[Warhammer] - Zavant

by Gordon Rennie - (ebook by Undead)

  “That’s what I thought at first, before I subjected the parchment to certain alchemical procedures.”

  “And what did you discover it to be?” asked Himerius, the nervous, testy edge in his voice clearly evident.

  “The residue of some kind of unguent containing minute but distinct traces of the substance known as warpstone,” answered Konniger.

  The effect of his words was instantaneous. Himerius recoiled as if the parchment in Konniger’s hand had been transformed into a live and poisonous serpent. The two monks behind him similarly backed hurriedly away from Konniger and the object he was holding. Kree mumbled himself in prayer and made the protective sign of the hammer across himself.

  “Are you insane, man!” hissed Himerius, staring at Konniger and the parchment in horror. “You brought that accursed stuff here, into a place consecrated to the sacred glory of Lord Sigmar?”

  “I have merely brought it back to where I believe it originated from,” answered Konniger calmly. “As to its dreadful effects of physical transmutation, I assure you that you are perfectly safe. Unless, of course, like poor Brother Vallus, you spend considerable time in unwitting contact with the stuff. He must have absorbed it into his body through the skin of his fingertips as he spent long hours studying the book, constantly touching the surface of its pages as he leafed through it to familiarise himself with it before he got down to the arduous business of faithfully copying and transcribing its contents. Of course, since the margins of the pages he was touching had been carefully prepared with an unguent paste containing elements of warpstone, he was never to know that in carrying out his faithful duty to Sigmar he was in fact damning his body and soul with the taint of Chaos.”

  “This is monstrous, Konniger,” breathed Himerius. “You stand there and accuse us… accuse this sacred monastery of—”

  “Let me tell you what is monstrous, Brother Himerius,” bellowed Konniger, slamming his gloved hand down on the desk, making the startled abbot jump. “The physical mutations I saw on that poor man’s body could indeed be described as monstrous. The agonies he must have endured as he sought to purge himself of the taint through the most painful and protracted death imaginable I would also deem to be monstrous. And the deliberate attempt to pollute the seat of the Holy Church with the corrupted taint of Chaos I would not hesitate to call not merely monstrous, but utterly diabolic in nature.”

  Each use of the word “monstrous” was accompanied by another emphatic thump of Konniger’s hand on the surface of the desk. On “diabolic” he swept his hand violently across the desk, sending everything upon it flying down onto the stone floor in a cascade of spilled parchment rolls, pots of pigments and paints and illuminators’ quills and brushes. Himerius leapt up, ashen-faced, and stared at Konniger in fright and disbelief. Kree was still praying and genuflecting while Rynok glared angrily at the sage-detective, half stepping forward as if about to attack him.

  Konniger paused for a moment, allowing the tension of the moment to hang there in the air, and then stepped back himself, taking off the now tainted gloves and dropping both them and the parchment into the box, which he flicked shut with a heavy clang. He looked meaningfully at the three holy brethren.

  “The source of the contagion lies here, within Alt Krantzstein. This much is beyond dispute. That is why I have been sent here, and that is why Captain Gustav and his company of Templars have been sent to accompany me. There is much amiss here, of that I am certain. The captain and his men have been given certain orders of their own regarding your compliance in this matter. I assure you, gentlemen, that it would be better for all concerned if we conducted the investigation my way rather than theirs.”

  “What is it you want to know?” asked Kree, all too aware that, as guardian of the monastery’s library, the finger of suspicion must clearly be pointing directly at him.

  “Well, to begin with, you can tell me why there have apparently been no deaths here during these last seventeen years,” asked Konniger, the abrupt change of subject catching the three monks unawares, just as he intended.

  “The monastery graveyard,” he prompted. “The last interment there took place at the turn of the century.”

  “What are you accusing us of now, Konniger? Selling our souls to the Malign Powers in return for eternal life? Cannibalism, perhaps? You think we have taken to eating the dead?” It was Rynok, the sneering, angry tone in his voice shocking in its intensity. It was Himerius who acted quickly to defuse the situation.

  “If you have been to the graveyard, Herr Konniger, then you will no doubt have seen that we lost many good and faithful brethren during a series of disease outbreaks here at Alt Krantzstein in the years prior to the turn of the century. You will also perhaps remember that the winter of 2500 was a particularly harsh one, nowhere more so than here. The ground was frozen solid. It was impossible to dig graves for our departed brethren, and so we instead interred their remains in the crypts beneath the monastery, as had once been the custom of our Order in past centuries, and has since become our custom again.”

  Konniger ruminated on this information. “I see. These crypts, I assume that—”

  He was interrupted by a clamour from the main library chamber beyond. There were angry shouts and the clash of metal armour. The door burst open and Gustav and two of his Templars entered, faces grim and weapons drawn. Gustav looked directly at Konniger.

  “One of my men is missing—Detlef Plievier. He was on watch duty in the upper dormitory levels last night. With your permission, Herr Konniger, I will tear this wretched hole apart from top to bottom, if need be, until I find him.”

  The Templar commander was as good as his word. Within half an hour, he and his men had begun to turn the monastery upside down with typical Templar efficiency. The entire population of the monastery had been rounded up—almost two score of holy brethren, according to the private headcount that Vido conducted, a figure which tallied with Konniger’s estimate of the night before—and was sequestered in the refectory hall, kept under watchful guard while three-man groups of Templars conducted a noisy but well organised search of the monastery’s many chambers.

  Vido and Konniger worked with Gustav in the search, Himerius and Rynok reluctantly accompanying them. Kree had been permitted to accompany another Templar squad in their search of the library, as he was clearly anxious to ensure that as little harm as possible came to the place and its valuable contents. The sounds of casual destruction echoed through the monastery’s stone stairwells and passages, evidence of the brutally direct methods the Templars were employing in their search. Locked doors were smashed open. Storage rooms were ransacked, their contents pulled apart by angry and impatient Templars. Stone walls were struck with axe blades and warhammers, and wood panels were reduced to splintered ruins in the search for possible hidden boltholes and secret passageways.

  The Templars’ search was brutal and swift in its efficiency and thoroughness. The fact that they were themselves holy warriors in the oath-sworn service of the Church of Sigmar did not in any way seem to lessen the levels of destruction they were willing to visit upon the holy structure of the monastery in the course of their search. In matters regarding the recovery of their missing comrade, they were clearly soldiers first and holy brethren second.

  “What’s in here?” commanded Gustav, pointing impatiently at a heavy, metal-bound door that blocked the arched passageway ahead of them. The door was secured with a thick, rust-corroded padlock. A Templar man-at-arms experimentally rattled the door and padlock, and found them both to be firmly age-sealed shut.

  “Nothing of any import,” answered Rynok. “As you can see for yourself, it hasn’t been opened in years.”

  “I won’t ask you again,” said Gustav slowly and deliberately, holding the point of his sword to the cellarer’s throat. “My man is still missing, and I’m fast running out of patience, monk. So tell me now, what’s behind that door?”

  “It’s the entrance to the west tower,” interceded H
imerius, “but it’s been closed up for years—it was one of the parts of the monastery abandoned during the plague years. It is also a tomb of sorts. My predecessor in the office of abbot of this place was the blessed Radolphus. Yes, Herr Konniger, I see you recognise his holy and venerable name. He was one of those afflicted with the plague and, to spare the monastery from its terrible curse, he and the other afflicted brethren entered the chapel then he ordered the entrance to the tower to be sealed up, and the contagion sealed up with them. A terrible and noble sacrifice, to be sure, but we felt that—”

  Impatient with the monk’s tale, Gustav gave the briefest of nods to one of his men, and the abbot’s words were quickly drowned out by the impact of the Templar’s axe-blade against the surface of the door. A few hefty blows, and the job was done. Its lock and hinges smashed, the door leaned drunkenly into the passageway, jammed into the buckled wood of the doorframe. Gustav and one of his men took firm hold of it and pulled, tearing it free of the remains of its frame.

  Both men quickly stepped back in surprise.

  There was nothing beyond the door. Or, at least, no passageway or chamber, merely the solid barrier of a bricked-up wall.

  “You see now?” said Himerius. “The blessed Radolphus’ commands were most specific. It was only through his wisdom and sacrifice that the rest of the monastery was spared from the further ravages of the plague.”

  Gustav stepped forward, running a gauntleted hand over the rough surface of the brickwork, his touch dislodging a few loose flakes of stone and crumbling fragments of mortar. It was as the monk said, he reluctantly told himself; the brickwork was solid and clearly many years old. Whatever had happened to Plievier, he wasn’t behind here.

  Still he hesitated, disquieted by the existence of the unexpected barrier. “If you want us to knock through that, Herr Captain, we’ll need something heavier,” ventured the axeman Templar, perhaps picking up on his commander’s intent. “We’ll have to fetch Beck or Shindel up here with their warhammers, or at least see what kind of tools they might have in whatever passes for a smithy shop in this dump.”

  Gustav turned round, still wondering what the best course of action would be. In the end, the decision was taken out of his hands.

  Vido’s keen halfling ears heard the sound first: the urgent clanging of a brass bell from somewhere outside. The others heard it a split-second later. Gustav and his men began sprinting off along the passageway away from the bricked-up doorway, weapons at the ready, just as another Templar came running up a stairwell to meet them, bringing urgent news to the Templar commander.

  “The call to arms, Herr Captain! It’s Ehrenburg at the main gate, sir. He’s sighted more of those beast-things, out on the edge of the tree-line. There’s a whole pack of them, maybe a couple of warbands, and they look like they’re massing for an attack!”

  Konniger and the others were gone, hurrying off down the passageway after the Templars. Vido paused for a moment, sparing a troubled glance at the stone barrier that had lain concealed behind the locked door. Curious, but without truly knowing why, he laid the side of his head against the chill, stone surface of the wall, pressing an ear against it and listening.

  For a moment, he fancied he heard a faint noise from behind it.

  For all the world, it sounded like the distant buzzing of flies.

  He stepped back, shaking his head in rueful wonder, knowing that he had probably just heard a stray wind current from elsewhere in the monastery, or, and far more likely, the product of his own imagination.

  “What are you playing at, Vido?” he impatiently asked himself aloud. “Listening for ghosts and spectres when it sounds like there’s half the legions of Chaos gathering at the gate?” And, with that, he scurried off in pursuit of Konniger and the others.

  Six

  “How many of them are there do you think, Herr Konniger?”

  “Four, perhaps even five different warbands. If you know how to, you can differentiate between them by the tones of their tribal war-cries.”

  They were up on the small battlement above the main gate, looking out at the cleared area around the monastery. Beyond that, at the forest’s edge, they could see the shapes of many beastmen and, occasionally, other Chaos things milling about in angry, noisy groups.

  Waasen, Gustav’s second-in-command, looked incredulously at the sage-detective. “You can tell that just by listening to those Sigmar-damned farmyard sounds they’re making?”

  “Oh, I can tell rather more than that, sergeant,” Konniger replied, pointing at the tree-line. “The ones on the left flank are followers of the Lord of the Blood Throne, while those over there on the far right are servants of the Pleasure God. They’ve been put on opposite flanks to prevent them from instantly attacking each other, but those roars they’re making are them exchanging Chaos battle taunts and death-oaths.”

  There was a sudden high-pitched, piercing shriek from the tree-line, the noise weirdly unsettling in its intensity. It sounded at first like a terrified animal bleat, then quickly turned into an all too human-sounding scream. The Templars on the battlement cast nervous glances at each oilier, some of them crossing themselves with the protective blessing of the hammer of Sigmar as the last dying echoes of the scream faded away.

  “A ritual blood sacrifice,” murmured Konniger. “They have killed one of their own. Probably one of the lesser bray caste, or possibly even a human turnskin, judging by the sound of those screams. It’s unlikely that they would wish to sacrifice one of their stronger and fiercer gor or ungor warrior caste. The shamans will inspect the creature’s innards—torn from its still-living body preferably—and advise the warband commanders accordingly as to the Chaos Gods’ wishes for the deployment of their servants in the coming battle.”

  “How long do you think we have?” asked Gustav, his eyes never leaving the enemy battle-lines now forming up under the distant tree canopy. He had known something of Konniger’s reputation before accompanying him on this mission, of course, but the scholar’s calm resolve and depth of knowledge in so many different fields had proved to be a real revelation. More and more, Gustav found himself turning to this strange sage-detective for aid and advice.

  Sigmar forgive me, he smiled grimly to himself, but if anyone had told me ten days ago that I’d be looking to some damned bookworm for advice on battle tactics, I’d probably take the blade of my sword to the lying rogue’s throat…

  Konniger considered his answer. “If it were any normal foe we faced, I’d say we had until nightfall. They probably don’t realise just how few missile weapons we have. Any competent commander would want to cross the open ground between the forest edge and these walls under cover of darkness, and a delay until nightfall would give them more time to prepare any siege weapons they might have. At the very least they would be able to fell a few trees and construct a simple battering ram for the gates.”

  Gustav looked shrewdly at the older man. “But we do not face any normal, sane foe, do we, Herr Konniger. So how long do we have?”

  Konniger’s expression was grave. “With so many rival and mutually hostile warbands brought into proximity with each other, the warband chieftains will not be able to maintain discipline in their battle-lines for very much longer. They must soon loose their troops into battle, or see those troops turn on each other instead. Prepare your men, captain. The enemy will attack at some point within the next hour, I would judge.”

  True to Konniger’s word, the beastman horde attacked some thirty minutes later. However, under Konniger’s supervision, the monastery’s defenders had not been lax in that short interval.

  The beastmen charged roaring and bleating up the steeply-inclined road towards the monastery gates, across the open ground between the forest and the monastery, trampling over what was left of the monks’ few sparsely-growing crops. At the forefront of the assault raced a line of smaller, stunted-looking beastmen warriors, immediately distinguishable by their lack of horns.

  “Bray,” Konniger
explained to the defenders. “The smaller, weaker caste of beastmen creatures. They’re used as living shields by their larger, more dominant horned brethren.”

  “Open fire!” ordered Gustav, pointing at the oncoming lines of beastmen. “And remember what Herr Konniger said—only put a quarrel into it if it has horns on its head.”

  The monastery battlements provided a perfect elevated firing position, and there was little cover in the ground the beastmen were charging across.

  Despite his oath of fealty to the Church of Sigmar and the Order of the Red Griffon, Gustav once again inwardly cursed the antiquated Church laws that forbade holy Templar brethren from using anything as low and base as a bow or crossbow. Gustav was enough of a professional soldier, and had fought in enough battles alongside regular Empire troops, to know the worth of missile fire in any military engagement. A sweep of arrows, or, better still, a volley of cannonade or musket fire, would decimate the beastman charge, he knew, but as a Templar commander he was not permitted to arm his brethren with such unworthy or unholy weaponry. All he had were half a dozen men-at-arms—the Order’s non-knightly rank-and-file soldiery—armed with medium crossbows.

  Still, he would put them to what use he could. He glanced over towards them, watching as Konniger directed their aim, picking out specific targets for the one or two marksmen, ensuring that they held their fire until the main body of the beastman force was within effective range of the crossbowmen’s weapons.

  At his first command, the pitifully small volley of crossbow quarrels flew over the heads of the line of bray skirmishers, finding more satisfying targets amongst the packed mass of horned warriors following closely behind. Even over the tumult of the horde’s bestial battle-cries, Gustav heard roars and bellows of angry pain from amongst the ranks of the larger creatures. As the wave of the battle charge carried on towards the walls of the monastery, he saw three quarrel-struck beastman corpses lying prone and unmoving on the ground, trampled under the hooves of their fellow creatures, left in the wake of the charging horde.