The Empire Omnibus

by Chris Wraight, Nick Kyme, Darius Hinks

  Sürman was sprawled on a mortuary slab and all his strength had gone from him. As the witch approached he was powerless to move and he felt impotent fury rising from deep within him. ‘You’ll die, Anna,’ he said, glaring into her black, lidless eyes. ‘Your wound is full of the spores of corruption.’

  The witch spread her wings and laughed, before flying up onto the slab and crouching low over him, so that her mouth was almost touching his. She twisted her screeching voice into words he could understand. ‘What are you talking about Otto?’ she said, holding the knife up to his face. ‘How could you ever find me without your eyes?’

  ‘I have eyes!’ cried Sürman, straining to twist his head out of her reach.

  ‘You did have,’ replied the witch, smiling as she brought the knife down towards him.

  Sürman cried out in fear and clamped his eyes shut. ‘I’ll still find you, witch!’ he cried.

  Anna’s only reply was harsh, bird-like squawks of laughter.

  The expected pain never arrived and after a few moments Sürman opened his eyes to find he was back in the priest’s cell. It was still morning, but the sky outside was clear and bright, and he guessed this was not the same day. He reached up to feel his eyes, and sighed with relief.

  A loud cawing filled the room and Sürman screamed with terror.

  He looked around and saw a large raven, sat on an old chest at the foot of the bed, eyeing him warily.

  Erasmus burst into the room with a bloody, curved knife in his hand and a look of dismay on his face. ‘What’s happened?’ he cried, placing the knife on the chair and clutching Sürman’s hand. ‘Are you alright?’

  ‘There’s a bird in here!’ exclaimed Sürman, crawling fearfully beneath the sheets. ‘She tried to steal my eyes.’

  The priest laughed gently and patted Sürman’s arm. ‘That’s just Udo. She won’t hurt you.’ He held out his arm, and the bird flew across the room and perched on its master. ‘Come on, old girl. You’re scaring our guest.’ With another smile at Sürman, he left the room, taking his bird with him.

  Sürman shivered. His body was covered with cold sweat. ‘He’s poisoned me,’ he muttered to himself, pulling the sheets up to his chin, and looking warily around the room. ‘Another witch. Just like Anna Fleck.’ He heard a distant door slam and the sound of voices talking somewhere on the floor below. ‘They’re all trying to kill me,’ he moaned. ‘In league with the witch.’ He noticed Erasmus’s knife on the chair and smiled. He pulled himself to the edge of the bed. His limbs trembled with the effort, but he wasn’t sure how long he had and his fear gave him strength. With one hand on the cold stone floor, he reached out to the chair. ‘Got it,’ he gasped, clutching the knife in his hand. With a grunt, he pushed himself back onto the bed and hid the blade beneath the blankets. With a smile of relief, he lowered his head onto the pillow, and quickly slipped back into his strange dreams.

  ‘Otto,’ said Erasmus, gently shaking him awake. ‘I have news.’

  Sürman lurched into a sitting position and groaned, looking around at the room in confusion. ‘What’s that?’ he said, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

  Erasmus laughed at his sudden movements. ‘You seem stronger,’ he exclaimed, handing him a bowl of stew. ‘Try and eat some more of this. You threw up most of the last bowl.’

  Sürman took the food from the priest and began to eat, surprised by his own hunger. ‘The last bowl?’ he asked, eying the priest suspiciously. ‘What last bowl?’

  Erasmus chuckled. ‘Don’t you remember?’

  Sürman shook his head, spilling a little of the broth down his stubbly chin.

  ‘You’ve been here for nearly a week now, my friend,’ said Erasmus. ‘I thought I’d lost you a while back, but you seem to be a lot better today.’ He gestured to the quickly emptying bowl. ‘I’d take that a bit slower though.’

  Sürman flinched as the raven flew into the room and perched at the end of the bed.

  ‘Don’t worry, Udo won’t hurt you,’ laughed the priest. He adopted a serious expression. ‘Anyway, as I was saying, I have news.’

  Sürman grunted, without lifting his face up from the bowl.

  ‘I’ve been talking to my brother, Bertram, and he tells me that your servant, Adelman, is still in the village.’

  Sürman paused with the spoon halfway to his mouth, and a piece of unchewed meat hanging from between his teeth.

  ‘Bertram is a constable of the watch, you see.’ Erasmus frowned. ‘I wonder sometimes if he’s really the right man for the job. Some of his decisions seem a little harsh to me.’ He leant forward and lowered his voice a little. ‘He’s not really the brightest–’

  ‘Adelman!’ snarled Sürman, sending the piece of meat flying from his mouth. ‘Where is he? Where are my belongings?’

  Erasmus looked blankly at him, confused for a moment. ‘Oh, yes, your servant.’ He frowned. ‘Well, it’s a sad tale, really. Thinking that you were dead, he took a room at the Bull’s Head, and has been there for days, drowning his sorrows.’

  ‘What about my things?’

  ‘Well, according to Bertram, he arrived with two heavily laden saddlebags, and as far as anyone can tell, they’ve never left his room. I told Bertram not to ask too widely though, for fear of stirring up interest in the value of your possessions.’

  Sürman sank back into the bed, trying to still the fevered visions that kept seizing hold of him. Erasmus had no intention of letting him live, he saw that quite clearly. The old priest would simply keep poisoning him until he passed away in his sleep. Then he would send his brother to murder Adelman and claim the relics and books for himself. He hugged his frail body and his powerlessness tormented him. A vision of Anna filled his thoughts, mocking him as she strode away from the pyre. The thought that he would die and she would live was too much. His eyes rolled back into their sockets and his muscles began to spasm as a kind of fit came over him. Suddenly, he remembered something and slipped a hand down beneath the blankets. He smiled as his hand closed around the cold metal of the knife.

  ‘Are you alright?’ asked Erasmus.

  Sürman gave him a strained smile. ‘Tell me,’ he gasped, trying to hide his growing excitement. ‘How did you heal me?’

  Erasmus leant back in his chair and shrugged modestly. ‘Oh, it was simple herb lore really, nothing mysterious. Long ago, before I was even an initiate, I used to dabble in such things. I just applied a poultice: a little brooklime, mandrake and figwort, and then an infusion of Queen of the Meadow. Then nothing more than rest and a light broth to keep your strength up until the fever passed.’

  Sürman nodded. ‘And how did you learn this “herb lore”?’

  ‘Ah, well, my mother was,’ he laughed, ‘well, I suppose you’d call her a kind of wise woman. She knew all sorts of things: weird folk legends, and strange rites; you know the kind of thing.’ He shook his head and looked wistfully out of the window. ‘Sometimes I wonder if we’ve lost something, by neglecting all the teachings of the Old Faith.’

  ‘Old Faith?’ asked Sürman, continuing to smile. ‘Old gods do you mean?’

  ‘Well yes, I suppose so.’ Erasmus shrugged. ‘There’s often a lot of wisdom in those more ancient forms of worship.’

  ‘Sorry,’ muttered Sürman, tightening his grip on the knife handle. ‘Could you come a little closer, I can’t quite hear you.’

  Erasmus frowned. ‘Are your ears infected too?’ he asked, leaning towards Sürman.

  Sürman’s smile spread into a wolfish grin as the priest drew nearer. He slowly slid the knife up from beneath the blankets.

  A terrible screeching noise filled the room and Erasmus jumped up from his chair.

  Sürman cursed under his breath and slid the knife back down the bed.

  ‘What’s the matter, old girl?’ cried Erasmus, dashing across the room to the raven. The bird was hopping back
and forth in a frenzy and cawing repeatedly at Sürman.

  Heavy footsteps pounded up the stairs and a large man blundered into the room. He was a towering, lantern-jawed brute, wearing a filthy buckskin coat that could barely restrain the proud swell of his stomach. His freckled, hairy forearms were about as wide as Sürman’s waist, and the witch hunter groaned with frustration as his chance for escape slipped away from him.

  ‘What’re you playing at, brother?’ the man barked at the priest. Erasmus was still trying to placate the raven, however, and not waiting for a reply, the newcomer strode past him and approached the bed. He grinned down at Sürman and enveloped his frail hand in his own meaty paw. ‘Pleased to make your acquaintance, milord. Erasmus tells me you’re a priest of some kind.’

  Sürman’s stomach knotted with anger and he remained silent, glowering up at the man from the bed.

  ‘Don’t say much, does he?’ said the man, continuing to grip Sürman’s hand. ‘Is he a bit deaf?’ He moved his broad, florid face a little closer and bellowed into Sürman’s ear. ‘I’m Bertram. The village constable.’ He patted a short wooden club attached to his belt. ‘You might say I’m the Emperor’s legal representative around here.’ He loosed his grip and smiled proudly. ‘I’m the one who’s been investigating the whereabouts of your missing servant, Adelman.’

  ‘Get me out of here,’ gasped Sürman suddenly, sitting up in the bed and casting a fearful look at the priest. ‘Your brother’s trying to kill me.’

  The constable paused, and frowned at his brother. ‘Is he still wrong in the head?’

  Erasmus gave Sürman an embarrassed smile as he stepped to his brother’s side. ‘I mentioned that the poultice I applied might have confused you a little. It’s not that you’re–’

  ‘Take me to Adelman,’ cried Sürman, grabbing Bertram’s arm. ‘I must speak with him as a matter of urgency.’ He gave a groan of exertion and climbed out of the bed, hanging on to Bertram for support as he stood before them, trembling and naked. ‘I’m surrounded by witches!’ he cried, spraying spit into the constable’s face. ‘You must get me out of here.’

  ‘Calm yourself, Otto,’ said Erasmus, trying to usher him back into the bed.

  Sürman batted him aside with surprising strength and looked at Bertram with desperation in his rolling eyes. ‘I demand you take me to the Bull’s Head. There’s a powerful enchantress at large in this region.’ He slapped the hammer on his hollow stomach. ‘Anyone who fails to assist me shall be considered an accomplice.’ He let go of the constable and managed to stand unaided as he levelled a finger at him. ‘Are you going to help me, or should I consider you an occultist too?’

  Doubt flickered across Bertram’s simple face. He looked at his brother, but Erasmus looked as anxious as he did. ‘Well, father,’ he shrugged, ‘if you really wish to leave, of course I’ll help. It’s just…’ He looked at the bandages around Sürman’s shoulder. ‘Are you sure you’re strong enough?’

  Sürman swayed a little on his spindly legs as he turned towards Erasmus, who was hovering nervously by the doorway. ‘I have my suspicions, priest,’ he snapped, ‘but fortunately for you, I have more important concerns at present. Fetch me some clothes and let me leave immediately, and I will try and forget your talk of “old gods” for a little while.’

  Erasmus’s face drained of colour, as he finally realised the nature of the man he had been treating. ‘Y-Yes, of course’ he stammered, rushing from the room.

  Sürman’s feverish mind was still lurching in and out of reality as he staggered into the Bull’s Head. He peered uncertainly into the lounge of the tavern and flinched at the sight of the jostling figures moving through the smoky candlelight. Most of the villagers were crowded around a huge inglenook fireplace, warming themselves against the cold, drizzly evening that was tapping against the mullioned windows. They were simple farmers and woodsmen mostly, but to Sürman, the raging fire seemed to be melting the flesh from their faces, dripping rubbery strings of skin into their tankards. His stomach turned at the sight and he felt his legs starting to give way. He spotted a chair in a dark corner and collapsed into it, his head spinning. He closed his eyes for a few moments and tried to calm his breathing.

  ‘Is everything alright, sir?’ someone asked.

  Sürman opened his eyes to see a barrel-chested man, clearly built from the same mould as Bertram. He had a long, greying beard though, and from his apron and the empty tankards in his hands, Sürman guessed he was the innkeeper.

  ‘No,’ muttered Sürman, pulling himself up in his seat and sneering at the man. ‘No, it is not. My wretched servant is staying at your fleapit of an inn and every penny he’s spending is pilfered from my purse.’

  The innkeeper’s face flushed with anger, but he refrained from acknowledging Sürman’s insult. ‘What name’s he travelling under?’

  Sürman grimaced as he noticed the man’s skin growing translucent, revealing the pulsing organs and arteries beneath. He shook his head and looked again, to find the hallucination had passed. ‘The useless dog is called Adelman.’

  The innkeeper gave a brusque nod and stormed away.

  Adelman had once been a stevedore, working on the docks in Altdorf. His neck was as thick as a tree trunk and his arms were like knotted steel, but Sürman had often wondered if he might have taken a blow to the head in his youth. As he rushed through the busy inn towards Sürman’s table, his mouth was hung open with the same perpetual look of slack-jawed confusion he always wore. ‘Master,’ he exclaimed, dropping to his knees at Sürman’s feet and hugging his legs. As he did this, his broad shoulders connected with the next table and sent it toppling over, scattering empty jugs and plates across the dusty floor.

  ‘Watch yourself, you oaf,’ hissed Sürman, batting his servant around the head until he loosed his legs and looked up at him. It always seemed to Sürman that Adelman’s features had fallen into the middle of his face somehow. His eyes were nestled too close together, on either side of a small snub nose, surrounded by a vast expanse of cheekbone. And as he smiled, Adelman revealed a row of gleaming, tombstone teeth.

  ‘You’re not dead,’ he said in a bass rumble.

  ‘Quick witted as ever, I see,’ muttered Sürman. ‘Are my things safe?’

  Adelman nodded eagerly. ‘They’re locked in my room. Shall I fetch them?’

  Sürman shook his head. ‘If you’ve not spent all of my money on these luxurious lodgings, would you be so good as to fetch me some food first?’

  As Adelman rushed enthusiastically off to the bar, Sürman tried again to take in his surroundings. Seeing a familiar face, even one as ridiculous as Adelman’s, had reassured him a little, and he felt his grasp on reality tightening. Maybe the priest’s poison was finally wearing off? The woodsmen and labourers gathered round the fire were little more than shifting silhouettes, but from the raucous sound of their laughter, he could tell they had been drinking for hours. Harvest time was long past, and the woodsmen probably spent as little time in the forest as possible these days. Around the edges of the long, rectangular lounge, various other groups were huddled in the shadows, telling tales of the war and attempting to lift each other’s spirits for a while.

  The only group he could see clearly was sat at a table directly opposite. Several young farmhands were crowded eagerly around an older woman, who was obviously delighted with all the attention. She was dressed in a gaudy array of flowery silks and cheap trinkets, and every now and then she would lift her heavily made-up face to the beamed ceiling and burst into trilling song. She was obviously some kind of entertainer and by her odd, lilting accent, Sürman guessed that she was not from the province.

  As he waited for his food, Sürman found himself listening along with the spellbound youths as she spoke.

  ‘Obermarshall Hugo von Gryphius is the kind of man who appreciates the charms of an older woman,’ she said, batting her lashes and pursing he
r scarlet lips, as her audience erupted into a chorus of laughter and lewd comments. ‘But not only that,’ she continued, adopting a more serious expression. ‘He appreciates the arts in all their forms. He employs actors and musicians from every corner of the Old World.’ She leant across the table, distracting the boys with a brief display of her cleavage. ‘In fact, he wrote to the academy at Kleinberg, personally requesting my presence in his entourage.’

  ‘But what’s this “obermarshall” doing in Ostland?’ asked one of the farmhands.

  ‘He sees warfare as just another one of the great arts,’ she explained. ‘He heard that your province was battling against a terrible foe, and he was eager to join the performance.’

  The farmhands’ laughter stalled as they recalled the war. ‘I’m not sure it will be as much fun as he imagines,’ muttered one, taking a deep swig of his ale.

  Adelman reappeared with a plate of nondescript meat and some grey bread. Sürman grimaced at it, before starting to shovel down the hot food. Adelman began to speak, but Sürman signalled for him to be silent and continued listening to the singer.

  ‘So why are you no longer travelling with his army, then?’ asked another youth.

  The singer curled her lip with distaste. ‘He found another distraction.’ She cried with disbelief. ‘A priestess of Shallya no less.’

  Sürman paused, with a fork of steaming offal hovering near his mouth.

  ‘A priestess?’ exclaimed one of the farmhands. ‘What kind of entertainment is he expecting from her?’

  The boys all burst into hysterical laughter, and the singer had to raise her voice to be heard. ‘He’s obsessed with her, for some reason.’ She shook her head. ‘And she hasn’t even got any hair!’

  This last comment was greeted with such howls of laughter that even the innkeeper looked over to see what was so funny.

  ‘What happened to her hair?’ asked one of the farmhands.

  ‘Well, apparently, she fell foul of some kind of witch hunter and he tried to burn her to death.’

  The farmhands’ laughter tailed off again at the mention of a witch hunter. Their guffaws became quiet chuckles as they wiped the tears from their eyes.