The creature revelled in their cries for a moment, before bringing them to stop as suddenly as they had broken out with a tap of its staff. Somewhere behind the warpstone block, there was the rolling of wheels over rock and through slush. A great wagon passed into sight - a crude construction of wood nailed on wood, covered in banners and enscribed with all manner of symbols. It held up a great bell of bronze. The whole chamber fell into deathly silence, the anticipation building slowly. The rat-sorceror looked up at the construction, and began the chant:
"The bell will toll!"
The command passed over the crowd of beasts who all took part - The bell will toll! The bell will toll!
"The bell will toll!" Little Lady cried, tearing violently at his bindings. His eyes were red from crying, and his mouth was held in a toothy, lopsided grin like some mischievous child.
The man opposite him laid a strip of paper across the desk and wrote something down. He rearranged his fur-brown hat and curled back the red feather that sat atop it. "No," he spoke to the guard who was overlooking the door, "These are not the words of a heretic. But they are still deeply troubling." He reached down and drew a pistol onto the table. The man at the door shuffled in place.
"We took you in, sir Witch Hunter - with the greatest of respects, I mean - you can't shoot me! He's not even one of our's! We found him out in the streets."
"Where did you find him?"
"In the old market quarters, Witch Hunter, sir. Cradling some rocks, the boys say. Covered in shit from the gutters, too. They say he smelled of rat piss."
The Witch Hunter nodded, and gestured to the door. When the man hestiated he simply tapped the arm of his chair, and the guard hurried outside. "Lock us in."
When he turned around, Little Lady's head was against his shoulder. He was biting desperately at his wrist bindings, to no avail. Spittle dripped down his cuirass. "What province are you from, boy?"
The boy looked up and squinted in thought. "The bell will toll." He mumbled at last.
"Forget the bell," at this, the boy whimpered and twitched and the witch hunter took note with detached curiosity. "Actually, no - where is the bell?"
Little Lady furrowed his brow. "Everywhere. Above and below - mostly below. They're all over, you see. All over."
"Who is?"
"They are. They'll get you. They'll get me too. Let me out!" The boy jumped up in his seat so that the desk shook.
"Who will?" The boy stopped. It was clear that he had not the faintest idea of what the Hunter was saying. It wasn't clear, though, just how much of his mind was left. The man stood up and held the pistol against the prisoner's temple. "I will end you as I should, boy, without a second's pause or a moment's guilt. Do you understand?"
The boy froze. Even in his state this universal fear of death was easily understood. He nodded hastily. His dribbling continued unabated.
"Can you hear me?" The boy nodded. His eyes looked about, wide and glossy. He followed the Witch Hunter as he lay the pistol on the table. "Do you understand me? Good. Tell me - what did you see?"
"Horrible beasts. Chittering, beady eyes. Had horrible fur, all over. Bet it was flea-ridden!"
"What would you say they looked like?" The Hunter was calmer now. He reached out and held the boy's hand through his bindings. Little Lady felt a weight lift from him. What a kind man! He had a sudden urge, a desire to tell everything he knew. The images came back to him.
"Rodents!" The boy felt the Witch Hunter's gaze.
"Rodents." He repeated stoicly. The boy nodded, twitching hysterically.
"Thank you, boy - What is your name? We will be spending much time in each other's company, you and I."
"Jasper. Jasper Unschuldig. I'm a... a state troop. Well.. a mercenary. But it's all gone now. I don't know why I'm here anymore."
"You are sent by Sigmar yourself, Jasper. Thank you. Together we will cleanse this place - of mutant, heretic, undead and"- The witch hunter stood and lingered there, until Little Lady could not help but look. From his pocket he had drawn a pair of black gloves, like that of a gravekeeper, and he rolled his hands over them as if warming them up-"These... rodents."
With that he turned and passed through the door, leaving the boy in the quiet and dark. He had already given in to a high-pitched whimpering.
He emerged into a large square room packed with tables at which refugees huddled and talked. At the sight of the Witch Hunter the volume gradually dropped until all that was left was a small murmur. This place had been a mansion for a local nobleman who, come the apocalypse, had fled Mordheim for safer pastures. Now it was the only safe haven, save the chapel which - scouts had reported - was locked down and guarded so that none could now enter.
The Witch Hunter slid his pistol into an inner pocket; it was best not to cause even more panic. He approached the makeshift bar; a set of desks drawn together and draped in clear green curtain-fabric, on which a variety of beverages were on display.
"How's the boy doin', hunter?" A voice came from behind the counter. It was a gruff old zweihander who appeared not days before. He had made his presence felt, tending to the bar, cleaning what weapons the survivors had and guarding the entrances come nightfall, but there was something off about him.
He was very pale, almost deathly, but his eyes were blue-green if a little distant. He seemed to be always short of breath.
"He's broken. I don't think he will last without help... but he is the best chance I have of getting into that chapel."
"Why d'ya need in, anyway?" The greatsword pulled a pint and slid it across the table, and the hunter drunk. It was sour and tasteless, and gave one the sense of dizziness that comes when falling from a great height.
"You don't need to know."
"Who else is gonna help you, Hunter? I can fight. None of these wretches can. I'll take you both to wherever you need'ta go."
"I need to warn them." He lent over the counter and whispered. "No messengers from East of here have come in for days. No tax collectors either. Why do you think that is?"
"Pfft, clogged with refugees?"
"No. If there were refugees you'd see the signs. I've been down the fastest road to Essen there is, and saw nothing - not a trace. Almost as if everyone is dead - or Undead. They are coming, no doubt, for the wyrdstone - the green rocks scattered about."
The Greatsword froze. He twitched uncomfortably and - curiously - seemed to not be breathing at all. Whatever troubled his newfound ally, the Hunter did not press it further.
"I need to get to the chapel. They will not stand a chance without preparation. All the wyrdstone must be destroyed."
"Fine." The Greatsword heaved and rubbed his eyes. "Undead it is, then. We'll leave in the morn... with the boy?"
"With the boy. The Sisterhood couldn't refuse a child and, even if they did, he's been underground. Maybe he can find a way in."
"Maybe? Not very Hunterly, is it?"
"It's the best we have." The Hunter hissed. He left a handful of Marks on the table and retreated upstairs for the night.