The door flew open with a loud bang and footsteps rushed towards him. “My
lord,” cried the voice he had heard outside, “are you injured? Adelman, help him
up.”
A pair of enormous, rough hands grasped the duke, lifted him to his feet and
placed him on a chair.
“Who are you?” he gasped, still struggling for breath.
“Otto Surman, Templar of Sigmar,” replied the voice, twisting itself into a
gentle croon. “Do I have the honour of meeting Duke Casper von Luneberg?”
The duke gripped his knees and hitched his shoulders up and down as he
grabbed a few short breaths. “Yes,” he managed to exclaim after a few minutes,
“I’m Casper von Luneberg.” He gave a grim laugh. “But as far as the dukedom is
concerned, I fear I may be in dereliction of my duties.”
There was a pause, and the duke assumed his guests were looking around at the
ruined tapestries and broken furniture.
“We saw bodies in the village, duke. Was this the work of the same Chaos
force that laid waste to Strendel and Wurdorf? The marauders heading for
Wolfenberg?”
Luneberg shrugged. “There is some kind of
thing
leading them, named
Mormius. He didn’t have much time to discuss tactics with me, but yes, I believe
he was headed for the capital. Mercy’s End still blocks their way, but I doubt
it will be much of an obstacle. I’ve never seen such an army.”
“Mercy’s End?”
The duke thrust his head towards his interrogator, as though willing his
severed optical nerves back into life. “What are you doing here? There’s nothing
here for you, or your god. Whichever one you profess to serve. I’m through with
creeds and wars and stratagems. You can expect no help from me.” He sneered. “I
gave everything for this Empire and it spat me out like a rotten fruit.”
The duke felt a gentle hand on his, as the crooning voice replied. “My lord,
we require no help. Far from it—I simply wished to enquire after a friend of
mine.”
“Which friend?”
“A priestess of Shallya, who goes by the name of Anna Fleck. I believe she’s
travelling in the company of one of my brethren—a warrior priest named Jakob
Wolff.”
The duke blushed and shook his head, embarrassed by the harshness of his
words. “You must forgive my rudeness, Brother Surman, I didn’t realise. Any
friend of that woman is a friend of mine.”
“No forgiveness needed, duke. We live in dangerous times. It’s wise to be
wary of strangers.”
Luneberg heard the scraping sound of a chair being pulled alongside his, and
when the soft voice spoke again, it was so close he could feel the priest’s
breath on his ear. “Are you a good friend of Anna then, duke?”
The duke smiled as he remembered his encounter with the priestess. “It seems
strange to say it, after such a brief acquaintance, but yes, I feel as though I
know her very well.” He leant back in his chair. “She’s of a kind though, I
suppose. There are those who destroy and those who create, and I fear Anna’s
breed are in the minority.”
“I think I understand you, duke.” There was a slight urgency in Surman’s
voice as he asked his next question. “Is she here?”
“Oh, no, I’m afraid not, Brother Surman. She left with Gryphius’ army, two
days past. She has no intention of fighting, though. They couldn’t even get her
to wear armour.” The duke’s smile slipped from his face. “She hopes to bring a
little love to this wounded land, but I fear she might be too late for that.”
“I see. And where did Gryphius plan to go from here? South?”
The duke gave a hollow laugh. “South? You don’t know Hugo von Gryphius. He’s
heard that the whole weight of the Chaos realm is pressing down on Mercy’s End,
so he wants to be there when the hammer falls. He intends to throw in his lot
with those poor, doomed souls.”
“And Anna went with him?”
“Yes, along with the warrior priest and his acolyte.”
Surman fell silent as he considered Luneberg’s words and for a few minutes
the only sound was the duke’s laboured breathing.
“Tell me, duke,” said Surman eventually, “what happened to your eyes?”
The duke placed a protective hand over the stained bandage. “The thing called
Mormius didn’t approve of my reading habits.” He shrugged. “I’m not sure what he
is, exactly, but he’s indulged in the worst kind of occultism and I think it’s
sent him mad. His whole body has been transformed by depravity, so I suppose it
makes sense that it would have warped his mind too. He has six, huge wings
sprouting from his back and eyes that could flay the skin from your bones.” He
shuddered at the memory. “He treated me quite politely at first, but when I
commented on his obvious heresy, he became completely unhinged.”
“So, not only did this daemonic entity enter your castle,” asked Surman, with
a slight tremor in his voice. “You spoke with it, too?”
The duke nodded and hugged himself, suddenly remembering the cold. He waited
for Surman to continue speaking, but no words came. Instead, he felt the priest
rise from the chair and step away. There was a low muttering sound as Surman
spoke to his companion, then a brief click of metal against metal.
“Tell me, duke,” said Surman, from somewhere behind him, “why did this child
of the Old Night allow you to live?” The gentle croon had vanished, to be
replaced with a contemptuous sneer. “What perverted bargain did you make to buy
your freedom?”
“Bargain? What are you talking—” The duke cut himself short with a wry laugh.
“Oh. Of course. I see.” He laughed a little harder and shook his head in
disbelief. “So this is how it finishes. What a pitiful end to a farcical life.”
“It is to the merciful justice of Sigmar that I commit you, servant of the
Ruinous Powers,” replied Surman. “May your soul—”
“Don’t waste any more of my time, you pathetic dupe,” snapped Luneberg. “Do
whatever you imagine you must, but please don’t make me listen to that puerile
dogma.”
The duke barely noticed the pistol as it was pressed to the back of his head.
He was already far away, in a country of golden, rolling fields and unstained
friendship. “Hugo, old friend,” he breathed, “forgive me.”
By the time the gunshot had echoed once around the empty hall,
Luneberg was dead.
The darkness was all encompassing. It cradled Ratboy, caressing his damaged
flesh like swaddling and easing him towards oblivion. Brutal memories tried to
pierce the gloom and it was his own brutality that haunted him most of all. But
for every glimpse of frenzied hands and pulsing viscera, another wave of
blackness came, dragging him further and further down.
A voice interrupted his descent. “Ratboy,” it called. The sound of his own
name reminded him again of his bloody deeds and jolted him back up from the
abyss. “Stay with us.”
The soft, familiar tones gave Ratboy another memory: a brief glimpse of
sunlight beside a quick, winding stream and a woman’s eyes, looking into his
with unashamed affection. Suddenly the darkness seemed a little less enticing.
“Try and drink this,” said the voice and he felt a cup pressed gently against
his mouth, moistening his lips with warm, aromatic liquid.
He swallowed a little of the drink and opened his eyes.
For a while he only registered Anna’s face, leaning over his and lit up with
a broad grin. Her ivory skin was bruised and scratched, and he could see faint
worry lines at the corners of her eyes that he suspected had not been there just
a few short weeks ago. Her hair had grown back as a halo of glinting stubble and
she had tears of relief in her eyes.
“You’re alive,” he muttered.
Anna burst into laughter and leant away from him. “
I’m
alive? You’re
the one who vanished just as we reached our destination.” She gestured to his
tightly bandaged hand. “And you’re the one who decided to grab the wrong end of
a knife.”
Ratboy’s nose wrinkled as he noticed a strong smell of manure. He looked
around at his surroundings. He was lying on a bed of straw in the corner of a
stable, surrounded by a forest of horses’ legs and piles of dung.
“It was the warmest place we could find,” laughed Anna, noticing his look of
disgust. “Most of this place fell down centuries ago, but the horses do quite
nicely for themselves.”
“Where’s Brother Wolff?”
“Recovering, I imagine. After he rescued you, he seemed quite overcome with
exhaustion. He’d barely dragged you through the gates when he collapsed. I’m not
sure what he did out there—that awful light that came down on him seemed to
melt flesh from men’s bones.” Her eyes widened with horror at the memory of it.
“He suffered horribly for it afterwards though. His face was greyer than
Raphael’s corpse. I didn’t think he would survive.” She gave Ratboy another sip
of the tea and smiled at him as he gulped it down.
Ratboy struggled up into a sitting position with a look of concern on his
face. “So, is he asleep still? Has he recovered from his exhaustion?”
Anna pressed him gently back onto the straw. “Don’t alarm yourself. He’s
awake and talking to Captain Felhamer—the officer in charge of this place.”
She grimaced. “Well, I say ‘in charge’, but the captain has quite a few egos
to contend with. Everyone in here seems to have some ridiculous, vainglorious
title: Kompmeister or Kriegswarden or something else that justifies their
pompousness. And they all think they should be making the big tactical
decisions.”
“But what of the enemy?” Ratboy’s eyes grew wide with fear. “I saw a shape
pursuing us. A creature, that flew at the head of the marauders.”
Anna nodded. “Yes, you saw the thing the duke referred to as Mormius. He said
it’s some kind of daemon spawn.” Her cool, grey eyes clouded over. “It’s Mormius
who murdered Sister Gundram, my matriarch. And he massacred Luneberg’s men. He’s
the one leading the enemy against us.”
“Then are we under attack?”
“Not yet.” Anna looked at Ratboy’s bandaged hand. “It seems that our
ill-advised charge may have bought Captain Felhamer and his men a little time.
They were expecting the assault to begin this morning, but between us and the
penitents, we left the enemy quite disconcerted.” She sighed. “It’s the briefest
of respites though. Wolff and Felhamer both expect them to strike at nightfall.”
Ratboy frowned, still trying to piece together his memories of the morning’s
events. “Why did you call the charge ‘ill-advised’? We made it to Mercy’s End,
didn’t we?”
Anna hesitated before replying. “Well, yes, or at least
some
of us
did.” She smoothed down her white robes and looked at her long, delicate
fingers. “The Obermarshall confused things greatly by attempting to reach the
flagellants. Barely half of his men reached the citadel and few of them are
without injuries.” She frowned. “And of course, every single one of the
villagers from Gotburg was butchered. Just as your master knew they would be
when he sent them into battle.”
Ratboy blushed at her angry tone. “They had chosen their path before they
even met Master Wolff.”
Anna shook her head, but seemed unwilling to argue the point.
“And what of the Obermarshall himself?”
Anna shook her head again. “I’ve done as much as I can for him, but I
couldn’t remove the weapon from his side without risking more damage.” As her
eyes met Ratboy’s, they were full of regret. “The most I could do was remove
some of the spear and bandage the rest up. I don’t expect him to see the
morning.”
Ratboy nodded and fell silent. He recalled the frenzy that took hold of him
during the battle and shuddered. He looked down at his chest and saw that his
borrowed yellow tabard was torn and dark with blood.
Anna followed his gaze and gave him an odd, forced smile. “Your master was
pleased with your bravery. He feels that your determination did you credit.”
Ratboy closed his eyes, trying to rid himself of the awful images that
plagued him. “I’m not sure it was determination as such,” he said. “The light
that came from Brother Wolff seemed to change me. And there was so much blood
everywhere, I lost track of things.” He grimaced. “I wasn’t myself.”
Anna raised her eyebrows. “If you wish to follow in Wolff’s footsteps, you’ll
need to accept such violence.” She shook her head. “It’s not the path I would’ve
chosen, but the life of a warrior priest is full of such horrors. It’s a path of
pain, as well as prayer.”
“Of course,” replied Ratboy, a little indignantly. “I’m not quite as naive as
you imagine, sister. My master has trained me in the martial arts as carefully
as the holy texts. It’s just that…” his voice trailed away and he looked down at
his blood-caked hands in confusion. “I didn’t expect to find it so enjoyable.”
He looked up in time to catch the horrified expression on Anna’s face. “My
motives were pure,” he said, grabbing her hand and willing her to understand.
“For a while, I felt as though I could tear down all the evil in this world.
Pull it apart with my bare hands. I wanted to rip the corruption from the heart
of the Empire. And as my master’s light surrounded me, it seemed as though I
finally could. Finally make a difference.” He shrugged, embarrassed by the
passion in his voice. “That’s all I meant by enjoyable.”
She gave a stiff nod and withdrew her hand. “Yes. I understand. I’ve heard
such sentiments before.” She looked down at him with a smile that did not reach
her eyes. “Your master has trained you perfectly. You’re already beginning to
sound like him. I’ve no doubt that you’ll make a fierce defender of the
Sigmarite faith.” She rose to her feet. “I must inform Wolff that his brave
protégé is awake.”
Ratboy watched Anna’s slender form as it slipped away between the restless
horses. Her tone had sounded more accusatory than praising and he felt a sinking
feeling in his stomach. “Sigmar,” he muttered, looking down at the bloody lump
that had once been his left hand. “What a mess.”