by Warhammer
‘And as for handing me your duties, there is no one quite as suited to them as you are. No one else could follow the Slayer for all these years, enduring his insults by day and fighting at his side by night.’ She smiled and put her hand on his arm sympathetically. ‘I’m afraid, Herr Jaeger, that the gods have already chosen your destiny for you, and it is to pen one of the world’s great epics.’
Felix held his head up high. He’d thought himself cursed to live as a wanderer, chasing after a doomed warrior on a futile quest. But Anya saw him as a warrior-poet, an artist who had deliberately chosen the bohemian life for his art. Perhaps he had at last found in prose something he’d been searching for in poetry. Perhaps now he had found his purpose.
‘Have you thought of a title for your epic?’ she asked curiously.
‘Years ago I had a vision of a book labelled My Travels with Gotrek in gold print,’ Felix confessed. ‘But I have been struggling to find names for each volume.’
Anya chuckled to herself. ‘The dwarf is a Trollslayer, is he not?’
Felix nodded.
‘It seems that might make a good title for your first volume,’ she said.
Felix tapped his chin with a fingertip. ‘Of course. In our second adventure we fought the ratmen in Nuln. I could take a minor liberty with Gotrek’s moniker and call that volume Skavenslayer, in their strange tongue.’
Anya’s eyes danced with barely suppressed mirth. ‘You realise that one day you may run out of new monsters to slay?’
An ironic smile graced Felix’s face. ‘I do indeed. In fact, I look forward to it.’
MIND-STEALER
C L Werner
The sharp stench of solder and melted copper made Thanquol’s whiskers twitch. The grey seer’s body shook as his nose rebelled against the smell and his body was wracked by a terrific sneeze. The little bells fixed to his horns jangled discordantly as he tried to cleanse the odour from his sinuses.
‘Fast-quick,’ the grey-robed ratman snarled, spitting each word through clenched fangs. His paw clenched tighter about the heft of his staff, the icons and talismans tied about its metal head clattering against the scarred wood. Never a particularly patient skaven, Thanquol’s temper was coming to a boil.
The object of his ire didn’t seem aware that messy sorcerous death was hovering just over his shoulder. The brown-furred skaven continued to fiddle with his spanners and hammers, sometimes reaching into the pockets of the leather apron he wore to fish out some strange tool or instrument. The stone slab which was serving as his workbench was littered with a confusion of metal gears and copper wire, ratgut tubes and little slivers of refined warpstone. The sickly glow of the warpstone was reflected in the thick goggles the skaven wore, making it seem as though his eyes had been replaced with hellish flames.
‘Soon-soon,’ the brown skaven chittered. ‘No worry-fear, Great-Mighty Thanquol! Krakul Zapskratch is good-smart warlock-engineer! Best-best in Under-Empire!’
Thanquol scowled at the magnitude of Krakul’s boasting. Only an empty-brained slack-wit would spew such an outrageous lie and expect his betters to believe him! To think that any warlock-engineer with real ability would be wasting his life as an itinerant tinker-rat wandering from burrow to burrow, selling his services to whatever three-flea warlord he could find! Just for daring to make such a bold-smelling lie, the grey seer was tempted to call down the wrath of the Horned One upon the fool-meat and burn him to a cinder!
Of course, there was a very good reason why Thanquol couldn’t do that. Krakul Zapskratch might be a loathsome, lying, sneaky ill-smelling braggart, but he was also the only warlock-engineer in Greypaw Hollow. Kill the tinker-rat, and there was no one else in the miserable, misbegotten warren capable of making the repairs Boneripper needed.
The grey seer’s eyes narrowed as he glared down at the enormous body lying stretched across the stone slab. Had it been standing, the creature would have been three times the size of its master, a towering construction of steel, bone and wire fuelled by a warpstone heart and driven by the arcane mechanics of Clan Skryre’s techno-sorcery. In shape, it retained a morbid resemblance to a living rat-ogre, and the warlock-engineers had even used the bones of Thanquol’s first Boneripper when assembling their creation. The skeletal automaton had been a gift-bribe by Kaskitt Steelgrin, meant to buy the grey seer’s services in a crooked scheme to ransack the treasury of Bonestash while the skaven were busy fighting the dwarf-things of Karak Angkul.
Thanquol lashed his tail in amusement. Kaskitt had paid for his treachery and presumption. Boneripper belonged to him now, without any obligations to a wire-chewing scrap-rat and his larcenous schemes. Even the control valve the warlock-engineers had hidden among Boneripper’s gears, designed to shut the rat-ogre down should it be ordered to attack any skaven of Clan Skryre, was gone, disabled by dwarfish pistol-fire. The grey seer had impressed upon Krakul what would happen to him if he so much as thought about repairing that particular mechanism.
Of course, that didn’t keep Thanquol from watching every move the warlock-engineer made. It didn’t matter if he had no idea what Krakul was doing with all his strange gizmos. The only important thing was for Krakul to think the grey seer knew what he was about. There was, after all, a chance that Krakul wasn’t the mouse-brain he seemed.
Krakul frittered around with a nest of corroded wires and punctured tubes situated behind Boneripper’s metal chestplate. Thanquol could hear the tinker-rat tutting under his breath as he removed the damaged mechanisms. There was a distinctive green glow about the wires, and Krakul was careful to handle them only with a set of insulated tongs.
Thanquol’s ears sank back against the sides of his skull, his head crooking back in a glowering gesture. He wasn’t about to listen to Krakul chide him about having Boneripper lug a large quantity of warpstone for days on end. The corrosion could have been caused by anything! Maybe some of the smelly fluids Clan Skryre used as coolants, or the warpfire projector built into Boneripper’s third arm. The lummox had suffered enough damage from bullets and boulders that almost anything could have leaked down inside its chest. The green glow emanating from the wires didn’t mean anything!
Agitated squeaks rose from the tunnel outside Krakul’s burrow. Thanquol pulled aside the man-hide curtain which separated the workshop from the main tunnel. Across the narrow corridor, he could see other skaven faces peering out from their holes. He followed the direction of their gaze, his nose twitching as the smells of blood and fear-musk excited his senses. Greypaw Hollow sat beneath a forest and it wasn’t unusual for Warlord Pakstab to send groups of clanrats out to scavenge the wilderness for food and materials.
What was unusual was for one of these expeditions to return in such a sorry condition. Thanquol could see the miserable little ratkin, their fur bloodied, their eyes wide with fright. Several of them bore ugly gashes and deep wounds, hobbling about on broken legs and hugging broken arms to their chests.
Thanquol clapped a paw against his ear to stifle the shrill, wheedling voices of the scavengers as they reported their misfortune to a furious Pakstab. Whatever had befallen the fool-meat, whether they had scurried right into a troll hole or been stampeded by a herd of cattle, it was Pakstab’s problem. Another petty inconsequence that was far beneath the dignity of a grey seer to notice. Thanquol had more important things to occupy himself with.
He was just turning his head to return to Krakul’s workshop when a particular whine froze him in his place. Thanquol felt a tingle of fear squeeze at his glands and a cold hand close about his heart. It was a shaking paw that drew the rat-skull snuff-box from his robe.
The grey seer felt an intoxicating rush of warmth course through his body as he sniffed the pulverised weed, burning away the fear and allowing hate free reign. Thanquol gnashed his fangs, spinning about and marching out into the tunnel. Skaven heads vanished back into their holes as the enraged sorcerer stalked past.
Had he heard right? He would find out! He would find out if these fle
a-spleened maggots had really seen what they had seen!
The few skaven bold enough to emerge from their burrows to investigate the curious squeaks and smells of the returned scavengers quickly scurried out of Thanquol’s way as the sorcerer marched up the corridor. Even the armoured stormvermin, their claws wrapped about the hafts of hatchet-headed halberds, cringed when they saw the intense hatred blazing from the grey seer’s eyes and sniffed the murderous aggression in his scent.
Grey Seer Thanquol brushed past Pakstab as though the warlord wasn’t even there. His paw trembled with rage as he closed his fingers around the throat of one of the scavengers. The little ratman’s eyes boggled in terror as Thanquol pulled him close.
‘What did you smell-see?’ Thanquol hissed. ‘Speak-squeak! Quick-quick!’ The only sound the crippled ratman could make was a wet rattle as the grey seer throttled him. Absently, Thanquol released his choking clutch, glaring as the dead skaven toppled to the floor. The temerity of the worm-fondler to die when the mighty Thanquol had questions to ask him! Out of spite, the grey seer kicked the corpse in the head, then turned his attention to the other scavengers.
‘You!’ the grey seer pronounced, pointing a claw at one of the ratmen, a portly creature missing an ear, half his tail and most of one paw, each of the injuries so fresh that black blood leaked from his wounds.
‘Mercy-pity!’ the ratman whined, awkwardly falling to his knees and exposing his throat in a gesture of submission. ‘No-no hurt-harm, most merciless of priests, great gnawer of–’
Thanquol ground his fangs together, in no mood to be flattered by this fool-meat. ‘What did that to you?’ he snarled, jabbing the end of his staff into the scavenger’s mangled paw. The wretch squealed in agony, quivering on the floor. Thanquol lifted his head, casting his eyes across the other scavengers.
‘We smell-track man-things in forest,’ one of the scavengers hastily spoke up. ‘Many-few man-things carrying many-many strange-meat in wheel-burrow. We try-fetch food-fodder from wheel-burrow.’
Thanquol’s eyes narrowed with impatience. He didn’t care a lick for any of this. ‘What kept you from stealing the food?’ he demanded, smacking the quivering skaven on the floor with his staff. The fresh squeal of pain had the desired effect. The other scavenger couldn’t finish his story fast enough.
‘Breeder-thing see us!’ the scavenger cried. ‘Call-bring much-much man-thing! Fight-kill much-much! Many-many die-die from one-eye and dwarf-thing!’
Thanquol swatted the quivering skaven again as he slowly strode towards the talkative scavenger. ‘A man-thing and a dwarf-thing did this to you?’ he growled. He raised a claw to emphasise his next point. ‘With one eye?’
The scavenger’s fright had risen to such a state that he couldn’t speak, simply bobbing his head up and down in a desperate effort to appease the fearsome sorcerer.
Gotrek Gurnisson and his mangy man-thing, Felix Jaeger! By the malicious malevolence of the Horned One!
Vengeance boiled up inside Thanquol’s black heart. The grey seer rounded upon Pakstab, pointing a claw at the startled warlord’s nose. ‘Get-fetch your battle-rats!’ the enraged sorcerer snarled, foam dripping from his mouth. ‘Great enemies of skavendom have hurt-harm your valiant scouts! I will avenge their injuries upon these heretic-things with your army!’
Pakstab blinked in confusion. His whiskers trembled, his eyes narrowed with suspicion. Thanquol could read the warlord’s thoughts. He wanted no part in fighting whoever had savaged his scavengers. He certainly wanted nothing to do with Thanquol’s vengeance.
Hissing a curse, invoking one of the thirteen forbidden names of the Horned Rat, Thanquol gestured with his staff at one of the injured scavengers. An emerald glow suffused the metal icon fitted to the top of the staff. The same green glow surrounded the doomed scavenger. The ratman had time to shriek once before his body collapsed into a pool of steaming green mush.
‘We march-kill enemy-meat now!’ Thanquol screamed, turning his blazing eyes back upon Pakstab. The warlord nodded his head with an eagerness that was obscene. That was the beauty of a gratuitous display of destruction magic: there was never a need to repeat it.
Thanquol turned away to leave Pakstab to gather his warriors. He could be confident that Pakstab would marshal his forces quickly. After all, the warlord would be right there beside Thanquol when they made the attack. Anything that happened to the grey seer would happen to Pakstab too.
Worse, Thanquol promised, if Gotrek and Felix slipped through his paws! What he would do to Pakstab would be such a horror that his screams would be heard in Skavenblight!
As the grey seer stalked back down the tunnel towards Krakul’s workshop, he barked orders at the tinker-rat, using a bit of his magic to magnify his words so that they carried into the farthest corners of the burrow.
‘Fix-finish Boneripper, wire-nibbler! I want my rat-ogre on its feet and ready to kill-slay!’ Thanquol brushed aside the curtain, fixing his imperious stare on the warlock-engineer. Krakul’s eyes might have been hidden behind his goggles, but there was no mistaking the frightened posture and smell of the tinker-rat.
Thanquol reached into his robe and removed a little sliver of black cheese from his pocket. He stared at it for a moment, then glared at Krakul. ‘You have until my third nibble to fix Boneripper,’ the grey seer pronounced. ‘After that, I will burn off one of your fingers every time I take another bite.’
Krakul was an eccentric, scheming scrap-fondler, but he had the good sense to know when a sorcerer was making an idle threat. With almost unseemly haste, the warlock-engineer leapt back to the stone slab, tools clattering against Boneripper’s metal chassis, as he hurried to finish the repairs.
The confusion of smells emanating from the caravan threw each of the skaven into a state of anxiety and excitement. The good, familiar odours of oats and wheat, the appetising scents of horses and oxen, the reek of human sweat and the stink of iron and bronze; these all mixed in a single aroma that tantalised the skaven, made their bellies growl and their paws itch. The promise of full bellies and a bit of plunder was one that every ratman dreamed about.
Still, there were other smells teasing the keen skaven noses. There was a heavy, greasy stench one old crook-eared ratman said was troll. There was a musky, reptilian fug none of the skaven could identify. There was a sinister coppery smell that reminded Thanquol of the abominations Clan Moulder kept in Hell Pit, though he wasn’t about to offer that insight to any of his yellow-spleened underlings.
The other smells didn’t matter, because Thanquol had detected the scent he was looking for. It was that vile mix of tattoo ink and cold steel, animal starch and cheap beer, all wrapped around the dirt-stench of a dwarf.
Gotrek Gurnisson! He was travelling with the caravan, and if he was there, then that damnable Felix Jaeger was with him! Thanquol didn’t know what trick of fate had thrust his two most hated enemies into his clutches, nor did he care. It was enough that the Horned Rat had smiled upon him and bestowed this delectable gift upon him. Before he was through with them, he’d offer the human’s two eyes and the dwarf’s single, blood-crazed orb as a burned offering to the Horned One by token of gratitude. Maybe he’d even teach them how to pray to the Horned One for mercy.
Not that it would do them any good.
When the humans made camp. That would be the time to do it. Their horses would be grazing, their wagons unhitched; at least some of their number would be sleeping. The skaven could set upon them and slaughter half the company before they had a chance to blink!
Yes, it was a good plan. The audacity of Pakstab’s weasel-tongued track-sniffer Naktit to try and take credit for developing such a plan! Because the scout-rat had mentioned something of the sort first, he had the temerity to believe the same idea hadn’t already occurred to Thanquol! Why should a grey seer share his innermost thoughts with the sort of verminous rabble Greypaw Hollow dared call warriors? It had been sorely tempting to let Boneripper smash the creeping little nuisance into past
e for his arrogance.
But that would have been the petty, spiteful reaction of a lesser skaven. Thanquol was grand enough to be gracious and forget the failings of his underlings. With Gotrek and Felix nearly in his grasp, he felt magnanimous enough to ignore the stupidity of lesser ratmen. The Horned One had granted him a mighty boon; surely Thanquol could allow similar beneficence. Yes, he’d let Naktit keep his worthless little life.
Unless something went wrong! If that happened, he’d have Boneripper squeeze the creepy little tick-tracker until his eyes popped out of his skull.
It was early morning when the skaven started trailing the caravan, slinking through the dense thickets and close-set trees, always keeping out of sight while maintaining a clear view of the trail. The wagons were unusual, the sort of thing that even Thanquol with his vast experience and study of humans had never seen before. Their sides were painted in bright, garish colours, flags and pennants waving above them, bold words emblazoned on their sides. The horses and oxen which pulled the wagons were similarly arrayed, bright plumes fastened to their bridles and garlands of flowers tied about their necks. The men driving the wagons were also dressed in bright, gaudy clothing, sporting billowy breeches and vibrant vests and headscarves.
Most perplexing of all were the half-dozen cage-carts. These followed behind the other wagons, their contents hidden beneath tarps. The smells rising from them and the brief view of bars afforded by the trailing edge of the tarps, left no doubt that each cage held some living beast. Low growls, sullen snarls or angry howls rose from some of the carts. Most of the sounds were new to the skaven, though a few of the cries were familiar enough to send shivers down their spines. The old crop-eared ratman started whining about trolls again – at least until Boneripper stepped on his head. Fear was a useful thing, but only when the ratkin knew what they should be most afraid of.
