CHAPTER FOUR

 

 

When she awoke, her first thought was one of gratitude. Wherever this place was, it was nice and warm. For the past month, she had spent her nights shivering in the slums of Altdorf, praying all the while for the summer to return, and, for once, it seemed that her prayers had been answered.

In the darkness, which was complete, she had no idea where she was. Nor did she remember how she had come to be here. Another girl might have been alarmed at such a realisation, but not Gerta. Ever since her mother had died, she had spent her nights being driven from one sheltered doorway to another, stupefied with exhaustion as she stumbled through the streets.

The fear only came when she woke up enough to realise that she couldn’t move.

With a whimper, she pulled at the ropes that bound her ankles and wrists, wriggling on the smooth wooden pallet like a rabbit in a trap. When she realised that the knotted hemp was too strong to give, she lay back, and blinked back the first of her tears.

It wouldn’t be the first time that this had happened to her, and although it hurt, and although the shame was even greater than the pain within, she knew that it wouldn’t kill her.

At least, not if she didn’t struggle.

A moment later, she heard the footsteps approaching, and a doorway opened in a burst of light. After the darkness, and the potion with which she had been drugged, the oil lamps seemed as bright as the sun.

Gerta squinted her eyes and gritted her teeth, trying to be brave. It wasn’t until she realised how many of them there were that she started sobbing.

There were a dozen at least. A dozen! They would tear her apart.

If her tears moved the men who had gathered around her, they didn’t show it. They couldn’t show it. The hoods on their robes had been drawn down so that they were as faceless as executioners. As Gerta wept, they filed around the wooden table to which she had been trussed, each man finding his allotted position and then standing dead still.

Gerta looked up at them through the prism of her tears. Here and there, she caught glimpses of the eyes that watched her. They glittered as hungrily as a spider’s that has just found a web full of flies.

When the final figure paced into the room, all eyes turned to him.

He was dressed in the same hooded robe as the others. He walked at the same, slow pace as the others, and yet, he was different from them: horribly different.

It wasn’t just the coldness that followed him into the chamber, nor was it the way that his fellows drew back, nervously shifting as he drew nearer. No, it was something more, something that made Gerta want to scream.

She had no idea what was so terrible about this figure. It was nothing that could be seen or smelled or heard. Yet there was an air about him that was as pungent as the smell of a fish rotted to slime, as nauseating as maggots in an open wound, and as cold as death.

The newcomer paused, perhaps to savour the sound of her terror. Then he paced forwards to take his place at the end of the table. She watched him as he loomed above her wriggling feet, and when he started to pull his hood back she bared her teeth in sudden terror of what it might reveal.

It didn’t reveal much. The man who wore it was bland looking, as plump and pale eyed as any prosperous Altdorfian that might have tossed her a copper on the street. Gerta fought the panic that had seized hold of her, telling herself that this would be no worse than the last time, not much worse, anyway.

Then the man spoke.

“Brothers,” he intoned, speaking as casually as a grocer discussing prices, “we are gathered in the darkness to praise one who has no need of light. We are gathered in the darkness to pay him the tribute that he demands. We are gathered in the darkness to feast on his behalf.”

“Tell me, brothers, who is he who flows through every thing living?”

The reply came in a whisper, the men scarcely speaking any louder than the hiss of blood that raced through Gerta’s veins.

“Tell me brothers, who is it that gives us the courage to do his will?”

Again the reply came. It was louder this time, loud enough for her to hear.

“Khorne,” the gathered men intoned, a terrible passion trembling in their restrained voices.

“And tell me brothers,” their leader asked, “who is it that will sanctify our feast tonight?”

“Khorne!”

This time they cast off their caution and let their god’s name ring loud from the stones of the cellar. Before they had drawn away from their master, but now they leaned closer, moths drawn towards his flame.

Gerta watched him too. She had stopped struggling, as mesmerised by the pale-eyed man as a mouse by a cobra.

Behind him, she had started to see shadows flitting through the darkness, phantoms of previous victims, perhaps.

The cultists, perhaps numbed by long familiarity, seemed oblivious to them. Their leader’s face distorted as he bared a mouthful of strange teeth, each as sharp and yellow as an ivory needle, and for the first time Gerta could see the insanity that burned within his pale eyes. Then he lifted up one hand and, as slowly as a priest performing some sacred rite, he peeled back the glove that covered it.

When she saw the claw, her paralysis broke and she started to scream. It was the shape of an eagle’s, each black talon a viciously curved thorn. He laughed at her fear, a shrill giggle that accompanied the sound of tearing fabric as his acolytes sliced through her clothing.

It was only the sight of her soft flesh that sobered him.

“Blood,” he hissed, leaning forwards and reaching towards her belly with his mutated hand, “Blood for the Blood Go…”

But it was not her blood that was to be spilled. Even as the cultist flexed his talons there was a sudden movement and a dull thud. He paused, surprise replacing the obscene glee that had been smeared across his podgy features. Then surprise turned to shock.

Gerta looked up at the mutant, confusion warring with her horror. Then she looked down and saw the tongue of pink-smeared steel that jutted out through his stomach. Even as she watched, it twisted, corkscrewing its way back out of the dying man and leaving him to flop bonelessly forwards.

For a single, breathless second, the cultists paused, confusion making fools of them all. It was only when their attackers bellowed their challenge that they realised that they were no longer alone.

This time, Gerta did recognise the name that rang out through the darkness, the syllables as clear as the impact of a hammer on an anvil. It was a name that every child in the Empire knew, for it was the name of the father of them all.

“Sigmar!” the attackers roared as the cavern erupted into light. Lanterns that had been as dark as stone were unhooded, and cloaks that seemed woven from the very shadows themselves were thrown off to reveal gleaming armour.

What ensued was more massacre than battle.

Bereft of their leader, the cultists were slaughtered like cattle: the screams of the stricken, the crunch of dismemberment, the splatter of the blood and the slaughterhouse stink—all this lasted for scarcely more than a moment.

It was only when the last of the cultists was felled, his head lopped off as neatly as an apple, that Gerta began to wonder what the victors would do with her.

For a moment, it seemed that they would do nothing. With the blood still warm on their blades, they stood amongst the bodies of their victims, grim faced even in victory. As one, their shaven heads bowed, and their lips moved in silent prayer. Only then did they return to the bodies of their foes, cutting throats and cleaning blades on their torn robes.

It wasn’t until this grisly work was done that one of them turned to Gerta. Within the carapace of his harness he was a giant of a man, and the cicatrice of scars that cob-webbed his face made him look even more fearsome.

“Who are you?” she asked as him as he began to examine her. He prodded her here and there, occasionally peeling back scraps of clothing to see the skin beneath. All the while, his white-scarred face remained blank, as passionless as a butcher’s examining a side of beef.

Without deigning to answer her question, the man opened a pouch and drew out an iron charm, a twin tailed comet no larger than his thumb. With an icy look into the girl’s eyes, he pressed it into her forehead.

“Ow,” she said, “it’s cold, but please, who are you?”

“I am Vaught, a humble servant of Sigmar,” he told her, putting the charm away, and drawing a dagger. “It is my sacred duty to cleanse his world of all who traffic with the Ruinous Powers.”

The knife glinted in his fist as he reached for her, and his face grew even harder.

“Please don’t,” Gerta begged, pulling away from the blade.

For the first time Vaught’s stony expression changed.

“Don’t worry,” he said, and smiled as if the expression hurt him. “It’s your bonds I will cut, not you.”

So saying, he sliced through the hemp that bound her, leaving her free to sit up and rub some life back into her limbs. All at once she began to shiver.

“Where were you taken?” he asked, watching her dispassionately.

“Don’t know,” she answered. “I sleep where I can. I am, well you know, one of the Strasseratten.”

Vaught frowned.

“You are one of Sigmar’s heirs,” he scolded her, “not a rat.”

“No I didn’t mean… it’s just what people say.”

Vaught scratched his chin thoughtfully and watched Gerta trying to reassemble her ragged clothes.

“We’re finished here, captain,” one of his men said, interrupting his reverie. “Shall I go and get a cart for the bodies?”

“Aye,” Vaught nodded. “The sooner they are purified by flame the better.”

“What about this house?”

“No, it is too close to others. We will leave it to the temples to clean. The prioress of the temple of Shallya is a good woman, bring her.”

“As you say, and what about this one?” The man gestured towards Gerta. He was older than the rest, and despite the blood that spattered his armour, there was something comfortable about his wrinkled face.

“We should take care of her,” Vaught said, “or at least, give her to the prioress to take care of. It seems that Sigmar has smiled upon her this day, and we should respect that. A second later and she would have been no more than so much offal.”

“I’m sure that the child will find your sentiments most comforting.”

Vaught glared at the older man.

“I don’t have time for idle words, and neither do you. I must go and make my report to the prince regent, so I will leave you in charge of cleaning this up.”

“Right you are, captain,” the other man said. He threw his cloak around Gerta’s trembling shoulders and turned back to his comrades.

The girl felt the warmth from the cloak and realised how cold she had been. It was a fine material, and grey, at least, it was sometimes grey. The colour seemed to change as she moved, blending into the background as effortlessly as ink into water.

It was only after her teeth had stopped chattering that she looked up to thank Vaught, but by the time she had done so, he had already gone.

 

Vaught was scowling as he stomped out of the cellar, into the warmth and richness of the house above.

His boots, soft-soled for the stealth his profession demanded, were silent as he marched across a carpeted study and into the marbled hall beyond. In one corner, as miserable as a flock of sheep after a rainstorm, the servants stood, their hands bound. Two of his men watched over them, and they turned to salute as he passed them by.

“The heretics below have been pacified,” he told them as he stalked past. “You can begin questioning their servants.”

“Yes, captain,” the youngest of his men said, saluting again. His comrade smiled at him good naturedly. The lad had only been apprenticed to Vaught’s group for three months, and he was still eager to impress.

“Make sure,” Vaught added as he left the room, “that you question them closely.”

The sudden sobbing of the captives followed him out into the street beyond. It was broad and well paved, and the shadows of the mansions on either side loomed large as afternoon faded into evening.

Vaught remained silent as he made his way through a tangle of side streets and out onto the main thoroughfare. The cobbles had long since been stolen to reveal the mud beneath, and the stink of human and animal waste hung heavy in the air.

Sniffing it approvingly, Vaught pressed on. He had been born and raised on such a street, and he felt at home with the honesty of the people who lived here. Thieves stole, merchants haggled, and whores sold their wares: all straightforward professions, in their way, and nothing like the hidden sickness that he fought.

Although such thoughts lifted his mood, the crowd still parted before his gaunt figure. It wasn’t just the size of his armoured frame that lent a spring to their step, it was also the constellation of amulets that he wore about his harness. They marked him out for what he was, and nobody, no matter how innocent, wanted anything to do with a witch hunter.

Even the gatekeepers did little more than cast a cursory glance in his direction as he marched through the stone vaulted gates of the prince regent’s palace, and when he met the prince’s herald, the man emerging into the shadowed courtyard at the same time as Vaught, the servant’s reaction was one of sheer terror.

“Menheer Vaught,” he squeaked, eyes goggling, “how did you know?”

Vaught stared at him, stony faced.

“Oh! Alright, I’m sorry. Please forgive my inquisitiveness. How you know that the prince regent wants to see you is none of my business. My job was only to carry the message, and now you’re here.”

Vaught remained impassive. His face became as inanimate as a mirror, a blank surface onto which the herald could project his fears. The witch hunter had learnt the trick during numerous inquisitions.

“Anyway,” the herald swallowed and licked his lips. “I must be going. I have to, erm…”

“You look nervous,” Vaught told him.

The herald reacted as if his death sentence had just been read out.

“Must go,” he whimpered, and fled.

Vaught smiled briefly and marched into the palace. He padded through a great hall, hung with chandeliers and peopled with petitioners, and into the antechamber to the prince regent’s chambers.

Here, at least, the guards had no fear of him. There were four of them, scarred veterans who had been with Gustav since his earliest years. They sat around a card table, their well-greased mail and hobnailed boots a stark contrast to the gilded finery of the room.

They looked at Vaught as he prowled in, relaxed even when he turned the fire of his gaze upon them. Perhaps alone of all the palace staff, they knew themselves to be beyond the reach of the witch hunters. It made them surprisingly friendly.

“Vaught, you old charmer,” one asked as he threw his cards onto the table, “have you been drinking again?”

“I never drink. It dulls the senses,” Vaught answered. He knew that he was being mocked, but he could never work out quite how.

“I bet he has,” another said, “and quite right too. You know what bon vivants these witch hunters are, and you can’t dance on the tables all night without a brandy or two inside you.”

Vaught looked at the men with a haughty disdain.

“It is duty I come to discuss with the prince regent, not merriment.”

For no reason Vaught could discern, the men burst out laughing. Perhaps they were drunk themselves.

“You’re alright, Vaught,” one of them said, wiping his eyes. “Just go on through. The boss is expecting you.”

And the prince regent was. His reception room was a display of wealth, with everything from the frescos on the ceiling to the golden pillars that supported it, designed to impress, but the rich surroundings had obviously done little to calm the prince regent’s nerves. He paced up and down the great hall, fondling the hilt of his sword.

“Vaught,” he said as the witch hunter bowed, “about time. Right then, sit down. We have a problem.”

“More zombies?”

“No, even worse.”