A white, twin-tailed skaven appeared at the opening of a tunnel to their right. A confident snarl spread across its sharp fangs and black gums. It waved a warplock pistol. “Maybe, yes. But not today.”
With those words skaven poured from every tunnel and circled the trapped mercenaries. More vermin than Heinrich had ever seen. They beat spears and clubs together, scraped daggers against daggers, and slowly, slowly, tightened the noose. White One stepped to the front waving the pistol, a dagger, and fighting claws. At his side limped the one-eyed sorcerer, clearly despondent at the death of his pet, but squeezing Sigmar’s Heart in the bony vice of his hand. Bloodtooth barked and snapped at anything that drew near, and Heinrich mouthed a prayer and held his sword high. So be it then, he said to himself. If this is the way it will be, if I am to die, then I will die for you, Broderick.
White One drew close and levelled its pistol towards Heinrich’s chest. “Goodbye, man-thing. Your god is a devil…”
Heinrich waited for the shot, but it did not come. Instead, the skeleton above began to quake and lurch. He turned and saw Bernardo grabbing the Horned Rat’s legs and pull himself upward. The climb was effortless, as smooth and graceful as a ratman scaling a wall. The Estalian reached the shoulders and straddled the minotaur’s skull as if it were a hobbyhorse. He rocked back and forth.
The skaven horde fell back at the sight of this blasphemy. A pink-skin climbing their lord of lords as if it were a ladder must have been as terrifying to them as the very sight of the skeleton to Heinrich. Even White One had dropped his pistol and had moved aside, glaring up in horror as its god teetered on the verge of destruction.
“You don’t believe us, White One,” Heinrich said, “when we tell you that this is our city? Then let us demonstrate our sincerity. Estalian?”
“Yes, captain?”
“Bring it down.”
Bernardo unsheathed Myrmidia and swung her through the minotaur’s horns. Sparks flew as steel sliced through the hardened sediment. He cut the left horn then the right. The abomination seemed to hover in the air for a moment, and then it toppled.
A mountain of bone and chunks of ceiling struck the cave floor and erupted in a shower of grey-white splinters. Heinrich shielded himself from the impact, ducked a rib cage, and drew his sword. “Attack!” he screamed, and leaped into a mass of ratmen trying to flee in the confusion.
Chaos consumed the space, as skaven routed and swords cut them down. Heinrich prayed to Sigmar that his men had not fallen to flying bones and stone. He looked for them. Roland and Father were fighting hard to his right. Bloodtooth was ripping out throats to his left, and the Estalian was fighting in the centre, holding off a pack of vermin who were trying to recover the minotaur skull. Albert and Rupert were working together on the other side of the cave, defending against a pack with spears and shields. It was a good fight. The men were holding fast.
He worked his way to the centre of the cave, drove his sword through a ratman who squealed in death, and then joined the Estalian.
“That was a foolish thing to do,” Heinrich said, parrying a spear thrust.
“You ordered it, and it got their attention, didn’t it?” Bernardo replied, slashing through skaven armour and flesh.
“I thought you were done with me.”
“Well, I changed my mind. I couldn’t leave you Reiklanders here alone, and well—”
“Admit it. I was right. There was no retreat.” Heinrich found himself laughing despite the situation.
Bernardo caught a skaven in a headlock, broke its neck, and tossed it away. “You’re beginning to annoy me, sir. I don’t like someone who’s always right.”
I’m not always right, Heinrich said to himself. Here he was fighting defensively when a more important matter needed attention. He looked around the cave, seeking a black robe and hood. The air was filled with granite and bone dust, green mist and smoke. It was hard to see. But he found the sorcerer to the left being escorted through its routing kin. “Hold as best as you can,” he said to the Estalian. “I have something important to do.”
Bernardo drove his sword through the mailed shirt of a ratman and said, “What’s more important than saving our skins?”
“The Heart!”
Heinrich ignored Bernardo’s curses and pushed his way through to where the sorcerer was retreating. He sidestepped a spear thrust and responded with a sword hilt, driving the ratman to its knees with a cracked skull. He’d lost his torch, but he didn’t need it as the Heart, lying upon the sorcerer’s chest, shone bright green and lit the way. The sorcerer tried to drown the glow with its claw, but Heinrich broke its wrist. Its escort, fearing a similar fate, leaped away and left its broken master to die.
Heinrich grabbed the throat of the sorcerer. “You have something of mine,” he said, hitting the beast’s mangled face repeatedly. The sorcerer fell to the floor, its snout bloody, its eyes glazed over, unblinking and unmoving. Heinrich curled his fingers around the leather cord that held the Heart to the sorcerer’s neck and yanked it free.
Something flew out of the shadows and hit him square in the side. Ribs cracked and his body skidded across the floor and came to a crushing halt beneath a pile of bones and coffins. Dead teeth and sharp clavicles tore his coat and flesh, while powerful claws reached through and pulled him free.
“You die now, man-thing,” the white one roared above him, its claws slashing through his coat and exposing his chest. Heinrich tried to fight back, tried to hold his arms up to block the assault, but he was too weak. Where is my sword, he wondered. Where is the Heart?
None of it mattered anymore, as his eyes winked in pain with each slash. A giddy warmth consumed his body as the space around him swirled. I’m sorry, Broderick. I have failed you.
Through his nausea and sleepy haze, Heinrich watched as White One stood up and stepped back. Its tails pulled two blades from the sash at its waist. Blades long and sharp. Blades dripping green with poison. It held the blades above its head as it squatted down on powerful hind legs. It wavered there for a moment, screamed, bared its teeth, then leaped.
A white and brown blur flew across Heinrich’s view. When it was gone, White One was no longer before him, but lying to his side. Heinrich pulled himself up and spotted a warhammer, lying still against the wall, pulsing hot in Sigmarite prayers. Beneath a pile of brown wool lay an old priest with two weeping blades sticking out of his back.
Heinrich’s mind snapped to attention immediately as energy poured into his throat. “Father, no!” he screamed.
It seemed as if he were outside his own body, looking down from the painted dome of the cave. Everything had a black and white sheen. There was clarity now in his thoughts, a single mindedness, and somehow he stood up and lurched across the floor and found his hands upon the warhammer. Somehow he raised the weapon above his head and found White One righting itself from its dishevelment. Somehow he found the strength to swing the pulsing hammerhead. The skaven’s head exploded under the strike and its body was tossed like a rag doll against the wall. Heinrich followed and struck again, and again and again, until White One no longer moved. But he kept swinging, until the shape on the floor before him was no longer a skaven or a mutant, but something different, something basic, a singular representation of the City of the Damned, and he felt that if he kept swinging, he could, with mighty strokes, drive the evil away and bring the city back to life. Bring Broderick back to life.
But a hand reached into his space and pulled the hammer away. Arms held him firmly and pulled him back. Whispers from the darkness. “It’s over, Heinrich. It’s over.”
Colour returned and he was standing again in the cave. He looked to his right and found the Estalian beside him, holding him tightly. He tried to pull away, but his arms were too weak. “I’m sorry, Heinrich,” Bernardo said, “but you will have to kill me this time to keep me from stopping you.”
The last of his strength failed him and he collapsed. Heinrich lay on the floor for a long time, how long he
did not know. Perhaps he slept. When he opened his eyes, his men were around him, their warm smiles confirming that he was not dead and this was not the afterlife. Hands propped him up.
“How are you, sir?”
The Estalian’s voice was calm and surprisingly comforting. Heinrich turned and felt a sharp pain in his ribs. He gripped the broken bones and groaned, “Even to a bower like you, it should be obvious.”
Bernardo laughed and helped Heinrich to his feet. “Well, say a prayer, brave servant of Sigmar. It’s over. We’ve won.”
Indeed it was. The skaven were gone. Obviously the destruction of their idol, the death of their leaders and the loss of the Heart was too much for them to bear, lust as well, Heinrich thought as he took a shaky step. “How is everyone?”
Bernardo gave a small smile and a wink. “As if the comet itself sits upon our heads, but we’ll make it… all except Father.”
Heinrich saw the crumpled brown robe on the floor and Father’s bald head resting upon Rupert’s knee. Blood and spittle streaked the corners of his mouth. Bernardo helped Heinrich down and he held the old man’s hand. The handles of the weeping blades stuck out of Father’s chest, their poison eating his flesh.
“It seems as if I’m finished, captain,” Father said, choking through blood. “Just as well.”
“You foolish old man,” said Heinrich, gripping the priest’s hand tightly. “Why did you do it?”
“I’ve lived a long life,” Father answered. “I saw no better way to leave it than in the protection of my captain.” He coughed very hard. “We have both won a victory here today, you and me. You will live to carry on against the Eternal Struggle, and I will finally, at long last, die. Tell me true, captain. Did we get the Heart?”
Heinrich didn’t know what to say. Did we? He wasn’t sure. But he nodded. “Yes, Father. The Heart is ours.”
“Praise Sigmar,” Father said calmly and raised his hand. He motioned his captain forward. Heinrich leaned in and let the priest’s fingers stroke his hair. “Now close your eyes, captain, and pray for me.” Heinrich cupped his hands together. “And captain? Be sure to give those tears to someone who will use them.”
The Tears of Shallya. Heinrich had quite forgotten them. He reached into a pocket and found the vial. To his surprise, it had survived. He held it tight, closed his eyes and prayed.
Father’s hand slacked.
Heinrich made the sign of Sigmar and crossed Father’s arms over his chest. I will miss you, old man.
Bloodtooth limped out of the shadows. Heinrich smiled as the hound drew near, but his joy quickly soured as he saw the medallion, the Heart, dangling on its leather cord from the dog’s teeth.
“Roland!” he yelped. “Get that away from him and wrap it in a cloth… now!”
Roland yanked the Heart from the hound’s bloody jaw, tore a piece of cloth from his shirt, wrapped the artefact and handed it over. Heinrich tucked it away.
“I don’t understand, captain,” Bernardo said. “Is something wrong with it?”
Heinrich shivered at images of burning bodies and raining fire. “It’s too powerful for us,” he said. “We are not worthy of it. It needs a stronger soul than mine to understand it, to harness its power.”
“Then what do we do with it?” asked Roland.
“As I’ve stated, we will take it to his Grand Theogonist in Altdorf. He will know what to do. And now,” Heinrich said, giving Bloodtooth a little scratch behind the ears, “let’s collect our things and get out of here before they decide to come back. I suspect they will take some time to reconcile to the truth that their god is but a pile of shattered bones, but they’ll be back. They always come back. I’ve had enough of them for a while. Did we get any wyrdstone for our troubles?”
“A full bag of it, captain,” Albert said, raising a sack of glowing green, “and jewels too. Enough to buy the City of the Damned itself.”
Heinrich chuckled through aching ribs. Maybe, he thought to himself, but I’m not buying.
“How are we going to get out of here?” asked Bernardo.
Heinrich shook his head. “I’ve no idea,” he said, looking around. Pieces of the heavily damaged ceiling were still falling, and new cracks were forming everywhere. “We’d better find a way out soon or we’ll be buried alive.”
And then he felt a cool breeze brush across his face. Heinrich stepped back and saw a small shape of grey smoke dart across his view and into one of the skaven tunnels. The shape stopped momentarily and a face formed in its centre. It seemed to smile. Then it disappeared down the tunnel, leaving a trail of faint white light in its path.
“Well, Bernardo,” Heinrich said, “it seems as if we’ve made some friends today.”
The Estalian’s face flushed with surprise. “Bernardo, eh? I’m no longer ‘the Estalian’?”
“Well, we should speak informally if we are to be partners.”
“Partners? Who said anything about being partners?”
“I could use some support on the road to Altdorf. If you and your Marienburgers would care to join us?”
“Altdorf is not my home.”
“But it could be,” Heinrich said. “You said it yourself… you are as much a man of the Empire as I.”
“What about Mordheim?”
“We’ll return. There’s much work to be done here. Unless, of course, you wish to fight this city alone. In that case, you’re welcome to it. Just let me know who to send your remains to the next time you decide to burn baby rats.”
Bernardo’s face blushed deep red. “You’re never going to let me live that down, are you?”
Heinrich shook his head. “Not likely.”
The Estalian paused for a moment, then said, “Alright, you win. To Altdorf it is. Then let’s fight this city. Friends?”
As Heinrich made his way slowly toward the lighted tunnel, he felt guilty. Am I betraying your memory, Broderick, he wondered, by accepting another as my friend? But as he greeted Bernardo’s smile with his own, he knew the answer. This was a test, like Broderick had explained many times before. This was a test to see if his faith in Sigmar’s cause could sustain such a loss and survive. And the fight was not over. Today, they had made great strides against the Eternal Struggle, but there would be many more battles to come. Can I fight this city with an Estalian at my side? he wondered. Only time would tell.
“Friends?” said Heinrich. “Well, let’s take it one day at a time.”
Bernardo nodded and together they helped secure Father for transport. As more of the ceiling began to fall, they entered the tunnel with the priest’s body supported between them, while Bloodtooth limped ahead, his jowls wet with skaven blood. Together, they followed the ghost light as men of the Empire, Reiklanders and Marienburgers, servants to Sigmar, loyalists to the Lady Magritta, and followers of the Goddess of War, determined to stand firm against the city that never slept, the city of damned souls, the city of lost dreams, the city of night fire…
The city of Mordheim.
TOTENTANZ
Brian Craig
The Lords of Death have but one apparent purpose, which is to raise armies of skeletons, zombies, wraiths and ghouls to fight against the living. There are many philosophers among the living who consider the Lords of Death to be essentially stupid, and their purpose essentially futile. They argue this case on the grounds that the living are bound to die soon enough, whether they do so in battle or in bed, while the dead are far too numerous already to be in urgent need of further company. There are also philosophers among the dead, however, who take a natural delight in the solution of such paradoxes. They declare that the duration of life is an irrelevance by comparison with the manner of its progress and that if life is merely one phase in the long career of a soul, as the existence of armies of the dead surely proves, then it might matter a great deal how the living enter the state of death. Equally important, according to the philosophers of the dead, are the ways in which the living are prepared for death, and the kinds of futur
e that might be mapped out for them thereafter.
Living philosophers are sometimes wont to claim that the central question of philosophy is “how should men live?”. Dead philosophers, not unnaturally, think differently. Were their world a mere mirror of its counterpart, the central question would become “how should men die?” but that is not the case. Since even the unquiet dead are, by definition, already dead—although victims of an understandable confusion sometimes prefer to call them “undead”—they take up a more pragmatic viewpoint, which is also more sophisticated. They prefer to ask “how should the dead assist the living to reap the rewards of death?”—and this, of course, is where the Lords of Death and the Emperors of Necromancy enter into the equation.
Although the living tend to think of battles between their own armies and the armies of the dead as matters of unholy enmity between opposites, only the most imbecilic among the dead think in similar terms. The philosophically-inclined dead think of these conflicts as the entirely natural intercourse of the dead-but-active and the active-but-not-yet-dead, by which the former attempt to embrace the latter and initiate them into the mysteries of their own condition. From the point of view of the philosophical dead, therefore, the crusades waged by their lords are not matters of bitter warfare but affairs of enthusiastic reproduction—which might be as joyous as the kinds of reproduction in which the living indulge, were it not for the fact that the living insist on crying “foul!”. Given that there never was an army of the living whose extra-curricular amusements did not result in profuse cries of alarm from variously threatened womenfolk, one might expect them to be more understanding, but stupidity is certainly no monopoly of the dead.
The Lords of Death are mostly practical individuals who are more interested in mass murder than in self-justification, but there are a few of them who deem this narrow-mindedness a tragedy, and firmly believe that if only the dead would take the trouble, they could do much more to help the living understand the rewards of death, and thus make them more appreciative of their necessary fate.
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