Warhammer - Red Thirst

by David Pringle (ed) (lit)

  Felix studied the arch. He saw a great groove made for a barrier to slide along. On closer reflection Felix thought that if the opening were closed it would be invisible, blending into the pattern of the way along which they passed. Felix lit his lantern, driving back the shadowy darkness.

  Beyond the opening lay an enormous vault, lined on either side with great sarcophagi carved to resemble the figures of sleeping dwarfs of noble aspect. To the right were males, to the left females. Some of the tops of the stone coffins had been removed. In the centre of the chamber was a huge pile of gold and old banners mingled with yellowing, cracked bones. From the middle of the heap protruded the hilt of a sword, carved in the shape of a dragon.

  Felix was reminded of the cairn they had built for Aldred's followers along the road to the city. A hideous stench came through the arch and made Felix want to gag.

  "Look at all that gold," said the Bretonnian. "Why has no greenskin taken it?"

  "Something protects it," said Felix. A question crossed his mind. "Gotrek, this is one of the hidden tombs of your people you spoke of, isn't it?"

  The dwarf nodded.

  "Why is it open? Surely it would have been sealed?"

  Gotrek scratched his head and stood deep in thought for a moment. "Faragrim opened it," he said angrily. "He was once an engineer. He would know the rune-codes. Ghosts only started appearing after he left the city. He abandoned the tomb to despoliation. He knew what would happen."

  Felix agreed. The prospector was greedy and would certainly have ransacked the tomb if he could. He had found the lost horde of Carag Eight Peaks. If that was true, then was the other part of his story true as well? Had he fled from the troll? Did he leave the Templar Raphael to fight the monster alone?

  While they talked Aldred entered the tomb and walked over to the treasure heap. He turned and Felix saw the look of triumph on the Templar's lean fanatic face. No, get out, Felix wanted to shout.

  "I have found it," he cried. "The lost blade Karaghul. I have found it! Sigmar be praised!"

  From behind the heap of treasure a huge horn-headed shadow loomed, twice as tall as Aldred, broader than it was tall. Before Felix had time to shout a warning, it tore off the Templar's head with one sweep of a mighty claw. Gore spurted. The thing lurched forward, pushing through the mound of treasure with irresistible power.

  Felix had heard tales of trolls, and perhaps once this had been one. Now it was hideously changed. It had a gnarly hide covered in huge, dripping tumours and three enormously muscular arms, one of which terminated in a pincer claw. Growing from its left shoulder, like some obscene fruit, was a small babyish head which glared at them with wise malign eyes. It chittered horridly in a language that Felix could not recognize. Pus dribbled down its chest from a huge leech mouth set below its neck.

  The bestial head roared and the echoes reverberated through the long hall. Felix saw an amulet of glowing greenish-black stone hanging from a chain around its neck. Warpstone, he thought, placed there deliberately.

  He did not blame Faragrim for running. Or Belegar. He stood paralyzed by fear and indecision. From beside him he heard the sound of Zauberlich being sick. He knew warpstone had created this thing. He thought of what Gotrek had said about the long-ago war beneath the mountains.

  Someone had been so insane as to chain warpstone to the troll, to deliberately induce mutation. Perhaps it was the rat-men Skaven that Gotrek had mentioned. The troll had been down here since the war, a festering abomination changing and growing far from the light of day. Perhaps it was the desecration of their tombs by this warpstone-spawned monstrosity which had caused the dwarfish ghosts to walk? Or perhaps it was the presence here of the warpstone, of pure undiluted Chaos.

  The thoughts reverberated through his mind as the roar of the mad thing echoed through the vault. He stood unable to move, transfixed by horror, as the thing came ever closer. Its stench filled his nostrils. He heard the hideous sucking of its leech mouth. It loomed out of the gloom, its pain-racked, bestial face hellishly underlit by its glowing amulet.

  The troll was going to reach him and slay him and he could not make himself do anything about it. He would welcome death, having confronted this manifestation of the insanity of the universe.

  Gotrek Gurnisson leapt forward between him and the monster, hunched in his fighting crouch. His long shadow swept out behind him in the green light so that he stood at the head of a pool of darkness, axe held high, runes shimmering with witchfire.

  The Chaos-troll halted and peered down at him, as if astonished by the temerity of this small creature. Gotrek glared up at it and spat.

  "Time to die, troll," he said and lashed out with his axe, opening up a terrible wound in its chest. The creature continued to stand there, studying the wound in fascination. Gotrek struck again at its ankle, attempting to hamstring it. Once again he drew green blood. The creature did not fall.

  With blinding speed its huge pincer descended, clicking shut. It would have snipped off the Trollslayer's head if he had not ducked. The troll bellowed angrily and lashed out with a taloned hand. Somehow Gotrek managed to deflect it with a sweep of his axe. He avoided the hail of blows that rained down on him.

  The Trollslayer and the troll circled warily, each looking for an opening. Felix noted to his horror that the wounds Gotrek had inflicted were knitting together. As they did so they made a sound like slobbering mouths closing.

  Jules Gascoigne rushed forward and stabbed the troll with his sword. The blade pierced the creature's leg and remained there. As the Bretonnian struggled to pull it out, the monster hit him with a back-handed sweep that sent him flying. Felix heard ribs break and the scout's head hit the wall with a terrible crack. Jules lay still in a spreading pool of his own blood.

  While the creature was distracted Gotrek leapt in and struck it a glancing blow to the shoulder. He sheared off the babyish head. It rolled over to near Felix's feet and lay screaming. Felix managed to put down the lantern, draw his sword and bring the blade down, chopping the head in two. It began to rejoin. He continued to hack until his sword was notched, blunted then broken from hitting the stone floor. He still could not kill the thing.

  "Stand back," he heard Zauberlich say. He leapt to one side. The air suddenly blazed. It stank of sulphur and burned meat. The baby head was silent and did not heal.

  As if sensing a new threat, the troll moved past Gotrek and grabbed the mage in its giant pincer. Felix saw the look of terror on Zauberlich's face as he was raised on high. Zauberlich struggled to cast a spell. A fireball erupted, and the shadows fled briefly. The monster screamed. With a reflexive action it closed the claw, chopping the mage in two.

  The wizard fell to the ground, clothes blazing. Black despair overwhelmed Felix. Zauberlich could have hurt the thing, burned it with purifying fire. Now he was dead. Gotrek could only hack futilely at the troll but its Chaos-enhanced powers of healing made it all but invulnerable. They were doomed.

  Felix's shoulders slumped. There was nothing he could do. The others had died in vain. Their quest had failed. The spirits of the dwarfish rulers would continue to wander in torment. It was all futile.

  He looked at Gotrek's sweating face. Soon the Trollslayer would tire and be unable to dodge the creature's blows. The dwarf knew this too but he did not give up. Renewed determination filled Felix. I will not give up either. He looked over at the burning body of the magician.

  The fire had become more intense, more so than if simply the man's clothes were burning. Why was that, Felix wondered?

  Realization dawned. The mage had been carrying spare flasks of lantern-oil in his coat. Swiftly Felix stripped off his pack and fumbled for an oil-flask.

  "Keep it busy!" he yelled to Gotrek, unstoppering the flask. Gotrek uttered a dwarfish curse. Felix flicked the flask at the thing, showering it with oil. The thing ignored him as it sought to pin down Gotrek. The dwarf redoubled his efforts, chopped away like a madman. Felix emptied a second flask over it and then a third, alway
s keeping to the monster's blind side.

  "Whatever you're going to do manling, do it quickly!" yelled the Trollslayer.

  Felix ran over and picked up his lantern. Sigmar, guide my hand, he prayed as he threw the lamp at the creature. The lantern impacted on its back, shattering and spreading burning oil. It ignited the fuel Felix had already dowsed the creature in.

  The troll screamed shrilly. It reeled back. Now, when Gotrek's axe fell, the wounds did not heal. The dwarf drove the blazing troll back to the pile of gold. It stumbled and fell.

  Gotrek raised his axe. "In the name of my ancestors," said the trollslayer. "Die!"

  His axe came down like a thunderbolt, severing the creature's daemonic head. The troll died.

  Gingerly Gotrek picked up the warpstone amulet with the broken shard of Felix's sword. Holding the thing at arm's length, he took it outside to throw into the abyss.

  Felix sat, drained of all emotion, on top of one of the dwarfish sarcophagi. Once more it comes to this, he thought, sitting among ruin and corpses after terrible conflict.

  He heard Gotrek's running footsteps coming closer. Panting, the dwarf entered the chamber.

  "The gobbos come, manling," he said.

  "How many?" Felix asked.

  Gotrek shook his head tiredly. "Too many. At least I have disposed of that tainted thing. I can die happy here amid the tombs of my ancestors."

  Felix went over and picked up the dragon-hilted sword. "I would have liked to have returned this to Aldred's people," he said. "It would give some meaning to all this death."

  Gotrek shrugged. He glanced to the door. The archway was filled with green-skinned marauders, advancing behind their grinning moon banners. Felix slid the Sigmarian sword smoothly from its sheath. A thrilling musical note sang out. The runes along its blade blazed brightly. For a second the goblins hesitated.

  Gotrek looked over at Felix and grinned, revealing his missing teeth. "This is going to be a truly heroic death, manling. My only regret is that no-one will ever hear of it."

  Felix looked back at the oncoming horde, positioned himself so that his back was to a sarcophagus. "You don't know how sorry I am about that," he said grimly, making a few trial swipes with the blade. It felt good, light and well-balanced, as if made for his hand. He was surprised to find he was no longer afraid. He had gone beyond fear.

  The standard bearer halted and turned to harangue his troops. None of them seemed to be anxious to be the first to meet the Trollslayer's axe or the glowing runesword.

  "Get on with it!" bellowed Gotrek. "My axe thirsts."

  The goblins roared. The leader turned and gestured for them to advance. They surged forwards as irresistibly as the tide. This is it, thought Felix, steeling himself, preparing to lash out, to take as many foes as he could into death with him.

  "Goodbye, Gotrek," he said and stopped. The goblins had halted and stood, looking panic-stricken. What's going on? Felix wondered. Cold green light streamed over his shoulders. He looked back and saw ranks of regal dwarfish spirits. They seemed fierce and terrible.

  The standard bearer tried to rally his troops but the ghostly dwarfs reached him and touched his heart. His face drained of colour, and he fell, clutching his breast. The spirits surged into the goblins. Spectral axes flickered. Greenskin warriors fell, no mark upon their bodies. A hideous keening filled the air, a thin reedy imitation of dwarven war-cries. The remaining tribesmen turned and fled. The ghostly warriors pursued.

  Felix and Gotrek stood in the empty vault, surrounded by the towering sarcophagi. Slowly the air in front of them coalesced. Tendrils of greenish light drifted back through the entrance, took dwarfish shape. The spirits looked different. The ghost who had spoken to Gotrek earlier stood there. She looked different, as if a terrible burden had been lifted from her. She looked at Gotrek.

  "The ancient enemies are gone. We could not leave them to despoil our tombs now that you have cleansed them. We are in your debt."

  "You have robbed me of a mighty death," said Gotrek sourly.

  "It was not your destiny to fall here this day. Your doom is far greater and its time is approaching."

  Gotrek looked quizzically at the ancient queen.

  "I may say no more. Farewell, Gotrek, son of Gurni. We wish you well. You shall be remembered."

  The ghosts seemed to coalesce into one cold green flame that glowed like a star in the darkness. The light changed from green to warm gold and then became brighter than the sun. Felix averted his eyes and still was dazzled. When his sight returned he looked upon the tombs. The place was empty except for himself and Gotrek. The dwarf frowned thoughtfully. For a moment a strange expression gleamed in his one good eye, then he turned and looked upon the treasure.

  Felix could almost read his mind. He was considering taking the wealth, desecrating the tomb himself. Felix held his breath. After long minutes, Gotrek shrugged.

  "What about the others? Shouldn't we lay them to rest?" asked Felix.

  "Leave them," said Gotrek. "They lie among the mighty. Their bodies are safe."

  They went through the arch, and Gotrek touched the runes according to the ancient pattern. The tomb was sealed. Then they made their way up through the old darkness towards the light of day.

  THE SPELLS BELOW

  by Neil Jones

  Katarina Kraeber strolled through the streets of Waldenhof. Early morning sunlight slanted in over the close-crowded rooftops; the air was full of the smell of freshly baked bread. Around her, townsfolk were already going about their business, calling out the occasional greeting to one another. Katarina felt relaxed and happy: she was on her way to her lessons in wizardry.

  Above her, mounted on a high gable, she saw a gilded weathervane clearly outlined against the blue summer sky. The spells that Anton Freiwald - and her father before him - had taught her came whispering into her mind.

  A glance up and down the street showed her that no-one was looking in her direction. Lifting one slim hand, her brown eyes intent on the weathervane, she began to murmur the words of a spell.

  Very slowly, the weathervane began to turn, moving counter to the breeze that was stirring the morning air. It completed one full turn, and then began to pick up speed, creaking as it did so.

  A plump merchant stopped directly across the street from Katarina. He looked upwards, frowning, then peered suspiciously at Katarina. Her blue tunic, hose and cap clearly marked her out as an apprentice of the Wizard's Guild.

  Katarina broke the spell at once and continued on down the street, her easy mood gone, replaced now by a sense of unease. Wizardry was legal in Waldenhof but both Anton and her father had warned her about the need to be circumspect. Ordinary folk feared magic, often with good reason.

  As she hurried on through the streets, she sensed that the mood of the townsfolk around her had begun to change, too. Some of them were exchanging words and glances, as if there were something going on that she was not aware of.

  She turned the corner into Ostgardstrasse and, looking down it to where it opened onto the expanse of Sigmarplatz, she saw the steel helms of soldiers. A feeling of alarm went through her as sharp and as sudden as a knife-blade.

  She pushed her way through the crowd that was beginning to gather and found herself behind two burly soldiers. Beyond them, there were hundreds more already in the square. Sunlight glittered off their weapons and armour. The banner of Waldenhof's Graf, Jurgen von Stolzing, fluttered in the breeze.

  The soldiers were drawn up into an arc that went around three sides of the square and stretched into Zoffstrasse on her left and Merzbahn on her right. The row of elegant four-storey mansions directly opposite her was surrounded. And in the centre of that row, its red-lacquered door and shuttered windows gleaming against grey stone, was the residence of Anton Freiwald.

  Anton, Katarina thought, remembering. When her father had died in debt and there had been no-one she could turn to, it had been Anton who had come to offer her his help. Recognizing her talent, he had mad
e her his apprentice. And then later, when her respect and gratitude had been joined by other, stronger feelings - of attraction, affection - they had become lovers.

  Now Anton was the one in trouble and it was her turn to help him.

  Taking a chance that everyone's attention would be focused on the square, Katarina cast a simple garrulity-spell upon the two soldiers immediately in front of her. One promptly leaned towards the other and muttered: "Remember, the Graf said to take him alive. There's a reward in it for us if we do."

  "It's secrets they're after," the second man whispered back. "Dark magic secrets. They want to put him to the question. But it's a waste of time. Everyone knows you can't torture anything out of a dark magician."

  "What's it matter so long as we get paid?"

  The squat bulk of a siege engine came into view, rumbling slowly forward across the cobbles. Following behind it were people that she recognized - all members of the Wizard's Guild. With alarm, she saw that there were dozens of them, wizards of every level, from all of the various colleges. Hastily, Katarina allowed her spell to fade, hoping it had not been detected.

  As the wizards gathered together in the square immediately in front of her, a brazier was set up beside the siege engine. Strange odours began to rise from it, spicing the morning air.

  The house seemed a hundred miles away but she knew she had to get across Sigmarplatz to it and quickly. Her only chance was to slip past the soldiers and then make a run for it. The thought of it terrified her - but there was no alternative, not if she was going to help Anton. And she would have to do it now, before the Graf began his assault.

  She took a slow, deep breath. Then another, searching for calm. She took a step forward - and a hand closed on her arm.

  "Now," a cold voice said, "what sort of wizardling have we here?"

  Held by an iron-hard grip, she looked up into a dark-bearded face she recognized: Gerhard Lehner, Magister of the Wizards' Guild - and Anton Freiwald's bitterest rival.