[Warhammer] - The Corrupted

by Robert Earl - (ebook by Undead)

  Panic curdled his stomach, and his breath started to come in short, sharp gasps. Ahead of him, the empty street first shrieked with laughter, and then began to sob, and all the while, he couldn’t see so much as a single shadow.

  It wasn’t a scream, however, that finally broke his self control, it was a whisper, a single word. It was his name.

  “Kerr,” a voice said, and his nerve snapped as neatly as a frozen bowstring.

  He screamed, his own cry tame amongst all the others, and bolted down the street. Something tripped him in the darkness and he bounced off bloodied knees, and blundered onwards. All around him the voices grew mocking, made cruel, perhaps, by their own suffering.

  He reached the end of the street, and bumped into a wall.

  “Come with us.” The voice was as soft as asphyxiation, and as insistent as a strangler’s fingers.

  Kerr spun around, eyes rolling, and slashed the air with his dagger. The only response was a tickle of laughter. With a ragged sob, he turned and fumbled along the wall. He had taken care to note the quirks of architecture on the path he had taken, but now there wasn’t a single visible landmark. He had never expected to find himself in such an unlit night.

  Something turned beneath his feet and he fell again. This time, he landed on his satchel, and something sharp dug into his thigh. He closed his trembling fingers around it, and his thoughts were so panic-stricken that it took him a moment to realise that it was the stone that Titus had given him.

  “Stay with us,” the voice whispered again, the rattle of it growing even closer. “Stay with us in the cold and in the dark, dance in the nightmares of men and the dreams of…”

  Kerr, his hand still closed around the stone, lashed out in panic.

  This time, his blow connected with more than cold air. It thunked home with a knuckle jarring impact. There was a shriek of pain, a rush of air, and the night exploded into a flash of blue light.

  A thousand after-images swirled in Kerr’s eyes, and his fist throbbed with the impact. He rubbed his knuckles as he tried to work out what had just happened. Holding a stone while giving somebody a beating was an old trick, but as far as he knew not even the most brutal of Altdorf’s thugs had ever managed to slug a ghost.

  Before he could follow this line of thought, he noticed that the voices were getting louder: nearer, more angry.

  Kerr struggled back to his feet. He pressed his back to the wall and tried to decide which way to go. The shrieks of rage approached from every side, and he could almost imagine that his name was being called.

  He was edging along the wall, his eyes rolling in the darkness, when the claws dug into his shoulders. Suddenly, it didn’t seem to matter where he ran to, just as long as it was away from here.

  Kerr bolted down the street, his blood fizzing with adrenaline as he sprinted as blindly as a rat in a maze.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Vaught paced around the cell, scowling at the furniture that had been brought in. It was quite good quality, the carpentry solid and smoothly polished. It had been brought along at the same time as their possessions, which had been searched and returned.

  There was even a candleholder to light the cell, and a washbasin that sat on a churn of clean water, but no matter how comfortable, only Fargo had enough courage to sit down. Nobody else quite had the nerve to risk the glare that such self-indulgence would bring from their captain.

  “I suppose we’ll have to think of something else,” Vaught said to Fargo.

  The older man frowned.

  “I didn’t think that the gaoler would be such a fool as to come into the cell. It’s not as if your plan is very original. Perhaps he’s suffered from a similar attempt in the past.”

  Vaught sighed.

  “You’re probably right,” he allowed, and stopped in front of the cage that barred their cell. It lay at the end of a passageway. At the other end, perhaps twenty feet away, two guards sat. They were staring into empty space with the profound boredom of men who had long since counted every stone in the wall opposite.

  “Anyway, taking him hostage was never going to work.” Fargo leant back in his chair with a luxurious stretch that had the other men watching Vaught nervously. “When all’s said and done, who’s going to care for the life of a gaoler, however high ranking?”

  Vaught shrugged and ran a hand across the stubble on his scalp.

  “There is that. This gaoler, though, he seems like a wealthy man.”

  “Ah, but that’s it, isn’t it? Wealth isn’t the same as power. Those burghers in Teinval had gold coming out of their noses, but we lit them up as easily as candles. Not like that baron. What was he called?”

  “Morstein,” Vaught said. “Baron Morstein. He even had the effrontery to speak of his foul practices in public.”

  “That’s because he had real power, not just that halberdier detachment, but the letter from the elector’s palace too.”

  As Vaught considered the campaign against Baron Morstein, his mood lifted. He smiled, as brightly as the fire upon which the cultist had ended his days.

  “We eventually burned that letter with him, as I remember.”

  “Eventually we did, yes, eventually.”

  Vaught turned back to face his men, and spoke in a voice loud enough for it to echo up the passageway.

  “Well, it seems that Fargo is right. We should wait for the prince regent to free us. In the meantime, we should start shaping up. Peik, why haven’t you polished your boots today? Bort, I don’t remember giving you permission to grow a beard. You look like a hedge wizard. In fact…”

  Vaught paused and turned back to shout up the passageway.

  “Guards. Guards! We need soap and razors. Go ask the gaoler.”

  The two guards looked at each other and shrugged. Then one of them, keen on the change of scenery, went off to ask.

  “You’ll never get razors,” Fargo muttered as somebody passed him a jar of boot polish. “They’ve even taken my pocket knife.”

  “With Sigmar all things are possible,” Vaught said.

  Half an hour later, the gaoler himself returned with a rosewood box. He passed it through the iron railings and then stood back as Vaught opened it.

  “Here you go, your honour, best steel in Praag, that is, sharp enough to cut mist. My brother-in-law makes them. See the box? It’s rosewood, carved by a master from down south.”

  “Put them on the bill,” Vaught said, “and when we finish, I would like to go for a walk in the yard.”

  “I don’t think you would, your lordship.” The gaoler shook his head. “The inmates down there really aren’t your sort of people.”

  “Yes,” Vaught told him. “I would. I miss the fresh air.”

  The gaoler licked his lips.

  “I don’t mean to be uncooperative, but you must see my position. I am responsible for your safety. I have only just sent off a bill for the first months rent to your prince, and if anything happened in the meantime…”

  “We’ll be fine,” Vaught told him.

  “I’m sorry, your lordship.” The gaoler shook his head regretfully. “I can’t take the risk, but if there’s anything else I can get for you? Some… some company perhaps?”

  “Sounds interesting,” Fargo said. Vaught scowled at him.

  “Or at least let me bring you some fresh fruit,” the gaoler said, “on the house, and as soon as your first month’s bill is paid, we can talk again.”

  “Now what?” Fargo asked as the gaoler scurried away.

  Vaught flipped open his razor and went to shave.

  “First we clean ourselves,” he said. “Then we pray.”

  * * *

  “They’re still alive! How can they still be alive? Do you know what those lunatics are capable of?”

  Grendel tugged at his beard as he paced around his chamber, his robe flapping around his bony legs.

  “Relax,” Zhukovsky told him. “They’re not going anywhere. I told you, the Tsaritsa has ordered them to be hel
d indefinitely.”

  “You can’t hold them indefinitely, they’re witch hunters. What if the prince regent asks for their release?”

  “He can ask for what he wants,” Zhukovsky said, and leaned back on his divan. He was enjoying the sorcerer’s discomfort. “I’m the secretary for that department. If he writes, I will answer.”

  Grendel dragged his shaking fingers through the tangle of his hair, and then went back to tugging at his beard.

  “No. No, no, no. You’ll have to kill them. What if they escape?”

  “They won’t escape. Nobody escapes from the Lubyanka, especially when the Tsaritsa has ordered it thus.”

  The sorcerer paced over to the window and peered out at the darkness of the world below. It was pitch black in the streets of the city, the curfew complete.

  “Better close the curtain or the phantoms will come. They always come when the Inferno Borealis lies dormant. They don’t like the light.”

  Grendel waved such mundane fears aside.

  “They are pitiful things, your phantoms. No, I’m worried about the witch hunters. You don’t seem to understand what the creatures can do. In the Empire…”

  “This isn’t the Empire,” Zhukovsky interrupted. He sprang off the divan and stalked over to pull the curtains across the windows. Pitiful things the haunters of the dark may be, but they still made him feel queasy.

  Grendel went and sat down, and started chewing his fingernails.

  “Look,” Zhukovsky tried to reason with him. “They are only men. We caught them as easily as trout in a net, and locked them up without shedding a drop of blood, and with your powers, why should you worry? You are a great disciple of the greatest of all gods.”

  Grendel started at the mention of his master. Then he pulled himself together. Zhukovsky was right. He was a great follower of Slaanesh. He had accomplished more in the past weeks than the fools of the colleges would achieve in their entire worthless lifetimes. Even so, witch hunters…

  He shivered and spat a piece of nail out onto the carpet.

  “If I kill them, then it’s more difficult,” Zhukovsky explained. “If I kill them, I will have to explain why. I will have to spend gold, and then find assassins to kill the assassins, and if you do it by magic, people will start to wonder if they had a point. No, better to let them rot; we usually get an outbreak of yellow pox in the Lubyanka at this time of year, anyway. Maybe that will finish them off for you.”

  Grendel stared moodily into space. Zhukovsky watched him with contempt. How could such a powerful man be such a silly old fool? Slaanesh certainly had a sense of humour.

  “Anyway,” the nobleman said, sitting back down, “have you anything in mind for our gathering?”

  “What? Oh, the gathering. Yes, I thought of some particularly appropriate acts of worship, but it’s all off now, of course.”

  “What!”

  Zhukovsky, as outraged as a dog whose bone had been snatched away, leapt to his feet.

  “What do you mean it’s off?”

  “I mean that it’s far too dangerous to risk such excesses with witch hunters around. Who knows what they’ll do? We need to lay low for a while and rest up. Anyway,” Grendel looked at his confederate, “you could do with a period of recovery. Keeping you looking normal wastes too much of my time. It’s old magic as well. Now, if you wanted to be reshaped… wings, maybe…”

  Grendel trailed off as he looked speculatively at the count.

  Zhukovsky’s ravaged features dropped into a look of astonishment.

  “You’re insane,” he said.

  Grendel just giggled. It was a shrill, broken sound and it made the count’s flaccid skin crawl.

  “Insane or not,” the sorcerer told him, “I won’t do anything else until you have slaughtered the witch hunters like the animals they are. Think of it as a favour.”

  Zhukovsky dropped his head into his hands.

  “A favour to Slaanesh?”

  “If you like,” Grendel shrugged, and rubbed his bony hands together. “Now, if you will excuse me, my lord, I have preparations to make. Morrslieb draws ever closer, and there is little time to waste.”

  Zhukovsky took his leave and, leaning heavily on his stick, made his way back to his own quarters. The servants fled at his approach. Although Grendel had been able to hide the desolation of the count’s body, he had been powerless to hide the desolation of his soul. The violence of Zhukovsky’s mood swings had become legend in the servants’ hall, so had the disappearances of some of their number.

  When he returned to his empty chambers, he poured himself a glass of the painkiller that Grendel had provided and went over to the dwarf-built iron safe that stood in one corner of the room. He dialled the combination with trembling fingers, and rummaged around inside for the materials he needed.

  So, Grendel needed the witch hunters killed, did he? Well, fine. He would have them killed; but there was more than one way to stuff a pigeon.

  From the court of the Prince Regent of Altdorf, Guardian of the Keys and Protector of the Emperor’s High Places, to the man styling himself Gaoler of our Noble Cousin the Tsaritsa of Praag.

  The prince regent has graciously received your battels for services that you have provided for diverse bandits. Be it known to you that these creatures are of no interest to us, neither as goods, nor as chattels, nor as livestock.

  I am sure that you will treat them accordingly. Also be assured that the prince, in the splendour of his munificence, understands that you meant no insult by accosting his servants on these villains’ behalf.

  Your most obedient servant,

  Reikhart Van Debouyt, secretary to the Prince Regent of Altdorf.

  Postscriptum—At my master’s instruction, I have enclosed a gold coin so that you may spare the men needed to make an example of those who trade on my prince’s good name.

  Klitter Hofstadter, under secretary to Reikhart Van Debouyt, secretary to the Prince Regent of Altdorf.

  Satisfied with his work, Zhukovsky poured sand over the wet ink, and scrolled the parchment up. Sealing it with a blob of red wax and a forged Altdorfian stamp, he sat back at his desk.

  Tomorrow, he would have a messenger deliver the letter to the Lubyanka. From what he knew of the gaoler, the response would be vengeful and murderous.

  Zhukovsky was smiling even before he’d swallowed his sedative.

  It might have been morning. In the darkness of the cell, it was impossible to tell. Half of the witch hunters lay sleeping on the rugs that had been provided. Vaught and three others sat around the table, their hands clasped in prayer.

  The harmony of their voices mingled into a single drone as they prayed, their words flowing as smoothly as honey. They had been chanting since the stub of their candle had been whole, and before that, the others had been at these same stations. If any of them doubted that their god would hear their appeal, they made no sign of it. Instead, they focused all of their energy into their prayers, content to let Sigmar decide their fate.

  When the gaoler unlocked the doors at the end of the passageway, they had no doubt that their appeal had been answered.

  Vaught finished the verse, before raising his hands for silence and turning to their captor. The gaoler wore his usual obsequious grin as he approached, although for once it was looking a little strained.

  “Good morning, gentlemen,” he said, rubbing his hands together and peering through the bars of the cell door.

  “If you say so,” Vaught replied.

  “Oh, I see what you mean.” The gaoler laughed with an obvious effort. “Well, I’m pleased to say that I have thought about your request to go outside, and I will take the risk of granting it. On your own cognisance, obviously.”

  “Obviously,” Vaught nodded. He never ceased to be amazed by the power of righteous prayer.

  “I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to wear those beastly chains again, just while we transport you through the gaol proper. It’s embarrassing for me to have to ask gentle
men such as yourself, but there it is.”

  Vaught turned to Fargo, who had just woken up. The older man shrugged.

  “Of course we’ll take them off when you get to the courtyard,” the gaoler reassured them.

  “Very well,” Vaught nodded. “Although I hope we won’t find the rent for them on our battels.”

  For a moment, a hardness came into the gaoler’s eyes, but then he was laughing again.

  “Oh no. No indeed. They’re one of the things you’ve had on the house.”

  Again a flash of hardness, but Vaught didn’t notice. He had turned to see if the rest of his men were ready.

  “Well then,” the gaoler said, backing away. “I’ll send some guards down to sort you out directly. Enjoy the fresh air!”

  “Thank you,” Vaught said as the man scuttled away.

  “He’s wasted in here,” Fargo decided as the gaoler disappeared between the doors at the end of the passage. “He should have been an inn keeper.”

  “He seems to think that he is, and here come the porters.”

  Fargo looked at the approaching guards, and then at Vaught.

  “If I didn’t know you better, captain, I’d say you were developing a sense of humour.”

  Vaught remained stony faced as the men passed the chains through the bars.

  “If you wouldn’t mind clicking the manacles shut, gentlemen,” one of them said, “then we can be on our way. We should go before it starts raining.”

  Vaught set the example, clicking the cold grip of a cuff onto his wrists. When all the witch hunters were securely bound, the guards unlocked the cage front of their cell. The rusted metal shrieked open and they beckoned the prisoners out.

  “Follow me, sir,” one of them told Vaught, and led the way along the lamplit dankness of the passageway. The guards opened the doors ahead of them, and they clanked onwards, taking first one turning, then another. Eventually they came to a flight of steps that led upwards to another level.

  The witch hunters, each man busily memorising the layout of the dungeon, remained silent. They had been walking for almost half an hour before they felt the first breath of fresh air on their faces and saw the first grey sliver of daylight.