Some of Kreyssig’s assurance faltered as he heard the growled accusation, too much truth in the priest’s words for him to deny. ‘That is why I am the only man who can save Altdorf. I admit, I made a mistake. I treated with these monsters without knowing who and what they really were. That damage is done, but if they had not worked through me they should have found themselves someone else. Perhaps, it was Sigmar’s will that it was I they thought to work through.’
‘You dare invoke Sigmar’s name?’ The Grand Theogonist shook his head.
‘Call it what you will, then,’ Kreyssig snarled back, ‘but the fact remains that I have spoken with these vermin. I know something of how they think, how they work.’ He tapped the side of his head. ‘That knowledge is the only thing that can save this city.’
Again, the Grand Theogonist stiffened. ‘The grace of Sigmar is our only salvation.’
Kreyssig smiled at the remark. ‘Indeed, I shall need Sigmar to help me. I will need his sanction to prepare this city for the battle that is coming. I will need you to bestow the god’s blessing upon my edicts as Protector.’
The Grand Theogonist scowled at Kreyssig. ‘That would be blasphemy, a violation of this holy office.’
‘If we are to save this city — and your precious temple — you will have Sigmar sanction all that I do,’ Kreyssig said. ‘Otherwise, we will all be at the mercy of these monsters. In a few hours, I will deliver the first in a series of edicts. My first step will be the seizure of noble property.’
‘They will never stand for it,’ the Grand Theogonist warned. ‘No matter your position or the blessing of the Temple.’
‘The Vons will submit,’ Kreyssig said. ‘They will submit because they don’t want to be torn apart by the starving masses of Altdorf’s peasantry. They will submit because it is the only way any of them will survive.’ He laughed bitterly. ‘You see, there is going to be a great scandal, a few traitors in the Imperial court who have been siphoning off food stores and selling them to the nobles in Talabheim. After a little blue blood is shed, the rest of the nobles will stay quiet.’
‘I cannot lend my authority to such a murderous falsehood,’ the Grand Theogonist stated.
‘You will do more than lend your authority to it,’ Kreyssig said. ‘You will publicly accuse these nobles of heresy! The Temple of Sigmar will rouse the peasants, stir them until their howls for blood echo in the ears of the Vons. While the other temples sit idle, the Sigmarites will rally the people of Altdorf.’
‘To what end? How do these lies prepare us for a confrontation with the Underfolk?’
Kreyssig smiled, amused by the priest’s lack of vision. It seemed there were things his augurs couldn’t tell him. ‘We will pursue a new war against Talabheim. I will initiate conscription to rebuild the Imperial army, requisition arms from the guilds and knightly orders. When I am finished, the army of Altdorf will be the strongest force in the Empire. All it will take is a bit of cooperation from the Temple.’
‘Blasphemy, you mean,’ the priest said.
‘A necessary evil,’ Kreyssig stated. ‘An ill-tasting morsel to digest if we are to save Altdorf.’
The Grand Theogonist glared back at him, a flame of fervour in his eyes. ‘I am no longer Stefan Schoppe,’ he said in a voice as hard as granite. ‘A Grand Theogonist takes on a dwarfish name when he dons the golden robes. You may call me Gazulgrund.’
Kreyssig chuckled at the severity with which the priest intoned his adopted name. Perhaps to a Sigmarite such ceremony was important, but to him it was just so much superstitious nonsense.
‘Call yourself whatever you like,’ Kreyssig said. ‘So long as you do not fail me.’ He studied the Grand Theogonist a moment, then turned away. ‘I suggest you get yourself a cat,’ he called as he strode from the observium. ‘They’ll warn you if any ratty ears are around.’
Even after Kreyssig was gone, Grand Theogonist Gazulgrund continued to glare where the man had stood, hate burning in his eyes.
Sythar Doom reclined on a mattress stuffed with mouse-down and wrapped himself more tightly in a ratskin rug, a precaution against the clammy chill seeping into the warren from the river. He turned his ensorcelled gaze upon the stalactite ceiling far above, watching as bats flittered about the roof. His tail lashed from side to side as he watched a clutch of skavenslaves creeping about the ceiling, trying to catch the flying rodents. Batwing soup was a delicious delicacy, but only if the wings weren’t torn. For some reason they lost their taste if they weren’t intact. Hence the best way to gather the wings was to climb up and snatch the beasts from their roosts.
The Warpmaster of Clan Skryre lashed his tail in amusement as one of the slaves lost his grip and went crashing to the cavern floor. There was no cry; like any good hunting slave his tongue had been cut out long ago. No scream disturbed the bats, only the meaty thump of the ratman as he smacked into the unyielding limestone floor. The twitching corpse was quickly dragged away by a Clan Mors quartermaster. With an army as large as the one Sythar Doom had assembled, every little bit of meat was a blessing.
Sythar ran a paw along the tube fastened to the underside of his jaw, checking it for ticks. The filthy parasites sometimes congregated there, incinerating themselves as soon as they bit into the warpstone-infused lining. The shrivelled husks were a tasty titbit with a delicious crunch to them. Sadly, none of the insects rewarded Sythar’s preening. They’d become noticeably scarce in Skavenblight since the collapse of Clan Verms. It was almost enough to make him regret the Wormlord’s demise. Almost.
Metal fangs gleamed as Sythar shifted himself around to face the massive warp-lantern that towered beside his pillowed bed. The Luminator scrambled about the many dials and flywheels, making certain the sliver of warpstone providing the eerie green light didn’t exude too much energy. Early experiments with the warplight had resulted in some unfortunate accidents, but those incidents had become noticeably less frequent over time. Since the Luminator was chained to his machine, Sythar was very confident the skaven would do his utmost to ensure the warplight’s stability.
‘Report-talk from Rati-man.’ The whining voice of a Clan Skully rodent drew Sythar’s attention away from the warplight. The jewelled eyes gleamed balefully in the green luminance as he stared down at the spy.
‘Speak-squeak,’ Sythar declared, a note of annoyance in his posture.
‘Abin-gnaw Hakk,’ the skaven said, affecting a loathsomely human bow. Sythar glared at the piebald creature, his body draped in the scarlet cloak of Raksheed Deathclaw’s elite cult of murder-rats. Whatever expression there was on Abin-gnaw’s face was hidden behind the crimson cloth wrapped across his muzzle. From the arrogance of the spy’s posture and the boldness with which he announced his identity, it was obvious he was trying to draw attention to himself.
Sythar chittered happily. Any messenger who declared himself to his superiors could only be the bearer of good news. Most likely, the original message had started much lower on Clan Skully’s food chain before Abin-gnaw snatched it for himself.
The Warpmaster sprawled back on his mouse-fur cushions and flicked one of his claws at Abin-gnaw, motioning him to speak.
‘Man-things train-teach army,’ Abin-gnaw squeaked. ‘Take-bring much weapons. Much armour.’
Sythar rose from his cushions, sparks flashing from his fangs. What was this fool-meat babbling about! The humans were raising an army. They were taking up arms. By what mental deficiency did this low-grade mouse-fondling moron think this was good news!
Abin-gnaw wasn’t fool enough to ignore Sythar’s anger. With an almost boneless motion, he flopped to the floor and twisted about so he could bare his throat to the Warpmaster in the universal skaven gesture of submission. ‘Listen-wait!’ the spy squeaked. ‘Man-things make war on other man-thing nest!’