[Gotrek & Felix 11] - Shamanslayer

by Nathan Long - (ebook by Undead)

  Felix looked back, worried. A few were breaking off, but the majority were continuing after him and Kat. Good. He laughed hysterically again — what a state to come to when you were relieved that there was a herd of beastmen thundering after you.

  Felix and Kat ran into the intersection, straight for the wagon that was parked in its centre. They jumped up onto its tailgate and clambered to the top of the barrels, then turned and waved their torches at the oncoming monsters. The brandy reek was even stronger here, for the casks had been opened so that the smell would be unavoidable. Felix was afraid his torch would light the fumes.

  “Come on, you filthy scavengers!” Felix shouted.

  “Catch me if you can!” shrilled Kat.

  The beastmen did as they were ordered and surged forwards, straight for the wagon. From his high vantage point Felix could see that the tail of the herd was only now coming through the gate. There were still so many of them! Too many! The powder couldn’t possibly kill them all.

  As the gors rushed to the wagon, Felix and Kat flung their torches at them, then leapt down and sprinted for the door of the strong house — praying now that the beastmen didn’t follow them, and that they would be enticed by the trap they had set for them.

  At first he thought they had failed, for he heard hooves clattering up the wooden steps behind him and heard the slayers curse as he and Kat dived through the door into the darkness of the stone house.

  Three huge gors burst through the door behind them, but the slayers cut them down before they knew they were being attacked, and no more followed.

  Felix and Kat caught their breath and joined the slayers at the door, where a savage joyful hooting was coming from outside. The first beastmen were surging around the cart, climbing on it and fighting each other to get to the brandy and beer, and more and more of them were pouring into the square and pushing forwards for their share. One gor had a brandy keg raised over its head and was pouring it down its throat.

  “Well done, Gurnisson,” said Rodi. “They’ve taken the bait.”

  Gotrek only nodded, his eye never leaving the mob outside.

  “Stupid beasts,” chuckled Snorri. “Distracted by beer.”

  Rodi laughed. “That would never happen to you, Father Rustskull.”

  “Snorri doesn’t know what you mean,” said Snorri.

  “Er, Gotrek,” said Felix. “Shouldn’t you light the fuse now?”

  “Not yet,” said Gotrek.

  “But what if they find the blackpowder?”

  “They’ll probably drink that too,” said Rodi.

  Felix waited, tension gripping his shoulders as he watched the beastmen flood into the intersection and crowd around the wagon. The edges of the pack were starting to reach the sides of the street. It was a close game Gotrek was playing. If he waited too long, the gors on the periphery would lose interest and turn to other prey. They might also smell the blood of their fallen brothers in the strong house and come to investigate.

  Finally, just as the urge to take the torch from Gotrek and light the fuses himself was becoming overwhelming, the Slayer lowered it to the ends of the bundled match cords on the floor. They flared to life and the flame crawled down their lengths towards the door, spitting as it went.

  “Stand clear,” said Gotrek, and waved the others back.

  Everybody stepped back, but not so far that they couldn’t watch the flames’ progress. It was too mesmerising.

  Then, disaster.

  Two gors were trying to carry a beer keg away from the rest, punching and kicking and butting as others tried to steal it from them. A clawed hand caught the top of the keg and pulled it down. The two gors lost their grip on it and it smashed down on its side. A wave of golden liquid poured from the smashed-in top.

  The beastmen quickly righted the barrel, but not quickly enough. As they continued fighting over it, the spill of beer foamed towards the covered groove that the dwarfs had dug to protect the match cords. Unfortunately, the planks were no protection against liquid, and the beer bubbled down into the cut.

  Felix and the others stared, stunned. Gotrek said something in Khazalid that Felix was glad he didn’t understand.

  “Right,” said Rodi, raising his axe. “Give me the torch, Gurnisson. It’s time for me to meet my doom.”

  “No,” said Snorri. “Snorri wants the torch.”

  “It was my plan,” said Gotrek. “It will be my—”

  “Rhya’s tits!” snapped Kat, and before any of them knew what she intended, she snatched the torch from Gotrek’s hand and raced out the door with it.

  “Kat!” screamed Felix, and charged out after her.

  Kat dodged through the surging, brawling herd like a rabbit through a country dance, ducking elbows and skipping out of the way of heavy hooves. Felix wasn’t quite so small or nimble and was knocked hither and thither by oblivious beastmen, still trying to reach the barrels of liquor.

  As he stumbled on, he saw Kat run past the spill of beer and flip up one of the planks nearer the wagon with the toe of her boot. A gor saw her and let out a bellow. It was lost in the general uproar.

  “Kat! Look out!” shouted Felix.

  She was too intent. She didn’t hear. More beastmen turned as she stabbed the torch down into the groove. Sparks shot up from it, racing towards the wagon between a gor’s wide-spread hooves.

  Another beastman grabbed Kat by the back of her coat and lifted her off the ground. Felix shoved between two big monsters and slashed at the gor’s arm with his new sword. Karaghul would have had it off at the elbow, but the new blade lacked weight. He only bit to the bone.

  Still, it was enough. The gor roared and dropped Kat to turn on Felix. Felix ducked a swipe of its tree-stump club and pulled Kat up.

  “Run!” he roared.

  She was already running, her axes in her hands. Felix turned and hurried after her, desperate to get her to safety. More of the gors were aware of them now, reaching and swinging for them, calling to their brothers. Kat danced away from every swipe, backhanding the beasts she passed with deft hacks. Felix chopped at them as they turned after her, then plunged through them as they howled and staggered aside.

  Finally they broke out of the pack and ran up the stone steps of the strong house. A few of the gors chased them and Felix felt the wind of a giant mace fan the back of his neck as he and Kat raced, side-by-side, over the threshold.

  Then, just as Felix was letting out a sigh of relief, there was a deafening thunderclap and something hit him so hard in the back that he was thrown to the far end of the room and slammed against an interior wall. For a long black moment he thought that the gor had connected with its mace and sent him to some hellish afterlife, for he seemed to be in a world of darkness and flame and noise and could not tell up from down or cold from hot. His body seemed at once numb and on fire. His head spun as if he’d been in a drinking contest with Snorri Nosebiter.

  Then his vision returned and he was even more confused. A ball of fire seemed to be coming from the ceiling and rising to the floor. The walls swayed as if they were made of mattresses. Heavy wet things thudded all around him like rotten fruit. A huge weight pressed on his shoulders. Finally equilibrium reasserted itself and he realised that he was propped head-down against the wall, his neck bent and all his weight on his shoulders with his arse sticking up in the air. The ball of fire was receding through the door, and there were bits and pieces of beastman lying around him like the leavings on a butcher’s shop floor. A leg with a cloven hoof lay beside him, oozing blood, while a beastman’s head hung from the wall above him, one horn impaling the plaster. Dust rained down from above.

  There was a little moan from his right. He turned his head and his body slid down the wall and slumped to the floor in a painful heap. He grunted and sat up. Kat lay curled in a ball next to him. His heart turned to ice. Had the explosion killed her?

  “Kat?” said Felix. “Are you all right?”

  Kat pried open one eye. “Are we dead?”
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  Relief flooded through him like a river through a burst dam. “No.”

  “Then I’m fine—”

  “Slayers!” roared Gotrek from the door. “Attack!”

  Felix looked up to see Gotrek, Snorri and Rodi charging through the door, weapons at the ready.

  Kat slowly levered herself up, using the wall for balance. She was shaking like a leaf. “Come on, Felix,” she said. “There is slaying to be done.”

  Felix stood as well. He felt as if he was made of matchsticks and rusty hinges. “Aye,” he said. “But you’re to do yours from the roof, remember?”

  “But I want to fight by your side,” she said.

  And I want you to live, thought Felix, but he knew that wouldn’t fly. Instead he said, “No, Kat. The archers need you. You saw them on the wall. Go to them. Show them how it’s done.”

  She looked up at him with her lopsided smile. “Is this how you make Gotrek do what you want?”

  Felix opened his mouth, but before anything came out she laughed and started unsteadily up the steps to the upper floor.

  Felix watched her go, then turned and hurried for the door, where the sounds of slaughter were rising.

  The intersection was a charnel house. The pulped remains of scores of beastmen were piled up against the walls of the houses facing the street like drifts of crimson rubbish. Of the powder wagon there was no sign, only a smoking patch of earth where it had stood, surrounded by melting red snow, but bits of timber and barrel staves stuck out of the wattle-and-daub houses like straw blown by the wind.

  And yet, astoundingly, some of the beastmen still lived. Felix saw Gotrek and Snorri and Rodi laying into them at the south end of the intersection — three squat whirlwinds wading into two score beastmen. And they weren’t alone. Sir Teobalt, Karaghul in hand, fought at the head of a small group of soldiers, refugees and villagers, all armed with Ludeker’s stolen weapons.

  “Men of the Empire,” cried the templar in a high warble. “Destroy the enemies of man! Defend your homes!”

  As Felix ran — or rather staggered — towards the fight he saw beastman after beastman fall, and not all from the exertions of the dwarfs and men.

  From every rooftop shot flashing shafts that buried themselves in beastman fur, and he could hear Weir shouting from somewhere above and behind him, “That’s the way, lads! Stick to the edges. Don’t want to kill our own, do we?”

  Felix ploughed into the fight, swinging high and low, and cutting down a beastman with almost every stroke. It was a dream of a battle — the kind of battle he had imagined being the hero of when he had read the old sagas as a little boy. Thus had Sigmar slain a thousand orcs at Black Fire Pass. Thus had Magnus smote the forces of Chaos before the gates of Kislev. The beasts practically fell over before he hit them, and Felix’s allies were faring just as well, killing beastmen as if they had been lambs.

  Of course it wasn’t a fair fight and Felix knew it. The blast had dizzied the beastmen as it had him, only more so, as they had borne the brunt of it. They reeled as if drunk, and could barely hold on to their weapons. Some of them had smoking bits of timber sticking out of them. Still, it felt magnificent, a glorious vengeance for all the violence and misery the gors and the Drakwald had inflicted upon him and his companions since he had left Altdorf.

  Only one thing marred the fight. Only one thing kept it from being the perfect battle — the paltry and unfamiliar sword with which he fought. It should have been Karaghul. Without it, nothing felt right. His blocks and parries were off, his attacks lacked force — in fact, it was a fortunate thing that the beasts were so disabled, for at full strength and with their wits unscrambled, he wasn’t sure he could have prevailed against them with the new blade.

  He glared at Sir Teobalt across the battle in between fighting. He supposed the templar had a right to take the blade from him, but it still stung. It still seemed unfair. He almost wished… but no, that was an unworthy thought. He pushed it away.

  After only a few moments, the last few beastmen broke and ran for the gate. Felix and the slayers and Teobalt’s ragtag company chased them all the way, cutting down all but the quickest. Only three remained when they reached the gate, and they quickly outdistanced their shorter-legged pursuers.

  Gotrek heaved his axe at them as they ran across the field. It caught the slowest one in the left leg and it went down with a screech. The other two didn’t look back, only sprinted for the black wall of the forest as quickly as they were able.

  Felix and the others stopped just outside the gates of the village as Gotrek stumped forwards to retrieve his axe. Last came Sir Teobalt, limping and grimacing and wheezing like a bellows as he leaned against the gatepost and caught his breath.

  “Well… well done, men,” he said to his troops. “It was bravely fought. And well done to you as well, sons of Grimnir,” he added, turning to the slayers. “Your plan worked in all particulars.”

  Felix noticed that the old templar didn’t mention him in his congratulations.

  Teobalt turned to one of the soldiers. “Anselem, close the doors, and place the heavy bar. They may come again—”

  “Srr,” came a strange voice from the shadows beside the gate. “Srr, pleese.”

  Felix and the others turned at the sound. A horrible crouching figure shuffled out of the darkness. It was one of the ungors, with little sprouting horns and a furred face, but features still mostly human. It had been terribly abused, with great gashes and bruises on its face and shoulders, and its wiry arms were clutched around its belly, trying to keep in the intestines that threatened to slither out of a gash that slit it from privates to breastbone. It looked as if it could barely stand.

  “A beast!” shouted Sir Teobalt. “Kill it!”

  His men stepped forwards, but Snorri and Rodi got there before them, raising their weapons.

  The ungor staggered back, crying out, a look of fearful pleading on his half-human face, and suddenly Felix recognised him.

  “Stop!” he shouted. “It’s Ortwin!”

  FIFTEEN

  Sir Teobalt stared.

  The two slayers paused, but Gotrek, returning from retrieving his axe, did not. He pushed through them, preparing to strike. “Not anymore it isn’t.”

  The changed squire fell on his back, raising one hand in supplication. “Pleese, no. I msst speek. I msst tell you.”

  Gotrek stepped over him, axe high.

  “Wait, Gotrek,” said Felix. “Let him speak.”

  “He is a beast,” said the Slayer. “He must die.”

  “Death is all I wssh,” mumbled Ortwin through his fangs. “But I msst speek frrst.”

  “It looks like he’s going to die anyway,” said Felix.

  Gotrek lowered his axe. “Speak quickly then, beast,” he growled. “My axe is impatient.”

  Ortwin moaned with relief. “Blsss you, Slayrr.”

  Sir Teobalt stepped past the slayers and looked down at his former squire. Felix had never seen the old knight look so stricken or sad. “Ortwin, is it truly you?”

  The changed youth cringed away from the knight’s gaze. “Frrgive me, mastrr. Sigmar have mrrcy on me.”

  Sir Teobalt’s shoulders slumped, and he covered his eyes with a shaking hand. “Sigmar have mercy on us all.”

  The crunching of snowy footsteps came from the village. Felix turned to see Kat and Doktor Vinck leading forwards a crowd of nervous villagers.

  “Are they all dead?” asked Doktor Vinck. “Have you chased them all—”

  He choked when he saw Ortwin. There was an angry murmur from the crowd.

  “Keep them back, doctor,” said Felix. “There is no need to fear.”

  The doctor obligingly waved the villagers back, but Kat came forwards, staring wide-eyed at the dying squire.

  “Is it…?” she asked in a trembling voice. “Is it…?”

  Felix nodded, then took her arm. Her hand circled his waist.

  “Go on, Ortwin,” he said, turning back. “Tell us.�
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  Ortwin nodded weakly and took a laboured breath. “I know whrrr they… take the stone,” he wheezed. “I know what they will… do with it. I came… to wrrn you but they caught me, and…” He looked down at the horrible wound in his belly. “At leest it will be over soon.”

  “Sooner than you expect if you don’t speak quickly,” said Gotrek. “Tell your tale, beast.”

  Ortwin fought to focus. “They go to hills in the south,” he said. “Acrrss the Talabec. Thrrr is an old crrcle. They will raise the stone. On… on Witching Night — Hexensnacht,” he grimaced with pain.

  “To what purpose?” asked Sir Teobalt.

  “A crrimony,” breathed Ortwin. “Urslak Cripplehorn was granted a vssion by the bird-headed god. Thss crrimony, on thss niight… will trrn all men undrr the shadow of the forest to beestmen, like me.”

  The men and dwarfs stared at him in disbelief.

  “All men?” said Felix uncertainly. “Everyone? He has the power to do this?”

  “The stone givss him the powrr,” said Ortwin. “His god givss him the powrr. His beesthrrd giives him the powrr.”

  “Which forest?” asked Doktor Vinck. “The Drakwald? The Great Forest? The Reikwald?”

  “To the beestmen,” said Ortwin, “all the frrests arr one.”

  Felix and the others looked around at each other.

  “This is dread news,” said Teobalt.

  “It’s bunk,” said Rodi. “It’s not possible. No beast has such power.”

  “Can you say that with the evidence before you?” asked Doktor Vinck, indicating Ortwin.

  “Changing a handful of men isn’t the same as changing thousands, over hundreds of miles,” replied Rodi.

  “Does it matter?” asked Gotrek. “If this shaman can do a tenth of what he claims it will be too much. He must be stopped.”

  “He must,” agreed Kat.

  Rodi nodded. “Aye. And there is a great doom to be had, win or fail.”