Hammer and Bolter 17

by Christian Dunn

  ‘We could go back. We could get help,’ Goodweather said from behind him.

  ‘And what would happen between now and then, eh?’ Dubnitz growled, all humour gone. He looked up into the rain. There was a feeling on the air, like sailors got just before that first storm-tossed wave crested the bow and caused the boat to dip alarmingly. ‘Those bells – whatever they are – are becoming stronger. You felt it as well as I did.’

  ‘We’re at the eye of the storm,’ Goodweather said. She gingerly touched one of the fish and then drew her fingers back as if they’d been burned. She looked at him. ‘Erkhart…’

  ‘I know,’ he said. Then he lifted a boot and kicked the door in. Sword at the ready, he shouldered his way in. Rain dripped down through the sagging ceiling and ran in rusty runnels across the mouldy wooden planks of the floor. There was a vile smell, like a pig left too long on the butcher’s block in the summer air. ‘You’d think there’d be more guards,’ he said quietly.

  Goodweather stepped past him. She pulled a gull feather from her pouch and released it. A cool breeze, smelling of the clean sea, took it and carried it through the shop towards the back of the room. The feather dropped to the floor and spun gently in a small circle. Dubnitz stood over it, his eyes narrowed. He dropped to his haunches and, with his sword-point he traced the edges of a trapdoor out in the thin skin of mould that covered the floor.

  Carefully, he levered it open with his blade, revealing an unpleasant looking set of stairs. A foul stink wafted upwards-he smelled blood, and stale water. He looked at Goodweather. ‘Ladies first,’ he said.

  ‘Manann’s sword before Manann’s shield,’ she said piously.

  ‘Bloody dark down there,’ he said.

  ‘Isn’t it?’ she said. Dubnitz sighed and started down. The smooth stone of the foundations were wet to the touch, sweating with the stuff of the canals which criss-crossed the city. No place in Marienburg was more than a few feet from the water, whether it was fresh or salt, canal, marsh or sea. The city floated on moist foundations, the stones eroded century by century. Dubnitz paused at the curve of the stairs. Weak torchlight illuminated the bottom steps and he could hear the steady slap-slap of water against stone. Some places in the Tannery had underground docks, for moving illicit goods into the marshes or deep wells that provided water.

  Goodweather pressed against his back. He continued down. Goodweather gasped as they caught sight of the first body. The man lay sprawled in the corner across from the steps. His hands were curled around the handle of the knife buried to the hilt in his belly. He was not alone. A dozen more bodies filled the oddly angled confines of the cellar. More than a dozen, in fact. Bodies were heaped upon bodies, all with self-inflicted wounds and all surrounding the deep well of scummy water that occupied the centre of the cellar.

  In fact only three living forms occupied the cellar as Dubnitz and Goodweather reached it. A man easily recognizable as Ikel was one and the other two were soon of no consequence. As Dubnitz stepped forward, the two cultists stabbed each other and fell in a heap.

  As they fell, the strange, fang-like shard of black stone that thrust out of the dark water of the pool shuddered and vibrated with a hideous bell-like peal of noise. It was thunderous in the confines of the cellar, causing the stones to grind against one another. The water swirled suddenly with a number of water-spouts and Dubnitz shielded his face as shadowy immensities burst free of the pool as the bell-noise pounded at his bones and eardrums. The shadow-things shot upwards, passing through the upper floor and away as the echoes of the bell faded.

  Blinking through the pain of the sound, Dubnitz focused on Ikel, who smiled at him in apparent recognition. The cultist grinned, revealing crudely filed teeth. ‘You’re too late,’ he said. ‘Stromfels’s teeth dig deep into the meat of Manann’s realm. The King of Sharks will have his Mitterfruhl feast.’

  ‘Looks like he’ll be doing it sans guests,’ Dubnitz said, kicking a body. Ikel chuckled.

  ‘Blood must enter the water to bring the sharks,’ the cultist said.

  Dubnitz caught Goodweather’s eye. Her face was as stiff as those of the corpses that lay around them. ‘They needed a sacrifice.’

  ‘Blood calls to beasts,’ Ikel cackled, rattling the shark’s teeth necklaces he wore. ‘We gave them away freely. Good luck charms we called them, and aye, so they are… Stromfels’s luck!’ Dubnitz saw that the black stone was studded with such teeth. Indeed they almost seemed to be growing from the rock like barnacles. Hundreds, thousands of sharp shark’s teeth poked through the slick surface of the stone and the sight of them made his flesh prickle.

  ‘What?’ he said.

  ‘The necklaces,’ Goodweather breathed. Her voice was full of horror and loathing. ‘The teeth are parts of Stromfels, parts of his power, even as this symbol I wear is Manann’s.’

  The realization hit Dubnitz like a fist. ‘Then everyone wearing one of those…’

  ‘They belong to Stromfels now!’ Ikel yelped. ‘They are Stromfels. Or they will be. It takes blood, so much blood…’ Dubnitz froze, remembering the great shadows he had seen. Moving like sharks through the streets. Had they been seeking the wearers of the necklaces? Were they daemons hunting hosts to use to feed and ravage the city of the sea-god?

  ‘What was the point?’ Dubnitz said, tearing his eyes from the stone and moving closer to Ikel, who sidled aside, his fingers tapping on the hilt of the knife thrust through his belt.

  ‘Careful Erkhart,’ Goodweather said. ‘Don’t let him do it.’

  ‘Don’t let him do what?’ Dubnitz snapped.

  ‘Don’t let him kill himself. If he kills himself, the sacrifice will be completed,’ Goodweather said. ‘And those who haven’t been transformed yet will be.’

  ‘Silence,’ Ikel snapped. ‘Manann has no voice here. This is Stromfels’s place. Stromfels’s temple!’ He gestured wildly at the black stone. ‘His teeth pierce the veil of Manann’s flesh, opening the way for us… for all of us!’

  ‘To do what then?’ Dubnitz said harshly, his eyes on the knife in Ikel’s belt. If he could keep him talking…

  ‘To feed the god,’ Ikel said. ‘Stromfels is as hungry as the ocean, and like the ocean he must be fed.’ He drew the knife. ‘His children burst through the veil and feed on the unworthy. And it is our honour to help them.’ Ikel lifted the knife to his throat. ‘It is my honour–’

  ‘No!’ Goodweather shouted, flinging her own blade. It slid across Ikel’s wrist and he yelped and dropped his knife. Goodweather leapt on him, robes flapping. ‘Erkhart, get the stone,’ she said.

  ‘And do what with it?’ Dubnitz roared, plunging into the water. It closed about his legs greedily, and his limbs went immediately numb, nearly causing him to fall. Things brushed against his knees and he nearly fell forward into the stone. He caught himself at the last minute, his hands shooting out against the stone. Impossibly, the metal and thick leather of his gauntlets gave way before the teeth like thin paper and Dubnitz snarled in pain. He jerked his throbbing hands back. His palms bled freely.

  Goodweather, struggling with Ikel, shouted, ‘Get it out of the water. Hurry!’

  Dubnitz looked at her and then at the stone. It gleamed nastily and he hesitated to touch it again. But, not knowing what else to do, he sank down into the water, digging for its base. His blood coloured the water as his fingers were shredded. Pain ran wild up his forearms and sparks bounced at the edges of his vision. It felt like his hands were being chewed.

  ‘Dubnitz, hurry!’ Goodweather called from behind him.

  With a groan, Dubnitz lifted the stone. His chest and shoulders swelled and his feet slid beneath the water as he ripped it free of the pool. Fangs fastened into his thigh as some unseen something coiled about his legs. He stamped blindly, and a powerful blow crashed into his back, nearly knocking him over. He staggered forward, still holding the stone aloft. It seemed to grow heavier, its weight doubling and tripling. His arms trembled as he fought to reach the edge of the p
ool.

  In his head, he heard the slash of a shark’s fin through eternal waters and the thunder of a great, gluttonous heart. His lungs were full of water and the smell of his blood spread across the spirit-sea that held Stromfels and his progeny. Shadow-things spun around him, darting at the edges of his vision and fear cut through him like a knife. ‘Manann help me,’ he muttered. For the first time in his life, the prayer was a sincere one.

  He caught a glimpse of movement, and saw Goodweather on her back among the bodies, Ikel straddling her, his filed teeth darting for her throat. Dubnitz, reacting on instinct, bellowed and hurled the stone at the cultist. It caught Ikel in the head and shoulders and he fell without a sound, the black stone settling on him with an almost hungry squelching sound. Despite the blood, there was no toll of sound. No shadow-things springing from the water’s depths to rampage through his city. Nothing, save a disappointed silence.

  The waters of the pool thrashed suddenly and then went still. The oppressive feeling of the cellar faded slowly, as if whatever presence had been causing it were receding. Dubnitz collapsed, half in and half out of the water. He coughed and looked at Goodweather, who got to her feet slowly. ‘Did it work?’ he said, pulling himself out of the water.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said, looking around. ‘I think so.’

  ‘You think so? You seemed bloody certain when you were ordering me in there!’ Dubnitz growled, trying to get to his feet and failing. His hands and legs were covered in blood and the shredded remnants of his armour.

  She helped him sit up. ‘It seemed like the thing to do.’

  ‘Seemed like the…’ Dubnitz gaped at her. ‘Are you saying you guessed?’

  ‘I suppose I did, yes,’ Goodweather said hesitantly.

  Dubnitz began to laugh, softly at first, and then great, echoing guffaws. Goodweather joined him and the sound of their mingled laughter drove the last lingering shadows back into the depths.

  An Extract from Knight of the Blazing Sun

  Josh Reynolds

  The orcs came down out of the Worlds Edge Mountains into Ostermark like a green tide, sweeping villages and towns before them in a cascade of flame and pillage. But the men of the Mark stood firm and met the orcs with pike, shot and sword. Soldiers in purple and yellow livery crashed against barbaric green-skinned savages, matching Imperial steel and age-old strategy against inhuman muscle and brute cunning. Men and orcs screamed and died as the frozen ground turned to mud and the sun swung high in the sky.

  Elsewhere, horses pawed the frost-covered earth in nervous anticipation. Their breath escaped in bursts of steam which drifted haphazardly through the close-set scrub trees that surrounded them and their riders. Hector Goetz reached down and stroked his mount’s muscular neck. The warhorse whinnied eagerly. ‘Easy Kaspar,’ he said. ‘Easy. Miles to go yet.’ Goetz was a tall man, and he wore the gilded armour of a knight of the Order of the Blazing Sun easily, if not entirely comfort¬ably. He glanced down the row of similarly armoured riders that

  spread out to either side of him and wished he felt more confident in his chances of surviving the coming engagement.

  ‘Just give him a thump, boy,’ someone said. Goetz twisted in his saddle, meeting the cheerful gaze of his hochmeister. Tancred Berlich was a big, bluff man with a grey-streaked beard and a wide grin. Red cheeks and a splotchy nose completed the image of a man more concerned with food and drink than fighting and death. He had commanded the Kappelburg Komturie for as long as Goetz could remember. ‘Horses are like soldiers… a thump or three is good for morale.’

  Goetz chuckled as Berlich gave a booming laugh. His smile faded as Berlich’s opposite number from the Bechafen Komturie glared at them through the open visor of his ornate helmet.

  ‘I know that proper military discipline is difficult for you, Tancred, but I would like to remind you that this is an ambush!’ the man hissed through gritted teeth. Of an age with his fellow Hochmeister, Alfonse Wiscard looked older. His face was a hatchet made of wrinkles and his eyes were like chips of ice. Those cool orbs swivelled to Goetz a moment later. ‘Control your hochmeister, brother, or the orcs will be on us far sooner than we anticipate,’ he said.

  ‘Leave the boy alone, Wiscard,’ Berlich said before Goetz could reply. ‘He’s got more experience than all of the puppies you brought along combined. Don’t you boy?’

  ‘I… have seen my share,’ Goetz said, looking straight ahead. ‘More than most perhaps.’

  ‘The Talabeclander insults us!’ one of Wiscard’s men said.

  ‘Quiet,’ Wiscard snapped. His face was twisted into as sour an expression as Goetz had ever seen. He felt impressed despite himself. ‘Quiet, all of you. We are here to fight orcs, not rehash old grudges.’ The prov¬inces of Talabecland and Ostermark had been at each other’s throats for decades, for one reason or another. While the only loyalties the members of the Order were supposed to hold were to Myrmidia, the Order itself and the Emperor, in that order, occasionally the old traditional disagreements crept in.

  ‘Besides, the boy’s not really a Talabeclander; he’s from Solland!’ Berlich said, pounding Goetz on the shoulder.

  ‘Solland hasn’t existed for a long time. Longer than my lifetime,’ Goetz protested.

  ‘Modesty. I think he’s the heir,’ Berlich whispered loudly to Wiscard. ‘Old Helborg owes the boy a sword, or my name isn’t Tanty!’

  ‘Sudenland is gone, hochmeister. As is its elector,’ Goetz said patiently. ‘Sudenland’ was how his mother had insisted on referring to the dead province, now long since absorbed by Wissenland. It was a peculiar¬ity of the old families, and one Goetz had never been able to shake. ‘And your name is Tancred. I have never heard anyone refer to you as “Tanty”.’

  ‘See? See? Only royalty talks down its nose like that! Boy’ll be Emperor if he survives,’ Berlich laughed.

  Goetz craned his neck as a young pistolier rode up. Both horse and rider were clearly exhausted. The pistolier had sweat dripping down his youthful fea¬tures, cutting tracks in the grime that otherwise covered his face. ‘Milords,’ he wheezed. ‘The Lord Elec¬tor Hertwig requests that you see to the flank!’

  ‘Ha! Finally!’ Berlich growled, slamming a fist into his thigh.

  Goetz watched the young man lead his horse away, both of them covered in sweat and reeking of a hard ride and exhaustion. It hadn’t been so long ago that he himself had ridden among the ranks of the pistolkorps. They had taught him the art of riding and of the use¬fulness of black powder. Thinking of that last one, he wondered what he wouldn’t give for a brace of pistols now. Even just one would mean one less orc to face up close. Unfortunately, while Myrmidia was a goddess of battlefield innovation, her followers were forced to follow the law of the land. Gunpowder was far too rare and unstable to be given to a force prone to reckless headlong charges into the maw of the enemy army.

  Goetz sighed. He’d earned his spurs as a pistolier, against orcs then as well. Of course, the raiders he and his compatriots had put to flight then had been as noth¬ing compared to the horde that now crawled across his field of vision, from horizon to horizon. He was sud¬denly quite thankful for the heavy plate he wore, with all of its dwarf-forged strength between him and the crude axes of the green-skinned savages he was even now readying himself to face. He’d seen what an orc could do to an unarmoured man – and an armoured one, come to that – and the more layers between him and that gruesome fate was well worth the inevitable sweat and chafing. Not to mention the smell.

  Still, a pistol would have been nice.

  ‘Don’t look so glum, boy,’ Berlich said, jostling him out of his reverie. ‘Cheer up! We’ll be charging any minute now!’ The hochmeister grinned eagerly, and bounced slightly in his saddle like an excited urchin. ‘Blood and thunder, we’ll turn them into so much paste!’

  Goetz turned back around, peering through the pro¬tective embrace of the thicket where they were waiting. While most of the orc army was already engaged in the swirling melee
beyond, some canny boss had managed to restrain his impetuous followers. That was impres¬sive, and slightly frightening. Orcs usually had all the restraint of a rabid hound. When one proved capable of thinking beyond putting its axe through the near¬est skull, it meant trouble for anyone unlucky enough to be caught in its path. Right at that moment, the unlucky ones looked to be the eastern flank of elec¬tor Hertwig’s battered force, as a stomping, snorting, squealing flood of orcish Boar Riders hurtled towards the purple-and-gold lines. Goetz tightened his grip on his reins and took hold of his lance, jerking it up from where he’d stabbed it into the ground.

  ‘Thunder and lightning, that’s how it’ll be!’ Berlich said, lifting his own lance. Goetz took a deep breath and set his shield. He caught Wiscard’s eye, and the hochmeister nodded briskly.

  ‘We go where we are needed,’ Wiscard said, intoning the first part of the Order’s creed.

  ‘We do what must be done,’ Goetz replied along with all the rest.

  ‘And Myrmidia have mercy on those green buggers because I’ll have none!’ Berlich roared, standing up in his saddle. ‘Let’s have at them! Hyah!’ Then, with a slow rumble that built to a thunderous crescendo, the Order of the Blazing Sun rode to war. They brushed aside the thicket with the force of their passage and the Order’s specially-bred warhorses bugled bloodthirsty cries as they launched forwards.

  Seconds later, wood met flesh with a thunderous roar, and the ground trembled at the point of impact. Lances cracked and splintered as they tore through the orc lines, shoving bodies back atop bodies and creating eddies in the green tide. Goetz’s teeth rattled inside his helmet as his lance was reduced to a jagged stump of brightly painted wood. He tossed it aside and drew his sword, wheeling his horse around even as the broken weapon struck the ground. Goetz lashed out as a green shape crashed against him in the press of combat.