by C. L. Werner
‘Crimes?’ The baron’s swinish laugh grunted across the room. ‘Crimes are your matter, Lord High Justice. Do not bother me with such petty details.’ The baron continued to gorge himself, crunching bones as he broke them apart to suck the marrow within.
‘I speak of the atrocity at Otwin Keep.’ Markoff snarled. ‘I speak of the massacre perpetrated on your orders, entire families slaughtered to appease your fear of the plague.’
‘I rule Wurtbad,’ the baron retorted, his voice like a boot sinking into mud. ‘My word is law. My will governs the land. The city and all within it are mine. Mine. If they live to see the dawn it is because I have allowed it.’
Markoff took a step toward the bed. ‘There are laws that are beyond those of any temporal ruler, baron. Laws even the Emperor himself must acknowledge and respect.’ The magistrate gave no warning of his intentions. Even the soldiers, who had been watching Markoff closely, were unprepared when he ripped a dagger from beneath his clothing and leapt toward the bed. ‘The thousands butchered in your name cry out for justice and by my hand they shall have it, monster.’
The curtains were torn aside. The sight they had concealed impacted upon Markoff like a brick wall. The dagger fell from his fingers, his knees crumpled as their strength withered. ‘Monster,’ he had called von Gotz – but in his darkest nightmares, Markoff could never have imagined how fitting the epithet truly was. A moan of horror surged from the magistrate’s body as reason crumbled within his mind.
The soldiers rushed forward, eyes locked not upon the horror they called sovereign, but on the shuddering assassin. They drove the shafts of their halberds into the man’s back, spilling him to the floor. Only then did they chance to gaze upon the source of Markoff’s terror.
It surged forward, the thing sprawling across the bed like an enormous pustule. Arms that were twice the length of a man’s reached forward, a clawed, scabrous hand closing about the neck of one of the guards like a hangman’s noose. The soldier did not have time to utter the scream welling up inside him. As though it were killing a chicken, the thing twisted the soldier’s neck, killing him with a sickening pop. His comrade shrieked, hurling his halberd into the thing’s face and retreating back toward the door.
He might have escaped, for the thing baron von Gotz had become was not a thing of swiftness and grace. But Furchtegott could not allow the man to live, could not let him carry this episode of horror away with him before the wizard had a chance to correct the terrible mistake he had made. Furchtegott exerted his will and the door slammed close, held fast by invisible tendrils of irresistible force. The guard screamed again, smashing and clawing at the door, his nails digging deep scratches into the wood. The baron’s corrupt bulk waddled slowly towards him, clawed hands outstretched.
‘Traitors,’ the baron spat. ‘Murderers and assassins all!’ The baron’s obscene bulk loomed over the prone form of Igor Markoff. The once-feared Lord High Justice was mewing pathetically, his mind broken by the hideous thing he had dared to challenge. ‘I am Baron Friedo von Gotz! Lord of Wurtbad, master of the Empire’s most glorious city!’ The baron’s malformed claw drooped to the floor, snatching up Markoff’s cringing form as though the man weighed no more than a doll. Furchtegott could hear the magistrate muttering and mumbling in his delirium, sobbing again and again the name ‘Silja’. The baron pulled the magistrate toward the shapeless lump that served him as a face, the gigantic, gash-like mouth opening like the maw of a shark, displaying craggy, rotten teeth. Furchtegott closed his eyes as the baron’s jaws snapped close and Markoff’s muttering was silenced.
‘This is a great day,’ the baron said, when the sounds of flesh being ripped from bone had receded into Furchtegott’s nightmares. Neither the guards nor Markoff would be telling anyone what they had seen. ‘A terrible traitor to the Empire has been unmasked and destroyed. There must be celebration.’ The grotesque mound resting atop the baron’s shoulders shook up and down. ‘Yes, all the city must celebrate. I shall make a proclamation and you shall record it for me, dear master wizard. I am going to declare a festival. The food stores shall be thrown open and distributed to the people as a reward for their loyalty. Anyone found not feasting shall be hanged as a traitor.’
The baron’s voice trailed off into swinish laughter. ‘I shall open the palace, too. It shall be a great festivity, such as Wurtbad has not seen since the last vampire count was destroyed at Hel Fenn.’ A claw-like finger pointed at the wizard. ‘You must make out the invitations, Furchtegott, I can trust no one else with such an honour.’
Furchtegott smiled uneasily at the hulking monster. The baron’s mind was deteriorating even more swiftly than his body, but the wizard knew better than to challenge his insane notions. He obediently approached a writing table and readied quill and parchment. Out of one eye, Furchtegott could see the monster slurping down the bowl of soup the wizard had poisoned.
‘One should always wash down meat with broth,’ the baron burped, tossing the empty bowl aside. Furchtegott felt the last vestiges of hope curl up and die inside him. Even troll vomit seemed unable to kill the abomination! An even more horrible possibility presented itself as the baron began to dictate his decree. Perhaps the thing that von Gotz had become could not be killed.
It had not taken long for their tireless workforce to excavate the compromised section of the wall. Beyond the broken brickwork, the zombies exposed a dank tunnel of earth, the walls uneven and crude, scratched as if by giant claws. The bricks they had torn down appeared to have been intended for removal, held by a simple clay that broke easily beneath the attention of an axe or a pick. Carandini did not like to think upon what sort of creatures had engineered such a tunnel and hidden it so cunningly. Goblins, perhaps, though they would have used tools more akin to those of men rather than the claw-like implements the diggers of this tunnel had employed.
‘In that direction,’ Sibbechai hissed, stepping into the tunnel beside Carandini. The vampire pointed to the north. ‘The tunnel joins a crossroads ahead, we follow the left branch.’ Carandini willed his zombies to lead the way. The passageway might be deserted, but the necromancer would not take any further chances. Sibbechai seemed to sense his fear, its skull-like face grinning at him from the darkness.
The tunnel continued for fifty feet before linking with the crossroads. Carandini was quietly impressed by the vampire’s vision, the monster penetrating the darkness as well as a mortal man could see in the sunlight. It was yet another disturbing detail to add to Sibbechai’s list of strengths, another obstacle to overcome when the time came to break their tenuous alliance.
Carandini watched the zombies shuffle deeper into the tunnel, disturbed to hear the sound of their feet sloshing through water. It explained the persistent stench of the sewer, even in the tunnel. The filthy water was seeping through the earthen walls. The necromancer noted that the low ceiling of the tunnel would prevent his undead porters from carrying him as they had before. Whatever had dug these tunnels was not disturbed by confined spaces.
The zombies completed the intersection, waiting for the puppeteer to tug at their strings and give them new tasks to perform. Carandini watched Sibbechai’s gaunt shadow disappear to the left. At least if anything was waiting for them, the vampire would discover it first. It brought a greasy smile to the necromancer’s face, which faded when he discovered the extent of the seepage. The tunnel ahead of them was like a subterranean swamp, a stinking quagmire festering between the crudely excavated walls. The Tilean snarled a curse on the unknown builders of the passage, willing his slaves forward before Sibbechai’s skeletal shape vanished completely from view.
The reeking filth of the sewer lapped about his knees as he walked. Side tunnels opened onto the passageway, dark, cave-like openings that sent a chill of unease up Carandini’s spine as he passed, wondering what might be watching their intrusion with malevolent, inhuman eyes. Several times, he fancied that he heard a soft, scuttling sound, or the hiss of bestial voices. Nervously, the necromance
r willed several of his zombie slaves to walk behind him and protect his back.
They had proceeded several hundred yards through the darkness when the fear gnawing at his spine finally manifested itself. The necromancer stumbled into his fifth pothole, spilling himself into the filthy water. He rose from the muck, his cassock dripping stagnant brown water. Then he saw Sibbechai turn from where it stood a dozen yards deeper into the tunnel, its fiery eyes blazing. At first the Tilean believed the monster was simply gloating at his discomfort, but then he recognised an intense wariness. Sibbechai’s voice rasped from the darkness.
‘We are not alone,’ it hissed. ‘The underfolk are coming.’
No sooner did the vampire speak, than Carandini detected the squirming, splashing sound of many bodies racing up the tunnel behind him, a squeaking noise growing from a faint murmur into a distinct roar. Sibbechai returned its attention to the tunnel ahead as dozens of eyes gleamed at the vampire from the darkness. Carandini willed his zombies to form a defensive line around him. The vampire could attend to its own welfare.
Then they were upon them, a snarling, squeaking mass of vermin. The tunnel crawled with the verminous shapes, the pungent stink of their fur overcoming even the stench of the sewer water. Carandini saw a riot of shapes and forms, small brown rats swimming through the water alongside vermin the size of dogs. Most hideous were those that scuttled forward on two legs, loathsome mockeries of men carrying rusty knives and driftwood spears. Some of the creatures wore tattered rags about their furry bodies, others went naked, their fur pitted and marred where ugly symbols had been branded into their hides. These were hurled against the defensive line of Carandini’s zombies like a living wave. The ratmen slashed into his undead guards with knives and claws, their fangs gnashing together as they chittered their fury.
Carandini drew back, with the words of a spell on his lips. Even in Tilea tales were told of the underfolk, the foul skaven. His native Miragliano had been repeatedly attacked by the creatures, plagued by their corruption for countless generations. There was little Carandini held in common with the men of his homeland, his dark studies setting him as a breed apart. But the necromancer remembered the old hatred of his race, the ancient enemy of his people. It was a hate deeper than his contempt for the men of the Empire, a hate that dwelled in his blood. The necromancer stretched forth his hand, invoking the terrible name of the Power. Several of the skaven shrieked, steam rising from their mangy fur. The vermin turned to scurry back into the shadows, but found themselves blocked by the spears and swords of their own kind.
The necromancer exerted his will once more. The skaven squealed as their fur fell from their bodies, as the flesh beneath shrivelled into leather, the blood in their veins turning to dust. Before the horrified eyes of their comrades, the creatures toppled into the filthy water, their bodies reduced to mummified husks. The skaven attack faltered, the vermin chittering in fear, then surged forward once more. Carandini urged the remaining zombies to close ranks around him while he called upon the Power once more. But nearly half of his undead guards had been dragged down by the ratmen’s savage assault.
Further down the tunnel, Sibbechai confronted the advance packs of the skaven. Dozens of chittering monsters clawed and hacked at the vampire with an inhuman swiftness nearly the equal of its own. But if the vermin were fast, they lacked the supernatural strength of the vampire. While their claws and knives ripped ineffectively into Sibbechai’s withered flesh, its talons tore open their throats, snapped their limbs and crushed their skulls. The vampire snarled its own rage and fury, licking black skaven blood from its talons. With seven of their number strewn about it, the skaven cringed, squealing in fright. Sibbechai saw a large, white-furred warrior, its scarred face scowling at the vampire, barking furious orders at the cowardly soldiers. The vampire glared back at the skaven leader. It had not come so close to achieving its destiny in order to let a mob of subhuman scum cheat it of victory.
Large brown rats milled about the tunnel, squeaking in confusion. Urged to attack by the musk-scent of the skaven, the rats had followed their more advanced relations. But the object of their aggression had filled their tiny minds with fear. The mind of an animal could feel the profane energies that gave the vampire its pseudo-life, the power that exuded from the undead monster. The rats quivered and whined, goaded to attack by the musk-scent of the skaven but repulsed by the unnatural life-force of the vampire. Then, almost as a single creature, the rats grew still. Their confusion was at an end.
Sibbechai extended its clawed hand, stabbing a talon in the direction of the white-furred skaven. ‘Kill,’ it hissed, its smouldering eyes glowing like embers in the darkness. The rats surged forward, their beady red eyes mirroring the glow of the vampire’s. The skaven chittered in terror as the swarm engulfed them, gnawing and tearing at their flesh. The leader was barking orders to its warriors as a tide of brown death swept over it, tiny bodies worrying at its furred limbs, clawing at its rodent face. The skaven tore desperately at the wriggling, gnawing beasts, but for every one it ripped free, ten more leapt upon it. Soon, the creature’s white fur was blackened with blood and it plummeted into the water about its feet, writhing weakly as the rats continued to chew on its ravaged flesh.
With the death of their leader, the remaining ratmen scurried back down the tunnels, squealing in fright. Sibbechai watched them flee, annoyed that it could not expend the power to destroy them all. Perhaps once Das Buch die Unholden was in its hands, the vampire would return to settle with the vermin. But that was for a later time. The vampire turned, looking toward where Carandini had made his stand. Sibbechai still needed the necromancer. It would have been inconvenient if the skaven had managed to kill him.
Carandini stood at the centre of a circle of charred, withered bodies. Only a handful of the necromancer’s zombies remained, their rotten flesh torn asunder, many of them lacking arms and hands where the skaven had hacked them from their bodies. The Tilean met the vampire’s gaze. Sibbechai could see the fear and loathing behind the necromancer’s eyes.
‘What do we do now?’ Carandini demanded.
‘We proceed,’ Sibbechai replied, its voice a cold whisper.
‘We cannot,’ protested Carandini. ‘What if they return? Neither do we have enough zombies left to dig our way into the castle.’ Sibbechai sneered at the necromancer’s fear.
‘Then make more,’ it hissed back. ‘There is no lack of material to work with.’ It gestured with its clawed hands at the twisted, mangled remains of the skaven floating in the stagnant water all around them. ‘The vermin have not diminished our workforce, they have added to it.’
Silja’s tidings had indeed been ill. She had confronted her father at the Ministry of Justice, admonishing him for his role in the destruction of Otwin Keep. Rather than refuting her accusations, the old magistrate had quietly accepted the blame, with no more justification than fear of Baron von Gotz, sovereign ruler of Wurtbad, and the nobleman’s growing madness.
Mathias Thulmann had listened to Silja, hearing in her voice only the palest echo of the strength and conviction he had become accustomed to. The Lord High Justice’s complicity in the baron’s hideous edict had crushed her spirit, her father’s failure to stand firm before such horrendous misuse of power had broken her. The witch hunter knew that no words he could speak would comfort the pain in her heart. She looked upon him in pained misery, a desperate pleading in her gaze.
Thulmann took her in his arms, holding her tightly, willing the pain to flow out of her and into him. Silja’s body trembled as the tension slowly faded, eased by the simple solace of the touch of another human being. The witch hunter’s hand kneaded the back of her neck, trying to soothe the stress he felt tight beneath the skin. Almost against his will, he found trite words of comfort, promises that all would turn out for the best. Silja did not seem to notice their vapidity, or the emptiness of their reassurances. Her only reaction had been to hold the witch hunter still more tightly, her breath hot upon his
shoulder.
Thulmann slowly pulled away, uncomfortable with where this moment might lead. He had claimed the affection of a woman once, and that love had ended in a tragedy that nearly destroyed him. Such things were for other men. Men who walked beneath the clean light of the sun, men who did not skulk in the shadows of night, chasing the dread Dark Powers. Silja deserved better than Thulmann could ever offer her, even if he dared. As he released the woman, a regretful smile cast its pall upon his face. He saw a brief flicker of fresh pain flash cross Silja’s features and felt a twinge of agony somewhere deep inside himself.
‘You need rest,’ Thulmann said. ‘I will have the servants prepare a room for you, Fraulein Markoff. Please accept the humble hospitality of the Order of Sigmar.’ The witch hunter bowed before his guest, then turned. ‘If you will forgive me, there are pressing matters I must attend to which I dare not delay longer.’
‘Perhaps you might allow me to help,’ Silja offered. The need in her eyes touched Thulmann’s heart. She wanted something to distract her from the black thoughts clouding her mind, until the pain she was feeling became dulled. Against this he weighed the twisted, grotesque thing lying in one corner of the old torture chamber, the terrible horror his men were even now breaking their backs to unearth. The image of soft white flesh being torn by the claws and fangs of malformed monsters.
Thulmann shook his head. ‘No, this is a matter for my order to resolve. I must decline your gracious offer.’ The witch hunter opened the door, stepping into the corridor. ‘Get some rest, we shall talk more in the morning.’
Then he was gone, leaving Silja alone with her doubts and fears. With no observer to steel her nerves, Silja dropped down into one of the antique chairs, her pretence of strength dispelled like a magician’s illusion. She thought again of her father, hidden away within his fortress, drinking his soul numb. He had always seemed such a good and honourable man. She thought again of the witch hunter. He too seemed a good and honourable man. But if she had been so wrong about a man she had known all her life, how could she put any faith in a man she had met only days ago?
