[WFRP] The Lord of Lost Heart (II)

[LCP]

The four travellers met at the crossroads, and went down to the river together. Behind them, the village was so still that it was difficult to recognise it as the same bustling place they had seen when they had first come over the hill on the road from Rosche. There was no-one in the streets. Nothing moved in the fields but the slow sway of the rye. The charred beams of the Flychers' ruined house jutted up from the centre of the village like a rotten tooth, and the white crosses of infection marked the doors of the cottages like the scars of a pox.

Up on the common, a few shapes were moving. An old man and a small boy, no older than ten, were hauling a handcart up the muddy slope, where a shovel had been rested against the bole of the hanging tree. On the back of the cart, two lumpen shapes had been stacked like logs of firewood. They were wrapped in white sheets, but Ithelus' keen eyes could make out the blackened toes that peeked from beneath the shrouds.

Turning away, he followed the others over the bridge. With the babbling waters of the Taalsbruck at their back, Lothar laid a small pewter locket inside Shallya's shrine, one last offering for the goddess of mercy. Then, together, they turned away. The road was waiting.

---

1

Ricard ran between the gnarled trees, thorns whipping at his shins. His fine clothes were torn, his breeches still wet and clinging to his skin from where he had splashed through the muddy river. He'd searched and searched for his bolted horse, but the animal was nowhere to be seen. He'd looked for its tracks, but he'd never put much effort into mastering that skill. Even hunting outside Talabheim, he'd always run with his father's dogs. Now he wished he'd paid more attention.

The eastern sky had begun to pale some hours ago, and now the sun was riding high above the trees. He was exhausted, and he was lost, but he knew he had to keep running. He'd bring the army back to Hohlesbruck, that was what he told himself. He'd ride to Middenheim to bring the witch hunters and the priests of Sigmar, and they would bury that thing's ashes so deep that it could never claw its way back out.

Stumbling to the bottom of a shallow hollow, he looked left and right, trying to decide which way to go. The trees were so thick here that he could have been twenty feet from a good broad road, and had no idea.

"Boy!" came a cry. He looked up to his right, and saw a small figure standing on the ridge there. "Hey lad! Up here!"

It was a old man with a kindly face and a bushy white beard, leaning on a rusty shovel. If there was something peculiar about his voice, or his hands, Ricard took no notice. He scrambled up the slope towards the promise of a friendly face. Nearly at the top, he reached out for the hand the old man was offering him - and found himself thrusting his hand into a thicket of thorns.

There was no-one there. Just a knotted heap of brambles that only the most fatigue-addled eyes could have mistaken for a man. Yelping and cursing as he lost his balance, Ricard rolled down the other side of the slope, stones and roots ripping at his jacket. Stumbling to his feet, he looked around.

He was standing on the stony banks of a stream. In the trees all around, black crows were sitting like hunchbacked monks, looking down on him in a circle of greedy eyes. And in the centre of the circle, an armoured figure sat on a mossy boulder, slowly sharpening a long, long sword.

He tried to run, but his legs had turned to jelly. He stumbled and fell, and the figure rose and walked towards him.

"Please," he whimpered, "please - don't kill me."

The knight loomed over him, and stood for a moment in silence. Then, he offered Ricard his hand.

"I'm not going to."

Amazed, Ricard hesitantly took the hand that was offered. Pulling himself to his feet, he tried to brush the fresh mud from his clothes.

"But... but why did you..."

"I have learned the error of my ways," said the knight. He no longer seemed to be looking at Ricard. Instead, he was unbuckling his gauntlet. Ricard watched with a horrified fascination, like a rabbit mesmerised by a snake.

"I have caused you much suffering, when you were expecting only joy. I believe I owe you a wedding gift."

The gauntlet came away with an unpleasant sucking noise. What was left beneath was only half a hand - across the other half, the skin had darkened to the colour of a bruise, and the flesh beneath was black with putrefaction. Watery pus wept from the necrotised muscles, and under the sloughing meat where the base of the thumb met the palm, Ricard could see a tiny gleam of bone.

The knight pulled his sword across his palm, and the blade came away coated with a thin film of decay. Ricard turned to flee, but the rotting hand flashed out and clamped around his wrist. Pulled off-balance, he felt the knight's grip tighten, squeezing until his fingers were forced to open.

Slowly, carefully, the knight drew the edge of his sword across Ricard's hand. Waiting until he saw blood well from the shallow cut, he released his grip, letting Ricard stagger away.

"Middenheim," he said, raising the sword and pointing upstream, "is that way."

With the mocking laughter of the crows chasing at his heels, Ricard Talberg turned and ran.

DESPAIR ALL YE NATIONS, DENY NOT THAT WE'RE SICK,
FOR OUR BLOOD IS LIKE WATER WHERE ONCE IT WAS THICK.
AND OUR MINDS HAVE GROWN LEADEN, OUR BODIES GROWN WEAK,
AND VENOM POURS FROM OUR LIPS WHENEVER WE SPEAK.

DESPAIR ALL YE NATIONS, FOR THE TIME DRAWS APACE,
WHEN THE ROT OF THE CYNIC SHALL STEAL OUR GOOD GRACE.
AND OUR SWEETEST OF DREAMS SHALL FADE TO LOST HOPE,
OUR PRIDE AND OUR ARROGANCE, OUR NOOSE AND OUR ROPE.

DESPAIR ALL YE NATIONS, THERE'S NO HOPE FOR US NOW,
FOR WE MADE THIS MONSTER, PLACED A CROWN ON HIS BROW.
HE FED ON OUR APATHY, OUR PAIN MADE HIM SWELL
WE GAVE HIM DOMINION, HE GIVES US HIS HELL.

- Extracted from the works of the playwright and poet, Maximilian von Hohenstausen.
Executed on charges of heresy and subversion, I.C. 2515