[Warhammer] - The Enemy Within Read online

  A WARHAMMER NOVEL

  THE ENEMY

  WITHIN

  Richard Lee Byers

  (An Undead Scan v1.0)

  This is a dark age, a bloody age, an age of daemons and of sorcery. It is an age of battle and death, and of the world’s ending. Amidst all of the fire, flame and fury it is a time, too, of mighty heroes, of bold deeds and great courage.

  At the heart of the Old World sprawls the Empire, the largest and most powerful of the human realms. Known for its engineers, sorcerers, traders and soldiers, it is a land of great mountains, mighty rivers, dark forests and vast cities. And from his throne in Altdorf reigns the Emperor Karl-Franz, sacred descendant of the founder of these lands, Sigmar, and wielder of his magical warhammer.

  But these are far from civilised times. Across the length and breadth of the Old World, from the knightly palaces of Bretonnia to ice-bound Kislev in the far north, come rumblings of war. In the towering World’s Edge Mountains, the orc tribes are gathering for another assault. Bandits and renegades harry the wild southern lands of the Border Princes. There are rumours of rat-things, the skaven, emerging from the sewers and swamps across the land. And from the northern wildernesses there is the ever-present threat of Chaos, of daemons and beastmen corrupted by the foul powers of the Dark Gods. As the time of battle draws ever near, the Empire needs heroes like never before.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Dieter Schumann wrinkled his nose at the distinctive stink of Altdorf, a smell composed of river water, waste of every sort, sulphur and smoke. He’d half-forgotten it during his years away, just as he’d forgotten how the city was never silent, even at night.

  Trying to ignore the foulness in the air, he breathed slowly and deeply to clear his thoughts, and then his ears picked out particular sounds from the ambient drone. Marching feet tramped in unison, and with each stride, leather creaked and metal clinked.

  Dieter cast about for a hiding place, settled on a narrow, shadowy space between two wooden buildings with wax-paper windows, and scrambled into the darkness. Heart pounding, mouth dry, he crouched low, making himself as inconspicuous as possible.

  When the marching men came into view, he slumped in relief, for they weren’t the watch after all. They were soldiers, outfitted with steel breastplates, helmets and halberds canted all at precisely the same angle over their shoulders. He wondered what business had summoned them forth from their barracks at such an hour. Maybe it was something to do with the marauders beyond the city walls.

  He waited for the halberdiers to pass by, then crept back out onto the street, where he once again sought to settle his mind. It was more difficult now. His near-brush with authority, inconsequential though it had been, made him more aware of just how easy it would be for someone to look out of a window or step out of a doorway and catch him at his work. Still, he had no choice but to stand in the open. He needed an unobstructed view of the sky.

  He whispered words of power and spun his left hand through a mystic pass. Magic stung the joints of his fingers and sighed through the air around him. Wishing he still had his telescope, he peered up at the stars.

  At first they looked as they always did, and he wondered if he’d been too frazzled to cast the spell properly. Then, however, he spotted the rhythmic fluctuations as several luminaries brightened and dimmed in succession, defining an arrow to point him on his way.

  Head still cocked back, he prowled onwards. Other stars flared and faded when it was time to turn right or left. As if to mock him, his course took him almost within shouting distance of the sixteen slender spires comprising the Celestial College, and he yearned to dash there and beg for succour.

  But he didn’t. He’d been told he had a shadow who would intervene if he attempted any such thing, and that no one would help him in any case, and he believed it.

  The stars led him near the temple of Sigmar. He imagined all the witch hunters who likely resided within the sprawling complex, and despite himself, he hunched his shoulders and quickened his pace.

  In time he crossed one of the countless bridges spanning the Reik. Most of the boats and barges were moored at this hour, but some still glided with lanterns aglow at bow and stern. On the other side rose the easternmost precinct of the city, which was to say, the largest of its many slums. Looking as if the first brisk breeze would knock them down, buildings leaned against each other like drunken revellers. The shadows seethed with rats. The district enjoyed an evil reputation, or at least it had when Dieter lived in Altdorf, and he watched for footpads as he skulked along.

  But no one bothered him, perhaps because, in his torn, grimy clothing, he didn’t look as if he possessed anything worth stealing, and eventually the stars stopped drawing lines for him to follow. Now the fluctuations swirled round and round like a whirlpool in the heavens. Underneath was a dilapidated building with shutters lost or hanging askew, tattered windows and a tavern on the ground floor. A hanging sign identified the establishment as the Axe and Fingers. Beneath the legend was a crudely painted illustration of a blade—it actually looked more like a butcher’s cleaver than an axe—chopping the digits off a corpse-white hand.

  Dieter took a deep breath, then went inside.

  If the magic had guided him correctly, there should be one or more unsavoury characters lurking in this poorly lit, low-ceilinged place, and at first glance, the patrons, glowering, unkempt men and ageing, painted prostitutes, looked the part. The problem was that no one of them looked it more than the rest. Where, then, to begin?

  He selected, essentially at random, a pox-scarred fellow sitting alone at the bar huddled over a tankard of ale as if he feared someone would try to snatch it away. Dieter claimed the rickety stool beside him, then said, “I just came into the city. From upriver.”

  The other man didn’t answer, or even glance in his direction.

  “I had to go somewhere,” Dieter persisted. “I lost everything.”

  The pockmarked man slowly turned his head to glare with cold grey eyes. “It could be worse. For instance, I could break your back and stamp in your ribs if you keep bothering me.”

  “I just hoped you could tell me where to look for work, but never mind.” Trying not to appear intimidated, Dieter rose and moved away.

  He ordered a mug of ale of his own, sipped it for a time, then made another approach. That one didn’t work out either, nor the one after that. It was rapidly becoming clear that this was a neighbourhood tavern patronised by ruffians both suspicious and disdainful of outsiders. Strangers were unwelcome, and no one cared to hear their tales of woe.

  A newcomer graced with a glib enough tongue might have ingratiated himself even so, but Dieter had simply managed to irritate. A little more, and someone—maybe everyone—really would try to hurt him.

  Damn it, he didn’t have the training or aptitude for this task. He’d explained as much, yet here he was anyway.

  “Can I bring you another?” asked a soft, somehow wistful soprano voice.

  Dieter looked up at a slender blonde barmaid he hadn’t noticed hitherto. She must have slipped into the taproom while he was feeling sorry for himself. Though she was younger and prettier than any of the prostitutes—probably he should say, the full-time prostitutes—the cut of her bodice was equally revealing, and the paint and powder on her face just as thick. Still, he thought he saw a trace of sadness in the features all but buried underneath.

  “Yes,” he said. “If I’m going to starve in the gutter tomorrow, I want to be drunk tonight.”

  She hesitated. “Are you sure? When your belly starts to ache, you may regret leaving all your money here.”

  “No, I won’t. I need to feel better,
or, failing that, numb. So fetch me another and one for yourself, too, if you’re inclined to keep me company.”

  She was. The taverner looked on, but made no objection as she set the tankards on the round little table with its malodorous tallow candle and seated herself across from Dieter. He surmised she was allowed to fraternise with customers if it seemed possible they might end up renting her charms.

  He paid for the drinks with two brass pennies. “Thank you. My name is Dieter.”

  “I’m the one who should thank you. You’re treating me. And I’m Jarla.”

  “Well, here’s to your health, Jarla.” He saluted her with his ale.

  After that, he lapsed into what he hoped would seem a morose taciturnity. He hadn’t had any luck trying to babble his story to anyone who would tolerate it. Maybe it would work better to let her draw him out. It was, after all, a part of her trade.

  “Are you truly in danger of starving?” she asked.

  He shrugged. “Altdorf is your town. You tell me. Can I find work?”

  “People do. It’s a huge, bustling city.” She hesitated as though torn between honesty and the wish not to demoralise him any further. “But the guilds control trade and all the crafts, and if you’re not connected to any of them, it can be hard to find a job that pays more than a pittance.”

  He smiled bitterly. “So much for me, then. I’m no guildsman. Obviously. Anyone could tell that just by looking at me. But I don’t even know any. I never set foot in Altdorf before today.”

  “Why are you here now? You’re not old, but you’re older than the boys who run away to the capital with nothing but a dream of striking it rich.”

  “Maybe we should talk about something more pleasant.”

  “If you like. But sometimes sharing your troubles makes you feel better.”

  She had that wistful note in her voice again, and he wondered if she lacked a confidant of her own. Not that it mattered. He was here to solve his own problems, not inquire into someone else’s.

  So he launched into his story. If she wasn’t the one who needed to hear it, maybe that person would be obliging enough to eavesdrop.

  “I came here because I had to go somewhere. There was nothing left for me where I was. Even though it was a nice little village once.”

  “What happened?” Jarla asked.

  “Well, first, beastmen raiders came in the night. They caught us farmers by surprise, and even if it had been otherwise, we wouldn’t have been able to defend ourselves. The creatures massacred several families in the first moments of the attack. The rest of us ran, and naturally many of us fled to the castle of our lord the baron. Our protector.” He infused the word with all the sarcasm he could muster.

  “Didn’t he help you?”

  “No. Maybe he and his men-at-arms could tell there were a lot of beastmen. At any rate, they plainly wanted no part of them, for they didn’t come out to fight. They didn’t even open the gate to shelter us, for fear the raiders would rush in with us. They just watched from the battlements while the goat-men slaughtered us at the foot of the wall.”

  Jarla covered his hand with her own. “That’s horrible.”

  “Yes. It was. I saw my brother and his wife cut down. I don’t know why the beastmen didn’t get me too, except that I threw myself down on the ground and lay still. Either they all missed seeing me, or else each of them thought another member of the band had already killed me.”

  “I’m glad you survived, even if your hamlet didn’t.”

  “Actually, it did. Or we believed it had. Many died, but not all, and even though there were barely enough of us left to manage the work, we did our best to carry on. Until we realised things were different.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The beastmen left a taint behind. I don’t know if they did it on purpose or if it’s simply their nature to poison whatever they touch, but after that night, the crops were strange. The grain was stunted and had a reddish cast to it. The grapes were long as your finger and white as bone. The lambs and piglets were stillborn as often as not, or came into the world with too few legs or too many eyes. Then a human baby was born with a face on its belly.

  “Fortunately,” Dieter continued, again in a tone of bitter irony, “this time the baron did take action. He sent for witch hunters.”

  “What did they do?”

  He snorted. “What didn’t they do? They said the fief must be cleansed at any cost. So they burned the fields and orchards. Slaughtered the livestock and any man, woman or child they suspected of changing under the influence of the contamination. They killed poor Wolfgang just because of his skin rash, even though some of us tried to tell them he’d suffered from it long before the beastmen ever came.”

  “Everyone says witch hunters can be cruel.”

  “Then everyone is right. They finished the goat-men’s work and destroyed the village. We all had to leave, because, with the crops burned and the animals killed, we would have starved if we stayed.”

  He sneered. “But one good thing did happen. I got to see our proud lord beg. He depended on our crops and rents for his own living, so he begged the witch hunters not to be so severe, and then he pleaded with us to stay. We laughed in his cowardly face.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Jarla said. “But you’re starting a new life now, and I hope it will be a good one.”

  The host banged something down on the bar. Dieter glanced around to see the man staring in his and Jarla’s direction.

  Though he couldn’t be sure, he thought the barmaid coloured beneath her mask of paint. “We’ve been talking for a while,” she said. “I need to go back to work. I mean, unless…”

  “You’re very pretty,” Dieter said, “but not tonight. Maybe after I find work, and have my wages in my pocket.”

  She patted his hand and stood up.

  Unwilling to deplete his meagre funds too quickly, Dieter nursed his ale until the crowd started to thin out, then took his leave.

  He had no idea whether he’d accomplished anything at all, and, weary, his nerves frayed, felt a crazy urge to shout the fact to whoever might be listening in the dark.

  Look at me! I’m terrible at this! You need to find somebody else!

  But he didn’t, because it would do no good. Instead, he looked upwards and whispered another spell.

  Certain stars brightened and others dimmed. Some changed colour. The transformation was subtler than when they’d flared and faded in succession to guide his steps, and this time it was spread across the length and breadth of the sky. Still, after peering for a time, he picked out the message written there for those with eyes to see.

  According to the divination, he had made progress towards his goal. And towards danger and ruin as well.

  Under the circumstances, it was as favourable an augury as he could have expected. Feeling encouraged in a bleak sort of way, he trudged onwards to find a place to sleep.

  Dieter picked up his tankard, and his hand throbbed. The discomfort must have shown in his face, because Jarla asked, “Are you all right?”

  “Fine,” he said, though that was overstating it a little. As she’d predicted, he’d found employment, but it was a strenuous, low-paying job assisting a rat catcher. He had to wade through reeking sewers and crawl into other cramped, filthy spaces. He’d imagined himself fit—he still possessed the same lean frame he’d had as a youth, and, at home, had taken a walk every day—but even so, his new duties had bruised his knees, scraped his palms and planted aches in his lower back. And this afternoon, when he was picking up the carcasses of poisoned rodents, he’d discovered one was still alive when it bit him. His new employer had laughed until he choked.

  But at least he could afford bread, and his allotted quarter of a vermin-infested bed in a doss house. Most importantly, he could afford to keep returning here to drink and talk with Jarla.

  For, unlikely as it seemed, she did appear to be the key. All his divinations suggested as much in their ominous and uncertain way
, and in addition, she was a little too willing to spend time with him, considering that he had yet to pay her to lift her skirts. His sorrowful, rancorous tale had snagged her interest, and now he had the feeling she was trying to determine just how deep his bitterness ran.

  Unfortunately, she didn’t seem to be in any hurry about it, and he was running out of patience, unwilling to go on living this wretched existence until some passing member of the watch happened to recognise him and take him into custody. It was time to push.

  “You don’t seem fine,” Jarla said. “You’ve begun to make your way—”

  He snorted. “Is that what you call it?”

  “—in Altdorf, but you’re still unhappy.”

  “You don’t get over losing your family and home all at once. Maybe you never do.”

  She sighed. “I hope for your sake that isn’t true.”

  “You know, it isn’t just the sadness of the thing. It’s the unfairness and stupidity.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He lowered his voice. “What’s the difference whether a sheep has four legs or five, so long as the wool will make a proper thread? Where’s the sense in destroying grain just because the colour’s a little off? Why not grind some and try it? The loaf might taste just the same. For all anyone knows, it might taste better.”

  She glanced surreptitiously about the taproom, trying to make sure no one was eavesdropping. “Corruption will spread and destroy everything if allowed to fester. That’s what everyone says.”

  “‘Everyone’ meaning the lords and priests. Did you ever stop to think that it serves their interests to keep us terrified of mutants and daemons and such? It prevents us from noticing how our masters abuse us.”

  “Some would say that’s simply the way of the world.”

  “Then maybe the world needs to change. Is it really too much to ask that we have barons who fight for the folk under their protection, and witch finders who don’t punish the innocent along with the guilty? By the hammer, that infant with the extra face was horrible to look at, but what harm had it ever done to anyone? It didn’t ask to be born deformed.”