Gotrek & Felix- the Second Omnibus - William King

by Warhammer

  ‘Why can’t Max get his own herbs?’ he asked plaintively.

  ‘Max has other things to do. He needs to prepare his magic. To protect us all from the plague.’

  ‘I have other things to do as well.’

  ‘Like drink, you mean?’ Her tone told him she was not about to accept any argument. He was starting to wish he had never offered to accompany her on this errand. Still, after the events of last night it seemed like a good idea. The witch hunter’s friends might come back, looking for vengeance. Not that Gotrek or any of the other Slayers were too worried by the prospect.

  So far, he had to admit that their attitude seemed well justified. The authorities did not appear at all bothered by the death of one man amid so many, and Ulgo’s companions had not come back seeking vengeance. But it was early days yet.

  They joined the line of people outside the apothecary’s. All of them seemed to be coughing or scratching or somewhat the worse for wear. Felix hoped that they were not already going down to the plague magic. Somehow he knew that the plague was only the beginning of their troubles.

  He wondered what new deviltry the Chaos worshippers were working on.

  Arek inspected the walls. As far as he could see there were no changes. The defenders still waited, weapons ready. He could make out faint plumes of smoke rising from beneath the cauldrons of boiling oil. The ballistae were all manned. The catapults looked ready. The massive walls looked as if it would take the fist of a god to smash through them. In a way, he was glad. He wanted a battle. He wanted to crush his foes beneath the hooves of his steed. He wanted to ride in triumph through the gates of a conquered city. He did not want his inevitable victory to be the work of those festering fools who served the Plague god.

  Be careful, he told himself. Victory is victory no matter how it is achieved, and you have a whole world to conquer. If Bubar Stinkbreath and his lackeys can deliver an easy conquest, why worry? There will be plenty more battles before this is through. Part of him, the part that craved the eye of Tzeentch to turn fully on him, rejected this idea, and wanted to deny any but himself part of the glory. Another part of him, the part that schemed eternally for his patron’s favour, weighed the options.

  A victory for Bubar might alienate all the other warlords, and he needed their support. It might even give the Nurgleite ideas above his station, unlikely as that now seemed. And there was always the possibility of something going wrong. Plague was ever a treacherous weapon. It would not affect him, or the Chaos warriors or those sorcerers who enjoyed the favour of their powers, but it might kill large numbers of the tribesmen and beastmen if they were not careful. Bubar assured him that the protection of Lord Nurgle extended over the horde, but, perhaps, the Spewer of Vileness might withdraw his protection. After all, such things had happened in the past.

  Arek considered all of this in a heartbeat. Best to attack now while Nurgle still extended his favour. After all, gods were notoriously temperamental and who knew when he might change his mind. And it might be a good idea to order Bubar to discontinue his spells now. Why give him time to brew a truly lethal plague?

  Arek turned to Lhoigor and his twin. ‘The other plans are proceeding apace?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, great one,’ replied Lhoigor almost sneering. ‘The runestones now almost ring the city and our acolytes are near enough ready to begin the ritual of power. Soon the stars will be aligned correctly and Morrslieb will reach the proper phase.’

  Arek thought about this for a moment. ‘Well done, Bubar,’ he said. ‘I am sure that your plagues will weaken the defenders sufficiently for our purposes. You may discontinue your rituals.’

  ‘But, great one–’

  ‘I said you may discontinue your rituals. It’s time to give others their chance now.’ His tone brooked no disagreement. Bubar grovelled and withdrew.

  ‘Most wise,’ said Kelmain.

  ‘How long will your rituals take?’ Arek asked brusquely.

  ‘The stars must be right, master, and the moons in the proper conjunction. If you remember, that is why we advised…’

  ‘I said how long?’

  ‘The omens are auspicious now. If we begin immediately a great vortex may be completed within the week.’

  ‘See that it is so.’

  ‘As you wish, master.’ Arek wondered if he heard just a hint of rebellion in his minion’s voice.

  Grey Seer Thanquol strode through the streets of Hell Pit. All around was howling madness. Skaven fought skaven. Moulder fought Moulder. Stormvermin hacked at clanrat warrior. Rat-ogre disembowelled skavenslave. Monsters, their handlers dead, ran wild in the streets killing and feasting where they could. Lurk had a lot to answer for, Thanquol thought. Not that these idiotic Moulders did not deserve it.

  Still, things were bubbling along nicely. Careful reflection, and the fact that he was still in their power, had eventually decided Thanquol to reveal Lurk’s plans to the elders of the clan. Forewarned, they had been able to place their forces to the best advantage and were now slowly but surely gaining the upper hand. Thanquol’s reward had been to be released from captivity and given his own troop to lead in the fighting. It was not much of a reward really. He was expected to endanger his own precious pelt to secure the fiefdom of Clan Moulder. All things considered however, he had managed to look suitably grateful. Later there would be time to extract a reckoning for this indignity.

  Burly stormvermin carrying his own personal banner hacked a path for him towards the great warpstone refinery. It was a dangerous place for him to be. Lurk’s army had managed to fight its way through stiff resistance and seize the massive structure. They had held it against all the Moulder counter-offensives. Under normal circumstances Thanquol would never have gone near it while the war raged but these were hardly normal circumstances. He knew that if he could fight his way into the refinery he could get his paws on a huge stock of purified warpstone, just the substance he needed and craved. The lack of it for the past few days was starting to give him terrible headaches and shaking spasms. The want of it made him feel weak.

  And, of course, with it his sorcerous powers would once again be boundless. He was going to need that if he was ever to win his way free from these cursed northlands and make his way back to the security of Skavenblight. For many reasons, he needed the stuff, and he was going to make sure he got it.

  A howling blood-mad pack of clanrats, red scarves tied around their foreheads in a way that marked their allegiance to Lurk, crashed into his bodyguard. Thanquol felt his musk glands tighten as they hacked down the clawleader of the stormvermin. A frothing beast chopped his way almost to Thanquol’s feet. Thanquol met him blade to blade and cut him down. He was only slightly helped by the fact that the clanrat had got his paws entangled in the ropes of a disembowelled stormvermin’s gut. Not that it mattered anyway. Thanquol was sure that he could have taken him in any sort of fight. It was just the Horned Rat’s way of showing that Grey Seer Thanquol was restored to his favour.

  Lurk, thought Thanquol, when I get my paws on you, you are going to pay for this!

  Things were not going very well, Lurk thought, peering down through the arched window of the refinery onto the battle in the streets below. He could make out the horned head of Grey Seer Thanquol as he fought his way forward. Things must be going badly indeed for his side, Lurk realised, if that cowardly monster had dared show his face. Lurk found it all very discouraging.

  Things had been going so right, for a while. His worshippers, driven by sheer fanatic fury, had managed to overcome their oppressors, despite the uncanny knowledge the Moulders appeared to possess of his plans. Lurk knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that this proved there were traitors among his followers. His swift execution of all his highest-ranking followers had somehow failed to restore morale as it should have, and the enemy still appeared to know his plans. The slaughter of a hundred more suspiciously co-operative followers had done nothing to halt this treachery, and inexplicably, even appeared to have had a deleteriou
s effect on the morale of his worshippers.

  Despite all of this, they had managed to hold on to most of their early gains, until defections back to the Moulder ranks had weakened the forces. Now it looked like all of Lurk’s mighty plans were crumbling. It looked like it would soon be time to bolt. Fortunately he had long since taken the precaution of snooping out the secret escape tunnels from the refinery and from the city. After all, it was just sound skaven common sense. He was not the first skaven in history to be let down by the inferior quality of those who followed him.

  Yes, thought Lurk, it would soon be time to go. He who fights and scurries away lives to conquer another day. And perhaps there might be a place for him in that great army of conquest heading south.

  Felix clutched the packet of herbs in his hand and looked at Ulrika worriedly. She was not looking well, he thought. Her face was even paler. Sweat beaded her brow, and she was starting to shiver.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he asked. She shook her head.

  ‘I do not feel so well.’

  ‘We’d best get you home and to bed then.’

  ‘Always thinking of bed,’ she said, and tried to smile. If anything the feebleness of her smile made Felix fear the worst. Supporting her with one hand he strode out into the street. It was a long way back to the White Boar, and by the time they got there, Ulrika could barely walk.

  ‘It does not look good,’ Max said softly. Felix looked at Ulrika. She lay on the bed shivering, yet her brow felt red-hot. ‘She shows all the signs of the new plague.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Felix asked. Suddenly all of the fighting and all his other problems seemed irrelevant. He realised that he did not want her to die.

  ‘I am not a physician, Felix, nor am I a priest of Shallya, but I do possess some skill at healing, and some understanding of what is at work here. This is not a natural disease. I have wrought some divining spells and the foul talons of the cult of Nurgle are at work here.’

  ‘Is there nothing you can do?’

  ‘I have already started. I have given her the herbal admixture, and as soon as you give me some peace, I will work the best healing spells I know.’

  It dawned on Felix that he might well be interfering with Ulrika’s best chance of survival. ‘I will go,’ he said.

  ‘It would be for the best.’

  Felix made his way towards the door of the small chamber he shared with Ulrika and opened it. As he did so, Max spoke.

  ‘Don’t worry, Felix, I will not let her die.’ He looked at the mage and saw the pain in his eyes. Understanding passed between them.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said and strode down into the crowded tavern.

  The wine tasted bitter. The jests of the warriors failed to amuse him. Felix stared moodily into his goblet and pondered on the vagaries of fate.

  Why had he been spared so far? Why had the plague not struck him down? Or was it only a matter of time before it did? Who could tell? He remembered that once a famous physician had told him that there were many factors involved in such things. Perhaps the strain of worrying about her father had made her more vulnerable than he. All that mattered was that she got better again.

  Now all of their arguments and disagreements seemed trivial. Now he struggled to remember even a harsh word. Now all he could remember was the way she had looked the first time he had seen her in the Elector’s throne room in Middenheim. Unbidden a host of memories and images flickered through his mind. He remembered her riding alongside him one sunny morning in Kislev before he departed for the Chaos Wastes. He could picture her exactly: the wide cheekbones, the slight bump in her nose, the fine web of lines around her eyes as she smiled, the characteristic way she had of smoothing her hair. He could remember waking beside her on a dozen mornings, and the world seeming brighter for her presence. He remembered holding her hand as they walked through the peaks on their way to Dragon Mountain. Suddenly he wanted to go upstairs and demand that Max make her live. He knew that it would be counter-productive, that all he would achieve would be to interrupt Max as he wove his spells, possibly to the detriment of Ulrika’s chances of survival. He cursed the fact that there was nothing else he could do. Except pray. Maybe he should find a temple of Shallya and make an offering.

  He glanced around wondering when the dwarfs would get back. They had headed for the walls hoping for a fight, and to see if they could be of any help shoring the defences. Now the horde had its own siege engines in place they had started to pound at the walls with more than just rotting corpses. Now they flung huge boulders, capable of crushing men and smashing stone. The battle had entered a new phase.

  Suddenly he could not bear to be in this dark smoky common room any more. He wanted to be outside, on his own, in the relatively clean night air. Perhaps he could find a temple that was still open.

  He rose and strode out through the swinging door, into the muddy street. Outside, it was dark and chill. The temperature had started to drop with astonishing swiftness. Overhead, Morrslieb glared down. A greenish glow surrounded it, and more than ever its blotched surface looked like a sinister leering face. It was as if one of the Dark Gods of Chaos had ascended into the sky and glared down on the helpless world.

  A faint mist filled the streets and the tang of woodsmoke was in the air. Felix imagined that he could smell the stink of the horde outside, of overflowing latrines and cooking fires and unclean roasting meat. He told himself it was just his imagination turning the smell of nightsoil and local chimneys into something they were not, and lengthening his stride, walked off into the gathering gloom.

  The cold night air made him feel almost sober. Now, more than ever, he understood why they called Praag the haunted city. By night the buildings looked fearful. The gargoyles clutching their sides looked almost alive, and every shadow seemed to whisper. All the old stories came back to him, of how the city had been rebuilt after the last siege, using stones corrupted by the taint of Chaos, of how the spirits of those slain by Skathloc Ironclaw’s horde could be seen stalking the streets on those anniversaries of the battle when the Chaos moon was full, of how sometimes men would suffer strange dreams that drove them mad. And there were other tales, of covens who gathered in dark cellars and sacrificed children for dreadful feasts.

  Tonight, it all seemed dreadfully plausible. Tonight, the monstrous bulk of the city walls provided no comfort. Tonight, it felt like they were part of a huge trap, penning him in this fearful place. Tonight the citadel loomed over the city like some ogre’s tower. Even the lights on the huge inner wall looked threatening

  He walked swiftly, his hand on the hilt of his sword, trying to avoid thinking of Ulrika and Max and the plague. He felt as helpless as a child. This was a situation in which he could do nothing. Ulrika’s fate was in Max’s hands, and the hands of the gods, and the powers had not seemed too kind of late.

  The mist gathered around him, making the familiar streets seem strange. His own shadow loomed ahead of him like the outline of some spectral monster. Footsteps rang strangely in the damp darkness. The distant call of the night watchman counting the hours was anything but reassuring. Far off he could hear the drumming, and the howling and the noise of endless infernal labour coming from the Chaos horde.

  His boots scuffed the cobbles, and he paused for a moment, thinking he heard stealthy footsteps behind him. He listened, but the sound had stopped, if indeed it was not something he had imagined. He waited for a moment anyway, knowing that sometimes, if he was patient, a pursuer might start moving again, and give himself away. Nothing.

  Part of him half-hoped there was someone there. A fight would be just the thing to distract him from his dark thoughts, and let him work off the fear and tension and anger he felt. The more cautious part of his mind told him not to be stupid. He had no idea who his pursuers might be or how many of them there were. If he was being followed the best thing would be to head back to the White Boar. At least there he would find some comrades who could help him.

  He heard a ringing of
metal, as of a dagger being drawn. He froze back into the doorway. Footpads! Probably hungry men after some silver, hoping to find a drunk and part him from his money. If he had any sense, Felix knew, he would run, but now it was a little too late for that. He could hear the footsteps coming closer. And they belonged to more than one man.

  ‘I’m sure he went this way,’ he heard someone mutter. It was a high thin voice, and there was a note of complaint in it, as if the owner believed that the world were out to cheat him, and had just found another way.

  ‘Are you sure it was him?’ asked a second voice, deeper, gruffer.

  Felix felt certain this man was the less intelligent of the two. His mind conjured up the picture of a hulking bruiser. His mouth suddenly felt dry. His heartbeat sounded loud in his ears.

  ‘Oh, it was him all right, I saw him when he came out of the inn. Tall skinny fellow, blond-haired like a lot of them Imperials. Red cloak. Dragon head hilt on his sword.’

  Felix froze. That was a fairly good description of him. Was it possible that these men were looking for him specifically? Why? Were they witch hunters?

  ‘Jaeger – that’s his name.’ The two men were almost abreast of the doorway now. He could see that one of them was indeed a big man, massively built. The other was short and very broad. He looked fat but moved lightly all the same. ‘Felix Jaeger. Don’t know why his nibs wants him dead now. The Time of Changes is almost here. Most likely he’ll go down under a beastman axe in the not too distant future.’

  ‘Ours is not to reason why,’ said the larger man, the one with the deeper voice. ‘The high-ups want him and the dwarf dead, and that axe out of the way. It falls to us to see that orders is carried out. Let’s hope we do better than that fool witch hunter.’

  Felix held held his breath. These men were not witch hunters. They sounded more like professional assassins or cult members. He was sure he had heard the phrase about the time of changes before, and in no wholesome context. Someone wanted Gotrek and him dead, and they wanted rid of the Slayer’s axe. He wondered why. More to the point, what was he going to do now? He did not fancy taking on this pair in hand-to-hand combat. Except perhaps with the advantage of surprise. Maybe he could spring from his hiding place and have his sword in one of their backs before they realised it. It hardly seemed fair or chivalrous but then these men probably weren’t going to ask him to joust either. Alternatively, he could try and follow them, and see where they had come from. That was not a particularly appealing idea either. After all, he had heard them and waited in ambush for them. Who was to say they could not do the same thing to him?