Gotrek & Felix- the Second Omnibus - William King

by Warhammer

  Triumph filled Adolphus Krieger. The dwarf had proven no match for his altered form. Look at his pathetic struggles as even now he tries to rise to his feet, he thought.

  Krieger bared his fangs. It was time to end this. Even as he did so, he felt Ulrika and the countess threaten to break free from his influence. The backlash from their efforts almost paralysed him. He threw all of his willpower into the struggle and drew deeply on the power of the Eye. Their despair was like nectar to him. They knew he was invincible. Just at that moment, he heard something moving above him. He looked up, and in a shocked second saw the enormous crystal chandelier descending towards him, the metal spike on the bottom glittering like a sword-blade.

  A bellowed warcry from overhead drew Max’s attention. He saw Snorri Nosebiter had somehow clambered up onto the chandelier and chopped through its chain. It crashed downwards, hurtling down onto the massive hybrid thing that was Krieger. At the last second the monster sensed its peril and looked up, a peculiarly human look of despair flashing through its eyes, as the spiked tip at the base of the huge structure smashed through its chest, driven by all the weight of Snorri Nosebiter and the momentum of its long fall.

  Krieger surged to his feet, desperately casting off the remains of the chandelier. His unnatural shape was already changing back to human. The marks of mortality were etched on his face. Max summoned the last of his remaining power and sent a bolt of dazzling light flickering towards the transformed vampire’s eyes. Krieger let out a screech of unnatural rage and pain. It emerged from his warped throat and the pitch heightened until it seemed to reach a realm inaudible to human ears.

  Gotrek pulled himself to his feet and sent his axe thundering at the vampire’s neck. His blade impacted on the Eye of Khemri and drove right through it, burying itself deep in Krieger’s chest. As the enchanted axe smashed through the ancient talisman, all of the armoured guardians lost their animation and collapsed. The huge bats, no longer guided by a single will, fluttered upwards, away from the battle. For a moment, everything seemed frozen in place. An aura of unnatural energy crackled around Krieger’s form as the talisman discharged the last of its power, then a vast explosion of unleashed magical energy ripped outwards, tearing the vampire apart.

  The force of the blast smashed into the weakened Max, knocking him from his feet and down into darkness.

  Without taking his eyes off the countess, Felix bent down and retrieved his sword. He ached all over but he still offered up his thanks to Sigmar for sparing him. His clothing was scorched, his hair was burned and his face felt toasted. All in all though, things could have been worse. Looking at the countess however, his gratitude vanished. She glared at him hungrily.

  ‘Come and die,’ growled Gotrek from somewhere behind Felix’s back. Felix braced himself for the inevitable attack. It did not come. Instead the countess merely looked at him and then at the Slayer, and shook her head like someone awakening from a bad dream.

  ‘There is no need for us to fight,’ she said. ‘We have done what we came here to do.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Felix asked.

  ‘The threat of the Eye is ended forever.’

  Felix glanced down at where the corpse of Krieger should have been. All that remained were some putrefying chunks of flesh, and a few fragments of the broken Eye. As Felix watched the shards turned to dust.

  The countess looked at Ulrika. She extended one of her hands. ‘Come with me child. Your progenitor is gone, and there is much you must learn.’

  Ulrika strode over to where her father lay. She looked as if she wanted to cry but could not quite remember how. ‘I must bury him first.’

  The countess nodded. Ulrika bent and picked up the old man’s corpse as if it were weightless. Felix looked at Gotrek. He wondered if the Slayer were going to attack her. At the moment the dwarf did not look as if he was up to overcoming a puppy let alone a vampire. The explosion had covered him in filth. His eyebrows and crest were singed and smouldering. He bled from a dozen cuts. He appeared barely capable of standing let alone fighting. Snorri Nosebiter sprawled amid the remains of the chandelier. No help there either, Felix thought.

  ‘What she did was done under the influence of something she could not resist,’ said the countess. ‘She bears you no malice.’

  For the first time Ulrika seemed to see them. ‘That is true,’ she said. There was nothing apologetic in her tone though. Her voice was cold and distant and alien. Felix wondered if any trace of the woman he had once known remained.

  ‘She was as much Krieger’s victim as anyone here. She does not deserve to be punished for something that was not her choice. I will take her and teach her and see that she does no one any harm,’ said the countess. The Slayer started as if he was considering an attack. Felix was surprised at his restraint. Gotrek looked at Ulrika and an odd mixture of emotions flickered across his brutal features.

  ‘See that you do,’ he said eventually. ‘Or I will come looking for you both.’

  The countess knelt down beside Max and touched his forehead gently. ‘He will live,’ she said eventually. ‘When he recovers he will heal you.’

  Together the countess and Ulrika left the chamber. Rodrik followed like a lapdog. Gotrek surveyed the shambles of the throne room bleakly and then stared towards the door, as if trying to decide whether he should follow the departing vampires. Eventually he shook his head and slumped wearily to the floor. Felix suddenly realised just how much effort it had cost the Slayer to remain upright.

  ‘I am spending too much time with humans,’ Gotrek said quietly. ‘I am getting soft.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Felix said. ‘What now?’

  ‘The forces of Chaos are abroad. There is a war still to be fought, manling, and monsters to be slain. I am sure we will find something to do.’

  Groaning, Snorri Nosebiter rose from the wreckage of the chandelier. ‘Good thing something broke Snorri’s fall,’ he said. ‘Now where’s that bloody vampire?’

  ‘You killed him,’ said Felix.

  Snorri Nosebiter looked pleased.

  THE TILEAN’S TALISMAN

  David Guymer

  From now on, Siskritt intended to do as he was told. No more, no less. He cowered beneath the table as the slaughter raged around him. Trembling, he risked a peek through the cage of his own claws. The room resembled the aftermath of a stampede: tables and chairs had been smashed to kindling and the floor rushes were thick with the blood of countless corpses, both skaven and man-thing.

  Heedless of the carpet of carrion, the melee swirled on through the same dense smoke that seared Siskritt’s snout. The roar of warpfire flooded his ears as the tavern’s frontage burned, fingers of green-black flame licking hungrily at the beamed ceiling, casting the whole orgy of bloodshed in an unearthly glare and exciting his whiskers with the tang of warpstone.

  A sudden crash above his head made him jump and he bit down hard on the pommel stone of his shiny new sword to keep from yelping out loud in terror. A dirty, gold-furred arm fell across his view, the battered wooden shield it bore sliding free and rolling to a halt at his feet. The Horned One’s sigil stared into him. Silently, he screamed into the precious stone. It was a sign. He was going to die here.

  Unconsciously, his paw moved to the talisman around his neck.

  It had been worth it, whatever happened. The talisman belonged to him now. It would protect him. The horrors of the room seemed to fade as the talisman’s magic seeped through his fur and flesh, flowing lazily up his arms and filling his mind with calm thoughts. He closed his eyes and could almost hear its whispering voice, reassuring him, encouraging him.

  He pulled the sword from his mouth and regarded the gleaming blade. This was ridiculous, now that he thought about it. It was just one dwarf.

  Siskritt snarled, shaking his head as the moment passed. This was not just any dwarf: it was like a warpstone-powered engine of death.

  The dwarf tore its axe from the belly of another skaven, its momentum carrying
it through a low spin to take the legs from the next. An iron-shod boot across the struggling warrior’s windpipe put an end to his suffering.

  Siskritt watched as the dwarf took advantage of the momentary lull to wipe skaven blood from its good eye.

  In the far corner of the tavern, the few surviving man-things still hung on. Backs to the wall and side-by-side, they fought a losing battle against the endless tide.

  The dwarf hefted its axe with a sneer. It opened its mouth to speak and, though Siskritt could not make out every word, its joyful belligerence was plain to see. It hurled challenges at the swarming clanrats, cursing their cowardice as the axe bit deeply into their wiry bodies. In a furious panic, skaven warriors turned swords and teeth upon one another, but there was nowhere left to run. With a final roar of laughter, the dwarf barrelled forwards, tossing the survivors aside like grass. It burst through the press of furred bodies, bellowing a war cry as it swung its axe for a warrior that knelt across a prone man-thing on the rush-covered floor.

  The skaven sprayed the struggling man-thing’s grimy red cloak with fear-musk and hurriedly raised his blade in defence, but the dwarf’s axe clove the rusted weapon in two like rotten matchwood. The tip skittered off into the darkness as the rune-encrusted axe buried itself in the skaven’s skull.

  The man-thing heaved the dead skaven away and clambered upright, suddenly wracked by a fit of coughing as it drew in a lungful of the acrid smoke. Siskritt could not clearly see its face through the haze, but the man-thing was tall, and its armour writhed with green shapes reflected from the spreading warpfire. He recognised it as the dwarf-thing’s companion, Feelicks. The man-thing gabbled something in Reikspiel, but the dwarf merely laughed as it sent another warrior flying with a swipe of its bare fist.

  It spoke slowly, in the usual manner of the dwarfs, but Siskritt still struggled to puzzle out their conversation. He cursed bitterly as the exchange passed over his head.

  A shrill note from the doorway grabbed the man-thing’s attention as a fresh wave of skaven warriors spilled through the blazing portal. Charging ahead of the rest, a wicked halberd held high in both paws, was a massive, black-furred brute in armour the colour of malachite, a challenge shrieking from his throat.

  The dwarf grinned. Its man-thing friend sagged.

  Siskritt leapt from his hiding place, sword in paw. He was saved. Nobody was stronger than Krizzak. He rushed to join the battle, already picturing how the grateful chieftain would reward his bravery.

  The dwarf lumbered forwards to meet Krizzak’s mighty charge, swinging its axe in a killing arc. At the last instant the giant skaven checked his run and the axe instead tore out the ribcage from one of his more slow-witted brethren. Taking advantage of the mis-strike, Krizzak threw his weight against the dwarf, pinning its weapon and burying his teeth into its neck.

  The dwarf bellowed like an enraged bull, and with a strength that defied reason, it ripped the skaven’s jaws clear with its free hand. The dwarf compressed its grip around the huge skaven’s throat, and Krizzak thrashed and squealed – a pathetic, mewling sound that seemed unreal coming from the jaws of the giant warrior – and sank his claws deeply into the dwarf’s bicep. Blood ran freely down the dwarf’s arm, but its hold didn’t loosen. Instead, the dwarf roared and hauled down hard, smashing the skaven’s snout with a brutal headbutt, splattering its own tattooed hide with its foe’s blood and sputum. Krizzak staggered back a pace, shaking his head to clear it before the dwarf’s axe parted it from his shoulders.

  Too late, Siskritt realised he was alone, and face-to-face with a monstrosity: the vivid orange mohawk, the skaven gore smeared across the fearsome patterns on its brutish face, the axe wielded with unnatural strength that dripped with the still-warm blood of his kin. He sprayed himself with fear scent.

  A faint tinkling skirted the boundaries of his perception, vaguely registering as the sound of his sword clattering to the floor from his trembling fingers.

  He was thrown back into his senses by a body bowling into him. He looked up into a familiar face twisted with fear.

  ‘Crassik?’ he squeaked in surprise. With no time for any further thought, he spun his litter-brother around and shoved him into the dwarf’s path. ‘Fight, Crassik-brother. Kill-kill!’

  Whirling away, Siskritt dashed for freedom. He had only to make it to the cellar and from there he could easily lose the dwarf in the tunnels. The cellar, he thought with black despair, why had he not just stayed down in that cellar?

  Siskritt stumbled through the shattered furniture away from the rampaging dwarf. Frantically he threw his gaze left and right but could see nothing through the smoke. He forced himself to be calm. Yes! The cellar was to his right; even through the fire he could detect the rancid ale smell. He dashed in that direction, vaulting the bar, only to blunder straight into the man-thing Feelicks. This time he saw its frightful face, blackened with ash and its pale hair pasted to the skin with spatters of blood.

  Only their mutual surprise spared Siskritt’s life.

  His paws twitched instinctively for his weapon, but too late he recalled how he had dropped it. The man-thing’s eyes widened, and it raised its sword above its head for the killing blow.

  Siskritt scrunched his eyes tight and waited for death.

  The talisman vibrated on its chain, a muffled bell tolling inside his skull, and for an instant he was enveloped by an incandescent shield of light. The man-thing cried out in alarm as the sword was wrenched from its grip and fired into the ceiling like a missile from a bolt thrower.

  Hesitantly, expecting his head to split like a cracked nut if he moved too hastily, Siskritt opened one eye. The man-thing’s sword was buried to the hilt in the rough wooden beams, the owner’s knuckles whitening around the grip as its feet kicked ineffectually at the empty air, trying to turn its own weight and straining muscles to tug the weapon free.

  Siskritt tittered and scooped up a fallen blade. It wasn’t his nice new one, but there’d be other swords. The man-thing dropped to the floor empty-handed and spun into a fighting crouch in front of him, raising its fists as he approached. Siskritt rejoiced. Just one unarmed man-thing and he would be free!

  Suddenly the man-thing relaxed, a smile splitting its ugly face. Siskritt’s nose twitched at this puzzling behaviour, but the heavy footsteps behind him sent cold dread marching up his spine, scattering all thoughts of the man-thing in its wake.

  He spun on his heel as the dwarf approached.

  The fighting was over. His kin were all gone and the tavern was a dead place. The only sounds that remained were the crackling of the wooden structure as it was consumed by warpfire, the heaving breaths of the man-thing, and the footfalls of the dwarf that seemed to echo the frantic hammering of his own heart.

  ‘You!’ he hissed in broken Reikspiel. ‘How you still live-breathe?’

  The dwarf raised its axe. ‘Because nothing has killed me yet.’

  Siskritt snarled. His talisman would spare him. He lived with the Horned One’s blessing. He sprang forwards, ducking under the dwarf’s swing to stab at its belly. The dwarf swatted aside the flat of his blade on its wrist and, with a deftness of foot that would not have been misplaced on an Eshin assassin, shifted its balance to bring the axe backhanded between Siskritt’s shoulder blades.

  As it had before, the talisman flared into life. It caught the axe in mid-swing.

  The dwarf roared as the talisman held its weapon in a supernatural grip, the axe’s runes glowing hot as it burrowed into the flickering barrier. The talisman’s song became a scream, filling Siskritt’s ears with pain. Just as he felt he could endure no more, the light fled before the dwarf’s axe, drawing back into the talisman and leaving him deafened and in darkness. He stared at it in disbelief as the dwarf’s axe punched into his spine.

  His sword slithered free from nerveless paws and he sank to his knees, crumpling over onto his side. His face struck the floor but he barely felt it, his nose filling with the scent of blood, wood dust and mou
ldering straw.

  The talisman lay before him, amidst the corpses, as far away as its chain would allow, almost as though it were trying to escape him. Siskritt tried to stretch out a paw to reclaim it but his arms no longer obeyed. Sound and colour bled from his world as his vision closed in around the talisman.

  Why had it left him? Why could he no longer hear its whispering voice? Why had it betrayed its new master at the moment of his greatest need?

  It was the last thing he saw as the darkness claimed him.

  Siskritt watched his litter-brother work as the blood ran in tiny rivulets between the flagstones, relishing the fleeting warmth as it moved languidly between his toes. Drawing his sword, he padded over to where the dead man-thing lay, the notched and rusted weapon reflecting nothing of the cellar’s dim torchlight.

  He prodded the corpse with the blunted tip of his blade. ‘Fool! Can’t you see, is not the one!’

  Crassik sniffed. ‘You sure, Siskritt-brother? Man-things look all same-same to me.’

  Siskritt snarled, treasured notions of skaven supremacy offended by his litter-brother’s slack-jawed idiocy. ‘This one doesn’t have it. Is just a child-thing. Look how small it is! And is too pale. The man-things of Tilea have darker hides. You spend more time watching man-things back home, then you not be so stupid-slow.’

  He sighed. Perhaps it had been too much to hope that their target should fall so invitingly into their lap; Siskritt had never been overly burdened with the Horned One’s favour.

  Vaguely, he realised his litter-brother was still speaking.

  ‘We must be going-gone. Lesskreep kill-feed for rats if missed.’

  ‘Fool!’ Siskritt resisted the impulse to lash out. Crassik was nearly twice his size, and not too beholden to his litter-brother’s wits to administer a beating of his own. ‘None will miss us. Who will miss two from so many? None. None will care.’