‘Karak Grazhyakh will need the resources Middenheim can provide,’ Graf Gunthar said. ‘Food, timber, cloth and fur. Soldiers too.’
Thane Hardin shook his head at the last offer. ‘My people are accustomed to fighting in the tunnels and understand something of the foe. We will drive the skaven back. It is only a matter of time.’
‘With all due respect, thane,’ Mandred said, ‘time is the one thing we don’t have. If these fiends are behind the plague, then every hour they infest the Ulricsberg allows them to spread disease among the people of Middenheim. This battle may be fought in your domain, but this fight doesn’t belong to dwarfs alone. Our people are at risk as well. You must allow us to help purge the mountain of these vermin.’
Ar-Ulric took up the call for battle. ‘A decisive thrust against the skaven, delivered by men and dwarfs. The reinforcements could be just the edge needed to tip the balance. Moreover, if we wait to fight we risk losing the battle to the plague.’
Thane Hardin and Kurgaz held a brief consultation in Khazalid, their words unintelligible to nearly all of the men around them, only Richter being versed enough in that language to follow some of what they were saying.
‘All right,’ Thane Hardin declared. ‘We will allow human troops in the tunnels. But we want their commander to be someone we can trust.’ He pointed a stubby finger at Mandred.
Graf Gunthar rose from his chair, glowering at the dwarf leader. ‘Impossible,’ he said. ‘My son is still healing from his wounds.’
‘He’ll get better,’ Kurgaz observed. ‘We’ll bring up some medicinal ale that’ll have him spry in no time.’ He flexed his stiff arm, wincing as a flash of pain from his wound shot through him. ‘Better than anything you have up here,’ he added. Without the worry of incurring a grudge, dwarf doktoring could work wonders in a very short time.
‘Father, I want to go,’ Mandred said. ‘The dwarfs helped build Middenheim. Even if we were sure of our own safety, we’d be obligated to help. Honour demands nothing less of us.’ He glared at the carcass. ‘Besides, I have a personal reckoning with these monsters.’
Reluctantly, Graf Gunthar settled back in his seat, lines of worry wrinkling his brow. Without a word, he nodded at his son.
‘Only the soldiers accompanying his grace should be made aware of the kind of enemy we face,’ von Vogelthal suggested. ‘If the knowledge were to become public it would spread panic just when we can afford it least.’ He bowed in apology to Brother Richter. ‘Not to contradict your speech about strength in adversity, but it is a wise man who prepares for the worst possibility.’
‘Then prepare we shall,’ Graf Gunthar declared. ‘No public speech, I agree with you there. That would breed panic. What we must do is to be subtle.’ He cast his gaze from one councillor to another. ‘Each liege lord will take his vassals into confidence. His vassals in turn will disseminate the truth to his subjects. From master to servant, piece by piece, we spread the word. We feed each man’s pride with a sacred trust instead of fostering a general panic. Frightened men panic, proud men fight.’
Proud, stubborn, the dwarfs fought to the last warrior to defend the lower workings. It took the hordes of Clan Mors three days and a thousand slaves to overwhelm the thirty dwarfs who made their stand in the gallery. By the time it was over, the floor was caked in black blood and fur.
Warlord Vrrmik gnawed on the severed finger of a dwarf as he surveyed the carnage. It wasn’t the loss of life that upset him — there were always more slaves to be had. Clan Mors was renowned for ferreting out weaker clans and enslaving them. The toughness of the enemy didn’t bother him either — he’d fought dwarfs often enough to know they were always more trouble than they were worth.
No, the burr in Vrrmik’s fur was the indignity of it all! Any victory he achieved was bitter and hollow, as empty as a dried-out flea. Warmonger Vecteek had summoned Clan Mors to Wolfrock under false pretences. Vrrmik had imagined he would share in the victory, that some of the triumph enjoyed by Clan Rictus would rub off on Clan Mors. Now, as Vecteek mobilised Mors, Vrrmik was discovering the depth of the tyrant’s duplicity.
Clan Mors was nothing but a diversionary force, meant to distract and draw off the dwarfs while Vecteek was leading the main body of skaven by a circuitous route into the heart of the dwarfhold!
Vrrmik was a horrifying sight as he prowled among the dead, his white fur standing stark against his black armour. Forged by the artisans of Clan Skryre, the steel plates had been steeped in powdered warpstone, lending it a horrendous capacity for damage. Some among the chiefs of Clan Mors had seen a hydra break its fangs on that armour, more than a few had cursed it for deflecting the blades of their hired assassins. Out of his armour, Vrrmik was formidable, huge and powerful even by the standards of a clan known for breeding hulking warriors. In his warp-plate, Vrrmik felt almost invincible.
‘Splendid victory, Great Warlord Vrrmik,’ Puskab Foulfur’s phlegmy voice coughed in the white skaven’s ear. The warlord almost choked on the finger he was gnawing. Springing away, he bared his fangs at the plague priest. One of the handicaps of his armour was that so much warpstone close to him had rendered his sense of smell quite feeble.
‘Plague-spitter,’ Vrrmik hissed at the antlered priest. ‘Go back to Vecteek. His paws might need licking. Hurry-scurry!’
Puskab coughed in a diseased semblance of amusement. ‘The Horned One favours Vecteek,’ he said.
Vrrmik gnashed his fangs. It was another point that disgusted him, the way the grey seers fawned over Vecteek and declared him the Horned Rat’s favourite pup! Just thinking about it made him want to kill something. He hoped his scouts would find some more dwarf tunnel fighters soon.
‘Clan Rictus steal-take all glory for itself,’ Puskab continued. ‘Leave nothing for Clan Pestilens. Less for Clan Mors.’
‘What do you speak-squeak?’ Vrrmik wondered aloud. It occurred to him that the plague monks were dire enemies of the grey seers and had their own brand of heretical religion. To date, they had been supportive of Vecteek and prospered by that alliance. Perhaps, however, Arch-Plaguelord Nurglitch wanted something more than simple wealth for his clan.
‘Vecteek has his plan,’ Puskab said, creeping closer, his eyes glittering in the torchlight. ‘We will have our own plan,’ he chittered.
The plague priest’s voice dropped to a low whisper as he described what those plans would be.
Chapter XIV
Altdorf
Brauzeit, 1114
Flanked by dour warrior priests, sombre in their black robes and grey cloaks, Adolf Kreyssig felt distinctly ill at ease as he strode through the echoing marble halls of the Great Cathedral. Alabaster busts of Sigmarite scions frowned down at him from niches carved into the forest of stone columns supporting the vaulted ceiling hundreds of feet overhead. Sprawling tapestries depicting the victories of Sigmar stretched across the walls, commemorating the triumphs of Sigmar the man. Stained-glass windows towered above the tapestries, each scene recalling a different miracle visited upon the Empire by Sigmar the god. Kreyssig had long ago cast aside his credulity for gods and miracles, but even he felt small surrounded by the grandiose iconography of the temple.
The warrior priests conducted their charge down a set of marble steps and into a wide corridor that led away from the main sanctuary and past the monastic cells of their own militant order. The few persons they passed wore the brown habits of mendicants or the white cassocks of friars. None of the higher clergy, the temple elders, were in evidence.
The Protector of the Empire shifted uncomfortably as the cat he led on a leash rubbed against his leg. One of the baroness’s creatures, of course, intended to warn him if there were skaven about. He hesitated a moment as the feline perked up its head and glanced about the hall. After a moment, it subsided, returning to that lazy indolence that had characterised its attitude since he’d acquired it. He stared uneasily at the animal, then glared at the curious faces of his guides. It wasn’t for men of their station to question the habits of their betters.