Brandt sighed, rolling Maria’s question through his mind, taking up his position at the end of their little column. As much as Waldo Seidl was at best an embarrassment to the nobility and at worst a liability, though he had managed to hold his own against the goblins and wounded a couple, if not resulted in their death. It had been hard to tell from what was left of the little green corpses, most of which had been tossed about and dismembered by Jurgen’s massive sword. Lord or not, Waldo was little more than a child and as much as he wouldn’t miss the boy if they survived the Drakwald, he couldn’t bring himself to leave him in the woods for wolves, greenskins or worse. Besides, their chances of survival were much improved with the might of the only professional soldier amongst them.

The apprentice-cum-warrior had carefully unstrapped his shield from his wounded arm and slung it behind him. He busied himself trying to rebind the crude handle of wood that had been fastened to the sharpened steel that was little more than a large knife; the weapon they’d salvaged from the dead goblins. After the third attempt, he gave up on any true measure of success, resigning himself to the fact that another weapon might fail him in combat if it came to that once more. Brandt tried to imagine a way he could repair the handle and frustratingly came up with a half dozen options that would be easy enough, but were completely impossible with the items they had.

At the front of their little troup, Jurgen stumbled, one leg dragging awkwardly behind him. He took a few more dogged steps, shaking his head as if to clear it. As he put weight on the leg again, it buckled, and his arms went wide as he toppled sideways into the brush. Waldo and Priska behind him both stared, slack-jawed, whereas Brandt leaned over to get a better look. Roderick and then Maria pressed past, the priest going to his knees beside the fallen Greatsword. As Roderick rolled the man onto his back to assess him, Maria spotted something.

“Roderick, hold him there,” she said as she reached down to the back of his legs, between plates. There she found a sharpened wooden dart with a small tuft of red fluff. There was another on the ground beside him. As the Sigmarite caught on he, scoured the man's body and found two more darts. Sniffing them he put voice to what they were all thinking. “Poison.”

“They must have targeted him because he looked the strongest,” Brandt said.

“He was the strongest!” snapped Priska, going to one knee at the warriors other side.

“How bad is it, Roderick?” asked the smith, looking guiltily away from the noblewoman.

The priest checked Jurgen’s throat, wrists and breath, then peered into the fallen man’s eyes. “I’m not sure. We can’t leave him here though, we’ll need to find a place to camp. Brandt, can you make us a sledge to drag him?”

“Aye, I should be able to sort something out.”