The Empire Omnibus

by Chris Wraight, Nick Kyme, Darius Hinks

A rising dread filled his stomach. Something was wrong.

  He ran, ran with fear at his heels.

  Bursting into the light, he entered another room. There were seven bodies chained to the walls, hung up, feet dangling limply above the ground.

  A spasm of fear hit Mikael like a physical blow and he recoiled. They wore the armour of Templars of Morr, except that each had his face covered by black shrouds.

  Heart thumping Mikael reached out, suddenly within touching distance of one of the bodies and pulled the shroud away.

  A pale death mask regarded him beneath. It was Kalten. The templar opened his eyes.

  ‘Mikael,’ he moaned with a voice from beyond the grave…

  Mikael screamed. Pain burned in him anew and he realised he was awake.

  A strong hand held him still as he shook with the night terror, a fevered sweat drenching his clothes.

  ‘Rest easy,’ Sigson’s voice was calm and soothing as he crouched beside him, ‘You are safe.’

  ‘Sigson,’ Mikael rasped, breathing hard, ‘I had a dream.’

  Sigson was abruptly concerned. As the god of dreams, as well as the guardian of the dead, Morr bestowing a vision upon one of his templars was oft portentous and should not be ignored.

  ‘What did you see, Mikael?’

  ‘Where are the others?’

  ‘Valen and Vaust are still recuperating, the fever has passed but they are still bed-ridden,’ Sigson explained, nonplussed.

  Mikael grabbed Sigson by his jerkin. His hands trembled, his voice infected with urgency. ‘No Kalten, Reiner, Halbranc – where are they?’

  ‘Halbranc headed into town a few moments ago, he was leaving by the time I entered your chambers.’

  Mikael released the warrior priest and got up from his bed, biting back the pain as he strapped on his armour waiting nearby.

  Sigson rose and held Mikael’s shoulder.

  ‘What did you see, Mikael?’ he urged, gripping tightly so Mikael would listen.

  The young templar looked directly into the warrior priest’s eyes and spoke as intently as he could.

  ‘I saw death, Sigson. The death of our entire company.’

  Sigson’s face grew dark as the resonance of what Mikael said struck him. ‘I’m coming with you.’

  Mikael and Sigson ran through cobbled streets, rain battering against their armour with such fury it was as if nature itself had come to oppose them. They drove on through the downpour, with not a soul in sight until they reached the market square.

  Two figures, one huge, the other small and slight by comparison, conversed beyond a wall of driving rain. As they got closer, Mikael recognised the immense form of Halbranc and the wiry mortician, Merrick, in front of him.

  Halbranc turned to them both when he saw them.

  ‘What are you doing out here?’ he bellowed against the raucous downpour. Overhead, thunder boiled and lightning cracked the sky.

  ‘The others,’ Mikael cried back. ‘Where are they?’ They were forced close, so they could hear each other.

  ‘At the tanners. Lothmar attacked you in the street, you tore off his mask,’ Halbranc said, spitting away the water washing over his mouth as he spoke. ‘I was headed to them, when I was stopped.’ He looked over at Merrick.

  The mortician looked half-drowned. His face blue and pale with cold, he clutched a thick but sodden cloak around his body, and shivered. ‘Another victim has been found,’ he explained, leaning in to speak, voice shaking. ‘He is alive and has been taken to the mortuary. The watchmen thought he was dead,’ he cried.

  ‘They found him in the street?’ Mikael asked, confused.

  Merrick nodded, water trickling rapidly down his face.

  Raging wind filled the silence. They all breathed hard in the dire conditions. Mikael regarded Merrick closely, before he turned to Halbranc.

  ‘Go with him,’ Mikael said. ‘We’ll meet you there, once we’ve found the others.’

  Halbranc nodded, grateful to be on his way and getting out of the terrible weather.

  The party broke up, Halbranc and Merrick heading toward the house of Morr, Mikael and Sigson to the tanners. None were aware of a fifth person on the streets, braving the rain. He watched the entire scene and sticking to the shadows, followed the two templars.

  The door to Lothmar’s tannery swung open on creaking hinges. Buffeted by the wind and rain, it slammed hard against the frame before being sucked open again.

  Mikael forged inside, ahead of Sigson, sword drawn.

  Darkness surrounded him but Mikael could tell the shop was empty. He remembered the archway towards the rear.

  ‘There is another chamber beyond that arch,’ he whispered to Sigson, who crept behind him.

  ‘I see it.’

  The two men moved carefully in the gloom toward the archway. As they reached it, a cold draft wafted up at them, stone steps descending into a cellar below.

  The swinging door slammed hard against the frame behind them, rupturing the silence. They turned as one, weapons raised, but there was no one there.

  Mikael blew out his nerves, and, with a glance at Sigson, headed down the steps. A crack in the roof above threw a shaft of moonlight within.

  A body slumped in the stairwell was illuminated, a sword in its hand.

  It was Reiner.

  Mikael felt dizzy and for a moment thought he would fall, but gathered himself and raced to the bottom.

  He lifted his captain’s chin. Reiner’s eyes opened a crack. There was an ugly bruise upon his forehead and a bloody gash where he’d been struck.

  ‘He was already dead,’ he mumbled, semi-conscious.

  A door was ahead. It was open, and dark within.

  ‘Where is Kalten?’ Mikael asked, his sense of dread growing.

  ‘I don’t know, we were ambushed.’

  Mikael looked back, Sigson was behind him.

  The two of them entered the room. A lantern was hooked up just inside. Oil hissed as Mikael ignited it and yellow light washed over the room.

  Just beyond the lambent glow of the lantern, Lothmar lay dead, his throat slit, mask ripped callously from his face, exposing his scars. Mikael crouched over his body. The wan light revealed the pallor of Lothmar’s skin, white like alabaster. His right eye, unblemished from the accident was pink.

  ‘He was no vampire,’ Mikael said, voice tinged with regret.

  ‘An albino,’ Sigson said, crouched next to him. ‘But if not this poor soul, then why cut them?’

  ‘A ritual perhaps, or maybe the murders were meant to look like Lothmar’s work, or that of a butcher, with wrists and ankles tied.’

  ‘There might be a way to know for certain,’ Sigson said. ‘Move aside.’ Sigson leant over Lothmar’s body and muttered a prayer beneath his breath. The air tingled as he invoked the power of his god. The hairs rose on the back of Mikael’s neck. Morr had answered.

  ‘Push down upon his chest,’ Sigson ordered, intent on the tanner and leaned down, putting his ear to Lothmar’s mouth. ‘Morr will do the rest.’

  ‘Who attacked you?’ he whispered, and nodded to Mikael, who pushed down as instructed.

  The last breath in Lothmar’s lungs eked out.

  ‘A man… a stranger,’ he wheezed, the words drawn out and laboured. ‘He wore… a mask. Terrible… odour…’ Then there was silence, the air within him finally expired.

  ‘There is no more,’ Sigson said, getting to his feet. Mikael did the same and turned to the door. A figure stood there.

  They drew their swords.

  ‘Identify yourself!’ Mikael demanded.

  ‘Do not be alarmed,’ a deep and confident voice told them. A figure stepped into the lantern light.

  It was a man, perhaps close to his forties with greying hair and a thinning beard, but strong and powerfully
built beneath simple brown robes. A breastplate covered his chest, etched into it the symbol of a fiery comet. Hanging down from his neck was a silver talisman that bore the sigil of a hammer.

  ‘I am Rathorne,’ he said. ‘Warrior priest of Sigmar.’ A short figure shuffled out of the darkness to hunch beside him, a pitiable wretch dressed in nought but rags. Mikael recognised, once again, the tramp he had rescued.

  ‘You,’ he said, accusingly.

  ‘What business have you here?’ Sigson asked, sword raised.

  ‘Please,’ Rathorne said. ‘Put down your weapons. We are here for the same purpose.’

  ‘What might that be?’ Mikael asked, unwilling to relent.

  ‘To catch the Reaper and end his murderous rampage.’

  They lowered their swords.

  ‘Your expressions demand explanations,’ Rathorne began. ‘But since your comrade is wounded and our prey loose, I’ll keep them short. I have been tracking this devil since I heard of the dire happenings in this town more than four weeks ago. His movements have been a mystery to me but I did not want to reveal myself lest I alert him. When your company arrived I thought you might provoke a mistake, so I had Vislen follow you.’ The impish tramp bowed and grinned, revealing a set of perfect, white teeth.

  ‘It seems we are allies then,’ Mikael said, noting the distaste in Rathorne’s eyes, and sheathed his sword. Sigson did the same.

  ‘But we have reached a dead end,’ Mikael explained. ‘Although one of our comrades is questioning a survivor of the attacks as we speak. Aside from that, all we know is he drains his victim’s blood and bears an unpleasant odour.’

  ‘Much like the stench that clings to you,’ Rathorne said, breathing in the stink of Mikael’s clothes. ‘It is consistent with vampirism.’ He glanced down at Vislen, who shuffled over to the templar and began sniffing at him.

  ‘What is he doing?’ Mikael asked, raising his arms and looking down suspiciously at the runtish tramp.

  Vislen shuffled back to his master, and, as Rathorne leaned down, whispered into his ear.

  ‘Embalming fluid,’ Rathorne announced, ‘and something else.’

  The warrior priest moved over to Mikael and examined the wound in his back, now a dark red mark in his jerkin, just below the back-plate.

  Rathorne dug into the wound with his fingers and as Mikael was about to recoil said,

  ‘Hold, there is something left in the wound.’

  The young templar winced in pain, neck arched around so he could see what the Sigmarite was doing. Rathorne pulled a tiny sliver of metal out of the wound, letting it fall into his open palm.

  He looked up at the two templars.

  ‘A scalpel blade.’

  ‘Merrick,’ Mikael spat with anger. Realisation dawned soon after. ‘Halbranc,’ he gasped and raced to the door. ‘Sigson,’ he said, turning, ‘stay with Reiner. I must get to the mortuary.’

  He felt a hand on his arm. Looking back he was met by Rathorne’s intense gaze. ‘You mean we.’

  Mikael was defiant at the priest’s interference but had no time to argue.

  ‘Then, come on,’ he said, and he and Rathorne sped out of the tannery into the night.

  Bolting through the Temple of Morr, acolytes and priests scattering in their wake, Mikael and Rathorne were quickly at the door to the mortuary.

  A muffled voice emanated from beyond. It was Merrick, he was talking to someone.

  ‘…but what of our pact, your promise to me,’ Merrick urged desperately. ‘I have fulfilled my part of the bargain. I have your amulet, you are bound to it and my bidding. I didn’t mean to tarnish this one, but he struggled so, and I have brought you a new body to replace it.’

  A muted cry, as if through a gag, echoed in the chamber, faint but discernable. Mikael recognised Halbranc’s voice and heaved at the door.

  It was locked tight.

  ‘Stand aside,’ Rathorne ordered, taking an icon of Sigmar from his robes as he pushed in front of the templar.

  ‘By the order of Sigmar,’ he bellowed with conviction, loosing a warhammer from a leather loop at his waist, swivelling it in his hand as he tested the grip. ‘Get back,’ he said to Mikael.

  ‘Open this door!’ Rathorne struck, and the door was smashed open, splinters flying as it slammed into the adjacent wall with a heavy thunk. The warrior priest waded in immediately, Mikael was right behind him.

  He gasped when he saw Kalten’s body on the mortuary table, as the dream came back. His throat was slit but had been done so with a struggle; numerous deep cuts lacerating his neck, face and chest, his features now horribly mutilated. In the far corner, Halbranc struggled. His head was bruised and he was gagged, hands and feet both bound with thick rope. And before them stood Merrick, the pitiable mortician who had lost his family, the pendant his wife had given him hanging around his neck. The man Mikael had felt the deepest sympathy for. But now there was a darkness about his eyes and face, the shadow of a driven man, one who was willing to do absolutely anything to achieve his goal.

  ‘Where did you get that amulet?’ Mikael demanded, a raised hand compelling Rathorne to wait.

  Merrick looked down at it, toying with it in his fingers, as it glowed with an evil light. ‘A forgotten chamber in the catacombs,’ Merrick confessed, with a glance at the veiled off room at the back of the mortuary. He struggled within himself now, at the final moment, he realised the consequences of his deeds, the innocents he had killed. ‘I stole it, watched the priests for months. I knew I could bind him to it, that he would do my will.’

  ‘Merrick, you fool,’ Mikael spat, wrenching the mortician back into the present.

  ‘I… It’s for my son,’ he said, weeping, the old Merrick returned for but a moment. ‘I didn’t want to kill them,’ he said forlornly, eyes pleading forgiveness. ‘But I couldn’t use the mortuary, they would find out, I would lose him.’

  ‘Speak no further,’ an evil voice echoed in the chamber. Not Merrick, someone else, beyond the curtain at the back of the room and with it came an ancient menace, one that spoke across the ages. ‘Perform the binding rites.’

  ‘What have you done?’ Mikael said, edging forward.

  ‘You’ll not stop me!’ Merrick cried.

  Rathorne surged toward him, icon outstretched.

  The evil voice spoke again and chanting filled the room. A dark nimbus of power played about the pendant around Merrick’s neck as he mimicked it.

  At last, Mikael realised it was no gift from his dead wife.

  ‘Rathorne, wait!’ he cried.

  But the warrior priest was upon him, ‘Down hell-kite!’ he bellowed, thrusting the icon toward him.

  A man possessed, Merrick launched himself at Rathorne, grabbing the priest’s wrists as he completed the ritual.

  ‘Night stalker,’ Rathorne raged through clenched teeth as he struggled, ‘feel the burning truth of Sigmar’s wrath,’ he spat, pushing the icon against Merrick’s cheek, but nothing happened.

  Upon the slab, Mikael watched in horror as the dead eyes of Kalten flicked open.

  ‘Fool,’ he said, in a reedy, rasping voice that was not his own. ‘He is no vampire, he is my pawn,’ he added, rising up from the slab and grasping his fallen sword.

  Rathorne wrenched himself free from Merrick’s grasp and faced off against Kalten’s reanimated corpse.

  ‘But my son, you promised to bring him back. What of our pact?’ Merrick wailed, rushing toward the undead monster, sobbing.

  The thing that used to be Kalten turned to him. ‘The body is mine. It was always mine.’ He smashed Merrick aside with a swipe of a mighty arm. The mortician clattered into the wooden racking, shattering the vials and bottles, chemicals spreading across the floor. Amidst the foul unguents and oils he lay still.

  ‘By Sigmar’s hand…’ Rathorne cried, charging forward.

/>   ‘Silence!’ Kalten bellowed, blasting the warrior priest back into the wall with black fire from his eyes. Rathorne slumped unconscious, faint smoke rising from his hair and robes.

  As Kalten turned, Mikael raked his blade across the undead templar’s eyes.

  Kalten reeled from the blow, blinded, but recovered quickly, blocking a swipe aimed at his neck.

  ‘Clever,’ he rasped, lashing out with his blade.

  Mikael parried, and edged around to the creature’s left.

  ‘But I don’t need these eyes to see,’ the monster told him, matching his movements.

  ‘Release him,’ Mikael spat as he drove a powerful thrust into Kalten’s chest, right through his heart. He pushed hard into the wound, using the blade like a spear and smashed Kalten into the wall. Kalten’s flailing sword clattered against a lantern, knocking it and the blade to the ground. Oil and flame ran inexorably to the spilled chemicals pooling near Merrick, who had shaken himself to.

  ‘I won’t die so easily,’ it said mockingly, locking its hands around Mikael’s throat.

  Fire flared at the back of the chamber, Merrick dragging himself clear just in time.

  ‘Rathorne,’ Mikael urged through strangled gasps.

  The warrior priest stirred and looked up through blood-shot eyes.

  ‘Get Halbranc out, warn the priests.’

  Dazedly, Rathorne obeyed and dragged a semi-conscious Halbranc to his feet as Mikael and Kalten struggled.

  The young templar released his sword and smashed his fists down hard against Kalten’s wrists. Rigor setting in, the fingers slipped away, losing their grip.

  In the corner of his eye, Mikael saw Rathorne and Halbranc escape down the corridor as he backed away.

  Kalten ambled toward him, Mikael’s blade still stuck in his chest.

  Smoke billowed as fire swathed the room, angry and intense as it roared amongst the stored chemicals. Bottles shattered with the heat.

  A shadow leapt through the smoke and flame from the back of the chamber. It was Merrick. He dove upon Kalten’s back and dragged him down. His clothes were on fire and they spread to the undead creature.

  ‘You promised me, you bastard!’ he cried, pulling the monster into the fire, using its body to shield him.