by Warhammer
That shut the merchants up, Ulrika thought with some satisfaction. They could see the not-so-veiled threat as well as she.
The duke continued to speak in a slightly more reasonable tone of voice. ‘And after all, Osrik, what do profits matter if the city falls? Gold is only useful to those who are alive to spend it. If those beasts break into our noble city I am sure they will spare no one no matter how wealthy… except perhaps a few Chaos worshippers.’
The duke’s meaning was only too clear to the merchants now. Most were looking around shiftily, hoping only to make a graceful retreat from the chamber. The duke’s remark about gold only being useful to the living was not lost on them. It applied just as much to those hung as traitors as to those slain by Chaos warriors.
‘I am sure there are no Chaos worshippers here, brother,’ said Villem suavely. He looked up at his brother, winked and then turned and gave the merchants a friendly smile. The iron hand and the velvet glove, Ulrika saw. In a way it was sad. By temperament, Enrik was far more suited to be a hatchetman, and his brother a conciliator. It might have been better for the popularity of the ruling house if the two men’s positions had been reversed; that way the duke could have stood apart with his hands clean and been more popular. Still, it was not to be. Birth had made them what they were, and neither brother seemed uncomfortable with their roles, if roles they were. Perhaps the brothers were simply doing what came naturally. On the other hand, she had heard rumours about Villem too. He was something of a scholar, dabbled in alchemy and was said to read books brought all the way from the Empire. This would have made him a figure of suspicion to members of the old Kislevite aristocracy too.
The merchants nodded agreement. ‘Is there anything else you want to discuss?’ asked Enrik icily. The merchants shook their heads and were granted the ducal permission to withdraw. More petitioners approached the throne. Lesser nobles, by their garb, wanting the duke to settle some small dispute between them. Ulrika soon lost the point of the discussion and gave her attention to the audience chamber.
It was quite small, and the walls were covered in thick tapestries showing scenes from ancient battles. Depictions of the last Great War against Chaos were displayed prominently. There was Skathloc Ironclaw mounted on his mighty wyvern, Doomfang. There was Magnus the Pious, resplendent in his heavy plate mail, a halo of sanctity playing around his head, the great warhammer that was the mark of the Emperor held in one hand. There was the Tzar Alexander, a mortal god in his gilded armour. Beastmen leered from the thick woollen weaving. Noble knights and winged lancers rode to meet them. The Chaos moon glared balefully in the sky, looking larger than it had at any time in Ulrika’s lifetime save the last few weeks.
Not for the first time, she wished she had taken advantage of her relationship with the ducal family. They were distant cousins related by marriage, and she might have presumed on that for a private audience, but she had not. Her native sense of fairness forbade it. Her business was important to her, but not important enough to anyone else to interfere with matters of state. She had resolved to use the public audience time for it. After all, all she really wanted to do was learn if there was any news of her father. There was only a slim chance the duke might know something. She shivered and tried to keep her worry under control. Her father would be alright. He had lived through war and famine and plague for nearly half a century. He would survive this. He was indestructible. At least, she hoped he was. He was all the real family she had left in this world.
The sound of the duke’s voice being raised broke into her reverie. He had lost all patience with the nobles and was shouting at them as if they were naughty children in need of stern discipline. ‘And if either of you dare come here, and waste my time again, I will see you are both flogged and denied a place in the battle lines. Is that clear enough for you?’
Ulrika was shocked. These men might be petty and mean-spirited but they were nobles. It was most unusual for anyone to speak to them like that. Like all Kislevite nobles they would be touchy and they would have their own private armies and assassins. Such open rudeness was usually cause for a duel. One of the nobles pointed this out.
‘When this battle is over, Count Mikal, I will gladly give you satisfaction,’ sneered the duke, in a tone that left no doubt whom he thought would be the victor in any duel. ‘But right at this moment, in case you had not noticed, we have slightly more important things to concern us. Even more important than the question of which of you takes precedence in choosing their position on the outer wall. Still, if you wait long enough, those beastmen beyond the walls might make the question academic by lopping off your fool heads. That’s if I don’t have my guardsmen do it first. You may leave the ducal presence. Now!’
The anger in the duke’s voice was quite unfeigned, and Ulrika had no doubt that Enrik meant what he said. Even so, she thought, he was being foolish. In the days to come he would need the willing support of both those men and their troops. Villem also saw this, for after a quiet word in his brother’s ear, he hurried after the two to speak some conciliatory words to them. The chamberlain studied his list, stamped his staff on the ground and commanded two more men to stride forward.
They were big men, garbed in well-used armour, with long cowled cloaks and wolf-head amulets at their throats. On each of their gaunt faces was a look of blazing fanaticism. Without being told, and even before they spoke, Ulrika knew what they were. Witch hunters.
‘Your grace, there are depraved worshippers of the Dark Powers within the walls of Praag. We must make examples of them. Burning a few will set a good example for the citizens.’
‘And of course you know exactly who needs burning, Ulgo?’ The sneer was evident in the duke’s voice. Ulrika was surprised; Enrik had a reputation for being sympathetic to witch hunters, and a harsh enemy of Chaos. It was one of the few things that made him popular with his people. She watched closely. Perhaps he simply did not like these two. It was the second witch hunter who replied, and his voice was smooth and sophisticated, not unlike Felix’s, in fact.
‘We have taken the liberty of preparing a list, your grace,’ he said. The duke beckoned him forward, took the scroll from his outstretched hand, studied it for a moment and began to laugh.
‘Your grace finds something amusing?’ purred the man. There was a dangerous note in his voice. He was not someone used to being mocked.
‘Only you, Petr, could find half the hierarchy of the temple of Ulric to be heretics.’
‘Your grace, they do not prosecute the search for the dupes of Darkness with anything like sufficient zeal. Any priest of Ulric who behaves this way must be a traitor to the cause of humanity, and therefore a heretic.’
‘I am sure the Archprelate would disagree with your assessment, Petr. Which may be why he expelled you from the priesthood.’
‘My expulsion was the work of hidden heretics, your grace, who feared exposure to the shining light of truth, and who knew they must see me disgraced or be revealed as the foul spawn of daemons that they are. They–’
‘Enough, Petr!’ the duke said quietly but threateningly. ‘We are at war now, and I will explain this only once. I summoned you here to tell you something – not to listen to your ranting. So listen carefully, and listen well.
‘There will be no further persecution of those you deem heretics by you or your men… unless I command it! There will be no exhorting the populace to burn the homes of those you deem to be lacking in zeal… unless I give you permission! You and your private army of zealots will be useful in the coming fight, but I will not tolerate you taking the law into your own hands. If you disobey me on this I will have your head on a spike before you have time to speak. Do you understand me?’
‘But your grace–’
‘I said: do you understand me?’ The duke’s voice was cold and deadly.
Ulrika looked on, unsure of whether she approved or not. It was good that Enrik was taking a firm hand with any unruly elements of the population, particularly trouble
makers like Ulgo and Petr appeared to be. Still these were powerful men, and their cause was just, and he should not have offended them by taking this high-handed tone. She began to understand why Enrik was not as popular as his brother.
‘Yes, your grace,’ said Petr. His tone was dangerously close to disrespectful. Ulrika began to suspect that the duke’s intervention here might be counter-productive. It was not unknown for witch hunters and their minions to go about their business masked.
‘You may go then,’ said the duke.
Ulrika was paying such close attention to the way the witch hunters departed that she almost missed her own name. Hastily she strode forward and made her obeisances.
‘Cousin,’ the duke said. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘I wish to know if there has been any word of my father, your grace.’
‘I regret to inform you there has been none. If any message is received I will have you informed at once. My chamberlain knows where to find you, I trust?’
‘Yes, your grace.’
‘Good. Then you may go.’
Ulrika flushed. Even by the standards of Kislevite nobility, this was a peremptory dismissal. She turned to leave. Anger ate her. When she felt a hand on her shoulder, she whirled, almost ready to do violence. She halted when she saw Villem smiling at her.
‘You must forgive the duke,’ he said. ‘He is not a patient man, and there have been many things to vex him recently. These are not easy times, for any of us.’
‘He is the ruler here. This is war. There is nothing to forgive.’
‘I am sure Enrik would agree with you, but still it is never good to forget the courtesies, particularly not when dealing with blood relatives. I am sorry we have not heard from your father. Still, there is always hope. Messenger pigeons go astray, and couriers have been known to go missing or get themselves killed. I would not despair. Looking at that horde out there, I doubt any messengers could have got through from the north in quite some time.’
Sensing the concern in Villem’s voice, Ulrika started to thaw a little. She already felt a bit better. ‘Thank you,’ she said, and meant it.
‘Please, think nothing of it. It is a pleasure to be of service. Don’t worry – we will pull through this. I understand you arrived with the dwarf Slayer and his companions, the wizard and the swordsman. Fascinating people and very heroic, I am sure. I would like you all to have dinner with me some evening here at the palace. I would like the opportunity to talk about that wonderful flying ship and get to know so fair a cousin better.’
Ulrika tried to picture Gotrek at table with this urbane man and could not. Felix and Max were a different matter however. ‘I would like that,’ she said.
‘I will see that an invitation is dispatched. Till then…’
Grey Seer Thanquol glared into his scrying crystal. He was feeling the strain. All around the elders of Moulder looked at him as if he were something good to eat. He forced himself to ignore this distraction and concentrate on working his sorcery. He let his mind descend into the trance he had first learned when barely out of runthood, and just beginning his apprenticeship as a grey seer. He let his spirit float free and gather the energies of dark magic and then he shunted them into the crystal.
As he did so, his point of view shifted. It was as if the crystal had been transformed into the eye of a watching god, an analogy that gave Thanquol a warm feeling in the base of his stomach. He saw his own body from above. He saw the grey-furred oddly mutated Moulder elders glaring at him, and he saw Izak Grottle looking on hungrily from the chamber’s edge. Grottle ran a long pink tongue over his yellowing fangs, and then began to gnaw his tail. It was a gesture that made Thanquol fear for his own safety. Still, there was nothing for it, he had volunteered for this. Helping the Moulders put down Lurk’s rebellion was the quickest and surest way of getting himself back into their good books, and the sooner he did that, the sooner he would be out of this death-trap. Hell Pit was the last place he wanted to be with that huge Chaos army on the march.
Even as the thought entered his mind, he cursed. The merest notion of the army instantly conjured a vivid image of it in his mind, and in his hyper-sensitised state this was enough to send the crystal vision racing outwards. The crater of Hell Pit was suddenly below him, monstrously fleshy buildings looming over the site of the ancient starfall. The streets filled with fighting skaven as Lurk’s followers warred with troops still loyal to Clan Moulder. Just for a heartbeat he had a glimpse of the brutal conflict and then his mind’s eye swung to bear on the huge dustcloud in the distance.
In an instant he was there, looking down on it. He saw rank upon serried rank of beastmen, a howling mass of fur-clad and near bestial humans, hundreds upon hundreds of black-armoured Chaos warriors mounted on their huge and deadly steeds. Beneath him marched monstrous creatures half gigantic humanoid, half dragon. Alongside them strolled mutated trolls. Flocks of bat-winged humanoids darkened the sky. It was a vast host and the worst thing about it was the fact that Thanquol knew that it was only part of the huge Chaos armies that were on the march. Something had certainly gotten the worshippers of the lesser powers worked up, and Thanquol had no great desire to find out what. Looking at this army through his scrying crystal was as close as he ever cared to get to it.
He growled, and forced himself to discipline. This was all very well, but it was nothing to do with his mission. He needed to know what Lurk was planning. He needed to find out some way to give the Moulders an advantage in the civil war that was tearing their fortified city apart before the oncoming horde managed to find a way to take advantage of the strife. He concentrated on Lurk. Immediately he had a sense of his treacherous former minion’s presence. The jewel Thanquol had forced upon Lurk long ago still served its function of linking them.
With the speed of thought, his point of view shifted. He was now in a vast chamber, looking down on a seething mass of determined and desperate-looking skaven. Most of them were not large. They were slaves, the lowest of the low in the hierarchy of skavendom, ratmen too weak and too stupid to claw their way to power like their betters. Their only strength lay in their numbers. Unfortunately those were great. Here and there throughout the crowd though were larger and better armed skaven. Thanquol did his best to quiet the rage that seethed within him. It was the skaven way. There were always those who changed sides whenever expediency dictated, aligning themselves with those they thought would come out on the winning side of any struggle. What alarmed Thanquol most was how many Moulders seemed to think this. There were even huge black-furred stormvermin in this crowd, and many warriors in the livery of the clan. Suddenly Thanquol understood why he was being given this chance to work his way back into favour with the elders. Somehow, impossible as it might seem, Lurk had managed to stage quite a successful little rebellion. More and more loyalist troops were swarming to his banner, and if the process continued their numbers would tip the balance of power in Lurk’s favour.
Briefly Grey Seer Thanquol paused to consider this. If so many were siding with his former minion, perhaps he should too. Or rather he should consider siding with those who were behind Lurk, for surely Lurk himself did not have the intelligence to be running the show. Somewhere out there a keen intelligence was masterminding this. Perhaps with suitable guidance from an experienced skaven like Thanquol, it could establish a new power base for itself and its loyal advisors here in Hell Pit.
Lurk stood on a high podium looking down on the masses. He was even bigger than Thanquol remembered. Now he was larger than a rat ogre by far, almost twice as tall as Felix Jaeger was, and far heavier. His long worm-like tail ended in a massive spiked club of bone. His eyes gleamed with red madness. Most frightening of all were the curling horns, so like Thanquol’s own, that protruded from the side of Lurk’s skull. It was true, he did bear an uncanny likeness to all the effigies of the Horned Rat that Thanquol had ever seen. Indeed he bore an uncanny likeness to the Horned Rat with whom Thanquol had communed in his initiation rituals.
Could it be possible? Could the Rat God himself really have chosen Lurk as his emissary? Thanquol immediately dismissed the thought.
Impossible.
Lurk had begun to speak. ‘Oppressed skaven-brothers! Children of the Horned Rat! The hour of liberation is at hand. The Time of Changes is here.’
The Time of Changes? That was a familiar phrase. Thanquol wondered where he had heard it before.
‘The world is changing. The lowest shall become highest. The high shall be laid low. Thus my father, the Horned Rat has promised me.’
Thanquol’s heart almost stopped with outrage. His father? How dare that pitiful mutated excuse for a skaven make such blasphemous claims? The depths of his own feelings in this matter astonished Thanquol. Lurk was claiming a kinship to the greatest of gods even closer than that enjoyed by the grey seers. He was taking upon himself the mantle of a religious leader. Thanquol was surprised that the Horned Rat did not strike him down on the spot. Unless… No. It was impossible. There was no way that what Lurk claimed could be true.
‘Those of you who follow me will be rewarded big-big! Those who do not, or those who betray me, will be punished in ways that you cannot imagine. Except if you think about being peeled alive, over a very big, warpstone-fuelled bonfire while two clanrat torturers poke your musk glands with a red hot branding iron and then…’
Lurk went on to describe a range of tortures that were impressively imaginative and quite excruciating. Even at this distance Thanquol felt his musk glands tighten as he listened to the descriptions.
‘…up your back passage!’ finished Lurk.
Stunned silence ensued. Thanquol had to admit that Lurk appeared to have learned something from their long association. His oratory was certainly impressive, and succeeded in that most cherished of all skaven goals: inspiring fear in his minions.
‘Now, listen-listen!’ continued Lurk. ‘To succeed in our great crusade we must first take Hell Pit. To take Hell Pit we must seize control of the breeding vats and the council chambers as well as the warpstone refinery. To do this we will split our force into three.’