Gotrek & Felix- the Second Omnibus - William King

by Warhammer

  As Thanquol listened, Lurk outlined his plan. It was one of great boldness. It relied on speed, surprise and feints within feints. Thanquol knew he could barely have conceived of a better one himself, and that it would almost certainly succeed if Thanquol did not release its details to the elders of Moulder.

  If.

  Thanquol’s keen skaven mind considered his options. He knew there must be some way he could personally take advantage of the situation. Even as he did so, part of him wondered how or if his brutishly stupid minion could have come up with such a scheme. Surely so intricate and subtle a plan could not be Lurk’s own work? It could only be the work of an intellect almost as towering as Thanquol’s own. Thanquol began to consider how he could unearth the mastermind behind his minion.

  Some vast treachery must be involved, he was certain. Who among his enemies was devious enough to subvert such a closely observed lackey as Lurk?

  Lurk looked out at his followers and bathed in their adoration. It was only his due, he knew. Long years of hiding his light under a bushel, of failing to get the recognition that was rightfully his, were finally being made up for, and the taste was sweet. Lurk smiled, revealing his fangs and revelled in the cringing awe the gesture evoked. Surely this must be how his former so-called master, Grey Seer Thanquol, must have felt when he stood before the skaven army at Nuln. This was the feeling that in his secret heart every skaven craved.

  Lurk filed the thought away for later consideration. He knew that with every day that passed he was becoming cleverer and cleverer. To his vastly powerful brain, it was obvious what was happening. As soon as his body had stopped mutating, his mind had started to. The process that had changed him from a small, but not unimpressive, skaven warrior, to a towering engine of destruction, was now starting to reshape his mind, changing him from an incredibly clever skaven to a being of god-like intellect.

  To Lurk’s new greatly enhanced mind, this was a significant fact. His mind was being changed in the same way his body had been into a mirror-image of the Great Father of All Skavendom’s. And Lurk knew that this had happened for a reason. He knew it had happened because he was the chosen one, the one destined to be the new supreme leader of the skaven race, the being destined to lead them to a thousand-year reign of glory.

  It was all so clear when you looked at it. It was obvious that the Horned Rat had chosen him for a reason. He knew that he was the Horned Rat’s anointed, his new prophet, the leader that all the skaven had been waiting for to unite them, and lead them to inevitable victory.

  Of course, the visions helped. He had started having them back in the camp of the Chaos horde after he had spoken with those two strangely similar-looking human mages who had almost immediately recognised his near divinity. He remembered with something like fondness the way they had bowed before him in secret and then began chanting his praises in those almost hypnotic voices. He remembered how they had spoken to him respectfully, prevailing on him to continue to play the part of prisoner so that he could gain admittance to the citadels of his enemies and raise his own banner among them. They had told him that his mind was becoming stronger than any skaven’s just as his body had already become so. Soon, he thought, he would gain sorcerous powers greater than any grey seer’s, and then he would be the mightiest skaven who ever bestrode the face of this terrified world.

  Even the foolish Moulders had recognised his uniqueness, his superiority. Had they not tried to imprison him within their vile alchemical laboratories? Had they not sought to learn the secrets of that which separated him from all other skaven?

  He supposed he should thank them really. They had bathed him in those strange nutrient fluids and exposed him to ever greater amounts of warpstone dust. He could still remember how his flesh had tingled and his mind had gone blank. It was possible, but not really likely, that he had perhaps babbled and begged for mercy as they did so. He knew now that if he had, and he was not admitting to it, that it was merely a sign that his brainpower was increasing. Even then, he had known enough to deceive his enemies about his true nature and schemes, and lull them into a false sense of security, so that when the moment had come for him to effect his escape, he had been able to take his persecutors off-guard.

  It was fortunate indeed that he had found the city already a seething cauldron of rebellion. Many of the skavenslaves believed that the increased size of the Chaos moon, Morrslieb, was a sign that something was about to happen. They believed the increasing number of warpstone meteors falling to earth in the region were a portent of mighty events to come. It had not taken much for him to convince them that he was the thing they portended, that his arrival was the event long foretold. They had swiftly flocked to his banner against the oppression of their Moulder masters. It was almost as if they had been forewarned, as if secret cabals had been preparing for just such an event for weeks. And why not, Lurk thought? He was the chosen of the Horned Rat; certainly there were those who must have been given foreknowledge of his coming.

  At first he had been surprised that the grey seers had not prophesied his arrival, but his incredibly keen mind had soon provided him with the insight needed to understand what had happened. Contemplation of the nature of his former so-called master, Grey Seer Thanquol, had shown him the hideous truth. The grey seers were corrupt, they had failed the Horned Rat, and he had withdrawn his favour. They were no longer the true guardians of the skaven race. A new day had dawned, a new leader had emerged, one whose glorious reign would last a thousand years, at least. Today was the day of Lurk, once known as Snitchtongue, now known simply as Lurk the Magnificent.

  Instantly he communicated this knowledge to the cabal of grovelling followers who surrounded him. Their worshipful squeaks of obeisance were music to his ears.

  Today, Hell Pit, he thought – tomorrow the world!

  FIVE

  Felix looked down at the oncoming Chaos horde. It had grown no less terrifying in the last few days. It seemed to stretch as far as the horizon in every direction, and clouds of dust in the distance told of more and more troops arriving every day.

  He raised the spyglass to his eye and studied the lines of the Chaos army. Their position was a strong one. Most of their camp was protected from attack by the curve of the river. Hordes of skin-clad barbarians worked frantically, erecting earthworks and excavating trenches facing the city. He could see lines of sharpened stakes jutting from the base of the earthen walls. The Chaos worshippers were taking no chances with the riders of Kislev sallying forth from Praag to engage them.

  Over the past few days, hit and run raids by Kislevite horsemen had taken quite a toll on the attackers. A toll that was a mere drop in the ocean of their numbers but one that had been good for the morale of the defenders. Knowing many in the city shared the despair he felt at the sight of this massive force, Felix decided that those small victories were as important as food to the defenders.

  What was worse was that, as the numbers of besiegers increased, the portents and omens had got worse. Apparitions were sighted nightly stalking the streets of the city. Last night in the White Boar, Felix had heard two drunken Tilean mercenaries describe how they had encountered the ghost of a headless woman in the street near their lodgings. Most outlanders had tried to dismiss it as a product of the cheap rotgut brandy the Tileans had been drinking, but the locals had merely nodded sagely and sadly and returned to their drinks. He supposed that a lifetime of familiarity with such apparitions might have helped inure the locals to their horror, but he knew he could never rest easy in a city where such things were relatively commonplace.

  He wondered if the increasing number of apparitions had anything to do with the presence of the army outside the walls.

  ‘It might,’ said the familiar voice of Max Schreiber. Felix was surprised to realise he had spoken aloud. He was equally surprised to see Max here.

  ‘Max! What are you doing on the walls?’

  ‘Same thing as you, Felix. Looking at that army out there and wondering how we wil
l survive this siege.’

  Felix glanced around and was glad the nearest soldiers were five strides away. They might not have heard. Expressing such defeatist sentiments was not a popular thing to be heard doing in Praag these days. Felix shrugged. Max was the man doing the talking, not him.

  ‘You think these reports of apparitions in the streets are connected with that army out there?’

  ‘I am certain of it.’ A number of soldiers were looking on now. The conversation had all of their attention.

  ‘How? I thought I heard you say that the spell walls around the city are strong, and the power of Chaos cannot penetrate them.’

  Max drew his gold and brown wizard’s robes tight around him. Today he had donned a strange pointed helmet-like hat, which towered over his head and made him look taller. The stubble on his face was beginning to look suspiciously like a beard. He leaned his full weight upon his staff, gazed thoughtfully out at the horde for a moment, and then spoke. ‘I said there was a connection. I did not say that those Dark worshippers out there were responsible.’

  Felix looked at the wizard. Max was a friend, in his way, but he was still a magician, and they were sometimes inscrutable to mere mortals like him. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean all of this is connected. The massive skaven attack on Nuln. The way Morrslieb has grown larger over the past years. The way the forces of Chaos are on the march. The increasing number of starfalls, mutations and magical mishaps. The way the ghosts are stirring in this city. It’s all part of the same thing.’

  ‘Are you saying the Powers of Chaos are behind all of these things, Max? You don’t have to be a great sorcerer to work that out.’

  ‘No, Felix. I mean that there’s a huge pattern here. It may be that there is some monstrous intelligence at work or it may be something different, something more akin to a natural phenomenon.’

  ‘I am not sure natural is the word I would choose to use under the circumstances.’

  ‘I mean something like the tides of the sea, or the turning of the seasons.’

  ‘I don’t get you.’

  ‘Think of it this way, Felix. Magic is a force, like the wind or the rain or the tides. Sometimes it is strong. Sometimes it is weaker, but it is always there, just like the air we breathe. It permeates the world in which we live. Wizards call the flow of this energy the winds of magic.’

  ‘Yes. So?’

  ‘Perhaps there are seasons of magic like there are seasons of weather. Perhaps we are entering a season when the winds of magic blow stronger, and the power of magic increases. Perhaps that is what happened two hundred years ago.’

  ‘That’s a long season.’

  ‘Don’t be deliberately obtuse, Felix. You are a clever man. I know you understand an analogy when you hear one.’

  Felix flinched at Max’s tone. He knew that the wizard was right. Perhaps his jealousy over Ulrika was making him want to pick an argument with the mage. ‘Fine. Go on,’ Felix said, a little sulkily.

  ‘The forces of Chaos are strongly associated with magic – perhaps their power waxes and wanes with these seasons. Perhaps this is the start of a time when they are stronger. And perhaps this same increase in energy is increasing the number of apparitions in Praag, and driving the skaven wild too.’

  Felix considered the mage’s argument, turning it over in his mind. It was logical and it made a certain sense from whatever angle he looked at it, but that meant nothing. In the courtyards of Altdorf university Felix had heard learned scholars prove the most blatantly ludicrous theories through the rigorous application of logic. ‘It’s an interesting theory, Max, but I’ve heard other theories. There was a man outside the White Boar this morning shouting that this was the punishment of the gods for our sins, and that the end of the world was coming.’

  Max smiled a little nastily. ‘These two theories are not necessarily mutually exclusive,’ he said. ‘What happened to this prophet?’

  ‘The town watch hit him over the head with clubs and dragged him away.’

  ‘My theory may not be quite so dangerous to your health in these times.’

  ‘It has that to recommend it, certainly,’ said Felix, turning his attention back to the Chaos horde. There seemed to be some sort of activity around the monstrous black pavilion that had been erected in the centre of the army.

  From the hilltop, Ivan Petrovitch Straghov watched the horde of Chaos marauders march along the plain. March was the wrong word. It suggested a discipline that these wild tribesmen simply did not possess. Not that it mattered. They had the numbers, and they had their unshakeable faith in their dark gods. His long years as march boyar had given Ivan plenty of experience of their sort. These ones marched along under the banner of the Skinless Man.

  ‘There must be a thousand of them at least, Lord Ivan,’ muttered Petrov. Ivan turned and looked at his youngest lancer. The boy was barely more than fifteen but his eyes were those of a much older man. Dark shadows had gathered below them, and his face was creased by fatigue, too much riding and too little food.

  ‘Careful, lad. Remember a retreating man counts every foe twice. Let’s not make things out to be worse than they are.’ Ivan kept his voice cheerful and confident but he did not feel that way himself. It was possible that the boy’s estimate was a good one. It looked like the Wastes had disgorged their entire tainted population. For two days now Ivan and his men had been encountering their scouts, big fur-clad men who spoke a harsh tongue, their skins stained by the stigmata of early mutation or strange Chaos rune tattoos. It was not good to find so many of them so far south. They were not even part of the great Chaos army, Ivan guessed, just tribesmen driven by some dark inner urge to come south and plunder. Not that it mattered. There were enough to tell him something big was happening. In the past few days, he had encountered warriors bearing the tattoos of Scar Raiders, Ice Marauders and Blood Screamers. It looked like every tribe in the Wastes was heading south.

  His riders took up position along the brow of the ridge. They were making themselves plainly visible, hoping to taunt the marauders into coming at them. In the centre of the barbarian mass, a white-haired ancient carrying a skull-tipped staff that marked him as a shaman exhorted the tribesmen to attack. Ivan waited confidently. While the Chaos worshippers wasted time ploughing up the slope, they would be subjected to a rain of arrows, and a host of flank attacks by the reserves Ivan had kept out of sight behind the hill. The tribesmen would most likely fall for it. Many of them would die. It was a small consolation to him, but it was one, knowing that he was making them pay in blood for every pace they marched into Kislev.

  At that moment, the thunder of hooves behind them got Ivan’s attention. He turned to see two of his men escorting a blue-cloaked rider up the hill. Ivan smiled, recognising the tall white-haired man at once. It was Radek Lazlo, one of the Ice Queen’s couriers.

  ‘Well met, Radek!’ Ivan bellowed. ‘You’re just in time to see me and the lads kill some more Chaos scum.’

  ‘Much as I would enjoy that,’ said Radek, a cold smile twisting his thin lips, ‘I don’t have time. Neither do you. The Ice Queen commands your presence at Mikal’s Ford. The Gospodar Host is mustering there.’

  Ivan considered the courier’s words. Mikal’s Ford was a week’s hard riding away but it was much closer than the Host would be if it had not received some warning of the impending invasion. That must mean that Ulrika had got through!

  ‘We will ride. What of you? Will you accompany us?’

  ‘No. I must keep moving through these lands bringing the word to any other march lords who I can find.’

  Ivan shook his head wonderingly. Radek had been given a near suicidal task, riding alone through these over-run lands. ‘I can detail a lance of my lads to accompany you,’ he offered.

  ‘No. The tzarina needs every spear at the Ford. I tell you, Ivan, in all my years I have never seen anything like this.’

  ‘It gets worse,’ Ivan said. ‘We have come from the north. I swear it seems
like the very gates of Hell have been opened. It will be the Great War all over again before we are done, mark my words.’

  ‘You’re not reassuring me, old friend,’ Radek said, casting his eye on the tribesmen advancing towards the hill. He could gauge the distance as well as any of Ivan’s men, and knew they still had some time left for their discussions.

  ‘Any word of my daughter?’

  ‘I saw her briefly at court. It was she who gave the Ice Queen word of the invasion. She arrived on that great flying ship of the dwarfs.’

  Parental pride touched Ivan’s heart. ‘She rides with the Host then?’

  Radek shook her head. ‘No, lord. She accompanied the dwarfs to Praag.’

  ‘That’s right in the path of the invasion. The Chaos worshippers always strike the great fortress there first.’

  ‘Aye, old friend, it is. But your path lies south now, to Mikal’s Ford and war. Do not worry. Doubtless the Ice Queen’s first move will be to relieve the city.’

  Briefly love and duty warred within Ivan and he considered riding directly to Praag. His only child would be in danger there. Yet he knew there was little he could do to aid her, and there was no way his small force of lancers could do anything but die, if it encountered the main strength of the Chaos horde at the city. It made more sense to join the muster and then ride with the full armed might of Kislev to the rescue of the capital. Part of him feared, though, that even that mighty army would not be enough to defeat what they now faced.

  He sighed quietly to himself, then gave the command to his warriors. ‘To Mikal’s Ford. We ride!’

  As one, with disciplined precision the lancers and horse archers turned and trotted down the hill. Behind them the disappointed howling of the wild tribesmen sounded like the cries of hungry wolves.

  Outside night gathered, bringing with it the chill. The streets were filled with marching men and drilling troops. Down here, the cellar was dark and warm and quiet. A single lantern illuminated the cowled and cloaked figures meeting in secret to discuss the fate of the city. The man known to his four fellow conspirators as Halek looked around, knowing that if he were found here by the witch hunters, not even his exalted position would save him. Death by fire would be the most merciful fate he could expect.