Sigmar's Blood (4 page)

HELSEE

The Vale of Darkness, 2522

Helsee, the vast body of water that fed into the Stir from the heart of Sylvania, was poorly named. It might well have seemed like a sea to the peasants that first discovered it, for it was larger than any other lake in the Empire, but according to Captain Vance it could theoretically be crossed with less than a day’s sail. Volkmar gazed out across the thin mist that covered the waters. The peasants had got the first part of the name right, at least. Woe betide the fool who plied it in anything less than a waterborne fortress.

The lake’s waters were black with some nameless curse. Grasping little waves clawed at beaches whose sands were little more than powdered bone. Scattered amongst the osseous dunes were the bleached remains of strange and indefinable monsters that prowled Helsee’s depths. Their skulls reminded Volkmar of the dragon bones he had gawped at as a boy in the Altdorfer Mausoleum; he had spent the rest of the day slaying invisible dragons with the wooden Ghal Maraz his father had carved him. Precious times, far too long in the past.

On the shores of the lake the crusaders were debarking from the
Luitpold III
with commendable efficiency. With the help of the barge’s crew and the strongest of the crusade’s warriors, even the war altar’s mighty carriage had made it to the shore without getting wet. Atop the barge’s foremost turret stood Captain Vance, shouting orders in a voice used to command. He had clearly performed similar operations a hundred times before. The upper parts of the fortified barge’s flanks had been splayed and pivoted to become great ramps that looked like they could support a steam tank. Nearby, Volkmar’s troops were filing out and forming up without complaint.

Volkmar surveyed the men on the bone-white beach, his pride at the efficiency of their disembarkation marred by the fact there was so damn few of them. Less than a hundred, all told, even with the reinforcements that Karl Franz had arranged to meet them at Leitzigerford. Still, what they lacked in numbers they more than made up for in faith. Volkmar and Karl Franz had made sure of it. Even the Talabheimers had been individually selected for the strength of their religious beliefs. In the war against the evils of the world, true faith was worth a dozen swords. In battle against the horrors of undeath, it was priceless.

By the shore were Sigmar’s Sons, a regiment of devout and reliable swordsmen that Volkmar had fought alongside against the Chaos worshippers of the north. They were helping to debark an Imperial great cannon that had begun its military career at the Gorstanford witch trial many years ago. At the foot of the ramp von Korden was briefing the champion of the swordsmen, Eben Swaft, along with Bennec Sootson’s artillerymen and the dark-skinned leader of the Knights of the Blazing Sun, Lupio Blaze. The Estalian officer’s knights wore polished black plate adorned with suns of solid gold, and the warhorses they led down the barge-ramps wore scalloped barding lacquered with stylised solar flares.

The Estalians worshipped the warrior goddess Myrmidia over Sigmar, but their faith was strong nonetheless. Preceptor Blaze had practically begged Volkmar to let his men join the crusade, and though the Grand Theogonist had initially refused them on grounds of divergent religions, he had eventually come round to the idea. A unit of heavy cavalry could be very useful indeed.

Down on the bone beach the Tattersouls were chanting devotional hymns as they carried the war altar up to the path. Once on firm ground the giant wheeled conveyance could be properly constructed, lashed to its warhorses, and its giant griffon statue restored to pride of place. Vance’s bargemen had already got a system of pulleys rigged up, but their calm methodical approach was lost on the wild-haired zealots that insisted on helping them. The ragged figures pushed and pulled with more enthusiasm than skill, warbling and bellowing praise to the Empire’s warrior god. Volkmar watched in horror as a pulley slipped the rope, sending the griffon swinging down to crush one of the doomsayers under its colossal weight.

‘O Sigmar, I come to thee!’ cried the dying flagellant, eyes wet with rapture and pain. ‘The end, the end!’

‘Don’t just stand there like eunuchs at an orgy!’ shouted Curser Bredt, marksman-sergeant of the Silver Bullets. ‘Give the clumsy bastards a hand!’

Four of Bredt’s men kissed the bullet talismans that hung around their necks and rushed forward, bodily wrestling the statue back up into place. It was too late for the unlucky zealot, though; his ribcage and right arm had been crushed into a bloody mass. Somehow he was still smiling gummily, his watery eyes fixed on some faraway paradise. Volkmar shook his head as Kaslain gave the final blessing to the dying man. The war altar was a source of great faith and determination, but by Sigmar, the damn thing was heavy.

The hubbub of the muster was pierced by a shout from one of the Tattersouls. Nothing special in itself, but there was a note of warning in its tone that made Volkmar spin round. Something was moving in the shallows. The Grand Theo-gonist took a few steps forward, brow furrowed. Sure enough, the skulls and bones on the bed of the lake were moving. Femurs shivered, claws twitched, and vertebrae rolled as if pulled by hidden threads. Piece by piece the skeletons were coalescing, coming together once more into the predatory beasts that once haunted the waters.

‘Form up!’ boomed Volkmar at the top of his voice as he strode down to the water’s edge. ‘We’re under attack!’

His men rushed towards their banners, some still tightening their bootstraps or hurriedly strapping on armour. The monstrous skeletons in the shallows were piecing themselves together faster and faster, spines clacking into place and arm bones reattaching to shoulder sockets like a dissection in reverse.

A three-eyed skull rose out of the shallows on a thick bony neck. Unclean water poured from crocodilian jaws as the skeletal titan rose up to its full height. Behind it the remains of a monstrous limbed fish lurched onto all fours with a splash, a weird crackling coming from its grinning skull. Behind it, five more misshapen skulls breached the surface. Along the waterline a dozen sets of bubbles began to boil.

The Silver Bullets were the first to act, sending a volley towards the largest of the skeletal creatures. A few of the shots hit home, but most went whistling straight through. Vance’s barge was next to fire, a cannonball blasting between two of the foremost creatures and taking out a third in a spray of shattered bone.

Volkmar pulled his warhammer from his back and splashed out into the shallows until the water lapped around his knees. Setting his feet in the shale, he bared his teeth and willed the beasts to come closer. Von Korden appeared at his side, silvered pistols drawn. To either side of them armed crusaders splashed into the water, shouting defiance as they formed a wall of blades.

Three of the undead beasts crashed into the Talabheimers at the shoreline, fleshless jaws snapping and tearing. Swords stabbed and slashed in response, but even the most determined attack did little but nick their algae-slicked bones. A three-eyed monstrosity loped towards Volkmar, jaws open as it reared back to strike. Von Korden blasted a pair of holes in its skull with such force and accuracy that it toppled backwards in a jumble of bone. Volkmar scanned the waterline during the second’s reprieve the hunter had bought them. The blades of his men were having little effect.

The Grand Theogonist took a deep breath as the fish-headed quadruped splashed towards him. He alone could break the magics at work here, and even then it would take a miracle. Yet he had little choice. Plunging his sacred warhammer into the cursed lake with both hands, he channelled all his hatred and revulsion into a blast of spiritual energy.

‘Die in the name of the Heldenhammer!’ he boomed, bloodshot eyes bulging. ‘Die, I command you!’

Golden light suffused through the waters like the spilt blood of some celestial being. Tendrils of pure energy spread outward from Volkmar’s gauntlets, touching the bony legs of the guardian beasts. One by one, the monsters collapsed back into the water, the binding magics that had animated them undone.

Volkmar straightened and thrust his arms into the air with a roar of triumph. Golden droplets sprayed out in all directions from his still-glowing fists.

‘Look upon this act, men of Sigmar, and find hope!’ he bellowed. ‘The evils of this realm, undone by strength of will and by the force of the one true faith!’

Standing in the shallows a few feet away, von Korden pulled a sour face, eyebrows knitted as he protectively dried his pistols with a lambskin cloth.

‘If you got any of that water inside these barrels, old man,’ he whispered, ‘I’ll kill you myself.’

KONIGSTEIN ROAD

The Vale of Darkness, 2522

Von Korden trudged along the roadways of Sylvania at the head of a small column of troops, the occasional crunch of shattered bone punctuating the squishing of thick black mud. The place had become even more dismal since he had left for Altdorf. Thin rain pattered down from the charcoal skies above, and the howls of the wind had taken on a very unsettling tone.

A rivulet of rainwater dribbled off the broad brim of the witch hunter’s hat, spattering his knees. The image of an armchair, a pig and a pipe by the fireplace swam to the surface of the hunter’s mind. He crushed it out with practiced ease. Not long now, a few more miles at most. And if he was fortunate enough to meet Ghorst and his brothers on the road, well, he had more men than ever to ensure they were cut down and burned to ash. He would warm his hands over the flames and be done with it.

The crusade’s victory over the monsters on the Helsee shores had raised the spirits of the men for a time. With von Korden leading the way, they had made good speed past the nearby cairn circle whilst its guardians were still dormant in their tombs, and avoided the quagmires of Grim Moor in the process. When they had finally reached the palisade walls of Uflheim that evening, the soldiery’s victory celebrations had drained every last barrel in the town. Most of the Talabheimers had to be kicked out of their beds the next morning. Von Korden ground his teeth at the recollection. Idiots all. It was premature indulgence at best, and a fatal mistake at worst.

Now the crusade was back to marching through the thick of the Sylvanian gloom. The unnatural darkness had a way of getting to the common man, but the witch hunter found it strangely relaxing. Behind him, nearly thirty state troops marched as best they could along the road, Blaze’s warhorses taking shifts to pull the great cannon in their wake. It was slow going, and morale was sinking with every passing hour. Many of the men were already complaining about the grim conditions of the march. Von Korden snorted in disdain. If a bit of mud and twilight was such a problem, then Sigmar help them when night fell.

Eben Swaft, the sergeant of the Sons, walked up level with the witch hunter. His gaze was fixed on the road ahead.

‘So tell me again the reasons we’ve split our forces up?’ the sergeant asked casually, flexing the blade of his rapier with a gloved finger. The witch hunter sized him up with a sidelong look. Swaft was a large man, and his body was tattooed so thoroughly with Sigmar’s Triumphs it would impress a Marienburg stevedore. Yet despite his muscular build, even when walking through thick mud the swordsman showed the poise and balance of a born duellist.

‘It’s as simple as you are, Swaft,’ the witch hunter growled. ‘Volkmar wanted to investigate Fort Oberstyre, whereas I thought that was a foolish waste of time and manpower. I’m going to Konigstein and that’s that. You rabble are coming with me.’

‘But… he’s the Grand Theogonist. The spiritual descendent of Sigmar himself, and all that.’

‘And?’

‘And surely what he says goes? Especially for one of you witch-botherers, right?’

Von Korden wheeled around to face Swaft, grabbing the man’s rapier by its razored blade and stepping inside its reach so the soldier could smell his breath. Blood dripped from between the fingers of the witch hunter’s gloved hand as the sword cut deep. In the mud below, leechworms writhed.

‘Listen to me, you self-satisfied little shit,’ hissed von Korden, ‘Oberstyre is riddled with ghosts, and not the kind you learned about at your grandmother’s teat. The last garrison of state troops that spent the night in its allegedly deserted chambers got ripped to pieces. Since our friend Count Mannfred has a twisted sense of humour, their tortured spirits are now bound into its walls alongside their killers. Perhaps you want to join them, eh?’

The swordsman recoiled a little, but to his credit he stood his ground.

‘With respect, sir, I never thought of you as a yellowgut.’

Von Korden swelled visibly, eyes staring death and nostrils flaring. The witch hunter bent the duellist’s sword close to breaking point, droplets of blood running fast down the blade. His other hand whipped upward, the point of a filleting knife less than a finger’s width from Swaft’s eye.

‘Konigstein is within the prowling grounds of Helman Ghorst, Mannfred’s accomplice,’ he said coldly. ‘If I get the necromancer under my blades, I’ll have the path right to von Carstein’s coffin within the hour.’

The witch hunter breathed out, lowered his knife and pushed the swordsman’s rapier away. He nodded towards its blooded blade. ‘Swords?’ he sneered. ‘Lances? Useful tools against Ghorst and his corpse-puppets. Bugger all use against ghosts. I found that out the hard way, boy. Faith’s the only weapon they fear. And Volkmar and his maniacs have plenty.’

‘Right,’ said Swaft, slowly and carefully. ‘Well, that does make some sense, I suppose…’

Von Korden turned on his heel and splashed off along the muddy path, shoving his pistol back into its holster and closing the hold-clip. The duellist returned to his men, his finger making circular motions next to his forehead.

The witch hunter pulled his hat low, grimacing in pain as soon as he was around a bend in the road. He was cold, he was wet, and his hand stung like hell. As soon as he had left the altercation with Swaft he had shoved a piece of lambskin into his glove to soak up the blood, but it still hurt to flex it.

The Talabheimer had a right to ask, truth be told. To a soldier, it made no real sense to split up their already pitifully small army. Yet judging by the thickening darkness, time was running short. They had to pick up Mannfred’s trail somehow.

To von Korden’s mind they had dallied far too long at Helsee, burying the fools who had rushed into battle. To make matters worse, some of the Talabheimers had thought that simply boiling the lake’s black waters would make them safe to drink. Idiots all. They had deserved to die in pain, clutching their bellies and gasping like beached fish. The Silver Bullets had insisted the corpses were buried face down. They had pressed pennies for Morr into the eyes of the dead, placed wild garlic and hawthorn in the mouth; the whole damn lot.

The witch hunter knew a quicker way to ensure against the dead coming back to life – cut their bloody heads off and throw them in the fire. Yet the suggestion had not gone down well. They had tarried so long that they had no choice but to spend the night at Uflheim, and even though they had set off early, the dim half-light of their second day on the road was already fading fast.

As the forlorn procession crested the crags that led to Konigstein, the town’s tumbledown temple of Morr came into view by the side of the road. Von Korden felt his spirits rise a little at the familiar sight. His hand strayed to the pocket that contained his pipe.

Around the temple’s graves the sprawling garden of black roses was turning brown, starved from lack of sunlight. Von Korden peered inside as he walked past. The font was dry and the cracked altar was dotted with fox droppings. Pale patches on the plaster showed where the temple’s holy symbol had once hung. Despite the potential value of the silver plating, no Sylvanian peasant or bandit would have been sacrilegious enough to steal it, especially not from the god of the restful dead.

To hear the gossips tell it, the icons of every last temple across the realm had been taken over the last few years. The work of Mannfred’s Strigany agents; von Korden was sure of it. Most likely the artefacts had already been melted down or buried somewhere where living men fear to tread. Sylvania had been without priests since the days of Mannfred’s bloodfather, Vlad von Carstein, so no one had been too concerned about their holy symbols. Now the abandoned temples were the only evidence that the gods of the Empire had ever had a home in Sylvania.

Down in the shallow valley von Korden could see the scattered buildings of Konigstein, but not a single light glimmered from their windows. Six hours since leaving Uflheim and they still had not seen a living soul. Even the hunter’s watchtower was a cold black silhouette bereft of any sign of life. The brass sentinel’s bony arms still jutted out in the same position as when the witch hunter had left it over a week ago.

A low moan echoed across the vale, making von Korden’s hackles rise. It was a noise he had learned to hate. He listened hard for the toll of a bell, but there was only silence.

‘Form up on approach!’ von Korden shouted down the trail, gesturing for his small army to spread out. ‘Battle line in less than three minutes!’

The state troops behind him fanned out over the other side of the crag, relieved to have some room to manoeuvre. As the last of the Knights of the Blazing Sun moved past with the great cannon in tow, Bennec Sootson waved the Estalian cavalrymen over to a crested ridge. His men began unshackling the artillery piece from the last of the warhorses with quick, practiced efficiency.

Lupio Blaze left his men and trotted over to von Korden on his massive war stallion, raising his helmet’s visor as he came close. It clicked neatly into place against a crest fashioned in the shape of a burnished metal sun, revealing a handsomely tanned face beneath. The triple plume of feathers that fanned out from the helmet was magnificent and bolt-upright despite the pattering rain. If anything, the rainwater made the knight’s burnished armour look even more lustrous than usual.

Von Korden decided he did not like him one bit.

‘You are expecting trouble?’ the knight asked, his lilting accent irritating to von Korden’s ears.

‘Yes,’ said von Korden dismissively.

‘The dead, they do not sleep well here,’ said Blaze in a mournful tone. ‘It is said by many.’

‘Many are right. Watch the ground as well as the road.’

The knight pursed his lips and nodded thoughtfully before continuing. ‘We say “Myrmidia shine upon our blades,” to give favour.’ He smiled widely as he shaped the rays of the rising sun with his fingers. ‘She is needed here, no?’

Von Korden snorted and made the sign of the comet against his chest instead. Myrmidia indeed
.
Soft southern gods, all face and no fight.

The knight took the witch hunter’s silence as a hint and wheeled his horse around, cantering back to rejoin his men.

‘There are wolves,’ Blaze called over his shoulder as he left. ‘The horses feel them.’

‘At least the nags are useful, then,’ muttered von Korden.

Von Korden watched the state troops taking their positions, and found himself quietly impressed. The Silver Bullets took up a staggered two-line formation on the left flank, just below the low ridge where Sootson had set up the Hammer of the Witches. Von Korden recalled the first time he saw the great cannon fired, during the burning of the twisted witch that Sootson’s fellow villagers called the Grey Hag. The witch hunter’s execution had gone badly wrong when the old woman had taken control of von Korden’s flames, rather than the other way round. Sootson, the town’s blacksmith at the time, had primed the newly-repaired cannon, shoved a bucketful of horseshoes into it, and finished the job by blasting the she-devil across the square. Quick thinking, but not quick enough to stop Gorstanford going up in flames.

Taking the front line on the right flank were Sigmar’s Sons, moving forward in ranks four deep with the Bullets covering their advance. Lupio Blaze kept his cavalry behind the leftmost ridge, patiently waiting for the cannon fire that was their signal to charge in.

Von Korden himself was leading from the front, as was his custom, the regiment of swordsmen a few paces behind him. The witch hunter peered through the thin mist of rain that shrouded the tomb-strewn wilderness around Konigstein Watch. The tower’s shuttered windows had been broken apart and the graves around the place gaped open to the night sky.

‘The spoor of necromancy,’ said von Korden to the swordsmen behind. ‘There are undead here, sure as those graves are empty.’

Suddenly there was a dull wooden crack and a cry of alarm from up on the ridge. The hunter scanned the area, but he could see nothing moving in the mists ahead. Looking back up to the Silver Bullets, he saw the handgunners’ musician, Lutiger Swift, standing lopsided. His left leg was knee-deep in the splintered coffin exposed by his one-man mudslide, and his free hand reflexively clutched the talisman around his neck.

‘Bloody balls,’ exhaled Swift, his city-born Talabheim accent unnaturally loud. ‘I knew I’d end up in a casket eventually, but this is a bit sudden!’ His comrades laughed and jeered as their comrade extricated himself from the wooden ruin of the grave. ‘Sorry, gents. One of the local girls was a bit lonely,’ the musician joked, shaking his leg to dislodge a shattered ribcage that clung to his foot. ‘Very hospitable, this lass.’

‘Didn’t know you liked ’em
that
skinny, Lute!’ said Ulf Weissman, propping the standard of the Sigmar’s Sons in the crook of his neck in order to make an obscene gesture in Swift’s direction.

Von Korden stormed back up the ridge, his face twisted into a wild-eyed snarl and his hand palming a filleting knife. Discipline would be restored, one way or another.