Again he flinched, hoping that thought had not gone over the link to Thanquol. He hoped not; he was only supposed to be able to send when he touched the stone and concentrated. He supposed it would take a lot of effort to drive his thoughts through the ether. He didn’t know that for sure, not having tried it, but right at this moment he actually hoped it was the case.
Stop! came the imperious command. He did so at once, automatically and instinctively. A moment after he did so, he heard the sound of booted dwarfish feet ahead of him. A moment after that, a small squad of dwarfs stomped past the alley mouth. Lurk shivered instinctively when he saw that they were dragging skaven corpses off to be burned. His whiskers twitched. He had already recognised the foul scent of scorching skaven flesh earlier.
Now—run quickly across the street. Hurry-scurry while the way is clear.
He steeled himself and leapt forward into the wide exposed space between the buildings, risking a quick glance right and left as he did so, and seeing that the way was indeed clear save for the backs of the departing dwarfs. He had to admit that, whatever else he might be, Thanquol was a mighty sorcerer. He had no idea how the grey seer was able to guide him so well, but so far he had made no mistakes.
Lurk dove into the cover of the alleyway opposite and hurried on. Directly in front of him now was the huge dwarfish building. Its metal roof gleamed in the moonlight. He saw that vast and powerful steam engines were attached to its side. His skaven curiosity was piqued. He wondered what could possibly be stored within so huge a structure.
Quick-quick—head right till you find the entrance or swift death will be yours.
Lurk hastened to obey. He slid through the entrance arch and halted—and stared upwards in wide-eyed wonder. A gasp of pure amazement was torn from his uncomprehending lips.
Felix wandered through the burning night, Varek by his side. Things look worse than they are, he told himself, hoping against hope that it was true. It was evident that both sides had taken enormous casualties. Many dwarfs had fallen in the conflict and each and every one of them seemed to have taken at least two skaven with him. The stink of burning rat-man flesh was well-nigh unbearable. Felix pulled his cloak across the lower half of his face to keep out the smell. No one else seemed at all bothered.
It looked like the vast complex had taken a lot of damage. Felix wondered whether it would be enough to set back whatever project the dwarfs had been working on, and realised that he was in no position to hazard a guess. He simply did not have enough knowledge of what was going on here.
“What is this all in aid of?” he asked Varek suddenly. The young dwarf stopped polishing his broken glasses on the hem of his tunic and looked up at him. He breathed on the lenses as if wanting time to gather his thoughts, then started to polish again, not noticing that a shard of glass had broken free.
“What is what in aid of, exactly?”
“All this machinery,” Felix said.
“Er—perhaps I should leave that for my uncle to explain. He is in charge here.”
“That’s very discreet of you. Where can I find your uncle?”
“In the keep, along with the others.”
Before he could ask another question, a gyrocopter whizzed low overhead. Standing on the strut of the landing gear was a burly figure with a shaven head. He held a monstrous multi-barrelled musket. Something about the way he stood set Felix’s senses to prickling. The dwarf turned a crank on the side of the musket and a hail of shot churned up the earth at Felix’s feet. Felix pushed Varek to one side and threw himself flat, turning to track the gyrocopter, wondering what madness had possessed the demented dwarf. Surely he had not mistaken Felix for a skaven? Then from behind him Felix heard a chorus of agonised squeaks.
It was only as he turned his head that Felix saw the group of skaven who had been advancing noiselessly behind him, blades bared. Felix recognised them as gutter runners, the dread skaven assassins he had fought in the Blind Pig tavern back in Nuln. The dwarf on the gyrocopter had cut the things down with his strange weapon. He had most likely saved their lives, even if his lack of accuracy had almost killed them both.
The gyrocopter swept backwards and slewed down to a not-quite perfect landing. The musket-toting figure leapt down from its side, and hurried away from the flying machine in a low crouch designed to stop the swiftly rotating blades separating his head from his shoulders. The downdraft from the machine flattened the enormous crest of red dyed hair which rose above his head.
The gale sent Felix’s cloak flapping in the wind and the dust the machine stirred up brought tears to his eyes. Varek was forced to squint through the lenses of his broken glasses. He had covered his mouth with his book to prevent himself from breathing in the dust. The strange chemical smell of the vehicle’s exhaust reached Felix’s nostrils even through the wool of his cloak.
The newcomer was short and incredibly broad. His chest was bare, revealing amazing muscular definition. Twin bandoleers of what must have been ammunition were looped over his shoulders. A red scarf was tied round his forehead. He wore high leather boots with a large dagger scabbarded on the right boot. A monstrous silver skull buckled the belt which held up his green britches. His white beard was cut short almost to his jaw. A two-headed Empire eagle was tattooed on his right shoulder.
Strange thick optical lenses covered his eyes. Felix could see that they were engraved with some sort of cross hairs. Judging from his appearance, Felix decided that this had to be another Trollslayer. The stranger clumped over to him and looked him up and down, then he spat on the corpse of one of the skaven.
“Nasty, evil wee creatures, skaven!” he said by way of a greeting. “Never liked them. Never liked their machinery.”
He turned to Felix and executed a formal dwarfish bow. “Malakai Makaisson, at your service and your clan’s.”
Felix returned the bow with that of an Imperial courtier. He used the movement to cover up his expression of astonishment. So this was the famous mad engineer of which Gotrek and Varek had talked. He did not look that crazed. “Felix Jaeger, at your service.”
The dwarf turned the crank on his musket again. The barrels spun. Shot tore into the skaven corpses. Black blood spurted as fur and flesh tore.
“Ye cannae be too careful with these beasties. They’re awfae sleekit, ye ken.”
“He means they are very cunning,” Varek translated.
“Ach, awae wi’ ye! Ah’m sure Herr Jaeger kens exactly what ah mean, don’t ye, Herr Jaeger?”
“I think I follow you,” Felix said non-committally.
“Well, there ye go then. Best be gettin’ up tae the castle. Auld Borek will be wantin’ tae talk tae ye and the others. I suppose ye’ll be wantin’ tae ken what this is ah aboot.”
“That would be excellent,” Felix said.
“Well, just wait till they lower the brig then—unless ye want a wee lift back the noo. Ah think the copter will tek an extra body.”
It took Felix a few moments to work out that this maniac was offering him a ride on the landing gear of the gyrocopter. He tried to force a pleasant smile onto his face as he said, “I think I’ll just wait for the gate to open, if it’s all the same to you.”
“Fine by me. See ye later then.”
Makaisson clambered back on to the landing gear of the gyro-copter and shouted something to the helmeted and goggled pilot. The engine roared and the machine lurched skyward—leaving Felix wondering whether the meeting had ever actually happened at all.
“Do all your engineers talk like that?” Felix asked Varek. The young dwarf shook his head.
“Makaisson’s clan comes from the Dwimmerdim Vale, way up north. It’s an isolated place. Even other dwarfs find their manner of speech strange.”
Felix shrugged. He could hear the creaking of huge chains as the drawbridge into the keep was lowered. He paced rapidly in the direction of the gate, suddenly aware of exactly how tired he was and hoping to find a place to lie down for the night.
Fel
ix woke from a nightmare of insane violence, in which a great rat-ogre chased him round a burning town while the gigantic figure of an enormous pale-skinned skaven leered down from the sky. Sometimes the city was the dwarfish community around the Lonely Tower; sometimes he ran through the cobbled streets of Nuln; sometimes he was in his home city of Altdorf, the Imperial capital. It was one of those dreams where his foes” blades were bright and terribly sharp and his own blade simply bounced off unarmoured flesh. He ran and ran while mangy, flea-infested skaven-things clutched at his arms and legs, slowing him, and all the time his monstrous pursuer came ever closer.
His eyes snapped open and he found himself staring at the ceiling of an unfamiliar room, an awakening which always disoriented him, even after many years of wandering.
He found that he was lying in a bed designed for a much shorter and broader person, and that even though he was lying diagonally his feet still protruded over the bottom. He was sweating from the heavy blankets entangling his limbs and he began to see where the feeling of being dragged down in his dream might have stemmed from. He had vague memories of entering the castle the night before, being introduced to various dwarfs and being shown to this chamber. He could remember casting himself on the bed, and after that nothing—except his fast-fading bad dreams.
He had not even taken off his clothes. Blotches of blood and dirt stained the sheets. He sat upright and shook his head wearily, aware of all the aches in his muscles left behind by his participation in last night’s battle. Still he felt a sense of exhilaration. He had survived to see a new dawn, and that was the main thing. There was no feeling quite like it, knowing that you were one of the lucky ones after a battle. He pulled himself off the bed and stood up, half-expecting to need to duck his head and therefore rather surprised to find that the castle had been built on a human scale.
He moved to one of the narrow arrowslit windows and gazed out into the valley. Clouds of smoke rose from below and with them came the stench of burning skaven flesh. He wondered how much of the obscuring vapours came from the machines down there and how much from the funeral pyres, and then he realised that he didn’t care.
He was suddenly very hungry. There was a knock on the door and he realised the sounds of his awakening had been noticed.
“Come in!” he shouted.
Varek entered. “Glad to see you’re up. Uncle Borek wants to see you. You’re to come to breakfast in his study. Hungry?”
“I could eat a horse.”
“I don’t think it will come to that,” Varek said.
Felix laughed—then from the expression on the dwarfs face he realised that Varek wasn’t joking.
It was a comfortable room, which reminded Felix of his father’s study. Books lined three walls, embossed spines showing Reik-spiel script and dwarfish runes. Scroll racks filled some shelves. A huge map of the northern Old World, covered in pins and small flags, draped all of the fourth wall. The northernmost parts of the world showed symbols for cities and mountains and rivers in an area that Felix had never seen shown on any human map, and which he realised must have been long swallowed by the Chaos Wastes. A massive desk in the centre of the study was drowning beneath a sea of letters and scrolls and maps and paperweights.
Behind the desk sat the oldest dwarf Felix had ever seen. His huge, long beard was forked and reached all the way to the floor before being looped back up into his belt. The crown of his head was bald. Wings of snowy white hair framed his face, which was lined with deep furrows of age in the tough leathery skin. The eyes that peered out from behind the thick pince nez glasses twinkled like those of a youth, and at once Felix discerned a family resemblance to Varek.
“Borek Forkbeard, of the line of Grimnar, at your service and your clan’s,” the dwarf said, advancing from behind the desk. Felix saw that he was so bowed as to be almost hunch-backed and walked only with the aid of a stout, iron-shod staff. “Excuse me if I don’t bow. I am not as flexible as I once was.” Felix bowed and introduced himself.
“I must thank you for your aid in the battle last night,” Borek said, “and for saving my nephew.”
Felix was going to say that he had only fought to save himself, but somehow that did not seem very appropriate.
“I only did what any man would under the circumstances,” he managed to force himself to say.
Borek laughed. “I think not, my young friend. Few of Sigmar’s people remember the old debts and the old bonds these days. And few indeed can fight like you do, if my nephew is to be believed.”
“Perhaps he exaggerates.”
“Few dwarfs speak anything but the truth, Herr Jaeger. You are making a serious accusation when you say such a thing.”
“I… I did not mean to say…” Felix stammered, then realised from the look in the old dwarfs eye that he was teasing him. “I simply meant that…”
“Do not worry. I will not mention this to my nephew. Now you must be hungry. Why do you not join the others to eat? After that there are serious matters to be discussed. Very serious matters indeed.”
Breakfast lay spread across the table in the adjoining chamber. Huge ham hocks lay on plates of wrought steel. Monstrous slabs of cheese formed monuments to gluttony. Massive loaves of dwarf waybread, dark and yeasty, made mountain ranges across the middle of the spread. The smell of beer filled the air from the barrel that had already been broached. It came as no surprise to Felix, to see Gotrek and Snorri squatting down by the massive fire, swilling ale and cramming food into their mouths like they had just heard news of an imminent famine.
Varek watched them as if they were about to perform new prodigies of valour at any moment. His leather-bound book lay close at hand just in case he needed to record them. He wore new glasses of a style Felix now realised had been copied from his uncle’s.
Another dwarf was also present, one whom Felix did not recognise and who did not immediately move forward to make his introductions in the dwarfish fashion. He glared at Felix suspiciously, as if expecting him to steal the cutlery. Ignoring his glares, Felix walked up to the table and helped himself to food. It was among the best he had ever tasted, and he wasted no time in saying so.
“Best wash it down with some ale, young Felix,” Snorri suggested. “It tastes even better then.”
“It’s a bit early in the day for that,” Felix said.
“It’s after noon,” Gotrek corrected.
“You’ve slept through two watches, young Felix,” Snorri said.
“A minute wasted is like a copper spent,” grumbled the dwarf Felix did not recognise. He turned to regard him. He saw a dwarf shorter than most, and broader than most too. His beard was long and black; his hair was close cut and parted in the middle. His eyes were keen and piercing. His severe black tunic and britches while obviously well made were old and threadbare. His high boots looked old but well-polished. Metal segs protected the heels from wear and tear. He was portly and there was a fleshiness about his face which reminded Felix of his father and other rich merchants he had known. There was a suggestion to it of large meals eaten in well-appointed guildhalls where serious business was discussed. The dwarfs hands flexed at his belt as if constantly checking to see whether his rather flat purse was still there.
Felix bowed to him. “Felix Jaeger at your service, and your clan’s,” he said.
“Olger Olgersson at yours,” the dwarf said before bowing back. “You wouldn’t be connected with the Jaegers of Altdorf, by any chance would you, young man?”
Felix felt momentarily embarrassed. He was the black sheep of the family after all, and had left the family home under a cloud after killing a man in a duel. He forced himself to meet Olgersson’s gaze calmly and said, “My father owns the house.”
“I have done good business with them in the past. Your father has a good head for business—for a human.”
The near contempt in the dwarfs tone made Felix bristle but he kept calm, reminding himself that he was a stranger here. It would not do simply to take offe
nce in a keep full of touchy dwarfs who may all be this stranger’s kin.
“He’d have to be, if he made any money dealing with you, Olger Goldgrabber,” Gotrek said unexpectedly.
“Olger is a famous miser,” Snorri said cheerfully. “Snorri knows that when he takes a coin from his purse the king’s head blinks.”
The two Slayers cackled uproariously at this ancient joke. Felix wondered how much they had already drunk. Olgersson’s face went red. He looked as if he would like to take offence but did not dare.
Obviously neither Gotrek or Snorri cared about his wealth, his influence or his kin.
“No one ever got rich by spending money,” he said huffily and turned and stalked back into the other room.
“You should be kinder to Herr Olgersson,” Varek said. “He is the one funding this expedition.”
Gotrek sputtered out a mouthful of beer in astonishment. His head swivelled to inspect the young scholar as if he had just claimed that gold grew on trees. “The greatest tightfist in the dwarf kingdom is giving you gold. Tell me more about this!”
“My uncle will, in just a few moments.”
Felix felt a mixture of trepidation and curiosity as they filed into Borek Forkbeard’s study. He was curious to hear what had drawn all these disparate dwarfs to this out-of-the-way place. He was worried by the prospect of where this whole thing might lead. Looking out the window at those mighty industrial structures, recalling the ferocity of the skaven’s attempt to take possession of them, and seeing the huge assemblage of craftsmanship and skill which had been put into place here made it difficult for him to imagine that the dwarfs were not serious about their mysterious purpose. It was all too easy to imagine how Gotrek and himself might be drawn into it.