Sacrosanct & Other Stories

by Various Authors

  ‘I think these lamas know their business,’ Gotramm retorted. ‘They are the ones who sweated to make the things and they have just as much to lose as we do if they get damaged.’

  Unlike the banter between Drumark and Horgarr, there was a bitter edge to what passed between Gotramm and Skaggi. There was no respect between them, only a kind of tolerant contempt. Brokrin started to intercede when something Cho had said suddenly rose to mind. He turned towards the high lama. ‘You called your predecessor Piu-tulku? Is not tulku your word for the revered dead?’

  ‘The holy ascended,’ Cho corrected him. ‘Among the vulgar it is translated as “living god”. You have yourself seen the ancient tulkus who have followed Zomoth-tulku’s transcendence.’

  Brokrin shuddered at the recollection. Deep within the lamasery there were halls filled with niches, each containing the mummified husk of a human. They were holy men who had gradually poisoned themselves, embalming their own bodies while they were still alive in a desperate search for immortality. The lamas considered each of the corpses to still be alive, tending their clothes and setting bowls of food and drink before them each morning. He thought of Piu and the last time he had seen the man. There had been no hint that he had been undergoing this ghastly process of self-mummification.

  ‘I was unaware Piu had chosen such a path,’ Brokrin apologised.

  Cho smiled and shook his head. ‘Piu-tulku did not choose the path. The path chose him. A wondrous miracle, for he has transcended the toils of mortality yet still permits his wisdom to be shared with those who have yet to ascend to a higher enlightenment.’ His smile broadened. ‘Perhaps if you were to see him, speak with him, you would understand the wisdom of our order.’

  That warning feeling was even more persistent now, but Brokrin resisted the urge to play things safe. Something had changed at Kheitar and whatever it was, he would bet it had to do with Piu’s unexpected ascension. Glancing over at Gotramm and then at Skaggi, he made his decision. ‘We would like very much to meet with Piu-tulku.’

  Cho motioned for the initiate by the door to come over to them. ‘I am certain Piu-tulku will impart much wisdom to you, but to enter his august presence you must set aside your tools of death.’ He pointed at the axes and swords the duardin carried. ‘Leave those behind if you would see the tulku. I can allow no blades in his chambers.’

  Brokrin nodded. ‘You have nothing to fear, your grace. Our Code prohibits us from doing harm to any who are engaged in fair trade with us.’ He slowly unbuckled his sword and proffered it to the initiate. ‘We will follow your custom.’

  Slowly the three duardin removed their blades, setting them on the floor. Gotramm started to do the same with his pistol, but Cho had already turned away. Brokrin set a restraining hand on Gotramm’s.

  ‘He said blades,’ Brokrin whispered. ‘Unless asked, keep your pistol.’ He brushed his hand across the repeater holstered on his own belt. ‘We will respect their custom, as far as they ask it of us.’

  Brokrin gave a hard look at Cho’s back as the high lama preceded them out of the hall. ‘If he is being honest with us, it will make no difference. If he is not, it might make all the difference in the realms.’

  Drumark escorted the lamas down into the Iron Dragon’s hold. He had tried to choose the cleanest compartment in which to put the precious cargo, but even here there was the fug of rat in the air. ‘This is the best one,’ he said. ‘You can put them down here.’

  ‘You think they will be safe?’ asked Mortrimm. Like the sergeant, he could smell the stink of rat. He looked uneasily at the bamboo crates the lamas carried, wondering how long it would take a rat to gnaw its way through the boxes.

  ‘As long as there is grain, the little devils will keep eating that,’ Drumark spat, glowering at a fat brown body that went scooting behind a crate when the light from his lantern shone upon it. ‘It will be a while before they start nibbling on this stuff.’ He turned his light on the sallow-faced lamas as they carefully set down the crates and started to leave the hold. ‘Tell your friends to get that poison ready on the quick. If we do not smoke out these vermin, your tapestries will be gnawed so badly we will have to sell them as thread.’

  The warning put a certain haste in the lamas’ step as they withdrew from the hold. Mortrimm started to follow them as the men made their way back onto the deck. He had only taken a few steps when he noticed that Drumark was still standing down near the tapestries.

  ‘Are you coming?’ Mortrimm asked.

  ‘In a bit,’ Drumark answered, waving him away. Mortrimm shook his head and left the hold.

  Alone in the rat-infested hold, Drumark glowered at the shadows. The stink of vermin surrounded him, making his skin crawl. Instead of withdrawing from the stench, he let his revulsion swell, feeding into the hate that boiled deep inside him. Rats! Pestiferous, murderous fiends! Whatever size they came in, they had to be stamped out wherever they were found. He would happily do his part. He owed that much to his father, burned down by the foul magics of the loathsome skaven.

  Drumark looked at the crates and then back at the noisy shadows. Despite his talk with Mortrimm and the lamas, he was anything but certain the rats would spare the tapestries. The vermin were perverse creatures and might gnaw on the precious hangings out of sheer spite. Well, if they did, they would find a very irritable duardin waiting for them.

  Checking one last time to be certain Mortrimm was gone, Drumark walked over to a dark corner near the door and retrieved the object he had secreted there without Brokrin’s knowledge. He patted the heavy stock of his decksweeper. ‘Some work for you before too long,’ he told it. Returning to his original position, he doused the lantern. Instantly the hold was plunged into darkness. Drumark could hear the creaking of the guide ropes as the ship swayed in its mooring, the groan of the engines that powered the ironclad’s huge endrin, the scratch of little claws as they came creeping across the planks.

  Gradually his eyes adjusted to the gloom and Drumark could see little shapes scurrying around the hold. Soon the shapes became more distinct as his eyes became accustomed to the dark. Rats, as fat and evil as he had ever seen. There must be a dozen of them, all scurrying about, crawling over barrels, peeping into boxes, even gnawing at the planks. He kept his eyes on the crates with the tapestries, all laid out in a nice little row. The moment one of the rats started to nibble at them he would start shooting.

  But the rats did not nibble the crates. Indeed, Drumark began to appreciate that the animals were conspicuously avoiding them. At first he thought it was simply because they were new, a change in their environment that the vermin would have to become comfortable with first. Then one of the rats did stray towards the row, fleeing the ire of one of its larger kin. The wayward rodent paused in mid-retreat, rearing up and sniffing at the crates.

  Drumark could not know what the rat smelled, but he did know whatever it was had given the rodent a fright. It went scampering off, squeaking like a thing possessed. The rest of the vermin were soon following it, scrambling to their bolt holes and scurrying away to other parts of the ship. Soon Drumark could not hear their scratching claws any more.

  Keeping his decksweeper at the ready, Drumark sat down beside the door. He stayed silent as he watched the crated tapestries, his body as rigid as that of a statue. In the darkness, he waited.

  The wait was not a long one. A flutter of motion spread through the rolled tapestry at the end of the row. Faint at first, it increased in its agitation, becoming a wild thrashing after a few moments, the cloth slapping against the bamboo that enclosed it. Someone – or something – was inside the rolled tapestry and trying to work its way out. Eyes riveted on the movement, Drumark rose and walked forwards. He aimed his decksweeper at the tapestry. Whatever had hidden itself inside, it would find a warm reception when it emerged.

  The thrashing persisted, growing more wild but making no headway against the framework tha
t surrounded the tapestry. Whatever was inside was unable to free itself. Or unwilling. A horrible suspicion gripped Drumark. There were four more tapestries and while his attention was focused on this one, he was unable to watch the others.

  Drumark swung around just as a dark shape came leaping at him from the shadows.

  The decksweeper bellowed as he fired into his attacker. Drumark saw a furry body go spinning across the hold, slamming into the wall with a bone-crunching impact. He had only a vague impression of the thing he had shot. He got a better look at the creature that came lunging at him from one of the other crates.

  Thin hands with clawed fingers scrabbled at Drumark as the creature leapt on him. Its filthy nails raked at his face, pulling hair from his beard. A rat-like face with hideous red eyes glared at him before snapping at his throat with chisel-like fangs. He could feel a long tail slapping at his legs, trying to hit his knees and knock him to the floor.

  Drumark brought the hot barrel of his decksweeper cracking up into the monster’s jaw, breaking its teeth. The creature whimpered and tried to wrest free from his grip, but he caught hold of its arm and gave it a brutal twist, popping it out of joint. The crippled creature twisted away, plunging back down on top of the crates.

  Any sense of victory Drumark might have felt vanished when he raised his eyes from the enormous rat he had overcome. Six more of its kind had crawled out from their hiding places in the tapestries, and unlike the one he had already fought, these each had knives in their paw-like hands. They stood upright on their hind legs, chittering malignantly as they started towards the lone duardin.

  ‘Skaven!’

  The cry came from the doorway behind Drumark. The discharge of his decksweeper had brought Horgarr and several others of the crew rushing into the hold, concerned that the sergeant had finally lost all restraint with the rats infesting the ship. Instead they found a far more infernal pestilence aboard.

  The arrival of the other duardin dulled the confidence that shone in the eyes of the skaven infiltrators. The mocking squeaks took on an uncertain quality. Ready to pounce en masse on Drumark a moment before, now the creatures hesitated.

  ‘What are you waiting for, lads!’ Drumark shouted to Horgarr and the others. ‘The bigger the rat, the more of our beer it will drink! Get the scum!’

  The sergeant’s shouts overcame the surprise that held the other duardin. Armed with shovels and axes, Horgarr led the crew charging across the hold. Their backs against the wall, the skaven had no choice but to make a fight of it.

  As he rearmed his decksweeper and made ready to return to the fray, a terrible thought occurred to Drumark. The tapestries and their devious passengers had come from the lamasery. A place from which Captain Brokrin had not yet returned.

  ‘Hold them here!’ Drumark told Horgarr. ‘I have to alert the rest of the ship and see if we can help the cap’n!’

  The young initiate held the ornate door open for Cho and the duardin as they entered the shrine wherein Piu-tulku had been entombed after his ascension. The room was smaller than the grand reception hall, but even more opulently appointed. The hangings that covered its walls were adorned with glittering jewels, the pillars that supported its roof were carved from blackest ebony and highlighted with designs painted in gold. The varnished floor creaked with a musical cadence as the visitors crossed it, sending lyrical echoes wafting up into the vaulted heights of its arched ceiling.

  Ensconced upon a great dais flanked by hangings that depicted the wingless dragon and the fiery phoenix, the living god of Kheitar reposed. Piu was still a fat man, but his flesh had lost its rich colour, fading to a parchment-like hue. He wore black robes with a sash of vivid blue – the same raiment that had been given to the mummies Brokrin had seen in the lamasery’s vaults. Yet Piu was not content to remain in motionless silence. Just as the duardin had decided that the lamas were delusional and that their late leader was simply dead, the body seated atop the dais opened its eyes and spoke.

  ‘Enter and welcome,’ the thing on the dais said. The voice was dull and dry with a strange reverberation running through it. ‘Duardin-friends always-ever welcome in Kheitar.’ It moved its head, fixing its empty gaze in Cho’s general direction. ‘Have you given help-aid to our guests?’

  ‘Yes, holy tulku!’ Cho said, bowing before the dais. ‘The tapestries have been sent to their ship, as you commanded.’

  The thing swung its head back around, facing towards the duardin. It extended its hands in a supplicating gesture. The effect was marred by the jerky way in which the arms moved. Brokrin could hear a faint, unnatural sound as Piu moved its head and hands, something between a pop and a whir. He had seen such artificial motion before, heard similar mechanical sounds. The tulku was similar to an aethyric musician he’d seen in the great manor of Grand Admiral Thorgraad, a wondrous machine crafted in the semblance of a duardin bard. The only blight on the incredible automaton’s music had been the sound of the pumps inside it sending fuel through its pipes and hoses.

  Whatever the esoteric beliefs of Kheitar, what sat upon the dais was not an ascended holy man. It was only a machine.

  Piu began to speak again. ‘It is to be hope-prayed that we shall all profit-gain from…’

  Brokrin stepped past Cho and glared at the thing on the dais. ‘I do not know who you are, but I will not waste words with a puppet.’ The outburst brought a gasp of horror from the initiate at the door. Cho raced forwards, prostrating himself before the dais and pleading with Piu to forgive him for such insult.

  Brokrin gave the offended lamas small notice. His attention was fixed to the hangings behind Piu’s dais. There was a ripple of motion from behind one of them. Pushing aside the snake-like dragon, a loathsome figure stalked into view. He was taller than the duardin but more leanly built, his wiry body covered in grey fur peppered with black. A rough sort of metal hauberk clung to his chest while a strange helm of copper encased most of his rodent-like head. Only the fanged muzzle and the angry red eyes were left uncovered. A crazed array of pouches and tools swung from belts and bandoliers, but across one shoulder the humanoid rat wore a brilliant blue sash – the same as that which adorned Piu.

  ‘Now you may speak-beg,’ the ratman growled as he stood beside Piu. His hairless tail lashed about in malicious amusement as he smelled the shock rising off the duardin.

  ‘Mighty Kilvolt-tulku,’ Cho cried out. ‘Forgive me. I did not know they were such barbarians.’

  Kilvolt waved aside the high lama’s apology. He fixed his gruesome attention on Brokrin. ‘No defiance, beard-thing,’ he snarled, pointing a claw at either side of the room. From behind the hangings a pack of armoured skaven crept into view, each carrying a vicious halberd in his claws. ‘Listen-hear. I know-learn about your port-nest. Your clan-kin make-build ships that fly-climb higher than any others. I want-demand that secret.’

  ‘Even if I knew it,’ Brokrin snapped at Kilvolt, ‘I would not give it to you.’

  The skaven bared his fangs, his tail lashing angrily from side to side. ‘Then I take-tear what I want-need! Already you let-bring my warriors into your ship.’ He waved his paw at Cho. ‘The tapestries this fool-meat gave you.’ He gestured again with his paws, waving at the skaven guards that now surrounded the duardin. ‘If they fail-fall, then I have hostages to buy the secret of your ship. Torture or ransom will give-bring what I…’

  Kilvolt’s fur suddenly stood on end, a sour odour rising from his glands. His eyes were fixed on the pistols hanging from the belts Brokrin and Gotramm wore. He swung around on Cho, wrenching a monstrous gun of his own from one of the bandoliers. ‘I order-say take-fetch all-all weapons!’ The skaven punctuated his words by pulling the trigger and exploding Cho’s head in a burst of blood and bone.

  The violent destruction of the lama spurred the duardin into action. With the skaven distracted by the murder on the dais, Brokrin and Gotramm drew their pistols. Before the ratm
en could react, the arkanaut captain burned one down with a shot to its chest, the aethyric charge searing a hole through its armour. Brokrin turned towards Kilvolt, but the skaven took one glance at the multi-barrelled volley pistol and darted behind the seated Piu-tulku.

  Instead Brokrin swung around and discharged his weapon into the skaven guards to his right. The volley dropped two of the rushing ratmen and sent another pair squeaking back to the doorways hidden behind the hangings, their fur dripping with blood. Gotramm was firing again, but the skaven were more wary of their foes now, ducking around the pillars and trying to use them as cover while they advanced.

  ‘We are done for,’ Skaggi groaned, keeping close to the other duardin. Alone among them, the logisticator really had come into the room unarmed. ‘We have to negotiate!’ he pleaded with Brokrin.

  ‘The only things I have to say to skaven come out of here,’ Brokrin told Skaggi, aiming his volley pistol at the guards trying to circle around him. The ratmen were ­unaware the weapon had no charge and seeing it aimed in their direction had them falling over themselves to gain cover.

  A crackle from the dais presaged the grisly impact that sent an electric shock rushing through Brokrin. The armour on his back had been struck by a blast from Kilvolt himself. Feeling secure that the duardin were distracted by his henchrats, he had returned to the attack. The oversized rings that adorned one of his paws pulsated with a sickly green glow, a light that throbbed down to them via a series of hoses that wrapped around his arm before dipping down to a cannister on his belt.

  The heavy armour Brokrin wore guarded him against the worst of the synthetic lightning. He turned his volley pistol towards the dais. Kilvolt flinched, ducking back behind the phony tulku. As he did, the ratman’s eyes fixated on something behind the duardin captain.

  ‘The boy-thing!’ Kilvolt snarled from behind Piu. ‘Stop-kill boy-thing, you fool-meat!’