CHAPTER ELEVEN

 

 

Vaught paced around the cell, scowling at the furniture that had been brought in. It was quite good quality, the carpentry solid and smoothly polished. It had been brought along at the same time as their possessions, which had been searched and returned.

There was even a candleholder to light the cell, and a washbasin that sat on a churn of clean water, but no matter how comfortable, only Fargo had enough courage to sit down. Nobody else quite had the nerve to risk the glare that such self-indulgence would bring from their captain.

“I suppose we’ll have to think of something else,” Vaught said to Fargo.

The older man frowned.

“I didn’t think that the gaoler would be such a fool as to come into the cell. It’s not as if your plan is very original. Perhaps he’s suffered from a similar attempt in the past.”

Vaught sighed.

“You’re probably right,” he allowed, and stopped in front of the cage that barred their cell. It lay at the end of a passageway. At the other end, perhaps twenty feet away, two guards sat. They were staring into empty space with the profound boredom of men who had long since counted every stone in the wall opposite.

“Anyway, taking him hostage was never going to work.” Fargo leant back in his chair with a luxurious stretch that had the other men watching Vaught nervously. “When all’s said and done, who’s going to care for the life of a gaoler, however high ranking?”

Vaught shrugged and ran a hand across the stubble on his scalp.

“There is that. This gaoler, though, he seems like a wealthy man.”

“Ah, but that’s it, isn’t it? Wealth isn’t the same as power. Those burghers in Teinval had gold coming out of their noses, but we lit them up as easily as candles. Not like that baron. What was he called?”

“Morstein,” Vaught said. “Baron Morstein. He even had the effrontery to speak of his foul practices in public.”

“That’s because he had real power, not just that halberdier detachment, but the letter from the elector’s palace too.”

As Vaught considered the campaign against Baron Morstein, his mood lifted. He smiled, as brightly as the fire upon which the cultist had ended his days.

“We eventually burned that letter with him, as I remember.”

“Eventually we did, yes, eventually.”

Vaught turned back to face his men, and spoke in a voice loud enough for it to echo up the passageway.

“Well, it seems that Fargo is right. We should wait for the prince regent to free us. In the meantime, we should start shaping up. Peik, why haven’t you polished your boots today? Bort, I don’t remember giving you permission to grow a beard. You look like a hedge wizard. In fact…”

Vaught paused and turned back to shout up the passageway.

“Guards. Guards! We need soap and razors. Go ask the gaoler.”

The two guards looked at each other and shrugged. Then one of them, keen on the change of scenery, went off to ask.

“You’ll never get razors,” Fargo muttered as somebody passed him a jar of boot polish. “They’ve even taken my pocket knife.”

“With Sigmar all things are possible,” Vaught said.

Half an hour later, the gaoler himself returned with a rosewood box. He passed it through the iron railings and then stood back as Vaught opened it.

“Here you go, your honour, best steel in Praag, that is, sharp enough to cut mist. My brother-in-law makes them. See the box? It’s rosewood, carved by a master from down south.”

“Put them on the bill,” Vaught said, “and when we finish, I would like to go for a walk in the yard.”

“I don’t think you would, your lordship.” The gaoler shook his head. “The inmates down there really aren’t your sort of people.”

“Yes,” Vaught told him. “I would. I miss the fresh air.”

The gaoler licked his lips.

“I don’t mean to be uncooperative, but you must see my position. I am responsible for your safety. I have only just sent off a bill for the first months rent to your prince, and if anything happened in the meantime…”

“We’ll be fine,” Vaught told him.

“I’m sorry, your lordship.” The gaoler shook his head regretfully. “I can’t take the risk, but if there’s anything else I can get for you? Some… some company perhaps?”

“Sounds interesting,” Fargo said. Vaught scowled at him.

“Or at least let me bring you some fresh fruit,” the gaoler said, “on the house, and as soon as your first month’s bill is paid, we can talk again.”

“Now what?” Fargo asked as the gaoler scurried away.

Vaught flipped open his razor and went to shave.

“First we clean ourselves,” he said. “Then we pray.”

 

* * *

 

“They’re still alive! How can they still be alive? Do you know what those lunatics are capable of?”

Grendel tugged at his beard as he paced around his chamber, his robe flapping around his bony legs.

“Relax,” Zhukovsky told him. “They’re not going anywhere. I told you, the Tsaritsa has ordered them to be held indefinitely.”

“You can’t hold them indefinitely, they’re witch hunters. What if the prince regent asks for their release?”

“He can ask for what he wants,” Zhukovsky said, and leaned back on his divan. He was enjoying the sorcerer’s discomfort. “I’m the secretary for that department. If he writes, I will answer.”

Grendel dragged his shaking fingers through the tangle of his hair, and then went back to tugging at his beard.

“No. No, no, no. You’ll have to kill them. What if they escape?”

“They won’t escape. Nobody escapes from the Lubyanka, especially when the Tsaritsa has ordered it thus.”

The sorcerer paced over to the window and peered out at the darkness of the world below. It was pitch black in the streets of the city, the curfew complete.

“Better close the curtain or the phantoms will come. They always come when the Inferno Borealis lies dormant. They don’t like the light.”

Grendel waved such mundane fears aside.

“They are pitiful things, your phantoms. No, I’m worried about the witch hunters. You don’t seem to understand what the creatures can do. In the Empire…”

“This isn’t the Empire,” Zhukovsky interrupted. He sprang off the divan and stalked over to pull the curtains across the windows. Pitiful things the haunters of the dark may be, but they still made him feel queasy.

Grendel went and sat down, and started chewing his fingernails.

“Look,” Zhukovsky tried to reason with him. “They are only men. We caught them as easily as trout in a net, and locked them up without shedding a drop of blood, and with your powers, why should you worry? You are a great disciple of the greatest of all gods.”

Grendel started at the mention of his master. Then he pulled himself together. Zhukovsky was right. He was a great follower of Slaanesh. He had accomplished more in the past weeks than the fools of the colleges would achieve in their entire worthless lifetimes. Even so, witch hunters…

He shivered and spat a piece of nail out onto the carpet.

“If I kill them, then it’s more difficult,” Zhukovsky explained. “If I kill them, I will have to explain why. I will have to spend gold, and then find assassins to kill the assassins, and if you do it by magic, people will start to wonder if they had a point. No, better to let them rot; we usually get an outbreak of yellow pox in the Lubyanka at this time of year, anyway. Maybe that will finish them off for you.”

Grendel stared moodily into space. Zhukovsky watched him with contempt. How could such a powerful man be such a silly old fool? Slaanesh certainly had a sense of humour.

“Anyway,” the nobleman said, sitting back down, “have you anything in mind for our gathering?”

“What? Oh, the gathering. Yes, I thought of some particularly appropriate acts of worship, but it’s all off now, of course.”

“What!”

Zhukovsky, as outraged as a dog whose bone had been snatched away, leapt to his feet.

“What do you mean it’s off?”

“I mean that it’s far too dangerous to risk such excesses with witch hunters around. Who knows what they’ll do? We need to lay low for a while and rest up. Anyway,” Grendel looked at his confederate, “you could do with a period of recovery. Keeping you looking normal wastes too much of my time. It’s old magic as well. Now, if you wanted to be reshaped… wings, maybe…”

Grendel trailed off as he looked speculatively at the count.

Zhukovsky’s ravaged features dropped into a look of astonishment.

“You’re insane,” he said.

Grendel just giggled. It was a shrill, broken sound and it made the count’s flaccid skin crawl.

“Insane or not,” the sorcerer told him, “I won’t do anything else until you have slaughtered the witch hunters like the animals they are. Think of it as a favour.”

Zhukovsky dropped his head into his hands.

“A favour to Slaanesh?”

“If you like,” Grendel shrugged, and rubbed his bony hands together. “Now, if you will excuse me, my lord, I have preparations to make. Morrslieb draws ever closer, and there is little time to waste.”

Zhukovsky took his leave and, leaning heavily on his stick, made his way back to his own quarters. The servants fled at his approach. Although Grendel had been able to hide the desolation of the count’s body, he had been powerless to hide the desolation of his soul. The violence of Zhukovsky’s mood swings had become legend in the servants’ hall, so had the disappearances of some of their number.

When he returned to his empty chambers, he poured himself a glass of the painkiller that Grendel had provided and went over to the dwarf-built iron safe that stood in one corner of the room. He dialled the combination with trembling fingers, and rummaged around inside for the materials he needed.

So, Grendel needed the witch hunters killed, did he? Well, fine. He would have them killed; but there was more than one way to stuff a pigeon.

 

From the court of the Prince Regent of Altdorf, Guardian of the Keys and Protector of the Emperor’s High Places, to the man styling himself Gaoler of our Noble Cousin the Tsaritsa of Praag.

The prince regent has graciously received your battels for services that you have provided for diverse bandits. Be it known to you that these creatures are of no interest to us, neither as goods, nor as chattels, nor as livestock.

I am sure that you will treat them accordingly. Also be assured that the prince, in the splendour of his munificence, understands that you meant no insult by accosting his servants on these villains’ behalf.

 

Your most obedient servant,

 

Reikhart Van Debouyt, secretary to the Prince Regent of Altdorf.

 

Postscriptum—At my master’s instruction, I have enclosed a gold coin so that you may spare the men needed to make an example of those who trade on my prince’s good name.

 

Klitter Hofstadter, under secretary to Reikhart Van Debouyt, secretary to the Prince Regent of Altdorf.

 

Satisfied with his work, Zhukovsky poured sand over the wet ink, and scrolled the parchment up. Sealing it with a blob of red wax and a forged Altdorfian stamp, he sat back at his desk.

Tomorrow, he would have a messenger deliver the letter to the Lubyanka. From what he knew of the gaoler, the response would be vengeful and murderous.

Zhukovsky was smiling even before he’d swallowed his sedative.

 

It might have been morning. In the darkness of the cell, it was impossible to tell. Half of the witch hunters lay sleeping on the rugs that had been provided. Vaught and three others sat around the table, their hands clasped in prayer.

The harmony of their voices mingled into a single drone as they prayed, their words flowing as smoothly as honey. They had been chanting since the stub of their candle had been whole, and before that, the others had been at these same stations. If any of them doubted that their god would hear their appeal, they made no sign of it. Instead, they focused all of their energy into their prayers, content to let Sigmar decide their fate.

When the gaoler unlocked the doors at the end of the passageway, they had no doubt that their appeal had been answered.

Vaught finished the verse, before raising his hands for silence and turning to their captor. The gaoler wore his usual obsequious grin as he approached, although for once it was looking a little strained.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” he said, rubbing his hands together and peering through the bars of the cell door.

“If you say so,” Vaught replied.

“Oh, I see what you mean.” The gaoler laughed with an obvious effort. “Well, I’m pleased to say that I have thought about your request to go outside, and I will take the risk of granting it. On your own cognisance, obviously.”

“Obviously,” Vaught nodded. He never ceased to be amazed by the power of righteous prayer.

“I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to wear those beastly chains again, just while we transport you through the gaol proper. It’s embarrassing for me to have to ask gentlemen such as yourself, but there it is.”

Vaught turned to Fargo, who had just woken up. The older man shrugged.

“Of course we’ll take them off when you get to the courtyard,” the gaoler reassured them.

“Very well,” Vaught nodded. “Although I hope we won’t find the rent for them on our battels.”

For a moment, a hardness came into the gaoler’s eyes, but then he was laughing again.

“Oh no. No indeed. They’re one of the things you’ve had on the house.”

Again a flash of hardness, but Vaught didn’t notice. He had turned to see if the rest of his men were ready.

“Well then,” the gaoler said, backing away. “I’ll send some guards down to sort you out directly. Enjoy the fresh air!”

“Thank you,” Vaught said as the man scuttled away.

“He’s wasted in here,” Fargo decided as the gaoler disappeared between the doors at the end of the passage. “He should have been an inn keeper.”

“He seems to think that he is, and here come the porters.”

Fargo looked at the approaching guards, and then at Vaught.

“If I didn’t know you better, captain, I’d say you were developing a sense of humour.”

Vaught remained stony faced as the men passed the chains through the bars.

“If you wouldn’t mind clicking the manacles shut, gentlemen,” one of them said, “then we can be on our way. We should go before it starts raining.”

Vaught set the example, clicking the cold grip of a cuff onto his wrists. When all the witch hunters were securely bound, the guards unlocked the cage front of their cell. The rusted metal shrieked open and they beckoned the prisoners out.

“Follow me, sir,” one of them told Vaught, and led the way along the lamplit dankness of the passageway. The guards opened the doors ahead of them, and they clanked onwards, taking first one turning, then another. Eventually they came to a flight of steps that led upwards to another level.

The witch hunters, each man busily memorising the layout of the dungeon, remained silent. They had been walking for almost half an hour before they felt the first breath of fresh air on their faces and saw the first grey sliver of daylight.

There was a noise, too: a constant roar, almost like the sound of the ocean.

“Just along here, sir.” The guards led them up another flight of steps. There was a wide hall at the top, and maybe two dozen armed men lounging around it. They looked at the prisoners curiously, and a couple of them sauntered over.

“Are these the ones who wanted a breath of fresh air?” one asked, and there was a ripple of laughter.

“Just open the doors,” the escort replied. “Let’s get this over with.”

The guard muttered something obscene, handed his halberd to his mate and turned to unlock the door. When the last of the tumblers had clicked open, he turned to his men.

“Come on you lot. Form up!” he shouted. The men reluctantly picked up their weapons and gathered around him. Only then did he push the door open and, squaring his shoulders, led them into the world outside.

After the quiet of the dungeon, Vaught found the roar of the crowd outside almost deafening. He squinted in the sunlight, his eyes tearing up as he followed the guards into the prison yard.

It stank. The smell of faeces and unwashed bodies hung in the air, trapped by the walls that towered up on every side. Vaught glanced up and saw archers silhouetted against the sky, their crossbows resting on their shoulders.

A mass of humanity surged around them. There must have been over a thousand people here, a seething tide of ragged prisoners, and as the little column emerged they stared with the hungry curiosity of caged wolves.

“Keep your shoulders back and your eyes straight ahead,” the guards told the witch hunters as they moved them forwards.

“Eyes straight ahead!”

The crowd parted reluctantly in their wake. They eyed the new prisoners with a dangerous interest, their hands disappearing into their rags to finger hidden weapons.

Then, the sound of a winch started to echo and squeak between the walls, and the crowd shifted uneasily. Vaught could see some emotion ripple through them, an anxiety that creased even the hardest faces as they turned towards the sound.

Then the chant started, apparently from all sides at once.

“In the ’ole!”

The guards looked back at the witch hunters, and then hurriedly looked away. As one man, they had stood straighter, squared their shoulders, and hardened their faces.

“In the ’ole! In the ’ole!”

Feet started stamping a rhythm, and Vaught felt the hairs on the back of his neck raise. There was an exhilaration in the air, a near terror that reminded him of the final few seconds before the start of a battle.

Above, the guards shifted on the walls, their crossbows sorting through the mob for likely targets.

“In the ’ole!”

Thousands of feet stamped.

“In the ’ole!”

Thousands of hands clapped.

“In the ’ole.”

“What’s that they’re saying?” Peik shouted to Fargo, his eyes wide as he looked around him.

“Sigmar knows.” Fargo shouted back. “Some northern nonsense or other.”

“In the ’ole!”

“It sounds like they’re saying ‘in the hole’,” Peik offered, waiting for a pause in the chanting and shouting over the stomping of feet.

“What’s that?” Fargo shouted back, but then the crowd parted and he could see.

Ahead of them, a granite blockhouse squatted in the centre of the yard. The rough hewn stones of its construction were massive, easily as big as a man, and the solid iron of its portcullis door had been winched up. There were more armed men inside, and torches, and the guards quickened their step as they approached.

“What’s this?” Vaught asked one of them, and paused.

The column halted behind him, and the chanting of the inmates degenerated into a storm of jeers and catcalls.

“It’s the way to your courtyard,” the leading guard shouted over the din. He looked around nervously. “Come on, let’s keep moving. Don’t want to start a riot, do you?”

“Why should we start a riot?”

“Look around you. They want out too.”

Vaught looked. Then he led his men into the gateway. When the last of them were inside, the portcullis dropped.

The guards sagged with relief, and their chief turned towards Vaught.

“They always get a bit lively when we have gentlemen like you in,” he explained. “Now then, we will take the cuffs off you one at a time, but I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to wait in the… in the tunnel for now. The gaoler himself wants to escort you on your way.”

The witch hunters watched as the guards opened the trapdoor that lay in the centre of the blockhouse. Apart from the portcullis, it seemed to be the only way out of the place. Vaught and Fargo exchanged a glance.

“We are supposed to be going outside,” Vaught frowned. The guard nodded eagerly as he sorted through his bunch of keys.

“Yes, you are. That’s the way. You’ll go through a tunnel. Now then, who’s first?”

Vaught offered his wrists, and the guard unlocked the manacles.

“There you go sir,” he grinned wide enough to show all three of his teeth. “Now, if you’d just step down into the tunnel. Here, Ivan, give the gentleman the lantern.”

One of the guards handed it over, and Vaught, the hairs on the back of his neck starting to prickle with unease, took it from him as he climbed down into the tunnel. The stairs were ancient, the living stone of them worn smooth by Sigmar alone knew how many years, and the walls sweated moisture.

Ahead, there was a scurry of movement. Something pale appeared in the darkness and then was gone, so fleetingly that it might never have been there.

“If you’d just wait at the bottom, sir,” the chief of the guards called down. “This shouldn’t take long.”

Vaught took another couple of steps down as, one by one, his men were released, and sent down into the darkness with him.

“Notice how there aren’t any candles in the walls?” Fargo muttered as he stood beside his captain.

“There weren’t any in the other place,” Vaught reminded him.

“At least there were spaces for them.”

The clang of the trapdoor ended the conversation. The boom of it echoed down past the witch hunters and into the darkness beyond. The flickering light of their single lamp suddenly seemed horribly inadequate.

Vaught scowled as he marched back up the steps.

“Guards,” he called, his voice curt. “Guards!”

He rapped his fist against the underside of the trapdoor. For the first time, he realised that it was metal plated.

There was a clink, and a slit appeared in the centre of it.

“What can I do for you, gentlemen?”

There was no mistaking the contempt in the voice, nor in the laughter which followed it.

“The gaoler has ordered us released into the fresh air,” Vaught said, although he knew that he should have trusted his instincts.

More laughter and catcalls.

“Well you’ve been released, sir. What goes on in the hole is nothing to do with us. You should have got someone to pay your bills. Even the scum in the yard can afford a copper every now and again.”

Vaught and Fargo exchanged a glance, their eyes glittering in the darkness.

“The prince regent will pay for our battels, as was agreed.”

“Don’t waste your breath. The gaoler got a reply from him a couple of hours ago. Seems your prince doesn’t know you from an orc’s uncle. Most upset he was, and most insistent that you be given more suitable accommodation.”

“When the prince regent hears of this,” Vaught said with a confidence he didn’t feel, “there will be trouble for your master. Best to tell him that.”

There was a harsh chuckle.

“I’m not telling him anything, the mood he’s in. I will tell you this much, though, the ones who last longest down there are the ones who stop screaming and start moving. It’s amazing how long some of them last.”

“What?”

“Don’t you realise where you are, you fool? You’re in the hole. Don’t you realise that? Once you’re in there you never come back up. You’ll never see sunlight, or women, or ale.” He lowered his voice into a malicious whisper. “If I was you, maybe I would keep making noise. Best to get taken quick, perhaps, before you have a chance to suffer too much.”

Before Vaught could reply, the viewing slit was closed, and with a farewell curse, the voices of the guards faded.

“See,” Peik said, sounding pleased with himself, “I told you they were saying ‘in the hole’.”