Last Orders

 	Andy Smillie


 	Fredric Gerlach’s underpants were wet. He was, however, confident that he hadn’t pissed himself. The dark patch on the crotch of his trousers was merely an embarrassing reminder not to stand too close to the ale taps during a bar-fight. Fredric gave up trying to pat himself dry with the tails of his shirt, which itself was half-drenched, and cast his eyes over the destruction his patrons had visited upon his establishment. Dozens of caskets, kegs and what looked like all of his glasses lay smashed on the floor, their contents seeping away between cracks in the cobbles. Ruined tables and broken chairs were strewn across the Skewered Dragon’s length. Blood and fleshy matter clung to everything like a fungus. Here and there Fredric spotted dismembered limbs, dotted around like macabre ornaments. And the bodies – dozens of them, perhaps fifty – they would be the hardest to explain. Not for the first time that night, Fredric mouthed a silent prayer to his god that he wasn’t among them.

 	A short man with square shoulders and a barrel chest pushed his way through what was left of the front door, the pathetic slat of timber swinging on its remaining hinge for the last time before clattering to the floor. Fredric recognised the man as Watch Officer Herman Faulkstein, an officious bastard with a mean temper and little regard for personal privacy. Fredric exhaled noisily and swatted a fly away from his face; he had so hoped they’d send someone less zealous. He doubted there was any chance of him getting away from this stink in a hurry.

 	Faulkstein bent down to examine the body nearest the door. Like the rest of the corpses piled around the tavern, it lay awaiting the administrations of Morr. The god of death’s priests would be along soon enough. Faulkstein sighed; the robed attendants and their macabre traditions gave him the creeps. Drawing his dagger the watchman slipped the blade under the corpse’s head and lifted it up.

 	If Faulkstein had bothered to ask, Fredric could have told him who the body was. He could tell from the tattered, orange-brown robe draped over its bony shoulders. Well, that and the body’s proximity to the door. Ansgar Ernot had been a mumbling hedge wizard with a spine so weak it was a wonder it had kept the man upright. He would have made a break for it as soon as someone had as much as raised their voice. Though even with a head start he hadn’t managed to outrun the bolt that was buried in his back.

 	Faulkstein withdraw his dagger and wiped it clean on his sleeve. Standing up, he met Fredric’s gaze and motioned for the barkeep to join him.

 	Fredric flashed his biggest grin, a set of stubby, blackened teeth adding to its obvious insincerity, and dropped down from his perch on the bar. The watchman led him to a table in the far corner, one of the few that was still in one piece.

 	‘Have a seat, Herr Gerlach.’ Faulkstein righted an overturned stool and invited Fredric to sit down.

 	Fredric took a seat and made an attempt at smoothing down his shirt as the watchman sat down opposite him.

 	‘Tell me, Fredric,’ said Faulkstein leaning an elbow on the table and resting his chin against his fist.

 	The barkeep stopped fidgeting with the boil on his neck. ‘Tell you what?’

 	The watchman leant forwards so that his face filled Fredric’s vision. He spoke softly, locking eyes with the barkeep and lingering over every syllable. ‘Everything.’

 	Few are abroad on Geheimnisnacht. It is an ill-omened night, when the lesser of the twin moons, Morrslieb, rises full in the sky and bathes the world in eerie light. On Geheimnisnacht, anyone of sane mind fastens shut their doors, douses the flames from their hearth and bids the world turn to morning.

 	Though, as was apparent from the army of vagrants filing out of the Skewered Dragon with their stench and their foul language, not every denizen of Middenheim could be considered sane. Still, thought Fredric, insanity was good for business; he’d barely stopped pulling ales since the first chime of evening.

 	In Fredric’s experience, two things drove men to drink: women and superstition. Geheimnisnacht was full of both. Tales abounded of young maidens being stolen in the night, dragged from where they slept into the darkness of the Drakwald, there to be sacrificed on the altar of a bestial god. Just as frequent were the stories of witches and sorceresses, whose powers reached their zenith under the Chaos moon’s gaze, and who stalked the streets ready to claim the souls of the unwary.

 	‘Oi, barkeep!’ Heinrich Lowen shoved a tankard under Fredric’s nose. ‘Does this look clean to you?’ The witch hunter spat through the mixture of broken teeth and metal studs that filled his mouth.

 	Fredric stared at the man for a moment. He had picked the wrong ale-hole if he was intent upon pressing his pious lips to clean tankards.

 	‘A dog wouldn’t drink from this,’ Heinrich finished, slamming the flagon onto the bar.

 	There wasn’t a soul in the Dragon that hadn’t heard the tale of how the witch hunter had come about his crooked dentures. A dreaded fiend, a murderer, a rapist, a man gripped by the trappings of the Dark Gods and imbued with their power had struck Heinrich. It was a mighty blow. The murderer’s ensorcelled fist had smashed into the witch hunter’s jaw with the force of Ulric’s hammer, splintering teeth and bone. But even beaten and bloodied, Heinrich would not be laid low. The witch hunter had climbed to his feet, filled with righteous zeal. He had taken up his sword, and despite his grievous injuries, slain the heretic before the man could land a second blow, bisecting him from shoulder to torso.

 	It wasn’t the truth, of course.

 	Heinrich had been the victim of a far more dangerous beast. A woman scorned, Heinrich’s wife, Freyda, had tripped up the witch hunter as he stumbled home drunk. Then, as he lay concussed on the ground, she had fastened her foot into one of the iron-shod boots her husband used to try witches by the lake, and kicked her cheating spouse full in the face.

 	Women and superstition. Fredric bit down a chuckle, took the cloudy tankard of ale from the surly witch hunter and placed it behind the bar. He’d serve it to someone less discerning later.

 	He pulled another mug from the rack hanging over the bar. ‘This one do?’ Loosening the towel from his belt, the barkeep gave the flagon a quick polish and proffered it to Heinrich.

 	The witch hunter grunted, took the tankard from Fredric, and stumbled back towards his table.

 	Fredric watched him go. Heinrich was a constant thorn in his arse, always complaining about one thing or another, but his sour temper and reputation for spotting ‘heretics’ kept the weirder elements of the citizenry away.

 	The witch hunter’s drinking partner, however, was nothing but trouble. A captain in the army, Gustav Helser was nursing the same flagon of ale he’d been staring at for the last hour. Gustav was a tall, broad man with thick arms and knuckles that had been broken more than once, making them look like iron rivets when he clenched his fists. Fredric glanced at the elongated broadsword resting by the captain’s side. Gustav never took his hand from its hilt and never drank more than would let him wield it. He was the sort of man who would run you through for something as petty as pickpocketing. Fredric didn’t trust him, and neither did the Dragon’s other patrons.

 	Except for Ernot. The fool of a wizard trusted everyone. Well, he trusted that they had more coin than he, which was reason enough for him to count no one beneath his attentions. Ernot, seemingly unable to read Gustav’s mood, had wandered over to his table intent on coin. Fredric watched with bated breath as the wizard conjured a flame into the palm of his outstretched hand. The flame swelled in size until it was as large as a flagon of ale. The wizard brought it up to his mouth and blew on it softly. Its centre opened like a mouth, giving birth to a larger flame that appeared in Ernot’s other hand. With a flurry, the wizard placed his hands behind his back, leaving the two flames hanging in the air. Burning through hues of orange-blue, the flames circled each other, sizing each other up like warriors in a duel. At some unseen gesture from Ernot, the smaller one darted forwards, leaving a thread-line of embers in its wake, and swallowed the larger one whole. Smouldering bright red, the remaining flame flickered with growing intensity before exploding into a mist of sparking embers that drifted to the floor. Someone at a nearby table began to applaud. Ernot extended his hand for payment.

 	Gustav ignored him, leaning forwards to flick an errant ember from the table.

 	Ernot withdrew his hand, annoyance flashing across his face before his practiced showman’s demeanour reasserted itself. ‘Surely, dear captain, you wouldn’t see a fellow servant of the Empire go–’

 	Gustav was on his feet, his sword at Ernot’s throat before the wizard could finish. ‘Do not dishonour the men who have died to protect these lands with your slander. You are an aberration, a deviant who is not so far removed from the devils we fight. It is only by Ulric’s grace that you are allowed to march beside your betters.’ Gustav poked a jabbing finger into Ernot’s forehead. ‘Now be gone and bother me no more.’

 	Ernot’s humour fell away, his eyes turning to smouldering coals, set alight by some unseen fire. Smoke began to rise from the captain’s blade.

 	‘Sit down, friend.’ Heinrich spoke to Gustav, but his crossbow pistol was pointed at Ernot.

 	‘Enough.’ Faulkstein held out a hand to silence Fredric. ‘I’ve seen the wizard already.’ The watchman flicked a finger towards the two priests of Morr stooped over Ernot’s body.

 	Faulkstein ruffled his nose at the pungent incense wafting from the iron censers attached to their belts, and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. ‘You two,’ the watchman turned from Fredric, waving his arm in irritation at the priests, ‘can’t you wait until I’m finished here? They aren’t going anywhere.’ Faulkstein swept his arm around the room to indicate the mass of corpses littering the bar.

 	‘No, we cannot,’ one of the priests answered without looking up. ‘They belong to Morr now and he will not be kept waiting. No, that wouldn’t do at all.’ The priest stopped and angled his head up at Faulkstein. ‘That is, of course, unless you’d rather invite plague, or worse.’ The priest paused to touch the silver talisman dangling around his neck, ‘the curse of undeath upon us?’

 	Faulkstein uttered a curse under his breath and returned his attention to Fredric. ‘Enough prattle. I don’t have time to hear about every wolf-gnawed drunkard that stumbled across your path tonight. Tell me about the outlaws.’

 	Fredric looked confused, and for good reason. Not that he would have told them to their faces, but most of the Dragon’s patrons would have been considered scum by anyone in the Empire with even a breath of honour. Almost to a man, they were wanted by someone for something. You didn’t drink in a back alley sump unless you had little other choice or, as was the case with Gustav, liked a good fight.

 	‘Outlaws?’ Fredric repeated the watchman’s question, turning his palms face up and trying to sound casual.

 	Faulkstein clicked his tongue in annoyance. ‘The dwarf and the human.’

 	‘The dwarf and the human? Watch officer, sir. This is Middenheim, there are as many dwarfs and humans drowning their sorrows in taverns as there are rats in the street.’

 	Faulkstein sighed hard, gripping the table in an effort to calm himself, ‘The poet, Felix Jaeger and that Slayer, Gotrek Gunnison.’

 	‘Felix Jae–’

 	‘Yes,’ interrupted Faulkstein, his hand raised as if to strike Fredric. ‘Jaeger and the Slayer.’ The watchman locked eyes with the barkeep. ‘I know they were here.’

 	‘Ah, yes, them,’ Fredric nodded, sitting back in his chair in an effort to distance himself from the seething watchman. ‘The dwarf and the human. Adventurers.’ Fredric swatted a fly away from his face. The creature persisted until he glared at it. ‘Yes, I remember,’ his brow knotted as he thought back. ‘They came straight to the bar...’

 	‘Ale!’ The dwarf banged his fist on the counter top, the numerous gold rings covering his fingers rattling. ‘And whatever watered-down filth my companion fancies.’

 	‘Coin first.’ Fredric made it a rule never to serve a dwarf before he’d paid. For all their fabled powers of recollection and their tiring ability to hang onto grudges long past the point of reason, dwarfs were as forgetful as halflings when it came to settling up.

 	‘You’d do well to serve me now, manling.’ The irate dwarf thumped the bar again. ‘I am thirsty. Keep me waiting at–’

 	‘Forgive my friend, it’s been a long night,’ a man cut in and tossed a bag of coins to Fredric. ‘This should see us through till morning.’ The man took a seat at the bar next to the dwarf, and ran his hand through the thick of his blond hair.

 	Satisfied by the weight of the purse, Fredric filled two flagons and slid them along the bar to the dwarf.

 	‘And for my companion?’ the dwarf said mid quaff, ale foaming over his red beard.

 	Fredric bit down a reply, filled a third tankard and handed it to the man. ‘Is he always this–’

 	‘Grungni’s beard,’ the dwarf interrupted, spitting out a mouthful of ale in disgust. ‘This, this sewage that you’ve deemed to call ale, tastes like a minotaur’s arse.’

 	Fredric gritted his teeth; the dwarf was pushing his luck. The barkeep thought about reaching under the bar and retrieving his sword. About reaching over and cutting the impudent short-arse’s tongue out. He eyed the swirls of runic tattoos that snaked up the dwarf’s neck and disappeared beneath his iron helm, and the muscled forearms that were no doubt the result of a lifetime wielding the monstrous axe slung across the dwarf’s broad back.

 	Fredric took a breath and thought better of his fantasies. ‘I’ll fetch you another.’

 	‘Don’t insult me, boy. Get me a fresh one from your cellar. Something worthy of a son of Grungni.’ The dwarf shook his fist at Fredric and knocked the flagon to the ground. ‘Best ye pray to your god that it’s better than this rat-piss or I’ll carve you up and drink your blood instead.’

 	Fredric had never heard of a dwarf who drank blood; as a rule they drank ale. Still, no sense in risking that the dwarf glaring murderously at him was the exception to the rule.

 	‘Pieter,’ Fredric called to the aged vagrant holding up the end of the bar, and tossed him the beer-sodden towel of his office. ‘Watch the bar for me.’ He pulled back the oak sideboard covering the entrance to the cellar. ‘And Pieter, try not to drink more than the customers.’

 	Fredric ducked inside the opening behind the bar and fished a candle from a barrel filled with sand. Straightening the wick, the barkeep held it up so that its wick kissed the brazier burning overhead and caught alight. Cupping his free hand around the flame, Fredric descended the stone incline to the basement, taking care not to slip on the slimy fungus that clung to the well-worn cobbles. At the bottom, he turned right towards the barrel room and–

 	‘Ulric!’ Fredric let out a shriek and dropped the candle. He’d collided with someone.

 	‘Watch where you’re going!’

 	‘Who’s there?’ asked Fredric, trying to keep his voice level.

 	‘Turn out the light!’

 	Reflexively, Fredric stomped out the flame. An act he immediately regretted. ‘Who’s there?’ he asked again, his hand moving to the knife on his belt.

 	‘It’s Luipold.’

 	‘The rat catcher?’

 	‘Yes, you fool. Who were you expecting? A flower-wreathed maiden of the court?’

 	Fredric relaxed the grip on his knife and scolded himself for his foolishness. He’d allowed too many tales of murder on Geheimnisnacht to fuddle his senses. ‘Luipold, you’re still down here?’ Fredric had commissioned the catcher after several casks of ale had gone sour, and he’d heard scratching behind the wine racks.

 	‘Yes, these things take time, Herr Fredric.’ Luipold appeared from the darkness his face within a breath of the barkeep’s.

 	Fredric winced, the man stank of sulphur. ‘Ah, Luipold, you frightened me there. I thought you’d be long done.’ Fredric fought down the urge to gag under the pungent assault of the rat catcher’s breath. ‘What has it been? Two days now?’

 	‘You have quite the infestation,’ Luipold pressed a dead rat into Fredric’s hand, ‘and I fear the light from your candle has scared them back into their holes.’ The rat catcher put his arm around Fredric’s shoulders. ‘Please, get what you came for and trouble me no more until my work is complete.’ Luipold left the rat in Fredric’s palm, turned and disappeared into the gloom.

 	Fredric realised he was holding his breath and exhaled. He was glad to be rid of the man. ‘Just the rat catcher,’ he said, steadying himself. Dropping the rat at his feet, the barkeep wiped his hands on his trousers, and continued to the barrel room. In the darkness, Fredric was forced to feel his way past the wine racks to the ale caskets, his searching hands demolishing the thick cobwebs that coated the wine bottles like skin: superfluous proof that the Dragon’s patrons weren’t big on wine. His fingers traced the familiar iron band that bound the wood of the ale barrels, and he stopped. It felt sticky. Withdrawing his hand, Fredric rubbed his fingers together; there was some sort of wet powder coating the barrel. He brought his hand up to his nose to sniff it, but quickly changed his mind. The rat catcher had likely coated the place in poison, inhaling it was sure to be unwise. Fredric shuddered.

 	Pushing the creepy encounter with Luipold from his mind, Fredric bent over and pressed his ear to each of the ale barrels in turn until he heard the familiar gurgling of Gutrot XI. A particularly potent brew, Gutrot continued to ferment until drunk, and would eat through any cask or tankard if left standing long enough. ‘This’ll sort that Ulric-damned, knee-biter out,’ he muttered, satisfied the XI would placate the dwarf, and save him from a beating. He dragged the barrel from the rack and made to roll it up the slope.

 	‘I’m heading up now,’ Fredric called into the darkness. Luipold didn’t respond.

 	‘Get back on the other side there,’ Fredric said, securing the Gutrot to one of the ale taps and shooing Pieter away from another. He cursed; the skin on his hands felt tight and irritable. He glanced down at the sticky, white mire that clung to them despite his best efforts to rub it off. It didn’t look like any poison he’d ever seen, more like chalk mixed with gunpowder, and something else; something thick and wet. He shrugged. Thinking too much about something never led you to a good place. Wiping his hands on Pieter’s back, Fredric pushed the vagabond out from behind the bar.

 	The barkeep slid a double-thick, forged tankard under the ale tap, and filled it with Gutrot. ‘Now then, master dwarf...’ Fredric looked round to find the dwarf and his human companion lost in a press of leering drunkards. He felt his shoulders tighten in expectation of a fight.

 	‘And you were all alone? With no means of escape?’ one of the crowd asked, throwing his arms into the air and the contents of his flagon over those around him.

 	‘Aye!’ said the dwarf as he pushed his way to the bar. ‘It was a close call but they were no match for dwarfish steel.’ The dwarf grinned, pointing a thumb over his shoulder at his axe. ‘We sent them all to their gods with our boots on their backs and defeat in their guts.’ The crowd cheered as the dwarf finished his tale. Retaking his seat at the bar, the dwarf turned to Fredric and pointed to the XI. ‘My nose says that’s the good stuff.’

 	‘The very best.’ Fredric felt his shoulders relax, and he slid the dwarf his drink. The stunty warrior’s ill humour and furnace-like temper had seemingly been cooled by his audience’s adulation.

 	The barkeep poured himself a carafe of ale and settled behind the bar, joining the crowd as they listened to the adventurers recount their exploits. Between quaffs of Gutrot, the dwarf told a tale of how they had slain a nest of trolls in the ruins of Karak Eight Peaks, of how together they had journeyed to the world’s end and battled daemon lizards that walked upright like men. Then it was the dwarf’s floppy-haired companion’s turn to speak.

 	‘Just this very night,’ he began in hushed tones, ‘we came upon a shadowy cult in the Drakwald.’

 	The crowd cheered at the Drakwald’s mention, many of them having lost friend and kin to the accursed forest and its foul denizens.

 	The adventurer, an accomplished storyteller, waited for the crowd to settle before continuing. ‘At first we thought them to be no more than errant villagers practicing a heathen ritual beneath the moons, but when they threw back their dark cloaks it was neither men nor women whose sinister eyes stared back at us...’

 	A hush fell over the crowd as the adventurer polished off his drink.

 	‘Well who was it?’ one of the crowd ventured, the anticipation too much for him. The man’s cheeks flushed red as he looked around, embarrassed. ‘Who was it?’ he asked, quieter this time, proffering the adventurer another ale by way of encouragement.

 	The adventured smiled and took the drink, ‘They were neither man nor beast but a vile mix of the two,’ he continued, curling his fingers and narrowing his brow with practised theatre. ‘They had bestial faces, clawed hands and cloven hooves–’

 	Tumult at the rear of the huddle drew the adventurer’s attention as his audience stumbled into one another, shouldered aside by a lumbering newcomer who was as broad as he was tall. An angular forehead chiselled from hardened bedrock sat above a thicket beard. Dozens of animal pelts hung over his immense shoulders. Bound by cords of sinew and tendon, and stinking of blood and faeces, they were as much a testament to the hunter’s prowess as they were proof against the winter’s cold.

 	Fredric looked up at the broken horn of ivory protruding from the iron plate that armoured the hunter’s massive gut, and felt his mouth go dry. He knew an ogre when he saw one. This would not end well.

 	‘Jaeger.’ The ogre locked eyes with the adventurer and growled.

 	The adventurer’s mouth fell open without riposte, his handsome features marred with dread.

 	The ogre snarled and smashed his forehead into the human’s nose, which broke with a sickening crunch. The adventurer fell backwards, blood spraying from his nose, and crashed over a stool onto his arse. Throwing out his arms, the ogre knocked back the crowd, clearing a space for him to stare down the dwarf. A hammer appeared in one of the hunter’s muscled hands, a jagged blade in the other.

 	The dwarf swallowed heavily, dropped down from the bar stool, and reached for his axe.

 	The ogre’s hammer swung into the side of the dwarf’s head, ringing off his helm moments before the hunter’s foot connected with his chest, shooting him backwards through two onlookers and into the back of the wizard Ansgar Ernot. Mid parlour trick, Ernot stumbled, thrusting one of the flames he’d summoned onto his would-be patron. The flame devoured the man even before he could scream. Engulfing him in an eldritch fire, the aberrant conflagration burned away his innards, leaving behind only a charred husk that flaked apart and tumbled to the floor like morbid snowflakes. The other flare landed on Heinrich’s table, setting it ablaze.

 	‘Ulric damn you!’ The witch hunter scrambled hastily to his feet, drawing his crossbow.

 	With that the bar erupted. Emboldened by an evening of ale and the dwarf’s rousing tales of adventure, the men of the Dragon became warrior legends in their own minds. Curses sworn and steel unsheathed, they attacked one another with vigour, seeking to hack and slash their way to glory.

 	Fredric reached under the bar to grab his blade–

 	The ogre smashed the blond adventurer’s head into the counter top inches from Fredric’s own panic-stricken face. The barkeep recoiled in fright, scrambling back against the wall as fast as his jellied limbs would allow. Fredric watched as the ogre reversed his grip on his hammer and stamped it down on the adventurer’s head. The man’s skull cracked like an egg, spilling bloody matter onto the bar. The hunter looked at Fredric and snarled, though whether in derision or amusement, the barkeep couldn’t tell. Gripping the adventurer by the pulped remains of his head, the ogre pivoted on the spot and tossed the human’s corpse into the dwarf who was struggling to his feet. Unable to move, the dwarf raised his arms to shield himself but was sent crashing back to the ground by his former companion’s momentum.

 	His curiosity outweighing his fear, Fredric shuffled forwards and peered over the bar.

 	The ogre was closing on the dwarf.

 	An idiot with too much courage and too little sense attacked the hunter from the rear, breaking a chair over his broad back. The blow barely registered. The ogre continued forwards, gutting the man with a casual back-handed swipe of his blade, before slamming a fist into a wounded soul unlucky enough to be in the way.

 	The ogre reached the dwarf.

 	The hunter loomed over him like a vengeful effigy, grunting as the dwarf tried in vain to free himself from under the man’s corpse. Placing an armoured foot on top of the dwarf’s chest, the ogre sealed the adventurer’s fate.

 	‘No! Wait!’ The dwarf cried out in panic, one handing scrabbling for a weapon while the other came up to shield his face.

 	The ogre ignored him, bringing his hammer down in an over-handed swing that caved in the top of the dwarf’s skull and shattered the vertebra in his back.

 	Despite the horror of the situation, Fredric chuckled. Had the dwarf survived, he’d have been even shorter than before.

 	Faulkstein rolled a measure of smokeweed between his thumb and forefingers. ‘So then…’ The watchman took another pace forwards, side-stepping a body that had a sword planted in its back like an errant road sign, towards a dense pile of bodies. Popular place to die, he thought. ‘That would put them about here?’ Faulkstein kicked the nearest body.

 	‘Yes.’ Fredric craned his neck to get a look at where the watchman was standing. ‘Yes, I think so.’ He stood up, vigorously scratching at the boil on his neck, and walked to the watchman. ‘Yes, that’s right. There’s the human there,’ Fredric brought his hand down to point, but stopped when he noticed the filmy layer of pus covering it. ‘Damn it.’ Wiping his hand clean on the side of his tunic, Fredric used his other one to point out a bloodied body lying almost side-by-side with another to Faulkstein’s left.

 	Faulkstein bent next to the corpse Fredric had indicated. The man’s clothes were soaked in blood, his blond hair matted with filmy viscera where the ogre’s hammer had caved in his skull. The watchman made to turn the corpse over–

 	‘Stop!’ The priest of Morr held out his arms and stepped between the watchman and the corpse.

 	Startled, Faulkstein backed off. Recovering, he glared at the priest. ‘Why? What is it?’

 	‘I bid ye, sir, do not disturb the children of Morr.’ The priest settled next to the body, fussing over it with the same care and urgency that Faulkstein had seen apothecaries display when they treated the wounded.

 	Incense clung to the priest’s robes like death’s shadow, forcing the watchman to pull his tunic up around his nose. ‘May I?’ Faulkstein asked with mock sincerity, bending next to the dwarf’s corpse.

 	‘You may. He is a dwarf, he has no business with Morr, and Morr’s disciples none with him.’ The priest turned away.

 	Faulkstein unsheathed his dagger and lifted what was left of the dwarf’s head off the cobbled floor. By the looks of things the dwarf had been killed by the same bludgeoning weapon that ended the life of his companion. Judging by the size and angle of the indentation, the barkeep had been right: they’d both fallen prey to the same foe. ‘I–’ Faulkstein stopped short, his gaze falling on the dwarf’s chest. ‘My dear Herr Fredric, you are even stupider and inbred than you appear.’

 	‘Sir?’ Fredric’s mouth hung open in exaggerated offence.

 	‘This dwarf is not Gotrek Gurnisson.’ Faulkstein glared at Fredric. ‘And this...’ the watchman jabbed a finger at the priest of Morr’s back, ‘is unlikely to be Felix Jaeger.’

 	The barkeep stared back, bemused.

 	‘Do you know nothing of Trollslayers?’ Faulkstein asked, his patience long since gone.

 	‘Only what passes from the lips of bards and rumour mongers...’ Fredric paused to swat an ornery fly away from his face. ‘Dwarf Slayers are a cult of disgraced warriors. They seek death in battle to make up for one failure or another. It’s all a bit fatalistic–’

 	‘Yes,’ Faulkstein cut him off, ‘but those warriors, Herr Fredric, who seek death, rarely wear armour.’ Faulkstein tapped his dagger against the steel of the dwarf’s breastplate. ‘Besides, this dwarf doesn’t have the strength in his arms to accomplish the feats attributed to Gurnisson.’ The watchman poked the dead warrior’s bicep with his dagger. Impressive though the dwarf’s physique was when compared to that of a man’s, it was not the monolithic build Faulkstein’s quarry possessed.

 	Fredric stared at the dwarf’s arms; each was easily the size of his own thighs. He felt a chill run down his spine at the thought of the iron sinews that must surely criss-cross Gotrek’s frame. ‘An easy mistake, I feel, watchman. The dwarf’s stature presents him as far mightier than I.’

 	‘True enough.’ Faulkstein sheathed his knife and stood up. ‘And that, Herr Fredric, brings me to my final question.’ The watchman started towards Fredric. ‘How is it that you came to survive this butchery? The dwarf, the witch hunter and the captain,’ Faulkstein motioned to each of the bodies in turn, ‘they were hard men, men of violence and steel. Even the wizard, with the aid of his sorcery, should have had a better chance at survival than you.’ Faulkstein pressed his finger into Fredric’s chest, nudging the barkeep back towards the wall. ‘Yet they were all slain, cut down by a foe beyond even their considerable battle craft. So tell me, how is it that you, a mere barkeep, with naught but a rusted blade to defend yourself, survived when these men of strength could not?’ Faulkstein folded his arms, his eyes stabbing into Fredric as they searched for the truth.

 	Fredric felt his skin itch under the watchman’s stare. ‘I-I hid,’ he stammered.

 	‘You hid?’

 	‘Y-yes,’ The boil on his neck was itching more than Fredric could bear. He clamped his hand around it and continued, ‘I went to the cellar–’

 	‘Where?’

 	‘The cellar. I hid in the cellar.’

 	‘Why hide? Why not simply flee?’

 	Fredric made to answer but the watchman continued. ‘And what of the rat catcher, where is he?’

 	‘Th-the rat catcher?’ Fredric felt as though the boil was eating his neck. He dug his nails into it and winced at the pain. ‘Dead, he is dead, sir. I saw him on the floor.’ Fredric flinched as Faulkstein shot a hand out towards his head.

 	The watchman pulled the torch from a sconce on the wall behind Fredric. ‘Show me.’

 	Faulkstein followed Fredric through the timber door behind the bar onto the slope of well-worn cobbles that led to the cellar, the torch casting grim shadows that fought and danced on the stone of the walls.

 	‘Careful, it gets slippery,’ warned Fredric.

 	Faulkstein stumbled, grunting at the barkeep’s too-late warning. Struggling to reset his footing, the watchman braced a hand against the wall. The stone felt moist and warm, like sweat-slick skin.

 	Faulkstein shook the thought from his head and continued down the slope. Dank air wafted up from below and he could feel his throat narrowing as a pungent tang filled his nostrils. Despite himself, the watchman longed for the acrid taste of the incense that wafted incessantly from the priests of Morr. It turned his stomach to think what wretched drink was left to brew in such a place as the Dragon’s cellar. Only the familiar snapping of the kindling as it burned in the torch brought Faulkstein comfort, the sound transporting him from the drudgery of the descent to the chair by his hearth, where a tall measure of wine awaited him. Thankful that his investigation was almost over, Faulkstein pushed on, down and into the cellar proper.

 	Despite the light of the torch, the darkness was unrelenting. Faulkstein shuffled forwards, feeling his pulse quicken with every footstep.

 	‘Here, let me.’ Fredric appeared as if from nowhere. Taking the torch from the startled watchman, he lit a large brazier at the centre of the room. Light raged into life and spilled out to illuminate the vaulted room.

 	Faulkstein blinked hard as his eyes adjusted, the smell of burning oil assailing his nostrils. Glad of the brief respite from the choking odour of the place, the watchman cast his gaze around the room. To the left, stacked on their sides, were row upon row of wooden caskets. Up ahead, a single dark-wood rack spanned the far wall, its cobwebbed shelves filled with a random assortment of glass bottles and pewter containers. To the right, huge iron drums stood upright, large patches of algae betraying their disrepair. The floor was covered in an off-white powder that had been used to mark out a pattern Faulkstein had never seen before: three circles connected by a triangle, which itself was encircled by a larger circle. The watchman studied the lines of powder, his analytical mind searching for meaning.

 	‘Herr Fredric.’ Faulkstein paused, disliking the slight quiver that had crept into his voice. His head swam from looking at the chalky circles. He licked his lips and swallowed: there was something wrong about the cellar, he could feel it in his gut. ‘Where does the rat catcher’s body lie?’ The watchman focused himself on his task, hoping to curtail his rising need to be elsewhere.

 	Fredric smiled, the firelight lending his features a sinister quality, and pointed over the watchman’s shoulder. ‘He is there, by the entrance.’

 	Faulkstein turned round and looked back towards the way they had come, straining his eyes to see in the half-gloom. A skeleton dressed in rags sat doubled over in a lee of the wall.

 	How?

 	The question hung in the watchman’s thoughts like an iron weight threatening to drown him.

 	How had he missed the body? How could it have decomposed so quickly? How had–

 	Fredric stuck a knife up and under Faulkstein’s ribcage and into his heart. The watchman shuddered and fell forwards onto his knees, blood haemorrhaging from his mouth as he spoke for the last time. ‘How?’

 	‘That’s the wrong question, Herr Faulkstein,’ Fredric bent down to whisper in the dying watchman’s ear. ‘“Who” is the only question that truly matters.’ Fredric dragged Faulkstein’s body into the middle of the daubed triangle and pulled the knife from his chest. ‘His name is Pharo’sla,’ Fredric spoke as the blood from the watchman’s body began to mingle with the powder, causing it to glow and writhe like a tortured serpent. ‘He thanks you for your part in his summoning.’ Fredric waited for the last of the life to leave the watchman’s eyes, and cut off his head.

 	Fredric exited through the cellar into a narrow alley. It had been raining, turning the dirt of the street into a sludgy soup. Sighing, he looked up at the sky. The twin moons were still in ascendance, their fey light blanketing the city. Fredric pulled a scroll from his tunic and unrolled it to reveal a map of the Empire. Many innocents had died to make the map, their skin flayed from their screaming faces and pressed using foul magics. Fredric grinned darkly as the outline of Middenheim was replaced by a sickly-green dot that pulsed in time with the other bulbous markings scattered around the provinces.

 	Six down, one to go.

 	Fredric felt a nausea grip his stomach as Nordland began to glow faintly, an infernal buzzing clawing at his mind.

 	North. A thought not his own distilled from the chatter of insects, beckoned him onwards. 

 	Securing the map in the folds of his clothing, Fredric took care to avoid the worst of the puddles, and turned down a side street. Tall buildings towered to either side of him, their ramshackle walls blocking out the moons’ glow. He paused for a moment to appreciate the relative darkness; he’d spent enough time in the light that evening.

 	‘Ah, there you are. You took your time.’ The voice came from the shadows.

 	Fredric turned to find a lone figure leaning against the wall, chewing a pencil.

 	‘Fredric Gerlach is it? Or perhaps you’d prefer Luipold Gunda?’ The figure tucked the pencil behind his ear and stood upright, levelling a sword at Luipold’s throat.

 	Luipold took a step back, the entire night flashing through his mind.

 	The barkeep, Fredric, had interrupted his incantation. The fool had stumbled into the cellar, breaking Luipold’s concentration. But he’d shooed him away without incident, filling his head with tales of vermin and the difficulty of catching them in the light. But Fredric returned. He’d sought safety, in a cowardly attempt to flee the fight raging upstairs, only to find a worse horror awaiting him: Luipold in the throes of his spell, his skin splitting and reforming as pustulent ooze ran from his pores. Fredric had turned to run, but Luipold moved first, staving the barkeep’s head in with a loose cobble. His strength waning, Luipold needed a vessel to finish the rite. The fight upstairs would bring the Watch. His mind raced, panicking as the consequences of failure struck him: his soul forfeit to the capricious nature of his patron. He had to move fast. Luipold snuck upstairs. Crouching behind the bar he searched for a solution. A wizard lay dead by the door. A shame, the taint of his magic would have pleased Pharo’sla. The brute with the broadsword, Luipold smelt the mark of faith upon him; he would do. Luipold made to blindside the captain, attack while he was engaged with the ogre, but... Luipold fought against the fog choking his memory. Something had struck the nearest ale tap, struck him. Then there was darkness.

 	‘Who are you?’ Luipold growled at the figure.

 	‘Felix Jaeger.’

 	‘The poet?!’

 	Felix dipped his head in a mock-bow. ‘The very same.’ Felix pointed his sword over Luipold’s shoulder. ‘And that’s Gotrek.’

 	Luipold turned to face the dwarf.

 	‘Aye, that’s me,’ Gotrek Gurnisson pointed a muscled thumb at his chest. ‘You’ve been a hard one to catch up to. Thought you’d given us the slip back in Altdorf.’ Gotrek fed the haft of his axe through his fists and rolled his neck loose. ‘Won’t be having that this time.’

 	Luipold bared his gnarled teeth, ‘Fools! Your blood shall christen my master’s rebirth!’ Luipold roared in pain-filled ecstasy as his left leg swelled to more than double its size, the flesh of his thigh bursting through his trouser leg to reveal a diseased scar that ran the length of the muscle. Reaching down, Luipold clawed opened the wound. Maggots wormed their way from his insides, crawling out from his flesh and scrambling across his fingers before falling to the street.

 	‘That’s, well, it’s just plain unpleasant,’ Felix joked, but the nausea rising in his stomach stole the smile from his lips. His vision began to blur as a dire buzzing wracked his skull and oppressed his wits.

 	With a gurgle, Luipold drew a bone-sword from the flesh-scabbard in his leg. The blade dripped with pus and vehement venom that dripped in thick teardrops to chew away at the ground. ‘By the will of my master, I will end you both for your meddling.’ Luipold hefted his blade and charged at Felix.

 	Gotrek was there in an instant, shouldering his powerless companion out of harm’s way, and bringing his axe crashing into Luipold’s blade. ‘Best stay back, lad, this one’s feisty.’

 	Luipold snarled, holding his ground as his ensorcelled might fought to overcome Gotrek’s muscled frame. ‘I will feast on your corpse, dwarf.’ The words slicked off Luipold’s tongue like pustulant honey.

 	Gotrek fought against the pernicious odour carried on the cultist’s breath, but it seeped into every pore of his flesh, eroding his strength from within. He felt himself weakening, his enemy’s blade inching closer to his face.

 	Felix dropped his sword, pressing his hands to his ears in an effort to block out the infernal buzzing. Through the murk of his vision he saw Gotrek, down on one knee, Luipold looming over him. Without thought, he dashed forwards and threw himself into the cultist. Caught by surprise, Luipold hit the ground hard, his head smashing into the well-trodden earth of the street. Felix rolled away, choking on the thick miasma that surrounded the cultist.

 	‘Kill him!’ Felix spat the words through the thick phlegm that blocked his nose and filled his mouth like a diseased soup.

 	‘Just warming up,’ Gotrek assured him.

 	Luipold pushed himself to his feet. His cheekbone was broken. No matter, he’d be gifted with something far greater in time. Seeing the dwarf approach, Luipold thrust his blade at Felix. ‘The dwarf will not save you this time.’

 	Gotrex glanced at Felix; he was choking under an expanding pool of bile that streamed from his nose and mouth. The dwarf grunted and raised his axe.

 	Luipold charged, sweeping his blade downwards as before. Gotrek met it head on, as he had done earlier. But this time, as Luipold pressed forwards to drive the attack home Gotrek stopped resisting. As the cultist stepped forwards, the dwarf spun low, whipping his axe around in a tight arc to chop his legs off at the knees.

 	Screaming, Luipold toppled over. His chin broke as it slammed into the ground, and the screaming stopped. Luipold should have prayed, offered a platitude to the dark god he’d failed in the hope it might save his soul from a measure of the eternal torment that awaited it. But he didn’t. Instead he lay open-mouthed, staring dumbly at the ruined stumps of his legs, as Gotrek’s axe cleaved through his neck.