The Empire Omnibus

by Chris Wraight

  Lenchard saw it too. ‘He is under the creature’s thrall,’ he growled.

  Mikael pushed the witch hunter aside, parrying a blow from Gunther’s sword. Behind him, Setti-Ra advanced.

  ‘Keep it back!’ Mikael cried, hearing the clash of steel as Halbranc and Lenchard fought the creature.

  Count Gunther’s eyes were covered by a milky white sheen. When he spoke, it was as if he were the creature’s mouthpiece.

  ‘The will of Setti-Ra be done, the living shall perish before his–’

  The count collapsed to the ground before he could finish. Reiner stood behind him. The other knights of Morr were with him. They had heard the commotion below and gone down to investigate. The captain’s eyes grew suddenly wide and a strange keening sensation resonated in Mikael’s skull. The young templar dove to the side as, dragging Count Gunther clear, Reiner bellowed, ‘Down!’

  Lenchard was smashed through the doorway and tumbled down the slope.

  ‘Out. Now!’ Reiner cried.

  Halbranc backed out of the room, heaving Mikael with him as the beast lumbered after them.

  ‘Seal the doors,’ Reiner ordered.

  Valen and Vaust pushed the doors shut as Sigson slid down a heavy, metal brace. From within, the distant thudding retort of the creature’s blows could be heard almost instantly.

  Outside the vault, Mikael nodded his thanks to his captain who responded coldly.

  ‘That door will not hold it long, make ready.’

  ‘Our swords won’t kill it,’ Mikael said, ‘we must get to higher ground and burn it.’

  A sudden powerful blow echoed against the iron door as part of it bent outwards.

  ‘The barrel ramp…’ Count Gunther muttered, sluggishly. He was slowly coming round and rubbed his head where Reiner had struck him to break the creature’s hold. ‘It leads to the hall above…’ He pointed down the slope where a corridor branched off.

  Reiner looked over at it, then back at the count.

  ‘It wants me dead,’ Count Gunther said. ‘My father killed this creature long ago; in me it sees him and desires vengeance. I can lure it.’

  Sigson went over to the count, and helped him to his feet. ‘Can you stand?’

  The count nodded.

  Another blow from within the vault caused a hefty split in the iron.

  ‘We must leave, now,’ Reiner told them. ‘Vaust, lead them,’ he ordered.

  The young templar ran to the head of the group and back down the slope towards the corridor Gunther had shown them, his brother following closely behind.

  Halbranc hefted Lenchard onto his shoulder as Mikael and Reiner went last with the count. They were backing down the slope, a few feet from the vault, when the iron door finally fell with a screech of twisting metal. Bolts came free from the wall with a shower of dust and debris, and Setti-Ra stepped out onto the slope, driven by primal instincts.

  The knights of Morr goaded the creature on. They retreated up the barrel ramp, making sure the creature saw where they were going. Ahead, Vaust smashed through a trapdoor that led to the hall.

  Crouched in the room above, the two brothers heaved an unconscious Lenchard out of the cellars from Halbranc’s shoulder. The giant followed, then Sigson, then Reiner, Mikael and the count.

  ‘The creature is close,’ the weakened count gasped. ‘There,’ he said, pointing to another archway.

  Heaving the ailing count between them, Reiner and Mikael were right behind the others who stood in the great hall. The tapestry of Falken Halstein loomed large, about to witness his horrifying undead self.

  Putting the witch hunter down, Halbranc hefted a massive torch from an iron sconce. Mikael and Reiner did the same.

  ‘Protect the count,’ Reiner said to Valen and Vaust. The brothers took Gunther between them to an alcove at the back of the room.

  With a bellow of rage, Setti-Ra emerged from the trapdoor opening.

  Halbranc lunged forward, thrusting the burning torch into the creature’s body. It hurled the templar aside. The torch clattered to the ground, and was smothered. Flames licked over the aging corpse but died quickly.

  Sigson stepped forward, the holy book of Morr in his hand.

  ‘In the name of Morr, I compel you,’ he uttered, his voice loud and powerful.

  The creature stopped as if suddenly held by an invisible bond.

  ‘I compel you,’ Sigson repeated, stepping towards it, arm outstretched, his open palm facing towards it. Mikael and Reiner thrust their torches at the beast. Sigson screamed and fell to the ground as Setti-Ra broke his hold.

  Though the undead thing burned, the flames were dying out quickly.

  ‘Force it into the tapestry,’ Mikael cried, launching himself at the creature. At the same time, Halbranc rammed into it with his shoulder and Reiner tackled the beast’s legs. It toppled, slowly like a felled tree, tearing at the huge portrait that caught alight with the remaining flames licking its body. The tapestry pulled free and smothered the foul creature, fire spreading eagerly now over the corpse, as it thrashed and flailed for terrible unlife.

  Flames mirrored in his eyes, Gunther looked at the burning form of his father, at the tapestry destroyed and his family history with it.

  With the knights of Morr encircling it, the creature gradually stopped struggling and slumped down amidst a pall of foul smoke as it was burned to ash, the spirit of Setti-Ra banished along with it.

  ‘Please,’ Gunther rasped, tears in his eyes, ‘put him out.’

  It was dark in the infirmary. Mikael stared from one of the windows onto the town below. The rain had abated at last and the waters were dispersing. Workers shored up the earthen banks, to make certain they would hold. Across the darkened sky, there was a light to the south as the sun began to rise. Looking back into the room, he saw Lenchard was awake. Reiner and the others waited silently in the shadows. Sigson was by the witch hunter’s side.

  ‘You owe us some answers,’ he said.

  Lenchard’s head bore a thick bandage and his face was covered in small cuts and bruises. He winced as he smiled back at the warrior priest.

  ‘There is a cult called the Scarabs,’ he relented. ‘Fanatical men, they worship the Tomb King Setti-Ra, believing the heart of he who defeated their king would bring about his resurrection.’

  ‘Gunther’s father,’ Sigson asserted.

  ‘Yes, but they need the living heart and since Falken Halstein was dead, they came for his son,’ Lenchard said, getting up out of bed.

  ‘Krieger could not have known that Setti-Ra had inhabited the body of Falken Halstein; such a body could not sustain an undead lord. I was wrong; Krieger came here with a mission, not for revenge but to kill Count Gunther and take his heart. He stumbled upon the creature and it killed him, and so we are still no closer to finding the cult,’ he continued, strapping on his weapons.

  ‘We,’ said Reiner coldly.

  From a pouch by his bedside Lenchard produced a scroll of parchment, which he gave to the captain.

  ‘This is a missive from your temple,’ he explained as Reiner read it, ‘stating that you and your knights are seconded into my service until the cult is found or it is deemed fit to release you.’

  Sigson laughed mirthlessly and walked out of the room.

  Reiner sealed the scroll up and handed it back to Lenchard. ‘So be it,’ he said without emotion and left after Sigson. Slowly the rest of the knights followed. Mikael was the last. As he was about to leave, Lenchard said, ‘It’s Mikael, isn’t it?’

  Mikael nodded.

  ‘Tell me, Mikael,’ the witch hunter said, his expression curious, ‘how did you know about the desert? I heard you speak of it to the count.’

  A pang of anxiety rose suddenly in Mikael’s chest. He thought only the count had heard him.

  ‘I overheard it,’ he countered,
backing away.

  ‘Of course,’ Lenchard said, watching the young templar as he followed after his comrades. ‘Of course you did.’

  In the hall, the knights of Morr were making ready to leave, checking weapons and armour before heading out the keep and Galstadt for good. The Black Knights had clearly worn out their welcome, and as they fixed blades and tightened belts, a small group of Knights of the Fiery Heart had gathered. The Morr worshippers were standing opposite them, clustered close together, Halbranc putting himself deliberately between Vaust and the glowering Sigmarites. Mikael stood next to the giant, alongside him was Valen. Sigson was sat down, reading his prayer book, while Reiner and Lenchard, who conversed quietly in a nearby corner of the room, waited for Count Gunther so they could observe the proper etiquette for their departure.

  As far as Mikael was concerned, it couldn’t happen soon enough, his eyes on Garrant, as he and the other knights exchanged dark glances.

  ‘Doubtless, they are making sure we leave,’ Halbranc chuckled.

  Mikael was about to answer when a door, thudding insistently at the far end of the hall from a strong draught running through the keep, distracted him. Something about it was odd, slightly incongruous.

  ‘Something doesn’t feel right,’ he said. ‘This is taking too long.’ Mikael walked quickly over to Garrant, trying to ignore the glare of Reiner, who had been listening to the witch hunter. Sigson saw the young templar too, and put down his prayer book.

  ‘Your lord,’ Mikael asked the Sigmarite. ‘Where is he?’

  Garrant was slightly perturbed by what he perceived as insolence, but something about the young templar’s tone got his attention.

  ‘He’s in the chapel,’ Garrant said, pointing to the door at the end of the room. ‘A priest offered to bless his father’s ashes.’

  ‘What priest?’ Sigson asked, suddenly appearing next to Mikael.

  ‘From the town,’ the Sigmarite explained. ‘An old blind man.’

  The templar and warrior priest looked at each other, with grave faces.

  ‘Show us this chapel,’ Mikael said urgently.

  The chapel was a small room, little more than an antechamber from the great hall. Inside, there was a stone altar on top of which was an urn containing Falken Halstein’s ashes. Count Gunther lay next to the altar. He was dead, his heart removed from his chest. A scarab beetle had been carved into the flesh of his left cheek.

  ‘The blind man,’ Mikael said to Sigson, abruptly aware that Reiner and the others had followed them.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The one that stumbled into Reiner at the gates,’ he said, pointing at his captain. ‘He addressed him as “noble lord”. How could he have known he was a knight if he were blind? I saw him on the ridge during the flood, but thought it was my imagination.’

  ‘You’re right.’ Lenchard spoke with a hint of resignation, standing in the doorway. ‘We have been fools; a second Scarab cultist.’

  Sigson bent over near the body.

  ‘The blood is still warm,’ he said, looking up at Reiner.

  A look of disgusted anger passed briefly over the captain’s face. ‘Get to the gates,’ he ordered.

  By the time they reached the gatehouse, it was too late. The guard was already dead, his body propped up on a wooden stool. Protruding from his neck was a curved bladed dagger that bore a gold scarab hilt.

  Lenchard examined it.

  ‘They are taunting us,’ he said bitterly to the knights of Morr standing around him. ‘Get the horses,’ he told them, rushing out of the gatehouse, heading for the stable yard. ‘They have the heart and the means with which to resurrect Setti-Ra. We must find the cultist’s trail. We ride, now!’

  The knights followed after him, mounting up quickly and racing through the gates. Driving his steed hard, Mikael looked to the lightening horizon and felt time suddenly ebbing away as if an hourglass were turned and they were all slipping through it.

  Dawn light crept over the horizon as the wagon emerged from the gathering mist, heading for Hochenheim. The driver urged on the beast pulling the huge wagon, and the creature’s heaving flanks were lathered in feverish sweat. Behind it, the forest was a dense black line. Drakwald they called it: a place of shadows, fraught with dark imaginings. Yarik knew it well.

  From his position in the watchtower, he watched the wagon intently as it got closer to the village gates. Years ago, Yarik had worked as a road warden for Baron Krugedorf. During his tenure guarding the highways of the land Yarik had seen it all. Never, though, had he witnessed a wagon travelling alone in this part of the forest. On the edge of the Drakwald forest, even the villages required defences. Hochenheim itself was surrounded by a solid wooden stockade, with two watchtowers and a stout gate, bolted shut at night. Yet this wagon appeared to be without protection; he couldn’t see a single outrider.

  Grimacing, Yarik got to his feet.

  ‘Wait here,’ he growled to Falker. The young Middenlander, cradling a loaded crossbow, nodded obediently.

  A speck of flame flared in the half-light as Yarik drew deeply on his pipe. Below him, Hochenheim was waking. Fires were being stoked to ward off a chill morning, a frail old woman was wringing out clothes before attaching them to a line, and the resonant din of a smithy at his anvil emanated from an unseen forge.

  Trudging down the wooden steps of the tower, Yarik saw the gates were opening, as they did every day at dawn. As he reached the village entrance, he tried to rub the arthritis out of his hands, remembering wistfully the lost strength of former days, and went to greet the wagon.

  ‘Ho there,’ Yarik called, showing his palm in a gesture for the driver to stop at the open gateway.

  The wagon looked even more massive up close. Six stout, iron-shod wheels accommodated its weight, and leather flaps covered both sides. The horse pulling it wore a sacking hood over its head, coarse slits in it serving as eyeholes. It was incredible that one beast could bear such a burden.

  Yarik gripped the pommel of his sheathed sword as he went to speak to the driver. He moved to pat the beast’s flank, but recoiled when it turned sharply with a muted snarl. The wagonner laid a hand on the horse’s rump, soothing the creature’s belligerence. He held the reins nonchalantly as he leant back, a bizarre, patchwork coat flapping down over his body. Long, black hair shrouded most of his face, and he wore a thin, curled moustache with a tightly cropped spike of beard. Yarik judged men by their eyes, but this fellow’s were difficult to discern, obscured by a tall, wide-brimmed hat.

  ‘State your business,’ Yarik barked, his breath misting the cold morning air.

  ‘Greetings noble lord,’ uttered the driver silkily. ‘I am Zanikoff,’ he declared, ‘and my business, put simply…’ he said, leaping from his seat and landing with a flourish, as a bunch of paper flowers appeared in his hand, ‘…is entertainment,’ Zanikoff concluded, with a devilish smile. A flick of the wrist and the flowers vanished.

  Yarik was taken aback by the sudden display and half-drew his sword. ‘We don’t harbour sorcerers here,’ he told the stranger.

  Behind him, a crowd had gathered.

  ‘I do not intend to bewitch you,’ said Zanikoff plaintively, ‘merely beguile you with trickery and show.’ He moved beyond the gates and towards the crowd. The flowers reappeared in his other hand. ‘It’s just sleight of hand,’ he explained, with a wink, and put his finger to his lips.

  Zanikoff turned his attention to the mystified onlookers. He produced a long cane from one of his coat sleeves and walked over to them, singling out a village maiden. He bowed, and gave her the tattered paper flowers. Blushing, the maiden took them.

  ‘Milady,’ Zanikoff purred, before twirling to face a young boy, watching the impromptu pantomime open-mouthed. The boy’s eyes sparkled at three silver coins that had appeared in Zanikoff’s splayed fingers. Juggling them effortlessly, he threw the coins
high into the air. The boy tried to follow, but lost them in the light.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking,’ Zanikoff said, leaning in towards the boy. ‘Where are they?’ he whispered. Reaching behind the boy’s ear, his hand emerged holding a silver coin. ‘Here, all the time,’ he said, flicking the coin to the boy, who snatched it eagerly.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ Zanikoff continued, walking back to the wagon, which had made its way through the gates and into the square, Yarik starting at its sudden appearance. ‘I am Zanikoff,’ he said, doffing his hat with a mock courtly bow, ‘and may I present for your edification, your delectation and delight, your sheer, pure and unadulterated gratification…’ Zanikoff took a deep breath, observing the befuddled faces with veiled amusement, ‘…the Carnival of Mystery!’ He smacked the side of the wagon with his cane and the leather flap covering it rolled away to reveal a garish banner beneath. Two theatrical masks – one happy, the other sad – were described upon it, surrounded by a myriad of colourful images. Amazing beasts, jugglers, sword swallowers, fire-eaters, clowns and acrobats all vied for the crowd’s attention. ‘Carnival of Mystery’ was etched above and below in faded archaic script, and read by the few literate onlookers. The banner was well worn and cracked in places, but still it drew excited gasps.

  ‘What do you want here?’ asked Yarik.

  Zanikoff swaggered towards the old soldier theatrically.

  ‘Why, that is simple,’ he said, eyes widening with glee, ‘to perform.’ He rapped three more times on the wagon and the back fell open. A menagerie of gaudy characters issued forth. Fire-eaters painted in bizarre tattoos were joined by brutish strongmen, jesters and jugglers, while musicians played out merry tunes on drums and pipes, wearing fantastical costumes, their faces concealed by decadent masks.

  ‘Plays and pantomime is what we offer,’ Zanikoff informed the awestruck Hochenheimers, ‘great tales of valour,’ he said deeply, puffing up his chest. ‘Tragedy,’ he added with a sorrowful frown, ‘and comedy!’ he concluded raucously, a jester slipping onto his arse to the collective laughter of the entire village.