SPOILS OF WAR
by Rick Wolf


'HOW MANY, DO you think?'
'Fifteen? Not more than twenty,' Claus replied in an undertone. They lay on a rocky outcrop. 'We can take them, sir.'
Below, in a hollow that broadened into a small valley of even grassland by a cool brook, Claus could see the creatures below. Some were covered in mangy hair, others wore equally patchy clothes and armour, broken and rusting mail, ripped jerkins and cracked plate. Some loped like beasts, others stood straight like men, but most seemed a curious mixture of the two. They lolled indolently. They had been feasting, the remains of some upland sheep lying bloodied and scattered around them. The wind changed and Claus wrinkled his nose in disgust as their odour reached him.
'I agree,' the captain said. The two men began to work their way backwards, away from the brow of the hill where they might be seen.
The Elector of Nuln's army had spent four frustrating weeks camped close to the market town of Steingart, in the shadow of the Black Mountains, by the upper reaches of the Reik. They were waiting for the force of bandits, mutants, beastmen and gods knew what else that had swept down out of the Great Forest and across the southern Empire. Rumour had it that they had swept aside the forces of Stirland and Averland, burning farmsteads and villages, and putting their inhabitants to the sword. Others claimed that they had been halted in Averland and dealt a decisive blow, others still that the raiders had split into a hundred smaller bands that now wreaked havoc on the soft lands of the south. Meanwhile, the men of Wissenland and Sudenland waited by the Upper Reik for the invaders, anxious, frustrated and angry.
They had looked to the Reiters, mounted pistoliers, to find the enemy. Lieutenant Claus Katzbalger found himself second in command of the scouting party. They were just ten men, including the captain, von Ofterdingen, and Claus sent to search for the raiders. Perhaps they had just found some of them.

THEY REMOUNTED THEIR horses and the men began to work their way carefully round from behind the hill and into the valley. The broad grassland offered perfect conditions for mounted men, but the steep hillside would be hard work for the horses. They might slip and fall or shy, so the riders skirted round the valley, careful not to make a noise.
Now that the sun had risen and burned off the early morning mist, it was hot. Under his armour, Claus felt uncomfortable. The men all wore breast- and back-plates and Claus's armour extended down over his thighs and arms as well. He left his helmet off, but even so the heat of the sun on the blackened half armour seemed to bake him. His mouth was deadly dry and he reached for his water bottle. His stomach squirmed and an urge to be sick swept over him. He gripped his sword pommel closely and whispered a quick prayer to Sigmar that he would use it well.
They paused where the hills flattened out and formed up. Weapons were checked and armour tightened. Claus reached forward to pat his horse as it pawed the ground, reassuring it. Behind him, his men fell into place: Gefreiter Stark, his rank marking him as a veteran of past campaigns, to his left; Trooper von Schwarze to the right; and alongside them, Troopers Tannhauser and Meyer.
'Lieutenant! Your men to the left, I will take the right,' von Ofterdingen said. Four troopers had formed behind him. 'Forward.'
They crested the slight rise and emerged into the valley at a steady trot, the horses gradually building pace. The bestial creatures were still spread out, many sprawled on the ground, utterly unaware of the attack. At the sound of the beating hooves they started, staring round in panic. Claus swung his command along by the brook to cut off any retreat, whilst the others moved to crush them. Claus could see that the captain had drawn his sabre and held it aloft as his men followed him. The ground was speeding past and the horses' hooves flashed and thundered as they hit the earth. Stones were sent skittering into the brook, the horses' footing threatening to slip.
Alert now, the twisted beasts were on their feet. One, a barrel-chested animal, with the body of a man and the antlered head of a stag, was bellowing, throwing its head back and roaring like a rutting deer. Whether in challenge, anger or to rouse others, Claus could not guess.
They swung in from the brook, directly towards the bellowing creature. Claus let the reins slip and pulled two long barrelled pistols from the holsters by his saddle. He knew that behind him each trooper would also be pulling out their pistols.
He heard the cracks of pistol fire as Captain von Ofterdingen's command closed with the beasts. Then he heard the sharper, louder crack of those behind him and squeezed the trigger on the first of his pistols. There was a flash of flame, a burst of smoke, cutting his vision out, and then the horse's charge had carried him past and he could see. He fired again, but this time the wheellock sparked and flashed but the charge failed to catch. Cursing, Claus tried to return the pistol to its holster, but by then he was in amongst the enemy and the battle was on him.
This was the sort of battle that every cavalryman dreamt of: an enemy on foot without ranks or structure. It was barely soldiery. It was butchery. Claus could hear the troopers whooping with the joy of it.
The charge carried him through and Claus, unable to draw his sword, reversed his grip on his long, heavy pistol and brought the club ended grip down on the head of a thin creature with a dog's muzzle. He could feel the crack of bone. He tugged on the reins and wheeled his horse, wrenching his heavy sabre from its scabbard. He saw others do the same - Stark, his sword bloodied to the hilt, Tannhauser, pistol butts smeared with gore - and charged back into the fray. The mutated raiders were breaking, scrambling desperately away from the onslaught, making it easy for the Reiters whose swords fell on the backs of the beastlike heads.
Their screams were a cacophony of animal and human. Claus saw the great stag-like creature speared through the throat as he lifted his head back. He saw the captain firing his pistol into a winged thing, with the face of a young girl; and it was over and the battle was won.
It was then they noticed that Meyer had fallen. His horse must have tumbled; he lay flat on the ground, unconscious. An ugly gash showed in his thigh and marks on his cheeks suggested something had tried to gnaw at it.
'We'd better find somewhere for him to rest,' the captain said, but his eyes scanned the horizon, as if hoping he would see more enemies that he could crush beneath his horse's hooves.

THE SUN WAS beginning to lower in the sky when they arrived at the manor house. It was a stout stone hall, fortified to withstand enemies if need be. Herb gardens and low hedges suggested that defence was not its main purpose, however. A cluster of low stone houses sat below the hall, whilst a few scattered shepherds' huts clung to hills above. It looked beautiful in the sunshine.
They had been forced to a slower pace by the injured Meyer, but there had been no further signs of the enemy, nor had any of the scattered peasants in the area reported any. Claus was grateful of the chance to stop for the night. Now that the nervous excitement of the fight had left him, he was tired. The manor house seemed like a gift from the gods to his weary eyes.
Servants began to appear as the small column of riders filed in. One stepped forward.
'This is the Hall of the von Oppertals. How may we help you?' he asked.
Claus and the captain rode forward. 'I am Captain von Ofterdingen of the Wissenland Reiters. This is Lieutenant Katzbalger. As you can see, one of our men is wounded. You will billet us and provide my man with whatever care you can.'
The man who stood before him was perhaps in his early fifties, grey-haired, with a long, wispy moustache and the beginnings of a paunch. He stood, fists balled on his hips. Claus sensed him bridle at the captain's command. For a moment it looked as if he might refuse, then he tugged at the corner of his moustache.
'Of course, sir. Dieter will help you stable your horses.'
'Is your master here?' the captain demanded.
'No, sir. The new landgrave is at his residence in Nuln. My name is Horst. I am the steward of the lord of Oppertal.'
Von Ofterdingen turned away, unconcerned by the matters of servants.
Claus and Tannhauser carried Meyer into the house while the captain and the others dealt with the horses. They were ushered into an upstairs room where they laid the injured man on a bed. He had regained consciousness a couple of times, and they had forced harsh schnapps down his throat to dull the pain. Now he lay on the bed moaning, scarcely aware of his surroundings.
'Fetch someone who can treat him,' Claus ordered.
The steward said he would send for a healer, the village wise woman, before bustling off.
Claus left Tannhauser with the injured trooper and went back down to the main hall. The others were still seeing to the horses or carrying supplies and saddlebags in.
Claus had time to examine the hall. It was cool and, after the bright sunshine of the day, dark. The manor house must have originally been one single hall, which, at various times, had been added to. The main hall, however, remained. At one end stood an imposing chair. Above that was a wooden gallery for entertainers. The rest of the space was empty but for three great oak tables and cupboards on the wall by the door. Crossed swords completed the decor.
There were small high windows through which shafts of golden sunshine streamed. Claus watched motes of dust dancing in them. He followed the light upwards. A huge, discoloured sheet was draped on the far wall, by the windows. That was odd. He looked around. A servant hurried past, water jugs and bowls in her arms.
'You there. What is beneath that sheet?'
The woman turned to him. She was young, no more than twenty perhaps, and dark curls framed her face. 'The painting, sir.'
Now that he studied it, Claus could see the sheet did not quite cover the entire wall. Around the windows he could see marks, indistinct in the light, but colours and shapes.
'What painting? Why is it covered?'
'I'm sorry, sir. You'll have to ask the steward.'
She tried to curtsey and her face flushed. Claus smiled to himself as he watched her leave, his eyes trailing after her departing body. Then he turned back to the wall. One edge of the doth hung lower than the rest, the tacks that fixed it in place having worked loose. He strode up to it and gripped the sheet in his hand. He lifted the sheet away as far away from the wall as he could. The angle and the light made it hard to see the pattern behind, a confusion of reds, ochres, greys and a flash of aquamarine. Then, slowly, the shapes formed, and Claus could see armoured knights mounted on barded steeds, pennants fluttering from the ends of lances, he could pick out standards and banners of regiments of pikemen and footmen and horses prancing, and he had to catch his breath. This was magnificent. He tugged at the shroud that covered the wall painting until he felt it give and collapse to the floor in a shower of dust. He stepped back to admire the fresco. It must be the work of a master.
'Sir, what are you doing?'
Claus turned to see the steward, Horst, red-faced, barely trying to conceal his irritation. 'What are you doing?'
'It seemed a shame to cover it,' Claus said simply.
'But that was his lordship's wish,' the steward retorted, 'I mean his late lordship.'
'Well,' Claus smiled, equable, 'then he is no longer here to be offended. What does the new lord make of it, anyway?' he continued.
'He has yet to visit us. He has been in the city for three years.'
With this man as his servant Claus felt he could hardly blame the new lord for his lack of interest.
'It is impressive,' Claus said, taking in the dimensions of the painting. 'What is it of?'
'The Battle of Zapochka, in Kislev. Our lord's great-great-great-great-grandfather performed a great service for the sainted Magnus the Pious in his war against the Chaos invaders.'
The Battle of Zapochka, a name that Claus had barely heard of, a footnote in the history of Magnus's war against the Great Incursion. Tribesmen from the far north, beastlike creatures, mutated perversions and daemons summoned from the pits of darkness had swept across Kislev in vast armies, threatening to utterly overwhelm the Empire's northern neighbour. Zapochka had been, like many other engagements in the campaign, a desperate action to preserve the flanks of the Empire's combined forces, to stop attempts to cut it from its supply lines and halt the advance. Few histories would record it, the glory going to the main force that routed the Chaos invasion at the Battle of Kislev Gate. But here, in a small manor, forgotten even by its lord, was a reminder of the heroism of those that had marched north and met the invaders in a battle that had made the final victory possible. It held Claus in wonderment.
'The von Oppertals were ennobled by Magnus himself for their actions that day,' the steward, Horst, said, a note of pride at this reflected glory in his voice. 'Afterwards, the first landgrave returned here, bringing with him money and reminders of the war.'
The artist had included grateful-looking Kislevite shepherds in the foreground of the painting, watching the combat. Magnus the Pious, encased in golden armour, stood on a gilded chariot, his arm raised to point towards the battle. The armoured electors of the Empire stood around him. Of course, neither Magnus nor the electors would have been there, but the von Oppertals had not let that stand in the way of art. Beyond them, in a gentle valley filled with summer flowers, the armies clashed.
'They say that the two-handed sword on the wall came from a barbarian he bested in single combat,' Horst continued. 'It was the second landgrave who had the fresco painted.'
'Magnificent,' Claus said, barely hearing. 'Leave it like that. It'll give us something to look at when we eat.'

IT WAS MUTTON stew that evening. Horst had apologised repeatedly when he saw the look on von Ofterdingen's face at the news, but, he said, the group had been so unexpected that there had been no chance to get anything else. They were lucky that there was enough to go round. It had taken a viewing of the wine cellar to mollify the captain. Then he was delighted.
'Drink deep!' he told his men as they cleared their platters on one of the great tables in the hall. 'Today, we struck a blow for Wissenland against the foul creatures that would destroy our lands!'
The small company of soldiers roared their approval. They were all there, save Meyer, who lay in his room tended by the healer. Claus banged his fist on the table, causing cutlery to clatter.
'This, gentlemen,' von Ofterdingen said, warming to his theme and indicating the glass of good Reikland Hock in his hand, 'is a fitting reward from our generous, if sadly absent, host.'
Again the soldiers joined in.
'These good bottles are, for us, the spoils of war! So let us raise a toast to our good fortune, good swords and good host. Gentlemen, the spoils of war!'
The company rose to its feet. As one they echoed the toast and tossed back the wine.
The servants stood just out of sight, unsure what to make of this band of drunken men.

CLAUS PICKED UP his wine glass. Tannhauser was sprawling across the table and von Schwarze did not seem too far behind. He looked up at the painting he had uncovered earlier. His painting, Claus half felt, since he had found it. It was extraordinary. He let his eyes drift across it. The candles and fire seemed to lend the battle extra life, as the light flickered and shifted, suddenly catching and illuminating portions and figures before casting them back into shadow. There, facing the couched lances of mounted knights, were barbarian northerners in outlandish fur-edged armour. Another flicker, and Claus saw a goat-like monster, surrounded by other mixtures of man and beast. They were vital and raw, sensuous and supple. He shuddered. The depiction of the battle was a little too close to the events of earlier in the day.
Von Schwarze stood, unsteadily. 'I'm off for a piss,' he announced. Claus, looking towards him, only saw the movement in the picture out of the very corner of his eye. He turned back to the painting. It was impossible, of course. The figures could not have moved. He stared at it suspiciously. That giant beast, an amalgamation of man and buffalo, had its head been lowered so, or its arms raised?
It must have been. He must have had more to drink than he had realised.
He knocked the rest of his glass back and got to his feet. Bed, he thought, and moved away from the hall to his room, but, as he did so, he kept half an eye on the strange painting.

CAPTAIN VON OFTERDINGEN gave orders the next day. Questioning the locals had revealed nothing. The captain decided that the group must separate. They would be able to cover more ground that way. He and four troopers would continue further into the hills and leave Lieutenant Katzbalger and his men, including the injured Meyer, behind at the manor house. A dispatch needed to be taken to the army to report their position and findings; von Schwarze would act as courier. That left Katzbalger, Stark and Tannhauser. They were to patrol the valleys immediately surrounding the manor of the Oppertals. They would rendezvous at the manor house again in one week. Having given his orders, von Ofterdingen scribbled his report and handed it to von Schwarze. They rode out that afternoon, von Scharwze back towards Steingart, the captain and the four troopers deeper into the hills.
Claus Katzbalger was in command of those remaining behind. He hoped to the gods that he would not screw it up.

MEYER APPEARED TO have improved slightly. He was conscious and even managed a weak smile when Claus came to see him. He sat slightly propped up in his sick bed, a water jug on a small table nearby, in his whitewashed, cell-like, room. The sun streamed through the window in long golden shafts. Claus left him bathed in its warm glow.
The food was much improved that evening. Perhaps it was because there were fewer of them, but Horst had managed to rustle up roast beef. Claus, Stark and Tannhauser sat and ate in companionable silence. Claus had decided that they would not drink that evening. He was relieved that the painting opposite him did not appear to move now. He found his eyes drawn to it again and again. Eventually, he noticed, in one corner, an artist's joke: a goat-faced beastman, sharply bearded, dressed in an artist's gown and cap, with a paintbrush in its hand.

A SOFT SUN played on the upland valley. Wildflowers grew by the side of the path: a profusion of cornflower blues, startling yellows and deep violets. It was hard to believe that any of the vile monstrosities they had encountered two days before could have been near this place.
'Nothing,' Tannhauser reported as he brought his horse back from the rocky promontory where he had scanned the rest of the valley. It was long, but broadened out into a lush landscape between steeply banked hillsides. It had taken them most of the day to reach this point, no more than three-quarters of the way up the valley, and soon they would have to return to the manor house in the hills below.
Claus nodded. 'We must hope that the captain is having more luck.'
Stark coughed. 'With permission, sir? We're not covering enough ground.'
Claus considered. At this rate they would have hardly scouted half the land he wanted to investigate by the end of the week.
'Yes, gefreiter. Tomorrow we will have to split up. I will take the rest of this valley, and you and Tannhauser the neighbouring ones. We'll have to work outwards from there. I shall stay based at the manor, but you two can press on. We can meet up in three days. If either of you find anything, let me know.'
The others nodded. They turned their horses and began the long trot back to the hall. A part of Claus wished he could stop and simply admire the beauty of the valley in the late summer sunshine.

THE HORSES STABLED, fed and watered, the three men carried their saddlebags into the main hall. Claus set his down by the door gratefully. Hours in the saddle took their toll even on someone used to it. They sat at one of the tables, happy simply to rest. The painting dominated the wall before them.
'You know,' said Stark after some time, 'the oddest thing. You said that painting was of a battle in Kislev?'
'Hmm,' Claus grunted.
'Only, don't those hills there look like the ones in that valley we were in today?'
'How do you mean?'
'Look at that one on the left shaped like an Altdorfer bun, see? And next to it, there's one with a jagged top and pine trees in a row. There were hills just like that at the top end of the valley today.'
'Are you sure?' Claus knew better than to doubt the gefreiter's scouting skills but he could not really see it himself. 'It must be a coincidence. I'll keep an eye out tomorrow,' he said with a smile.

SLEEP DID NOT seem to come easily that evening. In his mind he kept turning over the idea that the valley in the picture was the valley they had been in earlier that day. He knew that sometimes artists chose to change details to bring them closer to the experiences of the viewer: gods or heroes might be painted in the armour of the day, the landscape of legend changed to that of the modern Empire, but why would an artist choose to paint a valley in the hills above them?
He picked up the candle at his bedside and, quietly, sneaked downstairs. In front of the wall painting again, he studied the landscape carefully. Was that hill the same as one he had seen for real, or that fellside the same as the steep escarpment he had noted that afternoon? Some of the details of the landscape were obscured by the boiling mass of Chaos creatures that poured out of the hills. There, for instance, in amongst a collection of half-beast, half-man things, was a small black building; had he seen that? It appeared to be a stone-built shrine, perhaps a way temple for travellers to shelter in. The beasts were dancing round it unconnected, it seemed, to the main battle, covered in sticky dark blood that matted their fur.
He could not be sure, but he felt he had seen that shrine before.

THE SUN BEAT down on him as he rode up the valley. It was there. Now that he was looking for it, the low black stone shrine was obvious against the hillside. He had hoped all morning that he would not see it, that he could write it off as imagination, his mind playing tricks with him, but a part of him had known that he would find it. Even the way the shrine sat on an outcrop that fell away more steeply than most of the land around it mirrored the shrine he had seen in the painting.
He cursed, looking across at it. He ought to be scouting for signs of the marauding beasts, but he and the others had searched half this valley the day before and seen none. Now Stark and Tannhauser should be trailing through the hills and dales surrounding it. If there was anything around, they would find it and let him know. He had time to take a look at the odd little shrine. He swung his horse towards it and kicked his mount forward.
He had to kick the horse under him several more times as it climbed the hillside. Claus had had to let it stop and catch its breath, as it panted in the hot summer sunshine. The shrine had become hidden by the folds of the land at times and Claus had lost his bearings more than once, but now it stood before him. This could not be any way temple, he realised. There was no road or path beside it. Indeed, it seemed to be in a spot chosen for its isolation.
He dismounted and walked towards it, glad to be out of the saddle for a while. Ivy and bindweed competed to crawl over and cover the dark stone walls of the shrine, if that was what it was, for, as he approached, he could see no markings of any faith he recognised. A small shrub grew from a crack by the base of the angled roof.
The ground in front of the building was a flattened area of stone and gravel large enough for a small crowd of people or a few carts. There was a large darkened patch at its centre as if something had been spilt there. What it might have been or when it had happened, Claus could not guess. There was a doorway into the black stone. Nothing hung in it, but it was so dark inside that Claus, standing in the sunlight, could not see the interior at all. He walked steadily towards it.
Under the ivy and the bindweed, with its heavy headed white flowers, the building was made from well-dressed stone. Care had been taken in its construction, but there were odd gashes in its stonework, jagged crevasses and brutal chisel marks. On the lintel, above the doorway, someone had clearly attacked the stonework with venom. Where once, Claus supposed, there must have been carvings, these had been shorn away and chipped off. In places, the faint ghostly outline of carvings of people could still be made out, just.
All the marks on the walls, Claus realised, must show where the shrine had once been richly decorated, for the marks convinced him that his guess had been right. Why would someone systematically destroy all of the carvings and markings?
A slight breeze brought a sudden rich scent of jasmine with it. The smell was thick and pungent. It seemed to cloy and stick in Claus's nose and mouth.
He stopped in front of the building. His eyes drank in the chipped dark stone, his nostrils the heavy sweet odour. Some instinct told him that, somehow, something was wrong and that he should turn and run from here, but his senses held him captive where he was.
His horse was stamping and whinnying. He turned back towards it, wondering what had spooked it. He gave it a pat and rubbed its flanks. Puzzled, he looked back at the shrine. Despite the heat of the afternoon, he felt a chill.
The shrine, or whatever it might be, did not hold any clues to his mission, and he told himself that he had wasted enough time. He remounted. The horse did not need to feel his spur or be kicked into life this time; it seemed happy to be on its way.

HORST, THE STEWARD, had denied any knowledge of the building at all when Claus had asked about it on his return. Perhaps the shepherds whose flocks grazed those pastures might be able to help, he suggested. In any case, Horst would have to absent himself from the manor that evening, he said. He would arrange for food to be served to Claus and the injured man. Claus nodded. The steward hardly made for the most congenial company, anyway.
Claus checked on Meyer. He gave no response when Claus greeted him. The room was stuffy. Claus went to Meyer's bedside. Water and some food lay untouched on the table next to him.
'Meyer?'
The trooper moaned, but his eyes remained closed. Claus reached out his hand to touch the other man's brow. It was burning. Meyer twisted in the bed and let out a low anguished sound. Claus left him quickly.
'Horst! Horst! Damn it, where are you, man?' The servant appeared as Claus rushed down the stairs. 'Meyer has turned feverish. He needs help. Get your healer.'
'Of course. I will attend to it at once. Food has been laid out for you like will tend you.'

ILKE WAS THE dark-haired maid he had seen on his first afternoon at the manor house. She smiled shyly at him when she poured wine into his glass. It was a light red, smelling of elderberries and resin. There were platters of cold meats, hams and sausage, that Claus helped himself to, and cheeses and bread spread on the table.
'Come,' Claus said, 'have something to eat with me.'
The maid refused at first and then, at his insistence, had a slice of salami, but she would not sit with him and barely spoke. He swallowed his wine and poured himself some more.
The dancing animals and the shrine pulled his eyes towards them. He tried to concentrate on something else, his food, the maid's dark eyes, other figures in the painting, but he seemed drawn back to the same point in the picture. He had no desire to remember his visit to the shrine earlier that day, and no wish to think about Meyer lying injured upstairs. He knocked back more of the wine.
He looked at the painting again, and saw that some of the warped creatures by the black shrine seemed to be carrying something. He got up and walked to the wall, his wine glass still in his hand. In amongst the cavorting shapes was a huge vessel held aloft by leering-faced apes and ram-headed men. From it spilt a dark red liquid: the blood that covered many of them?
He sipped from his glass. Some of the creatures were drinking the liquid, in the painting. He could see their tongues stained deep purple by it. Then he realised: perhaps it was not blood in the picture but wine. He turned away suddenly disgusted. He needed something to distract him. He was becoming obsessed.
The maid, like, was clearing the remains of his meal away. He watched the back of her shapely form and a smile formed on his lips.
'The spoils of war,' he murmured softly to himself, as he moved to follow her.

THE SUNLIGHT WAS streaming through the window when he woke. It seemed horribly bright. His head felt thick and his mouth dry. How much had he drunk last night?
He stumbled up and out of bed. There was a pitcher of water in the corner, and he splashed his face with it and then gulped some down. He paused to breathe and then poured the rest down his throat. He felt dreadful.
It was much later than Claus had meant to get up; the sun was already high in the sky. He swore. He needed to be up and out. He had meant to travel beyond the valley he had scouted the last two days, but knew that would prove difficult now. He half tumbled down the staircase and out into the hall grounds.
Horst found him as he saddled his horse.
'There you are,' he said. There was an edge to his voice. 'You enjoyed yourself last night, I take it, whilst I was away.' It was a statement, not a question. Claus did not reply, concentrating on the straps and horse tack.
'You may be interested to know that like has had to return to her family after your treatment of her.'
What the hell was the steward talking about? Then a memory came, of dark eyes and soft skin.
'You may be billeted here, but do not abuse our hospitality again!' Horst spat. He was close enough for Claus to smell his breath.
Claus wished he could explain. He could not. What had he done last night? How much had he drunk? He needed to be on his way.
'I'll speak with you this evening,' he said and swung himself up into the saddle.

THE HEAT OF the day and the motion of the horse made him feel sick. He had to stop twice within an hour. He wished he had found something to eat this morning. At what he guessed was an hour after midday, he found himself on the hill just below the shrine. It seemed as sensible a place to stop as any. He dismounted. The anxiety that the shrine had produced the day before had melted away, and today he was aware only of the view over the valley, the smell of wild flowers, the buzz of bees and the warmth of the stones under him when he sat. He chewed at some dried meat he had in his saddlebag and swigged at his water bottle.
He tried to remember what he had done the night before, but it seemed to be hidden in his mind behind a fog. He could not believe he would have hurt the girl or forced her, but no memories came to him.
He was tired still. His eyes began to slide closed.
Zapochka. He dreamt of the battle. He heard the cries of the armies, the blare of trumpets, the beat of drums, and words spoken in tongues he did not know. Somehow he was in among the horned beasts as they danced at the edge of the battle. One of the ram-headed men who held the great bowl he had seen in the painting came towards him. It rubbed its soft wool against him. A hand stroked his face. It was like the maid's and the beastman was gone. She kissed his cheek tenderly and her hands sank lower down his body. She gripped his torso and stroked his thigh. It was no longer like but the winged thing with the girl's face that the captain had shot days before and that they had left cold and stark for carrion.
He was awake again. For a moment, he was unsure where he was. His dream left him confused. He must have slept most of the afternoon, for the shadows were lengthening. He cursed loud enough to disturb his horse as it cropped the grass nearby. He had lost the whole day to his drunkenness of the night before. There was nothing for it but to head back.

EVENING HAD FULLY set in by the time Claus returned. Horst was not about. In fact, there appeared to be no one at all to serve him. He checked on Meyer, who seemed peacefully asleep. After a while, Claus found the kitchens where a man he had never seen before was able to point him to some food. After a pause, Claus picked himself out some wine too. He had no desire to sit in front of the painting again so he went to his room and ate. Then he lay back, determined to go to sleep. He needed to be up early. But rest would not come; perhaps he had slept too long in the afternoon. He lay wide-awake in bed. He thought he saw shapes and colours in the darkness, shapes that resolved into the charging knights and twisting creatures of the painting.
What was happening to him? He sat up and pressed the balls of his hands against his eyes.
Still the images swam in front of his face: buffalo-headed creatures, goat-faced artists, bowl carriers with ram's heads. Sigmar! Why did it not stop?
The painting was an obsession, dominating his evenings and even now, when not in front of it, he could see it. And during the day there was the shrine from it. He had to escape.
Stark and Tannhauser should be back the next night, the captain and the rest at the end of the week. Could he hold out that long?

SLEEP MUST HAVE come eventually. Claus found himself lying on top of his bedclothes, naked. There was an iron tang in his mouth. He rolled forward and rubbed his eyes. That was when he noticed the blood on them, drying, not yet crusted. He felt his face. Congealing blood covered his chin. Gods, there was blood in his mouth too. He spat, and then reached for the water and began to scrub.
It was early and the sun had only recently broken the skyline, but it seemed as if everyone was up. The courtyard of the Hall was buzzing with life.
'It seems your monsters have arrived, Lieutenant Katzbalger.'
'What?'
It was Horst. 'There was an attack last night. Sheep were gutted, ripped apart and strewn for miles, apparently, and a man.'
Claus stood, numbed. Men and women rushed around him, dizzyingly.
'All of their heads were taken. That poor man was unrecognisable: head ripped away, flesh torn from the bones, heart cut from the chest, a leg crushed. It must have been the foul beasts of Chaos you were searching for.'
'A man?' Horst's words barely seemed to sink in. The heads missing. Why had he felt he had already known that?
Where had the blood come from? Where was Meyer? He dashed back into the hall, leaving Horst behind him, sull talking.
He was not surprised when he found Meyer missing, his sick room smelling sweet, like death. Coming down the stairs, he found the painting in front of him. He did not have to study it to notice the groups making their way towards the shrine. In their arms, they were carrying the heads of sheep and men. Claus felt his gorge begin to rise.
He snatched food from the kitchen, ignoring the looks he got, pale-faced and sweating. He needed to leave.
Horst found him as he swung himself up into the saddle. His fingers had rumbled as he had tied the straps around the horse.
'I have to go.'
'Sir,' Horst said, 'we need you to protect us.'
'I can't. Tell the others when they return. Say I've... I've gone to get help.'
He lashed the reins and kicked his spurs into his horse so that it bolted forward and away.

CLAUS RODE BACK towards where he and the others had routed the mutated raiders almost a week before and the road to Steingart, kicking the horse, forcing it forward. Slowly, the horse reduced its pace as Claus's panic began to wane. He let the horse find its own way.
What had happened to him? Tears began to slide down his face. His limbs ached. He needed desperately to get away. He felt as if he had not slept all night.
Had he killed Meyer? It barely seemed possible. Then he remembered the blood in his mouth.
The tears blinded him. He tried to wipe his eyes clear. His horse trotted steadily away from the manor house and the hills. As the fear receded, Claus slumped in his saddle and, eventually, rocked by the horse's motion, sleep claimed him.

HE WAS AWAKE again. The shrine was before him, its black walls scuffed and bruised. He had fallen from the saddle and lay sprawled on the stony ground. He had given the horse its head and somehow it had brought him here. It had been so anxious to get away the first time they had come here. Why had it brought him back?
His face hurt. It felt puffy and he winced when he touched it. He must have hit it when he fell. He pushed himself up. He thought he caught the scent of jasmine in his nostrils.
As he looked up, he saw a sheep's head, bloody, grinning, decapitated, in the shrine's doorway. He dragged himself towards it.

THE NEXT MORNING dawned with a red smear. Stark rode down from the hills and into the manor house of the von Oppertals. He ached from the ride and nights beneath the cold stars. 'Hello?' he called.
Horst appeared a few minutes later. 'Where is the lieutenant?'
'He said he returned for help, gefreiter.' The steward began to explain something about some dead sheep.
'How is Meyer?'
'It seems he went too.'
Stark was puzzled. He rubbed the stubble that covered his chin, only half listening to the tale Horst told him. What should he do? Wait for the captain or follow the lieutenant? Entering the hall, he stopped before the wall painting.
He did not like it. It disturbed him. Its forms and colours somehow trapped the eye. It seemed to him that he noticed new details each time he looked at it. There, for instance, that figure grinning dementedly or screaming in terror by that old, black, ivy choked building, it was so like the lieutenant. He was certain he had not seen that before.
'Horst,' he said. 'Get that thing covered, would you?'