01 - Empire in Chaos (8 page)

“With me!” shouted Grunwald, and pushed his way through the press of bodies
towards the witch hunter, his mace crushing shoulders and breaking limbs.

The soldier to his left died as a spear was thrust into his throat, and
another to his right was dropped as a knife plunged into his thigh. Still, the
weight of the soldiers smashed the snarling cultists aside, clubbing them to the
ground and plunging swords into their prone forms.

A wave of revulsion and nausea washed over them, and Grunwald staggered. He
heard a voice chanting in an unholy language, and he felt his stomach contract
tightly and painfully.

Again the witch hunter’s voice sounded out.

“Sigmar, lend us strength!”

Grunwald felt the pain within him lessen, and he opened his tightly clenched
eyes to see a figure standing on a dais, arms raised over its head as its chant
reached a crescendo.

The witch hunter Stoebar cut down the last of his opponents and leapt up the
stairs towards the figure, and Grunwald staggered after him.

With a shout that hurt the eardrums with its intensity, the figure completed
the incantation and dropped his arms to his side. A high collar of iridescent
feathers framed the zealot’s lowered head. Naked to the waist, swirling blue
patterns had been painstakingly etched onto his skin. Grunwald saw the twisted
patterns begin to move, rotating in circular motions, weaving new patterns and
symbols upon the zealot’s flesh.

With a roar of pure hatred and loathing, Stoebar raised his long bladed sabre
over his shoulder as he drew near the coven leader, and the sword flashed out to
open the throat of the motionless figure.

Throughout the basement, the last of the cultists were hacked down, and the
state soldiers of Nuln closed in towards the dais, gripping their bloody weapons
tightly as they watched the fateful blow fall.

Half a foot before the blade struck flesh the blow was halted. In mid-air the
witch hunter’s blade stopped, and he gasped as he strained to complete the
killing strike.

The zealot raised its head then, blue fire flickering in its eyes and a smile
upon its lips.

The air around the sorcerer seemed to ripple as if with a wave of intense
heat, and his flesh bulged unnaturally, as if things within were trying to
escape as line of backwards curving barbs pushed through the skin of his
forearms, forming a deadly ridge of horns and his hands extended into long,
cruel talons, like those of some mutated eagle. Mouths screaming in obscene
languages opened up all over the zealot’s body, ripping through muscle and
flesh. Some were filled with needle-like teeth and long, sinuous tongue tipped
with thorns, while others were little more than bony beaks filled with tiny,
barbed teeth.

Stoebar seemed unable to move, and the creature reached forwards, gripping
him by the shoulders. Blood welled where the daemon-possessed zealot’s talons
bit into his flesh, and it drew him closer to its hideous, maddening form.

Then, merely by willing it so, the Chaos abomination ripped the witch
hunter’s chest open. As if unseen knives slashed him, the clothes and armour of
the witch hunter were slashed dozens of times, and the flesh was turned to
bloody tatters. Ribs were snapped as his rib cage was pulled back by invisible
hands, exposing the pulsing organs within. His heart exploded messily, and the
dead witch hunter was hurled across the room away from the daemonically
possessed zealot, landing in a wet, bloody heap at Grunwald’s feat.

The daemon’s eyes blazed with fire, and it opened its mouth wide, lips
pulling back to expose a double set of sharpened teeth. It lifted one pale
taloned hand before it and it began to glow with burning light, as if the fires
of the sun were building within its flesh.

Grunwald reached down and grabbed the icon of Sigmar wrapped around the dead
witch hunter’s hand—a bronze symbol depicting Sigmar’s holy hammer, Ghal
Maraz. It was burning hot to the touch. He held it aloft by its chain, and he
felt the heat radiated by the holy symbol increase tenfold. Blinding light
spilled from the hammer icon as Grunwald cried out to the warrior god for aid.

But this is where his dream took a path divergent to what had occurred that
night. Five years earlier, the creature had been driven back by the symbol,
buying time for the soldiers to surge forwards and kill the daemon’s earthly
body, sending it screaming back to its own plane of existence.

But not tonight.

No, in Grunwald’s dream the daemon merely laughed at him, mocking his
pitiful, weak faith. It killed until Grunwald alone was left alive and frozen in
place. And then the daemon began to tear at his skin with invisible claws. He
felt his ribcage being pulled open, and heard the first cracks as the bones
snapped…

He awoke, gasping, sitting upright in his sweat-soaked bed. The pain in his
chest lingered for a foment.

That was when he noticed the smoke. Swearing, he leapt up, throwing off the
sheets, crossed to his door quickly, unbolting it and throw it wide. He stepped
out onto the internal balcony above the bar. Smoke was thick, and he could see t
glow of flames.

“Fire!” he roared. In his past life, before he became witch hunter, he had
been a sergeant in the state army of Nuln, and he was well used to shouting loud
enough and with enough authority for his orders to
be
heard and obeyed
over the din of battle. “Fire!” he roared again, and people began to stumble
from their bedrooms.

He saw Thorrik kick his door open violently. The dwarf was wearing his armour
and brandished his axe in one hand, while his shield was on his other arm.
Grunwald ran back into his room, and hastily pull on his boots and hitched his
belt around his waist, feeling instantly more in control with his weapons at his
side. He scooped up his belongings in his arms and quickly left the room. All
the rooms were being vacated now, and there were screams and wails from the
people trying to flee the rising inferno. The heat and smoke made him light
headed. He saw the terrified, pale face of Fiedler as the plump man ran past
him, dressed in his nightclothes. Stumbling out of the front door, the occupants
spilled out into the cold, Grunwald and Thorrik amongst them. The Hanging Donkey
was ablaze, flame leaping high up the old, leaning structure. Several people
were making ineffective attempts to stem the blaze-throwing pails of water
against the wood, and beating the flames with blankets.

There was a group of men standing in the main street out front, flaming
brands held in their hands. The drunkard who Grunwald had stopped from killing
the innocent man earlier that night stood in the middle of the group, knife in
one hand and a burning torch in the other. It was clear that the men had
continued drinking and now they had drunk themselves enough courage to return
and finish what they had started, Grunwald surmised.

“What have you done?” wailed Fiedler.

“Shut up, worm,” shouted one of the men. “It’s your damned inn that is
bringing people here!”

“Bring him to me!” shouted the instigator of this violence. “I’ve come to
finish what I started!”

Grunwald, the braces of his trousers hanging by his sides and his undershirt
unbuttoned and exposing his heavily scarred upper body, stalked towards the
group, his square jaw jutting forwards.

At ten paces he drew his pistol from the holster on his belt and without a
word shot the troublemaker in the head. The sound of the pistol was deafening,
and blood, bits of skull and brain splattered over the gathered drunk locals,
who stood frozen in shock.

Grunwald holstered the smoking pistol and drew his heavy-headed mace, facing
off against the remaining ten men.

“You bastard!” snarled one of them, a young man Udo recognised from earlier
in the night. He hurled his flaming brand at the witch hunter, and ran forwards
with his knife drawn.

Grunwald swayed out of the brand’s path and stepped in to meet the man. With
a deft side step he avoided the man’s drunken, clumsy blow and smashed his mace
into his head, dropping him without a sound. The others hefted their own
weapons, their faces angry and dark, and Udo realised that he was in some
serious trouble. A gruff, rumbling voice halted the men before they could launch
their attack.

“It’s a good day to die, manlings,” growled Thorrik, “Step forward and see if
your time has come.”

The dwarf stamped forward heavily to stand at Grunwald’s side, and the witch
hunter saw that he was fully decked out in his armour as if ready for war. He
held his heavy, circular metal shield over his left arm, and his head was
completely enclosed in a helmet shaped and worked to represent a stylised dwarf
face. His eyes glittered dangerously within, and his heavy, short-handled axe
was held over his shoulder ready to hack at the first man that came within
range.

He looked absolutely impervious to harm, for there was not a single inch of
exposed flesh on him. Udo had to admit he was an intimidating presence, despite
his height. The men stood rooted to the spot, indecision cleat on their faces.
None of them wanted to die here. He sensed the change in mood coming over
them.

“You two,” he barked, pointing sharply at a pair of men, making them jump.
“Pick up your friend here and take him home. He is alive, but his skull may be
fractured. And you two,” he said, pointing to another pair, “see that your dead
friend is buried. The rest of you, go and help fight those fires.”

His voice was commanding, brooking no argument and the men responded
instantly, the fight having evaporated from them completely.

“Beardlings,” scoffed Thorrik, his voice muffle behind the thick metal of his
full-face helm.

“Indeed,” said Grunwald, judging it was an insult by the tone of the dwarf’s
voice. He walked back towards where he had placed his possessions, shortening
his strides to allow the dwarf to walk alongside him, clanking in his heavy
armour. He buttoned up his undershirt and pulled his braces over his broad
shoulders.

The villagers were battling the flames, though it was impossible to tell if
they were winning. Udo saw the barkeeper wringing his hands and hopping from
foot to foot, doing little to help.

The pair aided the villagers, Grunwald organising them into worker teams to
more efficiently tackle the blaze, and as the dawn began to light the sky, the
last of the fire was put out. It had gutted the kitchen and a good portion of
the common area, and the exterior was blackened, but the structure was more or
less intact, though it would doubtless need months of work.

Grunwald’s face was blackened with soot. He approached Thorrik as he sat on
the stoop smoking his pipe. “I’m leaving,” he said.

“Aye, sounds like a plan. I’ve had my fill of this stinking place.” He glared
up at the fire-blackened inn. “That’s what comes of building with wood,” he
remarked. “Only thing wood is good for is burning. Build something out of stone
and it will stand for generations.”

“I can see the merit in that,” said Grunwald.

“I don’t understand you humans, you know,” said the dwarf, looking up at the
brightening sky.

“Oh?”

“Your Empire is at war, and your people are suffering from starvation and
plague. And yet still you fight amongst yourselves. Have you no honour?”

Grunwald thought about this for a moment and shrugged his shoulders.
“Precious little these days, seems. Still, don’t judge us all by the actions of
the weak and cowardly.”

“I don’t understand you humans,” said Thorrik. “I’m not sure that I ever will—and I will be glad of that.”

He stood up, and ensured that his pack was tightly secured. With dutiful
care, he tightened the leather straps that held the long, oilskin wrapped object
upon the pack, and tied his shield protectively over it.

“What is that you carry?” asked Udo as the dwarf hefted the heavy looking
pack to his broad shoulders.

“Never you mind,” said the dwarf brusquely, shoving his helmet over his head.
“Always wanting to know everyone else’s business, you humans,” came his voice,
muffled behind the thick metal of his helm. Udo noted that the helmet even had a
stylised metal moustache upon it. The helmet alone must have been worth a
fortune, with all the intricate, bronze-gilt knotwork around its rim, let alone
his entire set of armour.

Udo shrugged again, and Thorrik began to walk away, each heavy footstep
leaving a deep impression in the muddy ground. He walked ten paces before he
paused and turned back towards the witch hunter.

“Where you headed?” he said gruffly.

“I am returning to my temple, to seek the counsel of my superior. Near Black
Fire Pass.”

The dwarf huffed in response.

“Well, come on then,” he said eventually. “I’m heading to Black Fire
myself.”

Eldanair knelt in the undergrowth. He placed a hand to the ground, carefully
and precisely reading the sign for even a trained woodsman there would be
nothing here to see, but to the elf the ground was like an open book, and he
could read its stories effortlessly. Those that had left the tracks were not
unskilled—indeed they displayed a skill that he found surprising this far from
Ulthuan. No human could move through woodland and leave such a faint trail of
its passing, and his unease grew. This was not the mark of one of his party, and
he knew of no other Asur moving through this area, but he could not shake the
belief that this was the spoor of one of his kin. Unconsciously, he brushed a
wisp of long, dark hair behind one of his pointed ears, his eyebrows drawn
together in thought upon his ivory forehead.

The human woman, Annaliese, stood behind him, watching him with interest. She
showed spirit, this woman, though to his eyes her movements were painfully
clumsy, slow and noisy. She had slowed his progress considerably, but he had
bound himself to see her safe. And the safest place for her now was with his
kin. The seer would know best what to do with her.