02 - Temple of the Serpent

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

  Only one hope remained to them: the promise that the strange pathway was guiding them somewhere. They had all seen too much to doubt the sorcerous nature of the trail. If magic was behind the path, then it had to have some purpose, some reason for being. At each bend, they expected to see the golden city van Sommerhaus continued to talk about. Each time they felt the bitter sting of disappointment. There seemed no end to the jungle. If some distant power was watching over them, it seemed to have greatly overestimated their endurance.

  Or had it? Adalwolf wondered about the brief glimpses of the night sky he could see through the trees overhead. He had a slight enough knowledge of astronomy to know there was something wrong about those stars. Captain Schachter and Marjus, men with much greater knowledge of navigating by the night sky, were positively terrified by what they saw to such an extent that as soon as the sun went down, they stubbornly refused to even glance up.

  One day as they trudged along the path, Brother Diethelm offered an explanation for what had disturbed Adalwolf and frightened the sailors. “It isn’t that the stars are strange to them,” the priest said. “It is that they move in ways no star should from night to night.” He shook his head. “No magic, even such magic as makes this path for us, is strong enough to shift the stars from their settings. It is we who are moved in strange ways, not the heavens. Imagine a sheet of parchment upon which you draw a line. Now take the same sheet and fold it upon itself and draw a line. You have still crossed the parchment with your line, but it is a much shorter line.”

  The mercenary blinked in confusion at Diethelm’s words. “I don’t understand.”

  Diethelm favoured him with a patient smile. “This road,” he said. “We know it is a creation of sorcery. But I think we make a mistake to presume it simply passes through the jungle. I believe it also folds the space around it. The road, like my parchment, shortens the line in some strange fashion we cannot fathom. To our eyes, nothing seems different, because we are walking within this fold and do not know how great the distance should be. The stars, however, cannot be fooled, and when they shine upon us, they shine from where they truly sit, not where we believe they should sit.”

  Adalwolf’s mouth went dry at the priest’s explanation. “I’ve heard mad tales of such things from Norse sailors about the lands beyond the Troll Country, but I never believed them. Can any magic be so powerful as to change the land itself in such a way?”

  “I fear we walk within proof that there is such magic,” Diethelm said. “We can only pray that the mind behind such magic bears us no malice.”

  From the path ahead came excited voices. Adalwolf and Diethelm hurried forwards to find the remaining sailors hacking away at the vines bordering the path. Schachter stood nearby, arms folded across his chest, supervising the labour of his crew while van Sommerhaus gave them verbal encouragement by promising each man a gold guilder if they hurried.

  “What goes on here?” Adalwolf asked Hiltrude.

  The woman smiled at him, her drawn face lifting in an expression of breathless anticipation. “One of the sailors heard water flowing through the jungle close to the path! He thinks it must be some kind of river.”

  “Water!” Adalwolf exclaimed. He wondered if any word had ever sounded more beautiful. The last real water they’d had was when they’d lost the sledge. Since then, they had been drinking whatever they could wring out of their sodden clothes after the jungle’s frequent rainstorms. “Are they sure?”

  “They are,” Diethelm said. “I can smell a great quantity of water close to us.”

  The axes and cutlasses of the men broke through the wall of vines. Beyond, they found that the trees were more widely spaced, the ground being too moist to support the overgrowth they had become accustomed to. In the absence of trees, fern bushes and saw grass had found room to grow, clinging close to the muddy earth. They did not obscure the welcome view that warmed the hearts of the men on the pathway: a great river slashing its way through the trees, its green waters murmuring softly as they washed over the many boulders lining its boundaries.

  Hunger had not driven the survivors to brave the horrors of the jungle, but thirst was a need powerful enough to stifle even their fear. With so much water so near, the sailors rushed for the river, shouting and laughing like children. Adalwolf and Hiltrude joined the mad rush to the river and even van Sommerhaus forgot his detached dignity and threw himself headlong into the emerald waters. Only Brother Diethelm remained wary, watching every tree and bush for the first sign of danger as he carefully walked down to the river bank.

  The crew greedily drank their fill of the water, then began to wash the filth from their clothes and bodies. Hiltrude tried to cleanse the stains from her ragged dress, doing her best to ignore the lascivious catcalls from the seamen as she exposed her slender legs in the process. Captain Schachter filled his hat with water then turned it over his head, letting the cool liquid wash down his face. Van Sommerhaus, after his first dive into the river, lounged upon one of the boulders, gently splashing water across his neck as though he were some noble lady daintily applying perfume. Marjus and the sailors cavorted in the middle of the shallow river, revelling in the luxury of the moment.

  After taking a few long sips from the river, Adalwolf sat himself on the sandy shore and started unbuckling his armour. He was still thinking clearly enough that he didn’t want his armour getting any more rusty than it was from the rain. Carefully, he set the weather-beaten vest against some rocks and started to unfasten his boots. Diethelm’s hand on his shoulder caused him to stop.

  “I’ve been watching the river,” the priest said. “What do you think of that?”

  Diethelm pointed to a patch of river a dozen yards from where the sailors were swimming. At first, Adalwolf couldn’t tell exactly what he was looking at. It looked like the water was shivering, breaking out in bumps. If there had been any rain, he might have thought it was raindrops striking the water. He truly had no idea what it was.

  “Fish?” he wondered. Still, that would hardly account for the chill that crept down his back. Surely the river was too shallow to harbour anything that could threaten a man? Even so, he watched the shivering patch of water begin to move towards them, moving upstream against the flow of the river.

  Adalwolf rose and quickly moved down to the river bank. Sternly, he grabbed Hiltrude’s arm and pulled the protesting courtesan out of the water. When she moved to grab her shoes, Adalwolf savagely pulled her back again.

  “Out of the water!” the mercenary shouted. He pointed his hand at the patch of dancing water.

  The sailors saw what he was pointing at and laughed, several of them shaking their fists and cursing Adalwolf for trying to scare them. Closer to the disturbance, they could see what was causing it. No terrifying river monster, just a school of ugly little silver-coloured fish.

  The jeering shouts of the sailors became bloodcurdling screams as the school of fish swam into them. The green waters around them turned cloudy and red. Frantically, the men beat at the water with their hands, trying to scare away their attackers. One man lifted his hand from the water with a fish hanging from it, the animal’s sharp fangs sunk deep into his flesh. Frenziedly the fish twisted and writhed, ripping gory ribbons from the sailor’s palm.

  Horror-stricken, the men fled the water as quickly as they could. The piranhas converged on the slowest, ripping and tearing at their bodies as they tried to make shore. From the banks of the river, those safely on land could only watch the ghoulish display as the fish devoured their prey alive. When Marjus scrambled out of the water, he sported a hideous gash across his leg where the piranhas had savaged it clear down to the bone. He was the last to escape. Three other sailors never left the water, their bodies floating gruesomely down the river, pursued by the school of cannibal fish.

  All eyes were fixed on the river and the terrible scene playing out upon it, so none of the survivors noticed the first cloaked shape emerge from the jungle. Quietly, other verminous shapes detac
hed themselves from the trees, silently forming a cordon around the humans.

  Hiltrude was the first to turn her face in disgust from the spectacle of the piranhas feeding on the dead seamen. In turning, she found herself facing a sight even more ghastly. A long, rodent-like visage stared at her with beady eyes and vicious, gleaming fangs. The creature gripped a wicked-looking dagger in its furry hand.

  The courtesan let out a shriek of horror, flinging her shoe at the monster. The skaven ducked the clumsy attack and snarled at her threateningly. She retreated before the monster, stopping only when she felt water lapping against her naked heel.

  At Hiltrude’s cry, the others swung around. Her scream was echoed by the men around her, men who were shaken to their souls by the awful sight. Even if the cold ones had returned, or the carnosaur had decided they would make nice snacks after all, the men would not have shown such horror. The giant reptiles were things they could accept, menaces they knew were real. What faced them now was nightmare, myth made flesh. Every man among them had been raised on fairy tales about the baby-stealing underfolk, nursery stories to make bad children behave. They had laughed at Tilean sailors who insisted such monsters were real and often got them drunk simply to hear such stories so they could laugh at them again. The underfolk weren’t real! They couldn’t be! The world couldn’t harbour such fiendish things!

  Yet what stood before them, knives and swords in their hands, were undeniably the underfolk! The creatures had formed a semicircle around them, surrounding them on three sides. To their back, was the river.

  Adalwolf made a dive to recover his sword from where he had left it against the rocks. One of the ratmen snarled at him, and a sharp throwing knife slashed across his knuckles as he grabbed for his blade. The mercenary recoiled in pain, glaring at the hideous monsters, trying to control the fear pulsing through his veins. His horror only increased when one of the ratmen opened its muzzle and began to push words through its fangs.

  “Man-things come-come!” the ratman snapped. Its words faded into a peal of chittering laughter. “Or go swim-die,” it hissed, pointing its claw at the river.

  Before any of the terrified humans could consider the ghoulish choice the ratman had given them, its fellows rushed them in a snarling swarm, smashing them down with the flats of their blades and the rusty pommels of their swords.

  Thanquol stroked his whiskers thoughtfully as Tsang Kweek brought the sorry-looking pack of humans to him. They looked half-dead and smelled little better. He was familiar enough with the different breeds of man-things to know that these belonged to the big Clan Empire. Their lands were far away, beyond even Skavenblight. It made little sense to him that these humans should be here, but very little humans did made sense to him.

  Tsang Kweek had brought the humans back to the clearing in haste. The gutter runners and assassins had an easy time capturing the witless animals—but after all it had been Thanquol’s plan, so the ease of their success was hardly surprising. Kong Krakback and his warriors had searched Tsang’s sneaks for any captured plunder. They’d found a few things that Thanquol found interesting. A little glass bottle with some strangely scented liquid inside, a curious copper tube with glass fitted at each end that made things look smaller when he looked into it, and a pair of gaudy pistols, like shabby little cousins of the warplock weapons Clan Skryre made. Thanquol had been quick to take those. He knew how easily a bullet could go astray if left in the paws of a treacherous underling.

  The humans were huddled on the ground before Thanquol’s perch, forced into uncomfortable bows by the kicks and threats of his loyal minions.

  The grey seer was silent a long time, enjoying the frightened way the humans were looking at him. They knew who was their master, even without being told! They had sense enough to recognise his greatness, his authority, simply by looking at him! One day all of the decadent lands of the man-things would be brought under the rule of skavendom. Then all humans would grovel before him with the same look of respect and fear. Even that scrawny man-thing pet that damn dwarf had tagging along with him!

  Thanquol bruxed his fangs together and lashed his tail angrily when he realised the prisoners weren’t looking at him, they were looking above him. He glanced over his shoulder and his mood became even blacker. The stupid, senseless brutes thought Boneripper was the leader!

  “I am Grey Seer Thanquol!” he snarled at the dull-eyed humans, putting a full measure of venom in his tone. He waited a moment, then ground his fangs together when that announcement didn’t impress any of them. “I am leader here,” he continued. “You will call-know me as master-king! Whatever I say-squeak, you do!”

  Thanquol smiled. The more he spoke, the more upset the humans became. Good! Soon he would have them completely terrified and wrapped around his tail like a trained slug.

  “If you obey-please me, I will let-allow you to live,” Thanquol said.

  “Filthy monster!” one of the humans suddenly shouted. The man was on his feet and leaping for Thanquol so quickly, the grey seer didn’t have time to react. The human’s hands closed about his robe and Thanquol felt himself being pulled down from the log.

  Suddenly the grip on him grew slack. Thanquol looked down to see the human’s torso laying at his feet, the man’s legs a good dozen yards across the clearing. Boneripper stood above the mess, licking blood from his massive claws. Even though he obscured Thanquol’s view of the humans, he decided to let the rat ogre stay where he was.

  “That is an example-warning!” Thanquol hissed at the cowering humans. “Defy me and die-die!” He let his angry gaze sweep across the trembling humans. He squinted in surprise as he noticed one of them was female. “Next time, I feed your breeder to Boneripper!” He felt pleased when he saw one of the humans instantly wrap a protective arm around the female. In his experience, humans were never so manageable as when there were breeders and whelps around to threaten.

  Strangely, one of the humans actually stared at him without the extreme fear the others showed. The animal’s temerity only increased when he spoke to Thanquol.

  “Are you the one who made the path we followed?” the human asked.

  Thanquol’s brow wrinkled in confusion. He didn’t like this human, there was a faint smell of magic about him. He was tempted to have the human killed just to be safe, but that impulse was mitigated by the fact that if he was wrong about how to get inside the pyramid, the human might know another way. What this path was the mage-thing was babbling about, Thanquol had no idea, but he decided to run with it.

  “Of course, fool-thing!” Thanquol snapped. “With my powers I sent-made a trail-path to bring you to me. Now you must serve-obey Grey Seer Thanquol for saving you!”

  The humans didn’t look particularly grateful, but clearly they were even more afraid of him now—and this time they weren’t looking at Boneripper by mistake. That was good, the more they feared him, the quicker they would be to obey his every command.

  Brusquely, Thanquol snapped orders to Kong and Shen. They were to have all of the skaven ready to march. Now that he had the humans, Thanquol was eager to put his theory to the test. If he was right, they would soon be inside the pyramid and they could surprise Xiuhcoatl.

  If he was wrong… well, the more skaven the lizardmen killed when they returned to Quetza, the better it would be for Thanquol!

  CHAPTER NINE

  The Temple of the Serpent

  The city of Quetza was eerily quiet when the skaven made their return. This time there were no sunning skinks to massacre and exploit the way the late and unlamented Shiwan Stalkscent had done. Thanquol favoured a more careful approach this time. They circled around the city, entering it from the north instead of the south, and they were cautious to keep clear of the broad main roads that led directly to the pyramid, instead scurrying through the crumbling side streets and keeping to the shadows.

  It was not an easy thing, moving a hundred skaven and a pawful of human slaves silently through the rubble. If Thanquol had been le
ss of a strategic genius, he might have despaired of accomplishing such a bold manoeuvre. Of course, it probably also helped keep his troops in top form when Boneripper bit off the head of the first clanrat to make a noise. A bit of terror did wonders to reinforce obedience among the rabble, Thanquol found.

  The humans, of course, were clumsy and slow. If he didn’t need them so much, Thanquol would have gutted them before they’d gone more than a hundred yards into the ruins. However, they were a vital element in his plan, so he ground his teeth, kicked a convenient underling, and just concentrated on all the things he would do to the useless creatures once they’d served their purpose.

  A full moon shone over the ancient city, causing the crumbling stones to shine weirdly in the silver light. The great pyramid that was the Temple of Sotek stood like a gleaming mountain amid the decaying rubble around it. The stink of reptiles and serpents was thick in the noses of the skaven as soon as they entered the city, but as they crept closer to the temple a new smell sent a twinge of fear shuddering through them: the hot stagnant smell of ratman blood.

  Closer to the pyramid now, Thanquol could see that there were lizardmen lining its steps, swaying their bodies in a hideously snakelike harmony. Between the ranks of the skinks, a few bound skaven shivered and whined, prisoners taken in the first ill-fated assault on the temple.

  A low hissing chant whispered down from the flattened roof of the pyramid. A great golden altar stood upon the roof and across its surface, arms and legs held firmly by four robed reptilian priests, a struggling skaven was stretched. His pitiful crying made Thanquol glance nervously towards the jungle and wonder if perhaps they might be better returning to its shelter. Thoughts of retreat vanished from Thanquol’s mind as he saw a fifth skink loom over the captive.