Gotrek and Felix: The Anthology (37 page)

‘Yes.’ Fredric craned his neck to get a look at where the watchman was standing. ‘Yes, I think so.’ He stood up, vigorously scratching at the boil on his neck, and walked to the watchman. ‘Yes, that’s right. There’s the human there,’ Fredric brought his hand down to point, but stopped when he noticed the filmy layer of pus covering it. ‘Damn it.’ Wiping his hand clean on the side of his tunic, Fredric used his other one to point out a bloodied body lying almost side-by-side with another to Faulkstein’s left.

Faulkstein bent next to the corpse Fredric had indicated. The man’s clothes were soaked in blood, his blond hair matted with filmy viscera where the ogre’s hammer had caved in his skull. The watchman made to turn the corpse over–

‘Stop!’ The priest of Morr held out his arms and stepped between the watchman and the corpse.

Startled, Faulkstein backed off. Recovering, he glared at the priest. ‘Why? What is it?’

‘I bid ye, sir, do not disturb the children of Morr.’ The priest settled next to the body, fussing over it with the same care and urgency that Faulkstein had seen apothecaries display when they treated the wounded.

Incense clung to the priest’s robes like death’s shadow, forcing the watchman to pull his tunic up around his nose. ‘May I?’ Faulkstein asked with mock sincerity, bending next to the dwarf’s corpse.

‘You may. He is a dwarf, he has no business with Morr, and Morr’s disciples none with him.’ The priest turned away.

Faulkstein unsheathed his dagger and lifted what was left of the dwarf’s head off the cobbled floor. By the looks of things the dwarf had been killed by the same bludgeoning weapon that ended the life of his companion. Judging by the size and angle of the indentation, the barkeep had been right: they’d both fallen prey to the same foe. ‘I–’ Faulkstein stopped short, his gaze falling on the dwarf’s chest. ‘My dear Herr Fredric, you are even stupider and inbred than you appear.’

‘Sir?’ Fredric’s mouth hung open in exaggerated offence.

‘This dwarf is not Gotrek Gurnisson.’ Faulkstein glared at Fredric. ‘And this...’ the watchman jabbed a finger at the priest of Morr’s back, ‘is unlikely to be Felix Jaeger.’

The barkeep stared back, bemused.

‘Do you know nothing of Trollslayers?’ Faulkstein asked, his patience long since gone.

‘Only what passes from the lips of bards and rumour mongers...’ Fredric paused to swat an ornery fly away from his face. ‘Dwarf Slayers are a cult of disgraced warriors. They seek death in battle to make up for one failure or another. It’s all a bit fatalistic–’

‘Yes,’ Faulkstein cut him off, ‘but those warriors, Herr Fredric, who seek death, rarely wear armour.’ Faulkstein tapped his dagger against the steel of the dwarf’s breastplate. ‘Besides, this dwarf doesn’t have the strength in his arms to accomplish the feats attributed to Gurnisson.’ The watchman poked the dead warrior’s bicep with his dagger. Impressive though the dwarf’s physique was when compared to that of a man’s, it was not the monolithic build Faulkstein’s quarry possessed.

Fredric stared at the dwarf’s arms; each was easily the size of his own thighs. He felt a chill run down his spine at the thought of the iron sinews that must surely criss-cross Gotrek’s frame. ‘An easy mistake, I feel, watchman. The dwarf’s stature presents him as far mightier than I.’

‘True enough.’ Faulkstein sheathed his knife and stood up. ‘And that, Herr Fredric, brings me to my final question.’ The watchman started towards Fredric. ‘How is it that you came to survive this butchery? The dwarf, the witch hunter and the captain,’ Faulkstein motioned to each of the bodies in turn, ‘they were hard men, men of violence and steel. Even the wizard, with the aid of his sorcery, should have had a better chance at survival than you.’ Faulkstein pressed his finger into Fredric’s chest, nudging the barkeep back towards the wall. ‘Yet they were all slain, cut down by a foe beyond even their considerable battle craft. So tell me, how is it that you, a mere barkeep, with naught but a rusted blade to defend yourself, survived when these men of strength could not?’ Faulkstein folded his arms, his eyes stabbing into Fredric as they searched for the truth.

Fredric felt his skin itch under the watchman’s stare. ‘I-I hid,’ he stammered.

‘You hid?’

‘Y-yes,’ The boil on his neck was itching more than Fredric could bear. He clamped his hand around it and continued, ‘I went to the cellar–’

‘Where?’

‘The cellar. I hid in the cellar.’

‘Why hide? Why not simply flee?’

Fredric made to answer but the watchman continued. ‘And what of the rat catcher, where is he?’

‘Th-the rat catcher?’ Fredric felt as though the boil was eating his neck. He dug his nails into it and winced at the pain. ‘Dead, he is dead, sir. I saw him on the floor.’ Fredric flinched as Faulkstein shot a hand out towards his head.

The watchman pulled the torch from a sconce on the wall behind Fredric. ‘Show me.’

Faulkstein followed Fredric
through the timber door behind the bar onto the slope of well-worn cobbles that led to the cellar, the torch casting grim shadows that fought and danced on the stone of the walls.

‘Careful, it gets slippery,’ warned Fredric.

Faulkstein stumbled, grunting at the barkeep’s too-late warning. Struggling to reset his footing, the watchman braced a hand against the wall. The stone felt moist and warm, like sweat-slick skin.

Faulkstein shook the thought from his head and continued down the slope. Dank air wafted up from below and he could feel his throat narrowing as a pungent tang filled his nostrils. Despite himself, the watchman longed for the acrid taste of the incense that wafted incessantly from the priests of Morr. It turned his stomach to think what wretched drink was left to brew in such a place as the Dragon’s cellar. Only the familiar snapping of the kindling as it burned in the torch brought Faulkstein comfort, the sound transporting him from the drudgery of the descent to the chair by his hearth, where a tall measure of wine awaited him. Thankful that his investigation was almost over, Faulkstein pushed on, down and into the cellar proper.

Despite the light of the torch, the darkness was unrelenting. Faulkstein shuffled forwards, feeling his pulse quicken with every footstep.

‘Here, let me.’ Fredric appeared as if from nowhere. Taking the torch from the startled watchman, he lit a large brazier at the centre of the room. Light raged into life and spilled out to illuminate the vaulted room.

Faulkstein blinked hard as his eyes adjusted, the smell of burning oil assailing his nostrils. Glad of the brief respite from the choking odour of the place, the watchman cast his gaze around the room. To the left, stacked on their sides, were row upon row of wooden caskets. Up ahead, a single dark-wood rack spanned the far wall, its cobwebbed shelves filled with a random assortment of glass bottles and pewter containers. To the right, huge iron drums stood upright, large patches of algae betraying their disrepair. The floor was covered in an off-white powder that had been used to mark out a pattern Faulkstein had never seen before: three circles connected by a triangle, which itself was encircled by a larger circle. The watchman studied the lines of powder, his analytical mind searching for meaning.

‘Herr Fredric.’ Faulkstein paused, disliking the slight quiver that had crept into his voice. His head swam from looking at the chalky circles. He licked his lips and swallowed: there was something wrong about the cellar, he could feel it in his gut. ‘Where does the rat catcher’s body lie?’ The watchman focused himself on his task, hoping to curtail his rising need to be elsewhere.

Fredric smiled, the firelight lending his features a sinister quality, and pointed over the watchman’s shoulder. ‘He is there, by the entrance.’

Faulkstein turned round and looked back towards the way they had come, straining his eyes to see in the half-gloom. A skeleton dressed in rags sat doubled over in a lee of the wall.

How?

The question hung in the watchman’s thoughts like an iron weight threatening to drown him.

How had he missed the body? How could it have decomposed so quickly? How had–

Fredric stuck a knife up and under Faulkstein’s ribcage and into his heart. The watchman shuddered and fell forwards onto his knees, blood haemorrhaging from his mouth as he spoke for the last time. ‘How?’

‘That’s the wrong question, Herr Faulkstein,’ Fredric bent down to whisper in the dying watchman’s ear. ‘“Who” is the only question that truly matters.’ Fredric dragged Faulkstein’s body into the middle of the daubed triangle and pulled the knife from his chest. ‘His name is Pharo’sla,’ Fredric spoke as the blood from the watchman’s body began to mingle with the powder, causing it to glow and writhe like a tortured serpent. ‘He thanks you for your part in his summoning.’ Fredric waited for the last of the life to leave the watchman’s eyes, and cut off his head.

Fredric exited through
the cellar into a narrow alley. It had been raining, turning the dirt of the street into a sludgy soup. Sighing, he looked up at the sky. The twin moons were still in ascendance, their fey light blanketing the city. Fredric pulled a scroll from his tunic and unrolled it to reveal a map of the Empire. Many innocents had died to make the map, their skin flayed from their screaming faces and pressed using foul magics. Fredric grinned darkly as the outline of Middenheim was replaced by a sickly-green dot that pulsed in time with the other bulbous markings scattered around the provinces.

Six down, one to go
.

Fredric felt a nausea grip his stomach as Nordland began to glow faintly, an infernal buzzing clawing at his mind.

North.
A thought not his own distilled from the chatter of insects, beckoned him onwards.

Securing the map in the folds of his clothing, Fredric took care to avoid the worst of the puddles, and turned down a side street. Tall buildings towered to either side of him, their ramshackle walls blocking out the moons’ glow. He paused for a moment to appreciate the relative darkness; he’d spent enough time in the light that evening.

‘Ah, there you are. You took your time.’ The voice came from the shadows.

Fredric turned to find a lone figure leaning against the wall, chewing a pencil.

‘Fredric Gerlach is it? Or perhaps you’d prefer Luipold Gunda?’ The figure tucked the pencil behind his ear and stood upright, levelling a sword at Luipold’s throat.

Luipold took a step back, the entire night flashing through his mind.

The barkeep, Fredric, had interrupted his incantation. The fool had stumbled into the cellar, breaking Luipold’s concentration. But he’d shooed him away without incident, filling his head with tales of vermin and the difficulty of catching them in the light. But Fredric returned. He’d sought safety, in a cowardly attempt to flee the fight raging upstairs, only to find a worse horror awaiting him: Luipold in the throes of his spell, his skin splitting and reforming as pustulent ooze ran from his pores. Fredric had turned to run, but Luipold moved first, staving the barkeep’s head in with a loose cobble. His strength waning, Luipold needed a vessel to finish the rite. The fight upstairs would bring the Watch. His mind raced, panicking as the consequences of failure struck him: his soul forfeit to the capricious nature of his patron. He had to move fast. Luipold snuck upstairs. Crouching behind the bar he searched for a solution. A wizard lay dead by the door. A shame, the taint of his magic would have pleased Pharo’sla. The brute with the broadsword, Luipold smelt the mark of faith upon him; he would do. Luipold made to blindside the captain, attack while he was engaged with the ogre, but... Luipold fought against the fog choking his memory. Something had struck the nearest ale tap, struck him. Then there was darkness.

‘Who are you?’ Luipold growled at the figure.

‘Felix Jaeger.’

‘The poet?!’

Felix dipped his head in a mock-bow. ‘The very same.’ Felix pointed his sword over Luipold’s shoulder. ‘And that’s Gotrek.’

Luipold turned to face the dwarf.

‘Aye, that’s me,’ Gotrek Gurnisson pointed a muscled thumb at his chest. ‘You’ve been a hard one to catch up to. Thought you’d given us the slip back in Altdorf.’ Gotrek fed the haft of his axe through his fists and rolled his neck loose. ‘Won’t be having that this time.’

Luipold bared his gnarled teeth, ‘Fools! Your blood shall christen my master’s rebirth!’ Luipold roared in pain-filled ecstasy as his left leg swelled to more than double its size, the flesh of his thigh bursting through his trouser leg to reveal a diseased scar that ran the length of the muscle. Reaching down, Luipold clawed opened the wound. Maggots wormed their way from his insides, crawling out from his flesh and scrambling across his fingers before falling to the street.