Hammerhal & Other Stories

by Various

  And many thanks for reminding me of that, O most scurvy one, Vretch thought sourly. The Libraria Vurmis, the repository of centuries of knowledge gleaned from the far reaches and diverse kingdoms of Ghur by the scholar-knights who’d founded it, lay in the hands of the one skaven singularly unsuited to possess such a treasure.

  ‘Much-much, yes,’ he said, gesturing around in what he hoped was a placatory fashion. ‘More than one library in this squirming bastion, O mighty one.’

  He hunched forward and swept out a crusty claw, indicating his surroundings. ‘I have found many-much secrets, O Conniving Shadow,’ he said obsequiously. ‘There is a world apart, in the guts of the great worm. One of the missing Libers is there – your most loyal and faithful and devoted servant is certain!’

  The blind eyes of the conjoined skaven rolled towards him, as if peering at him in judgement. The bulk swelled and quivered for a moment. Then Skuralanx said, ‘Yessss. Find this world for me, Vretch of Clan Morbidus, and Skuralanx the Cunning shall see that you are rewarded beyond your wildest imaginings.’ Several gnarled claws rose and gestured contemptuously. ‘First, however, you must hurry-quick and send your devotees tailwards. The old enemy has come, ­riding sky-fire and bringing pain for the Children of the Horned Rat.’

  ‘The lightning,’ Vretch said. He had seen the storm-things before, at a distance, some months ago. It had been in the Jade Kingdoms, and he twitched as he recalled the gigantic silver-armoured warrior who had slaughtered so many of his fellows in the Glade of Horned Growths. That was where he’d first made Skuralanx’s acquaintance. The Scurrying Dark had filched his broken form from the battlefield, and they had made their bargain in the shadow of the great Blight Oak.

  ‘Yes,’ Skuralanx murmured, through many mouths. ‘The destroyers of Clan Rikkit, the harrowers of Murgid Fein and Cripple Fang, have come to Shu’gohl.’

  ‘And you want me to… go towards them, greatest of authorities?’ Vretch asked.

  ‘Yesss.’

  Vretch scrubbed at his muzzle. After a moment, he said, ‘Why, O most scurviest of scurvies?’

  ‘They will defeat Kruk. Or he will defeat them. But either way, the Libraria Vurmis will be lost to you. You must claim it and all of its wisdom,’ Skuralanx hissed. The Conglomeration grew agitated, and the plinth creaked beneath its weight.

  ‘But… I already have it, most blemished one,’ Vretch said, peering at the Conglomeration. ‘Access to it, at least.’ He scratched at his chin, dislodging a shower of lice. ‘Yes-yes, all mine – ours! Ours! – most lordliest of lords.’

  The blistered muzzles of the Conglomeration turned towards him. The question hung unspoken on the air. Vretch shrunk back, somewhat unnerved by the expressions on its faces. ‘I– I have a claw in Kruk’s camp, my most cunning and wise and beautiful master,’ he said, slyly.

  The daemonically possessed mass grew still. Then, as one, the many mouths sighed, ‘Of course you do.’

  The smell of blood hung as heavy as dust on the air of the Libraria Vurmis, and it only grew stronger as Kruk dug one blistered talon into the cheek of the man-thing. Squeelch clutched at his ears as the man-thing began to scream again. The cries echoed through the wide, circular chamber and even out along the ramparts of the Dorsal Barbicans, in which the library nestled. Kruk chittered in pleasure and continued with his ministrations, pulling and peeling the human’s abused flesh until bone gleamed through the raw red.

  ‘Talk-talk, man-thing,’ Kruk gurgled, holding up a gobbet of dripping meat. ‘Talk, or lose more bits, yes-yes.’

  Squeelch looked away. He wasn’t particularly squeamish, but between the noise and the smell, he was getting hungry. He gazed about him, taking in the Libraria Vurmis and the bodies which now decorated its floors. In life, they had been something the man-things called Vurmites – an order of holy warriors, devoted to the library and its secrets. In death, most of them had begun the delightful slide into putrescence. Those who were not quite dead yet were chained or nailed to the great curved shelves which occupied the chamber, to await Kruk’s attentions.

  Throughout the chamber, the most trusted members of Kruk’s congregation searched the great shelves for anything of interest, or fuel to feed the fires which heated their pox-cauldrons. The plague monks worked under the watchful gazes of Kruk’s personal censer bearers. The deranged fanatics held their spiked, smoke-spewing flails tightly and dribbled quietly, twitching in time to a sound only they could hear.

  Squeelch grimaced and turned as the man-thing librarian sagged in his bonds. He moaned softly as his blood spattered across the piles of loose pages and torn parchments which covered the floor. He was the seventh in as many days, and was sadly proving about as useful as the other six. Squeelch could only assume that the weeks of deprivation and torture had rendered them senseless. Either that, or the fact that neither he nor Kruk could speak their language was proving a greater stumbling block than expected. Regardless, Kruk’s frustration was palpable. His scarred tail lashed like a whip as he dug his claws into the dying man’s flesh.

  Squeelch cleaned his whiskers nervously, watching as Kruk tore the hapless man-thing apart. The plague priest was a brute, even among the black-furred monstrosities of Clan Festerlingus. He was broad for a skaven, and his heavy robes made him seem all the larger. His cowl was thrown back to reveal a flat, wide skull wrapped in seeping bandages. Kruk was missing his right ear and his left eye, courtesy of a rival plague priest – Vretch, of Clan Morbidus, current occupier of the other half of the Crawling City.

  Vretch had tried to obliterate Kruk with a meticulously planned trap. As Squeelch recalled, it had mostly involved certain explosives, procured from the Clans Skryre at what was no doubt great expense, stuffed down the gullet of the man-thing Kruk had selected for his second interrogation. Squeelch recalled this because he had been the one to plant them, at Vretch’s behest. It was always a behest, with Vretch. An imploration, a request, a favour… commands by any other name. Commands that Squeelch was happy enough to follow, as long as it led to his assumption of the Archsquealership of the Congregation of Fumes. Even if Vretch was a heretical Red Bubite. Purple, that’s a proper bubo, Squeelch thought. But still, by clinging to Vretch’s tail, he might rise very far indeed.

  Unfortunately for them both, Kruk was sturdier than he looked. Thus, Vretch and poor, put-upon Squeelch would have to find a more effective means of his disposal. Squeelch had considered and subsequently discarded any number of options, from the mundane – a knife in the back – to the noteworthy – many knives, not just in the back – to the extraordinary – more explosives, and in greater quantities, possibly also filled with knives – but no real solution, as yet, had presented itself.

  Kruk’s resilience was frustrating. Under his leadership, the Congregation of Fumes had staggered from one massacre to the next, swelling and shrinking with an unfathomable virulence. But such destructive potential was wasted on a creature like Kruk. Even Vretch agreed with that. There were better ways to spread the Great Witherer’s gospel through the Mortal Realms. And Squeelch would do it, with Vretch’s backing. The Congregation of Fumes would stalk at the forefront of Vretch’s procession and reap the benefits of that alliance. Why, together, they might even challenge the great clans themselves…

  But all of that was predicated on his removal of Kruk, a task that seemed more difficult with every passing day. Kruk was a monster, and Squeelch doubted that even a direct hit from a plagueclaw catapult would finish the other plague priest off. Two or three, at least, he thought nervously, watching as his superior dismembered his prey. ‘Maybe more,’ he muttered.

  ‘Wwwhat did you say?’ Kruk hissed, turning to glare at him. ‘What-what? Speak up quick-fast, Squeelch.’ Brown fangs flashed as he stepped towards his lieutenant.

  Squeelch shied back, clutching his boil-dotted tail to his chest as he tried to avoid Kruk’s single, madly gleaming eye. ‘Nothing, O most pes
tiferous one,’ he squeaked. He was beginning to suspect that his bargain with Vretch hadn’t been well thought-out.

  ‘Lyyyying,’ Kruk crooned, stretching the word out. He reached out a bloody claw and grabbed a handful of Squeelch’s whiskers. Squeelch whined and fought the urge to squirt the musk of fear as Kruk pulled him close. ‘Speak, Squeelch. Or I will tear out your tongue and eat it, yes-yes?’ Kruk’s own tongue slid out to caress his scarred muzzle, as if in anticipation. The plague priest had eaten his last second-in-command, Squeelch recalled.

  No, not well thought-out at all, he thought, in growing panic. His paw edged towards the poison-encrusted dagger hidden within his robes. He would only get one chance, if Kruk decided he’d outlived his usefulness.

  ‘Kruk.’

  Kruk released Squeelch and turned, good eye narrowing in consternation.

  ‘Kruk, Master of the Fumes. Heed me.’

  ‘Skuralanx,’ Kruk muttered. Squeelch swallowed. The air had taken on an oily tang. He could hear and feel something gnawing its way towards them, through the spaces between moments. His head ached and blisters burst and popped on his flesh as he staggered back, scratching at himself. The flesh of his tail grew hot and he felt as if his stomach might burst. He heard a skittering as of a thousand rats, and then the body on the floor began to wriggle and twitch in a most unseemly fashion.

  A great talon rose upwards through the bloody midsection of the dead man, clawing at the air. Then it fell, striking the floor. Clawed fingers spread, and wormy muscles bunched. With a sound like a branch being pulled free of mud, something monstrous hauled itself out of the corpse’s midsection. A narrow head, bare of flesh and topped by massive horns, breached the blood first. Then a second talon. The sound of buzzing flies filled the air, and eyes which glimmered sickeningly fixed unwaveringly on the two plague priests.

  Squeelch cowered back, trying to make himself as small as possible. Kruk tensed, his scabrous tail lashing. ‘Greetings, most-high Skuralanx, Cunning Shadow and Mighty Pestilence,’ the burly plague priest said, his good eye narrowed in wariness. ‘To what do I owe this pleasure, O most esteemed patron?’

  ‘No pleasure, Kruk. Only impatience. Where is my Liber, Kruk? Where is the Great Plague?’ Skuralanx said, blood running down his mangy fur. ‘Have you found it yet?’ Squeelch flinched as the daemon’s voice echoed through his head. Kruk’s daemonic patron was a power unlike any other. He loomed over the two plague priests, and the tips of his great curving horns scraped the domed ceiling of the library. Clouds of flies swarmed about his massive shoulders and lice squirmed in his mangy fur. His cloven hooves drew sparks from the stone floor as he shifted impatiently.

  Kruk looked down at the body the verminlord had emerged from, and then up at the daemon. ‘No, O most Scabrous One,’ he said. His shoulders were hunched, and his head held low. Not even Kruk was mad enough to openly challenge a firstborn child of the Horned Rat. ‘The man-things are… stubborn,’ Kruk said.

  The daemon’s fleshless jaws clacked in seeming frustration. ‘You hold one of the greatest libraries in this realm, Kruk – have you even thought to search for my book amongst all of these others?’ the daemon hissed, extending a hand to indicate the shelves which surrounded them.

  Kruk blinked and looked around. Squeelch tried his best to make himself inconspicuous. As he shied back, the daemon’s gaze fell on him. What might have been amusement flickered in that hellish gaze, and Squeelch froze. He knows, he thought, in growing panic. He knows!

  ‘Stupid-stupid man-thing books hold no answers worth the name, O horned and hoofed one,’ Kruk said, gesturing dismissively. As he spoke, the ground shuddered and several of the great shelves toppled, spilling their burdens across the floor. Panicked squeals came from outside on the ramparts as Shu’gohl convulsed in what Squeelch suspected was agony. The quakes had been growing stronger, and happening more often. Hundreds of skaven and man-things alike had died, crushed by the twitching segments of the worm as it trembled.

  ‘Vretch believes that they do,’ Skuralanx said slyly, as he shoved a fallen shelf aside.

  ‘Vrrretch,’ Kruk growled. Iridescent foam bubbled in the folds of his muzzle. ‘Kill-kill! Tear-bite him, yes-yes!’ the plague priest continued, hunching forward, his bloody claws opening and closing uselessly on the air. ‘Strike him down for me, mighty Skuralanx.’

  Skuralanx rose to his full height. ‘Who are you to command me thus, priest? I am the will of the Great Ruiner made mani­fest. You do my will, little flea,’ the verminlord hissed, his tail lashing in anger. ‘And I say that there are more important matters to attend to than your petty murder-lust. Or even your failure to find my pox…’ The daemon sank to its haunches as Kruk backed away, head bowed.

  ‘More… important?’ Kruk said, slowly.

  ‘Lightning-things come, Kruk. More dangerous even than Vretch. You must kill them, quick-quick,’ the verminlord said, stirring the gory remains of the librarian with one of his curved talons.

  Squeelch blinked. They’d heard and seen the lightning which struck the outskirts of the city, causing the great worm to heave and thrash. Kruk had dismissed it, and the subsequent reports of fighting in the lower segments of the city. The Congregation of Fumes had spread like a miasma, each individual choir rampaging through a chosen section of the city, killing those who resisted their attacks and capturing those who didn’t.

  But that already unsteady flow of chattel had been interrupted. Kruk, with his usual simplicity, had assumed the others had fallen to fighting amongst themselves over some scrap of street or a theological debate, as was their wont. Squeelch’s own congregation had reported sighting strange flying shapes, neither bird nor beast, and the sound of lightning, though the sky was clear. But… lightning-things? He clutched his tail, kneading his sores in agitation.

  ‘Lightning-things,’ Kruk hissed, his good eye widening in pleasure. ‘Yessss…’

  Squeelch tensed. He knew that tone. Kruk was insane – his brain was rotted in his mossy skull. He had a love for bloodshed that outstripped even that of a daemon like Skuralanx.

  ‘Yes, I shall rip them and break them. I shall fill their pretty armour with maggots,’ said Kruk. He whirled and caught Squeelch by his robes. ‘Get to your plagueclaws, Squeelch. Fill the air with great clouds of pestilence and your lovely poisons – I would fight in the shade.’

  LEGENDS OF THE AGE OF SIGMAR

  by various authors

  Delve into the forces that battle for control of the Mortal Realms with this epic omnibus of three Legends of the Age of Sigmar books, comprising one novel and nine shorter tales, focusing on the skaven of the Clans Pestilens, the Fyreslayer lodges and the mysterious Sylvaneth.

  Find this title, and many others, on blacklibrary.com

  Great Red

  David Guymer

  Forwards, thought Ramus, as though it were sheer will rather than Azyr-forged muscle that thumped his boot into the dust and dragged the other past it.

  He could see nothing through the swirl of dust beyond the spitting candle flare of his reliquary staff, hear nothing but howling and the nail-like rap of fine grains of weathered bone hitting his black plate. He did not pity himself the loss of his senses. If there was anything that could be felt anywhere on the Sea of Bones then it was dust and sand and endless wind.

  On, his mind intoned, and his body responded to the word as though it were a rod across his back. I will cover every grain of this accursed desert if that is what it takes to have Mannfred von Carstein’s neck between my hands, he swore silently.

  The shield, Sigmar’s Gift, clanked against his back. The skull of the ogor, Skraggtuff, swung out and in and banged against his thigh. And he pushed on, forwards.

  ‘We should ride this storm out, brother,’ yelled Vandalus. The Knight-Azyros was to Ramus’ left and half a dozen paces behind, walking bent into the wind, the skeletal frame of his wings tugged ba
ck. Wind-whipped totems of feathers, leaves and bits of bone swirled around his maroon armour, partially obscuring the depictions of stars, storms and wild beasts in gold. ‘My Prosecutors saw a huge number of Ironjawz orruks moving ahead of us. We could be on top of them already. The dust will give us no warning.’

  Ramus snorted. ‘I thought men once called you the King of Dust.’

  ‘An easy title to claim and an easier one to give to another, but the dust respects me no more for it.’

  ‘We go on. Our guide is insistent that this is the Betrayer’s path.’

  ‘An ogor, and a dead one at that. The dead cannot be trusted.’

  There was a dull pain in Ramus’ chest. Lord-Celestant Tarsus had used to say that. He shook his head and ploughed on.

  He touched his fingers to the shield banging against his shoulders. There was a sudden hiss of burning metal and he snatched his fingers back. He smiled a grim smile as he shook off the sting. Sigmar’s Gift had delivered unto the Betrayer the God-King’s fire, and it remembered. The closer they drew the hotter it burned, and Ramus ardently prayed that the same would be true for Mann­fred von Carstein’s undying flesh.

  The ogor skull butted his thigh plate and bounced, out, in, and banged again. Skraggtuff had initially been part of a trap left for them by the Betrayer, but Mannfred was not the only one with talents.

  Was he not Ramus of the Shadowed Soul, Lord-Relictor of the Fourth-Forged Host, the Hallowed Knights? His will was a conduit for the divine storm. Life and death were his to go between.

  Splaying his fingers over the skull’s broad features so that they scratched in the sand over its eyes and mouth, he closed his eyes, and bent his mind towards the soul-eternal. He could see it still, a dull ember bound by the Betrayer’s dark necromancy to the ogor’s bones.

  ‘Awake, Skraggtuff.’ His spirit voice darted in and around his flesh like a sibilant, quicksilver tongue.