"You can find anything in Marienburg except an honest deal." - Han Liu, Cathayan merchant
Marienburg, the Wasteland
Falk
It had been such a good day.
By their very nature, a warrior-priest of any Imperial deity didn't have many days of what one could call leisure. The fight never ended, but even the staunchest Sigmarite puritan Witch Hunter could not deny that every warrior needed rest.
A month had passed since Reinesburg. The journey to Nuln, then Altdorf, and then by river to Marienburg had been interrupted only by a band of goblin river pirates that picked the wrong barge to try to loot. Falk had already completed his lone errand of acquiring a few specialty shells for his grudge-raker. Though there was always something to investigate, some wrong to right, in Marienburg, for that day, just that day, Falk and Draga were going to give themselves a moment to catch their breath.
Then Falk spilled the wrong person's ale.
The Emerging Sturgeon was not a particularly nice place. Their respective temples gave both Falk and Draga a reasonable stipend for living expenses, and often their work led to bounties and rewards, like the one the Baron of Reinesburg had given, but neither warrior-priest saw the point of wasting coin on luxury. So, there they had been, sitting in a crowded and dim tavern, pressed in among sailors and laborers around midday, when Falk had stood up from his seat and accidentally bumped into someone, spilling their full tankard down their front. The pewter mug clanged loudly as it hit the ground and the rest of its contents spread over floorboards that were probably more ale than wood after their long years of service.
"Oh, shit." Falk cursed. "Sorry."
He looked down at the person he had bumped into, though not as far down as he had expected. She was a tall, lean woman with olive skin. At first glance, Falk would have assumed she was a sailor or, more likely, a pirate. The woman wore a long coat of bright yellow leather and a tricorn hat atop black hair that fell to her chin. Her gloved hand was already on the grip of her cutlass.
It was the half-cape she wore over her left shoulder that made Falk think again. The cape was black, stitched with the image of a silver spear behind a golden sunburst. It was the symbol of Myrmidia, a goddess of war and strategy primarily worshipped in the Estalian and Tilean city-states.
"I'll buy you another one?" Falk offered when the Myrmidian didn't say anything.
"I just bought this coat, you oaf." Was the reply, her accent Tilean.
"I'll…pay to have it laundered?" Falk tried with a cringe. Some people could be very touchy when it came to this sort of public embarrassment. Dueling culture was prominent in one form or another across the human nations of the Old World. If one wasn't careful…
"In the sight of Bellona Myrmidia, my honor demands satisfaction, sir. You will meet me outside at once, or be known as a coward." The Tilean said.
"Uh. Sorry about your honor, I guess. You win." Falk grunted, turning to go back to the bar. He was rewarded with a look of utter bafflement on the Tilean's face.
She slid in front of him.
"So? You're not only saying you are, indeed, a coward, but are also insulting the Lady of War with your denial?" The Tilean asked, her voice louder than was necessary.
Falk snorted. "If you say so." He said, making to walk around her.
An empty leather glove struck him across the face.
Anger flared through Falk's gut as the Tilean stood before him, primly tugging her glove back on. The Truthblade closed his eyes and sighed, then looked over at Draga in hopes of some kind of support, but the Blackbow looked just as eager as everyone else. One last glance at the Tilean. He looked into the hazel eyes on either side of an aquiline nose and so no anger. No, not even offense or humiliation. Falk saw glee and mischief.
Verena's bloody blindfold. Falk thought. "Fine." He grunted, heading for the door. The sounds of chairs scraping against the floor and bets being exchanged followed him out into the street.
The fact that Marienburg managed to be the largest city in the world was made all the more impressive by the fact that most of it rested atop artificial islands raised in the Manannspoort Sea. Within the massive crescent that was Marienburg's harbor, ships that came from quite literally all over the world arrived to offload their treasures and bring new wonders back to their places of origin.
This all meant that space was at a premium and things were built up rather than out. The cobbled plaza Falk walked out into was not large, but its surrounding buildings were densely packed, all surrounding a fountain that itself was centered upon Manaan, the god of the sea.
"I don't want you to be too afraid, so rest assured, I only intend to fight to first blood." The Tilean said as she followed behind Falk. "That is unless, of course, you want to take it further."
"I don't particularly want to take it at all." Falk said. He was wearing the sleeveless jerkin, cavalier's hat, and striped breeches he usually wore when he wasn't expecting a battle, carrying his falchion and pistol.
"Rather strange for a man carrying a sword to be so reluctant to use it." The Tilean said. She dramatically flicked her half cape back and drew her cutlass with a ringing of steel. "Know that you stand before Bianca Scordato, Sister of the Order of Radiants, Warrior-Priest of Bellona Myrmidia, Our Lady of War."
Falk blinked. Another warrior-priest. This seemed like an unworthy diversion for the both of them. Then again, it was a non-lethal duel, and one did need to keep their skills sharp against new opponents, he supposed.
"Falkenwulf Daur, Truthblade of Verena." He replied in kind, his falchion slowly coming out of the scabbard.
"How auspicious. You serve the mother my own goddess." Bianca noted as she leveled her cutlass at Falk. "Take solace, then, that the mother will be proud to see her child's servants have surpassed her own."
"You plan on talking until it sharpens your tongue or do you plan on using that sword you were so eager to draw?" Falk asked.
The Truthblade's barb actually brought a smirk to Bianca's face. Verena's wisdom, she was goading him into playing along. It was time to throw a twist of his own, then.
"Shall we begin?" Bianca asked.
"Sooner we're done, sooner I go back to my beer." Falk said.
The Radiant charged. She would have to close and act swiftly. In both the length of arm and sword, Falk held the advantage, but Bianca's long, bounding strides ate up ground, and within a pair of heartbeats the Tilean was in close, cutlass slicing toward's Falk's neck.
Then it stopped. The cool steel of the blade's edge barely kissed Falk's skin. Bianca had stopped her attack, because if she hadn't, the blade would have taken Falk's head clean off. The Truthblade hadn't moved a muscle.
"What are you doing?" Bianca asked.
"What do you mean?" Falk asked in return.
"Why aren't you defending yourself?" Bianca demanded.
Falk waited a few seconds, then said, "am I not?"
Now the annoyance in Bianca's expression was real. "You're not taking this seriously. You're mocking me."
It was Falk's turn to smile. "You sure about that?" He asked.
Bianca looked down. The clipped point of Falk's falchion was pressed into her belly with just enough force to dimple the leather of the coat that had started this mess. Bianca's eyes flicked down to the falchion, then back up to Falk's gaze. Oh. So that's how it's going to be, her face seemed to say.
The duelists broke apart. They circled each other. Falk was committed now. May as well start taking his opponent seriously.
"Cut him to ribbons, Sister!" A familiar voice called from a second story balcony of the Emerging Sturgeon.
Thank you, Draga. Falk thought, almost rolling his eyes. To take his gaze from Bianca would have been a bad idea.
The Radiant lunged. Falk struck downward with his falchion, knocking the cutlass away. He attempted a quick upward slash but Bianca spun with her forward momentum and tried to cut across Falk's flank. The Truthblade managed to raised his sword arm and parry the attack, turning to keep Bianca in front of him. The Radiant was swift as a sunbeam and just as dazzling with the alacrity of her movements. In spite of being bigger and stronger, Falk found himself on the defensive as Bianca harried him with a rapid series of thrusts and cuts. The Truthblade found himself being backed up around the plaza.
Falk suddenly lashed out with the fist of his left hand. Bianca's eyes went wide and she had to lean back to avoid it. Falk advanced, believing he had her, but the Tilean kept falling back to a handspring that saw her back on her feet and ready to meet his offensive. Cheers and sounds of approval rose up around the plaza.
Seems I'm not the favorite. Falk thought. Not unexpected. I'm not the pretty lady acting like the anti-heroine of some stage play.
The balance of the fight even out. Falk and Bianca went move for move, twisting around each other in a dance of steel. Then Bianca advanced, a dirk suddenly appearing from behind her back. Falk blanched. In a panic, he took up his pistol finger off the trigger, using it to deflect Bianca's dagger. He flipped the firearm and held it by the barrel just as Bianca struck with both weapons. The duelists were locked together now, almost nose to nose.
"For a moment, I thought you were going to shoot me." Bianca said with a fierce smile. She was enjoying herself.
"Verena is a goddess of truth, so I won't say I wasn't tempted." Falk retorted.
"You might change your mind on that in a moment." Bianca said.
Falk tried to act first, use his superior strength to drive his opponent back. But Bianca used his momentum against him. Falk stumbled forward, barely managing to ward off a slash of the dirk towards his right arm, then Bianca reengaged. Her cutlass went low, and if Falk hadn't intercepted the attack, he might have been down a hammer and two comets.
Bianca pushed. Falk let out a rather undignified sound of distress as he was forced to backpedal to keep the edge of the cutlass from the crook of his legs. There was laughter around the plaza. Falk was too focused to be embarrassed.
Then, suddenly, the backs of Falk's knees encountered stone. The Truthblade found himself resting against the edge of the fountain. Bianca's dirk came up, but Falk managed to catch it just below his pistol's trigger guard. The Tilean was focusing her weight on the dirk, trying to nick Falk's neck or chin.
"I almost feel a little bad about that one." Bianca said in a tone that was everything but apologetic.
"Don't worry. We're about to be even." Falk said.
Now stationary and braced, Falk managed to guide the cutlass away from his legs. He then allowed himself to flop back, dropping his falchion and taking hold of the front of Bianca's coat. The Radiant yelped as she was levered up over Falk and pitched into the fountain with a great splash.
The laughter around the plaza went up again. Falk looked around to see people were watching from storefronts, balconies, and alleyways. He refocused on Bianca, who came up from the fountain coughing and spitting out water.
"I did offer to have that coat laundered for you." Falk said, setting his pistol on the fountain's edge before stepping onto it. In the water, Bianca's superior speed would be hampered. It was Falk's best shot. "I just didn't th-..."
His boot slipped on stone made wet by Bianca's plunge. Falk pitched forward, splashing down into cold water. The big man pushed himself up, finding his hat floating a short distance away, its red feathers drooping. People around the plaza were howling with laughter. And Falk, though admittedly self-conscious about all this, couldn't bring himself to be upset. People didn't have much to laugh about on the average day. He didn't mind being the butt of the joke in this instance.
Truthblade's eyes met Radiant's. Bianca's face said, well, we're already in it this far.
Falk stood, water sluicing off of him as he rose. Bianca did as well, pulling back, making for the statue of Manaan. Falk followed, closing the distance with longer strides, wondering what his foe was planning.
Bianca put a foot on the plinth that held the statue, springing off from it, soaring through that air in a final gambit. Falk tried to bring his sword up and across in a warding gesture…
Impact.
Bianca slammed into him. He felt the sting of steel cutting open his neck just below his left ear. Falk stumbled back, free hand going to his neck. It wasn't deep, thankfully.
"Well fought, Brother Falkenwulf. But not well enough." Bianca said with a cocky grin.
Falk laughed. "You sure?"
Bianca blinked. Then she felt her chin, where a thin trickle of blood was welling from the cut Falk had landed as Bianca had leapt at him.
There was silence around the plaza.
Then laughter, cheers, and groans all melded together into a chorus. A draw meant no bets were won or lost. Anticlimactic to some. Falk was just satisfied he hadn't lost, in the end. Perhaps he'd cared more than he'd thought in the end.
"Well fought, Sister Bianca. Almost well enough." Falk said, one side of his mouth quirking up.
Bianca, breathing heavily. Then she laughed, a boisterous sound, and offered her hand.
Falk shook it, finding himself chortling along with her.
"I didn't like this coat that much, anyway." The Radiant said with a wink. "But you will be buying me the drink you offered."
"Of course." Falk assured her.
"Falk! Heads up!" Draga's voice suddenly cut in.
The Truthblade acted without even thinking.
Draga
Falk tackled Bianca back into the water just in time for the crossbow bolt to go through the space where the latter's head had been moments before. Draga saw the shooter trying to make their escape through the crowd and ran after them without another word, following the brown hood of her quarry.
Cities were not Draga's domain. Weaving among people, market stalls, carts, and beasts of burden quite flitting through trees and brush. People had the annoying tendency to keep moving. The only benefit was the one in the brown cloak was the first to encounter resistance, causing some people to stop and look, allowing Draga to gain ground.
"In the name of Taal and Rhya, stop where you are!" Draga demanded, but the would-be assassin paid no heed as they ran across a canal bridge. Draga followed them over it. She only had her messers, her black bow sitting unstrung in her room.
The assassin hit some scaffolding that was on the face of a building under renovation. They climbed it, heading for the rooftops. Draga scampered up after them. The scaffold went up three stories, leading to the summit of a long block of connected rooftops. Workers cried out in alarm as quarry and hunter passed by them. Draga snatched a workman's hammer from a hanging bucket as she passed it.
Draga reached the top of the scaffold and dove onto the roof without bothering to spot her prey. Her instincts were good, as the assassin had reloaded their crossbow and attempted to shoot the Blackbow, but Draga's preemptive dive saved her life. Draga rolled to her feet and continued her pursuit. Her quarry was within thirty paces now, and it seemed they were not as accustomed to long exertion as she was. It was understandable. Taal held the hunt in his domain, and Draga trained hard to ensure it was her quarry, not she, that would flag and falter first.
The assassin reached a ladder at the edge of the roof. As they tried to descend, Draga hurled the hammer she had purloined. The thrown tool struck the hooded head of her target just as they were about to disappear from view as they climbed down, rocking their head back. They slid down the ladder, or perhaps tumbled, Draga couldn't be sure, but the ladder was pulled down just as Draga reached the edge of the roof herself. She looked down into a street to see the brown cloak moving unsteadily away, its wearer clutching their head.
Eyes darting around, Draga saw a balcony one story down across the street from her. She back up, gave herself a running start, and leapt across the way, catching herself on the balcony's railing. Draga then jumped from the balcony to the roof of a passing carriage, running along it and springing off to land on the street and continue her pursuit. The assassin ducked into an alley up ahead. Draga drew her blades. She knew it was perfect ambush territory.
Entering the alley, Draga saw her target sagging against one wall. They still held their head with a hand and accompanying sleeve that were both stained with blood. The assassin finally slumped down to one knee, vomited on the ground, then collapsed. Draga was only a few strides away at that point, wondering if, perhaps, her thrown hammer hadn't been thought out quite enough.
"Oi! Get up! Not through with you yet." Draga snapped as she approached the downed assassin.
"You're not from around here, are you?" Someone said in a masculine voice that evoked the image of burning sandpaper in Draga's mind.
The speaker emerged from an opening in a wooden fence further down the alley, holding a truncheon with the business end wrapped in an iron chain. The man's appearance screamed "back alley ganger"; a grubby vest and trousers, badly done tattoos, one of which was both recently done and infected. The man himself was built like a battering ram crafted mostly from scar tissue.
Draga raised her messers. "This man just tried to kill a warrior-priest of Myrmidia. I don't think it matters where I am from. There is only one punishment."
The thug smacked his club against his palm, smiling with yellowed teeth. "A Strigany talking about crime and punishment. Fuckin' rich, that."
Draga scoffed. "Calling the Strigany a thief? Shallya's mercy, but aren't you creative?" She pointed one of her messers at him. "Turn around and walk away. You haven't done anything that will earn you my steel just yet."
"That's not how things work in Marienburg, love." The thug said, tilting his head forward and looking past Draga. "You messed with one of ours. Now you get messed with. You're lucky all I have to do is rough you up. You better hope Betjen here doesn't die from that knock on the head or you'll really regret it."
Draga risked a quick glance over her shoulder. Two more gangers were blocking her exit from the alley. She had followed her target, apparently named Betjen, back into his gangs territory without realizing it.
When a pack of hunting dogs took a bear, it was the teeth snapping at the bear's heels, keeping it from taking decisive action, forcing it to keep turning, keep shifting focus, keep getting worn down, that eventually opened up the lethal clamping of jaws around the throat. The bear was not smart enough to realize it couldn't just break out. It could kill the pack.
Draga wasted no more words. She rushed forward, hearing the gangers behind her kick into rapid motion as she did. The talkative ganger took his club in both hands like a woodsman about to start felling a tree. Draga feinted and paused her charge just out of her enemy's reach. The club whiffed, then clacked against the alley wall. The Blackbow darted forward. She sank a messer into her enemy's right bicep, the other down at a steep angle into his right thigh. The club fell, followed quickly by the man himself.
Draga whirled around to meet the other two gangers. State Troopers these weren't, but they knew the business of back alley brawls, both attacking in ways that allowed them to remain two abreast in the confined space. The one on her left hacked at her with an overhead swing from a hatchet, the other stabbed at her with a dagger.
Draga flattened against the alley wall to the left, dodging the knife, crossing her messers to catch the hatch. She kicked up, boot connecting between the hatchet man's legs. He wheezed and whimpered. Draga shoved him into his compatriot before the man with the knife could recover. Twin flashes from the messers and both of the thugs were on the ground, bleeding their lifeblood onto the alley floor.
"Well." Draga breathed, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face as she surveyed the alley. The man she'd hit with the hammer was no longer moving. She suspected he wasn't going to be getting up again without medical attention, something she was not inclined to ensure he received. All but the man in the club would likely be dead by the end of the day, which was by design.
Two more figures suddenly obstructed the mouth of the alley, bullying past bystanders that were peering in to see what had just occurred.
"Draga! You alright?" Falk's deep voice sounded overly loud.
"Of course I'm not alright." The Blackbow retorted with disgust in her voice. "These fuckers took me away from my pint."
Bianca laughed as she sheathed her cutlass. "You, Sister Dragamina, are a woman after my own heart. You both have my thanks for your parts in saving my life."
"Why was this one trying to kill you in the first place?" Draga asked, kicking the assassin. He groaned and shifted on the ground, but didn't rise.
"A full explanation would take some time, but the essence is thus; I am stationed here in Marienburg, operating out of the Temple of Myrmidia, and have recently been on the trail of a series of disappearances that I have linked to an up and coming crime boss who goes by the name 'Herr Razor.'"
"Herr Razor." Falk repeated with a sigh, his face matching that of a cat owner who just watched their beloved pet spit a hairball onto the carpet.
Bianca gave a slight shrug. "One of many reasons to take him down."
"Falk, I left one alive. Let's haul him back to the temple and have a friendly chat with him." Draga suggested.
"Good idea." Falk said. An apologetic smile crossed his face. "So much for a day off, I guess."
"One day, my friend." Draga patted his shoulder as she passed by.
Falk
Verena was mostly an urban god. There was no small number of rural villages that knew nothing of the Lady of Truth. They cleaved to Sigmar and/or Ulric, Taal and Rhya, and Shallya. But every city and decent sized town had at least a shrine to Wise Verena. Being a goddess of truth, all such shrines and temples had accommodations dedicated to the acquisition of said truth, and the fact of the matter was that said acquisition was not always done through long study of old manuscripts and calm interviews.
The ganger from the alley's wounds had been cleaned and bandaged. He was chained to a wooden chair in a small room lit only by an oil lantern hanging from a hook that dangled from the ceiling. The man had been tended by a priestess of Shallya, the goddess of mercy and healing. All the Dove's servants were pacifists, believing in redemption and kindness. They aided in interrogations by their very nature, though it was not intentional. The sincerity and softness with which most Shallyans treated all but the servants of Chaos set those about to be interrogated off balance. It was a manipulation Falk took advantage of without regret. There were larger things at stake than a little deception.
Falk entered the interrogation room. He had changed out of his soaked clothing into an outfit that was more or less the same, though it was a deep indigo instead of near black. The Truthblade loomed over the ganger, looking down at the man. He saw terror. Desperation.
"You are Ewald. You work for Herr Razor." Falk said. He barely stopped himself from rolling his eyes at the stupid name.
Ewald nodded. His fingers scratched at the pitted and scarred armrests that his arms were chained to. A nervous tic.
"I am a Truthblade of Verena. You're going to answer my questions, and answer them honestly. Trust me when I say that I will know if you're lying. Tell me what I want to know and the worst thing you'll see is a few years behind bars. Lie…", he trailed off, considering his words, "...and you'll be dealing with someone who uses tools instead of words. Are we clear?"
Another nod, this one a little frantic.
Falk muttered to himself, "Wise Verena, help me cleave truth from falsehood as one might thresh wheat from the chaff."
All warrior-priests knew prayers that could channel the power of their gods. They were not abilities to use lightly or haphazardly. A careful balance and respect needed to be maintained. Here, Falk needed to be sure what he heard was the truth. Dozens of lives could be at stake.
"Who do you work for?" Falk asked.
Ewald's anxiety was broken by uncertainty. "I…You already know?"
"Answer what I ask." Falk said.
"...Herr Razor." Ewald said.
Like a cool breeze coming through an open window, Falk felt the truth of the statement in his mind.
"What do you do for Herr Razor?" Falk asked.
"Whatever he needs me to do." Ewald answered.
The "breeze" was wavering, as if intermittently blocked by a curtain. It was the truth. It wasn't the entire truth.
"What specifically." Falk clarified.
"Protection rackets. Leg breaking. Soldiering. Moving merch. Whatever he needs." Ewald said.
Falk nodded, satisfied with that answer. He knew Ewald wasn't going to be high enough up in the pecking order to really know anything worth much. The key was figuring out what piece of information the ganger might hold that could lead to the next step of this burgeoning investigation.
"And 'merch' includes people." Falk accused.
"Slaving's punished by the noose. I don't touch that shit." Ewald insisted.
The breeze stopped. A lie.
"Try again. This time with the truth." Falk said at once. He slowly paced around behind Ewald. The prisoner couldn't turn his head far enough to look at Falk. One of many little tricks to unsettle a subject of interrogation.
"Look. If I tell you anything, the boss is gonna string me up for all to see after showing the city why he's called Herr Razor. Or one of his people's gonna cut me up in Rijker's Isle." Ewald said, referring to the infamous island prison of Marienburg. His breathing was picking up. He was on the verge of panicking.
"If you talk, you'll be shipped down the river to serve time in Altdorf at Bronzewatch. You attacked an ordained and sanctioned warrior-priest, aiding and abetting in the endangering of two more. We both know how lucky you are to be receiving due process right now. You won't be getting a better deal anywhere else." Falk laid his cards down.
Several seconds ticked by. Falk let them. He could handle the silence. Finally, Ewald let out a sharp breath.
"We mostly take beggars and foreign sailors too drunk to know better." Ewald explained, hanging his head in defeat.
"Where?" Falk pressed.
"We put 'em on a barge that leaves the city and takes them out into the Cursed Marshes. I'm not supposed to know this, but they take the prisoners to a place they call 'the lodge.' Dunno what that means." Ewald said.
The man was telling the truth. Falk thought about asking a few other things; where are the prisoners kept before being transferred, which barge and/or which dock? However, he'd dealt with these sorts of operations before. Falk knew they had to figure out where and what the lodge was and hit it directly. Striking at any of the supporting locations would only let Herr Razor's people know that their operation was compromised and force them to move everything. That was, of course, if they hadn't already when they realized the attempt on Bianca's life had failed and one of their people was in custody. No, time was of the essence. Falk and his companions would have to act at once.
"I'll be sure to include how helpful you've been in the report I send to Bronzewatch." Falk said, "anything else you'd like to add?"
Ewald appeared to give it genuine thought.
"Thirteen. The number's important to the operation for some reason. I'm not sure why." Ewald explained.
Falk nodded, and with that he walked out of the interrogation room without another word. He stopped concentrating and let the power of his prayer to Verena fade.
Draga and Bianca waited in a cramped, dingy hallway outside of the door, where they had been listening through an open slat. The sound of the iron door closing behind Falk echoed down the hall. He slid the slat shut as well.
"I know the place he speaks of. This 'lodge' out in the marshes." Bianca said. "Many years ago, when the Wasteland was the Imperial Province of Westerland, it was built by one of the province's Elector Counts. He had a well-known penchant for eel fishing in the marsh, but rumor has it he actually used the lodge other things."
"What other things?" Falk asked.
"The usual unforgivable heresies; dark sacrifices, unholy orgies, the like." Bianca waved it off.
Draga made a face. "Wonderful."
Bianca continued, "legends say the place is haunted, or some beast inhabits it, hence its name; the Ghost Lodge. The point I am making here is that all we need to do is find someone who will actually approach the place. It's something of a local taboo, you see, and rumor has it treasure hunters went in there and never returned, or came back to the city with their minds broken."
"You have someone in mind?" Draga asked.
"I do." Bianca placed a hand upon her chest. "I am from Sartosa, Sister. I can handle any craft that floats on water. Finding someone who knows where the Ghost Lodge is won't be hard, especially since we won't need them to take us there."
"Get it done as quickly as possible. We need to go there tonight, before Razor and his people can clear out." Falk said, looking to his partner. "Go with her. Better to not go it alone out there for the moment. I'll assemble all the gear here and see if I can dig anything about the Ghost Lodge up in the temple's archives."
"Sounds like a plan." Draga concurred with a dip of her head.
"We have our heading. It's time to show this bastard Myrmidia's light." Bianca declared, turning to head for the stairs with a dramatic swish of her coat and cape. Truthblade and Blackbow watched the Radiant go.
"If you don't, then I will." Draga said under her breath.
Falk scoffed. Lovely Bianca may have been, but that was not where Falk's head was at. "Stay safe, Draga."
"I might." Draga said, lightly thumping a fist against Falk's shoulder, then hurrying after Bianca.
Falk shook his head as his partner headed up the stairs, knowing she'd keep her focus on the task at hand, beautiful Myrmidian warrior-priestess or no. With his own tasks to get to, Falk checked one last time to ensure Ewald's cell door was properly latched and locked, then headed up the stairs.
Cursed Marshes, the Wasteland
Draga
In its winding northwesterly course from Altdorf, the River Reik eventually split off into a swampy coastal delta known as the Cursed Marshes. There were countless stories of all the horrible things that lived out in the Marshes. Some of them were actually true. Even through the danger, dozens of flat-bottomed barges just like the one the three warrior-priests were on plied the brackish waters. There was big business in the eels, snails, and frogs that lived in the wetlands in their thousands.
It was Falk's turn using a long pole to push their borrow barge through the humid, noisome air of the Cursed Marshes. They threaded through stands of mangrove teees and humps of sodden earth covered in bracken. The sun was setting. The air was alive with croaking frogs and buzzing insects.
"You seem to have something approaching sea legs, Sister Draga." Bianca pointed out.
The Radiant came to stand beside Draga at the front of the barge.
"I was born and raised on my clan's boats, Sister Bianca, roaming up and down the River Reik. I spent more time on the water than off it growing up." Draga explained.
"How did you come into Taal's service?" Bianca asked.
"Nothing dramatic. I love nature. I love the bounty of the world given to us by Taal and Rhya. Someone must protect it from those that would defile it. And just like a stag protecting the herd, someone must stand and face those that prey on the weak." Draga answered.
"The gods called on you. You answered. It doesn't need to be anymore dramatic than that." Bianca said.
"True enough. What about you? What brought you to fight for Myrmidia?" Draga asked in turn.
Bianca crossed her arms and shifted her weight, settling into a more comfortable standing position.
"Sartosa is a city of pirates. I grew up in a society dedicated to preying on others. Cults to Stromfels kidnapping people to sacrifice to their Shark God. Slavers operating openly in the markets." She shook her head. "I couldn't live that way. I tried to serve Myrmidia in my own way. But, in the end, I was just one idealistic kid with delusions of grandeur. in a city of scum. I would have ended up in the slave markets myself, or dead, if I hadn't stowed away and come to Marienburg."
"You think you'll ever go back?" Draga asked.
"Maybe. I doubt it. But maybe." Bianca said with a wan smile. "I can actually do good here in Marienburg. Back home, any light of hope is drowned out almost at once. It would take an army, and no army can reach Sartosa without going by sea, and gods help anyone who challenges Sartosa at sea."
Draga couldn't help but note the defeated undertones in Bianca's voice. We all have dragons we'll probably never manage to slay. She thought.
"Speaking of doing good here", Bianca changed the subject, "what do you say, Brother Falkenwulf? Did you find anything out about the Ghost Lodge?"
"It's in the orbit of a few disappearances throughout the years." Falk answered as he kept pushing the barge along. He smacked at a mosquito on his neck. "Nothing substantial, though. There's a lot of hearsay and speculation. Mentions of floating green lights, unearthly screeching, the works. I asked the Verenans in the temple and they all agree; something isn't right about the place." Falk scratched at the bite on his neck.
"Undead, you think?" Draga suggested.
"That's what I'm betting. Sounds like wraiths to me. For obvious reasons, the Cult of Verena keeps itself in the know about every major player in crime across the city, and none of them have seen Herr Razor, or even gotten a description of him. My gut says he's a vampire, or a smokescreen for a coven of them. It wouldn't be the first time a bloodsucker hid behind organized crime. And using wraiths as guards tracks."
Draga cursed, cold fury forming in her gut. "Then you'd better let me be the one to put them to the fucking torch."
Bianca actually took an involuntary step back from Draga's sudden rage. "You…have a history with vampires, then?"
"I don't. The Strigany do." Draga answered, composing herself with a few breaths before going on. "Long, long ago, my people lived in the Strigos Empire, far to the south of here in the Badlands. Strigos was ruled by vampires, but my people fled after it was destroyed by an Orc Waaagh. Since then, my people have wandered the world. Half the reason we're hated by settled peoples is because we get accused of vampire worship, or hiding vampires among our caravans. And the cruel irony is that because non-Strigany tend to avoid us, vampires are all too happy to hold clans hostage and take advantage of our nomadic living to stay ahead of those that hunt them."
"I…see." Bianca said slowly. Her mouth form a thin line and she placed a fist against her chest. "Well, if we do find a vampire in that damned lodge, rest assured it won't see the rise of another moon. I swear it in Myrmidia's name."
"An oath I can get behind." Draga enthused, her anger softening beneath gratitudes gentle warmth.
Bianca gave her a confident nod, then looked ahead once more. She pointed. "There. I see it."
As the barge floated around a stand of mangroves, the Ghost Lodge came into view. The name was deceptive. The lodge looked more like a small fortress than a place where the rich and powerful of Marienburg would hole up away from the city. The island was ringed with mangrove trees, the Ghost Lodge sitting atop a hill that Draga's trained eye told her had been cleared of plant growth before the hill was made higher and broader artificially. The scale of labor it would have taken to do something like that would have been mind-boggling on dry land, to say nothing of in the middle of a marsh.
Draga had a hard time believing any noble or wealthy commoner would come out into the desolate, bug infested swamp, even one trying to hide forbidden rituals or proscribed vices. But, she would never be either of those things, so maybe Draga simply couldn't get into that headspace. She felt trepidation rising from her belly to form a knot in her throat as Falk drew the barge closer to the docks below the lodge. The stone walls, covered in lichen and creeping vines, loomed above them from atop the hill. Nothing of the structures within was visible from the water.
Conversation ceased as the barge bumped against the leaning, waterlogged dock. The boards sagged under Falk's armored bulk as he stepped onto them. The trio of warrior-priests stopped at the the landward end of the dock. There was an overgrown path leading away from dock, its cobbles mostly subsumed by earth or moved by resurgent mangrove roots. It went straight up the rise of the hill to the open gates of the Ghost Lodge. Near the dock was a fallen in building that Draga assumed was where caught eels were processed by servants, but who knew its former purpose.
"Is it comforting or concerning that there aren't any other boats or barges tied up here?" Falk asked his companions.
Draga looked back to their barge. She hadn't even thought about that.
"Could it be that Ewald was deceived? He thought he was telling the truth but actually wasn't?" The Blackbow asked.
Falk shrugged, shifting his flamberge from one shoulder to the other. "That, or whatever lives here doesn't need to leave."
Draga and Bianca shared a look.
"The sooner we get up there, the sooner we find out." Bianca said. She drew her cutlass. Her coat had been replaced with brigandine armor, though her shoulder cape remained. A brace of three snaphance pistols was holstered across her chest and at her hip.
The trio started ascending the hill. Draga nocked an arrow on her bowstring. Her blessed bow could harm all manner of undead, but that limited her to just the bow if that was what they faced.
Father Taal, walk beside me. Draga thought as they reached the top of the hill. The sun was gone now. A clear sky of stars and the pure white light of Mannslieb lit there. The other moon, the fell green Morrslieb, did not show its face.
Through the gate, they could see the actual lodge the Ghost Lodge was named for. It wasn't much to look at. The three story building was large for being in such an isolated location, but it was little more than a stone block topped with crenellations. Windows lined the exterior, none of them still containing glass. The manor also took up most of the space inside the walls; no room was wasted for gardens or sitting areas in a place where the air was musty and rank unless it was the depths of winter.
They stopped outside the gate. Draga peered around as she realized something.
"Hear that?" She asked her companions.
Both Falk and Bianca listened for a moment, then shook their heads.
"No bugs. No frogs. Nothing but the wind." Draga said, involuntarily tightening her grip on her bow. "Something's keeping them all away. Something unnatural."
"Well", Falk said, puffing out a breath, "at least that tells us we're on the right track."
"Quite the bright side to look on." Bianca commented, though her attempt at a lighthearted jibe fell flat with audible tension.
Falk led the way through the gate. Draga expected to find bones or discarded belongings in the yard, but there was nothing beyond the tangled weeds. Bianca lit a lantern that was hanging on her belt and held it up. They went through the front door, entering a foyer.
Before them were twin staircases that curved like embracing arms. Standing suits of armor were being devoured by rust. Paintings on the walls were flaked, cracked, and warped, their disfigured subjects looking uncanny and bestial. Draga swore the artworks were watching her. Yet, there was no sound other than the creaks and groans of the manor slowly settling and coming apart, inch by fraction of an inch, day by day.
"Stay together. No matter what." Draga muttered.
There was no disagreement from her companions.
"Go up? Or find a stairwell down and start there?" Falk asked the others.
"Undead don't like Myrmidia's light, to say nothing of those who die from its mere touch." Bianca pointed out. "We should try to find a basement first."
"Agreed. Unfortunately." Draga sighed.
Falk put his flamberge across his back, taking up falchion and grudge-raker.
The trio passed through hallways with floors that felt like an uneven country road with the condition the floor planks were in. Draga's continued unease at the lack of wildlife grew. The Ghost Lodge should have been home to bats, rodents, all manner of insects.
They did eventually find stairs down to a basement. Falk holstered his pistol and held out a hand for the lantern, which Bianca handed over. They began descending. Draga did not like how much the stairs were flexing under their weight.
They reached the bottom, emerging into a long hallway that appeared to run the length of the house above. Doors lined the hallway on either side, but most worryingly, at the far end, a faint viridian glow emerged from an open threshold on the passage's right side.
Everyone paused. Falk motioned them forward.
The three crept down the hall. They checked every room they passed by. There was an uncomfortable number with fetters and shackles attached to the walls. Old stains of dried blood could be found on the floors. Some of them were aged enough to have turned black. Others were red-brown, recent as a few days past. The air was…charged. Acrid. There was an ozone stench along with something else. Something distinctly more wrong that had Draga thinking of open graves and gleaming, fanged teeth.
We should return with powder and torches, burn this place and call it good. Draga thought.
They reached the glowing door. Draga took the lead, slowly peeking through the door to see what lay within. The room was lit by a lantern, but it did not burn oil. In fact, it didn't burn anything. It contained a bright green crystal held in place by a crude wrapping of wire. Beside the lantern was an iron door not unlike the one on Ewald's cell, eye-level slat included.
Falk approached the door, reaching for the handle, but Draga waved him back, making a knocking motion. The Truthblade raised an eyebrow at her, looking skeptical. Draga repeated the knocking motion. Shrugging, Falk did as she said, gauntleted hand creating a great deal of noise.
The slat opened with surprising speed. There was no one visible on the other side of it.
"Password." A baleful, wretched voice said from the other side.
The warrior-priests looked at each other. Seconds ticked past, and Draga knew that if they delayed for long, their chance to get past this door and uncover what was going on would be lost.
"Thirteen." Draga said, remembering what Ewald had said during Falk's interrogation. It wasn't as if any of them were going to have a better idea.
There was a pause. Then the slat closed. Something unlatched. Draga prepared her bow, ready to loose an arrow at whoever showed their face as the iron door creaked open.
A long, scabrous snout with crooked whiskers emerged first, followed by jagged, yellow incisors. Beady red eyes. Notched, flicking ears. What slipped out of the door would have been about Draga's height if not for its hunched posture. It was covered in mangy, patchy fur. Its too long hands and even longer feet ended in short claws, and behind all of this was a lashing, worm-like tail. It was a thing that should not be.
Draga shot it. The arrow took the abomination in the throat. It scrabbled at the door, one clawed hand leaving streaks through a fine layer of rust as it fell to the ground. The creature tried to cry out, but all that emerged from its throat was a quiet gurgling and a spattering of red-black blood.
The three warrior-priests stared down at the dying thing on the floor, all with equal horror. What choked out its last moments before them was not a thing that most people knew existed. In fact, to claim as such in the Empire would see someone discredited as a liar, or shipped off to an insane asylum, or their throats cut in the dead of night. Draga knew the formal term for it thanks to Falk. "The Conspiracy of Silence." It's entire purpose was to hide the existence of one thing from the people of the Empire.
"Skaven." Bianca made a warding gesture. "Myrmidia give me strength."
Draga approached the skaven, wrenching her arrow from its throat. She looked past the corpse. A tunnel descended in a spiral into the earth. Yet more of the green lanterns lit the way.
"We can't go back for backup on this one." Falk said to her.
"I know." Draga said. "We go in. Either we try to find a way to disrupt what they're doing, or we collapse this tunnel to buy time for a more permanent solution." She looked at Bianca, waiting for her opinion.
"Unlike the Empire, everyone knows about the ratmen in my homeland." Bianca said. "And I carry within me the same hatred that every Tilean does. We go in."
That was enough. The warrior-priests passed through the door, descending down the spiraling tunnel.
Falk
Falk had only dealt with skaven once before. They had been the cause of a virulent plague that ripped through and depopulated an entire village in Ostermark, which had turned out to be little more than an experiment perpetuated by a skaven warlock-engineer. Falk and his mentor had uncovered the creature and killed it, along with its few bodyguards. That ratman had been a lone exile. That was not what Falk looked upon now.
Falk, Draga, and Bianca emerged on a ledge that had been carved high up on a cavern wall. They looked down on a full-blown mining operation. In a central pit, dozens of humans and skaven in iron collars labored with picks, shovels, and buckets to extract yet more of the bright green crystal from the earth. More skaven surrounded the pit's edge, these looking far healthier than their imprisoned kin toiling away. A few of the skaven were large, black-furred beasts in heavy armor.
Some of the buckets of warpstone, for Falk knew that's what the unfortunates were mining, were carried up and out of the pit towards a machine that looked like some bastardized cross between a blast furnace and a mill. Mutation was rampant among the slaves, both human and skaven. Warpstone was the raw stuff of Chaos. It corrupted all that it touched.
The walls sweated moisture from the swamp above. It pooled in a sort of moat in an outer, concentric circle around the mining pit's raised edge. Far across the cavern was a tunnel leading to gods knew where.
The warrior-priests lay down prone, peering over the ledge.
"We can't handle that many, skilled we may be." Bianca said.
"We don't need to. That machine has pipes running to it from the channels around the edges of the room. I think its a pump. We destroy that, we put this place out of business. And put to rest all the poor bastards that got dragged down here." Falk said.
"And how do you propose we do that? I think it might be a bit beyond blades and shot." Bianca pointed out.
"Correct." Falk said, drawing his pistol and breaking it open. He removed one shell from the weapon and replaced it with another from a pouch on his belt, the thick, waxed paper containing powder and pellets marked bright red rather than the usual plain yellow-brown. "If I get close enough, I can break that machine. This cavern will fill up with water and the operation will be ruined."
He watched his companions glance at each other, both seeing if the other would voice an objection.
"I'll keep you covered." Draga said. "Keep the element of surprise for as long as possible."
"Will do." Falk said. "Stay up here. If this doesn't work, you need to get out of here and warn…well, someone."
Draga and he clasped wrists.
"Don't make me tell all the other Verenans I let you end up as rat food." The Blackbow said.
"The Lady of Justice would never allow it." Falk said, releasing her wrist, rising to a knee. "I'm more worried about an arrow in the back from you."
"Ass." Draga muttered.
"Ready?" Falk asked Bianca.
"Always." The Radiant said.
Falk set off, staying back from the edge of the path. It hugged the wall in a long, downward ramp. From the bottom of the descent, it would be about a fifty yard dash around the path between the mining pit and the cistern. But there was no small number of ratmen keeping an eye on the miners. The miners had the guards far outnumbered, but they were being worked to the bone and likely not being fed much, if at all.
There was next to no cover. Moving unseen would have been impossible, so Falk didn't try. He simply took up his flamberge and charged at the nearest skaven from the bottom of the ramp, a brown furred rat in rusting chainmail and a ratty tabard. Falk's blessed greatsword cleaved the ratman in two at the waist, an attack he parlayed into an upward, diagonal slash that removed another skaven's shoulder, neck, and head. As the skaven around the room began to realize they were under attack, dozens of pairs of eyes from both slaves and slavers turned his way.
"You're not slaves! You're the children of Sigmar! Rise up! Fight!" Falk bellowed as one of the black-furred stormvermin swung a glaive at him. The creature might have been strong among its own kind, but Falk stymied the attack, whipped the pommel of his sword into the black-fur's snout, then swept his flamberge low, cutting both the ratman's legs at the knees. The stormvermin fell into the mining pit, where a quartet of skaven slaves fell upon it, tearing away armor plates and helmet to sink their fangs into the soft flesh beneath.
A pistol cracked. A skaven clanrat that had been coiling its legs to leap at Falk crumpled. Falk flicked his gaze to see Bianca stow her pistol, drawing another and shooting a second clanrat as it tried to take her from behind. The Radiant made to follow Falk, but a skaven slave grabbed her ankle from a ladder leading down into the mining pit. Bianca's final pistol blew the ratman's head off. The pause would have let a stormvermin run Bianca through with a glaive, but an arrow fell from on high, burying itself in the black-fur's spine and pitching it into the mining pit.
"Sister! We have to push forward!" Falk called as the cavern descended into madness. Skaven slaves attacked their human counterparts, the guards, and each other. Human slaves staggered up ladders and scaffolds, throwing themselves at their captors.
"Man-thing! You die-die!" A black-fur screeched as it charged Falk.
Falk struck at the stormvermin, cutting the blade of its glaive from the haft, the tip of his flamberge cutting away the skaven's lower jaw with the same swing. Bianca caught the severed top of the glaive as she approached to fight at Falk's side, stabbing the broken polearm deep into a clanrat's side and leaving it there.
"May I be a candle in the night!" The Radiant intoned as she parried the scimitar of a stormvermin, her dirk emerging from behind her back to drive deep into the skaven's eye. The relative narrowness of the path between water channel and mining pit worked to the advantage of the two warrior-priests, and all the while, the skaven that tried to approach them from behind found arrows transfixing them like bolts cast from the hand of a vengeful god.
Falk and Bianca carved their way forward, finding themselves within acceptable range of the water pump. Somehow, it was both more advanced than even the greatest contraptions of the engineers of Nuln and more crude than an orc Waaagh's war wagons.
Winding up, Falk swung his flamberge in as wide an arc and with as much force as he could manage, hacking down a pair of clanrats. Then he used that moment of breathing room to draw his pistol.
"Merda! Lady of War, guard us!" Bianca entreated her goddess as Falk aimed for a cluster of churning pistons in the water pump's uneven body that seemed important.
A blinding flash of light suddenly shone from Bianca's cutlass, just as Falk was squeezing the trigger. The grudge-raker went off, but it was not the only gun that fired. Falk heard something thwip past his head, and as the light from Bianca's prayer faded, he noticed several things. First, the burning orb of his dragonfire shell had managed to arc directly into the hopper that warpstone was fed into to power the pump. Second, a dissipating green trail that ended at the barrel of a gun on the opposite side of the mining pit, a gun so long that it took two skaven to fire; one aiming and shooting, the other holding the barrel up atop a shield planted against the ground. Third, the skaven sniper was not the only reinforcement to arrive from the tunnel.
More stormvermin were emerging from the tunnel, cutting down the slaves that had begun to overrun the guards. Leading them was a skaven standing a full head taller than all the other ratmen. It was easily slaughtering slave after slave with a Sigmarite warrior-priest's hammer in one hand, a lizardman's mace in the other, clad in a coat of chainmail that appeared to be the vaunted dwarfen metal, gromril. If all that wasn't enough, the skaven wore a sleek, fanged helm that had surely once belonged to one of the Vampire Counts of Sylvania, and its tail ended in a prosthetic tipped with a dagger that was unmistakably the weapon of a Witch Elf from distant Naggaroth.
The mighty skaven warrior paused in its carnage and locked eyes with Falk. In that gaze. Falk saw a depth of hatred, a well of venom, the likes of which he had never witnessed. And it was all directed at the Truthblade himself.
That glimpse was all Falk got of the imposing skaven as the water pump exploded violently, filling the air with shrapnel and throwing everyone nearby to the ground. Falk landed hard, his ears ringing, and slowly he realized there was a burning pain growing in his left thigh. A piece of shrapnel had pierced clean through his leg. Falk grabbed it and ripped it out, a curse erupting from his lips as he did. The pain would have kept him down if not for the urgency of the surrounding skaven getting to their feet.
"Falk! Bianca! Get out of there!" Draga's shout was barely audible as cracks started to form in the walls of the cavern. Water began to hiss through these cracks. The explosion had upset a delicate balance. Things were about to get very dangerous, very quickly.
Falk pushed himself up with his flamberge, firing the second barrel of his pistol at a clanrat that was a little too quick to rise, pitching the ratman into the rising water.
"We have to move, Brother Falkenwulf." Bianca said as her cutlass took off a stormvermin's head. The severed cranium left an arc of disgusting blood as it soared down into the pump channel.
"My leg's no good. I'll only slow you down. Get going, I'll hold them off." Falk said, watching as the skaven reinforcements were making their way around the walking path. The cavern rumbled. Rocks fell away from walls and ceiling. He blocked a stormvermin glaive on his flamberge's parry hooks, raising the sword, dragging the uneven edge along the black-fur's throat.
Falk was suddenly yanked off his feet from behind. As he fell back, his gaze went up, and he saw a chunk of rock the size of a wagon plummeting to smash down on the path, crushing several of the skaven that had been about to swarm over Falk.
"I'll be sure to mention how noble your desire to sacrifice yourself was in the retelling." Bianca said breathlessly. Blood was smeared across her face, running from a slash across her forehead. "Until then, get up and move!" She hooked an arm under one of Falk's and pulled.
The Truthblade, chastised and motivated in equal measure, once again pushed with his flamberge to get to his feet, then used the long blade as an impromptu crutch as Bianca took some of his weight. More rocks and torrents of water were falling all around them.
Draga was sprinting down the ramp, letting the last of her arrows fly as a skaven that was coming up at her, either to escape or get to grips of the archer that had felled so many of its kind from afar.
"I don't envy you carrying this weight alone, Sister." Draga said as she put her bow away, took Falk's sword. "Keep him going. I have your back." This was punctuated by the sounds of steel cutting flesh. A clanrat slumped aside, then fell from the ramp.
The pain in Falk's leg was mind numbing, every hobbling step with it feeling like it was sending stars across his vision. Knowing both Draga and Bianca might die because of it was the anchor that Falk clung to. He would not be the reason these two fell here. Falk told himself this over and over as he entreated Verena to speed their escape. More than one rock clanked off Falk's armor. All three warrior-priests were soaked by the water that was rapidly pouring into the cavern through widening cracks in the walls and ceiling. Humans and skaven alike were floundering in the swirling torrent.
Things took on a dreamlike quality to Falk. He knew he was losing a lot of blood. Falk was aware of the stairs. Of Draga taking his other side to speed them along. Bianca saying something about rising water, which was splashing around their ankles in the basement of the Ghost Lodge.
Before he knew it, Falk found himself on his back on the barge, Draga rapidly binding his leg with a bandage from one of her belt pouches, the wounded limb elevated on a coil of rope, his head rest on Bianca's folded cape.
"...and I swear I'll be throwing you to the eels if you die, I am not hauling your ass through Marienburg." Draga was saying.
"Wouldn't dream of doing that to you." Falk managed to say. His tongue felt thick and slow.
"Damn straight you wouldn't." Draga replied. Worry was writ plain upon her face even as she worked.
Falk didn't answer. He just focused on keeping his eyes open, on denying the seductive call of oblivion that was tugging at the back of his mind.
Bianca was at the back of the barge, pushing it along with the pole. Past her, getting slowly smaller, the island of the Ghost Lodge was growing shorter by the moment as more and more of it fell into the cavern below. Falk was only vaguely aware of the water around them bubbling and frothing.
It hadn't been clean, but they'd done it. "Herr Razor" had been stopped. Falk would mourn those poor souls that had been taken, enslaved, and mutated by warpstone, but at least their toil was over now, and no more innocents would be following them into that poisonous mining pit.
In short, it was a pyrrhic victory, but nonetheless, a victory it was.
Amid the bubbling water, among bodies and debris that sporadically surfaced, on the opposite side of the island from a barge holding three warrior-priests, another body reached the open air. What differentiated this one from the others was the fact that it was still breathing.
A heavily armed and armored skaven, larger than the vast majority of his kind, dragged himself up through mud, gasping and spitting up water. He clutched at mangrove roots with hands that were more scars than flesh. As the skaven vomited yet more muddy water, he propped himself up on his hands and knees, trying to control his breathing as the coughing fit passed.
When it was done, the skaven pushed himself to his feet. He'd managed to keep all of his weapons, which was good. The skaven took stock of his surroundings. He assumed no other skaven survived. It wasn't much of a loss. They were weak. Servile. They were skaven of the old ways. Not like this one. Not like Harrox Razortail, Warlord of Clan Felketch.
Harrox looked back into the swamp. A dead skaven slave was floating nearby. He speared it with his tail, hauling it in, then taking bites from the corpse, washing it down with generous gulps from the brackish swamp. This operation had been a long time in the planning, now ruined, but all was not lost. Harrox had still managed to ship a substantial amount of warpstone back to Fort Fang. It was a setback, in material and ratpower, but not an irrecoverable one.
Finish his meal, Harrox wasted no time. He got moving, scuttling over roots and raised sections of mud. He had a long journey ahead, and he knew at least one of his subordinates would take advantage of this disaster. Harrox was actually grateful for that. It would be good to have someone to kill to make a legitimate example of them.
As Harrox ran, he let anger give his limbs speed. He thought of the big man-thing that had killed so many of Harrox's underlings with that massive sword. The image of that interloper's face was burned into Harrox's mind. And, thanks to the man-thing female's shout, Harrox didn't only have a face to work with.
"Brother…Falkenwulf…", Harrox rasped.
The Warlord of Clan Felketch would remember that face, and that name. And he would make that man-thing wish Harrox didn't have such a good memory.