Gotrek & Felix- the Second Omnibus - William King

by Warhammer

  The last wisps of courage fled his body with the blood from his precious nose and he scampered clear of the table, blind to everything but the instinct to escape. He collided headlong into a wall, collapsing tail-over-head into a heap before righting himself in a blur of blood and fur. Witless with panic, he trembled in the shadow of the wall, catching short rapid gasps of the charnel house air. Slowly, his nerve returned and he gingerly pulled his sleeve from his face. He gave his nose a tentative dab with the cleaner – relatively speaking – side and almost fainted with relief when it came away bloodless.

  He gave the cloth an experimental sniff. Blood, dirt, faeces. All of the familiar smells.

  Using the window ledge for support, he pulled himself upright, tiny slivers of glass twinkling from his fur in the fiery green glow, and peered down into what remained of the street below.

  The man-thing city was overrun. The sounds of fighting continued in more distant quarters, but here clanrat hordes flowed through the thoroughfares like high-tide in the Sartosa marina, and the only sounds to punctuate their excited chittering were the cries for mercy of the nearly dead.

  Everywhere, he could see skaven warriors spilling from open doorways carrying looted treasures and man-things: the living, the dead, and the half-consumed. The inn itself seemed to have checked their advance, a lone bulwark placed in the path of an unstoppable tide. One particularly creative skaven had fashioned a battering ram from an abandoned cart and was attempting to smash through to the last pocket of defenders within. Siskritt watched with detached disdain as the impromptu siege engine fell apart under the pressure without having made a dent in the heavy doors.

  Fools. Someone would pay for that failure. Siskritt could have done better.

  True enough, some poor unfortunate – whether the guilty party or no – had already been run through by one of his nearest compatriots, and a maddened brawl broke out before normality was restored by a high-pitched barrage of threats and bluster from a larger rat in the muddied green armour of the clan.

  As Siskritt watched this minor sideshow unfold, the excitement in the street had quite palpably turned up a notch. Scanning the crowd, he could just about discern a huge black-furred skaven arriving from a side street.

  It was Krizzak, Hellpaw’s feared lieutenant and second in command of the whole clan. He and his stormvermin elite were shoving a path through their lesser brethren, while a group of smaller figures trailed behind in his wake, clutching an unlikely array of machinery in their paws.

  Siskritt’s nose twitched.

  Lubricant… accelerant… a cocktail of chemicals he couldn’t begin to identify but had learned, through hard experience, to recognise a mile away. The delicious taint of warpstone reached his nostrils with bleak inevitability.

  Warpfire thrower!

  ‘No, no, no. Now-now Siskritt, before whole wretched man-thing place comes down!’

  He turned to face the final door, carved into the features of some kind of a feathered monster. A griffon… Or possibly a cockatrice? He didn’t care. It was nothing but the final obstacle between himself and the first step on his path to greatness. His fur tingled.

  Drawing his sword, he kicked at the door with a snarl. Once. Twice.

  On the third kick the lock gave and the door burst inwards. He charged through, experiencing a bravado that came only through an immediate sense of absolute mortal terror, his blade held before him as though he had a rabid plague rat by the tail.

  At that exact moment, the side wall of the tavern was wreathed in a great gout of warpfire from the crew below. The surviving windows exploded inwards as fiery tendrils licked at the beams and plasterwork. Siskritt screeched in terror as he was hurled from his feet and into the room on billowing wings of unholy flame.

  The Tilean merchant threw itself to the floor and wailed as Siskritt descended upon it, wreathed in a halo of green-black fire. A pewter goblet it had been clutching fell from its fingers, the blood-red contents already spilled over its silken finery.

  Ignoring the stupid man-thing entirely, Siskritt hissed and snarled as he swatted out small fires in his fur and clothing, his tail spinning an intricate spider’s web of afterimages as its flickering tip lashed through the air. His wild eyes darted about the room seeking some means of escape…

  But then they settled upon the talisman.

  He caught his breath and his eyes narrowed, terror at once overcome by a fierce, jealous avarice. It was here. It would be his!

  With wisps of smoke rising from his warpfire-scorched fur, he advanced towards the snivelling man-thing, crushing the fallen goblet beneath his paws as it scrambled backwards. He was invincible. I am Siskritt, fearsome and great, scourge of the man-things, and soon-to-be favoured of the Horned Rat!

  The man-thing, who Siskritt knew was called Ambrosio, retreated until it sank into the corner, its eyes dilated with fear and its face slack with incomprehension. Siskritt had little sympathy as he closed the distance between them with short, quick steps. Despite all the evidence before their flabby noses, the man-things continued to refute the very existence of the skaven.

  A Tilean of all people, dwelling in the shadow of Skavenblight itself, should know better.

  ‘W-wh… what…’ The man-thing cowered like a monkey cornered by a bird of prey. It might be better dressed than a monkey, it might be taller, but its flapping lips gabbled no less gibberish.

  ‘Quiet, man-thing. Be silent-still.’

  ‘Y-you speak Tilean! Are you a daemon sent to punish me?’

  Siskritt responded with a burst of chittering laughter. ‘Yes-yes. I’m a daemon of… of… man-thing gods. Give me talisman and I’ll go away-gone.’

  He held out an expectant paw. He hoped the man-thing didn’t notice how it trembled. He hoped the man-thing’s weak nose couldn’t smell his fear scent.

  The man-thing started to weep, tears scouring twin trails over its sand-worn cheeks. Ambrosio folded down to grovel at Siskritt’s feet, either uncaring or blindly unaware of the man-thing blood that was congealed there, spongy and soft like jelly.

  Siskritt cocked his head in bafflement as the man-thing began to babble a litany of supposed sins for which it was, of course, wholly repentant. The whole spectacle might have been amusing were he not so pressed for time. His back blistered in the terrible heat, and alarming groans of tortured wooden beams spread through the building. Not far below his feet, he heard the solid doors of the tavern collapse.

  There would have been no need for orders. The weight of warriors filling the street would be pushing the nearest skaven through the hanging curtain of cinders and into the inn where the frightened man-things waited. The first dozen might die in agony, stepping in molten metal, fur set alight by dancing flames. Already, the frantic screams of skaven and man-thing were echoing through the smoky corridors like the unquiet spirits of the damned. Ambrosio snivelled on the carpeted floor as the sounds of chaos and carnage grew.

  It was only through an effort of great will that Siskritt did not snivel right alongside the man-thing. He held his paw outstretched. ‘The talisman, man-thing! Hurry-Hurry.’

  ‘M-my talisman? Of course. It belonged to a man I sold as a slave. Am I being punished for that sin? If I buy back his freedom, will I be allowed to live?’

  ‘Yes-yes, man-thing will live! Just give talisman quick-quick or foolish man-thing die!’

  Fingers sticky with sweat, Ambrosio yanked at the chain about its neck, the links tearing at its straggly beard in its haste to see the item removed. It pressed the talisman eagerly into Siskritt’s paws as though relieving itself of a curse from the gods.

  Siskritt beamed with delight. In a way, it was.

  His gaze settled on the talisman in his paws as though pulled by a puppeteer’s strings. The chaos of battle ebbed away as the talisman held his full attention. Long seconds passed with only the sound of his own breathing and, if he closed his eyes, the faintest whispering inside his mind, congratulating him on being such a clever skave
n. So much work, so much risk, so much planning, and now it was his. Lovingly, he traced his claws across its surface.

  The talisman was jet black within a latticework of platinum and a long silver chain. Even were it not magical, this pendant could doubtless have bought him his own clan. But magic it was; Siskritt could feel it. It felt unnaturally heavy in his paw given its size, and it had a presence, as though it was regarding him in return.

  He pushed the eeriness aside and popped the chain around his neck, the talisman falling to rest against his thighs.

  He felt strong. The man-thing had kept the talisman hidden beneath his silks, but Siskritt let it hang over his rags with pride. Let the others know I am a skaven to be reckoned with!

  Ambrosio sank to one knee, having seemingly travelled through the veil of madness and well beyond the other side. ‘I have served you, servant of the gods. Will you keep your promise to me? Will you permit me to live?’

  Siskritt shuffled forwards and reached down for the sword in the man-thing’s hand. The merchant released its grip willingly. Siskritt held the blade in his admiring hand. It was a long and beautiful weapon, double-edged with a cruciform hilt and tapered to a wicked point that drew blood when he laid his finger upon it. Elegant lettering traced the length of the blade from tip to hilt. He recognised the curling Arabyan script, but he could no more read it than he could this man-thing’s mind.

  It was a fine weapon indeed.

  Siskritt looked up at Ambrosio. ‘Of course I help, man-thing. You help-help, I help-help.’

  The merchant followed him out into the hallway, but it paused at the shattered windows. The wind was angry and its breath was hot with fiery green cinders, roasted meat, and blood: always the pervasive iron whisper on the tongue, of blood.

  Ambrosio was aghast. ‘What has happened here? Have I brought this terror upon them all?’

  ‘Quiet now, man-thing. I say Siskritt will help you.’

  The street was largely empty, barring a few hold-outs that had successfully avoided the fighting. The whole frontage of the building was alight with warpfire, and even just standing here at the window was uncomfortably akin to being strung above some hungry giant’s fireplace.

  Silently, Siskritt crept up behind Ambrosio. Jumping up from one leg, he planted a firm kick with the other into the merchant’s back. Had it been further from the window it might not have fallen, but its clumsy feet caught on the base of the wall and tipped it over the edge, its silks flapping madly in the rising heat as it pitched forwards with an undignified yelp. The man-thing disappeared into the flames before it had even a chance to scream.

  An ominous groan from the floorboards beneath the steaming carpet sent Siskritt scurrying for the stairwell. Somehow, the fighting downstairs raged on and he could hear the booming war cry of the crazed dwarf rallying the survivors for a final stand. Siskritt drew his enchanting new weapon and waited for the right moment to join in the fray. He was injured and bloodied: no one could claim that he hadn’t been present all along.

  He fondled his talisman and grinned; a smile filled with wicked, yellowing teeth. He could almost taste the greatness that would soon be his. Lesskreep, Krazzik, Hellpaw, and yes, even Thanquol. They would all recognise his power.

  He flew down the stairs like a shadow to rejoin his victorious brethren.

  Gotrek spared his companion a glance before walking over to where the last ratman lay. He pulled his axe free from the dead creature’s spine, the blade coming loose with a wet squeal of bone and a small gout of dark blood. Almost as an afterthought, he stamped down on the pathetic creature’s little trinket, grinding the black shards into dust beneath his boot.

  He scanned the room, looking for more enemies but, disappointingly, there appeared to be none left alive.

  Felix came up behind him, hacking and wheezing in the smoke. ‘Now, may we leave? Or are you going to insist on having one more drink first?’

  Gotrek ignored him, instead clambering up onto one of the few remaining tables and grabbing the hilt of his companion’s runesword. He tugged it free from the ceiling without the slightest effort. Agape, Felix almost failed to catch the weapon as Gotrek tossed it over to him.

  ‘No,’ he said finally. ‘The ale in this place tastes like orc-spit.’

  Felix raised a blood-caked eyebrow, and shrugged before starting for the cellar door. Gotrek stopped him with a raised meaty fist.

  ‘Where do you think you’re going, manling?’

  ‘That last ratman was headed this way, obviously there’s a way out.’

  Gotrek shook his head and laughed his deep, gruff laugh. Lumbering into a run, he drove through the flames and out into the street. The sounds of battle resumed.

  Felix sighed as he swallowed a curse. ‘A burning city filled with an army of ratmen? Of course we’re going that way.’

  A CASK OF WYNTERS

  Josh Reynolds

  ‘Snorri is working up a thirst!’ Snorri Nosebiter shouted as he gleefully brought his hammer down on the pointed skull of a goblin. The goblin made a sound like mud squelching underfoot and dropped to the forest floor. It spasmed as Snorri stepped over it and wrenched his hatchet out of its companion. The second goblin toppled forwards from where Snorri’s thrown axe had impaled it against a scrub pine. Wiping the blade against his breeches, he took in the scene.

  The goblins had sprung their ambush with all the cunning of born backstabbers. A full thirty of the stunted humanoids had raced from concealment the moment Snorri and his companions had begun their ascent of the slope. Clad in filthy cloaks and hoods covered in branches and leaves, the goblins were obviously old hands at ambushing merchants brave enough to use a route other than the Old Dwarf Road through Black Fire Pass.

  Unfortunately for them, Snorri and his companions were anything but merchants. Case in point, Volg Staahl of Averheim, the leader of the impromptu expedition. Staahl was sometimes called ‘the Voluminous’; he was a big man with an even bigger voice. Clad in battered plate-mail, he roared out a bawdy drinking song as he swept three goblins off their feet with one swing of his massive sword.

  ‘Haha! Hurry up, Slayer. Winner buys the drinks!’ Staahl bellowed, his ginger beard coated with goblin blood. Near to him, all three of his fellow knights were giving a good account of themselves. But then, the templars of the Order of the Black Bear had had plenty of practice fighting goblins. Indeed, other than halfling coursing, it was their favourite pastime. Staahl and his brother knights had left the warm alehouses of Averheim for the cold peaks of Black Fire Pass on a mission of honour, as well as by the request of the final member of their party.

  A few feet away from the knights, the individual in question drove the wicked hook that had replaced his left hand into a goblin’s ear and broke the creature’s scrawny neck with a vicious jerk. He was a dwarf and, like Snorri, a Slayer, though his crest was a small thing yet and his beard had yet to recover fully from its ritual shearing in the Temple of Grimnir. He called himself Grudi Halfhand, though the brothers of the Black Bear knew him by a different name.

  Once, Grudi had been Grudi Wynters, son of Olgep Wynters, Master-Brewer and personal friend of Caspian Rodor, former Grandmaster of the Order of the Black Bear. Now, both Rodor and Wynters were dead, and the brewery with them. That was why they were all here today, fighting goblins on the scrub slopes of the Black Mountains.

  Whistling cheerfully, Snorri trotted towards the melee, the fading sunlight glinting off the trio of nails hammered into the crown of his skull. ‘Save some for Snorri, fatty!’ he said, picking up speed. The Slayer catapulted himself at the last moment, hurling himself into the goblin ranks like a thunderbolt, his hatchet and hammer swinging.

  ‘Don’t call me fatty, stumpy!’ Staahl growled, plucking a goblin up and snapping its neck. He tossed the carcass at Snorri and it bounced off the Slayer’s massive shoulders. Snorri laughed unapologetically and stamped on a goblin.

  The goblin gave a strangled squeak, and then silence fell on the slop
e. Snorri looked around, disappointment settling on him like a cloak. ‘Oh. Are they all dead then?’

  ‘No. Some of them buggered off,’ one of the knights said wearily, sinking into a sitting position on a dry log. He removed his helmet and ran a hand through his sweaty hair. Big and blond, Angmar of Nordland was a novice of the order, though his sour expression spoke of a man with more than his share of experiences, and most of those bad. ‘Still alive, brothers?’ he continued. The other two knights answered back, one after the next. They were a motley duo, even among the less than orderly ranks of the Knights of the Black Bear.

  ‘I yet live, and the ladies of Averheim can rest easy,’ said Flanders Drahl, a beautifully moustachioed student of the Marienburg school of duelling for fun and profit. He carried not a longsword but a rapier, and wore only a light hauberk of leather and ringmail. Near him was Grim Hogan, a Kislevite with a face like a stormcloud and a heavy mace that was stained with blood.

  ‘Pah. Goblins. They are no threat,’ he grunted. ‘They flee like rats at the slightest sign of resistance.’

  ‘And why wouldn’t they flee? We are mighty warriors, are we not?’ Grudi Halfhand barked, thumping his bare chest with his hook. He blanched a moment later, and spent a tense few seconds trying to extricate the tip of his prosthesis from the meat of his tattooed chest. Snorri chuckled and the other Slayer glared at him. ‘Well, some of us are mighty warriors,’ he said nastily. ‘Others are just senile old rust-skulls!’

  ‘Right now Snorri doesn’t feel mighty so much as thirsty,’ Snorri said, ignoring the jibe. ‘Where is this brewery of yours, Grudi Halfhand? Where is the cask of Wynters you promised Snorri?’

  ‘It is here, Nosebiter. Just up the slope,’ Grudi said, running the curve of his hook across his bristly crest. ‘Right where I left–’ He stopped and flushed. ‘Right where I last saw it.’