Free Sigmar's Blood by Phil Kelly Page A

humourless bastards all dressed up in uniform.’ He turned to the woman, touching the dried hound’s foot at his throat. ‘Something’s up, right enough.’
    ‘Uniform?’ said Kaslain. ‘Was it Talabheim, red and white?’
    ‘Aye, that’s them,’ slurred the spokesman, motioning his wife and fellows back. ‘City types, they were. Reckon you’ll catch ‘em up if you hurry. Watch the roads, though, and the fields. Bad types about.’
    The peasant brushed his way past the Tattersouls, casting a remark over his shoulder as he went.
    ‘And if you lot find what you’re lookin’ for? Sigmar help you all.’

SOUTH OF TEMPLEHOF
    The Vale of Darkness, 2522
    Since leaving Templehof Crag for Vargravia the Light wizards had made slow but steady progress along the country roads. The light was fading to pitch black, and their spirits had faded with it. Neftep had grown sick of humouring his master’s attempts to keep up morale, and had pulled a greased leather over his head to keep off the drizzling rain. Khalep took a turn at keeping the old man occupied instead.
    ‘So w-w-w…’
    ‘The location we’re headed to, since you asked, Khalep, is the abandoned manse of an astromancer, built on the highest point of the Vargravian mountains. Riddled with ghosts, though, the whole place. They say the celestialist buried himself alive to escape them.’
    ‘W-wonderful,’ said Khalep.
    ‘We won’t be tarrying, never fear,’ said the elderly wizard, his tone dark. ‘I strayed in there once, when I was younger even than yourselves. The scythe-gheists that guard the place scared me half to death, quite literally. My hair turned white and fell out in clumps. No wonder the Sylvanians avoid the place like the plague. Still, at least it wasn’t Whispering Nell playing host.’
    Silence stretched out before Khalep gave in.
    ‘W-w-w…’
    ‘Who’s Whispering Nell, you say, Khalep? Ah, but she’s a nasty one. Countess Emmanuelle von Templehof, to give the old bitch her due. Once the cousin of Konrad the Bloody. A femme fatale in life and even deadlier in death.’
    ‘How so?’ asked Neftep, fearing the answer.
    ‘Ah, well. They say that if she whispers your true name within earshot, your body dies and your soul is hers for all eternity. Horrid fate, she’s not the looker she once was. Too many maggots.’ Sunscryer took out his telescope and peered into the distance before continuing. ‘I’d be much obliged if neither of you referred to me by name when we’re within Vargravia’s borders. I’ll do the same for you, of course. Sound good?’
    The acolytes shared a look. Shaking his head in despair, Neftep made to get off the Luminark, but Khalep grabbed him by the robes and pointed to the darkness that choked the skies above. Slump-shouldered, his comrade sat back down with a sigh.
    The warhorses under the Luminark’s yoke ploughed on through the mud. The trio of wizards rounded a corner, and the loose hedgerow opened to reveal a large black building with shattered windows that bled gold in the night.
    ‘Is that…’
    ‘It is indeed! The Drunken Goat, arguably the most robust of Sylvania’s roadside taverns. Excellent pork. And it looks like old Bors left the lanterns on before he took to his heels.’
    The three wizards approached the dripping eaves of the inn together, the sleeves of their robes held overhead to keep off the worst of the rain. The door was stout oak, though claw marks had gouged furrows into it. A piece of broken fingernail was still embedded in the jamb. Sunscryer reached out with his serpent-tipped staff and rapped hard on the studded planks of the front door.
    There was no answer. He pushed, but the door was barred fast.
    The elderly wizard held up a cautionary finger towards his acolytes before pulling a lodestone from his robes and moving the magnetic lump across the door. There was a solid, metallic thunk from the other side.
    ‘Ha! Gelt’s not the only master of magnetism in the