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  It is an age of legend.

  It is a dark age, a bloody age, an age of unspeakable pacts and powerful magic. It is an age of war and of death, and of apocalyptic terror. But amidst all of the flames and fury it is a time, too, of mighty heroes, of bold

  deeds and great courage...

  At the heart of the Old World lies Sigmar’s Empire. Over a thousand years after the god-king’s passing, it is a land in turmoil. The corrupt and incompetent Emperor, Boris Goldgather, has bled the common folk of the Empire to keep himself in comfort, leaving his people to starve. The border forts, the Empire’s first line of defence against the many foes that threaten Sigmar’s lands, lie unmanned and the Imperial armies struggle to repel the barbarous northmen, savage greenskins and monstrous beastmen that rampage through the provinces.

  None know that the gravest threat to the realm lies not in the darkness of the forests or the mountain passes, but beneath the feet of men. The sinister, ratlike skaven, long believed to be a myth, plot to destroy the Empire. Untold armies lurk in dank caverns deep below the earth, unnumbered skaven from the warrior clans ready to spread across the lands of men and wipe them out. And in the deepest vaults, the demented plague priests of Clan Pestilens brew a noxious contagion that will bring the men of

  the Empire to their knees.

  The Black Plague.

  Preface

  In this third and final volume of A Folkloric History of the Black Plague and the Wolf of Sigmar, I have striven to retain the same attitude of credulity that has been characteristic of previous volumes. It is difficult for the learned reader in this more enlightened age to imagine the Empire as it was in the early 1100s. Myth and superstition were the governing forces of men in the darker days of the Black Plague. The disease had struck particularly hard among the cultured and the lettered; the clergy and physicians with the knowledge to combat the contagion frequently became its victims due to their heightened exposure to it. Under such conditions, it was the common and unlettered who survived in disproportionate numbers. In many cases, feeling that religion and the gods had failed them, these simple people reverted to traditional legends to explain the catastrophe afflicting their land. When a traveller told them that distant Pfeildorf had been overrun by verminous underfolk, he was well and sincerely believed.

  The previous volume of this work recounted the horrific rise of the necromancer Vanhal, an all too historic monster whose existence is ratified in the records of both the Sigmarite and Morrite temples as well as the Doomsday Canticle kept in the Waldenhof Museum. From his tragic fall from serving Morr as one of his priests, Vanhal embraced the black arts to become the most fearsome necromancer of his age. With an army of the undead, he ravaged the county of Sylvania, driving the Voivode Malbork von Drak into the southern areas of that region. Seeking to emulate Vanhal, the perverse Mordheim nobleman Baron Lothar von Diehl likewise became a follower of the profane rites of necromancy, eventually accepting service with Vanhal as his apprentice. Together these human fiends raised the cursed tower of Vanhaldenschlosse through magics both eldritch and obscene, creating a sorcerous fortress whose ruins even to this day are shunned and considered haunted.

  Here established history gives way to mythic fancy as Vanhal and von Diehl find themselves beset by the skaven armies of Seerlord Skrittar and Bonelord Nekrot. In contest are the poisonous rocks that have rained down upon Sylvania in the Starfall. Useful to the necromancers in their unspeakable sorceries, the rocks are held sacred by the chittering ratmen. A war between the shambling undead and the skittering skaven rages about Vanhaldenschlosse, ending with the destruction of Skrittar and the retreat of Nekrot.

  Adolf Kreyssig, the ruthless commander of the Kaiserjaeger, the secret police of Emperor Boris, is appointed Protector of the Empire when Boris flees plague-ridden Altdorf for the seclusion of Schloss Hohenbach. With the help of the witch Baroness Kirstina von den Linden, Kreyssig secures his power, removing from the Imperial council those who oppose his rule. Kreyssig gains control over Lector Stefan Schoppe by capturing his daughter and has him appointed Grand Theogonist.

  Kreyssig’s power, however, comes under attack when his skaven allies prove duplicitous, seeking to weaken the city by playing different factions against one another. Realising their peril, Kreyssig musters the city’s forces and leads the effort to drive the skaven back when the hordes of Warplord Sythar Doom erupt from beneath the streets. The glory of defeating the ratmen, however, has to be shared with Baroness von den Linden and Stefan, who had taken the dwarfish name Gazulgrund as Grand Theogonist. Worried about the witch’s ambitions, Kreyssig colludes with Gazulgrund to eliminate her, treacherously sealing her alive in a chamber filled with enraged bees – one of the most eccentric murders attributed to the Imperial palace.

  Emperor Boris, fleeing to escape the Black Plague, makes Schloss Hohenbach outside Carroburg his refuge. Surrounding himself with all the noble leaders of the Empire, Boris intends to sit out the plague in decadent opulence. His intentions are thwarted, however, when the skaven strike. Plague monks visit disease and destruction upon Carroburg, then turn their attentions to the castle where Boris has hidden himself. The Emperor is the final victim of the disease unleashed by the ratmen. Only Princess Erna of Middenheim and the Emperor’s physician, Doktor Moschner, survive.

  Although spared the first attacks of the plague in 1111, seven years later Middenheim finds itself experiencing the slow creep of the disease into its midst. The dwarf community deep inside the mountain experiences attacks by the ratmen and is compelled to accept the offer of aid from their human neighbours. Prince Mandred, whose heroic exploits include the rescue of Lady Mirella and Arch-Lector Hartwich from beastmen, is particularly zealous in his offer to help Kurgaz Smallhammer against the skaven, having lost his lover Sofia to the blades of the ratkin.

  Warmonger Vecteek, however, is playing a treacherous game of deceit, intending to lure the human armies into the tunnels within the mountain while he conquers the city on top of it. He employs the brutal Warlord Vrrmik to bait his trap, while the plagues of Poxmaster Puskab Foulfur weaken the city. He hasn’t planned on the treachery of his minions, however. When Vecteek attacks Middenheim, he finds far less of the population stricken by the plague than Puskab had promised. Down below, Vrrmik withdraws his warriors early enough that Mandred is able to lead his army back up to the surface and relieve his embattled father Graf Gunthar.

  Though Gunthar and Mandred are able to destroy Vecteek and vanquish the skaven army, their victory turns bitter when Gunthar is shot down by Deathmaster Silke. Desperate to save his dying father, Mandred takes Gunthar to the Temple of Ulric to beg his god for divine aid. Silke strikes again while the prince is in the temple, intending to kill both son and father. In the ensuing struggle, Mandred and Silke pitch into the Eternal Flame of Ulric. While the skaven disintegrates into ash, Mandred emerges from the flame completely healed of his wounds. The miracle amazes those watching and Arch-Lector Hartwich proclaims Mandred ‘the Wolf of Sigmar’, a man who is blessed by the gods.

  With his father’s death, Prince Mandred becomes Graf Mandred. Now lord of his realm, he musters his army. He is determined to scourge the land of the skaven infesting it. And in so doing he earns the title Mandred Skavenslayer.

  Delving into these curious admixtures of myth and history, one almost regrets that this heroic character has become more commonly known as ‘Mandred Ratcatcher’ in modern historical texts.

  – Reikhard Mattiasson,

  A Folkloric History of the Black Plague and the Wolf of Sigmar Vol. III

  Altdorf Press, Nachexen 2514

  Suppressed by order of Lord Thaddeus Gamow, Jahrdrung 2514

  Prologue

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p; Skavenblight

  Geheimnisnacht, 1120

  Reeking of decay and corruption, Poxmaster Puskab Foulfur climbed the steps of the raised dais, his scabby hand clenched about the gnarled wooden staff he bore. The plaguelord’s tattered robes befouled the ancient stone steps, leaving behind a glistening trail like the slime of a slug. As he made his ascent, the ratman lifted his rotten snout and drew in the perfidious atmosphere of what had been the Grand Observatory of the grey seers.

  A liquid, glottal chuckle shook the skaven as he reflected upon how far the once-mighty grey seers had fallen. Their order was archaic, a relic that had endured past its time. Soon it would be swept away into the gutter, cast off into an oblivion that was long overdue. As the plague monks had supplanted the atavistic horned prophets in the halls of the Shattered Tower, so they would soon expunge them from all Skavenblight. From all skavendom!

  Puskab settled his scrawny body into the throne of bone and sinew that rested atop the dais. Briefly he gazed up at the great gaping hole in the wall of the chamber, the place where the grey seers had housed their villainous star-eye. A creation of the equally abhorrent heretics of Clan Skryre, the construction of warpstone lenses and crystal plates, bronze pipes and copper tubes, had allowed the Seerlords to gaze upon the stars themselves. In their heresy, the grey seers had believed they could sniff portents and omens from the alignment of stars, as though the Horned One would consign His wisdom to such a frivolous pursuit.

  The Poxmaster stroked the long tuft of fur sprouting from the side of his chin, a lone wisp of white fur on his otherwise wrinkled and furless face. He took a vain pride in that sickly patch of fur. It resembled nothing so much as some mouldy growth, and it exuded a wondrously wretched smell. Many among the acolytes of Clan Pestilens took it as a mark of the Horned One’s favour, a divine reward for the conquest Puskab had made possible. Fabricator of the plague, engineer of the decimation of the man-things, destroyer of their surface realm!

  Puskab bruxed his fangs as he pondered his accomplishments. From a minor plague priest he had risen to assume a seat on the Council of Thirteen, to join the insidious ranks of the Grey Lords. He had risen to become second only to Arch-Plaguelord Nurglitch within the hierarchy of Clan Pestilens.

  The Poxmaster’s beady eyes became embers of hate as he reflected upon his position and how his own authority had been usurped. His great rival had always been Vrask Bilebroth. For a time, Puskab had been certain in his supremacy, sure that the merest twitch of his whisker would be enough to destroy his rival. But Vrask had proven too cunning to eliminate. He’d sought protection from Seerlord Skrittar, joining the Seerlord’s mysterious expedition into the east. Skrittar had perished in that journey, betrayed by Vrask. Through his poisoned counsel, Vrask claimed to have arranged the death of the Seerlord. More, he had stolen the great treasure that had caused Skrittar to stir from the Shattered Tower: enough warpstone to bribe the Horned One Himself! Vrask had even brought the once-mighty Clan Fester with him as a gift for Nurglitch. Their bodies wracked with contagion, Fester had sworn allegiance to the plague monks in a desperate bid for survival. Clan Fester had joined the circle of thrall clans known as the Pestilent Brotherhood, their autonomy crushed between the claws of the Arch-Plaguelord.

  Always keen to scent an opportunity, Nurglitch had installed Vrask on the Council, placing him in the seat vacated by Warlord Manglrr Baneburrow of Fester. Vrask had been given honours and power equal to those enjoyed by Puskab. It was a manoeuvre to ensure Nurglitch’s own position, once again raising the two enemies to equal standing, setting them against each other and ensuring that each was too busy protecting the position they already possessed to allow them time to consider loftier ambitions. Nurglitch was already a hoary old monster, but with the cocktail of elixirs and arcane rituals he employed, he might endure for another century and more before age and infirmity claimed him. He was taking pains to protect against any early diminishment.

  The clamour of slaves breaking apart the heretical warpscope of Clan Skryre brought Puskab’s attention back to the great hall before him. Packs of emaciated skaven, their fur mangy with disease, laboured with sledgehammers to break apart the mammoth construction. Green-robed plague monks scrabbled at the floor with their claws, pulling up the intricate mosaic that had depicted the star charts and constellations of the grey seers’ astrology. Other plague monks assaulted the walls, tearing down elaborate frescoes and murals. Censer bearers circled the hall, the toxic fumes emanating from the baskets of their staves billowing across the room, blotting out the lingering stink of a millennium’s incense. Great banners flayed from the hides of especially diseased skaven hung from poles scattered about the chamber, each daubed with the insignia of the fly-scratch and adorned with the formulae for the most potent plagues.

  Puskab caught the distinctive smell of one plague banner, the twisted wreck of his tail twitching happily as the scent blazed through his memories. It was the hide of Wormlord Blight Tenscratch, despot of Clan Verms, the Grey Lord Puskab had defeated in single combat to secure his position on the Council. But that was only part of his achievements. Scratched into the preserved hide was his true power: the formula for the Black Plague, the Horned One’s gift to His favoured son!

  The Poxmaster nodded his antlered head. Yes, it was his destiny to lead Clan Pestilens to complete domination of skavendom, to usher in a new age of glory and decay! He would fulfil the role the Horned One had given him, despite the obstructions of his fellow skaven and even the short-sighted interference of Arch-Plaguelord Nurglitch.

  Nurglitch did well to fear his Poxmaster! From the moment when he had colluded with Warlord Vrrmik of Mors to depose and destroy Warmonger Vecteek of Rictus, Puskab had been laying the foundation for his master’s downfall. Vrrmik wasn’t more powerful than Vecteek, but he was equally cunning. He had stirred the imaginations of the other clans, driving them into campaigns not merely of conquest but also occupation of the surface world. Each warlord was spending the strength of his clan to secure his own kingdom on the surface, vying with the scattered man-things for control of their land. It was such a vast expenditure of resources that it could only be likened to a rich warpstone strike and the resultant rush of ratmen to stake their claim.

  Through it all, Clan Pestilens would keep to the shadows, conserving its own power. Let the warlords squabble over the ruins of the man-things, the plague monks would be secure in their service to the Horned One. If the rush to the surface was allowed to take its natural course, the plague monks would be able to overwhelm a skavendom engaged in hundreds of petty wars. That would secure Nurglitch’s legacy.

  Puskab would never allow it to go so far, however. When he judged the moment to be right, he would use Vrrmik to steer the warlord clans against Nurglitch’s acolytes and Vrask’s minions. The other skaven would rally to the cause, refighting the civil war in the belief that they were throwing off the shackles of domination.

  In truth, they would be casting their own chains. Nurglitch’s pride and arrogance blinded him to the true pinnacle of power. It wasn’t the ratman who called himself Supreme Grand Warlord, the skaven who was first among equals on the Council. No, the true power was with the faceless, unknown figure that stood behind the thrones, who ruled the rulers from the shadows. True power did not announce itself with thunder and steel. True power was the whispered threat, the unspoken fear that could set even the mightiest empire trembling.

  Puskab Foulfur would have such power.

  It was his destiny.

  Chapter I

  Carroburg, 1119

  The ratman’s sharp fangs snapped about the steel bill of the helmet, worrying at the metal as the creature thrashed about in a paroxysm of viciousness. Froth mixed with the putrid black blood of the skaven streamed from the monster’s mouth. The filthy drool dripped into the warrior’s face, burning against his cheeks and nose, discolouring his beard. The sick stink of the vermin’s spittle threatened to c
hoke the man. Only a determination born of the mightiest resolve kept him from reeling, from disengaging with the loathsome brute.

  Instead of recoiling in disgust, the armoured warrior ripped the dagger from his belt and brought its edge sawing against the ratman’s neck. The creature squealed and flailed, skewering itself still deeper on the sword thrust into its gut. The beast’s violence threatened to spill both fighters from the back of the stomping warhorse. The man pressed his legs tighter against the barrel of his steed, refusing to loose his hold on either dagger or sword.

  Animalistic panic shone in the eyes of the skaven as the dagger sawed through the rotten flaps of its leather helm and into the matted fur beneath. The man it had attacked glared back at it, raw hatred blazing in his gaze. Neither pity nor mercy stayed him as his blade chewed into the vermin’s throat and sent a spray of blood jetting from its arteries. As strength drained from the beast, the armoured warrior tried to fling it to the ground. The creature’s fangs clenched tight to his helm, the final death agony causing them to punch through the metal. It took repeated blows from the pommel of his dagger to break the ratman’s jaw and dislodge its tenacious grip.

  The rider glared down at the quivering carcass strewn across the cobblestones. It was an unseemly thing, but he brought his rearing warhorse around to stamp its hooves against the skaven’s skull and splatter its head into gory ruin. One tiny grain of satisfaction in an ocean of hatred.

  Other ratmen swarmed around the lone rider, scuttling out from the shattered debris that had once been a great city. They snarled and snapped, squealed and chittered, thrusting at him with jagged spears and crooked swords. Watching their leader being butchered had curbed some of their taste for battle. Their verminous courage hung by the merest thread. The rider scowled at them from beneath the bill of his helm. He didn’t want them running.