Feculus loomed over him. ‘My apologies, Sir Roggen. But all is fair in war, no?’ He raised his blade in both hands. As it fell, Roggen flung up his arms, hoping to perhaps catch it, or at least absorb some of the impact.
‘I knew rotten meat had no honour,’ the bramble-spirit hissed as its shape twisted and undulated, seeming to expand. A nest of brambles exploded upwards and snagged the descending blade. Feculus shouted in alarm as his weapon was twisted from his grip. He stumbled back as the brambles caught at his helmet and gorget, threading through the gaps. The bramble-spirit launched itself from Roggen’s stump like a striking viper to writhe about Feculus’ head. The pox-knight staggered, clawing at the vines, trying to pull them loose.
‘If you value your life, meat, you’ll find your sword,’ the spirit shrilled. Roggen did as it bade, snatching up his sword. Whirling, he rammed it through Feculus’ back. The tip of the ironwood blade punched through the pox-knight’s corroded chest-plate, dragging a lump of sour, black meat in its wake. Feculus stiffened. Then, with a groan, he sank to his knees, and toppled forward like a felled tree.
Roggen ripped his sword free and turned as Harrow screeched. The demigryph crouched atop her own opponent, which twitched in its death-throes. Her flanks were striped with blood, her feathers plastered to her nape with the rain but she screamed again, savage gaze fixed on the remaining Rotbringers.
Roggen felt the impact of the crossbow bolt before he heard the twang of the string. He staggered as the bolt embedded itself in his chest-plate. Feculus had said his servants would not interfere – not that they wouldn’t try to finish what he’d started. A second bolt skidded past his cheek, tearing his flesh.
Before he could whistle for Harrow, he heard a scream and saw something reach down from the canopy overhead to pluck a hapless Rotbringer from his feet. The warrior vanished into the branches with only a scream to mark his passing. Pale shapes, wreathed in bark, scuttled from the underbrush. They rushed the pestilential warriors from all sides, hissing and chuckling, barely visible in the growing downpour.
Barbed vines snared a Rotbringer and dragged him to the wet ground. He was lost from sight among the thickly clustered flowers in a brief spasm of motion, his cries muffled by the fleshy blossoms. Another was yanked backwards into the trees, as if lassoed. His screams rose in pitch and volume for long moments, before falling abruptly silent.
The others broke and ran, fighting their way past the cackling tree-kin. Rusty blades bit uselessly at bark limbs, and corroded armour was little proof against slashing talons. Two more fell as the rest vanished into the trees. The outcasts descended on the stragglers with high-pitched shrieks of triumph before dragging them into the darkness past the trees. The Rotbringers wailed and clawed at the muddy earth, but to no avail.
Screams echoed through the glade. Roggen knew that the others would not escape, no matter how swiftly they fled. He limped to the corpse of the pox-knight, drawing the bolt from his chest-plate as he went. As the adrenaline faded, pain replaced it. His missing hand hurt worse than ever. He dropped wearily to the ground beside the corpse and looked at the tangle of bramble.
‘Do you still live?’
‘Of course I live. I am not meat. I do not break so easily.’
Roggen extended his stump. The brambles bunched and ensnared his forearm. ‘My thanks for your aid.’
‘I did not do it for your sake.’
‘Obviously.’
It hesitated. ‘You are hurt.’
‘I will be worse than that if the outcasts return before we have departed. I have a feeling they won’t be in any mood to honour my safe passage once their blood rises.’
Roggen levered himself to his feet, wheezing with effort. He went to the knot of roots where the axe lay forgotten and stripped off his tabard. As he approached it, he saw the waters pouring from the stones had turned clear. The filth that had contaminated them was gone. And despite the stink of smoke, the air tasted cleaner, somehow. He could not say whether that was due to the rain, or his prayers. Perhaps the Lady of Leaves was simply watching over him.
He dredged his tabard in the clear waters, then awkwardly bound the cancerous lump in an improvised sling. He whistled and Harrow trotted towards him. She shied back from the lump but settled down as he murmured to her.
With great effort, he tied his sopping prize to the back of his saddle, then hauled himself up. ‘What now?’ the spirit hissed, as Roggen urged Harrow into motion. The demigryph loped from the glade, hardly slowed by her wounds. The rain was falling steadily now. He could no longer hear the fires or the screams of the Rotbringers.
‘What do you mean?’
‘The axe. Who will you take it to? The Everqueen, or Grungni?’
Roggen shook his head. ‘There was never a question. I made an oath.’ He lifted his stump. ‘An axe for a hand, as I swore in the ironwood grove.’
After long moments, as the rain beat down on them and the trees leaned close, the spirit said, ‘My name is Kryael. I was once known as the Knight of Evensong. And I, too, swore an oath.’
Roggen smiled. ‘Perhaps you will be known as such again, my friend.’
‘Perhaps. And it could be, on that day, we will fight side by side again… Roggen.’
Roggen laughed. ‘As the Lady of Leaves wills, my friend. As the Lady wills.’
THE WITCH TAKERS
C L Werner
Mangled bodies lay stretched under the blazing desert sun. Puddles of blood glistened in the light. The gory litter lay scattered in a patch of carnage dozens of yards wide, broken weapons and severed limbs half buried in the scale-like metal sands of Droost.
In the very midst of the havoc, an ugly pit yawned. The piles of sand and broken stone marked it as a recent excavation. The jumble of old bones and rusted armour strewn about the opening served as silent testament to the callous looting of the uncovered tomb.
‘Tal, is there anything down there?’ The question was voiced by a tall and powerfully built woman. Long locks of deep golden hair peeked out from under the hood of the white cloak Esselt wore. There was an expression of deep concern on her well-defined features. Her gloved hands kept a firm grip on the immense silver-bladed greatsword she held at her side.
In response to Esselt’s query, a man emerged from the shadowy tomb. He was more compactly built, wolfish in form and a few inches shorter. He, too, wore a white cloak, though it was now greyed with the dust and grit of an ancient grave. His swarthy face had a pinched, almost hungry look to it, his moustached lip drawn back in irritation. Keen eyes studied the broken stones where robbers had smashed their way into the crypt. With a sigh, Talorcan shook his head.
‘Nothing, Esselt,’ he declared. He waved his gloved hand at the bodies strewn all around them. ‘Vulture scum they may have been, but they were very thorough. I don’t think there is so much as a strand of hair they didn’t drag out of there.’ He stepped over to one of the corpses, a body more complete than some of its mutilated companions. With the edge of his boot he kicked it onto its side. As it rolled over, a brand on the dead man’s forehead was revealed. A single hieroglyph depicting the slouching figure of a hyena.
‘The brand of thieves,’ Esselt observed. ‘The same as the man we found in Skra Voln.’ A hardness swept into her voice. ‘This is where the murderers came from.’
Talorcan inspected the ground, carefully noting the disturbances in the sand. ‘Only one set of tracks lead away from here. From here to Skra Voln… and the massacre.’ As he made his study of the bodies, he began removing objects from them. A bronze breastplate, a jewelled dagger, rings and necklaces. From one man’s fingers he pried away a vicious-looking sword.
‘Grave robbers who argued over their plunder,’ Esselt growled. ‘After murdering their comrades, the rest must have gone to Skra Voln to slake their bloodlust.’
‘Only one set of tracks,’ Talorcan reminded h
er. ‘When we reached Skra Voln, except for the herdsman who discovered the massacre, there was only one set of tracks going into the village.’ He turned the sword around so that Esselt could see what he had discovered. The grip of the sword was formed from a gnarled curl of bone, but its pommel was fashioned from blackened steel.
Instinctively, Esselt drew back, alarm shining in her eyes. She recognised the grisly symbol the pommel had been shaped into. None of the witch takers of the Order of Azyr were unaware of the Skull Rune, emblem of the Chaos God Khorne.
‘Grace of Sigmar, Tal!’ Esselt cursed.
‘This is the madness of the Blood God,’ Talorcan said, gesturing at the carnage around them. ‘Looks like this tomb was something more than the robbers bargained for. The grave of some champion of the Dark Gods. When they broke in here, they unleashed something. Some infernal force that provoked them to… this.’
Esselt shook her head. ‘And the victor carried his murdering frenzy with him to Skra Voln. Praise the God-King the evil died with him.’
Talorcan was looking at the collection of grave goods he had removed from the thieves. Every body had yielded up something. ‘When we examined the branded corpse in Skra Voln, there was nothing that was remarkable about him. No treasure that could have come from this tomb.’
‘No,’ Esselt said. ‘There was nothing. Only the tattered rags he was wearing.’ She looked at the pile of loot Talorcan had gathered. ‘Every man had his share. The thief at the oasis should have had something.’
‘But he didn’t,’ Talorcan stated, a haunted look stealing into his eyes. He suddenly dashed across the sands to where they had hobbled their animals. The demigryphs squawked in protest as he rummaged through the saddle bags. Finally, he found what he was looking for: a big metal flask with a dragonhide stopper. He returned hurriedly, removing the stopper from the flask and dousing the pile of grave goods with its contents. Metal and jewels began to smoke and bubble as the alchemical concoction spilled onto them.
‘We will destroy this filth,’ Talorcan said. ‘Then we must make haste back to Skra Voln.’ He gave Esselt a grim look. ‘I fear I followed the wrong trail. I wanted to see where the killer came from. I did not think to follow any trail leading away from Skra Voln.’
‘You believe someone survived the massacre?’ Esselt asked.
‘A survivor or someone who came upon the scene before the herdsmen did,’ Talorcan said. ‘Either way, whoever it was took something.’
‘The killer’s share of the treasure,’ Esselt stated, watching as the other plunder was swiftly reduced to a molten puddle. ‘Some cursed relic from a heretic’s tomb.’
Talorcan nodded, looking across the havoc around them. ‘Something from the grave of a champion of the Blood God. Something damned by the filth of Chaos. Something that could possess a man and make him ferocious enough to commit such atrocities. Something that may pass its curse along to whoever carries it.’
Esselt shaded her eyes as she looked across the vast dunes of Droost. To her it was like watching a sea of crawling silver. The blazing sun shimmered across the thin scales of metal that composed the sand. Despite the heat, a chill swept through her as she watched the wispy haze that rose from the hot ground.
‘It looks like water,’ she said, leaning around in her saddle to speak with Talorcan.
‘Many a traveller has thought so,’ Talorcan said. ‘Drawn on by the mirage. Parched brains imagining the illusion of rivers and lakes just beyond their reach.’ He shook his head. ‘A terrible end for anyone.’
‘And if I were to get lost out here?’ Esselt nudged him in the arm. ‘Don’t say you couldn’t find me, Tal. You’re almost as much a part of the desert as the dust-vipers.’
Talorcan was pensive a moment. ‘I might find you,’ he said. ‘But it would have to wait until the Order’s business is finished.’ He drew back as Esselt tried to swat him. ‘I’m only warning you to stay close until our work is done,’ he laughed.
‘When our work is done, you won’t have much to laugh about,’ Esselt promised, patting the greatsword sheathed along the side of the saddle.
Talorcan smiled. ‘An assignation then,’ he said. ‘I’ll hold you to it. You might have the advantage with that gargant-sticker of yours, but never forget that I fight dirty.’
Esselt gave him a sharp look. ‘You also cheat at cards. But if we’re going to discuss all of your faults we’ll be out here until the rainy season.’
Talorcan bowed in defeat and turned his eyes back to the landscape before them. From atop the summit of a scaly dune, he gazed out across the crawling desert and the rippling haze. They were no strangers to the great wasteland that encompassed the Khanate of Arlk. The cloaks that covered them were fashioned from the porous hide of the dune-jackal and bleached to a brilliant white to better defy the sun’s heat. The talons of the demigryphs they rode were swathed in thick moccasins to keep them from sinking into the scaly sands. A third demigryph followed close behind them, the creature’s beak muzzled by a mask of steel chain so that it could not twist its long neck around and snap at the burden lashed across its back – a keg of stout Varthian blackoak filled with water from the River Chael.
The witch hunters were silent for a time, intent upon their study of the surroundings. When the silence was broken, it was Esselt who spoke, her voice edged with frustration. The tomb of the Chaos chieftain and the massacre of Skra Voln were many days behind them, yet still their quarry was beyond their reach. ‘They cannot have gone much farther, Tal,’ she declared. ‘By the Light of Azyr, we should have come upon them already.’
Talorcan kept his eyes roving across the dunes, watching the rippling heat rising from the scaly sands. ‘By the Light of Azyr, we will find them,’ he said. ‘Skill and determination can lead a hunter only so far. After that it becomes a test of faith.’ One of his hands released its hold on his demigryph’s reins and pointed across the dunes. ‘There. Do you see? Where the mirage falters?’
Esselt followed Talorcan’s gesture, her own eyes narrowing as she spotted the disruption of the heatwaves. There was only one thing that could distort the sun’s effect upon the dunes, and that was some object blocking its rays from the metallic sands. There were some nomads who could track a hare by the faintest chink in the haze.
‘Your observation, as ever, surpasses my own. If you say there is some sign, I believe you, my love,’ Esselt said. Her face dropped into an expression of gravity. ‘Please to Sigmar God-King we have found our quarry.’
Talorcan nodded his head, his voice taking a sombre turn. ‘We do Sigmar’s work. He is always with us.’ He reached to the hammer-shaped amulet that hung from the clasp of his cloak. ‘But there are other powers and they are in opposition to our work. Where faith is weak, the Dark Gods prevail.’
‘Our faith is as sharp as our blades.’ Esselt once again patted the immense sword hanging from the saddle sheath beside her. A flicker of a smile crossed her face as she peered intently at Talorcan. ‘Or do you question my sincerity?’
‘I would not dare,’ Talorcan said, looking to Esselt and returning her smile. For a fleeting instant, the grim duty ahead of them was forgotten. Then his demigryph started down the incline of the dune and the onerous nature of their task resumed its primacy.
They could not know what they would find at the end of the trail, but of one thing Esselt and Talorcan were certain: there would be death. That was the one constant in the work of witch hunters.
He was dying. Perhaps he should be dead already. He wanted to die. He wanted to just lie down and let Black Nagash have him.
But to live or die was no longer his choice. A burning, snarling compulsion drove him on. His breath was a reedy rasp that seared his lungs, yet still he persisted. His muscles felt like they would rip through his skin, yet still he kept walking. Blood, yes, blood. It dripped and trickled, oozing from his wounds. So much blood. How could there be any lef
t in his veins? How could there be enough to keep his heart pumping?
The demand that roared inside him would not let him stop. He could not pull out the spear-shaft that was lodged in his chest. He could not tie off the sword-slash that left his back open from shoulder to hip. He could not see from the eye that had been crushed when a mace had caved in the side of his head. Still, it would not let him die.
There was a terrible imperative that forced him onwards. Only when it was satisfied could he relent. Until then, he would stumble on through the dunes, lost and damned.
Tears glistened in his remaining eye. He wanted to die so badly. He deserved to die. The things he had done… Atrocity! He had no right to draw that next breath.
But draw it he did. And the next. And the one after that. The compulsion kept him moving. Up and down the crawling dunes, defying the desert heat and the ghastly wounds.
Through the desolation, at last a sight greeted him. The force driving him on became ferocious. Hungrily it urged him to greater effort, compelling him towards… something? No. Someone.
He tried to stop himself when he understood. He tried to throw the damned treasure away, to cast it out among the dunes where it should never be found. He didn’t have that kind of strength now. He only had the strength his destroyer allowed him to have.
The nomad spotted him. He saw the robed man draw a sword and watch him with wary eyes. The force driving him onwards exulted. It had no need of him now. The strength it had been dragging out of him evaporated and he crumpled. Almost lifeless, he slid down the dune towards the stranger.
His vision was already fading. He didn’t see the nomad, but he felt the boot that prodded his side. A moment later he felt the hands roving across his body. Frantically, he tried to warn the nomad, but all that escaped his lips was a gargled rasp.
The last thing he heard as his life drained from him was the nomad walking away. Death, so long denied, closed around him, conveying his spirit not to the morbid halls of Nagash but to a realm of blood and skulls.
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