by Rob Sanders
‘The highlands,’ Horrwitz repeated absently. ‘The standing stones…’ Where Eshenback and Strauss had lost their lives and what was left of their humanity in the desperation of slaughter. Their own and that of the warrior wretches about them.
‘As you know,’ Eisenkramer went on, taking slow steps back towards Rhaanoc, ‘we did not find the abominate Archaon there either.’
‘We found death,’ Horrwitz said. It sounded like an accusation. Again, Eisenkramer consulted his record of forced attrition.
‘Arashaq Var,’ the Witch Hunter General said. ‘Another degenerate warlord with false hope in his Kurgan heart. Like Archaon, a servant of the eight-point star and a champion of evil in all its dread forms.’
‘But not Archaon,’ Master Horrwitz shot back. The two men locked gazes.
‘No,’ Eisenkramer admitted. ‘To my lasting regret. The traitor must have bypassed the highlands.’
‘You sent my men to their slaughter.’
‘I sent them to slaughter,’ the Witch Hunter General shot back. ‘It is their hallowed duty to bring the God-King’s vengeance to the half-breeds, altereds and marauding savages of this benighted realm.’
‘Yet you allow entire hosts to pass us unmolested,’ the templar accused, ‘on their way south to bring flame and the blade to Sigmar’s lands. You trust the word of prisoners without names and pieces of filth like this thing here.’
Horrwitz burned into Rhaanoc with his gaze. Through the discomfort of his agonies and the unbearable weight of the chains, Rhaanoc attempted to hold the gaze, but Horrwitz turned it back on Eisenkramer.
‘Only Archaon matters…’ the Witch Hunter General said.
‘To you!’ Horrwitz barked. ‘To you he is all that matters. How can you spend time here, in your torturer’s tent, trusting the fanciful tales of the damned over the recommendations of your own men?’
‘Do you know where I may find the abominate Archaon?’ Eisenkramer roared at the templar knight. ‘Do you know where the doom of all the world resides, so that I may inflict upon him the wrath of a God-King betrayed, or the necessity of an empire spared its end?’
‘No,’ Horrwitz admitted.
‘This wretch, this coward – who dare face us not – has run for the north. He hides in the land of shadow, where no scout can track his step nor hound follow his rancid scent. All the witch hunter has are the secrets unlocked and intelligence confessed on the frame, on the rack, on the precipice of pain unbearable and agonies traded for truth.’
‘The souls of Sigmar’s servants cannot be wagered on the word of the damned,’ Horrwitz insisted. ‘Men will say anything on the rack. Anything to end their sufferings.’
‘And they do,’ Eisenkramer told him. ‘But do you think our questions stop there? Do you think the liar plain, the heretic that lies to himself or the living lies that are the warriors of ruin, are granted their wish? No. The false are granted false respite. For their afflictions must endure as long as they do. Until we find our way together… to the truth.’
Horrwitz watched the dull glow of the brazier glint off the witch hunter’s eyes like madness. ‘It is a journey shared. Take the turncoat here,’ Eisenkramer said, moving towards the chained Rhaanoc standing nearby. ‘Apart from the spoiled meat about his heart – where his fell bargain with the Ruinous pantheon resides – he is all muscle. Flesh scarred, inked and tempered by time and brutal necessity. If you are a wanton savage, wandering through the Wastes – fighting for your life and taking the lives of others – you need to be. Without the spiritual safeguards of civilised men and the patronage of gods to be feared rather than appeased, they are but animals, seeking the protection of packs of similar beasts. Like a wild stallion, such creatures must be broken. And when they are, they will take you further. Eh, Rhaanoc?’
‘He knows where Archaon is?’
‘So he claims…’
‘How can you trust the word of the corrupted?’ Horrwitz challenged.
Eisenkramer walked over to the altar. Using a silver ladle he poured holy water into a bowl.
‘Rhaanoc and I have been through so much together,’ Eisenkramer told the templar, but with his eyes firmly on the brawny warrior. ‘Isn’t that right, Rhaanoc?’
Rhaanoc gave the Witch Hunter General a stabbing glare. Eisenkramer ladled in another slurp of priest-blessed water.
‘Yes… my lord,’ Rhaanoc managed.
‘Are you thirsty, Rhaanoc?’ Eisenkramer asked. ‘Can I get you some more water? To drink? To bathe your wounds? To clean the blood of battle and the grime of the Wastes from your body?’
‘You would waste our meagre supplies of water on this sack of corruption?’ a furious Horrwitz spat.
‘And do you, Master Horrwitz,’ Eisenkramer snarled, holding the bowl between them, ‘have any idea what such holy water does to the flesh of the corrupted?’
Horrwitz did not. But he could imagine. Eisenkramer leant in.
‘He does,’ the Witch Hunter General seethed. Then he turned back to his prisoner. ‘Rhaanoc?’
‘No, my lord,’ the warrior said, nibbling at his parched lips. A shudder jangled the chains of blessed steel about his bruised and beaten form. The metal of the thick links was already starting to tarnish and brown.
‘See, Master Horrwitz,’ Eisenkramer said, ‘Even small mercies have their place in the arsenal of the interrogator. We can behave like civilised men, even out here in the Northern Wastes.’
Horrwitz watched Rhaanoc’s face. He saw the recent memory of unspeakable pain there, the ghost of a warrior’s defiance fading before them. He was a fortification overrun. A ship that had been swamped. Rhaanoc the turncoat – who had turned so many times before – had turned again.
‘God’s bones,’ Horrwitz murmured.
‘You see?’ Eisenkramer said, putting the bowl of blessed water aside and re-lighting his pipe. ‘The stallion… broken. We have burned away the lies. Now witness the God-King’s power, acting within this unfortunate and forcing the truth from where it was hiding. He has pledged allegiance to just about everyone else in this benighted place and now he pledges it to us.’
Eisenkramer moved about the chained warrior, puffing on his pipe, filling the tent with a silky fug of foul-smelling smoke. He came in close. ‘Now, sell-soul, if you don’t mind, let us continue our conference. For Master Horrwitz here – to prove your worth to our venture.’
‘Yes, my lord,’ Rhaanoc told him in a hoarse, strangled whisper. ‘Diomedyss the Faceless…’ Eisenkramer was back at his book. ‘The Faceless One,’ Rhaanoc croaked, his broad chest rising and falling with the effort beneath the sapping weight of the chains.
‘Yes?’
‘Thought himself Everchosen of the Dark Gods,’ Rhaanoc wheezed. ‘His fell master had deceived him as such.’
‘Go on.’
‘Arashaq Var traced his bloodline to the warlord Asavar Kul,’ the Chaos warrior told the Witch Hunter General. ‘He thought to unite the tribes of the Anointed.’
‘Hordes Magnus the Pious has long since sent packing back into the Shadowlands,’ Eisenkramer said with sickly satisfaction. ‘But what of Archaon? Speak of him, turncoat.’
‘Archaon is a rising star in the Wastes,’ Rhaanoc admitted.
‘Yet you left his warband,’ Horrwitz added. Eisenkramer stung the templar with a severe gaze. He did not appreciate the knight’s interference.
‘The bleak skies of the north are afflicted with many such stars,’ the Chaos warrior coughed. ‘Archaon has many enemies more fearful than Sigmarite servants far from home. Champions, sorcerers and warlords who would wrestle his destiny from him.’
‘So, Diomedyss? Arashaq Var?’ Eisenkramer asked, tapping his pipe imperiously on the side of the warrior’s shattered helm.
‘He set one against the other,’ the prisoner said. ‘Taking the Faceless One himself and sending the
Kurgan into harm’s way.’
‘Into our way,’ Horrwitz snapped, the loss of Sieur Eschenback and Sieur Strauss still burning in his chest. Eisenkramer gave the templar a wolfish smile.
‘Cold, eh?’ the Witch Hunter General said. ‘This is why we need intelligence. The Fell Powers twist not only the abominate Archaon’s body into a living weapon. They do so with his mind. They cultivate within their servant a savage cunning.’
‘He…’ Horrwitz said, hesitating. ‘He was always a gifted tactician. Not to be underestimated.’
‘And we aren’t,’ Eisenkramer said, before re-directing his questions to the wretch. ‘He is close, then?’ Rhaanoc nodded slowly. ‘Beyond ourselves, who hunts Archaon through the Wastes?’
‘There are many.’
‘Names.’
‘Warriors, sorcerers, daemons–’
‘Your mouth seems full of things I don’t wish to hear, minion,’ the witch hunter said. ‘Perhaps a drink to clear your throat?’
‘You hear that?’ Rhaanoc asked.
Horrwitz listened to the bellows of half-breeds that seemed perpetually on the breeze.
‘Beastmen?’ the templar asked.
‘The Beastlord Khazgar of the Brazen Tusk,’ the marauder told them.
‘That’s better,’ Eisenkramer soothed. ‘He hunts Archaon?’
‘He and his numberless hordes,’ Rhaanoc said, ‘for the bloody glory of his fell god.’
‘The abominate runs before this threat?’ Eisenkramer asked.
‘He cannot face Khazgar’s number without great loss to his own,’ Rhaanoc said, lowering his smashed helm and the gaze of his eye through the mangled rent. ‘Or else cannot afford to face them at all.’
The Witch Hunter General moved in close.
‘Tell me, turncoat,’ Eisenkramer seethed. ‘You have fought under Archaon’s banner?’
‘Yes.’
‘You know him.’
‘Yes.’
‘Hunted by the bestial host,’ Eisenkramer said, ‘without the numbers to engage the Blood God’s mongrel… where would he run?’
Rhaanoc said nothing at first. Then, ‘Archaon’s not much for running.’
‘Then what would he do?’ Eisenkramer put to him.
‘He would hole up somewhere,’ Horrwitz said, half to himself. Eisenkramer turned to him before returning the intensity of his gaze to the turncoat. Slowly, the Chaos warrior nodded.
‘Where?’
When Rhaanoc said nothing, Eisenkramer brought his lips to one of the marauder’s battered ears. ‘Like a waterskin, I’ll fill you to the brim with the God-King’s love. Do you hear me, minion? Don’t burn for a master you no longer serve.’ Eisenkramer brought them face to face again. ‘Where?’
Horrwitz had no wish to see further suffering. He willed the prisoner to speak.
‘Rathskorn.’
The word fell from the warrior’s lips like defeat. Acceptance. ‘Rathskorn Keep.’
A vicious smile spread across the Witch Hunter General’s face.
‘You know this keep?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you will take us there, as Master Horrwitz’s prisoner?’
Rhaanoc nodded slowly. Eisenkramer looked at the templar. A nasty chuckle escaped the witch hunter.
‘I know you will,’ he told the chained Rhaanoc.
The Sigmarites left the highlands behind and descended into the mist-smothered valleys below. Helmut Horrwitz listened to the rhythmic clunk of his armour as he trudged through the ice and grit. Without his horse he was back to walking in full plate. The cold went through him with its frozen claws and the wind howled through his visor. Rocky rises enclosed the miserable track. Everything felt like a trap. Above was the dark claustrophobia of cloud cover. Meanwhile, every rattling step took the templar deeper within the sea of misty murk into which the Sigmarite cavalcade was descending.
Things moved in the obscurity, prompting Horrwitz to trudge with the length of his gleaming blade out before him. Nothing moved the cloying miasma, however – not the shadows slipping through it, nor the wind or the movement of Imperials through its gloom. Not the remaining horses dragging the deadweight of the altar wagon, packed tents and supplies. Not the warrior priests in mail and robe or the Knights of the Twin-Tailed Orb in their noisy plate and bascinet helms. Not even the witch hunters, wrapped up in their cloaks, their eyes just visible beneath the wide brims of their conical hats.
Horrwitz turned to see that Eisenkramer wasn’t too far behind him. Flanked by one of his grim witch hunters and Father Sternthal, the length of the general’s pipe protruded from between his hat and the scarf about his neck. Buckled boots crunched through the rime while the leather of one gloved hand rested on a belted pistol. He saw Eisenkramer give him a slow nod.
Turning back, Horrwitz saw the marauder Rhaanoc stumble through the mist. He was still buried in his winding load of heavy chain, the weight of which tumbled him from one side to the other of the path. It was truly a feat of endurance and a wonder that the prisoner hadn’t collapsed.
As the templar contemplated the burden of dragging such heavy chains across the Wastes, he felt a pleasant sensation across his own shoulders. A warmth, like sinking into a tavern bathtub, flowed through him. He felt fingers, delicate but strong, knead his aching shoulders and neck. Lighter fingertips traced patterns down his back and across the flat of his stomach. Horrwitz groaned. He was there, in the mist, in the privacy of his helm, in the silky down of his mind – a place he kept safe from the hunger, the biting cold, the torments of battle and the mind-numbing soreness of expanses traversed.
He had only known such a touch once. His cousin Trudi. A forbidden afternoon in the Reikwald, long ago, before the call of squiredom, the chapter house and the God-King.
‘Helmut…’
Trudi…
It was as though she were there with him, inside his plate. His true love returned. She kissed him and he responded. His affections were hers and her lips were his.
‘Trudi…’
‘Knight!’
‘My love…’
‘Master Horrwitz!’
The ruinous warrior Rhaanoc was suddenly and inexplicably between then. His shattered helm. His blood-encrusted face. His ragged beard. His teeth were bared and his voice loud. ‘Master Horrwitz!’ He was shaking his head and his chains. Horrwitz felt Trudi’s light touch on his grizzled chin. She turned it away from the wretch Rhaanoc and back to her own heavenly features. Once again she leant in and kissed him. They were there, in the Reikwald, under the dappled light coming through the trees, with birdsong in their ears.
The templar felt a tug from around his neck. He pulled away. There was the warrior Rhaanoc again. He had forced his fingers between his chains and had pulled the key to his restraints from Horrwitz. Like a contortionist he was attempting to get the key to its chunky lock. The ghost of a warning echoed through the templar’s mind. A fire of outrage rose within him.
‘Kiss me, my love…’
They were swiftly doused by the intoxicating touch of Trudi’s lips on his own. A scream suddenly escaped her. She roared her anguish, almost into his mouth. Horrwitz’s eyes fluttered open. The cold was suddenly back. The mist parted and Rhaanoc was there. The heavy chains were coiled at his feet. He was bleeding through his shattered plate. Horrwitz’s templar blade was in his hand, stained red with Trudi’s blood. With horror, he realised that he had been disarmed, that his prisoner were free and that he held in his arms the murdered Trudi.
‘Knight!’ Rhaanoc roared again. ‘Look down.’
Horrwitz allowed his dreamy gaze to travel to his armoured boots. They were splashed with blood and grit. The floor was littered with shattered bone and skulls. He was half standing in a ribcage.
Horrwitz looked up at the marauder and then back at the cavalcade. Priest
s, knights and witch hunters were all but lost in the mist, but the templar could hear groaning. Raven-haired beauties of sickly white flesh writhed about them, seemingly inside their robes, cloaks and plate, mesmerising the Sigmarites. The things were a living temptation, all sick beauty and obscene claws. Horrwitz returned to his senses. Trudi suddenly felt cold, clammy and alien on his skin.
‘Daemonbreeds!’ Horrwitz roared, alerting the cavalcade to the doom of their desires. Trudi’s pleasant features drew back like a snarling dog to reveal the daemonette wrapped about him. The knight threw the murderous thing off. It screeched the horror of its unnatural life away before squirming into the blood-soaked soil at Horrwitz’s feet. His warning had unleashed simultaneous realisation and disgust in the entranced priests and witch hunters.
There were screams. The screams of templars and priests being feasted upon by their dark fantasies. The screams of expectation and ecstasy all about. Ahead, Horrwitz could see svelte shadows in the mist. Things of unimaginable horror and attraction. Creatures of pale beauty, moving lightly on unguligrade legs and bi-clawed feet. Their sensual forms moved with grace and speed, their lustrous lengths of hair trailing behind them through the mist and wicked pincer-appendages carried like lethal weapons at their slender sides. They were spellbinding and it took everything Horrwitz had left to drag his eyes from the depraved doom of the oncoming daemonettes.
Stumbling at Sieur Stenzel, he helped drag away the monstrous thing that had turned from kissing to tearing out the templar’s throat. He drew Stenzel’s sword as the knight fought to stem the bleeding, and went to work slaying the infernal creatures that had the Sigmarites in their claws.