by ich du
By rights he should have left Brunner behind. Sabarra had seen enough of the red pox in his time to recognise its early stages. But the image of the gold being offered for Riano's head had been too tempting. So, Sabarra had lifted the sickly warrior into the saddle of his horse, tying Brunner's hands about the animal's neck, his legs beneath its belly. With Brunner secured to his animal, Sabarra had set out for the only place he could think of where a man suffering from the red pox might find sanctuary and succour. He only hoped that Brunner would last long enough to reach it.
The white walls grew steadily in size, the narrow cross-shaped windows and massive supporting buttresses breaking up the smooth alabaster facade. Sabarra could make out ragged figures huddled in the shadow of the walls, a great sprawl of wretched humanity. The bounty hunter's spirits fell another notch. Just how widespread was this plague? It looked like half of Tilea was camped outside the walls. He risked another look over his shoulder, striving to see if Brunner had reacted at all to the sight, but the man remained as he had for more hours than Sabarra wanted to count. The Tilean looked back toward the walls, noticing this time the vast pit that had been torn from the earth some distance to the west of the structure. Dour, hooded figures were busy there, throwing naked bodies into the yawning chasm as though tossing seed across a field. It was a minute before Sabarra released the breath he hadn't realised he had been holding. Of all the ends he could imagine, being consigned to a plague pit was probably about as bad as it got. Sabarra looked back once more at his charge and scowled.
So long as he found out what he wanted to know, Sabarra didn't much care where Brunner wound up. All the Reiklander had to do was cling on to life long enough to become lucid one last time.
AN AURA OF misery so intense that it seemed to clutch at Sabarra's face greeted the bounty hunter as he drew nearer the white-walled structure. The Tilean struggled to avoid looking down, tried not to see the dejected, forlorn creatures that sprawled upon the ground all around them. Many looked dead already, only the glazed eyes that rolled within their boil-strewn faces betraying the fact that they yet drew breath. Some of these miserable creatures had managed to build crude tents of rag and fur, but the vast majority just lay upon the ground, exposed to the open air and the chill of night. Sabarra tried not to imagine how many of these lost souls would make the journey past the portal of Morr before the sun again rose. Perhaps it was even a kindness to allow them to expire from exposure rather than the suffering the red pox would wrench from their bodies before it was through with them.
Sabarra slowly moved the horses through the sprawl of diseased refugees, the animals hard-pressed to avoid stomping on the miserable wretches. The bounty hunter allowed a slight sigh of relief to escape his throat as he saw the arched doorway that led into the structure behind the white walls and the shimmering marble dove that loomed above the arch's cornerstone. 'Well, friend,' Sabarra declared, glancing back once more at the still unmoving Brunner, 'this is it. The Shrine of the Seven Mercies. The hospice of Shallya.'
As if in response to his declaration, several men suddenly appeared beneath the arch, emerging from the interior of the hospice. Three of the men wore suits of armour, narrow helmets crushed about their ears. Their eyes were red-rimmed and their faces bore a pained, tired expression. But there was nothing fatigued in the way in which they held their spears. Three other men, dressed in the simple sack-cloth of supplicants of Shallya, laboured under the weight of a scrawny, pale burden. Behind the men carrying the corpse, a pair of white-garbed priestesses followed, one bearing a torch, the other carrying a bundle of rags that Sabarra imagined had once clothed the dead man. It was a common custom in cases of the plague. The body was hastily buried, but the clothes and bedding were burned, lest they pass the contagion on to another.
The priestess bearing the torch stared up at the mounted bounty hunter, her eyes red-rimmed and brimming with fatigue. Sabarra was somewhat surprised to find that the priestess was quite comely beneath the lines of worry and overwork. It had always been his experience that the ranks of the priestesses were commonly filled by daughters deemed unfit for a profitable marriage by their fathers. The bounty hunter's face twisted in the faintest hint of a lewd smile. Instantly the woman's eyes narrowed with disapproval, the shadows cast by her hooded robe seeming to grow thicker about her face.
'What do you want here, mercenary?' the priestess asked, her voice soft, yet demanding. Sabarra noted that it was a voice used to the burden of command and guessed that the priestess must be highly ranked among the sisters of the hospice, perhaps even the Sister Superior in charge of the entire shrine. Taking that into consideration, and remembering why he had come, the smile died on the bounty hunter's face. He was all business now.
'I seek the solace of the shrine,' Sabarra answered. 'I am in need of Shallya's mercy and blessing.'
The priestess took a step forward, the torch banishing the shadows from her face. 'You are ill?' she asked. Sabarra shook his head.
'No,' he replied, then gestured to the horses standing behind his own. 'But my friend is in dire need of healing.' Sabarra's voice dropped into a chill whisper. 'I fear it is the red pox.'
The priestess nodded her hooded head, sighing regretfully. 'Your friend is not alone. Many have fallen victim to the pox, and many more must follow before this evil has run its course. The mercies of Shallya are in much demand these days, our hospice is filled far beyond its capacity and still we cannot provide sanctuary for all who would enter.' She extended her arms to indicate the wretched masses clustered about the walls. 'The red pox is swift, once it has a hold on the flesh it is difficult to exorcise. We cannot forsake those in whom the infection is little, those who might recover, to give false hope to those for whom it is already too late.'
Sabarra gritted his teeth. When he first saw the miserable camp on the hospice's doorstep he should have expected as much. He stabbed a finger at the body being carried away. 'It seems there is at least one bed without an owner.' The priestess shook her head.
'And there are twenty already waiting to fill it,' she said sadly, turning to follow the grim procession.
'Dammit! At least you could look at him!' Sabarra snarled. The priestess turned again, her eyes boring into the bounty hunter's. At length she sighed and strode toward the warhorse standing behind Sabarra's own. The woman's steps slowed as she neared Fiend, as her eyes fell on the man lashed to the animal's back. It was a trembling hand that reached out toward the sick man, that lifted his head and stared at his face. The priestess recoiled as though it were a serpent she held in her hand.
'There is no room,' she repeated, her voice quivering. The man lashed to the saddle tilted his head and spoke in a shallow whisper.
'Even the goddess of mercy picks and chooses her prey,' Brunner's fading voice managed to hiss before his head sagged back down into Fiend's mane. The priestess glared at the sick man, then turned her head back toward Sabarra.
'Bring him inside,' Elisia told Sabarra. 'Sister Marcia will show you where.' Elisia did not wait for a response from the bounty hunter, but went after the funeral party, her steps hurried, fed by the doubt and fear that had closed icy fingers about her heart.
She had hoped never to see that face again, hoped never to hear that harsh, unforgiving voice. It had been almost a year since she had undertaken her mission of mercy for the Bertolucci family, wealthy merchants from Miragliano who had fled to a country villa in order to escape enemies in the city. But those enemies had sent an agent in pursuit of them, a hired killer to root them out from their hiding place. Brunner had 'chanced' upon Elisia as she was making her way to the villa, circumstance causing the grim bounty hunter to become her protector against the beastmen that prowled the countryside. Little did the priestess know that both of them had business at the villa - she to bring a new life into the world, the bounty hunter to remove an old one from it. Guilt and despair had wracked her for months afterward, that she had allowed herself to be the unwitting accomplice of the kil
ler, that her actions had helped bring about a good man's death.
How she had wished death upon Brunner. It was true that he had saved her on the road to the villa, but only so that he could use her. She owed the merciless killer nothing. And now, her wish was coming true, Brunner was in the grip of the red pox, its poison coursing through his body. He would die, slowly and in great agony. Why then had she admitted him into the hospice?
Because it was her sacred oath to combat the forces of pestilence, because Brunner had questioned her integrity, made her consider whether she would violate that sacred duty simply to indulge her own desire for vengeance. Far from a wish fulfilled, the bounty hunter's arrival might prove the most arduous test of her faith she had ever endured.
Elisia hesitated, casting a worried look over her shoulder at the white walls of the hospice. Yes, it was a test, but was she equal to that test?
SABARRA STOOD ASIDE as a pair of burly supplicants lowered Brunner onto a straw pallet in one of the hospice's overcrowded wards. Designed to hold perhaps twenty inmates, every spare inch of space had been scavenged to provide room for nearly fifty. The men moved aside, allowing a dour priestess to inspect their latest charge. The old woman produced a small knife and began to strip away the bounty hunter's clothes and armour, her deft hands nimbly plucking weapons from Brunner's belt. The stricken bounty killer did not stir until the old woman's hand tugged at the dragon-hilt of Drakesmalice. Like a shot, Brunner's hand clutched at the weapon, fingers tightening about the blade until his knuckles turned white. The priestess tugged at the imprisoned weapon, trying to free it from the sick man's grasp.
'He doesn't want you to take his sword,' Sabarra stated. 'I suggest you leave it with him.' The old woman cast a sour look at the Tilean, but released her grip on Drakesmalice, hurrying to remove the rest of Brunner's armour. When she had finished, she gathered up the bounty hunter's gear and without a backward glance, strode from the ward. Sabarra waited until she had gone, then crouched beside Brunner's pallet. The reaction to the priestess trying to take his sword encouraged Sabarra that his rival might have slipped back into a moment of relative coherence.
'We're in the hospice, Brunner,' Sabarra told him. The stricken man turned his head weakly in Sabarra's direction. 'You're in the Seven Mercies.'
Brunner's eyes snapped open as he heard the name. The bounty hunter stared at Sabarra for a moment, then cast his gaze across the rest of the ward. Even knocking on the gates to Morr's realm, he seemed to be studying the faces of the men around him, looking for any sign that might put a name to a face and a price to a name.
'You said if I brought you here, you would tell me where Riano has escaped to,' Sabarra reminded Brunner. Brunner's head rolled back to where he could again face the rival bounty killer. A slight smile pulled weakly at his mouth.
'I... I have... recon... reconsidered... the arrangement,' Brunner's words escaped him in a ragged whisper. Sabarra's features flushed crimson with anger and the killer's hand fell to the poinard sheathed at his hip. 'You... you should... start praying again,' Brunner advised the Tilean, seemingly oblivious to Sabarra's fury. 'Pray now that I... that I recover.
Brunner's words trailed off into oblivion and his eyes closed. Sabarra watched the bounty hunter's body go lax, a part of him hoping that the disease had finished the Reiklander. But another part of him was relieved to note the steady rise and fall of his chest. While Brunner yet drew breath, there was still a chance that Sabarra could draw the information he wanted from the dying man.
The Tilean rose, casting a disgusted look at the wretched, moaning shapes strewn about the room. Sabarra drew the garlic pomander he wore beneath his tunic, lifting the herb to his nose, inhaling its septic fumes. Garlic was said to be proof against disease, but the bounty hunter had no great desire to test that belief any more than he had to. One way or another, he would be rid of Brunner soon. Turning on his heel, Sabarra marched from the ward, determined to find some cleaner air to breathe.
NEVER TAKE THE life of a human being. Elisia knelt before the simple altar that stood within the tiny chapel. There were three such chapels within the grounds of the shrine, but this was the only one that still retained its intended purpose. The others had been transformed into makeshift infirmaries, as had the small courtyard and many of the cells inhabited by the priestesses themselves. They shared rooms now, sleeping in four-hour shifts.
Elisia lifted her eyes to the small marble statue that stood atop the altar - the image of a beautiful woman crafted in the classical Tilean style, a golden heart held in her hands, as though offering the shimmering organ to the supplicant kneeling before the idol. It was symbolic of the selfless sacrifice of the Goddess of Mercy - offering of her own body that others might find solace and peace, the sick might be healed and the halt made whole. It was an example that the priestesses of her faith were expected to follow, a standard to aspire toward.
Never refuse healing to those in need. Such had been the oaths she had taken when she had cast aside the ruin of her old life and become a servant of Shallya. But never before had she felt their weight. Her oaths bit into her, like heavy chains that coiled about her body and strove to crush the breath from her.
The bounty hunter. Why had he come here, of all places? He was dying, Elisia had seen that much in the brief moment when her eyes had again regarded that cold, calculating face. The red pox had already gained a stronghold within his flesh. There was nothing she could do to save him.
Or was that simply what she wanted to believe? It would be so easy to simply step aside, let the disease run its course. That would be just retribution for how Brunner had used her, just vengeance for all the blood that stained the man's hands.
Never take the life of a human being. Elisia cringed as she muttered the oath under her breath. Would she be any better than Brunner if she allowed him to die? She had been wracked with guilt and anguish over being the unwitting accomplice to one man's death, how could she live with being the instrument of another man's? How could she continue to serve Shallya with blood on her own hands?
If the disease claimed Brunner, she would never be certain that she did not allow it. That doubt would always linger behind her eyes, within the pits of her soul.
Elisia rose, walking toward the altar. There was only one thing to be done. She circled the altar, lifting up one of the flagstones set behind it. From the hole beneath the stone she removed a bottle of dark Bretonnian glass. The holy waters of the Temple in Couronne, the blessed spring from which Shallya's tears dripped into the world of men. They were precious beyond the weight of gold, for within the Tears of Shallya were the divine healing powers of the goddess herself. The Seven Mercies had never had a large supply of the Tears, only enough to guard the priestesses themselves against the diseases they hoped to cure, for what good would a healer be if she were to fall victim to the plague?
Elisia lifted the bottle to her breast, holding it close to her heart. What she was doing might be considered blasphemy by others of her faith, squandering some of the precious holy water on a killer and assassin. But it was the only way she could be sure, the only way she would ever know peace again.
BRUNNER GROANED AS soft hands lifted his head from the straw pallet, as cold glass was pressed against his lips. The bounty hunter's eyes snapped open, staring into the sullen face of Elisia. The priestess glared back at him, hatred burning behind her eyes.
'I've come to finish it,' she told the bounty killer, her voice a low hiss. She pushed the bottle higher, letting its contents trickle into Brunner's mouth. The bounty hunter coughed as the cold waters worked their way down his swollen throat.
'Damn you for ever coming here,' Elisia spat as she withdrew the bottle. Already she could see the miraculous waters beginning their work, the redness in Brunner's eyes beginning to fade. 'I have squandered a precious gift on inhuman vermin when this hospice is overflowing with men and women worth a dozen of your kind.'
'Because I... I saved... your life?' the bounty kil
ler asked. Elisia shook her head and turned away from him.
'Because I am too selfish to let you die.'
PULSTLITZ GLARED UPON the white walls of the hospice, disgust and loathing welling up within his polluted form. The blessing of Nurgle, Lord of Pestilence, was a sacred thing, a divine gift handed down to men by the most powerful of the gods. Yet there were so very few who would accept that blessing, clinging to their tired old lives like rats to a sinking ship. The cult of the goddess Shallya had arisen to feed on that foolishness, to drive the breath of Nurgle from the bodies of man. The Chaos champion gripped the hilt of his decaying sword. This would be more than a simple raid, more than slaughter in the name of the Dark Gods. For Pulstlitz, this would be avenging sacrilege, exterminating an affront to the god whom he served.
The plague champion directed his gaze to the ragged figures encamped outside the walls of the hospice. He could see the sickly green aura that seemed to hover over each one, the mark of the Plague God. These were men in whom the blessing of Nurgle had firmly established itself, beyond the power of the Shallyan priestesses to drive from their bodies. They were already claimed by Nurgle, already walking the road that would lead them to the Plague God's realm. But before that, they would serve Nurgle one last time.
Pulstlitz looked over to the brooding ranks of his warband blackarmoured Chaos warriors, ragged diseased mutants and cultists of the Plague God, and the furred shapes of goat-headed pestigors. The champion allowed their feral anticipation to wash over him, letting their eagerness to avenge this insult to their god fire his own ambition. He drew his rusted sword, filth sizzling upon the grass at his feet.
