Tales of the Old World (47 page)

This time it was Markus who laughed coldly, shaking his head in disbelief.
“Sigmar watches over his faithful followers; he loves them now as he loved them
in life. Of course it is Sigmar who has spared me from death. My soul is pure.
Your loathsome gods have no hold on me.”

The warrior laughed in mockery and stood up, wiping the filth from his armour
with a rag torn from a corpse’s jerkin. Markus ignored the disbelieving look
directed at him.

“Sigmar provides my life and soul with every contentment they desire,” he
spluttered bravely. “There is nothing I want from your dark masters.”

The stranger moved across to Alayma’s corpse, kicking at the rats that
scurried underfoot. With a sweeping gesture, the Chaos warrior unhooked his dark
blue cloak and laid it across the wide curve of the dead horse’s body. After
smoothing out a few creases, he sat down on the carcass, causing it to shift
slightly and send more pain roaring along Markus’ leg. The priest gasped. When
his tear-misted eyes focused on the warrior once more, the strangely armoured
man was still staring straight at Markus, with the same amused, almost playful
look in his eyes, his mouth twisted in a slightly crooked smile.

“Did that hurt?” he said in a low voice. “Or did mighty Sigmar prevent your
mind exploding with agony for a moment? They say pain focuses one’s mind. In my
long experience, however, I have found pain to be a constant distraction,
whether in the suffering or the infliction. You say your soul is pure—yet you
have had doubts, no?”

Markus shifted uneasily, trying not to move his leg. As he looked away from
the warrior’s constant stare, the man laughed shortly, an unpleasant noise like
the yap of a small dog.

“Was it pain or guilt that averted your gaze from mine?” the Chaos warrior
continued smoothly. “I once heard a philosopher say that life was a constant
series of questions, with each answer merely leading to more questions, and only
death provided the final answer to which there were no more questions.” The
warrior paused and his brow briefly knitted in thought.

“Jacques Viereaux of Brionnes, I think.” He waved a dismissive hand. “It
doesn’t matter. I have many such questions, and I expect you have even more.
Shall we live a little, and exchange our questions for yet a little more of
life? How come you here, Sir Priest? You are ageing. Nearing forty? Why would a
slightly overweight, peaceful priest be found lying as a casualty on this
forsaken field? What brought you forth from your shiny temple?”

Markus was confused; the stranger’s words were baffling his pain-numbed mind.
Gritting his teeth, he felt compelled to ask the questions burning in his mind.
“Just who are you, foul-spawned deviant? Why not kill me now? What do you want
with me?”

The warrior’s eyes almost glowed with triumph, the setting sun reflected in
those dark orbs. “Now you see! Questions and answers, answers and questions!
This is life!” The warrior laughed again, slapping his hands on his knees. He
calmed himself and his face took on a veneer of sincerity. “I am called Estebar.
My followers know me as the Master of Slaughter, and I have a Dark Name which
you would not be able to pronounce, so ‘Estebar’ will suffice. As for my being
here? I have come for your soul!”

“Lord Sigmar, Father of the Empire, Shield of Mankind, protect me from evil…”
That chilling horror Markus had felt when first seeing Estebar returned with
even greater strength and he whispered a prayer to Sigmar, asking for guidance
again and again.

As the desperate litany spilled from the priest’s lips, the warrior bent
closer, his voice a savage whisper.

“Your god will not hear you.” His arm swept back, taking in the expansion of
death and destruction that spread for miles in every direction. “Around this
battlefield, my masters laugh and scream in triumph. The Dark Gods’ power is
strong here and your prayers will go unanswered. If you want salvation, you had
best ask for it of other entities than your weak lord.”

Markus tried to spit in disgust, but the thin dribble of saliva merely
dripped down his chin, making him feel foolish rather than defiant. “I would
rather be torn apart by wild creatures than to ask your insane gods for aid. If
that is the best you have to offer, I think my soul is very safe. Just strike me
down now, and stop wasting my time!”

“Strike you down? As you wish!”

Estebar stood up abruptly, unsheathing his sword and holding it high in one
clean motion. Markus flinched involuntarily and shrank back from its glowing
blade. The Chaos warrior appeared to be scowling and his dark eyes burned
intensely.

“See, you still want life!” Estebar sighed as he lowered the sword slowly,
then slid it back carefully into its black sheath. “You have not the conviction
you would like to believe you possess. I would not strike you down, you who I
barely know and yet who intrigues me so much.” He shook his head and fixed
Markus with a twisted grin. “Your faith is uncertain, so what makes you think
you really have Sigmar’s protection?”

“My faith is certain; be sure of that, hellspawn!”

Markus surprised himself with the vehemence of his words. The priest wanted
this strange conversation to end. This was not the threat of Chaos he had been
brought up, and then taught, to fight. How could one fight an enemy who tried to
defeat you with words alone, spoken by a voice which seemed to hover inside
one’s very mind. Markus did not want to answer Estebar’s inquiry, but the
warrior’s voice seemed to reach into his head and pull the answers from his
lips.

“Sigmar has saved me before,” Markus started before he knew what he was
saying, his eyes glinting with defiance. Estebar looked at him quizzically, one
eyebrow raised. That one simple gesture seemed to have a world of meaning and
Markus felt a tug at his consciousness, pulling the story from the depths of his
memory.

“I grew up in a small village near to the World’s Edge Mountains. I was the
son of a miller and fully believed that I would continue running the mill after
he was dead or retired.” Markus’ eyes were drawn to Estebar’s. Those midnight
orbs were like a bottomless gulf, pulling everything into them, sucking Markus
ever deeper. The words came tumbling from the priest’s mouth, despair
overwhelming his heavy heart.

“Then one day, in the spring, the beastmen came. They attacked without
warning: the militia had no time to assemble. I saw my father and younger
brother cut down by their wicked blades, and I watched as they chased my mother
and sister into the foothills. I had been delivering our monthly tithe of flour,
four half-sacks of the finest, to the shrine of Sigmar when they stormed out of
the dark forests. They did not enter the shrine—they couldn’t, it was too holy
a place for their kind—but they had other plans. They were clever; they
brought torches and stole oil from the store house and set light to the chapel
while we were still inside.”

Markus’ voice cracked and tears welled up in his eyes at the memory. The
other man’s black orbs continued to stare intently, as if sucking the
information out of Markus. Wiping the tears from his bloodstained cheeks, the
priest felt compelled to continue.

“The old priest, Franko, soon fell to the smoke and fumes and I hid in the
crypt. The smoke and flames followed me, though, and I thought I was trapped and
would certainly die. Even if I could get past the flames the beastmen would cut
me down as soon as they saw me. Then another’s voice was in my head, talking to
me. It was Sigmar, you see,” Markus insisted, “guiding me, directing me, telling
me an escape route. One of the tombs was false; pressing a hidden lever I opened
the secret doorway within and stumbled down a long tunnel which took me away
from the village.”

Estebar’s face was a blank mask, but the priest pressed on in eager
confession. “When I hit the open air again I ran and ran, and almost died of
exhaustion before I came to the count’s castle. He sent an army of his men to
harry the foul raiders while his daughter tended to my health. She was sweet and
I would have loved her… had I not heard another’s calling even stronger.”

Markus remembered that feeling, of salvation from the flames, and how his own
faith had been fanned from a flickering spark into the raging fire of belief.
Looking at Estebar he felt his fears subsiding.

“From that day on I swore I would return Sigmar’s grace. I took up the robe
and hammer in his name. That is the root of my faith and though I may flinch at
your blows, it is still strong enough to thwart your masters.”

Markus stared at the dark warrior, the defiance rekindled in his eyes,
expecting some petty retort that would seek to belittle his convictions again.
None came. Estebar sat looking thoughtful for a moment, his hand toying absently
with the sculpted pommel of his sword. The warrior looked around him again at
the carnage, then cocked his head to one side a moment before the howl of
wolves, closer this time, echoed through the heavy air. He looked to the west
and frowned.

“Sundown is nearly upon us, and the time is fast approaching. Shall I tell
you of saviours and debts? Of divine deliverance and holy missions?”

As he saw the longing in the Chaos warrior’s eyes, Markus’ lips formed a
sneer. “I do not need to hear your tale of treachery and weakness. You are less
than nothing to me!”

Estebar waved dismissively, as if Markus was little more than an irritating
insect, and sighed. “Whatever.” He looked up at the rapidly darkening sky, his
memory lost in a dim, distant time.

“My faith started much younger than yours, and I had not the choice you were
offered. I was the eldest son of a wealthy merchant family in Nuln. I had a good
education, lots of friends and powerful allies, and all this before I had seen
fifteen summers! Life was good—probably too good, my later experiences have
taught me. Chaos was the bane of my family too. I can see why you were brought
to me now; we have at least that much in common. Behind the strong walls of Nuln
we were safe from marauding beastmen, but another peril, one much more loathsome
and insidious, awaited us.”

The warrior’s dark eyes were sad, though a faint glimmer of a smile played
about his lips for a moment and then faded. He sat down on Alayma again, more
gently this time, and stared at the ground. Absentmindedly, he began to pull off
his heavy gauntlets.

“A cult, dedicated to the Lord of Pleasure, enticed us into a trap. For all
we knew, it was just another magnificent party, another event in a busy social
calendar. However, they locked the doors after we had entered, and then the
sacrifices began. I will not say what perverse fascinations went on there, for
it would take too long and I have no wish to be found alone on this field when
the stalkers of the night come running. However, let me say simply that one by
one the guests were sacrificed to Slaanesh, until only a few of us, the
youngest, remained. Obviously we were highly prized. Fate had other plans for
me, though, and when the Reiksguard broke down the doors and smashed through the
windows I thought I was saved. They slew the cultists and freed us, but I was
never truly free again.”

The Chaos warrior fell silent for a moment, his gaze fixed on the withered,
blood-soaked grass between his boots. Then he gave Markus a crooked smile.

“Slaanesh, Prince of Chaos, had already caught my soul without even asking
for it! The warpstone incense burnt during the long ceremony took a grip on me.
Slowly at first, I remember, my senses grew more powerful. I could see minute
details on plants and animals, I could hear the whispers of my neighbours like
the thunderclaps of a storm and the feel of the silken clothes in my wardrobe
against my skin approached ecstasy.” Estebar stroked a hand through dead
Alayma’s flowing mane and shuddered, his lip quivering and his eyes rolled up
for a moment. Then he snatched his hand back, as if taking control of himself,
and his eyes narrowed dangerously.

Markus could see that the memories were not as pleasant as Estebar would like
him to believe. Who could tell how much the young man had endured,
half-possessed by an ancient, evil god, forced to follow the ways of darkness.
Perhaps, Markus considered, Estebar was longing for an end to his curse. Mind
whirling, the priest started formulating a plan that would save them both from
damnation.

“There is no need for this agony to continue. Come with me and I will teach
you the old path of Faith. You will learn again what it means to have your
freedom,” he insisted.

Estebar did not seem to hear or want to listen; he was wholly wrapped up in
his own past. Regaining his composure, he carried on with his tale.

“That was not all. My mind expanded also, giving me a prescience, a foresight
into the future. Combined with everything else, my life was full of pleasure. I
endured the moment to every extent and could see the later pleasures that would
follow at the same time. I wasted these skills at first, taking pleasure in
women and feasting and drinking. I used my foresight to amass a fortune at the
gambling tables. When the rich society had been exhausted, a conquest of perhaps
seven or eight years, I looked to lower quarters for my entertainment. Slaanesh
had me in its grip and every night for years I frequented the dockside taverns,
challenging death with cut-throats and other scum for the sheer excitement and
rush of blood.” The Chaos warrior sighed again. “Then suddenly I was bored
again. A wanderlust filled me, and I travelled wide, revelling in every new
experience; a night under the stars, the feel of a hearty farmhouse daughter,
the taste of exotic foods. Slowly, but with a subtle determination, I made my
way northwards, through Kislev, and a few elegant dances at the Tzarina’s court,
up into the Troll country, ever onwards to the realm of the Lost and the Damned.
I was Slaanesh’s pawn and loved it. I travelled those nightmare regions until I
stood before the Great Gate itself and begged Slaanesh to allow me to enter into
the beautiful paradise that lies beyond.” Estebar looked up, his face made of
steel. “I was flung back far, scorned and ridiculed for my impudence. Entrance
into that plane was not to be given lightly. I would have to buy my way in.”