Hammer and Bolter 22

by Christian Dunn

  ‘General Schalbourg left camp hours ago to investigate reports of more troops to the north,’ said Keller. ‘You are welcome to send a messenger after him, but until he returns you are required to obey me. Anything less than full obedience will be regarded as heretical behaviour, warranting summary punishment.’

  To signal that the conversation was over, Keller turned his back on Erhardt, ordering his men to spread out through the surgeons’ tents. Erhardt resented the casual dismissal, but before he could say anything the witch hunter might later use against him, he felt a hand clamp down on his shoulder.

  ‘It’s not worth it,’ said Gottswain. It was a tribute to his swordsmanship that the big Nordlander had sustained only minor wounds pulling Erhardt out of the clutches of the beast. He had only four red scratches down his cheek, as if he’d been clawed by a scorned wench and not a two-ton beast of Chaos. ‘Let them have their fun. We’ll get some rest, then seek the beast out with fresh eyes on the morrow.’

  Erhardt glared at the retreating witch hunter with something close to hatred, and then nodded. ‘That we will, Herr Gottswain. That we will.’

  Despite his anger, there didn’t seem to be too much Erhardt could do. The witch hunters argued that the Chaos beast wouldn’t reappear until nightfall, and then only when Morrslieb reared its greenish outline over the horizon. Both he and Gottswain had been up for more than twenty-four hours and participated in two battles. He had to admit that it would be prudent to face the beast again only after snatching a few hours’ sleep.

  Bert met him at the entrance to the camp. The boy’s hair looked dishevelled and his muddy cheeks were streaked with pink. Though he’d done his best to hide it, he’d obviously been crying.

  ‘What’s wrong, Bert?’ asked Erhardt.

  ‘It’s Commander Toft, sir. Sergeant Pieter found his body after the attack. He’s dead.’

  Erhardt felt a deep sadness at the news. In spite of the night’s events, Toft had been something of a father to him. To all of the men, in fact – it would be a sad day indeed in the Carroburg camp.

  ‘Don’t worry, lad. He’s dining in Sigmar’s longhouse now.’

  Though the platitude felt empty, the boy seemed to take some comfort from it as he guided Erhardt to his tent. It took Bert some minutes to help him out of his armour, then he disappeared with a promise to try and buff out some of the dents and to wake up Erhardt at sundown. Almost as soon as he left, Erhardt collapsed into his bedroll.

  Years of soldiering had given him the ability to sleep anywhere at any time, and though a military camp during the day was a cacophony of sound and the canvas of his tent did little to keep out the light, he knew enough to stuff his ears with cloth and make do. Soon, he was snoozing fitfully.

  When he awoke again, it was dark outside.

  He swore, and then headed out in only his armour padding to find another runner to help with his plate, which he donned as quickly as possible. As soon as the last leather strap was tightened, he went off in search of Gottswain.

  He found the huge Nordlander in the mess tent, eating salted meat from a trencher with his fingers. ‘Have you seen Bert? He was supposed to wake me.’

  Gottswain swallowed, and then wiped grease from his chin. ‘I just woke up, myself. He’s somewhere around camp I suspect. I can never keep track of the runners.’

  Erhardt sat, and signalled the cooks. One of the advantages of being an officer was that one could have one’s food delivered, often straight to the command tent. Toft, however, had enjoyed eating with the men and it was a tradition that Erhardt intended to continue. A plate of ham and cheese with a few wilted string beans on the side landed in front of him within moments. ‘Any word on the creature?’ he asked Gottswain.

  ‘Keller has rounded up every wounded man in the army, anyone who might have been in the vicinity of Prolmann’s tent, and begun interrogating them.’ Gottswain tore off another chunk of meat then stuffed it into his mouth. ‘Not to any measure of success, so I hear.’

  Erhardt shook his head. Keller’s methods were famously brutal. ‘We need to find that monster before the witch hunters do any more damage. A beast that large cannot hide forever.’

  It was difficult to recognise the area that had once been reserved for the surgeons’ tents. The Order of Sigmar had cleared out a wide area and brought in lumber from other parts of the camp in order to construct a crude gallows, from which the bodies of Empire soldiers already swung. Men displaying the twin-tailed comet on their breastplates balanced bowls of salt on their hips, spreading thick handfuls onto the ground to make sure that nothing could grow on soil they deemed tainted. Elsewhere, torturers seized red-hot brands from iron baskets that dotted the area and pressed them into wounds that good fighting men had suffered battling the forces of Chaos, men whose only crime was to have been present when a Chaos beast had attacked. The smell of blood and burning flesh hung thickly in the air.

  The sight of so much suffering sickened Erhardt. They’d already lost too many men to the forces of Chaos, and now Keller’s brutality was destroying the army from the inside. If Erhardt had his way, the Knight Templar would be hanging from his own gallows. He had half reached for the hilt of his zweihander before Gottswain interjected.

  ‘Remember, commander, that I am the impulsive one,’ he said calmly.

  The warning was effective, and Erhardt forced himself to relax. The only thing he could gain by storming into a gathering of witch hunters was a charge of heresy and a quick trip to the gaol. ‘Agreed. Let us find this beast before that butcher takes any more lives.’

  Together, they circled around the area the witch hunters had already searched. Normally a unit was considered lucky to secure a spot to pitch their tents near the supply train, but most had quickly relocated once the Order of Sigmar had arrived, leaving behind a wide swath of crushed grass and a few soot-stained fire pits. Gottswain and Erhardt bypassed these and headed towards the area where they’d first seen the beast.

  Nothing was left of Prolmann’s tent but a few broken surgical devices. Everything else was gone; not so much as a crushed vial had been left behind. That in itself was strange – surely the witch hunters would have left much of Prolmann’s paraphernalia where it lay? Where were his personal belongings?

  Erhardt called over Gottswain. ‘Do you remember if the good doktor was listed among the dead?’

  Gottswain shrugged. ‘I’ve got no head for lists, but I don’t remember his name coming up. You think he had something to do with this?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Erhardt squinted into the darkness. Maybe Prolmann had met his end when the monster attacked – or maybe not. He pursed his lips and nudged the churned earth with the toe of his boot. ‘Why did it attack here first?’

  A few feet away, Gottswain cursed, then bent and scraped dirt away from something that reflected torchlight. He pulled Prolmann’s long amputation knife out of the dirt. ‘Obviously, the good doktor was not as thorough as he thought,’ he said, handing the blade to Erhardt.

  Erhardt tucked it into his belt. It wasn’t a lead, but it did tell them that Prolmann had left in some haste. ‘If you were a doktor on the run, where would you go?’

  ‘To the nearest inn,’ said Gottswain with a smirk. ‘What? Doktor or no, that’s where I’d be.’

  ‘You’re a great help,’ said Erhardt wryly. Lacking a better idea, he chose the opposite direction to the attack and strode towards a few tents where priestesses of Shallya administered what aid they could to victims of the beast.

  One priestess sat on a log outside a nearby tent spooning gruel from a wooden bowl. Her hand shook and her face was drawn and haggard-looking. Her brown hair was clasped behind her head, but it had the look of straw to it that spoke of severe undernourishment. Erhardt guessed that she carried the weight of many souls upon her back. She set aside her gruel and rose when the two Greatswords approached.

  ‘Evening, sirs. Have you need of the goddess’s aid?’

  Erhardt nodded into the ni
ght. ‘It’s cold out here tonight. You should be making the most of the warmth inside.’

  She blushed guiltily. ‘Sometimes the cries of dying men...’ She paused, realising that what she was saying was not quite right. ‘I find the night air gives me the courage I need to help them once more.’

  ‘We all need whatever courage we can muster on a night like this,’ said Erhardt.

  She nodded, grateful that he’d caught her meaning. ‘I should be getting back.’

  Erhardt was about to let her go when the tent flap was pushed aside and two rough-looking men emerged, carrying a stretcher bearing a third. The man in the stretcher was missing an arm, and judging from the pallor of his skin, he’d lost so much blood that even the goddess couldn’t restore him. The two men set the stretcher down just outside the tent and, casting a few suspicious looks at Erhardt and Gottswain, disappeared back inside.

  ‘Do the priests of Morr collect the dead from you when they pass?’ he asked the priestess, staring at the body on the stretcher.

  ‘Yes. We ask that they limit their visits to avoid scaring the wounded, but they do come.’

  He found himself staring at the dead man’s arm stump. ‘What about the limbs?’

  The priestess looked back into the tent, as if she felt she’d spent too much time away from the wounded already. ‘We don’t perform amputations, but I understand there is a limb pit not too far from here where the doktors dispose of them.’

  ‘A limb pit?’

  ‘Yes. When a soldier dies from his wounds, the limb is interred with him. When the soldier lives, something must be done with it.’ With that, the priestess begged his pardon and ducked back into the tent, leaving her gruel behind.

  Gottswain watched her disappear, and then nudged her wooden bowl with his toe. ‘You never did have much of a way with the wenches, did you?’

  Erhardt shrugged. ‘I suppose the idea of a limb pit disturbs her. Sigmar knows it disturbs me. Still, it might be our best chance to find this beast.’

  ‘By all means then,’ Gottswain said, testing his zweihander in its scabbard. ‘Let’s go find it.’

  They were able to locate the limb pit by the stench, and the swarm of biting flies that ringed it. The night air was thick with them, swirling clouds that buzzed frantically in the air above the amputated limbs. The pit itself was ringed by torches set, Erhardt guessed, to provide enough illumination that no one would accidentally mistake its purpose. There was no telling how deep it was, but it was at least twenty feet across and filled with dozens of rotting limbs: legs and arms of every description – some naked, some partially clothed or tied off with scraps of blood-soaked bandage. The smell was awful enough that they had to cover their mouths and noses.

  A lone figure worked at one side, next to a heaped pile of dirt. He had a shovel in his hands and was doing his best to fill in the pit. A small man, his actions were frantic and panicked, and his shirt was sodden with mud and sweat.

  ‘Now there’s an undertaker who earns his pay,’ Gottswain mumbled through the sleeve of his tunic.

  ‘That’s no undertaker,’ replied Erhardt. He raised his voice. ‘Doktor Prolmann, I presume?’

  The figure looked up sharply and his hood fell back, revealing the small, balding man with the wrinkled face who’d treated Toft. His eyes widened when he saw their dwarf-forged plate, then he hurled the shovel at them and ran into the darkness.

  ‘I’ll get him!’ shouted Gottswain as he raced after the doktor.

  Erhardt was about to pursue when he noticed something that brought him to a halt.

  The limb pit was moving.

  The movement was slight at best, but as he circled the lip of the pit, the limbs rose and fell like a living tide. Erhardt peered deeper, and gasped – the bulk of the thrashing, lumbering Chaos beast that had ravaged the camp was unmistakable in the rotting, stinking depths. He looked to the horizon, remembering the witch hunters’ prediction about the rising of Morrslieb. They knew a thing or two about Chaos, he had to give them that.

  Hesitantly, he drew Prolmann’s amputation knife. In the pit, dozens of clawing, dead hands lifted towards it, but the beast did not arise. ‘Oh yes,’ he said to himself. ‘You remember this, don’t you...’

  There was a shout, and then Gottswain emerged from the darkness with the doktor in tow. The tiny man struggled furiously, but could not break free from Gottswain’s powerful grip.

  The sight of the doktor sickened Erhardt. The little weasel had fled the beast, and then tried to cover up his crimes. ‘I suppose you’ll tell me that digging in the dead of night is good for your health,’ he spat.

  Prolmann ceased trying to escape, instead shrinking in on himself until he looked about half his normal size. ‘I have done nothing wrong.’

  Gottswain twisted Prolmann’s wrist, eliciting a squeal. ‘I say we toss him in the pit. What do you reckon, boss?’

  Prolmann looked as if he were about to protest again, but in the face of two angry Greatswords, he deflated. ‘Look, you have to understand, during the course of a large battle, I see hundreds of wounded men. Some of them are so horribly maimed that the scouts are unable to determine whose side they were on. Inevitably, I end up treating some small number of enemy soldiers.’

  ‘And you were worried you’d draw the ire of the witch hunters?’ asked Erhardt.

  Prolmann shook his head. ‘No. Most of them make allowances, provided you follow procedure. Once treated, Chaosmen are to be separated out from our own soldiers for purgation.’

  ‘And you failed to do this?’ asked Gottswain with a shake.

  ‘No,’ replied Erhardt as he gazed out over the limb pit. ‘I believe he did. But there was one thing he forgot to separate.’

  ‘They were just arms, legs. Not whole men. How could I know...?’

  ‘Just arms and legs?’ asked Gottswain, grimly. ‘Those arms and legs killed our commander and dozens of men besides.’

  Prolmann went white and began shaking uncontrollably. Erhardt felt some pity for him. Though his laziness had brought about an unimaginable horror, his crime was not deliberate. ‘No,’ he said at last. ‘We’ll take him to Keller. Let the witch hunters figure out an appropriate punishment.’

  ‘What about the pit?’

  ‘We have perhaps an hour before the rising of Morrslieb. We’ll come back and burn it.’

  Gottswain and Erhardt found Keller in the midst of his devices of misery, standing before a giant brass bull. The statue was larger than a man, and a fire had been lit beneath it, heating the metal to a cherry-red glow. When they arrived, Erhardt thought the bull was actually lowing, but he soon realised to his horror that there was someone within slowly being cooked to death. Cleverly shaped tubes in the snout of the statue had been designed specifically to make the victim’s screams sound like bellowing cattle.

  ‘I thought I had you banned from the area, Herr Erhardt,’ said Keller, staring intently at the brass bull.

  Erhardt couldn’t decide which enraged him more, the bastard’s self-satisfied smirk, or his failure to address him by his title. ‘It’s Commander Erhardt, until Schalbourg says differently.’

  He appeared to have attracted Keller’s attention. The witch hunter turned, his eyes falling on Prolmann. ‘What have you brought me, commander?’

  ‘We’ve only done your bloody job for you, you damned peacock,’ growled Gottswain as he cast the doktor at Keller’s feet.

  After they relayed Prolmann’s story, Keller expressed mock regret with a shrug. ‘All this appears to have been unnecessary then.’ He turned to the man feeding the fire beneath the bull. ‘Free the prisoner.’

  The fire was quickly scattered and Keller’s servant hauled upon a lever at the statue’s base with a thick leather glove, opening a trap door in its belly. A blackened body with singed blond hair tumbled out, landing hard on the ground. Its skin was seared on its palms and knees, and its eyeballs had melted out of their sockets, painting two shining streaks down its cheeks.

&n
bsp; ‘Apologies, Commander Erhardt,’ said Keller with a shrug. ‘I had to be sure you weren’t a part of this.’

  The comment caught Erhardt off guard. What was Keller apologising for? He stared down at the small body in confusion for some seconds before he realised who it was.

  It was young Bert.

  Beside him Gottswain made a terrifying sound that was a mixture of sob and roar. He lunged at Keller, throwing him with bone-jarring force into the side of the bull. Perhaps the witch hunter had been expecting some kind of attack, but Gottswain’s speed and strength were surprising. As hard as he’d been hit, Keller was on his feet in an eyeblink, pistol drawn.

  Erhardt was only a heartbeat behind, putting his shoulder into Gottswain’s chest to restrain him. The Nordlander was incensed, his strength driving Erhardt back.

  ‘It’s not worth it, Kord,’ he growled, repeating Gottswain’s advice from the first time the witch hunter had defied them. ‘He’s not worth it.’

  Somehow, that got through to the big Greatsword and he gradually began to come to his senses. Nonetheless, Keller was furious.

  ‘I’ll see you swing for that,’ he yelled.

  Erhardt held out his hand to keep them apart. ‘Surely, he deserves punishment, but we have only minutes until Morrslieb rises and the creature is upon us once more. Let us discuss this when the beast is dead.’

  Keller considered this and then stared hard at the horizon, where the first greenish glow was making itself apparent. ‘Fine. We go,’ he spat. Then his eyes found Gottswain’s. ‘I’ll deal with you later.’

  Keller quickly gathered a score of witch hunters and as much timber and oil as they could carry. Once they were assembled, Erhardt and Gottswain led them back through the camp to the limb pit.

  Gottswain was still enraged, but managed to restrain himself at Erhardt’s urging until they were far enough ahead to be out of earshot. ‘He killed Bert,’ he said urgently once they were clear. ‘Bert, who never said a rough word to anyone. You can’t let him walk away from that!’

  Though Erhardt had been responsible for the death of many men under his command, Bert’s death weighed most heavily upon his heart. He’d failed in his promise to the boy’s father to look after his son. That Keller had done it for no other reason than to spite him made the pain even worse.