Warhammer Anthology 07

by Way of the Dead

  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 serve 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. Almos
t 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.

  Already the children were gathering, the dozen who had completely broken away from the village, spending day and night with Thyssen at the ruin and the twenty or so others who lived still with their parents. They were the biggest threat to Thyssen, these transient disciples who came only when they could slip away unseen and left when they would be missed by their elders. It was necessary; they were Thyssen’s sole source of supplies and information about the village beyond the mill. It was also dangerous: there was always the chance that one of them would betray the sorcerer, as little Eduard had thought to do.

  Thyssen watched as the last few children returned from playing outside. True Chaos, the sorcerer thought. No concern for labour or stricture, only the pleasure of the moment. It was a testament to how greatly the children enjoyed his lessons that he did not have to collect them from their romps but that they came of their own accord. They sat, mostly quiet, mostly still, awaiting the beginning of Thyssen’s story of the day. Thyssen noted the eager young faces and a cruel smile played about the edges of his porcine mouth.

  ‘You have been bad,’ the sorcerer said softly, ‘and for that you will not be allowed to listen to the story today.’ A twinkle of malicious mirth gleamed in Thyssen’s eye as he noted the sudden look of loss that masked the boy’s features. One of the many lessons of Slaanesh, the ecstasy of experience and the torment of its denial. Thyssen waved Kurt and Paul forward. The boys lifted Eduard from the floor and carried the boy over to a large wooden barrel resting in the farthest corner of the mill. He should be just out of earshot, the sorcerer mused as he watched the boys force Eduard into his small prison. He was certain that this blatant exclusion of Eduard from the other children would have the desired effect, upon both the would-be turncoat and the other children. Still, it would pay to ensure his strategy.

  ‘Keren,’ the sorcerer hissed softly. The girl took her place at his side and Thyssen whispered into her ear.

  ‘I understand that young Eduard has a little dog,’ Thyssen smiled as he saw the wicked grin growing on Keren’s face. What an eager student. ‘When we let him out of the barrel, tell him that if he ever runs off again, something bad will happen to his dog.’ Thyssen waved away the girl and hobbled his way to the front of the platform.

  ‘Today, children, I will tell you a story about Sigmar.’ A hush of excitement crept across the assembly. Thyssen choked on the loathing their excitement evoked, reminding him that he had much nonsense still to remove from their young minds. Let them have their heroic delusions, I will correct them soon enough. And until then, I will exploit their naive faith.

  The sorcerer began his tale, telling of great and noble Sigmar and his struggle to found the Empire. He told of how hordes of orcs forced Sigmar and his mighty army away from the places known to men, past even the icy lands of Kislev, until Sigmar came upon the border of a land of wonder and magic. The sky sparkled like diamond and the ground was paved with gold. And, just as Sigmar would have entered this land of fantastic beauty, he found the way barred by four mighty figures. One was a massive man encased in a suit of ruby armour, a blazing axe in his powerful hand. The second was a beautiful woman, her armour sparkling like the diamond sky so that whenever the eye fell upon it, it was a different colour. The third was a tall, keen-eyed wizard garbed in a brightly coloured robe and the air around him shimmered with magic. The last was a great fat warrior, whose coughing laugh boomed across the horizon. They were the Four Princes and Sigmar recognised them as his equals, beings worthy of his respect. He knew that it would be best to not raise arms against them and turned to return and face the overwhelming orc hordes. But the Four Princes would not allow the armies of men to fall, and they returned with Sigmar and together they scoured the land until all the orcs had been driven beyond the mountains.

  It was late in the evening when Thyssen finished his tale. Not one of his young audience had lost interest, not one youthful head bowed in slumber despite the late hour. The sorcerer was pleased with his success. Soon, soon I will teach you more than fables. Soon I will show you the Four Princes and you will love them.

  ‘THE OLD FOOL!’ Thyssen roared, throwing the clay cup across the mill, spilling goat’s milk on his black robe. A young girl hurried forward and began to sop the milk from his robe with the hem of her dress. Thyssen smiled at her and turned his head to look at the boy who had brought him the news. He should have expected something. More and more of the children had been coming to him, his permanent base now consisting of thirty with only another eleven still acting as his eyes and ears in the village. It had been a month since that fat idiot Bassermann had convinced the village leaders to hire a hunter to discover the beast that was carrying off their children. Thyssen smiled as he recalled the hunter’s demise, how he had fixed it to look as if the man had fallen into his own steel-jawed trap. Kurt had helped him with that. Sometimes the boy’s bloodlust alarmed even the sorcerer. Still, all gods looked with favour upon the zealous.

  ‘So, the old priest wants to send a petition to Altdorf and bring witch hunters to Marburg?’ Thyssen snarled. Rudi nodded his head with a bird-like bobbing motion.

  ‘The village elders don’t want him to, though. They say that witch hunters find witches even when there aren’t any around.’ The boy grinned at Thyssen. ‘So it isn’t really bad, because they told him not to.’

  The smile Thyssen directed at Rudi was not a friendly one, though the boy foolishly took it to be. It was the same ignorant naivety that made the boy think Hackl would listen to what the village elders had to say. Truthfully, he was surprised that the old priest had taken this long to act. He had certainly been upset enough two months ago when Eduard had ”disappeared” to join Thyssen’s full-time students. No, the old priest would be sending for witch hunters. Which meant that it was time to attend to the meddling fool.

  ‘Keren,’ the sorcerer said, ‘bring the others inside. Today, I will tell you all about the Four Princes a little earlier than usual.’

  The girl raced outside to bring the children from their play. Thyssen knew it would not be long before his little students were assembled before him, their attentive faces looking up at his own as he continued the epic tale he had started so many weeks ago. Thyssen had achieved much in that time. Sigmar had gone from the equal of the Four Princes to their exploiter, cravenly allowing the Four to fight his battles for him. Thyssen told of how it was the Four Princes who defeated the Great Enchanter Drachenfels and brought to an end the savage dragon Mordrax, how it was they who truly conquered all the horrible enemies the children had once been told Sigmar himself had vanquished. Slowly, carefully, Thyssen had recast Sigmar in their imaginations, changing him from hero and saviour to coward and manipulator. Now, today, it would be time to add a new sin to Sigmar’s crimes, a new title to attach itself to his name. It was time for Sigmar to become the betrayer.

  Thyssen looked out on the hastily assembled children. He smiled as he saw their eager faces. Tonight he would put tha
t eagerness to use. Tonight he would allow some of them to show their devotion to the powers of Chaos.

  The sorcerer began his tale, relating how a numberless army of the undead had arisen in the blighted south, slaughtering all in their path, adding their victims to the host of death. Their tireless advance brought the army of skeletons and wraiths to the very edge of the Empire the Four Princes had conquered for the sons of men. A great army of men had been assembled; no household in the Empire did not fail to send at least one of its number to face the terrible invasion. Yet large as it was, before the tide of undead it was nothing. Sigmar saw the mammoth force of his enemy and was seized with dread. He turned to the Four Princes and ordered them to lead the attack on the undead, claiming that here was a foe unworthy of an Emperor. Sigmar retreated to a nearby hill to watch the battle while the Four Princes led the mortal army against the overwhelming numbers of the dead.

  It was a fierce and horrible struggle. Not one in ten of those who fought the undead survived. The battle looked hopeless until the Four Princes forced their way to the very heart of the undead host. Before them stood a hideous giant encased in magic armour black as the darkest pit, his face a leering skull. He was the general of the terrible army, the Supreme Necromancer, Nagash the Black. The Four Princes did not hesitate before the terrifying foe, for they knew that without Nagash, the evil army would return to their graves and the lands of men would be saved. It was a terrific fight, even for the powerful Princes and when at last they broke the evil necromancer’s body and cast his black soul to the wind, they were weary and wounded.

  From his hill, Sigmar had watched the battle progress. Seeing Nagash defeated, he descended to the battlefield, striking down the remaining skeletons and zombies as he found them, rallying the tattered remnants of his army to his sparkling banner. At last Sigmar found the Four Princes, half-dead from their terrible battle. Sigmar saw their weakened state and seized upon their infirmity. He turned to his soldiers and told them the Four Princes were evil daemons, that it was they who had brought the undead up from the Southlands to destroy them all. The men heard his lies and believed them, driving the weakened Princes from the Empire and making of their names the vilest of curses.