Tales of the Old World (121 page)

Heinrich turned and let Father’s prayers drift from his mind. He looked
towards the freshly dug graves waiting nearby. He felt sorry for the families of
the men he would bury today. They would never know the fate of their kin, and
what a terrible burden to bear. Some would consider it blasphemous to bury them
within sight and sound of the Eternal Struggle, but it was better than leaving
them to rot amidst the ruins. At least they were receiving some dignity and
respect with a simple ceremony.

Heinrich placed his hand on the hilt of his sword. He looked beyond the
garden to an observation tower. The aged, crumbling stone structure had stood
for centuries as one corner of the keep but was now, in its twilight, used to
view the city. He and Broderick had climbed the steps of the tower many times.
They had looked down upon the desolation and tried to imagine what it might have
been like on that fateful day in 1999, five years ago when the twin-tailed comet
of Sigmar slammed into the city and eradicated the evil that had gathered.

In his weaker moments, Heinrich would wonder why the Warrior God had allowed
Mordheim to survive at all, why he had allowed it to rise from its own grave.
Why fill it with that cursed wyrdstone, a currency so valued, so prized that it
called thousands into its seedy streets who would kill to possess it? At the top
of the tower, Broderick would always answer, “It is a warning and a test. I
believe Sigmar allowed Mordheim to endure so as to remind us of the fine line
between order and Chaos. Mordheim is a monument to that thin space between good
and evil, and all the other cities of the Empire should look upon its devastation
with fear and remember that they too could suffer the same fate if they so
choose to fall into darkness.”

“And what of wyrdstone, then?” Heinrich would ask, pressing the issue. “Why
would Sigmar fill its streets with that awful temptation?”

“Again, it’s a test. Men imbued with both good and bad intentions come here
to seek it. What they do with it after they’ve found it is the test.”

“Have we passed the test, my friend?”

Broderick would smile and say, “Well, I don’t know about you, but my heart is
pure.”

They would laugh at that and go on discussing issues throughout the night.
What is the true nature of Chaos? Of order? Will the provinces of the Empire
ever unite under Siegfried, the Grand Prince of Reikland? In the end, Heinrich
would allow Broderick to have the last word, for his faith was that of a
child’s. Heinrich always looked to his friend for spiritual guidance, clarity of
thought and consistency of purpose. With Broderick now gone, who would he rely
now on to provide that clarity?

“Am I disturbing you?”

It was the voice of the Estalian. Heinrich swung around to face the strange
man, his heart leaped into his throat as he considered drawing his sword, but he
held steady. “What are you doing here, Estalian? Don’t you have a fallen sword
to care for?”

“I have already buried young Gabriel,” Bernardo said, “but I must speak with
you now, before it is too late.”

“You are from a strange, undisciplined land,” Heinrich whispered. “You are
obviously unaware of the dishonour you’ve brought to me and mine by interrupting
this service.”

Bernardo pulled up close, his eyes sparkling with agitation. “I’m well aware
of the sanctity of your burial service, sir, but what I have to discuss with you
gives
respect
to those we bury today. Speak with me in private.”

Gritting his teeth, Heinrich grabbed the fringe of the Estalian’s tiger cloak
and pulled him away. “Very well. Follow me.”

They walked through the garden and up to the observation tower. Heinrich
climbed the wooden steps, carefully placing his boots into the worn places on
the planks. “I suggest you place your feet as I do, Estalian, lest you snap a
plank and fall to your death.” Bernardo followed as directed.

At the top, they stood side-by-side and stared down at the mangled sprawl.
Several minutes passed in silence. Heinrich spoke first. “How long have you been
in Mordheim, Estalian?”

“Not very long,” Bernardo said. “Going on seven days now perhaps.”

Heinrich grunted. “Then you are still clean and unfettered, I see. I’ve been
here all of six months, and I’m already losing myself in its cesspool. I hate it
and I love it. Does that make sense to you?”

Before Bernardo could respond, Heinrich continued. “Broderick and I came up
through the pits together, bare-chested fighters for gold and drama. A young man
en route to Ostermark, I was captured by brigands and sold off like chattel. I
thought I would die in those pits. Broderick saved me. He spoke about Sigmar and
gave me purpose to fight on. We bought our freedom and set off for Altdorf to
find our lives and to worship the Warrior God. And when we were ready, we set
off for Mordheim to do good deeds for the Empire. But it wasn’t supposed to end
like this. Broderick wasn’t supposed to die.”

Heinrich paused for a long moment, then said, “Right before he fell, I argued
with Broderick for not spotting the rat horde that appeared in the guildhouse
and cut our band in two. I blamed it all on him, but it was my fault. I should
have known better, anticipated it. It’s my fault Broderick’s dead. All my
fault…”

“Why speak these things?” Bernardo said. He tried to lay a hand on Heinrich’s
shoulder, but the Reiklander pulled away. “You are not responsible for the fate
of every man under your charge.”

Heinrich nodded. “Perhaps not.” He stared deeply into Bernardo’s eyes, trying
to measure the man’s soul, but everything about him was different. His face was
dark and sharp, dirt-smeared but flamboyant. His bald scalp a shiny palette of
oily brown flesh. His mouth a thin sliver of pink forming a generous smile that
masked… what? Heinrich searched for something more in the kind stare of the
mysterious man, but nothing surfaced. The man also had a perfumery about him, a
scent of cinnamon and lavender, of rosemary and ginger. It mixed with the
stagnant, mouldy smell of the nearby graves and made Heinrich’s nostrils flare.

“What brings you to the City of the Damned, Estalian?” Heinrich asked. “You
and your men are very far from the comforts of Marienburg, and, dare I say, from
the
fanciful
proclamations of your Lady Magritta.”

If the insult caused the foreigner any agitation, he did not show it. He
simply smiled and said, “I’m not a political man. It matters not to me who sits
on the Imperial throne, whether it is
my
Lady Magritta, or a puppet
prince anointed by your Grand Theogonist. But I would suggest that you refrain
from such observations around my men, as they may take offence. As for me, my
kin were merchants. We had establishments in Marienburg, Talabheim, Middenheim,
among other places. We were so often on the road that I feel as much a part of
the Empire as I do my birth city of Bilbali. When I was old enough to make my
own decisions, I returned home and tried to build a life. But it just didn’t
feel right anymore. So I returned to Marienburg, gathered up some swords, then
struck out to find my fortune.”

“But why Mordheim? It’s such a drastic change from the comfortable life of a
merchant’s son.”

Bernardo shrugged. “Mordheim is the place to be if you crave adventure, is it
not? And don’t take such a simpleton’s view of a city and its people,
Reiklander. There are two sides to every coin, and the measure of a man goes
deeper than a mere prick of his skin.”

I may take you up on that measurement, Heinrich thought to himself, but kept
his mouth shut. How dare this fop, this popinjay give him lessons in courtesy?
He let the matter drop, however. It would be disrespectful to cause a stir
within sight of Broderick’s funeral.

A long silent minute hung between them, then Bernardo said, “So tell me about
this
Heart
you seek. I’m not familiar with it.”

Should I tell him, Heinrich asked himself? If such a powerful artefact fell
into the hands of a foreigner and worse, Marienburgers, what price would the
Empire pay?

Despite his reluctance, Heinrich answered. “It’s called the
Herz des
Kriegergottes,
the Heart of the Warrior God, also known as Sigmar’s Heart.
It’s thought to be the last remaining piece of the core of the comet. Many say
it does not exist, but they are wrong. It’s no larger than the palm of your
hand, and flat as a dish. Its face shines brightly even in pure darkness, they
say, its aspect shifting green to red and back again, and it’s said that if you
look upon it long enough, you can see the twin-tailed comet hurling through the
sky and hitting the city. The legend goes that a ratman sorcerer first
discovered it, and then it fell into the hands of dwarf treasure seekers who
took a forge hammer to it and beat it into the shape that it is today, as if it
were a mere trinket to be worn around the neck.

“The dwarfs traded it to a brewer for his entire stock of beer, and then it
disappeared from sight for a couple of years until the Black Guard, those
templars who seek out and destroy the undead, learned that it had fallen into
the hands of a vampire. They saved it from that unholy coupling, but they too
lost it en route to Altdorf when a band of greenskins attacked them. The
greenskins brought it back to Mordheim during their sweep south, where they too
lost it…”

“And you think that the skaven have it again?” Bernardo interrupted.

Heinrich nodded. “Yes. Broderick confirmed it. He saw it around the white
one’s neck a few days ago on a scouting mission.”

“But the white skaven last night was not wearing any medallion as I recall.”

“That is true.”

“Then perhaps they’ve lost it again.”

Heinrich shook his head. “No. They have it. I’m certain of it.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because I am,” Heinrich blurted, growing weary of the conversation. They
must have it, he thought to himself. They must, or Broderick died in vain.

“Well,” Bernardo said, “whatever the truth, it certainly is a well-travelled
little trinket. What does it do? What is its power?”

Heinrich shook his head, fighting down painful memories of his friend.
“Immortality. Unimaginable physical strength. Spiritual powers beyond any
priest, wizard, or witch hunter of the Empire. There are many speculations.
Father says that its true power can only be known by a pure-of-heart, the truest
follower of Sigmar. And when
that
person touches it, whomever he may be,
the second coming of the Warrior God will be upon us, the Empire will reunite
under one banner again and a golden age of peace and prosperity will follow.”

“Really?” The Estalian seemed on the verge of laughing, his thin lips
quivering to control an outburst. “And you believe all this?”

“I trust my
friend,
Estalian,” Heinrich said angrily. “Broderick said
he saw it and that’s good enough for me. I’ve pledged to myself and to the
others to find, rescue, and deliver the Heart to Altdorf and to the Grand
Theogonist. And that is what I intend to do.”

Heinrich turned away and closed his eyes. He took a deep breath and let his
anger drift away with the cool breeze blowing from the east. “I do love mornings
here,” he said finally. “Just as the sun rises and casts its shadows on the
ruins. This is the time to gain the best perspective on the place.” He pointed
out to the moist, green mist rising everywhere. “See how the whole of it has a
green glow, as if some daemon relieved itself in the wind? See how the black
water of the river Stir sloshes its way through the heart of the city, its
depths bulging with the myriad dead of last night’s wickedness. The river cuts a
fine swathe, a channel dividing east and west perfectly. Sometimes, when I’m
down there, I forget which side I’m on.

Sometimes I get lost, drifting around and around the same block until a whiff
of meat from a bandit’s spit leads me to a gatehouse and to safety. Each ruined
shed, each tavern and rookery, each stockyard or tumbled chapel has its own
spirit, its own voice, a chorus of the souls that have died—the most
hideous
deaths—within its walls. When you’re down there, it’s hard to know
where the flesh ends and stone and mortar begins.”

“But from here, you can see the whole of the desolation. You can see the deep
crater where the comet hit and the destruction that erupted from its impact.
Like one great heart of Chaos, pumping to the beat of a madness unstoppable, its
veins the criss-cross of cobblestone streets where lost children roam:
greenskins and Reiklanders, Marienburgers, Ostlanders and shadowy elves, dwarfs,
ratmen, and too many to name. All of them fighting an endless skirmish for the
very soul of the world.”

“Do you know what I see?” Bernardo asked.

Heinrich warily turned toward the Estalian. “I’m afraid to ask.”

“I see a loud, smelly, musty old city that needs a good whipping, and we
shouldn’t be wasting our time debating about what it is and what it isn’t. It is
what it is.”

For the first time since they had met, Heinrich laughed. “Now who’s taking
the simpleton’s view? I see that you have much to learn about Mordheim. You
don’t show it the proper respect. But you better find humility soon, or you’ll
pay the price. If you play lightly with the City of the Damned, Estalian, she’ll
swallow you whole.”

“You said you wanted to talk,” Heinrich continued, not allowing the Estalian
a chance to respond. “What is it you have to say?”

Bernardo’s face grew stern and serious. “We must join our bands and go at the
skaven again today.”

Heinrich shook his head. “I made my position clear last night, Estalian. We
can take care of the vermin on our own. We do not need your help. If you will
excuse me.” He moved toward the steps. Bernardo held out an arm. “Please, listen
to me.”

Heinrich pulled back, drew his pistol, and held it to Bernardo’s forehead. He
cocked the hammer. “That’s the second time you’ve blocked my path. It will be
your last.”