Ernst Ditmarr turned his head and regarded the plain building for a moment before the one-armed man awkwardly dismounted. The Black Guardsman advanced upon the tavern, pushing open its oaken door with his armoured fist. The tavern was nearly empty at this early hour; only the blacksmith Rudel was keeping Otto Keppler company at present.
The two men watched the templar stride across the room, seating himself at one of the rearmost tables. A deep sepulchral voice addressed Otto, asking for water and bread as the black-garbed figure situated itself. Otto continued to stare at the Black Guardsman for several heartbeats before remembering his business and hurrying into the back room to comply with his strange patron’s request.
‘Father, who is that man?’ Keppler’s son asked as the elder Keppler opened the small larder and removed a loaf of dark-coloured bread and a wedge of cheese.
‘A templar,’ the tavern keeper explained over his shoulder. ‘One of the Black Guard of Morr.’ Otto Keppler hurried back into the main room of his establishment, concerned by the grim figure occupying one of his tables. The dark templar was not the sort of patron Otto wished to keep waiting. He did not see the crafty look which entered his son’s eyes. Nor did he hear the opening and closing of the rear door of the tavern.
THYSSEN’S BESTIAL FACE split as a peal of malevolent laughter wracked his wasted form. Truly, none could predict the Chaos gods. First, they spared the man who had destroyed his former cult, allowed him to strike down their trusted and loyal servant. Then they delivered the same man into his power. A gift from the Realm of Chaos. Thyssen laughed again.
‘You have done well, Paul, very well.’ Thyssen grasped the boy’s shoulder as he praised him. The sorcerer spun around and addressed his assembled cult.
‘Tonight, I will teach you how to truly honour the power of Chaos! I will show you how to make an offering to the Four Princes, a testament of your undying love and loyalty to them. They have delivered into our hands a worthy and fitting sacrifice to anoint you in the service of Chaos!’ Thyssen turned from the excited mob of children and spoke into Paul Keppler’s ear.
‘As we did with Bassermann’s hunter,’ the sorcerer chortled. ‘Lead the guardsman here, to the mill.’ A fire of madness blazed within Thyssen Krotzigk’s eyes as he contemplated the execution of his commands. ‘Bring the cripple to me,’ the fallen priest hissed.
‘WHAT BRINGS YOU to Marburg, lord templar?’ Bernd Mueller nervously asked the seated knight. As Marburg’s chief citizen, it had fallen upon the miller to act as spokesman to the village’s sinister guest. The wealthy man did not relish the appointment.
The black-garbed knight looked up from his simple meal, the living side of his mouth still working on a sliver of cheese. Mueller retreated a few steps from the lifeless gaze of the Black Guardsman. The eyes remained fixed upon the retreating villager.
‘Have you come to claim the priest’s body?’ Mueller asked, desperately hoping Ditmarr would lose interest in him. Instead the templar’s gaze became even more penetrating.
‘I came because of rumours of missing children,’ Ditmarr’s hollow voice stated. The templar rose from the table, causing Mueller and the half-dozen villagers at his back to tense and cast sidelong glances at the tavern’s door. Ditmarr took a step towards Mueller, his armoured footfall echoing on the wooden floorboards. ‘What is this about a priest?’ There was venom behind the dirgelike tone, a fire slowly creeping into the templar’s dead eyes. The Black Guardsman took another step towards Mueller.
‘Our priest hung himself seven nights past,’ Mueller said, raising his hand to wipe sweat from his brow. Some of the fire seemed to leave the templar’s eyes as the miller spoke.
‘Where is the body? I would see it.’
‘We left it in the chapel,’ stammered the fat wainwright Bassermann from over Mueller’s shoulder. Ditmarr did not waste further words on the villagers, turning on his heel and striding from the tavern. All of the tavern’s denizens took a deep breath as the sinister knight departed. The sense of dread which had gripped them seemed to have lifted, and the unnerving stench of the grave that had impressed itself upon them had finally cleared away.
DITMARR WALKED with purpose toward the small chapel devoted to Sigmar. He had nearly reached the small path that wound its way to the isolated shrine when a soft voice called to him from the shadowy space between two of the closely packed villager huts. The guardsman spun around, his hand grasping the hilt of his sword. A young boy greeted the templar’s gaze.
‘Thank Sigmar I have found you!’ Paul Keppler said, his pockmarked face smiling at the templar. ‘I have seen one of the missing children.’
‘Have you?’ Ditmarr asked, his hand releasing the hilt of his weapon.
‘Yes, not far from here. In the woods,’ Paul elaborated. He began to step back into the alley, motioning for Ditmarr to follow. The templar did as the boy asked, following him across the field behind the huts and towards the stand of trees beyond. The templar studied the boy’s bright, excited face.
‘How is it that you are not afraid?’ Ditmarr asked, drawing closer to the boy.
‘I am brave, like you,’ the boy answered. The hunter had asked the same question and been satisfied by the same answer. The templar manoeuvred still closer to the boy.
‘Why didn’t you tell your father or the other men in the village?’ Ditmarr’s eyes zeroed on the boy’s back as the youth stopped and stood still.
Paul hadn’t expected that question. With the hunter he had said he wished a part of the reward, but even his young mind knew the templar was not motivated by greed and would be suspicious of anyone with such desires. Paul decided it would be better to lead the knight into Thyssen’s trap a different way. If he ran, the templar would be certain to give chase, and that pursuit would lead him straight to the sorcerer.
The boy started to bolt, to race away from the templar. Only one thing prevented his flight - the heavy, black-clad hand that closed upon the neck of Paul’s jerkin at the first sign of motion. The boy was pulled off his feet and Ditmarr lifted him from the ground.
‘Suppose we tell your elders about what you have seen?’ Paul’s furious kicks impacted harmlessly against the knight’s armour as the Black Guardsman carried the struggling boy back to Marburg’s tavern.
THE MEN OF Marburg stood in the common room of the tavern, silent, all eyes focused upon the small door which led to the tavern’s kitchen. No disquieting sounds came from behind the door now, and somehow their absence was even more unsettling. The door slowly opened and the ashen-faced figure of Otto Keppler emerged, followed closely by the black-garbed templar of Morr.
‘There is corruption here,’ the Guardsman’s grim voice declared. ‘Chaos has touched your town.’ The templar’s malformed face regarded each of the silent men in turn. ‘Now you must be strong. Now you must deny the Darkness its victory.’
ERNST DITMARR PUSHED open the rotten door of the decrepit mill. Within all was darkness and shadow. A smell like that of a kennel overcame the faint traces of burnt kindling in the air. Furtive, creeping sounds rustled from the shadows, suggesting much but revealing nothing. That someone was here, Ditmarr knew, but in what numbers, the darkness kept to itself. Slowly, sword in hand, the templar made his way into the building, his vision struggling to pierce the all-encompassing gloom. The templar had advanced nearly to the centre of the structure before any sign of life manifested itself.
‘It is you!’ a soft voice chortled from the darkness. Ditmarr turned to face the unseen speaker. A small globe of blue flame sprang into life, illuminating the bestial creature standing upon the flimsy platform. The witch fire danced in Thyssen Krotzigk’s hand, shaking with the sorcerer’s every laugh.
‘I have come to fulfil my duty,’ Ditmarr’s cold voice intoned. The Black Guardsman of Morr took a step towards the Chaos worshipper.
‘Ah, still serving feeble old Morr?’ Thyssen sneered. ‘I fear you will once again disappoint your god.’ A stone raced out of the darkness,
smashing the sword from Ditmarr’s hand. A horde of small, wiry figures leapt upon the knight, forcing the man to his knees through sheer weight of numbers. As Ditmarr struggled against the assault, Thyssen sent the witch-fire speeding from his hand to put to light the wood and bracken piled at the centre of the old millstone.
The sudden dispelling of the darkness revealed a mob of dirty children clutching and punching the templar. Their young faces wore expressions of savagery as they leeched the strength from Ditmarr’s struggling limbs. At last the templar sagged limp and helpless in their grasp. When the fight had left his foe, Thyssen Krotzigk slowly hobbled down from the platform.
‘Refusing to defend yourself against innocent children?’ The beast’s mouth yawned as he shook with laughter.
Thyssen leered into Ditmarr’s face. ‘Shall I tell you of that innocence? Can you imagine the ecstasy of corrupting such fertile fields as these?’ Thyssen gestured to include the frenzied throng gathered about the two old adversaries. He crooked a clawed finger and motioned for one among them to come forward. Ditmarr looked at the young, blank faces of the sorcerer’s fold. Even the huge boy who broke away from the other children had about him an air of confusion. The children knew that they were changing, but they had no understanding of what they were becoming. At once, the Black Guardsman’s loathing of their corrupter increased tenfold.
‘This is Kurt,’ Thyssen beamed. ‘A more worthy instrument of the Blood God has never been seen by these old eyes.’ The sorcerer reached into his dark robe and withdrew a filthy, blood-encrusted knife. He handed the weapon to Kurt. Ditmarr stared into the boy’s expressionless face, his eyes a soul-less window into Khorne’s domain of carnage.
‘You are just in time to witness Kurt’s devotions to the Blood God,’ a vile grin spread across the sorcerer’s face. ‘Or participate in them, as the case may be.’ The sorcerer’s words were answered by a rasping, choking sound. It took Thyssen a moment to realise that the templar was laughing at him. ‘You will scream for me, cripple, when your blood feeds Khorne!’ Thyssen snapped, glaring at Ditmarr. The templar raised his head, letting his cold eyes stare into the sorcerer’s own.
‘I wonder how Morr will receive you,’ the Black Guardsman said. ‘What is the justice earned by a heretic priest?’ Thyssen continued to glare at Ditmarr, a snarl upon his face. Suddenly, the sorcerer’s eyes grew wide with alarm.
‘Where is Paul?’ the sorcerer roared, his head bobbing about trying to spot the boy he had sent to lure his enemy here. Thyssen had been too lost in gloating over his enemy to notice the flaw in his plot. Now the alarmed sorcerer was trying to recover the situation.
‘Keren!’ Thyssen shouted. ‘Look outside. Our guest may not have come alone.’ The girl released Ditmarr’s shoulder and ran to the doorway of the mill.
‘IT’S KEREN!’ GASPED Bernd Mueller from his position in the trees outside the ramshackle mill.
‘Aye,’ agreed Otto Keppler. The tavern keeper lit the torch in his hand and made ready to cast it. Mueller grabbed the man’s arm before he could cast the firebrand.
‘You know the guardsman’s orders,’ Keppler said, his voice as cold and lifeless as that of the templar himself. He tore his arm free of Mueller’s and threw the torch at the mill’s rotting roof.
‘But my daughter is in there,’ sobbed Mueller.
‘As is mine,’ Keppler whispered.
‘THEY’RE SETTING THE mill on fire!’
Keren’s shrill voice shrieked as she retreated away from the door. The other children stared at her for a moment, as if uncertain how to react to Keren’s cries when the first crackling flames licked downwards from the ceiling and the first tendrils of fire danced at the mill’s broken windows. Panic gripped the coven and they disintegrated into a frantic mob, racing about the mill, seeking refuge from the growing flames.
Thyssen shouted at his followers, trying to calm them. He did not see how few had retained their hold upon the templar, or how, their numbers lessened, Ditmarr seized the opportunity to free himself of their clutching grasp. His arm free, the Black Guardsman groped within the seemingly empty sleeve of his habit. A small silver dagger appeared in the knight’s hand. As Thyssen Krotzigk turned to observe the templar’s sudden motion, Ditmarr lashed out with the dagger. The blade passed cleanly through the sorcerer’s left eye.
Thyssen recoiled, a furred hand clutching at his face in a vain attempt to staunch the flow of blood and jelly. Ditmarr brought an armoured boot crashing into the sorcerer’s twisted leg, pitching the villain to the floor.
‘Rot in the gardens of the damned,’ Ditmarr snarled, crouching over his enemy. As the templar raised his dagger to slit the throat of the heretic, a powerful grip closed around his wrist and jerked him off the sorcerer’s body.
Ditmarr swung at his attacker, arresting his weapon when he found himself looking into the youthful face of the boy Thyssen had called Kurt. The boy stared back with eyes that were pools of crimson, windows into the gore-soaked domain of the Blood God. A slight smile tugged at the boy’s lips as he backhanded Ditmarr and sent the knight flying across the mill. Ditmarr struck his head hard against the floor. As he raised himself from the ground, he shook his head groggily from side to side, trying to clear his vision.
Something was not right. Amid a rain of blazing thatch, the boy was slowly walking towards him. But with every step the child seemed to be growing larger, rippling muscles swelling on his arms and chest. The boy’s flesh was turning leathery, taking on a red sheen. When Kurt reached the stunned templar, his features had grown sharp and inhuman; the teeth within his smirking mouth were long ivory fangs. Again the boy struck Ditmarr, crumpling his breastplate, the dented metal stabbing into the flesh beneath and sending the knight hurtling across the burning mill.
Ditmarr landed, his back striking the burning hulk of a fallen beam. The templar’s habit caught fire and Ditmarr hurried to tear it from his armoured body. As he freed himself of the blazing garment, Ditmarr felt a monstrous hand close about his neck. Like a rag doll his armoured body was lifted from the floor.
There was no trace of Kurt in the thing that held Ditmarr. The daemon that had entered the boy had now completely possessed Kurt’s body. The hands that held Ditmarr ended in long, razor-sharp claws. Monstrous black horns protruded from the abomination’s elongated head while a stink of old blood oozed from the daemon’s scarlet hide. The Bloodletter licked Ditmarr’s face with a long, sinuous tongue. The obscenity’s free hand touched itself to Ditmarr’s chest and slowly raked its claws downwards, slicing through armour and flesh as though both were made of butter.
Ditmarr screamed against the searing agony of the daemon’s touch. With a tremendous effort, he took his hand from the claw choking him and smashed the daemon’s grinning mouth. The fiend’s head snapped back and it dropped Ditmarr to the ground. The Bloodletter worked its jaw for a moment and then snarled at the templar.
Blood streamed from the gaping wounds in his chest, flowing through the rents in his armour like a cataract of gore. Despite the hideous wounds and his own fast failing strength, Ditmarr lunged at the Bloodletter. The Black Guardsman’s armoured body struck the daemon of Khorne head on, knocking beast and man through the weakened wall of the fiery mill.
The daemon rose first, grabbing Ditmarr by the leg and hurling the templar a dozen yards, the warrior landing with a crack that bespoke of broken bones and internal injuries. The monster hissed and strode away from the inferno that blazed behind it, intent upon the filthy creature that sought to deny its bloodlust. At one point, the Bloodletter stopped in mid-step, its body frozen. For a moment, it seemed to shrink, to wither, before a sudden surge of unholy power caused the beast to swell again and continue its advance.
Ditmarr crawled through the brush, every motion heralding unspeakable agony. Somewhere in his body a rib had shattered, its bony shrapnel skewering the knight’s lung. Blood trickled from his mouth and nose with every breath. The Black Guardsman could barely feel the familiar inh
uman grip that closed about his arm and wrenched his body from the ground. His bleary vision could barely discern the leering daemonic face that leered into his own. But he heard the cry of terror that sounded from behind the fiend.
The Bloodletter turned, still retaining its grip upon the templar and regarded the obese man with the rusty axe who had been fool enough to attack it. The daemon reached out towards Bassermann even as the wainwright struck at it again. The blade failed to pierce the fiend’s flesh, a fact which caused the fat man’s eyes to grow even wider with fear. The Bloodletter licked its fangs at the prospect of still more blood to satisfy its hunger.
Suddenly, the monster’s form began to tremble. Ditmarr found himself falling to the ground as the Bloodletter’s arm began to wither and fade. The daemon let out a howl of rage and fury as its body shrivelled. Soon only the echoes of its scream and a pile of smouldering ash remained as testament of the daemon’s intrusion upon the realm of man. Ernst Ditmarr coughed weakly as Bassermann rushed to the templar’s side.
DITMARR STIRRED WEAKLY as one of the villagers drew near. Blood seeped through his bandages as he moved. Try as they might, there seemed to be no way to stop the wounds inflicted by the daemon of Khorne from bleeding. It had been a marvel to the villagers that the templar had endured through the night.
‘Have you found him?’ the Black Guardsman asked, his voice the barest of whispers. Bernd Mueller looked down at him.
Ever since the fire had settled, the templar had been asking them to find the twisted remains of the Chaos sorcerer. In the darkness and now, in the light, the men of Marburg had undertaken the hideous task. Now Bernd Mueller stared at the dying templar.
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