‘No, I’ll do it, I’ll get some bread,’ Paul hastily agreed. It was one thing if he got into trouble, but he did not want his younger sister to suffer their father’s wrath. Keren smiled at the boy’s easy submission.
Thyssen Krotzigk listened to the children squabble, the smile again crossing his swinelike face. Truly the Dark Gods were watching over him, the sorcerer thought. It had taken only the slightest suggestion to the girl’s mind to bend her to his intent. She was a naturally bullying and haughty soul, full of pride and arrogance, such easily manipulated qualities. It was indeed fortunate that they ran so strong in the girl’s make-up, for, if Krotzigk admitted the truth to himself, in his present condition, he was beyond any but the most minor of evocations. The little sorcerer shifted his weight, trying to relieve the pressure from his twisted leg. Krotzigk bit down on the sudden pain, refusing to cry out and alarm his newfound patrons.
Memories flooded the sorcerer’s mind as his hands tried to massage the torment from his mangled limb. Memories of Talabheim and his initiation into the priesthood of Morr. Krotzigk smiled at the recollection. Even at an early age he had been what most people considered morbid. He had always been drawn to the dark side of things. It was this quality which had led him to the rites and rituals of the God of Death and then, in time, to the forbidden study of the ultimate darkness, Chaos itself. He could not remember now how he had come upon the book, a vague treatise on all the dark and forbidden cults that lurked in the shadows of man’s great kingdoms. The book had told of the foul worship of Morr’s brother Khaine, the Lord of Murder, and Malal the Fallen. More, it had told of the great Ruinous Powers - Khorne, Nurgle, Tzeentch and Slaanesh, the Dark Gods who were the chief aspects of Chaos. That simple book, meant to warn, to outrage its studious reader with such blasphemous and heretical rites, instead had ignited a sinister passion within Krotzigk’s already morbid heart. Perhaps his superiors at the temple had sensed the change in their colleague for it was shortly thereafter that he received his transfer to an isolated way temple in the back-country of Stirland. It was little more than a shrine and a cemetery really, serving the scattered villages and towns for a dozen miles around when one of their denizens was called to Morr’s kingdom. But if his new situation did not bring with it prestige and advancement, it brought with it something far more important to Krotzigk’s darkening soul - seclusion.
Krotzigk could not remember for how many years he had practised the profane rites of Chaos in his blasphemously reconsecrated temple. From the peasants who sometimes visited the temple, he carefully recruited followers, more souls for the Dark Gods. He led them in the dark worship of Chaos in its most pure and absolute form, conducting them in blood rituals on Geheimnisnacht, sacrificing travellers his loyal following provided. More, he conducted them in sacrilegious rites on Death Night, twisting the rites of Morr into a celebration of the Great Powers.
And his zeal was rewarded, not with the paltry powers of one of Morr’s adepts but with true sorcerous might. Krotzigk found that his aptitude in the magical arts had increased to a degree far beyond his wildest desires. True, there was a price to pay: a necessary humbling which the Chaos Gods inflicted upon Krotzigk even as his magical powers grew. His once handsome face twisted and distorted itself into that of a swine; a soft golden fur covered most of his body. His tongue had split like a serpent’s and his body had shrivelled and shrunk into an almost dwarf-like state. If Krotzigk needed any proof of the awful power of Chaos, he had only to stare at his own reflection. Worse would befall him, he knew, if he ever betrayed his new lords. They would not remain silent and inactive like Morr. To offend Chaos was to invite worse than death.
After years of isolation, there came an inspector from the temple in Talabheim. The wily old priest had at once detected the hideous rededication of the temple. It had not preserved his life, however, but it had been the beginning of the end for Krotzigk. In response to the vanishing of an aged and respected scion of the temple, the High Priest of Morr had despatched not another band of priests but the cult’s templar knights, the feared Black Guard of Morr.
Krotzigk had been fortunate to escape with his life; none of his followers had been so lucky. The power of Chaos had delivered him, even if it had not spared him the agony of a broken leg. Perhaps it had been another lesson in humility, the sorcerer considered. And now, after weeks of dragging himself painfully across the wilds, almost at the very brink of death, the Ruinous Powers had again delivered their faithful servant from his suffering. Krotzigk turned his pale eyes on the squabbling children.
They had delivered him, that he might deliver unto the Chaos Gods a dark harvest of souls.
THE WIND HOWLED through the boughs that lined the small dirt road. It was the chill wind of late autumn that stirred the fallen leaves on their way, the chill cousin of the icy gales of winter. It was a time when travel was all but absent from the back-roads of Stirland, when only the few cities of that lonely province still drew wanderers to their gates. Still, a shadowy apparition made its way down the disregarded path.
Had anyone else been roaming along the lane, they would have been impressed by the sinister horseman that shared the road, and made the sign of Sigmar as they passed the silent wanderer. The steed was a magnificent warhorse, dark as the dead of night, a swarthy shroud-like caparison clothing the animal almost from head to hoof. The man mounted upon the horse’s back was also garbed in black, ebony armour of forged obsidian over which he wore a heavy, monklike habit of coarse sombre fibre. Etched upon the breast of the habit was a raven in flight, the sign of the grim god of death. The silent rider was no mere sellsword or freelancer, but one of the dread Black Guard of Morr.
The templar’s head lay upon his chest as his horse slowly trotted down the path. The caparison and habit, which clothed the two, were torn and muddy, the man’s armour soiled with the dust and grime of many weeks of travel on the back-roads of the Empire. A sudden bolster of the wind’s strength caused the templar’s hood to fall away from his head, revealing the hard, toughened visage of a veteran warrior. The man’s nose was broad and splayed, the result of being broken one time too many. Between his brow and his close-cropped black hair there was the grey furrow of an old knife wound. His left cheek had puckered into a vile patch of withered flesh, through which his cheekbone and even his jaw and rearmost teeth could easily be seen. The withered edge of the templar’s lip trembled and the napping guardsman awoke with a start. Immediately his right hand released the reins and clutched at his left arm, only to close upon the empty sleeve of his habit.
Ernst Ditmarr grimaced as his mind roused itself to full wakefulness. He released the empty sleeve that had once clothed his left arm and wiped beads of perspiration from his brow before awkwardly shifting his body in order to recover the discarded reins. The same dream, always the same dream. The templar had not passed an hour in slumber without suffering from its baleful intrusion.
He saw himself, once again leading his command of Black Guard to the way temple of Curate Krotzigk. Once again he saw the deranged Chaos cultists attack them, throwing themselves upon the guard’s swords with a maniacal fervour. And once again he saw the hideously twisted thing that had at one time been a priest of Morr. He saw the monster hurl unholy power upon his knights, reducing men and horses to ash and slime. He saw himself charge the filthy sorcerer, leaping from his saddle to tackle the vile creature. He saw it writhe from his grasp, fleeing up the rough-hewn steps that led to the roof of the small temple. Finally, he saw himself, his great sword clutched in his hand, his skull-shaped shield held before him as he advanced upon the cornered cult leader. Power danced about the bestial mutant as it summoned its last reserves of sorcerous might. Ditmarr raised his shield to protect his face even as he struck out at the beast with his sword. Searing agony enveloped him as a blast of green flame seared through his shield, knocking him on his back. The dark shape strode triumphantly towards his prone body, unholy power crackling in its hands, utterly unfazed by the templ
ar’s savage attack. The swinish head glared down at him and the sorcerer laughed as it sent a second blast of dark magic into Ditmarr’s body.
No, that was not how it was. The sorcerer had not gloated over the templar as he lay writhing on the roof of the shrine. Dimly, Ditmarr seemed to recall seeing a black shape topple over the side of the roof even as he himself fell. Clearer memories provided the rest. His awakening in the back room of a healer’s, the gruesome sight of his left arm, withered down to the elbow, every bone showing through the sorry parchment-like skin. He could see his second, Sergeant-Acolyte Ehrhardt, nodding grimly to the healer. He could see the serrated blade in the old man’s hands as Ehrhardt held down the withered arm…
Ditmarr clenched his teeth against the memory of that pain; a dead arm cut from a living body. If it took him a hundred years, he would find the blasphemer who had taken his arm, his honour and his life. And when he did, Krotzigk would discover that the vengeance of a god betrayed was terrible indeed.
EDUARD THREW THE stick across the small yard that adjoined Marburg’s tiny chapel. The little brown dog yipped with glee as it tore across the grass and damp earth in pursuit of the fleeing stick. Eduard watched the little dog race away, the smile fading from his face. The boy’s breath came hot and short, his hands clenching and unclenching in a fit of nervousness. As the puppy ran still farther away in pursuit of the stick, Eduard began to tremble, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. The dog reached the stick and hesitated a moment. Eduard knew that the animal was just getting a better grip with its mouth, but he could not fend off the utter terror that brought tears to his eyes, the horror that the little dog would not come back. The dog always did, but Eduard could not overcome his fear that it would not. His parents had left him after all, left him alone. He had only himself to blame, it was true, for he had been such a sickly little boy. Perhaps they had been afraid that he would make them sick. He knew that many grown-ups were like that, avoiding the ill so that they would not fall prey to the same infirmity. The only one in the village who had been kind enough to take him in was the priest, Father Hackl, but the old cleric was too dour and demanding to make a real parent for the boy, and did little to ease his loneliness.
It did not help that none of the other children seemed to like him. None of them would play with him. Keren Mueller in particular seemed to despise the boy. Whenever she saw him, she said the most horrible things. She called him names like ”worm” and ”pig’s slop” and told him horrible lies about his parents being dead because he had made them sick. It was because of her that no one else liked him, Eduard was sure of that. Although Father Hackl had taught him that such thoughts were wrong, sometimes he secretly wished that Keren would die for saying such mean things.
The boys were almost standing next to Eduard before he saw them. The young orphan turned as they approached prepared to run away from a new barrage of taunts and small stones. To his surprise, the boys were smiling at him, wide friendly smiles.
‘Do you want to play with us?’ Paul asked the bell-ringer. Eduard stared at the boy, almost refusing to believe his ears.
‘We found a great new place to play,’ added Rudi, the shifty eyed son of Marburg’s wainwright. Eduard just continued to stare. Paul stepped forward to grip his hand.
‘Come on, I bet we beat you there,’ the boy challenged Eduard. He waited a moment before racing away, Rudi following him. Eduard continued to stare at the pair of boys.
‘Wait for me!’ Eduard cried, hurrying after Paul and Rudi, all thoughts of dogs and sticks abandoned.
The boys led Eduard on a merry chase through the paths and game trails in the woods. Eduard joined in their laughter; running and giggling just like a real little boy. He could not believe how good it felt to be playing with other children, to have friends. The boy did not dare to question his good fortune, to ponder the sudden change that had come over two members of Keren’s mob. Some distance ahead, Paul called out for Eduard to hurry. They were almost at the secret place.
It was an old, run down building, larger than the chapel but smaller than Marburg’s tavern or town hall. It was almost hidden by the trees and undergrowth that surrounded the derelict structure. The sight of the eerie building brought Eduard’s run to a sudden halt.
‘Th… there?’ the boy stammered. Paul grabbed his hand and started to pull him toward the yawning, cave-like door of the old mill.
‘Come on, Eduard, don’t you want to play?’ The criticism had its desired effect, and Eduard’s resistance slackened and Paul led him through the doorway and into the dark, shadowy interior of the building.
There were many children inside the mill, all of them wearing garlands of flowers and smiling faces. Most of them were watching the doorway as Paul and Eduard entered, but others were looking up at the wooden platform that rose from the earthen floor. Eduard followed their gaze and his eyes grew wide with fright.
The figure on the platform was imposing, despite its short stature. It was a monstrous creature garbed in a robe of black. The beast’s hands were horribly human in shape, though covered in a soft golden fur, each finger tipped by a brown claw-like nail. The monster’s head was like a young boar’s, a pinkish snout rising from the centre of the face. To either side of the snout, sunken deep in the monster’s skull, a pair of pale blue eyes gleamed. There was intelligence in those eyes, evidence of knowledge forbidden, corrupt, and unholy. Indeed, a malevolent energy seemed to emanate from the twisted beast as it looked at Eduard. The monster rose from its sheepskin-cushioned chair and walked toward the boy. One of its legs was crippled, but it served well enough to allow the beast to hobble down the few steps separating the platform from the floor. The limping, scuttling gait only added to the creature’s unnatural image. Eduard’s body trembled as the monster stopped a few paces away from him.
‘Welcome, Eduard,’ the monster said with a soft, soothing voice. ‘We’ve been waiting for you.’
Eduard let out a piercing scream, turned and ran for the door.
DITMARR EMERGED FROM the small ranger’s hut, his armoured boots sinking into the soft mud outside. He awkwardly began to redress his black steed in its midnight-hued caparison when a sound arrested his motion. The Black Guardsman of Morr spun around, caparison discarded, his hand on the hilt of the sword at his side. Standing not twenty paces away was a figure in black.
‘You are far from where you should be, Kaptain-Justicar,’ the voice behind the great helm that enclosed the man’s head intoned.
‘That depends upon how far from me my prey is lurking,’ Ditmarr replied, his eyes covering the other Black Guardsman with an icy gaze.
‘You know the decision of the Temple,’ the other templar said, reaching up and removing his helm. The face revealed was weathered, hardened beyond its years by a life spent roaming from battle to battle.
‘You were there, sergeant,’ Ditmarr stated. ‘You saw the thing that did this to me.’ The templar flicked the hem of his empty sleeve with a steel finger. ‘You saw the heresy and sacrilege it committed in the house of Morr itself.’
‘Yes, and I was there long ago when you and I sold our swords to whichever Border Prince or Tilean merchant paid the best. I was there when we fought the orcs in Mad Dog Pass, when you pledged your sword to Morr if he would delay your death and allow us victory over the greenskin horde,’ Sergeant-Acolyte Ehrhardt returned.
‘Then you understand why I cannot abide by the Temple’s decision,’ Ditmarr stated. ‘I pledged to fight the enemies of Morr. It is all I have.’
‘I too made that oath,’ Ehrhardt reminded his old comrade. ‘Are you so certain that priests do not fight their own battles to honour Morr?’ Ditmarr laughed at the templar’s argument. It was a dry, sardonic sound, lacking in joy or merriment.
‘Can you see me living the life of a cloistered priest? Ministering to the souls of the dead and ensuring their entry into the gardens of Morr?’ Ditmarr sighed. ‘No, I know only the path of the sword. That is how I can best serv
e Morr.’
‘You pursue this Krotzigk for yourself, for revenge,’ Ehrhardt sneered. Ditmarr was silent for a moment.
‘Perhaps I do this for both of us.’
‘You have been declared apostate by the Temple,’ Ehrhardt said with a grave voice. ‘For what? Because you hunt a monster that has probably already crawled into a hole somewhere and died?’
‘It is my choice, even if it be a fool’s errand.’ Ditmarr stared closely at Ehrhardt. ‘You have come to take me back? I have seen your swordarm in battle, many times. I will conduct you to Morr before you conduct me to his priests.’
Ehrhardt returned his helm to his head and nodded sadly. ‘I did not find you this day. You were not here.’ The Black Guardsman turned and started to walk away. ‘I hope you find what you are looking for, Ernst. I hope it brings you peace.’
THYSSEN’S PORCINE TUSKS noisily cracked the sheep bone in his mouth and his supple tongue began to probe the fissure in search of marrow. Almost absently the sorcerer patted the head of the little shepherdess who had undergone a beating to bring one of her father’s flock to the sorcerer’s cooking pot. The sorcerer considered the child’s devotion, favouring her with his most benign smile before returning his attention to the cowering boy who thought to report him to the village priest.
‘My dear, dear Eduard,’ the swine-headed creature clucked. ‘You have been very bad, haven’t you?’ And I ought to blast your filthy carcass into a thousand pieces and hand feed them to the crows, Thyssen thought. But that would not be good. Such a display of discipline might upset his other young followers. After all, flight from the stern discipline of their parents was what had brought most of them to him in the first place. The boy was young; his impressionable mind still a thing capable of being moulded into Thyssen’s desire. Yet, the children needed to be reminded that it was no light thing to try and run off, to let an adult know about him and their little sanctuary in the woods. Thyssen cast his gaze about the old mill as he pondered how best to proceed.
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