An arm blocked Heinrich from going further. “Easy, sir,” said an unfamiliar voice. “It’s over.”
Heinrich pulled away from the arm, swung around, and drove the hilt of his sword into the sternum of the man. The man fell down, gasping and clutching his stomach. Heinrich stood over the body of one of the strangers that had interrupted the fight. “Step back!” Heinrich said. But as he stepped away, the man drove his leg into the back of Heinrich’s knees, bringing him down. The man followed up with a swift chop to the neck.
“I’d show a little more respect for one that has just saved your life,” the man said, regaining his feet and drawing two poniards from under his cloak.
Heinrich winced against the pain of the blow, rolled over, raised his crossbow and aimed it at the forehead of the man. The man was very tall, sporting a dark complexion, shaved head, goatee and a gold earring in his right earlobe. He wore chestnut-coloured pantaloons and a gold tunic. A tiger fur cloak was draped over his shoulders and clipped at his neck. Black boots with silver points. He wasn’t from the Empire.
The man was anxious but steady, like a wild fox, holding his ground but ready to strike at a moment’s notice.
“Respect for you?” Heinrich said, holding the crossbow steady. “And what gave you the right to intrude on my mission?”
“Your mission?” said the man. “We’ve been tracking these ratmen for days. The trail led us here. And it looked like you needed help.”
“We were doing fine on our own, stranger,” said Heinrich. “We do not need your charity.”
The man grunted. “I beg to differ. If we had not arrived when we did—”
“Broderick would still be alive!” Heinrich shouted.
The man grew silent and looked past Heinrich towards the still body drowning in the pool of deep crimson. His face calmed. “Yes, perhaps so. That is unfortunate. But let’s be rational. Without our intrusion, you might have all died.”
By this time, the men from both groups had gathered themselves and were standing around their respective leaders, weapons drawn, eyes glaring at one another over a thin, deadly space. The anger and distrust in the air was palpable; one false move or word could start a brawl. But feeling secure with his men at hand, Heinrich lowered his crossbow and stood. “Who are you?” he asked calmly.
The man lowered his knives and tucked them back beneath his cloak. “I am Captain Bernardo Rojas.”
“Where are you from?”
“Estalia.”
Heinrich winced in disgust. Estalia? That hot, mysterious land topped in mountains, shrouded in mystery, and lying far to the west of the Empire. What wicked wind had blown this infidel into town? “Ha!” he grunted and shook his head. “An Estalian in Mordheim. Is that so? By the looks of your men, however, I’d say you were from further south. I am having a bad day.”
“Scoff all you wish,” Bernardo said with eyes glaring, “but I will gladly pit my men of Marienburg against your Reiklander dogs any time.”
Heinrich ignored the challenge and turned away. He went to Broderick, knelt down, and held his hand above the deep wound. Hot. He leaned over and whispered gently in Broderick’s ear, “I’m sorry, my friend. May Sigmar bless your soul.”
He rose and stretched his back carefully. Night was falling fast and he could barely see his men through the shifting light and shadow. How many are left, he wondered. “Father? How many have we lost?”
Father appeared at his side, shaken and exhausted. “Three dead, captain. Young Gunderic and Sebastian, and Broderick. May Sigmar find them peaceful. Cuthbert is alive but his arms are badly mauled. Witchkiller is wounded severely. She may not last the night. I am well, as are Roland and Bloodtooth.”
“You don’t look well,” Heinrich said, pointing at scores of tiny bites covering the priest’s arms and neck. The old man was stooped over, fighting for air, his bald pate wet with cold sweat. The spells had taken their toll. “You’re lucky to be alive.”
Father rubbed at the wounds. “Yes, captain. Lucky and cursed I would say.”
Father always said things that did not make sense, but Heinrich did not press him further. He turned away and shook his head. Three dead. What a terrible price to pay without even securing the prize for which they were fighting. He barely had enough men to field. How would they get out of the city alive at night while carrying their dead and wounded to safety?
As if reading his thoughts, the Estalian stepped forward. “May we be of assistance?” he asked.
Heinrich turned and faced the stranger, uncertain of what to do or what to think. “Haven’t you done enough already?”
“We lost a man too,” Bernardo said, ignoring the jab. “Young Gabriel fell shortly after we engaged. We should work together to get out of this cursed place, despite any misgivings we may have for one another. Night is falling. Let us help each other.”
“No. No, I will not allow you to touch—”
“Heinrich,” Father interrupted, laying a hand on his captain’s shoulder. “Please, let them help. We can’t do this alone, and we can’t leave anyone behind.”
“Fine!” Heinrich snapped. He wanted to lash out and smack the old man across the floor, but his words made sense.
“Captain?” Roland came forward, holding Bloodtooth by his massive chain. The dog’s muzzle was soaked in ratman blood. “Should we not look for the Heart before we leave?”
Heinrich shook his head. “No. It isn’t here.”
“But they may have dropped it in the battle. If we could just look through—”
“I said no!” Heinrich snapped. “The ratmen are vile creatures, but they are not stupid. They know what we’re after. They would not be so casual with it.”
“What is this Heart you speak of?” the Estalian asked. “I do not understand.”
“Good. Let’s keep it that way.” Heinrich did not try to hide his growing irritation with this pointless discussion. Exhausted, he used his sword to steady himself and wiped sweat from his brow. “Very well, Estalian. I accept your offer, but that’s as far as it goes. When we reach the western gate, we part company. We’ll bury our men alone. Understood?”
Bernardo nodded, a quizzical smile on his face.
“And one more thing.” Heinrich leaned in close, his nose nearly touching Bernardo’s sharp beak. “Keep your hands off Broderick. He’s my responsibility.”
With that, they began preparing the dead and wounded as the Mordheim night squeezed in.
The sun was rising in the east and driving away the fog. The air was still and thick. It would be a humid day, Heinrich knew, and he felt comforted by the cool of the stone pavilion in which he stood.
They were in the centre of a Garden of Morr. The garden lay within the moss and ivy-choked ruins of a small keep that stood vigil on a modest hill on the western side of Mordheim. The dead were laid naked on stone benches inside the pavilion. Roland covered each body in turn with a white sheet, while Father, holding a bowl of slow burning incense, whispered arcane prayers and moved among the bodies. He stopped at each, dipped a small brush into the grey ash of the incense fire, and then rubbed the pasty bristles across each warrior’s clean-shaven, perfumed cheeks. He knelt down and kissed each lightly on the brow, then covered their eyes with silk cloths.
Heinrich stood in sombre humility and watched the priest work. Few Reikland mercenaries could claim their very own Sigmarite priest, but Heinrich considered it a gift and did not tempt fate by thinking about it too often. The old man’s full name was Elgin von Klaushammer, but the men fondly called him “Father” as befitting his spiritual connections; and at times like this, he was an invaluable servant to the team.
He looked into a dark corner of the pavilion where Cuthbert and Witchkiller lay resting quietly, taking comfort in each other’s company. Their evening’s wounds had not fully healed, but they had not got any worse. They would live, praise Sigmar, but they would be laid up for a while. Heinrich pulled himself straight, defying exhaustion. He was a leader afte
r all and in times like this he needed to show strength.
It was a tragic thing to lose men on campaign. How many burials had he attended since his arrival in Mordheim? He could not remember. How many more would he attend? It was a fool who did not expect to lose men in such an evil place, but he had lost so many good men over the past few months. And now Broderick, his best friend and confidant, was gone. Broderick had always been there to help the group through their grief and to keep them focused. Where Father conducted the ritual of burial, it was Broderick who placed purpose in each death, extolling honour and dignity through his kind and simple words of faith. Faith in Sigmar Heldenhammer, founder and patron saint of the Empire; faith in the Grand Theogonist; faith in their mission. Heinrich looked down upon the rigid form of his friend and whispered, “Goodbye Broderick. You were a good man and a great warrior.”
Heinrich turned and let Father’s prayers drift from his mind. He looked towards the freshly dug graves waiting nearby. He felt sorry for the families of the men he would bury today. They would never know the fate of their kin, and what a terrible burden to bear. Some would consider it blasphemous to bury them within sight and sound of the Eternal Struggle, but it was better than leaving them to rot amidst the ruins. At least they were receiving some dignity and respect with a simple ceremony.
Heinrich placed his hand on the hilt of his sword. He looked beyond the garden to an observation tower. The aged, crumbling stone structure had stood for centuries as one corner of the keep but was now, in its twilight, used to view the city. He and Broderick had climbed the steps of the tower many times. They had looked down upon the desolation and tried to imagine what it might have been like on that fateful day in 1999, five years ago when the twin-tailed comet of Sigmar slammed into the city and eradicated the evil that had gathered.
In his weaker moments, Heinrich would wonder why the Warrior God had allowed Mordheim to survive at all, why he had allowed it to rise from its own grave. Why fill it with that cursed wyrdstone, a currency so valued, so prized that it called thousands into its seedy streets who would kill to possess it? At the top of the tower, Broderick would always answer, “It is a warning and a test. I believe Sigmar allowed Mordheim to endure so as to remind us of the fine line between order and Chaos. Mordheim is a monument to that thin space between good and evil, and all the other cities of the Empire should look upon its devastation with fear and remember that they too could suffer the same fate if they so choose to fall into darkness.”
“And what of wyrdstone, then?” Heinrich would ask, pressing the issue. “Why would Sigmar fill its streets with that awful temptation?”
“Again, it’s a test. Men imbued with both good and bad intentions come here to seek it. What they do with it after they’ve found it is the test.”
“Have we passed the test, my friend?”
Broderick would smile and say, “Well, I don’t know about you, but my heart is pure.”
They would laugh at that and go on discussing issues throughout the night. What is the true nature of Chaos? Of order? Will the provinces of the Empire ever unite under Siegfried, the Grand Prince of Reikland? In the end, Heinrich would allow Broderick to have the last word, for his faith was that of a child’s. Heinrich always looked to his friend for spiritual guidance, clarity of thought and consistency of purpose. With Broderick now gone, who would he rely now on to provide that clarity?
“Am I disturbing you?”
It was the voice of the Estalian. Heinrich swung around to face the strange man, his heart leaped into his throat as he considered drawing his sword, but he held steady. “What are you doing here, Estalian? Don’t you have a fallen sword to care for?”
“I have already buried young Gabriel,” Bernardo said, “but I must speak with you now, before it is too late.”
“You are from a strange, undisciplined land,” Heinrich whispered. “You are obviously unaware of the dishonour you’ve brought to me and mine by interrupting this service.”
Bernardo pulled up close, his eyes sparkling with agitation. “I’m well aware of the sanctity of your burial service, sir, but what I have to discuss with you gives respect to those we bury today. Speak with me in private.”
Gritting his teeth, Heinrich grabbed the fringe of the Estalian’s tiger cloak and pulled him away. “Very well. Follow me.”
They walked through the garden and up to the observation tower. Heinrich climbed the wooden steps, carefully placing his boots into the worn places on the planks. “I suggest you place your feet as I do, Estalian, lest you snap a plank and fall to your death.” Bernardo followed as directed.
At the top, they stood side-by-side and stared down at the mangled sprawl. Several minutes passed in silence. Heinrich spoke first. “How long have you been in Mordheim, Estalian?”
“Not very long,” Bernardo said. “Going on seven days now perhaps.”
Heinrich grunted. “Then you are still clean and unfettered, I see. I’ve been here all of six months, and I’m already losing myself in its cesspool. I hate it and I love it. Does that make sense to you?”
Before Bernardo could respond, Heinrich continued. “Broderick and I came up through the pits together, bare-chested fighters for gold and drama. A young man en route to Ostermark, I was captured by brigands and sold off like chattel. I thought I would die in those pits. Broderick saved me. He spoke about Sigmar and gave me purpose to fight on. We bought our freedom and set off for Altdorf to find our lives and to worship the Warrior God. And when we were ready, we set off for Mordheim to do good deeds for the Empire. But it wasn’t supposed to end like this. Broderick wasn’t supposed to die.”
Heinrich paused for a long moment, then said, “Right before he fell, I argued with Broderick for not spotting the rat horde that appeared in the guildhouse and cut our band in two. I blamed it all on him, but it was my fault. I should have known better, anticipated it. It’s my fault Broderick’s dead. All my fault…”
“Why speak these things?” Bernardo said. He tried to lay a hand on Heinrich’s shoulder, but the Reiklander pulled away. “You are not responsible for the fate of every man under your charge.”
Heinrich nodded. “Perhaps not.” He stared deeply into Bernardo’s eyes, trying to measure the man’s soul, but everything about him was different. His face was dark and sharp, dirt-smeared but flamboyant. His bald scalp a shiny palette of oily brown flesh. His mouth a thin sliver of pink forming a generous smile that masked… what? Heinrich searched for something more in the kind stare of the mysterious man, but nothing surfaced. The man also had a perfumery about him, a scent of cinnamon and lavender, of rosemary and ginger. It mixed with the stagnant, mouldy smell of the nearby graves and made Heinrich’s nostrils flare.
“What brings you to the City of the Damned, Estalian?” Heinrich asked. “You and your men are very far from the comforts of Marienburg, and, dare I say, from the fanciful proclamations of your Lady Magritta.”
If the insult caused the foreigner any agitation, he did not show it. He simply smiled and said, “I’m not a political man. It matters not to me who sits on the Imperial throne, whether it is my Lady Magritta, or a puppet prince anointed by your Grand Theogonist. But I would suggest that you refrain from such observations around my men, as they may take offence. As for me, my kin were merchants. We had establishments in Marienburg, Talabheim, Middenheim, among other places. We were so often on the road that I feel as much a part of the Empire as I do my birth city of Bilbali. When I was old enough to make my own decisions, I returned home and tried to build a life. But it just didn’t feel right anymore. So I returned to Marienburg, gathered up some swords, then struck out to find my fortune.”
“But why Mordheim? It’s such a drastic change from the comfortable life of a merchant’s son.”
Bernardo shrugged. “Mordheim is the place to be if you crave adventure, is it not? And don’t take such a simpleton’s view of a city and its people, Reiklander. There are two sides to every coin, and the measure of a man goes
deeper than a mere prick of his skin.”
I may take you up on that measurement, Heinrich thought to himself, but kept his mouth shut. How dare this fop, this popinjay give him lessons in courtesy? He let the matter drop, however. It would be disrespectful to cause a stir within sight of Broderick’s funeral.
A long silent minute hung between them, then Bernardo said, “So tell me about this Heart you seek. I’m not familiar with it.”
Should I tell him, Heinrich asked himself? If such a powerful artefact fell into the hands of a foreigner and worse, Marienburgers, what price would the Empire pay?
Despite his reluctance, Heinrich answered. “It’s called the Herz des Kriegergottes, the Heart of the Warrior God, also known as Sigmar’s Heart. It’s thought to be the last remaining piece of the core of the comet. Many say it does not exist, but they are wrong. It’s no larger than the palm of your hand, and flat as a dish. Its face shines brightly even in pure darkness, they say, its aspect shifting green to red and back again, and it’s said that if you look upon it long enough, you can see the twin-tailed comet hurling through the sky and hitting the city. The legend goes that a ratman sorcerer first discovered it, and then it fell into the hands of dwarf treasure seekers who took a forge hammer to it and beat it into the shape that it is today, as if it were a mere trinket to be worn around the neck.
“The dwarfs traded it to a brewer for his entire stock of beer, and then it disappeared from sight for a couple of years until the Black Guard, those templars who seek out and destroy the undead, learned that it had fallen into the hands of a vampire. They saved it from that unholy coupling, but they too lost it en route to Altdorf when a band of greenskins attacked them. The greenskins brought it back to Mordheim during their sweep south, where they too lost it…”
“And you think that the skaven have it again?” Bernardo interrupted.
Heinrich nodded. “Yes. Broderick confirmed it. He saw it around the white one’s neck a few days ago on a scouting mission.”
Tales of the Old World Page 91
