A WARHAMMER ANTHOLOGY
TALES OF THE
OLD WORLD
Edited by
Marc Gascoigne
& Christian Dunn
(An Undead Scan v1.0)
This is a dark age, a bloody age, an age of daemons and of sorcery. It is an age of battle and death, and of the world’s ending. Amidst all of the fire, flame and fury it is a time, too, of mighty heroes, of bold deeds and great courage.
At the heart of the Old World sprawls the Empire, the largest and most powerful of the human realms. Known for its engineers, sorcerers, traders and soldiers, it is a land of great mountains, mighty rivers, dark forests and vast cities. And from his throne in Altdorf reigns the Emperor Karl Franz, sacred descendant of the founder of these lands, Sigmar, and wielder of his magical warhammer.
But these are far from civilised times. Across the length and breadth of the Old World, from the knightly palaces of Bretonnia to ice-bound Kislev in the far north, come rumblings of war. In the towering World’s Edge Mountains, the orc tribes are gathering for another assault. Bandits and renegades harry the wild southern lands of the Border Princes. There are rumours of rat-things, the skaven, emerging from the sewers and swamps across the land. And from the northern wildernesses there is the ever-present threat of Chaos, of daemons and beastmen corrupted by the foul powers of the Dark Gods. As the time of battle draws ever near, the Empire needs heroes like never before.
CONTENTS
Editor’s Introduction by Christian Dunn
Tales of Honour & Heroism
Freedom’s Home or Glory’s Grave by Graham McNeill
Ancestral Honour by Gav Thorpe
A Gentleman’s War by Neil Rutledge
The Doorway Between by Rjurik Davidson
Birth of a Legend by Gav Thorpe
Tales of Adventure & Mystery
Haute Cuisine by Robert Earl
Paradise Lost by Andy Jones
Night Too Long by James Wallis
Grunsonn’s Marauders by Andy Jones
The Man Who Stabbed
Luther van Groot by Sandy Mitchell
Tales of Revenge & Betrayal
The Faithful Servant by Gav Thorpe
The Sound Which Wakes You by Ben Chessell
The Sleep of the Dead by Darius Hinks
Path of Warriors by Neil McIntosh
Rat Trap by Robert Earl
Tales of Deceit & Obsession
Rotten Fruit by Nathan Long
Faith by Robert Earl
Portrait of my Undying Lady by Gordon Rennie
Seventh Boon by Mitchel Scanlon
Rattenkrieg by Robert Earl
Tales of Tragedy & Darkness
Mormacar’s Lament by Chris Pramas
The Chaos Beneath by Mark Brendan
Wolf in the Fold by Ben Chessell
The Blessed Ones by Rani Kellock
Dead Man’s Hand by Nick Kyme
Tales of Death & Corruption
Shyi-Zar by Dan Abnett
Tybalt’s Quest by Gav Thorpe
A Choice of Hatreds by C.L. Werner
Who Mourns a Necromancer by Brian Craig
The Hanging Tree by Jonathan Green
Tales of Madness & Ruin
The Doom that Came to Wulfhafen by C.L. Werner
Hatred by Ben Chessell
Son and Heir by Ian Winterton
Ill Met in Mordheim by Robert Waters
Totentanz by Brian Craig
The Ultimate Ritual by Neil Jones and William King
Editor’s Introduction
Christian Dunn
So I’ve just finished going over the running order for this anthology (or should that be uber-anthology?) and there’s so much I want to say.
Should I tell you about the time that I was literally an hour away from the submissions deadline for issue 22 of Inferno! and still a story down when the mail arrived containing CL Werner’s synopsis for “A Choice of Hatreds”? It blew us all away and was commissioned on the spot (thanks Clint!).
Or should I tell you about how Robert Earl’s “Rattenkrieg” was originally rejected by an over-zealous assistant editor only to be rescued when another staff member read the synopsis and realised how great the twist is (it’s on page 429 but at least do me the decency of finishing this introduction before you rush off and read it)?
I could tell you how happy I am that most of the stories that were commissioned to keep on the shelf for Inferno! (see, I learned my lesson from issue 22) have now finally been committed to print in this volume.
I could also tell you that because I didn’t get to write a farewell editorial for Inferno!, I’m ecstatic to finally have the chance to thank Marco and all of the authors and artists for making it such a success for so many years.
Would it be worth mentioning how, like a gym teacher whose protégé goes on to win the FIFA golden boot or Heismann Trophy, how proud I am that many of these authors have gone on to become top-selling novelists for the Black Library and other publishers and imprints?
Maybe I could tell you that although I miss Inferno! like a faithful family pet or a kidney, it’s great to see the tradition of uncovering new talent being continued through the Black Library short story competitions.
I could even tell you that these thirty-six stories represent the finest writing from almost a decade of Warhammer short fiction and will take you on a journey from the heartland of the Empire to the madness-inducing landscape of the Chaos Wastes.
Or maybe I should just step away from the keyboard and just let you read the stories?
I hope you enjoy them as much as I do.
TALES OF
HONOUR & HEROISM
FREEDOM’S HOME
OR GLORY’S GRAVE
Graham McNeill
Shadows leapt like dancers around the tall garrets of the crumbling towers and Leofric Carrard was starting to think that it had been a bad idea to agree to Lord d’Epee’s request to venture into the abandoned depths of his castle.
The blade of Leofric’s sword shone with a milky glow in the moonlight, its edge like a razor despite him never having taken a whetstone to it. The Blade of Midnight was elven and Leofric hoped that whatever enchantments had been woven in its forging would be proof against the monster they were hunting, a creature of the netherworld, neither alive nor dead.
The ruined inner walls of the gatehouse reared above Leofric, the ramparts empty and dusty, and the merlons broken and saw-toothed. The gateway before him sagged on rusted iron hinges, the timbers splintered and yawning like an open mouth. Beyond the gateway, he could see one of the inner keeps, its solid immensity a brooding black shape against the sky.
“Do you see anything, Havelock?” he called to his squire.
“No, sir,” whispered the squire, his voice sounding scared, and Leofric hoped that this venture would not see Havelock meet as grisly a fate as his previous squire, Baudel. Leofric still saw the bloody image of Baudel in his nightmares, his belly ripped open by the forest creatures of Athel Loren.
“Very well,” he said, keeping his voice even. “Let’s keep on.”
Leofric advanced cautiously through the gateway, keeping his head moving from left to right in search of anything out of place. It saddened and angered Leofric to see such a fine castle left to such neglect. In its day, this would have been an almost impregnable fastness, but its glory days had long since passed and its current lord, the lunatic Lord d’Epee was in no fit state to restore it. Where would the local peasants find shelter in times of war? Every lord and noble of Bretonnia had a sacred duty to preserve the natural order of things in his lands, and that could not happen w
ere he to allow the peasants of his lands to be butchered by orcs or beastmen because they had nowhere to run to.
True, Aquitaine was a largely peaceful dukedom—aside from the fractious populace—but that was no excuse for a noble lord to let his castle fall into disrepair. When Leofric had commanded a castle of his own, back in Quenelles, he had spent a goodly sum from his coffers to ensure the castle remained defensible at all times.
But there was more than simple neglect at the heart of Castle d’Epee’s abandonment. The lord and his family dwelled in the outermost gatehouse, fearful of the darkness and the creatures of evil that had taken the inner reaches of their ancestral home, and unwilling to risk their own lives to recover the treasures and heirlooms that lay there.
One such heirloom was the object of Leofric and Havelock’s quest, a stuffed stag’s head said to be hung within the great hall of the third keep. Privately, Leofric thought it a frivolous use of his knightly skills to retrieve such a folly, but the twitching Lord d’Epee had offered Leofric and Havelock shelter on their journey in search of the Grail and his code of honour bound him to accede to his host’s request for aid.
Beyond the gate, Leofric found himself in a cobbled courtyard with ruined outbuildings leaning against the walls, their roofs collapsed and open to the sky. Rotted straw was strewn across the cobbles and the derelict keep loomed like an enormous black cliff before him. Moonlight pooled in the courtyard and glittered from the silver of his plate armour, but the keep remained resolutely dark and threatening, its casement windows invisible against its darkness and its crumbling towers like spikes of black rock.
Havelock moved to stand beside him; the man’s presence reassuring even though his skill with the bow he carried would be negligible in the darkness. His rough peasant clothes were dull and blended with the gloom so that only the light reflecting from his eyes stood out.
“I don’t like this place,” said Havelock. “I can see why they abandoned it.”
“It’s a grim place, right enough,” agreed Leofric. “Someone should come here in force and reclaim it. It’s not right that a castle this strong should be left like this.”
Havelock nodded and started to reply, but Leofric raised his hand to silence him as he caught sight of something moving at the base of the keep, a darting shadow that had nothing to do with those cast by the moon and drifting clouds above.
Leofric pointed to where he had seen the movement and set off towards the shadow, hoping to discover some way of entering the keep or a foe he could defeat.
He drew closer to the keep and with every step he took, it seemed to him that he could smell the aroma of roasting meat and hear the sounds of revelry. He turned to Havelock and saw that his squire’s senses were similarly intrigued.
“Sounds like a feast,” whispered Havelock.
Leofric nodded and returned his attention to the keep as he saw a soft light emanating from beneath a door of thick wood and banded black iron. He heard a woman’s laughter and felt an ache of loss as it summoned unbidden memories of his lost wife, Helene. He reached to his gorget, beneath which he wore the blue, silken scarf she had given him on the tilting fields outside Couronne after he had unhorsed Duke Chilfroy of Artois.
He could not feel the soft material through the metal of his gauntlets, but just knowing it was there was enough to warn him of the falsehood of the woman’s laughter. Even as they drew near, a warm and friendly glow built from the windows of the keep, spilling like warm honey into the courtyard. The sound of voices grew louder, laughter and ribald jokes echoing from the walls around them. Though he knew it was but an illusion, his heart ached to go to these revellers and join their carousing, to throw off the shackles of discipline enforced upon him by his quest for the Grail.
Havelock took a step towards the keep, the bowstring going slack as he lowered the weapon. “My lord… should we ask the people within whether they’ve seen the stag’s head? Maybe we can stop for a while, rest and get some food?”
Leofric shook his head and reached out to pull Havelock back. He felt resistance and pulled harder, stopping the squire in his tracks. The man twisted in his grip, sudden hostility flashing in his eyes.
“Let me go!” hissed Havelock. “I want some food and wine!”
Leofric’s palm snapped out and cracked against Havelock’s jaw. The squire staggered and Leofric said, “Use your head, man. There is no food or wine, it is all an illusion to ensnare us.”
Havelock spat blood and shook his head in contrition as he saw that Leofric spoke the truth. He pulled his bowstring taut once more. “Sorry, my lord.”
“Remember,” said Leofric. “Lord d’Epee said the creature would attempt to make us lower our guard by promising us a warm welcome and attempting to confuse our senses with friendly images. We must not let that happen.”
“No, my lord,” said Havelock.
Satisfied his squire understood the threat before them, Leofric once again advanced on the door. Light streamed from the windows and at the threshold, but it was a dead light now, bereft of warmth or sustenance. He could feel it calling to him, bidding him enter with promises of comfort and an easement of burdens, but knowing it for the lie it was, the illusory light had no power over him.
He reached out to grip the black ring that opened the door, and was not surprised when it turned easily beneath his hand. Cold, glittering light enveloped him as the door swung open with a grinding squeal of rusted hinges and he felt its attraction grow in power as he saw what lay within the keep.
Where he had expected emptiness and desolation, instead there was life and people. The great hall stretched out before him, its tables groaning with wild meats and fruit of all descriptions. Earthenware jugs overflowed with wine and a colourful jester capered madly in the centre of the chamber, juggling squawking chickens. Children played “smell the gauntlet”, a game banned in Bretonnia after it had incited a peasant revolt, and a laughing nobleman clapped enthusiastically to a badly played lute. Above the nobleman, Leofric saw a stuffed stag’s head, its antlers drooping and sad, and shook his head at the idea of risking his and Havelock’s life for such a tawdry prize.
Leofric took a step inside, wary at the sight of so many apparitions and forced himself to remember that they were not real. Lord d’Epee had only mentioned one creature, calling it a Dereliche, a spectral horror that sucked the very life from a person with its deathly touch. He had said nothing about a host of creatures…
The revellers appeared to ignore him, but having attended the court of the king and been on the receiving end of courtly snobbery, Leofric recognised their studied disinterest as false. Whoever or whatever these ghostly people were, they knew he was there.
“Lord d’Epee didn’t say nothing about a party,” whispered Havelock.
“No,” said Leofric grimly, “he didn’t.”
Each of the revellers glimmered with a sheen of silken frost and Leofric approached the nearest, a man dressed in the garb of a minor noble, his clothes bright and well cut, though of a fashion even Leofric knew had passed out of favour many hundreds of years ago.
Leofric slowly extended his sword arm towards the apparition, the blade white in the reflected light of the hall. The tip of the sword passed into the outline of the man, and it had penetrated barely a fingerbreadth when the man hissed and leapt away, the guise of humanity falling from his features in a heartbeat.
Instantly, the gaudy banquet vanished and Leofric was plunged into utter darkness. A low moaning soughed on the cold, dry air and he felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise at the sound. He heard Havelock cry out in fear and spun around, trying to pinpoint the sound of the moaning voice.
“Havelock!” commanded Leofric. “Where are you?”
“Right here, my lord!” shouted Havelock, though Leofric could see nothing in the blackness.
“Find a wall and get to the door, I don’t want to hit you by mistake!”
“Yes, my lord,” replied Havelock.
Leofric
blinked and rubbed a hand across his eyes as he attempted to penetrate the gloom. He turned quickly on the spot, keeping his sword extended before him until his eyes could adjust. He heard a hissing behind him and spun to face it, but another sound came to him from behind and he realised he was surrounded by a host of creatures that were as insubstantial as mist.
He cried out as something cold brushed against the skin of his back, flinching in sudden pain and surprise. His flesh burned as though with frostbite, but he could tell his armour was still whole. Whatever powers these creatures possessed was such that his armour was useless and he cursed d’Epee for sending them on this fool’s errand. He remembered the same deathly chill touch when shadow creatures of the dark fay had attacked him when he had journeyed to the lair of the dragon, Beithir-Seun. Cu-Sith had saved him then, but the Wardancer was long dead and Leofric was on his own now.
Another cold touch stole into his flesh from the side, but he was ready this time and swept his sword down and the white blade cut through something wispy and soft like wadded cheesecloth. A sparkle of light fell to the stone floor like a rain of diamond dust and Leofric heard a shriek torn from what sounded like a dozen throats simultaneously.
“So you can be hurt?” taunted Leofric as he heard a chorus of hisses drawing nearer.
“Yes, we can,” said a sibilant voice that came from many places, “but your flesh is ours, your spirit is ours…”
He could see the faint outlines of perhaps a dozen figures drifting towards him, their outlines blurred and indistinct, but that was enough. Ever since his time in Athel Loren, his sight had been keener and he had been sensitive to the proximity of magic in the air. He narrowed his eyes, letting his awareness of the approaching creatures steal over him like a warm blanket.
Tales of the Old World Page 1
