Warhammer Anthology 13

by War Unending (Christian Dunn)

  Lhunara looked up at Malus, a stricken expression on her face. “The Sea Guard will be here any minute,” she said. “What do we do now?”

  Malus straightened in his seat and took stock of their situation. Around fifty corsairs waited on the sand, surrounding thirty increasingly defiant slaves. Bile rose in Malus’ throat. He shook his head. There was only one thing left to do.

  “We die,” the highborn said.

  Ten minutes later came the soft jingle of harness and the drumming of swift feet along the coast road, and the relief column of Sea Guard troops came swarming down onto the beach, weapons at the ready. The sight that awaited them left many of the young warriors reeling in shock.

  The white sands were black with blood in the fading moonlight. Dark-robed bodies lay everywhere, their limbs strangely contorted in death. Bloodstained figures in the simple garb of fisherman sat or staggered about the scene of carnage, many with slave manacles still dangling from their wrists. Many wielded gory knives as they stalked among the dead.

  In moments the leader of the column arrived at the beach, and he, too, was stunned by the brutality of what had happened. He pulled his winged helm from his head, his face pale with shock. “For pity’s sake, help them,” he commanded his troops, and the spearmen put down their weapons and moved to help the survivors.

  The lieutenant bit back a wave of despair as he surveyed the awful scene. His gaze fell upon another villager, sitting alone against the side of a wagon’s wheel. He approached the hunched figure, kneeling respectfully at his side.

  “We came as soon as we could, cousin,” the lieutenant said. “What you did here was… very brave.”

  The figure sighed. “I know,” he replied in a dead voice. “But we had no choice.” Before the lieutenant could reply Malus drew a dagger from within his sleeve and stabbed the sorrowful elf in the eye.

  As one, the “villagers” leapt at the surprised spearmen, slashing and stabbing with their knives. Other corsairs leapt from the sands and attacked the elves from behind. In moments the slaughter was complete.

  Lhunara pulled off the villager’s tunic she’d worn over her armour. Breathless, she staggered over to Malus. “The Lord of Murder favoured us,” she gasped. “But what now?”

  The highborn levered himself painfully to his feet and pulled off his own disguise. “All is not yet lost.” He gestured out to sea. “Manticore wasn’t as fleet-footed at Master Gul hoped.”

  Delayed by taking on her boats and with only a minimal crew to work her sails, the corsair had been quickly overtaken by the elven warship, and now they were grappled together in a brutal boarding action.

  “These Sea Guard must have come ashore a few miles to the south,” Malus said. “Their boats are likely waiting for them on the beach. If we can reach them in time we can still rescue Manticore and get ourselves out of this mess.”

  Lhunara thought it over and nodded. “We’ll load everyone into the wagons and ride the horses to death if we must,” she said with a fierce grin, and turned to shout orders to the corsairs.

  As the raiders clambered aboard the wagons Malus surveyed the bloodstained sands one last time. Killing the slaves had been the only way, he realized, but the loss still ate at him. “Worth their weight in silver,” he muttered, shaking his head in disgust. “I’ll likely not see such wealth again.”

  Manticore wallowed in the cold swells of the Sea of Malice as she limped the last few leagues back to port. It had been a long voyage back; the raider had suffered considerable punishment at the hands of the vengeful elves, and by the time Malus and the raiding party had managed to sneak onto the enemy warship’s deck, Gul’s troops had already been decimated. But the enemy captain had been overconfident, believing his troops had finished the raiders trapped on the beach, and had never expected a sudden attack from shore. By the time he realized his mistake it had been far too late. The battle ended swiftly after that. Malus ordered the warship set ablaze and the Manticore made good her escape, and rewarded the crew with the plunder he’d taken from the village in Ulthuan, in a single stroke he’d won the allegiance of the crew away from Hathan Gul.

  Master Gul had abased himself at Malus’ feet when the fighting was done. His apologies were voluminous, and his pleas for mercy were most sincere. The highborn gave the treacherous slug every opportunity to convey the depth of his regret, slicing off only a small part of Gul’s body each day. The ship’s master was still alive when Malus offered him to the sea witches as they passed the tower of Karond Kar.

  Standing at the prow of the crippled ship, Malus fished into the small coin pouch at his belt. His fingers closed on a handful of rough objects and he held them up to the sunlight. “All that plunder, and this is all the gold I have to my name,” he said, showing Silar and Lhunara a handful of Gul’s teeth.

  The young knight shook his head and turned his gaze back to the docks of Clar Karond, just a few miles off the bow. Lhunara chuckled. “Melt them down and have them made into a set of dice,” she suggested.

  “Perhaps I will,” the highborn mused.

  “What happens once we reach port?” Silar asked. “We’re more than three months early, and you’ve nothing to show for your cruise.”

  The highborn shrugged. “I could have come back dragging Teclis by the hair and it wouldn’t have mattered,” he said. “I’ll return to Hag Graef and start plying the flesh houses again. Who knows? I might even start breeding nauglir.” He regarded Silar thoughtfully. “I misjudged you, Silar. A poor knight you may be, and too honest for your own damned good, but you served me well. I’ll release you from your oath here and now if you wish. You needn’t accompany me back to that den of vipers at the Hag.”

  Silar chuckled. “And miss the look on your father’s face? No, my lord. I’ll accompany you.”

  Malus nodded, then turned to Lhunara. “You, on the other hand, never gave me any oath. Gul is dead, and Amaleth was killed in the battle off Ulthuan. By law, Manticore is your ship now.”

  “True enough,” the first mate said, “but I’m done with sailing the seas. If you’re still serious about taking me into your retinue, then I’ll give you my oath.” She smiled. “But I expect to be well rewarded for my service.”

  “You may wind up with more than you bargained for,” the highborn answered sardonically.

  “Speaking of bargains,” Silar interjected. “There’s still the matter of who shot you on board that patrol ship off the Blighted Isle.”

  Malus frowned. “Ah, yes. Lurhan’s hidden assassin. That was Amaleth, I expect. I saw him with a crossbow just before the battle.”

  “It was him, right enough,” Lhunara said. “I paid a couple of corsairs to shadow him during the battle.” Her expression soured. “They weren’t supposed to let him take a shot at you without my permission, though.”

  “Your permission?” The highborn’s eyes went wide with shock. “You knew Amaleth was Lurhan’s assassin the whole time?”

  “Of course. I kept him alive as insurance, just in case you had any treachery of your own in mind,” Lhunara replied. “What, did you imagine I would take you at your word?”

  For a moment, Malus was speechless, torn between murderous outrage and grudging admiration. Silar leaned against the rail and chuckled softly, staring out to sea.

  “We’ll be the death of you yet, my lord,” the young knight said.

  GLOW

  by Simon Spurrier

  AUTUMN IN TALABHEIM. Cloying mists rose languidly from sultry canals, stretching ethereal tentacles along streets and alleyways. Wind-banked leaves withered in papery necrosis and fat crows sulked on wet roof tiles, cawing their hungry indignation at the carrion-free cobbles below.

  Autumn too, in the slums. A time of shadows and footsteps, rippling puddles and the drip-drip-drip of ill-weathering architecture. A time for unwelcome visitors.

  ‘Should I knock first, captain?’

  ‘Mm. Knock hard, Kubler, if you know what I mean.’

  Wood splintered
with a resounding crack! Echoes from the blow flitted through the mist; startled crows launched from the rooftops. Dark figures tumbled through a shattered doorway.

  ‘Up! Up! Get up, scum, or by Sigmar’s wrath I’ll-‘

  ‘That’ll do, Hoist. Our host seems positively catatonic… No sense in dirtying one’s boot.’

  The invaders’ ebony forms seemed almost unreal beside the tattered rags of the building’s solitary inhabitant who lay curled uncomfortably on the sagging floorboards, snoring in intoxication. The tallest of the black cloaks, crowned with an austere wide-brimmed hat, squatted athletically to examine the sleeper’s mud-smeared countenance.

  ‘Drunk, captain?’ another dark figure enquired.

  ‘No… No, I should say not.’ The gloved hand rummaged briefly within the shapeless rags and reappeared grasping a crude earthen pillbox. A deft movement and the box opened to reveal a cluster of green tablets within.

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘Sleep analeptics, captain? My brother swears by ‘em.’

  ‘Perhaps. Apothecary nonsense, of course.’ The tall man stood, examining the room. He sighed. ‘Turn it over, gentlemen. Anything untoward, I want to know about it.’

  Several of the black cloaks stooped to their task, unsettling mould-strewn furniture. Presently another of them turned to the hat wearer with a frown. ‘No sign of a Taint, sir.’

  ‘Mm.’

  ‘The heretic yesterday practically screamed the address.’

  ‘I daresay the flames of righteousness will do that to a fellow, Kubler… I don’t detect any Dark Powers at work here - just the usual city filth.’

  The slumbering form fidgeted with a guttural groan.

  ‘Captain…’ one of the cloaks quavered uncertainly, ‘h-his eyes!’

  The men drew back from the rag-strewn bundle that was suddenly thrashing with comatose fury. Sure enough, its eyes flickered and wept, an unnatural glow ebbing forth from the lidded irises. Bubble-flecked spittle collected in the corner of the man’s mouth.

  ‘Hmm,’ said the hat-wearer. ‘I stand corrected…’

  The sleeper lurched to its feet, rough skin bulging and twisting, frothing in a paroxysm of internal anguish. The jaw creaked open in a ghoulish smile; serrated canines erupted from writhing gums like impatient saplings, human tongue curling in extended, prehensile distortion. And finally the eyes opened fully, a ghastly light smouldering from their scorched sockets. It fixed its vision on the pillbox and reached out a shaking hand.

  ‘G-give… gg…’

  The thing made an attempt to articulate, pulsating arteries disturbing its swollen larynx, unfamiliar tongue unable to form sounds easily. ‘Give back… guh. Glow. Wwant.’

  But the transformation was incomplete, and already the skin was tightening cadaverously, already the ridges of brow and cheek were ossifying further, bony protrusions appearing with tectonic certainty. With a wet snap of elasticity the skin burst from within, peeling back in reptilian folds, splitting like overripe fruit.

  ‘Want it nowwwww!’ it gurgled, insane eyes rolling. ‘Give Glow or I ki-‘

  Boom.

  The beast’s twisted features dissolved beneath a grisly haze of airborne ichor. A pistol crack shuddered angrily about the room, acrid smoke oozing lazily from the hat-wearer’s outstretched weapon.

  Time stagnated for one long moment, then returned explosively as the chaos-thing tumbled downward, ruptured skull spewing viscous fluids that splattered and coagulated across the dismal room. It thrashed and jerked.

  ‘In the name of Sigmar I purge thee,’ the hat-wearer intoned, fingers tracing the Holy Hammer in the air.

  Reality coalesced. The other Templars, aghast at the suddenness of the creature’s transformation - and grateful for their leader’s adroit response - breathed again. The corpse twitched then laid still, a sludge of liquefying tissues dribbling from its wound.

  A deep silence settled.

  One of the witch hunters mumbled, nodding at the pillbox in the hat-wearer’s hand, ‘Y-you… uh… you still think they’re sleep analeptics, captain?’

  ‘On balance, Heinrich… I suspect not.’

  Witch Hunter Captain Richt Karver squinted at the tablets in his gloved hand and pursed his thin dry lips in thought.

  RAIN UNFURLED ACROSS the city like the casting of a vast net. All across the poor quarter it pelted, shivering along the merchant streets, dousing what scant illumination had been created against the drawing in of the night. The mist dissipated beneath the barrage, puddles formed and ran together, rusted gutters overflowed, cascading their moss striated contents earthwards.

  The crows ruffled themselves in self pity, beady eyes scowling at the indignity of such bedragglement.

  Even the mighty Temple of Sigmar, implacable in its domination of the brooding skyline, was forced to surrender a fraction of its haughty demeanour to the torrents that assailed its towers and buttresses. And yet deep, deep below that drenched edifice existed a world of stale air and flickering light that no rain could penetrate.

  Richt Karver cast off his hat with characteristic aplomb and sank into a straight backed chair. His well polished pistols were hung casually across the furniture’s wooden frame, intricately decorated powder bag dumped unceremoniously upon a tabletop and his ebony walking cane - never absent from his side - was twiddled distractedly in his perfectly manicured hands.

  ‘Bring it in,’ he muttered after a moment’s thought.

  The other hunters entered in a gaggle, dragging with them an awkward bundle. Wrapped in stained sheets and bound with what few scraps of crude twine could be plundered from the slum, the oily fluids of the mutant’s body were already blemishing the linen.

  Karver rubbed his chin for a moment, a habitual motion that his acolytes had learned to recognise as a sign of deep thought, and took pains not to interrupt. ‘Let’s see what we can find out about this… what did he call it?… ah - ”Glow”, shall we? Hoist, you cover the slums. Loose talk in taverns, that sort of thing. You have the face for it, old boy. Lars, the estates in the west quarter. I daresay these things are equally at home amongst affluence as effluence. Heinrich, see if the militia’s heard anything - oh, and take Spielmunn with you, he might learn something. And Kubler, you can find me that little worm Vassek. If anyone knows anything about this it’ll be him, you can count on it.’

  ‘Keep your eyes and ears open, gentlemen. Whatever this stuff is, I want it out of my city. Report back when you have something.’

  Kubler nodded and hefted the corpse. ‘What about this, captain?’

  ‘Little point in burning it in the platz, I suppose.’ Karver grumbled. ‘Nobody wants to see the Righteous Flames of Purity claiming a heretic who’s already dead… Not that we could start a fire in this weather anyway-‘

  Spielmunn, the youngest of Karver’s Templars, piped up nervously. ‘A spike at the city gates, captain? Haven’t been many heads up there recently.’

  ‘Mm,’ Karver grunted. ‘The displaying of a head does rather require that the body has one. Our unfortunate subject is somewhat lacking in that respect.’

  Kubler resettled the shape on his wide shoulder. ‘The Heap then?’

  Karver nodded slowly. ‘Yes. Yes, I suppose so. Seal it carefully, mind you. I think in the spring we’ll have to see about clearing it out down there. There must be - what - a dozen bodies festering away, now?’

  Hoist frowned, ‘Don’t see why we don’t just dump ‘em in the river.’

  ‘Because, you idiot,’ Kubler snapped, ‘we’d end up with a water supply full of tainted flesh. Would you drink it?’

  ‘Can’t be worse than Bretonnian ale,’ muttered Karver, dispelling the emerging confrontation with a forced chuckle - but sparing a private nod for Kubler. The boy would go far, Sigmar willing. ‘No, I’m afraid that onto the Heap it goes. Recite the Prayer to Banish Uncleanliness at the doorway and we’ll be fine. The best kind of dead heretic, gentlemen, is one that stays dead.’

  Kubler nodded a
nd dragged the corpse to the head of a convoluted stairway, beginning the descent that would terminate eventually at the vault where the remains of mutants lay putrefying. Karver listened to the gradually fading percussion of the body being manhandled indelicately until the gloomy depths swallowed the sounds of their passage. The other Templars, perhaps sensing Karver’s disquiet, dispersed upon their respective errands in silence.

  Karver paused for a moment, then passed through the heavy doorway to his workrooms.

  THE CREATURE HISSED at his approach, filth-matted hackles rising in a peristaltic wave, short forelimbs bunching with muscular alertness. Its single remaining eye rolled uncontrollably, spastic orbits reflecting the imbalance of the beast’s mind.

  It leapt with a shriek, slavering jaw gnashing, prominent incisors wielded for action.

  Only at the very pinnacle of its lunge, when its jaws seemed inescapable, did the iron chain about its neck jarringly arrest its movement. It lurched to a halt with a pitiable squeal and dropped to the floor, gagging and retching in frustration.

  Richt Karver hadn’t flinched once.

  ‘And how are we today, my little horror?’ he cooed to the vast rat, which scrabbled its dagger claws on the stones as if imagining his hated face within its grasp. ‘Not too hungry, I trust?’

  He’d captured the creature the previous year - an expedition into the unexplored tunnels beneath the city had resulted in an encounter with the repugnant skaven. The nest had been purified, Sigmar be praised, but not before two of his Templars had been carried, screaming, into the nightmare labyrinths below. He’d purged twenty ratmen in Sigmar’s name that day, and captured several more for ”interrogatory purposes”. They’d died, shrieking and cursing, manacled to the walls of the very room that their insane pet now guarded. It gave Karver some small measure of satisfaction to imagine their revolting bodies, defeated and mutilated, rotting away in the Pit far below his feet.