THE BLESSED ONES

Rani Kellock

 

 

Sigmar, stop your hammering! Jurgen Kuhnslieb thought, as the throbbing pain in his head intensified. He winced and shielded his face as the inn door creaked open, admitting a bright lance of sunlight which seemed to pierce his very eyeballs. Grimacing, Jurgen gestured to the barkeep, who turned and studied him with a dour expression.

“My usual,” Jurgen said; it was more of a groan than a sentence. The barkeep looked unimpressed. The customer slumped before him—with his shabby slept-in clothes, his cropped black hair and dark, blood-shot eyes set into a keen, blowsy face—already owed money and did not look to be paying up any time soon.

“You’ve not paid your tab from last night,” the barkeep rambled.

“Come on,” Jurgen moaned, straggling vainly through his hangover to muster some charm, “just one. For your favourite customer.” The barkeep looked away. “Look, I’ll have the money in a few days. There’s this man coming in from Altdorf…”

Jurgen trailed off as the barkeep turned away in disinterest.

Sigmar! Jurgen thought; another place in Nuln he couldn’t get served. If this kept up, he’d soon end up barred from every establishment in the city. If only that last job hadn’t gone so terribly wrong—Heinrick and Eberhardt betrayed and slaughtered, and Rolf good only for begging since he was caught by Pharsos’ men—they would all have been rich, at least for a little while. And Jurgen wouldn’t be slinking around in dives like this trying to avoid Hultz the Red-Eyed, the small time crime-baron who seemed to think the whole mess had somehow been his fault; probably for no better reason that he was the only one who had survived the bungled job with all his appendages intact. Then there was the other matter: a few gambling debts which had, well, got out of hand.

No wonder Jurgen was rapidly becoming very unpopular in this city.

Jurgen became aware that a particular kind of silence had descended on the inn, of a sort usually reserved for the presence of the city watch, or strangers who were obviously out of place. Jurgen resisted the impulse to turn around, not wishing to attract attention.

A young man, the apparent cause of the hush, sauntered up to the bar next to Jurgen and gestured imperiously to the barkeep. He was dressed in fine clothes, and clearly in the wrong part of town.

“Tell me, do you know a man name of Jurgen?” the newcomer addressed the barkeep. His manner was languid, but his dark eyes held an intensity that to Jurgen did not bode well. The barkeep risked a glance at Jurgen, who shook his head almost imperceptibly, but the young man caught the exchange and he span like a cat to face Jurgen.

“No need for alarm, sir,” the man smirked, his eyes coming to rest on Jurgen’s left hand as it inched towards the knife concealed beneath his jacket. Jurgen paused, waiting for the stranger’s next move. “I’ve sought you out in order to offer you employment.”

“What are you talking about?” Jurgen said, taking the opportunity to size up the stranger. His dark eyes were set into a handsome, though somewhat pallid face; one which—by both appearance and demeanour—indicated a kinship to one of Nuln’s noble families. His head was crowned by neat fair hair which fell loose over his shoulders, which Jurgen noted were somewhat stooped.

“I have come here on behalf of my master, who wishes you to… acquire a certain item for him.” The man studied Jurgen, his voice low. “A very special item.”

Jurgen leaned forward and hissed: “Not here, you idiot!” The thief flicked his eyes toward the barkeep, who was standing too close, steadily ignoring the impatient cries of thirsty patrons and cleaning an already spotless glass. The noble’s smile tightened, but he nodded to the private booths at the rear of the inn and strode towards them purposefully. Jurgen followed cautiously, quickly checking that the knives secreted throughout his person were accessible.

Both men seated themselves in the enclosed booth and once again appraised each other. There was a moment of charged silence, broken first by Jurgen: “So who are you? Who’s your ‘master’?”

“My master wishes to remain anonymous, and who I am is not important.” The habitual smirk returned to the face of the young man. “You may call me Randolph.”

Jurgen suddenly realised where he had seen the stoop-shouldered look that this Randolph possessed: it was common among the students of Nuln’s famous university. Being wealthy and unused to manual work, they quickly became hunched when forced to lug about huge tomes of lore. Perhaps this Randolph was also a student at the university; this would explain his pale complexion—the more diligent students barely saw the light of day, spending their time endlessly studying books in the huge university library.

“Alright, ‘Randolph’. What’s the job?”

“My master has long wished to acquire a certain object, which recently came to his attention as being in the possession of a local merchant specialising in exotic artefacts,” Randolph paused, and fished a small pipe from his pocket. “However, the dealer was not willing to part with the piece, much to my master’s sorrow. Now we must resort to more discreet methods of obtaining the painting.”

“A painting?” Jurgen asked, incredulous. “You want me to steal a painting?”

“It’s not an overly large piece; you should be able to carry it alone. Once you have the painting out of the place it’s stored in, you’ll only need to move it a short distance to where we can take it off your hands,” Randolph filled the pipe with a pinch of herbs, and pulled a flint from his pocket.

“What are you offering,” Jurgen grimaced as the lit pipe began to emit sickly sweet fumes, “assuming I accept this job?”

“Oh, you’ll accept. One hundred gold crowns now, and nine hundred more once we have the painting.” Randolph paused for a languid draw from the pipe. “The amount is non-negotiable.”

Jurgen felt his jaw go slack. This fee was totally out of his league; the old gang would have been happy to pull two hundred crowns for a job. Sigmar! Jurgen thought. Just who does he think I am? Jurgen recovered himself and found Randolph studying him, a quizzical expression on his face.

“S-sounds fair… Hmm.” Jurgen did his utmost to appear casual.

“You accept the commission?” Randolph arched his eyebrows.

“Uh… Of course,” Jurgen smiled weakly.

“Very well. Here’s your advance,” Randolph said, rising from his seat and nonchalantly tossing a bag bulging with coins onto the table. “The merchant is Otto Grubach, of Tin Street, in the Merchant’s Quarter. The painting lies within a safe inside his office.”

“What’s the painting?”

“The piece is titled The Blessed Ones, by the artist Hals,” Randolph said. He carefully extinguished his pipe and replaced it in a pouch by his side. “I shall meet you in two days, here, to discuss delivery. That’ll give you time to examine the premises.”

“Fine.” Jurgen grasped the bag and weighed it in his hands. “Uh, look: what made you choose me for this?”

“You came highly recommended by a previous employer—a man known as Hultz.” Randolph flashed a knowing grin and strode purposefully from the booth.

Oh Sigmar, Jurgen thought, as his insides lurched with dread.

 

Getting inside Nuln University was no problem for Jurgen, who had a carefully nurtured friendship with the regular gate guard. It had been some time since he’d last had cause to visit the academy, but the feeling of discomfort he experienced with each visit returned on cue. It was more than just the intellectual and social snobbery of the university’s inhabitants which set Jurgen on edge: there were the stories, whispered in the dark corners of taverns throughout Nuln, concerning terrible and secretive goings-on within the academy walls. Of course, Jurgen was too much of a sceptic to believe even part of most of the tales he heard, but he was also cautious enough not to dismiss them out of hand. As the old saying went, Where there’s smoke there may well be dragons…

Jurgen was here this time, within the musty dormitory complex, visiting an old friend, Klaus von Rikkenburg II. Klaus was the third-in-line to the Rikkenburg family fortune, built over centuries from the local wine trade. Klaus rejected the traditional third son profession of priest and elected instead to study at Nuln’s famous university, a decision his family welcomed.

They were less impressed when he proceeded to almost completely ignore his official studies in order to pursue regular extensive studies into the quality of his “family” vineyard produce, and its market competitors, alongside much research into the anatomy of local womenfolk. His family concluded Klaus had “fallen in with bad sorts”, which—as Klaus proudly pointed out—his association with Jurgen was testimony to. Jurgen considered Klaus a good friend, one that had not hesitated in the past to use his influence and intelligence to help him out of not a few tight spots.

“It’s good to see you again, old man.” Klaus, having fixed his guest a drink, swept the clutter from an ancient-looking chair and seated himself. “Where in Ulric’s name have you been these last few months?”

“Uh, you know, saving the Empire and all that.” Jurgen glanced around the small dormitory room and shifted awkwardly; he’d made a seat of a low, over-stuffed cushion and was beginning to regret it. “Well, I suppose I’ve been in a bit of trouble actually.”

“Really? Jurgen, I am shocked,” Klaus grinned, raising a mocking eyebrow.

“That’s not important. I wanted to ask you about someone.”

“Yes?”

“I got approached by this young aristocratic-looking man who wanted me to do this job, right? Only he wouldn’t tell me his real name, or who he was working for.” Jurgen paused for a quick sip of the spicy-sweet wine Klaus poured for him. “Thing is, I reckon he looked a bit like he could be a student of the university, so I thought you might know him.”

“There are a lot of students at this university, Jurgen,” Klaus paused to gulp down a half-glass of wine. “Well I suppose it’s worth a try. What’s he look like?”

“About my height, pale, dark eyes, blond hair down to his shoulders—”

“You just described half of the student population,” Klaus smirked.

“Smoked some horrible sickly-sweet weed, smirked a lot, bit of a fool. Come to think of it, he reminded me of you.”

“This tobacco, it smelt a bit like rancid perfume? I don’t believe it!” Klaus seemed genuinely surprised. “That sounds… Tell me, did he walk around like this?” Klaus stood and did an impeccable burlesque of Randolph’s haughty demeanour.

Jurgen laughed loudly, almost spilling wine all over himself. “Yeah, that’s the one. Then again, all you aristocrats look that way to us common folk.”

Klaus grinned. “It sounds like Eretz Habemauer; he was in my art history class. He’s been smoking that disgusting Araby weed ever since he took up with Count Romanov last year.”

“Who’s he?” Jurgen leaned forward, carefully setting his wine on the floor.

“Lives on the Hill. There are some odd stories about him. There used to be a lot of big parties in his manor, but they stopped because many of the noble families didn’t approve of the things happening at them.”

“What do you mean? What was going on?”

“Well, I don’t know for sure. But some say that they were taking riffraff—if you’ll pardon the expression—off the street and, well, using them for entertainment.” Klaus paused while he carefully refilled his glass. “Eventually all the bodies began turning up and people started asking questions, so his little soirees stopped. Or perhaps the count has been more discreet since.”

“By the gods…” Jurgen leaned back, exhaling slowly. “So what’s Habemauer to Count Romanov?”

“Romanov seems to have taken him as his protégé, and now it seems Eretz shares the count’s mania for exotic intoxicants and obscure relics. He really is a clown.” Klaus snorted with derision. “Did he really ask you to do a job?”

“Yeah. He offered a heap of money, on behalf of his ‘master’, for me to steal a painting. By someone, Halls or something—”

“Hals?” Klaus demanded sharply.

“Um, I think—”

“Not The Blessed Ones?” Klaus stared at Jurgen intently.

“Yes. What do you know about this?”

“I studied the finer arts once, mainly to annoy my parents, and gave a dissertation on mythological art: ancient pieces which are legendary, despite the fact that nobody can be sure they even exist. The Blessed Ones, by Hals, was one such piece: rumours of its whereabouts keep turning up but the painting’s never been found,” Klaus pondered his wine glass for a moment, swirling the contents gently. “The thing is, well, this old painting was supposed to grant the possessor, erm, eternal life. So, well, naturally, many people are interested in finding it.”

“Then this could be big…” Jurgen was standing abruptly to leave. “Klaus, I’d better go. Do you think you could find out anymore about this painting, or Romanov?”

“I can try.” Klaus sat forward but did not rise. “So this painting is in Nuln?”

Jurgen offered a guarded shrug of his shoulders by way of a reply. “Thanks for all your help, Klaus,” he said, before briskly turning to leave.

“Not at all, friend,” Klaus called as Jurgen hurried out of the door, slamming it shut behind him. The impact stirred up motes of dust coating the ancient door frame. “Not at all.”

 

Jurgen dodged his way across the city, hurrying through dingy lanes and twisting back alleys. Few knew Nuln as Jurgen did, which was the only reason he had managed to evade Pharsos’ men when the last operation had blown up in their faces. Jurgen would be sad to leave this place, but he suspected his departure from this corner of the Old World was long overdue.

As he raced through Nuln’s filth-strewn streets, already choked with the first leaves of autumn, Jurgen’s mind sped. He knew Hultz was out for his blood, so being hired at his advice could only mean this job was, in one way or another, a death sentence. His every instinct told him to stay away from this strange employer and his obscure artwork. And yet… if this priceless painting really lay within the merchant Grubach’s shop, then a solution to Jurgen’s cash-flow problems could be at hand.

Jurgen slowed as he reached the end of an unkempt alley, stepping over an unconscious drunkard, to find himself facing the small merchant’s house lying at the end of Tin Street. Ducking back into the alley, he squatted down against a broken crate. Fishing a small hand-mirror of beaten brass and a tiny wooden box from the pockets of his jacket, Jurgen proceeded to apply the contents of the box—a pair of dark eyebrows and a styled goatee—to his face. He carefully moulded these new features until he was satisfied they appeared authentic.

Jurgen contemplated his rather shabby clothing for a moment, reflecting that it was a pity he could not afford the time to purchase a more appropriate outfit. Or the money, of course.

Taking a deep breath, Jurgen assumed the bearing of a servant on an important errand and strode purposefully from the alley. He stopped smartly before the narrow, two-storey building, adorned with worn, leering gargoyles. The building was flush with its neighbour on one side, with an alley on the other. Approaching the double front doors, he heard faint sounds from within. He rapped briskly on a solid door.

The noises inside ceased for a moment, then cautious heavy footsteps approached. The clunk of a beam lifting was heard from within, and the door opened slightly to reveal a thick-set man. His face—a jigsaw of scars—held an expression of extreme annoyance, which only deepened at the sight of Jurgen.

“We’re closed,” the man growled. Jurgen quickly shoved his foot into the small space. He had to suppress a howl of pain as the man slammed the door on to his leather boot.

“Take your foot out of the door, now, or you’ll be carrying it home in a sack.” The scarred man’s voice dripped with malice.

“My master would be most disappointed if I returned without having spoken to the merchant Grubach,” Jurgen contorted his voice into the whining-yet-superior speech common to the servants of nobility.

“You ain’t hearing too good,” the man snarled, and pushed his face closer to Jurgen’s. “We’re closed. Begone, you worm!”

Jurgen struggled to maintain his composure as he felt the man’s hot breath on his face, and was about to back off when he heard the faint shuffle of a second figure behind scar-face. Jurgen stretched to peer around the thug’s head at the interior of the store, and was rewarded with a glimpse of a rather pudgy figure peering at him from round the corner of an ornate dresser. The figure immediately ducked back behind the antique.

Jurgen raised his voice: “A pity! Lord DeNunzio will be most upset. I had come to lay a considerable bid for—”

“Lord DeNunzio sent you?” The pudgy figure said, emerging cautiously into the light. Jurgen resisted the impulse to smile; the invocation of the name of one of the wealthiest and most powerful families in the city rarely failed to gain the attention of those of a mercantile persuasion.

“Yes, Herr Grubach. His Lordship was most interested in a piece you have acquired.” Jurgen did his best to speak confidently; not easily done with the thug snarling into his face.

“Well, of course!” The merchant’s manner changed, a congenial tone entering his voice, although he still appeared extremely nervous. “Come in, do! Please allow the poor man in, Hans.”

Hans scowled, but stood back from the door and gestured impatiently for Jurgen to enter. Jurgen stepped smartly into the store, then proceeded to make a show of smoothing down his clothes and examining his boot for scuff marks. Hans’ scowl deepened. Jurgen took this opportunity to quickly scan the cluttered store.

“DeNunzio’s page boys are lookin’ pretty shabby these days,” Hans rumbled sarcastically.

Jurgen ignored him imperiously, as did Grubach. “Which piece was your master interested in?” The merchant wrung his hands, and glanced about distractedly. Jurgen got the feeling that Grubach wished to get rid of him as quickly, though as politely, as possible.

“A certain vase. Milord provided me with a detailed description… Ah! I believe that is the very piece there,” Jurgen indicated a large vase, which stood at the head of some stairs to the rear of the shop.

“Ah… I’m terribly afraid that piece has been, hmm, sold.” The refusal came haltingly from Grubach, and Jurgen could see he was cursing himself for selling for what must have been a far inferior price to that which would be offered by one of the wealthiest men in Nuln. “Still, I should think Lord DeNunzio would have nothing to do with such… such an inferior piece. Perhaps he would be more interested in something like this?”

Jurgen was led through the cluttered store to examine various vases, urns and other assorted containers. Grubach became increasingly agitated, casting nervous glances about each time he ushered Jurgen to the next piece. Hans, by contrast, was like a rock, unflinchingly inspecting Jurgen’s every move.

A section of the second storey had been cleared of artefacts, and a large tub half-full of water had been placed beneath a leaking section of ceiling. “Must be quite a hazard in this business,” Jurgen commented pleasantly. Grubach assented, grumbling that the roof repairer was due but had not yet shown.

It took less than twenty minutes for Grubach to show Jurgen every piece of glassware and pottery in the place. Only one section of the shop remained unseen: a door to the rear of the building, which judging by the layout of the building led to a fairly small room.

“Anymore pieces through here?” Jurgen asked casually, knowing he was pushing things.

“No! Em, no, just my office.” A look of panic crossed Grubach’s eyes for a moment, before he brought himself back under control.

Hans placed a heavy hand on Jurgen’s shoulder, gripping it tightly: “You’ve seen all the pieces that are for sale,” he said, talking slowly and deliberately, “and I think it’s time you left to consult with your master. Don’t you?”

It was Grubach, strangely, who answered the somewhat rhetorical question. “Er, yes,” the merchant appeared rather distressed, caught between the need for politeness to the servant of a powerful man, and his need to be rid of the same, “I do have some pressing tasks to attend to, so if that’s all…”

“More than sufficient, thank you,” Jurgen began moving towards the front doors, though in truth he had little choice since he was being bodily propelled towards them by Hans’ vice-like grip on his shoulder, “Lord DeNunzio will be most grateful for your time.”

Jurgen was shoved onto the street, tripping and falling into the dust at the final push from Hans. The door slammed shut, and the heavy bolt slid loudly back into place. Jurgen rose and dusted himself off, thinking hard. He was sure from the way Grubach had behaved that the painting was present, and the theft actually seemed relatively simple. There were obviously complicating factors: he would be working alone, for one thing. Grubach’s nervous manner did not bode well either. Romanov had probably alarmed him with suspiciously large bids on the painting, Jurgen suspected that if the burglary was not performed immediately—which meant tonight—the piece would most likely be transported to a safer location. That did not leave long to arrange matters…

Jurgen strode off briskly down the street, remembering to retain his servant’s poise until he was some streets away.

From the alley opposite the house, a dark figure emerged, looking decidedly sober now. The figure paused to make sure it was not seen, then skulked off after Jurgen.

 

Wooden shingles shifted under Jurgen’s feet as he stepped cautiously across the rooftop. He checked his movement for a moment, and then crept on more carefully, testing gingerly for loose tiles in the darkness with the point of his boot. His planning would all be for naught if he lost his footing now and plunged to become a bloody mess on the cobbled street below. The faint light emitted by a thin blade of moon, poised overhead like an assassin’s knife, picked out the edge of the building in front of Jurgen. He crouched down, crawling slowly to the lip of the two-story precipice. Jurgen looked down into the street briefly and then wished he hadn’t: he had never been much good with heights, which was a considerable liability in his chosen profession.

Jurgen steadied himself, slowly unhooking a small device from his belt. It was essentially a compact, three-pronged grappling hook, to which was tied a length of slim and sturdy cord. It had taken almost an hour of cajoling, wheedling, and finally a sizeable deposit of gold before Konrad, a nervous, small-time fencer, had agreed to lend it.

Taking a deep breath, Jurgen regained his feet and concentrated on the stone gargoyle on the roof of Grubach’s house opposite. He swung the hook around his head, letting it gather momentum before releasing it to glide across the intervening space. The grapple-iron looped about the statue and caught, one of the prongs finding purchase in the nostril of the hideous effigy. After testing the line, Jurgen secured his end of the rope to a disused flagpole.

Jurgen tried to quell his quickening breaths as he pushed himself gingerly off the roof, dropping a few feet as the line adjusted to his weight. Sigmar save me, he thought, fighting to remain calm as he dangled two stories above the cobbled ground of the alley below. After a few deep breaths, Jurgen settled into a desperate rhythm of hand-over-hand for what seemed like hours, then suddenly found himself dangling against the opposite roof. Jurgen carefully lowered himself to the relative comfort of the tiles below him.

He rested briefly before ascending the slate roof cautiously, to the point at which the roof-leak inside the house had been. Sure enough, some of the tiles had slipped, leaving a small cavity leading into the darkness of the building’s attic. Working carefully, Jurgen eased the surrounding tiles out of place, carefully piling them next to him until he had made a sizeable hole.

Jurgen lowered himself though the hole into the cluttered darkness of the attic. After some careful blundering, he managed to find his way to the trapdoor leading down into the building proper. Easing the trapdoor up gently, he surveyed the room below. Lamplight emanated upwards from the ground floor, but Jurgen heard no sign of any occupants. He slithered through, pulled a knife from his jacket, and began a stealthy descent of the staircase, checking cautiously over the banisters for possible assailants; Hans, in particular, he was not keen to face. The room appeared empty, however, the only sign of any occupancy a single lamp burning on a table.

Jurgen crept to the door Grubach had told him led to his office, listening carefully for sounds of occupancy. Once again, there was nothing. What in Sigmar’s name is going on here? Jurgen thought, as the unlocked door opened readily to his touch.

Beyond lay a small office, containing a small desk holding neat piles of documents, and a large wooden cabinet. The cabinet had evidently been moved from its regular place, where it had concealed a sizeable wall safe which now stood open and empty but for a few papers. Jurgen was almost ready to weep with frustration—when he noticed a painting, about the size of a large child, which lay propped against a low table in a shadowy corner of the room.

Jurgen carefully approached the painting. A strip of moonlight through a window provided no more than a glimpse of the subject contained within the gilt-edged frame: the green of forest trees, the pale pink of bare flesh, and then an angular face of raw crimson, staring insane and demented from the canvas. Jurgen shuddered and turned away, feeling nauseous. Steeling himself, he turned back to check the small signature in the bottom-right corner of the canvas, and made out the name “Sena Hals” penned in strange script.

A sheet of black cloth on a table nearby made an adequate cloak for the grotesque painting. Jurgen shouldered his prize and proceeded towards the back door that led from the office to the street.

As Jurgen moved to open the robust oak door, he noticed that it was already ajar, and swinging slightly in the autumn night breeze.

 

Jurgen emerged from the building into a narrow lane, its cobblestones slick and gleaming in the moonlight. A light rain had started, and Jurgen had trouble keeping his balance on the slippery surface as he wrestled with his bulky load. As Jurgen stumbled along, he became suddenly aware, by the innate and indefinable sixth sense which had allowed him to survive thus far in his profession, that he was being followed. He took a quick glance over his shoulder, making out a vague blacker-on-black silhouette of a figure as it crept towards him.

Jurgen slowed and peered ahead in the gloom of the lane’s end, although he already knew there would be at least one more in front; footpads rarely worked alone. The few Jurgen had ever associated with had been callous, spiteful, stupid cowards. Men who lived by preying on the weak, who all feared—despite their desperate bravado—ending up like their victims: trapped, friendless, alone, bleeding to death anonymously in some dark alley.

There, a second, inching his way through the darkness. Jurgen stopped. He knew he couldn’t possibly escape carrying the painting. Yet he could not leave it. The painting was his new-found hope, a way to repay the borrowed time he had been living on. Jurgen backed up against the wall, awaiting a move from the strangers.

The stalkers knew they were spotted and emerged from the shadows. There were only two, which at least Jurgen could be thankful for, and they appeared to be typical street thugs, though well-equipped. Their swords, drawn as they approached, were of a fine make, not the usual rough-hewn barracks-quality usually wielded by street ruffians.

“Good job, Herr Jurgen,” the shorter man said, a menacing undertone belying the compliment. “We’ll handle it from here.”

Jurgen had no doubt the man’s tone would not have altered one bit, were he to be uttering the phrase “Give us what we want and you won’t get hurt.”

“What about my payment?” Jurgen spoke casually, desperately trying to formulate some kind of plan. “I’m not delivering the goods until I get what… what Romanov promised me.”

“Very well. If you come with us to the count’s estate, you’ll get your payment there. You don’t expect us to carry that kind of money around, do you?” The short man smiled, or attempted to; a strange grimace strained his face. The taller thug, who seemed a little slow, guffawed at his companion’s wit.

So Romanov is behind this after all, thought Jurgen; at any other time he would have felt pleased with his cleverness. But in the small thug’s facial contortions and hard, dark eyes, Jurgen knew that the only payment that would be made at Romanov’s manor would be with his own life. He had to get out of there fast. He did the only thing he could think of.

“Here you go!” Jurgen hurled the painting towards the small man, and immediately sprang towards the tall hoodlum, smashing the surprised thug in the face with a quick jab. There was a crunch of cartilage. The man screamed as he reeled backwards, one hand flying to his shattered nose. Jurgen pressed home his advantage, drawing his knife and slashing in one quick motion. The man screamed again and collapsed to the ground, clutching desperately at his side.

Out of the corner of his eye, Jurgen saw the smaller hoodlum, who had dropped his weapon to catch the precious canvas, scrambling forward on his knees to retrieve his sword. Jurgen span and stamped down on the base of the blade, just as the man grasped the hilt. The thug looked up, fear and defiance in his eyes. Jurgen gritted his teeth and brought the pommel of his dagger down on the man’s head.

 

Jurgen shook uncontrollably as he raced through the streets with his heavy burden, all caution gone. The immediacy of death never failed to make an impression on him. The two bloodied men he had left back there would most likely survive; Jurgen was not in the habit of killing unnecessarily, and he did not intend to start now. He had two new enemies in Nuln, however, for men like that did not easily forget such moments of vulnerability.

If he had been calmer, the thief would have been rather embarrassed to admit that he had not planned as far as where to go once he actually had the painting. So he stopped, gasping for breath in a shadowy doorway, and considered his options. He could not go to the inn he had been lodging at, nor any others, since the bulky package would start rumours flying immediately. All his regular underworld bolt-holes were off-limits, since there was no one he could trust not to hand him straight to Hultz, or even Romanov.

Jurgen was stumped for a moment, the panic welling up inside like dark spring-water, and then he had it: the one place he could go, where no one would think twice about a man carrying a strange artefact. Jurgen grinned in the darkness.

 

The university gatekeeper greeted Jurgen with a nod and detained him a moment with his latest joke, something vile about dwarf and halfling procreation. Jurgen hardly listened, just chuckled politely and strode into the academy, the man still chortling behind him.

He made his way to the dormitory houses without difficulty, though several times he was amicably jostled by inebriated students returning from a long evening at the local tavern. Arriving at Klaus’ small dormitory house, Jurgen set down the painting and knocked heartily on the door.

Movement sounded from within, but there was no further reaction. Sigmar, thought Jurgen, he’s probably completely smashed.

“Come on, Klaus, it’s me! Open up!” Jurgen hammered again.

It had been a long night; he was exhausted, frozen and scared. All of which might help to explain why not until the last, even after the door was flung open, after he was seized by rough hands and dragged into that nightmare room of blood and torment, did he suspect that anything was in the least amiss. By then, of course, it was too late.

Two huge thugs gripped Jurgen’s arms, and he hung between them like a sack of grain. The small room was a shambles, although the violence done to the furnishings was minimal. There was some glass on the floor from a broken decanter, and some papers had also been trodden into the rug. It was the blood, which seemed to saturate every surface and piece of furniture in the room, which coated the floor and rug in a sticky mess, that created an impression of such brutal vandalism. The gore was from one source: Klaus von Rikkenburg II, who sat slumped in a bloodied mess, tied into a previously opulent chair by lengths of thin cord. Behind him stood Eretz Habemauer, the one Jurgen had known as “Randolph”, a gore-spattered pair of pliers in his hand and a pouting smile on his lips.

“How fortunate! Who would have thought you would have friends in such circles, Jurgen? And you have brought a little present also, hmm?” Eretz gestured to a third thug, who lifted the cover on the painting for the noble to inspect. “Ah, how beautiful. Best put it away. Wouldn’t want to contaminate the precious thing now, would we?”

The thing in the chair convulsed suddenly, then began moaning piteously. Jurgen’s heart turned over; poor Klaus was still alive! Eretz appeared to derive amusement from the display, for his pout became a wry smirk.

“Your friend does have surprising endurance. Had you arrived earlier you could have enjoyed the show; I fear Herr Rikkenburg will not be with us much longer.” Eretz paused with mock regret. Jurgen’s tensed with rage. “Well, we had best be off. I think it’s time for you to meet the count.”

“Can I…” Jurgen choked on his words, though with anger or sorrow he could not tell, “can I have…”

“Hmm? Oh yes, of course. It must be very sad for you,” Eretz said, with the indifference of handing a coin to a beggar.

Jurgen approached the mangled form of Klaus, who was suddenly beset with violent coughing. Jurgen bent to speak to his friend, though the right words escaped him.

“Klaus… I’m… Sigmar!” Jurgen mumbled, his stomach turning. “I’m so sorry, Klaus.”

The figure jerked his head up at the sound of Jurgen’s voice, its ruined face staring straight through him. “Jurg—” An explosion of coughing. “…Is that you?”

“Yes, friend. I’m—”

“Jurgen… the pain… it’s evil. Watch… blood, don’t let your bio…” Klaus’ body was wracked with an especially violent fit of coughing. When the attack ceased, the figure was still.

The two thugs stepped forward and seized Jurgen, and he was led away. Away from the ruined room, and from his dead, ruined friend.

 

Jurgen saw little of the Romanov estate, crammed inside a darkened carriage. The manor, however, he had ample time to survey as he was pulled forcibly from the coach and shoved up the wide entrance stairs. The exterior gave an impression of ageing splendour: a once-great edifice falling into disrepair, the combination of neglect and the passage of time taking their toll.

The interior, in contrast, contained opulence the like of which Jurgen had never before set eyes on. Its crumbling passages were graced with a plush red pile carpet, and vivid tapestries and silks hung from the walls. The huge, antiquated rooms were decorated with chairs and couches with velvet upholstery, and strange sculptures and statuettes of exotic origin.

Jurgen was led into a large study, with shelves of books lining all four walls and a fire crackling in a sizeable hearth. Reclining on an opulent chair with a large tome on his lap was a middle-aged man, tall, with dark hair greying at the temples. He turned towards the new arrivals with irritation.

“Eretz, what is this?” the count—for Jurgen had no doubt this was he—spoke with annoyance, “What are you doing here?”

“This is Jurgen Kuhnslieb, your lordship, the thief I hired.” Eretz spoke proudly, like a cat triumphantly depositing the corpse of a bird onto his master’s bedroom carpet. “He obtained the painting, and was attempting to keep it from us, as I predicted, when we intercepted him.”

“You have the painting?” Romanov sat up, his eyes burning with sudden intensity.

“I viewed it myself. We were… interrogating someone, a student, to find out what Jurgen was planning. I knew—”

“Where is it, man?” The count stood impatiently.

“Fyodor and Willem are preparing it as we speak.”

Romanov nodded briskly and stalked past Eretz, who hurried after his master. Jurgen was shoved after them by his large minder.

“So,” Eretz was gabbling, racing to keep up with Romanov’s long strides, “my spies followed the thief to a student’s house. I knew this scholar, one of the Rikkenburgs, from my studies. He had even given a dissertation on The Blessed Ones. I knew that as soon as this petty burglar found out about the true powers of the painting, he would try to take it for himself. I had to find out what he was planning.”

The group reached a long set of stairs, and began the descent into the bowels of the manor. Eretz continued his report. “We were fortunate that the thief, having somehow evaded the men I set to tailing him, came straight to the student’s room with the painting just as we were finishing up! Of course, I had considered the possibility that he might return…”

The count stopped and turned, directing a piercing look at his excited protégé. “You took a considerable risk, against my explicit wishes, doing this. You were extremely lucky that things have worked out as they did.” Romanov spoke briskly, with controlled malice. Jurgen seemed forgotten. There are more important things to consider now. “Be silent!”

The party descended the remainder of the staircase in a hush, only the sound of their footsteps on the ancient stone filling the charged silence. At the base of the stairs, lit by guttering torches, stood a large wine-cellar, containing rows of dusty bottles on racks. Romanov gestured to Eretz, who walked sullenly to the opposite wall and lifted a small flagstone to reveal a short, steel lever. Eretz struggled briefly, then with a grating of stone on stone, a section of the cellar wall swung ponderously outwards.

Beyond lay an unusual sight, a chamber of beauty and horror. One half of the room was adorned with the sweeping silks, extravagant furniture, and fine candelabras common to the rest of the manor.

The other half, set on a cold stone floor, was filled with aesthetically-placed instruments of torture, Jurgen could discern a few of the usual suspects: the rack, vices designed to fit various appendages, and an iron maiden, its exterior decorated with a naked woman carved in alarming detail. Many of the remaining devices were far more bizarre and exotic, and Jurgen could only guess at their uses—though he suspected that guesses would soon be unnecessary.

At the opposite end of the chamber, two men were carefully arranging the covered painting on a large easel, which stood before an altar of stone draped with a silk cloth.

A small jade statuette of a beautiful androgynous figure, a cruel smile upon its lips, stood on the altar, its feet immersed in a low stone dish containing a dark liquid. Jurgen felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise as a feeling of deepest dread filled him.

Jurgen was manhandled over and deftly tied to a large crossbeam planted into the bare stone. At a gesture from Romanov, Jurgen’s minder exited the chamber, the stone door rumbling shut behind him. The count turned to Jurgen.

“Listen carefully, vermin. You are about to witness something so wondrous I doubt your petty little mind can even comprehend it. Enjoy the privilege, for your death will soon follow, even as my everlasting life is assured.”

Romanov turned away, and walked purposefully to the painting, the two servants respectfully standing aside. Meanwhile, Eretz had taken a short flaxen whip from a rack of tools on the wall, and was walking slowly towards Jurgen, a coy smile playing across his face.

The first blow caught Jurgen unprepared. A casual flick of Eretz’s wrist sent the point of the whip stinging across the thief’s right cheek. Jurgen gasped and stifled a cry. A second flick lashed above his left eye, sending blood trickling down his face. This time Jurgen did cry out, equally from despair as from pain. Romanov, who had been stooped in an examination of the painting, turned in annoyance.

“Stop that, Eretz! You can entertain yourself with your trivial games, or you can observe history in the making.”

The count stepped back from the painting, studying it with the eye of an aesthete while Eretz looked on respectfully. Jurgen, blinking away blood, was also drawn to the picture within the frame, his eyes widening in horror at what he saw there. The image was of a forest glade with a shallow pool, in which figures bathed and lounged around in various states of undress. All of the figures were attended by oddly-proportioned red-skinned daemons, who appeared to cater to all the whims and desires of their human masters. The image was disturbing enough to Jurgen, but what induced such terror in him was a figure he recognised within the painting. Even from this distance, Jurgen could clearly make out the merchant, Grubach, lounging by the pool. His face was plastered with a strained grin, but his eyes stared wildly from the canvas in horror and desperation.

Neither Eretz nor Romanov seemed to notice anything amiss. Romanov produced a ceremonial knife from the folds of his robe, and held forth his left arm. He carefully made a light cut, catching the flow of blood on his finger. He studied the crimson drops for a moment before stepping towards the painting. Unnoticed, Jurgen struggled with his bonds, testing for a weakness.

“Immortality is mine!” Romanov cried theatrically, and smeared his blood onto the canvas.

For a moment nothing happened, and Romanov glanced about uncertainly. A light mist then began to seep from the painting, and the frame seemed to glow slightly in the candlelight. The bloody smear began to sizzle, seeping slowly into the canvas. The count stepped back in wonder and a low hum filled the air. The canvas appeared to pulse, the image distending, and abruptly two figures flowed out of the painting, forming before the awed count. They resembled the daemons in the picture: tall, spindly red-skinned creatures, with wide grins painted onto their distorted faces. Jurgen redoubled his efforts, and was rewarded with a loosening of his left wrist’s bonds.

The two creatures spoke as one, their horrible sensual voices echoing through the room: “Lord Slaanesh is grateful for your sacrifice—the eternal service of your immortal soul!”

Romanov stood in stunned horror as the two creatures seized him by the shoulders. One of the guards, prompted into desperate action by the plight of his master, leapt at a daemon with a desperate sword swing. The creature reached out, easily seized the guard’s arm with one long clawed hand and twisted it into an unnatural angle. A languid swipe of razor-sharp claws separated the man’s head from his body, and he collapsed to the ground.

Eretz and the remaining servant looked on in shocked disbelief as their master was dragged, screaming, pleading, into the accursed painting, flesh flowing like vapour, until all three figures were gone. The room was filled with a palpable silence, though a lingering aftershock remained, like the ringing in the ears after a blow to the head.

Jurgen took his chance. Twisting his freed left arm, he plunged his hand into his clothing, snatching his last remaining knife, hidden on his inner right thigh. Jurgen quickly cut himself free from his constraints, as Eretz and the guard stood staring at the painting in disbelief.

Jurgen lunged forwards and despatched the guard expertly. Eretz span to face the thief, white fury suffusing his face, and lifted his whip. Jurgen raised his arm to defend against the coming strike, only to find his extremity suddenly entrapped in the whip’s coil. Eretz yanked the whip, sending Jurgen sprawling on the cold stone floor.

“It’s all over now, Eretz,” Jurgen implored from his place on the floor, “It was Romanov’s mistake. There’s no need for us to kill each other.”

“You cannot possibly understand!” Eretz screamed with rage. “You are nothing! Nothing!”

Jurgen received a painful kick to the ribs. He gasped, then jerked the whip from Eretz’s hand, rolling quickly away across the floor. He scrambled to his feet as Eretz charged. Jurgen’s desperate stab pierced Eretz’s shoulder, but did little to stop the maddened acolyte, who seized him by the shoulders and slammed him backwards into the stone wall. Jurgen’s head bounced off the chiselled rock, and he slumped to the ground, stunned. A savage kick to his jaw flattened him, blood and pain exploding in his mouth.

Jurgen pushed himself upright, shaking his blurred vision clear, to see that Eretz had picked up a heavy, shoulder-high candelabra, and was advancing intently. Jurgen blinked, attempting to clear the blood from his eyes. He raised his hand up protectively in front of him, the bloodied dagger still clasped in it.

Eretz laughed maniacally at his feeble resistance. “Good night,” he said, hefting the candelabra.

Jurgen looked up, sighing painfully. His blurred eyes strayed as he awaited the final blow, and came to rest on the malevolent painting sitting just a few feet away. Jurgen continued to stare, as a curious thought struck him. Eretz, puzzled by Jurgen’s behaviour, followed his gaze, then quickly turned back, eyes wide as he reached the same thought a moment too late.

Jurgen tensed his arm and flung the bloodied dagger—a wild, inaccurate throw, but it found its mark. The knife clattered against the painting, blood spattering across the canvas, before falling to the floor. Figures began to move within the painting.

Eretz emitted a scream of rage and despair. Jurgen closed him eyes tightly, though he could not stop his ears to the terrible sounds that filled the room.

 

When he opened his eyes some time later, Jurgen found the room silent, except for the low crackling of a small fire on the plush carpet, started by the fallen candelabra. Jurgen got to his feet slowly, steadying himself against the wall. He stumbled forward towards the painting, then stopped himself. He carefully cleaned his bloodied hands on his clothes, and then gingerly picked the painting up, setting it down on the growing flames.

The search for a mechanism to open the door sent him into a brief panic, but at last the lever was found. Just as he was stepping through the open door, a terrible wail sounded behind him, and he turned back briefly.

From the burning canvas then emanated all manner of horrific screams, some monstrously alien, some undeniably human. He ran, blundering though the wine cellar and scrambling up the stone steps. As he fled, he was certain he heard the anguished cries of Eretz howling in agony once more.

And then, at last, Jurgen stumbled through the still manor house and out into the chill night. The first wisps of flame were already rising into the dark sky behind him.