GLOW
by Simon Spurrier

AUTUMN IN TALABHEIM. Cloying mists rose languidly from sultry canals, stretching ethereal tentacles along streets and alleyways. Wind-banked leaves withered in papery necrosis and fat crows sulked on wet roof tiles, cawing their hungry indignation at the carrion-free cobbles below.
Autumn too, in the slums. A time of shadows and footsteps, rippling puddles and the drip-drip-drip of ill-weathering architecture. A time for unwelcome visitors.
'Should I knock first, captain?'
'Mm. Knock hard, Kubler, if you know what I mean.'
Wood splintered with a resounding crack! Echoes from the blow flitted through the mist; startled crows launched from the rooftops. Dark figures tumbled through a shattered doorway.
'Up! Up! Get up, scum, or by Sigmar's wrath I'll-'
'That'll do, Hoist. Our host seems positively catatonic... No sense in dirtying one's boot.'
The invaders' ebony forms seemed almost unreal beside the tattered rags of the building's solitary inhabitant who lay curled uncomfortably on the sagging floorboards, snoring in intoxication. The tallest of the black cloaks, crowned with an austere wide-brimmed hat, squatted athletically to examine the sleeper's mud-smeared countenance.
'Drunk, captain?' another dark figure enquired.
'No... No, I should say not.' The gloved hand rummaged briefly within the shapeless rags and reappeared grasping a crude earthen pillbox. A deft movement and the box opened to reveal a cluster of green tablets within.
'Hmm.'
'Sleep analeptics, captain? My brother swears by 'em.'
'Perhaps. Apothecary nonsense, of course.' The tall man stood, examining the room. He sighed. 'Turn it over, gentlemen. Anything untoward, I want to know about it.'
Several of the black cloaks stooped to their task, unsettling mould-strewn furniture. Presently another of them turned to the hat wearer with a frown. 'No sign of a Taint, sir.'
'Mm.'
'The heretic yesterday practically screamed the address.'
'I daresay the flames of righteousness will do that to a fellow, Kubler... I don't detect any Dark Powers at work here - just the usual city filth.'
The slumbering form fidgeted with a guttural groan.
'Captain...' one of the cloaks quavered uncertainly, 'h-his eyes!'
The men drew back from the rag-strewn bundle that was suddenly thrashing with comatose fury. Sure enough, its eyes flickered and wept, an unnatural glow ebbing forth from the lidded irises. Bubble-flecked spittle collected in the corner of the man's mouth.
'Hmm,' said the hat-wearer. 'I stand corrected...'
The sleeper lurched to its feet, rough skin bulging and twisting, frothing in a paroxysm of internal anguish. The jaw creaked open in a ghoulish smile; serrated canines erupted from writhing gums like impatient saplings, human tongue curling in extended, prehensile distortion. And finally the eyes opened fully, a ghastly light smouldering from their scorched sockets. It fixed its vision on the pillbox and reached out a shaking hand.
'G-give... gg...'
The thing made an attempt to articulate, pulsating arteries disturbing its swollen larynx, unfamiliar tongue unable to form sounds easily. 'Give back... guh. Glow. Wwant.'
But the transformation was incomplete, and already the skin was tightening cadaverously, already the ridges of brow and cheek were ossifying further, bony protrusions appearing with tectonic certainty. With a wet snap of elasticity the skin burst from within, peeling back in reptilian folds, splitting like overripe fruit.
'Want it nowwwww!' it gurgled, insane eyes rolling. 'Give Glow or I ki-'
Boom.
The beast's twisted features dissolved beneath a grisly haze of airborne ichor. A pistol crack shuddered angrily about the room, acrid smoke oozing lazily from the hat-wearer's outstretched weapon.
Time stagnated for one long moment, then returned explosively as the chaos-thing tumbled downward, ruptured skull spewing viscous fluids that splattered and coagulated across the dismal room. It thrashed and jerked.
'In the name of Sigmar I purge thee,' the hat-wearer intoned, fingers tracing the Holy Hammer in the air.
Reality coalesced. The other Templars, aghast at the suddenness of the creature's transformation - and grateful for their leader's adroit response - breathed again. The corpse twitched then laid still, a sludge of liquefying tissues dribbling from its wound.
A deep silence settled.
One of the witch hunters mumbled, nodding at the pillbox in the hat-wearer's hand, 'Y-you... uh... you still think they're sleep analeptics, captain?'
'On balance, Heinrich... I suspect not.'
Witch Hunter Captain Richt Karver squinted at the tablets in his gloved hand and pursed his thin dry lips in thought.

RAIN UNFURLED ACROSS the city like the casting of a vast net. All across the poor quarter it pelted, shivering along the merchant streets, dousing what scant illumination had been created against the drawing in of the night. The mist dissipated beneath the barrage, puddles formed and ran together, rusted gutters overflowed, cascading their moss striated contents earthwards.
The crows ruffled themselves in self pity, beady eyes scowling at the indignity of such bedragglement.
Even the mighty Temple of Sigmar, implacable in its domination of the brooding skyline, was forced to surrender a fraction of its haughty demeanour to the torrents that assailed its towers and buttresses. And yet deep, deep below that drenched edifice existed a world of stale air and flickering light that no rain could penetrate.
Richt Karver cast off his hat with characteristic aplomb and sank into a straight backed chair. His well polished pistols were hung casually across the furniture's wooden frame, intricately decorated powder bag dumped unceremoniously upon a tabletop and his ebony walking cane - never absent from his side - was twiddled distractedly in his perfectly manicured hands.
'Bring it in,' he muttered after a moment's thought.
The other hunters entered in a gaggle, dragging with them an awkward bundle. Wrapped in stained sheets and bound with what few scraps of crude twine could be plundered from the slum, the oily fluids of the mutant's body were already blemishing the linen.
Karver rubbed his chin for a moment, a habitual motion that his acolytes had learned to recognise as a sign of deep thought, and took pains not to interrupt. 'Let's see what we can find out about this... what did he call it?... ah - ''Glow'', shall we? Hoist, you cover the slums. Loose talk in taverns, that sort of thing. You have the face for it, old boy. Lars, the estates in the west quarter. I daresay these things are equally at home amongst affluence as effluence. Heinrich, see if the militia's heard anything - oh, and take Spielmunn with you, he might learn something. And Kubler, you can find me that little worm Vassek. If anyone knows anything about this it'll be him, you can count on it.'
'Keep your eyes and ears open, gentlemen. Whatever this stuff is, I want it out of my city. Report back when you have something.'
Kubler nodded and hefted the corpse. 'What about this, captain?'
'Little point in burning it in the platz, I suppose.' Karver grumbled. 'Nobody wants to see the Righteous Flames of Purity claiming a heretic who's already dead... Not that we could start a fire in this weather anyway-'
Spielmunn, the youngest of Karver's Templars, piped up nervously. 'A spike at the city gates, captain? Haven't been many heads up there recently.'
'Mm,' Karver grunted. 'The displaying of a head does rather require that the body has one. Our unfortunate subject is somewhat lacking in that respect.'
Kubler resettled the shape on his wide shoulder. 'The Heap then?'
Karver nodded slowly. 'Yes. Yes, I suppose so. Seal it carefully, mind you. I think in the spring we'll have to see about clearing it out down there. There must be - what - a dozen bodies festering away, now?'
Hoist frowned, 'Don't see why we don't just dump 'em in the river.'
'Because, you idiot,' Kubler snapped, 'we'd end up with a water supply full of tainted flesh. Would you drink it?'
'Can't be worse than Bretonnian ale,' muttered Karver, dispelling the emerging confrontation with a forced chuckle - but sparing a private nod for Kubler. The boy would go far, Sigmar willing. 'No, I'm afraid that onto the Heap it goes. Recite the Prayer to Banish Uncleanliness at the doorway and we'll be fine. The best kind of dead heretic, gentlemen, is one that stays dead.'
Kubler nodded and dragged the corpse to the head of a convoluted stairway, beginning the descent that would terminate eventually at the vault where the remains of mutants lay putrefying. Karver listened to the gradually fading percussion of the body being manhandled indelicately until the gloomy depths swallowed the sounds of their passage. The other Templars, perhaps sensing Karver's disquiet, dispersed upon their respective errands in silence.
Karver paused for a moment, then passed through the heavy doorway to his workrooms.

THE CREATURE HISSED at his approach, filth-matted hackles rising in a peristaltic wave, short forelimbs bunching with muscular alertness. Its single remaining eye rolled uncontrollably, spastic orbits reflecting the imbalance of the beast's mind.
It leapt with a shriek, slavering jaw gnashing, prominent incisors wielded for action.
Only at the very pinnacle of its lunge, when its jaws seemed inescapable, did the iron chain about its neck jarringly arrest its movement. It lurched to a halt with a pitiable squeal and dropped to the floor, gagging and retching in frustration.
Richt Karver hadn't flinched once.
'And how are we today, my little horror?' he cooed to the vast rat, which scrabbled its dagger claws on the stones as if imagining his hated face within its grasp. 'Not too hungry, I trust?'
He'd captured the creature the previous year - an expedition into the unexplored tunnels beneath the city had resulted in an encounter with the repugnant skaven. The nest had been purified, Sigmar be praised, but not before two of his Templars had been carried, screaming, into the nightmare labyrinths below. He'd purged twenty ratmen in Sigmar's name that day, and captured several more for ''interrogatory purposes''. They'd died, shrieking and cursing, manacled to the walls of the very room that their insane pet now guarded. It gave Karver some small measure of satisfaction to imagine their revolting bodies, defeated and mutilated, rotting away in the Pit far below his feet.
The witch hunter strolled into the ruddy half-light of his workroom, humming under his breath. He sagged into a chair, fingers rapping on the armrest. Presently, he turned to the rat that lurked silent in the shadows by the doorway. It watched him - as always - with a malevolence compounded by cyclopic asymmetry, its single beady eye glistening. The Templar made a decision.
'Dinnertime, vermin...' he trilled, reaching into a pocket for the confiscated pills.

TIME PASSED. WINTER reached Talabheim, an icy breath squalling from the north. The few remaining leaves, already revealing their spidery skeletons to the onset of seasonal decomposition, quit their lofty positions and were borne away by the chill. Puddles crystallised treacherously, the ruts and grooves of cobbled streets no escape from the gathering ice.
The crows shivered and puffed themselves up, miniature spheres of black indignation. They eyed each other distrustfully, aware that a starving scavenger was just as ample a meal to its brethren as any other.
In his workroom, Richt Karver warmed his hands over a well stoked fire and ignored the stream of groans and curses from the nearby wall. The whole place reeked of overcooked meat.
'...rrnnn... nnneeed medicine... glow glow glow...'
Karver sighed, pushing the branding iron back into the fire to re-heat. 'Spare me, Villhelm. I have a headache.'
'...glow glow glow...' Muttering, Karver turned to the figure manacled on the wall. A burn mark already blistering across his chest, the man's contorted form writhed uselessly: swollen muscles spasmed, tumourous growths pockmarking his flaccid skin. A dappled blemish coiled colourfully across his shoulders and chest, just one of the gaudy signs of his Taint.
Unmoved by such alterations, Karver leaned in close. His expression - far from the contempt one might expect - instead mirrored the countenance of a disappointed parent whose child has been disobedient once too often.
'Now come on, Villhelm. You know I don't enjoy doing this to you. Just tell me where you bought those tablets, eh? It's for your own good.'
Such was the sincerity in the Templar's voice, such was the element of concern, that the mutant paused incredulously in its cursing to stare at its tormentor.
At which point Karver placed the firebrand against the creature's flesh and pushed. Smoke rose, flesh curled and charred and the Chaos-thing screamed and screamed and screamed. The pain overcame it rapidly; its jagged head sagged forwards in a dead faint.
Karver returned to warming his hands, grumbling quietly to himself: 'A bit of bloody quiet, Sigmar be praised.'
It didn't last.
Within moments there came a thumping at the door and a muffled voice beyond. In the gloom of its alcove, the chained rat slunk to its feet.
'It's me, captain - Kubler!' came the call. 'I've found Vassek! I've got him right here!'
'Very good, Kubler. Send him in, please.'
The door inched open slightly and unseen hands propelled a small, greasy man into the room. Karver mentally placed himself in the sweaty individual's unenviable position as first reactions were gauged.
The smell hit him first; assailing his nostrils, the miasmic stench of charred skin made him gag and spin on his axis, whereupon he was faced with the limp mutant, hanging scarred and smoking from the wall. Attempting to repress the biliousness that rose in his belly at such horrors, the man twisted away and sunk to his knees...
Coming face-to-face with hissing, snarling death.
The rat had changed. Since the autumn, when its diet of Glow had begun in earnest, a dreadful transformation had occurred. Now its one eye glowed with an internal fire, no longer rotating with insane misdirection. Its lank fur hung loose and decaying in infected strips, the corpulent flesh beneath glistening in decay. Weird ridges and sores pockmarked its ulcerous skin and its long tail had sprouted a forest of spines in between the weeping lesions that punctuated its length.
It opened its cadaverous mouth and shrieked in the small man's face, straining against its chain.
Vassek DuWurz emptied his bladder and blubbed like a baby.
Karver hauled him upright and dumped him bodily in an empty chair, where he sat quivering with eyes like dinner plates.
'Hello, Vassek.' The hunter smiled, his friendliness utterly incongruous with his dismal surroundings. 'We've been looking for you for quite a while. How have you been?'
'D-damn you, Karver! What's all this about?'
'I just wanted a chat, really. It's so rare that I get to see old friends, these days.'
'Don't start that! Don't start that ''friendly'' rubbish! I've been down here before. Remember? I know the routine!'
'Oh, come now! I'm too much maligned, old fellow. Surely a conversation isn't too much to ask?'
'Too bloody right, it is! Unless you've a reason for keeping me here, I'm leaving right no-'
There was a cold, metallic hiss. Vassek, suddenly frozen, examined the glittering blade that had materialised at his throat. Karver's ebony cane lay hollow on the floor, its secret contents exposed.
Karver's voice was quiet, but no less friendly. 'How's that... what did you call it last time we met.... that ''birthmark'', Vassek? Covers half of your back, I seem to recall. Most unusual.'
'J-juhst a... hkkk... buhhthmrrk!...' the porcine man choked.
'Mm. Maybe. It's funny, you know, how many of my, ah, ''patients'' say that.'
'Whtt d'y wnnt?' Vassek burbled.
'Ah, that's more like it...' Karver smiled happily, releasing the pressure on the quivering man's throat. 'That's much more like it.' He settled back into his chair, delicately fingering the blade. 'I know you like to... how can I put this?... ''listen'' to things, Vassek. Now that we're friends again, how about you tell me everything you've heard about this.'
In his hand lay a pile of Glow tablets. Over by the door, the rat-creature began howling and hissing, straining at its chain. Vassek shuddered in horror.
Karver winked conspiratorially, 'Oh, don't worry about him - he just wants his supper. Between you and me... I think he has an addiction problem.'

KARVER STRODE FROM his workshop purposefully, buckling on his pistol belt. The other Templars jerked to informal attention.
'We have an address!' he exclaimed, donning his hat with a theatrical flourish. 'Come, come, gentlemen! We have holy work to attend to!'
'Sir! You trust the word of that maggot?' Kubler grunted, nodding towards Vassek, who was edging his way past the snarling rat-beast.
'Oh, there's no harm in him... He keeps poor company - but he remembers things and seems, now at least, keen to keep me informed... I dare say he's more use to us at large, as it were. Let's reacquaint him with the outside world, shall we? We have far greater fish to fry! Besides... I think Herr DuWurtz knows only too well what'll happen if we can't trust him.'
In a tangle of billowing black fabric, dragging Vassek DuWurtz behind them, the Templars passed from the catacombs like a malignant storm cloud.

DESPITE THE FILTH and the poverty, the people of the city's working quarter walked with heads held high. Possessed of a ridiculous quality of embittered imperiousness, their indomitable pride glimmered in their demeanour. We may be poor, their expressions contrived to announce, but by Sigmar we'll not show it!
This was a world of starched clothing, of saving-up-for-a-rainy-day, of keeping up appearances, and of fierce, unconditional piety.
In the lowliest of places does Sigmar find his champions, thought Karver with a sad smile, passing along the cobbled streets. He hated entering this district - not out of any great distaste at wallowing in conditions below his station, but rather for the reactions that such visits earned. These people weren't witches or heretics, they'd sooner kill themselves than invite the Taint into their disinfected little world - and yet still they lowered their gaze, still they clutched at their hammer pendants silently, still they sweated in cold, guilty fear at the passing of a witch hunter.
These people didn't deserve to be afraid of him, Karver knew, and he hated himself because they were.
The Templars passed into a side alley, leaving the wide eyes and the whispers behind. They gathered around their leader, who nodded towards an ill fitting door at the alley's end. 'There.'
'They have such fear of us,' Spielmunn whispered, peering back over his shoulder at the thronged street, where already rumours would be breeding and accusations cast.
Karver smiled sadly. 'Mm. You'll quickly learn that fear can be a powerful weapon, my boy. Then again, it can also be a great hindrance. An innocent man has no need to fear the Templar's knock upon his door, but he fears it anyway... What, then, is the hunter's other greatest weapon?'
Spielmunn's smooth features contorted in uncertainty, cheeks already blushing red. Hoist sniggered and hefted his pistol, caressing its barrel.
'Put it away, Hoist,' Karver muttered, one exquisite eyebrow arching. 'A man who reveres such clumsy things has no right to them in the first place. No, Spielmunn? Any ideas, the rest of you?' The teacher-to-class routine came easily, and Karver, in his secret soul, basked in his acolytes' reverence.
'Kubler? I daresay you know the answer.'
Kubler thought for a moment, then nodded. 'A templar's greatest weapon, captain - besides fear - is an open and smiling face.'
'Correct. The man who is reticent when threatened may well be loose tongued in the face of simple friendliness.'
Hoist spat in disappointment. He preferred his gun.
Karver went on with a flourish, 'The Templar must be, above all else, a gentleman! He walks with poise, is polite at all times and strives to bring light - be it the light of purity, of truth, or of refinement - into places of darkness.' The Templars, in varying degrees of understanding and accordance, nodded.
'Look at Kubler, if you will.' Karver grinned, reinforcing his point and embarrassing his star pupil in one deft move. 'He's clean - well, mostly clean - his boots are well shined; why, his face is so open one could walk through it and exit the other side!' The Templars sniggered, enjoying the street theatre. Karver could sense their anxiety at the forthcoming raid and knew exactly how to coax their relaxation. 'See here,' he said, pointing at Kubler's ebony-swathed chest, 'he even wears a brooch in his buttonhole! Quite the Bretonnian court dandy today, isn't he?' Karver's gloved hand darted out and snatched up the bauble, inspecting its bright emerald surface. 'A most exquisite jewel too, I'd say. Where did you find it?'
Kubler squirmed, clearly uncomfortable with the attention, 'I... ah... I bought it, sir. Got it from a peddler up in the platz. All different sorts, she had.'
'Well next time you visit your peddler, my boy, you be sure to purchase enough of these trinkets for all of us, you hear?' Smiling benignly, Karver handed the token back to Kubler. 'And now gentlemen,' he nodded, twiddling his cane, 'if we've all quite finished admiring this blushing model of Talabheim sophistication, what do you say to a little exercise?'
An element of apprehension returned to the group; but Karver could sense their calm professionalism. It was an altogether better prepared squad that turned as one towards the door at the foot of the alleyway.
Karver drew his pistol.
Boom.
A flare of light and a vicious geyser of smoke.
The decayed timber erupted in a maelstrom of whirligig splinters and corroded bolts. Messily bisected planks slumped mournfully in their dislocated bindings, the dismal light from beyond the ruined door spilling into the gloom within.
Dust motes capered in a flurry of concentric eddies as a gloved hand, ebony sleeve avoiding snags on the jagged wood, hastily reached into the room and tore back the deadbolt holding the door closed.
In the darkness someone - or something - moaned dolefully.
The door lurched open, hinges squealing in protest at the twisted wreckage of their load. Cold air rushed into the room like the surge of a broken dam, and again something within keened to itself.
Richt Karver strode into the gloom, pistol in one hand and swordstick in the other. Squinting into the shadows, he braced himself for whatever evils might be lurking within - tensing the muscles of his leading leg, preparing for combat.
Nothing moved.
Accosting him from the cloying darkness was an exotic melange of herbaceous aromas, strange and tantalising scents, carrying with them visions of distant lands and wondrous flora. Hoist spat, shattering the silence. 'Stinks like a privy in here.'
Rows of bundled herbs hung drying from the ceiling, an inverted forest of miasmic odours. The chamber - poorly lit as it was - looked for all the world like an apothecary's workroom.
Again came that low murmuring moan, and instantly the Templars tensed, weapons levelled, eyes desperate to penetrate the darkness. Karver cocked his head, owl like, attempting to locate the source of the sound. Gradually, like a sundial's shadow point, he pivoted around the room, coming to rest with all his formidable attention focused upon a wide, flat topped cabinet.
'Show yourself,' he growled.
Something moved fractionally in the gloom, curled under the low top of the table. It began to draw itself upright, tattered rags hanging around it like dead flesh, a distinct metallic chiming accompanying its stiff movements. A heavy hood shadowed the thing's face, a few errant strands of blond hair hanging loose.
Quivering, it groaned horrendously. The Templars spread out across the room, blocking the twitching creature's escape.
'Come out in the open,' Karver grunted. His command was ignored. Frowning, Karver slowly lifted a leg and stamped down hard on the floor. The resulting thump had the desired effect.
Like a startled rodent, the hooded head snapped around to regard the black clad apparition blotting the light from the door.
'Muaa...' it gurgled.
'Come out into the open,' Karver repeated, gesturing with his pistol. 'Understand?'
Again, a moment of recognition - perhaps even a half nod - and Karver felt sure that he could hear the thing breathing, sharp, panicked intakes of breath.
And then, with lightning rapidity the figure twisted to reach for something hidden from view beyond the cabinet. Karver felt a hot rush of adrenaline pulsing through him, senses surging ahead so that glacial slowness seemed to clutch at his movement.
'Weapon!' yelled Kubler in astonishment. All around the room the Templars were reacting, eyes wide - slow, too slow!
Karver didn't even think. His finger tightened fractionally on the trigger and the world went white.
Only when the echoes of the pistol crack had fled from the chamber did time appear to flow freely again. Dry fragments of cloth capered briefly in the air, blown clear of the shambling figure by the force of the impact. The creature itself had folded away neatly: no whalespout of chaotic fluids followed its descent, no mad thrashing of limbs and gnashing of teeth. It collapsed with a strangled yelp, the clink of metal upon metal, and lay still.
Karver inched forwards cautiously. Finally convinced of its death, he stooped to peel back the ragged hood. He instantly understood his horrible mistake.
It was a girl - perhaps twelve - and she had been insane.
Her eyes betrayed her madness; not the volatile, explosive insanity of the Taint, but rather a wide eyed horror, an expression of untold hardships barely endured that had robbed her of her sanity and replaced it instead with an endless fount of terror.
Her lips were open in a silent moan, betraying the mutilated flesh within.
'Her tongue's gone,' he murmured quietly.
And then, with morbid curiosity, Karver allowed his eyes to travel along her outstretched arm to whatever she had been twisting to grab in her final moments of life. Cold reflected light on metal glimmered beneath the rags festooning her frailty, and, horrified, Karver understood his error.
A thick manacle was set around her bruised and bloody leg - a manacle securing her, by means of an iron chain, to an immovable stanchion cemented into the floor. She had been reaching to expose the chain - a mute explanation for her inability to comply with Karver's order to move out into the open.
This girl had been a prisoner. A voiceless innocent, mutilated and abused by her captor, held here for who knew what reason.
And Karver had killed her. He felt sick.
'Get out,' he hissed, teeth grinding together.
'But s-sir,' Lars stammered, 'you couldn't have kno-'
'Get out.'
Exchanging glances, the hunters withdrew, leaving their leader with the grim trophy of his error. Hunched over, he closed his eyes and hissed a litany, forcing down the bile in his stomach.
'... Sigmar forgive... Sigmar forgive...'
Silence sank gradually into the room. Slowly, precariously, struggling all the way, Karver allowed a sense of resolution into his mind. Witch hunters were predators. They weeded out the weak and the defective and felt no remorse at the execution of their holy work: holy work, Karver knew, that could brook no inner guilt. No guilt! - a commandment that shrieked through his skull and demanded acquiescence.
He'd killed before. Oh, countless times. So many bodies gathered at his feet, so much blood spilled on his polished boots, so many vengeful bullets fired in Sigmar's name. How many fires had he lit in the communal platz? How often had he heard screams of denial turn to anguished, meaningless shrieks of admission in the Stygian dungeons of the Temple?
Compared to such overwhelming carnage - he lied smoothly to himself - what did the accidental extinguishing of one tiny, innocent life truly matter?
Something happened to Richt Karver's eyes, then. A minor change, to be sure, but a change nonetheless. Some fractional glimmer within his steely blue irises dimmed, hardened with new crystalline certainty, and when finally he straightened it was a minutely different man who arose.
The echoes of an ancient text rattled in his mind - a fragment of dialogue, written by some long dead bard, recited in the dry lecture halls of his youth.
I am in blood stepped in so far, that should I wade no more, returning were as tedious as to go o'er.
All trace of sentiment removed from his bearing, Karver peered about the room intently, halting his gaze upon the surface of the cabinet. Piled carefully upon a stone tile, surrounded by pestles, mortars and racks of spherical tablet moulds, lay a pyramid of finely formed powder. Well within reach of the girl, the Templar noted, bending to scrutinise the substance.
Nodding with newfound certainty, he glanced about for a container. Nothing seemed available - the room was as spartan as it was gloomy - and Karver grimly peeled off one leather glove and, careful not to touch it with his bare skin, scooped a portion of the powder inside.

THE VENERABLE HERR Ehlbeck - Graduate of the College of Magic in Altdorf; Initiate of the Jade Order; specialist in herbology; much sought after purveyor of balms and healing potions - tugged on his beard and fumed quietly to himself.
Around him graceful glass vessels bubbled and boiled, fluted beakers frothed in multicoloured agitation and thick smoke was shooed through an open window by a gaggle of fan wielding assistants. A flickering flame turned from yellow to green, coating the sorcerer's eyeglasses in an oily frosting and causing him to sneeze explosively. He felt positively light headed - which only added to his growing sense of indignation - and murmured a quick incantation to ward off the intoxicating effects of the vapour.
The cheek of the man! Storming in without so much as a by your leave! Stomping around, knocking over equipment, making demands as if he were the Supreme Patriarch himself! And then, having delivered a justifiable refusal to cooperate with this madman, to have been threatened by him; a Practitioner of the Secret Arts, threatened like some lowborn thug in a tavern! It was too much to bear!
Ehlbeck forced down an image of that decorative pistol being thrust forcibly into his rosy swollen nose and told himself that the only reason he'd relented was to get the odious man out of his workshop.
Then he ran his gaze around the chamber quickly, dipped his hat in farewell as if to cauterise whatever wounds festered therein, and stalked out into the cold city.
Contenting himself with considering what cutting responses he could have supplied had he wanted to, Herr Ehlbeck bent down to his task with all the false bravado of a man who knows he's been defeated but refuses to acknowledge it.

IN AN ADJOINING chamber, Richt Karver slumped on an uncomfortable bench and attempted to relax. As defender of Sigmar's Inviolable Faith the very notion of relying upon the suspect talents of a wizard seemed questionable. He'd balked when the idea first came to him, but after a forced inspection of the facilities he was as convinced as he could be that no Taint existed here. The ease with which the frail old man had been terrorised had been most gratifying.
The various other citizens sitting patiently in Ehlbeck's waiting room had long since dispersed, with as much nonchalance as they could muster. The presence of a witch hunter was more than enough to dissuade them from pursuing the incantations and healing potions they sought. In such small ways was the sanctity of Sigmar preserved.
Eventually Herr Ehlbeck came bustling from his workroom, green robes flowing behind him and snagging clumsily on the assorted twigs and branches festooning the room. He came to rest before Karver - who regarded him dispassionately - muttering excitedly to himself and fiddling with his eyeglasses, all former hostility forgotten.
Finally, twitching like a rodent and tapping his fingers together, he turned to Karver. 'Where... ah	 where did you find this powder?'
'I don't think that's really any of your concern,' Karver responded. 'Is it Glow?'
'Oh- Oh yes. No doubt about that, I mean, I compared the powder with the tablet form exhaustively. Exhaustively, I say. Same results, all the way through, bam-bam-bam, just like that. Definitely the same stuff. Whatever it is.'
'And what is it?'
'Ha. Quite.' The wizard scratched his nose distractedly, 'I was rather hoping you might tell me, actually...'
'Listen.' Karver grunted, annoyed. 'This... substance, whatever it is, am I correct in assuming it to be some physical form of-'
'Magic?' The wizard breathed, eyes twinkling behind his glasses. 'Oh, absolutely. Mixed with all sorts of herbs, of course, but essentially it's... well... I'd go so far as to say that if Chaos-' and here Ehlbeck noted Karver's narrowing eyes and added quickly: 'thrice damned that it is, of course - if Chaos were distilled into material form, then this would be the result.'
Karver glared acerbically at Ehlbeck for a moment. Men had died burning in the platz for showing less of an interest in the Taint than this skinny little bundle of nerves before him, but it occurred to him that a tame wizard was perhaps a valuable resource... 'Mm,' he grunted eventually. 'Chaos dust, eh?'
'Haha - quite,' the wizard laughed nervously. Karver treated him to a glance of unequivocal disdain.
'Very well.' The Templar muttered to himself, 'I suppose I must discover where the wretched stuff comes from...' He nodded perfunctorily at the wizard - the only thanks the venerable man would get - and turned to leave.
'There... ah... there is one other thing...' Ehlbeck said, polishing his glasses distractedly. 'Whilst I was conducting the tests, I... well, that is to say... I was a touch... distracted by the tenseness of the situation and, ah, to start with I tested the wrong thing...'
Karver's eyes narrowed. 'Go on.'
'Well, you see... Y-you asked me to test the powder in the glove against the Glow tablet, yes? Um, whereas, t-to start with, I tested the specks I found on the glove. I-I realised my mistake quickly and repeated the test on the stuff inside - w-which are the results I've been giving you - but, you see, it wouldn't have made any difference anyway because the stuff on the outside was exactly the same, chemically speaking.' The old man was twittering now, embarrassed at his mistake.
'The powder on the glove?' Karver repeated, perplexed.
'Y-yes. Just a few green fragments. Quite pretty, in fact, haha. Um.'
'I didn't touch any powder. I scooped it up inside.'
The wizard shrugged wretchedly, desperate to get the terrible man away from his premises.
'Mm,' Karver grunted again, and then stepped through the door into the street.
As he walked, he thought. And as he thought, a revelation began to form.

A DARK PLACE. A place where no light ever penetrated, save the sputtering, tortured firebrand placed carefully in a corner. Its limited luminescence served merely to stress the depths of those dark corners it failed to penetrate.
Something moved. Someone hunkered close down to the uneven floor of the chamber, hefting energetically at something corpulent and foul, from which the last vestiges of lank fur hung in sparse clumps, purification peeling back its skin in thick gelatinous folds. The man, unconcerned by the dead fluids oozing from the vile corpse, thrust a hand deep into the folds of cloth wrapping that wrapped it. His fingers found a worn leather pouch and pushed deep inside, snatching up a handful of green jewels from within, glowing with hypnotic beauty in the gloom.
The man giggled, emptying the warpstone into his pocket. He'd lost one Glow producing slave, certainly - but there were others. Other terrified children, snatched away in the night, forced to labour in hidden workrooms, terrified into compliance. Production would continue. The money would flow. The Taint would spread.
The man walked upon a floor of rotting corpses, collecting his malevolent harvest.
The fire flickered in its alcove.
And then some subtle sense, not wholly natural, made him jerk upright. Something was comi-
The door ripped open like a thunderclap and something reared in the doorway, billowing like a storm cloud, ebony undulations coursing through its extremities. Despite himself, the man in the dark moaned in fear.
Boom.
The lead shot hit him in the chest and sent him crashing to the floor. He gasped in pain and began to shudder, uncontrollable spasms rippling across him. Gradually the pain subsided.
Blood coursing down his chin, the man smiled revoltingly.
'How did....gkkh....you know?'
The storm cloud stepped into the room, robes settling, and the light threw Richt Karver's features into gruesome relief. 'The brooch,' he growled. 'I took it from your buttonhole, remember? It left a trace.' The hunter held a leather glove between pinched fingers, flinging it disgustedly to the floor.
'Hehehekkgh...' Kubler chuckled, coughing more blood. 'A nice touch, I thought. Hidden in plain sight, like you always say.'
'Arrogance, Kubler.' Karver grimaced, shaking his head, smoking gun still levelled. 'I can't begin to tell you how disappointed I am.'
'Spare me the lecture, old man... kkh... let's not pretend I'm one of your bloody smiling gentlemen anymore, eh? You made me drag those skaven bodies down here last year. Remember that? It would've been such a waste to leave them rotting without checking for... heh... valuables.'
'It's twisted your mind, Kubler. That stuff. It's made you insane.'
'Hekkh. Is it so wrong to make people feel... hnnk... happy? You should try some Glow, old man. You never know - heh - you might like it.'
Kubler coughed, more blood dribbling thickly from his lips.
'You're dying,' Karver intoned, pistol unwavering. His calm exterior required an effort to control. Inside, he howled at the betrayal, raging against his own weakness for not noting the Taint seducing his disciple sooner.
'Isn't... nn.... isn't everyone?' Kubler chuckled, lugubrious breaths growing more and more strained. He pushed a quivering hand into his pocket and extracted a pillbox, clicking it open. 'Such... hkk... such pain.... w-wouldn't begrudge me my medicine, would you?'
'Kubler...' Karver warned, too late. The dying Templar, fluids draining across the Heap like a warm slick of oil, upended the box. Green spheres rattled lightly against his teeth. He swallowed heavily, gagged on air for a moment, then slowly, clumsily, sagged. His face froze, lips drawn back, blood oozing across slick teeth.
And then he moved. Fast. Twisting impossibly, rising vertically in one long, terrifying lurch. Karver's hand blossomed with pain and the pistol skittered away into the dark, echoing.
Kubler stood back and leered. With a creak his jaw ratcheted forwards, his brow sloped back in a graceful arc and his eyes snapped open to reveal a yellow iridescence below. His neck distended noisily, the vertebrae concealed below rising like swelling bruises in a series of fluted spines. His fingers flexed then began to writhe, curling back onto themselves like a fistful of pink, fleshy maggots.
'Sssssssssss....' the thing hissed through a rapturous smile. Its features were slipping away to be replaced by new and deadlier forms, its skin writhed, its patterning moulded. Kubler's body shivered and jerked, a humanoid representation of amorphous, viscous, and constant change.
It moved with the effortlessness and speed of lightning, and before his eyes registered any attack Karver was bleeding, thrown back against the embrasure of the thick doorway with a long gash across his arm.
'U-unclean thing!' the Templar stammered, aware of the blood oozing across his clothing. 'Sigmar damn you!'
The creature smiled, and when it spoke it was still Kubler's voice - soft and undemonstrative - that left its wormlike lips. 'Oh, please, captain. I think we can dispense with that... Don't feel too bad - it's a poor novice that fails to excel his master.'
The sword was flung away, clattering against the wall in a flurry of sparks and shattering metal. Karver, consciousness beginning to ebb with the flow of blood from his wound, barely even saw the creature move.
And then it advanced, reptile sneer the only constant upon a face of writhing parts. Karver reached out to the wall for support, feeling blindly into the darkness of the stairwell outside the catacomb, every movement agony.
'Mmmm...' Kubler trilled. 'Stagger away, old man. Where are your lessons now? Eh? Where's your faith? It's about time you realised, ''captain''... You've nothing left to teach me.'
Karver's quivering hand fell upon a cold metal hook, cemented into the wall of the stairwell. His questing fingers - growing weaker with every heartbeat encountered a thick loop of chain, planted over the stanchion. He grinned feebly. 'I've a lesson or two left in me yet, my boy.'
Then he pulled the chain, straining against its placement, off the hook.
The rat barrelled from the shadows of the stairs like a comet. Trailing its own useless guts, discarding flesh and flaccid fur in its magnificent arc, gimlet eyes glowing in anticipated victory. Kubler never knew what hit him.
Starving and insane, chained there in the shadows moments ago, it had been treated to a perfect view of the writhing figure within the chamber consuming enough of what it wanted, what it must have, to last it a lifetime.
It struck Kubler at waist height and dug.
Kubler's amorphous form reacted admirably - seething around the invading monstrosity, spreading forth tentacles to seal up the crater into which the beast had vanished, rocking as it attempted to ascertain what damage might have been caused.
Kubler's grin froze, and then vanished. His eyes bulged. His fingers flexed.
He sank to his knees and doubled up, a slow but enormous retch building in his throat.
Richt Karver, weak and barely conscious, opened his eyes and forced himself to watch.
Like volcanic forces long dormant reaching a critical pressure deep within the living earth, Kubler erupted.
His chest cavity detonated, mutant flesh flexing and palpitating in the air, shattered bone scything outwards, fabric and reptile skin hanging limpid in stunned clouds around the fragmenting form.
Kubler - or, rather, the thing that had once been him - gave a final disbelieving giggle and died.
The rat-creature tumbled from the organic wreckage, body hopelessly shredded, sliced and dissolved by whatever internal attacks Kubler's doomed innards had attempted in its final moments. The fierce light of triumph burnt in its one remaining eye, and - unaware that its viscera were long gone, it gobbled hungrily upon the semi-digested Glow that Kubler had swallowed.
'Dinner time, vermin...' Karver whispered. Then he snatched up the firebrand and tossed it onto the Heap.
Months old bodies, mummified by the dryness of their subterranean tomb, ignited like paper. The rat screamed as it died, and Karver watched it until it stopped, too charred to draw breath any longer.
He sat on the stairs of the Heap until the others arrived in a gaggle of excitement and confusion. He sat until the fire burnt itself out, leaving nothing but soot and ash. He sat until every last trace of Kubler - his greatest novice, his greatest enemy - had been obliterated.
He was trying to decide how he felt. Somehow he understood that deep, personal grief would be the natural response to this episode. Further, he felt that - until recently - his reaction to this situation would have been just that.
But not any more. Too much had changed.
Sitting there on the step, surrounded by devastation and death, Richt Karver - Witch Hunter Captain of Talabheim City - was fighting the urge to grin in triumph.
Outside, in the bitter air, the crows ruffled their feathers against the cold and waited for spring.