The Question

"We'll go to the old mill."

"But that's…"

"Shut up, Heinrich."

"Haunted."

"Shut up, Heinrich!" Karl had the familiar glint in his eye, a look of determination with just enough of a hint of mania about it to quell the doubts that slithered in Heinrich's gut. "We're going to the old mill. And when we come back, then we'll have a story to tell."

Trudging through the forest, Heinrich found the doubts not so much slithering as coiling in upon themselves, forming a small, hard knot of fear that no amount of Karl's bravado could dispel. Partly this was to do with the forest; its close trunks and luxuriant, grasping undergrowth meant that you had to give a fair amount of your attention just to putting one foot in front of the other. The furtive rustlings and distant animal cries served as both a distraction and a reminder that, in the forest, you were never truly alone.

"Stop daydreaming!"

"I'm not…" Heinrich's mumbled protest barely escaped his mouth. His brother had been right.

His brother was always right. There had never been a time in Heinrich's young life when he could remember Karl Markheim being beset by doubt. And that certainty had only seemed to increase when father had passed away.

Karl Markheim senior had been a soldier in the 17th Stirland Infantry and fought in two notable battles and a host of less significant skirmishes. On his deathbed, he had gathered his two sons to him and addressed them one last time.

His final words had been typically portentous. As he had for most of his time as a father, Karl Markheim the elder, even as Morr called him to his halls, was thinking of the future - of his legacy.

"Remember," he said. "This life is not about riches or fame. One day, you will be judged by Sigmar himself. The question… the question is what sort of man will you be? What is your worth as a man?"

His brother had straightened up, chest puffing out proudly. But, his father had been looking squarely at Heinrich when he'd spoken.

"Well, then."

The old mill wasn't much to look at, Heinrich found out. The east wall had more or less collapsed and much of the roof had fallen in.

At some point in the past, the village had been larger than it was now and the mill had been a thriving part of its growth and then… well, something had happened. No one really knew what, although there was plenty of hearsay. Gerhart, the oldest man in the village, had offered the suggestion that it had been overrun by beastmen of some kind, but Heinrich doubted it. There hadn't been a beastman incursion near the village in even Gerhart's lifetime. That kind of thing happened to other communities in the Empire. It didn't happen here.

But there were other stories.

As Henrich took in the crumbling ruins of the humble little building, he thought of the rumours he had grown up with. Rumours of the miller killing his wife and children. Rumours that said the mill was haunted by his mad, bloodthirsty ghost.

"Stop daydreaming!"

Karl was half-way across the thin bridge that crossed the little stream. He was staring at his younger brother, lip curling with disdain in much the same way father's had.

What is your worth as a man?

His father's question still echoing in his mind, Heinrich hurried to catch up with his brother, his hand gripping the hilt of his father's dagger tightly.

"What's that?"

The main part of the mill had been derelict and lifeless, open to the elements, its floor strewn with dead leaves and stray twigs. Karl hadn't been satisfied with that, though. For some strange unfathomable reason, he'd wanted adventure, not ruins. For Heinrich the ruins were adventure enough.

What is your worth…

Karl was bent over a pile of what appeared to be droppings. It was difficult to see properly in the gloom. Unlike the mill proper, the miller's cottage was more or less intact. They were in what must have been the family's living area. Heinrich had entered fearfully, expecting to see dark stains splashed on the walls. Instead, all they'd found was… this.

"They're big," said Heinrich uncertainly. "Bigger than a fox's. That's for sure."

Karl poked them with a stick. "Fresh, too."

Something scuttled in the shadows behind them. Heinrich felt his skin go ice cold, as his brother whirled round, his father's sword rasping from its sheath.

Three long seconds passed, but neither of the brothers could see anything in the shadowy corner where the miller's wife had prepared her family's meals.

Tap-tap-tap.

The sound of tiny claws on cracked stone slabs. Heinrich's knuckles were white as he gripped the dagger tightly.

Karl relaxed. "Just rats."

And then, as if the mention of their name was enough to summon them from the shadows, the rats burst forth. There were three - no, four - of them, fat ugly creatures with mangy pelts and red, glittering eyes. And behind them…

"Karl…" whispered Heinrich, his mouth suddenly dry.

But Karl had seen. A warcry on his lips, he rushed forward, leaping over the rats and slashing at the thing that had waited in the shadows.

Heinrich saw his brother close with the creature - its inhuman silhouette twitching in alarm, whiskers shivering as it brought up a rusty blade to defend itself. Even as he watched his brother bat the creature's blade aside and thrust his father's sword into the foul thing's stomach, Heinrich was aware of the rats gathering around him, darting in to nip at his feet and ankles. He kicked them away, fear lending him a vicious strength.

When he looked up again, his brother was dying, impaled on the vicious barbs of a shortened pike. The rat-creature had not been alone. Stepping over Karl's still form, Heinrich saw a second rat-man's eyes gleam with a feral intelligence.

What is your worth…

In the few short years since his father's death, Heinrich Markheim had pondered that question often. He had assumed that it would be answered by the great Sigmar himself in some dimly-imagined afterlife. But, now it appeared that judgment would be passed - not by the great God-King of legend - but by a stinking, feral rat-man with murder in its heart and the blood of his brother dripping from its pike.

Heart pounding, Heinrich drew his father's dagger from its sheath and lunged.