SANCTITY
by Nick Kyme


DAWN LIGHT CREPT over the horizon as the wagon emerged from the gathering mist, heading for Hochenheim. The driver urged on the beast pulling the huge wagon, and the creature's heaving flanks were lathered in feverish sweat. Behind it, the forest was a dense black line. Drakwald they called it: a place of shadows, fraught with dark imaginings. Yank knew it well.
From his position in the watchtower, he watched the wagon intently as it got closer to the village gates. Years ago, Yarik had worked as a road warden for Baron Krugedorf. During his tenure guarding the highways of the land Yarik had seen it all. Never, though, had he witnessed a wagon travelling alone in this part of the forest. On the edge of the Drakwald forest, even the villages required defences. Hochenheim itself was surrounded by a solid wooden stockade, with two watchtowers and a stout gate, bolted shut at night. Yet this wagon appeared to be without protection; he couldn't see a single outrider.
Grimacing, Yarik got to his feet.
'Wait here,' he growled to Falker. The young Middenlander, cradling a loaded crossbow, nodded obediently.
A speck of flame flared in the half-light as Yarik drew deeply on his pipe. Below him, Hochenheim was waking. Fires were being stoked to ward off a chill morning, a frail old woman was wringing out clothes before attaching them to a line, and the resonant din of a smithy at his anvil emanated from an unseen forge.
Trudging down the wooden steps of the tower, Yarik saw the gates were opening, as they did every day at dawn. As he reached the village entrance, he tried to rub the arthritis out of his hands, remembering wistfully the lost strength of former days, and went to greet the wagon.
'Ho there,' Yarik called, showing his palm in a gesture for the driver to stop at the open gateway.
The wagon looked even more massive up close. Six stout, iron-shod wheels accommodated its weight, and leather flaps covered both sides. The horse pulling it wore a sacking hood over its head, coarse slits in it serving as eyeholes. It was incredible that one beast could bear such a burden.
Yarik gripped the pommel of his sheathed sword as he went to speak to the driver. He moved to pat the beast's flank, but recoiled when it turned sharply with a muted snarl. The wagonner laid a hand on the horse's rump, soothing the creature's belligerence. He held the reins nonchalantly as he leant back, a bizarre, patchwork coat flapping down over his body. Long, black hair shrouded most of his face, and he wore a thin, curled moustache with a tightly cropped spike of beard. Yarik judged men by their eyes, but this fellow's were difficult to discern, obscured by a tall, wide-brimmed hat.
'State your business,' Yarik barked, his breath misting the cold morning air.
'Greetings noble lord,' uttered the driver silkily. 'I am Zanikoff,' he declared, 'and my business, put simply...' he said, leaping from his seat and landing with a flourish, as a bunch of paper flowers appeared in his hand, '...is entertainment,' Zanikoff concluded, with a devilish smile. A flick of the wrist and the flowers vanished.
Yarik was taken aback by the sudden display and half-drew his sword. 'We don't harbour sorcerers here,' he told the stranger.
Behind him, a crowd had gathered.
'I do not intend to bewitch you,' said Zanikoff plaintively, 'merely beguile you with trickery and show.' He moved beyond the gates and towards the crowd. The flowers reappeared in his other hand. 'It's just sleight of hand,' he explained, with a wink, and put his finger to his lips.
Zanikoff turned his attention to the mystified onlookers. He produced a long cane from one of his coat sleeves and walked over to them, singling out a village maiden. He bowed, and gave her the tattered paper flowers. Blushing, the maiden took them.
'Milady,' Zanikoff purred, before twirling to face a young boy, watching the impromptu pantomime open-mouthed. The boy's eyes sparkled at three silver coins that had appeared in Zanikoff's splayed fingers. Juggling them effortlessly, he threw the coins high into the air. The boy tried to follow, but lost them in the light.
'I know what you're thinking,' Zanikoff said, leaning in towards the boy. 'Where are they?' he whispered. Reaching behind the boy's ear, his hand emerged holding a silver coin. 'Here, all the time,' he said, flicking the coin to the boy, who snatched it eagerly.
'Ladies and gentlemen,' Zanikoff continued, walking back to the wagon, which had made its way through the gates and into the square, Yarik starting at its sudden appearance. 'I am Zanikoff,' he said, doffing his hat with a mock courtly bow, 'and may I present for your edification, your delectation and delight, your sheer, pure and unadulterated gratification...' Zanikoff took a deep breath, observing the befuddled faces with veiled amusement, '...the Carnival of Mystery!' He smacked the side of the wagon with his cane and the leather flap covering it rolled away to reveal a garish banner beneath. Two theatrical masks - one happy, the other sad - were described upon it, surrounded by a myriad of colourful images. Amazing beasts, jugglers, sword swallowers, fire-eaters, clowns and acrobats all vied for the crowd's attention. ''Carnival of Mystery'' was etched above and below in faded archaic script, and read by the few literate onlookers. The banner was well worn and cracked in places, but still it drew excited gasps.
'What do you want here?' asked Yarik.
Zanikoff swaggered towards the old soldier theatrically.
'Why, that is simple,' he said, eyes widening with glee, 'to perform.' He rapped three more times on the wagon and the back fell open. A menagerie of gaudy characters issued forth. Fire-eaters painted in bizarre tattoos were joined by brutish strongmen, jesters and jugglers, while musicians played out merry tunes on drums and pipes, wearing fantastical costumes, their faces concealed by decadent masks.
'Plays and pantomime is what we offer,' Zanikoff informed the awestruck Hochenheimers, 'great tales of valour,' he said deeply, puffing up his chest, 'tragedy,' he added with a sorrowful frown, 'and comedy!' he concluded raucously, a jester slipping onto his arse to the collective laughter of the entire village.
'Meagre tribute is all we ask,' Zanikoff said, growing serious, shifting his attention back to Yarik. 'To bestow such gifts of mirth and merriment, we crave a simple indulgence.'
Yarik looked back at him nonplussed.
'A stage,' said Zanikoff, a wide grin spreading across his handsome features.

A RAISED WOODEN platform in the village square, usually used for storing sacks of grain, was cleared quickly and turned into a makeshift stage. A vast array of backdrops and pantomime furnishings dressed it. The fixtures looked old and slightly tarnished, but the bedazzled villagers of Hochenheim paid these details no heed. A great apple tree overshadowed the stage. It was the biggest in all of Hochenheim and a symbol of the village, its abundant blossoms full of the promise of spring.
Yarik sat on a barrel, away from the thronging crowd that cooed and called, and laughed at the antics of the Carnival of Mystery. Smoking his pipe, he noticed Alderman Greims, and even Mayor Hansat, entranced by the troupe of masked players. Yarik was secretly impressed by their realistic costumes, turning them into maidens, monsters and mythic heroes.
Other entertainments were going on around the main stage, too: a jester performed tumbling tricks and a ventriloquist with a hand puppet regaled a group of children with his talents. It appeared as if they were moving away from the main crowd. The puppet was a bedraggled looking thing, a mangy dog with one eye, but the engrossed youngsters seemed oblivious.
There was no sign of Zanikoff. After introducing the various festivities, he had vanished. Yarik didn't trust him and wanted to know where he was. He swept his gaze across the crowd and thought he saw something in the shadow of the village tavern, the Black Bear. The wagon Zanikoff and his troupe had arrived in was stationed there, along with the hooded steed. As Yarik got up, he didn't relish reacquainting himself with that beast.
Negotiating the crowd, he headed for the wagon. The noise was almost deafening, such were the raucous cheers and thunderous laughter. But Yarik kept his eyes on the tight alley next to the Black Bear and the thing in the shadows that had caught his attention. For a moment, out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw a lone young girl following the puppeteer further away from the stage, but he soon lost sight of her, more intent on his investigations.
As he got closer, Yarik saw Zanikoff. He was hefting something heavy into the wagon and after a moment inside, emerged unburdened. Yarik's suspicions grew and for a moment he thought about seeking out Falker; he hadn't seen the young Middenlander for hours.
Yarik pressed on, unperturbed, but by the time he reached the Black Bear, Zanikoff had gone. The wagon door was open, so, giving the horse a wide berth, he worked his way around the wagon. Darkness persisted within. He drew his dagger and took a tentative step up inside.
The wagon's interior was vast; it seemed far larger inside than outside. Yarik willed his eyes to adjust quicker to the dark and his beating heart not to thump so loudly. Taking another step, Yarik realised there was something at the back of the wagon, something big. He swore he could hear it breathing, and a horrible stink assailed his nostrils. Another horse? It would explain how the animal he had seen could carry such a burden if it were shared. As Yarik got closer, he discerned a misshapen silhouette, too large and grotesque to be a horse. His days as a road warden, and all the things he had seen dwelling in the deepest bowels of the Drakwald, returned to him and suddenly he knew what this thing was.
'By the gods,' he breathed, reaching slowly for his sword and backing away.
'My noble lord Yarik,' said Zanikoff from behind him.
Yarik turned quickly to find the carnival master blocking his path, his long, sleek silhouette described by the light at the wagon door as he stood just outside.
Yarik's mind and body screamed at him to flee, but somehow, through sheer force of will, he compelled himself to stay. To flee now would mean death, he was certain of that.
Behind him, there was the faint rattling of chains as the creature shifted. Yarik started to slide out his sword.
'Would you like to peek?' Zanikoff intoned playfully.
Yarik shook his head weakly, mouthing the words he was desperate to articulate. The drone of the crowd was distant now, as if heard from underwater. 'No?' Zanikoff answered for him. 'Tell me,' he said, 'do you know what curiosity did to the cat?'
Yarik couldn't speak, his mouth sketching words noiselessly. He couldn't even shake his head. Hot breath lapped at his neck; the nauseating stench of decay came with it, making him retch and it took all of his resolve not to vomit. Warm piss trickled down his leg and tears filled his eyes, as all those years of hunting and fighting in the dark, all that fortitude and bravery, were stripped away.
'I thought not,' Zanikoff said, stepping back from the wagon's entrance. 'Let me educate you.' The door slammed shut and Yarik was trapped.
Outside, Zanikoff watched with some satisfaction as the wagon rocked violently back and forth, the cries of the ex-road warden quickly muted, much like his fellow soldier's had been. Molmoth was ever ravenous, his appetite seldom sated for long.
In the distance, a mother cried out for her child, but the roaring crowd, oblivious in adulation, smothered her desperate call.
Zanikoff smiled, watching as the players sprang through the village, spreading their gifts. The seeds had been sown and soon, very soon, the harvest would begin.

THE BEATING OF drums was like thunder across the open plain. Atop a craggy rise a force of knights knelt in prayer, their silver armour gleaming, framed against a blackening horizon. They surrounded a great stone temple with two doves flying above it, despite the approaching storm. A priestess stood at the centre of the penitent warriors, a sword at her side, a book in her hand. She looked down at the foot of the great rise where their enemies gathered, eager for slaughter.
To the west, there massed a mighty horde, thousands strong, black banners fluttering. Armoured warriors, faces obscured by metal, stood side-by-side with loping daemons. Whelp masters held snarling hounds as they strained at the leash, while above the sound of drums was joined by the beating of wings. A champion of the dark gods waited amongst them, riding a huge and fearsome steed. His armour was the colour of night and the slits in his helm flared with flame-red malevolence.
From the east came rotting warriors encased in husks of rusted armour, their tarnished blades held aloft in tribute. Daemons: horned, cyclopean creatures riddled with decay, capered with them. Their silent lord sat upon an emaciated steed. A ragged hood concealed his face, and pustule ravaged, bone-thin hands clutched a pitted scythe.
At some unseen command, the armies of darkness charged, zealous fury lending them vigour. The knights rose as one to meet them. The priestess raised her sword, tears streaming down her face.
Fury charged the air and the smell of steel filled it. The sound of the charging legions resonated throughout the hillside and then, at last, as the three armies met, a great peal of thunder roiled across the heavens and lightning tore down with all the anger of the gods.

* * *

'WAKE UP.'
Steel crashed.
'Mikael...'
Blood ran like rain.
'Wake up.'
Lightning flashed.
'Mikael!'
Mikael awoke, gasping for breath, as strong hands shook him. Cold pricked at his sweat soaked face. His heart beat with the sound of remembered thunder. Instinctively, he reached for his sword. He found the templar blade readily, felt the skull-shaped pommel.
'Easy son,' said a giant man clad in thick, black armour, wrought with sigils of death and mortality. They were the symbols of their god, Morr. It was Halbranc, his brother-at-arms.
'You slept like the dead,' he said, voice deep and resonant. He crouched over the young knight, a broad smile cracking his battle-scarred face.
Mikael looked around, trying to get his bearings. He was surrounded by trees. A light snow, drifting in a fitful winter breeze, laid a white veneer over their camp. The others were already up it seemed; the previous night's fire a blackened scar on the forest floor. Mikael hugged his black cloak around him. He'd stripped off his black armour. It lay cradled in a blanket. Recall rushed back.
They'd been in the Drakwald for three days, hunting in the shadows and the dark. They'd left their horses at the Road Warden's Rest, a fortified coaching inn several miles back, as the forest was too thick and too dangerous for steeds to venture into. They'd been searching blindly for a renegade, with no guarantee of success, a warlock of the Cult of the Burning Hand.
Halbranc stood up. His formidable presence cast a long shadow; he was every inch the avenging knight of Morr. The hilt of his zweihander protruded from beneath his cloak and was strapped to his back. Snow fell upon his bald pate, but his chiselled features betrayed no discomfort.
'Strap on your armour,' he said, passing Mikael a breastplate with a gauntleted hand. 'Valen has found the renegade's trail.'

'YOU ARE CERTAIN it is Kleiten?' asked Reiner, without emotion. He stood over the young templar scout, one hand resting on the pommel of his blade.
'I cannot be sure,' Valen answered his captain, 'but something has come this way recently and the earth is scorched, yet there are no signs of burnt kindling.'
Reiner turned to Sigson; his cold blue eyes held a question.
'The cult has been known to use the wind of Aqshy in its magics,' said the warrior priest, drawing his cloak tight to his body as he suppressed a shiver.
Reiner held Sigson's gaze, unmoving.
'Kleiten is a fire wizard,' Sigson elaborated, wiping an encrusted veneer of frost from his grey spike of beard.
'Your knowledge of the arcane is... unsettling,' said Reiner with some consideration. He turned back to Valen, who was already on his feet. His twin brother, Vaust was alongside him.
'Find what's keeping Halbranc,' said Reiner. 'We follow the trail.'
Vaust nodded, hurrying back to the nearby campsite to find Reiner's second in command. The fact they were so close only made it all the more galling that they'd missed the renegade's trail earlier. Vaust had only just set off when Halbranc and Mikael emerged into the clearing where their comrades congregated.
'Where is Koller?' Reiner asked. He was the only knight still not present.
'Here,' a low voice answered. Roller emerged from the shadows, regarding his fellow knights with hooded eyes.
Death was no stranger to any of those who came into the service of Morr. Every man in that clearing had a story of loss. Most kept such tragedies to themselves and Roller was no exception, but he bore a particularly terrible burden, and one that never seemed to lift.
Reiner's look was reproachful.
'I'm sorry,' Roller said. 'I was searching for further signs.'
'This is the Drakwald,' Reiner reminded him. 'We stay together.' The captain turned to Valen. 'Lead the way,' he ordered icily, with a final piercing look at Mikael.
The youthful knight couldn't hold his gaze and was glad when Reiner stalked off after the scout.
'I doubt he feels it,' Halbranc whispered to Mikael as they trudged after the others.
'Feels what?'
'The cold,' Halbranc said, a broad smile splitting his craggy features. 'I wonder if he ''feels'' at all.'
Halbranc laughed, slapping Mikael on the back, sending shudders through his armour. 'Come on,' he urged.

IT HAPPENED QUICKLY. One moment they were following Valen as he stalked the renegade's trail, the next Roller had started off alone, running as if all the hellish daemons of Chaos were after him.
Reiner had immediately signalled the rest of the knights to pursue.
Mikael was close behind the fleeing knight, hot breath misting in the air as he exerted himself.
'Roller!' a voice echoed from the gloom. 'Roller, where are you going?'
It was Vaust, at Mikael's heels.
Roller paused to wave them on and then continued.
'Roll-' Vaust's shout was arrested by a giant hand covering his mouth.
'Quiet, you fool,' Halbranc hissed in his ear. 'You'll have every denizen of the Drakwald upon us.'
Mikael saw his captain, several feet across from him; slashes of black between the stout trunks of trees as he followed silently and stealthily after Roller. Mikael wasn't sure whether his captain wanted to catch him to prevent mishap or to put him to the sword for his erratic behaviour. Reiner's stony demeanour made it impossible to tell.
They were gaining. Ahead, the forest had thickened and Roller was finding it hard going. Valen headed the chasing pack. He made good headway, despite the weight of his armour and the snow underfoot.
Halbranc was not so adept. He slipped, barging through the clawing bracken, and was lost from sight. Sigson was nowhere to be seen.
Mikael managed to stick close to Valen. He was an Ostermarker by birth. A childhood spent in the deep forests of that province had taught him much about traversing them. His was a childhood tainted by tragedy. Thoughts sprang unbidden into Mikael's mind: the flash of the dagger, a cry in the dark, the creaking of the rope.
Searing pain brought Mikael back, a sharp branch slashing open his cheek as he ran past it. None of them were wearing their helmets: they dulled awareness. To be so disadvantaged in a forest, the Drakwald of all places, was unwise. Mikael's blood felt hot as it ran down his face. He wiped it away, instead focusing on getting to Roller. The Drakwald was no place for a mindless chase into shadows.
Roller stopped abruptly as if whatever had been compelling him had gone.
Valen reached him first, followed by Mikael a few moments later.
'Keller, what happened?' Valen asked.
The rest of the company caught up, Vaust then Reiner. A battered Halbranc brought up the rear with Sigson, the old priest bent over and gasping for breath.
Koller turned to face Valen.
'A woman,' he gasped, 'she wanted me... to follow.'
Mikael had seen nothing. There were no tracks in the snow and no broken branches. He noticed a dark glance pass between Reiner and Sigson. Both men knew of the unseen dangers of the Drakwald, of the phantoms of those long dead, calling others to join them in damnation, of strange magics that possessed men and enslaved them.
'What is that?' Valen asked suddenly, pointing through a gap in the trees. Mikael followed his gaze.
Beyond the tree line, a light invaded the forest shadow, and a few hundred feet beyond stood a walled settlement. A simple road led up to it, emerging from another part of the Drakwald.
'It's a village,' said Mikael.

TWO DILAPIDATED WATCHTOWERS stood at the village's entrance, an ironbound gate hanging limply on a rusted hinge between them. A wooden stockade wall surrounded the village and, getting closer, the knights saw that the wall was cracked, age-worn timber yielding to the ravages of time.
Passing through the yawning gateway they saw a line of frost-caked clothes, eroded by decay, swinging in the breeze. Chimneys were dormant, emaciated animals wandered aimlessly, and a great tree stood withered and forlorn, wasted apples clinging to skeletal branches. Silence reigned; the village was empty, ghost-like.
'What happened here?' asked Mikael. It reminded him of home, back in Ostermark. He found the thought saddening.
'I see no signs of a battle,' growled Halbranc.
'Let us find out,' said Reiner. 'Knights, draw swords,' he ordered and they drew as one, a chorus of scraping steel.
The captain signalled the knights to split into groups. Reiner moved up the village square with Valen and Vaust, and Halbranc accompanied Koller who ranged right, while Mikael and Sigson went left.

AFTER SEARCHING SEVERAL hovels without success, Mikael came to a blacksmith's forge. Peering tentatively inside, he saw that tools were left out. A horseshoe sat upon the anvil, pinched between a pair of rusted metal tongs. A lantern swung noisily on a chain set into the roof.
'It's as if this place has been abandoned for years,' he muttered to himself.
'You're bleeding, Mikael,' said Sigson, noticing the cut on Mikael's cheek.
'It's nothing,' he said absently, wiping away the blood and crouching down, as he noticed something in the frosty earth at his feet.
'What is it?' asked Sigson, joining him.
'I'm not sure.' Mikael brushed the snow away carefully with his hand, revealing something large and flat. 'Looks like a sign,' he said.
'Dropped by the smithy, perhaps,' Sigson wondered. 'What does it say?'
Mikael swept away the grime and filth, using his dagger to chip away at the rusted metal.
'Hochenheim.'
There was a distant cry, Keller's voice preventing further exploration. The knight and the priest got up and dashed outside.
Halbranc was running after Roller with the other knights in tow.
'I saw her,' cried Roller, 'the woman, she is here,' he said, disappearing from view behind a dishevelled tavern.

THEY FOUND ROLLER standing before a tombstone, a mass of other graves arrayed around him in a garden of Morr.
Mikael saw Reiner mutter a prayer to the death-god, before entering. 'She was here,' said Roller.
Mikael looked down at the grave which was marked by a nondescript and unadorned headstone.
Reiner stalked away with a meaningful glance at Sigson who nodded, and went to Roller. Mikael couldn't hear what the priest was saying, but his tone was soothing.
'What is happening?' Roller cried out. 'I swear I saw...' The young knight paused, looking out beyond the cemetery.
Mikael followed his gaze to a steep hillside. At first he saw the shadows at the crest of the hill; then he heard cries and the clash of steel.

WITH THE WINTER sun almost faded behind them, the templars of Morr reached the top of the hillside, where they saw a large stone temple. Outside it, a battle raged.
Mikael made out a horde of misshapen creatures in the twilight. They surrounded a band of knights, who were backing off towards the temple. One knight was torn down by a claw-handed freak, his torso severed in two, turning the snow crimson.
'Mutants,' Halbranc hissed.
'Sigson, who are these men?' asked Reiner, his eyes never leaving the brutal combat.
'They bear the livery of the Baron of Rrugedorf, it's a town in this province,' Sigson replied, discerning the design on the knights' tabards. The warrior priest was learned not just in matters of his faith, his knowledge extended far beyond that purview, a valuable asset the knights often called upon.
Mikael went over to the warrior priest, slipping on the snow. He crashed into the ground, reopening the cut in his cheek. Blood dripped down onto the snow, blossoming readily. He saw a piece of cloth sticking out of the snow, and, picking it up, used it to stem the bleeding.
At the temple, another knight was dragged, screaming, to his death. 'We must aid them!' Vaust hissed urgently. Reiner had seen enough.
'Such abominations must not be allowed to endure,' he growled, donning his helmet and sliding the skull faceplate down as he got to his feet.
The other knights followed suit, each drawing down the death masks that were part of their helmets, a symbol of their intent to do battle. Mikael quickly tucked the cloth beneath his armoured greave before pulling down his own faceplate.
'Knights! To arms!' Reiner bellowed, drawing his sword.
Charging over the rise, the knights struck the mutant horde with righteous fury.
Valen and Vaust waded in silently. Vaust hacked the leg off one creature, its features obliterated by boils. Valen impaled another, his blade sinking into the distended maw of a half man, half beast.
Halbranc carved a red ruin in the diseased throng, opening up a massively bloated monster with his zweihander, maggot-ridden entrails sloughing from the ragged tear in its belly.
Sigson cut down a horned mutant before reaching into his robes and pulling out a glass vial of shimmering liquid.
'I cast thee back into the void,' he intoned, hurling the holy water at the bloated creature's disgorged intestines. The stink of burning viscera tainted the breeze.
A goat-headed man brayed its defiance at Mikael. The templar roared, cutting the beast's head from its shoulders, black blood fountaining.
Reiner was deadly.
'I am Morr's instrument, through me is his will enacted,' he uttered, tearing into the abominations with ruthless efficiency.
Koller though, was unstoppable.
Misshapen limbs and grotesque heads fell like macabre rain upon the ground as he carved through the horde like a butcher.
Recognising allies when they saw them, the Krugedorf knights rallied and redoubled their efforts.
'Knights of Morr, to me!' Reiner cried, seeking to break through the back of the encircling creatures.
The templars of Morr followed dutifully, smashing a hole in the mutants' death pincer.
'Look,' cried one of the Krugedorf knights.
A veritable sea of boil ridden, plague ravaged wretches erupted over the rise.
Hacking down a cloven-hoofed monstrosity, Mikael noticed another group watching them, far behind the onrushing horde. At the centre was a thin figure, his long coat flapping in the breeze. It might have been his imagination, but Mikael swore he saw it bow towards the knights.
'We cannot overcome such odds,' said Sigson, gutting a beast on his blade.
'Your priest is right,' said a Krugedorf knight. Mikael assumed it was their leader. His face, hidden behind his blood spattered helmet, was unreadable. 'I have men in the temple,' he added, cutting down another mutant, 'we can regroup there.'
'Agreed,' said Reiner, felling another as he backed away from the reinforcements.
The knights of Krugedorf and Morr raced the short distance to the temple and hurled themselves through the entrance, slamming shut the door immediately after them.
Mikael looked back to see two armour-clad warriors, with swords drawn.
'They are allies,' the Krugedorf leader told them, 'knights of Morr. Quickly,' he added urgently, his voice dull and resonant inside his helmet, 'we must barricade the entrances.'
Halbranc needed little encouragement. Hefting a massive wooden bench up over his head, he slammed it down against the door. Reiner dragged over another, ramming it against a window, a Krugedorf knight bracing it with a massive wrought iron candlestick. Mikael and another Krugedorfer heaved a statue of some long-forgotten saint across the final window.
The tide of mutants crashed against the temple. The door shuddered as the debased creatures hammered on it with unholy vigour, massing like diseased surf. Claws and pockmarked talons reached in through gaps in the barricades, only to be cut off. Others were impaled as the knights thrust their blades through the openings in desperation, rewarded with disembodied mutant screams. At last, amidst shouting and crashing steel, the barrage stopped. Dust motes drifted silently from the ceiling. After a few moments, Valen peered through an opening in one of the barricades.
'They have gone,' he said quietly.
'For now,' said the Krugedorf leader, removing his helmet. Long blond hair fell down onto his shoulders as a handsome face was revealed in the light of a flickering torch ensconced on one of the walls.
The knights stood in a small entrance chamber at the back of which was a gateless arch that led into a long chapel, full of overturned pews. Strangely, this place, although dusty and ancient, bore no signs of the blight that had afflicted the rest of Hochenheim.
'You think they will return?' asked Mikael of the blond-haired noble.
'They will return,' a deep voice said from the shadows. Another knight stepped forward, his ornate helmet covering the upper half of his face. He wore a black beard, and a mace hung at his hip, slick with blood.
'I am Heinrich of Krugedorf,' the blond-haired knight interjected, extending a gauntleted hand towards Reiner.
'Reiner,' the captain growled warily, shaking Heinrich's hand as he lifted the death mask and removed his helmet, 'servant of Morr,' he added. The others followed his example and introduced themselves to the strangers.
Heinrich gestured to his warriors.
'Goiter,' he said. The dark-bearded knight remained unmoved. 'Kurn,' he continued. Kurn, sticking to the shadows, was broad, and taller even than Halbranc. He wore a full-faced helmet, a mighty zweihander at his side, and gave a mute greeting. 'Mordan.' A youthful, wiry-looking knight, with a number of small daggers up his right arm nodded. His left arm was harnessed in a sling. 'And Veiter,' Heinrich concluded.
The last knight smiled and bowed slightly, twin short swords sheathed at his hips. His hair was the colour of sack-doth, his eyes suspicious and alert.
The Krugedorfers were unshaven and drawn. Clearly they too had been on the road, and they each bore the crest of what Mikael assumed must be the Baron of Krugedorf: a red shield with a bearded stag at opposite diagonals, doubtless some reference to the hunting heritage of their lord.
'What is your purpose here?' asked Reiner.
'We come on an errand from our liege-lord, the baron,' said Heinrich. 'We are to salvage the relics of this temple and take them to a place of safety,' he explained.
'Then let us help you. We can reclaim them together,' said Reiner matter-of-factly, 'and leave this damned place.' He turned to Halbranc. 'Fortify the entrance,' he ordered, 'Mikael and Sigson with me, the rest, assist Halbranc.'
'I'm afraid it isn't quite that simple,' warned Heinrich. Reiner turned to face him. His expression demanded explanations.

'BEYOND THIS DOOR lies the relic chamber,' Heinrich informed them.
Reiner, Sigson and Mikael, together with Heinrich and Kurn, stood in a long, narrow corridor at the foot of a set of stone steps. The stairway had led them to these catacombs from a trapdoor in the chapel and now they faced a single, stone door.
'I warn you,' Heinrich intoned darkly, 'there is peril beyond it. Steel yourselves.'
'Knights of Morr fear not the darkness,' Reiner told him with the utmost certainty.
Mikael felt his heart beating.
Heinrich motioned to Kurn, and the silent giant gripped the great iron manacle of the door and heaved with all his considerable might. As the door ground open, noisily kicking up grit and dust, Mikael gripped his sword. There was a long, wide room beyond it, flickering torches illuminating the threshold. Further in, there was only darkness.
'I see little peril here,' Sigson remarked, driven by curiosity as he stepped beyond the shallow cordon of light.
'Wait!' Heinrich warned.
'There is noth-' he said, and then cried out as a long cut appeared on his arm.
Heinrich hauled him back into the light.
Mikael muttered a prayer to Morr as a shimmering, ethereal blade materialised in the darkness. A hand coalesced around it, then an arm, and then a torso, until the spectre was revealed. Hollow, sunken eyes, ragged robes and skeletal limbs marked this thing as a wight, one of the unquiet dead.
More phantoms appeared alongside, their faces pitiless and cold. In their unearthly lustre they revealed the ancient bones of priests and other relics. But it was the woman, kneeling in silent vigil, dressed in dishevelled robes, who got the knights' attention. She was flesh and blood. Her hair was lank, her face wizened and encrusted with filth. She chanted wordlessly. Behind her was a second, much smaller, chamber, delineated by a wide arch. Set in the back wall was a large circular window coated in dust so thick it blocked out the light.
Looking at her, Mikael felt an overwhelming sense of sadness.
'There,' Heinrich intoned quietly, interrupting Mikael's thoughts, 'you see the witch?' Reiner nodded sternly.
'We found her hiding in this place, doubtless seeking refuge from those who might put her to the torch,' he spat. Reiner's jaw locked.
'Before we could slay her, she summoned these... spirits,' Heinrich continued. 'We have been unable to approach her since. As those who follow the Lord of Death and Dreams, do you think you can lay these ghosts to rest?'
Reiner looked to Sigson, who held onto his arm, his expression pained. 'It will take time,' the warrior priest told them.

* * *

NIGHT, IT SEEMED, came all too swiftly, but there had been no more attacks on the temple. The knights worked quickly, bolstering the barricades and lighting the remaining torches in the chapel. The mutants knew they were there, no sense in trying to hide their presence and the heat was welcome respite against the cold.
Mikael stared into the flames, hugging his arms around his body as he sat on one of the wooden pews, the wrathful wind providing a moaning chorus to his thoughts.
'Sigson has yet to return,' Halbranc said. Mikael wasn't even aware he was next to him and started at the big man's sudden presence.
'Easy,' he said, 'it's just me, lad.' He handed Mikael a slice of salted pork, but the young knight refused it.
'This silence unnerves me,' Mikael admitted. 'I have no care for it,' he added, looking around the room.
Valen and Vaust talked quietly amongst themselves as they ate, making the most of the opportunity before the fighting started again. Koller lay on the floor, his cloak wrapped tight around him, shivering in his sleep. Reiner had stayed with Sigson.
Mikael knew the captain didn't trust the Krugedorf knights. His gaze fell to them next, regarding the knights of Morr beneath the glow of torchlight, the faint hubbub of whispers barely audible. But then Reiner trusted no one, not even his own men.
'Don't dwell on it,' Halbranc advised. 'Here,' he said, producing a small silver flask from beneath his cloak, 'take a swig of this; it'll warm your blood.'
Mikael shook his head.
'If Reiner saw that...' he began.
'I dare say he would not approve,' Halbranc agreed, 'but then our fearless captain approves of very little,' he said, taking a belt of liquor from the flask, grimacing as it scorched his throat.
'You don't know what you're missing,' he said afterwards.
Mikael smiled; the ephemeral expression fading as he looked into Halbranc's eyes. He knew very little of the man's history, save that he was once a mercenary and had fought across much of the Empire and beyond. There was a sadness in him, one that he could not shake, only dull with alcohol. He'd heard him at night, crying in his sleep at dark dreams that Mikael could only guess at. Halbranc would never admit to the hidden pain in his soul, but he knew that Mikael was aware of it.
'How are there so many of them?' Mikael asked, finding the abrupt silence uncomfortable.
'Them?' Halbranc asked, concealing the flask beneath his cloak.
'The mutants.'
'What do you think happened to all the villagers?' asked Halbranc grimly, getting to his feet. 'We fought them today.'
'By the breath of Morr,' Mikael said, at last understanding.
'Do not think on it,' Halbranc told him sternly. 'Get some sleep,' he added, his face softening. 'We don't know when we might get another opportunity.'
'Don't worry,' he said, 'I'll keep a watch. Don't feel much like sleeping, anyway.'
Mikael watched Halbranc go to stand at the barricade, peering out into the night. He sank back against the pew. It was hard and unyielding, but he was exhausted, the cold and his dark thoughts sapping his endurance. Reluctantly, he fell into a fitful sleep.

THE FOREST ROSE up around him, thick branches tugging at his clothes, briars scraping exposed flesh. There was a dagger in his hand. It was stained with blood. He was running; a shadow figure a few paces ahead. He almost reached it when he saw a mighty bearded stag looking at him from a sun dappled clearing. A second, identical beast emerged from the forest beside it.
The two creatures charged each other, locking antlers fiercely. He watched, horrified as the antlers started to merge together in a terrible union, the stags becoming one hideous, mutated beast.
Four baleful eyes stared back at him from a single head as the abomination burst into bright red flame.

MIKAEL AWOKE TO desperate cries and rushing feet. He saw Vaust, struggling to hold back the wooden bench at the window. Valen lay on the floor beneath him, clutching his shoulder. Halbranc was running to him, Heinrich not far behind.
Goiter dragged Roller up, muttering a curse.
Kurn's armoured bulk was pressed against the door, while Mordan and Veiter hefted another bench between them to seal the second window, which gaped open, the statue in rubble beneath.
Mikael caught a glimpse of Reiner in the corner of his eye, appearing from the trapdoor. There was no sign of Sigson. He must still be in the relic room. Getting to his feet, Mikael ran towards Vaust. Then the temple door exploded.
Halbranc and Heinrich were thrown to the ground. Kurn bore the brunt of the blast, engulfed in a splinter storm of broken wood and iron. Incredibly, he stayed upright.
Flames lapped at the edges of the shattered door, the twisted iron jutting out like broken limbs. Smoke issued through the huge gap, shifting figures visible through it. The stench was unmistakeable: blackpowder.
The mutants howled as they emerged through the haze and into the temple. Kurn swept his blade in a punishing arc, but missed as a creature dressed like a macabre jester thwarted his aim. It rode around on a skeletal hobbyhorse with a cadaverous head. It smashed the massive Krugedorf knight to the ground with a huge, unwieldy mace.
Mikael charged at the grotesque jester, but his path was blocked by two girls holding hands. He wavered for a moment, his blade stayed by their apparent innocence. Then he saw their hands, fused together in a gelatinous mass of flesh and knew they were not children. Snarling viciously, revealing deadly fangs, they sprang on top of Mikael. The templar dropped his sword, desperately trying to fend off the weird sisters as they clawed and bit.
He felt their weight lifting and vaguely saw the hideous twins flailing off into the dark. Halbranc stood before him.
'Pick up your swor-' he began, but was smashed aside, a hugely obese woman crushing him into the wall with her bulk.
Reiner raced to Halbranc's aid, blade in hand, but was confronted by a diminutive, sallow-skinned freak, mouth sewn shut crudely with thick, black thread. In one hand it clutched a rusted dagger; on the other was the puppet of a mangy dog. The mute shook the puppet free, revealing a small, daemon-like creature, instead of a hand.
'Die!' the daemon-hand hissed, its voice bubbling like melting flesh.
Reiner roared, cutting the daemon thing off at the wrist and sending it flying. The mute scampered after it, ducking and weaving under the blades of the other knights as it went.
At the wall, Halbranc was slowly being smothered. Mikael and Reiner plunged their swords into the hideous woman crushing him. The creature laughed, black ooze running down the knights' blades, corroding the metal. They dropped their weapons as the caustic blood devoured them.
Mikael was reaching for another blade, when a long shadow fell across him. He turned quickly, short sword in hand and found himself gazing up at an incredibly tall, thin man, a strange, almost infantile head on his shoulders. It swung a massive glaive at the templar, who leapt to avoid it, chunks of flagstone debris erupting in his wake. He sprang up to face it, abhorred as the creature's head detached from its body and with a horrifying screech launched itself at the temple roof, thin, spidery legs punching from the cranium and gaining purchase in solid stone. The spider-thing chittered as it came towards him, the headless freak still swinging the glaive. There was the flash of silver and the spider-thing fell, a dagger protruding from its forehead. Both the stickman and the spider-thing retreated.
Mikael turned to see Mordan, another dagger in his hand, about to throw it when he was split in two, a grotesquely muscled freak with a tiny hooded head, cutting him down with an axe.
Mikael lost the creature amidst the chaos, his attention arrested by Halbranc's muffled cries as he was still pinned by the obese woman.
Reiner had shaken off another mutant and was moving in, when Heinrich appeared beside them, hefting a torch from the wall and ramming the fiery brand into the obese freak's wound. Its jaw distended horribly to reveal the half-digested corpse of a Krugedorf knight, slain in the first battle, as it recoiled from the fire, shuffling away into the shadows.
Gasping for breath, Halbranc slumped to his knees, his zweihander clattering to the ground.
Around them, the smoke was clearing, the freaks defeated, but Mordan was dead and Valen badly wounded.
Mikael regarded the carnage, the corpses of slain villagers, afflicted by the plague, were everywhere, but of the macabre circus freaks, there was no sign.
'I brought down at least one,' growled Goiter, apparently reading Mikael's mind as he wiped the gore from his mace.
'I too felled one of them that could not have lived,' offered Vaust.
'Daemons,' Reiner spat, under his breath.
'Whatever those things were, we cannot remain here,' said Heinrich, gesturing to the charred ruin of the door. 'When they return, and return they will, we will be defenceless.'
'Is there another way out?' Reiner asked, looking out impassively into the darkness.
'A secret passage leads to the surface from the relic room,' said Heinrich.
Reiner turned, an inquisitive look flashing briefly over his face.
'If your priest is successful and banishes the spirits...' Heinrich let the thought hang in the air for them to finish.
Then we live, Mikael thought.
'The passageway before the relic room is narrow,' Reiner said. 'It will be easier to defend. We fight in pairs, rotating as each pair gets tired. We'll make our stand there.'
Without further preamble, Reiner stalked over to the trapdoor, the others following him.

THEY HAD WAITED for over an hour in the creeping dark of the catacombs, Sigson's muffled prayers emanating through the door of the relic room.
Mikael was listening to it when he noticed Veiter looking at him. The Krugedorf knight evoked an uneasy feeling in the young templar, and he quickly averted his gaze, shifting it to the other knights.
Vaust was ever watchful over his brother who grimaced in pain next to him. Halbranc and Reiner stood quietly, the former lost in thought, the latter an emotionless statue. Koller sat opposite Mikael and looked sullen, the dark mask upon his face as always.
Of the Krugedorf knights, Goiter and Kurn stood sentinel at the entrance to the passageway. They seemed oddly restless. Even Heinrich, alongside Veiter, appeared on edge.
'What troubles you?' Mikael asked.
Heinrich opened his mouth to answer when the trapdoor caved in and stone fell like rain.
The torches in the passageway guttered and died, engulfing the knights in blackness. Amidst a deluge of broken stone slabs and ruined wood, something large and terrible filled the end of the passageway. The charnel house stink of its breath infected the air.
Goiter turned to shout to Heinrich as something thick and wet lashed out of the dark, and suddenly Goiter was no more, the sickening crunch of bone a macabre echo of his existence.
Overcoming the mind-numbing terror threatening to unman him, Mikael drew his sword.
'We cannot prevail here,' Heinrich breathed, fear in his voice.
Reiner, backing away from the beast, looked over his shoulder at the solid stone door behind him.
'Into the relic room!' he bellowed.
Acting quickly, Halbranc got to the door first. 'Watch my back,' the giant snarled, and heaved on the iron door manacle.
It wouldn't yield.
The massive Krugedorfer, Kurn, appeared alongside him. Together, with the stone grinding in their ears, the knights opened the door.
Inside, Sigson was kneeling on the floor. He'd stepped beyond the cordon of light and was encircled by grave dust, facing off against the witch. In front of him was a black candle, its flame casting a bright aura. The warrior priest was bathed in sweat, his features creased with exertion. Around him, the spirits wailed silently, trying to tear at him with unearthly claws, only repelled by the priest's wards.
The knights paused at the portal when they saw the spirits. The thing in the corridor was a worse terror though and the knights piled inside. Sigson was unaware of their presence, entranced as he invoked the banishment ritual. Kurn heaved the door shut behind them.
Heart racing, Mikael leant heavily against the wall. Something fell from his arm greave, dislodged in the panic. He stooped and picked up a section of cloth. It was the same piece he'd used to staunch his bleeding face outside the temple. He hadn't paid much attention to it. Now that it lay open in his hands, Mikael saw it bore the crest of the Krugedorf knights: a red shield, two bearded stags at opposite diagonals. He suddenly recalled his dream of the stags coming together in a blaze of flame, and wondered what it meant. He half heard Sigson chant the banishment rites and felt the same sadness as he had before. Only it wasn't sadness, it was something else. It felt like... pleading.
Two stags coming together.
Mikael looked again at the cloth. He held a corner in each hand and folded them in on each other, then turned them up, forcing the image of the two stags together.
His heart quickened as the realisation of what was before him struck like a hammer blow. In his hand, the cloth folded over to reveal an entirely different image: a burning hand.
'Sigson, no!' he cried.
He was too late. Sigson had finished the ritual.
The candle flared impossibly bright, and white light flooded the chamber. The witch screamed, flung back with the force of her broken summoning, the spirits crying out in unison as they were expelled in a blinding coruscation.
The knights were thrown down with the sheer power of the invocation, ears ringing with the screams of the damned.
Blinking back the stark after-image, virtually seared upon his retinas, Mikael saw that Heinrich was on his feet and running towards the arch at the back of the room.
'Slay them!' he cried.
Kurn's zweihander was drawn, and he smashed Vaust aside with the flat of the blade. The knight struck the wall hard and fell into a crumpled heap, next to his semi-conscious brother.
Veiter, eyes aglow with balefire, leapt at Reiner, but the captain of Morr was ready and parried his double-handed assault. The Chaos knight snarled, revealing fangs.
'Knights, to arms, the servants of Chaos are among us!' Reiner bellowed.
Sigson staggered to his feet, drawing his blade with shaking hands.
Kurn's armoured boot put him down as he advanced on Halbranc.
The two giants clashed, zweihander on zweihander, the scrape of churning metal and flashing sparks filling the air around them.
'By the hand of Morr,' Halbranc breathed. Face-to-face with the beast, he saw that Kurn's helmet was fused to his neck, the eyeholes empty voids of hate.
The stone door thundered as whatever was outside tried to get in. Mikael gave it little heed, as he ran past the battling knights. He was intent on Heinrich, who was through the archway at the back of the room and into the antechamber.
'Heinrich!' he cried, flinging his short sword at the traitor captain.
The Kragedorfer turned and parried the blade out of the air with unnatural quickness.
'Unwise to relinquish your only weapon,' he said, licking his lips with a serpentine tongue, and stepping backwards into the centre of the antechamber.
'You want the relics for yourself,' Mikael said accusingly.
'Fool,' Heinrich spat. 'Whatever feeble trinkets reside in this place are of no interest to me. It is the temple that I covet,' he said.
'Ignis!' he then cried and a tongue of flame spread furiously around him, describing a rune-etched symbol on the ground, an unholy icon of Chaos.
Exultant, Heinrich threw his head back and the flames rose to the ceiling.
Mikael backed away from the conflagration. Through the blaze, a hazy silhouette was visible.
'Dormamu, I supplicate myself before you. Make me your host,' Heinrich uttered with a voice like prophecy.
His treachery was clear. He meant to summon a daemon.
The inferno intensified as Heinrich's shadow form was lifted off the ground, the deep and unholy resonance of another voice coming from the fire as Heinrich reasserted his pledge.
'He seeks to re-consecrate the circle,' the witch cried desperately from behind Mikael, vying against the raging din of the fire.
Shading his eyes, heat searing his face, Mikael turned to her.
She staggered to her feet.
'Help me,' she begged.
Suddenly, Kurn loomed behind her, zweihander raised, Halbranc lying prone and defeated, his breastplate smashed.
'No!' Mikael cried as the blade fell. She would be cut in twain.
The blade failed to strike; an aura of blue light surrounding her repulsed it.
Witness to a miracle, Mikael had a sudden epiphany as if the light had opened his eyes for the first time. She was no witch. She was a priestess, the guardian of this place, and he must protect her at all costs.
Mikael took up his thrown short sword and rushed at Kurn, knowing he was no match for the Krugedorfer.
The giant turned his attention to the young knight, exuding menace.
Mikael raised his weapon, awaiting the deathblow that would shatter it and his body. It never came.
Kurn recoiled wordlessly, like an automaton, as Keller's blade smashed down onto his pauldron.
Seeing his opportunity, Mikael came at the Chaos warrior from the front, plunging his sword into Kurn's breastplate. He withdrew it savagely, then watched horrified as black sand spilled from the wound. The knight reached out to crush him with a mailed fist.
Koller cleaved it off with a two-handed blow. Still Kurn lived, and whirling around, smashed Koller into the wall.
Mikael gripped his blade, incredulous that the thing before him still endured.
This was his last chance. 'Morr, guide my hand,' he breathed and thrust his sword deep into the eye slit of Kurn's helmet. The giant staggered, trying to clutch at the weapon embedded in his skull with a hand that no longer existed. At last, he fell, like a hewn oak, thunderously to the ground and was still. But it wasn't over yet. The door to the relic room shuddered, cracks appearing in the stone. Mikael turned to the priestess.
She closed her eyes as she muttered words of power. The knight's defence in her honour had granted her the time she needed to perform some ritual.
The cracks in the stone door widened and finally it split and crumbled. The terrible shadow filling it retreated and a horde of bloodshot, plague-infected eyes regarded them.
Mikael was about to run to intercept the creatures, when he felt the light touch of the priestess on his arm. He looked back.
Her eyes opened, burning with a deep blue lustre. The heat from the conflagration surrounding Heinrich visibly ebbed. Even the mutants paused at the doorway, as if sensing something.
'Stop her!' Heinrich cried from within the inferno, his voice deep and ageless.
Only Veiter remained.
Reiner advanced on the last Krugedorfer, the mutant horde faltering at the doorway.
Flinging his blade at Reiner to distract him, Veiter ran. He fled through the arch at the back of the chamber, lost suddenly behind the inferno.
Reiner was about to give chase. A plague creature grabbed his arm, its rusting cleaver about to strike, when the priestess spoke.
'No.'
The cleaver was blasted aside by some unseen force as her voice echoed through the chamber. It was followed by a terrible wail as the dread spirits returned.
Ghostly faces and ethereal bodies became as one as they coalesced into a swirling, spectral maelstrom.
'Purge this place,' she said.
The spirit host swept through the temple like a cleansing wave, accompanied by a wrathful wind, searing plague-ridden flesh and shredding bone. Holy light blazed furiously as the dust and grime clogging the window was destroyed. A lance of power came through it and engulfed the Chaos circle, extinguishing the flames surrounding Heinrich.
Mikael shielded his eyes against its glory.
Then the light was gone, as quickly as it had manifested, and the vengeful spirits with it.
His vision returning, Mikael saw Sigson crouching down next to the priestess.
Mikael went over to him.
He held her in his arms. She was beautiful, the dirt and grime on her face washed away, her hair golden and pure, her robes no longer torn. A radiant blue aura surrounded her.
'My time here is ended,' she told them. 'The sanctity of this place has been preserved.'
'What do you mean?' Mikael asked, his mind reeling from what he had witnessed.
She pressed something into the young knight's hands.
It looked like a book, old and unadorned, but with a small silver clasp in the centre. Mikael unhooked it and opened it out, revealing that it was no book, but a triptych. Three wooden plates within described a battle. In the middle a temple, two doves flying above in a stormy sky; below them, a force of knights surrounded by holy light, a priestess at their heart; to the left, an army of black-armoured warriors and daemons, led by a mighty dark knight on a fell steed; to the right, a plague ridden horde, their skeletal master holding a scythe aloft...
It was the battle from Mikael's dream.
'This place of power has existed for centuries,' said the priestess. 'The prosperity of the village, the relic in your hands,' she said, looking at Mikael, 'ensures its purity. Every one hundred years it is contested. Every one hundred years a guardian is selected to watch over it, to remain here for another century until it is contested again and the next guardian called.'
'A hundred years,' breathed Sigson, 'but that would mean...'
'Yes, I will die,' she said, smiling faintly. 'When the plague came I was weakened. I could not prevail without help. Now the malady that ravaged this place has been lifted and the new guardian is here to take my place.'
Mikael took a deep breath and exhaled his resignation. The dream had been a sign, he could see that now. It was his calling.
'I am the guardian,' he said solemnly.
The priestess turned, a trace of amusement upon her face, 'No, it is not you of whom I speak,' she said, looking beyond the two knights.
Mikael and Sigson turned as one, following her gaze.
Koller staggered to his feet, the light from the window bathing him was a startling affirmation. He looked shocked at first; then, as if suddenly enlightened, he knelt down, bowing his head and laying his sword before him.
Sigson gasped, as the priestess shimmered and faded, the blue aura surrounding her flaring bright in Roller's eyes as he looked up, bathing the room in azure. Then it was gone, and Koller returned to normal.
The remaining knights of Morr stood around him, their wounds miraculously healed.
'What happened here?' Reiner asked darkly.
Mikael looked back to the corridor. Of the creature and the plague horde, there was no sign; even those mutants who had entered the chamber were gone.
'A miracle,' the young knight breathed.
Reiner walked to the back of the room, apparently unmoved.
He regarded Heinrich's charred remains in a circle of ash. He scattered them into nothing with his boot.
'Our work here is done,' he said, his voice like ice. He turned on his heel, and with a glance at Koller, stalked out of the room.
'What will you do?' Mikael asked Koller. He looked different, lifted.
'I will remain here,' he said, 'and protect this place in the name of Morr.'
Silence persisted, the gravity of the moment and Keller's undertaking sinking in.
'It is a noble deed, Koller,' said Sigson. 'A great evil has been averted this night.' He bowed solemnly and left the chamber after Reiner.
Valen and Vaust followed, a nod at Koller before they went.
'Fare thee well, lad,' Halbranc said, joining the others. Mikael handed Koller the triptych. 'This belongs here, I think.'
Koller accepted it gratefully. 'Yours is a great destiny, Mikael. Do not fear it.'
Mikael opened his mouth to speak, but couldn't find any words. Instead, he turned and walked away into the darkness.

OUTSIDE THE TEMPLE, the knights made ready.
'Your orders, Captain Reiner?' Halbranc asked, securing his zweihander.
'We head back to the Road Warden's Rest, get the horses and make for the nearest temple of Morr,' he said. 'There is much to report.'
He stalked off, back the way they had come when first happening upon Hochenheim.
Mikael thought of Koller and found his heart heavy as he walked through the ramshackle village gates and back into the Drakwald. As he did, he looked back at Hochenheim one last time. There, in the village square, he noticed the great tree and upon its branches the smallest of blossoms.