The Empire Omnibus

by Chris Wraight

  Reiner addressed the guard who had followed Halbranc out.

  ‘Have your men go down there and find him, it might provide some clue to the fugitive’s whereabouts.’

  ‘No,’ Lenchard stated curtly, ‘I know where Krieger is going. There is but one thing occupying his mind.’

  This time it was the witch hunter who received Reiner’s questioning gaze.

  ‘The thing that dominates the mind of any killer regarding his captors,’ Lenchard said, pausing to steer his horse toward the gate, ‘revenge.’

  Krieger watched the road from his shelter in the trees. The chilling rain ran off the leafy canopy above and down his face and neck. He crouched, betraying no sign of discomfort. A figure loomed through the downpour, coming towards him. It was a farmer, driving his cart hard, cloak wrapped tight around his body, his hood drawn against the lashing rain. The cart drew nearer, and all other sounds faded. Krieger heard only his own breath. He drew the stolen dagger from his belt and waited until the cart came so close he could see into the man’s eyes. The rain smothered Krieger’s approach. Lightning cracked. The flash from the blade was the last thing the driver ever saw.

  Count Gunther was alone in the dark, empty hall. He sat upon an ornate throne set in the centre of the room. A large window threw grey light into the darkness, illuminating a huge tapestry which dominated the wall before him. The man depicted in it looked just like the count.

  Gunther raised a silver goblet to the portrait as he regarded his likeness. A twisted, haggard man bedecked in finery and the coldness of wealth, stared back at him. At the edge of the tapestry were the names of all his forefathers. Soon his would be added to them.

  ‘To you, father.’ His voice was edged with bitterness. ‘You would be proud.’

  Gunther slumped in the seat, exhausted. As the room grew darker he closed his eyes, remembering the desert.

  Krieger knelt before him in the stillness of the tent, head bent low. The night was chill and Count Gunther repressed a shudder as he regarded the traitor. Krieger was stripped to the waist; arms and armour removed. Bastion and Rogan waited either side, watching the prisoner. Despite the cold, he did not shiver, nor make any sound or motion.

  ‘You are accused of heresy,’ Gunther told him. ‘You stole these dark manuscripts from the tomb, why?’ He brandished the scrolls before him in a gauntleted hand.

  Krieger said nothing.

  ‘Answer me!’ Gunther struck his captive hard across the face. Krieger fell to the ground hard but, with effort, dragged himself up.

  ‘What was your purpose here?’ Gunther hissed, seizing Krieger’s chin to face him.

  The traitor’s eyes were cold and penetrating. ‘To kill you.’

  Krieger head butted the count hard in the face. Springing forward he ripped a dagger from Gunther’s belt, ramming it into the count’s chest.

  Bastion and Rogan dove upon Krieger. Rogan punched the traitor in the neck, bringing him down as Bastion disarmed him.

  With a grimace, Gunther withdrew the dagger. Blood seeped from the wound onto his tunic. Cries for the surgeon filled his senses as madness and panic took hold.

  Thunder resonated around the chamber. Count Gunther awoke, startled. White heat burned in his chest, as fresh pain sprang from the wound. He looked up, suddenly aware of someone else in the room.

  Captain Bastion waited in the shadows. He had taken off his armour and now wore a simple grey tunic and leather breeches, though he still carried a sword at his belt.

  ‘Bastion.’ The statement held an unspoken question.

  ‘A matter has arisen that requires your attention, my liege,’ Bastion said, bowing respectfully. ‘This incessant rain threatens the banks of the Averlecht; there is a danger they may burst.’

  The count saw the rain thrashing hard against the window. It was the first time he’d noticed it.

  ‘I have workers buoying up the bank with earth and sandbags,’ Bastion told his master. ‘There is little else to be done.’

  ‘Good. Keep me informed and I will visit the site in the morning.’

  ‘As you wish, sire.’ Bastion bowed, and walked away. He was almost at the door when Gunther spoke. ‘What of the other matter?’ he asked.

  ‘It has been secured as instructed,’ Bastion said, without looking back, and left the room.

  Gunther nodded, looking far away into the gloom. ‘Good. That is good.’

  About an hour after the templars left Thorne Keep, Valen and Vaust found the body of a farmer. He lay in a growing quagmire of earth, face-down and sprawled in the middle of a back road. A cart, presumably once owned by the dead man, lay half embedded in a nearby ditch. The horse was gone; its traces had been slashed.

  Mikael crouched next to the farmer in the pouring rain. He’d removed his gauntlet, and rested a hand on the man’s neck.

  ‘Still warm,’ he said, looking up at Reiner.

  The captain had dismounted and was standing with Sigson. Valen and Vaust held the reins of their horses between them, also on foot. The four knights formed a circle around Mikael as they regarded the body. Halbranc was mounted, waiting further up the road, maintaining a silent watch as night crept over the horizon. Lenchard stayed near the other knights, but remained on his steed, preferring not to soil his leather boots with the mud of the road to ascertain facts he already knew.

  ‘This is how you found him?’ Reiner asked the brothers.

  ‘Yes, captain,’ they answered together.

  The farmer’s body sank further into the mire. Sigson crouched down next to Mikael and carefully tilted the dead man’s head to one side, brushing away the earth clinging to his face.

  ‘We can learn nothing more here,’ Reiner said and was about to signal for them to get back on their horses when Sigson spoke.

  ‘There is another mark. Like the one upon the guard.’

  Mikael leaned in for a closer look, pulling on his gauntlet.

  ‘Is it a scarab beetle?’ Lenchard asked the warrior priest.

  ‘Yes,’ Sigson said suspiciously, looking up at the witch hunter. ‘How did you know that?’

  ‘It matters not,’ Lenchard replied, dismissively, facing the road ahead. ‘Krieger has a horse now. We must press on and hope we are not too late.’

  ‘Too late for what?’ Sigson asked but Lenchard was already riding away into the darkness.

  ‘To your steeds!’ Reiner bellowed, stirring his templars into action.

  Sigson seized Reiner’s arm, before he could mount his horse. ‘What is this? This witch hunter knows more than he’s telling us.’

  ‘That is possible.’ Reiner’s voice was cold and hollow. ‘But we are in Herr Lenchard’s charge by the order of our temple. It is our duty to deliver him to the heretic.’ Reiner looked down at his arm. ‘Unhand me.’

  Sigson took his hand away and stood back.

  Mikael had stood up during the exchange, taking the reins of his and Sigson’s horse from Valen, and watched as the two men parted. The tension between the captain and priest was written upon Sigson’s face as he turned away from Reiner.

  ‘Do you trust him, Mikael?’ Sigson asked quietly as he took the reins of his horse from the young templar.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Mikael told him, ‘but he is certainly hiding something.’

  ‘I agree,’ said the warrior priest, then asked, ‘Any more dreams since Hochsleben?’

  Mikael shook his head.

  The old priest held Mikael’s gaze a moment, as if determining whether the young knight had told him the truth or not. The rain trickled down his face, tiny rivulets forming in the age lines, coursing to his chin and dripping off the grey spike of beard that jutted out. In his eyes there was a warning. ‘Don’t ever speak of them to Reiner.’

  ‘I still feel his death on my conscience, Sigson,’ Mikael said, watching the others as the
y mounted their horses.

  ‘As do we all, my son,’ said the priest, grunting as he swung himself into his saddle.

  Mikael mounted up, trying to crush the memories and push away the dark omens gnawing at his mind.

  Overhead, the storm wracked the sky with forks of lightning and tremulous thunder, as the silhouette of a man hurried to the outer wall of Galstadt. Unseen by the workers, toiling hard in the downpour, he moved along the wall quickly like a creeping shadow, before plunging into the deepening tributary that fed the town’s wells and sewers.

  Limbs aching, his muscles fuelled by vengeful desire, Krieger swam through the shallow drain in the town’s wall, diving deep to crawl through the murky water, beneath the rusting bars that went only halfway to the ground. He emerged into a wide tunnel which was illuminated by a narrow shaft in the wall to his left. Krieger crept into it and climbed up a shallow incline, the water gushing below him. Reaching the top of the shaft, he heaved opened an iron grate blocking his ascent and levered himself out.

  He had emerged in a long chamber, probably the lowest level of the keep. Barrels and sacks were strewn about the room. Krieger waited for a moment in the silence, getting his bearings. He was in the east wing storeroom. Across a corridor and up a flight of stairs he would be in the great hall. Padding quietly down the low room, the rain thrumming distantly beyond the walls, Krieger saw a knight ahead with his back to him.

  Drawing his dagger, he crept silently towards his prey.

  Count Gunther and Captain Bastion stood upon a grassy ridge at the outskirts of Galstadt. They wore heavy cloaks, with hoods drawn, to ward off the unrelenting rain.

  ‘If that river is breached, Bastion, it will flood the town, the lower levels of the keep and we’ll lose many lives,’ the count told him.

  ‘We are doing all in our power to prevent that,’ Bastion replied, looking at the workers below as they strived frantically to reinforce the bank.

  Men toiled with great heaps of earth as others brought fresh mounds on wooden barrows. Some drove carts through the worsening mire with rocks gathered from the edge of the mountains, some three miles away, and sand-filled sacking. They fought in the constant rain, stripped down to the waist, digging trenches to lessen the river’s strength.

  Bastion looked back to the horizon, hoping for a sign that the storm might abate. Instead, he saw a rider coming towards them from the town.

  ‘Knight Garrant,’ Count Gunther addressed the rider as he approached. He reined in his steed, dismounted and trod steadily up to the ridge. Garrant was a broad man, half armoured with breastplate and vambraces, and wearing a heavy, cowled cloak. When he got to the top of the ridge, he pulled back his hood revealing a noble face, framed by thick reddish hair.

  ‘My liege,’ the knight’s voice was severe. ‘I have bad news.’

  The count grew suddenly pale, his eyes questioning.

  ‘It is Rogan, my lord. He’s dead.’

  Gunther regarded Rogan’s corpse, slumped against the interior wall of the keep’s east tower. He was joined by Bastion and Garrant, the red-haired knight carrying a lantern. Inside, the tower was dark and fairly bare; just a bench and an empty rack for stowing weapons. It was commonly used as a watch station. A stout trapdoor was in the centre of the circular chamber, which led down to the lower levels. Two wooden doors, opposite each other, allowed egress to the walls of the keep – this was where the count and his knights had entered. Wind whipped through a thin window that looked out over Galdstadt, making the lantern flame flicker. It cast ghoulish shadows over Rogan’s body.

  ‘In the name of Sigmar, how could this happen?’ Count Gunther asked sombrely.

  Garrant crouched down next to the body, setting the lantern down and examining the dead man’s head. It hung limply at an unnatural angle.

  ‘His neck is broken,’ he uttered flatly.

  ‘He was with us in the Lands of the Dead,’ Captain Bastion hissed anxiously into his lord’s ear.

  ‘I know that,’ snapped the count.

  Bastion stalked away, clearly disturbed. He went to the window for some air: Rogan was already beginning to stink. He looked through the thin opening and saw something to take his mind off his dead comrade. ‘We have visitors,’ he said.

  Count Gunther and Garrant looked over to him.

  Bastion’s expression was severe as he peered outwards. ‘They are knights of Morr.’ It was a bad omen.

  ‘Remove the body and gather the knights,’ ordered the count, a grim feeling clutching at him. ‘We’ll meet them in the town square.’

  The templars of Morr rode wearily towards the gates of Galstadt; they had travelled through the night in horrendous conditions and were at the end of their endurance. They passed numerous workers as they went. Mikael noticed the looks of fear, mistrust and even hatred as the men paused in their labours to regard the Black Knights.

  ‘It is man’s nature to fear mortality,’ Sigson, who was riding alongside the young templar, told him. ‘They fear us and so they hate and distrust us.’

  ‘It is our greatest weapon,’ Reiner’s voice was like chilling sleet, from the head of the group. ‘Never forget that.’

  Mikael eyed him carefully and was silent. There was little that escaped the captain’s attention. It frightened the young knight.

  ‘A warning, templars,’ intoned Lenchard who led the party, his voice powerful even through the downpour. ‘The people of Galstadt are devout Sigmarites, their knights are of the Order of the Fiery Heart; they are their protectors and are not well known for their tolerance of other faiths, particularly Morr worshippers.’

  ‘We come to them as allies, though,’ said Valen, nonplussed. He tightened his grip on the company standard, partly from the slickness caused by the rain and partly to reassert the grip on his faith, of which the banner was a symbol.

  ‘They will not see it that way. Tread carefully, that is all.’

  The templars reached the outer gates of Galstadt, a small party of guards watching them intently, through the driving rain, from atop a high wall.

  ‘Who are you and what is your business?’ one of the guards asked, shouting to be heard. He wore a simple grey tunic, leather armour and pot-helmet, and carried a hooked halberd.

  ‘I am Dieter Lenchard, an emissary of Sigmar’s holy church,’ the witch hunter said, brandishing a talisman etched with the twin-tailed comet. ‘Open the gate,’ he demanded.

  The guard called below and the gate swung open slowly.

  The Black Knights filed through into a small walled courtyard, which was little more than a staging area. There were stables on either side, each protected by a short wooden roof. A second gate at the far end of the courtyard, a stout-looking gatehouse appended to it, led into the town proper. As they entered, the guards waiting for them retreated fearfully and made the sign of Sigmar.

  Reiner could barely hide his contempt as the templars of Morr and the witch hunter dismounted, allowing their horses to be led to the stables by grooms.

  ‘Follow me,’ Lenchard told the knights, bidding a guard to open the second gate and walking out of the courtyard and into the town itself.

  Mere feet into Galstadt, the streets thronging with dour looking people, a beggar stumbled into Reiner, dropping a gnarled stick. The captain reached out and grabbed the wretch’s arm.

  ‘My apologies noble lord,’ the beggar said, from beneath a thick black hood. The poor creature was obviously blind and pawed at the knight to get his bearings.

  Reiner released his grip, disgust on his face, and watched coldly as the beggar slumped to his knees and clawed around in the dirt, searching for his walking stick. Mercifully, he found it quickly and shuffled off into the rain-soaked crowds.

  Mikael bit back his anger. Reiner despised the weak and the poor. To him they were little better than the foul creatures they hunted. ‘A weak body leads to a we
ak mind,’ was Reiner’s creed. ‘That way there is only darkness.’

  The remembered words of the doctrine in his thoughts, Mikael followed the rest of the knights as they made their way further into Galstadt. When they reached the town square, they stopped. Before them were six mounted knights. They wore half-armour, with the symbol of a heart wreathed in flames over their breast and left shoulder. Their swords were drawn.

  ‘What have you embroiled us in witch hunter?’ Sigson hissed accusingly.

  Lenchard ignored him, instead addressing the mounted knights. ‘I seek an audience with Count Gunther Halstein,’ he began, ‘on a matter of some import.’

  ‘I am he,’ one of the knights, his armour slightly more ornate and arrayed with decorative gold filigree, said from the middle of the group. It was the count. The man had a regal bearing and wore a closely cropped beard that showed signs of premature grey. His eyes were haunted by dark shadows and betrayed the austere façade, as he regarded the strangers suspiciously.

  ‘What is this matter of which you speak?’ Count Gunther asked.

  Lenchard held the count’s gaze. ‘A man called Karl Krieger,’ he said.

  Count Halstein’s face darkened briefly, then a mask of indifference slipped over it. ‘He was executed this very morning for crimes of heresy, after interrogation by witch hunters. Why should I be concerned about a dead man?’

  ‘Because he has escaped and I was to be his interrogator.’

  The count was unable to keep the shock and fear from his face, this time. He instantly thought of Rogan, dead in the tower.

  ‘Holy Sigmar,’ he breathed, realising what had happened at once. ‘He’s already here.’

  Rogan’s body lay on a stout wooden table in one of the keep’s halls. It was a sparse chamber with a lofty ceiling, crossed with thick wooden beams. Faded portraits and tarnished militaria clung to the walls. A dust clogged arras hung down one side of the room, on sharp hooks. The dead knight had been stripped of his apparel. A blanket covered the lower half of his body.