[Thanquol & Boneripper 02] - Temple of the Serpent

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

  Thanquol eyed the victuals suspiciously, even as his stomach rebelliously growled. He started to reach for a tray of sweetmeats before common sense drew his hand back. It seemed a lot of work to bring him here just to poison him, but the Lords of Decay were not known for the practicality of their often-murderous whims. Thanquol pushed the tray away from him. He knew enough about the weird rituals of Eshin to turn and bow to the Nightlord’s throne as he refused his hospitality.

  There was just the slightest hint of a chuckle from the shadows, then Sneek clapped his hands together a second time. The slave carrying the smelly pot of tea scurried up the steps of the dais to present the beverage to his master.

  “You are curious why I call you, Thanquol,” Sneek’s thin whisper cut through the darkness of his lair. “I find myself in need of a grey seer. One with every reason to be loyal to me.”

  Thanquol licked his fangs nervously. Loyalty to Clan Eshin was something of a lifetime commitment, however short that might be. “I—I am honoured by your confidence, exalted murder-master, but my oath-service to the Horned Rat is my bond. I can serve-obey no other.”

  “Kritislik and Tisqueek are even now selling your mangy pelt to curry favour with Nurglitch,” Sneek said. “The seerlords hope to use Clan Pestilens to curb the ambitions of Clan Skryre. Giving Nurglitch your glands in a warpstone bowl will go far to impressing that diseased pustule of their sincerity.”

  Thanquol felt his knees buckle beneath him and he slumped to the floor. Kritislik was betraying him to Clan Pestilens? After he had selflessly risked his life to keep the Wormstone out of Nurglitch’s paws? The plague monks were heretics, worshipping some grotesque daemon-thing and pretending it was the Horned One! He knew Kritislik hated Warplord Morskittar with a passion, but to condone the blasphemous ways of Pestilens in order to restrain the warlock-engineers was utter madness! Age had finally crippled Kritislik’s senses, or else the poison Tisqueek kept trying to lace the senior seerlord’s food with was finally having an effect!

  Again Nightlord Sneek clapped his paws. In response, the veils behind his throne parted. A pair of sinister-looking skaven emerged from the blackness beyond the veils. One was a cloaked killer, his face wrapped in strips of darkened leather, his left hand encased within a wickedly sharp steel fighting claw. The other was a lean, emaciated ratman with a sickly pelt of charcoal-coloured fur. He wore a dark robe of Cathayan silk and leaned upon a gnarled staff. Thanquol stared in alarm at the talismans dangling from thongs affixed to the staff. The stories were true, then. Clan Eshin had their own heathen sorcerers, versed in some arcane art they had learned in the mysterious east.

  “This is Shiwan Stalkscent,” Sneek said, one of his grotesquely long claws indicating the cloaked skaven. The assassin gave Thanquol a mocking bow, then ran the back of his paw across his dripping nose. Sneek indicated the other skaven. “This is Shen Tsinge,” his whispery voice rasped. The sorcerer simply bared his fangs at Thanquol. “They have been entrusted with an honour-task of importance to me. To ensure they succeed, I am sending you with them, Grey Seer Thanquol.”

  Thanquol stared at the two sinister skaven. He could see the hate in their eyes. Shiwan, like most of Eshin’s assassins, had his scent glands removed so there was nothing in his smell to make Thanquol any wiser about the emotions coursing through him. Shen, however, stank of hostility, the envious fug of a whelp pushed from its brood-mother’s teat by a stronger sibling. His own exploits were known far and wide throughout the Under-Empire, yet these two showed not the slightest trace of intimidation in his presence. To be so open about challenging a grey seer meant more than impiety. It suggested a hideous degree of ability and ambition as well.

  “I wish-pray them much-much success on their venture,” Thanquol said, repeating his deferential bow to the Nightlord. “Unfortunately my duty demands I stay-stay in Skavenblight.”

  The chilling chuckle of Nightlord Sneek wheezed from the darkness. “If you leave, Thanquol, it will cause me much unhappiness.” Sneek waved his open palms in a helpless gesture. “I would need to send Deathmaster Snikch looking for you again. Only this time he would not bring you back.”

  Eyes wide as saucers, Thanquol turned in horror to the guard-rat leaning against the Cathayan column.

  Deathmaster Snikch grinned at him with a muzzle filled with blackened fangs. Thanquol couldn’t keep a squeal of terror from rumbling up his throat.

  “Perhaps you have reconsidered?” Nightlord Sneek did not even give Thanquol time to answer him. “To offset the ambitions of Seerlord Kritislik and prevent alliance between the grey seers and Clan Pestilens, I find it necessary to treat with the plague priests in my own way.” Sneek clapped his paws together. In response, Shen Tsinge scurried forward, approaching the base of the dais.

  “Many breedings ago, when Grey Lords yet ruled the Under-Empire, Clan Pestilens build-make own empire far across great waters. Long-long they stay, lost-forgot by all skaven.” Shen lifted his finger for emphasis as he made his next point. “Plague monks fight-fight cold-things to rule-keep jungle. Many-many battles they fight-fight, but always plague monks win. Then cold-things call great magic. Bring new-new god-devil into world.”

  Thanquol’s heart hammered in his chest. No skaven had failed to hear of the horrible devil-god that had routed Clan Pestilens from their ancient homeland and pursued them into the swamps of the Southlands. Sotek the Snake Daemon, whose jaws could swallow an entire warren in a single bite!

  “Long-time ago, we steal-take map from plaguelords,” Shiwan boasted, wiping his paw across his nose again as a string of mucus brushed his whiskers. “Map show-tell old cold-thing place where they call snake-devil.”

  “Cold-things build-make temple of serpent there,” Shen explained. “Keep snake-devil fed with skaven hearts. Great prophet of snake-devil there, listening for snake-devil’s words.”

  Nightlord Sneek clapped his paws together again. Shen and Shiwan bowed to their master and were silent. Sneek pointed one of his talons at Thanquol. “Pestilens has tried many times to kill the snake-prophet. If Eshin succeeds where the plaguelords have failed, it will make them afraid. Too afraid to oppose my power.”

  Thanquol shuddered at the idea. Sneaking into the very temple of Sotek to kill the snake-devil’s high priest! It was on his tongue to suggest a certain dwarf-thing and his human pet for the job when an even more disturbing thought occurred to him. Sneek wasn’t worried about Pestilens making alliances against the rest of the Council; he wanted Pestilens to ally with Eshin! By murdering the arch-foe of the plaguelords, Eshin would be able to treat with them from a position of dominance and dictate the terms of their alliance. In the last civil war, only the opposition of the assassins had prevented the plague monks from overwhelming all the other clans. If the two united together there might be nothing that could stop them!

  “You are quiet, Grey Seer Thanquol,” Nightlord Sneek said. “Are you thinking of leaving us?”

  An eager hiss of anticipation rasped through Deathmaster Snikch’s fangs as Sneek spoke. Thanquol resisted the urge to turn and see if he was drawing one of his poisoned blades.

  “No-no!” Thanquol assured the Nightlord. “I was only worrying that there are traitors trying to stop-stop your great and glorious plan, oh murderous daimyo! Only a few days ago I was attacked in the streets…”

  The Nightlord’s talons stabbed accusingly at the grey seer. “There are no traitors in Clan Eshin!” Sneek’s voice was a rumbling growl now, the serene whisper cracking in the heat of his fury. “An adept would sooner slit his own belly than defy me!”

  Thanquol’s fur crawled as he felt the Nightlord’s rage fixed on him. However, the only way to escape that anger was to feed it.

  “Grand slayer of kings, I do not doubt-question your mighty power! First among the Lords of Decay, feared even by those who sit upon the Council! Yet I speak-say no lie when I tell you an assassin of your clan tried to murder me in the street! The slinking-coward used darts from a blow-gun to goad me
into using my meagre knowledge of magic to defend myself, knowing such a display of power would set the crowd into a mindless panic. He thought to hide his crime by crushing me beneath their paws!”

  Nightlord Sneek’s paws disappeared back into the shadow. “I will look into this, Thanquol. If you have spoken true, I will have the traitor’s spleen in my hand. If you are trying to trick me, Deathmaster Snikch will bring me your spleen instead.”

  Thanquol risked a sidewise glance at the lounging master-killer. Snikch grinned back at him, his pink tongue licking his painted teeth. There was no place in the Under-Empire anyone could hide from the Deathmaster.

  Clapping paws ended Thanquol’s audience with the Nightlord. “Shiwan and Shen will attend you,” Sneek said. “They are fully versed in my plans. Follow-obey them, Thanquol. Defy their orders and I shall consider it defying my own.”

  Deathmaster Snikch’s bloodthirsty chuckle at the Nightlord’s threat was still ringing in Thanquol’s ears as Shiwan and Shen led him into one of the narrow tunnels hidden behind the veils.

  Chang Fang was a skaven with big problems. As he made his way through the streets of Skavenblight, he hugged the manskin cloak tight around his body. He’d dyed his fur, rubbed the disembodied glands of two clanrats into his skin, discarded all of his weapons and equipment lest their smell betray him. In every way and in every detail he tried to present the appearance of a Clan Muskrit bog hunter. From smell to posture to appearance, he tried to make himself inconspicuous.

  He was realistic about his chances of fooling his kinsrats of Clan Eshin. If he lived until dawn it would be a wonder worthy of the Horned Rat.

  The disguised assassin ground his fangs together and cursed for the thousandth time the scent of Grey Seer Thanquol. The maggot should have been dead, crushed beneath the stampeding paws of a hundred skaven. An ignoble death for a conniving, cowardly, self-important flea! Long overdue, far too long delayed. Thanquol needed to be shown that he could not betray his fellow skaven with impunity. There were consequences and Chang Fang intended the grey seer would suffer them!

  His own ruin was Thanquol’s fault. The grey seer had used Chang Squik in his crazed scheme to destroy the man-thing nest called Nuln. To cover his own incompetence, Thanquol had abandoned Chang Squik to die, then blamed his many failures on the dead assassin.

  Chang Squik had been trained as part of the same triad of assassins as Chang Fang; the disgrace suffered by Chang Squik infected the reputations of the survivors of the triad. No one would hire the services of an assassin tainted with the stink of failure, even Clan Eshin. Unable to expand the fortunes of their clan through murder, Chang Fang and Chang Kritch had been expunged from the ranks of the assassins. Chang Kritch had opened his belly in shame, but Chang Fang had endured. The need for vengeance had sustained him.

  He would survive! He would escape the daggers of his kin and he would find Grey Seer Thanquol again!

  Chang Fang lashed his tail in annoyance, nearly tripping an overburdened skavenslave scurrying down the street beside him. It was unfair! How was he to know the Nightlord wanted the damn grey seer for one of his schemes! By the time he found out, he’d already made the attempt to kill his hated enemy. Of course, that only made things even worse. To interfere with the Nightlord was bad enough, but for an assassin, even a disgraced one, to fail to kill his target was a crime that could be redeemed only with blood. If it was not to be his own, then he must kill Thanquol. Otherwise the Horned Rat would gnaw on his soul when he died.

  The assassin’s face split in a vicious snarl, his claws curling into his palms. It would be Thanquol’s blood, not his own! Somehow, he would find the slippery grey seer and make him pay.

  A green-robed figure intruded upon Chang Fang’s thoughts of vengeance. So intently had the assassin been watching for others of his kind that he had not noticed the plague monks as they oozed their way through the teeming mass of skaven that filled the narrow street. Chang Fang maintained his pose of bog-hunter and tried to squirm past the odious monk. He realised his mistake when the monk’s decayed paw closed around his arm. He brought his foot smashing into the ratman’s belly in a savage kick that sent him crashing through the throng around them.

  Chang Fang did not wait to see how badly the kick had crippled the plague monk, instead turning to vanish into the crowd. His escape was blocked, however, by a solid mass of tattered robes and mangy fur. A rusty knife pressed against his chest.

  “Greetings, murder-meat,” the knife-holding plague monk coughed. “Our master would speak-say much-much. You come with us, yes-yes.”

  The plague monks were silent as they marched their captive through the dingy alleyways of Skavenblight, down dark corridors so desolate that they barely had to push anyone out of their way. Soon, the strange procession stood before a partially collapsed stone structure, its broken blocks jutting up from the mud around it. One of the plague monks indicated a window gaping a few feet above the mud. Another of the monks pushed Chang Fang towards it.

  Briefly the thought of fighting back flashed through Chang Fang’s mind. Quickly it was discarded. Even if he won clear of so many foes, the skirmish was sure to be noticed. The Nightlord’s spies were everywhere. Besides, if the plague monks wanted him dead, he would already be so.

  Chang Fang squirmed through the window, sliding into the room beyond. The floor of the room above had been torn down to open the ceiling of the mud-choked chamber he now found himself in. The air was rank with the pestilent stench of rot and decay. Half-eaten things were piled on the floor before a bloated warpstone idol only the deranged imagination of the plaguelords would see as representing the Horned Rat. If his glands hadn’t been removed, Chang Fang would have spurted the musk of fear just looking at the noxious thing.

  Revolted, he turned his eyes from the idol. Now he saw that it was not the only occupant of the slimy room. Several green-robed plague monks were seated on the floor, each of them furiously polishing a small chunk of warpstone. Behind them, seated atop one of the fallen blocks of stone, was a shape almost as ghastly as the obese idol. It was a bloated ratman, his skin peeling, his hair hanging in lumpy patches, his flesh a sickly green where it was not blotched with sores and boils. The ratman’s muzzle was a decayed stump, his rotten lips unable to cover his fangs. Most hideous of all were his eyes. One was an empty hole in his face, the other was a polished piece of pure warpstone. Despite the impossibility, Chang Fang knew the creature could see him with that warpstone eye.

  “They work to fashion a new eye for Lord Skrolk,” the grisly thing on the stone block declared, pointing a withered finger at his empty eye socket. “The one whose work I choose will be made a deacon. The others will be made into meat.”

  Chang Fang shivered to hear the plaguelord’s bubbling, decayed voice and the callous indifference he displayed towards the fate of his underlings. If he treated his own clan in such fashion, what could Chang Fang expect?

  “Terrible Lord Skrolk, horror of all skavendom, if this wretched-foolish one has-has offended…”

  Skrolk’s rotting face pulled back in a snarl. “Do not test-tempt my patience! I know-see you are Chang Fang!”

  The assassin recoiled from the threatening voice as though it were the roar of a swamp dragon. Unconsciously, he dropped into an Eshin fighting stance. His eyes darted across the room looking for a means of escape. It would take too long to climb the walls and there were more monks waiting outside the window. Perhaps behind the idol…

  Lord Skrolk made a placating gesture with his paw. “We are friends, Chang Fang,” he croaked. “We share a common enemy.”

  Suddenly escape no longer interested Chang Fang. “Thanquol,” he growled.

  The plaguelord’s wormy tail lashed angrily against the stone block. “I’ve had a long-long swim thanks to him,” Skrolk hissed. “Except for his treason, I would have presented a great-great treasure to my master. Now my tongue grows heavy with excuses.”

  Chang Fang ground his teeth together. “He is p
rotected by the Nightlord,” he cursed. “We can’t touch Thanquol without suffering his wrath.”

  “Grey Seer Thanquol will soon be leaving Skavenblight,” Lord Skrolk said. “Sneek is sending him far away, beyond even the protection of Eshin’s assassins.”

  There seemed to be a vengeful gleam in Skrolk’s warpstone eye as he spoke. The same gleam that shone in Chang Fang’s eyes as he listened.

  “Sneek is sending an expedition to Lustria, sending them to kill the Prophet of Sotek.” Lord Skrolk’s loathsome laughter bubbled through the sunken room. “He is sending Thanquol with his skaven in case they need his magic to overcome the powers of the snake-devil. You will see that Thanquol fails.”

  “How can I get to him if he’s in Lustria?” Chang Fang asked, fumbling over the unfamiliar name.

  “My henchrats have kill-killed one of your clan and made it seem he was the one sniff-sniff for Thanquol’s blood. You will take his place on the expedition. Kill-slay Thanquol when you can, then make sure none of the others come back.”

  Chang Fang’s fur bristled as he heard Lord Skrolk’s final condition. “Kill-slay my own clan?”

  “They would kill-slay you,” Lord Skrolk pointed out. “This expedition is a fool’s errand Sneek has been tricked into, your clan will take-find no profit. When you kill-slay Thanquol, none of the others can return to squeak-speak of what happened.”

  The assassin considered Skrolk’s words, then bowed his head.

  “Thanquol will die,” Chang Fang promised.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Shiprats

  The trim sailing ship made good time as she cut through the cold waters of the Great Western Ocean, spray dripping from the buxom, serpentine figurehead fitted to her prow. White sails billowed high above her swaying decks, flags snapping in the wind from her three towering masts. The barque seemed almost a thing alive, so gracefully did she glide upon the sea.