by Warhammer
‘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 bodyguards. 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 t
hrown 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.
Kryptmann moved over and perched on the edge of his desk. He pointed at Felix with a long bony finger. Felix noticed that the nail had been bitten and a fine sediment of dirt lay beneath it. When he spoke, Kryptmann’s voice was high and grating, as irritating as a schoolmaster drawing his fingers down a blackboard.
‘Feeling better, my young friend?’
Felix had to admit he did. No matter how unprepossessing his appearance, Lothar Kryptmann knew his job. The unguents he had applied had already reduced the swelling of the bruises and the vile-tasting brew he had forced Felix to drink had caused the pain to evaporate like mist in the morning sun. ‘You say that Wolfgang Lammel’s bodyguards did this, Greta?’
The girl nodded. The alchemist tut-tutted. ‘Young Wolfgang is a nasty piece of work. Still, “malum se delet”, as it says in De Re Munde.’
‘Perhaps in young Wolfgang’s case, evil may indeed destroy itself. But I’m prepared to give it a helping hand,’ Felix said.
‘You understand Classical! Oh, that’s excellent. I thought all respect for learning had died out in this benighted age,’ Kryptmann said happily. ‘Good. I’m only too pleased to have been able to help a fellow scholar. If only curing your friend were so simple. It will be almost impossible, I’m afraid.’ He smiled dreamily. From the corner in which he sat, Gotrek stared back, his gaze as empty as a pit.
‘Why exactly is that?’ Greta asked. ‘What’s wrong with him?’
‘It would seem that his mind has been disturbed by a blow to the head. His mnemonic lobes have been violently agitated and many memories have been shaken loose. He no longer knows quite who he is and his ability to reason has been impaired.’
Not that he ever had much of that, thought Felix.
‘Moreover the humours which govern his personality have been thrown into a new configuration. I would imagine he had not been behaving quite like himself recently, has he, my young friend? I can see by his appearance that he is one of the cult of Trollslayers. They are not famed for their tolerance of pacifism.’
‘True,’ Felix acknowledged. ‘Normally he would have torn those men’s lungs out for insulting him.’
He noticed that Greta’s broad pretty face brightened at the mention of violence towards his attackers and wondered what grudge she had to settle with them. Felix was forced to admit to himself that he had a yet more ignoble motive for wanting the dwarf cured: he wanted revenge on the men who had beaten him up. He knew it was unlikely he could exact it on his own.
‘Is there nothing that can be done for him?’ Felix asked, taking out his purse ready to pay for his treatment. Kryptmann shook his head sadly.
‘Although… perhaps another blow to the head would help.’
‘You mean just hit him?’
‘No! It would have to be a powerful blow, struck in just the right way. It sometimes works but the chances are surely a thousand to one. It’s possible that such a treatment would just make things worse, perhaps even kill the patient.’
Felix shook his head. He did not want to risk killing the Slayer. His heart sank. He was filled with a complex mixture
of emotions. He owed the Slayer his life many times over and he was sorry for his state of bemusement and inability to remember anything, including his own name. It seemed wrong to leave the dwarf in such a state. He felt obliged to do something about it.
But on the other hand, ever since the drunken night when he had sworn to accompany Gotrek on his suicidal quest and record his end for posterity in an epic poem, he had had nothing but trouble. Gotrek’s illness represented an opportunity to avoid keeping the promise. In his present state Gotrek seemed to have forgotten all about his doomed task. Felix could be free to return home and pursue a normal life. And perhaps it would be kinder to leave the dwarf like this, unaware of the crimes he had committed and the dark destiny that drove him to seek his doom.
But could he really abandon Gotrek to fend for himself with his present diminished faculties? And how would he get home to Altdorf across countless leagues of danger-infested wilderness and forest without the aid of the Slayer’s mighty axe?
‘Is there nothing else you can do?’
‘Nothing. Unless…’
‘Unless what?’
‘No… it probably wouldn’t work anyway.’
‘What wouldn’t work?’
‘I have the formula for an elixir normally used by ageing magicians on the verge of senility. Among other things, it consists of six parts weirdroot to one part mountain sunblossom. It is said to be very good at restoring the humours to their proper configuration.’
‘Perhaps you should try it.’
‘If only I could, old chap. But sunblossom is rare and for maximum potency needs to be picked at the death of day on the highest slopes of Mount Blackfire.’
Felix sighed. ‘I don’t care what it costs.’
Kryptmann removed his glasses and polished them on the sleeve of his robe. ‘Alas, you misunderstand me, young man. I do not seek some petty pecuniary advantage. I simply mean I have no sunblossom in stock.’
