by David Guymer
On the fire-blackened earth in the square’s centre, none walked. Folk avoided it like a dark omen, clustering instead to its edges where stallholders pegged their wares with quiet pleas and suggestive glances. Young, keen-looking men in pristine mail bright with holy iconography, squires to templar knights, tramped through the filth as beggars and hawkers pawed at their linen sleeves with furtive promises of arcane wards against Chaos, protective relics, and forbidden vices. Men in variegated mercenary colours watched the whole tableau from under darkened awnings, sipping at non-descript potations, dicing, one eye on the swaying corpses, mindful of the righteous.
The column clattered to a halt.
Gotrek took a great huff of the chill air and gripped his thighs, staring hard at the ground, delighted to find it so proximate to his face.
‘This is dourer than Karak Kadrin,’ he wheezed. ‘Where does a dwarf find a drink in this place?’
‘This is a place of temperance,’ Konrad returned, untying the dwarf’s leash from his horse’s bridle and tossing his end down onto the heaving dwarf. ‘The Empire is slothful and indolent. This is why Baron von Kuber expanded Sigmarshafen to accommodate the truly faithful. When the End Times come, this is where Sigmar’s hammer-brothers will make their stand.’
‘Is it now?’
‘It is.’
Gotrek straightened, hands on hips, and glared across the square. ‘You think Sigmar would have liked all this? Manling, I could tell you tales of Sigmar that’d make your whiskers curl.’
‘I’d sooner sever both ears than hear his name from your lips.’
‘Do you know how much ale was downed after Black Fire Pass?’ Gotrek pressed with malicious relish. ‘If ever there was a man to match a dwarf pint for pint, it would have been Sigmar. Not that he could, mind. He was only human, after all.’
‘Enough!’ Konrad yelled, quivering with a rage that Gotrek greeted with a snort of derision. He cast a look to the plain walls and stained glass of the temple of Sigmar, yawing back in his saddle to rip his pistol from its holster. ‘Wolfgang was right. We should have gunned you down on the moors and left you for the crows.’
‘That would have been most prideful, Konrad. You are familiar by now with the proper penances, I am sure.’
Konrad scowled, rehousing his weapon and swinging down from the saddle as an elderly man in crimson robes emerged from the throng surrounding the gibbet and its grisly display of Sigmar’s justice. The man’s face was lined and blotched, white hair falling away in straggly clumps, his eyes a damp, dispirited blue. A young page in albus robes fussed over him like an attentive shadow.
‘I am indeed, arch-lector,’ said Konrad. ‘It would seem that they do not work.’
Watching the old priest’s approach, Felix suddenly realised he was the last man still mounted. He dismounted, embarrassingly saddle-sore given the briefness of their ride.
The priest paused before Gotrek, looked the dwarf up and down. The page dropped to hands and knees to brush grit from his master’s robes. ‘Did I not describe the Beast to you?’ the old priest rasped, as though his breath bore claws to defy expulsion. ‘Does this look anything like the monster?’
‘Not all creatures of the dark wear their claws in public, father.’ Konrad’s horse whinnied, empathising with her master’s anger. Konrad gripped the bridle, hard enough to make the leather creak in anguish.
‘You are an indiscriminate fool. As bad as der Kreuzfahrer ever was. Sigmar’s name, this is one of the elder folk you harass now!’
‘You in charge here?’ Gotrek asked gruffly, pulling himself upright.
Konrad scoffed, a few of the men muttered under the breaths. The priest ignored them. ‘Gramm. Hans-Jorgen Gramm. Arch-Lector of the province of Ostermark.’
‘Open your eyes,’ Konrad hissed. ‘They crossed the border line near the site of the attack. Exactly where the wards signalled an incursion. Exactly where you said they would be.’
‘Perhaps you’d best leave your thinking to that horse of yours,’ Gotrek observed. ‘We were after the Beast ourselves. Of course we trod the same path. Or did you think the monster would sit on its plunder and wait to be caught?’ Gotrek gave the men present an appraising look, then snorted and turned back to the old priest. ‘Not unless it craved more killing. I doubt there’s anything your lot could have done to stop it.’
Konrad stepped forward, drawing his horse in his wake, and jabbed the old priest in the collar with a gloved finger. Felix heard a collective gasp from those stood nearby, brave enough to watch.
‘The Beast would have been robbed of its hiding place long ago if the temple had given Götz the backing he deserved. That boundary line should have been tightened to a noose about the city’s neck. We should each have begged for one tenth of Götz’s courage, and prayed for the worthiness to spill our blood in his name, to take the place apart stone by stone and let it drown in a river of its own blood!’
‘Konrad, you will be silent!’ Gramm’s raised voice summoned a hush to the already fearful square. Across the square Felix saw money change hands amongst a group of bored-looking mercenaries; probably wagering on how long it would take for somebody to be thrown onto a bonfire. ‘Magnus bade us watch. To contain. He knew better than any that true evil is not so easily purged. It must remain, a monument, an insurance that we never forget.’
‘That may be so. But does not Sigmar Himself charge us to oppose evil in all its forms, wherever…’ Konrad’s eyes glittered dangerously, fixed upon the hunched priest as he spoke, ‘...and in whomever, it be found.’
Gramm’s expression soured, but he offered no riposte, turning instead to Gotrek with the utterance of a harsh syllable that sounded as though the old man was gargling on gravel. Gotrek’s one eye widened, then he growled back a string of hard-edged consonants, shaping his hands through the illustration of some point or other. Gramm nodded along, listening intently. They conversed in Khazalid, Felix realised, the dwarfish tongue. He listened out for any words he recognised, but it was akin to seeking sense in the collision of rocks. He felt a flash of annoyance that, despite all of their travels, Gotrek had never offered to teach him a phrase or two. He had learned more Dark Tongue from the throats of dying beastmen than he had ever gleaned from the language of arguably his closest, if not only, friend.
The dwarfs valued their secrecy, he knew, but did their friendship count for so little?
Gramm was growing progressively more disturbed as Gotrek continued to speak. Felix looked to Konrad, feeling an unexpected kinship. Konrad’s face flushed a bloody purple, imagination conjuring its own abridged translation of the dwarf’s words.
‘Right then,’ said Gotrek, clapping his fists and turning back to Felix, slipping smoothly into Reikspiel. ‘That’s that sorted out.’
‘What were you talking about?’
‘War stories,’ said Gotrek. ‘The priest here was the sole survivor when the Beast made off with the baron.’
‘One survivor,’ said Felix, thoughtful. Something niggled at the back of his mind.
‘Your account is troubling,’ breathed Gramm.
‘Which part, exactly?’ asked Felix, irritated by his exclusion and not at all worried about letting it show.
‘The timing of the attacks, for one. It must be very swift, or possessed of some uncanny means of transportation, to mount attacks on both you and on our congregation on the same night.’
‘Was it definitely the same monster?’
Gramm frowned, studying Gotrek. It was as if Felix did not exist to him.
‘Aye, manling,’ said Gotrek, filling in. ‘It was.’
Felix felt the concept of a monster that could be in two places at once rough over every fibre of logic in his body. Even as his mind rushed to rubbish it, he recalled the paths of the Old Ones into which he and Gotrek had stumbled by accident, through a gate not far from here. Was it possible there were more such gates hidden in this haunted province?
‘The Beast might then prove impossible
to find,’ he said, voicing his fears.
‘It’ll taste my axe, manling, if it takes a hundred years.’
‘That may be all right for you, Gotrek, but not if you wish it to be me who records it. It could be anywhere.’
‘It’s in the city,’ said Gramm, raspish voice smothering the brewing argument. ‘Evil begets evil. We have all heard the voices in the night and in our dreams, calling to our darker natures.’
‘Some of us have,’ murmured Konrad.
‘Then you know more than we do. Do you also know what it seeks in the graves of the moors?’
Gramm pursed his lips, his eyes taking on a troubled glaze. It looked as though he framed an answer, only for Konrad to cut him off with a snarl.
‘The Beast’s intent is not a fit subject for those who profess to Sigmar’s love,’ said Konrad. ‘The wish to understand the mind of Chaos is a sin. There is no order to it beyond that which we hope to give it. It is Chaos. It exists only to destroy or to be destroyed. And that is exactly what I plan to do!’
Gramm took a deep breath. ‘The baron is lost–’
‘Then I will see out the last promise he asked of me. And the City of the Damned will die with him.’
Gramm retreated before the soldier’s zeal. ‘We must consider the succession.’
‘Götz has no children.’
‘But he has an heir. His late wife’s sister has borne sons by March Boyar Kraislav Ulanov of the Eastern Oblast.’
Konrad sneered. ‘A warrior by marriage.’ He spoke the last word as though he bit through a live animal. The men around him seemed to share his distaste. Only Caul remained apart. ‘Is that all the legacy of the von Kuber’s means to you, old man? This land changes you. It gets into your skin. Has this Kislevite child lived every hour with death on his doorstep, with a shadow over his very dreams? Can he call on the courage of seven generations of heroes who have defied the city’s damnation? I say no. Yet this is the boy you would call to lead us into the End Times.’ Konrad spat on the ground by the priest’s feet. ‘I say no.’
Gramm met Konrad’s stare, lasting barely a moment before looking away. He nodded slowly. Something in Konrad’s expression made Felix want to reach for his sword.
Felix cleared his throat nervously. ‘It’s clear you have important matters to talk about here.’ He turned to Gotrek to avoid meeting Konrad’s glare. ‘With your permission, we should probably be on our way.’
‘Or without your permission,’ said Gotrek, with a hopeful leer. ‘If you’d rather.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Konrad. ‘The Beast is in the city already. You are tired and in any case it is early still. Only the flagellants brave the city by daylight. I insist you remain here, journey tomorrow. My men can accommodate your needs.’
Felix turned briefly, looking beyond the road they had just climbed and into the fog that cloaked the lifeless downs and the damned city beyond. Right then, both seemed safer than a night spent at Konrad Seitz’s pleasure.
‘It’s a kind offer, but Gotrek and I will find some place to stay until morning. We wouldn’t want to inconvenience your men from their search for the baron.’
Konrad stifled a growl at Felix’s mention of von Kuber. ‘This is not some den of decadence like Marienburg,’ he snarled. ‘You’ll find few inns or brothels in Sigmarshafen.’
Gramm raised his hands for peace. ‘The dwarf-friend has spoken and those who glory Sigmar will respect his wishes.’
Konrad scowled. Gramm’s lips twitched, satisfied with his Pyrrhic victory. A faint look of confusion crossed his face. ‘Three,’ he rasped, examining Gotrek, and then Felix in turn. ‘Three prisoners, you said. Do you hide something from me, captain?’
Konrad offered a bow, just shallow enough to be disrespectful. ‘Torsten!’ he yelled, eyes still fixed on Gramm. ‘Bring Rudi Hartmann here.’
‘Hartmann?’ Gramm wheezed. ‘There’s a name I know well.’ Gramm moved closer to where Rudi stood, quiet and shivering, Torsten’s brawny hands pinning his arms to his sides. The priest took Rudi’s chin in his hand, jerking it that he might examine his throat for stigmata. ‘Chaos runs in your line, boy. Had it not been your father himself who exposed Margarethe’s mutation to me, I would have had him, and you two boys, staked by your mother’s side.’
Rudi’s eyes were wide with fright. He mumbled something that Felix could not hear.
‘The boy was there in the Totenwald ambush,’ Konrad added in a suggestive whisper, eyes fixed on Gramm as securely as the priest’s were on Rudi.
‘Evil begets evil,’ Gramm murmured like a protective cant.
‘Only broken and bloodless bodies were left behind,’ Konrad went on. ‘They hung from the trees for miles. Why was this daemon’s get permitted to flee? And why did he then hide and not return?’
‘Have you something to confess, boy?’ Rudi gasped as the priest’s grip tightened. ‘Have we stake and oil to spare, Brother Seitz?’
A ready smile crept across Konrad’s face. ‘Always, arch-lector.’
Gramm shoved back Rudi’s face, wiping his hand on his robes as though to rid his skin of filth.
‘Lock him away. Tomorrow he’ll burn with the others.’
Chapter 5
Dreams of the Dishonoured
‘Burn?’ Felix yelled, barely able to hear his own voice over Rudi’s disbelieving protests. ‘You can’t be serious.’
Gramm was unrepentant. ‘It is common knowledge that a daemon haunts this country, an evil that even the Pious could not purge.’ He waved his hands through the fog, giving Rudi a pitying look. ‘It rides upon the mist, preys on the weak and the unrighteous. The body must be exorcised in flame to free the soul of flesh’s taint.’
‘That’s the most inane nonsense I’ve heard anywhere on these blasted moors.’
‘Cowardice is a curse, friend,’ said Konrad. He smiled cruelly. Felix wanted very much to wipe away that smirk with his fist. He would have too, had Gotrek not held him back. Felix tried to throw himself on Konrad, but being restrained by Gotrek was like being chained to a wall.
‘He’s an oathbreaker, manling. This is their law.’
‘That’s right,’ said Konrad. ‘And he’ll thank us when he’s granted entry into Sigmar’s kingdom.’
Gramm nodded agreement. Torsten and Anselm were already dragging Rudi away. The youth howled and gnashed his teeth, struggling against the heavier men’s hold. The townspeople parted before them and hissed.
With a laugh, Konrad leapt into his stirrup and swung his trailing leg into the saddle. The remaining soldiers took that as a cue to mount, all except Caul, stood with his hands beneath his grey cloak, watching like an adder with a strange lopsided smile. Konrad indicated the burned ground within the square. ‘There are many accidents that may befall a man on his way to the pyre. Bring me what I want to learn before sunrise and your friend may yet find a swifter end.’
With an inchoate snarl, Felix lunged for the mounted man again, but Gotrek held him firm. Konrad merely laughed as he wheeled his horse away. Under the awnings across the square, money moved swiftly as debtors paid up on Rudi or, eying Felix like buzzards, gambled double or quits on a second burning.
‘Come away, manling,’ said Gotrek, insistent. ‘Not out here.’
Men and women in humble garb crowded onto the road before the pale gates of Sigmarshafen. They came with children, occasional squawks of noise ill-temperedly silenced. The bleating of goats and the hymning of priests drifted over the attentive listeners like the fog that coiled about their shoulders.
Such intrusions were few. Word had spread fast and far and at least half of the township had packed into the strip of dirt road between the pine hovels of Sigmarshafen and the palisade. It was but once in a wandering star that those in inhabited places could hear the words of the blessed Brüder Nikolaus.
It was said that he had been the worst of sinners, reformed by the intercession of Sigmar. It was said that he dwelt alone within the City of the Damned, preaching the
divine word to the lost, to the air and to the stones beneath his bare feet. It was said that he had cleaved his own arm from his body to spite the attentions of Chaos that such communion invited.
It was said he was a living saint.
So it was with great consternation that the rearmost onlookers turned away to face the commotion coming their way down the main street from the Kirchplatz. Those first ripples of discontent spread, building into a wave of revulsion, a rush of hot blood that broke upon pious hearts.
Through a gauntlet of hissing men and showering rubbish, a dark-haired youth struggled between the grip of two of Captain Seitz’s militiamen. The man’s legs sawed through the hardened muck of the road, flailing for purchase and finding none. He looked normal; perhaps deceptively so, for there were none as adept as Captain Seitz at ensnaring those corrupt in spirit. With a grudging acquiescence, an acceptance that the torment awaiting this spawn of Chaos would reward their patience, the crowd drew back to form a travelling pocket of acrimony and bile surrounding the three men. The grey-cloaked militiamen bawled at the crowd to stay back, but that did not stop the occasional hot-blood breaking ranks to drive a fist or a boot into the condemned man’s back. His cries of pain incited the mob all the more.
Atop the upturned box that sufficed so humble a man for a pulpit, Brüder Nikolaus lifted his one hand to the heavens. It was thick with green tattoos. They were faded, blotched with bruises and burns, a constant reminder of the lost soul he had once been. He praised Sigmar for the pain those memories wrought.
‘Repent, poor sinner,’ he cried, as the man was dragged through his congregation toward the gate towers. With tacit permission to do so, all now turned to watch. ‘Like a feeble blade, your soul returns to the great fires of Sigmar’s forge. Repent, poor sinner, and be recast pure!’