Hammer and Bolter Year One

by Christian Dunn

  Voices rose in agreement. Sarpedon’s mind whirled too quickly for him to pay attention to them. If Daenyathos was alive, then what did that mean? The Soul Drinkers had gone to Selaaca to stave off the necron invasion of an innocent world, and yet Daenyathos had been there all along. Sarpedon traced back the events of the last weeks, his capture, the assault on the necron overlord’s tomb, the battles on Raevenia and the clash with the Mechanicus fleet, and before that...

  Iktinos. It had been Iktinos who had suggested the Brokenback flee into the Veiled Region. The Chaplain’s arguments had made sense – the Veiled Region was a good place to hide. And yet he had led the Soul Drinkers straight to the tomb of Daenyathos. Iktinos must have known Daenyathos was there. And yet Iktinos had been one of Sarpedon’s most trusted friends, the spiritual heart of the Chapter...

  ‘Is he here?’ said Sarpedon, hoping to be heard over the shouting. ‘Daenyathos. Is he here, on the Phalanx?’

  ‘He shall be brought to the dock in time,’ replied Vladimir.

  ‘I must speak with him!’

  ‘You shall do no such thing.’ retorted Vladmir. ‘There will be no provision made for you to plot further! When your trial is complete, Daenyathos’s shall begin. That is all you shall know!’ Vladimir banged a gauntlet. ‘I will have order under the eyes of Dorn! Lysander, bring me order!’

  ‘Silence!’ yelled Lysander, striding across the courtroom. ‘The Justice Lord will have silence! There is no Space Marine here too lofty of station to be spared the face of my shield! Silence!’

  ‘This farce must end!’ shouted Borganor. ‘So deep the corruption lies! So foul a thing the Soul Drinkers are, and now we see, they have always been! Burn them, crush them, hurl them into space, and excise this infection!’

  Lysander vaulted the gallery rail and powered his way up to Borganor. The Howling Griffons were not quick enough to hold him back, and it was by no means certain they could have done so at all. Lysander bore down on Borganor, face to face, storm shield pressing against Borganor’s chest and pinning him in place. Lysander had his hammer in his other hand, held out as a signal for the other Howling Griffons to stay back.

  ‘I said silence,’ growled Lysander.

  ‘My thanks, captain,’ said Vladimir. ‘You may stand down.’

  Lysander backed away from Borganor. The two Space Marines held each other’s gaze as Lysander returned to the courtroom floor.

  ‘There will be no further need for calls to order,’ said Vladimir. ‘You are here at my sufferance. When my patience runs out with you, you return to your ships and leave. Captain Lysander is authorised to escort you. Scout Orfos, you are dismissed.’

  Orfos saluted and left the gallery, the Imperial Fists bowing their heads in respect to him and his lost brothers as he went.

  Reinez had watched the tumult with a smile on his face. Nothing could have pleased him more than seeing Sarpedon’s distress, except perhaps Sarpedon’s severed head.

  ‘Who will speak next?’ said Vladimir. ‘Who can bring further illumination to the crimes of the accused?’

  Varnica of the Doom Eagles stood. ‘I would speak,’ he said. ‘The court must hear what I have to say, for it bears directly on the nature of the Soul Drinkers’ crimes. I bring not rhetoric or bile. I bring the truth, as witnessed by my own eyes.’

  ‘Then speak, Librarian,’ said Vladimir.

  The courtroom hushed, and Varnica began.

  The Rat Catcher’s Tail

  Richard Ford

  The candle he kept by his bedside had long since burnt out and Hugo’s room was bathed in blackness. The shutters over his windows kept out any encroaching moonlight, the double bolts serving to lock him fast within his mansion fortress.

  He listened through the darkness, straining his ears for any sound. His eyes were wide as he peered over the top of his fine-stitched Estalian sheets, but could see nothing through the gloom.

  There it was again, as it had come every night for the past week – the incessant scratching and pattering of tiny feet. Hugo could no longer deny the fact that it was slowly beginning to drive him insane. They were in the walls, under the floorboards, crawling across the attic, and Hugo was powerless to stop them. He had spent the past two days crawling around his own home with nothing but a sputtering candle for illumination, waiting behind half-closed doors for sound of the vermin’s passing. When he heard it he would burst in, walking cane in hand, but the snuffling, chittering, furry beasts were nowhere in sight.

  Would he have no peace?

  Hugo Kressler was known throughout Talabheim as a well-respected, and very wealthy, merchant. His business had seen emperors come and go, had survived Chaos incursions and peasant uprisings.

  When he had accrued enough wealth, Hugo had commissioned the building of the largest private property in the Manor District and on its completion he could not have been happier. It was a triumph of architecture, sporting wood panelling bought in from Ostland, lancet archways carved by dwarf masons, and boasting the latest security guaranteed by the Locksmith’s Guild of Altdorf. Above all it satisfied Hugo’s requirements for total privacy. For two years he had been ecstatically happy in his new abode, walking his hallways and admiring the works of art from Tilea and Bretonnia, sampling his vast wine cellar and counting his hard-earned coin.

  Now all that was falling apart.

  He had not slept for days and his usually voracious appetite had all but vanished. Hugo was now a wan shadow of his former self, a bag of saggy flesh with red-rimmed eyes that stared from beneath an unkempt mass of shaggy grey hair. It was like being a prisoner in his own home. He dare not leave for fear of what state his beloved mansion would be in when he returned. What would the pink-eyed beasts do to his belongings in his absence? The filth they would leave behind, the teeth marks… the droppings!

  Wrenching back his sheets, Hugo leapt out of bed. He blindly felt around for his bedside candle and the single match he kept on the dresser in case he was caught short during the night. With the candle lit he strode across his bedroom, one hand shading the precious illumination. He opened the bedroom door and stepped out into the wide, panelled corridor.

  All the while the noise from within the walls seemed to get louder, the rodents seeming to mock him, knowing they were winning, knowing that Hugo’s wits would soon be frayed to nothing.

  ‘I know you can hear me!’ he screamed, his voice echoing along the pitch-black corridor. ‘You won’t win. Mark me! Do you know who you’re dealing with? I’m Hugo Kressler, the most powerful merchant in Talabheim!’

  As if in answer, the rats fell silent.

  Hugo stood in the dark, watching… waiting.

  Nothing.

  With a sigh of relief he stumbled back to his bed, climbing within the fine, smooth sheets and pulling them up to his chin. Within seconds the gentle mercy of sleep overcame him.

  Hugo was running.

  He found it curious – normally when he ran in dreams it was as though he were wading through thick treacle, his legs sluggish and listless no matter how he willed them to move. Now however he was speeding along, scurrying even, moving with all the stealth and snap of a wild animal. At first this thrilled him, his heart pounding like a taxman at the door, but soon he realised the reason for his alacrity… he was being chased!

  Something was after him, something big and mean and casting a long black shadow, and no matter how he tried to escape it he could not. He jinked left and right, over and under obstacles, but still he could not shake off his pursuer. It was a losing battle, the hunter was gaining, Hugo could hear its pounding feet at his back, and the stink of its hot breath…

  He awoke, breathless and panting. His fine satin sheets were drenched, his silken nightgown clinging to his clammy flesh.

  This would not stand – awake he was tormented by invaders in his home, asleep he was plagued by night terrors. He had to do something, had to rid himself of these torturous vermin.

  Hugo leapt from his bed, flinging open his
door and tramping through the corridors of his house, which were slowly brightening in the dawn light. In the porch he donned his boar-skin greatcoat and the boots made especially for him from Arabyan horsehide, then ventured out into the chill morning air.

  The streets of Talabheim were all but deserted this early in the day, particularly in the Manor District. It was inhabited by the city’s great and good, and only their footmen and domestics would be out of bed at this ungodly hour. Consequently, when he stepped onto the Avenue of Heroes and headed west to his destination, Hugo had only an endless row of posturing statues to keep him company.

  As he stamped through the streets they gradually became busier, and when he moved into the district known as Guildrow the bare cobbled road had become a hive of bustling activity. The Guildrow was a hub for Talabheim’s industry, with blacksmiths and brewers, tinkers and tanners all going about their business. It was here that Hugo would find what he was looking for.

  Eventually he located it and with renewed vigour Hugo marched to the front door of the trapmaker’s shop. The lintel had been painted black, and written on it in faded white script was the legend: Gerhardt Moller – Master of Traps, as appointed by Helmut Feuerbach, Elector Count of Talabecland. This on its own filled Hugo with some relief as he rapped on the door. Moller would clearly have the answer to the twitching, scurrying, defecating problem that was assailing his home.

  At first there was no answer, but after several successive, and steadily more frantic, knockings at the door it was hauled open. The man Hugo could only assume was the ‘master’ trapmaker stood staring from within the gloom, his hair dishevelled, his body encased in a tattered, furry robe of indeterminate origin.

  ‘What?’ said Moller gruffly, clearly none too impressed at being disturbed at this hour of the morning.

  ‘I have a problem,’ Hugo replied, a little more desperately than he had intended.

  ‘Clearly,’ said Moller, looking Hugo up and down. ‘You’d best come in then.’ He pushed open the door, allowing Hugo to step into the gloomy interior of the shop.

  Once inside, his eyes slowly adjusted, revealing the dusty wares on sale. All manner of grim and dangerous-looking equipment lined the walls: spiked cages, leghold- and bear-traps, manacles of varying length and thickness, weighted nets and snares.

  ‘What is it you’re after, then?’ asked Moller. ‘Bear? Wolf? Boar? I’ll assume it’s game since you certainly don’t look the bounty hunting type.’

  ‘Erm, no,’ Hugo replied. ‘It’s… well, it’s, erm… rats!’

  Moller narrowed his eyes, staring across the dark room with clear disdain. ‘Rats?’

  ‘Yes, I’m plagued by the filthy degenerate vermin. I need traps, and plenty of them.’

  Moller shook his head, grumbling to himself as he entered a back room. Hugo could hear banging and clattering as the man searched through a mass of clutter until he eventually found what he was looking for. He returned with a small wooden box which he dropped on the shop counter with a disconsolate shrug. Peering in, Hugo could see a collection of jumbled garbage, some of it recognisable as trap components, but mostly it was a box full of broken wood and rusted metal hinges.

  ‘Is that it?’ Hugo said. ‘On your door it says Master of Traps!’

  Moller frowned, grasping the box. ‘Now look here – I’ve crafted traps for elector counts in four provinces, hunters come to me from as far as Nordland. If you don’t want–’

  ‘No, no. I’ll take it,’ said Hugo in a panic, producing a purse from inside his coat. ‘Here, for your trouble.’ He placed four shiny gold crowns on the counter.

  Moller seemed to instantly brighten, clapping his hand over the coins and sliding them into his meaty palm.

  Hugo grabbed the box and was about to leave when Moller held up his hand.

  ‘I’ve got something else might help,’ he said. ‘If you’re interested.’

  Hugo nodded, unsure whether to trust the wry smile on Moller’s face. The trapmaker disappeared into the back room once more, but this time there was no sound of clattering. What Hugo heard was far worse, as though Moller were wrestling with some kind of foul daemonic creature. He reappeared seconds later, holding a large object with a tattered piece of sacking draped over the top. Once he had slammed it down on the counter he jumped back, as though the object might explode in his face. Hugo could hear a frenzied gnashing and spluttering emanating from beneath the sack, and he too retreated to a safe distance.

  ‘This,’ said Moller, grasping the cloth between the fingers of his outstretched hand, ‘is Gertrude!’

  He whipped away the sack to reveal a cage beneath. Hugo couldn’t tell what the sight within it filled him with more: fear or revulsion. Gertrude was the sorriest looking excuse for a cat he had ever seen – all gnashing teeth and mangy fur. She attacked the cage with a frenzy to rival any Norscan, howling like a banshee all the while.

  ‘Best ratter in the Taalbaston, although she does have some… issues. Yours for only five crowns.’

  Hugo stared as the cat tried to chew her way out of the mesh cage, her chipped yellow teeth grinding against the metal.

  ‘No thanks,’ he replied. ‘The traps will do for now.’

  ‘Suit yourself,’ said Moller. ‘But if you change your mind, you can always come back.’

  ‘Of course,’ Hugo said, backing out into the street, and closing the shop door behind him. ‘I’ll be back – right after I’ve flashed my fruits at the Emperor’s Parade.’

  It took him hours to disentangle the mess of traps Moller had sold him. Some had broken hinges, some brittle bases, others were rusted beyond use, but eventually Hugo managed to salvage over a dozen usable rat traps.

  After much planning, he located them strategically throughout his house then carefully baited each one with Grossreiche Blue – the most pungent cheese he owned. As he carefully secured the clasp on the last one, Hugo giggled at his visions of an unwary quarry wandering up, summoned by the tantalising aroma, only to have its neck snapped as it tried to take a bite.

  Still chortling to himself, Hugo retreated to his bedchamber, snuffed out the candle and jumped into bed.

  In the morning, Hugo was awoken to brilliant sunlight invading the slats in his Cathayan blinds. He could remember no nightmares; in fact his sleep had been so sound he couldn’t remember dreaming at all.

  With a spring in his step he crossed his room and flung open the door, eager to see the carnage his traps had wrought. He padded, barefoot, to the end of the corridor then gingerly peered around the corner. Hugo had never had the strongest of stomachs, and despite the inevitable joy he knew it would bring, he was still reluctant to view a splattered rat’s corpse.

  But there was nothing there – no trap, no Grossreiche Blue, and definitely no dead rat.

  Hugo stared for several seconds. He was certain he had placed one of the traps right on that spot, but there was nothing. Scratching his head, he moved on to the next trap.

  Perhaps he was mistaken, he thought as he moved through the house, perhaps his frenzied eagerness to eliminate the vermin had confused him and fuddled his mind. It was perfectly possible, he was under a lot of strain after all, but when he reached the location of the next trap he let out an audible yelp. That one had also disappeared!

  With rising panic, Hugo rushed through the mansion, his feet slapping against the bare floorboards as he hurried to view each carefully-planned spot in which he had left his baited traps. Every one was missing, with not even a crumb of cheese left to mark where they had been.

  His heart was beating now, slamming against his ribcage, the blood pumping audibly in his ears. The pressure in his head felt as though it would smash through his skull, releasing his frustration in a black gout of fetid steam.

  ‘I know what you’re up to!’ Hugo screamed, his voice echoing through the chambers and corridors of his mansion. ‘You’re trying to send me mad! Well it won’t work! Do you hear me? I’m Hugo Kressler, the greatest merchant of Talabhei
m, and I won’t be beaten by scavenging pests!’

  At that he raced down the stairs, this time not bothering to don his greatcoat or boots before hurrying into the morning air.

  Hugo returned two hours later. He tramped up the garden path bearing a heavy package, made all the more cumbersome by the gnashing, whining, spitting creature that was secreted within its wire mesh confines. On any other day his entrepreneurial nature would have compelled him to haggle with Moller over the price, but this was not a day for bartering – besides, five crowns had seemed like a bargain under the circumstances.

  The front door slammed open as Hugo entered, a maniacal grin on his face.

  ‘I’m back!’ he screamed. ‘And I’ve brought a friend with me!’

  After placing the cage down in the centre of the reception hall he removed the sack that covered it, eager to release Gertrude on his unsuspecting houseguests. On seeing the raging whirlwind of fur and claws though, Hugo had second thoughts. Perhaps he should try and bond with Gertrude first, at least enough to stop her trying to claw his throat out.

  He raced to the pantry, sniffing the pail of milk that sat within. It was a bit on the sour side, but he doubted Gertrude would notice – by the looks of her she’d not been offered anything this fresh for months.

  Pouring some of the milk into a saucer he returned to the entrance hall and placed it in front of the cage.

  ‘How about a little peace offering?’ he said, sliding back the bolt.

  In response, Gertrude calmed a little, seemingly mesmerised by the promise of milk.

  Hugo swung the cage door open and backed away, leaving the saucer between him and the cat. She padded forwards with a sniff, then tentatively lapped up a mouthful. To Hugo’s relief, his souring milk appeared to Gertrude’s liking and she finished off the saucer with gusto, then sat back with a satisfied purr.