| Betrayal The screaming provided a harsh background to the clipped pace of his iron-shod boots on the marble floor. The steady, purposeful rythm belied his intense focus. He strode through the cavernous Hall of the Penitent, the echoes resounding from the dark corners of the room. As he walked, white cloak flowed out behind him dancing in the slight play of movement. Shifting back and forth, the fabric moved aside occasionally to reveal the polished mithril sheen of armor beneath his cloak. The breastplate was simple and unadorned for one so high in rank. It was a tool of his power not a symbol. As was the blade that hung from his waist. While others might bear arms as intricately carved as lace, his blade had no such pretensions. It was not in his possessions that men found reason to respect him. It was in the sharp angular stare of a man consumed with duty. His clear blue eyes looked out from a face of severity and judged all who stood in his sight. Those eyes conveyed no message to the common man. They betrayed no emotion, no motive concealed within his mind. To all others, those eyes conveyed only that Duty was the true Master and here was a faithful servant. Dark hair pulled back by the iron band across his brow was peppered with silver. Not a sign of age, for he was no more than ten and a score years of age. Those streaks of silver indicated that the trials that he had suffered for his God. His march led him to the pair of red doors in the south end of the Hall. The stained oak was barred with black iron and reinforced by the etchings of Holy Sigmar. He stopped several paces before the door and paused to collect himself. From within, he could hear the screaming that had accompanied him since he entered the wing of the Holy Citadel reserved for the Inquisitoria Protectiva. The guard stepped out from the shadows and challenged him. �Who is it that would wish to know the secrets of heresy?� The man turned his gaze upon the guard, inwardly pleased at the almost imperceptible flinch resulting from is gaze. �It is I, Aramon D�Albet, a servant of Our Lord� he answered. �Have you fortified your soul to the trickeries of Evil.� � I have stood before the Altar of the Hammer and He has fortified me.� The guard stepped back, almost anxious to avert his eyes from the flat stare of the man. He beckoned to the barred doors. �Then enter, and may Sigmar guard your soul.� A slight tolling registered throughout the hall and doors parted silently before him. The echo of the screams intensified as the portal became ajar. No longer echoes, the pure sound of a man being converted to the Light electrified the air in the Hall. The guard stepped back from the door. Without a pause, he began his purposeful stride into the dimly lit area behind the red gates. He swept past the guard, already forgotten as the smell of the Heretic Cells washed over him. The smell of fear, rank sweat and broken souls. It entered his body and his step quickened, rejuvenated by the memories. He calmed himself, breathing deeply, inwardly chastising the bodily pleasures. Such emotion had no place within his work and was disrespectful towards his Lord. As he disapeared into the dimly lit chambers, the red doors slid shut behind him. Without a tremor, mortal and fey locks slid into place protecting the innocent from the Evil that was held within. As the doors were sealed, the guard let out an explosive sigh and wiped his palms against his cloak. Duty in the Hall of the Penitent was often a trial, only more so by the people he had to come into contact with here. The Inquisitoria Protectiva was the merciless arm of the Inquisition and it was within the Heretic Cells that they sought to bring the Rapture to the unbeliever. Often, the guard wondered, whether the Light was justified of its duty when it brought hot knives and iron whips to the flesh of the heretic. Catching himself in blasphemy, the guard glanced around and whispered a prayer of forgiveness to Holy Sigmar. Such thoughts did not belong in the Holy Citadel. Especially on the doorstep of the Protectiva, the guard looked back at the doors, especially within the presence Brother Aramon, Inquisitor-Magister of the Protectiva, known to the world as Aramon WitchBane, known to the people as the most fervent of the Lord�s followers. Aramon strode into the back hall of the cells, aiming for the screams echoing from the darkness. He paused before a polished obsidian relief and studied the reflection there. His gaze, as always, brooked no doubt and the sharp aquiline features indicated nobility. Aramon scratched the scar on his jaw, a half-moon of pale against skin already pale. He tightened the band of iron on his forehead and turned to the door. As if on cue, the screaming stopped the moment he entered the room. The room was octagonal and large enough for a sermon to the masses. The ceiling was low, except for a shaft cut into the middle arch of the room. Through this shaft, sunlight gleamed down focusing on the table at the center of the room. Torches guttered in alcoves secreted throughout the walls. Their flickering light cast shadows throughout the chamber. Aramon flicked his gaze to the left, where standing against the wall stood the four Brothers of Silence in their pristine white and mail. The four holy warriors stood watch over the prisoner in the center of the room. Their gauntleted fists clutching the handles of the their two-handed axes. They stared straight out from beneath white helms, eyes never wavering from the man chained to the stone table. One focused his eyes on Aramon as he strode into the room, watching him, even here no one was above suspicion of corruption. The Brothers of Silence made no acknowledgement of his presence or rank, nor could they, having torn out their own tongues in devotion to Sigmar. No Brother of Silence had ever turned against the Light. Their fervor was renowned throughout the Imperial territories. Aramon strode toward the center of the room where the chained man twitched in remembered agony. The Worker had given him a moment�s respite, at the approach of Aramon. Aramon stood before the table, gazing down at the broken man cradled upon it. Small, involuntary twitches betrayed the damage done to the nervous system. His left leg was flayed to the bone and leaked blood into a trench carved into the table for just that purpose. His left hand was blackened, flesh curling up off of it in red strips. His right arm, cruelly scarred by the loss of the lower half. His chest bled freely from the Hammer carved into his flesh. Sweat beaded on the man�s forehead and ran downwards into the soaked black hair. His grey eyes bulged from a noble face, foam flecked from his lips as he struggled to speak. Aramon turned to the Worker, who was examining the tools on the workbench. �What is he saying?� the Inquisitor asked. The Worker picked up a flaming brand, turned towards him and whispered in awe �he�s praying milord, he�s praying to the Father. No matter what I educate him with, he denies all allegations and prays to Sigmar to deliver him,� the Worker shook his head. Aramon gazed hard at the man on the slab. His face betrayed no emotion. �And the others? What was revealed by them?� �The same, milord� the Worker looked up at the sun streaming in through the shaft, �they all deny the allegations. Only he has survived the questioning.� Aramon snorted, �They dare deny the allegations! How else can they explain their presence here?� He turned to the man on the table. Looking down upon the once proud frame of this great man, the Inquisitor sneered in disgust. �Know this, Betrayer� he spoke to the quivering man �I know of your deceit, of your treachery and of your evil deeds. There will be no mercy for you unless you give in to the Light.� He leaned in over the man, his hair brushing the lips as they murmured in prayer. �I know you have sided with the forces of Chaos, I know that you betrayed the code of your order.� The man struggled against his bonds, teeth clenched, he pulled his head up off the slab and stared into the eyes of the Inquisitor-Magister. �Know this then...� he whispered in a liquid voice, his throat full of blood. �I know YOU! Lord Aramon, the guiding hand of the Light, I know that we were betrayed. I know the treachery came from within... And I know, Aramon, that the orders came from you. You will face the Light soon for your treachery. Sigmar shall burn you for eternity and my brothers will be avenged on that day.� The man fell back, his green eyes, like jade agates radiating the hatred of a betrayed soul. Aramon glanced to the Worker, who was busy with his tools. He appeared to have not heard the exchange. He turned back to the prisoner and rose above him. Drawing his sword with rasp not unlike a viper�s scales, he held the blade over the man. �Then hear me now� he resounded, authority like a steel whip crackling from his voice � I, the Inquisitor-Magister of the Order of Sigmar, declare you heretic and betrayer of the bonds of our holy brotherhood. You, who has been anointed by the Hand of Sigmar, blessed in his name and falsely believed to be a true Templar. You have forsaken your vows, your bonding, your teachings and the will of Sigmar. Along your path to corruption, you have taken the lives of your brethren in hand and been found wanting. Sir Mathius Brimstone, formerly of the Knights-Templar of Sigmar, I declare you guilty of High Heresy, Traitorous Actions, Fraternizing with the Undead, and Betrayal of your Code. For these actions, I pronounce death upon you and so Sigmar wills it. With a flash, the blade arced through the smoky air, sending a prismatic reflection through the sunlight as it descended to lodge in the former Templars heart. The blade stuck there quivering, shaking from the furious tension in the hand of the Inquisitor. Aramon looked up at the Worker, who stared in confusion, and wiped sweat from his upper lip. �I could no longer bear his crimes. Burn the body and bury the remains with the others.� The Worker nodded and moved towards the tarp coverings against the wall. Aramon turned away from the body and walked back to the doors. His gaze shifted across the steel facades of the Silent Brothers. No trace of recognition crossed those countenaces. No trace of understanding for what had occurred there moments earlier. With an unsteady shout, Aramon called for the door guard to open the portal. His thoughts racing... Aramon strode into his room and latcheted the door shut. He gazed through the peephole to see if anyone followed, but there was no one in the halls. He leaned his forehead against the door to still his racing mind. The warmth of the fire on his back began to soothe him. Snarling, he tossed his sword onto a waiting chair by the door. Quickly, he strode across the receiving room to the small carafe of wine on the center table. He lifted the container and drank deeply from its contents. He lowered the carafe a moment, to study the shaking of his hand as he sloshed the red wine on the hem of his cloak. Crimson red spread across the white surface of the cloth, staining deeper and larger by the moment. With a curse, he threw the carafe to the floor shattering the Estalian crystal. He spun, ripping off the cloak from its fastenings. He wadded it into a ball and tossed it in the crackling fire. The cloth burnt quickly, the white turning black with ash as the flames raced to the blood-red stain on the cloth. He turned from the hearth, dismissing the incident. He realized that he had almost let loose in there. Barely in control, he was just able to slay the Templar with his sword before erupting into a rage that would have betrayed everything. His anger mounted, that fool!! Why couldn�t he have died back in the Cursed City as was promised! And he had the audacity to call out Aramon, the Inquisitor-Magister of the Order of Sigmar. He shook his head, he was the Right Hand of the Hammer, the Purifier of Rabbansfeld. He saved the Emperor�s daughter from the raiders of Slaanesh and defended the heights of Ironcor from the winged Harpies at the Battle of Bones. No man could dare doubt his devotion to the cause of Sigmar. A man had only to look at the deeds his devotion had engendered. He stopped raging when he felt the slide beneath his breastplate, felt the betrayal begin to awaken with the torrent of rage. He cursed and yanked his breastplate off to the ground. The jarring sound of the metal striking the floor cleared his mind in time to be confronted with the truth. The scaled tentacle lashed out into the air, spewing shreds of his undertunic, emerald green and sooty scales covered its length. The head was a many-toothed nightmare, no larger than his fist. It fed on his rage lashed out at the air seeking blood... seeking enemies. He touched the trunk of the monster and slid his gloved hand down to the base. He felt the cold, hard scales merge into the muscled flesh of his chest. His chest! He had been marked, they had said. It was a sign of favor! He snarled, the favor was enough to destroy him. For here he stood, in the upper chambers of the Holy Citadel, garbed in the dress of high-ranking officer of the Templars. Garbed in the uniform that he had earned with his own blood and skill. And yet, beneath his breastplate was the betrayal by Chaos. Favor indeed, he chuckled, the mere hint of this abomination would result in his own lengthy stay beneath the tools of a Worker! Aramon D�Albet, Inquisitor-Magister, Steward of the Penitent Ones and Shepherd to the Works of Sigmar gazed at the evidence of corruption that had burst forth from his body in a explosion of pain, pus and gore. The aftermath of its birth left him in shocked awe... for now he truly was of Chaos and the game had changed rules. He grimaced at the beast, knowing that it required blood soon or it would find other ways to feed. Waking up in the middle of the night, with the sensation of cannibalizing himself was not an experience he wanted to repeat any time soon. He walked to his armoire and drew out a new shirt to cover his pride. As he drew the shirt over his body, he noted the intense heat within the room. The fire had been warming the room for several hours with no ventilation. He crossed to the window to open draft when he realized what he missed. He had left no fire burning. Aramon slowly turned in the direction of the only concealment offered by his spartan furnishings. The water closet stood in a corner, concealed by a thick drape. He eased his way across the room, moving towards where he had tossed his sheathed sword. He moved with the haste of a man who knew his time could come at any instant. He drew closer to the chair, the hilt of his sword faced towards him thrust upward over the edge of the chair. He smiled, and reached for the hilt. A slight humming warned him in time to pull his hand to safety. A sharp thud accompanied the metal object that embedded itself in the back of his chair. Aramon stared at it in shock. Four flat, curved talons made of a smoky metal stretched from a center bracket adorned with a greenish stone that pulsed with veins of black. He knew that weapon. He turned to face the squat figure peering out from behind the figure. Without a sound, the figure scurried into the center of the room its black eyes staring out at the Inquisitor. The black eyes creased as a smile appeared on the rodent face. �Good Day, Aramon� hissed Kruallag Ichorhate �It is such a joy to see you again.� The Assassin-Lord of the Clan Eshin Skaven, moved forward and retrieved the Wyrdstar from the chair. �Can�t have you attacking your bosom friends, eh brother?� the Skaven chittered. He moved back from the chair to stand next to the window, blackened leather creaking as he walked. Red and black shreds hung from his belt. Upon the powerful arms were raised patterns in colorful variations. Aramon knew those as Guild markings. They informed others that Kruallag was proficient in the many schools provided to the Skaven assassin clan. Aramon drew a deep breath �What in the hells are you doing here?� he whispered harshly �Don�t you realize that a casual visitor would doom us both?� �Relax, oh Holy One� the rat mocked, � No one will know a thing, we are protected.� Aramon relaxed a fraction but still kept near his sword. �So what do you want? Or did you break into the Holy Citadel merely for the exercise?� The Skaven eased himself down to his haunches and looked up at the Inquisitor. �Exercise, I did it for fun more than decade ago. I travel now on business. We need to discuss the City.� �We certainly do� Aramon fumed, �That damned bunch of crusaders nearly exposed me. You were supposed to finish them off! We made a deal. Slay Mathius and his warband and I would create hysteria surrounding the City.� The Skaven tightened his voice, �We had well-made plans, human. The Templars were misled by our informer. The allegiance between the Undead and the Ogres was pure artistry on our part. Neither side suspects they were but a tool in the Horned Rat�s plans. We even provided them the intelligence on your precious knights. They knew strengths, weaknesses, plans and tactics.� �Then how did they fail?� �The Undead are not the Skaven, human.� Kruallag hissed, � They do not have the perfection that we do... That damn Vampire is as arrogant as he is powerful. How could we see that he would let them run away?� The Skaven spit on the floor, watching as the saliva etched a furrow in the solid concrete. He stared back at the human, � The plan was also yours, remember? We arrange an alliance with the Ogres and Undead. You convince Mathius to league with the Witchhunters and attempt to take the entire city. We sabotage the so-called Army of Light and you use the massacre as an excuse to send more soldiers to the city. Once there, the army will be fed into the grinder known as Mordheim. The feast of souls would empower our cause and provide slaves for Skavenblight!� Aramon cursed �But instead, I get a vengeful Templar who has heard my name whispered in the wrong place. He almost accused me! I could have died on a rack!� He shook with indignation at the fear in his voice. �It is not a total loss human.� The Skaven stood and moved to the water closet, �The Ogres are now defiled by their participation in this and all humans will seek their death.� �True, but there is no way to engender the hatred enough to mount another expedition without that massacre. Although I did convict the Templars of being corrupted.� He stood up. �That�s it!� he pointed to the rat-man, �I need atrocities from you. Unleash a plague of murderers on the human population of Mordheim. Enslave, slaughter, experiment on them I DON�T CARE!! But commit enough atrocities and the Templars will have no choice but to declare a Crusade against the Cursed City.� The Skaven nodded, � That plan has merit. But I have very few teams in the city right now... However, I do have a warband that recently returned from action in the City. I could order them to return and release them from all constraints.� Aramon looked at the rat-man, � Then do it! And take out this Vampire!! We cannot have one of his ilk roaming the streets.� The Skaven leaned back into the water closet and closed the drapes behind himself. From within, Aramon heard the echoes of his whisper... �So be it, human, you have asked me to unleash the horrors of the Skaven upon the people of Mordheim. And so I shall... Know fear, mortals, for below this earth stalks death on clawed feet. It shall visit you soon and you shall know its face... but I? I shall tell you it�s name... THE BLIGHT OF THE LOST.� |