Gotrek & Felix- the Third Omnibus - William King & Nathan Long

by Warhammer

  Felix crept forward to the mouth of the ravine to see if Gessler still lived. The priest’s skull was caved in. If he was alive, he was beyond Felix’s ability to save.

  Gotrek barked a harsh laugh, then charged the yhetee, leaping the stream the priest had waded through. Felix made a face at the Slayer’s laugh. Gotrek was hard, even unkind at times, but he rarely made fun of those who died bravely. It seemed uncharacteristic for him to mock the priest’s death – pathetic as it was.

  Dwarf and beast slammed together among the snowdrifts. Gotrek’s axe chipped a chunk of ice off the yhetee’s club as they connected, but the force of the impact drove the Slayer back. The beast roared, gusting a column of crystallising air at him. Gotrek dove aside, avoiding the blast, and rolled up by the yhetee’s leg. He slashed at it, but the beast was too quick. It pivoted and swung again with its club. Gotrek blocked with his rune axe but, like Father Gessler, hadn’t the weight to stand his ground. He flew back, lifted entirely off the ground, and slammed down hard on a boulder near the ice-rimmed stream.

  Felix winced as the Slayer’s skull smacked against the rock and his axe flew from his fingers to splash into the stream. The yhetee leapt at him and smashed down with its club. Gotrek groggily rolled aside, and the icy club shattered and split against the boulder.

  Gotrek crawled behind the beast, shaking his bloody head and groping for his axe, the haft of which was sticking up out of the shallow stream. The yhetee turned and blasted down at him again with its frigid breath as it tossed the broken branch aside. A glassy glaze formed on the Slayer’s skin, but worse, the stream froze solid. When Gotrek grabbed the haft of his rune axe, it wouldn’t budge. It was trapped in the ice.

  He got a firmer grip on it, but the beast was on him again, and he had to dive away. It bounded after him, roaring and swiping at his back. Gotrek stopped short and it overshot him, tripping.

  Gotrek veered and sprinted for Father Gessler’s body. The yhetee recovered and charged after him. The Slayer reached the priest and snatched the warhammer from the priest’s limp hands, then turned and swung it with all his might behind him.

  The beast took the full force of the blow on its snout and reared up in pain. Gotrek followed through with a smash to its knee. The beast howled, its leg buckling. Gotrek dodged around it and ran for the stream.

  As the beast lurched to its feet, Gotrek skidded to a stop at the stream and smashed at the ice with Gessler’s hammer, trying to free his axe. The beast dove at the Slayer’s back, its claws outstretched. Felix was afraid that would be it, but at the last second, Gotrek spun again, swinging the hammer.

  The results weren’t quite so fortunate this time. The Slayer managed to knock the yhetee’s slashing claws aside, but its full weight hit him in the chest, knocking him flat, and they both crashed through the ice into the water. The beast pressed up, dripping, and pushed Gotrek down under the water.

  Felix’s heart lurched as he realised what came next. The beast would blast Gotrek with its arctic breath and freeze him into the river, encasing him like a fly in amber. After that it would be able to kill him at its leisure.

  It was an end too horrible to contemplate, and Felix found himself stepping forward and drawing his sword, all the while knowing he would be too late.

  The beast inhaled as Felix hurried forward but, just as it was about to roar, Gotrek’s massive, muscled arm shot out of the stream and jammed the head of Gessler’s warhammer down its throat.

  The beast rose up, gargling angrily, and tried to grab the haft of the hammer with its clumsy clawed hands. Gotrek erupted from the water beneath it, blowing like a walrus, then ducked between its legs and dove for his rune axe.

  This time it ripped free as the beast spun and tore the hammer from its maw. Gotrek charged forward, splashing through the ice-choked stream, then leapt up onto the boulder and vaulted through the air, straight at the yhetee.

  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, c
rone!’ 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.

  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 Mi
ddenheim 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, Heinrich 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.