C. Werner - Dead Winter

Perched atop a heap of broken masonry, Warlord Krricht pressed a blood-soaked rag to his nose in an effort to stifle the reek. The dozen armoured stormvermin surrounding the warlord weren’t so fortunate, coughing and wheezing as their keen noses rebelled against the stink.

The plague priest cared nothing for the discomfort of the other skaven, his warty lip pulling away from his fangs in an expression of contempt. The simpering flea-lickers of Clan Mors were no true children of the Horned One. They were ignorant of the true face of the Horned Rat, unable or unwilling to embrace the pernicious glory of their god. They would learn, however. Like the rest of skavendom, they would join the Pestilent Brotherhood or they would perish.

Poxmaster Puskab Foulfur pulled back the tattered hood of his habit, exposing a face hideous with decay. The patchy remnants of once-white fur were darkening into a jaundiced yellow. The bare flesh of his cheeks was rotten and leprous, strings of muscle gleaming wetly where the skin had peeled away entirely. A pair of crooked antlers sprouted from his scalp, stained with filth and pitted with decay. Only the priest’s eyes seemed alive, shining from the shadows of deep sockets, blazing with a fanatic intensity.

Warlord Krricht shifted uneasily upon his perch. He had selected this meeting place because he could arrive early and claim the high ground. Skaven respected height — they were naturally subservient to those who could look down upon them. In any negotiation, it was the wise ratman who assumed a dominant position without a single word being uttered or a single drop of musk being vented into the air.

Unfortunately, Puskab wasn’t fazed by the warlord’s dominant position and as for the musk of supremacy, even if Krricht had secreted it there was no chance the diseased priest would smell it over his own filthy odours. The warlord looked anxiously at his coughing bodyguard, grinding his teeth at their display of weakness in the face of the plague priest. He had counted upon them to present a formidable sight, to cow Puskab with their menacing presence if all else failed. They were a dozen to the three plague monks which had accompanied Puskab, that should have been enough to intimidate the representative of Clan Pestilens. Instead, his stormvermin made a pathetic spectacle of themselves instead of bracing up and performing their duty!

Krricht took another whiff of his bloody rag and stared down at Puskab through watery eyes.

‘We have heard much-much about the great Poxmaster,’ Krricht said, his voice drifting between a squeak and a growl. ‘Man-things call new pestilence “Black Plague”. It will kill much-much. Leave man-things ready for conquest.’

Puskab leaned his bloated bulk against the knobbly wooden staff clutched in his leprous paw. He peered up at the warlord through malicious eyes. ‘Why Clan Mors seek-want squeak-speak with Vrask Bilebroth?’ he snarled.

Krricht lashed his tail in amusement. For all their show of religious fanaticism and zealous devotion, Clan Pestilens was just as grasping and selfish as any other skaven, their ranks rife with rivalry and petty ambition. Bilebroth was Puskab’s chief rival — the spies Krricht had hired couldn’t quite agree if Puskab had stolen the secret of the Black Plague from Bilebroth or if Bilebroth had tried to steal credit for the new plague from Puskab. For his purposes, it didn’t really matter. It was enough that the feud was there and waiting to be exploited.

‘Clan Mors wants a friend in Clan Pestilens,’ Krricht explained. ‘We didn’t want to presume upon so renowned a skaven as Poxmaster Puskab, so we approached a lesser priest instead.’ The warlord bobbed his head in an appeasing gesture. ‘Great Warlord Vrrmik says even the Council of Thirteen speaks of Puskab Foulfur.’

Was that a flicker of alarm that passed through the plague priest’s yellow eyes? Krricht twitched his whiskers in amusement. Even the feared Puskab knew fear at mere mention of the Lords of Decay. Grey Seer Skrittar’s actions at the council meeting had aggrandised Puskab at the expense of Arch-Plaguelord Nurglitch. Hardly the sort of thing to assure Puskab’s position as Nurglitch’s favourite.

‘What does Mors-meat want-want from Pestilens?’ Puskab growled.

‘Alliance,’ the warlord said, gesturing with his bloody rag at his warriors and Puskab’s plague monks. ‘Mors offers warriors to help Pestilens. You will help us by using the Black Plague against the dwarf-things.’

Puskab’s decayed lips exposed his blackened fangs in a sneer. ‘Lord Vecteek tell-say use-use plague against man-things. Council vote to do what Vecteek say-tell!’

‘Vecteek claim-want too much power!’ Krricht hissed. ‘Takes name-title of Grey Lord. He thinks he is better than council. Thinks Rictus-rats should rule all Under-Empire!’

A wracking cough shook Puskab’s bloated frame. It took Krricht some time to realise the plague priest was laughing at him. His fur bristled as he realised the filthy monk was mocking him.

‘Clan Rictus powerful. Mighty. Best warriors. Many black-furs.’ Puskab’s bulk quivered with renewed amusement. ‘Clan Mors not so powerful. Not so many black-furs.’

‘You could change that,’ Krricht hurriedly squeaked. He waved his claw through the air. ‘Change-fix plague so that it will sick-kill Rictus-rats. Break Vecteek! Vrrmik take much-great power without Vecteek. Share-gift some-much to Clan Pestilens.’

Puskab’s yellow eyes narrowed with suspicion. Krricht licked his fangs, waiting to see how the plague priest would react to such treasonous words. Clan Pestilens might be disinterested in helping Mors overwhelm the dwarfs, but no skaven could ignore the promise of a better position on the council.

‘Vecteek is friend-ally of Pestilens,’ Puskab snarled. The fat monk backed away from Krricht’s perch, his black teeth still threatening the warlord. ‘Lord Nurglitch plan-plot much-much to sick-kill man-things. Rictus have many-strong warriors to conquer-take surface.’ A hacking laugh oozed up from Puskab’s belly. ‘Mors not so many-strong.’

The plague priest let his last barb echo through the vault as he and his entourage made their retreat. Krricht glared after them, his fangs grinding together. It was tempting to leap down and cut the diseased vermin to ribbons, but too many within Clan Pestilens knew about the meeting and where to place blame should the Poxmaster fail to return.

Which was why Krricht had already made other plans. The crux of his pact with Vrask was the removal of Puskab. That was the real purpose of this meeting — to determine if Puskab might prove a better ally than Vrask. Now that the plague priest had made his mind known, Krricht would simply fall back on the original plan and fulfil his agreement with Vrask.

The warlord growled at two of his stormvermin. Chittering maliciously, the armoured warriors scurried away, darting down one of the narrow side-tunnels connecting to the vault. Krricht watched them go, lashing his tail in vicious anticipation.

Poxmaster Puskab would never sniff the Pestilent Monastery again.

Puskab Foulfur stalked along the dank, mucky tunnel, his splintered staff tapping against the bare earthen walls. The doleful chant of the monks accompanying him shivered through the stygian darkness, singing the praises of disease and decay. The rustle of rats creeping through the refuse littering the corridor was the only other sound.

The plague priest’s mind turned over the treacherous proposal made by Warlord Krricht. The hatred and rivalry between Clan Mors and Clan Rictus was well known. Several times the warlord clans had clashed in open conflict, great armies of stormvermin making war in the tunnels and burrows of the Under-Empire. But there were times when the two clans had cooperated as well, conspiring together to crush some third clan between their combined strength. There was a great danger in trusting too much in the antagonism between them.