Warhammer Fantasy Battle belongs to Games Workshop, not me, and A song of Ice and Fire belongs to George R.R. Martin as well as HBO.
Author's note: This is a oneshot I've wanted to do for some time now, so here it is!
To the reckoning of Anguy, this night was a particularly shite one for having to keep watch. There could be no doubt, true winter was upon them, and the howling wind made him shiver violently and try to pull his thick wool cloak even tighter about him. He had lit only a small fire, so as to have a lesser chance of being spotted by a local Lannister patrol, and he was now suffering the consequences of that choice, without a doubt. It was a pitiful thing to behold, sputtering and throwing off more smoke than it did heat, and any heat it did make was quickly carried off by the howling wind. Earlier that morning a light snow had fallen, but it had all been blown away by the tearing gusts. Here in this small thicket, there was only dirt and dying grass. Anguy had to snort at that.
Much of his life had been something akin to dirt and dying, as of late. Pickings of supplies had been slim and pathetic, when they had found them at all. All those farmers had been so thankful and generous before the Red Wedding, when it looked like the Lannister's could still be beaten by the heroic Young Wolf of House Stark, the legendary King in the North.
Now they received a pittance, a few bushels of wheat or a couple loaves of bread, if they were lucky. Need it for the family, they said. Need it for the winter, they said. And yet here the Brotherhood was, fighting and dying and starving just so those farmers might have a chance to see the bloody winter at all. He often wondered what his life would be like if he hadn't entirely squandered the fortune he'd won at that tourney of the Hand, back when the Hand and the rest of the Stark family were still alive.
Gods, that felt like a thousand years ago, when all was summer and the only thing he had to worry about was whether he'd be fucking Alayaya or Jayde that night at Chataya's brothel. He spent the days laughing and gambling, and the nights with his cock buried in some cunt or another.
Now, he spent his days starving and tired, and his nights starving and freezing.
He turned a bit to look at the entrance to the hollow hill behind him, cleverly hidden by the thicket so that one needed to be very nearly on top of it to spot it, overgrown and encrusted as it was with the roots of the great weirwood trees that grew in abundance on top of the hill. This was the stronghold, if you could call it that, of the Brotherhood without Banners, the only spot they had that was anything close to safe. At least, he prayed to the Seven that it was so.
No, no, not the Seven.
To the Red God.
He feared the fiery god of the East, of Thoros. But he could not deny he had power. He had done more for their group than the Seven ever did, whatever little that was. It was because of the power of R'hllor that his Lord Dondarrion walked once more when he had been given the kiss by Thoros. Even so, what Lord Beric had become then… Anguy was not sure if that could be called life at all. He walked and talked, yes, but little else. He did not eat, he did not sleep, often Anguy would awaken in the middle of the night to find Lord Dondarrion staring into the fire as if in a trance, utterly motionless, not even a breath escaping his sealed lips. And the injuries he had suffered, horrific maulings from countless wounds and not-deaths, that would have crippled anyone else… Anguy didn't like thinking about that, not one bit.
But as hard as it was to think of Lord Dondarrion, at least he was finally at rest. Who, or what, led them now was a different matter entirely. Some would say that his prior judgement, that the Starks were all dead, was proven wrong by his leader. But those who understood knew, knew that Lady Stoneheart was not the same person, was really no person at all.
At least he once knew Lord Beric. His new Lady, she was unknowable, and he intended to keep it that way. She didn't merely unsettle him, she terrified him. In his most treasonous moments, he couldn't help but wonder if she was why the farmers no longer helped them, why they received only suspicious and frightened eyes where before the smallfolk looked at them with hope. He wouldn't be surprised. His Lady did not bring hope.
She brought fear and death, vengeance upon all those who had wronged her in life.
It was a grim and arduous work, hanging all the Frey's they could find, and not least of which because there were so damn many of the buggers. It seemed every patrol they ambushed had a Frey at its head. Soon those Frey heads had their Frey heads adorning a bridge. Anguy chuckled some at his own wit, a quiet and low thing that was carried away upon the wind.
He ventured a look upwards, towards the stars. At least those were bright and clear. He could see the moon, the constellation, a few of the wanderers.
And of course, there hung the twin-tailed comet that had appeared some moons back. They said it was a holy symbol of some kind, to the foreigners that rumors had been sweeping the Seven Kingdoms like wildfire of. Anguy had little time for rumors, not when reality was horrible enough as it was.
His head shot down then, for he heard a crackle in the brush ahead of him. He drew his bow and rose, notching an arrow and raising it, ready to loose upon whatever it was.
"Who goes there? Show yourself, then!"
Nothing,
He crept forward, past his little fire, into the darkness that engulfed him. His eyes darted to and fro, and he reached for the dagger on his belt, felt the solid grip through the soft doeskin of his gloves, the only thing he had left of his prior fortune and the only truly warm clothing he owned.
It was a sharp contrast to the cold steel that was suddenly pressed against his throat, cold steel that suddenly swept across his neck in a single motion, clean and smooth.
Suddenly Anguy found himself choking, gurgling as he drowned in his own blood. As he stumbled to the ground wordlessly, his last sight was the smiling face above him in the dim glow of the dying fire, a mouth full of brownish-green teeth and eyes that flashed with murderous enthusiasm.
Karl Tanner kicked a bit at the body, so as to make sure that it was dead. Of course, he knew the poor fool was doomed the second he had sliced him ear to ear, but in his experience it never hurt to make absolutely certain. He had to admit, the lad had been good, hearing him. Or maybe Karl was just getting sloppy in his old age. Well, old as far as it goes in Gin Alley. Which for him at thirty-and-two was rather old indeed.
He knelt over the fresh corpse, quickly picking the pockets of the boy with ease born of long experience. He found little, only a few coppers and a single silver stag, but the lads gloves were quite fine, and he slipped them on his own hands, relishing the soft feel of the leather to his own calloused skin. It was a shame they were sticky with blood, but he could always just wash that off. Why was it that the harder the kill, the more wonderful the reward felt? He had even been worried for a second that he'd been spotted, that he'd find himself with an arrow to the throat for his trouble. Then his new master would have to find himself some other poor idiot to do his dirty work or even do the dirty work himself, gods forbid. Speaking of the grim old bastard… Karl whistled quietly, the signal he had been told to give. A few seconds of silence ensued, and then he heard the quiet rustle of someone moving through the bushes. He turned to regard his master, a winning grin plastered to his ugly features as he wiped the fresh blood off his knife on the woolen cloak of his kill.
He had not been given a full name to use by his master, who believed that Karl referring to him as merely "Albrecht" would suffice. He had never heard of someone named Albrecht, not even in all his years prowling the streets and taking the names of people he was paid to murder. What exactly this "Albrecht" did, Karl was not sure of, this solemn man who seemingly never ever smiled or laughed or drank or cursed or fucked. But he did know, at least, that he was a killer. He knew that from the look in the cold eyes of his master, eyes that pierced and condemned with merely a glance. Eyes that had personally seen to the deaths of a hundred people, and would likely see to the deaths of a hundred more. He knew from the way the man walked, the way he spoke, the entire manner in which he conducted himself. It had been an immediate realization that Karl had had the moment he met the man, and was a good portion of the reason he had agreed to accompany the man as his "retinue". A fancy way of calling him a hired killer, but gold was gold, even these strange foreign coins adorned with skulls and crosses and comets that he was being paid in.
Well, the fact that Albrecht carried around an entire bloody fucking smithy-worth of weapons around on his person was another primary indicator that he was not exactly a septon. Rather wisely, his master had never given him the chance to see exactly what he wore, but over the nights spent together Karl had managed to count one beautifully engraved thin sword at his side, no less than six throwing knives, two daggers, and five strange tubes wrought of wood and steel, also engraved with skulls and crosses, with long metal spikes affixed to the underside of them, presumably for stabbing. They had some sort of metal mechanism attached to the top of them that Karl had seen his master pouring some strange black powder on to, but had chosen to not ask any further regarding exactly what by all the gods they were.
He had absolutely no doubt there was likely more weapons he had not spotted.
His clothing and armor were certainly nothing to jest at, either. A long brown leather jacket in which he hid all of his implements of death, tall boots with buckles polished to a mirror finish, tight gloves with metal studs embedded in the knuckles. Over the jacket Albrecht wore a plate of fine fluted steel and an embossed pauldron on his shoulder, naturally decorated with skulls and crosses, with pieces of paper attached on with hot wax, inscribed with words in some language Karl did not recognize. His face was partially covered by the collar of his jacket, which ran all around his neck and was high enough almost to reach the brim of his hat. It was a scarred face, covered in a closely kept beard and mustache of dark brown. His hat was perhaps the most impressive part of his garb, a tall thing of leather that resembled a stovepipe, wide of brim and crowned with a single golden skull in the centre, directly above the forehead. All in all, it was a bit worn by days of travel, but still intimidating nonetheless.
Well, intimidating to someone else maybe, but to the legend of Gin Alley, it was merely fascinating.
Now his master came to regard him with those pitiless eyes, shining points of balefire that rendered their judgement upon all that they regarded, and nodded towards the corpse, pleased with his work.
Karl shot up an eyebrow.
"So, you impressed then? Good, good. Now, m'lord, if I may be so bold, why by the Father, are we all the way out here killing bandits?"
Now his master tilted his head, likely considering what to say. His voice was deep and pitiless, with some guttural accent that Karl had not heard before.
"I have discovered from a certain source of mine that these are no mere bandits, Mister Tanner. They are heretics, debauched necromancers who serve a dark and vile master. Their blasphemy against the gods will not go unpunished. They must all be eradicated, immediately."
Karl could not but smile once more at that.
"Ah yes, heretics. Well, all those who defy the love and mercy of the Seven must be wiped out, mustn't they?"
Albrecht frowned at that, and grunted out.
"No, not the false Seven. A different god, a god of hatred and fury, who smites the wicked with his divine wrath. The only god worthy of worship."
At that, his master made a strange sign with his hands, two fingers pointed outwards from his palm.
Albrecht turned towards where the thicket deepened, towards the hill where his mark had made camp. He strode over to the thicket, inspecting closely the vines and roots, as though searching for something. Finally, he made an approving noise, and gestured to Karl, beckoning him to come over. Together they pulled back the roots and exposed a thick slab of oak, apparently covering a large hole, which was large enough for two people to enter through side by side. Ah, so this was the entrance to the bandit lair. Karl had to hand it to these bandits, first with the vigilant watchman, and now with such a well hidden hideout, they clearly knew what they were doing. With muted groans of exertion they finally pulled back the slab from the dirt aperture it covered, exposing a sizeable tunnel that led deeper into this hill, which was apparently not a hill at all but a cave. Karl made a mental note to inform some smuggler friends of his about this place. He could put some rather powerful people in his debt on top of the small fortune he was being paid by Albrecht here. Karl doubted very much that there would be anyone left to dispute them once his partners came to claim this hollow hill.
Now he watched as his master drew forth that thin blade of his in one hand and grabbed one of those tubes in the other. Unsheathed, Karl now appreciated just how fine a weapon his master's sword truly was. It was forged of glittering steel, utterly without tarnish. Intricate gold leaf ran down the fuller of the blade, delicately inscribed with words of scripture, too small to read from as far away as he was, if he could read at all, which he couldn't. For as thin as it was, he could tell that it was no less deadly for it, made for pinpoint strikes at weak spots and lethal jabs into throats. Again, he had no idea what the tube was for, but the way he pointed it about made Karl think that it might be some sort of ranged weapon. Certainly looked like no crossbow he'd ever seen. Albrecht turned to him then, a look of grim determination on his face.
"Come then, Mister Tanner. We have little time to spare."
It was dark and musty within the tunnel down, the air filled with damp and wet. If he had been raised on the streets, it might even be uncomfortable. As it was, however, he beared through without complaint. Nor did the dark bother him at all. A hundred knives in the backs and throats of a hundred different people in the night had made him as perceptive in the gloom as a cat. He could likely navigate his way down this tunnel blindfolded if he had to, deftly stepping over roots and protruding stones with feet that moved with absolute certainty. His master it seemed was much the same, for he was gliding even faster than Karl himself was, no doubt in a haste to reach his prey. A hunter, Albrecht was, and of men it seemed. Another thing that he and Karl had in common.
Down the ventured, the tunnel twisting and winding as it led them deeper into the bowels of the earth, towards the center of this hollow hill. Up ahead Albrecht halted suddenly, and gestured for them to pause. Karl looked over his master's shoulder, and saw what exactly he stopped them for. They had come upon their destination. Here was the heart of the hill, a large cavern overgrown with gnarled growth and thick lichen. In the shadows of the outer chamber he could the slouched over and prone figures that indicated that this was where the bandits took to sleeping. A few small tunnels branched off, no doubt for storing supplies. In the center of the room a fire burned, bright and surprisingly fierce. It cast dancing shadows about it, shadows that seemed to dance and twirl about the flickering glow of the fiery corona. But for all its beauty, Karl had his cold eyes locked on the figure who now kneeled before the fire.
He was a rather gaunt fellow, Karl could tell. His hair was grey, and his robes were of a faded red, looking almost pink now. Here and there he had strapped bits of armor to his person, an attempt no doubt to make up for the lack of protection the robes offered. He stared into the fire, an utterly blank and utterly unreadable expression on his face. Karl couldn't help but wonder if the old fool was going senile. Alas, it was not to be, for when his master moved forwards toward him the old man rose his head to meet them, his face still blank. He locked eyes with Albrecht, his gaze utterly unwavering against the hateful glare that his master cast off.
"So, you finally come. I have seen you in the fires. I know not what you do, nor who you are. But I have known that you were coming. I am Thoros of Myr, and we are the Brotherhood without Banners. Identify yourself, if you would."
Glancing about him, Karl could not help but quietly curse. This crazy old man had indeed known they were coming, for it seemed that his bandit fellows were only pretending to sleep. All around them they rose, all looking rather poorly fed and clutching weapons that had seen better days, wearing moth-eaten cloth and worn leathers. All the same, killing multiple men at once was never easy, and he slowly reached behind him, grasping for his twin daggers. That gave him some measure of comfort, that if he died here he would be dragging a good deal of the bastards with him to the Seven Hells.
For his part, his master was utterly unfazed, merely regarding the men surrounding him with a disinterested glance, before returning his baleful stare to this Thoros person. Now he spat at the old man, the contempt obvious in his voice.
"I am Albrecht, a Templar of the Most Holy Orders of Sigmar. In the light of our Undying Lord, I accuse you and your entire heretical band of witchcraft and necromancy, a crime most vile and a crime against Almighty Sigmar and all other true gods."
Whatever Thoros was expecting to hear, it was not that, for his carefully blank face dissolved into a look of confusion.
"Sigmar, my lord? I know not of that god. But there is only one true god, and his name is R'hllor. We are all but his humble servants. And I know not of any heresy."
His master did not strike Karl as particularly happy man, but the look of absolute fierce disgust and utter hatred that came upon his features then unnerved even Karl. Now his voice echoed with cold and absolute disdain.
"So, you reveal that the charges against you are true. You are blasphemers and scum. Thus, I find you guilty of these charges, and hereby sentence you to death. I also promise to you, Thoros of Myr, that you shall die a death most exquisitely painful if you do not reveal to me where the abominable Undead you raised and are lead by is located."
At that, the crowd around them grasped their weapons tighter, some even raising them, preparing for a fight. Karl glared at a few of the ones who were inching forward, finally drawing his daggers from their sheath, hold them in front of him in a fighting stance, as he had so many times in Gin Alley. That kept them at bay, but just barely.
Now Thoros smiled, but it was utterly without humour.
"Undead? We are lead by our Lady, and we are guided by R'hllor. You would do well to remember that before you threaten us again. Would you like to meet her?"
Thoros nodded towards the shadows, towards one of the alcoves that lined the cavern wall. Before all of the bandits had been murmuring, whispering among themselves. Now they were silent as a crypt, as a figure stepped out of the alcove and into the fire light, a young northman by its side, clad in greasy sheepskin. Karl saw immediately that the figure was a woman, clad in thick robes of roughspun cloth, with a hood covering her head. She pulled back the covering, exposing a head of long, unkempt hair that was bleached white, flaking and dead to his eyes. Her skin looked like that of the corpses that he sometimes threw into Blackwater Bay, clammy and pale, hanging off her bones. Her face was a ruin, covered in three long scars like she had been mauled by some creature, and along her throat was a long line of angry red. His eyes widened at that. He had cut men's throats smaller than that, and watched them bleed and die in the dirt. That she was alive… it had to be some black magic. Necromancy, like his master said, like the old stories that poor mothers told their sniveling little brats.
Gods, he wasn't being paid enough for this.
But he could negotiate price later, if he and Albrecht got out alive, that is.
The Lady regarded them then with eyes as glassy and dead as the rest of her, and put her bony white fingers over the gash on her neck, her mouth moving as though she spoke, but from here Karl heard only rasping. Next to her, the young northman stepped forward, apparently acting as a translator of sorts.
"She says that you trespass here, that you are an obstacle to our vengeance. Our Lady commands that you will leave immediately or we will hang all of you."
Karl didn't much like the thought of being hanged. He always imagined his death would be a bit more interesting than that.
His master now faced this Lady, and strode forward slowly, bringing that tube of his to point towards her chest.
"You are the Undead formerly known as Catelyn Stark, yes?"
At that a grimace spread across the Lady's dead face, a pained look in her dead eyes. She spoke once more, and once more the young man recited for them, sounding himself rather unsettled.
"She says that Catelyn Stark is dead. That she is not the same person. She asks who you are, to know that."
Now his master cocked his head, and his face became a grim mask.
"I am an instrument of Sigmar, and of Morr, the Lord of the Dead. You have escaped his embrace for too long, but no longer. I return you to your eternal rest. Thou art but Dust."
That was when the tube exploded, or rather the end of it exploded, a thunderous crack like a lightning bolt as fire and smoke erupted from the hole pointed towards the Lady. Everyone in the room jumped and flinched at the noise, even Thoros and Karl. For her part, the lady stumbled back, a rapidly spreading red stain surrounding the hole that now appeared over where her heart was. She appeared dazed for a few seconds, grabbing at the wound, but then as Karl watched she opened her mouth wide in a silent scream. Rapidly a light emerged from the hole, spreading and engulfing the Lady in a dazzling bright light. It shone brighter than the sun for several seconds, and when it finally died down, the Lady was completely still, not so much as a twitch of the eyes. Before anyone could say or do anything, she collapsed, not so much falling over as literally falling apart, skin and fat and bone flaking and breaking to pieces, finally coming apart on the floor as a pile of dust and small chunks of bone.
All in the room gaped, mouths wide and jaws dropped at the spectacle. All but Albrecht, who sprang into action, leaping over the fire without so much as a moment's hesitation. To his credit, Thoros was rather fast, and drew his sword to deflect the first blow. But his angle was all wrong, and Albrecht quickly slipped through his defence to pierce right through the old man's shrivelled guts, and again to pierce his chest. As Thoros crumpled to the ground, the rest of the bandits finally sprang into action, charging them with a startled shout. Karl was ready for them.
He barked out a laugh, feeling his blood sing in his veins. Now this, this was living!
Two Brotherhood bandits came after him, one wielding a shitty sword and the other a club with iron studs embedded in the wood. They circled him warily, trying to spot an opening to take advantage of.
He wouldn't give them the chance.
He dashed forwards, towards the one with the club, dancing around the downwards blow of the weapon on feet that were as certain on the grey moss as those of a mummer. He got behind the clubman and opened his neck, nice and wide. Karl shove the falling man into his friend, causing him to stumble backwards as the dying man grasped at him with his dying breaths. Karl drove one dagger into his eye, giving a bestial snarl as he did. He pulled the dagger out and whirled, eyes darting for any other threat.
If he had any doubts that his master was really a killer, they were disproved by the sight before him.
Albrecht swirled and slashed, a maelstrom of death as he moved about the room, slicing and stabbing with that artificers blade of his. His left hand was not free either, as he quickly dropped the tube and pulled out another, firing directly into the forehead of a charging bandit. This one didn't turn to dust when shot in the head. No, his head just exploded into red chunks of brain and bone. He did that several more times, fending off the Brotherhood with his sword and delivering a dead accurate killing shot with the tube. Karl was truly in awe, for the first time in his life. He himself was a seasoned killer, he knew that, but Albrecht… Gods he was like the Stranger himself come down to deliver annihilation to mortals. One, two, three, five. The corpses piled up upon around him, and the bandits grew few.
Karl forced himself to spring back into action, for he saw a few of the bandits trying to come around his master, to flank him and bring his beautiful dance-of-death to an end. That would not do.
He lunged, stabbing one in the back who made to attack Albrecht, and kneeing the other in the balls, stomping onto his leg and snapping it in two, relishing the agonized scream that erupted from the man's mouth then. Unfortunately, he did not see the third combatant, who bashed the pommel of his hammer into Karl's head.
He saw stars and white, and fell himself to the ground, his fancy footwork and suburb balance gone. Karl flipped over, facing the furious expression of his attacker. He was more boy than man, his face grimy and covered in soot like a blacksmith. His eyes were a bright blue and his hair jet black. He grimaced and raised his hammer for the killing blow, eyes gleaming with fury and loss as he prepared to bash Karl's brains in.
Then, the boy's eyes widened, and he looked down, down towards the sword that now protruded from his chest. Behind him stood Albrecht, covered in blood and with the same grim expression on his face. He grabbed the boy's shoulder, and pulled his sword free, the boy giving a pained groan as he too fell into the dirt. Karl could have sworn that he saw pity flash in his master's eyes.
They were silent for a moment, and then Albrecht pulled Karl to his feet. Karl coughed some and rubbed the back of his head, feeling the lump that already grew there.
"Well, Ser. You do know how to fight after all. Ah...thank you."
Karl grimaced as he said that. Karl Tanner, the Legend of Gin Alley, did not thank people. But his master could have easily let him die and not had to pay him anything. Yet he did not. Karl thought he might like to work for this Templar Albrecht, yes indeed.
For his part, his master said nothing, only nodding once and reaching inside his jacket for a small metal sphere, which had a length of rope coming out of a hole in the top. He gingerly took out a small wooden stick and rubbed it against the leather of his belt, whereupon it lit on fire, a small flame that guttered and spit. Albrecht put the flame to the end of the rope, which began smoking and sizzling, and the fire moved slowly down the length of it. His master put the sphere in the center of the room and gestured towards Karl.
"Come, we must leave immediately. That bomb will explode and destroy this tainted place utterly."
Though he knew the smugglers would be disappointed to hear that, Karl obeyed, racing up the tunnel they came in from alongside Albrecht. They sprinted past the entrance and down the hill to where they had tied up their horses. As they mounted up, Karl turned to Albrecht.
"I know this was a one-time job… but if you ever have need of my services again, I'll be available, m'lord."
His master quirked an eyebrow and seemed to ponder his offer.
"As a matter of fact, yes, I might just have need of you once more, Mister Tanner. You have proven yourself capable and competent."
Albrecht gestured towards the hill, which Karl now saw smoked with the beginnings of a great fire.
"This is only the beginning. Heresy and corruption plagues these lands. Even now, I track a new target. A red witch, they call her. She must die, Sigmar wills it."
Karl grinned then.
"Aye, m'lord. Sigmar wills it."