Tales of the Old World (90 page)

Jurgen tensed his arm and flung the bloodied dagger—a wild, inaccurate
throw, but it found its mark. The knife clattered against the painting, blood
spattering across the canvas, before falling to the floor. Figures began to move
within the painting.

Eretz emitted a scream of rage and despair. Jurgen closed him eyes tightly,
though he could not stop his ears to the terrible sounds that filled the room.

When he opened his eyes some time later, Jurgen found the room silent, except
for the low crackling of a small fire on the plush carpet, started by the fallen
candelabra. Jurgen got to his feet slowly, steadying himself against the wall.
He stumbled forward towards the painting, then stopped himself. He carefully
cleaned his bloodied hands on his clothes, and then gingerly picked the painting
up, setting it down on the growing flames.

The search for a mechanism to open the door sent him into a brief panic, but
at last the lever was found. Just as he was stepping through the open door, a
terrible wail sounded behind him, and he turned back briefly.

From the burning canvas then emanated all manner of horrific screams, some
monstrously alien, some undeniably human. He ran, blundering though the wine
cellar and scrambling up the stone steps. As he fled, he was certain he heard
the anguished cries of Eretz howling in agony once more.

And then, at last, Jurgen stumbled through the still manor house and out into
the chill night. The first wisps of flame were already rising into the dark sky
behind him.

The guard was dead. He fell to the ground at Krieger’s feet, his broken neck
a pulpy, twisted mass.

Krieger clenched a fist, felt the knuckles crack. It was good to kill again.
He regarded the corpse impassively from above, rubbing the angry red rings
around his wrists left by the manacles.

A sound beyond the dungeon gate alerted him. He ducked down and slowly
dragged the guard’s body away from the viewing slit, then waited, listening
intently in the gloom. He heard only his own breath and the mind-numbing retort
of dripping water from the sewer beneath.

Rising slowly, Krieger felt anew the bruises from the beatings they had given
him. He’d sobbed as they’d done it. They’d become complacent and negligent,
removing his manacles and leg irons to make beating him easier. The mistake had
cost one guard his life, but Krieger’s retribution was just beginning.

Krieger heaved the guard’s corpse along a stone floor, thick with grime,
shushing him mockingly, touching his finger to his lips. He was alone in an
interrogation cell. There were no windows and it smelled of vomit and blood. At
the back of the chamber was a cot. The rest of the room, dank and filth-smeared,
was empty save for a single wooden chair, bolted to the floor. Short chains were
fixed to it. Spatters of Krieger’s blood showed up, dark and thick, around it.

The witch hunter would be here soon, the guard had boasted of it. Working
quickly, Krieger concealed the guard’s body beneath a stinking, lice-ridden
blanket. The man had the sloping forehead and common features of a low-born; the
blanket seemed oddly fitting as a mortuary veil. Donning the guard’s helmet, he
quickly carved a symbol into the dead man’s flesh with his dagger.

After he was finished, Krieger fixed his attention back on the vision slit.

Three sharp raps came from the other side of the door. Volper sprang to his
feet. He fumbled with the iron keys, slipping one into the lock. Bolts scraping,
he opened the vision slit.

“I ’ope you spat in that gruel,” he said, peering through it as he eased the
door open a crack. A shadowy figure wearing a helmet looked back at him. As it
drew close Volper saw bloodshot eyes, filled with murderous intent.

Instinctively, stupidly, the guard reached for his sword with shaking
fingers. Looking back through the vision slit, he saw a flash of steel.

Krieger rammed the dagger through the vision slit, driving it into the
guard’s eye. Wedging his foot into the door, he reached around and pushed him
thrashing onto the blade. Krieger held him there a moment, waiting patiently for
the spasms to subside. Then, opening the door inwards, he allowed Volper’s body
to fall inside.

Krieger stepped over the guard’s body and into the sickly light of the
corridor. There was a sewer grate a few feet away. Krieger padded up to it and
saw it was embedded with rust and slime. Age and wear had weakened it though.
With effort, cold gnawing at him as he perspired, he carved away the filth at
the edges of the sewer grate with the guard’s dagger, stopping occasionally to
listen for signs of intrusion.

Using the fallen guard’s sword he levered the grate open, sliding and
scraping it to one side. A foul stench assailed him. Krieger ignored it, pushing
the grate wide open. He went back to the dead guard, took the man’s boots and
put them on before pushing the body into the sewer. There was a dull splash as
the guard hit the turgid water below. Krieger followed, standing on a slim ledge
inside the sewer tunnel and pulling the grate back. With a final glance up into
the dungeon, he plunged into the mire beneath.

Effluent came up to his waist and he held his breath against the horrible
sunk, wading through it quickly. A half-devoured animal carcass bobbed in the
filthy water like a macabre buoy. The guard’s body was gone; weighed down by his
armour the sea of waste had swallowed him.

After several long minutes, the sewage began to ebb and Krieger saw a circle
of faint and dingy light ahead. He waded towards it—the hope of his freedom
his incentive—and emerged from the edge of the tunnel into the day.

Blinking back the harsh light, Krieger looked down into a rocky gorge. Beyond
that, the surrounding land was thick with pine. But from his vantage point he
could see a stream. It ran all the way out of the forest and to a settlement,
about a mile from the edge of the tree-line. Krieger saw chimney smoke
spiralling into the turbulent sky. He knew this place.

Climbing carefully but urgently, Krieger made his way down the rocky
embankment, negotiating a mass of boulders and slipping occasionally on
scattered scree. Gratefully, he descended into the thick forest and kept running
until he came upon a clearing. Krieger took a moment to appreciate his freedom,
filling his lungs with the smell of it and gazing into the heavens. Clouds crept
across the sky, filled with the threat of rain, as the wind steadily picked up.

Without time to linger, Krieger moved on and found the stream he had seen
from the edge of the tunnel. He ran into it and eagerly washed away the sewer
stench. Following the stream, he soon reached the fringe of the forest. The town
was ahead. It was waiting for him. Dark clouds gathered above it, echoing
Krieger’s mood.

Clenching his fists, he said, “There will be a reckoning.”

The town square of Galstadt was alive with people. Thronging crowds clapped
and danced and laughed as jugglers, fire-eaters and all manner of street
entertainers dazzled them with their skill and pantomime. Huge garlands hung
from windows and archways; acrobats leapt and whirled amongst the crowds and
flower petals filled the air with dazzling colour. Even the darkening sky
overhead could not dampen the carnival mood.

A massive cheer erupted from the townsfolk and assembled soldiery as a vast
and ornate casket was brought into view. Held aloft by six proud men-at-arms, it
shimmered with an unearthly lustre. Behind it rode a retinue of knights mounted
on snorting steeds, austere and powerful in full armour. The crowds gathered in
their hundreds to welcome the return of their count and his brave knights.

As he rode through the town, Count Gunther Halstein regarded the crowds
impassively. His steed stumbled on a loose cobblestone and moved its flank
awkwardly. A sudden sharp pain seared Count Gunther’s chest, just below his
heart, and he grimaced.

“My lord?” Bastion, Gunther’s knight captain, was at his side immediately.
“Is it your wound?”

Irritably, the count waved away Bastion’s concern. “These people,” he
whispered, resuming his smiling facade, “they know nothing of the sacrifice,
Bastion, the danger beyond these walls.”

“No, they do not,” Bastion replied. His voice held a tinge of knightly
arrogance. “But we survived the Lands of the Dead, with the prize,” he added.
“Let them bask.”

Bastion flashed a confident smile, but the count’s gaze travelled upward, to
the banner of their order fluttering in the growing breeze; a heart wreathed in
flames. Framed against a steel sky, it reminded him of an animal struggling for
breath.

For Count Gunther, the endless desert was never far from his thoughts.
Despite the cold, he still felt the sun on his back, the sand in his throat and
the maddening silence of windless days.

Thunder rumbled overhead, rousing the count from his dark reverie. Ahead of
the returning crusaders, the great wooden gates of his keep opened. Rain was
falling as the knights filed in, filling the great courtyard beyond. Count
Gunther was the last of them. He lingered in the gateway and failed to notice
the dispersing crowds as he watched the darkening horizon.

“A storm is coming,” he muttered.

The doors closed, throwing their shadow upon him, shutting the outside world
from his sight.

Lenchard the witch hunter stalked from the cell, his hard footfalls resonant
against the dungeon floor. He was followed by two templars, wearing the black
steel armour of Morr.

The three of them walked quickly down the long corridor from the cell and
approached a shallow set of stone steps that led up to the barracks of Thorne
Keep. A nigh-on impregnable bastion, the keep rested on a broad spike of rock,
surrounded by pine forest. It was a garrison for the Elector Count of Stirland’s
soldiery, with thick and high walls, so it was also used as a place to hold and
interrogate prisoners. Never had one of the detainees escaped—until now.

A guard, a thin, fraught-looking man, wearing a studded leather hauberk and
kettle helmet, was waiting for Lenchard and the two templars. The witch hunter
emerged menacingly from the gloom. “The prisoner is gone,” he muttered darkly.

Dieter Lenchard was thick-set, even beneath his leather armour, his facial
features bony and well-defined. He wore a severe expression, framed by a
tight-fitting skull cap stretched over his head, and the guardsman balked at his
formidable presence.

“Where is your sergeant?” Lenchard asked.

The guard tried to muster his voice but could only point towards the steps.

“Captain Reiner,” the witch hunter said, without looking back as he addressed
one of the templars, the older of the two, a stern looking man with short black
hair and cold eyes. Lenchard marched up the steps, black cloak lashing in his
wake, “with me.”

Reiner turned to the other templar beside him, a bald giant that looked as if
he were made of stone, “Halbranc, wait here until Sigson has finished his work.”

Halbranc nodded and faced the quailing guard.

Like the Black Knights of Morr, the templars’ breastplates and greaves were
etched with symbols of death and mortality. For many they were a bad omen of
impending doom and misfortune.

Confronted with Halbranc, the guard swallowed hard and made the sign of
Sigmar.

The massive templar folded his arms and leaned forward. Close up, the guard
could see a patchwork of old scars as the shadows pooled into the chiselled
depths of the templar’s face. Halbranc snarled at him.

The guard shrank away, finding the solid, unyielding wall at his back.

“That’s enough,” said Reiner in a cold voice that came from above. “Yes,
Captain Reiner,” Halbranc said dutifully. He looked into the guard’s fearful
eyes and smiled. “Just you and me now, my friend,” he whispered.

Mikael, a young templar of Morr, waited in the courtyard of Thorne Keep, just
outside the stables. His comrades, the twins Valen and Vaust, were with him,
standing silently. The three of them had been left with the knights’ horses,
while Reiner, Halbranc and their warrior priest, Sigson, conducted their
investigations. It was to be a short stay it seemed—the portcullis was raised
and the drawbridge lowered for their departure.

Reiner emerged from the entrance to the barracks, as impassive and
unemotional as ever.

“Make our steeds ready,” he said to them as he approached, “we are leaving
soon.”

The twins moved quickly to the stables and began immediately untying the
horses’ reins, testing stirrups and checking saddles. “What happened?” Mikael
asked. Reiner fixed the young templar with an icy glare.

“The prisoner has escaped.”

“How is that possible?”

Reiner kept his gaze on Mikael for a moment. The penetrating silence held an
unspoken question. It was one Mikael was familiar with, the threat Reiner saw in
all inquiring minds.

“By killing at least one of the guards,” he explained coldly.

A pistol shot echoed around the stone courtyard from the barracks.

All in the courtyard started at the sound. The horses whinnied in fear, Valen
and Vaust gripping their reins tightly, patting the beasts’ flanks to soothe
them. Only Reiner betrayed no emotion, as hollow and deadly as the shot
reverberating around the keep. It had come from the direction of the cells.

After a moment, Lenchard appeared, tucking a smoking pistol into his belt.
Valen held the reins to the witch hunter’s steed, which he’d walked from the
stables. Without a word, Lenchard took them, securing his pistols and sabre
before mounting up. The young templar bowed his head respectfully.

“Inform your priest,” the witch hunter said to Reiner, “the guard sergeant is
in need of Morr’s blessing.”