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Briardark – Extract

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CHAPTER ONE

Fog seeped into the fur cloak, chilling the man within. The heavy pelt of a barrow-bear was ordinarily enough to fend off the cold, but when the mist drifted in from the Sea of Sorrows and Lhunaghast was on the rise, someone might sit right beside a roaring bonfire and never feel warm. At such times, the chill wasn’t a thing of the flesh but of the spirit. A draft from the underworlds of Shyish.

Such days as this, gloomy and forbidding, were ones when most folk kept close to home and huddled together around the hearth. A steaming mug of spiced flip and a bowl of warmed nuts to turn back the cold, witchbloom hung at all the windows and a bone effigy over the door to ward off restless gheists. The image of his wife tempering her drink with a toddyrod flashed through the man’s mind, the sound of his children giggling as foam boiled up from the mug and spilled on the floor. Emelda, no matter how many times she made flip, was always surprised by the eruption of foam, and her disgruntlement was always a source of amusement to Cicely and Marden, no matter how big they’d grown.

Samuel Helmgaart felt cheated that he’d had to forsake that tranquil scene. There were few such indulgences for the people of Felstein. Life in the frontier community was relentlessly grim, so what pleasures presented themselves had to be enjoyed when they arose. There was a bitter corner of his heart that resented Hochmueller for taking him away from the hearth. Certainly, one of the man’s cattle had been killed, but the animal would be just as dead tomorrow as it was today. Samuel was annoyed with himself that worrying about the townmaster’s reaction could intimidate him so much that he’d gone out to follow whatever signs he could make out and try to track the predator, even when he knew it would be a fruitless chore in such conditions. He knew from the start that the trail would lead back to Briardark, and once there, he’d never be able to follow the tracks in the fog.

Briardark. Instinctively, he brushed his fingers down his right arm. It wasn’t a thing of flesh and blood but an instrument of gears and pistons, a bronze-plated replacement for the one he’d lost years ago to a skullsnapper that had decided to make its lair in the forest. The ghoulish beast, as much wight as it was bear, had torn the arm out by its roots with its jaws. By some miracle, Samuel was able to crawl back to Felstein. An even greater miracle had been the arrival of duardin traders months later. It was the clever forgemaster among their group who’d crafted his new arm for him, demanding only the skullsnapper’s carcass for payment.

A month after getting accustomed to the mechanical arm, Samuel returned to Briardark. When next the duardin came, he had the forgemaster’s payment waiting for him.

‘You’re the beasthunter of Felstein and it’s your job to hunt these things,’ Samuel muttered to himself, annoyed that with all the monsters he’d killed he should be stymied by a mere wolf. The gears in his arm grumbled as he shifted his grip on the barbed boar spear he carried, the tines of its vicious crosspiece dripping with condensation. He glanced back at the dark forest with its labyrinth of thorny undergrowth. He was better than anyone in Felstein when it came to following a trail. Mama Ouspenskaya claimed it was because the spirits of Shyish hovered about him and gave him guidance even if he was unaware of their presence. Samuel preferred to believe it was his own talent and skill that made him so capable.

‘Spirits or no, you’ve failed this day,’ the beasthunter scolded himself. As he tightened the bronze hand about the boar spear a low, lonely howl rang out from deep in the forest. There was a mocking quality to the animal’s cry. Letting him know without question that it was somewhere in Briardark and he’d failed to find it. Barrow-foxes sometimes showed that kind of mischievousness, but Samuel had never seen a wolf display such a jeering attitude. Then, it held true that wolves were pack animals, and a lone wolf, such as the beast that had raided Hochmueller’s pasture, became strange and capricious in its ways.

‘Keep laughing, old dog,’ Samuel grumbled. ‘We’ll play this game again, you and I. You think you’re clever, but you’re not clever enough to stay away. When your belly’s empty, you’ll come back, and next time I’ll not lose your trail.’ He firmed his oath by reaching under his tunic and drawing out the little bone disc he wore around his throat. The skeletal visage of Nagash, Emperor of the Underworlds, leered back at him. Samuel spat on his fingers and rubbed the spittle onto the carved skull, sealing his vow to run the wolf to ground. He felt a new chill rush through his veins, as though his own blood curdled at the promise he’d made to the grim god of Shyish.

‘Tomorrow,’ Samuel sighed, turning his back on the forest. ‘For today there’s nothing more to be done.’ He smiled as he let the bone charm fall back against his chest. It wasn’t quite true. There was the long walk home and then the waiting hearth and a mug of spiced flip, the smiles of his children and the arms of his wife. No, there were still things to be done, but not such things as concerned wolves or his vow to Nagash.

The tall meadows of stalk-grass beyond the borders of Briardark gradually faded into the cultivated surroundings of Felstein. The insane grins of scarecrows greeted him as he approached the fields, their ragged clothes festooned with bits of glass and shiny metal to entice birds to them. The wooden frames were coated in a gluey resin to trap the crows and provide some meat to go along with the farmers’ harvest. Here and there a columnar haystack reared up above the ploughed rows, each surmounted by a carved pumpkin to frighten grots and make the greenskinned thieves think the settlement was surrounded by gargants. Samuel thought only the stupidest greenskin would be deceived by such a crude trick, but if it eased the worries of his neighbours, there was no harm done.

Past the fields, the barns of Felstein rose. Each was painted a vivid red, and on their sides were drawn complex hex signs to repulse the attentions of wandering nighthaunts and malevolent spirits. Samuel was even more dubious of the efficacy of the hex signs than he was of the pumpkins. Certainly, they hadn’t kept a glaivewraith from preying on Felstein when he was a child. Twelve people had died before an exorcist from Gothghul Hollow arrived to dispose of the murdering phantom.

The town itself appeared beyond the barns and stables of the outlying farms, a few lanes of tamped earth that wound their way between several dozen shops and houses. The market square was at the centre of the settlement, with the sprawling town hall stretching across one side and the sombre temple of Nagash squatting in one corner like a great stone spider. Warehouses, workshops and the Skintaker’s Swallow, Felstein’s only inn, formed the other borders of the square. The ghoulish bulk of the witches’ tree loomed at its centre. A massive black gallowsoak, it had been struck dead in the days of Samuel’s grandfather when the depraved sorceress Natalia Kolb cursed it before she was hanged from its branches. Even dead, the tree persisted as a place of execution, and the skulls of four witches were nailed to its trunk with spikes of iron – a warning to any others who would treat with the Ruinous Powers.

Samuel nodded to those he passed in the square as he made his way to the far side of town. It was a smart thing to keep on friendly terms with his neighbours, especially when the post of beasthunter was keenly desired by so many. Results weren’t enough to retain the position – there was a fair amount of politicking to take into account as well. Samuel was grateful not to run into Hochmueller, however. No amount of politicking was going to offset his failure to catch the wolf, especially if the beast started ranging into more pastures. Felstein’s townmaster, Thayer Greimhalt, would like an excuse to dismiss Samuel and appoint one of his cronies as the new beasthunter. It irked Thayer to have a man in that role who wasn’t a subservient lickspittle.

It was with a sigh of relief that Samuel started up the path to home. The half-timbered house had a small plot of land attached to it, just enough to grow a kitchen garden and keep several dozen chickens. An old gryph-hound was curled up in a nest just inside the gate. Its plumage was dull and a few bald spots showed where its feathers had fallen out. The creature raised its head at the sound of Samuel’s approach and opened its beak to chirp an excited greeting.

‘There, boy, I’ve come back safe again,’ Samuel said, scratching the gryph-hound’s neck. He could feel Saint’s disappointment as it detected the smell of Briardark on his clothes. The creature had loved roving with him in the forest, helping him on his hunts. Now the animal was too infirm for such activity, all but blind and without the stamina to trot across Felstein, much less prowl the forest. He’d been chided several times by friends and relatives for keeping such a useless animal, but Samuel felt otherwise. Saint had accompanied him on many a hunt in its prime, and he wasn’t about to desert a loyal companion in its old age.

‘I was looking for a wolf,’ the hunter told Saint, ‘but the dog was too crafty for me.’ The gryph-hound uttered a mournful clack deep in its throat. Samuel often suspected that it understood far more of what was being said to it than people thought. He patted the top of the feathered head. ‘Maybe if you’d been with me, things would have been different.’

Saint stretched its lean body, its clawed paws displaying their talons. They were still sharp and deadly, but the gryph-hound wasn’t fast enough to use them effectively. A neighbour’s cat liked to tease Saint every morning, jumping down in the yard and slinking just out of reach of those claws. Saint tried to catch the intruder every day, but the cat was always two steps ahead. A contest between the old gryph-hound and a more substantial predator would end far worse.

Samuel shook his head, and in doing so he noticed Saint’s food bowl close to the nest. A few scraps of meat remained at the bottom of the dish. ‘You’ve had your supper, I see,’ Samuel stated, stepping away from the gryph-hound. ‘Well, I must see about getting my own. Since breakfast I’ve only had some dried sausage to keep me going.’ The gryph-hound settled back into its nest but watched him until he’d reached the door. In everything, Saint remained protective of its master and his family.

After the damp chill of the forest, the warmth inside Samuel’s home was almost intoxicating. He had to stop just over the threshold and let himself adjust to the difference. The smell of roast mutton greeted his nose, and he could see that settings were still in place around the long table that dominated the common room. The flicker of rushlights burning from sconces on the beams and pillars created an inviting glow, while the fire in the hearth crackled and sparked. Samuel swung the door shut and savoured the tranquillity.

Leaning against one wall, he could see the shaft of the spear Marden had been carving and polishing for a fortnight. His son idolised Samuel and had no greater dream than to become Felstein’s beasthunter after his father. The boy was well on his way, too. His eyes were sharp, his ears were keen, and he had an almost instinctive knack for woodcraft. Samuel thought his only advantage over Marden was that of experience, but that would come in time. When he was ready, Marden was going to be a better beasthunter than Samuel ever was.

The handiwork of his other child was draped across a chair. Samuel shook his head. He had to stop thinking of Cicely as a child. She was old enough to be married – indeed, some of the gossip-mongers complained that he hadn’t married her off several years ago. There was certainly no dearth of suitors for such a pretty daughter. Some people thought it was miserliness on Samuel’s part, his reluctance to part with a dowry. The truth was that some of Cicely’s admirers had hinted they’d expect no dowry at all, but still they’d been turned away. When his daughter wed, Samuel wanted it to be a matter entirely of her own choice. She was too bright and inventive to be smothered by a loveless marriage.

Samuel took a few steps towards the chair and studied his daughter’s work. Unlike Marden, Cicely was following their mother’s example, learning the trade of seamstress and weaver. Aside from helping Emelda with the mending and tailoring that came their way, Cicely had decided to embark on a project of her own. She was weaving a tapestry, one that when finished would depict their entire family, from immediate siblings to distant cousins. The hunter was careful not to touch the rich burgundy cloth with his rough hands – he’d been scolded before for inadvertently undoing some loose threads – but instead let his eyes range across the woven figures. There were only rough outlines for now, but he enjoyed trying to decipher who each one would be when she was finished. So far, the only image he was certain of was his own, and only because there was a second figure crouched at his feet that had the unmistakable shape of a weary old gryph-hound.

‘We raised good children,’ Samuel whispered to himself. That was Emelda’s testament, the home all around him. It wasn’t the crude efforts of a beasthunter that made the house a fit place to inhabit, much less bring up children.

‘I thought I heard you come in.’

Samuel was so lost in his thoughts that he spun around in surprise when he heard the voice. Emelda stood at the door leading into the larder, a platter of turnips in her hands. There was a smile on her face, but there was worry in her eyes and an edge of doubt in her tone.

‘I’m sorry I left it off so late,’ Samuel said. He rested his boar spear beside the weapon Marden was carving. His metal fingers clung to the haft for a moment, forcing him to concentrate harder on making them let go. When a bit of damp got into the duardin mechanism, the arm sometimes became sluggish about obeying him. ‘The track wasn’t so easy to follow as I thought it would be.’ He shook his head and sat down at the table. ‘If I’d been better equipped, I’d have stayed out tonight. Try to catch it when it comes out again.’

Emelda set the platter down. ‘I hate it when you stay in the forest. I worry all night when you do. I pray to Nagash when you aren’t home.’ She closed her hand over Samuel’s, the one that was truly his own, and her eyes were bright with emotion. ‘I tell him if he wants to take somebody, he should take me, not you.’

Samuel stroked his wife’s cheek and presented what he hoped was a reassuring smile. ‘When Nagash decides to harvest someone, no prayers will stay his hand. And the King of Death doesn’t swap, so don’t waste your breath trying to make deals.’ He eased his hand from Emelda’s grip and began carving slivers of meat from the leg of mutton on the table. ‘Is all of this for me, or haven’t any of you eaten?’ he asked. He glanced at the other plates. ‘I’ve said before you shouldn’t wait on me.’

‘Marden insisted,’ Emelda said. She turned towards the hall leading to the other rooms. ‘He wanted to celebrate your killing the wolf.’

‘That’s why we have mutton instead of soup.’ Samuel shook his head. ‘The boy’s still too much the dreamer. Hope’s a good thing to have, but you should never depend on it.’ He tugged at his ear, annoyed by this reminder of the worshipful confidence Marden had in him and ashamed that he’d failed to meet his son’s expectations.

‘They’ve been waiting. I’ll just call them now.’ Emelda started into the hall, but Samuel motioned for her to stay.

‘Just call them to supper,’ the hunter said. ‘Let me be the one to tell Marden I didn’t catch the wolf.’

Emelda gave a start when she turned to find Marden just behind her in the hall. Samuel frowned, wondering how much his son had overheard. That question was soon put to rest.

‘You don’t need to,’ Marden said. ‘One look at your spear tells me it hasn’t been cleaned.’ A touch of frustrated pain edged into his voice. ‘Nor do I see it stained with wolf’s blood.’

Cicely couldn’t remember a more miserable meal, not even when a herd of pestigors had laid waste to the region and Felstein was stricken by famine. Watery soup flavoured with chicken bones was preferable to slices of mutton when there was such an air of tension in the house.

Across from her sat the primary culprit. Marden was junior to her by five years, at that age where he was no longer just a boy but neither had he grown into a man. He was a strapping lad with muscles conditioned by hard work and robust training. He had the squared jaw and hawkish nose of their father, even if his hair was the same coppery hue as their mother’s. But where Samuel’s visage had a cautious, even studious bearing, in Marden’s face there was yet that stamp of childish naivety. Certainly, it was immaturity that had caused him to be so obstinate and petulant, treating their father’s failure to catch the wolf as a kind of personal affront. Or was there something else in play? Whenever she met his eyes, she thought she saw anxiety there, some worry he was trying to hide from their parents but which he couldn’t conceal from his sister.

Samuel was at his place at the head of the table, still arrayed in his hunter’s cloak. Normally he’d have changed before sitting down, but when he came back so late at night he was too hungry to observe the usual niceties. This time, however, he merely picked at his food. Cicely could see that Marden’s disappointment had deeply hurt their father. His efforts to speak to her brother were alternately awkward or brusque, either conciliatory apologies or harsh reprimands about Marden’s attitude.

Cicely sympathised with Samuel. In many ways they were alike. She not only shared her father’s black hair, but she’d developed many of his traits as well. She could understand the great pride that burned in his heart, for it was in hers too, a pride that had been cut to the quick by Marden’s ugly words. Samuel would rather lose his other arm than the respect of his son. That pain ran deep, and he didn’t know how to make it go away. So instead he returned Marden’s distemper with his own.

Emelda sat beside her husband, trying to act the peacemaker. It was a role she didn’t care for but which she’d had to take on before when mediating disputes between relatives and neighbours. She’d never been thrust into an argument on this scale in her own home before, and that difference made her situation even more uncomfortable. She kept twirling a coil of her coppery hair around her finger as she fumbled for something – anything – that might interrupt the strife between father and son. In her efforts at turning the conversation down a different path, she instead forced the issue.

‘Cousin Anya visited today,’ Emelda said as she put a turnip on her plate. ‘It sounds as though Thayer won’t relent. He wants what is due on the house or he’ll evict them.’

‘Rukh should never have taken that loan,’ Samuel grumbled. ‘Once Thayer gets someone under his thumb, he makes sure to keep them there.’ He took a sip from his mug of flip and wiped his lips with his sleeve. ‘I still say the man was elected only because half the town owes him favours.’

‘Rukh and Anya certainly regret it now,’ Emelda agreed, ‘but what’s done is done. She thinks his crop will be better next year, and if Thayer would only wait…’

‘Thayer won’t wait,’ Samuel said, scowling. ‘The man enjoys making other people miserable. You’re right, Rukh probably will have a good harvest next year. That’s why Thayer will evict them now. Probably give the farm to Alastair…’

Cicely’s lip curled at the name. ‘Alastair’s a worse bully than his father. At least Thayer had to work for what he has. Alastair just expects everything to be handed to him.’ She stabbed her knife into the mutton, imagining for a moment that it was Alastair’s face. ‘A viper suckled by a hyena.’

‘Enough of that kind of talk,’ Emelda scolded her. ‘It is sufficient to say you dislike someone and leave it at that.’

‘But he doesn’t leave it at that,’ Cicely protested. ‘Three times he’s come swaggering over here to ask – no, to tell – me to marry him.’ She ticked off each instance on her fingers. ‘It’s been two months, so we should be hearing from him again. Unless he’s too busy moving into Cousin Anya’s house.’

Samuel pounded his fist against the table. ‘If I’d only caught Hochmueller’s wolf! The pelt and the bounty money would have been enough to help Anya’s family.’

‘Then why didn’t you catch it?’ Marden’s words were stinging, but Cicely thought they weren’t so much angered as afraid. She gave her brother a wary look, trying to decipher the reason for his emotions.

Samuel locked eyes with his son, pain and rage in his gaze. Cicely had never seen such a look before. ‘Grow up, boy,’ he snapped. ‘You think it’s all some kind of game.’ He lifted his mechanical arm, letting the light gleam across its bronze coating. ‘Well it isn’t. Each hunt is as serious as the grave. I match my skills against the beast’s cunning. Tomorrow might be different, but today the wolf won. Sometimes that’s how it plays out. You have to bide your time until the beast makes a mistake.’

‘And how much time do you think you have?’ Marden said. ‘I heard Alastair boasting that Felstein would have a new beasthunter. Thayer’s wanted you gone for years, and not catching Hochmueller’s wolf is just what he’s been waiting for!’

Cicely gasped. There it was. Out in the open. This was the reason Marden was upset. Not some childish notion of their father’s infallibility but the very real fear that their entire world was going to be upended by Thayer.

‘There’s been bad blood between myself and Thayer for years,’ Samuel said before swallowing a mouthful of flip. He tried to sound dismissive of Marden’s concern, but Cicely could tell he was worried.

‘It’s true that Thayer doesn’t like your father,’ Emelda interjected, ‘but he knows there isn’t a better man in Felstein to be our beasthunter.’

Marden shook his head and grunted with exasperation. ‘Mother, what does Thayer care if beasts raid the pastures? He’s townmaster – he doesn’t own herds, he owns the people who own the herds. His only concern is putting people obligated to him into every important position in town.’ He shifted his gaze to Samuel. ‘Whatever enmity there was before, it’s never been expressed publicly before. Not like this. He’s using Hochmueller’s wolf to turn people against you so he can–’

‘Enough!’ Samuel growled, his face turning red. ‘We’ll speak no more about it. Tomorrow I’ll get the wolf and that will be the end of it.’

‘And what if you don’t?’ Marden prodded.

‘Father said to stop,’ Cicely warned her brother. Tempers were rising all around and it was obvious there was no purpose continuing the argument. Obvious to everyone but Marden and Samuel.

‘What if the wolf gets away again? What if it kills again? How many days do you think he’ll wait before Thayer stirs up the people to take your post away from you?’ Marden thrust each question at Samuel as though he were jabbing the hunter with his own spear.

‘I’ll get the wolf and that will be the end of it!’ Samuel spilled his drink as he slammed the mug down on the table. ‘I know what you’re trying to do. You want me to take you on the hunt. I told you once and I’ll tell you again, when you grow up you can come with me.’ He shook his finger in Marden’s face. ‘If you ever do grow up.’

Marden gave no response. He simply rose from his chair and walked away. Cicely had never seen him so pale and grim. It was as if a banshee had called away his spirit and left this husk behind. Every muscle looked tense and his eyes were like glowing embers, such was the burning emotion in them. She started to follow him, but her mother motioned her to stay.

Samuel glanced at the hallway when the sound of Marden’s door slamming shut reached the table but otherwise gave no notice to his son’s withdrawal. He simply stared down at his plate and listlessly picked at his meal. Cicely could see that he was pensive, turning over the exchange and regretting his angry words. But there was more than that. Marden’s worries were justified. Everyone at the table knew that. Allaying those worries was Samuel’s burden, and right now he was feeling that onerous weight. He’d failed to catch the wolf today and he didn’t know how many more chances he’d get. How many more chances Thayer would permit him.

It was with a sense of relief that Cicely finally finished her food and quit the table. The brooding atmosphere had become unbearable. She wanted to help Samuel, to shoulder some of the responsibility pressing on him, but she knew she couldn’t. Even her mother couldn’t. A sense of helpless frustration was creeping up on her, threatening to consume her the longer she stayed, so she took up her unfinished tapestry from its chair and headed back to her room. Work would take her mind away from the family’s troubles.

Cicely paused in the hallway. She looked to Marden’s door and decided to speak with her brother. Perhaps she could make him see their father’s perspective, or at least make him understand that Samuel hadn’t meant his harsh words.

When she opened the door, however, Cicely found no sign of her brother. He wasn’t in his bed or sitting in his chair. A cold breeze wafted in from the open window. An even colder dread closed icy fingers around her heart. She remembered what Samuel had said and knew at once where Marden had gone.

Her brother had gone to hunt the wolf.

Alone.

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WARHAMMER HORROR

A BLACK LIBRARY IMPRINT

First published in Great Britain in 2022.
This eBook edition published in 2022 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd, Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK.

Represented by: Games Workshop Limited – Irish branch, Unit 3, Lower Liffey Street, Dublin 1, D01 K199, Ireland.

Produced by Games Workshop in Nottingham.
Cover illustration by Svetlana Kostina.

Briardark © Copyright Games Workshop Limited 2022. Briardark, Warhammer Horror, GW, Games Workshop, Black Library, The Horus Heresy, The Horus Heresy Eye logo, Space Marine, 40K, Warhammer, Warhammer 40,000, the ‘Aquila’ Double-headed Eagle logo, 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.

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ISBN: 978-1-80026-649-0

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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To Nicole, for somehow sticking to my brother.

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