Mark of Chaos (21 page)

The priest left the stable and ran across the courtyard. A handgun cracked and he felt a sharp sting as the shot grazed his thigh. Ignoring the pain, he reentered the kitchen. The smoke had almost dissipated. Gunthar quickly crossed the room and entered the chapel. Slamming the door, he helped the men block it with the heavy wooden pew.

'You're hit.' said Stefan, seeing the bolts still protruding from the warrior priest's chest. The big man grunted, and pulled the bolts from his flesh. 'Had worse,' he said, throwing them to the ground.

'My men? And the boy?' asked Stefan, reloading his pistols.

'Gone,' said the priest simply. The remaining soldiers within the chapel had taken up positions at the windows. They were firing sporadically out into the darkness with crossbows, bows and handguns.

'Here they come again!' shouted Albrecht, firing a crossbow out into the night. Stefan ran to a window as the man standing there slumped to the ground, a knife in his throat. Glancing out through the shutters, he saw a figure dart past, and fired his pistol at point-blank range. Smoke billowed from the weapon as it boomed.

'How many?' shouted the captain.

'I don't know. Too many,' came the reply from the sergeant.

'How is Piter, Gunthar?'

'Unconscious. His heartbeat is weak, but he'll live.' An axe slammed into the outside of the door leading to the kitchen, splintering the panels. The warrior priest stood with his warhammer in his hands, awaiting whatever was coming through. The axe slammed into the door again, and it was smashed to pieces. Stepping forwards, Gunthar slammed his hammer into the face of the first man. Two others leapt forwards, thrusting halberds through the doorway. Gunthar knocked them aside with a sweep of his hammer. Stefan was suddenly at his side. He unloaded his pistol into the face of one of the men, and stabbed forwards with his sword, slaying the other. It was then that he saw that they wore the purple and yellow of Ostermark state troops.

'Sigmar above.' he muttered. He was thrown aside by Gunthar as a pair of crossbow bolts streaked through the doorway. A handgun cracked and one of Stefan's men fell, the shot taking him in the back. A drift of snow dropped down into the chapel from above, and from the ground, Stefan looked up to see a pair of black-clad figures dropping from the high rafters. 'Behind us!' he shouted as the figures landed lightly in the middle of the room.

An arm flashed out, and one of the soldiers at a window collapsed, clutching at something embedded in the back of his neck. The two figures surveyed the room quickly, and their gaze snapped onto the prostrate figure of Piter. Moving simultaneously, they launched themselves through the melee, cart-wheeling over combatants and ducking beneath swinging swords. Stefan realised their target, and threw himself in between the two assailants and the fallen physician.

The captain lashed out with his sword at one of them. The figure swayed back, the blade passing within inches of its belly, and slashed out with its own weapons. It had long metal claws hooked over its hands, and it slashed at him like a rabid animal. One of the weapons scored a trio of bloody grazes across his arm, and he grunted in pain, defending frantically against the lightning-quick opponent. 'Albrecht!' he shouted. 'Protect Piter!'

The sergeant turned, and saw the other black-clad figure closing on the physician. Raising his heavy crossbow to his shoulder, he fired. The bolt shot across the room, aimed squarely at the small figure. As if sensing the approaching danger, the figure spun suddenly, a clawed hand flashing out to catch the bolt in mid air. It spun the bolt around its hand so that it held it point downwards, like a dagger, and stabbed it down into the eye of the unconscious physician, killing him instantly.

A massive hand descended on the crouching killer, grasping it around its scrawny neck. Gunthar raised the struggling creature high in the air and smashed its head against the doorframe. It went limp in his hands, and he threw it to the ground disdainfully.

Stefan was frantically defending himself against the other assassin, barely managing to keep the flashing claws at bay. He received another wound, three claws scratching across his thigh, and he stepped back, growling in pain. The black-clad figure leapt into the air, jumping to the sculptured top of one of the windows, some ten feet up. With another leap, it was amongst the rafters, and then it was gone.

Stefan knelt beside the assassin that Gunthar had slain, peeling back the black bandages that concealed its long face. Beneath was dirty, matted fur filled with lice, and he thought for a second that it was some bizarre mask, but it wasn't. The creature had a long face, ending in a black nose covered in tattered whiskers. Its mouth was open, exposing long teeth, cracked and dirty, and a purplish tongue hanging limply from the side of is mouth. One of its eyes was pale and pus-ridden. The creature was covered in open, weeping sores, and it stank like a rotten corpse.

'Shallya protect us all,' said Albrecht, covering his mouth. 'It's some kind of beastman.'

'Skaven,' said Stefan.

Another of Stefan's men by the windows fell, an arrow through his neck. A flaming brand was thrown through the window, arcing end over end and coming to a rest on the floor. More flaming brands were hurled within the structure, and there were thumps on the roof as others landed there.

'We have to get out of here.' roared Stefan. 'To the horses!' Gunthar led the charge through the door into the kitchen, leaping over the upended pew. There were two men in the room, one frantically reloading a crossbow, and the other armed with a halberd. The weapon was too big to use well in the enclosed space, and Gunthar ploughed into him with his shoulder, driving him back into the wall.

The crossbowman dropped his weapon and drew out a small dagger, intending to stab it into the warrior priest's neck. He never got the chance. Albrecht's sword pierced his chest and he fell to the ground. The sergeant spat on the fallen man.

Gunthar nodded his thanks, rising to his feet. The man he had charged into was motionless, his eyes blank and staring, his back snapped.

'Shields at the ready!' shouted Stefan, ushering his soldiers out into the courtyard. Several crossbow bolts slammed into the raised shields. Again, a handgun sounded, and one of the soldiers fell without a sound. With a curse, Stefan wrenched the shield from the dead man, and the remaining soldiers raced into the stables.

'Two crossbowmen, one handgunner. He's the dangerous one.' said Gunthar. 'He's positioned up behind the big rock on the rise, fifty yards back. A damn good shot, as well.'

'I'll go.' said one of the soldiers. It was Wilhelm, the scout that had found the chapel. 'I know where he means.'

'I'll go with you.' said Albrecht. Stefan nodded, and the two men raced out into the courtyard, ducking and weaving. A crossbow bolt slammed into the snow-covered cobbles at their feet before they ducked around the corner of the building, running for the trees.

'Ready the horses.' commanded Stefan. 'You can ride?' he asked Gunthar. The massive man screwed up his blood-spattered face.

'Can't say I have a fondness for it, but aye, I can ride.'

Karl reloaded his
Hochland longrifle quickly and efficiently. He had owned the weapon for almost a decade, and he
knew it like he knew no other thing in the entire world. He cared for it more than he cared for his wife, his friends
would joke, but it was true, and she knew it. Its range and accuracy were unlike any other weapon's he had ever held. Twice he had won the marksman trophy within the army of Ostermark. He had received his prize from the grand elector himself - a golden pin showing a grinning skull with a laurel around its head and a musket ball between its teeth. Not that he owned it still -
it had been sold long ago for expensive ale and cheap women.

Raising the weapon to his shoulder once again, he sighted along its long barrel. The courtyard was empty, but he knew that the traitors were still cowering in the stable, and that they had to come out at some point. He didn't care - he was a patient man. He could wait.

Two of them had fled a few minutes ago, but he had been reloading at the time, and had missed the shot. It mattered not - the one he was truly interested in was still inside the stable - the massive heretic priest. He had been annoyed with himself for missing his chances so far. He should have killed him when he had run across the courtyard below, but his shot had deviated, barely scraping his leg. The other shot was a long shot, through two open doorways, and he had not been surprised when it had missed its mark. Still, it had taken down one of the rebel men of Ostermark, so it was not all bad.

His breathing was slow and measured, as was required for a marksman. He could see around a score of men approaching the stables, crouched low, swords and halberds in hand. One was slain as he watched, an arrow through his chest. The chapel was blazing, consumed with flames. He squinted along the long barrel, his breathing pausing as he saw movement. A soldier stuck his head out from the stable. Stupid of him, thought Karl as he pulled the trigger. He saw the man fall, and the spray of blood splatter across the snow. Quickly and methodically, he reloaded again, and took up his position once more.

'Come on, priest.' he whispered to himself. There was a price on the man's head, set by the grand count himself. It was enough for a man to retire with, and that was exactly what Karl planned to do. Buy an inn, and spend his years hunting for game, that was what he wanted to do. His wife wouldn't care that he wasn't around much, she was used to that, but he knew she would be happier knowing that the father of her children was a soldier no longer. He had no real desire to remain in the army. He had done his bit for Ostermark and the Empire, and if he could just manage to kill the priest, that would be it.

He knew that there were less than half a dozen men in the stables, and the crouching men were drawing ever closer to it. They fanned out to encircle it. One of them fell to the ground, his face blown away by a pistol shot. Still, those inside the stable were horribly outnumbered. They would have to make a break for it any second, probably on horseback. That was what Karl was waiting for. He was confident that he could take down the priest, but he would get no prize if those others got to him first. 'Come on.' he whispered to himself.

Killing greenskins or marauders in the north was one thing, but gunning down fellow men of the Empire made him uncomfortable. It went against everything within him to pull the trigger and kill men wearing the purple and yellow, but he reminded himself that these were Chaos-worshipping heretics, and no longer men of Ostermark, spreaders of plague, lies and deceit, and the priest was the worst of the lot. He had condemned himself. How a man could betray his own, he knew not.

Karl had seen the small, dark-clad figures moving below. They moved silently, and so fast that they barely seemed human at all. Daemonic allies of the priest, perhaps? He tried to push them from his mind.

Karl heard a sound behind him, a twig cracking underfoot. One of the clumsy crossbowmen, he thought. They were hopeless. He could never live with himself if one of those dullards managed to bag the priest instead of him. Ignoring the sound, he concentrated on the stable.

Suddenly there was a knife at his throat. 'Nice gun, you Chaos-worshipping scum,' came a hoarse whisper, and the knife slashed open his throat. A hand held him down as he thrashed around in the snow, turning it red with his blood.

Wilhelm held the man until he lay still. He wiped his knife on the purple and yellow tabard of the marksman, and looked up at Albrecht. The sergeant pointed down the slope, indicating silently that there were two men there. Wilhelm motioned for Albrecht to stay where he was, and slunk off down the slope, his body crouched low, moving like a hunting cat. Albrecht shrugged, and sat down in the snow, hefting the dead man's longrifle. Expensive things, he mused, noting the detailed engraving work up the barrel and the gold worked into the heavy stock. He wondered how much the engineer, Markus, would pay for it.

Wilhelm returned moments later, his hunting knife dripping with blood. 'Done?' asked Albrecht.

'Aye, 'tis done,' said the man. The pair of men ran down through the snow to aid their captain.

Kicking his steed
forwards, Stefan galloped from the stables. A pair of men who had crept right up to the stable entrance thrust halberds at him, and he swayed back in the saddle, almost falling. His steed reared, kicking out with flashing hooves. One of the men thrust forwards, burying the point of his halberd in the chest of the horse. It screamed and fell to the ground, kicking. Stefan, swearing, landed heavily. A halberd flashed towards him, but it was knocked into the ground by a sweeping blow from a warhammer. The priest reversed his strike, and crashed his hammer into the soldier's jaw, smashing it to pieces an,d sending the man flying through the air.

'And you were asking if
I
could ride?' he commented gruffly, just before smashing his hammer into the shoulder of the other soldier. The man's arm went limp, and he dropped his weapon. He was dispatched by a crushing blow to his head.

The captain was helped to his feet by a soldier, and he brushed himself down. There were nine men arrayed against them. 'Die, traitor,' one of them yelled out, running at the big priest with sword drawn. The priest caught his assailant's sword on the haft of his warhammer, and drove his knee up powerfully into the man's groin, buckling him. He slammed the handle of his hammer down onto the man's neck. Placing his foot up on the man's back, he raised his hammer high into the air, his voice booming out with power and authority.

'You have been duped, men of Ostermark! It is not I, nor these men who are the traitors, but your lord and master, the Grand Count Otto Gruber! I am a priest of our Lord Sigmar! Look who it is that stands beside me!'

The men looked at each other nervously. 'Von Kessel?' one of them called out, unsure of himself.

'Aye it is me, man,' growled the captain. 'Throw down your weapons. We are not your enemies.'