Way of the Dead by Marc Gascoigne and Christian Dunn

Author:Marc Gascoigne and Christian Dunn
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Black Library
Published: 2012-01-15T00:00:00+00:00

MARK OF THE BEAST

by Jonathan Green

Torben Badenov scoured the smouldering remains of the peasant village for signs of life, but saw none. The settlement had been razed to the ground. The acrid odour of burning in the air almost masked another, more sinister reek. Torben knew instinctively what it was. His horse whinnied and snorted; she could smell it too, and it made even this hardy, steppe-bred warhorse uneasy. The musky odour was of something both animal and man, less than either but at the same time greater: the stink of beastman.

For ten days the border patrol, commanded by the highborn Captain Yasharov, had been hunting the beastman warband through the snow and ice of the coniferous forests, where the lands of the Taiga met the foothills of the World’s Edge Mountains.

Torben ran fingers through his tangle of raven coloured hair and looked to where his men waited, as Captain Yasharov and his entourage rode up the wind-scoured slope in front of the broken posts of the settlement stockade.

Torben had been in the army of the Tzar for five years, first as a foot soldier and now as a cavalryman commanding fifteen men. He looked to each of them in turn. There was Oran Scarfen, a rat-faced, whiskered rogue from Talabheim; there was Vladimir Grozny, a huge, heavy-set bald-headed Dolgan. Adjusting the padded jerkin of his leather armour was Alexi of Nuln, one of the Emperor’s men. Alexi was the oldest in the band. Next came the two Tolyev brothers, Arkady and Andrei. Absent-mindedly cleaning the blade of an ebony-handled knife was Manfred of Stirland.

Oleg Chenkov, named the ‘Preacher’ by the men, sat in an attitude of prayer. Under his chainmail shirt he wore a sackcloth habit. Like so many others, his family had been murdered by the predations of a marauding northmen tribe.

The experience had unhinged his mind, driving him into a sanctuary of religious fanaticism, and compelling him to find service in Tzar Bokha’s army that he might smite the enemies of mankind with righteous vengeance. His constant muttering of holy scripture unnerved some of the other men. He was mumbling now.

‘Be quiet, Preacher,’ said a blond-haired giant, seated high in the saddle of the roan next to Oleg. Arnwolf’s huge physique denoted his Norse ancestry. Beside the huge barbarian was Zabrov, a sallow-skinned steppes warrior. He rode saddleless and without reins, as if he had been born on a horse.

Mikhail Polenko was a member of an offshoot branch of the noble household of Praag and was quick to remind people of his proud and ancient lineage.

Then there was Yuri Gorsk who was practically a boy compared to the rest of them. The remaining four had been transferred from the remnants of a unit that suffered heavy casualties in an earlier skirmish. Kiryl, Evgenii, Cheslav and Stefan were their names.

The whole unit was uneasy. It had been only two days since they had last seen evidence of the beast horde’s rampage. Their quarry must be almost within reach: Torben could feel it.

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