As dead as flesh
Nick Kyme

‘Back! Back into the ground!’ Mikael cried, driving his sword into the zombie’s gut. 

 	Impaled upon the blade, the undead monster hissed and snarled at the templar, reaching out with filthy claws. There was a horrible sucking sound as it dragged itself along the blade, cold steel slipping effortlessly through its rotten innards. It raked a filth-encrusted talon across Mikael’s face, tearing a long and bloody gash. Snarling in pain, he ripped the thing in two, wrenching his sword through paper skin. The legs and torso spiralled away as grave dust fell from the corpse like rain.

 	Strong fingers seized Mikael’s shoulder from behind. Hard and sharp, they felt like burning knives as they bit through his armour plate. About to turn, another thing loomed out of the half-dark of the wooden chapel in front of him. Once a butcher, it now had the shambling gait of the undead. It still wore a blood-stained tabard, but the head was caved in and wasted muscle peeked out beneath torn and greying skin. It lunged at him, arms outstretched. Mikael slashed at it, removing an arm, dead blood spattering his neck and face. The creature behind him grabbed at his sword-arm, pushing it down with groping, scraping fingers. The undead butcher pressed forward, reaching out with a claw-like hand, an incoherent moan escaping from its lipless mouth. Mikael grabbed its wrist in a gauntleted fist and broke it. Undeterred, it came at him, snarling teeth - blackened nubs of wasted bone – bared and lunging for his face.

 	Mikael recoiled. A decaying hand held his ankle. A pox-ridden stable lad, the zombie he had cut in two, dragged its torso along the stone floor. It seized upon the templar’s leg, biting at his armoured greaves. 

 	Legs buckling, Mikael tried to resist the burden upon his arms and chest. Sickly morning light seeping through the stained-glass windows was all but eclipsed as a wall of rotten flesh engulfed him. He tried to roar out in defiance, to summon his courage, but a filthy hand filled his mouth. Panic welled within as his armour cracked against the pressure… 

 	Light pierced the dark, as Reiner smashed the one-armed zombie aside with a deft blow from his broadsword. The templar captain drove after it zealously as it floundered in a crumbled heap of bent and twisted limbs, and severed off its head with a brutal swipe. 

 	The fingers clawing at Mikael’s back and sword-arm were pulled away as the gnawing claustrophobic dread ebbed, nails, still embedded into his shoulder plates, torn from their fingers. Halbranc was behind him and hefted one of the wretched creatures up above his head, a woman, withered and grey, eyes long since decayed from their sockets. She clawed at the huge knight, a morose wail keening in Mikael’s ears as she ripped a long tear in his cloak. Halbranc ignored it and smashed her into the cold stone floor, neck and spine shattering audibly. Mikael held the creature beneath him, stamping hard upon its neck. He crushed its rotten skull with a heavy boot. 

 	Within the dingy chapel, his comrades fought. The place was worn with age, wood cracked and warped. The windows threw murky, dawn light through tarnished glass onto a bloody vista. Valen was bleeding. An ugly ragged wound split his shoulder through his armour padding, the plate-mail long since ripped away. He held his sword waveringly; eyes misted and cold, slumped against a wooden stall. Kalten, and his brother, Vaust who wore a pained expression – left arm tucked tight into his body – protected him. A clutch of undead farm workers armed with rusted scythes and rakes surrounded them. 

 	A cry echoed from the back of the chapel. Mikael recognised the powerful voice of Sigson as he peered through the gloom.

 	‘In the name of Morr, I compel you, return!’

 	The warrior priest held a gleaming vial aloft. Its contents shimmered as he uttered a prayer to their god and cast it hard at the foul pack harrying the three templars. The vial exploded into the creatures, dousing them with the blessed water within. Long dead flesh burned against the anointed liquid with a shallow hiss, as a foul stench filled the room. Sigson held his breath against the stink and waded in to finish them through clouds of vile smoke. 

 	Another vial shimmered in his hand, but before he could throw it, a creature, nought but a desiccated skeleton, sprang out beneath the stalls and cut a deep wound in Sigson’s stomach, piercing his steel breastplate. Sigson cried out, dropping the vial, blessed water eking through stone cracks as the glass shattered. He hacked down at the beast with his sword, but the weapon jarred in its collar bone. The zombie cut a deep slash across his exposed shoulder as he fought to get his sword free. 

 	Sigson fell to his knees. The zombie loomed down upon him, mouth gaping.

 	Mikael was behind it and rammed his blade through its chest. Congealed blood spat from the wound, black and thick like syrup. Reiner came at it from the front, roaring as he lopped off its head. 

 	The thing slumped into a tangled heap. Mikael yanked out his sword and cleaned the blade on his cloak. The last of the zombies was laid, brutally, to rest. 

 	‘Sigson,’ Reiner said urgently, helping the priest to his feet. ‘The binding. Can you do it?’

 	Leaning heavily on his captain, Sigson rose grimly with gritted teeth, and nodded.

 	‘Gather them,’ he ordered to his comrades.

 	Mikael, Halbranc, Kalten and Reiner dragged the corpses into a heap before the priest. Vaust watched, bleary-eyed, his brother laid beside him.

 	Sigson invoked the binding rites of Morr, that which ensured the guardianship of the body and the soul once the two were separated. It was a labour and the veteran priest fought for breath to intone the complicated ritual. The knights knelt beside him, muttering their own prayers to the enigmatic god of death. 

 	Sweat upon his brow, Sigson let out a long and ragged breath.

 	‘It is done.’

 	Reiner nodded and looked at Mikael. 

 	‘Open up the gate,’ he ordered.

 	‘Yes, captain.’

 	Mikael walked over to the chapel gate and hefted the thick wooden bar fixed across, trapping the creatures while they destroyed them.

 	Light washed into the greyish confines, as if reluctant to enter. A group of worried-looking villagers approached the threshold.

 	‘Is it over? Are we safe?’ an elderly man stammered. Several figures cowered behind him. They seemed afraid, perhaps at the abominations within or perhaps at the Templar of Morr stood before them, his armour wrought with skulls and effigies of death. 

 	‘It is done,’ Mikael told him and turned to Sigson. 

 	The priest, ashen faced, awash with sweat, collapsed. Vaust and Valen were near unconsciousness and the rest of the band was battered and bruised from the battle.

 	‘Bury them face down and sanctify the ground upon the zenith of each Mannslieb,’ Reiner told them as he stalked forward, ‘Tell me, Alderman,’ he added, a full head and shoulders above the man as he regarded him, ‘is there a healer in the village?’

 	‘No, I’m sorry,’ the Alderman said fearfully. ‘The nearest is the Temple of Shallya at Hochsleben, to the west.’

 	Reiner turned to Mikael, his pale blue eyes like pools of ice.

 	‘Gather the horses,’ he ordered. ‘We ride to Hochsleben.’

 	Dawn had turned to greying day by the time they reached the town of Hochsleben. Even as they rode wearily through the gates, Mikael sensed a dark mood, as if the place were laden with some unknown threat. 

 	Treading past the town’s threshold, the sentry guards retreated into their gatehouse, nodding a fearful greeting at the dour knights templar. Poor folk walked quickly in groups, hugging rags to their feeble bodies, glancing about at each step. The wealthy rode in closed coaches and with armed escorts, fixed upon their destinations, as if ignorance of their surroundings might protect them.

 	‘There is fear here,’ Halbranc remarked beneath his breath as they passed a drunken tramp in the street, a bottle of liquor tinkling in his hand with the last dregs. 

 	Reiner kept his eyes forward, gently urging his steed on.

 	‘It is death.’ 

 	Mikael glanced behind him. The tramp shambled off toward an open street. A laden wagon emerged suddenly from his blind side, headed straight for the tramp. The wagoneer drove his beasts heedlessly, intent to get on, to get back, to get away from whatever grim fate had befallen the town. Travelling fast, it would crush the poor wretch!

 	With a grunt, Mikael spurred his horse, breaking away from his comrades. He rode hard, straight into the path of the wagon, crying out a warning. 

 	‘Halt, halt in the name of Morr!’

 	At the death god’s name, the wagoneer pulled at the reins, slewing his cart to hasty stop, just avoiding the fearless templar. 

 	Yelping in fright, the tramp shrank into a ball and cowered in the dirt, dropping his bottle to shatter upon the cobblestones. Realising he wasn’t going to die, the tramp sat up and held the broken end of the bottle disconsolately. 

 	The wagoneer shrank before Mikael’s stern gaze.

 	‘I didn’t see him,’ he pleaded, dismounting to check his load. 

 	Something had come loose from beneath the cloth covering the back of the wagon. 

 	It was a human hand. The skin upon it had been removed. 

 	‘They’re from the mortuary,’ the man explained, as if sensing Mikael’s question. ‘They’re to be taken from the town and burned.’ He pushed the hand back into the wagon with a stick from his belt and tied the cloth down. ‘Victims of the Reaper,’ he added, whispering fearfully, and rode off hard down the street without looking back. 

 	Mikael was about to call him back, when a firm hand gripped his shoulder. 

 	‘We have found the Temple of Shallya,’ Reiner told him. ‘Halbranc and Kalten have taken the others there. They will meet us in the house of Morr.’

 	Mikael nodded. As he rode away with his captain, he looked back over to where the tramp had been sitting, but he was gone.

 	Whatever ailed this town they must first pay their respects to Morr before any explanation could be sought. There was darkness here; Mikael felt it as a dull ache in his head, a sensation that grew stronger with each moment. He thought of telling Reiner. His captain was a puritan, cold like steel and as unyielding in matters of faith and heresy. Cold and compassionless, the templar captain might put him to the sword if he thought him bewitched. Mikael stayed quiet. 

 	The Temple of Morr was a huge, gothic structure, stark and imposing in the middle of the poorest quarter in Hochsleben. A mist was forming, the day as bleak as the town’s mood. A fine drizzle, exuding from a steel-grey sky, exacerbated the palpable misery felt by the human dregs that cowered in the streets or burrowed into their hovels. 

 	Mikael averted his gaze from them, trying to focus on the monolithic temple. He felt for their suffering, their pain, and pitied them. Perhaps that’s why he had gone to the tramp’s rescue.

 	A great wedge of stone steps lay before them, spreading out from the black, oak gates of the temple like the over-extended jaw of some huge skeletal head. Two priests, lowly acolytes, scrubbed feverishly at the steps with buckets of water, their arms and knees sodden, red-faced with effort. 

 	‘Morr’s blessing,’ Reiner said to the priests, dismounting from his steed, a stable lad rushing over to take the reins from him. Another boy came over to Mikael’s horse as he dismounted.

 	‘We seek the head of the Temple,’ Reiner told them, striding up the steps.

 	‘Morr’s blessing,’ one of the priests breathed. ‘Brother Dolmoth is within the sanctum.’ 

 	Reiner nodded his thanks, Mikael close behind him, muttering Morr’s blessings with the other priest as he followed, looking down at their endeavours. Faint, but still visible, a stain marred the stone steps. It was dark and thick, like blood.

 	‘I thank Morr for your coming,’ Dolmoth told them earnestly. The priest looked ravaged by premature age. There was a shadow beneath his eyes, a worn expression that Mikael believed had come only recently, as if whatever malady seized the town had him in its grip too. 

 	‘What is it that ails this place, priest?’ Reiner’s face was as hard and unmoving as stone.

 	Dolmoth sagged, as if he could no longer bear an invisible weight upon his shoulders. He sat down upon a wooden stool, bidding the knights to follow. 

 	Harsh grey light seeped through a nearby window, shadows dragging down the priest’s features as if they were made of softening clay.

 	‘Last night and on the same night for the past six weeks, a body has been left upon the steps of our temple.’

 	‘It was blood that the acolytes were washing off the steps,’ Mikael said. 

 	Reiner looked at him, slightly surprised. He had not noticed it. As they both regarded him, Mikael felt compelled to continue.

 	‘The Reaper,’ he said. Dolmoth’s expression darkened further, hand trembling as he drank from a silver goblet; a decanter set upon the table filled with communal wine.

 	‘The wagoneer in the street said he carried “victims of the Reaper”,’ Mikael explained. ‘At first I thought he had meant death, but he was referring to a murderer.’

 	Dolmoth nodded, draining the goblet and reaching to pour another drink. 

 	Reiner grasped his hand.

 	‘You’ve had enough.’

 	Brother Dolmoth’s eyes, sore and red, held some resistance. But, when he looked at the templar captain, he withdrew. 

 	‘Come with me,’ he said, his voice little more than a whisper.

 	Dolmoth led them through the sanctum and across the grounds to a small annex, located in the south wing of the mighty building next to a temple garden. The templars followed him without word or query. A feeling of dread and warning grew in Mikael’s gut. 

 	‘The body left upon the steps last night,’ Dolmoth said. ‘Our mortician is examining it. I think you should see it.’ 

 	Dolmoth opened a small door to the annex. A corridor stretched before them. Immediately they were struck by the stink of chemicals and unguents. 

 	‘Merrick’s embalming fluids,’ Dolmoth explained and grasping a lantern, hooked at the entrance to the corridor, led them forward. 

 	The corridor was long and dark. Fluttering torches, pitched sporadically in iron sconces, threw little more than a lambent glow onto stark, stone walls that were slick with moisture, black smears visible in the wan light of Dolmoth’s swaying lantern. 

 	‘Are we heading down?’ Mikael asked. He felt the air growing colder and the undeniable sensation of descent. 

 	‘The mortuary is located in our temple catacombs. It’s an area largely unused by the priests and allows Merrick to work in peace.’ Dolmoth had to raise his voice. The corridor was low, the tall, armoured templars forced to hunch beneath the ceiling and Dolmoth ranged ahead of them. 

 	They reached the mortuary. Dolmoth heaved a stout, wooden door open that protested on creaking hinges.

 	As they entered, the templars stooping further to get through the narrow arch, a man glanced up from a body set upon a metal table. He was thin and wiry, with a silver spike of beard jutting from his jaw and a pepper wash of stubble across the neck and chin. Dressed in a bloody tabard, thick glasses covering his eyes and flecked with blood spatter, this had to be the mortician Dolmoth had spoken of. 

 	‘Greetings,’ he said, masking his surprise.

 	‘This is Merrick,’ Dolmoth told the templars, stood like giants in the tiny chamber. It was filled with all-manner of crude equipment: saws, blades, scalpels, stitch and thread, with wooden racks filled with phials and beakers, a brown, oily liquid within each. Although small, there was a shabby-looking cloth draped over an open archway at the back of the room, which doubtless led to Merrick’s private chambers. A bucket rested at the foot of the table. Mikael noticed blood seeping down into it from a funnel attached to the slab above. 

 	‘There is little left,’ Merrick told him, as if reading his mind. 

 	It wrong-footed the templar and he flashed a glance at Reiner, who stood impassively as he regarded the mortician. 

 	‘We wish to see the victim,’ he said. 

 	Merrick nodded and gestured to the table. He seemed to wither before Reiner’s steely gaze, like most who met the formidable knight.

 	Dolmoth hung back and covered his mouth. He had seen the victim before, Mikael realised he had been the one who found them. 

 	Merrick flicked a nervous glance at the towering knights, before he concentrated on the corpse. 

 	‘As you can see,’ he began, ‘skin has been removed from the chest, legs, hands and feet and there are marks upon the wrists and ankles.’ Merrick turned the left wrist of the victim over. There was a dark, reddish bruise, harsh and violent. 

 	‘I have heard of evil men who eat the flesh of the living,’ Reiner said, betraying no emotion as he regarded the brutalised body. ‘In backward cultures. They are used in rituals to summon daemons and the dead from the grave.’ 

 	‘And these marks,’ Mikael asked, about to touch the bruised skin. before having second thoughts and snapping his hand away. ‘The victim was bound.’

 	‘I found them all like that,’ Dolmoth muttered from behind his hand. ‘Trussed up like meat, backs arched, pain etched upon their faces.’ 

 	Reiner stared at the priest cowering in the shadows. Mikael detected the faintest sneer. His captain deplored weakness, almost as much as he deplored the evil creatures that it was his lot to destroy. 

 	‘And the lack of blood,’ Merrick said, stooping down, a pendant, on a chain around his neck, slipping free of the tabard. ‘The victims were all partially exsanguinated.’ 

 	‘Bled by a daemon,’ Reiner muttered darkly, concentrating back on the corpse.

 	‘That pendant,’ Mikael said, ‘was it given to you by a loved one?’ There was a longing in the young templar’s voice as a memory sparked of his life before the temple.

 	Merrick’s face darkened, his expression edged with regret. 

 	‘It was my wife’s,’ he said, looking at Mikael. ‘She gave it to me before she died. Plague took her long ago. For a time I had my son, but a riot in the town, three months ago, claimed his life. He was crushed to death by Imperial cavalry sent to quell the disorder. He had nothing to do with the rioting. He became embroiled…’ Merrick stopped himself, before his emotions bettered him. Sternness crept across his face and he tucked the pendant away, closing his eyes briefly as he a muttered a prayer.

 	‘I’m sorry,’ Mikael said and felt his own regret. 

 	‘This terror has gone on long enough,’ Reiner said, addressing the haggard Dolmoth. 

 	‘We will find this Reaper,’ he promised, ‘And bring Morr’s justice down upon his head.’ Reiner stalked from the mortuary, full of purpose, passing Dolmoth, who thanked Morr profusely for their deliverance. 

 	Mikael nodded a farewell to Merrick, and gave Morr’s blessing to Dolmoth, before hurrying after Reiner.

 	In the sanctum, Halbranc and Kalten awaited them. ‘What news from the Temple of Shallya?’ Reiner asked. 

 	‘They sleep,’ Kalten told him. ‘Sigson is badly injured, some of his wounds are infected. Vaust too.’

 	‘And Valen?’ said Mikael. 

 	Kalten’s face was grim. 

 	‘It is feared he will not last the night.’

 	An uncomfortable silence descended. Reiner quashed it. 

 	‘Then it will be Morr’s will. We do not mourn our dead, we deliver them to His arms. It is no different for Valen.’

 	‘You are a cold man, Reiner,’ Halbranc said. ‘I have never known the like, even in an order such as ours.’

 	Reiner was impassive as he regarded the giant templar, taller even than him and wider still at the shoulders. 

 	‘There is little time for compassion, Halbranc. Morr’s work is to be done.’

 	Reiner told them both of what he and Mikael had discovered about the Reaper. 

 	‘The Templars of Morr are justly feared,’ Reiner said. ‘We shall begin by questioning the population about these heinous acts. I doubt there will be any with the stomach to lie, not with Morr’s judgement hanging over them.’ 

 	‘You cannot expect me to work with such shoddy materials,’ a sibilant voice said, echoing in the emptiness of the darkened room.

 	‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought the girl, I made a mistake,’ another voice pleaded.

 	‘You do want my aid, don’t you?’ 

 	‘Yes, yes of course. I brought you back, didn’t I?’

 	‘That you did, and in doing so, your heart became as black as mine,’ the voice said sneeringly. 

 	‘I am nothing like you.’ The second voice tried to sound indignant but lacked conviction. 

 	‘Don’t delude yourself, you just don’t know it. Now, find me another specimen. It has to be perfect, do you understand? Perfect.’

 	‘Yes, I understand. Perfect. I’m sorry. I’ll do better next time.’

 	Even in the fading day, in a town awash with unease, the market continued to do business. In the Empire, it seemed, commerce stopped for nothing. 

 	To better serve their aims, the templars had split up. Reiner and Kalten took the slums ,whilst Mikael and Halbranc surveyed the market. 

 	Across the market square the two of them noticed a butcher selling his wares to a hungry, if skittish, crowd. The man was obese and slovenly, thick fingers holding bloodied joints aloft, his ragged tabard stained with blood and grease. He looked up from his banter, but when he saw the templars, hastily averted his gaze. 

 	‘This looks a good place to start,’ Halbranc said, immediately suspicious as he stalked forward. ‘The bodies trussed up like meat sacks, you said?’ 

 	‘Yes, but wait Halbranc.’

 	‘Why?’

 	‘Look at him, obese, thick-fingered. His brow is fevered even now from what little exertion it takes to address a crowd. I scarcely believe he could carry a dead body a few feet, let alone up the steps of the Temple of Morr,’ Mikael said. ‘And the skin cut from the body, it was precise and careful. I doubt this man has the skill.’

 	‘Very well,’ said Halbranc. ‘Then what do you suggest?’

 	Mikael thought for a moment. The market stalls were throbbing; people possessed with an urgency to get what they needed quickly, before the onset of night. As he looked around, the shadows seemed to coalesce in the distance. 

 	‘There,’ he said, pointing towards a worn looking building. 

 	As they approached, Mikael read a sign above the door. 

 	Lothmar’s Tannery. 

 	The sign was faded with age, the windows stained by a yellowish grime and covered by thick leather drapes, but the door was open and the darkness within beckoned them.

 	The room was dark, with the faint stink of musk and spice. A patina of dust rested upon everything inside, tall racks of leather and cured animal hide. The place was crammed and over-burdened, making it feel claustrophobic. The dust-clogged air made Mikael choke. 

 	‘May I help you?’ a rasping voice came from the back of the room. A man with his back to them stood behind a long, broad, wooden counter. Various cutting and hammering tools hung upon a rack in front of him. He replaced a long, wide knife and pulled something over his head as he turned to face them. 

 	‘You have heard of the murderer who blights this town?’ Halbranc began, walking forward. 

 	Little light penetrated the tannery. Shadows clawed out from alcoves and dark corners. Mikael felt like the gloom was sticking to him as he followed Halbranc.

 	Mikael had to mask his shock when he saw the man whom, he gathered was Lothmar. 

 	Half of his face was covered by a leather mask. A blood-shot pupil stared out from an eye-hole, with pink scar-tissue just visible at the fringe of the mask. His hands were covered too, with thick, leather gloves. But despite his obvious afflictions, he was tall and strong. Years of stripping animal carcasses and tearing up toughened hide would do that to a man. 

 	‘Would you close that?’ he asked, wincing against the feeble light pouring in from the outside.

 	Mikael nodded, a glance at Halbranc as he eyed the tanner dubiously, and went back to close the door.

 	Silence descended. A smile cracked the tanner’s ravaged face as he saw the templars’ discomfort. 

 	‘I was burned. Here, in the tannery,’ he told them. ‘There are vats in the back.’ He thumbed behind him to a darkened arch which led further still into the tannery. ‘They get hot, to cure the hides and toughen them, so they can be cut and fashioned.’

 	Halbranc raised an eyebrow. 

 	‘I am Lothmar,’ he added, offering a hand. ‘And yes, I have heard of the Reaper.’

 	‘What have you heard?’ Halbranc said, ignoring the hand as he met the man’s gaze, despite his unsettling visage. 

 	‘That he hasn’t been caught, that the town is in fear of him and my business is suffering as a result.’ Lothmar was indignant and stood his ground. 

 	‘I see your cloak is damaged,’ he said. ‘I could fashion you a replacement. These are of the highest quality.’ He indicated a wooden stand upon which hung an assortment of cloaks and capes. ‘I can assure you, they are very supple, like a second skin.’

 	‘I think not,’ Halbranc growled. 

 	‘Well then, I don’t think I can help you further,’ Lothmar said.

 	Mikael rested a hand upon Halbranc’s shoulder. His instincts told him the tanner knew nothing.

 	‘We thank you for your time,’ Mikael said with respect. This tanner had not balked in the face of interrogation. It seemed the folk of Hochsleben would be more difficult to intimidate than Reiner had predicted.

 	Even Halbranc relented and nodded. ‘Morr’s blessing.’ 

 	Lothmar nodded back respectfully.

 	Mikael and Halbranc left the shadows of the tannery, Lothmar watching them leave.

 	‘You’re quick to judge, Halbranc,’ Mikael said as they made for the market square.

 	‘Men in masks usually have something to hide,’ he grumbled.

 	‘He wears his scars on the outside,’ Mikael said, ‘I trust that over those that harbour theirs within.’ 

 	Reiner and Kalten were in the market square. They had learnt nothing from patrolling the slums. Reiner’s tactics had only served to make the population less cooperative, either that or a greater fear held their tongues. 

 	‘Night approaches,’ said Reiner. The sky dimmed like the light around a fading flame and thick clouds billowed overhead, smothering the stars. ‘We can learn little more today.’

 	The other templars were in agreement. They found lodgings at an inn, The Stableman, in short order and retired quickly to bed, battle-weary bones finally demanding rest. Having bid his comrades a good night, only Mikael remained, waiting with the rest of the patrons who were reluctant to leave. He recognised one of them, it was the poor wretch he had saved from the wagon earlier in the day. He was looking forlornly into an empty cup, unaware of the templar’s eyes upon him. Mikael turned away and stared into the flickering flames of the dying fire.

 	He was deeply troubled, a gnawing dread grew within him that he did not understand. With the onset of night, images of his past came back, forming in the hearth like fiery spectres.

 	The forest rose about him, a cloak of arboreal gloom. 

 	He held a dagger in his hand, stained with his brother’s blood. 

 	A deer mewled in the distance, its final dying sounds. Its breath was a cloud of white mist in the cold wintry air. It came in bursts; faster and faster as the deer’s heart beat its last.

 	Mikael looked into its eyes and found his own fear mirrored there. The mewling stopped, the deer was dead.

 	Mikael cried out, tears flooding from his eyes, cold like daggers of ice as they ran down his cheeks. He looked into the forest void for Stephan, but his brother was gone. 

 	A shallow hiss wrenched Mikael into the present. The innkeeper had doused the burning embers in the hearth. 

 	‘Wouldn’t want to start a fire, eh?’ he said. He was a broad man, thick-jawed with an eye-patch and a scar that ran beneath, all the way down to his neck.

 	Mikael had stripped out of most of his armour, leaving only a breastplate. He looked like any common sell-sword without his trappings and insignia.

 	‘Chasing monsters, boy?’ the innkeeper said with a wry smile.

 	Shocked at the man’s boldness, Mikael was about to protest when the innkeeper stopped him.

 	‘It’s written all over your face. I was a captain in the Averheim army. I’ve my share of them,’ he said and leaned in closer. 

 	His voice was little more than a whisper.

 	‘Don’t let them consume you, boy. Whatever ill blights your past, there’s little you can do about it now.’

 	‘I am a Templar of Morr,’ was all Mikael could think of to say, hoping to discourage the innkeeper.

 	‘Then you walk with death, but does he walk with you?’ 

 	‘I…’ Mikael began then rose from his seat, pushing past the innkeeper, and fled out into the night. 

 	As he stood in the darkness, his heart pounded and cooling sweat chilled him. He sucked up a great gulp of air, waiting for his racing heart to subside. 

 	‘Can’t beat the night air, eh?’ Halbranc leant against the wooden beam of the inn’s veranda. He held a dark bottle in his hand and drank deeply, then offered it across.

 	Mikael shook his head. 

 	‘Couldn’t sleep?’ the giant templar asked. Even without his amour, he was huge and imposing. Utterly bald, it was as if he was made from chiselled stone. 

 	Mikael sighed, searching the darkness for an answer that wasn’t there.

 	‘Ever since we came to this place, I have had a dark and forbidding feeling, as if–’

 	Screams suddenly tore into the night. 

 	Mikael and Halbranc drew their swords. His confession would have to wait.

 	The sound came from further up the street, towards the market. They raced towards it, the bottle shattering as Halbranc cast it aside.

 	‘For the love of Sigmar,’ a figure wailed, a distant silhouette gradually coming into focus. ‘I’ve seen it, I’ve seen it.’ It was a woman. Wearing a gaudy dress, thick make-up smeared over her face to hide her age, she was one of Hochsleben’s veteran streetwalkers. 

 	At first she ran into Halbranc’s arms, but recoiled when she saw the symbols of Morr etched upon his armour. 

 	‘What have you seen, woman?’ Halbranc demanded, holding her wrist before she fled. 

 	‘The Reaper,’ she gasped, struggling against Halbranc’s iron grip. ‘Over there.’ Her eyes widened in terror as she tried to pull away.

 	A short distance away, in the market square, a figure hunched over a heavy burden and dragged it through the street. Shrouded by the darkness, it was impossible to discern the figure’s identity. 

 	Halbranc let the streetwalker go and she raced away into the dark.

 	‘Halt,’ he bellowed suddenly. ‘Halt in the name of Morr.’

 	Halbranc and Mikael started running forward. The figure looked up at them from whatever it was doing, and ran. The templars sheathed their swords and gave chase.

 	The figure had left a body in the street. It was a man. A dagger wound through the heart had killed him, but he was otherwise unmolested, although both his hands and feet were bound. 

 	Mikael and Halbranc ran on. 

 	He was fast, a long cloak flapped in his wake as the figure fled from the knights. But Mikael was gaining on him. He darted down an alley and the templar followed, abruptly swallowed by the darkness within. 

 	‘Mikael, wait,’ Halbranc cried from the mouth of the alleyway. 

 	Mikael glanced back. Halbranc leant against the wall, breathing hard and sweating. 

 	‘This is one monster I will not let slip,’ Mikael muttered to himself and left Halbranc behind him, driving after the Reaper to become lost in the gloomy alleyway. 

 	Upon racing around a corner, the man vanished. Mikael stopped and drew his sword, listening. The rising breeze whispered in his ear, sibilant and eerie, a bawdy drunk sang raucously, his voice faint, streets away in the distance. 

 	He edged forward, willing his eyes to adjust to the darkness. Formless dark became silhouette before him. He was gripped by a sudden sense of danger behind him. Pain like white heat flared in Mikael’s back as he tried to turn. He’d been stabbed. His leggings felt warm and wet, as blood ran down his leg. He glimpsed a flash in the corner of his eye and felt a heavy object smash against his head. Reeling from the attack, Mikael was vaguely aware of glass fragments in his hair. 

 	Vision fogging, he fell. Reaching out into the growing blackness, he clawed at his attacker, pulling something free. He struck the ground hard and a lance of fire pierced his shoulder. He fought it for a moment, then blacked out.

 	‘Idiot!’ the voice was hard and angry in the darkened room.

 	‘I’m sorry. Please our pact,’ the second voice pleaded.

 	‘Ezekaer is no pawn, dictated to by the likes of you. Corpsemaster they called me. Fellshadow I was known as. I will honour the pact at my choosing. Only I have the skill to grant your desire.’ 

 	‘Yes, yes, of course. Please, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ said the second voice, grovelling profusely. ‘I had the perfect specimen, but for those templars,’ he whined.

 	The first voice paused, his interest piqued. The atmosphere in the darkness changed. ‘Templars you say?’ the voice said, anger receding. 

 	‘Yes,’ answered the second voice, breathless and confused.

 	‘How interesting. Tell me more of these templars…’

 	A hot spike of pain shot through him as Mikael came too. He thought he could smell pine and the faint musky odour of the forest, but realised he was in the alleyway. Rain was falling. Through the watery haze, three figures stood over him, the black hair of two of them tinged with droplets. 

 	‘Mikael,’ a voice urged. ‘Mikael, are you wounded?’ Halbranc stooped down and held his head in a massive hand.

 	‘I think I was stabbed,’ he groaned, spitting rain water from his mouth. 

 	Halbranc eased him over and Kalten, who crouched nearby, nodded. 

 	‘We must get him to the Temple of Shallya,’ Kalten said, rain weighing down his long hair and flecking his beard. ‘A piece of the blade is lodged in his armour. And what is that stench?’ he said, sniffing Mikael’s clothes. 

 	‘It’s all over him,’ Halbranc said. ‘I know not.’

 	‘What is this?’ Reiner’s voice cut through like a cold blade, as he stooped to retrieve something Mikael clutched in his hand.

 	Halbranc’s voice grew dark. 

 	‘I have seen that before.’

 	Reiner held it up. Mikael’s head throbbed painfully inside his skull, like a perpetual cannonade, but he focused long enough to recognise what his captain held aloft. 

 	A half-mask with one eye hole cut into it. 

 	‘It’s the tanner, we spoke to him this afternoon. His lodgings are upon the market square,’ Halbranc explained, anger in his voice. He told them quickly of his and Mikael’s encounter, of the darkened store, the tanner’s shunning of the light and his reference to a cloak that felt like a ‘second skin’. 

 	‘This wretch is most likely trading with human flesh,’ Reiner spat. ‘Victims drained of blood, aversion to the light: I can think of no other creature with such despicable traits.’

 	‘A vampire,’ said Kalten, crouching at Mikael’s side. 

 	Reiner crushed the mask in his hand.

 	‘We head for the tannery. Kalten, you will come with me. Halbranc, take Mikael to the Temple of Shallya and meet us when you can.’

 	‘It lies to the west quarter,’ Helbranc told him.

 	‘I remember it,’ Reiner said. ‘This ends tonight.’

 	As Halbranc heaved Mikael onto his back with a grunt, and Reiner and Kalten stalked off to confront the Reaper, no one noticed a small figure watching from the shadows. His teeth gleamed white in the darkness as a grin split his features, and he scurried off to report to his master.

 	He was lost, alone in the darkness. Cold stone pricked his fingers. The air was damp and stale.

 	Mikael wandered as if blind.

 	A door opened ahead of him. He drew his sword and felt compelled toward it.

 	A rising dread filled his stomach. Something was wrong.

 	He ran, ran with fear at his heels.

 	Bursting into the light, he entered another room. There were seven bodies chained to the walls, hung up, feet dangling limply above the ground. 

 	A spasm of fear hit Mikael like a physical blow and he recoiled. They wore the armour of Templars of Morr, except that each had his face covered by black shrouds. 

 	Heart thumping Mikael reached out, suddenly within touching distance of one of the bodies and pulled the shroud away. 

 	A pale death mask regarded him beneath. It was Kalten. The templar opened his eyes.

 	‘Mikael,’ he moaned with a voice from beyond the grave…

 	Mikael screamed. Pain burned in him anew and he realised he was awake. 

 	A strong hand held him still as he shook with the night terror, a fevered sweat drenching his clothes. 

 	‘Rest easy,’ Sigson’s voice was calm and soothing as he crouched beside him, ‘You are safe.’

 	‘Sigson,’ Mikael rasped, breathing hard, ‘I had a dream.’

 	Sigson was abruptly concerned. As the god of dreams, as well as the guardian of the dead, Morr bestowing a vision upon one of his templars was oft portentous and should not be ignored.

 	‘What did you see, Mikael?’ 

 	‘Where are the others?’

 	‘Valen and Vaust are still recuperating, the fever has passed but they are still bed-ridden,’ Sigson explained, nonplussed.

 	Mikael grabbed Sigson by his jerkin. His hands trembled, his voice infected with urgency. ‘No Kalten, Reiner, Halbranc – where are they?’

 	‘Halbranc headed into town a few moments ago, he was leaving by the time I entered your chambers.’

 	Mikael released the warrior priest and got up from his bed, biting back the pain as he strapped on his armour waiting nearby.

 	Sigson rose and held Mikael’s shoulder.

 	‘What did you see, Mikael?’ he urged, gripping tightly so Mikael would listen.

 	The young templar looked directly into the warrior priest’s eyes and spoke as intently as he could.

 	‘I saw death, Sigson. The death of our entire company.’ 

 	Sigson’s face grew dark as the resonance of what Mikael said struck him. ‘I’m coming with you.’

 	Mikael and Sigson ran through cobbled streets, rain battering against their armour with such fury it was as if nature itself had come to oppose them. They drove on through the downpour, with not a soul in sight until they reached the market square. 

 	Two figures, one huge, the other small and slight by comparison, conversed beyond a wall of driving rain. As they got closer, Mikael recognised the immense form of Halbranc and the wiry mortician, Merrick, in front of him. 

 	Halbranc turned to them both when he saw them.

 	‘What are you doing out here?’ he bellowed against the raucous downpour. Overhead, thunder boiled and lightning cracked the sky. 

 	‘The others,’ Mikael cried back. ‘Where are they?’ They were forced close, so they could hear each other.

 	‘At the tanners. Lothmar attacked you in the street, you tore off his mask,’ Halbranc said, spitting away the water washing over his mouth as he spoke. ‘I was headed to them, when I was stopped.’ He looked over at Merrick.

 	The mortician looked half-drowned. His face blue and pale with cold, he clutched a thick but sodden cloak around his body, and shivered. ‘Another victim has been found,’ he explained, leaning in to speak, voice shaking. ‘He is alive and has been taken to the mortuary. The watchmen thought he was dead,’ he cried. 

 	‘They found him in the street?’ Mikael asked, confused.

 	Merrick nodded, water trickling rapidly down his face.

 	Raging wind filled the silence. They all breathed hard in the dire conditions. Mikael regarded Merrick closely, before he turned to Halbranc.

 	‘Go with him,’ Mikael said. ‘We’ll meet you there, once we’ve found the others.’

 	Halbranc nodded, grateful to be on his way and getting out of the terrible weather.

 	The party broke up, Halbranc and Merrick heading toward the house of Morr, Mikael and Sigson to the tanners. None were aware of a fifth person on the streets, braving the rain. He watched the entire scene and sticking to the shadows, followed the two templars.

 	The door to Lothmar’s tannery swung open on creaking hinges. Buffeted by the wind and rain, it slammed hard against the frame before being sucked open again. 

 	Mikael forged inside, ahead of Sigson, sword drawn. 

 	Darkness surrounded him but Mikael could tell the shop was empty. He remembered the archway towards the rear. 

 	‘There is another chamber beyond that arch,’ he whispered to Sigson, who crept behind him. 

 	‘I see it.’

 	The two men moved carefully in the gloom toward the archway. As they reached it, a cold draft wafted up at them, stone steps descending into a cellar below. 

 	The swinging door slammed hard against the frame behind them, rupturing the silence. They turned as one, weapons raised, but there was no one there.

 	Mikael blew out his nerves, and, with a glance at Sigson, headed down the steps. A crack in the roof above threw a shaft of moonlight within.

 	A body slumped in the stairwell was illuminated, a sword in its hand.

 	It was Reiner.

 	Mikael felt dizzy and for a moment thought he would fall, but gathered himself and raced to the bottom. 

 	He lifted his captain’s chin. Reiner’s eyes opened a crack. There was an ugly bruise upon his forehead and a bloody gash where he’d been struck. 

 	‘He was already dead,’ he mumbled, semi-conscious.

 	A door was ahead. It was open, and dark within. 

 	‘Where is Kalten?’ Mikael asked, his sense of dread growing. 

 	‘I don’t know, we were ambushed.’

 	Mikael looked back, Sigson was behind him.

 	The two of them entered the room. A lantern was hooked up just inside. Oil hissed as Mikael ignited it and yellow light washed over the room. 

 	Just beyond the lambent glow of the lantern, Lothmar lay dead, his throat slit, mask ripped callously from his face, exposing his scars. Mikael crouched over his body. The wan light revealed the pallor of Lothmar’s skin, white like alabaster. His right eye, unblemished from the accident was pink. 

 	‘He was no vampire,’ Mikael said, voice tinged with regret. 

 	‘An albino,’ Sigson said, crouched next to him. ‘But if not this poor soul, then why cut them?’ 

 	‘A ritual perhaps, or maybe the murders were meant to look like Lothmar’s work, or that of a butcher, with wrists and ankles tied.’

 	‘There might be a way to know for certain,’ Sigson said. ‘Move aside.’ Sigson leant over Lothmar’s body and muttered a prayer beneath his breath. The air tingled as he invoked the power of his god. The hairs rose on the back of Mikael’s neck. Morr had answered.

 	‘Push down upon his chest,’ Sigson ordered, intent on the tanner and leaned down, putting his ear to Lothmar’s mouth. ‘Morr will do the rest.’

 	‘Who attacked you?’ he whispered, and nodded to Mikael, who pushed down as instructed.

 	The last breath in Lothmar’s lungs eked out.

 	‘A man… a stranger,’ he wheezed, the words drawn out and laboured. ‘He wore… a mask. Terrible… odour…’ Then there was silence, the air within him finally expired.

 	‘There is no more,’ Sigson said, getting to his feet. Mikael did the same and turned to the door. A figure stood there.

 	They drew their swords.

 	‘Identify yourself!’ Mikael demanded.

 	‘Do not be alarmed,’ a deep and confident voice told them. A figure stepped into the lantern light.

 	It was a man, perhaps close to his forties with greying hair and a thinning beard, but strong and powerfully built beneath simple brown robes. A breastplate covered his chest, etched into it the symbol of a fiery comet. Hanging down from his neck was a silver talisman that bore the sigil of a hammer.

 	‘I am Rathorne,’ he said. ‘Warrior priest of Sigmar.’ A short figure shuffled out of the darkness to hunch beside him, a pitiable wretch dressed in nought but rags. Mikael recognised, once again, the tramp he had rescued.

 	‘You,’ he said, accusingly. 

 	‘What business have you here?’ Sigson asked, sword raised.

 	‘Please,’ Rathorne said. ‘Put down your weapons. We are here for the same purpose.’

 	‘What might that be?’ Mikael asked, unwilling to relent.

 	‘To catch the Reaper and end his murderous rampage.’

 	They lowered their swords. 

 	‘Your expressions demand explanations,’ Rathorne began. ‘But since your comrade is wounded and our prey loose, I’ll keep them short. I have been tracking this devil since I heard of the dire happenings in this town more than four weeks ago. His movements have been a mystery to me but I did not want to reveal myself lest I alert him. When your company arrived I thought you might provoke a mistake, so I had Vislen follow you.’ The impish tramp bowed and grinned, revealing a set of perfect, white teeth.

 	‘It seems we are allies then,’ Mikael said, noting the distaste in Rathorne’s eyes, and sheathed his sword. Sigson did the same.

 	‘But we have reached a dead end,’ Mikael explained. ‘Although one of our comrades is questioning a survivor of the attacks as we speak. Aside from that, all we know is he drains his victim’s blood and bears an unpleasant odour.’

 	‘Much like the stench that clings to you,’ Rathorne said, breathing in the stink of Mikael’s clothes. ‘It is consistent with vampirism.’ He glanced down at Vislen, who shuffled over to the templar and began sniffing at him. 

 	‘What is he doing?’ Mikael asked, raising his arms and looking down suspiciously at the runtish tramp. 

 	Vislen shuffled back to his master, and, as Rathorne leaned down, whispered into his ear. 

 	‘Embalming fluid,’ Rathorne announced, ‘and something else.’

 	 The warrior priest moved over to Mikael and examined the wound in his back, now a dark red mark in his jerkin, just below the back-plate. 

 	Rathorne dug into the wound with his fingers and as Mikael was about to recoil said,

 	‘Hold, there is something left in the wound.’ 

 	The young templar winced in pain, neck arched around so he could see what the Sigmarite was doing. Rathorne pulled a tiny sliver of metal out of the wound, letting it fall into his open palm. 

 	He looked up at the two templars.

 	‘A scalpel blade.’

 	‘Merrick,’ Mikael spat with anger. Realisation dawned soon after. ‘Halbranc,’ he gasped and raced to the door. ‘Sigson,’ he said, turning, ‘stay with Reiner. I must get to the mortuary.’

 	He felt a hand on his arm. Looking back he was met by Rathorne’s intense gaze. ‘You mean we.’

 	Mikael was defiant at the priest’s interference but had no time to argue.

 	‘Then, come on,’ he said, and he and Rathorne sped out of the tannery into the night.

 	Bolting through the Temple of Morr, acolytes and priests scattering in their wake, Mikael and Rathorne were quickly at the door to the mortuary. 

 	A muffled voice emanated from beyond. It was Merrick, he was talking to someone. 

 	‘…but what of our pact, your promise to me,’ Merrick urged desperately. ‘I have fulfilled my part of the bargain. I have your amulet, you are bound to it and my bidding. I didn’t mean to tarnish this one, but he struggled so, and I have brought you a new body to replace it.’

 	A muted cry, as if through a gag, echoed in the chamber, faint but discernable. Mikael recognised Halbranc’s voice and heaved at the door. 

 	It was locked tight.

 	‘Stand aside,’ Rathorne ordered, taking an icon of Sigmar from his robes as he pushed in front of the templar. 

 	‘By the order of Sigmar,’ he bellowed with conviction, loosing a warhammer from a leather loop at his waist, swivelling it in his hand as he tested the grip. ‘Get back,’ he said to Mikael.

 	‘Open this door!’ Rathorne struck, and the door was smashed open, splinters flying as it slammed into the adjacent wall with a heavy thunk. The warrior priest waded in immediately, Mikael was right behind him. 

 	He gasped when he saw Kalten’s body on the mortuary table, as the dream came back. His throat was slit but had been done so with a struggle; numerous deep cuts lacerating his neck, face and chest, his features now horribly mutilated. In the far corner, Halbranc struggled. His head was bruised and he was gagged, hands and feet both bound with thick rope. And before them stood Merrick, the pitiable mortician who had lost his family, the pendant his wife had given him hanging around his neck. The man Mikael had felt the deepest sympathy for. But now there was a darkness about his eyes and face, the shadow of a driven man, one who was willing to do absolutely anything to achieve his goal. 

 	‘Where did you get that amulet?’ Mikael demanded, a raised hand compelling Rathorne to wait. 

 	Merrick looked down at it, toying with it in his fingers, as it glowed with an evil light. ‘A forgotten chamber in the catacombs,’ Merrick confessed, with a glance at the veiled off room at the back of the mortuary. He struggled within himself now, at the final moment, he realised the consequences of his deeds, the innocents he had killed. ‘I stole it, watched the priests for months. I knew I could bind him to it, that he would do my will.’

 	‘Merrick, you fool,’ Mikael spat, wrenching the mortician back into the present.

 	‘I… It’s for my son,’ he said, weeping, the old Merrick returned for but a moment. ‘I didn’t want to kill them,’ he said forlornly, eyes pleading forgiveness. ‘But I couldn’t use the mortuary, they would find out, I would lose him.’

 	‘Speak no further,’ an evil voice echoed in the chamber. Not Merrick, someone else, beyond the curtain at the back of the room and with it came an ancient menace, one that spoke across the ages. ‘Perform the binding rites.’

 	‘What have you done?’ Mikael said, edging forward.

 	‘You’ll not stop me!’ Merrick cried. 

 	Rathorne surged toward him, icon outstretched. 

 	The evil voice spoke again and chanting filled the room. A dark nimbus of power played about the pendant around Merrick’s neck as he mimicked it.

 	At last, Mikael realised it was no gift from his dead wife.

 	‘Rathorne, wait!’ he cried.

 	But the warrior priest was upon him, ‘Down hell-kite!’ he bellowed, thrusting the icon toward him.

 	A man possessed, Merrick launched himself at Rathorne, grabbing the priest’s wrists as he completed the ritual. 

 	‘Night stalker,’ Rathorne raged through clenched teeth as he struggled, ‘feel the burning truth of Sigmar’s wrath,’ he spat, pushing the icon against Merrick’s cheek, but nothing happened.

 	Upon the slab, Mikael watched in horror as the dead eyes of Kalten flicked open. 

 	‘Fool,’ he said, in a reedy, rasping voice that was not his own. ‘He is no vampire, he is my pawn,’ he added, rising up from the slab and grasping his fallen sword.

 	Rathorne wrenched himself free from Merrick’s grasp and faced off against Kalten’s reanimated corpse. 

 	‘But my son, you promised to bring him back. What of our pact?’ Merrick wailed, rushing toward the undead monster, sobbing. 

 	The thing that used to be Kalten turned to him. ‘The body is mine. It was always mine.’ He smashed Merrick aside with a swipe of a mighty arm. The mortician clattered into the wooden racking, shattering the vials and bottles, chemicals spreading across the floor. Amidst the foul unguents and oils he lay still.

 	‘By Sigmar’s hand…’ Rathorne cried, charging forward. 

 	‘Silence!’ Kalten bellowed, blasting the warrior priest back into the wall with black fire from his eyes. Rathorne slumped unconscious, faint smoke rising from his hair and robes.

 	As Kalten turned, Mikael raked his blade across the undead templar’s eyes. 

 	Kalten reeled from the blow, blinded, but recovered quickly, blocking a swipe aimed at his neck. 

 	‘Clever,’ he rasped, lashing out with his blade.

 	Mikael parried, and edged around to the creature’s left.

 	‘But I don’t need these eyes to see,’ the monster told him, matching his movements. 

 	‘Release him,’ Mikael spat as he drove a powerful thrust into Kalten’s chest, right through his heart. He pushed hard into the wound, using the blade like a spear and smashed Kalten into the wall. Kalten’s flailing sword clattered against a lantern, knocking it and the blade to the ground. Oil and flame ran inexorably to the spilled chemicals pooling near Merrick, who had shaken himself to.

 	‘I won’t die so easily,’ it said mockingly, locking its hands around Mikael’s throat. 

 	Fire flared at the back of the chamber, Merrick dragging himself clear just in time. 

 	‘Rathorne,’ Mikael urged through strangled gasps. 

 	The warrior priest stirred and looked up through blood-shot eyes. 

 	‘Get Halbranc out, warn the priests.’ 

 	Dazedly, Rathorne obeyed and dragged a semi-conscious Halbranc to his feet as Mikael and Kalten struggled. 

 	The young templar released his sword and smashed his fists down hard against Kalten’s wrists. Rigor setting in, the fingers slipped away, losing their grip. 

 	In the corner of his eye, Mikael saw Rathorne and Halbranc escape down the corridor as he backed away. 

 	Kalten ambled toward him, Mikael’s blade still stuck in his chest. 

 	Smoke billowed as fire swathed the room, angry and intense as it roared amongst the stored chemicals. Bottles shattered with the heat.

 	A shadow leapt through the smoke and flame from the back of the chamber. It was Merrick. He dove upon Kalten’s back and dragged him down. His clothes were on fire and they spread to the undead creature. 

 	‘You promised me, you bastard!’ he cried, pulling the monster into the fire, using its body to shield him. 

 	The flames ravaged Kalten’s skin, cracking his armour, burning hair and cloth alike.

 	‘No, the undead thing cried. ‘I was to be reborn!’

 	Mikael tried to go to Merrick’s aid, but couldn’t reach him through the wall of fire and smoke. 

 	‘Merrick!’ he cried, against the roaring inferno, hand before his face to ward off the heat.

 	Clutched in a fiery embrace, a dark miasma exuded from Kalten’s mouth and seeped into Merrick as he wailed in anger and anguish. Kalten’s corpse fell to the ground and burned. Merrick backed away, ripping off his burning shirt and clutched his face, screaming, the fire burning it red raw. 

 	‘Merrick!’ Mikael cried again, coughing as smoke filled his lungs.

 	Strong hands grasped Mikael’s shoulders and dragged him away from the conflagration. Rathorne had come back for him and heaved him out of the room just before the roof collapsed, and Merrick was lost to his sight. 

 	Reaching the outside, flames danced before Mikael’s eyes. His lungs were choking with smoke and his skin burned. As he collapsed, the last thing he saw was Merrick screaming, surrounded by fire, the image forever seared onto his memory.

 	Mikael awoke in the Temple of Shallya. It was night and the rain had abated to a fine drizzle. He sat up in bed and allowed the moon, coming through a high window, to bathe him in its beam. 

 	‘Show yourself,’ he said, looking out into the gloom.

 	A shadow moved at the far end of the room and stepped into the moonlight.

 	‘I see the encounter has not dulled your instincts.’ It was Sigson. ‘I was trying not to wake you.’ 

 	‘Where are the others?’

 	‘Resting, as you should be.’

 	‘There should be no rest for me,’ Mikael said, broodingly. ‘I left that poor man to die.’

 	‘You make it sound like he was innocent,’ Sigson said. ‘Resurrecting the dead and killing those people, he was no better than the necromancer he foolishly consorted with.’

 	‘You sound like Reiner.’

 	‘I sound like a Templar of Morr,’ Sigson corrected him, agitation in his voice. 

 	‘Grief had driven him mad, Sigson. Mad to the point where he was capable of bloody and brutal murder.’

 	‘Then his love for his son was his undoing. The dead should not be interfered with. That way lies heresy and damnation.’ 

 	Mikael fell silent. He knew Sigson was right and yet he thought he might have saved him, redeemed his soul some how.

 	‘The dream I had,’ Mikael began. ‘I saw Kalten’s face. He was dead.’ 

 	‘There was nothing you could have done to prevent that, Mikael. Halbranc and Reiner are both alive, mainly thanks to you. You cannot save everyone.’

 	 ‘At least we can leave this place, now that it’s over,’ he muttered. ‘Perhaps Merrick will find some peace at last, as well.’

 	Sigson’s expression changed.

 	‘You don’t know?’ he said.

 	‘Know what?’ 

 	‘When the fires were doused, I scoured the ruins of the mortuary. Kalten’s body was burned, almost to ash, within his armour. But there was no sign of Merrick.’

 	‘He survived? How?’

 	‘I don’t know, but I doubt he is in Hochsleben now and pursuit would be pointless, we have no idea of his direction.’

 	‘When I saw him at the last Sigson, he was burned and I saw something enter his body, like a black mist. At the time I thought it a trick of the smoke and flames, but now…’

 	‘So then,’ Sigson said severely, ‘it seems that Merrick was not the only one to escape the fire.’

 	‘Then he is a renegade, and a dangerous one at that. It is our duty to hunt him down.’

 	‘Yes, and we will,’ he said rising, and walked over to the door to Mikael’s chamber. When he turned, his face was grim. ‘Rest, Mikael. Morning is not far off, and you’ll need your strength for what is to come, I fear.’

 	The door shut, and, as a cloud smothered the moon, Mikael was left alone in the darkness.