Inferno Volume 2 - Guy Haley

by Warhammer 40K

  From high above the chamber, the scope brought the room into view, gathering up the fitful light from braziers and torches to throw a reddish cast across everything. To Fylch it was like looking at a reflection in a puddle of blood.

  The chamber was vast, easily a hundred feet wide and thrice again as long. Parts of the walls and especially the ceiling looked raw and natural, but the floor had been smoothed and levelled. The wall sections that had been worked were likewise smoothed down and covered in a sort of plaster or limestone glaze. There were pictures and symbols painted on them, but some of those symbols made Fylch’s glands clench and the less thought he gave to the murals the better.

  Dominating the room, at its far end, was a broad altar of volcanic obsidian, its edges shining like mirrors. There were iron shackles set into the four corners of the altar, and Fylch could pick out the smell of dried blood rising from the shallow grooves cut into the top of the platform and the hound-faced basins resting on the floor beneath each one. Behind the altar, towering dozens of feet above it, was a monstrous statue. It had a roughly humanoid build, with broad shoulders and two powerful arms, but instead of legs it had a mass of serpentine bodies, their coils interlaced in grotesque patterns that defied the eye to follow them. There was no head; instead a bestial face jutted outwards from between the shoulders, its lips pulled back in a toothy snarl. One stony arm was held against the statue’s side, a viciously crooked sword clutched in its hand. The other was outstretched, pointing one of its claws forwards.

  Fylch held his breath when he saw that claw. There was a chain wrapped around it and at the end of the chain there was a hook. Normally that hook was unburdened, but now there was a huge bronze bell hanging from it. It looked as big around as an overfed duardin and was about as tall as a grot in boots. Fylch could make out the grisly runes cut into the sides of the bell. They almost seemed to glow with malice and precipitated a spurt of fear-musk from his glands as he looked upon them.

  It wasn’t just fear that Fylch felt. There was a brew of relief and eagerness that rushed through him as well. The bell was what they were after! It was the reason Skowl had brought them here. And despite his anxiety, Fylch knew that it wasn’t too late. They still had time to steal the relic away from the humans.

  He glanced across the robed figures that were seated on the floor facing the altar. They swayed in time to the angry cadence of a huge drum, their hooded heads sweeping across the ground. At an estimate, Fylch would have guessed there to be two hundred of them, but he found it hard to make an accurate assessment with their individual scents masked by the incense – he might be counting the same ones over and over. He was more certain about the dozen armoured guards who flanked the congregation, tall and imposing men locked inside heavy suits of bronze armour. Then of course, there was the masked priest standing underneath the statue, his visage locked behind the fanged skull of a monstrous hound. That was the man-thing to pay particular attention to, and Fylch gave him a scrutinising glower. The cultists were mindlessly obsessed with ritual and each ceremony was performed exactly like the ones before it. The priest would set the tempo, and from what Fylch could see there was still quite a bit of time before he’d be ready to start his mumbo jumbo and make an offering to the Blood God.

  Fylch drew back from the eyepiece. If not for the warpblend bit in his mouth, he might have uttered a titter of triumph; instead he simply lashed his forked tail from side to side in amusement. There was still time! Everything was ready and there was still time!

  Fylch took the bit from his mouth and scurried back down the steps. He paused over the pile of junk he had dumped earlier. He picked through the rubbish, stuffing objects back into his pockets. It was a very pretty beetle husk, after all, and one never knew when even a mouldy salted grot ear might become appetising.

  Fylch hurried down the narrow tunnel. He was reassured by its comforting confines, his whiskers brushing against solid walls to either side. All skaven preferred it when they knew nothing could go creeping around them and come at them from behind. When the tunnel opened into a wider corridor, Fylch’s paw closed about the hilt of the sword tucked under his belt. It was an unthinking, instinctive motion, a reaction to the abrupt loss of the security offered by the tunnel.

  It was also a mistake. Before Fylch could react, he was struck a powerful blow from the side. He crashed against the hard stone floor, the sword flying from his fingers as he slid across the ground. The tang of his own blood was on the air, and he could feel a sticky dampness under his tunic where he had been scratched by claws. His eyes darted to the creature who had struck him. No need to guess which of the five skaven in the corridor was to blame. Only the hulking Krick was licking blood from his claws.

  Fylch bared his fangs and lashed his forked tail in fury. Krick glared back at him, showing his sharp teeth in a wicked grin. The big skaven was powerfully built, almost twice as massive as Fylch. His body was covered in woolly black fur, and the fur in turn was covered by metal armour and a hide cuirass. Krick absently wiped the rest of the blood on the hanging skirt of his cuirass and glanced at the sword Fylch was reaching for.

  ‘Go. Take. Krick kill-bash Fylch fool-meat,’ the big skaven snarled, fingers tightening about the spiked mace the brute carried.

  A guttural snarl from one of the other skaven in the corridor caused Krick to drop down in a submissive posture, head turned and throat exposed in a gesture of contrition. ‘Tattertail bring-carry sword-blade…’ he stammered, trying to explain himself.

  The skaven who had snarled at Krick gave the brute a menacing glower. He was a tall piebald ratman, lean and rangy in contrast to Krick’s muscled bulk. He wore a voluminous leather robe-smock, its outer surface slick and shiny. A bewildering array of tool belts criss-crossed his waist and chest. Lashed across his side was a metal cylinder with a deranged assortment of hoses and wires streaming away from it. Many of these connected to the bulky metal glove that was strapped to his right hand. A sinister green glow pulsated from the cylindrical device… and from a reservoir on the back of the glove. Taken in whole, the device was a ghastly weapon and one that had given its inventor his name: Skowl Scorchpaw.

  ‘Fylch too clever-smart to plot against me,’ Skowl snapped, eyes straying from Krick to Fylch. They were ugly, bulging eyes, burned red by the chemical fumes of Clan Skryre’s workshops, and it was a hard thing for any skaven to hold the warlock engineer’s gaze for long.

  ‘Yes-yes, mighty-great Skowl,’ Fylch whined, his forked tail flicking across the ground. ‘Fylch is loyal-true!’

  Skowl held his crimson eyes on Fylch. ‘And what has loyal Fylch spy-seen?’

  ‘Man-things start rite,’ Fylch said. ‘Bell hang-swing from statue-beast.’ Fylch looked across the other skaven in the corridor. ‘Soon bring sacrifice-meat to altar-plate,’ he declared.

  One of the other skaven, a hunchbacked ratman with a scrapyard of weird tools and devices hooked to the basilisk-hide coat he wore, quickly fished a spherical instrument from one of his bags. He squinted at the crystal sphere and manipulated a dial on its underside. He bobbed his head in delight as the device blinked and whirred. ‘Not-need fear-worry,’ he squeaked. ‘Cultists never start-slay without moon-time. Still time-chance for plan.’ He jabbed a clawed finger at the sphere as though to prove his point.

  Fylch ducked his head to hide his bared fangs. The tinker-rat was Teekritt Badscratch, as adept at creating new inventions as he was at stealing them from other skaven. Fylch wondered which category the strange lunar tracker belonged under. He almost hoped the thing wasn’t working right just so he could watch Scorchpaw vent his displeasure on the arrogant Teekritt.

  Skowl bruxed his fangs as he digested Teekritt’s assurance. He turned to the other three skaven in the corridor. ‘Know-remember what to do,’ he said. ‘Hide-find places. Wait-lurk.’ His gaze roved across the three. The red eyes locked with that of a small, one-eyed ratman. ‘Ragbrat send-show s
ignal.’

  Ragbrat’s gloved paw caressed the barrel of the gun he carried. It was a massive warplock jezzail, its barrel etched with Queekish scratches and its stock carved from a gargant’s tooth. There was a murderous twinkle in his eye. Fylch had heard it said the marksrat couldn’t go to sleep unless he had shot something beforehand.

  The two skaven who would be waiting for Ragbrat’s signal were as different from each other as hot and cold. Brakkik Gnash wore a smelly confusion of rathides and a big satchel slung across one shoulder. A long, hollow rod cobbled together from finger-bones was strapped to a loop that crossed his chest. On his shoulders and scampering about his feet were a pack of rats, each branded with a different Queekish glyph.

  The other was Haak Blackear. From head to toe he was covered in a costume of heavy leather robes, gloves and boots. On his back he wore a heavy metal cylinder, hoses running from it connected to the long mask that, for the moment, was hanging against his neck. Slung at his side was a big ratskin basket containing a deadly profusion of poison gas bombs.

  Skowl turned back to Teekritt. ‘Prepare-ready box-casket,’ he snarled, pointing a claw into the darkness. ‘Wait-watch for Skowl return.’ The inventor lost his arrogant confidence and dipped his head in a show of obedience. Licking his fangs, Teekritt scurried off into the shadows. Skowl watched him go, then turned to Ragbrat and gestured towards the concealed door that linked the skaven tunnels with the halls of the humans. ‘Sneak-slink behind man-things. After priest-thing strike bell, Ragbrat give-send signal. Then Brakkik scare-scatter. Haak kill all-every brave-stupid man-things.’ The marksrat and his companions hurried away to carry out their orders.

  ‘Fylch, Krick, follow-stay,’ Skowl announced. The warlock engineer mounted the steps leading up to the alcove.

  Fylch started to follow, but a cuff from Krick sent him sprawling. The black-furred brute gave him a toothy grin as he stalked past. It was more than just a reminder of where Fylch stood in the pecking order. It was a promise that there would be an accounting between them when it was all finished.

  Fylch had to repress a titter of amusement as he followed Krick. The verminous thug had no idea who it was he was dealing with if he thought he’d have a chance to settle scores.

  Fylch was back in the hidden alcove above the cult temple. The tiny space was even more cramped now that Skowl and Krick were with him. He was thankful that the others were down below, creeping about the back of the temple. Trying to stuff six ratmen into the place wouldn’t have left enough room to swing a dead mouse.

  ‘Fylch! Watch-spy! Speak-squeak all that happens.’ Skowl Scorchpaw gestured to the bat’s-eye scope. Krick lashed his tail in annoyance when the other skaven walked to the top of the alcove.

  Fylch wondered if Krick would feel so jealous if he understood why Skowl had bestowed this ‘honour’ on him. The warlock engineer had a trepidation about using any device he hadn’t inspected beforehand. He had seen too many high-ranking skaven perish in unfortunate accidents – indeed had arranged several of them himself. With no time to extract the scope and examine it, he’d arrived at the pragmatic solution of letting Fylch take on the duty.

  ‘Man-things still sit-pray,’ Fylch reported as he gazed down at the cultists. The skull-masked priest was standing behind the altar, only now there was a bronze axe in his hands. Fylch knew it was just his imagination, but he fancied he could smell the blood caked onto the axe even through the heavy incense. The man-priest started to chant in a weird language that was unfamiliar to Fylch. It had a strange quality that he didn’t think was purely human, more like the snarl of wolves or hungry dogs.

  Suddenly the priest swung around and gestured with the gore-caked axe, pointing it into the crowd. A cry of horror rose from one of the cultists. The worshippers to either side of him seized their companion and dragged him up with them as they stood. Fylch licked his fangs in grim anticipation as he watched the victim being led to the altar. ‘Sacrifice-meat is chained to altar-plate,’ he reported as the man was forced down onto the stone and bound by the shackles.

  Now the man-priest reached down and tore open the front of the sacrifice’s robe, laying bare his chest. The gore-crusted axe came into play, but instead of hewing the man asunder, the priest merely brought the weapon’s edge to his victim’s body, scraping bloody furrows in his skin. Fylch repeated what he saw to Skowl.

  ‘Good,’ the warlock engineer hissed. ‘Soon they ring-strike bell.’

  Fylch tried to control his glands when he heard Skowl speak. He knew what striking the bell would herald. Even so, he was compelled to keep watching the macabre tableau unfolding below.

  The priest now turned from his victim and looked towards the dangling bell. With the man’s blood still dripping off the axe, the cult leader brought the weapon smacking against the metal. A dolorous note rumbled through the cavernous chamber. From where he watched, Fylch could feel the sound throbbing through his bones. There was a power within it that went far beyond simple noise. It was an intonation to shiver the very soul.

  A gruesome change overtook the hall below. The illumination grew notably darker even though the flames rising from the torches and braziers had risen to twice their previous height. Fylch could feel a clammy chill emanating from the room, coursing up through the scope. His gaze was fixated on the altar. There was another figure there now, something that had not been there an instant before. It was taller than the priest and far more powerfully built than even the armoured warriors who guarded the hall.

  The dark shape surged towards the altar, moving with a grotesque undulating motion. Fylch gnashed his fangs to stifle the squeak of fright he wanted to utter. Moving out from under the shadow of the statue’s arm, the daemon – for it could be nothing else – was revealed as a small simulacrum of the monstrous idol. Its flesh was slimy with fresh blood, its skin rippling as it moved. The eyes that glared from its hideous face were alight with a hellish fury, glowing with the kind of feverish intensity Fylch had seen only in warpsnuff addicts.

  In stammering words, Fylch described what was happening to Skowl. Then the daemon swept to the man lashed to the altar and started to feed…

  ‘Fool-meat!’ Skowl growled as Fylch jerked away from the eyepiece. ‘Watch-tell! Hurry-scurry!’

  Krick pounced on Fylch and forced him back to his post. The brute’s powerful arms were locked around his head, pressing his face against the eyepiece.

  Down below, Fylch could see that the daemon had finished its meal. All that remained on the altar was a shambles of bone and shredded skin. Blood spilled from the gutters carved into the stone, filling the jars set beneath. The victim’s head was missing and as the daemon slithered back under the idol’s arm, Fylch could see the skull gripped in the beast’s jaws.

  The bell was still ringing from the blow the priest had struck, but now the reverberations stopped. Awed silence held the chamber, the cultists watching in fearful adoration as the murderous daemon they had called up vanished with the last echo of the bell’s summons.

  ‘Daemon-thing leave-gone,’ Fylch told Skowl.

  Skowl tittered with delight. ‘Plan-plot start now!’

  Fylch could see the man-priest standing behind the altar again. He brandished the axe above his head with both hands and began leading the cultists in another bestial chant. Then, above the roar of the crowd, a sharp boom cracked across the chamber. The wolf-skull mask of the priest was shattered, crumbling to the floor in ragged fragments. The priest fell back onto the coiled limbs of the statue, his face obliterated by the warpstone bullet that had struck him.

  The cultists fell silent, stunned by the grisly death Ragbrat’s shot had delivered from the back of the temple. Before they could gather their wits, cries of alarm sounded from the left flank of the congregation. Fire crackled against the wall, blazing away with ferocious violence. A second fire erupted from the right, soon to be followed by another and yet another. />
  Brakkik’s work, or rather that of his trained rats. Keeping out of sight, the ratmaster was blowing specially scented pellets into the chamber. The smell of each pellet was prepared to entice the rat trained to seek it out. Only unlike the treats used to teach them, those Brakkik now used would start a pyrotechnic reaction when consumed by the rats, turning the rodents into living firebombs. Fylch had to concede that the scruffy skaven was creating a splendid distraction with his pets.

  Thrown into panic by the fires, confused by the murder of their leader, the cultists lost all cohesion. They scattered in frantic flight. Only a few were devoted enough to remember the bell. Led by an under-priest and accompanied by a few armoured guards, a small group removed the bell from its hook and hurried through the swelling smoke and fire to a little door at the back of the chamber.

  ‘Man-things take-fetch bell. Run-race through door.’ Fylch dropped away from the eyepiece the instant he felt Krick release him. One paw darted for the sword he wore, but Fylch resisted the urge to stab his oppressor. It would be too easy to gut the vermin where he stood. Besides, Skowl wouldn’t like it. Krick’s part in the plan was just starting. The vault where the cultists secured the bell was only a few hundred yards down the tunnel from the alcove and the black-furred brute would be needed to help carry it away.

  Skowl bruxed his fangs in delight. ‘Yes-yes! Stupid-fool man-things! They do just what I want-need!’ He gestured to Fylch and Krick, then pointed at the steps. ‘Hurry-scurry! We find-fetch bell now!’

  The three skaven scrambled back down the steps and into the tunnel. Fylch had lost count of how many times Skowl had forced them to practise this mad dash from the alcove, down the hidden tunnel to the secret door that opened into the cult’s vault. This time, of course, they made the run in ­earnest and that urgency lent him more speed than he thought he could muster. He reached the door easily ahead of the others. In the thrill of the moment, he pushed against the stone portal, but it resisted his efforts. He had to wait for Krick to add his brute strength to the effort before the stone swung aside and exposed the cult strongroom.