05 - Warrior Priest (9 page)

“There are many different routes to that destination,” muttered Surman,
looking down at his ruined body.

“Aye,” replied Erasmus, finally letting the smile slip from his face. “That
there are.” He gestured to the hammer on Surman’s stomach. “Are you some kind of
priest then, friend?”

“My name’s Otto Surman, and yes, I’m a High Priest of Sigmar.”

Erasmus raised his eyebrows and smiled. “A
High
Priest, you say? I’d
have expected a little more finery.”

“Adelman has robbed me, you idiot,” snapped Surman, rising up from the bed
and twisting the sheets in his bony fists. He looked up at the ceiling of the
priest’s cell and groaned with frustration. “That witch did this to me. She must
have summoned Wolff somehow—knowing he would save her. And now she goes free
and Adelman has taken everything.” He flopped back onto the bed and glared at
Erasmus.

Erasmus looked appalled. “Your servant hasn’t robbed you. At least, I don’t
think so.”

“Idiot. Do you think I travel the province naked and penniless? Adelman’s
taken my robes and my books too.” His eyes bulged as a terrible thought hit him.
“And all of my relics—my priceless relics.” Surman drew a breath to hurl more
insults at the priest, but before he could speak, the bed dropped away from
beneath him and his stomach lurched horribly. He groaned with nausea and clamped
his eyes shut in fear. When he opened them again, he was still lying in the
priest’s bed and Erasmus was watching over him with a concerned expression on
his face.

“You should calm yourself,” urged the priest. “You’re not through the worst
of it yet. The wound was full of illness and spores of corruption. I was forced
to use a more powerful mixture than I would’ve liked.”

Surman’s vision blurred and his temples began to throb. He tried to focus on
the priest, but as he peered at him, Erasmus’ long, patrician features began to
stretch and elongate: sliding from his face to reveal vivid pits of red flesh
beneath his eyes that gradually drooped down towards his mouth. Surman tried to
reach out and push the flesh back into place, but his limbs refused to obey and
he groaned in fear. “Your face…” he murmured, as the walls closed in around him.

“What is it?” asked Erasmus, leaning forward, so that the remaining flesh
peeled back from his head and revealed the glistening skull beneath. “You should
rest,” he said, splashing thick blood all over the bed, but Surman’s eyes were
already closing as sleep washed over him.

Anna had sprouted great, black, oily wings and as she stepped towards Surman
she croaked in a harsh, inhuman voice. She drew a knife from beneath her
feathers and brandished it playfully at him. Catching the candlelight on the
edge of its curved, serrated blade.

Surman was sprawled on a mortuary slab and all his strength had gone from
him. As the witch approached he was powerless to move and he felt impotent fury
rising from deep within him. “You’ll die, Anna,” he said, glaring into her
black, lidless eyes. “Your wound is full of the spores of corruption.”

The witch spread her wings and laughed, before flying up onto the slab and
crouching low over him, so that her mouth was almost touching his. She twisted
her screeching voice into words he could understand. “What are you talking about
Otto?” she said, holding the knife up to his face. “How could you ever find me
without your eyes?”

“I have eyes!” cried Surman, straining to twist his head out of her reach.

“You did have,” replied the witch, smiling as she brought the knife down
towards him.

Surman cried out in fear and clamped his eyes shut. “I’ll still find you,
witch!” he cried.

Anna’s only reply was harsh, bird-like squawks of laughter.

The expected pain never arrived and after a few moments Surman opened his
eyes to find he was back in the priest’s cell. It was still morning, but the sky
outside was clear and bright, and he guessed this was not the same day. He
reached up to feel his eyes, and sighed with relief.

A loud cawing filled the room and Surman screamed with terror.

He looked around and saw a large raven, sat on an old chest at the foot of
the bed, eyeing him warily.

Erasmus burst into the room with a bloody, curved knife in his hand and a
look of dismay on his face. “What’s happened?” he cried, placing the knife on
the chair and clutching Surman’s hand. “Are you alright?”

“There’s a bird in here!” exclaimed Surman, crawling fearfully beneath the
sheets. “She tried to steal my eyes.”

The priest laughed gently and patted Surman’s arm. “That’s just Udo. She
won’t hurt you.” He held out his arm, and the bird flew across the room and
perched on its master. “Come on, old girl. You’re scaring our guest.” With
another smile at Surman, he left the room, taking his bird with him.

Surman shivered. His body was covered with cold sweat. “He’s poisoned me,” he
muttered to himself, pulling the sheets up to his chin, and looking warily
around the room. “Another witch. Just like Anna Fleck.” He heard a distant door
slam and the sound of voices talking somewhere on the floor below. “They’re all
trying to kill me,” he moaned. “In league with the witch.” He noticed Erasmus’
knife on the chair and smiled. He pulled himself to the edge of the bed. His
limbs trembled with the effort, but he wasn’t sure how long he had and his fear
gave him strength. With one hand on the cold stone floor, he reached out to the
chair. “Got it,” he gasped, clutching the knife in his hand. With a grunt, he
pushed himself back onto the bed and hid the blade beneath the blankets. With a
smile of relief, he lowered his head onto the pillow, and quickly slipped back
into his strange dreams.

“Otto,” said Erasmus, gently shaking him awake. “I have news.”

Surman lurched into a sitting position and groaned, looking around at the
room in confusion. “What’s that?” he said, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

Erasmus laughed at his sudden movements. “You seem stronger,” he exclaimed,
handing him a bowl of stew. “Try and eat some more of this. You threw up most of
the last bowl.”

Surman took the food from the priest and began to eat, surprised by his own
hunger. “The last bowl?” he asked, eying the priest suspiciously. “What last
bowl?”

Erasmus chuckled. “Don’t you remember?”

Surman shook his head, spilling a little of the broth down his stubbly chin.

“You’ve been here for nearly a week now, my friend,” said Erasmus. “I thought
I’d lost you a while back, but you seem to be a lot better today.” He gestured
to the quickly emptying bowl. “I’d take that a bit slower though.”

Surman flinched as the raven flew into the room and perched at the end of the
bed.

“Don’t worry, Udo won’t hurt you,” laughed the priest. He adopted a serious
expression. “Anyway, as I was saying, I have news.”

Surman grunted, without lifting his face up from the bowl.

“I’ve been talking to my brother, Bertram, and he tells me that your servant,
Adelman, is still in the village.”

Surman paused with the spoon halfway to his mouth, and a piece of un-chewed
meat hanging from between his teeth.

“Bertram is a constable of the watch, you see.” Erasmus frowned. “I wonder
sometimes if he’s really the right man for the job. Some of his decisions seem a
little harsh to me.” He leant forward and lowered his voice a little. “He’s not
really the brightest—”

“Adelman!” snarled Surman, sending the piece of meat flying from his mouth.
“Where is he? Where are my belongings?”

Erasmus looked blankly at him, confused for a moment. “Oh, yes, your
servant.” He frowned. “Well, it’s a sad tale, really. Thinking that you were
dead, he took a room at the Bull’s Head, and has been there for days, drowning
his sorrows.”

“What about my things?”

“Well, according to Bertram, he arrived with two heavily laden saddlebags,
and as far as anyone can tell, they’ve never left his room. I told Bertram not
to ask too widely though, for fear of stirring up interest in the value of your
possessions.”

Surman sank back into the bed, trying to still the fevered visions that kept
seizing hold of him. Erasmus had no intention of letting him live, he saw that
quite clearly. The old priest would simply keep poisoning him until he passed
away in his sleep. Then he would send his brother to murder Adelman and claim
the relics and books for himself. He hugged his frail body and his powerlessness
tormented him. A vision of Anna filled his thoughts, mocking him as she strode
away from the pyre. The thought that he would die and she would live was too
much. His eyes rolled back into their sockets and his muscles began to spasm as
a kind of fit came over him. Suddenly, he remembered something and slipped a
hand down beneath the blankets. He smiled as his hand closed around the cold
metal of the knife.

“Are you alright?” asked Erasmus.

Surman gave him a strained smile. “Tell me,” he gasped, trying to hide his
growing excitement. “How did you heal me?”

Erasmus leant back in his chair and shrugged modestly. “Oh, it was simple
herb lore really, nothing mysterious. Long ago, before I was even an initiate, I
used to dabble in such things. I just applied a poultice: a little brooklime,
mandrake and figwort, and then an infusion of Queen of the Meadow. Then nothing
more than rest and a light broth to keep your strength up until the fever
passed.”

Surman nodded. “And how did you learn this ‘herb lore’?”

“Ah, well, my mother was,” he laughed, “well, I suppose you’d call her a kind
of wise woman. She knew all sorts of things: weird folk legends, and strange
rites; you know the kind of thing.” He shook his head and looked wistfully out
of the window. “Sometimes I wonder if we’ve lost something, by neglecting all
the teachings of the Old Faith.”

“Old Faith?” asked Surman, continuing to smile. “Old gods do you mean?”

“Well yes, I suppose so.” Erasmus shrugged. “There’s often a lot of wisdom in
those more ancient forms of worship.”

“Sorry,” muttered Surman, tightening his grip on the knife handle. “Could you
come a little closer, I can’t quite hear you.”

Erasmus frowned. “Are your ears infected too?” he asked, leaning towards
Surman.

Surman’s smile spread into a wolfish grin as the priest drew nearer. He
slowly slid the knife up from beneath the blankets.

A terrible screeching noise filled the room and Erasmus jumped up from his
chair.

Surman cursed under his breath and slid the knife back down the bed.

“What’s the matter, old girl?” cried Erasmus, dashing across the room to the
raven. The bird was hopping back and forth in a frenzy and cawing repeatedly at
Surman.

Heavy, footsteps pounded up the stairs and a large man blundered into the
room. He was a towering, lantern-jawed brute, wearing a filthy buckskin coat
that could barely restrain the proud swell of his stomach. His freckled, hairy
forearms were about as wide as Surman’s waist, and the witch hunter groaned with
frustration as his chance for escape slipped away from him.

“What’re you playing at, brother?” the man barked at the priest. Erasmus was
still trying to placate the raven, however, and not waiting for a reply, the
newcomer strode past him and approached the bed. He grinned down at Surman and
enveloped his frail hand in his own meaty paw. “Pleased to make your
acquaintance, milord. Erasmus tells me you’re a priest of some kind.”

Surman’s stomach knotted with anger and he remained silent, glowering up at
the man from the bed.

“Don’t say much, does he?” said the man, continuing to grip Surman’s hand.
“Is he a bit deaf?” He moved his broad, florid face a little closer and bellowed
into Surman’s ear. “I’m Bertram. The village constable.” He patted a short
wooden club attached to his belt. “You might say I’m the Emperor’s legal
representative around here.” He loosed his grip and smiled proudly. “I’m the one
who’s been investigating the whereabouts of your missing servant, Adelman.”

“Get me out of here,” gasped Surman suddenly, sitting up in the bed and
casting a fearful look at the priest. “Your brother’s trying to kill me.”

The constable paused, and frowned at his brother. “Is he still wrong in the
head?”

Erasmus gave Surman an embarrassed smile as he stepped to his brother’s side.
“I mentioned that the poultice I applied might have confused you a little. It’s
not that you’re—”

“Take me to Adelman,” cried Surman, grabbing Bertram’s arm. “I must speak
with him as a matter of urgency.” He gave a groan of exertion and climbed out of
the bed, hanging on to Bertram for support as he stood before them, trembling
and naked. “I’m surrounded by witches!” he cried, spraying spit into the
constable’s face. “You must get me out of here.”

“Calm yourself, Otto,” said Erasmus, trying to usher him back into the bed.

Surman batted him aside with surprising strength and looked at Bertram with
desperation in his rolling eyes. “I demand you take me to the Bull’s Head.
There’s a powerful enchantress at large in this region.” He slapped the hammer
on his hollow stomach. “Anyone who fails to assist me shall be considered an
accomplice.” He let go of the constable and managed to stand unaided as he
levelled a finger at him. “Are you going to help me, or should I consider you an
occultist too?”

Doubt flickered across Bertram’s simple face. He looked at his brother, but
Erasmus looked as anxious as he did. “Well, father,” he shrugged, “if you really
wish to leave, of course I’ll help. It’s just…” He looked at the bandages around
Surman’s shoulder. “Are you sure you’re strong enough?”

Surman swayed a little on his spindly legs as he turned towards Erasmus, who
was hovering nervously by the doorway. “I have my suspicions, priest,” he
snapped, “but fortunately for you, I have more important concerns at present.
Fetch me some clothes and let me leave immediately, and I will try and forget
your talk of ‘old gods’ for a little while.”