A log snapped in the stove and the priest’s heart leapt. He silently scolded himself and refilled the two pots.
‘I pulled back Gudrun’s hammer, but the assassins were already gone, quicker than screams from a nightmare. Then I looked down and realised that Krinvaller was still breathing.’
The mercenary’s face hardened and he took a drink.
‘I almost finished him there and then. The poison the enemy use, it’s truly horrible. The first tears of blood were already flowing from his eyes and nose, and the tremors were flopping him around on the cold stone of the floor, like a fish on the quayside. I’d seen it before, I knew how bad it would get. So I bent down and found the sweet spot beneath his jaw with my knife. But before I could strike it home, he spoke.
‘It wasn’t easy for him. Even in the dimness of the lantern light, I could see the muscles in his neck cramping, and when he spoke you could see the soup of his lungs beginning to gurgle up over his teeth.’
The priest grimaced. He asked a question, as much to take his mind off the image van Delft had conjured up as anything.
‘What did he say?’
‘He said to tell Gottlieb it had all been in vain. But for Sigmar’s sake, don’t let him look at the maps. He managed to thrust a roll of the damn things into my hands before the final seizure took him.’
‘At first I didn’t understand what he meant. Delirium, I thought, or the beginnings of insanity. But then I started to wonder again about the excellence of our information and the detail of our maps. Who’d made them? No human, that was for sure. And who was the ”she” Krinvaller had been, talking about? Who else could it have been but the girl whose disappearance had sparked this whole damn war?’
Suddenly van Delft sprang to his feet, kicked back his stool and started to pace the room.
‘I should have known!’ he cried. ‘After so many years of cunning and deceit, a lifetime of traps and stratagems. I thought myself so clever! Yet here I was working for the enemy. That’s when the true owners of that terrible domain fell upon us. We’d exterminated the last of their rivals, you see. They’d given us those cursed maps and used us as a weapon against the other clans. And now it was our turn. We were already deep into the catacombs by then. Every few yards the passageways split, tangling across each other like tubes in offal. There were so many conduits, that even at that depth, we could feel a faint, moldy breeze. It brought us the first rumours of our doom, this breeze, a secret, whispering sound started to emerge. It seemed to come from everywhere at once, as soft and insistent as a far off ocean.’
‘I remember Gunter looking at me, his eyes bright with terror in the darkness, and I knew that it was time to withdraw. Krinvaller was dead, his patrol annihilated and our plans were betrayed. There was nothing to be gained from throwing our own bodies into the jaws of the enemy too. So I sent Gunter down the line to lead the retreat. But before he’d gone a dozen paces the enemy attacked.
They spewed out in a great boiling swarm from every passageway, every narrow crevasse, every crack and rat hole that bit into our line. I gave the order to hold, to stand our ground. I think most of the groups heard. Some even obeyed. Most of them just broke and fled. I was beyond caring, by then. In the deeps there are no elegant manoeuvers or set piece formations. No bright uniforms or distant hill tops from which to signal your troops. There is only rage and terror and the will to win.’
Van Delft’s teeth ground together beneath a right smile as he absent-mindedly tested the spring on his gun’s hammer. The priest could hardly believe the expression of savage joy that now seemed to mark his companions grimy features, but neither could he mistake it for anything else.
Van Delft was obviously a man who loved his job.
‘Gudrun here smashed through the first ragged mob that fell upon us,’ he continued, oblivious to the priest’s stark appraisal. ‘And, with the flare of her muzzle flash still blooming in my eyes, I led a charge into the gap she’d opened for us. I hoped to punch through the trap, then turn and fall on their rear. But this time things weren’t so easy. This time, when we’d sliced through the front runners, we found stormvermin.’
The mercenary eased the hammer back down and peered thoughtfully into the fireplace. A gust of wind rattied its way beneath the door and sent a brief plume of flames flaring upwards.
‘Black they were, and massive. They had teeth like carpenter’s chisels and carried heavy, iron bound spears. The blades were clotted with rust and blood, but the edges were sharp enough. They were too much for my lads. As soon as the first of the beasts leapt into the glow of our lamplight, I felt them break behind me, could almost hear their nerves shattering. I dropped a litter of caltrops and bolted after them, vaulting the dead, kicking away the hands of the dying. Thank Sigmar for those poor bastards. If the skaven hadn’t stopped to play with them, I wouldn’t be here now.’
Van Delft lifted his pot and took a hefty swig. The priest recognised it as a toast, a tribute to those who’d paid so dearly for their captain’s freedom. There was no guilt in the gesture, only a sort of red-eyed celebration.
Morr would have approved.
‘There’s a real joy to running away. I felt it for the first time as I overtook first one straggler then the next. We were winding blindly through the labyrinth now, recoiling from passageways held by the enemy, cutting through them when we had to. In the haste and the darkness, tripping over the still warm corpses of our comrades or hurtling blindly into sudden, vicious skirmishes, I knew that we were being driven, like sheep to the butcher’s. Deeper and deeper we fled, sinking beneath levels not shown on any map. The air became thick and suffocating, so much so that the flames within our lanterns started to choke out. By the time we reached the skaven’s slaughterhouse we had only the pulsing green glow of warpstone to guide us.’
‘Their slaughterhouse?’ the priest asked, leaning forward and pouring them both another drink. He had a feeling they’d need it.
‘Yes,’ the mercenary muttered, staring for a moment longer into the bright heart of the fire. ‘It was a chamber, as round the cathedral at Quierms. And huge, perhaps a quarter-of-a-mile across.
‘I recognised it for what it was as soon as we reached it. It was the bones that gave it away. They covered the floor as far as the eye could see, a great crunching carpet of them. There were bats there, too, fluttering around amongst the stalactites. I didn’t look at them too closely. The warpstone seemed to have done something to them. Something horrible. The last of the survivors stumbled in behind me, and we started off across the bone yard. But we had nowhere to go. There was only one entrance, and every minute more skaven poured through it, as thick as sewage from a pipe.’
‘I called the lads while we were still in range, reloaded Gudrun, and took aim. At that, the ratvolk started to scurry away, the great mass of them opening up before Gudrun’s gaze. I thought that it was because of their cowardice, but I was wrong. They weren’t fleeing from me. They were fleeing from the things that were approaching from behind them. At first, the monsters hardly seemed to be skaven at all. They seemed too bulky, for one thing. They were wearing masks, too. Great leather things with brass muzzles and round glass eyes.’ He took another swig of drink.
‘Then, glinting in the warplight, I noticed the tangle of pipes and tubes that the first members of this bizarre procession carried and a new terror of something far worse than death gripped me. I’d seen these weapons before. I remembered the hunched bearers, spines bent beneath great tarred barrels that carried liquid death. I remembered the tubes and steel snouts that splayed outwards from the fuel tanks. And I remembered the burning horror.’
The storyteller shuddered, and snatched for his pot. He drank deeply, then met his host’s eyes. Almost defiantly, he said: ‘I know that this sounds like madness, priest, but some of the skaven have learned how to torture fire into a horrible new form. Green, it is, and closer to liquid than the honest blaze in your grate. I’ve seen it leap and flow, surging forward from their infernal contr
aptions like water from a hose. I’ve seen it feasting upon skin, then flesh, and then bone. I’ve seen it melt armour and stone, or slip cunningly between them to seek out the soft flesh beyond. And I’ve seen men devoured inch by inch, driven insane by the agony.’
‘Down there, in the killing pen in which we’d been cornered, I knew that I couldn’t face that horror again. I raised Gudrun’s cold muzzle to the hollow beneath my chin and tightened my finger on the trigger. The ratvolk saw it and rushed to ignite their weapons. One of them produced a flaring sulphur match from its filthy rags and held it warily in front of the nozzle. I pressed harder on the trigger, but still the hammer remained locked. The first faint mist started to roll from the burnt black muzzle of the fire thrower, and I pulled harder. Still, no matter how I pulled on the trigger, Gudrun wouldn’t fire.’
‘I glanced down to check the mechanism but then, with a hiss of frying air, the skaven’s weapon blossomed into hideous life. A great ball of writhing flame belched out of the machine and rolled towards me, towards us all. But it never arrived. Instead there was a metallic shriek and the fire was sucked back into the very contraption that had given birth to it. By the gods, you should have heard the ratvolk squeal when they saw what was happening. Some of them turned to run but got jammed in the passageway, others tried to swat out the flame with their paws and when they caught light… well, lets just say it was a glorious moment.’
Van Delft smiled at the priest. He seemed not to notice that the old man wasn’t smiling back.
‘It only lasted for a moment, though,’ he continued. ‘As the enemy’s fire turned upon itself, the cavern erupted into a flash of light and darkness. I can still see it now, when I close my eyes. The thousands of fangs bared in terror, the thousands of widening eyes gleaming as bright as stars, men melting like wax. Then the very earth shifted uneasily, as if disturbed by the foul beasts that crawled within its depths and I heard the first rumble of falling stone. And then… and then nothing.’
VAN DELFT GROUND to a halt. The priest studied his haggard features, the pallor of his skin. The two high red blotches on the sharp angles of his cheekbones had little to do with the jug of potcheen they’d drunk. The mercenary looked exhausted, stretched to his limits. But for all that, the madness that had gleamed in his eyes when he’d arrived seemed to have passed. Perhaps the telling of his tale had been the cure he’d needed.
The priest had seen it happen before. Sometimes words could drain the poison from a man’s soul, just as leeches could sometimes drain infection from a wound.
The old man poured the last of the potcheen into his guest’s pot and sat back. He noticed that the first grey fingers of dawn were creeping between the timbers of his door.
‘That was two days ago, maybe more, maybe less,’ van Delft shrugged. ‘As far as I know, I alone survived the holocaust. And now I am finished. My reputation is in tatters. My dreams died with the corpses I left behind me. There’s not a man in this land who’ll give me a command after Magdeburg.’
‘What will you do?’ the priest asked softly.
‘I will finish my contract. I still have gold for black powder, snares and nets. I’ll go to Magdeburg, eat and sleep for a final few days. Then return to the deeps. Amongst such rivers of warpstone the enemy will never be far from reach.’
‘Ah. Now I understand your errand, I think. But you can’t be shriven now. I can only offer Morr’s blessing to those who near his realm, and you aren’t, not really. I can’t.’
‘No. Not me. Them,’ van Delft said, gesturing to the bed where the priest had thrown the maps. ‘Them.’
‘I don’t know about that,’ he said, duty warring with caution, as he considered what a grisly treasure hunt that would be. ‘Anyway, I thought that you said the bodies were buried beneath.’
The squeak of the opening door distracted the priest from his dilemma and he looked up to see that van Delft had let himself out. Gathering his robe about him, the old man followed him out into the chill grey light of the dawn.
‘Where are you going? Stay here and rest, eat.’
Van Delft, who’d already reached the liche gate, stopped and turned back. He looked suddenly younger. Perhaps it was no more than a trick of the morning light.
‘No. I have work to do. As do you. But Priest?’
‘Aye?’
‘Thank you.’
And with that he was gone.
The older man watched him disappear into the mist. Then, with a shiver, he returned to the warmth of his cell.
He threw another log into the stove, straightened the chair and rolled his blankets up. Then he picked up the maps van Delft had left him. The columns and lines that tattooed the soft leather remained clear and untouched by the hell their owner had been through, the leather still supple and well oiled. The priest picked up one at random, smoothing it out on the flat of his thigh. Although the square of its shape was slightly misshapen the texture was smooth, finer than any leather he’d worn before. The priest held it up to the light that spilled in through the doorway, tilting it this way and that against the shadows that still haunted the room.
The detail really was incredible. But now that he looked, there was one flaw. It was a single, strawberry shaped smudge on the corner of one of them. The priest picked up the next one and found another imperfection. This one consisted of an arc of little curled hairs, golden blonde in the gathering sunlight.
The next one was marred by a little indentation in the centre. An inverted button of leather, perhaps as big as his fingertips, the skin within had been compacted into swirls.
The priest ran his thumb over it, wondering what it reminded him off.
A rose, perhaps.
No. No, that wasn’t it. It was something less fragile. Ah yes, of course. It was just like a belly button. Just like a…
The potcheen soured in his stomach. His hands began to shake. Reluctantly the old man looked back at the unusual leather of these maps.
Looked at the belly button that marked one. The birthmark that blemished another. The eyebrows that furred one edge of a third.
And he realised that van Delft had brought him the remains of a body to be shriven, after all.
OUTSIDE, THE MIST gave way to drizzle, which in turn gave way to the warmth of the sun. It warmed the fields and the cemetery and the stones of the shrine. It shone golden on the wet ivy and sent flights of sparrows wheeling up into the sky, born aloft by the joy of their lives.
The priest, the rites of death completed, watched them. They scattered across the blue vault of the sky, tiny little sparks of happiness born up the warm, southerly wind that whispered gently through the greens of the forest below. He took a deep breath of clean air, only slightly scented now with the smoke of the funeral pyre and smiled as the first of the sparrows descended, drawn by the sight of the bread in his hand.
‘Yes, little friend,’ he told it as it hopped forwards. ‘This world is a beautiful place.’
He pursed his lips as it flew away. Then softly, as if he didn’t want the bird to hear him, the priest added the single word: ‘Sometimes.’
REDHAND’S DAUGHTER
William King
1. The Storm
THE DWARF STEAMSHIP Storm Hammer crashed through the waves, trailing clouds of smoke and seagulls behind it. Its paddles thrashed the ocean, driving it into the wind with a speed that would have been inconceivable for a sailing ship in these rough seas. In the distance, great thunderheads threatened.
Felix Jaeger leaned against the rail and watched the sea break against the prow. Riding the bow wave a pod of dolphins easily paced the ship, leaping from the water, turning on their backs in mid air to show their bellies before splashing back into the water. Such was their speed that they gave the impression more of flying under water than swimming. Just looking at them made Felix happy, for no reason he could put his finger on. Perhaps it was their faces -something about the shape of their mouths made them seem to smile. It went well with the exuberance o
f their motion and contrasted directly with the sour expressions of the dwarfs around him.
Felix had never seen a more miserable-looking group, and he had plenty of experience of a race that specialised in gloom. Most of these dwarfs had a slightly greenish tinge. Many had just returned from throwing up over the side. From where Felix stood he could see a line of them hanging over the guardrail, heaving the contents of their stomachs into the sea. Was this why the gulls followed the ship, Felix wondered, doing his best to ignore the retching sounds? To find food?
He understood the dwarfs' misery. During the first few hours out of harbour, when the Storm Hammer had hit the rolling swells of the Gulf of Araby, he had felt something of their discomfort himself. He had spent several hours sitting on the cannon turret trying to keep the contents of his stomach firmly in place. The sickness had been as bad as the hangover after a three-day drinking session. Then, as suddenly as it had come, it passed. He did not exactly feel fine, but he had adjusted. The dwarfs were taking longer about it. It seemed that as a race, they were peculiarly prone to sea-sickness.
Felix recalled reading somewhere that dwarfs, being bound to the elemental affinity of the earth, were unwelcome to the sea gods. That was one theory; another was that the same sensitivity of the inner ear that allowed dwarfs to tell depth and distance so unerringly while underground, made them vulnerable to the rocking motion of ships. Whatever the reason, he was in a position to confirm it was true.
He looked around for Gotrek but the Slayer was nowhere in sight. Doubtless he was down below inspecting the massive engines, or perhaps he had broached a cask of ale and was working his way through it. According to dwarfs, ale was a cure for all ills, particularly seasickness.
Certainly most of the crew capable of going about their business stank of it. Up on the bridge, Captain Ahabsson glugged back a stein with one hand while his hook rested on the wheel. Even as Felix watched, he leaned forward and said something into the speaking tubes. A few seconds later, as if in response, a steam-whistle sounded, its long lonely scream racing outwards over the water, startling the gulls into higher flight. Moments later, a shortbeard - a young dwarf - clambered up the ladder onto the bridge with another jack of ale foaming in his hand. The captain eyed it appreciatively before taking a slug.
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