Chapter I: Introduction
right wrist, and the severed hand - still clutching the falchion - flew off and splashed into the pool. Blood jetted from the raw stump. The goat-thing brayed in agony. “Shut it,” Grunor advised, and swung the axe again, like a forester felling a tree. This second blow severed the beast’s left leg entirely at the knee. Unsupported, stricken, it toppled over with a vast splash, staining the water bright pink with its blood. It writhed and shook, churning up spray. Grunor swung the axe back behind his head with both hands, and buried the blade down into the thing’s hideous skull. The thrashing stopped abruptly. It took Grunor a moment to pull his axe-head free. The Dwarf looked across the pool at Broch. The human had recovered well from his fall, and was back on his feet by the time the single-horn reached him. Broch cut aside the strikes from the lance, and then clove the thing right down through the body with his great sword, splitting it from left shoulder to right hip. Broch dragged the sword out and the mutilated corpse flopped He waded across the pool and lifted the priest to his feet. The young man was coughing and spluttering, retching up brackish water. A bloody bruise discoloured his mouth and right cheek. A nd who might you be?” asked Werner Broch. “Falker? Where are you?” Broch stepped into the ruin and found Franz crouched beside the corpse of the hooded beast. “You kill that, Falker?” he asked. Franz looked round. Behind Broch’s back, he could see Imke staring at him, shaking her head gently. “Yeah,” Franz said. “Good work, boy. We got another two yonder. Huh. What’s she doing here?” “She... she came to make sure I was all right,” Franz said. They went back into the open and the rain. As she slid by him, Imke whispered “Thank you.” Grunor had sat the priest down on a lump of stone and the rag- pickers had gathered around. “So, the question stands,” Broch said. “Who are you?” “I am Sigamund,” replied the young priest, lisping slightly because of his swollen mouth. “I am a manciple from the temple of Sigmar at Durberg. I have come to Wolfenburg on a holy mission, charged by the temple fathers.” “What kind of mission?” Broch wondered. “One I must complete, sir. I thank you for your intervention. Ah, I should say, Sigmar thanks you.” Broch shrugged. “He can owe me. He was doing a piss-poor job of looking after you until we arrived. Those things had almost sent you to Morr’s cold embrace.” The manciple nodded. “It is dangerous work I undertake. Suffice to say, four of us were sent out from the temple. I am the only one left.” The manciple looked up at Broch. “You, sir... you are a sell-sword?” “I prefer the term ‘man of negotiable honour’.” Sigamund smiled, then winced, wishing he hadn’t. “If I am to complete my task, I could do worse than purchase protection for this final stage. There are three of you?” Broch glanced round at Franz and Grunor. “I suppose so...” “By Ranald’s own luck,” Sigamund said, “I have three silver crowns on my person. They are yours, one each, if you would see me safe to my destination.” “Which is?” asked Franz. “Look at me! Look at me!” Broch snapped. “Who’s negotiating?” “You are, sir,” said Franz. “Which is?” Broch asked the manciple. “The Temple of Sigmar, deep in the heart of this ruined city, and ruined itself no doubt.” “For the purpose of what?” wretchedly into the water. The mercenary spat. “Damn you, Ulric, I make my own luck.”
The manciple got to his feet. “To recover a vernicle of holy Sigmar, which is to say a little relic: an image painted upon a tiny cloth. My temple fathers believe that Wolfenburg may not rise again until this relic is recovered and properly venerated.” “A silver crown each?” Sigamund nodded. “And if anything remains in the temple coffers, it may please you to divide it between yourselves. The temple fathers are not interested in money.” “The rain’s not yet eased,” Franz said to Broch. “Send the rag-pickers home.” “But-” “Send them home. Tell them to go directly. They’ll be safe enough if they hurry. We’re doing this.” “But, sir-” “Did you hear what he said, boy? Temple coffers! This could be Grunor and Franz sent the rag-pickers on their way. They were reluctant to go without the protection of their soldiers, but Grunor was firm, and eventually they scurried off into the rain, all but running back to the comparative safety of the shanty camp. Imke, however, refused to go with them. “You have to,” Franz said. “I do not. I’m coming with you.” “What are you? You’re no rag-picker.” “So you said. I’m coming with you. Make it happen, Franz Falker. You owe me. Make something up. Fast.” Broch came over. “What’s she still doing here?” “She’s coming along,” Franz said. “Like hell.” “I’ll watch her.” “She’s a liability. Send her on her way.” “She’s my lucky charm,” Franz said, trying desperately to think of something. “What?” “That thing would have gutted me but for her. I mean, she the making of us! A way out of this dung-heap!” “I don’t really want a way out-” Franz began. “Shut it. That was an order.”
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