An explosion echoed around the village, drowning out the priest’s words.
Wolff whirled around to see his young acolyte perched awkwardly on top of the
flaming pyre, reaching desperately for Anna as the burning wood collapsed
beneath his feet. “Master,” he cried, pathetically, as he lurched through the
smoke and attempted to grab onto the lifeless priestess.
Jakob grimaced, looking from the bleeding old man to the pyre and back again.
“I’m not finished,” he said, freeing Surman’s throat and dashing towards the
fire.
While the priest had been interrogating Surman, villagers had gradually been
creeping back out of doorways and alleyways to witness the spectacle. Wolff had
to barge his way through the growing crowd to reach the pyre. Once there he
paused. The flames had now fully taken hold and the heat needled into his eyes.
The acolyte cried out again, stranded next to Anna as sparks and embers whirled
around him.
Wolff shook his head at the boy’s foolishness. Then, clutching his warhammer
tightly in both hands, he strode into the fire. Charred wood and cinders erupted
all around him as he scrambled through the blaze. At first he made good
progress, moving quickly towards the stranded couple. Then, his foot dropped
through a hole and he found himself waist deep in flaming wood. Wolff howled
with impotent fury at his predicament. Try as he might he could not climb any
further. Smoke engulfed him and he felt the stubble on his head begin to shrivel
as fire washed over him. He realised the horror of his situation. History was on
the verge of repeating itself: another Wolff, burned alive on Surman’s pyre. Hot
fury burst from his lungs in an incoherent roar. He lifted his warhammer and,
swinging it in a great arc, slammed it into the pyre’s central pillar.
The acolyte’s eyes widened with fear. “Master,” he shouted, struggling to
keep his footing as the pyre shifted beneath him. “You’ll kill us.”
Wolff was deaf to his cries and swung the hammer again. The pyre belched
great gouts of flame but he kept swinging, striking it repeatedly and enveloping
himself in an inferno of heat and smoke. Finally, with a sharp
crack,
the
priest smashed through the post. The whole structure teetered for a second,
swaying drunkenly, then it collapsed in on itself, hurling blazing wood spinning
across the village square.
Finally free, Wolff patted himself down, extinguishing the fires that covered
his robes. Then, slinging his hammer back over his shoulder he strode through
the scattered flames. He lifted the dazed acolyte from beneath the wreckage and
with his other hand he grabbed Anna. Then, as the astonished villagers backed
away from him, he emerged from the fire, dragging the two bodies behind him like
sacks of corn. He dropped Anna and the boy to the ground and collapsed to his
knees, gulping clean air into his scorched lungs.
“She’s a witch,” cried a fat old militiaman, rushing forward and kicking
Anna’s prone shape. “The witch hunter found her guilty.” He grabbed Anna’s
blistered body and lifted her head from the ground. “It’s all her fault.
Everything that’s happened to the village these last months.” His voice grew
thin with hysteria. “She
has
to die.”
The other villagers stepped back from the man, nervously eyeing the priest’s
warhammer. Most were not as keen to pit themselves against someone who had just
walked so calmly through fire.
As the militiaman’s vengeful screams continued, Wolff stayed on his knees,
with his hands pressed into the earth and his eyes closed as he struggled for
breath.
With a retching cough, the young acolyte sat up. His hair was twisted and
black and his face was flushed with heat. He had the look of a wild-eyed
prophet. He saw the villager grappling with Anna and leapt towards him. “Leave
her alone, you brute,” he cried, landing a punch on the man’s face and sending
him sprawling across the ground. He followed after him, windmilling his arms and
landing blow after blow on the militiaman’s head. “You don’t know anything.
You’re listening to the words of a murderer. Surman’s no priest. He’s not even a
witch hunter; he’s just insane.”
The militiaman recovered his composure and rose to his feet. He took a cudgel
from his belt and slammed it into the boy’s stomach. As the acolyte fell to the
ground, doubled up in pain, the militiaman kicked him viciously in the side and
looked up at the other villagers. “The boy’s in league with the witch,” he
announced, calmly.
The other villagers shuffled towards him, still looking nervously at the
choking priest.
“Stop,” gasped Wolff, glaring at the militiaman. “You’re making a mistake.
Surman isn’t to be trusted. Let the boy go.”
The militiaman’s jowly face grew red with anger and he grabbed the boy by his
blackened hair. “What right do you people have to stop us defending ourselves?”
He gestured to the pitiful ruins that surrounded them. “Look at us. We’re barely
surviving. Year after year we’ve fought back monsters you can’t even imagine.
What do you know of our lives? And now, when we have a minion of Chaos in our
very midst, you would free her.” He threw the acolyte back to the floor and
levelled a finger at the gasping priest. “In fact, how do we know you’re not in
league with her? How is it that you arrived, just as we were about to rid
ourselves of this evil?”
Angry mutterings came from the crowd and a few of them nervously fingered
their clubs and sticks as they stepped up behind the militiaman.
Wolff took a deep, rasping breath and rose from the ground. He dusted the
soot from his armour, lifted his hammer from his back and turned to face the
villagers. “Let the boy go,” he repeated quietly.
“She must burn,” cried the militiaman, pointing at the unconscious priestess.
“And the boy with her. He was clearly trying to save her. I won’t let you bring
a curse on what’s left of this village.”
Jakob gave a rattling cough and stepped forward, straightening up to his full
height and lifting his hammer to strike.
The militiaman fled with a yell, leaping over the smouldering remains of the
pyre and disappearing from view. The other villagers quickly backed away from
the priest and hid their weapons as Wolff helped the acolyte back to his feet.
“Are you hurt?” asked the priest gruffly, dusting the boy down.
“No,” replied the acolyte, with an embarrassed smile. “I’ll think twice about
leaping into another fire though.”
The priest nodded and gave a disapproving grunt, before turning to the
crumpled priestess.
The boy rushed to the woman’s side and lifted her head from the ground. Her
long hair had shrivelled to a blackened frizz and her tattered robes crumbled to
ash in his fingers, but her chest was still rising and falling as she took a
series of quick, shallow breaths. “She’s alive,” he whispered and took a flask
of water from his belt, pouring a little into her mouth. At first the liquid
just ran over her chin unheeded, but then she gave a hoarse splutter and opened
her eyes, pushing the boy away in fear. “She’s alive,” he repeated, helping her
to sit up.
“Stay back,” gasped the priestess, shoving the boy away and attempting to
stand. Her legs immediately gave way and she toppled to the floor, but she was
now fully awake and looked around in confusion. “The pyre,” she said, looking at
the smouldering ruin. “Did you save me?” she asked, grabbing the boy’s arm.
“Well, not exactly,” he replied, blushing. “It was more—”
“Yes,” snapped Wolff, striding forward and lifting her to her feet. “If it
wasn’t for this foolish child, you’d be dead.”
Anna flinched from the priest’s grasp, looking nervously of his brutal
demeanour and Sigmarite garb. “Who are you?” she asked, staggering away from
him. Then her hand shot to her mouth and she looked around in a panic. “Where’s
the witch hunter?”
Wolff spun around to find that barn wall was empty, apart from a dark crimson
stain where he had left Surman. He cursed under his breath and ran across the
village square to investigate. “Surman,” he cried, dashing in and out of the
houses. “Come back, you wretch!” His face grew purple with rage. “Where’s my
brother?”
Wolff tore through the village, turning over carts and
barrels, but a fit of coughing overtook him and after a few minutes he dropped
to his knees again. With a strangled bark of despair he slammed his hammer into
the ground and spat sooty phlegm into the earth. “Where’s my brother, you
murdering dog?”
“Ratboy?” asked Anna, laughing as she dragged a knife over her scalp, “what
kind of a name is that?”
“I’ve grown used to it,” replied the acolyte, with a shrug. He looked around.
They were sat on the bank of a small stream and Ratboy couldn’t help but smile
at the unexpected beauty of the scene. As the morning sun cleared the distant
blue hills of Kislev, it gilded the shallow waters, transforming the blasted
valley into a memory of happier times. They were in a small clearing, and the
scorched trees and shrubs that surrounded them took on a kind of grandeur as
they bathed in the dawn glow. Even the rain seemed reluctant to mar the idyllic
scene, coming down in a fine, warm drizzle that hissed gently across the
stream’s surface.
“I can barely remember my childhood,” he said. “I’m not even sure if this was
originally my homeland. Truth is, I can’t remember much at all before Master
Wolff took me in. He found me scavenging for food and rescued me from a bunch of
meat-headed halberdiers from Nordland.” His eyes glazed over for a moment as he
sank into his memories, then he shook his head with a laugh and ran his fingers
through the water. “They weren’t quite as sympathetic as my master. I think they
might have been the ones who named me. I’m quite happy to be a Ratboy though.”
His smile grew and he briefly met the priestess’ eye. “Rats are survivors.”
Anna dipped the knife in the water and continued shaving her head, frowning
with concentration as she followed her undulating reflection. The crisp remnants
of her flaxen hair fell away easily in little clumps that drifted off in the
current. As Ratboy watched her discreetly from the corner of his eye, he
couldn’t help noticing that even without hair she had an ethereal beauty.
The events of the previous day had left her bruised and weak; so weak, in
fact, that he had practically carried her down to the water’s edge. But despite
her terrible ordeal, there was something noble in Anna’s piercing, grey-green
eyes. They had been chatting for a few hours now, and Ratboy had never met
anyone quite like her. There was such intensity in her gaze that he found it
hard to meet her eye. He guessed she was only a few years older than he was—early twenties at most—but he felt childlike in her presence. He wondered how
he must look to her. A ridiculous figure, probably, with his gangly limbs and
tatty clothes. Not the kind of man to turn her head, certainly. He suddenly felt
ashamed of himself for thinking such thoughts about a priestess and looked down
into the palms of his hands, trying not to think about how full and red her lips
were. Anna continued shaving her head, oblivious to his admiring glances. “So,
tell me about Wolff,” she said.
“Jakob Wolff,” sighed Ratboy. “He’s a bit of mystery to me, I’m afraid. He’s
not what you might call a great talker, so even after three years in his
service, I don’t know too much about him.” As the topic of conversation shifted
onto another person, Ratboy’s confidence grew, and he met Anna’s eye with a
little more surety. “Although, that said, I’ve seen him turn the tide of a whole
battle with nothing more than words.” His face lit up with enthusiasm as he
warmed to his subject. “I’ve seen dying men claw their way up from beneath
mounds of the dead, just to fight by his side.” He shook his head in wonder.
“Despite his hatred of sorcery, there’s a kind of magic in Brother Wolff.”
“Really?” asked Anna, wiping the knife on her tattered robes and looking at
Ratboy with a bitter expression. “I’ve met many of these Sigmarites. In my
experience their faith seems little more than glorified bloodlust.” She
shuddered. “Is he really so different from the man who tried to burn me
yesterday?”
“Surman? He’s no priest. He’s just a cheap fraud, exploiting people’s fear to
pursue his own tawdry ends.” Ratboy shuddered at the thought of the man. “He
calls himself a witch hunter, but the title’s just a mask he hides behind. And
he’s certainly no templar. I think he may once have been a catechist—a lay
brother that is—but Wolff told me Surman has no connection with the church at
all now. He’s just a very dangerous man.” He paused and looked around the
valley, to make sure they were alone. “He killed Wolff’s parents,” he whispered.
Anna’s eyes widened and she handed Ratboy’s knife back to him. “Killed them?”
She shook her head. “That would explain things, I suppose. I thought at first
he’d come to spare me from the flames, but I quickly realised that he had other
priorities.”
“He did save you, eventually.”
“Really? It was you I saw fighting through the flames. After that I can’t
really remember too much.” She placed a hand on Ratboy’s arm and smiled. “You
risked your life for me. I won’t forget it. Maybe Wolff played his part, but I’m
not sure I’d still be here if I had relied on the compassion of a warrior
priest.”
Ratboy blushed and withdrew his arm. “My master’s a devout man. He would’ve
saved you, I’m sure. You must understand though, his thoughts haven’t been clear
of late. He became a wondering mendicant when he was very young, as a kind of
penance. But he was tricked. It’s only very recently that he’s learned the
truth. He’d always believed he had blood on his hands.” Ratboy paused, unsure
whether to continue. “Everyone looks to the priesthood for guidance. When things
seem this hopeless, they’re the only ones we can really trust. We all rely on
them so heavily to revive our faith when it flags, but what if…” his voice
trailed off and he looked awkwardly at Anna.