Anathemas Read online

  He looks me in the eye. ‘This beast has done good work for us, I think.’

  ‘And the child?’ I use my scabbarded sword to point to the broken toy, and he shrugs with practised indifference.

  ‘No sign of a child. Maybe the bear took it. Maybe swallowed whole.’ He gestures broadly at the mess made by scavengers. ‘Impossible to tell.’

  I persist. ‘Could a survivor have fled into the cave?’

  Grar looks unconvinced. ‘Or to the village, witch hunter. We are close now. Maybe the villagers have already strung the little beastling up for us, to celebrate our arrival.’ He bares his teeth again and I look away. This is no place for a child.

  The other two trackers join us, fellow warriors of the Olg’hal. Like Grar they are outcast: men that now hunt their former tribe and the slaves of the Ruinous Powers. They are savages in exile, hunters in the service of the God-King. One of these men – No’grok – is the size of an ogor, while the other – Rhukhal – is a young man, maybe of an age with myself. They too have shaved heads, filed teeth and skin stained blue with warpaint they can never remove. The bond between the three men is deep, formed by the severing of all other ties. They have each other and no one else. I have no tribe of my own, no kin. I have my god.

  The younger tracker pauses at the corpse of the woman, and with a practised motion he cuts off an ear, threading it onto a belt along with dozens of others. At first these trophies appalled me, but I have come to respect what they represent – when they turned on their former kin, these men burned all their bridges, and there would be no mercy for them now among the tribes. It is man’s nature to be duplicitous; all men are liars and deceivers, but these three make their truth a simple thing. They are a bane to Chaos. They are dogs that tear at the throats of monsters. Should my god judge them, he will find them to be true.

  ‘Witch hunter.’ Rhukhal addresses me with slightly more respect than Grar. ‘We should leave this place now. Before the storm comes. Before the beast gets her hunger back.’

  I nod in agreement. Beyond the next hill lies the village we seek, and so we resume our journey. We pass the cave mouth cautiously. No’grok hefts his warhammer over one massive shoulder and waits, tense with anticipation, but all remains quiet. I stare into it, into the yawning darkness. It is only my imagin­ation that it stares back.

  We have travelled for eight days through jungle and forest to a place far removed from Sigmar’s gift of liberation, here at the edges of this so-called Realm of Beasts. The village we approach now was discovered by a warrior angel, borne aloft on wings of light. Seen from a distance, the Stormcast Eternal described a place untouched by the violence of this land. It seems unlikely that we will truly find free people here in this place of monsters – this land of warring tribes pledged to dark gods – but if there are men and women that have defied the corruption then I must find them and claim them for the God-King, to offer them his embrace. And if the corruption has claimed them first – if it has wormed under their skin and into their souls – then in the name of Sigmar, I will judge them, and I will show them what it means to defy the God of Lightning.

  Black clouds gather in the distance, growing closer. The air is redolent with the promise of electricity – I feel it on my teeth. I bring the storm and it chases at my heels like a hound. It growls with anticipation of violence and the land trembles in reply. My head throbs with pressure behind my eyes – this pain is not a new thing but it worsens as the storm approaches. This is the weight of Sigmar’s gaze as he looks upon me from his throne in Azyr, as he has for all of my life. The attention of a god is enough to bring a man to his knees.

  The forest thins as we approach the village and we see it clearly for the first time. A small stone tower, half in ruin, sits to one side of a collection of simple thatched hovels. No wall, no defences. It sits incongruously in a clearing, amidst a sea of flowers, surrounded by lush forest, and in the distance, the great snow-capped mountains of Ghur. It is a scene from a painting. It is beautiful, idyllic in a way that takes my breath away. A vision of a life without war, without death.

  Grar sucks his teeth. ‘Such a place should not exist. It is not so hidden that the tribes could not find it.’

  No’grok shrugs. ‘Maybe they are lucky.’

  ‘Then we come,’ Rhukhal mutters, ‘and so their luck has run out.’

  We step from the treeline into the field of flowers. I shield my eyes from the blazing midday sun. Despite the heat, I fasten my cloak about me, the sigil of the Order plainly visible on my breast. It would not do to be mistaken for a marauder. But there are no sentries, no cry of alarm or barking dogs. There is no such thing as luck.

  When I was a boy I lived among the peasants of the Den­ebreke. We called ourselves an army, though we saw little in the way of battle. The Denebreke were one of many such armies that raised a holy banner and the people of the city flocked to it, eager to follow in the footsteps of Sigmar’s crusading Stormcast Eternals, eager to share in their glory. I do not remember life before the Denebreke, nor do I remember my father in the years before my mother was taken by the God-King and remade, reforged. I longed to catch sight of the Stormhost in whose path we followed, but we never saw anything of them save for the devastation that they left in their wake. We were an army overcome with holy zeal, fuelled by righteous purpose. We marched in the footsteps of conquering heroes. I imagined that if we could but catch up, I would see my mother again, fighting in that holy host. I willed us to march faster, I prayed that we would. But instead, the Denebreke became a nightmare.

  On the outskirts of the village, overgrown steps lead up to an ancient altar, weatherworn and crumbling. Built from golden stone, it is much older than the huts that now surround it. At the base of the altar, flowers blossom in even greater concen­tration, dazzlingly colourful and intoxicating with their aromas. We walk on into the village in silence, intruders, out of place. I see the people now, wide-eyed, trusting. Faces that have not known the depths of grief. Lives that have not known ruin­ation, degradation. I see a village that should have been razed a ­hundred times, and in it people that should have died a hundred miser­able deaths. I see children playing and I want to scream at them for daring to live this way. They live on the blade of a knife and somehow they do not see it.

  We are met by the village elders. They are unarmed, garbed only in simple white robes. An old woman speaks for them. Her face is lined, her hair white and thin, but her voice is strong. She knows the common tongue and speaks it well. She shows us her village and it is like nothing I have seen before. There are no defences and yet the people here seem well at ease. They are confident in their safety, their security. The city of my birth had walls to scrape the sky and block out the sun; the lands I knew as a neophyte had fortified towns or settlements, but these were lands where the Stormhosts had walked and so they were purged clean of raiders and beasts, save for those few that it was my duty to expose.

  ‘No dogs. It is a cursed village to have no dogs.’ Grar mutters. He is uneasy, his hands remaining fixed to the pommels of his knives.

  Even in the Denebreke we had hounds to guard us at night. There are no birds either, I notice, and the absence of animals is unsettling. Villagers gather to watch us, their broad, sun-lined faces revealing nothing but curiosity. They have the prominent cheekbones and round faces common to the people of this land, black hair fashioned in braids. Among them are children, barefoot in the soft grass. A part of me wants to believe in this, to believe in this safety.

  We come to the ruined tower, a squat, solid construction but not much more than a guard post, barely standing above the nearby trees. The top levels have crumbled with age or from some tremor in the land, and from the ruins grow delicate silver trees, wild plants and a tangle of vines. The tower is made of the same stone as the altar, remnants of a settlement that predated the village by hundreds of years. Such sights are not uncommon in the Mortal Realms. So much
history has been lost to the depravations of the Dark Gods. I trace a symbol graven on the stone above the doorway. The script is one I recognise from holy places in the realm of my birth.

  ‘This is a sigil for pathway. Or perhaps gate.’ My words are met with indifference or incomprehension. ‘These other symbols I do not know.’

  Thunder rolls softly in a nearby valley, the sound echoing from the ruined hollow of the tower’s collapsed battlements, reverberating like waves breaking on rock. I look to the horizon, shielding my eyes with my hand from the blinding sun. Dark clouds begin to gather over the endless forest. The pressure behind my eyes increases and I rest my head for a moment against the cold stone. The old mother regards me and I wonder what she sees. Is there concern in her eyes? Does she fear now for herself or for me? I exhale slowly, collecting myself. There are secrets here, soaked like water into the soil with the passage of time and observed with ancient eyes. There are secrets, and it is my duty to uncover them.

  We return to the altar’s steps. There are more sigils, and though weatherworn and overgrown, it is clearly the same ancient language. I am ashamed at how little I comprehend. The villagers do not join us; most keep a respectful distance. They watch us but have no visible weapons and I feel myself relaxing. Some braver children creep nearer, fascinated with No’grok and his vast bulk and blue skin. He bares his teeth and they run away screaming.

  ‘You are right to run! I will pick you from my teeth!’ he laughs and pretends to give chase. It is sometimes possible to forget that these men had once been monsters in truth, raiders and murderers for certain. Maybe even cannibals, as were many of the tribes in this barbarous region. Not so long ago they would have ridden into this village with death and depravity in their hearts. But men do not change, not really. Change is a deceit, a guise that men wear until it is time to let slip the mask and reveal their true nature.

  The village elders return to us. They have been at council, seated within the ruined tower which seems to double as a meeting hall, though it is surely too small for more than a dozen people at a time. They offer us simple food and honey wine and my companions take it gladly. I do not eat – a childhood of starvation has given me little appetite as a man. I drink the wine. It is too sweet but the coolness is welcome. The elders are hesitant. I think that perhaps they see the true nature of my companions but the old mother’s eyes are fixed on me and it is in her that I sense the most doubt, the most uncertainty. I return her gaze.

  I must trust my instincts, and my instincts tell me that safety is illusory. It is when you feel safe that you are most vulnerable, and it is when you feel safe that whatever little you have will be taken from you. My instincts tell me there is some evil here, hidden beneath the surface, under the skin. The old mother has seen something in me and she has retreated inside herself, hardened. She looks at me with lifeless eyes now, dry and devoid of compassion. She looks like any mother might. She speaks but I am no longer listening. I must trust my instincts. Let not the world deceive me with its pretence of beauty. My head throbs in time with distant thunder as my god watches. I exhale slowly, my breath snatched away on the gathering wind.

  In whispered voice I pray: mighty God-King, wielder of Ghal-Maraz the Skull-Splitter, give me your strength, give me your wisdom, make of me your weapon so that I may punish those that turn from the light of your holy star that burns in the heavens. Send me your lightning, send me your thunder.

  I offer my prayer, I offer myself to my god. I make myself a vessel for him to use. I stand in his place as the immortal judge of men and women, and in his place as the most holy executioner. I ask for the wisdom to seek out the apostate and root out the poisoned seed and unmask the beasts that hide in the hearts of men. I ask for the wisdom and the answer comes the same as it always does, the truth I know in my heart. And thus I consign this village to death.

  Black clouds swallow the sun and the Realm descends slowly into darkness. The first rain falls. I have timed my arrival well to this cursed place, for I have brought with me a storm. I watch as water runs in rivulets along the bare steel of my sword, the details rendered in painful, unnatural clarity. My head reverberates with dull echoes of thunder, blinding light flashing behind my eyes, triggering cascading waves of pain. The old mother lowers her head, her eyes shrouded in shadow as wind whips at her hair. I am standing now – my sword is in my hand. I do not remember drawing it, raising it. I am seeing everything twice, two swords in two hands, reflected as if in a mirror. At my side stands an army of holy monsters, weapons in hand, their forms indistinct, dark shapes against a darker background.

  The world begins slowly to lose focus and my sword falls from numb fingers. I drop to my knees and my vision contracts to a single point of light, like the star of Azyr. It flickers for a moment with lightning and distant voices, urgent voices growing fainter and fainter. And then everything fades to black.

  In my dream I am just a skinny boy again. I am fighting for food when I see him: the man who would come to be my mentor, my master. He used to come to the Denebreke from Mhurghast every year, but he comes less frequently now that we no longer march, and it is not safe here, not even for a holy man. He is a glorious sight, dressed in silks and wearing a tall hat with a golden buckle. He rides a demigryph, a far more magnificent animal than I have ever seen, and the sight of his pistol keeps thieves at bay. On occasion during a visit he would collect an orphan – one of the many children whose parents had not survived the march – to train them as a neophyte. This became my dream, a way to escape the horror that the Denebreke had become, a way to forge for myself a purpose and to become more holy, so holy that even my father would have to take notice. When the man collected me – when he saw in me the potential to be his neophyte – my father did not even look up from his holy work.

  I awake in a new nightmare, one devoid of colour and reason. I am dying, I think. I see shapes that I cannot comprehend, though I know they are familiar. I taste bile and this single thread of familiarity is enough to hold on to, to drag myself along by, back into wakefulness, back into consciousness. There are sounds of fighting, of confusion. The storm is here; the wind steals my faltering breath and the roar of thunder crashes against the edges of my consciousness like a tidal wave. Colour returns, though faint and ethereal in the pale moonlight. I am lying in wet grass – my body is wracked with convulsions as I retch. My head is surely split in two and the pain is unbearable, and with shaking fingers I probe for a wound but it is only blood from my nose that I can taste, and this is nothing new. I can see this blood running in black rivers to soak into the dirt, to pool before my unblinking eyes. And from the blood, impossibly, flowers grow. I watch, unable to move, amazed and appalled. Delicate stems uncoil, no longer than my finger. Tiny petals blossom and are snatched away by the wind. I reach for the flowers and they coil around my trembling hand. Lightning tears the night sky apart with divine ferocity and for an instant the colour is too much to comprehend. A riot of luminous flowers surrounds me. The lightning stirs some broken part of me and I wonder if Sigmar is come for me, come for me at last to remake me, to reunite me. Have I died a worthwhile death? Have I done enough? I close my eyes and wait for the pain to stop.

  When I open my eyes again it is to the mundane world, yet there is no respite for me, no escape. I feel a hand grasp me by the collar of my cloak and roughly pull me to my feet. My thoughts are sluggish. I take too long to comprehend what is happening and I struggle to free myself. Then the figure that has a hold of me flashes white, sharp teeth, and at once I recognise Grar, his deep-blue skin meaning he is visible only as a silhouette in the dark of night.

  ‘You were poisoned, witch hunter, you have been dead to us for a long time – see? Now the moon is at its highest. The witch casts a spell perhaps, or slips a potion in your wine.’ Grar is bleeding from several cuts and scrapes, his eyes wild. In his free hand he holds a hunting knife, the blade broken and wet with blood. He appraises me and I sta
nd like a child before him, unable to support myself, my head spinning. I realise I am staring uncomprehendingly at a tiny flower I grip in one shaking hand.

  ‘You have a broken nose, maybe, it is nothing. They trip over you in the dark but they do not take you. Their resolve breaks in the face of No’grok and his hammer. Their spells do not work on Olg’hal, our wards protect us!’ He spits a mouthful of gore, ­wiping it across his face. He is shouting to make himself heard over the storm. His words sober me as I realise what he is saying. The pounding in my head subsides slightly and I collect my thoughts. They poisoned me? Could they have so plainly read my intent?

  ‘We have taken some prisoners, witch hunter. When you collapsed, we made ready. They came at us but they were panicked. Their attack was poorly planned. We fought but it was too dark and the storm too strong. No’grok has some of the elders. Others lie dead around us.’

  ‘The elders… they prepared this.’ I shout to make myself heard over the roar of the wind. ‘We must act fast. They will surely try again. They seek to kill me… they know I bring the God-King’s judgement!’ I shrug free of Grar’s grip, standing on shaking legs, and wipe the blood from my nose. It is not broken – it often runs with blood. Such is the cost of Sigmar’s attention.

  Grar nods. ‘Life returns to your face, witch hunter. This is just as well, because we need you to fight. We have taken prisoners, but they have… they have killed Rhukhal. We did not see him fall. An arrow in the back.’ Grar spits. ‘They have killed him, witch hunter. We must make them suffer.’

  The storm forms a wall that encircles us as we stand atop the ancient altar, huge pale stones slick underfoot. Lightning has struck a tree nearby and it burns despite the rain, the flickering light casting dancing shadows. The witch is pale, with white skin and white hair plastered to her skull. Blood-flecked teeth, red-rimmed eyes. She has come in league with daemons. She has come possessed. She looks at me with hatred, with disappointment. She looks as any mother might. No’grok holds her with one massive hand. He cowers when thunder cracks and lightning splits the night sky. We are exposed up here and there are limits to his faith. Even Grar ducks, I notice, and I alone stand tall; lightning holds no fear for me. When Sigmar is ready for me, the lightning will take me too and I will welcome it. Grar is eager for vengeance, but I persuade him that first must come the trial. First must come the trial of lightning.