by Warhammer
The Swords were quiet for several minutes. They drank with the steady determination of those for whom reality has become something to be escaped. Hendrick finished his ale, the fifth or sixth he thought, and made his way to the bar for another round. If there was one thing he’d learned before being ejected from the Freeguild, it was that soldiers’ troubles can often be salved with a generous application of alcohol. In the short term, at least, and after a day like this that was as far as Hendrick was willing to think. Any further, and he would feel the black pit of despair threaten to open beneath his feet again, feel the onset of doubt and self-recrimination at the thought he might have led his comrades into a death trap the moment his brother wasn’t around to clean up his messes.
When Hendrick returned to the table, the conversation had turned to the city itself.
‘From what the barkeep said earlier, that earthquake hit the whole city,’ said Bartiman, gesticulating broadly. ‘Knocked two Rookswatch towers over and killed a couple of hundred people. Brought down an alarming number of slum dwellings and poorhouses and what-have-you.’
‘I heard that between the fungal pestilence and the fear-madness caused by that quake, they’ve lost most of the runti on Westslope now,’ said Romilla. ‘The grain, the beasts… even if the curse upon this city lifts, they’ll need urgent aid from Hammerhal if they’re to avoid starvation when the ashwinter hits.’
‘That’s if they’ve not all been swept away or drowned by then,’ said Olt. ‘Clouds so thick over the city today, you couldn’t see the mountainsides no more. Just the calderas blazing away up there like a big old pair of burning eyes.’
Eleanora made a small moaning sound at this, and Romilla laid a hand on her arm. She shot a glare at Olt, who shrugged.
‘It wasn’t an earthquake,’ said Eleanora in a small voice.
‘Say again?’ asked Hendrick, leaning forwards.
‘People keep saying earthquake, but it wasn’t an earthquake,’ said Eleanora. ‘It made everything float. It put the natural forces askew, like the engines of the heavens were turning wrong. It wasn’t an earthquake.’
‘Eleanora is correct,’ said Aelyn. ‘What we saw down in the sewers was no simple ground tremor.’
‘It’s all linked, it has to be,’ said Bartiman. ‘Listen, tomorrow I vote that I and whoever else wants to accompany me go up to the watch blockhouse and take a look at these reports of Captain Morthan’s. Perhaps a set of fresh eyes, and a few fresh intellects would–’
Bartiman was interrupted by the door of the Drake’s Crown banging open amidst a flurry of wind and rainwater. A watchman burst in and made straight for their table, throwing back her hood as she came closer.
‘Oh, what now?’ muttered Hendrick.
‘You are the Swords of Sigmar, yes?’ The watchman looked them over with a critical eye, dragging her fingers through her short dark hair to rid it of rainwater and then swiftly shaking the droplets from her hands.
‘We have that dubious honour,’ replied Bartiman.
‘Captain Morthan requests your presence at the south gate at once. She said to come prepared,’ said the watchman.
‘Why, what’s happened?’ asked Hendrick. He set aside his ale and reached for Reckoner, ignoring the surge of weariness that made the hammer feel twice its normal weight.
‘There’s a disturbance – just hurry up,’ said the watchman. Her message delivered, she raised her hood and vanished back into the rain-slick darkness.
‘Is this… it… do you think?’ asked Romilla, unhooking her hammer from her belt. Her comrades followed suit, gripping their weapons in ready hands.
‘One way to find out,’ said Hendrick, the alcohol fug clearing at the threat of danger. He found himself hoping that this was, indeed, ‘it’. Anything was better than this awful waiting.
When they reached the south gate, bundled up in rain cloaks and huddled under scald-shades, the Swords of Sigmar found a strange situation developing. Beneath the lights of the spark-lanterns, hundreds of people had gathered in the square behind the gate. They wore all manner of garb, and carried backpacks, walking staffs, satchels, water bottles, all the paraphernalia of a group about to embark upon a long march. They looked odd, though Hendrick couldn’t quite place why.
None were armed that he could see, yet they had been surrounded by a ring of angry looking watchmen with pistols and halberds levelled. The watchmen had their lanterns glaring into the faces of the corralled gathering, trapping them in a bright corona of light. Strangely, though, the trapped mob were doing little to shield their eyes, squinting into the light with a sort of grim determination. They made equally little show of concern about the bows pointed at them from the south gate ramparts, the militia-militant adding their own menace to proceedings.
‘Young and old,’ said Aelyn as the Swords approached the rear of the watch cordon. ‘Rich and poor, all manner of folk. And they’re not wearing anything to protect against the scald.’
Hendrick realised with a start that she was right. That was why they looked so strange; it was days since he had seen anyone outdoors not swathed in protection against the rain. Now he winced at the thought that these fools were standing out beneath the downpour utterly unprotected.
‘Sigmar’s hammer, they’ll be lucky to have skin or hair by morning!’ he exclaimed.
‘That is the least of their worries,’ said Captain Morthan, turning from the muttered conversation she had been having with Lieutenant Grange and several watchmen first class. ‘Thank you for coming so promptly.’
‘Who are they?’ asked Aelyn.
‘They call themselves the Shrine of the Last Days’ Warning,’ said Helena, exasperation clear in her voice. ‘A bunch of fanatical cretins who are convinced that Sigmar never meant for us to inhabit the Mortal Realms. They’re demanding that we let them out of the gates right away. Supposedly they’ve heard the last warning and it’s time for them to return to Azyr.’
‘So, let them out, and us while you’re at it,’ muttered Borik. Captain Morthan made no sign she’d heard him.
‘Why aren’t they wearing scald-cloaks, are they a flagellant order?’ asked Romilla, her eyes straying to the young, the elderly and the infirm amongst the flock. ‘Is there nothing we can do to get them under shelter while this is resolved?’
‘They won’t have it, some nonsense about the rain only harming the impure,’ said Captain Morthan. ‘I’m this close to just having my watchmen rush them, but if we can avoid bloodshed it would be preferable. Besides, things are a little more complicated.’
From amongst the rain-soaked, praying mass of people a figure suddenly emerged, hoisted up onto the shoulders of those around her to stare imperiously at the watchmen.
‘Captain Morthan, you have detained the Chosen long enough,’ cried the woman, and Hendrick winced at the fanaticism he heard in her voice.
‘Krysthenna, their Lantern Bearer,’ said Helena. ‘Not a woman to be negotiated with.’
‘We do not wish to damage the defences of this city, but we will not hesitate to do so, for all of you impure souls face damnation whether you have walls to cower behind or not,’ declared Krysthenna loudly. ‘The bell chimes. The gates open. The warning has been heard.’ This provoked wails and cries of rapturous fervour from many of her flock. ‘Now allow us to pass or, like Sigmar opening the way for his Chosen, we shall thrust aside the gates of this city and leave them smouldering in our wake. Do not test me in this, Captain Morthan, for my faith is the greater and my determination to protect my flock is absolute.’
‘By the gates, see them?’ said Captain Morthan.
Hendrick stared past the mass of people in the square to where several figures loitered in the shadows by the inner gate. He hadn’t noticed them until now.
‘Those three claim to have home-made explosive devices and they’ve threatened to knock the inner gates down with them if I
don’t permit them egress. We’ve been unable to risk getting any closer to them in case they follow through with their threat.’
‘Could they do that?’ asked Bartiman. ‘I mean, do they even have explosives? Have you seen them?’
‘The arch-lector has made it clear that he would prefer I didn’t take that chance,’ said Captain Morthan sourly. ‘If a threat to the city is impending, and note the if there, he doesn’t want any risks taken with the integrity of the city’s gates.’
‘Where is the arch-lector?’ asked Hendrick.
‘Warm and dry in the shrine-militant, sending messages by runner,’ said Captain Morthan. ‘His holy and militant lordship takes a rather different approach to command than I.’
‘Captain Morthan!’ bellowed Krysthenna. ‘This is the last time that I will beg your indulgence. I am the Lantern Bearer of Sigmar and you ignore my words at your peril!’
‘All right, all right, you self-important little witch,’ muttered Helena, pushing her way through the cordon of watchmen to stand on the edge of the ring of light. ‘This ends now. You are endangering your flock with this foolish display. They will be scalded at the very least.’
‘Heretic!’ yelled the massed Chosen. ‘Unbeliever! Damned!’
‘I will not argue with one who stands already with one foot in the fires of the Dark Gods’ realm,’ cried Krysthenna, gesturing grandly down at Captain Morthan. ‘It is not for the faithful to explain themselves to those who will not see the truth, whose ears are deaf to the warnings that Sigmar has given. If you wish to damn yourself in your ignorance, Morthan, then that is your mistake to make. But to impede They Who Have Heard the Warning? That is heresy of the worst sort, for you defy the will of the God-King himself! Let us through or I shall order holy fire unleashed upon these tainted and impermanent gates.’
‘For Sigmar’s sake, Krysthenna–’ Captain Morthan began.
She didn’t get any further. At that moment a mighty peal of thunder rolled through the clouds, and lightning exploded like a spider’s web above the city. A ferocious gale swept across the rooftops and funnelled down the city streets, snatching up roof slates and hurling them through the air. A spark-lantern on the western edge of the square shattered, gas fire exploding from within. The Chosen wailed and prayed frantically. The watchmen looked askance at one another, shifting their grips on their cold and rainslick weapons.
‘Sigmar has nought but fury for the words of heretics!’ howled Krysthenna, turning, Hendrick assumed, to give the order for her followers to detonate their bombs. Yet she stopped as a new voice, a deep and booming baritone, answered her.
‘That he does, Krysthenna, and this night his fury is reserved for you.’
Hendrick spun to see that while everyone had been staring fixedly at the exchange between the watch captain and the cult leader, a gilt-chased coach had rumbled down Herald’s Street and come to a stop on the edge of the square. His eyes widened as he realised that, alighting from the carriage beneath the cover of a metal scald-shade held up by a pair of liveried servants, was the regent militant of Draconium. It was Selvador who had spoken, and who now approached across the cobbles, flanked by his aelven guards.
‘The arch pretender!’ screeched Krysthenna, levelling a rain-dripping finger at Selvador as he came closer. ‘The liesmith, the deceiver, the gilded tongue whose poisoned words have led this city’s foolish faithful astray and would see them burn in the fires of damnation!’
‘All of these are names that I could ascribe to you, Krysthenna,’ replied Selvador in the commanding voice of a battlefield general. ‘But that is not why I have come. I have prayed long and hard for guidance from Sigmar, for a sign as to why these terrible omens and dark days have plagued our city. Now I know. It was not our paucity of faith, not some failing of the good people of Draconium. No, it was the poison that drips from your lips, serpent temptress, that has brought the wrath of Sigmar down upon our proud city. I grant you this boon for which you so stridently pray. I grant it though surely it will be your damnation, for you lead your foolish flock unprepared out into the wastelands and you shall not be given succour here again. Take your false faith and get hence from my city, and in going take with you the curse that has benighted all of our days!’
At the regent militant’s order, the south gates of Draconium rumbled open. Uttering strident prayers and rapturous exclamations, Krysthenna and her flock flowed through the arched tunnel, beneath the murder holes and the iron spikes of the raised portcullis, and out again into the rain-soaked night.
The regent militant took the steps up to the gatehouse ramparts, his retinue moving awkwardly with him up the cramped stair. Captain Morthan followed close on his heels and Hendrick, never one to wait for permission, led the Swords of Sigmar in her wake.
‘My lord, is this wise?’ asked Morthan as they reached the top of the wall. Iron braziers burned along its length, and in their flickering light Hendrick could see the Chosen spilling from the outer gate in a jubilant mob. There was still one barge left on the river, he saw, its captain particularly tenacious or desperate; the bewildered bargemen lined the rail of their craft and stared groggily at the jubilant flock whose cries had woken them.
‘My dear Helena, it is the wisdom of Sigmar himself,’ replied Selvador. ‘We are a city of faith. We have no Stormcast Eternals to shepherd us, for the God-King trusts us to keep our own faith. That we have allowed a cult such as this to flourish within our walls… we believed that we were being magnanimous, but I see it now for the weakness that it was. They are practitioners of a false faith, deceived by the lies of Chaos and spreading their insidious mistruths through every strata of our society. Helena, they brought all of this upon us.’
‘If that is so, my lord, should we not detain them?’ asked Captain Morthan. ‘Many of these people may simply have been duped.’
The regent militant shook his head sorrowfully and spread his gloved hands upon the stones of the battlements, watching intently as the Shrine of the Last Days’ Warning flowed out into the night. ‘No, my dear Helena, they are tainted one and all,’ he said. ‘Worse, their taint has brought a curse down upon Draconium. Why else would Sigmar have sent a raging storm to show his displeasure? These heretics must be expunged from our city in order that the God-King’s wrath may be appeased. That they have chosen to depart of their own free will spares us the risk of a costly civil conflict, does it not?’
‘My lord, this doesn’t feel right,’ said Morthan. Hendrick heard the frustration in her voice. ‘They go unarmed into the wilderness. You know as well as I the dangers out there, even in these supposedly reconquered lands. These are folk of our city, we have a duty to them.’
‘They are cursed, and they spread their curse to all they touch, and we shall harbour them no longer,’ said Selvador in a voice that brooked no argument. Hendrick heard in that moment the uncompromising strength of faith that the regent militant possessed. He could well imagine that voice bellowing righteous imprecations across a blood-soaked battlefield. The man was every bit as fanatical as those he was exiling into the night. Hendrick just hoped that he was right.
Seeming to recognise that the regent militant was immovable, Captain Morthan took a place next to him behind the battlements, as did her lieutenants. The driving rain beat a tattoo upon the leather awnings that shielded the ramparts. The wind howled, and thunder boomed like a gargant’s war drum. Militia-militant packed the firestep, staring down at the mass of people departing the city into the storm; it was easy enough for Hendrick and his comrades to squeeze in amongst them and watch for themselves.
‘Should we try to stop this?’ he asked Romilla.
She shook her head. ‘Hendrick, the regent militant may be right. The Moonshadow brings death, remember? What if this storm that occludes the moon is that shadow, and the eyes haunting people’s dreams belong to the God-King? What if our suspicions of Nurgle’s taint were wrong, and it
is their heresy that is the source of Sigmar’s displeasure?’
‘Do you really believe that?’ he asked as he watched the last of the Chosen flow from the gate to join the massed gathering beyond. The ramparts trembled slightly as the portcullis lowered back into place, and the inner gates closed with a boom. Lightning split the sky, a vast web flashing there and gone. ‘Do you really believe they brought the animal attacks, the insects, the omens and tremors, all this just for wrongly interpreting the will of Sigmar?’
‘I do not know anymore,’ said Romilla. The anguished doubt he saw in her eyes was enough to stay any further questions. Instead, Hendrick squinted against rain-mist and brazier smoke as he watched the faithful preparing to depart.
‘Light the sacred torches, that they may show us the way back to the heavens,’ commanded Krysthenna.
Her Chosen obeyed, pulling out the torches they had soaked in blessed unguent and igniting them. The rain made it difficult, but they persisted. Krysthenna felt pride as she watched, for what was this but a microcosm of all they had suffered and prevailed over? They were going home, at last. They had kept the faith that their parents hid in secret, and their parents before them, and in these last dark days they had spread their message far and wide through the doubtful populace of Draconium. Where her flock had numbered less than a hundred souls a turning earlier, it was more than five times that number now.
‘We have saved so many,’ she breathed, ignoring the fierce tingle of the rain saturating her skin, the burning in her scalp and eyes. This mortal frame might be as corrupt as everything else around her, but it needed to support her soul for only a few days more and then she, and all her followers, would be blessed by Sigmar. In passing through the Gates of Aqshy they would be cleansed of the sins of the tainted realms. They would be shriven, purged of sin and corruption and made fit to dwell once again in the Realm of Heavens beneath holy Sigendil’s light. The thought sent rapturous joy surging through her.