Faisr gave him a startled look. “You didn’t touch her, did you?”
“What kind of question is that?”
The chieftain relaxed slightly. “Forgive me. It’s just that it’s considered terrible luck to lay hands on one of Khsar’s chosen.” He sighed. “That would have been Ophiria. She will become the Daughter of the Sands when Suleima dies. Did she say anything to you?”
Alcadizzar shook his head. “No, but I will remember those eyes for the rest of my life.”
Faisr shook his head. “In all my time as chieftain, I’ve never known Suleima to take a hand in tribal matters. Now, in a single stroke, she affirms your adoption into the tribes and upsets the old order of the chiefs. Rebuking Bashir like that will cost the old jackal dearly.”
“The Daughter of the Sands has that much power over the chiefs?”
Faisr shrugged. “These days, yes. It wasn’t always so. The Daughter of the Sands used to serve as an advisor to the alcazzar, the chief of chiefs, but there hasn’t been one of those since Shahid the Red Fox died during the war against the Usurper.” The chieftain shook his head. “The seers were the reason that the tribes came here from the desert, centuries ago.”
Alcadizzar stared at Faisr, his curiosity piqued. “Why is that?”
Faisr glanced over at the prince and started to reply, but then appeared to think better of it. “That’s a tale for another time,” he said with a tired grin. “Too many revelations might spoil the wine, eh, Ubaid?”
Faisr raised the wineskin to his lips and took a deep draught, but Alcadizzar caught the haunted look in the chieftain’s eye nonetheless.
Alcadizzar looked away, out over the sleeping herds.
What had Ophiria and the old woman seen when they looked at him? How much did they know? The words of Faisr came back to him once more.
The Hungry God gives no blessings, only tests. By those tests we are made strong, or we perish. There is nothing else.
—
The Price of Victory
Nagashizzar, in the 102nd year of Tahoth the Wise
(-1250 Imperial Reckoning)
“When is Lord Velsquee coming back?”
Eekrit sighed, rubbing a paw wearily over his eyes. He didn’t like where this conversation was heading. “Four months, if he encounters no trouble. Why?”
“Because the kreekar-gan is getting ready to attack.”
The warlord beckoned with a claw and a trio of slave rats scuttled from the shadows of the throne room. Two of the slaves carried a carved wooden chair between them, which they set on the rug-covered floor behind Eshreegar. The Master of Treacheries nodded his head to Eekrit in thanks and took a seat. Of all the skaven left in the under-fortress, he alone was permitted to sit while Eekrit presided from the throne. The third slave climbed the dais with a golden tray bearing two bowls of wine. The warlord chose one bowl for himself and then the slave served Eshreegar the other.
Eekrit’s whiskers twitched as he breathed in the wine’s heady vapours. “You’ve been wrong in the past,” he pointed out. “Sometimes spectacularly so.”
“As you never cease to remind me,” Eshreegar replied. He swirled the dark liquid in his bowl for a moment, then drained half the contents in one long draught and wiped his whiskers clean on his sleeve. “The signs are there, nonetheless.”
“Such as?”
Eshreegar frowned at the warlord. “Spear companies, for a start. Some of my scouts went over the barricades a few nights ago and got as far as mine shaft two. The ones that made it back said there were four or five companies of bone-men there. Looked like they’d just arrived recently.”
Eekrit shifted uncomfortably on the throne. “How recently?”
The Master of Treacheries finished off his drink and beckoned for another. “There was no mould on the bones or wrappings, so they couldn’t have been in the lower tunnels for more than a day or two.” The air in the active mine shafts was so hot and humid that mould was a constant problem.
“Not a good sign, I grant you.”
“There’s more.” Eshreegar turned to an approaching servant and traded his empty bowl for a full one. “One of the survivors said he saw at least two war engines at the far end of the mine shaft. Big ones.”
Eekrit winced. “Any chance he could have been mistaken?”
“Not likely. It was Joreel who spotted them. You remember him, don’t you? He was one of the old hands.”
The warlord’s tail lashed irritably. “Yes, I remember Joreel, damn it. It hasn’t been that long.”
Eshreegar snorted. “Thirty-five years, almost to the day,” he said. He carefully avoided making eye contact with the warlord, but the tone in his voice said it all. Much has changed since then.
Indeed it had, Eekrit thought bitterly. With Velsquee incapacitated by his injuries and Hiirc dead, the task of saving the army had rested entirely in Eekrit’s paws. The days following the failed ambush at mine shaft four had been a nightmarish ordeal of chaos, confusion and death. By the time he had managed to convince the surviving clan lords of his authority and organise a credible defence against the burning man’s attacks, the skaven had been driven all the way back to mine shaft eight, and almost half of the army had been destroyed. Even worse was the loss of materiel; for all intents and purposes, the army’s entire baggage train had been captured or destroyed when mine shaft four had been overrun. Even with access to merchants at the under-fortress, the army would have a hard enough time feeding itself in the near term, much less fighting the enemy.
Weeks passed before Eekrit was able to return to the under-fortress, only to find Velsquee gone. The official explanation was that his injuries required the attentions of the best chirurgeons in the Great City, but it was obvious to Eekrit that the Grey Lord was trying to get as much distance from the debacle as he could. Velsquee would make certain that the blame for the defeat rested squarely on Eekrit’s shoulders. It was the skaven way.
Eekrit fought back the only way he could—by making certain that regular shipments of god-stone found their way to the Great City. He still clung stubbornly to the notion that the kreekar-gan could be defeated and then the mountain would be his. So he endured Velsquee’s expert slanders and the inevitable disgrace that the Council heaped upon him. He knew that he could never go back home, at least not until he was wealthy enough to reform his image.
The warlord also went out of his way to publicly thank Velsquee for his many years of helpful “advice” during the long war, plus his continued support for the expeditionary force—whether such support still existed or not. Eekrit even went so far as to hire an orator to deliver a grandiloquent speech to the Council of Thirteen to commemorate the day that the army first departed from the Great City, and went to great length to extol Velsquee’s virtues as a warrior and a leader. Finally, he made sure that the Grey Lord received a regular allotment of god-stone from the mines and made very sure that the other lords on the Council knew about it.
Velsquee got the message. His fortunes were tied to the great mountain, whether he wanted it or not, so it was in his best interests to support the expeditionary force as much as possible.
The fact was, Eekrit needed all the support he could get. The great clans had grown weary of the long war beneath the mountain; many had lost so much blood and treasure over the last forty years that their positions on the Council had become vulnerable. In the months and years following the defeat at mine shaft four, the alliance of clans that made up the expeditionary force began to unravel. Clan Morbus was the first to withdraw its warriors, followed by the survivors of Clan Skryre soon after. Eekrit hadn’t the power or influence to stop them. All he could do was try to lure as many of the lesser clans as he could to take their place, plus whatever mercenaries his depleted fortunes permitted.
All the while, the kreekar-gan continued to batter away at the skaven. With new stores of god-stone in his possession, he hurled wave after wave of skeletons and flesh-hungry corpses against Eekrit’s defences. The days of
digging murder holes and launching bold flanking moves were long gone. The most Eekrit could do was hold what he had and inflict as many losses on the enemy as possible.
His warriors destroyed the enemy by the hundreds, but it was never enough. The burning man never relented. As his losses mounted, Eekrit was forced to surrender one mine shaft after another. Slowly but surely, the skaven were being driven from the mountain.
All they had left now was mine shaft twelve. If that fell, the enemy would be at the tunnels to the under-fortress itself.
Eekrit drank deep from his bowl. “It’s just four months,” he said, swirling the bitter dregs. “We can hold.”
“With what?” Eshreegar said. “I wouldn’t give a ratling’s fart for half the hired swords you’ve got manning the barricades. The instant one of those bone-engines comes charging down on them, they’ll turn tail and won’t stop running until they reach the Great City. Then all you’ll have left are a few thousand poorly-armed clanrats and whatever slave packs you can scrounge.”
The warlord’s paw tightened on the wine bowl. “We’ll collapse the upper branch-tunnels if we have to. That should slow them down a bit.”
Eshreegar shook his head irritably. “You’ll just be delaying the inevitable.”
Eekrit scowled at the Master of Treacheries. “I don’t think so,” he snapped. “The kreekar-gan has all but one of the mountain’s mine shafts under his control. With that much power he should have crushed us years ago. Why hasn’t he?” The warlord shook his head. “I don’t think he’s as strong as he wants us to believe.”
“And yet here we are, hanging on to the under-fortress by our toe claws.”
Eekrit jabbed a finger at Eshreegar. “No one’s seen the kreekar-gan since the fight at mine shaft four. Why is that? All we ever see these days are skeletons and shambling corpses.” He leaned forwards. “Our problem isn’t that the burning man’s so much stronger; it’s that we’ve been getting weaker by the year. When Velsquee shows up with the reinforcements he promised, all that will change.”
The Master of Treacheries let out a snort. “I’ll believe that when I see it, and not before.”
Just then, the double doors at the far end of the chamber creaked open and a slave came scampering through. He dashed to the foot of the dais and stretched himself upon the stones. “Master-master!” he said breathlessly. “The Grey Lord has come! Velsquee is-is here!”
Eekrit straightened, ears fluttering in surprise. “In the great square? Now?”
“No-no master. He-he waits without!” the slave replied.
Eshreegar rose from his chair and carefully set his wine bowl aside. “I don’t like the sound of that,” he said quietly.
The warlord shot Eshreegar a hard look. “Let him in,” he snapped at the slave. As the skaven dashed back to the double doors, Eekrit felt the hackles rise on the back of his neck.
Moments later, the doors opened wide, and Grey Lord Velsquee made his painful way into the great hall. Despite the best elixirs and sorcerous charms gold could buy, Velsquee’s fur had gone almost uniformly white and his face was deeply lined by years of strain. The Grey Lord still stubbornly wore his fine suit of armour and curved sword, though his fighting days were now far behind him. The chirurgeons had worked wonders, but Velsquee’s shattered hip had never set properly. He leaned heavily on a gnarled cypress cane as he limped towards the dais. Behind him came a dozen heavily armed heechigar, marching with exaggerated slowness so as not to overtake their master.
Eekrit fought down a sense of foreboding at the sight of the storm-walkers. The places along the great hall where his bodyguards customarily stood were conspicuously empty, because every able-bodied skaven was needed to man the barricades. He glanced at Eshreegar and noted that the Master of Treacheries had retreated a few steps away from the throne and turned slightly to face the heechigar. His arms were folded, paws tucked into his sleeves.
Remembering himself, Eekrit quickly rose from the throne, but Velsquee waved for him to stop. “Sit down, whelp,” he snapped, his voice rough with age. He nodded at Eshreegar’s seat. “This one will do.”
The warlord waited until Velsquee had settled himself in the chair before he sat back upon the throne. His throat suddenly felt very dry.
“Welcome back to the under-fortress, my lord,” Eekrit grumbled. “Forgive me for not greeting you in the great square with the fanfare you deserve, but you’ve arrived much, much earlier than expected.”
Velsquee winced as he tried to get comfortable on the hard wooden seat. “I moved much faster without an army to slow me down,” he said in a cold voice.
There it was, stated in bald terms. Eekrit shook his head slowly, not quite willing to believe what he’d heard. “You… you travelled on ahead of the army, you mean.”
The Grey Lord growled. “It’s over, Eekrit. The Council of Thirteen doesn’t want any more to do with this place. They call it the Cursed Pit these days. I couldn’t get one other Grey Lord to support the call for more warriors.”
“What about all the god-stone buried here?” Eekrit asked. “We’ve been at it nearly eighty years, and we’ve barely scratched the-the surface!”
“And look what it’s cost us,” Velsquee shot back. “It’s even got the grey seers at each others’ throats.” He shook his grizzled head. “No, Eekrit. It’s done. The Council sent me here with an official declaration dissolving the alliance of clans and disbanding the expeditionary force.”
Eekrit stared at the Grey Lord. “This is lunacy,” he snarled. “We can still triumph here, Velsquee. You haven’t been here in almost forty years! I know we can defeat the kreekar-gan—”
“You know nothing of the kind, ratling!” Velsquee shouted, half-rising from his chair. “Qweeqwol tried to warn me, but I wouldn’t listen—” the rest of the outburst was lost in a fit of terrible, racking coughs that left the Grey Lord wheezing and doubled over with pain. Eekrit gestured frantically for a slave, who rushed a bowl of wine to the struggling skaven.
Velsquee took the bowl with a trembling paw and drank deeply. Eekrit waited until the old skaven had composed himself before he continued.
“Qweeqwol warned you of what?”
The Grey Lord didn’t reply at first. His gaze wandered the room, lost in memories of the past. Finally, he sighed and rubbed a paw across his whiskers.
“Qweeqwol saw a great deal more than just visions of god-stone buried beneath this damned mountain,” he said. “The god-stone was immaterial to him. He lent his influence to the alliance of the clans and marched with the army because he’d seen what the burning man planned for the world. If the kreekar-gan wasn’t stopped, it wouldn’t mean the death of the skaven. It would mean the death of everything.”
The haunted look in Velsquee’s eyes made Eekrit’s blood run cold. “How could such a thing be possible?”
The Grey Lord shook his head. “I don’t know,” he replied. “I didn’t believe a word of it at the time.”
“Have you told the Council of this?” Eekrit asked.
Velsquee’s eyes widened. “Are you mad? Those fools would think I’d finally gone soft. There would be a dozen daggers in my back by the end of the day.”
“But if Qweeqwol was right…”
“Qweeqwol also said this, the burning man could not be defeated by the hand of the living,” Velsquee replied. “The kreekar-gan is not bound by the laws of life and death. He can only be defeated by someone like himself, who is dead, yet lives on.”
The Grey Lord sighed. “Qweeqwol thought he had the answer. He was sick, you see. A corruption of the blood. The Horned One alone knows how he managed to live so long.” Velsquee shook his head bitterly. “Qweeqwol thought it was a sign. We know better now, of course.”
Eekrit fought the urge to beckon for more wine. He glanced at Eshreegar. “My scouts tell me that the kreekar-gan is getting ready to launch another attack.”
“Can you hold him off?”
The warlord gritted his teeth. “Perhaps
.”
“Then if you’ll listen to one last piece of advice from me, you’ll clean out every scrap of god-stone you can from the mine shaft and clear out before the burning man strikes. Leave the mercenaries behind as a rearguard. If you move quickly enough, they won’t realise they’ve been abandoned until it’s too late.”
Velsquee’s bald words stunned Eekrit. Before he could reply, the doors at the end of the hall swung open yet again and the same slave came dashing towards the dais. He wove his way nimbly around the heechigar and prostrated himself before the skaven lords. “Master! Master!”
“In the Horned One’s name, what now?” Eekrit snarled.
“A-a message from the barricades!” the slave cried. “A corpse-man has come!”
The corpse-men were the kreekar-gan’s barbarian lieutenants. There were only three left, as far as Eekrit knew, and none of them had been seen in more than a decade. The news sent a chill down the warlord’s spine.
“How many?”
The slave hesitated, glancing uncertainly from Eekrit to Velsquee and back again. “How-how many what?”
“Warriors, you wretch!” Eekrit snapped. “The corpse-man isn’t standing in front of the barricades by himself, now is he?”
The slave’s ears began to flutter nervously. Fear-musk spread through the air. “But-but he is, master. The corpse-man came alone. He says he bears a message for-for you.”
“Terms? Your master wishes to offer us terms?”
The kreekar-gan’s lieutenant looked as though he had just climbed from a dusty crypt. Though tall and broad-shouldered, the northman’s face was gaunt and etched by dozens of battle scars. His black hair was tangled, and layered with dust and grime. The corpse-man’s armour of leather and bronze was notched and torn by countless blows, and still bore the stains of past battles.
The northman stood just ten feet from the foot of the dais, where Eekrit and Velsquee sat. The burning man’s emissary bore no weapons, but Eekrit knew all too well how swift and strong the corpse-men were. Velsquee’s heechigar virtually surrounded the creature, their polearms ready to strike. Eshreegar was nowhere to be seen, but Eekrit knew that the Master of Treacheries was lurking somewhere in the shadows, just a quick knife-throw away.
[Nagash 03] - Nagash Immortal Page 28