Hammer and Bolter 22

by Christian Dunn

  ‘There’s nothing we can do,’ he said angrily.

  And it was true. Keller was a Knight Templar of the Order of Sigmar. Merely to discuss causing him harm was heretical, and heresy was a crime punishable by death.

  When they finally reached the pit, the witch hunters spread around its edge and began laying out their materials – torches, coal, and barrels of flammable oil. Erhardt remained where he was, petulantly refusing to help. He knew they had mere minutes until the Chaos Moon broke the horizon, but still he did nothing. Maybe he wanted a fight. Maybe he wanted to take out all the rage and pain he felt on something, and if that something was a Chaos beast, so much the better.

  Gottswain, too, remained silent, lost in thought. Erhardt was grateful the big man hadn’t tried anything rash.

  The Knight Templar stood apart from the others, outside the ring of torches, preferring – Erhardt knew – to lead from behind. Not wanting to let the man out of his sight, Erhardt joined him in the shadows.

  They remained silent for a while, observing the preparations. Finally, the witch hunter spoke. ‘Thank you for the assistance with your man, earlier.’

  Erhardt had trouble containing his surprise. Was Keller actually thanking him?

  ‘It wasn’t for your sake, I can assure you. Gottswain is a capable fighter, and I didn’t want him to go to the gallows over someone like you.’

  Keller remained quiet, his eyes glittering in the torchlight. When he spoke again, it was with a note of regret. ‘Still, I admire your courage. I’m no coward, but I could never throw myself in the face of danger like you do.’

  Erhardt studied Keller. What was this about? Was Keller looking for some kind of sympathy or was he playing a more subtle game? Either was possible. The man was a monster. He could not shake the image of poor Bert, just a few summers shy of his first beard, frying inside that bull. The screams hadn’t ceased until well after they’d arrived, meaning Keller must have continued to let the boy cook while they spoke. It enraged him that the monster who’d tortured an innocent boy to death was now asking for sympathy. He had to look away, simply to avoid throttling him on the spot. His gaze settled once more on the pit, and an idea came to him.

  ‘I have a confession to make,’ he told Keller, struggling to keep the hatred out of his voice. ‘We have discovered the beast’s weakness.’

  Keller’s eyebrows rose. ‘Oh?’

  ‘Prolmann’s amputation knife. The beast fears it.’

  ‘Why did you not tell me this before?’

  Erhardt shrugged. ‘Like you, I too am sometimes afraid, and I believed the knife would protect me against the beast.’ He turned to Keller and looked him in the eye. ‘Gottswain’s actions have forced me to reconsider. I would like to make you a deal: the knife for the life of my man.’ He drew the blade out of his belt pouch and handed it to Keller.

  The witch hunter studied it critically. ‘A crude weapon at best.’

  Erhardt made to take the knife back, but Keller closed his fist around the handle. ‘If this is an implement of Chaos, then it is my duty to see that it is destroyed.’

  ‘And Gottswain?’

  ‘Your man will get what’s coming to him,’ snarled Keller before striding towards the pit, ‘and you’re lucky I don’t report you for possessing it!’

  Erhardt watched him go, then as quietly as he could, he stole around the edge of the circle of torches until he stood next to Gottswain. ‘I think you’d better step back,’ he said.

  Gottswain shook his head. ‘What?’

  A cry came, and one of the witch hunters pointed into the sky. ‘We’re too late! The Chaos Moon rises!’

  As the man tossed a burning brand into the pit, a sickly purplish glow erupted from its depths. Scores of limbs began to churn like a whirlpool as the force that had awakened knit them together. Despite himself, Keller stumbled backwards, his hand clutching Prolmann’s knife. The Chaos beast rose slowly before him: huge and dark and terrible. Up and up it heaved, expanding until it seemed to blot out the night sky.

  For perhaps the first time in his career, Keller confronted Chaos directly. But only for a moment. Then he screamed and ran.

  Before he could take more than a single step, the beast enfolded him in its embrace, completely covering him in thrashing limbs.

  Death was not instant. The Chaos beast was incredibly powerful, but each limb bore only the strength of the soldier to whom it had originally belonged. Human hands tipped with sharp nails tore at the witch hunter, leaving deep gouges in his skin, but it was a death by inches. As Keller’s screams grew louder and more frantic, they reminded Erhardt of the cries that had emanated from the brass bull. It was a satisfying thought.

  With the other witch hunters too stunned by their commander’s death to intervene, it wasn’t until there was nothing left of Keller but a bunch of torn meat that Gottswain finally drew his zweihander. ‘Why do I get the impression you knew that would happen?’

  Erhardt shrugged and drew his own blade. ‘Call it a gift from Doktor Prolmann.’

  Moving like a centipede, the Chaos beast turned to face them, a hundred hands opening and closing as it awaited their charge. On the other side of the creature, several witch hunters hacked at it with their swords, but it seemed able to fight any number of them at the same time and they made little progress. It was the Greatswords’ mighty zweihanders it feared.

  Gottswain charged in with the force of a thunderbolt, a sweep of his blade showering the ground around him with severed limbs and sour gore. Instantly, he was enfolded, just as Keller had been, by dozens of tearing limbs. But instead of lurching away, Gottswain expertly twisted his body, letting the creature’s hands slide against his plate, then used his momentum to slash again.

  Erhardt hit the beast a moment later. His attack was more nuanced then the Nordlander’s – he struck hard then danced backwards out of reach. It was hard to tell whose style was more effective.

  On other side of the Chaos beast, he heard a hideous scream as one of the witch hunters was torn apart. The creature lurched backwards, then stopped as more soldiers poured into the clearing. Perhaps, thought Erhardt as he dodged another attack and returned one of his own, the beast was trying to escape? Impossible. Though it had fled once already, that had been because of the setting of the Chaos Moon. Morrslieb had only just broken the horizon.

  Curious, he disengaged, then leapt atop the pile of earth. From this vantage point, it was easy to spot what had drawn the beast’s attention – the tents of the priestesses of Shallya. With every man the Chaos beast killed, its own bulk increased. Dozens of wounded would make for easy prey, and make the monster unstoppable. The process was happening even now. As it killed the witch hunters, it consumed their bodies and absorbed their flesh into its own. Sending more soldiers into the battle would be a mistake. But what else could they do?

  ‘Fire the pit!’ he yelled to a nearby sergeant. ‘Gottswain! We’ve got to drive it back!’

  ‘Then get down here and give me a hand!’ yelled the Nordlander from the ground.

  Erhardt laughed and took his advice, charging into the creature’s flank. He thrust deeply with his zweihander, trying to attack that fleshy centre he’d felt during the first attack. Hands clawed at his helmet visor, blotting out his vision and deafening him with the sound of ragged nails scraping against steel. He thrust again, following five feet of steel deep into the creature’s body. Finally, his blade jarred to a halt and that dark flood poured over his hands once more. An inhuman scream sounded from all around him and the creature reared backwards. The two Greatswords had managed to push it back to the very brink of the pit.

  Now Gottswain’s expert swordsmanship came into play. Instead of slashing wildly, his zweihander snickered out, cutting precisely into the limbs that the creature was using to hang onto the edge.

  Behind them, several frightened witch hunters had hurled torches into the pit, but the coal was slow to catch without sufficient kindling. Thinking quickly, Erhardt cast a
round and spotted one of the barrels of oil the witch hunters had stacked on the pit’s edge. He ran over and hacked into it with his zweihander, spilling the contents. A swift kick knocked it into the pit, just as the beast caught hold of Gottswain’s sword by the blade – though the edge cut deep, more limbs tore it from the Nordlander’s grasp. The monster snatched up the now disarmed Greatsword just as it began to topple, and the oil-fuelled flames burst up from the depths.

  Yanked to his knees, Gottswain scrabbled backwards, but another of the beast’s grasping hands grabbed onto the edge of his breastplate and dragged him in.

  Too far away to help his fellow soldier, Erhardt spotted something in the dirt next to Gottswain that glinted in the light of the fire. It was Prolmann’s blade, half-buried where Keller had dropped it. ‘Gottswain! The knife!’ he called, pointing frantically into the dirt.

  Gottswain quickly glanced down and the distraction was almost lethal. Oil had covered the beast’s flank and it was aflame. The Greatsword slid perilously close to the edge, scrabbling in the dirt. Letting out a desperate cry as he lunged, he caught hold of Prolmann’s blade and brought it down hard on the fingers holding onto his breastplate, severing them.

  As Gottswain scrambled clear, with a final scream of frustration the Chaos beast collapsed, whatever foul magic that had animated it finally giving out as the flames bit deep into its corrupted flesh.

  Hours later, when the smoke and the reek of charred flesh finally cleared, there was nothing but ash at the bottom of the pit. Still the witch hunters stood by, watchful as their acolytes scattered salt over the embers.

  After the last spark had gone out, Gottswain pushed aside the flap of the command tent and cleared his throat. Erhardt sat behind Toft’s desk, a quill in his hand. Though he had yet to wash off the grime of combat, he had taken the time to fill out a detailed report, leaving out only the mention of Prolmann’s knife. However much Keller was hated, a Knight Templar of the Order of Sigmar had died tonight and difficult questions would be asked.

  ‘Some of the boys smuggled a priest of Morr past the guards,’ said Gottswain. ‘They didn’t feel right about Bert not having his prayers.’

  ‘Good.’ Erhardt said nothing more.

  Gottswain hesitated, not knowing if he was being dismissed. ‘So... commander of the Carroburg Greatswords, eh? The men will be pleased. They like you.’ Then, straightening, he corrected himself. ‘They respect you, sir.’

  Erhardt dipped his quill into the inkwell, then signed his name and tossed a pinch of sand onto the document to help it set. ‘I’m only commander until Altdorf. Toft wanted someone else in command after we reach the capital.’

  Gottswain frowned and scratched his head. ‘Toft died without relaying that order to Schalbourg. As far as the general knows, you’re it.’

  ‘Nevertheless,’ muttered Erhardt.

  The big Greatsword shook his head in confusion. If he lived to see a hundred summers, he’d likely never understand. As far as he was concerned, a promise to a dead man was no promise at all. He clearly knew enough to keep that thought silent, though, and turned to leave.

  ‘Sergeant,’ said Erhardt.

  Gottswain was no sergeant, but there was no one else within earshot, so he stopped and faced Erhardt once more. The new commander smiled.

  ‘We’re not going to Altdorf quite yet, sergeant. Tell the men we break camp at dawn. The messengers say General Schalbourg has discovered a grand army of ogres heading for the capital. Tomorrow, we march to battle!’

  MALEDICTION

  C Z Dunn

  Included in this issue of Hammer and Bolter is an exclusive extract from Malediction.

  FIREBORN

  Nick Kyme

  Though it was forbidden, Evangeline ran through the Chapel of Divine Sanctuary.

  She ran as if the hounds of Chaos were behind her.

  Votive candles lit the way through one of the transepts of remembrance, guttering faintly as she swept by. Statues of martyred saints glared at her disapprovingly from shaded alcoves. As she passed through the holy narthex, Evangeline was trying to piece together what she’d seen. Her sandalled feet rapping on the cold convent floor, louder than incendiary blasts in the silence, muddled her thoughts.

  Blood.

  She’d seen blood, like red rain coming from the sky.

  All shall bleed, the voices had said. Skulls for the throne of–

  The last part made her dizzy. She smelled oil, tasted iron and heard the harsh clank of machinery though the convent was quiet as the void.

  In the Devotional Gallery, she found Father Lumeon.

  ‘My child, what in the Emperor’s name is wrong?’

  The breathless specimen, a waif of a girl in pale unadorned robes, could only pant.

  Father Lumeon, officious in his priestly vestments, drifted from behind his blackwood desk. He’d been labouring over parchments and data-slates, a mechanised lexicanum savant scribing his dictations with a neuro-quill. Sublimation of native belief cultures into the auspices of the Imperial Creed – it was heavy work, gratefully postponed, even for a devoted man like Father Lumeon. Dismissing a pair of cyborganic cherubs who had descended on angelic wings to investigate the sudden fuss, he came before Evangeline and gently lifted her chin.

  ‘Be at peace…’

  Evangeline’s frenzy lessened to an insistent ache.

  ‘And tell me what the matter is.’

  The Sister Hospitaller had tears in her eyes and a tremor in her body.

  An answer wasn’t forthcoming.

  ‘Come with me.’ Father Lumeon led her slowly to an ornate balcony, which looked out over all of Sepulchre IV.

  Chapels and cathedra stretched into the distance, castellated bell towers touched the heavens, pilgrims marched over chasm-spanning ornate bridges, fluttering cherub-servitors flocked the skies. Armies of the righteous, adepts of the Ecclesiarchy and its most zealous defenders populated this shrine world. The sight of it gladdened Father Lumeon whenever he beheld it.

  Sister Evangeline’s reaction was not as beatific. She wept and shook and looked away, pointing to the sky.

  When Father Lumeon followed her gesture he noticed Sepulchre’s sun. It was red, where once it had been yellow. It was red and drenched the pale stone of the cathedrals so they looked as if they’d been fashioned from incarnadine bone.

  ‘What did you see?’ He seized Evangeline by the shoulder. He was hurting her and knew it. ‘Tell me now!’

  Their eyes met, Evangeline’s full of fear and foreboding; Father Lumeon’s red-ringed and fervent.

  What had she seen in the dark of the abyss? Why was the sky bleeding?

  She confessed everything.

  Pinching her under the arm to keep her close, Father Lumeon hurried Evangeline through the quiet corridors of the convent-bastion. Their passage was met by furtive glances from the other Sister Hospitallers of the Order of the Inner Sanctum. Some carried votive candles or pungent censer burners. They kept their eyes low but were obviously dismayed that one of their Order, even a lowly novitiate, was being led off so urgently. Lumeon bustled past them, scarcely stopping as he activated gilded blast doors and mechanised arch-gates. Artefact chambers, stasis-locked reliquary vaults, beautifully illuminated vaulted ceilings and finely sculptured columns went by in a blur of insignificance. Father Lumeon ignored them all.

  He said nothing, only frowned with the furrowed expression of a man who’d asked and received an answer he wished to return. He half-glanced at Evangeline. Her face was grey as ash.

  Within the Order, it was unprecedented.

  Slowly the religious austerity of the convent-bastion gave way to military functionality. Slab-like walls of gunmetal grey rose around them like bulkheads. Steam-stamped barrack markings and warning chevrons provided direction. The distant ring of combat training became a muffled refrain to their softer footfalls.

  Evangeline had only ever roamed in the Chapel of Divine Sanctuary and its annexes that included her dormitory.
She had never been to this part of the sprawling convent-bastion. It was cold and harsh. Percussive weapons fire from some distant armoury hurt her ears. The clash of blades sent unpleasant jolts down her spine.

  Father Lumeon sensed her reluctance to proceed and had to march Evangeline the rest of the way. At the end of a long, stark corridor their journey ended. Before them, a single figure stood silhouetted in the light from overhead lume-globes.

  She had the cut and form of a Crusader. Her robes were red to resemble the blood of martyrs running in her veins. Her silver helm occluded her face completely, though her stance suggested it was severe beneath the mailed mask. One gauntleted fist gripped a vast Crusader shield almost the size of her entire body. Only with the augmented strength from her silver armour, which was also swathed with purity seals, devotional chains and holy parchments, could she wield it. The same was true of the Crusader sword in her other hand. Its blade was etched with tiny inscriptions and crackled with energy from an unseen source.

  Father Lumeon found it levelled at him when he approached her.

  He held up the aquila icon, suspended around his neck by a string of beads. Each one had been fashioned from a saint’s knuckle bone. It was a potent symbol and the staff of his office.

  ‘In the Emperor’s name, I must speak with Canoness Ignacia immediately. It is a dire matter.’

  The slightest inclination of the formidable Crusader’s head suggested she regarded Evangeline cowering beside Father Lumeon. The warrior didn’t move and for a moment the venerable priest feared she might strike them both down.

  At a silent command, the blast doors behind the Crusader broke open as if cracked by a bolt of invisible lightning. Lowering her sword, she backed off into the escaping pressure mist.

  Wiping his brow with his sleeve, already knowing there’d be more grey in his temples come the morning, Father Lumeon started to drag Evangeline through after him.