by C. L. Werner
Young baronets dressed in silk shirts hobnobbed with ageing countesses, their wrinkles buried beneath layers of powder and perfume. Above them all the marble walls of the castle gleamed, alabaster cherubim frolicked, and the faces of barons long dead and forgotten glowered from massive canvases. But above all else there hung that intangible pall of dread and foreboding that reached out and clutched at every soul. Among the gathering, conversation was either idle or far too desperate, the laughter nervous or raucous. The music of the orchestra assembled in the castle’s grand ballroom was too precise, too dispassionate, as though even the notes felt subdued by the weight of the atmosphere.
There was no one who did not submit to that tension hovering in the air. The baron claimed that the plague had been vanquished, but few would verify his boast. The baron said that Graf Alberich would soon lift the quarantine, and that food from all across Stirland and the Empire would be brought into their city, but most were sceptical of such assurances. The assembly was perhaps the largest the castle had ever paid host to, but it was not from jubilation or gratitude that the throng had manifested. Each had received the note asking them to the castle. The baron had not invited his guests, he had commanded them. Now each nervously waited for whatever misery would unfold next, or else gave way to reckless abandon, to deny the dread numbing their hearts.
Like the music, the festivities were hollow and lifeless, a moth heeding the call of the flame and knowing it to be its death knell.
‘For a city on the brink of winter, plague and starvation, they certainly know how to suffer in grand style,’ Streng said, tearing into a goose leg appropriated from one of a dozen long dining tables in the castle’s cyclopean ballroom. The mercenary patted his belly, letting a loud belch rumble.
‘If the quarantine isn’t lifted soon,’ Thulmann stated, ‘these people will be boiling boot leather and tree bark in a month.’ Streng shrugged his shoulders, taking no interest in what befell the populace of Wurtbad. ‘You might do well to remember that we are in this together, friend Streng. Until the quarantine is lifted, what happens to the city, happens to us.’ Streng shot a sour look at his employer, then set the plate down on a nearby divan. The witch hunter’s words went far toward ruining his appetite.
‘I could do without remembering that sort of thing,’ he grunted. ‘Now I have to go and find enough ale to let me forget.’
‘Keep your wits about you and your eyes open,’ Thulmann warned. ‘Don’t forget why we are here.’ The mercenary gave Thulmann a sour glance, but he understood.
It was a mad plan. If Thulmann was completely honest with himself, it was akin to bearding a dragon in its lair – arresting Baron von Gotz in his own castle, stealing him from the midst of a veritable army of guards, retainers and sycophants. The witch hunter’s only hope was that the baron’s madness was just as obvious to his guests as it was to him. From the few snatches of subdued conversation he had heard, he felt that perhaps his hopes were not idle ones. The great and the good of Wurtbad might be perfectly happy to see von Gotz deposed, so long as someone else risked his neck to do so.
There were seven of them in the group Thulmann had led into the castle. No, eight, the witch hunter corrected himself, though he wasn’t counting on any help from Meisser. True to Silja’s prediction, the baron’s guards had barely even looked at them, passing them on after only the most perfunctory examination of Meisser’s invitation. Thulmann was mildly surprised that the delegation from the Order of Sigmar had not been asked to relinquish the weapons they so openly wore, but then, nobody would expect the pious templars, sworn servants of Sigmar and the Empire he founded, to raise arms against its highest representative in Wurtbad. Besides, with the execution of Markoff, Thulmann suspected that Baron von Gotz might be expecting Meisser to protect him from other elements within the Ministry of Justice.
If the sentries at the gate had been anxious not to offend the witch hunters, they had been even more careful not to disturb the imposing black giant, Captain-Justicar Ehrhardt. Morr was a god who was worshipped not out of devotion, but fear. That fear encompassed the god of death’s morbid servants, the Black Guard of Morr. The baron’s soldiers had not been courageous enough to ask Ehrhardt for the massive sword hanging from his belt. Even now, with the castle’s ballroom playing host to such a crowd as it had never seen before, the Black Guardsman was given a wide berth, afforded a level of fearful respect Thulmann doubted even the Emperor himself would be able to evoke. Ehrhardt stood poised against a fluted column, his hard eyes surveying the crowd like a wolf studying a flock of sheep.
‘I still say this plan of yours cannot work.’ Meisser had not left Thulmann’s side since leaving the chapter house, perhaps sensing that the witch hunter was the only one preventing Streng from smashing in his skull and Silja from slitting his throat. Of course, Meisser was hardly thrilled by the prospect of challenging Baron von Gotz, especially after all the pains he had suffered to ingratiate himself to the nobleman. He found Thulmann’s notion akin to the dangerous ravings of a lunatic. It gave him no joy to share in that danger. It had taken a few overt threats from Streng to close his mouth, but Meisser would not forsake one last attempt to sway Thulmann. ‘Arresting the ruler of Wurtbad in his own castle? Maybe you should rethink which of you is the insane one.’
‘Your concern is duly noted, Brother Meisser,’ Thulmann replied in a low hiss. ‘You might, however, consider that if anything runs afoul, there are certain members of our group who will make sure you are in no condition to gloat about it afterwards.’ The smug look that had flashed across Meisser’s face every time he observed a soldier wearing the baron’s colours now evaporated. Thulmann decided to drive the point deeper. ‘Besides, if my plan does fail, the baron will not take any chances. He will execute anyone who played a role in trying to depose him. And it was your invitation that opened the door for us.’ Meisser’s eyes widened with horror at the truth of it. When the time came, he would have even more to fear from von Gotz than he did from Thulmann and his associates.
‘You… you may be right,’ Meisser admitted, sweat trickling down his face. ‘You should allow me to aid you. If von Gotz is the monster you think him to be, you will need all the help you can get.’
Thulmann gave the witch hunter captain an incredulous stare. Did Meisser really believe him so stupid as to misplace his trust, or was the man simply so desperate that he would switch loyalties at the eleventh hour? ‘I take comfort in your conviction,’ he sighed. Meisser nodded his head like an excited vulture.
‘Oh, you will not regret your confidence in me,’ Meisser assured him. ‘All my skills are at the disposal of this bold enterprise.’ He held his hand out to the witch hunter. ‘But of course I should be much more helpful with a weapon.’ Thulmann rolled his eyes.
‘I’m afraid I’ll feel better for not looking over my shoulder,’ he observed. He looked past Meisser, at the slender, black-clad figure close behind. ‘Though I’m certain that Silja Markoff would happily give you one of her blades.’ Meisser almost jumped out of his skin at the woman’s presence, and the violent hatred burning within her eyes.
‘Worry not, toad,’ Silja spat. ‘I desire the baron’s head more than I do yours.’ Her gloved hand patted the sword hanging from her belt. ‘But his is the only head I want more than your own.’
Thulmann looked across the crowd of burghers and aristocrats, seeking out the dark-garbed figures of the other witch hunters. They were scattered about the fringes of the room, as Thulmann had instructed them. From their vantage points, they should have been able to observe anyone entering or leaving the room, as well as maintaining eye contact with at least one of the other conspirators. When the baron made his entrance, one of them would give the signal to the others. Events such as the feast were coordinated to a strict regime dictated by centuries of tradition. Tradition held that the first waltz would be reserved for the baron and the baroness. Thus far, the musicians had busied themselves with less elegant melodies, awaiting the appearance of their patron.
The baroness was a handsome woman entering the borderland of middle-age, despite her elaborate wig and the low neckline of her sapphire-hued dress. She had remained seated on a throne-like chair upon a dais at the centre of the north wall, engaged in idle chatter with courtiers and casting sullen glances at the empty chair beside her.
Then the screams began. Sharp and piercing, they were the cries of men and women who felt the chill of Old Night clawing at their souls. The cacophony of terror sounded from the main hall, rising in pitch and volume as more voices joined the chorus of dread. Soldiers sprinted from the ballroom, hastening down the marble corridors to the extravagant great hall. Thulmann shouted sharp commands to his own men, signalling them to follow his lead.
Death and decay filled his nostrils as the witch hunter raced toward the great hall, the reek of profane and unclean powers. It evoked the filth and perversion of the most obscene cults he had uncovered, the horror of men who grovelled before a god that was nothing but foulness and corruption. Thulmann felt the writhing of invisible worms upon his skin, the air grow heavy with spectral filth. As he ran, he could see less stalwart men doubled over, emptying their bellies onto the marble floor as the atmosphere of disgust overwhelmed them. He prayed that he was wrong, that the horror his mind told him was loose within the castle was only a nightmare conjured by his macabre recollections.
He forced his way through the shrieking, fleeing mass of perfumed finery into the main hall and lifted his eyes to the grand stairway, upon the visage of Baron Friedo von Gotz, and knew that his worst fears paled beside the reality.
The hand of Nurgle was upon Wurtbad.
Within the darkness of the cellar, Carandini shivered, pulling his heavy cassock tight about his body, though he knew the chill that gripped him was not of the flesh, but of the soul. Somewhere in the castle above his head, Sibbechai was even now moving toward its desire, the abhorrent Das Buch die Unholden. Once the vampire had the dread tome in its undead claws, it would return for him. Then the death Carandini had hoped to cheat forever would reach out and claim him.
A sound from the yawning mouth of the tunnel opened his eyes wide with fear. So intent had he been upon the impending triumph of Sibbechai, he had neglected to remember an enemy just as horrible, and just as near. Carandini’s eyes searched for any sign that the underfolk had returned. He breathed a sigh of relief when the object of his fear showed himself, not a twisted figure covered in fur and filth, but the shape of a man like himself.
‘Stand aside,’ the cold voice rasped from out of the darkness. As he came closer Carandini was surprised to find that the man’s face was not unknown to him. The necromancer smiled at the pallor of Gregor Klausner’s skin, the lustreless quality in his eyes. So, Sibbechai had chosen to let both of Wilhelm’s sons share in the necrarch’s curse? How very thoughtful. But why had the vampire waited so long to summon its thrall to its side?
‘I know the vampire is here,’ Gregor snarled as he continued to advance. Carandini was startled by the crude wooden shaft clutched in his hand. ‘Don’t try to stop me.’
Understanding suddenly dawned in the necromancer’s mind. The vampire did not have complete control over its creation. Gregor had not been reborn as some dutiful slave, but as a vengeful revenant, determined to destroy the monster that had damned him. Spectral cords bound the two together, allowing Gregor to sense the presence of the elder vampire.
‘Stop you?’ Carandini laughed, making an elaborate show of stepping from Gregor’s path. ‘What makes you think I’d even try?’ Gregor eyed the necromancer suspiciously as he stalked past. Carandini was amused by the irony of it all.
‘Good hunting,’ he shouted, as Gregor vanished into the corridor beyond the storeroom. It would be terribly fitting if Sibbechai were to be destroyed by one of its own creations, if all its foul dreams were foiled by its own twisted schemes. There were few thralls with the strength of will to rise against their masters. Carandini hoped that Gregor was one such man. If he were, the necromancer would know soon enough. The compulsion Sibbechai had placed upon him would die with the vampire.
But then, the necromancer’s attention was arrested by the din of a vast host flooding through the tunnels. The Tilean shuddered at the chittering squeals of rats, the verminous speech of the underfolk. He slid back into the shadows of the storeroom as the squeaking horde drew closer, the clatter of swords and spears became distinct. The necromancer called the darkness to him, wrapping the shadows about him like a cloak, willing himself to become one with the night.
The skaven spilled from the tunnel, a tide of rancid fur, ragged leather armour and rusted steel. Rodent muzzles sniffed at the air, red eyes scoured the darkness, eager for any sign of life. More and more of the slouching beasts crept forward, urged on by the force of bodies behind them. Carandini watched in silent horror as the skaven began to fill the room, chisel-fangs bared as their sensitive noses discerned the scent of those whom they hunted.
Then a creature more horrible than a thousand of those that preceded it stole into the cellar. It was a grey furred ratman, wearing a dark robe and fur collar, an iron-tipped staff clutched in its paws. From the sides of the vermin’s skull, great horns protruded. Carandini could sense the power of the hideous creature, could almost see the obscene energies swirling about him. The skaven wizard barked a command and the entire host surged forward, squeaking as they pushed and shoved their way into the corridor, following in the very footsteps of Gregor Klausner. The horned ratman turned its head, glaring directly at Carandini before scurrying after the horde it commanded. The necromancer cringed. Even a man used to the dead fires of Sibbechai’s face was unsettled by the inhuman malevolence of the ratman.
A tremendous relief washed over Carandini as the rodent cacophony faded. He would never forget the hateful look the horned ratman had directed at him. Then the Tilean’s eyes happened to look downward toward the floor. Hundreds of tiny red eyes looked back at him. The floor had become a living carpet of scrawny, furry bodies. Dozens of mouths snapped open hungrily, displaying sharp fangs.
Carandini wondered if Sibbechai would have at least inflicted a more dignified death upon him, as the army of rats swarmed forward and a living tide of vermin engulfed the necromancer.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Thulmann’s eyes watered at the stench of the walking putrescence. It may once have been a man, but it was such no longer. Dark Powers had been invited into the flesh and they had consumed it utterly. Perhaps the mind of a man, the tattered, broken fragments of a human soul, yet shrieked within the hulking heap of filth and corruption, the mass of bloated, shapeless flesh. Gangling arms, disproportionate to the body of a man, fell from what might be called shoulders, the green-tinged flesh of each broken by pus-dripping boils and livid red rashes. The abomination’s body was like a pile of unformed meat, folds of fat rippling against each other, filth drooling from its sores and lesions filling the crevices between each ripple, making a wet, smacking sound as it moved. The daemon’s belly was an open wound, devoured from within by some powerful acid, displaying its purple intestines with the pride of a general displaying his medals. The brown muck of partially digested food stained the monster’s belly as it walked, its broken guts spurting more of the filth across its body. Peering from behind the monster’s organs, tiny yellow eyes glistened. It seemed to Thulmann that small, daemonic things moved within the host.
Its head, if such the ghastly blob rising above its shoulders could be called, was swollen beyond any semblance of humanity. Features were stretched and distorted, the eyes askew and lacking symmetry, two pools of blue putrescence amidst the decayed green flesh. The mouth was a gigantic maw, stretching from ear to ear, ragged rows of rotten, brown tusks jutting from its jaws, a writhing yellow tongue wriggling between the fangs like a great maggot. Antlers, broken and decayed like the rest of the monster, sprouted from the sides of the beast’s head, like some profane parody of a saint’s halo.
The final ghastly touch was the ermine cloak that
fluttered from the beast’s neck. Thulmann recognised the emblem that the clasp bore, on the seal that had been fixed to Meisser’s invitation, the seal of Baron Friedo von Gotz, ruler of Wurtbad, now a child of Nurgle.
The obscenity continued its descent, dribbling, babbling and oozing. Thulmann had no intention of listening to whatever blasphemies the daemonic horror might be struggling to give voice to. Disgust unseated the fear in his breast. With one fluid motion, the witch hunter drew one of his pistols. Almost screaming a litany from the Deus Sigmar, Thulmann aimed and fired, sending the bullet crunching into the monster’s skull.
For a moment, the unclean one was still, its eyes rolling about as though unfixed within its head. Grimy black sludge spilled from the gaping wound at the centre of what was once its forehead, leaking across its face in a stream of filth. As the sludge dripped down into the beast’s mouth, the maggot-tongue flickered outward, licking the muck from the daemon’s diseased visage like some exotic delicacy. The daemon’s corrupt flesh sizzled as the tongue passed over it, putrid smoke rising from its decay. Then the eyes became focused, the tongue retreated back into its cavern-like dwelling, and the monster continued to slither down the stairs.
Thulmann threw the spent pistol aside, drawing two more from the bandolier that crossed his chest. Perhaps the shambling monster could not be harmed by clean steel and lead, but the witch hunter was determined to put the possibility to the test. From the corners of his eyes, he saw movement all around him, as people raced back into the main hall. One of these he recognised as the old templar Tuomas, another was the huge shape of Ehrhardt, his enormous blade gripped firmly in his armoured hands.
There were many more who owed no particular allegiance or loyalty to Thulmann. Perhaps emboldened by the witch hunter’s display of defiance before the monstrosity, perhaps feeling the strength and courage of Sigmar coursing through their blood, or trying to purchase time for their families and loved ones to escape, they all came. Thulmann saw halberdiers in the colours of von Gotz stand beside elegantly dressed noblemen, slender rapiers and longswords filling their perfumed hands. One man, his brown hair and beard wild and unkempt, his flowing robes a deep rust red, began to utter strange words, words that were old when mankind was young. Thulmann felt the temperature in the hall rise as the wizard drew power into himself, the fires of sorcery gathering about him. The bronze-hilted sword grasped in the wizard’s leathery hand began to glow, lit by an internal fire. The sorcerer glanced respectfully at the stalwart templar, a gesture that was returned.