The Enemy Within

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.

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.