Tales of the Old World

by Marc Gascoigne

  The door bowed under the weight of rats and then it stopped as a cold silence set in. Through the smoky torchlight, Heinrich could hear the men gasping for breath. He leaned against the door and said, “Praise Sigmar. That was close.”

  “I’m sorry for torching the nest,” Bernardo said, “but you could have saved us all a lot of trouble and Karl’s life if you had just spoken up.”

  Heinrich started to say something harsh to put the foreigner in his place, but he refrained. There was nothing that could be said, in effect, to correct the error. Why didn’t I warn him, he wondered? Am I so blind with grief for Broderick that I’d risk us all just to humiliate this man? Looking into Bernardo’s waiting eyes, Heinrich was ashamed. This was not the behaviour of a good leader. “You are right,” he said. “I should have warned you. Will you accept my apology?”

  Fighting his anger, Bernardo said, “Well, it can’t be fixed. At least the rest of the men are fine, although we’ve taken wounds. The hound is cut up, his legs are bleeding.” He leaned in close and whispered. “I’m worried about the priest, though. He’s old and this has been a difficult run. I don’t know if—”

  “Do not fret for me, Bernardo,” Father interrupted. The priest gave the Estalian a rare wink and a smile, and hefted his hammer in steady hands. “I may be old, but I’ll live.”

  Father’s confidence quickened Heinrich’s blood. “It’s settled then,” he said. “Where do we go?”

  “A stairway leads down here, captain,” Roland said, pointing towards rugged steps winding downward.

  Heinrich nodded and reached for Bloodtooth and pulled him close. The dog was performing splendidly, albeit taking the brunt of bites and cuts. With so much enemy flesh for the taking, it was hard for the hound to keep its hunger at bay. Heinrich ruffled his friend’s ears. Sadness clutched his chest. Eventually, he knew, the taint of Chaos would take the dog down. It was inevitable in the City of the Damned. A price had to be paid. Bloodtooth would eventually pay that price with his life.

  Heinrich moved to the top of the stairs and looked down. The air was cold and clammy and heavy with the smell of rotting wood, rat faeces and blood. It would be madness to go down these steps, he realised. Traps and ambushes surely waited, but perhaps not. What did it matter? A Sigmarite lives to die in the service of his god. Today is as good a day to die as any, he thought to himself. No turning back.

  “Did your scout give any clues as to what lies at the bottom of these stairs?” Heinrich turned to the Estalian.

  Bernardo shook his head. “She’s a good scout, but she’s not an idiot. She would not venture any further alone.”

  “I see.” Heinrich grabbed the torch out of Albert’s hand and held it high. He drew his sword and started down the steps. “Let’s go and find out.”

  Bloodtooth kept at his side and the men followed, torches raised high, weapons ready. They stepped carefully, placing their boots on steps lousy with cobwebs, rat carcasses, and human bones. Heinrich kicked as much filth out of the way as he could, but the going was difficult. With each step, the air grew stale with the sickly sweet smell of the grave, that pungent odour of death and decay for which the skaven were known. Some of the men began to cough and Rupert’s torch flickered out. This was the air of the diseased, the breath of mutation and of rot.

  They reached the bottom. Before them lay three passages and Heinrich raised his torch and studied their options. The centre passage contained the same architecture as the mausoleum: finely wrought granite, smooth and lined with blind arches. The other passages were crude and misshapen, mere holes carved into the rock. These were skaven tunnels, Heinrich knew, and they undoubtedly linked directly to the maze of passages that ran beneath Mordheim.

  “Which one should we take?” Bernardo asked.

  “I’m not in the mood to get lost in the skaven underworld,” Heinrich said. “Let’s take the centre one.”

  And so they did, slowly and quietly. It was enough that they carried torches, the smell of smoke and the light would sound the alarm anyway, but why tempt fate? Even Bloodtooth, his jowls dripping foamy red-white muck, padded gingerly through the panoply of human remains and skaven waste. Heinrich expected to see more coffins ripped open and strewn along the way, but what he found was even more disturbing.

  The walls and barrel-vaulted ceiling were blood-marked in runes and symbols that writhed like twisted souls in the flickering torchlight. The hair on Heinrich’s neck stiffened as Bloodtooth pulled on the chain in sputtering yelps and growls. What have we walked into?

  And then he heard squeals and shrieks coming from behind them and echoing down the stairs from which they had come. The men turned and braced themselves, and Heinrich gripped his sword tightly. “No turning back now,” he said, more to himself, but the men heard. Rupert fingered the links in his ball and chain, and Albert, Father and Roland backed away from the growing clamour. It sounded like a hundred-strong, but that was likely due to the echoes off the walls. Bloodtooth joined their screeching chorus with a low bass growl. He was angry, straining on the chain so hard that Heinrich felt his feet slip at the pull.

  “It’s not wise to stand here in the middle of the hall,” Bernardo said. “We should keep moving and find better ground.”

  “I doubt we’ll find any of that here,” Heinrich said. But he yanked Bloodtooth away and they moved, faster this time, trying to stay ahead of the oncoming mass.

  Around a turn and they emerged into a small circular room, with coffins and bones piled against the walls. A granite pedestal lay in the centre and broken chairs cluttered the floor. Heinrich looked for a passage out, but there were none. This was the end of the line.

  “So it’s here then,” he said and threw his torch on the pedestal. He sheathed his sword and drew his crossbow. “Missiles at the ready. Aim straight and true. Down as many as you can, then finish them with steel.”

  Torches were tossed aside and bows were drawn. Bernardo drew Myrmidia and climbed upon the pedestal.

  Skaven burst into the room from the hallway. A buzz of missiles felled the first rank. The second rank stumbled. That was all the time needed. Blades were drawn and the battle engaged. Heinrich swung low and tore through skaven chest. Bodies piled at his feet, but still they came on. There were no slingers in this group, praise Sigmar, only close quarter weapons: fighting claws, short swords, clubs, and weeping blades. Though the light in the room was faint, Heinrich could see the venomous poison dripping from those dreaded blades. He ducked slashing claws and drove the point of his sword into the tender belly of an assailant, ducked another slash and severed a limb.

  It was impossible to know the number of ratmen in the room, as furry shapes leaped in and out of shadows at speeds too difficult to gauge. The screams and shrieks and deep guttural cries of battle were deafening, sounds banging off the walls and ricocheting back to drown out Heinrich’s shouted orders. It was futile to direct the fight. No one could hear anything beyond his tiny space of war, and Heinrich shut his mouth and swung his sword.

  The nocturnal ratmen were finding the light of the torches unbearable and many were fighting to put them out. But Bernardo and Roland held the pedestal, slashing and crushing every claw and snout that stuck in too closely. Heinrich smiled and kept killing.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Father fall under a gang of ratmen, their clubs and spears tearing into the priest’s robe. The old man howled in pain as a spear jabbed his chest and Heinrich moved to give aid, but something caught his boot and took him down.

  He hit the floor hard, cutting his arms. The impact jarred his sword loose and it skidded into the shadows. Heinrich reached for it, but a force unseen held him down. He rolled onto his back and tried to focus on a small silhouette standing before him. For a moment, he was back on the rocky pyramid outside the mausoleum struggling with phantoms. But there were no ghosts here, only the milky ooze of confusion clouding his eyes and blurring his thoughts. As he struggled to see, the air grew thinner and thinner until a f
ace appeared.

  A face belonging to a broken creature, wrapped in a black robe and hood, loomed before him. One eye patched over with a dirty bandage, the other a bright red dot set deep within a puffy socket. Its snout, covered in pus, spit and warts, twitched uncontrollably as its sharp, pink tongue slid across rotten teeth. The skaven sorcerer cackled madly and drew a medallion from its robe.

  Heinrich’s eyes widened as they set upon the medal. Das Herz des Kriegergottes. The Heart of the Warrior God. The Heart of Sigmar. There it was before him, swinging like a pendulum, its sheer surface catching the torchlight and warming to a bright green, then red, then green again. Heinrich tried to raise his hand to touch it, but the invisible force held him down. He stared into the shifting colours as if lost, the sounds of battle around him growing faint. The sorcerer moved forward, letting the Heart swing just above Heinrich’s face.

  “Is this what you seek, man-thing?” It said, flicking a spider from its lips. “Yes, look into it. Look and see…”

  He tried resisting, but the colours were too beautiful, too powerful. They swirled across the surface, one brilliant strand after another forming steeples, then roofs, then walls, then streets, then a raging river of black, gateways, guildhouses, temples, and defensive towers. Heinrich’s own heart leaped into his throat as he realised the city being formed…

  And then he was there, standing in a street amidst countless throngs of men and women. The mass pressed in closely, and Heinrich watched as they engaged in degenerate acts of evil as told in the annals of that terrible night in Mordheim many years ago. People dousing themselves with lantern oil and lighting candles, long, haggard lines of old thieves and beggars, chained at the neck, being led up stairs and into the sharp axe of the executioner; village idiots holding pistols to their heads and pulling triggers in a Kislevite game of chance; drunkards and barmaids, priests and parishioners, sharing one and all in an orgy of Chaos that thrust Heinrich’s mind into madness. Severed heads danced around him. “Turn back… turn back… turn back,” they whispered. Heinrich closed his eyes. A tug at the bottom of his coat; “Have you seen my mama?” A young girl looking up with tears in her eyes, a deafening blast and Broderick’s chest exploding in blood and green powder, Sisters huddled in prayer deep within their abbey. These things invaded his thoughts.

  He tried to run. His legs were stiff. He looked down. The street opened and sucked in his feet. Cobblestones leeched up his legs and turned flesh to stone.

  A flash of light appeared in the sky. He looked up. The Hammer of Sigmar burned brightly. The twin-tailed comet, barrelling down, a mighty rock of flame. His skin boiled, little bubbles dancing across his hands and arms, while people nearby burst into fire or shattered into ash, leaving dead silhouettes upon walls. Down and down, the comet hurled.

  He screamed.

  The world around him collapsed, and Heinrich was ripped from the street. He found himself once more on the mausoleum floor, shaking his head to drive away the fog. The fight still raged around him. He looked up. The sorcerer and the Heart were gone, and in their place the terrifying glare of a rat ogre, its foaming jaws mere inches from Heinrich’s face. Hot spittle dripped on his chin, rancid breath burned his eyes. Obviously, the sorcerer wanted to give his pet a taste of man-flesh. But not today, Heinrich thought, as he drew his pistol. He didn’t even know if it was loaded, but he pushed the barrel into the chest of the mighty beast and pulled the trigger.

  The impact of the shot tore the pistol out of his hand. A white flash, a plume of black powder, and bits of flesh and fur smothered Heinrich as the rat ogre roared in pain and fell back. The shot had blown a crater into the monster’s chest. Heinrich pulled up on feeble arms and tried to focus on the death throes. The rat ogre thrashed and scraped at his ribs, clawing away the burning shot, but a swift sword out of the shadows halted its efforts.

  Bernardo jumped onto the beast’s broad back and plunged his blade through its ribs. The rat ogre wavered in place for a moment, then fell hard. The impact shook the floor.

  Heinrich tried to close his eyes and catch a breath, but the floor continued to rumble and pop as a web of black cracks worked their way out from under the rat ogre and across the granite. Heinrich’s face grew pale as he realised what was happening. He tried to roll away but it was too late.

  The floor collapsed.

  He didn’t remember hitting the ground, but when he came to, he was smothered in grey dust and rubble. Heinrich sat up and wiped away the grime from his eyes and focused on the shapes around him. Human shapes.

  “Is everyone with me?” he asked, coughing.

  A brief pause, then men began to answer: Father, Roland, everyone.

  “Is Bloodtooth with us?”

  “Yes,” said Bernardo. “Shaken by the fall, but well enough.”

  The Estalian walked up and handed over the dog. Heinrich smiled and patted his resilient friend on the muzzle. “It’s good to see you safe, good sir,” he said, using Bloodtooth’s back for support.

  He gained his feet and picked through the piles of rocks to find his sword. He found it half buried in the back of a ratman, pulled it out and wiped away its blood on his tattered breeches. Where are we, he wondered? He found a torch, waved it in the air for a moment to let it catch a better flame, then lifted it high.

  It was a cave. Like the hallway above, its crude rock walls were covered in gruesome skaven script. Heinrich now realised what those symbols represented. This was not just an old, forgotten cave, but a temple to the twelve skaven lords and to their abominable horned god.

  Bolted along the walls were human skulls containing low-burning candles. Interspersed between the skulls were wooden casks wherein smouldering wyrdstone sent green mist swirling into the chilly air. Heinrich caught his breath; he didn’t want to breathe. Wyrdstone could fester in the chest and corrupt the flesh… and the spirit. Though many believed the green substance possessed healing powers, Heinrich knew the truth. Small quantities of the alloy used as currency in the thieves’ dens and shantytowns around Mordheim was fine, but if they stayed here much longer, ingesting the fumes, they would change and mutate. But where could they go?

  There were many exits. Several tunnels led from the room, large enough for human form, but Heinrich had no desire to test them. They would eventually lead to the surface, but at what risk to the men? Besides, the job was not finished. They had come here for the Heart. He had now seen it, experienced its power and he would not leave without it. Retreat was not possible.

  “Heinrich?”

  He turned and faced the Estalian. “What is it?”

  “We have to retreat. Despite his courage, Father is wounded and so are others. Look at yourself. We’ve survived this round, but I don’t know how much longer we can go on. We have to retreat now before—”

  “Retreat to where, Estalian?” Heinrich glared into the foreigner’s dark face. “Through these tunnels? Not for a moment. I will not stop until this is finished. Until the white one—”

  “Listen to me!” Bernardo hissed, grabbing Heinrich’s shoulders and holding tightly. “This is not a fight we can win. More are coming and I—”

  “What happened to your death ground stance?” Heinrich said, pushing the Estalian back. “Where is your spine?”

  “I’m no fool, sir. Valiant rhetoric is fine when the muscle is there to support it. But our muscle is gone. The enemy is too abundant, and we are not on death ground. We can retreat, and we must. There’s enough wood and rock around here. We can pile it to the ceiling and—”

  “If you have no stomach for this fight,” said Heinrich, “then I suggest you start piling. I doubt you’ll succeed. I’m staying… with or without you and your Marienburgers. No more running! No more retreating! They attack, they retreat, and we die. Enough. I yield no more. And I’ve seen the Heart.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Sigmar’s Heart. I’ve seen it. The sorcerer had it, and I looked into its core. The things I saw… the thing
s I felt. We must get it.”

  Bernardo shook his head. “I’m not going to die for a silly artefact. Forget about it!”

  “No!” Heinrich screamed. “I told you to learn respect for this city, Estalian, and the things within it. And now I’m telling you plainly: I’m not leaving here until the Heart is mine. Until I’ve killed them all. Until Broderick is avenged. Be a man and fight… or be a coward.”

  Bernardo spat on Heinrich’s boot. “I’m finished with you, Reiklander. Stay and die like a fool, but we’re pulling out.”

  “Captain!”

  Heinrich pulled away from the Estalian and joined Roland in the centre of the cave.

  “Hold your torch up, captain, and look at this.”

  Heinrich raised his torch high. The bright flames threw back the shadows, revealing a monstrosity of bone.

  It was the most terrifying thing he had ever seen. A massive idol of bone stood in the centre of the cave. Bits and pieces of old leather, plate and chainmail covered its arms, chest and legs. Its feet were wrapped in strips of human entrails and oiled cloth. Were these the bones of a giant, Heinrich wondered? No, its body was constructed of human remains, stitched together with twine and sinew, its joints fused by dark sorcery. Human ribs and clavicles, hipbones and femurs, teeth and knuckles pieced together like some daemonic puzzle. On its broad shoulders perched a minotaur’s skull, but its horns were coated in sediment that had dripped down from stalactites and had sealed the idol to the ceiling. Heinrich’s blood boiled. It wasn’t enough that the skaven had disrupted the eternal sleep of the occupants of this crypt, they had to desecrate their memories further by shaping their remains into an unholy reflection of the Horned Rat.

  “Enough of this!” Heinrich shouted, letting his voice echo down the tunnels. “We are here, and we are not leaving. Face us now!”

  “You will die, man-thing,” a scratchy, feral voice rang out of the darkness. “Pink-skins will all die, yes. Leave Mordheim, yes. It is ours.”

  “I think not,” Heinrich replied. “My men and I will reclaim it for the Empire.”