Dead Winter

Chapter X

Altdorf

Vorhexen, 1111

Rats scurried through the rafters of the old warehouse while snow drifted down through holes in the roof. The bite of winter whistled through gaps in the walls, stirring up the thick layers of dust which lay everywhere.

The building had been shabby and poorly maintained even before its abandonment, owned by a Drakwald baron with a penchant for mercantile pursuits far beyond his finances. Since the ruination of Drakwald and the evanishment of the baron, the warehouse had been left to its own, quietly decaying into the riverfront. Even before the plague, Altdorf’s dispossessed had shunned the place, seeking less dilapidated environs in which to ensconce themselves. Since the onset of the Black Plague, there were too many houses and manors devoid of tenants for anyone to look twice at a crumbling ruin.

Its very ignominy made the warehouse the perfect setting for a midnight rendezvous. Never had the riverfront played host to such an assemblage as now congregated under the tattered tile roof of the old warehouse.

For the best part of an hour, a cross-section of the Empire’s lords and leaders had been discussing questions of loyalty and tyranny, of honour and conscience, of survival and destruction. Captain Erich von Kranzbeuhler, much as he had at that long ago meeting in Prince Sigdan’s castle, maintained a cautious silence, content to listen and observe.

The ghastly execution of Grand Master von Schomberg had backfired upon Emperor Boris and his scheming confederates. Instead of subjugating dissent through terror they had created a martyr, a rallying point for the many enemies of Boris Goldgather and his grasping policies. Despite the plague and the chill of winter, demonstrations against the Emperor had popped up in every quarter of the city. Walls throughout Altdorf had been marked up with the image of the Imperial eagle, a noose wrapped about its neck. An armed mob had even broken into the residence of Lord Ratimir, forcing the minister to flee and seek protection within the walls of the Imperial Palace.

As Erich looked across the desolate warehouse, his spirit thrilled at the great men who had joined their destinies to the cause of justice. The cadaverous Palatine Mihail Kretzulescu of Sylvania standing beside Baron von Klauswitz of Stirland, the animosities of their homelands set aside in this moment of mutual crisis. Baron Thornig of Middenheim and his daughter the Princess Erna. Duke Konrad Aldrech and Count van Sauckelhof, lords of lands reduced to ruins by the politicking and opportunism of their Emperor. Even the diminutive Chief Elder Aldo Broadfellow, representing the halfling dominion of the Moot, was present. The halflings owed their independence to the old emperor, but that debt hadn’t made them blind to the outrages of their benefactor’s son.

Beside the noble lords and dignitaries of distant lands, the Arch-Lector Wolfgang Hartwich was present. With him, the Sigmarite priest had brought several commoners, representatives of the peasant trade guilds and men from Wilhelm Engel’s scattered Bread Marchers. Sentiment against Emperor Boris wasn’t confined to the noble classes, and as Hartwich had stressed, any effort to overthrow the Emperor would need to be a popular revolt, not something seen as being imposed upon the people by a clique of ambitious aristocrats.

‘Then we are all of one accord,’ Prince Sigdan announced, his eyes roving from one face to another. ‘We have decided that Boris Goldgather is unfit to bear the title of emperor. His overthrow is essential to the continued survival of the Empire. We have decided that action must be taken against him and those loyal to him.’

Count van Sauckelhof shifted uneasily, his face growing pale. ‘It must be clear that we will act only if there is no way to constrain the Emperor. If we could force him to accede to our demands in a way that would compel him to relinquish some of his authority…’

‘A tyrant isn’t to be trusted,’ snarled Meisel, one of Engel’s Bread Marchers. His hard gaze bored into van Sauckelhof’s frightened eyes. ‘You don’t appease a snake, you crush its head. If that sits ill with you blue-bloods, then leave the dirty work to those of us without title and position to protect.’

The dienstmann’s harsh words brought cries of protest from several of the noblemen. ‘This is unacceptable!’ growled Baron von Klauswitz. ‘I will support any move to depose the Emperor, but I will not lend my name to regicide!’

‘Your stomach for treason has its limits,’ scoffed Mihail Kretzulescu, clearly siding with Meisel’s position.

Hartwich stepped forwards, waving down the tempers threatening to flare up. ‘Assassination is not being discussed here. It is the preservation of the Empire, not the murder of the Emperor. Boris Hohenbach must be compelled to abdicate, but his person must not be harmed. You may count on the support of the Grand Theogonist, but only if it is understood that the Emperor’s person is inviolate. The Temple of Sigmar cannot be an accomplice to murder.’

‘It seems to me that the temple isn’t doing much at all,’ Duke Konrad complained. ‘You tell us the Grand Theogonist will ratify Prince Sigdan as steward once Boris Goldgather abdicates, but what is the temple willing to do for us now, while we are struggling to make that event a reality?’

Hartwich shook his head sadly. ‘All we can do is pray,’ he answered. ‘If the temple is seen to stand with a conspiracy against the Emperor, the followers of other gods may rally to Boris Hohenbach.’ His eyes darted to Baron Thornig and his daughter. ‘The cult of Ulric harbours resentment against the temple of Sigmar. That resentment might cause them to support Boris if the Grand Theogonist were to be seen as the instigator of his deposing. You must be seen as liberators, not usurpers, if the Empire is to be preserved.’

Baron Thornig’s face wore a scowl, but the Middenheimer conceded the validity of Hartwich’s concern. ‘In Middenland, we hold that the Sigmarite faith is, at best, a beneficent heresy. Many of my countrymen hold even harsher opinions. There is no love of Boris Goldgather in Middenheim, but if Ar-Ulric thinks this uprising is an effort by the Sigmarites to impose a theocracy upon the Empire, he will denounce us. That would force Graf Gunthar to join forces with Boris.’ The ambassador from Middenheim ran his hand through his beard, eyes half-lidded as he contemplated the politics in the City of the White Wolf. ‘We should dispatch a messenger to Graf Gunthar’s court,’ he suggested. ‘The sooner Middenheim can be informed of what we plan, the greater Graf Gunthar’s involvement, the more legitimacy Prince Sigdan will possess as steward.’

Erich stepped forwards, bowing to the assembled lords. ‘Your absence would be noticed, baron,’ he stated. ‘It would be more prudent to send one of my Reiksknecht on this mission. My knights can be trusted with any confidence and will let no obstacle stand in their way.’

‘A sound suggestion,’ Prince Sigdan approved. ‘If I may expand upon it, I say we send messengers not only to Graf Gunthar, but to each of the neighbouring provinces. Count Artur has left Altdorf to return to his own lands.’

‘That could mean either Nuln or Wissenburg,’ Hartwich pointed out. As both Count of Nuln and Grand Count of Wissenland, Artur maintained palaces in both cities.

‘We send a knight to intercept Count Artur in both cities,’ Count van Sauckelhof stated. ‘Wissenland’s support will be vital to keeping the river trade routes open to us once Boris has been deposed. If Count Artur intends to stand by Boris Goldgather, then it is in his power to starve Altdorf.’ Sadness crept into his voice as he added, ‘It will be some time before Marienburg can fulfil its old position as provider.’

‘Knights must also be sent to Averland and Stirland,’ Baron von Klauswitz said. ‘We are no friends of Boris in Wurtbad, and there is no cause for Averheim to love him either.’ He shot a sharp look at Mihail Kretzulescu. ‘We can forward any appeal to Count von Drak if we think his inclusion is necessary.’

The Sylvanian dignitary smiled sourly. ‘On behalf of the voivode, I thank you for your courtesy.’

‘We must not forget Talabecland,’ Duke Konrad said. ‘The grand duke will surely support any move against Goldgather now that the Imperial Army is moving against him.’

‘Why stop there?’ Erich asked. ‘Why not send word to the Reiksmarshal? He is an honourable man, a soldier who understands the difference between a just and an unjust war. If we approach him, he may side with us.’ He could see the dubious looks on the faces of those around him. Defiantly, he returned those stares. ‘There is nothing to be lost in trying,’ he said.

‘And much to be gained,’ Prince Sigdan conceded. ‘Very well, we shall appeal to both the grand duke and the Reiksmarshal. Perhaps the first fruit this conspiracy will bear is the prevention of a useless war.’

‘That alone, your highness, would be enough to justify our cause,’ Hartwich said.

‘This is all well and good, my lords,’ Meisel said, ‘but we need men inside Altdorf. We need soldiers here and now, not away in Middenheim and Nuln. With the Imperial Army away, there will be no better time to strike!’

‘What about the Bread Marchers?’ Erich asked. ‘How many of you can we count on?’

Meisel sighed. ‘Not enough, I fear. We’ve been able to contact most of those who escaped the massacre, over four hundred men. But they’ve been hiding in the worst slums and shacks in Altdorf, constantly on the move to escape Kreyssig’s spies. A lot of them are sick.’ His eyes became like chips of ice. ‘The plague,’ he hissed, almost choking on the word.

‘We don’t need an army,’ Prince Sigdan said. ‘The right men in the right place will serve us better than a thousand swords. What we need is someone close to the Emperor. Someone who can get inside the Palace and inform us first-hand of his plans. There will be a time when it will be right to strike, when even a few men can seize the Emperor.’

‘Then perhaps I can be that man,’ Princess Erna said. The statement brought a grunt of amusement from Duke Konrad.

‘Boris would have to be blind to take you for a man,’ Konrad quipped.

Princess Erna scowled at the Drakwalder’s jest. Before her temper could rise, Baron Thornig came forwards, placing a hand on his daughter’s shoulder.

‘Hear her out,’ he said, his words heavy with regret and shame. ‘There may be a way to slip one of our own into the heart of the enemy camp.’

Erna gripped her father’s hand. Taking a deep breath, knowing that she wouldn’t have the courage to repeat what she had to say, the princess hurried to make her proposal. ‘For some time, Adolf Kreyssig has attempted to court me. He has spared no effort to secure my father’s blessing, from the most vile threats to the most tempting gifts. At any time, my father could pretend to be swayed by Kreyssig’s demands. As the wife of that monster, I could be the eyes and ears of this cause.’ She could see the disgust on the faces of the men listening to her. ‘Please,’ she said, ‘let me do this, let me make this sacrifice. All of you are willing to risk your lives, your names, your very legacies to depose a despot. Is what I risk so much more precious?’

‘Your highness, you cannot allow this?’ protested Erich. ‘You cannot sacrifice this lady’s virtue and honour this way!’

Prince Sigdan shook his head. ‘No,’ he said slowly. ‘The very horror of the idea is what tells me Princess Erna is right. The enemy will never suspect her. She will be privy to confidences we should never be aware of otherwise.’

‘But to ruin a lady’s reputation?’ the knight persisted.

Erna smiled at Erich’s chivalry. ‘When the moment comes, you may avenge me upon my husband,’ she told him. ‘The person of the Emperor may be inviolate, but a scheming creature like Adolf Kreyssig deserves only a nameless grave. Send him there, my dashing knight, and give all of his victims justice.’

Erich’s hand tightened about the hilt of his sword. ‘I will,’ he vowed.

Frost clung to the stone walls of the cellar, twinkling in the glow of Kreyssig’s rushlight as he descended the stairs. An angry squeak from the shadows reprimanded him for leaving the light unshaded. The commander of the Kaiserjaeger grinned at the distempered vocalisation. It was always a good thing to remind his sneaking friends of their place.

‘What have you learned?’ Kreyssig snarled, arresting his descent at the foot of the stairs. He didn’t like being even this close to his subhuman confederates. They were useful, but that didn’t change how disgusting they were.

‘Prince-man meet with other-more traitor-meat,’ a nasally voice hissed from the darkness. Kreyssig could just pick out the scrawny shape with its hunched shoulders and hooded face. Even that much left too vivid an impression upon him. Only once had he gotten a good look at his slinking associates, an incident that continued to haunt him in his nightmares. The Sigmarites were right to burn mutants if such horrors as what he had seen could spring from a collusion of corrupt souls. He promised himself that once these vermin had ceased to be useful to him, he would hunt them down and destroy their lairs.

‘They spread-bring plague-cough,’ the voice said. ‘Make many-more sick-die. Weaken city-place, then make attack-slay!’

Kreyssig nodded as he heard his informant’s statement. Useful spies, these skulking mutants, and they had provided him with the information that had made him the most feared man in Altdorf. There was no one they had failed to dig up dirt on, no secret they had failed to uncover for him. The revelation that Prince Sigdan was moving against Emperor Boris, and that the rebels were behind the plague, was something Kreyssig had long suspected.

‘You can bring proof of this?’ Kreyssig demanded. In the shadows, he could see the mutant’s hooded head bobbing up and down emphatically. ‘Bring it then. Whatever support the prince thinks he can count on will wither and die if he is shown to be the source of the plague.’

‘More-more,’ wheezed the mutant. Kreyssig’s hair stood on end as the creature uttered a titter of ghastly laughter. ‘Saw-scent Sigmar-man meet-seek traitor-meat. Haart-witch, say-called.’

Kreyssig’s smile broadened. Arch-Lector Hartwich conspiring with rebels? It was almost too good to be true. For years he had struggled to find a way to put the temple of Sigmar under his thumb. Evidence of what had happened in Nuln hadn’t seemed enough for what Kreyssig needed, but combined with evidence of a more recent scandal it would be just the lever he needed to bring the Grand Theogonist down to his level.

‘Well done,’ Kreyssig told his spy. ‘Your Emperor thanks you for your service.’

A titter of inhuman laughter sounded from the darkness, then the mutant spy was gone, vanished back into the subterranean depths from whence he came.

Kreyssig turned and ascended the stairs with slow, deliberate steps. It was an effort not to run, to flee back into the clean world of light.

Yes, once these vermin had served their purpose, he was going to take extreme delight exterminating them.

Nuln

Ulriczeit, 1111

Walther leaned against the counter inside the Black Rose, a pleased smile on his face. The tavern was a bedlam of activity, people clustered about the tables, gathered about the bar or simply squeezed into any corner where there was room enough to stand. Every fist was filled with the handle of a tankard. The rat-catcher had it on good authority that Bremer had been forced to send to other taverns in the neighbourhood for more beer and Reikhoch to replace what he’d sold.

It made sense. Nuln was in the grip of plague. There was no denying that fact now. Panic had settled upon the city. There had been a crazed culling of cats and dogs after a rumour started that the plague was being spread by the animals. Walther had lost his two ratters to a mob of terrified peasants, helpless to do anything but watch while the wretches beat his dogs to death — all the while crying out to Shallya to preserve them from the plague. In their fear, none of them bothered to consider that all life, even that of a little dog, was sacred to the goddess of mercy.

The prudent folk of Nuln had taken to barricading themselves inside their homes, hoping that by sequestering themselves they could avoid contact with the disease. Others, without the affluence or temperament to be prudent, had thrown themselves into a frenzy of licentiousness, determined to indulge to excess before the shadow of Morr fell upon them. It was to such grimly exuberant clientele that the Black Rose and a hundred other taverns now catered, each struggling to capture the dragon’s share of the wilfully reckless libertines.

Thanks to Walther’s contribution to the Black Rose’s ambiance, Bremer was taking in the dragon’s share. The rat-catcher looked across the crowd, his eyes lighting upon the oak stand where the giant had been mounted. In a bit of irony, the brute had been stuffed by a tanner from Tanner’s Lane. The tradesman must have possessed a touch of the thespian about him, for he had posed the giant rat in an attitude of such ferocious aggression that the first impulse of all who saw it was to recoil in alarm, ready to defend themselves from the snarling monster.

The rat was well and truly dead, of course. Scattered on the stand about its feet were the bones of its skeleton. The tanner had improvised a wooden frame to support the rat’s skin, using only the creature’s skull when he stuffed it. Two bits of ruddy copper served the thing for eyes, shining sinisterly whenever the light hit them just right.

The effect was a bit spoiled by the crude sign hanging about the rat’s neck. Somehow a rumour had been started that rubbing the monster’s fur was a charm against the plague. In an effort to protect his new attraction, Bremer had placed the sign around its neck. It didn’t do any good. Most of his patrons couldn’t read and those who could, mostly students from the now closed Universitat, ignored it anyway. A few spots on the monster’s hide were starting to look a little thin from the constant attention.

‘I tell you this is too important to simply be relegated to being a freakshow attraction!’

Walther took a slow sip from his beerstein before deigning to continue his conversation with Lord Karl-Joachim Kleinheistkamp. The professor stood at his elbow, his brocaded hat clenched in his white hands, beads of sweat on his wrinkled brow. The rat-catcher savoured the desperate quality in the nobleman’s expression.

‘The Universitat will pay… three crowns for the specimen,’ Kleinheistkamp said, holding up his fingers. ‘Three gold crowns,’ he chuckled.

Walther joined in the professor’s chuckle, clapping the old man on the shoulder. Kleinheistkamp frowned at the overly familiar gesture, but quickly forced a wide grin on his face. ‘Three gold crowns. How many rats would you need to catch to earn that much?’

‘One,’ Walther said, taking another sip from his stein. He pointed across the tavern to the crowd circling about the stuffed giant. ‘That one,’ he elaborated. ‘That beauty is bringing them to the Black Rose in droves and I get half of the profit. Now, if I had a similar arrangement with the Universitat — whenever Count Artur decides it is safe to reopen, that is — then perhaps we might come to terms. You are going to charge admission, aren’t you?’

All geniality faded from the professor’s face. ‘I want that specimen for scientific study, not for a bunch of peasants to gawp at!’

Walther shrugged his shoulders. ‘Too bad. It looks like I’ll make more leaving my monster right where it is.’ A hard edge crept into his eyes as he watched Kleinheistkamp angrily turn away and order a fresh drink from Bremer. ‘Be careful, your lordship,’ Walther said. ‘I’m afraid you’re paying for the drinks this time.’

Laughing at the baleful look Kleinheistkamp directed at him, Walther pushed his way through the crowd. Maybe it was the professor’s ire, but suddenly it felt a bit cold inside the tavern. The rat-catcher was eager for the warmth of the fire. As he walked through the busy room, he found himself cheered and toasted by the patrons. Perhaps not quite as renowned as the monster he had killed, Walther had nevertheless become something of a local hero. For the rat-catcher, accustomed to being shunned even by the lowest dregs of society, all of the attention was more exhilarating than anything Bremer kept behind the bar.

The patrons gathered about the Black Rose’s hearth cleared a spot for Walther. A big, broad-shouldered man with a warrior’s bearing and a distinct Reikland accent even offered the rat-catcher a drink. Politely declining, the local hero nestled close to the fire and tried to warm the chill from his hands.

A different chill crept into his body when he noticed the object nailed to the back of the hearth, almost hidden by the roaring flames. The jawbone of a hog, its tusk black with soot. Folk medicine from the days of the Old Faith, a talisman against evil spirits and disease. There were many hearths decorated with such talismans these days, but the one in the Black Rose was there for a specific reason. There was a specific sickness the talisman was intended to alleviate.

Walther stared into the flames, his thoughts turning away from the busy crowd, from the congratulatory cheers. He was thinking of the little room down in the tavern’s cellar and the man entombed there. The rat-catcher looked away from the fire, wondering if the Reiklander was still around and if the offer of a drink was still open. Instead he found himself looking into Zena’s pretty face. His pleasure at seeing her looking for him quickly faded. There was a fearful look in her eye and a tightness about her mouth. Over the last few days the chores of the tavern had increasingly been taken up by the other serving girls. Zena’s attentions had increasingly been needed elsewhere.

Walther didn’t speak, simply grabbing Zena’s elbow and guiding her towards the kitchen. His retreat with the shapely serving wench brought jovial catcalls and lewd gestures from some in the crowd, but they ignored the rude humour of Bremer’s patrons. Some things were too serious to bear distraction.

‘Why did you leave him?’ Walther demanded once they were in the kitchen. Zena cast a worried look at the cook and the kitchen boys. Catching the suggestion, Walther drew her into the larder and lowered his voice. ‘You should be with Hugo,’ he accused.

Zena winced at the anger in his voice. ‘I can’t do anything for him,’ she said. ‘What’s wrong with him?’

‘It’s not that,’ Walther growled. ‘Ranald’s purse! Do you think I’d ask you to look out for him if it was that! It’s just a fever, an infection from that damn rat bite!’

Zena placed her hand against Walther’s neck, drawing his face close to her own. ‘It’s more than that,’ she whispered. ‘He’s getting worse. It’s more than fever now.’

Walther pulled away, uttering a pained moan. His fist lashed out against a sack of potatoes, disturbing an ugly grey rat that was hiding in a cranny behind the bag. Squeaking, it scurried off to find a new refuge.

‘He saved my life,’ Walther said. ‘When that thing turned on me, I couldn’t move. I froze. I just stood there. If Hugo hadn’t attacked it…’

The woman’s arms closed around him, hugging him to her body. ‘You’ve done all you could for him. If he has the plague, there’s nothing you can do.’

‘I can get him a doktor. I have enough gold for that, even with Bremer cheating me on my cut. I’ll get him a doktor.’

‘And you think Bremer will sit still for that?’ Zena scoffed. She jabbed her thumb at the door. The murmur of the tavern crowd was just audible. ‘You think he’ll risk losing the business you’ve brought him? How many of those people would be here if there was a red cross daubed on the door? They might scoff at death, but they won’t go courting it!’

‘Hugo saved my life! I won’t abandon him! I’ll find a way!’ Walther reached beneath the fancy new tunic he’d bought, retrieving a fat purse stuffed with coins. ‘Take these. Find a physician who will be discreet. We can do this without Bremer getting wise.’

Zena shook her head, but couldn’t refuse the purse when it was pressed into her hands. Walther leaned down and kissed her. ‘If you haggle, maybe there will be enough left for a new dress.’ The remark brought a smile to her lips. Her eyes looked up into his. For a moment, all worry and fear was forgotten. There was only hope and love.

A harsh knock at the door broke the moment. Walther and Zena pulled apart as Bremer’s frantic voice sounded from the kitchen.

‘Schill!’ the taverneer cried out. ‘I need you! There’s an idiot out here saying your rat is fake!’

Walther pressed Zena’s hand. ‘Take the money. Get Hugo a doktor.’ He didn’t wait for her to answer, instead turning and opening the door. A flush-faced Bremer stood just outside.

‘You need to stop this idiot, or our agreement is off!’ Bremer threatened.

Walther glared at his partner. ‘Hans and Schultz are the roughs!’ he snarled back at the taverneer, naming the two bouncers who had been hired on when business increased. ‘Have them kick the fool into the street!’

‘Look, I don’t have time to argue or wait for you to finish fondling the help,’ Bremer said, peering over Walther’s shoulder at Zena. ‘You either get this idiot to shut up, or we’re through!’

Walther stared hard at Bremer. Something was wrong here, he could feel it in his bones. ‘Why can’t Hans and Schultz handle this?’ he asked, menace in his voice.

Bremer backed away, all the bluster draining out of him. ‘What are we going to do?’ he wailed. ‘That idiot is going to drive away business!’

Walther stalked past the taverneer, his anger rising with each step. ‘If his argument is that that thing I killed isn’t real, then I’m going to make him eat his words! Whoever he is!’

The rat-catcher brushed past the cook and kitchen boys who were peering into the tavern from the cracked door. The patrons had fallen silent, all conversation stifled by the agitated cries of a single shrill voice. Walther could see the crowd backing away from the oak stand. Suddenly no one wanted to be close to the dead giant or rub its charmed fur.

‘This abomination is a cruel fraud!’ the voice wailed. ‘A hoax to gull fools into debauchery and licentiousness! You people should be ashamed of yourselves to be tricked away from your homes by such an absurd jest!’

Walther’s anger swelled as he heard the sceptical words and sneering tone, all the humiliation of his appeals to the scholars returning to him. He reached behind the bar, retrieving one of the cudgels Bremer kept there to cosh drunks. The feel of the heavy club brought a vicious leer to his face. The patrons around him must have noted his demeanour, clearing a path for him without a word leaving his lips.

‘Who says the giant is fake?’ Walther snarled as he emerged from the crowd. There was a man pacing before the mounted monster. At Walther’s challenge he turned. The rat-catcher groaned when he saw who the giant’s detractor was. Captain Hoffmann Fellgiebel of the Freiberg Hundertschaft, that element of Nuln’s city watch charged with policing the district. Suddenly it was very clear to Walther why the two bouncers wanted nothing to do with this particular trouble-maker.

Fellgiebel looked the surprised rat-catcher over. The captain’s face was lean and hungry, his eyes close-set and with all the charm of a snake about them. One of his gloved hands caressed the pommel of the sword sheathed at his side, the other gripped a bundle of fresh posies, a safeguard against the plague. He shook the flowers in Walther’s direction.

‘You must be the charlatan himself,’ Fellgiebel said, his voice like an audible sneer. ‘I charge you to confess to these people the imposture you have committed so that they might return to their homes and turn their minds to more righteous pursuits.’ The captain’s eyes gleamed with malice. ‘You will accommodate me,’ he stated. A pair of men wearing leather jacks and the dagged black and yellow sleeves of the Hundertschaft came stalking forwards from their posts at either side of the tavern’s entrance. Each of the men had a fat-bladed halberd in his hand.

The rat-catcher’s anger faltered for a moment. Then the thought of how close he had come to dying, of Hugo and the man’s suffering, poured fire back into his veins. Standing his ground, Walther glared back at Fellgiebel. ‘I’m the man who killed that monster and had it stuffed, if that’s what you mean.’

Fellgiebel blinked in shock. In this place, in this district, his reputation did not fail to precede him. Nobody stood up to him. They knew what would happen if they did. The captain’s eyes became even colder and more reptilian. ‘I think I heard you say it’s fake.’ He turned and cast his gaze across the crowd. ‘I think they heard you say so too. Why don’t you say it again so everybody can agree?’ His thin lips pursed into a menacing grin. ‘Say it while you still can.’

The two watchmen came marching towards Walther, their weapons lowered. A single gesture from Fellgiebel and they would use those weapons. Not to kill, Fellgiebel wasn’t so crude as that. All of his men were quite good at using their halberds to maim and cripple. One living wreck of a man was worth more as an example to others than a dozen graves in the garden of Morr.

‘He said it’s real and he killed it.’ The words were spoken with a gruff Reikland accent. Walther was no less surprised than Fellgiebel when a big blond-haired man stepped out from the crowd and slapped down the halberd of the nearest watchman with the bared sword in his hand.

‘That was a mistake!’ Fellgiebel hissed. The captain started to pull his own sword when the sound of steel scraping against leather sounded from all across the room. The big Reiklander, it seemed, had quite a few friends.

‘Was it?’ the Reiklander demanded. ‘I think it is you who’ve made the mistake. That rat looks pretty real to me.’

‘Stitched together from scraps,’ Fellgiebel snarled back. ‘I can get witnesses who will testify to that.’

Walther’s anger swelled as he heard the captain speak. He could well imagine how Fellgiebel would get such testimony. The Reiklander clearly didn’t have any idea what he was getting himself into, but Walther was going to put a stop to it. This was his fight and he wasn’t going to let anyone fight it for him.

‘Fake!’ Walther shouted, slapping the cudgel hard against his palm. ‘Stitched together from scraps!’ He marched past Fellgiebel and to the oak stand. His arm trembling with fury, he raised the cudgel and brought it slamming down against the stuffed monster. The verminous fur tore beneath the blow, the bits of copper flying loose and clattering across the tavern. The bleached skull of the rodent crashed to the floor, bouncing once and landing so its fanged grin faced the watch captain.

‘Tell me who made that for me!’ Walther yelled.

Fellgiebel stared at the rat skull, colour rushing into his cheeks. Angrily, he turned away, whipping his cloak over his shoulder. As he stalked towards the door, a chorus of jeers and taunts followed him out.

Walther frowned as he considered the damage his anger had caused. The damage to the monster was one thing, but the humiliation of a man like Fellgiebel was another.

‘It does me good to see that cur walk out of here with his tail between his legs.’ The speaker was the big Reiklander. There was a beerstein in his hand. Walther was grateful when the man offered it to him.

‘You shouldn’t have interfered,’ Walther said. ‘It was my fight.’

‘You looked like you needed the help,’ the Reiklander said. His jaw clenched tight as he stared after the departed Fellgiebel. ‘Besides, I didn’t like his arrogant tone. It reminded me too much of the Kaiserjaeger back in Altdorf.’

Walther nodded his understanding. Even in Nuln, news of the Bread Massacre and the Kaiserjaeger’s role in the slaughter had spread. The rat-catcher looked at the Reiklander with a new appreciation. Maybe he had been one of Engel’s Marchers. He might even know Meisel. He certainly had the look of a dienstmann about him.

‘Walther Schill,’ the rat-catcher introduced himself, laughing as he watched Bremer come racing from the kitchen to scoop up the rat skull before anyone could step on it.

‘Heinrich Aldinger,’ the Reiklander said, extending his hand. The smile faded from his face as he turned his eyes once more to the door. ‘I worry that perhaps I did you no favour just now. That seems like the sort of man who will bear a grudge.’ He sighed, a note of bitterness in his voice. ‘That is the trouble with being a soldier. You are taught to fight and ignore the consequences.’

‘Let me worry about the consequences,’ Walther said, trying to force some levity into his tone. It wouldn’t do to upset Aldinger. The man had meant well and, as the rat-catcher had said before, Fellgiebel was his fight.

However uneven that fight might be.

Skavenblight

Ulriczeit, 1111

Poxmaster Puskab Foulfur stared down at the quivering ratman, indifferent to the creature’s agonies. Using a long brass rod, the plague priest poked and prodded the skinny skaven, lifting his arms and turning his head. A satisfied hiss rushed past Puskab’s rotten fangs. Ugly black buboes clustered about the skavenslave’s throat and armpits, syrupy treacle oozing from the swollen sores. The slave’s breathing came in ragged, uneven gasps, flecks of blood staining his nostrils and whiskers.

‘Good-good,’ the plague priest pronounced. He withdrew the brass rod he had thrust into the slave’s cage. Stalking over to one of the flaming braziers which flanked the entrance to the laboratory, Puskab thrust the end of the instrument into the fire. He held it there until the tip glowed and any trace of disease had been purged.

‘The Horned One favours me,’ Puskab declared. ‘New-better fleas. Carry-bring plague fast-quick!’

The skaven assisting Puskab in his diabolical labours glanced anxiously at one another. Somewhere beneath their protective leather cloaks, glands tightened and the reek of fear-musk oozed into the air. They had been warned by Wormlord Blight what their fate would be if Puskab’s experiments were to fail, but now they wondered if perhaps success wasn’t even more terrifying.

Puskab scowled at the frightened ratmen. Unbelievers! Hedonistic little heathens! To be infected by one of the Horned One’s holy plagues was a fate to be embraced joyously! Only in the fevered fires of disease could the soul of a skaven be judged! The inferior were destroyed, the superior emerged stronger than before, endowed with something of the Horned One’s divinity and ferocity.

The plague priest stalked past his trembling assistants, peering at them with his rheumy eyes. Soon there would be only two kinds of ratmen in the world. The true believers and their slaves. Clan Verms would help to bring about that change. Willing or unwilling, they were now instruments of the Horned One’s design.

The clatter of armour warned Puskab that he had guests. He turned away from the tables and faced the entrance to his laboratory. A pack of burly warriors marched through the doorway. Behind them the twisted shape of Blight Tenscratch lounged upon the platform of a velvet-draped palanquin. Breeder-scent wafted from the curtains and the smell of goat-cheese and blood-wine was strong. From the smells lingering about the Wormlord and the vicious expression in his posture, it seemed some pleasant interlude had been disturbed.

‘I am told your work has succeeded,’ Blight snarled, baring his fangs.

Puskab gestured towards the cage where the infected slave struggled to suck breath into his lungs. ‘Early-soon, but look-smell good-good,’ he explained.

Blight’s malformed body contorted at a grotesque angle, his claws wrapped about a lead goblet. Furiously, he flung the cup at the cage, spattering the slave inside with blood-wine. ‘Not-not this test-meat!’ the Wormlord snapped. ‘What about the others? The ones outside?’

Puskab’s heavy frame wilted under Blight’s enraged glare, assuming a posture that was both abased and alarmed. ‘None-none,’ he squeaked, pointing again at the cage. ‘This one first! Swear-tell by Horned One!’

‘Bring the traitor-meat!’ Blight growled. Before Puskab could act the armoured ratmen pounced upon him, seizing his flabby arms in their powerful claws. The plague priest’s assistants watched in excitement as their fearsome master was dragged away into the darkness of the Hive.

Puskab was carried to a vast cavern far beneath Skavenblight. The air was moist and musty, stinking of mildew and pond scum. His keen ears could hear water dripping from the roof overhead, each drop landing with a soft plink upon some loamy surface. The cavern was dark, its blackness so perfect that even the eyes of a skaven couldn’t penetrate it. A snarl from Blight caused a green glow to gradually form. Puskab could hear the crackle of electricity and the laboured breath of panting ratmen. The first thing he saw was the bronze pillar and crystal cage of a Clan Skryre warp-lamp, a nest of cables leading back to an enormous treadmill.

The irony of Clan Verms employing one of Clan Skryre’s warpstone-powered lamps wasn’t lost on Puskab. The clan stood to lose a fortune in the trade of worm-oil should use of warp-lamps become widespread. Verms spared no opportunity to criticise the upstart warlock-engineers and argue against the safety of their erratic inventions. To find them using one of the very devices they were so vehement in denigrating brought an uncontrolled bark of laughter rushing past his fangs.

‘Blind-worms not like smell-scent of worm-oil,’ Blight explained, his face sheepish, his tone embarrassed. His lips pulled back in a vicious grin as he remembered who he was talking to and why. Imperiously, the Wormlord pointed across the cavern.

The floor of the cavern was, as Puskab had imagined, covered in a loamy surface, a mass of moss floating upon a great pool of foetid water. He could see things slithering through the sludge, just beneath the surface. Scrawny skavenslaves were wading through the muck, chasing after the things swimming around them. Sometimes they would dive into the morass to emerge with a writhing mass of slimy white flesh clenched in their paws.

Puskab knew the snake-like things to be blind-worms, an observation validated when he saw the slaves drag their catch to a floating workstation where a brawny brown overseer wrestled the flailing worms into a suspended harness. Other slaves equipped with wicked metal probes crawled under the hanging worms to tease milk from the soft tissues between each segment of the worm’s body. The stinking ooze was collected in a motley assortment of buckets and bowls.

The plague priest had only a few moments to observe the procedure. His attention was forcibly diverted when Blight’s guards shoved him into the pool. Puskab sank to his waist in the muck, thrashing about wildly until he appreciated the fact he couldn’t sink any deeper.

‘Explain,’ Blight growled.

Ahead of him, floating some distance from the platform, was a pair of bodies. They were skaven, their lean frames still draped in the tatters of leather cloaks. Unmistakably, they had been Puskab’s assistants. The way they had died was also unmistakable. Ugly black buboes clustered about their throats.

Puskab took a long look at the corpses, then rounded upon Blight, pointing a quivering claw at him. ‘Your work-rats!’ he coughed, spitting a blob of phlegm into the pool. ‘Spy-meat! Traitor-meat! Listen-steal for enemies!’

Blight scratched at his whiskers, surprised by the violence and rage he saw on display. The plague priest was playing the part of injured party with impressive gusto. Enough so that the Wormlord waved aside his guards, intending to hear more before he had them hack Puskab to bloody giblets.

‘Who would dare sneak into the Hive?’ Blight asked.

‘Eshin,’ Puskab answered. The assassins were always the obvious choice when it came to infiltrators and spies. But perhaps they were just too obvious. The plague priest bared his fangs as he mentioned another possibility. ‘Skully-sneaks,’ he said.

Blight’s ears curled back against his skull, his tail lashing the snouts of the slaves bearing his palanquin. A low hiss of hate rasped across his fangs. The murderlings of Clan Skully weren’t so skilled as the killers of Clan Eshin, but they were close allies of Clan Moulder’s beastlords. Of all the other clans, there was particular enmity between Verms and Moulder. The two clans both prided themselves on their ability to breed new and exotic creatures to serve the Under-Empire, but where the power of Verms was beginning to wane, that of Moulder was in the ascension.

‘Spy-meat try to filch-steal plague-fleas,’ Puskab explained. ‘Not know-think that extra fleas crawl-hop into fur. Kill traitor-meat quick-quick!’ The plague priest’s corpulent body shuddered with a titter of laughter.

Blight’s head bobbed from side to side as he considered Puskab’s theory. It did fit all of the facts, but what decided him was that Puskab himself had remained in the Hive, well within the Wormlord’s reach. If the Poxmaster were up to something, surely he wouldn’t be so foolhardy as to linger around.

Still, it wouldn’t do to let the plague priest grow too secure in his mind. ‘Maybe steal-take for Moulder-maggots,’ Blight mused. ‘Maybe they spy for Nurglitch. Look-fetch Puskab back to the Pestilent Monastery!’ A sadistic grin split Blight’s face as he saw terror flash along Puskab’s spine. The plague priest wasn’t the only one who could think up disturbing theories.

‘You need my protection,’ Blight reminded Puskab. ‘Nurglitch kill-slay quick-quick if you leave the Hive!’

Puskab bowed his horned head, the antlers brushing across the scummy surface of the pool. He turned and pointed a claw at the floating bodies. ‘Stash-hide plague-dead,’ he cautioned. ‘Other spy-meat must not know-find!’

‘Let them know,’ Blight sneered. ‘Soon Clan Verms will have the ultimate weapon thanks to you.’ He clenched his claw into a fist, shaking it at the dark ceiling. ‘Soon-soon all skaven grovel before Blight Tenscratch!’

‘Or all-all attack-fight,’ Puskab said. ‘Plague-fear great-much. Keep-hide secret until ready-strong.’

Blight’s eyes narrowed with cunning. The loathsome plague priest was right, it might be disastrous to let the other clans know what Verms was doing too soon. If the other clans rose up before Verms had enough of the bacillus and enough fleas to carry it…

‘Fetch-burn!’ Blight snapped at his guards, pointing his claw at the floating bodies. When they hesitated, he leaned out from behind the curtains of his palanquin, his voice a low whisper. ‘Fetch-burn, or I’ll burn you!’

The threat sent his guards splashing into the pool, stumbling over each other in their haste to reach the bodies.

Puskab watched them wade out, a sly glimmer in the depths of his yellow eyes.