The Empire Omnibus

by Chris Wraight

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Mikael said and felt his own regret.

  ‘This terror has gone on long enough,’ Reiner said, addressing the haggard Dolmoth.

  ‘We will find this Reaper,’ he promised, ‘And bring Morr’s justice down upon his head.’ Reiner stalked from the mortuary, full of purpose, passing Dolmoth, who thanked Morr profusely for their deliverance.

  Mikael nodded a farewell to Merrick, and gave Morr’s blessing to Dolmoth, before hurrying after Reiner.

  In the sanctum, Halbranc and Kalten awaited them. ‘What news from the Temple of Shallya?’ Reiner asked.

  ‘They sleep,’ Kalten told him. ‘Sigson is badly injured, some of his wounds are infected. Vaust too.’

  ‘And Valen?’ said Mikael.

  Kalten’s face was grim.

  ‘It is feared he will not last the night.’

  An uncomfortable silence descended. Reiner quashed it.

  ‘Then it will be Morr’s will. We do not mourn our dead, we deliver them to His arms. It is no different for Valen.’

  ‘You are a cold man, Reiner,’ Halbranc said. ‘I have never known the like, even in an order such as ours.’

  Reiner was impassive as he regarded the giant templar, taller even than him and wider still at the shoulders.

  ‘There is little time for compassion, Halbranc. Morr’s work is to be done.’

  Reiner told them both of what he and Mikael had discovered about the Reaper.

  ‘The Templars of Morr are justly feared,’ Reiner said. ‘We shall begin by questioning the population about these heinous acts. I doubt there will be any with the stomach to lie, not with Morr’s judgement hanging over them.’

  ‘You cannot expect me to work with such shoddy materials,’ a sibilant voice said, echoing in the emptiness of the darkened room.

  ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought the girl, I made a mistake,’ another voice pleaded.

  ‘You do want my aid, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, yes of course. I brought you back, didn’t I?’

  ‘That you did, and in doing so, your heart became as black as mine,’ the voice said sneeringly.

  ‘I am nothing like you.’ The second voice tried to sound indignant but lacked conviction.

  ‘Don’t delude yourself, you just don’t know it. Now, find me another specimen. It has to be perfect, do you understand? Perfect.’

  ‘Yes, I understand. Perfect. I’m sorry. I’ll do better next time.’

  Even in the fading day, in a town awash with unease, the market continued to do business. In the Empire, it seemed, commerce stopped for nothing.

  To better serve their aims, the templars had split up. Reiner and Kalten took the slums ,whilst Mikael and Halbranc surveyed the market.

  Across the market square the two of them noticed a butcher selling his wares to a hungry, if skittish, crowd. The man was obese and slovenly, thick fingers holding bloodied joints aloft, his ragged tabard stained with blood and grease. He looked up from his banter, but when he saw the templars, hastily averted his gaze.

  ‘This looks a good place to start,’ Halbranc said, immediately suspicious as he stalked forward. ‘The bodies trussed up like meat sacks, you said?’

  ‘Yes, but wait Halbranc.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Look at him, obese, thick-fingered. His brow is fevered even now from what little exertion it takes to address a crowd. I scarcely believe he could carry a dead body a few feet, let alone up the steps of the Temple of Morr,’ Mikael said. ‘And the skin cut from the body, it was precise and careful. I doubt this man has the skill.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Halbranc. ‘Then what do you suggest?’

  Mikael thought for a moment. The market stalls were throbbing; people possessed with an urgency to get what they needed quickly, before the onset of night. As he looked around, the shadows seemed to coalesce in the distance.

  ‘There,’ he said, pointing towards a worn looking building.

  As they approached, Mikael read a sign above the door.

  Lothmar’s Tannery.

  The sign was faded with age, the windows stained by a yellowish grime and covered by thick leather drapes, but the door was open and the darkness within beckoned them.

  The room was dark, with the faint stink of musk and spice. A patina of dust rested upon everything inside, tall racks of leather and cured animal hide. The place was crammed and over-burdened, making it feel claustrophobic. The dust-clogged air made Mikael choke.

  ‘May I help you?’ a rasping voice came from the back of the room. A man with his back to them stood behind a long, broad, wooden counter. Various cutting and hammering tools hung upon a rack in front of him. He replaced a long, wide knife and pulled something over his head as he turned to face them.

  ‘You have heard of the murderer who blights this town?’ Halbranc began, walking forward.

  Little light penetrated the tannery. Shadows clawed out from alcoves and dark corners. Mikael felt like the gloom was sticking to him as he followed Halbranc.

  Mikael had to mask his shock when he saw the man whom, he gathered was Lothmar.

  Half of his face was covered by a leather mask. A blood-shot pupil stared out from an eye-hole, with pink scar-tissue just visible at the fringe of the mask. His hands were covered too, with thick, leather gloves. But despite his obvious afflictions, he was tall and strong. Years of stripping animal carcasses and tearing up toughened hide would do that to a man.

  ‘Would you close that?’ he asked, wincing against the feeble light pouring in from the outside.

  Mikael nodded, a glance at Halbranc as he eyed the tanner dubiously, and went back to close the door.

  Silence descended. A smile cracked the tanner’s ravaged face as he saw the templars’ discomfort.

  ‘I was burned. Here, in the tannery,’ he told them. ‘There are vats in the back.’ He thumbed behind him to a darkened arch which led further still into the tannery. ‘They get hot, to cure the hides and toughen them, so they can be cut and fashioned.’

  Halbranc raised an eyebrow.

  ‘I am Lothmar,’ he added, offering a hand. ‘And yes, I have heard of the Reaper.’

  ‘What have you heard?’ Halbranc said, ignoring the hand as he met the man’s gaze, despite his unsettling visage.

  ‘That he hasn’t been caught, that the town is in fear of him and my business is suffering as a result.’ Lothmar was indignant and stood his ground.

  ‘I see your cloak is damaged,’ he said. ‘I could fashion you a replacement. These are of the highest quality.’ He indicated a wooden stand upon which hung an assortment of cloaks and capes. ‘I can assure you, they are very supple, like a second skin.’

  ‘I think not,’ Halbranc growled.

  ‘Well then, I don’t think I can help you further,’ Lothmar said.

  Mikael rested a hand upon Halbranc’s shoulder. His instincts told him the tanner knew nothing.

  ‘We thank you for your time,’ Mikael said with respect. This tanner had not balked in the face of interrogation. It seemed the folk of Hochsleben would be more difficult to intimidate than Reiner had predicted.

  Even Halbranc relented and nodded. ‘Morr’s blessing.’

  Lothmar nodded back respectfully.

  Mikael and Halbranc left the shadows of the tannery, Lothmar watching them leave.

  ‘You’re quick to judge, Halbranc,’ Mikael said as they made for the market square.

  ‘Men in masks usually have something to hide,’ he grumbled.

  ‘He wears his scars on the outside,’ Mikael said, ‘I trust that over those that harbour theirs within.’

  Reiner and Kalten were in the market square. They had learnt nothing from patrolling the slums. Reiner’s tactics had only served to make the population less cooperative, either that or a greater fear held th
eir tongues.

  ‘Night approaches,’ said Reiner. The sky dimmed like the light around a fading flame and thick clouds billowed overhead, smothering the stars. ‘We can learn little more today.’

  The other templars were in agreement. They found lodgings at an inn, The Stableman, in short order and retired quickly to bed, battle-weary bones finally demanding rest. Having bid his comrades a good night, only Mikael remained, waiting with the rest of the patrons who were reluctant to leave. He recognised one of them, it was the poor wretch he had saved from the wagon earlier in the day. He was looking forlornly into an empty cup, unaware of the templar’s eyes upon him. Mikael turned away and stared into the flickering flames of the dying fire.

  He was deeply troubled, a gnawing dread grew within him that he did not understand. With the onset of night, images of his past came back, forming in the hearth like fiery spectres.

  The forest rose about him, a cloak of arboreal gloom.

  He held a dagger in his hand, stained with his brother’s blood.

  A deer mewled in the distance, its final dying sounds. Its breath was a cloud of white mist in the cold wintry air. It came in bursts; faster and faster as the deer’s heart beat its last.

  Mikael looked into its eyes and found his own fear mirrored there. The mewling stopped, the deer was dead.

  Mikael cried out, tears flooding from his eyes, cold like daggers of ice as they ran down his cheeks. He looked into the forest void for Stephan, but his brother was gone.

  A shallow hiss wrenched Mikael into the present. The innkeeper had doused the burning embers in the hearth.

  ‘Wouldn’t want to start a fire, eh?’ he said. He was a broad man, thick-jawed with an eye-patch and a scar that ran beneath, all the way down to his neck.

  Mikael had stripped out of most of his armour, leaving only a breastplate. He looked like any common sell-sword without his trappings and insignia.

  ‘Chasing monsters, boy?’ the innkeeper said with a wry smile.

  Shocked at the man’s boldness, Mikael was about to protest when the innkeeper stopped him.

  ‘It’s written all over your face. I was a captain in the Averheim army. I’ve my share of them,’ he said and leaned in closer.

  His voice was little more than a whisper.

  ‘Don’t let them consume you, boy. Whatever ill blights your past, there’s little you can do about it now.’

  ‘I am a Templar of Morr,’ was all Mikael could think of to say, hoping to discourage the innkeeper.

  ‘Then you walk with death, but does he walk with you?’

  ‘I…’ Mikael began then rose from his seat, pushing past the innkeeper, and fled out into the night.

  As he stood in the darkness, his heart pounded and cooling sweat chilled him. He sucked up a great gulp of air, waiting for his racing heart to subside.

  ‘Can’t beat the night air, eh?’ Halbranc leant against the wooden beam of the inn’s veranda. He held a dark bottle in his hand and drank deeply, then offered it across.

  Mikael shook his head.

  ‘Couldn’t sleep?’ the giant templar asked. Even without his amour, he was huge and imposing. Utterly bald, it was as if he was made from chiselled stone.

  Mikael sighed, searching the darkness for an answer that wasn’t there.

  ‘Ever since we came to this place, I have had a dark and forbidding feeling, as if–’

  Screams suddenly tore into the night.

  Mikael and Halbranc drew their swords. His confession would have to wait.

  The sound came from further up the street, towards the market. They raced towards it, the bottle shattering as Halbranc cast it aside.

  ‘For the love of Sigmar,’ a figure wailed, a distant silhouette gradually coming into focus. ‘I’ve seen it, I’ve seen it.’ It was a woman. Wearing a gaudy dress, thick make-up smeared over her face to hide her age, she was one of Hochsleben’s veteran streetwalkers.

  At first she ran into Halbranc’s arms, but recoiled when she saw the symbols of Morr etched upon his armour.

  ‘What have you seen, woman?’ Halbranc demanded, holding her wrist before she fled.

  ‘The Reaper,’ she gasped, struggling against Halbranc’s iron grip. ‘Over there.’ Her eyes widened in terror as she tried to pull away.

  A short distance away, in the market square, a figure hunched over a heavy burden and dragged it through the street. Shrouded by the darkness, it was impossible to discern the figure’s identity.

  Halbranc let the streetwalker go and she raced away into the dark.

  ‘Halt,’ he bellowed suddenly. ‘Halt in the name of Morr.’

  Halbranc and Mikael started running forward. The figure looked up at them from whatever it was doing, and ran. The templars sheathed their swords and gave chase.

  The figure had left a body in the street. It was a man. A dagger wound through the heart had killed him, but he was otherwise unmolested, although both his hands and feet were bound.

  Mikael and Halbranc ran on.

  He was fast, a long cloak flapped in his wake as the figure fled from the knights. But Mikael was gaining on him. He darted down an alley and the templar followed, abruptly swallowed by the darkness within.

  ‘Mikael, wait,’ Halbranc cried from the mouth of the alleyway.

  Mikael glanced back. Halbranc leant against the wall, breathing hard and sweating.

  ‘This is one monster I will not let slip,’ Mikael muttered to himself and left Halbranc behind him, driving after the Reaper to become lost in the gloomy alleyway.

  Upon racing around a corner, the man vanished. Mikael stopped and drew his sword, listening. The rising breeze whispered in his ear, sibilant and eerie, a bawdy drunk sang raucously, his voice faint, streets away in the distance.

  He edged forward, willing his eyes to adjust to the darkness. Formless dark became silhouette before him. He was gripped by a sudden sense of danger behind him. Pain like white heat flared in Mikael’s back as he tried to turn. He’d been stabbed. His leggings felt warm and wet, as blood ran down his leg. He glimpsed a flash in the corner of his eye and felt a heavy object smash against his head. Reeling from the attack, Mikael was vaguely aware of glass fragments in his hair.

  Vision fogging, he fell. Reaching out into the growing blackness, he clawed at his attacker, pulling something free. He struck the ground hard and a lance of fire pierced his shoulder. He fought it for a moment, then blacked out.

  ‘Idiot!’ the voice was hard and angry in the darkened room.

  ‘I’m sorry. Please our pact,’ the second voice pleaded.

  ‘Ezekaer is no pawn, dictated to by the likes of you. Corpsemaster they called me. Fellshadow I was known as. I will honour the pact at my choosing. Only I have the skill to grant your desire.’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course. Please, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ said the second voice, grovelling profusely. ‘I had the perfect specimen, but for those templars,’ he whined.

  The first voice paused, his interest piqued. The atmosphere in the darkness changed. ‘Templars you say?’ the voice said, anger receding.

  ‘Yes,’ answered the second voice, breathless and confused.

  ‘How interesting. Tell me more of these templars…’

  A hot spike of pain shot through him as Mikael came too. He thought he could smell pine and the faint musky odour of the forest, but realised he was in the alleyway. Rain was falling. Through the watery haze, three figures stood over him, the black hair of two of them tinged with droplets.

  ‘Mikael,’ a voice urged. ‘Mikael, are you wounded?’ Halbranc stooped down and held his head in a massive hand.

  ‘I think I was stabbed,’ he groaned, spitting rain water from his mouth.

  Halbranc eased him over and Kalten, who crouched nearby, nodded.

  ‘We must get him to the Temple of Shallya,’ Kalten
said, rain weighing down his long hair and flecking his beard. ‘A piece of the blade is lodged in his armour. And what is that stench?’ he said, sniffing Mikael’s clothes.

  ‘It’s all over him,’ Halbranc said. ‘I know not.’

  ‘What is this?’ Reiner’s voice cut through like a cold blade, as he stooped to retrieve something Mikael clutched in his hand.

  Halbranc’s voice grew dark.

  ‘I have seen that before.’

  Reiner held it up. Mikael’s head throbbed painfully inside his skull, like a perpetual cannonade, but he focused long enough to recognise what his captain held aloft.

  A half-mask with one eye hole cut into it.

  ‘It’s the tanner, we spoke to him this afternoon. His lodgings are upon the market square,’ Halbranc explained, anger in his voice. He told them quickly of his and Mikael’s encounter, of the darkened store, the tanner’s shunning of the light and his reference to a cloak that felt like a ‘second skin’.

  ‘This wretch is most likely trading with human flesh,’ Reiner spat. ‘Victims drained of blood, aversion to the light: I can think of no other creature with such despicable traits.’

  ‘A vampire,’ said Kalten, crouching at Mikael’s side.

  Reiner crushed the mask in his hand.

  ‘We head for the tannery. Kalten, you will come with me. Halbranc, take Mikael to the Temple of Shallya and meet us when you can.’

  ‘It lies to the west quarter,’ Helbranc told him.

  ‘I remember it,’ Reiner said. ‘This ends tonight.’

  As Halbranc heaved Mikael onto his back with a grunt, and Reiner and Kalten stalked off to confront the Reaper, no one noticed a small figure watching from the shadows. His teeth gleamed white in the darkness as a grin split his features, and he scurried off to report to his master.

  He was lost, alone in the darkness. Cold stone pricked his fingers. The air was damp and stale.

  Mikael wandered as if blind.

  A door opened ahead of him. He drew his sword and felt compelled toward it.