05 - Warrior Priest

by Darius Hinks - (ebook by Undead)

  The creature’s smile faltered and a strange hissing noise came from deep in his throat. “Now, my lord?”

  “Yes, now. For every day we spend waiting, Mercy’s End grows a little stronger. I have no desire to spend a week tussling over that backwater. I should be within sight of the capital by now, not wasting my time on these parochial skirmishes.”

  “Well, master,” the marauder said, shrugging helplessly. “I’m not sure that will be possible. Many of the troops are still fighting their way through Kislev. Ivarr Kolbeinn has gathered a great number of ogres and they’re just a few days north of here. And Ingvarr the Changed has hundreds of men marching with him.” He grimaced with all four of his mouths. “We should at least wait for Freyvior Sturl and his horsemen.”

  “Didn’t you hear me?” said Mormius. “We attack in the morning.” He grinned. “Or do you think my skills as a strategist are insufficient?” His shoulders began to shake with amusement. “Maybe it would be better if you made the tactical decisions from now on?”

  At the sound of Mormius’ laughter, the colour drained from the marauder’s face. He backed away, shaking his head. “No, of course not, you’re absolutely right.” He waved at the keep. “These fools won’t see the dawn. I’ll see to it.” He lurched awkwardly away through the rain. “We’ll be marching south within the hour.”

  With some difficulty, Mormius managed to stifle his laughter. Once he was calm, he smiled with satisfaction at the great army arrayed before him. The standard bearers had unfurled their crude colours to the wind: the eight pointed star of Chaos, daubed in the blood of their enemies. It was a terrifying sight and his heart swelled with pride.

  As he watched the endless stream of troops swarming out of the darkness, Mormius noticed a small hole on his left gauntlet. As he watched, a spidery, black patina began to spread over the crystals that surrounded it. He peered at the dark stain for a moment, then promptly forgot all about it as he turned his attention to the battle ahead.

  CHAPTER TWO

  MERCIFUL JUSTICE

  “Envy never dies,” said the old man, leaning in towards the assembled crowd. His voice was low, but his whole body was twisted with hate. Spittle was hanging from his cracked lips and his gaunt face was flushed with emotion. “The old gods are always there, waiting for revenge; waiting to rise again.” His frenzied, bony arms snaked back and forth across his chest as he spoke and a sheen of sweat glistened over his ribs. A blistered symbol was scorched across his belly: a single flaming hammer.

  Anna was torn between fascination and disgust. From her vantage point, up on top of the pyre, she could see how easily he manipulated the mob. Some of these people had recently trusted her with their lives; only the night before, most of them had still doubted her guilt. Now, they could smell blood on the morning air and they would not rest until more of it was spilled. As the old man continued his tirade, she saw life slipping from her grasp. Scarlet tears began to roll down over her bruised, swollen cheeks and she prepared herself for death.

  “Their obscure plots always surround us,” continued the old man. “A tide of unholy filth hides behind the most innocent of faces. Even the most vigilant of Sigmar’s servants can struggle to spot the signs.” The crowd murmured their assent, beginning to warm to his theme. “Look at her,” he hissed, stretching his frail body to its full height and pointing theatrically at Anna. “See how this ‘priestess’ whimpers for forgiveness. See the cold tears that run from her pitiless eyes. Even now, with judgement at hand, she is unrepentant. If you hesitate, if you falter even for a moment, she will worm her way out of justice. Trust me, my friends, that pretty young face hides an old, terrible evil; there’s murder in her heart.” The crowd’s murmurs grew louder and many of them cast nervous, furtive glances up at the priestess.

  Anna shivered. Dawn light was spreading quickly over the village, but the witch hunter’s henchman had torn her white robes as he fastened her to the pyre. Her exposed flesh was wet with dew and the autumn breeze knifed into her. She prayed that one way or another, her ordeal would soon be over. As the crowd began to chant along with the old man’s liturgy, she looked out across their heads to the fields beyond the village; out towards the distant forest. Crows were hopping across the ploughed fields and heading towards her. She took a strange comfort in the sight. As mankind acted out its bloody rituals, nature continued unabated. The world marched on, blind to her fate. Even as the crows picked at her charred remains, she would become part of a timeless cycle of rebirth. There was solace in such things, she decided.

  “Riders,” she muttered, surprised by the hoarse croak that came from her throat. The blood in her eyes had painted the horizon as a crimson blur, and for a while she doubted herself, but as the shapes grew nearer she was sure: it wasn’t crows, but men who were moving towards her. Two horsemen had emerged from the distant trees and were slowly crossing the fields towards the village. She looked down to see if anyone else had noticed, but the old man had the mob in the palm of his sweaty hand. As he lurched back and forth, singing and cursing ecstatically, they cheered him on, waving knives and pitchforks in approval and edging towards the pyre.

  “Look around,” he continued, gesturing towards the ruined houses. “These truly are the end times. Judgement is finally at hand. Only the most pious will survive. Corruption and decay is crawling across our blessed homeland and only those with the faith to stare it down can escape damnation.” The villagers nodded eagerly at each other, unable to dispute the logic of his words. Life had always been hard, out here on the very edge of the Empire, but in recent months even the most hardened Ostlanders had begun to know doubt. Streams of blank-eyed refugees passed through almost daily now, bringing news of terrible defeats in the north. There wasn’t a young man left in the village who wasn’t fighting for his life in the war, or already cold in the ground.

  The old man scampered, spider-like onto the remains of a barn wall and slapped the crumbling stone. “Bricks and mortar can no longer keep you safe, my friends. The creatures that watch from the trees do not care about walls or doors. They’re filled with mindless, animal hate. No mortal protection can stop them. They’ll soon be back to finish the job. Yes! And burn down the rest of your homes.” He scratched frantically at his thin beard. “And if you don’t show the strength of your faith, you’ll burn along with them.” He levelled a trembling finger at Anna. “And she has brought this upon you!”

  The crowd erupted into raucous cheers. “She must die,” screamed an old woman, grabbing a lit firebrand and holding it aloft.

  “It’s true,” cried a blacksmith, nervously twisting his leather apron as he rushed to the old woman’s side. “Before the priestess came, we were safe, but now the creatures come almost nightly. I’ve heard her singing songs in a foreign language.” He looked around at the other villagers. “I think she’s calling to them.”

  The old man nodded encouragement as the crowd began hurling a stream of evidence at Anna.

  “She cured old Mandred with nothing more than a garland of flowers.”

  “She goes into the forest alone, unafraid of the creatures.”

  Anna was barely conscious of the accusations. A steady stream of blood was flowing from her head and reality kept slipping in and out of grasp. Visions of her childhood blurred into view and she whispered the name of her abbess, begging her to forgive her for the miserable end she had come to. She still could not be sure if the two horsemen were even real. Certainly none of the villagers seemed to have noticed them. The men’s silhouettes were now quite clear as they trotted through the morning mist, but the mob was fixated on the old man. She blinked away her tears. Yes, she was sure now, it was two men, both mounted on powerful warhorses. Admittedly, the first was little more than a boy. His wiry body barely filled the saddle and his limbs flapped around clumsily as he steered the horse over the furrows; but even at this distance she could see the determined frown on his face as he strained to control his mount.

  The second rider
was another matter altogether. He was a little further back and still partly shrouded in mist, but from his posture Anna could tell this was no travelling merchant or itinerant farmer. He handled his horse with the calm surety of a veteran soldier, his chin raised disdainfully as he surveyed the scene before him. He was a shaven-headed giant, with a broad chest clad in thick, iron armour that glinted dully in the morning light. A great warhammer was slung nonchalantly over his wide shoulders. Anna felt a thrill of hope. Was this her saviour? Her pulse quickened and for the first time she tested the strength of the bonds that held her. She was strapped to a stout post with her hands above her head. The witch hunter’s henchman had done his job well, but maybe if she just twisted a little…

  “You are wise people,” said the old man, hopping back down from the barn wall. “I can see it in your eyes.” He hugged and patted those nearest to him, blind to the grimaces his sour odour induced. As he moved amongst the crowd, he handed out small wooden hammers, muttering a blessing to each recipient in turn. The villagers grasped the icons with joy, pressing them to their chests and muttering prayers of thanks. The old man stroked the hammer emblazoned across his puckered belly. “This symbol is no gaudy badge of honour. No shallow boast. The hammer is a mark of our heavy burden. It’s no easy thing to hand out unerring judgement.” He gave the old woman a toothy, yellow grin as he took the flaming brand from her hand. “Believe me,” he said, as he approached the pyre and looked up at the desperately struggling Anna, “mercy would often seem the easier path.”

  The crowd fell silent as he raised the brand and closed his eyes, as though in prayer. For a few minutes, the crackling of the flames was the only sound, and then, when he spoke again, it was in a dull monotone. “It is to the merciful justice of Sigmar that I commit you, servant of the Ruinous Powers. May your soul find peace at last in the cleansing flame of his forgiveness.” Then the old man opened his eyes and Anna saw again how unusual they were; the irises were of such a pale grey that his pupils seemed to be floating in a pair of clear, white pools. He gave Anna a kind smile as he thrust the fire into the kindling at her feet.

  The crowd gasped and backed away from the pyre, as though suddenly realising the magnitude of their treachery. The kindling was still damp with morning dew and for a while nothing happened; but then, to Anna’s horror, thin trails of smoke began to snake around her feet.

  “Don’t be afraid,” said the old man, signalling for the mob to approach. “The punishment of Sigmar only falls on his most errant children. You’ve all done well to reveal this woman’s heresy. Now be stout of heart, and see the task through to its end.” He plucked a scroll from his robes and, as Anna began to moan in fear, he started to pray. He left the pyre and scampered back up onto the barn wall, proudly lifting his chin and addressing his words to the indifferent sky. One by one, the villagers stepped nervously back towards the growing fire, murmuring along with his prayers. Soon, the old man’s passion started to infect them. Their doubt passed as quickly as it had come and they pressed closer, eager to see the witch burn.

  Anna strained at her bonds, but they simply bit into her slender wrists all the more, until fresh blood began to flow down her arms. The smoke was quickly growing thicker and she felt the first glow of warmth under her feet. She strained, trying to stretch herself away from the fire, but it was useless. She wondered desperately whether she should try to inhale the smoke and escape into unconsciousness, but the thought appalled her; she was not ready to give up on life yet. She looked out through the cinders and heat haze and felt a rush of excitement. The two riders had almost reached the square and they were heading straight for her.

  Now that she saw the larger of the two men at close hand, he looked even more impressive. The lower part of his face was hidden behind an iron gorget, but the battered metal could not hide the fierce intensity in his dark, brooding eyes. He was obviously a priest of some importance. Crimson robes hung down from beneath his thick, plate armour and the cloth was decorated with beautiful gold embroidery. Religious texts were chained to his cuirass and around his regal, shaven head he wore a studded metal band, engraved with images of a flaming hammer. Anna’s heart swelled as he steered his horse towards the baying mob and looked her straight in the eye.

  The crowd stumbled over their words and fell silent as they finally noticed the two horsemen. As the priest and his young acolyte approached, the villagers looked nervously towards the old witch hunter for reassurance. He was lost in prayer, swaying back and forth on the wall and muttering garbled words to the heavens. “Banish, O Sigmar, this Servant of Change. Dispel her unholy form. I invoke Your Name. Let me end this Heresy. Let me be the instrument of Your wrath!”

  The warrior priest dismounted and lifted his warhammer from over his shoulders. He surveyed the scene, taking in the wide-eyed villagers and the quickly growing fire. As his metal-clad fingers drummed on the haft of his weapon, a scowl crossed his face. Then he spotted the babbling old man, crouched on the barn wall. With a nod of satisfaction he marched straight past the priestess, pausing only to pick up a long wooden stake from the pyre. As the gangly youth tumbled awkwardly from his horse, he gave Anna an apologetic frown, before rushing after his master.

  Anna gasped. They had no intention of saving her. They were bloodthirsty Sigmarites, just like the old man; blind to anything but their own hunger for war. She groaned with the horror of it. “Have you no compassion?” she tried to say, but her lips were thick with dried blood and the words came out as a mumbled croak. She spat into the growing flames, cursing the hammer god and all his witless minions. Let the fire take her. There was no hope for a world ruled by such monsters. She would rather take her chances with the creatures of the forest than face another holy man.

  The old man finally noticed the priest striding purposefully towards him. He tugged excitedly at his straggly hair as he saw the holy texts and hammer icons. A broad grin spread across his face. “Brother,” he cried, skipping down from the wall, “you’ve joined us at a crucial moment.” He spread his arms in a greeting and rushed towards him.

  The priest remained silent as he approached. Upon reaching the old man he lifted him from the ground, as easily as if he were a small child and carried him back to the wall. Before the witch hunter could mutter a word of protest, the priest raised his great hammer and with one powerful blow pounded the wooden stake through the old man’s chest, pinning him to the wall and leaving him dangling, puppetlike a few feet from the ground. Cries of dismay exploded from the crowd as a bright torrent of blood rushed from the old man and began drumming across the dusty earth. For a few seconds he was mute with shock, staring at the priest in confusion, then, he too began to scream, clutching desperately at the splintered wood and trying to stem the flow of blood.

  The priest seemed oblivious to the pandemonium he had triggered. He calmly wiped the old man’s warm blood from his armour and stepped back to survey his handiwork.

  “What have you done?” screamed the old man in disbelief, thrashing his scrawny limbs like an overturned beetle. “You’ve killed me!” He looked over at the crowd. “Somebody stop him. He’s a murderer.”

  The crowd backed away, suddenly afraid, as the warrior priest turned to face them. His black eyes flashed dangerously from beneath thick grey eyebrows and when he spoke it was with the quiet surety of a man used to being obeyed. “Leave us,” he growled.

  The villagers looked around for support, but only met the same fear in each other’s faces. With a last disappointed look at Anna, they shuffled back towards their homes, muttering bitterly at being deprived of their sport.

  The priest turned back towards his prey, who was still howling with pain and fury. “Adelman,” cried the old man, scouring the upturned carts and ruined houses, “where are you, you dog? I’m injured.” But however much he called, no one came to the witch hunter’s aid.

  The priest and the boy watched in silence as the old man continued his frenzied attempts to remove the stake. After a few minute
s, he realised that each movement simply quickened the blood flow. At last, as his face began to drain of colour, he realised death was at hand and fell silent, looking over at the priest in wide-eyed terror. “Who are you?” he said, shaking his head in dismay. “Why’ve you done this to me?”

  The priest nodded. “Greetings, Otto Surman. My name is Jakob Wolff.” He stepped closer to the old man. “You may remember murdering my parents.”

  Surman’s face twisted into a grimace of horror. “What? I’ve never met you before, I…” His voice trailed off into a confused silence. “Wait,” he said, peering at the priest, “did you say Wolff? I do know that—” A fit of choking gripped him and a fresh torrent blood ran from between his crooked teeth. When the fit had passed, he sneered dismissively and spat a thick red gobbet onto the floor. “Oh, yes, it all comes back to me now. I remember your wretched family, Jakob.” He shook his head at the towering warrior before him. “And I don’t regret a thing. Corruption runs in your people like the rot. I’m only sad I let you live.”

  The acolyte flinched at Surman’s words and looked up at his master to see his response. The priest remained calm. The only outward sign of his anger was a slight tightening of his jaw.

  “You’re a liar,” he replied. “It has taken me thirty years of false penitence to realise my mistake, but finally I understand. My parents weren’t guilty, any more than I was guilty for accusing them.” Colour rushed to his cheeks and he suddenly gripped the stake. The wood was embedded just below the old man’s shoulder and with a grunt the priest shoved it even deeper. The noise that came from Surman’s throat sounded barely human. “You murdered them, knowing my accusations were wrong. I was an innocent child. You knew they weren’t occultists.” His voice rose to a roar. “Admit it, you worm!”

  “Save me,” whimpered Surman reaching out to the young acolyte. “Don’t let him do this to me, I beg—”