The wind was biting, the scarf coarse. He bulled on through the snow mounds, slipping and sliding down the hill, toward the faint lights of Gostahof. As he looked over his shoulder, Mannslieb hung high in the clear, dark sky, casting the castle in stark relief. None would know he was gone until the morning.
Trying to ignore the sickly, green light of the soon-to-be full witch-moon,, Adebar hastened his step. He needed to be away as soon as possible. If only the Elder had held his end of the bargain…
The river was black and inky, flowing with wintery lethargy.
“I see you made it, Herr.” The Elder inclined his head, rubbing his gnarled hands together against the incessant cold. At Staubner’s side stood two men. They were his way out.
One of them had a marked hooknose, and cold, dark eyes. Adebar couldn’t help the feeling that he had seen the man before, but he disregarded the thought as nervous fool’s-play. “The barge is ready, let’s get this over with. Wouldn’t want to worsen that ‘illness’ of yours, Herr.”
Adebar wasn’t in the mood for biting comebacks or witty last words. He needed to get out of Gostahof, out of Talabecland, his pride be damned!
“Come, Herr,” spoke the hooknose, “she’s waitin’ for you.”
Two moons, both portents of malign influence, so eerily close to fullness. They hung above the Great Forest like baleful eyes, watching his flight. The barge moved slowly, Hooknose was using a long pole to move them along the shallower parts of the Stir.
Gostahof got ever smaller behind them, swallowed by dark trees.
Was it right that he fled? The thought was most unwelcome. He’d thought about it long and hard, hadn’t he? Hadn’t he considered long enough?! He was gone now, and there was no turning about.
No amount of reasoning would make content the beast of doubt in his breast now.
What about the Count, it hissed, what about the witch? Lies, all of it. There was no witch. Only a jealous, minor noble. What of Sigmar? What about honour? All these accusations Adebar could smash aside with sheer apathy, yet one last blade sunk ever deeper into his mind. Diesdorf. What of his oath to Holzer? It would be a lie to say that Holzer would manage to find someone else to aid him, Adebar knew. The woodsman had sought him, specifically. He had trusted in him, noone else.
Diesdorf had needed his help. No, no it hadn’t. He had helped once, and brought only more suffering. It was better this way. He had no more debts to anyone. He was free!
The words turned to ash on his tongue. The hairs on his neck stood on edge, not from the cold, or stress. A wave of firm awareness asserted itself. He felt strange. His limbs tingled, his muscles tensed. The world crashed in on his senses. The forest air was cold, and laden with dirty, smoky tones. The wind was brushing through the leaves, but it was not the only sound from the shores. There were drums there, drums, horns, and bray-screams. Directly behind him he heard a sound that was far more subtle, yet far more ingrained in his mind. The drawing of metal from a scabbard.
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He remembered now where he’d seen Hooknose before.
The assassin had returned. He’d floundered in Gostahof, but loose ends wouldn’t be tolerable. Adebar had spited him, had clearly gotten at something, and he needed to die. The rapier was free before von Bolstedt had even turned around. That self-same maneuver nearly saw him tipping into the dark, churning river, as the boat tipped to one side with his movement, before snapping back in the other. Hooknose used the noble’s open pose, and short steel jumped forwards, towards Adebar’s guts. The blade plunged into his thick coat, caught in the furs. Adebar grabbed a hold of the driving hand with his left, bringing the guard of his rapier to bear on Hooknose's face. The man toppled backwards, the barge lurched, nearly forsaking both men into the icy depths.
The boat needed to be righted, or they were both dead! Adebar let go of Hooknose’s arm, almost against his instinct. The man looked into Adebar’s eyes as he fell backwards. There was anger there, and fear too. A flash of tragedy before the man disappeared into the tide, thrashing about for a heartbeat, before going under in the rough waters, lost to whatever woeful spirits called the place their home.
Adebar looked down, to the dagger that hung limply entangled in his coats. He’d put on two of them, thinking he’d need some clothes when he got to...wherever he’d end up.
It seemed Elder Staubner had never intended for him to leave alive.
The men’s quick struggle had attracted onlookers on the shoreline. Shaggy, twisted monstrosities, horned, and bearing crude axes and falchions. They stood there, on the shoreline, watching Adebar with animal cunning.
The forest behind them was illuminated by fires, dozens of them, some great pyres, others mere campfires. The shoreline, the forest behind it, both were alive with a churning mass of Beastmen. More were coming, carrying torches in the dark. The stream of lights rolled in from the east.
The barge was slowly coming to a stop, as noone was propelling it against the river’s natural course. Adebar didn’t dare look away from the infernal gathering.
His eyes wandered across the unwashed mass of heresy, wandered ever westward, downriver. There, in the distance, lay Gostahof, he knew. The horde’s course was clear.
Von Bolstedt knelt down, retrieving the long pole Hooknose had laid aside. The wood was cold in his hands, carrying with it the weight of fateful decision. He could simply go on as planned, leave Gostahof to its fate, yet...had they known?
“Ah, curses!”
He turned the barge about. Its course lay toward the west, with the river. With some luck, Adebar thought, he’d be quicker than the horde. He needed some answers.