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Callis & Toll: The Old Ways – Nick Horth

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Callis & Toll:

The Old Ways

Nick Horth

Armand Callis winced as the marsh strider bucked beneath him. Every time the beast moved, his legs rubbed painfully against the rough hide saddle that was lashed around the creature’s segmented body. They had been travelling for hours, and he still hadn’t got used to the strider’s awkward, rolling gait as it stretched out its six long limbs to balance on the soupy morass beneath them. He sighed as he peered through the gathering fog, hoping to catch sight of their destination looming into view. It was useless. He could barely see more than a few metres ahead.

‘How much farther?’ he shouted.

‘Soon,’ grunted their guide, a wizened old fellow with an expression that could turn milk sour.

Callis’ marsh strider clicked and hissed, before releasing an arcing jet of fluid from its mandibles. On the whole, Callis decided that he preferred horses.

‘Marshpoint is close,’ said Hanniver Toll, mounted upon his own strider to Callis’ left. Beneath his signature wide-brimmed hat, the older man’s face was chapped pink by the cold and had several days’ worth of stubble across his chin. Callis rubbed his own face ruefully. His typically neat and well-groomed moustache was tapering wildly out of control, and a coarse beard itched beneath the scarf wrapped around his mouth.

‘Follow my lead once we arrive,’ said Toll. ‘The feud between the Junicas and the Dezraeds is on the verge of erupting into a full-scale border war.’

‘No wonder,’ muttered Callis. ‘I’d be miserable too, if I lived out here.’

The Brackenmarsh was a featureless expanse of foul-smelling mud and grime that lay to the east of the great city of Excelsis. It was a bubbling pit of slime and weeds that reached to the mouth of the enormous Ulwhyr Forest. They had avoided the winding trade road that led through the marsh to the frontier township, as Toll had wanted to make it to Marshpoint as swiftly as possible. Unfortunately, marsh striders were the only way to cross the fenland – travelling by foot was a sure way of getting yourself drowned or eaten by the primitive beasts that dwelled within its murky depths. Despite their immense size and vicious, barbed forelimbs, the mantis-like beasts were completely docile. Each of their six legs ended in a tangle of thick hairs that spread out across the rippling surface of the water, forming buoyant pads that allowed the striders to skip across the marsh with surprising speed.

‘The disappearance of Adrec Junica has turned a tense situation into a volatile one,’ said Toll. ‘House Junica has long accused the Dezraeds of trying to undermine their trade in silksteel, and now they have an excuse to spill blood.’

‘If that happened, the Freeguilds would not receive their shipments of silksteel.’

Silksteel was a substance woven by arachnids found within the Ulwhyr. Thin and light, it possessed a fearsome tensile strength, meaning that it could be woven into light, padded armour that stopped blades and arrows as surely as steel plate. As Excelsis lacked vast natural deposits of metal, silksteel was vital for outfitting the local regiments. Without it, the already undermanned city guard would find itself under-equipped too.

‘Indeed,’ said Toll, nodding. ‘We’re here to try and neutralise the fray by uncovering whether Lord Junica’s firstborn son was indeed slain by the hands of the Dezraeds, or simply drank too much, stumbled into the marsh and drowned.’

‘Hardly seems like vital work for an agent of the Order of Azyr,’ said Callis. ‘Couldn’t they have sent a detachment from the city guard?’

‘The city guard is stretched parchment-thin as it is,’ said Toll. ‘The battle for Excelsis left the city weak and vulnerable. If it comes under siege again, it will fall. Trade has been severely hampered and the people are ready to riot. Callis, this infighting could be the spark that ignites a full-scale uprising.’ Toll paused. ‘We would have no choice but to set the White Reaper loose. That’s not an outcome I would relish.’

Callis fought off a shudder. He had once come face to face with Lord-Veritant Cerrus Sentanus – the White Reaper of Excelsis – and had barely escaped with his life. If Sentanus was loosed upon the inhabitants of the city, the streets would run with blood.

‘Here,’ growled their guide, pointing one thin finger into the distance. Following his gesture, they could see the lambent glow of torches flickering. Rising up out of the mist like the backbone of some drowned behemoth, a perimeter wall loomed over a short pier of mildewed wood. It was a well-made fortification, as these things went. The wood was smoothed and sanded down to prevent anyone scaling it, and dotted along the line were swivel-mounted arbalests with large, hook-shaped magazines. A great, circular tower loomed above the parapet, and atop the battlements, Callis could see a heavy ballista, aiming out into the gloom.

‘The ones who built this place knew their business,’ Callis said. ‘You’d only require a few men to hold this wall against a horde.’

‘You’re looking at Junica coin,’ said Toll. ‘They employed the most skilled duardin siege-smiths when they built this place. You don’t survive out here, beyond the city’s reach, unless you can defend yourself. Their private armies are larger than many Freeguild regiments. House Dezraed’s included.’

Callis’ eyebrows quipped. ‘I’m surprised that’s allowed.’

‘Both Dezraed and Junica are old Azyr stock. At one time or another, they’ve both had figures on the council of Azyrheim. The men we’re here to see, though, are minor scions of the great houses. Still, they’re powerful figures with a bottomless supply of coin and the ear of the Excelsis council. As long as they pay their tithes and maintain their shipments, the city is content to allow their standing armies.’

As they approached the bank, the marsh striders hauled themselves out of the dank swamp, flicking their long limbs free of foul-smelling weeds.

‘Who passes?’ came a shout from the palisade gatehouse, where a bucket-helmed face peered down at them, silhouetted against the sickly yellow sky. The figure was leaning against a swivel-gun mounted upon the edge of the wall.

‘We are expected,’ shouted Toll, dropping nimbly from the saddle, patting the beast’s chitinous, armour-plated leg affectionately. The thing gave a shrill chirp and lowered its many-eyed head to the mossy earth, loudly slurping at a clump of moss. ‘I am Hanniver Toll, agent of the Order of Ayr. Open the gate.’

Even from a distance away, Callis could see the colour drain from the man’s face.

‘The witch hunter,’ breathed the guard. The figure made a frantic gesture to someone on the other side of the wall, and there was a clanking, grinding sound. Slowly, the great gate began to creak open.

‘So this is Marshpoint,’ said Callis. ‘Hardly a sight to set the blood astir.’

It was far from the worst hovel that Callis had ever laid eyes on – indeed the poor quarters of Excelsis were far more rundown – but a tangible pall of misery hung over the cluttered white stone houses that formed the main street. The construction was simple, functional and rather ugly, with thatched green roofs slanting away into the fog, and uneven masonry.

‘Someone threw this town up in a hurry,’ said Callis.

‘It’s more fort than town, truly,’ said Toll. ‘The only people who live here are soldiers and workers from the silksteel plantations. We’re probably the only outsiders these people have seen in months. Few travellers or merchants risk the trade road this far east.’

Shrouded figures hustled across a road of rough-hewn cobbles in the fading light, glancing at the newcomers with nervous eyes. The central plaza, such as it was, featured a statue of an imposing warrior, a Stormcast Eternal with hammer raised to the skies. The grandeur of the craftsmanship was marred by the smear of verdigris and mould, and the hazy green light that filtered through the darkening clouds gave the noble image an unsettling pallid glow. The looming towers and the high wall cast the squat, unremarkable little town in shadow, giving it a claustrophobic feel.

Several shabby-looking guards dressed in leather jerkins stared down at them from a walkway that ran the length of the outer wall. One strode down the steps to meet them, removing a woollen cap as he did so to reveal a boyish, earnest face, dark-skinned and fresh-eyed. He looked barely out of his teens.

‘They told us to expect visitors,’ he said. ‘But we weren’t expecting you here for another few days. We thought you’d take the trade road.’

‘I would prefer to resolve the situation here as swiftly as possible,’ said Toll. As he stepped forward, he removed his wide-brimmed hat and reached into his coat. He withdrew a waxen scroll, marked with the image of a blazing comet.

‘Sigmar’s teeth,’ whispered the guard as he studied the paper. His eyes went wide. ‘Sorry, sire. Forgive my blasphemy. I…’

‘I have business with Lords Fenrol Dezraed and Kiervaan Junica,’ said Toll, ignoring the man’s discomfort. ‘Send word of my arrival to both.’

‘Um… Begging your pardon, sire, but they won’t leave their estates,’ mumbled the guard. ‘Neither of them. We’ve already seen blood spilled, and with the Junica boy missing, they’re readying for war…’ He shook his head. ‘They’ve stopped the patrols and blocked the roads. There’s only fifty of us defending this entire town. Heavens forbid the orruks come pillaging and burning, or the bog-devils swarm the walls at the White Witch’s command.’

‘Your name?’ said Toll.

‘Guardsman Rolkyr, sire,’ said the man.

‘Send word to both the houses, Guardsman Rolkyr, and return to your post. Your diligence is noted. It would appear that there are some souls yet in Marshpoint who remember their duty.’

Rolkyr seemed surprised. He gave a slight nod and scrambled away up the stairs, shouting orders to his men.

‘Son,’ shouted Toll. The guard turned. ‘Where’s the tavern?’

‘The Moss Throne,’ said Rolkyr, gesturing to a rather shabby two-storey building across the cobbled square. Dim light shone through the lower windows, but other than that it looked more like an abandoned barn than a place to catch a good night’s sleep. The sloped roof was thick with ivy, which draped down the mouldy wooden walls like strands of wet hair. The windows were round and the entire structure sat oddly slanted on the street, as if it was about to slide into the bog. Still, it was a tavern, and they’d have ale. Callis had drunk in far worse places.

‘Obliged,’ said Callis, snapping a friendly salute.

‘Tell the Lords Dezraed and Junica that they can grace us with their presence at this fine establishment.’

‘Sire,’ nodded Rolkyr in agreement. ‘Just supposing, but what if they refuse?’

‘They will not,’ said Toll, ‘if they value their continued existence.’

They took a table in the centre of the tavern and ordered food along with a thin, tasteless ale. Gradually the clientele filtered out, eyeing the newcomers uneasily as they left. The common folk were mostly slight, pale figures, lean from hard work but rather sickly looking. No one but the barkeep, a rotund man of middling years with a drooping moustache and sad eyes, spoke to them. Callis, tired though he was, could feel the aura of tension and unease that surrounded them. It wasn’t merely their presence that unsettled the locals. The town had the distinct feel of a city facing a siege. A burgeoning sense of dread reminded him of times he had spent awaiting battle, knowing that bloodshed was coming, but unable to do anything other than stand ready until the killing started.

After perhaps an hour, they heard the clatter of hooves outside. Callis moved to the window, while Toll continued to pick at a rather sorry slice of grey meat. Peering out of the misted glass, Callis saw two-score soldiers riding pale mares and carrying long, forked spears emerging out of the haze. They flanked a great carriage of crimson and gold, shining gaudily amidst its unassuming surroundings. These soldiers were a different breed to the ragged fellows manning the palisade. They wore thick cloth tunics with silver pads upon the shoulders and chest, and their armour glittered in the gloomy evening light. The image of an aetherhawk in flight was embossed upon their chest plates and upon the barding of their mounts. Callis recognised the motif – the symbol of House Dezraed. The same image hung from the banners of Excelsis’ market square and soared above the Halls of Justice.

He returned to the table and drained the rest of his ale, wincing slightly at the silty, bitter aftertaste.

A few moments later, the door opened, letting in a drizzle of rain and a chill wind. The soldiers entered in perfect parade lockstep, their boots stamping out a staccato rhythm on the wooden floor of the tavern. They spread out in a fan on either side of the door, slamming the hafts of their spears down and raising their heads imperiously. The tavern hound, a morose-looking beast with rheumy eyes and a matted mane of blue-grey fur, got up from its position under Toll and Callis’ table, and sauntered across the floor. It paused briefly to idly lap at its hindquarters and gaze at the newcomers.

‘My name is Captain Lecian Celtegar,’ said the lead soldier in a clipped Azyrite accent. He wore a half-face helm with a bright blue plume, and was the only guard not carrying a longspear. Instead, he rested his hand on a fine, silver longsword at his belt. He removed his helm, revealing a wave of blond hair and an angular face locked in a permanent half-sneer. Callis disliked the man on sight. ‘May I present my Lord Fenrol var Dezraed, the Eagle of the East, Warden of Marshpoint and the scourge of the forest greenskins.’

Callis glanced at Toll. The witch hunter leaned back in his chair, a long-suffering expression upon his face.

A man entered the tavern. At first, Callis thought it was several men, wrapped up in a single enormous bedsheet. The mighty Lord Dezraed was far from the statuesque patrician his entourage had intimated. He was a huge, wobbling bulge of a human, enormously fat with no suggestion of muscle beneath. A toga of rich crimson silk struggled vainly to lend an air of Azyrite nobility to the wall of flesh, but to no avail. Dezraed’s eyes narrowed as he laid eyes on them, two sunken pools of glassy ice within his pink slab of a face. The man’s thin blond hair had been separated and slicked back by rain, and he carried a look of utmost irritation.

‘So you are the findsman, are you?’ he said to Toll, his voice a deep, throaty gurgle. ‘You believe it proper to force me out of my home and onto the streets where Junica’s assassins lurk? You drag me to this hovel, like I am some minor cutpurse to be ordered about at your own will?’

Toll rapped his fingers on the table and stared levelly at Lord Dezraed.

‘Take a seat, my lord,’ he said, and there was not a hint of irritation or anger in his words. Not for the first time, Callis wondered how the man remained so calm. ‘Lord Kiervaan var Junica will be joining us presently, then together we three will unpick this mess.’

Dezraed’s eyes widened.

‘You invite the very man that seeks my death? Who baselessly blames me for the abduction of his firstborn son, as if I would sully my hands by laying them upon that thin-blooded wretch? I summoned you here to deal with that madman once and for all, not to–’

‘You do not summon the Order,’ said Toll, and though his voice remained level, there was a sliver of ice in his words. ‘You do not make demands of us. Now sit.’

The noble’s great lips quivered in astonished rage. He was not a man used to being spoken to so curtly, Callis thought with some satisfaction.

‘May I offer you a drink?’ said Toll, indicating his cup of ale.

Dezraed snorted, turning his nose up at the humble spread that lay before the witch hunter.

‘Wine,’ he barked at his retainers, who rushed back outside into the rain. Dezraed snapped his fingers and another two perfumed servants rushed forth carrying an immense curule chair between them. They set it down. The man eased his bulk into it with a groan of protesting timber.

They waited perhaps another thirty minutes or so in interminable silence before they heard the clatter of approaching horses. Dezraed’s men moved to surround their master, who slurped the last dregs from a horn of pale, sweet-smelling mead. The door swung open and a stocky man in black leather and chainmail entered. The newcomer took in the scene, fixing on Toll for a moment. The witch hunter met his gaze. Eventually, the man slammed one fist on the door and a group of heavyset men entered, armoured in gold-plated scale armour and long, black hoods. Each carried a black-iron mace fashioned in the shape of a comet. They held their weapons at the ready as they filtered in, glaring daggers at Dezraed and his own gleaming host. Callis let one hand fall to his pistol and readied a foot to overturn the table if things went awry, as they typically did in these situations. If Toll felt the tension, he did not show it.

A thin, aging man dressed in austere black entered, flanked by two more guards. He wore a military-style jacket and breastplate, polished and buckled with parade-ground precision. His greying hair was shaved close to the scalp, and he wore his moustache thin and curled with wax. This one fancies himself a military man, thought Callis. A strangely common delusion amongst the noble classes, that. Lord Junica took in his modest surroundings with the air of a man examining some unpleasant substance stuck to the sole of his boot. His face was gaunt where Dezraed’s was flabby, and his brow was furrowed in a cold glare that only intensified when he caught a glimpse of his rival.

‘Lord Junica,’ said Toll, tearing a hunk of black bread in half and dabbing it into the thin stew. ‘Please, join us. I am Hanniver Toll, of the hallowed Order of the Azyr.’

‘You ask me to sit beside the man who killed my son?’ hissed Kiervaan Junica. ‘I should paint the floor with this fat bastard’s blood.’

Dezraed spluttered in outrage and his guards stepped forwards, spears lowering threateningly. Junica’s men took a pace back, readying their own weapons. There was a muffled yelp as the barkeep dived behind his counter to the sound of smashing glass. Toll took another bite of bread and washed it down with a swig of ale.

‘I did not kill your idiotic spawn, but I wish I had,’ shouted Dezraed, slamming his meaty fists upon the table. ‘The only good Junica is a dead Junica, and if you insult my honour again, I shall seek the satisfaction. I warn you now!’

‘Enough,’ said Toll, and the two men looked at the witch hunter in surprise. Seemingly oblivious to their disbelief, Toll took up a napkin in one hand and dabbed at his moustache.

‘Stand your men down. If there is even a drop of spilled blood at this table, then word will make it back to Excelsis, I assure you. Next time the Order dispatches an agent to your doorstep, they will not send a single man. They will send in the hounds, my lords. Your lands and your profits will be confiscated. Both of you will be dragged before the Halls of Justice to explain why you defied the word of the God-King. Perhaps we shall give you to the White Reaper, so that he may uncover the true extent of your failures.’

Lord Dezraed’s red face went suddenly pale, and even Lord Junica looked unnerved at the threat. Callis allowed himself a small grin. There was a distinct pleasure to be found in watching Toll work.

‘This is a private matter,’ Kiervaan Junica stuttered. ‘There is no treason here. I only wish to know the truth behind the disappearance of my son.’

‘Disrupting the flow of vital supplies in a time of war is treason,’ said Toll. ‘If I possessed the same disposition of many of my kin, you both would already be returned to the city dungeons, there to wait for the hangman’s rope around your necks. Now sit, my lord.’

Junica eased himself into a chair. His bodyguards stood on either side.

‘Pass me the ale,’ said Toll, gesturing at Lord Junica.

The noble looked startled at the blunt request, as if Toll had just fired his pistol into the ceiling. His attendants stared at each other in confusion.

‘Excuse me?’ Junica said.

‘The ale,’ Toll repeated.

To Callis’ surprise, Junica reached out an uncertain hand and passed the jug of sour-smelling liquid to the witch hunter, who took it and poured himself a fresh cup.

‘You accuse Lord Dezraed of murder without proof?’ said Callis.

Junica glanced at him, surprised, as if he had not noticed him at all before he had spoken.

‘Long has the feud between Junica and Dezraed raged,’ he said. ‘When we forged a path on the frontier with blood and spirit, the Dezraeds followed us like parasites, leeching off of our noble work. As they have always done.’

‘You dare?’ roared Lord Dezraed, spittle flying from his lips. ‘House Dezraed desires only to serve the will of Sigmar, as we have always done. It is the Junicas who provoke us, stealing away the riches of the land for themselves alone, threatening honest workers and harassing my soldiers at every possible turn. Excelsis is built upon the blood of the Dezraeds. We were here long before the Junicas, and we shall be here long after your ragged house crumbles into dust.’

‘My steward, Ghedren, saw your men pursue my son into the forest,’ said Junica, indicating the unassuming man in the chainmail hauberk. ‘They were drunk, seeking sport. My firstborn son. Aldrec was a strong, brave boy, and your men ran him down like a dog. At your order, no doubt.’

‘My soldiers did nothing of the sort. Yet I know that you yourself resort to murder all too quickly, Junica,’ snarled Dezraed. ‘As did your son. On the very night you claim he was assaulted, it was he who murdered a Dezraed man in cold blood, then fled the scene of the crime rather than face the consequences. Half a dozen more of my men have disappeared also. No doubt their bodies have been dumped in some stinking bog with Junica daggers in their backs.’

‘You witnessed this altercation?’ Callis asked Ghedren.

‘I did,’ the man said, nodding. ‘It is as the Lord Junica states. Words were exchanged and swords were drawn. I do not know who struck the first blow, but Aldrec was wounded on the arm in the struggle. He fled on horseback. The Dezraeds chased him.’ The man spoke with a soft, lilting accent, quite at odds with his coarse and weathered face. Callis guessed that Ghedren was in his third decade or thereabouts, but he had the rough look of a man who plied his trade in the wilds. Callis noticed the familiar curling lines of blue-ink tattoos emerging from under the man’s collar. A fellow Reclaimed. A descendent of the nomadic tribes who had once lived here, before Sigmar’s Tempest brought the light of the heavens back into the realms, rather than a great, Azyr-born family like his masters. Perhaps that was why he appeared to possess some humility.

‘They went beyond the eastern gate and into the Ulwhyr,’ he continued. ‘I followed after them, but they were horsed and I was not. I lost them in the darkness, but I heard screams, so returned to seek help.’

‘The words of a lowborn mercenary employed by the Junica,’ said Captain Celtegar, with a dismissive snort. ‘How utterly convincing. I tell you now, upon my honour and that of my men, no such incident took place. This one lies.’

Ghedren simply shrugged. ‘It is what I saw.’

‘How many days past was this?’ asked Toll.

‘Five days, sire.’

‘And you have returned since to search the area?’

‘We have. We found no sign of Master Junica, nor of his pursuers.’

‘It is possible, then, that something else could have occurred within the Ulwhyr? Not murder?’ Toll continued.

Ghedren shrugged. ‘Perhaps, but the Dezraed soldiers were after blood.’

‘You will take me and my associate there,’ said Toll. ‘You will guide us to the spot where you lost track of them. If what you say is true, there will be traces of their passing.’

Ghedren looked at his master for confirmation. Lord Junica nodded slightly.

‘Captain Celtegar will accompany you,’ said Lord Dezraed. ‘Along with two men of his choosing. Just to ensure that this is not some foolish attempt at revenge.’

‘I have such a thing as honour, you bloated fiend,’ snapped Junica. ‘A concept that escapes you entirely.’

Their bickering was about to start over anew, when Toll slammed his fist on the table.

‘Silence,’ he barked. ‘At dawn, we will enter the Ulwhyr and find out the truth of this. My lords, you will remain in Marshpoint until I tell you otherwise. And I warn you both, if blood is shed on these streets, I promise I will ensure that a price is paid. Now leave.’

Callis followed Toll out of the eastern gate of Marshpoint early the next morning, rubbing at his itching eyes. It had not been a relaxing sleep in the cramped guest chambers of the Moss Throne. The room had smelled of mildew and rot, and he had been kept awake by the sounds of buzzing insects and a slow, steady dripping from the roof above his head.

‘So, what do you think of our Lords Junica and Dezraed?’ Toll asked.

Callis scratched his beard and yawned.

‘They would each see the other destroyed if they could,’ he said. ‘That’s clear. But I am not sure about a murder plot. Lord Dezraed hardly seems like a master schemer.’

‘Do not underestimate him,’ said Toll. ‘Marshpoint may not be a glamorous place, but the silksteel plantations are of great value to both houses. They would not send lackwits out here to oversee one of their most valuable trades. Fenrol Dezraed looks like a greedy fool, but clever men often hide behind the mummer’s mask.’

‘Why the firstborn son?’ said Callis. ‘Why not the old man himself? If you’re going to start a war, why not make that your opening move? If this is a Dezraed scheme, what’s the end goal?’

Toll rolled his hat in his hands and nodded thoughtfully.

‘Be watchful as we enter the Ulwhyr,’ he said, checking the firing pan of his four-barrelled pistol. ‘Observe all. Discount nothing.’

‘I’ve patrolled the wilds before,’ said Callis. ‘I know well what it’s like out here.’

‘I do not just mean the forest,’ Toll replied, but before Callis could ask what he meant, the witch hunter strode over to greet the Junica steward, Ghedren, who was waiting for them on a flooded path that led out towards the distant spectre of the Ulwhyr Forest. The man carried a well-made composite bow and a heavy-bladed knife at his hip. He was wrapped in a large wolf-skin cloak that smelled strongly of wet fur. He dipped his head in greeting as they approached. The vast, ominous expanse of woodland that was the Ulwhyr lurked on the eastern edge of the town, emerging out of the early morning murk. The canopy was an impenetrable carpet of dark green, the trunks of the trees below gnarled and twisted, leading into darkness. A tide of sickly green mist rolled out from the bog, swirling around the mouth of the forest like the breath of a fallen giant.

‘So that’s where we’re headed?’ Callis said. ‘Seems like an inviting sort of place.’

Ghedren smiled. ‘The Ulwhyr is dangerous, yes. But it is also a place of life. For many years, my people walked its secret paths, hidden from those that wished us harm. It protected us, granted us all that we required. One need only show the forest the proper respect and they can walk amongst its shadows unscathed.’

‘You almost sound as though it’s a sentient thing,’ said Callis.

‘Perhaps it is. These lands are rife with magic. Within the Ulwhyr dwells things more ancient than a mortal could possibly contemplate,’ said Ghedren. ‘The forest belongs to them, not us.’

‘For now,’ interrupted Toll. ‘In time, the light of the God-King will reach even the darkest corners of these lands. We will tame this place, and then we will burn away the shadows.’

‘Some evils cannot be banished so easily.’

‘I did not say that it would be easy,’ said Toll, who then went to converse with the gaggle of nervous-looking guards manning the east gate, leaving Ghedren and Callis alone.

‘You were raised in the city?’ asked the steward.

‘I was,’ Callis replied. ‘Though my family weren’t Azyrite. I served in the Freeguild for many years.’

Callis briefly thought to mention his regiment, but decided against it. The Coldguard of Excelsis had been entirely liquidated for their part in the heretical plot to overthrow the city, after all, and he was the sole survivor. That fact tended to set people on edge, for some unfathomable reason.

‘I thought as much,’ said Ghedren, nodding. ‘You have a soldier’s bearing. It is surprising to me that a man so young – one of the Reclaimed, no less – is in the employ of the Order. You must be a man of rare talents to be elevated so high.’

‘I’m merely a soldier, as you say. Just doing what is asked of me.’

Ghedren gave an awkward, sad smile.

‘Aren’t we all?’ he said. ‘Yet it seems that we must work twice as hard for half the praise.’

‘Aye,’ said Callis. ‘I won’t disagree with you there.’

‘Your master… This witch hunter,’ said Ghedren. ‘He is Azyr-born, I take it.’

Callis blinked in surprise as he realised he had never thought to ask.

‘I confess, I have no idea,’ he said.

‘He’s more alike to them than us, I think,’ said Ghedren. ‘I worry that he does not understand this place, not truly. He is a creature of the crowded street, the shadowed back-alley…’

They heard boots squelching through the mud, and turned to see Toll leading three soldiers along the muddy path towards them – two Dezraed guards and the captain, Celtegar. All had pistols strapped to their belts and had ditched their spears for more practical longswords.

‘Corporals Brujda,’ said the captain, indicating the shaven-headed woman, ‘and Yol.’ The latter was a short, stocky red-headed man with a wispy beard and lazy eyes. The two soldiers gave perfunctory nods, all business. Celtegar cast a withering look at Ghedren.

‘Where do you insist that this fiction occurred?’

‘They pursued the Junica boy this way, along the path and into the forest,’ said Ghedren.

‘Lies.’

‘He was bleeding from his wounds, and they were striking him with lances.’

‘When this farce is over, I’ll have your head for this, savage,’ snapped Celtegar.

‘You’ll keep a civil tongue in your head,’ snarled Callis, moving to within an inch of Celtegar’s face, enjoying the look of surprised fury on the man’s angular features. ‘The only justice here will be served by the Order of Azyr.’

For a moment, Callis thought Celtegar would swing for him. He tensed his arms, ready to block the man’s punch and return it in kind.

‘Stand down, Armand,’ said Toll. ‘This is not the time nor the place.’

Callis stared into the captain’s grey eyes a moment longer, just to let him know the time had long passed where he would suffer the insults and barbs of blue-blooded fools. When he stepped back, Celtegar was all but trembling with rage.

‘Lead on, Ghedren,’ the witch hunter said. ‘I would have us get to the truth of this as soon as possible.’

Callis had never much liked forests. He’d fought in several during his time in the Freeguilds, and these had been amongst his most miserable experiences. The deep woods played tricks on a soldier’s mind, made one jump at every sound and every flickering shadow. The Ulwhyr was worse than most. It was a twisted labyrinth of curling boughs, smothered in darkness. Its mist swirled around their legs and up to their knees, making every step a potential hazard. Callis had expected the usual cacophony of sounds, the chattering of insects and the hooting of birds, yet the ominous canopy above them was startlingly silent. He winced at every snapped stick and muttered curse from his companions. If anyone was lurking in wait for them, they would hear the approach from a mile away.

They had been walking for perhaps two hours when Yol stumbled, then let out a curse in shock when he realised what had caught his foot. It was a corpse, face down in the soil. The grey flesh and stiffness of the limbs suggested this was at least a few days old. A man armoured in the silver of House Dezraed.

Callis rolled the body over with his boot. The dead man’s eyes were wide, crazed even, like a frightened deer. His mouth was open in a scream, and blood had caked around his eyes and mouth.

‘Lartach,’ breathed the Dezraed woman, Brujda. ‘He went missing a few days back. Around the same time as the Junica boy. He was an idiot and a drunkard, but a decent enough sort otherwise.’

‘There are no wounds,’ mused Callis. ‘Nowhere. How did this man die?’

‘The White Witch,’ muttered Yol, shaking his head.

‘Enough with that nonsense,’ snorted Captain Celtegar.

‘What’s that you say?’ asked Callis. ‘The guard at the gate mentioned that name.’

‘Just a legend,’ said Celtegar, waving a dismissive hand. ‘A tale concocted by the natives of this region. It’s all they ever talk about. The dreaded White Witch of the Ulwhyr, the taker of children. A ghost, whose screams can stop the heart of mortals.’

‘Oh, she is real,’ said Ghedren softly. ‘These are her lands.’

‘All you people ever talk about are ghosts, spriggans, tolmickles and bog-devils,’ mocked Celtegar. ‘Backwards nonsense. This is probably just another fool who got drunk and choked on his own spew.’

Ghedren stood and slowly moved off deeper into the treeline.

‘Horse tracks,’ he said. ‘They lead this way.

‘Continue,’ said Toll.

Callis squinted. ‘I don’t know how you can see anything in this fog.’

‘My father taught me to hunt in these woods,’ said Ghedren. ‘He taught me to track, to move unseen, to hide my trail. To understand and respect the dangers of the wild. These men we seek, the Dezraed guards, they may have lived here for many years now, but they have learned no such lessons. Such superstition is beneath them, so they say. They believe only in the power of the God-King, and scorn the wild tales of uncivilised folk.’

‘If Celtegar is what counts as civilised, I’ll gladly remain a so-called savage,’ muttered Callis, and Ghedren chuckled.

They were losing light now, despite the fact that it could not have been more than a few hours since they had set off. The thick canopy overhead cast them into near pitch-black darkness. Every tangled cluster of vine seemed to take the form of a skulking beast of the forest, and every wisping curl of fog seemed almost alive in its movement, drifting towards them out of the murk. Callis shook his head, angry with himself for allowing this miserable place to unsettle him. Eventually, they came to a wide, enclosed clearing, hemmed in on all sides by fat-trunked oaks. A great pool of greenish water spread out before them, dotted by clusters of drooping reeds and sharp rocks. At the far end of the pool, a bank of discoloured leaves rose into a steep mound dominated by a huge, long-dead blackwood tree. In the centre of the marsh was a small island of pale flesh and shining metal.

‘Another body,’ said Ghedren.

They waded out into the morass to get a closer look. It was a dead horse, half-submerged in the foetid water, pallid and bloated. Something had torn great chunks out of the beast’s hide, devoured most of its innards. They shoved against the carcass and found a rider beneath, pinned by the animal’s weight. The dead man’s face was horribly swollen and his skin a pale green.

‘Scavengers,’ said Ghedren, noticing Callis’ uncomfortable look. ‘These are the bites of several creatures. These, however…’

He indicated scores of smaller slices across the flank of the horse and on the body of the dead man. They looked like gouges, ragged and imprecise, rather than the neat cut of a blade. One such tear had ripped open the unfortunate soldier’s cheek, and another had torn a bloody line across his throat. It looked as if the horse had been dragged down into the mud, and the rider had become trapped underneath its weight, helpless against his attackers.

‘There’s something out here,’ growled Captain Celtegar. ‘Watching us. I can feel it. Whatever did this, it isn’t far away.’

Ghedren knelt, placed a hand on the mossy earth and stared off into the blackness of the forest. After a moment, he shook his head.

‘I do not sense anything nearby,’ he said.

‘Who cares a damn what you sense, curseblood?’ snapped Celtegar.

Callis had heard that term before. Several of the officers in his regiment had muttered the same insult behind his back, not caring if he heard. It was used to denigrate any who did not hail from blessed Azyr, anyone who was – in their eyes – tainted by native blood.

‘Use that word again and I’ll break your jaw, you preening shit,’ said Callis, slowly and deliberately.

Celtegar’s men squared up, their hands on the hilts of their swords. The captain stepped close to Callis, who had to lean his head back to maintain eye contact. He was a big brute, this one, but still, Callis had fought bigger.

‘You will withdraw that insult,’ said Celtegar.

‘You shall first,’ said Callis. ‘You forget who I represent here, captain. Strike a member of the Order, and see the consequences.’

‘Silence,’ hissed Toll. The witch hunter’s pistol was raised, aimed out into the swirling fog. In a matter of moments, the mist had grown as thick as smoke, and now formed an opaque wall around them. They could barely see more than a dozen feet in any direction. Something stirred with a splash in the water nearby, and they all started, drawing their blades and forming a circle, hostility temporarily forgotten.

‘I told you,’ said Celtegar, his voice tight with fear. ‘Something is coming.’

He had barely finished speaking when something broke the surface of the bog and closed around his leg. Celtegar shrieked in surprise and toppled backwards, sending up a great wave of water as he splashed onto his rear. An arm, rotted through and draped in weeds, was clamped tightly around his ankle. A head emerged, flaps of decaying skin hanging loosely from a grinning skull. The undead thing began to haul itself along the captain’s prone form, reaching for his neck with creaking fingers. Callis put a boot against the undead’s chest, kicking it off the screaming Celtegar and into the murky water. He hacked at its neck with his blade. The head came free, sinking into the bog.

Another figure erupted from the water behind Corporal Brujda, wrapping its arms around her neck, teeth tearing at her neck and shattering as they crunched into her plate gorget. She gasped in revulsion and began to awkwardly swipe and slash at its forearms, trying to cut it loose. Yol smashed the pommel of his blade into the undead thing’s head, and it fell back into the water, but another was already rising in its place. This corpse looked fresher than the others, and was clad in the same shining metal plate as the Dezraed warriors. Its head lolled at a strange, unnatural angle, but Callis could make out a thin, cruel face with eyes glazed and vacant.

‘G-Gaulter?’ stammered Yol, lowering his blade just a fraction.

Too much. The risen corpse slashed its own weapon, a rusted sabre, across in a wide arc, and there was a splatter of bright crimson. The Dezraed guard fell, clutching an opened throat, gurgling and choking. He splashed into the water, and his former companion leapt upon him and drove its sword into his chest again and again.

‘Move!’ shouted Toll, grabbing Captain Celtegar under the arm and hauling the heavyset man to his feet. The water boiled to life as yet more rotting bodies clambered upright. The witch hunter fired and a corpse came apart in an explosion of bone and flesh. The stench of rot and acrid gunpowder choked the air.

‘This way!’ shouted Ghedren, splashing through the water towards a rising bank of dead leaves.

They staggered after him, weaving their way through the mass of decaying bodies. As they dragged themselves up onto the muddy bank, more dead things erupted from the water, scraping and clawing at their legs. Callis saw a skeleton rise up ahead of him, a curling branch of thorns protruding from its eye sockets. He drew his pistol and fired. The bullet smashed the skull into a thousand shards of wet bone, and the thing slumped back beneath the surface. Then they were out, on their hands and knees, dragging themselves free. Toll grabbed Callis’ hand and hauled him up. Callis turned, searching for the Dezraed woman, Brujda. She was wading after them, hacking at the bodies rising around her, eyes terrified.

‘Come on,’ roared Callis, stretching out his hand, straining to reach her.

She was only an arm’s length away when half a dozen dead things surrounded her and bore her down. Her scream cut off abruptly as she went under, and bubbles broke the surface. Callis and Celtegar tried to cut their way down to reach Brujda as she thrashed underwater, but more of the dead were rising with every moment, blocking their path and dragging themselves onto the shore. The foetid surface of the swamp turned a deep crimson.

‘She’s gone,’ said Toll, firing round after round, the grey-black smoke from his pistol churning with the pale, white mist.

An arm wrapped in rusted chainmail reached out of the mist to grasp the witch hunter around the throat. A leering skull appeared over the man’s shoulder, its yellowed fangs snapping as it sought to bite down into Toll’s exposed neck. Toll drove an elbow into the side of the thing’s head and there was a crunch of breaking bone, but its grip did not relent. Callis stepped forward, trying to keep his balance while straining to reach Toll. He lost his footing in the slick mud and fell, slipping and cursing, back towards the marsh water. Somehow he managed to grasp a fistful of gnarled roots to stay his descent. He looked up to see Toll stumbling backwards, the skeleton still tearing at his neck. The witch hunter fell, seemingly in slow motion, swallowed up by the mist.

‘Toll!’ shouted Callis, crawling forwards on his hands and knees, searching for his companion. There was no reply, and he could see nothing but the ghostly shapes of shambling figures drawing ever closer. He fired and one of the figures dropped to the ground with a rattling groan.

‘He is lost, Armand,’ shouted Ghedren. He loosed his bow and an arrow sailed past Callis’ head to smash a skeleton to the ground. ‘We must run! This way! Follow my steps.’

Callis took one last look into the thick fog.

‘Hanniver?’ he shouted, but heard only the echo of his own words in response.

It was hopeless. To blunder out into the gloom with the dead all around would be to seal his own fate alongside the witch hunter’s. He felt numb. It seemed absurd – all that he and Toll had been through, only for the man to fall here. Cursing, he turned and followed Ghedren, who led them higher, along the crest of the mound. It was a strange formation, Callis noticed. There was an almost artificial curve to it, a gently sloping arc through which rose a great, twisted tree of black wood. Ghedren stopped beneath its creaking boughs, watching the others as they approached him. The ground suddenly groaned beneath their weight, the roots splintering. Soil and clusters of leaves tumbled away into a pitch-black hole. Callis tripped and fell, sliding towards the drop, clutching desperately for a handhold on the mud-slick roots. He stared up at Ghedren.

‘Help us,’ he shouted, but the man did not move a muscle.

‘Forgive me.’

Ghedren reached down and tugged hard at a thick cluster of vines, raising his long dagger in one hand. He sliced down, again and again, and with a loud crack the roots came apart. The ground beneath Callis and Celtegar fell away. They toppled end over end as the world spun. Callis tried to grasp a hold, but could find no purchase. Something ripped at his cheek and blood splattered across his face. Dirt blinded him and filled his mouth. Suddenly, he struck something with enough force to blast the air from his lungs. Everything went dark.

Callis was dragged back to consciousness by a stabbing pain in his face. He brushed a hand against his cheek and felt torn flesh. Groaning, he struggled to his feet, spitting foul-tasting soil. He stared up and saw a trickle of light filtering down from above. That snake, Ghedren. He had led them here, like lambs to the slaughter. But where, exactly, were they?

Someone moaned beside him. He saw a gleam of metal in the darkness. It was Celtegar. The Dezraed man stood and teetered, favouring his left leg.

‘Are you all right?’ asked Callis.

‘Just fine,’ spat the man. ‘I warned you we could not trust that wretch. Now, where are we?’

‘Good question,’ said Callis. He squinted, waiting impatiently for his eyes to adjust to the gloom. They appeared to be in some kind of tunnel. It looked too smooth to be a natural formation. He ran his hand down the wall to his left and felt something hard and cold. Stone. So this was some kind of ancient structure they had fallen into, built from…

His hand brushed over a stone and he felt a circular indentation. Below that, he ran his fingers over a row of sharp objects, a surface of irregular curves and indentations. A shiver of fear ran down his spine.

‘Skulls,’ he whispered. ‘Skulls in the walls.’

Celtegar bent and picked up his blade. Callis gathered his own and recovered his pistol, his heart thumping. His eyes had adjusted to the light, and he could see that all around them were bones, packed into the earth – row upon row of grinning skulls and the curving beams of ribcages. Fingers and teeth arranged in spiral patterns that turned his stomach. Hundreds upon hundreds of dead things, packed and piled upon each other. Not just human bones, but the fanged skulls of forest beasts and the delicate frames of dead birds. He stepped forward and felt the crunch of more bones underfoot.

‘By the God-King,’ whispered Celtegar. ‘What is this place?’

Ahead, the tunnel curved and descended. Callis moved forwards carefully, the carpet of bone crunching with every footstep. Ahead, the tunnel ended at the mouth of a cave, a pitch-black archway of stone from which hung several objects that clattered and tinkled in the wind. Animal bones, bound together with long ropes of knotted hair, formed into gruesome marionettes. Runes were carved into the black surface, in a language Callis could not read. They were harsh, childlike etchings, and their simplicity somehow made them all the more unsettling. He edged closer and felt the dangling totems clatter against his leather jerkin as he eased past them. Beyond, a low-ceilinged chamber was formed from tangled roots, which curled around each other to create an enormous throne of twisted briar. Upon the throne sat a skeletal figure, head bowed. It was draped in robes of white cloth and a silk gauze covered its face. Around this figure were scores of skeletons, a congregation near one hundred in number, their heads bowed in supplication. Men, women, duardin and aelves. Some were full-sized. Most were small, delicate things. Children, Callis realised with horror. He moved closer. Behind the throne, he noticed another tunnel, thick with vines and thorny brambles. This one appeared to slope up, and he could see the faint shimmer of light.

‘This way,’ he muttered to Celtegar, who nodded. Together, they began to inch their way through the chamber, between the kneeling dead. They drew closer to the enthroned figure. Its fleshless hands rested upon the knotted armrests of its seat. In its right fist, it clutched a silver dagger.

At the very foot of the throne, kneeling amongst the throng, was a tall, broad-shouldered figure swathed in a black cloak, and a silver aetherhawk embroidered across the back glittered in the dim light. His shoulder-length hair was black, smeared with mud and dead leaves.

‘It’s the Junica boy,’ muttered Celtegar, starting forwards.

The man’s head lolled at a strange angle, and his neck was coated in dried blood.

‘He’s dead,’ said Callis. ‘We must leave.’

‘We need to retrieve the body,’ said Celtegar. ‘Here is the proof that the Lord Dezraed is innocent of any crime.’

‘If we stay here, we’ll end up as dead as this one. We have to move.’

The soldier ignored Callis and slowly reached out a hand towards the dead man’s head. The wind whistling through the chamber grew louder. Something clattered behind Callis making him spin around, raising his sword. He saw nothing but the sea of smiling skeletons. He turned back, shaking his head.

The figure on the throne snapped its head up to look straight into Callis’ eyes.

He cried out and staggered backwards. The figure rose, drifting up from its throne and into the air, throwing its silk-wrapped head backwards to reveal a gaunt and terrible face, a half-necrotised, feminine visage with eyes the colour of deep water. A crown of thorns rested upon the creature’s brow.

‘Il thua ca na men,’ it hissed, in a voice like splintering glass. ‘Worach mach bar!’

And then the spirit opened its mouth and screamed.

The sound drove a knife through Callis’ heart. He collapsed onto his back, mouth open in horrified agony as his chest tightened and his muscles tensed so hard that he felt the bones of his left hand pop from their sockets. He spat blood, and his vision swam with crimson. That awful sound. It was a keening wail of pure misery and hatred. His heart skipped a beat and he tried to breathe, but found he could not draw in the air. Panic gripped him and he almost blacked out.

Abruptly, the keening stopped. Callis lay there, unable to breathe, unable to move. Slowly, awfully, the spectre drifted above him, staring down at him with malice. The spirit bent down to embrace him, placing its ice-cold fingers upon each side of his head. He gazed into its night-black eyes and saw nothing but a deep and unquenchable hatred. His terror was absolute.

The spirit’s mouth yawned open, exposing blackened teeth. It came closer and closer. He tried to scream but could not form the sound.

Suddenly, the wraith’s eyes snapped off to the side, widening first in surprise, then in rage. A sword swept through the air. The spectre hissed as the silver metal swept through its incorporeal form. It spiralled away from the strike in a wisp of green-white light. Callis felt a hand grab him by the shirt and lift him upright. It was Toll. The witch hunter raised his pistol, the barrel a mere inch from Callis’ temple. As they heard the first awful, discordant notes of the spirit’s keening wail, Toll fired. The flash of the muzzle left a scar of light across Callis’ vision, and he was thrown backwards.

This close to their ears, in the cramped confines of the low chamber, the effect of the gunshot was akin to a cannon discharging. Callis heard nothing but a painful, piercing ringing. He gasped for breath, blue in the face, and finally sucked in a ragged mouthful of air. He saw Toll, standing before the floating spectre, one hand clasped to the comet symbol around his neck, the other wielding his silver rapier. The spirit rushed forward, its ragged mouth torn open in a silent scream, its dagger seeking the witch hunter’s neck. As the ghost swept in, Toll hurled himself to the side, slashing at the insubstantial body of the creature. The banshee screeched, then whirled and came for the witch hunter again. This time, Toll reached to his belt and hurled a handful of white powder. The spirit recoiled, mouth twisted in agony. It slashed its dagger across and Toll fell back, a spurt of blood erupting from his left shoulder. The witch hunter’s sword spun away into the field of bones. The banshee swooped towards the prone man, hands reaching for Toll’s throat.

Callis scrambled to his feet, almost tripping over the corpse of Captain Celtegar. The man lay staring sightlessly up at the ceiling, blood pouring from his eyes and mouth. Callis dived for Toll’s fallen rapier and took it up in two hands. It was light and perfectly balanced – even holding it seemed to still his thudding heart. The banshee wrapped its bony fingers around Toll’s throat. The witch hunter kicked, struggling and gasping for breath.

Callis leapt forwards and drove the tip of the rapier into the spirit’s side. The banshee arched its back and began to jerk, sickly green light pouring from its mouth as it spasmed. It turned to look at Callis, and the pure, cold hatred on its withered face almost stole the strength from his sword arm. He drove the blade into that awful visage and right down the creature’s throat.

The spirit rose into the air and, even through the ringing in his ears, Callis could hear its awful, high-pitched screech, this time a sound of pain. Then, in a blinding flash that hurled him from his feet, the banshee came apart, erupting into a thousand motes of baleful light. Around them, the bones of the kneeling dead crumbled into dust.

Callis collapsed to the ground, panting, exhausted.

It took several minutes for the ringing in their ears to subside. Even then, it did not completely disappear, nor did the pain fade away. They lay there for a long while, neither speaking. Eventually, Toll hauled himself upright and extended a hand to Callis, dragging him to his feet. The ringing in his ears was agonising still, a piercing pain that jolted through his mind like a lance of fire.

‘We should return the body,’ said Toll at last, his voice muffled as if it were echoing over a great distance. ‘That should spell the end of the Junica and Dezraed feud, at least until they find another reason to come after one another.’

‘Doesn’t feel like much of a victory,’ sighed Callis.

‘They rarely do,’ said Toll. ‘Leave the glorious victories to the soldiers, Callis. We deal in solutions.’

They took hold of the body of the lost Junica boy, and began to drag him towards the tunnel at the rear of the grotto. Callis glanced towards the fallen Captain Celtegar as they left.

‘We’ll send someone to claim his remains and those of his soldiers,’ said Toll. ‘And a priest to see these folk get a proper burial.’

It was a long, awkward struggle to haul the dead body up the sloping channel, but eventually they clawed their way out of a bank of close-packed soil and back into the gloom of the Ulwhyr. Callis sucked in a mouthful of air and slumped to his knees.

‘I never thought I’d be glad to see this place,’ he said.

‘You slew the White Witch,’ came a voice from behind them. They spun to see Ghedren leaning against the thick trunk of an age-old hardwood tree. He had his bow drawn and raised, aimed straight at Callis. Yet there was only defeat in his eyes, and slowly he lowered the weapon. ‘You are not the first. Just because she is gone for now, it does not mean she will not return. Nor that our children are safe. Killing you now will change nothing.’

Callis charged at the man, grabbed him by the neck and hurled him to the floor. Ghedren did not struggle, even when he drew his sword and pressed it to the man’s neck.

‘You led me there to die,’ Callis snarled.

It was a familiar sensation to Callis. The bitter sting of betrayal, and the sick surge of shame and rage as he realised how easily he had been manipulated. Was this how it always ended, he wondered? Trusting someone, only for them to drive their rapier into your unguarded spine.

‘Do it,’ said Ghedren. ‘Kill me, if you must. I do not begrudge your fury. I am sorry that it came to this, but I had no choice. She always returns, Armand. She always takes her due. The curse cannot be broken.’

‘The children?’ said Toll.

Ghedren nodded, a single tear trickling down his face.

‘When it began, I do not know,’ he said. ‘Before my father’s time, and before his father’s. A tithe borne of her hatred for the living and her sorrow for a life that was taken from her, some say. The firstborn child of the tribal elder must be delivered unto the White Witch, lest her wrath fall upon all others. Every generation, another sacrifice. By giving one life to sate her fury, the people may survive.’

‘Lord Junica’s son,’ said Callis. ‘You led him to that beast as well?’

‘There are no longer any tribes, but the White Witch still demands her due. The Azyrites rule over us, and so they must pay the blood price. We tried to explain. We tried to tell them what lay within these woods, and the danger they courted by straying into the depths of the Ulwhyr in search of profit. The silksteel plantations, they strayed into her domain. We tried to warn them that her wrath would be terrible unless an offering was made, but they would not listen. They would not believe. And so, for the good of all, I acted.’

‘The Dezraed soldiers,’ said Toll. ‘How did you dispose of them?’

‘Their feud with Aldrec Junica was real enough,’ said Ghedren. ‘It was simple fortune that I was there that night, accompanying my lord’s son to the house of his mistress. We passed the Dezraed soldiers on the road. They were drunk and eager for a fight. Aldrec was never one to back down. Insults were exchanged and swords drawn. He slew one of their number and the rest pursued him. I saw a chance and took advantage of it. I led him deep into the Ulwhyr. The Dezraed followed, and one by one they were claimed by the forest.’

Callis slammed the man’s head against the ground. ‘And what? Murdering us was an attempt to cover up your crimes?’

Ghedren closed his eyes.

‘I did not wish to kill you,’ he said, his voice soft and sad. ‘But I knew you would never understand what is at stake. You would not stop until you found out the truth.’

‘The witch is dead,’ said Toll. ‘If you had trusted us enough to tell us the truth, lives could have been saved. Including, perhaps, your own.’

‘You ended nothing,’ snapped Ghedren, shaking his head frantically. ‘You think brave warriors have not fought the White Witch before? She is tied to this place, to the very spirit of this forest. No blade can lay her low. She has haunted these trails for centuries. Perhaps even longer. She will return, and her vengeance will be more terrible than ever. It is the children that will pay the price for your actions.’ He sighed. ‘I am ready to face my death. I know, in my heart, I did the only thing that I could have done. Do as you must.’

‘My boy,’ whispered Lord Junica. There were no tears in the old man’s eyes, but his voice broke. Callis looked away. He’d hardly taken to the man, but he knew all too well how it felt to bury a loved one.

Aldrec Junica lay in repose upon the bed of a carriage, his eyes closed and his arms folded across his chest. They had taken him to the local mission – a humble yet sturdy chapel of Sigmar, attended to by an elderly, grey-bearded priest who had performed the rites and consecrated the body with blessed oils. Candles fluttered in the chill breeze. Callis gazed at the benevolent, stained-glass figures that looked down from the chapel’s spire. Saints of old. Warriors and heroes, witnesses to this sad little ceremony.

‘He was slain by a wraith,’ said Toll. ‘A banshee of the forest. The Dezraeds played no part in it. In fact, it was one of your own who led your son to his death.’

Two guards dragged Ghedren forward. Lord Junica stared at him, his mouth trembling.

‘Ghedren?’ he whispered. ‘You?’

The prisoner raised his head and met his master’s gaze.

‘I am sorry for your loss,’ he said. ‘But it was the only way. I tried to tell you. The White Witch required your son’s life.’

Junica staggered over to the kneeling man and struck him across the face.

‘Everything I have done for you,’ his voice shook with rage. ‘Everything you have been given, and you betray me? You murder my boy? My firstborn son?’

He struck Ghedren over and over, his blows growing weaker every time. Toll caught his arm as it fell again, and ushered the man away.

‘Enough,’ said the witch hunter. ‘Come.’

He led Junica out through the doors of the chapel and into the central plaza of Marshpoint. The guards led the bound Ghedren after them. He met Callis’ eyes as they passed, but looked quickly away. There was much that Callis wanted to ask the man, but the time for questions was long gone now. Ranks of Junica soldiers stood in an honour guard outside the Sigmarite chapel, banners fluttering from their raised spears. There were a few-score locals too, crowded around the edge of the square, no doubt wondering what all the fuss was about. Nearby, a small force of Dezraed soldiers mounted on horseback watched the ceremony with bored expressions on their faces.

‘Well, a sad business. But over now, at least,’ said Lord Dezraed, who sat upon the open step of his carriage, wrapped in thick furs to fend off the blustery wind. ‘Only the matter of a formal apology remains.’

‘What?’ hissed Lord Junica, eyes widening in outrage.

‘For your baseless insinuations,’ Dezraed said, as if the answer was perfectly reasonable. ‘Accusing me of this horrible crime, when it was your own man all along.’

‘You’ll get no apology from me,’ snarled Junica. His hands curled into fists. ‘Now leave. I have an execution to prepare.’

He turned to Ghedren.

‘You’ll suffer for what you’ve done,’ he hissed. ‘You’ll beg for death, but I will not be so merciful as to grant it. I will break you down, inch by inch, and I will take pleasure in every moment.’

‘These natives must be kept in line. I agree we must let them know we will not tolerate such betrayal,’ said Dezraed, nodding his great slab of a head.

‘I will ensure you live a long time before I am finished with you,’ snarled Junica. Ghedren looked up and met his gaze.

‘I believe,’ Toll began, ‘that it is the task of the Order of Azyr to administer justice here.’

He drew his pistol and fired a single shot. There was a burst of pink mist and Ghedren toppled like a sack of grain. He struck the cobbles hard, and a pool of blood flowed out from his broken body.

‘No,’ screamed Lord Junica. ‘He was mine. Mine!’

‘You will bury your dead son and return to your duties. The plantations shall reopen, and you will restart the patrols. Both of you.’

At this, he turned and jabbed a finger at Dezraed.

‘I should have you both dragged back to Excelsis in chains,’ spat Toll. ‘You have displayed incompetence, foolishness and borderline treason. Your petty feud has not only endangered this town, but it has risked the lives of loyal soldiers by denying them the supplies they require. Now my patience with this farce is at an end. The fighting stops, or I swear I will make you both regret your actions for the rest of your miserable lives. Do you understand?’

‘I am a son of a great house,’ Lord Junica snarled. ‘I have powerful friends in Azyrheim–’

‘You are a minor scion of a great house,’ said Toll. ‘You are here only because the other lords of the Junica House have more pressing matters to attend to. You are replaceable, and you will be replaced if you cannot perform your duties. Do you understand? Both of you?’

There was a long silence.

‘Say the words,’ said Toll. ‘Say that you understand.’

‘I… understand,’ said Lord Dezraed.

‘I understand,’ growled Lord Junica through gritted teeth, as if each word was a knife in his gut.

‘You have a month to get your affairs in order,’ said Toll.

With that, the witch hunter strode off, Callis rushing after him. They made their way to the southern gate, and the guards waved them through. Callis’ heart sank a little as he saw the marsh striders looming above the jetty, chewing on clumps of moss. Their wizened guide was back, already stowing their saddlebags upon the beasts’ flanks. Another few days of back-aching discomfort awaited. The joy of it.

‘I can’t deny that was satisfying,’ said Callis.

‘I’m glad you found it amusing,’ said Toll. ‘Perhaps we should discuss your own failures.’

Callis blinked. ‘What?’

‘Why do you think I brought you here?’

‘Because it serves you well to have someone who can handle a sword guarding your back?’

‘I can throw glimmerings into any tavern in Excelsis to strike someone who knows how to fight. I brought you because you’re sharp, and you know when to draw steel and when not to. But that’s only part of this trade, Armand. What allows us to survive is the ability to read people, to see beyond the obvious to the deeper truth. I brought you here to see if you were ready to do that. You failed.’

‘You knew Ghedren was the traitor?’

‘As you would have, had you not been blinded by your dislike of the Dezraed and the Junica. You let your own personal opinions cloud your judgement, and you gave your trust to a man who had not earned it.’

Callis had never truly felt at home in the Freeguilds, but at that moment, he recalled the simple clarity of his former life with a wistful fondness. Recently, it seemed that even when he was sure he was doing the right thing, it turned out otherwise.

Toll hooked one foot into the stirrups on the side of one of the marsh striders, and hauled himself onto its back. He squinted down at Callis, pulling his hat down low to block the hazy light that filtered through the grey clouds.

‘This is a lesson, not an admonishment. We all make mistakes, but in this line of work they have a habit of getting you killed. God-King knows I’ve put my trust in the wrong person before – you know that better than anyone. Learn from this. Next time, I may not be there to haul you out of the flames. Now, come. We must be back in Excelsis within the next two days. We have new business to attend to.’

About the Author

Nick Horth is the author of City of Secrets, his first Age of Sigmar novel. Nick works as a background writer for Games Workshop, crafting the worlds of Warhammer Age of Sigmar and Warhammer 40,000. He lives in Nottingham, UK.

A group of heroes assemble to hunt the Eight Lamentations, mighty artefacts of the Dark God from the Age of Chaos.

A Black Library Publication

Published in Great Britain in 2017 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd, Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK.

Produced by Games Workshop in Nottingham.
Banshee illustration by Dave Greco.

Callis and Toll: The Old Ways © Copyright Games Workshop Limited 2017. Callis and Toll: The Old Ways, GW, Games Workshop, Black Library, Warhammer, Warhammer Age of Sigmar, Stormcast Eternals, and all associated logos, illustrations, images, names, creatures, races, vehicles, locations, weapons, characters, and the distinctive likenesses thereof, are either ® or TM, and/or © Games Workshop Limited, variably registered around the world.
All Rights Reserved.

A CIP record for this book is available from the British Library.

ISBN: 978-1-78572-854-9

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

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