PLAGUE PRIEST
C.L. Werner

A LITTLE WOODEN shrine stood just outside the clay-walled farmhut. Devoted to the nature spirits whose caprices could inflict such hardship upon the Reikland's virgaters, the altarlike assemblage of logs was festooned with a bizarre array of offerings to appease the malignant forces. The cracked beaks of crows and shrikes were lined across the surface of the shrine, flanked by a stone bowl of barley and a bunch of wheat stalks. The withered paw of a fox, killed while stealing chickens, was tied to the narrow upright suspended above the shrine. A human finger, cut from the hand of a vagabond trespasser, was lashed to the top of the shrine, pointing upwards into the sky and the ancient gods of wind and storm.
Beady black eyes watched from the shadows beneath the shrine as two men began removing heavy sacks of grain from a barn. The watcher stifled a little chitter of amusement as the men loaded their burden into an ox-cart. The smell of sweat and toil rolled off the brawny serfs, mixing with the scent of their oxen and the fug of the farm's other animals.
Another smell, a more subtle smell, went unnoticed by the serfs. It was more important than any of the other smells, because it was the smell of death. The reek arose from the sacks of grain the men handled.
Right beneath their noses and the fools couldn't even smell it!
Skritsch lashed his long naked tail through the dirt, a feeling of withering contempt flaring through his brain. Humans were such contemptible creatures - blind, odious things without the wit of a flea! Their vision, their hearing, these were feeble enough, but their sense of smell was practically nonexistent! They couldn't even recognise their own scent, much less that of another creature! Truly these weak, pathetic things endured only through the sufferance of the Horned One!
As the men finished their labours, Skritsch scurried from his refuge. Had either of the men turned about in that moment, he would have observed the grotesque sight of an enormous rat-like creature dressed in filthy black rags scrambling on all fours across the muddy ground as it darted for the shelter of a pigsty. They might have noted the rusty blade tied to the monster's waist with a cord of ratgut or observed the malignant intelligence gleaming in its black eyes. Old fables of the underfolk, the inhuman inhabitants who dwelt in the eternal darkness of the underworld, might have occurred to them and sent them fleeing in horror.
But Skritsch was too cunning to be seen, moving only when he was certain the men would not notice him. The skaven thrived upon the ignorance of men, exploiting their anonymity to steal and scavenge off the prosperity of mankind. Weapons, clothing, food and slaves, all of these the hapless humans provided their secret neighbours. In their foolishness they blamed the thefts and abductions on bandits and wolves and ghosts of every stripe, little guessing the true cause of their misfortunes.
Skritsch dove to the wicker wall of the sty, squirming his body through a narrow opening. The ratman dropped into the muck of the pen, whipping around to fix his attention back upon the serfs. He kept an ear cocked, listening to the agitated swine squealing about his intrusion into their enclosure. If the animals became too noisy, he would silence them with a quick jab of the pronged dagger he carried. The blade was poisoned and the swine would succumb almost instantly. When the stupid man-things investigated, they'd see the forked cut of the dagger and think that a viper had struck.
He didn't think the men would bother about the noisy swine, however. They were much too busy trying to get their grain loaded. Skritsch could tell from their posture and scent that they were anxious and stressed. He had observed the serfs often enough to know the cause. Their packleader, the human who owned them and their land, was demanding his tribute a bit earlier this season than usual. Skritsch had seen what happened when serfs were slow responding to their master's demands.
The skaven's eyes glistened with an evil light. The serfs would soon have new masters to slave for.
That is, if any of them survived.

SKRITSCH WAITED UNTIL the ox-cart left the little farm before scurrying from the pigsty, satisfied that the deadly cargo was on its way to the man-master's manor. The humans would unwittingly bear their own doom straight into the heart of the village.
The skaven's mouth watered at the idea of an entire village decimated by the vicious weapon the ratmen had loosed upon them, a weapon that would strike them down with all the cruelty and malignance of the Horned One himself. The man-things would learn their place. The skaven would teach them.
Keeping to the shadows, slinking from wall to tree, crawling under bushes and hedges, Skritsch followed the ox-cart along the path into the village. At every step, the ratman stifled a squeak of malicious laughter. Everything was going according to plan. He had a moment of fright when the cart drew close to the timber wall which surrounded the village. The guard-men came marching out from the gatehouse, scowling at the serfs, irritated by this interruption of their idleness. They challenged the farmers, bullying them with a petty savagery that Skritsch knew only too well. Sometimes it was frightening how skavenlike some human mannerisms could be.
The real moment of concern came when the guards began poking and prodding the sacks of grain with the butts of their spears. Skritsch held his breath as he watched the sackcloth tear and tiny trickles of grain come running out. If the men looked too closely at the bags, if they noticed that the skaven had substituted their own crop for that grown by the serfs…
No, the moment passed. The guards didn't discover anything unusual and they turned away. Skritsch gnashed his fangs in excitement as he saw the spearmen wave the cart through the gate.
Springing from his hiding place, the skaven scurried around the edge of the wall, making a wide circle to avoid the grotesquely carved scare-masks lashed to the timbers to frighten away wolves and evil spirits. His clawed hands closed about a post that had been set unevenly on the southern boundary of the village. In the twitch of a whisker, the ratman shimmied up the timber and dropped down into a turnip patch on the other side. He pressed his body close to the earth, lifting only his nose as he inspected the smells of the village, his ears straining for any sound that might indicate that his entry had been observed.
Satisfied that his presence was still unknown, Skritsch scurried to the nearest of the village's clay-walled hovels. Selecting the closest corner, he sprang at the building, climbing up its side as nimbly as he had the timber wall.
He was more careful creeping across the thatch roof. Experience had taught him how treacherous and fragile such constructions were. If he would succeed in his task, then he couldn't afford any accidents.
And he had to succeed. Skritsch didn't like to think about what Warlord Nashqik might do to him if he failed. His glands clenched as another thought came to him. Perhaps it wasn't Nashqik he had to worry about. The ratman bruxed his fangs, trying to dislodge the hideous thought. He had work to do; he didn't have time to worry about what might happen. He had to make certain that it didn't happen.
The closeness of the village's squalid huts made it easy for Skritsch to jump from one roof to another. In this way, the skaven was able to make quick progress through the settlement unobserved. From the little hovel just inside the wall, he worked his way to the village square, selecting the flat roof of the blacksmith's shop for his hiding place. The smoke from the forge would help hide his scent. While there was little chance of a human noticing him, the threat of dogs was one he couldn't afford to ignore.
Just as he was settling himself on the roof, Skritsch spotted the ox-cart entering the village square. The skaven licked his fangs. It wouldn't be long now!
The village square was bordered on one side by the immense stone manor house where the lord's servants dwelled and governed his estates. Another side was dominated by a cluster of timber warehouses and barns, the repositories of the lord's tribute and the village's wealth. Opposite the warehouses was the cluster of clay-walled buildings which served as the village tavern and hostelry, the blacksmith and herbalist squashed close beside the tavern on its left. The last face of the square was given over to a narrow wooden building with a tall spire rising from its vaulted roof, a plaster fountain bubbling before its doors. Skritsch understood this building was where the man-things paid homage to their strange gods. The skaven sneered at such puny gods, for they were nothing beside the might and glory of the Horned Rat. Yet he was prudent enough to be a bit scared of them.
Even as his eyes strayed toward the chapel, Skritsch found that he had good reason to be afraid of the place. The smell issuing from the temple continued down into the square where a lone figure stood in the middle of the path. The skaven could tell from her scent that she was one of the man-thing's breeders. A mantle of pure white billowed about the woman as she hurriedly made her way across the square. A smell of incense clung to her garments and wafted from her long dark hair.
Skritsch watched with growing apprehension as the woman stepped in front of the advancing ox-cart, arms outstretched to block the way. In a stern voice, she ordered the cart to keep away. Such was her tone of authority that the labourers walking out from the warehouse were stopped in their tracks. The serfs seated on the cart she commanded to stay where they were.

'THESE MEN HAVE brought death inside these walls,' the woman pronounced. She pointed her slender hand at the sacks of grain. 'These bags must be burned at once! Praise to the Mercy of Shallya that we are in time!'
Each of the labourers removed a straw fetish doll from beneath the breast of his tunic, spitting on the ugly things as a protection against ill omens. This done, they hurried back into the warehouses to gather wood to construct a pyre. The serfs on the cart glanced anxiously at one another, their faces growing pale. They watched the construction of the pyre with mounting alarm.
When the pile of wood had grown large enough, the woman called out to the two men on the cart. 'You have brought this evil here,' she told them. 'It is your penance to destroy it.' She waved her hand from the bed of the cart to the pyre.
'It is not their property to destroy!' a gruff voice bellowed.
The speaker was a heavy-set, broad-shouldered man, his once-muscular body just beginning to give way to fat, his blond hair beginning to fade into grey. His raiment was opulent beside the sheepskin tunics and breeches of the villagers, a finely brocaded burgundy coat and matching trousers. About his neck the man wore a ponderous steel pectoral, its surface etched with an elaborate coat of arms. Flanking him were two men in weathered suits of chain, their badges of office proclaiming them the village reeve and beadle.
'My lord bailiff,' the woman addressed her accoster. 'I do not think you appreciate—'
'I do not appreciate my lord's property being destroyed,' the man grunted at her. 'You may have forgotten, Sister Kathryn, but the village of Morberg, the people in it, the lands around it, all of these belong to the Baron von Greitz. It is my duty to safeguard his lordship's property!'
The only sign of irritation the priestess made was the slightest clenching of her jaw. She did not bother to argue her position to the bailiff, understanding that it would need more than words to convince him. The serfs drew back as she approached the cart, the whisper of a prayer to Shallya falling from her lips. An unearthly glow began to surround her hand, growing more vibrant as her prayer became more intense.
The bailiff watched as Sister Kathryn pressed her glowing hand through one of the holes in the grain sacks. When she withdrew her hand, the glow had faded, its vibrancy corrupted into a grey dinginess that clung to her fingers. She held her hand outward so that the baron and all the people in the square could see. The bailiff's outburst had brought many curious faces to the windows and each of the spectators gasped in alarm. They had seen the priestess draw illness from sick men before, but never had they seen her use magic to draw sickness out of a sack of grain.
Sister Kathryn closed her eyes, willing the magic of her goddess to cleanse the corruption she had drawn into herself. The vibrant glow again gathered about her hand, though it did not come so quickly as before. The grey dinginess shrivelled before the purifying light, gradually vanishing altogether. The effort almost brought the priestess to her knees, her entire body shivering from the toll the magic had taken upon her.
The bailiff scowled, uncomfortable with the display of magic and the vivid reminder that there were powers greater than him. He glanced at the crowd of serfs, at the awed faces of his own guards. There was no doubt that Sister Kathryn's display had won them over. For that very reason, the bailiff was not about to back down. The situation had become more than a question of a few sacks of grain. It had become a question of who was master of Morberg.
'A nice trick,' the bailiff said, slowly clapping his hands. 'I saw a warlock in Mordheim conjure up the same illusion.' The man's face contorted into a menacing snarl. 'They strung the creature up by his thumbs and cut him from gizzard to groin. Ever watched a warlock squirm while fifty bulbs of garlic are stuffed up his—'
'There is no sorcery here, only the divine grace of Shallya,' Sister Kathryn told him, a tremble in her voice. 'Many a priest had been brutalized by their flock when a suggestion of sorcery attached itself to his magic.' Forcing herself to be calm, she straightened her back and pointed at the ox-cart. 'There is sickness in those bags.'
The bailiff frowned as he heard a frightened mutter pass among the villagers. 'I'm not going to burn our crop over a conjurer's trick! Emperor Boris has raised a new merchet due before the first snow and the baron has ordered me to ensure that Morberg can pay it and any other duty the Emperor sees fit to levy on us this winter!' he snarled. Snapping his fingers, he waved his guards forward. With obvious reluctance, the reeve and beadle closed upon the cart. Setting down their spears, they took hold of a sack and began to lift it from the cart.
Already weakened by the guards at the gate and by Sister Kathryn's inspection, the bag split open as it was being lowered, spilling its contents into the square. The onlookers shouted in horror. Mixed in with the grain, buried deep within the bag, were several masses of hair. Human scalps!
The bailiff made the sign of Ulric as he backed away from the ghastly sight. 'Mercy of the gods!' he exclaimed.
'Plague,' Sister Kathryn said, her voice low and hollow. 'I could feel it lurking in those bags, but I never imagined it had been placed there wilfully.' Her expression became grim, her eyes hard as she stared at the two serfs who had brought the cart into the village. 'Only the minions of the Fly Lord would dare such wickedness.' As she named the foul daemon-god, the priestess folded her fingers into the sign of the dove lest the Grandfather should notice itself being invoked. The villagers made similar warding gestures, their eyes wide with horror at the very mention of Old Night and the Ruinous Powers.
One of the men from the cart fell to the ground, grovelling before the priestess, protesting his innocence. 'We have no idea how those scalps got in there! Someone else must have done it!'
The bailiff glared at the terrified man. 'Every heretic is innocent when he's found out. Seize the scum! We'll burn them along with their filth!'
The officers were only too happy to get away from the ox-cart. But as they seized the two serfs, the reeve cried out in horror. He sprang away from his prisoner as though the man were on fire. In leaping back, the reeve tore the sleeve from the serf s tunic, exposing the left side of his body.
Plainly visible to all in the square were the ghastly black buboes clustered about the serfs armpit. There was no question now. The cart had been carrying plague, and it was not the grain alone that had been afflicted.
'Burn them!' the bailiff growled again, shaking his fist at the officers. The guards moved with obvious reluctance, using their spears to herd the two serfs towards the pyre.
Sister Kathryn stepped between the men and the piled wood. 'Do not do this,' she said. 'This is an abomination. Would you commit such violence at the very doorstep of Shallya's dwelling place? Would you offend the goddess now, when we shall all have need of her mercy?'
'Get out of our way,' the beadle ordered. 'These men tried to bring plague into our village.'
'Perhaps they did not know,' the priestess said. 'Perhaps they were unaware of what they carried. They could be innocent.'
'Whether they knew or not, they brought plague into my village,' the bailiff snapped. 'One of them, probably both, carries the plague already. The only way to keep this village safe is to burn them. Them and everything they brought with them!'
The bailiff's roar evoked the quiet fear gnawing at the belly of every man in the village. A shouting mob surged into the square, rushing to light the pyre.
Sister Kathryn turned away in disgust. She would be no part to what these people had been goaded into doing. Shallya was a goddess of mercy and humanity and all life was sacred to her. No matter the logic, Sister Kathryn could not accept the callous murder of two men.
She would retire to the chapel and pray to her goddess, pray that she would show pity upon these wretched, frightened fools. For they would have need of pity. Because even if the bailiff's draconian measures worked, there was no question that someone was deliberately trying to infect the people of Morberg.
There was no reason to think they wouldn't try again.

SKRITSCH SCURRIED AWAY from Morberg, waiting only until the pyre had been lit before making his retreat. Fear pawed at his glands as he considered the deaths of the two farmers and the burning of their crop. Warlord Nashqik wouldn't be too happy when he heard that the first effort had failed in so spectacular a fashion.
It was all that stupid breeder-thing's fault! If she'd only kept her nose out of things! Skritsch would have to remember that in future. The nose of a breeder was keener than that of a normal man-thing!
The ratman hurried across the pastures surrounding Morberg, creeping on all fours along a manure trench until he reached a stand of thorn bushes. Darting under the bushes, Skritsch clawed away a mass of dried weeds and brambles, exposing a narrow hole. Pausing to sniff the scents rising from the hole, the skaven dove headfirst into the opening.
The burrow was a tight squeeze, even for a skaven, but by wriggling shoulders and hips, Skritsch was able to force his way forwards. He was reassured by the thick smell of skaven scent and the comforting feeling of earth against his whiskers. Then dirt trickled down upon him as he descended, sparking a tremor of fear. Being crushed by a collapsing burrow was one of the more common deaths menacing any ratman. Skritsch hissed a few prayers to the Horned Rat asking him to keep the tunnel from falling down until the next skaven came crawling through it.
Skritsch's heart was still pounding when he reached the end of the burrow. The bolthole dropped down into a broad tunnel some twenty feet across. Old bones and mats of shed fur littered the floor of the tunnel, giving it a decaying, homey stench. What little light illuminated the corridor was provided by foul-smelling lamps set into niches scattered haphazardly along the walls. A skaven might be perfectly capable of navigating through the pitch dark, but few preferred to do so, liking to see as well as hear and smell what might be lying in wait for them. Still the noxious smoke that billowed from the smouldering rat-dung, created a reek that offended even a skaven's nose. Clan Filch was too poor to afford luxuries like worm-oil and warplight, so they had to make do with such primitive artifices.
It wouldn't always be that way. Warlord Nashqik had ambitions, ambitions that would set Clan Filch among the most powerful in the Under-Empire!
Skritsch lashed his tail, feeling a sense of pride that he had been taken into the warlord's confidence. There weren't many in the warren who knew about the secret alliance with Clan Pestilens. The plague monks had some idea about a new strain of plague that would decimate the surface-dwelling man-things and leave them easy prey for the skaven. To perfect that strain, the plague monks needed to test it not merely upon human slaves but upon free-roaming humans. That need had brought them to the Slashscratch Deep and Clan Filch. As one of the lesser clans enjoying a position among the grey lords, Pestilens was hard-pressed to stave off the hostile intentions of ambitious warlord clans like Skab and Rictus. For all their fanaticism and resistance to disease, the plague monks were puny beside the hulking warriors of Skab and Rictus. If it came to a fight, Pestilens would be crushed unless they found allies among those clans that had been unjustly kept from a place in the Shattered Tower.
Fool-meat! The brains of the plaguelords must have rotted out! There was no other explanation for the imbecilic deal they had made. Forty barge-loads of grain to be paid out to Clan Filch for their services! It was more food than the warren had ever seen before, enough that Warlord Nashqik had extended breeding privileges and ordered more eunuchs to tend the rat-wives and their litters. The population of Slashscratch Deep would swell. In a few years, Nashqik would have the numbers to overwhelm other warrens.
More pointedly, however, was the fact that Clan Pestilens had effectively allowed this potent man-killing bacillus to fall right into Clan Filch's paws! Only a few dozen plague monks and a single plague priest had been dispatched to conduct the tests. They would be a small obstacle when the time came to wrest their secret away from them.
Skritsch felt his glands clench. Perhaps they wouldn't be such an easy conquest. Puskab Foulfur, the plague priest, was the most terrifying creature he'd ever encountered, including Warlord Nashqik. When the plague priest looked at another skaven, you could almost feel the monster's eyes peeling away flesh and fur, trying to peer into the guts beneath.
Skritsch shuddered. There was no need to worry about that. When Nashqik did decide to rid himself of his allies, Skritsch would just make sure he had very important business to attend to elsewhere. One skaven more or less wouldn't make a difference if it came down to a fight. Besides, Nashqik would be very upset if he lost Skritsch's valuable services and keen insight.
Suppressing thoughts of treachery and violence for the moment, Skritsch continued down the tunnel. He was careful to keep his whiskers comfortably against the left-hand wall. A skaven always felt a bit more secure knowing there was at least one direction any enemy couldn't attack him from.
As he neared the more populated burrows and chambers of the warren, Skritsch encountered other skaven scurrying through the tunnel. He eyed them carefully, drinking in their scent with his nose. They certainly smelled like Clan Filch, but there was another smell about them, something he couldn't quite place his paw on. Skritsch found himself lingering in the tunnel, studying the traffic around him.
It didn't take Skritsch long to determine there was something wrong with these skaven. Their gait had a shambling, subdued quality to it. Their tails hung limp behind them, dragging through the dirt and muck. Even the black-furred stormvermin, Nashqik's brutal enforcers, had an uncharacteristic weakness of posture about them.
A terrible thought occurred to Skritsch, a thought so awful he felt his glands spurt the musk of fear. What if the plague Puskab was working on had got loose in the warren?
Panic rather than reason drove Skritsch to seize the next ratman who passed him by. The wretch squeaked and struggled in his grip, but the efforts to escape were too feeble to succeed. Remembering the ugly buboes the serf had displayed, Skritsch ripped the tattered cloak from his captive's body.
The next instant, Skritsch flung his captive away. In a single swift motion, he drew his sword and brought it chopping down into the neck of the diseased ratman. There was a pungent, sickly smell about the black blood oozing from the wound. Horrified, Skritsch did his best to shake the gore from his sword and took off running down the passage.
It was true! Puskab's plague was out of control, already making inroads into the population of Slashscratch Deep! How the disease had gotten loose, Skritsch didn't know, but if it wasn't stopped quickly Clan Filch would be decimated. Even if they survived the plague, they would be so weakened that another clan might invade the warren.
Skritsch raced through the winding tunnels, cringing every time he encountered another skaven. He had to warn Nashqik! If the warlord acted fast, they could stop Puskab from creating more of the bacillus and prevent the spread of infection. Nashqik would reward him richly for such a warning; appoint him a chieftain at the very least!
Now that he was aware of the plague, Skritsch thought he could smell its foul taint everywhere. For all of their treachery and paranoia, skaven were a naturally gregarious breed, never quite comfortable unless surrounded by their own kind. Skritsch rebelled against his communal instincts, keeping to the most neglected ratruns and boltholes as he navigated the warren. His fur crawled every time he came near another ratman, his nose twitching in a spasm of frantic effort, trying to smell the faintest sniff of plague. Any skaven might be a carrier, a walking herald of a slow and hideous death.
Scrambling along a narrow ledge which curled above one of the main throughfares of Slashscratch Deep, Skritsch had a good view of the afflicted warren. The listless masses of skaven shuffled about through their burrows, only a few displaying the speed and vigour which was normal. Most of them were so gripped with malaise that they didn't even react when a gang of skavenslaves dropped one of the bribe-bags which formed Clan Pestilens' tribute to Clan Filch. Grain exploded from the ruptured bag, scattering across the floor of the tunnel. Such a windfall should have provoked a frenzy of squeaking, grasping ratmen. Instead, only a few of the skaven pounced upon the free meal, the rest simply trudging along, oblivious to the fodder they crushed beneath their paws.
It was a chilling, unnatural sight, one that made Skritsch's ears fold close against his skull. There was something almost apocalyptic in the eerie scene, as though the ratmen he saw had already died and they were only going through the motions of life.
Skritsch froze in place. Something about the scene reminded him of Morberg and the humans. There was an uncanny similarity between what he had witnessed in the village square and the morbid affliction of the warren.
Could it be the grain? Had some thief stolen some of the infected grain intended for the humans? Or had Puskab deliberately loosed the infected grain upon the warren? Skritsch had to find out. If Puskab was responsible, then the reward Nashqik would give him for such information would elevate Skrtisch to the highest ranks of Clan Filch.
Yes! He'd have to sneak into Puskab's lab and find evidence that the plague priest was responsible. Even if Skritsch had to make the evidence himself!
Eyes boggling as he contemplated the riches and power which would soon be his, Skritsch turned about and wormed his way into a narrow ventilation shaft. The cramped shaft was alive with rats, but the little vermin scurried away in fear as the skaven came rushing down the passage. Skritsch navigated the mad disorder of intersections and cross-tunnels with an ease born of long practice.
There was always an advantage to be had spying on other skaven and the ventilation shafts offered the best opportunity for lurking ears and eyes.
In a short time, Skritsch was crawling along the shaft connecting to the chamber Nashqik had allocated to Puskab and the plague monks. He could smell the sickly scent of Clan Pestilens long before he reached the end of the shaft; a musty, evil reek that was redolent of mange and rot. It made his glands clench, his mind swarming with visions of the decayed plague monks.
The sight which stretched below the opening of the air shaft was worse. The chamber the plague monks had been given was once used as a nursery for skaven whelps and the stench of the pups was still noticeable. Nashqik had probably intended the inconvenience of such a burrow as a subtle way of reminding his guests of his authority over them. If so, the gesture had been lost on the plague monks. Nothing short of a troll's backside could smell worse than the disease-ridden zealots. They shambled about the chamber cloaked in their filthy green robes, their fur falling out in greasy clumps, their skin marred with lesions and boils, their eyes cloudy with cataracts, their faces drawn and necrotic. Some of the plague monks paced through the filth piled upon the floor of their cell, lashing their bodies viciously with barbed whips, others carried scrolls of ratskin and slobbered strange and obscene prayers. One of the plague monks, his face lost beneath the thick folds of his cowl, clanged a rusty bell, taking perverse delight in the discordant notes.
A few of the plague monks, however, were more deliberate in their madness. They were clustered about a cage of scrawny human slaves, poking and jabbing at the pathetic captives with hooks and skewers. A single sniff was enough to tell the humans were all diseased, their naked bodies sporting the black buboes Skritsch had seen on the man in Morberg.
As the plague monks prodded their slaves, they were observed with the utmost scrutiny by their grotesque master. Poxmaster Puskab Foulfur, plague priest of Clan Pestilens. He was a corpulent ratman, his tattered green robes straining to contain his bloated bulk. The fur that lingered on his body had just a suggestion of white to it, though mostly it had faded into a jaundiced yellow. His skin was leprous, mottled with hideous splotches that wept translucent ooze. The priest's face was rotted, bits of muscle showing through the desiccated flesh. A pair of antlers protruded from his skull, framing his hideous visage like some blasphemous parody of the Horned One.
Puskab prowled around the cage, leaning heavily on a staff of gnarled jungle-wood. Sometimes he would pause to snap an order to his minions. The plague monks would spring into action, dragging one of the captives from the cage. So wasted with disease were the slaves that they hardly put up any fight at all, simply lying upon the floor while the skaven picked ugly brown fleas from their hair.
Skritsch felt his hackles rise when he saw the despicable insects. They were as fat and bloated as Puskab himself, and the stink of disease was about them. The plague monks were especially diligent as they removed the fleas, dropping them onto little pads of hair which had already been prepared for them. Once the disembodied scalps had received a few score of fleas, another plague monk carefully removed them. He walked to the other side of the chamber, where a number of grain sacks stood. Uttering a villainous squeal, the deranged ratman thrust the infested scalp into the grain.
The spy felt his stomach turn at what he beheld next. Puskab removed a bottle from beneath his voluminous robes and shambled over to the grain. The sacks on the left he ignored, but those on the right, he doused with the contents of the bottle. The smell of pungent perfume struck Skritsch's nose. The plague priest was masking the scent of the infected grain! There was no need to bother with such caution if the sacks were intended for the humans! No, such attention could only mean one thing. The grain was going to be given to other skaven!
Clan Pestilens was deliberately betraying Clan Filch!
Puskab Foulfur suddenly turned around, his yellow eyes glaring straight up at the air shaft. The plague priest's rotten lips curled back, exposing his black teeth in a savage snarl. Skritsch felt the earth around him shudder, crumble beneath his paws. He scrabbled for purchase, but the ground seemed to wither under his fingers. Uttering a wail of terror, the spy found himself hurtling down into the lair of the plague monks.
Skritsch struck the floor hard. He could feel one of his front legs snap under the impact. The skaven screamed in agony, ending in a cough as dust dirt rushed down his throat. His eyes blinked back tears, struggling vainly to pierce the dust cloud which billowed up around him.
Puskab had caused the collapse. The priest had used some foul, despicable sorcery in an attempt to kill the spy. But Skritsch had defied the heretic's efforts! He had survived the worst Clan Pestilens could throw at him!
The cloud suddenly cleared, exposing Skritsch to the merciless eyes of Puskab. The plague priest pointed a leprous claw at the wounded spy. 'Infidel-meat!' the priest growled. The words brought a shriek of outrage from the other plague monks. However seemingly crazed or disoriented, the vermin responded to Puskab's cry, rounding upon the stunned Skritsch.
The monks came charging at Skritsch, lashing at him with barbed whips, clubbing at him with corroded maces and spiked flails. The muzzles of the decayed skaven dripped with froth and filth, their eyes clouded with a rabid fury.
Sheer terror caused the spy to whip out his sword. The blade slashed through the forearm of the foremost plague monk, sending the limb leaping away on a fountain of blood and pus. The mutilated monk continued towards him, necessitating a second slash across his throat before the fanatic wilted to the floor in death.
Skritsch knew it was hopeless to fight against so many frenzied foes. He gave up trying to strike down the monks, instead directing his efforts towards fending them off until he could find an opening and escape. The black-garbed spy ground his fangs against the pain pulsing through his body, forcing himself to bite down on the agony of his broken front leg. A broken leg was something a skaven could recover from if he was lucky. There was no coming back from what the diseased monks would do to him.
The opening finally presented itself. One of the plague monks, his colourless eyes blinder than a bat, stumbled into a scrawny zealot whose face was lost under a coating of boils. The blind monk, lost in the frenzy of religious outrage, struck out at the skaven he had stumbled into, popping a clutch of boils on the second monk's snout. The boil-faced madrat reacted by driving his clawed foot into the belly of his blind antagonist.
Soon the two monks were at each other's throats and Skritsch darted into the gap their melee presented. The skaven spy leapt over the wrestling ratmen and dashed towards the mouth of the chamber. There was only a single plague monk standing guard at the entrance to the lair, a creature Skritsch quickly settled with a cut to the sentry's groin.

PANTING, WHEEZING, HIS heart pounding in terror, Skritsch scurried down the tunnel, putting as much distance between himself and the diseased lair of the plague monks as he could. There was only one place that could offer him refuge against the vengeance of Clan Pestilens. Skritsch had to reach Warlord Nashqik and beg his protection. The warlord was sure to give it once he learned what was really going on. Nashqik would soon deal with Puskab's treachery.
Skritsch had a sense that something was wrong when he approached the warlord's nest. The customary pack of armoured stormvermin outside the entrance to Nashqik's burrow was absent. There was also a heavy stench of perfume in the air, far more than the warlord would customarily employ to hide his scent from assassins and enemies.
The spy had a moment of doubt, wondering if he should abandon the entire warren. It was a near suicidal thing for a skaven to leave his clan, however. Without a clan to protect him, he would soon fall prey to the many predators which lurked in the underworld, not the least of which were skaven slavers. No, Skritsch would have to stay, and to do that, he'd need the protection only Nashqik could offer him.
Biting down on his suspicions, Skritsch crept into the burrow of his warlord. Once again, the ratman's hackles rose. The last time he had been in the presence of his warlord, Nashqik's lair had been filled with hoarded plunder. Bolts of cloth looted from human villages, kegs of beer stolen from dwarf breweries, boxes of savoury mushrooms pilfered from goblin caverns. Where all of the warlord's loot had been, there was now only emptiness. Nashqik's nest had been ransacked!
The explanation soon revealed itself. Crouched down upon the few furs and blankets that hadn't been stolen from him, the once mighty Warlord Nashqik wheezed and coughed and drooled into his whiskers. The warlord had tried to hide the smell of disease and weakness by drenching himself in perfume, but one look at the wretch was enough for anyone to see he had contracted the plague. Massive black buboes riddled his body.
A titter of malignant laughter brought Skritsch spinning around. Behind him, at the entrance to the nest, he saw the horned foulness of the plague priest grinning at him. The spy brandished his sword at the leering monster. Puskab's lip curled back in a sneer. A ghoulish green light flamed for an instant in the priest's eyes, a surge of power swept outward from his claw. Skritsch reeled back in horror as his sword crumbled apart in his hand, worn through with rust and rot.
'I came-seek Slashscratch Deep to test-find new-good plague,' Puskab said, his voice like a rotten bubble. 'Make-make good-great plague for Horned One.' The plague priest's paw suddenly slapped against his breast, then withdrew again, a bloated black flea pinched between his fingers. 'Find good-nice carrier,' Puskab chortled. 'Kill much-much man-things!'
The plague priest's eyes gleamed with wickedness. 'Know-learn long ago,' he said. 'Need-find flea to make skaven sick-die like man-things.'
Skritsch cringed before the crazed plague priest. Clan Pestilens hadn't come to Slashscratch Deep to test their plague on the humans at all! Slashscratch Deep had been the test! The plague monks didn't want a disease that killed humans, they wanted a disease that would kill other skaven as well!
'Soon-soon all ratkin see true face of Horned One,' Puskab declared. 'Know-learn true name of Horned One! Find-seek true glory of Horned One!' The plague priest squinted at Skritsch, then jabbed a wizened claw at the spy. 'You learn-find soon-soon,' he hissed.
Skritsch looked down at his broken front leg, squealing in terror at what he saw.
All around his shoulder were oily black growths, the foul buboes which heralded the most lethal of plagues.
The Black Death!