Dead Winter

Chapter IV

Nuln

Kaldezeit, 1111

Despite the thick wool coat he wore, Walther Schill found himself shivering as he walked along Fox Street on his way to the Black Rose. He’d be thankful for a good warm fire and a nice pot of ale, anything to drive the cold from his bones.

Winter had descended upon Nuln with the fury of an invading army. Wissenland was infamous throughout the Empire for its unforgiving winters, but this one was announcing itself with all the savagery of the White Wolf. Frost coated every brick and stone, the streets were a slush of snow and ice, dagger-like icicles dangled from every eave and cornice. The wind swirled between the buildings like a slinking predator, withering the faces of the unprotected with blasts of frozen malignance.

How different from the sewers, Walther thought. It was easy to forget it was winter down there in the hot, humid dark. Perhaps it was that very fact which had caused the numbers of rats to swell. Perhaps it was the cold that had forced the vermin below, seeking shelter in the damp warmth of the dwarf-built tunnels. Whatever the cause, their numbers had increased to such a state that Walther had purchased three ratters and been compelled to take on an apprentice. Hugo Brecht wasn’t the most likely lad, but there was a natural boldness to him that made up for his lack of experience.

Walther stifled a sniffle as he strode past a chandler’s shop and passed a huddle of ragged beggars. He closed his ears to their piteous pleas for alms. It was something that was becoming easier to do with each passing day.

Nuln was almost like a city besieged. Rumours of plague in Stirland had proven out and all commerce with the province had been suspended. Count Artur had tried to make up the loss in trade by making new compacts with noblemen in Reikland and Talabecland, but these overtures had yet to bring food into the city. Wissenland and Solland, provinces given primarily to producing wine and wool, could offer little in the way of supplies no matter the price. It was joked grimly that when the burghers agreed to pay a lamb’s weight in gold, the Wissenlanders might agree to send mutton instead of wool.

The threat of famine was becoming real enough that the Assembly had increased the bounty on rats, offering three pennies a tail. The storehouses and granaries were too important to suffer the menace of vermin burrowing their way inside and despoiling the stores. For a population faced with the possibility of rampant sickness, starvation was a complication it could not afford to entertain.

The plague. Walther shuddered at the very thought. He’d been in the Black Rose one night when a sailor had described its effects. His ship had been docked in Mordheim when a Sylvanian merchant had been discovered with the disease. The man had looked scarcely human, his body blotched with ugly black sores that dripped filth with every breath he took. The city watch had quarantined the merchant’s house and the entire block around it. The sailor had been lucky to slip away before the cordon was closed.

The Black Plague they were calling it. Spread by evil vapours, some said, while others claimed the hex-magic of witches was responsible. Whatever the cause, one thing could be agreed upon. Wherever the disease established itself people died. Not one or two, but by the bushel. The pyres outside the walls of Wurtbad, it was said, could be seen days before a ship came within the harbour.

The first incidences of disease had appeared in Nuln over the last few weeks despite the embargo against Stirland. Entire households in Freiberg and Handelbezirk had been placed under quarantine and the priests of Morr had been commanded to report any plague deaths to the Assembly. Mobs of militiamen, often without official sanction, prowled the streets looking for anyone who might be hiding symptoms of the disease.

Commotion in the neighbouring street drew Walther’s attention away from his fears about the future. Peering down an alleyway into Tanner’s Lane, he could see many people running along the street, their passing marked by the glow of rushlights and oil lamps.

‘Something’s going on over there,’ Hugo remarked, a factual if not particularly insightful observation. He shifted the bag of dead rats slung over his shoulder and stared his mentor in the eye. ‘Should we go see what that’s about?’

Walther deliberated for a moment. Rumours and stories were easy enough to come by, but this was a chance to see for himself what was happening. A sensible man could only trust half of what he heard, and less than that if his source was a sailor. But what he saw with his own eyes — that was different. That he could trust.

‘Let’s go,’ the rat-catcher decided, checking to see that the cowhide pouch where he put the tails of his quarry was secure. People were becoming desperate enough to steal just about anything, and from just about anyone.

The two men hurried down the alley, the terriers trotting along beside them. Once they were in Tanner’s Lane, Walther could see that a large crowd had gathered about one of the street’s many tanneries. Even from a distance, the angry murmur of the crowd had an ugly and murderous quality about it.

‘Quick,’ Walther hissed under his breath, breaking into a run. The crowd was showing every sign of degenerating into a mob. Before that happened, he wanted to find out why. Racing ahead of Hugo, who had managed to trip over one of the terriers, Walther was in time to see a body being carried from the tannery by several men in the leather aprons of tanners. Like the pallbearers, the body lying upon an improvised litter of uncured horsehide was garbed in a long leather apron and carried the pungent stink of a tanner. The neck of the corpse was twisted and savaged, a great mess of torn skin and bloodied flesh.

‘It was them that did it,’ a voice from the mob snarled.

‘They cut old Erwin’s throat,’ growled another.

Other angry shouts rose from the mob. Some of the men attacked the little fence outside the tannery, pulling out wooden stakes to employ as makeshift cudgels. Others pried stones from the street, brandishing them in their fists as though wielding Count Artur’s Runefang.

‘They did it!’ a nameless voice cried out. ‘They murdered Erwin because he was well and they weren’t!’

‘Sick in flesh, sick in soul!’ cried out another, and the shout was taken up by others in the mob. Yelling and screaming, the crowd drifted away from the tannery, marching down the lane towards a little stone house with a red cross marked upon the door.

Walther knelt beside the now forgotten corpse, the dead man in whose name the mob had abandoned itself to violence. He folded the cold hands across the body’s breast, then leaned forwards and examined the neck.

‘They’re crazy!’ Hugo exclaimed, joining Walther by the body. ‘They’ll kill somebody!’ he added, gesturing with his pole at the amok mob.

‘Right as usual,’ Walther said, peering intently at the gashes in the tanner’s throat.

‘Aren’t we going to try to stop them?’ Hugo asked.

Walther gave his apprentice a piercing stare. ‘They won’t listen to reason. Not now. When faced by a mob like that, you have three choices. Become part of it, be a victim of it, or stay the hell out of the way.’

Hugo turned his head, watching as the mob threw torches onto the roof of the house. ‘Maybe… maybe they really did kill this man,’ he tried to convince himself. ‘Maybe what they’re doing is right.’

‘They’re murderers,’ Walther told him. He pointed his thumb at the tanner’s throat. ‘This wasn’t cut. It was bitten. Gnawed.’

Hugo stared in shock at the body, unable to believe what he’d heard. ‘Bitten? We’re in the middle of Nuln! What kind of animal would be able to do this in the middle of the city and sneak away?’

The rat-catcher didn’t answer him. He was staring instead at the three little black dogs. Each of the ratters was trembling, their fierce little hearts filled with a conflicting mix of eagerness and fear. Their ears were flat against their heads, their bodies tense, poised for the attack. Despite the heavy odours of the tannery, the dogs had caught the scent of the man’s killer. What was more, they recognised it.

Walther rose to his feet and whistled for the dogs. Despite the evidence of his eyes, he wasn’t ready to believe. It was insane to even consider such a thing. If he was right, then Erwin had been killed by a rat, his throat gnawed to bits by the chiselled fangs of an enormous rodent, a monster the size of a full grown sheep! He wasn’t ready to permit the existence of such a horror!

Yet, as he walked away from the tannery, as he turned his back on the little stone house engulfed in flames, the rat-catcher’s mind mulled over what such a nightmarish creature could mean to him.

There was a lot of money to be made catching normal rats. How much more might there be in hunting down a giant?

Middenheim

Kaldezeit, 1111

Middenheim was unique among the city-states of the Empire, rising high above the forests and meadows of Middenland. The entire city was built upon the flattened stump of rock the dwarfs called Grazhyakh Grungni — Grungni’s Tower. Men called it the Fauschlag and the Ulricsberg, believing that once it had been a great mountain sacred to the god Taal. God of the wild places, Taal governed nature with his wife Rhya and a congress made up of all the animals. Because of the creature’s craft and guile, Taal expelled the wolf from this congress, an act which incensed Ulric. To bring peace between the gods, Taal gave his sacred mountain to his brother. In a fit of rage, Ulric struck the top of the mountain with his axe, shattering it and leaving the flattened stump behind.

The dwarfs had helped the ancient Teutogen tribes to settle upon the flattened peak, providing the humans with a natural fortress unrivalled in all the Empire. Over the centuries, four great causeways were built, rising from the plains below to converge upon Middenheim from each direction. Mighty walls were erected about the perimeter of the stump, forming an impregnable barrier against any enemy. For over a thousand years, Middenheim had stood inviolate, a bastion for humanity in the wild northlands.

Prince Mandred toured the battlements of the Ulricsberg, feeling the brisk mountain wind whip through his fur cloak. He often walked the battlements, enjoying the view the walls afforded. He could look out across the sprawl of Middenland, picking out the keeps and villages scattered across his father’s forested realm. Early in the morning, the mist obscured everything, making it seem as though the city was adrift upon a sea of cloud. Then would come that magical moment when the rising sun burned away the fog and the realm suddenly stood revealed before his eyes.

Normally, Mandred found that moment the most enchanting vision in the world, but today the sight was blemished, corrupted by feelings of guilt and shame. As the fog burned away, he could see the squalid cluster of tents and shacks sprawled at the base of the Ulricsberg between the northern and eastern causeways. Ar-Ulric’s prediction that the plague would spread had been borne out. Thousands of refugees had abandoned their homes, fleeing before the approach of the dreaded Black Plague. From places as far apart as Solland and Nordland they came, hoping to escape the creeping contagion. Some came because of the perceived strength and invulnerability of the Ulricsberg, many more came because Middenheim was the holy city of Ulric and they hoped to gain their god’s protection by being close to his great temple and the Sacred Flame.

Hope had drawn these people here, but that hope had been betrayed by Graf Gunthar. Mandred felt a cold rage building inside him every time he thought about his father’s cruel decree. There was enough room atop the Ulricsberg to shelter the refugees. The springs deep within the mountain provided Middenheim with more than enough water. True, food would be a problem, but through careful rationing that obstacle could be overcome. Many of the noblemen could do with skipping a few meals.

It galled Mandred to think of his father as such a callous tyrant. Even from the height of the city walls, the squalor and misery of the shantytown was obvious. The refugees had been condemned to a slow and shameful death, a death of neglect and starvation. The toll once the snows came would be hideous.

Mandred’s jaw tightened. He had reached a decision. Turning upon his heel, he called for his bodyguard, a hulking bald-headed knight named Franz. The boisterous dienstmann was the prince’s constant companion; ostensibly his protector, he seldom had the stamina to deny Mandred’s impetuous decisions. Graf Gunthar had often reprimanded the knight, decrying him as the prince’s accomplice rather than his guardian.

‘Fetch our horses,’ Mandred told the knight. ‘I’m going for a ride.’

An uneasy expression came across Franz’s face. He could see the direction of the prince’s gaze when Mandred had been looking down from the battlements. ‘Surely you’re not going to Warrenburg, your grace.’

Anger flashed in the boy’s eyes. ‘What did you call the refugee camp?’ he demanded.

The hulking Franz looked away, his face darkening with embarrassment. ‘The soldiers call it “Warrenburg”, your grace. Because it’s all confused and disordered. Like a rabbit warren.’

‘These people have suffered enough,’ Mandred said. ‘I don’t think their dignity needs to be insulted any more than it already has.’

‘Yes, your grace,’ Franz hastily agreed, clicking his heels together in stiff, soldierly fashion. ‘But I must ask why your grace wishes to go down there. It isn’t the sort of thing a prince should be doing.’

‘Those people came here looking for help,’ Mandred told the knight. ‘Now they have been betrayed and abandoned. Someone has to let them know they haven’t been forgotten, that not everyone up here is blind to their suffering.’

‘His highness won’t be happy, your grace,’ Franz said.

‘You let me worry about the Graf,’ Mandred said. ‘Just have the horses ready.’

Mandred felt proud as he rode towards the East Gate, proud to defy the unjust position adopted by his father, proud to be standing up for the dignity of his fellow man. There was a time, he knew, when Graf Gunthar would have been proud too. He could still remember the day when his father had stripped a despotic raugraf of his lands and title for the crime of abusing his peasants. The Graf had explained his actions to his son, observing that no matter how high a man’s station, he had to remember that he was still a man and answerable to the gods for his actions. The most noble house could make itself baser than the lowest virgater by its own deeds.

How base, then, had the Graf made his own house by abandoning the refugees? How much greater was his crime than that of the cruel raugraf?

Mandred would set things right. As much as it was within his power, he would atone for his father’s cruelty. But first he had to see for himself first-hand the situation in the refugee camp. Perhaps if he reported to his father the way things stood, he could make the Graf appreciate that these were people, not some faceless complication to be dismissed with a wave of his hand.

Franz was visibly uneasy as they rode through the market district towards the massive gatehouse which opened onto the eastern causeway. The bald knight kept looking over his shoulder, staring off in the direction of the Middenplatz and the Graf’s palace. Mandred felt a twinge of sympathy for his bodyguard. Franz had always been a loyal retainer, devoted to Mandred but obedient to the Graf. Never before had the prince placed him in a position where he had to choose between his loyalties. It made him happy to know Franz had sided with him.

The prince saluted the guards stationed at the gate. ‘Raise the portcullis,’ he called down to them.

The soldiers looked nervously at one another. The sergeant in command of the gate advanced towards Mandred’s horse. ‘Your grace, his highness the Graf has ordered that no one is to leave the city.’

‘That order doesn’t apply to me,’ Mandred said, adopting his most imperious tone, a tone of such arrogance that it brooked no defiance. Every peasant was born to obey such a voice, to defer to the superiority of their noble lords. The sergeant was no exception. Turning back to his men, he started to give the order to raise the gate.

What stopped him was the sound of galloping horses. Through the cobbled streets of the market district, a squadron of cavalry came thundering towards the gate. The snowy wolf-pelts and crimson armour the knights wore marked them as White Wolves. At their head, his dark blue robe fluttering about him, rode Graf Gunthar himself.

The sergeant saluted as the cavalry drew rein before the gate, but he went ignored by the Graf. His face crimson with anger, the Graf walked his horse between Mandred and the gate. ‘What do you think you are doing?’ Graf Gunthar snarled.

For an instant, Mandred cowered before his father’s wrath. Then the thought that right was on his side put steel back into his spine. The prince stared defiantly into his father’s eyes. ‘I’m doing what you should have done,’ he said. ‘I’m going down there and helping the refugees.’

Mandred wasn’t sure what kind of response he expected, but it wasn’t the one he got. Graf Gunthar’s face went white, his eyes shined with horror. Before Mandred could react, his father’s hand smacked against his face with such violence the prince was nearly knocked from the saddle.

‘Get back to the palace,’ Graf Gunthar snarled, his voice trembling. Mandred stared in confusion when he heard that tone. It was the voice of a man on the edge of panic. He looked at his father, noticing his body shivering under the rich blue robe. He’d left the palace in such haste he hadn’t even paused to don a cloak against the winter chill.

Remembering why his father had left the palace, all sympathy drained out of the prince’s heart. ‘I won’t,’ he growled back. ‘Someone has to help those people.’

Colour rushed back into the Graf’s face. His body stiffened as anger swelled up inside him. ‘You’d like to bring them inside our walls?’ he challenged. ‘Bring all those sick people up here, pack them in with our own, shelter them in our own homes? And when they bring the plague into Middenheim what will you do then? What will you tell our people when they lie sick and dying in the streets? What will you tell our people when they throw their dead over the Cliff of Sighs?’

More than the slap against his face, the Graf’s words made Mandred reel. The prince shook his head, stubbornly trying to defy the ghastly logic of his father’s words.

‘Our duty is to our own people,’ Graf Gunthar told him. ‘Not to strangers.’ His expression softened, he reached to grip his son’s shoulder. ‘Believe me, if we could help those people without endangering the city…’

Mandred shook off his father’s hand, his mind refusing to accept the grim reality the Graf had resigned himself to. He had done his father an injustice when he had called him a tyrant. He wasn’t cruel. He was scared.

But that still didn’t make him right.

Without saying a word, Mandred turned his horse and started back into the city. Franz followed behind him. The boy scowled at his bodyguard. There was only one person who could have told his father about what he was doing.

‘You don’t have to come with me,’ Mandred told the knight. ‘I’ll behave myself now. You can stay with my father.’

Bitterness and a feeling of betrayal poured venom into Mandred’s voice as he galloped ahead of Franz.

‘You’ve shown me where your loyalty lies.’

Skavenblight

Kaldezeit, 1111

The stink of stagnant water and swamp seepage created an atmosphere almost sufficient to blot out the rotten odour of the plague priest. Within the confines of the stone-walled vault, the smell of the ratman’s mouldering green robes and mangy fur was enough to turn the stomach of even another skaven.

Perched atop a heap of broken masonry, Warlord Krricht pressed a blood-soaked rag to his nose in an effort to stifle the reek. The dozen armoured stormvermin surrounding the warlord weren’t so fortunate, coughing and wheezing as their keen noses rebelled against the stink.

The plague priest cared nothing for the discomfort of the other skaven, his warty lip pulling away from his fangs in an expression of contempt. The simpering flea-lickers of Clan Mors were no true children of the Horned One. They were ignorant of the true face of the Horned Rat, unable or unwilling to embrace the pernicious glory of their god. They would learn, however. Like the rest of skavendom, they would join the Pestilent Brotherhood or they would perish.

Poxmaster Puskab Foulfur pulled back the tattered hood of his habit, exposing a face hideous with decay. The patchy remnants of once-white fur were darkening into a jaundiced yellow. The bare flesh of his cheeks was rotten and leprous, strings of muscle gleaming wetly where the skin had peeled away entirely. A pair of crooked antlers sprouted from his scalp, stained with filth and pitted with decay. Only the priest’s eyes seemed alive, shining from the shadows of deep sockets, blazing with a fanatic intensity.

Warlord Krricht shifted uneasily upon his perch. He had selected this meeting place because he could arrive early and claim the high ground. Skaven respected height — they were naturally subservient to those who could look down upon them. In any negotiation, it was the wise ratman who assumed a dominant position without a single word being uttered or a single drop of musk being vented into the air.

Unfortunately, Puskab wasn’t fazed by the warlord’s dominant position and as for the musk of supremacy, even if Krricht had secreted it there was no chance the diseased priest would smell it over his own filthy odours. The warlord looked anxiously at his coughing bodyguard, grinding his teeth at their display of weakness in the face of the plague priest. He had counted upon them to present a formidable sight, to cow Puskab with their menacing presence if all else failed. They were a dozen to the three plague monks which had accompanied Puskab, that should have been enough to intimidate the representative of Clan Pestilens. Instead, his stormvermin made a pathetic spectacle of themselves instead of bracing up and performing their duty!

Krricht took another whiff of his bloody rag and stared down at Puskab through watery eyes.

‘We have heard much-much about the great Poxmaster,’ Krricht said, his voice drifting between a squeak and a growl. ‘Man-things call new pestilence “Black Plague”. It will kill much-much. Leave man-things ready for conquest.’

Puskab leaned his bloated bulk against the knobbly wooden staff clutched in his leprous paw. He peered up at the warlord through malicious eyes. ‘Why Clan Mors seek-want squeak-speak with Vrask Bilebroth?’ he snarled.

Krricht lashed his tail in amusement. For all their show of religious fanaticism and zealous devotion, Clan Pestilens was just as grasping and selfish as any other skaven, their ranks rife with rivalry and petty ambition. Bilebroth was Puskab’s chief rival — the spies Krricht had hired couldn’t quite agree if Puskab had stolen the secret of the Black Plague from Bilebroth or if Bilebroth had tried to steal credit for the new plague from Puskab. For his purposes, it didn’t really matter. It was enough that the feud was there and waiting to be exploited.

‘Clan Mors wants a friend in Clan Pestilens,’ Krricht explained. ‘We didn’t want to presume upon so renowned a skaven as Poxmaster Puskab, so we approached a lesser priest instead.’ The warlord bobbed his head in an appeasing gesture. ‘Great Warlord Vrrmik says even the Council of Thirteen speaks of Puskab Foulfur.’

Was that a flicker of alarm that passed through the plague priest’s yellow eyes? Krricht twitched his whiskers in amusement. Even the feared Puskab knew fear at mere mention of the Lords of Decay. Grey Seer Skrittar’s actions at the council meeting had aggrandised Puskab at the expense of Arch-Plaguelord Nurglitch. Hardly the sort of thing to assure Puskab’s position as Nurglitch’s favourite.

‘What does Mors-meat want-want from Pestilens?’ Puskab growled.

‘Alliance,’ the warlord said, gesturing with his bloody rag at his warriors and Puskab’s plague monks. ‘Mors offers warriors to help Pestilens. You will help us by using the Black Plague against the dwarf-things.’

Puskab’s decayed lips exposed his blackened fangs in a sneer. ‘Lord Vecteek tell-say use-use plague against man-things. Council vote to do what Vecteek say-tell!’

‘Vecteek claim-want too much power!’ Krricht hissed. ‘Takes name-title of Grey Lord. He thinks he is better than council. Thinks Rictus-rats should rule all Under-Empire!’

A wracking cough shook Puskab’s bloated frame. It took Krricht some time to realise the plague priest was laughing at him. His fur bristled as he realised the filthy monk was mocking him.

‘Clan Rictus powerful. Mighty. Best warriors. Many black-furs.’ Puskab’s bulk quivered with renewed amusement. ‘Clan Mors not so powerful. Not so many black-furs.’

‘You could change that,’ Krricht hurriedly squeaked. He waved his claw through the air. ‘Change-fix plague so that it will sick-kill Rictus-rats. Break Vecteek! Vrrmik take much-great power without Vecteek. Share-gift some-much to Clan Pestilens.’

Puskab’s yellow eyes narrowed with suspicion. Krricht licked his fangs, waiting to see how the plague priest would react to such treasonous words. Clan Pestilens might be disinterested in helping Mors overwhelm the dwarfs, but no skaven could ignore the promise of a better position on the council.

‘Vecteek is friend-ally of Pestilens,’ Puskab snarled. The fat monk backed away from Krricht’s perch, his black teeth still threatening the warlord. ‘Lord Nurglitch plan-plot much-much to sick-kill man-things. Rictus have many-strong warriors to conquer-take surface.’ A hacking laugh oozed up from Puskab’s belly. ‘Mors not so many-strong.’

The plague priest let his last barb echo through the vault as he and his entourage made their retreat. Krricht glared after them, his fangs grinding together. It was tempting to leap down and cut the diseased vermin to ribbons, but too many within Clan Pestilens knew about the meeting and where to place blame should the Poxmaster fail to return.

Which was why Krricht had already made other plans. The crux of his pact with Vrask was the removal of Puskab. That was the real purpose of this meeting — to determine if Puskab might prove a better ally than Vrask. Now that the plague priest had made his mind known, Krricht would simply fall back on the original plan and fulfil his agreement with Vrask.

The warlord growled at two of his stormvermin. Chittering maliciously, the armoured warriors scurried away, darting down one of the narrow side-tunnels connecting to the vault. Krricht watched them go, lashing his tail in vicious anticipation.

Poxmaster Puskab would never sniff the Pestilent Monastery again.

Puskab Foulfur stalked along the dank, mucky tunnel, his splintered staff tapping against the bare earthen walls. The doleful chant of the monks accompanying him shivered through the stygian darkness, singing the praises of disease and decay. The rustle of rats creeping through the refuse littering the corridor was the only other sound.

The plague priest’s mind turned over the treacherous proposal made by Warlord Krricht. The hatred and rivalry between Clan Mors and Clan Rictus was well known. Several times the warlord clans had clashed in open conflict, great armies of stormvermin making war in the tunnels and burrows of the Under-Empire. But there were times when the two clans had cooperated as well, conspiring together to crush some third clan between their combined strength. There was a great danger in trusting too much in the antagonism between them.

Krricht had been much too forthcoming about the supposed scheme to unseat Vecteek. True, he had made it sound like nothing but the slip of an excited tongue, but Puskab wasn’t believing the subterfuge. The warlord’s body posture had been too restrained, too controlled to make his careless excitement believable. The ‘slip’ had been deliberate. The question was, what had Krricht hoped to gain by it?

Puskab ran a claw across his chin as a new thought occurred to him. The meeting had been arranged between Krricht and Vrask, but what if they had intended Puskab’s acolytes should intercept the messenger? What if they had planned on Puskab, not Vrask, leaving the Pestilent Monastery?

Vrask was ambitious and impatient, unwilling to wait for the Horned One to acknowledge his worthiness. The scheming efforts of Seerlord Skrittar to turn the Arch-Plaguelord against Puskab might have inspired Vrask to begin his own intrigues. With Puskab out of the way, Vrask would become Poxmaster and chief architect of the Black Plague’s further development.

The plague priest’s ears curled up against his skull. From the way Krricht had talked, it seemed Mors was aware of what shape the further development of the Black Plague would take. Pestilens had created a plague that would target humans. The next step would be to refine its properties so that it would strike down other races as well. Dwarfs, goblins, beastkin… and naturally any skaven that refused to accept the true aspect of the Horned Rat. Spies might have learned of the plague monks’ intentions, but there were few spies who could survive the noxious atmosphere of the Pestilent Monastery for long.

No, there was another possibility. Vrask might be trying to cultivate allies outside Clan Pestilens and the Pestilent Brotherhood. It was just possible he had disclosed plans for a wider-reaching plague to Krricht.

Which again left the question of why Vrask would want Puskab to meet with Krricht.

The plague priest whipped around, his staff clenched in his paws, his bloated body heaving as his frightened heart hammered in his chest. His eyes darted about the dank tunnel, gazing suspiciously at every darkened niche and shadowy hole. He snarled a warning to his entourage, stilling their cough-squeak chant.

There was a very good reason why Vrask would want Puskab to make the journey from the Pestilent Monastery. Uncertain if Puskab still enjoyed the favour of Nurglitch, Vrask needed a partner from outside to eliminate his rival.

Puskab now viewed the tunnel around him through the lens of paranoia. This far below the streets of Skavenblight, the corridor should be alive with skaven hurrying about their business. In winter, cold descended upon the surface, making the swampy lanes slick with frost and ice. But below, warmed by the fecund heat of thousands of ratmen, the tunnels retained an almost stifling heat. There should be hundreds of skaven scurrying through the corridor, squeaking and shoving as they hurried between warrens. Even allowing for the instinctive fear and abhorrence most ratmen displayed towards Clan Pestilens, there should have been at least some traffic present.

The plague priest raised his nose, sniffing for any trace of what had caused the other skaven to shun the tunnel. His mind raced with thoughts of warlock-engineers rigging the corridor to collapse or packmasters unleashing rabid wolf-rats into the passageway. Whatever was set to happen, news of it had spread among the skaven of this district and caused them to avoid the tunnel.

Puskab forced a slobbering orison from his throat, drawing upon the profane power of the Horned One. The air about his body began to grow murky, surrounding him in an aura of green smog. The rats creeping along the corridor squealed in fright as the scent of Puskab’s magic reached them, fleeing as quickly as they could from the plague priest’s presence.

‘Swords,’ Puskab hissed at the monks with him. The word had scarcely left his mouth before the tunnel was filled with fierce battle cries. From a dozen hidden holes and concealed pits, a mob of snarling skaven spilled into the dingy worm-light of the passage. They were ragged, hideous creatures, with scraggly fur and pallid skin. Scraps of filthy cloth and tatters of rusty mail clung to their scrawny frames, while stone-axes and bone knives were clenched in their paws.

The attackers had taken pains to smear themselves in dung to mask their scent, but the plague monks did not need to smell their foes to recognise them. Each of the attackers was malformed, huge flappy ears drooping from their skulls and enormous black eyes bulging from their faces. There was no mistaking the cave-rats of Clan Skrittlespike. Their kind dwelled in the warp-mines far beneath Skavenblight, eking out a troglodyte existence far from sun and surface. It was rare for them to ever venture higher than the under-warrens, and even then they did so only to scavenge supplies or steal pups from the brood-mothers of more prosperous clans.

Puskab snarled as the cave-rats rushed towards him. It seemed Vrask wasn’t the only one who didn’t want to be blamed for the Poxmaster’s murder. Krricht must have taken pains to engage the swords of Skrittlespike’s warriors. Already despised and outcast, the cave-rats didn’t have anything left to lose by murdering such a renowned skaven.

There was only one problem with Krricht’s plan. He had underestimated the strength of the Poxmaster.

Puskab stretched forth his claw, pointing his rotten fingers at the foremost of the charging ratmen. A sickly glow gathered about his fingers, then shot forth to pierce the cave-rat in breast and belly. The attacker crumpled, his fur turning pale and leprous where Puskab’s spell had struck. The stricken ratman cried out in terror, but his shriek was cut short as the skaven behind him trampled his body underfoot.

The spell had accounted for one cave-rat, but there were a dozen more to take his place. Fear of Puskab’s magic was not enough to overwhelm fear of their own clanlord. The plague priest’s spells might strike them down one by one, but the clanlord’s wrath would claim them all. In their craven hearts, each of the cave-rats was secure in the belief that it would be a comrade and not himself who would fall prey to the Poxmaster’s magic.

In focusing upon Puskab, the ratmen made a critical mistake. The spell had killed only one of their number, but it had done something more. It was a physical manifestation of the power of the Horned Rat, a reminder that the path of Clan Pestilens was the true faith. The noses of the plague monks twitched as the smell of divine disease erupted from Puskab’s fingers. Their ears filled with the anguished howl of the dying cave-rat, their eyes fixated upon the fast-spreading leprosy.

Before the cave-rats could reach him, Puskab’s entourage was leaping into their path. Foam flecked the muzzles of the enraged plague monks as they lashed out against the goggle-eyed skaven. With the maniacal zeal of fanatics, the green-robed ratmen brought their rusty blades crunching through fur and flesh. The anguished whines of the wounded rose in a shrill cacophony, echoing through the empty tunnel.

The enormous ears of the cave-rats were too keen to endure their own shrieks. Their faces twisted in expressions of agony, their paws clapping against their heads in an effort to blot out the sound. Though they outnumbered the plague monks four to one, the cave-rats were unable to withstand the frenzied resistance of the robed skaven. Their attack faltered and they began to retreat down the tunnel, leaving their dead and dying strewn across the floor.

Puskab watched the havoc with narrowed eyes. It was all too easy. Much too easy. There was a reason why Clan Skrittlespike was despised and outcast. It was because they were weak. No matter how desperate, no murder ring would depend upon them to finish…

The plague priest whirled about just as a brown-furred ratman brought his sword chopping towards his neck. Puskab’s staff intercepted the blow, the serrated blade of his adversary digging deep into the wood. His attacker snarled at him from beneath the brim of a steel helmet, his beady red eyes narrowed with hate. The powerfully built sword-rat brought one of his feet slashing upwards, kicking at the Poxmaster with his claws.

Puskab chuckled wickedly as the ratman’s claws raked harmlessly against the mail hauberk he wore under his green robes. Like most skaven, the sword-rat hadn’t given enough thought to what might be hidden under a plague priest’s robes. His effort to disembowel Puskab thwarted, the skaven thrashed about, trying to free his sword from the plague priest’s staff.

He discovered the deed to be more difficult than it should have been. The ratman strove with all his might to wrench the sword free, but instead there was only a grinding sound. Flakes of brittle red rust trickled from the edge of his blade. Horror filled the skaven’s eyes as understanding began to assert itself. He glanced down at his foot, gazing in disgust as the fur began to peel away, as the exposed flesh began to ripple with decay.

Puskab chittered with loathsome laughter as his would-be killer tried to flee. The skaven was experiencing first-hand the protective magic that had been summoned by the Poxmaster’s orison. The green smog surrounding Puskab was a concentration of the Horned One’s putrid majesty. Harmless to true believers, but corrosive and deadly to all infidel-meat.

The sword-rat whined in terror, abandoning his corroded blade and moving to disengage from Puskab. Before he could flee, the plague priest’s staff whipped around, cracking the skaven across the jaw. The rotten bone, weakened by Puskab’s magic, shattered like an eggshell. The stricken ratman wilted to the floor in a quivering heap as he choked on his own blood.

The blade of a halberd came chopping down at Puskab, snapping the tip of one of his antlers and missing the bloated priest’s head by a matter of inches. Puskab leapt back, moving with a frantic ease that belied his corpulent bulk. He found himself staring up at a snarling ratman looking down at him from a hole in the ceiling. No scrawny cave-rat from Clan Skrittlespike, but another brawny brown-furred warrior. It seemed Clan Mors had employed the cave-rats as a distraction and scapegoat, leaving the actual murder to their own stormvermin.

Puskab decided to show the vermin-meat the price of such arrogance. As the halberdier dropped down from his hole, the plague priest’s voice croaked out a glottal incantation. Green fire flared from his eyes, the air filled with the repugnant sound of buzzing flies. The armoured stormvermin struck out with his halberd once more, trusting that the long reach of his weapon would keep him safely away from Puskab’s corrosive aura. He did not reckon upon the priest’s other spells.

From the very walls of the tunnel, writhing streams of maggots emerged. In the twitch of a whisker, their wormy bodies moulted, transforming into a legion of hairy flies. Clouds of the vile insects took wing, swarming about the stormvermin, ignoring his shrieks of pain as they bit into his flesh. The halberd clattered to the floor as the ratman tried to flee, his body now carpeted with gnawing flies. Blinded by the swarm, he crashed into the wall, toppling to the floor in a screaming heap. If there were other sword-rats lurking above the ceiling, the agonies of the halberdier made them reconsider challenging the plague priest’s sorcery.

Puskab Foulfur watched his enemies with vindictive amusement. So would die all his enemies — slowly and in great pain. The suffering of these would be but a prelude to what would come.