David Bishop - A murder in Marienburg

This is a dark age, a bloody age, an age of daemons and of sorcery. It is an age of battle and death, and of the world’s ending. Amidst all of the fire, flame and fury it is a time, too, of mighty heroes, of bold deeds and great courage. At the heart of the Old World sprawls the Empire, the largest and most powerful of the human realms. Known for its engineers, sorcerers, traders and soldiers, it is a land of great mountains, mighty rivers, dark forests and vast cities. And from his throne in Altdorf reigns the Emperor Karl-Franz, sacred descendant of the founder of these lands, Sigmar, and wielder of his magical warhammer. But these are far from civilised times. Across the length and breadth of the Old World, from the knightly palaces of Bretonnia to ice-bound Kislev in the far north, come rumblings of war. In the towering World’s Edge Mountains, the orc tribes are gathering for another assault. Bandits and renegades harry the wild southern lands of the Border Princes. There are rumours of rat-things, the skaven, emerging from the sewers and swamps across the land. And from the northern wildernesses there is the ever-present threat of Chaos, of daemons and beastmen corrupted by the foul powers of the Dark Gods. As the time of battle draws ever near, the Empire needs heroes like never before.

Arullen Silvermoon always knew he was fated to die in Marienburg, but not like this: being stalked by ravening creatures through the dark, dank catacombs beneath Suiddock, every attempt at escape or evasion tracked and checked with effortless ease, all hope extinguished as the creeping shadows drew ever closer. The tall, willowy elf could smell nothing but their foetid, foul stench, the rancorous pungency choking his delicate nostrils and violating his lungs. In all his days Arullen had breathed only two kinds of air-the sandalwood and jasmine scented halls of his warm, welcoming abode in the Sith Rionnasc’namishathir, and the brisk, briny breezes of sea air that gusted across the city’s elf quarter.

Now he gagged on the odour of raw effluent and rotting, rancid decay-the stench of men, bitter as the metallic taste of adrenaline at the back of his throat. A greasy yellow mist choked the air in these stone tunnels, so acrid it burnt his eyes. When the vicious aroma became too much, Arullen clamped a hand across his face, pinching his nostrils shut between thumb and forefinger, forcing himself to breathe solely through his mouth. If he had to die down here, let it be in battle, taking some of his unseen enemy with him. There was some honour in that at least. There was no honour to be had in choking to death on the fumes of a city’s excreta. He staggered on, the thigh-deep waters sapping the strength from his legs.

Arullen emerged from one tunnel into a circular chamber. Five more tunnels radiated off this space, like the spokes of a wooden cart. The elf looked up, more in hope than expectation of seeing the sky overhead. Instead there was a canopy of bones and tattered scraps of skin, the edges ragged from who knew what. Arullen peered at the collation of horrors. The bones were all shapes and sizes-some so small they must be from children or halflings, others torn from the skeletons of animals or sea creatures.

Most had been picked clean, no flesh left on them. A few had been broken and the marrow extracted from inside. A sickly green light bathed the terrifying tableau. Arullen realised the illumination was born of a thousand tiny glows, each moving and shifting across the underside of the canopy. Light worms, feeding on the last remnants of flesh and blood, using the nutrients to warm their glowing forms.

Suddenly an unholy, inhuman cry rent the vile air, a nasal bellow of hatred and hunger. It echoed around Arullen, bouncing back and forth along the circular tunnels. The elf’s fingers tightened round the hilt of his dagger. His other weapons had been torn from his grasp in that first, terrible battle after he had stumbled into the creatures’ lair. Six of them had fallen in a brief, flailing skirmish, four struck down by arrows while the other two had their heads cleaved by his long blade. What Arullen wouldn’t give to have those weapons still in his possession. With them to hand he might have survived this night, turned adversity into triumph. Instead he found himself running through the shadows, searching only for the chance to see moonlight again. Let that fall upon his face and courage would surely return, reborn by his lunar namesake, but the crescent moon had not yet risen. As echoes faded away, Arullen offered up a prayer asking for salvation, however unlikely it might be. At least don’t let my death be in vain, he added.

The answer was swift and merciless. When the echoes of that inhuman cry fell silent at last, they were replaced by the skittering of nail on stone, and the sounds of approach coming from ahead and behind. Arullen realised the unholy bellow was a summoning. They had found him and now they were closing in for the kill. The young elf looked at the dagger clutched in his hand. The blade was still clean, untouched by blood of any kind-but not for much longer.

“I can lead you to salvation,” a hoarse voice hissed from the darkness.

Arullen spun round, blade drawn back, ready to deliver a killing blow. His eyes searched the dark tunnels around him but saw nothing in the inky blackness. “Who spoke? Show yourself!”

“I spoke,” the voice replied. Arullen turned to see a shuffling figure emerge from the shadows. It had the shape of a man, but its features were warped and twisted. Whatever other horrors tormented the creature’s body remained hidden behind a damp, black shroud. “I offer salvation. Will you accept it?”

“Can you get me out of here safely?” Arullen asked, keeping his dagger raised and ready to strike.

“Accept salvation and you shall never know pain or fear again.”

The skittering sound was getting louder, the hunters ever closer. Arullen struggled to discern which of the tunnels the noise was coming from, but the walls and rising waters created echo upon echo. He closed his eyes and concentrated, tilting his head down to single out the source. His senses reached out into the darkness, probing and pawing at the black. No, the monsters were not coming from a single direction-they were coming from all of them. He was trapped, surrounded by the advancing horde. When he opened his eyes once more, the mysterious stranger was still waiting for an answer. “Well?”

“I accept salvation,” Arullen replied. What choice did he have? He was as good as dancing with Isha now, but perhaps there was still some hope.

The stranger’s face contorted, ruptured lips twisted into a chilling resemblance of a smile. “That is good. Follow me and all will be well for you. You have my word on it.” The hunched figure shuffled away into the nearest tunnel entrance, heading directly towards where the skittering sound was loudest.

“You can’t go that way,” the elf hissed. “That’s where-”

The stranger paused, not bothering to look back. “Follow me now, or you shall surely die.” Kurt Schnell had few illusions about what was used to make the sausages served in the Seagull and Spittoon. Two previous owners of the tavern were serving time on Rijker’s Isle for their culinary crimes. Well, that wasn’t strictly accurate, Kurt reminded himself-both men had admitted charges of murder. The fact they chose to turn choice cuts of their victims into stuffing for sausages had added a grisly notoriety to the menu at the Seagull and Spittoon. The new owner, an impish Bretonnian called Jacques Pottage with an overbearing fondness for garlic, garlic and more garlic, had to withstand weekly inspections of his kitchens to make certain lightning did not strike thrice. But that didn’t stop him building a lucrative trade from specialising in exotically named, spiced and priced links of offal forced into animal gut casings.