Hammer and Bolter 22

by Christian Dunn

  At length, Festus turned back to von Sturm again.

  ‘You were cut with a skaven blade, wielded by a rat from the Clan Pestilens,’ he said.

  ‘How do you–’

  ‘The metal was coated with rodent saliva, itself infected with a plague that is most common among the short-clawed brown rat populations of the Under-Empire. It is spread among them by the green-winged flea. A particular favourite of mine actually, quite a rare strain indeed.’

  ‘Rare?’

  ‘In humans at least. Although it was once deadly to them, the rats have grown to live with it rather well. Among men, however, this pox is quite virulent. You should have died days ago,’ he mused, almost to himself. Then he cocked his head to the side and looked at von Sturm again, as if for the first time. ‘Why haven’t you?’

  ‘Maybe I’m just lucky,’ von Sturm replied.

  Festus shook his head, either missing the attempt at humour or looking past it.

  ‘Do you know what a plague wants?’ he asked. ‘What it desires the most?’

  Von Sturm puzzled, rubbing his increasingly blurry eyes. The question made no sense to him. Given the pain rippling through his chest and his head, he could think of only one reply.

  ‘To kill?’ he wheezed.

  Festus wagged his fat finger like a school teacher.

  ‘That is what a plague does, not what it desires,’ he answered. ‘Tell me, what would you say are the greatest plagues of all the ages?’

  Again, von Sturm struggled to think, fighting through the delirium to force himself to consider.

  ‘I don’t know… Blacklegge. The ghoulpox. Gnashing fever, perhaps,’ he replied.

  ‘I treated them all,’ said Festus. ‘And they killed thousands, perhaps tens or even hundreds of thousands. The dead went uncounted.’ Festus drew in closer to von Sturm yet again. ‘Failures all,’ he whispered.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ von Sturm croaked. ‘If you mean to kill me, then get on with it. I should have died on the field, not like this.’

  Still Festus paid his suffering no mind.

  ‘Can you guess why they failed, all those terrible plagues?’ Festus asked, continuing the exchange with little urgency.

  Von Sturm shook his head. He was losing his strength by the moment.

  ‘It was not because they killed, but because of how they killed. Exactly because they were so very deadly,’ Festus replied. ‘The most successful plague is not the one that kills overnight. On the contrary, the pox that eats through its host too quickly is no use to me at all.’

  ‘Why are you telling me this?’

  ‘Because you aren’t dead,’ Festus replied.

  ‘By the gods, you really are insane!’

  Festus shook his head. ‘A host,’ he said. ‘That is what every plague desires. A home where it can thrive, a strong specimen with enough resistance to stay alive long enough for the pox to grow, to mature. To spread. You see, my friend, the greatest plague of all is the one that can spread without killing, at least not until it has used its host for all that it has to offer, to spawn new disease swarms to continue on, and on and on. For that it needs a sturdy victim, such a rare thing to find. But when one does appear, there is no more wonderful pairing to be had. A perfect symbiosis – the most virulent of poxes spread by the most durable of hosts.’

  Horrible realisation began to dawn on von Sturm. ‘No,’ he replied, his breath failing. ‘Kill me. Kill me now.’

  ‘Kill you? I must say, I fear that you have understood nothing I’ve told you,’ Festus replied. ‘No, in fact killing you is the last thing I mean to do, not when you’ve shown such natural talent. No, I mean to leave you even better than I found you. In my hands, you will become perfect.’

  ‘Perfect? I don’t understand,’ he wheezed. ‘Do you mean to heal me after all?’

  ‘I shall shortly bestow a great gift upon you,’ Festus said. ‘You’re a lucky soul – few who have crossed my path have ever been as fortunate as you. The gods have truly blessed you indeed. I intend to see that your blessing is not wasted.’

  Festus raised a vial, bubbling with sickly froth and green fluid. In his other hand he lifted a giant rusty needle, smiling and laughing as he brought them near. Von Sturm breathed and tried to speak, but lost consciousness before the words came to his lips.

  Von Sturm held his eyes tightly shut. He remembered everything, but he hoped that he was wrong. He hoped he was mistaken. He prayed that it wasn’t true, that all of it was a dream. A nightmare. But when he finally opened his eyes, his worst fears were confirmed.

  It was morning. Soft, pale light spilled in through a pair of open windows. Everything was utterly still. He was not in the lair of Festus – instead he lay once more in the care of the Burgomeister’s doktor in Ferlangen, with the physician seated beside him, sleeping in his chair.

  Von Sturm rose from the bed and shakily nudged the slumped figure of Doktor Kohlrek. The chirurgeon did not respond. He grabbed the old man with both hands, trying to rouse him, but his head merely sagged. His neck was limp, his body lifeless.

  The Black Eagle knight lifted the doktor’s chin, and the reason was immediately clear. Doktor Kohlrek’s face was covered in a pale green rash. His cheeks were swollen with blisters. Yellow phlegm had dried into a crust across his lips.

  Von Sturm stumbled across the room, clutching at a mirror hanging from the far wall. He stared at his reflection in the polished glass.

  He froze.

  His own face was a twisted ruin. Green pustules swelled across his flesh. His hair had fallen out in clumps, leaving patches of mottled, scaly skin. He tore off his tunic, and his blood ran cold. Beneath his clothing he saw that his entire body was mangled by the pox, warped and seething with pus.

  But he felt nothing. The burning in his lungs was gone, as was the cough, and the fever. He felt no sickness. No malady of any kind. The strength in his legs had returned.

  He bounded across the room and threw open the door, but no guards stood outside. He realised why – they were slumped against the wall, their flesh riddled with weeping sores. Down the hall, more bodies lay sprawled on the floor, all of them dead from the same affliction. From his affliction.

  He loped down the corridor, tearing open the heavy front door of the building and stumbling into the open air beyond.

  A silent horror greeted him, and an unimaginable stench of rotting flesh.

  The city was no more. Corpses littered every street, collapsed against doorways or horse troughs, frozen in their final moments of retching agony. Soldiers, women and even children lay where they had fallen. Bloated flies buzzed in the cold air.

  Jürgen von Sturm sank to his knees. The words of Festus echoed in his head.

  The most virulent of poxes spread by the most durable of hosts.

  He screamed to the heavens, but there was no one else left alive in Ferlangen to hear him.

  A BLACK LIBRARY PUBLICATION

  Published in 2012 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd., Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK

  Cover illustration by Cheoljoo Lee

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