Trollslayer

by William King

  Vendors had set out lanterns to illuminate the market square. Loose women stood in pools of red light near the doorways of many houses. The business of the day was over, the atmosphere of the place changed as folk came to eat and be entertained. Storytellers gathered little circles round their charcoal braziers and competed with conjurers who made tiny dragons appear in puffs of smoke. A would-be prophet stood on a stool under the statue of the town’s founder, the hero Frederick, and exhorted the crowd to return to the virtues of an earlier, simpler time.

  People were everywhere, their lively movements dazzling Felix’s eyes. Hawkers tugged at his sleeve offering lucky charms or trays of small, cinnamon-scented pastries. Children kicked an inflated pig’s bladder in the mouth of a narrow alley and ignored their mothers’ cries to come inside out of the dark. Over their heads, ragged washing sagged on lines stretched from window to window across the narrow alleyways. Carts now empty of produce rumbled towards the draymen’s yards, clattering over ruts and dislodging loose cobbles.

  Felix stopped by an old woman’s food stand and bought a piece of stringy chicken she had cooked over a charcoal burner. Warm juices filled his mouth as he gobbled it down. He stood for a moment trying to centre himself in the riot of colour and smell and noise.

  Looking at the swarm of people he felt dislocated. Men-at-arms in the tabards of the local burgermeisters moved among the crowd. Richly dressed youths eyed the street-girls and exchanged quips with their bodyguards. Outside the entrance to the Temple of Shallya, beggars raised their scabrous stumps to passing merchants who kept their eyes carefully focused on the middle distance and their hands on their purses. Ruddy-faced peasants rolled drunkenly through the streets gazing in wonder at buildings more than a single storey high. Old women, heads wrapped in tattered scarves, stood on doorsteps and gossiped with their neighbours. Their wizened faces reminded Felix of sun-dried apples.

  Fredericksburg was a mere hamlet compared to Altdorf, he told himself; there was no need to feel daunted. He had lived in the Imperial capital most of his life and never felt out of place. It was just that he had become used to the quiet and the solitude of the mountains. He was unused to feeling enclosed. Still, it should take him mere hours to adjust to being back among men.

  Standing in the crowd he felt lonely, just one more face in a sea of faces. Listening to the babble of voices he heard no friendly words, just haggling over prices and coarse jokes. There was an energy here, the vitality of a thriving community, but he was not part of it. He was a stranger, a wanderer from the wilderness. He had little in common with these folk, who had probably never ventured more than a league from their homes in their lives. He was struck by how strange his life had become. He suddenly felt a tremendous longing to be at home, in the comfortable wood-panelled halls of his father’s house. He rubbed the old duelling scar on his right cheek and cursed the day he had been expelled from university into a life of petty crime and political activism.

  Gotrek wandered slowly through the marketplace, gazing stupidly at the stalls selling cloth and amulets and food, as if he did not quite understand what was going on. The Slayer’s one good eye was wide and he seemed dazed. Disturbed by his comrade’s behaviour, Felix took him by the shoulder and guided him towards the tavern door. A lazy-looking painted dragon beamed down at them from the sign above the door.

  ‘Come on,’ Felix said. ‘Let’s get a beer.’

  Wolfgang Lammel pushed the struggling barmaid from his knee. In her attempt to resist his kiss, she had marred the high velvet collar of his jerkin with rouge from her cheeks.

  ‘Begone, slut,’ he told her in his most imperious voice. The blonde girl stared at him angrily, her face flushed beneath its inexpertly applied mask of powder and paint, annoyance distorting her peasant-pretty face.

  ‘My name is Greta,’ she said. ‘Call me by my name.’

  ‘I’ll call you whatever I like, slattern. My father owns this tavern, and if you would keep the job you so recently acquired you’ll keep a civil tongue in your head.’

  She bit back a retort and hurried beyond his reach.

  Wolfgang smirked. He knew she would be back. They always came back. Father’s gold saw to that.

  He brushed the rouge carefully from his clothing with one well-manicured hand. Then he studied his bearded aquiline features in his small silver hand-mirror, checking to make sure none of the girl’s make-up marred his soft white skin. He ignored the titters of his sycophants and the amused looks of the bully-boys he employed as his bodyguards. He could afford to. By virtue of his father’s wealth he was the undisputed leader of the clique of fashionable young fops who patronised this tavern. From the corner of his eye he could see Ivan, the tavern keeper, scolding the girl. The man knew he could not afford to offend the owner’s son and heir. He saw the girl bite back an angry rejoinder and begin to come back across.

  ‘I’m sorry for marking your raiment,’ she said in a soft voice. Wolfgang noticed the two points of colour on her otherwise pale cheeks. ‘Please accept my most humble apologies.’

  ‘Of course,’ Wolfgang said. ‘Since your clumsiness is exceeded only by your stupidity and your stupidity is exceeded only by your plainness, I must take pity on you. Your apology is accepted. I shall ask Ivan to deduct the cost of a new jerkin to replace the one you have ruined from your pay.’

  The girl’s mouth opened but she said nothing. Wolfgang knew that the jerkin cost more than the girl would earn in a month. She wanted to argue but knew it was futile. Ivan would have to side with him. Her shoulders slumped. Wolfgang noticed the way her bosom was revealed by her low-cut bodice and a thought occurred to him.

  ‘Unless of course you would care to repay the debt in another way. Say… by visiting my chambers this evening at midnight.’

  He thought at first she was going to refuse. She was young and fresh from the country and still held quaint ideas about virtue. But she was a thrall, one of the lowest classes of peasant owned by their liege lords. She had fled here to the town seeking escape from servitude. Losing her job would mean a choice between starving in the town or returning to her village and the wrath of her owner. If she lost her position here Wolfgang could see she never got another one. The realisation of her situation sank in and her head sank forward and she nodded once. The movement was so slight as to be almost imperceptible.

  ‘Then get out of my sight until then,’ Wolfgang said. The girl fled through the mass of his hangers-on. Tears ran down her face. Coarse jibes followed her.

  Wolfgang allowed himself a sigh of satisfaction then downed another goblet of wine. The sweet, clove-scented liquid burned down his throat and filled his stomach with fire. He stared across at Heinrich Kasterman. The fat, pock-faced young noble stopped stuffing his face long enough to give him an ingratiating grin.

  ‘Nicely done, Wolfgang. Afore this night is out, you’ll have introduced young Greta to the secret mysteries of our hidden lord. May I join you later? Take my turn?’

  Wolfgang frowned as Heinrich made the secret sign of Slaanesh. Even his father’s wealth might not protect him if it got around that he and several of his trusted comrades were followers of the Lord of Vice. He looked around to see if anyone had paid any attention to the fat fool’s remark. No one seemed to have noticed. He relaxed. He told himself he was unjustifiably nervous. In truth he had become a little uneasy since the stigmata had appeared on his chest. The books assured him that it was a sign of special favour from their patron power, a mark that showed he was one of the Chosen. Even so, if a witch-hunter ever found out…

  Perhaps it would be wisest to deal with the girl after he had his way with her this evening.

  ‘Maybe. Well, that’s tonight’s amusement – but what shall we do till then to while away the long tedious hours in this dull, dull place?’

  He could see no one worth tormenting. Most of the patrons were of similar status to himself, with their own bodyguard
s. In one corner sat an old man, plainly a sorcerer, leaning on a staff. The two corner booths were filled with cheery Sigmarite pilgrims. Only a fool would cross a mage and the pilgrims were too numerous to be easy prey. Torches flickered in the draught as the outer door opened.

  ‘Or perhaps this evening’s entertainment has just arrived.’

  An oddly mismatched pair entered the Sleeping Dragon. One was a tall, gaunt blond-haired man, his bronzed and handsome face marred by a long scar. His clothing had obviously once been fine but was now stained and patched and tattered by long travel. From his dress he might have been a beggar but there was something about the way he carried himself, a nervous poise, that suggested he was not quite as down at heel as he seemed.

  The other was a dwarf. A full head shorter than the man in spite of a great red crest of hair, he must nevertheless have outweighed the other by a considerable margin, judging from the great slabs of muscle which sheathed his big-boned frame. He carried an axe in one hand that a blacksmith might have strained to lift with two. His body was covered in strange tattoos. A crude leather patch covered one eye. Wolfgang had never seen his like before. The dwarf looked hurt and moved slowly. His gaze was blank and stupid and confused.

  They moved to the bar and the man ordered two steins of beer. His accent and perfectly modulated High Reikspiel suggested an educated man. The dwarf set his axe down by the fire.

  The man looked shocked, somehow, as if he had never seen this happen before.

  The tavern had gone quiet, anticipating what Wolfgang and his cronies would say. Wolfgang knew that they had seen him bait newcomers before. He sighed; he supposed he had a reputation to maintain.

  ‘Well. Well. Has the circus come to town?’ he said loudly. To his annoyance, the two at the bar ignored him. ‘You, oaf! I said: Has the circus come to town?’

  The man in the faded red cloak turned to look at him. ‘Would you be talking to me, sir?’ he inquired in a soft, polite voice at odds with the level cold stare he directed at Wolfgang.

  ‘Yes, you and your half-wit friend. Are you perhaps clowns with some travelling troupe?’

  The blond man glanced at the dwarf, who continued to stare around in bemusement. ‘No,’ he said and turned back to his drink. The man had looked confused, as if he had expected a response from the dwarf and got none.

  Nothing infuriated Wolfgang more than being ignored. ‘I find you surly and rude. If you do not apologise, I think I shall have my men give you a lesson in good manners.’

  The man at the bar moved his head slightly. ‘I think if anyone here needs a lesson in politeness it is yourself, sir,’ he said quietly.

  The nervous laughter of the tavern’s other patrons fanned the sparks of Wolfgang’s anger. Heinrich licked his lips and slammed a clenched fist into one pudgy palm. Wolfgang nodded.

  ‘Otto, Herman, Werner. I can no longer bear the odour of this tramp. Eject him from the tavern.’

  Herman loomed over Wolfgang and rubbed one large knobbly knuckled fist through his unkempt beard. ‘I don’t know if this is wise, lord. Those two look tough,’ he whispered.

  Otto rubbed his shaven head, gazing at the dwarf. ‘He has the tattoos of a Slayer. They’re supposed to be vicious.’

  ‘So are you, Otto. I don’t keep you around for your wit and charm, you know. Deal with them.’

  ‘I dunno,’ Werner grumbled. ‘It could be a mistake.’

  ‘How much does my father pay you, Herman?’ The big man shrugged in resignation and beckoned for the other bravos to follow him. Wolfgang saw him slip something hard and metallic over his fist. He leaned back in his chair to enjoy the show.

  The blond man looked at the approaching bodyguards. ‘We want no trouble with you, gentlemen.’

  ‘Too late,’ Herman said and swung. To Wolfgang’s surprise, the stranger blocked Herman’s punch with his forearm and then doubled the big man over with a blow to his ample paunch. The dwarf did nothing.

  ‘Gotrek, help!’ shouted the man, as the bodyguards raced towards him. The dwarf merely looked around bemusedly, flinching as Werner and Otto grabbed the young man’s arms. He struggled viciously, sending Otto hopping with a kick to the shins and then butting Werner in the face. The burly bodyguard reeled back, clutching a profusely bleeding nose.

  Karl and Pierre, two of Heinrich’s hired louts, joined the fray. Karl caught the blond man on the back of the head with a chair and sent him sprawling. The others propped him up against the bar. Werner and Otto pinned him while Herman proceeded to take out his anger on the helpless stranger.

  Heinrich winced every time a fist crunched into flesh. Wolfgang felt his own lips draw back in a snarl. He found himself panting with bloodlust. There was a real temptation to let Herman keep on hitting until the man was dead. He found his thoughts drifting to Greta. He was aroused. There was something about pain, particularly other people’s, which appealed to him. Perhaps later he and the girl would follow this line of thought to its logical conclusion.

  Eventually Wolfgang snapped out of it. The Reiklander was bruised and bloody when he signalled that he had seen enough and ordered him thrown into the street.

  And still the dwarf did nothing.

  Felix lay on a pile of garbage. Every part of his body ached. One of his back teeth felt loose. Something wet ran down the back of his neck. He hoped it wasn’t his own blood. A plump black rat sat atop a mound of mouldy food and gazed at him ironically. Moonlight made its red eyes glitter like malevolent stars.

  He tried moving his hand. He put it down to brace himself on earth, preparing for the monumental task of rising to his feet. Something squashed under his palm. He shook his head. Little silver lights flickered across his field of vision. The effort of movement was too much for him and he lay back on the midden-heap. It felt as soft as a warm bed beneath him.

  He opened his eyes again. He must have fallen unconscious. He had no idea how long for. The greater moon was higher than it had been. Morrslieb, the lesser satellite, had joined it in the sky. Its eerie glow illumined the street fitfully. Mist had started to rise. In the distance a night-watchman’s lamp cast a pool of sulphurous light. Felix heard the slow, painful movement of an old man’s steps.

  Someone helped him to his feet. A strand of long wavy hair tickled his face. Cheap perfume warred with the odour of refuse in his nostrils. It slowly filtered into Felix’s brain that his benefactor was a woman. He began to slip and she struggled to support his weight.

  ‘Herr Wolfgang is not a nice man.’

  It was a peasant’s voice, Felix decided. The words were pleasantly slurred and it had a husky, earthy quality. He looked up into a broad moon face. Large blue eyes gazed at him over high cheekbones.

  ‘I’d never have guessed,’ Felix said. Pain stabbed through his side as the tip of his scabbard caught in the garbage and the pommel of his sword connected with a tender patch of flesh under his ribs. ‘My name is… ugh… Felix, by the way. Thank you for your assistance.’

  ‘Greta. I work in the Sleeping Dragon. I couldn’t leave you just lying in the street.’

  ‘I think you should find a place with a better class of patron, Greta.’

  ‘I’m starting to think that myself.’ Her slightly-too-wide mouth smiled nervously at him. The moon’s light caught the white of her powdered face, making it look pale and sickly. If it wasn’t for the make-up she would be beautiful, he decided.

  ‘I can’t believe no one came out to see how you were,’ she was saying.

  The tavern door opened. Automatically Felix reached for his sword. The movement caused him to gasp with pain. He knew he would be helpless if the bravos set on him again.

  Gotrek stood in the door, empty handed. His clothes were splashed with beer. His crest was flattened and bedraggled as if someone had given him a ducking in an ale cask. Felix glared at him. ‘Thank you for your help, Gotrek.’

 
‘Who is Gotrek?’ the Slayer said. ‘Are you talking to me?’

  ‘Come on,’ Greta said. ‘We’d better get both of you to a healer I know. He’s a little strange but he’s got a soft spot for me.’

  The office of the alchemist Lothar Kryptmann smelled of formaldehyde and incense and the weirdroot he chewed constantly. The walls were covered in racks containing jars of chemicals: powdered unicorn horn, quicksilver, quicklime and dried herbs. On a stand in a corner huddled a mangy, glittering-eyed vulture; it was bald in places with no feathers on one wing. It took Felix some time to realise it was stuffed. On the heavy oak desk, amid a pile of papers scrawled in a crabbed illegible hand, was a massive bottle containing the preserved head of a goat-horned beastman. A mortar and pestle served as an impromptu paperweight to stop the notes floating away in the draught from the lazily shuttered windows.

  Torches flickered smokily in niches and sent shadows scuttling into the cold recesses of the room. Leather bound volumes titled in fading gold leaf displayed the names of the great natural philosophers. Many were stuffed untidily into bookshelves which had bent dangerously under their weight. Wax from a taper set in a porcelain saucer dripped onto the topmost volume. In the grate a small heap of lit coals crackled. Felix saw some half-consumed sheets of paper jutting sootily from the hearth. He decided the whole place would be terribly dangerous if ever a fire broke out.

  Kryptmann took another pinch of herbal snuff, sneezed, then wiped his nose on the sleeve of his filthy blue robe, adding another mark to the runes sewn into it. He threw a tiny measure of coal onto the fire with a small brass shovel and turned to look at his patients.

  The alchemist reminded Felix of nothing so much as the stuffed vulture in the corner. His bald head was framed by wings of unruly grey hair. A great beak of a nose jutted over thin, primly pursed lips. Pale grey eyes glittered brightly behind small pince-nez glasses. Felix saw that the pupils were huge and dilated, a sure sign that Kryptmann was addicted to hallucinogenic weirdroot. When the alchemist moved, his bulky robes flapped around his thin frame, and he looked like a flightless bird attempting to take off.