by C. L. Werner
He made another vow too. He would exterminate the skaven, whatever the cost. It wasn’t hatred now; it wasn’t Hartwich’s Wolf of Death. No, it had grown beyond that, become something greater and more terrible.
Something that could lead him only to victory or death.
Skavenblight, 1121
‘Choose three.’
Seerlord Queekual’s snarl echoed through the murky cave, catching in the shadows and crawling into every crack and crevice. Doktor Moschner trembled at the sound, shivering in the filthy ratskin robe the skaven had given him to protect against the subterranean chill. He looked over the dozens of naked, scrawny humans. Once, as personal physician to Emperor Boris, he had been accustomed to consorting with only the highest strata of society, the very elite of the Empire, those of only the noblest blood and pedigree. In the black depths of Skavenblight such petty distinctions as class and breeding quickly crumbled away. Men were naught but chattel to the verminous underfolk, livestock to be exploited to the fullest and then, ultimately, consumed. The skaven cared nothing if the man being subjected to their horrors was once a wealthy baron or lowly mendicant. All were the same to the inhuman monsters: prey.
Moschner stepped away from the crude stone table he had been labouring at, careful to keep his eyes averted as he passed Queekual, bobbing his head in the deferential manner that conveyed respect to a high-ranking ratman. He had always been quick to adapt to the fashion and style of the Imperial court in Altdorf, to adopt whatever wisdom was en vogue at the moment when prescribing for the Imperial household. He had thought he’d overcome that facility for self-preservation when he’d turned against the excesses of Boris Goldgather. But whatever pride, whatever righteous indignation at the abuse of his fellow man had emboldened him against the cruelties of a human emperor had evaporated before the tyrannies of an inhuman sorcerer. It wasn’t necessarily a fear of death that made Moschner submit – it was fear of the kind of death Queekual could bestow.
Nervously, the doktor walked towards the black-furred guards flanking the group of humans. They bared their fangs at him, claws clenching more tightly about the hefts of their spears. Moschner quickly covered his mouth with his hand, hiding the nervous smile that had worked itself onto his face. Among themselves, a show of teeth was a sign of challenge so the skaven were quick to read the same in the smiles of their slaves. If not for the presence of Queekual, Moschner knew he would have been beaten for his lapse of verminous etiquette.
‘Three,’ Queekual hissed again, the Seerlord’s tone crackling with impatience.
Moschner nodded his understanding and hurried to inspect the slaves. They were dirty, reeking of the filth and squalor of the pens. Most bore the bruises and lesions of their captivity, a few sported still more serious hurts. Wounds, however, were the least of Moschner’s concerns. Using a long stick, he poked and prodded the naked wretches, examining armpits and throats for any trace of the plague. He felt ashamed that he hoped the slaves were infected. The disease might be cruel, but it would kill them much quicker than the skaven.
‘Well?’ Queekual demanded, his ire vicious enough to make the skaven guards squeak.
Moschner turned his head, risking a glance that almost met the Seerlord’s gaze. ‘What happens to the ones I don’t accept?’ he asked, surprised that he didn’t choke on his own bold words.
Queekual slammed the butt of his horned staff against the floor. ‘Pick-quick,’ he growled, a green glow creeping into his eyes as his temper rose.
‘Why only three? I may need even more help,’ Moschner persisted. ‘What you ask of me isn’t easy!’
The Seerlord slammed his staff against the floor again. He held up his other paw, displaying a crooked claw. ‘Now doktor-thing picks only one!’ he declared. ‘Speak-squeak again and I kill-burn all-all!’
There was no doubt in Moschner’s mind that the ratman meant what he said. The skaven were callous with the lives of their own kind – he had seen that often enough. They thought no more of killing a slave – be it man, dwarf or goblin – than a man thought of squashing a bug. Bobbing his head in deference once more, Moschner looked again at the slaves arrayed before him. He tried to ignore the pleading, hopeful stares. The slaves were too cowed to implore him with their voices, but they could still beg with their eyes. That was torture enough for the doktor as he studied them.
‘Him,’ Moschner finally said, pointing his hand at a tall blonde-haired man standing at the back of the company. Despite the cruelty and privation the skaven must have imposed on him, the man’s physique still conveyed a sense of power. More importantly, there was still a gleam of pride in his eyes. Alone of all of them, he didn’t beg Moschner with his eyes.
Queekual brought his claws together in a hollow clap. At his gesture, the guard-rats began to herd the other slaves away. The Seerlord turned back to Moschner. ‘You have a helper now. I expect-want progress. Fast-quick!’ To emphasise his command, Queekual lashed the floor with his naked tail. Moschner kept his head lowered until the terrifying ratman exited the cave.
‘Thank you.’ The words came in a parched whisper. Moschner looked around to find the tall slave beside him. He motioned for the man to stay where he was and hurried to the niche in the wall where he kept the provisions Queekual allocated to him. He came back with a water-skin. Greedily, the slave quenched his thirst, only relenting when the skin was half-drained. A guilty look crossed his features and he thrust the depleted skin towards Moschner.
‘It’s all right,’ Moschner assured him. ‘Our beneficent masters keep me well supplied. Drink all you want.’
The slave took him at his word. Only when the last drop had been wrung from the skin did he return his attention to Moschner. ‘Thank you again,’ he said, his voice rendered more human this time. ‘I am called Schroeder. Until three months ago I was a knight in the Order of the Black Rose.’ A flicker of pain shot through him and he pressed a hand to his forehead. ‘Was it three months? Can a man suffer so much in so little time? Can the gods allow such hell to persist?’
Moschner stared in alarm as Schroeder’s wits began to wander. He cast an anxious glance at the mouth of the cave where Queekual’s warriors stood guard. He wasn’t certain if the beasts understood Reikspiel the way their master did, but even so they could not fail to notice a madman whatever language he spoke. After so long alone, Moschner didn’t want his only companion taken from him.
‘I am Doktor Wolfius Moschner, lately of Carroburg,’ he introduced himself, approaching Schroeder with extended hand. The absurdity of such formality in such circumstances brought a hearty laugh from the knight. More importantly, it focused his straying mind.
‘Pfeildorf was my home,’ Schroeder declared. ‘Before the underfolk came,’ he added with bitterness. He stared hard at Moschner, suspicion erasing the gratitude in his eyes. ‘Why do they treat you so well? What service do you provide them?’
Moschner could not mistake the challenge in the knight’s tone. A soldier thought in very simple terms. His worldview was limited to ideas like friend and enemy… and traitor.
‘The ratkin captured me in Carroburg after they seized the city,’ Moschner explained. ‘The horned one is a sorcerer. He is taking any healers he can find among their captives and using them to conduct research.’
‘What kind of research?’ Schroeder demanded.
Moschner motioned with his hand, leading the knight deeper into the cave. ‘It will be faster if I show you,’ he explained. Schroeder followed his lead, every muscle in his body twitching with the expectation of treachery.
‘This is what he wants me to study,’ Moschner said, waving his hand at the confusion of cages scattered about the back of the cave. Inside each cage a living slave had been stuffed. Not a human slave, nor a dwarf nor even a goblin. These were slaves culled from the dregs of skavendom, ratkin who had been subjugated by their own kind. It took Schroeder only a moment to recognise what com
mon bond the imprisoned skaven shared.
‘They have the plague,’ he gasped in fright.
Moschner nodded. ‘That is what Queekual wants me to study. Apparently the underfolk aren’t immune to the disease that has wrought such havoc among humanity, though the symptoms are far less pronounced.’
‘And this Queekual wants you to find a cure?’ Schroeder growled, not bothering to mask the contempt in his voice. ‘How could any man agree to help such monsters when his own people are being slaughtered and enslaved?’
‘You don’t understand!’ Moschner snarled back, bristling at the horrible accusation. ‘The ratmen are already resistant to the plague! Left on their own, only one in ten would die, though the paranoia of their kind ensures the sick aren’t given such a chance if they’re discovered.’
‘What does your sorcerer expect then?’ Schroeder asked.
Moschner repressed a shudder. ‘Something that goes against every oath I swore when I joined the Guild of Physicians. He wants me to make the plague more lethal. Not for men,’ he hurried to explain when he saw the knight clenching his fists. ‘He wants the plague’s qualities against the ratkin improved.’
Schroeder was silent a moment, letting Moschner’s words sink in. When he spoke, it was to utter a bark of laughter. ‘Truly the gods favour us, doktor! These long months I have prayed for a way to strike back against the ratkin and now, through you, I am given an opportunity beyond my prayers!’
‘I don’t understand,’ Moschner stated, alarmed that the knight’s wits might be deserting him again.
‘This task the sorcerer has given you!’ Schroeder said. ‘Can you not see? Do you not understand? The fiend intends to unleash a plague against his own kind!
‘Work hard, doktor. Tell me what I must do to help. Because together we are going to kill a lot of skaven!’
Chapter VI
Nordland, 1119
The Army of Middenland marched with lighter step once the desolation of Drakwald was behind them. They were passing through their own land now, the trees that pressed close to the Old Forest Road were familiar to them, the songs of the birds that flittered through the sky were ones they knew. Many a soldier cast a wistful, longing look down one of the small tracks and trails that joined the road, picturing the comfort of hearth and home that waited for him somewhere down that path.
There were no deserters. However fierce the longing for their homes, even the lowliest spearman nursed within him an equally fierce sense of duty. Drakwald, the destruction of Carroburg, the suffering of those enslaved by the ratmen, these were lessons burnt into their hearts. Fighting the skaven, purging them from the lands they had conquered, had taken on the aspect of a crusade. Prevail or perish, those were the thoughts in every man’s mind. Destroy the skaven so that the homes they left behind would not suffer the fate of Carroburg.
It was with pride that Mandred rode in the vanguard of his army. He rode in the company of the Knights of the White Wolf, the elite of Middenheim’s warriors. They presented a fearsome aspect, their bodies locked within plates of red-painted steel. Hammers of iron hung from their saddles, vicious mauls that in the hands of a knight could pulp a skull in a heartbeat. Their warhorses, all of them enormous destriers selected for strength and stamina by the horse-breeders of Middenland, were adorned in quilted caparisons that hung down to their fetlocks. The steel barding that would normally have guarded the powerful animals was stowed away during the long march, a concession to the strain the added weight would impose even upon such steeds. In gentler times, against more civilised foes, squires would have led the warhorses to the battlefield. The knights would ride simple coursers until the time when battle was nigh. Only then would they mount the giant destriers, unleashing the full force of the animals in the brutal spectacle of a cavalry charge.
These were dark times, however, and the enemy was insidiously savage. No man who had fought in the Battle of Middenheim could forget the murderous cunning of the skaven, their penchant for deception and trickery. Honest battle was anathema to them. The creatures preferred ambush to battle, massacre to combat. Only with their grisly warlords threatening and goading them, only with the advantage of numbers and terrain, would the vermin be induced to fight.
Such an enemy knew nothing of honour, of the proprieties of war. They would gleefully exploit any advantage, no matter how churlish and vile. The only defence against an enemy who might strike from anywhere was vigilance and preparedness. As the column moved north, Mandred’s knights wore their armour and rode their destriers. His bowmen kept their bows strung and at their sides. Spearmen marched with their shields loosely strapped to their backs, so that in case of a sudden attack the man behind might swiftly avail himself of the shield of the soldier in front. Macemen marched among the wagons, each dienstmann encased in full armour. A series of rotations allowed some of the macemen to rest in the wagons, but never more than a quarter of their number at any time. Swordsmen and axemen, restricted by far less cumbersome mail, were expected to march without such periodic respite.
Rangers, poachers, bandits and woodsmen ranged along the sides of the column as it marched, stealing into the trees, scouting the land for any sign of a lurking foe. They came from the depths of Middenland and from the forsaken interior of Drakwald. Nordlander scouts accustomed to prowling the Forest of Shadows and who had come to join the Baroness Carin. Veteran Hochland hunters, fleeing their own skaven-infested lands to lend their blades and bows at the service of Graf Mandred.
As grave as his concerns for flank and rear, it was the path ahead that most worried Mandred. Dozens of his best trackers had been sent before the army, men who could trail a vole through a briar and follow the week-old path of a beetle over a slab of granite. Several times Mad Albrecht or some other sentinel in forest-green would come drifting back to the column to report activity ahead. Sometimes it was merely to say they’d seen a herdsman moving his flock across the road, at others it was to announce that some small band of Nordlanders was waiting ahead either to join the army or to sell it provisions.
Nothing, no matter how inconsequential, escaped the notice of Mad Albrecht and his scouts. It was therefore a shock when the horses at the front of the column suddenly began to buck and whinny. The knights in their saddles tried to quieten the frightened steeds even as archers moved forward, nocking arrows to their bows as they watched the trees.
The fright of the horses persisted long enough that the entire column came to a halt. Try as they might, the knights couldn’t calm their normally disciplined destriers. With each passing moment of delay, Mandred’s patience wore a little thinner. Beside him, Beck easily read his master’s mood.
‘Let me see what’s wrong, highness,’ Beck suggested. ‘You shouldn’t expose yourself…’
The advice, however, only increased Mandred’s displeasure. Annoyed, he spurred his white stallion forwards, bulling his way through the press of knights. As he neared the front of the column he could see the frightened horses stamping the earth, shaking their heads and gnashing their teeth. He was reminded of a hunting expedition when he was little. They’d hobbled their horses in a meadow while cleaning the deer they’d brought down. The horses had suddenly started to panic, much as the destriers were now doing. The cause of their fear had been a large panther, the predator revealing itself only when it rushed across the meadow and sank its claws in one of the animals.
Riding to the front of the vanguard, Mandred almost expected to see the same panther come lunging out from the trees. There was something ironic about an entire army being forced to stop its march because a hungry cat was spooking their horses.
Here was another irony too: for all the distress the destriers were experiencing, his own mount didn’t so much as nicker. Mandred found that as he moved forwards, the other horses also became quiet. He was about to make a comment to Grand Master Vitholf, congratulating him on finally getting the animals under control, when he
noticed movement on the road ahead. He gazed in disbelief at the lone figure that came prowling towards the column. Such was his doubt that he glanced to the knights around him, wondering if they could see it too or if the presence was only in his mind. The way some of the warriors gawked in fascination, he knew they saw her too.
It was Hulda, the witch from the woods, self-professed oracle of Ulric. How she could have travelled so far and so fast, crossing hundreds of leagues from the Drakwald to this place, was something that made the hairs on his neck stand on end. Magic, whatever shape it took, was an unsettling thing.
‘Hail to you, Wolf of Sigmar!’ Hulda called out.
Mandred looked around uneasily to see if Ar-Ulric was nearby before he returned the woman’s salutation. He doubted if the old priest would appreciate a witch in their camp. At best, it would strike him as heretical. Mandred wasn’t so certain. The powers of the gods weren’t so limited as to be restrained by the dogma of their temples. Was it so impossible that Ulric might speak through this woman in some way? The wisdom she had shown in their previous meeting caused Mandred to believe Hulda was exactly what she claimed to be.
‘Hail to you, Howl of Ulric,’ Mandred greeted her. He nodded his head towards the knights around him. ‘Was it you who frightened our horses and brought my army to a halt?’
The witch came striding forwards, each step exhibiting the same graceful, almost unearthly flow that Mandred remembered so well. Hulda didn’t deign to answer his question. Of course it had been her magic that had upset the horses, just as it had been her magic that allowed her to slip through Mad Albrecht and his pickets.