Mordheim

Welcome in Mordheim

By Christian Ellegaard

Beer was poured, songs were sung, tales were told and rumors were spread. The happy landlord of The Blue Sheep was proud of his inn, and although the neighbor city was nothing else than the city of ill repute, the city of Mordheim, his house was a fair name even hundreds of miles away. Travelers from Kislev, Praag, Erengrad, even sometimes from Norsca planned their route so that they could have a night or two in Brombo Bluecap's inn when they were going southern.

Indeed many people, including the innkeeper himself, claimed that the only thing that kept the sleeping town of Toville running was The Blue Sheep. Here, the best beer was brewed and the best supper cooked, and you had to travel dozens of miles to find an inn that exceeded The Blue Sheep in hospitality and food.

Therefore, the Eleventh Division army from an outpost fortress of the Grey Mountains entered The Blue Sheep one Fall afternoon. Forty tired, dusty and weather-beaten men stabled their horses and threw their baggage in the entrance.

Arnold Hessel, the general and leader of the division, went inside to the hall and asked for the landlord. A Dwarf hurried into a room and came back with a small, red-cheeked Halfling.

"Can I help you, sire?" said the manling.

"I need rooms for forty men. Please do it in a hurry - we are all tired."

The Halfling flipped through a book. "Oh, I see. Where do you come from, milord?"

Hessel faltered and watched the Halfling suspiciously. "That is not of your business We just need some beds and something to eat!"

He was led to the second floor and through a walkway to another building. "We use these apartments for big companies. I see you are quite a lot, so, feel welcome, you can use this building."

"Thank you," said Hessel and took a look inside some of the rooms. They were all nicely prepared, all the beds were made. Each room had three beds and a big tub. He chose a room at the end of the corridor and threw his backpack there.

He went down again and walked outside to his men. After they had taken lodgings some fell asleep, some rested a bit in their rooms and others went down in the tap room.

Arnold Hessel and Lester van Houser, the leader of the scouts division, settled down in a dark corner. They ordered a beer each, and when the waiter hurried away they began to talk.

"Mordheim," said Hessel. "You know the history of that city?"

Van Houser nodded and sipped his beer.

"Tons of Wyrdstone are buried there. Duke Fressen has offered me a thousand gold pieces for each ounce of the magic stones I bring home."

His companion was suddenly paralyzed.

"But," Hessel raised a finger. "We are not here for the stones. Remember, we are here for discovering the truth about the lost city. We are here to uncover the rumors, get the truth in the light. Fame and wealth will follow."

Van Houser said nothing. He stared into the white scum over the dark beer.

"Listen up, my friend, and I shall tell you the exact plans."

The Eleventh Division came from Fressenheim, a smaller fortress about two hundred miles north of the Dwarf stronghold Karak-Norn. Fressenheim was a dukedom, formerly under dependency of Nuln, but during the constant Orc attacks against Nuln from 1707 to 1712 the contacts between the two cities were almost broken, and the citizens of Fressenheim discovered that if they did not take over the city themselves they would be helpless if the Orcs invaded Nuln.

So a Duke was promoted, and since then it has been up to the family of the original Duke to lead and guide the inhabitants of the Fressenheim land. When Nuln finally managed to break the siege that was laid for several years they established a trade route between Fressenheim and the City of Four Rivers. Nuln supplied their neighbor fortress with their surplus of crop, corn and fish while Fressenheim supported the growing capital with granite and, in times of war, supported the city with troops and warriors.

The force of Fressenheim was fairly moderate. In battle they were hardly for any real use, but due to the surrounding area of the fortress they were used to maneuver through rocks and steep cliffs. Nobody, however, did complain, for they did their job. Nuln was very vulnerable to attacks from west as it lied just in the nearby of the mountains where Trolls, Orcs, Goblins and even Skaven lurked around, but the Fressenheimers frequently alarmed the citizens of Nuln if any danger came too close.

Due to their ability of moving through rocks and stones the ruler of Nuln had asked Arnold Hessel if he would take the challenge with his Eleventh Division and go to Mordheim to find out what was actually going on in the lost city of Mordheim. Hessel picked out archers, warriors and four of his best scouts and prepared for the long journey. From Nuln they boarded a riverboat that should carry them along the river Stir. But they did not sail far away from Nuln before they hit the ground. The river was entirely dried out in the hot Indian summer, and they were forced to continue on foot. Hundreds of miles they walked, through dark forests, deserted valleys, wastelands, cornfields and burned down villages.

And one month later they eyed the town of Toville. The tired men speeded up apparently inspired by the thought of nice, warm beds and hot supper. They would rest there for a couple of days before they began their research in the neighbor city.

Lester van Houser remained in the tap room after Hessel went upstairs. He ordered one more beer and sat down in front of the fire while studying the dancing flames. A troubadour entertained the crowd of Dwarves and Gnomes with a nonsense song about a tribe of stupid Orcs, and opposite them van Houser's men huddled together around a table and a deck of cards.

He gulped down the rest of his draught beer and went back to his bedroom. The next day would be a very hard day, so he had to rest for a while and prepare for the mission.

Arnold Hessel got up at five o'clock. He hurried into his cloth and stepped into Lester van Houser's room.

"Lester," he murmured. "Get up now. You have to go. You must leave before the other guests wake up."

Van Houser jumped out of his bed, washed himself in the cold water and opened his bag. He quickly dressed in his old war cloth and took on the heavy chainmail he had carried all the way from Fressenheim. After having checked the straps he woke up his scouts. They knew nothing about the mission, but they dared not to complain against their master. Ten minutes later they stood on the plaza; the sun had not risen yet.

"Take your horses," commanded Lester van Houser. They all mounted, and he spurred his horse towards the stockpiles of the town.

"Sire, where are we going?" asked one of the scouts. "I will explain," he said and rode through the town gate.

They continued to ride along the banks of the river Stir. The water purled slightly, and the first sunbeams hit the earth. The landscape became more and more harsh, and half an hour later they saw the first small craters. In the horizon, a dark silhouette of a city raised. They saw the red lights from bonfires, and black smoke emerged from behind the walls.

"Mordheim," they whispered and shuddered.

Lester van Houser halted half a mile from the city.

"My friends," he said with a dark voice. "Welcome to Mordheim, the City of the Damned. We have traveled for more than a month just for reaching those wall you see over there." He pointed towards the ruined town wall.

"Few people have entered the city after the horrific tragedy you might have heard about, and out of those only a fraction have returned. We know exactly nothing about what is going on there, and that is why we are here."

"Sire, what about the others?" asked one of van Houser's men.

"They are still sleeping." he answered. "The rumors tell about terrible monsters, fearsome creatures, deadly traps, insane Chaos possessed warriors, hordes of Skaven ... even lurking demons that are hiding under the ruins of the lost city. The rumors are spreading all over the world like a forest fire, and the Counts are becoming more and more anxious. If the rumors are true, then we can expect a massive attack at any time. If that is the case we must completely raze the city as soon as possible and get rid of all the evil."

He paused and dismounted. "We cannot go here all at a time. Hessel sent us to scout the outskirts of the city. If we are still alive we will return to Toville in - well, probably an hour or two. Otherwise ..." He faltered and grabbed his sword.

"No. No! We shall not let the evil overtake our cities! We shall teach them a lesson! Come, my friends, and let us march into the city!"

They bridled their horses and went towards the city by foot.

Lester van Houser entered through the southern gate of Mordheim. They drew their swords, the archers formed a line of skirmish behind the swordsmen, and Van Houser himself led the band through the ruins.

The city looked horrible: Old, proud houses were burned down to the foundation, cottages were smashed by meteors, and the former inhabitants had been crushed under the heavy rain of ash and rocks. It was a grotesque reflection of one of the big cities of the Empire.

Bones were thrown carelessly on the road, and here and there lied a stinky, rotting body that had been left and ignored for years. Dying men, wounded children and their helpless mothers were buried in the ruins and cried for help, but with no hope of being heard. Mutated dogs ran across the streets and plague-infested foxes dragged themselves along the ditches, but worst of all was the rats. There were rats here and there, from the smallest, hairless brown rats to gigantic, two-feet high beasts that fought each other and attacked Van Houser's band. They managed to kill dozens of dozens of rats on their way; one of the scouts was even bit by a rat, and after half an hour he could hardly drag himself anymore.

They scouted in a close huddle. Nobody wanted to leave Van Houser, and nor did Lester himself want to leave his scouts. The rumors were true: Something horrible had happened in this town. It was not possible to put a finger on it, but everything was totally perverse. Unnatural. Against all common sense.

Lester stopped up in a blind alley. "Scouts," he whispered. "We have to go back again". He began to count his men. "... five ... six ... seven ... eight ... Where is the last man?"

The scouts did not move. Nobody talked. "I said, where is the last man? Answer me!"

It all went very fast. Suddenly, one of the men, apparently low in size, threw his coat, leaped into the air and landed on the shoulders of one of his comrades. The beast that had looked like a man in the dark coat bit off a great chunk of the scout's throat and cut up the maw of him. With a loud, horrible scream the beast jumped down again and pursued the fleeing scouts. Howling like a crazy it ran after the running men, and more and more beasts appeared and jumped down from the ruins, scuttled up from sewers and climbed down from walls.

Arnold Hessel slept no more. In spite of the long journey he could not sleep anymore, and instead he stepped down to the tap room and ordered some breakfast. Three other guests sat around a table and chatted; possibly they were leaving the inn this morning, so they had to gotten up earlier than others to get their breakfast in time.

Brombo Bluecap sat down beneath Hessel after having prepared his food. "Tell me once," he said and lit his small pipe. A candlestick in the center of the table cast a yellow light on the two men's faces. "What are you doing here? You come from far away, I suppose."

Hessel leant forwards and looked around. The three travelers were in deep talk with each other, and he said: "We come from a town in the Grey Mountains. Fressenheim, a fortress beneath Nuln."

"Oh, I see," said the Halfling and puffed at his pipe. "I have been there once - I mean, in Nuln. Many years ago my son had built a riverboat, and he persuaded me to join him on a journey down the river Stir. At that time I'd just bought this inn, and unfortunately my brother had to keep it for me while I was with my son." He laughed loudly. "Ha-ha! I almost went bankruptcy! That fool can hardly count to three, and subtracting and adding is far beyond his skills."

Hessel looked confused into Brombo's small eyes.

"Well, we sailed down the river for a couple of leagues as the stream began to be wilder. I asked my son, 'Lombo, shouldn't we better jump out of this scrap before we turn upside down,' and my son said, 'daddy, I didn't think you were such a wimp. Come on, you ain't scared, eh?', and of course I said nothing."

He paused and puffed on his pipe that was apparently put out. He lit it again. "Aah! We sailed further down a couple of miles, and the waves became higher and higher, and the stream wilder and wilder. 'All right, son. Now, take that boat to the side!' I ordered, and I don't know if he heard me or not, but anyway he did not turn to the side. And suddenly I was paralyzed. A few hundred of miles forwards the river suddenly ended. The water dragged us faster and faster, and I just heard my son screaming. 'Hold on, daddy! HOLD OOON!!' he cried, and believe me, I held on. At once it just felt like nothing was under us. We fell ... I guess, we fell a hundred feet or so, but it felt like we were falling hundreds of yards. I couldn't hold on no more, so I just fell, yelling and screaming like a crazy. And - SPLASH! The boat crashed under me, and - SPLASH! Old Brombo hit the water, right with his back."

He laughed again and continued: "I think I was under the water for a couple of seconds. I hit the bottom of the river, and I clearly remember that fish staring me like if I was crazy. The wild stream turned me round and round, and at last it pushed me up again, many feet from where I fell. Confused, as I naturally was, I looked around trying to find my son, and, plop, there he was, appearing just beneath me. I tell you, I have rarely seen he so angry. 'Alas!' he cried. 'My boat! Daddy, the river took my boat!'. But I couldn't resist laughing. And after a while he couldn't too, and soon we were both laughing!"

Hessel smiled a little while Brombo guffawed loudly. Halflings always tended to become quite carried away with their own stories, and he hoped that he would not have to finish off the background of their arrival.

"So, Lombo put together a silly riverraft, and together we sailed down river Stir, catching fishes on the way and as darkness closed upon us we put in at the banks, made a bonfire and cooked the fishes and ate them with bread. Aah, that was times. We lived like, well, you know, really like people do in the wilderness. None to help us, none to provide food for us."

He puffed his pipe again and stared into the smoke rings. "We sailed for a couple of weeks. Then we reached Nuln. Beautiful city. Very beautiful."

"Yes," agreed Arnold and drank the last milk in his cup. "Pardon me now, Mr. Brombo. I will have to go."

Brombo jumped up and took his plate and cup. "Master? You didn't even tell me why you are here?" He seemed to be quite upset. "I will do so," said Hessel. "But not right now. Later. Promise."

He walked up to his room and took a short bath in the tub.

"Alas! Alas!" A man unhorsed and ran into the inn. He looked around and ran upstairs. "Hessel - my lord! Hessel!" he cried.

Arnold Hessel jumped up from his bath and cached his towel. He opened the door to the corridor. "My lord," groaned the man. He was clad in silly clothes; the coat was broken here and there and showed a mat, dirty chainmail. His cloak was blood-splattered, and his lips were swollen as if someone had hit him in his face. His face was covered with gore.

Everything went black for Hessel for a moment. Mordheim ... the scouts ... demons ... monsters ... What had happened? At once he jumped into his clothes, grabbed his swords and took on his armor. "What's on, son?" he said, trying to control his voice, but without any luck.

"The city..." began the man. "Mordheim ... ambush ... the rats..." He collapsed on the floor. Several warriors from the division had heard the man, and they watched him from their doors. The apothecaries hurried there, lifted up the man and carried him into a room.

"By ... by Sigmar, what's going on?" said Arnold Hessel, but he knew that too well.

"Warriors," he cried. "Dress in your armor in a hurry. Armor, weapons, provision ... now!"

Thirty men stormed down from the second floor. The people in the tap room, who had just woken, did not believe their own eyes. "War! War! The Enemy has attacked! War!" cried a Dwarf and stood up. "We are all going to die! Flee!!"

The entire inn panicked, and people fought for getting out of the door. The warriors from Fressenheim quickly mounted on their horses and rode towards the town gate.

The citizens and guests of Toville did only reach to see the dust from the galloping army that in once had left the inn. They seemed to fall down again.

Arnold Hessel led the army along the river Stir. Through wilderness and bushes they rode, over swampy ground and through thick forests. At last they reached the city walls of Mordheim. They halted for a moment, and Arnold Hessel unhorsed and walked to one of his lieutenants. "Oliver," he said. "Take your division and ride along the walls, to the north-western gates. I will attack the city from the eastern tower, all right?"

The young lieutenant saluted. "Yes, sire. Your wish is my command." Hessel quickly ordered his division to follow him, and he spurred his horse. They rode like were they possessed, without any mercy to their poor horses, and at least they reached their goal. He sprang off his horse and drew his sword. "Follow me," he ordered, and the others dismounted too and followed him through a gap in the broken wall.

Through narrow passages, wide streets, blocked alleys, deadly ruins, collapsed buildings and perilous walkways Arnold Hessel led his warband through the city. It did not take long time ere they found the place where the scouts were ambushed, for the warriors easily mastered to cross the ruins.

Arnold ordered the warriors to patrol the area while he searched for any signs that might be from the encounter between the Skaven and the scouts. It was clear that someone had been there - a dozen of dead rats lied in the gutters, and old, useless and broken weapons were thrown here and there. A couple of arrows that had missed the rats were thrown, and one of the scouts had apparently lost his coat.

He took on his gauntlet and threw the dead rats into the middle of the street. "Burn them," he commanded, and so they did.

He called one of his champions. "We must find the ratmen," he said. "I don't know how many they are, and I don't even care. We got to find them, and we got to fight them. Let us go."

Following the signs of the cruel Skaven they came to the river. The high stone banks were broken, and the water was low. The surface of the brown water was covered with old, smelly algae, and big, fat plague bearing frogs and toads swam slightly through the thick layer of waste. Somewhere in the bank they discovered a tight opening -

"I think we have found their lair," said Hessel, not really triumphant. The others delayed a bit, looking worried. "Sire," said an archer. "I suppose you do not want us to enter these foul rat's nest? We are all going to die, if not in fight, then of plague."

Arnold seemed to consider it. At last he tightened his belt, sighed and forded the river.

The entrance to the Skaven lair was very narrow, and even the agile men from Fressenheim could hardly crawl through it. But as they came deeper into the tunnel it turned wider and wider, and after some hundred yards the tunnel opened into a much bigger corridor. It was man-built, and it smelled horrible.

The last man jumped into the tunnel, and the company continued to the right. They heard the sound of running waters, bats that woke up as the torches cast their light on the walls and small rats that swept along the gutters.

Suddenly a scream shrilled through the corridors. The entire army halted, and Hessel pricked up his ears. "This way," he whispered and ran into a smaller corridor. He stopped just before an opening. He leant against the wall and kept his hand on the shaft of his sword.

"Ready," he whispered to his division.

Pouring fuel and gas all over the tunnels Arnold Hessel and his brave warriors fled from the sewers of Mordheim. The Skaven followed them in a bloody pursue, squeaking and screaming in despair for losing their prisoners.

"Quickly, this way!" cried Arnold and jumped into one of the channels. The swordsmen followed him while the archers fired their bows and cut down a couple of ratmen.

Through wide corridors, crashed tunnels and narrow gutters the two warbands rushed, keenly followed by the fire that ate up the plague-infested tunnels. The black smoke filled the corridors with even more darkness, and Hessel and his men could hardly distinguish each other from the Skaven. The dirty mud and rotten water splashed up on the walls, and the sound of many footsteps drowned completely in the rumbling of the fire.

"Run! Run!" screamed Arnold as the first Skaven closed up on him. He hugged it down with his sword just as another ratman leaped down from the tunnelroof.

"Sire! Sire!" yelled one of his men. He did no answer in his run but glanced quickly at him. "I guess we should have been that way!"

Arnold halted for a moment but took up the flight again. "What are you telling me, son?" he snorted.

"What I said, my lord. We have passed the exiting corridor ... what shall we do?"

Arnold stopped up and looked the other way. Apparently the Skaven had dropped their pursue or had been eaten by the fire ... or they had just fled out of the sewer. The fire came closer with great speed, and he began to run again.

"I don't know. We must see where this corridor ends, get out of a gutter and close the corridor. I see no else possibilities."

The sewer continued for some hundred yards until it suddenly stopped. In panic they all began to search the walls and the floor for any hidden passageways. Some of the men drew their swords and hugged into the tunnel walls, until one scout cried: "Down here, folks! In a hurry!!" He opened a rusty shutter in the floor, threw off his armor and his weapons and jumped down the opening. Ice cold water flowed into the tunnel, and the rest of the warband followed him.

The warriors swum into the dark water. They could hardly see anything, but as much as possible they tried to follow each other. They swum and they swum for minutes. A few unlucky men lost the continuousness and sunk slowly into the depths of the water, but they were hardened top fit warriors so they kept on swimming. At last a little light broke through the water, and the tired men regained their strength and hurried upwards.

The first man to reach the surface was an archer. He breathed like never before, and one after one the heads of the warriors slightly popped up. Their faces slowly took a normal color as the though flimsy sunlight shone upon them.

They had reached the river Stir. It appeared to be a sewer ending that had been built close to the river with a small door to let water in and out depending on the conditions of the weather, and if they had not found this little shutter they would have been burnt alive.

Slowly the company swum towards the banks of the river. They reached the low, stony ground under them and waded into the banks where they immediately settled down. They were all covered with big, slimy black leeches that sucked their blood, and slowly, for they were weak, they picked them all off and dragged themselves onto the road above.

For a long time nobody spoke. The Arnold Hessel said: "Phew, that was a tough nut. How many are we now?" He counted them all and stood up.

"Fellows," he commanded. "We cannot stay here. The death lurks behind every corner in this damn city, and we are just as safe here as we would be in the cave of a hungry mother bear. I am afraid to say that we must leave right now."

They all stood up, moaning and shaking their heads. "In addition," Hessel said. "We have no weapons! Let us go now, before it is too late."

A light rain was falling from the sky. The sun stood quite low - it would not take long time before it was down, and at the mention of staying in the city by night they speeded up even more.

Hessel lead his warriors along the river, running towards the gates of the city. He was watchful, for they had no weapons, and he was aware of any movement in the ruins. If they clashed into some enemies, then they would be history.

A tired scout came to him and said: "Lord Hessel, I believe we have beet lucky thus far, even though we have only been walking for some twenty minutes." Hessel nodded and halted.

"I suggest we search this place for weapons before we go any further." said the scout and went into an old, weather-beaten house. The roof had collapsed, and the upper floor was open.

A moment later the scout appeared on the top of the building.

"It seems to me that this area is clear. We can go and search!"

And as he turned around an arrow suddenly hugged into the rotten halftimbering behind him. He quickly dug down and crept to the edge where he jumped down to his comrades. "Well, it might be that it is not that clear indeed!" he cried, and as the scouts prepared to run the first ratmen scuttled out from the darkness of the old, crumbled houses that had been untouched for years. Screaming of joy the small, devilish vermin surrounded the scouts, loaded their slings and drew their rusty scimitars.

"Die-die, manlings!" cried a bigger, white-furred Skaven and threw a throwing star into the throat of one of the scouts, and before he could even think that he was dead he slightly collapsed while the blood was flowing from his wound.

"You ... bastards!" wheezed Arnold Hessel. "How dishonorable to kill an unarmored and unprepared man!" And then the warbands began to advance.

Oliver pushed an old, broken door in the entrance of one of the thousands of ruined buildings that was still standing in Mordheim, unwilling to collapse despite whatever tragedies had stuck the cursed city.

The door creaked, and then it fell down from its rusty hinges, and for the first time in many years some sunlight shone into the house and revealed the thick layer of dust that suddenly rose as the door fell down.

Oliver cought and turned to his friends.

"No sign of life here," he said, though not very surprised. He drew his sword and went into the building.

It was all dark inside. The weak sunrays could hardly penetrate the dust, but he had a vague idea about what was old furniture, walls and ruins. He went up the stair to second floor and opened the shutters.

The tables here were bare too, and so were the chests and closets. Nothing had been left as the owners had fled from the burning city, apparently.

He walked around for a while, thinking about where his lord Hessel could be. They had been searching the ruins for hours, but somehow they had seen nothing apart from dead bodies here and there that were left in the gutters, and rats.

His foot hit something hard in the floor. He sat down and put a hand on the floor. Nothing special.

He groped a bit on the floor, trying to find out what was that little thingie he had hit, and then he found something cold. A metal tap, it seemed.

He grabbed it and dragged it. Nothing happened. Then he pushed it, but nor without any luck.

"By Sigmar," me murmured. "Why on Earth is there such a little metal tap in the floor? It must be there for some reason."

He began to shake it, but it did not move. Then he pulled it.

Something in the floor said click, and behind him something began to groan. He turned around but saw nothing special. He loosened his sword and pulled the tap again.

Click ... click. And behind him came a groan again.

Turning around he pulled some more to see whatever was creaking like that. He pulled the tap, and he saw the closet began to move slightly.

"Sigmar!" he whispered. A rat scuttled out from the darkness of the closet.

He pulled harder, and the closet began to swing a little bit. Dust rose in a small cloud, and the old wood groaned.

One of the warriors called for him, but he did not answer. Being excited he continued pulling, and at last he saw the closet moving away from the wall and revealing a secret niche.

He came closer to it and saw a large, mounted chest standing in front of an altar. Two candlesticks stood on either side of a great book on the altar, and the walls were clad with sheets that contained some mysterious paintings and a lot of weird, unknown signs. Painted skulls were hanging from the roof, and the floor was covered with bones.

Oliver drew his sword and took a few more steps. He hugged the sword into the padlock of the chest, and it easily went up. Slowly he opened the chest.

Arnold Hessel rushed through the ruins of the southern quarters of Mordheim. The surviving warriors of his followed him, although some of them began to fall behind.

"Come on, now. Are we not scouts?" he cried. "We are close to the exit!"

But the warriors were completely exhausted, and the first one stopped and threw himself on the ground the rest of them did the same. Hessel stopped, and unable to resist the temptation he sat down on an abandoned tumbrel.

The warriors breathed for some minutes without speaking. At last Arnold Hessel said: "I am worried about the good Oliver and his men. I have no idea about where they might be, but we must reunite soon, for we have little more strength left after these fatigues."

For a while the men of Fressenheim relaxed, until Hessel commanded them to continue.

"We cannot sleep here!" he said. "Unfortunately... I would love to do so too. But we can be back home in a couple of hours, if we hurry."

They got up and continued their march out of the city. And soon they eyed the mighty town walls, and with renewed hope they began to run.

"You ... fools!" snarled Rizkatail. "I said, kill-kill all manlings!"

The Assassin bowed his head as a sign of humility, but his wildly lashing tail showed that he was upset and crazy.

"We did what we could-could!" said the Assassin with his high, penetrating voice. "Manlings were lucky. Manlings were strong."

Rizkatail whipped the Assassin and hissed. "Your stupid-stupid excuses only lead to your only death, rat!" cried Rizkatail, and out of his black cloak he drew a long, poisoned knife.

"You see, fool-fool, if you fail once more, then this knife-knife will be plunged into your worthless heart-heart. I should have done this long-long time before, but I'm a nice-nice Skaven." He stared at the Assassin. "Do you hear-hear?" he said. "DO YOU HEAR!!! You weakling!!"

"Yes-yes, Rizkatail, I hear-hear you! I understand you!" whispered the Assassin and stood up.

Rizkatail sheathed his knife again and took a piece of Warpstone from his pocket. "The manlings know-know about us," he said. "We must kill-kill them all, for no-one may leave this city and spread the rumors about us."

He ate the Warpstone shard and said: "Now you young-young Assassin take your poor rats-rats and find the rotten manlings. They must die-die!"

The Assassin bowed his head again, not because of his respect to Rizkatail, for of that he had very little, but rather because he knew that if he would act offending then he would get killed immediately. He had no chance of assassinating his lord at the moment ... but later, he thought, later he would have his revenge. That was for sure.

"Death-death to the manlings!" cried Rizkatail and threw his hands in the air. "This is the will-will of the Horned One - the world-world shall be ruled by Skaven!"

He jumped up and down in his Warpstone hallucination, screaming and yelling, as the Assassin left the room.

He gathered his rats and lead them out the tunnels. "Now," he said, putting his hand on his sword. "You fools missed your big chance-chance of killing the stinky manlings. If you miss it again-again, then may The Horned One be merciful to you...!"

Resolutely the Skaven warriors took up the pursue, tracing Arnold Hessel's warriors through the dark streets of Mordheim.

It was a doll!

An old, silly doll! Useless and ugly!

Oliver sighed and slammed the chest. He was just about to leave as he suddenly wondered what was written in that old, think book on the altar.

He took it in his hands and studied it. It was clad in dark skin, and on the front of it was painted a doll - exactly like doll in the chest.

He opened the book.

The pages were thick and greasy, as if they had been turned thousands of times. The text, or whatever was written in it, was written with some kind of dark reddish color, and it seemed to be written with an expansion of the mysterious symbols painted on the sheets.

Oliver flipped through the book. He was a bad reader, for his parents in Fressenheim had given his soldier education higher priority than anything else. But at the last page he recognized the capitals:

This Doll has more power than you may imagine. Be able to use it, and use it, or forget anything about it.

For a moment he considered the words, but finding them ridiculous he closed the book and repositioned it at the altar again.

As he went down the stair he thought: "That book and that doll ... if it is worth anything..."

He went back again, opened the chest, took the doll and closed the chest again and put it into his backpack along with the book. It was heavy things, but if he could get any money out of them back in Toville or some other town, then it would be worth bringing it with him.

As he left the house one of the warriors grabbed his hand. "By Sigmar," he said. "We were about getting anxious for you. But now, one of our men has been scouting this area, and he pretends that he saw a small group of ratmen moving this way. He was up in a tower..."

Oliver turned pale. "Ratmen?" he whispered. "You mean, Skaven?"

He took his sword. "I don't believe in those bastards, but if that is really true, then I will be the first one to kill them!"

The warband took cover in the ruins and awaited the arrival of the Skaven.

"Hmmm!" The Assassin growled. "The manlings have fooled us! This is the wrong-wrong way!"

The Skaven were marching strictly through the narrow alleys of the city, but they had somehow lost the trace of the humans. They searched all the ruins for any signs that might prove that Arnold Hessel's warriors had been there, but the humans had disappeared.

"If you do not find-find them, you miserable rats-rats, then I shall kill-kill all of you!" cried the Assassin.

The ratmen strode forwards, quickly as it is usual for the Skaven, in an attempt to pursue the fleeing humans.

Suddenly a Skaven in front of them screamed. "Watch-watch!" he cried and scuttled across the road. In his shield was a long, blue arrow from a human bow.

"We are under attack-attack! The dirty humans have fooled us! Quickly-quickly! Formation!" cried the Assassin and grabbed his short sword.

Their horses were standing reined to the trees in a small grove beneath the walls of Mordheim. They looked anxious, and they neighed and reared as Arnold Hessel and his soldiers appeared.

The warriors took their horses and awaited Hessel's orders.

"Oliver and his men are still in the city," he said, pointing at the couple of horses that waited for their masters. "We must try to find them. They might be is danger. Let us go to the north-western gates, where I commanded him to go."

They spurred their horses and rode along the high walls of the city.

Rizkatail's tail was lashing wildly, and he was walking restlessly around in his chambers in the sewers of Mordheim.

"Hmmm!" he growled. "Where is that Assassin! He'd better return now!"

He walked into his torture room and glanced over his prisoners.

"You silly-silly beasts!" he cried and ate a piece of Warpstone. The prisoners consisted mainly of men and women but also a couple of Goblins and Orcs. He even had a Beastman in the corner.

He walked around a bit, inspecting them all closely.

"Humans!" he sneered and looked deeply into the eyes of a tall, young man. "What are you doing here-here, weaklings?" he whispered and put a claw under the man's chin. "Searching for Wyrdstone?"

The man did not answer.

"Or are you just here-here for getting into some kind of stupid-stupid fight and get killed-killed or prisoned?"

No respond.

"Answer me!" screamed Rizkatail and drew his long, sharp knife.

The young man cleared his throat. "We are her for ... riches and ... fame ..." he said with a hoarse voice.

"And Wyrdstone?" asked the Skaven.

His prisoner seemed to consider it for a few seconds, then he said: "Erm ... well ... probably ..."

Rizkatail suddenly started laughing like a crazy.

"Ha-ha-ha-ha!" he gnarled and turned around. "Wyrdstone! Ha-ha! The Wyrdstone is ours! Ours, only!"

He faced the young man again, and in a sudden serious voice he said: "Do you hear-hear me?"

He was still gnawing at the Warpstone shard, and his rotten breath made the young man turn his face away.

"Do you hear me!!" he screamed. But the man did not move.

Rizkatail grabbed his ear and dragged it.

"Answer me, or I can call-call you One-Ear for the rest of your days-days!" he cried. But he did not get any reply.

With his long, poisoned knife he slightly cut off the right ear of the man, who despite the great pain did not say a word, and held it in front of him. The blood was dripping on the man's nose, and his hair was completely covered by blood.

"Answer me now-now!" said the Skaven and dragged his left ear. "Or do you want to lose-lose your left ear-ear too, manling?"

But still the man refused to answer. Slowly, while panting of pain, his left ear was cut off too. Blood spurted out of his head, and his face was all messy and bloody. He was twisting and wrenching in his chains, but he could not move.

Rizkatail sucked off the blood from his knife and walked around a bit in the chamber, leaving the silly young man on his own.

"Do you see-see, folks? What happens to you if you do not-not obey your master?"

He stopped in front of a young girl, probably around sixteen years old. She began to cry and covered her beautiful face in her chained hands.

"You, little hore! Can you-you answer me?" he asked and ripped off the upper part of her dress. "Neither can you-you? What a pity!"

He took her long, brown hair and cut it off. He whipped her naked hips tearing her skin apart, and laughing like a crazy he walked back to the young man.

"Have you, No-Ear, gotten any better thoughts?" He studied the pale eyes of the man, but he remained silent.

Rizkatail cried, and with his long claws he scratched the young man's tired face and blinded him on his right eye.

"You ... FOOL!!" he screamed and took his knife and plunged it into his stomach. He groaned, helpless as a mouse in the claws of a cat, and closed his healthy eye. Then the knife was drilled into his heart, and his dead body collapsed.

Rizkatail left the torture room and called his guards.

"There is a dead-dead manling in there. Remove his stinky-stinky body!" he ordered.

With fast steps he scurried away to the halls of the Verminkin.

"Rats!" he shouted. "Pick your weapons-weapons and tighten your belts-belts. We go to war-war now!"

And led by Rizkatail the Skaven warriors flocked out of the sewers.

The ratmen had somehow disappeared, but they Fressenheimers did not seem to be unhappy at that point. The men had settled wherever possible - if not possible, then they were just laying on the dirty streets.

The wounded had been picked up, and some of the skilled warriors were taking care of them in whichever way possible.

Oliver, who had been studying a piece of Skaven tail that he had cut off as he fought one of the vile ratmen, suddenly got up and called his warriors.

"Friends," he said. "I am afraid to say that this is probably not the right place to lick our wounds. We'd better go now, before the dirty Skaven might wish to get revenge."

Without saying a word the warriors dragged themselves up and followed Oliver along the road that they came from.

"Halt!" commanded Rizkatail and lifted his nose up high, sniffing to the air in an attempt to catch any trace of the Assassin and his warband. "They went this way. Move-move!"

The Skaven scuttled down the alley, pursuing their foul brethren through the north-western parts of the city.

Hessel led his warband along the town walls. Their horses were, however, less tired than their masters, so they reached the north-western gates rather fast.

The gate was an impressive building: Mighty pillars adorned the gate house, and on both sides of the gate itself there were two large towers where on which the soldiers of Mordheim used to sentry. And finally, two mammoth gargoyles of granite guarded each side of the big port.

The warriors rode through the open gate and into the darkness of Mordheim.

TO Be CONTINUED