Dead Winter Page 11
For this reason, Puskab had come to the Abattoir, to cultivate his own allies beyond the confines of the Pestilent Brotherhood. If Krricht had more to fear than the displeasure of Clan Pestilens alone, he might forget whatever compact he had formed with Vrask.
Squeaks of excitement shuddered through the Abattoir as hundreds of thousands of ratmen greeted the activity unfolding on the arena floor with bloodthirsty glee. A great pit had opened up in the sandy surface of the arena, exposing a patch of impenetrable blackness. The skavenslaves mopping up the blood and offal from the last event screeched in terror, scrambling towards the little iron gates set into the wall. Their wails grew even more despondent when they found the gates firmly shut, callous guards jeering at them from behind the bars.
From the pit, that which the slaves feared crawled into view and a hush fell across the spectators. The creature was as big as a bear, its ghastly body covered in shiny black plates of chitin. Eight clawed legs sprouted from the sides of a squat, elongated body. Immense arms tipped with hideous pincers protruded from the front of the monster. The beast’s face stretched across the front of its body without even the semblance of a head. Two clusters of lustrous eyes gleamed with a ruby glow above a gaping maw ringed with chitinous mandibles. Rearing from the monster’s back, arching above its body, was a long muscular tail, its tip swollen with a dagger-like barb. Poison glistened from the tip of the barb, dripping down onto the creature’s armoured back.
The hush passed. The crowd cried out in anticipation as the gigantic scorpion scuttled across the arena, charging straight towards the panicked slaves.
‘Magnificent, yes-yes,’ chortled the ratman seated above Puskab. Blight Tenscratch, Wormlord of Clan Verms, rested his twisted body in a high-backed chair, attended by a gaggle of tawny-furred slaves and ringed by a phalanx of armoured warriors. The wormlord seldom missed an arena fight. Next to worm-oil and beauty-ticks, the arena represented the most prosperous of Clan Verms’s ventures. The bug-breeders produced a loathsome menagerie of horrifying abominations for the Abattoir. None were so popular with the crowd as the giant deathwalkers.
Puskab kept his voice indifferent, all trace of intimidation from his posture. ‘It is scary-nasty, Most Murderous Tyrant.’
Blight chittered with laughter, raising a crooked arm and gesturing at the giant scorpion. The arachnid had reached one of the slaves, gripping the doomed ratman in its massive pincers while it stabbed its lethal sting into his chest.
‘Only a demonstration,’ Blight said. ‘The real spectacle begins when that gate opens.’ He pointed a claw at a massive steel-banded door set into the side of the arena just below the first row of the lower arcade. ‘Clan Moulder promises something new. Something they think can beat my deathwalkers.’ The Wormlord bared his fangs in a scornful sneer.
‘Clan Verms very-much powerful,’ Puskab agreed. He didn’t add that they were also the most detested and abhorred of the Greater Clans, blamed for the legions of fleas and parasites that beset skavendom. ‘That is why I want-like speak-squeak with your Despotic Magnificence.’
Blight’s ears were masses of scar tissue, overwhelmed by the cluster of multi-coloured ticks which had fastened to them. Even so, they were able to flatten themselves against the Wormlord’s skull, a gesture that bespoke the most condescending of humour.
‘I know-know why Poxmaster Puskab wants to speak,’ Blight said. From the arena, a shrill cry announced that the scorpion had claimed a second victim. ‘Pestilens need-take help with plague-plan.’
Puskab’s glands clenched as he heard Blight speak. If the skaven of Clan Verms knew how the plague was transmitted they could thwart all of Clan Pestilens’s ambitions.
Grinning, Blight reached a gnarled paw to his neck, picking about the fur for a moment. He displayed the black flea he caught. ‘This carry plague, yes-yes?’ The Wormlord lashed his tail. ‘My spies know plague monks want-buy many fleas. Not ratkin fleas, but man-thing fleas. Easy to guess-learn why.’
The crowd fell silent once more. Puskab shifted his gaze from the gloating Blight to watch as the wooden doors slowly drew apart, exposing a large cage. The thing within the cage was a monstrous brute, a hulking behemoth four times as tall as a skaven and covered from head to toe in shaggy brown fur.
‘Packmasters call this ogre-rat,’ Blight snorted. ‘Deathwalker will eat well from its carcass.’
The plague priest wasn’t so certain. When the door of the cage swung open and the brute lumbered out onto the field, its every step bespoke a primal strength and savagery. The ogre-rat slapped its clawed paws against its chest, snarling an unintelligible challenge to the monstrous scorpion.
‘Clan Verms know-learn much-much,’ Puskab said, letting a subtext of threat seep into his words. There weren’t many skaven who pried into the diseased secrets of the plague monks. Even a Lord of Decay should know such a practice was unhealthy.
‘We can help Pestilens,’ Blight said, his eyes still fixed upon the floor of the arena. The deathwalker and the ogre-rat had closed upon one another and were now circling each other in preparation for the first attack. ‘Verms breed better bugs than anyone in Under-Empire. Make stronger flea for Pestilens. Carry plague far-far. Infect many more man-things.’
Puskab shifted uneasily in his seat, uncomfortable that Blight knew so much about the Black Plague and how it was spread. ‘I talk-speak to Arch-Plaguelord,’ he said. ‘Listen-learn if he like-like help from Verms.’
Blight clapped his paws together in glee. The scorpion lunged at the ogre-rat, its pincers ripping into the brute’s flesh. He turned his gaze reluctantly back towards Puskab. ‘You came here to help yourself, but I must have something in return. If you want-like Verms to protect you, then you must give something. I want to share in credit for the Black Plague. Impress Plaguelord Vecteek with the might of Clan Verms!’
‘Arch-Plaguelord Nurglitch…’
Blight leaned back, blinking in surprise. ‘I wonder at your lack of ambition. You are the Poxmaster, creator of the Black Plague. You kill-slay more man-things each day than a whole army of stormvermin! The council knows your name!’
The plague priest lowered his head, his mind awhirl with the Wormlord’s words.
‘Why talk-speak with Nurglitch?’ Blight whispered. ‘There can be only one Arch-Plaguelord on the council, after all. The other Lords of Decay are ready for a change.’
Puskab’s glands clenched at the magnitude of what Blight was proposing. To sit upon the council! To be one of the Lords of Decay! It was more than he had ever dared dream, more prestige than he had ever prayed for! An alliance between Clan Verms and Clan Pestilens would make the spread of the Black Plague much easier and it would provide Puskab with the extra layer of protection he needed. But to betray Nurglitch, to allow the heathen Verms to share the credit for developing one of the Horned One’s holy contagions… these were things he would have to meditate upon.
Blight leapt to his feet, cursing and slashing his claws across the snout of a nearby slave. He shook his fist at the arena below.
The ogre-rat had managed to free itself from the scorpion’s pincers, its brawn such that one of the claws had been torn in half. Now the brute had its arms wrapped about the deathwalker’s tail. While the arachnid scrambled to escape the hairy hulk’s grip, the ogre-rat’s powerful muscles flexed. With a ghastly popping noise and the rending of fibrous tendons, the brute tore the scorpion’s tail from its body.
Blight snapped commands to his entourage, his taste for the Abattoir lost with the turn of battle. ‘Think well upon my offer, priest,’ he snarled down at Puskab. ‘I will not make it again.’ The Wormlord clashed his paws together and his retinue began to scurry for the closest exit.
Puskab turned his eyes back to the arena, watching as Clan Moulder’s new monstrosity beat the huge scorpion with its own severed tail. The plague priest’s rotten face pulled back in a gruesome leer. Hurriedly he scrambled after Blight Tenscratch.
The Poxmaster had decided he would
accept Blight’s offer of alliance.
Chapter VI
Altdorf
Kaldezeit, 1111
Erich von Kranzbeuhler shifted uneasily in his saddle, watching as the morning fog rolled in from the Reik. He could just see the trees of the Altgarten – those the marchers hadn’t cut down – and the murky glow of campfires shining from the shantytown. The young knight reached down to his sword, his heart sickening as he felt the pommel between his fingers. He could not easily forget the motto engraved upon the blade of his sword. ‘Honour. Courage. Emperor.’
Today he would betray one of those solemn oaths. He would ask the knights under his command to break faith with the vows they had undertaken. It was an enormous responsibility, one the young captain still wasn’t sure he was equal to. He closed his eyes and prayed to Sigmar to lend him that strength.
‘They don’t really expect us to ride down our own soldiers, do they?’ The whispered question came from the knight beside him, a tall, stalwart warrior named Aldinger.
For one of the Reiksknecht’s veterans to ask such a question made Erich decide he had made the right decision. The only way the Reiksknecht could respect the first two oaths was to betray the last.
The captain peered through the grey veil, staring across at the massed ranks of cavalry. The entire strength of the Reiksknecht had been called out to supplement the Kaiserjaeger and the Schuetzenverein in quelling what had been termed ‘rebellion’ in their orders. The plan, as laid out by Adolf Kreyssig, was for the Reiksknecht to spearhead the attack, with the Kaiserjaeger and Schueters following on the flanks. The commander had made his intention clear. The knights were to drive Engel’s rebels into the river. No quarter was to be given.
Grand Master von Schomberg’s face had grown pale when he read the orders, but it had only made him even more determined to defy the Emperor. The plans he had discussed with his officers were much different from those Kreyssig had drawn up. The Reiksknecht would lead the charge, but only for a hundred yards. Once their backs were to the trees, they would turn about and stage a counter charge against the Kaiserjaeger and the Scheuters. It was hoped the surprise attack would throw the other forces into such confusion that they would disperse and retreat into the city.
After that, Engel and his people would have to fend for themselves. The Reiksknecht would have their own problems. The plan was to withdraw into the Reikschloss. There were food and provisions there to endure a lengthy siege. The longer they held out, the more embarrassment it would cause Emperor Boris and bring unwanted attention to the reasons why the Emperor’s most loyal order of knights had turned against him.
Erich turned around, trying to find Grand Master von Schomberg in the fog. He could just make out the figure of Othmar, the Grand Master’s standard bearer, but he couldn’t see his leader. It was just as well. If he saw doubt in the old baron’s eyes, he didn’t know what he would do.
‘Ernst,’ he called, looking over to see if his adjutant was close. He saw the burly knight lift a gauntlet to his visor in reply. ‘Stay close to me,’ Erich told him, pointing at the horn tied to the dienstmann’s belt. ‘I may need to signal changes in formation after we begin the charge.’
Again, the spectre of doubt tugged at Erich’s mind. Could he really go through with this? Was he really going to betray a direct command from his Emperor?
Still fighting his inner daemons, the sound of pounding hooves brought a curse to the captain’s lips. Some fool had started the charge early! Up and down the line, he could hear the other officers shouting in confusion, wondering who had given the order. Grand Master von Schomberg’s fierce tones barked out, ordering the rest to support the knights that had started the attack.
Like a single creature, the twenty knights under Erich’s command urged their warhorses into a gallop. The steel-clad destriers lunged forwards, charging out from the plaza where they had mustered into formation. Erich felt the thrill of the charge course through his veins, saw the fog break apart before his leaping steed.
Then, disaster! The plaza which had only a moment before echoed with the clatter of charging knights now descended into a bedlam of screaming men and horses. Animals crashed to the earth on broken legs, crushing their riders beneath them as they floundered upon the cobblestones. Men hurtled through the air as their mounts threw them, smashing into the earth like plummeting gargoyles. It was like listening to the roar of an avalanche, the maddened shriek of a volcano.
Erich’s horse buckled beneath him, pitching onto its side. The only thing that saved the captain from being pinned beneath his animal was the second floundering horse that reared up and pushed his own animal away. He was able to drop down from the saddle of his stricken destrier, scrambling away before the flailing hooves and hurtling bodies of the other warhorses could smash him down.
Like a great steel rat, the knight scurried away from the grotesque bedlam. As he did so, Erich saw the cause of the havoc. Under cover of the fog, someone had strewn spiked caltrops across the mouth of the plaza, leaving a field of jagged iron to impale the hooves of anyone trying to ride out.
He ripped his sword from its sheath, his first instinct being to place blame upon the obvious enemy. Wilhelm Engel and his Marchers! The scum had done this, used this churlish trick to cripple the Reiksknecht’s horses and maim the Reiksknecht’s men! Well, if Emperor Boris wanted a massacre, then Erich would be happy to oblige him now!
Then the captain saw the furtive figures stealing out from the buildings facing the plaza, peeking down from the rooftops and slinking down alleyways and side-streets. Kaiserjaeger! The horrible truth dawned upon Erich. It had been Kreyssig’s men who had strewn the road with caltrops. Many of them had been hunters and woodsmen, they would have the skills to sneak in and leave such a hideous surprise under cover of the fog!
In the hands of each of the black-clad soldiers the slender curve of a bow was held at the ready. The Reiksknecht inside the plaza were hopelessly surrounded; the only way open to them lay across the field of caltrops and the bodies of their own injured comrades.
Kreyssig had plotted well. Somehow he had learned of Grand Master von Schomberg’s intention to stop the massacre. With murderous planning, the commander had neutralised an entire order of knights. Screams rising from the Altgarten, raging fires blazing from the squalor of Breadburg showed that Kreyssig had even reserved enough of his forces to still carry out his original mission.
‘Knights of the Reiksknecht,’ a grating voice called out. ‘Lay down your weapons and submit to the Emperor’s justice!’
Erich could see the archers draw back their arrows, taking aim at the trapped knights. He looked around him for something, anything he could use to help his comrades. All he found was Aldinger trying to pull himself out from under the writhing body of his horse. A caltrop had stabbed through the flesh of his hand, three others piercing the body of his horse. Erich made his decisions at once, rushing to the knight’s aid. Maybe he couldn’t help the men in the plaza, but he could help Aldinger.
As he helped the pinned knight lift the body of his horse, Erich kept his gaze fixed upon the plaza. Grand Master von Schomberg was both brave and bold. He wouldn’t submit meekly to a tyrant.
‘Sigmar will be my judge!’ von Schomberg’s voice rose in a defiant shout. At his order, the knights in the plaza spurred their horses towards the caltrops, forcing the huge animals out from the trap, urging them to trample the bodies of wounded men and horses.
The command to loose arrows was given. The shrieks of horses and the screams of men rang out from the plaza as the volley struck. Others, however, came thundering out into the road. Many of the knights fell, the hooves of their horses punctured by the spiked caltrops, but others fought their way clear. Archers rushed over the rooftops to shoot them down, but the effort was too late. Erich could count at least twenty knights galloping away into the growing dawn, scattering into the streets of Altdorf.
He dragged his eyes away from the scene, closing his ears to the
moans and cries of injured men. His arm supporting Aldinger’s weight, he led the wounded dienstmann into the shadow of an alleyway. He leaned the injured man against the plaster-covered wall.
The Kaiserjaeger would be coming soon, looking for survivors. There was only one way to foil such expert trackers. Erich knelt to the ground, brushing away snow until he uncovered the stone cover of a sewer drain. It took him valuable minutes to pick away at the grime caked around the cover. While he worked, he could hear the Kaiserjaeger moving among the fallen Reiksknecht, evaluating each of the wounded. A ghastly gurgle told when they found a knight they thought too injured to stand trial.
The cover came free just as the Kaiserjaeger began searching the field of caltrops. Hastily, Erich lowered Aldinger down into the reeking warmth of the sewer. The captain followed a moment later, dragging the lid back into place before dropping down into the darkness.
Just as the lid settled into place, Erich heard the voice of the Kaiserjaeger officer again.
‘Leave that one,’ the officer snarled. ‘Commander Kreyssig will want him no matter how beat up he is. It isn’t every day you get to hang a Grand Master.’
Nuln
Kaldezeit, 1111
‘We live in an age of science and reason, not idiotic superstition!’
The statement was given voice by Lord Karl-Joachim Kleinheistkamp, a wrinkled old man, his bald head unconvincingly covered by a horsehair wig, the buttons on his broad coat displaying a veneer of tarnish and smut. He affected the pompous confidence of a man secure in his authority and with no time for anything that did not fit neatly into the world described in his books and papers. All in all, Kleinheistkamp was typical of the Universität’s professors.