the cold hand of betrayal

by ich du

  Panic galvanised Lukas into action again and he mashed his fist into his assailant's face, smashing his nose with the force of the blow. Milky-eye fell away with a shriek. Crossbow-man had his club out and ready and swung hard at Lukas. The young squire ducked back as he had been trained to do, before stepping in as the weight of the club forced his opponent to over swing. Crossbow-man bellowed in pain as Lukas stabbed the dagger into his guts. Blood flooded out from the wound making the handle slick, and Lukas lost his hold on it as the bulky fighter collapsed, screaming, to the floor.

  Panicking, without a weapon in his hand, Lukas spun around to see Bella fighting furiously with the other woman. Both displayed excellent skills with their weapons. Bella was faster, ducking and weaving with her rapier, while the other was stronger and took great swings, any of which could have beheaded her opponent.

  A blow to the side of his face sent Lukas reeling, bringing him back to the fight in an explosion of stars. He fell to one knee, his ears ringing from the blow. Milky-eye had picked up a wrench from one of the work stations and was wielding it like a cudgel. Lukas blocked the next blow with his forearm, a flash of pain exploding as the metal object struck him hard. Before his attacker could strike again though, Lukas powered forward into him. The man was far smaller, so Lukas simply tackled him by the waist to the floor and landed heavily on top of him. Both men scrabbled, fists punching and legs kicking as Lukas pulled himself up, sitting astride his foe and pinning his arms down with his knees. Milky-eye howled as Lukas threw his first punch and broke the man's jaw. His second cracked his cheekbone and on the third, Milky-eye lost consciousness. Lukas punched him half a dozen more times for good measure before staggering back to his feet. His body ached from his minor injuries.

  Kerr still lay cradling his arm, while behind him his machine was juddering ominously, thick greenish smoke spewing from the pipes that Lukas had severed. Checking Kerr wasn't going anywhere, Lukas turned back to his enemies. Bella stood over the other woman, who was clearly dead, and wiped blood from her rapier with a length of cloth. Crossbow-man had foolishly pulled the knife from his own belly and now vainly tried to stop himself bleeding to death, thick red fluid bubbling from between his fingers. Milky-eye looked dead. Either way though, he was in no state to fight back. Both the ratmen had expired too. The leader had finished twitching some time ago, and lay still.

  Turning to Bella, Lukas made a small bow, a friendly guesture, and spoke.

  'Lukas Atzwig, at your service,' he said, wiping his sweaty forehead with his sleeve.

  'Rosabella Wolfe, at yours,' she replied, taking off his sword from around her waist before passing it back to him. The machine near Kerr was vibrating furiously, the copper pipes chiming as they clanged against one another. All the dials were at red. 'We need to get him out of here,' she added, moving towards Kerr.

  Lukas looked down, putting his sword belt back on. He was almost done buckling it when the shot rang out. Lukas looked up, to see Bella stumble away from Kerr, clutching her arm.

  'Get away from me!' the engineer shrieked, his face red. 'I'm trying to save the city!' He brandished the pistol at Lukas menacingly, but he could see at a glance it had only one barrel. In two steps he was beside the engineer. Lukas kicked him hard, first in the hand, sending the weapon skittering away, then again in the groin, the chest and the face. Kerr whimpered and lay still, bruised and defeated.

  'Are you injured?' Lukas asked, turning to Rosabella, who cradled her arm gingerly.

  'I'm fine,' she lied, eyeing the machine behind them. 'But we need to get out of here. Fast.'

  'Agreed,' said Atzwig, turning back to the engineer. 'If you can go on ahead and meet up with Henckler, I'll bring him.' Even as he spoke he was pulling off the man's leather glove to reveal the bloody stumps of his fingers. Kerr moaned in pain, but didn't resist.

  'All right,' she agreed, after a moment's thought before heading for the door. 'Can you remember the way?' she asked, looking back. Lukas nodded once, and she was gone.

  Lukas removed his gloves and got back to work. It took him a minute or two to improvise a bandage and wrap Kerr's bleeding hand in it, and in that time the engineer came around again. He ranted about his precious machine, about his work that had been ruined. He shrieked about the worthlessness of the hammer-god that watched over the Empire, and how only science could save it from Chaos. Lukas cuffed him sharply around the head for his blasphemy, and he fell quiet again.

  Next, Lukas scoured the room for the box he had dropped, gathering up the oddly glowing green rocks and carefully placing them back into the wooden case. The machine was spewing thick green vapours now, and Lukas choked as he worked. Once done, he wedged the box into his belt and looked for a rope. In the end he had to settle for the one that bound the second victim to the stake. A bolt protruded from his eye socket and Lukas avoided looking at it as he worked. He fashioned a noose and lassoed Kerr. By now the engineer was pleading with him, urging Lukas to allow him to save his precious machine. Lukas cuffed him again, so Kerr changed tack, insisting that they flee instead. The machine, he warned, would explode unless they did.

  Scalding liquid that burned like fire began to spray from the machine as rivets and bolts shook loose. Both Lukas and Kerr were sprayed by a fine green mist that itched and stung as they fled the room. They had barely slammed the door behind them before they were flung from their feet as the giant machine exploded, the booming echo deafening them both for a time.

  The End of the End.

  HENCKLER SMILED AS Lukas finished explaining his tale, and patted him gingerly on the shoulder with a gloved hand. Lukas couldn't help but feel sullied by his part in the mission, despite its obvious success. At a wave from Henckler, Brandaur approached, his eyes tired.

  'Wait here,' Hencker cautioned Lukas, before turning away to speak to the templar master. In whispered tones they conversed. Although Lukas could not hear what was said in detail, he heard his name mentioned and felt a nagging doubt enter his mind.

  Eventually Henckler turned back to him, his ruddy jowls shaking from side to side as he shook his head. Behind him Brandaur walked away, disappearing into the morning mist.

  Lukas felt a cold knot of fear tighten in his belly.

  'Lukas, you did well,' Henckler said, his voice quiet and low, 'but you have allowed yourself to become contaminated with the stuff of Chaos.' He gestured to Lukas's hands, filthy where he had forgotten to put his gloves back on. 'We cannot risk you spreading that taint to others.'

  Lukas felt his world spinning as the witch hunter spoke. He felt light-headed and sick. 'What?' he asked, confused. 'I did everything you asked. Everything, witch hunter.'

  'I know.' was the reply, cold and hard. 'And Sigmar will love you for it. But I cannot let you contaminate others. There were risks involved, Lukas. We told you there were risks. The threat of contamination is too great.' He shrugged, jamming his hands into the large pockets of his warm coat.

  'But you promised me a place in the order. You swore on it.' Lukas was shaking, fear and uncertainty rising in his breast, taking control of him. 'What will happen to me now?'

  'Nothing,' replied Henckler, drawing an ornate duelling pistol from within his pocket. 'Nothing at all.'

  He fired.

  Lukas fell back against the door as the ball took him in the forehead, blasting through his skull and pulping his brain. He slumped to the floor.

  Henckler stalked away from Lukas's cooling body, past the guards who moved to gather it up, to where Rosabella Wolfe stood shaking, her hand against her mouth. With eyes as hard as steel he looked at her, measuring her carefully.

  'You are quite certain that you weren't contaminated by the warpstone yourself, aren't you?', he asked, no hint of a smile on his face.

  Rosabella nodded once. And together they turned, stalked away into the alley and left the soldiers to gather the body for burning.

  BLOOD AND SAND

  by Matt Ralphs

  'The crusades into Araby are
a proud leaf in the illustrious history of our Empire. For a hundred years men took up the hammer and sought to bring light and learning into the heathen lands. Many fell, for the path to victory is oft travelled over the bodies of faithful men. And for those who were captured? Well, it was better to die than to become a slave to the men of Araby.'

  - From Armies of the Hammer,

  The Forgotten Crusades

  HE KNEW THAT to make a sound was to die.

  Echardt Drager winced as sand crunched under his foot. He could hear the deep, rhythmic rasp of the creature's breathing. It remained regular - mercifully undisturbed. Dust motes swirled in a column of light which pierced the gloom, tumbling and turning, kept aloft in the heavy air; illuminated in the light was a patch of scaled skin, the colour of the desert. It reminded Drager of the armour worn by Arabyan warriors: flat, regular-shaped plates of burnished gold that glittered in the sun. But this was no Arabyan soldier, this was a sand dragon.

  Despite his fear, he was thrilled. The creatures kept in the emir's bestiary put to shame those of his former lord - the Elector Count of Averland - whom he had served for many years as keeper of the war-beasts before his capture. His Arabyan overseers, recognising his worth, set him to work with the animals, but this was the first time he'd been put in the sand dragon cage.

  Drager was within touching distance of the creature. Its body loomed over him, curled sinuously around a boulder. He felt intense heat radiating from its skin; a nerve rippled and scales scratched together, sounding like parchment burning. In the patch of light he spied what he sought: a half-shed scale, about the size of his hand, with a shining new one peeking through beneath.

  His fingers closed around the loose scale. It felt like dry leather. He pulled gently and it began to come away. He licked his lips and gave it a tug. His heart missed a beat as the scale tore off. He was felled as the creature's tail whipped out and struck him hard across the chest. The wind was knocked from him as he landed hard on his back. The beast uncurled from around the boulder and hauled itself up onto long hind legs. It turned to face him with fluid grace, its vast, crested head towering up on the end of a lithe neck, black eyes reflecting Drager's terrified face with emotionless curiosity.

  Drager saw the dragon's lungs expand and he rolled to one side as its head thrust forward, jaws agape. A blast of burning sand vomited from its throat, rattling against its teeth and blasting the ground where Drager had been a second before. He screamed as scorching particles lacerated his arm and burnt into the flesh. It turned to face him again, head cocked, as if puzzled by something. Drager watched helplessly as it drew in another breath.

  Two men, each holding blazing torches, leapt to either side of him, whooping and screaming as they thrust the flames into the dragons eyes. It bellowed and staggered back, cowering from the light. Drager struggled up and ran for the cage door. His rescuers backed out behind him, keeping their brands held in front as the beast cautiously stalked after them. They stepped into daylight and bolted the cage door shut.

  Drager blinked in the bright sun, nursing his blistering arm. He leaned on the heavy cloth draped over the dragon's pen, there to keep out the sun. Drager handed one of the men the scale. He studied it.

  'Well done, Empire,' he said in halting Reikspiel. 'This aphrodisiac will replace some of our great emir's lost vitality.' He put the scale in a pouch hanging from his belt. 'You learned valuable lesson today, no? Try not to wake a sleeping sand dragon.'

  Drager slumped to the ground as he walked away, chuckling.

  IT IS SAID that in Araby, the only people who work in the middle of the day are slaves and slave-drivers. Even sheep, considered by Arabyans to be the lowest of beasts, have the sense to rest in the shade. The sun rode at its zenith, gazing down like a burnished coin, pouring out heat and bleaching all colour from the world.

  A line of men - pale except where the heat had burned their skin red - laboured in a line swinging picks along a dusty road. They were tethered together by chains and wore tattered rags. Many had torn strips from their tunics and tied them over their heads. Some still sported the badge of their crusade across their breasts - a knight of the Empire, with the hammer of Sigmar above him, encircled with a ring of flame - as if in defiance of their defeat and capture. These once proud crusaders were now slaves to the people they had sought to subjugate. Around them prowled slave-drivers, armed with whips and cudgels and swathed in long, purple robes and white turbans. They shouted and cursed, and the constant report of the picks was accompanied by the crack of their whips.

  Behind them was a city.

  It was called Zarekten, and it dominated the valley. A shallow moat - carved through the ochre rock by a river long since dried up - hugged the bottom of a soaring curtain wall. Square towers sprouted along the length of the defences which stretched out from one valley wall and back, like the tip of a spear. The main gate was at its apex, a wide, arched door flanked by two towers. The city gazed blankly through a thousand murder holes. Soldiers patrolled the parapets, long spears over their shoulders, their silver mail coats caught the sunlight and shimmered with many shades of blue. Sloping up behind them as it climbed the rock face was the city itself. Inner walls and bastions were thrown into relief by the sun: flat surfaces dazzled with light, whilst doors, windows, arrow-slits and arches remained black with shadow. As the city climbed ever higher, the defences made way for small, square dwellings with domed roofs. Around these tightly packed buildings was a warren of passages, alleys, bridges, avenues and covered walkways.

  Zarekten guarded the entrance to the Great Erg - a blistering, white sand plain visible to the south through the mouth of the valley - and the rich trade routes running through it. It represented the last frontier between the principalities and city-states of the prosperous north, and the nomadic tribes who inhabit the deserts to the south.

  Tomas Strauss tore his eyes away from the desert, gulped a breath of hot air and swung his pick into the ground. Every muscle ached and his back felt as if it had been branded with hot coals. He muttered a prayer to Sigmar and made the sign of the hammer with his calloused hands. He spied a slave-driver making his way down the line, dosing out ladles of water to each prisoner. Tomas smiled, it was Huashil. Sigmar had answered him today.

  Huashil held the dripping ladle out to Tomas who drank the water, smiled and leaned on his pick. 'Thank you.' he said.

  'Slow going, eh, Empire?' Huashil said. He surreptitiously pointed to the ground and dropped two figs at Tomas's feet.

  'Aye, but Sigmar lends me strength.' Tomas said, smiling.

  Huashil frowned. 'You find your god here, even in the desert? After he abandoned you?'

  'Sigmar is everywhere.' Tomas said. 'And he has not abandoned me. I have him always nearby.' He patted the left side of his chest. 'Where do you keep your faith, my friend?'

  Huashil was about to speak when searing pain lashed across Tomas's back. He fell to his knees and picked up the figs.

  'Work, Empire, work!' a slave-driver screamed in his ear. When Tomas looked up, blinking away tears of pain, Huashil was back to hurriedly ladling water. The slave to Tomas's left leaned over, his freckled face red from the sun. He took the proffered fruit from Tomas and popped it into his mouth before anyone noticed.

  'It seems to be working,' he said, chewing delightedly and indicating to Huashil.

  'Indeed, Dieter.' Tomas said. 'We may hook the fish yet.'

  HUASHIL WALKED TOWARDS the shade cast by Zarekten's walls and sat down. He began to scribe looping, elegant letters into the sand with his finger:

  The emir, may the vultures peck out his eyes, has forbidden anyone to write. But I must, or I feel I will forget how.

  Again, I cast my mind into the river of my desires. If I were back home, I would be sat beneath the acacia tree, copying the chronicles, writing of new births and the passing away of elders, recording the history of my tribe. With no one to write the days, my people will lose their past. But I have no choice. When the Sigmari
tes came from across the seas, the emir rounded up the men from the villages to bolster his army. Now I wring the last doses of strength from those captured in his wars. I am a slave, driving slaves.

  Why do the Sigmarites come here, with fire and sword to my land?

  I watch the slaves. They are forbidden to practise their primitive religion, but many has been the time when I have listened to Tomas as he tells tales of gods like Sigmar - who was also a man! - who banished evil and set up a nation united, a nation of learning, light and scholars, a land of green trees and deep rivers. I look forward to night guard duty, so I can hear again these wonderful tales.

  Already the wind had erased the first sentences. He watched the desert steal his words, and wondered where it took them. His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of swift hoof-beats coming up the road towards the city. A horse and rider appeared from behind an escarpment of rock. The rider was standing in the stirrups and riding hard. Huashil knew no Arabyan would push an animal like that at this time of day unless he was in desperate need. A dozen soldiers marched out from the main gate, spears levelled. The rider dismounted and ran up to them.

  Huashil strained to hear their words, but they were carried away by the breeze. After a minute's conversation the rider was allowed into the city. The guards beckoned to the slave-drivers who began to hound and whip their charges back towards the gate.

  A sonorous blast from the horn in the gatehouse echoed around the valley, bouncing from the sheer walls which only listened impassively.

  THE SLAVES WERE herded into the fortress with whips and curses. As the last man passed under the arch, soldiers goaded teams of brightly apparelled camels to heave the iron-studded gates closed. Once more the horn gave forth a mournful cry. The slaves exchanged nervous glances.