the cold hand of betrayal

by ich du

  Huashil lay face down on the floor, wailing. He picked himself and pulled out his keys, muttering confused prayers. He swung open the cage door. Tomas gestured to Huashil, and Jurgen and another grabbed his arms. Tomas stood in front of him. 'You are marked, Huashil, marked by Sigmar. You must do as I say.'

  Huashil nodded. The fish was hooked and landed.

  TOMAS LEFT A MAN at the zoo gates, garbed in the sentry's clothes. Huashil chained the slaves together, and led them towards the east gate in a shuffling line. No one took notice of them; the main gate was being assaulted, and all efforts were being made to defend it.

  In a deserted courtyard, a street away from the east gate, Huashil unlocked their fetters. The slaves picked up rocks and anything else they could use as weapons. Drager edged to the back of the group, his mind racing. He had no desire to be rescued and made to fight again. A choice had to be made; he slipped away towards the main gate garrison.

  Tomas could see the two towers of the east gate rising up behind the buildings on the square. The plan was set, no words were spoken. The men made their way around to the gate from the sides, using the alleys running along the outside of the market square. Tomas hunkered down behind a cart. Clouds scudded across the night sky, and everyone kept to the shadows.

  'Where's Drager?' Dieter asked. Tomas shrugged his shoulders.

  The crusaders had virtually ignored the east gate during their previous attacks, and the trebuchet crews had concentrated their fire on the front of the great city. Arabyans had bolstered the defences around the main gate, leaving only a small garrison guard to defend this section of the wall. A lone soldier stood in front of the doorway into the tower, leaning on his spear, his eyes fixed in the direction of the main gate where the sounds of combat drifted on the night air.

  Tomas signalled to Jurgen, who crouched behind a market stall. He nodded and untied a length of material from around his waist. He picked up a stone and placed it in the improvised sling. He began to spin it around his head. Tomas held his breath. Jurgen stepped out from behind the stall and let loose the missile. It whipped through the air and struck the guard on his cheek with a crunch. He dropped to one knee, clutching his face. Tomas sprinted towards the guard then smashed a rock down on his head, staving in the skull.

  He dragged him into a corner, picked up his sword and beckoned to his men. Jurgen procured his spear. He grinned at Tomas and led his men inside the tower to deal with the sentries on the parapet. The rest positioned themselves around the square, hiding in doorways and alcoves.

  Tomas followed Jurgen up the stairs. He looked through an arrow slit. Boulders littered the ground and spindly tufts of dry grass twitched in the breeze, but he spied nothing else. He would have to trust that the crusader knights were ready. He crept up the stairs and met Jurgen on his way down. He had blood on his face and was grinning like a maniac.

  'Those sentries couldn't guard a virgin's chastity.' he said.

  Tomas clapped him on the back. 'Let's open the gates.'

  The smiles froze on their faces when they heard the harsh clang of a warning bell and shouts from the courtyard below.

  'Sigmar's bones! The game's on, Tomas.' Jurgen said, and pushed past. Tomas raced behind, fearful that the plan might fail, but thrilled by the thought of combat.

  TOMAS RAN INTO the square. A phalanx of Arabyan guards had charged into the yard and been set upon by the hidden Sigmarites. The battle was uneven: heavily armoured soldiers against a few undernourished slaves, but they fought with a desperate ferocity that for the moment was giving them an advantage. He saw a group of slaves pull an Arabyan down and bludgeon him with rocks. Dieter struggled with another who was trying to force a dagger into his windpipe, another was skewered on the end of Jurgen's spear, who stood in the middle of the yard like an angry bear, thrusting his weapon at the men who circled him like wary hyenas.

  It was a maelstrom of savagely fighting men, and unseen in the shadows Drager stared at the scene, knowing his betrayal had cost these men dear.

  Tomas edged around the yard until he stood behind Dieter's assailant. The knife was nearly at his throat. Tomas thrust his sword through the Arabyan's mail coat and into his spine. He shrieked and fell, clutching his back. Tomas stamped hard on his face and he fell silent. Tomas pulled Dieter into a doorway.

  'We must open the gate.' he shouted over the din.

  Dieter nodded and made for the wooden doors, grabbing a comrade on the way. As they reached the heavy doors and began to unbar them, a dark shadow fell across Tomas. He looked up, and his heart almost stopped.

  DRAGER SAW IT too, and he knew his job was done. The uprising was doomed. From a side alley strode the sand dragon, and on its back was the emir himself. Clad in gold mail and holding a long, silver-tipped spear, he urged the creature towards the gate. Men, Arabyan and Empire alike, cried out and ran, but Dieter and his comrade still struggled with the doors, and Tomas was sprinting to help them.

  The dragon lunged forward, sand gushing from its mouth, engulfing Dieter's comrade. It ripped into him, stripping skin from flesh, and flesh from bone, spraying blood-red sand into the air. He died without making a sound. Tomas ran at the dragon, his sword jabbing at its throat. The emir turned his mount to face him, his thin face a mask of rage. Tomas leapt to one side as the dragon butted its spine-crowned head at his stomach. It grazed his side and he fell to the ground.

  Drager was about to leave when he saw a dark figure make its way to the gate, to where Dieter still struggled with the bar.

  TOMAS PICKED HIMSELF up and dived under the dragon's head. The emir drove his spear at him, but the stroke was mistimed and Tomas managed to scramble through its legs. The dragon screeched in frustration and began to turn towards him. Tomas ducked his head, but was too slow as its tail whipped into his arm; his sword flew out of his hand and clattered onto the ground.

  He cast around desperately for another weapon.

  MASHTUB GRABBED THE end of the heavy bar, which would usually be lifted by a gang of men. He knew he had to do this, for if he failed, his family - the only thing he held dear - would be killed. The courtyard was still heaving with fighting men, too distracted to notice his struggles. He looked at Dieter, who was sweating and cursing. Then he saw another slave come up behind Dieter. Help, at last.

  DRAGER SMASHED A rock over Dieters head. He collapsed, blood streaming from the wound. Drager seized on Mashtub's confusion and leapt at him, swinging the bloody rock at his face.

  Mashtub dodged to one side, the rock grazing his cheek, but before he could recover, Drager had grabbed him by the throat with one hand, trying to force him onto the ground. Mashtub struggled to keep balance, but Drager was a soldier and strong; his grip tightened.

  Mashtub's vision began to fade.

  TOMAS WAS BACKED against a wall. The dragon faced him, the emir held his spear ready to throw. Tomas waited for the end.

  'Tomas!'

  Jurgen threw a torch to him. Tomas caught it and thrust it into the dragon's face. It recoiled, screeching in panic, wings flailing. The emir dropped his spear, struggling to keep upright, the dragon was sent into further panic as Tomas waved the flames in its eyes. He threw the torch back to Jurgen and ran back to the gates.

  MASHTUB's LIFE SLIPPED from him. The only thing he felt was despair for his family, then the fingers around his throat were gone. He opened his eyes, dragging in huge lungfuls of air. Drager's face was suspended above him, eyes open, pupils wide, dark as night. His mouth sagged, blood spilled over his bottom lip. He swayed and collapsed to one side.

  Towering over him was Tomas, a dripping knife in his hand. He dropped it and helped Mashtub to his feet. Together they lifted the bar and opened the gates. A warm desert breeze washed over them, bringing with it the sound of thundering hooves.

  THE CHRONICLES RECORD that on that night the city of Zarekten was brought under the merciful dominion of the Empire. In truth, mercy was far from the crusaders minds. The slaughter lasted for three nights and tw
o days. Prince Weiss ordered that the buildings were to be kept intact, but their inhabitants were to be afforded no such preservation. He knew there was little point in trying to protect the citizens from his soldiers, and he had no compunction to do so anyway. As he said to Brother Kristoff - against the noise of screaming - an army glutted with victory will have its fun, and he'd be damned if he'd lift a finger to stop it. But the savage appetite of his men had, at last, been sated. The sloping streets were stained pink, as the sun burned dry the blood on the ground.

  Weiss sat in the emir's high-backed chair at the head of the throne chamber. Suspended from the ceiling, by an ingenious array of ropes, chains and pulleys, was the sand dragon. Its wings were spread across the width of the chamber, and its head was raised proudly. Only its dead eyes and lolling jaw detracted from the overall effect. Weiss savoured the memory of running the beast through as he charged through the east gate. Strapped to the saddle was the emir's naked corpse. His feet and hands had been removed - much to Weiss's amusement - and he was beginning to rot. The startled expression on his ashen face was, as far as Weiss was concerned, fitting humiliation for such a godless son of a whore.

  To think the heathen had tried to buy his life with information! Although his talk of a fabled city, Jabal Sin jar, full of riches across the desert, had planted a kernel of greed in the prince's heart. When the emir had produced maps of its whereabouts, he made up his mind to seek it out. He was a man of considerable vanity and compulsion. He would leave a garrison at Zarekten to protect his rearguard and the valley passage, and venture into the Great Erg. His glorious destiny awaited him.

  But there was one more job to do first. He took a swig of wine and waved, beckoning to the guards who waited on the threshold. They marched in, leading Jurgen, Dieter and the rest of the freed Empire slaves up to him. Lastly, in chains, were dragged Mashtub and Huashil.

  'Quite an adventure you've had, eh?' Weiss smiled languidly at his countrymen, who bowed their heads in deference. 'Our victory here is, to a great extent, down to your actions. You will not find me ungrateful. You are to join the ranks of my army, charged to bring the light of Sigmar into the dark places of the world.' He was in good humour and of a mood to listen to his own voice. 'I have heard tell, from the great emir himself,' he pointed to the slowly spinning corpse above his head, 'of a great fortress city, brimming with riches and wealth. What better way to honour Sigmar than to bring to his altar the stolen treasures of the heathen?' There was a murmur of excited approval.

  'But first we must pass judgement on these specimens,' he said, pointing to the prisoners.

  'In Sigmar's name, I pronounce them guilty,' Kristoff said.

  'My lords,' Tomas said, shaking off Dieter's restraining hand. 'I must speak up on their behalf.' Both Arabyans looked astounded. Tomas charged on. 'Mashtub was instrumental in our plan. Without him we would never have succeeded. And Huashil has renounced his godless ways, and wishes to be inducted into the Sigmarite faith.'

  Kristoff laid a cold stare on Tomas. 'There can be no redemption for these wretches, despite their actions. They are of this land and their blood runs with sin and dishonour. Sigmar shall not be insulted in such a manner.' He nodded to the guards who stepped forward, drawing their swords.

  'Wait.' Tomas said. 'To find this city you will need someone to read Arabyan maps, and guide you through the sands.'

  'Go on.' Weiss said.

  Tomas pointed to Huashil. 'This man is a scholar. He can help you.'

  Weiss looked at Huashil. 'Chain him up.' he said at last. We will take him with us.' Huashil gave Tomas a grateful look as he was taken from the room.

  Mashtub was left alone in the middle of the floor, staring unflinchingly into the prince's eyes.

  'I do not forget your part in my victory over your kind, either.' Weiss said smoothly. 'However, your family is not alive to see your imminent sacrifice.' He nodded to a guard. Mashtub roared and leapt at Weiss like a lynx. The prince did not move. With a practiced sweep, the guard clove Mashtub's head neatly from his neck. Tomas closed his eyes, but heard the heavy thump as it hit the floor.

  Weiss swept out of the room, with the crusaders in tow. Tomas stayed behind. He knelt over Mashtub's body.

  'May Sigmar take you into his keeping.' he whispered, making the sign of the hammer. 'And may he forgive me my sins.'

  As he walked out, head bowed, the last drops of blood seeped out of Mashtub's body, to mix red with the golden sand on the floor.

  SON OF THE EMPIRE

  by Robert Allan

  Sweet Shallya, goddess of mercy, grant me your

  protection.

  Fair goddess, I beseech you, protect the innocent.

  Deliver them from suffering and harm.

  Noble goddess, Shine the light of your purity into the

  eyes of the unholy.

  Forgiving goddess, lend your strength to mine and your

  ears to my plea.

  Beneficent goddess, mother of clemency, mother of

  healing, mother of serenity, I call upon you now.

  Mercy begets purity.

  THE LAST ECHOES of the voice floated away on the warm forest breeze. He blinked, and then gasped.

  The Marauder warband filled the edge of the clearing like a filthy stain, the mere sight of them causing the bile to rise in his stomach.

  The Northmen were huge. Slab-muscled brutes clad in filthy blood-soaked rags and furs, bronzed armour plating and studded leather straps, they were a sight to sober the hardest of souls. They stood amongst an ominous thicket of rusting pikes, bloodstained spears and barbed swords. Lurid banners of stained cloth and leathered flesh flapped in the breeze. Banners dedicated to the Ruinous Powers, daubed with symbols that hurt the eyes and sickened the stomachs of the untainted.

  Four of the heretics were mounted atop hulking dark equine creatures with frothing mouths and baleful red eyes, while at their side a pack of huge snarling hounds strained at the greased chains holding them at bay. Each creature was much larger than a man and covered in thick, stinking fur, matted and stained with human blood. They howled and roared, straining to be unleashed upon the cowering children, the scent of innocence driving the evil creatures wild.

  The children.

  He glanced behind him and a row of silent faces met his gaze, innocent and pure. The young children and the priestess stood huddled before the small wooden hospice, its whitewashed walls gleaming beneath the leafy canopy. The children wailed and trembled, hiding their faces in the folds of the woman's discoloured robes. Her piercing eyes glinted as she returned his gaze, speaking of a burning, determined drive that greatly belied her pox-ridden form.

  'You would save us, brave warrior?' she called, her broken voice tinged with pain.

  He shook his head and turned back to face the war-band once more, fingers tightening around the shaft of his spear. The banner tied around the shaft flapped in the warm breeze, the fabled panther of Araby stitched into the fine material seeming to buck and thrash, eager to tear into the enemy.

  'Heretics.' he snarled, his eyes burning with rage.

  Much to his astonishment the gathered Chaos warriors ignored him, a reaction that served only to further stoke the anger within his noble heart. Some of the fiends laughed and joked amongst themselves, almost as if heedless to the Knight Panther's presence. Others jostled and snarled, ogling the innocents behind him with eager, malicious eyes.

  Still, they made no attempt to advance. They were gathered as if waiting for something.

  Waiting for him.

  'The prayer,' the young woman whispered behind him, almost as if sensing his confusion. He glanced back at the small gathering of innocents, his mind reeling.

  'I prayed for you, my lord. It was Shallya who brought you here. I prayed for salvation. I asked the goddess to provide and she answered.'

  She lifted her head and threw a nod at the Chaos warriors.

  'They do not see you as I do. They are blinded to the presence of one so j
ust.'

  Ulgoth drew his head back as he heard this, confusion screaming like a banshee in his mind. He turned his attention towards the gathered heretics once more, his eyes narrowing.

  The Marauders continued to communicate raucously between themselves, utterly unconcerned by his presence.

  'Shallya is beneficence incarnate, lord,' the priestess continued, sensing his confusion. 'She is able to quell the darkest of souls, if only for a short time.' She bowed her head slowly, almost as if the gesture caused her physical pain. 'I prayed for a light to banish the darkness. You are that light.'

  He shook his head, his teeth bared. He found himself relaxing a little in the presence of the Chaos worshippers, his hard muscles loosening a little, though his anger and revulsion remained. The words of the priestess continued to whisper through his psyche.

  It was Shallya who brought you here. They do not see you as I do. She is able to quell the darkest of souls.

  You are that light.

  His felt his face tighten as his senses came flooding back, almost as if triggered by the mention of holy Shallya, Goddess of Mercy.

  'I...'

  He paused, unable to tear his eyes away from the gathered filth. Thrown, disorientated, his heart continued to beat hard within his chest.

  'I am Ulgoth, Knight Panther. Champion of the Empire.' He finally uttered, introducing himself to the lady as any gallant knight would.

  The Shallyan priestess smiled weakly as she heard this and she nodded, her red eyes narrowing with pain as she did so. 'Ulgoth, Champion of the Empire.' she echoed with a weak smile, her voice wavering now. The children around her, clearly terrified of the situation, squealed and pressed themselves closer into the folds of her simple sackcloth vestments. Quietly, gently, she whispered reassurances to the infants, her inaudible words seeming to calm them almost instantly.

  'I am Reya, lord.' the young woman continued, holding them tight to her breast. 'I am a servant of Shallya, a healer of the sick. I run this simple hospice in order to treat the child victims of the red pox here in the border regions.