Inside the secret passage, the stench was stronger. The walls were completely covered in gunk, and Elysia could feel it as her hands splashed as she groped her way through the darkness. As she recalled the disgusting acts she had seen the Plague priests carry out, she felt like vomiting, but she restrained herself, forcing herself to follow the soft glow of the runes on the dark hero's sword.
Frey moved quickly and confidently, as if he had no difficulty seeing without light. The catgirl suspected that this must be the case, and that the dark hero's vision could be just as good in the dark as it was in the daylight. Before, he had already followed the dark hero through dark places, and he was sure that Frey knew what he was doing. Although Elysia possessed vision in low light, her night vision was weak, as she needed at least a minimal light source to see in the dark.
Somewhere far away she heard scratching sounds and realized that a burning lantern would alert the ratfolks to her presence. She was sure that the only chance they had of surviving, in view of the greater number of wererats, was a quick attack, for that would give them the advantage of surprise.
She nearly lost her balance as she dumped her weight forward and was met with emptiness. Upon recovering, she realized that she was on a ladder that descended. That mausoleum was really big. Whoever had built the building had undoubtedly spent a great deal of money. And why not? Its inhabitants were going to spend an eternity in there, or so they had believed.
Screams then reached him from ahead; it seemed that the ratfolks were engaged in some obscene ritual. A glow of sickly green light illuminated the corridor ahead. It looked as if they were about to engage the wererats within their own lair.
♦ ♦ ♦
Felbroth gave a high-pitched laugh as one of his leprous fingers broke off and fell into the boiling cauldron.
It was a good sign.
His own plague-eaten flesh would help feed the spirit that lurked there and make the potion that would soon bring death to his enemies more potent.
The Cauldron of a Thousand Plagues was both a holy relic and a weapon for the Morbus Clan, and he intended it to serve both purposes.
From the satchel he took out a large handful of powdered manastone, and tossed it inside. Her remaining fingers stung from contact with the mineral, and she licked them clean, feeling the itch spread to her tongue at the same time. She licked her gums so that a good deal of the dust would contaminate the abscesses and ulcers; perhaps, in this way, the suppurations would be even more contagious.
Felbroth cleared his throat until a great mass of phlegm formed in his mouth, then spat it into the thick, boiling mixture to enrich it while he stirred it with a large ladle carved from a dragon's femur. He could feel the stinking power rising from the cauldron, just as a normal ratfolk might feel the heat of the fire. It was like being in a powerful conflagration of toxic energies.
He took a deep breath to fill his lungs with the heady fumes rising from the mixture, and was instantly rewarded by a thick, phlegm-filled cough. He could almost feel his lungs fill with fluid as the corruption increased in them. "It's just a reward." he thought. The plans were going well. The tests were almost over.
The new plague was as virulent as he'd wished, but more importantly, it belonged to him. He had used an old recipe, to which he had added new secret ingredients. From then on and forever among the faithful of Clan Morbus, she would be known as the Invalid Plague. His name would be inscribed in the Morbus Clan recipe book, and he would be long remembered as the creator of a new disease, one that would decimate the smooth as a ferocious beast decimates its prey.
With each passing night, the potion grew thicker. With each new plague corpse added to the mix, the disease grew more potent. "Shortly." He decided. "She will be ready."
Corpses showing the symptoms of the plague had already arrived at the cemetery. He humbly thanked the Great Rat God for the inspiration that had led him to seek that hiding place from which to observe the results of his work. And where else could he find such a rich source of tainted corpses to add to the potion?!
The next night he would dispatch his agents to dump contaminated rats into watering holes and slaughterhouse rooftops where humans slaughtered their prey for food. After that, the plague would spread at high speed.
He added more cadaver roses to the mix; it was the last secret ingredient. It was impossible to find better or more powerful. They grew on the plants that fed on the meat of the corpses. They were ripe and charged with accumulated energies of death.
He breathed in deeply the scent of corruption and looked at his followers with teary eyes. They were sprawled across the floor of the burial chamber, shuddering and scratching, coughing and clearing their throats like the rightful members of Clan Morbus that they were. He knew that each of them was united with the others in their sincere devotion to the clan's cause. They were filled with the kind of brotherhood few of the other ratfolks could understand. Endless intrigues and constant struggles to gain advantage over others were not for them. They had sought and found the self-denial of their own identity in the true worship of the Great Rat God in his most concrete form: the Bringer of Diseases, the Spreader of Plague.
Every member of the clan knew that her body was a temple that housed the countless blessings of her god. Their corrupted nerve endings were no longer in pain, except at times when they felt the ghostly echoes of their suffering as one hears distant bells toll while drowning in deep water.
He knew the other ratfolks thought them mad and avoided them, but that was because they lacked their purity of purpose, their total commitment to service to the god. All the Plague-priests present were willing to pay any price, to make any sacrifice to achieve the goals of the clan and the deity. It was that commitment that made them the most worthy servants of the Great Rat God, and the most fitting leaders for all the ratfolk people.
Very soon, all the other clans would realize that.
Soon enough, this new plague would bring the humans of the city of Bergheim to their knees, even before the mighty hordes of warriors entered their neighborhoods.
Very soon everyone would witness that the triumph belonged to the Morbus Clan, the Great Rat God and Crippled Felcald, the humblest of the Great Rat God's chosen servants.
Very soon he would be designated as the only suitable vessel to transmit the word of the Great Rat God, for although he was the humblest of the servants of the Great Rat God, he knew his duty, which was not the case with all men. rat in that degenerate era.
He was not unaware that many of his fellow ratfolk had lost sight of the goals of his great race and lost themselves in the pursuit of self-aggrandizement. The Black Magician Dhalthar was an example of that tendency. He cared more about himself and his position than defeating the enemies of the Great Rat God. It was disgusting behavior for someone who should have been among the great god's most devoted servants, and Felcald humbly prayed that he would never fall into a similar error.
He was sure that if Dhalthar had found out about his experiment, he would have forbade it simply out of envy for someone who knew powers beyond his imagination.
That was why they had had to secretly sneak up to the surface, in order to carry out their rituals without the knowledge of the Black Magician. The great work must go forward despite the machinations of those who wished to prevent it.
After the success of that plague, the Council's stupid edicts would be revoked, and the Morbus Clan would be able to show the world their true power. And those like The Black Magician Dhalthar who tried to hinder this most sacred work of the Great Horned Rat God, would be made to crawl in the dust.
Perhaps it was true, as it was whispered, that Dhalthar was a traitor to the great Ratfolk cause and should be replaced by someone more humbly devoted to the advancement of his people. It was an idea that deserved the consideration of modest but devoted minds.
Brothvil opened the cage close at hand, reached inside, and pulled out one of the large gray rats. The animal bit him virulently, and from the wound came a little black blood; but Caldovil barely felt the sharp teeth digging into his flesh. Pain was an almost meaningless concept to him. He closed the cage and left the other rats moving inside.
Grabbing the animal by the tail, and ignoring its frantic struggle, he began lowering it into the potion. The creature struggled as its head entered the stinking liquid. His eyes were shining wildly and he was paddling frantically with his paws to stay above the surface. The Plague Pontiff pushed at her with his other hand until his shrieks were drowned out by the liquid that poured into his mouth. He kept her submerged for so long that the struggle almost ceased, and then he pulled her out again, still dripping, and set her down on the death-chamber floor.
The rat stood still for a moment, blinking in the light, as if he couldn't believe it had been pardoned. Caldovil picked it up and threw it into a second cage, where the rats that had just been treated with the mixture were. The animal sniffed and vomited. Brothvil scooped up some of the warm vomit and poured it back into the cauldron.
The cage would soon be full, and then he would dispatch one of his brothers to turn the rats loose in the graveyard so they could start spreading the plague from there. And the next day he would send them throughout the length and breadth of the city.
Caldovil heard a cough coming from somewhere. That in itself was not unusual, since his followers were blessed with the symptoms of many diseases. But not; there was something off in the tone of the cough. It was different from that of a ratfolk: deeper, slower, almost human…