01 - Empire in Chaos by Anthony Reynolds - (ebook by Undead)

slammed into a table, breaking his nose and leaving a
smear of blood on the wood.
    “We don’t want your type round here no more,” shouted a burly, drunk local,
lifting the dazed man roughly to his feet. The thug’s friends tried to calm him
down, but he shook off their hands angrily.
    “No!” bellowed the drunk, and he rocked on his heels, unsteady with drink. He
slammed a fist into the man’s stomach, and he folded under the force of the
blow, falling to the ground.
    “Now Rikard, that’s enough,” said Fiedler, approaching the drunk with his
sweating hands held out before him.
    “S’alright for you,” slurred the drunk. “You are gettin’ fat off the money of
all these travellers. But not me,” he said, tapping himself on the chest. “They
come here—any one of ’em could be bringin’ plague. Shouldn’t be allowed here
anymore, I say!”
    A hearty, drunken cheer from more than half the patrons in the bar followed
this pronouncement. The travellers, many sitting with their wives and children
as they fled the ravages of plague and war, looked around nervously, feeling the
hostility within the room directed towards them. Heartened, the drunken local
thug kicked the downed man hard in the face.
    “I say make a stand—make sure there won’t be no one passing through here
’til the plague is long gone,” he bellowed, to another hearty cheer. He
emphasised his point by kicking the fallen man again.
    “Now Rikard, I think you’ve had enough for one night. Go home and sleep it
off, eh?” said Fiedler, taking another wary step towards the swaying thug. The
drunkard rumbled at his belt and drew a short-bladed knife, which he levelled at
the barkeeper’s throat.
    “Keep back with you, or I’ll gut you like the swine you are, Fiedler,” he
snarled. He nodded his head towards the fallen man. “I’m gonna string this
bastard up. Word’ll spread, and there won’t be any more damn outsiders passin’
through. Pick him up,” he barked to his friends. They immediately lifted the
near unconscious man, and followed the drunkard as he stomped outside.
    There were scattered cheers, and the sound of chairs being pushed back as
more patrons rose to follow the thuggish trio, clearly wanting to witness the
outcome of the confrontation.
    Udo sighed and stood up. He pressed a coin into the malformed hand of the
simpleton servant, Otto. “Don’t let anyone touch my crossbow,” he said. “And
don’t tell your uncle that I gave you this coin,” he added. Otto grinned at him,
and Udo stalked through the packed inn, pushing people out of his way as he
followed the crowd.
    Outside, the beaten man was on his knees in the middle of the street.
    “Please, Sigmar no!” he pleaded, tears and blood running down his face. “I am
travelling to my wife and child in Averheim! I sent them on ahead! If you kill
me, you kill them too! Please, you cannot do this!”
    Ignoring his pleas, the drunkard grabbed the man by his hair, pulling his
head back for the killing blow. The crowd roared for blood.
    Pushing people roughly out of his way, Udo stalked into the centre of the
circle.
    “Kill that man and you die next,” he said. His voice was not loud, but he
spoke with such authority and menace that it gave the villagers pause. Grunwald
had drawn one of his ornate, embossed pistols and it was levelled at the drunken
would-be murderer’s head. The roaring died down, and the fallen man looked up at
him, desperate hope in his eyes.
    “Who is this?” snarled the drunk, gesturing with his knife towards the dark
clad figure of Grunwald, eyes trying to focus on the barrel of the gun pointed
at him.
    “Grunwald,” he said loudly, his deep voice pitched perfectly to carry to all
those crowded around. His next words were said slowly and clearly, so that none
could mistake them. “Udo Grunwald, witch hunter of the Temple of Sigmar.” There
was sudden silence, and several within the crowd began to inch away from