Warhammer Anthology 12

by Death

  Skulk’s face twisted in a feral grin. He tossed the head to the ground. This was perfect. Most likely one of the other gutter runners would kill the manthing, and Skulk could take the credit. Or if the manthing escaped somehow, Skulk could kill it after the other gutter runners left. Either way, Sneeq would know nothing until it was too late. The gutter runner drew his second blade. He was going to enjoy this.

  Grunhelm swayed through the camp, and the flames from the torches around him swayed as well, casting menacing shadows on the canvas. In Grunhelm’s mind, the shadows took the shape of sneaking figures creeping through the camp. He imagined shining red eyes staring at his back, and high-pitched, chittering laughter coming from either side.

  Grunhelm fumbled at his belt for his flask, which slipped through his fingers and tumbled into the grass at his feet. The engineer knelt to retrieve it, and as he grasped it he looked up towards his tent, frowning as he saw that the torch at the entrance to it had gone out. His eyes narrowed. The torch had had hours left to burn.

  As he peered at his tent, he thought he saw the shadows around it writhing, swirls of true black rippling through the darkness. A soft breeze drifted towards him, bringing a faint yet familiar musk to the engineer’s nostrils. The scent reminded him of burning buildings and cracked, yellowed incisors.

  Grunhelm felt a cold shiver run up both arms. The vodka seemed to evaporate with each short breath he took, leaving his mind clear. The skaven were here. There was no question of it. He considered his options. He could try to fight them, and be killed. He could call for help, and be killed before any arrived. He could sneak away and gather the soldiers, and be ignored. After all, how could ignorant beastmen breach the camp’s perimeter so completely?

  The engineer looked at the barrels of gunpowder sitting next to his tent. Slowly, he unslung his repeater rifle from his back, took careful aim, and exercised his fourth option.

  Inside the tent, Sneeq was lifted off his feet and thrown to the ground. The assassin blinked, shook his head in a futile attempt to stop his ears from ringing, and scrambled to his feet.

  The contents of the tent were ruined. Half of it was smouldering, and most of the devices inside had been shattered or damaged. Through the ringing, Sneeq could hear manthings shouting outside, and steel clashing on steel. The assassin had to gnaw on his tail for a moment to get his rage under control. His wretched henchthings had failed him again!

  Once he’d somewhat calmed himself, Sneeq moved to the edge of the tent, cut a small hole in the fabric, and peered outside. His gutter runners, or most likely what was left of them, had gathered together in a small group, blades drawn. Manthing soldiers were charging forward, shouting and summoning reinforcements from all corners of the camp.

  Sneeq quickly calculated the odds against them and decided to leave his incompetent servants to their fate. They deserved nothing less. Sneeq moved to the other side of the tent, cut his way out, and quickly distanced himself from the melee.

  The assassin darted through the tents of the camp, his eyes constantly scanning for soldiers. As he passed one tent, a group of three soldiers ran around it, swords drawn. The assassin hissed a curse, reaching into his cloak and pulling out a throwing star that he flung into the chest of the lead human. The manthing clutched at the star and collapsed, green froth bubbling from his lips.

  The assassin drew his blades and raised them in a guard just as the second manthing brought his sword down in an overhead arc. Sneeq absorbed the force of the blow on both blades, then twisted to the left, using the sword in his right paw to pin the manthing’s blade to the ground. He ran his second blade through the human’s stomach, and when its sword went slack he drove the first blade up under its jaw and into its brain.

  The third soldier approached more cautiously, testing Sneeq’s defences with a series of feints. Ordinarily Sneeq would enjoy taking his time cutting the manthing to pieces, but he needed to move quickly. The assassin drove at his opponent with one, two, three quick strikes, then curled his tail around the human’s ankle and tugged. The human’s mouth dropped in surprise as he fell onto his back. Sneeq ran forward, thrust a blade into the manthing’s chest, and continued his flight.

  Sneeq had reached the edge of the camp and was just about to escape into the night when a loud shot rang out, and the ground in front of him erupted in a spray of dust. Sneeq instantly fell into a low crouch, a poisoned throwing star in his hand, and looked around wildly until he spotted the engineer. The human was levelling a strange gun at Sneeq. It reminded him of a jezzail, but was much shorter and had six smoking barrels arranged in a ring. Sneeq felt his stomach sink when he noticed that only five of the barrels were smoking.

  ‘Stay right where you are, abomination,’ the engineer said. ‘Move one muscle, even twitch your tail, and I’ll kill you where you stand.’

  Sneeq snarled. His command of the human tongue was imperfect at best. ‘Go away, stupid manthing,’ he said. ‘I have no wish to kill-slay you.’

  The engineer cocked his head. ‘You can talk? Then you can understand that I’m not letting you go.’ The human’s lips spread in a wide grin. ‘They’re going to listen to me this time.’

  The human didn’t move. Sneeq could think of fifteen different ways to kill the manthing, but could think of no attack that would disarm him without significant risk to himself.

  Sneeq was still running through his options when the engineer froze in place, his eyes bulging from their sockets. A moment later, the end of a notched blade burst out of the manthing’s chest, and the engineer collapsed onto the ground. Behind it stood Skulk Fellpaw, holding his bloodied blade and grinning smugly at Sneeq’s shocked expression.

  ‘Should have obeyed the warlord’s orders, “master”,’ Skulk sniggered. ‘Now you die-die!’

  Sneeq dropped his throwing star, threw his head back and screamed, his voice a shrill expression of his frustration. He could feel the killing rage descend, and let it fuel his wiry muscles as he charged at the treacherous gutter runner.

  Skulk leapt for the engineer’s dropped rifle, picked it up, and took aim at the assassin. Sneeq didn’t deviate from his path in the slightest. He was too angry to care. Skulk pulled the trigger, and the click as the gun fired on an empty chamber was deafening in the night. Skulk had time for one surprised squeak before Sneeq was on him, twin blades lashing out and carving the gutter runner’s body into chunks of wet meat.

  Eventually the red faded from his vision, and Sneeq stood panting over Skulk’s remains, gasping for air. In his exhaustion, he remembered what the engineer’s death meant for him and felt his musk glands contract painfully as they emptied themselves. He wanted to simply curl up into a ball and tremble for a while, but he could hear shouts coming from the human camp, and knew that he didn’t have much time. Even worse, the humans would most likely scour the surrounding area searching for him, and he would have to return to the Famin warren if he wanted to avoid detection.

  Sneeq used one of his blades to quickly sever the engineer’s head from its body, and used the goggles to strap it to his belt. The head’s mouth gaped open, and as he looked at it, a scheme suddenly blazed in Sneeq’s brain. It was risky, and would leave him horribly exposed if things went wrong. Still, he was an assassin of Clan Eshin, and death held no fear for him. He told himself that many times as he scurried back to the warren.

  Sneeq strode back into Warlord Glut’s thronechamber, confident that he looked every inch the deadly assassin that all Eshin adepts aspired to be. Most of Clan Famin’s clanrats had assembled in the chamber, and Sneeq would not show cowardice in front of a lesser clan. He hoped that no one in the chamber noticed his twitching tail, or his efforts to keep himself from squirting the musk of fear.

  Warlord Glut sat on his throne, picking his teeth with a rib and feigning disinterest in the approaching assassin. Grey Seer Qik stood next to the warlord’s throne, watching Sneeq with considerably more interest. Sneeq could see the green glint of the seer’s warpstone eye tra
cking him from within the folds of his hood.

  ‘Welcome back, Sneeq Foulblade,’ Glut said, flicking a piece of meat from his incisors. ‘I trust you have returned to report complete success, yes-yes?’

  ‘I have, most massive one,’ Sneeq said. Getting down on one knee, he produced the engineer’s head, and held it out in the palms of both paws. ‘Proof of the manthing’s death, I have.’

  ‘Let me see it!’ Glut cried, all pretence of nonchalance gone. He rose from his throne and waddled down to Sneeq, snatching the head from his paws and holding it up where Qik could see it. ‘Confirm, most potent seer,’ Glut said, his voice dripping with sarcasm, ‘that this is the manthing who gave you so much trouble?’

  Qik paused for a long moment before answering. His hands twisted his staff in frustration. ‘That is the one, your corpulence,’ the seer said.

  ‘Excellent!’ Glut said, clambering back up to his throne. Without turning, he said, ‘You have done your duty well, assassin, and will be rewarded as such.’

  Sneeq nodded, ignoring the slight. He had to maintain his composure. If Glut was a particularly paranoid skaven, his plan might yet fall apart. Every hair on the assassin’s body seemed to stand on end as he awaited the warlord’s next move.

  Glut raised the head where all of the assembled skaven could see it. He licked his lips, swallowed the engineer’s head in one massive gulp, and belched contentedly. Sneeq allowed his muscles to relax, but kept himself perfectly still. He must not be seen to move in the next few moments.

  ‘My worthy minions!’ Glut bellowed. ‘Now that my enemy is dead, I, the mighty Glut, shall lead you all to inevitable victory!’ The assembled clanrats let loose with a high-pitched cheer for their leader. The green warpfire within Qik’s hood grew brighter, which Sneeq did his best to ignore.

  ‘We will strike immediately, drive the manthings from their camp, and take their weapons for ourselves! Much riches will be brought to our clan, and the manthings will know to fear the invincible–’

  Glut belched, interrupting his own speech. Somewhere in the crowd a skaven tittered in the sudden silence. Glut belched again, and grasped his ample stomach with his paws. The warlord let out a long, low moan that rose to a piercing cry of agony as green foam began pouring from his mouth. Slowly, painfully, the warlord collapsed to the floor of his thronechamber. He twitched a few times, and then lay still.

  Through all of this, Sneeq had not even flicked his tail. Now he looked at the grey seer, and once Qik’s stunned gaze fell on him, he subtly twitched his whiskers towards Glut’s corpse.

  ‘Treachery!’ Qik shrieked, catching on at once. ‘Even in death, the manthing has slain your warlord! But we will not permit this insult to the skaven race to go unchallenged! Rally your troops, and I will lead you as we swift-slay the cowardly humans!’

  The clanrats scattered quickly, their leaders rushing to gather their strength and prove themselves worthy of taking Glut’s place. In the confusion, none of the skaven noticed the grey seer approach Sneeq. ‘Impressive work, assassin,’ Qik muttered.

  Sneeq nodded, keeping his expression humble. ‘A poisoned star is secreted in the manthing’s jaw,’ he said. ‘You will need to remove it quickly, before the poison eats through his flesh.’

  ‘My slaves will see to it,’ Qik said. ‘And I will see that your clan receives a

  suitable share of Clan Skryre’s payment for the manthing weapons.’

  Sneeq bowed deeply, and watched the seer as he departed to take command of the mustering army. He then rose to his feet and began making his way quickly to the underway’s entrance. Sneeq fingered the bundle of scrolls he’d taken from the engineer’s tent and grinned wickedly to himself. He was certain he would get a most substantial portion of Clan Skryre’s payment indeed.

  Rest Eternal

  Anthony Reynolds

  The knight’s heavy plate armour, once flawless, was now dented and worn. Once it had shone like a mirror; now it was dull with grime and wear, and awash with fresh blood.

  Some of that blood was his, but most of it belonged to the beast.

  “Lady, give me strength,” said Calard. His breath was coming in short, sharp gasps, and his heart was hammering in his chest.

  As if in response to his prayer, the beast roared, the sound reverberating off the dank walls of the cavern. Calard’s bearded face was splattered with the vile beast’s stinking spittle. He gritted his teeth and tightened his grip on his weapon, a bastard sword with a blade four and a half feet long. Blood dripped from the tip.

  The icy mountain winds outside howled. The claws of winter tugged at Calard’s tattered woollen cloak and ruffled his unwashed hair, but he kept his eyes fixed on the beast. He had pledged his oath—his questing vow—to see this monster dead, and he would not falter. Either it would die, here and now, or he would.

  The cold winter light outside was quickly swallowed by the darkness of the cavern. The shape of the beast could only be dimly discerned, but its breathing was loud. The close walls further amplified the rumbling sound, giving the impression that it was the cavern itself that was breathing.

  Nevertheless the darkness could not hide the sheer size of the beast. Its reptilian, horned head was massive. Its eyes—or rather the one eye that Calard had not yet put out—glinted reflectively, filled with murderous hunger as it focused on him.

  The beast’s tail was poised behind it, curved over its body like a scorpion’s, ready to snap forward and impale him. Its barbed tip dripped with noxious venom.

  The wyvern—for it could be nothing else—was the grey-green colour of mountain rock, and the heavy blows that Calard had already landed upon its toughened hide oozed crimson. The foetid odour of the beast was strong.

  Lowering its head, the wyvern bared its array of tusk-like teeth, each as long as Calard’s forearm. A bruised purple tongue, split at the ends, darted forth to taste the air. Calard saw the beast’s muscles tense as it prepared to launch itself at him. The knight lowered his centre of gravity, ready to spring.

  The wyvern’s growl rose to a bloodcurdling roar, and its jaws yawned open as it lunged.

  Calard threw himself to the left, moving towards the wyvern’s blind side as it bore down on him. Its jaws slammed shut behind him with force enough to snap a tree trunk. Calard uttered a wordless battle cry as he came to one knee and brought his sword around in an arc that connected solidly with the beast’s skull, snapping one of its tusks and digging deep into its reptilian flesh. It was like striking the mountain itself. The blow jarred up his arms painfully, and while blood gushed from the wound and he had undoubtedly chipped bone, Calard knew he had done little real damage.

  Bellowing in pain, the beast swung its heavy head around, hooking one of its immense curving horns underneath Calard and hurling him into the cave wall ten feet away.

  The air was blasted from his lungs as he hit first the wall then the ground, and he struggled for breath as he scrambled unsteadily to his feet. The wyvern’s barbed tail speared towards Calard’s face, and he swayed to the side at the last moment to avoid being impaled. The poisoned tip slammed into the wall, and cracks spread across the rock face.

  Grunting with the effort, Calard brought his sword down on the wyvern’s tail. Even with all his strength, he was unable to hack through it, dense muscle and vertebrae stopping him from completely severing it. Hissing in pain, the beast pulled its tail back sharply, and Calard saw with grim satisfaction that the sting was hanging limp at its end, held on by gristle and skin.

  The wyvern snapped at him again and Calard, his back to the wall, had little room to move. He threw himself desperately to the side, and though he avoided the deadly bite, it caught his trailing cape in its maw. With a wrench of its head it tore him from his feet, slinging him up towards the cave roof.

  He hit the rock face first, breaking his nose with an agonising crack before dropping back to the floor. He crashed down onto his back and lay there unmoving for a moment, dazed, his sword slipping from nu
mb fingers. Blood was smeared across his face, and he blinked, struggling to focus.

  One of the wyvern’s winged forelimbs slammed down onto his breastplate with enough force to break bones, and he gasped as his armour strained beneath the weight. The beast lowered its head towards him, growling, and a thick rope of drool dripped from its maw. The stink of the beast’s breath was overpowering, like rancid meat and offal. It was all Calard could do not to gag.

  Turning his head he saw his sword lying nearby, and he reached for it desperately. His fingers touched the pommel but it was just out of reach. All he succeeded in achieving was pushing it farther away.

  The beast’s serpentine lips rippled, and its tongue darted forth to brush Calard’s face. He grimaced at its cold, repellent touch, sickly mucus smearing his cheek.

  The wyvern stared down at him hungrily, its one good eye blazing with rage. That eye was the colour of an unfanned ember, glowing with dark intensity, and its pupil was nothing more than a sliver of blackness bisecting it. Calard could see himself reflected in the monster’s gaze.

  “Finish it,” snarled Calard.

  A sudden gust of wind brought a flurry of snow into the cave, and the wyvern’s attention was momentarily distracted, perhaps as fresh scents were carried to its nostrils on the wind. As it turned its head, Calard’s hand slipped to his belt, and he dragged his knife from its scabbard. The wyvern felt the movement and pressed down upon Calard harder, the metal of his breastplate groaning under the pressure, and swung its head back towards him. Calard rammed his knife into the claw pinning him to the ground, embedding the six inches of metal into the wyvern’s flesh, slicing through sinew and lodging it between bones.

  Calard had been gifted the blade over a year earlier after saving a rich merchant and his daughter from the bloodthirsty intentions of an ogre in their employ. The blade was not of human origin, that Calard knew for certain; it was like no metal he had seen before. He suspected it had been crafted by the fey folk of Athel Loren.