Durant's Yellow Jackets
Episode Seven:
The Damned City
Part One of Three

Is it the buildings that are different, or have I just changed? thinks Wilhelm Durant as he follows Torval
through the streets of Marienburg. He recalls a time when the city seemed infinite, so big that all of the
world was contained within its walls and streets. Now he has been to the four corners of the Old World,
travelled via the winds of magic to distant lands, and somehow Marienburg no longer seems so
impressive. It is home to Wilhelm, however, and there’s a certain joy to be taken in familiarity.

Torval is leading Wilhelm and Dieter towards the mansion owned by Franz Arbach, entrepreneur
extraordinaire. Located on the Freiburgstrasse, Arbach’s mansion is easily approached from the city’s
port district, and the main gate. Wilhelm thinks it is appears to be a simple matter of following the
cartloads of merchandise returning from trade expeditions to Altdorf, Araby, even from distant Cathay.
The Freiburgstrasse is normally filled with wagons bearing Arbach’s seal, and if a stranger wishes to
locate the merchant, they could just follow the wagons until they arrived at the mansion.

As a Marienburg native, ordinarily Wilhelm could make it to Arbach’s home with little trouble. Yet this
evening, with the black clouds blotting out the light of moon and stars, Wilhelm can feel that trouble is in
the air. Hence the reason they are dashing through narrow, grim-encrusted side streets and alleys,
skulking in the shadows like so many thieves. Wilhelm knows the stealthy approach is required, his
father, Captain Alm Durant has ordered it so. Still, with the experiences Wilhelm has had with the
Yellow Jackets over the past year, traversing Marienburg’s backstreets is a simple enough task.

Torval pauses at the end of a particularly disgusting alley, where the three mercenaries are forced to
hold their noses against the overpowering and unmistakeable aromas of decomposing flesh and rat
droppings. Torval edges along the wall to the corner, and risks popping his head out for a better look.
To his right he sees the lanterns marking the start of the entertainment district. A few wagons are
trundling up the street, but it’s a quiet evening in Marienburg. When he looks to his left he sees the
outer gates of Arbach’s mansion. There are a pair of guards in blue livery standing outside, halberds in
hand. A few windows are lit on the frontage of the mansion within. Torval looks across the street, twenty
yards closer to the mansion. Another dark alley, another miserable corner of Marienburg. Except in this
alley, Torval fixes his gaze on a scrap of yellow cloth, which stands out against the dully grey stonework
of the buildings. There is a sturdily built man attached to the yellow cloth, and Torval waits for the man
to look back at him. It takes a minute for the big man to return Torval’s gaze, who raises his hand in a
pre-arranged signal. The Yellow Jackets are in place, as according to Captain Durant’s plan. Torval
and his team wait for the first shots to be fired.

The pain in Heinz Verhoffen’s leg is bad, but he’s known worse. He grimaces as he crawls forward to
the edge of the alley, and takes a moment to settle himself. He nods at Karl, who passes him the
handgun. Two Hochland long rifles he’s bought, and both of them lost. So it’s back to the old faithful
gun with which he’s spent more time than with his wife. A lot more time. The feel of the wooden stock,
worn smooth from repeated use, in practice and in combat, is reassuring. He rests himself on his
pack, checks the flint is dry and undamaged, and slowly aims his shot. Karl, Torval, Wilhelm and the
other Yellow Jackets wait, tense with anticipation.

As he often does, Heinz counts down from five, slowly and purposefully. On five he closes his right eye,
four he takes a deep breath, three he holds completely still, two he draws a bead in the target forehead,
one he breathes out. He reaches zero.

The report of the hand gun sounds awfully loud to Durant’s ears, but he knows that Arbach’s guards
are better paid than trained, and employed more for their size and brute strength rather than any military
tactical ability they possess. As soon as Heinz takes his shot, which instantly kills one of the two gate
guards, Durant’s Yellow Jackets burst from their hiding positions and converge on the remaining
guard. The man is still reeling from the shock of seeing his colleague’s head explode when he looks
around to see six mercenaries bearing down on him. He barely has enough time to raise his sword in
readiness before on of the heavy metal ends of a flail connect with his skull, and sends him flying into
the wooden gate post. Karl steadies himself from delivering the blow, then ducks down to rifle through
the dead guard’s possessions.

“Check the other one,” he says to Dieter, who stoops down to perform the same task on the second
guard. He is careful to avoid the gore-spattered remains of the guard’s head. Moments later, Karl holds
a set of keys aloft, tosses them to Durant who has just reached the gate. By the time Torval, Wilhelm
and Dieter arrive, Durant is opening the gates.

A fraction of a second after Durant turns the key, Karl and Franck crash through the door, and enter the
courtyard of Arbach’s mansion. There are a few scattered crates lying around the mosaic-laden floor,
but no more guards. Karl finds this rather strange, as he imagined Arbach’s home to be as strongly
fortified as a bastion of the Empire. The rest of the Yellow Jackets follow on behind, weapons at the
ready.

Durant is surprised by the lack of opposition, but decides to stick with the plan.

“Karl, take your half round the back, in case Arbach tries to take the water route,” he says. “We’ll see you
in his office.”

The two groups separate, with Karl leading half a dozen men round the side of Arbach’s mansion.
Durant and Captain Jurgenvoch stand either side of the building’s main entrance, while Jakob and
Franck prepare themselves to go through. Durant counts down on his fingers, then braces himself as
Franck kicks the door in.

Jakob is the first through, with Franck just behind him. A pair of guards stand at the top of the staircase,
and with a shout of surprise, rush towards the Yellow Jackets. Jakob engages one, parrying a clumsily
aimed axe with ease, then slashes against the guard’s exposed flank. When the guard rears up in
pain, he recovers only to receive a spear thrust into his chest from Jurgenvoch.

Franck moves towards the other guard, but loses his footing on the stairs. Durant sees the guard’s
eyes widen at Franck’s mistake, and takes aim at the guard with his duelling pistol. Durant’s shot
sputters out of the barrel but catches the guard in the knee. With his leg failing beneath him, the guard
falls and clatters down the rest of the steps. He drops his sword, and clutches helplessly at his
shattered kneecap, crying out in pain.

“Watch over that one,” Durant says to Jakob, then runs up the stairs. He leads the remaining Yellow
Jackets through the debris-strewn corridors of the mansion. The untidy floors and bookcases emptied
onto the floor are a surprise to Durant. On his previous visits to Arbach’s mansion, it was always
pristinely tidy and well-kept. Durant rounds a corner and arrives at the door leading to Arbach’s office.
By this time, his blood is up, and he forgets the plan. Instead of waiting for the others, he barges
through the door, pistols raised, and pointed straight at where he imagines Arbach’s head would be.

Only Arbach isn’t there.

The room is empty, save for the desk and Arbach’s favoured chair. All of the antique goods, heirlooms
and trinkets he has acquired have gone. The books - and the bookshelves which held them - are
nowhere to be seen. There is a hint of sulphur on the air, and Durant feels a queasiness that he’s felt a
few times before. The sickness associated with magic. When Jurgenvoch reaches the room, he looks
at Durant with a grim smile.

“Seems as though Arbach knew we were coming,” says Jurgenvoch.

“Yeah, it looks that way,” replies Durant.

“So what do we do now?”

“I think we should ask that guard where his employer is.”


“I had no idea,” says Jurgenvoch. “I knew Arbach was greedy and ambitious, but a wizard? He didn’t
seem smart enough. Shrewd certainly, but not book-smart.”

Durant ponders the comment, reflecting on his past encounters with the portly merchant. He has had a
lot of time for reflection during the journey. The Yellow Jackets are two days’ ride northeast of
Marienburg. It has been a quiet voyage, the jovial atmosphere of the group overshadowed by their
current predicament. Durant gave each man the choice; accompany him and Jurgenvoch in the pursuit
of Arbach, or return to their homes, and enjoy the spoils of their labour. Most had agreed to join Durant,
but those who had left, returned soon after and reported that their treasure had vanished, the gold
replaced by coal and dust. Thus the full company rode out of Marienburg, intent on extracting their
deserved pay from their erstwhile employer.

“He always seemed to be hiding something,” replies Durant after some thought. “I just assumed it was
his latest business idea. I suppose he was just better at concealment than I gave him credit for.”

Durant looks up at the slowly brightening sky. A few clouds line the western horizon, but the darkness is
fixed in the east, hanging over the province of Ostermark like a poised dagger. Durant fights the
shivering in his bones, and realises that the darkness before them is not likely to be eased by the sun’
s light. The Yellow Jackets are entering a place where the dead walk, evil and chaotic individuals run
rampant, and the light of Sigmar is only seen by a few, fortunate souls.

In the afternoon of the third day they reach their destination. A once proud city, the Star of the North,
reduced to a twisted and evil hole in the ground.

The City of the Damned. Mordheim.


The ground beneath Durant’s horse is little more than a mud bath, all traces of vegetation having long
since been destroyed by the booted feet of thousands of men and other races. In the five years since
the comet struck Mordheim, the ruins have become a beacon, attracting all manner of adventurers, thrill-
seekers and warriors. They are drawn by the promise of untold power and wealth in the form of
wyrdstone, the magical remnants of the comet.

The Yellow Jackets approach the outskirts of one of the makeshift shanty towns which have sprung up
around the city, catering to the warbands who risk everything by setting foot inside the ruins. Durant has
been in some seedy places, bad areas of large cities like Marienburg and Altdorf, but they seem
positively virtuous compared to the shanty towns of Mordheim. No law nor justice save for that of the
quickest blade or strongest arm. The track is crowded with people, some entering, others leaving.
Durant notices there is a clear difference between the two groups. The former enter with nearly
spotless clothes, and seem well-fed and strong. Those leaving the city and haggard and weary,
sporting blood-stained armour, missing limbs and digits by the bucket load. A stark reminder that
riches are not the only thing to be found within Mordheim’s walls.

The track curves round to the right, and enters the drinking-hole district. To describe the
establishments as ‘taverns’ would be rather charitable in Durant’s opinion, but he realises that after
two days and nights of solid travelling, his men needs rest before they even think about entering the city
itself. Thus he needs to find a place that will be suitable. There is an abundant supply of wooden
shacks and tents, most bearing crudely painted signs with disappointing names like ‘The Gashed
Leg’, or the ‘Brace of Skulls.’ In the end, Durant settles on one of the sturdier looking places, a drinking
den and coaching inn by the neutral name of ‘Sigmar’s Cellar.’ Durant leaves Karl to watch over the rest
of the company, though he has little fear for the men’s safety just yet. All of the Yellow Jackets have their
weapons at the ready, not willing to take any chances. From their battle scars and grim expressions, it
is clear that these particular newcomers are no easy prey.

Torval accompanies Durant into the downstairs bar of Sigmar’s Cellar. They stride purposefully
towards the proprietor, a nervous-looking thin man with an unkempt mane of black hair. The man’s
pronounced nervous twitch is off-putting, and gives Durant the impression that some of his ancestors
may have been less than human. The innkeeper looks up at his new guests, his beady eyes never
quite meeting Durant’s stare.

“We want six rooms,” says Durant, waiting for the innkeeper’s expression to change. The man listens
intently, but does not reply. “Six rooms. I can pay in advance for four nights.” Not even the mention of
money has an effect on the innkeeper.

“Sir, do you have any rooms free?” asks Torval. The innkeeper emits a sigh.

“Fine, I suppose you may as well take the rooms. Six rooms, four night, right?”

“In advance,” repeats Durant.

“In advance. That doesn’t get you a discount in case you were wondering.” The innkeeper turns his
head and spits into a metal bucket standing on the bar. Torval, who is standing closest to the bucket,
leans back out of the spittle-risk area. “Ten gold crowns.”

Torval and Durant exchange glances. That price could get a month’s rent in Marienburg, in a fairly
respectable neighbourhood. Durant opens his mouth, ready to complain, when he sees the knowing
expression on the innkeeper’s face.

“If that’s too steep for you, feel free to find another place. I should just warn you that these are probably
the last rooms left. Unless, of course, you don’t mind the risk of waking up with a cut throat. Then again,
not many people I know can wake up after their throat is cut. Of course, there-”

“Fine,” says Durant irritable. He counts out ten gold crowns, almost all of the money he has left after
Arbach’s disappearance. The innkeeper watches the final coin drop into his outstretched hand, and
grins broadly.

“Welcome to Sigmar’s Cellar gentlemen,” he says. The innkeeper takes a handful of coins from a
compartment tucked under the bar. “Here you go, and enjoy your stay.”

Durant and Torval are almost at the door when the disturbingly cheerful voice of the innkeeper calls out
to them.

“And I do hope you are alive to get your money’s worth.”

An hour later, most of the Yellow Jackets are asleep. Durant and Karl take the first watch, choosing a
table close to the narrow staircase. They don’t talk much, as both men know that come morning, they
will be following the information extracted from Arbach’s henchman. The man had told them Arbach
had made for Mordheim a few scant hours after Macon had appeared in the courtyard, taking most of
his personal guards with him. The guard did not know what Arbach was up to exactly, only that the
mansion had been ransacked in a frantic search for artefacts. Durant recognised some as the objects
he had been sent to recover.

Durant knows that Arbach is somewhere within the ruins of Mordheim. He can only guess at the
merchant’s intentions, but with a powerful army of magic items at his disposal, Durant can’t imagine
that Arbach is up to anything good. He sits quietly with Karl, each man nursing a glass of flat ale, and
brooding over their own inner fears.

The night passes slowly.
Part Two


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