Out of the frying pan, into the fire, he thought.
Where had all these warriors come from, Heskit wondered dazedly? They should be up above fighting with the dwarf and his human ally, not cowering down here away from the fight. Not that it mattered right at this very moment. As a highly skilled warp engineer, Heskit recognised all the signs of a very serious malfunction in the steam-tank. He did not doubt that he had mere moments to get clear before it exploded.
Fear lent his feet wings. He sprang out into the tightly packed mass of skaven. Before they could react, he skittered across their shoulders, trampling on their heads as he went. Even so, he knew that he was not going to get clear in time. There was only one thing for it.
Holding his snout, Heskit dived headlong into the sewer.
Judging by the speed with which the terrified skaven took off over the heads of its fellows, Felix knew that something terrible was about to happen. He had to act, right now. He sprang upwards, grabbed the lip of the pit and pulled himself clear, just as the mass of skaven swarmed forward over the steam-tank.
He felt claws rip the leg of his britches as one of the pack leaders made a grab for him. Frantically he kicked out with his other foot, and felt something break as his boot connected with teeth.
Looking out into the greenly lit courtyard, he saw the Slayer jogging towards him.
Felix pulled himself upright and raced for the dwarf, shouting: “Get down! It’s going to ex—”
Behind him there was an enormous thunderous roar and a mighty flash like a lightning strike. A huge cloud of stinking smoke billowed forth. The shockwave threw Felix onto the ground hard. He was vaguely aware of a number of skaven forms tumbling headlong through the gloom around him. Then his head smacked into the ground and consciousness left him.
When Felix pulled himself upright, Gotrek was standing nearby, peering down into the mouth of the pit. All around them were hideously mangled skaven corpses. Felix could not guess whether they were the products of the explosion or Gotrek’s efforts. Not that it mattered. The result was the same in the end.
Behind him there was a sudden, mighty crash. Felix looked back to see that the whole wall of the college had collapsed. Indeed, peculiar greenish flames were lapping through the entire building. Something told him that no amount of effort by fire-fighters was going to extinguish that blaze until its sorcerous fury was spent.
He turned to look back at the Slayer, noticing for the first time the huge splashes of blood which painted the dwarf’s body and dripped from his axe. Gotrek grinned and showed his missing teeth.
“Got most of them. The rest ran away,” he said in disgust. “They seemed to lose heart after I killed the first fifty.”
“Yes, but at what a price! We’ve burned the college to the ground! Think of all that knowledge lost.”
“Colleges can be rebuilt, manling.” The Slayer tapped his head with one brawny finger. “Knowledge is in here. The masters and apprentices survived. Things will go on.”
“We’d better go on and get out of here. The guard will be coming soon.”
Wearily, they made their departure. Somewhere in the distance the alarm bells were already tolling.
Heskit raised his head above the brown sludgy mass and spat out a mouthful of rank sewer water. That had been too close for comfort, he thought. Only the fact that the jelly-like consistency of this part of the flow had absorbed the shock of the blast had enabled him to survive, he was sure. It looked like all the others were dead. Still, he was alive, that was the main thing, he thought as he padded along through the water with strokes of his paws and lashes of his tail. Now all he had to do was find an explanation for this fiasco which the cursed grey seer would accept. Because somehow he was sure that Thanquol would know all about this night’s work.
PLAGUE MONKS OF PESTILENS
“Having shed some light on the disaster which befell the College of Engineering in that accursed year. I feel that I can move on to cover another topic. It was during this period of my life that I acquired more knowledge of the foul breed of rat-men known as skaven than I ever wished or deemed advisable. Even the possession of such knowledge as I had would have been considered cause enough for burning at the stake by our more fanatically dedicated witch hunters. I have often thought that if such people showed half the zeal in persecuting the real enemies of our society as they do in pursuing innocent scholars, our world would be a safer and happier place. Of course, the real enemies of our society are a far more dangerous breed than innocent scholars and have allies in far higher places. I leave my readers to draw their own conclusions from that.”
—From My Travels With Gotrek, Vol. III,
by Herr Felix Jaeger (Altdorf Press, 2505)
The man clutched his throat, gave a gurgling moan and keeled over, froth pouring from his lips, vile green stuff oozing from his nostrils. He lay on his back in a midden heap and frantically beat the muddy pavement with his fists, then all the strength seemed to leave him. His limbs twitched feebly in a final spasm of motion, then he gave a last long groan and lay still.
The people in the street all around looked at each other in fright, then raced away from the body as fast as they could. Beggars crawled away from their resting places. The one-legged man hopped away, almost dropping his crutch in his haste. Peddlers abandoned their stalls; goodwives ducked back into their buildings and locked their doors. Rich merchants urged their palanquin bearers to greater speed. Within moments, the street was all but deserted. Throughout the hubbub of the departing crowd ran one word—plague!
Felix Jaeger glanced around the suddenly empty street. It didn’t look like anyone else was going to help the poor devil, so it seemed the job fell to him. He covered his mouth with his tattered cloak and knelt beside the body. He laid a hand on the man’s chest, searching for a heartbeat.
It was too late. The man was beyond any help: he was dead. Felix had enough experience of death to know.
“Felix, come away. I’m frightened.”
Felix looked up. Elissa stood nearby, her face pale and her eyes wide. She ran a hand through her curly black hair, then brought it back to her mouth.
“Nothing to be frightened of,” Felix said. “The man is dead.”
“It’s what killed him that scares me. It looks like he died of the new plague.”
Felix stood up, superstitious fear filling his mind. For the first time he was forced to consider the death he had just witnessed and the reason why everyone else had fled.
Plagues were terrible things. They could strike anywhere, kill anyone, rich or poor. No one knew what caused them. Some said the dark influence of Chaos. Some said they were the wrath of the gods on sinful humanity. The only certainty with plague was that there was very little that you could do to save yourself once you caught it save pray. Such virulent diseases could baffle the best of physicians and the most potent of mages. Felix stepped away from the body quickly and moved to put his arm around Elissa reassuringly. She shied away, as if he carried the contagion.
“I don’t have the plague,” he said, hurt.
“You never know.”
Felix glanced down at the body and shivered.
“It certainly wasn’t that poor soul’s lucky day,” Elissa said.
“What do you mean?”
“Take a look. There’s a black rose on his tunic. He’d just been to a funeral.”
“Well, now he’s going to his own,” Felix said softly.
“That’s the fourth death today from the plague that I’ve heard of,” Heinz said when Felix told him the news. “The lads in the bar are talking about nothing else. They’ve a sweepstake going on how many it will be by nightfall.”
In a way, Felix was glad of this news. For the past few days, the citizens had talked of nothing but the burning down of the College of Engineering. Most claimed it was sabotage perpetrated by Chaos worshippers or the Bretonnians. Felix continually felt spasms of guilt as he was reminded of his own participation in the event.
“What do you think?” Felix asked, looking around at how many people were present. The bar was packed to capacity, and the inevitable jostling was already causing friction. Felix felt certain there would be trouble this evening.
“I put my money on it being ten. Last year, when the Red Pox came, there were twenty people gone by noon. But then the Red Pox was a nasty one. Worst in twenty years. Still, you never know—this one might be worse before it’s done.”
“I meant, what do you think caused it?” Felix said. “How do you think it spreads?”
“I’m not a physician, Felix, I’m a bartender. I guess that it’s spread by tinkers and witches. That’s what my old wife Lotte used to say.”
“Do you think I could have caught it from that poor man?”
“Maybe. I wouldn’t worry. When Old Man Morr pulls your name out of his big black hat, there’s nothing you can do about it, that’s what I think. One thing’s for sure, though.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s good for business. Soon as plague comes, people hit the taverns. They want to forget about it as quick as they can.”
“Maybe they want to die drunk.”
“There’s worse ways to die, young Felix.”
“That there is.”
“Well, you’d better get over there and stop those Tileans drawing knives on each other, or we’ll soon have a graphic demonstration of just that.”
“I’ll deal with it.”
Felix moved to hastily intervene in the dispute. In a few seconds he had far more immediate dangers to worry about than catching the plague.
“So you’re not worried about the plague?” Felix said, ducking a swing from a drunken mercenary.
“Never catch the things, manling,” Gotrek Gurnisson replied, grabbing the mercenary’s ear, pulling his head down level with the dwarf’s own and then dropping the man with a headbutt which sent blood from the man’s bleeding nose spraying outwards to add a new and brighter tint to the Slayer’s great crest of red-dyed hair. “Been right through a dozen sieges. Humans dropped like flies; I was fine. Dwarfs don’t usually get the plague. We leave that to less hardy races like elves and men.”
Felix caught two of the mercenary’s squabbling comrades by the scruffs of their necks and hauled them upright. Gotrek grabbed one, Felix grabbed the other and they ran them out through the swinging doors into the muddy streets.
“Worst thing I’ve ever had was a bad hangover,” Gotrek said. “And don’t come back!” he bellowed out into the street.
Felix turned to survey the bar. As Heinz had predicted, it was full. Slumming nobles mingled with half the cut-throats and rakehells of the city. A big gang of mercenaries fresh in from the Middenheim caravan route were spending their money like there was going to be no tomorrow.
Maybe they were right, Felix thought; maybe there wouldn’t be a tomorrow. Maybe all the streetcorner seers were right. Maybe the end of the world was coming. Certainly the world had ended today, as far as that man who had died in the street was concerned.
In the far corner, he could see that Elissa was talking to a brawny young man garbed in the rough tunic and leggings of a peasant. Their conversation became animated for a moment, then Elissa turned to leave. As she did so, the youth reached out and grabbed her wrist. Felix began to move over to intervene. Being pawed was an occupational hazard for the serving wenches but he didn’t like it happening to Elissa. She turned and said something to the youth. His hand opened and he let go immediately, a look of something like shock on his face. Elissa left him there, his mouth hanging open and a pained look in his eyes.
Elissa hurried past, chin up, carrying a tray full of empty tankards. Felix caught her by the arm, turned her around, kissed her cheek.
“I don’t have the plague,” he said, but she still wriggled away.
Felix could hear the word “plague” being discussed at every table. It was as if there were no other topic of conversation in the whole blasted city.
“Really, I don’t,” Felix added softly. He turned around and noticed that the youth who had been talking to Elissa was staring at him with a look of anger in his eyes. Felix was tempted to go over and talk to him but before he could, the young peasant got up and stalked none too steadily to the door.
“I know you don’t have the plague,” Elissa said, snuggling closer to Felix on the pallet they shared. She picked up a piece of straw which had burst out of the hole in the mattress and began to tickle him under the nose with it. “You don’t have to keep telling me. Really, I wish you’d just shut up about it.”
“Maybe I’m trying to reassure myself,” he said, grabbing her wrist and immobilising her hand. He reached over with his other hand and began to tickle her. “Who was that you were talking to earlier?” he asked.
“When?”
“Down in the bar. A young man. Looked straight off the farm.”
“Oh, you saw him, then?” she asked, her voice all feigned innocence.
“Apparently so.”
“That was Hans.”
“And who is Hans?” Felix said levelly.
“He’s just a friend.”
“He didn’t seem to think so, judging by the look he gave me.”
“We used to go out together back in my village but he was very jealous and he had a terrible temper.”
“He hit you?”
“No, he hit any man who looked at me in what he thought was the wrong way. The village elders got fed up with it and put him in the stocks. After that he ran away to the city, to look for his fortune, he said.”
“Is that why you came here, to find him?”
“Maybe. It was a long time ago and Nuln’s a big place. I never saw him again, until tonight, when he came into the Pig. He hasn’t changed much.”
“You were close?”
“Once.”
“Not now?”
“No.” Elissa looked at him seriously. “You ask a lot of questions, Felix Jaeger.”
“Then stop me asking,” he said and began to kiss her hungrily. But in his mind, he was still wondering about Elissa and Hans and what had gone on between them.
Grey Seer Thanquol helped himself to another pinch of warpstone snuff. The brain-blastingly potent drug sent a charge of pure energy through his body, and his tail stiffened in ecstatic joy. He basked in the warm glow of triumph.
His intricately woven scheme had succeeded and his rival Heskit One Eye’s plan to seize all of the technological secrets of the human College of Engineering had been thwarted. Thanquol bared his fangs in a death’s head grin when he considered Heskit’s discomfiture. He had made the proud warp engineer grovel in the dirt before his whole army while he explained what he had been doing. He had berated Heskit for almost jeopardising the whole glorious campaign to assault Nuln by his ill-considered actions, and sent him slinking off with his tail between his legs.
Now Heskit had retired to his chambers to sulk, while he waited for reinforcements to arrive from Skavenblight to replace the warriors he had lost on the surface. With any luck no new warriors would come. Heskit might even be recalled to Skavenblight to explain his actions to his superiors. Perhaps, Thanquol thought, with a word in the right ear this course of action could be encouraged.
The curtain which separated Thanquol’s private burrow from the rest of the Underways was wrenched open and a small skaven entered the chamber.
Reflexively Thanquol sprang back behind his throne. The eerie glow of dark magic surrounded his paw as he summoned the energy to blast the interloper to atoms, but then he saw that it was only Lurk Snitchtongue, and he stayed his spell for a moment.
“Grave news, most potent of potentates!” Lurk chittered, then fell silent as he noticed the aura of magic which surrounded the grey seer. “No! No! Most merciful of masters, don’t kill me! Don’t! Don’t!”
“Never, on pain of death most excruciating, ever burst into my chambers unannounced again,” Thanquol said, not relaxing his vigilance for a moment. After
all, you could never tell when an assassination attempt might happen. Jealous rivals were everywhere.
“Yes! Yes, most perceptive of seers. Never again shall it happen. Only…”
“Only what?”
“Only I bring most important tidings, great one.”
“What would those be?”
“I have heard rumours—”
“Rumours? Do not barge into my sacred chambers and talk to me about rumours!”
“Rumours from a usually reliable source, greatest of authorities.”
Thanquol nodded. That was different. Over the past few days Thanquol had come to have a certain respect for Lurk’s host of informants. The little skaven had a talent for ferreting out information that rivalled even Thanquol’s… almost. “Go on. Speak! Speak! Waste not my precious time!”
“Yes! Yes! I have heard rumours that Vilebroth Null and his chief acolytes have left the Underways and went surfacewards to the mancity of Nuln, there to establish a secret burrow.”
What could the Clan Pestilens abbot be up to, thought Thanquol, his mind reeling? What did this signify? It inevitably meant some sort of treachery to the sacred skaven cause, some scheme to grab the glory that was rightfully Thanquol’s. “Go on!”
“It may be that they took with them the Cauldron of a Thousand Poxes!”
Oh no, thought Thanquol. The cauldron was one of the most hideously powerful artefacts that Clan Pestilens was thought to possess. Since early runthood, Thanquol had heard dire tales of its powers. It was said to be the means of infallibly brewing terrible diseases, an artefact stolen from a temple of the Plague God, Nurgle, back when the world was young, and reconsecrated to the service of the Horned Rat.
If the cauldron was on the surface somewhere, that could only mean Vilebroth Null meant to start a plague among the humans. Under normal circumstances, Thanquol would have been only too pleased by such an eventuality—just as long as he was a thousand leagues away! Clan Pestilens plagues had a habit of running out of control, of afflicting skaven as well as their intended victims. Only the plague monks themselves seemed immune. Many seemingly assured skaven triumphs had been undermined by just this occurrence. Now Clan Pestilens were only supposed to unleash their creations by special authorisation of the Council of Thirteen.