Inferno Volume 2 - Guy Haley

by Warhammer 40K

  Fylch scrambled up onto the cart beside Teekritt and helped the tinker-rat push the bell into the metal casket. Once it was inside, the lid was shut and Teekritt locked the casket with a small brass key.

  Skowl held out his hand, waiting for Teekritt to give him the key. Fylch grabbed the tinker-rat and kept him from dropping down to join the warlock engineer. ‘Wait-listen,’ he hissed at Teekritt. ‘Maybe share-three is too much for Skowl. Maybe share-twice is too much!’

  ‘Doubt-question Skowl?’ Teekritt tried to keep his voice level, his posture authoritative but not unduly threatening. His red eyes fixed on Fylch. ‘Honest-clever Fylch learn-know Skowl is good-true. Pay much-much when Clan Skryre come to take-carry bell.’

  Teekritt glanced at his weird timepiece. ‘Yes-yes, Clan Skryre come soon-now.’

  Skowl stroked his whiskers and bruxed his fangs. ‘Pay Fylch much-much.’

  ‘Same-like way Ragbrat and Haak and Brakkik and Krick pay much-much?’ Fylch asked.

  Skowl bared his fangs. He was tired of this slinking thief’s impertinence. It didn’t matter that Fylch was right and he’d be disposed of just like the others. That was simply what happened to underlings who were no longer useful.

  ‘Traitor-Fylch!’ Skowl roared. He raised his warp-glove, but then his eyes narrowed with vicious cunning. The bell was too close to risk using warp lightning. He glanced at Teekritt and saw the confusion in the half-crazed tinker-rat’s eyes. There, at least, was an underling who was still useful. ‘Teekritt! Kill-slay traitor-meat!’

  The tinker-rat rounded on Fylch, but he was ready for him. Fylch’s claws raked across Teekritt’s face, then he dived against his foe and sent them both crashing down from the cart. The two skaven wrestled on the ground for a moment, then Fylch broke away and fled to the far side of the cart.

  Skowl lifted his gloved hand, but again stayed himself because of the bell. His gaze drifted down to Teekritt. The tinker-rat didn’t have the same shield to protect him. In a blast of green energy, Skowl immolated the hunchbacked ratman. He leaned over the carcass and plucked the key from the charred claws.

  ‘Only Fylch and Skowl now!’ the warlock engineer snarled. He glared at the cart with his red eyes. ‘Come out and die quick!’

  For answer, an object came whistling out from the darkness. Skowl leapt back as it struck him. He expected to feel a stabbing pain; instead he felt an unpleasant warmth at his side. He stared down at the warp generator for his glove. A throwing star, similar to those employed by Clan Eshin, was buried in the device, causing it to spit sparks and green flame.

  Frantically Skowl ripped away the straps that fastened the generator to his side. He pulled away the warp-glove and threw the whole apparatus far into the tunnel. He spun around and threw himself to the floor as the malfunctioning device exploded and sent metal shrapnel and bits of refined warpstone flying.

  The explosion was still ringing in his ears when Skowl regained his feet. He glared at the darkness, trying to spot or scent Fylch. When he couldn’t find the coward, a sneer of contempt curled his tail. Let the little thief run; once Skowl collected from the grey seer there wasn’t anywhere in Skavendom Fylch could hide from him.

  Skowl picked up Krick’s maul and stood guard over the cart and the bell-box. He would not need to wait long. The conveyance he had arranged would be here soon to retrieve both himself and his prize.

  Fylch watched from the shadows as the huge Clan Skryre digging machine burrowed its way into the tunnel. The crew helped Skowl aboard, then loaded the bell-box as well. Fylch held his breath while they carried the casket inside, but nothing happened. Then the digging machine was moving again, its huge drill gnawing away at the opposite wall while its wheels ground against the floor. In only a few moments, the huge machine was gone from sight.

  Fylch dropped the woolly hide he had removed from the daemon-bell. He didn’t need it any more. He also didn’t need the key he had stolen from Teekritt. It was as useless to him now as the one he had replaced it with and which Skowl had taken with him. While the warlock engineer was getting rid of his warp generator, Fylch had used the real key to open the box and remove the muffling hide.

  He crept down the tunnel to where the digging machine had gone. Fylch strained his ears in hope he would hear the faint tolling of a bell. He lashed his tail in amusement when he imagined the daemon appearing inside the machine to eat the crew. Even more amusing was the idea of Skowl trying to open the bell-box with the wrong key.

  Grey Seer Nezslik would have to forget about adding this relic to his grisly collection. Skowl Scorchpaw had made a few too many enemies among his fellow warlock engineers. Enemies who had paid Fylch quite well to dispose of him in a manner that couldn’t be traced back to them.

  The problem Fylch had now was to make sure his employers paid him with money in his paw instead of a knife in his back. But that was an almost daily ordeal for any enterprising skaven. The fine balance between caution and ambition.

  LEGENDS OF THE AGE OF SIGMAR: SKAVEN PESTILENS

  by Josh Reynolds

  The Crawling City is under siege. The diseased hordes of the skaven Clans Pestilens seek the way to one of the Thirteen Great Plagues and this colossal worm holds the key – but to claim it, they must defeat the might of Sigmar’s Stormcast Eternals...

  Find this title, and many others, on blacklibrary.com

  About the Authors

  Guy Haley is the author of the Horus Heresy novels Titandeath, Wolfsbane and Pharos, the Primarchs novels Corax: Lord of Shadows, Perturabo: The Hammer of Olympia, and the Warhammer 40,000 novels Dark Imperium, Dark Imperium: Plague War, The Devastation of Baal, Dante, Baneblade, Shadowsword, Valedor and Death of Integrity. He has also written Throneworld and The Beheading for The Beast Arises series. His enthusiasm for all things greenskin has also led him to pen the eponymous Warhammer novel Skarsnik, as well as the End Times novel The Rise of the Horned Rat. He has also written stories set in the Age of Sigmar, included in War Storm, Ghal Maraz and Call of Archaon. He lives in Yorkshire with his wife and son.

  Peter Fehervari is the author of the novels Cult of the Spiral Dawn and Fire Caste, featuring the Astra Militarum and T’au Empire, the novella Fire and Ice from the Shas’o anthology, and the T’au-themed short stories ‘Out Caste’ and ‘A Sanctuary of Wyrms’, the latter of which appeared in the anthology Deathwatch: Xenos Hunters. He also wrote the Space Marines short story ‘Nightfall’, which was in the Heroes of the Space Marines anthology, and ‘The Crown of Thorns’. He lives and works in London.

  Thomas Parrott is the kind of person who reads RPG rulebooks for fun. He fell in love with Warhammer 40,000 when he was fifteen and read the short story ‘Apothecary’s Honour’ in the Dark Imperium anthology, and has never looked back. ‘Spiritus In Machina’ is his first story for Black Library.

  Jaine Fenn is the award-winning author of the Hidden Empire series of space opera novels as well as numerous science fiction and fantasy short stories. After studying Linguistics and Astronomy at university she spent some years working in IT by day while writing, running and playing tabletop RPGs by night. She is now a full-time writer. Recently she has written for video-games such as Halo Wars and various games in the Total War franchise, including Warhammer II. She lives in Hampshire, with her husband and too many books. ‘From the Deep’ is her first story for Black Library.

  Robert Charles’ career as an author truly began when a senior colleague told him that he should under no circumstances seek a career as an author. Despite what people say, it’s not true that Robert never leaves the house. While his body seldom strays far from a keyboard, his mind walks distant futures and forgotten pasts. That the better bits have a habit of finding their way onto the printed page is all to the good.

  Miles A Drake is a professional bartender and aspiring author based in Amsterdam, Holland. His other work for Black Library includes the short story ‘The Flesh Ti
the’.

  Steve Lyons’ work in the Warhammer 40,000 universe includes the novellas Engines of War and Angron’s Monolith, the Imperial Guard novels Ice World and Dead Men Walking – now collected in the omnibus Honour Imperialis – and the audio dramas Waiting Death and The Madness Within. He has also written numerous short stories and is currently working on more tales from the grim darkness of the far future.

  ‘Ties of Blood’ is the first Black Library story from Jamie Crisalli, who writes gritty melodrama and bloody combat. Fascinated with skulls, rivets and general gloominess, when she was introduced to the Warhammer universes, it was a natural fit. She has accumulated a frightful amount of monsters, ordnance and tiny soldiery over the years, not to mention books and role-playing games. Currently, she lives with her husband in a land of endless grey drizzle.

  J C Stearns is an Illinois-based freelance author who has appeared in a range of science fiction publications. He is a keen Warhammer 40,000 player, with a sizable Dark Eldar army, and has also written the Black Library story ‘Wraithbound’.

  C L Werner’s Black Library credits include the Age of Sigmar novels Overlords of the Iron Dragon and The Tainted Heart, the novella ‘Scion of the Storm’ in Hammers of Sigmar, the Warhammer novels Deathblade, Mathias Thulmann: Witch Hunter, Runefang and Brunner the Bounty Hunter, the Thanquol and Boneripper series and Time of Legends: The Black Plague series. For Warhammer 40,000 he has written the Space Marine Battles novel The Siege of Castellax. Currently living in the American south-west, he continues to write stories of mayhem and madness set in the Warhammer worlds.

  An extract from Warriors of the Chaos Wastes.

  Enormous, man-like, the huge tracks gouged the barren face of the snowfield, a black line fading into the howling gale. Pressed so deeply into the ice that bare rock shaded their depths, the prints made a clear trail even in the driving snow. It would take hours for the tracks to be covered. Long before then, Jokull would lead his captain to his prey.

  The Norscan hunter whipped the scaly, lash-like appendage that grew from his left shoulder against his beard, knocking frost from the thick black hair. Jokull shivered beneath the heavy furs he wore, casting anxious eyes at the land around him. For days they had climbed the jagged slopes until Jokull thought they must be at the roof of the world, and still he could see the grey shapes of even higher peaks looming behind the falling snow. Much higher and surely they would be crushed beneath the feet of the sun when the Blood God’s hunt chased it across the morning sky! The vision made the hunter tremble and place the little bone icon of the Skull Lord between his teeth. He could feel the iron staples fastened to the talisman stab into his gums, could taste the coppery tang of blood in his mouth. The gods of the north were angered when prayers did not come with offerings.

  Wailing like the frozen wraith of a Kislevite witch, the winds swirled and crashed around Jokull. Spitting the bone icon from his mouth, he could see the blood covering it freeze into icy mush as the talisman dangled around his neck. The men of Norsca were used to the brutality of winter and the savagery of the elements, but even an experienced woodsman like Jokull felt oppressed by the harshness of these snow-swept mountains. It was as sinister and hostile a place as anything the skalds sang of in the sagas.

  Jokull lifted his bow, the fingers of his right hand – the one that hadn’t been changed by the gods – rubbing the feathers fitted to the arrow nocked against the string. Black feathers, crow feathers, feathers hungry for the taste of meat. The hunter placed great faith in such feathers, trusting them to speed the arrow to its target. With such arrows he had brought down snow bears and ice tigers and more than a few men when the hunting season faded into the time of war. Now, however, the hunter’s faith in his weapon wavered.

  Surely no clean beast would dwell in such a blighted place. The cold was like a gnawing thing that chewed through fur and cloth and skin to seep down into the bones of a man. The wind was a howling torment more furious than the gales upon the Sea of Claws, driving the snow like a thousand daggers into the face of any bold enough to stand against its fury. The air was thin and poor, like the breath of a frozen grave. A man’s lungs gasped for it, gulping it down in desperate shudders but never drawing in enough to satisfy his body.

  No clean beast would live in such a place, Jokull decided. He cocked his head as he fancied he heard a deeper howl sound behind the wind. His skin crawled as he heard the sound repeated, even more distinctly, from the higher peaks. Again the cry came, this time from further ahead, a low, growling sound that slowly rose into a piercing shriek. There was an unmistakable note of threat in the cries, a threat that made Jokull glance back the way he had come. How far was it to the ship, he wondered, and could he reach it before the crying things decided he had ignored their warning?

  The hunter shook his head and spat a blob of blood into the snow. He could not deny the fear he felt but he did curse his foolishness. There was no going back. The way back was closed to him. It had been ever since he signed on to the crew of the Seafang and swore a life-oath to her captain. There was no retreat for the men of the Seafang, only victory or death. Their captain made sure of that.

  The thought made Jokull smile. However terrible the creatures of the mountains were, he would bet his beard that his captain was worse. Jokull had only believed half of the stories told about the captain of the Seafang when he joined her crew. Now he knew better. He had seen trolls ­butchered like sheep by his captain, watched as daemons cringed before him and begged for mercy. He had been there when the fleshless wight of Jarl Unfir rose from its cairn only to have its bony back broken across the captain’s knee.

  Wulfrik the Wanderer was a name spoken of in awed whispers, and with good reason.

  He looked back, willing his gaze through the falling snow. Beyond the flurry, he could see the grey figures of the crew marching in his steps. Even as a shadow veiled by snowfall, Jokull had no trouble picking out Wulfrik. There was an aura of almost palpable menace that exuded from the man, a sense of wrongness about him that compelled even as it horrified.

  The master of the Seafang stomped through the snow, emerging from the flurry to glower at Jokull. The hunter was a big man, but Wulfrik towered a full head above him. Heavy furs cloaked his ogrish frame, while a hairy cape cut from the scalp of a giant billowed about his shoulders. With every step, Jokull could hear the rattle of bones and chains rise from the champion as Wulfrik’s gruesome trophies clattered against the armour he wore beneath his furs.

  Jokull lowered his bow, a cold more piercing than the snowstorm running through him as he considered that Wulfrik might decide a readied weapon meant a challenge. The champion had a brutal way of answering challenges. Jokull would rather face Jarl Unfir again than cross blades with Wulfrik.

  The champion chuckled at Jokull’s unease, his laughter sounding more like a wolf worrying at a bone than the sort of sound a man should make. Wulfrik’s thick crimson beard parted, exposing his fearsome smile. Until he smiled, an observer might think Wulfrik’s body untouched by the gods, what the weak men of the south would call ‘uncorrupted’. But the instant he bared his teeth, the change was there for all to see. Wulfrik’s teeth weren’t teeth, but long sharp fangs, fangs of a beast, not a man. When he was drunk, Jokull had seen Wulfrik bite through iron with those fangs. One day, the champion swore, he would be strong enough to do the same to steel.

  ‘Why have we stopped, weasel-slayer?’ The question, when it came, did not rise from the hulking Wulfrik, but from a tall blond Sarl standing just behind the champion. The Sarl was a contrast to Wulfrik, his chiselled features presenting a face that was more becoming than the champion’s fearsome countenance, yet still possessing formidable strength: Broendulf the Fair, one of the most renowned warriors in all the holdings of the Sarls.

  ‘I don’t like these tracks,’ Jokull said, making a point to address his words to Wulfrik and not the surly Broendulf.

  ‘I don�
��t like anything that keeps me out in these Tchar-cursed mountains, but you don’t hear me complaining,’ Broendulf snapped at the hunter.

  ‘Worried all this snow is going to scar those girly cheeks of yours!’ laughed an ashen-haired reaver, his leathery skin darkened to the colour of ale and his right leg a mass of ivory-hued bones bound together with steel chain. A fleshless skull grinned where the reaver’s knee should have been. Bitten off by a kraken during a misadventure on the northern seas, Arngeirr’s leg had been replaced with the bones of the man who had caused the accident. Even without any skin on it, some said they could see the family resemblance when they looked at the skull of his father.

  ‘You should grow out your beard!’ cackled another warrior, running a hand banded in steel through the wiry black hair that covered his face from chin to eyelash. The hairy Norscan’s eye vanished behind a lewd wink. ‘Gives the wenches something to keep hold of!’

  ‘The only wench you ever kept hold of said “oink”, Njarvord!’ another of the warriors snarled. The man, his shaven head covered in tattoos, drew a curved sea-axe from his belt and brandished it as the hairy Njarvord rounded on him. ‘You know the rule, Baerson! First spills blood tastes the captain’s sword!’

  What little flesh showed past Njarvord’s thick beard flushed crimson. His armoured hands clenched tight at his sides, the muscles in his arms bulging with frustrated violence. ‘One day, I’ll make you eat your words, Haukr,’ the warrior promised with a menacing growl. ‘One tooth at a time.’

  Wulfrik noticed the squabbling of his men. He was not so detached that he was not aware of the tension and anger growing inside them. Even for men as accustomed to hardship and cold as the hardy stock bred in Norsca, the mountains were an ordeal. But that ordeal was nearing its end.