C. Werner - Dead Winter

‘This new plague has the potential to leave our enemies helpless, to decimate them in their thousands,’ Skrittar continued. Sythar waited for the grey seer to twist these seeming strengths into reasons why the council must oppose Nurglitch’s new weapon. Instead, the grey seer shocked the other Lords of Decay by endorsing the contagion.

‘The Horned Rat displays His beneficence in strange ways,’ Skrittar said, tilting his head towards the empty Black Throne, almost as though he were listening to some unseen speaker. ‘He has overlooked the… eccentricities of Clan Pestilens and through them bestowed upon us the weapon which shall bring about the long-prophesied ascendancy!’ The prophet-sorcerer turned towards Vecteek, bowing his head. ‘We should ask the council to vote. I say we endorse this new weapon and use it immediately against the man-things!’ Again, Skrittar cocked his head towards the empty seat. If needed, there was no mistaking which way the Horned Rat would cast his vote.

Vecteek stared suspiciously at the Seerlord. At the moment, Vecteek seemed to be considering using his Verminguard and stopping whatever scheme Skrittar was hatching before it could start. However murdering the Seerlord was one of the few things beyond Vecteek’s power. It would give the many enemies of Clan Rictus the justification they needed to band together and overthrow the Warmonger. Nothing was more guaranteed to incite the rabble of skavendom like a holy war.

‘This new plague will achieve more than a hundred armies,’ Vecteek said. ‘The Boris-man has made the man-things divided and suspicious. That will make them vulnerable to the plague. Before they know what is happening, it will be upon them. Because they are divided, they will not be able to stop its spread.’ His black paw clenched into a fist. ‘They will be broken and beaten before our first warrior leaves the tunnels!’

With both Seerlord Skrittar and Warmonger Vecteek supporting the plan, the vote was purely ceremonial. In the end, only Warpmaster Sythar and Great Warlord Vrrmik of Clan Mors opposed the plan. Sythar couldn’t stifle the feeling of alarm that coursed through his glands every time he caught a sniff of Nurglitch’s gloating putrescence. The new plague might benefit all of the Under-Empire, but there was no question the plague priests would reap the dragon’s share of the plunder. Of course, there was the possibility he was certain had occurred to every warlord on the council: if Pestilens could make a plague to kill man-things, certainly they could create another one to turn against their fellow skaven. Whatever they were up to, Sythar was determined that Clan Skryre would be watching and waiting.

Warlord Vrrmik’s opposition was less complex — there was no creature above or below the surface he hated more than Grey Lord Vecteek. Sythar wondered if that would be enough to make him an ally against Clan Pestilens when the time came. Because there was no question the new plague would do what Nurglitch promised.

The uncertainty lay in what would happen after.

Nuln

Nachgeheim, 1111

The Black Rose sat perched along a hilly road in the riverside section of Freiberg. From its threshold, a patron could stare straight down the street to the clear waters of the Reik and see the grey rocky spires of Helstrumoog, the little island rising at the joining of the rivers. The distant spires of the abandoned Cathedral of Sigmar were visible in the morning light, deserted since the great fire that had claimed the old Grand Theogonist and much of Wissenland’s Sigmarite priesthood. Beyond the ruined temple stretched its farmlands and pastures, desolate and unused after months of bickering among the nobles over who had the greater claim to lease the now tenantless land.

Walther sighed as he looked down the road. Nuln was a city in the grip of change. Emperor Boris had removed the capital to Altdorf following his ascension, removing the lustre from the place that had been called the ‘jewel of the Empire’. When Grand Theogonist Thorgrad was elected as head of the Sigmarite faith, he had stopped reconstruction of Helstrum Cathedral and relocated the seat of the temple to Altdorf. In the space of only a few decades, Nuln had lost its position as centre of both the Empire’s secular and spiritual worlds. A feeling of malaise and bitterness gripped the hearts of Nulners, an impression that their greatness was past and all that was left to them was a slow slide into decay and ruin.

The rat-catcher shook his head. There was nothing he could do about Nuln’s lost glory. That was for Count Artur and the Assembly to worry about. His own problems gave him trouble enough. They might not be the sort of thing to vex a baron or a duke, but to Walther they were more important than the Great Mysteries of Verena.

Dawn found the Black Rose almost deserted. The bushy-bearded Bremer was tending the bar, cleaning out clay tankards and leathern jacks. A few lamplighters and chimney sweeps were scattered about the tables. The real custom happened between sunset and midnight, when sailors and stevedores trooped up the hill from the docks and companies of students descended from the Universitat. Then the place would be a bustling confusion of songs and jests, of hard-drinking river-traders and brawny lumpers, their clothes reeking of fish.

Walther preferred it quiet. He was used to silence, the stillness of the sewers where the only sounds were the crackle of his rushlight and the furtive skitter of the rats. Noise, the racket of too many people crammed into a small place, was to him a frightful thing. Sometimes he was happy that people shunned the company of a rat-catcher. It made it so much easier.

Except in one area. Walther’s pulse quickened as he looked out across the tavern and spotted the woman making her way from the kitchen with a platter of black bread and frumenty. His eyes fixated upon her shapely figure, upon the way her body pressed itself against the simple wool kirtle and linen apron she wore. Even in the tavern’s gloom, her long golden tresses seemed to shimmer like pieces of the sun. He watched as she rounded one of the tables, setting the platter before the grey-faced militiaman seated there. Walther’s gaze darkened when the soldier made a grab for the woman’s waist.

‘Just a little kiss, Zena,’ the militiaman suggested, starting to rise from his chair. The woman placed her hands on his shoulders, pushing him back down.

‘None of that, Meisel,’ she scolded him and twisted away from his clutch. ‘Eat your porridge and be content with a full belly.’

Meisel frowned at his meal. ‘I’ll miss your cooking, Zena,’ he said. ‘Almost as much as I’ll miss those big blue eyes,’ he added with a wink.

‘Leaving us, Herr Meisel?’ Bremer called out from behind the bar.

Meisel shifted his chair around so he could face the bar. ‘I’ve been discharged,’ he said. ‘Me and a hundred like me. Emperor Boris has placed a new tax for every dienstmann a lord retains.’ He dipped his spoon into the bowl of frumenty. ‘The nobles are scrambling to cut their expenses.’

‘They’ll cry a different song if the goblins come again,’ Bremer cursed. ‘Or if the beastmen decide to come down from the Drakwald. Then they’ll be begging you fellows to take up arms again.’

The militiaman clenched his fist. ‘They’ll be begging before then,’ he swore. ‘There’s a knight named Engel who is organising a march on Altdorf. We’re going to petition the Emperor himself and make our demands known!’

While Meisel and Bremer continued their exchange, Zena retreated back towards the kitchen. Walther knew she detested talk of politics and religion, of anyone wasting their time arguing about things over which they had no control. She might endure the groping fingers of a drunken dock-walloper, but she couldn’t abide a beerhall agitator.