Angelika Fleischer 2 - Sacred Flesh by Warhammer

Author:Warhammer [Warhammer]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

94

“They slipped through earlier, sir, when the supplies were brought in. They refuse

to rejoin the throng. They claim it’s too dangerous out there, and—”

Manfried made a fist and shook it. “Get them out of here, or club them down!”

His words seemed to animate the heel-dragging penitents, who edged back toward

the gates—and directly into the path between Manfried and the entrance to Elsbeth’s

tent.

“Make way!” Gibbrecht cried, taking the license to gleefully shove any pilgrims

who moved too slowly from his path. Manfried revised his estimation of the fellow;

perhaps he had potential after all.

“I keep forgetting your name,” Manfried confessed.

“It’s—”

the fellow said, but his next word was drowned out by a sudden banging in Manfried’s

ear. One of the misplaced pilgrims, a gaunt, toothy man, his face wreathed in an idiotic

smile, banged cruelly on an enormous drum, as his fellows began an ululating chant that

set Manfried’s teeth to clenching.

“You know what this experience has taught me?” Manfried asked, frowning back

at the cacophonous worshippers.

“What, sir?”

“Religion should be left to the professionals.”

He pushed on as his still-nameless subaltern continued to part the way for him.

Father Eugen sat on a stool next to a crude wooden bed, which someone had

dragged into the tent without Manfried’s say-so. In the bed lay Mother Elsbeth, her

skin damp with sweat. Eugen mumbled soothing words and mopped at her forehead

with a cloth. Four of Elsbeth’s fellow sisters stood off to one side, their noses

ostentatiously out of joint. When they saw Manfried enter, they made a point of

sniffing at poor friendly-faced Eugen, making it clear that their prerogatives had been

usurped. Among them stood a stooped old sister with an emaciated figure that

reminded Manfried of the sticks and branches of a small tree. She wore a soiled patch

over her left eye; her chin wobbled in the perpetual rhythm of palsy. Dema was her

name, and her disapproval offended Manfried; he had considered her one of his few

allies here.

Manfried stood over Mother Elsbeth. “You’re certain you can’t go on any

longer?” he said.

She did not reply.

“She struggles just to remain conscious,” said Eugen.

“The supply of holy liquor is not infinite,” Manfried told him, repeating a fact the

older priest already knew. “We must receive the greatest possible number of pilgrims

between each dosage.”

“She can’t receive anyone in this condition,” said Eugen.

Manfried addressed Dema. “How is it that we’ve got through so few visitations

this time?”

“She has treated dozens since the last restorative,” Dema croaked.

“How many dozens?” Manfried demanded. “Can it be that no one is keeping

track?”

Eugen whispered at him. “Manfried, she’s awake and can hear you…”

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