“But the white skaven last night was not wearing any medallion as I recall.”
“That is true.”
“Then perhaps they’ve lost it again.”
Heinrich shook his head. “No. They have it. I’m certain of it.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because I am,” Heinrich blurted, growing weary of the conversation. They must have it, he thought to himself. They must, or Broderick died in vain.
“Well,” Bernardo said, “whatever the truth, it certainly is a well-travelled little trinket. What does it do? What is its power?”
Heinrich shook his head, fighting down painful memories of his friend. “Immortality. Unimaginable physical strength. Spiritual powers beyond any priest, wizard, or witch hunter of the Empire. There are many speculations. Father says that its true power can only be known by a pure-of-heart, the truest follower of Sigmar. And when that person touches it, whomever he may be, the second coming of the Warrior God will be upon us, the Empire will reunite under one banner again and a golden age of peace and prosperity will follow.”
“Really?” The Estalian seemed on the verge of laughing, his thin lips quivering to control an outburst. “And you believe all this?”
“I trust my friend, Estalian,” Heinrich said angrily. “Broderick said he saw it and that’s good enough for me. I’ve pledged to myself and to the others to find, rescue, and deliver the Heart to Altdorf and to the Grand Theogonist. And that is what I intend to do.”
Heinrich turned away and closed his eyes. He took a deep breath and let his anger drift away with the cool breeze blowing from the east. “I do love mornings here,” he said finally. “Just as the sun rises and casts its shadows on the ruins. This is the time to gain the best perspective on the place.” He pointed out to the moist, green mist rising everywhere. “See how the whole of it has a green glow, as if some daemon relieved itself in the wind? See how the black water of the river Stir sloshes its way through the heart of the city, its depths bulging with the myriad dead of last night’s wickedness. The river cuts a fine swathe, a channel dividing east and west perfectly. Sometimes, when I’m down there, I forget which side I’m on.
Sometimes I get lost, drifting around and around the same block until a whiff of meat from a bandit’s spit leads me to a gatehouse and to safety. Each ruined shed, each tavern and rookery, each stockyard or tumbled chapel has its own spirit, its own voice, a chorus of the souls that have died—the most hideous deaths—within its walls. When you’re down there, it’s hard to know where the flesh ends and stone and mortar begins.”
“But from here, you can see the whole of the desolation. You can see the deep crater where the comet hit and the destruction that erupted from its impact. Like one great heart of Chaos, pumping to the beat of a madness unstoppable, its veins the criss-cross of cobblestone streets where lost children roam: greenskins and Reiklanders, Marienburgers, Ostlanders and shadowy elves, dwarfs, ratmen, and too many to name. All of them fighting an endless skirmish for the very soul of the world.”
“Do you know what I see?” Bernardo asked.
Heinrich warily turned toward the Estalian. “I’m afraid to ask.”
“I see a loud, smelly, musty old city that needs a good whipping, and we shouldn’t be wasting our time debating about what it is and what it isn’t. It is what it is.”
For the first time since they had met, Heinrich laughed. “Now who’s taking the simpleton’s view? I see that you have much to learn about Mordheim. You don’t show it the proper respect. But you better find humility soon, or you’ll pay the price. If you play lightly with the City of the Damned, Estalian, she’ll swallow you whole.”
“You said you wanted to talk,” Heinrich continued, not allowing the Estalian a chance to respond. “What is it you have to say?”
Bernardo’s face grew stern and serious. “We must join our bands and go at the skaven again today.”
Heinrich shook his head. “I made my position clear last night, Estalian. We can take care of the vermin on our own. We do not need your help. If you will excuse me.” He moved toward the steps. Bernardo held out an arm. “Please, listen to me.”
Heinrich pulled back, drew his pistol, and held it to Bernardo’s forehead. He cocked the hammer. “That’s the second time you’ve blocked my path. It will be your last.”
Bernardo held still, the barrel of the pistol pressed tightly against his head. “You fool! I can smack that pistol away faster than you can pull the trigger.”
Heinrich held the weapon steady. “I’m willing to take that risk.”
By this time, Heinrich’s men had gathered below the tower. He looked down and saw Roland struggling to maintain his grip on Bloodtooth’s leash, the hound’s fatty jowls slathered with foamy spit, its teeth bared and biting the empty air. The rest were looking up, all worn and tattered, but with weapons at the ready. Father’s warhammer glowed with power.
“You see, Estalian,” Heinrich said, a rush of confidence flushing his face, “even if I misfire, you will not get off this tower alive.”
“I will not embarrass you in front of your men,” Bernardo said coolly. “You have yet to witness and appreciate my quickness. So I kindly ask you to lower your pistol before our emotions get the better of us. I will not block your path again.”
Heinrich lowered the pistol cautiously. “I pray that you do not. And let me repeat, I do not need your help.”
Bernardo shook his head. “Despite the number of skaven that fell last night, many more scattered to the shadows. Do you know where they are, and how long do you think it will take to find them?”
“And I suppose you know where they fled?”
“Yes.”
Heinrich’s shoulders sunk. “Impossible. How could you know this? You have not been in the city long enough—”
“With respect, captain,” Bernardo said, “you are not the only swinging sword in Mordheim with resources.”
Heinrich rubbed his face and considered the Estalian’s admission. Could this coxcomb truly know where the ratmen fled, he wondered? Or was this some ruse to keep him from finding their real location? Now that the truth of the Heart had been revealed, perhaps this was some diversion to send Heinrich’s men one way, while some of Bernardo’s men went another. That was a possibility. Who knew the true motivation of an Estalian, especially one associated with Marienburg and its corrupt merchant guilds? His frivolity and disrespect for things holy certainly did not bode well. But perhaps it would not hurt to hear him out, Heinrich considered, if for no other reason but to reveal the absurdity of the information.
“Alright. Where are they?”
Bernardo turned and pointed to the glowing city. “My scout tells me that their stronghold is within several blocks of the southern gate. It’s an old two-storey mausoleum, with the bottom storey buried beneath rocks. The only entrance is on the first floor behind a marble arcade. It’s a long corridor ending at a door leading down to the ground floor. Neither of our bands alone could penetrate the defences. But if we assault it together, we could do it. We could wipe them out and find peace for a time.”
Heinrich tried to find the lie hidden between the Estalian’s words, but there was no deception, no hesitation. He was telling the truth… as far as he knew it.
“The southern gate?” Heinrich scratched the scar on his cheek. “I don’t know. That’s Sister territory.”
Bernardo chuckled. “My captain, are you afraid of women?”
Heinrich raised his pistol slightly. “Take caution in your tone. This pistol is still cocked. The Sisters are not women as far as I’m concerned. At least not like any women I’ve ever met.”
The Sisters of Sigmar were a convent of misfits and discarded daughters from across the Empire. Self-proclaimed witch hunters and caregivers, their abbey was called the Temple of Sigmar’s Rock, and it stood on a single fist of black stone jutting from the poisonous flow of the River Stir. The spires of their home dominated the skyline of the south
ern districts, and their presence was felt immediately by anyone passing through the southern gate. The thought of facing them did not sit well in Heinrich’s chest.
“Do you see this scar?” Heinrich pointed to the white claw-shaped wound on his face. “I got this souvenir on my first day in Mordheim. A Sister did not appreciate my smile and smacked it off my face with her whip.”
It was Bernardo’s turn to laugh. “The men in my country would have considered that a kiss. You should have kissed her back.”
“I’m not here to frolic and make merry, Estalian,” Heinrich blurted. “I’m here to serve Sigmar. Given the condition we are in, I’ve no interest in tangling with harlots.”
“Do not concern yourself with the Sisters,” Bernardo said, “they will not give us pause. Trust me.”
Can you be trusted, Heinrich wondered? Trust was a rare commodity in the streets of Mordheim. A man had to earn trust, had to put in his time and shed his requisite draught of blood. But perhaps there was no other choice. Looking into the eager face of the Estalian, Heinrich remembered an old adage from his days as a pit fighter: “No sword, then fight with your hands. No hands, then with your teeth.”
My right hand is gone, Heinrich said to himself as he thought about Broderick. Dare I give my left?
“What is your answer?” Bernardo asked.
Heinrich lowered his pistol, uncocked the hammer, and tucked it away. He looked down at his men. They were a mess: dirty, beaten, bruised, and exhausted beyond a doubt. If he asked, they would find their strength, ready their blades, and head back into the stinking mire. They would fight to the last man if he asked it. But going alone was madness. Alone, they would not survive another day.
“Very well, Estalian,” Heinrich said. “I accept your offer. What is your price?”
“Half the take of any wyrdstone we find.”
“A third,” Heinrich countered, “and the Heart is mine.”
“Why is the trinket yours?” Bernardo asked. “We were tracking the skaven the same as you.”
Heinrich shook his head. “No, sir. You cannot declare for something that you do not believe exists and by right I claim seniority. I’ve been here longer than you.”
There was no such claim of seniority in the streets of Mordheim. Finders-keepers and winner-takes-all were the battle cries. But does the Estalian know that, Heinrich wondered?
Bernardo paused, for a long time, then said, “Okay, a third of the wyrdstone, plus the lion’s share of any gems and jewellery we may find.”
Heinrich did not like the deal, but reluctantly agreed. “Gather your men,” he said, taking the steps and descending, “and bring them here so that we may praise our dead. Then let us take a small rest, find a scrap to eat, and then we’ll go. You will lead the way, but let’s make it clear. This is my mission. Understood?”
“As you wish… captain.”
After a brief respite, they gathered the men and set out to track down the skaven clan. They moved quickly and quietly outside the stone wall, which ensnared the city in a ring of vacant ramparts and battlements. The route chosen was of greater distance, but safer by far. Once you entered the cursed city, there were no guarantees of safety. Brigands, thrill-seekers and treasure-mongers were lying in wait for passers-by and they could not afford petty distractions en route to the skaven stronghold.
The men had had little chance to get acquainted with one another before setting out. Bernardo’s men were Marienburgers. There were three of them: Karl Stugart, an ex-swordsman and deserter from the Marienburg army, Rupert Keller, a quay merchant who had killed a rival in cold blood and now, as personal penance for the crime, wore a chain around his neck attached to a rock hidden in a side pocket of his orange tunic, and Albert Eickmann, a barkeeper and part-time burglar trying to stay one step ahead of death and the law. What a miserable gang, Heinrich thought to himself as he greeted each with a pensive smile.
They had all shared pleasantries and had kept civil tongues during their morning preparations, but it was clear to Heinrich that the tension between his men and Bernardo’s was as palpable as the gritty fog that clung to the banks of the Stir. It would take time for the men to trust each other, and time they did not have. At the moment of impact, they would have to perform instinctively, anticipating each other’s moves and actions. With only eight strong, no margin of error was afforded. And with no training or practice, the effective fighting strength was closer to five men. Heinrich made the sign of Sigmar and prayed for luck.
They entered the city through the southern gate. The heavily travelled archway was called the Daemon Mouth, and what a ghastly orifice it was. The entrance lay between two stone towers. Tall, sleek and defiant, their arrow slits squinted darkly upon the approach. The massive iron-plated doors had been ripped off and lay adrift in a sea of weeds and brambles beside the road. What remained were the rusty fangs of a portcullis, suspended by equally rusty chains that teetered above the underpass and threatened to drop at the slightest breeze. Heinrich held his breath, stepped quickly beneath the iron teeth, and came out the other side.
Before them lay a narrow cobblestone road that wound through a maze of ruins. Many called it the Street of Madness, for it was believed that no man, not even the most devoted follower of Sigmar, could reach its end at the northern river gate without going insane. One day, Heinrich thought to himself with a confident nod, I will take that challenge.
They set off down the road, eyeing cautiously the desolate architecture pressing down on both sides. They spread out in a loose circle, Bernardo taking the lead, Heinrich holding the centre and the rest pointing bows and swords in all directions. Despite the fog, the sun was hot and the air heavy. Heinrich shielded his eyes from the shifting beams of light that punctured the fog and tossed angular spikes of white heat across his path. He looked to his left and saw an ensemble of bleached skeletons sitting on discarded chairs, huddled tightly in a circle and holding flutes, violins, tambourines, lutes, and harps. In the swirling haze, the bones moved rhythmically, and Heinrich could almost hear notes rising above their unholy recital. He closed his eyes, rubbed them vigorously, and shook his head. He looked again and the band was gone, their music swept away by a chorus of bloody screams from some unseen battle raging in the distance.
An illusion.
Father appeared beside him. “Captain, are you well?”
“Yes, I’m fine, thank you. I thought I saw… No, it was nothing.” Heinrich rubbed his eyes. “I’m just feeling a little tepid. The air is thick today, and the dead of Mordheim are playing tricks with my mind.”
Father drew a corked vial of clear liquid from his robe. “I want you to have this.”
Heinrich looked at the vial warily. “What is it?”
“Tears of Shallya. Water from the holy spring of Couronne. It will protect you from the ratmen’s poison.”
Heinrich shook his head. “Thank you, but I cannot accept it. You should have it. You are far more valuable than I.”
Father grabbed Heinrich’s hand and pressed the vial into his palm. “Take it, please, I beg you. I fear for your life today.”
The priest’s eyes burned with intensity, and his warhammer glowed. Heinrich had seen this look before. There was no arguing with the old man when he had made his mind up. Heinrich nodded appreciatively and tucked the vial into a pocket.
They came to an abrupt halt at a fork in the road. To the right, the way bled into an area of the city once known as the Poor Quarter. To the left, the unassailable towers of the Sisters of Sigmar’s abbey loomed large in the distance. Father and Roland began mumbling prayers while making the sign of Sigmar with nervous hands. There was great suspicion and anxiety among Sigmarites towards the Sisters’ abbey, Heinrich knew. He shared some of that anxiety himself as he scratched the scar on his cheek.
When the comet had hit the city, it had spread its death and desolation equally, save for the abbey. Neither a scratch nor a speck of dirt fell upon its indefatigable battlements, and many belie
ved that the Sisters had called upon dark forces to ensure their salvation from the holocaust of that dreadful night. Heinrich did not know the truth, but the edict from the Grand Theogonist was clear: No counsel or fraternisation between the devout men of Sigmar and the Sisters. It was an order that Heinrich tried to respect each day.
From behind a lone wall of leaning shale, four figures emerged clad in white and purple habits, Heinrich knew immediately who they were. The men around him trained their weapons forward as the Sisters walked into the road brandishing steel whips. Heinrich’s scar ached at the sight of those awful weapons. In a fight, those whips could strike at distances and at speeds impossible to deflect. They could not afford a spat with the Sisters; the ever-watching manses of their abbey guaranteed reinforcements within moments, if more were not already lying in wait around them. Heinrich shot nervous glances at the ruins, they seemed alive with eyes.
He walked slowly to the head of the group, but Bernardo was already on the move. The Estalian raised his hands in peace and wandered up to the armed women. He mumbled a few words to the one clad in all white and gold trim, with silver medallions hanging from her thick neck and pointed towards the Poor Quarter. The Sisters looked at each other, nodded, then moved away. Bernardo thanked them with a generous bow and returned. Heinrich stood there, his mouth open in astonishment. “Well,” he said as Bernardo returned, “here’s a good reason not to trust you. Would you mind explaining that?”
The Estalian smiled furtively and winked. “It’s a bit complicated. I’ll explain some other time.” He said nothing else and reassumed his position at the point.
After passing a few more blocks, they turned off the main route and took to alleys and back streets, forming a tight line, with Bernardo in the lead, Heinrich at the rear, and the rest in between. Cuthbert and Witchkiller had been left behind in camp to mend. It would have been nice to include more help, perhaps hire a sword for close-in fighting or a Tilean marksman to bolster their missile strength, but there was no time. They had what they had, and there was a certain nobility in facing one’s foes with your honest strength. The measure of a good man was his capacity to overcome adversity. One Sigmarite equalled ten of the Empire’s foes, wasn’t that the old saying? Heinrich placed his hand into his pocket and rubbed the vial of tears that Father had given him. He hoped it were true.
Tales of the Old World Page 92
