C. Werner - Dead Winter

When the last fly vanished into Puskab’s mouth, the priest turned to his companions. ‘Safe-alone,’ he snarled. ‘Nurglitch pray-think in refectory.’ The plague priest’s eyes gleamed murderously. ‘Spider-things burrow-chew wall! Scurry-hurry straight to Nurglitch!’

The bloodthirsty excitement shown by Puskab seemed to infect the others. The magnitude of what they had been tasked with had depressed and frightened them — every skaven half-believed that the Grey Lords were immortal and unkillable. But the vicious confidence displayed by Puskab fanned the embers of their own fragile courage. If it was possible to kill the Arch-Plaguelord, then they would be handsomely rewarded by Blight Tenscratch. More importantly, if they killed Nurglitch, then they would be able to leave the horrifying Pestilent Monastery.

The skaven scrambled out from behind the wall, emerging into a dank hall of stone. Each of the mismatched blocks looked to have been dragged down from the surface, appropriated by Clan Pestilens to construct their stronghold. It was a sensible precaution — earthen walls could be breached by the fangs and claws of other ratmen given enough time, but solid stone could thwart such intrusions. Unless, of course, the intruders had creatures such as the diggerfangs to help them.

Puskab pointed at one of the walls, marking it as adjoining the refectory where Nurglitch made his prayers. It was the only time when the Arch-Plaguelord would be alone, that hour when he made direct communion with the Horned One.

The ratmen of Clan Verms hastened across the hall, the white rats setting down their metal caskets, the brown rats lighting their worm-oil torches. Thaglik and the two skaven appointed as his bodyguards stood well away from the spider-handlers. For a skaven, the biggest part of being a leader was avoiding the hazards delegated to underlings. At the moment, keeping close to Puskab was preferable to any proximity to his fellow clanrats.

Puskab watched as the spider-handlers made ready to loose the diggerfangs, his tail twitching expectantly. He held his breath as the white ratmen pushed the caskets towards the wall and raised the lids. The uneven, disordered state of the wall made it impossible to press the cages flush against the stone, so as the tarantulas scuttled into view, the torch-bearers leapt into action, goading the arachnids with the heat of their prods. Under their merciless direction, the spiders attacked the wall, using their venom to burn their way into the stone. Soon a half-dozen smoking craters pitted the face of the wall, each of the holes marking the passage of a ferocious killer.

The skaven chittered softly to each other. Now that the diggerfangs were on their way, the destruction of Nurglitch seemed assured. The spider-handlers rested beside the cages, leaning against their worm-oil prods. After the tension of manoeuvring the tarantulas, the ratmen had slipped into a state of exhausted relief.

A squeal of terror snapped the skaven from their idleness. Spinning around, the ratmen watched in horror as one of their comrades quivered on the floor, a huge tarantula fastened to his leg, its acids eating away his flesh. From the other holes, more of the spiders began to emerge, rushing with eight-legged rapidity towards the stunned skaven. The spider-handlers rushed at the creeping arachnids with their torches, but the creatures barely flinched from the flames. Displaying mindless disregard for their own safety, the tarantulas kept on coming. Their hair singed by the torches, still the scuttling vermin charged at the ratmen. First one, then a second handler was dragged down by the enraged tarantulas.

The other ratmen threw down their prods and scurried back to the hidden door. The white skaven watched the retreat of their fellows for only an instant, then followed them in flight. Yipping like a gutted weasel, Swarmleader Thaglik hurried after his routed minions.

Puskab lingered behind, his fangs bared as he watched the spiders feast upon the fallen skaven. Somehow Nurglitch had discovered the murder scheme. Through magic or cunning, he had thwarted it. Blight was committed now. There could be no more half-steps in his feud with the Arch-Plaguelord.

Eyes glowing with ambition, his mind awhirl with future schemes, Puskab made his way to the hidden door. He paused for only a moment as the seventh fly conjured by his sorcery came buzzing down the corridor and landed upon his arm. Quickly he snatched up the insect and swallowed it. There weren’t any eyes to see him, but Puskab was always careful in his intrigues.

Licking his fangs, the corpulent plague priest vanished into the secret passage. It wouldn’t do to give Thaglik and his rodents too much of a head start.

Altdorf

Vorhexen, 1111

Adolf Kreyssig bowed as he was conducted into the calefactory. Like the rest of the Great Cathedral, the chamber was magnificent in its air of opulence and grandeur. The walls were of gleaming marble, the floor a mosaic of contrasting black and white tiles. Great columns spiralled upwards to the heights of vaulted ceilings adorned with panes of stained glass. Tapestries depicting events from the life of Sigmar were displayed in abundance, only a handful betraying the sooty odour of relics rescued from the temple in Nuln.

At the centre of the chamber stood an analogion of wutroth, a massive copy of the Deus Sigmar resting upon the lectern’s slanted shelf. To either side of the lectern, two enormous fires blazed, fed by a quartet of solemn monks dressed in sackcloth, their shaven heads tattooed with the mark of the twin-tailed comet. Behind the lectern, seated in a tall throne of carved cherrywood, sat the most powerful clergyman in Altdorf, Grand Theogonist Thorgrad.

The Grand Theogonist was an old man, his hair the colour of new-fallen snow, his eyes listless and weary, his wrinkled skin as thin as parchment and bleached to an almost leprous hue, looking somehow ghoulish in a setting of black priestly robes. A jade talisman clung to the priest’s throat and about his finger he wore a matching ring. A corset of gromril, a fabulous girdle of dwarfcraft said to possess magical powers, circled his waist and upon the breast of his robe was woven the symbol of Sigmar’s hammer, the legendary Ghal Maraz.

Kreyssig stifled an impious snicker when he noted the priest’s proximity to the flames. It wasn’t the chill of winter that lured Thorgrad to such a conflagration. One of the most widespread stories about the Black Plague was that it was caused by the bites of little black spiders. The common remedy for keeping the spiders away was a good stout fire.

‘Thank you for receiving me, your holiness,’ Kreyssig said, his tone more mocking than deferential. It was a distinction that did not go unnoticed. The monks hesitated in their tending of the fires, staring at him with scandalised astonishment. Thorgrad shifted in his chair, an ember of life flaring up in his weary eyes.

‘Your insistence made a personal audience — how did you put it, commander — advisable .’ The Grand Theogonist made the last word drip off his tongue like venom. ‘I am in seclusion at present. Not to be disturbed. I am communing with Great Sigmar, meditating upon his holy creed and begging his aid in the crisis which besets our Empire. It will take divine aid to stamp out this plague which afflicts us in body and soul.’

A wry smile spread across Kreyssig’s face. The only body and soul Thorgrad was trying to save from the Black Plague was his own. ‘Forgive my disturbance of your meditation,’ he said. ‘However I came here not to impose, but to perform a service.’

Immediately Thorgrad’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. ‘To what does the Temple of Sigmar owe this sudden display of piety, commander?’