In the thick shadows at the back of the room, something stirred. Stepping out of the gloom was a creature that resembled Gunther. Its tarnished armour bore the emblem of the fiery heart. Its flesh was desiccated, worn to shrivelled leather by the hostile conditions of the desert. As it lumbered towards them, its eyes flared with remembered hate.
It came at Gunther. The Sigmarite knights rushed forward to protect him. Swinging its mighty arm, the creature smashed one of the knights into the wall with a sickening crunch of bone. From a rotting scabbard it drew a rusted sword and ran the second through, lifting him screaming into the air. As the beast withdrew its sword, the knight slipping off like discarded meat, Halbranc charged at it, hacking down two-handed upon its arm but his blade rebounded.
“Its skin is like iron,” he cried, fending off a blow that almost knocked him down. Mikael went to his side.
The creature held up a withered hand. Mikael couldn’t move, halted by the malevolent will of the undead knight. It spoke with a voice that held the weight of ages. “I am Setti-Ra. A reign of terror shall sweep your lands and beyond at my rebirth. Slumbering legions will rise once more and bathe the deserts in blood. Kneel now before me.”
Mikael felt a terrible weight pressing down upon him. His legs were buckling against it. He tried to mutter a prayer to Morr, but was unable. Halbranc was on his knees; sweat coursing down his reddened face.
“Only fire and the will of Sigmar can purge the creature from this body.” The voice of Lenchard was like crystal water as it broke the power of Setti-Ra. With the burden lifted, Mikael arose. Halbranc struggled to his feet beside him. The Black Knights backed away.
Around the chamber, the torches spluttered and died as the water lapped languidly at their feet.
“We must get to higher ground,” Mikael said, “draw the creature out.”
“No.” It was Count Gunther. Sword drawn, he blocked the doorway. Mikael noticed the creature’s gaze was fixed upon the count.
Lenchard saw it too. “He is under the creature’s thrall,” he growled.
Mikael pushed the witch hunter aside, parrying a blow from Gunther’s sword. Behind him, Setti-Ra advanced.
“Keep it back!” Mikael cried, hearing the clash of steel as Halbranc and Lenchard fought the creature.
Count Gunther’s eyes were covered by a milky white sheen. When he spoke, it was as if he were the creature’s mouthpiece.
“The will of Setti-Ra be done, the living shall perish before his—”
The count collapsed to the ground before he could finish. Reiner stood behind him. The other knights of Morr were with him. They had heard the commotion below and gone down to investigate. The captain’s eyes grew suddenly wide and a strange keening sensation resonated in Mikael’s skull. The young templar dove to the side as, dragging Count Gunther clear, Reiner bellowed, “Down!”
Lenchard was smashed through the doorway and tumbled down the slope.
“Out. Now!” Reiner cried.
Halbranc backed out of the room, heaving Mikael with him as the beast lumbered after them. “Seal the doors,” Reiner ordered.
Valen and Vaust pushed the doors shut as Sigson slid down a heavy, metal brace. From within, the distant thudding retort of the creature’s blows could be heard almost instantly.
Outside the vault, Mikael nodded his thanks to his captain who responded coldly.
“That door will not hold it long, make ready.”
“Our swords won’t kill it,” Mikael said, “we must get to higher ground and burn it.”
A sudden powerful blow echoed against the iron door as part of it bent outwards.
“The barrel ramp…” Count Gunther muttered, sluggishly. He was slowly coming round and rubbed his head where Reiner had struck him to break the creature’s hold. “It leads to the hall above…” He pointed down the slope where a corridor branched off.
Reiner looked over at it, then back at the count.
“It wants me dead,” Count Gunther said. “My father killed this creature long ago; in me it sees him and desires vengeance. I can lure it.”
Sigson went over to the count, and helped him to his feet. “Can you stand?”
The count nodded.
Another blow from within the vault caused a hefty split in the iron. “We must leave, now,” Reiner told them. “Vaust, lead them,” he ordered.
The young templar ran to the head of the group and back down the slope towards the corridor Gunther had shown them, his brother following closely behind.
Halbranc hefted Lenchard onto his shoulder as Mikael and Reiner went last with the count. They were backing down the slope, a few feet from the vault, when the iron door finally fell with a screech of twisting metal. Bolts came free from the wall with a shower of dust and debris, and Setti-Ra stepped out onto the slope, driven by primal instincts.
The knights of Morr goaded the creature on. They retreated up the barrel ramp, making sure the creature saw where they were going. Ahead, Vaust smashed through a trapdoor that led to the hall.
Crouched in the room above, the two brothers heaved an unconscious Lenchard out of the cellars from Halbranc’s shoulder. The giant followed, then Sigson, then Reiner, Mikael and the count.
“The creature is close,” the weakened count gasped. “There,” he said, pointing to another archway.
Heaving the ailing count between them, Reiner and Mikael were right behind the others who stood in the great hall. The tapestry of Falken Halstein loomed large, about to witness his horrifying undead self.
Putting the witch hunter down, Halbranc hefted a massive torch from an iron sconce. Mikael and Reiner did the same.
“Protect the count,” Reiner said to Valen and Vaust. The brothers took Gunther between them to an alcove at the back of the room.
With a bellow of rage, Setti-Ra emerged from the trapdoor opening.
Halbranc lunged forward, thrusting the burning torch into the creature’s body. It hurled the templar aside. The torch clattered to the ground, and was smothered. Flames licked over the aging corpse but died quickly.
Sigson stepped forward, the holy book of Morr in his hand. “In the name of Morr, I compel you,” he uttered, his voice loud and powerful.
The creature stopped as if suddenly held by an invisible bond.
“I compel you,” Sigson repeated, stepping towards it, arm outstretched, his open palm facing towards it. Mikael and Reiner thrust their torches at the beast. Sigson screamed and fell to the ground as Setti-Ra broke his hold.
Though the undead thing burned, the flames were dying out quickly.
“Force it into the tapestry,” Mikael cried, launching himself at the creature. At the same time, Halbranc rammed into it with his shoulder and Reiner tackled the beast’s legs. It toppled, slowly like a felled tree, tearing at the huge portrait that caught alight with the remaining flames licking its body. The tapestry pulled free and smothered the foul creature, fire spreading eagerly now over the corpse, as it thrashed and flailed for terrible unlife.
Flames mirrored in his eyes, Gunther looked at the burning form of his father, at the tapestry destroyed and his family history with it.
With the knights of Morr encircling it, the creature gradually stopped struggling and slumped down amidst a pall of foul smoke as it was burned to ash, the spirit of Setti-Ra banished along with it.
“Please,” Gunther rasped, tears in his eyes, “put him out.”
It was dark in the infirmary. Mikael stared from one of the windows onto the town below. The rain had abated at last and the waters were dispersing. Workers shored up the earthen banks, to make certain they would hold. Across the darkened sky, there was a light to the south as the sun began to rise. Looking back into the room, he saw Lenchard was awake. Reiner and the others waited silently in the shadows. Sigson was by the witch hunter’s side. “You owe us some answers,” he said.
Lenchard’s head bore a thick bandage and his face was covered in small cuts and bruises. He winced as he smiled back a
t the warrior priest.
“There is a cult called the Scarabs,” he relented. “Fanatical men, they worship the Tomb King Setti-Ra, believing the heart of he who defeated their king would bring about his resurrection.”
“Gunther’s father,” Sigson asserted.
“Yes, but they need the living heart and since Falken Halstein was dead, they came for his son,” Lenchard said, getting up out of bed.
“Krieger could not have known that Setti-Ra had inhabited the body of Falken Halstein; such a body could not sustain an undead lord. I was wrong; Krieger came here with a mission, not for revenge but to kill Count Gunther and take his heart. He stumbled upon the creature and it killed him, and so we are still no closer to finding the cult,” he continued, strapping on his weapons.
“We,” said Reiner coldly.
From a pouch by his bedside Lenchard produced a scroll of parchment, which he gave to the captain.
“This is a missive from your temple,” he explained as Reiner read it, “stating that you and your knights are seconded into my service until the cult is found or it is deemed fit to release you.”
Sigson laughed mirthlessly and walked out of the room.
Reiner sealed the scroll up and handed it back to Lenchard. “So be it,” he said without emotion and left after Sigson. Slowly the rest of the knights followed. Mikael was the last. As he was about to leave, Lenchard said, “It’s Mikael, isn’t it?”
Mikael nodded.
“Tell me, Mikael,” the witch hunter said, his expression curious, “how did you know about the desert? I heard you speak of it to the count.”
A pang of anxiety rose suddenly in Mikael’s chest. He thought only the count had heard him.
“I overheard it,” he countered, backing away.
“Of course,” Lenchard said, watching the young templar as he followed after his comrades. “Of course you did.”
In the hall, the knights of Morr were making ready to leave, checking weapons and armour before heading out the keep and Galstadt for good. The Black Knights had clearly worn out their welcome, and as they fixed blades and tightened belts, a small group of Knights of the Fiery Heart had gathered. The Morr worshippers were standing opposite them, clustered close together, Halbranc putting himself deliberately between Vaust and the glowering Sigmarites. Mikael stood next to the giant, alongside him was Valen. Sigson was sat down, reading his prayer book, while Reiner and Lenchard, who conversed quietly in a nearby corner of the room, waited for Count Gunther so they could observe the proper etiquette for their departure.
As far as Mikael was concerned, it couldn’t happen soon enough, his eyes on Garrant, as he and the other knights exchanged dark glances.
“Doubtless, they are making sure we leave,” Halbranc chuckled.
Mikael was about to answer when a door, thudding insistently at the far end of the hall from a strong draught running through the keep, distracted him. Something about it was odd, slightly incongruous.
“Something doesn’t feel right,” he said. “This is taking too long.” Mikael walked quickly over to Garrant, trying to ignore the glare of Reiner, who had been listening to the witch hunter. Sigson saw the young templar too, and put down his prayer book.
“Your lord,” Mikael asked the Sigmarite. “Where is he?”
Garrant was slightly perturbed by what he perceived as insolence, but something about the young templar’s tone got his attention.
“He’s in the chapel,” Garrant said, pointing to the door at the end of the room. “A priest offered to bless his father’s ashes.”
“What priest?” Sigson asked, suddenly appearing next to Mikael.
“From the town,” the Sigmarite explained. “An old blind man.”
The templar and warrior priest looked at each other, with grave faces.
“Show us this chapel,” Mikael said urgently.
The chapel was a small room, little more than an antechamber from the great hall. Inside, there was a stone altar on top of which was an urn containing Falken Halstein’s ashes. Count Gunther lay next to the altar He was dead, his heart removed from his chest. A scarab beetle had been carved into the flesh of his left cheek.
“The blind man,” Mikael said to Sigson, abruptly aware that Reiner and the others had followed them.
“What?”
“The one that stumbled into Reiner at the gates,” he said, pointing at his captain. “He addressed him as ‘noble lord’. How could he have known he was a knight if he were blind? I saw him on the ridge during the flood, but thought it was my imagination.”
“You’re right.” Lenchard spoke with a hint of resignation, standing in the doorway. “We have been fools; a second Scarab cultist.”
Sigson bent over near the body.
“The blood is still warm,” he said, looking up at Reiner. A look of disgusted anger passed briefly over the captain’s face. “Get to the gates,” he ordered.
By the time they reached the gatehouse, it was too late. The guard was already dead, his body propped up on a wooden stool. Protruding from his neck was a curved bladed dagger that bore a gold scarab hilt. Lenchard examined it.
“They are taunting us,” he said bitterly to the knights of Morr standing around him. “Get the horses,” he told them, rushing out of the gatehouse, heading for the stable yard. “They have the heart and the means with which to resurrect Setti-Ra. We must find the cultists trail. We ride, now!”
The knights followed after him, mounting up quickly and racing through the gates. Driving his steed hard, Mikael looked to the lightening horizon and felt time suddenly ebbing away as if an hourglass were turned and they were all slipping through it.
TALES OF DEATH
& CORRUPTION
SHYI-ZAR
Dan Abnett
As High Zar Surtha Lenk gathers his Kurgan horde for their advance into south, the zars of his warbands compete with one another to gain the honoured and most prestigious rank of Shyi-Zar.
It was dawn in late winter. The sky was a blur of mauve darkness, broken in the east by a rind of approaching daylight, and the twin moons, like discs of fire-lit bone, were sinking to their setting places. A dawn like any other, thought Karthos, a cold and unforgiving sunrise, but his sorcerer said otherwise. This was an auspicious daybreak. A special time. A time that heralded the future.
Dutifully then, Karthos had woken the men early, kicking away their furs and growling their names. Sullen, they rose, and saw to the fire, which had sunk down to glowing embers in the last part of the night. Karthos took a swig of spirits to warm his belly. The warrior rings around his broad arms were as cold as ice upon his skin.
“What is he doing?” asked Odek. The sorcerer was now on the headland overlooking the camp, walking in slow circles around the goat he had brought with them from Kherdheg, murmuring words they couldn’t hear. The goat, its headrope staked to the ground, was bleating.
“He’s walking around that goat,” Karthos said. “And talking to it.”
Odek grinned. “With these eyes of mine, I see that much,” he said. He had ridden with the zar for nine seasons, and it was as much Karthos’ phlegmatic humour and unfailing dryness that kept him loyal as it was the zar’s potency in battle. He knew many Kurgan who followed their zars out of fear and duty, but he followed his out of respect and kinship. It was a bond that got as close to friendship as it was possible to get in the blighted North.
“I wondered… why?”
“I know you did,” nodded Karthos.
“So… why?”
Zar Karthos turned to his second-in-command. “The sorcerer tells me this is a special time. Moonset.”
“The moons set every day.”
“Indeed. But this is a day amongst days. One moon sets, then the sun itself rises before the second moon can fall to its rest behind the plate of the world.”
“This he says?”
“This he says, and I doubt him not. It makes this time sacred. The light of the sun, he tells me, lets him see
between the moons on this rare day. There are answers to be read there.”
“Including the answer that we want?”
“That,” replied the zar, “is what I hope.”
The roused men had gathered by then, all ten of them. Koros Kyr, the standard bearer; Bereng, the horn-blower; Tnash He-Wolf; Odagidor; Lokas Longham; Aulkor; his brother Aulkmar; Gwul Gehar; Zbetz Red-fletch and Ffornesh the Dreamer. Furs and cloaks about their wide shoulders, they stood by the warmth of the spitting fire and watched the sorcerer at his rite.
One moon had set, its disc turning pale ivory then smoked silver as it slid down into the haze until it was out of sight. Then a band of flame lit the horizon, and the sun rose, heavy and copper, as if its furnaces had not yet been stoked up.
All of the warband knew the significance. This was Tchar’s time. A time of change.
From the headland, the remaining moon behind his head like a halo, the sorcerer called to Karthos, and the zar hurried up the slope.
The sorcerer was called Ygdran Ygra. He was the oldest man Karthos had ever known, thin-limbed and spidery, his skin lined with age. He had been sorcerer to Karthos’ father when Karthos’ father had been zar.
“Take the blade,” Ygdran Ygra told Karthos. The proffered knife was a sharpened curve of moonstone instead of the sorcerer’s usual silver dagger.
“Where must I strike?” asked Karthos. The goat bleated again, more shrill now.
Ygdran Ygra pinched at his own slack dewlap, and for a moment the zar thought he was being asked to butcher his sorcerer.
“The throat, zar, the throat,” the sorcerer instructed.
Karthos did as he was told. The goat ceased its noise. Ygdran Ygra had powdered the grass with chalk, and when the hot blood came out, steaming in the cold air, it ran and blotted amongst the white stalks.
“Good, good,” the sorcerer said, taking the slick blade back. He bent to read.
“Well?”
Tales of the Old World Page 71
