She continued his thought for him. “What if a priest begins to know doubt?”
Ratboy nodded and leaned towards her, speaking in a low voice. “Nothing made
sense to me until I met Wolff. Everyone else is so twisted and broken. Everyone
I ever met seemed damaged, one way or another, but not Wolff. His faith was
always so unshakable. So bottomless. All I’ve ever wanted was to become more
like him.” He frowned and looked at Anna with fear in his eyes. “But recently,
he seems unsure of himself. Maybe after witnessing so many horrors, even he
could lose his faith?”
Anna smiled and shook her head. “Anyone can feel afraid, Ratboy, but with
such a devoted friend as you by his side, I think he will find his way.”
Ratboy’s eyes widened. “Friend? I’m not sure he’d—”
“Ratboy,” called a voice from further down the valley.
They looked around and saw the towering figure of Wolff, shielding his eyes
from the light as he walked out from beneath the blackened trees.
“Yes, master,” replied Ratboy, leaping to his feet and stepping nervously
away from Anna. “I’m just here with the priestess. She needed to use my knife.”
“I’m sure she has little use for your weapons, my boy.”
Anna rose to her feet and made a futile effort to dust down her robes. She
barely reached Wolff’s chest, but sounded undaunted as she addressed him.
“Apparently, I’m in your debt, Brother Wolff,” she said brusquely. “Surman was
quite determined to make charcoal of me.”
Wolff massaged his scarred jaw as he studied her. “Surman’s a clever man,
sister, but I doubt he could’ve turned a whole village against you. Not without
some cause.” He peered intently into her eyes. “What might that cause have been
I wonder?”
Colour rushed into Anna’s face and she laughed incredulously as she turned to
Ratboy. “What did I tell you? These hammer hurlers are all alike: sanctimonious
killers, the lot of them.”
“I merely asked you a question, sister.”
Anna shook her head. “Questions lead to bonfires, Brother Wolff. At least
where you and your brethren are concerned.” She turned to leave. “I’d be better
taking my chances with the damned.”
Wolff placed one hand on her shoulder and the other on the haft of his
warhammer. “An answer please, sister.”
There was an awkward silence as Anna looked from Wolff to Ratboy. Then her
shoulders dropped and she nodded. “My crime was a simple one, Brother Wolff.
I’ve been working my way around this province for months now, trying to salvage
a little hope from the chaos.” She sat down heavily on the grass and sighed.
“It’s been a losing battle. The woods are crawling with…” she shook her head
in despair, “
unspeakable
things. I was travelling with a regiment
of halberdiers from Wendorf, but even they weren’t safe: with all their armour
and weapons they were powerless to stop the awful things we saw. They were
heading to the capital, but I decided to stay here and see if I could help these
poor people. I suppose I’m deluding myself though. What could I really do? The
whole of Ostland seems on the verge of collapse.”
“Believe me, sister, we’re well acquainted with the situation,” replied
Wolff.
“Really? Do you know how scared these people are? Those villagers were so
glad to see me when I arrived. They were terrified of their own shadows. They
begged me for help, so I gave it to them. Healing those I could and praying for
those I couldn’t. The Weeping Maiden doesn’t make petty distinctions though. I
found a man, dressed in mockery of the creatures that haunted his nightmares. He
was covered in his own filth and praying to his livestock, so I attempted to
help him.”
“Was the man corrupted?” asked Wolff, crouching next to her.
Anna’s eyes filled with tears as she gestured at the smouldering ruins that
surrounded them. “Look around, Brother Wolff.
Everything
is corrupted.
This province has been ripped apart. Such terms have lost their meaning. Living
or dead. Sane or mad. They’re the only distinctions worth making nowadays.” She
took a slow breath to calm herself.
“I don’t think he was worshipping the Ruinous Powers, if that’s what you
mean. I think he’d lost his reason in the face of all this madness, but who
could blame him for that? The villagers didn’t agree though. They found me
trying to help him and added me to their long list of suspicions. The witch
hunter arrived the following day and happily took matters out of their hands.”
She looked up at Wolff with a sneer of disdain. “I imagine you’d have done much
the same.”
The priest shook his head. “Maybe not, sister. I’ve seen a good many things
I’d rather forget, but I don’t think my mind has become quite as twisted as
Surman’s. Not yet, at least.” He stood up and looked out across the glittering
water. “You’re not the first Sister of Shallya to fall foul of an overzealous
witch hunter and I’m sure you won’t be the last. Surman’s no brother of mine.
Monsters like him are a stain on the good name of my order.” Wolff removed one
of his gloves and held out a hand. “If there’s anything I can do that would give
you a better opinion of us, I’d be glad to help.”
Anna looked at Wolff’s open hand with suspicion. His broad fingers were
misshapen with calluses and scars and there was dried blood beneath his
splintered fingernails. Finally, she placed a hesitant hand in his and gave a
reluctant nod. “I think I should return to my temple. I imagine they’re quite
overwhelmed by now, but I think I may need a little healing myself. It’s just a
few miles north of Lubrecht. If you’re heading that way, maybe we could travel
together?” She gave a hollow laugh, and looked down at her scorched, battered
limbs. “I’m not sure I’d make it very far on my own.”
“Gladly,” replied Wolff, and helped her to her feet.
Ostland was a land long accustomed to war. From as far back as Ratboy could
remember, the province had been fighting for its life, but recently the stout
hearts of its people had begun to falter. As the trio rode north he looked out
over its gloomy forests and meadows, lo the west reared the ragged outline of
the Middle Mountains. He had never ventured any closer than the heavily-wooded
foothills, but even Ratboy knew the legends associated with those towering
peaks. The myriad caves and crevices all sheltered some terrifying abomination:
ogres, beastmen, every kind of monstrosity that could keep an honest man awake
at night. Then he looked east, to the distant realm of Kislev, Realm of the Ice
Queen, with her fierce fur-clad hordes; and then, covering everything in
between, the Forest of Shadows. The woods of Ostland had always been a fearsome
place, but until now the villages and homesteads had stood firm: staking their
claims with axes, muscle and sheer bloody-mindedness. Over the last few months,
however, Ratboy had seen his countrymen driven from their homes by a foe so
numerous, and terrifying, that even the province’s cities were now in ruins.
Only the capital, Wolfenburg, was still fully intact. Every face he saw, from
infantryman to farmer, was filled with the same terrible questions: how much
longer can we hold out against this onslaught? How long before I am trampled
under the cloven hooves of the enemy?
“This must be the village you were looking for,” called Anna, from further up
the trail. The ancient trees leant wearily over the path, making it hard to see
through the arboreal gloom, but Ratboy could clearly hear the concern in Anna’s
voice.
He turned to Wolff, who was riding beside him, and grimaced. “That sounds
like bad news to me.” The warrior priest’s only reply was a stern nod, as he
spurred his horse onwards.
The village of Gotburg sat in a small clearing, not far from the road to
Bosenfels. Wolff had insisted they make a slight detour so that he could visit
the place, but Ratboy struggled to see why. It was a pitiful sight. Like every
other village they had encountered, its stockade was breached and burned, and
several of the houses had been levelled. Unlike some of the others, however, it
still boasted a few signs of life. As the trio arrived at the ruined gate, they
saw a crowd gathered in the village square.
Ratboy gasped in dismay as he saw what they were doing.
Several dozen villagers were on their knees, thrashing their naked torsos
with barbed strips and chanting frantically as blood poured from their scarred
flesh. As the rest of the crowd looked on, the penitents were gradually whipping
themselves to death. It was not just this that made Ratboy gasp; it was also the
man who was the focus of their prayers. They seemed to be worshipping a corpse.
A skeletal body was strapped to a broken gatepost with a sign hung around its
neck. Its pale, naked flesh was lacerated all over with countless knife wounds,
many of which were in the shape of a hammer. Scrawled on the sign, in dark,
bloody letters, was a single word: REPENT.
Ratboy realised that slurred, feeble words were coming from the body’s
cracked mouth. He looked up at Wolff in horror. “Is that some kind of revenant?”
Wolff scowled back at him as he dismounted. “Don’t mention such things, boy.
These are Sigmar’s children.”
Anna had already tied her horse to a fence and rushed over to one of the
spectators. It was a ruddy-faced old woodcutter with a chinstrap beard. As she
approached him, the man waved her away furiously. “Stay back, healer. We don’t
need your meddling hands here. The flagellants will save us from further
attacks.” He gestured to the emaciated figure that was leading the prayers.
“Raphael has foretold it. But only if they sacrifice themselves in our place.”
He grabbed her by the arm and pulled her close. “It’s what Sigmar demands!
There’s nothing you can do for them now.”
Ratboy noticed several of the villagers blanched at the woodcutter’s words.
They looked anxiously at Anna as their friends and family spilled themselves
across the dusty ground; but none of them seemed brave enough to contradict him.
As the priestess looked to them for support, they turned away, blushing with
shame at the horror being perpetrated on their behalf.
“‘He that cleaves his flesh in my name, abideth in me’,” quoted the man
strapped to the post, raising his voice to regain the crowd’s attention and
rolling his bloodshot eyes at the heavens.
Ratboy stepped a little closer to the gruesome display and realised the man
was repeating the same words over and over again: “He that cleaves his flesh in
my name, abideth in me.” He couldn’t understand how such a skeletal wretch could
still breathe, never mind drive dozens of normal people to such a sickening
death.
“Wait,” cried a deep powerful voice, and Ratboy saw that Wolff had strode up
to the front of the group.
The skeletal man faltered, stumbling over his words as he tried to focus on
Wolff’s thick claret robes and ornate, burnished armour. As the man’s words
slowed, so did the frantic, jerking movements of the crowd. They lowered their
whips and looked up expectantly at Wolff from beneath sweaty, matted hair.
The priest unclasped a small leather-bound book from a strap on his forearm.
A confused silence descended over the square, as Wolff began to leaf through the
text, frowning as he searched for the right passage. Finally, he paused, and
smiled to himself, before looking out over the panting, bleeding congregation
and addressing them in a voice that boomed around the square. “The quote is from
the
Book of Eberlinus
,” he cried. “It reads thus: ‘He that cleaves flesh
and blood in my name, abideth in me, and I in him’.”
The crowd looked at him open mouthed, uncomprehending.
Wolff nodded, willing them to understand. “Your faith is a glorious gesture.
A gesture of defiance. I heard tales of your devotion as far away as Haundorf.
It’s a wonder to behold such belief in the face of the countless evils that
assail us.” He gestured towards the surrounding forest. “Your very survival
hinges on it. So many have fallen by the wayside, but you, my pious children of
Sigmar have survived everything, simply by the virtue of your faith.” He closed
the little book with a
snap
and when he spoke again, his voice trembled
with emotion. “If I had an army of men with hearts like yours, the war would
over by nightfall.”
The flagellants began to nod and smile at each other, revelling in the
priest’s praise. A few of them climbed unsteadily to their feet, wiping the
blood from their eyes, and trying to calm their breathing enough to speak.
“Priest,” gasped a middle-aged woman, with tears welling in her eyes. “I don’t
understand. What you said about the quote—are we doing wrong?”
Wolff shook his head. “You’re not doing wrong, child, far from it. This man…”
He turned to the skeletal figure slumped behind him.
The man’s eyes bulged in their sunken sockets and he trembled in awe as Wolff
addressed him. “Raphael,” he whispered.
“Raphael,” repeated Wolff, “has filled you with the light of Sigmar, and none
of you will ever be the same again.”
The congregation gasped and moaned with delight. Several of them crawled
forwards and pawed at the hem of Wolff’s robes, sobbing in ecstasy and pressing
their faces into the embroidered cloth.
Ratboy and Anna watched in amazement at how quickly Wolff had entranced the
crowd. Even the spectators began to fall to their knees, muttering prayers of
thanks and crossing their chests with the sign of the hammer.
“No,” continued Wolff, “you’re very far from doing wrong, my children.” Wolff
paused and strapped the book back onto his arm. “However…” he allowed the word
to echo around the square, “if you have the strength for the task, I would ask a
favour of you.”
Raphael strained to free himself from the post. “Anything, father,” he
gasped, pulling at his bonds until fresh streams of blood erupted from his
wounds. “Let us serve you, I beg.”
“Aye,” cried the middle-aged woman, rushing over to Wolff and falling at his
feet. “Let us serve you, lord. What would you ask?” She waved a trembling,
bleeding arm at the assembled crowd. “We’ve tried to be penitent.” She grabbed a
knife from her belt and held it to her own throat. “Should we try harder?”