Hammers of Ulric: 20th Anniversary Edition (Warhammer Chronicles) by Dan Abnett & Nik Vincent & James Wallis

Author:Dan Abnett & Nik Vincent & James Wallis [Abnett, Dan]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Published: 2021-02-26T16:00:00+00:00

Mittherbst

Wolf’s Bane

The night was old and dry. The lemon-rinded moons of high summer hung sullenly in a sky of soft purple. Moths beat against lit windows and masked lanterns. In the dim precincts of the Great Temple of Ulric, a warm silence filled the long hallways and cloisters. It was past midnight, and still the heat of the day had not subsided. Cooler than the streets in daylight, the great stones of the Temple building now radiated the heat they had absorbed, sweating warmth out of the walls and pillars.

Aric, the White Company’s standard bearer, crossed the shadowy atrium of the mighty shrine, by the light of two hundred smoking candles. Sweat beaded his broad, young brow. Custom and observance forced him to wear the grey-gold plate mail and white wolf pelt of the Templar uniform, but he dearly wished he could strip it all off.

Guard duty. White Company had the vigilia watch, patrolling the palace of Ulric until first light and the chime of matins. Aric longed for the fresh chill and mist which he hoped the pre-dawn would bring to signal the end of their duty.

By the arched door of a side chapel dedicated to fallen sons of Ar-Ulric, Aric saw Lowenhertz. The tall Wolf had leant his warhammer against the jamb, and was standing, peering out across the city from an unglazed lancet. At the sound of Aric’s approach, he spun like lightning and raised the hammer.

‘Stand down, brother,’ Aric said with a smile.

‘Aric…’ Lowenhertz muttered, lowering his hammer.

‘How goes the night?’

‘Stifling. Smell the air.’

They stood together on the narrow parapet under the arch and breathed in. Sweat; woodsmoke; corrupting sanitation.

‘Ah, Middenheim,’ Aric murmured.

‘Middenheim in high summer,’ Lowenhertz returned. ‘Damn its rocky heart.’

Somewhere down below in Altmarkt, hand bells were chiming furiously and there was a distant fuzz of orange. Another fire in the tinder-dry streets. There had been a dozen or more that week alone. And beyond the city, brush-blazes, sparked by summer lightning, had regularly lit portions of the forest at night. Wells were drying up, latrines were stinking, brawls were flaring, disease was rife, and clove oil sales were booming. A hot, smoky summer by any standards and for Middenheim an exceptional season.

‘Hottest summer in eighty years,’ said Lowenhertz, who knew such things.

‘Hottest I’ve ever known,’ Aric answered. He paused, significantly.

‘What?’ Lowenhertz asked, looking round.

Aric shrugged. ‘I… Nothing.’

‘What?’

‘I half expected you to tell me why. With your learning and all. I half expected you to tell me that a summer season as stifling as this was a sure sign of some disaster.’

Lowenhertz looked faintly angry, as if mocked.

‘I’m sorry,’ Aric said. ‘I should continue with my rounds.’

As he walked away, Lowenhertz called out. ‘Brother Aric?’

‘Lowenhertz?’

‘You’re right, you know. A summer like this… not from any learning of mine, or signs, or portents. But heat like this gets to men’s minds. Bakes them, twists them. Before autumn, there will be trouble.’

Aric nodded solemnly and walked away. He liked Lowenhertz, but there was nothing the man couldn’t see the bad side of.

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