The Corrupted

by Robert Earl - (ebook by Undead)

  Grendel, his fingers locked in position, strolled over to gaze down at them.

  What power he had found here, what wisdom.

  Then, with a sudden thunderbolt of inspiration, he knew what he should name this conjuration.

  “Grendel’s Bag of Delights,” he said out loud.

  It was perfect, he thought.

  If only he had somebody to share it with.

  Menshka sat on an empty ale barrel, a long-stemmed pipe in his hand. The great gate of Kislev yawned open beside him, hungrily swallowing the stream of traffic that flowed in from the plains beyond, and at his back, the cliff of the city wall reached up towards the slate grey sky.

  Menshka’s men stood around him, idly watching the crowd. They rested on their staves or leant against the wall. Some of them chatted about nothing. Others toyed with dice, or looked blankly out towards the plains beyond. Menshka himself seemed scarcely awake. His armoured form was swaddled in a fur cloak that would have served as a blanket, and the movements of his eyes were hidden behind the smoke that plumed upwards.

  To the uninitiated, he and his men seemed as lazy and disinterested as any other gang of idling thugs. In the midst of such sloth, it was easy to miss the surgical sharpness to which their weapons had been honed, the care with which there armour had been oiled, the hard edges of their eyes, and the thick sinews of their muscles.

  Menshka and his detail had long since learned to wear other people’s prejudices as their disguise. Leave all the strutting to the guards stationed within the gatehouse itself, that was the way. Let them draw the furtive glances of those who had something to hide.

  His job was to wait, to watch, and to decide which of the travellers might be more, or less than they seemed.

  It was a job he had grown good at over the years, and he spotted the eight warriors as soon as they emerged from the rest of the throng.

  They were warriors, he was sure of that. Despite the ragged cloaks in which they were swathed, and despite the bony carthorses that most of them rode, their profession showed in everything about them. From the scars that marked them to the set of their shoulders, Menshka knew fellow killers when he saw them.

  Puffing out a fresh cloud of smoke, he slumped his shoulders even more, and pretended to look away. He waited until he could see the pale blue of the lead horseman’s eyes before taking the pipe from his mouth and tapping it hard upon the side of the barrel.

  Behind him, stationed within the long arch of the gate, the plumed and silvered gate keeper carried on staring into space. Menshka sighed inwardly. The carelessness of this inbred idiot was anything but an act.

  He tapped his pipe again, banging it until the fool finally saw the signal. Then he busied himself with cleaning the smouldering bowl, concentrating on the task as if it was the most important thing in the world.

  His own men, he was glad to see, hadn’t needed the signal. They’d spotted the riders as soon as he had. As the last of the ragged horsemen entered the tunnel that cut through the walls, Menshka’s men closed in behind them.

  It was a slow manoeuvre, ragged and seemingly coincidental. The men even continued their conversations until, with a well practiced gesture, the captain of the gate stepped in front of the riders and thrust out his palm.

  “Halt, stranger,” he said, the acoustics of the gateway lending his voice a boom of authority. Liking the sound of it, he repeated himself. “Halt!”

  The horsemen stopped. Their leader, his face as impassive as the granite of the walls, looked at the officer who stood before him.

  The gate keeper waited for him to speak. When he didn’t, he frowned uncertainly, and his eyes flicked towards Menshka. The strangers’ leader followed the look, twisting in his saddle to level those dead eyes on Menshka instead of the official.

  “Who is in charge here?” the stranger asked, his voice as level as slate. “You or him?”

  Menshka grunted with amusement. If ever he’d spotted wolves in sheep’s clothing it had been today.

  “I don’t know what you mean, Tovaritch,” he replied. “The general there is the gate keeper.”

  The stranger, who had lapsed back into silence, continued to stare at him. Then he nodded.

  “As you like,” he told Menshka, and turned back to the captain of the gate. “How can we help you?”

  “You can tell me why you think we should allow you access into our fair city,” the officer said. From behind the strangers a merchant barked with sarcastic laughter.

  “We have business here,” the leader said.

  “What sort of business?”

  “Important business.”

  The officer’s eyes hardened, and he pushed out his chest. He hadn’t liked the laughter, and he certainly didn’t like these evasions. Menshka had obviously been right about these fellows, although he had no idea how the old rogue managed to pick them out. It took a one to know one, he supposed.

  “Important business is it?” the officer asked. “And where would this important business have originated? In the north, by the look of you.”

  A sudden stillness fell upon both the guards and Menshka’s men.

  “No, our business has come from the south,” the stranger said, his voice as calm as ever.

  The men began to relax. If he was prepared to take such an insult then there should be no bloodshed, but the gatekeeper, his ego inflated by his unchallenged insolence, decided to make things worse.

  “I have heard that there are many cultists in the south, many weak and corrupt followers of the Dark Gods. You have the look of a southerner yourself.”

  The stranger nodded.

  “Yes, there are many in the south who await the judgement of Sigmar. Although we are here for one who has come north.”

  “So you say,” the gatekeeper said, his voice turning into a petulant whine, despite the boom of the acoustics.

  Menshka had had enough.

  “For Ulric’s sake, will you two stop bandying words? You sound like two old women haggling over a hen. You, stranger, who are your people, and why have you come to this city? Don’t tell me that you’re merchants. I know warriors when I see them.”

  The stranger nodded, the scars that patterned his shaved head pale in the gloom of the gateway.

  “Very well. My name is Vaught, and my comrades are witch hunters. We are here to find a man, a sorcerer. The prince regent of Altdorf has charged us with bringing him to the cleansing flame of Sigmar’s judgement. Now, if you will stand aside,” he continued, turning back to the gatekeeper, “we will be about our business.”

  The plumed idiot looked so surprised at Vaught’s arrogance that Menshka actually laughed. “Your business,” he said, “is to go and present yourself at the palace. You can tell our ruler all about your prince regent and your cleansing flames. I will be interested to see his reaction.”

  Vaught frowned. “I don’t have time for such aristocratic nonsense,” he said, waving a dismissive hand towards the gatekeeper.

  “Yes,” Menshka replied, “you do.”

  He tugged his earlobe and, at the signal, the ragged cloaks of his men fell back. There was a serpent’s sigh of menace, and the shadows of the gate came alive with the glitter of steel.

  Vaught raised his own hand, fingers open, and his own men took their hands off their sword hilts.

  “Very well,” he said. “We will go and pay our respects to your leader, but we are impatient to be about Sigmar’s work.”

  “I’ll be sure to tell the chamberlain that,” Menshka said. “Now, if you gentlemen will be kind enough to dismount, I will show you the way.”

  “Menshka, I think you have overstepped your authority,” the gatekeeper complained. “As keeper of the gate, it is my—”

  “Be quiet,” Menshka snapped, “and don’t just stand there with a face liked a smacked arse. Get out of the way.”

  “As keeper of the gate—” he whined.

  “Not anymore,” Menshka said. There was no point trying to hide his autho
rity. “I want you replaced. Tomorrow I want an officer here who isn’t an idiot. Do you understand?”

  The captain flushed bright red, and his hand dropped to his sword hilt. Then he swallowed, turned, and stamped off.

  “Idiot sons of rich fathers,” Menshka told Vaught, who had dismounted to stand beside him. “It’s a devil to work with them, isn’t it?”

  Vaught shook his head.

  “In our order, a man rises or falls according to his ability.”

  Menshka looked at him.

  “Well, good for you,” he told the miserable man, and then led off towards the palace.

  “All petitioners kneel before the Tsaritsa of Praag, Boyaressa Illyova Puskinazi.”

  The great hall fell silent as a hundred voices were hushed and a hundred knees bent. The rustle of cloth was magnified by the vaulted heights of the audience chamber, and the click of empty scabbards and spurs echoed around the forest of granite columns.

  In spite of himself, Vaught had been impressed by this vast chamber. As he knelt amongst the other supplicants, he reminded himself that there was nothing impressive about these northern folk. For all their strength, they were not followers of Sigmar, and if they weren’t followers of Sigmar, then they were nothing.

  Emboldened by such thoughts, he looked up just as a fanfare of trumpets heralded the arrival of a young woman.

  “Who’s this wench?” Fargo whispered. “I thought Praag was ruled by a Gospodar governor appointed by the Tzarina. This girl can’t be more than eighteen!”

  “They’re foreigners. Who knows,” replied Vaught. “Maybe she’s just a figurehead. Look at her. What could she know about ruling a city? No doubt the governor runs the show.”

  A dozen heads turned to glare disapprovingly at the two witch hunters, and Fargo fell silent. Vaught could see why he had been so surprised. The Tsaritsa seemed little more than a waif, her slender form dwarfed by the oak block of her throne, and by the bodyguards who stood behind her. As Vaught watched, she said something to her herald, and he stepped forwards to speak.

  “Be standing for the Tsaritsa,” he boomed, and everybody clambered back to their feet. Some of the older merchants wheezed with the unaccustomed effort, and here and there joints popped like cracking ice.

  The Tsaritsa may be young, Vaught thought as he watched her, but she was fair. Her hair was so blonde that it was almost as white as the fur cloak she wore, and her kohl-darkened eyes were as soft as a doe’s.

  She spoke again to her herald.

  “Kneel for the Tsaritsa,” he boomed, the rich baritone of his voice rolling across the room.

  Vaught and Fargo looked at each other, and then joined the other petitioners as they sank once more to their knees. The old man beside him grimaced through his beard as he knelt.

  Again the little princess spoke to the herald, and again the herald spoke.

  “Stand in the presence of the Tsaritsa,” he said.

  “Here, grandfather,” Fargo said to the old man besides him. “I’ll help you.”

  Gripping the old man’s elbow, he helped him back to his feet, and was rewarded with an embarrassed smile.

  The Tsaritsa waited until everybody was standing before whispering to her herald.

  “The Tsaritsa commands you,” he said, and then paused as several of the petitioners dropped to their knees.

  When they looked up in confusion, the Tsaritsa broke into a peal of laughter. The courtiers around her, taking this as their cue, joined in with the merriment, and the petitioners followed them. Their laughter echoed back from the stone heights, as harsh as the cawing of a flock of crows.

  Vaught and Fargo exchanged a glance. The witch hunter was hardly aware of the disapproving scowl on his face until the Tsaritsa herself noticed it. Her eyes fixed on him, and the sycophants’ laughter died as swiftly as her own. She whispered something to the herald, who pointed an accusing finger at Vaught.

  “You,” he called, disapproval evident in every perfectly formed syllable. “The Tsaritsa will speak to you.”

  There was a murmur of protest from those who waited at the front of the room. Vaught didn’t blame them. Menshka had told him that they had been waiting here all night, but however long they had been waiting, all it took was a flutter from their ruler’s eyes to silence them.

  Vaught ignored them as he strode forwards, Fargo following behind. The herald bustled forwards to meet him. Although a pallid, weak-looking man, he pushed through the assembled petitioners with the assurance of a barbarian chieftain.

  “Oh dear,” he said when he saw who Vaught was. “You’re the fellows from Altdorf, aren’t you? You haven’t made a very good impression, I’m afraid.”

  Everybody around stood stock still, ears almost twitching.

  The herald coughed and raised his voice.

  “Bow to the Tsaritsa as you approach the dais,” he instructed, his voice haughty as before. “Address the Tsaritsa as Tsaritsa, but don’t speak to her at all unless she speaks to you first.”

  He walked the witch hunters forwards until he was standing at the edge of the platform. It was waist high, and Vaught had to look up to see the Tsaritsa as she perched on her throne. Despite the trappings of courtly life, she retained the sinuous grace of a wild animal.

  “Who are you?” she asked, watching the witch hunter through lazily lowered lashes.

  “I am Vaught, Tsaritsa,” Vaught said, “and this is my comrade Fargo. We are here to execute a traitor.”

  “Are you now?” The Tsaritsa asked. “That sounds like fun.”

  The courtiers who waited behind the throne shifted uneasily.

  “It is my duty,” Vaught shrugged.

  “It’s my duty, Tsaritsa,” the herald prompted, but his mistress waved him into silence.

  “Your duty,” she asked, leaning forwards in sudden interest. “Is that how you got those scars?”

  “Yes, Tsaritsa.”

  She looked at him, her eyes as blue as his own, and licked her lips. “I hear that cousin Karl’s witch hunters are very enthusiastic about their duty. You burn people, don’t you? Tie them up and set fire to them.”

  “Yes, Tsaritsa.”

  “Even children. You burn them too?”

  Vaught remained as impassive as ever.

  “Sometimes, Tsaritsa.”

  They held each other’s gaze.

  “You burn children, yet you make no justification,” she said. It was more statement than question.

  “I need no justification. I follow my duty to whatever conclusion.”

  The Tsaritsa sat back, her eyes alight with some strange excitement.

  “Yes, I suppose you do. The prince regent certainly speaks highly of you in his letter.” She waved a disinterested hand to the pile of papers that lay on a table beside her. “Do you know, I am looking forward to hearing about your hunt. I have only one condition.”

  “What is that, Tsaritsa?”

  “When you catch this man, the one you are after, don’t bum him until you have informed me. I want to watch. By the way, what is the name of the unfortunate creature?”

  “Grendel, Tsaritsa.”

  One of the courtiers who waited behind the throne choked, and raised a hand to his mouth. Vaught looked at him. Although young, and as beautiful as the Tsaritsa herself, he looked sickly, debauched. There was something wrong with his skin, too. It had a strange, doughy texture that Vaught had never seen before.

  Dismissing this as the result of aristocratic decadence, Vaught forgot about the foppish young man and turned back to the Tsaritsa.

  “Grendel,” the Tsaritsa rolled the word around her tongue. “Strange name. I bet he’ll squeal like a pig when the flames start licking around him.”

  “They sometimes do,” Vaught allowed.

  “Very well, you have my permission. Go and catch your Grendel, but remember, don’t start the fun without me!”

  Vaught and Fargo bowed low and, following the herald’s whispered instructions, backed away. As t
hey did so, the sickly looking noble sidled forwards to speak into the Tsaritsa’s ear.

  Her face remained impassive as she listened, her eyes locked onto the two witch hunters. The last thing they saw before they left the room was the look of pure hatred the courtier shot them as he whispered to the Tsaritsa.

  “Wait here,” the herald told them before the great doors swung shut behind them. “I will get the clerks to draw you up a letter of marque.”

  Vaught nodded and turned to the men who had been waiting in the antechamber.

  “How did it go, captain?” asked Peik, unable to contain his enthusiasm.

  “We have permission to perform our duty,” Vaught told him.

  “Not only that,” Fargo said with a wink, “but the captain here made quite an impression on the Tsaritsa.”

  “What do you mean?” Peik asked, his brows furrowing in puzzlement.

  “Let’s just say it’s a bit too soon to be talking about wedding bells,” Fargo said archly.

  “Really?” Peik’s mouth fell open. “You’re courting the Tsaritsa, captain?” His comrades guffawed with laughter. Even Vaught’s perpetual frown lifted.

  “Ignore this old mercenary,” he said. “He once told me that the prince regent was a woman dressed as a man.”

  “And so she is,” Fargo said.

  “Then how do you explain the beard?”

  He shrugged.

  “Something to hold onto.”

  The men were still laughing when a courtier emerged from the audience chamber and came up to them. He swept off his felt hat and started twisting it nervously.

  “Are you the Imperial barbarians?” he asked.

  Vaught looked at him. The courtier swallowed.

  “Yes,” the witch hunter said, “I suppose we are.”

  “Oh good, would you come with me, please? You need to see the chief clerk.”

  “Very well. Wait here, my brothers. Fargo and I can handle it.”

  “Better if they come with you,” the courtier cut in quickly, “this corridor is reserved for those waiting for an audience with the Tsaritsa.”