DEAD MAN’S HAND

Nick Kyme

 

 

The guard was dead. He fell to the ground at Krieger’s feet, his broken neck a pulpy, twisted mass.

Krieger clenched a fist, felt the knuckles crack. It was good to kill again. He regarded the corpse impassively from above, rubbing the angry red rings around his wrists left by the manacles.

A sound beyond the dungeon gate alerted him. He ducked down and slowly dragged the guard’s body away from the viewing slit, then waited, listening intently in the gloom. He heard only his own breath and the mind-numbing retort of dripping water from the sewer beneath.

Rising slowly, Krieger felt anew the bruises from the beatings they had given him. He’d sobbed as they’d done it. They’d become complacent and negligent, removing his manacles and leg irons to make beating him easier. The mistake had cost one guard his life, but Krieger’s retribution was just beginning.

Krieger heaved the guard’s corpse along a stone floor, thick with grime, shushing him mockingly, touching his finger to his lips. He was alone in an interrogation cell. There were no windows and it smelled of vomit and blood. At the back of the chamber was a cot. The rest of the room, dank and filth-smeared, was empty save for a single wooden chair, bolted to the floor. Short chains were fixed to it. Spatters of Krieger’s blood showed up, dark and thick, around it.

The witch hunter would be here soon, the guard had boasted of it. Working quickly, Krieger concealed the guard’s body beneath a stinking, lice-ridden blanket. The man had the sloping forehead and common features of a low-born; the blanket seemed oddly fitting as a mortuary veil. Donning the guard’s helmet, he quickly carved a symbol into the dead man’s flesh with his dagger.

After he was finished, Krieger fixed his attention back on the vision slit.

 

Three sharp raps came from the other side of the door. Volper sprang to his feet. He fumbled with the iron keys, slipping one into the lock. Bolts scraping, he opened the vision slit.

“I ’ope you spat in that gruel,” he said, peering through it as he eased the door open a crack. A shadowy figure wearing a helmet looked back at him. As it drew close Volper saw bloodshot eyes, filled with murderous intent.

Instinctively, stupidly, the guard reached for his sword with shaking fingers. Looking back through the vision slit, he saw a flash of steel.

 

Krieger rammed the dagger through the vision slit, driving it into the guard’s eye. Wedging his foot into the door, he reached around and pushed him thrashing onto the blade. Krieger held him there a moment, waiting patiently for the spasms to subside. Then, opening the door inwards, he allowed Volper’s body to fall inside.

Krieger stepped over the guard’s body and into the sickly light of the corridor. There was a sewer grate a few feet away. Krieger padded up to it and saw it was embedded with rust and slime. Age and wear had weakened it though. With effort, cold gnawing at him as he perspired, he carved away the filth at the edges of the sewer grate with the guard’s dagger, stopping occasionally to listen for signs of intrusion.

Using the fallen guard’s sword he levered the grate open, sliding and scraping it to one side. A foul stench assailed him. Krieger ignored it, pushing the grate wide open. He went back to the dead guard, took the man’s boots and put them on before pushing the body into the sewer. There was a dull splash as the guard hit the turgid water below. Krieger followed, standing on a slim ledge inside the sewer tunnel and pulling the grate back. With a final glance up into the dungeon, he plunged into the mire beneath.

Effluent came up to his waist and he held his breath against the horrible sunk, wading through it quickly. A half-devoured animal carcass bobbed in the filthy water like a macabre buoy. The guard’s body was gone; weighed down by his armour the sea of waste had swallowed him.

After several long minutes, the sewage began to ebb and Krieger saw a circle of faint and dingy light ahead. He waded towards it—the hope of his freedom his incentive—and emerged from the edge of the tunnel into the day.

Blinking back the harsh light, Krieger looked down into a rocky gorge. Beyond that, the surrounding land was thick with pine. But from his vantage point he could see a stream. It ran all the way out of the forest and to a settlement, about a mile from the edge of the tree-line. Krieger saw chimney smoke spiralling into the turbulent sky. He knew this place.

Climbing carefully but urgently, Krieger made his way down the rocky embankment, negotiating a mass of boulders and slipping occasionally on scattered scree. Gratefully, he descended into the thick forest and kept running until he came upon a clearing. Krieger took a moment to appreciate his freedom, filling his lungs with the smell of it and gazing into the heavens. Clouds crept across the sky, filled with the threat of rain, as the wind steadily picked up.

Without time to linger, Krieger moved on and found the stream he had seen from the edge of the tunnel. He ran into it and eagerly washed away the sewer stench. Following the stream, he soon reached the fringe of the forest. The town was ahead. It was waiting for him. Dark clouds gathered above it, echoing Krieger’s mood.

Clenching his fists, he said, “There will be a reckoning.”

 

The town square of Galstadt was alive with people. Thronging crowds clapped and danced and laughed as jugglers, fire-eaters and all manner of street entertainers dazzled them with their skill and pantomime. Huge garlands hung from windows and archways; acrobats leapt and whirled amongst the crowds and flower petals filled the air with dazzling colour. Even the darkening sky overhead could not dampen the carnival mood.

A massive cheer erupted from the townsfolk and assembled soldiery as a vast and ornate casket was brought into view. Held aloft by six proud men-at-arms, it shimmered with an unearthly lustre. Behind it rode a retinue of knights mounted on snorting steeds, austere and powerful in full armour. The crowds gathered in their hundreds to welcome the return of their count and his brave knights.

As he rode through the town, Count Gunther Halstein regarded the crowds impassively. His steed stumbled on a loose cobblestone and moved its flank awkwardly. A sudden sharp pain seared Count Gunther’s chest, just below his heart, and he grimaced.

“My lord?” Bastion, Gunther’s knight captain, was at his side immediately. “Is it your wound?”

Irritably, the count waved away Bastion’s concern. “These people,” he whispered, resuming his smiling facade, “they know nothing of the sacrifice, Bastion, the danger beyond these walls.”

“No, they do not,” Bastion replied. His voice held a tinge of knightly arrogance. “But we survived the Lands of the Dead, with the prize,” he added. “Let them bask.”

Bastion flashed a confident smile, but the count’s gaze travelled upward, to the banner of their order fluttering in the growing breeze; a heart wreathed in flames. Framed against a steel sky, it reminded him of an animal struggling for breath.

For Count Gunther, the endless desert was never far from his thoughts. Despite the cold, he still felt the sun on his back, the sand in his throat and the maddening silence of windless days.

Thunder rumbled overhead, rousing the count from his dark reverie. Ahead of the returning crusaders, the great wooden gates of his keep opened. Rain was falling as the knights filed in, filling the great courtyard beyond. Count Gunther was the last of them. He lingered in the gateway and failed to notice the dispersing crowds as he watched the darkening horizon.

“A storm is coming,” he muttered.

The doors closed, throwing their shadow upon him, shutting the outside world from his sight.

 

Lenchard the witch hunter stalked from the cell, his hard footfalls resonant against the dungeon floor. He was followed by two templars, wearing the black steel armour of Morr.

The three of them walked quickly down the long corridor from the cell and approached a shallow set of stone steps that led up to the barracks of Thorne Keep. A nigh-on impregnable bastion, the keep rested on a broad spike of rock, surrounded by pine forest. It was a garrison for the Elector Count of Stirland’s soldiery, with thick and high walls, so it was also used as a place to hold and interrogate prisoners. Never had one of the detainees escaped—until now.

A guard, a thin, fraught-looking man, wearing a studded leather hauberk and kettle helmet, was waiting for Lenchard and the two templars. The witch hunter emerged menacingly from the gloom. “The prisoner is gone,” he muttered darkly.

Dieter Lenchard was thick-set, even beneath his leather armour, his facial features bony and well-defined. He wore a severe expression, framed by a tight-fitting skull cap stretched over his head, and the guardsman balked at his formidable presence.

“Where is your sergeant?” Lenchard asked.

The guard tried to muster his voice but could only point towards the steps.

“Captain Reiner,” the witch hunter said, without looking back as he addressed one of the templars, the older of the two, a stern looking man with short black hair and cold eyes. Lenchard marched up the steps, black cloak lashing in his wake, “with me.”

Reiner turned to the other templar beside him, a bald giant that looked as if he were made of stone, “Halbranc, wait here until Sigson has finished his work.”

Halbranc nodded and faced the quailing guard.

Like the Black Knights of Morr, the templars’ breastplates and greaves were etched with symbols of death and mortality. For many they were a bad omen of impending doom and misfortune.

Confronted with Halbranc, the guard swallowed hard and made the sign of Sigmar.

The massive templar folded his arms and leaned forward. Close up, the guard could see a patchwork of old scars as the shadows pooled into the chiselled depths of the templar’s face. Halbranc snarled at him.

The guard shrank away, finding the solid, unyielding wall at his back.

“That’s enough,” said Reiner in a cold voice that came from above. “Yes, Captain Reiner,” Halbranc said dutifully. He looked into the guard’s fearful eyes and smiled. “Just you and me now, my friend,” he whispered.

 

Mikael, a young templar of Morr, waited in the courtyard of Thorne Keep, just outside the stables. His comrades, the twins Valen and Vaust, were with him, standing silently. The three of them had been left with the knights’ horses, while Reiner, Halbranc and their warrior priest, Sigson, conducted their investigations. It was to be a short stay it seemed—the portcullis was raised and the drawbridge lowered for their departure.

Reiner emerged from the entrance to the barracks, as impassive and unemotional as ever.

“Make our steeds ready,” he said to them as he approached, “we are leaving soon.”

The twins moved quickly to the stables and began immediately untying the horses’ reins, testing stirrups and checking saddles. “What happened?” Mikael asked. Reiner fixed the young templar with an icy glare.

“The prisoner has escaped.”

“How is that possible?”

Reiner kept his gaze on Mikael for a moment. The penetrating silence held an unspoken question. It was one Mikael was familiar with, the threat Reiner saw in all inquiring minds.

“By killing at least one of the guards,” he explained coldly.

A pistol shot echoed around the stone courtyard from the barracks.

All in the courtyard started at the sound. The horses whinnied in fear, Valen and Vaust gripping their reins tightly, patting the beasts’ flanks to soothe them. Only Reiner betrayed no emotion, as hollow and deadly as the shot reverberating around the keep. It had come from the direction of the cells.

After a moment, Lenchard appeared, tucking a smoking pistol into his belt. Valen held the reins to the witch hunter’s steed, which he’d walked from the stables. Without a word, Lenchard took them, securing his pistols and sabre before mounting up. The young templar bowed his head respectfully.

“Inform your priest,” the witch hunter said to Reiner, “the guard sergeant is in need of Morr’s blessing.”

Reiner gathered the reins of his own horse, utterly unmoved. “How long do we have?” he asked the witch hunter curtly.

Lenchard steadied his steed. His eyes were dark rings of shadow, his face a pepper-wash of stubble.

“The heretic may have an hour, possibly two hours’ head start.”

Reiner turned to Valen and Vaust and said, “Ride on ahead, find his trail.”

The twins nodded as one. Sometimes their seemingly empathic synchronicity was unnerving, Mikael thought, as he watched them mount up and ride swiftly through the gates.

“Once Sigson is done speaking to the dead guard we will join them,” Reiner said, noting the look of veiled disgust on the witch hunter’s face. He ignored it and switched his attention to Mikael.

Ever since that night at Hochsleben, when Kalten had died at the hands of the crazed mortician Merrick, the captain of Morr had watched Mikael closely. The young templar had foreseen his comrades’ death in a vision, but spoke nothing of it to Reiner. But he suspected something, Mikael was certain of it. Only Sigson knew for sure.

“He yielded nothing.” The warrior priest Sigson came out of the darkness, face drawn and laboured. Communication with the dead was a gift from their god Morr, protector of the deceased, but it was taxing and often left the priest weak. “He had a violent death, but that is all I could tell.”

Halbranc followed Sigson. The terrified guard came after, scurrying quickly past the giant templar and into the courtyard.

Reiner was about to mount up when Sigson’s voice stopped him. “However, his face bore some interesting wounds.”

The captain’s expression was questioning.

“A mark; carved after death, I believe.”

“A ritual mark?” Mikael asked, abruptly aware of Reiner’s gaze upon him, his silence penetrating, searching.

“Perhaps. There was little time for examination. I suspect the other guard was dumped in the sewer. I have performed the binding rites on the body we do have though,” said Sigson, “and our dead watch sergeant,” he added for Lenchard’s benefit.

Reiner addressed the guard who had followed Halbranc out.

“Have your men go down there and find him, it might provide some clue to the fugitive’s whereabouts.”

“No,” Lenchard stated curtly, “I know where Krieger is going. There is but one thing occupying his mind.”

This time it was the witch hunter who received Reiner’s questioning gaze.

“The thing that dominates the mind of any killer regarding his captors,” Lenchard said, pausing to steer his horse toward the gate, “revenge.”

 

Krieger watched the road from his shelter in the trees. The chilling rain ran off the leafy canopy above and down his face and neck. He crouched, betraying no sign of discomfort. A figure loomed through the downpour, coming towards him. It was a farmer, driving his cart hard, cloak wrapped tight around his body, his hood drawn against the lashing rain. The cart drew nearer, and all other sounds faded. Krieger heard only his own breath. He drew the stolen dagger from his belt and waited until the cart came so close he could see into the man’s eyes. The rain smothered Krieger’s approach. Lightning cracked. The flash from the blade was the last thing the driver ever saw.

 

Count Gunther was alone in the dark, empty hall. He sat upon an ornate throne set in the centre of the room. A large window threw grey light into the darkness, illuminating a huge tapestry which dominated the wall before him. The man depicted in it looked just like the count.

Gunther raised a silver goblet to the portrait as he regarded his likeness. A twisted, haggard man bedecked in finery and the coldness of wealth, stared back at him. At the edge of the tapestry were the names of all his forefathers. Soon his would be added to them.

“To you, father.” His voice was edged with bitterness. “You would be proud.”

Gunther slumped in the seat, exhausted. As the room grew darker he closed his eyes, remembering the desert.

Krieger knelt before him in the stillness of the tent, head bent low. The night was chill and Count Gunther repressed a shudder as he regarded the traitor. Krieger was stripped to the waist; arms and armour removed. Bastion and Rogan waited either side, watching the prisoner. Despite the cold, he did not shiver, nor make any sound or motion.

“You are accused of heresy,” Gunther told him. “You stole these dark manuscripts from the tomb, why?” He brandished the scrolls before him in a gauntleted hand.

Krieger said nothing.

“Answer me!” Gunther struck his captive hard across the face. Krieger fell to the ground hard but, with effort, dragged himself up.

“What was your purpose here?” Gunther hissed, seizing Krieger’s chin to face him.

The traitor’s eyes were cold and penetrating. “To kill you.”

Krieger head butted the count hard in the face. Springing forward he ripped a dagger from Gunther’s belt, ramming it into the count’s chest.

Bastion and Rogan dove upon Krieger. Rogan punched the traitor in the neck, bringing him down as Bastion disarmed him.

With a grimace, Gunther withdrew the dagger. Blood seeped from the wound onto his tunic. Cries for the surgeon filled his senses as madness and panic took hold.

Thunder resonated around the chamber. Count Gunther awoke, startled. White heat burned in his chest, as fresh pain sprang from the wound. He looked up, suddenly aware of someone else in the room.

Captain Bastion waited in the shadows. He had taken off his armour and now wore a simple grey tunic and leather breeches, though he still carried a sword at his belt.

“Bastion.” The statement held an unspoken question.

“A matter has arisen that requires your attention, my liege,” Bastion said, bowing respectfully. “This incessant rain threatens the banks of the Averlecht; there is a danger they may burst.”

The count saw the rain thrashing hard against the window. It was the first time he’d noticed it.

“I have workers buoying up the bank with earth and sandbags,” Bastion told his master. “There is little else to be done.”

“Good. Keep me informed and I will visit the site in the morning.”

“As you wish, sire.” Bastion bowed, and walked away. He was almost at the door when Gunther spoke. “What of the other matter?” he asked.

“It has been secured as instructed,” Bastion said, without looking back, and left the room.

Gunther nodded, looking far away into the gloom. “Good. That is good.”

 

About an hour after the templars left Thorne Keep, Valen and Vaust found the body of a farmer. He lay in a growing quagmire of earth, face-down and sprawled in the middle of a back road. A cart, presumably once owned by the dead man, lay half embedded in a nearby ditch. The horse was gone; its traces had been slashed.

Mikael crouched next to the farmer in the pouring rain. He’d removed his gauntlet, and rested a hand on the man’s neck.

“Still warm,” he said, looking up at Reiner.

The captain had dismounted and was standing with Sigson. Valen and Vaust held the reins of their horses between them, also on foot. The four knights formed a circle around Mikael as they regarded the body. Halbranc was mounted, waiting further up the road, maintaining a silent watch as night crept over the horizon. Lenchard stayed near the other knights, but remained on his steed, preferring not to soil his leather boots with the mud of the road to ascertain facts he already knew.

“This is how you found him?” Reiner asked the brothers.

“Yes, captain,” they answered together.

The farmer’s body sank further into the mire. Sigson crouched down next to Mikael and carefully tilted the dead man’s head to one side, brushing away the earth clinging to his face.

“We can learn nothing more here,” Reiner said and was about to signal for them to get back on their horses when Sigson spoke.

“There is another mark. Like the one upon the guard.”

Mikael leaned in for a closer look, pulling on his gauntlet.

“Is it a scarab beetle?” Lenchard asked the warrior priest.

“Yes,” Sigson said suspiciously, looking up at the witch hunter. “How did you know that?”

“It matters not,” Lenchard replied, dismissively, facing the road ahead. “Krieger has a horse now. We must press on and hope we are not too late.”

“Too late for what?” Sigson asked but Lenchard was already riding away into the darkness.

“To your steeds!” Reiner bellowed, stirring his templars into action.

Sigson seized Reiner’s arm, before he could mount his horse. “What is this? This witch hunter knows more than he’s telling us.”

“That is possible.” Reiner’s voice was cold and hollow. “But we are in Herr Lenchard’s charge by the order of our temple. It is our duty to deliver him to the heretic.” Reiner looked down at his arm. “Unhand me.”

Sigson took his hand away and stood back.

Mikael had stood up during the exchange, taking the reins of his and Sigson’s horse from Valen, and watched as the two men parted. The tension between the captain and priest was written upon Sigson’s face as he turned away from Reiner.

“Do you trust him, Mikael?” Sigson asked quietly as he took the reins of his horse from the young templar.

“I don’t know,” Mikael told him, “but he is certainly hiding something.”

“I agree,” said the warrior priest, then asked, “Anymore dreams since Hochsleben?” Mikael shook his head.

The old priest held Mikael’s gaze a moment, as if determining whether the young knight had told him the truth or not. The rain trickled down his face, tiny rivulets forming in the age lines, coursing to his chin and dripping off the grey spike of beard that jutted out. In his eyes there was a warning. “Don’t ever speak of them to Reiner.”

“I still feel his death on my conscience, Sigson,” Mikael said, watching the others as they mounted their horses.

“As do we all, my son,” said the priest, grunting as he swung himself into his saddle.

Mikael mounted up, trying to crush the memories and push away the dark omens gnawing at his mind.

 

Overhead, the storm wracked the sky with forks of lightning and tremulous thunder, as the silhouette of a man hurried to the outer wall of Galstadt. Unseen by the workers, toiling hard in the downpour, he moved along the wall quickly like a creeping shadow, before plunging into the deepening tributary that fed the town’s wells and sewers.

 

Limbs aching, his muscles fuelled by vengeful desire, Krieger swam through the shallow drain in the town’s wall, diving deep to crawl through the murky water, beneath the rusting bars that went only halfway to the ground. He emerged into a wide tunnel which was illuminated by a narrow shaft in the wall to his left. Krieger crept into it and climbed up a shallow incline, the water gushing below him. Reaching the top of the shaft, he heaved opened an iron grate blocking his ascent and levered himself out.

He had emerged in a long chamber, probably the lowest level of the keep. Barrels and sacks were strewn about the room. Krieger waited for a moment in the silence, getting his bearings. He was in the east wing storeroom. Across a corridor and up a flight of stairs he would be in the great hall. Padding quietly down the low room, the rain thrumming distantly beyond the walls, Krieger saw a knight ahead with his back to him.

Drawing his dagger, he crept silently towards his prey.

 

Count Gunther and Captain Bastion stood upon a grassy ridge at the outskirts of Galstadt. They wore heavy cloaks, with hoods drawn, to ward off the unrelenting rain.

“If that river is breached, Bastion, it will flood the town, the lower levels of the keep and we’ll lose many lives,” the count told him.

“We are doing all in our power to prevent that,” Bastion replied, looking at the workers below as they strived frantically to reinforce the bank.

Men toiled with great heaps of earth as others brought fresh mounds on wooden barrows. Some drove carts through the worsening mire with rocks gathered from the edge of the mountains, some three miles away, and sand-filled sacking. They fought in the constant rain, stripped down to the waist, digging trenches to lessen the river’s strength.

Bastion looked back to the horizon, hoping for a sign that the storm might abate. Instead, he saw a rider coming towards them from the town.

“Knight Garrant,” Count Gunther addressed the rider as he approached. He reined in his steed, dismounted and trod steadily up to the ridge. Garrant was a broad man, half armoured with breastplate and vambraces, and wearing a heavy, cowled cloak. When he got to the top of the ridge, he pulled back his hood revealing a noble face, framed by thick reddish hair.

“My liege,” the knight’s voice was severe. “I have bad news.”

The count grew suddenly pale, his eyes questioning.

“It is Rogan, my lord. He’s dead.”

 

Gunther regarded Rogan’s corpse, slumped against the interior wall of the keep’s east tower. He was joined by Bastion and Garrant, the red-haired knight carrying a lantern. Inside, the tower was dark and fairly bare; just a bench and an empty rack for stowing weapons. It was commonly used as a watch station. A stout trapdoor was in the centre of the circular chamber, which led down to the lower levels. Two wooden doors, opposite each other, allowed egress to the walls of the keep—this was where the count and his knights had entered. Wind whipped through a thin window that looked out over Galdstadt, making the lantern flame flicker. It cast ghoulish shadows over Rogan’s body.

“In the name of Sigmar, how could this happen?” Count Gunther asked sombrely.

Garrant crouched down next to the body, setting the lantern down and examining the dead man’s head. It hung limply at an unnatural angle.

“His neck is broken,” he uttered flatly.

“He was with us in the Lands of the Dead,” Captain Bastion hissed anxiously into his lord’s ear.

“I know that,” snapped the count.

Bastion stalked away, clearly disturbed. He went to the window for some air: Rogan was already beginning to stink. He looked through the thin opening and saw something to take his mind off his dead comrade. “We have visitors,” he said.

Count Gunther and Garrant looked over to him.

Bastion’s expression was severe as he peered outwards. “They are knights of Morr.” It was a bad omen.

“Remove the body and gather the knights,” ordered the count, a grim feeling clutching at him. “We’ll meet them in the town square.”

 

The templars of Morr rode wearily towards the gates of Galstadt; they had travelled through the night in horrendous conditions and were at the end of their endurance. They passed numerous workers as they went. Mikael noticed the looks of fear, mistrust and even hatred as the men paused in their labours to regard the Black Knights.

“It is man’s nature to fear mortality,” Sigson, who was riding alongside the young templar, told him. “They fear us and so they hate and distrust us.”

“It is our greatest weapon,” Reiner’s voice was like chilling sleet, from the head of the group. “Never forget that.”

Mikael eyed him carefully and was silent. There was little that escaped the captain’s attention. It frightened the young knight.

“A warning, templars,” intoned Lenchard who led the party, his voice powerful even through the downpour. “The people of Galstadt are devout Sigmarites, their knights are of the Order of the Fiery Heart; they are their protectors and are not well known for their tolerance of other faiths, particularly Morr worshippers.”

“We come to them as allies, though,” said Valen, nonplussed. He tightened his grip on the company standard, partly from the slickness caused by the rain and partly to reassert the grip on his faith, of which the banner was a symbol.

“They will not see it that way. Tread carefully, that is all.”

The templars reached the outer gates of Galstadt, a small party of guards watching them intently, through the driving rain, from atop a high wall.

“Who are you and what is your business?” one of the guards asked, shouting to be heard. He wore a simple grey tunic, leather armour and pot-helmet, and carried a hooked halberd.

“I am Dieter Lenchard, an emissary of Sigmar’s holy church,” the witch hunter said, brandishing a talisman etched with the twin-tailed comet. “Open the gate,” he demanded.

The guard called below and the gate swung open slowly.

 

The Black Knights filed through into a small walled courtyard, which was little more than a staging area. There were stables on either side, each protected by a short wooden roof. A second gate at the far end of the courtyard, a stout-looking gatehouse appended to it, led into the town proper. As they entered, the guards waiting for them retreated fearfully and made the sign of Sigmar.

Reiner could barely hide his contempt as the templars of Morr and the witch hunter dismounted, allowing their horses to be led to the stables by grooms.

“Follow me,” Lenchard told the knights, bidding a guard to open the second gate and walking out of the courtyard and into the town itself.

Mere feet into Galstadt, the streets thronging with dour looking people, a beggar stumbled into Reiner, dropping a gnarled stick. The captain reached out and grabbed the wretch’s arm.

“My apologies noble lord,” the beggar said, from beneath a thick black hood. The poor creature was obviously blind and pawed at the knight to get his bearings.

Reiner released his grip, disgust on his face, and watched coldly as the beggar slumped to his knees and clawed around in the dirt, searching for his walking stick. Mercifully, he found it quickly and shuffled off into the rain-soaked crowds.

Mikael bit back his anger. Reiner despised the weak and the poor. To him they were little better than the foul creatures they hunted. “A weak body leads to a weak mind,” was Reiner’s creed. “That way there is only darkness.”

The remembered words of the doctrine in his thoughts, Mikael followed the rest of the knights as they made their way further into Galstadt. When they reached the town square, they stopped. Before them were six mounted knights. They wore half-armour, with the symbol of a heart wreathed in flames over their breast and left shoulder. Their swords were drawn.

“What have you embroiled us in witch hunter?” Sigson hissed accusingly.

Lenchard ignored him, instead addressing the mounted knights. “I seek an audience with Count Gunther Halstein,” he began, “on a matter of some import.”

“I am he,” one of the knights, his armour slightly more ornate and arrayed with decorative gold filigree, said from the middle of the group. It was the count. The man had a regal bearing and wore a closely cropped beard that showed signs of premature grey. His eyes were haunted by dark shadows and betrayed the austere facade, as he regarded the strangers suspiciously.

“What is this matter of which you speak?” Count Gunther asked.

Lenchard held the count’s gaze. “A man called Karl Krieger,” he said.

Count Halstein’s face darkened briefly, then a mask of indifference slipped over it. “He was executed this very morning for crimes of heresy, after interrogation by witch hunters. Why should I be concerned about a dead man?”

“Because he has escaped and I was to be his interrogator.”

The count was unable to keep the shock and fear from his face, this time. He instantly thought of Rogan, dead in the tower.

“Holy Sigmar,” he breathed, realising what had happened at once. “He’s already here.”

 

Rogan’s body lay on a stout wooden table in one of the keep’s halls. It was a sparse chamber with a lofty ceiling, crossed with thick wooden beams. Faded portraits and tarnished militaria clung to the walls. A dust clogged arras hung down one side of the room, on sharp hooks. The dead knight had been stripped of his apparel. A blanket covered the lower half of his body.

Count Gunther and Captain Bastion presided over the body on one side of the table, while on the other Sigson examined the dead knight, the witch hunter having convinced the count that the priest of Morr might be able to learn something useful. Gunther had refused communication with the corpse though.

Reiner, Mikael and the other knights of Morr waited patiently behind Sigson. The warrior priest conducted his work in silence. Mikael caught the dark glances of the Sigmarites—Garrant and two others waiting in the shadows at the edge of the hall—and saw they were still armed. The tension was almost palpable. He didn’t need the prescience of Morr to tell him there was danger here. And there was a stench about the place too. Perhaps this was a sign from his god, for it reeked of death.

“Strangulation,” Sigson asserted, pointing out the lividity around the neck. He too had stripped out of his breastplate and arm greaves. He moved the head to one side, inspecting the cheek. “No mark,” he muttered.

“What do you mean?” Count Gunther asked.

“Krieger has killed two already, that we know of,” Sigson told him, “and each had a mark carved into the cheek.”

“Perhaps he was interrupted,” Bastion suggested.

“Whatever the cause, Bastion, I want Krieger found and brought before me,” Gunther ordered, before returning his attention to the priest. “My men and I are tired and their forbearance is stretched to the limit. This is over,” he said, pulling the blanket back over Rogan’s body, much to Sigson’s chagrin.

“Garrant, conduct a full search of the keep. I want double watches come nightfall.”

Garrant uttered his compliance and left the room.

“And what would you have us do, count?” Reiner said. It was the first time he’d spoken since entering the keep.

“I will make a barrack house available, other than that keep out of our way.”

Reiner nodded, but his cold eyes never left Count Gunther’s face.

“I have some questions,” Lenchard said from the shadows then added, addressing Reiner, “Your men look weary. I suggest you get them to the barracks.”

“Halbranc,” the captain of Morr said, without averting his icy gaze from the witch hunter, “you heard Herr Lenchard.”

Halbranc nodded and looked over to Sigson.

“I’ll follow shortly,” said the priest, washing his hands in a clay bowl. Reiner showed no signs of movement. Clearly, he wanted to hear what the witch hunter had to say.

With that, Halbranc and the other knights left the chamber.

 

The barrack house was at the end of a long corridor, past the keep’s training ground. Mikael watched as knights paired off and sparred with each other using wooden swords. He felt a sudden pain in his skull—it had happened before, in Hochsleben, just before he’d been attacked by Merrick. Wincing, Mikael saw four Sigmarite knights approaching.

Halbranc tensed beside him, but they continued towards the barrack house.

As they passed, the Sigmarites regarded Mikael and his comrades darkly, and one leant out, jarring Vaust’s shoulder deliberately.

“Little better than necromancers,” the Sigmarite muttered.

“What did you say?” Vaust demanded, whirling on his heel to confront him.

Mikael went to lightly restrain him, but Vaust shook the young templar off. “No, speak up!”

The Sigmarite, a thin-faced, white-haired youth flashed a contemptible smile. “Those who consort with the dead are not to be trusted,” he spat.

Vaust drew his sword, Valen likewise behind him. Mikael tried to stand between them, but the Sigmarites had drawn their blades too.

“Knights of Morr, sheath your swords,” Halbranc warned, placing his massive form between them. Even the belligerent Sigmarites backed down before the giant templar. But the white-haired Sigmarite felt the presence of his fellows behind him and found his courage. Eyes filled with violent intent, he was about to act when a command stopped him.

“Put down your sword!” Garrant bellowed, stalking towards them. “What is going on here?” he demanded angrily.

“Nothing, just a misunderstanding,” Halbranc said. “We’ll be on our way,” he added, holding Vaust hard by the back of his neck and turning him around. Mikael followed suite, and as the knights were walking away he heard Garrant mutter. “The sooner, the better.”

Halbranc stopped. An uneasy silence filled the corridor. Mikael heard the leather of the giant’s gauntlets crack into a fist. He could feel the gaze of Garrant and his fellows boring into him. Halbranc released his grip. They walked away. Mikael breathed again.

 

It was night. The scrape of Halbranc’s whetstone against his sword blade penetrated the frustrated silence. He sat on the end of a small cot and worked hard at the weapon—a mighty zweihander and one of several blades he carried—until its edge was razor-keen. He seemed lost in the routine of it as if scraping out past sins that tarnished his blade. Mikael knew little about the giant templar, save that he was a mercenary once and had fought in many armies, across many continents. Halbranc never spoke of it. Perhaps he didn’t care to.

The two brothers, Valen and Vaust, were sitting on stools at a low wooden table in the middle of the room. They had found a deck of cards and were playing out a game of skulls. Like Halbranc, they were restless, preferring action instead of prolonged bouts of inactivity.

Reiner and Sigson were still absent, doubtless conversing with the witch hunter, Lenchard. None of them had slept.

Mikael sat on the opposite cot to Halbranc, his attention on the window next to him. Outside, in the flickering light of several lanterns, the shadows of workers still toiled. As he stared up into the blackened sky, Mikael felt his eyelids grow heavy as a dream engulfed him…

A great sun burned down upon the barren desert.

Mikael was alone in a mighty desert that seemed like it was on fire. Yet he felt no heat or wind.

Cresting a mighty rise he looked across a deep valley. An old man dressed in black robes was standing upon a high dune. With a gnarled finger he beckoned Mikael across the valley towards him.

Mikael took a tentative step forward. His foot plunged into a mire of sand and suddenly the entire side of the dune was shifting collapsing beneath him!

He fell, tumbling down the side of the valley. Spitting sand from his mouth, he looked up into the sunlight. The man had gone.

A sudden trembling began beneath him. Mikael scrambled back, clawing handfuls of sand as he did so. A great spike pierced the valley floor before him, reaching ever higher into the burning sky. A tower of obsidian followed, surging upwards, pushing out great waves of sand. Slowly, a huge black skull emerged like some terrible, mythic beast. Rivulets of sand flowed from the gargantuan eye and nose sockets and as the mouth broke through the churning dunes created by its emergence, a huge black door was revealed. It opened and there stood a towering figure.

Its mummified flesh bore the taint of ages and it wore the armour of a knight of Sigmar. It reached out towards Mikael with a filthy talon-like hand. The creature’s mouth opened and uttered, “Setti-Ra…”

Mikael woke with a sudden start. There was a commotion outside. Halbranc was on his feet, a short sword in his hand, going for the door. Valen had fallen asleep at the card table but sprang up, alert at the sound. Vaust was nowhere to be seen.

Grabbing his own blade, Mikael went to join Halbranc. He pulled the door open and saw three Sigmarite knights running away down the corridor. Another knight was running towards the barracks. It was Vaust.

When Vaust reached the door, he was panting heavily for breath. “They’ve found another body,” he gasped.

 

Twenty knights had gathered in the hall of the east wing when Mikael and the others arrived, Count Gunther and his retinue amongst them. They encircled the body of a slain knight and the Morr worshippers had to force their way through.

“Back away,” ordered the count, fighting to get past the throng of knights. “Holy Sigmar,” he breathed. The knight lay slumped within an alcove, his face covered in shadows.

Reiner and Sigson appeared amidst the crowd. The warrior priest went instantly to the dead knight, crouching down to examine it.

The knights fell abruptly into silence. Mikael heard mutterings of discontent. Valen and Vaust closed in around him, Halbranc at their back. Reiner kept his cold gaze on Sigson but held his sword hilt ready.

“He has been strangled,” Sigson told the count. “With some force—his neck is broken.” Sigson carefully tilted the dead knight’s head, searching for another mark. Light spilled onto the corpse, illuminating the face.

“By the hand of Morr,” Vaust gasped. It was the knight he had confronted in the corridor.

“You argued with this man,” said Garrant, accusingly. “Where were you tonight?”

“I was restless,” Vaust admitted, “So I toured the east wing.” He cast a sideways glance at Reiner. There would be repercussions from this. The captain took disobedience very seriously.

“And you met up with this knight,” Garrant continued, “to settle your differences.”

There were angry murmurings from the Sigmarites. Mikael felt the same tension he had back in the corridor with Halbranc.

“No. I saw no one,” Vaust protested through gritted teeth.

“You drew swords first,” Garrant said. “I saw it with my own eyes.”

Some of the Sigmarites nodded in agreement. Mikael noticed that the count had moved to the back of the group, Bastion alongside him.

“Is the chamber intact?” he heard Count Gunther mutter above the increasingly belligerent Sigmarites. The captain nodded.

“You killed him,” one of the knights from the crowd spat suddenly, stepping towards Vaust. Valen put him down with one punch.

The hall exploded into chaos. Three Sigmarite knights waded forward to take on Valen, but Halbranc and Reiner intervened. Halbranc smashed the first two into the crowd, while Reiner brought the other to his knees with a powerful uppercut. Several of the knights of Sigmar bellowed battle oaths and charged in, weapons drawn.

Mikael drew his sword. Valen and Vaust followed his lead.

A pistol shot rang out, reverberating around the mighty hall. Lenchard stood upon a table, smoke rising from the barrel of the weapon.

“Cease!” he commanded. “Listen.”

From outside there was a sound like thunder.

“The river,” Count Gunther realised suddenly. He turned to Garrant. “Gather up all the men,” he said. “If the bank breaks the flood waters will take this keep and us with it.”

Garrant nodded, gave a last dark glance at the knights of Morr, and started bellowing orders.

Reiner approached the count. “This is what Krieger has been waiting for,” he said. “To slip away and kill again in the confusion.”

Gunther looked him in the eye. “I need every man on that river bank.”

“Then let us help.”

The count hesitated at first then nodded. “Very well.”

Reiner turned to his knights and gestured for them to follow.

As they were leaving Mikael saw Gunther conversing with Bastion once more. “Take two men,” he said, “and guard the vault—lock it.”

Mikael had no time to linger and left the hall to join his comrades. Again the strange stench of death assailed him.

“This place reeks of the dead,” Mikael whispered to Halbranc.

“Careful lad,” said the giant, “they’ll be blaming us for that too,” he added, smiling.

 

Thunder raged in the heavens and lightning split the blackness.

Mikael carried two heavy sacks of sand towards the breach in the bank. At the river there was chaos.

A cart lay on its side, sinking into the earth. Men heaved at it, trying to free the thrashing horse trapped beneath. Others held ropes onto workers wading into the river itself with sacks and rocks. Workers and knights battled together, heaving great clods of earth into the raging river flow. A great train of them moved from the keep to the riverbank, bringing earth in barrows, pails and tools in an effort to save the keep and the town. The rain battered men down as they struggled to lift the sodden earth, digging the crude trenches ever deeper to divert the water.

Mikael slung down a second sack. Straightening his back and wiping the moisture from his brow, he looked up at the keep. A flash of lightning cast it in stark silhouette. It was a dark and forbidding image. Another bolt lit up the night and through the lashing rain, Mikael thought he saw a figure, away from the river, creeping up a shallow embankment towards the keep. Blinking back the rain and buffeting wind he looked back again, but the figure was gone. He trod back up the shallow rise to the keep.

Halbranc was in the courtyard.

“Works up a sweat eh, lad?”

Mikael nodded. His muscles burned, they’d been fighting the flood waters for over an hour.

They headed towards the cellars, through a trapdoor in the courtyard and down shallow steps, where supplies of sand bags and barrows were kept.

Mikael stopped part way down the stairs. “Something is wrong,” he said.

“What is it, Mikael?” Halbranc drew his short sword, searching in the half darkness.

Mikael advanced slowly. The torches set in the cellar walls spluttered and cast flickering shadows. The floor shimmered and moved.

“It’s flooded,” Mikael said, taking the last of the steps and plunging, waist deep, into the water.

“Can you smell that,” he whispered. The storm outside was dulled down here, resonant and foreboding. Suddenly the rest of the knights seemed very far away.

“Smells like death.” Halbranc watched the darkness ahead.

An ill-feeling grew in the pit of Mikael’s stomach as they waded through the flooded cellar.

“Wait,” he hissed. Something was floating down towards them on a light current. Mikael drew his sword.

The thing drifted into the corona of light cast by one of the torches. It was a man’s body, partially decomposed.

“Another knight?” Halbranc asked, covering his mouth at the stench.

“I don’t know,” Mikael said, leaning in close. “His neck is broken,” he added, looking back towards Halbranc, “and I’ve smelled this stench since we arrived. This man has been long dead.”

A shadow passed over the entrance to the cellar above.

“Down here!” Halbranc bellowed.

Four men entered the trapdoor into the cellar; Lenchard followed by Count Gunther and two of his knights.

“We may have another victim,” Halbranc told them, picking a torch off the wall to illuminate the man’s rotting features.

Gunther’s eyes grew wide and fearful. “That’s Karl Krieger,” he rasped.

“Then we are looking for the wrong man,” Mikael told them.

Realisation dawned upon the count’s face. He plunged into the water, pushing past the templars of Morr and the floating corpse. “The vault,” he muttered, wading down the flooded corridor, fuelled by anxious desperation.

Mikael sheathed his sword and followed. After a few minutes they reached a corner, around it a shallow slope led up to a massive iron door. Count Gunther stopped. The rain outside throbbed against the walls as the door swung open on creaking hinges.

At Mikael’s urging, they moved towards the door. Halbranc gripped it and heaved it open.

Inside was a simple stone room. At the centre rested an ornate throne, encrusted with jewels and worn gold filigree. At the foot of the throne lay three dead knights. Mikael recognised one of them as Bastion. They had all been strangled.

“Just what did you bring back with you from the desert?” Mikael asked Count Gunther, drawing his sword.

The count turned on him, initially shocked the templar even knew of it then said, “My father… Falken Halstein…”

In the thick shadows at the back of the room, something stirred. Stepping out of the gloom was a creature that resembled Gunther. Its tarnished armour bore the emblem of the fiery heart. Its flesh was desiccated, worn to shrivelled leather by the hostile conditions of the desert. As it lumbered towards them, its eyes flared with remembered hate.

It came at Gunther. The Sigmarite knights rushed forward to protect him. Swinging its mighty arm, the creature smashed one of the knights into the wall with a sickening crunch of bone. From a rotting scabbard it drew a rusted sword and ran the second through, lifting him screaming into the air. As the beast withdrew its sword, the knight slipping off like discarded meat, Halbranc charged at it, hacking down two-handed upon its arm but his blade rebounded.

“Its skin is like iron,” he cried, fending off a blow that almost knocked him down. Mikael went to his side.

The creature held up a withered hand. Mikael couldn’t move, halted by the malevolent will of the undead knight. It spoke with a voice that held the weight of ages. “I am Setti-Ra. A reign of terror shall sweep your lands and beyond at my rebirth. Slumbering legions will rise once more and bathe the deserts in blood. Kneel now before me.”

Mikael felt a terrible weight pressing down upon him. His legs were buckling against it. He tried to mutter a prayer to Morr, but was unable. Halbranc was on his knees; sweat coursing down his reddened face.

“Only fire and the will of Sigmar can purge the creature from this body.” The voice of Lenchard was like crystal water as it broke the power of Setti-Ra. With the burden lifted, Mikael arose. Halbranc struggled to his feet beside him. The Black Knights backed away.

Around the chamber, the torches spluttered and died as the water lapped languidly at their feet.

“We must get to higher ground,” Mikael said, “draw the creature out.”

“No.” It was Count Gunther. Sword drawn, he blocked the doorway. Mikael noticed the creature’s gaze was fixed upon the count.

Lenchard saw it too. “He is under the creature’s thrall,” he growled.

Mikael pushed the witch hunter aside, parrying a blow from Gunther’s sword. Behind him, Setti-Ra advanced.

“Keep it back!” Mikael cried, hearing the clash of steel as Halbranc and Lenchard fought the creature.

Count Gunther’s eyes were covered by a milky white sheen. When he spoke, it was as if he were the creature’s mouthpiece.

“The will of Setti-Ra be done, the living shall perish before his—”

The count collapsed to the ground before he could finish. Reiner stood behind him. The other knights of Morr were with him. They had heard the commotion below and gone down to investigate. The captain’s eyes grew suddenly wide and a strange keening sensation resonated in Mikael’s skull. The young templar dove to the side as, dragging Count Gunther clear, Reiner bellowed, “Down!”

Lenchard was smashed through the doorway and tumbled down the slope.

“Out. Now!” Reiner cried.

Halbranc backed out of the room, heaving Mikael with him as the beast lumbered after them. “Seal the doors,” Reiner ordered.

Valen and Vaust pushed the doors shut as Sigson slid down a heavy, metal brace. From within, the distant thudding retort of the creature’s blows could be heard almost instantly.

Outside the vault, Mikael nodded his thanks to his captain who responded coldly.

“That door will not hold it long, make ready.”

“Our swords won’t kill it,” Mikael said, “we must get to higher ground and burn it.”

A sudden powerful blow echoed against the iron door as part of it bent outwards.

“The barrel ramp…” Count Gunther muttered, sluggishly. He was slowly coming round and rubbed his head where Reiner had struck him to break the creature’s hold. “It leads to the hall above…” He pointed down the slope where a corridor branched off.

Reiner looked over at it, then back at the count.

“It wants me dead,” Count Gunther said. “My father killed this creature long ago; in me it sees him and desires vengeance. I can lure it.”

Sigson went over to the count, and helped him to his feet. “Can you stand?”

The count nodded.

Another blow from within the vault caused a hefty split in the iron. “We must leave, now,” Reiner told them. “Vaust, lead them,” he ordered.

The young templar ran to the head of the group and back down the slope towards the corridor Gunther had shown them, his brother following closely behind.

Halbranc hefted Lenchard onto his shoulder as Mikael and Reiner went last with the count. They were backing down the slope, a few feet from the vault, when the iron door finally fell with a screech of twisting metal. Bolts came free from the wall with a shower of dust and debris, and Setti-Ra stepped out onto the slope, driven by primal instincts.

The knights of Morr goaded the creature on. They retreated up the barrel ramp, making sure the creature saw where they were going. Ahead, Vaust smashed through a trapdoor that led to the hall.

 

Crouched in the room above, the two brothers heaved an unconscious Lenchard out of the cellars from Halbranc’s shoulder. The giant followed, then Sigson, then Reiner, Mikael and the count.

“The creature is close,” the weakened count gasped. “There,” he said, pointing to another archway.

Heaving the ailing count between them, Reiner and Mikael were right behind the others who stood in the great hall. The tapestry of Falken Halstein loomed large, about to witness his horrifying undead self.

Putting the witch hunter down, Halbranc hefted a massive torch from an iron sconce. Mikael and Reiner did the same.

“Protect the count,” Reiner said to Valen and Vaust. The brothers took Gunther between them to an alcove at the back of the room.

With a bellow of rage, Setti-Ra emerged from the trapdoor opening.

Halbranc lunged forward, thrusting the burning torch into the creature’s body. It hurled the templar aside. The torch clattered to the ground, and was smothered. Flames licked over the aging corpse but died quickly.

Sigson stepped forward, the holy book of Morr in his hand. “In the name of Morr, I compel you,” he uttered, his voice loud and powerful.

The creature stopped as if suddenly held by an invisible bond.

“I compel you,” Sigson repeated, stepping towards it, arm outstretched, his open palm facing towards it. Mikael and Reiner thrust their torches at the beast. Sigson screamed and fell to the ground as Setti-Ra broke his hold.

Though the undead thing burned, the flames were dying out quickly.

“Force it into the tapestry,” Mikael cried, launching himself at the creature. At the same time, Halbranc rammed into it with his shoulder and Reiner tackled the beast’s legs. It toppled, slowly like a felled tree, tearing at the huge portrait that caught alight with the remaining flames licking its body. The tapestry pulled free and smothered the foul creature, fire spreading eagerly now over the corpse, as it thrashed and flailed for terrible unlife.

Flames mirrored in his eyes, Gunther looked at the burning form of his father, at the tapestry destroyed and his family history with it.

With the knights of Morr encircling it, the creature gradually stopped struggling and slumped down amidst a pall of foul smoke as it was burned to ash, the spirit of Setti-Ra banished along with it.

“Please,” Gunther rasped, tears in his eyes, “put him out.”

 

It was dark in the infirmary. Mikael stared from one of the windows onto the town below. The rain had abated at last and the waters were dispersing. Workers shored up the earthen banks, to make certain they would hold. Across the darkened sky, there was a light to the south as the sun began to rise. Looking back into the room, he saw Lenchard was awake. Reiner and the others waited silently in the shadows. Sigson was by the witch hunter’s side. “You owe us some answers,” he said.

Lenchard’s head bore a thick bandage and his face was covered in small cuts and bruises. He winced as he smiled back at the warrior priest.

“There is a cult called the Scarabs,” he relented. “Fanatical men, they worship the Tomb King Setti-Ra, believing the heart of he who defeated their king would bring about his resurrection.”

“Gunther’s father,” Sigson asserted.

“Yes, but they need the living heart and since Falken Halstein was dead, they came for his son,” Lenchard said, getting up out of bed.

“Krieger could not have known that Setti-Ra had inhabited the body of Falken Halstein; such a body could not sustain an undead lord. I was wrong; Krieger came here with a mission, not for revenge but to kill Count Gunther and take his heart. He stumbled upon the creature and it killed him, and so we are still no closer to finding the cult,” he continued, strapping on his weapons.

“We,” said Reiner coldly.

From a pouch by his bedside Lenchard produced a scroll of parchment, which he gave to the captain.

“This is a missive from your temple,” he explained as Reiner read it, “stating that you and your knights are seconded into my service until the cult is found or it is deemed fit to release you.”

Sigson laughed mirthlessly and walked out of the room.

Reiner sealed the scroll up and handed it back to Lenchard. “So be it,” he said without emotion and left after Sigson. Slowly the rest of the knights followed. Mikael was the last. As he was about to leave, Lenchard said, “It’s Mikael, isn’t it?”

Mikael nodded.

“Tell me, Mikael,” the witch hunter said, his expression curious, “how did you know about the desert? I heard you speak of it to the count.”

A pang of anxiety rose suddenly in Mikael’s chest. He thought only the count had heard him.

“I overheard it,” he countered, backing away.

“Of course,” Lenchard said, watching the young templar as he followed after his comrades. “Of course you did.”

 

In the hall, the knights of Morr were making ready to leave, checking weapons and armour before heading out the keep and Galstadt for good. The Black Knights had clearly worn out their welcome, and as they fixed blades and tightened belts, a small group of Knights of the Fiery Heart had gathered. The Morr worshippers were standing opposite them, clustered close together, Halbranc putting himself deliberately between Vaust and the glowering Sigmarites. Mikael stood next to the giant, alongside him was Valen. Sigson was sat down, reading his prayer book, while Reiner and Lenchard, who conversed quietly in a nearby corner of the room, waited for Count Gunther so they could observe the proper etiquette for their departure.

As far as Mikael was concerned, it couldn’t happen soon enough, his eyes on Garrant, as he and the other knights exchanged dark glances.

“Doubtless, they are making sure we leave,” Halbranc chuckled.

Mikael was about to answer when a door, thudding insistently at the far end of the hall from a strong draught running through the keep, distracted him. Something about it was odd, slightly incongruous.

“Something doesn’t feel right,” he said. “This is taking too long.” Mikael walked quickly over to Garrant, trying to ignore the glare of Reiner, who had been listening to the witch hunter. Sigson saw the young templar too, and put down his prayer book.

“Your lord,” Mikael asked the Sigmarite. “Where is he?”

Garrant was slightly perturbed by what he perceived as insolence, but something about the young templar’s tone got his attention.

“He’s in the chapel,” Garrant said, pointing to the door at the end of the room. “A priest offered to bless his father’s ashes.”

“What priest?” Sigson asked, suddenly appearing next to Mikael.

“From the town,” the Sigmarite explained. “An old blind man.”

The templar and warrior priest looked at each other, with grave faces.

“Show us this chapel,” Mikael said urgently.

 

The chapel was a small room, little more than an antechamber from the great hall. Inside, there was a stone altar on top of which was an urn containing Falken Halstein’s ashes. Count Gunther lay next to the altar He was dead, his heart removed from his chest. A scarab beetle had been carved into the flesh of his left cheek.

“The blind man,” Mikael said to Sigson, abruptly aware that Reiner and the others had followed them.

“What?”

“The one that stumbled into Reiner at the gates,” he said, pointing at his captain. “He addressed him as ‘noble lord’. How could he have known he was a knight if he were blind? I saw him on the ridge during the flood, but thought it was my imagination.”

“You’re right.” Lenchard spoke with a hint of resignation, standing in the doorway. “We have been fools; a second Scarab cultist.”

Sigson bent over near the body.

“The blood is still warm,” he said, looking up at Reiner. A look of disgusted anger passed briefly over the captain’s face. “Get to the gates,” he ordered.

 

By the time they reached the gatehouse, it was too late. The guard was already dead, his body propped up on a wooden stool. Protruding from his neck was a curved bladed dagger that bore a gold scarab hilt. Lenchard examined it.

“They are taunting us,” he said bitterly to the knights of Morr standing around him. “Get the horses,” he told them, rushing out of the gatehouse, heading for the stable yard. “They have the heart and the means with which to resurrect Setti-Ra. We must find the cultists trail. We ride, now!”

The knights followed after him, mounting up quickly and racing through the gates. Driving his steed hard, Mikael looked to the lightening horizon and felt time suddenly ebbing away as if an hourglass were turned and they were all slipping through it.