The Empire Omnibus

by Chris Wraight

  ‘The Black Guard?’ said Wolff, tightening his grip on Sürman’s throat. ‘What else do you know of him? Speak quickly, if you–’

  An explosion echoed around the village, drowning out the priest’s words. Wolff whirled around to see his young acolyte perched awkwardly on top of the flaming pyre, reaching desperately for Anna as the burning wood collapsed beneath his feet. ‘Master,’ he cried, pathetically, as he lurched through the smoke and attempted to grab onto the lifeless priestess.

  Jakob grimaced, looking from the bleeding old man to the pyre and back again. ‘I’m not finished,’ he said, freeing Sürman’s throat and dashing towards the fire.

  While the priest had been interrogating Sürman, villagers had gradually been creeping back out of doorways and alleyways to witness the spectacle. Wolff had to barge his way through the growing crowd to reach the pyre. Once there he paused. The flames had now fully taken hold and the heat needled into his eyes. The acolyte cried out again, stranded next to Anna as sparks and embers whirled around him.

  Wolff shook his head at the boy’s foolishness. Then, clutching his warhammer tightly in both hands, he strode into the fire. Charred wood and cinders erupted all around him as he scrambled through the blaze. At first he made good progress, moving quickly towards the stranded couple. Then, his foot dropped through a hole and he found himself waist deep in flaming wood. Wolff howled with impotent fury at his predicament. Try as he might he could not climb any further. Smoke engulfed him and he felt the stubble on his head begin to shrivel as fire washed over him. He realised the horror of his situation. History was on the verge of repeating itself: another Wolff, burned alive on Sürman’s pyre. Hot fury burst from his lungs in an incoherent roar. He lifted his warhammer and, swinging it in a great arc, slammed it into the pyre’s central pillar.

  The acolyte’s eyes widened with fear. ‘Master,’ he shouted, struggling to keep his footing as the pyre shifted beneath him. ‘You’ll kill us.’

  Wolff was deaf to his cries and swung the hammer again. The pyre belched great gouts of flame but he kept swinging, striking it repeatedly and enveloping himself in an inferno of heat and smoke. Finally, with a sharp crack, the priest smashed through the post. The whole structure teetered for a second, swaying drunkenly, then it collapsed in on itself, hurling blazing wood spinning across the village square.

  Finally free, Wolff patted himself down, extinguishing the fires that covered his robes. Then, slinging his hammer back over his shoulder he strode through the scattered flames. He lifted the dazed acolyte from beneath the wreckage and with his other hand he grabbed Anna. Then, as the astonished villagers backed away from him, he emerged from the fire, dragging the two bodies behind him like sacks of corn. He dropped Anna and the boy to the ground and collapsed to his knees, gulping clean air into his scorched lungs.

  ‘She’s a witch,’ cried a fat old militiaman, rushing forward and kicking Anna’s prone shape. ‘The witch hunter found her guilty.’ He grabbed Anna’s blistered body and lifted her head from the ground. ‘It’s all her fault. Everything that’s happened to the village these last months.’ His voice grew thin with hysteria. ‘She has to die.’

  The other villagers stepped back from the man, nervously eyeing the priest’s warhammer. Most were not as keen to pit themselves against someone who had just walked so calmly through fire.

  As the militiaman’s vengeful screams continued, Wolff stayed on his knees, with his hands pressed into the earth and his eyes closed as he struggled for breath.

  With a retching cough, the young acolyte sat up. His hair was twisted and black and his face was flushed with heat. He had the look of a wild-eyed prophet. He saw the villager grappling with Anna and leapt towards him. ‘Leave her alone, you brute,’ he cried, landing a punch on the man’s face and sending him sprawling across the ground. He followed after him, windmilling his arms and landing blow after blow on the militiaman’s head. ‘You don’t know anything. You’re listening to the words of a murderer. Sürman’s no priest. He’s not even a witch hunter; he’s just insane.’

  The militiaman recovered his composure and rose to his feet. He took a cudgel from his belt and slammed it into the boy’s stomach. As the acolyte fell to the ground, doubled up in pain, the militiaman kicked him viciously in the side and looked up at the other villagers. ‘The boy’s in league with the witch,’ he announced, calmly.

  The other villagers shuffled towards him, still looking nervously at the choking priest.

  ‘Stop,’ gasped Wolff, glaring at the militiaman. ‘You’re making a mistake. Sürman isn’t to be trusted. Let the boy go.’

  The militiaman’s jowly face grew red with anger and he grabbed the boy by his blackened hair. ‘What right do you people have to stop us defending ourselves?’ He gestured to the pitiful ruins that surrounded them. ‘Look at us. We’re barely surviving. Year after year we’ve fought back monsters you can’t even imagine. What do you know of our lives? And now, when we have a minion of Chaos in our very midst, you would free her.’ He threw the acolyte back to the floor and levelled a finger at the gasping priest. ‘In fact, how do we know you’re not in league with her? How is it that you arrived, just as we were about to rid ourselves of this evil?’

  Angry mutterings came from the crowd and a few of them nervously fingered their clubs and sticks as they stepped up behind the militiaman.

  Wolff took a deep, rasping breath and rose from the ground. He dusted the soot from his armour, lifted his hammer from his back and turned to face the villagers. ‘Let the boy go,’ he repeated quietly.

  ‘She must burn,’ cried the militiaman, pointing at the unconscious priestess. ‘And the boy with her. He was clearly trying to save her. I won’t let you bring a curse on what’s left of this village.’

  Jakob gave a rattling cough and stepped forward, straightening up to his full height and lifting his hammer to strike.

  The militiaman fled with a yell, leaping over the smouldering remains of the pyre and disappearing from view. The other villagers quickly backed away from the priest and hid their weapons as Wolff helped the acolyte back to his feet.

  ‘Are you hurt?’ asked the priest gruffly, dusting the boy down.

  ‘No,’ replied the acolyte, with an embarrassed smile. ‘I’ll think twice about leaping into another fire though.’

  The priest nodded and gave a disapproving grunt, before turning to the crumpled priestess.

  The boy rushed to the woman’s side and lifted her head from the ground. Her long hair had shrivelled to a blackened frizz and her tattered robes crumbled to ash in his fingers, but her chest was still rising and falling as she took a series of quick, shallow breaths. ‘She’s alive,’ he whispered and took a flask of water from his belt, pouring a little into her mouth. At first the liquid just ran over her chin unheeded, but then she gave a hoarse splutter and opened her eyes, pushing the boy away in fear. ‘She’s alive,’ he repeated, helping her to sit up.

  ‘Stay back,’ gasped the priestess, shoving the boy away and attempting to stand. Her legs immediately gave way and she toppled to the floor, but she was now fully awake and looked around in confusion. ‘The pyre,’ she said, looking at the smouldering ruin. ‘Did you save me?’ she asked, grabbing the boy’s arm.

  ‘Well, not exactly,’ he replied, blushing. ‘It was more–’

  ‘Yes,’ snapped Wolff, striding forward and lifting her to her feet. ‘If it wasn’t for this foolish child, you’d be dead.’

  Anna flinched from the priest’s grasp, looking nervously of his brutal demeanour and Sigmarite garb. ‘Who are you?’ she asked, staggering away from him. Then her hand shot to her mouth and she looked around in a panic. ‘Where’s the witch hunter?’

  Wolff spun around to find that barn wall was empty, apart from a dark crimson stain where he had left Sürman. He cursed under his breath and ran across the village square to investigate. ‘Sürman,’ he crie
d, dashing in and out of the houses. ‘Come back, you wretch.’ His face grew purple with rage. ‘Where’s my brother?’

  Wolff tore through the village, turning over carts and barrels, but a fit of coughing overtook him and after a few minutes he dropped to his knees again. With a strangled bark of despair he slammed his hammer into the ground and spat sooty phlegm into the earth. ‘Where’s my brother, you murdering dog?’

  Chapter Three

  Sigmar’s Heirs

  ‘Ratboy?’ asked Anna, laughing as she dragged a knife over her scalp. ‘What kind of a name is that?’

  ‘I’ve grown used to it,’ replied the acolyte, with a shrug. He looked around. They were sat on the bank of a small stream and Ratboy couldn’t help but smile at the unexpected beauty of the scene. As the morning sun cleared the distant blue hills of Kislev, it gilded the shallow waters, transforming the blasted valley into a memory of happier times. They were in a small clearing, and the scorched trees and shrubs that surrounded them took on a kind of grandeur as they bathed in the dawn glow. Even the rain seemed reluctant to mar the idyllic scene, coming down in a fine, warm drizzle that hissed gently across the stream’s surface.

  ‘I can barely remember my childhood,’ he said. ‘I’m not even sure if this was originally my homeland. Truth is, I can’t remember much at all before Master Wolff took me in. He found me scavenging for food and rescued me from a bunch of meat-headed halberdiers from Nordland.’ His eyes glazed over for a moment as he sank into his memories, then he shook his head with a laugh and ran his fingers through the water. ‘They weren’t quite as sympathetic as my master. I think they might have been the ones who named me. I’m quite happy to be a Ratboy though.’ His smile grew and he briefly met the priestess’s eye. ‘Rats are survivors.’

  Anna dipped the knife in the water and continued shaving her head, frowning with concentration as she followed her undulating reflection. The crisp remnants of her flaxen hair fell away easily in little clumps that drifted off in the current. As Ratboy watched her discreetly from the corner of his eye, he couldn’t help noticing that even without hair she had an ethereal beauty.

  The events of the previous day had left her bruised and weak; so weak, in fact, that he had practically carried her down to the water’s edge. But despite her terrible ordeal, there was something noble in Anna’s piercing, grey-green eyes. They had been chatting for a few hours now, and Ratboy had never met anyone quite like her. There was such intensity in her gaze that he found it hard to meet her eye. He guessed she was only a few years older than he was – early twenties at most – but he felt childlike in her presence. He wondered how he must look to her. A ridiculous figure, probably, with his gangly limbs and tatty clothes. Not the kind of man to turn her head, certainly. He suddenly felt ashamed of himself for thinking such thoughts about a priestess and looked down into the palms of his hands, trying not to think about how full and red her lips were. Anna continued shaving her head, oblivious to his admiring glances. ‘So, tell me about Wolff,’ she said.

  ‘Jakob Wolff,’ sighed Ratboy. ‘He’s a bit of mystery to me, I’m afraid. He’s not what you might call a great talker, so even after three years in his service, I don’t know too much about him.’ As the topic of conversation shifted onto another person, Ratboy’s confidence grew, and he met Anna’s eye with a little more surety. ‘Although, that said, I’ve seen him turn the tide of a whole battle with nothing more than words.’ His face lit up with enthusiasm as he warmed to his subject. ‘I’ve seen dying men claw their way up from beneath mounds of the dead, just to fight by his side.’ He shook his head in wonder. ‘Despite his hatred of sorcery, there’s a kind of magic in Brother Wolff.’

  ‘Really?’ asked Anna, wiping the knife on her tattered robes and looking at Ratboy with a bitter expression. ‘I’ve met many of these Sigmarites. In my experience their faith seems little more than glorified bloodlust.’ She shuddered. ‘Is he really so different from the man who tried to burn me yesterday?’

  ‘Sürman? He’s no priest. He’s just a cheap fraud, exploiting people’s fear to pursue his own tawdry ends.’ Ratboy shuddered at the thought of the man. ‘He calls himself a witch hunter, but the title’s just a mask he hides behind. And he’s certainly no templar. I think he may once have been a catechist – a lay brother that is – but Wolff told me Sürman has no connection with the church at all now. He’s just a very dangerous man.’ He paused and looked around the valley, to make sure they were alone. ‘He killed Wolff’s parents,’ he whispered.

  Anna’s eyes widened and she handed Ratboy’s knife back to him. ‘Killed them?’ She shook her head. ‘That would explain things, I suppose. I thought at first he’d come to spare me from the flames, but I quickly realised that he had other priorities.’

  ‘He did save you, eventually.’

  ‘Really? It was you I saw fighting through the flames. After that I can’t really remember too much.’ She placed a hand on Ratboy’s arm and smiled. ‘You risked your life for me. I won’t forget it. Maybe Wolff played his part, but I’m not sure I’d still be here if I had relied on the compassion of a warrior priest.’

  Ratboy blushed and withdrew his arm. ‘My master’s a devout man. He would’ve saved you, I’m sure. You must understand though, his thoughts haven’t been clear of late. He became a wondering mendicant when he was very young, as a kind of penance. But he was tricked. It’s only very recently that he’s learned the truth. He’d always believed he had blood on his hands.’ Ratboy paused, unsure whether to continue. ‘Everyone looks to the priesthood for guidance. When things seem this hopeless, they’re the only ones we can really trust. We all rely on them so heavily to revive our faith when it flags, but what if...’ his voice trailed off and he looked awkwardly at Anna.

  She continued his thought for him. ‘What if a priest begins to know doubt?’

  Ratboy nodded and leaned towards her, speaking in a low voice. ‘Nothing made sense to me until I met Wolff. Everyone else is so twisted and broken. Everyone I ever met seemed damaged, one way or another, but not Wolff. His faith was always so unshakable. So bottomless. All I’ve ever wanted was to become more like him.’ He frowned and looked at Anna with fear in his eyes. ‘But recently, he seems unsure of himself. Maybe after witnessing so many horrors, even he could lose his faith?’

  Anna smiled and shook her head. ‘Anyone can feel afraid, Ratboy, but with such a devoted friend as you by his side, I think he will find his way.’

  Ratboy’s eyes widened. ‘Friend? I’m not sure he’d–’

  ‘Ratboy,’ called a voice from further down the valley.

  They looked around and saw the towering figure of Wolff, shielding his eyes from the light as he walked out from beneath the blackened trees.

  ‘Yes, master,’ replied Ratboy, leaping to his feet and stepping nervously away from Anna. ‘I’m just here with the priestess. She needed to use my knife.’

  ‘I’m sure she has little use for your weapons, my boy.’

  Anna rose to her feet and made a futile effort to dust down her robes. She barely reached Wolff’s chest, but sounded undaunted as she addressed him. ‘Apparently, I’m in your debt, Brother Wolff,’ she said brusquely. ‘Sürman was quite determined to make charcoal of me.’

  Wolff massaged his scarred jaw as he studied her. ‘Sürman’s a clever man, sister, but I doubt he could’ve turned a whole village against you. Not without some cause.’ He peered intently into her eyes. ‘What might that cause have been I wonder?’

  Colour rushed into Anna’s face and she laughed incredulously as she turned to Ratboy. ‘What did I tell you? These hammer hurlers are all alike: sanctimonious killers, the lot of them.’

  ‘I merely asked you a question, sister.’

  Anna shook her head. ‘Questions lead to bonfires, Brother Wolff. At least where you and your brethren are concerned.’ She turned to leave. ‘I’d be better taking my chances with
the damned.’

  Wolff placed one hand on her shoulder and the other on the haft of his warhammer. ‘An answer please, sister.’

  There was an awkward silence as Anna looked from Wolff to Ratboy. Then her shoulders dropped and she nodded. ‘My crime was a simple one, Brother Wolff. I’ve been working my way around this province for months now, trying to salvage a little hope from the chaos.’ She sat down heavily on the grass and sighed.

  ‘It’s been a losing battle. The woods are crawling with…’ she shook her head in despair, ‘unspeakable things. I was travelling with a regiment of halberdiers from Wendorf, but even they weren’t safe: with all their armour and weapons they were powerless to stop the awful things we saw. They were heading to the capital, but I decided to stay here and see if I could help these poor people. I suppose I’m deluding myself though. What could I really do? The whole of Ostland seems on the verge of collapse.’

  ‘Believe me, sister, we’re well acquainted with the situation,’ replied Wolff.

  ‘Really? Do you know how scared these people are? Those villagers were so glad to see me when I arrived. They were terrified of their own shadows. They begged me for help, so I gave it to them. Healing those I could and praying for those I couldn’t. The Weeping Maiden doesn’t make petty distinctions though. I found a man, dressed in mockery of the creatures that haunted his nightmares. He was covered in his own filth and praying to his livestock, so I attempted to help him.’

  ‘Was the man corrupted?’ asked Wolff, crouching next to her.

  Anna’s eyes filled with tears as she gestured at the smouldering ruins that surrounded them. ‘Look around, Brother Wolff. Everything is corrupted. This province has been ripped apart. Such terms have lost their meaning. Living or dead. Sane or mad. They’re the only distinctions worth making nowadays.’ She took a slow breath to calm herself.