RIVER OF BLOOD
by Steven Eden


THE INVADERS CHARGED across the churned field, through sheets of arrows, until the archers scrabbled fretfully at empty quivers. Orcs, Kurgan marauders from the north, and goblins tumbled into the long ditch, buckshot and balls blowing gaps in the heaving mass that closed almost immediately; they tore at the abatis with axe and fist while handgunners called frantically for powder. For the most part, the line held, the ditch carpeted with the slain. But at one point, a roaring mob of orcs surged over the breastworks, pressing back the bristling hedge of pikes.
Two hundred paces to the rear, Eliak Debretton gauged the fight with a practiced eye. Rumours had started a month ago, of a great host gathering in the World's Edge Mountains, but there were always rumours. A fortnight later exhausted survivors reported the loss of several frontier outposts and the massacre of farmers stubborn or desperate enough to try to scrabble a living from the borderlands. Those still coherent spoke of an endless stream of invaders, but refugee tales had to be taken with a pinch of salt. Nevertheless, the County of Stirland, as it had many times before, gathered its sons, supplemented by mercenary bands, and marched forth under the general, Hulger Trank. A week ago, its advanced guard disappeared into the foothills where the River Stir emerged from the mountains. The next day, its remnants stumbled into camp, the invaders' spearhead hard on their heels. Still confident, Trank entrenched his army between the river and a granite outcrop of the Worlds Edge Mountains, a narrow position held many times before during the endless wars to maintain the border, and for three days the invaders had raged uselessly against it. But each day more defenders had died, the stocks of powder had dwindled, the margin of victory had grown thinner, and still there seemed no end to the masses descending upon them.
Debretton loosened his sword in its scabbard, and turned to the Norscan mounted next to him. 'See, Vanir, how the rear rankers begin to drift back, to glance behind them. Here and there a man falls and no one takes his place. A nervous line is like a failing dam. Cracks appear and spread before there is a hint of water, but when it gives way it goes all at once.' Vanir merely grunted in reply, busy as he was tucking his long, yellow braids beneath his tunic. Debretton looked over his shoulder to his troop of cavalry, thirty dogs of war from every corner of the Old World. Some, such as Vanir, had been with him for years, ever since... well, ever since circumstances had led him to take up the life of the freebooter. Others, he had recruited over a dozen campaigns, men he had picked out as superb fighters with little to lose. They wore an eclectic range of armour and carried a variety of weapons: lance, bows, hammers, swords, as befitted their personal style of combat. All they had in common was a yen for war and gold.
General Hulger Trank rode up roaring, trailing a stream of attendants, flunkies and standard-bearers, his voice only slightly muffled by the visored helm he wore. 'Damn you, Debretton, I told you to drive that scum back.'
'Aye, so you did, my lord, and I intend to do just that when the time is right.'
Trank tore off his helm, revealing a shock of white hair, and a hooknosed visage purple with fury. 'They are across the works already. What are you waiting for?'
Debretton leaned over his pommel and adjusted a strap. 'For the moment I judge most propitious. You will have to trust in me. And may I suggest you draw aside to avoid a trampling.'
Trank's mouth worked. He emitted a series of strangled croaks. Finally, with visible effort, he gained control and through gritted teeth swore an oath. 'Debretton, no man speaks to me so. I'll have your head-'
Debretton, one eye on the enemy, interrupted, 'Later on, it will be at your disposal. For now, though, I have need of it, so let me do what you have paid me for.' The two men locked gazes for a long moment, until Trank hurled his helmet to the ground, yanking his horse brutally about to return to his retinue.
'You soiled your name years ago, Debretton, a traitor to your homeland and your family,' he snarled over one shoulder, 'and were you not my last reserve? By Sigmar I hope you are half the warrior you think you are.'
Debretton and Vanir watched impassively as Trank galloped off. Vanir made one last adjustment to his braids. 'He talks too much.'
Debretton motioned his trumpeter forward, a slight lad of fifteen struggling to look unconcerned. 'You've picked a fine fight for your first,' he told the boy with a grim smile, 'just be sure you stay close and blow with all your heart, and watch me for the recall after we drive them past the ditch.'
The mercenary glanced back at the buckling line. 'Trank is a fool,' he said to Vanir. 'He has no idea how to use cavalry.'
The pikemen dug in desperately, scrabbling to hold back a wedge of howling orcs. A huge beast muscled its way forward at the apex, laying men low with a hammer the size of a small anvil. 'Three hundred horsemen would make no impression on that mob, but the orcs have even less discipline in victory than in defeat. Their bloodlust blinds them. If we wait until they are dispersed, out of control, our thirty should be more than enough.' Debretton drew his sword, the trumpeter lifted his horn to his lips, and the troopers steadied their suddenly excited mounts.
The captain watched as orcs overwhelmed the line of pike with a roar and streamed through the gap. Only half consciously, he measured the distance, judged the ground, and predicted the moment when the onrushing line would scatter beyond hope of redemption. Twenty more paces... 'What do you think, Vanir? Is now the time?'
Vanir hefted his double-bladed axe experimentally. 'I think you talk too much.'
Debretton barked laughter, brought his sword flashing down, and the company sprang forward.

'I DIDN'T THINK  less than three dozen could do what I saw done today. Your men cut through the orcs as if they were children. You saved the army.' Hulger Trank shifted moodily in the entrance to Debretton's tent, clearly a man unused to issuing compliments or making amends. Outside the small tent the army, or what was left of it, was working desperately through the night to clear the dead away and repair the breastworks where the enemy had broken through. Among the bodies was half of Debretton's troop. The other half snored away drunkenly, bedded down beside their horses, manual labour being beneath their dignity and outside the terms of their employment. Debretton, sprawled before Trank on a pallet heaped with furs, tipped back a flagon of beer. A sleeping woman nestled against his naked chest. He probed gingerly at a shallow cut along the side of his jaw, where a spear thrust had come within an inch or two of tearing out his throat. It would add a prominent scar to his collection, he reflected, should he live long enough for it to heal.
'No, my lord, this army is doomed. You've left it here too long. Tomorrow the line will break not in one place, but in many, and there will be no reserve.' Debretton pushed the woman away. She burrowed beneath the furs as he stood and pulled a tunic over his head. 'While you've wrestled with the enemy here, his outriders have long since passed us by on both flanks.'
'Aye, so you pointed out in council two nights past. But how could I know that this invasion was only a small part of a larger war? Why, the whole border is aflame from the sea all the way round to the Grey Mountains.' Trank clenched his fists so that the knuckles stood out whitely. 'Besides, in forty years of war I have never conceded a field.'
The mercenary snorted. 'A fine epithet that will make for your gravestone.'
'Don't mock me, Debretton. I have spent my life holding these marches. Now they burn.' The count's chin fell to his chest. 'My son-in-law fell today, and I will join him tomorrow. I have failed my duty and brought ruin on myself, my line, and my lands.' Trank raised his head. 'But I did not come here to confess my sins. I came to demand one last service of you.' A trace of bitterness crept into Trank's tone. 'With the Empire beset on all sides, His Lordship the Count of Stirland is left to his own devices. He has decided to cut his losses, meaning us, and concentrate the rest of his host at Reiksgrad. It is the strongest fortress within many leagues. It has high walls and broad towers and is practically unassailable, surrounded as it is by the Stir and marshlands, with only a single causeway giving access to the gates. He sent instructions for us to make our way there if possible, but I have informed his lordship that we haven't the strength to make a fighting retreat. We can be of more use standing here.'
The count lifted the flap to the tent and beckoned into the darkness beyond. A young woman came forward hesitantly. She wore an ermine cloak, trimmed in white, her features hidden beneath wimple and veil. Trank put an arm around her and ushered her in. 'This is my daughter. She is with child, my heir. I need to save something from this disaster, so I want you to escort her to Reiksgrad. It may be besieged, but the enemy will not take it by storm. From there she can make her way to safety.'
Debretton shook his head. 'Our contract is broken, my lord. My men and I leave you to your fate tonight. With luck and hard riding we may be able to make it through the mountains, but our chances are slim enough without dragging along milady.'
'I can ride,' the woman said, and Debretton caught a flash of azure eyes above the veil.
'As well as any man and better than most can,' Trank declared proudly. 'We breed strong women on the frontier. She won't slow you down.'
Debretton's features hardened into a scowl. 'There's a difference between riding to the hounds and having to ride down an enemy. I won't put my men at risk in the faint hope of preserving your seed.'
'You vile, lowborn scum,' the woman hissed. She trembled, though Debretton could not tell whether it was from fear or anger. Her father restrained her, making shushing noises.
Debretton stepped close. He was faintly stirred that she did not flinch. 'Yes, scum we are, but angels compared to the beasts, human and otherwise, that range the marches.' His glance shifted to Trank. 'Think, man, the fate you could condemn her to. It would be a mercy to slit her throat now, before milady ends up tortured to death in some enemy camp, or worse.' Debretton lounged back on the pallet. 'I won't have that on my conscience. Now leave me to my beer and my whore.'
It was the woman's turn to step forward. 'How dare you-' she began, but her father laid a hand on her shoulder. Trank pulled the woman back and reached into a pouch on his belt. 'I was warned that an appeal to your honour would fail,' he said, 'and that I would have to give you this.'
Debretton looked up. Trank held a single silver thaler. The Empire sigil glinted in the firelight. On the obverse, Debretton knew, would be a crude likeness of Karl Franz; he had seen coins like this before. A small hole had been bored through the coin near one edge. 'Do not ask this of me,' he said, his eyes never leaving the coin.
'I do. His lordship explained to me that you are bound to accept this token and perform any service asked of you. A penance of sorts...'
'His lordship reveals too much,' Debretton snarled. Resentfully he reached forward, taking the silver piece. He regarded it thoughtfully for a long moment, turning it this way and that, and then closed his fist around it. 'My lord, there are fates worse than death.'
For a moment, Trank's face crumpled. He drew in a long, shuddering breath. 'I know. My own is one. But this...' The old warrior straightened. 'Taking this chance is what duty demands.'
'And it is my choice as well,' the woman said, chin held high, her gaze a damning mixture of hope and contempt. 'I will risk anything to save my child. I will ride alone if needs be.'
'I believe you would,' Debretton said quietly. Then, in a more decisive tone, he went on. 'What is your name, child?'
'Use, and I am no child.'
'Let me see you properly.'
Use pulled back her wimple, allowing long golden hair to cascade down below her shoulders. Her veil fell away, revealing flushed cheeks, full lips, and a firm chin. Debretton rose, eyes fixed on her face, ran fingers through her hair and gently spread her cloak. Her figure was slim, almost boyish, with no swell yet of bosom or abdomen to show her pregnancy. She endured his inspection until at last his hands fell to his side. Use hurriedly tugged the cloak back into place.
'How long can you hold on the morrow? No prideful boasting, this is too important.'
Trank bit back a retort, pursing his lips. 'A thousand pike and swordsmen, half that many archers and hand gunners, though the powder is almost gone. I can hold well past noon, with luck perhaps until dusk.'
Debretton grunted. 'This army has had little enough luck. If you can keep the enemy busy through midday, we may have a chance.' His lips twitched upwards. 'Such a fine lady must travel in style. She has a coach, I imagine?' When Trank nodded, Debretton went on. 'We leave as soon as the moon is down. Milady will travel in the coach, with a mounted guard and spare horses, and what of your war chest?'
The count was slightly taken aback. 'I had thought to bury it, or perhaps throw it in the river, rather than let it fall into the hands...'
'I'll want that in the coach, my lord. Full payment for services rendered, in advance. It may be difficult to collect later on.'

AS DEBRETTON PULLED his hose up, the whore stirred sleepily. She emerged from the bed coverings, bleary eyed. When she saw him dressing, she snatched a shift to her breast. 'Where are you off to, this time of night?' Her words were slurred by drink, with a plaintive tone that set his teeth on edge. Nevertheless, he smiled down at her.
'We're leaving, princess. No fortune to be made here, too many orcs and bad men to kill.'
'You're not leaving me, are you, Eliak?' The whore looked beseechingly at him, fear sobering her quickly. The mercenary knelt down beside her, and took her face tenderly in both hands, managing not to wince at her wine soaked breath.
'Never, my lovely,' he purred. 'I have such plans for you.' He sat beside her, feeling around for his boots. 'Get dressed,' he ordered, 'and not in those rags, either,' he said, as she began to scramble around for her things. He grinned as she stared uncomprehendingly. 'Tonight, you wear silk.'

THIRTY RIDERS MOVED two-by-two through the dark, as silently as a column of cavalry and a four-in-hand coach could manage. Tack, weapons, and baggage were tied down or swaddled, conversations held in whispers. No stars showed in an overcast sky, and the gibbous moon had set hours before. The road they travelled could just be made out as a faint stripe against the meadow grass, and then only if you kept the verge in the corner of your eye. Off to the west, a hundred paces or so, the Stir rushed northward.
Debretton rode just in front of the coach. He could barely make out his horse's ears, and could only sense the riders in front of him through muffled hoof beats and dust in his face. Brandyn van Herz, captain of Trank's personal guard, sidled up next to him. Like the rest of his troopers, van Herz had abandoned his armour, wearing only a leather jerkin and a steel cap.
'So, Debretton, tell me,' he said softly, 'why in Sigmar's name are we dragging this great wagon behind us, as if we were delivering her ladyship to the huntsman's ball? She can ride, you know.'
Debretton smiled briefly. 'So I've been informed. The coach is not for milady, but for the gold.'
He could feel van Herz bristle beside him. 'Damn the gold! Ten times as much would not be a fair trade for that girl.' The captain's tone was fierce, though he was far too experienced to raise his voice. 'She's the only treasure my lads care for, and she carries the last hope for our lands in her belly.'
'That's as may be, but the only thing that keeps my lads here is the hope of laying their hands on that treasure. Otherwise, they'd have flown hours ago to take their chances in the hills, and we'll need every sword we can muster to make it through to Reiksgrad.'
Van Herz was quiet for a long moment. Then he chuckled. 'That's why you wanted us along. We're guarding the gold from your dogs, keeping them from simply taking it and leaving our lady behind. This way they are bound to us by their own greed.'
'For now, but believe me; every damned one of them is calculating the odds. Thirteen of them against sixteen of you: when the balance swings in their favour sufficiently, they'll make a play.'
'You haven't included yourself in that count.'
Debretton leaned towards van Herz. 'Would you take me at my word if I swore that delivering milady was my only concern?'
They rode on a ways before the captain answered with a simple, 'Not yet.' Van Herz lifted his cap to scratch at his scalp. 'But this coach anchors us to the highway. It's far too heavy to go cross-country, and I fear the road ahead will be thick with unfriendly travellers.'
The mercenary nodded. 'True.' He was about to go on when something in the dark caught his attention. Instead, he asked, 'This road crosses over a bridge to the west bank, does it not?'
'Aye, there is a small village and toll bridge. The road branches, one fork to the north-east and the other west across the river and then north to Reiksgrad.'
'The bridge is, say, two to three leagues from here?'
Van Herz considered. 'Difficult to say in the dark how far we've travelled, but, yes, that should be about right. Are you familiar with this territory?'
'No. Look up.' The captain peered into the night, and realised that he could just make out the silhouette of trees that lined the river. They stood faintly against the backdrop of a pale, roseate glow reflected from low clouds.

DEBRETTON AND VANIR crawled forward along the river-bank behind a wiry scout swathed in black cloak and leggings. The scout held up a fist, then pointed wordlessly in the direction of the crackling flames. Motioning the others to stand fast, Debretton wormed his way into a heavy clump of bulrushes until he could see the village, or what was left of it. Miserable huts smouldered in ruins, while a larger building, perhaps a warehouse or barn, still burned fiercely. Bodies lay here and there. Invaders, great, shaggy men in horned helmets, wandered back and forth, some with bottles clutched in their fists. A few kicked disconsolately through the ashes, clearly disappointed at the lack of loot. On the stone bridge, just visible from where he lay, Debretton spotted five more. Two stood at either end of the bridge, more or less on guard, while the fifth sat atop a wagon parked midway across the span. Horses appeared to be idly grazing on the far bank, though it was impossible to judge how many in the dark.
Debretton backed down to his companions. 'Shlem,' he gestured for the goateed scout, leaning over to whisper in one bejewelled ear. 'How many bows do we have?'
The scout tugged on the tip of his beard, heavy brows knitted in concentration. 'Six bows, all crossbows, but only four bowmen; neither Yvar nor Thaddeus could hit the horse they were riding on.'
A grin flashed across Debretton's face. 'Too true, my friend. Vanir, make your way back to the column and bring forward the crossbows and our best marksmen. From here we will eliminate those upon the bridge. Tell van Herz to stay concealed until he sees them fall. That will be his signal to charge home. Tell him he must kill those on the near bank, cross the bridge, and scatter the men and horses he finds there.' Debretton grasped Vanir's thick shoulder as he turned to leave, and passed on a few more hurried directions. Vanir nodded and melted into the dark.

FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER all was ready. Debretton, Shlem, Vanir and two other mercenaries lay in the stinking, green mud of the riverbank, each man sighting on a target. Without lifting his cheek from the crossbow's stock, Debretton spoke softly. 'Let fly.' As one, five bolts sped away. Debretton saw his man throw his arms skyward as if in prayer, but the mercenary was up and running before the body slid to the ground. Simultaneously, a horn bleated weirdly, followed by shouts and the thunder of hoof beats.
Debretton vaulted onto the bridge. To his right a pair of corpses sprawled, and two more were heaped at the far end. One guard was still up, though, staggering towards the unlimbered wagon with a torch, one arm pinned to his body by a bolt. Debretton slipped a dagger from the top of his boot and cocked it just behind his ear, pausing for a moment to feel its balance and measure the distance. He threw, and the blade buried itself in the back of the man's neck, just below the skull. The man dropped like a puppet whose strings had been cut, the torch rolling away and coming to rest next to the wagon's tongue.
The other mercenaries were on the bridge, Vanir's group re-loading their crossbows as they secured the far end. Shlem and Debretton checked the bodies, slitting the throat of one found still breathing. Shlem pulled back the tarpaulin covering the wagon-bed. Both men had to stand aside as whooping riders, van Herz at their head, charged by. In the village itself, Debretton saw his own men cantering around, chasing down the last few enemies still standing. A low whistle brought his attention back to the wagon. Shlem had a corner of the tarpaulin raised, revealing six squat, black barrels of powder.
Debretton hastily kicked the guttering torch away. 'Looks like we arrived just in time. By the Emperor, there is enough here to drop a dozen bridges.' Shlem nodded absently, and out of the corner of one eye Debretton noted an evil grin slowly spreading across his features. 'What, you old dog?'
Shlem, still grinning, laid one finger against his long nose. 'I am thinking that the gods have placed this powder here for a reason.' He pointed with his chin in the direction van Herz had gone. 'What better time to depart from our travelling companions, with more treasure in our pockets than we could make in twenty campaigns and a fine lady to hold for ransom.'
Shaking his head, Debretton scowled. 'No. We stick by our contract.' Shlem's face fell, and Debretton clapped him on the back. 'Don't fret. The gold will still be in our hands when we reach Reiksgrad, and doubtless there will be few enough of us left to split it amongst.' He motioned towards the village. 'Now gather the men and bring forward the coach. Join us as quickly as you can; it is almost dawn.'
Debretton strode away. Behind him a sullen Shlem called, 'Your scruples will cost you much, someday.'
'They already have,' muttered the mercenary under his breath. At the far end of the bridge he waved over Vanir. The northerner approached, nodding imperceptibly. 'Let's go find van Herz,' sighed Debretton. 'One way or another, we'll be moving again shortly.'

THEY FOUND AN irritated van Herz some distance from the bridge, along with his guardsmen. 'You can have your trumpeter back,' he shouted by way of greeting. 'Damn fool boy can't blow a note.'
'Anyone escape?'
Van Herz shrugged. 'Not that I saw. There were a few tending the herd; we killed them and drove off the horses.' He glared at the trumpeter. 'Spent the next ten minutes rounding up my own men in the dark, with no one to blow recall, or I'd have returned sooner.'
Before Debretton could reply, an explosion rent the night.

VAN HERZ DISMOUNTED, and went down on hands and knees to examine the gap. Twenty feet below him the river stormed past the bridge's broken footings. He stood, dusting his hands together, and peered into the gloom. The sun, not yet visible, was colouring the eastern sky blood-red, and he could just make out riders and a coach belting north-east in the far distance. The old soldier trembled with rage. 'Betrayed,' he said. 'Foully betrayed, and the girl I swore to protect in the hands of those... those...' He fell silent, unable to find a strong enough oath. Then, sliding his sword from its scabbard, he turned and advanced on Debretton and Vanir, both men pinioned by a grim soldier on each arm. 'I'll kill them all, I swear, and I'll start with you two.' He gripped the pommel with both hands and pivoted to deliver a killing blow as his soldiers shouted encouragement.
'Stay your hand, uncle.' The trumpeter spoke imperiously. 'And you men, stop gabbling like fishwives on market day. Remember who you are: warriors for the house of Trank.'
Van Herz stood frozen for a moment, blade poised, mouth open. The trumpeter pulled off her leather helmet, the type with broad cheek guards and a strip of hardened metal to protect the nose. The hair was roughly shorn and the skin stained the shade of young oak, but the rising sun picked out a pair of azure eyes.
'Waited long enough,' commented Vanir.

'YOU MIGHT HAVE trusted me, you know.' Van Herz and Debretton rode at the head of the column as the party moved north at a brisk trot. On their right, the river churned ceaselessly, outpacing the riders. Bodies had begun to appear, bobbing in the white water, heralds from the slaughter that was undoubtedly still going on upstream.
'I might have,' Debretton allowed, 'but I prefer not to when circumstances allow.'
Van Herz grunted sourly. 'Still it galls me to think of that swine making off with the count's war chest.'
'He won't get far.'
'How do you know?'
Debretton never ceased scanning the countryside. So far their luck had held. They had come across a few ruined farmsteads and seen the tracks of raiding parties, but by keeping just off the highway they had so far avoided the enemy. Once the rear guard spotted a company of orcs and goblins, mounted on wolves, but they had sufficient warning to hide in a copse of trees. Though the wolves had certainly smelled something, their riders were too intent on the prospect of plunder to investigate, and they had urged the snarling, snapping beasts northward. 'I thought Shlem or one of the others might try to take advantage of the situation, though I did not anticipate the wagon full of powder. So I had Vanir loosen the hubs on the coach's rear axle when he came back from our forward scout, just enough so that an hour or so of travel would cause them to fail. By now Shlem is cursing over that strong box next to a disabled coach, trying to hack or pry it open before the enemy arrives. Even if he succeeds he can't carry it all away, though I imagine he will try. In any case, he'll lead our pursuers a merry chase and buy us some time.'
Van Herz considered for a moment. 'And if he had not deserted us, you'd have retightened the hubs before they gave way?' Debretton nodded and van Herz laughed heartily. 'By Sigmar, you are a devious one. You can't have planned this out completely from the start.'
'No, I'm no seer, but I've learned over the years how to improvise.'

LATER THAT DAY, and just short of Reiksgrad, their luck came to an end. The river and road ran through a narrow gorge where more corpses bumped their way along, headed for the fortress. Rather than chance sneaking through the bottleneck, they climbed the shoulder of the gorge and paused along the ridge. Below them the ground fell away to the north, and Reiksgrad was plainly visible nestled against a loop in the river, only a few leagues distant. The granite walls of the fortress were untouched, and Debretton could just make out the pennons of Stirland fluttering from the numerous watchtowers. Men and orcs moved restlessly along the river, while thick columns of smoke towered over fields, humble farms and walled estates.
'Damn.' Debretton stood, hands on hips, surveying the terrain. It was open country with no way to sneak through. Already he could see palisades going up to block the causeway into Reiksgrad, though most of the enemy seemed content to loot and burn the surrounding countryside. 'There are more of them here than I had hoped; too many to fight through.'
Beside him, van Herz looked southward through a spyglass. 'More bad news in this direction, I'm afraid. I do not think the old warrior delayed them for long this morning.' He handed Debretton the instrument.
The mercenary cursed again. To the south a black carpet undulated on both sides of the river. Closer, mounted units could be seen scouting ahead of the main body. 'Shlem may have bought us some time drawing off his outriders,' van Herz commented, 'but not enough, it seems.' The old soldier looked westward to the mountains. 'Perhaps we should take our chances in the high country.'
Debretton did not respond immediately. He scanned the river valley once more, and then closed the spyglass with a snap. 'How long before the main body reaches us? Before dark, do you think?'
Van Herz looked at the sun, already well below its zenith. 'No. Some will, but the mass not before sundown.'
'And would you care to move an army through that defile at night?'
'Never. They will certainly make camp on the southern side. Why, do you think we will be safe here?'
Debretton shook his head. 'Not entirely. Assuming the commander is no fool, he will picket the high ground. But we can move down the reverse slope. It's unlikely anyone will want to pick their way down those gullies in the dark.'
'And then what? Even if we remain undetected through the night, we'll still be trapped here in the morning, between hell and high water.' When Debretton remained silent, van Herz grew irritated. 'Speak, man. Do you have a plan or not?'
Debretton watched a corpse drifting by. 'Not yet.' His eyes narrowed. 'But I think we have a few hours to come up with one.'

THE GROUP MOVED carefully down the northern slope, ensconcing themselves in a ravine choked with gorse. For the rest of the day they remained undetected as small parties of invaders made their way along the road towards Reiksgrad. Enemy scouts could be heard as they sniffed around the top of the ridge towards sundown, but failed to see them in their hide. As the sun disappeared, the scouts thrashed away through the underbrush to light a watch fire on the crest just above the fugitives. Debretton sat silently until full dark, idly plucking at gorse-berries that grew in profusion all around them. An hour later, Vanir slid next to him, wiping blood from a short blade.
'No more scouts,' he announced.
'How many were there?'
'Only four.'
'Sure you got them all?' When Vanir did not dignify this with an answer, Debretton went on. 'And the rest?'
'Many camp fires, but all on the other side.' Debretton nodded and picked his way through the brush to van Herz, with Vanir following silently. Use, the captain, and his soldiers looked at him expectantly.
'The enemy main body has camped on the other side of the defile,' he began, quietly. 'We will lead the horses down to the bottom of the ridge, and then ride for the fortress. There are quite a few of them between us and the walls of Reiksgrad, but they are scattered and disorganised. In the dark we may pass as just another group of prowling bandits. With the blessing, we might reach the end of the causeway without incident. Doubtless we'll have to fight through there, but if we can catch them unawares all should go well.'
'There are many a ''might'' and ''may'' in that plan,' van Herz pointed out.
'Aye,' conceded Debretton, 'but that is all we have left.' He grasped the reins of his horse, and patted its neck. 'Let's be on our way.'
Vanir led them as they picked their way cautiously down the hillside. To Debretton their progress was only slightly quieter than a procession of circus pachyderms, but nothing stirred in the low ground. Finally on the level plain, they mounted and made their way carefully towards refuge.
At first they had little difficulty in threading their way between the silent enemy camps. From time to time they paused as Vanir scouted ahead, and once they surprised and quickly silenced a patrol on some night time errand. As they neared Reiksgrad, however, the enemy posts grew thicker and more alert. Hammering and guttural commands sounded through the still air as they approached the siege works being thrown up to surround the place. The halts grew longer and the escapes narrower, until at last Vanir emerged from the dark to report that there was no way through the lines.
'None?'
'Not without fighting,' the northerner reported laconically.
Debretton stood in thought for a moment, and then spoke to van Herz. 'Here is where milady and I must part company with you. We will make our way down to the river and into the city from there. You can either cut your way through or withdraw back into the hills. There is still enough time before dawn for that.'
Before van Herz could reply, Use stepped forward. 'I've proved I can ride with you in a charge, uncle.'
'Aye, that you have, girl,' the old soldier smiled. He glanced at Vanir. 'What do you think our chances might be?' The northerner simply grimaced and shook his head. 'I think you should go with Debretton.'
Use bit her lip. 'Only if you promise to head for the mountains, uncle.'
Van Herz looked to Debretton. 'What do you say? Would a distraction help?'
Debretton hesitated, but finally nodded. 'For what I have in mind, yes,' he said.
'That's settled then.' Van Herz placed a finger on Use's lips before she could protest. 'Listen, girl, I've spent too long fighting for your family to quit now. If this is the last service I can perform to see you to safety, you wouldn't deny me the chance, would you? And you have the child to think of.' Use's eyes watered and she shook her head, clasping van Herz's hand with both of hers. 'Besides, I imagine the finest warriors east of the River Reik can cut through a few slack-jawed orcs, right boys?' The men growled their assent.
'Sigmar be with you, then, uncle, and your men, too. I will see you all in Reiksgrad,' Use said to the guardsmen with a tearful smile. They nodded and murmured good wishes in return. Use wiped her eyes and turned to Debretton. 'I'm ready.'
'Good. Give us five minutes, captain, and then ride hard for the gates.' Debretton and van Herz clasped hands. 'And what of you, Vanir?'
In answer, Vanir mounted his horse and unslung his axe. 'You sneak, I fight.'
'Fair enough,' Debretton said. As he turned to go, van Herz held him back.
'How do you intend to make it through the lines, Debretton?'
The mercenary held up a pair of empty wineskins and a satchel of gorse-berries. 'Improvisation.'

* * *

STANDING ATOP A bridge barely a bowshot from the outer works of Reiksgrad, a disgruntled orc leaned on its spear while its companions roistered among ruined wine cellars and feasted on hot, smoking flesh. It brightened slightly when a clamour arose to the west, the clash of arms and shouts that indicated a fight. Hundreds of its fellows roused themselves and rushed away into the night, and for a short time it could follow the progress of the battle by the noise and the clustering of torches. It was on the verge of abandoning his post when the clangour died away, and it morosely turned back to studying the dead floating by.
The greenskin amused itself by spitting at the corpses as they flowed under the low bridge. After a while it had his timing down quite nicely. It fixed on one swollen figure, its hand stiffly raised out of the water, blood from a gash on the neck black in the moonlight, eyes staring blankly upwards. The orc hocked thickly, paused, and spat past yellowed tusks. The wad of phlegm struck squarely between the eyes, but the orc's hoot of triumph was cut short when it saw the corpse blink and screw up its face in disgust.
The orc gaped blankly, its sluggish brain turning over with some difficulty as the body passed beneath the bridge. Then it whirled and scampered to the other side, spear raised as it bent over the water. A flash of silver shot up from below, a dagger passing through its throat and thunking into the underside of its skull. The orc straightened slowly, its spear dangling from nerveless fingers, and then fell back in a clatter.
A few moments later, Debretton clambered up on the riverbank, hard against the curtain wall of Reiksgrad. He was still splashing his face with handfuls of water, trying to scrub away the vile stink of orc sputum when Use emerged. She stripped the inflated wineskin from beneath her tunic, and attempted to wash off the mud and berry juice that marred her features. Finally, she gave up and collapsed, exhausted, into the reeds. 'What now?'
Debretton pulled off his own wineskin. He unwound the cord that bound its neck, pulled out the stopper and deflated it, then tossed it in the river. He looked up at the wall. 'We wait here for dawn,' he said, 'and try not to get killed by our own people.' He pressed a ragged cloth against the spear gash he had reopened just before they had slipped into the river upstream.
The woman raised herself wearily on one elbow. 'Thank you.' Debretton smiled to himself. Use was as graceless in apologising as her father had been. 'I know you sacrificed much.'
'No need to thank me, milady, I serve for pay, not for you.'
'What pay? That thaler my father gave you? My handmaiden makes as much emptying chamber pots.'
Debretton fished the silver piece from a pouch at his belt. He untied a cord from around his neck, threaded it through the hole in the coin, and retied the cord. He held it up for a moment, a dozen or so identical thalers jingling softly together. 'It is enough for me.'