[Empire Army 05] - Warrior Priest

by Darius Hinks - (ebook by Undead)

  “Save me,” whimpered Surman reaching out to the young acolyte. “Don’t let him do this to me, I beg—”

  “Admit it!” cried Wolff again, ramming the wood even deeper into the ragged wound.

  “Yes,” wailed Surman, arching his back in agony and beginning to weep. “Yes, yes, yes, you’re right, I knew it wasn’t them.” He grabbed the priest’s arm and gave out a strange keening noise that echoed around the village streets. “But you summoned me. You made the accusation, and someone had to pay the price.” He gave the priest a look of desperation. “Once the wheels have begun to turn, it’s hard to stop these things. I can’t…” His words disintegrated into incoherent sobs.

  Wolff stepped back and looked up at the sky, considering the old man’s words. “I understand your methods, Surman.” He shook his head. “It’s to my eternal shame that I did not then. It still haunts me to think that I betrayed my own parents to a villain such as you. Even after a lifetime of penance I can’t come to terms with it.”

  The witch hunter looked down at the blood that was pooling beneath him, and groaned with fear. “What do you want with me?” he pleaded, reaching out to the priest. “It’s been thirty years, Jakob, what can I do now? I’m an old man, for Sigmar’s sake!”

  The priest lowered his gaze and looked back at him. “We both know my parents were innocent of the crimes they died for; but there’s another lie here; one that can’t be left to fester.”

  The witch hunter’s eyes bulged and he shook his head frantically. “What? What lie? What could you want to know after all these years?”

  “Who was the true guilty party, Surman? Who was the real occultist?”

  Surman gave a strangulated choke of laughter. “What?” he said, sneering in disbelief. “You don’t even know?” He began to jerk back and forth with deep shuddering laughter, baring his bloody teeth in a feral grin. “He doesn’t know who it was.” Tears continued to flow over his cheeks as he giggled hysterically and pointed at the priest. “It’s almost worth dying, just to see what an ass you’ve grown into. And to think your parents thought so highly of you. How could you not spot corruption in the face of your own brother?”

  Wolff moved to strike the old man, but then the strength seemed to go out of him. He stumbled and leant heavily on the wall next to Surman.

  The old man’s face was now just inches from the priest’s and he whispered gleefully in his ear. “Yes, you pompous oaf, you know it’s the truth. Fabian was the only occultist in the Wolff household, and he’s let you carry his guilt around all these years while he spreads his poison over the Empire; praying to the same unspeakable horrors you’ve spent your life trying to destroy.”

  “Fabian?” whispered Wolff, as he slumped against the wall. “My own brother?”

  “Your life’s a joke, Wolff,” spat Surman. “You’ve wasted thirty years in penance for another man’s crime.”

  Jakob finally gave into his fury and grabbed Surman by the throat, raising his hammer to dash the old man’s brains out. “It can’t be true,” he snarled. “If Fabian was worshipping the Dark Powers, why would you let him go free? You may be a filthy, deluded monster, but you imagine yourself to be some kind of witch hunter. You even fooled me into believing you were a priest. Even by your own twisted logic you should have wanted Fabian dead. If he were a cultist, why would you let him go free?”

  Surman shook his head and grinned slyly at the priest. “You’re no wiser now than you were at fifteen, Jakob.” He gestured wildly to the pyre. Anna had finally slipped into unconsciousness as the flames rose around her. “I burned your parents, you fool,” he said in a thin, agonised whisper. “Do you think I’d be such an idiot as to admit my mistake?” He slapped the hammer on his belly and looked up at the sky. “I still had important work to do, Jakob. I couldn’t risk execution for the sake of one deluded conjurer. Just a few days after you left Berlau, Fabian signed up with the Ostland Black Guard. Sigmar knows what mischief he was planning to wreak there, but three decades have passed since then. I imagine he’s long dead.” He shook his head imploringly. “What can I do about it now, after all this time?”

  “The Black Guard?” said Wolff, tightening his grip on Surman’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 Surman’s throat and dashing towards the fire.

  While the priest had been interrogating Surman, 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 Surman’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. Surman’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. Surman 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 Surman. He cursed under his breath and ran across the village square to investigate. “Surman,” he cried, 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’ 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 m
an who tried to burn me yesterday?”

  “Surman? 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 Surman 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?”