Tales of the Old World (119 page)

Seeing the knight’s fallen form beyond the doorway, the baron gave a cry of
grief and pulled his son tightly to him.

Face pressed into the baron’s tunic, Gregory’s muffled voice repeated the
same word over and over. Though the sadness was almost too much to bear, the
baron took comfort at the word. It was all he had left.

He pulled his son closer, rocking him gently, one hand cradling the back of
his head.

The same word, over and over.

“Father.”

“Amidst the perpetually dank and grotesque scenery of the City of the Damned,
they struggled for honour, coin and sport. But some, the nobler and more
righteous, struggled for greater causes…”

—Songs from the Eternal Struggle:
A History of Mordheim,
by Isabel Rojas

Captain Heinrich Gogol watched the fallen ratmen writhe in pain. They were
all around him, their furry forms beaten, twisted and bloodied. He was pleased
with that, despite having been knocked aside as well by the shock of the
priest’s soul spell. The warhammer strike in the middle of the battle had sent
ripples of righteous heat roiling across the charred ground, ending the fight,
but leaving a nasty ache in the captain’s bones. He rubbed his face harshly, ran
his fingers through his thinning black hair and climbed to his feet. He kicked
aside a ratman that had taken the brunt of the spell. “Many thanks,” Heinrich
said to the dying beast, then drove a boot heel into its burning throat.

Heinrich focused on a little shrew of a man a few yards away smiling with
confidence. The old priest hefted the warhammer in his skeletal hands as the
mighty weapon popped white with fire that singed the frayed edges of his brown
robe.

Heinrich sheathed his sword, adjusted his russet-leather surcoat, and joined
the priest. “That was a mighty prayer, Father,” he said, tempering his words.
“We thank you. But perhaps next time you can give us warning first?”

“My apologies, captain,” the priest said with a smile on his pale lips. “But
I had to move quickly. You were in trouble.”

“Nonsense,” said Heinrich sharply. “I had them right where I wanted—”

An agonising scream pierced the gloom. Somewhere out there amidst the
shattered ruins, Heinrich knew, flesh was being torn from bone. Muskets firing,
wolves howling, bats screeching, fires smouldering, smoke billowing. An endless
cacophony of rage and violence in the city that never slept, the city of damned
souls, the city of lost dreams, the city of night fire.

The city of Mordheim.

A chill fog blew in from the east and tugged at Heinrich’s thoughts. He
looked into the gaunt sky. The sun was setting below the grey spires of the
ruins on the western side of the city. Darkness called, and death gave no
quarter in the Mordheim night.

“Gunderic!”

A young man appeared before Heinrich, his white tunic and blue breeches
smeared with ratman gore. “Yes, captain?”

Heinrich handed him a blade. “Cut their throats.”

Gunderic nodded and set to work. Heinrich picked up the warhammer and handed
it to the priest who was slowly regaining his strength. “Let’s move quickly,
Father,” he said. “Broderick needs our help.”

They turned their attention to a guildhouse, whose walls were scorched black
and pockmarked by the comet blast that had destroyed the city years ago. Its
long, rectangular windows were covered in pine slats and thick hessian sheets.
Its entrance was a massive double-door archway, heavily reinforced with crates
and barrels and rotting meal sacks. High above the doors stood four stone
pinnacles whose sharp tips tore through the low passing clouds like claws
through flesh. The sight of those pinnacles gave Heinrich pause; they seemed to
waver dangerously in the gusting wind. Heinrich breathed deeply, found his
courage, and stepped forward.

The ratmen that they had just killed were nothing more than a small
detachment defending the building’s southern approach. What lay within was what
gave Heinrich concern, and the white scar on his left cheek itched. He had no
great desire to go inside, but do so he must.

“Let’s find the way in,” Heinrich said to Father. Young Gunderic joined them
and handed over the blade. “They’ve breathed their last, captain.”

Heinrich nodded. “You’re doing Sigmar’s work, lad. I’m glad you’re with us.”

The young man’s face glowed with appreciation, but Heinrich could not share
the joy. He hated bringing raw recruits into missions like this, very little
training, minimal preparation. Who knew when the fight was on, if newcomers
would live up to promise, or tuck tail and run? But live bodies were oftentimes
more important than skill. His last mission had cut their strength somewhat, and
the idea of facing such a plentiful foe with only five or six swords was
madness.
Well,
Heinrich said to himself,
he’ll learn as he goes, or
die trying.

Heinrich worked around the massive pile of rotting wood. As he searched for
an entrance, he reviewed the plan.

The rest of the men were with Broderick. Their objective was to tackle the
northern entrance of the guildhouse, while Heinrich, Father and Gunderic
approached from the south. The hope was that the ratmen would assume that the
threat lay with Broderick alone and that they would overlook a second danger.
With enough confusion, the beasts would panic and make mistakes. The trick,
however, was to time the assaults carefully. If they moved into position too
early, the ratmen would smell out the trap; arrive too late, and Broderick and
company would be dead. But that would never happen. He and Broderick knew each
other’s moves instinctively, having fought together for years. “I am the
hammer,” Broderick would often say, “and you are the anvil, my friend. Between
us the iron bends.”

They’d been following this group of ratmen—or skaven—for days. Skirmish
after unending skirmish through the streets, up and down shifting mounds of
rubble, in and out of row after row of dilapidated storerooms, bars, bakeries,
and temples. And each engagement had ended the same: minor casualties on both
sides, with no conclusion. Heinrich wanted it to end, to pull out of this cursed
place, to reform, refit, take stock, catch a warm bath and a good meal. But not
until they had won; not until every last vermin they hunted was driven through
and planted in the cold ground.

But now their mission had taken on an even greater purpose. If what Broderick
claimed were true, if the skaven were in possession of Sigmar’s Heart, then the
only outcome of this rolling battle
must
be victory… victory for the
group, victory for the Empire, and victory for Sigmar.

“Look here, captain,” Father said, pointing to a loose crate in the side of
the pile. Heinrich knelt down, pulled away the crate and revealed a small, yet
passable, entrance. “So this is how they get inside.” Heinrich drew his
crossbow. “Arm yourselves and follow me closely… and
quietly
.”

They crawled slowly through the gap in the rubbish. The light in the main
hall of the guildhouse was faint and it took a while for Heinrich’s eyes to
adjust. With a free hand, he pulled himself through the damaged door. The
sickening smell of fermented grain, wet fur and mouldy scat clung to the air and
Heinrich wrinkled his nose in defiance. There were also innumerable banterings
back and forth between unseen mouths. The ratmen were there just beyond the
shadows: mingling, scraping, spitting, snarling; one massive chaotic voice of
twisted humanity paying homage to their blasphemous god.

Heinrich pulled himself onto his knees. Father and Gunderic followed suit.
Before them, there stood a mountain of old barrels teetering on a lip of steps
that descended into the wide belly of the guildhouse. Through the gaps in the
barrels, Heinrich could see the angular motions of the ratmen as they mingled
about their tasks. He tried to count them, but could not get a proper number.
Perhaps two dozen, maybe more. The ceiling had collapsed, and pieces of the roof
lay in large chunks on the dirty floor. It was rare indeed for trees and bushes
to grow in the poisonous fold of Mordheim, but trees and bushes and thick
patches of ivy lay around the edges of the open floor, finding root in the
choice cracks and crevices near the walls. And Broderick was right in his
reconnaissance: piles of crates and barrels, broken furniture, old clothing,
chamber pots, armour and paintings and all the forgotten treasures of the city
had been hoarded here by the skaven over their years of scouring the ruins.

If time were convenient, Heinrich thought, it might be useful to look through
it all, take stock of the wonders therein, study it and learn about life in the
city before its great destruction. Like little windows into the past, each item
a discarded memory of someone who once walked the streets. Wisdom lay on that
floor, he knew, if one cared to look.

He put these thoughts from his mind and focused on the deadly space below.
Despite the ample floor space, there was little open surface. He smiled. A small
battle space was best for close in fighting. He rubbed the trigger of his
crossbow anxiously and looked beyond the ratmen to the narrow entranceway from
which Broderick would attack.

Yet Broderick had not made his entrance. Come on, Heinrich said to himself,
make your move. Surprise was slipping away. Any further delay and their position
would be sniffed out. Another nervous minute passed, and then he heard the long,
powerful howls of his warhounds, Bloodtooth and Witchkiller.

The floor erupted in violence. Squeals, howls, shrieks, shouts, swirling
steel and pelting rocks, as Broderick pressed the skaven at the northern
entrance. From his vantage point, Heinrich could see his men working their way
into the guildhouse. The warhounds took the lead, bounding into the mass of
ratmen and taking several down. Roland and Cuthbert followed closely, the spiked
balls of their morning stars swirling madly through the air. Both men modelled
themselves after flagellants, even going so far as to whip themselves for loss
of faith. But they were contrite enough in their devotion to Sigmar to keep it
quiet in public. It was exciting to see them in battle. They never disappointed.

Broderick and young Sebastian followed last, fighting off ratmen who were
dropping down from atop the huge walls of crates that lined the entrance.
Heinrich watched as Broderick swung his sword in answer to every leaping vermin,
slicing through bellies and chests in mid-flight. The skill and speed at which
he worked his sword was amazing even now, years after leaving the pit fights,
and Heinrich felt a great pride.
Push them, Broderick. Push them hard. Show
them how Reiklanders fight.

Father glared at his captain. “Let’s go, let’s go!” he hissed. Again, the
priest’s warhammer, hanging from a white sash at his waist, glowed with magical
zeal.

Heinrich smiled and counted off three fingers. “Now!”

They stood and moved closer to the barrels, each taking positions adequate
for firing. Heinrich looked down onto the floor. A mass of fur, claws, clubs,
blades and spears swayed back and forth, as men and beast fought to hold their
ground. Though the moment wasn’t dire, Heinrich knew that Broderick could not
hold forever.

He clipped his crossbow to his belt and unholstered his pistol. He leaned out
from behind the barrels, aimed carefully into the melee and pulled the trigger.
A flash of powder and a mighty
crack!
rang through the space, as two
skaven fell dead. For a moment, the enemy was confused as they reconciled to the
danger behind them. This gave Broderick and crew time to regroup.

Gunderic and Father sent their missiles into the fray. Volleys of rocks
peppered the barrels before them, as ratmen slingers turned away from the main
attack to focus on the new threat. Heinrich dropped behind the wall of barrels
again, holstered his smoking pistol and drew his sword.

He crouched in cover and noticed that Father and Gunderic had repositioned
themselves about ten yards to his right, back to back. They were surrounded by a
horde of rats clawing over themselves to sink their fangs. Heinrich had not seen
any rats of the four-legged variety on the guildhouse floor; they must have come
from holes and tunnels around the walls when they had heard the terrified
shrieks of their masters. He cursed himself for not anticipating this problem.
He knew better. Ratmen never moved without a horde of rats. And why hadn’t
Broderick mentioned them in his scouting report?

Swamped, Father wielded his hammer like a man possessed, swinging at every
snout that came too close. As each hammer strike found meat, a comet of blood,
bone, and fur flew through the air. And yet they kept coming. Gunderic tried
desperately to hold his position, but his short sword was no match for the
swarm, and some of the creatures had reached his legs. Heinrich winced as he saw
blood marks streak the young man’s legs. He wanted to help, but he had more
pressing concerns. If he stood up now, those slingers would most certainly pound
him to death. He needed to create a diversion to throw them back.

He found one. With a mighty lunge, Heinrich slammed into the barrels. They
teetered then tumbled down the steps, cracking and tearing apart like an
avalanche of ice. He followed closely behind, using the barrels as a shield
against the shower of stones. The slingers fell back as the barrels struck the
guildhouse floor and bounced like dice. Heinrich locked his eyes on the closest
ratman and swung his sword into the rib cage and lifted the beast off the floor.
The impetus of the blow, however, put him on uneven feet, and before he could
leverage his stance, three skaven pounced.

Heinrich could feel claws on his back, ripping through his surcoat and tunic
like razors. Another beast stabbed at him with a dagger gripped in its tail; the
blade swiped across the Reiklander’s face, inches from his eyes. A third was
hitting him on the legs with a club. Heinrich didn’t want to lose his sword, but
he had no choice.