02 - Temple of the Serpent

by C. L. Werner - (ebook by Undead)

  Screams echoed throughout the swamp. Other zombies were now pulling themselves free from the muck, groping in mute malevolence for any skaven near them. The skaven recoiled from the frightful things, horrified at their inability to kill creatures that were already dead. Several gutter runners fell beneath the groping claws of the zombies, their shrieks rising to deafening squeals as they were slowly ripped apart. One assassin, his black cloak billowing about him, tried to fight his way back to the tower, thinking to slay the captain. Every thrust of his poisoned knives struck home, yet none of his victims fell. The zombies soon surrounded the lone assassin. In a fit of horror, the cloaked killer sliced his dagger across his own neck rather than fall to the claws of the undead.

  A black whirlwind crackled into the rotten ranks of the undead, exploding a dozen of the zombies into putrid fragments. Shen Tsinge and Goji came rushing to the sand bar where Shiwan and most of his warriors were trapped. The sorcerer gestured with his staff again, howling magic exploding from it to strike down another mob of the creatures.

  “Flee-flee! Quick-quick!” Shen hissed at the master assassin.

  Shiwan’s eyes darted longingly to the jungle, but he lashed his tail and stared instead at the map in his hand. “Use magic!” he snarled at the sorcerer. “Keep dead-things back-back!”

  Something like terror filled Shen’s glands, but when he saw the cruel intensity in Shiwan’s eyes, he knew any argument would be fatal. Drawing a warpstone charm from the tip of his staff, the sorcerer nibbled a sliver from it. He felt the invigorating rush of power swell through his veins. He shut his eyes. When he opened them again, they were black pits of power. Snarling, he swept his hand through the air before him. Black wisps of energy shot from his fingers to shatter the decayed heads of a half-dozen zombies. The sorcerer snarled and tightened his hold on the staff. A second burst of dark power and more zombies were broken, their fragments sinking beneath the slime of the swamp.

  Shiwan Stalkscent wiped his snout and eagerly pointed with his claw to the north. Bullying and threatening, Kong brought his warriors into a semblance of formation. With the threat of their leader’s glaive at their back, the clanrats were herded towards the mob of zombies blocking them from the jungle. Frenziedly, the masses of skaven hacked their way through the eerily silent undead. Slowly, but deliberately, they began to carve their way through the horde.

  Exhausted by his exertions and the noxious influence of the warpstone he had so hastily consumed, Shen Tsinge slumped into the arms of his bodyguard. Cradling his master in the crook of one arm, the hulking Goji loped after the retreating expedition, his huge claws shearing through the few zombies standing between him and Shiwan’s rearguard.

  Grey Seer Thanquol blinked in disbelief as he saw Shiwan’s ratmen fleeing the swamp. It was not so much that they had been driven off by the zombies—he’d expected that much. It was the fact that they were making their escape on the wrong side of the swamp that incensed him. He’d expected them to come back, not press forward!

  The jungle seemed to press in all around Thanquol as the scent of his fellow skaven began to grow more faint. The swamp was still alive with zombies, the vile things surrounding and slaughtering the stragglers Shiwan had abandoned. It was a hideous sight, made even more gruesome by the way the crocodiles slid into the water to snatch up the floating bits of meat the zombies left behind. Thanquol considered himself a valiant skaven, afraid of very little, but to end up in the belly of some scaly monstrosity was one of his pet horrors.

  Thanquol lashed his tail and ground his fangs. The smell of Shiwan’s retreating column was just a feeble hint in the air. If he didn’t want to lose them, he had to move fast. His heart was already thundering in his chest, the terror of being alone flooding through his mind. Desperate, he drew his sword and tightened his grip on his staff. Hissing a hasty, but most sincere, prayer to the Horned Rat, Thanquol rushed out into the swamp.

  The sand, now slimy with skaven blood and the stagnant fluids of the zombies, proved treacherous under Thanquol’s feet as he scurried along the sand bars to catch up with Shiwan’s ratmen. To either side, the waters of the swamp were alive with crocodiles, the huge reptiles churning the water in their brute hunger. They were careful to keep away from the zombies, however, and it was with a sinking sensation in his stomach that Thanquol watched the walking cadavers closing upon him.

  Briefly, Thanquol contemplated blasting his way through the shambling corpses. For a petty mage-rat, Shen Tsinge had exhibited an impressive amount of power. Not that Thanquol couldn’t do far better, even on his worst day. Still, the effort had taxed Shen terribly, leaving him to be carried off by his rat ogre. Perhaps it would be best not to indulge in any excessive display of his own magical ability. Making a quick count of the zombies still rising from the muck and mud, Thanquol decided against drawing on his powers. The undead tended to fixate on sources of magic.

  Spinning about, Thanquol sprinted across the sand bar, throwing his body forwards at the first gap. He landed in a crouch, the impact almost jarring the sword from his hand. He grimaced at the hungry crocodile staring at him from the muck he had jumped over, then scurried quickly away from the gruesome creature.

  Distracted by the crocodile, Thanquol almost didn’t see the zombies until he was right in the middle of them. When he turned away from the frustrated reptile, Thanquol found a rotting human face smiling at him, worms spilling from its eye socket. The grey seer shrieked and ducked the clublike swing of the zombie’s arm. He brought his sword chopping around, cutting through the zombie’s leg just above its ankle. His staff cracked against the undead pirate’s waist, spilling it into the scummy water.

  Before he could appreciate dispatching his foe, Thanquol found five more zombies staggering towards him like a wall of flesh. The grey seer backed away, cringing when the undead refused to be cowed by the threat of his sword. In a panic, he tongued the nugget of warpstone out of his cheek pouch. The temptation to draw on its power to annihilate the zombies was almost overwhelming, but the knowledge that to do so would draw the attention of every undead thing in the swamp tempered his despair.

  Thanquol backed away from the advancing zombies until he felt his heels hanging over emptiness. Frantically he darted forward, lifting his tail just in time to escape the snapping jaws of the crocodile. Between the zombies and the reptile, the grey seer found himself backed into a corner.

  While there is even the slightest possibility of escape, a skaven will make every effort to save his skin. It is when there is no hope of escape that a fearsome fury comes upon them, a berserk madness that roars through their brains. Thanquol felt the desperate, instinctive madness seize him. His fangs grinding together, he drove into the approaching zombies with the mindless savagery of an orc warlord. The first zombie staggered from a blow of his sword that sent its forearm flying through the air. The second he caught upon the shoulder with the head of his staff, using it to tug the creature forwards and send it tumbling into the jaws of the crocodile. After that, all became a red haze of fear-crazed frenzy. When it cleared, Thanquol stood panting twenty yards from where he had started, his path strewn with mangled, mutilated bodies.

  Grey Seer Thanquol took two great gulps of air. The scent of the other skaven was quickly fading—soon it would be lost completely. There wasn’t time to gloat over the havoc he had caused, or even to praise the Horned Rat for whatever slight role he might have had in Thanquol’s escape. Terrified at being left behind, Thanquol braced himself for another desperate gauntlet across the sand bars.

  Before he took his first step, the sand at his feet exploded upwards. At first he thought it was another zombie, and that mistake almost proved his undoing. Thanquol reared back, stabbing his sword at his attacker. With distinctly un-zombielike speed, the cloaked ambusher darted to the side and brought a dripping dagger slashing at him. The poisonous blade crunched into Thanquol’s staff, missing his flesh by a matter of inches.

  “Die-die, murder-meat!” the assassin
chittered, struggling to free his trapped blade. Thanquol swung at him with his sword, at the same time relaxing his grip on his staff.

  The staff smacked into the assassin’s snout with an impact that cracked fangs and sent a spray of black blood exploding from his nose. Thanquol’s sword chopped down at the stunned assassin, hacking the black-furred ear from the side of his head. Before the grey seer could exploit the reversal, the assassin’s clawed foot smashed into his chest, knocking him back and almost pitching him into the swamp. Only by planting the butt of his staff in the loose sand was he able to save himself from hurtling into the scummy water.

  Fangs bared, the assassin snarled back at him. The killer didn’t try to use his dagger again, but instead drew a pair of throwing stars from his belt. “Think-think of Chang Squik before you die-die!”

  Thanquol grinned back at the assassin. The killer never had the chance to throw the deadly shuriken. Instead, dead claws seized his legs. The more intact pieces of Thanquol’s defeated enemies had been crawling steadily after him. Now the mangled zombies closed upon the assassin. The cloaked killer squeaked in horror as the zombie began to pull itself up his body, its entrails dangling from where Thanquol had cut it in half. A second zombie followed the first, closing a wormy hand around the assassin’s shoulder.

  Twisting and shrieking, the assassin tried to escape the relentless grip of his attackers, only to find his feet slipping on the sand. A dreadful wail rose from the assassin as both he and the zombies gripping him pitched headlong over the edge of the sand bar and splashed into the swamp. Immediately several crocodiles converged on the commotion.

  Thanquol wished the reptiles a full supper.

  CHAPTER SIX

  A Lost World

  “Khaine’s black hells!”

  Captain Schachter’s shout awakened everyone in the small camp on the beach. Men stumbled from sailcloth tents, cutlasses and bludgeons clenched in their fists. Adalwolf wiped sleep from his eyes and shrugged into his armoured vest. The chainmail felt uncomfortable against his bare skin, but the mercenary could think of many things that would feel even worse.

  Schachter stood a few paces from the smoking remains of the great bonfire at the centre of the camp. For once, the sea captain’s face was devoid of the ruddy glow of alcohol. His ashen features were twisted in horror, his hand trembling as he pointed at something jutting up from the pile of ashes.

  Adalwolf felt his blood run cold as he looked at the thing that had so terrified the captain. He heard sailors grow sick behind him.

  “Handrich’s Purse!” snarled the imperious voice of van Sommerhaus. The patroon was fumbling at the buckles of his coat as he stormed out from his lean-to. Wrapped in a coarse ship’s blanket, Hiltrude demurely followed after the furious merchant. “What’s all this about, Schachter? Don’t you know better than to disturb my morning libations?”

  The patroon stifled a gasp and pressed a gloved hand to his mouth as he saw the grisly thing that had captured the attention of the entire camp. Hiltrude gave voice to a shriek, then collapsed against the sand in a faint.

  The thing rising from the ashes was a crude wooden pole, roughly the height of a man. A clutch of bright parrot feathers was bound to the thing’s top, swaying in the tepid morning breeze like the fronds of a palm. Nestled among the feathers were three grotesque things that reminded Adalwolf of the sleeping bats they had seen in the jungle. Like rotten fruit, the fist-sized things drooped from the pole, but these were fruit with ghastly, shrivelled faces!

  Marjus Pfaff was the first man to work up the nerve to close upon the ghastly pole. He squinted as he stared at the tortured, wrinkly faces. They were bound to the pole by their hair, which had been pulled back in a long knot to leave the horrible faces exposed. Each was darkened to the colour of old leather, lips and eyes sewn shut. Yet there was an uncomfortable sense of familiarity about the things, for all their diminutive size.

  Marjus jostled one of the grisly things with the tip of his cutlass. The shrunken head rolled with the motion, displaying for all the long, pointed ear clinging to the side of the shrivelled skull. It was no human ear, but that of an elf.

  “Ethril!” Adalwolf shuddered. Now that the connection was made, he could see the semblance of the asur wanderer on the withered husk.

  “The others will be the sentries you posted last night,” Marjus said, spitting into the sand and making the sign of Manann. A quick call of the sailors on the beach confirmed the mate’s suspicions.

  “Who could have done this?” wondered van Sommerhaus when he’d finally managed to compose himself and assume some small measure of his arrogance.

  Captain Schachter scratched at the stubble of beard growing on his chin. “I’ve heard tales of cannibal halflings that live in the jungle, and stories of Amazons that would as soon skin a man as bed him.”

  Adalwolf shook his head. “It doesn’t matter who did this,” he told Schachter. “What does matter is the message they’re sending. It wasn’t enough for them to just kill Ethril and the guards. They made a point of telling us what they did. They crept into the very centre of camp and put this… this… horror right here with us all sleeping around it!”

  “They’re saying they can come back and do the same any time they like,” Schachter hissed in a frightened whisper. The eyes of every man on the beach turned towards the jungle, wondering what might be staring back at them.

  “We’re someplace somebody doesn’t want us,” Adalwolf said. He gestured at the hideous totem again. “This is their way of telling us we should be moving on.”

  The survivors of the Cobra of Khemri debated for an hour over what to do. It was clear that they could not stay with the wreck of the ship. They had no way of knowing how numerous their unseen enemy was. Just because they hadn’t wiped the entire camp out the night before, Diethelm argued, did not mean they weren’t able to do so. The priest thought their best course of action was to build a raft from the wreck and set back out upon the open water, trusting in the grace of Manann to spirit them away from this unholy shore.

  Adalwolf and Schachter supported a more sensible course. From Ethril’s words, they knew there was an elf settlement somewhere on the southern tip of Lustria. How far south was any man’s guess, but at least it was something to strive for. Whether the elves would receive them now that they had lost Ethril was a disturbing question neither of them could answer.

  It was van Sommerhaus who proposed a third option. There was the trail they had found in the jungle. Clearly it led somewhere, somewhere big. Sailors’ stories of lost cities of gold hidden in the jungle were tempered by the practical observation that any city would have the resources close at hand to support it. Even if they found nothing but a deserted ruin, there would be fresh water and feral crops to be had. They could fortify themselves, use the ruins for shelter and plan their next move at leisure without the threat of headhunters and starvation hanging over them. If they indulged in a little treasure hunting while they were at it—well, that could hardly be countenanced an ill thing.

  The crew might have rejected the patroon’s arguments had Marjus Pfaff not intervened. The mate had taken it upon himself to knock down the totem and bury the sad remains bound to it. He had been quite cagey at the time, uncharacteristically refusing all offers to help him in the morbid labour. Now he reluctantly showed everyone the reason behind his craft. The feathers and shrunken heads had been bound to the pole with loops of wire—golden wire!

  Gold! Even in the midst of their fear, the men could feel its allure. Coils of finely wrought gold far beyond the skills of headhunting savages. Treasure that the savages could only have bartered or stolen from the city beyond the jungle. The city that must lie at the end of the trail they had found!

  Despair and fear had been the only emotions the crew had shown since the discovery of the shrunken heads. Now a cruel sort of hope flared up within their hearts: the blind, unreasoning hope that is born of greed.

  The vote was taken again. This time, ev
en Captain Schachter backed van Sommerhaus. Only Adalwolf and Diethelm tried to argue against such a reckless course. The priest tried to invoke the power of his god, warning that the further they strayed from the sea, the farther they were from Manann’s protection. Adalwolf tried a more practical course, trying to make the men see reason. If they were worried about a cold reception from the elves far to the south, how much more foolish was it to think they would be welcomed by whatever strange denizens had built the city they hoped to find? He reminded them of stories of lizards that walked like men and who delighted in sacrificing the beating hearts of their enemies to their strange devil-gods. He told them of the many dangers the jungle held, and all the other dangers they would be ignorant of now that Ethril was gone.

  “We’ve small chance enough,” Captain Schachter decided. “Whichever way we turn, we’re likely to die in this damn place. All things being equal, I’d rather take my chances where there might just be a pot of gold waiting for me at the end of the journey.”

  The captain’s sentiment quelled the last misgivings of the crew. Adalwolf looked for any of them to stand by him, but even Hiltrude voted to take the jungle trail. He stared hard at her when she cast her vote, essentially parroting van Sommerhaus. The courtesan looked away, a guilty flush tingeing her cheeks.

  “If this is your decision,” Adalwolf said, casting his eyes across the crew, letting his gaze linger on the smirking face of van Sommerhaus, “then I’ll help you try to see it through. Not because I think it’s right, but because I don’t want to die alone in this place.” The mercenary stared at the imposing edge of the jungle.