ILL MET IN MORDHEIM

Robert Waters

 

 

“Amidst the perpetually dank and grotesque scenery of the City of the Damned, they struggled for honour, coin and sport. But some, the nobler and more righteous, struggled for greater causes…”

 

—Songs from the Eternal Struggle:
A History of Mordheim,
by Isabel Rojas

 

Captain Heinrich Gogol watched the fallen ratmen writhe in pain. They were all around him, their furry forms beaten, twisted and bloodied. He was pleased with that, despite having been knocked aside as well by the shock of the priest’s soul spell. The warhammer strike in the middle of the battle had sent ripples of righteous heat roiling across the charred ground, ending the fight, but leaving a nasty ache in the captain’s bones. He rubbed his face harshly, ran his fingers through his thinning black hair and climbed to his feet. He kicked aside a ratman that had taken the brunt of the spell. “Many thanks,” Heinrich said to the dying beast, then drove a boot heel into its burning throat.

Heinrich focused on a little shrew of a man a few yards away smiling with confidence. The old priest hefted the warhammer in his skeletal hands as the mighty weapon popped white with fire that singed the frayed edges of his brown robe.

Heinrich sheathed his sword, adjusted his russet-leather surcoat, and joined the priest. “That was a mighty prayer, Father,” he said, tempering his words. “We thank you. But perhaps next time you can give us warning first?”

“My apologies, captain,” the priest said with a smile on his pale lips. “But I had to move quickly. You were in trouble.”

“Nonsense,” said Heinrich sharply. “I had them right where I wanted—”

An agonising scream pierced the gloom. Somewhere out there amidst the shattered ruins, Heinrich knew, flesh was being torn from bone. Muskets firing, wolves howling, bats screeching, fires smouldering, smoke billowing. An endless cacophony of rage and violence in the city that never slept, the city of damned souls, the city of lost dreams, the city of night fire.

The city of Mordheim.

A chill fog blew in from the east and tugged at Heinrich’s thoughts. He looked into the gaunt sky. The sun was setting below the grey spires of the ruins on the western side of the city. Darkness called, and death gave no quarter in the Mordheim night.

“Gunderic!”

A young man appeared before Heinrich, his white tunic and blue breeches smeared with ratman gore. “Yes, captain?”

Heinrich handed him a blade. “Cut their throats.”

Gunderic nodded and set to work. Heinrich picked up the warhammer and handed it to the priest who was slowly regaining his strength. “Let’s move quickly, Father,” he said. “Broderick needs our help.”

They turned their attention to a guildhouse, whose walls were scorched black and pockmarked by the comet blast that had destroyed the city years ago. Its long, rectangular windows were covered in pine slats and thick hessian sheets. Its entrance was a massive double-door archway, heavily reinforced with crates and barrels and rotting meal sacks. High above the doors stood four stone pinnacles whose sharp tips tore through the low passing clouds like claws through flesh. The sight of those pinnacles gave Heinrich pause; they seemed to waver dangerously in the gusting wind. Heinrich breathed deeply, found his courage, and stepped forward.

The ratmen that they had just killed were nothing more than a small detachment defending the building’s southern approach. What lay within was what gave Heinrich concern, and the white scar on his left cheek itched. He had no great desire to go inside, but do so he must.

“Let’s find the way in,” Heinrich said to Father. Young Gunderic joined them and handed over the blade. “They’ve breathed their last, captain.”

Heinrich nodded. “You’re doing Sigmar’s work, lad. I’m glad you’re with us.”

The young man’s face glowed with appreciation, but Heinrich could not share the joy. He hated bringing raw recruits into missions like this, very little training, minimal preparation. Who knew when the fight was on, if newcomers would live up to promise, or tuck tail and run? But live bodies were oftentimes more important than skill. His last mission had cut their strength somewhat, and the idea of facing such a plentiful foe with only five or six swords was madness. Well, Heinrich said to himself, he’ll learn as he goes, or die trying.

Heinrich worked around the massive pile of rotting wood. As he searched for an entrance, he reviewed the plan.

The rest of the men were with Broderick. Their objective was to tackle the northern entrance of the guildhouse, while Heinrich, Father and Gunderic approached from the south. The hope was that the ratmen would assume that the threat lay with Broderick alone and that they would overlook a second danger. With enough confusion, the beasts would panic and make mistakes. The trick, however, was to time the assaults carefully. If they moved into position too early, the ratmen would smell out the trap; arrive too late, and Broderick and company would be dead. But that would never happen. He and Broderick knew each other’s moves instinctively, having fought together for years. “I am the hammer,” Broderick would often say, “and you are the anvil, my friend. Between us the iron bends.”

They’d been following this group of ratmen—or skaven—for days. Skirmish after unending skirmish through the streets, up and down shifting mounds of rubble, in and out of row after row of dilapidated storerooms, bars, bakeries, and temples. And each engagement had ended the same: minor casualties on both sides, with no conclusion. Heinrich wanted it to end, to pull out of this cursed place, to reform, refit, take stock, catch a warm bath and a good meal. But not until they had won; not until every last vermin they hunted was driven through and planted in the cold ground.

But now their mission had taken on an even greater purpose. If what Broderick claimed were true, if the skaven were in possession of Sigmar’s Heart, then the only outcome of this rolling battle must be victory… victory for the group, victory for the Empire, and victory for Sigmar.

“Look here, captain,” Father said, pointing to a loose crate in the side of the pile. Heinrich knelt down, pulled away the crate and revealed a small, yet passable, entrance. “So this is how they get inside.” Heinrich drew his crossbow. “Arm yourselves and follow me closely… and quietly.”

They crawled slowly through the gap in the rubbish. The light in the main hall of the guildhouse was faint and it took a while for Heinrich’s eyes to adjust. With a free hand, he pulled himself through the damaged door. The sickening smell of fermented grain, wet fur and mouldy scat clung to the air and Heinrich wrinkled his nose in defiance. There were also innumerable banterings back and forth between unseen mouths. The ratmen were there just beyond the shadows: mingling, scraping, spitting, snarling; one massive chaotic voice of twisted humanity paying homage to their blasphemous god.

Heinrich pulled himself onto his knees. Father and Gunderic followed suit. Before them, there stood a mountain of old barrels teetering on a lip of steps that descended into the wide belly of the guildhouse. Through the gaps in the barrels, Heinrich could see the angular motions of the ratmen as they mingled about their tasks. He tried to count them, but could not get a proper number. Perhaps two dozen, maybe more. The ceiling had collapsed, and pieces of the roof lay in large chunks on the dirty floor. It was rare indeed for trees and bushes to grow in the poisonous fold of Mordheim, but trees and bushes and thick patches of ivy lay around the edges of the open floor, finding root in the choice cracks and crevices near the walls. And Broderick was right in his reconnaissance: piles of crates and barrels, broken furniture, old clothing, chamber pots, armour and paintings and all the forgotten treasures of the city had been hoarded here by the skaven over their years of scouring the ruins.

If time were convenient, Heinrich thought, it might be useful to look through it all, take stock of the wonders therein, study it and learn about life in the city before its great destruction. Like little windows into the past, each item a discarded memory of someone who once walked the streets. Wisdom lay on that floor, he knew, if one cared to look.

He put these thoughts from his mind and focused on the deadly space below. Despite the ample floor space, there was little open surface. He smiled. A small battle space was best for close in fighting. He rubbed the trigger of his crossbow anxiously and looked beyond the ratmen to the narrow entranceway from which Broderick would attack.

Yet Broderick had not made his entrance. Come on, Heinrich said to himself, make your move. Surprise was slipping away. Any further delay and their position would be sniffed out. Another nervous minute passed, and then he heard the long, powerful howls of his warhounds, Bloodtooth and Witchkiller.

The floor erupted in violence. Squeals, howls, shrieks, shouts, swirling steel and pelting rocks, as Broderick pressed the skaven at the northern entrance. From his vantage point, Heinrich could see his men working their way into the guildhouse. The warhounds took the lead, bounding into the mass of ratmen and taking several down. Roland and Cuthbert followed closely, the spiked balls of their morning stars swirling madly through the air. Both men modelled themselves after flagellants, even going so far as to whip themselves for loss of faith. But they were contrite enough in their devotion to Sigmar to keep it quiet in public. It was exciting to see them in battle. They never disappointed.

Broderick and young Sebastian followed last, fighting off ratmen who were dropping down from atop the huge walls of crates that lined the entrance. Heinrich watched as Broderick swung his sword in answer to every leaping vermin, slicing through bellies and chests in mid-flight. The skill and speed at which he worked his sword was amazing even now, years after leaving the pit fights, and Heinrich felt a great pride. Push them, Broderick. Push them hard. Show them how Reiklanders fight.

Father glared at his captain. “Let’s go, let’s go!” he hissed. Again, the priest’s warhammer, hanging from a white sash at his waist, glowed with magical zeal.

Heinrich smiled and counted off three fingers. “Now!”

They stood and moved closer to the barrels, each taking positions adequate for firing. Heinrich looked down onto the floor. A mass of fur, claws, clubs, blades and spears swayed back and forth, as men and beast fought to hold their ground. Though the moment wasn’t dire, Heinrich knew that Broderick could not hold forever.

He clipped his crossbow to his belt and unholstered his pistol. He leaned out from behind the barrels, aimed carefully into the melee and pulled the trigger. A flash of powder and a mighty crack! rang through the space, as two skaven fell dead. For a moment, the enemy was confused as they reconciled to the danger behind them. This gave Broderick and crew time to regroup.

Gunderic and Father sent their missiles into the fray. Volleys of rocks peppered the barrels before them, as ratmen slingers turned away from the main attack to focus on the new threat. Heinrich dropped behind the wall of barrels again, holstered his smoking pistol and drew his sword.

He crouched in cover and noticed that Father and Gunderic had repositioned themselves about ten yards to his right, back to back. They were surrounded by a horde of rats clawing over themselves to sink their fangs. Heinrich had not seen any rats of the four-legged variety on the guildhouse floor; they must have come from holes and tunnels around the walls when they had heard the terrified shrieks of their masters. He cursed himself for not anticipating this problem. He knew better. Ratmen never moved without a horde of rats. And why hadn’t Broderick mentioned them in his scouting report?

Swamped, Father wielded his hammer like a man possessed, swinging at every snout that came too close. As each hammer strike found meat, a comet of blood, bone, and fur flew through the air. And yet they kept coming. Gunderic tried desperately to hold his position, but his short sword was no match for the swarm, and some of the creatures had reached his legs. Heinrich winced as he saw blood marks streak the young man’s legs. He wanted to help, but he had more pressing concerns. If he stood up now, those slingers would most certainly pound him to death. He needed to create a diversion to throw them back.

He found one. With a mighty lunge, Heinrich slammed into the barrels. They teetered then tumbled down the steps, cracking and tearing apart like an avalanche of ice. He followed closely behind, using the barrels as a shield against the shower of stones. The slingers fell back as the barrels struck the guildhouse floor and bounced like dice. Heinrich locked his eyes on the closest ratman and swung his sword into the rib cage and lifted the beast off the floor. The impetus of the blow, however, put him on uneven feet, and before he could leverage his stance, three skaven pounced.

Heinrich could feel claws on his back, ripping through his surcoat and tunic like razors. Another beast stabbed at him with a dagger gripped in its tail; the blade swiped across the Reiklander’s face, inches from his eyes. A third was hitting him on the legs with a club. Heinrich didn’t want to lose his sword, but he had no choice.

Dropping the sword, he quickly grabbed the blade-wielding tail, brought it to his mouth, and bit hard. Noxious blood filled his mouth as the ratman let out an agonising screech, dropped its blade, and fell back. That problem solved, Heinrich took his knife and slashed out against the ratman at his legs. But the one on his back grabbed his arm and held it firm.

Heinrich howled and twisted, trying to loosen the beast’s grip. He could feel the steam of the creature’s vile breath on his neck and its snout pushing into his nape to set its teeth. But as the first fang made its mark, the ratman was rudely yanked away. Heinrich looked down and saw Bloodtooth tearing into its throat.

Turning his attention to the third assailant, Heinrich raised his dagger and stabbed down, aiming for its back, but before steel found its mark, a crossbow bolt pierced its side. But Heinrich could not stop the impetus of the blade, and it hit the ground and snapped at the hilt. He scowled and looked into the direction of the bolt. Broderick stood close, grinning and holding a spent crossbow.

“You owe me a knife!” Heinrich shouted.

Broderick nodded. “A small price to pay.”

Heinrich retrieved his sword and he and Broderick stood back to back, circling slowly. “Where did all the rats come from, friend?” Heinrich yelled. “Did you not see them on your reconnaissance?”

“What are you talking about?” Broderick asked, catching a ratman with a swift jab of his sword blade.

“The rats that have taken two of our men out of the battle,” he said, driving the pommel of his sword into a nearby throat. “Father and Gunderic are fighting for their lives.”

“Aren’t we all,” Broderick snapped back. “What do you want me to do about it?”

“Get us out of this mess.”

“Just shut up,” Broderick said, twisting his body to the left to block a ratman from jumping on Heinrich’s back, “and fight!”

That ended the argument. Through the constant slash of blades and teeth, Heinrich fought to keep his balance. Fighting they were, and valiantly too, but the advantage gained from their initial assault was slipping away. Cuthbert was down, fending off attacks with bare arms, and Witchkiller, though still in the fight, was slowing, her chest a swirl of deep red cuts. Unless a miracle happened, they would never get out of the building alive.

And then as if Sigmar were listening, a flight of arrows flew into the melee and felled several ratmen. The missiles came through gaps in the boarded windows on the sides of the building. Then came powerful shouts as five strange men, attired in richly coloured doublets and tunics, rushed through the northern entrance and gave battle to the enemy. Heinrich stood confused as he tried to make sense of the intruders. What was going on? Who were these men? He turned and looked at Broderick, whose eyes were also seeking answers.

“What is this?” Heinrich asked.

But before he could answer, Broderick’s chest exploded in a cloud of green powder and blood. A thunderous roar consumed the space and Heinrich was knocked aside. The crack of the shot rang soundly in his ears as he struggled to stand. He could feel the sting of powder in his eyes and taste it on his tongue. He wiped away the pain and looked at his feet. Broderick lay face down, a black hole in his mangled back, a green mist rising out of the wound as blood pooled around him on the floor. Heinrich knew immediately what had caused the mortal blow.

Warplock pistol.

And just as quickly as it had begun, the battle was over, as the ratmen scrambled for exits. Despite having gained the advantage, the arrival of additional mercenaries were an unwelcome surprise and in seconds, the enemy was gone; all except one lone vermin, standing at the top of the steps leading to the doorway from which Heinrich had entered. Dazed, Heinrich leaned on his sword and stared madly into the beast’s foaming maw. It was the white one he had asked Broderick about right before the attack, the one supposedly in possession of the Heart of Sigmar. Its white fur was caked with muddy gore, its chest, shins, and snout wrapped in light leather armour, arms exposed. Warped by Chaos, the creature possessed two tails that tightly clutched two sacks glowing green with wyrdstone, and it waved the sacks in the air. In its left hand was the warplock pistol, smouldering from the shot.

Rage shook Heinrich’s body. His heart pounded, his chest heaved as he girded his strength. You twisted offal, he screamed silently into the face of the white monster. You killed my friend.

As if it understood, the ratman chittered wildly and waved its free hand at the captain. Foaming spit flew from its black lips as it bared its fangs in defiance. Heinrich rushed forward, raising his sword to strike. But it was too late. As he reached the first step, the pale-furred skaven leaped backwards and vanished in the shadows.

An arm blocked Heinrich from going further. “Easy, sir,” said an unfamiliar voice. “It’s over.”

Heinrich pulled away from the arm, swung around, and drove the hilt of his sword into the sternum of the man. The man fell down, gasping and clutching his stomach. Heinrich stood over the body of one of the strangers that had interrupted the fight. “Step back!” Heinrich said. But as he stepped away, the man drove his leg into the back of Heinrich’s knees, bringing him down. The man followed up with a swift chop to the neck.

“I’d show a little more respect for one that has just saved your life,” the man said, regaining his feet and drawing two poniards from under his cloak.

Heinrich winced against the pain of the blow, rolled over, raised his crossbow and aimed it at the forehead of the man. The man was very tall, sporting a dark complexion, shaved head, goatee and a gold earring in his right earlobe. He wore chestnut-coloured pantaloons and a gold tunic. A tiger fur cloak was draped over his shoulders and clipped at his neck. Black boots with silver points. He wasn’t from the Empire.

The man was anxious but steady, like a wild fox, holding his ground but ready to strike at a moment’s notice.

“Respect for you?” Heinrich said, holding the crossbow steady. “And what gave you the right to intrude on my mission?”

“Your mission?” said the man. “We’ve been tracking these ratmen for days. The trail led us here. And it looked like you needed help.”

“We were doing fine on our own, stranger,” said Heinrich. “We do not need your charity.”

The man grunted. “I beg to differ. If we had not arrived when we did—”

“Broderick would still be alive!” Heinrich shouted.

The man grew silent and looked past Heinrich towards the still body drowning in the pool of deep crimson. His face calmed. “Yes, perhaps so. That is unfortunate. But let’s be rational. Without our intrusion, you might have all died.”

By this time, the men from both groups had gathered themselves and were standing around their respective leaders, weapons drawn, eyes glaring at one another over a thin, deadly space. The anger and distrust in the air was palpable; one false move or word could start a brawl. But feeling secure with his men at hand, Heinrich lowered his crossbow and stood. “Who are you?” he asked calmly.

The man lowered his knives and tucked them back beneath his cloak. “I am Captain Bernardo Rojas.”

“Where are you from?”

“Estalia.”

Heinrich winced in disgust. Estalia? That hot, mysterious land topped in mountains, shrouded in mystery, and lying far to the west of the Empire. What wicked wind had blown this infidel into town? “Ha!” he grunted and shook his head. “An Estalian in Mordheim. Is that so? By the looks of your men, however, I’d say you were from further south. I am having a bad day.”

“Scoff all you wish,” Bernardo said with eyes glaring, “but I will gladly pit my men of Marienburg against your Reiklander dogs any time.”

Heinrich ignored the challenge and turned away. He went to Broderick, knelt down, and held his hand above the deep wound. Hot. He leaned over and whispered gently in Broderick’s ear, “I’m sorry, my friend. May Sigmar bless your soul.”

He rose and stretched his back carefully. Night was falling fast and he could barely see his men through the shifting light and shadow. How many are left, he wondered. “Father? How many have we lost?”

Father appeared at his side, shaken and exhausted. “Three dead, captain. Young Gunderic and Sebastian, and Broderick. May Sigmar find them peaceful. Cuthbert is alive but his arms are badly mauled. Witchkiller is wounded severely. She may not last the night. I am well, as are Roland and Bloodtooth.”

“You don’t look well,” Heinrich said, pointing at scores of tiny bites covering the priest’s arms and neck. The old man was stooped over, fighting for air, his bald pate wet with cold sweat. The spells had taken their toll. “You’re lucky to be alive.”

Father rubbed at the wounds. “Yes, captain. Lucky and cursed I would say.”

Father always said things that did not make sense, but Heinrich did not press him further. He turned away and shook his head. Three dead. What a terrible price to pay without even securing the prize for which they were fighting. He barely had enough men to field. How would they get out of the city alive at night while carrying their dead and wounded to safety?

As if reading his thoughts, the Estalian stepped forward. “May we be of assistance?” he asked.

Heinrich turned and faced the stranger, uncertain of what to do or what to think. “Haven’t you done enough already?”

“We lost a man too,” Bernardo said, ignoring the jab. “Young Gabriel fell shortly after we engaged. We should work together to get out of this cursed place, despite any misgivings we may have for one another. Night is falling. Let us help each other.”

“No. No, I will not allow you to touch—”

“Heinrich,” Father interrupted, laying a hand on his captain’s shoulder. “Please, let them help. We can’t do this alone, and we can’t leave anyone behind.”

“Fine!” Heinrich snapped. He wanted to lash out and smack the old man across the floor, but his words made sense.

“Captain?” Roland came forward, holding Bloodtooth by his massive chain. The dog’s muzzle was soaked in ratman blood. “Should we not look for the Heart before we leave?”

Heinrich shook his head. “No. It isn’t here.”

“But they may have dropped it in the battle. If we could just look through—”

“I said no!” Heinrich snapped. “The ratmen are vile creatures, but they are not stupid. They know what we’re after. They would not be so casual with it.”

“What is this Heart you speak of?” the Estalian asked. “I do not understand.”

“Good. Let’s keep it that way.” Heinrich did not try to hide his growing irritation with this pointless discussion. Exhausted, he used his sword to steady himself and wiped sweat from his brow. “Very well, Estalian. I accept your offer, but that’s as far as it goes. When we reach the western gate, we part company. We’ll bury our men alone. Understood?”

Bernardo nodded, a quizzical smile on his face.

“And one more thing.” Heinrich leaned in close, his nose nearly touching Bernardo’s sharp beak. “Keep your hands off Broderick. He’s my responsibility.”

With that, they began preparing the dead and wounded as the Mordheim night squeezed in.

 

The sun was rising in the east and driving away the fog. The air was still and thick. It would be a humid day, Heinrich knew, and he felt comforted by the cool of the stone pavilion in which he stood.

They were in the centre of a Garden of Morr. The garden lay within the moss and ivy-choked ruins of a small keep that stood vigil on a modest hill on the western side of Mordheim. The dead were laid naked on stone benches inside the pavilion. Roland covered each body in turn with a white sheet, while Father, holding a bowl of slow burning incense, whispered arcane prayers and moved among the bodies. He stopped at each, dipped a small brush into the grey ash of the incense fire, and then rubbed the pasty bristles across each warrior’s clean-shaven, perfumed cheeks. He knelt down and kissed each lightly on the brow, then covered their eyes with silk cloths.

Heinrich stood in sombre humility and watched the priest work. Few Reikland mercenaries could claim their very own Sigmarite priest, but Heinrich considered it a gift and did not tempt fate by thinking about it too often. The old man’s full name was Elgin von Klaushammer, but the men fondly called him “Father” as befitting his spiritual connections; and at times like this, he was an invaluable servant to the team.

He looked into a dark corner of the pavilion where Cuthbert and Witchkiller lay resting quietly, taking comfort in each other’s company. Their evening’s wounds had not fully healed, but they had not got any worse. They would live, praise Sigmar, but they would be laid up for a while. Heinrich pulled himself straight, defying exhaustion. He was a leader after all and in times like this he needed to show strength.

It was a tragic thing to lose men on campaign. How many burials had he attended since his arrival in Mordheim? He could not remember. How many more would he attend? It was a fool who did not expect to lose men in such an evil place, but he had lost so many good men over the past few months. And now Broderick, his best friend and confidant, was gone. Broderick had always been there to help the group through their grief and to keep them focused. Where Father conducted the ritual of burial, it was Broderick who placed purpose in each death, extolling honour and dignity through his kind and simple words of faith. Faith in Sigmar Heldenhammer, founder and patron saint of the Empire; faith in the Grand Theogonist; faith in their mission. Heinrich looked down upon the rigid form of his friend and whispered, “Goodbye Broderick. You were a good man and a great warrior.”

Heinrich turned and let Father’s prayers drift from his mind. He looked towards the freshly dug graves waiting nearby. He felt sorry for the families of the men he would bury today. They would never know the fate of their kin, and what a terrible burden to bear. Some would consider it blasphemous to bury them within sight and sound of the Eternal Struggle, but it was better than leaving them to rot amidst the ruins. At least they were receiving some dignity and respect with a simple ceremony.

Heinrich placed his hand on the hilt of his sword. He looked beyond the garden to an observation tower. The aged, crumbling stone structure had stood for centuries as one corner of the keep but was now, in its twilight, used to view the city. He and Broderick had climbed the steps of the tower many times. They had looked down upon the desolation and tried to imagine what it might have been like on that fateful day in 1999, five years ago when the twin-tailed comet of Sigmar slammed into the city and eradicated the evil that had gathered.

In his weaker moments, Heinrich would wonder why the Warrior God had allowed Mordheim to survive at all, why he had allowed it to rise from its own grave. Why fill it with that cursed wyrdstone, a currency so valued, so prized that it called thousands into its seedy streets who would kill to possess it? At the top of the tower, Broderick would always answer, “It is a warning and a test. I believe Sigmar allowed Mordheim to endure so as to remind us of the fine line between order and Chaos. Mordheim is a monument to that thin space between good and evil, and all the other cities of the Empire should look upon its devastation with fear and remember that they too could suffer the same fate if they so choose to fall into darkness.”

“And what of wyrdstone, then?” Heinrich would ask, pressing the issue. “Why would Sigmar fill its streets with that awful temptation?”

“Again, it’s a test. Men imbued with both good and bad intentions come here to seek it. What they do with it after they’ve found it is the test.”

“Have we passed the test, my friend?”

Broderick would smile and say, “Well, I don’t know about you, but my heart is pure.”

They would laugh at that and go on discussing issues throughout the night. What is the true nature of Chaos? Of order? Will the provinces of the Empire ever unite under Siegfried, the Grand Prince of Reikland? In the end, Heinrich would allow Broderick to have the last word, for his faith was that of a child’s. Heinrich always looked to his friend for spiritual guidance, clarity of thought and consistency of purpose. With Broderick now gone, who would he rely now on to provide that clarity?

“Am I disturbing you?”

It was the voice of the Estalian. Heinrich swung around to face the strange man, his heart leaped into his throat as he considered drawing his sword, but he held steady. “What are you doing here, Estalian? Don’t you have a fallen sword to care for?”

“I have already buried young Gabriel,” Bernardo said, “but I must speak with you now, before it is too late.”

“You are from a strange, undisciplined land,” Heinrich whispered. “You are obviously unaware of the dishonour you’ve brought to me and mine by interrupting this service.”

Bernardo pulled up close, his eyes sparkling with agitation. “I’m well aware of the sanctity of your burial service, sir, but what I have to discuss with you gives respect to those we bury today. Speak with me in private.”

Gritting his teeth, Heinrich grabbed the fringe of the Estalian’s tiger cloak and pulled him away. “Very well. Follow me.”

They walked through the garden and up to the observation tower. Heinrich climbed the wooden steps, carefully placing his boots into the worn places on the planks. “I suggest you place your feet as I do, Estalian, lest you snap a plank and fall to your death.” Bernardo followed as directed.

At the top, they stood side-by-side and stared down at the mangled sprawl. Several minutes passed in silence. Heinrich spoke first. “How long have you been in Mordheim, Estalian?”

“Not very long,” Bernardo said. “Going on seven days now perhaps.”

Heinrich grunted. “Then you are still clean and unfettered, I see. I’ve been here all of six months, and I’m already losing myself in its cesspool. I hate it and I love it. Does that make sense to you?”

Before Bernardo could respond, Heinrich continued. “Broderick and I came up through the pits together, bare-chested fighters for gold and drama. A young man en route to Ostermark, I was captured by brigands and sold off like chattel. I thought I would die in those pits. Broderick saved me. He spoke about Sigmar and gave me purpose to fight on. We bought our freedom and set off for Altdorf to find our lives and to worship the Warrior God. And when we were ready, we set off for Mordheim to do good deeds for the Empire. But it wasn’t supposed to end like this. Broderick wasn’t supposed to die.”

Heinrich paused for a long moment, then said, “Right before he fell, I argued with Broderick for not spotting the rat horde that appeared in the guildhouse and cut our band in two. I blamed it all on him, but it was my fault. I should have known better, anticipated it. It’s my fault Broderick’s dead. All my fault…”

“Why speak these things?” Bernardo said. He tried to lay a hand on Heinrich’s shoulder, but the Reiklander pulled away. “You are not responsible for the fate of every man under your charge.”

Heinrich nodded. “Perhaps not.” He stared deeply into Bernardo’s eyes, trying to measure the man’s soul, but everything about him was different. His face was dark and sharp, dirt-smeared but flamboyant. His bald scalp a shiny palette of oily brown flesh. His mouth a thin sliver of pink forming a generous smile that masked… what? Heinrich searched for something more in the kind stare of the mysterious man, but nothing surfaced. The man also had a perfumery about him, a scent of cinnamon and lavender, of rosemary and ginger. It mixed with the stagnant, mouldy smell of the nearby graves and made Heinrich’s nostrils flare.

“What brings you to the City of the Damned, Estalian?” Heinrich asked. “You and your men are very far from the comforts of Marienburg, and, dare I say, from the fanciful proclamations of your Lady Magritta.”

If the insult caused the foreigner any agitation, he did not show it. He simply smiled and said, “I’m not a political man. It matters not to me who sits on the Imperial throne, whether it is my Lady Magritta, or a puppet prince anointed by your Grand Theogonist. But I would suggest that you refrain from such observations around my men, as they may take offence. As for me, my kin were merchants. We had establishments in Marienburg, Talabheim, Middenheim, among other places. We were so often on the road that I feel as much a part of the Empire as I do my birth city of Bilbali. When I was old enough to make my own decisions, I returned home and tried to build a life. But it just didn’t feel right anymore. So I returned to Marienburg, gathered up some swords, then struck out to find my fortune.”

“But why Mordheim? It’s such a drastic change from the comfortable life of a merchant’s son.”

Bernardo shrugged. “Mordheim is the place to be if you crave adventure, is it not? And don’t take such a simpleton’s view of a city and its people, Reiklander. There are two sides to every coin, and the measure of a man goes deeper than a mere prick of his skin.”

I may take you up on that measurement, Heinrich thought to himself, but kept his mouth shut. How dare this fop, this popinjay give him lessons in courtesy? He let the matter drop, however. It would be disrespectful to cause a stir within sight of Broderick’s funeral.

A long silent minute hung between them, then Bernardo said, “So tell me about this Heart you seek. I’m not familiar with it.”

Should I tell him, Heinrich asked himself? If such a powerful artefact fell into the hands of a foreigner and worse, Marienburgers, what price would the Empire pay?

Despite his reluctance, Heinrich answered. “It’s called the Herz des Kriegergottes, the Heart of the Warrior God, also known as Sigmar’s Heart. It’s thought to be the last remaining piece of the core of the comet. Many say it does not exist, but they are wrong. It’s no larger than the palm of your hand, and flat as a dish. Its face shines brightly even in pure darkness, they say, its aspect shifting green to red and back again, and it’s said that if you look upon it long enough, you can see the twin-tailed comet hurling through the sky and hitting the city. The legend goes that a ratman sorcerer first discovered it, and then it fell into the hands of dwarf treasure seekers who took a forge hammer to it and beat it into the shape that it is today, as if it were a mere trinket to be worn around the neck.

“The dwarfs traded it to a brewer for his entire stock of beer, and then it disappeared from sight for a couple of years until the Black Guard, those templars who seek out and destroy the undead, learned that it had fallen into the hands of a vampire. They saved it from that unholy coupling, but they too lost it en route to Altdorf when a band of greenskins attacked them. The greenskins brought it back to Mordheim during their sweep south, where they too lost it…”

“And you think that the skaven have it again?” Bernardo interrupted.

Heinrich nodded. “Yes. Broderick confirmed it. He saw it around the white one’s neck a few days ago on a scouting mission.”

“But the white skaven last night was not wearing any medallion as I recall.”

“That is true.”

“Then perhaps they’ve lost it again.”

Heinrich shook his head. “No. They have it. I’m certain of it.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because I am,” Heinrich blurted, growing weary of the conversation. They must have it, he thought to himself. They must, or Broderick died in vain.

“Well,” Bernardo said, “whatever the truth, it certainly is a well-travelled little trinket. What does it do? What is its power?”

Heinrich shook his head, fighting down painful memories of his friend. “Immortality. Unimaginable physical strength. Spiritual powers beyond any priest, wizard, or witch hunter of the Empire. There are many speculations. Father says that its true power can only be known by a pure-of-heart, the truest follower of Sigmar. And when that person touches it, whomever he may be, the second coming of the Warrior God will be upon us, the Empire will reunite under one banner again and a golden age of peace and prosperity will follow.”

“Really?” The Estalian seemed on the verge of laughing, his thin lips quivering to control an outburst. “And you believe all this?”

“I trust my friend, Estalian,” Heinrich said angrily. “Broderick said he saw it and that’s good enough for me. I’ve pledged to myself and to the others to find, rescue, and deliver the Heart to Altdorf and to the Grand Theogonist. And that is what I intend to do.”

Heinrich turned away and closed his eyes. He took a deep breath and let his anger drift away with the cool breeze blowing from the east. “I do love mornings here,” he said finally. “Just as the sun rises and casts its shadows on the ruins. This is the time to gain the best perspective on the place.” He pointed out to the moist, green mist rising everywhere. “See how the whole of it has a green glow, as if some daemon relieved itself in the wind? See how the black water of the river Stir sloshes its way through the heart of the city, its depths bulging with the myriad dead of last night’s wickedness. The river cuts a fine swathe, a channel dividing east and west perfectly. Sometimes, when I’m down there, I forget which side I’m on.

Sometimes I get lost, drifting around and around the same block until a whiff of meat from a bandit’s spit leads me to a gatehouse and to safety. Each ruined shed, each tavern and rookery, each stockyard or tumbled chapel has its own spirit, its own voice, a chorus of the souls that have died—the most hideous deaths—within its walls. When you’re down there, it’s hard to know where the flesh ends and stone and mortar begins.”

“But from here, you can see the whole of the desolation. You can see the deep crater where the comet hit and the destruction that erupted from its impact. Like one great heart of Chaos, pumping to the beat of a madness unstoppable, its veins the criss-cross of cobblestone streets where lost children roam: greenskins and Reiklanders, Marienburgers, Ostlanders and shadowy elves, dwarfs, ratmen, and too many to name. All of them fighting an endless skirmish for the very soul of the world.”

“Do you know what I see?” Bernardo asked.

Heinrich warily turned toward the Estalian. “I’m afraid to ask.”

“I see a loud, smelly, musty old city that needs a good whipping, and we shouldn’t be wasting our time debating about what it is and what it isn’t. It is what it is.”

For the first time since they had met, Heinrich laughed. “Now who’s taking the simpleton’s view? I see that you have much to learn about Mordheim. You don’t show it the proper respect. But you better find humility soon, or you’ll pay the price. If you play lightly with the City of the Damned, Estalian, she’ll swallow you whole.”

“You said you wanted to talk,” Heinrich continued, not allowing the Estalian a chance to respond. “What is it you have to say?”

Bernardo’s face grew stern and serious. “We must join our bands and go at the skaven again today.”

Heinrich shook his head. “I made my position clear last night, Estalian. We can take care of the vermin on our own. We do not need your help. If you will excuse me.” He moved toward the steps. Bernardo held out an arm. “Please, listen to me.”

Heinrich pulled back, drew his pistol, and held it to Bernardo’s forehead. He cocked the hammer. “That’s the second time you’ve blocked my path. It will be your last.”

Bernardo held still, the barrel of the pistol pressed tightly against his head. “You fool! I can smack that pistol away faster than you can pull the trigger.”

Heinrich held the weapon steady. “I’m willing to take that risk.”

By this time, Heinrich’s men had gathered below the tower. He looked down and saw Roland struggling to maintain his grip on Bloodtooth’s leash, the hound’s fatty jowls slathered with foamy spit, its teeth bared and biting the empty air. The rest were looking up, all worn and tattered, but with weapons at the ready. Father’s warhammer glowed with power.

“You see, Estalian,” Heinrich said, a rush of confidence flushing his face, “even if I misfire, you will not get off this tower alive.”

“I will not embarrass you in front of your men,” Bernardo said coolly. “You have yet to witness and appreciate my quickness. So I kindly ask you to lower your pistol before our emotions get the better of us. I will not block your path again.”

Heinrich lowered the pistol cautiously. “I pray that you do not. And let me repeat, I do not need your help.”

Bernardo shook his head. “Despite the number of skaven that fell last night, many more scattered to the shadows. Do you know where they are, and how long do you think it will take to find them?”

“And I suppose you know where they fled?”

“Yes.”

Heinrich’s shoulders sunk. “Impossible. How could you know this? You have not been in the city long enough—”

“With respect, captain,” Bernardo said, “you are not the only swinging sword in Mordheim with resources.”

Heinrich rubbed his face and considered the Estalian’s admission. Could this coxcomb truly know where the ratmen fled, he wondered? Or was this some ruse to keep him from finding their real location? Now that the truth of the Heart had been revealed, perhaps this was some diversion to send Heinrich’s men one way, while some of Bernardo’s men went another. That was a possibility. Who knew the true motivation of an Estalian, especially one associated with Marienburg and its corrupt merchant guilds? His frivolity and disrespect for things holy certainly did not bode well. But perhaps it would not hurt to hear him out, Heinrich considered, if for no other reason but to reveal the absurdity of the information.

“Alright. Where are they?”

Bernardo turned and pointed to the glowing city. “My scout tells me that their stronghold is within several blocks of the southern gate. It’s an old two-storey mausoleum, with the bottom storey buried beneath rocks. The only entrance is on the first floor behind a marble arcade. It’s a long corridor ending at a door leading down to the ground floor. Neither of our bands alone could penetrate the defences. But if we assault it together, we could do it. We could wipe them out and find peace for a time.”

Heinrich tried to find the lie hidden between the Estalian’s words, but there was no deception, no hesitation. He was telling the truth… as far as he knew it.

“The southern gate?” Heinrich scratched the scar on his cheek. “I don’t know. That’s Sister territory.”

Bernardo chuckled. “My captain, are you afraid of women?”

Heinrich raised his pistol slightly. “Take caution in your tone. This pistol is still cocked. The Sisters are not women as far as I’m concerned. At least not like any women I’ve ever met.”

The Sisters of Sigmar were a convent of misfits and discarded daughters from across the Empire. Self-proclaimed witch hunters and caregivers, their abbey was called the Temple of Sigmar’s Rock, and it stood on a single fist of black stone jutting from the poisonous flow of the River Stir. The spires of their home dominated the skyline of the southern districts, and their presence was felt immediately by anyone passing through the southern gate. The thought of facing them did not sit well in Heinrich’s chest.

“Do you see this scar?” Heinrich pointed to the white claw-shaped wound on his face. “I got this souvenir on my first day in Mordheim. A Sister did not appreciate my smile and smacked it off my face with her whip.”

It was Bernardo’s turn to laugh. “The men in my country would have considered that a kiss. You should have kissed her back.”

“I’m not here to frolic and make merry, Estalian,” Heinrich blurted. “I’m here to serve Sigmar. Given the condition we are in, I’ve no interest in tangling with harlots.”

“Do not concern yourself with the Sisters,” Bernardo said, “they will not give us pause. Trust me.”

Can you be trusted, Heinrich wondered? Trust was a rare commodity in the streets of Mordheim. A man had to earn trust, had to put in his time and shed his requisite draught of blood. But perhaps there was no other choice. Looking into the eager face of the Estalian, Heinrich remembered an old adage from his days as a pit fighter: “No sword, then fight with your hands. No hands, then with your teeth.”

My right hand is gone, Heinrich said to himself as he thought about Broderick. Dare I give my left?

“What is your answer?” Bernardo asked.

Heinrich lowered his pistol, uncocked the hammer, and tucked it away. He looked down at his men. They were a mess: dirty, beaten, bruised, and exhausted beyond a doubt. If he asked, they would find their strength, ready their blades, and head back into the stinking mire. They would fight to the last man if he asked it. But going alone was madness. Alone, they would not survive another day.

“Very well, Estalian,” Heinrich said. “I accept your offer. What is your price?”

“Half the take of any wyrdstone we find.”

“A third,” Heinrich countered, “and the Heart is mine.”

“Why is the trinket yours?” Bernardo asked. “We were tracking the skaven the same as you.”

Heinrich shook his head. “No, sir. You cannot declare for something that you do not believe exists and by right I claim seniority. I’ve been here longer than you.”

There was no such claim of seniority in the streets of Mordheim. Finders-keepers and winner-takes-all were the battle cries. But does the Estalian know that, Heinrich wondered?

Bernardo paused, for a long time, then said, “Okay, a third of the wyrdstone, plus the lion’s share of any gems and jewellery we may find.”

Heinrich did not like the deal, but reluctantly agreed. “Gather your men,” he said, taking the steps and descending, “and bring them here so that we may praise our dead. Then let us take a small rest, find a scrap to eat, and then we’ll go. You will lead the way, but let’s make it clear. This is my mission. Understood?”

“As you wish… captain.”

 

After a brief respite, they gathered the men and set out to track down the skaven clan. They moved quickly and quietly outside the stone wall, which ensnared the city in a ring of vacant ramparts and battlements. The route chosen was of greater distance, but safer by far. Once you entered the cursed city, there were no guarantees of safety. Brigands, thrill-seekers and treasure-mongers were lying in wait for passers-by and they could not afford petty distractions en route to the skaven stronghold.

The men had had little chance to get acquainted with one another before setting out. Bernardo’s men were Marienburgers. There were three of them: Karl Stugart, an ex-swordsman and deserter from the Marienburg army, Rupert Keller, a quay merchant who had killed a rival in cold blood and now, as personal penance for the crime, wore a chain around his neck attached to a rock hidden in a side pocket of his orange tunic, and Albert Eickmann, a barkeeper and part-time burglar trying to stay one step ahead of death and the law. What a miserable gang, Heinrich thought to himself as he greeted each with a pensive smile.

They had all shared pleasantries and had kept civil tongues during their morning preparations, but it was clear to Heinrich that the tension between his men and Bernardo’s was as palpable as the gritty fog that clung to the banks of the Stir. It would take time for the men to trust each other, and time they did not have. At the moment of impact, they would have to perform instinctively, anticipating each other’s moves and actions. With only eight strong, no margin of error was afforded. And with no training or practice, the effective fighting strength was closer to five men. Heinrich made the sign of Sigmar and prayed for luck.

They entered the city through the southern gate. The heavily travelled archway was called the Daemon Mouth, and what a ghastly orifice it was. The entrance lay between two stone towers. Tall, sleek and defiant, their arrow slits squinted darkly upon the approach. The massive iron-plated doors had been ripped off and lay adrift in a sea of weeds and brambles beside the road. What remained were the rusty fangs of a portcullis, suspended by equally rusty chains that teetered above the underpass and threatened to drop at the slightest breeze. Heinrich held his breath, stepped quickly beneath the iron teeth, and came out the other side.

Before them lay a narrow cobblestone road that wound through a maze of ruins. Many called it the Street of Madness, for it was believed that no man, not even the most devoted follower of Sigmar, could reach its end at the northern river gate without going insane. One day, Heinrich thought to himself with a confident nod, I will take that challenge.

They set off down the road, eyeing cautiously the desolate architecture pressing down on both sides. They spread out in a loose circle, Bernardo taking the lead, Heinrich holding the centre and the rest pointing bows and swords in all directions. Despite the fog, the sun was hot and the air heavy. Heinrich shielded his eyes from the shifting beams of light that punctured the fog and tossed angular spikes of white heat across his path. He looked to his left and saw an ensemble of bleached skeletons sitting on discarded chairs, huddled tightly in a circle and holding flutes, violins, tambourines, lutes, and harps. In the swirling haze, the bones moved rhythmically, and Heinrich could almost hear notes rising above their unholy recital. He closed his eyes, rubbed them vigorously, and shook his head. He looked again and the band was gone, their music swept away by a chorus of bloody screams from some unseen battle raging in the distance.

An illusion.

Father appeared beside him. “Captain, are you well?”

“Yes, I’m fine, thank you. I thought I saw… No, it was nothing.” Heinrich rubbed his eyes. “I’m just feeling a little tepid. The air is thick today, and the dead of Mordheim are playing tricks with my mind.”

Father drew a corked vial of clear liquid from his robe. “I want you to have this.”

Heinrich looked at the vial warily. “What is it?”

“Tears of Shallya. Water from the holy spring of Couronne. It will protect you from the ratmen’s poison.”

Heinrich shook his head. “Thank you, but I cannot accept it. You should have it. You are far more valuable than I.”

Father grabbed Heinrich’s hand and pressed the vial into his palm. “Take it, please, I beg you. I fear for your life today.”

The priest’s eyes burned with intensity, and his warhammer glowed. Heinrich had seen this look before. There was no arguing with the old man when he had made his mind up. Heinrich nodded appreciatively and tucked the vial into a pocket.

They came to an abrupt halt at a fork in the road. To the right, the way bled into an area of the city once known as the Poor Quarter. To the left, the unassailable towers of the Sisters of Sigmar’s abbey loomed large in the distance. Father and Roland began mumbling prayers while making the sign of Sigmar with nervous hands. There was great suspicion and anxiety among Sigmarites towards the Sisters’ abbey, Heinrich knew. He shared some of that anxiety himself as he scratched the scar on his cheek.

When the comet had hit the city, it had spread its death and desolation equally, save for the abbey. Neither a scratch nor a speck of dirt fell upon its indefatigable battlements, and many believed that the Sisters had called upon dark forces to ensure their salvation from the holocaust of that dreadful night. Heinrich did not know the truth, but the edict from the Grand Theogonist was clear: No counsel or fraternisation between the devout men of Sigmar and the Sisters. It was an order that Heinrich tried to respect each day.

From behind a lone wall of leaning shale, four figures emerged clad in white and purple habits, Heinrich knew immediately who they were. The men around him trained their weapons forward as the Sisters walked into the road brandishing steel whips. Heinrich’s scar ached at the sight of those awful weapons. In a fight, those whips could strike at distances and at speeds impossible to deflect. They could not afford a spat with the Sisters; the ever-watching manses of their abbey guaranteed reinforcements within moments, if more were not already lying in wait around them. Heinrich shot nervous glances at the ruins, they seemed alive with eyes.

He walked slowly to the head of the group, but Bernardo was already on the move. The Estalian raised his hands in peace and wandered up to the armed women. He mumbled a few words to the one clad in all white and gold trim, with silver medallions hanging from her thick neck and pointed towards the Poor Quarter. The Sisters looked at each other, nodded, then moved away. Bernardo thanked them with a generous bow and returned. Heinrich stood there, his mouth open in astonishment. “Well,” he said as Bernardo returned, “here’s a good reason not to trust you. Would you mind explaining that?”

The Estalian smiled furtively and winked. “It’s a bit complicated. I’ll explain some other time.” He said nothing else and reassumed his position at the point.

After passing a few more blocks, they turned off the main route and took to alleys and back streets, forming a tight line, with Bernardo in the lead, Heinrich at the rear, and the rest in between. Cuthbert and Witchkiller had been left behind in camp to mend. It would have been nice to include more help, perhaps hire a sword for close-in fighting or a Tilean marksman to bolster their missile strength, but there was no time. They had what they had, and there was a certain nobility in facing one’s foes with your honest strength. The measure of a good man was his capacity to overcome adversity. One Sigmarite equalled ten of the Empire’s foes, wasn’t that the old saying? Heinrich placed his hand into his pocket and rubbed the vial of tears that Father had given him. He hoped it were true.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“This is it?” Heinrich asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You wield it well,” Heinrich said.

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

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

Bernardo chuckled. “I guess you’re right. A weapon like this requires a delicate touch. Stocky fingers like yours would just get in the way.”

Heinrich’s eyes glazed in anger. “Now see here…” he began, moving forward. But Father, standing close, shook his head and silently implored his captain to remain calm. Heinrich halted immediately. “We will take this up later, Estalian,” he said. “Right now we need light.”

Six torches were laid on the floor. Albert lit them and handed them out. Fear spread through the men as shadows were thrown back and terror revealed.

The hallway that lay before them was as tall as four men and immeasurably deep. Along the walls were rows upon rows of crypts embossed with the holy symbols of Morr and Sigmar, the words of ancient prayers and the murals of glorious battles. Though grey dust covered it all, the names of the honoured dead defiantly stood forth from the granite: Siebel Gottard, Hera Ruekheiser, Stephan Voelker…. Names meaningless to Heinrich, but somehow possessing great power, as if the mere utterance of them filled the heart with strength. These people had been laid here in glorious praise to their makers. They did not deserve what the skaven had done to them.

“Oh, my holy Sigmar,” Roland said as he shook in fear beside Heinrich. “What are we going to do about this? How do we stop such madness?”

Heinrich gnashed his teeth. “Kill them… every last one of them.”

Hundreds of the crypts had been ransacked, seals penetrated and ripped apart. Piles of skeletons lay on the floor of the hallway, and even more hung out of caskets like twisted scaffolding. The hair of dead matriarchs cascaded down like vines, harbouring nests of baby rats.

With torches raised high, they picked their way through the vandalism. Bernardo passed a nest and set it aflame and watched the embers devour the screeching young. The stink of burning hair and rodent flesh filled the hall.

“That’s a mistake,” said Heinrich.

“How so?” asked Bernardo.

“You’ll see.”

Stepping over bones and splintered coffins, Heinrich noticed that the walls were suddenly alive with a thousand tiny eyes. Rats everywhere, scampering down the garden of old bones, leaping to the ground amidst the maze of death. One dropped on Heinrich’s back. He smacked it off and yelled, “Run!”

They bolted down the hall, dodging and bounding over a deluge of ripping teeth and claws. “This is what happens when you set fire to nests,” Heinrich snapped at Bernardo as he ripped a plump one from his shoulder.

“Why didn’t you say something?” Bernardo screamed.

“You did not ask.”

Through the shadows a massive postern appeared, and within it stood a mahogany door reinforced with iron bars. “There is the doorway,” said Bernardo.

Someone at the rear screamed. Heinrich looked back and saw Karl covered in rats. The ex-swordsman howled and fought madly, but the weight of the host was too great. He disappeared beneath them. Heinrich wanted to stop and help, but kept running. If he turned now, he too would be taken down.

They reached the door ahead of the advancing rats, which had stopped momentarily to feast on the downed Marienburg. Heinrich slammed his shoulder into the wood. He cursed. “It’s locked from the inside. We’ll need to find another way in.”

“There is no other way in,” Bernardo said, keeping one agitated eye on the rear. “It’s here or back to the rats!”

“I can open it, captain.” Father appeared with hammer in hand, its iron head pulsing white with power.

“Your magic alone will not break the seal, priest,” Bernardo said. “We’ll have to do this together.”

“And quickly,” Heinrich said. “The horde is upon us.”

The men gave Father room. The priest raised his hammer and brought it down. The black wood splintered. Heinrich wedged his sword into the seal between granite and door and pried as Father delivered a second blow, then a third and a forth. Bernardo and Albert were answering the priest’s hammer blows with firm shoulders into the ever-cracking wood. A fifth hammer strike and the door gave way.

“Move!” Heinrich yelled, waving the men through the door and into pitch-black. One after another, they leaped through the doorway as Bernardo and Roland conducted a fighting withdrawal against the relentless swarm. When all were through, Heinrich—feeling the tear of claws upon his legs—slammed the door shut.

The door bowed under the weight of rats and then it stopped as a cold silence set in. Through the smoky torchlight, Heinrich could hear the men gasping for breath. He leaned against the door and said, “Praise Sigmar. That was close.”

“I’m sorry for torching the nest,” Bernardo said, “but you could have saved us all a lot of trouble and Karl’s life if you had just spoken up.”

Heinrich started to say something harsh to put the foreigner in his place, but he refrained. There was nothing that could be said, in effect, to correct the error. Why didn’t I warn him, he wondered? Am I so blind with grief for Broderick that I’d risk us all just to humiliate this man? Looking into Bernardo’s waiting eyes, Heinrich was ashamed. This was not the behaviour of a good leader. “You are right,” he said. “I should have warned you. Will you accept my apology?”

Fighting his anger, Bernardo said, “Well, it can’t be fixed. At least the rest of the men are fine, although we’ve taken wounds. The hound is cut up, his legs are bleeding.” He leaned in close and whispered. “I’m worried about the priest, though. He’s old and this has been a difficult run. I don’t know if—”

“Do not fret for me, Bernardo,” Father interrupted. The priest gave the Estalian a rare wink and a smile, and hefted his hammer in steady hands. “I may be old, but I’ll live.”

Father’s confidence quickened Heinrich’s blood. “It’s settled then,” he said. “Where do we go?”

“A stairway leads down here, captain,” Roland said, pointing towards rugged steps winding downward.

Heinrich nodded and reached for Bloodtooth and pulled him close. The dog was performing splendidly, albeit taking the brunt of bites and cuts. With so much enemy flesh for the taking, it was hard for the hound to keep its hunger at bay. Heinrich ruffled his friend’s ears. Sadness clutched his chest. Eventually, he knew, the taint of Chaos would take the dog down. It was inevitable in the City of the Damned. A price had to be paid. Bloodtooth would eventually pay that price with his life.

Heinrich moved to the top of the stairs and looked down. The air was cold and clammy and heavy with the smell of rotting wood, rat faeces and blood. It would be madness to go down these steps, he realised. Traps and ambushes surely waited, but perhaps not. What did it matter? A Sigmarite lives to die in the service of his god. Today is as good a day to die as any, he thought to himself. No turning back.

“Did your scout give any clues as to what lies at the bottom of these stairs?” Heinrich turned to the Estalian.

Bernardo shook his head. “She’s a good scout, but she’s not an idiot. She would not venture any further alone.”

“I see.” Heinrich grabbed the torch out of Albert’s hand and held it high. He drew his sword and started down the steps. “Let’s go and find out.”

Bloodtooth kept at his side and the men followed, torches raised high, weapons ready. They stepped carefully, placing their boots on steps lousy with cobwebs, rat carcasses, and human bones. Heinrich kicked as much filth out of the way as he could, but the going was difficult. With each step, the air grew stale with the sickly sweet smell of the grave, that pungent odour of death and decay for which the skaven were known. Some of the men began to cough and Rupert’s torch flickered out. This was the air of the diseased, the breath of mutation and of rot.

They reached the bottom. Before them lay three passages and Heinrich raised his torch and studied their options. The centre passage contained the same architecture as the mausoleum: finely wrought granite, smooth and lined with blind arches. The other passages were crude and misshapen, mere holes carved into the rock. These were skaven tunnels, Heinrich knew, and they undoubtedly linked directly to the maze of passages that ran beneath Mordheim.

“Which one should we take?” Bernardo asked.

“I’m not in the mood to get lost in the skaven underworld,” Heinrich said. “Let’s take the centre one.”

And so they did, slowly and quietly. It was enough that they carried torches, the smell of smoke and the light would sound the alarm anyway, but why tempt fate? Even Bloodtooth, his jowls dripping foamy red-white muck, padded gingerly through the panoply of human remains and skaven waste. Heinrich expected to see more coffins ripped open and strewn along the way, but what he found was even more disturbing.

The walls and barrel-vaulted ceiling were blood-marked in runes and symbols that writhed like twisted souls in the flickering torchlight. The hair on Heinrich’s neck stiffened as Bloodtooth pulled on the chain in sputtering yelps and growls. What have we walked into?

And then he heard squeals and shrieks coming from behind them and echoing down the stairs from which they had come. The men turned and braced themselves, and Heinrich gripped his sword tightly. “No turning back now,” he said, more to himself, but the men heard. Rupert fingered the links in his ball and chain, and Albert, Father and Roland backed away from the growing clamour. It sounded like a hundred-strong, but that was likely due to the echoes off the walls. Bloodtooth joined their screeching chorus with a low bass growl. He was angry, straining on the chain so hard that Heinrich felt his feet slip at the pull.

“It’s not wise to stand here in the middle of the hall,” Bernardo said. “We should keep moving and find better ground.”

“I doubt we’ll find any of that here,” Heinrich said. But he yanked Bloodtooth away and they moved, faster this time, trying to stay ahead of the oncoming mass.

Around a turn and they emerged into a small circular room, with coffins and bones piled against the walls. A granite pedestal lay in the centre and broken chairs cluttered the floor. Heinrich looked for a passage out, but there were none. This was the end of the line.

“So it’s here then,” he said and threw his torch on the pedestal. He sheathed his sword and drew his crossbow. “Missiles at the ready. Aim straight and true. Down as many as you can, then finish them with steel.”

Torches were tossed aside and bows were drawn. Bernardo drew Myrmidia and climbed upon the pedestal.

Skaven burst into the room from the hallway. A buzz of missiles felled the first rank. The second rank stumbled. That was all the time needed. Blades were drawn and the battle engaged. Heinrich swung low and tore through skaven chest. Bodies piled at his feet, but still they came on. There were no slingers in this group, praise Sigmar, only close quarter weapons: fighting claws, short swords, clubs, and weeping blades. Though the light in the room was faint, Heinrich could see the venomous poison dripping from those dreaded blades. He ducked slashing claws and drove the point of his sword into the tender belly of an assailant, ducked another slash and severed a limb.

It was impossible to know the number of ratmen in the room, as furry shapes leaped in and out of shadows at speeds too difficult to gauge. The screams and shrieks and deep guttural cries of battle were deafening, sounds banging off the walls and ricocheting back to drown out Heinrich’s shouted orders. It was futile to direct the fight. No one could hear anything beyond his tiny space of war, and Heinrich shut his mouth and swung his sword.

The nocturnal ratmen were finding the light of the torches unbearable and many were fighting to put them out. But Bernardo and Roland held the pedestal, slashing and crushing every claw and snout that stuck in too closely. Heinrich smiled and kept killing.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Father fall under a gang of ratmen, their clubs and spears tearing into the priest’s robe. The old man howled in pain as a spear jabbed his chest and Heinrich moved to give aid, but something caught his boot and took him down.

He hit the floor hard, cutting his arms. The impact jarred his sword loose and it skidded into the shadows. Heinrich reached for it, but a force unseen held him down. He rolled onto his back and tried to focus on a small silhouette standing before him. For a moment, he was back on the rocky pyramid outside the mausoleum struggling with phantoms. But there were no ghosts here, only the milky ooze of confusion clouding his eyes and blurring his thoughts. As he struggled to see, the air grew thinner and thinner until a face appeared.

A face belonging to a broken creature, wrapped in a black robe and hood, loomed before him. One eye patched over with a dirty bandage, the other a bright red dot set deep within a puffy socket. Its snout, covered in pus, spit and warts, twitched uncontrollably as its sharp, pink tongue slid across rotten teeth. The skaven sorcerer cackled madly and drew a medallion from its robe.

Heinrich’s eyes widened as they set upon the medal. Das Herz des Kriegergottes. The Heart of the Warrior God. The Heart of Sigmar. There it was before him, swinging like a pendulum, its sheer surface catching the torchlight and warming to a bright green, then red, then green again. Heinrich tried to raise his hand to touch it, but the invisible force held him down. He stared into the shifting colours as if lost, the sounds of battle around him growing faint. The sorcerer moved forward, letting the Heart swing just above Heinrich’s face.

“Is this what you seek, man-thing?” It said, flicking a spider from its lips. “Yes, look into it. Look and see…”

He tried resisting, but the colours were too beautiful, too powerful. They swirled across the surface, one brilliant strand after another forming steeples, then roofs, then walls, then streets, then a raging river of black, gateways, guildhouses, temples, and defensive towers. Heinrich’s own heart leaped into his throat as he realised the city being formed…

And then he was there, standing in a street amidst countless throngs of men and women. The mass pressed in closely, and Heinrich watched as they engaged in degenerate acts of evil as told in the annals of that terrible night in Mordheim many years ago. People dousing themselves with lantern oil and lighting candles, long, haggard lines of old thieves and beggars, chained at the neck, being led up stairs and into the sharp axe of the executioner; village idiots holding pistols to their heads and pulling triggers in a Kislevite game of chance; drunkards and barmaids, priests and parishioners, sharing one and all in an orgy of Chaos that thrust Heinrich’s mind into madness. Severed heads danced around him. “Turn back… turn back… turn back,” they whispered. Heinrich closed his eyes. A tug at the bottom of his coat; “Have you seen my mama?” A young girl looking up with tears in her eyes, a deafening blast and Broderick’s chest exploding in blood and green powder, Sisters huddled in prayer deep within their abbey. These things invaded his thoughts.

He tried to run. His legs were stiff. He looked down. The street opened and sucked in his feet. Cobblestones leeched up his legs and turned flesh to stone.

A flash of light appeared in the sky. He looked up. The Hammer of Sigmar burned brightly. The twin-tailed comet, barrelling down, a mighty rock of flame. His skin boiled, little bubbles dancing across his hands and arms, while people nearby burst into fire or shattered into ash, leaving dead silhouettes upon walls. Down and down, the comet hurled.

He screamed.

The world around him collapsed, and Heinrich was ripped from the street. He found himself once more on the mausoleum floor, shaking his head to drive away the fog. The fight still raged around him. He looked up. The sorcerer and the Heart were gone, and in their place the terrifying glare of a rat ogre, its foaming jaws mere inches from Heinrich’s face. Hot spittle dripped on his chin, rancid breath burned his eyes. Obviously, the sorcerer wanted to give his pet a taste of man-flesh. But not today, Heinrich thought, as he drew his pistol. He didn’t even know if it was loaded, but he pushed the barrel into the chest of the mighty beast and pulled the trigger.

The impact of the shot tore the pistol out of his hand. A white flash, a plume of black powder, and bits of flesh and fur smothered Heinrich as the rat ogre roared in pain and fell back. The shot had blown a crater into the monster’s chest. Heinrich pulled up on feeble arms and tried to focus on the death throes. The rat ogre thrashed and scraped at his ribs, clawing away the burning shot, but a swift sword out of the shadows halted its efforts.

Bernardo jumped onto the beast’s broad back and plunged his blade through its ribs. The rat ogre wavered in place for a moment, then fell hard. The impact shook the floor.

Heinrich tried to close his eyes and catch a breath, but the floor continued to rumble and pop as a web of black cracks worked their way out from under the rat ogre and across the granite. Heinrich’s face grew pale as he realised what was happening. He tried to roll away but it was too late.

The floor collapsed.

He didn’t remember hitting the ground, but when he came to, he was smothered in grey dust and rubble. Heinrich sat up and wiped away the grime from his eyes and focused on the shapes around him. Human shapes.

“Is everyone with me?” he asked, coughing.

A brief pause, then men began to answer: Father, Roland, everyone.

“Is Bloodtooth with us?”

“Yes,” said Bernardo. “Shaken by the fall, but well enough.”

The Estalian walked up and handed over the dog. Heinrich smiled and patted his resilient friend on the muzzle. “It’s good to see you safe, good sir,” he said, using Bloodtooth’s back for support.

He gained his feet and picked through the piles of rocks to find his sword. He found it half buried in the back of a ratman, pulled it out and wiped away its blood on his tattered breeches. Where are we, he wondered? He found a torch, waved it in the air for a moment to let it catch a better flame, then lifted it high.

It was a cave. Like the hallway above, its crude rock walls were covered in gruesome skaven script. Heinrich now realised what those symbols represented. This was not just an old, forgotten cave, but a temple to the twelve skaven lords and to their abominable horned god.

Bolted along the walls were human skulls containing low-burning candles. Interspersed between the skulls were wooden casks wherein smouldering wyrdstone sent green mist swirling into the chilly air. Heinrich caught his breath; he didn’t want to breathe. Wyrdstone could fester in the chest and corrupt the flesh… and the spirit. Though many believed the green substance possessed healing powers, Heinrich knew the truth. Small quantities of the alloy used as currency in the thieves’ dens and shantytowns around Mordheim was fine, but if they stayed here much longer, ingesting the fumes, they would change and mutate. But where could they go?

There were many exits. Several tunnels led from the room, large enough for human form, but Heinrich had no desire to test them. They would eventually lead to the surface, but at what risk to the men? Besides, the job was not finished. They had come here for the Heart. He had now seen it, experienced its power and he would not leave without it. Retreat was not possible.

“Heinrich?”

He turned and faced the Estalian. “What is it?”

“We have to retreat. Despite his courage, Father is wounded and so are others. Look at yourself. We’ve survived this round, but I don’t know how much longer we can go on. We have to retreat now before—”

“Retreat to where, Estalian?” Heinrich glared into the foreigner’s dark face. “Through these tunnels? Not for a moment. I will not stop until this is finished. Until the white one—”

“Listen to me!” Bernardo hissed, grabbing Heinrich’s shoulders and holding tightly. “This is not a fight we can win. More are coming and I—”

“What happened to your death ground stance?” Heinrich said, pushing the Estalian back. “Where is your spine?”

“I’m no fool, sir. Valiant rhetoric is fine when the muscle is there to support it. But our muscle is gone. The enemy is too abundant, and we are not on death ground. We can retreat, and we must. There’s enough wood and rock around here. We can pile it to the ceiling and—”

“If you have no stomach for this fight,” said Heinrich, “then I suggest you start piling. I doubt you’ll succeed. I’m staying… with or without you and your Marienburgers. No more running! No more retreating! They attack, they retreat, and we die. Enough. I yield no more. And I’ve seen the Heart.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Sigmar’s Heart. I’ve seen it. The sorcerer had it, and I looked into its core. The things I saw… the things I felt. We must get it.”

Bernardo shook his head. “I’m not going to die for a silly artefact. Forget about it!”

“No!” Heinrich screamed. “I told you to learn respect for this city, Estalian, and the things within it. And now I’m telling you plainly: I’m not leaving here until the Heart is mine. Until I’ve killed them all. Until Broderick is avenged. Be a man and fight… or be a coward.”

Bernardo spat on Heinrich’s boot. “I’m finished with you, Reiklander. Stay and die like a fool, but we’re pulling out.”

“Captain!”

Heinrich pulled away from the Estalian and joined Roland in the centre of the cave.

“Hold your torch up, captain, and look at this.”

Heinrich raised his torch high. The bright flames threw back the shadows, revealing a monstrosity of bone.

It was the most terrifying thing he had ever seen. A massive idol of bone stood in the centre of the cave. Bits and pieces of old leather, plate and chainmail covered its arms, chest and legs. Its feet were wrapped in strips of human entrails and oiled cloth. Were these the bones of a giant, Heinrich wondered? No, its body was constructed of human remains, stitched together with twine and sinew, its joints fused by dark sorcery. Human ribs and clavicles, hipbones and femurs, teeth and knuckles pieced together like some daemonic puzzle. On its broad shoulders perched a minotaur’s skull, but its horns were coated in sediment that had dripped down from stalactites and had sealed the idol to the ceiling. Heinrich’s blood boiled. It wasn’t enough that the skaven had disrupted the eternal sleep of the occupants of this crypt, they had to desecrate their memories further by shaping their remains into an unholy reflection of the Horned Rat.

“Enough of this!” Heinrich shouted, letting his voice echo down the tunnels. “We are here, and we are not leaving. Face us now!”

“You will die, man-thing,” a scratchy, feral voice rang out of the darkness. “Pink-skins will all die, yes. Leave Mordheim, yes. It is ours.”

“I think not,” Heinrich replied. “My men and I will reclaim it for the Empire.”

A white, twin-tailed skaven appeared at the opening of a tunnel to their right. A confident snarl spread across its sharp fangs and black gums. It waved a warplock pistol. “Maybe, yes. But not today.”

With those words skaven poured from every tunnel and circled the trapped mercenaries. More vermin than Heinrich had ever seen. They beat spears and clubs together, scraped daggers against daggers, and slowly, slowly, tightened the noose. White One stepped to the front waving the pistol, a dagger, and fighting claws. At his side limped the one-eyed sorcerer, clearly despondent at the death of his pet, but squeezing Sigmar’s Heart in the bony vice of his hand. Bloodtooth barked and snapped at anything that drew near, and Heinrich mouthed a prayer and held his sword high. So be it then, he said to himself. If this is the way it will be, if I am to die, then I will die for you, Broderick.

White One drew close and levelled its pistol towards Heinrich’s chest. “Goodbye, man-thing. Your god is a devil…”

Heinrich waited for the shot, but it did not come. Instead, the skeleton above began to quake and lurch. He turned and saw Bernardo grabbing the Horned Rat’s legs and pull himself upward. The climb was effortless, as smooth and graceful as a ratman scaling a wall. The Estalian reached the shoulders and straddled the minotaur’s skull as if it were a hobbyhorse. He rocked back and forth.

The skaven horde fell back at the sight of this blasphemy. A pink-skin climbing their lord of lords as if it were a ladder must have been as terrifying to them as the very sight of the skeleton to Heinrich. Even White One had dropped his pistol and had moved aside, glaring up in horror as its god teetered on the verge of destruction.

“You don’t believe us, White One,” Heinrich said, “when we tell you that this is our city? Then let us demonstrate our sincerity. Estalian?”

“Yes, captain?”

“Bring it down.”

Bernardo unsheathed Myrmidia and swung her through the minotaur’s horns. Sparks flew as steel sliced through the hardened sediment. He cut the left horn then the right. The abomination seemed to hover in the air for a moment, and then it toppled.

A mountain of bone and chunks of ceiling struck the cave floor and erupted in a shower of grey-white splinters. Heinrich shielded himself from the impact, ducked a rib cage, and drew his sword. “Attack!” he screamed, and leaped into a mass of ratmen trying to flee in the confusion.

Chaos consumed the space, as skaven routed and swords cut them down. Heinrich prayed to Sigmar that his men had not fallen to flying bones and stone. He looked for them. Roland and Father were fighting hard to his right. Bloodtooth was ripping out throats to his left, and the Estalian was fighting in the centre, holding off a pack of vermin who were trying to recover the minotaur skull. Albert and Rupert were working together on the other side of the cave, defending against a pack with spears and shields. It was a good fight. The men were holding fast.

He worked his way to the centre of the cave, drove his sword through a ratman who squealed in death, and then joined the Estalian.

“That was a foolish thing to do,” Heinrich said, parrying a spear thrust.

“You ordered it, and it got their attention, didn’t it?” Bernardo replied, slashing through skaven armour and flesh.

“I thought you were done with me.”

“Well, I changed my mind. I couldn’t leave you Reiklanders here alone, and well—”

“Admit it. I was right. There was no retreat.” Heinrich found himself laughing despite the situation.

Bernardo caught a skaven in a headlock, broke its neck, and tossed it away. “You’re beginning to annoy me, sir. I don’t like someone who’s always right.”

I’m not always right, Heinrich said to himself. Here he was fighting defensively when a more important matter needed attention. He looked around the cave, seeking a black robe and hood. The air was filled with granite and bone dust, green mist and smoke. It was hard to see. But he found the sorcerer to the left being escorted through its routing kin. “Hold as best as you can,” he said to the Estalian. “I have something important to do.”

Bernardo drove his sword through the mailed shirt of a ratman and said, “What’s more important than saving our skins?”

“The Heart!”

Heinrich ignored Bernardo’s curses and pushed his way through to where the sorcerer was retreating. He sidestepped a spear thrust and responded with a sword hilt, driving the ratman to its knees with a cracked skull. He’d lost his torch, but he didn’t need it as the Heart, lying upon the sorcerer’s chest, shone bright green and lit the way. The sorcerer tried to drown the glow with its claw, but Heinrich broke its wrist. Its escort, fearing a similar fate, leaped away and left its broken master to die.

Heinrich grabbed the throat of the sorcerer. “You have something of mine,” he said, hitting the beast’s mangled face repeatedly. The sorcerer fell to the floor, its snout bloody, its eyes glazed over, unblinking and unmoving. Heinrich curled his fingers around the leather cord that held the Heart to the sorcerer’s neck and yanked it free.

Something flew out of the shadows and hit him square in the side. Ribs cracked and his body skidded across the floor and came to a crushing halt beneath a pile of bones and coffins. Dead teeth and sharp clavicles tore his coat and flesh, while powerful claws reached through and pulled him free.

“You die now, man-thing,” the white one roared above him, its claws slashing through his coat and exposing his chest. Heinrich tried to fight back, tried to hold his arms up to block the assault, but he was too weak. Where is my sword, he wondered. Where is the Heart?

None of it mattered anymore, as his eyes winked in pain with each slash. A giddy warmth consumed his body as the space around him swirled. I’m sorry, Broderick. I have failed you.

Through his nausea and sleepy haze, Heinrich watched as White One stood up and stepped back. Its tails pulled two blades from the sash at its waist. Blades long and sharp. Blades dripping green with poison. It held the blades above its head as it squatted down on powerful hind legs. It wavered there for a moment, screamed, bared its teeth, then leaped.

A white and brown blur flew across Heinrich’s view. When it was gone, White One was no longer before him, but lying to his side. Heinrich pulled himself up and spotted a warhammer, lying still against the wall, pulsing hot in Sigmarite prayers. Beneath a pile of brown wool lay an old priest with two weeping blades sticking out of his back.

Heinrich’s mind snapped to attention immediately as energy poured into his throat. “Father, no!” he screamed.

It seemed as if he were outside his own body, looking down from the painted dome of the cave. Everything had a black and white sheen. There was clarity now in his thoughts, a single mindedness, and somehow he stood up and lurched across the floor and found his hands upon the warhammer. Somehow he raised the weapon above his head and found White One righting itself from its dishevelment. Somehow he found the strength to swing the pulsing hammerhead. The skaven’s head exploded under the strike and its body was tossed like a rag doll against the wall. Heinrich followed and struck again, and again and again, until White One no longer moved. But he kept swinging, until the shape on the floor before him was no longer a skaven or a mutant, but something different, something basic, a singular representation of the City of the Damned, and he felt that if he kept swinging, he could, with mighty strokes, drive the evil away and bring the city back to life. Bring Broderick back to life.

But a hand reached into his space and pulled the hammer away. Arms held him firmly and pulled him back. Whispers from the darkness. “It’s over, Heinrich. It’s over.”

Colour returned and he was standing again in the cave. He looked to his right and found the Estalian beside him, holding him tightly. He tried to pull away, but his arms were too weak. “I’m sorry, Heinrich,” Bernardo said, “but you will have to kill me this time to keep me from stopping you.”

The last of his strength failed him and he collapsed. Heinrich lay on the floor for a long time, how long he did not know. Perhaps he slept. When he opened his eyes, his men were around him, their warm smiles confirming that he was not dead and this was not the afterlife. Hands propped him up.

“How are you, sir?”

The Estalian’s voice was calm and surprisingly comforting. Heinrich turned and felt a sharp pain in his ribs. He gripped the broken bones and groaned, “Even to a bower like you, it should be obvious.”

Bernardo laughed and helped Heinrich to his feet. “Well, say a prayer, brave servant of Sigmar. It’s over. We’ve won.”

Indeed it was. The skaven were gone. Obviously the destruction of their idol, the death of their leaders and the loss of the Heart was too much for them to bear, lust as well, Heinrich thought as he took a shaky step. “How is everyone?”

Bernardo gave a small smile and a wink. “As if the comet itself sits upon our heads, but we’ll make it… all except Father.”

Heinrich saw the crumpled brown robe on the floor and Father’s bald head resting upon Rupert’s knee. Blood and spittle streaked the corners of his mouth. Bernardo helped Heinrich down and he held the old man’s hand. The handles of the weeping blades stuck out of Father’s chest, their poison eating his flesh.

“It seems as if I’m finished, captain,” Father said, choking through blood. “Just as well.”

“You foolish old man,” said Heinrich, gripping the priest’s hand tightly. “Why did you do it?”

“I’ve lived a long life,” Father answered. “I saw no better way to leave it than in the protection of my captain.” He coughed very hard. “We have both won a victory here today, you and me. You will live to carry on against the Eternal Struggle, and I will finally, at long last, die. Tell me true, captain. Did we get the Heart?”

Heinrich didn’t know what to say. Did we? He wasn’t sure. But he nodded. “Yes, Father. The Heart is ours.”

“Praise Sigmar,” Father said calmly and raised his hand. He motioned his captain forward. Heinrich leaned in and let the priest’s fingers stroke his hair. “Now close your eyes, captain, and pray for me.” Heinrich cupped his hands together. “And captain? Be sure to give those tears to someone who will use them.”

The Tears of Shallya. Heinrich had quite forgotten them. He reached into a pocket and found the vial. To his surprise, it had survived. He held it tight, closed his eyes and prayed.

Father’s hand slacked.

Heinrich made the sign of Sigmar and crossed Father’s arms over his chest. I will miss you, old man.

Bloodtooth limped out of the shadows. Heinrich smiled as the hound drew near, but his joy quickly soured as he saw the medallion, the Heart, dangling on its leather cord from the dog’s teeth.

“Roland!” he yelped. “Get that away from him and wrap it in a cloth… now!”

Roland yanked the Heart from the hound’s bloody jaw, tore a piece of cloth from his shirt, wrapped the artefact and handed it over. Heinrich tucked it away.

“I don’t understand, captain,” Bernardo said. “Is something wrong with it?”

Heinrich shivered at images of burning bodies and raining fire. “It’s too powerful for us,” he said. “We are not worthy of it. It needs a stronger soul than mine to understand it, to harness its power.”

“Then what do we do with it?” asked Roland.

“As I’ve stated, we will take it to his Grand Theogonist in Altdorf. He will know what to do. And now,” Heinrich said, giving Bloodtooth a little scratch behind the ears, “let’s collect our things and get out of here before they decide to come back. I suspect they will take some time to reconcile to the truth that their god is but a pile of shattered bones, but they’ll be back. They always come back. I’ve had enough of them for a while. Did we get any wyrdstone for our troubles?”

“A full bag of it, captain,” Albert said, raising a sack of glowing green, “and jewels too. Enough to buy the City of the Damned itself.”

Heinrich chuckled through aching ribs. Maybe, he thought to himself, but I’m not buying.

“How are we going to get out of here?” asked Bernardo.

Heinrich shook his head. “I’ve no idea,” he said, looking around. Pieces of the heavily damaged ceiling were still falling, and new cracks were forming everywhere. “We’d better find a way out soon or we’ll be buried alive.”

And then he felt a cool breeze brush across his face. Heinrich stepped back and saw a small shape of grey smoke dart across his view and into one of the skaven tunnels. The shape stopped momentarily and a face formed in its centre. It seemed to smile. Then it disappeared down the tunnel, leaving a trail of faint white light in its path.

“Well, Bernardo,” Heinrich said, “it seems as if we’ve made some friends today.”

The Estalian’s face flushed with surprise. “Bernardo, eh? I’m no longer ‘the Estalian’?”

“Well, we should speak informally if we are to be partners.”

“Partners? Who said anything about being partners?”

“I could use some support on the road to Altdorf. If you and your Marienburgers would care to join us?”

“Altdorf is not my home.”

“But it could be,” Heinrich said. “You said it yourself… you are as much a man of the Empire as I.”

“What about Mordheim?”

“We’ll return. There’s much work to be done here. Unless, of course, you wish to fight this city alone. In that case, you’re welcome to it. Just let me know who to send your remains to the next time you decide to burn baby rats.”

Bernardo’s face blushed deep red. “You’re never going to let me live that down, are you?”

Heinrich shook his head. “Not likely.”

The Estalian paused for a moment, then said, “Alright, you win. To Altdorf it is. Then let’s fight this city. Friends?”

As Heinrich made his way slowly toward the lighted tunnel, he felt guilty. Am I betraying your memory, Broderick, he wondered, by accepting another as my friend? But as he greeted Bernardo’s smile with his own, he knew the answer. This was a test, like Broderick had explained many times before. This was a test to see if his faith in Sigmar’s cause could sustain such a loss and survive. And the fight was not over. Today, they had made great strides against the Eternal Struggle, but there would be many more battles to come. Can I fight this city with an Estalian at my side? he wondered. Only time would tell.

“Friends?” said Heinrich. “Well, let’s take it one day at a time.”

Bernardo nodded and together they helped secure Father for transport. As more of the ceiling began to fall, they entered the tunnel with the priest’s body supported between them, while Bloodtooth limped ahead, his jowls wet with skaven blood. Together, they followed the ghost light as men of the Empire, Reiklanders and Marienburgers, servants to Sigmar, loyalists to the Lady Magritta, and followers of the Goddess of War, determined to stand firm against the city that never slept, the city of damned souls, the city of lost dreams, the city of night fire…

The city of Mordheim.