C. Werner - Dead Winter

Perhaps their sorcerous master was as yet unaware of the priest’s presence. Perhaps the fiend had exhausted its power resurrecting the dead and was now resting, trying to replenish its energies. Frederick hoped such was the case, that he could steal upon this malignance and destroy it before it was strong enough to oppose him.

Movement ahead arrested the priest in his tracks. Whatever was ahead of him moved with an energy and vitality absent from the shambling zombies he had encountered. Images of ghouls and vampires flashed through Frederick’s brain. Again, he felt the urge to flee. Again, he forced himself to be brave. Whatever was ahead of him might still be unaware of him. He might still be able to take it by surprise.

Wailing an inarticulate cry, the priest charged into the blackness, the mace flying forwards in a brutally violent sweep. Frederick cried out in pain as the mace crashed against some unyielding force, sending tremors throbbing down his arm. Reeling from the injury, he thrust the faltering rushlight at his antagonist.

An incredulous smile crept onto Frederick’s face as he looked ahead. There was no fiend in the darkness, only the smooth blackness of an obsidian pillar, a monument to some long-dead templar knight. The pillar was marked by a scratch, the best his mace could do when it had smashed into the immovable stone. The pillar had retained its polish down through the years, reflecting the glow of Frederick’s rushlight and the man who held it.

Trying to attack the fiend who haunted the catacombs, Frederick had attacked his own reflection. The absurdity of the thing brought bitter laughter to the priest’s lips.

His laughter died as the sounds of shuffling steps filled the passage behind him. Frederick’s attack on the pillar might have been absurd, but it had borne terrible fruit. The zombies were aware of him now, guided to him by the malignant power of their master. He could see them groping their way into the light, faces purple with rot, swollen tongues protruding from mouths clenched in the final rictus of death.

Frederick shifted the mace to his uninjured arm and braced himself to confront the undead horde. ‘Keep back,’ he warned the creatures.

To his shock, the zombies stopped advancing. Like ghastly statues, the things froze in place, their lifeless eyes staring emptily at the priest.

Raising the mace, trying to encourage the rushlight to greater effort, Frederick took a step towards the waiting zombies. The undead monsters moved not so much as a muscle. A dreadful cold settled around the priest’s heart, a suspicion so monstrous he refused to accept it.

‘Let…’ Frederick’s voice failed him. Licking his trembling lips, he tried again. ‘Let me pass.’

His mouth opened in horror as the ranks of zombies shifted, pressing their decayed bodies against the walls of the catacomb, clearing a path for the priest. The display of mute, unquestioning obedience sent a thrill of terror rushing through Frederick’s soul.

Without a sidewise glance, Frederick ran past the zombies, fleeing with all haste from the vault and the awful discovery he had made.

He could run from the zombies, but Frederick could not run from the truth. The undead had been called by a terrible power, a force great enough to bind them to his will. He was the fiend who haunted the cemetery. He was the malignance that called the dead from their graves.

Frederick van Hal had surpassed the legacy of Arisztid Olt.

He was now the necromancer of Bylorhof.

Altdorf

Vorhexen, 1111

Arch-Lector Hartwich walked slowly into the calefactory. The priest was dressed in a coarse linen robe, a simple rope belt tied about his waist, his shaved scalp grey with ash. Across his palms, the symbol of the twin-tailed comet had been cut, his blood still clotted about the ceremonial wounds. To either side of Hartwich marched an armoured knight, the steel scales of their mail etched in gold, their white surcoats displaying the skull and hammer heraldry of the Knights of Sigmar’s Blood, the templar guard of the Great Cathedral.

Before the humbled arch-lector, crouched in his chair between the roaring bonfires, Grand Theogonist Thorgrad stared sorrowfully at Hartwich. ‘Have you contemplated your heresy?’ he asked, his voice sounding more ancient than even his withered body should produce.

Hartwich raised his head. ‘I beg your indulgence, your holiness, but it is not heresy and I shall not recant.’

Thorgrad leaned forwards in his chair. ‘If you die with wilful sin blackening your soul you will be denied the grace of Sigmar. Your spirit will be cast out, condemned to wander until the daemons of Chaos claim it for their own.’

‘My heart is pure, your holiness,’ Hartwich insisted. ‘If I must die without ceremony, then so it must be. Sigmar will judge my deeds.’

A hint of pride crept into Thorgrad’s eyes. ‘A man may risk his life for what he believes to be right. It needs a saint to risk his soul for what he knows to be right.’

Hartwich rose from the floor, a puzzled expression on his face. Thorgrad laughed at the other priest’s confusion, but it was a mirthless, weary laughter.

‘When you say Sigmar will judge you, perhaps he has,’ Thorgrad said. He gestured to the roaring bonfires, to the trappings of his audience chamber that had been removed to the calefactory. ‘I am a frightened man. I am afraid to die. I am afraid of the plague. I am afraid to face Sigmar and answer for my crimes.’

Thorgrad reached to the neck of his robe, tugging it open, exposing the ugly black buboes. ‘Despite all of my precautions, the plague has found me. I will die. I know that now. Like you, I must face Holy Sigmar and atone for my heresies.’

‘Your heresies, Holiness?’

‘Yes,’ Thorgrad nodded. ‘I was the Lector of Nuln, you know. I served under Grand Theogonist Uthorsson. I saw his slow decline into degeneracy, blasphemy and idolatry. I watched as he turned away from the light of Sigmar and embraced the darkness of Old Night.’

The Grand Theogonist sank back into his chair, tears in his eyes, a rattle in his voice. ‘I was there when Uthorsson began to call upon the Prince of Pleasures. I stood by as he profaned the temple with the most unspeakable atrocities. I was afraid,’ Thorgrad stared into Hartwich’s eyes. ‘Do you understand? I was afraid to speak out against what I knew to be an obscenity because Uthorsson was Grand Theogonist and I feared his power! I hid behind oaths and vows, telling myself it was not my part to question the acts of the Grand Theogonist. I sat by and watched as Uthorsson’s outrages grew. I did nothing, Wolfgang, nothing to stop this vile degradation.

‘I did act, in the end,’ Thorgrad said. ‘When it was forced upon me. When I understood that if I didn’t oppose Uthorsson I would be branded as his accomplice. The inquisitors of the temple of Verena were investigating the rumours of midnight orgies and human sacrifice being committed in the cathedral. I knew they would uncover everything in time, and I understood that this was Uthorsson’s plan — to put such a stain upon the temple that the Sigmarite faith would be discredited and dishonoured for all time. This was the great offering he wished to make to Slaanesh.’

Thorgrad’s hands tightened about the arms of his chair. ‘I stopped him,’ he said. ‘Before his shame could become something more than rumour and suspicion, I stopped Uthorsson.’ A fanatical gleam filled the old priest’s eyes. ‘I waited until he and his filthy coven were practising their obscenities in the sanctuary. I locked them in, barring the door with cold iron that he might not call upon his daemons to set him free. Then I set fire to the temple. The flames consumed the defiled sanctuary and the foulness within!’