Kreyssig shifted to the far side of the bed, setting his feet on the floor and taking a firm grip on one of his pillows with an idea to exploit it as a makeshift shield. ‘Why do you need more grain?’ he demanded.
The rat-mutant chittered again. When it spoke, its voice was more measured, each word unhurried and distinct. ‘Need more grain. If Kreyssig-man will not give, then we will take. Need god-priest to stay dead. If Kreyssig-man makes new god-priest, then we will kill.’
‘Will you?’ Kreyssig cried, lunging forwards, his dagger flashing at the darkness. The blade slashed only shadows. The red eyes were gone, vanished as though they had been no more than a phantom. Before Kreyssig could consider where the mutant had retreated, light was streaming into the room from the open doorway. He spun around, but nothing more menacing than Fuerst greeted his gaze.
‘I heard you cry out, commander,’ Fuerst said, a cudgel clutched in one hand, a candle in the other.
Kreyssig waved Fuerst inside, motioning for him to raise the candle high and illuminate as much of the room as he could. The two of them made a thorough search, but there was nothing to find. Kreyssig’s visitor had evaporated into the night.
‘You can go to sleep,’ Kreyssig told Fuerst. When his concerned servant lingered, he made the suggestion an order.
Despite the disturbing visitation, Kreyssig wanted to be alone. He wanted time to think, to consider his dealings with the mutants, to balance his experiences with them against the dim fables of childhood. He wasn’t so sure now if his subhuman spies really were mutants. At least human mutants. The old legends spoke of other things, other things shaped like rats that could walk and talk and think like men.
The cold clutch of fear closed around Kreyssig’s heart, that organ that so many of his victims had described as black and immovable. Now it was a sick, frightened thing, a thing plagued with doubt and foreboding.
What if they truly were what Kreyssig now feared they might be? Not mere mutants or monsters, but the ghastly Underfolk themselves!
Again he thought of those storehouses. He would have the Kaiserjaeger open them tomorrow, check to see how much the mutants had already taken. It was one way to estimate their numbers.
Because Kreyssig was afraid that there might be more ratmen under Altdorf than he would find in his darkest nightmares.
Sylvania
Nachexen, 1113
The satisfying stink of fear filled Seerlord Skrittar’s nose as he strode down the muddy lane. There was a panoply of other delectable scents in the air. The smell of grain and dried meat, cheese and bread. The man-things of this village had been quite industrious. The formidable palisade they’d erected around their village was a clear indication of how much they intended to keep the fruits of that industry. They’d been better armed than most Sylvanian settlements too, and better prepared to fight.
None of which had, of course, availed them in the end. It never ceased to amuse Skrittar how much faith humans put into walls to protect them. It was only a matter of hours for Clan Fester’s skavenslaves to burrow under those walls and bring them crashing down. Before the man-things were fully aware of what was happening to them, the ratmen were upon them, cutting down those who tried to defy them. With the humans’ enemies already inside their defences, the struggle was exactly the way Skrittar preferred — brief and one-sided.
Those man-things that had displayed the good sense to cower before the skaven had been spared, at least for a time. It wasn’t just the satisfying smell of their fear, but simply a matter of good policy. Man-thing slaves were generally stronger than their skaven counterparts, and when they eventually did wear out they made for much better eating.
A little trickle of drool fell from Skrittar’s fangs as he considered the various ways man-meat could be prepared. He’d have Manglrr’s sword-rats fetch him a nice young human for dinner. The young ones were so much more tender, and their flesh seemed to absorb spices much more readily than that of older specimens.
Turning his attention to the clanrats swarming through the streets, Skrittar lashed his tail in annoyance. Miserable tick-sucking wretches! If they could think past their bellies, then they might be worth something! These constant diversions to gather provisions were becoming intolerable. They were distracting them from their real purpose: collecting the warpstone. He hadn’t expended so much magic, arranged the martyrdom of twenty-four of his most powerful grey seers, simply so Clan Fester could traipse about Sylvania glutting their insatiable appetite!
Irritably, Skrittar struck a passing clanrat with his staff, knocking the ratman into the mud. Before he could rise, the seerlord was snatching the radishes from the skaven’s paws. Spinning about, the clanrat stopped short of baring his fangs when he saw who had assaulted him. Squeaking with fright, he scurried off, leaving Skrittar to gnaw at the purloined food.
As he digested the radishes, Skrittar became aware of a change in the air. There was a new tang to it, a rotten stink of spoiled meat and crawling worms. It was not unlike the reek the skaven had found clinging to those humans who died from the Black Plague, but this was much stronger. The grey seer was just starting to wonder if some of Manglrr’s over-eager vermin had excavated a man-thing bury-hole when a new smell crept into the air.
It was the smell of fear, but far thicker and pungent than that exuded by humans. Skrittar knew that smell quite well, might even have admitted to producing it himself if such an admission wouldn’t be a sign of weakness. The reek was that of skaven musk, spurted from their glands in times of agitation. Why Manglrr’s mangy minions were frightened now, when the village was already subdued, was an absurdity the grey seer couldn’t understand.
‘Mighty-great seerlord!’ a shivering voice yelped. Skrittar caught the scent of Manglrr Baneburrow long before he saw the warlord. To smell one of the Council of Thirteen in such agitation brought a contemptuous flicker to his whiskers. Truly it could never have been the Horned One’s intention that such weak-livered mice should have a share in ruling the Under-Empire! Such conniving cowards were fit only for exploitation by their more intelligent peers. It was the main reason Skrittar had chosen Clan Fester to assist him in recovering the warpstone.
Manglrr’s posture was hunched and cowed when he came scurrying up to Skrittar, the burly stormvermin accompanying him displaying a similarly meek and abased attitude. The seerlord was wary of accepting such appearances, but a whiff of their scent was good indication that their despair might be genuine. There was no question that the frightened attitude of their warlord had sent a thrill of panic sweeping through the ratmen ransacking the village.
‘Honoured mage-rat, Supreme Prophet of the Horned One!’ Manglrr whined, almost touching his nose to the dirt as he bowed before Skrittar. Such grovelling from one of the Grey Lords filled Skrittar with disgust… and not a little anxiety.
‘Speak-squeak!’ Skrittar demanded, wondering what catastrophe the warlord was about to relate. If Warmonger Vecteek had discovered this expedition, the whole of Clan Rictus might even now be marching after them! If that was the case, Skrittar would have to start thinking about how he could place all the blame on Manglrr’s tail.
‘Man-things!’ Manglrr shuddered, licking a carved toe-bone he wore about his neck as he gave voice to his fear. ‘Many-many man-things marching to village-nest! Kill-slay all-all try to stop!’