The Corrupted by Warhammer

Author:Warhammer [Warhammer]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Warhammer
Published: 2011-08-13T07:00:00+00:00

A hundred miles due north, and caution was the last thing on Grendel’s mind. He had been dreaming again. At least, he assumed that the visions had been dreams.

As he leapt screaming from his bed, such semantics were the least of his concerns. Fighting a rolling wave of nausea, he had staggered across to the curtains and tore them open to reveal the city below. The brightness of the setting sun stung his eyes, and he blinked away the tears that had already been there.

Clinging to the heavy drapes, his beard tangled with sweat, Grendel stared unseeingly out towards the northern horizon. Then he giggled.

Today, for the fifth day in a row, he had been struck with a lightning bolt of inspiration, a thunderclap of pure genius: a gift from the gods.

Well, he thought, a gift from one god in particular.

Pushing the sodden mop of his hair back from his pallid forehead, he turned away from the light of the window and lurched towards his desk. It was a massive slab of oak, perhaps twenty feet long, and its surface was covered with the paraphernalia of his art.

Phials of powders stood in a dozen mismatched racks. Bottles and flasks jostled together, their contents every colour of the rainbow. Herbs were everywhere, whether in bundles or in stone jars. Amongst this innocent detritus there lay other, less savoury ingredients. Teeth and rolls of strangely repellent leather were scattered about, as were the decapitated heads of at least three different races. The halfling looked particularly put out, the cured leather of his face puckered into a perpetual scowl.

Maybe they killed him before his last supper, Grendel thought, and giggled again. It was a shrill, broken sound, neither laughter nor sobbing, but something in between.

As he rummaged through his grisly materials, there was an imperious knock at the door.

“Go away,” Grendel snapped without looking up. “I’m busy.”

The latch lifted and the door was flung open.

“Grendel, you old stoat,” Zhukovsky said as he swaggered into the room. “I need something special from you today. I’m feeling a bit jaded.”

The wizard spared him a single contemptuous glance, and snorted. A month ago, he wouldn’t have even considered displaying such disdain. A couple of weeks ago and he wouldn’t have dared, but now things had changed. As Zhukovsky’s appetites had grown, so had his dependence on the wizard, and dependency never inspires much respect.

“You are sick,” Grendel said, turning back to his work. “Go and rest.”

For a moment, Zhukovsky seemed about to argue. Then he shrugged. What argument was there? His skin had become so loose and flabby that he looked like a glutton after a month of dysentery, and burst blood vessels had left his eyes as pink as a rat’s.

Even Zhukovsky’s swagger was a stiff legged thing. Wasting muscles and numbed bones had put paid to his youthful exuberance, and he had taken to carrying a silver-topped cane, but his viciousness, at least, remained unabated.

“It’s funny,” the count said, squinting at the afternoon light that poured in from the window, “but I could have sworn you just snorted at me.

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