Gotrek & Felix- the First Omnibus - William King

by Warhammer

  The other skaven wailed in horror, falling to their knees, exposing their throats in submission. It was sorely tempting to annihilate every one of the vermin, but Thanquol knew he needed them. He’d had time to do a lot of thinking while hunting for his disloyal underlings. He didn’t like the conclusions he’d reached.

  Strong and powerful, mightier than any vessel of flesh and bone, the rat-ogre’s unliving body was nevertheless cut off from the aethyr, denying Thanquol access to the divine power of the Horned Rat and the black sorcery which emanated from such power. For a grey seer, being denied this was even more terrifying than the diminished sensory stimulation offered by Boneripper’s mechanical senses.

  There was another aspect which chilled Thanquol to his very marrow and made him feel very small and timid despite his new brawn and bulk. How many Bonerippers had there been? Each of them dying in some spectacular and gruesome fashion? There was something hideously unlucky about rat-ogres, something that was positively fatal to them. Thanquol didn’t like the idea that he had inherited the current Boneripper’s ill fortune when he’d switched bodies with the brute. He felt as though he were scurrying about a drain, fighting against time and current before he was sucked down to a horrible doom!

  No! He had to get back into his own body – and he had to do it quickly. The only way to do that was to force the breeder-witch to undo her curse. She had to know the secret of such magic, she must have used it many times with the beasts of her carnival!

  ‘Hear-listen!’ Thanquol growled at the grovelling skaven. ‘All of you obey! Find-seek breeder-witch! Don’t hurt, only find!’ Thanquol could see the scheming wheels turning in the brains of his underlings, so he decided to add a threat to his command.

  ‘Hurt-harm breeder-witch and I will go to Greypaw Hollow!’ Thanquol snarled, rearing up to the rat-ogre’s full height. He thumped both bony claws against his chest, recalling how formidable the troll’s performance had been. The effect was only somewhat lessened when he dropped his real body to the ground.

  ‘I will kill your breeders, crush your whelps and take your warpstone!’ Thanquol threatened. ‘I will make Greypaw Hollow the lowest of thrall-clans! You will all be fodder-meat for the snake-maggots of Clan Verms!’

  The dire threat brought renewed promises of fealty and obedience from the skaven, their whines and squeaks echoing through the forest. They could be counted upon to do what Thanquol demanded of them. His threat would keep them in line.

  Of course, after all he had suffered, Thanquol intended to carry out every part of his threat, whether the simpering ratkin obeyed him or not.

  Thanquol stared down at the little village, cursing for the umpteenth time Boneripper’s lack of smell. With a proper nose, he’d be able to pick out the breeder-witch’s scent from the air. He could tell in an instant if Naktit was lying to him and punish the track-rat accordingly. The only thing that made him dubious of such treachery was the fact that the other skaven had no way of knowing about this particular infirmity. As far as they knew, Thanquol could smell as keenly as any of them.

  Unless, of course, that filthy tinker-rat Krakul had said something before he died.

  Flexing the massive arms of the rat-ogre, Thanquol glowered at his underlings. The scouts had been gone only a short time before reporting that the caravan had been abandoned. There were signs of a fight that must have happened after Thanquol’s… withdrawal. From the evidence, the fighting had been between two groups of humans. The scouts couldn’t say which of the humans had won, but they had been able to follow the witch’s scent back to this village.

  Thanquol ground his fangs in annoyance. Naktit said that the witch had been taken to the biggest building in the village. The grey seer knew that sort of structure; it was one of the god-burrows the humans built to worship the confusing pantheon they followed. This particular one had a big hammer on its spire. Thanquol knew that particular cult quite well – the followers of Sigmar had a positive mania for burning any wizard or witch they could get their hands on. If he didn’t act fast, the breeder-witch would be dead and the secret of her curse lost with her!

  He couldn’t let that happen! More and more, Thanquol felt the gnawing dread that something dire would happen, that the same fate which had overtaken six other Bonerippers would soon befall this one! To save himself, he had to save the witch from the witch hunters!

  ‘You are sure-certain there is a tunnel?’ Thanquol snapped at Naktit.

  The scout bobbed his head in frantic eagerness. ‘Yes-yes, Horrible One! Man-thing temple-place always have tunnel! Use to hide-flee when man-thing gods make war!’

  Thanquol reached a huge claw to his face to brush his whiskers, only belatedly remembering that Boneripper didn’t have any. It was true enough that the different priests of the humans sometimes made war against each other. The first thing they would do in such a war would be to burn down the houses of other gods. But would humans have enough brains to build an escape tunnel?

  The rat-ogre’s skull twisted about, craning downwards to regard the horned ratman standing at Thanquol’s feet. There was such a look of dull idiocy on the grey seer’s face that Thanquol felt a gnawing horror crawl through him. Whatever happened, he had to return to his own body. He couldn’t abandon it to the mindless Boneripper. He had to be back inside his own fur, feeling blood coursing through his veins, a heart pounding in his chest! He had to restore his connection to the Horned One’s power! More, he had to get a sniff of snuff. His nerves, or whatever he had in the rat-ogre’s body, were on edge for lack of a pinch of warpsnuff. It didn’t do any good to dump the stuff into the rat-ogre’s nasal cavities; it would only burn up in the automaton’s furnace.

  Yes, they would attack the human village. Pakstab would lead the majority of the skaven in an assault against the village walls, drawing the humans away from the temple. While the humans were occupied with Pakstab’s diversion, Thanquol and Naktit’s scouts would use the tunnel to sneak into the crypt beneath the temple. Humans had a tendency to lock their captives underground, so he was hopeful the breeder-witch would be there.

  If not – well, every last ratkin in the expedition knew what Thanquol would do to them if anything went wrong!

  Thanquol snarled as his metal shoulders brushed against the ceiling of the tunnel, sending a cascade of debris raining down upon him. Belatedly, he remembered to shield the horned body strapped to his back, twisting about awkwardly so the rat-ogre’s metal chest took the brunt of the rubble. After all he had gone through, it would be a cruelty beyond imagination to have his real body mangled before he could return to it.

  Or was that the point? He glared suspiciously at the narrow tunnel and at Naktit. Had that been the scout’s scheme, to lure Thanquol down here where the rat-ogre’s ridiculous size would prove disadvantageous? Where Boneripper’s very bulk threatened to bring the entire hole crashing about his ears?

  Thanquol bit down on his suspicions. As much as it galled him, he had to trust Naktit. He had to trust that the breeder-witch was where the scout said she was. He was a bit reassured by Naktit’s presence – surely the tracker would know he’d be the first casualty if Thanquol found out he was lying.

  Eventually, the tunnel wormed its way beneath the stone foundations of a building. So far, it appeared Naktit’s report was accurate. The only building in the human warren large enough to warrant such ponderous foundations was the temple. Thanquol began to feel a bit more optimistic. When this was all over, he might even allow Naktit to live.

  Human voices, low and distorted, began to filter into the tunnel. Ahead, Thanquol could see a heavy stone wall with a ring set into it. This, as Naktit hurried to explain, was the entrance to the temple. On the other side was the crypt.

  ‘…confess, woman, while you still have a tongue to do so!’ The voice was harsh and cruel, almost skaven-like in its vicious inflection.

  ‘You will torture me anyway, templar, so what use are my words?’

  The second voice set Thanquol’s ja
ws clacking together. It was the breeder-witch! From her tone, she sounded weak, possibly wounded. Maybe dying? Thanquol fought down the panic that threatened to overwhelm him. He had to wait, let Pakstab draw away the other humans. Then he could safely step in and snatch the breeder-witch.

  ‘By Sigmar’s hammer, you will confess all your evils!’ the witch hunter snarled. ‘You will confess that you are in league with the creatures of Chaos, that you lured the people of this community to your encampment in order to feed their flesh to your hideous masters!’

  ‘The Strigany are no servants of the Old Night,’ the witch spoke, her voice weary. ‘The monsters you speak of attacked my people as well as yours.’

  ‘Evil will always turn upon itself,’ the witch hunter snapped. He might have said more, but the sound of frantic voices and hurried steps interrupted him.

  ‘Brother Echter! The monsters are attacking the village!’

  ‘They have come to save their infernal mistress,’ the witch hunter swore. ‘Rally the militia! These abominations must not be allowed to reach the temple!’

  The sound of rushing feet faded as the humans raced upstairs. Thanquol gave them enough time to be well and truly gone before telling Naktit to open the secret door. Pakstab’s warriors would keep the humans occupied while they slipped in and stole the breeder-witch.

  Naktit and his scouts tugged at the iron ring, slowly pulling back the block that sealed off the tunnel. Thanquol bristled at the delay. Lumbering forwards he seized the top of the stone with his claws and dragged the ponderous obstruction aside. Glaring at the skaven, he motioned for them to hurry onwards into the crypt.

  The room on the other side of the wall was long and narrow, its sides lined with deep niches. Within each niche reposed the mouldering bones of some long dead human, the remains sealed away by an iron gate. A set of stone steps rose up into the ceiling, blocked by a trapdoor.

  Except for the skaven, there was only one other living occupant in the crypt. The breeder-witch was locked inside one of the niches, her arms bound to her sides with heavy leather straps, her face disfigured by a heavy wax seal marked with the sign of the twin-tailed comet.

  Thanquol brushed aside the scouts, rushing to the witch’s niche. The hag groaned in terror when she saw the ghastly rat-ogre peering at her through the bars. Then a cackle of amusement wracked her aged body.

  ‘Not liking your new home, rat-fiend?’ she laughed.

  Thanquol’s claw lashed out, pounding against the gate and denting its iron bars. ‘Fix-change!’ he snarled at her. ‘Away-take curse-hex or I smash-kill slow-slow!’

  The witch peered at him with hateful eyes. ‘Kill me and you’ll never get back,’ she threatened, pointing her chin towards the horned ratman lashed behind the rat-ogre’s shoulders.

  Thanquol recoiled at the witch’s words. He crouched lower, trying to assume a meek posture. It was difficult to manage with a body as massive as Boneripper’s.

  ‘Fix-change,’ he repeated, trying to keep his voice low and pleasing. ‘Save-help me and I save-help you. Other man-things not hurt-harm.’

  Again the witch laughed. ‘Help me? Can you give me back my sons who you and your vermin slaughtered?’

  Thanquol smashed his fist against the ceiling, bringing a trickle of dust down upon his head. Of all the times for a human to start acting stupid! Here he was offering this one a chance to escape torture and slow death, and all she could talk about were her dead whelps!

  A sound behind him caused Thanquol to turn. Running feet in the temple above, people rushing towards the trapdoor. The humans were coming back!

  Another sound drew Thanquol’s attention to the far wall. Naktit and his scouts were back in the tunnel, pushing the block back into place. At once the enormity of Pakstab’s treachery was apparent. The warlord had led the attack only long enough to make Thanquol think everything was going according to plan. As soon as the grey seer had time to get into the crypt, the coward had called off the attack. Now Naktit was closing off the only route of escape! Once again, the traitors of Greypaw Hollow were leaving him to face the humans alone!

  Thanquol lurched towards the closing tunnel, then turned back around. What use to escape if he left the witch behind? He needed her to break the curse! If he left her behind, the priest-humans would kill her and then he’d be trapped inside Boneripper for the rest of his life. Which, given the durability of rat-ogres, wasn’t likely to be long.

  The trapdoor was being pulled open even as Thanquol turned back towards the witch’s cell. The harsh voice of the witch hunter shouted from the top of the stairs.

  ‘Behold! The heretic’s creatures have come to save her!’

  Brother Echter’s statement was punctuated with a pistol shot. Thanquol could dimly feel the bullet crack against the rat-ogre’s back. From past experience, he knew it would take more than that to slow down Boneripper. However, there was just a chance that the human would reach the same conclusion and start shooting at Thanquol’s body.

  Turning around, protecting the body lashed to the rat-ogre’s back, Thanquol roared at the frightened men clattering down the stairs, pounding his claws against his chest. The display appeared to impress the humans just as much as it had Pakstab’s skaven. The men following the witch hunter cried out in despair, then turned and fled back up the stairs.

  ‘You’ll not frighten me, mutant!’ Brother Echter swore, undaunted by the defection of his followers. Boldly, he drew a second pistol from his belt.

  Thanquol was in no mood for such nonsense. Lunging forwards, he brought Boneripper’s massive claw slashing down, tearing deep furrows through the witch hunter’s flesh. The mutilated man screamed through the tatters of his face and crashed to the floor.

  The skeletal rat-ogre turned back towards the witch’s cell, shaking his bloody claw at the obstinate hag. ‘You will suffer much-much unless you fix-change!’ Thanquol growled.

  ‘You killed everything I cared for,’ the witch told him. ‘And if you kill me, you’ll never get back!’

  Thanquol clenched his bony hands, shaking with frustration. How could he threaten something that didn’t care if she lived or died? Worse, how could he threaten something that in dying would doom him as well?

  Before he could work out the dilemma, the crypt echoed with the explosive report of a pistol shot. The hag’s gloating countenance became twisted with pain, a bright bloom of blood springing from her breast. Wailing in horror, Thanquol brought Boneripper’s giant foot smashing down upon the mangled witch hunter. Vengefully he stomped out the lingering spark of life that had enabled Brother Echter to shoot the witch.

  Filled with despair, Thanquol went back to the cell. The breeder-witch was lying upon the floor, bleeding out from her wound. If he had had his magic, he could have helped her, much as it offended his senses. But the hag’s own curse made this impossible. He could only watch helplessly as the witch died, and in dying sealed his own fate.

  Thanquol railed against the injustice of it all! To be doomed to such a cruel end because of the crude magic of a filthy breeder-thing, and all because a bunch of slack-witted fool-meat had led him to believe his mortal enemies were near! If he had the chance again, he would kill every last rat in Greypaw Hollow for goading him into this useless flea-hunt! By the Horned One, they should suffer for doing this to him!

  As Thanquol bemoaned his fate, as he watched the witch die, a strange sensation came upon him. A flash of unspeakable cold, a whirring blur of light and darkness…

  The grey seer fought against the darkness, though this time the struggle was far less than it had been before. When he could see again, it was with the clear vision of skaven eyes. A thousand smells rushed into his nose, a hundred sounds trickled into his ears. He could feel the blood flowing through his veins, the heart pounding in his chest. For good measure, he twitched his whiskers.

  He was back in his own body! Again he could feel the aethyric forces flowing about him, the glory of the Horned Rat waiting to shape itself at his c
ommand. Thanquol couldn’t understand how the curse had been broken. Some final, desperate effort to gain the grey seer’s aid on the part of the witch?

  Thanquol struggled to peer over Boneripper’s shoulder to see into the cell. Irritably, he snarled an order at his bodyguard, telling it to turn around. With its usual slavish obedience, the rat-ogre shifted its position.

  The witch was dead, there was no mistaking that smell! Thanquol ground his fangs together as the solution to his deliverance came to him. The hag had been toying with him! She had told him if she died he would never break the curse when it was her very death that had ended the enchantment! How he wished she was alive so he could wring her neck!

  For the moment, however, he had more pressing problems. The humans would recover from their fright soon, and when they did, they would come back to the crypt in force. It would be best for him to be far away when they did.

  Then there was the small matter of Greypaw Hollow and the treachery of its denizens. Thanquol would teach those rats the price for betraying him!

  But first he’d have one of them cut him loose. The idea of travelling all the way to Skavenblight tied to Boneripper’s back wasn’t exactly appealing.

  He’d spent more than enough time around the rat-ogre.

  DEATH AND GLORY!

  William King

  ‘Repent! This is your last night on earth! The end of the world is coming,’ the flagellant cried.

  Felix Jaeger cursed the dark destiny that had dragged him into these terrible events. He should be at home in his father’s mansion, not listening to the ranting of some deranged maniac on the eve of what must surely be the one of the largest battles in the Empire’s history. This was no place for an aspiring poet.

  Why did he have to be here? And where was Gotrek? The last time he had seen him the Trollslayer had been wandering off to booze with his fellow outcast dwarfs. What bad luck – they spend six days in the mountains hunting for trolls and when they return they find the Imperial army camped outside the walls of Hauptmansburg and all able-bodied men called to serve. All Felix had wanted was a decent meal and a comfortable bed, not a pitched battle with the hordes of orcdom.