RED SNOW Nathan Long Trollslayer Gotrek Gurnisson stared out into the snow-whipped twilight with his single eye as he marched alongside a shaggy camel up the rocky pass. ‘So,’ he growled. ‘When do the ogres come?’ Usman, the gaunt-cheeked Araby axe-man, choked and muttered a curse. Sudijar, one of the camel drivers, darted uneasy looks over his shoulder. Felix Jaeger did the same. He could see nothing but whirling snow. Of course the fall of flakes was so heavy that an ogre could have been standing three paces away from him and he would still have seen nothing, so that was little comfort. Yashef, the captain of the caravan’s guards, a thick-set, stubble-chinned tribesman from the Howling Wastes, lifted an amulet to his lips, kissed it, then tucked it back into the depths of his heavy woollen coat. ‘If the mountain spirits have mercy upon us, they won’t,’ he said. ‘With luck we will reach Skabrand, sell our goods, and return to Pigbarter without incident.’ ‘We better not,’ grunted Gotrek. Little Noor, hunched on the back of his mountain pony with a long-gun in his lap, glared at him from under his enormous furred hat. ‘Why would you curse us like this, dwarf?’ ‘I was promised a fight,’ said the Slayer. ‘The caravan master said there is always a fight.’ Usman snorted. ‘If all you wanted was a fight, you should have stayed at the Sentinels and spit in a hill raider’s eye. You’d have fighting aplenty then.’ ‘I’ll fight you,’ said Harjit, a towering Ind swordsman with a beard to rival Gotrek’s and muscles to rival an orc’s. ‘I’ve never fought a dwarf before.’ Gotrek snorted dismissively. ‘I want a real fight. A final fight.’ ‘I’ll give you a final fight!’ said Harjit, slapping his broad chest. ‘I killed an ogre once.’ ‘Aye,’ muttered Usman. ‘With your breath.’ Harjit turned on him. ‘Take that back, eater of dung!’ ‘I’m afraid you have picked the wrong path, dwarf,’ said Yashef, as Harjit and Usman traded insults. ‘We do not seek misfortune. We seek fortune.’ Aye, thought Felix Jaeger, the wrong path. But he bit his tongue. He knew if he spoke, he might say something he would regret, so he just pulled his old red Sudenland wool cloak tighter around his shoulders and hugged his arms. Though one wouldn’t know it by looking at Gotrek, who travelled bare-chested even as ice crusted the crimson crest that grew from his shaved, tattooed head, the foothills of the Mountains of Mourn were as cold as a Kislevite’s grave. As far as Felix was concerned, Gotrek had been on the wrong path for half the world around. First it was chasing a monster known as the Whisperer of Hayesh, then that foolish madness in Khemri, and after that the trek into the dark lands in the service of Karak Azul, but always east, east and east again – always further and further from home. It seemed that after so many disappointments, Gotrek had become convinced that nothing in the Old World could kill him, and that his only chance of dying in battle, as a true slayer should, was to press on into the unknown. To this end, he had decided to travel to far Cathay and see what dangers lay in store for him there. This fancy had led them to Pigbarter, a filthy little port city on the estuary of the River Ruin, where the people chewed a kind of nut that made their teeth black, and where, as its name implied, the primary currency was swine. There they had joined a hog merchant who was taking mating pairs of pigs up into the Howling Wastes to sell to the tribesmen there. That journey had ended – and not a moment too soon as far as Felix was concerned – at the Sentinels, a pair of towering, wind-blasted rock formations that jutted up from the wastes like black castles. Between the bases of these basalt behemoths huddled a nameless trading post, a stopping point for the caravans that plied the ivory road from Barak Varr to Cathay and back again. Men from every point of the compass walked its dusty streets: squat moon-faced plainsmen, dark-skinned traders from Ind, fur-wrapped Kislevites, swaggering Cathayan bravos with heavy curved swords, and occasionally, looming over them all, massive ogres, guarding heavy laden rhinox or walking behind some prosperous merchant. Tents and shacks and caves carved into the sides of the Sentinels housed merchants, money lenders, smugglers and blacksmiths, as well as hiring agencies for caravan guards, guides, scribes and interpreters. There were also inns and water sellers, and – Sigmar be praised – a bathhouse. Felix had spent nearly all the paltry pay he had received from the hog merchant there, trying to scrub away the smell of pig, and even after five baths he wasn’t sure he had entirely succeeded. It was in that place of incessant wind that they took employment with Zayed al Mahrak, an old caravan master from Araby who told them he had travelled the ivory road thirty times. He was guiding a train of six merchants up into the Mountains of Mourn to Skabrand and needed guards willing to make the trip. Gotrek’s single eye had lit up when Zayed had warned them of the dangers they might face along the way, and had agreed to the old man’s price without hesitation, though it would hardly be enough for another bath at the end of the journey. And so, here they were, trudging up a freezing pass into the snow-peaked mountains, with the wind howling like a daemon around them, nothing to look forward to but cold and danger for months to come, and still going east – still on the wrong path. Felix sighed. Usman heard him and raised an arched black eyebrow. ‘The dwarf is crazy,’ he said in Arabyan. ‘Crazier than Harjit. But you seem a sane man. Why do you follow him like this?’ Felix replied in the same language. He and Gotrek had picked it up – a little of it anyway – during their travels along the coast of the Gulf of Araby while hunting for the Whisperer. It was the common trading language of the east. ‘I made a vow. Gotrek seeks a great death in battle. I vowed to follow him until he found it, then record it in a poem.’ ‘And when did you make this vow?’ asked Usman. Felix frowned, trying to calculate. ‘Seven years ago? Eight? I’m not sure.’ Usman nodded and turned away again. ‘Perhaps you are not as sane as you look.’ Felix chuckled. ‘Perhaps not.’ A few paces ahead of them, Yashef lifted his head. ‘Did you hear that?’ Felix paused and strained his ears. All he could hear was the screaming wind. ‘Hear what?’ ‘A cry,’ said Yashef. ‘A wail.’ ‘I heard it,’ said Gotrek. ‘Just the wind, boss,’ said Noor. Yashef shook his head. ‘I’ve done this trip many times. I know what the mountain winds sound like. This–’ A rumble from above made them all look up. ‘What–?’ Usman began, but he was interrupted by the thud of hooves coming from the front of the caravan. They all turned. Old Zayed was galloping out of the night on his sturdy little pony, waving his hands at the merchants hunched on their wagons. ‘Run!’ he called. ‘Leave the carts! Avalanche! Run!’ The rumble from above nearly drowned out his words. Yashef started pushing the other guards back down the path. ‘Move! Go!’ Felix needed no second warning. He turned and ran with the others as the camels and oxen backed and bellowed all around him, catching panic from the men. ‘Come on, Gotrek!’ he called over his shoulder. The Slayer was looking up into the night, his big rune axe in his hand, as if wondering if he could fight an avalanche, but then he turned and trotted after the rest. Swarming past him were the merchants and drivers and guards who had been on point. Felix could see them screaming, but the thunder of falling snow was so loud he couldn’t hear them. The ground shook with it, and Felix staggered like a drunk as he ran. Then, with a final knee-buckling impact and a sound more felt than heard, it was over. The rumble stopped and a great cloud of fine snow billowed down the pass, enveloping them in a nearly opaque whiteness. The guards and drivers and merchants picked themselves up from where they had fallen and looked towards the front of the caravan. There was nothing to see. Old Zayed climbed stiffly down off his pony. ‘All here? Anyone missing?’ The merchants and guards all looked around and did a quick head count. ‘I don’t see Humayan the oil merchant,’ said one. ‘Nor his driver,’ said another. Zayed grunted, then started forward, leading his pony. ‘We better see.’ Yashef and Gotrek followed him, but most of the others hesitated. ‘Is it safe?’ asked Sudijar. ‘Should be,’ said Zayed. ‘Just keep quiet.’ They slogged back up the path, edging around the frightened animals to the front of the column. A hill of snow rose before them, twice as tall as Felix. The back end of the first wagon stuck out of it. Felix could hear the muffled bawling of a buried ox within it. Of the missing merchant and driver there was no sign. Old Zayed climbed up onto the back of the wagon and crawled up the wall of snow, looking further ahead. He sighed, then climbed back down. ‘Not as bad as it might have been,’ he said. ‘A day or two of digging, I hope.’ He nodded at the buried wagon. ‘Now, come. They may still be alive.’ The drivers and guards fetched the shovels that they had packed for just such an emergency, and quickly began digging the snow out from around the wagon. Gotrek fell in with a will, the instincts of his people taking over, and cleared twice what any of the men managed. A little more than an hour later the wagon was uncovered, and the ox staggered to its feet, shaking off the last few feet of snow from its back. The merchant and his driver, however, were not so lucky. The diggers found them lying together, both clutching the ox’s reins in frozen death grips. Old Zayed shook his head. ‘The fools. I told them to leave the wagon.’ He shrugged and turned away. ‘Make camp. We’ll bury them and start digging out in the–’ A call from the night made everyone turn and squint into the snow. Figures with torches were coming up behind the caravan, a crowd of short silhouettes following a tall, broad-shouldered shadow. The caravan guards drew their weapons. Gotrek and Felix did the same. ‘Halloo!’ came the call again. ‘Does anyone live? Is all well?’ Felix stared as the silhouettes and shadows resolved themselves into men. The smaller ones were natives of the hills – short, wiry, black-haired people, thickly bundled in sheepskin and furs and clutching tarred torches. The tall one was the last sort of person Felix expected to see out here at the end of the world – a ruddy-faced, white-haired priest of Sigmar, well past his prime. Zayed and the others remained on guard despite the friendly words. ‘Who are you?’ growled Yashef. ‘And what do you want?’ The priest stopped, resting his gaunt frame on a long-hafted warhammer like it was a cane, as the tribesmen gathered behind him and stared uneasily at the caravaners. Felix noticed that, except for a few old men, the natives were all young – hardly more than boys. ‘I am Father Meinhart Gessler,’ wheezed the priest in horribly accented Arabyan. ‘Our village heard the rumble of the avalanche, and we came to see if anyone was hurt.’ Old Zayed squinted suspiciously at him. ‘How did you know anyone was in the pass?’ The priest smiled and put a hand on the shoulder of a young boy beside him. ‘Girkra here saw you earlier while he was hunting. And you should be glad he–’ He noticed the bodies of the merchant and the driver for the first time and his face fell. ‘Sigmar have mercy, are they…?’ Zayed nodded. ‘Dead. Buried by the snow.’ Father Gessler lowered his head. ‘I’m sorry. May Sigmar welcome them. I had hoped no one was caught.’ He looked up again. ‘If anyone else is hurt, the village would be honoured to aid them. In fact, they welcome you all to spend the night.’ Zayed and Yashef exchanged uncertain glances. ‘We have no money, holy man,’ Zayed said. ‘And you won’t get our goods without a fight.’ Father Gessler smiled. ‘I understand your suspicions, friends, but these people are not bandits, just simple mountain folk. They would not see you suffer while they were able to help. It is cold here in the pass, and dangerous. There are avalanches, and… and worse things. Now, come. We have hot food and sturdy walls. Please, accept our hospitality.’ Zayed hesitated again, but then a great gust of wind staggered him, and he shivered. ‘Aye. Better than staying here,’ he said. ‘Lead on, holy man.’ ‘Sigmar be praised,’ said Father Gessler. ‘Then turn your wagons about and we’ll begin.’ As the caravan followed the tribesmen through a maze of rocky hills, Gotrek and Felix fell in step with Father Gessler, who appeared lost in thought as he limped along, using his warhammer as a walking stick. ‘What are these “worse things,” priest?’ the Slayer asked. ‘I beg your pardon?’ said Gessler, looking up. He blinked, surprised as he took in Gotrek’s naked torso and red crest, then looked past him to Felix. ‘Sigmar! A dwarf! And an Old Worlder! What are you two doing out here?’ ‘We might ask the same of you, father,’ said Felix. ‘There aren’t many worshippers of Sigmar on this side of the Worlds Edge Mountains.’ Father Gessler beamed. ‘That’s exactly why I’ve come – to bring the light of Sigmar into the dark lands. To burn away the shadows of ignorance and free these poor lost souls from the misery of their heathen existence.’ Felix struggled not to roll his eyes. From what he had observed, the ‘poor lost souls’ he had encountered in his journeys in the east were no more – and no less – miserable than those he remembered in the Empire. ‘You didn’t answer my question,’ growled Gotrek. ‘What is the danger in the pass? Why does the village need sturdy walls?’ The priest cast a glance over his shoulder into the night, then turned back to them. ‘I did not wish to alarm your comrades, but there is a terrible monster that haunts these hills, and it is not safe to be outside the walls of the village while it is abroad.’ ‘A monster?’ said Gotrek. Felix groaned. The Slayer’s single eye was gleaming with an excitement he knew all too well. He had the sinking suspicion their short tenure as caravan guards was about to come to an end. Usman had overheard. He laughed. ‘It seems you may get your fight after all, monster-hunter!’ ‘I hope so,’ said Gotrek. ‘Not if I fight it first!’ said Harjit. Father Gessler turned and gave Gotrek and Harjit a strange wide-eyed look, then collected himself and marched on. Felix smiled. Yes, priest, he thought. They’re mad. And you’ve welcomed them into your home. Good luck to you. The hillmen’s village was built on sloping ground at the high end of a narrow valley between two hills. A palisade of raw pine trunks, sharpened to points at the tops, surrounded it, and heavy gates blocked the entrance. The huts within were just as sturdily built – circular split-log huts with clay plastered into every crack and cranny. Only one structure was different, a tiny, lopsided log shrine with a crudely made wooden hammer hanging over its door. Father Gessler’s work, no doubt, thought Felix, and as he looked around he could see that some of the natives who had come out to stare at them wore little carved stone hammer amulets around their necks. Just as many, however, wore pendants of bone that had been carved to look like fangs. The hillmen were shy but friendly. They showed the drivers where to leave their wagons and tie up their oxen, and a steaming pot of some drink that was both sweet and bitter was brought out so the caravaners could fill their cups. The only person who didn’t seem to welcome their presence was a toothless old hag, whose lack of teeth was compensated for by the necklace crowded with carved fangs she wore around her skinny neck. She squatted in the door of her hut and glared at the priest with milky eyes as he passed. ‘Do you bring more misfortune to our village, hammer fraud?’ she quavered. ‘They will steal our food and defile our daughters! And we cannot defend ourselves as you have killed all our warriors.’ ‘Your warriors died fighting bravely as men should, witch,’ snapped the priest. ‘Not cowering in their huts as you would have them do.’ Felix looked around and saw the old woman was right. There were women of all ages, but as he had noticed of those who had accompanied the priest to the pass, the rest were old men and young boys, but very few men of fighting age. ‘No warriors died when we followed the old ways,’ the old woman sniffed. ‘No,’ sneered Father Gessler. ‘Only the weak and helpless and innocent died.’ He turned from her angrily and shook his head at Zayed and his men. ‘Forgive me, friends. It is to stamp out such craven superstitions that I am here. Now, I’m afraid I must appease Nyima at least in this. I cannot allow you to share the villagers’ huts, but you may set your tents here within the walls, and we will feed you well and tend to your injuries if you so require.’ Yashef frowned. ‘You welcome us in, but not out of the cold? That is poor hospitality.’ Gessler shrugged. ‘The women are frightened of outsiders, and have few men to protect them. Can you blame them if they wish to lock themselves in?’ Yashef was going to say something more, but Zayed waved him down. ‘We accept your offer, holy man. High walls and shelter from the wind are hospitality enough. Thank you.’ Gessler inclined his head. ‘You are most welcome. Sigmar bless you.’ Felix put his hand over his heart at the invocation, but he was the only one. The rest of the night passed without incident, as did the next day, unless one counted shovelling snow from sun-up to sundown. Everyone worked, even the old men and boys of the village, while the women brought food and drink at regular intervals. Felix was saddened to see how many of them wore widow’s black, even girls who looked too young to be brides. They were a shy, sombre bunch. Most of them only ducked their heads and flinched away when the merchants and guards made their inevitable advances, but there was one, a sharp-chinned beauty with flashing eyes, who brandished her knife and bared her teeth when big Harjit made a grab for her. The other women pulled her away, hissing reprimands, and Old Zayed chastised Harjit, and that was the end of it, but Felix found himself watching the young widow for the rest of the day. It was always the bright sparks he liked, and this one was a flame. He noticed that she wore neither Sigmar’s hammer nor the stone fang over her black robes. A woman with a mind of her own, then. He liked that too. Finally, as the sun vanished behind the hills, they all marched back to the village. Felix could not remember his back or arms ever aching more, but they had cleared the pass, and they would be able to get on their way again in the morning. Only Gotrek was less than happy about that, and muttered about inconsiderate monsters all through the dinner of grilled mutton and onions that the village women laid out for them. Late that night, Felix woke as Gotrek got to his feet on the other side of their tent. ‘Whuzzit?’ he mumbled, still dozy from sleep. ‘Summin’ goin’ on?’ ‘Quiet, manling,’ said the slayer, and stepped closer to the tent flap, his rune axe in his hand. Felix listened, but all he could hear was the wind – weaker here than in the pass, but still shrieking. Then he did hear something – a scream of terror, not far away, and directly after it, a deep, guttural roar. ‘Ha!’ barked Gotrek, and raced out of the tent. Felix scrambled out of his bedroll, but he was barefoot and dressed only in leggings and shirt. He cursed, then stomped his feet down into his boots, snatched up his sword and ducked out into the night. Heavy snow beat against his face as he peered around in the darkness. He couldn’t see Gotrek, or anything really, but he could hear raised voices to his left, and ran towards them. He found Gotrek looking into one of the other tents while someone inside shouted at him. ‘Go back to sleep, curse you! We’re all safe here!’ Felix joined the slayer as he stepped to another tent. ‘Who screamed?’ asked Gotrek, sticking his head in. Harjit’s voice came out of the dark of the tent. ‘No one screamed, dwarf. Did you scream, Ghazal?’ There was a pause. ‘Ghazal? Are you there? By the thousand gods, he’s gone!’ Gotrek cursed and looked around, then stumped quickly toward the privies, which were down the hill from the rest of the village. Felix jogged after him, shivering in the wind. The door to the privies was open, and no one was within. Gotrek looked at the white ground in front of them. Dark blotches marred it, as did footprints – enormous footprints. ‘Blood,’ said Gotrek. He and Felix followed the blotches and footprints around the back of the privies to the log palisade. There were great fresh gouges in the wood and beads of blood running down from above. Felix swallowed. ‘So much for the safety of the village walls,’ he said. Yashef, Harjit and Usman and a few of the others hurried up and joined them. Yashef cursed and kissed his amulet when he saw the blood and the tracks. ‘The monster.’ ‘You did curse us, dwarf,’ said little Noor. ‘I knew it was bad luck to talk of looking for a fight.’ Gotrek strode back to the tents. ‘Get your gear. We’re going after it.’ ‘You think we can save Ghazal?’ asked Yashef. ‘No,’ said Gotrek. ‘But we can kill what killed him.’ ‘Who wants to wager that I find it first?’ boomed Harjit. ‘We can only hope,’ muttered Usman. Felix hid a wry smile and hurried after Gotrek. In the end, they couldn’t find it at all. By the time everyone had put their coats and cloaks on, the tracks outside the village wall were nearly obscured by the falling snow, and they were covered entirely once the search party got up into the hills, where the wind piled the snow in deep drifts. They did, however, find something else. On a bluff just above the village, they came upon an old standing stone, carved with crude runes. Attached to it was a set of rusting chains and manacles, placed so that whoever was locked into them would hang spread-eagled from the stone. Gotrek turned to one of the village boys who had come with them as guides. ‘What are those for?’ he asked. ‘That…’ stammered the boy, then clutched the hammer pendant around his neck. ‘That is the old way.’ Gotrek growled in his throat as the men from the caravan cursed and made signs of warding. Gotrek insisted on wandering around for another hour up in the heights, determined to find something, but in the end even he grew tired of pushing through snowdrifts and returned to the village. They found Father Gessler and old Zayed waiting for them at the gate, their eyes bright with hope. ‘Did you save Ghazal?’ asked Zayed. ‘Did you kill the beast?’ asked Father Gessler. ‘No, Zayed,’ said Yashef. ‘I’m sorry. We couldn’t find him.’ He turned on the priest, his brow lowering. ‘You said we would be safe here, holy man! You said the walls would protect us!’ Gessler stepped back, putting his hands up. ‘Forgive me. They keep out everything else. And it rarely comes into the village. I prayed that it–’ ‘It never came before,’ said a scratchy voice from behind them. Felix and the others turned to see old Nyima limping out of the night, supported by a tall wooden staff, and glaring rheumily at Gessler. ‘Not until you angered it, priest,’ she said. ‘In the old days we would chain the weakest and most worthless to the sacred stone and the beast god would be satisfied with that. Our warriors lived to protect us from other dangers.’ She spit into the snow. ‘Now you have sent the warriors against it and it has killed them all. Worse, these foolish attacks have angered it, and it feeds solely upon us, taking whoever it wishes, and we have no one to protect us!’ She raised her staff and shook it. ‘We must go back to the old ways! Only a sacrifice will appease it!’ ‘One does not appease evil!’ cried Gessler. ‘One destroys it! That is Sigmar’s way.’ ‘Mother Nyima, Father Hammer,’ said a new voice. ‘Must we follow either way?’ Felix turned with the others and saw a village woman in widow’s black coming forward. It was the beautiful widow who had threatened Harjit with her knife. ‘My old mother used to tell me of a time before Nyima’s grandmother,’ she said. ‘When we would kill the beasts who preyed on us. Can we not return to that way?’ ‘Yes!’ said Gessler, triumphant. ‘That is the way of Sigmar! That is what I have said!’ ‘No!’ said the girl, loud enough to make the priest blink. ‘You sent our men against the beast to fight it face to face, as if it were an enemy, not kill it like a beast. None returned. We must trap it in a pit, as we kill wild rhinox and bears. Only then will we succeed!’ Gessler glared. ‘A coward’s way! A woman’s way! I sent your warriors against it clad in their faith in Sigmar! Had they truly believed, they would have triumphed, just as Sigmar triumphed against Blacktusk the Boar and Skaranorak the Dragon Ogre!’ ‘Blasphemy!’ cried Nyima. She shook her finger at the girl. ‘Hold your tongue, Chela! It was when the hunter’s way failed that my grandmother first sacrificed to the beast-god, and it had not troubled us since, until this foreign fool showed up, with his hammer and his lies. The god will not trouble us again when the fraud leaves and we return to the way that works.’ At that, all three started shouting at once. The caravaners all looked at each other, uncomfortable. Felix felt it too. It is always awkward when one’s hosts fight. Gotrek snorted and turned away. ‘I’m going to bed. I hope I can sleep through the noise.’ Felix and the others quickly followed behind him, leaving the priest, the witch and the young widow arguing in the snow. ‘Tomorrow can’t come soon enough,’ said Yashef. The others grunted in agreement. Felix woke once more that night, a strange sound waking him from an evil dream, and saw Gotrek sitting up in his bedroll too. ‘What was that?’ Felix asked. ‘The cry,’ said Gotrek. ‘The same we heard before the avalanche.’ It came again and Felix’s skin prickled. It was a high mournful sound, like the howl of a grieving wolf. ‘The beast god?’ Gotrek shook his head. ‘Then what?’ Gotrek shrugged and lay back down. ‘I don’t know. But it’s far from here. Go to sleep.’ The pass was buried in snow again when the caravan attempted to resume its trip the next morning. Another avalanche had come down, a little further up the trail this time, but just as deep. Zayed and Yashef and the others cursed their various gods, then sighed and got to work digging out once again. There was nothing else to do. The only alternative was turning back, and there was no money in that, so they dug. The day passed as the previous day had – endless hours of backbreaking work with the men toiling so hard that, though it remained bitterly cold, many of them stripped to the waist and steamed with sweat. As they worked, Gotrek occasionally squinted up at the snowfields above the pass and muttered under his breath. Felix wondered what the Slayer was thinking, but after years of travelling with him, he knew better than to ask. Gotrek would speak his mind when he wanted to, not before. Finally, just as night began to fall, the men cleared away the last of the snow, then headed back to the village as they had the day before, as travelling at night in the mountains was too dangerous. This time, however, Zayed demanded more from his hosts. ‘We stay in the huts tonight,’ he said to Father Gessler as they ate the meal that the village women had made for them. The priest blanched. ‘But… but you mustn’t. The women won’t like it.’ ‘I care not,’ said Zayed. ‘I’ll not have another man die to protect some savage’s modesty. Either they let us in, or we force our way in.’ ‘You are the savages!’ snarled Nyima from her place by the fire. ‘You take advantage of us when we are weak.’ ‘The men will keep their hands to themselves,’ said Yashef, looking around in a meaningful way. ‘Or they will answer to me, am I clear?’ There was considerably more argument after this, but in the end there was little Father Gessler or Nyima or the villagers could do. The men of the caravan were stronger and better armed. They would get in one way or another. The peaceful way was preferable. But not everybody wanted a cosy bed. ‘I will stay in a tent,’ said Gotrek. Felix groaned as all the rest turned towards the Slayer. That meant he was staying in a tent too. ‘Let the beast god come,’ Gotrek said. ‘I’ll be ready.’ Father Gessler’s eyes widened at this, and Nyima laughed dismissively. Most of the guards rolled their eyes, but Harjit stood and slapped his powerful chest. ‘Then I will take a tent as well,’ he said. ‘I will not let the dwarf think he is the only one with courage.’ Zayed was about to complain, but Yashef stayed him with a hand. ‘You are brave indeed, Harjit,’ he said. ‘And we thank you.’ ‘And the women of the village thank you,’ murmured Usman as he lit a long-stemmed pipe. Felix shot the Arabyan a glance and they shared a smile. Nobody else seemed to have heard. Late that night, Felix woke again to Gotrek getting to his feet. ‘The beast?’ he asked. ‘Something,’ said Gotrek, and pushed out of the tent. Felix had slept in his clothes and boots this time, and only had to throw on his old red cloak before hurrying out after Gotrek. He blinked snowflakes out of his eyes. It was coming down even more thickly than the night before. The Slayer padded quickly but quietly up the sloping hill through the village, pausing now and then to listen. As they neared the back wall, he motioned Felix to stop, and they both crouched down and looked ahead. Through the snow, something was climbing over the palisade, but it didn’t look or sound like any beast Felix had ever encountered. It wheezed heavily, and paused at the top to catch its breath before throwing a leg over, then reached down and began to pull up a crude ladder. Gotrek stood and strode forward. ‘What are you doing, priest?’ Father Gessler, for it was indeed he, gasped and dropped the ladder, then lost his balance and began to topple. Gotrek stepped under him and caught him as he fell, then set him roughly on the ground. The priest looked up at Gotrek, frightened, as Felix joined them. ‘Herr Dwarf, Herr Jaeger, I can explain.’ He pushed himself awkwardly to his feet. ‘I…’ A curved horn dropped from his robes and thudded into the deep snow. It looked like the sort of thing cowherds in the Empire used to call their cows. Gotrek and Felix stared at it as Gessler gasped, then tried to grab it and hide it. Felix might not have registered the significance of the horn had not Gessler reacted like a guilty child at its exposure, but suddenly he understood, and raised angry eyes to the priest. ‘I think I can guess the note this horn makes.’ ‘A note to shake the mountains,’ growled the Slayer. The priest let out a sudden sob and fell to his knees in the snow. ‘Forgive me, friends! Forgive me! I did it for the village. You must understand!’ ‘I understand,’ said Gotrek. ‘I understand that you will die for this.’ ‘What’s the noise?’ called Zayed’s voice behind them. ‘Have you slain the beast?’ ‘No,’ said Felix, turning. ‘But we’ve caught a monster.’ Zayed and Yashef and some of the villagers were creeping warily up the hill from the huts, weapons in their hands. Old Nyima and Chela were among them. Felix picked up the priest’s horn and held it out. ‘This is the cause of the avalanches. Father Gessler has been going out at night and blowing this where the snow is perched to fall. He’s the one who blocked the pass.’ ‘What?’ barked Yashef. ‘The swine!’ ‘Is this true?’ asked Chela. ‘Aye,’ said Gotrek, glaring at the priest. ‘The question is, why?’ Gessler buried his face in his hands. ‘Because I have failed! Because I had left the village defenceless against the beast!’ He looked up again, pleading with his eyes. ‘Don’t you see? I sent the men against the beast and they died! Now it preys on the women and children. I had to find a way to stop it!’ Nyima cackled like a hen. Zayed stepped forward, trembling with rage. ‘So you thought you would feed it my men instead?’ ‘No!’ cried Gessler. ‘No! I hoped you would kill it!’ He turned towards Gotrek and stretched out his hands. ‘And when I heard that you were a hunter of monsters, I thought perhaps Sigmar had guided my hand after all. You are an answer to a prayer!’ Gotrek sneered and spat in the snow in front of the priest. ‘You deserve no answered prayer, coward. You–’ A terrified scream and a guttural roar cut him off. Everyone looked up. The roar came again, from the direction of Harjit’s tent. ‘The god!’ cried Nyima. ‘The beast,’ gasped Gessler. ‘Come on,’ said Gotrek, and pounded down the hill through the falling snow, drawing his axe as he went. Felix and Yashef followed, but they were the only ones, slipping on ice as they ran down through the village and the roaring got louder. They caught up with the Slayer as he stumped out into the open ground beyond the huts, trying to peer through the heavy scrim of flakes. A scream cut short made Felix cringe, but the snow deadened the sound and made it hard to pinpoint. ‘Where is it?’ asked Yashef. Gotrek nodded ahead as he continued forward. The skin walls of Harjit’s tent were billowing and shaking. Then an angry roar came from within and it ripped asunder, and something big burst out into the night. Felix and Yashef gasped and skidded to a halt. It was difficult to make out through the snowfall, but Felix could see that it was huge and strong and covered in white fur. He could also see that it carried an enormous, ice-crusted tree branch in one hand and dragged something dark and stiff and human behind it with the other: Harjit. ‘Sigmar!’ Felix choked. ‘What is it?’ ‘The yhetee,’ breathed Yashef. ‘I didn’t think it truly existed.’ ‘It won’t for long,’ said Gotrek, and sprinted forward, bellowing a savage war cry. The great white beast turned at the noise and howled a response. ‘He’s mad,’ said Yashef, backing away. ‘The dwarf is mad.’ ‘Aye,’ said Felix. ‘And so am I, it seems.’ And with that he charged after Gotrek towards the beast. The thing dropped Harjit and sprang at them with astonishing speed, raising its club. A billowing fog of ice crystals spewed from its mouth as it roared, and Gotrek and Felix were caught in the blast. It was bitterly, impossibly cold – so cold Felix’s joints stiffened instantly and his fingers went numb. A rime of frost furred Gotrek’s red crest, and a glaze of ice glossed his naked shoulders. The tree-branch ice-club came down. Felix was too stiff to move. He toppled rather than threw himself aside. Gotrek swung his rune axe to block the blow, the skin of ice that covered him splintering into a thousand glittering needles. The axe connected, shattering the ice-club and leaving the beast with nothing but a withered branch. Still it knocked Gotrek back a dozen feet and he crashed on his back in the snow. The yhetee howled and bounded towards him again, tossing the branch aside and slashing with its huge claws. Gotrek rolled aside and swung behind him, nicking the yhetee’s forearm. It recoiled, barking with surprise, and Gotrek staggered to his feet. ‘What’s wrong!’ the Slayer growled at it. ‘Never had to fight for your dinner before?’ The yhetee lunged forward, bellowing another cloud of ice and swiping left and right. Gotrek ducked inside its reach as the frigid fog enveloped him, and chopped for its gut. It was too agile. It lurched aside and the axe took it in the leg instead, a long red gash that bled into its snowy fur. Gotrek staggered stiffly away, his naked torso coated in an armour of ice. The enraged beast howled in pain and swept a backhand at him that exploded the Slayer’s frozen shell and sent him crashing into the remains of Harjit’s tent. Felix forced his shivering limbs to move and pushed himself to his knees as the yhetee knuckled towards the tent. He had to distract it before it reached the Slayer. But then, from the village came the sharp crack of a long-gun, and the yelling of men. The yhetee flinched as red blossomed on its shoulder, and looked towards the shouting. Out of the driving snow came the caravan guards, Yashef and Usman waving scimitars in the lead, as little Noor knelt to one side, ramming another charge down the barrel of his gun. All this was apparently too much for the yhetee. It backed away, growling, then snatched up Harjit, draped him over its shoulder, and bounded for the wall, clearing it in a single leap. Felix breathed a sigh of relief as the caravaners ran up to him and helped him to his feet, but Gotrek was less pleased. He climbed out of the wreckage of the tent and glared around at them all with his single angry eye. ‘Fools,’ he rasped. ‘I would have killed it if you’d stayed away.’ ‘Or it would have killed you,’ said Usman. ‘Grimnir willing,’ said Gotrek. Yashef, seemingly over his earlier fright, knelt and pointed to dark patches in the snow. ‘You wounded it, but the snow is coming down too fast. Its trail will be covered in no time. We’ll end up walking in circles again like last night.’ ‘No we won’t,’ said Gotrek, and started back up through the village. ‘I have an idea.’ Felix stared after him, uneasy. When the Slayer had an idea, things usually ended up with Felix fighting for his life. As Gotrek and Felix and the others reached the top of the hill, the villagers and the merchants from the caravan were arguing over who would get to kill Father Gessler. ‘He trapped us here,’ Zayed was saying. ‘Deliberately, so that we would be eaten by this monster! I want to drag him behind my oxen all the way to Skabrand!’ ‘No!’ cried Nyima, shaking a finger. ‘He has killed more of us than he has of you! He should be given to the wives of the slain warriors. They will make sacred fangs with his finger bones!’ Gessler knelt among them, head lowered, as the argument went back and forth above him, seemingly resigned to his fate, a broken man. Then Gotrek pushed through the crowd and grabbed him by the front of his robe. ‘Come on, priest,’ he growled, then dragged Gessler down the hill towards the gate. Cries of dismay erupted at this, and the villagers and merchants jogged after the Slayer, shouting complaints. ‘What are you doing?’ called Zayed. ‘He is mine to kill! He owes me men and time!’ ‘The vengeance should be ours!’ wailed Nyima. ‘Where are you taking him?’ Gotrek turned on them, glaring. ‘The priest meant to use us as bait. I will use him as bait. I will shackle him to the sacrifice rock and wait for the beast to come.’ Yashef laughed, delighted. ‘Yes! This is true justice. We kill the priest and the yhetee that slew our comrades! Good!’ The other guards cheered. ‘No!’ shrieked Nyima. ‘You must not kill the god! You will doom the village! You will destroy us all!’ ‘Silence, crone!’ said Yashef. ‘We do you a favour. Come, dwarf. Let us go. Let the sport begin.’ But Gotrek shook his head. ‘This is my doom. I won’t let you mess it up. I go alone.’ Yashef and the other guards looked about to protest, but Zayed pushed through them. ‘Wait! Remember who pays you. I will not risk men on a fight not my own. We will be gone in the morning, with this mad village and its monster behind us. Forget the beast.’ Yashef and the others grumbled, but looked ready to obey. Gotrek, on the other hand, turned his cold hard eye on the caravan boss. ‘You think you can stop me?’ he rumbled. Zayed shook his head. ‘I know better than to try and change a dwarf’s mind. You may go, and your pale friend too, and if you come back before we leave, you are welcome to continue with us. But we leave at dawn, with you or without you.’ ‘Fair enough,’ said Gotrek, then turned and continued dragging Father Gessler down the hill. Felix sighed, then followed after him. The Slayer’s ‘pale friend’ would have much rather stayed behind and gone back to sleep, actually, but a vow was a vow. The snowfall began to taper off as Felix and Gotrek led the silent Father Gessler up the winding trail that rose from the village to the sacrifice rock in the hills high above. It was still slow going trudging through the drifts, and Gessler fell several times. Felix hauled him to his feet each time, then shoved him ahead with more force than necessary. He wondered if all his years travelling with the Slayer had begun to make him hard-hearted. Gessler was a priest of Sigmar, and a fellow citizen of the Empire, and yet Felix found it difficult to muster any sympathy for him. He should have been pleading for Gotrek to show mercy, but he remained silent. He wondered why. Gessler seemed a true believer in Sigmar, and Felix was certain that he didn’t have a spiteful bone in his body, yet despite that, he had sent all the young men of a village to their deaths, and had been prepared to sacrifice the lives of a score of strangers to repair the mistake. No, there was no spite in him, but he was a villain nonetheless – a blind zealot in the first case, who tried to make his converts follow the laws of his god without considering the realities they faced, and a duplicitous coward in the second case, who tried to trick innocent men into solving a deadly problem that he himself had caused. The irony of it was that if Gessler had come to Gotrek openly, the Slayer would have accepted the challenge of the yhetee immediately, and the priest would have saved himself from committing his second crime – taking by guile what would have been freely given. His true sin, Felix thought, was that he had caused the deaths of Humayan and his driver, and later Ghazal and Harjit, not to trick the other caravaners into fighting the beast, but to save himself from shame. He had been too embarrassed to ask for help, and so had instead stolen it, and killed four men in the process. That was why Felix remained silent. Gessler too remained silent, plodding through the deep snow with his head down, his face a mask of dull misery, and not once looking around or making any move to escape. It was only when they had reached the rock and Gotrek was unfastening the bolts on the manacles that he finally spoke. ‘Slayer,’ he said. ‘Don’t let me die like this.’ Gotrek didn’t turn. ‘You don’t deserve mercy.’ ‘And I don’t ask it,’ said Gessler. ‘I am ready to die for what I have done, but I wish to do it with my hammer in my hands, fighting the beast, as I should have before.’ ‘You don’t deserve that either,’ said Gotrek. ‘I know it.’ Gessler hung his head. ‘I deserve nothing. I have turned from Sigmar, and I will not be welcome in his halls. Still…’ He shrugged and sighed and fell silent. Gotrek paused, holding the open manacles in his hands. Felix wondered what he would do. Personally, he would have granted the old priest’s request without a second thought. As angry as he was at Gessler for what he had done, he would not begrudge a man the chance to die with dignity. The Slayer, however, was a stickler when it came to honour, and was not known for his mercy. Felix was tempted to speak up for the priest, but he knew better. Gotrek would only dig his heels in, so he kept his mouth shut and waited. The Slayer remained silent for another moment, then grunted angrily and returned to the manacles. Gessler moaned, and Felix sighed, disappointed. But then, as Gotrek began turning another bolt, something near the sacrifice stone caught his eye. Felix followed the Slayer’s gaze. It was a deep print in the snow, and it seemed rimmed with something dark. Gotrek crossed to it, then bent and touched the dark stain. He raised his eye. More deep prints continued up into the mountains, following a steep trail out of sight around a bend. The Slayer paused again, glaring into the white distance, then cursed and turned to Father Gessler. ‘Get up, priest,’ he said. ‘You are lucky I am impatient to meet my doom, or we would be waiting until the beast came for its dinner again.’ Gessler sobbed with relief. ‘Bless you, Slayer. I don’t know how to thank you.’ ‘Then don’t,’ said Gotrek, and turned for the snowy track. They followed the trail of wide-spaced prints for another hour up into the mountains while the wind tore at their backs and heavy clouds laboured across the sky above them like ponderous snow mammoths. They needed no torch to see them, for though the moons were lost behind the clouds, the night was white with their hidden glow and the bright snow that covered the rocky slopes. Towards the end of the hour, the snow picked up again, but not yet enough to hide the trail. A little while after that, they come to a place where the tracks entered a narrow, high-walled ravine with a little ice-fringed stream trickling out of it. It was darker in the ravine, and the floor of it was a slithering scatter of shale that crunched and slid with every step. Felix tensed at every rattle, afraid they would be heard, and that the yhetee would drop down on them from above. Father Gessler murmured prayers and wheezed like a bellows. Gotrek just stumped on, seemingly unconcerned. Soon they came to a place where the ravine closed to a bottleneck. The high, shadowed walls framed a wider, brighter area beyond, where snowdrifts mounded on either side of the black stream, and the falling snow whirled in a glowing curtain of white. Here Gotrek paused, then crept forward more quietly. Felix and Gessler followed behind him, peering uncertainly ahead. ‘Do you see it?’ Felix asked. ‘Aye,’ said Gotrek. ‘Where?’ ‘Right in front of you.’ Felix stared again, then almost gasped when something within the swirling whiteness shifted and he realised he was looking at a massive shoulder, covered in shaggy white fur. The yhetee was in the centre of the open space, hunched and facing away from them, and yet so camouflaged in the surrounding whiteness that even as he looked at it, Felix lost its outline and found it hard to see it again. As they got closer, he could hear a horrible crunching and tearing sound coming from the yhetee, and then a claw flashed up and something red and thin spun over the beast’s shoulder and thudded on the ground. Felix winced. Gessler gagged. It was a human leg, now just red bones and tendon strings. ‘Harjit,’ Felix murmured. ‘Its last meal,’ said Gotrek. He hefted his axe, then looked to Gessler. ‘Are you ready, priest?’ Gessler was staring at Harjit’s leg, his face pale. ‘I… I must pray,’ he said, and fell to his knees. Gotrek grunted, disgusted, and continued toward the bottleneck. Felix followed after him, but the Slayer shook his head. ‘No, manling,’ he said. ‘There is no one to save here. There is nothing but a fight. Stay back and let those who wish to die go forward.’ Felix paused, then nodded. ‘Very well, Gotrek.’ He stopped and watched Gotrek go ahead, oddly conflicted. So often extenuating circumstances had forced Felix to fight at the Slayer’s side, usually because he’d die too if he didn’t. Now that he could let Gotrek go into a fight alone without any risk to himself or any danger to anyone else, it felt strangely wrong. It might also be the last time he saw the Slayer alive. That felt odd too, but he had taken his vow in anticipation of this day. He knew it would come eventually. All he had to do now was hold up his end of the bargain and watch the fight so that he could write it down faithfully later. After so many years of following him, he would not fail the Slayer in that. As Gotrek edged through the bottleneck, the yhetee lifted its head and sniffed the wind, then growled and reached for a heavy tree branch as it looked around. It raised the tree branch to its mouth and bellowed a blast of icy breath at it. Thick frost crystals formed on the branch, enveloping it and turning it into a huge ice club in seconds. Gotrek stepped out into the open area. ‘Over here, beast.’ The yhetee spun to face him, then raised its huge, ape-like arms over its head and shook the club, roaring a challenge. Gotrek stumped forward, unimpressed, and lowered his head between his powerful shoulders, preparing to charge. But then, just as the Slayer was about to sprint forward, something flashed past Felix and burst out of the ravine into the open area. It was Father Gessler, his hammer raised high and his robes flapping. ‘Sigmar grant me strength!’ he cried as he splashed through the shallow stream and charged the beast. The yhetee snarled and swiped at him with its icy club. Gessler blocked with his hammer but it was no good. The club was twice his weight. It struck him in the head and chest with the force of a battering ram, and sent him flying back to land, shattered and twisted, in a midden of snow-covered skulls and ribcages. Felix crept forward to the mouth of the ravine to see if Gessler still lived. The priest’s skull was caved in. If he was alive, he was beyond Felix’s ability to save. Gotrek barked a harsh laugh, then charged the yhetee, leaping the stream the priest had waded through. Felix made a face at the Slayer’s laugh. Gotrek was hard, even unkind at times, but he rarely made fun of those who died bravely. It seemed uncharacteristic for him to mock the priest’s death – pathetic as it was. Dwarf and beast slammed together among the snowdrifts. Gotrek’s axe chipped a chunk of ice off the yhetee’s club as they connected, but the force of the impact drove the Slayer back. The beast roared, gusting a column of crystallising air at him. Gotrek dove aside, avoiding the blast, and rolled up by the yhetee’s leg. He slashed at it, but the beast was too quick. It pivoted and swung again with its club. Gotrek blocked with his rune axe but, like Father Gessler, hadn’t the weight to stand his ground. He flew back, lifted entirely off the ground, and slammed down hard on a boulder near the ice-rimmed stream. Felix winced as the Slayer’s skull smacked against the rock and his axe flew from his fingers to splash into the stream. The yhetee leapt at him and smashed down with its club. Gotrek groggily rolled aside, and the icy club shattered and split against the boulder. Gotrek crawled behind the beast, shaking his bloody head and groping for his axe, the haft of which was sticking up out of the shallow stream. The yhetee turned and blasted down at him again with its frigid breath as it tossed the broken branch aside. A glassy glaze formed on the Slayer’s skin, but worse, the stream froze solid. When Gotrek grabbed the haft of his rune axe, it wouldn’t budge. It was trapped in the ice. He got a firmer grip on it, but the beast was on him again, and he had to dive away. It bounded after him, roaring and swiping at his back. Gotrek stopped short and it overshot him, tripping. Gotrek veered and sprinted for Father Gessler’s body. The yhetee recovered and charged after him. The Slayer reached the priest and snatched the warhammer from the priest’s limp hands, then turned and swung it with all his might behind him. The beast took the full force of the blow on its snout and reared up in pain. Gotrek followed through with a smash to its knee. The beast howled, its leg buckling. Gotrek dodged around it and ran for the stream. As the beast lurched to its feet, Gotrek skidded to a stop at the stream and smashed at the ice with Gessler’s hammer, trying to free his axe. The beast dove at the Slayer’s back, its claws outstretched. Felix was afraid that would be it, but at the last second, Gotrek spun again, swinging the hammer. The results weren’t quite so fortunate this time. The Slayer managed to knock the yhetee’s slashing claws aside, but its full weight hit him in the chest, knocking him flat, and they both crashed through the ice into the water. The beast pressed up, dripping, and pushed Gotrek down under the water. Felix’s heart lurched as he realised what came next. The beast would blast Gotrek with its arctic breath and freeze him into the river, encasing him like a fly in amber. After that it would be able to kill him at its leisure. It was an end too horrible to contemplate, and Felix found himself stepping forward and drawing his sword, all the while knowing he would be too late. The beast inhaled as Felix hurried forward but, just as it was about to roar, Gotrek’s massive, muscled arm shot out of the stream and jammed the head of Gessler’s warhammer down its throat. The beast rose up, gargling angrily, and tried to grab the haft of the hammer with its clumsy clawed hands. Gotrek erupted from the water beneath it, blowing like a walrus, then ducked between its legs and dove for his rune axe. This time it ripped free as the beast spun and tore the hammer from its maw. Gotrek charged forward, splashing through the ice-choked stream, then leapt up onto the boulder and vaulted through the air, straight at the yhetee. It blasted him with its ice breath full force, turning his front half frost-white in mid-air. But the Slayer was not to be slowed. He crashed into the beast’s chest like a frozen cannon ball and chopped down with his rune axe, the ice exploding from him in a glittering cloud. The axe’s blade vanished into the fur of the yhetee’s chest and it toppled backward to splash down in the stream, thrashing and clawing weakly. Gotrek tore the axe free in a splatter of blood and hacked off its claws as it tore at him, then with a final mighty strike, lopped off its head. The long, ape-like arms sank slowly into the water as life drained from its body and the icy stream ran red with its blood. Gotrek dropped to his knees on its massive chest and lowered his head as if in prayer. Felix stepped out of hiding, concerned, and crossed to the Slayer. ‘Are you all right, Gotrek. Are you hurt?’ Gotrek shook his head. ‘East,’ he said morosely. ‘Further east.’ Felix nodded. The defeat of a great beast was always as much of a failure as it was a victory for the Slayer. He would have to continue to seek his doom further on. As Gotrek cleaned his axe in the stream, Felix picked up Father Gessler’s hammer and crossed to the dead priest. For a moment he thought of bringing the body down the mountain and giving it a proper burial, but it seemed somehow more fitting for him to remain here among the skeletons of the men who he had sent up the mountain to meet their death. Instead he just laid the priest’s hammer on his shattered chest and folded his broken arms over it, then murmured a prayer to Sigmar to forgive him his folly and welcome him into his halls. ‘It’s almost dawn, manling,’ said Gotrek, behind him. ‘The caravan won’t wait.’ ‘Aye, Gotrek,’ said Felix. He turned away to see the Slayer waiting for him, the yhetee’s huge head dangling by its hair from his massive left fist. As they walked toward the mouth of the ravine, Felix turned to the Slayer, frowning. ‘Why did you laugh when Gessler died?’ ‘He called to Sigmar to give him strength,’ said Gotrek. ‘Grungni and Grimnir give a dwarf all the strength he needs at birth. They would be insulted if he asked for more.’ He snorted. ‘That’s the trouble with humans, they want their gods to do everything for them.’ Old Nyima was squatting at the gate when Gotrek and Felix returned, and she ran wailing into the village as they approached. ‘Doomed! Doomed!’ she cried. ‘The curse of the god!’ The villagers and the caravaners crowded around in the pre-dawn light as Felix and the Slayer stopped in the centre of the cluster of huts. Some of them shrank back when they saw that Gotrek carried the yhetee’s head, but others murmured prayers of thanks. Gessler’s followers clutched the little hammers they wore around their necks. ‘Where is the hammer father?’ one asked. ‘He’s dead,’ said Felix. ‘And so is the beast,’ said Gotrek. He tossed the heavy head and it rolled to a stop amongst them. The caravaners cheered, and Yashef gave Gotrek and Felix a big grin, but the villagers shied away from it – all but the young widow, Chela. She stepped forward and spat on the massive thing, then crossed to Gotrek and Felix and bowed before them. ‘Thank you for slaying it,’ she said. ‘Thank you for avenging my husband. Perhaps we will live in peace for a–’ Her words were interrupted by a crackle of flame and the smell of smoke. Everyone looked around. Father Gessler’s shoddy little Sigmarite shrine was on fire, and sparks from it were floating towards the huts. The thatch of one was already starting to smoulder. The villagers shouted and began to run for water and ladders, but then Old Nyima appeared, pointing a clawed hand at the burning temple. ‘The curse of the god is upon us!’ she shrieked. ‘I told you we would be doomed!’ She turned her glare upon Gotrek and Felix, then drew a bone dagger and tottered towards them. ‘Kill the killers! Appease the god!’ Some of the villagers hesitated, frightened of her, but also of Gotrek’s axe. The fire continued to spread. ‘Stop, crone!’ snapped Chela, blocking Nyima’s way and grabbing her wrists. ‘The god is dead. We will feed it no more–’ She cut off abruptly, wrinkling her nose. ‘You reek of lamp oil! You set the fires!’ ‘No! The god curses us!’ cried Nyima, struggling to free herself from the younger woman’s grip. ‘There is no curse!’ cried Chela. ‘Only an old woman trying to win back the power she has lost!’ She turned Nyima towards the huts. ‘Look what you have done! You burn us out of our homes for your pride!’ Nyima twisted her hand and cut Chela’s arm with her knife. The young widow let go, yelping, then knocked the wise woman down with a slap and kicked the knife from her hand. ‘Move the wagons away from the huts!’ called old Zayed. ‘Protect our cargo!’ The caravaners turned slowly away from the fight, seemingly reluctant to miss the spectacle, but then hurried away under Zayed’s curses and kicks. The villagers too seemed paralysed by the struggle, and stood watching with buckets unfilled. Chela shouted at them. ‘Forget her! To the well! Put out the fires!’ Nyima scrambled up and grabbed a flaming branch from the thatch of one of the burning huts. She shook it at Chela, advancing on her. ‘And what if I set them, girl? I only do my duty as mouthpiece of the god. I obey his–’ She broke off with a scream as the flames suddenly spread to her oil-soaked hands and arms. ‘No! No! Put it out!’ She dropped the branch and backed away, waving her arms, but that only spread the flames, and they began to consume her clothes and hair. Chela ran forward. ‘Nyima! Stop! Fall to the snow!’ But the old woman was beyond listening. She turned and ran, screaming in pain, and crashed through the burning door of one of the huts. Chela turned to the villagers. ‘Someone help me! Help me get her out!’ Felix and Gotrek stepped forward, along with some of the others, but it was too late. The flaming roof of the hut caved in and Nyima’s shrieks died off in a piteous wail. Chela stopped and lowered her head, sighing, but then turned to the others. ‘We will mourn her later. Now we must put out the fire. Come. Quickly.’ After that there was a frenzy of snow shovelling and water carrying as the villagers, caravaners and Gotrek and Felix fought to keep the flames from spreading. In the end, all but the first two huts were saved, and Nyima’s charred remains were brought out and laid in state in the centre of the village. Words were said over her by the elders, but afterwards Chela stood and faced the crowd. ‘Neither Nyima or the hammer father wished us ill, but they brought ill upon us by their blindness, and we allowed this by our blindness. Now, because of them, our men are dead, and there is no one to defend the village. If raiders come, if beasts come, we are finished.’ She sighed. ‘I have heard some say we must find another god to pray to, or seek shelter with another tribe.’ She shrugged. ‘I will stay here. The way will be hard, but it will be our own. We have followed for too long.’ The villagers murmured amongst themselves, some grumbling and glaring at her, some nodding in agreement. Some clutched their stone hammers and their bone teeth to their chests, others took them off and laid them on Nyima’s bier, then crossed to stand with Chela. Felix grunted as he and Gotrek turned away to help the other caravaners ready the wagons to leave. Chela was a bright spark indeed, and he admired her courage, but he feared it wouldn’t be enough. Raiders, beasts, starvation, the bitter cold of the mountain winter, any one of them would snuff out the little undefended village like a candle falling into snow. The odds were a thousand to one that she and her followers would survive long enough for their boys to become men, and assume the duties of their dead fathers. Still, the girl had a certain something in her eyes that made him think it would be unwise to bet against her. As the caravan set out up the pass once more, Yashef grinned at Gotrek. ‘So, you got your fight, dwarf. I hope now we can continue to Skabrand in peace.’ ‘Aye,’ said Usman. ‘Surely that fight was real enough for you?’ ‘Real enough, but not final enough,’ said Gotrek, staring ahead dully with his single eye. ‘East,’ he muttered as before. ‘Further east.’ Felix sighed and trudged on beside him – still on the wrong path.