Gotrek and Felix: The Anthology (43 page)

The trapdoor was being pulled open even as Thanquol turned back towards the witch’s cell. The harsh voice of the witch hunter shouted from the top of the stairs.

‘Behold! The heretic’s creatures have come to save her!’

Brother Echter’s statement was punctuated with a pistol shot. Thanquol could dimly feel the bullet crack against the rat-ogre’s back. From past experience, he knew it would take more than that to slow down Boneripper. However, there was just a chance that the human would reach the same conclusion and start shooting at Thanquol’s body.

Turning around, protecting the body lashed to the rat-ogre’s back, Thanquol roared at the frightened men clattering down the stairs, pounding his claws against his chest. The display appeared to impress the humans just as much as it had Pakstab’s skaven. The men following the witch hunter cried out in despair, then turned and fled back up the stairs.

‘You’ll not frighten me, mutant!’ Brother Echter swore, undaunted by the defection of his followers. Boldly, he drew a second pistol from his belt.

Thanquol was in no mood for such nonsense. Lunging forwards, he brought Boneripper’s massive claw slashing down, tearing deep furrows through the witch hunter’s flesh. The mutilated man screamed through the tatters of his face and crashed to the floor.

The skeletal rat-ogre turned back towards the witch’s cell, shaking his bloody claw at the obstinate hag. ‘You will suffer much-much unless you fix-change!’ Thanquol growled.

‘You killed everything I cared for,’ the witch told him. ‘And if you kill me, you’ll never get back!’

Thanquol clenched his bony hands, shaking with frustration. How could he threaten something that didn’t care if she lived or died? Worse, how could he threaten something that in dying would doom him as well?

Before he could work out the dilemma, the crypt echoed with the explosive report of a pistol shot. The hag’s gloating countenance became twisted with pain, a bright bloom of blood springing from her breast. Wailing in horror, Thanquol brought Boneripper’s giant foot smashing down upon the mangled witch hunter. Vengefully he stomped out the lingering spark of life that had enabled Brother Echter to shoot the witch.

Filled with despair, Thanquol went back to the cell. The breeder-witch was lying upon the floor, bleeding out from her wound. If he had had his magic, he could have helped her, much as it offended his senses. But the hag’s own curse made this impossible. He could only watch helplessly as the witch died, and in dying sealed his own fate.

Thanquol railed against the injustice of it all! To be doomed to such a cruel end because of the crude magic of a filthy breeder-thing, and all because a bunch of slack-witted fool-meat had led him to believe his mortal enemies were near! If he had the chance again, he would kill every last rat in Greypaw Hollow for goading him into this useless flea-hunt! By the Horned One, they should suffer for doing this to him!

As Thanquol bemoaned his fate, as he watched the witch die, a strange sensation came upon him. A flash of unspeakable cold, a whirring blur of light and darkness…

The grey seer fought against the darkness, though this time the struggle was far less than it had been before. When he could see again, it was with the clear vision of skaven eyes. A thousand smells rushed into his nose, a hundred sounds trickled into his ears. He could feel the blood flowing through his veins, the heart pounding in his chest. For good measure, he twitched his whiskers.

He was back in his own body! Again he could feel the aethyric forces flowing about him, the glory of the Horned Rat waiting to shape itself at his command. Thanquol couldn’t understand how the curse had been broken. Some final, desperate effort to gain the grey seer’s aid on the part of the witch?

Thanquol struggled to peer over Boneripper’s shoulder to see into the cell. Irritably, he snarled an order at his bodyguard, telling it to turn around. With its usual slavish obedience, the rat-ogre shifted its position.

The witch was dead, there was no mistaking that smell! Thanquol ground his fangs together as the solution to his deliverance came to him. The hag had been toying with him! She had told him if she died he would never break the curse when it was her very death that had ended the enchantment! How he wished she was alive so he could wring her neck!

For the moment, however, he had more pressing problems. The humans would recover from their fright soon, and when they did, they would come back to the crypt in force. It would be best for him to be far away when they did.

Then there was the small matter of Greypaw Hollow and the treachery of its denizens. Thanquol would teach those rats the price for betraying him!

But first he’d have one of them cut him loose. The idea of travelling all the way to Skavenblight tied to Boneripper’s back wasn’t exactly appealing.

He’d spent more than enough time around the rat-ogre.

Nathan Long

1

‘The Lurking Horror?’
chuckled a merchant in orange robes. ‘A tale to frighten children. It does not exist.’

‘It exists,’ said a hard-faced man in the garb of a river pilot. His accent was almost impenetrable. ‘Not a year ago it made off with half the sheep of my tribe and ate my cousin Amduj.’

‘Do you know where it dwells?’ asked Felix.

The pilot shrugged. ‘It is everywhere and nowhere. It steps from behind the night, and can open a door in a shadow.’

Gotrek growled, annoyed. ‘Very helpful.’

Felix sighed and looked around the low, arched common room, trying to gauge who else in this foreign place might speak Reikspiel. He and Gotrek were in the Forbidden Garden, a house of ill repute in Ras Karim, a port some hundred leagues east of Copher, asking after a legendary monster said to haunt the desert south of the city.

They had first learned of the beast on Sartosa, where Gotrek had overheard an Arabyan pirate bragging that he had seen it kill fifty men, and that it had a hide of black iron that no mortal weapon could pierce. The tale had worked upon the Slayer like a red cape to an Estalian bull. He bought passage on the first ship heading south, and they had followed the rumour of the Horror from Lashiek, the corsair city, to Copher, the spice port, and now to Ras Karim. But though everyone they spoke to in their travels had heard of it, none could agree where it lived, or what it was, or if it was anything more than a myth.

The mellow glow of intricately pierced tin lamps pushed back the darkness of the hot, dry evening, revealing clusters of men reclining on satin cushions around knee-high tables, drinking fragrant mint tea from tiny cups and sipping smoke from water-filled pipes. The air was heady with smoke and the cloying scent of night jasmine, blooming in the courtyard garden that gave the place its name.

In the centre of the tables, veiled, bare-midriffed dancers in gauzy pantaloons swayed to whining flutes and pattering drums, while other women served and sat with the men, murmuring seductions in their ears and leaning lasciviously against them as they fed them chunks of spiced lamb.

Not all eyes were on the dancers, however. More than a few men glanced furtively at Gotrek and Felix. Felix tried to convince himself that this was only natural. Men of the Empire were not often seen this far south and east, and dwarfs were undoubtedly rarer still, particularly bare-chested, red-crested, one-eyed dwarfs with shoulders wider than many doorways.

A thin man at Felix’s elbow coughed politely. His head was shaved, and gold-rimmed spectacles perched on his nose. ‘Noble foreigners, if you truly seek the Horror, it would be wiser to enquire on the morrow in the Street of Scholars.’ He sniffed in the direction of the other men. ‘There you will receive science and fact, not rumour and tall tales.’

‘Thank you, learned sir,’ said Felix, bowing and hoping he’d got the honorific right. ‘We will do so.’ He looked at Gotrek. ‘Tomorrow then?’

Gotrek shrugged. ‘Aye. Though the sooner I find my doom, the sooner I can stop drinking this piss water.’ He made a face as he finished his mug. ‘Worst beer I’ve ever had.’

‘That is because it is not beer,’ said the merchant. ‘Ras Karim is not rich in wheat like your northern lands. It is
tialva
, made from sorghum.’

‘Sorghum?’ Gotrek choked. ‘Valaya preserve me.’ He glared behind the bar. ‘Do they have anything else?’

The merchant nodded. ‘Try the
arag, our native drink. It is made with anise, and very potent.’

‘Anise.’ Gotrek shuddered. He turned away from the merchant and pounded the bar. ‘Barkeep! More piss water!’

Felix cringed and looked around to see if anyone had taken offence. They were still being scrutinised, but thankfully no one seemed to have understood Gotrek’s words.

As he turned back to tell Gotrek to keep his voice down, Felix noticed a pair of dark eyes looking at him. He stopped, held by their gaze. They belonged to one of the women of the house. She leaned against a fat pillar, staring boldly at him. Behind her translucent veil her full lips curved into a knowing smile. The rest of her voluptuous charms were revealed beneath an equally transparent sleeveless top and pantaloons. Felix gulped. It had been a long, dry journey to Ras Karim. Very dry.

She stepped toward him, her belt of coins jingling softly with each sway of her hips.

‘Greetings, esteemed foreigner,’ she said in a low, honeyed voice.

‘Greetings,’ said Felix, awkwardly. His tongue seemed suddenly too big for his mouth.

‘Would you like to add a coin to my belt?’ she asked, looking up at him through black lashes. She smelled of vanilla and smoke. ‘I have never had the coin of a northman before. I hear they are large, and of very hard metal.’

Felix coughed, blushing. He turned to Gotrek. ‘Gotrek, as we must wait until tomorrow…’

The Slayer shrugged. ‘Do what you will, manling. I’m going to see how much sorghum beer it takes to get me drunk.’ He pounded on the bar again. ‘Barkeep! Where’s that piss water?’

Unclothed but for
her veil and her shimmering belt, the dancer’s golden-brown curves were even more astounding. Felix swallowed convulsively as she took his hand and drew him toward the bed, a low, cushioned dais in the centre of her small, opulent room, piled high with silk pillows and overhung with a sheer canopy.

Felix cleared his throat. ‘Aren’t you going to remove your veil?’

‘My veil?’ She smiled as she knelt before him. ‘That would be immodest.’ She began unbuckling his belt. ‘Now, please, tease me no more. I must see what you have in your coin pouch…’

‘Oh, devil of
the north,’ cried the dancer a while later. ‘You shake me to my core!’

She clutched Felix to her in ecstasy.

‘Er,’ said Felix, pausing. ‘I think that was the building shaking, actually.’

‘Indeed,’ purred the dancer. ‘So powerful. So potent.’

The room shook again, and this time Felix heard a crash from below.

‘Ah, I think there might be some trouble.’

The dancer pouted. ‘The men fight. They always fight. Forget them, beloved.’ She ground against him. ‘Come, I hunger for you.’

Felix was hungry too, but just as he returned to her embrace, there came a thunderous crash, then a muffled, ‘By Grimnir’s beard, you’ll pay for that!’

More thuds and smashes followed, along with angry cries and the high-pitched shrieks of frightened women.

‘Sigmar curse him!’ groaned Felix. He disentangled himself from the dancer’s arms and reached for his clothes.

‘You leave me, noble warrior?’ she moaned, dismayed. ‘Where do you go?’

‘To speak with a Slayer about timing,’ growled Felix.

‘Sigmar take you,
Gotrek!’ cried Felix, still buckling on his sword belt and stamping his left foot into his boot as he shoved through the angry sailors and merchants and artisans who were all trying to come to grips with the dwarf. ‘Can you not go one night without stirring up trouble? I’d only just–’

He paused. Gotrek looked awful. Though he fought like a badger, he was sweating and pale – almost green – and his eyes were unfocused.

Felix ducked as a tribesman swung a stool at him, then kicked the man in the knee. ‘Gotrek?’

Gotrek heaved a merchant in loose breeches into the crowd. Five men went down, but Gotrek almost did too. He was reeling.

‘Gotrek?’ said Felix again as he tripped one man into another. ‘Are you drunk?’

Gotrek shook his head. Sweat sprayed from his beard. ‘Something…’ He punched a man in the stomach, then kneed him in the face when he doubled up. ‘Something wrong… with the beer.’

Felix frowned. ‘Wrong?’

Gotrek swung at a man with fierce eyes and fiercer moustaches. He missed! The man kicked Gotrek in the chest to no effect. Gotrek shoved him unsteadily to the floor and staggered back. ‘My head… hurts.’

The barkeep was shouting at the crowd. His nose was twice its normal size and streaming blood, and he had two alarming black eyes. He pointed to the door.

The brawlers started pushing Gotrek and Felix toward the street like they were flotsam floating on a sweaty sea. Felix was tempted to draw his sword and even the odds a bit, but dared not. The local authorities might forgive a tavern brawl. Murder they would not.

Unfortunately, some of the brothel’s patrons didn’t share his compunction. A tribesman was drawing a curved dagger. Gotrek caught his wrist and gave him an uppercut that snapped his teeth together with a crack like a pistol-shot.

The barkeep roared in his native tongue, waving his hands, and Felix saw other men reluctantly sheathing knives and scimitars. Must be fastidious about blood on his flagstones, he thought.

Gotrek spun a herdsman around by his belt and tossed him into the crowd. Felix punched a black-bearded trader in the face and dodged a kick from a brawny labourer. He heard a shout behind him and turned. Four men were running at them with one of the low tables tipped on its side like a shield. Gotrek tried to get his axe out to split the table, but he fumbled it. The table bashed into them and forced them backwards.

Gotrek slurred a dwarfish curse and pushed back. Felix joined him, but they could get no traction.

Felix looked back. They were skidding toward the door.

‘Get around it!’ he called. ‘Gotrek–’

Too late. With a crash, the table hit the edges of the door and shot them tumbling out into the dusty street.

Gotrek surged up, roaring and throwing blind punches, but no one had followed them out. Instead, the Forbidden Garden’s heavy wooden door slammed shut in their faces, and Felix heard bolts shoot shut and locks clack closed.

Felix got painfully to his feet and looked around. They were entirely alone. There wasn’t a soul on the street. And it was quiet. No noise of traffic. No night bird’s cry. Not a sound came from the houses around them. Even the shouting and commotion from inside the brothel had stopped as if it had never been.

Gotrek stood clutching his head and swaying, his legs wide-braced and shaking, as if he struggled under a great weight. ‘Drugged,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘Cowards drugged me.’

‘Drugged?’ Felix wondered why. Did they hope to rob the Slayer? The only things of value either of them carried at the moment were their weapons. Their journey to the east had beggared them.

‘Let’s go back to Ishurak’s ship,’ he said. ‘You can sleep it off there.’

Gotrek nodded queasily. ‘Just… point me in the right direction.’

‘This way.’

Felix started toward the docks, Gotrek lurching along behind as if his legs were made of wood. Their steps echoed eerily off the moon-washed stucco buildings that lined the street. Ahead of them a lit window went dark. The shutters of another banged shut, and Felix heard the click of a lock. A baby wailed, then was silenced.

Felix slowed, his hand dropping to his hilt. Something was wrong. Gotrek didn’t look up. All his concentration was focused on putting one foot in front of the other.

There was a tiny sound behind them – the softest scuff of sole on sand. Felix turned. He stared. A semicircle of motionless, identically dressed men stood behind them, heavy tulwars in their gauntleted hands.

2

The men wore
bronze breastplates over blood-red livery, and spiked helmets wrapped in blood-red turbans. Their faces were hidden, veils of fine bronze mail draped over their features, obscuring them utterly. They showed no flesh at all.

Gotrek snarled and drew his rune axe, holding it unsteadily before him. Felix drew his sword. The masked warriors advanced in unison, going on guard as one.

A voice cried out a command.

They stopped.

A man in gold-trimmed red robes stepped from behind them. He was tall but hunched, as if his high, column-shaped hat made his head too heavy for his stringy neck. Swinging before his sunken chest was a small silver flute that hung from a long necklace. He looked at Gotrek and Felix with a mixture of curiosity and contempt. ‘Do not hurt our guests,’ he said in a smooth voice, and Felix realised he was speaking Reikspiel for their benefit. ‘The dwarf will fall soon enough.’