Gods & Mortals

by Various Authors

  ‘If that happened, the Freeguilds would not receive their shipments of silksteel.’

  Silksteel was a substance woven by arachnids found within the Ulwhyr. Thin and light, it possessed a fearsome tensile strength, meaning that it could be woven into light, padded armour that stopped blades and arrows as surely as steel plate. As Excelsis lacked vast natural deposits of metal, silksteel was vital for outfitting the local regiments. Without it, the already undermanned city guard would find itself under-equipped too.

  ‘Indeed,’ said Toll, nodding. ‘We’re here to try to neutralise the fray by uncovering whether Lord Junica’s firstborn son was indeed slain by the hands of the Dezraeds, or simply drank too much, stumbled into the marsh and drowned.’

  ‘Hardly seems like vital work for an agent of the Order of Azyr,’ said Callis. ‘Couldn’t they have sent a detachment from the city guard?’

  ‘The city guard is stretched parchment-thin as it is,’ said Toll. ‘The battle for Excelsis left the city weak and vulnerable. If it comes under siege again, it will fall. Trade has been severely hampered and the people are ready to riot. Callis, this infighting could be the spark that ignites a full-scale uprising.’ Toll paused. ‘We would have no choice but to set the White Reaper loose. That’s not an outcome I would relish.’

  Callis fought off a shudder. He had once come face-to-face with Lord-Veritant Cerrus Sentanus – the White Reaper of Excelsis – and had barely escaped with his life. If Sentanus was loosed upon the inhabitants of the city, the streets would run with blood.

  ‘Here,’ growled their guide, pointing one thin finger into the distance. Following his gesture, they could see the lambent glow of torches flickering. Rising up out of the mist like the backbone of some drowned behemoth, a perimeter wall loomed over a short pier of mildewed wood. It was a well-made fortification, as these things went. The wood was smoothed and sanded down to prevent anyone scaling it, and dotted along the line were swivel-mounted arbalests with large, hook-shaped magazines. A great, circular tower loomed above the parapet, and atop the battlements, Callis could see a heavy ballista, aiming out into the gloom.

  ‘The ones who built this place knew their business,’ Callis said. ‘You’d only require a few men to hold this wall against a horde.’

  ‘You’re looking at Junica coin,’ said Toll. ‘They employed the most skilled duardin siege-smiths when they built this place. You don’t survive out here, beyond the city’s reach, unless you can defend yourself. Their private armies are larger than many Freeguild regiments. House Dezraed’s included.’

  Callis’ eyebrows quipped. ‘I’m surprised that’s allowed.’

  ‘Both Dezraed and Junica are old Azyr stock. At one time or another, they’ve both had figures on the council of Azyrheim. The men we’re here to see, though, are minor scions of the great houses. Still, they’re powerful figures with a bottomless supply of coin and the ear of the Excelsis council. As long as they pay their tithes and maintain their shipments, the city is content to allow their standing armies.’

  As they approached the bank, the marsh striders hauled themselves out of the dank swamp, flicking their long limbs free of foul-smelling weeds.

  ‘Who passes?’ came a shout from the palisade gatehouse, where a bucket-helmed face peered down at them, silhouetted against the sickly yellow sky. The figure was leaning against a swivel-gun mounted upon the edge of the wall.

  ‘We are expected,’ shouted Toll, dropping nimbly from the saddle, patting the beast’s chitinous, armour-plated leg affectionately. The thing gave a shrill chirp and lowered its many-eyed head to the mossy earth, loudly slurping at a clump of moss. ‘I am Hanniver Toll, agent of the Order of Azyr. Open the gate.’

  Even from a distance away, Callis could see the colour drain from the man’s face.

  ‘The witch hunter,’ breathed the guard. The figure made a frantic gesture to someone on the other side of the wall, and there was a clanking, grinding sound. Slowly, the great gate began to creak open.

  ‘So this is Marshpoint,’ said Callis. ‘Hardly a sight to set the blood astir.’

  It was far from the worst hovel that Callis had ever laid eyes on – indeed the poor quarters of Excelsis were far more rundown – but a tangible pall of misery hung over the cluttered white stone houses that formed the main street. The construction was simple, functional and rather ugly, with thatched green roofs slanting away into the fog, and uneven masonry.

  ‘Someone threw this town up in a hurry,’ said Callis.

  ‘It’s more fort than town, truly,’ said Toll. ‘The only people who live here are soldiers and workers from the silksteel plantations. We’re probably the only outsiders these people have seen in months. Few travellers or merchants risk the trade road this far east.’

  Shrouded figures hustled across a road of rough-hewn cobbles in the fading light, glancing at the newcomers with nervous eyes. The central plaza, such as it was, featured a statue of an imposing warrior, a Stormcast Eternal with hammer raised to the skies. The grandeur of the craftsmanship was marred by the smear of verdigris and mould, and the hazy green light that filtered through the darkening clouds gave the noble image an unsettling pallid glow. The looming towers and the high wall cast the squat, unremarkable little town in shadow, giving it a claustrophobic feel.

  Several shabby-looking guards dressed in leather jerkins stared down at them from a walkway that ran the length of the outer wall. One strode down the steps to meet them, removing a woollen cap as he did so to reveal a boyish, earnest face, dark-skinned and fresh-eyed. He looked barely out of his teens.

  ‘They told us to expect visitors,’ he said. ‘But we weren’t expecting you here for another few days. We thought you’d take the trade road.’

  ‘I would prefer to resolve the situation here as swiftly as possible,’ said Toll. As he stepped forward, he removed his wide-brimmed hat and reached into his coat. He withdrew a waxen scroll, marked with the image of a blazing comet.

  ‘Sigmar’s teeth,’ whispered the guard as he studied the paper. His eyes went wide. ‘Sorry, sire. Forgive my blasphemy. I…’

  ‘I have business with Lords Fenrol Dezraed and Kiervaan Junica,’ said Toll, ignoring the man’s discomfort. ‘Send word of my arrival to both.’

  ‘Um… Begging your pardon, sire, but they won’t leave their estates,’ mumbled the guard. ‘Neither of them. We’ve already seen blood spilled, and with the Junica boy missing, they’re readying for war…’ He shook his head. ‘They’ve stopped the patrols and blocked the roads. There’s only fifty of us defending this entire town. Heavens forbid the orruks come pillaging and burning, or the bog-devils swarm the walls at the White Witch’s command.’

  ‘Your name?’ said Toll.

  ‘Guardsman Rolkyr, sire,’ said the man.

  ‘Send word to both the houses, Guardsman Rolkyr, and return to your post. Your diligence is noted. It would appear that there are some souls yet in Marshpoint who remember their duty.’

  Rolkyr seemed surprised. He gave a slight nod and scrambled away up the stairs, shouting orders to his men.

  ‘Son,’ shouted Toll. The guard turned. ‘Where’s the tavern?’

  ‘The Moss Throne,’ said Rolkyr, gesturing to a rather shabby two-storey building across the cobbled square. Dim light shone through the lower windows, but other than that it looked more like an abandoned barn than a place to catch a good night’s sleep. The sloped roof was thick with ivy, which draped down the mouldy wooden walls like strands of wet hair. The windows were round and the entire structure sat oddly slanted on the street, as if it were about to slide into the bog. Still, it was a tavern, and they’d have ale. Callis had drunk in far worse places.

  ‘Obliged,’ said Callis, snapping a friendly salute.

  ‘Tell the Lords Dezraed and Junica that they can grace us with their presence at this fine establishment.’

  ‘Sire,’ nodd
ed Rolkyr in agreement. ‘Just supposing, but what if they refuse?’

  ‘They will not,’ said Toll, ‘if they value their continued existence.’

  They took a table in the centre of the tavern and ordered food along with a thin, tasteless ale. Gradually the clientele filtered out, eyeing the newcomers uneasily as they left. The common folk were mostly slight, pale figures, lean from hard work but rather sickly looking. No one but the barkeep, a rotund man of middling years with a drooping moustache and sad eyes, spoke to them. Callis, tired though he was, could feel the aura of tension and unease that surrounded them. It wasn’t merely their presence that unsettled the locals. The town had the distinct feel of a city facing a siege. A burgeoning sense of dread reminded him of times he had spent awaiting battle, knowing that bloodshed was coming, but unable to do anything other than stand ready until the killing started.

  After perhaps an hour, they heard the clatter of hooves outside. Callis moved to the window, while Toll continued to pick at a rather sorry slice of grey meat. Peering out of the misted glass, Callis saw two-score soldiers riding pale mares and carrying long, forked spears emerging out of the haze. They flanked a great carriage of crimson and gold, shining gaudily amidst its unassuming surroundings. These soldiers were a different breed to the ragged fellows manning the palisade. They wore thick cloth tunics with silver pads upon the shoulders and chest, and their armour glittered in the gloomy evening light. The image of an aetherhawk in flight was embossed upon their chest-plates and upon the barding of their mounts. Callis recognised the motif – the symbol of House Dezraed. The same image hung from the banners of Excelsis’ market square and soared above the Halls of Justice.

  He returned to the table and drained the rest of his ale, wincing slightly at the silty, bitter aftertaste.

  A few moments later, the door opened, letting in a drizzle of rain and a chill wind. The soldiers entered in perfect parade lockstep, their boots stamping out a staccato rhythm on the wooden floor of the tavern. They spread out in a fan on either side of the door, slamming the hafts of their spears down and raising their heads imperiously. The tavern hound, a morose-looking beast with rheumy eyes and a matted mane of blue-grey fur, got up from its position under Toll and Callis’ table, and sauntered across the floor. It paused briefly to idly lap at its hindquarters and gaze at the newcomers.

  ‘My name is Captain Lecian Celtegar,’ said the lead soldier in a clipped Azyrite accent. He wore a half-face helm with a bright blue plume, and was the only guard not carrying a longspear. Instead, he rested his hand on a fine, silver longsword at his belt. He removed his helm, revealing a wave of blond hair and an angular face locked in a permanent half-sneer. Callis disliked the man on sight. ‘May I present my Lord Fenrol var Dezraed, the Eagle of the East, Warden of Marshpoint and the scourge of the forest greenskins.’

  Callis glanced at Toll. The witch hunter leaned back in his chair, a long-suffering expression upon his face.

  A man entered the tavern. At first, Callis thought it was several men, wrapped up in a single enormous bedsheet. The mighty Lord Dezraed was far from the statuesque patrician his entourage had intimated. He was a huge, wobbling bulge of a human, enormously fat with no suggestion of muscle beneath. A toga of rich crimson silk struggled vainly to lend an air of Azyrite nobility to the wall of flesh, but to no avail. Dezraed’s eyes narrowed as he laid eyes on them, two sunken pools of glassy ice within his pink slab of a face. The man’s thin blond hair had been separated and slicked back by rain, and he carried a look of utmost irritation.

  ‘So you are the findsman, are you?’ he said to Toll, his voice a deep, throaty gurgle. ‘You believe it proper to force me out of my home and onto the streets where Junica’s assassins lurk? You drag me to this hovel, like I am some minor cutpurse to be ordered about at your own will?’

  Toll rapped his fingers on the table and stared levelly at Lord Dezraed.

  ‘Take a seat, my lord,’ he said, and there was not a hint of irritation or anger in his words. Not for the first time, Callis wondered how the man remained so calm. ‘Lord Kiervaan var Junica will be joining us presently, then together we three will unpick this mess.’

  Dezraed’s eyes widened.

  ‘You invite the very man that seeks my death? Who baselessly blames me for the abduction of his firstborn son, as if I would sully my hands by laying them upon that thin-blooded wretch? I summoned you here to deal with that madman once and for all, not to–’

  ‘You do not summon the Order,’ said Toll, and though his voice remained level, there was a sliver of ice in his words. ‘You do not make demands of us. Now sit.’

  The noble’s great lips quivered in astonished rage. He was not a man used to being spoken to so curtly, Callis thought with some satisfaction.

  ‘May I offer you a drink?’ said Toll, indicating his cup of ale.

  Dezraed snorted, turning his nose up at the humble spread that lay before the witch hunter.

  ‘Wine,’ he barked at his retainers, who rushed back outside into the rain. Dezraed snapped his fingers and another two perfumed servants rushed forth carrying an immense curule chair between them. They set it down. The man eased his bulk into it with a groan of protesting timber.

  They waited perhaps another thirty minutes or so in interminable silence before they heard the clatter of approaching horses. Dezraed’s men moved to surround their master, who slurped the last dregs from a horn of pale, sweet-smelling mead. The door swung open and a stocky man in black leather and chainmail entered. The newcomer took in the scene, fixing on Toll for a moment. The witch hunter met his gaze. Eventually, the man slammed one fist on the door and a group of heavyset men entered, armoured in gold-plated scale armour and long, black hoods. Each carried a black-iron mace fashioned in the shape of a comet. They held their weapons at the ready as they filtered in, glaring daggers at Dezraed and his own gleaming host. Callis let one hand fall to his pistol and readied a foot to overturn the table if things went awry, as they typically did in these situations. If Toll felt the tension, he did not show it.

  A thin, aging man dressed in austere black entered, flanked by two more guards. He wore a military-style jacket and breastplate, polished and buckled with parade-ground precision. His greying hair was shaved close to the scalp, and he wore his moustache thin and curled with wax. This one fancies himself a military man, thought Callis. A strangely common delusion amongst the noble classes, that. Lord Junica took in his modest surroundings with the air of a man examining some unpleasant substance stuck to the sole of his boot. His face was gaunt where Dezraed’s was flabby, and his brow was furrowed in a cold glare that only intensified when he caught a glimpse of his rival.

  ‘Lord Junica,’ said Toll, tearing a hunk of black bread in half and dabbing it into the thin stew. ‘Please, join us. I am Hanniver Toll, of the hallowed Order of the Azyr.’

  ‘You ask me to sit beside the man who killed my son?’ hissed Kiervaan Junica. ‘I should paint the floor with this fat bastard’s blood.’

  Dezraed spluttered in outrage and his guards stepped forwards, spears lowering threateningly. Junica’s men took a pace back, readying their own weapons. There was a muffled yelp as the barkeep dived behind his counter to the sound of smashing glass. Toll took another bite of bread and washed it down with a swig of ale.

  ‘I did not kill your idiotic spawn, but I wish I had,’ shouted Dezraed, slamming his meaty fists upon the table. ‘The only good Junica is a dead Junica, and if you insult my honour again, I shall seek the satisfaction. I warn you now!’

  ‘Enough,’ said Toll, and the two men looked at the witch hunter in surprise. Seemingly oblivious to their disbelief, Toll took up a napkin in one hand and dabbed at his moustache.

  ‘Stand your men down. If there is even a drop of spilled blood at this table, then word will make it back to Excelsis, I assure you. Next time the Order dispatches an agent to your doorstep, they will not s
end a single man. They will send in the hounds, my lords. Your lands and your profits will be confiscated. Both of you will be dragged before the Halls of Justice to explain why you defied the word of the God-King. Perhaps we shall give you to the White Reaper, so that he may uncover the true extent of your failures.’

  Lord Dezraed’s red face went suddenly pale, and even Lord Junica looked unnerved at the threat. Callis allowed himself a small grin. There was a distinct pleasure to be found in watching Toll work.

  ‘This is a private matter,’ Kiervaan Junica stuttered. ‘There is no treason here. I only wish to know the truth behind the disappearance of my son.’

  ‘Disrupting the flow of vital supplies in a time of war is treason,’ said Toll. ‘If I possessed the same disposition of many of my kin, you both would already be returned to the city dungeons, there to wait for the hangman’s rope around your necks. Now sit, my lord.’

  Junica eased himself into a chair. His bodyguards stood on either side.

  ‘Pass me the ale,’ said Toll, gesturing at Lord Junica.

  The noble looked startled at the blunt request, as if Toll had just fired his pistol into the ceiling. His attendants stared at each other in confusion.

  ‘Excuse me?’ Junica said.

  ‘The ale,’ Toll repeated.

  To Callis’ surprise, Junica reached out an uncertain hand and passed the jug of sour-smelling liquid to the witch hunter, who took it and poured himself a fresh cup.

  ‘You accuse Lord Dezraed of murder without proof?’ said Callis.

  Junica glanced at him, surprised, as if he had not noticed him at all before he had spoken.

  ‘Long has the feud between Junica and Dezraed raged,’ he said. ‘When we forged a path on the frontier with blood and spirit, the Dezraeds followed us like parasites, leeching off of our noble work. As they have always done.’

  ‘You dare?’ roared Lord Dezraed, spittle flying from his lips. ‘House Dezraed desires only to serve the will of Sigmar, as we have always done. It is the Junicas who provoke us, stealing away the riches of the land for themselves alone, threatening honest workers and harassing my soldiers at every possible turn. Excelsis is built upon the blood of the Dezraeds. We were here long before the Junicas, and we shall be here long after your ragged house crumbles into dust.’