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  Vitholf digested that information. The dwarfs had discussed much about these skaven, putting flesh to the old human fables about Underfolk. It was a disgusting thing for a man to contemplate. A society of humanoid rodents dwelling under their feet, plotting the downfall of civilization itself. The dwarfs insisted that such was the truth.

  The story was borne out by Prince Mandred, who related his earlier encounters with representatives of the breed. Once in company with the Kineater and once lurking about with a cult of plague-worshippers on the walls of Middenheim. The implications of that first incident were almost too horrific to contemplate.

  ‘The outbreak of plague in Middenheim would coincide with the infestation in Karak Grazhyakh,’ Mandred said. His wounds had been dressed and bathed in healing unguents, but he was still weak from loss of blood, lending his voice an uncharacteristic air of fatigue. ‘The two must be related.’

  ‘I agree, your grace,’ Brother Richter pronounced. ‘The southern provinces have been beset by entire armies of these things. The brutes that enslaved Averland and Solland, burned Wissenburg and Pfeildorf were kin of this vermin. History tells us that Sigmar once drove this abomination from the Empire, but even His priesthood has ignored the veracity of His deed, finding it more politic to treat the account as mere legend.’

  Ar-Ulric scowled at the carcass, knocking its tail away from where he was sitting. ‘Men would find it hard to sleep at night knowing things like that were scurrying around in the dark,’ the old priest declaimed. ‘It is one thing to accept the beastmen, the northmen and greenskins. Those are enemies out in the wild or beyond the borders.’ He brought his hand slapping against the table. ‘These… These strike at where we live. Even a wolf must feel secure in its den.’

  ‘His holiness is right,’ von Vogelthal stated. Slowly the chamberlain returned to the table, a visible shiver coursing through him at every step. ‘The peasants would revolt if they found out such things were prowling about under their toes! Why toil for their noble lords if those same lords cannot protect them from walking vermin?’

  Thane Hardin nodded sadly. ‘That is why my people did not warn you about the fight in the tunnels. We feared you would flee Middenheim, abandon the city out of terror.’

  ‘Your opinion of men must be very low,’ Graf Gunthar said, pain in his voice.

  ‘You squabble and bicker among yourselves so much already,’ Kurgaz grumbled, ‘that any crisis is apt to set you at each other’s throats. Is it any wonder we prefer to do our own fighting?’

  Brother Richter turned towards Kurgaz. ‘That is an injustice,’ he stated. ‘To be certain, humanity is more fractious and turbulent than dwarfkind, but our differences make us stronger, not weaker. Sigmar united twelve tribes, bound twelve different peoples into a single purpose. Through Him, the divergent traditions and ideas of the tribes were disseminated, spread throughout the Empire. The adversity of war brought men together in a way that peace and tranquillity never would. You fear that a crisis will bring out the worst in men. I reject that idea! I tell you that it is through crisis that you find the best in men.’

  Kurgaz looked away from the Sigmarite, staring instead at Mandred, recalling how the prince had exposed himself to attack in order to cut the dwarf’s bonds. ‘I think I’ve already seen that,’ he admitted.

  ‘Karak Grazhyakh will need the resources Middenheim can provide,’ Graf Gunthar said. ‘Food, timber, cloth and fur. Soldiers too.’

  Thane Hardin shook his head at the last offer. ‘My people are accustomed to fighting in the tunnels and understand something of the foe. We will drive the skaven back. It is only a matter of time.’

  ‘With all due respect, thane,’ Mandred said, ‘time is the one thing we don’t have. If these fiends are behind the plague, then every hour they infest the Ulricsberg allows them to spread disease among the people of Middenheim. This battle may be fought in your domain, but this fight doesn’t belong to dwarfs alone. Our people are at risk as well. You must allow us to help purge the mountain of these vermin.’

  Ar-Ulric took up the call for battle. ‘A decisive thrust against the skaven, delivered by men and dwarfs. The reinforcements could be just the edge needed to tip the balance. Moreover, if we wait to fight we risk losing the battle to the plague.’

  Thane Hardin and Kurgaz held a brief consultation in Khazalid, their words unintelligible to nearly all of the men around them, only Richter being versed enough in that language to follow some of what they were saying.

  ‘All right,’ Thane Hardin declared. ‘We will allow human troops in the tunnels. But we want their commander to be someone we can trust.’ He pointed a stubby finger at Mandred.

  Graf Gunthar rose from his chair, glowering at the dwarf leader. ‘Impossible,’ he said. ‘My son is still healing from his wounds.’

  ‘He’ll get better,’ Kurgaz observed. ‘We’ll bring up some medicinal ale that’ll have him spry in no time.’ He flexed his stiff arm, wincing as a flash of pain from his wound shot through him. ‘Better than anything you have up here,’ he added. Without the worry of incurring a grudge, dwarf doktoring could work wonders in a very short time.

  ‘Father, I want to go,’ Mandred said. ‘The dwarfs helped build Middenheim. Even if we were sure of our own safety, we’d be obligated to help. Honour demands nothing less of us.’ He glared at the carcass. ‘Besides, I have a personal reckoning with these monsters.’

  Reluctantly, Graf Gunthar settled back in his seat, lines of worry wrinkling his brow. Without a word, he nodded at his son.

  ‘Only the soldiers accompanying his grace should be made aware of the kind of enemy we face,’ von Vogelthal suggested. ‘If the knowledge were to become public it would spread panic just when we can afford it least.’ He bowed in apology to Brother Richter. ‘Not to contradict your speech about strength in adversity, but it is a wise man who prepares for the worst possibility.’

  ‘Then prepare we shall,’ Graf Gunthar declared. ‘No public speech, I agree with you there. That would breed panic. What we must do is to be subtle.’ He cast his gaze from one councillor to another. ‘Each liege lord will take his vassals into confidence. His vassals in turn will disseminate the truth to his subjects. From master to servant, piece by piece, we spread the word. We feed each man’s pride with a sacred trust instead of fostering a general panic. Frightened men panic, proud men fight.’

  Proud, stubborn, the dwarfs fought to the last warrior to defend the lower workings. It took the hordes of Clan Mors three days and a thousand slaves to overwhelm the thirty dwarfs who made their stand in the gallery. By the time it was over, the floor was caked in black blood and fur.

  Warlord Vrrmik gnawed on the severed finger of a dwarf as he surveyed the carnage. It wasn’t the loss of life that upset him – there were always more slaves to be had. Clan Mors was renowned for ferreting out weaker clans and enslaving them. The toughness of the enemy didn’t bother him either – he’d fought dwarfs often enough to know they were always more trouble than they were worth.

  No, the burr in Vrrmik’s fur was the indignity of it all! Any victory he achieved was bitter and hollow, as empty as a dried-out flea. Warmonger Vecteek had summoned Clan Mors to Wolfrock under false pretences. Vrrmik had imagined he would share in the victory, that some of the triumph enjoyed by Clan Rictus would rub off on Clan Mors. Now, as Vecteek mobilised Mors, Vrrmik was discovering the depth of the tyrant’s duplicity.

  Clan Mors was nothing but a diversionary force, meant to distract and draw off the dwarfs while Vecteek was leading the main body of skaven by a circuitous route into the heart of the dwarfhold!

  Vrrmik was a horrifying sight as he prowled among the dead, his white fur standing stark against his black armour. Forged by the artisans of Clan Skryre, the steel plates had been steeped in powdered warpstone, lending it a horrendous capacity for damage. Some among the chiefs of Clan Mors had seen a hydra break its fangs on that
armour, more than a few had cursed it for deflecting the blades of their hired assassins. Out of his armour, Vrrmik was formidable, huge and powerful even by the standards of a clan known for breeding hulking warriors. In his warp-plate, Vrrmik felt almost invincible.

  ‘Splendid victory, Great Warlord Vrrmik,’ Puskab Foulfur’s phlegmy voice coughed in the white skaven’s ear. The warlord almost choked on the finger he was gnawing. Springing away, he bared his fangs at the plague priest. One of the handicaps of his armour was that so much warpstone close to him had rendered his sense of smell quite feeble.

  ‘Plague-spitter,’ Vrrmik hissed at the antlered priest. ‘Go back to Vecteek. His paws might need licking. Hurry-scurry!’

  Puskab coughed in a diseased semblance of amusement. ‘The Horned One favours Vecteek,’ he said.

  Vrrmik gnashed his fangs. It was another point that disgusted him, the way the grey seers fawned over Vecteek and declared him the Horned Rat’s favourite pup! Just thinking about it made him want to kill something. He hoped his scouts would find some more dwarf tunnel fighters soon.

  ‘Clan Rictus steal-take all glory for itself,’ Puskab continued. ‘Leave nothing for Clan Pestilens. Less for Clan Mors.’

  ‘What do you speak-squeak?’ Vrrmik wondered aloud. It occurred to him that the plague monks were dire enemies of the grey seers and had their own brand of heretical religion. To date, they had been supportive of Vecteek and prospered by that alliance. Perhaps, however, Arch-Plaguelord Nurglitch wanted something more than simple wealth for his clan.

  ‘Vecteek has his plan,’ Puskab said, creeping closer, his eyes glittering in the torchlight. ‘We will have our own plan,’ he chittered.

  The plague priest’s voice dropped to a low whisper as he described what those plans would be.

  Chapter XIV

  Altdorf

  Brauzeit, 1114

  Flanked by dour warrior priests, sombre in their black robes and grey cloaks, Adolf Kreyssig felt distinctly ill at ease as he strode through the echoing marble halls of the Great Cathedral. Alabaster busts of Sigmarite scions frowned down at him from niches carved into the forest of stone columns supporting the vaulted ceiling hundreds of feet overhead. Sprawling tapestries depicting the victories of Sigmar stretched across the walls, commemorating the triumphs of Sigmar the man. Stained-glass windows towered above the tapestries, each scene recalling a different miracle visited upon the Empire by Sigmar the god. Kreyssig had long ago cast aside his credulity for gods and miracles, but even he felt small surrounded by the grandiose iconography of the temple.

  The warrior priests conducted their charge down a set of marble steps and into a wide corridor that led away from the main sanctuary and past the monastic cells of their own militant order. The few persons they passed wore the brown habits of mendicants or the white cassocks of friars. None of the higher clergy, the temple elders, were in evidence.

  The Protector of the Empire shifted uncomfortably as the cat he led on a leash rubbed against his leg. One of the baroness’s creatures, of course, intended to warn him if there were skaven about. He hesitated a moment as the feline perked up its head and glanced about the hall. After a moment, it subsided, returning to that lazy indolence that had characterised its attitude since he’d acquired it. He stared uneasily at the animal, then glared at the curious faces of his guides. It wasn’t for men of their station to question the habits of their betters.

  Mounting a spiral stairway, Kreyssig was led up into the great spire that rose high above the cathedral. Narrow windows cut into the exterior wall overlooked the city, affording an almost breathtaking view of Altdorf. He could see clear to the Reik, watch the few ships stubbornly plying the river trade navigating between the mid-channel islands. He could see the vast sprawl of the Kaisergarten, the scorched wreck where Breadburg had once stood, the ramshackle slumland that had grown up in the shadow of the capital’s walls. He could see the Courts of Justice and the Imperial Palace. From this height, even these imperious structures seemed small.

  When he thought they could climb no higher, one of the silent priests motioned for Kreyssig to wait. Stepping ahead of the Protector, the priest drew a heavy key from around his neck, thrusting it into a door that blended in so perfectly with the wall that Kreyssig was unaware it was even there until the cleric began to draw it open. With a bow, the priest gestured for Kreyssig to enter.

  Kreyssig’s breath caught in his throat as he beheld the magnificence of the chamber. Inwardly, he chided himself for ever being awed by the Kaiseraugen. Emperor Boris’s picture window was a crude, crass thing compared to what he now saw. Except for the floor and a hip-high stripe of wall, the entire chamber seemed composed of glass, only the steel framework spoiling the transparency of the curved ceiling overhead. The effect when he walked into the room was like stepping onto the clouds themselves. He felt his head swim for a moment as a feeling of vertigo tugged at his brain.

  It didn’t take an architect to recognize that no human hand had built this chamber. There was something esoteric, magical about it. Dwarfcraft, but on a far more magnificent scale than Boris Goldgather’s windows and apiary. Those had been constructed with no greater ambition than the gold the Emperor was paying. The dwarfs who had laboured on the Great Cathedral had done so for far more profound reasons, repaying ancient debts of honour and friendship.

  ‘Welcome to the observium,’ a dolorous voice pronounced.

  By force of will, Kreyssig turned his gaze from the dizzying vista beyond the transparent walls. He stared at the speaker, the cleric in his golden robes, a massive pectoral of jade hanging about his neck. Stefan Schoppe wasn’t the same man who had begged and pleaded in the Dragon’s Hole. His ascension from mere lector to Grand Theogonist had transformed him into the most powerful cleric in Altdorf. There was fire in his eye as he met Kreyssig’s gaze, an almost palpable and entirely understandable animosity.

  Kreyssig bowed his head. ‘I bring affections from your daughter, your holiness,’ he greeted the Grand Theogonist. With all the majesty of his surroundings, all the power he now wielded, it was prudent to remind Stefan that his daughter was still a guest of the Kaiserjaeger.

  The fire flickered in the priest’s eyes, but did not go out. The Grand Theogonist slowly stepped away from the cherrywood lectern and the vellum star chart he had been perusing. Gripping the long stave that formed part of his regalia, he approached his impious petitioner, sweeping past the ordained astrologers who bustled about the set of parchment-strewn tables that dominated one side of the room. For an instant, he paused, turning his head and glancing at the other side of the room. Here there were no tables, only a number of small stone benches spaced equidistantly along the length of the chamber. Upon each bench there knelt a woman dressed in thick cream-coloured robes. Each of the women was bald as an egg, a thick blindfold wrapped about her face. Rumour claimed that there were no eyes beneath the blindfolds, that in exchange for their divine vision the Sigmarite augurs removed their real eyes as an offering to their god.

  ‘The augurs have told me much about you, Kreyssig,’ the priest said as he came closer, unmistakable threat behind his voice.

  Kreyssig nodded, appreciating that there were other ways of learning things beyond spies and traitors. The Temple howled for the blood of witches and warlocks, but they had no compunction about exploiting such abilities for themselves. They just called their witches augurs and prophets.

  ‘Perhaps we would be better discussing these things in private, your holiness,’ Kreyssig suggested. The Grand Theogonist didn’t hesitate, but brought the end of his staff against the marble floor. At the sound, the warrior priests withdrew and the astrologers quit their labours and quietly filed out onto the stairway. The blind augurs, however, remained where they were. If they had truly disclosed his secrets to Stefan, there was small point in demanding they leave.

  ‘Rumours have reached these holy halls,’ the Grand Theogonis
t said. ‘The streets of Altdorf whisper that the Protector of the Empire is a heretic, that he consorts with witches and daemons. They say that he has used spells to corrupt the Emperor and force him from his palace. They say it is because of him that the gods shun these lands and plague runs rampant through the city.’

  ‘Lies and fabrications,’ Kreyssig snorted derisively. ‘Peasant babble that means nothing and threatens less.’

  ‘The common folk are starving,’ the Grand Theogonist observed. ‘Their families sicken, they count their dead by the bushel. They feel their Emperor has deserted them and that their gods punish them for the wickedness of their noble lords. They seek out a cause for their troubles, something they can understand and fight. At the moment they are too afraid to act upon the rumours they spread. But there comes a moment when fear burns itself out, leaving only hatred and resentment behind.’

  The Grand Theogonist’s hand clenched tighter about the haft of his staff. ‘And, of course, even the most humble man has an obligation to Sigmar. A duty to root out heresy, to destroy those who would call upon the Ruinous Powers, to purge the land of all tainted by the touch of Chaos.’ He closed his eyes, reciting a passage from the Deus Sigmar. ‘Accursed be they who treat with the witch, for they abandon themselves to obscenity. Blessed be they who suffer not the abomination among them, for they shall be known as the pure.’

  ‘There is a time for dogma and a time to be practical,’ Kreyssig hissed at the priest.

  Opening his eyes, the Grand Theogonist glared at Kreyssig. ‘A mandate from the divine,’ he cried. ‘A holy duty to overwhelm and destroy heretics like yourself, no matter where they be found!’

  Kreyssig scowled at Stefan. Almost absently, he removed a fold of cloth from under the sleeve of his doublet, a strip cut from the dress of Stefan’s daughter. He laughed darkly when he saw the irate priest flinch at the sight. ‘For all your pious doggerel, there is a man under those robes, the heart of a father beating in that breast. You have invoked the name of your god, I call upon the name of your daughter… and her continued good health.’