The flames ravaged Kalten’s skin, cracking his armour, burning hair and cloth alike.
‘No, the undead thing cried. ‘I was to be reborn!’
Mikael tried to go to Merrick’s aid, but couldn’t reach him through the wall of fire and smoke.
‘Merrick!’ he cried, against the roaring inferno, hand before his face to ward off the heat.
Clutched in a fiery embrace, a dark miasma exuded from Kalten’s mouth and seeped into Merrick as he wailed in anger and anguish. Kalten’s corpse fell to the ground and burned. Merrick backed away, ripping off his burning shirt and clutched his face, screaming, the fire burning it red raw.
‘Merrick!’ Mikael cried again, coughing as smoke filled his lungs.
Strong hands grasped Mikael’s shoulders and dragged him away from the conflagration. Rathorne had come back for him and heaved him out of the room just before the roof collapsed, and Merrick was lost to his sight.
Reaching the outside, flames danced before Mikael’s eyes. His lungs were choking with smoke and his skin burned. As he collapsed, the last thing he saw was Merrick screaming, surrounded by fire, the image forever seared onto his memory.
Mikael awoke in the Temple of Shallya. It was night and the rain had abated to a fine drizzle. He sat up in bed and allowed the moon, coming through a high window, to bathe him in its beam.
‘Show yourself,’ he said, looking out into the gloom.
A shadow moved at the far end of the room and stepped into the moonlight.
‘I see the encounter has not dulled your instincts.’ It was Sigson. ‘I was trying not to wake you.’
‘Where are the others?’
‘Resting, as you should be.’
‘There should be no rest for me,’ Mikael said, broodingly. ‘I left that poor man to die.’
‘You make it sound like he was innocent,’ Sigson said. ‘Resurrecting the dead and killing those people, he was no better than the necromancer he foolishly consorted with.’
‘You sound like Reiner.’
‘I sound like a Templar of Morr,’ Sigson corrected him, agitation in his voice.
‘Grief had driven him mad, Sigson. Mad to the point where he was capable of bloody and brutal murder.’
‘Then his love for his son was his undoing. The dead should not be interfered with. That way lies heresy and damnation.’
Mikael fell silent. He knew Sigson was right and yet he thought he might have saved him, redeemed his soul some how.
‘The dream I had,’ Mikael began. ‘I saw Kalten’s face. He was dead.’
‘There was nothing you could have done to prevent that, Mikael. Halbranc and Reiner are both alive, mainly thanks to you. You cannot save everyone.’
‘At least we can leave this place, now that it’s over,’ he muttered. ‘Perhaps Merrick will find some peace at last, as well.’
Sigson’s expression changed.
‘You don’t know?’ he said.
‘Know what?’
‘When the fires were doused, I scoured the ruins of the mortuary. Kalten’s body was burned, almost to ash, within his armour. But there was no sign of Merrick.’
‘He survived? How?’
‘I don’t know, but I doubt he is in Hochsleben now and pursuit would be pointless, we have no idea of his direction.’
‘When I saw him at the last Sigson, he was burned and I saw something enter his body, like a black mist. At the time I thought it a trick of the smoke and flames, but now…’
‘So then,’ Sigson said severely, ‘it seems that Merrick was not the only one to escape the fire.’
‘Then he is a renegade, and a dangerous one at that. It is our duty to hunt him down.’
‘Yes, and we will,’ he said rising, and walked over to the door to Mikael’s chamber. When he turned, his face was grim. ‘Rest, Mikael. Morning is not far off, and you’ll need your strength for what is to come, I fear.’
The door shut, and, as a cloud smothered the moon, Mikael was left alone in the darkness.
The guard was dead. He fell to the ground at Krieger’s feet, his broken neck a pulpy, twisted mass.
Krieger clenched a fist, felt the knuckles crack. It was good to kill again. He regarded the corpse impassively from above, rubbing the angry red rings around his wrists left by the manacles.
A sound beyond the dungeon gate alerted him. He ducked down and slowly dragged the guard’s body away from the viewing slit, then waited, listening intently in the gloom. He heard only his own breath and the mind-numbing retort of dripping water from the sewer beneath.
Rising slowly, Krieger felt anew the bruises from the beatings they had given him. He’d sobbed as they’d done it. They’d become complacent and negligent, removing his manacles and leg irons to make beating him easier. The mistake had cost one guard his life, but Krieger’s retribution was just beginning.
Krieger heaved the guard’s corpse along a stone floor, thick with grime, shushing him mockingly, touching his finger to his lips. He was alone in an interrogation cell. There were no windows and it smelled of vomit and blood. At the back of the chamber was a cot. The rest of the room, dank and filth-smeared, was empty save for a single wooden chair, bolted to the floor. Short chains were fixed to it. Spatters of Krieger’s blood showed up, dark and thick, around it.
The witch hunter would be here soon, the guard had boasted of it. Working quickly, Krieger concealed the guard’s body beneath a stinking, lice-ridden blanket. The man had the sloping forehead and common features of a low-born; the blanket seemed oddly fitting as a mortuary veil. Donning the guard’s helmet, he quickly carved a symbol into the dead man’s flesh with his dagger.
After he was finished, Krieger fixed his attention back on the vision slit.
Three sharp raps came from the other side of the door. Volper sprang to his feet. He fumbled with the iron keys, slipping one into the lock. Bolts scraping, he opened the vision slit.
‘I ‘ope you spat in that gruel,’ he said, peering through it as he eased the door open a crack. A shadowy figure wearing a helmet looked back at him. As it drew close Volper saw bloodshot eyes, filled with murderous intent.
Instinctively, stupidly, the guard reached for his sword with shaking fingers. Looking back through the vision slit, he saw a flash of steel.
Krieger rammed the dagger through the vision slit, driving it into the guard’s eye. Wedging his foot into the door, he reached around and pushed him thrashing onto the blade. Krieger held him there a moment, waiting patiently for the spasms to subside. Then, opening the door inwards, he allowed Volper’s body to fall inside.
Krieger stepped over the guard’s body and into the sickly light of the corridor. There was a sewer grate a few feet away. Krieger padded up to it and saw it was embedded with rust and slime. Age and wear had weakened it though. With effort, cold gnawing at him as he perspired, he carved away the filth at the edges of the sewer grate with the guard’s dagger, stopping occasionally to listen for signs of intrusion.
Using the fallen guard’s sword he levered the grate open, sliding and scraping it to one side. A foul stench assailed him. Krieger ignored it, pushing the grate wide open. He went back to the dead guard, took the man’s boots and put them on before pushing the body into the sewer. There was a dull splash as the guard hit the turgid water below. Krieger followed, standing on a slim ledge inside the sewer tunnel and pulling the grate back. With a final glance up into the dungeon, he plunged into the mire beneath.
Effluent came up to his waist and he held his breath against the horrible stink, wading through it quickly. A half-devoured animal carcass bobbed in the filthy water like a macabre buoy. The guard’s body was gone; weighed down by his armour the sea of waste had swallowed him.
After several long minutes, the sewage began to ebb and Krieger saw a circle of faint and dingy light ahead. He waded towards it
– the hope of his freedom his incentive – and emerged from the edge of the tunnel into the day.
Blinking back the harsh light, Krieger looked down into a rocky gorge. Beyond that, the surrounding land was thick with pine. But from his vantage point he could see a stream. It ran all the way out of the forest and to a settlement, about a mile from the edge of the treeline. Krieger saw chimney smoke spiralling into the turbulent sky. He knew this place.
Climbing carefully but urgently, Krieger made his way down the rocky embankment, negotiating a mass of boulders and slipping occasionally on scattered scree. Gratefully, he descended into the thick forest and kept running until he came upon a clearing. Krieger took a moment to appreciate his freedom, filling his lungs with the smell of it and gazing into the heavens. Clouds crept across the sky, filled with the threat of rain, as the wind steadily picked up.
Without time to linger, Krieger moved on and found the stream he had seen from the edge of the tunnel. He ran into it and eagerly washed away the sewer stench. Following the stream, he soon reached the fringe of the forest. The town was ahead. It was waiting for him. Dark clouds gathered above it, echoing Krieger’s mood.
Clenching his fists, he said, ‘There will be a reckoning.’
The town square of Galstadt was alive with people. Thronging crowds clapped and danced and laughed as jugglers, fire-eaters and all manner of street entertainers dazzled them with their skill and pantomime. Huge garlands hung from windows and archways; acrobats leapt and whirled amongst the crowds and flower petals filled the air with dazzling colour. Even the darkening sky overhead could not dampen the carnival mood.
A massive cheer erupted from the townsfolk and assembled soldiery as a vast and ornate casket was brought into view. Held aloft by six proud men-at-arms, it shimmered with an unearthly lustre. Behind it rode a retinue of knights mounted on snorting steeds, austere and powerful in full armour. The crowds gathered in their hundreds to welcome the return of their count and his brave knights.
As he rode through the town, Count Gunther Halstein regarded the crowds impassively. His steed stumbled on a loose cobblestone and moved its flank awkwardly. A sudden sharp pain seared Count Gunther’s chest, just below his heart, and he grimaced.
‘My lord?’ Bastion, Gunther’s knight captain, was at his side immediately. ‘Is it your wound?’
Irritably, the count waved away Bastion’s concern. ‘These people,’ he whispered, resuming his smiling façade, ‘they know nothing of the sacrifice, Bastion, the danger beyond these walls.’
‘No, they do not,’ Bastion replied. His voice held a tinge of knightly arrogance. ‘But we survived the Lands of the Dead, with the prize,’ he added. ‘Let them bask.’
Bastion flashed a confident smile, but the count’s gaze travelled upward, to the banner of their order fluttering in the growing breeze; a heart wreathed in flames. Framed against a steel sky, it reminded him of an animal struggling for breath.
For Count Gunther, the endless desert was never far from his thoughts. Despite the cold, he still felt the sun on his back, the sand in his throat and the maddening silence of windless days.
Thunder rumbled overhead, rousing the count from his dark reverie. Ahead of the returning crusaders, the great wooden gates of his keep opened. Rain was falling as the knights filed in, filling the great courtyard beyond. Count Gunther was the last of them. He lingered in the gateway and failed to notice the dispersing crowds as he watched the darkening horizon.
‘A storm is coming,’ he muttered.
The doors closed, throwing their shadow upon him, shutting the outside world from his sight.
Lenchard the witch hunter stalked from the cell, his hard footfalls resonant against the dungeon floor. He was followed by two templars, wearing the black steel armour of Morr.
The three of them walked quickly down the long corridor from the cell and approached a shallow set of stone steps that led up to the barracks of Thorne Keep. A nigh-on impregnable bastion, the keep rested on a broad spike of rock, surrounded by pine forest. It was a garrison for the Elector Count of Stirland’s soldiery, with thick and high walls, so it was also used as a place to hold and interrogate prisoners. Never had one of the detainees escaped – until now.
A guard, a thin, fraught-looking man, wearing a studded leather hauberk and kettle helmet, was waiting for Lenchard and the two templars. The witch hunter emerged menacingly from the gloom. ‘The prisoner is gone,’ he muttered darkly.
Dieter Lenchard was thick-set, even beneath his leather armour, his facial features bony and well-defined. He wore a severe expression, framed by a tight-fitting skull cap stretched over his head, and the guardsman balked at his formidable presence.
‘Where is your sergeant?’ Lenchard asked.
The guard tried to muster his voice but could only point towards the steps.
‘Captain Reiner,’ the witch hunter said, without looking back as he addressed one of the templars, the older of the two, a stern looking man with short black hair and cold eyes. Lenchard marched up the steps, black cloak lashing in his wake, ‘with me.’
Reiner turned to the other templar beside him, a bald giant that looked as if he were made of stone, ‘Halbranc, wait here until Sigson has finished his work.’
Halbranc nodded and faced the quailing guard.
Like the Black Knights of Morr, the templars’ breastplates and greaves were etched with symbols of death and mortality. For many they were a bad omen of impending doom and misfortune.
Confronted with Halbranc, the guard swallowed hard and made the sign of Sigmar.
The massive templar folded his arms and leaned forward. Close up, the guard could see a patchwork of old scars as the shadows pooled into the chiselled depths of the templar’s face. Halbranc snarled at him.
The guard shrank away, finding the solid, unyielding wall at his back.
‘That’s enough,’ said Reiner in a cold voice that came from above.
‘Yes, Captain Reiner,’ Halbranc said dutifully. He looked into the guard’s fearful eyes and smiled.
‘Just you and me now, my friend,’ he whispered.
Mikael, a young Templar of Morr, waited in the courtyard of Thorne Keep, just outside the stables. His comrades, the twins Valen and Vaust, were with him, standing silently. The three of them had been left with the knights’ horses, while Reiner, Halbranc and their warrior priest, Sigson, conducted their investigations. It was to be a short stay it seemed – the portcullis was raised and the drawbridge lowered for their departure.
Reiner emerged from the entrance to the barracks, as impassive and unemotional as ever.
‘Make our steeds ready;’ he said to them as he approached, ‘we are leaving soon.’
The twins moved quickly to the stables and began immediately untying the horses’ reins, testing stirrups and checking saddles.
‘What happened?’ Mikael asked.
Reiner fixed the young templar with an icy glare.
‘The prisoner has escaped.’
‘How is that possible?’
Reiner kept his gaze on Mikael for a moment. The penetrating silence held an unspoken question. It was one Mikael was familiar with, the threat Reiner saw in all inquiring minds.
‘By killing at least one of the guards,’ he explained coldly.
A pistol shot echoed around the stone courtyard from the barracks.
All in the courtyard started at the sound. The horses whinnied in fear, Valen and Vaust gripping their reins tightly, patting the beasts’ flanks to soothe them. Only Reiner betrayed no emotion, as hollow and deadly as the shot reverberating around the keep. It had come from the direction of the cells.
After a moment, Lenchard appeared, tucking a smoking pistol into his belt. Valen held the reins to the witch hunter’s steed, which he’d walked from the stables. Without a word, Lenchard took them, securing his pistols and sabr
e before mounting up. The young templar bowed his head respectfully.
‘Inform your priest,’ the witch hunter said to Reiner, ‘the guard sergeant is in need of Morr’s blessing.’
Reiner gathered the reins of his own horse, utterly unmoved. ‘How long do we have?’ he asked the witch hunter curtly.
Lenchard steadied his steed. His eyes were dark rings of shadow, his face a pepper-wash of stubble.
‘The heretic may have an hour, possibly two hours’ head start.’
Reiner turned to Valen and Vaust and said, ‘Ride on ahead, find his trail.’
The twins nodded as one. Sometimes their seemingly empathic synchronicity was unnerving, Mikael thought, as he watched them mount up and ride swiftly through the gates.
‘Once Sigson is done speaking to the dead guard we will join them,’ Reiner said, noting the look of veiled disgust on the witch hunter’s face. He ignored it and switched his attention to Mikael.
Ever since that night at Hochsleben, when Kalten had died at the hands of the crazed mortician Merrick, the captain of Morr had watched Mikael closely. The young templar had foreseen his comrade’s death in a vision, but spoke nothing of it to Reiner. But he suspected something, Mikael was certain of it. Only Sigson knew for sure.
‘He yielded nothing.’ The warrior priest Sigson came out of the darkness, face drawn and laboured. Communication with the dead was a gift from their god Morr, protector of the deceased, but it was taxing and often left the priest weak. ‘He had a violent death, but that is all I could tell.’
Halbranc followed Sigson. The terrified guard came after, scurrying quickly past the giant templar and into the courtyard.
Reiner was about to mount up when Sigson’s voice stopped him. ‘However, his face bore some interesting wounds.’
The captain’s expression was questioning.
‘A mark; carved after death, I believe.’
‘A ritual mark?’ Mikael asked, abruptly aware of Reiner’s gaze upon him, his silence penetrating, searching.
‘Perhaps. There was little time for examination. I suspect the other guard was dumped in the sewer. I have performed the binding rites on the body we do have though,’ said Sigson, ‘and our dead watch sergeant,’ he added for Lenchard’s benefit.
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