The Cold Hand of Betrayal by Warhammer

Author:Warhammer
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: General Fiction
Published: 2011-09-13T04:00:00+00:00

IN THE SERVICE OF SIGMAR

by Adam Troke

The beginning of the end.

Lukas lowered his shoulder and threw his weight against the doorway. The force of his body shattered the rusted lock which held the door closed and bent the hinges apart in an instant, causing Lukas to stumble, drawn on by his own momentum. He fell out of the stinking apothecary and into the alley beyond. The first dim rays of morning shone onto his face, chasing away the darkness and the horror that lay behind him. Gasping for breath, he tugged sharply at the rope that secured his burden, a white-faced and injured man who staggered a few paces behind him. He cast his eyes over the group assembled before him in the morning mist.

A dozen soldiers, clad in black leathers and armed with brightly polished halberds formed a defensive line between Lukas and three other figures all of which the young warrior recognised. The first was Rosabella, cradling her injured arm, her face drawn and her brow beaded with sweat despite the cool of the morning.

Next in the group was Henckler. Kriesmann Henckler, Templar of the Cult of Sigmar, a witch hunter. Short, barely five feet if Lukas's eye was any judge, with the kind of fat that a man has when he eats far too much and exercises far too little. His hair was thin and receded, as if he was losing the battle to remain thatched. He stood hunched behind the warriors, apparently ill at ease, regardless of his halberd-armed protectors and unassailable status. The third figure towered over the rest like a warrior from legend. Tall and strong, with a nose hooked like a hunting hawk, Constantin Brandaur was the very embodiment of a knight, the Grand Master of the Order of the Hammer. Lukas looked at him and his heart soared. Brandaur was here, his work was done.

'Take him into custody.' murmured the witch hunter, pointing a finger at the battered figure that Lukas held bound.

At Henckler's command, half of the halberd-armed warriors pressed forwards, seized him from Lukas and dragged him away by the rope. A thousand pleas and excuses bubbled forth from his cracked and bruised lips. He scrabbled and clawed at the muck and litter coating the alley floor, pulling desperately against the rope, terror widening his eyes and giving him a burst of desperate courage. Indifferent to his pathetic supplications, the soldiers silenced his new-found protests of innocence with a balled fist to the guts. They had heard it all hundreds of times before and they certainly had no interest in the lies of another heretic damned to die, not this early in the morning.

Breaking away from the templar master and Rosabella, Henckler stepped towards Lukas, his beady eyes glinting. With a gesture he waved the young warrior over to him, and Lukas obeyed at once, eager to please his employer and be done with the night's business. They paused in the shelter of a boarded-up doorway, huddling conspiratorially in its lee.

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