the direction of the ford as the tears ran down her face and she sobbed into her bloodied hands. Her empty chest heaved and she walked on blindly, as the grief burned through her. But it could not last. There was so much to do. How could you let this happen, Greatfather? She stopped by a water barrel and plunged her face into it, the shock of the icy water lancing down her spine and across her red-raw eyes. She came up with a gasp, spraying water everywhere. Her lace veil floated in the barrel for a moment before it sank out of sight. Niesenn pulled the wooden splices from her hair, letting the sodden mass drape down her back. She saw one of the marauder’s horses by the river, drinking. Must have smelled the water and wandered away from the rest. Attached to the heavy war-saddle was a make-shift stretcher dragging on the hard ground, rough hazel branches lashed with bark. There was someone lying on it. In a flash Niesenn’s bone-handled knife was in her hand. Wiping the water from her face she ran to the stretcher. She was about to open the man’s throat when she thought better of it, and dug her knife deep into his belly. The man spasmed. Niesenn slowly twisted the knife in his guts. For Jacob. For Rudi. For- Niesenn realised that, for the first time, she could see the fog. It was all around her like some grey blanket. Thick tendrils wove through the air even between her and the man on the stretcher. The world around her had simply vanished. The man’s eyes opened, and his blood-crusted mouth gaped in silent agony. Niesenn stared into the face of her husband. River water froze her thoughts as she stared, unable to comprehend. She felt her mind falling away through the mists, falling faster and faster. This cannot be, someone shouted, but they were very far away and Niesenn could not find them in the soft, smothering fog. This cannot be… Then she remembered she was still twisting the knife in his belly and her mind returned to her with a sickening jolt. She pulled the blade free and grabbed Jacob’s shoulders. “This cannot be!. You died in Wolfenburg! You died in Wolfenburg!” She screamed in his bearded, chalk-white face as his mouth opened and closed wordlessly. His breath smelled of death, and thick blood spilled into his beard. “You died in Wolfenburg!” Jacob stared up at her, pain and confusion etched across his face and then he fell limp, and breathed no more. “You died in Wolfenburg,” Niesenn whispered. “You died…” The fog beat in time with her heart, surging in tune with the blood racing noisily in her veins. The sound of the blood echoed back to her from all around, filling her with its urgency and dire purpose. Jacob had gone, and Niesenn was surrounded by the fog. Jacob was gone. She whirled, adrift, and utterly lost. Holding her sword at arm’s length, the tip of it was hidden in the greyness. She must have stood and wandered away in her confusion. Or had she? Had she really seen Jacob? Had she really killed him? It was not possible. After the horrors of the lodge, was she losing her mind? The ground rose ahead of her, which meant the centre of the village lay in that direction. She seized on this fact as if her life depended on it. She wanted to cry out, shout for help, but alone in the impossible mists, she suddenly felt a need to keep very, very quiet. Picking her steps carefully she crept forward. Her hand found a wall, tightly woven bark and reeds. The spring pen for the lambs. She had wandered, after all. For how long? At the side should be – bodies, lots of them. Niesenn and the women had dug deep, narrow foot-traps in the earth covered with straw; a man running over them would probably snap his ankle like a twig. Kneeling, she pushed the hair back from one of the dead marauder’s faces. Despite the blood and crushed bone, she could tell it had been Nathan, Gele’s husband. Oh, Gods! Greatfather, what have you done here? What have we done? She checked the others frantically. Men of the village, every one. Some were hardly men at all, just boys barely strong enough to hold a sword for von Raukov. She knew them all. Sick to her stomach, but no more tears would come. But if the marauders were...don’t think about the lodge. Don’t think about the lodge. As she stumbled on she realised the fog was thinning. A still, heavy silence lay over everything. No more sounds of fighting or crying or death. The stillness of a shroud. Hazy buildings loomed like shadows, growing more distinct all the time. She passed more bodies, hacked to pieces long after they were dead. Gude lay, her skull split open, eyes wide and still. A little further on she had to step over Contzel and Ayla. She paused for a second when she realised that they had killed each other. Perhaps they had found no more men to kill. Onwards. There was only one other person alive now in the whole village, and she was waiting for her up ahead. The fog thinned. The blacksmith’s forge emerged from the lightening grey. She stopped by the entrance, gathered what strength remained and looked within. She had expected to see Elsebeth, but the forge was empty, except for the sacrificial goat… …but it was no goat. The final, tattered thread snapped within Niesenn and she collapsed to her knees, gasping wordless sobs of pain as she prayed for death. She picked up the bloodless body of Rudi and cradled him in her arms. Fresh tears splashed on his porcelain face. “By Ulric,” she whispered, “what have I done?” The voice came from behind her. “Not Ulric.” It was Elsebeth, her voice full of dark laughter. “It was not He who gave you His strength. It was not He to whom you sacrificed your own son last night. If was not He who revelled in the kin-blood you spilled today.” “Why? For all the Gods, why?” Niesenn was blind and falling again, through the mists that grew darker and darker around her. Somewhere, in the blackness below her, lay all the answers. “He needs no reasons, although I have mine.” Elsebeth’s voice grew bitter. “Men with books and candles and black coats came to my village, called themselves Witch-hunters. They had many armed men with them. We welcomed them in, we had nothing to hide, but they said we were cursed. They burned my village and everyone in it. None were spared the flames. None but me, forgotten and left to starve. Then the one, true God, whose name you are not fit to speak, found me in the forest, turned my fear into anger and my pain into hate, made me his disciple and showed me what to do. His horse led me to your men returning from Wolfenburg – it fell to Haargroth the Blooded One, but your men escaped at the last. I met your husband on the road – a handsome man indeed – injured but recovering, learned enough from him to make my story convincing and rode on ahead as fast as I could.” The sense of triumph returned to her voice. “The rest you know. Those armed men, the ones who helped the Witch-hunters burn my village years ago, were from Ostholz. Your oh-so-trusting Jacob was one of them. I have waited years for my justice. Tell me, what does it feel like to know they are all dead at your hand? To know you slit your own son's throat. What does it feel like to know you burned your own children alive, along with their fathers who were trying to protect them?” Niesenn was still falling, but somewhere far away she heard herself speaking. “I…I saw their faces. They were not our menfolk.” So much blood. “Ayla saw the children butchered…” “The incense was enough to mask your senses just long enough for you to slit your boy’s throat. Sacrificing your own son is some of the strongest magic there is. After that, I could weave any illusions I wanted. Make you see and hear anything at all.” Niesenn stopped falling, alone in a world of darkness, and looked around at her new home. So much blood. So much wonderful blood. “I can see clearly now.” “Well, you seem to have washed his blood off your eyes. That, and with everyone else dead, the magic is fading. I have avenged the blood of my village with the blood of yours.” A soft ring, as a sword was unsheathed. “Only one more to go. He will be satisfied with that.” “How little you understand Him. And me. As I said, I can see clearly now.” Niesenn let Rudi’s cold body slump to the ground as she rose reborn, sword in hand. She turned to face Elsebeth, a sanguine light in her beautiful, black eyes. “He will never be satisfied. You blaspheme with the very notion. There can never be enough blood.” She raised her weapon and smiled, as welcoming as the grave. “But yours will suffice for now.” Elsebeth never quite recovered from the shock, and from the furious attack Niesenn launched. Niesenn sprang forward, new strength pounding within her, her sword-arm like the wind, hacking and hacking at Elsebeth’s frantic defense, driving her back. Niesenn could hear the woman’s heart hammering in alarm, feel the blood racing in her veins, longing for release. She drove her back further, blow after blow hammering Elsebeth’s sword aside again and again. Elsebeth backed into something solid, stumbled, lost her footing. Her scream had only just begun when Niesenn plunged her sword into her belly, running her through. The point skewered into the wood of the shrine, pinning the dying Elsebeth in place. “Your blood for the Blood God,” Niesenn whispered. “This was never about you.” She let go of the handle and stepped back, watching the wretched woman die with a malice as sweet as sin. Blood flowed down the impaling blade and dripped onto the base of the shrine to Ulric, where it hissed and bubbled. Curious, Niesenn approached the shrine, hand outstretched to touch the wind-worn wood. She laughed, soft and low, when she felt the skin of her palm blister and smoke. So much for the Greatfather. Perhaps He had been here, had tried to warn us. She laughed again. Foolish, old wolf. The mists had almost gone. From the stables came the bay, trotting with purpose towards Niesenn. It stopped, and let Niesenn place her wounded palm on its brow. That feels better. She took her red hand away, knew that the blood on it would never come off. The bay told her its true name, and she bowed her head at the honour done her. Where shall we take His word now? To her mind came images of another band of men fleeing the fall of Wolfenburg, and the village that was their destination. An hour later, with the shrine and every other building in Ostholz ablaze, a lone horse and rider left on the path for Dreidelburg, bearing dire news. # There are many tales of Niesenn Red-Hand, Harbinger of Khorne, Clarion of Chaos, and all of them are true. THE END
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