Warhammer Anthology 12

by Death

It blasted him with its ice breath full force, turning his front half frost-white in mid-air. But the Slayer was not to be slowed. He crashed into the beast’s chest like a frozen cannon ball and chopped down with his rune axe, the ice exploding from him in a glittering cloud.

  The axe’s blade vanished into the fur of the yhetee’s chest and it toppled backward to splash down in the stream, thrashing and clawing weakly. Gotrek tore the axe free in a splatter of blood and hacked off its claws as it tore at him, then with a final mighty strike, lopped off its head.

  The long, ape-like arms sank slowly into the water as life drained from its body and the icy stream ran red with its blood. Gotrek dropped to his knees on its massive chest and lowered his head as if in prayer.

  Felix stepped out of hiding, concerned, and crossed to the Slayer. ‘Are you all right, Gotrek. Are you hurt?’

  Gotrek shook his head. ‘East,’ he said morosely. ‘Further east.’

  Felix nodded. The defeat of a great beast was always as much of a failure as it was a victory for the Slayer. He would have to continue to seek his doom further on.

  As Gotrek cleaned his axe in the stream, Felix picked up Father Gessler’s hammer and crossed to the dead priest. For a moment he thought of bringing the body down the mountain and giving it a proper burial, but it seemed somehow more fitting for him to remain here among the skeletons of the men who he had sent up the mountain to meet their death. Instead he just laid the priest’s hammer on his shattered chest and folded his broken arms over it, then murmured a prayer to Sigmar to forgive him his folly and welcome him into his halls.

  ‘It’s almost dawn, manling,’ said Gotrek, behind him. ‘The caravan won’t wait.’

  ‘Aye, Gotrek,’ said Felix. He turned away to see the Slayer waiting for him, the yhetee’s huge head dangling by its hair from his massive left fist.

  As they walked toward the mouth of the ravine, Felix turned to the Slayer, frowning. ‘Why did you laugh when Gessler died?’

  ‘He called to Sigmar to give him strength,’ said Gotrek. ‘Grungni and Grimnir give a dwarf all the strength he needs at birth. They would be insulted if he asked for more.’ He snorted. ‘That’s the trouble with humans, they want their gods to do everything for them.’

  Old Nyima was squatting at the gate when Gotrek and Felix returned, and she ran wailing into the village as they approached.

  ‘Doomed! Doomed!’ she cried. ‘The curse of the god!’

  The villagers and the caravaners crowded around in the pre-dawn light as Felix and the Slayer stopped in the centre of the cluster of huts. Some of them shrank back when they saw that Gotrek carried the yhetee’s head, but others murmured prayers of thanks. Gessler’s followers clutched the little hammers they wore around their necks.

  ‘Where is the hammer father?’ one asked.

  ‘He’s dead,’ said Felix.

  ‘And so is the beast,’ said Gotrek.

  He tossed the heavy head and it rolled to a stop amongst them. The caravaners cheered, and Yashef gave Gotrek and Felix a big grin, but the villagers shied away from it – all but the young widow, Chela. She stepped forward and spat on the massive thing, then crossed to Gotrek and Felix and bowed before them.

  ‘Thank you for slaying it,’ she said. ‘Thank you for avenging my husband. Perhaps we will live in peace for a–’

  Her words were interrupted by a crackle of flame and the smell of smoke. Everyone looked around. Father Gessler’s shoddy little Sigmarite shrine was on fire, and sparks from it were floating towards the huts. The thatch of one was already starting to smoulder.

  The villagers shouted and began to run for water and ladders, but then Old Nyima appeared, pointing a clawed hand at the burning temple.

  ‘The curse of the god is upon us!’ she shrieked. ‘I told you we would be doomed!’ She turned her glare upon Gotrek and Felix, then drew a bone dagger and tottered towards them. ‘Kill the killers! Appease the god!’

  Some of the villagers hesitated, frightened of her, but also of Gotrek’s axe. The fire continued to spread.

  ‘Stop, crone!’ snapped Chela, blocking Nyima’s way and grabbing her wrists. ‘The god is dead. We will feed it no more–’ She cut off abruptly, wrinkling her nose. ‘You reek of lamp oil! You set the fires!’

  ‘No! The god curses us!’ cried Nyima, struggling to free herself from the younger woman’s grip.

  ‘There is no curse!’ cried Chela. ‘Only an old woman trying to win back the power she has lost!’ She turned Nyima towards the huts. ‘Look what you have done! You burn us out of our homes for your pride!’

  Nyima twisted her hand and cut Chela’s arm with her knife. The young widow let go, yelping, then knocked the wise woman down with a slap and kicked the knife from her hand.

  ‘Move the wagons away from the huts!’ called old Zayed. ‘Protect our cargo!’

  The caravaners turned slowly away from the fight, seemingly reluctant to miss the spectacle, but then hurried away under Zayed’s curses and kicks. The villagers too seemed paralysed by the struggle, and stood watching with buckets unfilled.

  Chela shouted at them. ‘Forget her! To the well! Put out the fires!’

  Nyima scrambled up and grabbed a flaming branch from the thatch of one of the burning huts. She shook it at Chela, advancing on her. ‘And what if I set them, girl? I only do my duty as mouthpiece of the god. I obey his–’ She broke off with a scream as the flames suddenly spread to her oil-soaked hands and arms. ‘No! No! Put it out!’

  She dropped the branch and backed away, waving her arms, but that only spread the flames, and they began to consume her clothes and hair.

  Chela ran forward. ‘Nyima! Stop! Fall to the snow!’

  But the old woman was beyond listening. She turned and ran, screaming in pain, and crashed through the burning door of one of the huts.

  Chela turned to the villagers. ‘Someone help me! Help me get her out!’

  Felix and Gotrek stepped forward, along with some of the others, but it was too late. The flaming roof of the hut caved in and Nyima’s shrieks died off in a piteous wail. Chela stopped and lowered her head, sighing, but then turned to the others. ‘We will mourn her later. Now we must put out the fire. Come. Quickly.’

  After that there was a frenzy of snow shovelling and water carrying as the villagers, caravaners and Gotrek and Felix fought to keep the flames from spreading. In the end, all but the first two huts were saved, and Nyima’s charred remains were brought out and laid in state in the centre of the village.

  Words were said over her by the elders, but afterwards Chela stood and faced the crowd. ‘Neither Nyima or the hammer father wished us ill, but they brought ill upon us by their blindness, and we allowed this by our blindness. Now, because of them, our men are dead, and there is no one to defend the village. If raiders come, if beasts come, we are finished.’ She sighed. ‘I have heard some say we must find another god to pray to, or seek shelter with another tribe.’ She shrugged. ‘I will stay here. The way will be hard, but it will be our own. We have followed for too long.’

  The villagers murmured amongst themselves, some grumbling and glaring at her, some nodding in agreement. Some clutched their stone hammers and their bone teeth to their chests, others took them off and laid them on Nyima’s bier, then crossed to stand with Chela.

  Felix grunted as he and Gotrek turned away to help the other caravaners ready the wagons to leave. Chela was a bright spark indeed, and he admired her courage, but he feared it wouldn’t be enough. Raiders, beasts, starvation, the bitter cold of the mountain winter, any one of them would snuff out the little undefended village like a candle falling into snow. The odds were a thousand to one that she and her followers would survive long enough for their boys to become men, and assume the duties of their dead fathers. Still, the girl had a certain something in her eyes that made him think it would be unwise to bet against her.

  As the caravan set out up the pass once more, Yashef grinned at Gotrek. ‘So, you got your fight, dwarf. I
hope now we can continue to Skabrand in peace.’

  ‘Aye,’ said Usman. ‘Surely that fight was real enough for you?’

  ‘Real enough, but not final enough,’ said Gotrek, staring ahead dully with his single eye. ‘East,’ he muttered as before. ‘Further east.’

  Felix sighed and trudged on beside him – still on the wrong path.

  The Assassin’s Dilemma

  David Earle

  The first sentry died when a three-pointed shard of metal pierced his neck, delivering a lethal mix of filth and poisons into his bloodstream. The second sentry had a jagged-edged sword driven through his back and into his lungs. Blood burbled from his lips when the sword was withdrawn, and his legs gave way and carried him to the ground. When he came to the third sentry, Sneeq Foulblade simply sliced the manthing’s head off in a single stroke. The head flew up as the body collapsed, and the skaven assassin caught it on the point of his blade, regarding the confused expression on its face with a malicious mixture of amusement and disgust.

  Sneeq’s gutter runners remained a respectful distance away from him. It was unusual for the assassin to sully his talents with pathetic targets such as these, and they recognised from the twitch of his tail and the red gleam in his eye that he was in a most foul mood. Eventually Qit Rin, the most senior of Sneeq’s underlings, stepped forward and coughed meaningfully.

  ‘Our way is clear,’ Sneeq snapped, answering the unspoken question. ‘We move to the ridge and scout the manthings’ camp. Hurry-scurry!’

  His gutter runners obeyed with commendable haste, swarming up the hill towards the ridgeline. Sneeq glared at the sentry’s head one last time. With a snarl he ripped an eye from its socket and popped it into his mouth, then shook the head from his sword and made his ascent.

  The Eshin killers were already crouched at the edge of the ridge. Sneeq shoved Skulk Fellpaw, his most expendable underling, out of his way and crept to the edge, taking in the camp below and picking out likely avenues of approach with a practiced eye.

  The main body of the camp was situated at the entrance to a narrow valley. The manthing dwellings were laid out with monotonous uniformity, although nestled within the valley itself was a set of mismatched tents arranged in a more disorderly fashion. A pall of blue and grey smoke hung over this section of the camp, smelling of the black powder the manthings used in their war machines.

  ‘Foolish manthings,’ Qit Rin sneered, scratching irritably at the brass patch that covered his left eye. ‘Too stupid to watch their own backs, yes-yes.’

  Sneeq agreed. The sentries they’d killed might have been enough to spot an army of any size, but against the stealth and cunning of Clan Eshin they had been useless. Better still, the humans had left the land between the ridge and the camp laughably unguarded. Had he wanted to, Sneeq knew that he could infiltrate the camp and complete his mission long before the manthings knew something was amiss.

  Surely, Sneeq could steal into the camp without being detected. Of a certainty, he could slit his target’s throat before he felt the kiss of Sneeq’s blades. And without question, Sneeq would suffer a far kinder death if he cut his own throat immediately after. For if he did not, it was all but assured that he would be roasted alive for his success.

  Not that Sneeq had known this when he had first arrived at the warren of Clan Famin. The clan’s Warlord, Glut, had hired the services of Clan Eshin to pave the way for an assault on the human encampment. Clan Famin had come to control a number of human agents in Nuln some time ago, following Grey Seer Thanquol’s disastrous assault on the city, and years later these spies had finally provided their masters with useful information.

  ‘The manthings have made a hidden lair in the mountains, to test their most deadly weapons. Terrible they are!’ Glut had said. The warlord had spoken around a hunk of meat torn from the shoulder of a still-living slave. Its pitiful squeaking had made it difficult to hear anything else, and Glut had snapped its neck in annoyance before he continued. ‘These new weapons must be ours. Yes! Yes! To Clan Skryre we will bring them, so that they may unlock their secrets for the good of the Skaven race!’

  And so that they may pay you a great many warptokens, Sneeq had thought. ‘A brilliant plan indeed, massive one.’

  ‘To another did the Council first give this task,’ Glut had said. ‘Failed wretchedly, he has! The manthings are few in number, but entrenched behind their weapons they may yet defy us. Already, I fear they have sent for reinforcements. We must kill them all quick-quick or our chance will be lost!’

  Sneeq had bowed his head, seeing at last why Glut had contacted Clan Eshin. ‘Who would you have me kill, most corpulent one?’

  The warlord had reached behind his throne and tossed Sneeq a badly stained parchment. On it, Sneeq found a crude drawing of a white-furred manthing wearing strange goggles on its head.

  ‘That is the engineer who defies us,’ Glut said. ‘With him dead, the manthing weapons will fail and they will die-die swiftly beneath our blades.’

  ‘You will have his head before this night is ended, Warlord,’ Sneeq had assured him.

  ‘Excellent.’ Glut had licked his lips, and gestured for his stormvermin to bring him a fresh slave as Sneeq took his leave. He had not gotten far before another skaven stepped out of a side tunnel to block his way. Sneeq’s blades were halfway out of their scabbards before he fully took in the skaven’s appearance and stopped dead.

  The skaven wore blue robes with a hood that masked his face in shadow, but left exposed the two great horns jutting from his skull. From within the robes, a green warpmist rose from the place where the skaven’s right eye should be, matching that which drifted around the stone top of the staff carried in the figure’s gnarled paws.

  ‘Most excellent Grey Seer Qik,’ Sneeq had said, bowing low to the ground. It never hurt to flatter someone who could kill you with a word. His clan’s spies had mentioned that the seer was here, although they’d been strangely reticent to explain why he was present. ‘I am honoured to stand before so powerful a prophet of the Horned Rat.’

  ‘Do not seek to flatter me, Foulblade,’ Qik had snarled. ‘Warlord Glut has sent you to kill the human engineer, has he not?’

  Sneeq hesitated, but decided that revealing his assignment was less risky than displeasing the grey seer. ‘He has, great one.’

  ‘Just as I thought. Look at me, assassin.’

  Sneeq had looked up, and even he had flinched at the sight before him. Qik had pulled back his hood, revealing hideous burns that covered the right half of his face. Flesh and muscle had been melted away, leaving the blackened bone beneath exposed. A rounded shard of warpstone had been situated within the empty socket, and it glowed with a terrible green fire that promised torment, suffering and death.

  ‘Not a pretty-pretty sight, is it?’ Qik had said. ‘A reminder from the Horned Rat to never underestimate the ingenuity of the manthings

  or the treachery of so-called allies.’

  The green eye glowed brighter then, and Sneeq had tensed, fearing that the seer might somehow be referring to him. ‘Allies, your magnificence?’

  ‘It was I who learned of the manthing camp, and I who requested troops from Glut to take it for the glory of the Horned Rat,’ Qik had said. ‘But he provided me with nothing but slaves and fodder! These so-called troops failed me utterly, and thanks to their cowardice I am deformed. Now Glut seeks to usurp my authority and take the manthing weapons for himself,’ Qik snarled. ‘But he shall not have them.’

  The grey seer’s voice had grown deeper and more menacing as he spoke, and a nimbus of green fire began to play around his body as he stepped towards Sneeq. The assassin had leapt away, and found himself backed into a corner as the mad sorcerer approached.

  ‘Glut seeks to slay my enemy and complete my failure. He thinks he can take the credit for my inevitable victory,’ Qik had said. ‘He is wrong! You will spare the wretched engineer’s life, assassin, until I can flay-scrape the flesh from his bones myself. If you
fail me in this, I will personally visit torments unending on your miserable flesh. And neither Glut, nor your clan, nor the Council itself will save you from my wrath!’

  The flames had burned incandescent around Qik, and with a clap of thunder and a noxious burning odour, the grey seer was gone.

  Sneeq shuddered as he recalled that encounter. He had spent several minutes crouched against the wall, emptying his musk glands and feverishly plotting how best he could preserve his life.

  He had first thought to simply withdraw, and let Glut and Qik settle their differences without him. Unfortunately, it was all too likely that the petty warlord would seek revenge on Sneeq if the assassin abandoned his contract. Not that he feared the warlord, of course, but Glut still commanded hundreds of clanrats, and Sneeq’s allies in Skavenblight were very far away. It was simple prudence to at least appear to carry out his mission.

  From his vantage point atop the valley’s eastern ridge, Sneeq looked down and bared his teeth at the fires blazing in the night. Stupid manthings, to come so far from their pathetic cities. Sneeq bit his tail in frustration. It was their fault he found himself in this mess.

  ‘What are your orders, Master Foulblade?’ Skulk Fellpaw asked nervously. The assassin started, then glared at his henchthing. The wretch scratched nervously at a hairless patch behind his ear, and kept casting sour glances over his shoulder at Qit Rin. Sneeq’s lieutenant faced the other direction, studiously paying no attention at all to their conversation.

  ‘Question me, do you? Perhaps you think I must be prodded to act, like some witless rat-ogre?’ Sneeq ran a claw down the blade of his sword, and bared his teeth at his lackey.

  ‘No, no, master!’ Skulk squeaked, holding up both paws and shaking his head. ‘Eager I am, is all, to shed the manthings’ blood!’

  Sneeq almost laughed aloud at the weakling’s words. ‘Then you will have your chance. Minions!’ he cried. The other gutter runners stopped chuckling at Skulk’s misfortune and fell silent. ‘We were sent to seize the manthing weapons. Qit Rin, choose half of the team and lead them to the other side of the valley. Ensure Skulk Fellpaw goes with you,’ he said. ‘Stay far-far from their burrows! Signal when you are in place, and we will run-race to their weapons and take them for the warlord. Go! Go!’