by Various
As Siskritt watched this minor sideshow unfold, the excitement in the street had quite palpably turned up a notch. Scanning the crowd, he could just about discern a huge black-furred skaven arriving from a side street.
It was Krizzak, Hellpaw’s feared lieutenant and second in command of the whole clan. He and his stormvermin elite were shoving a path through their lesser brethren, while a group of smaller figures trailed behind in his wake, clutching an unlikely array of machinery in their paws.
Siskritt’s nose twitched.
Lubricant… accelerant… a cocktail of chemicals he couldn’t begin to identify but had learned, through hard experience, to recognise a mile away. The delicious taint of warpstone reached his nostrils with bleak inevitability.
Warpfire thrower!
‘No, no, no. Now-now Siskritt, before whole wretched man-thing place comes down!’
He turned to face the final door, carved into the features of some kind of a feathered monster. A griffon… Or possibly a cockatrice? He didn’t care. It was nothing but the final obstacle between himself and the first step on his path to greatness. His fur tingled.
Drawing his sword, he kicked at the door with a snarl. Once. Twice.
On the third kick the lock gave and the door burst inwards. He charged through, experiencing a bravado that came only through an immediate sense of absolute mortal terror, his blade held before him as though he had a rabid plague rat by the tail.
At that exact moment, the side wall of the tavern was wreathed in a great gout of warpfire from the crew below. The surviving windows exploded inwards as fiery tendrils licked at the beams and plasterwork. Siskritt screeched in terror as he was hurled from his feet and into the room on billowing wings of unholy flame.
The Tilean merchant threw itself to the floor and wailed as Siskritt descended upon it, wreathed in a halo of green-black fire. A pewter goblet it had been clutching fell from its fingers, the blood-red contents already spilled over its silken finery.
Ignoring the stupid man-thing entirely, Siskritt hissed and snarled as he swatted out small fires in his fur and clothing, his tail spinning an intricate spider’s web of afterimages as its flickering tip lashed through the air. His wild eyes darted about the room seeking some means of escape…
But then they settled upon the talisman.
He caught his breath and his eyes narrowed, terror at once overcome by a fierce, jealous avarice. It was here. It would be his!
With wisps of smoke rising from his warpfire-scorched fur, he advanced towards the snivelling man-thing, crushing the fallen goblet beneath his paws as it scrambled backwards. He was invincible. I am Siskritt, fearsome and great, scourge of the man-things, and soon-to-be favoured of the Horned Rat!
The man-thing, who Siskritt knew was called Ambrosio, retreated until it sank into the corner, its eyes dilated with fear and its face slack with incomprehension. Siskritt had little sympathy as he closed the distance between them with short, quick steps. Despite all the evidence before their flabby noses, the man-things continued to refute the very existence of the skaven.
A Tilean of all people, dwelling in the shadow of Skavenblight itself, should know better.
‘W-wh… what…’ The man-thing cowered like a monkey cornered by a bird of prey. It might be better dressed than a monkey, it might be taller, but its flapping lips gabbled no less gibberish.
‘Quiet, man-thing. Be silent-still.’
‘Y-you speak Tilean! Are you a daemon sent to punish me?’
Siskritt responded with a burst of chittering laughter. ‘Yes-yes. I’m a daemon of… of… man-thing gods. Give me talisman and I’ll go away-gone.’
He held out an expectant paw. He hoped the man-thing didn’t notice how it trembled. He hoped the man-thing’s weak nose couldn’t smell his fear scent.
The man-thing started to weep, tears scouring twin trails over its sand-worn cheeks. Ambrosio folded down to grovel at Siskritt’s feet, either uncaring or blindly unaware of the man-thing blood that was congealed there, spongy and soft like jelly.
Siskritt cocked his head in bafflement as the man-thing began to babble a litany of supposed sins for which it was, of course, wholly repentant. The whole spectacle might have been amusing were he not so pressed for time. His back blistered in the terrible heat, and alarming groans of tortured wooden beams spread through the building. Not far below his feet, he heard the solid doors of the tavern collapse.
There would have been no need for orders. The weight of warriors filling the street would be pushing the nearest skaven through the hanging curtain of cinders and into the inn where the frightened man-things waited. The first dozen might die in agony, stepping in molten metal, fur set alight by dancing flames. Already, the frantic screams of skaven and man-thing were echoing through the smoky corridors like the unquiet spirits of the damned. Ambrosio snivelled on the carpeted floor as the sounds of chaos and carnage grew.
It was only through an effort of great will that Siskritt did not snivel right alongside the man-thing. He held his paw outstretched. ‘The talisman, man-thing! Hurry-Hurry.’
‘M-my talisman? Of course. It belonged to a man I sold as a slave. Am I being punished for that sin? If I buy back his freedom, will I be allowed to live?’
‘Yes-yes, man-thing will live! Just give talisman quick-quick or foolish man-thing die!’
Fingers sticky with sweat, Ambrosio yanked at the chain about its neck, the links tearing at its straggly beard in its haste to see the item removed. It pressed the talisman eagerly into Siskritt’s paws as though relieving itself of a curse from the gods.
Siskritt beamed with delight. In a way, it was.
His gaze settled on the talisman in his paws as though pulled by a puppeteer’s strings. The chaos of battle ebbed away as the talisman held his full attention. Long seconds passed with only the sound of his own breathing and, if he closed his eyes, the faintest whispering inside his mind, congratulating him on being such a clever skaven. So much work, so much risk, so much planning, and now it was his. Lovingly, he traced his claws across its surface.
The talisman was jet black within a latticework of platinum and a long silver chain. Even were it not magical, this pendant could doubtless have bought him his own clan. But magic it was; Siskritt could feel it. It felt unnaturally heavy in his paw given its size, and it had a presence, as though it was regarding him in return.
He pushed the eeriness aside and popped the chain around his neck, the talisman falling to rest against his thighs.
He felt strong. The man-thing had kept the talisman hidden beneath his silks, but Siskritt let it hang over his rags with pride. Let the others know I am a skaven to be reckoned with!
Ambrosio sank to one knee, having seemingly travelled through the veil of madness and well beyond the other side. ‘I have served you, servant of the gods. Will you keep your promise to me? Will you permit me to live?’
Siskritt shuffled forwards and reached down for the sword in the man-thing’s hand. The merchant released its grip willingly. Siskritt held the blade in his admiring hand. It was a long and beautiful weapon, double-edged with a cruciform hilt and tapered to a wicked point that drew blood when he laid his finger upon it. Elegant lettering traced the length of the blade from tip to hilt. He recognised the curling Arabyan script, but he could no more read it than he could this man-thing’s mind.
It was a fine weapon indeed.
Siskritt looked up at Ambrosio. ‘Of course I help, man-thing. You help-help, I help-help.’
The merchant followed him out into the hallway, but it paused at the shattered windows. The wind was angry and its breath was hot with fiery green cinders, roasted meat, and blood: always the pervasive iron whisper on the tongue, of blood.
Ambrosio was aghast. ‘What has happened here? Have I brought this terror upon them all?’
‘Quiet now, man-thing. I say Siskritt will help you.’
The street was largely empty, barring a few hold-outs that had successfully avoide
d the fighting. The whole frontage of the building was alight with warpfire, and even just standing here at the window was uncomfortably akin to being strung above some hungry giant’s fireplace.
Silently, Siskritt crept up behind Ambrosio. Jumping up from one leg, he planted a firm kick with the other into the merchant’s back. Had it been further from the window it might not have fallen, but its clumsy feet caught on the base of the wall and tipped it over the edge, its silks flapping madly in the rising heat as it pitched forwards with an undignified yelp. The man-thing disappeared into the flames before it had even a chance to scream.
An ominous groan from the floorboards beneath the steaming carpet sent Siskritt scurrying for the stairwell. Somehow, the fighting downstairs raged on and he could hear the booming war cry of the crazed dwarf rallying the survivors for a final stand. Siskritt drew his enchanting new weapon and waited for the right moment to join in the fray. He was injured and bloodied: no one could claim that he hadn’t been present all along.
He fondled his talisman and grinned; a smile filled with wicked, yellowing teeth. He could almost taste the greatness that would soon be his. Lesskreep, Krazzik, Hellpaw, and yes, even Thanquol. They would all recognise his power.
He flew down the stairs like a shadow to rejoin his victorious brethren.
Gotrek spared his companion a glance before walking over to where the last ratman lay. He pulled his axe free from the dead creature’s spine, the blade coming loose with a wet squeal of bone and a small gout of dark blood. Almost as an afterthought, he stamped down on the pathetic creature’s little trinket, grinding the black shards into dust beneath his boot.
He scanned the room, looking for more enemies but, disappointingly, there appeared to be none left alive.
Felix came up behind him, hacking and wheezing in the smoke. ‘Now, may we leave? Or are you going to insist on having one more drink first?’
Gotrek ignored him, instead clambering up onto one of the few remaining tables and grabbing the hilt of his companion’s runesword. He tugged it free from the ceiling without the slightest effort. Agape, Felix almost failed to catch the weapon as Gotrek tossed it over to him.
‘No,’ he said finally. ‘The ale in this place tastes like orc-spit.’
Felix raised a blood-caked eyebrow, and shrugged before starting for the cellar door. Gotrek stopped him with a raised meaty fist.
‘Where do you think you’re going, manling?’
‘That last ratman was headed this way, obviously there’s a way out.’
Gotrek shook his head and laughed his deep, gruff laugh. Lumbering into a run, he drove through the flames and out into the street. The sounds of battle resumed.
Felix sighed as he swallowed a curse. ‘A burning city filled with an army of ratmen? Of course we’re going that way.’
Last Orders
Andy Smillie
Fredric Gerlach’s underpants were wet. He was, however, confident that he hadn’t pissed himself. The dark patch on the crotch of his trousers was merely an embarrassing reminder not to stand too close to the ale taps during a bar-fight. Fredric gave up trying to pat himself dry with the tails of his shirt, which itself was half-drenched, and cast his eyes over the destruction his patrons had visited upon his establishment. Dozens of caskets, kegs and what looked like all of his glasses lay smashed on the floor, their contents seeping away between cracks in the cobbles. Ruined tables and broken chairs were strewn across the Skewered Dragon’s length. Blood and fleshy matter clung to everything like a fungus. Here and there Fredric spotted dismembered limbs, dotted around like macabre ornaments. And the bodies – dozens of them, perhaps fifty – they would be the hardest to explain. Not for the first time that night, Fredric mouthed a silent prayer to his god that he wasn’t among them.
A short man with square shoulders and a barrel chest pushed his way through what was left of the front door, the pathetic slat of timber swinging on its remaining hinge for the last time before clattering to the floor. Fredric recognised the man as Watch Officer Herman Faulkstein, an officious bastard with a mean temper and little regard for personal privacy. Fredric exhaled noisily and swatted a fly away from his face; he had so hoped they’d send someone less zealous. He doubted there was any chance of him getting away from this stink in a hurry.
Faulkstein bent down to examine the body nearest the door. Like the rest of the corpses piled around the tavern, it lay awaiting the administrations of Morr. The god of death’s priests would be along soon enough. Faulkstein sighed; the robed attendants and their macabre traditions gave him the creeps. Drawing his dagger the watchman slipped the blade under the corpse’s head and lifted it up.
If Faulkstein had bothered to ask, Fredric could have told him who the body was. He could tell from the tattered, orange-brown robe draped over its bony shoulders. Well, that and the body’s proximity to the door. Ansgar Ernot had been a mumbling hedge wizard with a spine so weak it was a wonder it had kept the man upright. He would have made a break for it as soon as someone had as much as raised their voice. Though even with a head start he hadn’t managed to outrun the bolt that was buried in his back.
Faulkstein withdraw his dagger and wiped it clean on his sleeve. Standing up, he met Fredric’s gaze and motioned for the barkeep to join him.
Fredric flashed his biggest grin, a set of stubby, blackened teeth adding to its obvious insincerity, and dropped down from his perch on the bar. The watchman led him to a table in the far corner, one of the few that was still in one piece.
‘Have a seat, Herr Gerlach.’ Faulkstein righted an overturned stool and invited Fredric to sit down.
Fredric took a seat and made an attempt at smoothing down his shirt as the watchman sat down opposite him.
‘Tell me, Fredric,’ said Faulkstein leaning an elbow on the table and resting his chin against his fist.
The barkeep stopped fidgeting with the boil on his neck. ‘Tell you what?’
The watchman leant forwards so that his face filled Fredric’s vision. He spoke softly, locking eyes with the barkeep and lingering over every syllable. ‘Everything.’
Few are abroad on Geheimnisnacht. It is an ill-omened night, when the lesser of the twin moons, Morrslieb, rises full in the sky and bathes the world in eerie light. On Geheimnisnacht, anyone of sane mind fastens shut their doors, douses the flames from their hearth and bids the world turn to morning.
Though, as was apparent from the army of vagrants filing out of the Skewered Dragon with their stench and their foul language, not every denizen of Middenheim could be considered sane. Still, thought Fredric, insanity was good for business; he’d barely stopped pulling ales since the first chime of evening.
In Fredric’s experience, two things drove men to drink: women and superstition. Geheimnisnacht was full of both. Tales abounded of young maidens being stolen in the night, dragged from where they slept into the darkness of the Drakwald, there to be sacrificed on the altar of a bestial god. Just as frequent were the stories of witches and sorceresses, whose powers reached their zenith under the Chaos moon’s gaze, and who stalked the streets ready to claim the souls of the unwary.
‘Oi, barkeep!’ Heinrich Lowen shoved a tankard under Fredric’s nose. ‘Does this look clean to you?’ The witch hunter spat through the mixture of broken teeth and metal studs that filled his mouth.
Fredric stared at the man for a moment. He had picked the wrong ale-hole if he was intent upon pressing his pious lips to clean tankards.
‘A dog wouldn’t drink from this,’ Heinrich finished, slamming the flagon onto the bar.
There wasn’t a soul in the Dragon that hadn’t heard the tale of how the witch hunter had come about his crooked dentures. A dreaded fiend, a murderer, a rapist, a man gripped by the trappings of the Dark Gods and imbued with their power had struck Heinrich. It was a mighty blow. The murderer’s ensorcelled fist had smashed into the witch hunter’s jaw with the force of Ulric’s hammer, splintering teeth and bone. But even beaten and bloodied, Hei
nrich would not be laid low. The witch hunter had climbed to his feet, filled with righteous zeal. He had taken up his sword, and despite his grievous injuries, slain the heretic before the man could land a second blow, bisecting him from shoulder to torso.
It wasn’t the truth, of course.
Heinrich had been the victim of a far more dangerous beast. A woman scorned, Heinrich’s wife, Freyda, had tripped up the witch hunter as he stumbled home drunk. Then, as he lay concussed on the ground, she had fastened her foot into one of the iron-shod boots her husband used to try witches by the lake, and kicked her cheating spouse full in the face.
Women and superstition. Fredric bit down a chuckle, took the cloudy tankard of ale from the surly witch hunter and placed it behind the bar. He’d serve it to someone less discerning later.
He pulled another mug from the rack hanging over the bar. ‘This one do?’ Loosening the towel from his belt, the barkeep gave the flagon a quick polish and proffered it to Heinrich.
The witch hunter grunted, took the tankard from Fredric, and stumbled back towards his table.
Fredric watched him go. Heinrich was a constant thorn in his arse, always complaining about one thing or another, but his sour temper and reputation for spotting ‘heretics’ kept the weirder elements of the citizenry away.
The witch hunter’s drinking partner, however, was nothing but trouble. A captain in the army, Gustav Helser was nursing the same flagon of ale he’d been staring at for the last hour. Gustav was a tall, broad man with thick arms and knuckles that had been broken more than once, making them look like iron rivets when he clenched his fists. Fredric glanced at the elongated broadsword resting by the captain’s side. Gustav never took his hand from its hilt and never drank more than would let him wield it. He was the sort of man who would run you through for something as petty as pickpocketing. Fredric didn’t trust him, and neither did the Dragon’s other patrons.
Except for Ernot. The fool of a wizard trusted everyone. Well, he trusted that they had more coin than he, which was reason enough for him to count no one beneath his attentions. Ernot, seemingly unable to read Gustav’s mood, had wandered over to his table intent on coin. Fredric watched with bated breath as the wizard conjured a flame into the palm of his outstretched hand. The flame swelled in size until it was as large as a flagon of ale. The wizard brought it up to his mouth and blew on it softly. Its centre opened like a mouth, giving birth to a larger flame that appeared in Ernot’s other hand. With a flurry, the wizard placed his hands behind his back, leaving the two flames hanging in the air. Burning through hues of orange-blue, the flames circled each other, sizing each other up like warriors in a duel. At some unseen gesture from Ernot, the smaller one darted forwards, leaving a thread-line of embers in its wake, and swallowed the larger one whole. Smouldering bright red, the remaining flame flickered with growing intensity before exploding into a mist of sparking embers that drifted to the floor. Someone at a nearby table began to applaud. Ernot extended his hand for payment.
