A WARHAMMER NOVEL

VERMINTIDE

BRUNO LEE

(An Undead Scan v1.0)

This is a dark age, a bloody age, an age of daemons

and of sorcery. It is an age of battle and death, and of the

world’s ending. Amidst all of the fire, flame and fury

it is a time, too, of mighty heroes, of bold deeds

and great courage.

At the heart of the Old World sprawls the Empire, the

largest and most powerful of the human realms. Known

for its engineers, sorcerers, traders and soldiers, it is

a land of great mountains, mighty rivers, dark forests

and vast cities. And from his throne in Altdorf reigns

the Emperor Karl-Franz, sacred descendent of the

founder of these lands, Sigmar, and wielder

of his magical warhammer.

But these are far from civilised times. Across the

length and breadth of the Old World, from the knightly

palaces of Bretonnia to ice-bound Kislev in the far north,

come rumblings of war. In the towering World’s Edge

Mountains, the orc tribes are gathering for another assault.

Bandits and renegades harry the wild southern lands of

the Border Princes. There are rumours of rat-things, the

skaven, emerging from the sewers and swamps across the

land. And from the northern wildernesses there is the

ever-present threat of Chaos, of daemons and beastmen

corrupted by the foul powers of the Dark Gods.

As the time of battle draws ever near.

the Empire needs heroes

like never before.

PROLOGUE

The night shadows hung heavy about the thick walls of the Waldenhof Museum. The streets around the mammoth structure that celebrated Sigmar’s great and glorious Empire were dark; only the most populous streets had streetlamps. The night was made darker still by the thick grey clouds that spread across the sky, like the cobweb of some celestial spider trapping the faces of the moons behind a smoky veil.

Within the museum, the cavernous halls were transformed into networks of shadow. The origins of the immense Maeckler Collection could be traced back a thousand years, passing from father to son throughout the family’s history. Each generation had expanded the collection, adding to the vast catalogue of artefacts, obscurities and outright oddities deemed historically important. As it had grown, the vast halls had become a veritable labyrinth of crowded shelves and cramped displays. In this dead, almost sightless night, they assumed the quality of a deserted tomb.

Deserted? A shadow glided between the exhibits, freezing as it heard the soft sound of feet stepping on stone somewhere in the distance. The faint smell of sweat and oil interposed itself amid the odour of dust and time. The shadow crept forward, its pace slightly more certain.

Only once did it pause, pressing itself against the polished oak door that separated the hall from the next branch of the museum. The shadow held its breath, quieted its heart, stifling all the little noises that a body can make, as it pressed its ear against the wooden portal.

For a time, the shadow remained pressed against the door, not moving a single muscle even as moonlight threatened to illuminate the halls. Then, slowly, the shape detached itself from its listening post. It stretched forward, pressing its hand to the latch. The portal withdrew just enough to admit the shape, its back scraping against the bronze jamb.

The gloom was perpetual, but there was ample light for the keen eyes that gleamed from beneath the intruder’s ragged hood. They could see the vast hall, its walls concealed behind massive wooden shelves, every available space occupied by some ancient weapon or piece of armour. Every artefact, from broken statues to the ragged remains of an old stone thrower, bore the sharp runes and painstaking craft of a race far older than man.

The intruder crept carefully through the confines of the dwarf collection, its senses ever more alert. It knew this hall would not be unoccupied. It stole forward, pressing itself against the cold stone side of a massive marble column that once supported the west entrance of the lost dwarf hold, Karag Dar.

A thin sliver of light focused the intruder’s eyes, shining from beneath a heavy, ironbound door of dark Drakwald timber. The face beneath the cowl stretched into a feral grin, exposing yellowed fangs. It was behind that portal that it would find its prey. Slender hands slithered around the hidden weapons beneath the dark cloak. The time for wariness was almost past.

The intruder turned its head away from the door. There was one thing it had yet to do before confronting its victim. It broke away from its cover, scampering across the hall towards a huge, tarpaulin-covered exhibit. The smell of grease, oil and polished steel smashed against the intruder’s senses. It paused before the covered object, a thrill of expectancy holding it frozen to the spot. It knew where to find its prey, but first it had to ensure the prize its master sought was ready.

The figure pulled back its cloak, exposing a large green jewel in a wire mesh container, strapped across its chest. The figure closed its eyes and incanted strange words, and as it did so, the jewel glowed, releasing a sickly green light. The air within the hall began to grow cold, the intruder’s breath frosting as the warmth was sucked from the room. Expectant eyes stared intently at the concealed exhibit, watching as crackling wisps of energy surged around it.

Whatever power that was imprisoned within the jewel amulet was consuming more than the temperature of the room. As its energy flickered and burned out, it left behind only a faint smell of ozone and rotten eggs. The intruder hastily spoke more words of power and the unearthly green luminescence died. It was unwise to tempt the amulet’s terrible power too long, lest its hunger grow too rapacious.

The intruder extended a scrawny hand, clothed in mangy piebald fur, towards the concealing tarpaulin. A greedy glint entered the creature’s eyes as they fixed upon what it concealed, avarice gnawing at the dark corners of its mind. Quickly it scurried closer to the artefact, its beady eyes studying every inch of the steel and iron frame. At last, the creature withdrew, content that its meticulous inspection had confirmed what its master had told it.

The prize was ready. Now it was time to claim its prey.

The creature left the heavy tarpaulin strewn across the floor, scampering away with excited hops. Its blood was up now, agitated by both aggression and fear. Its prey might prove as innocuous as it had been told. Perhaps it was even its master’s intention that it would be he, Quilik, and not the human, who met an end this night. Such suspicion of duplicity caused his heart to slip a beat, the breath to turn sour in his nose. Briefly, his eyes flickered toward the barred windows of the museum and thoughts of escape pounded against the inside of his skull.

Slender, fur-covered hands reached from beneath the cloak, closing about an ancient, clay drinking vessel. Quilik carefully lifted the old drinking pot and turned his head once more toward the door. With a savage gesture, he dashed the relic to the floor, shattering it into a hundred fragments, the loud crash booming through the deserted hall like the roar of a cannon.

Stefan Maeckler looked up from his studies. He had been poring over the manuscript for weeks now, trying to make sense of the archaic words. The pages of the book were not parchment, nor vellum or Arabyan papyrus, but thin sheets of copper upon which the letters were etched and branded. Dwarfs seldom employed anything so short-lived as paper for their writings, trusting to eternal stone and metal to make safe their knowledge. It was just as well. The slimy mire in which the book had been found would have consumed any tome constructed from baser materials.

More frustrating than the excessive weight of the tome, however, was the curious way in which it was written. There were few in Waldenhof to whom the book would have been anything more than a collection of scratches. Indeed, there were not a great number in the entire Empire who could read Khazalid; fewer still who were familiar with the ancient runes featured among the text of the book. Stefan often found himself struggling to decipher the arcane jargon that threatened at every turn to defeat him.

Yet perhaps he had learned enough. Perhaps the book had yielded enough of its secrets for him to be able to achieve his purpose. If so, there would be a great deal of respect and acclaim awaiting him in future. It went without saying that the engineer schools in Nuln and Altdorf would be interested, and, with the wealth such interest would bring, he’d be able to expand the Maeckler Collection far beyond anything his predecessors had dared hope for.

Stefan returned to his study, concentrating on the stubborn dwarf runes. He looked once more at his pile of notes, checking again and again for any errors, any inconsistencies that might have escaped his notice. What was it the philosophers always said? That daemons lurk in the details? Well, if there were any daemons lurking in these details, his association with them was apt to be very fleeting indeed. Why, if he were wrong, the blasted thing might even explode!

Stefan considered the very real dangers this enterprise entailed. But he found his own mortality did not trouble him, surprisingly, in the manner of scholars who placed a greater value on furthering the limits of knowledge than they did on their own lives. Hadn’t he tried to organise an attempt to steal past the hordes of Surtha Lenk and rescue the priceless von Raukov library, before the Kurgan horde razed the city of Wolfenburg? They’d turned down his bold proposal, of course, more concerned with the defence of Waldenhof than the salvation of several hundred mouldy old books. Stefan had wept over all the wisdom that had been lost when the Kurgans had burned Wolfenburg, feeling that loss as sharply as he had the death of his wife during the rampage of Azhag the Slaughterer, seven years before.

Thoughts of family forced caution to the forefront of his mind. It wasn’t his own death he feared, but rather the consequences his death would cause. His son Bastian would be left alone in the world, with no one to care for him, no one to guide him. Worse, if Stefan’s labours resulted in destruction, Bastian would also endure the shame of being the son of the man who destroyed the greatest possession in the entire Maeckler Collection.

Stefan couldn’t let that stigma attach itself to his son. With a deep sigh, he resumed his study of the recalcitrant dwarf tome.

A sound broke through his concentration, causing the scholar to look up from his notes. It came from the hall outside. Stefan rose from his chair and stalked across the small study. If Bastian had locked one of the damn cats in the exhibit hall, there would be hell to pay. The last thing the museum needed was some centuries-old artefact ruined by a mangy feline.

The curate pushed open the door of his study, a candle gripped in his hand. He swept his eyes across the shadowy gloom. As his gaze dropped lower, he noticed the shards of broken clay scattered about the floor. Biting back a curse on all cats, he knelt beside the ruined artefact.

A foul odour caused Stefan to look askance. He cringed as a cloaked shape manifested itself before him. His mind shuddered at the gruesome visage, a long bestial muzzle clothed in dirty piebald fur. Monstrous, chisel-like fangs glistened in the feeble light, while narrow, red eyes gleamed from under the cloak’s hood.

Even as the curator recoiled in horror from the ghastly apparition, filthy, clawed hands emerged. The creature lifted one claw toward its face, blowing across its palm. Stefan’s senses reeled as a cloud of gritty black powder engulfed his face. He fell to his knees, then slumped against the floor.

Quilik chittered with happiness, pleased that his prey had been overcome so easily. The ratman inspected the fallen curator, nose twitching at the smell of blood. It seemed the fragile old man had struck his head against the shards strewn across the floor, ripping a gash in his forehead. Quilik placed his foot against Stefan’s body, flipping the curator onto his back, watching him closely for any sign of undue movement. Finding none, the ratman crept away, sprinting toward the exhibit he had exposed. There were still a few things to be done to ensure the ancient dwarf device was ready before Quilik made good his escape.

With a groan, Stefan turned onto his side, his vision blurred. For a moment, the curator wondered if he had fallen victim to some terrible nightmare, some childhood fear returned to plague his fatigued mind. But the blood trickling from his forehead was real enough. He could see where the candle he had been carrying had fallen, could see the dusty old tapestry its flame was greedily devouring. But more important even than the fire, Stefan could see his prize exhibit—the pride of the Maeckler collection—and the abominable creature that was scurrying about it, adjusting valves and levers in a frenzy of activity. With horror, Stefan realised what the monster was, and what it was doing.

Thick black smoke was filling the hall now. The fire from the tapestry had spread to some of the wooden shelves, the dry timber cracking and popping as the flames consumed it. Stefan groaned. Tears of rage and despair streamed down the curator’s face as he looked toward his prize. The machine was alive now, pulsating with power, just as Stefan had dreamed. But the ratman was going further than he had dared, coaxing the steam engine to its full potential. Stefan could see the great blades beginning to move, thin streams of superheated gas belching from the engine’s pressure valves.

The ratman made a few final adjustments, then leapt down from the control seat, his beady red eyes turning once more in Stefan’s direction. The curator moaned in horror as the monster stalked towards him. The creature laughed its shrill, inhuman titter.

From outside the hall voices suddenly rose, accompanied by the sound of running feet. The fire had apparently not gone unnoticed. The ratman paused only a few paces from Stefan, turning toward the heavy timber door as a tremendous force pounded upon it from the other side. Quilik snarled at the portal in fury and fear, his savagery backed into a corner. Stefan exploited the monster’s distraction, placing his bloodied hand against the floor.

Then the skaven returned his malevolent attention and Stefan’s scream echoed through the hall.

The doors broke on the fifth time that they were struck by the heavy iron maul. It had been taken from an ogre warlord several hundred years ago, its weight and size such that no man could have wielded it as a weapon. But when five men employed it as a battering ram, the timber doors sagged inward. Soldiers spilled into the vast hallway, coughing as thick black smoke greeted them.

The troopers, members of the Waldenhof Town Watch, knew that if the museum were to burn to the ground, some very important people would be unhappy. The kind of people whose unhappiness ended careers. The men raced about the exhibits, gathering up tapestries, battle banners and mouldy cloaks to employ in fighting the blaze.

Three of the men found themselves near the centre of the hall, where the sound of churning pistons and whirling rotors joined the crackle of the flames. The smoke churned strangely and, as they rushed forward, they were amazed to see a strange contraption of steel and iron rising into the air above them, its great blades spinning. As the soldiers watched, the machine rose still higher, smashing through the museum’s skylight and sending a shower of glass clattering down upon them.

They pointed at the strange sight, even the raging fire forgotten as they marvelled at the impossible machine disappearing into the night sky.

One of the soldiers silently made the sign of Rhya against his chest. He had seen something his comrades had not, a fleeting glimpse of a shape, like a body, crouched at the front of the strange machine. And he had seen something else—a long, naked, scaly tail hanging down from the pilot’s body, the loathsome tail of a monstrous rodent.

“Der Rattenherren,” the watchman whispered in a subdued voice as he watched the gyrocopter vanish into the blackness.

CHAPTER ONE

Heiko Geissner strode through the cavernous exhibit halls of the Waldenhof Museum, his boots echoing against the marble floor. The special envoy of Stirland’s elector count stalked his way past ancient Unberogen relics, the battered prow of a Norse long ship, the slightly musty armour and regalia of a Kislevite winged lancer. The Maeckler Collection was as eclectic as it was extensive, encompassing artefacts from before even Sigmar had strode the earth, from virtually every culture known to man.

Heiko was of average height, but his build was somewhat scraggy. He wore a loose tunic of grey fringed in black, the cuffs of a frilled shirt protruding from the sleeves. An almost shapeless cap was crumpled upon his head, a black falcon’s feather fixed to the scarlet cloth by a polished bronze pin. The face beneath the Tilean-styled hat was severe, its prominent cheekbones and deep-set eyes contriving with its hawk-like nose to create the impression of a predator, lean and hungry.

The Waldenhof Museum—along with the Maeckler family who founded it, and continued to maintain it many generations later—was an institution in Waldenhof, as much a fixture of the town’s identity as the castle of the elector count. Waldenhof was not cosmopolitan by the standards of Nuln, or Talabheim, or Altdorf. Stirland was the poorest of the Empire’s provinces. Roads were maintained in only the most randomly infrequent fashion; the road wardens who patrolled them were scarce, poorly equipped and ill trained. The army maintained by Stirland was shabby—most soldiers needing to provide their own arms and armour, or else carry a spear that had probably been used in the Vampire Wars, and wear a uniform that consisted in total of a green sash tied about the arm.

Waldenhof was the rundown capital of an impoverished land. The town would have withered away, had it not been for the presence of the elector count and his court. In the years following Mordheim’s desolation, and the ravages of the vampiric von Carsteins, any trade that still flowed into Stirland had relocated to the river settlement of Wurtbad, expanding it over the intervening centuries into the closest thing the province could claim as an actual city. Still, if the fortunes of Waldenhof had lessened, the pride of its rulers had not. In their travels they would see the grandeur of Middenheim and Wolfenburg, Altdorf and Nuln. They would see the palatial opera houses and gargantuan amphitheatres, the majestic temple-cathedrals and monolithic clock towers. They would see these wonders, these testaments to wealth and power, and then return to their own capital, with its muddy streets and wooden shanties. Was it any wonder that such men would tend their pride by squandering the meagre wealth of their province?

The Waldenhof Opera House was a mammoth structure that could seat over a thousand within its gigantic theatre, its walls adorned with marble statues imported from Tilea, its domed roof covered in red-day tiles from Estalia. It was sometimes jokingly called the “Little Altdorf”, for its blatant attempt to ape the majestic Karl-Franz Theatre. That the population of the town was neither large enough nor prosperous enough to maintain a permanent opera company, the structure standing empty and silent for eight months in twelve, had been of little consideration to the count who had ordered its construction—other provincial capitals had opera houses, and so, too, should Waldenhof.

The Waldenhof Museum was no different, albeit its pedigree stretched back further than that of the opera house. The museum dated back to the year 1755, nearly eight centuries ago, another period of Waldenhof civic envy. Even in those more prosperous times, it had been a frivolous and reckless expenditure, though the wealthy Maeckler family had shared a large part of the expense.

Heiko Geissner had little use for the Waldenhof Museum, once having described it as nothing more than a bloated leech fastened onto the town’s heart. Every year it drained a little more from the town treasury. The building had to be maintained, and, as part of the contract signed with the Maeckler family, half the cost of any new exhibits absorbed by the government. Heiko was a man who placed enormous value on efficiency, on stretching resources as far as they would go. It was one of the qualities that the elector count considered among his envoy’s greatest assets. Conversely, when it came to the monolithic institutions that burdened Waldenhof, Graf Alberich Haupt-Anderssen also found that same quality most likely to get on his nerves.

The grey-haired envoy smiled at the inanity of the next exhibit. The wax figure certainly had a connection to Waldenhof, even if it belonged more to the realm of fantasy than did the Gloenuck Swine. It was a tall man, his raiment consisting of tattered leather breeches and a ragged fur coat. The figure’s face and hands were grimy with dirt, his head covered by a ratskin cap, the long scaly tale of the vermin hanging down his back. In one hand, the figure held a long wooden pole with a wire loop drooping from its tip. The other hand gripped a massive sack flung over its shoulder, from the mouth of which the tiny hand of a small child could be seen.

Every child learned the legend of Der Rattenherren. Tradition had it that he had been employed by the town as a rat catcher, during a particularly harsh summer when the vermin had swelled to unprecedented numbers. The rat catcher had agreed to disinfest the town for fifty gold crowns—an outrageous sum, but one that the town elders had agreed to, such was the man’s reputation and such was the state of emergency in which they found themselves. The biggest and boldest of the rats had even begun to sneak into cribs and attack children in the streets.

The man did as he had promised, ridding the town of its unwanted denizens. However, he had not reckoned upon the size of the task when he had set his price, and, when the time came for him to receive his pay, the rat catcher demanded ten times what had earlier been agreed upon. Instead of payment, the villain was tarred and feathered for his effrontery, and run out of town by the Waldenhof Watch.

But the rat catcher returned. In the dead of winter he stole back into Waldenhof to take his revenge. He would have his price, in blood if not in gold. He stole into the homes of Waldenhof’s citizens, abducting sleeping children from their beds. Such was his madness that, in a single night, Der Rattenherren stole every child in Waldenhof, taking them away with him into the strange lands beyond the World’s Edge Mountains.

Or so went the story that every child in Waldenhof grew up with. Der Rattenherren would return to the town, centuries after his original rampage, to stuff the naughtiest children into his bag and take them to some faraway land, none of them setting eyes upon their home or family again. There was even a Rattenherren festival, where men in the village would dress up as the infamous rat catcher and go from house to house frightening the children, reminding them to obey their parents or risk ending up in his bag. For the older citizens of Waldenhof, the festival was an excuse to feast, drink and dance long into the night with a reasonable amount of forbearance, if not sanction, from the Temple of Sigmar.

The great oak door that opened upon the dwarf hall leant drunkenly upon, its hinges, a great dent smashed in its very centre. Beside the door, one of the Waldenhof Watch stood, leaning upon his halberd. As soon as he caught sight of Heiko, the soldier snapped to attention with parade-ground precision. Heiko stalked past him, pausing only long enough to comment upon the tarnished buttons on the front of the man’s tunic.

The hall had suffered from the fire the thief had set. The flames blackened one entire wall, its charred remains poking up from the ashes like old bones. Heiko could see a number of town watchmen poking about in the ruins, and a sickly little man in a green robe pleading with the soldiers to be careful. The commander of the watch, an ex-mercenary named Rodenbeck, was trying to quieten the little man’s excitement and keep him out of the way. To one side, Heiko could see another member of the watch, a big brute whose body seemed to have decided it didn’t need a neck, standing guard over a distraught young man clad only in his night shirt. The envoy suspected that the lad’s shivering had little to do with the morning chill.

Rodenbeck resented turning over the investigation to Heiko, but was wise enough to understand he had no choice in the matter. The elector count wanted it kept quiet. The gyrocopter of Thane Orgri had been stolen. It had played a prestigious role in the Battle of Kislev’s Gate, even saving the life of the later Emperor Manfred. An important piece of Imperial history in its own right, it was an equally valuable artefact to the dwarfs, and they had demanded its return on innumerable occasions. Its theft had the potential to become a political flashfire, and, if not handled carefully, could lead to a very ugly situation between the province of Stirland and the ancient kingdoms of the dwarfs.

Exactly how the thief had gained entry was a mystery. The skylight was broken outward, not inward, and the door had been locked from inside when the watch broke it down. There were only three keys to the room.

Stefan Maeckler, the curator, was missing, but the puddle of blood near the fire-damaged exhibits might easily be his.

A sharply angular symbol had been drawn on the floor, sparking Heiko’s curiosity. He copied it down onto a slip of parchment, then sent one of the watchmen to the Walderweg to bring back an expert to decipher the dwarf runes. It was too dangerous to involve any dwarfs, too much chance of their taking offence at any suggestion they were responsible and sending word back to their fellows. But Dako Bramblethorn was not a dwarf, but a halfling who had served as a chef in Zhufbar for nearly a decade, and was familiar with dwarf writing from his exposure to their cookbooks. More importantly, he was someone who owed Heiko a few favours.

Josef Maeckler was Stefan’s brother and assistant curator. A bookish, awkward little man, he nevertheless had a solid alibi for when the theft and vandalism took place—though Rodenbeck was surprised that such an old man would patronise one of Waldenhof’s brothels. Josef didn’t have much to say that was useful, but he did let drop one important point that had sinister connotations. His brother had been engaged in restoring the gyrocopter to working order for the first time since the Great War Against Chaos. It was too coincidental that the thief would strike only when the gyrocopter had been restored, claimed Josef. He must have been watching and waiting for quite some time. It gave Heiko much more to consider than he really desired. But Josef had an even bigger revelation to make.

It happened that, only a few weeks ago, the museum was visited by a wizard—probably from the Light College, to judge from Josef’s description of him. The wizard carried a written command from the Order of Sigmar, with the twin-tailed comet seal of the witch hunters affixed to it. He was to place a protective ward upon Thane Orgri’s gyrocopter. Not one to argue with the order, Josef had granted the wizard access. It seemed the witch hunters had reason to believe the exhibit would be stolen, and had taken measures to guard against such an event.

And then there was Bastian Maeckler—Stefan’s son, the nervous young man Heiko had seen upon entering the room. He was still a few winters away from his twentieth year, his frame slight, his skin displaying the unhealthy pallor common to scholars and priests, spending more time in candlelight with mouldering texts than under the sun. He was dressed only in his nightshirt, the thin garment hanging about his lean shoulders like a shroud, the cloth shuddering each time he was seized by the wracking sobs that rose from his wretched figure. Heiko had interrogated him briefly before dismissing Bastian as a suspect. He was too conversant with human nature to believe the distraught youth was a party to the crime.

“They—they think I—I did it,” the words dripped from Bastian’s mouth, heavy with shame.

Heiko took a step closer, clapping a reassuring hand upon Bastian’s shoulder. “They don’t know you like I do,” he told the boy. “Although we’ve never met before, you can believe me when I say I know all about you and your father. I know that neither of you could ever do something to hurt the museum.” The envoy gave Bastian another reassuring smile. “Now, please, tell me what happened.” The boy smiled back at him and struggled to compose himself, almost visibly suffering.

“I—I was asleep,” Bastian finally admitted.

Heiko understood that what he had taken for shame in the boy’s voice had actually been guilt, but of a different kind.

“It was—the…” Bastian lowered his face, struggling to contain his agony.

Heiko knew exactly what the youth was going through. He had seen it many times, in men as great as the knights templar and as low as the basest peasant. In the aftermath of any tragedy, those who survived would always ask themselves why. Why had they been spared, why them and not some other? Then another, even more insidious thought would take root in this morbid soil. If only they had done something different, if only they had tried harder, if only they had acted sooner, then someone would have been spared. Heiko could detect that foul virus of self-recrimination in Bastian’s eyes.

“It was the smoke,” Bastian declared, his voice surprisingly assertive. “I awoke because of the smoke. I am a sound sleeper—I didn’t hear anything. If only I had,” he added, turning his face toward the floor.

Heiko placed his hand on the boy’s shoulder, lifting him to his feet. “Thank you, Bastian,” the envoy said. “We are finished with you now. Go and get yourself clean. You’ve had a very trying night.”

Bastian’s expression was one of confusion rather than relief. Heiko watched it quickly harden into determination. He could well guess the thoughts that ran rampant in the boy’s mind. “Get some rest. We’ll catch the thieves,” Heiko assured him, pointing him in the direction of the museum staffs living quarters.

“But—maybe I can…”

“You are a scholar, a historian,” Heiko reminded the boy. “Leave more tawdry matters to those who know how to unravel them.”

The envoy turned away, toward the empty space beneath the shattered skylight. Dealing with the political complications would be trying enough, he didn’t need the boy underfoot as well.

It was some time afterwards that Dako Bramblethorn had arrived, looking dishevelled and loudly bemoaning missing his second breakfast. The pot-bellied halfling grudgingly allowed himself to be led to where someone—most likely Stefan Maeckler—had drawn a symbol on the floor in blood. Dako had grown even more indignant as he stared at it.

“We already had somebody try to decipher it,” Rodenbeck explained. “But they couldn’t.”

Dako peered more intently at the symbol, scratching his sideburns as he inspected it, cocking his head to one side to try to see it from a different angle.

“Yes, Herr Maeckler was incapable of rendering an opinion as to what it says,” Heiko added. “But I am certain the renowned Herr Bramblethorn will shed some light upon its meaning.”

Dako looked up, his eyes narrowed in annoyance.

“A fine jest, Geissner,” the halfling spat. “I may owe you a favour or three, but my indulgence only goes so far!” Without further word, he began to stomp his way back across the museum.

“It is no jest,” Heiko protested, hurrying after him. “I really do need the rune translated!” Dako paused, his hands on his hips.

“It means ‘rat’,” the halfling declared. “You dragged me across town to translate the word ‘rat’.”

It was Heiko’s turn to be confused. “You are certain?” The envoy was perplexed. “Rat? Why would an injured man, possibly a dying one, leave such a meaningless message behind?”

“It’s inexpertly written, but that’s what it means.” Dako bowed mockingly, his child-like face smiling as he saw the confusion on Heiko’s. “You wanted me to translate it, and I have. How it figures in all of this,” the halfling swept his tiny arm, indicating the shattered skylight and the fire-damaged section of the museum, “is your problem. Good day, Geissner.”

Heiko didn’t watch Dako leave, he was too preoccupied with the questions the halfling’s brief visit had raised. Rat? It just didn’t make any sense.

The palace of Stirland’s elector count was much like the opera house. It was impressive by the standards of the rural province, but far less so to those who had been to the great cities, witnessing their wealth and opulence. The elegance of Graf Alberich’s hall was largely a showpiece to display before petitioners and emissaries from abroad. But Heiko was more familiar with the reality. The rooms and chambers that were open to guests might have polished floors of expensive Bretonnian timber, and elaborately engraved panels covering the walls, but the rest of the castle—the utilitarian sections such as the guard barracks and kitchens—were bare stone. Heiko often wondered how many of the elector count’s visitors were taken in by the deception.

The envoy paused as he made his way down one of the castle’s corridors, his eyes straying to a large tapestry depicting one of the former elector counts engaged in battle with a horde of slavering orcs. Tradition held that the warrior was no less a personage than Emperor Leopold, though the Maecklers had been unable to verify the claim, which was wholly convenient. To have guests walk past some distinguished ancestor was commonplace. To have them walk past the man who succeeded the heroic Magnus the Pious as emperor was altogether magnificent, reminding them of the power and glory Stirland had once held.

Besides, there was a large portrait of Leopold in the Imperial Palace in Altdorf. Waldenhof was not about to allow a foreign city to possess the only known representation of the great man made during his lifetime. Even if, in truth, it was the only likeness of him that had ever been historically verified.

Heiko made his way to a door set into the wall on his left, just beyond the suspect portrait. He listened for a moment, hearing raised voices beyond the portal. It seemed the elector count’s efforts to contain news of the robbery had already fallen apart. Graf Alberich shouldn’t have been surprised; his brother’s intelligence network was every bit as good as the elector count’s. Perhaps even better.

“There’s no proof of that yet,” Alberich was saying as Heiko slipped into the room. It was a small, spartan study in which the elector count often conducted informal meetings with emissaries, prominent Stirland nobility, or some of his higher-ranking officials and military officers. Alberich was sitting in a richly upholstered chair, his hands folded in his lap. He was a young man, a good decade Heiko’s junior, with handsome, rugged features and close-cut blond hair. The deep gold-green robes of state, trimmed in ermine and lined in mink, billowed about the elector count’s seated figure.

“Who else would want the damn thing enough to sneak in and steal it?” snarled the room’s other occupant, pacing across the animal-hide rugs that covered the floor. Except for his dark hair and the cleft in his chin, the other man was almost identical to the elector count. But there was a poise and dignity about Graf Alberich, a regal air that graced his every word and mannerism, that was quite absent in his younger brother, Rudolf.

It was partially a question of upbringing. Rudolf spoke more harshly and more directly than his brother, lacking the niceties of nuance that characterised diplomatic speech. Alberich had been groomed to inherit his title and position from the moment he was born. As the second son, Rudolph’s development had been directed down a different path. It was a tradition that the armies of Stirland were led by close relatives of the province’s rulers.

“But why would they?” Alberich asked, his soft tones contrasting with Rudolf’s. “The gyrocopter has been in the museum for generations, why would they just suddenly decide to steal it?”

“How should I know? Who can really say what goes on in those thick skulls of theirs?” Rudolf’s pacing was disturbed as his boot caught against the edge of a rug. Angrily, he kicked the offending hide across the room. “You know they’ve demanded it back often enough! Every damn year on the anniversary of the battle, you could plan a calendar around it. After a few hundred years, you’d think they’d understand the answer is no!”

“Old Faith’s sacred groves that the country folk gather in to worship Rhya.”

“See? You prove my point!” Rudolf exclaimed triumphantly. “It’s all about their filthy bone-worship. A bunch of dwarf zealots feels a sense of entitlement, so they simply steal the damn thing back! You know that they hate us, brother. They’ve put our entire family into that Book of Grudges of theirs, all because one of our ancestors wouldn’t give the damn thing back after they abandoned it in Kislev! A bunch of beer-swilling cave lice sitting in their burrows with nothing to do but brood over something over and done centuries ago. Our grandchildren will be looking over their shoulders because of these ankle-biting fanatics. All because of some imagined slight upon their honour!”

“Now you come to it at last,” Alberich interrupted his brother’s diatribe. “It’s because of this fanatical devotion to honour that it’s unlikely to have been the dwarfs. They wouldn’t be able to live with the shame of slinking in here to steal it back.” The elector count’s eyes narrowed. “I think, perhaps, this is someone who wouldn’t be displeased to see relations between Stirland and Karak Kadrin grow colder. Or perhaps much hotter…”

Rudolf stopped pacing. He stared back into that face so very like his own. “That wouldn’t be an accusation?”

“Just a reminder that I can ill suffer the general of my armies, my closest confidant, to leap to ill-founded conclusions.” For the first time, there was a trace of anger in Alberich’s voice. “I won’t tolerate rumour I won’t have the dwarfs set any further on edge than they already are.”

“Perhaps it is not rumour but truth that you would stifle,” Rudolf rejoined, pointing his finger at the seated nobleman.

“You might remember for a moment which of us is the elder,” warned Alberich. “I will not have your warmongering. It is an old song that I’ve grown tired of, and I don’t need to hear it now.”

“I know where my loyalties lie,” Rudolf hissed. “Do you?” He might have said more, but, in turning to snarl at the elector count, he noticed Heiko’s presence in the chamber. “Ah, it seems your raconteur is here,” Rudolf declared. “I shall let you hear the evidence from his lips, since it seems you don’t intend to listen to me.” The dark-haired man made a show of bowing to Graf Alberich, waving his hand in an elaborate Arabyan salaam. Rising, he stormed from the room, stalking past Heiko.

“You’d better turn up evidence that the dwarfs did this, and quickly,” Rudolf snarled under his breath to Heiko. “I don’t think your career can afford another scandal.” Having said his piece, he slammed the door behind him.

“It seems the general is in rare form,” Heiko commented, removing his hat as he approached the elector count. Graf Alberich sighed, rubbing a hand across his bearded chin. Despite his youth, there was a tremendous weariness in his eyes.

“The same song,” Alberich opined, “only now it has added a new verse.” The nobleman uttered a hollow laugh. “You know, I think Rudolf takes this Book of Grudges thing more seriously than the dwarfs ever have.”

“As I warned you once before,” Heiko pointed out. The cloud that had settled about Alberich’s mood darkened still more.

“You never did find any proof,” observed the elector count, his words pointed.

Heiko kept his expression neutral. It had been little more than two years since a string of crimes committed against the few dwarfs dwelling in Waldenhof. Shops burned to the ground, lone dwarfs beaten in the streets and, in at least one case, lynched outside the town walls. The perpetrators had been well organised. Their actions, atrocious as they were, displayed an almost military discipline. Graf Alberich had requested that Heiko uncover the perpetrators, but, when he began to see where the investigation was leading, suddenly changed his mind. Even for an idealist like him, blood was thicker than water.

“What did you learn at the museum?” the elector count asked, trying to dispel the uncomfortable air. “Anything useful?”

Heiko was quiet for a moment. “A little. It is a good deal more complex than it looks on the surface,” he elaborated, handing Alberich a string-bound folio containing his observations.

The nobleman leafed through Heiko’s notes, sometimes pausing as a particular line caught his eye. “Any clues?” he asked, closing the folio. “One very strange lead that I need to follow,” Heiko replied. “Did you know that a wizard visited the museum a few weeks ago, and placed a protective spell on Thane Orgri’s gyrocopter?” Heiko could see by the way Alberich’s brows knitted together that he hadn’t. “Documentation apparently claimed he was working for the Order of Sigmar. He cast his spell and left, and now, a few weeks later, the gyrocopter is stolen.”

The elector count was quiet, turning over Heiko’s account in his mind. “Too much of a coincidence,” he said at last.

“That is what I feel,” Heiko agreed. “I want to go to Altdorf and follow up on this.”

“You’re not going to involve the witch hunters, are you?” Alberich asked with genuine concern. Even elector counts felt nervous around the templars of Sigmar, especially those whose province recognised the Old Faith and the ancient earth goddess Rhya more than the patron deity of the Empire at large. There was something unsettling about men who had it in their power to put entire communities to the torch.

“Credit me with a degree of tact,” Heiko said. “I think the only thing more disastrous than involving the Order of Sigmar would be to march into Karak Kadrin and call old Ungrim Ironfist a thief to his face. No, I was thinking I might be able to track down the wizard who cast the spell. From Josef Maeckler’s description of him, he sounds like he might be a white wizard of the Light College. I can make inquiries there, maybe find out why the witch hunters wanted that spell cast. Clearly, somebody in Altdorf knows.”

The elector count was quiet once more. Heiko could see the worry in the elector count’s face. He hadn’t expected the trail to lead to the capital of the Empire. “When were you intending to leave?”

“As soon as possible,” Heiko said. “I can have one of my subordinates assume my duties here. Give me a day to brief him.”

Alberich nodded. “Very well, my friend. But I must place a few conditions on you. Under no circumstances do you allow the witch hunters to become entangled in this affair. That might turn into a diplomatic nightmare. Secondly, whatever you learn in Altdorf, you will present it to me first.”

There was something about the way the elector count’s voice hardened that bothered Heiko, but he found himself agreeing to the conditions all the same.

Bastian Maeckler wandered the busy streets of Waldenhof in a daze. His father was missing; he knew that much from lingering at the fringes of Heiko Geissner’s investigation of the museum robbery. Stefan Maeckler’s body was not found within the charred rubble left behind by the thief. The information had snapped the youth’s mind and body into motion. He’d raced back to his rooms, hastily dressed, and run into the early morning streets of Waldenhof, determined to find his father.

But the cold light of reason had begun to shine, and now Bastian cursed his impetuousness. The town was huge—where should he start? The thieves weren’t going to confess their identities and hand his father back with an apology and a smile.

His father’s disappearance was a psychological torture as excruciating as anything devised by the Inquisition of Solkan. Stefan Maeckler was the only person in the world that his son felt close to. Bastian had tried so hard to follow his father’s example, to make him proud. To think that he might be dead was unbearable, evoking all the half-forgotten pain that crushed his very soul when his mother was killed by orcs seven years ago. Bastian had to cling to the hope that Stefan was still alive.

Bastian made his way through the press of bodies that crowded the narrow Osterweg. The morning mist had been burned away by the warmth of the sun and now the town was coming alive, merchants opening their shops, servants collecting the day’s shopping farmers bringing their wares to market. Bastian found himself studying every face he passed, staring hard into the visages of withered old midwives and grubby stevedores. Did he rub shoulders with his father’s killer even now?

The boy shuddered at the thought, thrusting his hands deeper into his pockets to keep a sudden chill from his fingers. But the sudden fear was not born from the possibility of coming face to face with the killer without knowing it. Deep within himself, Bastian felt he already knew the killer’s face. That he would know it as surely as he knew his own reflection. Among a hundred, among a thousand, he would be able to pick it out.

He’d never told anyone about the nightmares, not even his father. He was almost a man now, beyond such childish fears. But still they came, however much he tried to deny them, however much he tried to ignore them. He would see the museum at night, shadows thrown across its halls. The stench of beasts would fill his lungs, he would hear the furtive scratch of claws against wood. Sometimes he saw himself buried alive in a black pit beneath the earth, the hot air tasting of dirt, the gloom an almost physical thing.

And there were always the eyes.

Bastian could see them even now, hovering above the street like twin witch lights burning into his soul. They were long and slender, an almost luminous green like polished Cathayan jade. There was a malefic intelligence within them, a timeless cruelty and malignance he could only regard as inhuman. Eyes able to pierce the mind and lay bare the very essence of a man, to see through all the self-deception and false security, to find the coil of fears and doubts that composed his heart.

“Herr Maeckler,” a voice called out, and the ghostly eyes faded back into nothingness. The youth turned his head, confused. How had he come here, he wondered? Had he been so lost in his thoughts that he hadn’t paid the least notice to where his steps were taking him? Muellerstrasse was situated in one of the oldest sections of Waldenhof, named for an old mill that had once stood there in the early days of the town. Now it was rundown, its buildings slowly decaying their weakened frames leaning upon their neighbours for support. Only the most impoverished inhabited Muellerstrasse and its environs.

“You are all right, Herr Maeckler?” the voice repeated. The speaker was a heavy-set man, his face broad and his dark hair swept back. He was dressed in an old, threadbare coat, the sleeves hanging across the backs of his hands, his boots scuffed and badly mended. It seemed to Bastian that there was a subtle hint of mockery about his smile.

“Oh, forgive me, Herr Schrolucke,” Bastian apologised. “I had not realised where I was.”

“An unwise thing, my friend,” the man replied. “Particularly in this neighbourhood. There are people prowling these alleyways who would cut your throat simply to get at those boots you are wearing.” He chuckled at his own sinister remark.

Bastian pulled away, but found his arm caught in Schrolucke’s grip.

“I should be going,” Bastian said. “There was trouble at the museum.”

Schrolucke shook his head, tutting away the boy’s concerns. “Perhaps that is why you came here, to unburden your mind by telling a friend your problems?” The shabbily dressed man pulled Bastian toward the doorway of a decrepit building, the sign swinging above the doorway announcing, in faded letters, that it was “Johannes Schrolucke’s Curio Shop”.

A flicker of dread flared up inside Bastian as Schrolucke opened the door. His host smiled indulgently, reaching out and grabbing the boy’s shoulder.

“You are already here. Surely you’ve nothing to lose by sharing a cup of tea with an old friend?”

Bastian nodded, allowing the curio dealer to lead him into the dingy shop.

The interior was a cluttered mess. Old tables and chairs were crammed into every available space, their surfaces sporting all manner of objects from mangy rugs to scarred wooden statuettes and rusty swords. The collection had always struck Bastian as a junk pile masquerading as antiquities. Indeed, he would never have imagined finding anything of worth in the lair of Johannes Schrolucke. But in this he had been proven wrong. The curio dealer had appeared one day at the museum, offering an old dwarf mechanism and promising he might be able to procure similar pieces, if the Maecklers found the first one of interest.

They had indeed. Stefan had been thrilled with Bastian’s gift, claiming it was just what he needed to further his restoration work. That settled things. Over the intervening weeks, Bastian had visited Schrolucke’s shop on numerous occasions, always returning with just what his father had requested.

Schrolucke was puttering around at an iron stove, setting a kettle upon its surface. “I may have something new for you soon,” he was saying. “Something to go with that last item I sold you.”

“I just found out that—there was a robbery,” Bastian said, staring sadly at a little wooden bird with a chipped beak.

“Yes, I heard something about that,” Schrolucke replied, setting a pair of clay mugs down upon the only clutter-free table in the entire dingy room. “Still, these things usually sort themselves out.” He crossed the room and lit an old glass lamp.

“My father is missing,” Bastian said as he lowered himself into one of the chairs flanking the table. “The watch thinks he is dead.”

“Did they find a body?” Schrolucke asked, setting the lamp down upon the table. Bastian shook his head in reply. He found himself watching the multi-coloured light streaming from the different coloured facets of the lamp, glowing against the wooden ceiling. Schrolucke walked over to the room’s only window, studying the street outside before drawing the moth-eaten drape across it.

A sharp whistle screeched through the curio shop. Schrolucke smiled at Bastian as he returned to the stove. “Tea’s ready.”

For a time they talked, Schrolucke’s even voice quietly striving to console the boy. Bastian sipped his tea slowly, watching the curious lights as they flickered upon the ceiling. Soon his thoughts began to grow fuzzy, his breath hot and laboured. The soft words spoken by his host were assuming the placating qualities of a lullaby… the top portion of the glass lamp was slowly revolving, setting the different coloured lights dancing across the ceiling. Bastian felt himself slipping away, sinking into a warm, inviting darkness. As he fell, he suddenly knew that this had all happened to him before, many times.

He also knew that he was powerless to resist. “Maeckler?” Schrolucke’s voice was no longer soft, but sharp as a blade. “Maeckler, can you hear me?” he asked again. The boy was slumped across the table, the drugged drink and the hypnotic light having done their insidious work. The curio dealer rose from his chair, commanding Bastian to do the same. Like an ungainly puppet, the boy rose, swaying awkwardly as he stood. His will was gone. Now he was ready to be presented to the master.

Though the environs of Muellerstrasse were far from the feeble sewer system of Waldenhof’s more prosperous districts, the area was nonetheless honeycombed with subterranean tunnels and channels, underground corridors that conveyed a different kind of filth beneath the town. For centuries they had existed unnoticed beneath the very feet of the citizens of Waldenhof.

The narrow earthen walls pressed in upon the two men, the darkness engulfing them completely. Schrolucke could see eyes gleaming as the light from his candle reflected off them, little red fires that watched his every move with malevolent hunger. Shrill laughter chittered in the darkness, as those who watched him smelled his fear.

Up ahead, a tiny glow marked the opening of a chamber. Schrolucke tried to keep his steps steady, to fight back the fear gnawing at him. If he gave in to it, if he succumbed and ran, they would fall upon him, rip him to shreds before he even had time to scream.

He felt a great tide of relief when he drew near enough to see the curtain that hung from the top of the doorway. It was strangely reassuring, despite being fashioned from hundreds of small bones fastened to lengths of string.

A shape detached itself from the darkness, a slouching, creeping thing. The stink of rancid fur grew strong as it crept closer. Schrolucke could see its ragged cloak as it entered the feeble light of his candle, its sickeningly human furred hands and clawed fingers. But there was nothing human about the head that protruded from the hood of the creature’s cloak—the black-furred visage of a gigantic rat. The monster studied Schrolucke with its beady red eyes, savouring the man’s terror, then its gaze turned to Bastian. It lashed a long, naked tail against the dirt floor.

“Schrok-man see-smell master now,” the ratman hissed, the words slithering from its fanged muzzle in a debased form of Reikspiel. “Take-bring Bastian-meat with Schrok-man,” the creature added, reaching a clawed hand to the curtain and pulling it aside. Schrolucke hurried past the gruesome guard, commanding Bastian to follow in a voice not quite so powerful as it had been in the shop above.

The room beyond the curtain was large, many times that of Schrolucke’s curio shop. The walls were of bare earth, dampness from above seeping through in tiny trickles of brown mud. Boxes and barrels, sacks of grain and bags of meal were chaotically stacked in various parts of the chamber. A number of filthy ratmen skittered about, their beady eyes gleaming in the glow cast by the torches fixed to the chamber walls.

A large wooden crate rested in the centre of the room, the figure of a man bound to it. His chest was a mass of scars and burns, his face a bloodied mess. Beside the crate, a steel cauldron was noisily bubbling. Another of the ratkin stood by the cauldron, stirring its contents with a massive steel ladle. Schrolucke did not like to ponder what was in the cauldron, nor its connection to the wretch lashed across the box.

His gaze fell upon the chamber’s last occupant, the creature that stood above the bound captive. It was taller than any of the other skaven in the chamber, taller even than most men. Its frame was lean and narrow, yet suggested a violent strength. About its slender body hung a yellow robe, its edges picked out in arcane black symbols that seemed to squirm across the cloth with some horrible inner life. Around its waist was fastened a belt of skin from which hung a riot of strange devices and contrivances, the tools of an eldritch technology. The fur that clothed the creature’s body was grey, speckled with brown, fading into pure white at the throat and beneath the arms.

The hideous eyes shining from the rat face radiated an unholy, inhuman intelligence at once mighty and malignant. Its green eyes glowed with a sickly gleam that owed nothing to the flickering light of torch and candle; eyes that contained the malice and cruelty of an entire race. Had Bastian been aware, he would have recognised the haunting image from his nightmare.

The eyes of Gnawlitch Shun.

The monster steepled his clawed hands together as he leaned over the bound man. The bestial muzzle snapped open, hissing words even more horrific for the precision with which they were spoken. “You will tell me, yes-yes? Why your master went away? Where he went to, yes-yes?” Gnawlitch Shun swiped the air with his claw, beckoning one of the skaven beside the cauldron to step closer, a smoking iron clenched in his paw. The captive winced, struggling desperately against his bonds, grinding his teeth against the coming pain. Gnawlitch waited until the iron was near enough for the prisoner to feel its heat beside his skin, then waved the skaven back with another swipe of his claw.

“Speak what I ask you to speak, and all this will come to an end,” Gnawlitch whispered, leaning down so that his muzzle was almost pressed against the man’s ear, one furred hand resting against the captive’s scarred forehead. “I promise, the end will be quick, if only you will speak.”

With choking sputters, the captive began to force air back into his lungs, willing his tortured frame to make words. Gnawlitch drew away, watching the prisoner expectantly.

“I have learned much about humans,” Gnawlitch hissed, motioning to the torturer to come nearer. Smoke rose from the molten contents of the ladle. “I know that there are older and stronger gods among men than your breeder-god.” The captive struggled against his bonds as the hot ladle drew closer to his body. “Since you will not speak to me, I shall let you speak to one of those gods—the one you call Gold.”

Gnawlitch Shun stalked away from the screaming captive, already dismissing him from his thoughts. One of the skaven lurking at the fringes of the chamber hurried forward, prostrating itself before the dread warlock, exposing its throat as a sign of contrition.

Gnawlitch slashed a claw through the air, motioning for the penitent ratman to rise. “The prisoner did not say anything,” Gnawlitch informed its minion, as though it had not been present to observe the interrogation. “His master is still necessary to my plans, so we shall pursue this matter no further.”

“Yes-yes master-lord!” the cringing skaven agreed. Gnawlitch fixed his terrible eyes upon the ratman, murdering any sense of relief.

“If this happens again, Crittrik, I will not merely dispose of his servant, I will dispose of the one watching him too.” Gnawlitch dismissed the cringing underling, and strode towards the other humans who had found their way into his lair.

“This lesson is not lost on you, is it Schrolucke?” the monster’s scratchy voice rasped.

“I—I brought the boy, as you wanted, master,” Schrolucke replied, bowing before the warlock-engineer, as Crittrik had done. The green eyes of Gnawlitch Shun regarded the youthful face of Bastian Maeckler. The monster crept deeper into the chamber, sliding his body into a massive wooden chair stolen from one of Waldenhof’s cathedrals. Gnawlitch’s clawed hands closed about the armrests.

“Have the Bastian-meat speak and report what it has seen,” Gnawlitch ordered.

Schrolucke hastily complied, compelling Bastian to relate all that had transpired in the museum during the theft and later during the investigation. Gnawlitch was silent throughout the account, his green eyes closed as his mind drank in the words. Only when Bastian began to relate his return to Schrolucke’s curio shop did the skaven’s eyes open once more.

“Enough, Schrolucke!” Gawlitch snapped. “Silence your puppet!” As Bastian grew still once more, the skaven lord considered the young man’s report. He had heard much that was interesting during the investigation into the theft of Thane Orgri’s gyrocopter. It was a problem that had been vexing the warlock-engineer for some time. Perhaps this human, this Heiko Geissner, would be able to make better progress. It was annoying but sometimes these human vermin had their uses.

“It would be wise to learn more about this investigation,” Gnawlitch decided. “I think it would be wise to keep an eye on this Geissner-man.” The warlock-engineer grinned hungrily at Bastian Maeckler, and then looked over at Schrolucke.

“I have new orders for your puppet,” the skaven hissed.

CHAPTER TWO

Heiko Geissner cautiously made his way down the swaying hallway, one hand pressed to the wooden walls on either side of him. His head felt as though it were going to burst, pounding against the insides of his skull. His stomach had proven itself even more of a traitor, having vented itself over the side of the ship until it was dry, though it still clenched itself tight as if it wanted to purge more vomit. Heiko managed to tear one of his hands from the wall long enough to daub his handkerchief against his mouth. However many times he performed the action, he still felt dirty. The sudden rocking of the ship made the envoy repent his action, his hand flying back to the wall with the speed of a pistol shot.

Travel never suited Heiko’s constitution. It didn’t matter overly if his mode of travel were a coach, a row-boat or even horseback; he would always be sickened by the experience. His stomach would spill its contents at any opportunity, his head would feel as though an ogre had stepped on it, his feet would swell to a point where they wouldn’t even fit into his boots, and little red bumps would break out all across his back. His affliction would ravage him for days before finally burning itself out. More than the extreme physical discomfort, however, what really upset Heiko was the blow to his dignity. It was very hard to retain an air of nobility when you had been leaning over the stern for hours on end.

The ship was an old river barge called Lady Gertie, it had been the only merchant vessel available to transport him the long distance to Altdorf. He could have ridden to Wurtbad and secured a more dignified vessel there, but that would have added weeks to the journey.

His stomach tightened once more, and Heiko paused in his ungainly progress. He’d had dinner with Captain Dornoff, a formality he’d been unable to forego despite his illness. He’d found the shipmaster a boorish, obnoxious host, but with a sailor’s talent for telling tall tales. Of particular interest had been his relation of some strange thefts that had occurred in Marienburg. The largest set of sails ever crafted, those of the ironclad Kaiser Manfred, had been taken from the Maritime Museum, and a dwarf steamship had been ransacked while in the harbour—but only after its cargo had been disembarked. Most curious of all had been the abduction of four ships’ rudders from the shipyards, formerly destined for the emperor’s navy.

It was puzzling, but for now Heiko’s churning stomach demanded his attention. He quickened his step, intent upon reaching the deck and fresh air.

The envoy was passing the ship’s galley when his sharp eyes noted a furtive movement near the door. Heiko paused, flattening his body against the wall, his sickness suddenly forgotten. He watched as the stealthy shape revealed itself to be a man. From his dress, Heiko saw at once that the figure was not one of the crew. He found his fingers tightening about the grip of the knife in his belt.

The man’s movements were wary. He turned his head up and down the corridor, listening for even the slightest sound, watching for the smallest movement. Satisfied that he was still alone, he crouched before the door of the galley, a small piece of pig iron in his hand.

Captain Dornoff had not been the most elegant of hosts, but it would be a betrayal of his hospitality if Heiko were to simply stand by and allow the captain to be robbed—even of something as minor as a wedge of cheese, or a bottle of Reikland hock. But, as he struggled to pick the lock, the thief was extremely wary. If Heiko called out for the crew, the scoundrel would bolt, slinking back into a hidey hole.

The envoy looked down at his feet. Too swollen for his boots, they were covered by a pair of soft fur slippers, just the kind of thing to deaden an avenging footfall. Heiko tightened his grasp about the knife and made his way to the galley.

“Stop it right there, you thieving cur!” Heiko snarled, twisting the thief’s arm, spinning the man around to face him.

“Bastian Maeckler!” Heiko exclaimed, releasing his grip. “What by all the gods are you doing here?”

The youth pulled away, rubbing his arm where the envoy’s grip had bruised it. “Scavenging food, of course,” he responded. “They don’t make a habit of feeding stowaways, you know.”

“I meant why are you on this ship?” Heiko asked, putting his knife away. “Why are you following me?”

“You’re no fool, Herr Geissner,” Bastian responded. “I think you already know the answer to that.” Heiko sighed, shaking his head.

“I understand how you feel, but you really must leave this to those who have experience,” Heiko explained, his tone sympathetic. “Whatever possessed you to sneak onto this ship?”

“Desperation.” Bastian sat down on a coil of rope resting on the floor of the hallway. He looked into Heiko’s eyes, his expression one of piteous need. “I have to know what has happened to my father. I could have done something! I should have done something!” Bastian grew silent, collecting himself before lifting his eyes to Heiko once more. “You are right. I don’t have the experience to catch these men. But you do, Herr Geissner. Something has drawn you away from Waldenhof. I reasoned that if I followed you, I might be able to help my father.” Bastian’s hands closed into white-knuckled fists. “Or avenge him,” he snarled.

Heiko nodded at the boy. “Come along to my cabin. I have some biscuits and cheese. You are welcome to them. The way my stomach is acting, I doubt if they will do me any good.” Bastian smiled up at the older man, the tension slowly fading from his eyes.

“I’ll speak to the captain in the morning about finding you accommodation,” Heiko told him.

Bastian froze in his steps. “You wouldn’t send me back?” he groaned.

“Too late for that,” Heiko replied. “We’re closer to Altdorf than we are to Waldenhof at this point. Besides, it showed ingenuity to get this far. That quality might come in useful to me.”

But Bastian remained worried. “Do you think my father is still alive? Do you think we will find him?” Some of the boy’s melancholy seeped into Heiko’s expression. When he spoke his tone was sombre.

“I don’t know. But I promise you I will do everything in my power to find the answers to your questions.”

The first thing that always struck Heiko Geissner about Altdorf was its size. It was an enormous city, sprawling across both sides of the River Reik to encompass several small islands scattered about the waterway. The towers of the Emperor’s palace could be seen scraping against the sky, only the steeples of the Great Cathedral of Sigmar contesting their dominance of the skyline.

As the Lady Gertie navigated her way through the river traffic, Heiko was afforded a leisurely view of the city. He could see the long lines of foot traffic slowly entering by the west and north gates, their progress impeded by Imperial tax collectors eagerly demanding tribute from every man, beast and fowl and by the stern-faced soldiers who accompanied them, checking every entrant for suspicious objects and contraband. He could see the opulent manors and townhouses of the Oberhausen district, where the wealthiest of the city’s merchants and government officials made their homes.

Heiko smiled as he recalled his previous experiences in that sector, where the Altdorf City Watch was headquartered. Indeed, if he had been of a more mercenary frame of mind, he might have accepted a promising offer made to him by a friend on the watch. But Heiko preferred Waldenhof, for all its faults. Being a big fish in a small puddle might not have been much, but it was something.

South of the Oberhausen was the Suderich, a large district of markets and shops dotted with a sprinkling of townhouses. The cluster of brick buildings that composed the Altdorf Physicians’ Guild was situated here, in close proximity to the towering walls of the Hospice Priory of Shallya, the goddess of mercy’s monastery-hospital. Of course, the Suderich had its darker side as well, its most prominent building being the cold stone bulk of Graustein Keep, one of the city’s principal prisons. Heiko had a few acquaintances there as well—though he doubted if they would be quite as pleased to see him as his friends in the watch.

Altdorf was a city that could swallow the entirety of Waldenhof and a hundred towns its size. Each of its districts was like a world unto itself, with its own traditions and quirks, its own atmosphere and taboos.

The pair disembarked from the Lady Gertie on the docks. Heiko presented his letter of authority from the elector count that exempted him from the attentions of the tax collectors, gathered about the incoming ships like a flock of vultures.

The envoy’s gaze swept across the docks, watching the frenzy of activity as sailors and labourers loaded and unloaded the ships in the harbour. Armed marines in the colours of the River Patrol checked for any sign of contraband, and hurried to the defence of any tax collector who bit off more than he could chew. The sound of the waterfront was as stifling as the riot of smells and the humid heat caused by hundreds of toiling bodies. Heiko could hear sailors babbling in the musical lilts of Tilea and Bretonnia, in the harsh snarls of Kislev and the clipped accents of Marienburg.

“It’s big, isn’t it?” Heiko commented guilelessly. Bastian’s eyes were wide with wonder. Heiko could appreciate the boy’s awe. It was quite a difference from the narrow, muddy streets of Waldenhof.

“I’m glad you know where we’re going,” Bastian commented as Heiko led the way towards the wide archway that would conduct them to the Suderich. A troubled look crept onto Heiko’s face. In his previous visits he’d never had cause to call upon wizards. Indeed, he wasn’t exactly certain just where the Light College might be situated—though he knew the colleges of magic were scattered throughout the city, and was reasonably certain that the Amber College, for instance, was somewhere near the palace.

“Don’t worry,” Heiko laughed. “If we do get lost there are plenty of people around to show us the way.”

As the sun began to set, a weary Heiko led Bastian toward the first inn they came across. It was a sprawling, half-timbered structure announcing itself as the Grinning Sovereign, a crude representation of a lewdly winking king painted above the letters. Heiko rubbed at his eyes and once again cursed his luck. Hadn’t he always warned himself against expecting anything to be straightforward and easy?

Wizards, it seemed, were just as feared, reviled and suspected in Altdorf as they were in any two-dog hamlet in Stirland. He’d asked what amounted to a small army of shopkeepers, street harlots, lamplighters and muckrakers directions to the Light College. Some had genuinely tried to be helpful, but sadly confessed they didn’t know where he could find the wizards. Many others greeted his question by rapping their knuckles against whatever iron might be nearby, or making the sign of Sigmar with their fingers, often punctuated by colourful words about daemon-loving sorcerers and those who would have truck with them. One old tanner even threatened Heiko with a large knife when he asked him for directions, shrieking at him to get out of his shop as though Heiko were some fiend spat up from the Wastes.

The Grinning Sovereign had a depressed air that mirrored Heiko’s state of mind. The bar room was all but deserted, a pair of ragged-looking mercenaries and a half-drunk merchant the building’s only visible patrons.

Heiko made his way to one of the empty tables, almost falling into the chair set behind it. Bastian sank into his with a weary groan. Heiko lifted his arm, waving the barmaid over to them.

“What is our next move?” Bastian asked.

The barmaid rounded the counter, carrying a pair of clay beer steins on a wooden platter. Heiko thought it rather presumptuous on her part to decide what they would drink before asking, but at the moment he was just too tired to care.

“Tomorrow we’ll go into the Oberhausen,” Heiko said, leaning back so that the barmaid could set their drinks down on the table. Even through his fatigue, Heiko couldn’t help but notice her comely figure, and her stunningly pale blonde hair. He could understand why the patrons of the inn didn’t care about her presumption.

“I have some friends on the watch,” Heiko continued. “They’ll give us directions.”

“Lost, are ye?” the barmaid giggled. “You have the look of somebody fresh off the boat.” Heiko found her twinkling smile condescending. Fine, he thought, let’s see the little tart go running off to the nearest shrine of Sigmar when I start asking about wizards.

“We’ve been trying to find a particular place all day, with no luck at all,” he said, leaning back to drink in her reaction.

Bastian silently implored Heiko not to continue. He wasn’t quite so young that the woman’s charms were lost on him. Still, she’d brought it on herself. “We’re trying to find one of the schools of magic. The College of Light Wizards to be precise.”

It took a moment for Heiko to register that the barmaid hadn’t screamed in fright, made the sign of Sigmar, or threatened him with a tanning knife. She wore an intense, thoughtful expression, her pale eyes studying the two of them intently.

“I might be able to help you,” she said, motioning for the two men to follow her. Heiko and Bastian exchanged puzzled looks, but found themselves striding after her. She led them past the bar counter, towards a small door set into the back wall. The maid opened the portal, standing aside so that the two men might precede her. Heiko smiled at the courtesy, ducking his head to clear the low lintel of the doorway. He was not prepared for the sight that greeted him on the other side.

The small room behind the bar was an office of sorts—empty except for a desk and chair, both constructed of the palest wood Heiko had ever seen. Floor, ceiling and walls were all painted in the most brilliant white, a pristine absolute that almost hurt the eye like a sudden bright flash of the sun. Bastian gasped in amazement. Heiko felt his skin crawling at the unnatural atmosphere of the room, the clammy touch of magic in the air.

The door closed behind them. “I told you I would be able to help,” a voice spoke. At first it was that of the barmaid, but it quickly deepened into the harder baritone of a man. Heiko and Bastian turned around in unison. Standing beside the doorway, instead of the barmaid who had led them here was a middle-aged man dressed in a robe of purest white. There was a smile, of sorts, on his narrow face and an amused twinkle in his pale eyes.

“Welcome to the College of Light, Heiko Geissner,” the man said, bowing toward Heiko. “And you too, Bastian Maeckler,” he added, repeating the gesture. The wizard slowly crossed the room, folding his hands across his belly.

“I am Hierophant Erwin von Fautz, and I am at your service, gentlemen.”

The two men were silent, stunned by their abrupt entry into the world of magic. It was what Heiko had been searching for, but he hadn’t expected it to sneak up on him without warning. He regarded himself as a forward-thinking man, free from the petty prejudices of the common peasant, but even he realised there was a deep distrust of wizardry in his soul. His mind whirled as he considered how deep the wizards’ deception might run. Had there ever been a real barmaid? For that matter, was there even a Grinning Sovereign? Were they even in the Reikhoch, or had the wizard transported them to some strange world beyond the veil of reality? Heiko prided himself on his ability to scrutinise his observations, to extrapolate every piece of information he could from what he heard and saw. He quickly decided he did not much like not being able to trust his own eyes.

Bastian seemed slightly less awed than the envoy from Waldenhof. The boy was a historian, after all. More than most people, he had a real understanding of what the Colleges of Magic had done for the Empire, how they helped to advance the realm of knowledge. For every black-hearted villain like the infamous Ergrimm van Horstmann, there had been hundreds like Volans, steadfast men who used their sorcerous abilities for the benefit of their fellow man.

For his part, von Fautz seemed content to sit back and drink in the amazement of his guests, an amused smile twisting his face.

“Y-you know our names.” Bastian was the first to find his voice.

“I wouldn’t be much of a wizard if so slight an act of prestidigitation were beyond me, would I?” he asked, a theatrical tinge of hurt in his voice. “I know all about you.” He looked away, removing an invisible piece of lint from the sleeve of his pristine robes. “You arrived in Altdorf early this morning on a river barge named the Lady Gertie, having set out from Waldenhof exactly eighteen days ago. You are investigating the theft of a gyrocopter that was housed in the Waldenhof Museum of the History of Sigmar’s Great and Glorious Empire, at least it was until nineteen days ago.” The wizard’s look grew more contemplative. “Something about the theft led you to believe there was something to connect it to Altdorf, and, more particularly, my own order of magisters.”

“You seem remarkably well informed,” Heiko observed. While the wizard was talking he’d decided that, instead of being uneasy about how the mystic tricked and manipulated him, he was going to act offended. If von Fautz thought his little tricks were going to intimidate Heiko Geissner, he would have to dig deeper into his bag.

“The Order of Light prides itself on plucking knowledge from the dark shadows of ignorance,” von Fautz reminded him. “But come now, you didn’t even take any steps to hide yourselves. The rest,” the wizard held up his hands, “just fell into place. Or, if you prefer, I had some darkling imp dogging your tracks ever since you left Waldenhof.” Von Fautz’s mockery caused the colour to drain from Bastian’s features. “That last part was a jest, young man.”

“So you know all about what happened in Waldenhof?” Heiko pressed on him. “Then you must know that one of your colleagues visited the museum only a few weeks before the theft, supposedly placing some magical ward on the exhibit that was stolen.”

Erwin von Fautz shook his head. “Well, not so much a ‘colleague’ as an acolyte. You see, the man who visited Waldenhof wasn’t a full-fledged Hierophant of the Light Order, but a student or apprentice if you will. But he was familiar enough with the ways of magic to invoke a spell written on a specially prepared scroll by one of my order’s licensed wizards.” He smiled at his guest. “As I’ve been nice enough to answer your question, perhaps you might answer one of mine?”

“I thought you were von Fautz the all-knowing?” Heiko retorted. The wizard dropped his smile.

“Wizards appreciate decorum just as much as burghers and noblemen.” There was a warning tone in his words. Heiko reached into his tunic, producing the letter of authority granted by Graf Alberich. Von Fautz motioned for the envoy to put the letter away. “I think you’ll find that your letter of authority doesn’t work as effectively with the Order of Light as it does with excise men and gate-keepers. Even Karl-Franz himself phrases his demands as requests when he issues edicts to the Colleges.” Scowling like a card-cheat who finds the king he believed hidden in his sleeve to be a deuce, Heiko slid the parchment back into his pocket. “So, you see, if you want answers from me, you will have to reciprocate in kind.”

“What do you want to know?” a defeated Heiko asked.

“Oh, let’s start small, shall we?” the wizard said. “Little things, like whether anyone saw who stole Thane Orgri’s gyrocopter.” It was Heiko’s turn to smile. Von Fautz was trying to present an air of complete control, but he’d let a tone of desperation creep into his voice.

“The town watch arrived just in time to see the gyrocopter smash through the roof and vanish into the night,” Heiko replied, studying Erwin’s face for a reaction. “The curator, this boy’s father, disturbed the thief in the midst of his crime, but, sadly, he’s not available to us.”

“The thief killed him?” von Fautz inquired, glancing at Bastian.

“We don’t know yet,” the youth said.

“Alive or dead, the thief took Stefan Maeckler with him,” Heiko explained.

“Really?” the wizard exclaimed. “How very odd. How very, very odd.”

“There’s something else,” Heiko said, trying to regain the upper hand. “It seems the Maecklers did not commission this spell that was cast on the gyrocopter. Should I tell you who did?”

“I was wondering when you were going to bring that up,” Erwin sighed.

“Of course, magus—I mean, Hierophant von Fautz,” Heiko returned. “I understand that relations between the different orders of wizards and the templars of Sigmar are not what one might consider cordial. I imagine failing in any task specifically requested by the Order of Sigmar is no way to melt the ice between your respective organisations.”

“It’s much more complicated than that, I’m afraid,” Erwin replied.

The wizard was silent for a moment. He reached a hand to his temples, trying to knead the tension away.

“I’ve made a study of your career, Herr Geissner,” he said at last. “A pity about that ugly incident with the elector count. You might have received a nice posting somewhere in this very city but for that.”

“Trying to get under my skin now?” Heiko’s voice was cold. He’d mentioned the witch hunters to set Erwin on the wrong foot, he hadn’t expected the wizard to know of the ugly skeletons in his own closet.

“Not at all.” Erwin’s voice was conciliatory. “I was simply trying to illustrate that you are a man who places personal honour and loyalty higher than even his own best interests. You are also a man with a very quick and discerning mind. That could be of use to me just now.” The wizard moved away from his desk, toward Heiko. “I imagine that, for you, resolving this theft is a matter of honour. That being the case, there are certain facts I could disclose to you—provided they were to remain in the strictest confidence.”

Heiko nodded his head. He’d notice the clenching of Erwin’s jaw when he told the wizard that no one had witnessed the theft. If von Fautz were working with the thief, it would have been relief, not tension that greeted such news. For whatever reason, the wizard appeared as interested in catching the criminal as Heiko.

“If it will help us find my father, I’ll agree to anything,” Bastian said when Erwin shifted his gaze to him.

“A noble sentiment,” he replied. Von Fautz extended his hand, causing one of the chairs in the room to slither across the floor. “But you should be careful about what agreements you make with wizards,” he added as he seated himself. “Some of us are pretty bad sorts.”

“What can you tell us about the wizard who cast the spell?” Heiko asked.

“As I said, it was an acolyte reading from a specially prepared scroll—not a wizard,” Erwin corrected him. “However, I should think that of more importance to you is the fact that the Waldenhof was not the only museum to be robbed. Indeed, the gunnery museum at the College of Engineering in Nuln, the Maritime Museum in Marienburg, and a rather extensive private collection in Middenheim have all suffered thefts.”

Heiko shook his head. It seemed just too unlikely to contemplate a criminal conspiracy stretching to the four corners of the Empire. He said as much to the wizard, eliciting a surprisingly hurt expression.

“They are connected, Herr Geissner,” Erwin assured him. “Even if you refuse to accept the fact. The only thing that really puzzles me is that the curator was taken. The thieves have been surprised before, and shown no compunction about killing. Even less about hiding the bodies.” Erwin tapped a finger against his chin. “Most perplexing.”

“You seem unusually informed about burglaries for a wizard, if you will forgive my saying so,” Heiko pointed out.

“It’s because his order cast wards on all of them!” Bastian exclaimed. Erwin bowed his head in response to the boy.

“Not merely my order, Master Maeckler,” the wizard said. “As I’ve said, the acolyte who visited Waldenhof cast the spell from a scroll prepared for him by a licensed wizard.” He dipped his upper body in a theatrical bow. “I was that wizard. I prepared four scrolls for my acolytes, and dispatched them to where the wards needed to be placed. My ‘client’, shall we say, was quite insistent that time was of the essence.”

“The witch hunters were right,” Heiko said. “For all the good your protective spells did. Less than three weeks passed between your acolyte’s visit and the theft of Thane Orgri’s gyrocopter.”

“There was even less time with some of the others. In the case of Middenheim, my acolyte arrived only six hours before the piece in question was stolen.”

Heiko shook his head again. Now the wizard was simply going too far. “I appreciate you might still be chafing from that ‘all-knowing’ crack, but this is really too much! How can you possibly know the exact hour? You must have an intelligence network better than that of the Iron Graf.”

Erwin looked wounded again. “You do me an injustice. I have no interest in impressing you with something so petty. I could tell you the very moment that the wards were broken!” He rose from his seat, striding back toward the door of the tiny office.

Heiko and Bastian followed him. They were stunned for a second time when the wizard opened the portal to reveal, not the tavern through which they had entered his office, but a long corridor with white marble walls. Curious serpent-headed lanterns hung from the ceiling on golden chains, filling the hallway with an almost blinding illumination. The discordant harmonies of many chanting voices echoed from a distance. The wizard marched purposefully toward one of innumerable doors. He uttered a word that seemed too awkward for human speech.

“You must understand, gentlemen,” he explained, “the protective wards placed on these artefacts are the most potent I have ever created. It takes special Cathayan inks and scrolls made from centuries old Nehekharan papyrus simply to contain the energies of such potent magic. Even at the ‘reduced rates’ I offered this particular client, the expense was considerable. What you will see here may help illustrate just how complex this particular enchantment is.” Erwin fixed Heiko with his gaze. “And how I know the exact instant when those wards were broken.”

As the wizard pulled open the door, the sound of discordant chanting increased. Heiko found himself looking into a circular chamber illuminated by a thousand candles. The room was arranged almost like an amphitheatre, a series of tiers rising slowly from a central dais. Upon those tiers were arranged hundreds of lecterns, each crafted from the same exotic pale wood he had seen in Erwin’s office. Behind each stood a man dressed in a long white robe, similar to Erwin’s but cut from material of a far more plebeian nature. Each man stared at a piece of parchment resting on the lectern before him, his mouth moving to the alien tones that filled the room.

Heiko was awestruck. There had to be at least a hundred, if not more, chanters in the room.

“As you can see, the wards are expensive to cast and rather costly to maintain,” Erwin explained. “But there are some willing to pay the expense.”

Heiko marvelled at the otherworldly scene, ignoring the unnatural chill that plucked at his skin, the faint charge in the air that made the hair on the back of his neck rise. Then he noticed a disruption in the arrangement of the chorus. Four of the lecterns were empty, with no chanter standing behind them. The wood of the lecterns looked discoloured as well, as though they had been hastily cleaned recently. The robe of the chanter standing behind a fifth lectern also bore similar stains, a pattern of faint pink blotches.

“Each of the members of the chorus concentrates upon a different ward, focusing the energies of Hysh into the spell placed upon the protected object. Day and night, there is always a chanter here, maintaining the efficacy of each of my wards.”

“What about the empty lecterns?” Heiko asked, a sick feeling growing inside him.

“Some forms of magic may be employed to bypass a protective ward,” Erwin explained, ignoring Heiko’s question. “It is rare, but not unknown. When that happens, the chanter continues to sing, believing that all is well. The only way that the wizard who casts the ward learns something is amiss is when his angry client informs him so. Not that I’ve had that sort of thing happen with my ‘Curtain of Lightning’, mind you.” He looked sadly at the empty lecterns.

“What happened here was something different, something unheard of. The wards weren’t simply bypassed, they were broken!” Sensing that his guests did not appreciate the difference, Erwin drew an analogy. “Imagine a castle wall. Even if it is breached, it still exists. Part of it stands, part of it is rubble, but it still exists. It is the same thing with a bypassed ward—a broken one would be like having the castle wall vanish without so much as a pebble left behind!

“Now, the chanters in this room are all drawing upon the most potent of the winds of magic, directing it to a particular focus. What happens when that focus no longer exists? The power comes back! All that tremendous energy comes smashing back into the chanter’s mind. If you’ve ever seen a melon caught under a cartwheel, you have some notion of what the result looks like. That, Herr Geissner, is how I know the precise instant these thefts took place.”

It was an ugly thing to contemplate. “Forgive me, Hierophant von Fautz, I did not know,” Heiko said.

“There is more, Herr Geissner, and this is where that keen mind of yours may help me. You see, I am certain that there will be another robbery. Probably quite soon.”

“But you said you only made four scrolls,” Bastian pointed out. “Middenheim, Marienburg, Nuln—and Waldenhof.”

“That is true, but my client commissioned five spells,” Erwin replied. “There was no need to craft a scroll for the last spell. You see, I cast that one myself.” He walked across the room until he stood before the lectern of the man with the stained robe. “Right here in Altdorf at the Engineering School.”

The wizard regarded the chanter sadly. Heiko could see the thick streams of sweat running from his bald scalp.

“Thus far, as you can see, the fifth ward remains unbroken.”

The immense cavern rang with the sound of ringing hammers, the shriek of metal tortured and tormented into new shapes and forms. Gigantic engines churned, spitting jets of steam, belching great gouts of thick black smoke. The heat within the cavern was hellish, with an industrial reek of soot and animal sweat. The air itself was like cinders, singing the lungs as it was inhaled. Near the largest of the furnaces, teams of wretched slaves laboured, feeding the greedy fires a steady diet of coal and timber. Men with scarred backs and dead eyes toiled beside scrawny hook-nosed goblins and bull-necked orcs, breaking their backs to keep the ravenous fires going and keep the cruel lashes of their overseers from their flesh.

Gantries and catwalks of iron and wood filled the space above, the cavern floor, a spider web of walkways and platforms upon which twisted shapes scurried, wrapped in ragged cloaks and rotting robes, the infernal light cast by the furnaces causing their wicked red eyes to gleam in the darkness. In those few places where the walls of the cavern were still exposed, they were revealed to be raw stone, the crude scars of pick and hammer marring every inch. Only in the lofty ceiling that rose above the chamber was there any trace of the great hall the cavern had once been, fragments of arches and the broken caps of pillars reaching down into the sweltering murk below. It had been many centuries since the dwarfs had constructed the mighty stronghold of Karak Ungor. It had been many more since any of their folk had claimed dominion over the broken kingdom or challenged the grotesque horrors that now ruled over it.

Like hungry mouths, black tunnels opened into the cavern, clawed from its stone walls over the generations since it fell into the possession of the skaven of Clan Skryre. One of these caves opened onto a suspended platform from whence three figures emerged. The foremost was garbed in a ragged cloak, its furry black hands closed about the grip of a notched, sickle-bladed sword. The ratman stood upon the platform, its nose sniffing at the filthy air, trying to extricate any unusual smells from the noxious smog. Whether reassured or conceding defeat, Feng Fang stood aside, allowing the two skaven who accompanied him to emerge from the tunnel.

The first to emerge into the flickering light was shorter than the cloaked bodyguard. A crook-backed monster wearing a tattered grey robe stepped into the light. A riot of charms and talismans dripped from chains of bone wrapped about the skaven’s neck; still more were tied to the icon of gnawed leg bones at the tip of the creature’s wooden staff. The fur of the ratman’s forehead was scarred, the same triangular crossbar symbol that tipped his staff gouged into the flesh of his scalp. Immense horns curled outward from his brow, still more charms hanging from tiny chains fixed to the points of his horns. Spiteful red eyes stared down at the cavern floor, the mind behind them already scheming how best to turn such industrial power to its own purposes—how to bend it to the service of the Seerlord, and to that of the Grey Seer Skaabwrath.

“A great deal of effort is displayed here,” the grey seer’s voice scratched at the air. “It would be truly disastrous if such effort were wasted.” Skaabwrath stepped nearer to the edge of the platform, staring down at an assemblage of slaves who were pulling the large machine that had been stolen from Waldenhof across one of the walkways below.

“Then perhaps you might enjoin the Horned Rat to smile up at this enterprise?” The third skaven towered above the other two, his lank body clothed in yellow, his green eyes glowing in the fitful light. As he emerged onto the platform, the sounds below stuttered as though the malevolent force exuding from Gnawlitch Shun had closed about the heart of every creature that toiled below. “As an emissary of our revered god, surely he will listen to your entreaties.” The warlock-engineer’s lips pulled back in a sneer. “That is, if you are so concerned about wasted effort.”

Skaabwrath glared up into the face of the tall skaven. It was in keeping with Gnawlitch’s temerity that he had grown so tall, forcing even those who were his betters to look up at him. “You reach for great things,” Skaabwrath cautioned. “Perhaps too great, perhaps beyond the power of even the mighty Clan Skryre to accomplish.”

“And that is why the Lords of Decay have sent their emissary to watch over my progress,” Gnawlitch’s sibilant voice hissed. “To see if what I propose is possible.” His jade eyes burned into those of the grey seer. “But tell me, is it the potential for failure or success that frightens them more?”

“Be careful how you speak to me,” Skaabwrath retorted, tail lashing against the floor of the wooden platform, setting the tiny copper bells tied to it tinkling. “I remind you that I am a grey seer, a prophet of the Horned Rat himself!”

“I am hard-pressed to forget that sorry fact,” said Gnawlitch, walking to the edge of the platform, watching the scurrying workers swarming about the machinery far below. “Is it as a priest or a spy that you are inflicted upon me? I find it curious that the incidence of accidents has increased since your arrival. And that one of the lists of items needed for my project disappeared a few days after you first set foot in my workshop. A suspicious mind might see sabotage in such matters.”

The fur on Skaabwrath’s neck bristled, his tail writhing like an angered serpent. Despite his efforts to cover his tracks, it seemed Gnawlitch Shun had an uncanny intimation of everything he had set in motion. Skaabwrath fought down his paranoia. No, Gnawlitch couldn’t know as much as he intimated, otherwise Skaabwrath wouldn’t still be breathing. The iron seeped back into the grey seer’s spine. “You dare make such accusations! I reject such profane suggestions and shall report your blasphemy to the Seerlord!”

Gnawlitch folded his paws across his chest, snickering at Skaabwrath. “If your order were bold enough to threaten me, they would have done so long ago,” he said, venomous with scorn. “Clan Skryre holds the destiny of our race in its paws. We are the ones who shall guide our people to their glorious future. Your Seerlord knows this. He knows that your order will either be a part of Clan Skryre’s glory, or a victim of it. He knows that to act against me will earn the enmity of my clan, and take such a choice away from him.” The warlock-engineer fixed Skaabwrath with his penetrating gaze. “Perhaps the Horned Rat advised him to ignore my impiety.” Skaabwrath’s paw tightened about his staff, its body tightening into a coil of fury, fangs bared in a violent snarl.

“You push me too far with your blasphemies!” Skaabwrath spat.

Gnawlitch flipped a claw towards his bodyguard. Before Skaabwrath could react, the cloaked skaven interposed himself between the grey seer and his master, pressing him back to the edge of the platform. Skaabwrath felt his tail dropping over the side and glanced behind him, staring at the dizzying drop to the raised walkway a hundred feet below.

“I might push you just a bit further,” Gnawlitch warned. “Tell me, do you think the grey seers would raise a furore over your accident, or would they keep quiet and content themselves with sending a replacement?” The warlock-engineer did not wait for an answer, disappearing back into the darkness of the tunnel. Feng Fang lingered a moment longer, his grinning fangs only inches from Skaabwrath’s face, then hurried after his master.

Skaabwrath eased back to the centre of the platform, breathing deeply as he tried to overcome the fear hammering against its heart. “Heretic,” the grey seer spat at the departed warlock-engineer.

Gnawlitch Shun stood upon one of the lower walkways, staring at the pulped mess that had, until a few moments before, been one of his assistants. He reached a paw toward the assembly of parts that made up the engine of the machine. The metal was slick with black blood, fur and gristle. Gnawlitch scowled at the mess. The idiot had not only failed to successfully assemble the parts, he’d fouled up the internal mechanisms with filth. The entire thing would need to be taken apart and cleaned. Gnawlitch turned his eyes on the mangled body strewn across the gantry, flicking a claw. An armoured skaven overseer whipped a team of scrawny ratman slaves as they removed the corpse to the kitchens. At least the fool might still perform one last service.

The warlock-engineer looked away from the soiled machine to the prize Quilik had brought back from Waldenhof. Gnawlitch Shun caressed the side of Thane Orgri’s gyrocopter. It was not that Quilik was any more trustworthy than any other assistant—far from it, Quilik hoped to steal every last secret Gnawlitch Shun possessed, to ride the wind of his mentor’s accomplishments and claim them for himself. But it meant that Quilik had a vested interest in their success, which made him more reliable than some of Gnawlitch’s other minions. It was to be hoped Quilik didn’t outlive his usefulness before ambition got the better of the skaven.

Still, Thane Orgri’s gyrocopter would be of little benefit if the other assistants couldn’t make sense of it. Time was growing short. Gnawlitch had Skaabwrath and his sabotage to contend with now, and maybe the miserable grey seer would place an obstacle that the warlock-engineer couldn’t circumvent. Then there was the threat that some other force within Clan Skryre would take the delay as an excuse to step in and take over the project. Gnawlitch knew that Ikit Claw, in particular, was watching the project with an envious eye and had more than a few spies among the staff. But to move any faster, more engineers were needed who knew what they were doing.

Gnawlitch Shun looked away from the bloodied machinery, focussing his withering gaze on the miserable specimen standing between a huge pair of black-furred skaven—the secondary objective from Quilik’s nocturnal raid on the Waldenhof museum.

Stefan Maeckler stank of fear. He would have sunk to his knees had the skaven warriors standing to either side of him not been holding his arms. The man had been a captive in Karak Ungor for weeks now, and had weakened terribly from his ordeal. A hideous scar defaced his head where Quilik had struck him.

“Stefan-man disappoints me,” Gnawlitch told the captive, his green eyes boring into Stefan’s. “I have provided you with food and shelter, kept my more enthusiastic minions away from you, yet still you refuse my request.” The warlock-engineer gestured at the bloodied machinery. “I waste time I cannot afford.”

The prisoner opened his mouth, his voice a dry croak. “I—I won’t—help you—monsters!”

Gnawlitch Shun pointed a claw at the man. “But you will,” he snarled. “Because if you do not, I can promise that you will suffer such as none of your filthy breed has ever suffered.”

“Do—do your worst—vermin!” Stefan spat, struggling to lift himself upright.

“Not my worst,” Gnawlitch hissed back. “His.” He motioned with his paw as a skaven scurried forwards.

Its appearance was a shock. Stefan was not expert at telling the monsters apart, but he would have remembered the horrifying abomination that now stared hungrily at him. The creature’s fur was patchy, as though stricken with the mange, foul boils and scabs marking the pale flesh that filled the gaps. Its face was similarly marred, one of its eyes swollen to such a point that it protruded madly from its socket. The creature wore a filthy leather smock over its reeking brown robes, and Stefan was sickened to see a face staring back at him from the hem of the pale leather.

“This is Skreezel, lately of Clan Moulder,” Gnawlitch introduced the frog-eyed monstrosity. “His experiments earned him the displeasure of that clan. Fortunately for him, I am a more open-minded patron. Skreezel has some interesting ideas regarding the relationship between our two species. I am sure you will have some very interesting discussions on the subject.”

Stefan was shivering like a leaf in a hurricane, watching in mute horror as a thin line of drool dripped from the corner of Skreezel’s fanged mouth. Gnawlitch Shun leaned forward, staring down at his captive.

“You have changed your position perhaps?” the skaven asked. When Stefan did not reply, Gnawlitch stepped back. “He is yours now Skreezel. So long as his mind remains intact, do what you like with him.” The warlock-engineer began to stride off down the walkway. “I always find your experiments amusing.”

CHAPTER THREE

The Altdorf School of Engineering was a series of immense brick buildings located in close proximity to the steel foundries of Metallschlack. A thick, towering wall surrounded the compound, intended as much to keep intruders out as to contain some of the more explosive results of the engineers’ experiments within.

As Heiko passed within its ominous archway, a massive statue of the late Emperor Luitpold greeted him, his foot resting on the back of a cannon. The giant corkscrew that gunners called a “worm”, and employed to clear their weapons of residual debris, was gripped in the emperor’s outstretched hand. Heiko couldn’t decide if the pose was meant to be heroic or ridiculous. Bastian was without any doubts, however. He’d never come across any mention of Luitpold I being an artillerist.

Without warning, thunder roared across the compound, shaking it like a halfling in an ogre’s fist. Heiko and Bastian ducked and covered their ears. The pair of soldiers escorting them barely blinked. Heiko could see a plume of thick black smoke rising from behind a long, squat stone building.

“They won’t be happy until they blast this place halfway to Kislev,” Erwin said, clearly unimpressed. The wizard didn’t appreciate the Engineers’ Guild. Unlike alchemists, the minds of the engineers were wholly fixated upon the material world and some lunatic concept that they claimed governed all existence, termed “physics”.

The guards conducted the visitors to a high-walled building with large, iron-barred windows. Heiko noticed, with some relief, that the structure was situated as far from the plume of smoke he’d seen earlier as it was possible to get, within the stone walls of the compound.

Upon passing beneath the archway that rose above the huge, iron-banded doors, Heiko swiftly came to understand why the engineers took such pains to keep the museum far from their volatile experiments. The Imperial Engineers’ Guild was among the wealthiest institutions in the Empire, providing gunpowder and firearms to every province in the land, as well as exporting cannons and handguns to places as far removed as Praag in Kislev and Remas in Tilea. The long hallway within was floored in some dark, marble-like stone Heiko had never seen before. Matching columns rose beside walls panelled in ruddy cherry wood, the ornamentation on their fluted caps picked out in gold leaf. Between the columns, draperies of velvet drooped elegantly toward the floor, ropes of silvered thread descending from their edges.

Bastian had less interest in the opulent setting. The young historian was running from one glass-faced cabinet to another, eyes glistening as he stared at the marvels within.

“Look! The original repeating pistol designed by Ludwig von Meinkopf!” He pointed excitedly at a bizarre-looking weapon lying inside a glass-topped table. Heiko wondered what kind of madman had concocted such a thing—it resembled a cross between a hackbut and a shepherd’s pipe, a single long stock sprouting five separate barrels arranged like the spread fingers of a human hand. How so strange an instrument could have even the slightest degree of accuracy was beyond him.

“I must meet with the guildmaster,” Heiko turned, startled to find the wizard standing beside him, “to appraise him more fully about the situation. I’m sure you understand that I did not dare entrust too much information to the messenger I sent ahead of us. Much more so than any other city, Altdorf is a network of spies.”

Heiko nodded his head, keeping his thoughts to himself. Erwin didn’t seem concerned with some hypothetical spy, he was afraid of someone very specific. But who? His client, some rival wizard? Or perhaps Erwin had a greater notion of who was behind the thefts than he let on, and was terrified of whoever he suspected of the crimes.

“If you follow this hallway towards its end you will find two archways,” Erwin said, distrusting the thoughtful look on Heiko’s face. “Through to the right you will find a large room. The item that concerns us is there. I presume you are familiar enough with artillery to recognise it?”

“If I get confused, I can always ask Bastian,” Heiko retorted.

Erwin smiled thinly, his own private troubles showing through once more. Without further comment, the wizard walked back to join the impatient curator and keep his rendezvous with the Guildmaster.

“Well, at least they won’t be flying this one through a window,” Heiko commented before the massive piece of artillery. It was a huge assemblage of steel barrels fitted to an equally daunting wooden carriage. Every inch of steel was engraved, the mouths of each barrel looking like a tiny dragon’s head. The harsh, angular rune letters of the dwarfs were etched across the frame. Erwin had briefed Heiko on the history of the piece, a history Bastian was happy to elaborate upon. It was an organ gun, one of the original pieces of artillery donated by the dwarfs of Karak Ankor for the Imperial Engineers’ Guild to study during the distant days of Emperor Sigismund the Conqueror.

The thing had to weigh at least a ton, Heiko estimated. The decrepit condition of the wheels that sagged to either side of the wooden carriage meant no one would be rolling it out of the doors. Indeed, Heiko was hard-pressed to consider just how someone could make off with the enormous organ gun, and the other robberies had featured objects almost equally mammoth in size. From Marienburg it had been the sails of the Kaiser Manfred. In Nuln it had been a giant set of bellows, a fixture of the city’s first gun works. From Middenheim had been stolen a huge fly wheel, an artefact from when the city’s gigantic cannon, Ulric’s Thunder, had been winched up the side of the Ulricsberg. All were objects of massive size and enormous weight. Heiko was at a loss to understand how such things could have been stolen, much less why.

He looked away from the organ gun, his eyes sweeping across the exhibition hall. It was, in some ways, similar to that of Waldenhof’s museum. Heiko could see Bastian studying the artefacts. A change had come over him as soon as he stepped into the dwarf exhibit. He examined the displays in a detached fashion, his mind clearly elsewhere. Apparently Heiko was not the only one who had noted the similarities with Waldenhof.

Watching Bastian made Heiko reflect upon yet another incongruity. Bastian’s father had been taken from the museum, along with the exhibit he had been restoring. Since the thieves suffered no qualms about leaving corpses behind them at the other robberies, Heiko could only believe that Stefan was alive. But why?

His ruminations were interrupted by the sudden return of Erwin von Fautz. A moustachioed, thickset man whose dark clothes carried the acrid reek of gunpowder, accompanied the wizard.

“We are all set,” the wizard told him. “The guildmaster is concerned, of course, but I managed to convince him that the capture of these villains is tantamount, even above the security of the artefact.”

Heiko wondered just what it had cost Erwin to bring the guildmaster’s selfless cooperation about.

“The guards will remain just as they normally are, so as not to alert the thieves that something is amiss. We, however, will remain inside the museum overnight. With any luck, we can catch these rogues red-handed and see what daemoncraft they are using to break my magic.”

“How long do we have?” Heiko asked.

“However many nights it takes,” Erwin replied. “The guildmaster has been most forthcoming.”

Heiko nodded in agreement. There was no saying how long it would take the thieves to strike; they had to make provision for a long wait. He looked over to where Bastian gazed sadly at an old gromril breastplate. “I’d like to make one alteration to our plans,” Heiko told Erwin. “I want the boy to join us. He has more of an investment in this than either of us. He deserves to be here.” Erwin’s worried look seemed to say, ‘I wouldn’t be so sure of that’. But still, the wizard agreed.

Now it would just be a matter of waiting, of watching for their adversary to make his first move.

Like the eyes of some strange metal insect, the mask of the warlock-engineer’s iron helmet stared up at Feng Fang from the walkway, its iron stained with thick black blood. The cloaked bodyguard sniffed at the helmet, then kicked it over the side to crash on some unfortunate slave below. Feng Fang fixed its attention on the grey seer. His master had cautioned that it should be especially observant. This close to the completion of the project, the master was increasingly worried about what measures Skaabwrath might take to thwart its success.

“Impressive,” Grey Seer Skaabwrath sneered, gesturing with a claw toward the gyrocopter the engineer had been repairing. The warlock-engineer’s decapitated body was still shooting jets of foul black blood from the stump of its neck. Not that this bothered the scurrying assistants stripping the still twitching corpse of its tools, warpstone charms and anything else that looked like it had even the slightest value. Behind them, the gyrocopter shuddered and moaned like a daemon’s fiddle, only the thick iron chains the late engineer had wrapped around the landing struts preventing it from breaking free and careening wildly about the cavern. “I tremble before the wisdom and might of the great Gnawlitch Shun. He has discovered a way to control Clan Skryre’s rampant population growth.”

The tall skaven did not deign to look at the jeering Skaabwrath, refusing to rise to the bait. Instead, Gnawlitch stared intently at the gyrocopter. By the sounds the machine was making, and the way its frame shuddered, the High Warlock could tell that the engineer had made several errors in the fine adjustments necessary for the machine to function properly. Even with an intact example for them to consult, the underlings were proving woefully incapable of duplicating the machinery correctly. Gnawlitch strode forward, the bodyguard hurrying after him. The scavenging assistants squealed in fright as they saw their master approach, leaping out of his path.

Gnawlitch paid the cringing ratmen little notice. After a few adjustments to the control console that fronted the gyrocopter’s cockpit, the machine grew silent. A gout of steam vented from its now quiet engine.

“You,” Gnawlitch Shun’s deep voice hissed, one claw pointing at the nearest of the late engineer’s assistants. The horrified ratman looked to either side, praying that the terrible High Warlock was addressing a comrade. When it became apparent this was not the case, the skaven emptied its glands and slowly scuttled forward.

“I trust you have been observant in your apprenticeship,” Gnawlitch told the cringing ratman. “You will finish repairing this machine. I am sure you will not repeat your late mentor’s errors.”

The terrified assistant glanced at the headless body, rubbing its paws together in despair. It wanted to grovel before the High Warlock, to suggest a much more worthy successor to the late engineer, but Gnawlitch Shun was already walking away, his sinister bodyguard and the gloating grey seer close behind.

Despondently, the newly appointed engineer stared at the selection of tools looted from the corpse. Its paw tightened around the iron grip of a hammer, the skaven crept toward the gyrocopter. If it was lucky, it might only meet with a fatal accident. For Gnawlitch Shun’s ways of disposing of those who displeased it were far more inventive than anything the murderous machine could inflict.

Bastian lunged upward from his bed, sweat drenching his body. The youth gulped down great lungfuls of air. He looked around him, staring at his surroundings in bewilderment until memory vanquished the last dregs of dream from his mind. He was in Altdorf, not Waldenhof, in a small guardroom within the Museum of Fabulous Invention attached to the School of Engineering.

“Bad dreams?”

The young man looked across the room to the bunk appropriated by Heiko Geissner. The envoy wore an expression of deep concern. Perhaps it was the dream still clouding his perceptions, but for a moment Heiko looked almost like Stefan Maeckler.

Bastian slid from his bunk, his feet slapping against the cold stone floor.

“The only kind I have these days,” Bastian told him, scratching a hand through his dishevelled hair. “Though I’m certain the irregular hours do not help the balance of my humours,” he added with a hollow laugh.

Along with the wizard, the two men had been standing vigil in the museum through the long hours of the night, watching and waiting for the thieves to make their attempt on the antique organ gun. Thus far, the criminals had not shown themselves. This would be the fourth night spent on guard.

“I’ve had some bad ones in my time too,” Heiko said, leaning down from his bunk to retrieve his boots from the floor. “A lot of them involve Miranda van Ottossen,” he explained as he pulled the first boot on. “In my nightmares I wind up marrying that nagging goose.” Heiko was pleased to see his comment bring a faint smile to Bastian. “Tell me, what fate worse than death has been haunting you?”

“Nothing like that,” Bastian said, searching for his own boots. “I’ve been dreaming of my father, of how I let him down.”

“There was nothing you could have done,” Heiko tried to console him. Bastian shook his head.

“When it really mattered, when he really needed me, I wasn’t there. In my dreams I can hear him calling out for me to help him! I can see the accusing look in his eyes!”

“That’s nonsense,” Heiko said, walking across the guardroom. “What do you think it would have accomplished if you’d been there, after all we’ve heard about these thieves?”

“I just can’t shake the feeling that I’m responsible,” Bastian said. “I was the one who helped him restore Thane Orgri’s gyrocopter. I helped him get the parts he needed to complete his repairs.” Bastian pounded his fist against the wall, bruising his knuckles against the unyielding stone.

Heiko moved forwards to help Bastian bind his injury, and to try to soothe the destructive emotions churning around in the boy’s mind. Stefan Maeckler had been only a few years older than himself. Perhaps, if he hadn’t made every effort to keep from Miranda’s clutches, he might have had a son about Bastian’s age. Perhaps the long-dead part of him that had prayed to Mother Rhya for a family of his own had been reawakened. Perhaps, in reaching out to Bastian, he was seeing in him the son he never had.

“Gentlemen,” the smooth voice of Erwin von Fautz snapped Heiko out of his reflectiveness. The wizard stood in the doorway of the guardroom, dressed in his brilliant white robes. “The guards are coming off duty now. It is time for us to see if the mouse will stray into the pantry.”

“Or the rat exit his hole,” Bastian commented, uncertain as to why the image had sprang into his mind.

The night started just as the previous three had, the shadowy hall as silent as the sombre gardens of Morr. Each man studied the exhibits and the walls, looking for something he would only recognise when he saw it. But there was nothing, no hidden doors for the criminals to sneak through, no false bottoms in cabinets for them to hide themselves in, not even a skylight for them to lower themselves into the chamber.

As the hours wore on, the men came to look forward to the tolling of the monstrous bell housed within the tower of the University of Altdorf. Even Heiko had begun to feel the debilitating clutch of tedium dulling his mind.

So he could not say with any great certainty, when the noises began, how long it was before he became consciously aware of them.

It was like the scurrying of rats within the walls of a house. By the time Heiko realised it was no trick of his ears, he knew the noises were coming from under the marble floor. For a moment, Heiko thought that Erwin too had heard the sounds, but then the wizard spoke.

“Someone is drawing on the winds of magic,” Erwin commented. “It’s wrong, too much for a spell.”

“Get the guards!” Heiko told Bastian. The boy looked back at him, his hand falling to the hilt of his sword. “Now!” Heiko added with a shout, sending him racing from the room. The boy might think Heiko was trying to keep him from harm—and perhaps he was. But right now, he didn’t think they had much time.

“Wrong, all wrong,” Erwin continued to mutter. “No one uses all the winds!”

“Snap out of it, sorcerer!” Heiko snarled. There was enough going against them, he didn’t need the wizard losing touch with reality now. Erwin lifted a pale hand to his forehead, trying to touch the pain pounding in his brain. Heiko noted he was leaning on his staff of pale wood, employing it to support his body.

“It’s all wrong!” Erwin yelled. “No wizard, no sorcerer draws upon all of the colours of magic at once!” He pointed a trembling hand at the floor. “That much raw energy would turn a man’s mind into cinders! He can’t be doing this!”

Heiko drew his broadsword, tossing the scabbard away. “Maybe you can discuss it with him when he comes up here to steal that cannon.”

He cursed himself. As soon as he’d heard about the breaking of Erwin’s wards, he knew another sorcerer was involved in the crimes. It was the only possible solution. He should have informed the witch hunters, regardless of what Graf Alberich might feel. But he’d allowed Erwin to convince him he was among the most knowledgeable hierophants of his order, more than a match for some mercenary magician. Heiko only hoped he’d have time later to repent that particular error.

Raised voices and the clatter of armour told Heiko that Bastian had returned with the guards. Had he seen them all in one place before, he would have realised that their number had been drastically increased. Whereas before there might have been four soldiers patrolling the museum, there were now a full twenty men racing into the room. If the thieves had noticed the increased security, it seemed it hadn’t caused them to forsake their plans.

“They’re under us!” Heiko shouted. Suddenly he felt the air grow strange, a static snap in the atmosphere was causing the hair on his arms to stand on end.

“So much power,” Erwin was muttering, before his eyes grew round with horror. “Get down!” he screamed, diving behind the granite bulk of an ancient dwarf anvil with a speed Heiko doubted most men half his age could manage—though he was going to try his best to match it.

Heiko smashed against the bronze casing of a centuries-old mould for handgun barrels, tipping the artefact over to provide cover. No sooner had he done so than the room shook with an explosion that made the one that had greeted their arrival seem like a poor cousin. Heiko’s ears rang from the thunder that roared across the chamber. Sight and smell vanished as thick grey dust billowed through the hall. Heiko’s skin sent protests of pain throbbing into his sense-starved brain as small bits of marble sliced into him. He found the pain reassuring—it told him that, despite whatever had happened, he was still alive.

Heiko rose from his sanctuary, his ears still ringing. He could make out shadowy shapes running through the grey fog that the dust had created, and the scurrying, inhuman way in which they moved. He tightened his grip on his sword. He’d fought inhuman monsters before, battling the orcs and goblins that strayed from the World’s Edge Mountains, the beastmen that haunted the woods of Stirland and mercilessly attacked all who travelled in their domains, and the twisted, once-human ghouls that still infested some of the most neglected regions of Sylvania. He should have expected a sorcerer to retain such unclean things in his service.

One of the scurrying shadows came nearer, so close that Heiko could see it held a sword in its hand. He roared at the shadow, though it was little more than a whisper in his deafened ears, and charged at it through the fog of dust. But he was unprepared for the sight that greeted him when he closed upon it. It was shaped like a man, stood like a man, and was dressed in shabby leather armour. It even carried a sword. But it was a rat—a filthy, verminous rat. Fur clothed its humanoid limbs, a naked tail twitched behind its body. Its face was a long rodent’s snout, chisel-like fangs protruding from its upper jaw.

Heiko had grown up on stories of such monsters, the terrible underfolk who brought plague and death. And now, standing before him was legend made flesh, a hideous superstition transformed into murderous reality.

It was the monster’s own cowardice that preserved Heiko’s life. Had it attacked him in that first moment of open-jawed horror, it could have easily spilled the envoy’s life upon the marble floor. But his savage war cry disarmed the creature, causing it to cringe in terror. Heiko’s sword bit into its neck, sending a rodent scream leaping from its rat jaws and a jet of black blood spurting from its wound.

Myth or reality, at least the underfolk could bleed. The thought soothed Heiko’s sense of dread more than he would have credited it. It seemed to the envoy that he could hear Erwin’s voice whispering inside his mind, though the words were of an arcane language he did not understand. A brilliant glow shone out from within the grey fog, almost like a tiny sun trying to break through a veil of storm clouds. At least, it seemed, Erwin had recovered his senses enough to work some spellcraft. Heiko could hear the wizard’s voice faintly through the pounding in his skull, enjoining himself and the guards to hurry and protect the organ gun.

Heiko turned in the direction of the exhibit. He could see more of the scurrying shapes he now knew to be ratmen. It was just as well the guildmaster had increased the guards—they were going to need every sword. Then Heiko saw two enormous shapes loom through the fog. Yet he accepted their presence with an optimistic pragmatism he’d never felt before. Whatever spell Erwin was working, it was certainly doing its job.

Heiko started toward the monsters, noting as he did so that one of the smaller shadows stepped closer to the organ gun. A sickly green glow suddenly leapt from the shadow’s chest and the air grew cold, assuming a stagnant taste.

Then the bright glow died and with it went his sense of optimism. Heiko froze as his dulled fears resurfaced. Strangely, he found the towering, ogre-like shapes less imposing than the little one emitting the green light.

White lightning crackled and danced about the organ gun. Even through the ringing in his ears, Heiko could hear Erwin scream in pain. The lightning did not last long, flickering and dying almost as soon as it had been evoked. As it faded, the green light was cut off. Heiko saw the two huge shapes lumber forward, each grabbing one side of the organ gun. At least now he had his answer as to how the thieves were going to make off with the exhibit.

Things happened quickly then. The fog of dust was suddenly blown out of the chamber by a hot flash of light. It cleared after an instant, but Bastian could hear a shrieking, whining sound rising in its place. Then he saw a sight that chilled him to the bone. The centre of the exhibit hall’s floor had been blasted open from underneath, leaving a deep crater in its place. Scattered around the hole was a motley collection of ghastly creatures, filthy mockeries of humanity with the fanged faces of rats. The horrors of his dreams smashed against his waking mind. Bastian remembered all the childhood legends his mother had told him, tales of the underfolk and the horrors they inflicted upon those who were wicked in their hearts.

For one chilling moment, he remembered the hidden room he saw his father enter sometimes, and the strange things it had contained.

Thoughts of his father turned into steel within Bastian’s mind. The fragments of his nightmare came surging back to him now, of how he stood helpless while Der Rattenherren worked his evil upon the world. The terror was still there, but Bastian found his waking self was far stronger than his despondent dream self had been. He could not remember pulling his sword from its scabbard, but it was in his hand. Waving it over his head, with a cry invoking the wrath of Sigmar, Verena and every other god or goddess Bastian had ever learned the name of, he charged into the monsters.

The sudden light had caught the skaven unprepared. Used to the dank tunnels of the underworld, it struck them harder than it had the humans. Now the ratmen were struggling to recover, squeaking their anguish as they clawed frantically at their faces. Their keen sense of smell told them the humans were coming, and clawed hands lifted notched blades to defend themselves. But, without vision to guide them, they were easy prey for their attackers.

Bastian was shouting a battlefield chant once recited by the holy warriors of Ulric as he fell upon the stunned ratmen. The youth swung his blade in a two-handed stroke that chopped into the midsection of the first skaven he came upon. The creature shrieked in agony, its jaws snapping blindly, its notched sword swinging sloppily at the boy’s head. Bastian ducked the clumsy stroke, and stabbed the point of his blade into the monster’s furry throat. Gasping and choking, the vermin toppled to the floor, its body wracked by spasms as life drained from it.

All around him, Bastian could see museum guards attacking the monsters, slashing into them with their blades. He did not care if the men were responding to the fury and determination of his savage Ulrican howl. He did not give a thought to these practiced soldiers who felt almost awed by the untried scholar’s courage. His only consideration was that these monsters had taken his father from him, and that while one of them still drew breath he had no time for fear.

Ahead, the hulking monsters who carried off the organ gun were rubbing their stinging eyes with massive paws tipped by savage claws almost as long as his arm. Huge cords of muscle bulged from the creatures’ arms and chests, their scarred bodies covered in reeking brown fur, their drooling visages those of fanged rodents.

Bastian glared at the rat-ogres. For a moment their raw strength, the promise of death gleaming from their claws and fangs, smashed against his resolve, fanning the dying ember of fear. Then shame smothered the emotion. Without the rat-ogres, the skaven would be unable to steal their prize. To cheat them of their victory, the hulking monsters had to die.

Erwin von Fautz lifted his hand to his mouth, unsurprised to find it smeared with blood. The filthy monsters had harnessed a form of magical energy within the amulet their leader wore on its chest. All other magical energy in the room had been drained away, sucked into the rapacious jewel. After the tremendous expenditure of magic the monsters had used to blast their way into the chamber, the power inside the jewel seemed doubly potent to Erwin’s mystically attuned senses. The winds of magic had become agitated then drained away entirely, a vacuum of energy Erwin had never experienced before. The sensation doubled him over, the spell he’d invoked to embolden the museum guards cracking apart inside his mind. He could almost feel his bones groaning inside him.

It was all he could do to keep his eyes open and watch as the leader of the ratmen directed the power of his ghastly talisman against the organ gun. Erwin had seen his carefully placed wards shredded to ribbons by the malevolent green energy. Then the monstrous sorcerer muttered some words and shut off the sickly light once more.

Instantly, Erwin felt magical energy rushing into the vacuum. To his attuned mind it was not unlike an adrenaline rush, the excess of raw power swirling in the ether around him. He had swiftly conjured a spell to remove the dust cloud that blinded Heiko and the guards, but was unprepared for the tremendous blast of light and heat the simple spell produced. It was further testament to the excessive power that rushed in to fill the void. For a moment of sheer terror, Erwin envisioned that power surging back into his own body, twisting and changing it into a living vessel of pure Chaotic energy.

In the aftermath of his spell, the ratmen were a screaming horde of cringing bodies, claws clamped to their stinging eyes. Erwin saw museum guards rushing forward to engage their stunned adversaries. Monsters or not, the men knew a tactical advantage when they saw one, and were not about to give the filthy creatures the opportunity to recover. The wizard sighed with relief, using the respite to try to master the sorcerous tempest around him, to craft a more controlled conjuration.

Then he saw them: a pair of ratmen not momentarily blinded like their comrades. The creatures wore long, tattered leather robes, with ghastly metal harnesses slung about their backs. Most curious of all were the metal masks they wore, completely concealing their muzzled faces. Their beady red eyes were hidden behind the glass lenses that rendered them immune to Erwin’s spell. He saw one of the monsters reach into a leather satchel hanging from its side, the ratman’s gloved claw emerging with a round sphere of glass the size of an apple.

The creature hurled the globe at the nearest of the museum guards. The man and the skaven he had been fighting disappeared in a cloud of noxious green gas. Erwin could not believe his senses, watching as the gas corroded the marble tiles, as both man and monster emerged from the cloud, gory froth bubbling from their noses and mouths. The two victims fell almost in unison, writhing in silent agony as they choked on the burned pieces of lung their bodies struggled to spit out.

The other masked skaven turned toward Erwin. Perhaps it was somehow attuned to magic, and guessed the origin of the blinding spell that claimed its fellows, or perhaps it merely saw easy prey. Whatever the cause, the masked ratman pulled a glass globe from its satchel, leaning back to toss the death sphere at the wizard.

Erwin’s eyes burned with power, blazing from his face like miniature suns. As fast as the speed of thought, magical energy shot from the wizard and seared into the twisted shape of his enemy. The skaven shrieked as the heat ignited its soiled garments. It beat frenziedly at its burning body, heedless of the glass sphere that fell from its frantic claws. As the globe shattered against the broken tiles at the monster’s feet, the resulting cloud of green death consumed it, along with two of its still reeling comrades.

The wizard found the other masked monster in full retreat, skittering back to the massive crater in the floor with a speed to shame a race horse. It seemed that the ratmen were withdrawing, wanting no part in a pitched battle. The pleasant sense of victory died, however, when Erwin noted the hulking rat-ogres that stood to either side of the skaven leader, already recovering the organ gun from the floor and loping back toward the crater. He prepared to evoke a second spell to sear the escaping monsters, but, even as he wove the power into the necessary patterns, he let his energies dissipate.

Standing near the skaven leader, staring at the ratman like a bird meeting the cold gaze of a serpent, was Bastian Maeckler!

Heiko Geissner tore his blade free from the furry, twitching body of the ratman he had just cut down, kicking the dying abomination to one side. Everything was happening so fast now that he was no longer thinking, simply reacting. The monsters were in full retreat, scurrying back toward the pit their arcane sorcery had blasted into the floor. The hulking rat-ogres lugged the heavy organ gun between them, bearing its tremendous burden into the pit with incredible speed. All around the behemoths, armour-clad museum guards crossed swords with snarling, rag-shrouded skaven, both sides struggling to reach the edge of the pit.

Two ratmen wearing strange masks, with massive harnesses of steel and tubing on their backs, lobbed glass spheres into the swirling melee. The caustic fumes their fragile bombs released killed whatever they touched, man and monster alike.

The distinction did not seem to concern the globadiers. Heiko saw the guards falter as the masked skaven worked their havoc, watched as the gigantic rat-ogres dropped down into the pit, vanishing from sight along with the ancient artillery piece. Then there was a blast of brilliant light, as though a tiny sun had suddenly winked into existence. One of the globadiers caught fire in the aftermath, dropping one of his weapons as he swatted at the flames, the green fumes consuming his burning shape as greedily as they had his victims. The courage of the other globadier broke as it saw its fellow die, and it scampered for the hole with unseemly haste.

Heiko and the remaining guards redoubled their efforts, desperate to catch up to the fleeing rat-ogres. But their foes were desperate. With their larger kin withdrawn from the battle, and the wicked weapons of the globadiers no longer showering death upon their foes, the skaven fought like the cornered rats they were, fear lending them a ferocity that Heiko hadn’t even seen in rabid wolves.

A ratman launched itself at Heiko, slashing at him with its crooked sword, its blows as sloppy as they were swift. The envoy ripped open its belly with the edge of his own blade. The creature wilted to the floor, snapping its fangs at Heiko’s boot as its head struck the cracked marble. Heiko stabbed the point of his sword into the back of its neck to ensure that it would stay down, then looked back toward his objective—the hole that had been ripped from the ground.

Only one ratman stood between him and the pit now, the cloaked monster with the green amulet fastened across its chest. But Heiko’s eyes were fixed upon the man who stood before the skaven leader. Bastian seemed to have been wounded, his sword hanging limply from his hand, helpless before his inhuman foe. The ratman, however, made no move to attack, simply throwing Bastian a curious look before scampering over the edge of the pit.

Heiko ran toward the helpless boy, thankful that those skaven who scurried past him were intent upon flight. He had to reach Bastian before one of the monsters noticed his helplessness.

Erwin rushed forward as the skaven began dropping into the tunnel they had hacked from the ground beneath the museum. He watched as Heiko allowed them to scamper away, in order to attend to Bastian. The wizard shook his head. There were much more important things at stake this night than a boy’s life like the continued longevity of Erwin von Fautz, Hierophant of the Order of Light.

The wizard called more of the power into himself, his body bristling with glowing energy. His calming spell soothed the fears of the soldiers, urging them on as he dropped into the black pit the skaven had created, a slight expenditure of magic turning his fall into a slow descent.

The light cast by Erwin’s glowing form illuminated the crude tunnel, its walls of bare earth and the jagged rocks littering its floor. Then the light flickered and Erwin clutched at his temple in sudden pain. Once again, he could feel someone drawing all of the fractious colours of magic together into one monstrous spell.

Up ahead, Erwin could see the skaven leader with its ragged robes and metal mask. Beside it towered a grotesque abomination, even by the standards of the loathsome underfolk. It stood nearly ten feet, though it was bent almost double within the confines of the tunnel, its limbs the dull hue of old bone, its skeletal extremities imprisoned within a steel framework. Its head was the grinning skull of a rat-ogre, its chest a massive steel cylinder from which a riot of gauges and pipes protruded. One of the monster’s arms ended in a great forked claw, and Erwin could see a stagnant black lightning running along the copper hoses that wound around the limb. The lightning crackled between the blades of the claw, and he could smell the same stench of ozone that prefigured the earlier explosion.

Erwin hastily drew energy into himself, preparing to blast the skeletal rat creature apart before it could unleash another apocalyptic discharge. But the monster’s paws clutched at a strange amulet on its chest. At once, the glow surrounding Erwin vanished and the wizard crumpled to the ground. The men around him cried out in dismay, their courage suddenly diminishing. Erwin struggled to lift his face from the dirt, trying to force himself to move. He saw the skaven engineer smash one of the gauges on its automaton, then scamper off down the tunnel, the green light receding with it.

The rat machine did not move. Erwin saw that the crackling black lightning had stopped when the skaven had unleashed the sickly light. But whatever terrible power had been set into motion was not so easily quelled. Steam erupted from the hoses and pipes emanating from the monster’s body. Erwin was no engineer, but he noted how the needles on the gauges fitted to the automaton’s steel chest danced and shuddered.

“Get out!” the wizard screamed, forcing his own body into motion as he threw himself from the pit.

He had just reached the top when he felt the invigorating rush of magical energy flood back into the void left by the skaven device. Either the monster had cut off its own light, or else it had retreated far enough down the tunnel that it no longer had any effect. Erwin flung himself across the chamber.

The second explosion was more powerful than the first. The original hole that the skaven created vanished, consumed by an even bigger crater. The tunnel that connected to it collapsed, disappearing as completely as if it had been the work of an illusionist.

Erwin lifted himself from the floor. Dusting his soiled robes with a bloodied hand, he absently noticed that a shard of marble had nearly severed one of his fingers. He shuddered, some coldly analytical portion of his mind registering that, once the shock wore off, his injury would feel much less distant. Still, as he looked at the ravaged remains of the museum guards, he reasoned that he might have suffered a far worse fate. Of the skaven, there was no sign. The bodies of their fallen comrades were buried beneath the rubble that now filled the centre of the room.

Heiko Geissner rose from behind a ravaged exhibit. Behind him, Erwin could see Bastian sitting on the floor, his head in his hands. Heiko limped toward the wizard, smiling weakly.

“Well,” the Waldenhof envoy said, “that could have gone better.”

CHAPTER FOUR

Bastian awoke with a moan of horror. His first impulse was to bite down on his clenched fist, to stifle the wretched sounds. His second was to force his reddened eyes into focus and see who else might have noted his uneasy sleep.

He was still in his cabin on the Kelpie, the shabby sloop Heiko had engaged to carry them back to Stirland. The coarse wool blankets lay on the floor, kicked from his bunk during his fitful slumber.

Bastian tried to remember what had so tormented his sleep. His nightmares had left a residue of horror and shame upon his psyche, the nagging conviction that he had somehow betrayed his father. In his dreams he saw himself stalking through the museum, unlocking the door of the Dwarf Hall, and allowing something inside. Heiko had said Bastian was allowing his feelings of guilt and helplessness to give strength to his nightmares. But he knew his guilt was not born of failure, but of betrayal. He might strive and strive again, and at last overcome failure, but treachery was eternal in its vileness.

Bastian stepped down from his bunk, and dipped his hands in the clay basin of water that rested on a warped little table sandwiched between his bunk and the wall. He splashed the water on his face, washing the sweat and sleep from him.

Heiko’s investigation in Altdorf had ended the night of the attack. Twelve of the museum guards had died, irreparable damage had been done to the structure itself, and a score of priceless artefacts destroyed in the explosion that sealed the tunnel. It was a colossal debacle, one that even Erwin von Fautz’s wizardry couldn’t wish away. All he had garnered from the guildmaster had been an advance warning—the Order of Sigmar was going to be informed of the attack. The guildmaster blamed himself for having listened to Erwin’s plans in the first place, for trusting the words of a conjurer. From the first, Erwin had seemed certain the witch hunters would become involved, and was terrified of the prospect.

The orders Heiko had been given by Graf Alberich were explicit regarding the Order of Sigmar. But the wizard had laughed softly, telling him it was like locking the daemon back in the cupboard after it had been set loose and eaten the children. The witch hunters were already involved. All Heiko could do was seek to delay their connection of the incident in Altdorf to the theft in Waldenhof, by getting out of Altdorf before they started looking for him.

Even though the thieves had been skaven, Erwin remained convinced that there was a human agency involved in the crimes. Before taking his leave of the two Stirlanders, he promised to let Heiko know if anything turned up.

“That is the last we shall see of Hierophant von Fautz,” Heiko told Bastian as they had made their way back to the docks. “He has witch hunters sniffing around at his doorstep now. I wouldn’t be surprised if he found some very good reasons to be in Bretonnia or Tilea in the next day or so.” Heiko sighed, leaning heavily on the cane he’d taken to carrying after the battle in the museum. “A pity, I still think he held a few things back from us. As disgusting as they are, the underfolk put a great deal of planning into these crimes.”

Bastian had held a few things back from Heiko too though the boy hadn’t known they were important until that terrible night at the School of Engineering. How could he ever have imagined that the mythical underfolk were responsible for the crimes? How could he have connected an ancient legend to real events and tragedies? If anyone had told him before that awful night that the skaven had claimed his father, he would have called them mad.

Heiko’s attitude would be much the same. Even Erwin von Fautz, with all of his knowledge of dark secrets and arcane texts, would have been suspicious. The wizard knew that the foul breed of ratmen had once existed, but had also believed their loathsome kind were exterminated many centuries before, lingering only in distorted myths.

But it explained much, the reality of these hideous underfolk. It explained the tiny room under the Waldenhof museum, which his father had been so careful to keep locked and hidden. Only once had Bastian ever stepped inside; only once had he laid eyes upon the musty collection of books and scrolls, the assortment of strange and sinister pieces of armour and weaponry—and the ghastly skeleton, its yellowed bones held together by iron pins, its shape an obscene crossbreed between man and rat.

His father had scolded him fiercely when he discovered Bastian in the secret room. Later, when he had calmed down, Stefan Maeckler explained that the items were all fabrications, bogus artefacts purchased by one of their ancestors. Stefan’s great-great grandfather had been obsessed with the legend of the underfolk, squandering the wealth of Stirland on anything that related to them, no matter how dubious its origin. That was supposedly why they were not on display—they were nothing but lies and deception, utterly at odds with the scholarship of the museum. Now that Bastian considered this, however, he wondered why his forebears had not simply destroyed the contents of that hidden room, if they were so bereft of value. It seemed that they knew they were also the guardians of a horrible reality, a terrible secret.

He would have to confide in Heiko about how the secret had apparently been passed down through generations of Maecklers. For try as he might, Bastian knew he did not have the courage to prevail against their inhuman enemies on his own. The battle in Altdorf had proven that to him. When he had set eyes upon the twisted monster leading the attack, Bastian had frozen, unable to attack the loathsome beast. In that moment, a terrible sense of recognition had gripped him, bearing with it a debilitating burst of shame and guilt. Worse still, for all the horror of the skaven’s face, it seemed to Bastian that the ratman bore a look of recognition as well, that it had recognised him too.

Heiko agreed that, in the secret room under the museum in Waldenhof, they would study whatever it was that Bastian’s ancestors had hidden away from the world. Now that they knew who their enemy was, they would need to learn as much about them as possible before fighting back. The envoy sought to reassure Bastian, promising they would find Stefan and bring him back.

The thought chilled the boy. Now that they knew what had taken him, Bastian was not sure which was worse—his father dead, or his father alive and in the claws of the skaven.

The laboratory of Skreezel, outcast of Clan Moulder, was a place of almost mythic horror for the skaven dwelling beneath Karak Ungor. Even the spies of rival warlock-engineers did not care to go there, feigning ignorance of its location when pressed by their masters. Skreezel was notorious for detaching dozens of slaves at a time from the work gangs in the great cavern, leading them off to his lair with a mad gleam in his eyes. None of the slaves, whether skaven or human, would ever be seen again. It was whispered that sometimes Skreezl would abduct lone clanrat warriors and lesser engineers, if they made the mistake of prowling the tunnels alone, their fate every bit as mysterious as that of the slaves.

The laboratory had been gnawed from the side of an old dwarf tunnel long ago, bare walls of jagged stone marking a departure from the precisely even stone blocks that formed the exterior of the tunnel. The green glow of warpstone lanterns coloured the chamber in a sickly light, revealing the iron-barred cages that littered the floor or hung from thick steel chains from the stone ceiling overhead. Almost every section of the wall had been hollowed out to make shallow cells, behind the steel doors of which maddened eyes stared outward. Some of the creatures imprisoned within the cells still retained their original genetic stock, displaying only odd patches of fur, spines or over-sized claws. Others had been so altered that what they had once been—man or dwarf, orc or rat—could only be guessed.

In the centre of the chamber was set a thick stone table, one of the warpstone lanterns hanging from a chain directly above it. Beside it was a cabinet containing a collection of fiendish instruments more suited to butchery and torture than surgery… although with Skreezel, there was little distinction between the three. The far wall of the chamber was cluttered with wooden boxes, sacks and barrels—the raw components of Skreezel’s experiments. Nearby, a second table, this time of wood, had been set with objects more suited to an alchemist’s workshop than the lair of a monster.

Skreezel was a monster, even by the perfidious standards of his vile race. He was gripped by a sadistic mania for taking things apart and stitching them back together in new and interesting ways. Every master moulder of his clan learned to do such things, for Clan Moulder were the creators of the many strange beasts the skaven race employed in their innumerable wars. But Skreezel had developed his obsession to extremes that even his clan could not tolerate, his experiments devoid of any purpose beyond seeing if flesh would endure. When the monster was running low on subjects, he would abduct his fellow skaven, regardless of their rank or status. Such ruthlessness and recklessness at last drew the attention of the lords of his clan, and Skreezel found himself fleeing from Clan Moulder’s stronghold, Hell Pit, with his tail between his legs and a death mark on his head. Only the patronage of High Warlock Gnawlitch Shun kept Skreezel alive, though even with the protection of Clan Skryre, there had been numerous assassination attempts on his life. Sadistically insane he may have been, but Skreezel had enough survival instinct left in his festering brain to remain loyal to his protector and obey his edicts much more carefully than he had those of his previous masters.

Gnawlitch Shun found the monster in his usual place, standing over the stone table vivisecting a screaming goblin. The High Warlock idly wondered what Skreezel intended to do with the parts he had already removed from his victim, and what he might decide to replace them with.

Skreezel turned about as he heard his master approach. His olfactory organs had decayed long ago, leaving the monster almost blind by skaven standards. Perhaps this lack of sensory stimulation had been a contributory factor in the beast’s insanity.

Skreezel bowed before Gnawlitch, lifting paws that were coated in thin goblin gore to his muzzle and fastidiously licking them clean with the rotting stump of his tongue.

“There has been progress with your subject?” Gnawlitch demanded. As he spoke, some of the things imprisoned in the cages began to whimper and moan. The High Warlock paid them no notice, even those noises that still bore a trace of resemblance to speech.

Behind him, the cloaked form of Feng Fang tensed, the bodyguard’s eyes narrowing as he focused upon one of the more aggressive-sounding creatures.

“Yes-yes, pretty-pretty now,” Skreezel crowed, capering away from his worktable toward one of the iron cages. The High Warlock crouched low to stare inside. The pale flesh of Stefan Maeckler’s naked form glistened with sweat. It was a peculiarity of the hairless breeds that they excreted their musk through the skin rather than from glands. But Gnawlitch knew humans would only do so when they were excited, when they found their surroundings too hot, or when they were sick. He hoped for Skreezel’s sake it was not the last possibility.

“See-see, took-change leg,” Skreezel pointed his claw at the man’s pelvis. His left leg had been removed at the hip; stitched in its place was the furry limb of a huge rat. Gnawlitch noted that the replacement was far too small to support the man’s body, looking like something that had withered and atrophied. “Man-man not make move-work,” Skreezel added vindictively.

The sound of the monster’s voice awoke Stefan Maeckler from his feverish sleep. The mangled curator cringed against the back of his cage, curling his mutilated body into a terrified ball. “Maybe take-change forepaws next-next,” the beast changer hissed enthusiastically. Gnawlitch leaned still closer, fixing the cowering man with his gaze.

“Now that you have tasted the hospitality of Skreezel,” the High Warlock stated, “perhaps you would like to reconsider your unkind words.” Gnawlitch watched the mad terror in Stefan’s eyes as his words insinuated themselves into his mind.

“No—never,” Stefan spat back at his tormentors. “I will not—betray my people.”

Gnawlitch rose to his full height, glaring down at the defiant curator.

“Skreezel will take you apart piece by piece,” the skaven promised, “and turn you into something you could not envision in your darkest nightmares. All he will leave is your screaming mind, begging me to allow him to kill you.” Gnawlitch saw the horror of his words stab into Stefan’s heart. But the defiant gleam had not died in the man’s eyes. He should have expected as much. The man-thing had studied the dwarfs enough to repair one of their machines; it only made sense that he should become just as stubborn as a dwarf.

But there was a way to break even the toughest dwarfs will. Gnawlitch suspected that Maeckler would be no less susceptible to such methods.

“You do not seem talkative today, Stefan-man,” Gnawlitch hissed. “Perhaps I should find a way to make you more forthcoming.” The High Warlock let the threat linger in the air, detecting fear in the man’s scent before stalking from Skreezel’s chamber of horrors.

Heiko Geissner swept through Graf Alberich’s castle with the sense of purpose of a conquering general, returned from annihilating his foe. Servants, officials and guards hurried to get out of his way. Heiko soon found the elector count’s steward, a grim little man with narrow eyes and a drooping moustache. The steward had never particularly cared for him. But today, Heiko did not give the shrewish little man a chance to bare his fangs, snapping out a string of rapid orders, then turning on his heel and stalking toward the elector count’s private study. The steward sputtered an unintelligible protest, but hurried about the envoy’s business.

Heiko Geissner struck a fearsomely confident figure. Yet inside, he was a very worried man. The theft he’d been sent to investigate had escalated far beyond his control. Beyond anybody’s control. Graf Alberich had hoped to keep the investigtion as low-key as possible. He feared the implications that Rudolf had articulated, the political ramifications should the affair become too big to handle. He feared the involvement of outsiders, of Imperial agents stamping all over his province and undermining his authority. He’d wanted a quick and satisfactory conclusion to this mess, some scheming private collector or eccentric wizard unmasked and brought to justice.

Heiko was certain Alberich wasn’t going to like hearing that monsters straight out of a peasant folktale were responsible. Or that Heiko had involved himself in Erwin von Fautz’s ill-fated trap at the School of Engineering, and the Order of Sigmar was taking an interest in things now. That it would only be a matter of time before witch hunters started sniffing around Waldenhof.

In Heiko’s experience, the truth rarely made people happy.

Heiko sighed as he remembered the authority he had once wielded, the power that had once been entrusted to him. It was strange to think that it was twelve years since he had last been addressed as “Chamberlain Geissner”. He’d been chamberlain to Graf Alberich’s father, making him in many ways the most powerful man in Waldenhof, next to the elector count himself. Sometimes he would forget the place he now occupied, his reduced status. Perhaps that was why he so often had the temerity to argue with Alberich as though they were equals.

Twelve years. There was no chance of his ever regaining his old position, no matter how favourably Graf Alberich looked upon him. Too many important people remembered the reason he was no longer chamberlain. Too many of them knew the truth behind the lie they were forced to smilingly accept. The truth was so potentially scandalous that the young elector count was forced to rescind his title in favour of an older cousin. But Heiko had deprived Alberich’s enemies of the proof they needed. So the lie had to be maintained, the lie that cast a shadow across any future Heiko might once have been naive enough to believe he had.

The former chamberlain bowed his head as Graf Alberich strode into the room. The elector count settled into a fur-lined chair near the room’s stone-faced hearth. His expression was affable, if uneasy. He did not forget his friends. It was the only reason Heiko was still engaged in any sort of capacity, despite those who found his presence an insult.

Rudolf followed into the study, closing the door behind them. Rudolf always dressed as though he had just returned from a hunting trip, or was getting ready to go on campaign. Heiko could imagine the endless discussions he had instigated in his absence, trying to twist his brother’s mind. For Rudolf was a warmonger, dreaming of glories on the battlefield. He’d been cheated of his chance to lead the armies of Stirland in their last major wars: too young to command troops during Warlord Azhag’s rampage; kept at home during the recent incursion of Archaon’s hordes across the north of the Empire. Now he saw another chance for himself, and, like some lock-jawed fighting dog, he wasn’t about to let it go.

Rudolf’s expression was sour, openly hostile. Heiko could feel his contempt as he crossed the room to take up a position behind his brother’s chair.

“It gladdens my heart to see you returned from Altdorf safely,” Graf Alberich greeted Heiko. “I can only hope that your excursion was not without its rewards.” The elector count lifted his eyes, glancing over his shoulder at Rudolf. “The investigation here in Waldenhof has continued in your absence. I must confess that what evidence has come to light has been most disheartening.” A smile briefly flickered on Rudolf’s face. Heiko knew that if Rudolf had found any evidence connecting the dwarfs with the theft of Thane Orgri’s gyrocopter, then he had manufactured it himself.

“Yes, excellency,” Heiko replied, bowing his head. Given the official nature of what he had to relate, it was best to keep things formal. That way, his bizarre report might sound just a bit less fantastical. “I arrived in Altdorf without incident, and met with the wizard who cast the protective wards upon the exhibit. He explained to me that the ward placed on Thane Orgri’s gyrocopter was one of five commissioned by the same patron. He also explained that these spells were cast in places as far apart as Middenheim and Nuln. Further, each of the wards had been broken, and the artefacts they had been placed to protect stolen.”

“Then this wizard is our man!” Rudolf snarled. “By his own mouth he admits to marking these relics for theft with his damnable sorcery. No doubt in exchange for dwarf gold.”

“I think that unlikely,” Alberich said. “Why would he implicate himself in such an obvious manner? I would hear the rest of Herr Geissner’s report before drawing conclusions. Perhaps you might do the same, brother.” The elector count gave a tired hiss of annoyance. “Your ambition has been showing of late.” Rudolf scowled at the rebuke.

“The wizard told me of the other thefts that occurred, and related something of still greater import,” Heiko continued. “There was one further artefact, a part of the same doomed commission, that had not yet been stolen. We devised a plan by which we might be able to prepare for the thieves and catch them as they attempted to steal it.”

“And did you?” Graf Alberich asked, a trace of excitement slipping through his guarded tones. “Did you catch these villains red-handed?”

Heiko’s already grim mood darkened as he considered the horrors that transpired in the School of Engineering. How much could he expect the elector count to accept? How much of it would he himself have believed had he not been there? Had he not seen with his own eyes? Had his sword not carved malformed flesh and spilled polluted blood?

“We did,” he said after a pause. “We uncovered a foul threat that imperils not merely Waldenhof or Stirland, but the entire Empire. The perpetrators of this crime are not simple thieves, but enemies of humanity itself. They fell into our trap, but we were unprepared for their numbers, and for the obscene sorcery at their command. They were able to effect an escape, bearing with them the artefact we hoped to protect.”

“Then you failed,” Rudolf sneered, stalking back from the fireplace. “You had a chance to stop the dwarfs, and you failed. Excellent work, raconteur. Rather what one has come to expect from your sort.” He leaned down beside the elector count’s chair. “You see, brother, this goes beyond what we had feared. The dwarfs may be gathering their strength for a campaign not simply against us, but against the Empire itself! They know we are weak after repulsing Archaon’s assault on Middenheim, and now they intend to exploit that weakness. We have to act now, before they are ready!”

“It wasn’t the dwarfs.” Heiko drew stares from both of the noblemen. “It was the horrors of the Old Night and the Dark Gods. True enemies of mankind, not enemies of our own imagining. Instead of accusing the dwarfs, we should be seeking their assistance against this common threat.”

Rudolf snorted a snide laugh. “Oh, that sheds so much more light upon the matter, raconteur. A cult of deranged daemonologists, intent upon toppling the Empire itself! Trying to do what Archaon and his entire horde couldn’t manage! That sounds like the fanatical doom-saying of some overzealous Sigmarite. Perhaps you spent too much time in the taverns of Altdorf, and not enough doing your job. Or maybe you’ve finally taken leave of your senses.”

“I know what I saw!” Heiko snarled back. He was letting Rudolf get under his skin. He composed himself. It was the elector count he had to convince, not his younger brother. “Believe me, excellency, when I tell you that what attacked the School of Engineering and the museum here in Altdorf were not men, nor even dwarfs, but the foul creations of the Ruinous Powers!” Graf Alberich held Heiko’s imploring gaze, his own face neutral.

“Your words would hold more conviction,” the elector count said, “if I did not feel that you were keeping certain things from me. What is the name of this wizard?”

Heiko shook his head, remembering the promise made to Erwin von Fautz. There were already enough paths to bring the witch hunters to his doorstep. “I am sorry, I cannot divulge that.”

Rudolf laughed, a harsh sound like the triumphant bark of a wolf. Alberich maintained his emotionless facade. “Then what is the nature of these ‘monsters’?”

Heiko swallowed hard. Even before he spoke, he knew they would not believe him.

“The creatures who attacked us in Altdorf, the ones who stole Thane Orgri’s gyrocopter were what we know as the underfolk,” Heiko said. “The skaven.”

They didn’t believe him. Rudolf was belligerent in abusing Heiko’s report, calling him demented at best, suggesting he may even have been an agent of the dwarfs, sowing confusion in the court of Stirland while the enemy gathered their strength. Rudolf pointed to Heiko’s outrageous fabrication as further proof: unlike men, dwarfs actually believed in the underfolk, claiming to have fought numerous wars against them in the past. Only a dwarf would concoct such a story and expect it to be believed.

Graf Alberich was more subdued in his disappointment—disbelieving Rudolph’s accusations that Heiko had been bought off by the dwarfs, but equally certain that, whoever was behind the crimes, it was not fairytale monsters. In his opinion, the strain of the assignment had been too much for Heiko. It had caused the man’s mind to become disordered.

He asked Heiko for evidence, something substantial to verify his claims. Heiko could offer nothing. It would take time for some of the inquiries he had set in motion in Altdorf to bear fruit. It would take time to learn anything more from Erwin—if the wizard did, indeed, escape the witch hunters. And it would take time to search out any secrets contained within the hidden chamber that Bastian described. Heiko promised to provide such evidence later, eliciting a fresh dose of venom from Rudolf. “As soon as your dwarf masters can fabricate it,” accused the young Haupt-Anderssen.

Heiko noted the reluctance and genuine regret with which Graf Alberich announced he was dismissing him. A decision born of momentary anger, but rooted in a very real sense of disappointment. It made Heiko determined to prove himself to the elector count. He had suffered enough for his perceived failings. He would not suffer still further for being right when others believed him wrong.

His last words as he had left the Haupt-Anderssens were a promise to soon bring the noblemen all the evidence they would need. But, as he stood once more within the silent, musty halls of the Waldenhof Museum, he wondered if such evidence truly existed. The underfolk had endured for centuries as little more than a rumour. If any solid, incontrovertible proof of their existence was extant, it had either been suppressed or destroyed. He was placing a great deal of hope in the secret Maeckler collection.

Bastian’s hands trembled as he turned the worn leather pages of the sheepskin-bound folio. His breath was ragged and uneven as his eyes studied the words drawn upon the pages in a spidery scrawl, his mind sickening as the words became knowledge. Try as he might, he could not disavow the ghastly wisdom the tattered old books and crumbling scrolls imparted. He knew the words to be the truth, a truth that caused those who divined it to become haunted men devoid of hope and faith.

Bastian closed the thin folio, its covers folding about the leering visage of a rat-faced thing. If but the smallest portion of what he had read was true, then the enemy they faced was the greatest and oldest threat mankind had ever known. He recalled the chilling words recorded in Die Geheimnis dem Ungeziefern. Written by one Udo Krieger, a Reikland witch hunter, nearly three hundred years ago, the book presented evidence gathered after the destruction of a skaven warren beneath the streets of Carroburg. Despite its origins, the book had been censured. Every copy the Order of Sigmar could lay its hands upon had been burned, while Krieger was confined to an Altdorf madhouse until his death, a few years later—or so said the scrawled insert placed by a previous caretaker of the Maeckler collection within the slender volume.

Bastian could well understand the cause of Krieger’s insanity. He had captured one of the filthy ratmen, a mutated creature that held a religious position within their profane society. For months Krieger had interrogated the abomination, dragging from its tortured carcass the secrets of its race, the vast extent of their subterranean empire. But the fact that had chilled Krieger, had frozen the witch hunter’s fiery conviction, was the promise the skaven priest claimed their daemonic deity had made to its people, the destiny it claimed was theirs: We shall inherit.

The youth rose from his chair, casting his gaze across the subterranean room. It was built like a vault a wealthy baron might construct to entomb his riches. The walls, were as solid as the granite walls of the elector count’s castle—though, after seeing how easily the underfolk blasted their way into the School of Engineering, Bastian found little comfort in that thought. Iron sconces were set into the walls, filled with the torches Bastian brought to light the chamber. A small table and a simple wooden chair, both dating from the time of the khan-queens, reposed in one corner.

It was overlooked by sagging bookshelves that held such proscribed works as Wilhelm Leiber’s The Loathsome Ratmen and all their Vile Kin, Reinhard Ascher’s Heresies in the Age of the Three Emperors, Kadath Madssen’s Some Strange and Eldritch Shadow, and Das Buch der Ratten by the notorious sorcerer Alferic Leoppre. The texts and treatises were complemented by grotesque artefacts like a strange iron mask, its dimensions far too narrow for a human head, its face elongated as though to fit a long snout. Then there were the strange weapons, cruel swords and knives unlike anything wrought by man or dwarf, or even the crude blades fashioned by goblins. There were charcoal drawings and oil paintings, even a segment of a tapestry that once hung in the dwarf exhibit hall, depicting slavering hordes of ratmen descending on a dwarf stronghold. There were mangy furs and preserved hides that looked to have been cut from immense vermin. But most unsettling of all was the skeleton. Held together by iron pins, it was undeniably inhuman, with a long tail, fanged skull and crooked back. Yet its similarities to the human form were as disgusting as they were terrifying.

It was an effort to remain in the tiny room, with its profane knowledge and inhuman horrors. He wanted to lose himself in the familiar streets of Waldenhof, to escape the horrors he had been forced to confront. But there was still strength in Bastian’s heart, born of his sense of duty, his devotion and love for his father. And it was enough to subdue the driving compulsion to escape.

Bastian looked across the table at the slow-burning candle resting there. Marks of paint down the length of the candle denoted the passage of time, as melting wax and flame descended. The young man shook his head. He hadn’t imagined that so many hours had passed. Heiko Geissner would have finished his report to the elector count by now, and would return to the museum to see if Bastian had found the hidden room, and what he might have discovered there.

For a moment, Bastian wanted to deny finding the secret chamber when he met with Heiko. He could spare the man the horrible revelations coiled within the forbidden texts of his ancestors. But he subdued the impulse to lie. As much as any man could, Heiko had earned the right to know the truth. And Bastian still clung to the hope that through Heiko Geissner’s skill and experience he might yet find his father.

Wearily, he rose from the table, clutching the journals and books he had been perusing to his chest. He would give Heiko a choice: either to appease his curiosity with such knowledge as the books could relate to him, or to be led back to the secret room, and the full horror of the collection the Maecklers had gathered.

As he glanced back at the leering ratman skull of the ratman skeleton grinning from the shadows, Bastian wished someone had offered him the same choice.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

The man pulled the heavy fur cloak he wore tighter about him, trying to fend off the dank chill of the cellar. Only the most miserable of creatures would cringe their way through life in such a filthy, pestilential environment.

White mould peppered the walls, shining in the gloom. The muck beneath his feet was equal parts mud and refuse, washed into the cellar from the street above. Beetles and roaches crawled through the filth, chewing away at the waste. The beady eyes of bloated rats gleamed from the shadows, watching him with a hungry gaze. Sometimes the man could hear the vermin splashing through the stagnant pools of water scattered throughout the cellar.

The thing he had come to see appeared without warning. It seemed to simply manifest itself from the shadows. Its eyes were like the beady red orbs of the rats, only larger and higher above the floor. The man had never learned how the creature always knew when he was waiting. But it always did. If the vile thing possessed any kind of virtue at all, it lay in its uncanny ability to gather information.

“How can most miserable-unworthy Crittrik obey-serve lord-man?” it asked, stepping out from the shadows. It stood only slightly shorter than the man it addressed, but its shoulders were hunched, its head held low in subservience, its paws folded against the ragged breast of its tattered brown cloak. The hateful gleam boiling within the skaven’s eyes went unnoticed by its human confederate.

“Your worthless vermin have fouled things!” the man snarled, shaking his fist at the piebald skaven. “They were nearly caught raiding that museum in Altdorf! Worse, they left witnesses, witnesses who saw them and carried back the tale! Incompetent, bungling trash, all of you!”

Crittrik bobbed its head to the man’s words, words of contrition spilling from his mouth. One of Gnawlitch Shun’s maxims stated that negotiation with humans should be done from a position of feigned weakness. Men were apt to be less cautious if given the illusion of superiority and control. As much as the play-acting galled Crittrik, the warlock-engineer had to agree it was a sound strategy. One employed towards ends that the High Warlock would not have appreciated.

“That filthy raconteur has told Graf Alberich that it was your people behind all of the thefts, even the one here in Waldenhof!” the man spat, pacing through the muck strewn across the ground.

“Not worry-fear,” Crittrik reassured his confederate. “None-man listen-learn. Skaven are myth-lie.” The greatest trick the skaven race had ever accomplished was convincing the Empire they did not exist. Most who did believe were deemed fools or madmen. Those few who were believed by their fellows did not last long, disappearing during the night into the very underworld they thought to warn others about.

“You don’t understand,” the man growled. “This is Heiko Geissner, one of Graf Alberich’s favourites. The elector count will listen to him. He’s already proven a stumbling block in fixing blame upon the dwarfs. Now he promises to deliver evidence that it was your people behind the thefts!”

“Then man die,” Crittrik promised, lashing its tail against the floor. The man shook his head.

“No, that would only raise more questions,” he said. “We must discredit him, turn Alberich completely against him.” The man’s gaze hardened. He pointed a finger at the skaven. “You must help me make it seem that Geissner is in the employ of the dwarfs, that he has betrayed us to our enemies. Your people need to fabricate evidence that will convince Alberich his special envoy is a traitor.”

Crittrik bobbed his head up and down. It was a genuinely underhanded scheme to turn an enemy into a tool of one’s own ambitions, a traitor denouncing a loyal servant as a traitor. At times, Rudolf Haupt-Anderssen almost seemed skaven-like in the way his mind worked. Crittrik only hoped the man never thought to play his skaven allies against one another. If he were to tell Gnawlitch Shun about the purpose of the journey to Altdorf, and who had suggested the trip to him, Crittrik could expect a quick and terrible end. Grey Seer Skaabwrath was a powerful figure to curry favour with, but Crittrik was under no illusions that Skaabwrath would confront Gnawlitch Shun over the life of an exposed spy.

“Yes-yes, Crittrik find-make what lord-man need-want,” Crittrik replied, still nodding its head. Rudolph’s smug smile was almost enough to make the skaven lunge forward and rip out his throat. Later, after Rudolf had served his uses, it would be time to redress all of the man’s swaggering pomposity. “Find-bring dwarf gold. Much-much.” There was a fair amount of dwarf coinage in the small treasury kept by the warren under Waldenhof. Though the skaven themselves had no use for gold, they found it helpful for bribing traitors among other races.

“Good,” Rudolf said. How damning it would be for Heiko to be found in possession of dwarf gold! He could manufacture a few witnesses to compound the impact. There were more than a few people in Waldenhof who would be happy to do a favour for Rudolf Haupt-Anderssen. “I think that will serve quite nicely. The raconteur’s days of twisting my brother’s ear are at an end.”

Heiko reached a shaking hand toward the crystal glass on the tiny table beside his chair, his eyes never leaving the decayed slips of parchment. Only when he tipped the glass to his dry lips did he notice it was empty. He was no drinker, yet the awful secrets he had learned in the last few hours had demanded something to fortify his nerves. Now, he found that he had drained five—or was it six?—glasses in rapid succession without any effect upon his constitution. It bespoke the magnitude of the horror, the toll such obscene secrets were exacting upon his mind and spirit. The dulling effects of mere wine would not diminish it.

Heiko wished he hadn’t accepted Bastian’s invitation to descend into the hidden room. The ghastly artefacts would haunt him for the rest of his life. Worst of all had been the map fixed to one wall, the cartographer’s name scratched in raw ink in one corner of the leather. There was something evil about it, some taint of corruption exuded from its shadowy ink. At first it looked to be a map of the Empire and its surrounding lands. But Heiko quickly began to notice the differences, the strange network of lines that crawled their way across the map, the strange marks that denoted cities where no city should be. Heiko wanted to burn the map when he suddenly understood what it was, and what had drawn it. Instead, he had torn it down from the wall and rolled it up. For all its obscenity, Heiko recognised that it was invaluable.

They hadn’t been able to leave the underground chamber quickly enough. Within it, Heiko had imagined he could feel the walls closing in upon him, thought he could hear the soft scratching of rat claws behind the thick granite blocks. They took what they needed away with them, far away from the Maecklers’ secret collection. As they left the museum, they passed once more the figure of Der Rattenherren with his bulging sack and looped stick. Bastian recoiled from it, while Heiko felt the pit of his stomach drop away.

They had found something else in the hidden chamber, something in its own way as hideous as the map. Heiko had insisted on leafing through the documents and books Bastian left on the shelf. In his examination, he uncovered a manuscript tucked away behind the others. It struck him somehow as a deliberate attempt to hide it from view and memory. As it unfolded, his eyes were drawn to the seal affixed to it—the seal of Stirland that only an elector count could employ. When he’d finished reading the document, he understood why the Maecklers had hidden it. The other horrors in their grotesque collection were from abroad. The filthy document he’d just read brought the horror home.

Seeing his reaction, Bastian hesitated before taking the document from Heiko’s hand. When he finished reading it himself, the boy became physically sick. When he’d recovered he stalked back to the shelf, burying the cursed document behind as many books as he could.

It contained the confession of a certain Prince Hitzlsperger, who had been ruler of Waldenhof one hundred and fifty years before. The confession related his desperate struggle against the vampire counts of Sylvania, and his inability to secure aid from the other provinces or the Emperor. The undead had threatened the borders of Stirland, mounting terrible attacks from the fortress of Castle Siegfried, while his ill-equipped army was incapable of mounting a successful siege of the fortress. In his hour of need, however, victory had been promised him in exchange for “black skystone”. The bargain had seemed insignificant. Despite their hideous appearance, and the ghastly stories that legend wove around them, it seemed the underfolk were stupid. Hitzlsperger knew the substance the ratmen called “warpstone” was worse than worthless, a poison. Surely it was of no value to anyone? Thinking he was making a fool’s bargain, Hitzlsperger made his pact with the underfolk: if they would bring down the walls of Castle Siegfried, he would turn over to them the poisonous rocks.

Prince Hitzlsperger knew he had made a horrible mistake when he led his army across the border into Sylvania. Thinking they would need to wait many months for the underfolk to worm their way beneath the walls of the castle and undermine it, Hitzlsperger was shocked to find the once mighty fortress already reduced to a pile of rubble. In the space of less than a week, the underfolk had delivered on their promise. Such a display of power horrified Hitzlsperger. Suddenly, he was not so certain of who was the fool in their fool’s bargain. He did not like to think to what purpose the terrible ratmen might put the poisonous warpstone. Racing back to Waldenhof, he gave orders for the warpstone to be loaded on a ship, and for the ship to be scuttled in the middle of the Stir.

The underfolk quickly learned of Hitzlsperger’s treachery, and their retaliation took an appalling form. In a single night, every child in Waldenhof had disappeared, vanishing from their beds and cradles without trace. The only evidence their abductors left behind was a block of ragged grey stone beneath the blankets of the bed from which Hitzlsperger’s own son had been stolen. The prince had recognised the stone at once—it was taken from the ruins of Castle Siegfried.

The legend of Der Rattenherren was formed in the years following the tragedy, a myth to counter the dim recollections of grandmothers and grandfathers. Prince Hitzlsperger himself had been lynched when enough of the truth became known, pulled from his own castle by the burghers of Waldenhof. Over the centuries, the underfolk had never again shown themselves to the people of Waldenhof, slinking back into the shadows of fable and fantasy.

Leaving the museum and its haunted exhibits behind, Heiko took Bastian and the books to his home in the noble quarter of Waldenhof. Even the familiar surroundings of his own house did nothing to ease the gnawing fear that crawled through his veins like a serpent. The tomes had been written by a dozen different men, from learned scholars and priests to untutored soldiers and witch hunters, all struggling to impart the same warning to anyone brave enough to read their words. But their warnings were only suggestions, allusions, as though they were also trying desperately to deny it, even to themselves. Still, the warning was as simple as it was terrifying: wherever men lived, the skaven were already among them, watching and waiting for the hour to fall upon them.

Heiko turned towards the doorway where his aged manservant, Petrus, waited with a bottle from the meagre wine cellar. Heiko could see the concern in the old man’s eyes. Petrus was not oblivious to the grim atmosphere that had accompanied his master on his return. Sensing the sombre mood that gripped both Heiko and the young man who followed him inside, the servant was happy not to be involved.

Heiko took a sip from his glass, barely registering Petrus’ retreat. His eyes strayed back to where Bastian was situated. The youth had settled into a richly upholstered chair that dated from Heiko’s days as chamberlain. The books he had been reading rested on the floor beside the chair, Bastian’s eyes turned instead towards the fire blazing in the hearth. Heiko could guess his doubts and fears. The more they learned of their enemy, the more they read of the power of the skaven and the vastness of the underworld they inhabited, the fainter any hope of finding Stefan Maeckler became.

The extent of the skaven under-empire was terrifying. Messages had been waiting for him when he had returned to Waldenhof, responses to inquiries despatched to old friends in Middenheim, Marienburg and Nuln, asking them to look into the locations where the thefts in those cities had occurred. He’d received responses from Marienburg and Nuln: in both places, tunnels had been discovered running beneath the stricken museums, but had later been collapsed by the thieves, making any guess as to their size impossible. There had been no response from Middenheim, but he could safely assume there was a tunnel there as well. Still, there hadn’t been one in Waldenhof. Nor had the skaven added kidnapping to their crimes in the other cities.

Heiko was about to broach the subject with Bastian when they heard the sound of someone pounding against the door of his townhouse. Petrus directed a questioning look at his master. Heiko looked into the darkness outside his windows.

“Try to give me a few minutes if you can,” he said. Petrus nodded in understanding, withdrawing into the hallway and making his way downstairs.

“Who could that be?” Bastian asked, a note of alarm in his voice. Heiko was already out of his chair, hurriedly gathering the forbidden texts they had been consulting. Holding them close, he strode towards a large portrait of Graf Alberich’s father. Reaching for the painting, Heiko slid it aside, revealing a tiny nook set into the wall behind it.

“At this time of the night, it can’t be anything good,” he replied. He stretched his arm into the nook, pushing upon its upper facing, sliding the wooden panel away, exposing a second hiding place. Most searchers, when ransacking a place, would hardly think to find a hidey-hole secreted within a hidey-hole. Heiko began stuffing books into the alcove. Down below, the pounding against the door increased in its severity.

“It would be wise if you were not found here,” Heiko said. “I want you to go into the next room. There is a false panel built into the side of my wardrobe. Stay there until whoever it is has left.”

“What about you?” Bastian demanded. “I’m not going to abandon you! We can fight…”

“The wise man chooses his battles,” said Heiko, shaking his head, “he doesn’t look for them. Besides, one of us needs to stay clear.” There was more pounding at the door, and Heiko fancied he could hear wood splintering. “Hurry along, Petrus is going to have to open up or they’ll carve their way in. Whatever happens, you need to stay in a safe place. I’ll meet you there later if I can.”

“I’ll go to old town,” Bastian said, dashing toward the hallway. “I have a friend there, Herr Schrolucke.” Bastian wasn’t sure why he had suddenly thought of the old curio dealer, but he had been drawn to return to the curio since the very moment he’d set foot in Waldenhof.

“Good,” Heiko replied. “We’ll meet there later.” Beneath him, the pounding had stopped, replaced by raised voices and the rattle of armour. Heiko quickly put back the portrait and stepped toward the centre of the room. When he lifted his eyes, there were a number of men wearing leather hauberks and carrying a mongrel assortment of halberds entering the doorway. The green sashes tied about their waists identified the men as soldiers from the city guard. At their head, wearing a smile as sinister as anything that ever squirmed its way onto a human visage, was Rudolf Haupt-Anderssen.

“Heiko Geissner!” Rudolf barked imperiously. “By order of his Excellency Graf Alberich Haupt-Anderssen, Prince of Waldenhof, Grand Count of Sylvania, Lord Baron of Stirland, I arrest you on charges of treason against the Empire!” Rudolf punctuated his words by extending his hand, displaying the parchment scroll he held. Heiko could see the sharp Reikspiel characters describing his crimes, the wax seal of Stirland’s elector count, and the thin, elegant signature of Graf Alberich himself.

Stunned, it took Heiko several seconds to notice that Rudolph’s soldiers were closing upon him, weapons held at the ready. Slowly he lifted his arms, trying to reassure them he was unarmed. He glared into Rudolph’s smirking face. “This is what you’ve waited for all these years,” he said. The smile only widened further. The soldiers were on either side of Heiko now, halberds clenched in their gloved hands. “You don’t need them. I’ll come along quietly.”

“No you won’t,” Rudolf said. The soldier to Heiko’s right drove the butt of his weapon into the envoy’s stomach, doubling him over and spilling him to the floor.

Then the beating really began.

CHAPTER FIVE

Heiko had visited the dungeons beneath the Schloss Haupt-Anderssen many times, to interrogate enemies of the elector count after they had been exposed and apprehended. He’d walked the dingy, dank corridors, becoming quite familiar with the murky light cast by irregularly spaced torches and the rancid stink of old straw and human filth.

But now the dungeon was a good deal less familiar. The smells, the dim light and biting chill all took on a new quality, as unfamiliar to him as the dark sides of the moons. Nothing had changed, of course, except the position Heiko was occupying.

He rolled onto his side, giving a grunt of pain. He had always known there was no love lost between himself and Rudolf Haupt-Anderssen, but he’d never imagined how deep the resentment went. The beating inflicted upon him in his home had paled beside that which he received when he was brought to the dungeon. It had been a miracle worthy of Rhya that, beneath his bruised flesh, Heiko was unable to find any broken bones.

The prisoner blinked his eyes, trying to adjust to the gloom. The torchlight in the corridor outside was a dim flicker, yet Heiko could make out the squalor of his cell. He was lying on a pallet of straw that smelled as if it was last replaced when the dungeons were first built. In one corner was a large wooden bowl—he was unable to decide if some sadist intended its contents for drinking, or if they had simply neglected to clean out the slops after the cell’s last occupant. Beyond these, there was only stone. Stone walls, stone ceiling, stone floor. The floor had been worn smooth by the pacing feet of those imprisoned over the centuries, the walls gouged by past inmates scratching into them to leave behind a last testament.

He’d received one visitor since being thrown into the spider hole. Rudolf hadn’t been able to resist gloating over his enemy now that he held the upper hand. Like some daemon prince from a Sigmarite parable, he’d stood in the doorway of the little cell as Heiko had emerged from battered unconsciousness.

“The end of the line at last, Herr Geissner,” Rudolf sneered. “It has been a long and slippery road to get you here, but get you here I have. Right where you and all enemies of Stirland belong. You may be interested to know that we searched your home. Found some very interesting things.” Heiko’s heart had jumped to his mouth. If they’d found Bastian, if they’d discovered the proscribed books he’d taken from the museum, then Rudolf already knew of all the evidence Heiko had been gathering. Knew it and had dismissed it—or worse. Charges of treason were damning enough, but now Heiko wondered if he might be charged with heresy as well. For all his dislike of them, Rudolf might be calling for the witch hunters.

“Do you know what we found?” Rudolf asked, prolonging Heiko’s mental agony. The nobleman reached into the pocket of his tunic, casting a small object at Heiko’s face.

Heiko shifted his head to avoid the projectile, reaching stiffly for it as it rattled to the floor. It was a coin. His fingers caressed its surface, feeling the sharp etchings upon its surface. Even in the darkness, he knew they were not Imperial or even human characters. Rudolf had thrown him a dwarf coin.

“Boxes and bags of these squirreled away in every nook and cranny of that townhouse of yours,” Rudolf spat. “I imagine that a man as highly placed as Heiko Geissner is not cheaply bought, even by the dwarfs. Tell me, Heiko, how long have you been working for them? From the very beginning perhaps?”

Outrage swelled within him. Heiko lifted himself onto his elbows, glaring at the sneering noble. “No one bought my loyalty!” he shouted. “There was no hidden cache of dwarf gold in my home until you put it there! What is wrong, Rudolf? So frightened that I might scuttle this war you seem hell-bent upon that you resort to this deceit? I am loyal to Stirland and the elector count, I always have been!”

“Perhaps, in your own sick way, you even believe that,” Rudolf sighed. “Like a wolf that thinks it is a dog. But make no mistake, Geissner, you are a wolf, a feral faithless cur, and you have never deceived me!”

“Your brother knows the depth of my loyalty,” Heiko retorted. Rudolf reached into his pocket again. Spitefully he threw another coin. It smacked into the corner of Heiko’s eye.

“You think so?” Rudolf spat, reaching into his pocket and launching yet another coin. “This is what my brother will believe! Cold, hard traitor’s gold, not some dubious concept of the friendship of Heiko Geissner!” Rudolph’s voice grew low, almost confidential. “He knows you are here, by the way. And he knows why. I imagine that information warms your heart.”

Heiko was thankful for the darkness, hiding the shock and anguish that seized his features. He’d served the Haupt-Anderssens for most of his lifetime, had watched Alberich and Rudolf grow from boys to men. In many ways, they had been his family; he’d always thought of them almost as his own sons. Rudolf, of course, had turned against him many years ago. But he hadn’t expected Alberich to believe such lies, to turn against him, to abandon him. “Why?” was all he could think to ask. Rudolf knew at once what the old man meant by the question.

“I am a true son of Stirland, Geissner,” Rudolf declared, pounding his chest. “This land was once the strength of the Empire, a land that produced grand theogonists and emperors. I will see it great again. Every generation produces its visionaries, and I have had a vision of Stirland mighty and powerful once more.” Rudolf stabbed an accusing finger at Heiko. “You, Geissner, have always stood in the way of that vision. Even when we were children you whispered your poison into my brother’s ear, always reminding him of the poverty and fragility of the land he would one day rule. You were not preparing him to be an elector count, a ruler equal to those of other provinces, but a beggar king who would whine and pan-handle his way from one noble court to another. But I know better, Geissner. Even as a child I knew better. I know the strength of our land and what it can achieve. What it will achieve despite your fractious council. My brother will rule over a land that is not simply some backwater camp of beggars and rabble!”

Heiko wondered what was behind Rudolph’s heroic vision of Stirland’s future, a future that simple economics would never allow. There was a real and terrible threat abroad, but Rudolf was still indulging his dreams of turning Stirland into some military juggernaut.

“Rudolf, listen to me!” Heiko pleaded. “This isn’t about that. There is a very real enemy out there, and it isn’t the dwarfs! We have to do something to combat this threat or we, and the entire Empire, may be doomed!”

Rudolf shook his head, reaching into his tunic once more. “You know, until this whole ‘ratman’ business, I had always thought you to be a fool. Now I know you to be mad as well.” He flung another coin at Heiko with such ferocity that his prisoner could feel the welt beginning to form on his cheek. “You may be happy to hear that my brother has forbidden me to take you to trial and execute you. It must please him to keep such a scandal from the other noble houses. We can ill-afford another such fiasco on your account. A pity I can’t just send you off to a convent somewhere and have you run into ‘orcs’ along the way.”

Rudolph’s words brought all the humiliation and wretchedness of Heiko’s past surging back. His strength failed him and he crumpled back onto the pallet, overcome. Even after so many years, the pain was as raw as that of a fresh wound.

“You are to remain here,” Rudolf continued. “Safe and secure. But don’t deceive yourself that you’ll escape, Geissner. This is a dungeon. Very dank, very dirty. People get sick in dungeons.” The nobleman laughed as he turned to leave. “Sick people often die.”

“Rudolf, please. You have to warn him!” Heiko implored. Whatever happened to him was nothing beside the need for someone, anyone, to do something to stop the skaven.

“I already have,” Rudolf replied, closing the cell door behind him. “He finally decided to listen. That is why you are here.”

Heiko Geissner was curled into a bruised ball of pain in one corner of his cell, his agonised minutes stretching into hours, his hours blackening into days. Rudolph’s soldiers had been amateurs compared to the jailers who maintained the dungeon. After his visit, Rudolf had made certain to let the jailers know about the coins he’d tossed into Heiko’s cell. The thuggish guards had waited only as long as it took Rudolf to exit the prison before throwing open the door. They’d quickly collected the coins Rudolf had mockingly tossed at his captive. Then the beating had begun, with the savagery of greedy men who believed they caught the scent of wealth. Rudolf had cast four coins at Heiko during his visit. The bastard had told the guards there were five.

One of Heiko’s arms was cradled against his chest, throbbing with a dull pain. Heiko suspected it was broken, but was too frightened by that prospect to test his suspicion. There was little chance of the timely attentions of a healer or chirurgeon in his current circumstances. If the arm truly were broken, then, even if he were to win his freedom, he would live out life as a cripple. Strangely, Heiko found that prospect even more disturbing than the promise that Rudolf would arrange some sort of “accident”. Death was so much easier to accept than suffering through life, maimed and mutilated.

Dimly, Heiko became gradually aware of a change in his surroundings. Through the one eye not swollen shut after his beating, he could see a flicker of light at the door to his cell, growing into the faint illumination of a torch that seemed as brilliant as the sun in the bleak dungeon. Heiko cringed back into a tiny ball.

The door creaked inward, and Heiko could see the huge, hairy paw of the jailer he’d heard others address as Sigri gripping the handle. In his other hand, the bearded brute held his torch. Heiko waited for the thug to demand another coin, but his attention seemed to be elsewhere. His face turned toward the corridor outside, once he’d confirmed his prisoner was in no shape to cause any trouble.

“Here’s the pig,” Sigri grunted. “Don’t get too close to him if you don’t want the fever.” The brute stepped aside and Heiko saw another figure appear in the doorway. Wearing the slender bodice and dress of a simple peasant girl, Heiko was at a loss to understand who his visitor could be until he forced his eye to focus upon her face. A thrill of disbelief surged through him. He knew that face, though he could not believe he was seeing it again.

The woman moved to step inside the cell, but found her passage interrupted by Sigri’s grimy hand, its upturned palm hovering just beneath her nose.

“That cask of ale you brought might be good enough for the others,” Sign snarled. “But I want more. It’s my neck if the elector count learns of this, and I’m not risking that for a barrel of cheap booze. I want gold, wench!” A lewd smile crawled onto the jailer’s bestial face. “Or perhaps we might discuss other means of payment.”

The woman smiled back at Sigri, raising a dainty hand to his bearded cheek. Her fingers stroked through the stubble, slowly making their way to his forehead. Sigri’s smile grew more lecherous, then vanished completely as a flash of light exploded against his skull. The jailer’s eyes rolled back in his head and he slumped unconscious to the floor.

“You really should have taken the drugged ale,” the woman remarked, wiping her hand on the hem of her skirt to rub Sigri’s grime from her fingers. Then she approached the miserable shape lying inside the cell. The strange, brilliant light flashed once more, bringing with it the chill of sorcery. When the gloom of the dungeon reasserted itself, it was not the barmaid from Altdorf who looked down at Heiko, but the wizard Erwin von Fautz.

“Looks as though you might have been better off staying in Altdorf,” Erwin observed. His face darkened and his tone became severe. “Witch hunters did this?”

Heiko summoned up enough strength to shake his head, when he found that words would not come to his parched throat.

“Good,” Erwin responded. “That means they haven’t been here yet. It also means you might still be of some use to me. Are you fit to travel?”

Heiko shook his head again, trying to force his mangled arm to move. The way it flopped against his body told him it was most certainly broken. He gritted his teeth against the fresh stab of pain every slight movement evoked. Erwin nodded his head, a mannerism that reminded Heiko of a tutor acknowledging a student’s insightful observation.

“I don’t know how much time we have,” Erwin told him. Heiko could hear the fear behind the wizard’s words. “Those injuries of yours will slow us down.” Heiko could hear the unspoken promise in Erwin’s tone—that he would be left behind if he slowed them down. The wizard’s hand fell to a sealskin pouch, fastened to the belt circling the waist of his white robes. “Fortunately, I have a bit of magecraft here that can very quickly set you right.” Erwin held in his hand something that looked like a twisted stick studded with silver pearls. “If you like, I can heal your injuries. I should warn you, this magic is quite painful, for all its beneficial effects.”

Heiko took a deep breath and nodded his head. He was not overly fond of magic and its tampering with the physical world, but at the moment he saw no other way out. Strange, slithering words began to lisp through the wizard’s lips. Heiko could feel the primal inhumanity of the sounds clawing at the most primitive corners of his mind, evoking images of gigantic serpents and bloated toad-beasts. Then he saw the tiny silver studs of the wizard’s wand begin to glow with an eerie blue luminance. Once again, the fragile warmth of the dank cell faded away into a glacial chill as the wizard worked his magic.

Then the pain began. Fortunately, in the dungeons no one paid the slightest notice to Heiko’s screams.

Heiko and Erwin conferred once they were free. The wizard listened intently as Heiko filled him in on the events that unfolded in Waldenhof, then revealed his own news from Altdorf. The witch hunters, the men who had commissioned the spells, were hot on his heels, as were his fellow colleagues of the Light College. The white wizards were eager to attend to their renegade brother before the templars did, and thereby prove to the Order of Sigmar their ability to police their own.

The refusal by the elector count to even consider Heiko’s report about the skaven was a severe blow. They would need help if they were going to fight back against the monsters, but they wouldn’t find it among men, where the existence of the underfolk was nothing more than a myth. They needed to go to those who knew the skaven were real. Heiko believed they would be best served by travelling to the dwarf hold of Karak Kadrin, and telling their story to the dwarf king. It was a plan that Erwin readily agreed to. Heiko had the impression that the wizard, for all his haughty airs, was running scared now, unable to form any plan of action of his own.

Before they could flee to Karak Kadrin, however, there was one last thing Heiko needed to do in Waldenhof. He had to offer Bastian the choice of coming with them and seeing the ordeal through; he owed the young Maeckler at least that much.

The rundown neighbourhood where Johannes Schrolucke had situated his curio shop could only be likened by Heiko to an open, festering wound, a rotting corruption that tainted the entirety of Waldenhof by its very existence.

The narrow, winding streets limited his view, the gable roofs, with their cracked tiles and splintered beams, obscured his vision. Still, Heiko knew that only a few streets to the north he would find the boarded-up facade of the Velvet Dawn, once the most lavish and opulent bordello in Waldenhof. He’d not set eyes upon the place since it had been closed. How very different his life might have been had he never set foot there, had he not allowed his sense of devotion and personal loyalty and, yes, familial affection to send him hurrying toward the ruin of his name, his position and his honour. How very different everything might have been, but for that reckless decision…

“There is an evil feel to this place,” said Erwin. The glass set in the single window of the storefront was clouded by dust, the price tariff displayed behind it merely a faded shadow. Even above the odours of the street, Heiko thought he could smell a musty stench wafting from behind the shop’s door. He had to admire Bastian’s choice of rendezvous venue—no one would think to look for anyone amid such squalor. Yet he had to wonder at the relationship between the Maecklers and the man who operated such a ramshackle business.

“There is an evil feel to this whole part of town,” Heiko said, trying to dismiss the wizard’s premonition. With the legal authorities after their blood, the last thing they needed were any entanglements with Waldenhof’s criminal underworld. Whatever this Schrolucke did was between him and Ranald, the god of thieves. All they were interested in was collecting Bastian and making a quick exit from Stirland. Heiko closed his hand about the tarnished iron handle fixed to the door.

The inside of Schrolucke’s shop was a clutter of oddments and jumble. Heiko could see a mangy stuffed wolf with a missing leg leaning against the chipped side of an antique Tilean sea chest, a suit of old Kislevite armour that looked like a block of rust lurching above the rolled column of a mildewing Arabyan rug. Heiko wondered again what use a man who collected and peddled such junk could be to the curator of Waldenhof’s museum.

“Good day friends!” a voice called out. Heiko saw a flicker of movement behind a set of decaying Sudenland curio cabinets, the glass face of one displaying a spiderweb crack. A heavy-set man emerged, his eyes glinting with avarice. “How may Johannes Schrolucke be of service to you this day?”

“We are looking for someone,” Heiko said. “The merchant manoeuvred his way through the maze of rotting furniture and curiosities, drawing closer to his two potential customers. As Heiko spoke, Schrolucke looked directly into his face. The greedy smile faded and gave ground to anxiety in the merchant’s eyes.

“He should be expecting us,” Heiko continued. Schrolucke was trying very hard to suppress his growing nervousness. “I was to meet him here.”

“There is no one here except myself,” Schrolucke said, a smile twitching its way back onto his face. “My custom is not so great that I can maintain a servant, so I fear I am quite alone. You must have made a mistake.”

“Are you saying that Bastian Maeckler has not been here?” Heiko demanded. Schrolucke nodded his head.

“Bastian?” The merchant paused for a moment, as though searching his memory. “Why, no. I do some business with him, on the occasion that I come upon a piece that might interest the museum. But I can’t say I’ve seen him since he returned from Altdorf.”

“How did you know he’d been to Altdorf if you haven’t seen him?” Heiko thrust the question at Schrolucke as though it were a dagger’s blade. The merchant cringed away as if he had been stabbed, licking his lips nervously. “I—I heard—from…”

“He’s lying,” Erwin said, his voice cold and chill. Schrolucke gave him a look that was as hostile as it was uncertain. Heiko could guess the merchant’s thoughts. He was trying to figure out how much they already knew and how much was supposition. Heiko decided to give Schrolucke something else to think about.

“I hardly need your magic to tell me that,” Heiko said. Schrolucke’s eyes darted at him as he spoke the words, then back to Erwin. The wizard let the dull brown cloak he wore above his robes slide back to reveal his impossibly pristine raiment, the luminous symbols embroidered upon it shining amid the dingy half-light that filled the shop.

Heiko had expected Schrolucke to be cowed by the display, to beg for mercy and confess whatever he was trying to conceal. For Stirlanders were a superstitious breed, more so even than other provinces of the Empire.

Instead, Schrolucke leapt backwards with a speed that surprised Heiko, knocking over a small table and the stack of clay jars it supported. Heiko lunged after the man as he scrambled crab-like from the debris, but fell back as Schrolucke flashed a dagger in his fist. Even as Heiko dodged the first attack, his retreat caused him to collide with the suit of Kislevite armour, falling with the rusted mail to the floor.

Schrolucke must have been an old hand at villainy. Rather than capitalising upon Heiko’s mishap as any impulsive alleyway mugger might do, Schrolucke knew such an action would leave him vulnerable to Erwin. His only chance lay in escape. The merchant flashed his blade again, this time slicing it overhead and through the leather cord that suspended a motley collection of furs and fabrics above the floor. The clutter came crashing down around Erwin like a net, engulfing him even as his eyes began to shine with a wizard’s light and the chill of magic plucked at the room.

Erwin was trapped for only a few seconds before the entangling mess lifted away from him, flying across the curio shop as though pulled by invisible strings. The wizard brushed the dust and grime from his robes, a look of disgust curling his lip. He rose from the scattered Kislevite mail.

“It would seem your rabbit has run,” Erwin commented. Heiko looked to the rear of the shop where a thick black curtain was still rocking back and forth.

“But he left a trail even a mage might follow,” Heiko retorted. He drew the fat-bladed short sword Dako had provided him with. It was an ungainly weapon for someone with a longer reach and taller centre of balance than a halfling, but it was more than a match for Schrolucke’s dagger. The trick would be catching up with him before he had a chance to arm himself better.

Heiko and Erwin dashed toward the swaying curtain, finding themselves in a small parlour as cluttered as the room they had left. Heiko looked about the chamber, finding no corresponding doorways beyond that the curtain had covered. The only means of exit appeared to be a set of wooden stairs that corkscrewed into the floor. Heiko did not waste any time—if Schrolucke were to escape he might never discover what had befallen Bastian.

The steps descended into a small cellar crammed with boxes and old furniture. Heiko looked around the room, pushing aside stacks of splintered wooden crates and decaying chairs. Schrolucke was near, he could feel it in his bones, and he was not about to let the man escape.

Erwin watched Heiko tear apart the room, quietly folding his arms. The wizard began to draw the invisible energy of the sorcerous wind Hysh. The glow of magic shone from his eyes once more, the hissing syllables of a tongue ancient before even the elves found their voices slithering from his lips. Erwin gestured with his hands through the empty air as though tying an ethereal knot.

“Let hidden things stand revealed, let the secret become known,” Erwin said as he completed his ritual. Heiko stopped his fruitless assault upon the cellar when he felt the workings of sorcery in the suddenly chill air, watching as a faint orb of light leapt from Erwin’s outstretched palm, flitting across the cellar like a hyperactive firefly. The light danced about the cellar, weaving between crates and the legs of tables before at last coming to a stop. The light began to pulse with a brighter energy.

“That way,” Erwin told Heiko. The two men approached the spot where the light hovered, the spectral orb now fading away. Beyond it was a narrow space between two stacks of boxes, leading to the bare stone of the cellar wall. Heiko’s hands were already pushing and poking at the wall.

It transpired that the mechanism was a simple one, a false stone set into the wall at near ankle height, easily kicked with the toe of his boot. The door slid back, revealing a black passageway of bare earth. The unsettling aura of magic tugged at Heiko’s flesh once more, then the black tunnel leapt into greater clarity as blue light shone upon it. Heiko glanced back at the source, the unnatural brilliance that glowed from Erwin’s upraised hand, and felt dread crawl along his spine. Even under the command of an ally, magic disquieted the spirit.

More disquieting were the earthen walls of the tunnel. Slick with slime and dank with murk, the marks left upon the walls by the tunnel’s builders were not those of pick and spade. It looked more like some clawed-out animal burrow, and there was no need to speculate upon what manner of creature was responsible.

Heiko and Erwin shared an uneasy look. Both had known their path would lead them to the ratmen again, but they hadn’t expected them to rear their loathsome heads so soon. Ahead of them was the sound of feet splashing through the filth that covered the tunnel floor. After a moment’s hesitation, they sprinted after their fleeing quarry.

Johannes Schrolucke was not a man in the best of health. The life he led was sedentary and secluded, with little opportunity for physical exertion. When he looked back over his shoulder to find Heiko and the wizard on his trail, with a supernatural light shining from the wizard’s hand, he felt his stomach lurch and a stab of fear rip through his vitals. Trying to lose them in the network of tunnels would not work if they could find the hidden door in his cellar so quickly, and he would not be able to outrun them.

Schrolucke had hoped to make his way to another entrance to the tunnels, without alerting the denizens of the underworld. Since Gnawlitch Shun had left Waldenhof, there were few of the skaven remaining. But now he had no choice. His only hope for escape was to confront his enemies, and for that he would need help.

The pursuit briefly paused as Schrolucke began to shout. The delay was not a long one, and his pursuers quickly redoubled their efforts, intent on silencing his cries before anything answered. Schrolucke mustered what strength he had and began to stagger away. The ears of the skaven were more acute than those of men. All Schrolucke needed to do was keep ahead of his pursuers long enough to give the ratmen time to reach him.

A sour, mangy stink made Schrolucke stop in his tracks. He spun around, staring at a dark opening in the side of the tunnel wall. A pair of gleaming red eyes stared back at him. Schrolucke smiled, turning his head to sneer at his fast advancing foes. They were too late. The skaven had come. Now these tunnels would become their graves.

Heiko saw Schrolucke stop in the middle of the passageway ahead and knew something was wrong. He dug his heels into the earth, catching Erwin’s arm. They had been so intent upon catching their quarry that they had not considered the possibility he was leading them into a trap. The curio dealer turned towards them, opening his mouth to utter some taunting remark, but whatever insult he thought to hurl at his enemies never passed his tongue. If Schrolucke had been leading them into a trap, then he had been its first victim.

A dark shape launched itself from the side of the passage. In the blue light cast by Erwin’s glowing hand, Heiko caught the gleam of metal in its hand an instant before it slashed across Schrolucke’s throat.

“Traitor-meat die-die!” the shadowy form hissed in lisping Reikspiel. The monster spun around from Schrolucke’s gurgling body, its red eyes glistening furiously from its furry face. The skaven’s rat-like muzzle gnashed its teeth in a whispered squeak. Then the very walls seemed to come alive with verminous creatures.

“Cover your eyes,” Erwin snapped. Heiko barely had time to do so before the dim blue light surrounding the wizard’s hand erupted into a flare of white searing luminance that filled the dank tunnel. The subterranean world echoed with the ghastly squeals and cries of the blinded skaven. When Heiko dared to open his eyes again, he saw them twitching and writhing upon the floor, clawing at the walls in their agonies, snapping their fangs blindly at their own comrades.

Erwin von Fautz loomed above the suffering vermin like some daemon of the wastes, his robes glowing with energy, his eyes transformed into shining pits of light. His expression was of such arrogance and pride that even someone as untutored in the sorcerous arts as Heiko could guess what had happened. Drawing too frequently and too greatly upon his magic, Erwin had become suffused with power, like a drunkard delving too deeply into a bottle of spirits. Magic rolled from Erwin’s lips in a ceaseless chant, the wizard’s hands weaving through the air around him in an unending series of gestures and motions. Then he pointed his finger at a writhing ratman and the monster became engulfed in a glowing white light. It screamed as the light began to devour it, as the blazing luminance burnt through its rancid fur and blackened its flesh.

Drunk with power, Erwin turned away from the dying ratman and gestured at one of its comrades. Heiko felt himself sicken as it began to glow. He voiced a prayer to Rhya that the wizard’s mind was not so lost to his magic that he could not tell friend from foe.

Crittrik scurried away from the blinding light and the panicked squeals of his warriors. The position of honour for any skaven leader was behind its troops, from which vantage point it could best direct the flow of a battle, or ensure that whatever misfortune claimed the rank and file was not shared by their commander. As he heard the screams that followed the blinding light, Crittrik was most certain he wanted no part in whatever was going on in the tunnel.

The warlock-engineer rubbed at his face, trying to ease the dull red glow that burned at his vision. He could smell several of his warriors nearby, clearly deciding their place was with their leader rather than back in the tunnel. It may have been a dozen of them, though it was difficult to tell with the air befouled with the fear musk each was secreting. That left nearly as many still squealing and helpless back in the corridor.

Crittrik’s initial impulse had been to hurl his entire retinue of warriors at Schrolucke and the intruders. His bringing the intruders into the tunnels had seemed like a gift from the Horned Rat, allowing Crittrik an excuse to eliminate Schrolucke without risking the ire of his own master. That the intruders included the potentially dangerous Heiko made it so much the better.

Then things had started going wrong. Snagrik had sprung the trap too soon, so incensed by Schrolucke’s treachery that it attacked the man before the rest of the warriors were in position. This was followed by the ghastly realisation that Heiko’s companion was more than he seemed, a powerful sorcerer able to evoke blindness and death. Skaven courage was a fragile thing, and the wizard’s display had broken it utterly. Even with half of his warriors still fit, Crittrik knew there was no chance of returning them to the battle. Perhaps if Gnawlitch Shun had left more warriors behind, or a few rat-ogres… But the High Warlock hadn’t, and Crittrik had been forced to send a score of those that had been left back to Karak Ungor, to ensure the young human reached Gnawlitch Shun alive and unharmed. Its orders left Crittrik under no illusions as to what would happen to him if Bastian get to his destination safely.

More shrill screams sounded from the tunnel, causing Crittrik’s own glands to squirt. The warlock-engineer glared at the dim shadows of its companions. It snapped commands, ordering the skaven to stop the intruders from escaping. The ratmen hesitated, and Crittrik could smell their reluctance. He drew the heavy warplock pistol from his belt, aiming at what he judged to be the head of one of the shadows. It exploded as the weapon sent its warpstone bullet crashing into the clanrat’s skull. The other skaven squealed in fright, skittering away in all directions. Perhaps a few would do as commanded, rather than finding some burrow to hide themselves in. Not for the first time, Crittrik found himself wishing his people were less practical, that a little of the insanity that humans termed “bravery” might fester in their minds.

Crittrik cocked his head to one side, his tail twitching happily. Perhaps his own kind were too sane to challenge a wizard, but there were other warriors who were not so practical. It was with a sense of relief that Crittrik scurried away from the sounds of battle. Foremost in his mind were gloating thoughts about how pleasant it would be to remind Rudolf of the need to kill Heiko.

After the initial attack, and the destruction Erwin had visited upon them, the skaven adopted a more stealthy approach. Rather than charging them, the ratmen would attack in an ambush, appearing at the far end of tunnels to hurl stones or fire guns. Such missiles seemed to recoil from the nimbus of light that surrounded them, bouncing away as though they struck a solid wall. But the light did nothing to defend against the ambushers who leapt from behind piles of rocks and dirt to slash at them with long daggers and crooked swords. Somehow, the sight of these monsters was made still more unnerving by the linen blindfolds they wore to protect them from the light. The creatures appeared utterly unhindered by their blindness, one of them opening a deep gash in Heiko’s arm until Erwin’s magic caused the wound to close upon itself. The wizard observed that the skaven were relying on their sense of smell to fight them, but his theory did little to console Heiko’s mind.

Then, after perhaps half an hour of navigating the maze-like network of passages, all signs of the skaven ceased. The ambushes came to an end, the mangy stench of their rancid fur lessened, the furtive scratching noises no longer sounded from the inky darkness. But Heiko was not reassured by their absence, wondering if the creatures had withdrawn in advance of collapsing the entire maze, as they had their tunnel beneath the School of Engineering.

The voices of men and the clatter of armour sounded from the distance. The brilliant light surrounding Erwin lessened, then faded away completely. Heiko could just make out the wizard’s face in the darkness beside him. He saw how drawn and haggard it was, lines of sweat dripping from his brow. Calling upon the winds of magic did not come without a price. Heiko could only guess what sort of strain it had put on the wizard’s constitution.

And Heiko knew the wizard’s sense of relief was unwarranted. The sounds they were hearing did not herald the approach of friends, simply a change of enemies. He had been around too long to trust in coincidence and fate. It was significant that soldiers were prowling the tunnels at this exact time. One voice in particular removed any doubt from Heiko’s mind that they were looking for human quarry, not storybook monsters. Rising above the muttered curses and oaths was the forceful, commanding voice of Rudolf Haupt-Anderssen.

Heiko pulled Erwin to the side of the tunnel, where the shadows were deepest. The darkness in the passageway began to lessen as the soldiers drew nearer and their torches beat the shadows back. As the troops came into view, Heiko saw that they were indeed Stirland irregulars. How Rudolf had learned where he was would be a mystery he could puzzle over later.

“Do you have one more spell in you, wizard?” Heiko whispered into Erwin’s ear. He nodded weakly in response. Now that the tremendous energies he had drawn into his body had been released, the wizard seemed as frail as a sickly lamb. “Wait until they draw near, then unleash one of those blinding lights of yours. While they are disoriented we can get back to the curio shop.”

Tense moments passed as Rudolf’s men approached. Heiko could smell the cheap ale on their breath, see their shadows dancing across the tunnel wall. They were close enough now.

Erwin stumbled into the corridor with an ungainly motion, magical words already dripping from his lips. The soldiers had time to cry out in alarm, then their world vanished in a bright, flaring light. Like the skaven, they recoiled from the brilliance, shielding their injured eyes against the flash. Heiko pushed blind men aside as he raced down the corridor. Erwin was beside him, his body swaying as he struggled to maintain his balance. Then the wizard collapsed, spilling himself into the filth of the tunnel floor.

Muttering a curse, Heiko grabbed at Erwin’s robe, lifting him to his feet. Instead of running, however, the wizard stared at one of the soldiers, a tall man shouting orders as he rubbed furiously at his eyes. For an instant, Heiko felt the impulse to sink his fat-bladed sword into Rudolf’s belly. Honour, and the memory of the child Heiko had watched grow, stemmed the bloodthirsty desire. However far he might have fallen, he would not be an assassin. He grabbed at the wizard’s shoulder, urging him to move on. But Erwin’s terrified eyes fixed upon Rudolf’s face as though it were the visage of a gorgon. Heiko had to shove Erwin forward, but as he did there was a frantic haste restored to the wizard’s legs.

For now, Heiko’s thoughts were entirely occupied with finding a way out of the tunnels and Waldenhof itself. Only when those problems had been resolved could he afford to consider Erwin’s strange reaction to Rudolf, or the most important question on his mind: what had become of Bastian Maeckler?

Stefan Maeckler was dragged from his cage by the scaly-faced ratkin that assisted the monster Skreezel. The long weeks of unremitting horror had nearly broken his mind, watching as the malformed skaven perpetuated all manner of atrocities upon the screaming bodies of slaves. Whether the experiments lived or died was of no interest to Skreezel. Stefan spoke a prayer of thanks to whichever god could still hear him in the skaven-infested pit that the vivisectionist had not touched him again.

Stefan tried to straighten himself as he was pulled from the cage, but with his hideous leg hanging limp and useless at his side it was impossible. With his belly in the dirt Stefan looked slowly upward into the hatefully familiar face of Gnawlitch Shun. He was only dimly aware of the other monsters gathered about the silk-robed ratman, unable to tear his eyes free from Gnawlitch’s evil green gaze.

“I hear you do not find Skreezel’s hospitality pleasant.” There was an almost human note of mockery in its precise Reikspeil. “Perhaps you are more willing to consider reason now? Willing to assist in my project?” In response, Stefan spat at the monster, the sputum falling just short of its yellow robe.

“Morr rot your filthy soul!” Stefan snarled.

“I suspected you might be truculent,” the skaven hissed back. “You reward my hospitality with scorn, after I have gone to great length to bring you a gift, a present from as far away as Waldenhof.” Gnawlitch Shun stepped aside, allowing Stefan to see a pair of armoured, black-furred ratmen, their claws closed about the arms of a human captive.

Stefan screamed as he recognised the captive. He realised that all the horrors he had suffered were as nothing to what he would suffer now. The relief that flickered onto Bastian’s face as he lifted his head only made the pain worse.

“Father!” Bastian cried out, struggling vainly to free himself from the claws of his captors. Stefan struggled to rise once more, then began to crawl toward his son. Skreezel lurched forward, pressing his foot down upon Stefan’s back, arresting his pathetic attempt to reach Bastian. Gnawlitch motioned with a clawed hand and one of Bastian’s captors reached to the boy’s face, gripping his jaw and holding his mouth shut.

“It would seem your pup still recognises you,” Gnawlitch declared. “Does that not gladden your heart? I know enough about the human mind to understand how devoted your kind is to its spawn.”

Stefan groaned in misery, trying to free himself from Skreezel’s pinning foot. He turned his eyes from his son and looked back to Gnawlitch Shun. “Please, let him go! I’ll do whatever you ask, just let him go!” The skaven lashed its tail in amusement.

“Perhaps, once you have done as I have asked,” the High Warlock promised. “Until then he will stay here as Skreezel’s guest.”

Stefan’s eyes rolled as he contemplated the hideous prospect of his son enduring what he had suffered. “If you are quick in your labours, perhaps his stay will not be a long one. That, I leave to you.” There was no mistaking the terrible threat in the skaven’s voice. Tears streaming down his face, Stefan nodded his head.

Whatever the monster wanted him to do, he would now do it to save his son.

Gnawlitch Shun looked back to the armoured guards, motioning them to lead the boy away. As the guard’s claw left Bastian’s chin, the boy began shouting, entreating his father not to help the monsters. But it fell upon deaf ears. As Gnawlitch motioned with his claw again a different skaven scurried forward. Its body was almost scrawny, its cloak tied tightly about its waist, a heavy green jewel lashed across its chest. As it came forward, Stefan could see the skaven was sick in some way, bald patches marking its fur.

“This is my assistant, Quilik,” Gnawlitch Shun stated. “Recently returned from Altdorf with the last components I require to complete my grand project.” The silk-robed skaven motioned again. Stefan felt the pressure on his back vanish as Skreezel removed his foot and stepped away.

“You have seen what we are working on,” Gnawlitch asserted. “I need you to oversee the final stages in the assembly of my gyrocopters. The concept of sky and open air is too foreign, too frightening, for most of my engineers to grasp, hence they have made small, stupid errors in their calculations. I need someone who understands dwarf engineering and the principals of flight to help them along. You will do this for me.” It was a statement, not a question.

“Why don’t you just do it yourself?” Stefan dared to ask. Gnawlitch grinned back at him, a gesture as pleasant as a rabid wolf baring its fangs.

“My own efforts are required elsewhere,” the skaven stated. “Quilik will take you to your new workplace. Work quickly, Stefan-man, or your pup will suffer the consequences.” With a swirl of his silk robes, Gnawlitch Shun turned and strode from the chamber. Quilik sneered at Stefan for a moment, then began to lead his charge from Skreezel’s laboratory. Stefan turned his head for one final, terrified look back at his son. The skaven guards had led Bastian to an iron cage resting against one wall of the chamber. Somehow, in some way, he would spare his son what he had suffered. It was the only thought that would allow him to keep a grip on his sanity.

When Gnawlitch Shun and his entourage had departed, the hideously deformed Skreezel capered toward the iron cage in which Bastian had been placed. The young man recoiled as Skreezel’s bloated eye studied him with the intensity of a banker examining a suspect coin. A thin trickle of drool dripped from Skreezel’s mouth.

“I won’t be afraid of you,” Bastian spat at the monster. “Do your worst, I won’t help you.”

Skreezel’s chittering laughter echoed about his laboratory, causing the malformed things in the other cages to whine and growl. “Meat-pup funny-speak,” the skaven’s words slithered from his abnormal snout. “Sleep-rest,” Skreezel told Bastian. “Need strong-fit when Skreezel cut-change meat-pup. Much strong-fit so can scream-plead!”

CHAPTER SIX

Waldenhof was many days behind them before the two fugitives felt safe enough to rest. For the first time in days, Heiko was able to sleep somewhere other than the saddle of the doughty mare he had been riding. The men had hastily secured mounts before racing from the town. For all Erwin’s magic, a pair of horses did far more for their chances of escape.

The two men had chanced upon an old trapper’s hut in the foothills of the World’s Edge Mountains. The simple timber structure was scarcely large enough to accommodate the pair, but its walls were thick and would prove defensible if the coming night were to offer any unwanted visitors. They were further rewarded by a small supply of salted beef, provisions left behind by the trapper against his return.

Erwin leaned back upon the room’s small single cot, while Heiko struggled to make a fire in the pit at the centre of the hovel. The wizard had been a less than agreeable travelling companion since their escape from the skaven tunnels. He had been withdrawn and moody, never offering conversation and replying to Heiko’s own comments with only the tersest of replies.

“There is something you wish to ask me,” Erwin said, his eyes remaining closed.

Heiko felt his irritation rise, even as a cold thrill of unease tingled along his spine. The wizard had described his order as devoted to knowledge, but Heiko was not sure he wanted to know exactly how the hierophants of the Order of Light gathered that knowledge. There were times when Erwin seemed able to pluck thoughts from the minds of those around him as easily as another man might pluck petals from a flower.

Erwin opened his eyes, smiling faintly at his companion. “I don’t need to exert myself with spells and incantations to divine that much, Herr Geissner. You’ve had something burning at the tip of your tongue since we left Waldenhof. Perhaps now is the time to get such doubts out in the open.”

“Fair enough, hierophant,” Heiko responded. So long as Erwin was talking, Heiko would play along with him. He took a deep breath, then asked the question that had been plaguing him for days. “In the tunnels, it seemed to me you recognised the man who was leading the soldiers. In fact, you were shocked to find him there. I would know what your relationship with that man is.”

Erwin nodded his head sagely. “Ah, so that is it.” He looked directly into Heiko’s eyes. When he spoke again there was a note of challenge in the wizard’s voice. “Before I answer that question, I would hear some answers of my own. I can tell that the man is not unknown to you either. You ask me what relationship I might have had with him. I would repeat that question in regards to yourself.”

“Very well,” Heiko sighed. “The man’s name is Rudolf Haupt-Anderssen, younger brother to the elector count of Stirland. My relationship with him…” Heiko paused, his mind retreating back through the corridors of memory. “I have been tutor, mentor, and later adversary and rival for his brother’s ear. He is also directly responsible for the situation you rescued me from.”

“And what else?” Erwin said accusingly.

Heiko’s face curled into a snarl. The wizard was using some sort of magic. Perhaps not enough to actually penetrate his mind, but enough to guess that Heiko was keeping something back.

“Nothing more that need concern you,” Heiko spat. Erwin simply smiled.

“If you do not answer my questions, how can I entrust you with what I know?” Erwin’s smug smile was like that of a cat creeping out from a songbird’s cage. He had never intended to divulge how Heiko’s situation related to his own, assuming his own demands for candour would be too much for the former envoy to stomach. But he had not considered the man’s pride, or his conscience.

“It was a little over ten years ago,” Heiko began. “The old elector count was dead and the young Alberich was only a few years into his rule as Graf of Stirland. The climate in Waldenhof was tense, the oldest of the noble families smelled opportunity in the air. Like a pack of jackals, they sensed weakness in the young elector count and sought to undermine him, to supplant him with one of their own.”

He thought back to those dark days of intrigue, of his double agents who informed upon the treacherous schemes of Stirland’s nobility. In those days, Rudolf and himself had shared common cause, both working together to preserve the rule of Graf Alberich. But Heiko had made one grievous error in judgement. He had been so intent upon uncovering some plot to implicate Graf Alberich, he’d failed to appreciate how the elector count’s own actions might have far worse consequences.

“There was a woman, a young Ostermark girl working at the Velvet Dawn, one of Waldenhof’s houses of entertainment,” the words did not come easily to Heiko’s lips, but now he would have to tell all. “Her name was Anya, and the elector count visited her frequently. There was little in Waldenhof that transpired in those days that did not quickly reach my ears, but I did nothing to interfere with Alberich’s excursions to the brothel. Young men are young men, after all. Then one of the other noble families learned of Alberich’s regular visits. I had not reckoned upon their craft, or their own network of informants. They decided to involve the Temple of Sigmar in the matter, and focus not upon the fact that Alberich was visiting the brothel, but that he was always seeing the same girl. They made the case that Anya had bewitched the young elector count, that he had given over his heart to a common whore. They set out with a group of outraged priests to catch Alberich redhanded, as it were. I learned of their intentions just in time to reach the Velvet Dawn ahead of them. I sent Graf Alberich scrambling out a back window minutes before the scheming nobles and stern-faced priests broke down Anya’s door. The disgrace that might have been Graf Alberich’s became my own,” Heiko told the wizard. He felt once more the sickening loss that had toppled him from his respected position as chamberlain. “With the girl, I concocted a story that it had been myself, not the elector count, who had been visiting her, using his name to impress and awe her. The nobles knew I was lying, but they could not prove it. Anya supported my story in order to protect Graf Alberich, and all the other denizens of the brothel wisely judged that their healthiest option was to stay clear of the affair. In their frustration, the nobles demanded that I be withdrawn from my former position for denigrating my office. In order to appease them, Graf Alberich had no choice but to do as they demanded.”

“And what of the girl?” Erwin inquired. Heiko shook his head. It had been painful enough to disclose as much as he had, but the wizard would only be content with the whole story.

“She could not remain in Waldenhof. There was too much scandal and notoriety around her. Moreover, it was feared that the nobles might continue to press her and that she would eventually confess what had truly happened. It was arranged that she would be sent to a Shallyan sisterhood in the hills outside Wurtbad. Her caravan was ambushed by orcs on the road. There were no survivors.” The words hung as empty and worthless as they had when Heiko had first spoken them to Graf Alberich, so many years ago.

A wizard devoted to the pursuit of knowledge recognised a lie when he heard one. “Why was she killed?” Erwin asked. “Rudolf felt she could not be trusted to keep the secret,” Heiko stated. “He has always been fanatically devoted to his brother and would not permit this threat to continue. I sent her away to try to save her life. Then word reached me that Rudolf had sent men to ensure Anya never reached the convent.”

“You did nothing to stop him?”

Heiko shuddered as he heard those words spoken. Rhya preserve him, that was exactly what he had done—nothing. He could have sent men to intercept the caravan, to stop the assassins Rudolf had dispatched. Instead, he had burned the report his spy had given him, opened a bottle of Estalian brandy and tried to drown his conscience. “Where she had been sent, others might find her. Away from the guiding influence of myself and Graf Alberich, her resolve might crack, she might confess what had happened. Rudolf was unwilling to take that chance. He sent some of his irregulars to ambush Anya’s caravan and make it look like an orc massacre. I knew about it, and, may Rhya forgive me, I was grateful. Grateful that Rudolf was able to do what I could not.” Heiko shook his head, trying to fight down the guilt that welled up inside him. “I think that is why he hates me so. He feels I forced him into murder. I knew about Graf Alberich’s liaisons, I could have stopped them. Instead, I let them go on.”

Erwin nodded, digesting Heiko’s words. When he spoke, his own voice was filled with emotion, bespeaking a cold, terrible dread. “I met the man you call Rudolf in Altdorf,” Erwin said. “He approached me bearing the seal of Sigmar and documents that identified him as a servant of the Temple, a witch hunter. He told me that his order had uncovered a conspiracy to steal certain artefacts from some of the Empire’s most prestigious collections. I was to place protective wards upon them, to safeguard the relics for the witch hunters.” Erwin was trembling now, the fear inside him making his body shake like an old leaf. “Now I learn that it was all a deception, a pretence. The man who engaged me was not a witch hunter. It will make the Order of Sigmar even more determined to catch me. Now I am a heretic who has aided creatures of Chaos, and used the name of their order to do so. When they eventually find me, they will be a long time in killing me.”

Heiko could find no words to reassure the wizard. The tenacity of the witch hunters was legendary, he could readily imagine they would be even more zealous in pursuing a sorcerer who they believed had defamed their order. But he was even more troubled by Erwin’s revelation that it had been Rudolf who commissioned the casting of the wards. It indicated that he had, in some way, learned of the skaven plot and tried to stop it. But if that were true, then why had he later been at odds with Heiko about the very existence of such monsters?

“Both our lives are on borrowed time,” Heiko told the wizard. “All we can do now is try to make what we have left account for something. In a few days more we will reach the dwarf stronghold of Karak Kadrin. Perhaps there we will find the help we need to strike back at these monsters, to work their ruin as they have ensured ours.”

And perhaps to find Bastian and his father, if indeed they still lived. But that was too fragile a hope for Heiko to speak it aloud.

It took the fugitives two days of searching to find a navigable path up into the slopes of the World’s Edge Mountains. Starting as what seemed little more than a game trail, it eventually emerged from the forested foothills to begin its sharp climb into the mountains. Erwin was impressed by this smile of good fortune, but Heiko was less optimistic. The piles of rubble that tumbled into the road from the jagged bluffs that loomed to either side sprouted growths of weed, having lain there for decades without being cleared away. The milestones, and the occasional statue or section of wall, that they passed were chipped and weatherworn. At the height of their civilisation, the dwarfs had conducted most of their travel by a network of subterranean tunnels connecting their mighty strongholds in an unbroken chain of marble and granite. Overland routes had been used only by isolated farmers and those outsiders the dwarfs considered trustworthy enough to trade with.

But the dwarf kingdom had been in decline for many centuries. Many of their strongholds had fallen to earthquakes and goblins, leaving their underground tunnels collapsed and overrun. Karak Kadrin was the closest enduring stronghold to Stirland, but that did not mean there might not be others scattered through the mountains, abandoned and forgotten. The disused road they were travelling might not bear them toward Karak Kadrin at all. It might lead them to nothing more than a slow death in a goblin’s cooking pot.

The higher they went, the less promising the road became. The ground became so uneven, so littered with rocks and shards of limestone, that the men were forced to dismount, pulling their protesting horses after them as they reached the snowline. Heiko had argued with Erwin that they were on the wrong path, but the wizard had responded that, even if they were, the road must lead somewhere. Not for the first time, Heiko found the wizard’s logic peculiar, yet he followed the sorcerer’s lead. Perhaps the wizard had worked some spell of compliance upon him, or perhaps it was simply the understanding that, in so wild a place, the arcane powers that Erwin von Fautz commanded might mean the difference between life and death.

They were well within the snowline, their boots crunching through snow rather than kicking up rocks, when the mountains finally took notice of their presence. The first warning was when their horses became agitated. Nostrils flaring wildly, the animals reared back, stamping their hooves and refusing to be led further. Heiko tried to calm his mount’s terror, while Erwin scolded his as though reprimanding an unruly student. The animals would not be soothed, and when Heiko’s rose up, kicking at him with its forelegs, he was forced to release his grip on its reins. The horse fled back down the path as though a daemon were on its heels. Unwilling to be abandoned by its fellow, Erwin’s steed tore free of the wizard’s grip and raced after its companion. Heiko watched them vanish down the trail, then turned a disgusted look toward Erwin. If the wizard had turned back when he’d suggested it, the horses might not have abandoned them.

Once again, Erwin seemed to read his thoughts, an embarrassed smile worming its way across his features. “At least it isn’t snowing,” the wizard proclaimed, pointing a finger at the clear summer sky overhead. Heiko sighed and shook his head.

“I don’t suppose you have any magic to make them come back?” Heiko complained. He knew that his dull human senses had detected whatever had upset the horses, but couldn’t say what it was. It was as though the very air had taken on a clammy texture, a wrongness that set his skin crawling. It was not unlike the unnatural chill that Heiko had come to associate with magic, but it felt somehow more raw and unsophisticated. Erwin’s face had dropped into extreme agitation. If the wizard had any knowledge as to what was going on, that knowledge was not comforting.

“You are not wrong, Herr Geissner,” Erwin spoke from the corner of his mouth. He began to pace slowly backwards, his eyes darting across the rocky landscape of boulders and bluffs. “We should go back and find another way.”

Before Heiko could ask why, the question became unnecessary. A massive shape shuffled out from behind one of the boulders, casting its malformed shadow across the road. It was easily twice the height of a man, even with its hunched posture and crooked legs. Arms that were almost apelike in length hung before the creature, dragging sword-like claws across the snow. Its skin was black and scaly, peeling away in places as though from some necrotic leprosy. The monster’s head was broad and flat, like that of a toad, its enormous mouth nearly bisecting its skull. Huge ears, like the wings of a bat, flapped from either side of its head, crumpled and twisted by the growth of horn that sprouted from the beast’s scalp. A giant bulbous nose spread across the middle of the monster’s face, and small yellow eyes stared dully from either side of the nasal growth.

Heiko had seen trolls before—indeed, there was one in the Waldenhof museum—and knew them to be vile monstrosities. But the thing shuffling onto the road was foul beyond belief, twisted with the corrupting mark of the Ruinous Powers, mutated by the insane malevolence of the Dark Gods.

The mutant troll stopped in the centre of the road, arms dangling in the snow. Its dull eyes stared at the two men cowering before it, yet it stood as still and silent as the boulders that surrounded it. Perhaps some basic motivation like hunger had stirred its tiny mind, causing it to approach the men. But, having gained the road, it seemed at a loss as to what to do next.

“Chaos troll,” Erwin explained. “Touched and twisted by the dread influence of raw magical energy. Many such monsters marched with Archaon’s hordes. Perhaps this is some lost renegade from the marauder armies.”

“I care less about what it is than I do about staying out of its belly,” Heiko said, keeping his eyes on the monster.

The troll lifted one of its gigantic claws, and scratched at the peeling hide on its thigh. Heiko could see greasy blood bubbling up between its talons, though it seemed oblivious to the harm it was doing itself.

“Trolls are quite simple-minded,” Erwin said. “I suspect the doubtful gifts of mutation have not improved this one’s intellect. No doubt the scent of our horses drew him to the road, but now he finds two men instead of two horses. His tiny brain might be awhile resolving that confusion.”

“Then let’s get out of here before…”

“Roornk!” The troll’s massive jaws dropped open in a deep, spine-shuddering grunt. Whatever confusion may have beset the monster’s brain had apparently been resolved. Horse or man, whatever the small figures it had ambushed, the troll was going to make a meal of them. Its legs, each as thick as the bole of a tree, crunched through the ice and snow as it strode toward them. Its arms, powerful enough to snap the neck of an ox like a twig, reached toward Heiko and Erwin, its sword-like claws glistening with the scum of frost that coated them.

Heiko stared at the short sword in his hand. The weapon wouldn’t scratch, much less injure, the bellowing hulk lumbering towards him. He cast a glance back the way they had come and grimly realised that, on such treacherous ground, the troll would quickly overcome them with its longer stride. Poorly armed or not, there was no choice but to fight.

Such was the cloying taint exuded by the troll’s corrupt body that Heiko hadn’t even sensed his companion drawing upon the spectral winds of magic, focusing the energies of his mystic art into a bolt of searing radiance that struck the troll squarely in the chest. The stench of burnt meat overcame even that of the troll’s abnormal flesh as its body smouldered. The creature howled in pain, its fanged jaws snapping at the sky. Erwin kept the searing energy pounding into the troll’s body, ending the spell only when the strain of maintaining it caused him to double over, retching into the earth. Heiko had to keep his eyes on the troll, trusting that the wizard would recover.

The troll stopped howling as the bolt of burning light faded. Heiko could see the damage Erwin’s spell had visited upon the monster, a great charred crater scorched through its chest, exposing blackened ribs and dripping organs. That the thing stood at all seemed impossible, but the edges of the wound were slowly changing, as though its body were repairing the damaged inflicted upon it. The troll dipped a claw into the wet meat, raising it to its nose and sniffing at it in curiosity.

Suddenly, the monster’s claw and the face behind it vanished in a second searing blast of light. Heiko looked aside to see a trembling Erwin, hands outstretched before him, the sorcerous light leaping from his palms. The wizard’s body was shaking like a leaf and rivers of sweat poured from his forehead. Erwin maintained the attack for nearly twice as long as the initial one, relenting only when the troll’s head was reduced to a crumbling cinder and its body crashed to the frozen ground. The wizard was not long in joining it, collapsing into the snow. Heiko rushed to his side.

“That—was—unpleasant…” Erwin stuttered, trying to draw breath back into his lungs. Heiko helped him sit up, holding the wizard’s shivering shoulders. “The power—the corrupt energy—it did something. Calling on my magic so near to it was like—like screaming underwater—like trying to hold your hand in an open flame…”

Heiko nodded, though he could little imagine what the wizard was trying to describe. “Whatever you did, it worked. You killed the damned thing and saved both our hides in doing so.”

Erwin nodded back, trying to force a smile onto his face. “That may be, but I—I should not like to go through that again.”

No sooner had he spoken than Heiko detected the stir of motion further down the road. A snowdrift rose upward, clumps of ice dropping away from an immense, scaly body with massive jaws and crooked limbs. Then a second snow bank stood and shook the ice from its malformed bulk. Then another, and another. Soon, the road ahead of them had sprouted five more trolls, each more loathsome and hideous than the next, each casting dull, bleary eyes toward the two men and the still-smoking carcass sprawled before them. Heiko was not sure if it was hunger or some spirit of vengeance that caused the trolls to roar at them, then to lumber down the road. Whichever motivation had fired their feeble minds, he was certain it would be the death of him.

A sharp cry tore Heiko’s eyes from the approaching trolls. Above him, a shape leaped down from the top of one of the bluffs overlooking the road. He caught a flash of steel as the shape plummeted toward the foremost of the trolls, sounding the sickening crunch of metal cracking through bone. A hugely muscular dwarf, his chest bare, the narrow strip of dyed hair running down the middle of his head stiffened into a cock’s comb, had jumped down onto the troll, burying the blade of an enormous axe in the creature’s head.

Bracing his feet on the brute’s shoulders, the dwarf grunted-with effort as he ripped his weapon free. The troll spat teeth and brains as its head sank wearily against its breast, but there was life enough left in it to swipe the dwarf from its shoulders with an overhand sweep. The troll took a few steps more towards Heiko and Erwin, and then crashed against a boulder lying in the road, falling to the ground like a toppled tree.

The dwarf who had slain the troll rolled free from the snow. He bared his teeth at the four remaining monsters, howling a cry as savage and inarticulate as the trolls themselves. His cry was answered by more dwarfs charging onto the road, scrambling from cracks in the bluffs or leaping down from boulders as the first one had. All bore huge axes and no armour, their heads sporting the same outlandish combs of dyed, starched hair. There were at least a half-dozen of them, charging into the trolls with such a bold recklessness that it chilled Heiko to see it. The trolls were just as taken aback by the ferocious display, watching their attackers with a bewildered, almost frightened air.

The battle was fierce. Heiko could not decide which were more terrible to observe, the bestial trolls or the frenzied dwarfs who chopped them apart with their huge axes. Against the awesome strength of the trolls, the courage of the dwarfs was more than equal, and soon only one of the monsters remained—a hulking brute with a second mouth gibbering and drooling where its heart should be.

The other dwarfs stood ready as one of their number, swirling blue tattoos covering his arms, hacked away at his foe. The troll stumbled as the dwarfs axe cut its leg, arresting its fall with its clawed hands. With a roar of fury, the dwarf charged into the wounded beast, slamming his axe into its neck. But even as he did so, the monster’s grotesque second mouth bit into the dwarf’s shoulder, its massive fangs closing like the jaws of a steel trap.

The troll reared upwards once more, taking the trapped dwarf with him. His captive screamed in frustrated fury as much as in pain and he struggled to free his axe from the troll’s neck. The monster, its own dull mind finally registering the damage done to it, stumbled away, lumbering from the road back into the jagged crags beside it. The dwarf continued tugging on his axe until, with the sound of a cleaver withdrawn from meat, it came free. He shouted in triumph as he pulled it back for another stroke, but, in freeing his weapon, he had enabled the troll to move its head freely once more. The troll grinned down at him, opened its jaws and spat a stream of bilious muck into the dwarf’s face. The dwarf screamed in anguish and the axe tumbled free from his hands, as he clasped them about his smoking, melting skull.

The troll staggered away, glaring back at the other dwarfs who followed it. Heiko watched it reach the edge of the rise, placing the sheer drop to the foothills below on its flank. Even the dim-witted troll had sense enough to keep from being surrounded. The monster prepared to meet its foes, tearing a small tree from the ground beside it. Yet even as it made ready to meet its attackers, the dying dwarf slumped against its chest came to life once more. “Grimnir!” the dwarf shouted through his mangled face, and buried his teeth in the troll’s ruined neck. The monster shrieked in pain, dropping its club and struggling to rip the dwarf from its neck. In its efforts, the troll forgot its footing, overbalancing itself. For a moment it teetered on the edge of the drop, then vanished into the void, its anguished roars fading away into the distance.

Heiko and Erwin advanced slowly toward their rescuers. The surviving dwarfs walked to the edge of the precipice, staring down with something like envy. Up close, Heiko could see that all of them were scarred and tattooed, their beards and hair dyed bright orange. He had heard many stories over the years of the slayers, the strange death cult of the dwarfs, but he had never given much credit to such tales.

The dwarfs seemed to take their own time in noticing the men they had rescued. One of the four survivors, the powerfully built berserker who had initiated the attack, turned and glowered at the two men. An uncomfortable silence continued until Heiko realised the dwarf was waiting for one of them to speak.

“Thank you for saving us,” Heiko said, knowing how trite his words sounded. “If you hadn’t come when you did we’d both have been troll-food for certain. I’m Heiko Geissner,” he introduced himself. “This is Hierophant Erwin von Fautz,” he added, indicating the wizard. It might have been wiser to strive for anonymity, but it was Heiko’s experience that dwarfs had little tolerance for deception and were extremely good at detecting it. Since they were their only hope now, the truth seemed to be the best policy.

The berserker dwarf snorted with harsh amusement. “Don’t think we attacked those mangy monsters on your account, manling. We’ve been tracking them for days now, trying to see if they would lead us back to their lair. You two nearly spoiled our hunt. If you’d taken off running the trolls would have been scattered all over the place chasing after you! Then where would we be?”

Heiko didn’t know what kind of answer the dwarf expected, if any at all. But it explained why the dwarfs had been content to allow the first troll to attack them, why they were willing to lose one troll to track the others back to their lair. Heiko felt all the gratitude drain out of him as he considered the dwarfs’ cold-hearted logic.

“Still, not a complete loss,” the berserker observed. “We might not have the trolls’ treasure, but Ornfin Hammerbringer found as fine a death as any I’ve heard tell of. Fighting to the last, dropping down from the mountain with his face burned off and his teeth sunk into his killer’s neck! Worthy of being recorded in the Shrine of Grimnir!”

“I’m glad we could be of service,” Heiko said, wondering just what sort of lunatic he was talking to. The dwarf grinned back, missing the sarcasm.

“I am Thogri Ironbelly,” the dwarf said. His introduction lacked the customary note of pride Heiko expected from a dwarf. “What sees two fools like you stumbling about in these parts like a pair of lost sheep?”

“We are looking to find one of your cities,” Erwin spoke, recovering his voice once more. “We hope to journey to Karak Kadrin and seek an audience with your king.”

Thogri laughed as the wizard stated their destination.

“Then you are on the wrong road, manlings!” he bellowed. “You be wanting Peak Pass, and that is south of here. This road eventually makes its way to Karak Ungor, though nobody but slayers would have any reason to go there.” It was spoken as though Thogri had never considered the idea before, but now found it worthy of consideration.

“Could you show us the way to Karak Kadrin then?” Heiko asked. He didn’t like the idea of associating with these berserkers, but stumbling about in the mountains was an even worse one. Thogri pondered the question briefly, before he nodded his head.

“We are heading there ourselves,” the dwarf stated. “We go to honour the War-mourner and his noble death. More, we must bear word of Ornfin Hammerbringer’s death to the Shrine of Grimnir that it may be recorded. If you manlings can keep up, then you may follow us. I make no promises that King Ironfist will see you, however. All Karak Kadrin is mourning the War-mourner, but the slayers most of all. And King Ironfist is a slayer.”

That, Heiko thought, was certainly not reassuring.

CHAPTER SEVEN

The dwarf stronghold of Karak Kadrin was a fortress city built into the living rock of a mountain that had, over the centuries, adopted the ominous name of Slayer Peak. The stone fortress looked out upon the jagged scar of Peak Pass, a glacial valley forming a natural pathway from the eastern border of the World’s Edge Mountains to the lands of the Empire lying to the west.

In happier times, when the kingdom of the dwarfs had been at its height, Peak Pass had been an important trade route and Karak Kadrin a place where goods from the western dwarf settlements might be bartered with those of their eastern cousins. But such pleasantries were but a distant memory recorded in the dwarfs’ Book of Grudges. Darkness had swept across the land, the shadow of gods malevolent and obscene. The dwarf settlements along the eastern border of the mountains had fallen, the lands beyond them decaying into a vast realm of death. Hordes of orcs and goblins had swept out from the wasteland to devour the holdings of the dwarfs, thwarted only by the mountains; But there was a hole in the jagged wound of Peak Pass, a place wide enough to move an army at speed, passing deep enough through the mountains to leave the civilised world at the mercy of its timeless foes from beyond.

Karak Kadrin had adopted the role of fortress and bulwark, in place of its former role as a hub of trade and commerce. The walls had grown thicker, the gates stronger. When Heiko first laid eyes upon the towering steel doors that guarded the main entrance into the cavernous city, he had felt diminished. How could his race boast of their accomplishments, of mighty castles and grand cathedrals, when the dwarfs had been capable of such colossal feats of architecture back when men still made their forts of mud and spit? Even Erwin seemed in awe of the overwhelming magnificence of the fortress. The main hall alone seemed to have enough stone blocks fitted into its floor to build another Altdorf.

High overhead, Heiko could see the arched ceiling dwindling into the gloom. He could feel the weight of the mountain pressing down upon him, the air growing heavy as he sucked it into his lungs. He could see that Erwin, too, was discomfited by their surroundings. Looking at their escort of trollslayers, however, Heiko saw a very different change. There was a carelessness in their manner that Heiko hadn’t noted before. Perhaps that was the biggest difference between man and dwarf: a dwarf actually enjoyed the feeling of a mountain pushing down on his head.

The city itself branched off from the great hall, its numberless tunnels extending deeper into the mountain. Thogri explained that some of them led to enormous forges where iron ore and copper from the mines beneath the city were smelted into steel and bronze. Other tunnels led to vast smithies where steel and bronze were beaten into axes and armour, others to the artisans and craftsmen who painstakingly etched and engraved the work of the smiths, endowing even the simplest axe with the most fabulous adornment. The greatest weapons and armour were taken to the rune priests in the temple district, where some might be marked with mighty runes of power, ancient letters that carried potent magic.

As Thogri described the layout of the city, Heiko likened him to a proud father. He found his eye draw again and again to the dwarfs who shot questioning glances in their direction. Many wore armour and had the look of soldiers about them, but he also saw fur-clad trappers and hunters, soot-stained workers from the forges, or grimy miners with lanterns swinging from their belts. He even saw a few women, squat, broad shouldered dwarf ladies with plaited hair and plump faces. Occasionally they passed other slayers, grimly fanatical figures who sometimes nodded respectfully to Thogri and his companions, but who might also stride past them in silence, their minds fixed upon whatever shame had brought them so low.

As soon as they had set foot within the city, Heiko noticed its air of sorrow. The beards of most dwarfs they saw had been stained a chalky black, he guessed with soot or ash. The women had laced black beads into their hair. The slayers had left their beards dyed red, but had laced black beads into them. So gripped was he by this strange custom that he asked Thogri about it, before he had time to consider that the question might be indiscreet.

“They are in mourning for the War-mourner,” Thogri replied. “The men stain their beards black to display their sorrow. The women have no beards to show their honour, so they string beads through their hair.” Improbably, Thogri’s voice seemed to grow grimmer. “A slayer’s beard has no honour, just as a slayer can have no honour. A slayer can show his sorrow only at the Shrine of Grimnir, by begging the priests to give him beads, that he might string them through his beard like—like a woman.”

The smouldering fire in Thogri’s eyes suggested to Heiko it would be prudent not to press him further. There were no trolls or giants around to deflect his anger.

The slayers left the two men in the great hall before continuing to the Shrine of Grimnir. Before he left, Thogri pointed a hand in the direction of an inn where the two men would be able to find lodging. He also promised to pass word on to the court of Karak Kadrin’s ruler. Over the course of their journey through the mountains, Heiko had told the slayers their story, but the keen interest of the suicidal dwarf warriors was far from comforting.

The inn was situated in a vast tunnel branching off from the Great Hall. Like all the dwarf buildings they had passed, it was built into the tunnel wall itself, carved from the rocky flesh of the mountain. The stout innkeeper, a gruesome-looking dwarf with a bronze rod where his right leg should have been, was not overly interested in whatever tales Heiko had to spin. Only the colour of gold was going to secure the men a room. The innkeeper gnawed at the Imperial crowns, his black teeth chewing on the metal. Then he nodded, motioning for a grubby-looking young dwarf boy to show the two men to their room. Apparently, human guests weren’t unknown in Karak Kadrin. They were given long beds and tall chairs. It was a respectable enough place in which to wait, and, with his wide experience of Imperial courts and politics, Heiko expected that their wait would be a long one.

It turned out that Heiko was wrong, though he was hardly going to complain. It was on the very next day, in the early hours of morning that the men were awakened by their peg-legged host who conducted a messenger from the king’s court. They were to follow the messenger back to the court of Ungrim Ironfist.

Heiko thought he was growing accustomed to the intimidating architecture of the dwarfs. The reception hall put the lie to such beliefs. The gigantic columns that rose from the floor were wider around than most of the buildings in Waldenhof, stretching upwards in great pillars of rune-etched marble until they vanished into the gloomy darkness far overhead.

The court of Ungrim Ironfist was assembled about a set of immense stone tables arrayed to form an enormous “U”. Heiko gasped to himself at the wealth displayed by the dwarfs in their gold pectorals, jewelled rings and silver armbands. Guildmasters, runepriests, engineers, it seemed that the elite of the entire city was assembled within the hall. And yet, mixed in among their number was a small group of grubby, barbaric-looking dwarfs, the table they occupied set apart from those of the others. As Heiko was conducted toward the assembly, he caught the eye of Thogri Ironbelly, regarding him from the table where the slayers were allowed to sit. The dwarf’s beard was plaited with black beads now, though little had been done to attend the injuries sustained fighting the Chaos trolls.

At the head of the tables, flanked by his closest advisors, was the golden throne of Ungrim Ironfist, the almost legendary Slayer King of Karak Kadrin. The king wore black robes, their edges picked out in silver thread designs almost as esoteric as the sorcerous symbols of Erwin von Fautz’s robes. The king’s humble raiment was at odds with the massive, horned helmet he wore, a golden crown encircling its bejewelled surface. More disconcerting was the mane of hair, dyed the same bright orange as the spiked crests of the shaven-headed slayers. The king’s face was as harsh and brutal as that of any mountain, and his beard, for all the gold rings that bound it, was dyed the same vivid hue as that of the lowliest slayer.

Heiko could feel the authority of the king as he stepped forwards, but could also see the pain and loss that shone in Ungrim’s eyes, a hurt too deep even for a king’s might to conceal.

One of the dwarfs seated beside the king stood up. He was impossibly ancient-looking, his long white beard of such length that it was tucked beneath the silver belt that circled his waist. The old dwarf motioned for the men to stop. He lifted his voice, saying something in the guttural Khazalid tongue, clearly intended for the assembled dwarfs. Then he looked once more at the two men. “Word has reached the ears of His Highness that you desire audience with him.” Heiko could not be certain, but it seemed the old dwarf’s voice carried with it a trace of derision. “That you bear tidings of some new peril that threatens the Empire of men.”

“Not the Empire alone,” Heiko interrupted, drawing scowls from some of the seated longbeards and a sharp, drunken laugh from where the slayers were seated. “This threat is one that endangers both our lands. It will not trouble itself about where one ruler’s dominion ends and where another’s begins, nor will it spare its attentions from either dwarf or man.” Heiko wished he knew more about the proprieties involved in exchanges with dwarfs, not least with one of their kings. But he knew they were direct and blunt in their speech, with little patience for perfumed words and empty flattery.

The old dwarf’s face fell into such a scowl that Heiko found himself wishing the beard covered more of it. There was no mistaking the contempt in his voice when next he spoke. “Why is it that our allies always find their problems are also ours? Our lands are already imperilled; we have no need to march far to take battle to our enemies. The ruin of Vardek Crom’s army hides in our mountains. The obscenity,” the long-beard paused, making some warding sign with his fingers, a gesture Heiko had seen dwarfs invoke before when someone mentioned the restless dead, “walks unhindered in the plains beyond the foothills. The grobi burrow their way into our mines. We have enemies enough to test our axes, we have no need to seek more.”

“With all respect,” Heiko said, fighting to maintain calm, “this is not an enemy you can ignore. Will you wait until the skaven are gnawing at the gates of this city? Will you wait until it is too late?”

“Enough!”

Heiko flinched as the deep voice boomed through the hall. Even the longbeard seemed taken aback, hastily bowing his head and wilting down into his seat. The pained eyes of Ungrim Ironfist settled upon those of Heiko like a hawk dropping upon his prey.

“This court has heard such words before,” the king said. “Your countrymen stood where you stand now and warned of the mighty armies of the north that ravaged your land. Even as we fought our own battles, they asked for our help and we gave it to them. We gave them the War-mourner.” Heiko could see the king’s hand trembling before it smashed down upon the stone surface of the table. “We gave your people everything honour demanded of us. We will give no more while we have our own battles to fight.”

“But it will be!” Heiko protested. “I have read the histories. I know of the long and terrible wars the dwarfs have fought with the underfolk.”

“This time it is not our fight,” Ungrim repeated in a voice of steel. The king looked away from Heiko, gazing instead at the smaller table where the slayers were seated. “Tell him,” the king commanded. One of the slayers slowly extracted himself from his seat. He was immensely muscled, his shoulders almost impossibly broad. His short beard had been left white, though the black beads woven into it left no question that he was a slayer, as with the crest of brightly dyed hair that stood from the slit in his leather cap. Heiko was surprised to see a double-headed Imperial eagle standing out among the swirling tattoos that marked the dwarf’s body.

The slayer took one last pull of the brew that filled the leather jack he held, then fixed his eyes on Heiko and Erwin. When he spoke, it was with such an accent that it took Heiko a moment to realise he was indeed speaking Reikspiel and not some peculiar Khazalid dialect. “Ah had a look on that rune ye give tae Thogri here. Ye ken it said ‘rat’ or some such, eh? Weel, it dinnae. It’s an auld rune, an’ it means ‘skaven’.” The slayer’s lip twisted into a sneer of disgust. “No joost any skaven, though. This rune means a very particular type o’ skaven. ‘Clan Skryre’ it means, an’ I fancy tha’ they be some sort o’ engineers.” The slayer’s words caused the dwarf engineers in the room to mutter angrily into their beards.

“You say these ratmen are engineers?” Heiko asked. Though he’d read about the horrible weapons the skaven were able to craft, his mind still resisted the suggestion that the creatures were capable of such things. “Why would they need to steal from others if they can simply build their own weapons?”

The question brought strained laughter from some of the dwarfs, more oaths and curses from others.

“Ye got lots tae learn aboot skaven, big man,” the slayer told him. “They steal from anywin and everywin ’cause they’re too lazy tae make their own. Ain’t clever er innovative enough tae figure things fer theyselfs. They tak from others an’ they twist it aroun’ intae sumthin’ nasty an’ horrible.” The slayer paused, lifting his hand to his head, scratching at his scalp where it stood exposed from the slit in his cap.

“Noo, it seem tae me that this time sumthin’ peculiar is in the works. An’ ye can believe Malakai Makaisson seen enough o’ the skaven tae say that lightly.” The dwarf stepped away from the table, staring hard at the cluster of dwarf engineers sitting to the right of the king. “Ah telt ye that this felt wrong.” Makaisson pointed at Heiko. “The big man here said the skaven stole one o’ our guns from this museum. I’ve been in that place, an’ there’s more there than joost one gun. Why’d the, skaven joost take win gun when they could o’ skittered off wit a dozen? They dinnae even so much as look aet that steam tank whit they got there!”

“Are you saying you have some idea why the skaven stole just that particular gun?” Erwin asked.

Makaisson nodded. “I do,” he stated. “They were after sumthin’ built by dwarfs, but sumthin’ built by dwarfs whit wae light enough fae whit they need it fae.”

Heiko felt his pulse quicken. For weeks now he’d been racking his brain, trying to come up with some idea of what was behind the thefts. Now it seemed this strange-speaking dwarf had put the pieces together and come up with a notion of what the ratmen were up to.

“Why would the weight of the gun be important to them?” Heiko asked. Makaisson chuckled darkly.

“Ye sade they stole canvas an’ a bellows, rudders an’ bits from win o’ our steamships. It sounds tae me like they’re buildin’ some sort o’ airship.”

The dwarf’s remark provoked a commotion from several dwarf engineers who were clearly not convinced, but the glowering gaze of their king soon caused them to fall silent. “Aye, ah said an airship!” Makaisson repeated. “They tried tae steal ma ship an’ couldnae do it, so noo they got the notion tae build their own.”

Heiko shook his head. An airship? He’d heard stories about the dwarf airship that came to the aid of Praag during the most recent attack upon the Kislevite city, but he’d never credited such tales with much credibility. To hear the dwarfs discussing such a wonder of engineering was a marvel, but to hear Makaisson’s words about the skaven building their own was chilling beyond description.

“From what I understand, these monsters can make their own weapons,” Heiko pointed out.

“Aye, bloody good ones, tae,” Makaisson conceded reluctantly, stroking what looked like a burn scar across one of his biceps.

“Then why would they go to such lengths to steal these things? I mean, they would have crossed the length and breadth of the Empire to gather every thing they’ve stolen. Surely it would have been much faster to build their own?” Heiko clutched at the argument like a drowning man grasping at the slippery shore. He couldn’t believe the skaven were building an airship. It was too loathsome to contemplate.

The slayer was silent for a moment, glancing in the direction of the engineers. “I’ve given that a fair bit o’ thinkin’ tae. Skaven dinnae like fightin’ their own fights. They like tae get others tae do the fightin’ fae them an’ then sweep in an’ kill both sides. It’s some ratty divil behind this, ye ken be sure o’ that. He’s making the airship look like it were dwarf work! No doubt tae fool yer people. No dwarf wudae be tricked by such.”

“Then it is your problem!” Heiko protested. He explained the history of Waldenhof, and Rudolph’s intense hatred of dwarfs, his unending attempts to force his brother to muster the Stirland army against them. It was all so clear now: the skaven would attack Waldenhof, making it look as though the dwarfs were responsible. In retaliation, Rudolf would lead the army into war. And afterwards the skaven would return and eradicate the exhausted victor.

“Karak Kadrin has stood for thousands of years,” the booming voice of Ungrim Ironfist reminded him. “Your arrogance is great indeed if you think any army of men could ever breach this city! If your people are witless enough to fall for skaven trickery, then they will suffer for it! We will not help you. The names of the Maeckler clan are not unknown to us, they are recorded in our Book of Grudges for the theft of Thane Orgri’s gyrocopter. Let the skaven have them, it is more than they deserve. Your elector count is not unknown to us either, and the Haupt-Anderssen clan is also named among our grudges. I would rather see this mountain crumble into dust than lift my hand to help faithless oathbreakers such as the Haupt-Anderssens! I have granted you this audience because your actions upon the mountain deserved some courtesy. Now you have heard our answer. Do with it what you will, for you will have no more aid from my people. This audience is at an end. Leave us now.”

Heiko had never felt more dejected, even when he was removed from the post of chamberlain and had his name dragged through the mud. He had come to the dwarfs with such desperate hopes, only to have them razed by their stupid, stubborn prejudices. It was not that they didn’t believe him, or felt the threat that the skaven posed was inconsequential. It was that they clung to old feuds and grievances, refusing to help because they felt they had been dishonoured by the rulers of Stirland.

Erwin had fallen into a depression. Heiko had offered him hope, something the wizard seemed unable to muster on his own. Now, with this final chance to strike back taken from him, Erwin was left only with his despair. The enemies now hunting him were not the sort of men Heiko would ever want on his trail. He felt a deep pity for the wizard. No matter how disturbing his powers, Erwin didn’t deserve to end his days on a witch hunter’s pyre, or blasted into cinders by another hierophant. He was as much a victim of the skaven plot as Bastian, or his father, or even Heiko himself.

The two men were gathering their belongings and preparing to leave Karak Kadrin. Where they would go, Heiko had no idea. Perhaps Marienburg. The free port was beyond the limits of the Empire, and he doubted Rudolf would send an assassin so far from Stirland. Erwin, however, was under no illusions. “The jungles of Ind would not be far enough for me to hide,” was one of his gloomier statements. His attitude did not improve when the innkeeper escorted a pair of bead-bearded dwarfs into their room. One was Thogri Ironbelly, the other the mad engineer Malakai Makaisson.

“Heard you were leaving,” Thogri said without bothering to explain how. “Any idea where you are going?”

“Would it matter?” Erwin retorted, sitting down on the foot of his bed. The trollslayer grinned at the wizard.

“It might,” he mused. “If you were headed toward Karak Ungor, I might be of a mind to go along with you.”

“Karak Ungor?” Heiko asked, giving Thogri his full attention. “Where is that?”

The trollslayer’s grin grew, like a card sharp drawing more credulous fools to his table.

“It’s an old stronghold a few days north of here,” he said. “Been a long time since any dwarfs lived there. Mostly given over to orcs and goblins and the like.” Thogri took a theatrical pause. “Oh, and there’s a skaven stronghold there too. Clan Skryre.”

“They’re building the airship!” Heiko exclaimed, trying not to let the crazed dwarf’s words fan the dying embers of his hope. Even Erwin was on his feet, watching with interest now.

“Ah reckon they are,” Makaisson stated. “Been some trappers an’ such like talkin’ aboot strange things afoot doon that way. Karak Ungor is the closest Clan Skryre lair near tae yer Waldenhof. Any airship comin’ out o’ there wud tae have much o’ a trip tae make. Joost the sort o’ thing a skaven wud worry himself aboot. Ah think it’s worth lookin’ intae, eh big man? Ah dunnae like the idea o’ a bunch o’ rats copyin’ ma work. There’s only one folk whit should be up in the sky and it innae the skaven!”

Heiko smiles. “So you will help us?”

The two slayers shook their heads.

“The king won’t,” Thogri said. “He feels he’s already fought too many battles for men. It was his son, Garagrim, that was the War-mourner.” Thogri let that sombre fact sink in before continuing. “But the king doesn’t have much say over where a slayer goes or what a slayer does. He leaves us to find a glorious death in whatever way we can.” The trollslayer’s powerful hand swatted Heiko’s shoulder in a comradely pat. “I reckon if I follow you, I’ll find a death any dwarf would be proud to have. Might be able to upset the plans of these grobi-sniffing skaven while I’m at it too, which makes the prospect all the better. I’m not the only one either, there’s a dozen other slayers waiting for you to lead the way to horrible death and redeemed honour!”

Somehow, the more enthusiastic Thogri grew, the more insane Heiko realised their quest really was!

CHAPTER EIGHT

Heiko knew they were nearing Karak Ungor. Thick plumes of black smoke rose from the boulder-strewn slopes, as though the mountain were burning from within. Heiko had heard of volcanoes before, but always believed the fire mountains, with their boiling rivers of molten flame, to be wildly exaggerated travellers’ tales. Gazing upon Karak Ungor, he was of a mind to reconsider his opinion. The snarling curse muttered by Malakai Makaisson had disabused him of the notion. The smoke came not from lava flows, but from the infernal forges and foundries of the skaven industry that now infested the old dwarf stronghold within. Day and night, the smoke rose from the ragged slopes of the mountain, the cracks through which it slithered its way from the dwarf halls into the air transforming into veins of glowing fire with the onset of darkness.

The numbers of their expedition had increased with the distance they put between themselves and Karak Kadrin. If the Slayer King was not of a mind to help against the skaven threat, the same could not be said of his subjects—if, indeed, the crazed fanatics of the slayer cult recognised any sovereign at all. In groups of twos and threes the slayers had come, with determined looks and grim words. Many, Thogri said, were from the bloodlines of Karak Varn, a stronghold far to the south that had been overrun by skaven. For such dwarfs, their vendetta against the skaven far outweighed the slights against the elector count and the stolen gyrocopter. Others, like Thogri himself, simply saw certain death waiting for them in the black halls of Karak Ungor. For them, that was enough. When they had left Karak Kadrin, Heiko’s group had numbered little more than a dozen. Now, approaching the forbidding slopes of their destination, they were well over a hundred.

Most of the dwarfs were slayers, but there had been one exception, a small group of engineers who met them on the road as soon as they were beyond range of Slayer Peak. They were young dwarfs, the kind that were called “beardlings”, but there was no mistaking the determination in their eyes. They were junior craftsmen from the stronghold of Zhufbar, members of the Dwarf Engineering Guild. They would not countenance an artefact like Thane Orgri’s gyrocopter remaining in the clutches of the ratkin, and even the word of a king was not going to stand in their way. Heiko was relieved to have someone besides Erwin who actually intended to leave Karak Ungor in one piece, rather than splattered across its halls in the aftermath of some hideously glorious death.

The approach to the mountain was barren, offering few places in which to hide. It troubled the fatalistic slayers not in the least. Heiko had thought that the slayers couldn’t shock him more than they already had, but it was with horror that he realised they wanted to be seen. They wanted the skaven to know they were coming. Wanted the vermin to be ready and waiting for them. For the slayers, there was no glory in sneaking up and surprising their enemies.

More troubling was the fact that the engineers didn’t seem troubled by the slayers’ attitude. Heiko watched the mountain loom ever nearer and his dread increased proportionately, imagining at any moment a horde of inhuman shapes erupting from the ground, falling upon him with rusted knives and chisel teeth. He was not the only one. Erwin reached for the shoulder of the oldest of the engineers, a black-bearded dwarf named Dhurgin.

“We’ll never even reach the mountainside,” the wizard complained. “Those idiots might as well send up a flare letting them know we’re here!” Erwin rolled his eyes as the slayers broke into song, fairly shouting a bawdy ballad that suggested ugly things about skaven parentage. Dhurgin shook his head sadly.

“They are looking to find their doom,” the engineer said.

“Yes, but we aren’t!” Erwin snapped back, gesticulating wildly. “We’ll never get within a thousand yards of the tunnels with them!”

Dhurgin laughed, pointing toward the distant mountain. “The slayers will head for the south gate of Karak Ungor. Orcs tore down the gates long ago when they overran the stronghold. When the skaven took the stronghold away from them, the ratkin restored the gates in their own ramshackle fashion. The slayers hope that if the skaven know they are coming, the ratmen will decide to fight and open the gates to meet them.”

“And that helps us how?” Erwin asked sourly.

Dhurgin moved his hand slightly, pointing to an area higher up, to the left of that he had formerly indicated.

“Because that will get the skaven interested in the main gate, one way or another,” the dwarf replied. “But we won’t be there. Every stronghold has its boltholes and hidden entrances, Karak Ungor is no different. There’s an old route near the summit. That’s our way in. Even if the skaven know about it, they won’t have too many guards about.”

“What about traps?” Heiko had learned enough about the workings of skaven technology to imagine they might have a vicious aptitude for making traps.

“Are you saying a dwarf isn’t going to be able to spot something awry in one of his own strongholds?” There was a tone of insulted pride in the engineer’s voice. He thumped his chest, fairly glaring at Heiko. “If it makes you feel any better, I’ll lead the way.”

Dhurgin’s face stared up at Heiko from the grimy floor. It wore a curious expression, certainly not what Heiko expected to see on a decapitated head. The dwarf’s face was fixed in the sullen grimace of someone who stubbornly refuses to concede defeat in a lost argument.

Down the narrow hallway behind them, the mechanical whirl of the scythe-like blade sounded as the murderous trap slid back into the wall.

“Nae way for a dwarf tae meet his ancestors,” Malakai Makaisson observed sombrely, spitting a blob of phlegm down the tunnel in the direction of the trap. It had come as a surprise to Heiko when the deranged Makaisson decided to follow their group into Karak Ungor, rather than joining the murderous melee unfolding at the main gates of the skaven lair. Makaisson simply replied that he couldn’t find an honourable death until he’d seen for himself how the skaven had perverted his invention—and seen it destroyed “weel an’ proper”.

Thogri Ironbelly’s presence was a good deal less understandable, and a great deal more unnerving. The slayer hadn’t even hesitated when Heiko, Erwin and the engineers left the rest of the dwarfs to assault the main gates. Heiko recalled the slayer’s determination to find a glorious death for himself.

There were five more traps in the narrow tunnel, each containing pitfalls, iron spikes, or something that shot a stream of corrosive liquid into the tunnel. Though the engineers detected each of them in turn, after Dhurgin’s bitter end they exercised a good deal more caution in disarming them. At last, the tunnel broadened into a junction with a much larger passageway. Heiko could still see the magnificent runes carved into the massive granite blocks that formed the walls of the passage, even beneath the caked layers of dirt and filth. The stink of rancid fur and the sharp reek of rodent musk cancelled any doubt that they had reached the skaven lair—as did a gang of bloated rats that peered at him from a pile of offal with ugly boldness.

“We should split up,” one of the dwarf engineers said, after confirming there were no skaven waiting in the passageway. “Half of us head east, the others north. We’ll cover more ground that way and find where the scum are hiding Thane Orgri’s gyrocopter all the sooner.” The other engineers, even Makaisson, nodded their heads.

“What about this tunnel?” Heiko asked, pointing to a jagged fissure that looked as though it had been chewed from the rock. Makaisson shook his head.

“They dinnae tak it that way, ye kin be sure,” he proclaimed. “That wee crack inna wide enough for a gyrocopter tae pass through, an’ ah dinnae care how many pieces yer might break it intae!”

The suggestion that the skaven might disassemble the gyrocopter brought gasps of horror from the other engineers.

“I don’t care about the gyrocopter!” Heiko snapped back. “That can wait until after we’ve found Bastian!” In his anger, he deeply resented the patronising, incredulous looks on each of the dwarfs’ faces.

Erwin stepped forward, placing his hand on the former envoy’s shoulder. “Heiko, the boy is dead. There’s nothing to be gained looking for him.”

Heiko shrugged the wizard’s hand away.

“Dead or alive, the Maecklers are no concern of ours,” Makaisson spat. “They’re in the Book of Grudges, an’ we might be circumventin’ King Ironfist’s edict by comin’ here, but we ain’t gonnae break it scramblin’ ’boot these rat holes lookin’ for some honourless whelp!”

Despite the massive muscles rippling about the dwarf’s arms, Heiko found it hard to resist the urge to cave his nose in.

“Then we’ll go alone,” Heiko said. “Thank you for helping us along this far.” He took another step towards the narrow fissure, then noticed that Erwin had made no move to join him.

“I’m not going with you,” the wizard responded to the unspoken question. “There could be miles of these tunnels. Even if the skaven don’t find you, you could search forever to find him—if he’s even alive.”

“We have to try,” Heiko insisted, clenching his fist. “If Bastian’s alive, I have to find him.”

Erwin nodded his head in agreement. “Yes, Heiko, you have to find him. I don’t. I’m here to destroy these animals’ hellish plans, to destroy their hopes and ambitions as surely as they have destroyed my own.” The wizard snorted a half-hearted laugh. “Maybe save the damned Empire while I’m at it, who can say? That is what I have to do, Heiko. It’s the only thing left to me.”

“Damn you, Erwin, he could still be alive down here!” Heiko glared at the wizard, wondering how he had been so wrong in judging his character. “Can’t you set aside your selfish desire for revenge long enough to see that?”

“Set aside everything for one boy’s life?” Erwin retorted, his tongue as venomous as that of an Arabyan viper. “How many will the skaven kill if no one stops them? Tell me which of us is being selfish!”

Heiko’s face reddened beneath the wizard’s accusation, words that bit all the deeper for the truth behind them. Searching for Bastian was stupid and reckless and selfish. But Sigmar himself was not going to stand in his way.

Erwin waited in the passageway until Heiko vanished into the gloom of the fissure. “May Sigmar watch over you, Heiko Geissner,” the wizard called quietly after him.

Crittrik watched in horror as the tattooed dwarf chopped yet another slave in half with his immense axe. There was simply no way the creature could still be alive! A jezzail had put a warpstone bullet through the centre of his chest and half the savage’s face had been eaten away by a warpfire thrower! He’d seen rat-ogres drop from lesser injuries than those inflicted on the deranged dwarfs assaulting the gates of Karak Ungor.

The warlock engineer ripped the telescopic eye piece from his face and hurled it at one of the clanrat attendants. He wondered if there would still be a clamour to become one of his attendants when Gnawlitch Shun arrived. The High Warlock would probably immolate Crittrik and any skaven within twenty feet when the situation at the gates became known. Crittrik fought down the urge to vent its glands at the mere thought.

It was madness to have listened to Skaabwrath’s suggestions that the gates be opened and the challenge of the dwarfs met with open battle, rather than adhering to Gnawlitch Shun’s command that their numbers be carefully reduced by jezzail marksmen. Somehow Crittrik didn’t think the High Warlock would believe he had been ignorant of his orders.

A vast fireball exploded near the mouth of the gates, and a great cloud of liquid flame swept across the skaven that pressed toward the entrance. A warpfire thrower, Crittrik decided—perhaps malfunctioning of its own accord, or with a dwarf axe lodged in its innards. Shrieking skaven, their filthy garments and rancid fur aflame, scattered away from the explosion. Crittrik watched the dwarfs seize upon the momentary disorder, forcing their way another dozen yards into the entrance hall before the skaven fought back with their spears and held the frenzied invaders at bay.

Crittrik shook his head, nibbling his claws with his teeth. Skaabwrath wanted the dwarfs to get inside, to make it as far as the old throne room and Gnawlitch Shun’s airship. It might have been a good plan, if Crittrik thought they had any chance of pushing the slayers back once they had pressed so deep into Karak Ungor. Even at the entrance hall, where the greater numbers of the clanrats could be brought to bear, Crittrik was uncertain they could hold them back. In the much narrower corridors, where only a few skaven at a time could attack, the slaughter would be far worse.

“Listen,” Crittrik snapped at one of the attending clanrats, its armour and weapons indicating a clawleader. “Go to the pens! Tell the penmasters to release the rat-ogres! Swift-now!”

Crittrik watched the clawleader hurry away as a tiny measure of confidence returned. The rat-ogres would soon settle the dwarf problem, then Grey Seer Skaabwrath could be eliminated before he learned of Crittrik’s betrayal.

Before Skaabwrath could start telling its own stories of treachery and traitors.

The narrow tunnel scratched its way deeper into the mountain, a black fissure in the cold, ragged stone. Heiko could feel its immensity press against him on all sides, the darkness smothering his senses. The rank, humid stink of the skaven was all about him, the reek of their fur, the taint of their breath, the stench of their filth. Furtive, slinking sounds skittered along the floor, furry bodies scrabbling against his boots.

Despite the danger it posed, Heiko lit the heavy lantern the dwarf engineers had given him. The skaven did not need light to find their way through the dark, but he most certainly did. Becoming a target to any ratman who might spot his light was less disconcerting than the blackness that engulfed him.

Then Heiko saw that the floor of the tunnel was alive with scrawny brown bodies, the beady red eyes of the rats burning with the reflected light. The rodents hissed angrily, then scurried back into the cracks and burrows that marked the uneven stone walls. Heiko was unsettled by the eerily precise manner in which the vermin withdrew, more like the orderly withdrawal of an army than the confused rout of frightened animals.

Behind him, he heard the heavy footfalls of something much larger, approaching at great speed. Heiko braced himself, pulling one of the pistols the engineers had given him. Rat or skaven, whatever was coming after him was going to wish it hadn’t been so reckless.

Heiko’s finger sweated against the trigger as the steps hurried nearer. He could make out the dim outline of a squat, massive shape, something much too large to be common vermin. Or so the Stirlander hoped.

“A friend’s bullet sunk into my brain isn’t the glorious death I’m after,” a harsh voice growled.

Heiko quickly lowered the pistol, sighing with relief. He wasn’t sure why Thogri Ironbelly had followed him, but he was happy beyond belief that he had.

“Still think I can lead you to a glorious death?” Heiko asked.

Thogri’s grim face split into a grin.

“I know you can,” the slayer replied, gesturing at the lantern. “You might as well start ringing the dinner bell! I’m surprised you don’t have half the ratkin in Karak Ungor on your heels already!”

“Not all of us have eyes like a worm,” Heiko retorted. “If something intends to kill me down here, I’d at least like to see it.”

The slayer shrugged his shoulders, something Heiko took as a reassuring gesture—until he reflected that Thogri had sworn an oath to die in battle. “If the lantern offends you, do you have a better idea?”

Thogri grinned again, stepping closer and blowing out the lantern. Heiko fought down the cry of alarm in his throat as the tunnel was plunged into shadow once more. Whatever hadn’t been attracted by the light might very well pay attention to loud noises.

“I have a mind to follow the other light,” the slayer announced, extending his hand to indicate the black passageway ahead. Heiko wondered if Thogri had lost his last foothold in reality. He could just make out the dwarf’s shape sprinting into the darkness. Heiko muttered a low curse, but hastened to follow. If he wasn’t going to have light, then he damn sure was going to have company.

It was several minutes before the faint glow Thogri had detected grew to such a degree that Heiko could see it too. It was sickly green, flickering and dancing in the manner of firelight, painting the jagged stone walls of the tunnel a putrid hue. The closer they drew to its source, the hotter and more unpleasant the air grew, a chemical odour that even overpowered the stench of fur and filth. Heiko could see an opening in the side of the tunnel wall, from which the infernal light was emanating. To either side of the opening, a pair of scrawny skaven stood guard.

“Feh, I expected better,” Thogri groused, fingering his axe. “Still, it’s been nearly twenty minutes since I killed anything.” A fanatical twinkle shone in the slayer’s eye. “You keep behind me, these grobi-eaters are mine.”

Even if Heiko had been of a mind to argue, there was no time. The skaven guards turned, perhaps finally picking their scent from the cloying stench. Whatever the cause, the ratmen readied their spears, snarling and slavering in anger. Thogri replied with a blood-chilling howl of rage and launched himself down the corridor.

Heiko hurried after the dwarf, watching in amazement as he crashed into the skaven guards. One had its spear smashed into kindling by the dwarf’s axe, Thogri’s return stroke gashing the creature’s shoulder open to its collarbone. The ratman crumpled into a squealing mess on the floor until a savage kick from Thogri’s boot snapped its neck.

The other guards put up a more determined fight, cutting and stabbing at the deranged dwarf. Up close, Heiko could see just how hideous and twisted these skaven were. One had an impossible hybrid of scales and fur coating its body, another a ridge of spikes rising from the bridge of its nose and across its head, the third the oversized claw of an immense insect where its left paw should be.

The three monsters closed upon Thogri with a savagery that almost matched that of the slayer himself. Physical changes had been worked upon the ratmen that gave them a reckless ferocity Heiko never expected to see in such craven beasts. As Thogri swatted aside the spear of one mutant with his axe, the blade of another scraped along his ribs. Heiko cringed as he saw the claw-handed skaven pounce, its hideous appendage snapping greedily. In the second before the creature could close its vice-like grip upon Thogri’s throat, Heiko fired, splattering the wall with black skaven blood and brains.

Thogri snarled at the man, even as he struggled to defend himself against the two remaining guards. “This is my doom, manling!” he roared. “Come between it and me again, and you shall be next to taste my axe!” As if to punctuate his words, the blade of his weapon ripped through the arm of the scaly skaven, tearing the limb from its body.

Heiko backed away from the frenzied dwarf, and found himself in the room that the skaven had been guarding. The chemical odour was even more prominent now, its putrid glow more intense. It was a large room. Strange lanterns hung from the ceiling, green smoke billowing from their glowing innards. Iron cages littered the floor or were sunk into the walls, each of them holding such obscene horrors that Heiko felt his stomach lurch. The mutant skaven outside had been beauteous compared to that which they had been protecting.

At the centre of the room was a long table, a wild array of glass vessels and bladed instruments scattered across it. Working around the table—seemingly oblivious to the unfolding carnage—was the most degenerate representative of the skaven race Heiko had yet seen. The creature’s fur was mangy and ridden with boils and blood-bloated ticks, its face rotten, one eye bulging from its socket.

The monster’s tail lashed against the floor as it saw Heiko. The rotting jaws that fronted its face dropped open, exposing blackened fangs. “Pretty-meat, nice-nice,” the ratman cooed as though trying to win the affection of a stray puppy. It stalked toward him, a wickedly barbed knife clutched in its paw. “Skreezel no hurt-harm, pretty-meat.” The skaven’s words dripped into a lunatic chuckle that set Heiko’s hair standing on end.

“No hurt-harm much-much,” Skreezel insisted even as it lunged at the man. Heiko swung his lantern around, cracking the skaven’s skull with the heavy steel case. Skreezel toppled backward, spilling onto the floor. With the claws of his foot, he slashed at Heiko before the man could advance or retreat, gashing open his thigh. As Heiko cried out from the injury, Skreezel’s long, scaly tail wrapped about his foot and tripped the man as he tried to pull away.

The instant Heiko struck the floor, Skreezel scrambled toward him, pouncing upon his chest and knocking the breath from his body. Black blood oozed from the injury Heiko had dealt the monster, running down Skreezel’s already grotesque features. The skaven’s filthy breath washed over Heiko’s face, his drool dripping onto the man’s brow. The insane light in the monster’s ghastly eyes was like nothing he had ever seen in those of any slayer.

“No hurt-harm pretty-meat much-much,” the vile ratman insisted. The feral grin grew, the blackened teeth slick with the monster’s own blood. “Hurt-harm pretty-meat much-much-much!” Skreezel gave a chittering laugh, bringing the knife swinging around.

Heiko’s arms were pinned beneath the monster, but, in leaning forward to gloat, it presented him with an opportunity. Fighting down his revulsion, Heiko set his head cracking into Skreezel’s nose. The skaven leapt away, mewing in agony, pawing at its injured muzzle. However decayed the monster’s olfactory organs had grown, the nerve endings in its snout were still the most sensitive in its entire body.

Heiko made to follow through, taking the opportunity to regain his feet and drag his sword from its sheath. The stunned skaven spun about, claws locking on his attacker’s throat. His desperate strength belied his wasted flesh and scrawny frame. Heiko felt himself being dragged down toward the monster’s jaws.

No, not his jaws. There was a metal cauldron of yellow, steaming liquid smoking away in a corner of the room. Now the ratman was slowly, inexorably, dragging Heiko’s face toward the steaming chemical filth.

He struggled to free himself of the skaven’s grip, digging his heels into the floor. Reflexively, his own hands closed about Skreezel’s head, pushing against it even as the monster tried to pull Heiko downward. His heart thundered in his chest as he strove against its strength.

Heiko could feel the heat rising up from the steaming chemicals. Skreezel’s claws ripped the slender silver chain that he wore about his neck. Heiko watched the chain and the tiny charm of Rhya affixed to it fall down into the yellow sludge, sizzling and smoking like bacon on a hot iron. Terror welled up within him, and he redoubled his efforts. He could see the monster’s reflection grinning up at him from the bubbling acid.

He saw Skreezel’s reflection, and his own hands locked about the skaven’s head. Then Heiko twisted his right hand, slapping it against Skreezel’s skull in such a way that his forearm struck the monster’s bloated, distended eye. The skaven shrieked in agony, and for a fraction of a second its grip eased. It was all the time that Heiko needed. With a roar, he plunged the ratman’s head into the acid. The mutator’s screams were ear-piercing. Heiko jumped back as the creature leapt up from the cauldron, claws clamped desperately to its steaming face. His gorge rose as he saw flesh and fur dripping between the fiend’s paws. Still shrieking, the monster scurried away, and disappeared into the tunnels.

As Heiko sucked breath back into his starved lungs, the incongruous sound of applause echoed about the chamber. He looked up to see Thogri smiling at him from the entranceway. “That was a scrap worth watching,” the dwarf acclaimed.

“So you just stood there watching!” Heiko snarled back, trying to drag air into his lungs.

“Don’t worry,” Thogri assured him. “If the ratkin had won, I’d have avenged you.”

As Heiko stared intently at the dwarf, he wondered if Thogri was as certain as his bold words made him sound. The dwarf’s body was dark with blood, not all of it that of his foes. Heiko could see a puncture wound in Thogri’s abdomen leaking something that looked too dark to be blood alone.

“Avenge—revenge—scavenge,” groaned one of the abominations caged along the walls. “Kill and spill and roll down the hill.”

Heiko’s skin crawled at the mad cackling, not merely at the insanity of the singsong words but at the strangely familiar voice. Recovering his sword, mustering every speck of courage he had yet to spend, he moved slowly toward the cages.

“Geissner—geissnergeissnergeissner!” the voice called out, the word uttered more as a sound than as a name. Whatever called to him was locked inside a small cage fitted to the floor. It took a small eternity to realise the fur-covered shape crushed inside the tiny iron box was, at least in part, a man. He had thought he would be ready for anything when he entered Karak Ungor. He had been wrong.

The thing that had been Stefan Maeckler stared up at him with eyes of madness. Its face only remotely resembled that of the museum curator. By some abominable practice, its spine had been twisted out of shape, a long, naked tail stapled with iron sutures to its back. Its hind limbs were the crooked legs of an immense rat, and the things sewn onto the stumps of its arms were not hands. The idiot thing groaned in horror as it saw the shock and revulsion swelling Heiko’s eyes, the sounds trickling away into wracking sobs of misery and despair.

Heiko tore his eyes away from the cage and the abomination within it. If they had done this to Stefan…

“Bastian!” Heiko cried out, praying to Shallya that she might extend her mercy, that the boy had been spared the attentions of the skaven. “Bastian!” he screamed again.

“Bastian! Bastian!” the idiot thing in the cage parrotted him. There were tears rolling from its face, as the abomination waved its paws frantically to the left. Even in its degenerate madness, the creature that was once Stefan recognised its son’s name. A part of Heiko prayed that its mind was too far gone for its gestures to be anything more than meaningless antics.

Heiko looked at the cage that Stefan seemed to be indicating. He crumpled to his knees at the ghastly sight, at what only a creature as degenerate as Skreezel could have envisioned. The thing stared back at him with something that only the most imaginative could call a face. If not for the eyes, Heiko might have been able to tell himself that the creature was something else altogether. Instead, he quietly reloaded his pistol, tears falling down his own cheeks now.

“Rhya forgive me,” Heiko muttered, lifting the pistol and sending the bullet crashing between the thing’s painfully familiar eyes.

The creature that had been Stefan Maeckler cried out, rocking from side to side in its cage. Heiko turned away from the formless hulk he had killed and slowly reloaded his weapon.

“Thankyouthankyouthankyou…”

The sounds were silenced as a second shot thundered within the profane laboratory.

Heiko looked around for anything that would burn, scattering it across the floor. He tore a metal torch from the top of one of the tables. Striding away from the chamber, he rejoined Thogri. Even the dwarf seemed subdued by the intense emotion on Heiko’s face. Without a word, Heiko threw the torch into the chamber, lingering only to assure himself it would burn before helping Thogri out into the corridor. Try as he might to forget them, the shrieks of the mutated horrors locked in the cages would haunt him forever.

“Manling, I don’t know what that was all about,” Thogri said when they were in the tunnel once more. “By my ancestors, I don’t want to either.”

“Save your breath,” Heiko advised. “We’ve a long walk ahead of us if we’re going to find the vermin responsible for all of this.”

“And kill him?” Thogri asked, a hopeful note sounding through his fatigue.

“For a start,” came Heiko’s grim reply.

Grey Seer Skaabwrath crept through the tunnels of Karak Ungor, his need for haste warring with his need for caution. The myriad charms and talismans hanging around his neck and horns tinkled and clattered every time he turned his head to peer around him. The attack of the dwarfs was too great an opportunity to squander. Now Clan Skrye would pay for challenging the might of the grey seers.

It was what Gnawlitch Shun’s entire scheme amounted to a vast, insulting challenge. It had not been long ago that another grey seer, the ambitious and reckless Thanquol, had promised the Lords of Decay an airship, one that had been built by the dwarfs. Thanquol had failed to deliver upon his promise. Now Gnawlitch plotted to succeed where the grey seers had failed. For this would be no stolen wonder of another race, but a construction of the High Warlock’s own diseased genius. In one fell swoop, Gnawlitch would demonstrate the might of Clan Skryre in so grand a manner that no amount of scheming would be able to undermine it. Skaabwrath might have been impressed by the boldness of the plan was it not that the authority of the grey seers, and consequently its own power, would be diminished by it. It was why Skaabwrath had told that fool Crittrik to make certain the dwarfs made their way inside the mountain.

Of course, whichever way the wind blew, whether his scheme succeeded or not, Skaabwrath was certain that Karak Ungor was no longer the healthiest of places to be. If Gnawlitch Shun survived the attack, Skaabwrath was under no illusions about where the High Warlock would fix the blame. And if the High Warlock ended his days with dwarf gromril slashing at his fur, well, Skaabwrath had no great desire to share that fate.

The grey seer continued to scurry through the dark tunnels, huge rats scattering as he disturbed their debased hunger. There were a number of smaller exits from the old dwarf stronghold, and Skaabwrath had carefully plotted several of them in the event that a swift departure was needed from Gnawlitch’s hospitality. He snapped his jaws together, leaning on his staff for a moment as he gathered his breath. His lip curled into a snarl as a disturbingly familiar scent struck his senses. Claws tightened about the grip of his staff while, with his other hand, he tore a chunk of darkly glowing warpstone from the pouch on his belt. He had told that moron to let the dwarfs in, yes, but had expected Crittrik to at least make it look like they had tried to keep them out. Skaabwrath muttered an oath to the Horned Rat that, if neither the dwarfs nor Gnawlitch Shun settled with Crittrik, then he would squash the traitorous engineer’s life himself.

Skaabwrath pressed himself against the wall of the passageway, flattening his body against the stone. He raised the warpstone to his mouth, nibbling at it daintily, allowing its dreadful energies to slowly flow into his body and mind. He’d seen first hand what could happen when the power of warpstone was ingested too quickly, and had no intention to wind up as a puddle of twitching flesh lying on the floor.

Hushed voices slowly drifted toward Skaabwrath’s keen ears. Dwarfs, his senses confirmed, and a human. Skaabwrath’s informants hadn’t said there were any humans among the throng assaulting the gate. Perhaps a few slaves had availed themselves of the confusion generated by the attack. But no, there was the smell of steel and iron about them, far too much to be explained away by escaped slaves and captured weapons.

Skaabwrath began to move his tongue in the slopping, awkward hiss-spit of a spell. If the Horned Rat wasn’t listening, the power of the warpstone would be.

“Wait,” the high tones of a human voice whispered. “I sense something ahead.” The footsteps of the approaching dwarfs came to a halt. Skaabwrath snapped his jaws again, then leapt into the centre of the corridor, unleashing the malevolent power drawn into his body, the black energy that coruscated from his eyes and about his horns.

There were four of them, the grey seer saw in the instant before his spell momentarily obliterated his vision. Three were dwarfs in armour, unlike the tattooed berserkers that were assaulting the gate. Perhaps the savages were simply a diversion and a much greater force of dwarfs had invaded the lair from below, as the skaven had done to the orcs who originally conquered Karak Ungor. It was a troubling thought, but more troubling still was the human who stood behind the dwarfs. He did not wear armour, but wore instead a light robe of some impossibly pristine white cloth, mystical sigils woven into its fabric. Although hardly an expert on the surface peoples, Skaabwrath knew a human wizard when he saw one.

A green fog of death billowed from the grey seer’s jaws, filling the narrow corridor, spreading away from Skaabwrath as though blown from a bellows. The noxious cloud of dark sorcery engulfed the ratman’s foes. The spell was the deadliest and most virulent the grey seer knew, nothing could long survive its diseased embrace. As the cloud dissipated, Skaabwrath was pleased to see the dwarfs prone on the floor, their bodies shuddering in the last horrors of the pestilence. The human was doubled over and Skaabwrath could sense him drawing magical energy into himself.

A flash of light momentarily blinded Skaabwrath, and when his vision cleared he was dismayed to find the human standing once more, a brilliant glow surrounding his body.

“I should have expected even your wizards to be slinking cowards,” the wizard snarled at Skaabwrath, but his bold words were spoiled by the trembling fatigue in his voice, by the green tinge to his flesh. He’d driven the worst of the ratman’s magic from his body, saving himself from death, but the effort had not been without its own cost.

“Seer-man suffer-die now!” Skaabwrath spat back. His body still rippling with the power of the warpstone he had ingested, the grey seer stretched his paw forward, his fanged mouth snapping and hissing in malevolent spite. Dark energy gathered in the tips of his claws, then shot across the corridor at his foe. A bright ball of light rippled about the wizard. The bolts of death magic struck the circle of radiance and shot away, sizzling deep into the granite of the walls.

Skaabwrath snarled at his foe, furious that the wizard was not gracious enough to die quickly. It turned into chittering laughter when he saw his enemy leaning against the wall, his body shaking with the effort to remain standing. Whatever powers the human might control, it seemed that surviving Skaabwrath’s initial spell had taxed them greatly.

Once more, the grey seer summoned black energy into his outstretched paw. Once more, the wizard desperately mustered a globe of bright light to surround him. Skaabwrath lashed his tail in amusement. The human would not survive a second attack.

The amusement drained from Skaabwrath, along with the deadly power coursing through his body. The grey seer crumpled to the floor, squeaking piteously as all the strength faded from his limbs. After a moment, he found he could move once more, though his limbs felt numb and weakened. As the grey seer scrambled back to his feet, dagger in hand, he could see his enemy had likewise been struck down, even the faint glow of his white robes somehow subdued and diminished.

Before Skaabwrath could even begin to guess at what happened, the unpleasant answer emerged from the darkness of the tunnel. The unwelcome shape of Quilik shuffled into view without warning, the green amulet still lashed about his emaciated chest. But now a ghastly green light shone from it. Skaabwrath was not certain what the amulet was, but it knew it had struck down both himself and the human wizard.

Quilik stopped when he reached the prone wizard, kicking him onto his back. The engineer peered intently at the human’s face, its nose twitching as it studied his scent. “Seer-man live,” Quilik announced. “Same-same seer-man in Altdorf.”

The words froze Skaabwrath to the very core of its black soul. Altdorf? Surely this couldn’t be the same wizard the human traitor Rudolf had engaged? Even as the possibility occurred, Skaabwrath heard the words that made him feel sick.

“The same as tried to stop you in Altdorf?” the sharp voice of Gnawlitch Shun mused. The High Warlock strode nearer—accompanied by a retinue of jezzail-bearing clanrats and the ever-present shadow of Feng Fang. “The same, I think, who interfered with some of the other acquisitions.” The piercing green eyes of Gnawlitch turned upon Grey Seer Skaabwrath. “You are to be congratulated, grey seer. This man has been most meddlesome to my plans. Now he will trouble us no longer.”

Feng Fang loped forward, his cloaked body seeming to drift across the passage. He knelt beside the wizard. Skaabwrath held a breath, waiting for the bodyguard to end the wizard’s life and the threat he represented. Instead, Feng Fang pulled the sorcerer upright, snapping iron manacles about his wrists.

“He is a wizard!” Skaabwrath warned. “Much too dangerous to toy with! Kill him now!”

Gnawlitch Shun grinned back at the priest.

“This man tried to stop my apprentice in Altdorf,” the High Warlock stated. “Now I find him here, in my own lair. Rather clever for an animal, don’t you think? No, I shall keep him alive for a time. He may have some very interesting things to say if given the chance. Like why the gates to my lair have been thrown open to the dwarfs.”

Mention of the army of slayers made Skaabwrath’s heart jump, then warm with a new hope. It might not be possible to eliminate Gnawlitch Shun, but it might be possible to disrupt his plans. “I was trying to find you, warn you of the situation at the gate, when I ran into these. If enemies have penetrated so deeply into the tunnels, we must abandon the lair. Your genius is much too precious to the Lords of Decay to squander here. I know some tunnels that will take us to safety.”

Gnawlitch Shun motioned with his paw and the clanrats began to withdraw, Feng Fang following after them, the unconscious wizard tossed across his back. “I agree, this place has been compromised. We shall withdraw to my airship.”

Skaabwrath’s eyes widened with disbelief. Had the High Warlock taken leave of his senses?

“But it—it isn’t completed yet!” the grey seer protested. The gleam in Gnawlitch’s jade eyes was chilling.

“I think you will find, Grey Seer, that my project is further advanced than you think.”

CHAPTER NINE

As Heiko emerged from the granite-walled tunnel, he stepped into what had been the massive throne room of Karak Ungor. Its ceiling looming upward, to the very peak of the mountain, it seemed. Colossal columns reached up along the walls, carved with runes. More columns had once filled the centre of the chamber, creating a veritable forest of stone, but these had been broken apart, leaving only forlorn fragments hanging from the roof high overhead. Iron lanterns, each burning with the same putrid light that tainted Skreezel’s lair, illuminated every corner of the cavern.

However grandiose the chamber had been when the splendour of the dwarfs held sway, it had not been enough for the city’s current masters. The walls of the cavern had been excavated, hacked apart. The result was a chamber so vast that its dimensions staggered Heiko.

Crude scaffolds rose up from the floor, amidst a clutter of scattered tools and materials. Near one such sprawl, Heiko saw something that made his heart beat faster: the steel frame of a gyrocopter, perhaps even the very same one that had been taken from Waldenhof. He could see a clutch of the ratmen scurrying about the contraption, frenziedly working on it with strange tools. Beyond the first gyrocopter, he could see another, and beyond that still another. Heiko found his gaze drawn upwards. Awe and horror warred for mastery of his senses, as he came to understand what he was looking at.

It was gigantic, a huge cylinder of canvas with steel framing. The canvas was treated with a glossy grey substance that assumed a reptilian sheen in the green light. Heiko guessed the length to be at least five hundred feet, stretching nearly from one side of the immense hall to the other. He could see exposed gantries and catwalks circling the enormous cylinder and a ridged, fin-like tail terminating one end of the construction. Huge engines hung from the underside of the ship, a cupola of steel and iron set ahead of it. The true immensity of the craft was driven home to Heiko when he saw tiny, furry shapes scrambling about the top.

“Ah dinnae believe it!”

Heiko looked aside to see Malakai Makaisson glaring at the skaven airship. Leaving Skreezel’s chamber of horrors, Heiko had been fortunate to have Thogri with him. He might have wandered the dark tunnels for weeks without finding his way, but the slayer had been told by Makaisson which route the engineers would use to find the throne room. Despite his injuries, Thogri had remained lucid enough to guide Heiko. They rendezvoused with Makaisson and the five engineers in an old guard room only a few hundred yards from their objective, waiting a few minutes more for Erwin and his companions to arrive before deciding to proceed without him. Whatever fate had befallen him, there was no time to search.

“It is astounding,” Heiko agreed. But he had misjudged the dwarf. Makaisson smacked his fist into his palm, grinding his teeth together.

“The skaven divil has gone tae far!” Makaisson dragged one of the pistols he wore from his belt. “Look there, big man!” he snarled, gesturing with the barrel of the weapon at a series of angular characters across the canvas hull of the airship. “The thievi’ vermin has stole ma name! Them runes read Spirit of Grungni! Ratty divil cannae even spell it right!”

His fuming outburst brought worried looks from Heiko and the other engineers. There were enough chemicals and other pungent odours in the cavern to mask their scent from the skaven, but smell was not the only sense the skaven possessed. Heiko groaned as he saw the work crew scrambling about the nearest gyrocopter look in their direction. A scrawny ratman in a garish masked helmet snapped orders to its workmates. The other skaven snarled, pulling crooked swords into their claws and scurrying across the chamber in their direction.

“Good—I was getting sick of sneaking around,” Thogri wheezed. He’d lost the strength to wield the massive axe he used against Skreezel’s mutant guards, but had appropriated a pair of smaller axes from the engineers to compensate. Now he staggered toward the approaching skaven. Before he knew what he was doing, Heiko was at the slayer’s side, sword in hand.

He’d seen enough friends die, he wasn’t going to lose another.

The skaven paused at the grim aspect of their enemies, but their fragile courage was bolstered when work crews from the other gyrocopters came rushing to join them. Then they caught the scent of Thogri’s blood. The scrawny ratmen went wild with hungry anticipation, charging forward with shrill war cries.

Six of the creatures fell before they could even close with their enemies. From behind him, Heiko heard the roar and thunder of Malakai and the engineers opening fire with their pistols. The survivors squealed in terror, turning with indecent haste to flee. The masked warlock-engineer that dispatched them hissed furiously at its retreating kinsmen, then glared at the dwarfs. It produced a long-barrelled pistol of its own, lifting it to aim at Malakai. The dwarf did not hesitate, but fired again. Unlike the weapons of his companions, Malakai’s pistol had seven barrels—and seven shots. The warlock-engineer crumpled as Malakai’s shot hit him in the throat.

Heiko looked away from the dying skaven and the gyrocopter. There was a large group of ratmen stalking across the cavern toward the looming bulk of the airship. These were not the scrawny mechanics the dwarfs had so easily driven off, but hulking, black-furred brutes with armour and halberds. Smaller brown skaven clustered beside them, bearing what appeared to be long-barrelled guns. Flanked by the guards were four skaven unlike any of the others. One sickly-looking specimen was wearing a strange green amulet—the very twin of that carried by the leader of the Altdorf raiding party. The second was an evil-looking creature dressed in a tattered robe, horns curling away from his skull, a fiend Heiko recognised from his study of the Maeckler books as one of the priests of the underfolk. The third was a wiry monster in a dark cloak, moving with surprising agility considering the burden thrown across his back. With horror, Heiko recognised the robes the rat-man’s burden wore. Now he knew why they had not found Erwin.

The fourth skaven towered over its kin, black robes of silk flowing about its lean frame. Even at such distance, Heiko could feel the diabolic aura of menace and power the creature exuded. When the monster turned its eyes upon him, they were like chips of glowing jade. He had looked into the gaze of too many of the vile underfolk, seen the hate that burned within them, but here the effect was magnified a thousandfold, as though the spite and malice of the entire skaven race was infused into a single terrible vessel. But Heiko could also feel the immense intellect behind the jade eyes, a genius channelled toward a single purpose—the annihilation of everything mankind had ever achieved. This was the one: the creature they had to kill, the monster behind the chain of theft and murder that had led him here, who was likely planning such atrocities as to make all that had come before it seem as calm as a soothing spring breeze.

Gnawlitch Shun held Heiko’s gaze for one moment, like a serpent transfixing a sparrow. The High Warlock snapped orders to his minions, clapping his grey-speckled paws together. With a bestial snarl, the armoured skaven charged forward, froth dripping from their fangs, even as the musket-bearing ratmen leaned their long barrels onto oversized shields to support their unwieldy weight and provide cover for the marksmen. Gnawlitch continued on toward his airship, his motley entourage scuttling after him.

The dwarf engineers scrambled for cover, taking sanctuary behind whatever machinery they could find, hastily reloading their spent pistols or drawing new ones from their belts. Makaisson shared their caution. After he had emptied the remaining chambers of his repeating pistol, sending three of the charging stormvermin pitching to the floor, he scrambled for cover. Heiko joined the deranged slayer-engineer.

“Ah knew ah’d end like this, one day,” Malakai scowled as he pulled a small iron ball from a pouch on his belt. “But ah cannae face Grimnir an’ ma ancestors wi’ that skaven divil still running’ free an’ happy!” He put a hemp match to the still smouldering barrels of his pistol, blowing on it until the tiny puff of smoke grew into a flame. He grinned at Heiko, an expression the man had quickly learned to dread. “We’re gonna need tae kill us a mob o’ skaven tae git tae that abomination o’ his and settle it good an’ proper! Ye with me, big man?”

“He’s got Erwin,” Heiko responded. “We have to try and rescue him.”

“Ah’ll take that for an ‘aye’, then,” Malakai said, leaping from cover to cast the iron ball into the onrushing skaven guards. The lobbed missile was just beginning its downward arc when it suddenly and deafeningly exploded, sending shards of metal slicing into the ratmen. The cavern echoed with the shrill shrieks of dying skaven.

Malakai’s bomb took the impetus from the skaven assault, causing the monsters to falter. In the face of their timidity, a burly, shaven-headed shape plowed into them. Thogri slashed open verminous throats and severed rodent paws with every stroke, laughing like a madman. Fresh wounds peppered Thogri’s flesh, shrapnel from Malakai’s bomb, so near to the stormvermin had the slayer been when it had gone off. But Thogri was in a terrible place where pain no longer held any power over him, where even death itself seemed frightened to reach for him. The skaven broke before the berserker, pushing and clawing any of their comrades that stood between themselves and escape.

Heiko rose to rush to Thogri’s aid, but the powerful grip of Makaisson held him in place. With his other hand, Makaisson pointed at the skaven marksmen who had finally finished loading and aiming their cumbersome weapons. There were at least twenty of them, and each one was pointing its weapon toward Thogri.

“Thogri Ironbelly has found his doom,” Makaisson declared sombrely, a note of jealousy in his tone. Heiko shouted a warning to Thogri at the top of his voice but if the slayer heard him, he gave no indication. Thogri remained standing, hunched over and panting after his berserk assault against the stormvermin. He looked toward the jezzails, trying to decide how long it would take him to get within axe range of the creatures. Thogri straightened himself, clashing his hand-axes together above his head. Then the first warpstone bullet struck him.

Thogri fell to his knees as a hole the size of a human fist was gouged out of his shoulder. The slayer roared, struggling back to his feet. Heiko felt himself sicken at the sadistic humour of the skaven marksmen—the next shot exploded the slayer’s knee, spilling him back to the floor. Amazingly, Thogri managed to lift himself one last time. His axes having fallen from his grip, he contented himself with extending his finger at the distant jezzails. Heiko did not count the shots that followed, smacking into Thogri’s body with wet, meaty reports. If the slayer had been seeking a horrible death, then his wish had been answered.

“Murdering filth!” Heiko roared, rising from his cover to fire at the monsters. The shot fell far short of its mark. Makaisson leapt up and fired his own weapon. The dwarf fared better, his shot crunching into one of the wooden pavices that supported the jezzails. In response, warpstone bullets smacked into their cover, several of them punching through the rusted steel pipes and tin sheets that comprised the machinery.

“Weel, this dinnae look too good,” Makaisson commented needlessly. Heiko looked around to see if the other engineers were faring better, but they looked to be pinned down by the jezzails as well. The skaven could hold them at bay indefinitely, or at least long enough to bring such great numbers to bear upon them that even Malakai’s bombs would not hold them back.

Then the monstrous engines of the skaven airship roared into life like a dragon, black smoke belching upwards from the smokestacks that flanked either side of its superstructure. There was a hiss like that of a thousand serpents as enormous vents in the side spat steam and water into the cavern. Heiko watched in amazement and horror as the ship rose slowly into the air. A malignant voice croaked down from bronze horns set into the sides of the cupola beneath it, squeaking and hissing in the vile skaven language. In response to these commands, Heiko could hear the gyrocopters scattered about the cavern growling into life as their crews and pilots scrambled back. It seemed the dwarf attack had moved forward the timetable. Gnawlitch Shun’s attack would occur now—not in a week or a month, but right now.

Heiko thought of the ratmen falling on Waldenhof from the moonless sky, thought of the women and children screaming as their town burned all around them, as unspeakable monsters rained death upon them.

“We have to stop him!” Heiko screamed, firing his reloaded pistol uselessly at the airship as it rose toward the roof of the cavern. Makaisson pulled him down before a jezzail could put a bullet through his skull.

“Aye, an’ whit miracle have ye got up yer sleeve tae accomplish that?” Makaisson growled.

Now the airship was being joined by smaller vessels that looked like iron gadflies. The stolen gyrocopters would provide an escort for Gnawlitch Shun’s unholy weapon.

The cavern shook, even the ghastly green lanterns flickering fitfully in the wake of a tremendous explosion. Tons of rock rained down into the cavern, smashing wooden scaffolds into splinters and skaven bodies into paste. Charges had been set into one wall of the cavern, blasting open an immense hole in the side of the old throne room and exposing it to the night sky. The bloated airship turned slowly and made its way toward the opening.

The sound of a gyrocopter roared into life. The machine was rising slowly into the air, its blades spinning so fast they seemed nothing more than a blurred halo above it. The contraption turned about as it achieved a height of a few dozen feet, the black mouth of the cannon mounted upon its nose glaring down at Heiko. He closed his eyes against the searing death he expected to claim him, but the moment never came. When he opened his eyes again, he understood why. It was no crook-limbed skaven piloting the machine, but one of the dwarf engineers!

The jezzails had made the same mistake as Heiko, assuming the operator of the machine to be one of their own. They continued to concentrate their fire upon Heiko, Malakai and the other dwarfs, allowing the reclaimed gyrocopter to draw ever closer. Then a jet of sizzling steam rocketed from the mouth of the flying machine’s cannon, searing half a dozen of the monsters instantly.

Makaisson laughed uproariously, firing the unspent chambers of his weapon into the fleeing ratmen. His gaze swept across the cavern where several crews of skaven were frenziedly trying to get their gyrocopters flying. “Ah demanded a miracle an’ that’s just what ah got! We’ll stop this skaven divil yet, big man!” Makaisson turned and roared at the other dwarfs. “If ye dinnae like the thought o’ shavin’ yer head or ending up as a skaven’s dinner, fetch yerselfs one o’ those ’copters!”

Makaisson charged toward a gyrocopter some fifty yards away, Heiko following in his wake. The skaven work crew responded to the dwarf’s war cry by scattering in every direction. The pilot was made of sterner stuff, scrabbling for a moment at its controls, trying a last ditch effort to get the machine into the air. Makaisson leapt onto the machine, grabbed the skaven’s head and broke its neck. With a grunt of disgust, he pulled the skaven from the pilot’s seat and settled himself at the controls.

“Wrap yer arms about them landing struts,” Makaisson told Heiko. “We’re leavin’ this rat’s nest an’ we’re leavin it noo!”

Heiko just about had time to fold his arms and legs about the steel framework of the landing struts before the gyrocopter lurched into motion and rose into the air. He felt his stomach pounding against his flesh, as though trying to escape his body. He could see the floor dropping away beneath them, the skaven machinery and bodies becoming increasingly tiny. With a moan of absolute terror, Heiko screwed his eyes shut.

“Ach, big man, ye might nae want tae look down.”

It took Heiko many long minutes to convince himself that he was still alive and not damned to one of Khaine’s hells. His stomach felt as though it might explode. It continued to seize on him even after it seemed to have sent every meal he’d ever consumed spilling from his mouth. The escape from Karak Ungor had been perilous, and Heiko had been certain they would never make it. Huge blocks of stone dropped from the hole the skaven had blasted out of the side of the mountain, a deadly rain that smashed into the floor below like the fists of giants. Heiko had seen one gyrocopter struck down by the rocks, the machine exploding into a brilliant fireball that lit up the night. He prayed that it had been a skaven at its controls and not one of the other dwarfs.

Then there was the dubious skaven engineering to consider. Heiko had seen another skaven crew desperately trying to get one last gyrocopter into the air. Something had gone wrong, and steaming fuel had sprayed all over the creatures, turning the pilot and his ground crew into screaming, scurrying torches. It was not a comforting thought to think that the same minds had been at work restoring their own craft.

“Tisnae skaven work,” Makaisson laughed. “Dinnae ye recognise this one?”

Heiko had, to admit, the craft did seem strangely familiar. Then the realisation struck him—by sheer chance, they had recaptured Thane Orgri’s gyrocopter!

“Aye, it might be back with its rightful owners, but dinnae think the grudge is over! Them Haupt-Anderssens and Maecklers still owe us for their oathbreakin’ ways!”

Heiko stared back at the receding mass of Karak Ungor, the smoke plumes of skaven industry still rising from its cracked slopes. “You needn’t worry about the Maecklers,” Heiko said, in a grim voice. “Whatever they owed your people, they have paid it in full.” Surprisingly, Makaisson did not argue the point, perhaps detecting the emotion behind his words.

Clearing the rockfall caused by the explosion, the gyrocopter pilots had the opportunity to collect their wits. The sky seemed full of gyrocopters, more of them than Heiko had believed possible. They seemed to swarm about the monstrous airship like a flock of gulls circling the carcass of a whale. The skaven pilots could be seen, leather masks set across their fanged snouts, goggles covering their beady eyes. The monsters turned their heads in every direction with frantic, jerking motions, more troubled by the sky above them than the ground thousands of feet below.

“Ha!” Makaisson laughed. “Filthy divils ain’t so pleased noo, is ye? Flyin’s a bit different tae creepin’ through tunnels!”

Makaisson loudly decried the poor airmanship of the skaven pilots. But as he did so, Heiko could see one of them glaring straight at them, could almost see the jaws cracking together beneath its leather mask. The skaven pilot brought its craft around, and Heiko shuddered to see the barrel of a steam cannon. After what he had seen before, he had no desire to experience such a death at firsthand. If it came to it, he’d let go and die on the rocks below.

“Ye be daft, ye ratty cur!” Makaisson roared.

To Heiko’s horror, Makaisson powered the gyrocopter forwards, straight at the skaven pilot. For an instant the ridiculous image of a pair of Bretonnian knights closing for a joust flashed through his mind. Then he imagined little scalded bodies flopping against the floor of the old throne room.

“Tryin’ tae challenge Malakai Makaisson in the air, are ye?” They were close enough now that Heiko could see the bone buttons on the warlock-engineer’s leather coat. He could see the monster reach down to depress the mechanism that would unleash steaming death upon them.

Then they were plummeting downwards. As they dropped, Makaisson brought the gyrocopter spinning around and, with similarly unsettling haste, shot it upwards once again. Heiko could see the skaven pilot desperately trying to figure out what was happening, trying to adjust to Makaisson’s manoeuvre, but the monster was far too slow. Makaisson depressed the trigger of his own gyrocopter’s steam cannon and a jet of scalding vapour engulfed the front of the ratman’s machine. Heiko could see the scalded creature trying to leap away, its body plummeting toward the craggy slopes far below. Without a pilot to steer it, the abandoned gyrocopter wobbled about in circles as it dropped ever downward.

“They cannae think right tae fight in the sky!” Makaisson crowed. “Their minds’re still doon in them tunnels o’ theirs.”

Heiko could see three other gyrocopters swinging around towards them. The skaven might be poor aviators, but the monsters still had the strength of numbers.

The skaven gyrocopters sped forward, their operators gesticulating wildly with their paws at Makaisson. Now that they were aware of the problem, they had every intention of settling it. Two of the craft charged forward while the third hung back, bobbing up and down like a cork caught in a mountain stream. They had seen how Makaisson destroyed the first gyrocopter and did not intend for it to happen again.

One of the skaven pilots was unwilling to wait until they were within steam cannon range, dragging a pistol from its belt and firing at Makaisson. Heiko heard the bullet whizz past the dwarf’s ear. Makaisson growled an inarticulate oath, taking his machine into a climb that laid the undercarriage of the craft open to skaven marksmanship. Heiko had an unsettlingly clear view of the three skaven craft closing in upon them, the two that had been giving close pursuit plus one now executing a drastic climb of its own in an attempt to intercept Makaisson’s path.

Heiko swallowed hard as he saw the craft closing upon them. The foremost of the pair sent a jet of steam blasting in their direction, narrowly missing the gyrocopter. The other pursuer executed a hasty turn as it found itself climbing into the boiling residue of its comrade’s attack. The third skaven was now above them, moving into a downward dive. In the pilot’s seat, Makaisson smiled. He increased the speed of his craft, pushing it to its limits, and accelerated toward the skaven above them. Behind its goggles, the skaven pilot’s eyes were wide with horror.

Makaisson made a suicidal gambit that only a slayer could have conceived. It was only his preternatural reflexes that allowed it to succeed at all. In the last instant, he turned their ascent into a dive, a heartbeat before the skaven pilot sent a blast of steam at them. Because of Makaisson’s manoeuvre, the blast passed harmlessly behind, instead catching the skaven craft that had been climbing after them. The pilot was killed instantly, but the momentum of its craft was not. It continued to climb, crashing into the gyrocopter that had killed its pilot. Both machines were destroyed in the fireball born from the collision, the tangled wreckage dropping toward the earth far below like some mangled meteorite.

The last of their attackers was rapidly closing upon them. Heiko could see that the weapon mounted at the front of the gyrocopter was different from the others’ steam cannons. Makaisson saw it too, colourfully cursing and setting their craft into another sharp dive. The skaven fired its weapon, trying to catch them before they dropped too far. Green liquid flame chased them, giving off the same putrid glow as the lamps in Skreezel’s lair. The skaven had made their own insidious innovations to the dwarf machines, as the last remaining warpfire thrower testified.

Makaisson swore again as he tried to climb, only to dive down again as the skaven fired at them. The mountain slopes that had seemed so distant and tiny to Heiko were now alarmingly close. “Trust this one tae have his wits about him!” Makaisson spat. “He means tae drive us inta the side o’ the mountain if he cannae get us wie his fire!”

Heiko imagined he could hear the skaven pilot’s hissing laughter behind them. So vivid was the sound that he looked back, but it wasn’t the skaven that was hissing. Its immense fuel canister had sprung a leak, spurting burning specks of green fire from a rupture in its side. The skaven pilot was beating frantically at burning splotches that fell across its leather coat.

“This’ll put out that wee fire for ye!” Makaisson brought the gyrocopter around, then sent a blast of steam searing into the beleaguered skaven pilot. The ratman tried to react, but had lost precious seconds to its fight with the burning fuel. It was with deep satisfaction that Heiko saw the monster’s craft crash into the slopes where it had tried to force their own gyrocopter.

Makaisson accelerated the gyrocopter back towards the airship. As they drew closer, they could hear the same sharp, snarling voice booming commands to its minions from the brass horns. All of the gyrocopters had moved away from the airship, circling and swarming about the renegade craft that the other engineers had been able to secure. Heiko estimated that there were only three gyrocopters in friendly hands, beset by nearly a dozen whose pilots could only be ratmen.

“Looks tae be a might bit uneven,” Makaisson declared. “Let’s head on in there an’ make damn sure it stays that way!”

Gnawlitch Shun pulled the copper tube away, letting it drop back into its slot on the console. His followers had been given all possible guidance, the rest was in their paws. They vastly outnumbered their enemies and had the artillery of the airship to fall back upon. The High Warlock doubted if the Homed Rat itself could have given them any greater chance against the dwarfs. If they did not resolve this latest irritation quickly, it would take some time to invent an appropriate death for such colossal incompetence.

Incompetence. The word caused Gnawlitch to lash his tail against the iron floor of the control room. There was a great deal of incompetence to punish these days. Fortunately, he would not need to suffer the presence of fools now that his plan was in motion, now that it had progressed beyond the envious machinations of its rivals and enemies.

Gnawlitch Shun snapped a curt command to the crew of engineers monitoring the controls, making certain they understood all that was required of them, then turned to regard its guests.

“You dare too much, heretic!” Skaabwrath snarled. The grey seer did not seem quite so formidable now, with Quilik standing close at hand—a tiny flicker of green light seeping from the amulet strapped across its chest. The amulet was a precious item with mysterious origins, discovered by Ikit Claw. All they knew was that it was very old and very powerful. When the right words were spoken, it absorbed magical power like a fat bloodworm. It was anathema to sorcerers and wizards, negating their powers and spells as effectively as water dousing a flame. Without its sorcery, the grey seer was a pathetic, emasculated thing, like a serpent with its fangs pulled.

“Do I, Skaabwrath?” Gnawlitch retorted, stalking toward the grey seer. “If your powers truly came from the Horned Rat, I doubt that something as simple as that amulet would deny them to you.” The High Warlock let the grey seer’s frightened stink sink into its senses. It had waited long for this moment, and intended to savour it.

“The council of seers will learn of this outrage!” Skaabwrath protested, stamping its foot and lashing its tail, causing the bell affixed to it to jingle. Gnawlitch fixed its imperious gaze upon the priest.

“From who, Skaabwrath?” The High Warlock’s face opened into a savage smile, pointed fangs gleaming in the green warp-light of the control room. “Not from you, I think. You risked much to kill the seer-man. Too much.”

Skaabwrath’s eyes narrowed into sullen slits. He had walked into Gnawlitch Shun’s trap like a newborn pup. While the High Warlock was at the control room, he had ordered the wizard confined to one of the supply rooms. Skaabwrath had made straight for the makeshift brig. He had found Feng Fang and Quilik waiting, but had arrogantly assumed that magic would overcome them. He hadn’t anticipated the speed with which Quilik’s device would overpower him. With his magic drained, Feng Fang had subdued Skaabwrath easily.

“You have dared to pit your scheming mind against mine, Skaabwrath,” Gnawlitch hissed. “You never had a chance, priest. You set yourself against the tide of history, against the moment when our kind comes into its own. When the skaven become masters not merely below, but upon the earth! This ship will blast the human warren of Waldenhof into splinters, it will slaughter ever last human and avenge the long-ago treachery of the Hitzlsperger-man. Then I shall set into motion a war that will engulf the races of man and dwarf in a frenzy of mutual slaughter, weakening both and leaving them ripe for conquest. It will make me the champion of our race, a leader of such importance that the Lords of Decay themselves will whisper my name with reverence and awe! This time, I shall receive the recognition that is my due. It will not be stripped from me by envious rivals like Ikit the Claw, or scheming priests like the late Grey Seer Kripsnik. This is the hour of Gnawlitch Shun, the hour of destiny!”

“You—you are mad!” Skaabwrath spat. “You dare think you can defy the holy plan of the Horned Rat?”

Gnawlitch glared at the grey seer. “I think now I have my answer as to what happened to the stolen list. Why those items were protected by crude human sorcery.” Gnawlitch’s penetrating gaze bore into Skaabwrath’s eyes, forcing the grey seer to look away. “I have suffered your presence this long only because I anticipated using your sabotage as a rationale, should my project fail. But as you can see, despite your efforts, I have achieved my plan.”

“You would not dare kill me!” Skaabwrath protested, his voice just a little too shrill.

“Wouldn’t I?” Gnawlitch replied, with the faintest hint of amusement. “Your schemes were easy to monitor, that is why I have not had you eliminated before. I feared the Seerlord might dispatch another grey seer to replace you if you suffered an accident, one more clever and cunning than the redoubtable Skaabwrath. But I need fear the meddling of the grey seers no longer.” The High Warlock stabbed a claw at Skaabwrath’s snout, then turned and pointed to a body lying on the floor.

Erwin stared back up at the monster, barely managing to hide his own fear. The hovering figure of Feng Fang and its knife did not make it any easier.

“Once we are clear of these annoyances,” the High Warlock proclaimed, “I shall have a talk with this piece of meat. I think it may have some interesting things to tell me about the great Skaabwrath and his tireless devotion to the betterment of his people.”

“The Seerlord will have your spleen for this!” Skaabwrath snarled.

Gnawlitch Shun grinned back at him. When he spoke again, it was in a low snarl that made the grey seer flinch back. “Instead of making threats, Skaabwrath, I would turn your mind toward finding a reason why I should keep you alive.”

It had been a contest of skill against numbers. The dwarfs were all experienced pilots, every one of them trained to fly Thane Orgri’s priceless artefact from the skaven lair. The skaven, by comparison, had probably never flown more than a few dozen feet before, and that within the confines of Karak Ungor. They were incapable of diverting their attention to their three-dimensional surroundings, unable to maintain the ever-changing position of allies and foes within their savage minds. Yet, even the clumsiest flyer could still crash his craft into that of an enemy, or, by simple, luck send a jet of steam spouting into the path of a foe. The skaven had numbers enough, but chance and misfortune played their part. In the end, though, it had not been enough. Heiko watched with satisfaction as the last of the skaven-held gyrocopters fell from the sky. Only Makaisson’s craft and one other had survived the battle, but now the last obstacle between themselves and the airship had been obliterated.

“Noo it’s just a problem o’ bringing that wee monster down,” Makaisson grunted. “Hate tae say it, but ah wish we had one o’ them flame throwers o’ theirs! Unless they’ve figured some new divilry out, the gas keepin’ that hulk in the sky is flammable! One scratch an’ a bit o’ fire the whole thing’ll go up like a torch.” Makaisson seemed far too enamoured of that image for Heiko’s tastes.

“They took Erwin in that thing,” Heiko protested. “He might still be alive. I have to try to get him out.”

“An’ how do ye ken tae do that?” Makaisson scoffed. They had drawn near enough to the massive airship for Heiko to make out the figures of the skaven scrambling about its top. At once a plan emerged within his mind. A plan so bold and mad that it was worthy of a slayer.

“Get me close to the ship,” Heiko shouted, raising his voice above the wind howling all around them. “The skaven atop that thing must be able to get back inside somehow. If they can, then so can I!”

Makaisson nodded. “Aye, ah can see whit look tae be hatches. Ye might just be able tae get inside, if ye don’t slip right off the side or have the skaven open up yer innerds!” The dwarf laughed uproariously. “I like this plan o’ yers, big man! We’ll try it. An’ if ye do get inside, look around for the ballast bags. Mess with those an’ the ship’ll loose its equilibrium, it’ll roll over ’til it gets so unbalanced it smacks down intae the earth like the bloated abomination it is!”

“But first I have to try to rescue Erwin,” Heiko said again.

“Nae, ye gottae get yer priorities straight,” Makaisson retorted. “Erwin’s one man, an’ how many will this hellish ship kill if it reaches yer town?”

“Just get me onto the damn thing, Makaisson!” Heiko snapped.

The dwarf nodded, gesturing with his hands to the other surviving gyrocopter. The skaven scrambling about the top of the airship spotted them almost immediately. Heiko winced as the monsters produced a motley assortment of pistols, crossbows and cut-down jezzails. Makaisson simply gritted his teeth and accelerated the gyrocopter into the fusillade. Heiko could hear bullets pinging off the frame of the gyrocopter as the skaven fired. He recalled the effortless way the warpstone slugs from the jezzails had punched their way through the steel machinery of Karak Ungor, imagining what havoc one such round might reek upon the machine’s engine were it to slam through the outer casing.

At the fore of the airship, Heiko could see even more skaven clustered around what at first seemed like a massive, wooden potter’s wheel. A mass of netting hung beneath the platform, lashed to the steel ribs of the airship. A score of scrawny skaven slaves gripped the nets with their clawed hands, leather harnesses fastened about their bodies and connected to long chains fixed to the underside of the platform. A helmeted warlock-engineer barked orders and cracked a long whip, the slaves’ efforts turning the massive wooden platform. Heiko was puzzled by the spectacle at first, until the platform turned full circle and he could see what rested upon it. The organ gun that had been stolen from Altdorf stared back at him with its eight gaping barrels.

Makaisson noted the danger, executing a rapid turn, spraying a section of the airship’s topside with steam as he did so. The fusillade of pistol shots and crossbow bolts died away as shrieking skaven were boiled beneath the blast. Then the organ gun opened fire, the shot so close to the gyrocopter that Heiko fancied he could see it passing beneath him. Makaisson glowered at the skaven gun crew as they hurried to take aim again. Then the platform was suddenly turning once more, reacting to the approach of the second gyrocopter. This time the crew did not hold back, firing four of their weapon’s barrels simultaneously. The gyrocopter disappeared in a ball of fire as the shots smashed into it.

“Nae time tae land, big man,” Makaisson growled. “Ye gonnae have tae jump if ye still want tae do this.”

Heiko could not decide which was worse, the thought of leaping onto the airship or the fact that the organ gun platform was turning back in their direction. In the end, it was the image of Waldenhof in flames that moved him to action. For an instant, Heiko saw infinity dropping away below him, then he crashed down onto the canvas surface of the airship, knees sinking slightly into the fabric. He heard the roar of the organ gun once more. Looking back toward Makaisson, he saw the gyrocopter vanishing as it fell past the side of the airship. Heiko felt his soul sicken as he saw the skaven gun crew chittering joyously. Another comrade in arms was taken by the noxious underfolk. Another memory for him to avenge upon the green-eyed fiend whose evil mind had set such horrors in motion.

With the gyrocopter gone, the skaven gun crew directed their attention to Heiko. Several of them scrambled down from the turntable, slavering jaws snapping as they rushed across the roof of the airship towards him. Heiko did not delude himself that he had any chance against so many foes. Instead, he opened the ironbound hatch door only a few feet from where he had landed. There was an iron ladder inside, dropping down between the rat-gut air bags housed inside the airship’s frame. Heiko turned his nose at the humid stench of the airship’s innards, then dropped inside. He sealed the hatch behind him, smashing the wheel-like mechanism that served as its lock. As he began to descend the ladder, he could hear the claws of the skaven scratching against the hatch.

The interior of the airship was filled with bulging gas bags, each of them lit by some internal green light. Heiko was certain that what held the skaven vessel in the sky was not the hydrogen Makaisson had employed in his own airship, but some diabolic derivative of the tainted warpstone that was the lifeblood of their infernal race. The ladder dropped down to a wooden catwalk, a tiny piece of solid footing within the maze of gasbags. To one side of the catwalk, Heiko could see heavier sacks, massive bags of leather that roiled as the howling winds caused the airship to shudder. Makaisson had said the airship would employ some manner of ballast, something to counter the gas that held it aloft. Heiko strode toward the leather sacks, wondering if they might be what the dwarf was talking about. They seemed to stretch across the length of the airship, beads of moisture sweating across the surface of the leather.

Water. The skaven were using water as ballast in their airship. Heiko saw tubes of rat-gut and copper snaking away from the ballast bags, and wondered at the ingenuity of the monsters. Makaisson had speculated that there were tanks deep within the ship to which the water could be pumped in order to concentrate its weight and make the airship heavier, but the number of tubes and pipes branching away from the bags suggested the skaven were using it for much more. Perhaps they employed the water to cool the engines that propelled their damnable invention, creating the steam that preceded the airship’s launch? Perhaps the ballast bags even provided the skaven with drinking water while they were on board the craft? However horrible the ratmen were, Heiko had to concede that they were resourceful.

He looked around for some sort of control mechanism, something he might use to sabotage the ballast bags. He spotted a contraption of bronze and brass fitted to the side of the bag. It looked similar to the pressure valves he’d seen on Thane Orgri’s gyrocopter. As the pressure valve had controlled the release of steam in the gyrocopter’s engine, perhaps this device might govern the release of the water in the ballast bags. If he could sabotage it he could release the water, overbalance the airship, and send it crashing earthward.

Heiko froze, horrified by his own thoughts. It would be a fine thing indeed to send the skaven airship and its daemonic creators plummeting to the earth below. Never mind the niggling problem that he also happened to be on board! He’d been around the slayers too long. He was entertaining the same sort of suicidal thoughts as the deranged dwarfs. There had to be another way, one that didn’t involve him plunging thousands of feet to his death.

The image of Waldenhof in flames returned to his mind. Grimly, Heiko set his hands to the brass wheel and began to turn it. He could hear the water slowly draining from the ballast bag, flowing downward into the receiving tanks in the centre of the ship. He pulled the spent pistol from its holster and brought it crashing against the wheel, smashing it beyond repair, ensuring that no one would be able to undo what he had done. Perhaps he had been around the slayers just long enough.

A muffled snarl brought Heiko spinning around. Just in time, he dodged the murderous blow directed at the back of his neck as a skaven swung at him with a heavy wrench. It was garbed in what looked to be an apron of lead, its entire head covered in a helmet of the same material, only the beady, furious eyes remaining exposed. Heiko dodged a second swipe from the ratman’s improvised weapon, drawing his sword as he did so. The immense threat presented by the skaven was not born of martial skill in the manner of an elf, nor prodigious strength like an orc, but from their unbelievable speed. Weighed down by its protective garments, the skaven engineer had lost its most important asset. The duel was an uneven one, the creature unable to compensate for its slowed limbs as Heiko’s blade tore through its fragile armour and ripped into its unclean flesh.

Even the engineer’s death rattle was muffled by its lead mask. Heiko felt a pang of dread. Clearly, the creature had been tasked to tend the gas bags, a duty that required extreme protective measures. He wondered at the humid atmosphere within the vast interior of the airship, but decided it was best not to contemplate whatever infested the very air about him. He still had to sabotage the ballast bags on the other side of the ship.

The low murmur of the airship’s engines was the only sound Heiko heard, as he crawled along the ratwalk toward the ballast bags. Then, like the bellow of an angry storm god, the hissing voices of skaven echoed all around him. As he climbed upward he found skaven descending the ladder, having finally reopened the hatch. Looking down the ratwalk to where it made an intersection between the gas bags, Heiko saw more skaven charging toward him, having reached the airship’s interior via a different hatch.

Heiko did not wait for the monsters to reach him. So close to his goal, he urged his tired body to greater effort, lunging for the side of the ship. He found the control valve situated in almost the exact place as its opposite number. This time he did not drain the water from the bags, simply attacking the valve and destroying the mechanism, trapping the water within the leather sacks. The skaven would be unable to compensate for the water draining from the other side, or to rebalance their ship. Heiko smiled. Whatever happened now, the airship was doomed. Waldenhof was saved. He could die knowing that he had struck a dire blow against its foes.

Turning from his sabotage, Heiko saw the foremost of the skaven lunging for him with its crooked sword. The stroke missed, connecting with the gas bag behind him. The ratman gave a shrieking wail of horror as the gas vented out of the rupture and engulfed its body. The foul green vapour obliterated the monster’s fur, turning its flesh into a nauseating mass of burns and boils. The melting carcass struck the ratwalk, its filth dripping away in sizzling rivulets. Heiko backed away from the offal and the stream of noxious gas. The surviving skaven seemed to share his horror, all thoughts of killing the human abandoned in their haste to escape the death fog their fallen leader had released, scrambling over one another as they fought their way back to the ladders.

Heiko looked around for a way to make his own escape, finding it in the form of a ladder descending downwards from the ratwalk. He ran for it, kicking the lead-helmeted head he encountered on the way, sending its owner crashing back down to wherever it had come from. Heiko looked down into the room below, surprised to find that the floor where the now lifeless skaven had fallen was made of steel plate. At once he thought of the cupola hanging beneath the airship. The engines and control room would be there, as would the hideous monster that built the machine.

As would Erwin, if he was still alive. In coming so far, Heiko had exploited every favour Ranald had ever owed to him. He considered that he was already as good as dead, and could think of no nobler a manner in which to spend his final moments than trying to save his friend.

“Correct the weight, or I shall lighten this ship by removing my less intelligent servants!” Gnawlitch Shun threw the speaking tube away from him. The idiots had allowed something to happen to the ballast bags, making the airship overbalance. Already the vessel was beginning to tilt to one side. If the problem was not corrected soon, it would reach a critical state. If it tipped too far, the ship would lose its buoyancy and crash to the earth. The engineer crew were proving less than resourceful in resolving the matter, whining about a gas leak within the interior. The fools! Did they fear warp-gas poisoning more than they did a ten thousand-foot plunge to the ground?

“You, you and you!” the High Warlock snapped, pointing his clawed finger at every member of the control room crew except the pilot. “Climb up into the interior and see what is going on.” The crew rats shared nervous looks with one another, all too aware of the reports Gnawlitch had been receiving. “Do I ask twice?” their master growled. Fear overruled whatever dangers might await them and the three engineers scurried away.

“Is the great plan not proceeding as it should, mighty Gnawlitch Shun?” Skaabwrath could not resist the opportunity to sneer at his hated enemy. “When does the human city burn? When do the great skaven people begin raining death upon their enemies from the black night sky?” The grey seer’s voice cracked into tittering laughter.

Gnawlitch turned from Skaabwrath’s mockery.

“Feng Fang,” he said, distracting his bodyguard from the bound figure of Erwin von Fautz. “The ship is too heavy. Remove some of the extra weight.” Feng Fang snapped his jaws eagerly and stalked toward Skaabwrath.

“I am a grey seer! You dare not harm me!” Skaabwrath protested. The priest tried to scurry away from the bodyguard’s approach, but was not equal to Feng Fang’s agility. The bodyguard’s claws closed about Skaabwrath’s midsection. The skaven priest clawed and kicked at Feng Fang frantically as the cloaked ratman lifted him from the floor. Gnawlitch strode ahead of his bodyguard, pulling open the steel door that led from the control room to the narrow gantry that circled the cupola.

“I am marked by the Homed Rat! Chosen by our god!” Skaabwrath wailed as Feng Fang carried him to the walkway. “You can’t do this! I am a grey seer!”

Gnawlitch waved his clawed hand through the air. “You mean you were a grey seer,” he observed as Feng Fang tossed Skaabwrath over the side and into eternity. The bodyguard looked over the rail, watching for a moment as the horned priest plummeted downward.

“Feng Fang,” Gnawlitch Shun hissed, calling the cloaked bodyguard to scurry back into the control room. The High Warlock pointed a clawed finger at Erwin. “Send the grey seer’s pet to keep him company on the way down.”

Feng Fang nodded his cowled head and started to creep toward Erwin. The wizard tried to wriggle away from the advancing skaven, but his bonds made it impossible. Moments from being hurled from the airship, Erwin had to consider that perhaps he would have been better off staying in Altdorf and dealing with the witch hunters.

Suddenly the skaven’s jaw was struck by a small hammer thrown down at him from above. Feng Fang recoiled from the blow, clutching his bruised jaw and turning his furious eyes upward at the one who had attacked him.

“Back away from the wizard!” Heiko’s voice snarled. Erwin struggled to turn his head, unable to believe his ears. Yet there he was, crouched low on the maintenance gantry above the control room, a pistol in one hand and a sword in the other. In a lifetime of sorcery and magic, Erwin decided he had never seen anything so miraculous as Heiko’s appearance.

Feng Fang backed away sullenly, eyes fixed upon the barrel of Heiko’s gun. Quilik followed suit, the sickly warlock-engineer slowly shuffling towards his master. Heiko turned his weapon toward the pilot of the airship, motioning for him to step away from the controls. The skaven hesitated, casting frightened looks from the pistol to the controls, then to the towering figure of his master. Gnawlitch Shun stood in silent contemplation, hands folded across his chest, green eyes smouldering within their setting of speckled fur. Heiko met that imperious gaze and fought it back. Once he would have trembled before this creature, this nightmare horror of an insane world, but no more.

He had seen too many good men and dwarfs die because of this creature. To fear it now would shame their memories.

Heiko kept his weapon aimed at the monster as he dropped from the gantry and made his way to Erwin’s side. He set his sword on the floor and fumbled one-handedly at the leather thongs that bound the wizard’s feet. There was nothing he could do about the manacles on Erwin’s wrists, but with his legs free, at least the hierophant would be mobile. Then they could start thinking about how in hell they were going to get off the airship before it crashed.

Heiko had been lurking in the gantry for some time, watching and listening as Gnawlitch Shun and Skaabwrath engaged in their final argument. Heiko hadn’t understood much of what the ratmen said, for they spoke in their own filthy, squeaking language, but he had caught words like “Waldenhof”. Then the terrible, green-eyed skaven had ordered its horned companion thrown from the ship, a fate so callously executed that it seemed unspeakably horrible, before the cloaked bodyguard had turned toward Erwin and Heiko knew he had to act now or never.

The four skaven watched Heiko work in silence. The airship continued to lurch slowly, gradually tilting to one side as his sabotage undid its complex and fragile design. Heiko could feel their hungry, hateful gaze transfixing him. He now knew how a lamb must feel as it senses the eyes of a wolf. Then Gnawlitch Shun spoke, not in the squeaking, chittering speech of the skaven, but in coldly precise Reikspiel.

“The raconteur,” Gnawlitch said. “So it was you, not the departed Skaabwrath, who has maimed my ship.” Heiko gestured at the green-eyed skaven with his pistol, but the monster simply grinned back at him. “But it will not save your warren, raconteur! What you have done, I will undo. The attack on Waldenhof may be delayed, but it will not be stopped. Your city will burn, your people will die, because it is the will of Gnawlitch Shun!”

Heiko snarled at the gloating skaven. Without thinking, he aimed and pulled the trigger of his pistol.

With a speed beyond belief, Gnawlitch dragged Quilik between himself and Heiko’s weapon. He had goaded him into spending the precious bullet, and was quite willing to spend Quilik’s life to achieve it. The round smashed into Quilik’s decaying face, exploding a spray of black blood and rotting teeth. Gnawlitch Shun cast his dying apprentice away as though tossing aside a piece of trash. The feral grin on his inhuman face was even broader than before.

“Feng Fang!” Gnawlitch snapped. “Kill the meat!”

The cloaked skaven rushed forward, daggers in each paw. Heiko threw the spent pistol into Feng Fang’s face, momentarily stunning him. It was a brief respite, but long enough for him to recover his sword and brace himself to meet the bodyguard’s attack. The skaven ducked under the sweep of the sword, slashing upwards at the man’s vitals, tearing a shallow gash through his flesh. Heiko gasped in pain, stumbling back and gripping his wound with his free hand. Feng Fang snarled at the man with a hungry grin, the smell of blood exciting the ratman’s frenzied senses.

Before the ratman could lunge at his foe, the airship shuddered, tilting wildly to its side. Heiko struggled to retain his footing, but his injured leg crumpled beneath him, spilling him to the floor. He looked up to find his skaven foe had fared better, staying upright, retaining its balance.

Feng Fang dropped into a bestial crouch, shifting his grip on the knives to thrust them downward into his defenceless enemy. Heiko tried to scramble away, but knew his efforts were too little to save him.

Feng Fang cried out in pain as heavy iron manacles smashed into the back of his skull. The skaven doubled over, paws clutching at his injury. Erwin stood behind the stunned monster, fists clenched together, the short chain linking the manacles around his hands forming a crude but brutal bludgeon. The vile Quilik might be dead, but the fell energies of his amulet were still sapping the wizard’s strength, preventing him from drawing upon the winds of magic. Erwin felt feeble, powerless, like a blinded man groping about uselessly in the dark. Even gripped by such debilitating fear, he hadn’t been able to sit idly by and watch as the skaven butchered his friend.

Before Erwin could raise his arms to deliver a second blow to the cloaked skaven, the ratman slashed him with a crescent-bladed knife. Erwin screamed in agony as the knife scraped across his forearm, opening it to the bone. The wizard hugged his mangled limb to his chest, reeling away from Feng Fang. As he did so, the airship lurched, tossing him about like a rag doll, slamming him into the steel wall of the control room.

Erwin felt bright red pain in his chest as he pulled away from the wall. He cast his eyes downward, finding the breast of his tunic slathered in gore. As the breath shrivelled in his failing lungs, the wizard noted that the airship’s roll had thrown him towards the other skaven. There was a ripple-bladed dagger clutched in Gnawlitch’s paw, which seemed to sweat fell green filth from its dark edge—at least where it was not coated in the wizard’s blood. The poison did its work quickly. Erwin’s eyes were still fixed upon the dread figure of Gnawlitch Shun as his corpse crashed to the floor.

Heiko saw his friend expire. A roar of pure animal rage burst from some black corner of his soul. He no longer seemed to feel his injuries as he picked himself from the floor and lunged at the green-eyed monster. Gnawlitch glared back at him, disdainful of the threat. Before the man could reach the High Warlock, a furry body crashed into his side, its wiry arms wrapping around his midsection and dragging him to the floor. Heiko tried to smash the hilt of his sword into Feng Fang’s injured head, but the monster hugged his body too closely. Then the Stirlander screamed as the skaven’s vile fangs chomped down upon his shoulder, worrying the flesh and sinew.

Gnawlitch Shun took a step towards the melee, a weeping dagger clenched in its fist. Then the airship shuddered and the High Warlock clutched at the wall for support. Chittering voices filled the control room, strangely tinny and distorted as they emerged from the bronze horns set into the walls. Gnawlitch’s eyes blazed with hate and fury.

“Fools!” he raged, snarling into the speaking tube that carried his voice to every corner of the ship.

“Restore the equilibrium! Restore the ship’s balance!” All that answered his snarled demands were more craven words about escaped warp-gas and damaged control valves. Gnawlitch grabbed the leather coat of the engineer pilot that cringed at its side, throwing it toward the master controls of the airship.

“The cowards! The scum!” he hissed. Gnawlitch stabbed a finger at the controls as the ship began to roll again. “Release the gas! We must land the ship before its own weight drags it down!”

The pilot’s paws raced across the controls, but its eyes were locked on the gauges and meters set into the stolen steamship mechanisms. Finally the warlock-engineer gave a pathetic cry and turned back to its master. “It’s no use, High Warlock,” the pilot squeaked. “We can’t vent the gas fast enough! We’ll never get low enough to land before the ballast tips us over!”

Gnawlitch snarled, pushing the terrified pilot out of its way. Its slender hands flew across the control consol, trying desperately to undo the damage worked upon his ship by Heiko’s sabotage.

The vessel lurched, tilting it to an almost forty five-degree angle. Loose crates and tools rolled across the floor, the corpses of Quilik and Erwin sagging against the steel walls. Gnawlitch Shun heard Feng Fang squeal in terror, the first time he had ever uttered such a sound. But the High Warlock’s attention was tied to the survival of its airship.

The airship rolled as Heiko and Feng Fang struggled on the floor of the control room. It was tilted to such a degree that they began to slide across it. Heiko’s skaven foe was the first to appreciate their hideous situation, his beady eyes going wide as they focused on the open door and the slender walkway from which he had recently ejected Skaabwrath. The ratman scratched at the steel floor, trying desperately to find some purchase in the unyielding steel. Heiko found himself sliding inexorably toward the yawning mouth of the doorway, the snowy slopes of the mountain visible far below. Unable to arrest his own downward motion, he spitefully grabbed Feng Fang’s leg, pulling the skaven after him. If he was destined to end his life splattered across a mountain, he wasn’t going alone.

Feng Fang struggled to free himself, but even his frantic strength was not enough to match Heiko’s grip and the terrible pull of gravity. The ratman gave an ear-splitting wail as his tenuous hold was broken. The man and the skaven smashed into the iron railing that bordered the walkway, but neither was swift enough to find a handhold.

A strange sense of peace settled over Heiko as he fell away into infinity, watching the crippled airship speeding away as he plummeted down. He had fought his inhuman enemies to the very last, refusing to give up in the face of impossible odds. He had struck a mortal blow upon his enemy, for Heiko knew the airship was beyond saving now. He had vowed to make the skaven pay for all the misery they unleashed, and it was a vow he had kept. What more could any man ask of the gods than that?

The warm peacefulness vanished as he crashed into something hard, something that knocked the wind from him and rattled his bones yet gave way beneath him, snapping as he struck it. The limb of a tree, Heiko realised, as he smacked into another and still another. In trying to save his ship, Gnawlitch Shun must have been reducing altitude all along, bringing it much closer to the mountain slopes than Heiko had realised. His body continued to crash through the snow-covered branches, each jarring impact slowing his descent. At last he smacked into the snowy ground, sinking deep into its soft, icy embrace. He smiled as he sucked down a frosty breath. He was broken, battered and bleeding, but he was alive. Even if for only a few moments more. It was a grace he would never have dared hope for.

Heiko shifted his head, looking at the dark object lying in the snow a few yards away. Feng Fang had crashed into the trees too, but had fared much more badly. A jagged spike of wood, the splintered end of a broken branch, transfixed the skaven’s torso. The gods of darkness rarely wasted their efforts preserving their creatures.

Heiko returned his gaze to the sky overhead. He could see the airship, great clouds of glowing green gas spilling from its sides as Gnawlitch Shun tried to vent the gas in time to reduce his craft’s altitude. He could see the ship rolling as the displaced ballast eroded its equilibrium. He fancied he could even see tiny shapes leaping from the stricken vessel. Bits and pieces of the ship were breaking apart, the turntable and the organ gun torn free from their mounting, smashing into the mountain hundreds of feet below. The iron-railed walkway snapped as the airship was twisted and distorted by its own weight. Smokestacks tore free, plummeting downward like gigantic spear-shafts. Something black and bat-like fell away from the underside of the ship, sinking away into the mountain forests.

Then the ship rolled onto its side and tore itself completely apart, the steel ribbing slashing open the canvas skin. Bloated rat-gut bags drifted away from the torn shell, floating across the sky like ghastly balloons. A red glow appeared within the rear of the ship, where Makaisson had said the engines were most likely housed. It was a faint flicker at first, but it swelled into a great conflagration that turned night into noon and consumed the broken remains of the airship in fire. When its blazing brilliance subsided, all that remained was a twisted carcass smouldering upon the side of the mountain.

Heiko sagged back into the snow, his body shuddering as shock and trauma ravaged his broken frame. He’d lived long enough to see the airship’s destruction. That was long enough. Morr could have him now.

As darkness began to cloud Heiko’s vision, a familiar sound caused him to turn his head once more. From out of the night sky a gyrocopter was descending, the silver moonlight transforming its steel frame into something wondrous. Heiko watched with a cool detachment as the craft came nearer, not even trying to see if it was a dwarf or a skaven who piloted the machine. He heard the craft land in the snowfield behind him, then the footsteps of its pilot making his way through the snow towards where he lay.

Before his vision faded completely into blackness, Heiko saw a familiar face grinning down at him.

“Damn fine doom ye cheated yerself o’ there, big man. Joost like the tall folk, dinnae ken when tae just lie down an’ die!”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

American author Bruno Lee is an experienced author of genre fiction,

with a number of short stories and fantasy novels credited to various pen names.

He lives in Arizona.

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