Unseen by the ironbreakers, the globadiers drew closer to the fray. The hideous skaven in their gas masks and protective cloaks hesitated when they came within twenty feet of the embattled dwarfs. Heedless of their fellow ratmen who were still braving the enemy axes, the globadiers thrust their gloved hands into the bags slung at their sides. Chittering maliciously within their masks, the murderous skaven hurled the fragile glass globes into the raging melee.
Green fog burst across the tunnel as the globes crashed violently against the combatants. The shrill shrieks of ratmen ripped across the tunnel as the deadly gas engulfed them, burning through flesh and fur with savage rapacity. Dozens of skavenslaves wilted to the ground, blood streaming from their mouths as they coughed out their lives.
Though it had cost the lives of many ratkin, the brutal assault by the globadiers broke the dwarf line. For the first time, the discipline of the ironbreakers was fractured. Their stout gromril armour, proof against the fiercest blows, could not guard them against a weapon which could seep beneath the armour to attack the dwarf within.
First one, then another, then the entire company slumped to the ground, axes and hammers tumbling from numbed fingers. The dwarfs coughed as violently as the dying ratmen around them, a gory pulp of burned tissue dribbling into their beards. Their eyes, once so keen in the darkness, were blinded as bursting capillaries turned them into crimson pits of misery.
“Fast-quick! Kill-slay!” Rikkit shrieked at his warriors, driving his clanrats to turn the fleeing slaves about and herd them back up the tunnel. With the defenders on the floor, he wanted to take no chances that the dwarfs would somehow rally to thwart his schemes. Not waiting even for the Poison Wind to dissipate, he forced his army upwards. Dozens of slaves perished as they were thrust full into the still potent cloud of gas, but they were losses Rikkit was prepared to accept.
After the gas had dispersed and the vanguard of his warriors were stripping the dead ironbreakers of their vaunted armour, he breathed a little easier. His gamble had paid off. They were free to invade the upper halls now and claim the stronghold for Clan Mors!
“Leave dwarf-things!” Rikkit snapped at the looters. He pointed his claw towards the upper corridor. “More-more dwarf-meat to kill-take!”
The skaven host, their bloodlust stirred by the smell of dead enemies, needed only a few threats to get them moving again. Like a river of fur and fangs, the ratmen surged into the lower workings of Karak Angkul. Here the walls were not the raw, unworked stone of the tunnels, but were crafted from great blocks of granite, richly adorned with massive columns. Mighty pillars supported the arched ceiling high overhead, huge steel lanterns hanging from the hook-like crockets adorning their finials.
Rikkit revelled in his triumph as the skaven horde pressed onwards, sweeping into deserted mine-workings and empty galleries. No long-abandoned halls, these, but living chambers still thick with the smell of dwarf. Clearly the ironbreakers had spread the alarm to their fellows above! The realisation brought conflicting thoughts racing through the warlord’s mind. On the one paw, he appreciated the tactical advantage to catching his enemies unaware. By the other paw, however, his ego was glutted by the knowledge that the dwarfs had fled from him, Rikkit Snapfang, rather than face him in hopeless battle!
Packs of skaven now detached themselves from the main host, swarming into the empty galleries, hunting among the chambers for any dwarf stragglers and whatever loot they had left behind. The main horde, however, driven by the threats of their warlord and the lashes of their clawleaders, made straight for the ramps leading to the upper halls of Karak Angkul. Why pick over the leavings of miners when they could pillage the chambers of kings?
As the surging mass of ratmen raced up the ramps, the skaven saw the first dwarfs since they had broken through the guards in the tunnel. A skirmish line of dwarf warriors had arrayed themselves in one of the upper galleries. When the skaven saw how few their foes were, their creeping laughter echoed from the walls. If this was the best the dwarfs could muster, then the entire stronghold would soon belong to the ratkin.
In their murderous rush to come to grips with the dwarfs, the ratmen paid scant attention to the upturned mining carts scattered between themselves and the battle line. It was only when the attackers were a few dozen yards from the carts that they realised their mistake.
The wooden sides of the carts collapsed, revealing themselves to be nothing more than a lightweight façade. Concealed behind the simple panels were squat, bulky machines bristling with pipes and gears, their steel faces pockmarked with the ugly openings of gun barrels. As they were revealed, the machines shuddered into life. Steam jetted from their pipes, gears rumbled into motion. From the score of gun barrels set into the face of each machine, an iron bullet went tearing into the skaven horde.
Mercilessly, the automated guns ripped apart Rikkit’s army. Hundreds of skaven warriors were butchered in a matter of moments, their mangled bodies cartwheeling through the air as the vicious barrage scoured their ranks. One of the Poison Wind globadiers was struck, the round punching through his bag of gas bombs. Instantly a deadly cloud spread away from the dead globadier, its fumes searing the flesh of every skaven who came into contact with it. Rikkit shrieked in dismay as he saw his expensive jezzail teams trampled under the paws of his fleeing warriors, their heavy muskets smashed beneath the terrified clanrats.
The automated guns continued to fire at the routed skaven, reaping a bloody harvest from the shattered army. Copper belts fed fresh bullets into the steam-driven machines, allowing them to maintain their withering fire without respite. One of the guns let out a loud screech, its fire falling silent as a belt caught in its mechanism. The other dozen machines, however, continued to punish the skaven until they had fled back down the ramp and into the lower workings of Karak Angkul.
Leading the retreat, Rikkit Snapfang cursed the cowardice and stupidity of his soldiers. They should have expected some kind of dwarf trick and been ready for it! The treacherous rats had instead broken faith with their warlord and allowed themselves to be massacred! Worse, they had allowed his hired mercenaries to die, putting him further in debt to Clan Skryre!
The thought gave Rikkit pause. A cunning gleam wormed its way into his formerly panicked eyes. He still had most of Bonestash’s treasury to spend. He could buy more weapons from the warlock-engineers, weapons that would smash, burn and blast whatever the dwarf-things could bring against him! If he could force the treacherous remains of his army to stand fast and keep the enemy from retaking the mines, then there just might be a chance he could still bring the whole of the stronghold under the dominion of the underfolk!
The dwarfs let out a mighty cheer as they watched the craven ratmen turn tail and flee back down the rampway. Squads of vengeful warriors broke away from the battle line to finish the stragglers the routed army had left behind. Teams of engineers dashed across the gallery to attend the automated sentinel guns.
Among the dwarfs, a small group stood alone. They displayed only a scant interest in the decimated skaven and the functional sentinel guns. The gun which had jammed, however, warranted their full attention. Even as the last of the ratmen was vanishing back into the lower workings, these dwarfs were in action, hastening to the machine that had failed.
The dwarfs made a curious grouping, a cross-section of Karak Angkul. The first of them to reach the machine was a broad-shouldered hairy brute of a dwarf, his homely face marked by a bulbous nose and close-set eyes, his black beard wound into a trio of long braids. A weird framework of pipes and pistons supported his brawny arms and girded his thick legs. At each step, little bursts of steam rose from the framework, forming beads of condensation on his elaborate armour.
The second of the dwarfs was a spry, youthful example of his kind, his blond beard growing close about his cheeks and chin. There was a keen look in his blue eyes, reflecting the keenly inquisitive mind inside his head. Like his comrade, he was dressed for battle, his body draped in a heavy suit of
mail. Thick chains were looped about his waist and neck, each of the chains sporting a wide array of small stone charms etched with ancient Khazalid runes. The oversized hammer the young dwarf bore was likewise marked by a sharp dwarfish rune, the fiery symbol of algaz, a sign endowed with potent magic.
A white-bearded dwarf bearing a horned helm and wearing a rough bearskin hide over his armour came next. He prowled about the sentinel gun with the wary air of a panther stalking prey, his roving eyes never at rest but always watching the shadows for any sign of movement. In his gloved hands, he bore a brace of heavy pistols of ornate and exotic fashion.
Each of the dwarfs had attained his own renown within the halls of Karak Angkul. The brutish dwarf was Horgar Horgarsson, once captain of King Logan’s bodyguard and one of the fiercest warriors in the entire stronghold. Goblin poisons had polluted his body and brought him to the brink of death. Only the amazing medicinal skills of the master he now served had preserved his life, and only the same mind’s genius for invention had allowed him to be anything more than a cripple afterwards. Horgar had been retired from King Logan’s hammerers after his wounding and the grim dwarf had come to serve his saviour as assistant, guard and comrade at arms.
The young dwarf was Kurgaz Brightfinger, the youngest runesmith to ever walk the halls of Karak Angkul. Often dismissed by his elders as little more than a beardling, it had taken an intellect outside the order of runesmiths to appreciate Kurgaz’s talents. With the support of his new master, the young dwarf had been able to expand his knowledge of the ancient craft and theorise new ways to use the magic symbols.
There was a reason the white-bearded dwarf studied his surroundings with such caution. Alone among his companions, Thorlek could be said to have spent more of his life above the mountains rather than inside them. A veteran ranger who prowled the surface wilderness hunting and trapping, always keeping a watchful eye out for gathering enemies, Thorlek was an accomplished fighter and tracker renowned for his puckish humour and formidable sword arm.
While the other dwarfs maintained the perimeter, the fourth member of their group inspected the malfunctioning sentinel gun. He was a tall dwarf, towering over his comrades. Powerfully built, with dark leathery skin and a beard of deep gold colour, he cut an impressive figure as he dashed to the machine and began his inspection. His eyes, peculiar orbs of flake-gold hue, pored over the mechanism. At length, he reached into the belt feed and removed a misshapen lump of lead.
“I still say you didn’t need to sabotage your own invention,” Horgar grumbled.
The gold-bearded dwarf flashed a sombre smile. “Guildmaster Thori will need something to complain about, otherwise he won’t be happy. And if he isn’t happy, then the Engineers’ Guild could make problems. I shouldn’t like to take the slayer-oath like old Malakai Makaisson.”
“They wouldn’t dare!” objected Kurgaz. “Even King Logan wouldn’t try to silence the genius of Klarak Bronzehammer!”
Klarak smiled at his friend, warmed by the young dwarf’s enthusiasm and confidence, if not his appreciation for politics. The guilds which controlled dwarf society were founded upon centuries of tradition and experience. They did not accept new ideas easily, and none of them resisted innovation so sternly as the Engineers’ Guild. Still, there were ways around the obstructions of dwarfs like Guildmaster Thori. It only took some appreciation for the traditions of the guild and a respect for its power.
Of course, the tacit collusion of a stronghold’s ruler was a big help too. Klarak had been able to create many inventions to help the inhabitants of Karak Angkul, but his devices would have withered on the vine without King Logan’s help to get around the obstructions of Guildmaster Thori. King Logan was a ruler of unique vision, who appreciated that the way to restore the dwarf kingdom did not lie in some slavish devotion to the past, but in new ideas and bold innovations.
Still, even King Logan felt the power of the Engineers’ Guild and there were limits to what he could allow Klarak to do without completely offending the conservative sensibilities of the other engineers.
This field test of Klarak’s sentinel guns had been the most audacious exhibition yet. Any dwarf with eyes could see the value of these machines, but the engineers would be slow to approve such a startling invention. It might take hundreds of years before they were satisfied that such a device was safe enough to be approved for production. In the meantime, Karak Angkul would be exposed to her verminous enemies.
Hence, Klarak had deliberately arranged for one of his guns to malfunction. It would give Guildmaster Thori something to complain about and it would give himself an excuse to conduct more “tests” of his invention.
A deep, rumbling bellow echoed through the gallery, rebounding from the walls. Klarak smiled as he heard the sound. Turning he basked in the boisterous cheers of the dwarf warriors, bowing his head as he accepted their adulation.
“They don’t need Guildmaster Thori to tell them your guns worked,” Horgar said.
Klarak frowned and shook his head. “That makes things worse,” he stated. “It will make Guildmaster Thori even more critical of their performance. If the common folk start questioning the caution of the guild, then the guild is just going to dig its heels in even more.”
“Idiots,” Thorlek spat.
“Defenders of tradition,” Klarak corrected him in a severe tone. “Theirs is the thankless duty of advancing progress without sacrificing all that has come before.”
Klarak Bronzehammer fixed each of his aides with a warning look. “Never forget tradition,” he said. “For it is the great strength that binds our fractured kingdoms together.”
Chapter III
Thanquol rubbed his claws against his chest to polish them into a menacing sheen. His unyielding stare bore into the beady eyes of the bloated scavenge-merchant. “Four thousand warp-tokens,” the grey seer reiterated, putting a little more malice into his posture.
Nabkrik Fatgut tugged at his whiskers, avoiding the intensity of the grey seer’s gaze. The merchant had been on the wrong paw from the start, ever since Thanquol had smelt fear in the scent of Nabkrik’s bodyguards. The hulking, black-furred skaven might have been ready enough to rip out the throat of a common ratman, but against a grey seer, they seemed more inclined to scratch their fleas than think about using the motley array of weapons hanging from their belts.
“Three-three,” Nabkrik said, holding up three of his fat little claws. Sprawled out in a sedan chair, the piebald skaven looked like some sort of misshapen pillow. The stink of the swamp was everywhere in the crumbling stone cellar Nabkrik employed as his headquarters, which was hardly surprising considering the amount of mud and black sludge oozing down the walls. Half of Skavenblight’s old waterfront had already been dragged down into the morass of the Blighted Marshes. The area around Nabkrik’s burrow was well on its way to joining its sunken neighbours.
Glancing at the frightened bodyguards, Thanquol’s lip curled back in a grisly leer. “Five thousand warp-tokens,” he announced. The grey seer enjoyed watching the loathsome trade-rat wince at the figure.
Huddled between the haggling ratmen was a motley collection of dwarfs and skaven, the slaves and ex-passengers Lynsh Blacktail had been transporting before his “accident” on the river. The captain’s crew had been helpful enough in locating the buyer Lynsh had waiting for their cargo. The crew had been quite angry at Thanquol’s cut of the spoils, but now that they heard how much the grey seer was going to extort from Nabkrik, they were quickly regaining some of their old confidence and avarice.
They were vile things, these disgusting pirate-rats. Thanquol wondered what sort of diseased breeder could have suckled such vermin at her teats. Preying upon hapless travellers who had placed all of their trust and hope into the treacherous paws of these marauding villains! Scum, without a shred of nobility or decency about them! Knowing no loyalty except their own slinking greed!
“Five thousand warp-tokens,” Thanquol repeated. “And I’ll toss in the scow an
d its crew.” The grey seer glared malignantly at the pirates who seemed to have a moment of trouble understanding that their new captain had just downgraded their status from sailors to slaves. When they did, the ratmen howled in fury, brandishing their weapons. One of their number lunged at Thanquol, a crooked blade in each paw, spittle flying from his clenched fangs.
Thanquol watched the vengeful rat spring at him. Calmly, the grey seer raised one of his fingers and rasped a string of arcane squeaks. A blazing ribbon of electricity crackled from his finger straight into the leaping pirate. The stricken ratman was flung back through the air, his body smashing against the ceiling before plummeting to the floor. Smoke rose from the charred crater in the centre of the dead pirate’s chest, filling the cellar with a noxious reek of ozone and burnt meat.
Nabkrik’s guards were quick to pounce on the other pirates, overwhelming them with clubs and sword hilts while they were still in shock at their comrade’s violent demise.
“Don’t think-think you’ll get much-much for that one,” Thanquol stated, nodding at the dead pirate. As he spoke, the grey seer opened his little rat-skull box and took a pinch of warpstone snuff. Old Lynsh had had quite a stash of the stuff secreted away on his scow. Thanquol had been surprised at its high quality, feeling the stuff flow through his brain like fire each time he took a sniff. It made him feel as though he were a walking dynamo of arcane malignance, as though all he had to do was snap his fingers and the Horned Rat would reduce all his enemies into mush. He had to but stretch forth his paw and he could topple the foundation of the world and grind the land into dust. It was really quite a thrilling sensation. He rather regretted dumping Lynsh into the river before finding out where he’d gotten the stuff.
Nabkrik turned a horrified grimace towards the dead pirate, then nervously faced Thanquol once more. “Five thousand warp-tokens,” the fat old ratkin fairly cried. “Yes-yes, Dread One!” He fumbled about beneath his chair, removing a few heavy bags that had been soaked in some foul-smelling excretion. It was a sensible precaution when hiding money from thieves who would find it better by scent than sight. The merchant tugged open the neck of one of the bags, displaying the black and green discs inside.
[Thanquol & Boneripper 03] - Thanquol's Doom Page 4