by Warhammer
‘Surely you can spare us a few days, Herr Makaisson, a week at the most,’ said the Tsarina. Her tone was silky but Max could hear the danger in it. He wondered what she would do if Malakai Makaisson had the gall to refuse her outright. She did not have the look of a woman who was used to taking rejection well. ‘Your airship is worth an army of scouts. In days you could cover more terrain than ten thousand of my bold riders could in a month.’
‘Aye, ye’re right,’ said Malakai. ‘Ah could. An’ ah can see the value such kenning would have. Who kens where those Chaos-lovin’ basturds will strike next, excuse ma language.’
‘So you’ll do it then?’ said the Ice Queen decisively. Malakai Makaisson sucked his teeth loudly. ‘Ah’ll dae ma best, but there are ither factors tae be considered. What if ma lovely airship gets shot doon, or blasted fae the sky by sorcery, or attacked by them bat-winged gets that are always hoverin’ above the daemon worshippers? It wouldnae dae onybody ony guid if that happened. An ah don’t own the Spirit of Grungni, ah’m only the builder. It’s no really mine tae risk.’
Max almost intervened. He had put the Chaos-repelling spells on the Spirit of Grungni himself and he knew how strong they were. Few mages would overcome them quickly. And he was just as certain that the heavily armed airship would be able to repel anything that attacked it. As for taking risks with the airship, the Slayer engineer had taken a number of crazy ones with it, to Max’s certain knowledge. He forced himself to keep his mouth shut, knowing that Malakai must be as aware of all these things as he was, and if he wanted to refuse the Ice Queen he must have his own good reasons.
The Ice Queen gave the dwarf another one of her dangerous looks. Most men would have quailed before it, but Malakai just took another slug of his beer. ‘We could of course compensate you for any risk you might run…’ she said softly.
Max half expected Malakai Makaisson to protest that he was a Slayer and that risk did not enter the equation. Makaisson surprised him. ‘Ah might be able tae dae somethin’ wi’ that. Depends on yer terms.’
With that, Malakai Makaisson and the Ice Queen began to dicker. Max did not know why he was surprised by this turn of events. Malakai Makaisson was a dwarf after all, a race of beings famous for their love of gold.
Still, thought Max, such constant advancement of self-interest among supposed allies did not bode well for the conduct of the war.
Felix Jaeger was surprised. The White Boar was still standing. Well, almost. Part of the roof had been burned away and hastily patched with timbers salvaged from the ruins of nearby tenements. A blanket covered the doorway and two heavily armed mercenaries stood on guard beside it, keeping a wary eye on everyone who came along the street. He squared his shoulders and strode up, doing his best to behave as if he could not feel their suspicious glares on him.
Once inside he was surprised by how packed it was. It looked like half the sellswords of the city had tried to squeeze inside out of the cold. Felix half suspected that even without the huge fire blazing in the hearth, the press of bodies would have kept the place warm. He heard two familiar voices bellowing and strode towards the table where the two dwarf Slayers were arm-wrestling.
Gotrek Gurnisson looked none the worse for the terrible wounds he had taken during the siege. The healers of the temple of Shallya had done a good job of patching his wounds. Right now a look of insane concentration glittered in his one good eye. Veins bulged in his forehead and his enormous crest of orange dyed hair stood on end. Sweat beaded his tattooed skull, running down his forehead into the ruined socket covered by a huge eye patch. Massive cable-like sinews bulged in his huge arms as he strove against another dwarf even more massive than he.
Snorri Nosebiter looked even dumber than usual, Felix thought. The dwarf licked his lips moronically as he concentrated. He looked as if arm wrestling were about the most intellectually stimulating pursuit he had ever engaged in. The three painted nails driven into his shaven skull were a testimony to his sheer brute stupidity. He was almost as ugly as Bjorni Bjornisson had been. One ear had been ripped clean away; the other resembled a massive cauliflower. His nose had been broken so many times it seemed to have spread across his face like wax from a melted candle. His arms were thicker than a strong man’s thighs. They bulged and flexed as he strained to overcome Gotrek’s grip. Slowly, inexorably, the one-eyed Slayer’s enormous strength began to tell. Snorri cursed as his hand was slammed into the tabletop almost upsetting his beer.
‘That’s another one of these piss-weak manling brews you owe me, Snorri Nosebiter,’ said Gotrek. His gravelly voice sounded even more contemptuous than usual.
‘Snorri thinks we should make it best of twenty-seven,’ said Snorri.
‘You would still lose,’ said Gotrek with certainty.
‘Maybe Snorri would surprise you, Gotrek Gurnisson,’ said Snorri.
‘You haven’t so far.’
‘There’s a first time for everything,’ said Snorri Nosebiter, a little petulantly, Felix thought.
‘What have you been up to, manling?’ asked Gotrek. ‘Your face is tripping you.’
Swiftly Felix told the tale of the dead girl and his escape from the clutches of the guards. Gotrek listened with the sort of unreasonable interest that Felix knew boded no good. Even Snorri was hanging on his every word. After he finished his story, Felix said, ‘You don’t seem at all surprised by what I have been saying.’
‘I’ve heard several versions of this story over the past few days. Seems like there’s a mad dog killer on the loose out there. One that needs to be put down.’
‘You think you’re the one to do it?’ Felix asked worriedly. When the Slayer got such ideas fixed in his head, he usually ended up in some dark and nasty place along with him. Gotrek shrugged.
‘If I run into the bastard, manling, I will do it happily, but I’m not planning on going out looking for him just yet.’
‘Just yet? That’s good.’
‘Snorri wonders whether it really might be a daemon,’ said Snorri. ‘That soldier sounded quite clever to Snorri.’
Gotrek shook his head. ‘If it was a daemon every wizard in the city would be shouting spells and every priest casting exorcisms from the temple roofs.’
‘Then what could it be?’ Felix asked.
‘Your guess is as good as mine, manling,’ said Gotrek and took a long swig of his ale. ‘One thing’s for sure though. Nothing good.’
The Bow and Bard might be the finest inn in Praag, Adolphus Krieger thought as he glanced around, but this was not saying much. He had seen finer inns in any small town in the Empire. He should have remained in Osrik’s mansion, he knew, but the strange restlessness that had filled him recently had driven him out into the night once more. When this mood was on him, he could not even stand the sight of his loyal manservant, Roche.
He drew his cloak around him and studied the tavern crowd. He could smell each individual scent, hear every heartbeat, was aware of the thrum of crimson through every vein. So many people, he thought, so much blood. He felt like an epicure studying a Tilean banquet.
Where to begin, he thought? Perhaps with that young noblewoman sitting over there with her lover? She was almost beautiful but there was something about her he found vaguely repulsive. As a rule, Adolphus did not care for Kislevite women with their flat peasant features and short muscular bodies. No, not her.
The tavern wench gave him a broad smile, and offered to bring him more wine. It was possible she was responding to his good looks, he thought, but more likely to the cut of his clothes. She sensed money, either in tips or afterwork activities. Adolphus shook his head and smiled at her affably. He had only just surreptitiously poured half his current goblet on the floor. It had been a long time since Adolphus drank wine. The barmaid moved off with a saucy flick of her hips. Once, a long time ago, she might have interested him, but now he was not even interested in her as prey.
Adolphus shook his head and began to draw patterns on the tabletop with his fingertip usi
ng some of his spilled wine. He was in a strange mood, and he had not lived as long as he had without learning to recognise the dangers of such things. He was becoming prey to all manner of odd impulses and he wondered what that foreboded.
Last night for instance, he had drained that girl dry when he had only meant to sip. There had been no need for it. Her blood had been flat and thin and not even remotely interesting. She herself was mere cattle, barely worth his interest. Why had he done it? Why had he drank so deep that she had died, and why had he torn out her throat with his teeth in that pathetic attempt to cover his trail?
It was difficult to understand. A delirium had come over him such as he had not experienced in centuries. He had sucked the girl’s blood like a whelp on his first night after rising. He had done the same the night before, and the night before that. Looking back on his feverish actions, it seemed almost unreal. It was as if some madness were overtaking him, and the madness was becoming stronger.
Adolphus had always despised the Arisen who slew indiscriminately. It was unsophisticated, boorish and deeply, deeply counter-productive. That way lay witch-hunts and mortal sorcerers and priests with their deadly spells at least until Adolphus fulfilled Nospheratus’s ancient prophecy. One for one, or even one for ten, the Arisen might be more than a match for any mortal, but the cattle had the numbers, and they had potent allies and magic.
It was not like the old days that the Forebears spoke of with such fondness. Mankind had grown much stronger since the time when they were skin-clad barbarians to be hunted through the woods.
Of course, things would change. Human civilisation had collapsed into anarchy before. Adolphus could remember the Time of Three Emperors and von Carstein’s efforts to re-establish the superiority of the Arisen. It had been a brave effort but a doomed one. Von Carstein had not been potent enough and clever enough to win his war. Adolphus knew that when his time came, things would go differently. He was the chosen one. He was the Prince of the Night. The Eye and the Throne would be his!
If only that old fool would give him the talisman there need be no unpleasantness. Adolphus fought down the urge to simply go round to the old man’s mansion and take it, but that would be too loud, too unsubtle, such an action might well be noticed in certain quarters before Adolphus wanted it to be. It would not do for the countess or others of her faint-hearted ilk to discover what he was up to ahead of time. No, he told himself, it would be best to wait.
He turned his attention to the noblewoman. She really wasn’t so bad, he thought. The best of the bunch present tonight certainly. He saw that she sensed him looking at her, and she glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. Without thinking, Adolphus exerted his will. The woman froze and stared at him, as if seeing him for the very first time. Adolphus smiled at her, and she smiled back. He looked down at the table again and let her go. That was enough for now. The connection was made. He would pluck her later, when the moment was ripe, perhaps not tonight, but some other night, when the thirst came upon him. He saw that her companion, perhaps a young aristocrat of some sort from his dress, was looking at him, and then at her. He had obviously noticed the exchange between them, and was most likely jealous. He leaned forward and whispered something furiously in the woman’s ear. She shook her head as if denying something. If he had wanted to, he could have listened in on their conversation simply by focusing his mind on it. Like all of the Arisen, his senses were fantastically keen. The cattle were always so predictable, thought Adolphus.
He dismissed the mortals from his thoughts. They were irrelevant. What was worrying him was his own lack of control. He could not afford it now. Not with the consummation of all his plans so close, not with everything he had worked so hard on almost within his reach. He needed all his wits about him now. He needed all his guile and cunning. He needed to keep his plans a secret until it was too late for the rest of the Arisen or anyone else, for that matter, to stop him. Instead he had gone on a blood binge, killing and drinking indiscriminately, leaving a trail that the right sort of hunter could follow with the ease of a forester tracking a mastodon. He simply could not understand it. Such a thing had not happened to him since his first mistress had given him the red kiss all those long centuries ago. Why was this happening to him? And why now?
He had heard of such things happening before. The Arisen were sometimes subject to a strange madness that got into their blood and drove them to crazed sprees. When that happened they were just as often hunted down by their own kind as by the cattle. None of the Arisen particularly cared to have the cattle stirred into a frenzy. Adolphus knew that if he kept up this sort of behaviour it would only be a matter of time before one of the Council came looking for him, and he could not afford that, at least not until the talisman was in his hands. Once that was accomplished and the thing was attuned to him they could send whoever they liked. But until then, he very badly needed to get himself under control unless he wanted to end up with a stake through his heart and his brainpan stuffed with witchroot as a warning to others not to behave as he had done.
He was aware, as he was aware of everything in the room, that the young lover had risen and walked over to a pack of his richly garbed friends, who were standing by the bar. He was gesturing in Adolphus’s direction, pointing aggressively. Not now, you young idiot, Adolphus thought. I do not need this. The group of youths began stalking over towards his table, hands on their sword hilts. Adolphus had seen lynch mobs in small towns walk towards their victims’ homes with exactly that stride. He watched them come towards his table, hoping vaguely that they would pass him by, knowing that it really was not all that likely. Now he wished he had brought Roche. His hulking henchman was always a good distraction in situations like this.
‘So you are the one who’s been seeing Analise,’ said a voice from close by. The accents belonged to the wealthy merchant class of Praag, the tone of voice was at once arrogant and self-righteous and petulant. A young jealous man, thought Adolphus, and one about to make the biggest mistake of his short life. Adolphus did not answer but studied the contents of his goblet closely. A hand lashed out and knocked his goblet over.
‘You, sir, I am talking to you. Don’t ignore me.’ Adolphus looked up and studied him closely. A foppish young fool clad in the latest fashion, long coat, bright pantaloons, a wide-brimmed hat with a feather in it. He had a narrow face, white sharp teeth and a savage, feral look in his eye. Makeup covered some of the pockmarks on his not unhandsome face.
‘You are making that very difficult, sir,’ said Adolphus, looking up. He could smell the drink on the young man’s breath. He gazed into his eyes and tried to make contact but the youth was too far gone in drunken jealous anger to be reached. Too bad for him, thought Adolphus, feeling the devil of rage begin to stir in his own unbeating heart. He glanced over at the youth’s friends. All cut from the same cloth, he thought, all young, all drunk, all viciously certain that they could do anything they wanted to a stranger here, and get away with it. Under normal circumstances, Adolphus thought, they would most likely be right. These were not normal circumstances, however.
‘I want you to get up and leave now, and I want you never to show your ugly face in here again.’
Adolphus shrugged. Under normal circumstances he would probably have done what these boors asked. He wanted no trouble that he could avoid, not now. But somewhere in the back of his mind, the lurking daemon, the thing that had caused him to drain those women dry, was stirring. He felt irritation build up within him, a small nagging thing that swiftly ballooned into a compulsion to be contrary. Who were these oafs to be ordering him around? Mere cattle, insects barely worthy of his notice. He looked at them with loathing, letting his contempt show upon his face. He saw the answering anger written on theirs.
‘And how are you going to make me do that, boy?’ Adolphus asked. ‘Why should I listen to a child who needs half a dozen of his playmates to deliver a simple warning? Is this the usual behaviour of Praag’s so-called men?’ The internal
daemon made him add, ‘Is it any wonder Analise prefers a real man to a beardless boy like you?’
Fury contorted the youth’s face. He had trapped himself and he knew it. Adolphus’s accent marked him as a noble, albeit one from some distant corner of the Empire. It would be dishonourable to simply gang up on him. The only course open to him was to call Adolphus out, to fight a duel. He saw the youth begin to look at him as if for the first time, taking in the height, the breadth of shoulder, the superb self-confidence with which Adolphus was facing down a whole gang of armed men. Obviously, even his drunken brain retained enough sense not to like the implications of what he was seeing. Adolphus wondered how he would deal with it. The response was predictable.
‘Take this piece of scum outside and beat him within an inch of his life,’ the youth said.
‘A coward as well as a cuckold,’ Adolphus sneered. He looked at the others. The part of him that was still relatively sane suggested that he should at least attempt to give them a way out from what was about to happen. Slaughtering six sons of the local wealthy was sure to bring him a lot of unwelcome attention. ‘Are you really going to fight this coward’s battles for him?’ he asked.
He could see that the justice of his words struck at least one or two of them. They did not really want to fight at these odds, any more than he did. They realised the dishonour of their act. One or two of them were wavering. Adolphus caught one’s eye and began exerting his will. The youth wavered and said, ‘I think Kurt should call this man out if he feels so strongly.’
Kurt obviously did not like this idea at all. ‘Are you all cowards? Do you all fear one scurvy outlander so much?’
This obvious appeal to their Kislevite patriotism was having as strong an effect as his questioning of their manhood. He could sense the gang wavering once more. ‘Take him outside and show him what happens to arrogant outlanders who shoot their mouths off in Praag.’