Warhammer-Angelika Fleischer 04-Sacred Flesh by Robin D. Laws

Author:Robin D. Laws
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Warhammer
Publisher: The Black Library
Published: 2010-11-05T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Thirteen

Angelika lay in the gully, aching. She stirred before taking stock of her condition. A throbbing sensation radiated out from the bridge of her nose and eventually filled her head with pain and dull stupidity. Acrid mucus poured down the back of her throat. She swallowed; another cascade of wretched slime slithered down to replace it. She coughed, rattling loose a chunk of phlegm. She spat it out, realising only belatedly that she’d hocked it Franziskus’ way. He was crouched near her, inspecting her with that damned attentive look of his. That furrowed brow. The rosy bottom lip tucked just beneath those accursedly perfect front teeth. Franziskus moved his hand so that her airborne sputum would not hit it. He forced a shy smile, as if to deny that he’d been at her side for any length of time.

Angelika blinked wet and gummy eyes. ‘You look healthy enough,’ she said. ‘How are the others?’

Franziskus did not need to answer. The pilgrims lay all around Angelika, wheezing, groaning, eyes half-open. ‘Fate laughs at my folly,’ she muttered. She imagined the warm tavern she might well be sitting in if she hadn’t agreed to help these god-addled fools finish their suicidal mission. In her mind’s eye, she saw herself raising a cup of brandy to her lips. She savoured the brandy’s imaginary richness as she rolled it across her tongue. A hypothetical heap of logs burned in the tavern’s fireplace; Angelika let its warmth seep through her, dispelling her chill.

She watched as a group of four heavily armoured pilgrims – or perhaps they were merely mercenaries – made a wide circle around their camp. They were sizing them up with sidelong looks, barely bothering to disguise their predatory intentions. Angelika cursed loudly, invoking the most intimate elements of the mercy goddess’ anatomy. Her blasphemy sent a stir through the suffering pilgrims. She shot a hand out at Franziskus; with a gallant flourish, he grabbed onto it and hauled her stumbling to her feet.

The fever, or grippe, or whatever it was, had taxed her sense of balance. Beneath Angelika’s feet, the traitorous ground whirled and shifted. She stumbled. Franziskus caught her, steadying her with a discreet hand on the small of her back.

She battled her congested lungs, gathering the air for an authoritative pronouncement. ‘No matter how sick we are,’ she hoarsely gasped, ‘we have no choice… but to be on our way. Our robbers left us without slitting our throats… but we can’t assume we’ll be so lucky… the next time.’

‘Yes,’ grunted Ludwig Seeman, who’d propped himself up against a pine tree, his knobby-kneed legs splayed out on either side of him. ‘It’s time you lot of malingerers got up off your soft behinds and got moving.’ Seized by a fit of coughing, he pounded himself on the breastbone until his balky respiratory apparatus submitted itself to his will.

‘You don’t exactly seem to be moving,’ Recht said to him. Dark rings hung under the advocate’s eyes. It took obvious effort for him to launch himself up onto his elbows.

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