Warhammer - The Cold Hand of Betrayal

by Marc Gascoigne, Christian Dunn (ed) (lit)

  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.

  'Drive the rabble to the wallz!' the droning voice of Pulstlitz bellowed. 'Let them know we have come! Let them know Death iz here!'

  SABARRA STOOD WITHIN the old courtyard, sitting upon an upended barrel that had been cast aside by the priestesses when its contents had been distributed among their charges. The bounty hunter tried not to think about the sickly wretches lying all around him, focusing instead on the task at hand. The steel frame of his arquebus rested on his knees as the bounty hunter busied himself with scrubbing the inside of the barrel, removing any residual powder lingering within the weapon. It was a tedious, automatic task for Sabarra, and his mind did not need to concentrate upon his work. Instead, he mulled over his arrangement with Brunner and the price on Riano's head. Every hunt had its dangers, but with the red pox all around him, Sabarra was quickly coming to the conclusion that the wealth being offered for Riano was not equal to the risk.

  The sound of screams tore Sabarra from his labour. The bounty hunter turned his head in the direction from which the sound had come. It was repeated, and joined by others, becoming a cacophony of terror rising from outside the walls of the hospice. Sabarra jumped up, racing toward the narrow, cross-shaped windows that opened from the walls. He was swiftly joined by temple guards, priestesses and those supplicants still healthy enough to care about what was going on outside.

  The bounty hunter's view was partially blocked by the frightened, ragged bodies of the sick rabble that had been camped outside the hospice, their dirty hands and boil-ridden faces filling much of the window. But there were infrequent views of other figures beyond them, the creatures that had put the fear into the rabble and driven them to claw at the walls, begging for sanctuary. Sabarra grimaced, for he had seen their like not long ago - the same sort of diseased, mutated scum he had helped Brunner fight on the road to Decimas.

  The bounty hunter pulled away from the window, removing a small paper tube from one of the pouches on his belt, ripping it open with his teeth and pouring the blackpowder down the gaping mouth of his arquebus. Sabarra's hand rose to the belt of steel garros he wore, removing one of the deadly darts. But he hesitated as he prepared to pound the spike into the barrel of his weapon. He turned his eyes back to the windows, now completely filled by groping hands and desperate faces. He'd never be able to find a target with the rabble crowded so close to the temple. Whatever warlord led the Chaos vermin assaulting this place was crafty, herding the sick toward the walls to foil any archery that might be brought to bear on him.

  The sound of frenzied pounding at the massive wooden doors of the hospice rose above the screams and cries for mercy. The sounds of terror grew louder from the direction of the door and were soon punctuated by other sounds Sabarra knew only too well; the sounds of blades cutting into flesh and men choking upon their own blood. Temple guards tore themselves away from the windows, hurrying toward the doors. Several of the men put their shoulders to the portal, prepared to defend it against the coming attack.

  The guards leaning against the door withdrew, screaming in mortal agony. Sabarra cringed as he saw the skin sloughing away from their arms where they had been holding the door, the links of their chainmail visibly corroding as rust gnawed at them. Behind them, the door was similarly being assailed, the aged wood beginning to crumble and crack as rot consumed it. Iron fittings fell to the floor, devoured by rust. Wooden panels cracked and warped, as though infested with fungus. Far quicker than the eye could follow, the doors aged and withered, at last crashing inward.

  Armoured figures filled the opening beyond the door, grim shapes of steel and corruption, their faces hidden behind gruesome helmets. Beside them, leaning tiredly upon a staff of human bones, a goatheaded monster gestured proudly at its sorcerous handiwork. The armoured warriors paid the shaman little heed, striding forward across the ruined portal, crushing its rotten substance into dust beneath their feet.

  One of the warriors lifted his sword, filth dripping from its edge, pointing it at those cowering before his approach. A wrathful voice droned from behind the warrior's insect-shaped helm. 'Make of thizz plaze a zacrement to Nurgle!' the monster's voice roared. 'Leave none alive!'

  In response to the plague champion's wrath, three white-clad priestesses stepped forward, their voices lowered in a soft chant. Despite the severity of the situation, and the fact that in all likelihood he was going to die horribly in a matter of moments, Sabarra felt a sense of calm flow into him. The reaction of the Chaos warriors was markedly different. The armoured monsters flinched, taking several steps backward, seemingly repulsed by the soothing chant. The insect-helmed leader looked over toward his bestial shaman. The creature nodded its horned head and began to mutter in its own braying voice.

  Almost instantly, the sense of calm began to fade as the beastman's dark invocation fouled the very air. The Chaos warriors strode forward once more. The few temple guards who had not been reduced to screaming husks by the decaying sorcery of the shaman rushed forward, interposing themselves between the five warriors and the priestesses. Pulstlitz waved his warriors forward, content to allow them to slake their fury on the spearmen, just as he had been content to let the mob of mutants and pestigors bloody their blades on the rabble outside the walls of the hospice. The Chaos champion was interested in only one sort of prey, and with the few soldiers occupied there was no one to stand between himself and his prey.

  Pulstlitz glared down at the white-clad women. They refused to open their eyes, concentrating entirely upon their sacred prayer. The plague champion snorted derisively. Sometimes the most satisfying things in life were also the easiest to acquire. 'Tonight, you zhall cower before my god and beg hizz forgivenezz!' Pulstlitz lifted his blade, pausing to savour the moment, then brought the polluted steel rushing downward.

  The plague blade stopped short of striking flesh, the sound of crashing steel ringing out as another blade intercepted it. A dull fire seemed to glow within the keen edge of Drakesmalice as the enchanted blade crashed against the polluted metal of the Chaos sword. Pulstlitz recoiled from the unexpected parry. He turned his insect-eyed helm to face the fool who thought to stand between himself and those who had profaned his god.

  The brown sack-cloth of a supplicant hung about Brunner's pale figure, sweat dripping from his frame as he struggled to remain on his feet. The Tears of Shallya were posed of miraculous properties, but they were not able to instantly erase days of inactivity and fatigue. The plague champion chortled within his corroded helm. Here, perhaps, was a man worthy of killing, a soul that warranted being sent screaming to the Plague God. Pulstlitz nodded, then swung his foul blade at the bounty hunter's neck. Brunner intercepted the powerful stroke, turning it aside with a manoeuvre he had learned from a Tobaran duellist. The foolish man was skilled, Pulstlitz conceded, but he could not hope to fend off the plague blade indefinitely and it would take but a single scratch from the infected steel to kill him.

  However long their little struggle might last, Pulstlitz was certain of the outcome.

  SABARRA LIFTED THE heavy arquebus to his cheek, his narrowed eyes considering the carnage unfolding all around him. The guards were almost all dead, but the plague warriors had been mobbed by a desperate pack of supplicants, their malnourished forms clinging to the butchers, slowing the armoured giants with the weight of their dying bodies. Closer at hand, the leader of the plague warriors had been engaged by Brunner. How Sabarra's rival had been able to rise from his sick bed, much less find the strength to wield a sword, was a problem Sabarra would worry about later. The Tilean was relieved that Brunner had stopped the insect-helmed monster, because he had a feeling
that if the plague champion were to reach the priestesses, then no one would be leaving the hospice alive. There was another struggle going on, apart from the crash of swords. Gods were at battle here, striving against one another through their chosen priests.

  Sabarra turned the arquebus toward the archway, where the twisted shaman continued to bray and moan in its grisly voice. Sickly green light gleamed from the monsters eyes. Sabarra muttered a prayer to Shallya, then put the smouldering hemp match to the touch pan of his arquebus. The weapon shook as the blackpowder ignited and the roar of the discharge overwhelmed all other sounds. Almost at once, the sense of soothing calm returned to Sabarra. As the echoes of the shot faded, the chanting of the priestesses returned, now strident and loud, as though the tones were a caged river flowing through a broken dam. The smoke began to clear and Sabarra was pleased to see the steel spike of his garro sheathed in the dead beastman's skull.

  The plague warriors moaned as they reacted to the fading magic of their sorcerer. The loathsome runes carved upon their armour began to weep blood, and it was with painful, awkward movements that the monsters retreated back toward the archway. Outside, the frightened wail of the other plague creatures sounded, followed by the frenzied retreat of malformed shapes, slinking back into the comforting darkness of the woods.

  PULSTLITZ SHUDDERED AS the protective magics of the priestesses surrounded him. Without the baleful power of the shaman to counteract the magic energies, the antagonistic energies wracked the plague champion. He felt the healing powers of the goddess entering him, sapping his strength and coordination. The plague champion lifted his blade to ward off the bounty hunter, but the move was too slow. Brunner's sword bit into Pulstlitz's hand, tearing through the corrupt armour. The steel gauntlet dropped to the flagstones with a crash, the plague blade tumbling from its slack fingers. No hand filled the polluted glove, instead a mass of black-shelled cockroaches scuttled into the light, their hideous shapes crumbling as the hostile energies drove the corruption from their tiny shapes.

  Pulstlitz, clutching the stump of his arm to his chest, retreated before Brunner. The monster gave a droning howl of fury, then turned and raced from the courtyard. Brunner watched him go, sagging weakly to the ground. He was not one to leave an enemy alive, but what strength had been restored to him had been all but spent during their brief duel. He had a feeling, however, that their paths would cross again, and that only one of them would walk away from that encounter.

  Sabarra walked toward the Reiklander, crouching beside him on the flagstones. The Tilean looked Brunner up and down, a cold smile tugging at his weasel-like face.

  'So,' Sabarra said, 'it looks like you're recovered. Suppose we have that little talk now?'

  BRUNNER STALKED THROUGH the corridors of the hospice like a wolf on the prowl. He had mended his armour, wearing it now once more, his weapons again hanging from his belt. The last traces of the red boils were slowly fading away, sinking back into his skin. Miraculous was the only word to describe the fantastic elixir Elisia had given him. The bounty hunter saw the priestess crouched beside one of the pallets in the ward he had so recently inhabited. He strode down the narrow path between the sick beds toward her.

  Sabarra had been quite hasty in his departure, leaving Brunner to complete his recovery on his own. Brunner hoped that his rival was having a nice time in the little village of Montorri. He hadn't lied to Sabarra, Montorri was indeed where Riano's uncle lived. He had simply failed to mention that he no longer had any reason to believe Riano would be found there.

  Elisia looked up as the bounty hunter's shadow fell across her, the hate undimmed in her eyes. Brunner respected that, a woman of principle and standards. It had been out of respect for that quality in her and what she had done for him that he had waited this long. The smart move would have been to act as quickly as possible, to reduce how much time Sabarra had to realise his mistake. Instead, Brunner had bided his time.

  'How is he?' the bounty hunter asked. Elisia glared at him, wiping a lock of stray hair from her face.

  'What you have been waiting for has happened,' she told him, her voice as hard as the roots of the Grey Mountains. 'The red pox has won. He is dead.' Elisia smoothed the front of her robe as she rose to her feet. 'You are no better than a vulture, a jackal,' she spat. Brunner did not bother to contradict her, instead he stared down into the dead man's face, the face he had recognised when Sabarra had brought him into this room. The face of Riano. When plague had struck Decimas, the outlaw had fled here. If Brunner still gave any thought to the gods, he might have seen the workings of fate that he and Riano should meet by so strange a turn of circumstance. But the bounty hunter no longer gave much thought to gods, only gold.

  'Have some of your people help me drag him outside,' Brunner told Elisia, his gloved hand closed about the massive serrated knife he had named the Headsman. 'That way you won't have far to carry the part I don't need.'

  IN THE SERVICE OF SIGMAR

  by Adam Troke

  The beginning of the end.

  LUKAS LOWERED HIS shoulder and threw his weight against the doorway. The force of his body shattered the rusted lock which held the door closed and bent the hinges apart in an instant, causing Lukas to stumble, drawn on by his own momentum. He fell out of the stinking apothecary and into the alley beyond. The first dim rays of morning shone onto his face, chasing away the darkness and the horror that lay behind him. Gasping for breath, he tugged sharply at the rope that secured his burden, a white-faced and injured man who staggered a few paces behind him. He cast his eyes over the group assembled before him in the morning mist.

  A dozen soldiers, clad in black leathers and armed with brightly polished halberds formed a defensive line between Lukas and three other figures all of which the young warrior recognised. The first was Rosabella, cradling her injured arm, her face drawn and her brow beaded with sweat despite the cool of the morning.

  Next in the group was Henckler. Kriesmann Henckler, Templar of the Cult of Sigmar, a witch hunter. Short, barely five feet if Lukas's eye was any judge, with the kind of fat that a man has when he eats far too much and exercises far too little. His hair was thin and receded, as if he was losing the battle to remain thatched. He stood hunched behind the warriors, apparently ill at ease, regardless of his halberd-armed protectors and unassailable status. The third figure towered over the rest like a warrior from legend. Tall and strong, with a nose hooked like a hunting hawk, Constantin Brandaur was the very embodiment of a knight, the Grand Master of the Order of the Hammer. Lukas looked at him and his heart soared. Brandaur was here, his work was done.

  'Take him into custody.' murmured the witch hunter, pointing a finger at the battered figure that Lukas held bound.

  At Henckler's command, half of the halberd-armed warriors pressed forwards, seized him from Lukas and dragged him away by the rope. A thousand pleas and excuses bubbled forth from his cracked and bruised lips. He scrabbled and clawed at the muck and litter coating the alley floor, pulling desperately against the rope, terror widening his eyes and giving him a burst of desperate courage. Indifferent to his pathetic supplications, the soldiers silenced his new-found protests of innocence with a balled fist to the guts. They had heard it all hundreds of times before and they certainly had no interest in the lies of another heretic damned to die, not this early in the morning.

  Breaking away from the templar master and Rosabella, Henckler stepped towards Lukas, his beady eyes glinting. With a gesture he waved the young warrior over to him, and Lukas obeyed at once, eager to please his employer and be done with the night's business. They paused in the shelter of a boarded-up doorway, huddling conspiratorially in its lee. With a small cough to clear his throat the witch hunter spoke again.

  'Lukas, my boy,' he said, keeping his voice low. 'You managed your errand then?' It was not a question that needed an answer, and Lukas stayed his tongue until comment was required. 'There are things I need to ask you about tonight, Lukas.' The man's voice was quiet and
intense, and his eyes glistened eagerly. Licking his fat lips to moisten them, he continued. 'I need to know everything that happened, every detail. What happened to the...' he groped for a word, his mouth working silently for a moment, 'the product, where it ended up? How you were able to slay the enemy. Any wounds you suffered. Tell me boy, tell me everything.'

  Lukas swallowed hard, and nodded, running a gloved hand through his hair before clearing his throat and beginning, omitting no detail.

  Be honest in all your dealings, though it may cost you your life.

  IT WAS FREEZING cold, and dangerously dark in the alleyway, as Lukas Atzwig slowly picked his way through the altquarter towards his target. Tall and strong, with smartly cropped blond hair and a handsome face that bore only a few scars and no pockmarks, Lukas was an imposing figure. Clad in black and brown leathers, with a sword at his side and a knife in his boot he was well protected for the night's work. The small box was in his left hand, leaving his right free to protect himself if the need arose. The crunch and squelch of detritus beneath his feet and the scuttling of small, creeping things were the only sounds. Even the shrieks and cries that punctuated any normal Altdorf night seemed curiously absent as Lukas picked his way from one alleyway to the next.

  The instructions were simple enough, he reasoned, stepping over a deep pool of stinking liquid. Gain entry by making use of their abhorrent secret sign. Traverse their foul underground domain, and locate Garramond Kerr. Capture him and slay his accomplices. Bring the 'product' back to the witch hunter, and leave everything within as it was found, to facilitate his investigations.

  Lukas Atzwig was a squire in the Order of the Hammer and danger held little fear for him now - he had seen far too much. For seven years he had served Gotthard Jaeger with enthusiasm and dedication, but the old knight had fallen in battle at Middenheim, hewn down by a servant of Chaos, leaving Lukas masterless and totally at the mercy of the order. And merciful though it was, the order could not merely elevate someone of low birth such as Lukas to a full knight, merely because his master had died - such an act would be at odds with the noble lineage of the order and make mockery of its heritage. Constantin Brandaur had explained this to him in hushed tones the day that Gotthard had fallen. If there was anything he could have done, he would have. The grand master assured him of that.