by Warhammer
Felix bowed to him. ‘You’ve already been a great help, Herr Doctor. Thank you for your time.’
Drexler bowed back and turned to go. At the last moment, he turned and spoke. ‘Let me know of there are any new developments,’ he said. ‘Look for a pattern.’
‘I will,’ Felix said.
‘I’m going to look for a beer,’ Gotrek said.
‘I think that might be a good idea,’ Felix said, suddenly wanting desperately to get the taste of the mortuary out of his mouth.
Felix stared down into his third beer and considered what they had seen. His head ached a little from what he kept having to tell himself was a summer cold, but the beer was helping to take away that pain. Gotrek sat slumped beside the fire staring into the flames. Heinz was standing by the bar, getting things ready for the evening rush. The other bouncers nursed their drinks and played hook-knife at the next table.
Felix was troubled. He felt baffled and stupid. He knew that there must be a pattern here but he just could not see it. It looked like something invisible and deadly was killing the people of Nuln and there was nothing he could do to stop it. It was frustrating. He almost wished for another raid by the gutter runners, or another attack by skaven warriors. What he could see, he could fight. Or to be absolutely specific, what he could see, the Slayer could fight and most likely beat. Thinking, Felix realised, was not their strong suit.
Once he had prided himself on being a clever and well-educated man, a scholar and a poet. But things had changed in his wanderings. He could not remember the last time he had put pen to paper, and last night was the first night in a long, long time when he had opened a book with any pretensions to scholarship. He had fallen right into the role of wandering mercenary adventurer, and his brain appeared to have fallen dormant.
He was out of his depth, he knew. He was not a razor-witted investigator of the sort which featured in the plays of Detlef Sierck. And to be honest, he did not believe that in real life things worked quite the way they did in the theatre, with clues arranged in neat chains of logic, pointing towards an inevitable solution. Life was messier than that. Things were rarely simple, and if there were really clues, doubtless they could be given far more than one neat and logical interpretation.
He thought about Drexler. So far the doctor had done nothing but help them, but it would be easy to put a sinister interpretation on his work and his motives. He possessed too much knowledge of the sort that was frowned on in the Empire, and that in itself was suspicious. In the more superstitious parts of the human realms, just the possession of the books that Drexler owned would be cause for burning at the stake. The reading of them would cause a witch hunter to execute him without trial.
And yet Felix himself had read one of those books, and he knew he was no friend to Chaos. Could not Drexler be in the same boat? Could he simply be what he appeared to be, a man who was concerned with acquiring any knowledge that would help him in his vocation of curing people, no matter what the source? It was all too difficult, Felix thought. The beer was starting to make his head spin.
Ultimately he knew in his heart of hearts that there had to be a link between the deaths of all the people. He was certain, in fact, that he had already seen evidence of it but was just too foolish to know what it was. So far the only link he could think of was that they had all ended up in the Halls of the Dead, in the temple of Morr, and that was no link at all. Eventually every man and every woman would end up there en route to burial in the Gardens of Morr. Every citizen of Nuln would end up in that huge cemetery one day.
He wanted to laugh bitterly at that, but then a thought struck him. Wait! There was a link between most of the people he knew had died of the plague. The man he had seen in the street two days ago had worn a black rose. Another victim, the one in the mortuary, had also worn a black rose, the traditional symbol of mourning. The woman and her child had been widow and orphan. Only the last one had not shown any connection, but perhaps if he dug deeply enough he would find one.
What could it mean? Was the Temple of Morr itself involved in the spread of the plague? Did the corruption run so deep? Somehow Felix doubted it. The first man he had seen had just been to a funeral. Had any of the others? The one wearing the rose was virtually a certainty. The mother and child? He did not know, but he knew a way to find out. He pulled himself up out of the chair and tapped Gotrek on the shoulder.
‘We need to go back to the Temple of Morr,’ he said.
‘Are you developing a morbid attachment to the place?’
‘No. I think it may hold the key to this plague.’
It was dark when they arrived at the temple. It did not matter. The gates were open. Lanterns were lit. As the priests never tired of pointing out, the gates to Morr’s kingdom were always open, and a man could never tell when he might pass through them.
Felix asked to talk with the priest who he had spoken to earlier. He was in luck. The man was still on duty. The offer of some silver procured the information that he was always willing to talk. Felix and the Slayer were shown into a small, spartan antechamber. The walls were lined with books. They reminded him of the ledgers which lined the walls of his father’s office. In a way, that was what they were. They contained the names and descriptions of the dead. Felix did not doubt they contained records of donations for funeral services and prayers to be offered in the temple. He had had dealings with the priests of Morr before.
‘So you are Doctor Drexler’s assistants?’ the priest asked.
‘Yes. In a manner of speaking.’
‘In a manner of speaking?’
‘We are helping with his researches into the plagues. We’re trying to find a way to stop them.’
The priest showed a slow, sad smile. ‘Then I don’t know if I should help you.’
‘Why?’
‘They’re good for business.’
Seeing Felix’s shocked look, he gave a small, polite cough. ‘Just a small attempt at humour,’ he said eventually.
‘You look tired,’ Felix said to break the silence. The priest gave a long hacking cough. ‘And ill.’
‘In truth, I do not feel so well and it’s been a long day. The brother who should have replaced me has himself fallen sick and is cloistered in his cell. He’s not been well since he presided over the inhumations yesterday.’
Felix and Gotrek exchanged looks.
Felix nodded politely. Gotrek growled.
‘Your, errm, associate does not look much like a physician, Herr Jaeger,’ the priest said.
‘He helps with the heavy work.’
‘Of course. Well, how can I help you?’
‘I need to know more about those people Doctor Drexler looked at this morning.’
‘Not a problem.’ He tapped the leather bound book in front of him. ‘All the appropriate details will be in the current libram. What exactly do you need to know?’
‘Had any of the deceased attended any funeral services just recently?’
‘Frau Koch and her daughter had. I officiated at the inhumation of Herr Koch myself last week at the Gardens.’
‘And the other gentleman?’
‘No, I do not think so. He is not a man who we would allow to attend any of our services. Except his own inhumation, of course.’
‘What do you mean? I thought anyone could enter the Gardens of Morr.’
‘Not quite. Herr Gruenwald belonged to that noxious class of criminals who make their living by robbing family crypts and stealing corpses to sell to dissectionists and necromancers. He was under interdict. He would never be allowed within the gates of the garden on pain of supreme chastisement.’
‘Death, you mean.’
‘Precisely.’
‘And the man wearing the black rose?’
‘I will check the records. I suspect that given the nature of his adornment we will find that he too had attended an inhumation recently. You are not from Nuln, are you, Herr Jaeger? I can tell from your accent.’
‘You are co
rrect. I come from Altdorf originally.’
‘Then perhaps you did not know it is a local custom to pick one of the black roses from the Death God’s Garden when you attend a ceremony there.’
‘I thought people bought them from the flower sellers.’
‘No. The roses grow only in the Gardens and it is forbidden to sell them for profit.’
There was silence for a few minutes as the priest studied the records. ‘Ah, yes. His sister passed away last week. Inhumed in the Gardens of Morr. Is there anything else I can do for you?’ he asked brightly.
‘No. I think you’ve told us enough.’
‘Can you tell me what all this is about?’
‘Not at the moment. I’m sure Doctor Drexler will inform you when he has completely formulated his theory.’
‘Please ask him to do so, Herr Jaeger.’ As they left, the priest was bent almost double in a fit of coughing.
‘Tell me what all of this is about, manling,’ Gotrek said as they entered the street. Felix glanced around to make sure that there was no one close enough to overhear them.
‘All of the people who we know have died of the new plague have visited the Gardens of Morr recently. The tomb robber as well, most likely.’
‘So?’
‘That’s the only connection I’ve been able to see and Drexler told us to look for connections.’
‘It seems unlikely, manling.’
‘Do you have any better ideas?’ Felix asked allowing a measure of his frustration to show in his voice. The Slayer considered for a moment then shook his head.
‘You think we’ll find our little scuttling friends brewing plagues up in the city cemetery?’
‘Possibly.’
‘There’s only one way to find out.’
‘I know.’
‘When?’
‘Tonight. After work. It will be quiet then and we can take a look around.’
Felix shuddered. He could think of many places he would rather be than crawling around the city’s main cemetery after midnight with a bunch of skaven in attendance, but what else was he going to do? If they took their tale to the authorities they would most likely not be believed. Perhaps the skaven would get wind of their presence and move their operation. At least he felt sure that there could not be too many of the rat-men up there. A small army camped in the graveyard would be noticed. Hopefully they would be few enough for the Slayer’s axe to take care of.
Felix certainly hoped so.
The gates of the Gardens of Morr were not open. Steel bars filled the archway, padlocked by heavy chains. A small postern gate was occupied by a night-watchman who sat warming his hands at a brazier. Spikes covered the high wall which surrounded the city graveyard. Felix wondered at that. In some ways the cemetery resembled a fortress but he was unsure as to whether the walls were intended to keep grave robbers out or the dead in. There had been times in history, he reflected, when the dead had not slept easily in their graves.
There was a basic primal fear at work here, he thought. Something intended to separate the dead from the living. In its way, the physical barrier was reassuring. Except, of course, when you intended to broach it, as he and the Slayer did tonight.
What was he doing here, Felix wondered? He should be at home, back in the inn, sharing his pallet with Elissa now that the night’s work was done. Not skulking around in the shadows, preparing to break into the city graveyard, a crime for which the penalty was several years imprisonment, and interdiction by the Temple of Morr.
Surely there had to be an easier way than this. Surely somebody else could deal with the problem. But he knew this was not true. If he and Gotrek did not hunt down the skaven, who else was interested? They were the only people crazy enough to involve themselves in these affairs. If they did not do it, no one else would.
The authorities seemed to want to turn a blind eye to the evil which was happening in their midst. The best possible interpretation Felix could put on it was that they were ignorant or afraid. The worst possible interpretation was that they were in collusion with the Powers of Darkness.
How many more Fritz von Halstadts occupied positions of trust throughout the Empire? Most likely he would never know. All he could really do was act out his part. Perform the share of the actions which seemed to be allocated to himself and the Slayer, and hope things turned out for the best.
What else could he do? If he left the city, it was possible the plague would spread, and that it would wipe out Heinz and Otto and Elissa and the others that he knew and cared about here. It was possible that thousands might die, if he and the Slayer failed to solve this riddle.
And, if he was honest with himself, he had to admit that the thought of the responsibility thrilled as well as frightened him. In a way it was like being the hero of one of the stories he had read when he was a child. He was involved in intrigue and danger and the stakes were high.
Unfortunately, unlike the stories he had read when he was a child, the stakes were also all too real. It was easily possible that he and the Slayer might fail, and that death would be their reward. It was that thought, not the cold night air, which made him shiver.
They made their way round the walls of the cemetery until they found a conveniently dark place. Felix made sure the lantern he carried was securely attached to the clip on his sword belt, then vaulted up, caught one of the metal spikes and used it for leverage to pull himself to the top of the wall. Perhaps the spikes were mere ornaments after all, he told himself, and served no other purpose.
The moon broke through the cloud and he found himself looking out over the graveyard. It was an eerie sight in the silvered light. Mist was rising. Gravestones loomed out of it, like islands rising from some dismal sea. Trees leaned like enormous ogres, raising branched arms in worship to the Dark Gods. Somewhere in the distance, the lantern of a night-watchman flickered and then vanished, whether because its bearer had returned to the watch-house or for some other, darker, reason, Felix hoped never to find out. It was still. He was not sure whether it was sweat or mist that beaded his forehead.
The thought that this excursion would do nothing to help his cold struck him, and the incongruity made him want to laugh. He flinched as the beak of Gotrek’s great axe curved over the stone beside him, and the Slayer used it to pull himself up the wall. The dwarf was swift and surprisingly nimble when he wanted to be – and when he was reasonably sober, Felix thought.
‘Let’s get on with it,’ he muttered, and they dropped down into the silent graveyard.
All around them loomed the gravestones. Some were tumbled. Others were overgrown with weeds and black rose bushes. Here and there an engraved inscription was almost visible in the moonlight. The graves were laid out in long rows, like streets of the dead. Old gnarled trees overshadowed them in places. Everywhere the mist drifted spectrally, sometimes becoming so thickly cloudy that vision was obscured. The smell of black roses filled the air. During the day it was possible that the Gardens of Morr was a pleasant place but at night, Felix found his mind turning all too quickly to thoughts of ghosts.
It was easy to envision the countless bodies decomposing under the ground, worms burrowing through rotting flesh and the empty eye sockets of corpses. From there it was but a short leap of the imagination to picture those corpses emerging from beneath the ground, skeletal hands reaching upward through the soil, like the fingers of drowning swimmers emerging from beneath the sea.
He tried to push the thoughts from his mind, but it was hard. He had seen stranger things happen, had encountered the walking dead before, in the hills of the Border Princes on his cursed trip across those empty lands with the exiled von Diehl family. He knew that old dark magic was capable of stirring the dead into an unholy semblance of life, and filling them with a terrible hunger for the flesh and the blood of the living.
He tried telling himself that this was holy ground, consecrated to Morr, and that the Death God protected his charges from such awful happenings. But these were stra
nge times, and he had heard dire rumours that the powers of the Old Gods were waning as the power of Chaos increased. He tried telling himself that perhaps such things happened in far-off lands like Kislev which bordered the Chaos Wastes, but this was Nuln, the heart of the Empire, the core of human civilisation. But part of him whispered that Chaos was here too, that all of the human lands were rotten to the core.
To reassure himself he glanced down at Gotrek. The Slayer seemed unafraid. A look of grim determination was engraved on his face. His axe was held ready to strike and he stood immobile, nose twitching, head cocked, listening to the night.
‘Many strange scents tonight,’ the dwarf said. ‘Many strange noises. This is a busy place for a boneyard.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Things moving. A bad feeling in the air. A lot of rats in the undergrowth. You were right about this place, manling.’
‘Wonderful,’ Felix said, wondering why he was usually right when he least wanted to be. ‘Let’s get moving. We want to find the area where there are fresh graves. That’s where the funerals will take place. And that’s where the plagues are coming from, I think.’
They moved along the thoroughfares between the graves, and Felix slowly realised that the Gardens of Morr were truly a necropolis, a city of the dead. It had its districts and its palaces just like the city outside. Here was the poor quarter, the area where paupers were thrown into unmarked communal graves. There were the neatly tended gravestones where the prosperous middle classes were buried. They competed with each other in the ornateness of their headstones, the way jealous neighbours might compete in life. Winged saints armed with stone swords held aloft books inscribed with the names and occupations of the dead. Stone dragons hunched over the last resting places of merchants like dogs protecting bones. Cowled, scythe-wielding figures of Morr stood guard over stones of black marble. In the distance Felix could see the large marble mausoleums of the rich nobles. They occupied palaces in death as they had in life.
