Warhammer Anthology 07

by Way of the Dead

  ‘Oh, there’s no harm in him… He keeps poor company - but he remembers things and seems, now at least, keen to keep me informed… I dare say he’s more use to us at large, as it were. Let’s reacquaint him with the outside world, shall we? We have far greater fish to fry! Besides… I think Herr DuWurtz knows only too well what’ll happen if we can’t trust him.’

  In a tangle of billowing black fabric, dragging Vassek DuWurtz behind them, the Templars passed from the catacombs like a malignant storm cloud.

  DESPITE THE FILTH and the poverty, the people of the city’s working quarter walked with heads held high. Possessed of a ridiculous quality of embittered imperiousness, their indomitable pride glimmered in their demeanour. We may be poor, their expressions contrived to announce, but by Sigmar we’ll not show it!

  This was a world of starched clothing, of saving-up-for-a-rainy-day, of keeping up appearances, and of fierce, unconditional piety.

  In the lowliest of places does Sigmar find his champions, thought Karver with a sad smile, passing along the cobbled streets. He hated entering this district - not out of any great distaste at wallowing in conditions below his station, but rather for the reactions that such visits earned. These people weren’t witches or heretics, they’d sooner kill themselves than invite the Taint into their disinfected little world - and yet still they lowered their gaze, still they clutched at their hammer pendants silently, still they sweated in cold, guilty fear at the passing of a witch hunter.

  These people didn’t deserve to be afraid of him, Karver knew, and he hated himself because they were.

  The Templars passed into a side alley, leaving the wide eyes and the whispers behind. They gathered around their leader, who nodded towards an ill fitting door at the alley’s end. ‘There.’

  ‘They have such fear of us,’ Spielmunn whispered, peering back over his shoulder at the thronged street, where already rumours would be breeding and accusations cast.

  Karver smiled sadly. ‘Mm. You’ll quickly learn that fear can be a powerful weapon, my boy. Then again, it can also be a great hindrance. An innocent man has no need to fear the Templar’s knock upon his door, but he fears it anyway… What, then, is the hunter’s other greatest weapon?’

  Spielmunn’s smooth features contorted in uncertainty, cheeks already blushing red. Hoist sniggered and hefted his pistol, caressing its barrel.

  ‘Put it away, Hoist,’ Karver muttered, one exquisite eyebrow arching. ‘A man who reveres such clumsy things has no right to them in the first place. No, Spielmunn? Any ideas, the rest of you?’ The teacher-to-class routine came easily, and Karver, in his secret soul, basked in his acolytes’ reverence.

  ‘Kubler? I daresay you know the answer.’

  Kubler thought for a moment, then nodded. ‘A templar’s greatest weapon, captain - besides fear - is an open and smiling face.’

  ‘Correct. The man who is reticent when threatened may well be loose tongued in the face of simple friendliness.’

  Hoist spat in disappointment. He preferred his gun.

  Karver went on with a flourish, ‘The Templar must be, above all else, a gentleman! He walks with poise, is polite at all times and strives to bring light - be it the light of purity, of truth, or of refinement - into places of darkness.’ The Templars, in varying degrees of understanding and accordance, nodded.

  ‘Look at Kubler, if you will.’ Karver grinned, reinforcing his point and embarrassing his star pupil in one deft move. ‘He’s clean - well, mostly clean - his boots are well shined; why, his face is so open one could walk through it and exit the other side!’ The Templars sniggered, enjoying the street theatre. Karver could sense their anxiety at the forthcoming raid and knew exactly how to coax their relaxation. ‘See here,’ he said, pointing at Kubler’s ebony-swathed chest, ‘he even wears a brooch in his buttonhole! Quite the Bretonnian court dandy today, isn’t he?’ Karver’s gloved hand darted out and snatched up the bauble, inspecting its bright emerald surface. ‘A most exquisite jewel too, I’d say. Where did you find it?’

  Kubler squirmed, clearly uncomfortable with the attention, ‘I… ah… I bought it, sir. Got it from a peddler up in the platz. All different sorts, she had.’

  ‘Well next time you visit your peddler, my boy, you be sure to purchase enough of these trinkets for all of us, you hear?’ Smiling benignly, Karver handed the token back to Kubler. ‘And now gentlemen,’ he nodded, twiddling his cane, ‘if we’ve all quite finished admiring this blushing model of Talabheim sophistication, what do you say to a little exercise?’

  An element of apprehension returned to the group; but Karver could sense their calm professionalism. It was an altogether better prepared squad that turned as one towards the door at the foot of the alleyway.

  Karver drew his pistol.

  Boom.

  A flare of light and a vicious geyser of smoke.

  The decayed timber erupted in a maelstrom of whirligig splinters and corroded bolts. Messily bisected planks slumped mournfully in their dislocated bindings, the dismal light from beyond the ruined door spilling into the gloom within.

  Dust motes capered in a flurry of concentric eddies as a gloved hand, ebony sleeve avoiding snags on the jagged wood, hastily reached into the room and tore back the deadbolt holding the door closed.

  In the darkness someone - or something - moaned dolefully.

  The door lurched open, hinges squealing in protest at the twisted wreckage of their load. Cold air rushed into the room like the surge of a broken dam, and again something within keened to itself.

  Richt Karver strode into the gloom, pistol in one hand and swordstick in the other. Squinting into the shadows, he braced himself for whatever evils might be lurking within - tensing the muscles of his leading leg, preparing for combat.

  Nothing moved.

  Accosting him from the cloying darkness was an exotic melange of herbaceous aromas, strange and tantalising scents, carrying with them visions of distant lands and wondrous flora. Hoist spat, shattering the silence. ‘Stinks like a privy in here.’

  Rows of bundled herbs hung drying from the ceiling, an inverted forest of miasmic odours. The chamber - poorly lit as it was - looked for all the world like an apothecary’s workroom.

  Again came that low murmuring moan, and instantly the Templars tensed, weapons levelled, eyes desperate to penetrate the darkness. Karver cocked his head, owl like, attempting to locate the source of the sound. Gradually, like a sundial’s shadow point, he pivoted around the room, coming to rest with all his formidable attention focused upon a wide, flat topped cabinet.

  ‘Show yourself,’ he growled.

  Something moved fractionally in the gloom, curled under the low top of the table. It began to draw itself upright, tattered rags hanging around it like dead flesh, a distinct metallic chiming accompanying its stiff movements. A heavy hood shadowed the thing’s face, a few errant strands of blond hair hanging loose.

  Quivering, it groaned horrendously. The Templars spread out across the room, blocking the twitching creature’s escape.

  ‘Come out in the open,’ Karver grunted. His command was ignored. Frowning, Karver slowly lifted a leg and stamped down hard on the floor. The resulting thump had the desired effect.

  Like a startled rodent, the hooded head snapped around to regard the black clad apparition blotting the light from the door.

  ‘Muaa…’ it gurgled.

  ‘Come out into the open,’ Karver repeated, gesturing with his pistol. ‘Understand?’

  Again, a moment of recognition - perhaps even a half nod - and Karver felt sure that he could hear the thing breathing, sharp, panicked intakes of breath.

  And then, with lightning rapidity the figure twisted to reach for something hidden from view beyond the cabinet. Karver felt a hot rush of adrenaline pulsing through him, senses surging ahead so that glacial slowness seemed to clutch at his movement.

  ‘Weapon!’ yelled Kubler in astonishment. All around the room the Templars were reacting, eyes wide
- slow, too slow!

  Karver didn’t even think. His finger tightened fractionally on the trigger and the world went white.

  Only when the echoes of the pistol crack had fled from the chamber did time appear to flow freely again. Dry fragments of cloth capered briefly in the air, blown clear of the shambling figure by the force of the impact. The creature itself had folded away neatly: no whalespout of chaotic fluids followed its descent, no mad thrashing of limbs and gnashing of teeth. It collapsed with a strangled yelp, the clink of metal upon metal, and lay still.

  Karver inched forwards cautiously. Finally convinced of its death, he stooped to peel back the ragged hood. He instantly understood his horrible mistake.

  It was a girl - perhaps twelve - and she had been insane.

  Her eyes betrayed her madness; not the volatile, explosive insanity of the Taint, but rather a wide eyed horror, an expression of untold hardships barely endured that had robbed her of her sanity and replaced it instead with an endless fount of terror.

  Her lips were open in a silent moan, betraying the mutilated flesh within.

  ‘Her tongue’s gone,’ he murmured quietly.

  And then, with morbid curiosity, Karver allowed his eyes to travel along her outstretched arm to whatever she had been twisting to grab in her final moments of life. Cold reflected light on metal glimmered beneath the rags festooning her frailty, and, horrified, Karver understood his error.

  A thick manacle was set around her bruised and bloody leg - a manacle securing her, by means of an iron chain, to an immovable stanchion cemented into the floor. She had been reaching to expose the chain - a mute explanation for her inability to comply with Karver’s order to move out into the open.

  This girl had been a prisoner. A voiceless innocent, mutilated and abused by her captor, held here for who knew what reason.

  And Karver had killed her. He felt sick.

  ‘Get out,’ he hissed, teeth grinding together.

  ‘But s-sir,’ Lars stammered, ‘you couldn’t have kno-‘

  ‘Get out.’

  Exchanging glances, the hunters withdrew, leaving their leader with the grim trophy of his error. Hunched over, he closed his eyes and hissed a litany, forcing down the bile in his stomach.

  ‘… Sigmar forgive… Sigmar forgive…’

  Silence sank gradually into the room. Slowly, precariously, struggling all the way, Karver allowed a sense of resolution into his mind. Witch hunters were predators. They weeded out the weak and the defective and felt no remorse at the execution of their holy work: holy work, Karver knew, that could brook no inner guilt. No guilt! - a commandment that shrieked through his skull and demanded acquiescence.

  He’d killed before. Oh, countless times. So many bodies gathered at his feet, so much blood spilled on his polished boots, so many vengeful bullets fired in Sigmar’s name. How many fires had he lit in the communal platz? How often had he heard screams of denial turn to anguished, meaningless shrieks of admission in the Stygian dungeons of the Temple?

  Compared to such overwhelming carnage - he lied smoothly to himself - what did the accidental extinguishing of one tiny, innocent life truly matter?

  Something happened to Richt Karver’s eyes, then. A minor change, to be sure, but a change nonetheless. Some fractional glimmer within his steely blue irises dimmed, hardened with new crystalline certainty, and when finally he straightened it was a minutely different man who arose.

  The echoes of an ancient text rattled in his mind - a fragment of dialogue, written by some long dead bard, recited in the dry lecture halls of his youth.

  I am in blood stepped in so far, that should I wade no more, returning were as tedious as to go o’er.

  All trace of sentiment removed from his bearing, Karver peered about the room intently, halting his gaze upon the surface of the cabinet. Piled carefully upon a stone tile, surrounded by pestles, mortars and racks of spherical tablet moulds, lay a pyramid of finely formed powder. Well within reach of the girl, the Templar noted, bending to scrutinise the substance.

  Nodding with newfound certainty, he glanced about for a container. Nothing seemed available - the room was as spartan as it was gloomy - and Karver grimly peeled off one leather glove and, careful not to touch it with his bare skin, scooped a portion of the powder inside.

  THE VENERABLE HERR Ehlbeck - Graduate of the College of Magic in Altdorf; Initiate of the Jade Order; specialist in herbology; much sought after purveyor of balms and healing potions - tugged on his beard and fumed quietly to himself.

  Around him graceful glass vessels bubbled and boiled, fluted beakers frothed in multicoloured agitation and thick smoke was shooed through an open window by a gaggle of fan wielding assistants. A flickering flame turned from yellow to green, coating the sorcerer’s eyeglasses in an oily frosting and causing him to sneeze explosively. He felt positively light headed - which only added to his growing sense of indignation - and murmured a quick incantation to ward off the intoxicating effects of the vapour.

  The cheek of the man! Storming in without so much as a by your leave! Stomping around, knocking over equipment, making demands as if he were the Supreme Patriarch himself! And then, having delivered a justifiable refusal to cooperate with this madman, to have been threatened by him; a Practitioner of the Secret Arts, threatened like some lowborn thug in a tavern! It was too much to bear!

  Ehlbeck forced down an image of that decorative pistol being thrust forcibly into his rosy swollen nose and told himself that the only reason he’d relented was to get the odious man out of his workshop.

  Then he ran his gaze around the chamber quickly, dipped his hat in farewell as if to cauterise whatever wounds festered therein, and stalked out into the cold city.

  Contenting himself with considering what cutting responses he could have supplied had he wanted to, Herr Ehlbeck bent down to his task with all the false bravado of a man who knows he’s been defeated but refuses to acknowledge it.

  IN AN ADJOINING chamber, Richt Karver slumped on an uncomfortable bench and attempted to relax. As defender of Sigmar’s Inviolable Faith the very notion of relying upon the suspect talents of a wizard seemed questionable. He’d balked when the idea first came to him, but after a forced inspection of the facilities he was as convinced as he could be that no Taint existed here. The ease with which the frail old man had been terrorised had been most gratifying.

  The various other citizens sitting patiently in Ehlbeck’s waiting room had long since dispersed, with as much nonchalance as they could muster. The presence of a witch hunter was more than enough to dissuade them from pursuing the incantations and healing potions they sought. In such small ways was the sanctity of Sigmar preserved.

  Eventually Herr Ehlbeck came bustling from his workroom, green robes flowing behind him and snagging clumsily on the assorted twigs and branches festooning the room. He came to rest before Karver - who regarded him dispassionately - muttering excitedly to himself and fiddling with his eyeglasses, all former hostility forgotten.

  Finally, twitching like a rodent and tapping his fingers together, he turned to Karver. ‘Where… ah where did you find this powder?’

  ‘I don’t think that’s really any of your concern,’ Karver responded. ‘Is it Glow?’

  ‘Oh-Oh yes. No doubt about that, I mean, I compared the powder with the tablet form exhaustively. Exhaustively, I say. Same results, all the way through, bam-bam-bam, just like that. Definitely the same stuff. Whatever it is.’

  ‘And what is it?’

  ‘Ha. Quite.’ The wizard scratched his nose distractedly, ‘I was rather hoping you might tell me, actually…’

  ‘Listen.’ Karver grunted, annoyed. ‘This… substance, whatever it is, am I correct in assuming it to be some physical form of-‘

  ‘Magic?’ The wizard breathed, eyes twinkling behind his glasses. ‘Oh, absolutely. Mixed with all sorts of herbs, of course, but essentially it’s… well… I’d go so far as to say that if Chaos-‘ and here Ehlbeck noted Karver’s nar
rowing eyes and added quickly: ‘thrice damned that it is, of course - if Chaos were distilled into material form, then this would be the result.’

  Karver glared acerbically at Ehlbeck for a moment. Men had died burning in the platz for showing less of an interest in the Taint than this skinny little bundle of nerves before him, but it occurred to him that a tame wizard was perhaps a valuable resource… ‘Mm,’ he grunted eventually. ‘Chaos dust, eh?’

  ‘Haha - quite,’ the wizard laughed nervously. Karver treated him to a glance of unequivocal disdain.

  ‘Very well.’ The Templar muttered to himself, ‘I suppose I must discover where the wretched stuff comes from…’ He nodded perfunctorily at the wizard - the only thanks the venerable man would get - and turned to leave.

  ‘There… ah… there is one other thing…’ Ehlbeck said, polishing his glasses distractedly. ‘Whilst I was conducting the tests, I… well, that is to say… I was a touch… distracted by the tenseness of the situation and, ah, to start with I tested the wrong thing…’

  Karver’s eyes narrowed. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Well, you see… Y-you asked me to test the powder in the glove against the Glow tablet, yes? Um, whereas, t-to start with, I tested the specks I found on the glove. I-I realised my mistake quickly and repeated the test on the stuff inside - w-which are the results I’ve been giving you - but, you see, it wouldn’t have made any difference anyway because the stuff on the outside was exactly the same, chemically speaking.’ The old man was twittering now, embarrassed at his mistake.

  ‘The powder on the glove?’ Karver repeated, perplexed.

  ‘Y-yes. Just a few green fragments. Quite pretty, in fact, haha. Um.’

  ‘I didn’t touch any powder. I scooped it up inside.’

  The wizard shrugged wretchedly, desperate to get the terrible man away from his premises.

  ‘Mm,’ Karver grunted again, and then stepped through the door into the street.

  As he walked, he thought. And as he thought, a revelation began to form.