# The Mutant Child



## Mossy Toes (Jun 8, 2009)

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*THE MUTANT CHILD
Book One of The Price of Hope*

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*
Chapter One*

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Poc had gone quiet again – that wasn’t good. It never was. Somehow, he always knew when trouble was coming.

“Poc?” asked Ghuto. “Is something bothering you?”

The little boy looked up at him. “It’s too quiet…”

The dry, dusty road stretched out ahead, coiling like a fat, lazy serpent. On either side, the fading leaves of the summer-baked trees rustled quietly.

It was quiet. Now that Ghuto thought about it, there weren’t even birds singing. The idyllic calm now seemed almost menacing. The sun beat down hot and sticky, soaking his nape with sweat and making his temples throb. The trees’ shadows grew deeper, concealing terrible secrets and unknowns. Was that snapping twig a hidden watcher moving? Was -

“Poc,” Ghuto spoke softly, touching the child on the shoulder. “you’re projecting. Don’t worry. It’s probably just a boar that’s come out of the deep forest.”

He didn’t believe his own consolations. He’d seen Poc’s uncanny knack for sensing trouble too many times. Still, he had to do something to get the kid’s mind off… whatever it was. “You want a shoulder-ride?”

The boy giggled and reached up. Ghuto took his hands and hoisted him up onto his shoulders. He began to spin around as he walked.

“Wheeee! Faster, Nuncle, faster!”

Ghuto laughed, twirling like a top. Soon, though, the sun demanded that they rest and he collapsed by the side of the road. Nearby, a creek gurgled and splashed. Ghuto let Poc off his shoulders and lay against a tree in the shade, still wheezing with laughter and exertion. The vague, lingering fear wasn’t gone though. It never was entirely...

He looked at Poc, who was already enchanted by something he’d seen on the in thick layer of mulch that sat around the base of the tree. They’d been through so much, he mused. Would they ever be safe? He looked around again, seeing nothing but empty corridors of trees and the occasional scraggly bush. Fat, billowing clouds were beginning to creep towards them across the western sky. How would their enemies come at them this time?

“C’mon Poc, we’ve rested enough. Time to go.”

He looked down at his nephew who hadn’t heard him or, with childish duplicity, was simply ignoring him. “Poc.”

The boy stirred, turning to Ghuto. “They’re not done yet though. I’ve got to watch.”

Ghuto leaned forward, seeing what Poc was so avidly staring at. Pincher-ants had surrounded a finger-sized spider and latched onto its jointed limbs. The spider writhed and twisted, but it was slowly being torn apart by the hordes of ants. Poc was sitting on the ants’ nest–but they weren’t biting him. They weren’t even crawling over the bandaged fingers that he’d stuck into the loam.

“No, Poc. We’ve got to go.” Ghuto looked at the spider again and shuddered. He stood and held a hand back for Poc.

Reluctantly, the boy straightened and took Ghuto’s hand with his own slightly grimy one.

Later, when they weren’t molested in any way for the rest of the afternoon, he thought that maybe for once, nothing had come of Poc’s premonition.

+

The rain poured down. Gustav was glad to be inside his warm inn. He sighed, belched, and leaned back in his chair. The fire crackled and spat, its fuel still damp after being brought in. He’d have to repair that woodshed sometime soon.

Around the room, several customers slumped in various states of sobriety. It was getting to be the hour that wives started complaining that their husbands were never home, so only the truly drunk and desperate remained. As a testament to their stupor, nobody so much as leered at Marie as she circled the room with fresh mugs. No matter what the rumors said, Gustav didn’t go about selling Marie’s body. She slept with whomever she liked.

The door shuddered in the wind, shedding splinters and a layer of dust. That also had to be replaced soon-hell, the whole place had to be rebuilt. Things had gone to hell since the missus died.

The door shook again. Was somebody knocking? Who’d come around at this time of night? Late travelers? Angry wives, maybe?

Gustav staggered from his chair. Perhaps it was time to start cutting back on the beer. Surely the room shouldn’t be spinning this much. He began to haul his bulk to the door.

The door shuddered a third time. “Coming,” he grunted.

He got to the door, fastened the chain and then cracked it open. “Who ‘sit?” he asked. “What der yer want?”

“Please,” came a muffled voice. “I’m just a traveler with my son.”

“Awright,” grumbled Gustav. “Come on in.” He fumbled with the chain.

A tall man entered, followed closely by a boy of about seven years, both with soaked, dirty-blond hair.

“Yeh wanna stay th’ night?” When the man nodded, Gustav continued. “Then it’s ten pennies per sleeper, three fer supper, an’ one fer brekky.” Not strictly true, but times were hard.

“What? That’s outrageous! I could find a bed elsewhere for that much with meals included! And per room, not per occupant!”

“Yeh want to sleep out there in the rain? That’s yer only other choice besides here.”

“Fine,” sighed the man. “But my son’ll be sharing the same bed as me, so he should only cost half as much.”

“That’ll do, I guess. So I have you down for board and bed fer two?”

“Just… just bed. We can’t afford your trenchers.” He began counting out pennies from a pitifully small purse.

Gustav scribbled an illegible note in his book. “Ver’ well good sirs, whats’s yer names?”

“I’m Talere. We’re from Tilea.”

“Tilean. Roight… Bloody for’ners. But you, boy? What’s yer name?”

The boy stopped shrinking back behind his father. Nervously, he said, “I’m Po- Polem.”

“Ver’ good, Polem.”

Gustav finished his scribbling and looked at his new customers. The man didn’t look as if he had a drop of Tilean blood in him, being tall and fair and blue-eyed. The boy had bandaged hands and hazy, azure blue eyes.

“You, Talere. Yer boy give you trouble?”

“Sometimes… not much, though. Why?”

“Cause you done a bloody fine job of punishment, crunchin’ his fingers like that.”

“What? No, no, he was burnt. Playing with fire and such.”

“Roight. Roight… I unnerstand. An ear’s th’ same as an eye to me. So, you might not want food, but yeh both look half-starved. How ‘bout a bowl of soup fer th’ kiddy? Free o’ charge?”

The man exhaled and smiled. “Sure, that’s fine,” he said. He handed over the money for the night’s stay. Gustav counted each of the fifteen pennies out before tucking them into his own pouch.

“Marie!” He called. “Come on over and give this boy a wash and a bowl of soup!” As the barmaid began to come over, Gustav noticed that his guest had turned a sort of custard-color and seemed to be choking. “Talere? You awright?”

“Yes… I just… I just caught something in my throat. Polem doesn’t need a bath, though. After all, we just came through one!”

“Yeh sure? He smells like a midden heap, meaning no disrespect to you.”

“Yes,” Talere nodded. “Yes, I’m sure.”

“Awright then. Marie, you ‘eard ‘im. No wash fer th’ boy.”

Marie nodded and moved off demurely, leading the child by the hand. Gustav turned back to Talere again. “Now, let’s be going upstairs t’ check out your room.”

+

Poc splashed in the tub as Marie poured another bucket of rainwater over his head. It was a shame that the boy’s father wouldn’t even let the boy stay clean–he obviously enjoyed the bath, despite the fact that the cold water would have had most children his age in tears. After the boy had gulped down his hot soup, Marie had bundled him into the tub.

He was now naked except for his arm-wrappings, which he had insisted upon continuing to wear. She reached down and tried to start peeling the soaked bandages away again.

“No!” the child cried, yanking himself away. “Nunc- Talere said that my hands had to heal before I could take my covers off!”

“Well,” asked Marie, “what if we put some beeswax salve on them? That would help them heal faster.”

“But… but Nuncle said I couldn’t take them off at all,” the boy pouted. Water glistened on his stomach in the gloom of the kitchen. Marie bustled around him a few times, scrubbing his hair with a dishscrubbing rag that was slightly less filthy than its fellows. Eventually, she spoke.

“Isn’t he your father, not your uncle?” she asked.

“I meant Talere! I meant Talere, not Nuncle. You didn’t hear that! Please?”

Marie chuckled softly. “Of course I didn’t, Polem. Not if you didn’t want me to. Tell you what. I didn’t hear it if you didn’t hear your father say-“

“Not my father. My father’s a bad person. Gh- Talere’s nice.”

Marie sighed and carefully reworded her offer.

“How about this- I didn’t hear you say that Talere was your uncle if you didn’t hear him say that you had to keep your bandages on, all right? Anyways, wouldn’t it be nice to get some cool salve on your burns?”

Poc looked around, a nervous scowl twisting his face into a knot.

“All right,” he said. “All right. But don’t tell anybody. And don’t be afraid of my burns. Talere said that was another reason why I shouldn’t take them off, so don’t be afraid of them.”

He cautiously stuck his hands forward. Marie took them gently and started to unwind the wrapped cloth. She slowly unwound the snakes of coiling cloth, starting at his elbows and working her way towards his lumpy finger-wrappings.

Poc stared at the hanging strips of cloth as Marie undid them, watching as they settled into the tub of water at his feet.

Marie looked at his tender flesh. She stopped unwinding when his arms were fully unwrapped but his hands weren’t. She slowly ran her fingers over his smooth, unmarked flesh.

“Where are the burns?” she asked. Poc looked up and frowned.

“On my hands.”

Marie’s gentle fingers teased the rough fabric from his palms and fingers off in one more soft push. The discarded cloth slipped into the water below and uncoiled, forgotten.

Poc’s hands were burnt. Little flowers of scar tissue both old and new sat in layers across them, and both hands were raw and pink. A few of the burns hadn’t even healed. That wasn’t what had drawn Marie’s attention though.

On Poc’s left hand wiggled six little pink fingers.

+

Ghuto sighed and leaned back on the bed, regardless of the countless lice that no doubt he popped beneath his weight like rotten fruit. From just a cursory glance at the mattress, he knew that he’d be itching his hair for weeks. At least Poc wouldn’t have to worry about them. Ghuto had never seen a single creature from bug to bear harm his nephew.

After the fat, greasy innkeeper had left, he’d started trying to decide what to do and where to go next. He had no real plan after they reached the nearby city of Gerholtz. They couldn’t risk staying in the city more than a few days any more than they could turning around- either way, they’d be falling straight into the arms of Phe’s minions.

Whatever they did, they couldn’t stay long enough to earn much money. That was the main problem. His purse was stretched far too thin as it was.

Where was Poc? Ghuto was sure that he couldn’t take that long to eat a bowl of soup - by now he’d probably run off to play under the tables. Ghuto knew what kind of trouble he could get into if left unwatched.

He stood, if slightly hunched because of the low roof, and made his way to the door. Surprisingly, it didn’t creak as he opened it and stepped into the dingy hallway. Everything in this place seemed like it was on its last breath.

The stairs weren’t empty. That maid from earlier, Marie, stood at their base whispering frantically with Gustav.

“Don’t worry,” Gustav was saying to her. “I can’t imagine him comin’ out here anytime soon. He sank onta the bed like he’d been runnin’ about fer years.”

“Who?” asked Ghuto. They both span around. The way that they looked at him gave him a clear idea.
“Well, Talere, I was talking ‘bout yeh. It appears that yeh weren’t entirely honest with us.”

“What?” Ghuto frowned. This was not good at all. “How so?” He slowly finished coming down the stairs. Gustav and Marie backed away slightly. Marie spoke first.

“I gave him a bath anyways, despite what you said. I see why you wanted to hide him.”

Ghuto’s heart sank. Gustav took a step forward, brandishing a meaty fist.

“Get out,” he growled. “Get yer mutant-lovin’ arse out of my inn. Get out, traitor!”

Ghuto held up his hands. “I’ll go, I’ll leave. Just don’t hurt him. Where is he?”

“GET OUT!”

Marie flinched away from the innkeeper.

“He’s out there, in the rain…” she whispered.

+

Poc and Ghuto sat shivering, Ghuto’s coat wrapped around them both. Together, they watched the rain dripping through the slats of the dilapidated woodshed. Ghuto’s cheek had a series of purple marks where the innkeeper had struck him.

“Get some sleep,” Ghuto said over the musical ‘plunk’ of the rain. Poc shook his head.

“We can’t.” The child turned back to Ghuto, his cerulean blue eyes now glinting with faint flashes of gold. “Father’s coming.”

Ghuto stiffened. Phe was that close behind them? Ghuto stood, leaving his coat on the boy.

“Then lets get moving. We don’t want him to catch up.”

Poc shuddered with fear and cold, but stood up. Together, they ducked back out into the pouring rain.

Hopefully, Ghuto thought, this village would slow his Beastmen down until they escaped. Hopefully, they’d get away from Phe. Hopefully, they’d get out of his reach entirely, soon. Hopefully, Poc wouldn’t grow up having to look behind every door for danger…

The rain closed behind them like a curtain.

+

Smoke rose in acrid billows, choking lungs and bringing tears to eyes. Here and there a survivor labored, striving to dig through the rubble to find lost friends or belongings.

Beams still smoldered and embers glowed in the deeper recesses of the charred houses. The cold breeze bit into the faces and hands of those still alive. It scattered their cremated friends, mixing gray ashes with the churned mud.

They’re pitiful, thought Witchhunter Melchias. They weren’t worthy of saving. They’re just the same as so many other villages across the Empire–undeserving of spiritual and physical aid. Where are their menfolk? Who will drive the beasts away from their hearths? They’re all dead or captured now. Sigmar helps the strong.

He could not do his work here–beasts and their heretical kin had despoiled this town and the light of Sigmar shone too weakly. These citizens would likely mob and kill him if he tried to purge their sins now.

“Rakwith,” he said without turning his head. “We won’t be stopping here.”

Behind him, his aide murmured assent. For a few minutes, all that could be heard was the clip-clop of their horses’ hooves and the bitter whisper of the wind. Eventually, Rakwith stirred and cleared his throat.

“Yes?”

“Shouldn’t we help them, sir? They have no food left, no supplies. They’re unsheltered and unprotected. Surely it is our duty-”

“Do not lecture me on duty,” snarled Melchias, “as you obviously do not know ours. Our duty is not to be benevolent benefactors, weakening and softening the lives of our quarry. All are heretics; we merely sniff out the worst of them. You are young and naïve- these people will survive. They’ll rebuild. Now shut your mouth and ride.”

“Y’sir.”

Melchias rode through the smoke, considering the boy’s words. They struck perilously close to memories that he had spent the last eight years trying to bury.

Behind him, Rakwith sulked. Melchias felt his disapproving glare and sneered. The boy would have to learn the hard way that the Empire wasn’t a nice place.

A woman shrieked as they came into view past the rubble that had been the inn. She stumbled in front of the horses and Hartfeld reared, ready to protect his master from any danger.

Melchias pulled on Hartfeld’s reins. Cold he may be, but he wasn’t about to run over a helpless woman.

“Out of the way, girl!” Melchias roared.

Weeping and crying out in distress, she stumbled forward and grabbed his stirrup. He freed his foot and kicked out, his sharp spurs gashing her cheekbone. She fell back stunned, sitting down hard in the black mud.

Filth, blood and soot had smeared together to make her face a swirled mask of black and brown. Fat teardrops traced clear pathways through the grime.

“Please, sir,” she begged. “Please!”

“Please what?” Melchias snapped. “I’ve no time to aid you unless you wish to be aided to the pyre. Other more deserving heretics await the confessor’s blades; do not try my patience unless you wish to be stretched across them yourself.”

She slid herself backwards through the muck, cowering in fear.

“They killed him. They killed Gustav. Please, help us.” Her voice shook and cracked as she pleaded. “They came with nets and axes, the Beastmen. I hid in the woodshed, but they killed Gustav!

“They were looking for that mutant! I heard them. They asked, ‘Where’s the boy?’ Gustav didn’t know, so they killed him!”

“What are you babbling about, girl? What mutant-”

Rakwith’s horse sidled up beside Melchias. He cleared his throat again. Melchias sighed and put a hand over his eyes.

“Go on, then.”

Rakwith dismounted and handed his reins to his master. He turned around and offered his hand to the woman. She grabbed him and scrambled up, hanging from him for support. Rakwith leaned back, trying to keep his leather coat clean.

She began shuddering and weeping again. Melchias looked at the sun; they would have to make good time to reach the next village before sunset. Rakwith consoled the blubbering woman and Melchias studiously cleaned the underside of his fingernails.

Eventually, she began to talk. Having nothing better to do, Melchias listened.

“We—Gustav and I—are, were, the innkeepers,” she gasped. “Well, he was. I was the barmaid. There was also old sour Corlem, the cook. Recently, a man and his boy came through, running from something. He gave us names, Talere and Polem, but I don’ believe them. They even claimed to be Tilean, if you believe it.

“I gave the child a bath, an’ he told me that the father was really his uncle. I didn’t really care either way; I just like to know things, really. But then his hands were bandaged, so- so-”

She lapsed into sobs again. Rakwith patted her on the back and Melchias snorted. Eventually, she began speaking again.

“The boy, he was a mutant. His hands were burnt and he had an extra finger. We kicked them out of the inn. Gustav was angry for the rest of the night.

“Then I fell asleep for the night—Gustav lets me use one of the actual beds when nobody’s staying in the room. I stayed in one of the windowed rooms, I like the breeze when it comes through.

“I woke up to howls and screams. There wasn’t anything that I could do! I managed to get out the window before they got through the door, and I hid in the woodshed. Then…”

She died away, but Rakwith finished for her.

“Then they killed Gustav when he couldn’t tell them anything that they didn’t already know.”

Through her sobs and tears, the girl nodded. Rakwith looked back up at Melchias.

“Sir?” he asked.

Melchias frowned.

“What?” the Witchhunter asked. “You expect me to go chasing after a pair of travelers that could be anywhere by now? How do we even know where they went-”

“South!” Marie cried. “South, I heard one of those… those beasts say it! They said, it, I swear!”

Melchias grimaced and turned to face forward. He still felt the two imploring gazes digging into his back. He tried to ignore it, tried to form the words “Rakwith, let’s go. We’ve nothing more to do here; we head back to Averheim”. He couldn’t. The memory of Keasha was still too strong. Damnit, he thought that he was stronger than that! He should have been, then…

“Fine,” he said, his voice hollow. “But we go in chase of the Beastmen, not the travelers. They’ll be nothing but a bonus. Take the girl, Rakwith. She might know something else, and she’s the only one who’s seen them.”

“Who?” asked Rakwith, “the travelers, or the Beastmen?”

Melchias nudged Hartfeld with his spurs.

“Both,” he growled.

+

Poc squirmed in Ghuto’s grip.

“I wanna go to the stream!” he cried.

Ghuto’s sigh was matched by a gust of wind that rattled the drying grass and leaves. A few hundred yards away, the clear stream shone invitingly. The sun beamed down upon it, promising an enjoyable relaxation from the tension of the road and the dry, billowing dust. Ghuto shook his head again; they’d lose too much time. Phe was still too close behind them.

Perhaps the Beastmen would be too bloated with their spoils. Perhaps the village had even beaten back the beasts! Perhaps—but that was the thing. Perhapses cut them no bread and bought them no time.

“I wanna go to the stream now!” Poc was almost shouting.

“Poc, we can’t. We can’t stop for a while still.” Ghuto tightened his grip on Poc’s hand as the boy started yanking away viciously. “Poc! Stop! We have to keep moving!”

The boy sunk his neat white teeth into Ghuto’s hand, cutting skin and drawing blood. Ghuto cursed and let go. Poc darted away.

“Stop!” Ghuto yelled after him, clutching his hand. The child paid him no attention and vanished into a tangled snarl of bushes. Ghuto cursed the gods and ran after Poc.

His long, loping strides ate up the ground much quicker than Poc’s pistoning legs. Soon, the boy was huffing and puffing with the effort of keeping ahead. Poc crashed noisily through the bracken and snagged his clothes on dead bushes, barely keeping out of Ghuto’s reach.

Then he tripped and fell. Ghuto snatched for his arm, but the boy managed to roll away. Coarse sackcloth slipped through Ghuto’s fingertips.

No sooner was the boy down than he was up again, bouncing energetically through a patch of fanged brambles. Ghuto wheezed a snarl and staggered forwards again. He ripped his way through the thorns, feeling the stabbing, needling prickles.

“Poc!” he called. “Stop!

A branch that was throttled by thorns caught his arm. He tore away from it in frustration, instead pushing his face through a dangling spider-web. He sputtered and wiped his face, tripping through the vines that Poc had bounded through so easily.

When Ghuto looked around again, Poc had vanished. Ghuto whipped his head around, looking for the boy. The trees swayed slightly in the breeze. In the distance, the stream gurgled. Birds sang, but his nephew was nowhere to be heard or seen. Ghuto sighed and turned toward the creek. That’s where the boy would have gone.

He found Poc on a mossy boulder—the boy wasn’t even trying to hide. His shoes sat beside him and his bare feet dangled in the burbling brook. The rock was one of two that clinched in both sides of the stream, squeezing the water into a miniature waterfall. Ferns draped both banks, weaving a tapestry of green, brown, and flowing water.

A smile wreathed Poc’s face. It wasn’t mischievous or triumphant; just a smile of sheer bliss. His eyes were squeezed shut and the misting spray from the fall speckled across his face. In the small pond formed by the rocks, Poc’s legs were visible. Even through the rushing water, the angry red scratches were visible. Ghuto’s expression softened a little bit.

Poc opened his eyes and looked up.

“All right,” he said calmly. “I’m ready to go now.” Ghuto choked on his tongue.

“What!” he exclaimed, clutching his hand tighter, “You make me chase you out here, get cut up on brambles, you bite me—and now this? You’re just done?”

Poc frowned, considering Ghuto’s words. Eventually, he nodded.

“Yup.”

Ghuto violently tore a strip of cloth off his tunic and began binding his hand. He hissed in frustration.

Poc continued, saying, “I just wanted to get away from the bad person on the road. He should be gone by now.”

Ghuto stopped binding his hand and frowned.

“Your father?” he asked the boy.

“No, not him. Somebody else,” replied Poc, shaking his head assuredly. Ghuto considered the words as Poc looked at his surroundings. The boy continued, saying, “Look! The road crosses the stream down there, Nuncle. There’s a ford. We can go back to it that way!”

Ghuto gave up trying to fathom his nephew’s sixth sense. He looked.

“Yes,” Ghuto replied, seeing a band of brown bisected by the flowing waters of the stream, “there is. Let’s go.”

Poc slipped his scratched feet out of the water and began to shove them back into his ragged shoes. Ghuto turned back to tying up his hand. With his teeth and his other hand, he pulled the half-tied knot tight. A ‘crack’ rang out behind him and he whirled. Poc grinned at him, holding a stick broken from a dead bush. Ghuto relaxed.

+

Ghuto sank down onto the slick side of the ford and sighed. Now, the afternoon, was when last night’s fatigue truly caught up. They hadn’t dared sleep the previous night and had only caught about four hours this morning. They couldn’t risk any more; Phe followed them too closely.

Ghuto began to go over his tattered trousers pulling out the burrs and the thorn that had lodged there. At this time of year, the long, sharp grasses shed their prickers with the slightest of provocations. Currently, his hems were solid clusters of sharp, poking seeds.

Poc saw was he was doing and began clumsily mirroring him. The little boy pulled off one of his battered shoes and started to work some of the larger, pokier burrs through the tough upper layer of the shoe’s fabric.

Ghuto was almost done with his first pantleg when he heard the hooves. Fear flashed through his mind as he remembered Poc’s comment about somebody on the road. He turned to Poc, who had turned pale.

“Quick,” Ghuto hissed, “hide!”

He pulled the boy behind a gorse bush by his collar and ducked behind it as well. Peering back over the top of the thick shrub, he saw that Poc had dropped his burred shoe. Ghuto cursed, preparing to jump over and grab it. Too late—a pair of horses came around the bend of the road. They clopped along the road at a fast walk.

The first horse was a magnificent black beast, ridden by an ominous, dark-coated rider. The man had a grizzled, salt-and-pepper beard and lank, greasy gray hair that hung to his shoulders. A black, buckle-fronted fedora rested atop the man’s head with all the arrogance of a crown. Expensive steel buckles were scattered about his coat, belt and steel-shod boots. His black charger was slick with sweat from the sun’s heat; the billowing road-dust caked its flanks.

Behind him, a pair of riders occupied the second horse. The first was a younger, bony copy of the other man, but the second, riding pillion, was Marie. Ghuto clamped his hand over Poc’s mouth to keep the boy from crying out in shock or fear.

His own head swam and his temples pounded. These people who’d seen them, who’d recognize them: How were they so close behind? His throat was dry and his heart beat a double tattoo. Their horses, he thought, that’s how.

The lead rider cast a glance about and Ghuto ducked behind the bush. Great Gods above, Ghuto prayed, please, shield us from their eyes. He became aware that Poc was struggling against his grip. He loosened his hand around Poc’s mouth and the boy took in a massive, shuddering gasp of air.

“Shh,” Ghuto breathed him at him. The boy nodded, clearly biting back a whimper.

Ghuto turned his head back to the bush, crawling forward and peering through a small gap in the foliage. He could see the small stretch of the road that showed Poc’s shoe, nothing more. Slowly, Ghuto heard the jingling of the horses’ tack die to a halt. An iron-shod hoof thudded down in his view, followed by its partner.

“Stop here,” came a rough, harsh voice. “We let the horses drink.”

A pair of riding boots descended from the horse and landed heavily in the dirt. They dwarfed Poc’s small, empty shoe. Lusterless spurs dug into the muddy ground, a caking of blood scraping off of one of them.

“Very well, sir,” came a reply.

The black horse shifted its hooves. The man moved to the horse’s front and led it down to the ford. Over the pounding of his heart, Ghuto heard the horse greedily slopping up the water. The second, tan-coated horse eased into his view. Its own rider slid off and helped Marie down carefully. She bunched her skirts in her hands to keep them from dragging in the mud.

“Mister Melchias,” began Marie, but the older man cut her off.

“Silence! If you must speak to me, you will call me sir or Witchhunter: I will not tolerate disrespect.”

Ghuto’s pounding heart skipped a pair of beats. His stomach lurched - a witchhunter! No wonder they were following him and Poc! There could be no doubt that these riders were mere travelers now - even without Marie’s presence.

“No disrespect was meant, sir!” squealed Marie, lapsing into silence. The second man whispered some consolation to her. They led the second horse to the water as well. The horses drank uninterrupted by further conversion.

Finally, Melchias said, “Enough. If they drink too much, they’ll bloat themselves while we still have to ride. Let’s go.”

The riders remounted and moved on and Ghuto sighed in relief. Once they were gone, Poc scrambled out and grabbed his shoe.

+++


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## Shogun_Nate (Aug 2, 2008)

Now certainly this one will have more to it? LOL Good story bud! I thorougly enjoyed the read!

Good luck and good gaming,

Nate


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## Mossy Toes (Jun 8, 2009)

Indeed it will. There are six chapters, of which this is the first. Also, there are plans for two more in the trilogy, which have been plotted out but I haven't had the time to write, yet. I'm glad that you enjoyed it!


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## Shogun_Nate (Aug 2, 2008)

Excellent! I was starting to think you were an incorrigible tease...tantalizing us with your works only to leave us hanging :biggrin:!

Good luck and good gaming,

Nate


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## Israfil (Jul 6, 2008)

this is great, can't wait to see more.:so_happy:


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## NurglingStomper (Jan 31, 2009)

This was amazing. I hope the second chapter is soon, eh.


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## Mossy Toes (Jun 8, 2009)

+++

*Chapter Two*

+++

Ahead, from the top of the hill, the sounds of revelry rang out. Wood to fuel a bonfire was being piled in the center of the square, and laughing children danced around an elder with an ancient fiddle. Several vendors hawked their wares and several cynics hawked their phlegm. Near the center of the unorganized urban sprawl, the gaily-painted inn sign of the Head of the Boar swung from its pole.

As Ghuto and Poc pushed through the thronging, vital mass, Poc twisted against his collar. Why did Nuncle have to hold it so tight! He just wanted to look at all the new sights! Here there were stalls stacked with sugary sweets; there a fool’s colored cloak twirled enchantingly. The sights and the constant, roaring babble were overwhelming. He just wanted to look at a few of them! Eventually though, the inn reared up ahead of them. The jostling, boisterous crowd lessened to mere passers-by.

A scarecrow of a boy with a head of auburn hair slumped across a balcony above the hanging sign. When he saw Poc and Ghuto coming up the packed dirt road, he leaned back through the doorway and shouted something inside.

As Poc arrived at the chipped front door it swung open, revealing an incredibly thin man—so thin that he made the boy on the railing look well-padded.

“Welcome sir,” the man said to Ghuto, bowing. “I am the innkeeper of this humble abode—please sir, what might your name be?”

Poc frowned at being ignored. However, the man’s odd manner of speech caught his ear and he listened in as Ghuto replied.

“I’m Jonis and this here is my nephew Selim. We were wondering if we could catch a room for the night. Could we?”

“Ahh,” the innkeeper sighed, seeming to collapse in on himself, “I am afraid we only have rooms for one available. All the farmers seem to be bringing in their broods for the Midsummer Festival—perhaps they hope to lose one or more child in the festivities. Hehe.

“If you do not mind sharing a bed, though, we do have several rooms available. I shall offer one discount. Please, sir, follow me and to see if it would meet your tastes. Also, I would rather the boy waited _outside_—no offence is meant to you, good sir, but he might rather upset my patrons with his dirt.”

Ghuto nodded.

“Selim,” he said to Poc, “wait here. I’ve got to go inside. I’ll be back in just a few minutes.”

“K’, Nuncle,” murmured Poc. Ghuto stepped through the door and the tall, scrawny man reentered the building. The battered wooden portal swung shut.

Poc sat down on the steps. He looked around a bit, but there was nothing interesting in sight. Then he remembered the teenaged boy on the balcony. He looked up, but the boy had receded back to his previous stupor of boredom.

“Um, hello,” called up Poc. The listless, pockmarked face peered down at him.

“Hullo,” said the boy. “Who’re you?

“I’m… right now I’m Selim. At least, that’s what Nuncle says. Who are you?”

“Name’s Jorden. Look, you’re really interesting, but I gotta go. Got lots of important things to do.”

The shaggy, ginger head pulled back from the balcony disinterestedly. It was funny, thought Poc. If he had more important things to do, why didn’t he get up and go do them?

Ghuto still hadn’t come back yet, so he tried to strike up conversation again.

“Like what?”

He heard a sigh from above him and the funny, gangly arms lurched back into view, soon followed by the funny, bouncing hair. The face underneath it was screwed into a knot of exasperation.

“Look, kid, Selm or whatever your name is, I just really don’t want to be talking to you right now, ok? My dad’s put me on guest-watch for the entire day and I’ll probably be sitting here till the inn’s full or it’s to be pitch black. Now would you just leave me alone?”

“Ok,” said Poc, considering this for a moment.

“Sometimes,” he said, “I wish that I could sit around all day. Especially after I’ve been walking all day already.”

He heard a blast of pained air above him.

“Hey, Jorden,” came a voice from down the road, “choo’ got there? You drag it in from the forest or something?”

Several more adolescents, all pimple-faced and awkward-limbed, strolled toward them along the dirt road.

“Hah!” replied Jorden. “Just some little scrap waiting for his uncle.”

“Do you think he’s got anything worth the time?” one of the boys asked.

Jorden moaned.

“Aww, come on guys, you know that’s bad for the inn’s business. My dad would get mad. Besides, look at this kid—he’s poorer than the old mud-woman!”

“Naw, naw, not _that _poor. The old witch doesn’t even have a penny to her name! Still, I see what you mean…”

Poc stared up at the boys who had, by now, surrounded him.

“What are you guys talking about?” he asked curiously.

Above him, Jorden hooked his legs over the balcony and slid down onto the jutting post that held the inn sign. From there, he jumped to the ground and thumped into the dirt.

“Aw,” he said, “just nothing, really. Don’t worry yourself.”

One of the bigger boys leaned forward.

“What’s yer name, kid?” he asked.

Poc leaned back a bit out of his way.

“Jorden already knows,” he said, “but I’m called Selim.”

“How old are you, Selim?”

“Six!” Poc exclaimed, holding up his left hand and wriggling his wrapped-up fingers. He frowned at their tight, concealing wrappings.

“Naw,” said the massive boy, “that’s five, Selim. You gotta have another finger up fer six—one from the other hand.”

“Oh,” said Poc, staring at his hand, “but I thought… okay.” He raised the thumb on his other hand. “How old are you guys?” he asked.

“I’m Gorgy. I’m fifteen myself, and the oldest of us,” said the boy. “Jorden here is one of the youngest—he’s only thirteen.”

“Wow,” breathed Poc, wide-eyed in admiration, “you guys are old. You must be almost as old as Nuncle.” The boys laughed at this.

“Choo’ doing out here, Selim? Waiting for your ‘Nuncle’?”

“Yeah,” said Poc, “I thought that it would be boring, but it isn’t ‘cause of Jorden and you guys. Isn’t Jorden’s hair silly?”

“Hey!” exclaimed Jorden, trying to cover his bouncy locks with his hands. The rest of the kids laughed hard.

“Hey, Selim,” said Gorgy. “Do you want a tour around? It’ll be fun—we can show you the best parts of the festival. When the bonfire burns down, yer uncle might even let you go coal-jumping!” The other boys laughed pretty hard at that. Even Gorgy and Jorden sniggered. Poc didn’t really understand why.

“Naw, man, naw! Don’t invite this baby!” groaned one of the other boys.

“I’m not a baby!” pouted Poc loudly, his confused good humor vanishing. “But I don’t know if I can come. Nuncle has to say ok.”

“C’mon!” said Jorden, “It’ll be fun!”

“Go ahead,” came a voice from the doorway behind them. Poc and Jorden spun around. There stood Jorden’s father, the tall, wraith-like innkeeper. “I’m sure that Jonis will be fine with it. He’s up getting settled into his room by my servant now. I hope that you enjoy the Festival.”

“Thank you, sir!” said Jorden enthusiastically. Poc still hesitated.

“I’m sure that you’ll see him later at the bonfire. If you need to see him later, you can always come back here.”

“All right,” said Poc nervously, “but you’re sure about that? I don’t wanna upset him.”

Don’t worry,” said the innkeeper warmly. He turned, still smiling, to his son, though his smile shifted shape a bit. “Why don’t you take him up to Sigurd the Baker later?” he asked his son. “I’m sure that he’d be willing to give away some of his sweet-pastries.”

“What- really? Thank you, father!” Jorden crowed happily.

The gaggle of boys took off down the street, Poc trailing behind.

+

“Has a Witchhunter come through here today?” Ghuto asked as he came down the stairs. The innkeeper, who had been coming back up them to meet him paused thoughtfully before answering.

“Why, sir? On the run?” Ghuto faltered for a moment, his foot hitting the next stair a fraction of a second late. The innkeeper gave half a smile and turned to follow him back down the stairs.

“No, of course not. That’s absurd! I just saw him and two others on the road yesterday - I though that he might have stopped for the night in Shelm and passed through here today. Has he?”

“Actually, sir, he has. Stopped outside our very inn for horsefeed. Very rude lout, he was. Went by the name of Melchias, and was traveling with his assistant and some girl.”

Ghuto licked his lips and opened his mouth to speak as he ducked outside, but then he froze.

“Where’s Selim?” he asked. He looked up and down the street. There was a shipment of wood; there was a pair of laborers. Where was his nephew? Dished, empty cobbles stared back at him.

“Where’s Selim!” he demanded the innkeeper frantically.

“Don’t worry, Jonis, sir. My boy Jorden and several of his friends took him out to see the sights of the Midsummer Festival. I’m sure you don’t mind.”

“I do mind! That boy has a knack for attracting trouble far bigger than he can handle!”

“What? Mischief? Then he should fit right in with the boys.” The innkeeper shrugged regretfully.

“No,” said Ghuto, sinking down onto the wooden steps, “he just- he’s one of the most unfortunate children I’ve ever seen.” His head sunk into his hands.

Behind Ghuto, the innkeeper gave a sharp, vicious little smile and nodded slightly in quiet agreement.


+

Poc was sure that the firewood was stacked wrong. Merely looking at it left a familiar, greasy taste in his mouth. Well, not a taste, but a feeling in his mind. It was like the deep stinging a rotten tooth. The wood was stacked in one big pile, with one leg of stacked wood reaching out to another, smaller one. He knew that he’d seen the shape they formed before, but he couldn’t quite place it.

Shefis, one of Gorgy’s friends, said that the stretching out of the fire was so that when it burned down, couples that wanted to have a baby jumped over the coals. He seemed to know everything. However, a lot of the jokes he and Gorgy told weren’t that funny. All the other boys thought that they were but they didn’t make sense to Poc.

Still, he was enjoying himself if he ignored the big pile of wood. There were lots of tents being strung up, and people with trays of hot pies wandered about selling their wares. Jorden and the others had gotten Poc a pie; they’d bumped one of the sellers so he looked at the bumper and somebody else had pinched it. It had been warm and filling and only a little of it had been gristle—but the best part was that it was all for him.

Exotic glassware was heaped on several of the tables that surrounded the square. Carpets and bolts of wool and flax were stacked in precarious piles.

Poorer people scrounged the edge of the square. The weird thing was how many of them were grown ups. Back home, most of the ones that he’d seen were young orphans that had lost their parents. There were almost no children to be seen here, though.

Ghuto wouldn’t have noticed that. Most adults wouldn’t have. They didn’t seem to really look at things—they just saw one thing and accepted it. Father might have seen it, but Father was a bad person. Ghuto had told him that when he had taken him away, but he had already known it. Father and Old Vulture were bad; they smelled like blood and pain and fear and misery.

But he didn’t want to think about them. He wanted to finish licking out this small wood bowl that had held the pie!

“C’mon Selim,” called Gorgy, “don’t fall behind! We’re going to Sigurd’s shop now—do you want to miss out on a free sweet-pastry?”

+

Ghuto cursed. The street was clogged with vendors and buyers who all seemed to be shoving toward him. He staggered out of the way of a tinker’s cart and then had to jump quickly to avoid being hit by a tightly knit pack of farmers. At last he found a quiet spot against a wall; an eddy in the crowd.

He wiped his forehead and looked around. Past the thronging mass, the road split two ways. Uphill, it flattened off to the village square. Below, the crowd died off and the buildings grew more decrepit. There wasn’t too big a difference between the best and the worst, though—there couldn’t even be more than two hundred houses in the entire town. It was hardly bigger than a village! His host had told him that the surrounding homesteaders and farmers had poured in for the festival and choked the town with life.

He had to keep heading for the square—that was where Poc would probably be. His darting eyes found another calm spot in the crowd ahead. It was a pocket of clear space directly across the street.

Ghuto pushed away from the wall and shoved his way past a bread-carrying woman. She dropped her basket. Ghuto breathed a hurried apology and pushed onward, but her foul-mouthed curses followed him.

Soon, though, he stepped through the invisible boundary and he was free; free from the shoving, churning mass of sharp elbows and shoving hips. He gathered his bearings again. It was curious, really. There should have been a wave of people sweeping through this section of the road. It was in the crux of the crossing, but the crowd automatically pushed around it in an arc.

He turned around and looked at the shop that was shunned by the crowd’s path. Tattered, hanging drapes and shawls weakly attempted to block out the dying light. A pair of glinting eyes stared back, holes in a smooth clay mask.

“Hail, traveler,” came a croaking, genderless voice that was muffled by the mask. “I know why you’ve come.”

Ghuto frowned at the shrouded figure. It was hunched with age and surrounded by graying robes that blended into the faded shawls around it.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“Hah!” came a reply, “You know just as well as I. I won’t waste your time with any ‘cross my palm with silver’ nonsense. I have a message for you from one who seeks to help.”

Ghuto stiffened.

“Any who would of help to me,” he said roughly, “are farther away than you could ever guess. What are you? A mere, petty fortuneteller? I have no time for your games.”

The figured laughed harshly as Ghuto turned away.

“We’ll talk later, Exiled One. Graces be with you.”

Ghuto froze. Exiled One? Graces be with you? His heart froze in his chest. He broke away, shoving himself into the crowd. His mind whirled. Soon the shadowed stall fell out of sight. Its occupant hadn’t moved.

Only one of Phe’s – how could that – _*no*_. He would throw that out of his mind. It was just some half-wit hedge-warlock who had a knack for sticking his nose into more trouble than he knew. It was coincidence, nothing more.

He almost laughed at himself - bitterly - for that. He of all people should know better than to believe in coincidence. He needed to find Poc, now, and get out of this town.

Ahead, the dancers were beginning to light the bonfires.

+

“Oh, sir!” Jorden crowed excitedly, “Please sir, could we have some of your treats?”

The man laughed, his muscles rippling. He had a butcher’s muscles, decided Poc—how could he have gotten them kneading bread?

“Look now, Jordy, Gorgy. Shefis came up ahead and told me what yeh’d be wanting. It’s all ready now.”

He pulled a tray out of a cobb oven that had several scones and pastries on it. He made a show of fussing over them as the teenagers leaned hopefully toward the tray. Poc tried to get into the baker’s line of sight so that he could get a pastry too.

“Stand aside now, stand aside,” the massive man said, “let the kiddy get his first.” Grudgingly, the others sank to the sides. Poc felt every hungry eye on him. He smiled anxiously.

“Do I get to chose?” he asked, motioning to the proffered tray.

“Sure, if yeh want,” rumbled the mountainous man “but I’d really recommend this one here. It’s my specialty.” He grinned, baring a mouthful yellowed and missing teeth.

The pie in question really looked special. It was perfectly crisped, and even capped by a fresh strawberry.

“O-” Poc paused, something niggling at the back of his mind. He dismissed it. 

“Ok.” He reached out and took the pastry. Everybody watched him in anticipation.

He bit down. The explosion of taste rocked his mouth and his eyes opened wide. He began stuffing it into his mouth in massive bites.

“That’s my boy!” laughed the baker. “Yeh might want to slow down, though. Savoring it’s half the delight!”

“What?” asked Poc around a mouthful. He crammed the last bite into his mouth. When no reply came except more laughter, he shrugged. “Aren’t you guys gonna eat some too?”

The tray was passed around. For some reason, they never stopped watching him as they ate their own pastries. He smiled nervously at them.

One of them whispered to Jorden, “When is he gonna-”

“Shut up!”

Poc’s stomach grumbled as he licked his mouth clean of the last small fragments. His eyes swam. He was feeling very dizzy all of the sudden, so he leaned against the boarded front of the baker’s open shop.

“Help me,” he said quietly.

Blackness swam around him and slowly blossomed inwards across his vision. Sigurd the Baker began to lean over him, but he fell faster than the man could reach. Falling, falling, he was falling into the dark…

+

As the last fingers of the setting sun sank beneath the horizon, the torchbearers strode forward. By now, a ring of onlookers surrounded them. Slowly, reverently, they lowered the flames to the tightly packed tinder at the bottom of the stacks of wood. The dried moss and kindling lit up hungrily, consuming itself with greedy red lips. The rising smoke shifted to flames and slowly, the larger sticks began to catch.

A few people in the crowd whooped with delight. In the shelter of an awning, drums began to beat and a fiddle began to play. As couples began to pair off for dancing, onlookers began to stamp to the beat.

Unfortunately, that meant that Ghuto’s shins were kicked relentlessly as he tried to push through the crowd. He kept up a steady stream of apologies and muttered curses as he worked his way past the well-dressed townsfolk. Too soon, the crowd compacted even further to make room for the dancers.

The few people that he had asked about Poc hadn’t even bothered with a reply. They’d just looked at him pityingly and walked away.

Finally, he made it to an edge of the crowd, where a shut-up bakery served as a backboard for several of the less enthusiastic members of the crowd.

“Excuse me,” he asked over the noise, “have any of you seen a little boy around? Goes by the name of Selim?”

“Nah, sir,” said the largest of them, a man wearing a baker’s apron. The man paused for a moment and continued, “I haven’t seen a single peeping little ‘un for several hours.”

The quick slap of leather on stone joined the mix of noises behind Ghuto. The dancers had begun. Ghuto twisted and looked at them for a second. At the base of the fire, the flames were licking higher. Ghuto turned back to the man.

“Well,” he said, “thanks anyways.”

“S’ no problem,” rumbled the man. “You’re just looking out fer your kid.” Wondering what baby goats had to do with anything, Ghuto made off along the side of the wall. Behind him, the baker relaxed and leaned to whisper something to one of his fellows.

+

“Master Jonis, sir!” came the cry.

Ghuto’s head whipped around and he stared into the dark alleyway. A vaguely familiar head of red hair stared back.

“Who are you?” Ghuto asked. The lad hopped back a step.

“I’m Jorden – the innkeeper’s son.”

“I remember your face, yes. Wait a second… your father said something about you leaving with Selim. Where is he?”

“That’s what I was trying to tell you, sir! He’s this way, but he’s had a bad fall!” 

Ghuto pushed past a hapless woman and bounded over to the lad. Unreasonable fear curdled in his stomach.

“Where is he?” Under his furious gaze, the boy shrunk back.

“Just this way, sir.”

“Then lead me there!” Ghuto growled. The boy spun around and ran back along the alleyway. Ghuto followed closely in his footsteps.

The plank swung out of nowhere, directly at head height. Ghuto tried to duck, to dodge, but it was too sudden. The wood cracked into his face and his mind erupted in starbursts if pain. His neck snapped back and he crumpled to the ground. Black spots leached across his vision, growing and swallowing him in their depth.

+

Light. Dark. Light. Shadows shifted across his shut eyelids. He _hurt_. His neck, his face, his stomach – all three pounded in a symphony of bruises. Dried blood caked his forehead and clogged his nostrils. His eyes were swollen heavy and tight.

He cracked them open and saw the flickering flames. Tall shadowy figures, blurred by his waking, cavorted deamonically back and forth across his vision. They whirled and casting his eyes in shade, then light, and then shade again. Silhouettes loomed jerkily, claws of shade darting across the ground and flicking back and forth as the fire flared hungrily.

Drums beat a tattoo through Ghuto’s aching head and matched his pounding heart. They thrummed through his core and pounded the beat of the ancient earth. They spoke of secrets and carnal terrors long forgotten by man. They spoke of death.

The air was heavy with the rancorous scent of burnt flesh and the copper tang of blood. Ghuto smiled bitterly. Just like home. Just like that hell from which he had rescued Poc-

Poc.

Ghuto scrambled to his feet ungainly yet urgently, all but forgetting his injuries. Poc. He stumbled forward, bursting into the cobblestone square. He almost vomited.

The square was draped in a multitude of limp or bare, writhing bodies. Naked, masked dancers of both sexes whipped themselves with razored chains, twirling and laughing. The fire flickered behind them, illuminating the scene with a baleful red glow.

It raged. It was one massive pile of blazing fuel with a stack of wood spilling away and ending in a crescent. Across the shaft was a short perpendicular stacking – completing a massive rendition of the symbol of the Dark Prince.

_Slaanesh…_

The vile name whispered itself, coiling treacherously through his mind. The mere act of remembering it allowed it to slide in and plant fear and debased urges into his psyche. Why not simply relax and join the massed throng that carpeted the ground? Why not moan with pleasure with the rest as sparks hissed against their sweat-slicked skin? To delight in pain, to drift through its throes rather than fighting it, drowning in it. His sore neck tingled with a raw, delighting sensation. What was a mere boy, after all-

Poc.

He had to find Poc. He had to save Poc.

Ghuto drew his belt-knife and ran along the wall, trying to shake the fugue of pain and confusion that had sunken into his head. A naked cultist tried to lovingly embrace him and he stabbed his knife up to the hilt in its arm. As he ripped the blade messily out, the man shrieked with delight and fell backward. Ghuto ran along the edge of the courtyard and leapt over a mound of supine bodies.

Where was Poc? Ghuto was clueless, but he knew that he had to get away first, that he had to plan his next step. Ahead of him, several of the cultists that had managed to keep their wits somewhat around themselves were forming a wall of flesh. His roving eyes swept to the center the square beside the fire, where the conductor of this vile orchestra stood – the baker. A writhing, coiling serpent was tattooed across the man’s sweaty back. It seemed to shift and undulate in the flickering light.

Ghuto faltered and pawing hands groped at him. A slash of his knife sent out a spray of blood and another severed an outstretched thumb. A hole opened in the fleshy mass before him and he dove through. He slid and staggered to his feet, continuing to run. His treacherous eyes drifting back to the baker and the fire. There was where the awful stench came from – small, burnt bodies littered the crumbling wood and hissed as the flames embraced them. Ghuto almost sunk to his knees in shock and despair.

No. Poc – no. No! He looked frantically around – there! Several children were tied to a heavy shaft of wood. Not all of them had been sacrificed. _Murdered_.

Ghuto roared like a pained beast, charging heedlessly over the sprawled flesh. There, on the log, was Poc. Blue-gold eyes gazed calmly into Ghuto’s, surrounded by welts and bruises. Rage gaze him wings, lifting him and driving him forward like a hurricane. The baker’s face contorted with glimmer of recognition and he brandished a blackened sacrificial dagger toward Ghuto.

Just before Ghuto reached the man, a weight slammed into his back and he was borne to the ground. His chest slammed into the hard cobbles and his knife skittered across the stone into the flames. It vanished in a shower of sparks and a cascade of coals. A wash of boiling air radiated out from the fire and Ghuto broke out in a sweat. He heard heavy breathing above him and a bare, grimy foot dug into the fore of his back.

“I thought,” breathed the baker heavily, “that you had said, that you _destroyed _this fool!”

“I’m sorry, Master Sigurd,” came the defiant reply from Ghuto’s arrester. “I left him for dead in the alley. He has a thicker skull than I had assumed.”

“Check then, next time!” roared the naked Sigurd angrily, glistening in the heat of the fire. This close to the flames, all of his hair had been singed off. He stalked angrily forward and seemed to think better of it. Instead, he turned to the row of children bound to a log.

“This is your brat, isn’t it?” the baker growled, cutting at the leather bond holding Poc’s hands. “Or your nephew? Well, how about he goes on the fire next then? You’ve caused enough trouble.”

An animalistic shout ripped itself from Ghuto’s lips and he twisted. He grabbed his captor’s leg and rolled to one side, twisting violently as he did so. The slick flesh spun in his grasp and the person on top of him tumbled to the cobbles with a crack. Ghuto got his first look at the man; a heavyset youth with black hair and a rictus of hate and pain.

“Gorgy, you fool! Get him!”

The lad staggered upright and lunged towards Ghuto. Ghuto used his forearms to absorb the blow and twisted away. Gorgy followed, favoring his good leg.

Ghuto snarled and shoved, pushing the unfortunate lad into the crackling bonfire behind him. They wrapped around the boy greedily, eager to take in this new fuel. Sparks and coals showered out from the thrashing boy, and a heavy, charred log fell atop him. Pinned underneath the log, his screams were drowned by the laughter of the flames.

Ghuto turned slowly to Sigurd. The man had Poc under one arm, his hand wrapped over the boy’s mouth. The other one wiggled his sacrificial dagger. Ghuto took a step forward and the man laughed, half-shoving Poc towards the flames. Ghuto’s heart froze and he jerked with fear.

“Don’t take another step, Jonis,” said the muscular, sweat-soaked man. His naked flesh seemed to shimmer and flow in the light. “Not if you value this child’s life.”

Ghuto quivered with impotent rage. He let out small, snorting breaths and flexed his fingers. The hands and arms of the cultists behind him wrapped around his limbs, ensnaring and caressing him.

“Of course,” sneered the man, “I’ll still kill this boy afterwards. An eye for an eye, you see. You killed Gorgy after all.”

“No!” shrieked Ghuto struggling against his captors and only being dragged backwards.

“Oh yes,” said Sigurd, licking his cracking lips with a dry tongue, “and I’ll enjoy every second of it.”

A braying snort cut above the laughter of the cultists. All eyes turned. A tall, matt-furred beast, shadowed by more of its kin, stepped into the square. It looked around with obvious disgust at the sprawling figures around the square, many of whom hadn’t even stirred to watch the confrontation with Ghuto.

“Give us the boy,” growled the beastman in its guttural tongue. Oblivious, the cult master raised his arms in a mocking greeting.

“Look here!” he crowed to his followers. “The forest-brethren come to join our celebration!”

“Give me the boy!” snarled the beast crudely in Reikspiel.

Sigurd smiled, the skin around his eyes crinkling slightly.

“No.”

+++


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## Israfil (Jul 6, 2008)

Argh!!! cliffhangers are the Joker to the reader's Batman! but other than that very good.


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## Vaz (Mar 19, 2008)

You, sir have a knack. A Knack for telling a beast of a story. The dialogue is excellent, and although I'm normally against conversations, due to the way that it appears on the page, this is one occasion when I can read it easily


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## NurglingStomper (Jan 31, 2009)

This is just like reading a book, only better quality than a lot of them and it's free. You sir are amazing, so for that have some rep.


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## Mossy Toes (Jun 8, 2009)

Thanks to all for the rep and the praise!

Israfil - I guess that I'll just have to post up the next chapter then, so as to lock up that rascally Joker all the sooner!


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## Mossy Toes (Jun 8, 2009)

+++

*Chapter Three*

+++

The beastman roared in frustration, its large, rectangular pupils reflecting the hungry flames. It punched a taloned hand into the air. Its fellow beastmen roared and the cultists stiffened. Sigurd snarled, yanking Poc towards himself.

From his position, Ghuto saw it first. A movement flickered on the far side of the courtyard, obscured by the rising flames and their greasy smoke. There! A small, hunched beastman, throwing a straight shaft of wood.

Cultists screamed and pointed. Several turned slightly as the javelin cut through the curtain of smoke. Then it hit, and the spell of silence was shattered.

Sigurd staggered, the wood embedded deeply in his chest. Beasts brayed, hacking out with crude axes at the screaming cultists. Sigurd staggered drunkenly, releasing Poc. The cult master tilted slowly and fell into a bed of coals without a word. Ghuto’s restrainers wailed and tore at themselves, letting him break their grasp and lurch away. The heavyset beastman leader stepped forward and snatched Poc up. It started backing away swiftly.

“No!” screamed Ghuto, once again dashing towards his nephew. The beastman leader laughed and kicked out, knocking Ghuto to the ground. The beast snarled a string of harsh syllables to his minions and several turned from the cultists to converge on Ghuto. The leader sunk back into the shadows, carrying Poc who seemed, for the first time that night, afraid.

The beasts closed. Ghuto darted to the side. The nimblest and smallest, an ungor, skipped in front of him, colliding with a jarring crash. Ghuto’s aching neck was painfully lashed back and forwards and they both tumbled to the ground. The rank stench of damp fur and rotting breath jammed itself through Ghuto’s sinuses. He shoved out, pushing and punching in a rage. He _wouldn’t_ lose Poc now. He headbutted the struggling beast and it collapsed.

He staggered to his feet and kept running, soon leaving the beastmen behind. They dropped off to chase the easier pickings of the scattered cultists. Some of the bare humans fought and died, but most ran. Most ran, and were hunted.

+

“Stop!”

The cry was futile, pointless. The hulking beastman didn’t even turn to look back. Ghuto could see Poc struggling in its matted furry arms.

Ghuto’s breaths hiked in his chest, each one a sharp, cold pain. His feet pounded down the steep cobbled street and his head throbbed with every step. Sweat, cooled by the night air blowing in his face, stung his eyes and trickled down into the collar of his shirt. He hastily dragged a sleeve across his eyes and almost tripped over a forgotten wicker basket in the road.

A figure moved ahead of the running beastman. It skidded to a halt at the crossing of the street, coming to a dead stop. Ghuto’s heart rose and he willed an extra ounce of strength into his legs.

A foul, coppery tang crackled through the air and greasily soiled Ghuto’s mouth. A light jumped from the indistinct figure that had transfixed the beastman. It sagged backwards, dropping Poc and sinking to its knees. Poc turned and scampered to Ghuto’s waiting arms.

The beastman crumbled. Its skin and muscles sloughed off, peeling back from his face and chest, and it’s shaggy fur shriveled and rained to the ground. In moments, the bone of its skull was visible and its veins were laid bare. It gave a gurgling sigh and fell face forward into the dirt.

The clay-masked figure from the stall earlier bowed to Ghuto from across the corpse. Dreadlocks packed with mud swung across the mask, and dirty black robes fluttered in an insubstantial breeze.

“A sprig from the rowan tree – the tree of death,” the witch croaked. “I have more, if I need to use them. Walk in front of me with the child, Exile. Don’t try _anything_. I can protect you from the beasts, but if you try to get away, I can’t say that you’ll live the night. My hut is down the hill – we go there.”

+

The ladle clacked against the side of the pot as the hunched, cloaked figure filled three bowls with the fragrant soup. No windows peered out of the wattle-and-daub hut, but the noises from the village still trickled in – occasional screams, crashes and shouts. The hedge-warlock carefully carried the bowls past the table. The dim, greasy candle on the table flickered as the figure swept past.

It set the bowls down on the floor in front of Poc and Ghuto before reaching up into its mud-caked hair and fumbled with the straps of its mask. Slowly, the clay mask was lowered. An elderly face, wrinkled with age and hardship, stared back at Ghuto.

“Who are you?” Poc asked, breaking the silence. The old woman cracked a near-toothless smile.

“Hah! Names, names. They don’t mean a thing, child. I’m the village’s mud-woman and midwife – scorned except when needed.

“I knew you two would be coming, Exile. I was contacted. You know a man named Shverdis?”

Ghuto started. That would explain – but no. Phe and his minions would lie about that just as easily as anything else. The mud-woman sighed and leaned back.

“Do you believe in the power of hope, boy? That it’s a force that can possess us, can run through us and force us to make actions that are not our own? ‘Therein lies the heart of braveness’, I believe your man said.”

Ghuto relaxed a little – those were Shverdis’ words. However, he did not let his guard down all the way. He could not.

“Drink your soup, boys. There’s nothing in them that will harm you. Nor shall the beasts be coming in here tonight – they wouldn’t dare. I’ve got too many wards up. Hah, not even the Shatterlord himself would be able to crack the boundaries on my home turf. Not by the light of Morrisleib.”

Ghuto sat in stony silence, holding Poc tightly to him. The soup chilled on the floor in front of them. The clay fireplace-stove crackled. Ghuto shuddered, having had enough of an experience with fire for the night. The woman shifted and scooted in a bit closer. She lifted the bowl of soup to her lips and sipped slowly at it. Her eyes never left Ghuto’s over the rim of her bowl. Poc slipped forward and took a bowl of soup for himself. Ghuto opened his mouth to forbid Poc from drinking from it, but the mud-woman shook her head.

“Let the boy drink,” she said softly. Something in her voice made Ghuto shut his mouth. He sat back in silence and ignored the soup and his grumbling stomach. Poc slurped noisily at his own bowl.

+

“Ninety-three days,” said the mud-woman quietly. Poc slept gently beside the stove-fireplace hybrid, wrapped in a blanket. Ghuto’s bowl was still full of cold soup. “Ninety-three days you’ve been on the run now. You can’t run from the Shatterlord forever.”

“I don’t need to run forever,” Ghuto spat. “Just ninety-two more days. Then he’ll have lost his chance.”

“What then, foolish Exile? Will you simply abandon the boy to the Shatterlord, to be gutted come the following equinox? A quarter of a year simply won’t do – his father will try to fulfill his plans every half year. Was it enough that you kept him safe for a summer and a spring?

“No matter where you go, he’ll find you. You can hide in the deepest caverns, or run to the ends of the earth. He’ll follow. He’s drawn to his own flesh and blood like a lodestone.”

“Do you think I don’t know this?” snarled Ghuto, “I know that this- this’ll end with one of us in the ground. And I know it’ll probably be me. I just keep running. I just keep hoping.

“Why do I even try, risking my life against my brother? You’re the one that quoted Shverdis. Hope, I guess – that I could save his son, the child that should have been mine! He took from me my father, my home. He even took my wife. So why do I run away with this boy? Love of Poc. Hope for his future. The least I can do is protect him!” Ghuto lapsed into silence, painful memories stirred up. They both watched the crackling, popping fire. A distant bray echoed through the village. Eventually, the mud-woman spoke.

“You aren’t the only one to have lost people, Ghuto. The black-coated witchhunters burned my mother for birthing children and my daughter for her beauty. I have been shunned and kicked by this village my entire life for my abilities, my craft. Do you know why I stayed? Because I’m needed. For all their play with powers beyond their control, the villagers are children in an unfriendly world. I protect them from the nightmares that hide under their beds.

“Tonight? Tonight they overstepped their boundaries. I shall not help them, tonight. Let them learn to fear the old powers again. The boy is safe. You are safe. That is what matters now.

“More than what you realize rides on keeping that boy safe. Shverdis told me some of what you face. Do you know what he has sacrificed to keep you safe? Too much. He loses the strength he needs for his duel with the Vulture. I think that he loses sight of all that he holds dear and would willfully lose it, simply to keep you and that boy safe. Be thankful, Exiled One. Be thankful.” Ghuto sat still, thinking about his home.

“What has…” he began hesitantly, “what’s happened there while I was gone?”

“Do I look like a letter-carrier, boy? I haven’t a clue in the slightest.” She shuffled over to a cupboard and pulled out a pair of sheepskins and blankets. She tossed one of each to Ghuto and began to lay out the other set. She half-turned to Ghuto.

“Eat your soup and get some sleep, lad. You’ll need your strength for the morrow.”

+

Dawn broke slowly over the village. The naked corpses of its former inhabitants lay in mounds or scattered around, interspersed with occasional clothed bodies. Doors hung crazily off their hinges and tipped-over household items littered the ground. Carts, furniture, signs, and carefully stacked woodpiles had been destroyed and strewn across the streets.

Here and there the panicked villagers had managed to put up a semblance of a fight and a rare beastman body would be sprawled awkwardly in the dirt or on the cobbled road. Around them were stacked the bodies of those who had dared stand against them, mangled and torn. Drying blood had seeped through the cracks in the stones, forming a latticework of gore that buzzed with greedy flies.

The beasts had departed with the first, creeping fingers of light, but few surviving villagers dared to venture from their hiding places. The cellars had not been safe, and many a screaming mother and her children had been dragged into the street and feasted upon by the gors. Only the more inventive, such as those that hid in haystacks or the hidden crannies of the roofs survived. Quite a few had dared to run into the forest itself. Nobody wanted to know what had happened to them.

+

Ghuto awoke with a start. Poc!

His gaze searched frantically around the hut and his breathing relaxed as he found the sleeping boy.

Ghuto fingered the blanket that was carefully wrapped around him. He was sure that he hadn’t gone to sleep with it last night – he’d tried to stay awake to keep watch over his nephew. Now, though still in his sitting position, he was swaddled in cloth and leaning against the wall. His back twanged from sleeping in his hunched position and the muscles in his neck ached from the hit he had taken the previous night.

He yawned and stretched heartily, sending a shiver of cracks down his spine. He stretched to both sides, each time working out several more creases. A last jerk to each side with his neck brought out one last, relieving pop.

He cast about, less confused now by his awakening. Poc’s blanket rose and fell slowly. Ghuto could hear the boy’s soft snores. Judging by the sound of them, Poc had a stuffy nose, and getting a cold would be bad while they were on the run. This hedge-witch had sheltered them, but they couldn’t stay very long at all. Phe would be coming for him soon, and no village mud-woman could keep the Shatterlord at bay.

Rustles came from outside the hut and the door was cracked open. Scratching and clucking came from outside. Curious, he made his way to the door. He creaked it a bit wider and peered outside. Chickens squabbled and raked the earth, pecking in the chaff of the previous year’s harvest that the mud-woman had collected. She scattered handfuls from an almost-empty sack and the speckle-feather chickens pecked amongst them.

“Awake already?”

Ghuto looked up. She was back in her mask. Looking at her, Ghuto realized how small the woman really was. Behind her up the hill, a pillar of heat boiled into the sky. The bonfire still wasn’t near done cooling. Even from here, the wreckage of the town was evident.

“Yeah. I suppose that I owe you… an apology. I should have trusted you more last night, I just-”

“You were just looking out for your boy. You needn’t worry yourself over that. You’ll be wanting to leave? I’ve made you each a pack of food and left them behind the door.”

Ghuto raised his eyebrows in surprise and leaned back through the doorway. One much was smaller than the other, but the packs were there as promised. He hadn’t noticed them before. He leaned back out.

“Thank you,” he said full-heartedly. “You really didn’t have to – I mean, saving me once was enough.”

“Hah!” laughed the woman, “that’s not nearly what I could do for you. I’ve also planned you out a rout to go by – the road is too obvious a choice. You’ll be asking for an ambush, plus that’s where your other worries will be traveling. You’ll be-”

“Other worries?” Ghuto interrupted, “I haven’t said anything else about other worries. What do you mean?” Beneath her mask, Ghuto swore that the old woman smiled broadly.

“Caught me out there. I have a gift of Foresight. Very small thing, but it was kicking up a storm last night when I was sleeping near that boy. He’s special, you know. One-of-a-kind. Not only did I see my own future, but I could also see you two’s. I saw that Witchhunter that’s following you. He’ll be heading back along the road once he’s sure that he’s missed you.”

Ghuto blinked. It seemed like witches and mages could always catch him off-guard.

“But what about you helping us? Won’t Phe move to destroy you for that?”

“Ah. Well, you need worry not, lad. The Shatterlord won’t touch a hair on my head. He’ll have other pressing needs by then…”

Ghuto thought that there was something wrong with the way that she said that. He had no choice but to accept her word for it, though.

“Well, I’ll go wake Poc and we can be off – if you don’t mind?”

The mud-woman waved a hand dismissively.

“I’ve got a breakfast ready for you, so you needn’t hurry off so quick. Let’s go in and I’ll tell you a bit more about the route that you should be taking.”

+

Ghuto hissed as he pulled himself up the side of the stream bank. He turned to help Poc up too, but the boy had made use of his smaller size and was already halfway above the lip. Ghuto laughed.

“Why do I even need to help you if you can manage so well on your own?” he asked wearily. Poc looked up at him and smiled. Ghuto turned back up the hill and into the forest again.

Curling ferns trapped the slender trees in webs of greenery. Dead bracken crackled underfoot, and the occasional patch of white granite scree shone in the sun. A brook splashed off to one side, and one section of the hill had recently slid away in the rain. The raw, bare hillside was carved into divots and streaks and at the bottom, the melted earth collected into a scrum of sediment and uprooted plants.

Finally, the trees began dying out. They reached a flat stretch in the hill and Poc threw himself down, panting heavily.

“I’m hungry,” he moaned. “When can we eat?”

Ghuto sighed and hoisted his pack a little higher on his back. He looked up to the top of the hill. It seemed like every time that he climbed higher, the more hill above him was revealed. He realized that it was just the curve of the hill, but it didn’t stop him from wondering just how much further he had to go.

“Let’s just get to the top of the hill before we stop to eat, all right? I want to be able to look around us for… anybody else. Just a bit farther, Poc – then we can rest for a bit.”

Poc sighed heavily and staggered back upwards. He pulled up a flower-stalk and began whipping the other blooms around with it. There were a surprising number of varied flowers here – yellow stunted iris, red paintbrush, blue forget-me-nots…

“C’mon, Poc. Don’t try to distract me. We’ve got to keep going.”

The boy mumbled something and began stomping up the hill again. Ghuto raised his eyebrows slightly and followed. A flicker from the top of what Ghuto could see – he swore that it was the top this time – caught his eye. Had someone been watching? He hurried after Poc, pumping his legs up the steep hillside and soon overtaking the boy.

“I’m going to go ahead a bit, Poc. Catch up to me – and this is important. I don’t want you sulking away while there could be your father’s slaves around.”

Poc’s eyes widened with fear at the mention of his father. He nodded silently, his face set seriously. Ghuto nodded at him and began running up the hill, springing up tussocks and chunks of granite. He frequently looked back at Poc, but there was no cover for anybody who might try to take the boy. Exposed though they were, that was one reason to appreciate this barren hillside.

There – there was that movement again. By now he was close enough to hear a faint noise with it as well. This _was_ the top of the hill, and it offered an unparalleled view of the surroundings. He pounded to the top of the peak, breathing hard. The grassy slope slipped away a bit easier on the other side, and the running figure was easily visible. A small, stunt-horned ungor.

Ghuto cursed and treaded back to glance at Poc for a second. Assuring himself that the boy was all right, he turned back and chased after the ungor. A deep, hollow note blew over him and he skidded to a halt. The distant figure turned and its silhouette was framed against the sky. It raised the horn to its lips and blew again. Then it jumped down from the flattened top of the hill and out of Ghuto’s line of sight.

Answering calls rang out in the distance.

+

“What has happened here?” he growled.

The innkeeper writhed, clutching his throat in an attempt to wrench away the gloved hand that threatened to crush his throat. He gave a pitiful groan.

“Who committed these acts? A man and his boy, was it? Tell me!”

The innkeeper was twitching now, thrashing in his grip. He would have fallen over but for the arm holding him up. With a dismissive flick, the innkeeper was thrown into a wattle-and-daub wall. He took deep, gasping breaths.

“Please!” gasped the man, “Please let me speak. Yes, a man and a boy! And the old witch who lives at the base of the hill!”

“A witch?” snarled Melchias dangerously.

+

The mob swept along the street, gathering speed as its members gained confidence. Torches and pitchforks, Melchias had told them. That was all that was needed to pierce the ethereal defenses of any witch. At their lead, he exhorted them on towards the hut at the base of the hill.

There was hatred here, a hatred that he could tap into easily. The crowd wanted to lash out at somebody for ruining them the previous night. Here was where true strength could be found – in the faith of Sigmar, in the lust for righteous vengeance. These villagers were true citizens of the Empire, not those bowed sheep from the previous township. These could earn some redemption in Melchias’ eyes.

Melchias knew that the man and boy that he hunted were no normal heretics, now. Several witnesses had said that both the witch and the beasts had collaborated with them. A beastman had even been seen leading the boy and man from the bonfire, that despicable place.

Melchias had seen many sickening sights in his time and had witnessed the full scope of the Dark Gods – but Rakwith and Marie hadn’t. Marie had puked upon seeing the charred corpses and the naked dead. The beastmen had to have been looking for something to make the townsfolk strip down like that.

The crowd slowed as it came to the gate of the hut’s yard. The witch was waiting for them. Hesitation swept through the mob and whispers rippled outwards. She stood there waiting, leaning on her doorsill and idly pushing the ajar door with a hand. Her mask was on – to hide her face from the light of Sigmar, no doubt – but she stood erect and steely-gazed. Several villagers looked down or away. Several more made the sign of the evil eye.

“You have no reason to come here,” spoke the mud-woman, her voice calm and level.

Melchias barked a hoarse laugh and spat. The wad of phlegm splattered and congealed in the dirt. A chicken pecked at it idly.

“We bring the wrath of Sigmar, heretic. We have a duty to be here, not a reason to stay away. We carry the light.”

The woman stirred, extending one hand.

“No, witch. Do not attempt to hold me back or banish me. Your charms or petty curses hold no power!”

The crowd, cowards that they were, hung back at the fence’s edge as he pushed through the open gate. Melchias placed one hand upon his hip, looked the witch right in the eye and stamped down, grinding his spittle into the dust. 

A breeze cooled the sweat on the back of his neck and pushed a crackling, dead leaf across the ground. The sun cast sharp shadows against the pale brown of the earth. Distant green fields and trees swayed.

No unearthly power lashed out at him. No unholy blow attempted to drive him back. He had crossed the witch’s threshold unopposed.

“Their power comes from belief,” said Melchias without casting a glance behind him. “Deny them that and they have nothing.”

The witch stepped forward, her wrists stretched forwards.

“I know what is expected of me, Witchhunter Melchias. You shall find no quarrel here. Be warned though, you shall find more darkness in the hearts of the men who follow you than in my own.”

“We shall see,” growled Melchias. He moved his hand away from his belt pistol and started to draw out a rope.

+

“Repent, witch!”

Rakwith struck with the whip again, scoring another red line. Her back was flayed, a tattered patchwork quilt. With every blow, the watching crowd lurched. They did not tire of vengeance.

“To what crime?” the mud-woman panted. She was now the one stripped of clothing, her age and weakness bared to the crowd. “I have committed none, therefore I shall confess to none.”

“Do not lie to me! You orchestrated the beastmen – you sheltered their leaders. Tell me where they have gone, and I shall make your suffering swift. If you do not…”

The mud-woman twisted her head and looked scornfully at her captor.

“You know not in what you meddle. They run from the beastkin, Witchhunter. Do not let their blood be on your hands.”

Melchias snarled. More drivel and lies from that filthy mouth. He jerked his head to Rakwith again. The sun dipped lower in the horizon.

+

Flint sparked and tinder caught. Soon, a wisp of smoke curled upwards. The witch remained unrepentant, but he could waste no more time here. She did not struggle on her stake or yank at her bonds. The flames licked higher.

He stood closest to their heat other than the witch herself. They stared at each other in silence as the last light dipped beneath the horizon. The logs began to crackle and green bark split off of the freshest logs. A pinecone burst. Her toes were already singeing, but she didn’t struggle.

“Help them, Witchhunter Melchias,” she whispered. For the first time, something akin to desperation or sadness entered her eyes. 

“Help them. Don’t harm them.”

A gust of wind blew sparks far and wide. A billowing wave of smoke washed up over her face.

“I shield myself from the lies of the corrupted magister,” intoned Melchias, turning from the flames and slowly walking away. “I defy the mutant, the unclean, the heretic and all their vile ways. I trust in Sigmar, for he is the one true light. I listen not to the whispers of the witch, nor the honeyed lies of the traitor within. I am the Witchhunter.

“I am your doom.”

+

Ghuto pulled Poc’s hand closer to his body as their feet thudded into the turf. The hill was steep enough that they were closer to rolling down it than running. Loose clods of dirt were torn up and sprayed his thighs and fell into his boots to grind into his soles. Grass whipped at his legs and slowed his descent enough that it couldn’t be considered a fall. They slid across patches of granite scree and pounded over larger, flat rocks.

The horns still trumpeted in the distance. Over his beating heart and gasping breaths, Ghuto swore he heard the baying of hounds as well.

Poc tripped and fell facedown, sliding a further ten feet. Ghuto skidded to a halt and pulled the boy up again.

“Come…” Ghuto panted, “On… we’ve got… to keep running.” Poc nodded and gulped down breaths of air like a fish. They took off staggering and sliding down the hill once more.

The rounded hillocks passed underneath their feet. They tripped across the small, seasonal streambeds and gullies that seemed to carve their way past every dozen yards. Ahead the hillside gave out, falling in a tumbling, broken earthen cliff half the way down to the tree line. Ghuto hugged Poc tightly to himself and prepared to slip over the edge. He paused, taking his bearings one last time.

The baying of the hounds that he’d heard earlier was clearer now, and it seemed to be coming from the forest itself. A glance backwards showed a wave of distant figures cresting the top of the hill. They were being cut off on both sides.

Frantically, Ghuto searched for some other guiding point. There! Smoke rose gently above the treetops – and not the blackened smoke of ruin. Rather, this was a cloud that marked civilization. The mud-woman had said that should be Gerholtz. It was still several miles distant by the look of things, but it would have to do.

He slid himself and the boy over the edge. Their hasty descent knocked loose a shower of coarse, sandy dirt and dislodged old sediment. He tried to grab outcropping roots, but they were too few and far between. Most of them pulled straight out of the loose soil or simply snapped in two. The pair roughly slid their way down the cliffside.

Near the bottom, Ghuto jerked to a halt, his foot snagged on some unseen obstacle. His leg exploded into stabbing explosions of pain. He dropped Poc, who squawked and rolled the last few feet. Ghuto’s leg popped loudly, seeming to crackle.

He cursed, pressing his eyes shut and gingerly brushing his leg and knee with his fingertips. The calf of his left leg had been roughly caught in a thicker loop of root that wound out of the hillside. His sliding weight had been enough to wrench his knee partway in a direction that it wasn’t supposed to bend.

Ghuto bit his lip and forced his eyes slowly open, clenching his jaw to keep tears from spilling out. His teeth sunk through the inside of his lip and salty heat blossomed in his mouth. He spat and slowly began to work his way back up the cliffside using only his arms.

“Nuncle! What happened? Are you hurt?” Poc had recovered and was looking up at him with anxious eyes. Ghuto gave a tight smile.

“No, Poc, I’m fine.” He slipped his foot carefully out of its snare and spat a wad of bloody saliva. He grimaced and limped the last few feet to Poc.

He tested his weight on the leg a little and didn’t like what he felt. Nothing seemed broken… but now was the worst time possible for something like this to happen.

“C’mon, Poc. We don’t have any time.”

Poc supported his uncle as much as he could while the two of them limped the last stretch to the tree line across a smooth, rolling walk of granite.

+

The walking staff worked. That branch had been handily placed, and Ghuto was glad now that he had grabbed it. He had to admit, he didn’t expect it to break off entirely. Worms had eaten through the base, but luckily the rest of the staff wasn’t too rotten. The two of them were going twice as fast as before he’d found it, and his leg was already hurting less now that he was putting less weight on it.

Together they pushed their way through the bushes and avoided the snagging brambles. Ghuto had cautioned Poc to make as little noise as possible and to try not to catch his clothes on anything that could take a scrap of cloth. It would do them little good with the beastmen’s noses, but if they could get far enough ahead…

The wind whispered across the tops of the coniferous trees and gently brushed the grasses, but in truth it resembled nothing so much as a dead current of the ocean, carrying nothing new and spinning in upon itself. It would not carry their scent to the enemy, but neither would it hide their trail should the beasts happened across it.

A flicker caught his eye. A sighing bough? A rustling bush? No. This was a minion of his brother, a nightmare sent to ensnare Ghuto and his nephew.

Shadows flitted from tree to tree, shapeless and meaningless, but filling Ghuto with unreasoning fear. These weren’t beastmen or dogs, men or foul mutants – these were the wraiths and specters of another realm. How could his knife cut insubstantial flesh? How could he shield Poc’s innocence? There were no true or easy answers, no. Not with the deamonic.

“Run!” he hissed to Poc, who had frozen with fear as well. Poc snapped out of a trance, golden flecks shimmering deep in his azure eyes. He turned and stumbled away blindly. Ghuto followed slowly, backing up and never moving his eyes from these shades.

They trickled after him like ink through water, falling from tree to tree and drawing ever nearer. He was unfamiliar with this particular devilry of his brother’s. Whorls of shadow swept in behind bushes and outcropping branches, but no matter how they were looked, one could not seem more than a black outline or silhouette. They hid closely against whichever obstacle each one was hidden by. Ghuto waved his crude staff menacingly.

A cry behind him made him spin. Poc was caught on a bush, more of these unholy wraiths clustered around him. Ghuto paled and ran to aid the boy.

A blow caught him in the back of the head – but that was an improper term for it. A breeze, perhaps. Or a wash of dizziness. Whatever the true name for it, he could not help but trip and fall forward. Blackness rushed over his eyes. Was he falling? He was falling!

Tumbling, whirling, spinning – but his knees grazed the ground. He put out a frantic hand to stop himself - and bruised his knuckles upon the ground. His head stopped spinning. Now a bone-breaking lethargy billowed its bloated cheeks and breathed an oily fog into his mind.

Whispers, painful memories of faces now dead – the blackness burrowed into his eyes and cut his mind open. They dredged his soul, laughing as they danced across the corpse of Ghuto’s first lover. She had been killed by his brother’s hand, as with so many things that he’s held precious.

Her face swam in front of Ghuto again, fragile and young again – oh, so young. He reached out to touch her, but his hands could not pierce the veil across his eyes.

“Eresa…” he whispered. A cry cut through his shattered memories.

“No!”

It was a young voice, a weak voice, but it called him back enough. Poc. The fear that crippled Ghuto’s heart was matched in that frail voice. A flickering of light swam across Ghuto’s vision.

“Poc!” Ghuto shouted. “Be strong!”

“Go away!” came the voice again, “I don’t want you!”

Ghuto’s heart froze, shattering into a thousand shards. No amount of his brother’s petty shadowlings could compare to the rejection in that voice, the hatred.

“Leave me alone! Go away!”

Silently, Ghuto wept. This had to be a lie, a cunning mockery, he knew it – but in his inner core, something swore that it was not. Salty tears burned his cheeks and stung his eyelids. The ground spun, blurring in and out of focus.

A small hand laid itself on his shoulder.

“Nuncle?”

Ghuto looked up, confused. Poc’s face swam blearily into his vision.

“Nuncle, why are you crying? The shadows are gone.” The boy paused. “I told them to go away. Didn’t you hear me?”

Ghuto could have wept again, but this time for joy. For love.

“C’mon Nuncle, before more of them come. Let’s get moving. You always tell me to!” The boy smiled worriedly. Ghuto smiled back, dragging his dirty sleeve across his eyes and nose.

“All right, Poc. All right.” 

And it was all right. At least for then.

+++


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## Israfil (Jul 6, 2008)

wonderful as always, i especially enjoyed the torches and pitchforks part.:grin:


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## NurglingStomper (Jan 31, 2009)

Wow this great. This story reads so familiar...Ahh now I know, you write similar to Robert Jordan. It's almost as if your work goes hand in hand with his Wheel of Time series. Great job buddy.


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## Mossy Toes (Jun 8, 2009)

NurglingStomper said:


> Wow this great. This story reads so familiar...Ahh now I know, you write similar to Robert Jordan. It's almost as if your work goes hand in hand with his Wheel of Time series. Great job buddy.


:shok: :mrgreen: :goodpost:

Famous fantasy writers with which I have now been compared:
- Robert Jordan
- R. A. Salvatore (for this)

Life is good!


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## NurglingStomper (Jan 31, 2009)

Ummm not to sound pushy, but when is the next chapter coming??!! I need more story!!!!


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## Mossy Toes (Jun 8, 2009)

Oh, so you want everybody else who's reading to fall so far behind that they have mountains of story to climb, do you? Ah, very well then, I may have to consider posting up chapter four already...


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## Lupercal101 (Jan 26, 2009)

AWESOME-O!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!+rep


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## Mossy Toes (Jun 8, 2009)

+++

*Chapter Four*

+++

Bracken crackled quietly as the horned gor paced forward through the dead ferns, far more quietly than a human would be if trampling through. Spreading, interlocking brown fern tendrils created a thick, knee-high veil across the ground.

During the spring, these plants had flourished from the winter run-off of the hills. In early summer they had begun to wither and yellow. Now, but for sickly, still-dying patches, it formed a solid layer of brown. Come the autumn winds and rain, this would be crushed flat again, serving only to thicken the layer of mast for next year’s fresh growth.

Desiccated stalks almost blocked Ghuto’s vision of the gor. The ferns weren’t entirely dead yet; give them another month and they’d be twice as dry and thrice as noisy. Green still showed on the stalks of many plants and merely scooting into a hiding place amongst them didn’t flatten too many of them or knock off their frail, crumbling leaves. In short, they still made an excellent hiding place for him and Poc.

The unfurled strands and spreading curls of the plants blocked out all but the finest motes of dappled light. Ants labored below on unknown, impossible tasks over the dead stalks of the previous years’ growths. From his viewpoint, he could see Poc’s hair covered in small fragments of broken bracken from when they’d scooted into the hiding spot and small, ever-shifting points of light. The boy moved slightly.

Ghuto winced as the Poc shifted slightly and stirred the broken-down layer of blackened stalks beneath the him. He quickly shifted his gaze back onto the gor. It’s ears twitched. Had it heard – or was that simply to dislodge a fly? It cast its gaze about again, looking uselessly across the thick fronds. It shook its head irritably.

The stalks of bracken shifted as a breeze stirred them. Spindly stalks bowed slightly towards the beastman. Their scent!

He tensed and moved his hands, preparing to spring up and grab Poc. His quick movements were lost in the rustling caused by the breeze. He snatched a glance to Poc and saw that the boy was ready to jump up as well.

Ghuto shifted his gaze back to the gor, and his fears were all but confirmed. The beast was tasting the air with its nose, sniffing in deep breaths. It held its largest breath and its lips parted slightly. It shut its eyes and wrinkled its nose. Ghuto’s knee pounded painfully, making him all too aware that he wouldn’t be able to run far. The gor tilted back its head - probably to howl for the rest of the pack.

The massive, explosive sneeze that it let loose took him completely by surprise. The beast snuffled for a second in its aftermath, and wiped the back of its hairy hand across its snout. Then it took a few more breaths and started treading through the dying ferns again. The breeze shifted towards Ghuto and Poc, carrying the faint scent of sweat and fur, before dying down again to nothingness. The beastman’s rustling died away as it vanished into the undergrowth.

Ghuto's lungs burned. He let out a breath that he hadn’t realized that he’d been holding until then. He reached over and squeezed Poc’s hand. The boy didn’t look back toward him or return the squeeze. His thoughts were elsewhere.

“Poc,” he whispered. The boy didn’t respond.

“Poc!” The whisper was still faint, but more urgent now. The boy stirred and looked back at him. Poc’s eyes glinted as he looked at his uncle.

“Yes, Nuncle?” the boy asked. Ghuto licked his lips.

“We’ve still got to wait quite a bit longer before we can move or get up. We have to wait until that beastman is definitely gone, and there could be others nearby.”

The boy frowned slightly but nodded. As he turned away again, Ghuto thought that he could see faint glimmers of gold in his nephew’s irises.

+

They walked as fast as they were able. The streambed was the third that they had come to, but the first that was dry enough to walk along. One had been a clear little brook and the second had been a muddy morass, but this gully was dry and crumbling. At the second streambed, Ghuto had considered coating himself and Poc in mud to disguise their scent, but then had realized that the dripping trail of mud that they left would be even easier to follow. This streambed offered some modicum of protection against seeking eyes – they’d had to hide once from a trio of searching ungors.

The hounds had died to a faint echo a while ago before fading away entirely. He didn’t know what had drawn them off the chase, but he was glad for it.

The trees were smaller here, not so gnarled or weathered. They had seen a pair of cottages at one point – though he’d steered himself and Poc clear of those, as he knew nothing of their inhabitants. Another time they crossed through a patch of crumbled masonry and mounded dirt. Perhaps it had been some merchant’s tradehouse on a long forgotten trade road or a noble’s lost manor, though it didn’t matter now. Stone foundations were all that somewhat remained.

The sun was lowering in the sky and had reached the hottest, stickiest point of the afternoon. Ghuto’s coarse cotton shirt clung wetly to his back. His stomach growled fitlessly. The only food they’d had that afternoon was a couple berries off of a bush and a loaf of bread that the mud-woman had given them.

He would have sent Poc up a tree to look for Gerholtz, but he couldn’t risk the boy being spotted. He was contemptuous of Gerholtz’s inhabitants. The city supposedly had these lands under control – but they let beastmen roam the woods this freely? And a mere handful of miles from the city itself? Even if the Shatterlord– _no_. Even if his brother, who deserved _no_ titles, hadn’t been chasing after him he was sure that he wouldn’t want to stay in the city long.

A noise. He turned halfway around, tightening his grip on both his walking stick and Poc’s hand. The boy winced. Ghuto looked out over the edge of the gully. Shapes were bursting from behind a screen of bushes deeper in the forest. He saw jaws. Horns. Fur.

“Run!” he hissed at Poc, digging his stick into the far wall of the crumbling, degraded streambed. He painfully dragged himself out of the ditch and heard Poc scrambling up the loose soil as well.

Dogs. They had dogs – but he wasn’t hearing any barks. No yips, no howls. Damn these blasted beasts and their feral cunning. How were they silent? Muzzles? That would keep the hounds from biting, though, and the ones that he’d seen certainly didn’t have muzzles on. Who knew how well the animals could communicate with one another. He’d still let down his guard. He’d let Poc and himself slow down.

Poc took off like an arrow from a bow. Ghuto staggered after him, all too aware of the enemy close behind. A bush grabbed at his sleeve, ripping the worn fabric up to his elbow.

He ran. Now horns came from behind him, goatish bleats, rustling, trampling hoof-noises.

Gods above, how his leg hurt! He swore that with every step, something else under his skin tore. The rugged and uneven ground sent jolts of pain from his foot to his chest with every second step, regardless of the mulch of dead leaves beneath him. Noises, half-grunt and half-cry, slipped from his lips every time the injured foot pressed itself against the ground. Bones in his leg clicked.

Sweat dribbled in boiling currents down his body, plastering his shirt to his chest and soaking his hair and face. His knees, armpits and his elbows were slick with the rank, salty scent of fear.

Every heartbeat boomed in his temples and in his chest. His breath came in fiery, ragged bursts, each one burning his lungs with an inferno before tearing out in a cough-like gasp. Every exhalation was a fight where he gagged on mucus and choked to open his mouth again to breath in new, fresh air that burned into his chest.

His vision blurred, tears of agony and exhaustion tingling across his skin as they mingled with sweat. The dim shape of Poc running became a goal, an ever-further destination. He had… to keep… running. One foot after another, and again. And again. And again. And again.

Breath. In and out. Fire. In and out. Shaking limbs, throbbing head. Lunge forward- pain. Lunge. Lunge- pain. Lunge.

A band of yellow ahead, blurred by his vision and partially obscured by the trees. A- a road? Pain in his knee. His head heaved, muscles straining to hold it up. Dark, furry shapes flickered to his either side, nipping at his heels and seeking to trip him. Pain, pain in his knee and legs.

Stumble. Stagger. Upright and running. A tree branch slapped him across the face. Would he make it? Could he survive? There were noises ahead, clopping, iron shod horses and creaking wood. Voices, shouting and cursing. Friends? Foes?

He staggered onto the road towards the caravan.

+

Remas couldn’t understand what was happening. The merchant knew that they were being attacked – oh yes; _that_ had happened to him before. That was why he had such a large entourage of guards, though it was just _ruinous_ on the purse. It was the how, the who that was escaping him.

He ducked, breathing hard, into a store wagon. Its horses had panicked and rammed into the next wagon, staving its side and hopelessly entangling the horses themselves. Bushels of raw cotton and wool were piled around him.

He sank back onto one, wiping his forehead with a cloth. The sound of screams, metal clashing and horses whinnying with fear trickled in. It had been those two people first, a blonde boy and a tatter-clothed man, running as if Morr himself or Kurnous’ Hounds were after them. But then hunting hounds had actually burst from the tree line, massive ones with inch-long canines. At first Remas had thought that perhaps it was the local law hunting down convicts or somesuch thing.

Then had come the nightmares. Foul, goatish beasts with hooves, snarling faces, and long, twisted horns. Smaller ones gibbered in their wake, devils from the _Book of Sigmar_.

He’d heard the tales, of course. Villages across the empire occasionally claimed to come under attack and claimed that it was the Beasts of Darkness. Most of the time it was proven to be bandits with unshod horses! Everybody knew, though, that was like saying the foul Norscans had summoned deamons into their beds, ratmen were spilling from the sewers, or that fae elves had been caught stealing children– they just weren’t real! Oh, he hung rowan outside his door at Geheimnistag just like everybody else, but… but… just but!

He leaned out the wagon and saw Gulfrich, his head wagon-guard, get spitted upon a crude spear by a muscled, matt-haired beast.

This couldn’t be happening.

He scrambled from the wagon, staying hunched over and low, and ran to the next one, where three of his guards had congregated. One of the smaller deamonic beasts and two of those hounds lay dead, but Gelder lay on the ground, feebly trying to hold in his intestines. As he scuttled over, he tried to avoid stepping in blood or intestines.

“Don’t,” hissed the injured guard, “puke on me.” He had seen Remas’ expression.

“What’s going on!” Remas demanded of old Aufren, one of the standing guards.

“Beastmen,” replied the Wissenburg Halberdier veteran. “They aren’t fairie tales, Master Remas. I’ve fought them before, more’n twenty years ago.”

One of the foul, massive beasts finished off Hermick to one side and bellowed a challenge. It thundered towards the knot of humans that included the wagon-master. Remas regretted ever having tried to cut the guards’ pay.

He ducked behind the wagon that they had their back to. A viscous growl made him stop and slowly turn. There stood a ragged, feral hound. Half of its face was a bloody mess. He backed up slowly, all too aware of the roars and crunches behind him.

“Good doggy,” he said carefully. His foot slipped in a puddle of black blood. The hound leapt for his throat.

He shrieked and fell backwards, blindly trying to shield his face. Pain shot through his arm as canines buried themselves deep. His rear cracked against the ground and the wind was driven momentarily out of his lungs. The hate-filled eyes above him brought back enough for him to scream.


+

Aufren dragged the slumped corpse of the dog off him. Remas’ arm had been chewed half to pulp, but he was mostly intact. Aufren fared barely better – a purple bruise discolored half his face.

“Get up, you fat frog,” hissed the gray-haired veteran, pulling Remas roughly to his feet. “Stop shaking. Pull yourself together. It’s just a bite!”

“I…” managed Remas. He had always imagined himself the brave one when, as a child, he played with wooden swords and beat up imaginary deamons. Now the deamons were chopping at his door and he had simply frozen.

“Get back to the front of the wagon, fool! In Sigmar’s name, you’d think you’d never been bitten before!” Aufren dragged the incoherent wagonmaster back to the safety of the other blades.

Geofrich was on the ground now too, his sword buried in the latest beast’s stomach and his chest caved in. He had always been an unpleasant fellow, thought Remas dazedly.

“Why,” he breathed, “why haven’t they-”

“Attacked?” asked Aufren, “Killed us yet?” He shook his head. “They’ll get around to it soon enough.”

Beasts were all around, tearing through the wagons. The sound of blades still rang to either side, but guttural roars all but drowned it out. A group of five of these beasts was drawing nearer. _Five_.

Aufren reached down and yanked Geofrich’s sword from the belly of the dead beastman.

“Here,” he said to Remas. “Take it. You might distract one for a few seconds.”

Remas took the blood-slicked handle uncertainly in both hands. Roars rang out and the beastmen charged.

Remas shrieked, dropped the sword, and pissed himself in quick succession. He scrambled into the wagon itself, into bags of grain and barrels of beer. His hands left blood-prints on the coarse bags. Warm urine crawled down his leg.

He turned and saw Aufren ramming his sword through the ribcage of a beastman. The aged veteran tore it out and deflected a blow from another beastman’s crude axe.

But his other guard was dead as well now, and a feral hound was tearing at the injured Gelden’s intestines. Another beastman was slain by the veteran, but then the axe-wielding brute that led them stepped forwards and chopped at the man.

There was a quick flash of blades and Aufren staggered back. He was limping. Another beast’s blow caught him in the arm, and a third rammed a spear into his shoulder. He roared and lashed out again. The spear-holder fell. The lead beastman chopped into the man’s neck, tearing into his throat and jerking him to the side like a meaty puppet.

Aufren sunk to his knees and collapsed, dead. The spear stuck awkwardly out from under his corpse.

The two beasts and their dog looked up. A whimper of fear came from Remas’ throat and he pushed himself back to the end of the wagon. The beast stepped forward. Ironshod hoof beats, undoubtedly another wave of beasts rushing onto the road, sounded out.

And then there were horses.

+

“Knight-Captain Fallion of the Order of the Blazing Sun at your service, sir.”

Remas still couldn’t believe his luck. A full armored patrol, led by a knight. The beasts had been broken and cast back into the woods, most of their number slaughtered. He was giddy with the sweetness of being alive. He hardly noticed the disapproving looks that several of his rescuers had given the stain and stink of his trousers.

“Thank you Knight-Captain,” babbled Remas, shaking his outstretched gauntlet gratefully, “thank you! My life is in your debt.” The man removed his helm his other hand and extricated his grip from the merchant’s hands. The black-haired captain smiled.

“You really have Herr Melchias, one of Sigmar’s black-clad hunters, to thank. The witchhunter was so kind to demand that I mount extra patrols – he told me that he was concerned of heretical activities in the area.

“I hadn’t taken him seriously,” and here the captain raised his eyebrows, “but he insisted. By the Heldenhammer, we haven’t had a beastman attack in this area since my father’s time!”

“Well,” smiled Remas tremulously, “Please see to it that he gets my thanks, sir!” Fallion nodded and turned back to his men.

“Weschet, take half the men and search the area. I’ll be escorting the survivors back to Gerholtz.”

+

The first group of horsemen broke away into the trees, following the black blood of the beaten beasts. Ghuto smiled – his brother would be furious at the loss of so many pawns. He would find new ones, though. Phe had always had a way of drawing foul things to him, much like the Lustrian carrion flower.

The pudgy merchant and the captain, Fallion, made their way by the bush underneath which Ghuto and Poc hid.

“We’ll be hitching the lead wagon – that’s yours, right? Anyways, we’ll be taking the injured in it the last two miles to Gerholtz. Sigmar above, I never expected to see beastmen this close to the city walls. I’m sure that there will be some sort of recompense for being harmed like this…

“Anyways, the good Witchhunter had a few things that he mentioned especially to me. Were there two men – well, a man and a boy, really – leading these beasts? He has reason to believe that.”

Fallion stepped over a corpse. The merchant gingerly picked his way around.

“Well, sir, in a sense yes.” 

“A sense?” The captain looked at the man curiously.

“It looked more like fleeing, y’see. They had hounds nipping at their heels…”

Their voices faded and Ghuto nodded. Hopefully this could convince Witchhunter Melchias that they were innocent. He turned and looked fondly at Poc.

“Don’t worry, Poc. We’ll be all right now.” The boy looked up tiredly and smiled.

“I know, Nuncle.”

+

The guards weren’t letting everybody in. At the gate in the palisade, the scruffiest were turned away. Ghuto looked at Poc and himself. They wouldn’t be accepted in. His torn shirt trailed from the elbow and they were both streaked with dirty sweat marks. The little boy looked like he’d taken a mud bath.

The reason behind their caution was evident – a faire was pulled up against the northern wall of the palisade. The rowdy drunks and disreputables flocked enjoy the merriment and the fat bursars of the town didn’t want them upsetting the good citizens. Additionally, the poorest of the farmers who’d come for the faire could bring nothing to the city – they had no business there so they got no entry. The small market outside the walls could account for most of their needs.

Finally, there were the inhabitants of the slums to keep out. Mere mud shacks clustered together in places at the base of the wall, these impoverished citizens eked out what little they could from life. They filled their lives as charcoal burners, cheap labor and prostitutes. When times were desperate… well, nobody would remark if one of their children went missing. That this city of five thousand souls shut itself away from these wretches filled Ghuto with disgust. He did not envy those that lived within the walls.

The palisade was low – only about fifteen feet tall. It was a mere row of wooden spikes, without even a walkway raised up on it. It served as nothing more than a barrier to separate the poorest from the poor and keep bandits from terrorizing the latter. In the case of any true attack, the citizens of the town would have to fall back into the crumbling fortress in the center of the city. Only the keep building was in any state of repair, the home of the city’s baron or petty lord. The town had grown lax and lulled into a sense of false security. The sprawling complex of the barracks, prisons, stables and offices of the town guard sat next to the keep, sloping away down the hill.

The sun was low in the sky, casting the faire into the shadow of the town. Long legs of shade stretched away from everything upright and the sun gave the trees a golden-green hue. The air was alive with insects and evening breezes. Ghuto estimated that they had an hour of light was left. They both needed a bath, and badly.

Ghuto thought for a few more moments and, no other ideas for getting into the city presenting themselves, he began to lead Poc into down the sloped road into the city. He had to walk slowly and carefully to avoid limping – anything that would draw attention to them would be bad. The two of them chatted idly, Ghuto steering the talk to things of little import that listeners would not find enlightening in any sense. They curved off the road to the left onto the beaten market-ground, making as if for the faire.

They stayed closer to the walls. Ghuto checked behind his shoulder frequently and when the gate had fallen out of view behind them, he pulled Poc to a stop. He looked around and saw a perfectly situated hovel. It was slumped against the palisade, going up half its height.

“Poc,” he said carefully, “We’re going to climb that house. Then I’ll boost you over the wall, and I want you to find somewhere soft to land before you jump off. It’ll be a big drop. I’ll follow you in just a second, okay?”

The boy nodded.

+

Ghuto hauled his chest onto the palisade between two wooden spikes. Uncomfortable. He hooked and arm over one of the aged points and scrabbled with his good leg until he got it over another spike. He managed, from there, to haul himself the rest of the way up and crouched haphazardly on the palisade. A fetid stench assailed his nostrils.

A thatched roof ended a few feet beneath him and about eight feet out. He looked down further and saw… compost. And Poc. The boy had rolled down the heap of ripe, rotting refuse. That had disturbed the crust, and the newly stirred-up garbage was what he smelled. Ghuto winced, not wanting to imagine what the boy smelled like now. Why couldn’t he have jumped for, say, the roof there? But there were too many things that could have gone wrong. Loose thatch, thin roofing – bursting through some citizen’s roof would not be a very quiet way to come into the city.

He resigned himself to landing in the compost. Poc had already stood up and walked away, so Ghuto pushed himself off.

He landed with a squelch. Hot, steamy refuse enveloped him. His nose choked on the thick, unbearable stench and he thrashed – and slid with a sizeable section of the heap to the bottom. Something rancid yet slightly sweet was in the corner of his mouth. He spat in out and the limp green stem of a long-dead plant peeled off his cheek. His clothes _stunk_.

He took Poc and brushed some of the worst gunk off of his shirt and the seat of his pants. Poc picked a few pieces off Ghuto too, but Ghuto was far messier to begin with. Little difference was made. The smell of the rotting organic matter still wrapped itself around their bodies.

Ghuto led Poc away. They stuck to the edge of the town and away from any roads still trafficked. Most people were heading back to their beds after a day of work, and it was still too early for most of the nightlife. In the alleyways, it was mostly clear. Eventually, Ghuto had to stop and ask one of the homeless beggars they passed where he could find the cheapest inn in town.

“Lookin’ and shmellin’ like that, shir?” The man’s missing teeth made his voice whistle. “They’ll likely give yer a kick in the nadgersh, shir. You ent worshlesh and I cin shee that yer not, but them shnobs’ll jusht take wun whiff an’ turn yeh out. Shorry, shir.”

“All right, then,” asked Ghuto, cursing internally, “where can I get a bath?”

“Well, shir, if’n yeh’d come in the main gate, yeh shud ha’ sheen them horse troughsh. Which makesh me think that yer hadsh to find shome other entry.” The grizzled, ragged man winked at Ghuto from his sitting position.

Ghuto stiffened and tossed the man a penny. The man nodded.

“Oh, shir – you have ter remember ter be inshide be dark, ‘cause that’sh when the curfew shetsh in. Ye wouldn’a want ter be out after curfew. Thankee fer the coin, shir.”

+

The ground was hard. The paving stones were remorselessly flat and cold. The layer of coarse sacks Ghuto had scrounged did little to offset Poc’s shivers. Ghuto berated himself or being such an idiot – he should have thought that it would be impossible to dry off after the sun set. Now they were both were cold, wet, uncomfortable, and both far too awake.

Ghuto had found the alleyway – a cranny between two houses, really – up against the wall. There was only one small, virtually unnoticeable ***** between the houses for them to slip through and the palisade against their backs formed a third wall were blocked up.

The burlap bags had been sitting beside a nearby compost heap. He had set a few of them down as a mattress of sorts and two more, torn open along the seams for maximum size, were draped over them. The cloth was itchy. Their heaviest, wettest garments sat in a damp heap beside them. Ghuto had wrung them out as best he could, but he didn’t want either of them catching a cough while they slept.

Poc was nestled between Ghuto’s arms, using the bottom one as a pillow draping the other over him to hold in slightly more heat. Time passed slowly. Occasionally, one of them would shift in place, but there was no getting used to the iron-hard ground. Eventually Poc sat up and tilted his head to the side.

Ghuto parted his lips and licked them, preparing to ask what Poc was doing. Poc’s head snapped down to Ghuto and the boy shook his head. Golden sparks danced in his cerulean blue eyes, glimmering like the caged stars above.

Soon, Ghuto heard what Poc had too. A distant noise trickled in – short, yipping barks similar to dog noises but not quite exactly the same. It sounded instead like human throats raised in high-pitched imitation. It still reminded him far too much of earlier in the day. He shuddered.

The two of them listened a while longer, but the sounds were fading. They were never too clear in the first place, and soon they had all but disappeared. Poc’s head eventually lost its distant tilt and the boy lay down again in the warming shelter of Ghuto’s body. When Poc turned over, Ghuto saw that his eyes had returned to normal.

Eventually, the yipping returned then faded - then returned, then faded again. Each time, Poc sat upright and stared until he could no longer hear them. Once, when the noises were the loudest yet and the clatter of feet could also faintly be heard, Ghuto thought that the noisemakers might be no more than a few streets away. Why weren’t there angry citizens? Why didn’t the Night Watch arrest this pack of rabble-rousers? Ghuto had a feeling that he didn’t necessarily want to learn those answers. His determination to leave the city as soon as possible simply increased.

The noises grew again and faded, and grew – and this time, didn’t disappear. The footsteps returned and grew louder. Ghuto sat up as well and crawled to the thin opening of their hiding spot. He motioned for Poc to move back. A crude fence out in front of one of the houses that formed his grotto blocked most of his view.

He still saw the small figure running down the street, though. It was a young boy, probably several years older than Poc, but the darkness hid most of his features. The yiks and howls had become a wave of sound that pushed the child onwards – and carried the noisemakers on in a tide as well.

Each of the running figures that rounded the corner carried a torch and had soot-blackened faces and clothes. Lances of light speared through the cracks of the fence. The running child looked backwards, stumbled, and staggered onwards faster.

Something tugged at Ghuto’s hand. He spun around and saw Poc, shivering yet calm. The edges of the boy’s irises glowed faintly, and his pupils were alive with dancing sparks. The boy flattened himself against the wattle-and-daub wall of one of the two houses and beckoned to his uncle.

Ghuto knew better than to question the instruction. He scrambled back to Poc as silently as possible and pushed his back to the mud wall. Slowly, the voices moved on.

Once the torchlight had moved on and vanished from their hiding spot, Ghuto relaxed and moved to step away from the shallow awning. Poc’s small hand motioned for him to hold back still. Ghuto frowned slightly, wondering what was going on – when a heavy weight landed on the roof above them. There was a scrabbling, like a cat’s scratching, and several wisps of loose thatch drifted down past their faces.

Footsteps came from above, and the thickly packed thach eave above them bent slightly under a weight. For a few silent seconds, Ghuto held his breath.

Then the figure above them leapt, landed on the roof on the far side of their grotto, and scrambled up the straw-like slope. It was wearing blackened clothing as well, but Ghuto caught a glimpse of a pale white scalp and – he swore silently to himself – a tail. The climber vanished over the peak of the roof.

Soon, Poc exhaled thankfully, and Ghuto followed suit. He looked down at the child, and the deep blue pair of eyes stared fearfully back up. Normal, now. He gave his nephew a hug, and together they crept back over to the burlap bedding.

+

They slept very little that night, even though the pack didn’t draw too near again. Still, Ghuto dreamed. He saw flickering half-shapes out of his past, laughing blue eyes stilled and Phe, Phe doing the stilling. Ghuto did not sleep easily.

Come the dawn, Ghuto stretched and massaged the cold knots and sore spots out of his limbs. Poc generously poked at his uncle’s back for a few minutes, his small cold hands barely helping. He appreciated the effort anyway.

They put back on their damp over clothes and tried to beat off some of the dirt that clung to them before walking out into the daylight. Ghuto searched mentally through the directions that the old homeless man had given them and chose the direction that he thought was best for finding a place to stay.

The city was still, few having woken this early. In the pale, cold morning light, everything seemed to have a bluish-gray cast and every shadow was stretched far larger than its caster. Baskets hung silently from their hooks near the doors of houses and the light shone in wedges through the spokes of empty handcarts. Ghuto shook his head, dislodging the memory of the torchlight flickering through the slats of the fence.

“Shir!” came a voice, carrying on the uncluttered morning air easily. Ghuto turned and saw the homeless man who’d given him the help the day before hobbling at them quickly from an alley. Poc shrank back.

“Shir,” he said again as he came up to them, calmer now that he had Ghuto’s attention, “Have you found a playsh to shtay?”

Ghuto shook his head.

“Well, I’ve remembered a playsh that I didn’t tell yer before. It’sh got to be the cheapesht place in the city. I thought that I’d been fergettin’ some-aught. Come wid me, shir. It’sh right thish way.” Ghuto opened his mouth to speak as the homeless man stumped away. The man stopped and looked back.

“Well, shir?” the man asked, “Aren’t you coming? I warned ‘bout the Night Pack, dinnit I?”

+

“The playsh I’m thinking about,” the man said to Ghuto as they walked up the cobbled street, “ish run by a military man. He shouldn’t mind you – ‘s a poorhouse, in truth. On’y a few penniesh a night, and you get two deeshint mealsh a day.”

“You’re leading me to a poorhouse?” asked Ghuto incredulously.

“Well shir, yer poor, ent you?” Ghuto had to concede the point with a nod. The two of them stepped around a woman carrying fresh, warm loaves of bread. Ghuto’s mouth watered.

“But what are you looking to get out of this?” Ghuto asked curiously. “You know that I don’t have money to spare. Perhaps a few pennies, but-”

“Oh, shir, a few penniesh would be more’n enough. Don’t chew worry now, shir.”

The streets were waking up. Several shops on this thoroughfare were open, bakeries and such, and already quite a few carts were moving up or down the street. As they crossed another road, a cluster of men around the entrance to a tavern drew his eyes.

“Ah,” said Ghuto’s guide, “There ish our man himshelf – Shir Fallion. Allow me to introdoosh you.”

Ghuto froze. Fallion – that was the captain who had been at the road. He saw the man now in the group. Hadn’t he said something about the witchhunter? About himself and Poc? He had to – he couldn’t –

“I’m sorry,” he said to the homeless man, “but I just realized that I can’t – I’ve… promised to meet somebody else near the main gate. I have to go. It’s important, sorry.”

 “I’m afraid,” said a deep, gravelly voice behind him, “That won’t be possible. You’re going to the cells, Talere. Or is it Jonis?”

Ghuto whirled around. Witchhunter Melchias had a gleaming dagger unsheathed and pressed to Poc’s throat.

+++


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## NurglingStomper (Jan 31, 2009)

Ahhh soooooo goooooooddddd!!!!!!!! I would seriously give you more rep, but I can't right now.  Keep up the excellent work!!


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## Shogun_Nate (Aug 2, 2008)

Again, excellent work bud! I couldn't stop reading and found myself disappointed that there was no more LOL!

Good luck and good gaming,

Nate


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## Israfil (Jul 6, 2008)

it's the pesky Joker again, i must say you are very good at making me keep coming back for more.


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## Mossy Toes (Jun 8, 2009)

Hehehe... I'm glad that people are enjoying this. Chapter Five hovers upon the horizon, filled with prison cells and interrogation. And the worst cliffhanger yet (no joke).


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## Mossy Toes (Jun 8, 2009)

*Chapter Five*

+++

Ghuto stumbled as he was shoved through the cell door and fell face-first onto his pallet. The musty smell of damp straw engulfed him. As he rolled over, the door crashed shut. Hollow after-echoes marked the slamming of the bolts, and lastly came the jingling click of keys. A hand appeared at the view-slit and slid it shut.

He rubbed his left temple, where he was sure that a bruise from one of the guards was already swelling. Coming here, he had been searched for weapons. His captors had taken his knife, shoes and belt. After his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he looked blearily around the cell.

It was awkward and rectangular, probably seven by five paces. The roof was low, low enough that he wouldn’t be able to stand without knocking his head. The inch-wide gap underneath the door let in the only light. A foul smell wafted from a sloppily washed bucket in one corner. A thin blanket was wadded up on his pallet.

He pushed himself into a sitting position and the shackles on his wrists clinked briefly. Poc had been taken elsewhere. He settled down to wait, his head pounding a painful, vicious legato.

Periodically, the guards would open the slit and peer in, the light obscuring their features. Ghuto begged the faceless silhouettes about how his nephew was, but they simply slammed the view-slit back into place.

He didn’t know how much time had passed before the door rattled again. A few hours, perhaps? The inch-wide slit widened and a plate of food and a bowl of water were pushed through. Then the metal flap dropped back down. Ghuto scrambled towards the door, just now realizing how hungry he was. The floor was cold on his bare feet.

+

The next event of note came when he had, after an immeasurable length of time, fallen asleep. The clatter of the door being unlocked didn’t wake him, so he assumed that they had a quieter way of opening when necessary. Instead, a rough kick did.

“Wake up,” came a guard’s voice.

He scrambled off the pallet and threw off the blanket. It had been cold enough that he hadn’t taken off any of his cloths, so he was fine there, but he still felt grimy and soiled. Putting his hands on the wall to steady himself revealed that a film of moisture had built up while he slept – condensation from his breathing.

The guard grabbed the chain connecting his manacles and dragged him away. Still blurred with sleep and pain from his earlier headache, Ghuto stumbled forward. He was dragged gradually downwards in this state through the halls of the prison, past flickering torches and ironbound doors. The chilled air gradually woke him up, and the freezing floor numbed his feet. Finally, they reached a door as unremarkable as that of his cell.

The door was dragged open and he was pulled through. Another guard followed him, shutting the door behind them. A desk sat in one corner of the room, occupied by a sitting man that looked faintly familiar to Ghuto. Then his attention was drawn to the center of the room, where a table and two chairs sat – or, more specifically, where Witchhunter Melchias sat and occupied one of the chairs.

“Sit,” growled one of the guards, “And keep your hands visible.”

Ghuto sat slowly and Melchias leaned forward. His alchohol-laden breath stunk, and his unshaven face was contorted with disgust.

“I’m going to ask you a few questions,” the witchhunter rasped, “and I expect clear, honest answers. Often, however, that is too much to expect from such scum as you. Therefore, every time that I think you are lying or not telling me the entire truth, Dormand here behind you will teach you to reply correctly. Dormand?”

A solid, mailed fist slammed into the already-bruised side of his head. It exploded in pain, his neck snapping roughly to one side. He groaned and steadied himself on the table. The scratching of a quill drew his attention to the corner, where Melchias’ assistant was scribbling down what had been said.

“Pay no attention to Rakwith,” said Melchias. “He is not important here. What is, is that I can cause you as much pain as you give me reason to cause. So if you answer my questions quickly, heretic, you shall suffer only the bare minimum. I might even allow you to see your nephew before you die. Now, let us begin – what is your name? Your _true_ name.”

+

They asked him questions. Many questions.

The content varied, as did the way that Melchias presented them. Ghuto answered them as well as he could, telling the truth as often as he could. It would be easier not to be caught in a lie that way - though he still was too often. They did not tell him when they knew he was lying. Instead, he received beatings until he confessed - hopefully to the right lie. He was dragged back and forth from his cell to the one where he was interrogated many times. He quickly lost count. 

He swore that his name was Rossel, insisting as such through beatings and cunning snares within the questioning to find his true one. They did not believe him. Eventually, though, they began to just call him Ghuto. After a while, he stopped trying to disillusion them. He couldn’t expect Poc to hold out against questioning as well, wherever he was being kept. At least the boy knew what things never to talk about – Ghuto had made sure of that over their long journey.

Ghuto gabbled in broken Tilean and swore that he was from the city-state of Trantio– he knew that was a lie he could keep up. So he babbled, repeating the phrases of the language he had been taught as a ship’s hand and many of the other words that he had picked up in a garbled mish-mash. He was not sure if his interrogators believed him, though they certainly could not understand him. 

He told them that he had worked on a boat – he even told them the name of the ship. He had nothing to hide about a boat that sat in an ocean three hundred miles south. He was running from the boy’s father, he told them, a powerful… merchant. 

Why were they leading a band of beastmen? They weren’t, Ghuto said, they were being chased. Then why did the beastmen “pursue” them? He didn’t know. It may have been because the boy was…

“A mutant,” said Melchias, frowning. “You aren’t being straight with me, Ghuto, as you never are. Why would you even shelter him? He’s a disgrace to all that is holy. Your brother didn’t strangle him, so you ought to have. It is your _duty_. Why take him and run?” 

“I didn’t kill him, yes. But his father was going to. I knew it was going to happen, but I couldn’t let him be killed – not and still be able to tell myself I was human. I-”

“No!” roared Melchias, standing and slamming his fist into the table. “The humane thing would have been to snuff out that _thing’s_ life while it was still in the cradle! We live in an age of turmoil, an age of reckoning. We cannot afford virtue, or mercy to the mutant and witch. Terrible powers beyond your darkest dreams would twist that boy to tear you limb from limb, do you understand?”

Ghuto did understand. In fact, he was _quite_ sure that he understood better even than Melchias. Therein lay the reason why he had taken the boy and run, after all. But to say these things would only get him beaten and burned, so the Witchhunter continued his tirade uninterrupted.

“Fear the mutant,” Melchias spat. “Shun the mutant. Kill the mutant. Even in enlightened Tilea, you cannot deny those words. From what you tell me, I shall be carrying on where that boy’s father left off – doing the world a favor.” 

“Not a favor, no,” spat Ghuto. “Not if you seek to emulate his father.” 

“Oh?” asked Melchias, leaning in close to Ghuto. “What then? What did his father intend to do? Give me this piece of the puzzle, this piece that eludes me, and you may just live. Blinded perhaps, as a testament to your sins, but alive. You have no other way.” 

“A life blind is no warrior’s life,” said Ghuto impassively.

“Are you wholly insane, heretic? I have been merciful, sparing the whip and the rack. Do not tempt me. My wrath is Sigmar’s – a terrible, righteous thing.” 

“And undirected, too. It scorches the healer and the helpless crone far more than any who would threaten you.” 

“Then let it!” spat Melchias, backhanding Ghuto across the face. “It is my duty, heretic, to seek out all forms of treachery and debasement. You are no longer in your flawed republic and its travesty of justice. I am your judge and your executioner. I am your jury and your prosecution. I am the bulwark against damnation, and should a few innocent die under my ministrations, so be it.”

+

The reddening sun hung barely above the horizon, rippling in the day’s last heat. Farmers returned to their homes, sweat-soaked from the day’s harvest, and slowly the trickle of townspeople on the streets dried up. The last peddlers and visitors to the fair were returning through the gates. 

The gate guards amused themselves in normal ways, including chiding the latecomers and leering at the prettier of the women. Several times they made as if to close the gates, laughing and coming back at the protestations of those who would be caught outside for the night. The forests weren’t as safe as they used to be for a night’s sleep. 

It was boring work. Those not actually checking the newcomers and searching the wagons amused themselves with dice or idle chatter. Twice as many of them as usual had been saddled with this task, thanks to Captain High-and-Mighty Fallion. The watchmen resented having to pay for his jumpy nerves. 

A large group of men – perhaps twenty in all, most with the look of laborers, shuffled up. 

“’Ey, yer a scruffy lot, ent yer,” drawled one of the guards. The rest took on more alert positions. If these men made trouble, maybe they’d get some excitement. Finally. The biggest fracas so far today had been caused by an arrogant henwife.

“I apologize,” said their apparent leader – a man who had slightly less mass than the rest, but was still a possible threat. “We lost track of the time… enjoying ourselves. Now may we come in?” 

The guard leaned on his spear. 

“Well, I dun’t rightly know,” he said, smirking. “Y’see, our jobs is to keep rabbles such as youse _outside_ th’ gates. I dun’t very well see how that involves lettin’ yew in, less yew make it worth the time to us. Y’know? Big group like you has got to got some spare change.” 

One of the largest louts steps forward, rumbling menacingly. 

“Let us in,” he growled in a guttural voice. “Let us through if you don’t want… trouble.” 

The leader placed a hand on the man’s chest in a cautionary gesture and shook his head. He turned back to the guard, a cold smile on his face. 

“You’re going to let us through,” he said in a calm, commanding voice. “All of us, and without any trouble.” 

It felt like something was slipping through the guard’s mind, but he brushed off the feeling of something being amiss. What had he been doing? Wait – squeezing bribes off these newcomers. Hells, the people as low as them on the scum chain never had any money. He might as well… he might as well just let them through. 

“Well,” he said slowly, “awright den. Go on through.” 

The louts pushed through. The odd thing is, though the leader was at their front, he made all the others go through first - almost herding them. When the other man who’d spoken stepped through, he snorted menacingly at the guard. 

Lastly came the leader with the glimmering, cerulean blue eyes. He gave a mocking half bow and walked past – wait, the eyes. There had been something off with the eyes of all those men. The leader’s had been in a different way, sure, but the guard couldn’t place what had so unsettled him about the others. 

He laughed and tried to shake it off, but couldn’t quite get rid of a sort of fuzziness in his head and a lingering chill between his shoulders.

+

Ghuto gasped for air as his head was pulled from the basin. Water slated from his hair to splatter across the floor. The solid fist wrapped around his locks shoved his face forward again as he spluttered. His nose and mouth filled with water and he writhed fitlessly against his bonds.

He coughed as he was dragged up again. Blessed air washed through his lungs as, finally, he was allowed to breath. 

“Where did you grow up?” His questioner loomed over him – not Melchias, for once. In the gloom, though, little was distinguishable of the man’s features. 

“I was born in Tilea,” said Ghuto soggily. “I grew up in the city-state of Trantio as a servant for House Riccola.” 

“House Riccola?” asked his interrogator. “Not House Recotta?” 

He cursed mentally. Had he said that originally, or was the man just trying to confuse him? He shook his head to clear his ears and his clouded mind, but his questioner seemed to take it for an answer. The fist in his hair jerked forward again, and his face was once more submerged in the basin.

+

Ghuto slumped in his cell, soaked and exhausted. He didn’t know how long he’d been here – it could have been a week, or twice or half that. He was bone-tired, though. The pallet of straw was only marginally softer than the stone floor, and his sleep was frequently interrupted by sessions of questioning.

He was familiar with every inch of his cell - the thin film of water that built up on the walls, the mold in the corners, and the chicken-scratches of others who had marked each day trapped. He hadn’t bothered. Besides, he was never sure in this subterranean gloom what time it was anyway. The torches burned constantly and the guard patrols didn’t cease.

Through his fatigue, though, and through whatever boredom he might feel, one emotion pervaded. Fear for Poc. Fear for what might happen to him now, that he might be killed or badly hurt; fear that Phe might somehow take even here.

+

Melchias lifted the flask to his lips slowly and leaned back in his chair, ignoring all the little, niggling things that bothered his mind and losing himself in the burning whiskey. His nose tickled from the fumes.

“Sir,” said Rakwith, looking up from his sheaf of papers slightly reprovingly - perhaps the boy had a backbone after all - and continuing, “with all due respect, I think that he’s telling the truth. Even stepping up the interrogation, he’s not revealed anything new of value.”

“No,” replied Melchias, “but he’s not telling everything. He’s not telling enough, certainly. I have a feeling in my gut about this. He’s hiding something else, something important in his innocent little story – though he’s still guilty enough to burn for sheltering the mutant. I risk the chance of losing too much if I simply execute them, but time is pressing in from Averland for my quarterly report. Whatever it is, though, this boy’s father has something to do with it.” 

“Then why not simply ask the boy again?” 

“Marie’s already squeezed every drop of information he’ll say without clamming up, hasn’t she? You’re the one sharing her bed; is there something from their talk that she didn’t tell me?” 

“No, sir,” stammered Rakwith, blushing, “It’s not like that, sir. It’s just that – she got the same impression you did. Whenever she felt like she was getting close to something, the child would cut himself off in the middle of a sentence and start to talk about something else entirely different. It’s infuriating.” 

“What about this…” Rakwith shuffled through his papers before looking back up and continuing, “this ‘Night Pack’? A group of rabble-rousers that have friends in high places – high enough to let them do as they want in the Poor Quarter and ignore the Watch and curfew. Are they worth looking into?” 

Melchias frowned. He leaned toward his aide and snagged the paper. As he read over the reports, his frown deepened into a scowl. Eventually, he looked back up at Rakwith. 

“What would you do?” 

“Sir, I – I can’t-” Rakwith stuttered to a halt. Melchias raised his eyebrows dubiously and took another sip. Slowly, he framed a response and spoke it.

“I’ve got to start getting you ready for my position some time, haven’t I?” 

Rakwith nodded and pulled his composure together. 

“It looks like it has all the earmarks of a cult, sir. There are just too many rumors about them, vanishing linked to them and such, and others are hesitant to mention them. And as I said, they’ve got to be able bribe or scare off the Night Watch. I’d say we hit them hard, but we don’t have the men. Local soldiers could be compromised.” 

“It is our duty as Witchhunters to bring Sigmar’s light into dark places, Rakwith. Are you suggesting that we let these men slip through our grasp?” 

“No sir, no! Of course not. It just limits our options. We could either send to Averland for back up, or try our luck with getting Captain Fallion to select us a few of his best.” 

“Fallion?” asked Melchias curiously. His slate blue-gray eyes gleamed. “Why the good captain? He could be our cult’s patron.” 

“I’m aware of that, sir. But there are a dozen more likely suspects, and he’s an ordained Knight of Myrmidia. Though he’s from around here, his father’s a staunch conservative. I’d say that he’s the best bet not to be corrupted.

“He no doubt hates the diplomatic fetters that keep him from taking out the Night Pack – he’d probably jump at the chance to use us to be rid of them. In that vein, too, he’s the one that gave us much of what we have on them.” 

Melchias sat for several seconds, thoughtfully rubbing his salt-and-pepper beard. He set the flask on the table. 

“You’re making some awfully large leaps of faith there. Trust nobody, remember? We’re in a war here – don’t let the calm setting fool you. We’re in a war, and right now we’re in the heart of the enemy territory. 

“That said, I agree. Fallion is the best tool we have at hand. Go; fill him in on our intent. Just because we’re here for the boy and his uncle doesn’t mean that we can’t clean out this cesspit during our stay here.

“And in the meantime, it’s time to step up our interrogation another several notches. The boy should be easier to break; I’ll start with him.”

+

The door slammed open. Ghuto started, immediately shifting to a sitting position. He’d been lying on his pallet unable to fall asleep. His apathetic stupor had reached a point where he didn’t even bothered to take off his filthy clothes.

Melchias stood framed in the doorway. Something was wrong. The Witchhunter waited wherever Ghuto was dragged, not the other way around. His thunderous expression was new too – his default expression seemed to be a disapproving sneer. Something was very wrong. 

“Up,” snarled the Witchhunter. He stomped over, his boots shedding specks of mud and other refuse. 

Ghuto scrambled to his feet, eager not to provoke his captor. Melchias grabbed him by the collar and hauled him forward.

The Witchhunter alternately yanked and shoved Ghuto through the prison complex. He stumbled along at Melchias’ side, trying not to get too far away him and yet also not get in his way. His mind raced, trying to consider what had gotten Melchias so furious.

Then they broke into the light of the afternoon, and all such considerations were thrown from his mind. Bodies rushed and bustled back and forth, horses clopped past, voices were raised – but the center of attention was the sooty bodies of Night Pack. 

Almost a dozen of their bodies were heaped on the ground. It was by no means the entirety of the group that Ghuto had seen, so quite a few of the rabblerousers had escaped the vengeful Witchhunter and his men. However, several of the corpses were… unique. One bore an over-sized talon in the place of one of its hands, another was hunched and had long, bestial jaws, and the third – the third had pale white skin, clawed feet and a tail. It was the figure that had jumped over the alleyway that night that Ghuto and Poc had slept on the streets. 

The dead, the mutants, they reminded Ghuto of – too much. Too many memories that he would rather choke back. He snarled at his lack of focus.

“Disgusted?” the Witchhunter asked him. “Do you not despise these foul travesties?” 

Ghuto had no choice but to nod. Of course he did anyway, but it was not for these peoples’ shapes - rather, how they had chosen to use them.

“These are no worse than your little nephew. Better, perhaps, because they slink as outcasts in the shadows and _know their place_. This makes them true quarry, not sniveling, whining wretches like your boy. 

“I had barely begun with my knife when he began to spill his secrets, Norscan.”

Ghuto sunk to his knees. No. Poc – no. Melchias knew, and Gods knew what he had done to Poc to get that information. His mind whirled and bile rose in his throat.

“You fled with him, did you? From his father, a foul magus? No wonder you are pursued. No wonder the darkness follows you. Even here, even within these walls we are not safe until you two are dead.”

“What… what did you do to him?” Ghuto asked. It was idiocy to ask the question, Ghuto knew, and to reveal how much he felt for the boy - but he cared to much _not_ to ask. The witchhunter might tell him nothing, but he could not stop himself from asking.

“Not enough,” Melchias spat, and Ghuto very nearly sagged with relief - but stopped himself, barely. “Do you truly think that spares him anything, though? I burnt my own wife, a witch, and my beautiful baby daughter. I could not spare little Keasha, lest she be tainted already. I made myself light that pyre, though was the hardest thing that I have ever done. But it was the right thing. Compared to that deed, barbarian, burning you shall not even merit consideration.”

“I shall tarry no longer, for I have for too long already. The guards shall take you back to your cell as I finish hunting the Night Pack. On the morrow, you and your mutant child shall burn for your sins.”

+

Night. 

It had to be night by now. Half a sleepless day had passed. Ghuto paced in his cell, unable to see any way to escape. His exhausted muscles were ignored as his mind and his adrenaline looked for a way out. It was hopeless, he knew – the prison cells weren’t built to be escapable.

They would come as a heavily armored guard to take him to his pyre, he knew. Once again, he cursed the Empire and its viscous ways. There was no way to stand here. The fat burgermeisters taxed the people and enforced their will with supposedly steel-shod knights – no more than bullies in truth. A man was not respected for his strength or his skill here, merely his guile. Phe would have prospered had he been born here. 

Ghuto would have to fight to his death. Fight, weak and unarmed against guards that were well fed and shielded. That was no fair contest. Perhaps he could convince the next patrol that he had taken sick and lure them to open the door – but no. They would be expecting such a trick from a man condemned. 

A noise came from the corridor outside. A shadow appeared along the thin slit of dim light that was visible at the base of the door. The bar on his door clicked and he froze. Was it morning so soon?

He rushed swiftly yet silently to the door and flattened himself against the wall beside it. If he could take the first guard’s weapon as he came through – the door creaked open, outwards, and he tensed. Nobody entered.

Silence.

The light that had spilled into his room was dim, dimmer than it usually was. Had the torches not been replaced? 

“Come out,” said a flat voice outside the door. “We need to hurry to be able to save your nephew.” 

Ghuto almost laughed. They would fall to so low of tricks to get him to come out without a fight? Undoubtedly they were waiting with bludgeons and sack to put over his head.

“The guards will not be on their break forever, Norscan. Come out now if you wish to escape.” 

The voice had a detached quality to it, a sort of hollowness that Ghuto couldn’t place. He cautiously peered around the doorway. There stood Rakwith, Melchias’ assistant – alone. He opened his mouth to ask what was going on, but Rakwith raised his hand in a silencing gesture. 

“Come.” 

Rakwith turned and vanished into the darkness. Ghuto followed hesitantly. What was this? 

The corridors were deserted. Torches guttered, all but spent, as the two of them paced through the empty halls. Their footsteps echoed. 

Ghuto wondered what in the name of the Great Gods was going on. It was too bizarre that they seemed to have a secret ally here. It seemed impossible that they would be able to walk out of the prison unmolested. 

They passed a guardroom full of laughing, chatting guards. Warm light spilled from the door that stood ajar. Rakwith paid them no heed and continued onwards. As Ghuto passed by, he heard dice rolling. 

His nerves were beyond jumping – it felt like they had plastered themselves to the ceiling a long time ago. His muscles twitched with every scuff of a foot, with every crackling torch. 

At last, Rakwith stopped. He fumbled with a key ring and began to open a cell door. Ghuto thought that he heard – yes, he heard a faint whimpering inside. The door’s hinges creaked as it swung open. The stink of bodily waste billowed out.

Ghuto looked into the darkness within the cell. On his walk here, his eyes had already adjusted to the corridor, and the shadowy the interiors of the cell seemed darker than his had been while he occupied it. In the light cast by the doorway, Ghuto saw the lower half of a small shape lying on the floor. 

“Poc?” he breathed. 

The shape stirred and turned his way. 

“Nuncle? ‘S that – ‘s that you?” The small voice was hoarse with tears. 

“Poc. It’s you.” Relief overwhelmed Ghuto, relief and love for his nephew. Poc slowly pushed himself into a sitting position. Tear tracts were etched in the grime of his face.

“We need to go,” said Rakwith, breaking the moment.

“Poc,” said Ghuto, “we need to leave. Are you ready?” 

“The mean man hurt me,” said Poc tremulously, though obviously trying to put on a brave face. “I don’t know if I can stand. I’m hurt, Nuncle.” 

Ghuto’s heart sunk. He stepped carefully forward and gathered his nephew into his arms. The boy was big enough that it was an awkward hold, but still small – so small and light – that it was possible to carry him. He hissed as he was settled into Ghuto’s arms. 

Poc’s legs were wet and sticky with blood and feces. A boiling hatred for the Witchhunter built inside Ghuto. What sort of man could torture a child? That fire was stoked when Poc raised his left hand to cradle it to his small chest. The boy’s left hand was a burnt ruin. His sixth finger had been sheared off and crudely cauterized by flame. They hadn’t even put on a bandage.

Ghuto tasted warm, salty blood in his mouth. He blinked and unclenched his jaw, freeing the inside of his lower lip from his teeth. 

In the doorway, Rakwith beckoned. 

“Come.”

+

The packed dirt yard stretched out in front of the prison. The house-lined street stretched by on its far side, the barracks to the left and the stables to the right. Ghuto couldn’t see a single living soul out in the moonlight. The only signs of life were Rakwith and the soldier that stood watch by the side door that they were leaving through.

They ignored each other. Rakwith walked past the guard as if he didn’t exist, and the guard didn’t move a fraction of an inch at his passing. Ghuto treaded softly past him as well. The man’s glazed eyes stared straight ahead. Something was terribly wrong here. Poc shifted in his grip, clinging tighter around Ghuto’s neck. 

“I’m afraid,” whispered the boy. Ghuto nodded. 

“Don’t worry, Poc,” he whispered. “We’ll be fine.” 

Rakwith led them along the right side of the yard and turned into the stables. Ghuto hesitated at the dark, open stable doors. The stink of fur and manure filled his nostrils. Finally, he stepped into darkness. Around him, the horses shifted uneasily. When he reached Rakwith in the gloom, the man looked different. He seemed… afraid. Bewildered, almost. And why was the stench of fur so strong? 

Another shape moved in the darkness.

“Welcome, my brother,” said Phe.

His deep, azure blue eyes danced in the darkness.


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## Israfil (Jul 6, 2008)

wonderful! i think you need to start doing "Next time in The Mutant Child"


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## Lupercal101 (Jan 26, 2009)

every five mins i check this thread to see if you have posted the next....... plz put chapter 6 on soon!!!!!!!!!!


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## NurglingStomper (Jan 31, 2009)

Omg this story just gets better and better. Seriously can't wait for the next chapter!!!


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## Mossy Toes (Jun 8, 2009)

All right, time for chapter six! Be forewarned, all, it's short and messy compared to the other chapters. I would have liked to drag the climax on longer...but this was the way it came out while writing, and I don't want to make it feel artificial with large chunks of text stuffed in. Besides, it's pretty emotional and poignant right now as it is, I think.


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## Mossy Toes (Jun 8, 2009)

+++

*Chapter Six*

+++

“Your eyes,” breathed Ghuto. “What have you done to your eyes?”

Phe laughed. More figures moved in the darkness, beastmen and black-clad Night Pack survivors. Rakwith trembled and stared around with wide eyes, released from the spell which had pushed him through the motions of freeing Ghuto and Poc. The Night Pack bore torches, which they lit at a gesture from their master.

“My wife didn’t need them,” Phe replied, “So thought that I would increase my resemblance to my son.” 

“You’re… you’re Phe! The magus!” cried Rakwith, staggering back in horror. 

“Yes,” Phe replied scathingly, “and you’re easily bewitched into doing my bidding. Now shut up – I’m having a heart to heart with my brother here.” 

“What have you done to her?” asked Ghuto. “What have you done to Lirana?” 

“Still jealous that I’m the one that married her?” smirked Phe. “Don’t worry, she’s as beautiful as ever. Radiant even, after I pumped her full of magic while she was pregnant. Just blind now, that’s all.

“What I don’t understand was why you were so pathetically obsessed with those twins. You fell in love with Eresa and I sacrificed her. You tried to marry Lirana and I stole her. Little brother, you are a hopeless failure. I don’t understand why you even tried to run – you alone never stood a chance against me.” 

“I’m not alone,” growled Ghuto. Phe laughed again, circling forward. The unsheathed steel of his sword glimmered in the torchlight. The ancient, dilapidated wood of the stables wall pressed into his back.

“Who stands by you, then. That shriveled husk, Shverdis? Krashin? The mud-woman in the next village over that the witchhunter burnt? The witchhunter, who imprisoned you here? They’re all beyond your feeble grasp, Ghuto, and I have allies of my own who can aid me even here. 

“Now, brother, I am generous. I shall mercifully kill you now if you hand over the boy without a fight. If not… I give you to the Night Pack. They are quite upset that the witchhunter followed you to this town. If you hadn’t come, they would still be happily chasing orphans and the homeless. 

“So, give me the boy.” 

Ghuto knew what he had to do. It hurt so badly, but he knew the truth. It would be better that Poc die than fall back into his brother’s hands. He shifted his grip on Poc until he hand a hand around the boy’s throat. 

“I’d rather throttle him first,” he said. 

“You jest, Ghuto. You have always try to bluff your way out of tight corners. You wouldn’t be able to bring yourself to do it. Even if you did, you couldn’t tighten your grip before we could kill you.” 

Ghuto face tightened. Behind him, he heard Rakwith sliding backwards across the straw.

“Give the boy to me, Ghuto. He has a power locked within him, and I – I have been given a key. Would you see that latent strength build in him, bubbling up until he cannot contain it? Until he erupts in uncontrollable throes of destruction? Or would you give him to me, and spare him a life where he is followed by death?

“I shall put him out of his misery, dear brother. I shall end the pain of his existence. And with that end, I shall harness his power – harness it and ride it to absolute control. I shall unite the tribes, brother. I shall bring strength to our people. And all you have to do is hand me that boy. 

“Zach’trazeth has seen my efforts and my skills. Our god, the great Zach’trazeth, has shown me how to gain this power, and all I need to do is simply sacrifice the boy upon the equinox. The blessed kin flock to me - I am fated for greatness, and my patron knows it. But everything hinges upon that boy, and my mercy for you hinges upon whether or not you hand him over. 

“It’s time for your decision, brother.” 

The world stood still. Ghuto stared hard at his his brother, into the deep blue of his former lover’s eyes, and he saw only raw ambition there. He saw only madness.

“I’ve already given it.” 

A lash of magical force knocked Ghuto to the straw-scattered floor. He clutched Poc tightly to his chest and looked dazedly around. Where was Rakwith?

“Wrong answer, brother.” 

Hands, hands smeared with black soot wrested Poc from his grasp. No! He pushed himself up but was shoved back to the ground and held down. No. No! 

“As I said, brother, you never stood a chance.” Phe loomed above him, holding Poc to his hip. The boy struggled weakly. 

“There there, little one. I’m sure that your nasty uncle has been filling your head with all sorts of lies. You don’t have to be afraid.” 

Ghuto cast his eyes wildly about. Rakwith was gone. The jagged bottom edge of the stable wall was right beside his head. The rotten wood was crumbling, and in one place, it was large enough for a man to slip under -

“Wait,” he said. Phe sneered down at him. 

“Of course,” his brother said, “you wish to talk now that you’re helpless. I think not, brother. You have defied me too many times.” 

“I don’t remember you being spoiled, Phe,” spat Ghuto scornfully. “Anything you want you think that you can just take. People, power – even Lirana’s eyes. You cannot get everything your way, brother. You will be stopped eventually.” 

“Wrong, brother. The way that the world works is this: I _can_ take it, if I so want. I _can_ get everything my way. And I _shall not_ be stopped.” 

His brother stepped away from him and began walking toward the stable exit. He looked back over his shoulder to where the Night Pack had Ghuto pinned down.

“Kill him painfully and slowly.”

+

One of the members of the Night Pack leaned in over Ghuto. He handed his torch to another soot-faced man and began loosening his belt. 

“I sure hope that you don’t enjoy this,” the man breathed, “because you don’t deserve to. However, I know that I’m gonna.” 

Ghuto snarled at him. He prepared to spit an insult in the man’s face when he heard what he had hoped to hear – shouting coming from the prison and the sound of running feet. Many running feet. 

The beastmen came alert and hefted their weapons. One of them growled something to Phe, and another, an ungor, scurried to the doorway. It barked back a string of unintelligible words.

“Ready your weapons!” Phe hissed to the Night Pack. He put Poc down against the wall and raised his own sword. 

The men around Ghuto spat curses. One drew his dagger and put it to Ghuto’s throat while the others moved to join the Beastmen at the entrance. 

“For Karl Franz and the Empire!” came a cry from many throats. Rakwith, Melchias, and a slew of guards burst through the open stable door. The beasts roared and crashed into them and the ringing din of weapons filled the air. 

Ghuto looked up at the man who remained by his side. Good – the man was distracted by the fight. He grabbed the soot-smeared wrist holding the knife and brought his knee up into the man’s groin

His captor cursed and staggered. Ghuto moved quickly, yanking the man’s hand to the ground and scrambling up to step on it. The man’s cry of pain was lost in the din. He let go of his knife. 

Ghuto quickly scooped it up and jammed it into the man’s throat. His foe toppled backwards, blood spraying onto Ghuto’s hands. Ghuto leaned forward and wrenched the knife free from the thrashing shape. 

He looked up and choked on smoke. The fighting had spread both further in and out from the doorway, devolving into a frantic melee. Phe was ferociously chopping his way through the thickest of the combat. However, one of the torchbearers had been killed, and he’d apparently dropped his torch into a hay bale. The ancient, decaying wood of the stables was lighting up like tinder. The flames spread swiftly across the damp, straw-scattered floor. Horses whinnied frantically and kicked in their stalls. 

Ghuto looked to Poc. The boy lay against the wall near the entrance to the building, ignored by the combatants in the bad, flickering light. There were still too many of fighters between the two of them for Ghuto to be able to grab his nephew, though. 

A stall door next to Ghuto shuddered under an impact, giving him an idea. He unlatched the door and shoved it in and open. The panicked horse bolted out, the whites of its eyes showing. Ghuto hurried to the next door. 

The horses that he released ran through the swiftly growing amounts of smoke and smashed through the fight, heedless of the flailing bodies. In their panic, they ignored the combatants and focused only on one thing – getting out of the burning building. The fighters scattered before the massive animals, though several were too slow and were stunned by the impact of a horse crashing past. The opposing side, whether they were a guard, a beast, or a member of the Night Pack, quickly dispatched these unfortunate individuals. Ghuto saw one massive war charger rear and smash in the skull of an ungor with its hooves as it made its escape.

Ghuto doubled over and ran through the haze and shouting figures to Poc. The boy was coughing hard from the smoke. He looked up as Ghuto drew near. 

“Nuncle…” the boy breathed.

Ghuto gathered him into his arms and hurried back to the place where Rakwith had originally crawled out under the wall of the stable. He set Poc to one side and began to burrow out. Shards of rotten wood showered down around him as he strained and shoved to fit his body under. A crack rocked the wood above him and he half slid out. 

He reached back through and felt Poc’s small hand – his uninjured one. He gently moved his hand upward until he felt the boy’s small shoulders. He hooked his hands under Poc’s armpits and dragged him through the opening that had been widened by his own passage. 

The boy was almost unconscious; lost in a haze of pain, exhaustion and wracking coughs. He’d breathed in too much smoke. Ghuto picked Poc up and cradled him close to his chest as he made his way along the thin alley between the stone prison complex wall and the stable. 

He crept around the corner and almost tripped over Rakwith’s corpse. The young man had been disemboweled by a flurry of deep slashes.

Ghuto looked at the fight. More guards had spilled from the prison and the barracks, and by now the odds were weighted heavily in the favor of the Empire’s soldiers. The beastmen were still fighting ferociously, though their numbers had been depleted. The Night Pack were not experienced fighters, and most of them had been already cut down. Many guards had already been slain, and their bodies littered the ground, but there were too many more for Phe’s surviving minions to kill them all. Phe himself was oblivious to this fact, locked in a brutal duel with Melchias. 

Ghuto carried his nephew across the yard, giving the fighters a wide berth. Sparks and black soot rained down on them. He risked a glance back – good, nobody had seen him. Several of the Night Pack turned to flee. They were cut down both by the guards and their former allies, the beastmen. The children of the forest would not abide weakness. 

Melchias was pinned against the stable door by Phe’s onslaught. Ghuto knew that he didn’t stand a chance. As he watched, a guard threw himself at Phe in an attempt to help the Witchhunter. Phe chopped the man across the neck without looking or breaking from the barrage of blows that he layered upon Melchias. 

The Witchhunter faltered and Phe stepped forward, chopping deeply into his sword arm. Ghuto’s brother wrenched his sword free and slashed again, opening a deep diagonal cut across Melchias’ front from his left collarbone to his right hip. The Witchhunter collapsed backward against the stable doorpost and slid down to the ground, gasping. 

Ghuto shook his head. He would not mourn Melchias’ death. 

Phe looked around, the battle rage fading from his eyes and his stance. No more than a dozen of his beastmen still stood, and the Night Pack had been cut down to a man. He drew a deep breath and roared. 

The nearest guards staggered back in pain, their minds overloaded by the magical onslaught. Phe shouted a guttural command and turned tail, vanishing into the night. The beastmen followed.

+

The stable burned. Sparks caught the next house and the prison’s roof and quickly spread. Bucket brigades were formed, and when Captain Fallion arrived with more soldiers, he swiftly took command. Men beat at the flames and evacuated terrified citizens. The horses, most of who had slowed to a wandering halt a safe distance from the burning building, were gathered again. At least, every horse except the one that Ghuto propped Poc up onto and then mounted himself. 

It was a large black horse, a magnificent gelding with a white diamond on its forehead. It wasn’t a warhorse, though it was large enough to serve as one and had obviously been trained for combat. It would easily serve as a traveling horse too. 

Ghuto cast one last look around at the burning buildings, the hurrying guards, and the corpses that littered the ground. His eyes locked with Melchias’. Incredibly, the grizzled witchhunter was still breathing. He was the only one who paid Ghuto any attention – the rest of the men were busy with their tasks. 

Ghuto stared into the gray, hate-filled eyes for a long moment. Then he turned the horse around and rode down the hill away from the swiftly growing fires, light black ashes showering around him and Poc like rain. Even as the horse clopped away, he felt the Witchhunter’s gaze burrowing into his back.

+++

_*The End*_

+++


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## NurglingStomper (Jan 31, 2009)

Ohh that's good man, really good. But, uhhh is the story done for like good?  I look forward to more of your stories. Imo you're one of the best writers here on Heresy.


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## Mossy Toes (Jun 8, 2009)

I haven't got very much at all done on the sequel, _The Vengeful Father_. In fact, the prologue is pretty much all.

After I finish my current work in progress, which I'll now be posting up here (a 40k work called _Plaything_), I intend to return to it, and after it, the third and final part of the series - _The Guardian Soul_.


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## Israfil (Jul 6, 2008)

Woohoo! can't wait!


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## deathbringer (Feb 19, 2009)

Glad i read this excellent work as usual
Enjoyed it


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## Shogun_Nate (Aug 2, 2008)

Ack...I didn't post here..and I feel ashamed LOL! After all my waffling diatribe about posting after reading..sigh... /doh

The end wasn't what I expected but I thoroughly enjoyed it! This really was a damned good story bud. You have a true knack for writing and you do it well. 

Good luck and good gaming,

Nate


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