Free Sigmar's Blood by Phil Kelly Page B

colleges,’ said Sunscryer, pushing the heavy oak open with a creak.
    A crossbow bolt thrummed through the air and embedded itself in the doorjamb less than an inch from the old wizard’s head. A dozen blades were thrust in his direction, including spears, farming implements and even the sharpened handle of a long skillet. Behind Jovi, Neftep began Shem’s Chant of Blinding, the Nehekharan syllables sounding raw and strange in the silence.
    ‘Oh, do put a sock in it, Neftep,’ said Sunscryer to his acolyte. ‘Is Bors about, gentlemen?’
    A great cry of relief came from the huddled patrons of the inn. The wizards were roughly pulled inside and roundly slapped on the back, so much so that Khalep stumbled face first into the stained and wobbling chest of Big Delf the cook. Bors Ratsnatcher came out from behind the grandfather clock, cudgel in hand, and motioned for Long Cobb to pour each of the wizards a drink. Before a minute had passed the trio was seated at one of the oaken tables, foaming tankards of Troll Brew in their scrawny hands.
    ‘We thought you lot’d be long gone by now,’ said a brawny hard drinker with a smile only a tooth doctor could love.
    ‘Bernhardt!’ said Jovi, draining the last of his tankard. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen the Goat quite so busy.’
    ‘You say that,’ replied Bernhardt, ‘but this is it. This is everyone.’
    ‘Whatever do you mean?’
    ‘Pretty much everyone else in Sylvania has legged it, as far as we can make out. Headed for Ostermark, the Moot, even the mountains. It’s this bloody darkness. Everythin’s dyin’ off.’
    ‘And you fellows intend to make the difference, do you? Fight back?’
    ‘Not exactly,’ said Bernhardt darkly, pressing another tankard of ale into Sunscryer’s hands. ‘We intend to get drunk.’

DEIHSTEIN RIDGE
    The Vale of Darkness, 2522
    The wind rustled through the dying oaks of Deihstein Ridge, casting another handful of leaves onto the canopy of the canvas-covered wagon below.
    ‘Well? What do you wait for?’ asked Exei von Deihst, his thick Strigany urgent and low as he pointed at the witch hunter in the distance. ‘That him, Voytek. I tell you. Take shot.’
    The sharpshooter scratched the underside of his stubbly jaw before bellying forward for a better angle. Below their hidden caravan at the side of the road, brightly-uniformed Talabheimers were fighting hard against the von Vassel clan. Eager as ever to prove themselves, the von Vassels had sprung the ambush too early. Still, the outlanders were too preoccupied fending off the ambush to pursue the corpse-laden cart escaping into the distance, let alone pay attention to the von Deihsts.
    ‘Hush, Exei. I like part where life and death hang in balance,’ grinned Voytek, his hunting rifle’s barrel poking out of the painted canvas of the wagon. ‘Savour it. Second best part of having long gun.’
    ‘Take shot, Voytek,’ said Alexei, a warning tone in his voice. ‘Pale count will not be happy if Ghorst caught. Feed you to wing-devil.’
    ‘Be still, little grandmother,’ mocked Voytek. ‘You shake so much you spoil aim.’
    ‘Voytek. Take shot.’
    ‘Just…give…second…’ said Voytek as a distinctive witch hunter hat bobbed in his sights. ‘There. Got him.’
    The Strigany sharpshooter pulled the trigger.
    There was a tremendous crash as the war altar thundered over the crest of the Deihstein Ridge and ploughed into the Strigany caravans hidden by the side of the road. Its colossal weight bundled over two of the hooded wagons just as the crack of a hunting rifle rang out. Two gangly men spilled out of the rear of the larger of the two wagons, screaming in shock as the iron wheels of the war altar ground through one’s midsection and crushed the other’s legs.
    Volkmar sounded the Horn of Sigismund as his surprise attack hit home, the brazen roar of the war horn ringing out across the fields. It struck fear into the faithless – like the scum scattering