Gryphius was slumped over the back of another knight’s horse and as they raced back towards the main column of troops, Ratboy couldn’t tell whether the general was alive or dead. Many of his men were clutching wounds of their own and swaying in their saddles, but as the marauders reeled from Wolff’s holy fire, the Averlanders saw their one chance for escape and took it. Driving their exhausted horses forwards, through the charred remains, in a last, desperate charge.
The righteous fury that had washed over Ratboy gradually receded to reveal an impressive selection of pains. As he bounced weakly on the back of Wolff’s horse, he realised that he was covered with dozens of cuts and grazes, but it was his left hand that worried him most of all: it was little more than a torn rag of glistening muscle and splintered bone. He gripped his master a little tighter as they left the radius of Wolff’s blast and crashed back into a wall of living foes. The knights made no pretence of fighting, heading straight for the citadel in a desperate rout. Many of them dropped armour and swords as they charged, hoping to gain a little more speed over the final approach.
The ruin rose up ahead, so close Ratboy felt he could almost touch the figures watching eagerly from the battlements.
“Ride for your lives,” cried Wolff, raising his hammer and trying to drag a last burst of effort from the men. “We’re almost through.”
Ratboy looked back to see hundreds upon hundreds of marauders crossing the valley towards them. There was no sign of the flagellants, and he guessed Raphael’s followers must have finally achieved the ultimate sacrifice in the name of their prophet. Raphael’s corpse was gone too: dragged down to the killing floor along with the riders who carried it.
As he looked back over the desperate faces of the charging Averlanders, something caught Ratboy’s eye.
Far across the valley, near the command tents, a flashing light glimmered though the early morning gloom; lifting slowly above the heads of the marauders and heading towards them. “Master,” Ratboy croaked, but his ruined voice was lost beneath the thundering of the horses’ hooves.
As the flickering shape moved towards them it picked up speed and after a few minutes Ratboy realised it was a man of some kind, covered in reflective, glassy armour and hurtling towards them with the powerful thrust of six colossal wings. Despite his fear, and the awful pain in his broken hand, Ratboy felt anger well up in him. This creature was responsible for everything; this was the reason for the slaughter at Ruckendorf and Gotburg and Castle Luneberg; this was the fiend behind the deaths of Anna’s sisters.
At the thought of Anna, Ratboy gasped. Where was she? He looked around at the riders on either side of him. She was nowhere to be seen and Ratboy’s anger grew all the more as he looked back at the winged figure racing towards them.
Ragged cheers broke out ahead, as they neared the crumbling walls of Mercy’s End. He turned away from the flashing figure and saw the marauders on both sides falling to their knees, pierced with dozens of black and white tipped arrows. Archers had lined the walls of the keep in their hundreds, firing great banks of arrows over the heads of the Averlanders as the towering castle gates began to slowly open.
The pain of Ratboy’s countless wounds finally began to overcome him. The last vestiges of Wolff’s light slipped from his throat in a tired groan as his head lolled forward against the priest’s back. He was vaguely aware that up ahead hooves were clattering against cobbles, rather than blood-soaked earth, but before Wolff’s horse had reached the gate, Ratboy’s strength left him. He loosed his grip on Wolff’s back, slid down towards the rushing ground and knew no more.
CHAPTER EIGHT
UNWELCOME GUESTS
The sound of approaching horses dragged Casper von Luneberg from the relative warmth of his bed. He cursed as he shuffled across the bitterly cold bedchamber. “I told them to leave me be,” he muttered, draping blankets over his royal robes as he descended the winding stairs to the great hall. “I can’t help you now,” he called out, assuming that some of his servants must have returned. Several days’ worth of stubble had softened his angular features and his unwashed hair sprouted from his woolly cocoon like a collection of strange antennae. As he entered the hall, it was only the flashes of gold on his fingers that distinguished him from any other deranged refugee.
He paused on the threshold and tilted his head to one side, listening to the sound of the hooves crossing his courtyard. “Two horses,” he said. “Warhorses.” He stepped up to one of the broken windows and grimaced into the icy blast. “Who’s there?” he called out. “Luneberg is dead. There’s no one here but us ghosts.”
There was no reply but the duke heard the men dismount, drop to the ground and tether their horses. There was a clatter of metal falling to the cobbles and a furious voice rang out. “Adelman, you oaf, be careful with that.”
A vague premonition of danger tingled in the duke’s mind. There was something in the sharp, stentorian voice that worried him. “What does it matter,” he said, with a shrug, but his words didn’t quite ring true. Despite himself, Luneberg felt a sudden lust for life. He stumbled back into the hall, grasping at chairs and walls for support.
He heard the sound of the strangers’ boots as they entered the inner keep and pounded up the stairs towards him. Hearing the approach of his executioners was altogether different from picturing his death as something remote and abstract. The duke began muttering under his breath. “Where did I leave my sword,” he said, patting the surface of the long table that divided the room. “There must be something in here.” His fingers touched upon a variety of useless objects: cups, bowls, spoons but nothing he could use as a weapon. “It’s next to my bed,” he said, heading for the door, but as he rushed across the hall, he stumbled on a broken fiddle and fell heavily to the floor. He tried to lift himself, but couldn’t seem to catch his breath.
The door flew open with a loud bang and footsteps rushed towards him. “My lord,” cried the voice he had heard outside, “are you injured? Adelman, help him up.”
A pair of enormous, rough hands grasped the duke, lifted him to his feet and placed him on a chair.
“Who are you?” he gasped, still struggling for breath.
“Otto Surman, Templar of Sigmar,” replied the voice, twisting itself into a gentle croon. “Do I have the honour of meeting Duke Casper von Luneberg?”
The duke gripped his knees and hitched his shoulders up and down as he grabbed a few short breaths. “Yes,” he managed to exclaim after a few minutes, “I’m Casper von Luneberg.” He gave a grim laugh. “But as far as the dukedom is concerned, I fear I may be in dereliction of my duties.”
There was a pause, and the duke assumed his guests were looking around at the ruined tapestries and broken furniture.
“We saw bodies in the village, duke. Was this the work of the same Chaos force that laid waste to Strendel and Wurdorf? The marauders heading for Wolfenberg?”
Luneberg shrugged. “There is some kind of thing leading them, named Mormius. He didn’t have much time to discuss tactics with me, but yes, I believe he was headed for the capital. Mercy’s End still blocks their way, but I doubt it will be much of an obstacle. I’ve never seen such an army.”
“Mercy’s End?”
The duke thrust his head towards his interrogator, as though willing his severed optical nerves back into life. “What are you doing here? There’s nothing here for you, or your god. Whichever one you profess to serve. I’m through with creeds and wars and stratagems. You can expect no help from me.” He sneered. “I gave everything for this Empire and it spat me out like a rotten fruit.”
The duke felt a gentle hand on his, as the crooning voice replied. “My lord, we require no help. Far from it—I simply wished to enquire after a friend of mine.”
“Which friend?”
“A priestess of Shallya, who goes by the name of Anna Fleck. I believe she’s travelling in the company of one of my brethren—a warrior priest named Jakob Wolff.”
The duke blushed an
d shook his head, embarrassed by the harshness of his words. “You must forgive my rudeness, Brother Surman, I didn’t realise. Any friend of that woman is a friend of mine.”
“No forgiveness needed, duke. We live in dangerous times. It’s wise to be wary of strangers.”
Luneberg heard the scraping sound of a chair being pulled alongside his, and when the soft voice spoke again, it was so close he could feel the priest’s breath on his ear. “Are you a good friend of Anna then, duke?”
The duke smiled as he remembered his encounter with the priestess. “It seems strange to say it, after such a brief acquaintance, but yes, I feel as though I know her very well.” He leant back in his chair. “She’s of a kind though, I suppose. There are those who destroy and those who create, and I fear Anna’s breed are in the minority.”
“I think I understand you, duke.” There was a slight urgency in Surman’s voice as he asked his next question. “Is she here?”
“Oh, no, I’m afraid not, Brother Surman. She left with Gryphius’ army, two days past. She has no intention of fighting, though. They couldn’t even get her to wear armour.” The duke’s smile slipped from his face. “She hopes to bring a little love to this wounded land, but I fear she might be too late for that.”
“I see. And where did Gryphius plan to go from here? South?”
The duke gave a hollow laugh. “South? You don’t know Hugo von Gryphius. He’s heard that the whole weight of the Chaos realm is pressing down on Mercy’s End, so he wants to be there when the hammer falls. He intends to throw in his lot with those poor, doomed souls.”
“And Anna went with him?”
“Yes, along with the warrior priest and his acolyte.”
Surman fell silent as he considered Luneberg’s words and for a few minutes the only sound was the duke’s laboured breathing.
“Tell me, duke,” said Surman eventually, “what happened to your eyes?”
The duke placed a protective hand over the stained bandage. “The thing called Mormius didn’t approve of my reading habits.” He shrugged. “I’m not sure what he is, exactly, but he’s indulged in the worst kind of occultism and I think it’s sent him mad. His whole body has been transformed by depravity, so I suppose it makes sense that it would have warped his mind too. He has six, huge wings sprouting from his back and eyes that could flay the skin from your bones.” He shuddered at the memory. “He treated me quite politely at first, but when I commented on his obvious heresy, he became completely unhinged.”
“So, not only did this daemonic entity enter your castle,” asked Surman, with a slight tremor in his voice. “You spoke with it, too?”
The duke nodded and hugged himself, suddenly remembering the cold. He waited for Surman to continue speaking, but no words came. Instead, he felt the priest rise from the chair and step away. There was a low muttering sound as Surman spoke to his companion, then a brief click of metal against metal.
“Tell me, duke,” said Surman, from somewhere behind him, “why did this child of the Old Night allow you to live?” The gentle croon had vanished, to be replaced with a contemptuous sneer. “What perverted bargain did you make to buy your freedom?”
“Bargain? What are you talking—” The duke cut himself short with a wry laugh. “Oh. Of course. I see.” He laughed a little harder and shook his head in disbelief. “So this is how it finishes. What a pitiful end to a farcical life.”
“It is to the merciful justice of Sigmar that I commit you, servant of the Ruinous Powers,” replied Surman. “May your soul—”
“Don’t waste any more of my time, you pathetic dupe,” snapped Luneberg. “Do whatever you imagine you must, but please don’t make me listen to that puerile dogma.”
The duke barely noticed the pistol as it was pressed to the back of his head. He was already far away, in a country of golden, rolling fields and unstained friendship. “Hugo, old friend,” he breathed, “forgive me.”
By the time the gunshot had echoed once around the empty hall, Luneberg was dead.
CHAPTER NINE
MEN OF OSTLAND
The darkness was all encompassing. It cradled Ratboy, caressing his damaged flesh like swaddling and easing him towards oblivion. Brutal memories tried to pierce the gloom and it was his own brutality that haunted him most of all. But for every glimpse of frenzied hands and pulsing viscera, another wave of blackness came, dragging him further and further down.
A voice interrupted his descent. “Ratboy,” it called. The sound of his own name reminded him again of his bloody deeds and jolted him back up from the abyss. “Stay with us.”
The soft, familiar tones gave Ratboy another memory: a brief glimpse of sunlight beside a quick, winding stream and a woman’s eyes, looking into his with unashamed affection. Suddenly the darkness seemed a little less enticing.
“Try and drink this,” said the voice and he felt a cup pressed gently against his mouth, moistening his lips with warm, aromatic liquid.
He swallowed a little of the drink and opened his eyes.
For a while he only registered Anna’s face, leaning over his and lit up with a broad grin. Her ivory skin was bruised and scratched, and he could see faint worry lines at the corners of her eyes that he suspected had not been there just a few short weeks ago. Her hair had grown back as a halo of glinting stubble and she had tears of relief in her eyes.
“You’re alive,” he muttered.
Anna burst into laughter and leant away from him. “I’m alive? You’re the one who vanished just as we reached our destination.” She gestured to his tightly bandaged hand. “And you’re the one who decided to grab the wrong end of a knife.”
Ratboy’s nose wrinkled as he noticed a strong smell of manure. He looked around at his surroundings. He was lying on a bed of straw in the corner of a stable, surrounded by a forest of horses’ legs and piles of dung.
“It was the warmest place we could find,” laughed Anna, noticing his look of disgust. “Most of this place fell down centuries ago, but the horses do quite nicely for themselves.”
“Where’s Brother Wolff?”
“Recovering, I imagine. After he rescued you, he seemed quite overcome with exhaustion. He’d barely dragged you through the gates when he collapsed. I’m not sure what he did out there—that awful light that came down on him seemed to melt flesh from men’s bones.” Her eyes widened with horror at the memory of it. “He suffered horribly for it afterwards though. His face was greyer than Raphael’s corpse. I didn’t think he would survive.” She gave Ratboy another sip of the tea and smiled at him as he gulped it down.
Ratboy struggled up into a sitting position with a look of concern on his face. “So, is he asleep still? Has he recovered from his exhaustion?”
Anna pressed him gently back onto the straw. “Don’t alarm yourself. He’s awake and talking to Captain Felhamer—the officer in charge of this place.” She grimaced. “Well, I say ‘in charge’, but the captain has quite a few egos to contend with. Everyone in here seems to have some ridiculous, vainglorious title: Kompmeister or Kriegswarden or something else that justifies their pompousness. And they all think they should be making the big tactical decisions.”
“But what of the enemy?” Ratboy’s eyes grew wide with fear. “I saw a shape pursuing us. A creature, that flew at the head of the marauders.”
Anna nodded. “Yes, you saw the thing the duke referred to as Mormius. He said it’s some kind of daemon spawn.” Her cool, grey eyes clouded over. “It’s Mormius who murdered Sister Gundram, my matriarch. And he massacred Luneberg’s men. He’s the one leading the enemy against us.”
“Then are we under attack?”
“Not yet.” Anna looked at Ratboy’s bandaged hand. “It seems that our ill-advised charge may have bought Captain Felhamer and his men a little time. They were expecting the assault to begin this morning, but between us and the penitents, we left the enemy quite disconcerted.” She sighed. “It’s the briefest of respites though. Wolff and Felhamer both expec
t them to strike at nightfall.”
Ratboy frowned, still trying to piece together his memories of the morning’s events. “Why did you call the charge ‘ill-advised’? We made it to Mercy’s End, didn’t we?”
Anna hesitated before replying. “Well, yes, or at least some of us did.” She smoothed down her white robes and looked at her long, delicate fingers. “The Obermarshall confused things greatly by attempting to reach the flagellants. Barely half of his men reached the citadel and few of them are without injuries.” She frowned. “And of course, every single one of the villagers from Gotburg was butchered. Just as your master knew they would be when he sent them into battle.”
Ratboy blushed at her angry tone. “They had chosen their path before they even met Master Wolff.”
Anna shook her head, but seemed unwilling to argue the point.
“And what of the Obermarshall himself?”
Anna shook her head again. “I’ve done as much as I can for him, but I couldn’t remove the weapon from his side without risking more damage.” As her eyes met Ratboy’s, they were full of regret. “The most I could do was remove some of the spear and bandage the rest up. I don’t expect him to see the morning.”
Ratboy nodded and fell silent. He recalled the frenzy that took hold of him during the battle and shuddered. He looked down at his chest and saw that his borrowed yellow tabard was torn and dark with blood.
Anna followed his gaze and gave him an odd, forced smile. “Your master was pleased with your bravery. He feels that your determination did you credit.”
Ratboy closed his eyes, trying to rid himself of the awful images that plagued him. “I’m not sure it was determination as such,” he said. “The light that came from Brother Wolff seemed to change me. And there was so much blood everywhere, I lost track of things.” He grimaced. “I wasn’t myself.”
Anna raised her eyebrows. “If you wish to follow in Wolff’s footsteps, you’ll need to accept such violence.” She shook her head. “It’s not the path I would’ve chosen, but the life of a warrior priest is full of such horrors. It’s a path of pain, as well as prayer.”
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