Hammer and Bolter 3 Read online

  ‘We need to go somewhere,’ replied another voice. ‘If we reach the river we might find a merchant’s barge and head south – past the sisters’ rock and out through the South Gate.’

  ‘Ah, that delightful waterway, the Stir. What a haven of peace and tranquillity that will be. Maybe we could stop for lunch somewhere – perhaps with that wonderfully fragrant family we met in the cemetery, or those quaint creatures we discovered in the Executioner’s Square. Remember, the ones who seemed so interested in our stone?’

  At the word ‘stone’, Wolff’s eyes widened.

  ‘Listen,’ cried the increasingly desperate voice. ‘That mob will be here any minute.’ Wollf realised that he was right, the hideous chorus was growing louder. It could only be a few streets away. ‘If we don’t move now, we’re dead anyway. What choice do we have?’

  A note of resignation now filled the first voice. ‘What possessed me to follow you into this festering pit of a city?’

  ‘But it was your idea, sire. I was just–’

  There was a loud crack, followed by a whimper of pain. ‘Now,’ said the pompous voice, ‘take me to this blessed river, and kindly refrain from speaking. If I could have even a few moments’ respite from your whinging, I might even survive this absurd expedition.’

  Wolff heard the sound of equipment being hastily packed and felt a sudden panic. Using all the skills she had developed during her training, she crawled silently across the chapel’s dusty attic and peered carefully down through a hole in the floorboards.

  Fortunately, the men had their backs to her. In fact, they were already climbing out through a crumbling window and down onto the street. As she watched them, Wolff could easily identify which figure belonged to which voice. One was a tall, distinguished-looking foreigner, wearing a suit of polished plate armour, a brightly-plumed helmet and a shield bearing a colourful chalice motif. How has he survived more than a day, she thought incredulously, in such a gaudy and noisy outfit?

  The other figure seemed little more than a human carthorse. He was squat, ugly, dressed in filthy rags, and laden with dozens of bags and weapons – including, she noted with bemusement, a jousting lance.

  As the men dropped from sight, Wolff lowered herself cautiously down into the room they had just vacated. She rushed to the broken window just in time to see the gaily-plumed knight and his servant disappear up an alleyway. She hopped out onto the street, and sped after them. That feathered ponce can’t survive much longer dressed like that, she thought, and the fat one wouldn’t put up much of a fight. If there was some way of separating the two, it would be a simple task to get the stone from the servant.

  Images of a triumphant return to the abbey suddenly filled Wolff’s thoughts. Then the sound of the approaching mob interrupted her thoughts and, with a nervous glance over her shoulder, she picked up her pace.

  Virtue sped through the dark narrow streets, all sense of caution abandoned as she raced across the gloomy squares and scrambled noisily over the crumbling ruins. The novice did not go unnoticed. As she passed beneath the crooked townhouses, indistinct figures peered down at her through filthy windows, while others shuffled awkwardly from doorways in slow pursuit.

  ‘Where are you, girl?’ she gasped, finally coming to a stop outside a large fenced garden. Her training had led her this far – a footprint here and a piece of robe there had been enough to signpost Wolff’s route, but now she was at a loss. ‘Where are you heading?’ Shaking her head in frustration she began to clamber up the warped, rusted iron of the garden fence, in the hope a better vantage point might give her some clues.

  She tried to clear her thoughts and imagine what her fellow novice might do. The girl’s flight from the theatre had confirmed her cowardice: Elsbeth’s accusations had all been true. So what would she do now? She’ll head back to the monastery, decided Virtue, but which way? With a final heave, she swung her leg over the top of the fence and looked out across the wretched pall of the city. ‘Why has she been heading west?’ she asked, as though the ruins themselves might reply. ‘Why head further into the merchants’ quart...’ She laughed grimly. Mordheim looked more shadow than fact, more like a ghost of a city than real bricks and mortar, but deep in the heart of its dark twisted spires and fallen masonry, she glimpsed light: the dull flickering of water, snaking south, back towards the Rock. Back towards home. ‘Of course,’ she breathed. ‘She’s headed for the Stir.’

  The clanking of the knight’s armour was almost as loud as his booming voice, and it was all too easy to follow the pair through the dark side streets of the merchants’ quarter. In just a matter of minutes they had reached the river’s edge. ‘Ah, here we are… the Stir,’ exclaimed the knight, picking his way carefully through the rubble. ‘How picturesque.’

  From her vantage point on the roof of an old tavern, Wolff could see the two men as they stepped out onto the quayside. The broad river that lay before them had once teemed with barges, laden with exotic goods from across the Old World, but now it was a pitiful sight. Most of the wharves had crumbled into the ink-black water, and the warehouses and taverns that lined the water’s edge were all empty and dark – shadowy reminders of the city’s former glory. Everything she knew about this foul expanse told her that it was not a place to loiter, and she fidgeted nervously as the knight stamped noisily up and down a wharf, complaining loudly to his servant.

  ‘Fools,’ she hissed, ‘don’t bring every fiend in the city down on your heads.’ As she crept cautiously towards them however, Wolff realised she wasn’t exactly sure what she did want them to do. Wasn’t she hoping that they would call attention to themselves? If not, how could she get her hands on their stone? Did she dare to face them in open combat? For all his ridiculous posturing, she had a suspicion that the knight would be a fierce opponent. ‘Curse you, von Stahl, for putting me in this position’, she whispered. Still, at least she was alive – it seemed unlikely that her companions could have escaped from that horror in the Magdeburg Playhouse.

  As these thoughts played through her head, she barely noticed that she had crept silently out onto the shadowy wharf, and was now only a few feet away from the two men. She stopped with a start, just short of the light of the servant’s lamp.

  ‘I think we could climb down to the boat,’ she heard him say as he leant out over the water. ‘There are still a few steps left intact.’

  The knight dealt his servant a sharp clip to the ear that almost knocked him into the water. ‘You think I’m crawling down there like some kind of navvy?’ He hammered his fist noisily against the metal of his delicately engraved breastplate. ‘This is no bathing suit, Diderot. If I fall into that filth I’ll be picking trout out of my teeth for all eternity. Or whatever monster passes for trout in this city.’

  ‘But, sire, I’ll help you down. It’s only a few steps and I’ll–’

  The knight dealt him another stinging blow to the ear. ‘Stop speaking!’

  The servant looked at his feet and waited in silence as the knight glowered down at his bald pate.

  ‘Good,’ said the knight after a few moments. ‘Now let’s get down into this dingy. Take my hand, oaf.’

  The servant leapt to obey, and carefully began to lower the heavily-armoured knight off the edge of the rickety pier.

  A broad smile spread across Wolff’s face as she saw her chance. Drawing a knife from within her robes, she stepped calmly towards the two struggling men.

  ‘What are you doing?’ cried the knight as his servant suddenly loosed his hand and sent him plummeting towards the water. Diderot’s only reply was a dark bubble of blood that rose from his mouth as he fell backwards onto the wharf.

  ‘Confound it all,’ said the knight as he crashed through the surface of the Stir and sank like a stone towards the riverbed.

  Diderot thrashed around on the rotten wood of the pier, trying to free Wolff’s knife from his back. ‘Witch,’ he gasped, glaring up at her. ‘You don’t know what you’ve done! That was Ambrose of Mous
illion!’ To her amazement he began to crawl towards the edge of the pier, with the blade still embedded in his back. ‘He’ll be drowned. We must save him!’

  ‘Why do you care?’ she asked, laughing, ‘I’ve just freed you from a tyrant, and you’re cursing me. You should thank me.’ She stooped down and yanked her knife from between his shoulder blades. He grew rigid with pain, and then flopped weakly onto the pier. ‘Don’t die,’ she hissed, flipping him over onto his back. ‘Tell me where the stone is.’

  The man’s eyes were already glazing over, but he managed to focus on her for a second. ‘Stone?’ he gurgled through a blood-filled mouth. ‘What stone?’

  ‘Don’t play the fool. I’ve been following you. I know you have a stone – the one you almost lost in the Executioner’s Square, remember?’

  Recognition crossed his anguished face. ‘Oh,’ he muttered, ‘that’s what you want.’

  ‘Yes, you moron, give me the stone!’

  The man shook his head defiantly at her for a few seconds, then made a pitiful attempt to throw one of his bags off the pier. It landed just a couple of feet away and Wolff laughed again. She turned away from the dying man and picked it up. As Diderot continued to curse her, she plucked a stone from out of his bag. ‘I’ve done it,’ she said, holding up Diderot’s lamp to examine her prize closer, ‘I’ve got a piece of…’ – she grimaced – ‘what’s this?’ In the light of the lamp, she saw that the stone was a beautiful blood-red ruby. ‘What’s this?’ she exclaimed again, grabbing the servant by his filthy jerkin, but he was dead and the face she was screaming into was already growing cold. She threw him back to the floor with a howl of frustration.

  ‘Move, you idiot,’ hissed von Stahl as she crept towards the water’s edge. ‘Don’t just stand there, out in the open.’

  She had begun to think her skills as a tracker had led her astray, but there was no mistaking the figure on the pier – it was Wolff. The young novice could clearly be seen ranting and shouting at a corpse. Von Stahl grimaced. With every cry and petulant stamp of the foot, Wolff was drawing unwanted attention to herself. The girl was obviously so consumed by rage that she hadn’t noticed the vague, sinister shapes congregating at the foot of the pier.

  ‘Sweet Sigmar, what are they?’ whispered von Stahl as she slipped carefully out from a doorway. It was hard to see clearly in the dark, but whatever the creatures were, they had a lank, unwholesome appearance that chilled her blood. She remembered Elsbeth’s last words and paused. Should I just leave? she wondered as she watched the figures crawl towards Wolff. No one would know, she thought, clutching the stone around her neck. I could just leave her and take the weirdstone back to the abbey. Relief washed over her as she turned and began to jog back towards the burnt-out warehouses. She betrayed me first, she thought, so why should I die for her?

  A hideous scream echoed out across the river and brought her to a halt. She looked back to see that the creatures had now stepped out onto the pier and were forming a loose circle around Wolff, who, having finally seen them, was wailing with terror. Von Stahl made the sign of the hammer. She saw now that they were ratmen: foul oversized rodents, dripping with river slime and wielding long, jagged blades. As she looked on in horror, the largest stepped forward and clubbed the screaming Wolff to the ground with the back of his hand. Von Stahl gasped with revulsion as the creatures crowded hungrily around her fellow novice. With a rush of indignation, she realised that she couldn’t leave anyone to such an awful fate. She began to run back towards the pier.

  As she ran she called out to the ratmen, trying to gain Wolff a few seconds to escape. As one, they span towards her with their long yellow teeth bared. Their greasy snouts twitched as they sniffed new blood and several began skulking towards her.

  Wolff had regained her senses though, and while their backs were turned, she smashed Diderot’s lamp over the largest of the creatures and then leapt over the edge of the pier.

  The lamp’s oil exploded spectacularly over the rodent’s greasy fur and by the time von Stahl had reached the foot of the pier the ratmen were screaming in dismay. The agonies of their leader distracted them completely and by the time they’d remembered von Stahl’s presence, three of them had fallen to her steel whip.

  The surviving creatures were in a frenzy of indecision, unsure whether defend themselves against von Stahl, pursue Wolff or help their screaming leader. As they lurched around in confusion, von Stahl’s steel whip continued to lash back and forth, knocking one of them to its knees and sending another two flying into the river.

  A glimmer of hope rose in her mind. There were now only three of the creatures left standing – including the largest, who surely couldn’t survive the flames much longer. Then, to her joy, the burning creature leapt from the pier, leaving her with only two remaining opponents.

  She readied herself for their attacks, but the loss of their leader had unnerved them and as soon as von Stahl raised her whip for another blow, they turned tail and dived headlong into the river.

  She stood for a few moments in dazed incomprehension. The whole fight had only lasted a few seconds and her adrenaline-charged body remained tensed for battle, waiting for another opponent, but none came.

  Another scream echoed across the water.

  Von Stahl looked over the edge of the pier. Down below, in a small boat, lay Wolff. Looming over her, still steaming and smouldering from the fire, was the largest of the ratmen. Large patches of its fur had been scorched away, and the thing was obviously dazed with pain, but its eyes still burned with bloodlust.

  ‘Virtue,’ called the novice, as she tried to fend off the hideous creature, ‘for the love of Sigmar, help me.’

  The rat pulled a long, ceremonial dagger from out of its robes and began lunging clumsily at Wolff as she wormed this way and that, trying to avoid the blows.

  Even in its confused state, Wolff couldn’t evade the creature for long in so small a space, so von Stahl took the only available option and leapt feet-first from the pier.

  It was a drop of twelve feet or more and as she landed heavily in the boat, she cried out in pain and fell to her knees. Her left ankle had snapped like an old twig and her foot had folded back at an unnatural angle.

  Her heroics were not completely wasted though. The impact of her landing had rocked the boat so violently that the creature fell sprawling onto its face. Simultaneously the two novices clambered onto its smouldering back and began to rain blows down upon it.

  ‘Thank Sigmar,’ gasped Wolff, as they pummelled the struggling beast. ‘I thought you were dead.’

  ‘Not yet,’ replied von Stahl, trying to ignore the wrenching agony in her ankle, ‘and we’re halfway to passing the trial.’

  Wolff paused, mid-punch. ‘What do you mean?’

  Von Stahl smiled and tapped the pouch at her throat. ‘The thing in the theatre wore some interesting jewellery.’

  Wolff remained frozen in shock as she tried to take on board the news. ‘You mean you have–’

  The creature suddenly rose to its feet and shrugged them off its back, as easily as if they were children.

  Wolff shrieked with fear and began to clamber up the pier’s rotten struts.

  Von Stahl tried to follow, but white-hot pain ripped through her ankle and she fell to her knees once more. Then a terrible whistling noise exploded in her left ear and the world went black. When she came to, she was lying on her side with warm blood rushing from the side of her face where the beast had struck her. She looked up to see him raising his ornate dagger over her head.

  With her last reserves of strength she rolled out of the way and the dagger plunged harmlessly into the keel of the boat. Then, holding back tears of pain, she clambered to her feet. As the creature struggled to retrieve his blade, she began to climb up the side of the pier.

  ‘Quick,’ gasped Wolff from above, reaching down to her. ‘Give me your hand.’

  With agonising slowness she climbed up the rotten pier. Then, just as she was about
to grasp Wolff’s hand, she felt a new pain explode in her leg. She looked down to see the foul creature leering with pleasure at the sight of his cruel blade embedded deeply in her calf. She gave an animal howl of pain.

  ‘Reach for me,’ cried Wolff desperately, ‘you can still make it.’

  Delirious with pain, von Stahl gave one last lunge for Wolff’s hand and finally grasped it.

  Wolff gave a powerful tug and dragged her up until she was almost at the top of the pier.

  Virtue looked into Wolff’s face and felt a tide of relief rushing over her. ‘Wolff,’ she said, ‘you’ve saved us both.’

  ‘Well,’ said Wolff with a crooked smile as she plucked the small pouch from around von Stahl’s neck and loosed her hand, ‘maybe not both of us, wastrel.’

  ‘What?’ stammered von Stahl in confusion, but Wolff would say no more. She simply stood up, dusted herself down and ran back towards the quayside, leaving von Stahl clinging helplessly to the edge of the pier.

  Pain and despair washed over her and with a sigh of misery she felt her fingers begin to slip from the damp wood.

  Cold, hard fingers pressed painfully into von Stahl’s arms and she awoke.

  ‘Virtue,’ whispered a voice. ‘It’s time’.

  She opened her eyes to see an old woman’s careworn face leaning over her. She recognised the kind rheumy eyes and the steel-grey hair, but she couldn’t place the woman.

  ‘Who are you?’ she asked croakily.

  The old woman laughed gently, and stroked her hair. ‘Who am I, she says! You know who I am, Virtue. Matriarch Margareta Ebner. I practically reared you, child.’

  The name triggered a confused jumble of memories in von Stahl’s drowsy mind. A kaleidoscope of violent images filtered through the remnants of her quickly fading dreams and the heavy scent of herbs that filled the room. She looked around in confusion and saw that she was lying in an infirmary. At the foot of the bed there was a small leaded window and beyond it a wide grassy cloister, filled with fountains and fishponds. Hooded figures could be seen, sat alone in quiet contemplation or talking in small groups. She could hardly believe her eyes. It was the Holy Convent. She was home.