Tales of the Old World

by Marc Gascoigne

  Seeing the knight’s fallen form beyond the doorway, the baron gave a cry of grief and pulled his son tightly to him.

  Face pressed into the baron’s tunic, Gregory’s muffled voice repeated the same word over and over. Though the sadness was almost too much to bear, the baron took comfort at the word. It was all he had left.

  He pulled his son closer, rocking him gently, one hand cradling the back of his head.

  The same word, over and over.

  “Father.”

  ILL MET IN MORDHEIM

  Robert Waters

  “Amidst the perpetually dank and grotesque scenery of the City of the Damned, they struggled for honour, coin and sport. But some, the nobler and more righteous, struggled for greater causes…”

  —Songs from the Eternal Struggle:

  A History of Mordheim,

  by Isabel Rojas

  Captain Heinrich Gogol watched the fallen ratmen writhe in pain. They were all around him, their furry forms beaten, twisted and bloodied. He was pleased with that, despite having been knocked aside as well by the shock of the priest’s soul spell. The warhammer strike in the middle of the battle had sent ripples of righteous heat roiling across the charred ground, ending the fight, but leaving a nasty ache in the captain’s bones. He rubbed his face harshly, ran his fingers through his thinning black hair and climbed to his feet. He kicked aside a ratman that had taken the brunt of the spell. “Many thanks,” Heinrich said to the dying beast, then drove a boot heel into its burning throat.

  Heinrich focused on a little shrew of a man a few yards away smiling with confidence. The old priest hefted the warhammer in his skeletal hands as the mighty weapon popped white with fire that singed the frayed edges of his brown robe.

  Heinrich sheathed his sword, adjusted his russet-leather surcoat, and joined the priest. “That was a mighty prayer, Father,” he said, tempering his words. “We thank you. But perhaps next time you can give us warning first?”

  “My apologies, captain,” the priest said with a smile on his pale lips. “But I had to move quickly. You were in trouble.”

  “Nonsense,” said Heinrich sharply. “I had them right where I wanted—”

  An agonising scream pierced the gloom. Somewhere out there amidst the shattered ruins, Heinrich knew, flesh was being torn from bone. Muskets firing, wolves howling, bats screeching, fires smouldering, smoke billowing. An endless cacophony of rage and violence in the city that never slept, the city of damned souls, the city of lost dreams, the city of night fire.

  The city of Mordheim.

  A chill fog blew in from the east and tugged at Heinrich’s thoughts. He looked into the gaunt sky. The sun was setting below the grey spires of the ruins on the western side of the city. Darkness called, and death gave no quarter in the Mordheim night.

  “Gunderic!”

  A young man appeared before Heinrich, his white tunic and blue breeches smeared with ratman gore. “Yes, captain?”

  Heinrich handed him a blade. “Cut their throats.”

  Gunderic nodded and set to work. Heinrich picked up the warhammer and handed it to the priest who was slowly regaining his strength. “Let’s move quickly, Father,” he said. “Broderick needs our help.”

  They turned their attention to a guildhouse, whose walls were scorched black and pockmarked by the comet blast that had destroyed the city years ago. Its long, rectangular windows were covered in pine slats and thick hessian sheets. Its entrance was a massive double-door archway, heavily reinforced with crates and barrels and rotting meal sacks. High above the doors stood four stone pinnacles whose sharp tips tore through the low passing clouds like claws through flesh. The sight of those pinnacles gave Heinrich pause; they seemed to waver dangerously in the gusting wind. Heinrich breathed deeply, found his courage, and stepped forward.

  The ratmen that they had just killed were nothing more than a small detachment defending the building’s southern approach. What lay within was what gave Heinrich concern, and the white scar on his left cheek itched. He had no great desire to go inside, but do so he must.

  “Let’s find the way in,” Heinrich said to Father. Young Gunderic joined them and handed over the blade. “They’ve breathed their last, captain.”

  Heinrich nodded. “You’re doing Sigmar’s work, lad. I’m glad you’re with us.”

  The young man’s face glowed with appreciation, but Heinrich could not share the joy. He hated bringing raw recruits into missions like this, very little training, minimal preparation. Who knew when the fight was on, if newcomers would live up to promise, or tuck tail and run? But live bodies were oftentimes more important than skill. His last mission had cut their strength somewhat, and the idea of facing such a plentiful foe with only five or six swords was madness. Well, Heinrich said to himself, he’ll learn as he goes, or die trying.

  Heinrich worked around the massive pile of rotting wood. As he searched for an entrance, he reviewed the plan.

  The rest of the men were with Broderick. Their objective was to tackle the northern entrance of the guildhouse, while Heinrich, Father and Gunderic approached from the south. The hope was that the ratmen would assume that the threat lay with Broderick alone and that they would overlook a second danger. With enough confusion, the beasts would panic and make mistakes. The trick, however, was to time the assaults carefully. If they moved into position too early, the ratmen would smell out the trap; arrive too late, and Broderick and company would be dead. But that would never happen. He and Broderick knew each other’s moves instinctively, having fought together for years. “I am the hammer,” Broderick would often say, “and you are the anvil, my friend. Between us the iron bends.”

  They’d been following this group of ratmen—or skaven—for days. Skirmish after unending skirmish through the streets, up and down shifting mounds of rubble, in and out of row after row of dilapidated storerooms, bars, bakeries, and temples. And each engagement had ended the same: minor casualties on both sides, with no conclusion. Heinrich wanted it to end, to pull out of this cursed place, to reform, refit, take stock, catch a warm bath and a good meal. But not until they had won; not until every last vermin they hunted was driven through and planted in the cold ground.

  But now their mission had taken on an even greater purpose. If what Broderick claimed were true, if the skaven were in possession of Sigmar’s Heart, then the only outcome of this rolling battle must be victory… victory for the group, victory for the Empire, and victory for Sigmar.

  “Look here, captain,” Father said, pointing to a loose crate in the side of the pile. Heinrich knelt down, pulled away the crate and revealed a small, yet passable, entrance. “So this is how they get inside.” Heinrich drew his crossbow. “Arm yourselves and follow me closely… and quietly.”

  They crawled slowly through the gap in the rubbish. The light in the main hall of the guildhouse was faint and it took a while for Heinrich’s eyes to adjust. With a free hand, he pulled himself through the damaged door. The sickening smell of fermented grain, wet fur and mouldy scat clung to the air and Heinrich wrinkled his nose in defiance. There were also innumerable banterings back and forth between unseen mouths. The ratmen were there just beyond the shadows: mingling, scraping, spitting, snarling; one massive chaotic voice of twisted humanity paying homage to their blasphemous god.

  Heinrich pulled himself onto his knees. Father and Gunderic followed suit. Before them, there stood a mountain of old barrels teetering on a lip of steps that descended into the wide belly of the guildhouse. Through the gaps in the barrels, Heinrich could see the angular motions of the ratmen as they mingled about their tasks. He tried to count them, but could not get a proper number. Perhaps two dozen, maybe more. The ceiling had collapsed, and pieces of the roof lay in large chunks on the dirty floor. It was rare indeed for trees and bushes to grow in the poisonous fold of Mordheim, but trees and bushes and thick patches of ivy lay around the edges of the open floor, finding root in the choice cracks and crevices near the walls. And Broderick
was right in his reconnaissance: piles of crates and barrels, broken furniture, old clothing, chamber pots, armour and paintings and all the forgotten treasures of the city had been hoarded here by the skaven over their years of scouring the ruins.

  If time were convenient, Heinrich thought, it might be useful to look through it all, take stock of the wonders therein, study it and learn about life in the city before its great destruction. Like little windows into the past, each item a discarded memory of someone who once walked the streets. Wisdom lay on that floor, he knew, if one cared to look.

  He put these thoughts from his mind and focused on the deadly space below. Despite the ample floor space, there was little open surface. He smiled. A small battle space was best for close in fighting. He rubbed the trigger of his crossbow anxiously and looked beyond the ratmen to the narrow entranceway from which Broderick would attack.

  Yet Broderick had not made his entrance. Come on, Heinrich said to himself, make your move. Surprise was slipping away. Any further delay and their position would be sniffed out. Another nervous minute passed, and then he heard the long, powerful howls of his warhounds, Bloodtooth and Witchkiller.

  The floor erupted in violence. Squeals, howls, shrieks, shouts, swirling steel and pelting rocks, as Broderick pressed the skaven at the northern entrance. From his vantage point, Heinrich could see his men working their way into the guildhouse. The warhounds took the lead, bounding into the mass of ratmen and taking several down. Roland and Cuthbert followed closely, the spiked balls of their morning stars swirling madly through the air. Both men modelled themselves after flagellants, even going so far as to whip themselves for loss of faith. But they were contrite enough in their devotion to Sigmar to keep it quiet in public. It was exciting to see them in battle. They never disappointed.

  Broderick and young Sebastian followed last, fighting off ratmen who were dropping down from atop the huge walls of crates that lined the entrance. Heinrich watched as Broderick swung his sword in answer to every leaping vermin, slicing through bellies and chests in mid-flight. The skill and speed at which he worked his sword was amazing even now, years after leaving the pit fights, and Heinrich felt a great pride. Push them, Broderick. Push them hard. Show them how Reiklanders fight.

  Father glared at his captain. “Let’s go, let’s go!” he hissed. Again, the priest’s warhammer, hanging from a white sash at his waist, glowed with magical zeal.

  Heinrich smiled and counted off three fingers. “Now!”

  They stood and moved closer to the barrels, each taking positions adequate for firing. Heinrich looked down onto the floor. A mass of fur, claws, clubs, blades and spears swayed back and forth, as men and beast fought to hold their ground. Though the moment wasn’t dire, Heinrich knew that Broderick could not hold forever.

  He clipped his crossbow to his belt and unholstered his pistol. He leaned out from behind the barrels, aimed carefully into the melee and pulled the trigger. A flash of powder and a mighty crack! rang through the space, as two skaven fell dead. For a moment, the enemy was confused as they reconciled to the danger behind them. This gave Broderick and crew time to regroup.

  Gunderic and Father sent their missiles into the fray. Volleys of rocks peppered the barrels before them, as ratmen slingers turned away from the main attack to focus on the new threat. Heinrich dropped behind the wall of barrels again, holstered his smoking pistol and drew his sword.

  He crouched in cover and noticed that Father and Gunderic had repositioned themselves about ten yards to his right, back to back. They were surrounded by a horde of rats clawing over themselves to sink their fangs. Heinrich had not seen any rats of the four-legged variety on the guildhouse floor; they must have come from holes and tunnels around the walls when they had heard the terrified shrieks of their masters. He cursed himself for not anticipating this problem. He knew better. Ratmen never moved without a horde of rats. And why hadn’t Broderick mentioned them in his scouting report?

  Swamped, Father wielded his hammer like a man possessed, swinging at every snout that came too close. As each hammer strike found meat, a comet of blood, bone, and fur flew through the air. And yet they kept coming. Gunderic tried desperately to hold his position, but his short sword was no match for the swarm, and some of the creatures had reached his legs. Heinrich winced as he saw blood marks streak the young man’s legs. He wanted to help, but he had more pressing concerns. If he stood up now, those slingers would most certainly pound him to death. He needed to create a diversion to throw them back.

  He found one. With a mighty lunge, Heinrich slammed into the barrels. They teetered then tumbled down the steps, cracking and tearing apart like an avalanche of ice. He followed closely behind, using the barrels as a shield against the shower of stones. The slingers fell back as the barrels struck the guildhouse floor and bounced like dice. Heinrich locked his eyes on the closest ratman and swung his sword into the rib cage and lifted the beast off the floor. The impetus of the blow, however, put him on uneven feet, and before he could leverage his stance, three skaven pounced.

  Heinrich could feel claws on his back, ripping through his surcoat and tunic like razors. Another beast stabbed at him with a dagger gripped in its tail; the blade swiped across the Reiklander’s face, inches from his eyes. A third was hitting him on the legs with a club. Heinrich didn’t want to lose his sword, but he had no choice.

  Dropping the sword, he quickly grabbed the blade-wielding tail, brought it to his mouth, and bit hard. Noxious blood filled his mouth as the ratman let out an agonising screech, dropped its blade, and fell back. That problem solved, Heinrich took his knife and slashed out against the ratman at his legs. But the one on his back grabbed his arm and held it firm.

  Heinrich howled and twisted, trying to loosen the beast’s grip. He could feel the steam of the creature’s vile breath on his neck and its snout pushing into his nape to set its teeth. But as the first fang made its mark, the ratman was rudely yanked away. Heinrich looked down and saw Bloodtooth tearing into its throat.

  Turning his attention to the third assailant, Heinrich raised his dagger and stabbed down, aiming for its back, but before steel found its mark, a crossbow bolt pierced its side. But Heinrich could not stop the impetus of the blade, and it hit the ground and snapped at the hilt. He scowled and looked into the direction of the bolt. Broderick stood close, grinning and holding a spent crossbow.

  “You owe me a knife!” Heinrich shouted.

  Broderick nodded. “A small price to pay.”

  Heinrich retrieved his sword and he and Broderick stood back to back, circling slowly. “Where did all the rats come from, friend?” Heinrich yelled. “Did you not see them on your reconnaissance?”

  “What are you talking about?” Broderick asked, catching a ratman with a swift jab of his sword blade.

  “The rats that have taken two of our men out of the battle,” he said, driving the pommel of his sword into a nearby throat. “Father and Gunderic are fighting for their lives.”

  “Aren’t we all,” Broderick snapped back. “What do you want me to do about it?”

  “Get us out of this mess.”

  “Just shut up,” Broderick said, twisting his body to the left to block a ratman from jumping on Heinrich’s back, “and fight!”

  That ended the argument. Through the constant slash of blades and teeth, Heinrich fought to keep his balance. Fighting they were, and valiantly too, but the advantage gained from their initial assault was slipping away. Cuthbert was down, fending off attacks with bare arms, and Witchkiller, though still in the fight, was slowing, her chest a swirl of deep red cuts. Unless a miracle happened, they would never get out of the building alive.

  And then as if Sigmar were listening, a flight of arrows flew into the melee and felled several ratmen. The missiles came through gaps in the boarded windows on the sides of the building. Then came powerful shouts as five strange men, attired in richly coloured doublets and tunics, rushed through the northern entrance and gave battle to the
enemy. Heinrich stood confused as he tried to make sense of the intruders. What was going on? Who were these men? He turned and looked at Broderick, whose eyes were also seeking answers.

  “What is this?” Heinrich asked.

  But before he could answer, Broderick’s chest exploded in a cloud of green powder and blood. A thunderous roar consumed the space and Heinrich was knocked aside. The crack of the shot rang soundly in his ears as he struggled to stand. He could feel the sting of powder in his eyes and taste it on his tongue. He wiped away the pain and looked at his feet. Broderick lay face down, a black hole in his mangled back, a green mist rising out of the wound as blood pooled around him on the floor. Heinrich knew immediately what had caused the mortal blow.

  Warplock pistol.

  And just as quickly as it had begun, the battle was over, as the ratmen scrambled for exits. Despite having gained the advantage, the arrival of additional mercenaries were an unwelcome surprise and in seconds, the enemy was gone; all except one lone vermin, standing at the top of the steps leading to the doorway from which Heinrich had entered. Dazed, Heinrich leaned on his sword and stared madly into the beast’s foaming maw. It was the white one he had asked Broderick about right before the attack, the one supposedly in possession of the Heart of Sigmar. Its white fur was caked with muddy gore, its chest, shins, and snout wrapped in light leather armour, arms exposed. Warped by Chaos, the creature possessed two tails that tightly clutched two sacks glowing green with wyrdstone, and it waved the sacks in the air. In its left hand was the warplock pistol, smouldering from the shot.

  Rage shook Heinrich’s body. His heart pounded, his chest heaved as he girded his strength. You twisted offal, he screamed silently into the face of the white monster. You killed my friend.

  As if it understood, the ratman chittered wildly and waved its free hand at the captain. Foaming spit flew from its black lips as it bared its fangs in defiance. Heinrich rushed forward, raising his sword to strike. But it was too late. As he reached the first step, the pale-furred skaven leaped backwards and vanished in the shadows.