THE SMALL ONES
by C. L. Werner

THE SOUND OF squealing laughter echoed across the northernmost of Eugen Duhring's wheat fields. The wide patch of barren ground had been left fallow this season to allow the soil to replenish and revivify itself. Duhring was known as a miserly and mean-spirited man, hateful and bitter about his station in life. Some in the village of Marburg called the wheat farmer ''the Badger'' because of his fierceness regarding trespassers on his property. Had Duhring heard the laughter and seen the small shapes scampering across his field, he would have set his brace of dogs on them. If the farmer happened to see who one of the shapes was, the children could have expected a swift and physical reprimand courtesy of a switch broken from one of the nearby trees.
Keren laughed even as she gasped for breath and danced away from the outstretched arms of her pursuer. She was a young girl, long locks of golden hair dancing in the bright sunlight, her white blouse and black dress offsetting the rich colour of her arms and face. The girl's face was pretty, her button nose placed above a pair of pouting lips that were well-versed in the art of forestalling a scolding by means of a simple downward tremble. Her eyes had a slightly mischievous cast to them, the faintest arching of her brow that hinted at a cunning mind. She carried herself with an air of pride, and it would have been apparent to any observer that she considered herself better than her companions, a sense of station more befitting a great lady of some Bretonnian house than the daughter of Marburg's miller.
Still, perhaps the girl was not to blame for her superior attitude. Her father, Bernd Mueller, considered himself something of a petty noble, the closest thing the village of Marburg had to an actual burgomeister. The prosperous miller was banker, landlord and, some would confess in confidence, robber baron to the farmers who made their living in the vicinity of Marburg. His was the only mill for many leagues in any direction, and Mueller made certain that his monopoly paid well. True, a farmer could take his wheat to some other village, perhaps Fallberg to the north or Giehsehoff to the east, but the expense and time to do so would cost the farmer more than it would to swallow his pride and pay Mueller's extortionate rates. Mueller openly mocked his patrons, treating them as little better than indentured servants. It was small wonder then that the girl should hold herself as superior to the children of her father's customers and deal with them in a manner befitting her eminent position.
Keren laughed again as Paul lunged for her and she danced away from his clumsy attempt to catch her. Paul was a tall, gangly boy, his face still bearing the moon-shaped depressions from the pox that had struck Marburg many years ago. He swore one of the colourful curses he often overheard in his father's tavern and turned to again try and catch his quarry. A safe distance away from the hunter, Therese blushed when she heard the words leaving her playmate's mouth. Beside her, the brawny figure of Kurt remained wary, lest the hunter turn his stumbling steps in his direction.
Keren started to dart away from Paul's clutching hands once more, when suddenly a bright flash of pain tore at the back of her head. A hand slapped the small of her back and Paul's figure pranced away from the girl in triumph.
'Ha, now you have to try and catch us,' the boy laughed as he sauntered toward the advancing Therese and Kurt. Keren dropped to her knees and stroked her long golden locks.
'You pulled my hair, you stupid toad!' the girl snarled in her most indignant tone.
'I caught you,' corrected the boy, noting with some concern the sullen look that had crawled across Kurt's face.
Keren rose from the ground, glaring at Paul, venom in her eyes. 'Doesn't your family teach you any kind of manners? Just because you look like a monster doesn't mean you have to act like one.' The words left the girl's mouth like daggers, her target visibly wilting at the assault.
'Show your betters some respect,' Kurt said in a low, menacing voice as he pushed Paul with a meaty hand. Kurt often helped his brothers in their profession as foresters and his size was quite beyond his years. He was entirely devoted to Keren, and many of the village children had received a beating at his hands when offence or her own malicious spite made Keren call upon the devotion of her brawny protector.
'But I caught her,' protested Paul, retreating from Kurt's glowering form. Therese came to her brother's aid.
'Try and catch us!' she cried, racing away into the woods that bordered the wheat field. Paul took that as an excuse to run away from Kurt and the threat of a short and one-sided fight. Kurt cast a confused look at Keren before deciding that he should hide as well or risk being tagged himself. Devoted or not, the young woodsman had no desire to bear the stigma of playing the hunter, even for Keren's sake. In the matter of a few seconds, Keren was left standing alone in the barren field.
The girl let a few moments pass, trying to compose herself rather than actually intending to give her friends time to conceal themselves. It was humiliating for her to be the hunter. When she had proposed this game, she had never thought that she would ever have the shame of being the searcher. Indeed, if everyone had not already run off, Keren would have haughtily declared that the game was stupid and that they play something else. Now she would have to show these farmers' brats that she was much better at playing the hunter than any of them.
Keren entered the shadowy stand of trees and tried to pierce the dark bushes and bracken with her youthful gaze. She listened carefully for any aberrant sound that her quarry might make in seeking to elude her. Only the chirping of a few birds and the frightened scrambling of a startled squirrel rewarded her efforts. She continued to walk along the narrow game trail, her annoyance rising with every step. How dare these peasants force her down to their level? It was enough that she deigned to play with them at all, why should she endure this indignity? The girl loathed the role of hunter, playing alone, struggling through the bushes whilst having to endure the taunting elusiveness of the others. It was not for the daughter of Bernd Mueller to have to chase for friends, she thought, as if she really wanted to find a rabble of dirty peasants anyway. Keren had almost made up her mind to leave the others to their stupid play and go home when she heard the rustle of dead leaves behind a patch of bushes a few yards away. A crafty smile crept upon Keren's face as she stalked toward the noise. She had found them much faster than Paul had and she would not be reduced to chasing them out into Duhring's wheat field either. Slowly, with as much silence as she could manage, the girl made her way to the bushes. With a yell of victory, she jumped around the closest of them. Abruptly, her yell became a shriek as the girl realised what she had found.
It was not one of her friends lying behind the bush; indeed, it was no such creature as Keren had ever seen in her short, isolated life. It looked like a little man, certainly not more than five feet tall had it been standing. Its overall shape was that of a man but where human features should have rested there was the porcine countenance of a farmyard swine, its brutish flesh covered in a soft golden down, almost like the fur of a duckling. The creature was wearing a dark robe and Keren could see that one of its legs was twisted beneath the black fabric at an unnatural angle. As she watched, pale blue eyes stared at her from the swinish head with an almost human look of alarm.
Keren was still staring into those pale orbs when Kurt ran to her side, alarmed by the girl's scream. When he saw the strange creature lying almost at Keren's feet, he halted abruptly, his mind seized by fear. The two still stood there, frozen to the spot, when Paul and his sister joined them. Therese let out a shriek when she saw the beast, the sound seeming to jar the other children out of their paralysed fright. They all ran away from the bestial form, far enough to be out of its reach should it decide to lunge at them. The children were silent, not one daring to speak, though one and all peered through the bush, to make certain that the strange beast was truly there.
Keren caught a hint of the creature's gold fur and looked away in disgust, the memory of the creature in its entirety refreshing itself in her mind. She regarded the other children, noting the faces of her playmates as she did so. They all bore expressions of horror tinged with childish fascination, yet none had the courage to take the lead. Keren forced her own face to curl into a haughty and disdainful sneer, adopting the expression she had seen the elder Mueller adopt on many occasions when addressing some cowed villager. She was not afraid, not like these farm whelps. She would show them what true superiority was.
Keren pushed Kurt toward the bush. The boy resisted her efforts, scrambling back to his original position. The girl glared at the brawny youth. 'Don't tell me you're afraid of a dying pig,' the girl scolded in her most imperious and high-handed tone. Kurt's face reddened and the boy stomped toward the bush, determined to redeem himself. Keren followed the boy, at what she judged to be a safe enough distance. A glare brought Paul and Therese hurrying to be at her side. By degrees, the timid gang advanced upon the bush. At last all four children stood over the twisted, brutish shape once again. Kurt bent down and picked up a large stick. Timidly, the boy poked the tip of his improvised weapon into the creature's side. A human-sounding groan emerged from the porcine snout.
'Is it a monster?' asked Kurt, his voice trembling.
Keren looked intently at the gruesome, bestial thing. It was hideous, certainly, but as she looked into its gentle, pleading, strangely human eyes, the girl was not so very certain that it was actually dangerous. It was very obviously hurt and weak. She knew, if she wished, she could have it crushed as a beetle. The other children gawped, fearfully, and Keren knew that they were unconsciously waiting for her judgement.
'That's stupid,' she declared, 'monsters are big and fierce. This poor little thing doesn't look like it could scare anybody.' She chose to ignore the sudden shock she had experienced when she had stumbled upon the creature. The others were afraid of it, and that made it all the more important that she showed them that she was not.
'Goblins aren't big,' Paul protested, 'and they're monsters.'
Keren scoffed at the tavern boy's argument. 'Stupid, everybody knows goblins are just baby orcs. That is why they're little.' Keren returned her attention to the little creature, fascination overcoming her lingering horror. The little creature moved one of its delicate, long-fingered hands feebly as she watched it.
'I am going to go get my father,' Paul decided, pulling on his sister's hand. Keren turned on the boy with her most venomous glare.
'Paul Keppler, if you do that I will hate you!' Keren screamed as the boy started to pull his sister away. Paul looked at the girl with an apprehensive gaze. Keren decided to press the attack. 'If you go telling about this, you won't be playing with me or any of my friends ever again!'
The threat was a dire one for any of the children of Marburg. Keren Mueller was the most popular child in the village; her whims of friendship and dislike decided the hierarchy among the children. Those she did not like, like the young bell-ringer at Marburg's Sigmarite chapel, were virtual pariahs, teased and tormented by all the other children at every opportunity. With his scarred features, Paul was already the object of her ridicule; only his sister's close relationship to Keren kept him from being an object of complete scorn. Paul looked at his sister for a moment and then released her hand. Keren's bullying threat had been enough to cow the boy.
'What are you going to do with it?' Paul asked as he returned his gaze to the swine-headed creature.
'He's hurt, maybe sick,' the girl declared. 'If we help him get better, maybe he'll get us presents.' She was now certain that the creature was a bewitched prince and surely a prince would be able to give her gifts if she helped him recover.
'But where will we take him?' Paul asked, hoping yet to foil Keren's plans with reason. There was something horrible about the creature; he could not understand why Keren was not frightened of it. 'What will we do with it? We can't very well take it home; mother would never let that thing sleep in the house.'
Keren thought about the problem for a moment before the light of an idea gleamed in her eyes. 'I know a place!' she declared. The girl swatted Kurt's stomach with one of her dainty hands, rousing the boy from his embarrassed silence. 'Help Paul pick the prince up and follow me,' the girl commanded.
As the boys grabbed his arms and legs, a smile split the porcine features of the sorcerer Thyssen Krotzigk. None of the children noticed that smile, nor its malevolent twisting at the corners of his mouth.

KEREN LET ANOTHER distinctly unladylike oath escape her lips as the underbrush grabbed at her dress and scratched at her legs for the umpteenth time. She had not figured on the disused path to the old mill being in such a sorry state. Had she known that getting there would be such a chore, she would never have suggested the ruin. The girl looked over at the two boys, struggling to keep the creature's body high enough to escape the clutching brambles. Their legs were even more scratched and bruised than her own. An impish smile graced Keren's face as she saw the boys enduring their discomfort simply because she had told them to. Keren looked away from the gasping, sweating pair and looked again at the crumbling wooden structure which was their destination. Once, it had been the business place of Ludwig Troost, the man who had dared to try and end her father's monopoly. Herr Mueller had begun a campaign of sabotage and slander to destroy Marburg's other miller. In the end, friendless and destitute, Troost had crushed himself beneath his own mill wheel. Keren's father liked to talk about his vanquished rival, and he had shown his daughter Troost's abandoned mill many times since the man's suicide. Few other people would come here, believing the place to be haunted. It was the perfect place to hide their strange secret.
The inside of the mill was as decrepit as its exterior. Over the years some of the supporting beams had toppled from the roof to repose in angled pillar-like positions. The floor appeared to be the final resting-place for every dead leaf in the forest, filling the building with a rotting ankle-deep carpet. A brace of crows cawed from the shadowy top of the monstrous mill wheel. A rusted chain dangled from the end of the wooden yoke Troost had once hitched his mule to when working the wheel, swaying slightly in the breeze. Under Keren's direction the children carried their patient to a raised wooden platform that was slightly less debris-laden than the floor proper. They set him down beside a pair of neglected barrels and quickly stepped away.
'Kurt, go and see if you can get some blankets from your brothers,' Keren told the burly boy. Kurt hesitated a moment and then made his way through the ruinous mill to the clean air outside. Keren turned her attention to Paul and Therese.
'He needs some food. Why don't you get some from the tavern?' Keren said to Paul.
'You mean steal it?' the boy's voice was almost incredulous. Keren's eyes narrowed.
'Your father owns the tavern. How can that be stealing?' she demanded.
'I don't know,' Paul confessed.
'Maybe I should just have Therese do it, if you are too scared,' sighed Keren.
'No, I'll do it, I'll get some bread,' Paul hastily agreed. It was one thing if he got into trouble, but he did not want his younger sister to suffer their father's wrath. Keren smiled at the boy's easy submission.
Thyssen Krotzigk listened to the children squabble, the smile again crossing his swinelike face. Truly the Dark Gods were watching over him, the sorcerer thought. It had taken only the slightest suggestion to the girl's mind to bend her to his intent. She was a naturally bullying and haughty soul, full of pride and arrogance, such easily manipulated qualities. It was indeed fortunate that they ran so strong in the girl's make-up, for, if Krotzigk admitted the truth to himself, in his present condition, he was beyond any but the most minor of evocations. The little sorcerer shifted his weight, trying to relieve the pressure from his twisted leg. Krotzigk bit down on the sudden pain, refusing to cry out and alarm his newfound patrons.
Memories flooded the sorcerer's mind as his hands tried to massage the torment from his mangled limb. Memories of Talabheim and his initiation into the priesthood of Morr. Krotzigk smiled at the recollection. Even at an early age he had been what most people considered morbid. He had always been drawn to the dark side of things. It was this quality which had led him to the rites and rituals of the God of Death and then, in time, to the forbidden study of the ultimate darkness, Chaos itself. He could not remember now how he had come upon the book, a vague treatise on all the dark and forbidden cults that lurked in the shadows of man's great kingdoms. The book had told of the foul worship of Morr's brother Khaine, the Lord of Murder, and Malal the Fallen. More, it had told of the great Ruinous Powers - Khorne, Nurgle, Tzeentch and Slaanesh, the Dark Gods who were the chief aspects of Chaos. That simple book, meant to warn, to outrage its studious reader with such blasphemous and heretical rites, instead had ignited a sinister passion within Krotzigk's already morbid heart. Perhaps his superiors at the temple had sensed the change in their colleague for it was shortly thereafter that he received his transfer to an isolated way temple in the back-country of Stirland. It was little more than a shrine and a cemetery really, serving the scattered villages and towns for a dozen miles around when one of their denizens was called to Morr's kingdom. But if his new situation did not bring with it prestige and advancement, it brought with it something far more important to Krotzigk's darkening soul - seclusion.
Krotzigk could not remember for how many years he had practised the profane rites of Chaos in his blasphemously reconsecrated temple. From the peasants who sometimes visited the temple, he carefully recruited followers, more souls for the Dark Gods. He led them in the dark worship of Chaos in its most pure and absolute form, conducting them in blood rituals on Geheimnisnacht, sacrificing travellers his loyal following provided. More, he conducted them in sacrilegious rites on Death Night, twisting the rites of Morr into a celebration of the Great Powers.
And his zeal was rewarded, not with the paltry powers of one of Morr's adepts but with true sorcerous might. Krotzigk found that his aptitude in the magical arts had increased to a degree far beyond his wildest desires. True, there was a price to pay: a necessary humbling which the Chaos Gods inflicted upon Krotzigk even as his magical powers grew. His once handsome face twisted and distorted itself into that of a swine; a soft golden fur covered most of his body. His tongue had split like a serpent's and his body had shrivelled and shrunk into an almost dwarf-like state. If Krotzigk needed any proof of the awful power of Chaos, he had only to stare at his own reflection. Worse would befall him, he knew, if he ever betrayed his new lords. They would not remain silent and inactive like Morr. To offend Chaos was to invite worse than death.
After years of isolation, there came an inspector from the temple in Talabheim. The wily old priest had at once detected the hideous rededication of the temple. It had not preserved his life, however, but it had been the beginning of the end for Krotzigk. In response to the vanishing of an aged and respected scion of the temple, the High Priest of Morr had despatched not another band of priests but the cult's templar knights, the feared Black Guard of Morr.
Krotzigk had been fortunate to escape with his life; none of his followers had been so lucky. The power of Chaos had delivered him, even if it had not spared him the agony of a broken leg. Perhaps it had been another lesson in humility, the sorcerer considered. And now, after weeks of dragging himself painfully across the wilds, almost at the very brink of death, the Ruinous Powers had again delivered their faithful servant from his suffering. Krotzigk turned his pale eyes on the squabbling children.
They had delivered him, that he might deliver unto the Chaos Gods a dark harvest of souls.

THE WIND HOWLED through the boughs that lined the small dirt road. It was the chill wind of late autumn that stirred the fallen leaves on their way, the chill cousin of the icy gales of winter. It was a time when travel was all but absent from the back-roads of Stirland, when only the few cities of that lonely province still drew wanderers to their gates. Still, a shadowy apparition made its way down the disregarded path.
Had anyone else been roaming along the lane, they would have been impressed by the sinister horseman that shared the road, and made the sign of Sigmar as they passed the silent wanderer. The steed was a magnificent warhorse, dark as the dead of night, a swarthy shroud-like caparison clothing the animal almost from head to hoof. The man mounted upon the horse's back was also garbed in black, ebony armour of forged obsidian over which he wore a heavy, monklike habit of coarse sombre fibre. Etched upon the breast of the habit was a raven in flight, the sign of the grim god of death. The silent rider was no mere sellsword or freelancer, but one of the dread Black Guard of Morr.
The templar's head lay upon his chest as his horse slowly trotted down the path. The caparison and habit, which clothed the two, were torn and muddy, the man's armour soiled with the dust and grime of many weeks of travel on the back-roads of the Empire. A sudden bolster of the wind's strength caused the templar's hood to fall away from his head, revealing the hard, toughened visage of a veteran warrior. The man's nose was broad and splayed, the result of being broken one time too many. Between his brow and his close-cropped black hair there was the grey furrow of an old knife wound. His left cheek had puckered into a vile patch of withered flesh, through which his cheekbone and even his jaw and rearmost teeth could easily be seen. The withered edge of the templar's lip trembled and the napping guardsman awoke with a start. Immediately his right hand released the reins and clutched at his left arm, only to close upon the empty sleeve of his habit.
Ernst Ditmarr grimaced as his mind roused itself to full wakefulness. He released the empty sleeve that had once clothed his left arm and wiped beads of perspiration from his brow before awkwardly shifting his body in order to recover the discarded reins. The same dream, always the same dream. The templar had not passed an hour in slumber without suffering from its baleful intrusion.
He saw himself, once again leading his command of Black Guard to the way temple of Curate Krotzigk. Once again he saw the deranged Chaos cultists attack them, throwing themselves upon the guard's swords with a maniacal fervour. And once again he saw the hideously twisted thing that had at one time been a priest of Morr. He saw the monster hurl unholy power upon his knights, reducing men and horses to ash and slime. He saw himself charge the filthy sorcerer, leaping from his saddle to tackle the vile creature. He saw it writhe from his grasp, fleeing up the rough-hewn steps that led to the roof of the small temple. Finally, he saw himself, his great sword clutched in his hand, his skull-shaped shield held before him as he advanced upon the cornered cult leader. Power danced about the bestial mutant as it summoned its last reserves of sorcerous might. Ditmarr raised his shield to protect his face even as he struck out at the beast with his sword. Searing agony enveloped him as a blast of green flame seared through his shield, knocking him on his back. The dark shape strode triumphantly towards his prone body, unholy power crackling in its hands, utterly unfazed by the templar's savage attack. The swinish head glared down at him and the sorcerer laughed as it sent a second blast of dark magic into Ditmarr's body.
No, that was not how it was. The sorcerer had not gloated over the templar as he lay writhing on the roof of the shrine. Dimly, Ditmarr seemed to recall seeing a black shape topple over the side of the roof even as he himself fell. Clearer memories provided the rest. His awakening in the back room of a healer's, the gruesome sight of his left arm, withered down to the elbow, every bone showing through the sorry parchment-like skin. He could see his second, Sergeant-Acolyte Ehrhardt, nodding grimly to the healer. He could see the serrated blade in the old man's hands as Ehrhardt held down the withered arm...
Ditmarr clenched his teeth against the memory of that pain; a dead arm cut from a living body. If it took him a hundred years, he would find the blasphemer who had taken his arm, his honour and his life. And when he did, Krotzigk would discover that the vengeance of a god betrayed was terrible indeed.

EDUARD THREW THE stick across the small yard that adjoined Marburg's tiny chapel. The little brown dog yipped with glee as it tore across the grass and damp earth in pursuit of the fleeing stick. Eduard watched the little dog race away, the smile fading from his face. The boy's breath came hot and short, his hands clenching and unclenching in a fit of nervousness. As the puppy ran still farther away in pursuit of the stick, Eduard began to tremble, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. The dog reached the stick and hesitated a moment. Eduard knew that the animal was just getting a better grip with its mouth, but he could not fend off the utter terror that brought tears to his eyes, the horror that the little dog would not come back. The dog always did, but Eduard could not overcome his fear that it would not. His parents had left him after all, left him alone. He had only himself to blame, it was true, for he had been such a sickly little boy. Perhaps they had been afraid that he would make them sick. He knew that many grown-ups were like that, avoiding the ill so that they would not fall prey to the same infirmity. The only one in the village who had been kind enough to take him in was the priest, Father Hackl, but the old cleric was too dour and demanding to make a real parent for the boy, and did little to ease his loneliness.
It did not help that none of the other children seemed to like him. None of them would play with him. Keren Mueller in particular seemed to despise the boy. Whenever she saw him, she said the most horrible things. She called him names like ''worm'' and ''pig's slop'' and told him horrible lies about his parents being dead because he had made them sick. It was because of her that no one else liked him, Eduard was sure of that. Although Father Hackl had taught him that such thoughts were wrong, sometimes he secretly wished that Keren would die for saying such mean things.
The boys were almost standing next to Eduard before he saw them. The young orphan turned as they approached prepared to run away from a new barrage of taunts and small stones. To his surprise, the boys were smiling at him, wide friendly smiles.
'Do you want to play with us?' Paul asked the bell-ringer. Eduard stared at the boy, almost refusing to believe his ears.
'We found a great new place to play,' added Rudi, the shifty eyed son of Marburg's wainwright. Eduard just continued to stare. Paul stepped forward to grip his hand.
'Come on, I bet we beat you there,' the boy challenged Eduard. He waited a moment before racing away, Rudi following him. Eduard continued to stare at the pair of boys.
'Wait for me!' Eduard cried, hurrying after Paul and Rudi, all thoughts of dogs and sticks abandoned.
The boys led Eduard on a merry chase through the paths and game trails in the woods. Eduard joined in their laughter; running and giggling just like a real little boy. He could not believe how good it felt to be playing with other children, to have friends. The boy did not dare to question his good fortune, to ponder the sudden change that had come over two members of Keren's mob. Some distance ahead, Paul called out for Eduard to hurry. They were almost at the secret place.
It was an old, run down building, larger than the chapel but smaller than Marburg's tavern or town hall. It was almost hidden by the trees and undergrowth that surrounded the derelict structure. The sight of the eerie building brought Eduard's run to a sudden halt.
'Th... there?' the boy stammered. Paul grabbed his hand and started to pull him toward the yawning, cave-like door of the old mill.
'Come on, Eduard, don't you want to play?' The criticism had its desired effect, and Eduard's resistance slackened and Paul led him through the doorway and into the dark, shadowy interior of the building.
There were many children inside the mill, all of them wearing garlands of flowers and smiling faces. Most of them were watching the doorway as Paul and Eduard entered, but others were looking up at the wooden platform that rose from the earthen floor. Eduard followed their gaze and his eyes grew wide with fright.
The figure on the platform was imposing, despite its short stature. It was a monstrous creature garbed in a robe of black. The beast's hands were horribly human in shape, though covered in a soft golden fur, each finger tipped by a brown claw-like nail. The monster's head was like a young boar's, a pinkish snout rising from the centre of the face. To either side of the snout, sunken deep in the monster's skull, a pair of pale blue eyes gleamed. There was intelligence in those eyes, evidence of knowledge forbidden, corrupt, and unholy. Indeed, a malevolent energy seemed to emanate from the twisted beast as it looked at Eduard. The monster rose from its sheepskin-cushioned chair and walked toward the boy. One of its legs was crippled, but it served well enough to allow the beast to hobble down the few steps separating the platform from the floor. The limping, scuttling gait only added to the creature's unnatural image. Eduard's body trembled as the monster stopped a few paces away from him.
'Welcome, Eduard,' the monster said with a soft, soothing voice. 'We've been waiting for you.'
Eduard let out a piercing scream, turned and ran for the door.

DITMARR EMERGED FROM the small ranger's hut, his armoured boots sinking into the soft mud outside. He awkwardly began to redress his black steed in its midnight-hued caparison when a sound arrested his motion. The Black Guardsman of Morr spun around, caparison discarded, his hand on the hilt of the sword at his side. Standing not twenty paces away was a figure in black.
'You are far from where you should be, Kaptain-Justicar,' the voice behind the great helm that enclosed the man's head intoned.
'That depends upon how far from me my prey is lurking,' Ditmarr replied, his eyes covering the other Black Guardsman with an icy gaze.
'You know the decision of the Temple,' the other templar said, reaching up and removing his helm. The face revealed was weathered, hardened beyond its years by a life spent roaming from battle to battle.
'You were there, sergeant,' Ditmarr stated. 'You saw the thing that did this to me.' The templar flicked the hem of his empty sleeve with a steel finger. 'You saw the heresy and sacrilege it committed in the house of Morr itself.'
'Yes, and I was there long ago when you and I sold our swords to whichever Border Prince or Tilean merchant paid the best. I was there when we fought the orcs in Mad Dog Pass, when you pledged your sword to Morr if he would delay your death and allow us victory over the greenskin horde,' Sergeant-Acolyte Ehrhardt returned.
'Then you understand why I cannot abide by the Temple's decision,' Ditmarr stated. 'I pledged to fight the enemies of Morr. It is all I have.'
'I too made that oath,' Ehrhardt reminded his old comrade. 'Are you so certain that priests do not fight their own battles to honour Morr?' Ditmarr laughed at the templar's argument. It was a dry, sardonic sound, lacking in joy or merriment.
'Can you see me living the life of a cloistered priest? Ministering to the souls of the dead and ensuring their entry into the gardens of Morr?' Ditmarr sighed. 'No, I know only the path of the sword. That is how I can best serve Morr.'
'You pursue this Krotzigk for yourself, for revenge,' Ehrhardt sneered. Ditmarr was silent for a moment.
'Perhaps I do this for both of us.'
'You have been declared apostate by the Temple,' Ehrhardt said with a grave voice. 'For what? Because you hunt a monster that has probably already crawled into a hole somewhere and died?'
'It is my choice, even if it be a fool's errand.' Ditmarr stared closely at Ehrhardt. 'You have come to take me back? I have seen your swordarm in battle, many times. I will conduct you to Morr before you conduct me to his priests.'
Ehrhardt returned his helm to his head and nodded sadly. 'I did not find you this day. You were not here.' The Black Guardsman turned and started to walk away. 'I hope you find what you are looking for, Ernst. I hope it brings you peace.'

THYSSEN'S PORCINE TUSKS noisily cracked the sheep bone in his mouth and his supple tongue began to probe the fissure in search of marrow. Almost absently the sorcerer patted the head of the little shepherdess who had undergone a beating to bring one of her father's flock to the sorcerer's cooking pot. The sorcerer considered the child's devotion, favouring her with his most benign smile before returning his attention to the cowering boy who thought to report him to the village priest.
'My dear, dear Eduard,' the swine-headed creature clucked. 'You have been very bad, haven't you?' And I ought to blast your filthy carcass into a thousand pieces and hand feed them to the crows, Thyssen thought. But that would not be good. Such a display of discipline might upset his other young followers. After all, flight from the stern discipline of their parents was what had brought most of them to him in the first place. The boy was young; his impressionable mind still a thing capable of being moulded into Thyssen's desire. Yet, the children needed to be reminded that it was no light thing to try and run off, to let an adult know about him and their little sanctuary in the woods. Thyssen cast his gaze about the old mill as he pondered how best to proceed.
Already the children were gathering, the dozen who had completely broken away from the village, spending day and night with Thyssen at the ruin and the twenty or so others who lived still with their parents. They were the biggest threat to Thyssen, these transient disciples who came only when they could slip away unseen and left when they would be missed by their elders. It was necessary; they were Thyssen's sole source of supplies and information about the village beyond the mill. It was also dangerous: there was always the chance that one of them would betray the sorcerer, as little Eduard had thought to do.
Thyssen watched as the last few children returned from playing outside. True Chaos, the sorcerer thought. No concern for labour or stricture, only the pleasure of the moment. It was a testament to how greatly the children enjoyed his lessons that he did not have to collect them from their romps but that they came of their own accord. They sat, mostly quiet, mostly still, awaiting the beginning of Thyssen's story of the day. Thyssen noted the eager young faces and a cruel smile played about the edges of his porcine mouth.
'You have been bad,' the sorcerer said softly, 'and for that you will not be allowed to listen to the story today.' A twinkle of malicious mirth gleamed in Thyssen's eye as he noted the sudden look of loss that masked the boy's features. One of the many lessons of Slaanesh, the ecstasy of experience and the torment of its denial. Thyssen waved Kurt and Paul forward. The boys lifted Eduard from the floor and carried the boy over to a large wooden barrel resting in the farthest corner of the mill. He should be just out of earshot, the sorcerer mused as he watched the boys force Eduard into his small prison. He was certain that this blatant exclusion of Eduard from the other children would have the desired effect, upon both the would-be turncoat and the other children. Still, it would pay to ensure his strategy.
'Keren,' the sorcerer hissed softly. The girl took her place at his side and Thyssen whispered into her ear.
'I understand that young Eduard has a little dog,' Thyssen smiled as he saw the wicked grin growing on Keren's face. What an eager student. 'When we let him out of the barrel, tell him that if he ever runs off again, something bad will happen to his dog.' Thyssen waved away the girl and hobbled his way to the front of the platform.
'Today, children, I will tell you a story about Sigmar.' A hush of excitement crept across the assembly. Thyssen choked on the loathing their excitement evoked, reminding him that he had much nonsense still to remove from their young minds. Let them have their heroic delusions, I will correct them soon enough. And until then, I will exploit their naive faith.
The sorcerer began his tale, telling of great and noble Sigmar and his struggle to found the Empire. He told of how hordes of orcs forced Sigmar and his mighty army away from the places known to men, past even the icy lands of Kislev, until Sigmar came upon the border of a land of wonder and magic. The sky sparkled like diamond and the ground was paved with gold. And, just as Sigmar would have entered this land of fantastic beauty, he found the way barred by four mighty figures. One was a massive man encased in a suit of ruby armour, a blazing axe in his powerful hand. The second was a beautiful woman, her armour sparkling like the diamond sky so that whenever the eye fell upon it, it was a different colour. The third was a tall, keen-eyed wizard garbed in a brightly coloured robe and the air around him shimmered with magic. The last was a great fat warrior, whose coughing laugh boomed across the horizon. They were the Four Princes and Sigmar recognised them as his equals, beings worthy of his respect. He knew that it would be best to not raise arms against them and turned to return and face the overwhelming orc hordes. But the Four Princes would not allow the armies of men to fall, and they returned with Sigmar and together they scoured the land until all the orcs had been driven beyond the mountains.
It was late in the evening when Thyssen finished his tale. Not one of his young audience had lost interest, not one youthful head bowed in slumber despite the late hour. The sorcerer was pleased with his success. Soon, soon I will teach you more than fables. Soon I will show you the Four Princes and you will love them.

'THE OLD FOOL!' Thyssen roared, throwing the clay cup across the mill, spilling goat's milk on his black robe. A young girl hurried forward and began to sop the milk from his robe with the hem of her dress. Thyssen smiled at her and turned his head to look at the boy who had brought him the news. He should have expected something. More and more of the children had been coming to him, his permanent base now consisting of thirty with only another eleven still acting as his eyes and ears in the village. It had been a month since that fat idiot Bassermann had convinced the village leaders to hire a hunter to discover the beast that was carrying off their children. Thyssen smiled as he recalled the hunter's demise, how he had fixed it to look as if the man had fallen into his own steel-jawed trap. Kurt had helped him with that. Sometimes the boy's bloodlust alarmed even the sorcerer. Still, all gods looked with favour upon the zealous.
'So, the old priest wants to send a petition to Altdorf and bring witch hunters to Marburg?' Thyssen snarled. Rudi nodded his head with a bird-like bobbing motion.
'The village elders don't want him to, though. They say that witch hunters find witches even when there aren't any around.' The boy grinned at Thyssen. 'So it isn't really bad, because they told him not to.'
The smile Thyssen directed at Rudi was not a friendly one, though the boy foolishly took it to be. It was the same ignorant naivety that made the boy think Hackl would listen to what the village elders had to say. Truthfully, he was surprised that the old priest had taken this long to act. He had certainly been upset enough two months ago when Eduard had ''disappeared'' to join Thyssen's full-time students. No, the old priest would be sending for witch hunters. Which meant that it was time to attend to the meddling fool.
'Keren,' the sorcerer said, 'bring the others inside. Today, I will tell you all about the Four Princes a little earlier than usual.'
The girl raced outside to bring the children from their play. Thyssen knew it would not be long before his little students were assembled before him, their attentive faces looking up at his own as he continued the epic tale he had started so many weeks ago. Thyssen had achieved much in that time. Sigmar had gone from the equal of the Four Princes to their exploiter, cravenly allowing the Four to fight his battles for him. Thyssen told of how it was the Four Princes who defeated the Great Enchanter Drachenfels and brought to an end the savage dragon Mordrax, how it was they who truly conquered all the horrible enemies the children had once been told Sigmar himself had vanquished. Slowly, carefully, Thyssen had recast Sigmar in their imaginations, changing him from hero and saviour to coward and manipulator. Now, today, it would be time to add a new sin to Sigmar's crimes, a new title to attach itself to his name. It was time for Sigmar to become the betrayer.
Thyssen looked out on the hastily assembled children. He smiled as he saw their eager faces. Tonight he would put that eagerness to use. Tonight he would allow some of them to show their devotion to the powers of Chaos.
The sorcerer began his tale, relating how a numberless army of the undead had arisen in the blighted south, slaughtering all in their path, adding their victims to the host of death. Their tireless advance brought the army of skeletons and wraiths to the very edge of the Empire the Four Princes had conquered for the sons of men. A great army of men had been assembled; no household in the Empire did not fail to send at least one of its number to face the terrible invasion. Yet large as it was, before the tide of undead it was nothing. Sigmar saw the mammoth force of his enemy and was seized with dread. He turned to the Four Princes and ordered them to lead the attack on the undead, claiming that here was a foe unworthy of an Emperor. Sigmar retreated to a nearby hill to watch the battle while the Four Princes led the mortal army against the overwhelming numbers of the dead.
It was a fierce and horrible struggle. Not one in ten of those who fought the undead survived. The battle looked hopeless until the Four Princes forced their way to the very heart of the undead host. Before them stood a hideous giant encased in magic armour black as the darkest pit, his face a leering skull. He was the general of the terrible army, the Supreme Necromancer, Nagash the Black. The Four Princes did not hesitate before the terrifying foe, for they knew that without Nagash, the evil army would return to their graves and the lands of men would be saved. It was a terrific fight, even for the powerful Princes and when at last they broke the evil necromancer's body and cast his black soul to the wind, they were weary and wounded.
From his hill, Sigmar had watched the battle progress. Seeing Nagash defeated, he descended to the battlefield, striking down the remaining skeletons and zombies as he found them, rallying the tattered remnants of his army to his sparkling banner. At last Sigmar found the Four Princes, half-dead from their terrible battle. Sigmar saw their weakened state and seized upon their infirmity. He turned to his soldiers and told them the Four Princes were evil daemons, that it was they who had brought the undead up from the Southlands to destroy them all. The men heard his lies and believed them, driving the weakened Princes from the Empire and making of their names the vilest of curses.
Thyssen listened to the whispers of outrage that slithered amongst his assembly, the muttered oaths against a name they had once worshipped. His porcine lips pulled away from his fang-like teeth. Yes, tonight would be the night to deal with a priest of such a loathsome being.

FATHER HACKL AWOKE with a start.
The old priest looked about the darkened cell which held his bed and the few possessions the cleric allowed himself, his mind trying to accustom itself to the benighted surroundings. What had intruded upon his slumber, the priest could not recall. He wiped the crust of sleep from his eyes, and coughed as the chill night air flowed into his lungs. Then Father Hackl's head slowly turned toward the door of his room. Yes, he had heard a sound that time, a furtive scrabbling in the temple room itself.
Eduard's little dog must have got loose, the old priest decided. The priest had been taking care of the puppy in the weeks since the boy had disappeared. It was an act of denial, the priest reasoned, a refusal to accept Eduard's disappearance. Father Hackl thought it strange that he had not realised how much the orphan had come to mean to him until the boy was no longer around. The old priest missed the boy greatly; with him gone, there was an empty spot in Father Hackl's life. Perhaps that was why he kept Eduard's little dog. By keeping the puppy, he was defying whatever evil had befallen the boy, declaring to the darkness that the boy would return. A tear welled in the priest's eye as the thought crossed his mind that he was clinging to an impossible hope.
Still, whatever his reasons for attending the animal, he could not have it scampering about in Sigmar's holy shrine. He would have to catch the dog and return it to the anteroom. He doubted if the dog would bother to chew through its rope twice in a single evening. With the tired weariness of age, Father Hackl rose from his bed, letting the chill air shock his body into full wakefulness before opening the door and entering the dark hall of the chapel. The old priest made his way along the ranks of rough, wooden pews, softly calling for the dog, as though he did not wish to wake Sigmar at this lonely hour with any undue noise. Father Hackl's eyes swept the expanse of the temple, seeing little beyond shadows. Then his gaze strayed to the altar itself. It took the old priest a moment before he could recognise the change that had taken place there.
With an impious oath and a quickness in his step, Father Hackl made his way down the empty ranks of pews toward the altar. The hammer, the holy symbol of Sigmar, had fallen from the altar, lying like a piece of refuse on the floor. The priest could not imagine how the little dog had managed to topple the heavy iron hammer from its place, but he would not have it lying in so disrespectful a state. Father Hackl bent over to retrieve it from the floor, ignoring the creaking of his old bones, ignorant of the dark shape which rose from the pews behind him.
A thick, animal stench struck Father Hackl a moment before the attack. The cleric's head rose ever so slightly as he detected the foul odour. Then the sinew cord wrapped itself around his throat. Once, twice, thrice, the Chaos worshipper wound the grey strangler's cord about the priest's neck. Thyssen's porcine jaws clamped down on his tongue as the sorcerer drew the cord tight, pushing his body back and pulling the old priest to his feet as the noose did its work. Father Hackl's hands rose to the garrotte, feebly trying to thwart the restricting cord. After a moment, as the priest's face grew flush and a hideous gargling noise began to form in his throat, the man's arms flailed about wildly, striking the swine behind him.
For an instant, the crippled sorcerer lessened the tension, allowing the priest to draw breath into his starving lungs.
Father Hackl did more than simply draw air into his lungs, however. With the momentary respite, the priest sent his elbow smashing into the throat of his unseen attacker. The attack did more than damage the assassin's windpipe; the crippled monster's twisted leg gave way, spilling the sorcerer on the cold stone floor, dragging the priest down with him.
Thyssen kept a death grip on the garrotte, even as he gasped and hawked on the phlegm building in his own damaged throat. The small, twisted creature desperately tried force the priest's body around, that he might plant his one good knee in the cleric's back. The priest resisted with all of his being, his aged frame contesting with Thyssen's crippled one. In the course of the struggle, Father Hackl nearly succeeded in forcing the sorcerer's furred fingers away from the constricting sinew cord. It was a very near thing when Thyssen at last managed to bring his knee crashing into the small of the priest's back. The monster began to pull with all his might, the extra support of his knee adding to the choking pressure. The fiend could feel the life leaking away from his prey with every moment. But the fight was not yet decided, and Thyssen could feel the body beneath him beginning to roll onto its side, threatening to spill the sorcerer once more on the stone floor.
From the shadows came small figures, figures Father Hackl was horrified to recognise. As the cord continued its deadly labour, a huge boy Hackl remembered as the brother of some foresters grasped his left arm, restraining it completely. Keren, the miller's daughter, and another boy gripped his right arm, allowing him to move it only with the greatest of efforts. Father Hackl struggled to raise the arm to his throat, succeeding by the slightest of degrees, when his fading vision settled upon another small figure standing behind the altar. Father Hackl tried to read the expression on Eduard's face, but he could not decide if it was a look of shock, concern or simmering hatred. The priest's eyes were still locked with those of Eduard when Thyssen Krotzigk finished choking the life from the cleric's body.
'Such very good children,' Thyssen said as he released the sinew cord and let the corpse's head strike the floor with a dull thud. The sorcerer rose to his feet and then sank into one of the pews to recover from the strain of his efforts. He noted with pride the hate and loathing with which his pupils regarded the expired priest.
'Paul has everything ready in the bell tower,' Keren offered, looking pleased with herself. The boys looked proud as well, their eyes straying from Thyssen to the sorcerer's handiwork. They had every right to be, the Chaos worshipper decided. As much as any soldier, this had been their first battle, and they had performed valiantly.
'Then let us take this filth there,' Thyssen said, rising from his seat and resting a furry hand on Keren's shoulder. Kurt and Paul lifted the corpse and followed Thyssen into the bell tower. Thyssen reached out and tugged on the noose at the end of the bell rope. He smiled as he imagined the spectacle when the villagers discovered their priest hanging in his own temple, dead by his own hand. He was still smiling when he noticed that one of his pupils was missing.
'Where is Eduard?' the sorcerer hissed, twisting Keren's arm in his sudden terror. The girl winced from his grasp, alarmed by her master's harsh tone.
'He was with us,' she protested. Thyssen turned from her angrily, roaring at the boys to leave their macabre chore.
'Find him! Now!' Thyssen hobbled after the children as they raced back into the temple. Thyssen watched them as they rushed through the double doors of the anteroom, visions of witch hunters lending speed to his limping gait.
Thyssen found the children standing in the anteroom, all of them staring at the gory spectacle strewn across the floor. Eduard rose from the butchery, smiling at Thyssen Krotzigk. The sorcerer returned the smile and placed an arm around the boy. He looked again at the gruesome offering, the sigils drawn in blood upon the walls and floor. Such zeal, but Eduard's initiative was inappropriate just now. Thyssen turned to Keren.
'Clean this up,' he said in a soft, low voice. 'This is not a fitting place for an offering to the Four Princes.' Thyssen turned away from the girl and led Eduard away from the profaned temple. He looked down at the boy.
Soon, I will let you make another offering to the Dark Gods. A proper offering.

THERE WERE THOSE in the village of Marburg who had believed their suffering was a punishment visited upon them by the gods, that they were paying for their prosperity with their own children. Yet even these pious individuals were at a loss to explain the horrible suicide of Father Hackl. In this time of crisis, many had come to rely upon the priest for both leadership and comfort. A menacing pall had settled over the village, and none could say when the dawn would come.
A week had passed before another omen of doom presented itself to the simple people of Marburg. A shadowy horseman slowly stalked down the narrow lane through the village; a silent twisted figure on a midnight steed, man and beast clothed in black. Men watched the horseman pass and made the sign of Sigmar before retreating behind the shutters of their cottages. The horseman's gaze strayed neither left nor right, seemingly oblivious to the very existence of the small community until he drew abreast of the tavern.
Ernst Ditmarr turned his head and regarded the plain building for a moment before the one-armed man awkwardly dismounted. The Black Guardsman advanced upon the tavern, pushing open its oaken door with his armoured fist. The tavern was nearly empty at this early hour; only the blacksmith Rudel was keeping Otto Keppler company at present.
The two men watched the templar stride across the room, seating himself at one of the rearmost tables. A deep sepulchral voice addressed Otto, asking for water and bread as the black-garbed figure situated itself. Otto continued to stare at the Black Guardsman for several heartbeats before remembering his business and hurrying into the back room to comply with his strange patron's request.
'Father, who is that man?' Keppler's son asked as the elder Keppler opened the small larder and removed a loaf of dark-coloured bread and a wedge of cheese.
'A templar,' the tavern keeper explained over his shoulder. 'One of the Black Guard of Morr.' Otto Keppler hurried back into the main room of his establishment, concerned by the grim figure occupying one of his tables. The dark templar was not the sort of patron Otto wished to keep waiting. He did not see the crafty look which entered his son's eyes. Nor did he hear the opening and closing of the rear door of the tavern.

THYSSEN'S BESTIAL FACE split as a peal of malevolent laughter wracked his wasted form. Truly, none could predict the Chaos gods. First, they spared the man who had destroyed his former cult, allowed him to strike down their trusted and loyal servant. Then they delivered the same man into his power. A gift from the Realm of Chaos. Thyssen laughed again.
'You have done well, Paul, very well.' Thyssen grasped the boy's shoulder as he praised him. The sorcerer spun around and addressed his assembled cult.
'Tonight, I will teach you how to truly honour the power of Chaos! I will show you how to make an offering to the Four Princes, a testament of your undying love and loyalty to them. They have delivered into our hands a worthy and fitting sacrifice to anoint you in the service of Chaos!' Thyssen turned from the excited mob of children and spoke into Paul Keppler's ear.
'As we did with Bassermann's hunter,' the sorcerer chortled. 'Lead the guardsman here, to the mill.' A fire of madness blazed within Thyssen Krotzigk's eyes as he contemplated the execution of his commands. 'Bring the cripple to me,' the fallen priest hissed.

'WHAT BRINGS YOU to Marburg, lord templar?' Bernd Mueller nervously asked the seated knight. As Marburg's chief citizen, it had fallen upon the miller to act as spokesman to the village's sinister guest. The wealthy man did not relish the appointment.
The black-garbed knight looked up from his simple meal, the living side of his mouth still working on a sliver of cheese. Mueller retreated a few steps from the lifeless gaze of the Black Guardsman. The eyes remained fixed upon the retreating villager.
'Have you come to claim the priest's body?' Mueller asked, desperately hoping Ditmarr would lose interest in him. Instead the templar's gaze became even more penetrating.
'I came because of rumours of missing children,' Ditmarr's hollow voice stated. The templar rose from the table, causing Mueller and the half-dozen villagers at his back to tense and cast sidelong glances at the tavern's door. Ditmarr took a step towards Mueller, his armoured footfall echoing on the wooden floorboards. 'What is this about a priest?' There was venom behind the dirgelike tone, a fire slowly creeping into the templar's dead eyes. The Black Guardsman took another step towards Mueller.
'Our priest hung himself seven nights past,' Mueller said, raising his hand to wipe sweat from his brow. Some of the fire seemed to leave the templar's eyes as the miller spoke.
'Where is the body? I would see it.'
'We left it in the chapel,' stammered the fat wainwright Bassermann from over Mueller's shoulder. Ditmarr did not waste further words on the villagers, turning on his heel and striding from the tavern. All of the tavern's denizens took a deep breath as the sinister knight departed. The sense of dread which had gripped them seemed to have lifted, and the unnerving stench of the grave that had impressed itself upon them had finally cleared away.

DITMARR WALKED with purpose toward the small chapel devoted to Sigmar. He had nearly reached the small path that wound its way to the isolated shrine when a soft voice called to him from the shadowy space between two of the closely packed villager huts. The guardsman spun around, his hand grasping the hilt of his sword. A young boy greeted the templar's gaze.
'Thank Sigmar I have found you!' Paul Keppler said, his pockmarked face smiling at the templar. 'I have seen one of the missing children.'
'Have you?' Ditmarr asked, his hand releasing the hilt of his weapon.
'Yes, not far from here. In the woods,' Paul elaborated. He began to step back into the alley, motioning for Ditmarr to follow. The templar did as the boy asked, following him across the field behind the huts and towards the stand of trees beyond. The templar studied the boy's bright, excited face.
'How is it that you are not afraid?' Ditmarr asked, drawing closer to the boy.
'I am brave, like you,' the boy answered. The hunter had asked the same question and been satisfied by the same answer. The templar manoeuvred still closer to the boy.
'Why didn't you tell your father or the other men in the village?' Ditmarr's eyes zeroed on the boy's back as the youth stopped and stood still.
Paul hadn't expected that question. With the hunter he had said he wished a part of the reward, but even his young mind knew the templar was not motivated by greed and would be suspicious of anyone with such desires. Paul decided it would be better to lead the knight into Thyssen's trap a different way. If he ran, the templar would be certain to give chase, and that pursuit would lead him straight to the sorcerer.
The boy started to bolt, to race away from the templar. Only one thing prevented his flight - the heavy, black-clad hand that closed upon the neck of Paul's jerkin at the first sign of motion. The boy was pulled off his feet and Ditmarr lifted him from the ground.
'Suppose we tell your elders about what you have seen?' Paul's furious kicks impacted harmlessly against the knight's armour as the Black Guardsman carried the struggling boy back to Marburg's tavern.

THE MEN OF Marburg stood in the common room of the tavern, silent, all eyes focused upon the small door which led to the tavern's kitchen. No disquieting sounds came from behind the door now, and somehow their absence was even more unsettling. The door slowly opened and the ashen-faced figure of Otto Keppler emerged, followed closely by the black-garbed templar of Morr.
'There is corruption here,' the Guardsman's grim voice declared. 'Chaos has touched your town.' The templar's malformed face regarded each of the silent men in turn. 'Now you must be strong. Now you must deny the Darkness its victory.'

ERNST DITMARR PUSHED open the rotten door of the decrepit mill. Within all was darkness and shadow. A smell like that of a kennel overcame the faint traces of burnt kindling in the air. Furtive, creeping sounds rustled from the shadows, suggesting much but revealing nothing. That someone was here, Ditmarr knew, but in what numbers, the darkness kept to itself. Slowly, sword in hand, the templar made his way into the building, his vision struggling to pierce the all-encompassing gloom. The templar had advanced nearly to the centre of the structure before any sign of life manifested itself.
'It is you!' a soft voice chortled from the darkness. Ditmarr turned to face the unseen speaker. A small globe of blue flame sprang into life, illuminating the bestial creature standing upon the flimsy platform. The witch fire danced in Thyssen Krotzigk's hand, shaking with the sorcerer's every laugh.
'I have come to fulfil my duty,' Ditmarr's cold voice intoned. The Black Guardsman of Morr took a step towards the Chaos worshipper.
'Ah, still serving feeble old Morr?' Thyssen sneered. 'I fear you will once again disappoint your god.' A stone raced out of the darkness, smashing the sword from Ditmarr's hand. A horde of small, wiry figures leapt upon the knight, forcing the man to his knees through sheer weight of numbers. As Ditmarr struggled against the assault, Thyssen sent the witch-fire speeding from his hand to put to light the wood and bracken piled at the centre of the old millstone.
The sudden dispelling of the darkness revealed a mob of dirty children clutching and punching the templar. Their young faces wore expressions of savagery as they leeched the strength from Ditmarr's struggling limbs. At last the templar sagged limp and helpless in their grasp. When the fight had left his foe, Thyssen Krotzigk slowly hobbled down from the platform.
'Refusing to defend yourself against innocent children?' The beast's mouth yawned as he shook with laughter.
Thyssen leered into Ditmarr's face. 'Shall I tell you of that innocence? Can you imagine the ecstasy of corrupting such fertile fields as these?' Thyssen gestured to include the frenzied throng gathered about the two old adversaries. He crooked a clawed finger and motioned for one among them to come forward. Ditmarr looked at the young, blank faces of the sorcerer's fold. Even the huge boy who broke away from the other children had about him an air of confusion. The children knew that they were changing, but they had no understanding of what they were becoming. At once, the Black Guardsman's loathing of their corrupter increased tenfold.
'This is Kurt,' Thyssen beamed. 'A more worthy instrument of the Blood God has never been seen by these old eyes.' The sorcerer reached into his dark robe and withdrew a filthy, blood-encrusted knife. He handed the weapon to Kurt. Ditmarr stared into the boy's expressionless face, his eyes a soul-less window into Khorne's domain of carnage.
'You are just in time to witness Kurt's devotions to the Blood God,' a vile grin spread across the sorcerer's face. 'Or participate in them, as the case may be.' The sorcerer's words were answered by a rasping, choking sound. It took Thyssen a moment to realise that the templar was laughing at him. 'You will scream for me, cripple, when your blood feeds Khorne!' Thyssen snapped, glaring at Ditmarr. The templar raised his head, letting his cold eyes stare into the sorcerer's own.
'I wonder how Morr will receive you,' the Black Guardsman said. 'What is the justice earned by a heretic priest?' Thyssen continued to glare at Ditmarr, a snarl upon his face. Suddenly, the sorcerer's eyes grew wide with alarm.
'Where is Paul?' the sorcerer roared, his head bobbing about trying to spot the boy he had sent to lure his enemy here. Thyssen had been too lost in gloating over his enemy to notice the flaw in his plot. Now the alarmed sorcerer was trying to recover the situation.
'Keren!' Thyssen shouted. 'Look outside. Our guest may not have come alone.' The girl released Ditmarr's shoulder and ran to the doorway of the mill.

'IT'S KEREN!' GASPED Bernd Mueller from his position in the trees outside the ramshackle mill.
'Aye,' agreed Otto Keppler. The tavern keeper lit the torch in his hand and made ready to cast it. Mueller grabbed the man's arm before he could cast the firebrand.
'You know the guardsman's orders,' Keppler said, his voice as cold and lifeless as that of the templar himself. He tore his arm free of Mueller's and threw the torch at the mill's rotting roof.
'But my daughter is in there,' sobbed Mueller.
'As is mine,' Keppler whispered.

'THEY'RE SETTING THE mill on fire!'
Keren's shrill voice shrieked as she retreated away from the door. The other children stared at her for a moment, as if uncertain how to react to Keren's cries when the first crackling flames licked downwards from the ceiling and the first tendrils of fire danced at the mill's broken windows. Panic gripped the coven and they disintegrated into a frantic mob, racing about the mill, seeking refuge from the growing flames.
Thyssen shouted at his followers, trying to calm them. He did not see how few had retained their hold upon the templar, or how, their numbers lessened, Ditmarr seized the opportunity to free himself of their clutching grasp. His arm free, the Black Guardsman groped within the seemingly empty sleeve of his habit. A small silver dagger appeared in the knight's hand. As Thyssen Krotzigk turned to observe the templar's sudden motion, Ditmarr lashed out with the dagger. The blade passed cleanly through the sorcerer's left eye.
Thyssen recoiled, a furred hand clutching at his face in a vain attempt to staunch the flow of blood and jelly. Ditmarr brought an armoured boot crashing into the sorcerer's twisted leg, pitching the villain to the floor.
'Rot in the gardens of the damned,' Ditmarr snarled, crouching over his enemy. As the templar raised his dagger to slit the throat of the heretic, a powerful grip closed around his wrist and jerked him off the sorcerer's body.
Ditmarr swung at his attacker, arresting his weapon when he found himself looking into the youthful face of the boy Thyssen had called Kurt. The boy stared back with eyes that were pools of crimson, windows into the gore-soaked domain of the Blood God. A slight smile tugged at the boy's lips as he backhanded Ditmarr and sent the knight flying across the mill. Ditmarr struck his head hard against the floor. As he raised himself from the ground, he shook his head groggily from side to side, trying to clear his vision.
Something was not right. Amid a rain of blazing thatch, the boy was slowly walking towards him. But with every step the child seemed to be growing larger, rippling muscles swelling on his arms and chest. The boy's flesh was turning leathery, taking on a red sheen. When Kurt reached the stunned templar, his features had grown sharp and inhuman; the teeth within his smirking mouth were long ivory fangs. Again the boy struck Ditmarr, crumpling his breastplate, the dented metal stabbing into the flesh beneath and sending the knight hurtling across the burning mill.
Ditmarr landed, his back striking the burning hulk of a fallen beam. The templar's habit caught fire and Ditmarr hurried to tear it from his armoured body. As he freed himself of the blazing garment, Ditmarr felt a monstrous hand close about his neck. Like a rag doll his armoured body was lifted from the floor.
There was no trace of Kurt in the thing that held Ditmarr. The daemon that had entered the boy had now completely possessed Kurt's body. The hands that held Ditmarr ended in long, razor-sharp claws. Monstrous black horns protruded from the abomination's elongated head while a stink of old blood oozed from the daemon's scarlet hide. The Bloodletter licked Ditmarr's face with a long, sinuous tongue. The obscenity's free hand touched itself to Ditmarr's chest and slowly raked its claws downwards, slicing through armour and flesh as though both were made of butter.
Ditmarr screamed against the searing agony of the daemon's touch. With a tremendous effort, he took his hand from the claw choking him and smashed the daemon's grinning mouth. The fiend's head snapped back and it dropped Ditmarr to the ground. The Bloodletter worked its jaw for a moment and then snarled at the templar.
Blood streamed from the gaping wounds in his chest, flowing through the rents in his armour like a cataract of gore. Despite the hideous wounds and his own fast failing strength, Ditmarr lunged at the Bloodletter. The Black Guardsman's armoured body struck the daemon of Khorne head on, knocking beast and man through the weakened wall of the fiery mill.
The daemon rose first, grabbing Ditmarr by the leg and hurling the templar a dozen yards, the warrior landing with a crack that bespoke of broken bones and internal injuries. The monster hissed and strode away from the inferno that blazed behind it, intent upon the filthy creature that sought to deny its bloodlust. At one point, the Bloodletter stopped in mid-step, its body frozen. For a moment, it seemed to shrink, to wither, before a sudden surge of unholy power caused the beast to swell again and continue its advance.
Ditmarr crawled through the brush, every motion heralding unspeakable agony. Somewhere in his body a rib had shattered, its bony shrapnel skewering the knight's lung. Blood trickled from his mouth and nose with every breath. The Black Guardsman could barely feel the familiar inhuman grip that closed about his arm and wrenched his body from the ground. His bleary vision could barely discern the leering daemonic face that leered into his own. But he heard the cry of terror that sounded from behind the fiend.
The Bloodletter turned, still retaining its grip upon the templar and regarded the obese man with the rusty axe who had been fool enough to attack it. The daemon reached out towards Bassermann even as the wainwright struck at it again. The blade failed to pierce the fiend's flesh, a fact which caused the fat man's eyes to grow even wider with fear. The Bloodletter licked its fangs at the prospect of still more blood to satisfy its hunger.
Suddenly, the monster's form began to tremble. Ditmarr found himself falling to the ground as the Bloodletter's arm began to wither and fade. The daemon let out a howl of rage and fury as its body shrivelled. Soon only the echoes of its scream and a pile of smouldering ash remained as testament of the daemon's intrusion upon the realm of man. Ernst Ditmarr coughed weakly as Bassermann rushed to the templar's side.

DITMARR STIRRED WEAKLY as one of the villagers drew near. Blood seeped through his bandages as he moved. Try as they might, there seemed to be no way to stop the wounds inflicted by the daemon of Khorne from bleeding. It had been a marvel to the villagers that the templar had endured through the night.
'Have you found him?' the Black Guardsman asked, his voice the barest of whispers. Bernd Mueller looked down at him.
Ever since the fire had settled, the templar had been asking them to find the twisted remains of the Chaos sorcerer. In the darkness and now, in the light, the men of Marburg had undertaken the hideous task. Now Bernd Mueller stared at the dying templar.
'Aye, we found his filthy carcass,' the miller declared. 'Pinned beneath a fallen support. He must have burned to death in the fire.' The templar sighed as Mueller finished his report. The sigh slowly trailed off into the knight's death rattle. The taverner and miller watched as the mangled body twitched for a moment and was still. Otto Keppler leaned down and pulled the heavy wool blanket which had been wrapped about the dying knight and drew it over Ditmarr's sightless eyes.
'We found nothing,' the tavern keeper whispered. Mueller smiled feebly at the man.
'If it allows him to pass the portal of Morr easier, of what harm is that?' Mueller did not await an answer, but slowly started the long, lonely path home.

THE BLACK-CLOAKED figure rose from the shadows and limped to the corpse lying on the other side of the hedge. Carefully, a furred hand pulled the crude stone knife from the forester's still warm body. The creature's single eye studied the simple blade for a moment. He did not give any sign that he heard the furtive sounds of motion at his back. Slowly he rose, turning to observe the even more twisted and grotesque figures emerging from the trees.
Thyssen Krotzigk smiled as the beastmen began to circle him. The swine-headed sorcerer dropped the knife in his left hand and the blood-caked dagger in his right. He studied the malformed, animal faces, their brute eyes gleaming with hate, their fanged mouths dripping saliva as their bloodlust rose. The beastmen began to grip their crude weapons more tightly, testing their weight with practice swipes, displaying brutal strength capable of crushing skulls.
And all is the laughter of the Four Princes, thought the sorcerer, as the beastmen closed upon him.