Warhammer Anthology 13

by War Unending (Christian Dunn)

  Already the children were gathering, the dozen who had completely broken away from the village, spending day and night with Thyssen at the ruin and the twenty or so others who lived still with their parents. They were the biggest threat to Thyssen, these transient disciples who came only when they could slip away unseen and left when they would be missed by their elders. It was necessary; they were Thyssen’s sole source of supplies and information about the village beyond the mill. It was also dangerous: there was always the chance that one of them would betray the sorcerer, as little Eduard had thought to do.

  Thyssen watched as the last few children returned from playing outside. True Chaos, the sorcerer thought. No concern for labour or stricture, only the pleasure of the moment. It was a testament to how greatly the children enjoyed his lessons that he did not have to collect them from their romps but that they came of their own accord. They sat, mostly quiet, mostly still, awaiting the beginning of Thyssen’s story of the day. Thyssen noted the eager young faces and a cruel smile played about the edges of his porcine mouth.

  ‘You have been bad,’ the sorcerer said softly, ‘and for that you will not be allowed to listen to the story today.’ A twinkle of malicious mirth gleamed in Thyssen’s eye as he noted the sudden look of loss that masked the boy’s features. One of the many lessons of Slaanesh, the ecstasy of experience and the torment of its denial. Thyssen waved Kurt and Paul forward. The boys lifted Eduard from the floor and carried the boy over to a large wooden barrel resting in the farthest corner of the mill. He should be just out of earshot, the sorcerer mused as he watched the boys force Eduard into his small prison. He was certain that this blatant exclusion of Eduard from the other children would have the desired effect, upon both the would-be turncoat and the other children. Still, it would pay to ensure his strategy.

  ‘Keren,’ the sorcerer hissed softly. The girl took her place at his side and Thyssen whispered into her ear.

  ‘I understand that young Eduard has a little dog,’ Thyssen smiled as he saw the wicked grin growing on Keren’s face. What an eager student. ‘When we let him out of the barrel, tell him that if he ever runs off again, something bad will happen to his dog.’ Thyssen waved away the girl and hobbled his way to the front of the platform.

  ‘Today, children, I will tell you a story about Sigmar.’ A hush of excitement crept across the assembly. Thyssen choked on the loathing their excitement evoked, reminding him that he had much nonsense still to remove from their young minds. Let them have their heroic delusions, I will correct them soon enough. And until then, I will exploit their naive faith.

  The sorcerer began his tale, telling of great and noble Sigmar and his struggle to found the Empire. He told of how hordes of orcs forced Sigmar and his mighty army away from the places known to men, past even the icy lands of Kislev, until Sigmar came upon the border of a land of wonder and magic. The sky sparkled like diamond and the ground was paved with gold. And, just as Sigmar would have entered this land of fantastic beauty, he found the way barred by four mighty figures. One was a massive man encased in a suit of ruby armour, a blazing axe in his powerful hand. The second was a beautiful woman, her armour sparkling like the diamond sky so that whenever the eye fell upon it, it was a different colour. The third was a tall, keen-eyed wizard garbed in a brightly coloured robe and the air around him shimmered with magic. The last was a great fat warrior, whose coughing laugh boomed across the horizon. They were the Four Princes and Sigmar recognised them as his equals, beings worthy of his respect. He knew that it would be best to not raise arms against them and turned to return and face the overwhelming orc hordes. But the Four Princes would not allow the armies of men to fall, and they returned with Sigmar and together they scoured the land until all the orcs had been driven beyond the mountains.

  It was late in the evening when Thyssen finished his tale. Not one of his young audience had lost interest, not one youthful head bowed in slumber despite the late hour. The sorcerer was pleased with his success. Soon, soon I will teach you more than fables. Soon I will show you the Four Princes and you will love them.

  ‘THE OLD FOOL!’ Thyssen roared, throwing the clay cup across the mill, spilling goat’s milk on his black robe. A young girl hurried forward and began to sop the milk from his robe with the hem of her dress. Thyssen smiled at her and turned his head to look at the boy who had brought him the news. He should have expected something. More and more of the children had been coming to him, his permanent base now consisting of thirty with only another eleven still acting as his eyes and ears in the village. It had been a month since that fat idiot Bassermann had convinced the village leaders to hire a hunter to discover the beast that was carrying off their children. Thyssen smiled as he recalled the hunter’s demise, how he had fixed it to look as if the man had fallen into his own steel-jawed trap. Kurt had helped him with that. Sometimes the boy’s bloodlust alarmed even the sorcerer. Still, all gods looked with favour upon the zealous.

  ‘So, the old priest wants to send a petition to Altdorf and bring witch hunters to Marburg?’ Thyssen snarled. Rudi nodded his head with a bird-like bobbing motion.

  ‘The village elders don’t want him to, though. They say that witch hunters find witches even when there aren’t any around.’ The boy grinned at Thyssen. ‘So it isn’t really bad, because they told him not to.’

  The smile Thyssen directed at Rudi was not a friendly one, though the boy foolishly took it to be. It was the same ignorant naivety that made the boy think Hackl would listen to what the village elders had to say. Truthfully, he was surprised that the old priest had taken this long to act. He had certainly been upset enough two months ago when Eduard had ”disappeared” to join Thyssen’s full-time students. No, the old priest would be sending for witch hunters. Which meant that it was time to attend to the meddling fool.

  ‘Keren,’ the sorcerer said, ‘bring the others inside. Today, I will tell you all about the Four Princes a little earlier than usual.’

  The girl raced outside to bring the children from their play. Thyssen knew it would not be long before his little students were assembled before him, their attentive faces looking up at his own as he continued the epic tale he had started so many weeks ago. Thyssen had achieved much in that time. Sigmar had gone from the equal of the Four Princes to their exploiter, cravenly allowing the Four to fight his battles for him. Thyssen told of how it was the Four Princes who defeated the Great Enchanter Drachenfels and brought to an end the savage dragon Mordrax, how it was they who truly conquered all the horrible enemies the children had once been told Sigmar himself had vanquished. Slowly, carefully, Thyssen had recast Sigmar in their imaginations, changing him from hero and saviour to coward and manipulator. Now, today, it would be time to add a new sin to Sigmar’s crimes, a new title to attach itself to his name. It was time for Sigmar to become the betrayer.

  Thyssen looked out on the hastily assembled children. He smiled as he saw their eager faces. Tonight he would put that eagerness to use. Tonight he would allow some of them to show their devotion to the powers of Chaos.

  The sorcerer began his tale, relating how a numberless army of the undead had arisen in the blighted south, slaughtering all in their path, adding their victims to the host of death. Their tireless advance brought the army of skeletons and wraiths to the very edge of the Empire the Four Princes had conquered for the sons of men. A great army of men had been assembled; no household in the Empire did not fail to send at least one of its number to face the terrible invasion. Yet large as it was, before the tide of undead it was nothing. Sigmar saw the mammoth force of his enemy and was seized with dread. He turned to the Four Princes and ordered them to lead the attack on the undead, claiming that here was a foe unworthy of an Emperor. Sigmar retreated to a nearby hill to watch the battle while the Four Princes led the mortal army against the overwhelming numbers of the dead.

  It was a fierce and horrible struggle. Not one in ten of those who fought the undead survived. The battle looked hopeless until
the Four Princes forced their way to the very heart of the undead host. Before them stood a hideous giant encased in magic armour black as the darkest pit, his face a leering skull. He was the general of the terrible army, the Supreme Necromancer, Nagash the Black. The Four Princes did not hesitate before the terrifying foe, for they knew that without Nagash, the evil army would return to their graves and the lands of men would be saved. It was a terrific fight, even for the powerful Princes and when at last they broke the evil necromancer’s body and cast his black soul to the wind, they were weary and wounded.

  From his hill, Sigmar had watched the battle progress. Seeing Nagash defeated, he descended to the battlefield, striking down the remaining skeletons and zombies as he found them, rallying the tattered remnants of his army to his sparkling banner. At last Sigmar found the Four Princes, half-dead from their terrible battle. Sigmar saw their weakened state and seized upon their infirmity. He turned to his soldiers and told them the Four Princes were evil daemons, that it was they who had brought the undead up from the Southlands to destroy them all. The men heard his lies and believed them, driving the weakened Princes from the Empire and making of their names the vilest of curses.

  Thyssen listened to the whispers of outrage that slithered amongst his assembly, the muttered oaths against a name they had once worshipped. His porcine lips pulled away from his fang-like teeth. Yes, tonight would be the night to deal with a priest of such a loathsome being.

  FATHER HACKL AWOKE with a start.

  The old priest looked about the darkened cell which held his bed and the few possessions the cleric allowed himself, his mind trying to accustom itself to the benighted surroundings. What had intruded upon his slumber, the priest could not recall. He wiped the crust of sleep from his eyes, and coughed as the chill night air flowed into his lungs. Then Father Hackl’s head slowly turned toward the door of his room. Yes, he had heard a sound that time, a furtive scrabbling in the temple room itself.

  Eduard’s little dog must have got loose, the old priest decided. The priest had been taking care of the puppy in the weeks since the boy had disappeared. It was an act of denial, the priest reasoned, a refusal to accept Eduard’s disappearance. Father Hackl thought it strange that he had not realised how much the orphan had come to mean to him until the boy was no longer around. The old priest missed the boy greatly; with him gone, there was an empty spot in Father Hackl’s life. Perhaps that was why he kept Eduard’s little dog. By keeping the puppy, he was defying whatever evil had befallen the boy, declaring to the darkness that the boy would return. A tear welled in the priest’s eye as the thought crossed his mind that he was clinging to an impossible hope.

  Still, whatever his reasons for attending the animal, he could not have it scampering about in Sigmar’s holy shrine. He would have to catch the dog and return it to the anteroom. He doubted if the dog would bother to chew through its rope twice in a single evening. With the tired weariness of age, Father Hackl rose from his bed, letting the chill air shock his body into full wakefulness before opening the door and entering the dark hall of the chapel. The old priest made his way along the ranks of rough, wooden pews, softly calling for the dog, as though he did not wish to wake Sigmar at this lonely hour with any undue noise. Father Hackl’s eyes swept the expanse of the temple, seeing little beyond shadows. Then his gaze strayed to the altar itself. It took the old priest a moment before he could recognise the change that had taken place there.

  With an impious oath and a quickness in his step, Father Hackl made his way down the empty ranks of pews toward the altar. The hammer, the holy symbol of Sigmar, had fallen from the altar, lying like a piece of refuse on the floor. The priest could not imagine how the little dog had managed to topple the heavy iron hammer from its place, but he would not have it lying in so disrespectful a state. Father Hackl bent over to retrieve it from the floor, ignoring the creaking of his old bones, ignorant of the dark shape which rose from the pews behind him.

  A thick, animal stench struck Father Hackl a moment before the attack. The cleric’s head rose ever so slightly as he detected the foul odour. Then the sinew cord wrapped itself around his throat. Once, twice, thrice, the Chaos worshipper wound the grey strangler’s cord about the priest’s neck. Thyssen’s porcine jaws clamped down on his tongue as the sorcerer drew the cord tight, pushing his body back and pulling the old priest to his feet as the noose did its work. Father Hackl’s hands rose to the garrotte, feebly trying to thwart the restricting cord. After a moment, as the priest’s face grew flush and a hideous gargling noise began to form in his throat, the man’s arms flailed about wildly, striking the swine behind him.

  For an instant, the crippled sorcerer lessened the tension, allowing the priest to draw breath into his starving lungs.

  Father Hackl did more than simply draw air into his lungs, however. With the momentary respite, the priest sent his elbow smashing into the throat of his unseen attacker. The attack did more than damage the assassin’s windpipe; the crippled monster’s twisted leg gave way, spilling the sorcerer on the cold stone floor, dragging the priest down with him.

  Thyssen kept a death grip on the garrotte, even as he gasped and hawked on the phlegm building in his own damaged throat. The small, twisted creature desperately tried force the priest’s body around, that he might plant his one good knee in the cleric’s back. The priest resisted with all of his being, his aged frame contesting with Thyssen’s crippled one. In the course of the struggle, Father Hackl nearly succeeded in forcing the sorcerer’s furred fingers away from the constricting sinew cord. It was a very near thing when Thyssen at last managed to bring his knee crashing into the small of the priest’s back. The monster began to pull with all his might, the extra support of his knee adding to the choking pressure. The fiend could feel the life leaking away from his prey with every moment. But the fight was not yet decided, and Thyssen could feel the body beneath him beginning to roll onto its side, threatening to spill the sorcerer once more on the stone floor.

  From the shadows came small figures, figures Father Hackl was horrified to recognise. As the cord continued its deadly labour, a huge boy Hackl remembered as the brother of some foresters grasped his left arm, restraining it completely. Keren, the miller’s daughter, and another boy gripped his right arm, allowing him to move it only with the greatest of efforts. Father Hackl struggled to raise the arm to his throat, succeeding by the slightest of degrees, when his fading vision settled upon another small figure standing behind the altar. Father Hackl tried to read the expression on Eduard’s face, but he could not decide if it was a look of shock, concern or simmering hatred. The priest’s eyes were still locked with those of Eduard when Thyssen Krotzigk finished choking the life from the cleric’s body.

  ‘Such very good children,’ Thyssen said as he released the sinew cord and let the corpse’s head strike the floor with a dull thud. The sorcerer rose to his feet and then sank into one of the pews to recover from the strain of his efforts. He noted with pride the hate and loathing with which his pupils regarded the expired priest.

  ‘Paul has everything ready in the bell tower,’ Keren offered, looking pleased with herself. The boys looked proud as well, their eyes straying from Thyssen to the sorcerer’s handiwork. They had every right to be, the Chaos worshipper decided. As much as any soldier, this had been their first battle, and they had performed valiantly.

  ‘Then let us take this filth there,’ Thyssen said, rising from his seat and resting a furry hand on Keren’s shoulder. Kurt and Paul lifted the corpse and followed Thyssen into the bell tower. Thyssen reached out and tugged on the noose at the end of the bell rope. He smiled as he imagined the spectacle when the villagers discovered their priest hanging in his own temple, dead by his own hand. He was still smiling when he noticed that one of his pupils was missing.

  ‘Where is Eduard?’ the sorcerer hissed, twisting Keren’s arm in his sudden terror. The girl winced from his grasp, alarmed by her master’s harsh tone.

  ‘He w
as with us,’ she protested. Thyssen turned from her angrily, roaring at the boys to leave their macabre chore.

  ‘Find him! Now!’ Thyssen hobbled after the children as they raced back into the temple. Thyssen watched them as they rushed through the double doors of the anteroom, visions of witch hunters lending speed to his limping gait.

  Thyssen found the children standing in the anteroom, all of them staring at the gory spectacle strewn across the floor. Eduard rose from the butchery, smiling at Thyssen Krotzigk. The sorcerer returned the smile and placed an arm around the boy. He looked again at the gruesome offering, the sigils drawn in blood upon the walls and floor. Such zeal, but Eduard’s initiative was inappropriate just now. Thyssen turned to Keren.

  ‘Clean this up,’ he said in a soft, low voice. ‘This is not a fitting place for an offering to the Four Princes.’ Thyssen turned away from the girl and led Eduard away from the profaned temple. He looked down at the boy.

  Soon, I will let you make another offering to the Dark Gods. A proper offering.

  THERE WERE THOSE in the village of Marburg who had believed their suffering was a punishment visited upon them by the gods, that they were paying for their prosperity with their own children. Yet even these pious individuals were at a loss to explain the horrible suicide of Father Hackl. In this time of crisis, many had come to rely upon the priest for both leadership and comfort. A menacing pall had settled over the village, and none could say when the dawn would come.

  A week had passed before another omen of doom presented itself to the simple people of Marburg. A shadowy horseman slowly stalked down the narrow lane through the village; a silent twisted figure on a midnight steed, man and beast clothed in black. Men watched the horseman pass and made the sign of Sigmar before retreating behind the shutters of their cottages. The horseman’s gaze strayed neither left nor right, seemingly oblivious to the very existence of the small community until he drew abreast of the tavern.