by Warhammer
He told himself that there was no chance of that happening. He was within the home of one of the wealthiest merchants in Praag, doubtless one of the other masked men sitting around the table. Or perhaps not, perhaps it was simply one of the man’s servants. Only the High Priest of the Great Mutator, sitting at the head of the table, the man who had recruited them all, would know for certain.
Why am I here, he asked himself? How did it come to this? What started off as a search for knowledge had ended up with him sitting here surrounded by the enemies of Man. He took a deep breath and reminded himself that he was one of those enemies now. There were no excuses for what he had become, not here in Praag, probably not anywhere. He tried to reassure himself. At least he had picked the winning side.
It was obvious to any with eyes to see that there could only be one victor in the coming battle. The Powers of Chaos would prove too strong for Praag, just as they would prove too strong for the world. They were destined to inherit the earth. Chaos was like death or time; in the end it would always triumph, eroding its foes over the long years.
As the High Priest droned on with the opening invocations, Halek forced himself to control his thoughts. Such thinking was dangerous, close to madness. He was enough of a scholar to know that there had been setbacks, sometimes on the heels of great triumphs. It might not matter to the four Great Powers whether victory came now, or in several centuries, but it would matter to him. The penalty for failure now was death, or worse than death, since his masters were not kind to the souls of those who failed them. It was all very well convincing yourself of the inevitable victory of Chaos, but it was all rather pointless if you were not around to enjoy the fruits of that victory. He smiled behind his simple cloth mask. It helped to keep things in perspective.
Here in Praag just two centuries ago, mere weeks after the city had fallen, the forces of the so-called Ruinous Powers had been thrown back into the Wastes by the forces of Magnus the Pious. How his fellow Kislevites liked to boast about that. How truly characteristic of them, and how truly stupid. They could not take the long view, as he could. They could not see that it did not matter whether Chaos was thrown back once, or a hundred times. It always returned, and returned stronger. He knew that it was in part despair at this knowledge that had eventually made him decide to throw in his lot with Chaos. That and the fact that he had already gotten in too deep to get safely out. By the time he had realised that the society he had joined was not simply another secret fellowship devoted to the pursuit of alchemical and mystical knowledge, it had been too late. He knew his fellow cultists would kill him rather than let him go free. And there was nothing he could do to them without exposing himself to the world for what he was. It would have made no difference what he did. They were already too strong to be defeated. No, the best thing he could do was what he had done, stick with the cult of the Changer of Ways, and do his best to rise within it.
What heart would not leap at the prospect of sharing the spoils of that triumph? All his life, Halek, close to the seat of power but not on it, had coveted power. And temporal power was the least of what the Lord Tzeentch offered. The promises included so much more: life eternal, and not in some dull fairytale hereafter, but here and now in this sweet mortal realm. Power over the forces of magic. The ability to fulfil any and all of your desires, no matter how dark or depraved society deemed them to be.
Not that Halek was one of those weaklings drawn by that promise. He desired to serve the Lord Tzeentch for the simple reason that the god would reward him with knowledge and satisfy his curiosity about all things. And allow him to live through the coming end of the world as he knew it, he added sourly. All he had to do was betray those who loved and trusted him. He tried to control his bitterness. Those people would not love or trust him for one heartbeat if they knew he was here, or knew of the stigma of mutation that had started to appear on his body. There was no way he could conceal them for much longer. This invasion had come at the right time for him. Another few months and he would have had to flee the city anyway.
The prayers and invocations that would seal the chamber against prying sorcery ended, and the true business of the meeting proceeded. Halek looked at the other four men around the table, all swathed in their bulky robes, and listened to what they had to say.
‘The Time of Changes approaches, brothers,’ said the one known as Alrik, their leader. He had a coarse accent like a common merchant, but Halek knew that he was anything but a brutish commoner. His wits were keen, his intellect swift. If Halek had to guess, he would have said that Alrik was a man who the world had refused to acknowledge, who after what he would have called the accident of his lowly birth had found in Lord Tzeentch the way to advance himself.
‘Are all things in readiness?’ asked the one called Karl. Halek recognised the accents of the nobility there. Karl was of the same class as himself. He had often grumbled within hearing of the others about injustices done to him by the damn duke, and how he would make him pay. Karl was in this for vengeance. It was a simple understandable motive. Halek thought if Karl ever moved directly against the duke, he would kill him. He was not sure whether this was because he wanted to spare the duke or kill him himself. His relationship with the ruler had always been a complex one.
‘You would know as well as I, brothers,’ said Alrik. ‘If all your cells have done their work, we are ready.’
Each of the men here was in charge of his own cell of cultists, whose members were known only to him. It meant that, in the unlikely event of any of them falling into the clutches of witch hunters, they could only betray those people they knew from their own cells. It was ingenious, but then such was the way of Lord Tzeentch. Khorne, the Blood God, might rely on brute strength but the followers of the Changer of the Ways preferred to use their intelligence. All of them knew that one well-placed conspirator could be more dangerous than a hundred men with swords.
‘Mine certainly have,’ lisped the man called Victor. His accent was that of an outlander, Bretonnian perhaps. Or it might just be a cunning ruse, designed to keep anyone here from suspecting his true identity. Halek had known Victor long enough to understand how his devious mind worked. Victor was one of those who liked convoluted things for the sake of convolution. He liked to plot and scheme just for the sake of it. He was a natural follower of the Prince of Schemers.
‘Halek?’ the high priest asked.
‘The poison is ready. It can be distributed any night.’
‘Are you sure it is necessary for us to go over this?’ Damien said suspiciously. ‘It is surely for the best if all of us know only what we need to know.’
‘The Great Day approaches,’ Alrik said. ‘We cannot afford any of our people to be at cross-purposes.’
Halek smiled behind his mask. He understood what Alrik meant. It was not uncommon for their various groups to interfere in each other’s plots. Sometimes it was accidental. Sometimes it was not. He knew each of the men present spent as much time trying to keep tabs on the others as they did on Lord Tzeentch’s business. It was one of the hazards of what they did. All were rivals for their lord’s favour, just as much as they were enemies of society at large.
‘Must we bicker like this always,’ Halek said. ‘We all serve Lord Tzeentch. We are all trustworthy here.’ He was sure Alrik caught the irony in his voice. He was not so sure about the others.
‘Some of us are more diligent in our lord’s service than others, and more careful,’ Damien said nastily.
‘It could have happened to anybody,’ said Karl defensively, taking Damien’s remark personally. He was a fool, he should have just ignored the bait. Men like Damien thrived on any revealed weakness. ‘Even the clumsiest of witch hunters gets lucky sometimes.’
‘It’s funny how they always get lucky with members of your cell,’ said Damien. ‘We were lucky that we managed to silence our sister before she could speak. Perhaps next time our lord will not be so kind to us.’
Halek had ensured that Katrin had
been silenced. He had not known that she was part of Karl’s cell, it had been simple caution that made him ensure that one brought to the duke’s dungeons who might really be a sister was silenced. Silence filled the chamber for a moment.
‘I have received word from outside of a task that needs to be carried out,’ Alrik said. All of them glanced at him with renewed interest. They knew what was meant by ‘outside’. The high priest had been in communication with the leader of the army out there. Halek would have given a lot to know how that communication had been achieved. Not by magic, he was sure, he had heard often enough that the spell walls of Praag were unbreachable, and he believed it to be true. Perhaps messengers came and went by secret ways, or by pigeon or bat, or perhaps those outside communicated through dreams. Halek dismissed this idle speculation, and listened to what Alrik had to say.
‘There are present in this city two warriors who have interfered in our lord’s plans before, albeit unknowingly. He would ensure that this does not happen again, and he would be certain that their previous interference is rewarded with death.’
Halek had a feeling he knew who was going to be mentioned, and he was not disappointed.
‘This pair, a dwarf and a man, are deadly foes, and they bear weapons of considerable power. More than that, they seem blessed by the other Powers, who are ranged against our master. He will reward any who slays them, and he will doubly reward any who present those weapons to him. Their names are Gotrek Gurnisson and Felix Jaeger. It is your appointed task to see that they do not live out this week. Halek, I would like you to see to this personally, but should the opportunity arise to kill these men, any of you must take it.’
Halek pushed away his qualms. He had never much cared for murder but needs must when daemons drive. In a way, it was a pity. He had liked young Jaeger when he had met him but he was not going to allow that fact to stand in the way of his personal immortality. What could the pair possibly have done to arouse the enmity of their lord, he wondered?
The meeting degenerated, into petty political squabbles and discussions of logistics. Halek could not wait for it to end.
Arek leaned forward on his huge throne, his massive helmeted head rested on one iron gauntleted fist, which in turn rested on the arm of the throne. He was not in a good mood. The vision his mages had granted him, combined with his impatience for the siege to begin, had not put him in the best of tempers. He glared balefully down at the Champion of Nurgle, hating the man with a bitter passion. He had never cared for the festering followers of the Lord of Pestilence.
‘I tell you, great Warlord, it will work, or my name is not Bubar Stinkbreath. The magic of great Nurgle will give you certain victory.’ The man, if you could still apply that word to a human form that was a walking pestilence of buboes, sounded far too pleased with himself for Arek’s liking.
‘Our victory is already certain,’ Arek said. ‘That pitiful city cannot resist the might of my horde!’
‘Meaning no disrespect, great Warlord, but why throw away troops assaulting those huge walls when Nurgle’s way is so much easier and faster. Why not let plague slay your enemies and pestilence reduce their defence to nothing?’
Discontented rumblings filled the air. Bubar’s words had not pleased the other warleaders. All were keen to have some share in the glory of reducing Praag, a city which had long held a special place of enmity in the heart of every Chaos worshipper. If Bubar really could do what he claimed, their victory would be a hollow one, and any glory gained would be a sham. Still, Arek had to admit, the nasty-smelling, grossly obese man had a point. There was a world out there to be conquered. Why wait any longer than he had to, in order to take it?
In the distance he could hear the sound of sawing and hammering as the northern tribesmen began to build their enormous battering rams, weapons that might prove unnecessary if what Bubar claimed was true. Arek swatted away one of the flies that buzzed up from the plague worshipper and thought for a moment. In one ear Kelmain Blackstaff whispered. ‘Let him try it, great Warlord. What have you got to lose?’
What indeed? thought Arek. All the construction would continue as Bubar worked on his rituals. No time need be lost if the Nurgleite failed. And if he succeeded weeks might be gained. Those might be important weeks with winter fast approaching.
‘Very well, Bubar Stinkbreath. Conduct your rituals. Spread the plague.’
Bubar bowed. The buzzing of the cloud of flies surrounding him increased a hundredfold. ‘Thank you, great warlord. You will not regret this.’
‘See that I do not,’ Arek said as he rose from his throne and retired within his pavilion.
‘You’ve been here all day, manling,’ said Gotrek Gurnisson. He leaned on the wall and stared at the camp of the Chaos worshippers. Felix tore his gaze away from the assembled horde, and looked at the Slayer.
‘Yes. Did Max tell you I was here?’
‘Aye.’
‘What brings you here?’
‘I wanted to look upon our enemies and take their measure.’ Gotrek fell into moody silence. Felix glanced out into the gloom, and looked upon the horde once more. Just the sight of it filled him with many questions.
Where had all those warriors come from? He had always known that the Chaos Wastes were full of enemies but he had never guessed that they could have supported an army on anything like this scale. As well as horror, the army inspired a kind of appalling wonder. At this distance the sound of the horde was like the breaking of ocean waves. Occasionally chanting or the screams of tortured victims could be heard above the bellows of beastmen and the shouts of evil men.
Felix could see massive siege towers starting to rise in the enemy ranks. Hundreds of fur-clad barbarians swarmed over the huge black iron war engines, assembling them from parts brought on monster-drawn wagons. Massive scaffolds were erected around them. The engines looked more like statues of great daemons than siege machines. They were covered in hideous ironwork, leering daemonic faces. Rams like the fists of evil gods protruded from their bellies. These mighty towers looked as if they might overbear the walls. It was not a reassuring sight.
Massive catapults, long-armed trebuchets taller even than the towers, were starting to tower above the massed horde. Long low-wheeled rams lay beside them.
‘Somebody out there knows what they are doing,’ said Felix.
‘Aye, manling,’ replied Gotrek. ‘This is an attack long prepared for. This is not the work of some warlord who simply decided to come south with his followers.’
‘Even the host that faced Magnus the Pious was not this well-organised.’
‘No, but it was even more numerous, and the power of Chaos itself waxed stronger then. The raw stuff of the Wastes flowed over Praag and changed the very buildings and people.’
Felix considered this for a minute, and looked up at the moons. Morrslieb, the Chaos moon, was larger than ever. It shimmered with an evil greenish light. Who knew what was going to happen? Perhaps the full power of Chaos had not yet been sent forth. Perhaps this army, with all its hellish weaponry and evil soldiers, was but a foretaste of what was to come. In the dreadful light, looking on that vast host, it looked all too possible to Felix that the end of the world was coming.
Already in the streets, people whispered that the dread Lords of Chaos were soon going to manifest themselves. Not all the fury of the witch hunters had managed to quiet these rumours. This was not the only manifestation of religious mania. Zealots had begun to take to the streets scourging themselves with whips till the blood flowed down their backs in penance for their sins and the sins of mankind. Once Felix would have thought it was a kind of madness but now he wondered if there was any sane response to that huge army out there, and the evil it represented.
‘What’s that?’ Gotrek asked suddenly. Felix looked in the direction he pointed. A crowd of weary, ragged beggars was emerging from the body of the host. They were being driven forward by a group of obese men in soiled, cowled robes. The drivers leaned on huge skull-ti
pped staffs whose eyes glowed greenly in the gloom. Even from this distance, Felix caught a whiff of their foul scent and almost gagged. It was an odour of rot and corruption worse than anything he had encountered since he fought the plague monks of Clan Pestilens in the gardens of Morr in Nuln.
‘I don’t know,’ said Felix, ‘but I am willing to bet it’s nothing good.’
As the crowd of beggars approached, Felix could hear their pitiful weeping. Save us. Help us. Have mercy on us. The cries were heart rending, and never for a moment did Felix doubt their sincerity. Even as he watched the robed slave drivers began to back away, and the beggars raced towards the walls of Praag. Open the gates! Let us in! Don’t leave us in the hands of these daemon worshippers!
Even as they raced forward, their cries were answered but not in the way Felix would have expected. Archers on the walls opened fire. Arrows whined through the air, piercing the bodies of the leading fugitives. Some of them stopped and shrieked; others continued on, towards inevitable death from missile fire.
‘What are they doing?’ Felix asked, appalled.
‘It’s some devilish trick, manling,’ said Gotrek. ‘These Kislevites are responding to it in the only way possible.’
He sounded as if he approved of the slaughter. Even as Felix watched the last of the fugitives was cut down. The only response from the Chaos host was cruel laughter. ‘What was that all about?’ Felix asked.
‘Doubtless tomorrow will reveal all,’ said Gotrek. ‘Come, it’s time to go and get a drink – if there’s any decent ale to be had in this city.