05 - Warrior Priest

For Kathryn—with love and eyeballs.

This is a dark age, a bloody age, an age of daemons and of
sorcery. It is an age of battle and death, and of the world’s ending. Amidst all
of the fire, flame and fury it is a time, too, of mighty heroes, of bold deeds
and great courage.

At the heart of the Old World sprawls the Empire, the largest
and most powerful of the human realms. Known for its engineers, sorcerers,
traders and soldiers, it is a land of great mountains, mighty rivers, dark
forests and vast cities. And from his throne in Altdorf reigns the Emperor Karl
Franz, sacred descendant of the founder of these lands, Sigmar, and wielder of
his magical warhammer.

But these are far from civilised times. Across the length and
breadth of the Old World, from the knightly palaces of Bretonnia to ice-bound
Kislev in the far north, come rumblings of war. In the towering Worlds Edge
Mountains, the orc tribes are gathering for another assault. Bandits and
renegades harry the wild southern lands of the Border Princes. There are rumours
of rat-things, the skaven, emerging from the sewers and swamps across the land.
And from the northern wildernesses there is the ever-present threat of Chaos, of
daemons and beastmen corrupted by the foul powers of the Dark Gods.

As the time of battle draws ever nearer, the Empire needs
heroes like never before.

Captain Kurdt Tannhauser was dead. His heart was still hammering fiercely
beneath his breastplate, but he knew that each powerful thud only took him
closer to the grave. As his charger tore onwards through a blur of steel and
fire, the screams of his dying men trailed after him. There would be no
triumphant homecoming tonight.

Most of the soldiers who had struck out from Mercy’s End had fallen far
behind; or just fallen. Bergolt and Gelfrat were still alive, but they were
mired in a forest of axes and swords. The panthers emblazoned on their banners
were scorched and torn and their sword strikes grew weaker with each desperate
blow. Within minutes, they would be dead. The artillery had fallen silent and
even the roguish Ditmarus and his pistoliers had vanished from view. Tannhauser
could only assume they had finally achieved the glorious end they had always
joked about.

Turning away from the bloodbath that surrounded him, he steered his mount
towards a single glittering point. Perched on a nearby hilltop, surveying the
carnage was a dazzling figure: a sliver of light in the darkness, sat calmly
amidst the shadowy hordes with six shimmering wings arching upwards from its
back.

Freed from the twin constraints of fear and hope, Captain Tannhauser charged
up the hill towards this beautiful horror. Axes and spears hurtled towards him,
but his speed confounded even the most practised aim. He rose up in his saddle
and held his sword aloft, so that the light of the moons ran along its battered
edge. With his other hand he removed his helmet and cast it down onto the mud,
revelling in the wind, rain and blood that lashed into his face. “Join me,
Mormius,” he whispered, as he raced towards the gleaming figure. “Join me in
death.”

At the brow of the hill, a wall of tusks and muscle barred his way. Towering
men in greasy animal furs and crude iron armour charged to meet him as he neared
their champion. The pounding rain blurred their forms, making iridescent ghosts
of them, but even the terrible weather could not shield Tannhauser from the
extent of their deformity. Elongated arms reached out towards him through the
downpour; arms contorted beyond all recognition, ending in cruel, serrated
beaks. As he bore down on them, Tannhauser struggled to distinguish one shape
from another: arachnid limbs, twisted muscles and gnarled tusks all merged into
a nightmarish whole.

The marauders held fast as the captain’s mount slammed into them, ripping
through the horse’s chest with their strange claws and cutting its legs from
beneath it. As the animal toppled, screaming to the ground, Tannhauser flew from
the saddle, tumbling through the air over the marauders’ heads and slamming into
the muddy hillside.

Behind him, the grotesque figures struggled up from beneath the dying horse,
but they were too slow. Despite his burning lungs, Tannhauser climbed awkwardly
to his feet and ran towards Mormius, grunting with pain and exertion as he
stumbled through the rain and filth.

As the captain approached his foe, he saw the reason for the pale light
playing across his armour. Mormius was clad entirely in faceted crystals that
shifted and whirred mechanically as he raised his sword to defend himself. He
towered over Tannhauser, at nearly seven feet tall, and as his wings spread out
behind him in the moonlight, the captain felt as though he were facing a god.
Hatred carried him through his doubt though. He grinned with triumph as he
finally swung his sword at the monster that had robbed him of life.

Mormius parried and with the dull
clang
of steel on steel, the fight
began.

The captain knew he had precious seconds before the champion’s guards pulled
him apart, so he attacked with breathtaking speed, landing a flurry of blows on
his opponent and leaving him reeling in the face of the onslaught. As Mormius
staggered backwards, the captain called out the names of his fallen comrades in
a furious roll call for the dead.

Mormius’ huge wings began to beat frantically as he slipped through the mud
and corpses. Finally, the captain smashed the champion’s blade aside and Mormius
stumbled back over a broken cannon, his chest exposed. Tannhauser raised his
sword for the deathblow.

Then he froze.

He found himself face to face with a proud knight of the Empire. The man’s
skin was drawn and pale with passion; blood and filth covered his armour and his
dark, rain-sodden hair was plastered across his ivory brow. It was the knight’s
eyes that most arrested him, knifing into Tannhauser with a terrible look of
despair.

With dawning horror, the captain realised that this lost soul was his own
reflection, trapped like a caged animal in the glimmering plates of Mormius’
armour. He was so shocked by his appearance that his sword slipped from his
fingers. The war had made a ghoul of him. He was a monster. For a few seconds he
forgot all about the battle as he studied the tortured lines of his own face;
then, a hot bolt of pain snapped him out of his reverie. As the searing heat
grew he looked down to see Mormius’ sword, embedded deep in his belly.

The champion began to laugh as Tannhauser dropped silently into the mud.

Mormius’ huge command tent was sewn from the hides of fallen soldiers, and
as he lit a brazier in its centre, a dozen eyeless faces leered down at him,
reanimated in the flickering green light. The champion sat down, cross-legged at
the captain’s feet and removed his helmet, allowing a shock of lustrous ginger
ringlets to roll down over his shoulders. Tannhauser straggled against the
tiredness that threatened to overcome him, but a great weight seemed to be
pressing him into his chair. He straggled to rise, but found his limbs
paralysed, all traces of strength gone from them. He stared curiously into
Mormius’ face. “You’re a child,” he said, through a mouthful of blood.

It was true. The face before him was that of a youth barely out of his teens.
Mormius looked like a pampered aristocrat, or maybe the son of a wealthy
merchant. His soft white skin was flawless and his languid blue eyes gazed out
from beneath long, feminine lashes. His plump lips were so glossy and pink, that
the captain wondered if he were wearing make-up.

“It would appear so to you, I suppose,” replied Mormius with a voice like
velvet. He moistened his lips and revealed his perfect ivory teeth in a warm
smile. “I was born in the time of your forefathers, Kurdt, way back when
Sigmar’s progeny were still little more than beasts, crawling around in their
own filth.”

Tannhauser grimaced. “I would take a quick death over a life such as yours.”
He managed to raise a hand and wipe away the blood that was muffling his words.
“What use is an eternity of life, if it’s spent in the service of such wretched
masters?”

“A commendable sentiment, Kurdt,” replied Mormius as his smile turned into a
giggle. “In fact, now I hear it put like that, I might be forced to reconsider
my position.” His laughter grew until his whole body was rocking back and forth
and his eyes filled with tears. He lurched to his feet and whirled around the
tent, carelessly knocking over furniture of incredible antiquity. Gilt-edged
mirrors and crystal bowls smashed across the ground as Mormius’ mirth grew,
becoming a succession of hiccupping yelps. Then the laughter shifted seamlessly
into a scream of rage and the champion flew at Tannhauser, his face contorted
with fury. “What would you know of eternity?” he screamed, slapping the knight
with such force that the chair toppled beneath him and he sprawled on the floor.
“You’re nothing but an unwitting slave. Since the day you were born you’ve been
ensnared, a plaything of The Great Conspirator.” He crouched down, grabbed
Tannhauser’s head and howled into his face. “You’re the child! Don’t you see?
All of you strutting soldiers, celebrating your petty, ridiculous victories.
You’re just pawns. Not even that. You’re a punchline to a joke you couldn’t even
understand.” He screamed again, but his rage was now so intense it strangled his
words into a garbled whine.

As Mormius’ anger increased, his features began to change, shifting and
sliding in and out of view. Tannhauser saw a bewildering series of faces flash
before him: old men, children and crones, all wailing with fury. Then, as
suddenly as it began, the screaming ceased.

Mormius covered his mouth and flushed with embarrassment. “Forgive me,
Kurdt,” he whispered, loosing his grip on Tannhauser’s head. His voice was
gentle again and his face was his own once more. He helped the captain back up
onto the chair and dusted him down with his soft white hands. He smiled
apologetically. “I’ve spent so long with these creatures,”—he gestured to the
walls of the tent and the shadows of marauders passing by outside—“I sometimes
forget my manners.” The cheerful smile returned and he stepped over to a table
laden with food. “I haven’t even offered you a drink,” he said, filling a silver
goblet with wine and bringing it to the captain. “You must think me quite the
heathen.”

Tannhauser simply stared at him in mute horror, so Mormius placed the drink
on the floor next to him and returned to the brazier in the centre of the room.
“It’s a good vintage,” he muttered, as he measured out an assortment of coloured
powders and dropped them into the green flames, filling the tent with thick,
heady smoke. “It would ease your suffering,” he added, with a note of apology in
his voice.

As the clouds of smoke grew, the captain strained to follow Mormius’
movements. His willowy shape slipped back and forth through the cloying fumes,
dropping tinctures and leaves into the brazier like a master chef, humming
merrily to himself as he worked. The walls of the tent gradually slipped away
behind a haze of coloured smoke. Tannhauser felt himself falling into a realm of
shadows. He wondered if his tired heart had finally released him.

A shape caught his eye, to the left of the brazier. It was a large net of
some kind and at first he thought it was full of animal carcasses. He saw ribs,
gristle and strands of wet meat. To his horror, he noticed the mass of flesh was
moving slightly, as though breathing. He looked closer and saw that the organs
and limbs were melded together into one grotesque being, layered with glistening
viscera and dark, pulsing tumours. As he watched, the pile of meat shifted and
several eyes suddenly peered out at him. The sack’s thick cords strained as it
started to slide across the ground in his direction. Tannhauser gasped as a
grey, elongated face looked from beneath the folds of flesh. Then he noticed
rows of hands, all reaching towards him from the mass of body parts.

Mormius heard Tannhauser’s gasp and rolled his eyes in irritation. He strode
across the tent and gave the meat a series of fierce kicks, until the struggling
shape crawled back into the shadows. “Family,” he said, shaking his head
despairingly. “What’s to be done with them?” He stooped to wipe some blood from
his boot. “Still, I suppose they have sacrificed much on my behalf.”

Mormius gently fanned the smoke with his broad, silver wings, and Tannhauser
sensed another presence, watching him intently. He peered through the fug,
trying to spot the new arrival but, to his dismay, he realised that it was not
in the tent, but in his mind, a strange sentience, spreading at the back of his
thoughts like a shadow, tentatively probing the recesses of his consciousness.
Images arrived unbidden in his head: glimpses of places and people he could
never have seen. A range of mountains reared up before him, with peaks so sheer
that they defied all logic. Then came vast armies of creatures so warped and
grotesque he wanted to shield his eyes from the awfulness of them, but the
visions were deep within him and however he squirmed, he could not escape them.