05 - Warrior Priest

by Darius Hinks - (ebook by Undead)

  “Of course,” replied Ratboy, a little indignantly. “I’m not quite as naive as you imagine, sister. My master has trained me in the martial arts as carefully as the holy texts. It’s just that…” his voice trailed away and he looked down at his blood-caked hands in confusion. “I didn’t expect to find it so enjoyable.”

  He looked up in time to catch the horrified expression on Anna’s face. “My motives were pure,” he said, grabbing her hand and willing her to understand. “For a while, I felt as though I could tear down all the evil in this world. Pull it apart with my bare hands. I wanted to rip the corruption from the heart of the Empire. And as my master’s light surrounded me, it seemed as though I finally could. Finally make a difference.” He shrugged, embarrassed by the passion in his voice. “That’s all I meant by enjoyable.”

  She gave a stiff nod and withdrew her hand. “Yes. I understand. I’ve heard such sentiments before.” She looked down at him with a smile that did not reach her eyes. “Your master has trained you perfectly. You’re already beginning to sound like him. I’ve no doubt that you’ll make a fierce defender of the Sigmarite faith.” She rose to her feet. “I must inform Wolff that his brave protégé is awake.”

  Ratboy watched Anna’s slender form as it slipped away between the restless horses. Her tone had sounded more accusatory than praising and he felt a sinking feeling in his stomach. “Sigmar,” he muttered, looking down at the bloody lump that had once been his left hand. “What a mess.”

  Despite its crumbling masonry and broken rafters, the central hall at Mercy’s End was a beautiful sight. A high, vaulted ceiling reached up over a broad, circular chamber that managed to be imposing, yet light and airy at the same time, thanks to a series of tall, stained glass windows that flooded the room with coloured light. As Ratboy entered, he kept his eyes focussed respectfully on the floor, noticing that every polished flagstone was inlaid with glittering images of twin-tailed comets and the Ghal Maraz.

  At the centre of the chamber was a round stone table and as he approached it Wolff rose to greet him, gesturing to the one empty chair.

  “Tell us what you saw,” said the priest, placing his hand on Ratboy’s shoulder, “as we were approaching the gates.”

  Ratboy looked up from the table and felt his tongue freeze in his mouth. A circle of regal, patrician faces surrounded him, and from the elaborately waxed beards and furrowed brows, he took them to be generals and captains of the highest rank. Their clothes were uniformly bloodstained and torn, but it was obvious from their thick, velvet doublets and intricately worked hauberks that they were great leaders. All of them had seen better days though. Their faces were lined with exhaustion and several of them carried fresh scars.

  With a shock of recognition, Ratboy realised that one of the men was Gryphius. The Obermarshall’s olive skin had drained to a sickly greenish hue and his face was contorted with pain. He nodded vaguely at Ratboy, but there was no trace of his habitual grin.

  “Well, um,” Ratboy stammered, unnerved by the dramatic change in the general, “I can’t recall exactly, but—”

  “What’s that he says?” bellowed a silver-haired old brute, with a fierce, bristling beard and red, rheumy eyes. “Tell him to speak up, priest.”

  “I said, I can’t remember too clearly,” said Ratboy, raising his voice a little. “But I know I saw a winged creature of some kind, flying after us.”

  “Winged, did he say?” barked the old soldier, looking around furiously for confirmation.

  “Yes, Oswald,” snapped the man to his right—a handsome youth with short-cropped blond hair and piercing blue eyes. “And maybe if you bite your fat old tongue for a second, he might be able to say a little more.”

  The small patches of Oswald’s skin that weren’t covered by beard flushed red and he leapt to his feet, thrusting forward a barrel chest as broad as a shire horse. “You’re not the Elector Count just yet, Captain Felhamer,” he yelled, glowering down at the younger man. “And it wouldn’t harm you to show a little respect to your elders.”

  Wolff raised a hand and all eyes immediately turned towards him. “Gentlemen,” he said quietly, “we don’t have much time.”

  Oswald continued to scowl at Captain Felhamer.

  “Apologies, Marshall,” said the captain with a shrug, “I meant no offence. Please, take your seat and let’s hear what the boy has to say.”

  The old soldier gave a snort of disgust and dropped heavily back into his chair.

  “Please,” said the young captain, gesturing for Ratboy to continue.

  “Well, that was it really. I saw a winged figure and he seemed to be made of silver, or glass, or something shiny at least. I believe it was the thing that Duke Luneberg called Mormius.”

  A babble of voices erupted around the table, as the officers turned to each other and began talking urgently.

  “Gentlemen,” said Wolff, raising his hand again, and silence descended over the chamber once more. The priest turned to Ratboy. “Did you see anything else?”

  Ratboy looked down at the table’s scratched stone and frowned. “Well, I passed out soon after I saw him. But I recall that he was surrounded by soldiers who seemed larger than the others, and some that weren’t even human.” Ratboy looked up at his master with fear in his eyes. “They had so many limbs and mouths, and they scrabbled along the ground like spiders. I…” his voice trailed off as he recalled the full horror of what he saw. “And there were other shapes following him, that were even more monstrous.” He shook his head. “They were the size of trees.” His voice became shrill at the memory. “They were twice the size of the marauders and they carried great clubs and axes.” He grabbed Wolff’s sleeve and looked desperately at him. “They were eating corpses as they marched.”

  The man sat next to Ratboy whistled through his teeth. “Ogres of some kind then,” he said, looking around the table. “This is going to be some night.”

  “The whole thing is madness,” cried another officer. “We’re all going to be butchered. Why aren’t we pulling back to Wolfenberg, while there’s still time?”

  “Diterich is right,” cried a sharp-featured, beak-nosed man, wearing a monocle. He slammed his gauntleted hand down on the stone table. “Why make a useless sacrifice of ourselves here? There’s no way we can make an adequate defence of this ruin.”

  “There was something else,” said Ratboy, closing his eyes in concentration.

  The soldiers fell silent and waited for him to continue.

  “Just before I passed out I noticed something strange about Mormius.” He opened his eyes and looked up at Wolff with excitement. “He was injured. His right arm was all shrivelled. It looked as though there was a kind of black acid eating through his armour—stretching out like veins from his hand.” Ratboy looked down at his own bloody fingers. “Like there was some kind of disease, or poison eating him up.”

  “Tannhauser!” cried Captain Felhamer, leaping to his feet and clenching his fists with excitement. “Maybe he reached him after all? The boy might have seen the effects of his poison. Sigmar’s Blood, this could be our chance!” There was a cobalt fire burning in his eyes as he looked round the table. “If we leave Mercy’s End now they’ll hunt us like rats—ripping us apart before we’ve gotten a mile from this valley. Our only chance is to make a stand here. If the boy’s right, Mormius could be on the verge of death. Tannhauser could have reached him somehow.”

  Wolff shook his head. “Tannhauser?”

  “One of my bravest captains,” replied Felhamer, his eyes bulging with passion. “The marauders butchered his regiment as they slept, and it sent him half mad with grief. Several days ago he set out to avenge them. I tried to stop him, but he wouldn’t listen.” Felhamer gave a short laugh. “To be honest, I cursed his name at the time. Some of my best knights left with him. There was no hope of success, but he was inconsolable. He wanted to join the fight for the northern garrisons so he could try to get close to Mormius. He said he had a ring filled with so
me kind of poison. I thought he was raving, but from what your acolyte has described, I think he may have achieved his goal.” Felhamer laughed again. “He was a very unusual man, Captain Tannhauser. I think I may have underestimated him.”

  “But what does it matter?” cried Oswald. “We’ve gathered every last vestige of our strength into one convenient slaughterhouse. Even if you’re right about this lunatic, Tannhauser, which I doubt very much, the marauders have ten times our numbers. Mormius or not, we can’t win here. We should be splitting our forces and choosing battlegrounds more suited to our strengths. That’s the only way we can save Ostland from destruction.”

  “The marauders annihilated the northern regions in a matter of days,” replied Felhamer, levelling a trembling finger at the northern wall of the chamber. “If they’re left to march any further south, there’ll be nothing left to save.” He dropped back into his chair, with a despondent sigh. “We have to hold them here for as long as we can and give the Elector Count time to bring the battle away from Wolfenberg. I have orders from von Raukov himself, requesting me to do just that.”

  “So we’re a sacrifice, is that it?” cried Oswald, looking at the other soldiers with an incredulous expression on his face. “Is that all von Raukov thinks we’re worth? A minor distraction, to give him time to polish his armour and rehearse his victory speech?” He drew his sword and slammed it down on the table with a clatter that echoed around the vaulted ceiling. “I came to fight, not play games. If we stay here, we’re as good as dead.”

  There was murmur of disgruntled voices around the table, and most of them seemed in agreement with Oswald. Ratboy looked at his master apologetically, feeling that he was responsible for the discord.

  Wolff rose from his chair with a slow majesty that silenced the debate. The light from the stained glass windows played across the iron band on his shaven head as he nodded slowly in agreement. “It’s true,” he said, “that if you stay here and fight, it’s likely you will die; if you flee, however, it’s certain.” He tapped his ironclad finger against the brass hammer on his gorget. “But, more than that, if you flee, you will have betrayed your faith, your families and your emperor.” His eyes flashed dangerously beneath his heavy brow as he looked around the table. He strode across the chamber and when he reached the nearest pillar he slammed his fist into it. The officers jumped in surprise as a cloud of dust exploded around Wolff’s gauntlet. “This is good Ostland stone,” he said. “A little old maybe, like the rest of us, but good nonetheless. Don’t let those horrors soil one blessed inch of it.” He looked directly at Oswald. “Those afraid to give their lives in the name of Sigmar are free to leave, but I have a suspicion Ostland ran out of cowards a long time ago.”

  There was a ripple of nervous laughter and even Oswald smiled, nodding in agreement as he sheathed his sword. “It’s true,” he said, “Ostland isn’t the easiest place to grow a few ears of corn.”

  Shoulders visibly relaxed and hands were loosed from sword hilts as the tension around the room dissipated.

  Wolff looked up at the crumbling masonry. “Life is fleeting. We inhabit a tiny sliver of existence, surrounded on all sides by an endless void. We only have one chance to make a difference. One chance before we return to the endless night. Death today, or death tomorrow, what does it matter if we don’t lead a life worth living?” He lifted his warhammer up into one of the shafts of light and slowly rotated it, scattering jewels of colour across the walls of the chamber and into the faces of the assembled officers. “You’re Sigmar’s heirs. No one in this room was ever destined to eke out their days in a sick bed. We are the elect few, chosen for hardship and greatness. Whether it’s today, or next year, your end will be glorious and godlike. And if this is your day to die, then by Sigmar make it a good day!”

  Ratboy’s heart swelled at his master’s words and he noticed several of the officers nodding eagerly in agreement.

  “I hear you, priest,” replied the beak-nosed officer, “but your words might carry a little more weight if your friend Gryphius hadn’t told me that you yourself are planning to flee south at the first opportunity.”

  Captain Felhamer looked at Wolff in dismay. “Is that true?” he asked.

  Wolff nodded and returned to his seat. There was no trace of shame or embarrassment on his face as he replied. “Yes,” he said. “It’s true. I must leave tonight.”

  “Why?” cried the beak-nosed man, glaring incredulously through his monocle. “We have need of you here. How can you advise us to hold this pile of rubble, when you yourself will not even stay to help?”

  Wolff returned the officer’s glare with a calm nod. “I understand your concern, Marshall Meinrich, but I assure you, I would rather meet my end here, covered in glory, than pursue the miserable errand that waits me.”

  Captain Felhamer rose to his feet, his pale cheeks flushed with colour. “But Brother Wolff, after what you’ve just said, what could be more important than helping us defend Mercy’s End?”

  “I’ll help all I can,” replied Wolff. “There are things I can do before I leave.” He ran a hand over his shaven head and closed his eyes. “I have a little strength left. I’ll pray with your men and bless them. And I’ll join you in the initial defence.” He opened his eyes and looked Felhamer in the eye. “But I cannot neglect my duty.”

  “At least tell us why you won’t stay and fight,” said the old, bearded man, named Oswald.

  “There’s a traitor marching with von Raukov’s army,” Wolff explained. “He’s a worshipper of the Dark Gods, named Fabian. He’s a murderer and a heretic and a threat to the whole war effort. He must be stopped before he can achieve whatever perverted end he has in mind. And I’m the one person in all Ostland who could recognise him.” The priest gave a long sigh. “He’s my brother.”

  Silence greeted Wolff’s admission as the officers considered how exactly Wolff might stop his brother.

  “If I stay here and fight,” the priest continued, “I may be of some use to you. But in the meantime, Fabian will be free to wreak havoc on von Raukov’s army. I haven’t seen my brother for decades. I don’t even know what name he will be using now. Who knows how high he has risen through the ranks. He may even be close to the Elector Count himself. Close enough to assassinate him maybe.” Wolff looked around the table. “We could give our lives holding Mercy’s End, only to find that von Raukov’s army has been devoured from the inside.”

  Felhamer shook his head and looked down at the table in despair. “Then you must abandon us to our fate.”

  “No one here is abandoned!” Wolff cried, slamming his fist against his breastplate. “Sigmar is here, in our hearts and our swords. A priest is just a touchstone. A conduit. You don’t need me to lead you. There will be a warrior god marching by your side.”

  A small voice piped up from next to the Wolff. “It’s true,” said Ratboy, looking up at his master and nodding. “This morning, during the battle, I was sure everything was lost: my hand was ruined; the enemy were all around us; but something carried me through it. I felt Sigmar, guiding me.” He laughed and looked around at the officers. “I had no weapon and the marauders towered over me, but I still took them.” He gave a fierce grin. “I tore them apart.”

  Von Gryphius rocked back in his chair and gave a weak snort of laughter. For a brief moment his old, playful smile returned. “If a one handed, unarmed child can fight these pigs, then I don’t see what you’re all so afraid of.” He climbed slowly to his feet, wincing with pain, and lifted his rapier over the table. “Priest or not, I make my stand here. Are you all with me?”

  For a few seconds there was no response. Ratboy noticed the monocled officer was studying him closely; taking in his scrawny frame and tattered, stained clothes. Finally, the man climbed to his feet, drew his broadsword and held it out over the table, so that the tip clattered against von Gryphius’ sword. “Forgive me, captain,” he said, turning to Felhamer. “I forgot myself. It shouldn’t have taken the bravery of a child
to remind me of my duty, but if you’ll still have me, I’d be honoured to die by your side.”

  One by one the other soldiers stood and drew their weapons, creating a canopy of battered steel over the old table.

  Captain Felhamer’s handsome face cracked into a broad grin and his blue eyes sparkled victoriously. “Let this Mormius make his move,” he said, rising to his feet and clanging his sword on top of the others. “There’s life in these old stones yet.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  MERCY’S END

  As Wolff climbed up onto the ramparts, all eyes were on him. Felhamer had gathered over two thousand men beneath his banner; only a fraction of the numbers arrayed against them, but a glorious sight nonetheless. Archers, spearmen, handgunners, greatswords and engineers stood side by side with battle-hardened militiamen and stony-faced villagers, who gripped their clubs and spears firmly, despite the fear written across their faces. From high above their plumed helmets the stubborn bull of Ostland glowered down expectantly, emblazoned across a dozen rippling flags.

  As Wolff reached the top step, the soldiers nearest to him dropped on one knee and lowered their heads in genuflection. The priest placed his right hand on their shoulders, muttered a quick prayer from the book held in his left hand and then strode on. As he walked along the castle wall the scene was repeated again and again, and as each of the soldiers climbed back to their feet, the fear vanished from their eyes; replaced with the fierce light of hope. As Ratboy followed behind his master, carrying his hammer for him as he blessed the troops, he recognised the light as the same force that had earlier driven him to such frenzy. He both envied and pitied the men as they crowded around his master, desperate for the touch of his hand. Many held, out their swords and spears and Wolff placed a hand on every weapon that was passed his way.