by C. L. Werner
‘Blasphemy, you mean,’ the priest said.
‘A necessary evil,’ Kreyssig stated. ‘An ill-tasting morsel to digest if we are to save Altdorf.’
The Grand Theogonist glared back at him, a flame of fervour in his eyes. ‘I am no longer Stefan Schoppe,’ he said in a voice as hard as granite. ‘A Grand Theogonist takes on a dwarfish name when he dons the golden robes. You may call me Gazulgrund.’
Kreyssig chuckled at the severity with which the priest intoned his adopted name. Perhaps to a Sigmarite such ceremony was important, but to him it was just so much superstitious nonsense.
‘Call yourself whatever you like,’ Kreyssig said. ‘So long as you do not fail me.’ He studied the Grand Theogonist a moment, then turned away. ‘I suggest you get yourself a cat,’ he called as he strode from the observium. ‘They’ll warn you if any ratty ears are around.’
Even after Kreyssig was gone, Grand Theogonist Gazulgrund continued to glare where the man had stood, hate burning in his eyes.
Sythar Doom reclined on a mattress stuffed with mouse-down and wrapped himself more tightly in a ratskin rug, a precaution against the clammy chill seeping into the warren from the river. He turned his ensorcelled gaze upon the stalactite ceiling far above, watching as bats flittered about the roof. His tail lashed from side to side as he watched a clutch of skavenslaves creeping about the ceiling, trying to catch the flying rodents. Batwing soup was a delicious delicacy, but only if the wings weren’t torn. For some reason they lost their taste if they weren’t intact. Hence the best way to gather the wings was to climb up and snatch the beasts from their roosts.
The Warpmaster of Clan Skryre lashed his tail in amusement as one of the slaves lost his grip and went crashing to the cavern floor. There was no cry; like any good hunting slave his tongue had been cut out long ago. No scream disturbed the bats, only the meaty thump of the ratman as he smacked into the unyielding limestone floor. The twitching corpse was quickly dragged away by a Clan Mors quartermaster. With an army as large as the one Sythar Doom had assembled, every little bit of meat was a blessing.
Sythar ran a paw along the tube fastened to the underside of his jaw, checking it for ticks. The filthy parasites sometimes congregated there, incinerating themselves as soon as they bit into the warpstone-infused lining. The shrivelled husks were a tasty titbit with a delicious crunch to them. Sadly, none of the insects rewarded Sythar’s preening. They’d become noticeably scarce in Skavenblight since the collapse of Clan Verms. It was almost enough to make him regret the Wormlord’s demise. Almost.
Metal fangs gleamed as Sythar shifted himself around to face the massive warp-lantern that towered beside his pillowed bed. The Luminator scrambled about the many dials and flywheels, making certain the sliver of warpstone providing the eerie green light didn’t exude too much energy. Early experiments with the warplight had resulted in some unfortunate accidents, but those incidents had become noticeably less frequent over time. Since the Luminator was chained to his machine, Sythar was very confident the skaven would do his utmost to ensure the warplight’s stability.
‘Report-talk from Rati-man.’ The whining voice of a Clan Skully rodent drew Sythar’s attention away from the warplight. The jewelled eyes gleamed balefully in the green luminance as he stared down at the spy.
‘Speak-squeak,’ Sythar declared, a note of annoyance in his posture.
‘Abin-gnaw Hakk,’ the skaven said, affecting a loathsomely human bow. Sythar glared at the piebald creature, his body draped in the scarlet cloak of Raksheed Deathclaw’s elite cult of murder-rats. Whatever expression there was on Abin-gnaw’s face was hidden behind the crimson cloth wrapped across his muzzle. From the arrogance of the spy’s posture and the boldness with which he announced his identity, it was obvious he was trying to draw attention to himself.
Sythar chittered happily. Any messenger who declared himself to his superiors could only be the bearer of good news. Most likely, the original message had started much lower on Clan Skully’s food chain before Abin-gnaw snatched it for himself.
The Warpmaster sprawled back on his mouse-fur cushions and flicked one of his claws at Abin-gnaw, motioning him to speak.
‘Man-things train-teach army,’ Abin-gnaw squeaked. ‘Take-bring much weapons. Much armour.’
Sythar rose from his cushions, sparks flashing from his fangs. What was this fool-meat babbling about! The humans were raising an army. They were taking up arms. By what mental deficiency did this low-grade mouse-fondling moron think this was good news!
Abin-gnaw wasn’t fool enough to ignore Sythar’s anger. With an almost boneless motion, he flopped to the floor and twisted about so he could bare his throat to the Warpmaster in the universal skaven gesture of submission. ‘Listen-wait!’ the spy squeaked. ‘Man-things make war on other man-thing nest!’
The Warpmaster stood for a moment, digesting the frantic report. He glanced at the armoured warpguard who flanked his throne, stared up at the slaves slinking about the ceiling, at the confusion of sycophants and underlings who littered the floor of the cavern, waiting to attend the merest twitch of his whisker. Sythar could smell the excitement in their scent, knew the same odours were spilling from his own glands.
The humans were going to fight one another! He would have to take credit for this before one of the grey seers declared it a beneficence from the Horned Rat!
Abin-gnaw slowly rose to his feet, bowing again to Sythar Doom. This time the Warpmaster took no notice of the humanlike gesture. He was thinking instead about the abilities of Clan Skully’s murder-rats, their proficiency with the strangler’s noose. At the moment, there were three leaders of the expedition to conquer Altdorf. Clan Mors had their General Twych, established by Ratlord Vecteek himself as commander of the mission. Then there was that odious Deacon Blistrr from Clan Pestilens. While he was at it, he might add Grey Seer Pakritt to his wish list. Without those three, Warpmaster Sythar Doom would be supreme commander of the campaign.
With the prospect of a protracted war evaporating, with the humans getting ready to fight among themselves, Sythar no longer saw any reason why he should allow these incompetent underlings to leech off his glory!
‘Attend,’ Sythar hissed, motioning Abin-gnaw closer. Only when the murder-rat was so close that the sparks from Sythar’s fangs singed his fur, did the Warpmaster whisper his plans. To Clan Skryre would belong the prestige of conquering the man-thing nest, and Clan Skully would be paid well to eliminate the few obstacles in their way.
Kazad Migdhal
Kaldezeit, 1113
An uncanny coldness had settled into the great hall of Kazad Migdhal, a chill that refused to be expelled however high Bori Wodinsson stoked the fire roaring within the hearth. Keeper of King Skalf’s hearth, it was a terrible disgrace to Bori that this chill had been allowed to infest the hall. He kept his gaze downcast, not daring to meet the eyes of the dwarfs assembled about the king’s table.
Bori’s apprentices, under his direction, dutifully fed more logs into the blaze. The heat of the flames singed their young beards and sent streams of sweat pouring down their foreheads. Bori had already removed his drenched hat and had stripped away his baldric. He was absolutely at a loss to understand how he could feel so cold yet have his body react as though he’d been dropped into an inferno.
‘I can still see my breath!’ one of the thanes at the table laughed, punctuating his remark by expelling a great cloud of mist. The display brought raucous laughs from the other dwarfs in the hall.
‘Leave Bori be!’ quipped another thane, gesticulating with a white-capped mug of beer. ‘The cold is good for the brew!’
‘But not my beard,’ grumbled a silver-haired elder. He brought a gloved hand stroking down the length of his face, and held the fingers up for those seated around him to inspect. ‘Look! Frost!’
Bori’s face turned crimson beneath his own beard. The shame of this night was going to humiliate his family for three generations. It would take a great deal of valou
r to extirpate this embarrassment, and over so ridiculous a thing. A room that wouldn’t grow warm if an entire forest was fed into its hearth!
He risked turning away from the fire for a moment, directing a covert glance at King Skalf’s throne. His sovereign sat in stony silence, jewelled fingers closed tight about the stem of a golden goblet. There was just the slightest trace of discomfort on the king’s face, a condemnation Bori felt all the more keenly for its subtlety. Bonds of friendship between himself and the king had earned him his position. It was shameful that those same bonds should restrain King Skalf’s rightful displeasure. It was an imposition on Bori’s part, one he doubted he could ever make amends for.
‘Build it higher!’ Bori snarled at his helpers, shoving yet another log into the blaze. A finger of flame reached out, searing his fingers and causing him to jump back. Sucking at the burned skin, he glared vindictively at the blaze. What would it take to warm this cursed hall!
Bori never knew what compelled him to raise his eyes to the marble mantle above the hearth or the trophy bolted to the wall above it. Some primitive instinct, some animalistic foreboding of danger, whatever it was alerted the dwarf to something far more horrible than a stubborn chill.
Skalf had made himself king by stealing into the abandoned halls of Karak Azgal and slaying the mighty dragon Graug the Terrible. Karak Migdhal had been established in one of the abandoned stronghold’s gatehouses, a dwarf outpost in lands long lost to their kind. The outpost was rich, however, made wealthy by the treasure reclaimed from the dragon’s hoard. Skalf had earned not only the title of king, but also that of Dragonslayer, and far more than his crown, he valued the gigantic reptilian head displayed in his great hall.
The head of Graug had been bolted to the wall, hung there as a mark of Skalf’s strength and courage. It was something to awe visitors and impress dignitaries. To the dwarfs who had cast aside old allegiances to make their fortune in Karak Migdhal, it was a symbol of dwarf perseverance against all foes.
Now, however, it was a thing of terror. Before Bori’s horrified gaze, leathery lids pulled back from the glass eyes taxidermists had set into the dragon’s skull. Scaly lips retreated from sword-sized fangs. The withered stump of a forked tongue flicked out, shivering in the air.
Bori cried out once, then the reanimated head lurched down from its fastenings, tearing the bolts free as it crashed to the floor. The Keeper of the Hearth vanished in the dragon’s maw, caught by those immense, snapping jaws.
Dumbstruck thanes and guildmasters looked up from their drinks, staring in disbelief at the revived head. Oaths and curses spilled from their mouths as they watched the huge head flop about on the floor with ghastly life, trying to propel itself towards fresh prey.
‘Fetch my axe,’ King Skalf snarled, casting aside his goblet and unfastening the royal cloak pinned to his shoulders. He glared at the monstrous head, feeling rage as he watched Bori’s blood drip down its fangs.
‘I don’t know how many times I must slay you, monster!’ he roared. ‘But by Grimnir, I swear this time I will make a better job of it!’
The captain of Skalf’s bodyguard rushed to the king’s side, Wyrmbiter clutched in his hands. One look at his king told the dwarf it was useless to try and dissuade him from this battle. Reluctantly, he pressed the weapon into Skalf’s hand.
The instant Wyrmbiter was in his hands, King Skalf was no more. The stoic dignity demanded of a ruler fell away, succumbing to the reckless determination of the adventurer and fortune-seeker. Again, he was simply Skalf Hraddisson, determined to earn the name of Dragonslayer.
Graug’s head flailed about on the floor, turning to fix its glass gaze on the advancing dwarf. A loathsome, dry cough rasped up from the stump of neck remaining to the reptile, spraying bits of Bori across the floor.
This final indignity inflicted upon his friend sent icy rage coursing through Skalf’s veins. Roaring an inarticulate cry of vengeance, the dwarf flung himself at the dragon. In a great leap, Skalf brought his gromril axe flashing down. The blade crunched through scaly flesh and draconic bone, hewing through Graug’s forehead, cleaving down along its snout. When he ripped his blade free, the dragon’s skull had been nearly cut in half, bisected down the middle.
Skalf glared down at the mutilated head, watching in disgust as its wreckage continued to wriggle with obscene life. ‘Burn it,’ he growled at his awestruck subjects, setting Wyrmbiter across his shoulder as he stalked from the hall.
Sylvania
Kaldezeit, 1113
Baron Lothar von Diehl ran his hand across the bare expanse of his scalp, finding even the last trace of his black mane had deserted him. The powers of a necromancer did not come without a price, he reflected, and the greater the power the more taxing that price became. He could feel dark magic flowing through his body, inundating every speck of his being with sorcery. The sensation had only increased as Vanhaldenschlosse came nearer to completion. How much greater might his power become once the tower was finished?
Could mere flesh endure long enough? It was a question he feared to ask himself. The toll such magic was taking upon him was tremendous. Since submitting to Vanhal’s tutelage, Lothar’s body had aged decades, withering from that of a young noble at the prime of life to a scarecrow semblance of elderly decrepitude.
It had cost him much to learn what he had, but Lothar would pry still more secrets from his mentor. Watching the ancient dead rise from the muck of Hel Fenn, seeing those legions of bog-men enslaved to his every command — that was power! It was power that belonged to him, power greater than any man had wielded before.
Any man, except one. How much greater must be the secrets Vanhal yet kept to himself, that he would bestow so casually such spells into the keeping of his apprentice? Lothar had always doubted the wisdom of gods, but to allow such knowledge to be possessed by a mere peasant was proof that whatever gods there were, they must be idiots. By his own words, Vanhal had proven he was an unfit vessel for such powers. He spoke of ability as its own achievement, but of what use was a blade if it were never drawn? What did it matter if one could do a thing if there were no purpose behind it?
As he stalked through the gates of the half-formed castle, his legion of bog-men shambling after him, Lothar felt uneasy. Something was wrong. He could feel a tremendous energy in the air, a force so powerful that it seemed to pluck at his own spirit, as though eager to drag it from his flesh. It was a frightful, abominable sensation, a sickening violation of his innermost being. For all the revulsion it evoked, the experience was even more horrible because Lothar knew it wasn’t even directed against him, he simply happened to be within its reach. He was inconsequential to it, nothing more than a hapless bystander.
Anger flared inside the necromancer. Evoking spells of protection, girding his soul in spectral armour, Lothar dashed inside the unfinished fortress, racing down the length of the vast assembly hall. With every step, he could feel the aethyric vibrations growing, a dull hum of energy that caused his ears to ring and a trickle of blood to stream down his nose. A wave of nausea swept through him, threatening to flatten him as he mounted the spiral staircase and began to climb to the seance room. Lothar dabbed his finger in the blood draining down his nose, using the sanguine medium to strengthen his spells of protection. Refortified, he rushed up the steps.
The seance room was a howling tempest of sorcerous energies, gales of spectral power whipping about the chamber. The circles on the floor were struggling to contain that force; Lothar could see the discordant harmonies whirling about inside each ring, his witchsight giving him a glimpse at formless things struggling to possess shape.
This, however, was the least manifestation of the power being drawn into this place. Arrayed about the seance chamber were the tops of the pre-human menhirs. The ancient stones were ablaze with eldritch emanations, tendrils of light that crackled and danced as they ascended through the half-formed tower. Lothar craned his head, following their gyrations until they were lost in the night
sky. For an instant, each stream would flicker, divert itself inwards. With a feeling of dread, he realised that there was a rhythm to those diversions, a horrible suggestiveness. It was like watching the pulsations of a beating heart.
‘Vanhal!’ Lothar cried out. The peasant necromancer had been cagey, dispatching his disciple on a meaningless errand before beginning some forbidden rite he wished to keep secret! Bitterly, the baron reflected on his foolish appreciation of the power he had evoked at Hel Fenn. Beside this, such magic was nothing.
‘Vanhal!’ he shouted once more, making no effort to hide the anger in his tone. The fallen priest had played him for a fool with his talk of enemies and armies. As though any foe would be so mad as to challenge the necromancer in his citadel.
‘Vanhal!’ Lothar roared a third time. There was hesitancy in his voice now. With a full appreciation for the power of this site, he wondered if even Vanhal could manipulate such energies. Perhaps his master had been too ambitious, had initiated an invocation he couldn’t control? The pleasure of seeing Vanhal brought low was tempered by the realisation that if he expired, his secrets would pass with him. Having had a taste of such power, to lose all chance of making it his own was a horror too ghastly to contemplate.
Panicked, Lothar mounted the scaffolding and ascended the rickety framework. For the first time he realised that none of the workers were around. The absence of Vanhal’s undead gave the baron pause. Where had they gone? Had they slipped past the necromancer’s control and simply wandered off, or had they been consumed by the magic he had unleashed? It was a terrifying prospect, to be annihilated by a surge of undirected vibration, consumed so completely that not even dust should remain.