Tales of the Old World (123 page)

They clung to the walls, whenever they came across them, and used piles of
debris for cover. Occasionally, a straggler from a nearby skirmish crossed their
path, some raving Chaos-possessed brethren or a rotting zombie flesh hunter, but
these interruptions caused little delay. A swift spin of a morning star or a
carefully placed arrow remedied the problem immediately.

That’s how it was sometimes, Heinrich realised as he stepped over the severed
head of an orc. The dead city always surprised him. Sometimes, the streets were
so thick with thugs that it resembled a tavern in Altdorf and other times the
streets were as quiet as a tongueless ghoul. Mordheim took rests, it seemed,
little naps to refresh before erupting again. Unpredictable, inconsistent,
keeping you off-balance, luring you into complacency and then ripping you back
with a deafening clamour of battle through its sordid streets.

They paused for a quick breath and for cover to protect themselves from a
hailstorm that blew in abruptly. As they waited for the storm to pass, Heinrich
placed his hand upon a section of wall caked in grey dirt. Mere blocks away lay
the massive crater where the twin-tailed comet had struck, and this part of the
city was smothered in debris. Neither rain nor wind nor goose egg hail seemed
capable of washing away the stink of evil here. Heinrich rubbed his hand across
his sleeve and realised how perfect this area was for a skaven stronghold. The
air was choked with sewer water and silt, hot and humid, and difficult to
breathe. A tunnel race could thrive in such torturous surroundings.

When the storm had passed, they set off again. They rounded the corner of a
collapsed inn and passed beneath a stone walkway. Below it three human skeletons
swung on dry hemp, their bleached bones knocking in the wind like ceramic
chimes. The dull clangour sent a chill up Heinrich’s spine, and he moved over to
Bloodtooth and rubbed the mastiff’s broad back. The warhound pushed his slimy
muzzle into his master’s sleeve and whimpered, nibbling affectionately on his
dirty fingers. Heinrich smiled. “I’m glad you’re here, old boy.”

They stopped suddenly. At the head of the line Bernardo motioned anxiously.
“What is it?” Heinrich asked as he moved up.

Bernardo pointed around the corner to a large building that towered above the
nearby ruins. Heinrich’s eyes widened. He wondered why he hadn’t seen it until
now; such a massive structure, rising out of the ground like some forgotten
temple.

“This is it?” Heinrich asked.

“Yes,” the Estalian said. “What do you think?”

Heinrich didn’t know what to think. It was a mausoleum, a resting-place for
the dead, a site of reverence and honour. But the entire structure sat within an
enclosed courtyard whose walls were heavily damaged and choked in dried ropes of
ivy and nightshade. The remnants of a black iron gate hung limp from the main
entrance, and traces of an old stone staircase could be seen amidst a mountain
of rocks. Like Bernardo had said, the entire courtyard, and thus the entire
first floor, was completely covered by stones large and small, piled high and
packed in tight. The rocks formed a pyramid up the sides of the first floor and
tapered away to a square granite platform.

Marble arches stood on top of the platform, eight per side, supporting a flat
marble roof adorned with beastly gargoyles. The columns that supported the
archways comprised capitals and pilasters carved in the faces of dragons and
griffons, and the arches themselves were reinforced with spandrels shaped in the
letters of some ancient language. Heinrich tried reading the letters, but the
distance and the ravages of time had eroded them beyond recognition. Beyond the
arches loomed darkness.

Heinrich’s temples throbbed. “I see no guards,” he said.

“If you lived in that fortress,” Bernardo said, “would
you
need them?”

The Estalian’s flippant tone was annoying, but Heinrich let it pass. He
studied the rocks. Different sizes and shapes, some seemingly sealed with mortar
while others were loose and menacing. “We must scale those rocks?” he asked.

Bernardo nodded. “My scout says that behind the arcade lies the corridor
leading down to the buried level. The ratmen are there.”

“And you
trust
this scout? He’s reliable?”

“
She,
captain,” Bernardo said. “She had better be, she’s my
half-sister.”

Heinrich nearly fell over. He could not imagine it. “Gods be good, but the
neighbourhood was going to the chamber pot. Your half-sister? You use your own
kin—a
woman
—as a scout? You are joking.”

Bernardo shook his head. “No, captain. She’s honest flesh and blood. Perhaps
someday you will meet her. Do not worry, she’s the best there is. You can trust
her. And me.”

“You haven’t
earned
my trust yet, Estalian,” Heinrich glared intensely
into Bernardo’s deep eyes, “but I suppose I’ve no other choice.” He studied the
area around the mausoleum. “There’s too much open space around the blasted thing
and the other buildings are too far apart. We won’t be able to set up a good
screen of supporting fire to cover our advance. We’ll have to go in force, but
I’m worried about those rocks and whether they are stable. If they attack while
we’re climbing up, will they hold?”

Bernardo shrugged his lean shoulders. “I have no idea, but a wise old man
from Cathay once said, ‘On death ground, fight.’”

Heinrich’s breath caught in his throat. That was something Broderick would
have said. He tried to hide his surprise, but a smile crept across his dry lips.
“And if we find ourselves on death ground, I suppose you’ll show me your amazing
quickness?”

Bernardo drew a poniard and waved it in a circle. “With pleasure.”

They lined up for the assault, four sets of two. Bernardo paired up with
Karl, the ex-swordsman, and Heinrich chose Bloodtooth.

They moved towards the mausoleum. Heinrich held Bloodtooth’s chain tightly
and stared up the slope of rocks and into the thin emptiness behind the arches.
Somewhere in those shadows he knew death awaited.

They moved through the broken iron gate quickly. Heinrich chose to go last,
guarding the approach with crossbow trained at the mausoleum. When Bernardo and
Karl were safely through and in place, Heinrich followed with Bloodtooth
straining madly on the chain. It was all he could do to keep the dog under
control, and he considered letting the beast loose. But the sudden stillness of
the air unnerved him. This wasn’t the usual subsidence of the wind or the
occasional acoustical shadow that muffled the city’s screams. This was a death
silence, a hollowness in the air that had no substance, no mass or form, as if
the city no longer existed, all of its parts swept away and a hole left in its
place. A cold sweat pricked Heinrich’s neck as he tested the rocks with his
knees. He pulled Bloodtooth close. The dog’s sticky tongue slapped against his
face. “Not now, boy. Save it for the ratmen.”

Heinrich gave the signal and they began to climb, each pair measuring their
steps carefully. Bernardo and Karl took the lead, slithering up the rock face
like snakes. Heinrich shot the Estalian an angry look, but it did little good.
They were at the mid-point before deciding to stop and wait for the rest to
catch up. Father and Rupert ascended the rocks slowly and deliberately, the old
priest halting periodically to raise cupped hands to the sky. Roland and Albert
were moving up on Heinrich’s left, when the barkeeper suddenly lost his balance
and disappeared in an avalanche of rock and dust. Roland was also swept
downward. Heinrich reached out and tried to grab a hand, but Roland cascaded to
the bottom and landed squarely on top of his partner.

Heinrich cursed and moved to help, but was abruptly slammed to his back. The
absolute silence in the air a moment ago was now replaced by ghostly bemoanings
and ululations, as grey and white tendrils of smoke rose out of the cracks in
the rocks and wrapped around his body. What devilment is this, Heinrich asked
himself? And then he realised it wasn’t smoke at all, but spirits, rising from
their rocky tomb, swirling around his limbs and pinning him down. He looked
around and saw that all the men were grappling with them, swinging their arms or
weapons through the air as if swatting flies. He tried to pull free, his heart
pounding wildly in his chest, but the spectres’ clutch was too great.

What can I do, he wondered? Just as he realised that he’d dropped
Bloodtooth’s chain, a grey face swirled before him, forming hollow eyes and
sharp, smoky teeth. Heinrich whispered Sigmarite prayers and stared breathlessly
into jaws that opened and mouthed words. He did not hear the words with his
ears, but in his mind. Although the words were thin, raspy and cold, he
understood them clearly.

Avenge our humiliation,
the ghost said.
Kill the skaven for what they
did to us. Kill them all… and give us rest.

Heinrich nodded obediently as the dark face slowly, slowly dissolved away.

He did not know how long he lay there with eyes closed, humming prayers and
breathing calmly, but when he opened his eyes the ghosts were gone and he sat
up. Bloodtooth twisted on his back nearby, struggling to right himself. The
others were fixing themselves as well, checking their weapons, and beginning the
climb again. Heinrich reached over and grabbed the hound’s chain.

Unhindered this time, they reached the mid-point together and still no skaven
slings or weeping blades slick with poison. Like fireflies drawn to the
darkness, they inched ever upward, letting loose stones bounce away with echoes
that danced through the ruins. Heinrich held Bloodtooth tight and kept his
crossbow ready.

They reached the granite platform and stopped, using the columns for cover.
Bernardo was the first to hoist himself up, then Karl and then the others
followed. They huddled close, waiting for their eyes to adjust to the darkness.
Heinrich squinted and tried to make out the depth of the second floor.

“Estalian?” he whispered. “Where do we go from here?”

Bernardo pointed into the darkness. “This way, but we’ll need torches.”

Albert pulled torches from his backpack, but before he could light them, the
granite floor began to vibrate. Then came a rustle of motion. Then screeching
and squalling, high-pitched battle cries flooding the space around the mausoleum
and shaking the earth. Heinrich unclipped Bloodtooth from his restraint. The
hound growled and leaped into the darkness. The men spread out quickly and
brandished their weapons, Father hefting his warhammer in defiance of his
fragile form. Heinrich stepped back and braced himself against a pilaster and
fixed the stock of his crossbow tightly against his shoulder. “Great Sigmar,” he
whispered. “Give us strength.”

The platform erupted in a mass of black and brown fur, snarling muzzles
filled with yellow teeth, and red eyes blazing with hate. Two dozen strong, the
ratmen hurled themselves into the men and slingers let fly a hail of pellets
that shattered against the arch above Heinrich’s head. He snapped off a bolt and
watched it pierce the belly of a slinger. Other missiles fired into the skaven
assault as each man worked frantically to hold his ground. Heinrich ducked steel
fighting claws and drove the butt of his crossbow into a furry throat. The mangy
beast fell over gasping for air. Heinrich drew his pistol and finished it off.

He tucked away his gun and crossbow and drew his sword. He pressed deeper
into the darkness, not knowing where the rest of the men were. They were around
him, for sure, but the battle was too confused and chaotic to pinpoint exact
locations. He prayed for luck and swung his blade forward, cutting a swathe
through the shadows. At that moment, Father’s warhammer glowed white-hot and
pushed away the darkness. Heinrich caught a glimpse of his partner.

Bloodtooth raged a few paces before him, his bloody fangs sunk deep into the
crotch of a ratman slinger. The ratman squealed in agony and fell shaking. Other
skaven tried to save their clansman from certain death, but Heinrich stepped up
and took them down.

“Bloodtooth, enough!” Heinrich yelled. Reluctantly, the hound released its
grip, tearing away flesh. Heinrich walked up to the dying skaven and drove his
boot into its throat.

The battle ended abruptly as the enemy slipped away into the shadows and down
the rocky pyramid. Another swift attack, then dispersal, attack and dispersal,
this was how the skaven fought—a guerrilla war, a battle of attrition and
Heinrich was weary of it. He sheathed his sword. He turned and saw that the
fight was still going. The last two attackers were facing the Estalian and
finding their position quite tenuous. Heinrich watched in awe.

He’d never seen a blade move so fast. Bernardo wielded a long, slender sword
of curved steel that shined despite little sunlight. It wasn’t any kind of
weapon Heinrich had seen before. Rumours of mysterious blades forged in far
eastern lands had been told, swords that could cleave heads from necks with one
swipe, but no one had ever seen them. Save for now. As the ratmen tried to flee,
Bernardo felled one and then the other with a single swipe across their chests.
For good measure, he counter-swung and lacerated their faces.

Bernardo wiped the blade clean and sheathed it. Heinrich approached. “What
kind of sword is that?” he asked.

“It’s a lintachi blade,” Bernardo said, breathing deeply. “It was my
father’s. A gift from a traveller who claimed to have got it in the far east. I
call it Myrmidia, after the Goddess of War.”

“You wield it well,” Heinrich said.

“Thank you,” said Bernardo, nodding politely. “Perhaps you’ll let me teach
you how to use it.”

Heinrich shook his head. “I don’t think so. Something like that works for
you, I suppose. But I prefer something heavier, more traditional.” He placed his
hand on the hilt of his own sword.