by Warhammer
He stopped in the mouth of the alley, staring into its shadowed depths as a stew of conflicting emotions bubbled up inside him. Part of him wished he could walk down it and back into time to tap his younger self on the shoulder and tell him not to make the pledge. Another part of him imagined the life he would have had had he not made it – a life of marriage and property, and responsibility – and thought he should stay right where he was.
He shook himself and continued on. It was very strange to be back in Altdorf. It was full of ghosts.
Felix paused and looked up as he reached the low-lintelled door of the Griffon, a faint scrabbling sound drawing his attention towards the roof, four storeys above. He saw nothing but closed shutters and birds’ nests. Pigeons fighting under the eaves, no doubt. He went in.
A few late risers still lingered over their breakfasts in the inn’s warm, flagstoned taproom. He nodded to Irmele, who was clearing away plates and cups, and saluted Rudgar, the landlord, who was rolling a fresh keg of Mootland ale into place behind the bar.
‘Has he come down?’ Felix asked.
Rudgar nodded towards the back of the room. ‘He never went up. Kept Janse up all night, filling and refilling his stein. He was there when you left this morning. You didn’t see him?’
Felix shook his head. He had been too preoccupied with his visit to his father to notice anything on his way out. Now he peered into the shadows at the far end of the taproom. Half hidden in a nook behind the inn’s enormous fireplace was Gotrek, slumped unmoving in a low chair, his bearded chin on his chest and a stein of ale held loose in one massive hand. Felix shook his head. The Slayer looked terrible.
It wasn’t Gotrek’s wounds that gave Felix pause. For the most part they were gone – healing as they always did – cleanly and completely. Except for the bulky cast on his right arm, he was good as new. What concerned Felix was that the Slayer had stopped taking care of himself. The roots of his crest showed an inch of brown where he hadn’t bothered to dye them. Patchy stubble furred his scalp, obscuring his faded blue tattoos, and his face looked bloated and slack. There was dried food in his beard and the once-white plaster of the cast was grimed with filth and stained with beer. His single eye stared half closed at the wall in front of him. Felix couldn’t tell if he was awake or asleep. He grimaced. This was becoming an all too common occurrence.
‘Has he paid you?’
‘Oh aye,’ said Rudgar. ‘Gave us one of his gold bracelets. He’s paid up ’til Sigmar comes back.’
Felix frowned. That was bad. Gotrek had no vault to carry the treasure he had amassed during their adventures, so he wore it on his wrists. The golden bracelets and bands that circled his powerful forearms were as precious to him as the hoard of any dwarf king. He parted with them only in the direst emergencies. Felix had known him to go hungry for weeks rather than use one to buy food. Now he had paid his drinks bill with one.
The Slayer would never have done that in the past. But these days the Slayer was as morose as Felix had ever seen him, and had been since they had come to Altdorf after the destruction of the Spirit of Grungni – since they had missed the siege of Middenheim.
It had been the strangest waking in a life of strange wakings, that day when Felix had opened his eyes after falling from the sky. At first he could see nothing but white, and he wondered if he was lying in a cloud, or had died and gone to some strange world of mist. Then a trio of Malakai’s students had pulled the silk canopy of Malakai’s ‘air catcher’ off him and crowded above him, their heads silhouetted against a crimson sunset sky as they checked him for broken bones.
Things remained strange when they sat him up, for he found that he was in the middle of some farmer’s field with the massive shapes of the corrupted cannons that Magus Lichtmann had hoped to bring to Middenheim jutting up at odd angles from the furrows all around him, like the iron menhirs of some long-forgotten cult. In an adjacent field, the smoking remains of the gondola of the Spirit of Grungni lay half-buried, a shattered metal leviathan seemingly about to dive beneath a sea of earth.
Then, to his left, the strangest sight of all – Gotrek, high up in a tree, dangling from the silk cords of his air catcher as more of Malakai’s students climbed the branches to cut him down.
Malakai himself was by a split-rail fence, trying to convince a group of pitchfork-wielding farmers that he and his companions weren’t daemons or northmen or orcs, and not having much luck.
When all had been sorted out, the crew of the Grungni discovered that they had crashed in the heart of the Reikland, not far north of Altdorf. With no fit cannons or supplies to bring to the front, there was no more reason for them to continue on to Middenheim, and something had to be done with the tainted guns. The evil things couldn’t be left where they were. Their influence would corrupt the land and the people for miles around. Malakai decided he must take them back to Nuln in order to find a way to dispose of them safely. He hired carts to take them back, and another to take Gotrek and Felix to Altdorf, as their wounds were too severe for them to make the long journey all the way back to Nuln.
Though Gotrek protested mightily that he would go on to Middenheim broken arm or no, in the end, even he admitted that he wouldn’t be much use in a fight with a bone sticking out through his skin. So, two of Malakai’s students escorted him and Felix to the capital and used Gunnery School funds to pay for their lodgings and for the care of proper physicians. Malakai had said it was the least the school could do for them after they had stopped the cursed cannons from reaching Middenheim and possibly bringing about the downfall of the Empire. ‘And it would ha’ been the school’s fault, an’ mine, had it happened,’ the engineer had said morosely, ‘Fer nae seeing that the puir wee things had been cursed in the first place. I’d ha’ shaved my heid all over again.’
And so, for the last two months, Gotrek and Felix had stewed in Altdorf, waiting for their wounds to heal, with nothing to do but sit in the taproom of the Griffon. The enforced inaction wouldn’t have been so bad except that, ten days after they arrived, news had come from the north that Archaon had retreated from Middenheim and the siege was lifted.
The war was over.
Gotrek hadn’t stopped drinking since.
Felix couldn’t blame him, really. From the moment they had arrived in Barak Varr that spring and learned of the invasion, the Slayer had had his heart set on facing a daemon on the field of battle, and once again his doom had been denied him. It had put him in a mood so bleak that Felix was concerned he might die from it.
Felix had seen Gotrek in the depths of despair before, but never like this. Always before, no matter how low he sank, anger or insult could rouse him. Now the jibes of peevish drunks and the threats of swaggering bullies didn’t even raise his head. He just continued to stare straight ahead, as if there was nothing in the world except him and his ale stein.
It made Felix heartsick to see it. One couldn’t say of a Slayer that he had lost his will to live, since his whole life was a search for death, but it was a sad thing indeed to see a Slayer who had lost his will to seek a good doom.
Felix sat down across from Gotrek in the alcove behind the fireplace. The Slayer didn’t seem to notice.
‘Gotrek.’
Gotrek continued staring into the middle distance.
‘Gotrek, are you awake?’
Gotrek didn’t turn his head. ‘What is it, manling?’ he said at last. ‘You’re interrupting my drinking.’ His voice sounded like someone grinding stones against each other in a tomb.
‘I… I want to go to Marienburg.’
Gotrek contemplated this news for a long moment before answering. ‘Taverns there are the same as here. Why bother?’
‘I have something to do for my father there. You’re welcome to stay here if you like, though a change of scenery might be refreshing. It should only take three weeks or so.’
Gotrek gave this some more thought, then at last shrugged his massive shoulders. ‘One place is as good as another.’
He raised his stein for another drink.
Felix was just trying to work out if that was a yes or a no, when something flashed past his nose and shattered Gotrek’s stein, spilling beer all over the Slayer’s beard and lap.
Gotrek looked up slowly as Felix turned in the direction from which the dart had come. Something long and narrow poked through a missing pane in a mullioned window. A dart flashed from it. Felix flung himself aside. Gotrek lifted his arm, and the dart stuck in the plaster of his cast. He glared with cold, one-eyed fury at the window as he reached down for his axe, which was propped against his chair.
‘That was a waste of beer,’ he said.
TWO
Gotrek and Felix ran out of the Griffon and thumped down the shadowed alley beside it, their weapons out. Gotrek swayed and stumbled as he ran, but considering he had been stone drunk for a solid month, his progress was remarkable.
Halfway around to the stable yard from which the dart had come, a flicker of movement above them caught Felix’s eye. He looked up, still running. Something indistinct dropped past his eyes and hit his collarbone. He looked down. A slim grey rope lay across his chest. He reached for it.
It snapped tight, biting deep into his neck, and he jerked to a stop like a dog at the end of its chain, losing his sword and almost losing his footing. The cord pulled higher, forcing him onto tiptoes as he gagged and clawed at it. A slurred curse came from beside him, and he saw the Slayer staggering in a drunken circle with his cast raised over his head like he was waving it, a rope noose tight around his wrist, tugging it upwards violently.
‘Cowards!’ shouted Gotrek. ‘Come down and fight!’
The Slayer aimed his axe at the rope, but before he could swing, a cobblestone hit him in the face. He snarled and turned, blood dripping from his forehead. Felix swung around, his vision darkening as he fought for air. Out of the shadows rushed a crowd of crouching men holding cudgels, nets and sacks. Gotrek lashed out at them with his axe, but a jerk on the rope that held his cast ruined his aim, and the men surged all around him, throwing ropes and nets at him.
A cudgel struck Felix a glancing blow on the back of the head as he scrabbled at his belt for his dagger. Another hit his shoulder. He kicked at his attackers but overbalanced and fell to one side, the rope around his neck taking all his weight. The pain and lack of air made black spots dance before his eyes. Fists and sticks pummelled him from all sides. The men’s eyes were wild and wide, their lips black and wet with drool. There seemed to be scores of them.
Three men with an open sack were calling to some others. ‘Lift him up! Hurry!’
Felix heard heavy thuds and cracks, and men flew back from Gotrek, bloody and maimed, but more closed around him, beating him and wrapping him up like a cocoon. His axe was pinned to his side.
‘Loose me, you damned silkworms!’ the Slayer roared, then threw both feet up and dropped right on his rump in the alley filth, knocking his tormentors back and pulling sharply on the rope holding his cast. There was a squeal from above and a black shape plummeted from the Griffon’s top storey to land with a thud on a lower roof on the opposite side of the alley. The rope went slack.
The crowd of men closed in on Gotrek again as their companions lifted Felix towards the mouth of the sack, but the Slayer had a hand free now. The grimy cast flashed out, cracking men across the shins and knees. Gotrek surged up, struggling out of the entangling nets as they stumbled back.
They leapt at him again, trying to pin him before he got his axe free, but the razor-sharp rune blade tore through the last ropes and gutted the first man in. He fell back, his entrails spilling through his clutching hands, and crashed into the men lowering Felix into the sack.
The one holding Felix’s left arm stumbled aside, letting go as he fought for balance. Felix took the opportunity and snatched his dagger from his belt. His captors flinched back and cried out, but they weren’t his targets. Instead he swiped the blade over his head, severing the slim cord that choked him. The men dropped him as they took his full weight unexpectedly, and he slapped hard on the wet muck of the alley.
‘I have him!’ cried a man as he dived on Felix’s dagger hand, trying to hold it down.
But Felix’s other hand found his sword, half-submerged in alley sludge, and he hacked him with it. The man shrieked as the blade gashed his shoulder, and he rolled away, blood soaking his ragged clothes. The others swung their sticks and clubs at Felix, but he laid about him with Karaghul and they leapt back, bleeding from grievous wounds.
Felix staggered to his feet, his vision swimming and his balance gone. He waved the sword weakly in front of him as he dropped his dagger and clawed at the grey rope, which still bit deeply into his neck. It came free at last and he sucked in a beautiful, painful breath.
His vision cleared a little as blood pumped throbbingly back into his head. He looked around. Bloody corpses lay everywhere, some missing hands or arms. The remaining attackers were running for both ends of the alley. Gotrek was chasing the dozen or so heading for the inn yard, shouting at them to turn and fight. Felix stumbled after him, trying to make his legs obey his commands. They felt like they were made of custard.
Who were these men? And what did they want with them? It couldn’t possibly be just some random attack. Were they cultists of the Cleansing Flame looking for revenge? Were they thralls of the Lahmian vampiresses who had sworn vengeance on them? If so, why had they tried to capture them and not kill them? Felix shivered as he imagined what those three harpies would do to him if they had him helpless. A bloody death in a back alley would be infinitely preferable.
Felix skidded into the Griffon’s yard, a muddy dirt lot with the stables and privies on one side and an empty ale-cart on the other. Gotrek was just disappearing through the back gate into the alley behind, still trailing a length of rope from his cast.
Felix ran through the gate after him. Their mysterious attackers were fleeing around a corner ahead of him, into a narrower alley.
‘Come back here, vermin!’ roared Gotrek.
The men failed to obey.
‘Do you know what this is about?’ asked Felix as they charged into the alley after them. ‘Who are they?’
‘The ones who spilled my beer,’ rasped Gotrek.
They chased their attackers through a maze of alleys – night-dark though it was almost noon, because the buildings that rose above them were so tall. Felix was surprised to find that, despite his shortness of breath and Gotrek’s short legs, they kept up with the men easily. They appeared in terrible shape – weak and confused, staggering and wailing and colliding with each other as they ran.
Unfortunately they were not the only danger. As Felix and Gotrek turned a further corner, another dart parted the Slayer’s crest and glanced off the alley wall beside them. They looked up. A dark shape blurred from one roof to another and vanished behind a chimney. Visions of Ulrika dancing across the rooftops of Nuln echoed through Felix’s mind. Was it her? Another of the Lahmians? They were the only foes he could think of who could leap like that.
Gotrek and Felix burst out of the narrow alley into a crowded market. Felix remembered the place from his youth, the Huhnmarkt, a poultry market where his father’s cook had bought chickens and ducks for the larder. Their attackers were shoving through the press of shopping servants and shouting poultry-sellers, and leaving a trail of chaos in their wake. Cages of chickens and geese were overturned, and egg men and butchers were shaking fists and cleavers at them. Gotrek ploughed after the fleeing men, heedless – trampling fallen cages and shouldering more to the ground in his single-minded pursuit. Felix gritted his teeth and started after him, ears burning at the angry shouts that followed them.
‘The watch!’ shouted a woman. ‘Someone call the watch!’
The cry echoed all around them.
Halfway across the square, the ragged men slowed, trapped between a wall of chicken cages and a cart that was unloading more. Before they could squeeze through, Gotrek was on them, burying hi
s axe in the last one’s back and grabbing the next. Cornered, they turned to fight, lashing out with their crude weapons and throwing anything they could get their hands on.
Mostly, this was chickens. Chickens in cages, chickens out of cages, dead chickens, live chickens and chickens that had been reduced to their component parts all flew towards Gotrek and Felix in a squawking, flapping storm. Felix and the Slayer batted them aside with sword and axe and cast, smashing cages and butchering birds as they tried to close with their foes. Blood, feathers and splintering wood flew everywhere.
Felix ducked a cage of angry geese and impaled a man armed with a studded club, then hacked at another who had taken up a butcher’s cleaver and flailed wildly with it. This was the first time since the noose had settled around his neck that he had been able to get a clear look at his attackers, and he found that they were very strange men indeed.
To a man they were as ragged and degenerate as any beggar Felix had ever encountered, with matted hair and beards, grimy skin and greasy, tattered clothes – but what truly alarmed him were their faces. Their eyes glittered with an unnatural excitement, and they drooled constantly – ropey black strands of spit that stained their lips and gums and spattered their clothes.
Though weak and spindle-thin, they fought with a feverish excitement and a twitchy quickness that made their attacks hard to predict. Was it a drug that made them this way? Zealotry for some god? Were they enslaved to some evil master? Felix might have felt pity for their miserable state except for the fact that they had nearly strangled him and were even now trying to beat him senseless. He cut the man with the cleaver across the knuckles. Though the wound went to the bone the man barely seemed to feel it, and swung again.
