Warhammer Anthology 13

by War Unending (Christian Dunn)

  The knights laughed as peasants ineffectually waved bundles of daemonroot before them. A venerable human with a rusty sword had been the only one prepared to fight, but there had been no honour in slaying one so old. The vampires would feed, but would not lower themselves to trade blows with those who were not worthy of their blades.

  Undead warriors in rusted armour stood motionless as their masters began feeding on the villagers, zombies picking themselves up from the mud as the vampires raised the newly dead to swell their ranks. Bats flapped noisily overhead as snarling wolves padded soundlessly through the village, seeking out those who had chosen to hide from the vampires. There would be no escaping the killing.

  In the walled cemetery at the village’s edge, stooped creatures hugged the shadows, scrabbling at the wet ground. Pale, blotched skin hung loosely from their emaciated frames as they dug the dead from the ground. Perhaps a dozen of the vile ghouls pawed furiously at the earth, the hunger for cold, dead flesh driving their efforts. At last the group dragged out a simple casket, the largest of the fiends wrenching the coffin lid off and howling in triumph. Clawed hands reached within, desperate for the taste of human meat, but the largest creature snarled and the rest pulled back hissing.

  It reached inside the coffin, tearing out the dead heart and ripping great chunks of rotten meat from the bones of the corpse. It scuttled to the cemetery walls to devour its horrific meal, unnatural hunger in its eyes.

  The moon emerged from behind a cloud and the degenerate beast blinked in its unforgiving glare, noticing a small shrine lying on its side where the Blood Dragon’s charge had knocked it. It stared at the shrine as a faint memory stirred, as though the sight should be familiar to it. But the memory was gone and the beast shook its head, biting deeply into the cold heart it carried and scratching idly at the long, white scar that ran from its right temple to its chin.

  SEVENTH BOON

  Mitchel Scanlon

  IT WAS LATE and, given the hour, the draughty expanse of the orphanage’s dining hall seemed hardly warmer than the wintry night outside. Yet despite having been roused blearily from their beds, a dozen barefoot children filed across the cold flagstone floor without complaint. Quiet and dutiful, they came to where Sister Altruda stood with the visitors and formed a line facing them, heads up and spines held straight like diminutive soldiers summoned to a parade ground muster. Then, seeing one of the visitors step forward to inspect them, twelve small faces grew bright with sudden hope - only for those hopes to be abruptly dashed as, finishing her inspection, the young woman turned to Sister Altruda to deliver a terse and crushing verdict. ‘No,’ Frau Forst said, ‘none of these will do.’

  As one, twelve faces fell. Watching it, Sister Altruda felt a familiar sadness to see twelve childish hearts hardened a little more against hope by the pain of rejection. It could not be helped. As priestess to the goddess of mercy, Sister Altruda’s own heart went out to them. But, as director of the Orphanage of Our Lady Shallya of the Blessed Heart, she was a realist. Marienburg manufactured so many unwanted children and if she could find even one a new home tonight it would be a triumph. Though, given that her visitors had spent the better part of an hour viewing dozens of children now without finding one to please them, presently even that small victory seemed beyond her.

  Sighing inwardly, Sister Altruda beckoned to the novitiate Saskia to lead the children from the room. Then, summoning her most diplomatic tone, she turned to her visitors once more.

  ‘You must understand,’ she said, ‘there are hundreds of children here. Perhaps if we were to discuss more fully your criteria in choosing the child you wish to adopt, we might speed the selection.’

  ‘Criteria?’ Frau Forst replied, as though vaguely bewildered by the term. ‘There are no criteria, sister. It is simply a matter of finding a child my husband and I can love as our own. A child we can share our lives with. We will know him when we see him. Isn’t that right, Gunther?’

  Behind her, Herr Forst gave a single silent nod. They made a strange couple. Frau Forst seemed no more than twenty-odd years of age: a vivacious butterfly of a girl shrouded in colourful silks and velvet furs. A woman whose prettiness, to Sister Altruda’s eyes, was only slightly marred by an over-enthusiastic application of rouge to her lips. In contrast, her husband looked more than twenty years her senior. Trim and well-preserved perhaps, with broad shoulders and none of the heaviness of waist common to men of his years and position. But his dark hair and well-groomed beard were flecked with streaks of grey, while his shrewd, quiet eyes spoke of a man who had seen enough of life to always be wary.

  A moth to his wife’s butterfly, Herr Forst dressed in sombre greys and blacks, his only ornament an amulet on a heavy gold chain around his neck announcing his membership in one of Marienburg’s innumerable mercantile orders. Given their disparities, Sister Altruda could not help but suspect that Frau Forst had come here on a whim, intent on choosing herself a trophy child in the same manner as her husband had evidently chosen himself a trophy wife. Still, it was none of her concern. Whatever their motives, she did not doubt that any child would be happier living with the Forsts than in the dreary and overcrowded confines of the orphanage. And besides, the good character of Herr Forst himself was beyond question.

  Where others who might consider themselves among the ”great-and-good” of Marienburg seemed content to let the city’s flotsam children be condemned to the streets, over the last five years Gunther Forst had been the orphanage’s single most generous private benefactor. He had his eccentricities though and if after five years of distant benevolence he had come to adopt a child outside the orphanage’s usual hours of business then so be it. Sister Altruda would no more reject a reasonable request from Herr Forst than she would the High Priestess in Couronne. No matter how difficult Frau Forst was to please, no matter how nebulous her requirements or exacting her standards, her position as the wife of Gunther Forst placed her beyond reproach. If need be, Sister Altruda would rouse every child in the orphanage and spend the next six hours trooping them past Frau Forst until she found one that pleased her.

  Though, given how late it was already, she sincerely hoped it would not come to that.

  Hearing the door open once more, Sister Altruda turned to see Saskia leading another group of a dozen children into the room. Lining up as the others had before them, the children waited patiently as Frau Forst stepped forward to examine them. This time though, instead of glancing briefly over the line, Frau Forst paused two-thirds of the way along to gaze down at a sandy-haired boy of about eight whose features seemed almost angelic in their perfection. Guilelessly, the boy lifted his own eyes to stare back and for long moments the woman and the child stood there with eyes locked as though entranced - only for the spell to be broken as, abruptly, Herr Forst cleared his throat. Hearing it, Frau Forst turned to look at her husband for a moment, before turning back to the silent boy before her.

  ‘And what is your name, my little prince?’ she cooed at him.

  ‘The boy does not speak,’ Sister Altruda said.

  ‘He is mute, then?’ Frau Forst asked, raising a quizzical eyebrow towards her.

  ‘No. We examined him when he was brought here and could find no sign of any physical defect. It may be that some shock has caused him to temporarily lose the ability to speak. It is difficult to say. He was found wandering the streets some days ago and we know nothing of his background. Given time, we can only hope his voice returns to him.’

  ‘I see,’ Frau Forst said, turning to coo at the boy once more. ‘If you ask me, my little prince, all you need is a nice loving home. A warm, safe place with toys and dogs and all the things a boy could want. Why, once you come home with us, I’m sure we’ll have you talking ten-to-the-dozen in no time.’

  With that, Frau Forst held out her hand, smiling in delight as she saw the boy raise his own hand to meet it. It seemed, finally, she had made her choice. And, privately, Sister Altruda found herself forced to admit the search had b
een worth it. There was indeed something different about this one. There was something about his eyes, a sense of pure and untarnished innocence. If that was what Frau Forst had been looking for all this time, no wonder it had taken her so long to find it.

  It was rare, after all, to find much that was innocent on the streets of Marienburg.

  AFTERWARDS, SITTING WITHIN the shuttered comfort of his coach as it sped away from the orphanage into the night, Gunther Forst allowed himself the luxury of a small moment of satisfaction. It had gone better than he could ever have dared hope. The efforts he had invested over the last several years - all the donations, the grand and charitable gestures - had finally paid a handsome dividend. There had been no resistance, no awkward questions; the priestess and her novitiate had given him the boy gladly. And though he might have only a few scant hours left in which to put the rest of his plan in motion, if it proceeded half as smoothly as matters had at the orphanage he should achieve his wider aims with ease.

  ‘My, but you’re a quiet one aren’t you, boy? I don’t know, we save you from that nasty orphanage and not even a word of thanks. What’s the matter, my little prince? Cat got your tongue?’

  It was the woman. His erstwhile ”wife”. Evidently bored, she produced a small golden heart on a string of teardrop-shaped garnet beads from within her glove and began to dangle it in front of the face of the silent boy beside her, teasing him.

  ‘Surely you can tell us your name at least,’ she cooed. ‘Every boy has a name. Tell me yours and perhaps I will give you this pretty thing as a gift. You would like that, wouldn’t you?’

  Looking at the ruby light jumping from the dancing beads, the boy said nothing. Grimly, Gunther recognised them as the same set of Shallyan prayer beads he had seen on Sister Altruda’s wrist earlier. It seemed the dubious talents of the woman opposite him went beyond the obvious. Though it had seemed a masterstroke when he had conceived the idea of hiring a courtesan to accompany him to the orphanage and play the part of his wife now he was beginning to find her tiresome. Granted, she had lent a veneer of legitimacy to his attempts to adopt the child, but now the woman had served her purpose, her presence here was at best an irrelevance, at worst an irritation.

  ‘Leave the boy alone,’ he told her.

  Pausing, the woman turned to look at him as though trying to read the limits of his patience in the lines of his face. Then, turning back to the boy once more, she began again in the same idiot tone.

  ‘Did you hear that, little prince?’ she purred. ‘Poppa sounds cross. Do you think he is angry because you won’t tell us your name?’

  ‘Far from it,’ Gunther said, enough of an edge to his voice to let her know she was trying his temper. ‘I have long counted silence as a virtue, in both children and harlots alike.’

  At that, the woman fell quiet. Crossing her arms, she turned to face the lowered shade of the coach window with her mouth set in a sulky line. But if the boy felt any gratitude towards Gunther for his intervention, he gave no sign of it. Instead, seemingly interested in nothing in particular, he continued to sit in wide-eyed silence. Looking at him, Gunther found himself struck once more by the child’s manner. The boy seemed possessed of a flawless, almost otherworldly aura of innocence. Seeing it, Gunther felt a rising feeling of hope. The vital task of finding someone possessed of a perfect and utter purity had always seemed the hardest part of his plan.

  Now he had the boy, the rest should fall into place.

  The coach lurched to a halt. Hearing the coach roof above him creak as the driver left his seat, Gunther waited for the door to be opened. But when it was, instead of the coachman he saw a dark figure appear in the open doorway with a black kerchief tied around the lower half of his face, though of more immediate concern was the loaded handbow the man aimed at Gunther’s heart.

  ‘My apologies for the inconvenience, mein herr,’ the interloper said. ‘But I would count it a personal favour if you and the boy would step down from your compartment. Oh, and you will be careful to keep your hands where I can see them, won’t you? I would hate for either of you to have to suffer a misfortune.’

  Doing as he was told, careful to keep himself between the handbow and the boy, Gunther stepped down from the coach with the boy behind him. Once outside, he saw the coach had stopped in a refuse-strewn alleyway the uncobbled surface of which declared it to be among one of the city’s more isolated and disreputable thoroughfares. A second kerchief-masked footpad stood behind the first, a short wooden cudgel in his hands, while to their side the coachman lurked nervously beside his horses. Seeing the coachman unharmed and apparently unguarded, Gunther realised at once that he was part of it. Just as he realised, outnumbered three-to-one and with the added distraction of having to protect the boy, he would have to weigh his options carefully.

  Having long feared the twin evils of disease and violent death, Gunther had devoted no small number of years to learning the skills necessary to defend against the latter. He was an excellent shot, and hidden out of sight beneath his cloak were a pair of duelling pistols purchased some years past from the grieving widow of hot-headed nobleman whose passion for honour had been exceeded only by the incompetence of his marksmanship. But for all the finely-crafted elegance and accuracy, the pistols were loud and clumsy weapons. And, even in this isolated spot, the sound of shots might serve to draw the attention of the Watch.

  It would have to be the knife.

  ‘Here,’ he said, lifting the chain from around his neck, ‘I will give you anything you want so long as you let the boy and I go in peace.’

  ‘A most commendable attitude,’ the handbowman said. ‘Really, mein herr, your clear-sighted grasp of the situation does you credit.’

  ‘Not at all,’ Gunther replied, holding the chain out in his right hand and watching as the man took two steps towards it. ‘I am simply a pragmatist. All the same, I must confess to some surprise. I would have thought a handbow far too expensive a weapon for the purse of a pimp.’

  Abruptly, the advancing figure stopped, his eyes above his mask grown suddenly hard and tight.

  ‘He knows, Ruprecht,’ the one with the cudgel said, breaking the ugly silence. ‘He knows who you are.’

  ‘Well, if he didn’t before, Oskar, he certainly does now,’ the other replied, pulling his mask down to reveal a sallow yet handsome face. As Gunther suspected, it was the woman’s pimp. ‘Bravo, Herr Forst. You are right about the handbow, of course. It came into my possession in the wake of a financial dispute with one of Greta’s gentleman clients. But, tell me, how did you know it was me?’

  ‘You let the woman stay in the coach,’ Gunther said. ‘No matter the tales of the gallantry of highwaymen, it seemed unlikely you would leave her possessions unmolested unless they were effectively yours already. That alone was enough to make it clear you were her pimp come to rob me.’

  ‘I am afraid you overrate your value to us, Herr Forst,’ the pimp sneered. ‘Robbing you was never anything more than an afterthought. It is the child we want. To the right buyer, a boy like that is a valuable piece of merchandise. And, I assure you, I make it my business to know all the right buyers.’

  ‘Now,’ the pimp said, taking a step forward as he raised his handbow to fire, ‘seeing as you have been so helpful as to make us aware you know who we are, it would seem foolish to leave you alive to tell of it.’

  With a sudden twist of his wrist, Gunther threw the amulet at the pimp, the chain hit the man in the face just as his finger tightened on the trigger. As the bolt flew wild over his shoulder, Gunther stepped forward, pulling his knife from its hidden sheath with his left hand and thrusting it deep into Ruprecht’s side. Eyes startled with pain, the pimp tried to scream, the sound emerged as a wet gurgle as, dying, his body pitched forward towards the ground. But Gunther was past him already. Seeing the other footpad lift his cudgel and charge forward to attack, Gunther tossed the knife from left hand to right with a fluid motion, raising his left arm to block the descending wrist
holding the cudgel while, with his right, he slid the knife between the man’s ribs and into his heart.

  Pulling the knife free as the second man collapsed, Gunther turned to see the coachman still standing beside his horses. Holding the butt of his coachwhip before him as an improvised weapon, the coachman seemed glued to the spot, caught between the urge to attack and the fear Gunther would dispose of him as easily as the others.

  ‘All I want is to go in peace with the boy,’ Gunther told him. ‘And I want the coach. Run now, and I will let you live.’

  For a moment, the coachman stood staring in disbelief. Then, the prospect of escape overcoming his distrust, he turned and ran. Only for Gunther to throw his knife the instant the man turned his back, taking the coachman high in the neck and dropping him before he had gone three steps.

  Striding forward to pull his knife from the dead man’s neck, Gunther’s first thoughts were for the safety of the boy. Turning to look behind him, he was relieved to see the still strangely silent child standing, uninjured, beside the coach where he had left him.

  ‘Get into the coach, boy,’ Gunther said, stooping to pull his knife free. ‘We are leaving.’

  Instead of moving, the boy turned his wide eyes to stare at something on the coach, before looking back at Gunther once more. Noticing for the first time a slumped figure hanging halfway through the window of the coach door, Gunther stepped forward to investigate and saw something which soon had him silently cursing his luck.

  It was the woman. She was dead: the flight of her pimp’s errant bolt jutting from a wound in her neck. Evidently she had been standing watching the confrontation through the window when it struck her. But what concerned Gunther more was the woman’s blood. It was everywhere, staining the side of the coach and the running board beneath it. The coach was next to useless to him now. He could not afford the chance some over-eager watchman would see the blood and be moved to ask questions Gunther would rather not answer. Nor could he simply clean the blood away - even had a suitable supply of water been at hand, it would take too long. And tonight, more so than at any other point in Gunther’s life, time was of the essence.