by Warhammer
As well as the exotic and the debauched, there were the usual raucous youths from the student fraternities, who had come here to the roughest part of town to prove their manhood to themselves and to their friends. They were always the worst troublemakers; spoiled, rich young men who had to show how tough they were for all to see. They hunted in packs and were as capable of drunken viciousness as the lowest dockside cut-throat. Maybe they were worse, for they considered themselves above the law and their victims less than vermin.
From where he stood, Felix could see a bunch of jaded young dandies tugging at the dress of a struggling serving-wench. They were demanding a kiss. The girl, a pretty newcomer called Elissa, fresh from the country and unused to this sort of behaviour, was resisting hard. Her struggles just seemed to encourage the rowdies. Two of them had got to their feet and began to drag the struggling girl towards the alcoves. One had clamped a hand over her mouth so that her shrieks would not be heard. Another brandished a huge blutwurst sausage obscenely.
Felix moved to interpose himself between the young men and the alcoves.
‘No need for that,’ he said quietly.
The older of the two youths grinned nastily. Before speaking he took a huge bite of the blutwurst and swallowed it. His face was flushed and sweat glistened on his brow and cheeks. ‘She’s a feisty wench – maybe she’d enjoy a taste of a prime Nuln sausage.’
The dandies laughed uproariously at this fine jest. Encouraged, he waved the sausage in the air like a general rallying his troops.
‘I don’t think so,’ Felix said, trying hard to keep his temper. He hated these spoiled young aristocrats with a passion, had done ever since his time at the University of Altdorf where he had been surrounded by their sort.
‘Our friend here thinks he’s tough, Dieter,’ said the younger of the two, a crop-headed giant larger than Felix. He sported the scarred face of a student duellist, one who fought to gain scars and so enhance his prestige.
Felix looked around for some help. The other bouncers were trying to calm down a brawl between the Kislevites and the halberdiers. Felix could see Gotrek’s crest of dyed hair rising above the scrum. No help from that quarter, then.
Felix shrugged. Better make the best of a bad situation, he thought. He looked straight into the duellist’s eye.
‘Just let the girl be,’ he said with exaggerated mildness – then some devil lurking at the back of his mind prompted him to add, ‘and I promise not to hurt you.’
‘You promise not to hurt us?’ The duellist seemed a little confused. Felix could see that he was trying to work out whether this lowly bouncer could possibly be mocking him. The student’s friends were starting to gather around, keen to start some trouble.
‘I think we should teach this scumbag a lesson, Rupert,’ Dieter said. ‘I think we should show him he’s not as tough as he thinks he is.’
Elissa chose this moment to bite Dieter’s hand. He shrieked with pain and cuffed the girl almost casually. Elissa dropped as if pole-axed. ‘Bitch took a chunk out of my hand!’
Suddenly Felix had just plain had enough. He had travelled hundreds of leagues, fought against beasts, monsters and men. He had seen the dead rise from their graves and slain evil cultists on Geheimnisnacht. He had killed the city of Nuln’s own chief of secret police for being in league with the wretched skaven. He didn’t have to take cheek from these spoiled whelps, and he certainly didn’t need to watch them beat up an innocent girl.
Felix grabbed Rupert by the lapels and swung his forehead forward, butting the duellist on the nose. There was a sickening crunch and the big youth toppled backward, clutching his face. Felix grabbed Dieter by the throat and slapped him a couple of times just for show, then slammed the student’s face into the heavy tabletop. There was another crunch. Steins toppled.
The spectators pushed their chairs backwards to avoid being soaked. Felix kicked Dieter’s legs out from under him and then, after he hit the ground, kicked him in the head a couple of times. There was nothing pretty or elegant about it, but Felix was not in the mood to put up with these people any more. Suddenly they sickened him and he was glad of the chance to vent his anger.
As Dieter’s friends surged forward, Felix ripped his sword from its scabbard. The razor-sharp blade glittered in the torchlight. The angry students froze as if they had heard the hissing of a deadly serpent.
Suddenly it was all deathly quiet. Felix put the blade down against the side of Dieter’s head. ‘One more step and I’ll take his ear off. Then I’ll make the rest of you eat it.’
‘He means it,’ one of the students muttered, Suddenly they did not look so very threatening any more, just a scared and drunken bunch of young idiots who had bought into much more trouble than they had bargained for. Felix twisted the blade so that it bit into Dieter’s ear, drawing blood. The young man groaned and squirmed under Felix’s boot.
Rupert whimpered and clutched his nose with one meaty hand. A river of red streamed over his fingers. ‘You broke my node,’ he said in a tone of piteous accusation. He sounded like he couldn’t believe anyone would do anything so horribly cruel.
‘One more word out of you and I’ll break your fingers too,’ Felix said. He hoped nobody tried to work out how he was going to do that. He wasn’t quite sure himself, but he needn’t have worried. Everybody took him absolutely seriously. ‘The rest of you pick your friends up and get out of here, before I really lose my temper.’
He stepped away from Dieter’s recumbent form, keeping his blade between himself and the students. They hurried forward, helped their injured friends to their feet, and hurried towards the door. A few kept terrified eyes on Felix as they went.
He walked over to Elissa and helped her to her feet.
‘You all right?’ he asked.
‘Fine enough. Thanks,’ she said. She looked up at him gratefully. Not for the first time, Felix noticed how pretty she was. She smiled up at him. Her tight black ringlets framed her round face. Her lips pouted. He reached down and tucked one of her jet-black curls behind her ear.
‘Best go and have a word with Heinz. Tell him what happened.’
The girl hurried off.
‘You’re learning, manling,’ the Trollslayer’s voice said from behind him.
Felix looked around and was surprised to see Gotrek grinning malevolently up at him. ‘I suppose so,’ he said, although right at this moment he felt a little shaky. It was time for a drink.
Grey Seer Thanquol perched on the three-legged bone stool in front of the farsqueaker and bit his tail. He was angry, as angry as he could ever remember being. He doubted he had been so angry even on the day he had made his first kill, and then he had been very, very angry indeed. He dug his canines into his tail until the sensation made his pink eyes water. Then he let go. He was sick of inflicting pain on himself. He felt like making someone else suffer.
‘Hurry-fast! Scuttle-quick or I will the flesh flay from your most unworthy bones,’ he shrieked, lashing out with the whip he carried for just such occasions as this.
The skaven slaves squeaked in dismay and scuttled faster on the lurching treadmill attached to the huge mechanisms of the farsqueaker. As they did so, the powerglobes began to glow slightly. Their flickering light illumined the long musty chamber. The shadows of the warp engineers of Clan Skryre danced across the walls as they made adjustments to the delicate machine by banging it lightly with sledgehammers. A faint tang of warpstone and ozone became perceptible in the air.
‘Quick! Quick! Or I will feed you to the rat-ogres.’
A chance would be a fine thing, Thanquol thought. If only he had a rat-ogre to feed these slaves too. What a disappointment Boneripper had proved to be – that cursed dwarf had slain him as easily as Thanquol would slaughter a blind puppy. Just the thought of that hairless dwarf upstart made Thanquol want to squirt the musk of fear. At the same time, hatred bit at Thanquol’s bowels and stayed there, gnawing as fiercely as a newly born runt chomping on a bone.
&nbs
p; By the Horned Rat’s foetid breath, he wanted revenge on the Trollslayer and his henchman! Not only had they slain Boneripper and cost Thanquol a lot of precious warptokens, they had also killed von Halstadt and thus disrupted the grey seer’s master plan for throwing Nuln and the Empire into chaos.
True, Thanquol had other agents on the surface, but none so highly placed or so malleable as the former head of Nuln’s secret police. Thanquol wasn’t looking forward to reporting the failure of this part of the scheme to his masters back in Skavenblight. In fact, he had put off making his report for as long as he decently could. Now he had no option but to talk to the Seerlord and report how things stood. Warily he looked up at the huge mirror on top of the farsqueaker, as he waited for a vision of his master to take form.
The skaven slaves scuttled faster now. The light in the warpglobes became brighter. Thanquol felt his fur lift and a shiver run down his spine to the tip of his tail as sparks leapt from the globes at either end of the treadmill, flickering upwards towards the huge mirror at the top of the apparatus. One of the warp engineers rushed over to the control panel and wrenched down two massive copper switches. Forked lightning flickered between the warpglobes. The viewing mirror began to glow with a greenish light. Little flywheels began to buzz. Huge pistons rose and fell impressively.
Briefly Thanquol felt a surge of pride at this awesome triumph of skaven engineering, a device which made communication over all the long leagues between Nuln and Skavenblight not only possible but instantaneous.
Truly, no other race could match the inventive genius of the skaven. This machine was just one more proof, if any was needed, of skaven superiority to all other so-called sentient races. The skaven deserved to rule the world – which was doubtless why the Horned Rat had given it into their keeping.
A picture took shape in the mirror. A towering figure glared down at him. Thanquol shivered again, this time with uncontrollable fear. He knew he was looking on the features of one of the Council of Thirteen in distant Skavenblight. In truth, he could not tell which, since the picture was a little fuzzy. Maybe it was not even Seerlord Tisqueek. Swirls and patterns of interference danced across the mirror’s shimmering surface. Perhaps, Thanquol should suggest that the engineers of Clan Skryre make a few adjustments to their device. Now, however, hardly seemed the time.
‘What have… to… report… Seer Thanq…’ The majestic voice of the council member emerged from the machine’s squeaking trumpet as a high-pitched buzzing. Thanquol had to strain to make out the words. With his outstretched paw he snatched up the mouthpiece, carved from human thighbone and connected to the machine by a cable of purest copper. He struggled hard to avoid gabbling his words.
‘Great triumphs, lordly one, and some minor setbacks,’ Thanquol squeaked. His musk glands felt tight. He fought to keep from baring his teeth nervously.
‘Spea… up… Grey… I… hardly hear you… and…’
Thanquol decided there were definitely a few problems with the farsqueaking machine. Many of the Seerlord’s words were being lost, and doubtless his superior was only catching a few of Thanquol’s own words in return. Perhaps, thought the grey seer, this could be made to work to his advantage. He must consider his options.
‘Many triumphs, lordly one, and a few minor setbacks!’ Thanquol bellowed as loud as he could. His roaring startled the slaves and they stopped running. As the treadmill slowed, the picture started to flicker and fade. The long tongues of lightning dimmed. ‘Faster, you fools! Don’t stop!’
Thanquol encouraged the slaves with a flick of his lash. Slowly the picture returned until the dim outline of the gigantic skaven lord was visible once more. A cloud of foul-smelling smoke was starting to emerge from the farsqueaker. It smelled like something within the machine was burning. Two warp engineers stood by with buckets of foul water drawn directly from the nearby sewers.
‘…setbacks, Grey …eer Thanquol?’
If ever there was time for the machine’s slight irregularities to prove useful, now was that time, thought Thanquol. ‘Yes, master. Many triumphs! Even as we speak our warriors scout beneath the man-city. Soon we will have all information we need for our inevitable triumph!’
‘I said… setbacks… Seer Thanquol.’
‘It would not wise be to send them back, great one. We need every able-bodied skaven warrior to map the city.’
The councillor leaned forward and fiddled with a knob. The picture flickered and became slightly clearer. Thanquol could now see that the speaker’s head was obscured by a great cowl which hid his features. The members of the Council of Thirteen often did that. It made them seem more mysterious and threatening. Thanquol could see that he was turning and saying something to someone just out of sight. The grey seer assumed his superior was berating one of the engineers of Clan Skryre.
‘…and how is… agent von Halstadt…’
‘Indisposed,’ Thanquol replied, a little too hastily for his own liking. Somehow it sounded better than saying he was dead. He decided to change the subject quickly. He knew that he had better do something to save the situation and fast.
No matter how cunningly he stalled his masters on the farsqueaker, he knew that word of Fritz von Halstadt’s death would get back to them eventually. Every skaven force was full of spies and snitches. It was only a matter of time before the news of his scheme’s failure reached Skavenblight. By then Thanquol knew he had better have some concrete successes to report.
‘We have news… change of plans… we send army to Nuln… when ready… ttack city…’ The Seerlord’s words made Thanquol’s ears rise with pleasure. If an army was being dispatched to Nuln, he would command it. Taking the city would increase his status immeasurably.
‘Warlord Vermek Skab will command… render him all… sible assistance…’
Thanquol bared his teeth with disappointment. He was being replaced in command of this army. He sniffed as he considered the matter. Maybe not. Vermek Skab might have an accident. Then Grey Seer Thanquol could rise majestically to claim his full and rightful share of the glory!
Thanquol’s nose twitched. The billowing cloud of smoke from the machine almost filled the chamber now, and Thanquol was pretty sure that the device was not supposed to be emitting great showers of sparks like that. The fact that two of the warp engineers were running for the door wasn’t a good sign either. He considered following them.
‘I have foreseen the presence… ill-omened elements in your future, Than… I predict disaster for you unless… do something about them.’
Suddenly Thanquol was rooted to the spot, torn between his desire to flee and his desire to hear more. He almost squirted the musk of fear. If the seerlord prophesied something then it had almost as good as happened. Unless, of course, his superior was lying to him for purposes of his own. That happened all too often, as Thanquol knew only too well.
‘Disaster, lordly one?’
‘Yes… see a dwarf and a human… destinies are intertwined with yours… you do not slay them then…’
There was a very loud and final bang. Thanquol threw himself off his stool and cowered on the floor. An acrid taste filled his mouth. Slowly the smoke cleared and he saw the fused and melted remains of the farsqueaking machine. Several dead skavenslaves lay in its midst, their fur all charred and their whiskers burned away. In one corner a warp engineer lay curled up in a ball, mewling and writhing in a state of shock. Thanquol was unconcerned about their fate. The Seerlord’s words filled him with a great fear. He wished he had been able to speak with his superior a little longer, but alas, he had not that option. He raised his little bronze bell and tinkled it.
Slowly members of his bodyguard entered the chamber. Clawleader Gazat looked almost disappointed to see him alive, Thanquol thought. Briefly the idea that the warrior might have sabotaged the farsqueaker crossed Thanquol’s mind. He dismissed it – Gazat did not have the imagination. Anyway, the Grey Seer had more important things to worry about.
‘Summon the gutter
runners!’ Thanquol squeaked in his most authoritative tone. ‘I have work for them.’
For a moment silence fell over the chamber. A foul smell made Thanquol’s whiskers twitch. Just the mere mention of the dreaded assassins of Clan Eshin had caused Clawleader Gazat to squirt the musk of fear.
‘Quick! Quick!’ Thanquol added.
‘Instantly, master,’ Gazat said sadly and scuttled off into the labyrinth of sewers.
Thanquol rubbed his paws in glee. The gutter runners would not fail, of that he was assured.
Felix unlocked the door of his chamber and entered his room. He yawned widely. He wanted for nothing more than to lie down on his pallet and sleep. He had been working for more than twelve hours. He put the lantern down beside the straw-filled mattress and unlaced his jerkin. He tried to give his surroundings as little attention as was possible, but it was difficult to ignore the loud moans of passion coming from the next room and the singing of the drinkers downstairs.
The chamber wasn’t good enough for paying guests, but it suited him well enough. He had occupied better, but this one had the great virtue of being free. It came with the job. Like a minority of old Heinz’s staff, Felix chose to live on the premises.
Felix’s little pile of possessions stood in one corner, under the barred window. There was his chainmail jerkin and a little rucksack which contained a few odds and ends such as his fire-making kit.
Felix threw himself down on the bed and pulled his old, tattered woollen cloak over himself. He made sure his sword was within easy reach. His hard life on the road had made him wary even in seemingly safe places, and the thought that the skaven they had recently encountered might still be about filled him with dread.
He recalled only too well the huge corpse of the slain rat-ogre lying at the foot of the stairs in von Halstadt’s mansion. It had not been a reassuring sight. Somehow he was unsurprised that he had heard nothing at all about the fire at von Halstadt’s mansion. Perhaps the authorities had not found the skaven bodies, or perhaps there was a cover-up. Right now, Felix didn’t even want to consider it.