The Bookkeeper's Skull: Warhammer Horror

by Justin D Hill

Genres: Occult & Supernatural; Horror

Synopsis

A Warhammer Horror Story 

Follow in the footsteps of Rudgard Howe, an enforcer cadet who, while on their first mission and embroiled in an embittered succession battle back home, uncovers a heinous sanguinary cult....

Listen to it because: in the grim darkness of the far future, horror lies in the most unlikely of places, as a routine investigation becomes something all the more sinister.

The story: on the capital world of Potence, young enforcer cadet Rudgard Howe is caught up in a bitter internecine feud to inherit his father's position of chief enforcer. As the tithe fleets approach, he is sent on his first mission to ensure that the planet's distant agri-facilities fulfil their quotas to the god-emperor. Farmed with serfs and managed by ex-Militarum soldiers, the agri-facilities are places of shocking brutality and hopelessness. But when he is sent to the outlying farmstead of Thorsarbour, Rudgard discovers a community where the crops are left to rot as the inhabitants indulge in the bloody ecstasy of a sanguinary cult. As Rudgard imposes the strict Lex Imperialis upon the farmstead, he begins to uncover a place where sanity is rapidly slipping. Just a single step into his nightmarish mission though, a series of cruel deaths threatens to dismantle everything he has ever known about the Imperium, his faith in the emperor and the strength of his very soul.

Written by Justin D Hill. Narrated by Matthew Hunt.

 

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Release date: January 15, 2022

Publisher: Black Library

Sample

 

CHAPTER ONE

The solemn bells of the Cathedral Ignatzio tolled over the Evercity that morning, as I stood in the baroque stone doorway of my attic room and took a last look at my childhood. This lofty chamber had been a refuge from the madness of my home world, but I could not stay here. Not now that I’d been summoned by the responsibility of my birth. I took in a deep breath, telling myself I was ready.

On my shelves were ranks of metal Guardsmen, boxes overflowing with long-discarded playthings, and the few books that had helped shape me: Wain’s IllustratedLex Imperialis, Thorn’s Book of Martyrs and 101 Devotions for the Young. But there were older companions, too.

I saw the stiff poses of my most treasured toys, lying in the shadows. They had wooden arms, legs and heads, uniforms of embroidered cloth, bodies of fur and flesh. Time and play had ruined most of them. Staring back at me were empty eye sockets and black, glassy optics. Tufts of stuffing peeked through worn torsos. Only one of them moved: Gambol, my clown. He stood out with his red hair, whitened skin, blue diamonds stitched over his eyes, and a broad, red smile tattooed upon his face. He rocked back and forth on his sutured haunches, the bells on his harlequin’s uniform ringing gently as he scratched at the brass flesh-plug behind his ear. His voice was boyish, despite his adult size. ‘Ruddie go?’

‘Ruddie go,’ I said in our childlike pidgin.

He sniffed ostentatiously as a tear rolled down his pockmarked cheek.

‘Who Gambol play with?’ He pulled an exaggerated sad face and started to sob theatrically. ‘Gambol sad.’

I could see that. When I was young, I had thought of him as my closest friend. Now, I was unmoved by these cheap displays of fake emotion. In truth, he was once some criminal or heretic that had been turned into a wealthy kid’s plaything – his legs amputated, his brain hacked into and his neural pathways slaved to a simple spectrum of emotions. Growing up, I had occasionally wondered what crime he had committed to deserve such punishment, and whether something lurked still beneath his neural circuitry. Was there a malevolence in his bloodshot eyes?

Gambol scratched behind his ear again. His fingers came away bloody.

‘Itches,’ he said, but his flesh-plugs had always festered.

‘Gambol must not scratch,’ I told him.

‘Itches,’ he said again, and fresh blood covered his nails in a red glaze. He held them up for me to see.

I didn’t know what he wanted me to do about it.

‘Pain is a sign of life,’ I told him.

I dragged that parting out, but I’ve since learnt that it is kinder to leave people behind without fuss. There’s no point in prolonging torment, or apologising, or asking for forgiveness. It’s better just to rip off the plaster, as they say. Pull the trigger. Put the shot right between the eyeballs – or even better, in the back of the head. A brutal kiss, where skull and spine meet.

But I didn’t know any of that back then, as I stood in the doorway of my refuge, trying to be kind to an old friend.

‘I’ll be back,’ I lied.

Gambol wiped his hand on his quartered livery. Suddenly he was bright and cheery. ‘Back? Gambol wait! When you back?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Today?’

‘No.’

‘Tomorrow?’

‘No.’

He flinched at my tone and opened his mouth in an exaggerated wail, his blue-diamond eyes squeezing another torrent of tears down his face. I should have shot him there and then to put him out of his fake misery. But I was in a hurry, and through the ancient walls of my ancestral home, I could hear the cathedral bells tolling solemnly, reminding me of my duty that morning. It was the hallowday of Saint Helena Richstar, and I had been summoned.

‘Gambol sad!’ he called as I turned my back on him. They were his last ever words to me. I didn’t bother answering, but shut the door, the click of the lock sealing my childhood firmly in the past.

Some say that partings are hard, but the truth was I felt lighter after I left Gambol behind and made my way down the grand staircase, one hand on the ironwood banister to guide my steps in the darkness.

This stairway descended through the heart of the ancient palace that my mother had bought lock, stock, and with all the paraphernalia of a noble household when she had arrived on the planet. The walls were lined with antique portraits of complete strangers: men and women in gilded Militarum uniforms with high shakos and gold braids, like shrines to ancient battles. The unknown faces were severe, their eyes haunted by illustrious careers, fighting and dying for the God-Emperor across the wide Imperium of Mankind. And there were their mementos as well: crossed lances with musty tassels, venerable powerblades, and hunting trophies from across the Gallows Cluster – a mix of heads and fangs and horns and antlers, mouldering pelts exposing white skulls, glassy eyes dulled by veils of ancient cobwebs, and the stink of naphthalene preservatives.

Halfway down I smelt the musky reek of the greenskin head. The monstrous creature had always terrified me with its broken tusks and beaded, blankly staring eyes. The mount bore the name of the Battle of Cinnabar’s Folly and that of the man who had killed the beast: a General Everard Richstar. I had learnt about him in my histories. He’d been a reputable Guardsman until he had fallen in the bloody rout at Oukk.

At the bottom of the stairs was a wide landing with thick carpets and ten-foot doors opening off into various rooms of further pomp and grandeur, home to more historical figures I would never live up to. One set of doors, leading to my mother’s apartment, was ajar. I heard her voice calling my name. ‘Ruddie?’

She sounded as if she had just noticed my approach, but I knew she had been watching me ever since I left my chamber. The whole palace was covered by her surveillance picters. Their crystal eyes had been silently following my progress.

I used to joke that nothing was ever hidden from my mother, but I’ve since learnt that there are two ways of keeping confidences: not telling anyone anything or, if you must, killing them once you do.

Death is a true friend. It keeps all secrets.

My mother’s boudoir had the musty air of a museum, dedicated to my childhood. On the wall hung my old tasselled caps, stiff jackets and embroidered shoes, while a chosen assortment of my toys cluttered the black-lacquered shelves.

Mother had never been a happy woman, but she cherished the past in the misapprehension that she had been happier then. Her discontent was like a weight upon all who knew her, and I looked forward to leaving it all behind as I entered her room.

She was sitting in her high-backed leather throne, facing away from me. The throne swung soundlessly round, revealing its occupant.

‘Mother,’ I said, and bowed.

She wore a black lace dress with a ruff of furs about her neck, and an ornate black headdress lit with fairy lights, dark against her silver hair.

My mother was a curious sight, even for the Evercity. Subdermal implants had turned her eyes to gold, and her skin silver. In the half-light of candle flames, she shimmered, but it was hard to read emotion in her metallic visage. She let out a long breath of smoke and took me in, from boots to head.

From her long ivory pipe came the sweet scent of narcotics. They left me feeling nauseous, but they were one of her only joys. ‘Ruddie,’ she said, exhaling smoke along with my name.

An augmetic monocle covered one eye. In its light I could see the flicker of a pict-image against her skin. The miniature screen went dark as she moved the monocle aside and I looked into her gilded eyes. They gave nothing away as she regarded me.

‘I wanted to look good for father,’ I told her. Over my black bodyglove, I wore a suit of combat armour made by the finest artisans in the Evercity. She beckoned me forward, her silver skin catching the flickering light, and nodded silently.

‘You look like him.’ When she said that, it was not a compliment. Father was an ugly man and I had inherited his craggy looks. ‘Be careful, Ruddie,’ she said. ‘Or you will end up like him in other ways.’

Her words stung me.

Now, of course, I know better. I have known handsome men and beautiful women who were not much served by their good looks, and I have got used to being an ugly man. I’ve learnt to not let other people hurt me. Feelings are like tripwires. A blank conscience is the difference between wakeful and dreamless sleep.

Something in my mother’s lap moved. It was one of her pet simians, squatting amongst the drapes of her skirt, dressed in a hat of velvet and a jacket of silk brocade. About its neck was clasped an electro control-leash, the neuro circuits buried in the scruff of its neck. I think it was called Imp, though I made a point of not keeping track of any of her pets’ names. I had never liked any of them: they had always been rivals to my mother’s affection. When she lifted it up and pressed it to her chest I refused to be baited, but then it reached down and dragged my clockwork Titan, Rhadameor, from the folds in her gown.

The winding mechanism had long since broken, the blue-and-flame paintwork was chipped and worn, the inferno cannon re-welded onto the arm more times than I could remember, but it was dear to me. ‘That’s mine,’ I said.

‘You don’t play with it any more. You’re all grown up.’ The words held an edge of spite.

‘No,’ I said, ‘but it’s still mine.’

A montage flashed through my head of sitting with Gambol and the other playmates my mother had bought – human and augmented. We had filled my bedroom floor with metal Militarum. My bed was the gates of the Imperial Palace on Holy Terra, and Rhadameor had smashed its way through the legions of traitors.

She was trying to hurt me, and I refused to show any emotion.

She saw that her ploy had failed, or maybe, in her narcotic stupor, she felt a pang of guilt. ‘It seems that only yesterday you were just a boy. And now look at you…’

My mother’s eyes blinked and I saw a golden tear make its way down her silver cheek. Beneath all the frippery and glittering façade, she loved me. It was a stifling, choking love, but it was well meant. And she knew that she was losing me.

‘He’s a hard man,’ she warned. ‘He will brook no weakness.’

She spoke from experience, of course. She was the last of my father’s three concubines and had spent most of my childhood lamenting her luck at being brought to this planet, but as she spoke, my eyes must have taken on that glazed, hard exterior because she stopped herself and took a deep breath.

‘I bought this for you,’ she said at last, and took something out of the voluminous folds of her midnight lace skirts. Her silver arm shimmered as she held it out to me.

For once I was lost for words.

The autopistol was priceless, with a carved ivory handle and an exquisitely patterned barrel, acid-etched with entwined vines and the Imperial aquila etched on either side. But it was the Tronsvasse symbol stamped into the barrel that struck me dumb.

It was the mark par excellence, of beauty and craftsmanship, and expense. And, even for my mother, it must have cost a fortune.

‘Mother!’ I breathed. I felt a genuine wave of humility. It was so unfamiliar that it stuck in my throat. I had to cough to clear away the emotion. ‘Thank you,’ I said at last.

‘I asked the Cardinal Archbishop to bless it. And he blessed these as well.’ She handed me a heavy package of hard rounds. ‘They fragment upon impact,’ she told me. I held them up. Each one of the snub-nosed bullets had been hand-ground by artisans into the shape of a flower. ‘Manstoppers,’ she said.

I knew, of course. Xenos-hunters used them to stop the foes of humanity in their tracks. There was an image in one of my books that showed how the shards ripped through the flesh of the target.

I thanked her many times and she nodded stiffly.

‘You had better go. Arcad is waiting for you downstairs.’

‘I don’t need him,’ I said. She started to argue but I was adamant. ‘What will father think if you send one of your lifewards with me?’ My logic was clear. If I was to prove myself his successor, I had to set myself high standards.

She fell silent. The simian nudged her finger to encourage her to scratch again.

‘I will be fine, I promise.’ I patted the Tronsvasse at my side.

Her fingers curled protectively about the creature in her lap. Its blank eyes blinked slowly at me as it clutched my Titan in both hands. ...