Schwarzhelm hurried down the corridors, lantern in hand. There was no one about on the upper levels. The whole place was deserted. That in itself was cause for worry. He’d slammed open a dozen doors, uncaring whom he disturbed, and the chambers had all been empty.
He barged into Detlef’s room, keeping the light high. He saw his own armour, untouched, heaped in the corner. There was a tin plate on the bed with a few crumbs on it and nothing else. There was no sword, and no squire.
‘Damned idiot,’ he muttered, heading back out. At the end of the corridor, a staircase led down. Very faintly, he could see a greenish glow. His heart went cold. He drew his sword, and the steel hummed gently as it left the scabbard. The Sword of Justice was ancient, and the spirit of the weapon knew when it would taste battle. Schwarzhelm could feel it thirsting already. There were unholy things close by.
He broke into a run, thudding down the stairs and past the empty, gaping doorways. He saw the open portal at the end of the corridor, glowing a pale green like phosphor. Shapes loomed beyond, hazy in a mist of swirling, stinking vapour.
‘Grace of Sigmar,’ Schwarzhelm whispered, maintaining his stride and letting the lantern smash to the floor – it would be no further use.
He charged through the doorway. Green light was everywhere, a sickly, cloying illumination that seemed to writhe in the air of its own accord. The walls dripped with slops of bile-yellow sludge that ran into the mortar and slithered over the stones. The stench was astonishing – a mix of rotting flesh, vomit, dung, sewage and bilge-water. He felt spores latch on him as he plunged in, popping and splattering as his powerful limbs worked.
Once this must have been the bakery. There was something that might have been an oven, now lost under polyps of mouldy dough-like growths. There were flies everywhere, buzzing and swarming over the slime-soaked surfaces. They were vast, shiny horrors, less like insects and more like pustules with wings.
‘Detlef!’ roared Schwarzhelm trying to spot the exit through the swirling miasma.
His call was answered, but not by his squire. The guests from the meal dragged themselves towards him, hauling their burst stomachs behind them. What was left of their skin hung like rags from glistening sinew, flapping against the tendons and their crumbling, yellow teeth.
‘Hail, Lord Schwarzhelm!’ they mocked, reaching for him with pudgy, blotched fingers. ‘Welcome to the Feast!’
Schwarzhelm ploughed straight into them, hacking and heaving with his blade. The steel sliced through the carrion-flesh, sending gobbets of viscera sailing through the foetid air. There were a dozen of them, just as before, and they dragged at his robes, hands clawing. He battered them aside, hammering with the edge of his sword before plunging the tip deep into their ragged innards. They were carved apart like mutton, feeling no pain, only clutching at him, scrabbling at his flesh, trying to latch their slack, dangling jaws on to his arm.
Schwarzhelm didn’t have time for this. He kicked out at them, shaking one from his boot before crunching his foot through a sore-riddled scalp, crushing the skull like an egg. They kept coming even when their limbs had been severed and their spines cracked. Only decapitation seemed to finish them. Twelve times the Sword of Justice flashed in the gloom, and twelve times a severed head thumped against the stone and rolled through the glowing slurry of body parts.
He pushed the remaining skittering, twitching torsos aside and pressed on, racing through the bakery and into the corridor beyond. So this was the horror Rauken had been cradling.
The further he went, the worse it got. The walls of the corridor were covered in a flesh-coloured sheen, run through with pulsing arteries of black fluid. There were faces trapped within, raving with horror. Some had managed to claw a hand out, scrabbling against the suffocating film. Others hung still, the black fluid pumping into them, turning them into some fresh new recipe.
Schwarzhelm killed as many as he could, delivering mercy to those who still breathed and death to those who’d passed beyond human. The steel sliced through the tight-stretched hide, tearing the veils of flesh and spilling the noxious liquid across the floor. As he splashed through it, a thin screaming broke out from further ahead. He was coming to the heart of it.
The next room was vast and boiling hot, full of massive copper kettles and iron cauldrons, all simmering with foul soups and monstrous stews. Lumps of human gristle flopped from their sides, sliding to the gore-soaked floor and sizzling of their own accord. Thick-bodied, spiked-legged spiders scuttled through the mire, scampering between the bursting egg-sacs of flies and long, white-fleshed worms. Vials of translucent plasma bubbled furiously, spilling their contents over piled slabs of rancid, crawling meat. Everything was in motion, a grotesque parody of a wholesome kitchen.
At the centre was Rauken. His body had grown to obscene proportions, bursting from the clothes that once covered it. His flesh, glistening with sweat and patterned with veins, spilled out like a vast unlocked tumour. Dark shapes scurried about under the skin, and a long purple tongue lolled down to his flab-folded chest, draping ropes of lumpy saliva behind it. When he saw Schwarzhelm, he grinned, exposing rows of black, blunt teeth.
‘Welcome, honoured guest!’ he cried, voice thick with phlegm. ‘A good night to visit us!’
Schwarzhelm said nothing. He tore into the monster, hacking at the yielding flesh. It carved away easily, exposing rotten innards infested with burrowing grubs. Rauken scarcely seemed to feel it. He opened his swollen jaws and launched a column of vomit straight at the knight. Schwarzhelm ducked under the worst of it, the stomach acid eating through his robes and burning his flesh. He ploughed on, cleaving away the rolls of stinking flab, getting closer to the head with every stroke.
‘You can’t spoil this party!’ raved the baron, gathering itself for another monstrous chunder. ‘We’ve only just got started!’
More vomit exploded out. Schwarzhelm felt a sharp pain as the bile slammed into his chest, sheering the cloth away and burrowing into his skin. Flies blundered into his eyes, spiders ran across his arms, leeches crawled around his ankles. He was being dragged down into the filth.
With a massive effort, Schwarzhelm wrenched free of the clutching horrors and whirled his blade round in a back-handed arc. The steel severed Rauken’s bloated head clean free, lopping it from the shoulders and sending it squelching and bouncing into a vat of steaming effluvium. The vast bag of flesh shuddered and subsided, leaking an acrid soup of blood and sputum. Ripples of fatty essence sagged, shrank and then lay still.
Schwarzhelm struggled free of it, slapping the creeping horrors from his limbs and tearing the vomit-drenched rags from his chest. There was a movement behind him and he span around, blade at the ready.
He turned it aside. It was Detlef.
The boy looked ready to die from fear. His face was as pale as milk and tears of horror ran down his cheeks.
‘What is this?’ he shrieked, eyes staring.
Schwarzhelm clamped a hand on his shoulder, holding him firmly in place.
‘Be strong,’ he commanded. ‘Get out – the way up is clear. Summon help, then wait for me at the gates.’
‘You’re not coming with me?’
Schwarzhelm shook his head. ‘I’ve only killed the diners,’ he growled. ‘I haven’t yet found the cook.’
The haze grew thicker. It was like wading through a fog of green motes. Schwarzhelm went carefully, feeling the viscous floor suck at his boots. Beyond the kitchen there was a little door, half-hidden behind the collection of bubbling vats. The flies buzzed furiously, clustering at his eyes and mouth. He breathed through his nose and ploughed on.
The room opened out before him. It was small, maybe twenty feet square and low-ceilinged. Perhaps some storechamber in the past. Now the jars and earthenware pots overflowed with mould, the contents long given over to decay. The air was barely breathable, heavy with spores and damp. Strings of fungus ran like spiders’ webs from floor to roof, some glowing with a faint phosphorescence, obscurin
g what was in the centre.
‘You’re not the one I was expecting,’ came a woman’s voice. Schwarzhelm sliced his way through the ropes of corruption, feeling the burn as they slithered down his exposed flesh. ‘Where’s the boy? His flesh was ripe for feeding up.’
The last of the strings fell away. In the centre of the floor squatted a horribly overweight woman. She was surrounded by rolls of flaking parchment, all covered in endless lists of ingredients. Sores clustered at her thick lips, weeping a constant stream of dirt-brown fluid. She was dressed in what had once been a tight-laced corset, but the fabric had burst and her distended body flopped across it. The skin was addled with plague. Some parts of her had been eaten away entirely, exposing slick white fat or wasted muscle. Others glowed an angry red, with shiny skin pulled tight over some raging infestation. Boils jostled for prominence with warts, virulent rashes encircled pulsing nodules ready to burst. Her exposed thighs were like long-rotten sides of pork, and her eyes were filmy and rimed with blood.
‘He’s gone,’ said Schwarzhelm. ‘I’m not so easily wooed.’
The woman laughed, and a thin gruel-like liquid cascaded down her multiple chins. ‘A shame,’ she gurgled. ‘I don’t think you’ve had many women in your life. Karl Franz’s loyal monk, eh? That’s not what they say about Helborg. Now there’s a man I could cook for.’
Schwarzhelm remained unmoved. ‘What are you?’
‘Oh, just the kitchen maid. I get around. When I came here, the food was terrible. Now, as you can see, it’s much improved.’ She frowned. ‘This was to have been our party-night. I think you’ve rather spoiled it. How did you know?’
‘I didn’t,’ said Schwarzhelm, preparing to strike. ‘The Emperor’s instincts are normally good.’
He charged towards her, swinging the sword in a glittering arc. The monstrous woman opened her jaws. They stretched open far beyond the tolerance of mortal tendons. Rows of needle-teeth glimmered, licked by a blood-red tongue covered in suckers. Her fingers reached up to block the swipe, nails long and curled.
Schwarzhelm worked quickly, drawing on his peerless skill with the blade. The fingernails flashed past him as he weaved past her defences, chunks of blubber carved off with precise, perfectly aimed stabs.
Her neck shot out, extending like a snake’s. Her teeth snapped as she went for his jugular. He pulled back and she chomped off a mouthful of beard, spitting the hairs out in disgust. Then he was back in close, jabbing at her pendulous torso, trying to get the opening he needed.
They swung and parried, teeth and nails against the flickering steel of the Sword of Justice. The blade bit deep, throwing up fountains of pus and cloying, sticky essence. The woman struck back, raking her fingernails across Schwarzhelm’s chest, digging the points into his flesh.
He roared with pain, spittle flying from his mouth. He tore away from her, blood pouring down his robes. The neck snapped out again, aiming for his eyes. He pulled away at the last moment, slipping in a puddle of slop at his feet and dropping one hand down.
‘Ha!’ she spat, and launched herself at him.
Schwarzhelm’s instinct was to pull back, to scrabble away, anything to avoid being enveloped in that horrific tide of disease and putrescence.
But instinct could be trumped by experience. He had his opening. As fast as thought, he lunged forward under the shadow of the looming horror, pointing the Sword of Justice upwards and grasping the hilt with both hands. There was a sudden flash of realisation in her eyes, but the momentum was irresistible. The steel passed through her neck, driven deep through the morass of twisted tubes and nodules.
She screamed, teeth still snapping at Schwarzhelm’s face, flailing as the rune-bound metal seared at her rancid innards.
This time Schwarzhelm didn’t retreat. He kept his face near hers. He didn’t smile even then, but a dark look of triumph lit in his eyes. He twisted the blade in deeper, feeling it do its work.
‘Dinner’s over,’ he said.
Dawn broke, grey and cold. His legs aching, his chest tight, Schwarzhelm pushed open the great doors to the castle, letting the dank air of the forest stream in. It was thick with the mulch of the woods, but compared to the filth of the kitchens below it was like a blast of fresh mountain breeze. He limped out, cradling his bleeding chest with his free hand. The cult had been purged. All were dead. All that remained was to burn the castle, and others would see to that. Once again he had done his duty. The law had been dispensed and the task was complete. Almost.
Just beyond the gates, a lone figure shivered, hunched on the ground and clutching his ankles. Schwarzhelm went over to him. Detlef didn’t seem to hear him approach. His eyes were glassy and his lower lip trembled.
‘Did you find anyone up here?’ Schwarzhelm asked. Though it didn’t come naturally, he tried to keep his voice gentle.
Detlef nodded. ‘A boy from the village. He’s gone to get the priest. There are men coming.’
The squire’s voice shook as he spoke. He looked terrible. He had every right to. No mortal man should have had to witness such things.
‘Good work, lad.’
Schwarzhelm looked down at his blade, still naked in his hands. Diseased viscera had lodged in the runes. It would take an age to purify.
He turned his gaze to Detlef. It was a pity. The boy was young. His appetites were hot, and he must have been hungry. There were so many excuses, even though he’d warned him not to eat the food. This final blow was the worst of them all. He’d shown promise. Schwarzhelm had liked him.
Detlef looked up, eyes imploring. Even now, the sores had started to emerge around his mouth.
‘Is it over?’ he asked piteously, the tears of horror still glistening on his cheek.
Schwarzhelm raised his blade, aiming carefully. It would at least be quick.
‘Yes,’ he said, grief heavy within him. ‘Yes, it is.’
The Inquisition
++Open vox-net++
My most esteemed Lord Inquisitor,
The arch-heretic Werner is ours! Though several of my men perished, and some suffered even worse fates, in the process he is currently under lock and key where our torture-servitors have already loosened his tongue.
Interrogator Kerstromm, Ordo Malleus
What are you working on at the moment?
On my plate at the moment is Thanquol’s Doom, the third book in the saga of the Under-Empire’s most infamous grey seer. After returning from Lustria, Thanquol finds himself embroiled in a plot by Clan Skryre to steal a new dwarf invention – one that will enable Chief Warlock Ikit Claw to build the ultimate weapon. Thanquol must exploit all of his treacherous cunning if he is to survive the rivalry of feuding warlock-engineers, the vicious warriors of Clan Mors, and the mysterious agenda of another grey seer. Then there’s the small problem of keeping his fur safe from the vengeful axes of the dwarfs themselves to add to his problems. Fortunately, he’s got a brand new Boneripper to get between himself and the hordes of enemies after his pelt..
What are you working on next?
My next project is a bit of a top secret matter, the disclosure of which would undoubtedly lead to my untimely demise in some rather sordid and uncomfortable fashion. Having seen a lot of Robin Hood movies, I am quite familiar with just how dank and awful the dungeons of Nottingham are. So, no, I must quite firmly remain silent on the subject of my next book. Unless it’s okay to say it may involve daemons. Or the undead. I can safely say it won’t have any vampires that sparkle in sunlight and refuse to drink human blood. It most likely won’t have any llamas either.
Are there any areas of Warhammer and Warhammer 40,000 that you haven’t yet explored that you’d like to in the future?
Well, I guess the obvious answer here is to say Orcs and Orks. I’d really like to sink my teeth into an orc novel. I’ve done some peripheral stuff with them, featuring orcs as villains in Runefang and Forged by Chaos, and my first 40k story was centred on a Blood Axe Kommando, but I still have this yearning to do a big
splashy orc novel. The promise of low comedy and mindless violence is simply immense for such a project. And, of course, there’s the thing about writing monsters as monsters without slapping some ‘noble savage’ claptrap on them that I think readers would appreciate.
What are you reading at the moment? Who are your favourite authors?
I just finished The Sword of Rhiannon by Leigh Brackett, fixing a woeful negligence on my part as I’d never read any of her books before. Just now, I’m dividing my time between a re-read of the various incarnations of Warhammer Armies: Skaven and Shadows in the Jungle, a non-fiction WWII account of the Alamo Scouts, an American special forces unit employed by General MacArthur in the Philippines. Absolute hardcases, these fellows, never losing a single man in 108 missions and accounting for over 500 Japanese soldiers, not to mention freeing thousands of POWs.
Which book (either BL or non-BL) do you wish you’d written and why?
Aside from the pure mercenary answer of Harry Potter followed by the rationale of having enough money to retire and become a James Bond supervillain, I’d probably have to say the sequels to Jeff Rovin’s wonderful Return of the Wolfman, which itself was a sequel to the classic Universal monster movies. The two sequels (not written by Mr. Rovin, I should add) were absolute dreck that had none of the nostalgic feel to them. I always thought the series deserved better.
Now, if we talk about BL books, I’d have to say the Nagash series. Nagash has always been one of my favourite characters in the setting and I was tremendously jealous when Mike Lee got his claws on the Supreme Necromancer. They’re great reads, but I still can’t keep a tinge of envy out of my eyes every time I see them on my bookshelf!
Hammer and Bolter 5 Page 7
