Thyssen listened to the whispers of outrage that slithered amongst his assembly, the muttered oaths against a name they had once worshipped. His porcine lips pulled away from his fang-like teeth. Yes, tonight would be the night to deal with a priest of such a loathsome being.
FATHER HACKL AWOKE with a start.
The old priest looked about the darkened cell which held his bed and the few possessions the cleric allowed himself, his mind trying to accustom itself to the benighted surroundings. What had intruded upon his slumber, the priest could not recall. He wiped the crust of sleep from his eyes, and coughed as the chill night air flowed into his lungs. Then Father Hackl’s head slowly turned toward the door of his room. Yes, he had heard a sound that time, a furtive scrabbling in the temple room itself.
Eduard’s little dog must have got loose, the old priest decided. The priest had been taking care of the puppy in the weeks since the boy had disappeared. It was an act of denial, the priest reasoned, a refusal to accept Eduard’s disappearance. Father Hackl thought it strange that he had not realised how much the orphan had come to mean to him until the boy was no longer around. The old priest missed the boy greatly; with him gone, there was an empty spot in Father Hackl’s life. Perhaps that was why he kept Eduard’s little dog. By keeping the puppy, he was defying whatever evil had befallen the boy, declaring to the darkness that the boy would return. A tear welled in the priest’s eye as the thought crossed his mind that he was clinging to an impossible hope.
Still, whatever his reasons for attending the animal, he could not have it scampering about in Sigmar’s holy shrine. He would have to catch the dog and return it to the anteroom. He doubted if the dog would bother to chew through its rope twice in a single evening. With the tired weariness of age, Father Hackl rose from his bed, letting the chill air shock his body into full wakefulness before opening the door and entering the dark hall of the chapel. The old priest made his way along the ranks of rough, wooden pews, softly calling for the dog, as though he did not wish to wake Sigmar at this lonely hour with any undue noise. Father Hackl’s eyes swept the expanse of the temple, seeing little beyond shadows. Then his gaze strayed to the altar itself. It took the old priest a moment before he could recognise the change that had taken place there.
With an impious oath and a quickness in his step, Father Hackl made his way down the empty ranks of pews toward the altar. The hammer, the holy symbol of Sigmar, had fallen from the altar, lying like a piece of refuse on the floor. The priest could not imagine how the little dog had managed to topple the heavy iron hammer from its place, but he would not have it lying in so disrespectful a state. Father Hackl bent over to retrieve it from the floor, ignoring the creaking of his old bones, ignorant of the dark shape which rose from the pews behind him.
A thick, animal stench struck Father Hackl a moment before the attack. The cleric’s head rose ever so slightly as he detected the foul odour. Then the sinew cord wrapped itself around his throat. Once, twice, thrice, the Chaos worshipper wound the grey strangler’s cord about the priest’s neck. Thyssen’s porcine jaws clamped down on his tongue as the sorcerer drew the cord tight, pushing his body back and pulling the old priest to his feet as the noose did its work. Father Hackl’s hands rose to the garrotte, feebly trying to thwart the restricting cord. After a moment, as the priest’s face grew flush and a hideous gargling noise began to form in his throat, the man’s arms flailed about wildly, striking the swine behind him.
For an instant, the crippled sorcerer lessened the tension, allowing the priest to draw breath into his starving lungs.
Father Hackl did more than simply draw air into his lungs, however. With the momentary respite, the priest sent his elbow smashing into the throat of his unseen attacker. The attack did more than damage the assassin’s windpipe; the crippled monster’s twisted leg gave way, spilling the sorcerer on the cold stone floor, dragging the priest down with him.
Thyssen kept a death grip on the garrotte, even as he gasped and hawked on the phlegm building in his own damaged throat. The small, twisted creature desperately tried force the priest’s body around, that he might plant his one good knee in the cleric’s back. The priest resisted with all of his being, his aged frame contesting with Thyssen’s crippled one. In the course of the struggle, Father Hackl nearly succeeded in forcing the sorcerer’s furred fingers away from the constricting sinew cord. It was a very near thing when Thyssen at last managed to bring his knee crashing into the small of the priest’s back. The monster began to pull with all his might, the extra support of his knee adding to the choking pressure. The fiend could feel the life leaking away from his prey with every moment. But the fight was not yet decided, and Thyssen could feel the body beneath him beginning to roll onto its side, threatening to spill the sorcerer once more on the stone floor.
From the shadows came small figures, figures Father Hackl was horrified to recognise. As the cord continued its deadly labour, a huge boy Hackl remembered as the brother of some foresters grasped his left arm, restraining it completely. Keren, the miller’s daughter, and another boy gripped his right arm, allowing him to move it only with the greatest of efforts. Father Hackl struggled to raise the arm to his throat, succeeding by the slightest of degrees, when his fading vision settled upon another small figure standing behind the altar. Father Hackl tried to read the expression on Eduard’s face, but he could not decide if it was a look of shock, concern or simmering hatred. The priest’s eyes were still locked with those of Eduard when Thyssen Krotzigk finished choking the life from the cleric’s body.
‘Such very good children,’ Thyssen said as he released the sinew cord and let the corpse’s head strike the floor with a dull thud. The sorcerer rose to his feet and then sank into one of the pews to recover from the strain of his efforts. He noted with pride the hate and loathing with which his pupils regarded the expired priest.
‘Paul has everything ready in the bell tower,’ Keren offered, looking pleased with herself. The boys looked proud as well, their eyes straying from Thyssen to the sorcerer’s handiwork. They had every right to be, the Chaos worshipper decided. As much as any soldier, this had been their first battle, and they had performed valiantly.
‘Then let us take this filth there,’ Thyssen said, rising from his seat and resting a furry hand on Keren’s shoulder. Kurt and Paul lifted the corpse and followed Thyssen into the bell tower. Thyssen reached out and tugged on the noose at the end of the bell rope. He smiled as he imagined the spectacle when the villagers discovered their priest hanging in his own temple, dead by his own hand. He was still smiling when he noticed that one of his pupils was missing.
‘Where is Eduard?’ the sorcerer hissed, twisting Keren’s arm in his sudden terror. The girl winced from his grasp, alarmed by her master’s harsh tone.
‘He was with us,’ she protested. Thyssen turned from her angrily, roaring at the boys to leave their macabre chore.
‘Find him! Now!’ Thyssen hobbled after the children as they raced back into the temple. Thyssen watched them as they rushed through the double doors of the anteroom, visions of witch hunters lending speed to his limping gait.
Thyssen found the children standing in the anteroom, all of them staring at the gory spectacle strewn across the floor. Eduard rose from the butchery, smiling at Thyssen Krotzigk. The sorcerer returned the smile and placed an arm around the boy. He looked again at the gruesome offering, the sigils drawn in blood upon the walls and floor. Such zeal, but Eduard’s initiative was inappropriate just now. Thyssen turned to Keren.
‘Clean this up,’ he said in a soft, low voice. ‘This is not a fitting place for an offering to the Four Princes.’ Thyssen turned away from the girl and led Eduard away from the profaned temple. He looked down at the boy.
Soon, I will let you make another offering to the Dark Gods. A proper offering.
THERE WERE THOSE in the village of Marburg who had believed their suffering was a punishment visited upon them by the gods, that they were paying for th
eir prosperity with their own children. Yet even these pious individuals were at a loss to explain the horrible suicide of Father Hackl. In this time of crisis, many had come to rely upon the priest for both leadership and comfort. A menacing pall had settled over the village, and none could say when the dawn would come.
A week had passed before another omen of doom presented itself to the simple people of Marburg. A shadowy horseman slowly stalked down the narrow lane through the village; a silent twisted figure on a midnight steed, man and beast clothed in black. Men watched the horseman pass and made the sign of Sigmar before retreating behind the shutters of their cottages. The horseman’s gaze strayed neither left nor right, seemingly oblivious to the very existence of the small community until he drew abreast of the tavern.
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, th
e 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.
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