The journey through the underground had taken far longer than it should have. Little Lady was their guide, and when he was focussed he seemed confident in his directions. But too often would he stop and stutter in fright at the shadow cast by the torch's light, or the trickle of water and refuse into a sewer duct as they passed. They could not tell how long it had taken, but weary from the journey – indeed the Hunter assured them that it was the weary mind that was the most open to despoilment – they had stopped for a time.
Setting up in a small square room branching from the left bank of a wide flow of sewage, the men set up camp with rugs and cushions taken from houses above. Inside the room was a small crate shut and locked with a wide gold lock like one from Nuln, and they made a makeshift table out of it. Little Lady sat opposite the Hunter, who with his usual beady rodent eyes he scanned about the room. The Greatsword had insisted that he did not need rest and would stand guard.
"What are you looking for?" The boy spoke absently, cocking the rifle on his lap.
"Our comrade. I don't trust him."
"You're a hunter, sir, so does anyone get your trust?" The boy spoke up. The Hunter could shoot him on the spot, but the horrors down here made that a gift rather than a punishment to him. Instead, the hunter smiled.
"No."
"Not even a boy like me?"
"Especially not a boy like you. Young ones are most fragile."
"I've lived this long." The boy hissed.
"That you have, and you make your way around without trouble. How is that?" The boy looked up. The Hunter was watching him closely, his fingers interlocked beneath his chin. Was he a suspect in something? Is that what this was? Regardless Little Lady could not help but feel proud. To impress a grown up – and one of these witch hunters at that – was something new to him.
"I was a rat-catcher, hunter, sir. Lived here since I was little." He spoke harshly and slowly, like the words were being forced out of him. "And a thief. Mostly a thief, sir." The Hunter watched as he cowered back. The word thief clearly hurt the boy. His eyes went wide and glossy.
"They sent you down here to chase rats?" The man smirked. He stood up and stretched his arm. His finger just scraped the cold stone ceiling. "These tunnels are man-sized, what sort of rats could this town have had?"
The boy chuckled quietly. Maybe he wasn't going to die after all. "No, sir, whenever I stole somethin' they would chase me, see. Get the guard after me, yeah? So I go down here. Nobody follows you down here. Can see why now."
"Why is that?" The hunter almost jumped back to his seat. His smirk fell away into cold pursed lips. He was watching intently.
"Well, sir." The boy began but was interrupted by someone coming in behind him.
It was the Greatsword, and he dropped his sword and sat on a rug against the opposing wall. "We should rest.," he said, "Never know what scum could be down here, and we'll need to be awake and ready for them." Then he led down and rolled away onto his side, facing the wall.
They looked at the soldier, before the boy continued. "There's creatures here, sir."
"What creatures?" The man clenched his teeth. Little Lady couldn't tell if it was frustration or anticipation.
"Horrible, sir, they live in the sewers." The boy pointed past the Hunter, through the doorway into the sewers beyond. "Live here, I mean – and they're furry, and hunched, with beady eyes, and…" He stopped and looked at the Hunter again. He didn't want to say something heretical.
"Carry on, my boy." A stern voice ordered him on.
"They have long pink tails, and they look like rats – horrible rats, like the big ones we used to trap and kill – maybe that's why, I'm sorry! – and they were in robes and helmets and things. And the chittering, and the bell…" Little Lady whimpered and lay face-down on the table. He was chittering to himself in distraught remembrance.
The Hunter bit his lip, got up and planted a hand on the boy's shoulder. "You should rest. Thank you for telling me this, Jasper, it was very useful." He brought him to his feet and guided him to his bed – a stained checked mattress against the corner, furthest from the door.
His eyes were already heavy from the journey underground, and he quickly began to dream. His mind went back to his earlier years, when he would prowl around bars, waiting for drunkards to stumble out to pat them down for coin. He dreamt of the mad running of him and his friends, who were always scruffy in torn clothes, caked in mud and bearing toothy smirks as they ran and robbed, oblivious to all of that.
It was a bad time, before he found structure and hope as a soldier, but his dreams were short-lived as the pop of a gunshot woke him. He rolled around and surveyed the room, heart thumping. A dark figure stood over the Greatsword as he lay, deathly still, and was advancing on the boy. It was the Hunter, a flintlock pistol in hand. The boy sat bolt up and scurried backwards on his elbows. He was more scared than confused.
"Don't struggle, boy." The Hunter commanded. He was vindicated, proud, as Jasper imagined they always are at trial. "But your talk is nonsensical. You speak of beasts of which you should not – and cannot – know. Indeed, even more than the undead, heretical talk is dangerous. For the zombie is an obvious threat, but you – with your plush rose cheeks and your glossy, innocent eyes eyes – are the knife in the dark, the hidden blight. It is tragic that you have fallen with this city, but it is my duty to deal you death!"
Ahead of the hunter, the soldier was stirring, rolling onto his back and then bringing his torso forward. His head hung down, as if he was a puppet on a string, and he began to stand. The boy had a thought.
"Sir, sir! I have spoken heresy, sir, and I must die." The Hunter paused, close enough now that even in the dark the pale of his face was visible against the blackness like a mannequin. "But let me repent, oh sir?"
"Repent? Very well. I will not deny your spirit its chance of cleanliness."
Jasper knelt quietly and began to mumble. "Sigmar, I beg you to hear me, for I have turned my back on your light." He peered up. The figure of the Greatsword was shambling over. "Forgive me of my heresy. Morr, treat my spirit with mercy that I may rest well." He bowed his head and kissed the ground. The Hunter was stood as before, flintlock aimed.
"That is an honour most heretics do not receive-" The Greatsword came behind him, grabbing him by the neck and dragging him down to the ground, snorting like a piglet. Jasper stood up and turned away from the struggle until it ceased and the soldier approached.
He had been shot. Right of his nose the cheek was shattered, the entire side of his face a caved in pool of crimson. The shrapnel had spread; his right eye hung lazy, seeping yet more blood. Jasper gagged. He hadn't seen such disfigurement up-close before – in his days of thieving, the worst that could happen was a bruise or stab from some other street urchin or guard. Yet a peculiarity kept him transfixed; there wasn't a bullet-hole, as such.
Indeed where the skin and flesh had been torn up it had been filled by another cheek, transparent and shaped by thick sky-blue lines, as if some outer layer had been removed. What was worse was that the man wasn't breathing.
He wasn't breathing.
Jasper screamed and fell away, fumbling for the rifle which lay besides his mattress. "Back away, undead! Morr take you!"
The soldier groaned. "I knew you would react like this. I need your help to save this town!" He reached for the boy, who batted him away.
"You're like those zombies! All outside. You're the reason we're in here. I bet you eat the children, don't you? Get away!" He grasped the rifle and hoisted it up. A shot rang out, and the man fell to the floor. He picked himself up and stumbled, like a drunkard, with a wound in his chest.
"Enough of this," The Greatsword muttered derisively. He forced a hand onto Jasper's head. A wave of coldness fell over him and the body fell limp to the floor like a dummy. He felt dizzy and distant, like his mind was detached from his body. "Please just come with me, boy. You can help us avert this crisis." The voice began again, this time that of a soft-spoken woman, and echoing inside his head. The boy whimpered and began to cry, but nodded.
"Good. I will leave you when we reach the destination. The library."
"The library? Nothin' but books there."
"Oh no. There is something else. Someone else. You need each other."
"To save the town? You want to save the town?"
There was a silence. Jasper stood up – although he wasn't sure if it was by his own choice – and began the walk towards the nearest entryway to the surface. Strangely there was a deathly silence, with none of the chittering and roar of flowing sewer water that usually filled the tunnels, and which to Jasper made for a certain homeliness. That just set him more on edge, until finally the woman responded.
"No. I am acting for myself, for the first time in many years." The woman in his head declared forcefully.
"But it'll save the town?"
"Perhaps. Keep walking."
The trip had been a short one. The lady in Jasper's head guided him such that they never came upon another living creature, let alone something dangerous. At last they reached the town's library, a great, embellished tower of windows and balconies. The two great doors hung open, but inside was pitch blackness. Jasper whimpered and paused.
"Is your friend, one of them necromancers?"
"No, not quite yet."
"Will she kill me?" He asked quietly, gazing about. Then he fell forward, the back of his head throbbing as if he had been struck. When he regained his burdens a cold wind was running past him towards the doorway, carrying with that same voice which spoke again:
"She wouldn't. She's too good for that," there was a humming of thoughtfulness, "But you aren't meant to be here. Let me do the talking."
The boy gulped and sat on the steps, furthest down from the door. He felt a great fear grip him from the building itself – or whatever creature lay inside it. The moon was casting shadows over the courtyard, which in the rushing of clouds and the warpstone hazed danced and jumped like a pack of hounds across the cobblestone.
He felt that fear, but he also felt a warmth – he was going to save Mordheim, one way or another.