by C. L. Werner
There was more, however, a display that had muffled every rumour and story Kreyssig’s agents had spread, an exhibition that had subdued even the fiercest of peasant malcontents. Each of the marching soldiers held a pole in his hands and stretched across the frame atop each pole was the pelt of a skaven. Every soldier marching into Altdorf bore with him a talisman of Mandred’s conquests, a token of the enemy that they had fought and destroyed.
In a city that had suffered an attack by the filthy monsters, no one was about to jeer at a man who had killed so many skaven.
Kreyssig forced a smile onto his face and spurred his horse away from his retinue as he moved to meet Mandred. ‘Your highness, I welcome you to Altdorf.’
Mandred stared back at Kreyssig, no warmth in his gaze. ‘I thank you for your welcome, Protector, for the welcome of all Altdorf’s people. But I fear I must delay my expression of gratitude.’ He patted the jewelled haft of Ghal Maraz. ‘First I would return Sigmar’s Hammer and honour him for his part in my victories.’
Inwardly, Kreyssig bristled at this insulting breach of tradition and respect. ‘Of course, your highness. It is only right that you should do honour to Lord Sigmar.’ He wheeled his horse about, turning in the direction of the Great Cathedral.
‘If you would follow me, highness,’ Kreyssig said. He could afford to choke on his pride a little longer. After all, if Mandred wanted to speed himself to his own death, why should he stand in the fool’s way?
‘Hurry-scurry! Quick-quick!’ As he shrieked at his underlings, Sythar Doom gnashed his fangs in frustrated fury. He dearly wanted to kill a few of the incompetent wretches, but there were too few of them to kill out of hand.
There were maybe a hundred skaven in the cave, scrambling about the apparatus, rolling sealed cylinders of powdered warpstone to the periphery of the contraption. Masked ratmen took charge of the cylinders from there, slipping them into copper casings arrayed across the ovoid surface of the machine.
It was a design of Sythar’s own creation, appropriated from a moderately competent warlock-engineer named Zaprik just before he suffered an extremely fatal accident with a set of whisker-pluckers. If it functioned as the plans promised it would, the resultant explosion would make a hold-full of warpcaster ammunition seem like a firecracker.
Sythar shivered at that image and immediately regretted making such a connection. He could still smell the saltwater in his fur after all these years. The prestige he’d lost after the fiasco at Dietershafen had cost Clan Skryre much of its power. Many of their allies had deserted them; some warlock-engineers had even gone rogue. Worst of all, there was the plague, marauding through skavendom with the same rapacity with which it had decimated the lands of men. Skryre had been especially hard hit, nearly eight of every ten of the clan catching the disease. Sythar had been forced to employ the most extreme measures to ensure the ratmen he associated with were free of contagion.
Dimly, Sythar noted the sounds of some commotion among his workers. If one of them had started to exhibit the marks of plague he’d have to kill the whole pack and fetch new workers! Such inconvenience was intolerable!
Clan Pestilens and their brave new ideas! Puskab Foulfur, the rat who would bring the world of men to its knees! Well, the traitor-meat had neglected to mention that his wondrous creation was going to do the same to skavendom!
The warplord forced himself to grow calm. Puskab and Pestilens were problems that would wait for another day. Today he needed to concentrate on an entirely different sort of revenge. His warpstone heart nurtured a special hatred for the man-nest of Altdorf. He bared his fangs as he cocked his head to one side and stared up at the ceiling. Overhead was the Great Cathedral, that miserable little temple that had defied his efforts to destroy it during his attack on the city, indeed, that had seen his defeat unfold at its very doors.
Well, it wouldn’t stand much longer, and when it vanished in a warpstone cloud, it would take with it another enemy Sythar Doom longed to destroy – Man-dread, the foul king-thing who had treacherously bypassed Sythar’s carefully prepared ambush and attacked Dietershafen without warning, the filthy little human who had the audacity to turn the Far-Claw against its own inventor.
Yes, it was a shame Sythar could only kill Man-dread once, but at least he could do so in such a manner that all humans – all skaven – would cower before the might of Clan Skryre!
Sythar Doom’s whiskers twitched as an unexpected smell reached his nose. He turned around, causing the scaffolding he was on to shift and wobble. His tail lashed from side to side as he stared at one of the tunnels leading into his secret grotto.
Why were there dwarfs here? And why were they attacking his workers? And why, above all, were those spineless vermin running away?
Sparks flew from the warlord’s fangs as he drew the pistol from his belt and aimed at one of the ratmen fleeing before the dwarfs. As he pulled the trigger, a crackling band of green lightning sizzled into the fleeing skaven, dropping him to the ground as a smouldering husk.
‘Fight-fight or die-die!’ Sythar roared at his minions. Some of those closest to the dwarfs were still intent on running away, but the others started grabbing up tools and weapons, whatever was near at hand. Their posture remained timid, however, and Sythar didn’t like the fear in their scent. He glared across at the mouth of the tunnel. Unless there were more enemies hiding somewhere, all he could see were seven dwarfs and a lone human. Sparks flew from his metal jaws as he gnashed his fangs in frustration. ‘There’s only eight of them!’ he shrieked, holding up one of his paws with all five fingers displayed. Given the quality of the minions he’d been forced to take, Sythar realised very few of them would notice the numerical discrepancy.
The first pack of skaven were rushing over to confront the dwarfs when they ran smack into a bare-chested, orange-furred dwarf. Instead of retreating before the pack of skaven, the dwarf charged into them, hacking them apart with his hand axe. The crazed fury of that single dwarf’s assault broke that first mob of skaven, sending the survivors scampering off towards the tunnels.
Sythar lashed his tail in frustration. He wondered how many more of his underlings he’d have to shoot before they understood they weren’t allowed to run away.
The sanctuary of the Great Cathedral was filled with a vast throng of people, a mixture of the elite of Altdorf and Reikland and the Sigmarite clergy. Such was the excitement and awe caused by Mandred’s entry into the city and his return of Ghal Maraz to the cathedral that for once no distinction had been made between noble and commoner, wealthy merchant and humble monk. All had been welcomed into the sanctuary to observe the restoration of Sigmar’s Hammer to his people.
Kreyssig had kept close to Mandred during his ride to the temple. It could only be beneficial for him to be seen with the popular hero, after all. The inconvenience of Ghal Maraz turning up in Mandred’s possession had been neatly blamed on the late Emperor Boris, though the exact details had been left nebulous. Kreyssig would work them out with the people who knew the truth, find some mutually satisfactory compromise. Even idealists like Hartwich would have their price. Preservation of the Empire, stability of the state, that sort of thing would pull at the arch-lector’s heartstrings.
As soon as the procession entered the temple, Kreyssig slipped away. He lingered at the back near the door, his bodyguard of Kaiserknecht ensuring he had a clear view down the central aisle. He didn’t want to be too close to Mandred now, but he most certainly wanted to see everything that was about to happen.
At the end of the aisle stood the altar where Ghal Maraz would be reconsecrated. Standing behind the altar with his censer bearers and attendants, as well as Arch-Lector von Reisarch, stood Grand Theogonist Gazulgrund. Kreyssig smiled when he found he had such a clear view of the hated priest. Yes, he certainly wasn’t going to miss anything.
Mandred’s procession continued their unhurried march towards the altar, Ghal Mar
az held across the graf’s chest. Beside him walked Arch-Lector Hartwich and a scarred knight his spies told him was Grand Master Vitholf of the Knights of the White Wolf. Between priest and knight walked a stunningly beautiful woman in a fur cloak. Kreyssig’s spies had been unable to learn much about her, but Beck had told him all he needed to know. That was Hulda, the wolf-witch. That Mandred would have the graciousness to bring the witch here with him was almost too good to believe. Once the bloom fell off the rose, Altdorf would see for themselves that their mighty hero consorted with witches and the Ruinous Powers.
Kreyssig looked away for a moment as a bee buzzed around his head. It took him most of a minute to shoo the annoyance away. When he looked back, his smile was almost diabolical in its vicious amusement. Mandred’s procession had nearly reached the spot where the Kaiserjaeger had posted Beck. The mutant was disguised as a mendicant monk, his entire body concealed beneath a heavy hood and thick robe. He’d been standing there for most of the morning awaiting his old master. A few yards more and the procession would be near enough to Beck that everyone in the sanctuary would believe Kreyssig’s claims that Mandred had given the mutant a signal to attack Gazulgrund.
Before Mandred’s group could close those last few yards, however, Hulda left her place in the procession, darting ahead of the graf. Her attitude was tense and alert, her head shifting from side to side as she seemed to sniff the air.
‘Beware!’ she shouted to Mandred. ‘There is treachery here!’
Too many things happened then for Kreyssig to put them in their proper order. The area around the altar quickly became a mass of clergy as warrior priests and templar knights rushed to protect the Grand Theogonist. Beck sprang into the aisle, throwing back his hood and glaring at the wolf-witch with his clutch of spidery eyes. Hartwich and Vitholf seized Mandred and tried to pull him back.
Beck’s claw hand licked out, cracking against the face of the witch who’d sniffed him out. The blow sent her flying into the pews, delivered with such inhuman force that her momentum smashed down the spectators she landed among. The mutant risked one look at the altar, but decided that there was no way it could reach Gazulgrund through the cordon of his protectors.
Instead it stepped towards Mandred. ‘If I can’t kill the dream,’ Beck growled. ‘Then I’ll kill the man.’ The mutant punctuated its words by drawing the sword it had hidden beneath its robes, holding it in one of its bifurcated hands.
Mandred tore free from the hold Vitholf and Hartwich had on him. Brandishing the brutal mass of Ghal Maraz, he strode towards the monster that had once been his bodyguard.
‘You’ve killed enough dreams, Beck,’ Mandred growled back, the venom of hatred dripping from every word. ‘Now it’s time for you to die.’
Erich gaped in awe at the immense machine the skaven had assembled deep beneath the streets of Altdorf. It was shaped like a gigantic metal pumpkin. Ribs of copper stretched down its sides while spurs of what looked to be ceramic projected from its top in a sort of crest. Ugly black stones, glowing with a greenish light, were embedded amid clusters of gears and pistons arrayed about the machine’s base. What something of such size and complexity could be intended for, the knight couldn’t begin to guess. If Dharin and the other gold grubbers were right, they were directly beneath the Great Cathedral. The knight wasn’t terribly familiar with dwarfs, but he had always heard their skill at navigating underground, even in total darkness, was almost preternatural.
He might not know what the machine was for, but he agreed with the dwarfs that whatever it was, its purpose boded ill for the city above. Arming himself with a hand axe Dharin gave him, Erich charged out of the tunnel with the dwarfs, falling upon the skaven before they were even aware that they were under attack. The pungent stink of oil and pitch and noxious unguents explained the ease of their ambush. Their noses filled with the stench of the chemicals and compounds they were working with, the ratmen were disoriented. As the dwarfs dove into them, as Erich lashed out with his borrowed axe at a piebald skaven wearing an oily apron across its body, the knight found the creatures erratic and confused. Their speed remained incredible, but their coordination was muddled. It was easy to slip around scratching paw or snapping muzzle to slash at the creature’s body.
The impetus of the initial attack quickly petered out as many of the ratmen turned tail and started to run. Kurgaz, the fury of the slayer upon him, rushed headlong after the vermin. Erich started to go after him, but his attention was drawn to a ghastly-looking ratman standing on a wooden scaffold overlooking the immense machine. The creature’s eyes were like crimson lamps, its jaws a mass of metal that sparked and crackled with electricity. The monster was snarling at the skaven below, emphasising the importance of its commands by drawing a strange weapon from its belt and loosing a bolt of lightning into one of the fleeing ratkin.
More ratmen came boiling out from around the side of the machine. Unlike the first monsters the dwarfs and their companion had set upon, these creatures were armed, exhibiting a riotous array of hammers, spanners and blades in their paws. Kurgaz didn’t hesitate an instant, but flung himself straight into the monsters, laying about him with the hand axe with such savagery that he was soon coated in the foul black blood of his victims.
From the scaffold above, the metal-fanged ratman continued to shriek and snarl orders at its fellows. Again the creature fired a bolt of green lightning from the bulky weapon in its paws, but in its rage, the monster didn’t think to fire at one of its enemies. Instead it loosed destruction upon another of its cowardly kin.
The murderous discipline did its work. Scores of skaven came charging around the side of the machine. Even Kurgaz would have been quickly overwhelmed, but his methodical slaughter of the wounded ratkin left behind by the first rat pack delayed him long enough for Erich, Dharin and the other dwarfs to join him. Together they formed a solid line, defying the vermin as they came lunging forwards. Appreciating that other lives depended on him, Kurgaz held his own death wish in check, guarding the flank of the small formation. Erich caught up a rusty sword one of the dead skaven had been using. With his height and the reach of the sword, he stayed behind the dwarfs, chopping down at the ratkin when they tried to climb over their own comrades to reach the dwarfs and hacking away at any of the vermin who managed to slip past the axes in front of him.
The slaughter was abominable. Many times the ratkin tried to break and run, but whenever they did, the metal-fanged monster on the scaffold drove them back to the attack with a bolt of lightning.
‘We’ll never break them with their leader shooting them down every time they try to run!’ Erich shouted.
‘That’s good, manling!’ Kurgaz growled. ‘Means we don’t have to chase after them!’
Erich couldn’t share the dwarf’s view. They’d killed maybe thirty skaven already and there seemed no diminution in the numbers attacking them. Meanwhile their own losses were all too noticeable. Two of the gold grubbers had been dragged down by the ratmen, one with a spear in his belly and the other when a seemingly dead skaven erupted into life and hamstrung him with a knife. As he pitched forwards, the crippled dwarf had been stabbed by at least half a dozen of the monsters.
If they kept trading blow for blow with the skaven, the superior numbers of the vermin would prevail. That might have been fine for the dwarfs, a testament to their stubbornness and courage that they had stood their ground and defied so many. For Erich, there could be no victory in such a gesture. If they were killed, the skaven machine, whatever it was, would be left to wreak its havoc upon the city above. After what he’d seen in Averheim, the most grisly possibility that occurred to him was that the thing was some kind of bomb. The thought sent ice running down his spine, the image of the Great Cathedral being obliterated in an explosion was too hideous to contemplate.
Erich made his decision. The next time the dwarfs drove the skaven back and their cringing resolve faltered, the knight rushed t
hrough the ranks of the gold grubbers. The sudden attack only drove the ratmen into further dismay. He heard the metal-fanged monster shrieking and snarling, then he uttered his own shout of alarm as one of the ratman’s lightning bolts crackled against the ground beside him. The near miss actually proved a blessing, scattering the skaven ahead of him, making them scramble out of his way lest they be hit by another near miss from their chieftain.
The knight screamed the war-cry of the Reiksknecht as he flung himself at the base of the scaffold. He had seen the way the platform shuddered and shifted every time the rat-chief stomped across it. Now he slashed at the ramshackle construction, splintering wooden planks and severing ropes with every thrust.
The chief-rat shrieked again, but this time there was a note of fright in its tone. With its perch bucking and shifting beneath it, the murderous brute was calling to its minions to save it. Even if they were of a mind to help, the chance was denied them. Rushing ahead in the confusion were Kurgaz and the other dwarfs. They drove into the flank of the startled skaven, reminding them that they had other enemies besides Erich. The dwarfs fanned out in a semicircle, working to keep the skaven at bay while Erich demolished the scaffold.
A few more cuts and the structure came crashing down. So abrupt was its fall that even Erich was taken by surprise. The knight found himself smashed flat beneath a mass of rotten beams and splintered planks. He tried to move, but all he succeeded in doing was bringing more of the weight pressing down on him. He was pinned, trapped in the debris.
Through the cloud of dust and dirt thrown up by the collapse, Erich could see a pair of lights burning behind the murk. Beneath the lights he could see the glow of electricity crackling along metal fangs. The lights were the ghastly eyes of the skaven warlord. They turned towards the knight and stared directly at him. Erich felt his blood curdle when he heard the monster’s savage hiss. With its crimson optics, the ratman could see the trapped human quite clearly. Nothing pleased a skaven more than helpless prey.
