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 ISA LAND OF GREAT MOUNTAINS, MIGHTY RIVERS, DARK FORESTS AND VAST CITIES. AND FROM HIS THRONE IN ALTDORF REIGNS THE EMPEROR KARL FRANZ, SACRED DESCENDANT 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 WORLDS 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 NEARER, THE EMPIRE NEEDS HEROES LIKE NEVER BEFORE.

INTRODUCTION

It has been many years since Gotrek Gurnisson, the most – or perhaps least – successful Trollslayer in the Warhammer World, first teamed up with Felix Jaeger, poet and student agitator. Many tales have been told of the pair’s adventures, which have spanned decades and crossed the world, from the darkest caverns beneath the Worlds Edge Mountains to the Chaos-corrupted lands of the distant north and the baking deserts and mysterious jungles of the far south.

Many strange myths and legends surround the pair. Some are true, and are recounted in the series of novels and short stories available from Black Library. Others, however, are tales told around campfires of the duo appearing in unlikely places at unusual times, tales of heroic battles against impossible odds. Three such stories are presented here, taken from Warhammer supplements of old.

Don’t spend time trying to work out where these stories fall into the timeline of the duo’s adventures – they don’t! They are possibilities, echoes of other realities where things went differently and the path walked by Gotrek and Felix was different from the one we know. They are truly myths and legends.

Enjoy them.

DEATH AND GLORY!

William King

‘Repent! This is your last night on earth! The end of the world is coming,’ the flagellant cried.

Felix Jaeger cursed the dark destiny that had dragged him into these terrible events. He should be at home in his father’s mansion, not listening to the ranting of some deranged maniac on the eve of what must surely be the one of the largest battles in the Empire’s history. This was no place for an aspiring poet.

Why did he have to be here? And where was Gotrek? The last time he had seen him the Trollslayer had been wandering off to booze with his fellow outcast dwarfs. What bad luck – they spend six days in the mountains hunting for trolls and when they return they find the Imperial army camped outside the walls of Hauptmansburg and all able-bodied men called to serve. All Felix had wanted was a decent meal and a comfortable bed, not a pitched battle with the hordes of orcdom.

‘Cast off your worldly goods! Dispose of your chattels! They will profit you not! The end is coming!’ the flagellant ranted.

Felix inspected the zealot with some distaste. The flickering firelight revealed an appearance that was most disturbing. His scrawny body was naked except for a loincloth and the tattered remains of a jerkin. Old scars criss-crossed his chest and legs. Fresh red blood dripped from a weal on his shoulders. Festering open sores marred his face and abdomen. Mad blue eyes glared out from his starved fanatic’s face. In one bony hand he clutched an oak club driven through with rusty nails. Some of the puncture marks on his body were obviously self-inflicted.

‘Easy for you to say, father. You don’t have a copper pfennig to your name! Me – I’m well paid to fight,’ shouted Eusebio. His fine linen shirt lent an air of truth to his words. Felix had seen noblemen less well-dressed than the foppish young Tilean mercenary.

‘Too well paid,’ called Sergeant Lothar to loud laughter from the gathering crowd. ‘All you have to do is stand back and fire your crossbow at those green-skinned devils. It’s we halberdiers who’ll have to get to grips with them. Doubtless while our noble lords and masters stand back and applaud themselves for winning yet another battle.’

Eusebio gave an eloquent shrug. Obviously he thought that if Lothar wanted to risk his life in the press of the melee then more fool him.

‘Aye, laugh!’ thundered the flagellant. ‘Laugh while ye can. Smile as skulls smile! Tomorrow the grave yawns for you all!’

Felix shuddered and drew his tattered red cloak tighter about his body although it wasn’t cold. The hundreds of blazing campfires and the press of thousands of bodies kept the night chill at bay. All around the soldiers fell silent. They were a superstitious lot and tomorrow they would be fighting for their lives. The fanatic’s words held a harsh core of truth. Sensing that he had the attention of the warriors the flagellant pulled himself up to his full height. He pointed an accusing finger at Eusebio.

‘You, Tilean! You’re so proud of your appearance! How will that fine shirt look tomorrow all rent and stained with blood? Better to look like me. Prepare your body for the wounds of the morrow.’

Eusebio made the sign of the hammer across his chest like a peasant warding off the evil eye. The Tilean had obviously been in the Empire long enough to look to its patron deity, Sigmar of the Hammer, for protection. There was some muttering among the crowd now. An archer with the guttural accent of a native of Reikwald forest agreed with the fanatic. Felix heard a Stirlander Greatsword say that such words would bring ill-luck. The Stirlander fingered the hilt of his mighty blade meaningfully. A less religious or a more sane man than the fanatic would have shut up. That blade was almost as tall as Felix, and Felix was a tall man.

The flagellant warmed to his theme. A grinning young pistolier pulled faces behind his back and gestured to his fellows to indicate that the zealot was mad.

‘From the north, Chaos comes. The minions of the four Great Powers ride forth, clad in black and bronze. In their left hand is fire. In their right hand is the sword. Darkness is behind them. Destruction to the fore. Their castles are built of skulls! Their garments are woven from the flayed skins of women! They will trample the cities of men beneath iron-shod hooves. In the woods lurk beasts that walk like men. They gather now that the last days are near.’

He looked directly at Morrslieb, the lesser moon. ‘They have allies. Men who have sold their souls to the darkness. Mutants and foul creatures tainted by warpstone in their blood. Fat merchants who seek the meaningless trappings of power and wealth!’

There was a commotion at the edge of the crowd. Felix could see a man in the shining armour and plumed helmet of a Reiksguard knight. He had come all the way from the silk pavilions of the nobility to investigate the disturbance. Sweat stood out on the flagellant’s brow now. His eyes were glazed. A fine trickle of drool leaked from the corner of his mouth. His hands shook. Felix was reminded of a man in the grip of a terminal fever.

‘From the mountains of the east come the orcish hordes: green-skinned savages with the hearts of beasts and the fury of madmen. They will cast down the kingdoms of men and dwell in the ruins before the last day dawns and Chaos swallows the world. Tomorrow you will face them. Tomorrow Morr will reach out for you with his bony claw.’

‘You there, that’s enough of that talk!’ The powerful voice of the Reiksguard cut through the babble. ‘Tomorrow we will face the orcish scum and will triumph, as men have done since the time of Sigmar!’

The fanatic stared at the knight. He looked as if he were about to argue but then he shrugged. ‘There are none so blind as those who will not see!’

He stalked off towards the camp’s edge where a huge band of his brothers waited. The crowd parted round him and no one would meet his gaze.

‘The rest of you get some sleep. You have to fight a battle tomorrow. The Empire needs you all well rested!’

The crowd dispersed. Felix threw himself down next to the nearest fire, and pulled his cloak tight about him. The frenzied wailing of the flagellants echoed through the night. Even as Felix drifted into sleep he thought it an evil omen.

With a clatter of armour the Knights Panther rode past. Felix stepped from the road and let them go by. Only a fool would have stood in the way of those massive armoured men on their mighty metal-clad steeds. From the helmtop of one knight the eyeless head of a great cat stared sightlessly toward the battlefield.

‘You there! What are you doing wandering about like a dazed half-wit. Get to your company!’

Felix looked around. A burly man with the bull-head insignia of Ostland on his shield was bellowing and gesturing furiously with his spear. It took Felix a moment to realise that the man was talking to him. He was tempted to tell the man to go to hell but he squared his shoulders and marched purposefully on, determined to find the troll slayer before the battle began. He was bound by his oath to record the slayer’s doom in an epic poem so he felt he should at least be present to witness the conflict.

He walked to the brow of the hill near the Imperial guns. Everywhere artillery men and siege engineers were busy. A captain of cannon leaned on the barrel of his weapon measuring ranges and consulting a small book of charts. Muscular gunners, stripped to the waist, hastily piled cannonballs beside their massive cast-iron weapons. Small sweating lads puffed on firepots to keep them alight.

From this vantage point the entire field of battle was visible. In the distance Felix could see the green horde, a vast seething mass of scrawny hunchback goblin infantry and bellowing orcs. Great trolls loomed over the press of bodies. He saw the long skirmish line of wolf riders in the van of the enemy army. The blood-chilling howl of those giant beasts sent shivers down Felix’s spine. He had faced wolf riders before and it had not been a pleasant experience. On the far right flank orcs strained to pull back the arms of huge, crude catapults. Near them, strung out along a low narrow ridge, was a unit of orc crossbowmen. There were far too many greenskins to count.

Felix had heard dark rumours of the size of the orc horde. If anything, these had been an underestimation. The Imperial force was seriously outnumbered.

The soldiers of the Emperor were ranged between two small hills. On the the hill where Felix stood were two great cannon. On the other hilltop was the dread Helblaster volley gun and a third cannon. Both hills were protected by a screen of missile troops. On the slope below Felix were the Tilean crossbowmen. Eusebio turned and gave Felix a cheerful wave.

Reikland archers protected the volley gun. To the left, at the foot of the hill, was the great frenzied warband of the flagellants. They howled and lashed each other. Felix didn’t know whether the sound scared the enemy but it certainly frightened him.

Between the two hills lay the main body of the Imperial troops. They were laid out in a checkerboard pattern. The forward troops alternated between units of cavalry and units of infantry. Felix saw the Knights Panther take up position beside a block of Reiksguard foot knights. The Knights of the White Wolf brandished their great two-handed hammers and exchanged cheery insults with the Middenheim halberdiers. Behind them were spearmen from the provinces, the dark red tunics of Carroburg contrasting with the black tabards of Nuln. In front of the whole army was a long skirmish line of Kislevite horse archers.

Felix saw the proud figure of the young Emperor Karl-Franz himself. He had just finished addressing the troops of the centre. He leapt into the saddle of his pegasus, Northwind, and took to the sky in a sweep of white wings. A great roar of acclaim rose from the Imperial troops as his steed carried him cloudwards.

With a loud clanking of tracks and chuffing of pistons a steam tank rolled into position in the Imperial centre. The air vibrated with the thrum of its engine. The acrid smell of its smoke filled Felix’s nostrils.

The troops parted to let the steam tank through. Its massive armoured bulk was an awesome sight. Felix had heard of these products of the Imperial School of Engineering but he had never seen one. Thinking that the cheer he had heard was for him the tank commander doffed his plumed hat in recognition of this tribute. A wave of catcalls was the soldier’s response.

Suddenly the Imperial army was silenced. From out of the orc ranks something huge emerged. With a flap of leathery pinions it pulled itself into the sky. Felix saw that it was a wyvern, and on its back was a huge orc. He tried to estimate the span of the creature’s wings but gave up. It was huge. The wyvern opened its draconic maw and let out a huge bellow. A hush fell on the Imperial soldiery. Every man present felt terror in his heart.

‘Send that big lizard over here!’ roared a voice that Felix recognised. ‘I haven’t had breakfast yet.’

Felix turned to look back down the hill. A group of dwarfs limped wearily up the slope. They looked a forbidding bunch; all had huge crests of dyed hair, all were covered in strange, intricate tattoos and all brandished mighty battle axes and warhammers. They were marked as members of the cult of slayers, that strange band of doomed brethren sworn to seek death in battle. Their leader was an enormously muscular dwarf with one eye covered by a great black patch. It was he who shouted at the wyvern rider.

‘That’s Gotrek Gurnisson.’ Felix heard one of the gunners say. ‘He’s a nutter. I saw him drink a whole keg of ale last night.’

As if in answer to Gotrek’s challenge, the wyvern roared again. Its bestial call rolled over the battlefield. Once more the Imperial force fell silent.

‘Come down here and say that,’ shouted Gotrek. The flagellants let out a mighty wail.

‘And you lot shut up,’ bellowed the troll slayer. ‘Can’t you see Snorri Nosebiter here has a hangover?’

If the flagellants heard the dwarf they chose to ignore him. In the distance the Orc army had begun to move.

‘Morning, manling,’ said Gotrek as the dwarfs made it to the crest of the hill. He took a deep breath and grinned to reveal his missing teeth. As he always did when the prospect of carnage beckoned he appeared obscenely cheerful. ‘Looks like a good day for it.’

‘For what?’ Felix asked. He was obscurely relieved to see the troll slayer. He wasn’t sure why. There was nothing reassuring about a demented dwarf with a big axe.

‘For dying.’ Gotrek pointed a powerful stubby finger at the advancing horde. He looked like a child given a particularly good present on a high feast day. ‘Look Snorri, Trolls!’

The Slayer beside Gotrek shook his head and nodded blearily. Were those three studs really driven into his forehead, Felix wondered?

‘Snorri thinks you’re right, Gotrek,’ said Snorri, and he gestured towards the trolls with his huge warhammer. ‘Snorri thinks we should go and have a word with them.’

The dwarfs raced down the hill as fast as their short legs would carry them. Briefly Felix debated with himself as to whether he should follow. Then he heard the howl of dismay from the gunners. From the corner of his eye he caught sight of something huge hurtling towards him. He threw himself flat. The air was displaced by an enormous mass and the sudden breeze rippled his hair. The ground shook with a tremendous impact. Looking around Felix saw a massive boulder that hadn’t been there moments before. Two legs protruded from beneath it. Blood splattered the stone and a trickle of red leaked from below the giant rock.

The howling of the flagellants increased in volume, competing with the distant bestial grunting of the orcs. If Felix hadn’t known better he would have sworn the greenskins were counting down. That couldn’t be it... no orc could count past three.

Suddenly the orcs stopped chanting. The arm of the great catapult sprang forward. Another huge boulder arced towards the hill. Felix watched it come in. There was an appalling feeling of helplessness about the whole situation. He wanted to run and take cover but he had no idea what direction to run in. Perhaps if he moved he would simply position himself under the path of the boulder, like the poor devil behind him.

There were audible gasps of relief as the boulder swept on over the hill. Seeing the orcs hastening to reload their machines, Felix risked a glance at the battlefield. A horde of goblin archers had moved forward. They were small, stunted creatures garbed in black. Night goblins! He had heard dire rumours of their noxious drug-induced frenzies and the dread fanatic cultists they produced. The goblin archers opened fire but their missiles fell far short of the jeering Imperial line. The giant wolves loped forward easily despite the weight of the riders on their backs. Disciplined ranks of huge orc warriors marched forwards. The impression of an invincible host was only spoiled by the fact that two units in the rear had stopped to shout insults and catcalls at each other. Three huge trolls loomed over the squabble and watched the fracas with baffled bemusement.

What was that over there? Surely it couldn’t be! It was. Felix shuddered. Way off on the left he could see a huge spider scuttle forward. On its back was a gibbering goblin shaman. The goblin mage brandished a staff of bone around which played a glowing nimbus of light. The shaman pointed the staff at the hill on which Felix stood and the hair on the nape of Felix’s neck stood on end. He felt a strange tingling on his skin. No, he thought. Not vile sorcery too. He was going to die.

Before anything more could happen Felix heard the sound of a spell being recited nearby. A tall man in a grey cloak raised his hands and made a short chopping gesture with the flat of his hand. The surge of mystical energy around him subsided as quickly as it had come into being.

With a roar the Imperial army surged forward. Kislevite horse archers raced towards the night goblins. Slightly behind them trotted the Knights Panther and the White Wolves. The steam tank rumbled toward the enemy, juddering slightly on the uneven ground. With disciplined precision the formations of halberdiers and spearmen marched forward ready to close any gaps in the Imperial line. The proud banner of the Empire fluttered right in the middle of the force.

‘Quickly, silence those catapults,’ shouted the captain of artillery. The ground shook and a great cloud of black smoke billowed forth. The air within Felix’s lungs seemed to vibrate and the sound of the blast temporarily deafened him. The whistle of a cannon shot filled the air. The ground near the orc chukkas erupted. Clods of dirt were thrown twenty feet into the air.

‘Not a bad shot, commander of the second cannon. But this is how it’s done. Hans – alter the angle to the right by two degrees!’

‘Two degrees right. Yes, sir.’ After the sweating gunners had heaved the cannon round the captain took a lighted taper from the boy with the firepot and touched it to the fuse. The fuse fizzed and sputtered and then went out.

‘Yes, that’s the way it’s done alright. Brilliant,’ said the first gun’s commander.

On the far hill the cannon roared. Smoke billowed down and obscured the Tileans from sight. In the distance a catapult flew to pieces, timbers splintered by the impact. Felix saw the orc who had been loading the thing hurled into the air as the arm was suddenly unleashed.

‘Good shot,’ said one of the gunners nonchalantly. The archers and the crossbowmen opened fire. A hail of arrows and bolts rained down on the foe. Orcs fell clutching wooden stalks that had suddenly sprouted in their chests like obscene plants. The air shimmered now as spell and counterspell flickered between the two armies. A hail of iron bolts leapt from the brow of the grey-cloaked mage and pierced several wolf riders, the rest fell back towards their own line while their leaders frantically tried to rally them.

A giant boulder landed in the middle of the Knights Panther. Two brave men died instantly. The knights’ banner was snapped like a twig. The hideous whickering of broken-backed horses filled the air. The rest of the knights continued stalwartly forward towards the jeering orcs and goblins. A shattering wave of crossbow bolts fell onto them from the orcs. One rider went down with an arrow through the eyeslit of his helm. With a bolt through its chest, one of the steeds rolled over, trapping another rider beneath its thrashing bulk. Foam spewing from its mouth, the terrified last steed fled the battlefield, taking its rider with it.

The Kislevites raced forward at the night goblins. From the midst of the black-garbed mob three figures emerged, whirling frantically. They all carried great ball and chains. Swiftly their whirling achieved near unstoppable momentum and the weight of the balls dragged them towards the horse archers.

The riders frantically stopped short, horses rearing as they tried to avoid whirling steel doom. Two fanatics ploughed by them but one made it right into the middle of the cavalry. The great ball wreaked terrible havoc. Blood and brains splattered everywhere. Men and horses fell, bones shattered and flesh pulped. Felix averted his eyes from the destruction.

The cannons spoke once more. This time their shots tore right through the second stone thrower, smashing it utterly. The gunners cheered excitedly. The captain of the first gun punched his fist into the air in triumph. Felix felt a little like cheering himself, he was so relieved at the prospect of not having rocks fall on his head.

The remaining Kislevites raced across their front to the enemy line. More fanatics were tempted forth by the easy targets presented. Felix watched two of the whirling maniacs collide. Their chains became hopelessly intertwined as the wrecking balls hurtled around in an ever decreasing spiral till they smashed their hapless bearers between them.

From the right there was a crash as the volley gun essayed an experimental shot. Even at this long range it cut a bloody swathe in the green line. The crossbowmen fired again, killing two of the fanatics. At this range that was good shooting. A cloud of arrows disposed of the remainder.

‘For Sigmar and Karl-Franz!’ The warcry went up from the Imperial line. The orcs chanted their bestial battle cries. A howling green wave broke on the steel wall of the Imperial line. A swirling melee erupted covering nearly half a league of ground.

Felix’s keen eyes scanned the battlefield, looking for Gotrek. There! He could just see the frenzied dwarfs cutting a path of bloody ruin through the goblins towards the trolls. Gotrek’s great axe rose then fell in a bloody arc destroying everything in its path. He was causing barely less havoc than the steam tank as it rolled forward, crushing everything in its way. Around the tank men and greenskin clashed in furious conflict. The White Wolves surged into a band of bellowing orcs, sending them fleeing in utter confusion.

Having silenced the enemy artillery the cannons were now free to wreak havoc on the rear of the enemy formations. Looking down into the howling maelstrom of conflict Felix was glad of his safe position on the hill. Down there the casualties were horrendous. Many of those who were not killed outright would die later from their wounds. Many more would live on in the half-life of the terribly maimed. Down there he could see spearmen and halberdiers breast to breast with steel-thewed orcs. In the tight press of bodies there was barely room to swing a weapon. Many would die beneath the trampling feet of their comrades as the melee swept backwards and forwards.

Felix congratulated himself on the fact that for once he was in the right place at the right time. For once he had avoided the brutal hand-to-hand fighting. With the enemy stone throwers gone he was safe and in a position to observe the fighting. Now all that was needed was for the Imperial army to carry the day. Well, the cannons could see to that now.

Suddenly a wail of terror went up from the nearby gunners. Felix followed the pointing hand of the gun-captain. In the sky a small dot was swiftly expanding as it descended towards them. It was the wyvern! By Sigmar, no! This couldn’t be happening.

With a snap the wyvern opened its mighty pinions, slowing its meteoric descent. All around the gunners turned to flee in abject fear. The grey-clad wizard looked up and began to chant a spell. He was too late. The thing descended on him crushing the mage beneath its ponderous bulk.

Too numb to move, Felix stood frozen on the spot. It grew suddenly cold as the wyvern loomed over him. He stood in the titanic shadow of those leathery wings. The musty leathery smell of the beast filled his nostrils. The creature’s long scaly neck snaked round and a head nearly as large as a man looked down on Felix. He stared upward into cold reptilian eyes. The creature gave its croaking roar and its snarl revealed teeth as large as daggers.

By Sigmar, the thing was big. As it reared upright it was nearly five times as tall as Felix. It lashed a tail as thick as a battering ram. The whip-like crack was as loud as a musket going off. Poison dripped from the barbed stinger. As the droplets touched the ground the grass blackened and died. A long tongue, glistening with mucous, flickered out and Felix flinched.

Enthroned on the monster’s back was the largest orc Felix had ever seen, obviously the general of this warhost. In his left hand he held a scimitar that probably weighed as much as Felix. In his right he brandished a bizarre daemon-headed staff. He glared down at Felix with yellow hate-filled eyes. Felix knew he was going to die.

Swift as a thunderbolt the wyvern’s head snapped forward. Mighty jaws gaped. A blast of stinking breath seared Felix’s face. Instinctively he leapt backward and the jaws snapped closed right in front of his face. He was reminded of a beartrap closing. Felix turned, filled with an urge to put something big between him and the monster. Swiftly he vaulted the cannon, feeling the thing’s cold breath on his neck with every step. Now he turned at bay, knowing there was no way he could out run the monster. It was too late for that. In a futile gesture of pointless bravado, he drew his sword, determined to at least go down fighting.

A sweep of the wyvern’s giant claw knocked the cannon over. Felix barely had time to spring clear. He fell back into a defensive posture as his fencing masters had once taught him. It was a reflex drilled into him by long hours of practice.

‘Now you die!’ grunted the orcish chieftain in bad Reikspiel.

‘Come down here and say that,’ shouted Felix with more bravery than he felt. The wyvern’s jaws gaped. Now, thought Felix. One good thrust and he could ram his blade right down the wyvern’s throat, maybe punch up through the soft inside of the jaw into the thing’s tiny brain. The beast’s death-throes would probably kill him but what else was there for him to do? He was going to die anyway.

Everything seemed to slow down. He felt everything with utter clarity, sensed his own movements with utter precision. In the distance he could hear the cries of the embattled and the screams of the dying. The smells of blood and gunpowder and fear filled his nostrils. Cold sweat ran down his back. Any second now the thing would strike, and, like a dying scorpion stinging, Felix would strike back.

A shadow fell on the wyvern. Mighty pinions beat the air. A white thunderbolt fell. A golden-armoured warrior struck. A titanic hammer swung in an irresistible arc. The head of the orc general was knocked clean off his shoulders. The wyvern turned, whining. A green fountain of blood spurted from the orc’s neck and the body toppled forward from its throne. With its rider’s weight gone, the wyvern bellowed once and leapt into the sky, free to seek out its mountain home.

Felix found himself facing the Emperor Karl-Franz over the corpse of the orc general. The Emperor opened his visor and gazed down on Felix with keen, far seeing eyes.

‘That was the bravest thing I’ve ever seen,’ said the Emperor.

‘It was nothing,’ said Felix, then reaction swept through him and he fainted clean away.

The huge red sun set over the battlefield. By its ruddy light the scene was like a picture of hell. Mauled bodies lay everywhere. Imperial soldiers heaped the corpses of dead Orcs on great pyres for burning. The cries of the wounded and the dying drifted up like the pleas of damned souls. The frenzied howling of the flagellants mocked any pretence of victory. Felix passed a dying man who begged him for water. Not having any, Felix averted his eyes and walked on.

He found Gotrek on the cold hillside. The troll slayer was tamping down the last clods of earth on a gravesite. He didn’t look up as Felix approached, seemingly lost in his own inhuman and bitter thoughts.

‘Evening, manling,’ Gotrek muttered. He leaned forward on the handle of the spade and turned his head to survey the scene of the carnage. Suddenly he looked very old and very tired. He gestured to the grave with his broad right hand.

‘Snorri Nosebiter lies there. He killed three trolls.’ The Slayer laughed bitterly. ‘The last one fell on him.’

‘I met the Emperor Karl-Franz today. He saved me from the wyvern. I thought I was going to die.’

In the distance the steam tank hauled the bodies of the barded horses from the field. Sparks flared from its chimneys, and glittered like fireflies in the gathering darkness.

‘We’re all going to die, manling. It’s the manner of our going that’s important.’

‘We won, Gotrek. The White Wolves broke the savage orcs. The cannons smashed those big goblin units. Even those flagellants played their part by taking the gobbos in the flank. Or so Eusebio told me.’

Felix flushed. He had already decided not to mention the embarrassing fact of his fainting in front of Karl-Franz.

‘Another great victory over the forces of evil,’ Gotrek said mockingly. He shook his head. The golden chain that ran from his nose to his ear jingled. ‘By Grungni, even when we win, we lose. There is no end of orcs and Chaos warriors and other enemies. One day they will sweep through the Kingdom of Dwarfs and the Empire of Men and all will end in blood and darkness.’

‘You’re beginning to sound like a flagellant,’ said Felix. He was still alive when he had expected to be dead. He found it hard to share the dwarf’s gloomy thoughts. ‘We won here. We turned back the orc army. The Empire is saved.’

‘For now, manling. For now.’

LORD OF UNDEATH

William King

I really don’t like the look of this place,’ whined Felix Jaeger, surveying his surroundings warily. He cast a glance towards the distant gateway just to make sure that the portcullis had not come crashing down. The whole place reminded him of a set from one of Detlef Sierck’s horror plays. No, the young scholar corrected himself, this castle was probably the prototype for all of those settings.

Evil gargoyles leered from every corner of the ancient building. Tall chill towers loomed overhead. As the blood-red Sylvanian sun sank behind the massive walls an aura of fear settled over the place. The smell of mould and rot filled the air. Blood and evil seemed to have seeped into every crumbling stone of the lichen-crusted walls. Felix started as a huge rat scuttled across the courtyard and disappeared into the ruins of the ancient stables.

‘Small ponies they have here,’ muttered his companion, running a massive fist through his enormous crest of dyed red hair. Felix turned and looked down at the dwarf. He was glad Gotrek was there. Although a full head shorter than Felix, he was nearly twice as heavy and all that weight was muscle. The sight of the monstrous axe the Dwarf held so casually in one hand was even more reassuring.

‘It was a rat, Gotrek. A rat. I hate rats,’ said Felix, throwing his tattered red cloak back over his shoulder to leave his sword arm free. It was true. He did hate rats. He had hated the pestilential things ever since his encounter with the skaven in the sewers below Nuln.

‘It was a joke, manling,’ muttered the trollslayer, surveying the grim remains of the keep with his one good eye. Felix looked around nervously. Perhaps the dwarf could make jokes here but he could not. He was scared. All his life he had heard tales of the von Carsteins, the infamous Vampire Counts of Sylvania, and now he was standing amid the ruins of their ancestral home.

How did I ever get here, he asked himself? Why did that damned innkeeper have to mention the rumours that a necromancer was laired up here to Gotrek. Why did the trollslayer feel it was incumbent on the two of them to investigate? He felt like telling the dwarf that he could take a death wish too far. He knew the slayer had sworn a mighty oath to seek death in battle but it was all too possible that against a necromancer he would not find mere death but an eternity of ghastly servitude as an animated corpse. Just the thought of it made Felix want to flee screaming from the keep.

‘What was that noise, manling?’

‘Probably my teeth chattering.’

‘I’m serious!’ Felix looked warily at the dwarf. He knew the dwarf’s ears were keener than his. If Gotrek said he’d heard something then something was there.

‘Probably the rats,’ suggested Felix without much hope.

‘Bloody big rats,’ muttered the dwarf. Felix wished he had not mentioned the word ‘bloody’ so loudly. It brought to mind the infamous thirst for human blood that the vampire counts were said to have suffered from.

‘Look,’ said Gotrek, ‘a trail!’

Felix followed the dwarf’s stubby pointing finger. He could see that there were indeed tracks in the mud of the courtyard. It looked as if something heavy had been dragged across the ground here. They backtracked to the point of origin and found a huge black coach like those used by undertakers back in Felix’s home city of Altdorf. Nowhere was there a sign of any horses.

‘Must be the coach the villagers were talking about,’ grunted Gotrek.

‘Surely not,’ said Felix with nervous irony.

‘I think we’d better look inside the keep.’

‘Oh good,’ said Felix, with no enthusiasm whatsoever.

Inside the keep all was quiet. They stood in the great hall and surveyed their surroundings. Mouldering hangings covered the chill walls. From over a huge empty fireplace an enormous portrait of a tall and elegantly clad man, garbed in finery centuries out of fashion, glared down at them. Felix walked over to the fireplace and rubbed the dust from the brass plate at the bottom of the picture. It read: Mannfred von Carstein, Count of all Sylvania.

Felix looked up at the picture. The count was a handsome man but there was something feral and predatory about his features. His skin was pale and the painter had tinted his eyes with just the hint of red. On his fingers was a great ring with a ruby set among black bat wings.

‘Mannfred von Carstein,’ said Felix.

‘My father fought against him at Hel Fenn,’ said Gotrek.

‘Your father?’ spluttered Felix. ‘But Hel Fenn was nearly three hundred years ago...’

‘So?’

Felix shrugged. Dwarfs were long-lived and their concept of time was not the same as men’s.

‘Aye,’ said Gotrek. ‘Often he would tell us of that dreadful day when the sun hid its face from the slaughter and the armies of dwarf and man pitted themselves against the Lords of Undeath.’

The dwarf looked lost in thought. His coarse and brutal features relaxed into an expression that was almost gentle. His enormous axe was held negligently in one hand. When he spoke he seemed to be remembering another’s words and recounting them word for word from memory.

‘It was an overcast day. The sky was black with storm clouds. The sun’s light was dim and watery. In the gathering gloom a great host of yellow-boned skeletons grinned and champed their teeth, and brandished their notched and rusty weapons. Zombies marched forward in rotting ranks – balefires glowing in their putrefying eyeballs. Their flesh was blotched with rot. Great patches of skin had peeled away and flapped in the breeze revealing hearts that did not beat, and veins through which no blood flowed. Overhead, ghastly birds flapped like daemon ravens descending on the battlefields of hell. In the centre of the host were the last of the Vampire aristocrats, their skin white and smooth as porcelain. Their eyes were red with unnatural thirst.’

‘It was a long fight and a hard one that day. For the men were filled with fear at the sight of the walking dead, and the horses of their cavalry panicked at the ghastly smell of the advancing enemies. As the two forces clashed only the dwarfs held their ground and it seemed that they might be overwhelmed by the sea of undead foes. Then the Elector Count of Stirland rallied his force and returned to face the vampire count. In the centre of the field they clashed and for a while it seemed that Mannfred might prevail but the elector’s runefang bit deep and the vampire turned and fled, to be lost on the edge of Hel Fenn. The body was never found.’

Gotrek shook himself from his reverie. ‘Often I have wished for a chance to measure myself against the princes of the undead, as my father did,’ said Gotrek.

Personally Felix hoped that he would never get the chance.

They pushed on down the stairwell towards the dungeons. From up ahead they heard the sound of chanting in some foreign tongue. After a moment Felix recognised the harsh and guttural cadences of Arabic, although the intonation was much different from that used by the merchants who had once visited his father’s warehouses. Only one word was familiar from the whole long litany. It was a name his parents had used to frighten him into silence when he was a child. It was the name of the infamous Liche Lord Nagash.

Gotrek too must have understood the significance, for he flinched then smiled broadly, revealing his missing teeth. He ran his thumb along the edge of his axe blade until a bead of bright red blood appeared. Under the circumstances the sight of it made Felix shudder. He hoped there was nothing nearby that might be drawn to the sight of it.

The voice chanting the incantation was high-pitched and cracked and made Felix think of the mad beggars he had often seen ranting on the cobbled streets of Altdorf. The ones who always claimed that the end of the world was coming and that it was time to repent.

They pushed on into the crypts and the chanting slowly stopped, dying away into an ominous eerie silence. Felix could almost feel the currents of Dark Magic in the air. It was like having icy fingers scrape his skin.

Now the voice had started to speak again. ‘Soon, master, soon,’ it shrieked. ‘Soon you will return to spread fear and reverence among the citizens of the Empire. Soon the cattle who call themselves men will grovel in the dust before thee. Soon all will know that you walk the woods of Sylvania once more.’

The tone of the voice changed once more. ‘They said I was mad, you know. They said it could never be done. For years I trawled my nets through the murk of Hel Fenn. Everyone said it couldn’t be done, that it shouldn’t be done, but I succeeded. I found HIS body. I will prove them wrong girl. With your virgin blood I will bring Mannfred von Carstein back to unlife and all will tremble at my genius. I, Hermann Schtillman, will have performed the mightiest act of necromancy of the age.’

‘Please, let me go,’ a girl’s voice said. ‘I promise I won’t tell anyone.’

‘True. You most certainly won’t. You will, unfortunately, be dead.’

Gotrek growled with barely suppressed fury. Felix’s hand found his sword hilt. The sound of the girl’s tears drove back his forebodings. He looked at the dwarf. Gotrek nodded. Weapons ready they charged into the room. When Felix saw what was waiting he wished they hadn’t.

The crypt was huge. A shivering girl was chained against one clammy wall. Her lithe form was a stark contrast to that of the skeletons who dangled from the chains about her. Before her stood a tall, thin man with a shaven head and vulpine features. In one hand he clutched a black-bladed knife with a small brass skull at its pommel. This he wiped against the breast of his none-too-clean black robe. On the floor in front of him was a pile of mouldering bones to which clung the hardened remains of mud and traces of swamp reed. All this was ominous enough but it was what stood around the edges of the chamber the grabbed Felix’s attention and made him freeze with fear.

Ten huge grey corpses stood there, each clutching an enormous rusting weapon. As Felix and Gotrek entered their eyes opened and luminous witchfires gazed out. Teeth were visible through their ragged cheeks and bones protruded from their flaking skin. The stench of corruption and decay was near overwhelming.

‘Stop!’ shrieked the necromancer. Gotrek paid him no heed. With surprising speed for one so short and muscular, he bounded across the room, axe held high. The zombies shuffled forward to intercept him like obscene puppets in a hellish play. Gotrek’s axe flickered and one giant fell, decapitated. Then the axe struck again and sheared away the right arm of another. A third stroke crunched through rotten ribs as if they were matchwood. A fourth blow narrowly missed and smashed into the stone floor of the crypt sending blue sparks flying into the air. Red runes blazed along the blade of Gotrek’s axe, as if in response to the presence of evil magic.

Felix forced himself forward into the fray and found himself face to face with a mighty shuffling zombie. The sight of worms burrowing through its rotting eyes and the sound of the air wheezing through the thing’s decomposing chest combined with its charnel reek to make him feel physically sick. He barely managed to raise his blade in time to parry its sweeping blow. He could hardly bring himself to strike out. His blade burrowed deep into the clammy flesh and his second stroke chopped off a slimy hand. Droplets of pus that once might have been blood splashed his face. It took all his willpower to keep his mind concentrated on his foes and not to stop and wipe his face.

The necromancer recovered from his surprise and began to chant aloud. Cold fear played up and down Felix’s spine as a nimbus of dark power crackled round Schtillman’s head and hands and then lashed out to touch the skeletons on the wall. The girl screamed as lights flickered on in the gaping skulls’ sockets. The chains fell away from the skeletons’ limbs as they pulled themselves upright and leapt into battle.

If Gotrek was disturbed by this he gave no sign. He kept chopping away at everything within reach. The axe flashed out, describing a great figure of eight and four zombies fell, cut to pieces by the thunderous power of his blows. Foam dripped from the slayer’s lips, his beard bristled and he howled with the insane lust for battle. Recovering slightly from his fear Felix lashed out with his own blade, taking out another zombie.

His stomach lurched as he slipped on a puddle of pus on the slimy floor. He fell on his back, barely managing to keep his head from striking the stone floor. His heart raced as he saw two more animated corpses lumber towards him, weapons held high. Sticky filth covered his hand as he rolled to one side, barely dodging in time, as blows that would have reduced him to bloody pulp almost connected. The necromancer continued to chant and more and more skeletons threw off their chains and staggered forward, pausing only to pick up their fallen comrades’ weapons.

Gotrek’s roars mingled with the girl’s screams and the magician’s chanting. The noise echoed round the crypt threatening to deafen Felix. He forced himself to concentrate and continue to fight.

Gotrek laughed and gibbered and threw himself forward towards the horrified magician. Two skeletons tried to grab him as if at some unspoken command. The Trollslayer’s cable-like sinews swelled as he threw them off and brought his axe down in an irresistible arc, nearly cleaving the evil sorcerer in two with the force of his blow.

Instantly the zombies dropped to the floor like men pole-axed. The skeletons disintegrated in a clattering shower of bones. Gratefully Felix pulled himself to his feet. Gotrek stomped over to the girl. His axe flashed twice and her chains fell to the floor, severed cleanly by two blows. Felix moved forward and barely managed to catch the girl as she toppled floorward. The way he felt he wished there was someone to catch him. Then he felt the girl stiffen against him and let out a little gasp.

‘Look,’ she whispered. ‘Sigmar save us.’

Felix turned to see what she was looking at. At first he saw nothing but then the awful details of what was happening became clear.

A trickle of bright red blood flowed from the necromancer’s mangled body. It touched the pile of bones in the centre of the floor. As it did so the blood bubbled and evaporated into a fine red steam. A cloud of the stuff swiftly spread to cover the bones. Through a red haze Felix watched what happened next.

First all the dirt and mud and reeds evaporated from the bones leaving the skeleton gleaming white. Felix noticed that its skull had two very long and pronounced canine teeth. Next, layers of muscle and sinew congealed out of the mist and wrapped themselves round the bones. Veins burrowed their way through the clay-like flesh. Red eyeballs sprouted in the sockets of the skull. Great cables of sinew writhed like snakes as they formed.

The three stood transfixed as they watched this bizarre resurrection. Not even Gotrek seemed capable of movement. He watched in fascination as white flesh enveloped the man-like form and glossy black hair erupted from its scalp. It dawned on Felix’s shocked brain that what he had just witnessed was like watching the decomposition of a corpse only at great speed and in reverse. Slowly the pale creature rose to its feet and smiled at them revealing long white teeth.

Felix recognised the thing at once although his stunned mind refused to accept what he was seeing. ‘Mannfred von Carstein,’ he breathed.

‘True,’ said the vampire count in a low well-modulated voice. ‘And I thank you for your part in my resurrection. It was not quite what Herr Schtillman intended I think, but nonetheless the results are satisfactory.’

‘Undead scum, prepare to die,’ said Gotrek.

The vampire gestured with one long claw-like hand and Gotrek froze on the spot. Veins bulged in his forehead. Great muscles swelled on his chest and arms. He looked as if he were struggling in the grip of an invisible giant. The only sign of this contest was a look of strain on the vampire count’s face.

‘No, slayer,’ he said. ‘I would be foolish indeed to face such an axe as yours in my newly reborn state. I think I shall forgo the pleasure of humbling you till another evening. For the moment farewell.’

With a mighty roar Gotrek threw himself forward, overcoming his invisible bonds. Even as the slayer sprang the vampire shimmered and his form came apart in a cloud of black mist. Gotrek’s axe cleaved through the fog and Felix thought he heard a slight cry of pain. Droplets of blood congealed on the edge of the axe. Then with faintest trace of mocking laughter the cloud slithered up the stairs and was gone.

Gotrek bounded after it, howling oaths and curses. Felix turned to look at the girl. He took off his cloak and draped it round her shivering form. She looked stunned.

‘Are you all right?’ he asked. The girl nodded. After a moment she said. ‘He was rather handsome. The count, I mean.’

Felix groaned and headed for the stairs. The sooner they got out of this accursed place, the happier he would be.

THE LOST KINSMEN

William King

The old dwarf was dying, slowly and in great pain. Felix Jaeger looked at the torn and mangled creature and at the trail of blood, which vanished up the rocky pathway. He tried to guess what it had taken to drive those broken limbs over the rough ground. It must have taken a superhuman effort of will. Felix knew he could not have done it. He would have given up and died.

‘Avenge me, strangers. Do not let me die in vain,’ gasped the dwarf. Felix could see blood dribbling through his smashed teeth. He reached out to grasp at Felix’s leg with the stumps of fingers that had been cauterised in naked flame. Felix looked at the burned meat and fought down an urge to be sick.

‘Who has done this, brother?’ asked Gotrek Gurnisson in a voice as cold as the north wind. His shadow fell across the dying dwarf. It looked up at Gotrek’s crest of red-dyed hair, his jangling ornaments, his muscular tattooed form.

‘The lost kinsmen did it, Trollslayer. They found us as we panned for gold under Rushing Falls. They took us by surprise and staked us out and tortured us. Then they let me go.’

The dying dwarf’s breath came in painful gasps and there was a horrible gurgling sound deep in his chest.

‘I tried to get help. I tried, but I cannot walk. They have broken my legs. I am too late to go and get help and they knew it. Ah, my family…’

Felix could see that the dwarf was raving, trying desperately to hold onto life, to tell his tale. Gotrek Gurnisson bent and cradled his head with surprising gentleness. The dwarf reached up and stretched out his hand imploringly.

‘It was the lost kinsmen. They were responsible. Avenge me, stranger. Free them. It was the lost kinsm… uurhgh!’

His mouth filled with blood and his eyes opened wide. Gotrek laid his head down gently and reached out and closed his eyes.

‘It is over. Go to your ancestors, brother. Your spirit is free,’ he said.

The Trollslayer stood up and Felix shuddered at the look of fury that passed over his face.

‘Rest easy,’ Gotrek said. ‘You will be avenged.’

They made their way through the long, windswept pass. Felix pulled his cloak tighter against the dry cold. The northern tip of the Worlds Edge Mountains was the coldest place he had ever been. Gotrek was staring upslope towards the north. A great brooding rage seemed to be driving him onward.

‘The lost kinsmen,’ he muttered and shook his head.

‘Who are they?’ Felix asked warily. Gotrek turned and stared at him. Felix could see his knuckles had gone white where they gripped his axe. The Trollslayer spat on the ground.

‘Don’t ask!’ he said dangerously.

‘I just did,’ Felix responded. ‘If I’m going to risk my life fighting them I want to know why I’m doing it. Who are they and why do you hate them so?’

Gotrek was silent for a long time. Felix wondered whether the dwarf was going to speak or whether he was going to curse him and send him on his way.

‘I do not hate them,’ said Gotrek eventually. A complex mixture of emotions was evident in his voice: sadness, embarrassment and hate. ‘I hate what made them. I hate what they tell me about myself.’

Felix looked down at him, confused. As they progressed on up the valley, Gotrek continued to speak.

‘Long have we dwarfs stood against the Old Dark Powers. From the Dawn Ages to the Time of Ending we have ever been numbered among their greatest foes, and for good reason. It seemed that we were immune to the warping power that is Chaos’s greatest strength. No children were born in the dwarf holds who bore the taint of mutation. Our armies did not turn into shambling horrors when the tide of Chaos flowed over them.’

He looked up at the distant mountain. ‘We thought ourselves immune to the power of the Great Mutator. It was a source of pride. Other races, such as short-lived men or treacherous, sybaritic elves, might fall under its sway, but not us.’

Gotrek laughed bitterly. ‘As with so much else that gave us pride, our seeming immunity played us false. During the last great incursion of Chaos, some of our armies were caught in warp storms more fierce than any ever remembered. They vanished and we thought them dead.’

Felix knew what was coming. ‘They weren’t dead, though,’ he said.

‘Correct, manling. Soon we heard reports of black-clad dwarfs marching out of the Wastes. When we sent armies to aid our allies we discovered it was true. The full power of the Great Mutator had been laid upon our armies and they had changed. Our warriors found themselves fighting their own kinsmen, changed and daemonic. You cannot imagine what a horror that is for a dwarf, manling.’

The Trollslayer fell once more into brooding silence. They stalked on into the gathering gloom. Far, far to the north, Felix made out the dancing rainbow aurora that marked the beginnings of the Chaos Wastes.

With a final blow Felix cut down his opponent. There was a surprising look of gratitude on the creature’s face. The first thing that Felix had noticed when he confronted them was the look of sheer misery on their faces.

The last screams of the dying faded. Felix looked up from the corpse of the albino dwarf he had slain. His arm was giving him pain. He tore a strip from his cloak and began to bind the deep cut. He looked over at Gotrek.

The Trollslayer looked as if he had been working in an abattoir. He was covered in blood and filth. A lot of the blood was his own. His crest was matted. At his feet lay six small, dead figures.

Gotrek came over and stood beside Felix.

‘We were lucky,’ Felix said, ‘to catch them revelling with stolen brandy.’

The dwarf nodded. It had been a close fight. The dwarfs seemed driven by self-loathing and had fought with no concern for their lives.

‘We have freed them,’ said Gotrek.

‘What do you mean?’ asked Felix.

Gotrek gestured down at the dead Chaos dwarf. Felix could see that a change was coming over it. Its sharp tusks were retracting and its needle-like teeth had become normal once more. Its pallor had ceased to be sickly white. It was starting to look like an ordinary dwarf.

‘Their spirits fight against the grip of the Mutator. In death they are sometimes set free.’

There was a hint of pride in his voice. He bent over and closed the dwarf’s eyes.

‘It is over. Go to your ancestors, brother. Your spirit is free,’ the Trollslayer said gently.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

WILLIAM KING is the author of the Tyrion & Teclis trilogy and the Macharian Crusade, as well as the much-loved Gotrek & Felix series and the Space Wolf novels. His short stories have appeared in many magazines and compilations, including White Dwarf and Inferno!. Bill was born in Stranraer, Scotland, in 1959 and currently lives in Prague.

A BLACK LIBRARY PUBLICATION

‘Death and Glory!’ previously published in Gotrek & Felix: The First Omnibus

‘Lord of Undeath’ previously published in Gotrek & Felix: The Second Omnibus

‘The Lost Kinsmen’ previously published in The Lost and the Damned

This edition published in 2013 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd., Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK

Cover illustration by Winona Nelson.

Map by Nuala Kinrade.

© Games Workshop Limited 2013. All rights reserved.

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ISBN 978-1-78251-132-8

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Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Warhammer

Map

Introduction

Death and Glory!

Lord of Undeath

The Lost Kinsmen

About the Author

Legal

eBook license

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Warhammer

Map

Introduction

Death and Glory!

Lord of Undeath

The Lost Kinsmen

About the Author

Legal

eBook license

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Warhammer

Map

Introduction

Death and Glory!

Lord of Undeath

The Lost Kinsmen

About the Author

Legal

eBook license