by C. L. Werner
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 killer 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.
‘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 th
e 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.
