Tales of the Old World (120 page)

Dropping the sword, he quickly grabbed the blade-wielding tail, brought it to
his mouth, and bit hard. Noxious blood filled his mouth as the ratman let out an
agonising screech, dropped its blade, and fell back. That problem solved,
Heinrich took his knife and slashed out against the ratman at his legs. But the
one on his back grabbed his arm and held it firm.

Heinrich howled and twisted, trying to loosen the beast’s grip. He could feel
the steam of the creature’s vile breath on his neck and its snout pushing into
his nape to set its teeth. But as the first fang made its mark, the ratman was
rudely yanked away. Heinrich looked down and saw Bloodtooth tearing into its
throat.

Turning his attention to the third assailant, Heinrich raised his dagger and
stabbed down, aiming for its back, but before steel found its mark, a crossbow
bolt pierced its side. But Heinrich could not stop the impetus of the blade, and
it hit the ground and snapped at the hilt. He scowled and looked into the
direction of the bolt. Broderick stood close, grinning and holding a spent
crossbow.

“You owe me a knife!” Heinrich shouted.

Broderick nodded. “A small price to pay.”

Heinrich retrieved his sword and he and Broderick stood back to back,
circling slowly. “Where did all the rats come from,
friend?”
Heinrich
yelled. “Did you not see them on your reconnaissance?”

“What are you talking about?” Broderick asked, catching a ratman with a swift
jab of his sword blade.

“The rats that have taken two of our men out of the battle,” he said, driving
the pommel of his sword into a nearby throat. “Father and Gunderic are fighting
for their lives.”

“Aren’t we all,” Broderick snapped back. “What do you want me to do about
it?”

“Get us out of this mess.”

“Just shut up,” Broderick said, twisting his body to the left to block a
ratman from jumping on Heinrich’s back, “and fight!”

That ended the argument. Through the constant slash of blades and teeth,
Heinrich fought to keep his balance. Fighting they were, and valiantly too, but
the advantage gained from their initial assault was slipping away. Cuthbert was
down, fending off attacks with bare arms, and Witchkiller, though still in the
fight, was slowing, her chest a swirl of deep red cuts. Unless a miracle
happened, they would never get out of the building alive.

And then as if Sigmar were listening, a flight of arrows flew into the melee
and felled several ratmen. The missiles came through gaps in the boarded windows
on the sides of the building. Then came powerful shouts as five strange men,
attired in richly coloured doublets and tunics, rushed through the northern
entrance and gave battle to the enemy. Heinrich stood confused as he tried to
make sense of the intruders. What was going on? Who were these men? He turned
and looked at Broderick, whose eyes were also seeking answers.

“What is this?” Heinrich asked.

But before he could answer, Broderick’s chest exploded in a cloud of green
powder and blood. A thunderous roar consumed the space and Heinrich was knocked
aside. The crack of the shot rang soundly in his ears as he struggled to stand.
He could feel the sting of powder in his eyes and taste it on his tongue. He
wiped away the pain and looked at his feet. Broderick lay face down, a black
hole in his mangled back, a green mist rising out of the wound as blood pooled
around him on the floor. Heinrich knew immediately what had caused the mortal
blow.

Warplock pistol.

And just as quickly as it had begun, the battle was over, as the ratmen
scrambled for exits. Despite having gained the advantage, the arrival of
additional mercenaries were an unwelcome surprise and in seconds, the enemy was
gone; all except one lone vermin, standing at the top of the steps leading to
the doorway from which Heinrich had entered. Dazed, Heinrich leaned on his sword
and stared madly into the beast’s foaming maw. It was the white one he had asked
Broderick about right before the attack, the one supposedly in possession of the
Heart of Sigmar. Its white fur was caked with muddy gore, its chest, shins, and
snout wrapped in light leather armour, arms exposed. Warped by Chaos, the
creature possessed two tails that tightly clutched two sacks glowing green with
wyrdstone, and it waved the sacks in the air. In its left hand was the warplock
pistol, smouldering from the shot.

Rage shook Heinrich’s body. His heart pounded, his chest heaved as he girded
his strength.
You twisted offal,
he screamed silently into the face of
the white monster.
You killed my friend.

As if it understood, the ratman chittered wildly and waved its free hand at
the captain. Foaming spit flew from its black lips as it bared its fangs in
defiance. Heinrich rushed forward, raising his sword to strike. But it was too
late. As he reached the first step, the pale-furred skaven leaped backwards and
vanished in the shadows.

An arm blocked Heinrich from going further. “Easy, sir,” said an unfamiliar
voice. “It’s over.”

Heinrich pulled away from the arm, swung around, and drove the hilt of his
sword into the sternum of the man. The man fell down, gasping and clutching his
stomach. Heinrich stood over the body of one of the strangers that had
interrupted the fight. “Step back!” Heinrich said. But as he stepped away, the
man drove his leg into the back of Heinrich’s knees, bringing him down. The man
followed up with a swift chop to the neck.

“I’d show a little more respect for one that has just saved your life,” the
man said, regaining his feet and drawing two poniards from under his cloak.

Heinrich winced against the pain of the blow, rolled over, raised his
crossbow and aimed it at the forehead of the man. The man was very tall,
sporting a dark complexion, shaved head, goatee and a gold earring in his right
earlobe. He wore chestnut-coloured pantaloons and a gold tunic. A tiger fur
cloak was draped over his shoulders and clipped at his neck. Black boots with
silver points. He wasn’t from the Empire.

The man was anxious but steady, like a wild fox, holding his ground but ready
to strike at a moment’s notice.

“Respect for you?” Heinrich said, holding the crossbow steady. “And what gave
you the right to intrude on my mission?”

“Your mission?” said the man. “We’ve been tracking these ratmen for days. The
trail led us here. And it looked like you needed help.”

“We were doing fine on our own, stranger,” said Heinrich. “We do not need
your charity.”

The man grunted. “I beg to differ. If we had not arrived when we did—”

“Broderick would still be alive!” Heinrich shouted.

The man grew silent and looked past Heinrich towards the still body drowning
in the pool of deep crimson. His face calmed. “Yes, perhaps so. That is
unfortunate. But let’s be rational. Without our intrusion, you might have
all
died.”

By this time, the men from both groups had gathered themselves and were
standing around their respective leaders, weapons drawn, eyes glaring at one
another over a thin, deadly space. The anger and distrust in the air was
palpable; one false move or word could start a brawl. But feeling secure with
his men at hand, Heinrich lowered his crossbow and stood. “Who are you?” he
asked calmly.

The man lowered his knives and tucked them back beneath his cloak. “I am
Captain Bernardo Rojas.”

“Where are you from?”

“Estalia.”

Heinrich winced in disgust. Estalia? That hot, mysterious land topped in
mountains, shrouded in mystery, and lying far to the west of the Empire. What
wicked wind had blown
this
infidel into town? “Ha!” he grunted and shook
his head. “An Estalian in Mordheim. Is that so? By the looks of your men,
however, I’d say you were from further south. I
am
having a bad day.”

“Scoff all you wish,” Bernardo said with eyes glaring, “but I will gladly pit
my men of Marienburg against your Reiklander dogs any time.”

Heinrich ignored the challenge and turned away. He went to Broderick, knelt
down, and held his hand above the deep wound. Hot. He leaned over and whispered
gently in Broderick’s ear, “I’m sorry, my friend. May Sigmar bless your soul.”

He rose and stretched his back carefully. Night was falling fast and he could
barely see his men through the shifting light and shadow. How many are left, he
wondered. “Father? How many have we lost?”

Father appeared at his side, shaken and exhausted. “Three dead, captain.
Young Gunderic and Sebastian, and Broderick. May Sigmar find them peaceful.
Cuthbert is alive but his arms are badly mauled. Witchkiller is wounded
severely. She may not last the night. I am well, as are Roland and Bloodtooth.”

“You don’t look well,” Heinrich said, pointing at scores of tiny bites
covering the priest’s arms and neck. The old man was stooped over, fighting for
air, his bald pate wet with cold sweat. The spells had taken their toll. “You’re
lucky to be alive.”

Father rubbed at the wounds. “Yes, captain. Lucky and cursed I would say.”

Father always said things that did not make sense, but Heinrich did not press
him further. He turned away and shook his head. Three dead. What a terrible
price to pay without even securing the prize for which they were fighting. He
barely had enough men to field. How would they get out of the city alive at
night while carrying their dead and wounded to safety?

As if reading his thoughts, the Estalian stepped forward. “May we be of
assistance?” he asked.

Heinrich turned and faced the stranger, uncertain of what to do or what to
think. “Haven’t you done enough already?”

“We lost a man too,” Bernardo said, ignoring the jab. “Young Gabriel fell
shortly after we engaged. We should work together to get out of this cursed
place, despite any misgivings we may have for one another. Night is falling. Let
us help each other.”

“No. No, I will not allow you to touch—”

“Heinrich,” Father interrupted, laying a hand on his captain’s shoulder.
“Please, let them help. We can’t do this alone, and we can’t leave anyone
behind.”

“Fine!” Heinrich snapped. He wanted to lash out and smack the old man across
the floor, but his words made sense.

“Captain?” Roland came forward, holding Bloodtooth by his massive chain. The
dog’s muzzle was soaked in ratman blood. “Should we not look for the Heart
before we leave?”

Heinrich shook his head. “No. It isn’t here.”

“But they may have dropped it in the battle. If we could just look through—”

“I said no!” Heinrich snapped. “The ratmen are vile creatures, but they are
not stupid. They know what we’re after. They would not be so casual with it.”

“What is this
Heart
you speak of?” the Estalian asked. “I do not
understand.”

“Good. Let’s keep it that way.” Heinrich did not try to hide his growing
irritation with this pointless discussion. Exhausted, he used his sword to
steady himself and wiped sweat from his brow. “Very well, Estalian. I accept
your offer, but that’s as far as it goes. When we reach the western gate, we
part company. We’ll bury our men alone. Understood?”

Bernardo nodded, a quizzical smile on his face.

“And one more thing.” Heinrich leaned in close, his nose nearly touching
Bernardo’s sharp beak. “Keep your hands off Broderick. He’s my responsibility.”

With that, they began preparing the dead and wounded as the Mordheim night
squeezed in.

The sun was rising in the east and driving away the fog. The air was still
and thick. It would be a humid day, Heinrich knew, and he felt comforted by the
cool of the stone pavilion in which he stood.

They were in the centre of a Garden of Morr. The garden lay within the moss
and ivy-choked ruins of a small keep that stood vigil on a modest hill on the
western side of Mordheim. The dead were laid naked on stone benches inside the
pavilion. Roland covered each body in turn with a white sheet, while Father,
holding a bowl of slow burning incense, whispered arcane prayers and moved among
the bodies. He stopped at each, dipped a small brush into the grey ash of the
incense fire, and then rubbed the pasty bristles across each warrior’s
clean-shaven, perfumed cheeks. He knelt down and kissed each lightly on the
brow, then covered their eyes with silk cloths.

Heinrich stood in sombre humility and watched the priest work. Few Reikland
mercenaries could claim their very own Sigmarite priest, but Heinrich considered
it a gift and did not tempt fate by thinking about it too often. The old man’s
full name was Elgin von Klaushammer, but the men fondly called him “Father” as
befitting his spiritual connections; and at times like this, he was an
invaluable servant to the team.

He looked into a dark corner of the pavilion where Cuthbert and Witchkiller
lay resting quietly, taking comfort in each other’s company. Their evening’s
wounds had not fully healed, but they had not got any worse. They would live,
praise Sigmar, but they would be laid up for a while. Heinrich pulled himself
straight, defying exhaustion. He was a leader after all and in times like this
he needed to show strength.

It was a tragic thing to lose men on campaign. How many burials had he
attended since his arrival in Mordheim? He could not remember. How many more
would he attend? It was a fool who did not expect to lose men in such an evil
place, but he had lost so
many
good men over the past few months. And now
Broderick, his best friend and confidant, was gone. Broderick had always been
there to help the group through their grief and to keep them focused. Where
Father conducted the ritual of burial, it was Broderick who placed purpose in
each death, extolling honour and dignity through his kind and simple words of
faith. Faith in Sigmar Heldenhammer, founder and patron saint of the Empire;
faith in the Grand Theogonist; faith in their mission. Heinrich looked down upon
the rigid form of his friend and whispered, “Goodbye Broderick. You were a good
man and a great warrior.”