Tales of the Old World

by Marc Gascoigne

  They clung to the walls, whenever they came across them, and used piles of debris for cover. Occasionally, a straggler from a nearby skirmish crossed their path, some raving Chaos-possessed brethren or a rotting zombie flesh hunter, but these interruptions caused little delay. A swift spin of a morning star or a carefully placed arrow remedied the problem immediately.

  That’s how it was sometimes, Heinrich realised as he stepped over the severed head of an orc. The dead city always surprised him. Sometimes, the streets were so thick with thugs that it resembled a tavern in Altdorf and other times the streets were as quiet as a tongueless ghoul. Mordheim took rests, it seemed, little naps to refresh before erupting again. Unpredictable, inconsistent, keeping you off-balance, luring you into complacency and then ripping you back with a deafening clamour of battle through its sordid streets.

  They paused for a quick breath and for cover to protect themselves from a hailstorm that blew in abruptly. As they waited for the storm to pass, Heinrich placed his hand upon a section of wall caked in grey dirt. Mere blocks away lay the massive crater where the twin-tailed comet had struck, and this part of the city was smothered in debris. Neither rain nor wind nor goose egg hail seemed capable of washing away the stink of evil here. Heinrich rubbed his hand across his sleeve and realised how perfect this area was for a skaven stronghold. The air was choked with sewer water and silt, hot and humid, and difficult to breathe. A tunnel race could thrive in such torturous surroundings.

  When the storm had passed, they set off again. They rounded the corner of a collapsed inn and passed beneath a stone walkway. Below it three human skeletons swung on dry hemp, their bleached bones knocking in the wind like ceramic chimes. The dull clangour sent a chill up Heinrich’s spine, and he moved over to Bloodtooth and rubbed the mastiff’s broad back. The warhound pushed his slimy muzzle into his master’s sleeve and whimpered, nibbling affectionately on his dirty fingers. Heinrich smiled. “I’m glad you’re here, old boy.”

  They stopped suddenly. At the head of the line Bernardo motioned anxiously. “What is it?” Heinrich asked as he moved up.

  Bernardo pointed around the corner to a large building that towered above the nearby ruins. Heinrich’s eyes widened. He wondered why he hadn’t seen it until now; such a massive structure, rising out of the ground like some forgotten temple.

  “This is it?” Heinrich asked.

  “Yes,” the Estalian said. “What do you think?”

  Heinrich didn’t know what to think. It was a mausoleum, a resting-place for the dead, a site of reverence and honour. But the entire structure sat within an enclosed courtyard whose walls were heavily damaged and choked in dried ropes of ivy and nightshade. The remnants of a black iron gate hung limp from the main entrance, and traces of an old stone staircase could be seen amidst a mountain of rocks. Like Bernardo had said, the entire courtyard, and thus the entire first floor, was completely covered by stones large and small, piled high and packed in tight. The rocks formed a pyramid up the sides of the first floor and tapered away to a square granite platform.

  Marble arches stood on top of the platform, eight per side, supporting a flat marble roof adorned with beastly gargoyles. The columns that supported the archways comprised capitals and pilasters carved in the faces of dragons and griffons, and the arches themselves were reinforced with spandrels shaped in the letters of some ancient language. Heinrich tried reading the letters, but the distance and the ravages of time had eroded them beyond recognition. Beyond the arches loomed darkness.

  Heinrich’s temples throbbed. “I see no guards,” he said.

  “If you lived in that fortress,” Bernardo said, “would you need them?”

  The Estalian’s flippant tone was annoying, but Heinrich let it pass. He studied the rocks. Different sizes and shapes, some seemingly sealed with mortar while others were loose and menacing. “We must scale those rocks?” he asked.

  Bernardo nodded. “My scout says that behind the arcade lies the corridor leading down to the buried level. The ratmen are there.”

  “And you trust this scout? He’s reliable?”

  “She, captain,” Bernardo said. “She had better be, she’s my half-sister.”

  Heinrich nearly fell over. He could not imagine it. “Gods be good, but the neighbourhood was going to the chamber pot. Your half-sister? You use your own kin—a woman—as a scout? You are joking.”

  Bernardo shook his head. “No, captain. She’s honest flesh and blood. Perhaps someday you will meet her. Do not worry, she’s the best there is. You can trust her. And me.”

  “You haven’t earned my trust yet, Estalian,” Heinrich glared intensely into Bernardo’s deep eyes, “but I suppose I’ve no other choice.” He studied the area around the mausoleum. “There’s too much open space around the blasted thing and the other buildings are too far apart. We won’t be able to set up a good screen of supporting fire to cover our advance. We’ll have to go in force, but I’m worried about those rocks and whether they are stable. If they attack while we’re climbing up, will they hold?”

  Bernardo shrugged his lean shoulders. “I have no idea, but a wise old man from Cathay once said, ‘On death ground, fight.’”

  Heinrich’s breath caught in his throat. That was something Broderick would have said. He tried to hide his surprise, but a smile crept across his dry lips. “And if we find ourselves on death ground, I suppose you’ll show me your amazing quickness?”

  Bernardo drew a poniard and waved it in a circle. “With pleasure.”

  They lined up for the assault, four sets of two. Bernardo paired up with Karl, the ex-swordsman, and Heinrich chose Bloodtooth.

  They moved towards the mausoleum. Heinrich held Bloodtooth’s chain tightly and stared up the slope of rocks and into the thin emptiness behind the arches. Somewhere in those shadows he knew death awaited.

  They moved through the broken iron gate quickly. Heinrich chose to go last, guarding the approach with crossbow trained at the mausoleum. When Bernardo and Karl were safely through and in place, Heinrich followed with Bloodtooth straining madly on the chain. It was all he could do to keep the dog under control, and he considered letting the beast loose. But the sudden stillness of the air unnerved him. This wasn’t the usual subsidence of the wind or the occasional acoustical shadow that muffled the city’s screams. This was a death silence, a hollowness in the air that had no substance, no mass or form, as if the city no longer existed, all of its parts swept away and a hole left in its place. A cold sweat pricked Heinrich’s neck as he tested the rocks with his knees. He pulled Bloodtooth close. The dog’s sticky tongue slapped against his face. “Not now, boy. Save it for the ratmen.”

  Heinrich gave the signal and they began to climb, each pair measuring their steps carefully. Bernardo and Karl took the lead, slithering up the rock face like snakes. Heinrich shot the Estalian an angry look, but it did little good. They were at the mid-point before deciding to stop and wait for the rest to catch up. Father and Rupert ascended the rocks slowly and deliberately, the old priest halting periodically to raise cupped hands to the sky. Roland and Albert were moving up on Heinrich’s left, when the barkeeper suddenly lost his balance and disappeared in an avalanche of rock and dust. Roland was also swept downward. Heinrich reached out and tried to grab a hand, but Roland cascaded to the bottom and landed squarely on top of his partner.

  Heinrich cursed and moved to help, but was abruptly slammed to his back. The absolute silence in the air a moment ago was now replaced by ghostly bemoanings and ululations, as grey and white tendrils of smoke rose out of the cracks in the rocks and wrapped around his body. What devilment is this, Heinrich asked himself? And then he realised it wasn’t smoke at all, but spirits, rising from their rocky tomb, swirling around his limbs and pinning him down. He looked around and saw that all the men were grappling with them, swinging their arms or weapons through the air as if swatting flies. He tried to pull free, his heart pounding wildly in his chest, but the spectres’ clutch was too gre
at.

  What can I do, he wondered? Just as he realised that he’d dropped Bloodtooth’s chain, a grey face swirled before him, forming hollow eyes and sharp, smoky teeth. Heinrich whispered Sigmarite prayers and stared breathlessly into jaws that opened and mouthed words. He did not hear the words with his ears, but in his mind. Although the words were thin, raspy and cold, he understood them clearly.

  Avenge our humiliation, the ghost said. Kill the skaven for what they did to us. Kill them all… and give us rest.

  Heinrich nodded obediently as the dark face slowly, slowly dissolved away.

  He did not know how long he lay there with eyes closed, humming prayers and breathing calmly, but when he opened his eyes the ghosts were gone and he sat up. Bloodtooth twisted on his back nearby, struggling to right himself. The others were fixing themselves as well, checking their weapons, and beginning the climb again. Heinrich reached over and grabbed the hound’s chain.

  Unhindered this time, they reached the mid-point together and still no skaven slings or weeping blades slick with poison. Like fireflies drawn to the darkness, they inched ever upward, letting loose stones bounce away with echoes that danced through the ruins. Heinrich held Bloodtooth tight and kept his crossbow ready.

  They reached the granite platform and stopped, using the columns for cover. Bernardo was the first to hoist himself up, then Karl and then the others followed. They huddled close, waiting for their eyes to adjust to the darkness. Heinrich squinted and tried to make out the depth of the second floor.

  “Estalian?” he whispered. “Where do we go from here?”

  Bernardo pointed into the darkness. “This way, but we’ll need torches.”

  Albert pulled torches from his backpack, but before he could light them, the granite floor began to vibrate. Then came a rustle of motion. Then screeching and squalling, high-pitched battle cries flooding the space around the mausoleum and shaking the earth. Heinrich unclipped Bloodtooth from his restraint. The hound growled and leaped into the darkness. The men spread out quickly and brandished their weapons, Father hefting his warhammer in defiance of his fragile form. Heinrich stepped back and braced himself against a pilaster and fixed the stock of his crossbow tightly against his shoulder. “Great Sigmar,” he whispered. “Give us strength.”

  The platform erupted in a mass of black and brown fur, snarling muzzles filled with yellow teeth, and red eyes blazing with hate. Two dozen strong, the ratmen hurled themselves into the men and slingers let fly a hail of pellets that shattered against the arch above Heinrich’s head. He snapped off a bolt and watched it pierce the belly of a slinger. Other missiles fired into the skaven assault as each man worked frantically to hold his ground. Heinrich ducked steel fighting claws and drove the butt of his crossbow into a furry throat. The mangy beast fell over gasping for air. Heinrich drew his pistol and finished it off.

  He tucked away his gun and crossbow and drew his sword. He pressed deeper into the darkness, not knowing where the rest of the men were. They were around him, for sure, but the battle was too confused and chaotic to pinpoint exact locations. He prayed for luck and swung his blade forward, cutting a swathe through the shadows. At that moment, Father’s warhammer glowed white-hot and pushed away the darkness. Heinrich caught a glimpse of his partner.

  Bloodtooth raged a few paces before him, his bloody fangs sunk deep into the crotch of a ratman slinger. The ratman squealed in agony and fell shaking. Other skaven tried to save their clansman from certain death, but Heinrich stepped up and took them down.

  “Bloodtooth, enough!” Heinrich yelled. Reluctantly, the hound released its grip, tearing away flesh. Heinrich walked up to the dying skaven and drove his boot into its throat.

  The battle ended abruptly as the enemy slipped away into the shadows and down the rocky pyramid. Another swift attack, then dispersal, attack and dispersal, this was how the skaven fought—a guerrilla war, a battle of attrition and Heinrich was weary of it. He sheathed his sword. He turned and saw that the fight was still going. The last two attackers were facing the Estalian and finding their position quite tenuous. Heinrich watched in awe.

  He’d never seen a blade move so fast. Bernardo wielded a long, slender sword of curved steel that shined despite little sunlight. It wasn’t any kind of weapon Heinrich had seen before. Rumours of mysterious blades forged in far eastern lands had been told, swords that could cleave heads from necks with one swipe, but no one had ever seen them. Save for now. As the ratmen tried to flee, Bernardo felled one and then the other with a single swipe across their chests. For good measure, he counter-swung and lacerated their faces.

  Bernardo wiped the blade clean and sheathed it. Heinrich approached. “What kind of sword is that?” he asked.

  “It’s a lintachi blade,” Bernardo said, breathing deeply. “It was my father’s. A gift from a traveller who claimed to have got it in the far east. I call it Myrmidia, after the Goddess of War.”

  “You wield it well,” Heinrich said.

  “Thank you,” said Bernardo, nodding politely. “Perhaps you’ll let me teach you how to use it.”

  Heinrich shook his head. “I don’t think so. Something like that works for you, I suppose. But I prefer something heavier, more traditional.” He placed his hand on the hilt of his own sword.

  Bernardo chuckled. “I guess you’re right. A weapon like this requires a delicate touch. Stocky fingers like yours would just get in the way.”

  Heinrich’s eyes glazed in anger. “Now see here…” he began, moving forward. But Father, standing close, shook his head and silently implored his captain to remain calm. Heinrich halted immediately. “We will take this up later, Estalian,” he said. “Right now we need light.”

  Six torches were laid on the floor. Albert lit them and handed them out. Fear spread through the men as shadows were thrown back and terror revealed.

  The hallway that lay before them was as tall as four men and immeasurably deep. Along the walls were rows upon rows of crypts embossed with the holy symbols of Morr and Sigmar, the words of ancient prayers and the murals of glorious battles. Though grey dust covered it all, the names of the honoured dead defiantly stood forth from the granite: Siebel Gottard, Hera Ruekheiser, Stephan Voelker…. Names meaningless to Heinrich, but somehow possessing great power, as if the mere utterance of them filled the heart with strength. These people had been laid here in glorious praise to their makers. They did not deserve what the skaven had done to them.

  “Oh, my holy Sigmar,” Roland said as he shook in fear beside Heinrich. “What are we going to do about this? How do we stop such madness?”

  Heinrich gnashed his teeth. “Kill them… every last one of them.”

  Hundreds of the crypts had been ransacked, seals penetrated and ripped apart. Piles of skeletons lay on the floor of the hallway, and even more hung out of caskets like twisted scaffolding. The hair of dead matriarchs cascaded down like vines, harbouring nests of baby rats.

  With torches raised high, they picked their way through the vandalism. Bernardo passed a nest and set it aflame and watched the embers devour the screeching young. The stink of burning hair and rodent flesh filled the hall.

  “That’s a mistake,” said Heinrich.

  “How so?” asked Bernardo.

  “You’ll see.”

  Stepping over bones and splintered coffins, Heinrich noticed that the walls were suddenly alive with a thousand tiny eyes. Rats everywhere, scampering down the garden of old bones, leaping to the ground amidst the maze of death. One dropped on Heinrich’s back. He smacked it off and yelled, “Run!”

  They bolted down the hall, dodging and bounding over a deluge of ripping teeth and claws. “This is what happens when you set fire to nests,” Heinrich snapped at Bernardo as he ripped a plump one from his shoulder.

  “Why didn’t you say something?” Bernardo screamed.

  “You did not ask.”

  Through the shadows a massive postern appeared, and within it stood a mahogany door reinforced with iron
bars. “There is the doorway,” said Bernardo.

  Someone at the rear screamed. Heinrich looked back and saw Karl covered in rats. The ex-swordsman howled and fought madly, but the weight of the host was too great. He disappeared beneath them. Heinrich wanted to stop and help, but kept running. If he turned now, he too would be taken down.

  They reached the door ahead of the advancing rats, which had stopped momentarily to feast on the downed Marienburg. Heinrich slammed his shoulder into the wood. He cursed. “It’s locked from the inside. We’ll need to find another way in.”

  “There is no other way in,” Bernardo said, keeping one agitated eye on the rear. “It’s here or back to the rats!”

  “I can open it, captain.” Father appeared with hammer in hand, its iron head pulsing white with power.

  “Your magic alone will not break the seal, priest,” Bernardo said. “We’ll have to do this together.”

  “And quickly,” Heinrich said. “The horde is upon us.”

  The men gave Father room. The priest raised his hammer and brought it down. The black wood splintered. Heinrich wedged his sword into the seal between granite and door and pried as Father delivered a second blow, then a third and a forth. Bernardo and Albert were answering the priest’s hammer blows with firm shoulders into the ever-cracking wood. A fifth hammer strike and the door gave way.

  “Move!” Heinrich yelled, waving the men through the door and into pitch-black. One after another, they leaped through the doorway as Bernardo and Roland conducted a fighting withdrawal against the relentless swarm. When all were through, Heinrich—feeling the tear of claws upon his legs—slammed the door shut.