THE JUDAS GOAT
By Robert Earl

MOLLENS SNARLED WITH surprise and leapt backwards. He tried to ignore the blood-red slash across his forearm and snatched for his knife. The hulking Reiklander advanced towards him, his own glistening blade held downwards. Mollens licked his lips nervously, more worried by the man's wide grin than the blade in his hand. What had got into him?
With a speed and grace which belied his hefty frame, the Reiklander leapt with a savage howl. Mollens twisted and struck in one fluid, thoughtless motion. For one terrible moment the two men gazed helplessly into each other's eyes, then the Reiklander collapsed into the cold mud.
Ignoring the horrified silence and the ring of shocked faces, Captain Gustav Mollens stooped and retrieved his knife from the corpse's side. Brandishing the gory weapon, he glared, white-faced, at the others.
'Anyone else?'
The recruits edged backwards. Their commander, knife still at the ready watched them closely for any further sign of rebellion. Only one of their number seemed unaffected by the sudden, murderous violence.
'That won't help your recruitment drive much,' he said.
Mollens was surprised into a bark of laughter by the swarthy, dark-haired man's callous indifference. 'No, I guess not,' he admitted, stooping to wipe his knife on the dead man's tunic. When he was satisfied that the blade was clean, he sheathed it and started issuing orders as though nothing untoward had occurred.
'You and you, build a pyre. We'll burn this and then make camp for the night. You four, box the compass Ontil I work out a roster for guard duty. Now,' he concluded, turning back to his sardonic companion, 'what's your name, soldier?'
'Gevalt, sir. Why are you burning him?' A smirk still played across the man's lips. Mollens decided it was no wonder the man's nose had been broken, more than once by the look of it.
'Well, when I was in the southlands...' His voice trailed off. Best not to mention those whispering horrors here, with the skeletal limbs of the forest reaching out over his little band of innocents.
'Ah, zombies you mean,' Gevalt finished for him.
Well, Mollens thought, perhaps not all such innocents.
'You should tell them about the deathless ones,' Gevalt continued, gesturing casually at the rest of the band, who were by now all busy assembling tents and the fire. 'Might stop the desertions.'
Mollens regarded the man with something approaching respect. Callous and manipulative, he thought; useful traits. He's also confident enough to speak his mind, so he's not intimidated by the scars and the stories. Most of these lads are as nervous of me, as I am of...
The captain tugged his earlobe thoughtfully, then took Gevalt aside.
'I've thought of telling them something like that,' he admitted quietly. 'But start telling this bunch of clodhoppers what they're really going to have to contend with and how many do you think we'll get to Nuln? No, better to leave them to their dreams of glory and the only desertions we'll get will be a few of the most homesick. Not that it isn't a glorious life in the Emperor's army, of course,' he added quickly, on seeing Gevalt's blank expression.
The man winked conspiratorially and smiled. 'I'm sure you're right,' he said. 'But I don't mind taking the night watches with you for a while. Perhaps if I can catch some of these rabbits before they run, I'll have more of a squad to lead when we get to Nuln. Under yourself, of course, captain.'
It was Mollens's turn to smile. He had been right to confide in this man. If nothing else, it meant he wouldn't have to sleep with one eye open every night.
'Well, Acting-Sergeant Gevalt,' he said decisively, 'I think we are agreed.'
In the gathering darkness of the night the two men shook hands, then turned back to the funeral pyre.

MOLLENS TWISTED IRRITABLY under his blankets. It was going to be one of those nights, he knew it. As soon as he had lain down in this relatively comfortable spot, dog-tired and with a full belly, he had started to slip into the warm embrace of sleep. But the horror was there again.
It was worse in his imagination than it had ever been in reality, he knew - but knowing didn't help. The twinned yellow fangs; the cloying, sulphurous stench of filthy fur. Worst of all were the paws, bearing incongruously nimble fingers and thumbs. When the nightmares came it was always those mutant fingers that he felt closing around his throat in the second before he jerked awake, sweating and bloodless.
And the last of his gin was gone. On nights like this it was the only escape he could find. He had grown to love the acrid smell of the clear liquid, the way it stung his gums but soothed away his fears. Most of all, he loved the rising tide of peace that the anaesthetic of raw alcohol brought. It drowned the daemons which lurked in the tangled labyrinths of his memory with a solid, chemical efficiency that was always reliable.
Of course there was a price to pay. Mornings became monotonously painful; afternoons became increasingly thirsty. And although he cursed his Colonel for wasting him, a seasoned veteran, on these damnable recruitment marches, he knew that the alcohol was really to blame. It had driven him in to making too many mistakes, getting into too many brawls. He'd even been banned from the Reikguard's mess in Nuln, quite a feat in an Empire army barracks.
Mollens shifted again beneath his blankets and scratched listlessly. It had seemed like a good idea to ration himself to a single canteen on this trip but then he had been drunk when he'd made the decision, and now he cursed himself for a fool. Since his supply had run out he'd become irritable, flying into fits of rage at the slightest mistake by the new recruits. It was no wonder so many of them had taken the advantage of darkness and an exhausted officer to slip away, out of the noose of the Emperor's commission.
The old soldier rolled onto his side and stared at the flickering fire. Here and there one of the troops would turn beneath his rough blanket, snore or murmur through the fog of sleep. One of the men, who lay completely swathed but for his grubby pink toes, called from the depths of slumber for his mother.
Men? Be truthful, Mollens thought; they are only boys fresh from their families and farms. They don't have a clue about what they've let themselves in for. But then, neither did I. You can't afford to feel sorry for them, not in this game. Even if they might end up patrolling the sewers. Looking for rats... By Sigmar, now he would never get to sleep.

THE COLD BRIGHTNESS of dawn found Mollens curled up and snoring, Gevalt, threading his way through the awakening camp, approached him with a mug of tea. The sergeant shook the sleeping bulk of his commander through the grey dampness of his dew-soaked blanket, wafting the fragrant steam of the drink into his face.
Mollens sat up, a grimace on his face, and gratefully accepted the mug, clasping it between his hands like a poor man's grail. Grunting his thanks he drank greedily, smacked his lips in appreciation, then clambered stiffly to his feet.
'It's a fine morning,' Gevalt said cheerily, taking the emptied mug that Mollens handed back to him. He heard one of the officer's joints pop as he stretched; the sound reminded him of a twig snapping.
'Yes, it is a fine morning,' replied the captain, and looked suspiciously at his companion. The man seemed obscenely cheerful for this time of day. 'Did we lose any more last night?'
'Not one,' Gevalt said happily. 'Counted 'em myself. Mind you, I've been up all night. Do you suppose I could sleep during exercises this afternoon?'
Mollens grunted, exasperated more by the sudden cessation in desertions than by his new sergeant's request. There were almost forty men here. If the instinct to escape became strong enough they could always find a way to follow it past their single officer. That was how things were supposed to be - the Nuln regiments were no place for the faint-hearted - but Mollens had already lost a score a men. Quite a record. Had he really become such a bad commander?
'I'll decide after I've called the roll,' Mollens consented, turning away and bellowing the order to fall in. The roll call confirmed Gevalt's boast. The troop, although still too undisciplined to be called correct, were at least all present. Mollens smiled and turned to his sergeant.
'Well done. You can rest up this afternoon. But first we march.'
And march they did. Packs that would have driven mules to mutiny dragged the men down, turning the muscles in their backs and legs and necks into twists of agonised meat. Boots, new and unbroken, raised crops of blisters across unfamiliar soles, constantly bursting and reforming into fresh lines of pain. By the time the column had reached the next campsite in a clearing burned from the heart of the forest, they felt as stooped and frail as their grandfathers.
Mollens watched them steaming in the frosty winter air and found himself remembering a herd of beef cattle he'd seen a month or so ago. They too had created their own warm mist of sweat and exhaustion. They too had stood with this same air of worn out passivity, seemingly grateful at being allowed to rest. It had been in a butcher's yard on the outskirts of Nuln. The recruits, some of them still panting, looked to their captain with trusting, hopeful eyes. Mollens found that the thought of cattle being led to the slaughterhouse made it strangely difficult for him to meet their collective gaze. But at least he could give them the order they must all be praying for.
'We'll stop here for the day and eat. This afternoon is spear practice,' Mollens told them, dropping his pack and biting down on the groan of relief that came to his own lips. It wouldn't do to let the men know that he was tired. Instead he posted four sentries and settled down to eat.
As he bit through the iron-hard crust of his bread, he watched the petty bartering that preceded all of their meals. Apples were swapped for bread, a measure of beer for a slice of mutton. Some of Mollens's charges still had the remnants of parcels prepared by their tearful families. The captain noticed that the owners of these were reluctant to swap now that the food was the only link they had left with their homes. He was surprised by the pang of sentimentality the thought brought, and began to plan the afternoon's drill to drown it out.
There was always something reassuringly sane about drill; if only the rest of life could be so clear cut and orderly. There had been a time not so long ago when it had been, or at least seemed to be. He had known, for instance, that Emperor Karl Franz had been fighting a just war. It was the duty of every man in the Empire to fight in the Emperor's armies. And didn't everyone know that a glorious death was infinitely preferable to a quiet life? Even the priests said so. So why, then, did bringing these farm lads in to bolster the Elector Countess of Nuln's army seem like treachery?
Perhaps, whispered his subconscious unpleasantly, it's because nobody who knows anything about the sewers would willingly go down there. You've managed to avoid it for the past five years, haven't you? After all, when you're choking on filth, cut off from the sun and buried amongst the rotting intestines of the city, there's no room for drill. Or glory. And if you believed in duty so much you wouldn't have-
'Shut up!' Mollens snapped, pulled himself from the terrible mire of this reverie. For a moment he was sure he'd spoken aloud. But a guilty glance left and right reassured him. The men were sprawled around the clearing with a languid contentment that the captain found difficult not to envy. Gods, but he needed a drink!
Instead he allowed himself one long, deep sigh then pulled himself to his feet and called them to order. 'Right! We'll spend the rest of the day learning more about our comrade the spear,' he barked, falling easily back into the familiar role of drill-master. He was pleased by the appreciative murmur that ran through the troop. They were obviously keen, even if it was only because they were tired of marching.
'As you progress through training,' he continued, 'you will be tested with halberds or bows, or perhaps even those newfangled black powder weapons. But to learn the spear is to begin to understand them all, for it was the first weapon of the Empire and it will be the last. Today, then, we will learn the rudiments of attacking, parrying and fighting in ranks. The rudiments, in other words, of war.'
The afternpon passed swiftly. Mollens enjoyed losing himself in the comforting routine of weapons instruction and the men were revitalised by their eagerness to learn. When they were split into competing pairs, the competition was fierce, much to their captain's approval. Desertions so far had been too high, but at least those that remained genuinely wanted to be warriors.
Mollens heard a sudden howl and span to find a flushed looking youth had dropped his weapon to staunch his bleeding nose with both hands. His opponent looked away guiltily as the captain approached.
'Why have you dropped your weapon?' Mollens gently asked the injured man.
'Hurt my nose, sir,' he replied, holding out a blood-smeared hand in corroboration. The captain examined it, then stepped to one side to peer intently at his charge's profile. The youth began to blush under this merciless scrutiny, and by the time the rest of the troop had gathered around curiously his face was burning with itching self-consciousness.
'I can see why you're worried about your profile,' Mollens said at length, allowing concern to surface in his voice. 'Who'd worry about fighting with such a fine bone structure to protect?'
A ripple of nervous laughter spread through the ranks like a breeze through corn. Without the slightest warning Mollens's hand scythed through it, to slam into the injured man's nose. It broke with a grisly snap of crushed cartilage and the youth stumbled backwards. Mollens followed him, a cold light burning in his eyes.
'Never drop your weapon!' he hissed, but resisted the temptation to strike the recruit again. The boy, deathly pale apart from the rivulet of fresh blood which streamed from his nose, nodded mutely. Mollens glared ferociously at him, then realised that his charge was fighting back tears. His anger evaporated in a sudden wash of self-reproach.
'I'm sorry I had to do that,' he said, trying not to sound defensive. 'But if you lose your weapon in combat you're dead. And your comrades won't be far behind you. Understand? Never allow yourself to be disarmed.'
'What if your weapons break?' The questioner, thick-set and heavy browed, had moved to stand beside his bleeding comrade, the offer of support evident in his stance and voice. Mollens was taken aback by the recruit's tone, but the professional in him was pleased to hear it. Esprit de corps was always preferable to blind obedience. Even so, he stared angrily at the youth, pretending annoyance at the interruption.
'You find another one,' the captain replied, waiting until the questioner could no longer hold his gaze. 'Even if it's just a club or a rock. Any weapon is better than none. Now, back to practice. We've only an hour of light, so let's make the most of it.'

RED-EYED AND CRAWLING with the fidgets, Mollens gave up on his attempt to sleep. He had learned long ago that it was no use trying to force it. Against the hot and cold claws of insomnia, even mindless self-discipline was useless. Against the horrors of the past, though, it sometimes worked.
Again and again he forcibly dragged his mind's eye away from images of that last, lethal patrol. He tried not to think about the hungry sucking sound the rats had made when they had buried their fangs into Muller. He ignored the desperate chorus of screams that had rung out beneath the tranquil streets of Nuln five miserable years ago, screams that still echoed within the tortured confines of his dreams.
But as soon as he had blanked that memory another, even worse, jostled into its place. This time it was of Ferdinand staggering along behind him as they fled towards the exit. Even in the pathetically inadequate light of the guttering lamp, Mollens could see the flaps of shredded skin that hung obscenely down from his ruined body like torn rags. Behind them, echoing and multiplying in the cold brick tube of the sewer, came the sounds of the pursuing foe. The rattle of sharp claws against stone, the sliding tidal hiss of packed furry bodies, the occasional muffled squeak. At every step the sound came closer. They had almost made it back to the surface, could even smell the freshness of night air, when Ferdinand had stopped. The last of Mollens's comrades, the most loyal of his friends, listened to the enemies' quickening approach with his head to one side in a familiar, curiously childish gesture. Then he had looked to Mollens, his face unreadable through the mask of pain and blood, and nodded.
And Mollens, Sigmar help him, had nodded back and ran on. The next patrol hadn't even found Ferdinand's bones.
Mollens gazed upwards at the stars, then past them into the chilled depths of the void. As always the memory of that last betrayal seemed to empty him of everything but a deep, aching tiredness. Perhaps that, combined with his inability to sleep, was Sigmar's way of punishing his cowardice.
The staccato sound of a cracking twig startled Mollens, pulling him out of his self-pity. He lay still, eyes straining against the darkness, until he saw a familiar swarthy shadow detach itself, bat-like, from a tree and steal away into the night.
Cautiously Mollens slid out from beneath his blankets and pulled on his boots. A quick glance around the camp perimeter told him all he needed to know. Gevalt was nowhere to be seen. So much for him catching rabbits.
Mollens stalked quietly through the camp, seething with an anger fuelled by insomnia. He felt betrayed, and foolish for it. As he slunk into the darkness he loosened his knife in its scabbard. He would cut this particular deserter a smile that would serve as an example to the rest. Things had been sjiding too far out of control lately and for tonight, at least, he had found someone to blame.
Under the dark canopy of the forest the captain stopped and waited for his night vision to come. He'd catch Gevalt eventually. No point walking into a trap; the bastard was certainly cunning enough for it. Despite the delay there was no chance of him losing his prey. Whatever Gevalt had been, he was no woodsman. In front of him Mollens heard a dull thump followed by a muffled curse. With a wolfish grin playing about his scarred features he stooped and scurried forward on fingers and toes well versed in the arts of silence and stealth.
The stumbling Gevalt was almost within striking distance when Mollens, his senses amplified tenfold by this familiar game, froze. A few yards ahead there was a faint, hardly noticeable green glow, and as Mollens waiting on rigid, frozen limbs he caught the smell. It reminded him of Nuln and its ancient catacombs, and the sickening horror that lurked within that nightmare underworld. It reminded him of the rats. Sweat started to trickle lazily over his cold, tingling skin. Blood hissed and pounded in his ears, racing to the wild beat of his heart. In the darkness he waited, alone with his terror.
'You came. Why? Speak-speak!' squeaked a voice from the darkness. Mollens almost screamed before he realised that it was Gevalt and not himself who was being addressed.
'My lord,' Gevalt whined. 'I am here only to serve you. I have an idea, probably worthless it is true, but I thought I should give it to you as I give everything to you.'
A bubbling, squeaking laugh cut through the night. 'Everything but the gold, yes? So, speak, man-thing, or I feed my pet.'
A flash of sickly green fire bloomed and its ghastly light confirmed the worst of Mollens's suspicions. This was his nightmare, tearing through into the waking world to finally claim him just as it had claimed Ferdinand, Muller and the rest, those five years ago.
A bundle of dark and filthy rags lurked under the burning staff. From amidst this shambling heap protruded a long, whiskered snout. Its obscene pink tip wrinkled and twisted back and forth, gleaming in the corrupted light. From beneath the decaying cloth, hidden from Gevalt, a revolting hairless tail writhed around the haft of a knife, its crescent blade glistening beneath a coating of pale, treacly fluid. This hideous apparition, though, was nothing compared to the monstrous form which stood silently behind it.
The thing stood at least eight feet tall from black taloned feet to ragged ears. The guttering flare its master held aloft threw its twisted features into sharp relief. The slimy razors of its fangs, the corded muscles which twitched beneath its lice-ridden pelt, the vicious spikes and filthy pits that encrusted its rusting armour - all were picked out and magnified by the green light.
'My liege,' Gevalt grovelled, his whimpering tones pulling Mollens from out of his trance, 'I can bring you the whole pack of slaves' now, instead of just one or two of the most foolish here and there. When I kill the leader-'
An angry squeal cut across Gevalt's words, shocking him into silence.
'Stupid! What do you think will happen when all manthings disappear?'
'Yes, of course, you're right, master,' the traitor gulped, trying a wide, toothy, placating grin. It was almost the death of him.
In a confused explosion of movement the scaly tail whipped forward, the blade a blur in the shadows. Before Gevalt had time to even register the movement, the tip came to rest on the soft skin of his throat.
'So, it shows its teeth, does it? I'll show its filthy liver!'
'Please, master...' Gevalt whispered. 'I didn't... Let me live... to help you.'
The cloaked figure bubbled and hissed again. Laughter, thought Mollens; that's laughter.
'Once more you will send a slave, yes? Tomorrow.'
Before his trembling servant could reply, the rat-man brandished its flaming staff. There was a blinding, too-bright flash of luminescence. Then there was nothing but total darkness and gruesome after-images cavorting across Mollens's eyes.
He waited for an age, as still as a corpse in the cold dampness, his blood whispering terrifying echoes in his ears. Eventually the dark edges of the trees and the pale glimmer of distant stars reappeared and he could hear nothing except the breeze curling through the branches above him and the occasional rustling of some small beast.
Then he heard Gevalt: a pitiful sob, followed by a low moan of private agony. For one fleeting moment the captain felt a twinge of pity for the miserable wretch. Then he remembered all the ''deserters'' and felt his heart close in a convulsion of rage. Gevalt stumbled away into the night. After a few thoughtful moments Mollens stood and strode soundlessly back the way he had come.

'CAPTAIN, WHERE HAVE you been?' Gevalt asked from his seat beside the campfire, as Mollens strolled back. If he noticed his new sergeant's strained tone, or the vein that pulsed a warning in his forehead, Mollens gave no sign of it.
'Just watering the trees,' Mollens said with a manufactured smile. 'You can turn in now; I'll not be able to get back to sleep.'
'Thank you, sir,' Gevalt croaked and stumbled towards his blankets.
Mollens watched him go, then stirred the dying embers of the fire back into life. He fetched his cloak, wrapped it around his shoulders and sat staring into the flames.
A few hours later and the troop was ready to move off. It was another crisp dawn, made all the more refreshing by the optimistic chatter of the woodland birds. Under the blue vault of the sky the dew sparkled on the verdant sweeps of the forest. Mollens breathed in the smell of sap in the clear, cool breeze. He almost believed that last night must just have been a nightmare. Gevalt, for one, looked like a man without a care in the world as he shouldered his pack and started the first of the day's marching songs. But as the column stamped off along the narrow woodland track the captain realised that he was trying to deceive himself about the night's events. He had seen what he had seen, and to try to deny it would be little more than a slow form of suicide.
Your speciality, gloated his subconscious, but the captain ignored the voice and examined his plan for the tenth time.
After six hours of strenuous marching they reached a wide, undulating meadow. The troop crunched doggedly through the yellow remains of winter wheat that stubbled the field, stumbling into each other when they crossed the occasional barren slick of mud, before Mollens called the day's halt.
Perhaps the relieved joy the men felt at this decision was contagious, or perhaps it was the quickening pulse of the forest in early spring, but for some reason the captain felt almost happy. The afternoons spear practice buoyed his spirits even more. His men displayed a remarkable aptitude for the weapon, their nerves and sinews already half trained by shovels and pitchforks and from the occasional hunt.
Mollens prowled around the practice ring, barking a warning here or bestowing a word of praise there. By the time the cooks had prepared the evening's communal meal he had begun to realise that many of his recruits had more to offer than he had thought.
They were fitter than the usual gutter-scum the Nuln sewer guard took, certainly. But more than that, they were possessed of a certain straightforward savagery that the soldier in Mollens delighted in. Many of these men, he sensed, had joined up not to escape from the gallows or poverty, but because they were keen to fight. For some reason the notion gave him a peculiar floating sensation. It felt as if a weight, carried for so long as to be almost a part of him, had sloughed off.
Gevalt, meanwhile, had appeared calm and cheerful all day, his mask not slipping for a moment. Mollens hated him all the more for it. He had kept one eye on the traitor ever since last night and had twice almost surrendered to the urge to kill the man, to smash him down and finish him there and then. But he knew that even his rank would not allow him to act without real evidence.
As the campfire smoked and crackled, Mollens stretched out on his back, by turn first tensing and then relaxing his various muscle groups. It was-an old campaign trick, one of a hundred he knew he should have been teaching his charges over the past weeks instead of wallowing in self pity. Still, he would have plenty of time to make good his negligence when they got to Nuln. Sigmar willing.
He savoured the smell of wood-smoke, and the rich aroma of boiling meat and vegetables. Above him the stars started to appear, shining in anticipation of their nightly dance, and the last pink rind of sunlight faded away from the western horizon. As the world spun away into darkness Mollens was surprised that for the first time in an age he felt totally relaxed. It had always been thus in the heart of a battle, when all that could be done had been done and his fate was in the hands of the Gods. How long, he wondered, since he had felt this? How long since he had been so at peace?
It wasn't until the sleeping blankets were laid out that Gevalt finally approached him. A ball of hatred tried to claw itself up from the pit of Mollens stomach, but even that couldn't totally destroy his new found sense of peace.
'Thank you for concluding my watch last night,' Gevalt said with an easy grin. 'If you want to turn in, I'll return the favour.'
'Don't mind if I do,' Mollens replied, trying to sound genuine. 'You seem to be able to stop the rabbits running, sergeant. When we reach Nuln I'll certainly tell the colonel of it.'
Gevalt bowed slightly, seeming pleased.
'I'll turn in then. Wake me up before the rest, won't you?' Mollens, feeling the heat of his anger beginning to burn through his friendly facade despite his best intentions, hastily buried himself beneath the blankets.
It was a long, tense night. Much to his chagrin Mollens found that the insomnia that had tormented him for so long chose this, of all nights, to depart. Throughout the monotonous hours of the watch he kept from beneath his blankets sleep waited, a hungry predator waiting in ambush. As time crawled past he dozed, sometimes for frighteningly indeterminate periods, before waking with a jolt. Every time he jerked back to his senses, a feeling of doom washed through him, but each time it was dispelled by the sight of Gevalt sitting cross-legged and watchful near the trees.
Strange how circumstances could make such a loathsome, dangerous man a source of comfort. In Bretonnia, Mollens's first campaign, the laughter of the enemy archers across the fields had also soothed him. While they had laughed, their bowstrings had been silent, and that was a thought to bring warmth to any soldier of the Emperor in those days. They were a colourful foe, the Bretonnians; in his mind he could see their bright tunics, shining armour, flowing banners. From amidst a sea of them Mollens, with mild surprise, picked out the face of old Ferdinand. He laughed at the sight of his dead friend's face, the familiar lines and furrows that marked it like duelling scars were twisting into a warm, forgiving smile. How different from the last time he had looked, down in the sewers. With the rats. The ambush. The blood stained teeth and claws reaching out for him-
Mollens awoke, gasping from the horror of the images. He looked frantically around for Gevalt and felt a rush of relief when he saw the man sitting spider-like barely a dozen paces away. Then he noticed a second figure sitting beside the traitor, and relief became anticipation.
Mollens, his eyes still at ground level, couldn't tell which of the troop it was. As he watched Gevalt passed a flask to his companion, metal glowing with a dull, blood coloured sheen in the firelight. In the moment before the lad raised it to his grateful lips Mollens felt that he must surely lose control. What a relief it would be to spring up, knock the poisoned cup away from the recruit's mouth, and finish Gevalt. Not in anger or vengeance but just quickly, the way one would kill a scorpion.
But the moment passed. Mollens watched the flask tilt upwards. One gulp was enough. The flask clanked as it hit the ground, loosened by a spasm which shook the victim's fingers. The lad sat stiff and trembling as Gevalt, his face a gargoyle's mask of watchful cunning, leaned forwards and whispered an indiscernible suggestion to his prey. The lad groaned faintly, then began to hoist himself off the ground.
Mollens rose wraithlike from his bed and stalked towards the two men. Not until the drugged victim of Gevalt's treachery took his first lurching step towards the south did the captain speak.
'Evening, sergeant. Where's he off to?'
Gevalt sprang to his feet, face white, and reached instinctively for his dagger. Just in time he remembered himself and forced his pale features into a ghastly smile.
'Going for firewood, sir,' he managed. Mollens noted the sudden sheen of sweat that bathed the man's face and the hand which hovered uncertainly by the hilt of his knife.
'No need. I've decided that we could use some night exercises. Let the troops know that the glory of serving the Emperor doesn't stop at dinnertime, eh?' His savage smile was genuine enough now. Let him guess that I know, he thought. Let him try to silence me.
For a moment Gevalt's features were twisted in fearful indecision. In the end, much to Mollens's disappointment, he chose to continue his bluff.
'You, lad,' the man said, placing a hand on the recruit's twitching shoulder. 'You heard the captain. Go and wake the troop.'
As the lad turned back towards the campfire, Mollens noted his wide pupils and the peculiar tautness of the muscles in his face. He remembered the young Reiklander, now nothing more than ash in the woods, and made a sudden decision. The time for bluff and silence was past, but he wouldn't cheat the inquisitors in Nuln of their vile pleasures by taking his own vengeance now.
When the last of the recruits was roused to stand groggily with the rest of his fellows, Mollens gestured at Gevalt, who stood hovering by his side, and spoke.
'You have no uniforms and scant enough training but tonight you will become soldiers of our great Emperor. You will face many dangers in the years to come, from steel to disease, but always the most lethal will be the traitorous knife in the back. This man, your sergeant-'
He got no further. Gevalt had been listening to his words in an agony of apprehension and now his control snapped. With a piercing cry he leapt towards his captain with open jaws, forgetting even his knife in his terror. Mollens, surprised, managed to lift his forearm in time to keep the teeth from his throat, but Gevalt bit down into the flesh with shocking strength.
The captain screamed as he felt his muscles tearing. Instinctively he fell back beneath the momentum of his enemy's charge, twisting as he fell in order to trap Gevalt beneath him. He grabbed for his knife and felt a flare of horror when his groping fingers clutched Gevalt's fist, already clasped around the hilt. With a vicious tug Gevalt freed the blade and Mollens screamed again as his palm was sliced open.
Wounded or not he caught his enemy's wrist in a bloody grip. The agony of his split hand paled beside that flaring along his arm as Gevalt's jaws closed tighter, releasing a stream of blood. Mollens raised his head to look into the traitor's frenzied eyes, then snapped his forehead down onto his crooked nose. There was a satisfying crack, but before he could repeat the manoeuvre he felt fingers closing around his throat. He twisted and struggled away from the lethal grip, but it was no use. Gevalt hung onto him with a cold, iron tenacity that was born of complete desperation.
His strength bled away as a red veil fell across the captain's vision. He could feel himself starting to fade, even the passions of rage and fear that had burned so brightly within his chest withering away, smothered by the cold ashes of frustration and apathy. Eyes dimming, Mollens could see the ring of worried faces gathered around them, confused and afraid.
Poor sods, he thought regretfully. Suppose they never stood a chance. It was his last thought before the darkness reached out to claim him.

HE AWOKE WITH a splutter, choking from the water somebody was pouring down his throat. The heavy browed face that hovered above him broke into a wide, gap toothed grin, dispelling any illusion that it was one of Sigmar's angels.
'Captain, praise be you're all right,' the recruit said. His companions pushed closer, but he shoved them back impatiently. Gradually the spinning world slowed down enough for Mollens to sit up, his aching eyes searching for Gevalt.
'Where is he?' he asked the youth thickly, his throat still bruised and aching.
'We tied him up over there,' came the reply. 'He kept screaming and trying to bite us, then he tried to get us to sup some potion. Shall we kill him?'
Mollens smiled wearily at the lad's enthusiasm. He remembered him now from the previous days weapons training. He'd been the one to stand up for his comrade.
'Time enough for that, soldier. How long have I been out?'
'Only a few moments, captain. We could have taken the daemon sooner but we were waiting for your order.'
'Which of you took the decision?'
'I did, sir. Rifka Henning,' the youth said, holding out his hand and grinning in pride.
'Congratulations on your promotion, Acting-Sergeant Henning.' Mollens took his hand and grinned back. 'Now show me the traitor.'
He followed the man through the cluster of recruits and immediately saw Gevalt. His captors hadn't taken any chances. He lay awkwardly against a tree trunk, his wrists tied painfully behind it. His legs were bound by another coil of rope and a noose had been tied around his scrawny neck, the free end hanging over a branch, ready for use.
Mollens noted the cuts and bruises that covered the traitor's body with some satisfaction, then he looked at the man's tormented face and realised that he was suffering a pain far worse than the physical. Once more the captain felt a wave of unwonted compassion for the agonised soul in front of him. But, well, the wretch was no longer his problem. Best leave him to the authorities.
Mollens turned back to his troop and stood for a moment gazing silently into their young, fearful faces. He gathered his thoughts for a moment before speaking.
'Gevalt was no daemon, just a traitor. Have you heard of the skaven, the rat-men?' He could tell by their expressions that some of them had. 'Well, he has been selling you to them. The deserters weren't cowards. They were drugged and sent to their deaths... or worse.'
He could see the fear and horror sweeping through them now, uniting them in the face of the common enemy. Then, to his relief, he saw anger take its place. A few of them started purposefully towards Gevalt. The captain waved them back.
'He's just their pawn. Tonight we'll catch the real monsters. I'll walk into their trap. You will follow me, silently. When you hear my call, charge towards the sound, keeping together at all times. Sergeant Henning here will be in charge until you rejoin me. It's a simple plan - which means it will work. Any questions?'
There were none. After just a moment's hesitation, Henning plucked a spear from the stack and one by one the others followed his example. Even thus armed they huddled close together, peering uncertainly into the darkness of the forest or back towards their captain.
How easy it would be not to do this, thought Mollens, how easy to just close ranks and head back to Nuln. Who would blame me? The troop certainly wouldn't. The Colonel wouldn't. Sykes at the tavern wouldn't as he poured one measure, then another, and another-
Abruptly, without fully realising what he was doing, Mollens started off towards the treeline.
'Give me five minutes, then follow,' he told Henning as he passed. 'Remember, don't throw your spears.'
'Sir.' Henning saluted. Mollens was warmed a little by the respect he saw in his troops' eyes. But as the firelight faded behind him and he continued striding forward into the night the warmth faded, extinguished by the tide of dread that poured relentlessly through him. He could feel it eating away at his resolve like storm waters against a dam. A weird feeling of unreality washed through him. He couldn't quite believe that he was doing this. The cold sweat that poured off him threatened to spoil the comforting grip he had on the haft of his spear. The tightly clamped muscles in his jaws spasmed uncontrollably, and he had to bite down to stop his teeth from chattering. All the while his unwilling legs carried him further into the forest.
Eventually the terror started to fade. He had been walking for a long time and there was still no sign of the enemy. Surely they would have taken him by now if they had been going to. Perhaps they had spied on the camp and lied, or maybe they had been driven off by some other terrible beast.
In spite of himself the captain began to feel a cautious relief. He stopped for a moment and listened. Hearing only the soft background patter of the woods he began to smile, then turned and started back.
A swathe of sickly green light burst through the darkness. The captain sobbed at the horrible tableau it revealed, and for a moment he stood, paralysed with horror, at the sight in front of him.
The giant rat-thing stood a scant five paces in front of him, lips drawn back in a foam-flecked snarl. It was hunched forward, tail whipping the ground behind it impatiently, its beady red eyes skewering Mollens with blind animal hatred. Skulking beside the hulking form of the beast was its vile master. It let out a shrill squeak and from the shadows amongst the trees half a dozen figures lurched forwards in response.
They were foul. In gait and appearance they were like zombies, the slack grey flesh, the untended wounds. Mollens had seen their like before. But the things that came crashing towards him now were no zombies. Their eyes reflected a mute pleading for release that was all too human. As they came for him Mollens recognised the deserters.
These were the boys which he had lured from their mothers and sweethearts. They had left their safe, comfortable lives for dreams, chasing the mirage of glory that Mollens had helped to create. And this was where it had led them. As their fingers reached towards him, Mollens found that his throat was locked too tight to scream.
His mind reeling, the captain found odd details in his last few moments standing out with a bright, unreal clarity. He noticed every chip and crack on the nearest of the creatures' shattered fingernails. He noticed the shift of the breeze, picking up now. Then he noticed an amulet hung around the neck of one of the things, and remembered the wizened old crone who had put it around the neck of her grandson. It had been such a touching gesture of hopeless, naive faith that Mollens had felt awful as he had led the boy away - to this.
The bitter memory became a spark, a light amidst the utter, despairing darkness of his soul. And the spark ignited a white hot ball of pure hatred in Mollens's chest. It burned with a maddening intensity, fed as it was by fear and loss, and five long tormented years. With a keening, inhuman scream Mollens sprang through the feeble forms of his lost men towards the rat-ogre before him.
The beast loomed above him, its foul reek an almost physical armour. But Mollens was unstoppable. The rat-ogre's expression changed from hatred to dumb surprise as Mollens's spear-tip smashed through its throat and out of the back of its skull in a spray of blood. Taloned hands reached upwards to grasp the haft of the spear as the monster toppled backwards into the decaying litter of the forest floor.
A piercing shriek cut through the noise of its fall, and from the corner of his eye Mollens saw a bundle of darkness and steel launch itself at him. He grabbed for his knife with a snarl and stepped back, only to trip over the huge, twitching body of the skaven's beast. A paroxysm of rage seized him, and within its grip he forgot the most basic rule of all. He threw his knife.
The blade spun through the night, sparkling with flashes and whorls of light as it flew towards the bounding shape of the enemy. But the creature twisted sideways, cast aside its cowl, and leapt eagerly forwards towards its prone adversary. The flame from its burning staff streamed forwards now into a sharp fang of fire, its light gleaming on the poisoned dagger held in its tail.
Mollens struggled across the verminous body, ignoring the lice that swarmed beneath his fingers, and reached for his spear. He grasped the haft but his hands, slick with blood and sweat, slipped as he tugged at it. With a moan he glanced back and saw the rat-thing, its lips drawn back in a gleeful grimace, preparing to strike. There was a savage flare of blinding light, then darkness.
He lay tense, waiting for the blow to fall. But instead of the agonising bite of cold steel it was a shove, followed by a muffled curse, that sent Mollens leaping backwards. Sparks started striking around him like fireflies in the darkness, then a dozen torches burst into life. The captain bathed in their yellow glow until a hand reached down and he gratefully allowed a pair of troopers to help him to his feet. They stared past him, awe-struck by the monstrous corpse at their feet. Their spears stuck it again and again, until it lay still. One of them ventured to kick it, then sprang away in shock as a cry rang out behind him.
Sergeant Henning stood reluctantly in front of the cowering troop, his spear wavering uncertainly before him. A dozen slumped figures took step after uncertain step towards him as he backed away. Torch light flickered across their wasted features, leaving dark caverns of night in hollow cheeks and between protruding bones. One of the shambling horrors gave a low rasping moan as it reached forwards.
Mollens, moving quickly was there to meet its clammy grip with his own. He held the creature's withered hand still and gazed into the gleams of light that were reflected back from its sunken eyes. Not daring to turn, the captain barked the order to Henning to take the troop back to the camp.
In the darkness they left behind, a dagger glittered in the pale moonlight. It lashed out once, twice, a dozen times. The one remaining figure stood stooped over the bodies for several long moments, then forced himself to turn and follow his fellows. The sound of his boots faded away, and soon there was nothing left in the clearing but for the keening of the wind.

WHEN MOLLENS, RED eyed and numb, returned to the camp, he found the troop gathered around Gevalt's lifeless form. He pushed his way through the silent huddle and felt his stomach turn at the sight of the traitor's butchered remains.
'It wasn't us, sir,' Henning blurted, worried by his captain's expression.
'I know,' Mollens said, his eyes glued to the body. Here and there jagged pink shards of bone, splintered like twigs during the traitor's final convulsions, had torn through frail parchment skin. Worse was the face, a frozen mask of agony. The eyes, as pink and blind as a new-born rat's, stared wildly into the great beyond. Blood had cascaded from the mouth in a great stream, the gore flecked with shreds of cheek and tongue. And, most horribly of all, the man had died with an almost gleeful rictus grin spread across his twisted featflres.
'I know,' repeated Mollens to himself. He knew that the will, let alone the ability, to do this to a man was far beyond the capability of these farm lads. No, he told himself, not farm lads. Not any more.
'Wrap him in a blanket We'd better take him with us.'
'Yes, sir... erm, captain? What's that?'
Mollens glanced down at the makeshift sack he carried in his left hand. The folded cloak was already dripping with dark crimson fluid. He hefted it in his hand and smiled, suddenly proud of himself and his men.
'It's our first trophy. Look.' Out of the bag he spilled the head of the rat-ogre. It rolled onto its side, dead eyes glaring accusingly at them.
'It's horrible,' Henning said vaguely. Then he grinned, wonder writ large across his broad features. 'And we beat it, didn't we?'
'We certainly did,' Mollens nodded. He watched his men, studied their faces. He saw fear and horrified fascination warring for ascendancy across their young features, and then the sudden joyous rush of victory hit them. A moment later the cheering started.

FOUR DAYS LATER, they reached the final camp outside the walls of Nuln. Mollens, yawning contentedly another sound night's sleep, awoke first. Leaving the slumbering camp behind him he waded through the cold, grey shoals of morning mist to the summit of the last hill.
The great ancient city lay sprawled out beneath the blanket of fog below him. From this distance it was still and silent apart from the chattering symphony of the dawn chorus, but Mollens knew that such a city never really slept. Already the farmers would be trudging along the twists and turns of the city streets with their loads of eggs or milk or apples. The dung collectors, finishing for the night, would be returning to their hovels on the outskirts, tired and hungry for breakfast. Apprentices, squinting with sleep, would be lighting fires or opening shops.
And meanwhile, in the stinking depths beneath the city there would be another sort of life, secret and poisonous. Mollens thought of the traps and the pitfalls, the claustrophobia and sudden, boiling masses of the enemy. He thought of his men, of poor Ferdinand and of five, long tormented years. Then he smiled a wolf's smile, savage and full of teeth.
It was good to be back.