《Mordheim: Servants of The Damned (A Warhammer Fantasy Fiction)》A Gathering in The Dark

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They met under the shadow of night. The outskirts of Mordheim were still alive, even under the glow of Mannslieb. Brigands and murderers milled through the streets, doing exactly what Herman was doing; preparing. His bow was slung over his back, his face covered by his hat, and a dirk rested comfortably at his side. He’d come to the meeting ground, as instructed, and it seemed he had arrived early. The mercenary waited, absent-mindedly flipping a penny as he stood, listening to the silence stretching on, and on...

Five minutes. Ten minutes. Fifteen minutes. Had he come to the right place? Just as Herman made to leave, a figure approached, as if molded from the shadow it had appeared from.

It was a hulking, monstrous form. Black-iron had completely encased the figure head-to-toe, and the sellsword heard a terrible, guttural noise. The iron daemon scoffed, coarse and rough. Herman had unwittingly dropped the penny he was toying with. Slowly, a far less imposing figure approached from the behemoth’s shadow. A stick-thin entity, wary and skittish, his capirote swaying as he nervously looked around himself.

“Herr Herman, I presume?” He asked, his voice thin and wispy.

“I am he,” Herman replied, stepping forward, but keeping far out of the behemoth’s reach. The colossus had come to a halt, standing as still as a statue behind what seemed to be its master. “I assume it’s you who sent the contract?”

“Indeed,” the cultist nodded. “The library job.”

“You said there were others,” Noted the mercenary pointedly.

“And indeed there will be, they shall be along shortly.”

As if the acolyte had summoned them, three others joined the congregation. Two were dressed like their leader, wearing robes of drab grey. One’s face was hidden by a hood, so Herman couldn’t see him, but he did notice the cosh swaying at his waist. Herman tried to hide his smile. If the poor wretch thinks that’ll keep him alive, he’s got another thing coming.

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Another wore a pointed capirote, and he was the first to nod and bow. The third was a thick-set man, wearing a bloody apron with his face hidden by a mask that was fashioned into a cruel grin. Immediately the trio kneeled before their leader, but Herman couldn’t be certain if it was in reverence of the acolyte or the warrior which stood behind him.

“Excellent. We are all gathered. You may rise.” With a gesture, the cultists rose, and the group gathered close.

“I trust you are all aware of the Great Library of Mordheim, a house of ancient secrets and knowledge. Regrettably, these tomes have fallen into the hands of those who would use them for ill-gain, or even worse, destroy them.

I have learned of the location of one such tome, the grimoire of Gunnar Von Krugenheim.” The acolyte paused for a moment, letting the name sink in.

“This tome, whether powerful or not, must be collected. You all serve the Cult of the Hidden Brethren, after all. There is, however, one other matter…”

“This,” Wilfried gestured to the giant behind him, “Is Ingvar. He, like yourselves, is a servant of the Magus, and he will be your champion on this journey.”

“I do not serve your mewling masters.” For the first time, the metal colossus spoke, and its voice was leaden and grave, like the solemn ringing of church bells. In a heartbeat the cultist had turned to the huge figure, and nodded enthusiastically. “Of course, of course! You do the work of the Gods, great champion. And in turn, the work of their humble servants.”

“You mean to send us on a journey into that worthless ruin, for a book? I came to test my strength against worthier foes, for truer aims.”

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Slowly, Wilfried began to smile nervously. “There is glory in Mordheim, oh son of the North. A great many enemies of the Gods lie in wait, and there are riches to be found amongst the ruins of Sigmar’s simpering servants.”

The acolyte’s words seemed to have little effect on the hulking warrior. He gave a begrudging snort.

Well, as threatening as he was, Herman couldn’t deny that the man (if he truly was mortal) should definitely ward off the common cutthroat or adventurer. Herman, like other travelled men of the Old World, had only ever heard whispered tales of the fabled northern warriors: Their prowess in combat was second only to the mythic monsters they were said to hunt for sport. Indeed, just from what he’d seen one with his own eyes seemed proof enough that the legends were true.

“Now, would anyone else like to discuss the finer points or will that be all?” The acolyte asked, looking at them all in turn. Herman raised a hand. “There is one matter, acolyte.”

“And what would that be, sellsword?”

“Well, it seems there’s still the matter of payment…”

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