'If it's calling the rats to the church, imagine what else it could be summoning to the town,' Pieter stated coldly.
'Who'd do such a thing?' Torben asked Dietrich.
'Well there are only two of them in the church: Father Ludwik, the priest, and the hunchback.'
'Hunchback?' Pieter asked, animatedly.
'Yes. Otto, the bell-ringer,' Dietrich explained. 'Only people don't normally see too much of him. Ugly as an orc, that one, and as twisted of form as any Chaos spawn.'
'Really? A mutant…' Pieter mused, gazing towards the church and the black finger of its bell-tower.
'Well, it looks like it's up to us to get to the bottom of this,' Torben said with a rueful grin, as he watched the increasingly agitated townsfolk retreating to the safety of their homes, as the plague of rats grew with no sign of abating.
The excited rush of adrenaline racing through his veins, Torben Badenov led his men at a run towards the church. Dietrich disappeared into the Hand of Glory behind them, only to return moments later with his trusty sword gripped in his left hand.
Just like old times, Torben thought and smiled.
THEY HAD COME in their ones and twos at first, emerging from refuse piles, crawling from hidden nests, and squeezing under cellar doors. Then by the dozen, scampering from the drains and sewers of the old town. At first only a stream of bristling, black bodies wound towards the church of Morr. Then the stream became a torrent of chittering rodents. Cats hissed and dogs barked but all moved out of the way of the growing swarm.
Soon the ever-increasing crush of bodies was like a tide surging through the streets, a seething mass of hairy bodies, naked pink tails, malevolently glinting jaundiced eyes and biting incisors. Some were brown-furred creatures grown fat on the contents of the town's grain stores. Others were sleek and black, their fur wet and spiked from swimming in the sewer channels. Here and there monsters moved among the pack, snarling and snapping at the smaller animals.
But whatever their shape, size or standing within the swarm, all of them moved with a singularity of purpose, worming their way towards the looming church, drawn by the discordant, yet hypnotic, infernal tolling of the great bronze bell.
BENEATH THE STREETS of Nagenhof the sewers wound like some hideously proportioned worm, linking every home, shop, tavern and municipal building with every other. From here an enemy could attack the town from practically any point, or even every point, effectively besieging Nagenhof from underneath. It was rumoured that the old sewer network even connected with some of the catacombs under the church of Morr, constructed long ago by the first people who settled here. Over time, through subsidence and a slapdash attitude to public health, brickwork had collapsed, tunnel floors had caved in and the tunnels had been joined together into an extensive warren of effluent channels and charnel-tunnels. It had only been a matter of time before the industrious and ever-burrowing skaven had found a way in.
The town watch had long ago been relieved of sewer duty - scouring the labyrinthine tunnels under the town for sight, sound or spoor of the skaven. The mayor and councillors of Nagenhof had become contented and complacent, growing fat on the profits of sheep-rearing and arable farming. It had taken them only ten years to forget how easily the ratmen had almost brought the town to its knees once before. Three generations had been more than enough time for the skaven to retreat to their warrens, breed and increase their numbers, ready to try again.
Warm furry bodies surging past him, as the ratmen of Clan Moulder urged their beasts forwards with spiked whips, Nikkit Skar's upper lip curled back and the packmaster smiled. His hastily organised plan was coming to fruition. Only a matter of days before the keen ears of Clan Moulder's spies had heard the deathly tolling of the bell as it rolled over the desolate moorland south-east of the town of Ostermark, the shuddering peals even reverberating through the earth into the skaven tunnels. The spies had informed their masters at the breeding burrows of Warpnest and an expeditionary force had been quickly mustered to retrieve the bell and assess the strength of the man-things' defences.
The skaven scratched distractedly at its ear and its claws found a tick nestled among the bristles, grown fat on Nikkit Skar's warpstone-infused blood. The skaven pulled the parasite's mashing mandibles free of his skin and popped it into his mouth. The tick burst with a satisfying pop as he pressed it against the roof of his mouth with his tongue and he chewed slowly on its fleshy remains.
Behind the mass of rats still swarming around the sewer Skar was aware of another looming, shadowy presence. Almost three times as tall as the tallest clanrat warrior, its barrel chest so broad that it could barely fit within the confines of the brick tunnel, the beast snorted impatiently. As the way before it gradually cleared the monster knuckled forward, its long arms of corded muscle dragging through the effluent stream of the sewer.
The obsequious Killeye fixed the packmaster with his one glowing red eye - the other a scarred milky orb - and snickered.
'Skullcruncher wants to kill-kill. Hungers to taste flesh of man-things.'
The packmaster considered his snivelling underling and swallowed the last of the tick.
'Time it is, yes, yes,' Skar agreed. 'Lead Skullcruncher to the man-things' corpse-nest.' The skaven's lip curled back still further, 'Then the bell with be ours, ours!'
TORBEN SKIDDED TO a halt in front of the gaping portal of the church. The old priest's broken body, his black robes spread out around him like a death-shroud, lay on the ground at the foot of the bell-tower. The dead man's glazed eyes stared up at the heavens, a rictus of horror forever inscribed upon his features.
The ghastly pealing echoed from the walls of the buildings that lined the square in which the church of Morr stood, every knell jarring the teeth in Torben's head. He was having to make a conscious effort to keep his gorge from rising.
'I guess that narrows down our suspects to one,' Torben said to the others who had assembled around him. From their expressions of discomfort it looked as if the bell was having a malign influence on all of them. The broad, open doorway of the church, with its heavy lintel-stone, seemed to beckon the mercenaries into the darkened building.
'Has anyone got a lantern?' Torben asked and a lantern was produced. Once it was lit the mercenary captain advanced through the pillared portal of Morr's temple. His booted footsteps rang from the flagstones of the nave. He paused and glanced back over his shoulder to make sure that he wasn't alone. The rest of his party were congregated around the open doorway apart from Dietrich who had followed him into the along the central aisle.
Holding the lantern high above his head Torben looked towards the apse of the church. A thousand pair of jaundiced eyes reflected the yellow light of his lantern back at him. There were rats everywhere, clambering over the pews, gnawing on black drapes, eating the wax of the candles and defecating on the altar cloth. The reek of the rodents' urine and faeces made him grimace.
Torben could almost believe that the rats were defiling Morr's temple in order to rededicate it to another, altogether less human, deity. A hollow booming resonated around the columns and walls of the church and Torben swallowed hard as he tasted bile in the back of his mouth.
'Right, this is what we're going to do,' he said to the malingering mercenaries. 'We need to— Pieter! Where are you going?'
The young nobleman halted in his ascent of the staircase off the end of the nave that led to the belfry above them. 'To stop the source of the problem!'
'But we need to deal with the rats here!'
'We need to stop the bell ringing!' Pieter argued.
'Look, who's the leader of this outfit?' Torben shouted angrily above the discordant tolling.
Pieter said nothing and resumed his ascent of the tower.
'By Boris Ursa's beard!' Torben cursed, striding back towards his companions.
'Look, old friend!' Dietrich called to Torben, pointing to somewhere behind the mercenary captain.
Looking back, his eyes straining as he pee
red into the shadows at the far end of the church, Torben could see crouching, heavily built humanoid figures creeping through the gloom, their pointed snouts belying their heritage. 'Skaven!' he hissed under his breath. The creatures were entering the church through an iron-studded door, which he took to be the way to the crypt. He guessed that some of the older crypts joined up with the town's sewers or hidden skaven tunnels from the time when Nagenhof was besieged by the ratmen ten years ago. There was no time to lose: they would have to go with his original plan. Abandoning any pretensions of stealth Torben rapidly rejoined the others.
'We need to trap them in here,' the raven-haired Kislevite told the mercenaries. 'If the skaven leave the church the good people of Nagenhof could find themselves with the kind of vermin infestation rat-catchers only dream about! If we can defeat them while they're contained we'll probably be able to repel the assault outright. From my experiences in Tilea, if the ratmen think the odds are stacked against them they'll turn tail and run.'
'What do you want us to do?' Stanislav asked.
'You, Oran and Yuri get out and stay out,' Torben ordered. 'Barricade us in and set fire to the temple. Use whatever you can to get a good blaze going.'
'Are you insane?' Oran blurted out. 'Trap you in here with them and then set fire to a temple of Morr?'
Torben flashed his weaselly friend a toothy grin. 'Since when has a little arson troubled your conscience? Dietrich and I will make sure the skaven don't break out before the fire gets going. Are you with me old friend?' he said, turning to the hook-handed old soldier.
'You need to ask?' came Dietrich's curt reply. 'I helped stop these vermin from overrunning Nagenhof ten years ago and I'll stop them again!'
'How will you get out?' Yuri demanded.
'Oh, I'm sure I'll think of something,' Torben joked, trying to make light of the situation. 'I usually do.'
'Come on, lad,' Stanislav said, guiding the younger man towards the door with a ham-sized hand. 'He knows what he's doing.'
As Torben unsheathed his sword and Dietrich uttered a hasty prayer to whatever god might be listening, for the first time in a long time the doors to the church of Morr slammed shut. Then, in a squeaking frenzy, the rats were upon them.
'COME ON, YOU slovenly curs!' Oran was shouting. 'Anybody'd think you didn't want to save your stinking town!'
The small crowd of townspeople, who had found the courage to follow the mercenaries towards the church backed away from the ranting, gap-toothed weasel of a man muttering to each other in disapproval.
'You're mad!' someone shouted from the back of the crowd. 'You expect us to help you burn down the church?'
'Mad am I? Come here and say that,' Oran said, dagger in hand and fury blazing in his eyes. 'You ungrateful bastards! We should leave you to the rats!'
'I don't think this approach is working,' Stanislav said calmly, putting a strong hand on his wiry companion's shoulder. 'Yuri, do you want to try?'
The younger mercenary looked at the gentle giant uncomfortably from under his straggly fringe and took a step back, 'No, no. They wouldn't listen to me.' Yuri shuffled from one foot to the other looking at the ground. 'You try, Stanislav. You're better at that sort of thing than me. Your words will carry more weight with them than mine.'
'Very well,' said the big, bearded man and took a step towards the townspeople with his arms outstretched in a gesture of openness. 'Friends, the truth is we need your help. As we speak Dietrich and our companions are trapped inside the church holding off a dire threat to the safety of your town. How many of you share a drink and a friendly word with Dietrich at the Hand of Glory on a regular basis?' A couple of cautious hands went up among the crowd. 'And how many of you were born here and grew up here?' Several more hands went up. 'Dietrich's been here a fair few years less than you, yet he considers Nagenhof his home and he's prepared to fight to the death to protect it.'
Stanislav paused. The people were discussing the situation anew amongst themselves.
'Go on,' said a grimy-faced man wearing a blacksmith's apron.
'Well if this place means so much to a retired soldier who's only lived here for the last decade think how much it should mean to you whose grandfathers grew up here, you whose families owe their livelihoods to this town. You whose children will inherit the legacy of this night, whatever the outcome may be.'
There were nods of agreement at the truth of Stanislav's words.
'I'm sure there isn't a single one of you here who doesn't remember the events of ten years ago or who hasn't heard the stories of what happened the last time the ratmen attacked this town,' he went on. 'I'll wager there wasn't a single person here whose life wasn't affected by the events of that dark time, not one family who didn't lose a loved one to the skaven assault.'
The crowd's agreement was becoming more vocal now.
'They fought and died for their homes, so are you now going to let their sacrifice come to nought by letting the rats take Nagenhof now, when we still have the advantage?'
'No!' came the cry from a chorus of voices.
'Then help us now and save your town!' Stanislav urged and a cheer went up from the crowd. The gentle giant allowed himself a smile. Where Oran's abrasive manner had found only resistance and recalcitrance, Stanislav's encouraging words had resulted in enthusiastic compliance.
'Right, that's more like it!' Oran scowled, challenging the townsfolk once more. 'We need faggots of wood, pitch… anything that'll burn. And hurry up about it, you spineless sons of bitches!'
Stanislav looked to the retiring Yuri and raised his eyebrows in exasperation as Oran chided the people of Nagenhof into reluctant action.
PIETER STEPPED ONTO the belfry floor and looked up at the skaven bell in horrified wonder. The tolling had sounded loud enough to shake the mortar from the stones of the church, as Pieter had ascended the tower, but in the belfry the cacophonous booming made it feel as if his eardrums would burst at any moment. As the cracked, bronze bell swung slowly to and fro, with each strike of the clapper the feral runes etched around the rim pulsed with a sick green light. Without a doubt there was evil magic at work here.
Too late he realised something was wrong - there was no one pulling on the bell-rope, the bell was swinging under its own momentum. The belfry appeared to be deserted. Before he could turn his head fully to look behind him there was a blur of movement at the periphery of his vision and something hard and heavy connected with the back of his skull, knocking him unconscious instantly.
TORBEN'S HEAVY KISLEVITE sabre dropped down across the back of the leaping rat, slicing the wolfhound-sized creature cleanly in two. As the monster fell to the flagstoned floor, its guts spilling around the mercenary's feet, another beast came at him with snapping jaws. A deft twist of his wrist drove the tip of his descending blade into the rat's mouth, skewering the creature on the end.
Dietrich was only an arm's length away, batting rats aside with the flat of his sword-blade whilst jabbing at the swarm of vermin with his hook. The two of them were almost surrounded. Behind the snarling, squeaking pack the leather-armoured skaven still hung back, goading their beasts to attack the two defenders.
As Torben fought on, trying to avoid being bitten by the disease-carrying teeth of the rats, he was reminded of the night in the isolated windmill on the Ostermark Marches when Badenov's band had battled the children of the god of pestilence. He was sure that if even one of the rats managed to bite him his fate would ultimately be the same as if a nurgling sank its filthy fangs into him - a slow, agonising death from the plague - and that was no way for a warrior to die!
Desperation lending strength to his sword-arm Torben struck out at the slavering rat-pack again and again and again.
WHOOMPH! THE PITCH-SOAKED faggots piled against the doors of the church burst into flame as Oran rammed the blazing torch among the sticks. The fire spread quickly, following the path of oil poured around the base of the building, igniting the kindling and licking up the tar-drenched walls. The
grim expressions of the townsfolk and the mercenaries were picked out in flickering detail by the orange flames as all watched the church of Morr begin to burn in stupefied silence. All except one.
'I hope you know what you're doing, Torben,' Oran muttered under his breath.
IT SEEMED TO Dietrich that they had been holding the rat-swarm at bay for an hour, gaining no ground whatsoever but conceding none either, although in reality it had been less than a quarter of that time. A sharp upswing with the hook strapped to his right arm resulted in the disembowelment of another of the vermin. Torben was hacking at the seething mass of rats with an expression of avenging fury on his face, doing all he could to stop the verminous horde getting past him and out of the church. And all the while the bell continued to toll, drawing yet more servants of the skaven to the church.
Dietrich became aware of a chittering voice, halfway between human speech and the squeaking of rats. It was as if the skaven were discussing alternative plans. Then he saw it.
Behind the skaven, at the back of the church, a huge shape detached itself from the shadows and moved towards Torben and himself with ungainly strides. Before the monstrous creature even moved within range of the guttering light from Torben's discarded lantern the soldier recognised the creature for what it was. The massive, distorted physique, the over-long talons, the muscles like ships' cables, the inflamed boils covering its hairy hide, the spikes protruding from the malformed vertebrae of its spine, the huge rodent head, the brands burnt into its flesh, the scar running from one shoulder down across its breastbone - the scar he had given it in return for the hand the beast had taken from him! The day he had fought the rat-ogre on the very threshold of the north gate, the day the slavering beast had bitten off his right hand and he had delivered it what he had thought had been a fatal wound. On that day the monster's warped visage had become etched upon his memory.
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