Wolf of Sigmar

by C. L. Werner

  Erich nodded his understanding. He looked at Kurgaz. ‘It sounds like a plan,’ he told the slayer. ‘We can hide there until we figure out some way to get a warning to Graf Mandred.’

  Kurgaz scowled. ‘I don’t like hiding and sneaking,’ he said.

  ‘Always ready to fight, never ready to think,’ Dharin laughed. Before the slayer could lunge at him, the gold grubber was already walking off down the tunnel, waving his axe to beckon the others to follow him.

  It seemed like hours before they reached the red limestone tunnel. Several times Erich had been suspicious that Dharin had become lost. He was wise enough in the ways of dwarfs, however, to avoid mentioning his suspicion aloud. He had enough to worry about without adding a dwarfish grudge to his troubles.

  Finding the red limestone was a relief to Erich’s mind. Soon, he consoled himself, they would be safe from the Kaiserjaeger and protected by the sanctuary of the Great Cathedral. It was just as his worries began to lessen that the dwarfs leading the way stopped dead in their tracks. By the glow of their rushlights, Erich could see what had caught their attention. The wall of the tunnel was broken, exposing a crude earthen passageway.

  ‘Skaven,’ Dharin hissed, punctuating his statement with a blob of spit.

  Erich stared at the burrow-like hole. He felt a chill run down his spine at the thought that the ratmen had been here. But, of course, why shouldn’t they? In preparing for their attack on Altdorf, the monsters had probably pitted the whole sewer system with tunnels and burrows. He said as much to the dwarfs.

  The dwarfs, even Kurgaz, turned around and stared at him with incredulous expressions. Dharin jabbed his axe at the hole. ‘That’s new construction,’ he said, speaking as though to a particularly dull and backward child.

  ‘What would fresh skaven burrows be doing here?’ Erich wondered, a feeling of dread building up inside him.

  Kurgaz slammed one fist against the other, a murderous gleam in his eyes. ‘The ratkin tried to destroy your cathedral from above. Maybe they’ve come back to try again from below.’

  The implication sent a rush of horror through Erich. He thought of the ghastly weapons he had seen the skaven deploy, remembered the treacherous strategies they employed on the battlefield. If they were planning something for the Great Cathedral…

  ‘Mandred,’ the knight gasped.

  ‘Aye, manling,’ Kurgaz agreed. ‘They might be waiting for Mandred before working their devilry.’

  ‘What do we do?’ Erich asked. ‘We have to warn somebody!’

  Dharin scowled. ‘Warn them about what? We don’t know what the vermin might be planning. It might not even have anything to do with your cathedral.’

  Kurgaz grinned. ‘Then we go down there and pay the skaven a visit. Spoil their game before it gets started.’ He turned his head and glared at Dharin. ‘And say one word about putting fighting before thinking…’

  The other dwarf shook his head and fingered his axe. ‘No, Smallhammer, I was going to ask if you’d like some help. It’s been too many years since I split a skaven skull. I’d rather not get out of practice.’ The other gold grubbers echoed Dharin’s words, all of them eager to bring battle to the perfidious enemies of their race.

  Taking a hand axe from one of the gold grubbers and the rushlight out of Dharin’s hand, Kurgaz led the way into the earthy gloom of the tunnel. What they would find waiting for them at the end, none of them could say. All they knew was that they would fight to the death against whatever it was.

  Chapter XIX

  Talabecland, 1124

  Across fields glazed with frost and through forests dripping with ice, the columns of soldiers and cavalry marched. The vast plains of Averland and the rolling hills of Stirland had given way to the immense woodlands north of the Talabec River. Unlike the thick, wild forests of Nordland, the woods in Talabecland were less a single monstrous sprawl and more scattered stretches of growth with grasslands and marshes intersecting them. It was a region that a determined army could navigate without the sinister aid of elves and ancient primal forces.

  Mandred frowned at that last thought. Was his army truly beyond the reach of powers beyond mortal ken? He glanced aside to where Hulda trotted near the head of the column, her every step exhibiting a grace that made even the most veteran scout seem a clumsy buffoon. He tried not to think about the stories circulating about her in the camp, stories that he’d ignored while Ar-Ulric was alive, but which now left him ill at ease. He’d known, of course, that she was a witch. Whatever her claims about being a servant of Ulric, an oracle and voice for the White Wolf, Mandred knew her powers were witchcraft. Faced with an enemy as inhuman and vile as the skaven, however, even the prospect of using witchcraft against the fiends hadn’t troubled his conscience.

  What did trouble him was the idea that Hulda was more – or perhaps less – than a witch. He couldn’t shake the image of her – change – during the divination ritual. He couldn’t forget the lupine paw that had reached out for Vrrmik’s ear or the bestial voice that howled an incantation into the darkness. If he’d stirred from where he’d watched the ritual, what might he have seen? Would he have found the beautiful features of Hulda staring down into the cauldron or would it have been the fanged muzzle of a wolf?

  Even the Graf of Middenheim, growing up inside the luxury of the Middenpalaz, had heard the shuddersome stories of the Ulricskinder, the half-human beasts who wore their fur inside their skin except at such times as they reverted to their animalistic selves. The werewolf, the loping horror that stalked the night, raging and ravening for human prey. It made even Mandred’s heart quiver to think that Hulda might be one of the Children of Ulric.

  He shook his head. His fear was unworthy of him, forged from myth and superstition. He must judge her by her own deeds, not the fables told him by his mother when he was a babe in swaddling. Hulda’s counsel had been a source of strength to him, her eldritch knowledge a boon to the whole army. She’d warned them of the skaven ambush in Nordland, guided them through the haunted Laurelorn. She’d exposed Beck’s murderous treachery.

  Mandred let his eyes linger on the witch, forcing himself to see the woman, not the beast he’d half-glimpsed during her divination. Yet, if she was the beast, why should that disturb him? The white wolf had sought only to bring good to him. The animal had led him to the camp of the Kineater, enabling him to save Arch-Lector Hartwich and Lady Mirella from the beastman before they could become its next prey. The wolf had saved his life, savaging the Kineater before it could kill him. Later it had led him to Hulda’s cave, where her counsel brought him the confidence he needed when self-doubt might have sent him scurrying back to Middenheim. And, more recently, it had been the white wolf that had fought to protect the shrine of Ulric and save Ar-Ulric during the skaven attack on Mandred’s camp.

  No, Mandred decided. He couldn’t doubt Hulda. Whatever she was – prophetess, witch or werewolf – he had to trust her. If he doubted her now then he must also doubt her vision of the next skaven attack. He’d gambled everything on the accuracy of her divination. If Vrrmik didn’t make his attack on Hergig, if the vermin instead struck somewhere else, everything would come falling apart. His army would scatter, returning to defend their homes. That would be the end of his crusade against the ratmen and, he knew, must eventually see the end of the Empire. Piecemeal, the skaven would pick off each province. It was only as a united force that they had any hope of survival.

  Through the steel of his gauntlets, despite the chill in the air, Mandred could feel a warmth emanating from the golden head of Ghal Maraz. The ancient warhammer was lashed before him across his saddle where it was both within quick reach and clearly visible to the men marching around him. Hartwich had underestimated the hammer’s potency as a symbol. It had given the soldiers a new sense of purpose, a new feeling of pride that made them accept even the ordeal of this long march without complaint. In every fiefdom they had cros
sed, peasants had appeared to bring such food and clothing as they could spare, selflessly sacrificing what little they had to aid Mandred’s cause. When these humble folk, the simple clay of humanity, gazed upon Ghal Maraz, the look of awe and wonder in their faces told him why they did what they did.

  Mandred prayed that he might prove worthy of their awe, that within him beat the heart of the hero who could deliver the Empire as Sigmar had done over a millennium before. He had grown beyond the hatred, the base brute lust for revenge that had driven him when he’d first marched his army into Drakwald. He knew now that this crusade against the skaven was bigger and more important than simple hatred. It was a war that had to be fought to ensure human survival, from the most blue-blooded nobleman and esoteric priest to the humblest peasant. Class meant nothing when the foot of skaven oppression was on the neck of all men.

  Riding beside him, General von Boeckenfoerde, the renegade Reikmarshal, struck ice from the branch of a tree standing beside the trail. ‘This is the gentlest winter I’ve seen in my sixty-four years,’ he remarked. ‘The gods must favour this enterprise. By rights we should be knee deep in snow right now.’

  Mandred nodded. After almost a decade of unremittingly harsh winters, this respite was like a gift from Ulric. As god of both winter and war, perhaps the old wolf had set aside the one so that he might facilitate the other. But it would all depend on how accurate Hulda’s divination was. It would only hasten the destruction of his army if they made this long march with no enemy at the end of the trail.

  ‘Forgive my impertinence, highness,’ von Boeckenfoerde continued, ‘but what reception do you expect your dignitaries to receive in Altdorf?’

  ‘I am not counting on the army of Reikland to come marching forth to aid us,’ Mandred confessed. ‘All I have heard of Protector Kreyssig makes him out to be as much of a monster as Boris Goldgather was.’ He let his hand fall again to Ghal Maraz’s reassuring warmth. ‘No, I think a calculating villain like him will sit back and wait to see what happens.’

  ‘Yes, I think that swine will do just that,’ von Boeckenfoerde said. ‘He was always as cunning as a weasel. He had to be to rise so swiftly in Boris’s service.’ The general arched an eyebrow as a question that had been nagging at him found its way to his tongue. ‘Do you think it was wise sending Captain von Kranzbeuhler? The man is Kreyssig’s mortal enemy, after all.’

  ‘He’s the only man for the job,’ Mandred said. ‘Kurgaz will keep him safe, and Kreyssig won’t dare make a move until he knows how our campaign in Hochland fares. He’ll need to know if he is in a position to dictate terms or if he’ll be the one being dictated to.’

  Mandred looked away, turning his eyes again to Hulda and the long road ahead of them. ‘I have room in my heart right now for only one enemy,’ he said. ‘When that enemy has been vanquished, then I’ll turn my mind to the problem of Adolf Kreyssig.’

  Water dripped from the vaulted ceiling of the old dwarfish tunnel, splashing against the toppled pillars and broken statues that had once lined this branch of the Ungdrin Ankor, the great Underway between the dwarf strongholds. Breached and shattered by both the elements and invaders, the tunnels had become a haunt for noxious creatures, few more vile than the beasts the dwarfs reviled as thaggoraki – murderers.

  Among the ratkin, there could be no monster more murderous than Great Warlord Vrrmik. The hulking white ratman sat perched atop the headless shoulders of an ancient dwarf statue, slowly wiping the blood coating his claws into his pale pelt. His motions were slow, deliberate, designed to induce the maximum amount of fear in his followers. This stretch of the tunnel was almost a sea of furry bodies, beady skaven eyes glistening in the green glow of worm-oil lamps.

  Vrrmik savoured the stench of their fear. He cast his gaze down to the twitching body at his feet, the simpering emissary from Clan Skully and the Old Rat Under the Hill. The villainous Murderlord Raksheed Deathclaw had defied Vrrmik’s command, turning his slinking killers against the dwarfs of Karak Kadrin instead of responding to the warmonger’s demand for fresh troops. Nor was Raksheed the only one to defy Vrrmik! The hordes of Clans Grikk and Skab had refused to send more than a few hundred emaciated slaves, citing their own attacks against the dwarfs as an excuse for their infidelity. Clan Mordkin, Clan Fester, even the minor clans like Gnaw and Fylch had refused to answer Vrrmik’s muster.

  There was a reason of course, one that made Vrrmik angry enough that he brought the enchanted head of Skavenbite slamming down into the body at his feet, splattering the corpse’s brains across the tunnel.

  Treachery! Base and vile treachery of the lowest and most miserable sort! Directed against the mighty Vrrmik, He Who is Twelfth, the right-paw of the Horned Rat!

  Vrrmik’s nose twitched as he sniffed at the dank air of the tunnel. He had dozens of Skrittlespike troglodytes and Moulder-bred rat-wolves sniffing around too, weeding out the sick and infected from his army, sick and infected with the great plague that Clan Pestilens had unleashed against the humans!

  The plaguelords had grown powerful since unleashing their creation, but so too had Vrrmik. Now it seemed they wanted to try to topple him, to seize complete dominance for themselves! They’d turned their plague against skavendom. It was easy to understand how it had been achieved. Begin in Skavenblight and the contagion would swiftly disseminate across the Under-Empire, for wasn’t the old adage that all tunnels lead to Skavenblight true?

  Vrrmik gnashed his fangs and dropped his hammer into the mush at his feet a second time. As annoying as the lethality of the disease among the ratmen was, an inconvenience to his demands for bigger and vaster armies, it was the foolish rumours that spread which had wrought the most havoc. The credulous flea-brains were claiming the plague was being turned back on the skaven by Man-dread’s curse, that the humans were now infecting them! Hence the lack of enthusiasm for pressing their attacks on the man-things, for expanding their control over the surface, the sudden interest in redirecting their forces and resources against the dwarfs, the blatant defiance of Vrrmik’s own orders!

  Vrrmik glowered to his left where Poxmaster Puskab Foulfur came creeping into the tunnel. The plaguelord presented a ridiculous sight, hobbling along in a rolling, surging gait as he tried to adjust his balance for the tail he’d lost. The antlers projecting from his skull kept threatening to drag his whole body face first into the ground.

  Still, as ridiculous as Puskab might look, at the moment he was Vrrmik’s best and truest ally. It was Puskab’s magic that had created the Black Plague, now it was his magic that kept the disease at bay. Like Vrrmik, the Poxmaster didn’t for an instant believe the stories about Man-dread’s curse and human transmission of the plague. No, he saw the paws of his fellow plaguelord, Vrask Bilebroth behind this calamity. His rival was jealous of Puskab and taking extreme measures to discredit and destroy him.

  Puskab’s advice was for Vrrmik to turn his army against Skavenblight, to destroy Vrask. The Supreme Warlord of Skavendom, however, was too cunning to allow himself to fall into such a trap. Getting involved in the feud between the plaguelords would only bleed his own resources. There was always the chance it was all just a plot to weaken Clan Mors so that Clan Pestilens could assume complete control.

  No, Vrrmik had a much better idea. He’d planned to whittle away Man-dread’s army by threatening their warrens, but now he didn’t have that luxury. He had to force a confrontation with the human, butcher him in the open field before the eyes of all skavendom. With Man-dread’s blood soaked into his fur, Vrrmik would quell the rumours of a curse and the imbecilic fear that had spread among the ratkin. He would show them that the only thing they should fear was the ire of Great Warlord Vrrmik and the crash of Skavenbite against their skulls!

  Even now, he had spies following Man-dread’s army. Once Vrrmik was certain of their course, he would pick a place to confront them. Ground of his own choosing. Ground that would become a killing field under Vrrmik
’s merciless command.

  Skavenblight, 1123

  Seerlord Queekual’s procession forced its way through the teeming hordes of ratmen. The streets and tunnels of Skavenblight were crammed to bursting with the terrified masses. In places the skaven were heaped atop one another five and six deep, uncaring that those on the bottom of the pile would be crushed or smothered. The vermin feared a different sort of death, a death that stalked their burrows and warrens like a marauding beast, slaughtering great and lowly with indiscriminate abandon.

  The Black Plague was loose in Skavenblight. It was raging in the lower depths, infesting the subterranean tunnels and warrens. Outbreaks had erupted in the most squalid of the surface areas, principally the mud-caked menagerie of docks and piers that stretched out into the foggy swamps. The gangs of slaves and farm-rats who tended the stands of black corn in the marshes had been decimated by the disease, entire barges leaving the city only to be found weeks later reduced to floating death ships with nary a twitch of life among the crew.

  Fear gripped the hordes of Skavenblight, an enormity of terror such as the city had never seen. The skaven knew how the plague had exterminated the man-things, the agonising death to which Clan Pestilens’s creation condemned the creatures. Now that hideous weapon had been turned back and unleashed upon their own kind. Hoary old ratmen recalled the long-ago affliction of Clan Verms and the quarantine of their stronghold underneath Skavenblight. They urged the warlock-engineers of Clan Skryre to purge the afflicted regions with their warpfire projectors, to burn the disease from the city.