‘There,’ he said, taking a step forwards to pat her head. ‘You’re not all that bad after all, are you?’
His hand didn’t reach within a foot of her before she screeched, clawing at him, yowling her hatred and attacking with unrestrained fury.
Hugo fled, sprinting up his staircase pursued by the angry cat all the way back to his bedchamber. He just managed to slam the door before Gertrude inflicted any further harm, and slid the bolt across just in case.
It was several hours before he mustered the courage to open his door, peering out into the dark corridor beyond. When he saw there was no wicked, hissing cat waiting for him, he let out a sigh of relief and stepped out into the passage.
His bare foot squelched down on something soft and unctuous. It oozed between his toes, unleashing the most horrendous odour Hugo had ever had the misfortune to experience.
He didn’t have to look down to know that Gertrude had left him a gift reflecting just what she thought of him.
Well, she didn’t have to like him, did she – she just had to do what he’d bought her for!
Hugo hopped to his nightstand, removed the doily that sat atop it and wiped the pungent cat crap from his foot, then went in search of Gertrude.
After checking the ground floor and finding no trace of the cat or her prey, Hugo moved to the first floor. As he reached the top landing he cringed as he saw fresh claw marks on his fine oak banister. He clenched his teeth against the fury, and moved towards the stair for the second floor, only to slip and stumble on a warm puddle of what could only be cat piss.
Hugo clenched his fists, moving to the foot of the stairwell and dragging his sodden foot along his embroidered Kislevite rug. It was then there pealed forth a horrendous sound the like of which he had never heard before. It was a tortured crowing, as though some wild animal were braying its last in agonising pain, and he was suddenly frozen to the spot by the sound.
Steeling himself, Hugo moved up the stairs onto the second-storey corridor. A number of doors led off into his various guestrooms and the sound seemed to be emanating from within one of them. It was louder now, and clearly coming from the first room on the right. Hugo grasped the door handle, girding his loins as he pushed open the door, squinting as he entered lest the sight be too much for his delicate sensibilities.
Gertrude let out another shattering howl, and Hugo’s jaw dropped open at the sight. The cat lay in the middle of the room, her fur in tattered pieces, and clasped to her body, from the tip of her tail to the ends of her ears, were Hugo’s missing rat traps.
What could have done this? What foul creature could overcome Gertrude so? What fiendish jester was taunting him in such a manner?
The answer was clear – these rats were revealing themselves as a force to be reckoned with!
‘Bastards!’ Hugo cried. ‘You may have won this battle, but the war isn’t over yet!’
With Gertrude safely de-trapped and placed in her cage, Hugo left his mansion once more. This time he had the wherewithal to dress himself, albeit shabbily, before he set out onto the darkening streets.
The Frog and Trumpet was one of the more upper-class drinking establishments of Talabheim, being situated in the affluent Manor District and with a clientele to match. Although Hugo received a curious look from the doorman as he walked in, his face was well-known enough to secure him entry despite his drab appearance.
Dergen Henschnapf was sitting in his usual spot by the fire, supping his schnapps and listening to the well-versed lute player secreted in one corner of the drinking house. When Hugo slumped into the grand leather chair opposite, Dergen peered curiously over his half-moon spectacles, barely recognising his old friend.
‘I have a problem,’ Hugo said, his eyes wide and desperate.
‘Clearly,’ Dergen replied.
‘Why does everyone keep saying that? Anyway, you have to help me, I have nowhere else to turn.’
Dergen took another sip of schnapps before giving Hugo his Do go on, I’m listening look.
‘I have rats. In my house. They’re everywhere,’ Hugo said before glancing around furtively, as though admitting he had rats in public might be more of a social faux pas than turning up at the Frog and Trumpet looking like a pauper’s dog.
Dergen said nothing, merely altering his expression to What would you like me to do about it.
‘You have connections,’ said Hugo, growing ever more desperate, unable to keep his voice below a hoarse whisper. ‘You move in those kind of circles.’
Dergen raised an eyebrow. ‘What exactly are you suggesting?’ he replied.
‘Do I have to spell it out? You know people in the extermination business.’
Now it was Dergen’s turn to glance furtively before sitting up and moving closer to Hugo.
‘I have contacts, yes, but they’re not skilled in exterminating the kind of vermin you’re talking about.’
‘You must know someone, Dergen. There must be something you can do, I’m at my wits end!’
Dergen reclined in his chair, deep in thought. Then he nodded, a sly smile crossing his lips. ‘Actually I do know someone who may be able to help. Owes me a favour, and he’s skilled in just this line of work.’
‘Really?’ Hugo’s face brightened. ‘You do?’
‘Yes. You can find him in the Ten-Tailed Cat. Just ask for Boris, the barman will know who you mean.’
Hugo suddenly glared with indignation. ‘You expect me to go to the Ten-Tailed Cat? I’m Hugo Kressler, the most powerful merchant–’
‘–in all Talabheim. Yes, I’ve heard it before Hugo, but I’m guessing the rats in your house don’t care about that. And let’s face it, you hardly look too powerful or merchant-like for the Ten Tailed Cat right now, do you? In fact, dressed as you are I’m guessing you’ll fit right in.’
Hugo glanced down at his apparel, then ran a trembling hand through his straw-like mop of hair.
‘Well, I’ve been under a lot of stress,’ he said.
‘All the more reason for you to hurry along,’ replied Dergen, waving Hugo towards the door.
Hugo could only nod, thanking his old friend and rushing from the Frog and Trumpet before anyone else could see him in such a dishevelled condition.
The docks stank of rotting fish and ale, mixed in with the sickly-sweet aroma of cheap perfume wafting from a gaggle of preening harlots. None of them bothered to give Hugo a second glance as he made his way through the shadows towards the Ten-Tailed Cat.
A muted din of conversation emanated from the confines of the alehouse and, as Hugo approached, the door was suddenly flung open, allowing a drink-addled patron to stumble out into the night. The raucous interior was revealed in all its insalubrious glory; a heady mix of dirty laughter and thick pipe smoke.
Hugo hesitated at the threshold. What had he been reduced to? Sneaking through the dark of Talabheim’s most woe-begotten streets to mix with the patrons of the city’s foulest dives. But he was here for a reason… a quest some might say. Even the heroes of legend had to reach their lowest ebb before rising to victory. This was merely another step on his path to defeating the enemy in his home.
Raising his chin, Hugo strode forwards, opening the door to the Ten-Tailed Cat and walking in as though he owned the place. Immediately, several sets of mean, hard-bitten eyes turned his way, and any confidence he may have summoned immediately vanished.
Dropping his head to avoid eye contact with anyone, Hugo made a dash for the bar. It turned into a weird kind of dance as he jinked and dodged to avoid touching any of the hulking, brutish patrons in his path, but eventually he made it in one piece. He squeezed between two grimy dockers and signalled the barman. Over the din of the alehouse he explained he was looking for Boris, and with a nonchalant nod of the head, the round-faced barman signalled towards a booth in one dank corner.
As Hugo approached he saw that Boris was a hulking figure, his head encased in a tight leather skullcap, his bare arms bulging with thick, corded muscle. He nursed
a large pewter tankard into which he stared with a strange melancholy and, despite his rough exterior, Boris looked as out of place amongst the boisterous carousers of the Ten-Tailed Cat as Hugo felt.
‘Erm, Boris?’ Hugo asked as he reached the booth. The man seemed to brighten at Hugo’s approach, nodding and offering the bench opposite. ‘You’ve been recommended to me by Dergen Henschnapf as a man who might be able to eradicate a certain pest problem I currently have,’ said Hugo, taking the proffered seat.
Boris frowned, suddenly deep in thought. ‘Can’t say as I recognise the name,’ he replied in a rumbling voice. ‘But my memory’s not been all it was since I got retired from sewer duty.’
‘Retired? Does that mean you’re no longer in the business?’
‘Depends what the problem is.’
Hugo glanced around, but it was clear the rest of the alehouse was too busy with its own revelry to care about his problems. ‘I have… rats. In my house,’ he whispered over the din.
‘Have you tried traps?’ asked Boris.
‘Of course I’ve tried bloody traps,’ Hugo snapped with immediate regret. ‘I mean, yes. But these ones are clever, devious… cunning.’
Boris smiled knowingly. ‘Ah. You’ll be needing an expert then.’
Of course I will, that’s why I’m in this stinking fleapit! was what Hugo wanted to say, but he merely nodded in reply, keeping his lip firmly buttoned.
‘Well, you’ve come to the right man,’ Boris continued. ‘I’m the best rat catcher in the city. Let me know the address, I’ll pick up some supplies and be right round.’
Hugo felt a sudden rush of elation. ‘Excellent,’ he replied.
He gave Boris the details of his mansion, along with easy instructions on how to find it, then stood to leave. Before he could escape the cloying confines of the Ten-Tailed Cat, though, he paused, curiosity getting the better of him.
‘You say you were retired from sewer duty? What exactly happened?’
Boris smiled, gripping the leather skullcap and pulling it from his head to reveal a gristly stump where his right ear should have been. ‘Big ’un took my ear off. Made a right bloody mess it did. Don’t worry though, I took the bugger’s own ear right back.’ With that he reached into his hide jerkin and pulled out a chain, on the end of which dangled what was clearly the ear of a cow.
Hugo began to wonder whether this was a good idea – Boris was plainly unhinged, but then he guessed most rat catchers were.
‘How come losing your ear meant you had to retire?’ he asked, not really wanting to hear the answer.
‘Oh, it’s not because of this. Me ear wasn’t all the big ’un took.’ With that, Boris heaved himself out from behind the table, to reveal a chipped and weathered wooden leg, which he patted affectionately.
‘A rat took your leg?’ said Hugo in astonishment.
‘Like I said; it was a big ’un.’
Hugo could only smile, staring down in bewilderment. A rat took his ear and his leg? The man was clearly out of his gourd. Was this the kind of person he wanted running riot through his house – his beautiful home? Some nutter with delusions of monstrous rats that could tear you limb from limb?
The answer was obvious.
‘On second thoughts,’ Hugo said, trying to smile through his discomfort. ‘I’ve just remembered I may have double booked. Yes, that’s right, I have someone else on the job, so there’s really no need for you to trouble yourself. Anyway, must dash.’
With that he stumbled away from the booth, turning to push his way through the crowd, this time not caring who he nudged and shoved out of the way to escape the madhouse.
Once out in the street he breathed in the fetid air, sucking it into his lungs in relief.
The Ten-Tailed Cat indeed! What was Dergen thinking to recommend such a place, and such a man? Once this whole business was over, Hugo was sure he would be having stern words with his old friend regarding his recommendations, and with the sound of the bawdy house ringing in his ears he made his way back home.
That night, Hugo dreamed again.
He was running flat out, his tiny heart fluttering like a hummingbird’s wing, his feet tapping against the hard ground in a staccato beat. The hunter was after him once more, pounding the earth in his wake, chasing him down, relentless and indomitable. Still Hugo dare not look back, dare not look upon the beast on his trail, so determined was he to avoid his fate.
But he could not.
No matter how fast or how far he ran it was still there, always there, breathing down his neck, slavering at the mouth in anticipation of the catch.
Hugo suddenly stumbled, losing his footing, falling, rolling. In an instant he was back on his feet, ready to move once more but that single mistake was enough for the hunter to gain on its prey.
Strong hands, iron hard and huge, grasped him tight, digging their fingers into his flesh, lifting him, raising him towards that infernal maw…
Hugo screamed himself awake, his eyes wide, staring into the blackness of his bedchamber. He panted in the dark, feeling every bit the helpless child. It was all he could do not to cry out for his mother. Once he realised he was alone, and there was no dark hellish beast after him, he let out a laboured sigh of relief. It was only then he realised he was sitting in a damp patch of his own urine.
With a low moan of resignation, Hugo donned his clothes, his boots and his greatcoat. It was a long walk back to the Ten-Tailed Cat, and he didn’t want to catch his death in the night chill.
When Boris knocked at the door of the mansion the next day, Hugo almost fell over himself in his eagerness to open it. The rat catcher stood there with a huge grin on his face, stinking of stale booze and pipe smoke.
‘Come in,’ said Hugo, stepping aside as Boris clunked forwards on his wooden leg. The sturdy appendage clacked against the polished wood floor of the entrance hall and Hugo winced at the prospect of having to call in the polishers to retouch and varnish it.
Boris gawped in astonishment at the interior of the opulent mansion, the grin never leaving his face. ‘Nice place you’ve got,’ he said.
Hugo didn’t reply, he was too busy staring at the paraphernalia Boris was carrying. Some of it was clearly designed for a purpose – two cages, a snare and various traps dangled from the thick belt at Boris’s waist – but there were other items that Hugo did not recognise.
‘What’s that?’ he said, pointing at the wooden barrel under the crook of Boris’s arm.
‘Rat poison,’ Boris replied. ‘Got to be careful though, it’s very potent.’
‘And that?’ Hugo pointed at the huge steel-headed maul strapped to the rat catcher’s back.
‘Oh, that’s for the big ’uns I mentioned before. You can never be too careful in this game. Anyway, shall we get to it?’ Without invitation Boris moved into the mansion, placing his cages down, securing his snares and traps, all the while sniffing the air and muttering to himself about ‘infestations’ and ‘soon having this all sewn up’.
Hugo could only look on with trepidation as the gigantic rat catcher stomped through his beautiful house, exuding his unique aroma and making a mess of his floorboards.
‘Right, all done,’ Boris said finally. ‘Just got to lay the poison and we’re all finished. Of course, you might want to wait outside while I put it down, it doesn’t half hum.’
‘Are you sure this is strictly necessary?’ Hugo said, looking around his home with growing concern.
‘Course I am. Poison’s the best way to flush ’em out. Then the fun starts.’ Boris patted the head of his maul affectionately.
Hugo nodded uncertainly and made to leave, but he paused at the doorway, a portentous feeling of dread filling the pit of his stomach like corked wine. With one last glance around his magnificent entrance hall, he retreated to the safety of the garden.
Boris appeared some time later, trailing the contents of his barrel over the threshold of the doorway and out into the garden. Hugo could only look on in confusion. W
ith the poison laid, Boris place the barrel down on the lawn and turned, a self-satisfied smile on his broad features.
‘Now the fun starts,’ he said. ‘Once we’ve flushed ’em out of course.’
The burly rat catcher took something from his pocket, and knelt down at the end of the trail of poison. Hugo heard a clinking sound as Boris ministered to the trail of powder on the ground.
The trail of black powder.
Hugo was suddenly gripped with a panic. He dashed forwards, about to ask what in the hells Boris was doing, when a flaring sound and the stink of phosphor suddenly struck the air.
‘No!’ was all he could manage to scream as Boris lit the powder trail with a strike of his flint. It ignited, sending a blazing spark along the garden path towards the house. Hugo chased it, vainly trying to catch the burning trail before it ran rampant through his house and set light to the floorboards, but he was not fast enough. Once in the hallway he saw that the powder trail ran of in several different directions – up the stairs, into the parlour, down into the cellar – setting the floor alight in a flickering trail as it went. Flames began to spread throughout the house, and Hugo ran forwards, stamping vainly at the blackening floorboards in an attempt to rescue his home.
Boris walked in after him, and Hugo glared up with unrestrained hatred. ‘What have you done, you imbecile? You told me it was rat poison!’
‘It is,’ replied Boris, a hurt expression on his face. ‘Rats can’t stand it – they likes it even less when you set fire to it. It’s the best thing for flushing them out – look!’
With that he pointed towards the cellar entrance as a horde of rats suddenly scurried out of the dank pit to safety.
Boris grinned, unslinging the maul from his back and rushing forwards with an expression of pure glee on his dumb features. The maul came down with an audible swipe, smashing one of the rats to sludge and knocking a huge hole in the floorboards.
‘I told you it would work,’ he yelled as he went about decimating the rat swarm, crushing them to a bloody pulp, along with the polished floor of the entrance hall.
More rats began to flood from various parts of the house, rushing down the stairs in a squeaking, scurrying mass in their eagerness to escape the flames. Boris was waiting, the delight he derived from his work seeming to increase with every sweeping blow of his maul.
Hammer and Bolter Year One Page 36