Chapter 46
INTERLUDE. Waldemar of Wissenberg.
Among the twisted silhouettes of diseased trees, the hunched figures of approaching enemies loomed. The raspy squeaks and inhuman chattering of hellish creatures echoed from all sides. Waldemar pulled the lever of his repeating crossbow, cocking the mechanism. Through the skeletal branches of the half-dead forest, the sinister light of Morrslieb illuminated the encroaching rat-horde.
Waldemar had suspected Jurgen of working for the enemies of the Empire, but he could never have imagined the boy was connected to such horrific and unnatural monsters—creatures whose very existence had to be kept secret from the greater populace.
— You will not take me... — the hunter hissed through gritted teeth, then, leveling his crossbow, he lunged from behind a tree. — Death to the unclean!
The first bolt hissed into the gloom. A moment later, a piercing shriek rang out. In the greenish glow of the Chaos moon, the Templar saw a massive rat-man with black fur collapse, felled by a precise hit.
Waldemar pulled the lever again, resetting his weapon. Bolt after bolt flew into the darkness at the closing enemies. He fired until his ammunition was spent. Then, the Templar cast aside the crossbow and tore his rapier from its sheath.
— You want my steel, you brainless filth?!
Skaven were advancing from every direction. It seemed their numbers had only grown. Ugly, distorted rat-faces with bulging red eyes stared back. They marched into battle armed with rusted cleavers, short pikes, and butcher knives. A foul parody of mankind.
Waldemar easily pierced the throat of the nearest, slashed the next, and then...
Waldemar retreated to avoid being completely encircled. The light of Morrslieb grew brighter, penetrating his soul like a mad wave of green delirium. The Skaven were closing the ring. Somehow, they were at his rear as well. Waldemar worked his blade furiously. Forgetting all fencing forms, he hacked with the rapier as if it were an infantry hanger.
And the rats seemed to be mocking him. They barely tried to strike; they simply pressed in from all sides.
The radiance of Morrslieb reached its zenith. The green light blinded him, but it only drove Waldemar to fight with tripled fury. His blade cut and carved through the enemies of the Empire. How many had he slain today? At least a hundred. How many yesterday? Even more. He would become a hero of the Empire. Or rather, he already was. Now, he only needed to tell those around him of his exploit. To show them the terrible trophies that sang of his valor. The heads of hundreds of Chaos spawn.
Waldemar of Wissenberg, the younger son of impoverished nobles, the under-appreciated honors student, would be honored...
A cough.
Waldemar woke up. Clumps of phlegm forced their way from his throat, and the convulsions of his body caused his bowels to loosen. A foul, wet heat felt immediate. Curse it!
It was merely a dream. The only reality was the light of Morrslieb, falling upon him through the bare branches of the half-dead forest.
Waldemar tried to squeeze his eyes shut. It did not help. The green flickers seemed to penetrate his eyelids, his skin, and even the bones of his skull, piercing the hunter's inflamed brain.
Waldemar did not know where he was. After the first clash with the Skaven, the Templar had fled through the forest to escape pursuit. Then he had jumped into the water, narrowly avoided drowning, climbed out on the other bank and...
Darkness.
A piece of events had been excised from his memory as if by a surgeon's knife.
As soon as his body awoke, he felt an unbearable itching in the wounds left by the Skaven weapons. Waldemar looked at one of them. His right arm was swollen. Greenish pus seeped from a small puncture.
— I need help immediately, — the thought flashed through the Templar's mind.
Waldemar carried a small kit of medicines, but it seemed he had already used them all in a futile attempt to numb the pain. Yet worse than the physical suffering was the itching that intensified with every passing minute. It gnawed at the wounds inflicted by the Skaven. It throbbed in the empty eye socket beneath his bandage.
Waldemar stood up with a lightness that surprised him. His wounded body, chilled by the night dampness, moved clumsily but actively. He did not even have to exert any great effort to move his legs, down which the contents of his emptied bowels flowed.
— Disgusting! How low have I fallen. Have I fallen? No!
A flash of rage gripped the Templar's sick mind. He had not fallen. This was all the fault of that cursed Jurgen and his monstrous minions. It was because of them that Waldemar found himself in such a wretched state. That vile heretic Jurgen!
Once, noble ladies had smiled at Waldemar entreatingly, and their cavaliers had respectfully averted their eyes. He had been the embodiment of Sigmar's punishing justice. Valiant, ever-vigilant, and as principled as any other Templar, yet he stood apart from many of his comrades. Accompanying his sharp rapier was a sharp wit, tempered first by a private tutor and then by a university education. A brilliant future had awaited Waldemar. Upon the charred or bolt-riddled corpses of heretics, he had intended to climb to the very heights of the Order's hierarchy.
And now Waldemar was wandering through the forest, ragged, filthy, and covered in his own waste. Someone had to answer for this!
— Stop. Do not let rage take hold.
Waldemar tried to calm himself by reciting prayers, but his thoughts tangled and his head began to throb. The Templar wandered almost aimlessly, hoping to find the main road. The area near Nuln was full of roads. The Bastion of the South thrived on trade.
Voices drifted from ahead. Waldemar quickened his pace. Even in such a repulsive state, he should be recognized as a Templar. They would help him. They would take him to the Sisters of Shallya or a practicing physician.
Vague figures in a clearing ahead grew closer, yet Waldemar's vision would not focus. His sole remaining eye watered and festered. Waldemar tried to shout, but due to his swollen tongue, his voice sounded like a muffled gurgling. All because of that cursed Skaven weaponry. It was not poisoned in the traditional sense. The godless rat-men embedded fragments of warpstone into their throwing stars. Once in the blood, the Chaos mineral caused severe swelling. Waldemar was lucky. Had he been struck by more warpstone weapons, he would have drowned in the mucus filling his lungs.
The people in the clearing seemed to notice him. Someone waved a hand at Waldemar. Stumbling over fallen trees and roots, the hunter finally reached them. Hope was immediately replaced by disappointment, which rapidly mutated into rage.
These were not people gathered in the clearing. Though, who else could be expected in a night forest bathed in the ghostly light of Morrslieb? It was his tangled thoughts and the headache that had clouded the Templar's mind, offering false hope.
Ungors, mutants, and degenerates were gathered here, led by a massive, horned Beastman.
Waldemar did not run; he knew he could not hide in the forest from these creatures. The Witch Hunter drew his rapier. He had neither pistols nor his crossbow. Only his faithful blade remained, a few stakes, several daggers, and a stiletto in his boot.
The hunter expected the pack to throw themselves at him all at once, but instead, the leader stepped forward. Brandishing a two-handed greataxe, he growled something in a distorted human tongue. Waldemar understood not a word. His thoughts were a blur, and a roar filled his ears.
Waldemar took a fencing stance, moving his blade from side to side. Once, the hunter could have struck an opponent in the eye with a single precise thrust while on the move. Now his body was swollen. He had become far less agile. He had to rely on luck and the will of Sigmar.
The Beastman charged in a predictable frontal attack. These spawn lacked discipline. If only his reflexes were enough...
They were not.
Waldemar tried to step off the line of attack, but his disobedient, swollen legs moved too slowly. The Beastman did not land a direct hit. His axe clipped the Templar's head, tearing away his leather hat. Waldemar was knocked aside.
There was no fear, nor pain, only surprise. The blow should have seriously wounded or killed him, yet the hunter remained combat-capable. With a short thrust, he tried to strike the goat-horned creature in the solar plexus. The blade pierced the hide but, due to a clumsy movement of his arm, it snapped.
— Shit!
Realizing that another crushing blow was imminent, Waldemar closed the distance, throwing himself upon his enemy. A foolish gesture of despair. Scarcely could a man hope to wrestle a Bestigor, even a wounded one.
The Beastman dropped his axe, grabbing Waldemar's head in his grip. A second passed and...
Bdaaaaam!
A thunderous ringing knocked the wind out of the Templar. The Beastman had headbutted him, brow to brow. The strike should have finished Waldemar, cracking his skull, but the hunter was still alive and even remained conscious. Acting on residual instinct, the Templar drew a dagger from his belt with his left hand and opened his opponent's throat. Waldemar cut, hacked, and stabbed. He used both the dagger and the broken shard of his rapier. At first, the Bestigor tried to fight back, but he quickly lost his strength. Waldemar finished him on the ground. He gouged out eyes, he opened the belly.
The hunter did not remember how long it lasted. His body acted of its own accord. His head was empty. Not a single thought.
When Waldemar, covered in foul blood, rose over the body of the fallen monster, the other creatures watched him in silence. The Templar cast away the useless shard of his rapier, picking up the Beastman's two-handed axe from the ground. The weapon proved to be not so heavy. Waldemar could fight with it and kill a few more of these things before...
The Witch Hunter suddenly hesitated. Dark clouds obscured Morrslieb and Waldemar's thoughts cleared. He remembered, and more importantly, he realized everything that had just occurred. The way he had frenziedly butchered the Beastman's corpse before its minions, his strange immunity to wounds, the ease with which he lifted the axe, the horrific itching, the green pus.
— Am I... — a terrible thought pierced the man's consciousness.
Waldemar tore away the bandage that once covered his empty socket. His vision shifted. it cleared, but was strangely distorted. A new eye, grown under the mutagenic influence of warpstone, looked out at a god-forsaken world. No doubt remained.
— I am a mutant. Why, Sigmar!? Why!?
Despair flooded the defiled man, interspersed with intoxicating glimmers of spectral hope. Perhaps it was not too late? Perhaps someone could help him? Heal him, remove the blighted tissue, return him to the world of men. However, the knowledge gained in his career as a hunter of the unclean pronounced an uncompromising sentence. There was only one cure for his disease—death.
He should attack the Chaos spawn now. Die in battle against them, and if by some miracle he survived, open his own throat. Do it as soon as possible, while his soul was not yet stained by the ruinous corruption of the Dark Gods.
Initially, Waldemar raised the axe and walked toward the monsters, but they showed no aggression. They only backed away.
The light of Morrslieb spilled once more upon the sinful earth. Still faint, it peered from behind the clouds. Waldemar felt his thoughts tangling again. No. Fighting was too dangerous. He might lose control and wake up among the ruins of some village, butchered by his own hands. He had to kill himself immediately. It was his last chance!
Waldemar took up the dagger again, pressing it to his throat. In that moment, he felt a surge of pride. A warrior of Sigmar, twisted by Chaos but unbroken within, choosing to die as a man. Few were capable of such a thing. This was a true feat. Waldemar had not lied to himself when he hoped for a brilliant future. He had immense potential that would remain unfulfilled. What a pity that Waldemar would die here in the middle of a dark, gloomy forest.
And no one would even know of his sacrifice...
The thought sliced through his soul before the dagger could open his throat.
No one, absolutely no one would know anything. Jurgen would remain unpunished, and he, Waldemar, would die forgotten by all. Did that resemble divine justice? What nonsense. All his life Waldemar had served Sigmar. Why did the Hammer-Bearer not come to his aid? After so many prayers, after so many trials, the patron god of the Empire had abandoned Waldemar.
Two paths of events arose in the distorted man's mind. Either Sigmar was indifferent to his suffering, or he was too weak to help. In both cases, it completely contradicted the dogmas for which Waldemar had fought.
His fingers gripped the handle of the dagger as tightly as possible. One precise strike and...
A torrent of blood erupted from Waldemar's mouth. He had opened not his throat, but the tumors on his tongue. Spitting out the foul blood and pus, the distorted man raised eyes full of hatred toward the gathered mutants. They were all pathetic, weak, and stupid. Just as Waldemar had once stood out among men, he now surpassed the mass of Chaos filth. He had potential. An opportunity to take revenge and to rise.
— I... khhh... am in charge now! — spitting out the last of the blood, Waldemar spoke, raising the axe over his head. — I am the leader!
At this proclamation, something dark but incredibly pleasant surged in the withering soul of the Witch Hunter. Or rather, the former Witch Hunter, now another defiled soul treading the path of Chaos!
He had spent so many years uprooting heresy, having studied his enemy well. Finding himself on the other side of this endless struggle, Waldemar could use his experience.
— I will have my revenge! — he roared, not recognizing his own voice. — I will lead you! I will teach you everything! In the name of the Dark Gods!
---
And again, the training.
The bastard sword, in its technique, differed significantly from the one-handed sword. I had greatly underestimated the difference between them. One might think a bastard sword was merely an enlarged version of a one-handed blade. But here, as the German philosophers claimed, the law of the transition of quantity into quality was at work. Adding a second hand allowed for a variety of grips that balanced between technical precision and grip strength.
For instance, placing the second hand closer to the primary hand made it easier to transition from attack to defense and back again. Conversely, gripping the very pommel with the second hand provided additional leverage and precision.
Ideally, one shouldn't just choose a grip that fits their fighting style, but constantly change them depending on the situation and the opponent.
Compared to the bastard sword, the one-handed sword and shield now seemed like a fairly simple science. Block correctly, don't obscure your own vision, bypass the enemy's guard, and strike true. Of course, you can feint with a one-handed blade, but for a longsword, cunning combinations were an absolute necessity.
Lacking the concussive power of an axe or hammer, the bastard sword nevertheless allowed for precise, rapid strikes, deep cuts, and deceptive movements. A weapon that required brains to use. Well, at least a tiny bit of them.
Beyond demonstrating techniques and grips, Liandra also took a firm hand with my physical conditioning. The main focus was on stretching. Some of the exercises resembled either a particularly enlightened Kama Sutra or a form of torture for inquisitors whose racks had broken down.
Legs, arms, neck, back—everything hurt. Even muscles I had long forgotten existed in my body were aching.
In the evenings, to ease my suffering, I absorbed energy from the enchanted Dawi-Zharr dagger. I was even tempted to visit the slaughterhouse again and cut livestock there, but I feared the butcher would definitely suspect something was amiss.
For two days I trained with Liandra, Erik practiced his culinary craft, the unit ate the prepared meat, and Magg waited for his double-barreled lead-spitter. Then, the established rhythm of our life near Nuln was disrupted by Rudolf Hoch.
— Jurgen, we are invited to the palace.
To say I was stunned would be an understatement.
— Is this because of the one-eyed sorcerer? Do they want to reward us again?
— No. Not exactly, — the young knight replied. — It seems the Countess wants to honor all the commanders who survived Pfeildorf. Don't worry, you don't have to dance. The ball will be divided into two parts. I shall have to endure tedious conversations among the aristocracy, while you, Liandra, and Magg can simply feast.
— Ah... Well, alright then.
It sounded tempting enough. I had wanted a short break from training, but after the ambush from Herr Waldemar and the visit from the Eshin assassins, I no longer viewed the city as a safe location. Even if it was a simple ball to mark the valor of the Empire's defenders, I had to keep my wits about me.