Swords of the Empire

by Edited by Marc Gascoigne

  Mathias Thulmann pointed a gloved hand at Fergrim Ironsharp and Ravna. “You two will guard the side door. They didn’t attack from that quarter before, but they are better organised now, even if they do not think to exploit it, the vampire probably will.” The dwarf and the bodyguard hastened to their positions, the latter armed with his sword, the dwarf making do with a wood-axe taken from Streng’s saddlebags. The witch hunter considered the Baroness for a moment, then turned and pointed at the blocked window. “Keep a guard on the window. It is unlikely that they will try that way, but be on guard just the same. Any fingers try to pull at those boards, cut them off with your dagger. Above all, cry out. Let us know.” The Baroness stalked past the witch hunter, dagger in her hand.

  “I guess that leaves you and me to join your friend at the front door,” sighed Feldherrn.

  Thulmann let his eyes pass over Steinmetz and Lydia, then stared at Feldherrn. “Still think Ranald’s luck is with you?” he asked.

  “I never put much stock in luck,” Feldherrn replied, walking toward the portal. “A good gambler finds other ways to prosper.”

  The witch hunter joined Streng and Feldherrn at the door. As he stood beside Streng, the man removed his eye from the small knothole Thulmann had fired his pistol through. The henchman was visibly upset, his face ashen. Streng gestured for him to have a look for himself.

  Thulmann at once saw what had upset his man. Standing before the old statue was a towering monstrosity, a beast that resembled some ghastly daemon of the Blood God more than it did anything that might once have been numbered amongst men. As he watched, the vampire drew back one of its powerful arms, pointing at the temple with a finger that was tipped by a long black talon. The vampire said something, but the witch hunter did not need to understand the words to understand its meaning.

  With a low howl, the ghouls mustered in the square leapt to their feet and scrambled toward the temple. “Get ready!” Thulmann yelled. “Here they come!”

  THE GHOULS STRUCK the temple doors as a frenzied mass of hungry meat. The heavy portal shook under the impact as if a battering ram had been brought against it. The defenders found themselves forced to put their shoulders against the doors as several of the boards were ripped from the frame by the concentrated force. The rabid howls and snarls of the creatures sounded from the other side of the door, claws digging splinters from the door, eyes peering in. The defenders found themselves hard pressed to keep the door from sagging inward, despite the reinforcement. Thulmann managed to fumble his reloaded pistol from its holster. The witch hunter pressed the weapon against the same knothole. He pressed the trigger and once again there was a howl of pain.

  “At least they are consistent,” he commented, holstering the weapon and redoubling his efforts to hold the door.

  Streng cursed aloud as a clawed hand wriggled its way through a weakness in the rotten wood. Splinters rained onto his hair as the ghoulish limb scrabbled about in the opening. Filthy black venom trickled from the ghoul’s claws. The henchman snarled, bringing his hunting knife against the pale flesh. The ghoul outside screamed as Streng sawed at its wrist. The hand twisted and turned in the hole, but try as it might, it could not be withdrawn. Streng kept at his grisly labour, finally cutting the extremity from the ghoul’s arm. The hand flopped to the floor and a piteous wailing could be heard as the maimed creature retreated. No sooner had the first been injured, than another clawed hand was groping through the opening.

  “As you said, Mathias, at least they are consistent,” grinned Streng, reaching toward the second hand with his knife.

  The sounds of the semi-human monsters battering at the doors of the temple sounded in Steinmetz’s ears like the booming of cannon. The merchant tried to curl his fat body into a ball, choking on sobs of fear. Terror raced through his body like a debilitating poison. At his side, Lydia placed a delicate hand on Steinmetz’s head, stroking his hair, trying to soothe him as she would a frightened babe. Somehow, the intense fear of her employer seemed to lessen her own and she spoke soft words of reassurance and hope into the sobbing man’s ears.

  At first Steinmetz did not seem to hear Lydia, then a slight flicker of reason fought its way into his eyes. He uncurled himself, his fat hands crushing hers in a desperate, hungry grip. A feverish tremble set the merchant’s meaty features twitching. Lydia tried not to look alarmed as Steinmetz stared into her eyes.

  “The coachman, Lydia,” Steinmetz hissed.

  “Please, don’t excite yourself,” Lydia replied, trying to wrest her hands back from the merchant’s strong grasp. “The witch hunter will get us out of this.”

  “The coachman brought us here, Lydia,” Steinmetz repeated in a low voice, ignoring her own reply. “He brought us here. He must know a way out!” Lydia freed her hands and drew away from the merchant in alarm. Steinmetz smiled at her sudden fright. “If we help him escape, he will help us escape!”

  “No, Emil, you can’t do such a thing,” protested Lydia. Steinmetz rose to his feet, pulling his arm away from Lydia’s attempt to restrain him.

  “I’ll pay him,” the merchant continued. “He will accept that. I’ll pay him to get us out of here. Just you and me.” Steinmetz faced the girl again, anger flaring in his face as he noted the look of shocked outrage on her features. “You won’t do it?” he snarled. The merchant’s meaty hand slapped Lydia’s face, knocking her onto her side with the force of the blow. “Then stay here and die! There are fancy girls enough in Nuln to warm my bed.”

  BRESH WAS STILL lying upon the floor of the old priest’s cell, straining at his bonds when he heard the fat merchant enter. The coachman went rigid with alarm as he saw the obese man draw a dagger from his boot. Steinmetz stared at him for a moment, but Bresh could not decide what thoughts were squirming about behind those eyes. The merchant waddled forward and Bresh braced himself for the sharp stab of steel.

  Instead, he found himself turned onto his side, felt the edge of the weapon slicing through his bonds. Words were dribbling from the merchant’s mouth, inane babble about paying the Strigany a king’s ransom to get him away from the blighted village, desperate pleas for the coachman to save him from the ghouls howling for his blood, promises to help Bresh escape from the witch hunter. He smiled to himself. There was no fool so gullible as a fool in fear of his life.

  Bresh rose to his feet, rubbing at his wrists and knees to try and restore circulation. The Strigany looked up at his benefactor, his features shaping themselves into a mocking smile. He pointed at the knife in Steinmetz’s hand.

  “Will you help me?” the merchant demanded, but it was but an echo of his former pomposity and arrogance that gave the words their sting.

  “Of course,” Bresh smiled. “I am in your debt now.” He opened his hand, extending it toward Steinmetz. “The dagger, if you please?”

  “Why do you want it?” the merchant asked, voice trembling with suspicion and fear.

  “Unless you want to take care of the witch hunter yourself,” Bresh answered. “We shall have to kill him if we are going to get out of here.” The words had their desired effect and Bresh felt the reassuring weight of the weapon slide into his hand. He briefly entertained the thought of returning it to the merchant, opening the conniving tradesman’s belly with his own steel, but Bresh quickly dismissed the idea. It would be much more fun to watch the ghouls dispose of him.

  Bresh crept warily back into the shrine. He could see the Baroness, standing atop the altar, her back to him, intent upon the window. She presented a tempting target, but she was not his primary concern. He could also hear the commotion at the storeroom door, where Steinmetz had informed him that Ravna and the dwarf were standing guard. It sounded as if a score of ghouls were trying to beat their way through the small door. He turned his eyes forward. The gambler, the witch hunter and the witch hunter’s man were holding the larger entryway. Their backs were to the main room as they strove to punish the many black-clawed hands that were clutching at them from numerous holes in th
e wooden doors.

  The Strigany smiled. His master would be greatly pleased if he dealt with the witch hunter, perhaps even forgiving him for bringing the man here in the first place. Bresh knew his master’s vile moods and unpredictable temper and knew that anything he could do to strengthen his position would be a matter of life or something worse than death. Bresh tightened his grip upon the dagger and began to move stealthily toward the doors. Behind him, the fat figure of the merchant filled the doorway of the cell, sweating with nervous excitement as he watched the assassin creep across the decrepit hall of worship.

  Neither man noticed the small figure that lifted herself from the bench of one of the pews. Lydia watched the Strigany emerge from the priest’s cell, saw the dagger in his hand. She followed the course of his furtive steps, noting where they would eventually lead.

  “Witch hunter! Behind you!”

  MATHIAS THULMANN WHIPPED about as Lydia’s scream sounded above the howls and snarls of the ghouls. He saw the Strigany, barely a dozen paces away, the gleaming dagger clutched in his hand. Bresh had turned to see who had betrayed his intentions, losing the opportunity to fall upon the witch hunter’s back in one final, swift, murderous rush.

  The scrape of steel on leather rasped from Thulmann’s side as he drew his longsword. The weapon gleamed in the feeble light filtering downward from the temple’s rotting roof. Blessed by no less a personage than the Grand Theogonist of Sigmar himself, the sword was a weapon that could banish daemons and still the black hearts of sorcerers. Thulmann felt it was almost demeaning to force the elegant sword to soil itself with the blood of a mere thief and murderer. But once again, he felt that Sigmar would understand.

  Thulmann found the Strigany ready for him, the dagger held outwards and to his side in the manner of a practised knife fighter. Thulmann would have doubted his chances against the man with all things being equal. However, the witch hunter bore no six-inch dagger, but three feet of Reikland steel. It was an advantage none of the Strigany’s tricks could overcome.

  Bresh managed to twist his midsection away from Thulmann’s initial strike, but the witch hunter was too far away for the Strigany to follow through with his attack. Thulmann thrust at the villain’s stomach and the Strigany darted to the right, trying to slash the witch hunter’s arm before he could recover. But again, the longer reach thwarted the knife fighter’s instincts.

  “Finish him quickly! They’re getting through!” roared Streng. The groan of the doors, the cracking sound of splintering wood grew in volume even as the snarls of the ghouls increased into a bestial cry of triumph. Bresh smiled, expecting the witch hunter to be distracted by the calamitous report. He dove inward for Thulmann’s vitals.

  The witch hunter stepped away as Bresh flopped to the floor. He had anticipated the villain to strike, and had met his charge, bringing the longsword stabbing through the Strigany’s throat as the man leaped forward. Thulmann paused only long enough to kick the dagger from the dying man’s reach before hurrying toward the doors.

  The ghouls had indeed forced a wide gap between the doors and Streng and Feldherrn were hard pressed to keep them from opening further. The snarling face and wiry arm of one ghoul were thrust through the opening, their owner straining to undermine the efforts of his human prey to force the doors back. An entirely human look of surprise filled the ghoul’s face as Thulmann thrust his sword through its eye. The doors slowly inched backward as Thulmann added his own weight to the efforts of Streng and Feldherrn.

  BRESH COUGHED, A great bubble of blood bursting from the hole in his throat. But the Strigany smiled a weak and crimson smile. He could feel his master’s rage; it burned within his mind. It did not concern Bresh overly that his vampiric master was so furious because it considered Bresh a piece of property that had been ruined. Only one thought warmed the dying man’s soul as it quit his body.

  Now the Master will come and everyone here will die!

  It burst through the wooden barricade that filled the window behind the altar as if it were paper. The hulking shape fell upon Baroness von Raeder before she could even register the destruction of the barricade. A mammoth hand tipped with sword-claws ripped her in half, tossing her mangled body across the hall to crash into a support pillar.

  The vampire roared, its screech sharp and piercing. The undead horror leapt from the altar, springing with panther like agility. The monster smashed to splinters one of the remaining pews as it landed. Blood-black eyes glared about the hall, smelling the hated stench of the living. The vampire hissed, sprinting across the shrine toward the nearest source of that stench. Steinmetz tried to scream, but the sound was ripped from his body as the vampire’s claws tore into him, opening him from navel to collar bone, the bulb of garlic flying into the air as it was severed from the crude necklace. The merchant slumped against the wall, organs spilling from his burst ribcage and stomach.

  Lydia screamed, the cry attracting the notice of the fiend. The Strigoi turned its head in her direction, but before it could move, a harsh, commanding voice shouted at it. The vampire hissed anew as it regarded its challenger.

  “You are quite brave to enter Sigmar’s house, filth,” Mathias Thulmann snarled. The witch hunter stepped towards the undead monster, sword gleaming at his side. The vampire’s eyes seemed to burn suddenly with an unholy light and there was no mistaking the rage that warped its already twisted features. “Show me how brave you are, coffin-worm!”

  The Strigoi leapt forward. The single hop brought it within reach of the witch hunter, and its claw was already in motion even as it landed. Thulmann managed to dodge the blow by only the narrowest of measures, and the sword-sized talons tore into his cape before gouging the stone floor. And even as the vampire’s first attack was avoided, its other hand sought to disembowel him with a crude swipe, blocked at the last instant by the witch hunter’s sword. The undead talons smoked where the holy sword had nicked them and the Strigoi drew its bulk back to hiss at its adversary with renewed wrath.

  Even as the duel between man and corpse-thing was being fought, the great double doors of the temple at last gave way to the frenzied ghoul mob struggling to get inside. Streng and Feldherrn gave ground before the snarling mass, their every attention given over to defending themselves from the venomous claws and snapping jaws of their adversaries. Behind the first wave of ghouls, dozens more fought amongst themselves to squirm through the doors, the thought of opening them wider eluding their frenzied, ravenous minds.

  Thulmann did not wait for the vampire to recover its balance, but thrust at the undead beast, not with his sword, but with his off hand. The crystal flask gripped between his gloved fingers discharged its contents squarely into the vampire’s face. The Strigoi howled in pain as the blessed water chewed at its rotten flesh, sizzling and steaming like bacon on a hot iron. The witch hunter darted forward, not allowing the vampire time to consider its injury. The longsword sliced into the vampire’s shoulder. Once again, the Strigoi howled in pain, twisting its massive bulk about so as to tear the sword from its flesh even as one of its clawed hands cradled its smoking face. The vampire swiped at Thulmann with its other hand, but the blow was both slow and clumsy. The effect of standing within a holy place was beginning to tell on the corrupt monster, both its strength and speed diminishing rapidly to below mortal levels.

  The Strigoi snarled at Thulmann and darted away from the witch hunter, leaping over the heads of startled ghouls, smashing its way through the half-open doors and racing into the night, a trail of putrid smoke drifting in its wake. The ghouls gave voice to a pitiable wail of despair as they saw the vampire flee and began a rout of dismal disorder. Streng and Feldherrn harried the escaping monsters, running several of the degenerate things through the back as they fled.

  The witch hunter dropped to his knees, exhaling deeply, thanking Sigmar for the rout of the undead abomination and its followers. But he knew that there were more hours to pass before the dawn and that the vampire would be doubly determined to extermin
ate them now. Before, they had represented food. Now they represented a threat to the undying horror.

  THULMANN TOOK COUNT of the toll the attack had taken. Steinmetz and Baroness von Raeder were dead. The loss of the merchant did not disturb him in the slightest, but the Baroness had represented another pair of eyes and ears that could watch for danger, another blade that could fend off the hungry cannibals. A more telling injury had been dealt at the rear door of the temple. Hearing their vampiric master rampaging within, the ghouls had redoubled their efforts to gain entry, tearing great gashes into the wood. Ravna and Fergrim had kept the pack out, but one of the venom-laden claws had slashed the wrist of the mercenary. He seemed only slightly dizzy at the moment, and protested loudly that it was no more than a scratch, but the witch hunter knew only too well that the poison of a ghoul’s claw was both fast and lethal. He would not last the night.

  Mathias Thulmann stood before the remaining survivors. Streng had been set to watch the rear door, Feldherrn peering out of the wreckage that framed the main entrance. There was little hope of defending the doorway after the vampire’s brutal exit and the destruction it had delivered upon the doors themselves. As yet, the ghouls had not returned to exploit the indefensible entryway, but Thulmann knew that they would.

  “Listen,” the witch hunter spoke. “We have driven them away, but they will return, more determined than before. The undead thing that rules these wretches cannot afford to let us live to see the dawn. He must return to his crypt when the sun rises and fears that I will find his refuge while he is helpless. It is all or nothing for him, he will offer no quarter.” Thulmann studied each face, noting the expressions of resignation and regret, but finding that fear had passed even from Lydia’s pale face. Men who have accepted their own deaths have no place for fear in their hearts.