The hostleader twitched his tail indulgently. “No-no. Let them know fear. When they spray musk and know hopelessness then we shall charge-charge.”
Tzarkual could see that Gazat was dubious. Well, let him be. Soon he would see the superiority of his leader’s tactical knowledge for himself.
“Hostleader! They come back to our path.”
“Doubtless they flee in panicked terror. Prepare to meet them with fixed weapons.” The ledge here was wide enough for two skaven abreast. The stormvermin took up position, their polearms braced to meet the charge. Tzarkual waited expectantly.
Triumph filled his heart as the terror-struck man-things confronted his elite warriors. So full of fear were they that they did not even stop their headlong rush. Blind panic drove them to throw themselves onto the blades.
Surely it was only luck that allowed the sweep of the dwarf’s hatchet to chop though both weapons. Yes, he could see more clearly now. The dwarf was so scared that he frothed at the mouth like a clanrat with rabies. He howled fearful prayers to whatever gods he worshipped. He knew he was doomed.
Still, in his terror he was doing terrible damage, as panic-stricken brutes often did. One blind swing clove the head of a trooper. The frantic thrashing of his axe knocked two trusty stormvermin into the channel of the sewer.
If Tzarkual had not known better he would have sworn that the skaven had leapt into the filth to avoid the blade. Surely not! A tall blond-tufted man-thing had joined the dwarf. He fought with a certain precision. A thrust from his shortsword took another skaven in the throat.
No! This wasn’t happening. Four of his best warriors had gone down and the man-things had not even taken a casualty. The furless ones had been lucky. He was filled with pride as more brave stormvermin leapt into the fray.
Now, he felt certain that victory would be his. The man-things just didn’t know it. They kept coming. More worthless vermin fell before their weapons. Tzarkual knew that he had been betrayed! Instead of elite stormvermin, he had been sent useless clanrats. Some cunning enemy back in Skavenblight must have arranged it to discredit him.
It was the only explanation of how two puny surface-dwellers could chop through half a dozen skaven so-called warriors without taking a cut. Tzarkual steeled himself to face the foe. He, at least, was not afraid to face the dwarf’s hatchet or the man’s sword. He was a hostleader. He knew no fear.
It was simply excitement that made his tail twitch and his muskglands swell as the dwarf painted the sewer wall with blood with a flick of the small axe. Tzarkual knew he could take any man-thing, but he decided to hang back as Clawleader Gazat tackled the dwarf. He wanted to study his foe’s fighting style to best advantage.
It was certainly impressive the way that the dwarf caught the flying skaven by the throat and dashed his brains out against the ledge floor.
It definitely wasn’t terror that made Tzarkual fling himself into the sewage when he confronted the foaming-mouthed berserker. It was just that he knew that this was not the correct time to fight. It would be more elegant to take the foe off guard, by surprise, say, when they were asleep. Less wasteful of skaven lives too. He would tell Thanquol this as soon as he had finished his swim.
“They were after us, weren’t they?” Felix said, glancing around worriedly. He dabbed at some of the blood on his face and inspected the tips of his fingers distastefully. He was not surprised to learn that skaven blood was black.
“Don’t be foolish, manling. Why would they be after us?”
Felix was getting annoyed at people telling him not to be foolish. “Well, doesn’t it seem odd that we managed to go for two weeks without meeting a single thing down here, then barely two days after you kill that skaven we’re ambushed? Come to think of it, it’s only one day after I saw von Halstadt at the Golden Hammer. Perhaps he recognised me.”
Gotrek flicked his hatchet forward. Black blood speckled the ledge where the droplets fell. “Manling, he couldn’t recognise you. For a start you were dressed differently. And you were behind the lantern that Gant shone on him—all he could make out would be your outline. That’s if he saw anything at all. Most likely he was too busy running.”
It slowly sank in what Gotrek had said. Or rather what he hadn’t said. He hadn’t questioned the fact that Felix had seen von Halstadt at the Golden Hammer.
The other sewerjacks came back from inspecting the bodies. “Good work, you two,” said Hef. “You can certainly fight.”
“Might have left us some, though? I thought there was some coming up behind us but they seemed to stop when you two got stuck in.”
“Probably scared them away.”
“Well, let’s take a body and show it to the watch captain. Maybe they’ll believe us this time.”
“Right-o, young Felix. You going to carry it?”
Felix kept his mouth shut as he bent to lift the smelly, furry carcass. Even amid the stink of the sewers the smell of the corpse was offensive. Felix was quite pleased when, halfway back to the watch station exit, Hef offered to take a turn carrying it.
“And you say that there are rat-men below the city, brother? In the sewers even?”
Looking around the dining chamber of Otto’s house, Felix found it easy to understand his brother’s incredulity, Everything here seemed solid and safe and unthreatening. The expensive brocade curtains shut out the night just as effectively as the high walls enclosing the garden shut out the city. The solid teak furniture spoke of wealth based on a firm foundation of prosperity. The silver cutlery, different for each course, reflected an ordered world where everything had its place. Here in his brother’s stone-walled house it was hard to recall details of the nightmare battle he had fought that morning.
“Oh yes.” As he said it he saw again the snarling feral rat-face of the skaven he had killed. He remembered the bubbles of bloody froth blowing from its lips. He felt its stinking weight press against his body as it fell. He forced the memory back and concentrated on the goblet of fine Parravonian wine his brother had placed before him.
“It seems almost impossible to believe. Even though you do hear rumours.”
“Rumours, Otto?”
The merchant looked around. He got up and walked around the chamber, making sure each of the doors was securely closed. His Bretonnian wife, Annabella, had retired to her chambers, leaving the two men to talk business in private. Otto returned to his seat. His face was flushed from the wine. Candlelight flickered off little beads of sweat on his face.
“They say that there are mutants in the sewers and goblins and other monsters.” Felix smiled at his brother’s seriousness. Otto was telling this to a sewerjack as if it were a great secret. “You may smile, Felix, but I’ve talked to folk who swear it’s true.”
“Really?” It was hard to keep a note of irony from his voice. Otto didn’t notice it.
“Oh yes, the same folk who swear that there’s a great mutant undertown called the Night Market. They say it’s on the edge of the city. In an abandoned graveyard. It’s frequented by followers of certain depraved cults.”
“Slaanesh worshippers, you mean?”
Otto pursed his lips primly. “Don’t use that word in my home. It’s cursed unlucky and I don’t want to attract the attention of the Dark Powers. Or their followers.”
“Unlucky or not, these things exist.”
“Enough, brother.”
At first Felix found it hard to believe his brother was serious. He wondered what Otto would say if he told him that he had once witnessed a Slaaneshi orgy on Geheimnisnacht. Best not to, he decided. Seeing his brother’s serious, fear-filled face he realised quite how large the gap between them had grown.
Could he really once have been as sheltered as his elder brother, shivering and fearful at the mention of a dark power about which he knew not the slightest thing? He had to admit that it was perhaps possible. He began to understand how the cultists got away with it. There was a veil of secrecy drawn over the whole subject in polite society;
it wasn’t mentioned or discussed. People preferred to believe, or pretend to believe, that such things as Chaos cults couldn’t exist. If they were mentioned, they didn’t want to talk about them. Everyone abhorred mutants and talked about them widely.
That was fine. It was easy to pick on visible targets, they provided a focus on which to vent deep seated unease. But bring up the fact that normal, supposedly sane folk might be interested in the worship of the dark ones and a door was slammed in your face.
The playwright Detlef Sierck had been right when he wrote: “Ours is a land chained by silence; ours is a time when the truth goes unspoken.” People just didn’t want to know.
Why? Felix did not understand. Did they honestly think that pretending a problem did not exist would make it go away? The watch captain today had looked at the body and could not deny its existence, even though he had obviously wanted to. He was forced to report the matter to a higher authority.
A sudden chill ran through Felix when he recalled who had come to collect the corpse for examination. They were men from the office of Chief Magistrate von Halstadt. Felix wondered if the body of the dead skaven would ever be seen again.
“Tell me more about von Halstadt,” Felix asked. “Where does he live?”
Otto seemed glad to change the subject. “His father was a minor noble, killed in one of the peasant uprisings in the early seventies. He studied for the Sigmarite priesthood, but was never ordained. There were hints of a scandal, something to do with spying on the nunnery. He is efficient. He’s said to keep files on everyone. And his enemies disappear mysteriously.”
Felix fell silent. A pattern had emerged. He believed he understood what had happened. It would take a little checking though. He would make a start early tomorrow. “You say he lives nearby.”
“Two streets away. Near the palace, on Emmanuelleplatz.”
“Well, well.” Felix leant back in his chair and yawned expansively. “Well, brother, it’s late and I really must go. I have work tomorrow.”
“Very well.” Otto rang the small bell that sat beside his plate. “I’ll have Franz bring your cloak.”
“I told your predecessor never to come here,” von Halstadt said, staring at the skaven with barely concealed distaste. He hated it when anyone else but him entered his filing chamber. “The servants might see you.”
The rat-man met his gaze levelly. There was something about this one that made von Halstadt nervous. Perhaps it was the greyish fur or perhaps it was the strange, blind-seeming eyes, but there was something different about this one. Something scary, almost.
“This one is not as the other, man-thing. Grey seer this one is. Magelord in the service of the Thirteen. Contracted to the clan but not of it. Important I see you. Things went badly with the guards. Many skaven dead.”
“But my servants—”
“Worry not, foolish man-thing—they snoresleep. A simple spell.”
Von Halstadt laid down his file. He marked the place with an uninked quill and closed it gently. He let his hand fall near the hilt of his blade. The touch of it reassured him somewhat. He met the skaven’s stare and dared it to look away. “I’m unused to being called ‘foolish’. Do not do so again.”
The skaven smiled. It was not calming. For a second the magistrate felt as if it might leap forward and bite him. He kept his hand on his weapon. With an almost imperceptible shake of its head the skaven stopped smiling. It twitched its tail.
“Of course. So-sorry. Many apologies, yes. Grieve for the loss of kin. Cost many warptokens to replace.”
“I accept your apology.” Von Halstadt was reassured. It was obscurely pleasing that even so monstrous seeming a creature as the rat-man felt a sense of loss at the death of its relatives. Still, he found himself longing for the day when he would no longer have to deal with the skaven and could have them destroyed. He picked up the file and returned it to its precise place in the proper cabinet.
“The man-things are dangerous to our association. Know your appearance and can pickchoose you from others. They must not be allowed to threaten you or us.”
“True.” The thought was worrying. Von Halstadt’s enemies were legion and the slightest hint of scandal would be used against him. The treacherous sewerjacks would sell that information to the highest bidder, he felt sure. Their lack of loyalty to the cause of humanity sickened him. They deserved to die. And to think he had once felt sorry for them. “They must die.”
“Yes-yes, and you must show us where to find them.”
“That is straightforward enough. I had their watch captain interviewed today.” he opened a new cabinet and pulled out a slim dossier. “Here is my file on them.”
“Good-good. Soon they will all die-die.”
* * * * *
Once safely back in the sewer, Grey Seer Thanquol cursed to himself. He was tired of dealing with morons like Tzarkual and the man-thing von Halstadt. He would have preferred to have been back home in his warm burrow in Skavenblight, surrounded by his breeders and with a few captive humans to run through his maze. He missed the beautiful rotting aroma of the swamps and he was worried about the intrigues which might be taking place against him in his absence. He hated working with the idiot Tzarkual, who could not even carry out the simple assassination of five man-things properly.
The thought of the hostleader’s chittering excuses made Thanquol want to bite his own tail with anger. By the Thirteen, it was true! If you wanted a bone gnawed properly you had to gnaw it yourself. No sense entrusting vital tasks to the likes of the useless hostleader.
Still, his masters had assigned him to Tzarkual’s clan and he was obliged by the binding oaths of his order to implement and expedite their plans. And this one was sound. It resounded to Clan Skab’s credit in the Great Game being played back in Skavenblight. He could see that, foolish though he was, von Halstadt represented a valuable agent to have in place. Of all the humans he had ever met, the spymaster thought most like a skaven—a very stupid skaven, admittedly, but still a skaven. He was easy to manipulate due to his strange jealousy of, and attraction to, the breeder Emmanuelle, prepared to believe anything so long as it was connected to her. Imagine thinking that the skaven use the city’s rats as spies, foolish man-thing!
However, von Halstadt had proven useful in removing those who might prove to be a threat to the long-term plans of the Thirteen and he was an adroit and effective collector of the warpstone so necessary for the continued research plans of the seers.
Yes-yes, it would be wise to resist the urge to slay the man-thing. He was more useful alive than dead, at least until the Great Day came and humanity writhed beneath the talons of the skaven once more.
Thanquol easily deciphered the strange scratchmarks humans called writing. He had trained all his life for this. The study of mankind and its arts were his particular forte. Von Halstadt had thoughtfully attached the maps showing the closest sewers to the victim’s dwellings. The man-thing was not entirely incompetent. How convenient! Two of the man-things dwelled together in an easily accessible place. He would start with them.
“Come-come, Boneripper. I have work for you this night,” Thanquol squeaked.
The rat-ogre growled its assent from the shadows. Enormous claws slid smoothly from their sheaths at the prospect of food.
Hef was lurching drunkenly down the muddy side-street when he heard the sounds of a struggle coming from the hovel which he shared with Gilda and his brother. He knew he shouldn’t have stayed in the tavern for that last pint with Gotrek. If Big Jax and his men had returned for vengeance while he was away, he would never forgive himself.
The hook knife felt cool and reassuring in his hand. He wished he were more sober, but that was not to be helped. He broke into a trot and almost immediately tripped over a pile of rotting garbage in the path. At night, without street lighting the New Quarter was a death-trap.
He picked himself up and set off more carefully along the lane. As he recalled there was an open sewer near here and
it wouldn’t do to fall in. He heard Gilda scream and all thought of caution vanished when the scream ended in a moan of pain. He ran, scrabbling over the garbage, knocking over a pile of muck. He knew that no one else but him would answer a scream for help in Cheap Street. It was that sort of area.
Flames started to leap skyward over the hovel. Someone must have knocked over a lamp in the struggle. He heard a feral snarl from within the hut. Maybe Jax had brought his tame war-dogs, as he had threatened. Hef covered the open ground near the entrance in one final spurt. By the light of the flames flickering within he could see that the door had been ripped off its hinges.
Something moved within. His brother met him at the door. Spider opened his mouth and tried to speak. Blood gushed forth. Hef caught him as he fell forward. As his arms met round his brother’s back, he felt the hole and the great soft mass of the lungs pumping though it. Spider moaned and was still.
It was a nightmare. He had returned home and his home was in flames. His brother was dead. No, that could not be. He and Spider had been inseparable since they could walk. They had served on the same fishing boat, stolen the same money, ran off together to the same city, lived with the same girl. They had the same life. If Spider was dead, then…
Hef stood absolutely still. Tears streamed down his face as the monstrous shape emerged from the ruins of the burning hut and loomed over him. The last thing he heard was the sound of chittering from behind him.
* * * * *
Felix was up bright and early. He made his way down the muddy streets of the New Quarter, ignoring the pall of smoke that rose from the shantytown near Cheap Street. Another fire, he supposed. Well, he had been lucky, the wind had not fanned the flames in the direction of Frau Zorin’s tenement. If they had, he might have died in his sleep. And he couldn’t afford to die just now. He still had things to do.