Gotrek & Felix- the Second Omnibus - William King

by Warhammer

  Snow crunched beneath hooves and hissed beneath runners. The sledge jerked forward as Felix tugged the reins. They were off. Behind him the golden-domed towers of Praag receded into the distance.

  Max closed his eyes and invoked the finding spell once more. Flows of magic swept into him and reinforced the long, thin cords that tied him to the Eye of Khemri. It was as if a long incredibly fine cable bound him to the talisman. He could not tell exactly how long, but he knew the distance was great, and that the direction they had to go in was south-west.

  Hopefully, as they got closer, he would be able to divine more, but at the moment this would have to be enough. He was lucky the tenuous link held at all over so great a distance. Hell, he was lucky to still be alive, after his encounter with the traps left by the Great Necromancer.

  Max had spent a great deal of time over the past few days wondering about that. He was still capable of invoking the power. His skills and memories seemed to be more or less intact. He could discover no taint on his soul left by that overwhelming tide of dark magic. In itself that meant nothing. Any spell capable of corrupting his thoughts would also be able to prevent him from seeing it. Max knew that it would take a mage of incredible power and skill to be able to do that. Until a few days ago he would not have believed it was possible. Now he knew it was. Just from the weaving left on the Eye of Khemri, Max knew Nagash would have been capable of such a thing. The man, or whatever he had become, had been a being of almost god-like power.

  How was that possible, Max wondered? How could any mage have been so powerful? Perhaps magical energy had been more abundant when the world was young. Perhaps he had lived in a time when the tides of dark magical energy had risen to peaks undreamed of in modern times. Perhaps that was what was happening now, as the Chaos Wastes expanded and the armies of the Dark Powers marched south.

  Or perhaps the Great Necromancer had simply been born with powers far beyond those of any modern magician. It was possible. All sorcerers varied in power and potential. Max had known men twice his age and experience that did not have a tenth of his current strength. He had seen apprentices who he had thought with practice could become stronger than he. At least, he had believed that at the time.

  His encounter with the defences Nagash had laid on the Eye of Khemri had left him filled with doubt. In all his life he had never encountered the work of a magician so much superior to him. The mages who had cast the spells for the Chaos horde during the siege had been stronger than he, but at least he had understood what they were doing. And he had known that their power came in part from the huge torrent of dark magic they were tapping into. That skaven grey seer had been more powerful because he had used warpstone to enhance his strength, and Max doubted that he had truly been that much stronger or better when it came to working magic.

  But Nagash was something else entirely. Max had never encountered spellcraft as sophisticated as that laid on the amulet before, nor natural strength so great it could leave a resonance down through three millennia. When he had discovered the defensive spell on the Eye he had encountered the work of a being as far beyond him as he was beyond most ordinary people when it came to magic. He knew that no matter how hard he struggled to learn or how much power he acquired he would never be a match for that being.

  What had happened to him had been more than the hideous visions and nightmares. It was corrosive to his self-esteem, damaging to his confidence, and Max knew that for a mage that could be fatal. So much of spellcasting was dependent on sheer willpower, and anything that weakened your will diminished your ability. If you suffered a lapse when weaving a dangerous spell, it might have deadly results. Max had heard of it happening. The outcome had not been pleasant either for the mage or for the people around him. He knew that he could afford no such lapses at the moment. Not with Ulrika’s life at stake.

  He wondered if his feelings of inferiority were in some way a product of the defences on the talisman. It would be a very subtle way of destroying an enemy magician, to undermine his confidence in this way. He doubted that Nagash would have need of such subtlety, although doubtless he would have been capable of it. Why had he concealed the power within the talisman? Why had he protected it with such defences?

  Max could at least answer the latter. He had brooded on it long enough. A magician as powerful as Nagash would have had many adversaries, and it would have been only common sense to shield his work against falling into the hands of his enemies. The thought of enemies brought another image out of the whirling chaos of nightmares and visions into his mind. He saw those pale blood-drinking nobles again, and knew that the talisman was something to do with them – but what? All he could hope for was that soon the turmoil in his mind would settle and he would be able to make sense out of the mad whirl of strange thoughts the talisman had left there. He told himself that Ulrika’s life depended on it. And just as importantly, his own life depended on it too, in more ways than one. He needed to know what they would face when they finally overtook Adolphus Krieger. And he needed to start rebuilding his own self-confidence.

  Think, he told himself. Look on the bright side. Learn what you can from this experience and use it to make yourself a better man, and a better magician. You have always known that there were more powerful mages than you. It in no way diminishes your accomplishments. You have done the best you can with the gifts you have been given.

  You survived what happened, and you have not been broken by it. You’ve learned things. Granted you could have lived without learning some of those things but it happened. How many people can say they have had direct insight into the mind of the Great Necromancer? How many people have survived being crushed by one of his spells?

  Slowly, a little at a time, Max wrestled with his self-doubt. He knew that finding himself again would be a long slow process but at least he had made a start. He only hoped he would be ready to face this dark magician when the time came. As his thoughts raced another, more frightening possibility, entered his mind.

  He had triggered the trap himself, had taken the full brunt of its energies. Would the spell reset itself? Or would Krieger find the way open to easily attune the amulet? Another thought struck Max. The defences on the amulet had not been triggered until after he had tried to analyse its structure. Perhaps the amulet was intended to be used: perhaps it had some sinister, secret purpose the Great Necromancer wanted hidden. For a moment, Max could almost feel that vast skeletal hand reaching out across the ages to tug at the destinies of mortals.

  He shivered, and wondered whether or not they would be doing Adolphus Krieger a favour by killing him.

  Ivan Petrovich Straghov clutched the reins of the sled through hands made clumsy by the thick fur-lined gloves he wore. Snowflakes fell, muffling the stamp of ponies’ hooves and the jingle of harnesses. The wind bit at his skin. All around thick pine forests loomed over the road. Behind him he could hear the other sledges moving over the snow.

  He cursed the weather. He cursed the man who had kidnapped his daughter but most of all he cursed himself. He had not been there when his daughter needed him. He had been indulging himself at the duke’s banquet when she was being borne off by some crazed magician. He had spoiled her shamelessly since the early death of her beloved mother, let her do most anything she wanted, even run after that young outlander Felix Jaeger, when she should have been safe at home.

  Only there was no home, not now. His mansion had been all but destroyed by a skaven assault months ago, and doubtless anything left had been reduced to rubble by the oncoming hordes of Chaos. All of his vague hopes for a quiet old age, surrounded by grandchildren, had gone now. He felt strangely restless and rootless. The previous month of guerrilla warfare and riding with the muster had made him realise that he was not a young man any more. He was a fat old man, used to his creature comforts and grown soft with good living. It had taken an enormous effort of will to keep up with the younger men in his troop and not to show his fatigue and despair. It was taking an even more enorm
ous effort not to give in to it now.

  He tried telling himself that she was a brave and resourceful young woman, as well schooled with weapons as any warrior in his band. It made no difference. He could only hope and pray that Ulrika was still alive, and not sacrificed to some dark god. He could only hope that Max Schreiber knew what he was doing. He drove on, guilt and worry eating at his heart, his thoughts as bleak as the weather and the desolate surroundings.

  Adolphus Krieger looked around the inside of the coach. It was comfortable. The seats were plush leather; there was plenty of room for himself and the girl. It had been built for Osrik by the best coachwright in Kislev and the quality showed. It was a rich man’s toy. A luxury coach built on runners. Perhaps in a country where the winters could last six months, and where snow covered the ground for most of that time, owning it made as much sense as owning a coach. In any case, whatever the reason, he was glad Osrik had indulged himself.

  The girl gave him a sullen look. She looked pale, drawn and defiant. She did not understand what was happening to her. Few mortals did understand the effects of the dark kiss. She was fighting against it. That was all right, Adolphus thought. He would enjoy breaking her will. He smiled at her, not showing his teeth.

  ‘Admit it,’ he said silkily. ‘You enjoyed it. Last night you bared your neck before I even asked.’

  That was not quite true but it was close enough. She had not fought very hard when he had embraced her. He knew the pleasure that most mortals took from being tapped. It was an ecstasy unlike any other. Once addicted to it, they would do anything to experience it again, even if it killed them. As it often did.

  The girl glared at him, unwilling to admit that there was even the slightest grain of truth in what he had said, unable to acknowledge even to herself that there might be. And yet, he knew there was. Slowly that knowledge would become undeniable. Slowly it would overcome her fears, revulsions, and denials. Just the element of doubt it created would undermine her resistance as she learned she could no longer trust her own judgement, her old sense of morality. He had seen it happen many times before over the centuries. Once begun, the process was inevitable unless he chose to stop it.

  He flipped open his book, an old tattered vellum copy of the Prophecies of Nospheratus, bound in manskin leather. It fell open at the section concerning the portents of the Age of Blood. Sure enough, the signs were all there. The armies of beasts were on the march. The hungry moon was devouring the sky. The cities of men burned. And now the Pale Prince had recovered the Eye of the Great Undying. It was here, burning on his throat. He could feel the subtle power of the thing. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of sudden movement.

  Swift as a snake the girl went for her dagger. He smiled. He had expected her to. It was one of the reasons he had let her keep the weapon. She was very fast. The dagger would have been in a mortal’s heart before he could even have reacted. Adolphus was no mortal though. He caught her wrist and almost gently forced her hand back. The pressure was no less irresistible because of the gentleness. Within moments, he had forced the weapon back into its sheath. He let the book fall onto his knees.

  ‘Temper, temper, my sweet,’ he said mockingly, and caught her wrist again as she attempted to slap him. She would have to learn that she was helpless here; that there was nothing she could do to stop him. First, she would learn that physically, and then inevitably she would learn it in her heart and soul too.

  ‘Bloodsucker,’ she said spitefully and turned and glared out the window. Adolphus could see the two small punctures in her neck. He found the sight strangely arousing and felt the urge to sample her blood once more. He forced the urge down although it was difficult – there was something in the girl’s blood that gave him great pleasure. Perhaps that was why he spent so many waking hours working on her, subtly questioning her about her companions. He was pleased that he had managed to resist temptation. The more leagues they put between them and Praag the less the beast within troubled him. Or perhaps it was the distance they put between themselves and the north. In any case, it did not matter; what was important was that his self-control was returning.

  ‘I am,’ he said, allowing some of his pride to show in his voice, ‘and it’s no bad thing to be. I have lived for centuries, and I have seen wonders beyond your ability to imagine.’

  ‘You bought those centuries with the blood of innocents.’

  He laughed. ‘Most gave themselves to me willingly enough, as you will soon.’

  ‘Never,’ she said, and sounded like she meant it. ‘I would rather die first.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be so melodramatic. You have no idea of what you speak. You are a long time in the grave, after all. Why rush to get there? Why hurry to let the worms eat those beautiful eyes, or maggots crawl through those full and lovely lips?’

  For a moment there was no answer, then she spoke: ‘What do you know of death? Of true death? Of eternal rest? You are a walking corpse kept alive by the blood of the living.’

  So she was going to be difficult after all. Good. The struggle always made things more interesting. Breaking her would give him something to do, until he got to the keep and could attune the talisman to his will. ‘I know enough to realise that I would prefer not to experience it.’

  ‘That is not an answer.’

  ‘What would you have me say? I am not a priest to speak knowledgeably of things I have never seen, nor talk of realms I have never been. I tell no lies.’

  Adolphus suspected he had gotten her attention now. He sounded sincere, and while he was perfectly capable of counterfeiting sincerity when he wanted to, he was not doing so in this instance. There was no need to. He merely addressed himself to the doubts and fears that all mortals felt, that he himself had felt when he still breathed, and which he still felt even occasionally now.

  ‘You are saying the priests lie? That the Book of Morr is not true? That the words of the gods are lies?’

  He reached out and grabbed her by the chin, gently but inexorably turning her head so that he could look into her eyes. ‘Have you ever spoken to a god, pretty one?’

  ‘I have prayed.’

  ‘And has the god ever spoken back to you?’

  ‘My prayers have been answered.’

  ‘I do not mean did you get what you asked for, or something you thought you had asked for. I meant: has a god ever spoken to you directly?’ He saw she was breathing harder now. Her gaze met his challengingly.

  ‘No. Of course not.’

  ‘Yet you are willing to take the priest’s words for what they claim to be true. You are willing to believe in entities you have never seen.’

  ‘I have never seen Altdorf but I know it’s there.’

  ‘You could go to Altdorf if you wished, but could you speak with your priest’s gods?’

  ‘There have been miracles, worked by priests in the name of their gods.’

  ‘We both believe in magic. I believe you know a wizard. I am sure he could duplicate the effects of most of those miracles. Who is to say that the priests are not simply magicians themselves?’

  Silence. He let it draw out and smiled at her mockingly. She did not flinch but glared at him. He decided to surprise her. ‘I do believe that gods exist. I have seen enough evidence to know it. I just do not believe they are what the priests tell you.’

  ‘You have seen evidence?’

  ‘So have you if you think about it. Only a fool could have looked on the Chaos horde and deny the Lords of Chaos exist.’

  ‘What about our gods?’

  ‘Your gods, you mean?’

  ‘If you would have it so.’

  ‘I believe that something exists but I do not think they are what mortals believe they are.’

  She refused to be drawn so he continued. ‘I think the gods are beings as much beyond ordinary mortals as mortals are beyond dogs. When a dog looks at you, do you think he understands what goes on in your mind?’

  ‘My old dog did.’

  ‘Cou
ld he understand poetry?’

  ‘I don’t see what that has to do with it.’

  ‘I mean there are things that you can understand and think about that no dog ever could, no matter how well he understood your emotions or moods. I think your gods are creatures like that. I think they look down on you mortals and are amused. After all, they have the perspective of aeons and knowledge that far surpasses yours.’

  ‘I think you are projecting how you see yourself onto the gods. I think you no more understand them than you claim I do.’

  Adolphus looked at her, surprised at how perceptive the point was. Obviously the girl was intelligent. Excellent, she would provide stimulating company on this rather dull trip. He had become rather bored with the company of Osrik and the rest of the coven. Fawning respect and devotion grew as wearisome as anything else when overindulged in. Anything else except blood.

  Now that the immediate threat was past he found he rather missed the prospect of the Slayer and his companions showing up. It had added a touch of excitement to the proceedings. Still, these lands were said to be dangerous. He was fairly sure that something interesting would turn up before the trip was over.

  ‘At least we are heading back towards the Empire,’ said Felix, squinting into the snowfall. The cold wind made his eyes water, and the liquid was freezing on his cheeks. He was glad he had invested in an extra pair of gloves before they left Praag. Even through the thickness of both pairs he thought his hands might freeze to the reins. All of it increased the misery brought on by his illness. Perhaps going out drinking all of those nights back in Praag had not been such a good idea. He had never recovered properly.

  Gotrek said nothing, merely glared out into the snow as if it were a personal enemy. His face was set in the grim expression that dwarfs always wore when forced to endure hardship. Underneath it he suspected the Slayer was quite enjoying himself. Dwarfs seemed to delight in undergoing physical travails. It was one of their least appealing characteristics as far as Felix was concerned. Hardship was something he could cheerfully live without.