Gloomspite - Andy Clark

by Warhammer

  Keeping to herself the thought that Taverton Grange’s entire service had been just over ten months, Helena instead said, ‘I’m glad you concur. But what in Sigmar’s name does it mean? Dark magic and malfeasance? Some kind of criminal sect or cult? Azyr forbid – a curse, or even an upwelling of Aqshyan energies?’

  The Realm of Fire was a place of elemental passions whose influence could make emotions run hot in sentient beings. They had all heard reports of border forts and villages consumed by sudden eruptions of inexplicable rage and violence. Helena hoped fervently that such a thing was not occurring here. But no, she thought, the pieces didn’t fit. Those possessed of elemental fury didn’t steal bottles. And then there were the dreams, which Helena was becoming convinced couldn’t be entirely natural. For a moment she almost raised them, but then she thought better of it.

  Helena had been jolted awake, night after night, by garish, half-remembered nightmares that left her in a cold sweat. The truth, had she voiced it aloud, was that she could still feel the feather-light brush of insect legs against her skin, and that she was exhausted from being chased out of sleep by sickly pale light and vast, staring eyes.

  She liked Grange, trusted him in a professional capacity, but he was still the son of one of Draconium’s most notorious social climbers. She wasn’t about to admit to her nightmares in front of a Grange, even if the bags under his eyes, and the short tempers and sallow faces of the men and women who served her, suggested to Helena that she wasn’t alone in her suffering. The Grange family hadn’t got to where they had without an aptitude for exploiting weakness.

  She had no desire to usher in the reign of Captain Grange just yet.

  Instead, Helena rose from her desk and snatched a rolled parchment from a nearby shelf. Gathering up the reports and piling them in a loose stack, she unrolled the map of Draconium across the top of her desk and pinned its corners down with lead weights. Helena took a wooden pot of brass pins and jabbed them, one by one, into the map.

  ‘Lieutenant, send a runner to the short archives and have them yield all the reports of major crimes please. I want to add them to this.’

  ‘Should we ransack the long archives, also?’ asked Grange.

  Helena considered.

  ‘No, I think we can both agree this a relatively recent phenomenon, yes? There’s nothing in the long archives less than a year old. But you could do worse than to request some breakfast for us.’

  Grange saluted and hastened to the door, opening it a crack and conversing with the runner that waited outside. Helena tuned them out, focusing her entire attention on the map as she drove pins in to mark each incident that had occurred the night before. Everything else faded around her as she frowned down at the map, tracing lines between the pins, totting up crimes-per-district, furiously seeking any kind of pattern to what seemed just an anarchic upswell of violence, theft and mutilation.

  Helena jumped when Grange cleared his throat beside her. She realised that he held a silver tray on which sat spiced breakfast pastries, rashers of salted runti-flank, two crystal glasses of jashbin juice, two drake-glaze cups and a pot of steaming metha. There was a heavy satchel hanging from one of Grange’s broad shoulders, scrolls protruding from its top in neat rows.

  ‘That’s a lot of reports,’ she said.

  ‘Captain,’ agreed Grange, setting the tray down on a corner of the desk and pouring her a mug of metha. Helena gratefully took the hot herbal infusion and sipped at it, accepting slightly scalded lips in exchange for the invigorating tingle it sent through her body.

  ‘Best get started then, hadn’t we?’ said Helena.

  An hour later, Helena stepped back from the map. She frowned down at it, ignoring the drift of reports scattered on the floor and the crumb-strewn tray that had been shoved aside until it teetered on the desk’s corner.

  She tilted her head, drew a deep breath and blew it out. The map was festooned with pins, a frankly alarming number of them.

  ‘Do you see any pattern here, Grange?’ she asked.

  ‘None whatsoever, captain. It’s… anarchic,’ he said heavily.

  ‘I was afraid you’d say that,’ she said, folding her arms and scowling at the map.

  ‘Should we petition the regent militant for additional resources?’ asked Grange. ‘We could certainly cite a time of exceptional travails, based on the evidence we have here.’

  Regent Militant Selvador Mathenio Aranesis. The man was a war hero, had been a young initiate amidst the ranks of the Sigmarite crusade that had claimed this region all those years ago. He’d slain a champion of the Dark Gods in single battle while standing protectively over the fallen form of the arch-priest he followed, and his rise thereafter had been meteoric. Helena had a healthy respect for the regent militant’s drive, his faith and his belief in the ongoing war of reconquest. However, he was an old man now and Helena had long suspected that, unable to stride out and claim his own glories, Selvador sought to live vicariously through those he ruled. He raised ever larger and more magnificent shrines to Sigmar in the richest districts of the city and surrounded them with statuary that imitated the glory of Azyrheim itself. He pushed recruitment drives every turning, Sigmarite warbands training under the watchful eyes of the city’s militia-militant and then setting out into the wilds to the north with hammers and flails in hand.

  Helena could well imagine how the regent militant would respond, were she to request a diversion of funds away from his grand undertakings. Was the faith of her watchmen not sufficient, he would ask? Was she perhaps incapable of discharging the duties she had sworn to perform? Had she tried increasing the prayer rotas for the men and women under her command, or issued them with fresh Sigmarite charms, or perhaps enforced the application of new faith tattoos?

  None of this she said to Grange, however. Instead, Helena walked over to her desk, recovering the coglock pistol from her drawer and the scabbarded blade that leant against the table’s side. She buckled both onto her belt. Taking her captain’s cloak off its hook and fastening it with the ruby brooch of her office, she smiled humourlessly at Grange.

  ‘We don’t ask for help with that we can do ourselves, lieutenant. Get a team of scribes in here, second class or above, and have them go over everything again. They’re to look for patterns, links, common cause, anything we may have missed.’

  ‘And what will we be doing in the meantime, captain?’ asked Grange looking, she thought, a touch too eager.

  ‘Our duty, Grange,’ she replied.

  Helena and Grange picked up an honour guard of two watchmen first class as they strode through the blockhouse and out into Hangman’s Square. Gallowhill was the highest district in Draconium, spreading as it did across a hilltop of quite some size, and the City Watch blockhouse stood at its highest point. The cobbled expanse of Hangman’s Square was featureless barring the stark row of gallows that lined its northern edge, and despite the slab-sided administration buildings that huddled around it, the square still afforded a magnificent view of Draconium.

  Slate roofs marched away down the hill’s slopes, and beyond them Helena could see the city she had dwelt in all her life – the city she loved, spread out in morning tableaux. To the north lay Hallowheart, the regent militant’s palace, glittering amidst a collection of martial structures, Sigmarite shrines and the homes of the local nobility, all hemmed in behind a high wall of marble and iron. Beyond it, the homes and businesses of Rookswatch marched away to the northern wall, the old Rookswatch towers looming precariously over the surrounding structures. To the south she saw Pipers, Docksflow, High Drake, Forges and the Slump. Fountains Square sat amongst them all, a broad expanse near half a mile across dominated by the magnificent statue-fountain of Sigmar Triumphant. The south wall closed off the pass some miles from her, both road and canal gates heavily fortified and pugnacious. She caught the distant glint of daylight on metal where militiamen patrolled the ramparts, an
d felt her heart stir at the sight of the banners of Draconium flapping in the warm winds that rolled down off the volcanic slopes. East sprawled Pole Hill, with its shrines ruled over by the acid-burned priests known as the Etched. Westward from her lay the common grazing-land of Westslope, fenced off by tall wooden stockades, the impressive spectacle of the Statuegarden, and the sprawling mass of Marketsway district.

  Dry lightning crackled through the pale sky above, reaching out to brush the mountainsides, and reminding Helena uncomfortably of the touch of insect legs in her nightmares. The recollection soured her moment of pleasure at the sight of her city. Squaring her shoulders, Helena set off down the hill, gaggles of administrators and scribes parting before her purposeful stride.

  ‘Let’s get to the bottom of some things, shall we?’ she said, as much to herself as the two watchmen who marched in her wake.

  Helena made first for Fountains Square. Since her earliest days as a watchman fourth class, she had been dealing with Old Posver, and now she had a mind to do so again.

  ‘Go on Grange, ask,’ she said as they walked.

  ‘Captain?’

  ‘Ask your question, I can practically hear you wondering.’

  ‘Very well, captain,’ said Grange, clearly uncomfortable at questioning his senior officer in front of two watchmen. ‘Why are we prioritising a doom-saying vagrant over taking a hand in the murder cases?’

  ‘Posver happens to be a very useful source of information,’ said Helena. ‘I’ve known the poor man ever since I was a watchman fourth class. Most people think he finds his omens at the bottom of a bottle of cheap drakesbreath, and that certainly isn’t untrue, but it’s also not the whole story.’

  ‘I suppose people are less guarded around a broken down old drunk,’ said Grange. ‘Ne’er-do-wells speak things they shouldn’t in his earshot, no doubt.’

  ‘They do, and actually that helped us crack that smuggling ring in Forges a few years ago, but there’s more. Foolish as it may sound, Grange, Old Posver knows things.’

  ‘Captain?’

  ‘It’s only been a handful of times, but when bad times have been on the way in the past, Posver has seen them coming. Oh, of course he rants about a new doom each turning and most of it is drunken nonsense. On the other hand, he saw the orruk invasion from the dust planes three weeks before the greenskins hit our walls. He was ranting about the Cult of the Twisted Hand before any official investigation discovered them, so loudly in fact that they gave themselves away in their attempt to silence him! Strangest of all, it was Posver that put me onto the trail of the Grey Ghoul. I’d never have tracked that child-snatching monster down without Posver’s rambling insights.’

  ‘The man hears things, sees things, is sharper than he looks,’ allowed Grange. ‘But to say he sees things?’

  ‘An hour ago, you were willing to consider the possibility of dark magic or some form of curse afflicting Draconium, but you baulk at the notion of an old drunk also being a legitimate seer?’ asked Helena. ‘Careful, Grange, your prejudices are showing.’

  Grange set his jaw at the sharp rebuke and followed her in silence, through a network of cobbled streets and down to Fountains Square.

  The square was huge, a place for grand markets to bustle and armies to muster. Already it was lively, city folk patronising the businesses around its edge or drifting across it in small groups. Several raised flowerbeds broke up the cobbles, artful arrangements of sparkblooms and ashenpines rising from them. At the square’s heart stood the huge marble-and-gold mass of Sigmar Triumphant, depicting the bearded God-King brandishing his hammer, Ghal Maraz, above the shattered carcass of a monstrous Chaos daemon. Water rushed from the horns of lightning-wreathed cherubs around the fountain’s base, cascading down through three stepped pools before flowing away along a deep channel cut through the stones of the square. That was the source of the Hammerhal Canal.

  Sat beside it, dangling his crooked old feet in the water, was Posver.

  He was a small man, wrinkled, scarred and rendered quite bald by rain-scalding. His eyes were puffy and red as if he’d been punched in both, and his toothless mouth was puckered. Posver wore a mishmash of ragged garb and was possessively cradling a bottle despite the early hour. A wooden sign lay next to him, kept within easy reach as a warrior might keep their weapon close to hand.

  Posver looked up and flinched as he saw watch uniforms moving towards him across the square. He clutched his bottle tight to his chest and squinted before recognising her and relaxing. She glanced pointedly at the watchman third class who had been lurking in a side street and keeping an eye on the old doomsayer. The woman saluted and left her post, released to recommence her slow patrol around the square.

  ‘Enwin Posver, how are you, my old friend?’ asked Helena as she crossed a narrow stone footbridge over the channel.

  ‘I’m all right, captain, and I hope today finds you in good health,’ said Posver, gumming at the words in an accent so thick it took Helena a moment to decipher them. Posver struggled to his feet and set his bottle down with exaggerated care. Expression solemn, he bowed deeply to her, and as he straightened painfully up again she saw his eyes dart to the other watchmen who accompanied her.

  ‘Grange, would you all mind terribly giving Mister Posver and myself a few moments to converse?’ asked Helena with a slight warding gesture. ‘We’re old friends, you see, and we’ve much to discuss.’

  Grange nodded stiffly and backed off, herding the two watchmen with him. Helena turned back to the old vagrant, smiling at him with genuine warmth.

  ‘How have you been?’ she asked.

  Posver worked his gums and rubbed his palms together, stepping from one bare and soggy foot to the other.

  ‘All right this morning considering what’s coming, captain,’ he said, blinking furiously at her then glancing down at his bottle. She gestured consent and he snatched it up, taking a grateful swig.

  ‘And what is coming, Mister Posver?’ asked Helena.

  Posver shook his head, blinked some more, shuffled his feet.

  ‘Come now, Enwin, we’ve had reports that you’ve been getting yourself a bit excitable the last day or so. Have you seen something?’

  Posver’s face crumpled, and Helena felt her disquiet deepen at the sight of the honest misery she saw there. The shadow was there and gone in a moment, the old man rubbing his hands over his scalp and blinking again. She decided to try a different approach.

  ‘Enwin, what is on your sign? May I see?’

  He looked at her, looked down at the sign, and one hand worked in a curious clawing motion as the other raised the bottle to his lips again. He seemed to come to a decision, setting the bottle down carefully and gripping the sign’s handle with both hands. She wondered idly where he found the wood for the placards he’d been waving these past years.

  ‘Watchmen didn’t like it,’ he said, not looking at her. ‘Said they’d smash it if I waved it about again.’

  Helena felt a flash of irritation and made a mental note to get the names of whoever had been so heavy handed with the old man. A turning’s night-duties in the Slump would adjust their priorities as to what crimes required the threat of violence, and which should be handled with a little more finesse.

  ‘I won’t let anyone smash it, Enwin,’ she said. ‘But I would like to see. Please?’

  Sucking in a short, sharp breath and blowing it wetly out through his gums, Posver rose and turned. Helena recoiled as she was confronted with a nightmare. The sign’s flat wooden boards had been daubed with a crude greenish-white paint and marked with splatters that she realised queasily were crushed spiders and other bugs. Yet it was the eyes that held her – huge, cruel, weirdly amused, staring out to transfix her just as they had in her dreams.

  ‘Oh,’ she gasped, taking a step back. Posver cringed at her reaction, dropping the sign with a clatter. Helena heard a scuffle of
movement, turned to see Grange and the watchmen hastening her way, their expressions angry. She held up a hand to stop them, realising to her surprise that it had been curled around the hilt of her sword.

  She turned back to see Old Posver cowering over his bottle, one hand rubbing at his scalp and tears leaking down the contoured map of his wrinkled face.

  ‘M’sorry,’ he said. ‘M’sorry, it’s coming, it’s what I’ve seen.’

  ‘It… it’s all right, Enwin,’ she said, recovering her composure. ‘It’s all right, you’re in no trouble. But I wouldn’t show anyone else that sign. It is rather alarming.’

  ‘It’s coming, it’s what I’ve seen,’ he repeated, though whether in agreement or rejection of her request she couldn’t tell. Helena looked out afresh at the square, at the people milling across it or tramping along on errands or business. How many faces looked tired, she thought, how many pale and drawn? No wonder Posver had been causing a stir. Just what was this?

  ‘Enwin,’ she said gently, placing a hand on his shoulder and feeling sorrow at the thin, birdlike bone structure she felt there. ‘What’s coming? What did you see? If you tell me, maybe I can help.’

  ‘Can’t nobody help,’ said Posver, shrugging off her hand. ‘That’s why I’m having my drink. Know it’s early, but it’s late too, captain. Terribly late. The Bad Moon’s going to rise.’

  ‘Bad Moon?’ asked Helena, feeling an inexplicable chill run down her spine. Posver just stared at her, blinking his tired eyes, then sat back down without another word and raised his bottle to his lips.

  Half an hour later, Helena, Grange and their escorts had joined a gaggle of watchmen, scribes and apothecaries stood in an alleyway in Forges. They were gathered in the shadows of a hunched factory on one side, its stacks belching black smoke into the lightning-hazed sky, and a row of communal houses on the other. A light drizzle had begun, and a couple of the watchmen fourth class held up a scaldshade, a heavy leather parasol, to shield everyone from the acidic precipitation.