05 - Warrior Priest (2 page)

Tannhauser realised Mormius was crouched before him again, watching eagerly.
The knight looked down at his hands and saw that they were rippling and swelling
as the presence exerted its influence over his body The bones in his back
cracked as they stretched and elongated, arching up in a long curve. His head
jolted back and with a shocking flash of pain he felt his head rearrange itself
into a long beak-like curve.

Tannhauser opened his mouth to cry out, but another sound entirely emerged; a
hoarse scraping that ripped through his throat. He was vaguely aware of Mormius,
giggling with delight. The alien screech began to form words from Tannhauser’s
protesting vocal chords. At first it was no more than a jumble of screeched
vowels, but then a distinct word filled the tent: “Mormius.”

“Yes, master,” cried the champion, his voice wavering with emotion. “You’re
so kind to spare me your—”

“Failure,” shrieked the hideous voice, forcing Tannhauser’s head back even
further.

Mormius’ smile faltered. “Failure, master?” He gestured to the door of the
tent. “We’re in the very heart of Ostland. I’ve killed so many in your name,
they’re already writing songs about me. The province is on its knees.”

A furious chorus of screeches greeted Mormius’ words. “What of the capital?
What of Wolfenburg? What of von Raukov? Why are you here? Your idleness is
treachery.” As the words grew more enraged, the flames in the brazier began to
gut and flicker, plunging the tent in and out of darkness. “Do you wish to serve
me, or make a fool of me?” cried the voice. “Have you forsaken me? Are you
enamoured of another master?”

Fear twisted Mormius’ chubby face into a grimace. “Master,” he gasped.
“Please understand—I’ve marched ceaselessly for weeks, but I need to gather my
strength before I move on. The Ostlanders have refortified an old castle, called
Mercy’s End. It has already been ruined once by Archaon and we’ll easily sweep
it away, as surely as everything else, but I must wait for the rest of my army
before heading south.”

“No!” screamed the voice, with such force that Tannhauser’s throat burst. His
whole body began to spasm and twist, like a broken marionette, and blood started
rushing quickly from his exposed vocal cords. “Strike now, or betray me.”

Mormius pawed pathetically at Tannhauser’s jerking limbs and began to whine.
“Don’t say such things, master. Of course I haven’t betrayed you. Strendel,
Wurdorf and Steinfeld are already in ruins. The north of the province is overrun
with my men and they’re all marching to meet me here. The surviving Ostlanders
are massing in that crumbling old wreck, but they’ve picked a poor place to make
their stand. We’ll be there within days and we’ll smash through those old walls
like firewood. Then the whole province will be ours.” There was no reply, so he
grabbed his sword from the ground and lifted it up over his head. “As you wish
then. We’ll leave now. The stragglers will just have to catch up with us as best
they can. I won’t betray you, master.” There was still no reply and Mormius
dashed to the captain’s side, falling on his knees and grabbing Tannhauser’s
bloody hands in his own. “Master?”

The captain lay slumped in the chair and however much Mormius pleaded and
shook him, no more words came. “Of course,” muttered the champion, rising to his
feet and looking anxiously around the room. “Of course, I must strike now.
You’re right.” He dashed from the tent and left Tannhauser to bleed alone.

The flames in the brazier flickered and finally died, plunging the tent into
darkness. The captain’s body was twisted beyond all recognition, but as the
afterimage of the fire played over his retina, a faint smile spread across his
torn lips. His heart finally accepted the truth of his death and gratefully
ceased to drum. As his last breath slipped from his lungs, Tannhauser looked
down at a sharpened ring on his finger, glistening with a jewel of Mormius’
blood. He wondered how long it would be before the champion discovered the gift
he had left him.

The keep reared up from the hillside like a broken tooth. Firelight flickered
from its narrow windows and above its crumbling battlements a banner was flying
in the moonlight: a single bull, glowering defiantly from a black and white
field.

All around the building, a great army was massing, swelling like waves
beneath the quickly moving clouds. Mormius mounted a white, barded warhorse and
rode to the brow of a hill to look down at the ranks flooding the valley. A
grotesque figure shambled out of the darkness and stood at his side. Mormius
looked down at his captain with distaste. The thing’s serpentine limbs dragged
behind him through the mud and silvery mites rushed over his scaled, eyeless
face as he grinned up at his general. “Your army is almost ready, lord,” he
said, in a retching, gurgling voice. He lifted one of his writhing arms and
gestured at the scene below. “I’ve never seen such a gathering. No one could
stop it. By tomorrow night we will have a force like nothing they’ve ever seen.”

“We must leave now,” said Mormius. “We’ve rested long enough.”

The creature’s smile faltered and a strange hissing noise came from deep in
his throat. “Now, my lord?”

“Yes, now. For every day we spend waiting, Mercy’s End grows a little
stronger. I have no desire to spend a week tussling over that backwater. I
should be within sight of the capital by now, not wasting my time on these
parochial skirmishes.”

“Well, master,” the marauder said, shrugging helplessly. “I’m not sure that
will be possible. Many of the troops are still fighting their way through
Kislev. Ivarr Kolbeinn has gathered a great number of ogres and they’re just a
few days north of here. And Ingvarr the Changed has hundreds of men marching
with him.” He grimaced with all four of his mouths. “We should at least wait for
Freyvior Sturl and his horsemen.”

“Didn’t you hear me?” said Mormius. “We attack in the morning.” He grinned.
“Or do you think my skills as a strategist are insufficient?” His shoulders
began to shake with amusement. “Maybe it would be better if you made the
tactical decisions from now on?”

At the sound of Mormius’ laughter, the colour drained from the marauder’s
face. He backed away, shaking his head. “No, of course not, you’re absolutely
right.” He waved at the keep. “These fools won’t see the dawn. I’ll see to it.”
He lurched awkwardly away through the rain. “We’ll be marching south within the
hour.”

With some difficulty, Mormius managed to stifle his laughter. Once he was
calm, he smiled with satisfaction at the great army arrayed before him. The
standard bearers had unfurled their crude colours to the wind: the eight pointed
star of Chaos, daubed in the blood of their enemies. It was a terrifying sight
and his heart swelled with pride.

As he watched the endless stream of troops swarming out of the
darkness, Mormius noticed a small hole on his left gauntlet. As he watched, a
spidery, black patina began to spread over the crystals that surrounded it. He
peered at the dark stain for a moment, then promptly forgot all about it as he
turned his attention to the battle ahead.

“Envy never dies,” said the old man, leaning in towards the assembled crowd.
His voice was low, but his whole body was twisted with hate. Spittle was hanging
from his cracked lips and his gaunt face was flushed with emotion. “The old gods
are always there, waiting for revenge; waiting to rise again.” His frenzied,
bony arms snaked back and forth across his chest as he spoke and a sheen of
sweat glistened over his ribs. A blistered symbol was scorched across his belly:
a single flaming hammer.

Anna was torn between fascination and disgust. From her vantage point, up on
top of the pyre, she could see how easily he manipulated the mob. Some of these
people had recently trusted her with their lives; only the night before, most of
them had still doubted her guilt. Now, they could smell blood on the morning air
and they would not rest until more of it was spilled. As the old man continued
his tirade, she saw life slipping from her grasp. Scarlet tears began to roll
down over her bruised, swollen cheeks and she prepared herself for death.

“Their obscure plots always surround us,” continued the old man. “A tide of
unholy filth hides behind the most innocent of faces. Even the most vigilant of
Sigmar’s servants can struggle to spot the signs.” The crowd murmured their
assent, beginning to warm to his theme. “Look at her,” he hissed, stretching his
frail body to its full height and pointing theatrically at Anna. “See how this
‘priestess’ whimpers for forgiveness. See the cold tears that run from her
pitiless eyes. Even now, with judgement at hand, she is unrepentant. If you
hesitate, if you falter even for a moment, she will worm her way out of justice.
Trust me, my friends, that pretty young face hides an old, terrible evil;
there’s murder in her heart.” The crowd’s murmurs grew louder and many of them
cast nervous, furtive glances up at the priestess.

Anna shivered. Dawn light was spreading quickly over the village, but the
witch hunter’s henchman had torn her white robes as he fastened her to the pyre.
Her exposed flesh was wet with dew and the autumn breeze knifed into her. She
prayed that one way or another, her ordeal would soon be over. As the crowd
began to chant along with the old man’s liturgy, she looked out across their
heads to the fields beyond the village; out towards the distant forest. Crows
were hopping across the ploughed fields and heading towards her. She took a
strange comfort in the sight. As mankind acted out its bloody rituals, nature
continued unabated. The world marched on, blind to her fate. Even as the crows
picked at her charred remains, she would become part of a timeless cycle of
rebirth. There was solace in such things, she decided.

“Riders,” she muttered, surprised by the hoarse croak that came from her
throat. The blood in her eyes had painted the horizon as a crimson blur, and for
a while she doubted herself, but as the shapes grew nearer she was sure: it
wasn’t crows, but men who were moving towards her. Two horsemen had emerged from
the distant trees and were slowly crossing the fields towards the village. She
looked down to see if anyone else had noticed, but the old man had the mob in
the palm of his sweaty hand. As he lurched back and forth, singing and cursing
ecstatically, they cheered him on, waving knives and pitchforks in approval and
edging towards the pyre.

“Look around,” he continued, gesturing towards the ruined houses. “These
truly are the end times. Judgement is finally at hand. Only the most pious will
survive. Corruption and decay is crawling across our blessed homeland and only
those with the faith to stare it down can escape damnation.” The villagers
nodded eagerly at each other, unable to dispute the logic of his words. Life had
always been hard, out here on the very edge of the Empire, but in recent months
even the most hardened Ostlanders had begun to know doubt. Streams of blank-eyed
refugees passed through almost daily now, bringing news of terrible defeats in
the north. There wasn’t a young man left in the village who wasn’t fighting for
his life in the war, or already cold in the ground.

The old man scampered, spider-like onto the remains of a barn wall and
slapped the crumbling stone. “Bricks and mortar can no longer keep you safe, my
friends. The creatures that watch from the trees do not care about walls or
doors. They’re filled with mindless, animal hate. No mortal protection can stop
them. They’ll soon be back to finish the job. Yes! And burn down the rest of
your homes.” He scratched frantically at his thin beard. “And if you don’t show
the strength of your faith, you’ll burn along with them.” He levelled a
trembling finger at Anna. “And
she
has brought this upon you!”

The crowd erupted into raucous cheers. “She must die,” screamed an old woman,
grabbing a lit firebrand and holding it aloft.

“It’s true,” cried a blacksmith, nervously twisting his leather apron as he
rushed to the old woman’s side. “Before the priestess came, we were safe, but
now the creatures come almost nightly. I’ve heard her singing songs in a foreign
language.” He looked around at the other villagers. “I think she’s calling to
them.”

The old man nodded encouragement as the crowd began hurling a stream of
evidence at Anna.

“She cured old Mandred with nothing more than a garland of flowers.”

“She goes into the forest alone, unafraid of the creatures.”

Anna was barely conscious of the accusations. A steady stream of blood was
flowing from her head and reality kept slipping in and out of grasp. Visions of
her childhood blurred into view and she whispered the name of her abbess,
begging her to forgive her for the miserable end she had come to. She still
could not be sure if the two horsemen were even real. Certainly none of the
villagers seemed to have noticed them. The men’s silhouettes were now quite
clear as they trotted through the morning mist, but the mob was fixated on the
old man. She blinked away her tears. Yes, she was sure now, it was two men, both
mounted on powerful warhorses. Admittedly, the first was little more than a boy.
His wiry body barely filled the saddle and his limbs flapped around clumsily as
he steered the horse over the furrows; but even at this distance she could see
the determined frown on his face as he strained to control his mount.

The second rider was another matter altogether. He was a little further back
and still partly shrouded in mist, but from his posture Anna could tell this was
no travelling merchant or itinerant farmer. He handled his horse with the calm
surety of a veteran soldier, his chin raised disdainfully as he surveyed the
scene before him. He was a shaven-headed giant, with a broad chest clad in
thick, iron armour that glinted dully in the morning light. A great warhammer
was slung nonchalantly over his wide shoulders. Anna felt a thrill of hope. Was
this her saviour? Her pulse quickened and for the first time she tested the
strength of the bonds that held her. She was strapped to a stout post with her
hands above her head. The witch hunter’s henchman had done his job well, but
maybe if she just twisted a little…