Gotrek & Felix- the First Omnibus - William King

by Warhammer

  No sooner had the last grain of sand fallen from the top of the hourglass than Kryptmann removed the pot from the flames. ‘All done!’

  He beckoned for Gotrek to come over, then ladled out a measure into a small china bowl.

  Felix saw that the inner rim was marked with red circles and astrological signs. He presumed these represented various levels of dosage. He was somehow reassured when the alchemist filled it to the very top, then handed it to Gotrek.

  ‘Drink it all up now.’

  The Slayer swilled it down. ‘Ugh!’ he said.

  They stood and waited. And waited. And waited.

  ‘How long should it take to work?’ Felix asked eventually.

  ‘Er, not long now!’

  ‘You said that an hour ago, Kryptmann. How long exactly?’ Felix’s knuckles whitened as his grip on the heavy pestle tightened.

  ‘I told you that the process was, well, uncertain. There were certain risks involved. Perhaps the sunblossom was not in prime condition. Are you sure you picked it exactly at the death of day?’

  ‘How. Long?’ Felix enunciated both words clearly and slowly, allowing the measure of his irritation to show in his voice.

  ‘Well, I – actually it should have worked almost instantly, jolting the mnemonic nodes and humours back into their old configuration.’

  Felix studied the Slayer. Gotrek looked exactly as he had done when they entered Kryptmann’s lab.

  ‘How do you feel? Ready to seek out your doom?’ Felix asked, very softly.

  ‘What doom would that be?’ Gotrek responded.

  ‘Per–perhaps we should try another dose, Herr Jaeger?’

  Felix let out an inarticulate howl of rage. It was not to be borne. He had endured a severe beating from Wolfgang’s men. He had climbed that mountain along unspeakably difficult paths. He had narrowly escaped death at the hands of hordes of bloodthirsty mutants. He was tired and cut and bruised and hungry. What was worse, he was coming down with a pestilential flux. His clothes were torn. He badly needed a bath. And it was all the alchemist’s fault.

  ‘Calm down, Herr Jaeger. There’s no need to growl like that.’

  ‘Oh, there isn’t, is there?’ Felix snarled. Kryptmann had sent him for the flowers. Kryptmann had promised that he would heal Gotrek. Kryptmann had spoiled Felix’s plans for glorious revenge. He had gone through hell for naught, at the foolish instructions of a foolish old man who did not know his own foolish business!

  ‘Perhaps I could make you a nice soporific potion to calm your nerves. Things will look so much better after a good night’s sleep.’

  ‘I could have died getting those flowers.’

  ‘Look, you’re upset. Quite understandably so – but violence will solve nothing.’

  ‘It will make me feel a lot better. It will make you feel a lot worse.’ Felix threw the pestle at the alchemist. Kryptmann leapt to one side. The implement smacked into Gotrek’s head with a great crunch. The Slayer fell over.

  ‘Quick, Greta! Send for the watch!’ the alchemist babbled. ‘Herr Jaeger has gone mad! Help! Help!’

  Felix darted round the work bench after Kryptmann, toppling him off his feet with a flying tackle. It gave him a great sense of satisfaction to get his fingers round the alchemist’s throat. He began to tighten his grip, smiling all the while. He felt Greta try to pull him off Kryptmann. Her fingers locked in his hair. He tried to shake her off. The alchemist’s face started to turn an interesting shade of purple.

  ‘Not that I have anything against senseless violence, manling, but why exactly are you strangling that old man?’

  The granite-hard voice was harsh and cracked and held an undercurrent of sheer cold menace. It took Felix a second to realise just who had spoken. He let go of Kryptmann’s throat.

  ‘And who is he? And where are we? And why does my head hurt, by Grimnir?’

  ‘The blow from the pestle must have returned him to his senses,’ Greta said softly.

  ‘I, ah, prefer to think it was the delayed effect of my brew,’ Kryptmann gasped. ‘I told you it would work.’

  ‘What senses? What brew? What are you talking about, you old lunatic?’

  Felix picked himself up and dusted himself off. He helped Kryptmann to his feet, picked up the alchemist’s glasses and handed them to him. He turned to face Gotrek. ‘What is the last thing you can remember?’

  ‘The mutant attack of course, manling. Some snotling-fondler caught me on the head with a slingshot. Now how did I get here? What magic is this?’ Gotrek scowled majestically.

  ‘This will take a lot of explaining,’ his companion said. ‘So first let’s get some beer. I know a friendly little tavern just around the corner.’

  Felix Jaeger smiled wickedly to himself, and the two of them set off for the Sleeping Dragon.

  BLOOD AND DARKNESS

  ‘After we exposed the cultists of Slaanesh in Fredericksburg, and incapacitated several of their minions, we ventured back onto the road to Nuln, leaving our former tormentors to the less than gentle mercies of their fellows. I have no idea why we settled on that mighty city as the terminus of our travels, other than perhaps because of the fact that my family had business interests there.

  ‘During one roadside halt in a tavern, Gotrek and I decided, perhaps foolishly in hindsight, that we should avoid the main road. Inevitably, and perhaps predictably, our drunken decision to take a circuitous route through the forest led to disaster.

  ‘In our desire to avoid any possible encounter with the agents of law, we wandered far from the normal haunts of man, and ended up deep in the forests, in an area long thought to be the site of a Black Altar of Chaos. Little did we suspect when we set out that we would soon meet with startling proof of that dire fane’s existence, and also that we would soon do battle with the most powerful of all of the followers of Darkness we had yet encountered…’

  — From My Travels with Gotrek, Vol. II,

  by Herr Felix Jaeger (Altdorf Press, 2505)

  When she heard the approaching footsteps, Kat concentrated on making herself smaller. She squeezed even more tightly into the tiny space between the stone blocks of the tumbledown building, hoping that the beasts had not come back. She knew that if they had, and they found her, this time they would kill her for certain.

  She wriggled further into the shadowy recess until her back was against stone. The rock was still warm from the fire which had burned down the inn. She felt a small measure of safety. No adult could squeeze into so small a hiding place, certainly nothing as large as the beasts. But they could always reach in with their spears or swords. She shuddered when she remembered the one with tentacles instead of arms, imagining the long leech-mouthed limbs questing like great snakes to find her in the darkness.

  She grasped the hammer-shaped amulet that old Father Tempelman had given her and prayed to Sigmar to deliver her from all snake-armed things. She tried hard to block out her last memory of the priest, fleeing down the street, carrying little Lotte Bernhoff. A horn-headed giant had impaled him with a spear. The weapon had pierced both Tempelman and the five-year-old, lifting them into the air as though they were weightless.

  ‘Something terrible has happened here, manling,’ a voice said. It was deep and gruff and harsh, but it did not sound like the feral snarling of a beast. The accent was foreign, as if Reikspiel were not the native tongue of the speaker. It reminded Kat of the strangers she had once served in the inn.

  Dwarfs, Old Ingmar – who fancied himself a traveller because he had once been to Nuln – had called them. They had been short, not much taller than herself but far broader and heavier than any man. They had worn cloaks of slate grey and, though they had called themselves merchants, they carried axes and shields. They spoke sadly in low musical voices and when drunk joined the villagers in singing. One had shown her a clockwork bird which flapped its metal wings marvellously and spoke in a metallic voice. She had begged bald-pated Karl, the innkeeper, to buy it for her but, though he had loved her l
ike she was his own daughter, he had just shaken his head and continued to polish the glasses, saying there was no way he could afford such workmanship.

  She shivered when she thought of what had become of Karl and fat Heide and the others in the inn who she had called family. She had heard screams as the bestial horde ravaged through the village led by the strange warrior in black armour. She had seen the lines of villagers being marched to the great bonfire in the village square.

  ‘Perhaps we should leave, Gotrek. By the looks of it, this is not a healthy place to linger,’ said another voice from close by. This one definitely belonged to a human, Kat decided. It was soft-spoken and gentle, with a cultured accent similar to old Doctor Gebhardt’s. A brief spark of hope flickered in Kat’s mind. There was no way a beast could sound like that.

  Or was there? Like many other villagers who had grown up in the depths of the wild woods, Kat was familiar with the stories. Of wolves who looked like men until let in by unsuspecting villagers. Of children who looked normal until they grew up into hideous mutated monsters that slew their own families. Of woodcutters who had heard a child’s cry in the deep forest at twilight and who went to investigate and never returned. The servants of the Dark Powers were devilish and clever, and found many ways of luring the unwary to their doom.

  ‘Not until I’ve found out what happened here. By Grungni, this place is an abattoir!’ The first voice spoke again, unnaturally loud in the silence.

  ‘Whatever force could do this to a walled village could surely squash us like bugs. Look at the holes in the walls of the keep! Let us be away.’ There was an undercurrent of fear in the cultured voice which echoed the terror in Kat’s own breast.

  Once again the memory of the previous night rose before her. It had begun with a great thunderclap of sound although the sky had been empty. She recalled the tolling of the alarm bell and the splintering of the gate. She recalled rushing to the inn door and seeing the beastmen pouring down the street, torching the village and putting everyone to the sword.

  One huge figure with the head of a goat had lifted Johan the miller clean over its head and pitched him into a burning cottage. Little Gustav, Johan’s son, had driven a pitchfork through its chest before being torn to pieces by two deformed creatures in beggars’ clothes whose faces showed wattled crests and lizard-like skin. She wished she could forget the way they tore the gobbets of flesh from the corpse and stuffed them greedily into fanged mouths.

  She remembered wondering why Count Klein and his soldiers had not come to defend them but when she gazed at the castle she knew the answer. The towers were ablaze. Silhouetted against the flames, figures dangled from the lord’s gibbet. She guessed they were Klein’s men.

  Karl had forced her inside and barred the door, before stacking the tables in front of the entrance. Karl and Ulf the potboy and even Heide, Karl’s wife, had clutched knives and other kitchen implements; a pitiful defence against the foul rabble that whooped and gibbered in the streets outside.

  They had stood around, pale-faced and sweating in the flickering light of the flambeaux, while outside the sounds of killing and destruction continued. It had seemed like all their darkest fears has come true, that finally the monstrous, mythical forces lurking in the forest’s heart had erupted forth to claim what was theirs.

  For a time it seemed like the inn was going to be left untouched but then the door was knocked from its hinges by a mighty blow and several immense beastmen had pushed aside the piled furniture. Kat remembered so vividly the taste of the smoky air that accompanied the opening of the door.

  With a whimpering cry, Ulf had charged the leading monster. It brought a huge club down on his head, splitting his skull and splattering brains about the room. Kat had screamed as the jelly-like material hit her face and slid down her cheek.

  When she opened her eyes she looked into the face of death. Over her loomed a huge creature. It was man-shaped but goat-headed, its horns twisted to resemble a strange X-shaped rune. Ruddy fur covered its mighty body; Ulf’s brains covered its massive club.

  The beastman had looked down on her and she saw that it had no eyes, only a blank expanse of flesh where the sockets should have been. Even so, she somehow knew that it could see her as well as any sighted thing. Perhaps the circlet of desiccated eyeballs dangling from its neck gave it sight. It had inspected her with a puzzled expression, then reached down and touched her long black hair, running its finger through the white streak that ran from her forehead to the back of her neck. It shook its head and backed away almost fearfully.

  Nearby Karl bled to death, whimpering piteously as he failed to staunch the blood pumping from the stump where his left hand had been. Kat couldn’t see what was happening behind the tumbled table where two beasts had Heide pinned but she could hear the old woman’s screams. She had fled out into the night.

  And there she had met the beautiful white-faced woman who was mistress of the beasts. She was sitting astride a great red-eyed steed whose flesh was as black as her ornate armour. The woman looked at the destruction, her smile revealing fanged incisors drawn back over ruby-red lips. Her hair was long and black with a white strip running down the middle. Kat wondered whether it was the mark of Chaos – and whether that was the reason the beastman had spared her.

  The woman held a black sword in one hand, runes glowed the colour of blood along its length. She noticed Kat and looked down at her. For the second time that night, the girl thought she was dead. The woman had raised her blade as if to smite her. Numbed with terror, Kat had just stood there looking up at her, her gaze had locked with the warrior’s.

  The woman paused as their eyes met. Kat thought she detected a faint glimmer of sympathy there. The woman mouthed the word ‘No’, and nudged her mount into motion with a touch of her spurs. She rode off down the street, not looking back. Kat noticed the bonfire and the beaten villagers being pushed towards it and scurried into hiding.

  Soon the sound of bestial chanting rose over the village. The burnt meat smell of roasting flesh, both tantalising and sickening, filled the air. The hideous screams of the dying villagers filled the night.

  Kat had hidden until morning, praying for the souls of her friends, praying she wouldn’t be found. When the sun came up, the beasts were gone as if they had never been there. But the smoking ruins of the village, and the piles of charred skulls and cracked bones in the still-smouldering embers of the bonfire showed it had not been a nightmare.

  Suddenly it was all too much for Kat. She started to cry with great choking sobs. Tears ran down her soot-blackened face.

  ‘What was that, manling?’ the deep voice said nearby.

  Kat stifled her sobs as stealthy footfalls approached. Something blocked the sunlight in the entrance to her hiding place. She stared up at a man’s face, framed by long golden hair. The eyes that looked at her were scared and tired and world-weary. A long scar marred the man’s cheek. She found herself looking at the sharp point of a longsword. Faint markings were etched into the blade.

  ‘Come out slowly,’ he said. His soft, cultured voice was cold now and held no hint of mercy. Kat crawled slowly out into the daylight. She could tell she was near to death at this moment. Fear of the unknown had made the man desperate.

  She stood up. The man was much taller than she was and dressed like a bandit. A shabby cloak of faded red wool was thrown back over his right shoulder, leaving his sword arm free. His clothes were stained and patched and very travel-worn. His high leather boots were cracked and scuffed.

  He glanced around with an edgy wariness that seemed habitual.

  ‘It’s only a little girl,’ he shouted over his shoulder. ‘Maybe a survivor.’

  The figure that stomped into view past the tumble-down remains of Frau Hof’s bakery was just as terrifying in its own way as the beasts had been. It was a dwarf – but one which bore little resemblance to the travelling merchants Kat had known.

  He stood halfway between Kat and the bandit in height but he was
heavy, maybe as heavy as Jan the blacksmith had been and certainly more muscular. A patchwork of intricate tattoos covered his whole body. A huge crest of red-dyed hair rose over his shaven skull. A crude leather patch obscured his left eye and a gold chain ran from his nose to his left ear. In one ham-sized fist he carried the largest axe Kat had ever seen.

  The dwarf glared at her belligerently. There was a sense of barely restrained wrath about him that was desperately frightening. He showed none of the obvious fear his companion did.

  ‘What happened here, child?’ he demanded brusquely in a voice like scraping stones.

  Staring into that one mad, inhuman eye, Kat could think of no response. The man touched her gently on the shoulder.

  ‘Tell us your name,’ he said softly.

  ‘Kat. Katerina. It was the beasts. They came from the forest, killed everybody. I hid. They left me alone.’

  Kat found herself babbling the story of her encounter with the beastmen and the woman in the black armour to the astonishment of the two adventurers. By the time she had finished the dwarf looked at her wearily. His ferocious expression had softened a little.

  ‘Don’t worry, child. You’re safe now.’

  ‘I hate trees. They’re like elves, manling,’ Gotrek said. ‘They make me want to take an axe to them.’

  Felix Jaeger peered into the shadowy forest nervously. All around, the great trees brooded, ominous presences whose branches met over the trail, intertwined like the fingers of a giant at prayer, blocking out the sun until only a few solitary shafts of light illuminated the way forward. Moss covered the branches and the scaly bark of the trunks reminded him of the withered hides of dead serpents. A stillness as old as the vast primeval forest surrounded them, broken only by occasional stirrings in the undergrowth. The sound spread across the silence until it vanished as mysteriously as ripples from the surface of a pool. Here in the forest’s ancient, evil heart no birds dared to sing.