 | |  | |  | |  | |  | |  | |  |
| Durant's Yellow Jackets |
|||||||||
| Episode Six: For a Few Barrels More |
|||||||||
| Part One of Two Franz Arbach wipes the remnants of his meal from around his mouth, sits back and exhales loudly. He reaches over to a thin-stemmed wineglass and drains the last few drops of the red liquid. He grumbles a bit, and has to lean forward towards the bottle, balancing precariously on the edge of his chair. Arbach’s podgy fingers close over the bottle, which bears the symbol of twin trees, and upends it. A few measly drops dribble into his glass, and Arbach grumbles a bit more. “Olaf,” he shouts. A few seconds later, one of the side doors of his office opens and a short, balding servant enters. “Yes sir?” says Olaf meekly. “I’m out of the Deux Arbres ‘87. Go and fetch me another bottle would you.” Arbach leans back in his chair, while his servant Olaf disappears into the bowels of Arbach’s Marienburg mansion. Arbach turns his attention to picking his teeth clean. When Olaf returns a few minutes later, Arbach is still engrossed in his personal hygiene. “Excuse me sir,” says Olaf, his voice wavering. “It seems that was last bottle of the Deux Arbres.” Arbach rolls his eyes. “Well, get the ‘89 then. And hurry would you,” Arbach says impatiently. “I’m afraid you’re out of all the Deux Arbres, sir. That was the last bottle you just finished.” Arbach’s grumbling returns, with a few choice slanders of Olaf’s parentage thrown in under his breath. “None at all?” demands Arbach. “None of my favourite Bretonnian wine?” “There’s only a few bottles of the Gelabert ‘86. Shall I get you some of that instead?” “Oh dear Olaf, don’t try to push that awful stuff on me. I can’t believe I actually paid for that rubbish. You’ d be better off throwing it away.” “Very good sir,” Olaf says. “Will there be anything else?” Arbach sits, twiddling his thumbs as he broods on the question. “Yes Olaf, there is. Send a messenger for Alm Durant. It looks as though I have another job for him.” “So we’re on escort duty?” asked Wilhelm sceptically. “That doesn’t sound like a glamorous mission. Or a well-paid one. Where are the caravans headed?” “Bretonnia,” says Jakob quietly. Wilhelm waits for Jakob to elaborate, which as usual, he is reluctant to do. “Bretonnia eh? Bunch of trumped up glory boys aren’t they? Always talking about vows and honour and that woman who lives in a pond.” “I think you mean the Lady of the Lake,” suggests Franck. “And you’d do well not to talk to a Bretonnian in that way. Quick to take offence they are.” Wilhelm ponders this advice for a few moments. He looks around at the countryside in the eastern Empire. Fields are beginning to give way to forests, and soon the Yellow Jackets will pass through the Grey Mountains and into Bretonnia. Ahead of him Wilhelm can see his father riding alongside Arbach’s Bretonnian contact, Arnaud Macon. On Durant’s right, Wilhelm sees the crested helm of another mercenary captain. “Do you know anything about these new people?” Wilhelm asks. “I know they’re normally responsible for Arbach’s wine delivery service,” replies Franck. Their captain, Jurgenvoch, he was with Arbach when he made the first deal. Some ten years ago now.” “How do you know that?” “I served with him a while back,” says Franck. “I know Jurgenvoch likes a drink, you see, and his tongue tends to get rather loose.” “Well if this Jurgenvoch fellow normally escorts the merchandise, I return to my initial question: why are we here?” This time Franck is slower to respond to Wilhelm’s question. Wilhelm waits, but Franck turns away. “Looks like we’ll have to wait and see,” says Wilhelm. At the head of the column, Captain Durant is listening to Arnaud Macon’s heavily accented Reikspiel. The Bretonnian’s finely combed moustache wanders up and down as he speaks, in a most distracting manner. Durant struggles to maintain his attention. “And so you see,” says Macon. “When the vineyard was under attack, le Duc himself came to its rescue. That’s just the kind of hero he is.” Don’t forget he had some help,” interrupts Hans Jurgenvoch. Arnaud’s eyebrows lower and he fixes the Reiklander with a disgusted stare. Jurgenvoch continues. “If we hadn’t come to the rescue, those orcs would’ve torn the village apart, vineyard and all.” Durant can see there is some barely repressed enmity between the two men, and realises it is a good thing that he is riding between them. “Monsieur Macon,” he says. “Have there been any more greenskin attacks recently? We had a run in with some orcs a month ago in Hochland, you see, so I think my men would be more than capable of dealing with a few rampant orcs.” “No, Monsieur la Capitaine, the orcs were destroyed by le Duc. The land of Girard du Montagne has been quite peaceful for the past two years. Has it not, Monsieur Jurgenvoch?” Jurgenvoch nods his affirmation, refusing to meet the disparaging stare of Macon. “I don’t see any reason to expect a problem,” Macon continues. “In fact, I’m not sure why Monsieur Arbach felt the need for you and your men to come. You’re not going to a backwater province in the Empire” - Durant notes the ironic emphasis on the word Empire, and catches Jurgenvoch gnashing his teeth in annoyance - “Bretonnia is a land of order and justice. You will see Monsieur la Capitaine, I promise.” Durant is far from convinced about Bretonnian ‘order and justice’, but keeps quiet. A light rain begins to fall, and Arbach’s pair of wagons, escorted by thirty heavily armed mercenaries press on into the mountains. When the Yellow Jackets come over the crest of the hill on the path which leads into Bretonnia, Durant has the distinct feeling there is something amiss. Captain Jurgenvoch mutters something under his breath, and Durant realises that the Reiklander also sense there is trouble in the air. According to Macon, and Arbach’s own instructions, the vineyard of Deux Arbres should be awaiting them. Yet all Durant can see are trees. “I thought there were only vines in this place,” says Durant. “No-one said anything about a forest.” For the first time during their long ride from Marienburg, Macon seems unsure of himself. “I don’t know Monsieur la Capitaine, perhaps le Duc has been doing some landscaping,” Macon says. Jurgenvoch scoffs, unable to contain his contempt. “And so in the space of six months, when we last made the journey, the Duke has grown a forest, which looks to be at least a hundred years old?” Jurgenvoch says. “How did he manage that? Did he use magic?” “Le Duc is not so very fond of magic, so I doubt it,” replies Macon defensively. Durant turns and summons Heinz and Jakob to the front of the company. The rest of the group halts. The rain has not abated since they left the Empire, and all of the mercenaries are soaked through. The wheels of the wagons are caked in mud. A cold wind from the north brings a chill to Durant’s bones; he had been counting on the hospitality of a warm Bretonnian inn. He nudges his horse forward to meet Heinz and Jakob. “Heinz, I want you and Jakob to ride down to the forest. From what I can gather,” - Durant rolls his eyes towards Macon and Jurgenvoch - “it shouldn’t be there. Don’t go too far inside, just see if there’s any sign of the vineyard of the village.” Heinz nods, and wheels his horse away down the slope. Jakob follows a few seconds later. Durant watches them approaching the edge of the forest and soon they disappear out of sight. Jakob pats his horse’s neck, the young mare seems spooked by the forest. Jakob thought it was dark outside, what with the rain and low clouds, but there is a different kind of darkness underneath the trees. He whispers to his horse in soothing tones, trying to allay the beast’s fears. He is uncertain who will allay his own. Jakob leans back, and moves his left hand onto the reins. He right hand closes around the hilt of his sword. A chill penetrates his body, and Jakob has the disturbing feeling it is unrelated to his rain-soaked clothing. “Jakob, make sure you stay close,” says Heinz. “And don’t stray from the path.” “Something’s not right here, eh Heinz?” “It’s just not natural.” “Do you mean the forest?” “I mean ever since we entered Bretonnia. I’ve had this weird feeling.” “I know what you mean. It’s almost as if-” A crash halts Jakob’s words, and both he and Heinz turn to their right. “What was that?” whispers Heinz. He stares into the thick, impenetrable gloom. He sees nothing but trees and undergrowth. Another crash comes, this time from somewhere in front of them. Jakob has his sword drawn almost immediately. Heinz reaches for the rifle slung across his back. It takes him less than thirty seconds to have it cocked and aimed. Only he has nothing to aim at but the trees. Heinz realises that the temperature has dropped further, his finger shakes on the cold trigger of the rifle. He looks frantically all around him, but there is nothing to be seen. “What do we do Heinz?” asks Jakob, his fingers wrapped tightly around the sword hilt. He has his back to Heinz, but can hear the panicked breathing of his companion. “I don’t see anything, do you?” “No. I don’t see a vineyard either.” “Right,” Heinz says. His mind is racing. “Let’s get back to the others. I don’t think we should push on blindly without some more support.” “You’ve no argument here,” says Jakob, clearly relieved. The two mercenaries turn their startled mounts and begin to retrace their steps along the path. Neither man wishes to take their hands from their weapons, but they need to keep a close rein on the animals, lest the animals should try to bolt. A high shriek splits the air, and causes Heinz’s horse to rear up. Heinz is thrown to the ground, and lands heavily on his back. His Hochland long rifle clatters to the forest floor, discharging a shot into the mud. Heinz is winded and struggles to look up. He manages to prop himself up just enough to see his horse disappear into the undergrowth. He hears muffled shouts, and guesses it’s Jakob. A stabbing pain in his leg forces him to lie back down. All he can see, however, is the canopy above him. Heinz summons the energy to sit up, and sees an arrow lodged in his left thigh. The wood is perfectly smooth, the flight crafted from eagle feathers. The rifle is just out of reach, lying a couple of feet past his outstretched arm. Heinz’s head is beginning to swim, consciousness is deserting him. Heinz lies back down, and fights against the darkness threatening to consume him. Jakob jumps to the ground, and thanks Sigmar that none of the arrows have hit him. He comes to Heinz’s sprawled body, and winces at the long arrow protruding from his comrade’s leg. Heinz continues to mumble deliriously, so Jakob has to put all of his effort into making Heinz stand. Jakob throws down his sword and manages to push and heave Heinz over the back of his horse. He is for once thankful for the smaller horse; any taller and he couldn’t have put Heinz on it. Jakob takes hold of one of the reins, and starts running. At first the mare is reluctant, but gradually gets the idea. Jakob runs through the undergrowth, the path becoming ever brighter as he nears the edge of the forest. Jakob doesn’t stop until he is well clear. A last couple of arrows thuds into the ground a split-second behind him. The rain lashes down, but Jakob doesn’t care. He is out of the forest. He sinks to his knees, the pounding in his chest forcing him to stop. After a few moments of catching his breath, Jakob looks up into the single eye of Karl Ulrich. “What happened in there Jakob?” Karl asks, then looks a the prone form slumped over the horse’s back. He sees the arrow sticking out of Heinz’s leg. Karl turns and shouts. “Heinz has been hit. We need some help over here.” Karl rouses Jakob from his stupor, and gets him to help lift Heinz onto the sodden grass. The forest looms menacingly behind them, an implacable and unreasonable foe. Durant and the rest of the Yellow Jackets converge on their fallen comrade. Heinz’s breathing is laboured, and he struggles to maintain consciousness. Karl hopes that Heinz’s senses have been dulled enough so that he won’t feel the pain when the arrow is pulled through. While Karl and Franck tend to Heinz, Durant takes Jakob by the shoulder. The young mercenary’s eyes are glazed over, he stares at Heinz’s injury. “Tell me what happened Jakob,” says Durant, shaking Jakob out of his trance-like state. Jakob looks up, and sees Jurgenvoch and Macon standing next to his captain. The young mercenary searches for the words. “We heard some noises. Some crashes, a scream,” says Jakob, his voice faltering. “We didn’t see anything. Just heard noises. The horses got spooked, then all hell started breaking loose. Arrows coming at us from everywhere. I don’t know what happened to Heinz’s horse, so I just tried to get out of there.” “The other horse didn’t come out,” says Jurgenvoch. “Just the two of you.” A horn sounds, causing heads to turn. Durant lets go of Jakob’s shoulders. It is nearly dark, so Durant struggles to make out a distant shape, then realises it is a group of shapes moving across the landscape. A dozen men on horseback, coming towards the escort company. Durant shouts commands and the Yellow Jackets assume a defensive posture, placing themselves between the wagons and the newcomers. Jurgenvoch’s men fall in beside the Yellow Jackets. Durant wipes the rain away from his eyes, and cocks his pistol. The horn is blown again, this time forming a melody. The succession of notes sounds unfamiliar to Durant, but seems to strike a chord with Macon and Jurgenvoch. “Le Duc!” says Macon. |
|||||||||
| Part Two |
|||||||||
| | | | | | | | | | | | |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |