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| Durant's Yellow Jackets |
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| Episode Seven: The Damned City |
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| Part Two of Three “There’s nothing but death inside those walls. Ye all be damned souls now!” shouts the rag-wearing man, a brown beard fully two feet long sprouting from his gnarled face. The Yellow Jackets stride past the flagellant, and try their best to ignore his cries. “Don’t listen to him lads,” says Karl helpfully. “We’ve seen worse.” The flagellant seems to take offence at Karl’s remark, for he runs toward the Yellow Jackets and stands defiantly in their path. When Durant goes to move around the flagellant, he finds his way blocked again. “You’d do well to heed my words stranger. Many brave men and women have ventured beyond this point, and entered the damned city. None have returned with their souls and their sanity intact.” “We’ll be careful,” says Durant, trying to soothe the flagellant’s anger. “We’re not new at this.” “Sigmar has abandoned us. We’re all doomed.” The flagellant keeps mumbling to himself, and wanders off. A few yards further down the road, Durant hears the cries begin anew. He is unsettled, but tries to shut the incident from his mind, and concentrate on the task ahead. Arbach’s guard had been made to tell them that Arbach had said something about the temple of Shallya, goddess of mercy. Durant has learned that this temple was in the Twin Walls district in the westernmost part of the city. The eponymous walls have been reduced by the comet’s power to a few scattered intact sections. Durant and his company pass the remains of a main city gate, and enter the ruined streets of Mordheim. “This place is unbelievable,” says Wilhelm. “I’m amazed anything survived at all. Can you imagine what it must have been like to have been here when the comet hit?” “As if the Chaos wastes suddenly opened up on your home town?” offers Heinz. He is walking with some stiffness. The healers in Marienburg had warned him that he needed at least a week’s rest for the arrow wound to completely heal. As it was, the healers had been able to dress and treat the wound, closing it but only subduing the pain. Still, there was no way Heinz would allow his comrades to pursue Arbach without him. He bears the pain with a stoicism that would make Karl proud. “Something like that,” Torval agrees. “What about the righteous fury of Sigmar?” asks Karl. “A punishment for their decadence?” “Could be,” says Durant. “Whatever reason, I’m glad I wasn’t here when it happened. Now, less chat lads, keep alert. We follow this road all the way to the temple.” The road used to be one of the main arteries of Mordheim. Once grand buildings line the richer eastern side, while the western side bears narrow, overhanging terraces. Both sides are now broken and dishevelled, mere burnt out shells, long devoid of inhabitants. They also offer a perfect hiding place for the foul, dark things now presiding over the dying remains of Mordheim. Durant gives hand signals to Torval and Karl, and the company divides into three dispersed groups, each advancing cautiously up the road. Wilhelm, in the tail group led by Karl, catches movement out of the corner of his eye. He pivots instantly, raising his pistols towards a shattered ground floor window. The paint around the window frame is scorched black, and a single shard of glass clings desperately to the wood. Wilhelm can detect no hint of the movement, just a dull glint of the grey morning reflecting on the glass shard. He edges closer, trying to see inside the gloomy front room of the dwelling. He peers over the end of his pistols, but there is nothing. The room is empty. “Stay in formation Wilhelm,” urges Karl. “Don’t get left behind here.” Wilhelm backs away slowly, refusing to lower his pistols until he is far away from the house. He looks up and down the street, and sees dozens more houses in the same state. Eventually he accepts that is would be futile to investigate them all, and decides he is better off sticking with the orders of his father and Karl. It takes the Yellow Jackets a full hour to reach the temple of Shallya, which, unlike that devoted to Sigmar, was not spared the destruction of the city. Its thick pillars are collapsed in on themselves, the shining white marble of the dome now blackened by divine fire. The groups spread out, and converge on the building from three directions. It is Durant’s group who reach the entrance first, and enter the ruined temple. The inside of Shallya’s temple is dimly lit by the shafts of light penetrating gaping holes in the walls. Durant treads carefully, keen to avoid the broken pillars and smashed up pews. He pauses and listens, but the temple is quiet. There is the faint tang of burning in the air, but Durant realises fire is not an uncommon thing in Mordheim. Dieter and Franck are walking towards the caved in remnants of the altar, while Jurgenvoch investigates one of the many alcoves built into the structure. Jurgenvoch is the first to hear the commotion, raised voices coming from just outside the temple. “Captain Durant,” he says, catching everyone’s attention. The others hear the shouts. “Quickly, we’re under attack,” says Durant. The four men dash out into the street, and see their comrades beset on three sides by a large group of men and dogs. Fritz has been hit with a crossbow bolt to the upper arm, and he lays behind a pile of rubble, while Heinz scans the assailants for a suitable target. A large man, wearing a long black cape and wielding a crossbow takes aim at the group emerging from the temple. “Find cover,” Durant manages to say, before throwing himself to the ground. The others follow suit, and the shot flies wide of the mark. Durant scrambles forward, cutting his arm on a piece of jagged glass, and reaches Heinz’s position. First he checks on Fritz, who declares that he is fine. Durant peers out over the rubble, trying to get a fix on the enemy. “Where’d they come from Heinz?” Durant asks. He watches a pair of war hounds scamper across the open ground, then leap a broken stone wall to tear at Karl and Jakob. “Fritz’s wound was the first warning we got. We were just circling back round to the temple when they started firing at us.” “How many?” “I count at least fifteen, including those damned dogs.” Heinz pauses, then unleashes a blast at a distant figure. “Damn, missed.” “Any idea who they are?” Heinz begins to reload his handgun. Durant aims his pistols, waiting for any surprise attacks. “They’re all dressed in black, if that’s any help,” offers Heinz. “Some kind of cult?” “They don’t seem the cultist-type.” “Damn,” says Durant. “Witch hunters. They love their crossbows, and they certainly love to wear black.” “That’s a bit of a stretch, no?” Heinz finishes reloading, and joins his captain. “How can you know?” “There was a ritual of some kind in the temple. I smelled the after effects of burning. It didn’t hit me at first, but it was the same thing that I found in Arbach’s office.” “You think he was here?” “I don’t know, but something magical was going on. That’s what brought the witch hunters here.” Durant can hear loud shouts, but he doesn’t recognise the voices. He looks across the street, and sees the black-covered figures running past the Yellow Jackets, and heading down the street they entered by. The witch hunters lay down covering fire with their crossbows, and begin to disengage. As the last group disappears around the corner, Durant sees a pair of poorly-equipped acolytes dragging a hooded figure along with them. Then they are gone, the witch hunters, the acolytes and their captive. The skirmish is over. Durant stands up cautiously, shouts out instructions to his men, who move into a tight ring around Fritz, the only Yellow Jacket to suffer an injury. Torval and Karl tend to the injury, while Durant looks towards the retreating witch hunters. His face is etched in deep thought. Something is bugging him. Something that doesn’t quite seem right. The smell of magic in the temple of Shallya. The broken altar. The witch hunters’ attack and their hooded captive. He can feel the eyes of his men upon him. They have followed him across the length and breadth of the world. They have trusted him with their lives, and given up the relative safety of Marienburg, the luxuries of liquor and women to accompany him to Mordheim. Somewhere out there in the ruins of the city, Franz Arbach is lurking. He can feel the connection, just slipping away from his group. “Do we go on sir?” asks Heinz, supporting himself on Wilhelm’s shoulder. The Yellow Jackets wait for Durant’s response. Durant sets his mind, his decision is made. “Those witch hunters know something. I can feel it in my gut. We’re going to go and have a little talk with them. Come on lads, I don’t want to be left in the city when it gets dark.” Durant looks up at the gloomy, cloud-infested sky. He offers a smile to break the tension. “Well, more like when the sun sets.” The moment of levity is enough. The Yellow Jackets follow their captives on the trail of the witch hunters. |
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| Part Three |
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