Dead Winter

by C. L. Werner

  Blight had seemed indifferent to the theory until Puskab pointed out that if the infection was deliberate, it would hardly have been his doing. No ratman set fire to his own nest and if the Black Plague were to escape into the Hive, then Puskab would be just as much at risk as his allies. And if Nurglitch had sent traitors to infect Clan Verms, then it was a certainty the Arch-Plaguelord would try again.

  It was this, more than anything, which had finally decided Blight to move ahead with the assassination of Nurglitch. Puskab had suspected the proposal was simply a ruse to draw him deeper into the toils of Clan Verms, that Blight had no intention of going ahead with such a dangerous plot. Now the Wormlord’s paw had been forced. Killing Nurglitch had become a matter of survival, not bait to entice the loyalties of an ambitious plague priest.

  Puskab grinned at the score of ratmen creeping down the narrow, earthen tunnel. White skaven carrying big metal caskets, their dyed fur proclaiming the dangerous cargo they bore. Brown skaven with the curious fire-prods that would drive the spiders to the attack. All of them moved with their backs hunched, their ears and tails low. They stank of fear and they were right to be afraid.

  The catacombs they now travelled wound through the very walls of the Outer Temple. If they listened carefully, they could hear the abbots squeaking putrid psalms as they sawed off bits of their leprous bodies to place within reliquaries. These were the last guardians, the last ring of protectors before the Inner Temple and the sanctum of the Arch-Plaguelord himself.

  There was no going back now. For any ratman outside the Pestilent Brotherhood to be discovered here was the ultimate in sacrilege. Such an outrage would bring frenzied packs of plague monks down upon them all. They would be slaughtered in an orgy of bloodshed.

  So it was that when they reached the hidden doorway which connected the catacombs with the Inner Temple, none of his companions objected when Puskab used his magic to create a scout for them. Drawing upon his sorcery, the plague priest’s body convulsed in a fit of hacking and coughing. A black mixture of vomit and blood spilled from his mouth, forming a pool of foulness upon the floor. As Puskab wiped the filth from his whiskers, the pool began to undulate, forming itself into shapes. Great hairy flies emerged from the mess, their faces pinched and somehow ratlike. Their clawed legs scraped against their translucent wings, drying them of the priestly sickness.

  ‘Seek-see,’ Puskab hissed at the flies. He pressed his paw against the stone which served as the catch for the hidden door. The flies buzzed away into the black corridor beyond.

  ‘What will-will they do?’ gasped Swarmleader Thaglik, ostensibly commander of the mission. The clanrat’s eyes were wide with anxiety, his posture cringing and timid.

  Puskab glowered at Thaglik. He pressed a claw against his eye, then against his ear. ‘Spy-flies see-hear much-much,’ the priest explained. ‘I see-hear all-all.’ He bared his blackened fangs in a savage display. If Thaglik had any more questions about the priest’s magic, he kept them to himself.

  For several minutes, the skaven huddled in the murky darkness, shivering at every sound. After a time, the buzzing of flies could be heard through the narrow crack Puskab had left open. Six hairy black shapes came whizzing through the opening, landing upon the plague priest’s paw. One by one, the flies faced Puskab, buzzing and fluttering their wings, almost as if reporting to their master. As each fly fell silent, the ratman swallowed it, drawing back into his putrid body the noxious life his magic had spawned.

  When the last fly vanished into Puskab’s mouth, the priest turned to his companions. ‘Safe-alone,’ he snarled. ‘Nurglitch pray-think in refectory.’ The plague priest’s eyes gleamed murderously. ‘Spider-things burrow-chew wall! Scurry-hurry straight to Nurglitch!’

  The bloodthirsty excitement shown by Puskab seemed to infect the others. The magnitude of what they had been tasked with had depressed and frightened them – every skaven half-believed that the Grey Lords were immortal and unkillable. But the vicious confidence displayed by Puskab fanned the embers of their own fragile courage. If it was possible to kill the Arch-Plaguelord, then they would be handsomely rewarded by Blight Tenscratch. More importantly, if they killed Nurglitch, then they would be able to leave the horrifying Pestilent Monastery.

  The skaven scrambled out from behind the wall, emerging into a dank hall of stone. Each of the mismatched blocks looked to have been dragged down from the surface, appropriated by Clan Pestilens to construct their stronghold. It was a sensible precaution – earthen walls could be breached by the fangs and claws of other ratmen given enough time, but solid stone could thwart such intrusions. Unless, of course, the intruders had creatures such as the diggerfangs to help them.

  Puskab pointed at one of the walls, marking it as adjoining the refectory where Nurglitch made his prayers. It was the only time when the Arch-Plaguelord would be alone, that hour when he made direct communion with the Horned One.

  The ratmen of Clan Verms hastened across the hall, the white rats setting down their metal caskets, the brown rats lighting their worm-oil torches. Thaglik and the two skaven appointed as his bodyguards stood well away from the spider-handlers. For a skaven, the biggest part of being a leader was avoiding the hazards delegated to underlings. At the moment, keeping close to Puskab was preferable to any proximity to his fellow clanrats.

  Puskab watched as the spider-handlers made ready to loose the diggerfangs, his tail twitching expectantly. He held his breath as the white ratmen pushed the caskets towards the wall and raised the lids. The uneven, disordered state of the wall made it impossible to press the cages flush against the stone, so as the tarantulas scuttled into view, the torch-bearers leapt into action, goading the arachnids with the heat of their prods. Under their merciless direction, the spiders attacked the wall, using their venom to burn their way into the stone. Soon a half-dozen smoking craters pitted the face of the wall, each of the holes marking the passage of a ferocious killer.

  The skaven chittered softly to each other. Now that the diggerfangs were on their way, the destruction of Nurglitch seemed assured. The spider-handlers rested beside the cages, leaning against their worm-oil prods. After the tension of manoeuvring the tarantulas, the ratmen had slipped into a state of exhausted relief.

  A squeal of terror snapped the skaven from their idleness. Spinning around, the ratmen watched in horror as one of their comrades quivered on the floor, a huge tarantula fastened to his leg, its acids eating away his flesh. From the other holes, more of the spiders began to emerge, rushing with eight-legged rapidity towards the stunned skaven. The spider-handlers rushed at the creeping arachnids with their torches, but the creatures barely flinched from the flames. Displaying mindless disregard for their own safety, the tarantulas kept on coming. Their hair singed by the torches, still the scuttling vermin charged at the ratmen. First one, then a second handler was dragged down by the enraged tarantulas.

  The other ratmen threw down their prods and scurried back to the hidden door. The white skaven watched the retreat of their fellows for only an instant, then followed them in flight. Yipping like a gutted weasel, Swarmleader Thaglik hurried after his routed minions.

  Puskab lingered behind, his fangs bared as he watched the spiders feast upon the fallen skaven. Somehow Nurglitch had discovered the murder scheme. Through magic or cunning, he had thwarted it. Blight was committed now. There could be no more half-steps in his feud with the Arch-Plaguelord.

  Eyes glowing with ambition, his mind awhirl with future schemes, Puskab made his way to the hidden door. He paused for only a moment as the seventh fly conjured by his sorcery came buzzing down the corridor and landed upon his arm. Quickly he snatched up the insect and swallowed it. There weren’t any eyes to see him, but Puskab was always careful in his intrigues.

  Licking his fangs, the corpulent plague priest vanished into the secret passage. It wouldn’t do to give Thaglik and his rodents too much of a head start.

  Altdorf

  Vorhexen, 1111

 
Adolf Kreyssig bowed as he was conducted into the calefactory. Like the rest of the Great Cathedral, the chamber was magnificent in its air of opulence and grandeur. The walls were of gleaming marble, the floor a mosaic of contrasting black and white tiles. Great columns spiralled upwards to the heights of vaulted ceilings adorned with panes of stained glass. Tapestries depicting events from the life of Sigmar were displayed in abundance, only a handful betraying the sooty odour of relics rescued from the temple in Nuln.

  At the centre of the chamber stood an analogion of wutroth, a massive copy of the Deus Sigmar resting upon the lectern’s slanted shelf. To either side of the lectern, two enormous fires blazed, fed by a quartet of solemn monks dressed in sackcloth, their shaven heads tattooed with the mark of the twin-tailed comet. Behind the lectern, seated in a tall throne of carved cherrywood, sat the most powerful clergyman in Altdorf, Grand Theogonist Thorgrad.

  The Grand Theogonist was an old man, his hair the colour of new-fallen snow, his eyes listless and weary, his wrinkled skin as thin as parchment and bleached to an almost leprous hue, looking somehow ghoulish in a setting of black priestly robes. A jade talisman clung to the priest’s throat and about his finger he wore a matching ring. A corset of gromril, a fabulous girdle of dwarfcraft said to possess magical powers, circled his waist and upon the breast of his robe was woven the symbol of Sigmar’s hammer, the legendary Ghal Maraz.

  Kreyssig stifled an impious snicker when he noted the priest’s proximity to the flames. It wasn’t the chill of winter that lured Thorgrad to such a conflagration. One of the most widespread stories about the Black Plague was that it was caused by the bites of little black spiders. The common remedy for keeping the spiders away was a good stout fire.

  ‘Thank you for receiving me, your holiness,’ Kreyssig said, his tone more mocking than deferential. It was a distinction that did not go unnoticed. The monks hesitated in their tending of the fires, staring at him with scandalised astonishment. Thorgrad shifted in his chair, an ember of life flaring up in his weary eyes.

  ‘Your insistence made a personal audience – how did you put it, commander – advisable.’ The Grand Theogonist made the last word drip off his tongue like venom. ‘I am in seclusion at present. Not to be disturbed. I am communing with Great Sigmar, meditating upon his holy creed and begging his aid in the crisis which besets our Empire. It will take divine aid to stamp out this plague which afflicts us in body and soul.’

  A wry smile spread across Kreyssig’s face. The only body and soul Thorgrad was trying to save from the Black Plague was his own. ‘Forgive my disturbance of your meditation,’ he said. ‘However I came here not to impose, but to perform a service.’

  Immediately Thorgrad’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. ‘To what does the Temple of Sigmar owe this sudden display of piety, commander?’

  ‘Evidence has come to me that there is a conspiracy against his Imperial Majesty. The name attached to this ring of traitors is that of Arch-Lector Hartwich.’

  The Grand Theogonist half rose from his chair, his body trembling with anger. ‘You dare come in here and accuse one of Sigmar’s most devout and pious servants of such…’

  ‘I have my evidence,’ Kreyssig snarled back. ‘And I can get more, as much as I need. The threat of Drechsler’s axe can be most persuasive.’

  Thorgrad’s anger intensified. ‘The Temple of Sigmar is not answerable to secular authority, and especially not the authority of an ambitious peasant who would aggrandise himself through blasphemy!’

  Kreyssig shrugged his shoulders. ‘I feared that would be your attitude. Laws can be changed, but why should we scandalise the entire Sigmarite faith because of one treacherous priest?’ A cunning tone crept into the dienstmann’s voice. ‘Or is it only one treacherous priest?’

  ‘Now you have the affrontery to accuse me!’ the Grand Theogonist roared.

  Kreyssig’s eyes gleamed like slivers of steel. ‘Not you, your holiness, but your predecessor. You see, I’ve heard some ugly rumours about Grand Theogonist Uthorsson. Some ugly ones about what happened to him as well.’

  Thorgrad’s face went pale. The priest’s body collapsed back into his chair. He gestured to the attendant monks, motioning for them to leave the calefactory. Kreyssig watched them leave, triumph stamped across his smirking features.

  ‘How much do you know?’ Thorgrad demanded.

  ‘The Verenan inquisitors down in Nuln were quite… inquisitive,’ Kreyssig said. ‘For some time they had been investigating the excesses of your predecessor. They mentioned Uthorsson as having a connection to something called Slaanesh and intimated that the outrages against propriety unfolding after dark in the Nuln cathedral were not so much an expression of degenerate proclivities but a sort of obscene religious ritual.’ The commander’s smile became almost reptilian. ‘It was rather fortunate that a fire destroyed the cathedral and your predecessor before the Verenans decided to take matters into their own hands.’

  The Grand Theogonist lost all appearance of power and authority, his shoulders slumping, his body wilting against the cushions of his chair. ‘What is it you want to keep this information secret?’

  ‘Only a small consideration,’ Kreyssig said. ‘Hartwich is an enemy of his Imperial Majesty, but as a priest he becomes a special case. As you observe, I have no strict authority over him. You, however, do. I am not saying that you have to denounce him publicly as a traitor. You can do whatever you like, just as long as he is disposed of. Quickly and permanently.’

  Kreyssig looked over the raging fires, his lip curling in a sneer. ‘Say he died of the plague, if you like. There’s a lot of that going around right now.’

  The Grand Theogonist nodded, conceding to Kreyssig’s demands. He was enough of a realist to know this was only the beginning, that the commander would exploit the secret shame of the temple as often as it suited his purposes. Blackmail was a crime without an end.

  ‘What will you do about the other conspirators?’ Thorgrad asked.

  Kreyssig stepped away from the fires. ‘They will be rounded up and disposed of. My spies are quite thorough. Even now, we have taken a man into custody.’ He hesitated a moment, weighing whether he should disclose the name of his catch. Contempt for the old, frightened man perched between the flames decided him. Even if the priest grew the spine to warn the conspirators –allowing he knew who they were – their very effort to escape would reveal them to him.

  ‘My Kaiserjaeger found a plague doktor down in the docks who had an interesting story to tell. It seems he was treating a certain peasant, a man who has been hiding from me for some time now. It took a little persuasion, but the physician eventually led us to the hole this peasant had hidden himself in.

  ‘I have Wilhelm Engel,’ Kreyssig stated, watching to see if Thorgrad displayed any special reaction. He was disappointed to find none.

  ‘I have Wilhelm Engel,’ he repeated. ‘And through him, I will track down all of these traitors and put their heads on the Tower of Altdorf’s roof.’

  Chapter XII

  Altdorf

  Vorhexen, 1111

  ‘I can make the pain go away. I can make all the hurt and suffering stop. You can be whole again. Clean again. Why won’t you let me help you?’

  The words crackled through the black corridors of Mundsen Keep, reverberating from the frozen slime caking the filthy walls. Somewhere in the darkness a maniac began to giggle, his chains clanking against the bricks of his cell.

  Wilhelm Engel clenched his eyes closed, trying to hold back the tears. Kreyssig’s torturers had been at work on him, splitting open his diseased flesh with hot tongs, scalding his skin with boiling oil, piercing his fingers with copper nails. Somehow, through it all, he had kept silent.

  Or at least given the Kaiserjaeger nothing better than inarticulate screams.

  Now, however, the fiendish Kreyssig had unveiled a new torture. The torment of hope. The promise of life to a man already resigned to death.

  Engel was strapped to a table
, his mangled body held in place by long belts of leather. He could just raise his neck enough to see the hideous ruin the Kaiserjaeger had made of him, the raw glistening meat where his leg should be, the red wreck of his chest. He could also see the man who promised to undo everything that had been done to him. More than that – the man who promised to do the impossible. To save him from the plague.

  It was easy to be brave when you were prepared to die. How much harder to die when you were offered a miraculous chance to escape death, to cheat Morr even as he reached out his bony hand to take you.

  Karl-Maria Fleischauer, a scarecrow of a man, his face displaying hard angles beneath its thick growth of beard, his eyes glistening with an ophidian lustre. He wore an extravagant robe of silk, its foreign contours lent a further exotic flavour by the mystical symbols embroidered over its surface. Grinning moons and whirling stars, writhing dragons and fiery phoenixes, coiled serpents and roaring lions. Fleischauer, the pet warlock of Emperor Boris, a man both infamous among and feared by the peasants of Altdorf and common folk everywhere. The black arts were a thing to be shunned, their practitioners reviled and destroyed. Such sorcerers were debased, subhuman things, preying upon the innocent to call forth elementals and daemons, sacrificing the helpless to seal their unholy pacts with the Ruinous Powers.

  Yet Fleischauer promised his magic could do something so wondrous that it was beyond even the priestesses of Shallya. He promised his spells could drive the plague from Engel’s body.

  ‘Perhaps you doubt my magic,’ Fleischauer said, a tinge of hurt seeping into his grotesque voice. He ruffled his arms, throwing back the voluminous sleeves of his robe. ‘I shall demonstrate. Then you will believe. You will know that you can trust my spells and my word.’