The Empire Omnibus

by Chris Wraight, Nick Kyme, Darius Hinks

Jakob took the blows with unflinching stoicism, before rising to his feet and glaring down at his smaller brother. ‘This is wrong, Fabian,’ he said calmly. ‘Whatever has passed between us, you must know I can’t let you do this.’ He adopted a fighting stance and gripped his warhammer firmly in both hands. ‘I have to stop you.’

  Fabian let out a long, bitter laugh. ‘I’m not a child anymore, Jakob,’ he said, drawing his sword and mirroring the priest’s pose. ‘And father isn’t here to save you this time.’ As he spoke the word ‘time’ he lunged forward with surprising speed, jamming his blade through a gap at the top of Wolff’s vambrace.

  Wolff staggered backwards, clutching his arm in shock and trying to stem the flow of blood that rushed down his forearm. He quickly recovered and swung his hammer towards Fabian’s head, but the Iron Duke was already gone. Wolff’s weapon connected with nothing but air and the priest’s momentum sent him crashing to his knees.

  Fabian laughed again as he planted a boot into his brother’s back and sent him sprawling across the grass. ‘So slow,’ he chuckled. ‘So old.’

  Wolff leapt to his feet, gasping for breath. ‘You’re a Wolff,’ he cried. ‘Think what that means. Think of your heritage.’

  The smile dropped from Fabian’s gaunt face and his mouth twisted with rage. ‘What would you know of being a Wolff?’ he screamed, sending trails of spit from his scorched lips. ‘How can you dare to speak of our heritage?’ His anger overwhelmed him and he threw back his head, pulling at his own hair and screaming at the stars. ‘You ruined everything! I was going to place our family back at the heart of history, where we belong.’ His voice cracked and squeaked as he glared at Wolff. ‘And you destroyed us. You and your church and your pathetic devotion. You killed our parents, Jakob.’ He lurched across the grass with tears of rage flooding down his cheeks. ‘How can you dare to even speak to me?’ he cried, placing a fierce kick into the side of Wolff’s head.

  Wolff climbed to his feet and pounded the haft of his hammer into Fabian’s breastplate, so that he reeled backwards towards the tree stump. ‘I killed them?’ cried Jakob in a voice that sounded as strangled as his brother’s. ‘What are you talking about? I simply discovered your guilt.’ He levelled a finger at Fabian. ‘You brought shame on our family, brother, not me. You diluted our bloodline with heresy and lies.’

  Fabian was trembling with fury and his elegant fighting stance was completely forgotten as he ran wildly back towards Wolff. ‘You’re nothing but a puppet, Jakob,’ he cried. ‘A puppet of a dying creed.’ He lashed out wildly with his sword.

  Wolff was faster. His hammer smashed the sword aside and connected with Fabian’s head.

  The general’s neck snapped backwards and he let out a gurgled moan, before toppling backwards into the bole of the tree.

  Wolff placed one foot on the tree trunk and raised his hammer for the killing blow.

  He paused.

  Beneath him, Fabian was trying to speak. His head was horribly misshapen where his skull had cracked and his hair was dark with gore, but he still had the strength to reach out: pawing at his brother’s robes in a final, desperate plea: trying to form words with his slack, blood-filled mouth.

  Wolff scowled and raised his hammer a little higher, but still he couldn’t strike. ‘What?’ he muttered finally, stooping so that he could place his ear next to his brother’s mouth.

  Fabian’s eye was full of fear, but as he repeated the words, a faint smile played around his mouth. ‘The blood of a Wolff runs true,’ he whispered, gripping Jakob’s shoulder.

  The priest flinched. To hear their childhood joke, after all this time, filled him with horror. The years fell away and he saw that the bloody wreck before him was still Fabian. This awful fiend was still his brother. ‘I can’t do it,’ he groaned, amazed by his weakness. He freed himself from Fabian’s grip and dropped his warhammer to the grass. Then he stumbled backwards and sat heavily on the ground, with his head in his hands.

  Fabian lay there for a few moments, watching his brother with an odd, pained expression on his face. Then, with a gurgling cough, he pulled himself out of the tree trunk and began to limp towards the far side of the grove.

  He had only taken a few steps, when a crossbow bolt thudded into his back. He stumbled on for a few more feet, reaching out towards the gloomy boughs, then collapsed onto the grass with a final, ragged breath.

  Ratboy approached with the crossbow still in his hand. He stooped and whispered into the corpse’s ear. ‘I’ve regained my faith, general,’ he said.

  Chapter Twenty

  Penitents

  Jakob lay on his back watching the endless Ostland rain. It billowed and swept across the forest in great columns, falling with such force that dozens of rivulets had begun rushing down the hillside, washing over the priest’s battered armour and heading down towards the valley below. A couple of miles away, the ragged fingers of Hagen’s Claw pierced the downpour, reaching up towards the dark belly of the clouds like a drowning man. Jakob narrowed his eyes. Even from this distance he could see figures moving beneath the granite columns. Without their general to drive them onwards, the army was dispersing. The soldiers were making their way back to their families and homes, keen to forget the strangeness of the forest. In a few months the crows and other scavengers would have removed any trace of the dead that were left behind. In time, even the broken weapons would disappear beneath the grass and there would be no sign that the battle had ever taken place.

  Wolff saw faces in the clouds rushing overhead. His brother’s mainly, filled with anguish as he begged for mercy, but there were others too, a whole army of dead souls, all gazing down at him with hatred in their eyes. ‘Sigmar forgive me,’ he muttered.

  ‘He’s waking up,’ came a voice from somewhere nearby.

  Wolff lifted his head and wiped the rain from his eyes. Ratboy and Anna were sat watching him. They both looked awful. Their rain-lashed faces were white with exhaustion and pain. As Anna climbed to her feet and hobbled towards him, Wolff saw that the crossbow bolt was still embedded in her thigh and the lower part of her robe was black with blood. Ratboy was sat just a few feet away and Wolff guessed it was his voice he had heard. He was rocking back and forth, cradling his damaged hand, but there was a look of fierce determination in his eyes that the priest had never seen before. Wolff could hardly recognise him. He seemed to have aged a lifetime in an evening.

  Wolff looked at them both in silence for a few seconds, unsure what to say. He felt somehow naked, ashamed of what they had witnessed during the night. Ashamed that they now knew so much about him. They had not only heard every word of his disgraceful confrontation with Fabian, but they had also seen his weakness and stupidity. It appalled him to think that without Ratboy’s courage, Fabian would have escaped. His brother had made him a fool. ‘How can I have been so blind?’ he said, lowering his head in shame.

  ‘He fooled us all, Jakob,’ said Anna, reaching his side and placing a hand on his shoulder.

  Wolff winced at the pity in her voice. She had never had any love for him, or his beliefs, so her sudden kindness made his skin crawl. What a pathetic figure he must have become if even Anna felt sorry for him.

  ‘None of us could ever have dreamt that he would engineer a whole campaign – a whole war – just to ensnare his own brother,’ she continued. ‘That’s the thinking of a lunatic. How could we have guessed he was working to such an insane plan? To sacrifice so many innocents,’ she stumbled over her words and closed her eyes for a second, ‘beggars belief.’

  ‘I should have seen it,’ said Wolff, recoiling from her touch. ‘I knew him. I should have known.’ He threw himself back on the grass. ‘And everything he said about me was true. I was blinded by rage. I left all those men to die. I’ve betrayed everyone: you, the flagellants, Felhamer, Maximilian, Lüneberg, Gryphius – the entire army. Everyone.’

  ‘Nothing he said was t
rue,’ replied Ratboy, shaking his head fiercely. ‘His whole existence was a lie.’ He climbed to his feet and looked down over the sodden trees. ‘I did lose my nerve for a minute,’ he said, with a note of shame in his voice. ‘I couldn’t recognise you for a while, as we fought through the marauders. I saw something in your face that terrified me.’ He rushed to Wolff’s side and looked at him with panic in his eyes. ‘But Fabian lied. I would never have betrayed you. It was a moment of fear, nothing more.’ He dropped to his knees and looked imploringly at his master. ‘Even if Maximilian hadn’t stopped me, I would’ve come back. As soon as I came to my senses.’ He shook his head. ‘I know I wouldn’t have abandoned you. That’s how I saw that he was nothing more than a cheap trickster. That’s how I knew I had the strength to kill him.’

  Wolff took Ratboy’s hand. ‘I never doubted your courage, Anselm. You’ve nothing to be ashamed of. In fact, you were right to fear me. I could think of nothing but revenge and murder. And even in that one, simple task I failed.’ He turned his face to the rain and closed his eyes. ‘In the end, I couldn’t kill him. If you hadn’t been there he would have gone free. It was my faith that failed, not yours.’

  For a while the only sound came from the rain, drumming against the hillside. None of them even had the strength to crawl back towards the trees, so they just sat there in a disconsolate silence, letting the water soak through their clothes. Wolff was still staring up at the clouds, and still haunted by his brother’s face. In those final seconds, when he saw the fear in Fabian’s eye, a kind of awful epiphany had stayed his hand. It was his own religious zeal that had driven his brother down his dark path – he had suddenly seen that quite clearly. What an unbearable child he must have been: always so perfect, always so pious. Who could blame Fabian for rebelling? Who could blame him for attempting to find his own form of devotion?

  After a while, Anna looked over at him. ‘I think you’re wrong, Brother Wolff.’

  The priest looked over at her with a frown.

  ‘I don’t think it was a lack of faith that stayed your hand,’ she continued. ‘I think it was your humanity.’ She looked at the blood that still covered her hands. ‘We’re just frail mortals, all of us: nothing more, nothing less. But maybe that’s what makes us worth saving?’

  ‘But my brother was a monster! To let him live would have been to loose a great evil on the world. Don’t you see? Every decision I’ve made has led to bloodshed.’ He groaned and clutched his head in his hands. ‘I’m no better than a dumb animal. I don’t even remember half of the battle. In fact, I’m just the same as Fabian. I’ve been deluding myself all this time that I have to save the Empire from his evil, but in reality, I’m no better than he was.’

  Anna shook her head. ‘No, Jakob, Fabian was a monster.’ She grabbed his hand. ‘And the very fact that you let him live proves that you’re not. He had become inhuman but, in the end, after everything, you were still just a man. That’s the difference between the two of you.’ There was an intense urgency in her voice and Ratboy suddenly realised why: she was desperate for Wolff to forgive himself, so that she could do the same.

  As Wolff looked back at her, a tiny glimmer of hope flashed in his black eyes. They held each other’s gaze for a few seconds and then, briefly, the harsh lines of his face relaxed. He gave a barely perceptible nod and squeezed Anna’s hand in gratitude. He closed his eyes and muttered a quiet prayer of thanks that was lost beneath the sound of the rain. Then, when he opened his eyes again, he noticed Anna’s wounded leg and gave her a brusque nod. ‘Let me see if I can I can help,’ he said, spreading his hands over the wound.

  As a soft, healing light began to leak from the priest’s fingertips, Anna looked over at Ratboy with tears in her eyes and a faint smile playing around the corners of her mouth.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Remembrance

  The Great Poppenstein would not be missed. In the few months since his arrival, the villagers of Elghast had quickly grown tired of his tatty costumes and amateurish tricks. Maybe he had been telling the truth when he boasted of his years in the Tsarina’s circus, but if so, his age and alcoholism had long since robbed him of any real skill. His hands had trembled as he had performed even the most basic illusions and his juggling had been positively dangerous. When the conjuror’s body was discovered, half eaten in the back of his bright red cart, no one was much surprised. The bear, Kusma, seemed destined for better things, and the villagers did not really blame him for wanting to dispose of his less talented partner.

  The rain had turned the gardens of remembrance into a treacherous swamp of half-submerged headstones and slippery, flower-strewn paths. A few mourners had turned up, in the vain hope of seeing some of Poppenstein’s celebrated circus friends, but they had soon hurried away again when they realised he had misled them about that too. With war continuing to rage across the province, funerals had begun to lose their appeal as a spectator sport. There was hardly a day that passed without some poor wretch being crammed into the packed cemetery.

  Erasmus gave a grunt of exertion as he stamped the final mound of sod into place. Mud oozed over his sandals and between his toes and he grimaced in disgust. Then he leant back with his hands on his hips until his back gave a satisfying crack. ‘Udo,’ he called to the raven perched on a nearby headstone. ‘Let’s get back inside. This weather will be the death of us.’

  It was already nine, but there was no sign of sunlight breaking through the low clouds. For weeks now, the village had been smothered in a perpetual gloom. News of the Iron Duke’s victory in the north had been greeted with little enthusiasm. Few doubted that it would be long until the next incursion. Even the rumours of his mysterious disappearance held little interest for people so concerned with their own survival. Times were hard and the villagers of Elghast had long since lost their appetite for war. As the priest made his way back through the headstones towards the small temple he pulled his robes a little tighter and gave a long, weary yawn.

  The raven remained perched on the stone and let out a peevish croak.

  Erasmus paused and looked back over his shoulder. ‘Come on, old girl,’ he said, peering through the downpour at the huge bird. ‘I’ve not even had my breakfast yet. Let’s get inside. If I don’t eat some porridge soon, my stomach will digest itself.’

  The bird refused to follow Erasmus, but skittered from side-to-side across the top of the stone instead, letting out another harsh cry.

  ‘Udo!’ snapped the priest as he stomped back through the ankle-deep mud. ‘What on earth’s the matter with you?’ His robes were now completely soaked and he shuddered as several icy trickles ran down his back. Upon reaching Udo he held out his arm and glared at the bird in an angry silence.

  It was only after a few seconds of scowling that he realised they were not alone. There was a figure: a young man, or a boy even, cowering beneath the eaves of a large mausoleum and watching them intently. Erasmus squinted through the rain but could not make out who it was. The mourner was hooded and small, but beyond that he couldn’t make out any details. Elghast was barely more than a hamlet and Erasmus knew most of the villagers by name, but this boy did not look familiar. ‘Were you a friend of the deceased?’ he called to the robed figure.

  There was no reply, so he stepped towards him. ‘I’m afraid the service is over. Is there anything I can help you with?’

  The mourner remained silent.

  Erasmus gave an irritated sigh and walked a little closer. ‘Are your parents in the village?’ he asked, stepping under the roof of the mausoleum.

  As he reached the mourner, Erasmus realised his mistake. The stranger was not a boy at all, he was just incredibly hunched and frail.

  The man lurched forwards and threw back his hood, revealing a gleaming mask of burnt flesh. ‘Heal me,’ he whispered. His lips had been burned away, leaving his mouth in a permanent grin and the rest of his face was scorched beyond all reco
gnition. Erasmus had no doubt who the man was though. Despite the awful scarring that covered his skin, his colourless eyes were unmistakable.

  ‘Sigmar help me,’ gasped Erasmus, staggering backwards as the witch hunter grabbed hold of his robes. ‘Sürman.’

  Udo finally launched herself from the headstone, letting out another croak as she headed back towards the temple, leaving the two men struggling desperately in the shadows.

  Johannes Kreisler kept running. He was not good at it. His fat legs laboured under his heaving frame. A thick layer of sweat pooled across his skin, flicking into the night as he swung his heavy arms. Branches whipped across his face. The marshes were no place to be at night at the best of times. And these were most emphatically not the best of times.

  He ploughed through a sodden patch of bogweed and briars, staggering as he went. His hose and jerkin were ripped and caked with slime. His old heart thumped furiously.

  He risked a backward glance. Nothing. But that didn’t mean they weren’t there. They were silent, right until the moment they came at you. All he could hear was his own frantic panting; all he could see was his frozen breath against the dark night air. Kreisler felt like a great panicked bull, crashing his way through the soft earth, announcing his presence to every horror skulking in the shadows. There were too many of them, scuttling in the gloom like spiders. All it took was one hand to drag him down, one claw to pull him into the thick folds of the cold earth, and he would be forgotten forever. Just like Bloch. And Ulfika. And all the others. He should have known better. You couldn’t go into the marshes. Not since they had come back.

  Kreisler plunged across one of many treacherous pools of oily, freezing water. He no longer felt the sharp chill on his breeches. He was fuelled by fear alone, the kind of feral, energising fear which came from being hunted.

  Suddenly, he saw lights ahead. Brief, strangled hope rose in his gullet. He’d almost made it. Pulling deep into his last reserves of strength, he pushed on. His flat feet sunk far into the sodden earth. For the first time, he began to believe he might get back, that everything might be all right.