Tales of the Old World (122 page)

Bernardo held still, the barrel of the pistol pressed tightly against his
head. “You fool! I can smack that pistol away faster than you can pull the
trigger.”

Heinrich held the weapon steady. “I’m willing to take that risk.”

By this time, Heinrich’s men had gathered below the tower. He looked down and
saw Roland struggling to maintain his grip on Bloodtooth’s leash, the hound’s
fatty jowls slathered with foamy spit, its teeth bared and biting the empty air.
The rest were looking up, all worn and tattered, but with weapons at the ready.
Father’s warhammer glowed with power.

“You see, Estalian,” Heinrich said, a rush of confidence flushing his face,
“even if I misfire, you will not get off this tower alive.”

“I will not embarrass you in front of your men,” Bernardo said coolly. “You
have yet to witness and appreciate my quickness. So I kindly ask you to lower
your pistol before our emotions get the better of us. I will not block your path
again.”

Heinrich lowered the pistol cautiously. “I pray that you do not. And let me
repeat, I do not need your help.”

Bernardo shook his head. “Despite the number of skaven that fell last night,
many more scattered to the shadows. Do you know where they are, and how long do
you think it will take to find them?”

“And I suppose you know where they fled?”

“Yes.”

Heinrich’s shoulders sunk. “Impossible. How could you know this? You have not
been in the city long enough—”

“With respect, captain,” Bernardo said, “you are not the only swinging sword
in Mordheim with resources.”

Heinrich rubbed his face and considered the Estalian’s admission. Could this
coxcomb truly know where the ratmen fled, he wondered? Or was this some ruse to
keep him from finding their real location? Now that the truth of the Heart had
been revealed, perhaps this was some diversion to send Heinrich’s men one way,
while some of Bernardo’s men went another. That was a possibility. Who knew the
true motivation of an Estalian, especially one associated with Marienburg and
its corrupt merchant guilds? His frivolity and disrespect for things holy
certainly did not bode well. But perhaps it would not hurt to hear him out,
Heinrich considered, if for no other reason but to reveal the absurdity of the
information.

“Alright. Where are they?”

Bernardo turned and pointed to the glowing city. “My scout tells me that
their stronghold is within several blocks of the southern gate. It’s an old
two-storey mausoleum, with the bottom storey buried beneath rocks. The only
entrance is on the first floor behind a marble arcade. It’s a long corridor
ending at a door leading down to the ground floor. Neither of our bands alone
could penetrate the defences. But if we assault it together, we could do it. We
could wipe them out and find peace for a time.”

Heinrich tried to find the lie hidden between the Estalian’s words, but there
was no deception, no hesitation. He was telling the truth… as far as he knew it.

“The southern gate?” Heinrich scratched the scar on his cheek. “I don’t know.
That’s Sister territory.”

Bernardo chuckled. “My captain, are you afraid of women?”

Heinrich raised his pistol slightly. “Take caution in your tone. This pistol
is still cocked. The Sisters are not women as far as I’m concerned. At least not
like any women I’ve ever met.”

The Sisters of Sigmar were a convent of misfits and discarded daughters from
across the Empire. Self-proclaimed witch hunters and caregivers, their abbey was
called the Temple of Sigmar’s Rock, and it stood on a single fist of black stone
jutting from the poisonous flow of the River Stir. The spires of their home
dominated the skyline of the southern districts, and their presence was felt
immediately by anyone passing through the southern gate. The thought of facing
them did not sit well in Heinrich’s chest.

“Do you see this scar?” Heinrich pointed to the white claw-shaped wound on
his face. “I got this souvenir on my first day in Mordheim. A Sister did not
appreciate my smile and smacked it off my face with her whip.”

It was Bernardo’s turn to laugh. “The men in my country would have considered
that a kiss. You should have kissed her back.”

“I’m not here to frolic and make merry, Estalian,” Heinrich blurted. “I’m
here to serve Sigmar. Given the condition we are in, I’ve no interest in
tangling with harlots.”

“Do not concern yourself with the Sisters,” Bernardo said, “they will not
give us pause. Trust me.”

Can you be trusted, Heinrich wondered? Trust was a rare commodity in the
streets of Mordheim. A man had to earn trust, had to put in his time and shed
his requisite draught of blood. But perhaps there was no other choice. Looking
into the eager face of the Estalian, Heinrich remembered an old adage from his
days as a pit fighter: “No sword, then fight with your hands. No hands, then
with your teeth.”

My right hand is gone,
Heinrich said to himself as he thought about
Broderick.
Dare I give my left?

“What is your answer?” Bernardo asked.

Heinrich lowered his pistol, uncocked the hammer, and tucked it away. He
looked down at his men. They were a mess: dirty, beaten, bruised, and exhausted
beyond a doubt. If he asked, they would find their strength, ready their blades,
and head back into the stinking mire. They would fight to the last man if he
asked it. But going alone was madness. Alone, they would not survive another
day.

“Very well, Estalian,” Heinrich said. “I accept your offer. What is your
price?”

“Half the take of any wyrdstone we find.”

“A third,” Heinrich countered, “and the Heart is mine.”

“Why is the trinket yours?” Bernardo asked. “We were tracking the skaven the
same as you.”

Heinrich shook his head. “No, sir. You cannot declare for something that you
do not believe exists and by right I claim seniority. I’ve been here longer than
you.”

There was no such claim of seniority in the streets of Mordheim.
Finders-keepers and winner-takes-all were the battle cries. But does the
Estalian know that, Heinrich wondered?

Bernardo paused, for a long time, then said, “Okay, a third of the wyrdstone,
plus the lion’s share of any gems and jewellery we may find.”

Heinrich did not like the deal, but reluctantly agreed. “Gather your men,” he
said, taking the steps and descending, “and bring them here so that we may
praise our dead. Then let us take a small rest, find a scrap to eat, and then
we’ll go. You will lead the way, but let’s make it clear. This is
my
mission. Understood?”

“As you wish…
captain.”

After a brief respite, they gathered the men and set out to track down the
skaven clan. They moved quickly and quietly outside the stone wall, which
ensnared the city in a ring of vacant ramparts and battlements. The route chosen
was of greater distance, but safer by far. Once you entered the cursed city,
there were no guarantees of safety. Brigands, thrill-seekers and
treasure-mongers were lying in wait for passers-by and they could not afford
petty distractions en route to the skaven stronghold.

The men had had little chance to get acquainted with one another before
setting out. Bernardo’s men were Marienburgers. There were three of them: Karl
Stugart, an ex-swordsman and deserter from the Marienburg army, Rupert Keller, a
quay merchant who had killed a rival in cold blood and now, as personal penance
for the crime, wore a chain around his neck attached to a rock hidden in a side
pocket of his orange tunic, and Albert Eickmann, a barkeeper and part-time
burglar trying to stay one step ahead of death and the law. What a miserable
gang, Heinrich thought to himself as he greeted each with a pensive smile.

They had all shared pleasantries and had kept civil tongues during their
morning preparations, but it was clear to Heinrich that the tension between his
men and Bernardo’s was as palpable as the gritty fog that clung to the banks of
the Stir. It would take time for the men to trust each other, and time they did
not have. At the moment of impact, they would have to perform instinctively,
anticipating each other’s moves and actions. With only eight strong, no margin
of error was afforded. And with no training or practice, the effective fighting
strength was closer to five men. Heinrich made the sign of Sigmar and prayed for
luck.

They entered the city through the southern gate. The heavily travelled
archway was called the Daemon Mouth, and what a ghastly orifice it was. The
entrance lay between two stone towers. Tall, sleek and defiant, their arrow
slits squinted darkly upon the approach. The massive iron-plated doors had been
ripped off and lay adrift in a sea of weeds and brambles beside the road. What
remained were the rusty fangs of a portcullis, suspended by equally rusty chains
that teetered above the underpass and threatened to drop at the slightest
breeze. Heinrich held his breath, stepped quickly beneath the iron teeth, and
came out the other side.

Before them lay a narrow cobblestone road that wound through a maze of ruins.
Many called it the Street of Madness, for it was believed that no man, not even
the most devoted follower of Sigmar, could reach its end at the northern river
gate without going insane. One day, Heinrich thought to himself with a confident
nod, I will take that challenge.

They set off down the road, eyeing cautiously the desolate architecture
pressing down on both sides. They spread out in a loose circle, Bernardo taking
the lead, Heinrich holding the centre and the rest pointing bows and swords in
all directions. Despite the fog, the sun was hot and the air heavy. Heinrich
shielded his eyes from the shifting beams of light that punctured the fog and
tossed angular spikes of white heat across his path. He looked to his left and
saw an ensemble of bleached skeletons sitting on discarded chairs, huddled
tightly in a circle and holding flutes, violins, tambourines, lutes, and harps.
In the swirling haze, the bones moved rhythmically, and Heinrich could almost
hear notes rising above their unholy recital. He closed his eyes, rubbed them
vigorously, and shook his head. He looked again and the band was gone, their
music swept away by a chorus of bloody screams from some unseen battle raging in
the distance.

An illusion.

Father appeared beside him. “Captain, are you well?”

“Yes, I’m fine, thank you. I thought I saw… No, it was nothing.” Heinrich
rubbed his eyes. “I’m just feeling a little tepid. The air is thick today, and
the dead of Mordheim are playing tricks with my mind.”

Father drew a corked vial of clear liquid from his robe. “I want you to have
this.”

Heinrich looked at the vial warily. “What is it?”

“Tears of Shallya. Water from the holy spring of Couronne. It will protect
you from the ratmen’s poison.”

Heinrich shook his head. “Thank you, but I cannot accept it. You should have
it. You are far more valuable than I.”

Father grabbed Heinrich’s hand and pressed the vial into his palm. “Take it,
please, I beg you. I fear for your life today.”

The priest’s eyes burned with intensity, and his warhammer glowed. Heinrich
had seen this look before. There was no arguing with the old man when he had
made his mind up. Heinrich nodded appreciatively and tucked the vial into a
pocket.

They came to an abrupt halt at a fork in the road. To the right, the way bled
into an area of the city once known as the Poor Quarter. To the left, the
unassailable towers of the Sisters of Sigmar’s abbey loomed large in the
distance. Father and Roland began mumbling prayers while making the sign of
Sigmar with nervous hands. There was great suspicion and anxiety among
Sigmarites towards the Sisters’ abbey, Heinrich knew. He shared some of that
anxiety himself as he scratched the scar on his cheek.

When the comet had hit the city, it had spread its death and desolation
equally, save for the abbey. Neither a scratch nor a speck of dirt fell upon its
indefatigable battlements, and many believed that the Sisters had called upon
dark forces to ensure their salvation from the holocaust of that dreadful night.
Heinrich did not know the truth, but the edict from the Grand Theogonist was
clear: No counsel or fraternisation between the devout men of Sigmar and the
Sisters. It was an order that Heinrich tried to respect each day.

From behind a lone wall of leaning shale, four figures emerged clad in white
and purple habits, Heinrich knew immediately who they were. The men around him
trained their weapons forward as the Sisters walked into the road brandishing
steel whips. Heinrich’s scar ached at the sight of those awful weapons. In a
fight, those whips could strike at distances and at speeds impossible to
deflect. They could not afford a spat with the Sisters; the ever-watching manses
of their abbey guaranteed reinforcements within moments, if more were not
already lying in wait around them. Heinrich shot nervous glances at the ruins,
they seemed alive with eyes.

He walked slowly to the head of the group, but Bernardo was already on the
move. The Estalian raised his hands in peace and wandered up to the armed women.
He mumbled a few words to the one clad in all white and gold trim, with silver
medallions hanging from her thick neck and pointed towards the Poor Quarter. The
Sisters looked at each other, nodded, then moved away. Bernardo thanked them
with a generous bow and returned. Heinrich stood there, his mouth open in
astonishment. “Well,” he said as Bernardo returned, “here’s a good reason not to
trust you. Would you mind explaining that?”

The Estalian smiled furtively and winked. “It’s a bit complicated. I’ll
explain some other time.” He said nothing else and reassumed his position at the
point.

After passing a few more blocks, they turned off the main route and took to
alleys and back streets, forming a tight line, with Bernardo in the lead,
Heinrich at the rear, and the rest in between. Cuthbert and Witchkiller had been
left behind in camp to mend. It would have been nice to include more help,
perhaps hire a sword for close-in fighting or a Tilean marksman to bolster their
missile strength, but there was no time. They had what they had, and there was a
certain nobility in facing one’s foes with your honest strength. The measure of
a good man was his capacity to overcome adversity. One Sigmarite equalled ten of
the Empire’s foes, wasn’t that the old saying? Heinrich placed his hand into his
pocket and rubbed the vial of tears that Father had given him. He hoped it were
true.