Gotrek & Felix: Slayer by David Guymer Read Free Book Online

to the marrow by the wizard’s talk and angered by how powerfully it had affected him. His destiny, such as it was, was his own and no other’s. The thought that some unknowable being might have done this to him infuriated him more than the fundamental loss of control over his own fate that such interference implied.
    ‘We’re not all together, though, are we? Some of us aren’t here.’
    ‘Only those that needed to be.’
    Felix’s lips flared in sudden rage and his hand moved of its own volition to the hilt of his sword.
    Snorri.
    Ulrika.
    How dare he!
    The rain pummelled Max’s hood as the wizard beheld the middle distance. With a sigh, Felix let go of his sword. It wasn’t the wizard’s fault. He was sick, a man with an infected wound. He had not chosen to be this way.
    ‘You should go,’ Max murmured, nodding downhill.
    On the nearest patch of flat ground between the hill and the treeline, a gang of unarmoured men, women, and even children were busily erecting an impromptu command tent over the back of an open-topped wagon. As Felix watched, Gotrek and a handful of others gravitated towards it.
    ‘The Hochlanders’ commander is the bearer of bad tidings. Your nephew has just heard, and convenes a council of war-captains.’
    A prickle of unease stitched down Felix’s spine. ‘How can you know that?’
    Max sighed. It looked as though he closed his eyes, but with grey eyes and grey skin, both concealed under a hood, it was difficult to be certain of anything. ‘Some powers I abjure by choice, others force their visions through my shuttered eyes and invade my dreams.’
    Felix spun around, his heart turning loops, and tried to pick out Gustav amidst the mismatched uniforms and mud paraded under the rain below. He could see a pocket of Hochlanders in their red and green, but there was no sign of his nephew.
    ‘I would advise you to hurry,’ said Max, serene as a passing breeze. ‘Gotrek Gurnisson is about to be the recipient of bad news.’
    Rain tapped on the leaves above the solemn bier as it traipsed southwards in unexpected defeat. Khamgiin Lastborn, the ever-changing spear of the Silver Road, tried to ignore it and lapse back into unconsciousness. The pain from the wound in his back was terrible, worse even than the ritual scarifications his father had inflicted upon him in his trials of manhood. Pain was just a feeling, a weakness like pity or affection. He told himself that, but the rain’s insistent rap on his armour demanded he pay notice and take heed.
    By the Dark Master of Chaos, it hurt.
    He opened his eyes and blinked away the dreams of torture and sadistic, androgynous daemon-fiends. Were they dreams or were they memories? It was difficult to know; he had lived long and suffered much, both before he had donned Tzeentch’s armour and after. Casting the past to the past, he took in his surroundings. Tall trees rose above him, carving up the grey light into meagre portions of light and shadow. The rain rustled lightly through their high leaves. Watching the weaving bowers shift slowly by, Khamgiin came to the realisation that he was laid out on some kind of litter, and that he was moving.
    On either side of him walked his men. They marched slowly, eyes low and shoulders hunched. The tribesmen were smeared with blood, their armour scored. Four of their strongest carried him on a shield across their shoulders. Despite his size and weight and their evident weariness, they bore their burden without sufferance. Men of the tribes were not like other men. Though it was many decades since Khamgiin had ridden the steppe, battled hobgoblin and ogre and worse every day simply to live for one more day of struggle, the pride he took in his people’s prowess was as strong as it had ever been.
    ‘Temay,’ he mouthed, addressing the tall warrior to his right. The man wore a coat of iron and leather scales, woven together with a backing layer of silk and worn over a sleeveless silk vest. His head was