01 - Grey Seer

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

  As his men carried the child away, Theodor lingered behind, continuing to study the gruesome cur. The worms weren’t moving now; as the dog had died, they had grown still. At least most of them had. Several had dropped away from the body and wriggled away, burrowing into the muck of the gutters.

  Theodor knew there was some foulness beyond his understanding at work here. He knew this was more than just a matter of thieves and murderers. Just as he didn’t know what to look for in the way of infection or injury on the little girl’s body, he also accepted that he didn’t know what to look for here. There was a connection, he was sure, between the horrible green worms here and the one he had seen in the Orc and Axe, the one he was certain had dropped off the smuggler’s arm while he was scratching it. Something unclean, unholy, was at large in the waterfront. It would take a different sort of man to root it out and bring it to ground.

  There was no pleasant way to do what Theodor knew he had to do next. When his men led away the little girl, they left behind her goatskin bag. Theodor walked over to it, upending it and spilling its contents of rubbish and rags into the street. He needed it to carry a different kind of garbage.

  Using the chair leg, Theodor poked and prodded the carcass of the dog until it rolled into the open bag. Tying the loathsome burden into a bundle, dragging it behind him, he made his way through the deserted streets. It wasn’t the hospice or even the watchhouse that was his destination. He knew where he must take the wretched carcass. He knew where to take it if there were to be any chance of solving the strange enigma of the worms.

  Through the early morning chill, Theodor made his way, picking a circuitous path through back streets and alleyways. Peeling plaster walls gave way to splintered timber frames as his journey took him into the oldest, most neglected section of the district, a place so forgotten that it was ignored even by the lamplighters. He found himself trudging down muddy lanes surrounded by sagging structures that might have stood in the days when the city had still been called Reikdorf. Shingled eaves frowned down at him, shuttered windows stared at him through lidded eyes. Somewhere a cat yowled and a night bird made its raucous call. Theodor felt his skin crawl, and a cold shiver ran up his back. However many times he followed the path, followed the secret marks visible only to those who knew how to look, he could not shake the eerie impression that now gripped him.

  This part of the city was more than simply forgotten.

  It was forsaken.

  Forbidden.

  Theodor stopped outside a dilapidated storefront. A pane of frosted glass set into the timber wall bore gilded letters in antiquated script, though Theodor could not make them out. There was no hint of the room behind the glass, so frosted with age and neglect was the window. Only those who had been inside could tell what the place housed. The curious would have been disappointed. Theodor was when he had first opened the heavy oak door set in the wall beside the window.

  He pulled an iron key from his belt and fitted it into the door’s lock. There was a trick to working the key, a system of half-turns that had to be precisely worked to open the door. As it creaked inward on its hinges, Theodor found his nose filled with the musty smell of the building. The room beyond was just as it had been when he had first laid eyes on it many years ago: empty save for a thick layer of dust upon the floor.

  Theodor dumped the goatskin bag and its grisly contents upon the floor. As he had done every time he’d visited the derelict building, he studied its walls, scrutinised the crumbling stairway that led up into the structure’s upper levels. As he had found every time before, there was nothing to be seen. No hint of secret doors and hidden watchers, no clue to anything that suggested the place was more than an abandoned ruin on an abandoned street.

  It was more, however. Theodor retraced his steps and locked the door again behind him. Even if he had never been able to puzzle it out for himself, there was much more to the building than met the eye. Somehow, in some way, whatever was left in that room did not stay there.

  Somehow, it would be retrieved, taken by the one man in Altdorf who would know how to unlock its secrets.

  The man Theodor Baer called “master”.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The City Below

  Darkness filled the windowless room. A hissed command whispered through the blackness and a ghostly glow began to slowly form in the empty air. The weird grey light threw rays of illumination upon the polished surface of a long steel table, and upon the table alone. The unseen walls, the ceiling and floor, these remained untouched by the spectral orb, lost within the thick shadows of perpetual gloom.

  Upon the table, a goatskin bag was spread, its tattered edge held open by heavy weights. The centre of the bag had been cut open and peeled back, leaving its gruesome contents exposed beneath the sinister light.

  For an instant, the light flickered. A stretch of shadow seemed to detach itself from the surrounding gloom. The strange apparition advanced upon the table, leaning above the objects spread across it. Pale, slender hands emerged from the dark shape. Powerful, clawlike fingers gripped steel instruments, pressing them into the corrupt husk of the creature on the table. A pincer-like device gripped one of the long, fat-bodied worms and pulled it free from the scrawny carcass.

  Long moments passed as the hand turned the gruesome object around in its grip. Burning eyes studied the worm, committing its every contour and wrinkle to memory. Suddenly, the pincers were laid down upon the table beside the carcass. The pale hands retreated back into the formless shape, which withdrew in turn back into the lurking gloom.

  Another hiss crawled through the empty room. As eerily as it had formed, the ghost light faded away, consigning the carcass of the dog Theodor Baer had killed once more to the darkness.

  The dank darkness of the river had a soothing effect on Grey Seer Thanquol as he stood upon the deck of the flat-bottomed barge. He could feel the wood creaking and rolling ever so slightly beneath his feet, swaying in time to the current of the underground channel and the skaven bargerats poling their vessel through the black deeps of the world. He could hear sleepy riverbats croaking and chittering to each other from their perches on the ceiling high above the water, he could see the faint splashes in the stream as pallid cave-fish burst the surface to slurp great gulps of air into their slimy bodies. He could smell the thousand odours sweeping down the channel: the stink of wet fur, the decaying reek of rotting wood, the pungent tang of rat roasting over an open fire, the sharp suggestion of rusting metal, the seductive scent of warpstone smouldering in a metal brazier. They were the smells of civilisation and after a week upon the sunken rivers of the Under-Empire, they were a welcome sensation.

  Thanquol straightened his body and muttered a hiss of satisfaction. Soon, soon he would be in Under-Altdorf, second greatest city in all skavendom! Nor would he be a non-entity in that city! Far from it! He would be the chosen representative of the Lords of Decay, their trusted agent, their invaluable proxy. Even the leaders of Under-Altdorf would be forced to bow their knee to him and wait upon his every whim. Such was the importance the Council placed upon Thanquol and his mission.

  The grey seer felt a twitter of fear pass through him as he thought about that mission. The Lords of Decay had been somewhat evasive in their description of the artefact he was to retrieve. He knew it was some potent weapon crafted by Clan Pestilens, and had his suspicions that its intended use had not been confined to the furless humans and their decadent society. Anything developed by Clan Pestilens was apt to be monstrously dangerous, this was an accepted fact, but Thanquol was no simpering whelp. He would meet such danger boldly and headfirst. He wondered how many clanrat warriors it would be prudent to commandeer from Under-Altdorf to help him retrieve the Wormstone. Too many might make him seem cowardly, but too few would be imprudent. After all, there was no glory in confronting danger if he was to be one of its victims.

  Thanquol cast a suspicious glance across the flat deck of the barge. The bargerats, all wearing leather jerkins
stained in the colours of Clan Sleekit, were mostly clustered about the sides of the vessel, working their metal-tipped poles through the black water of the river, prodding the unseen bottom to push the ship forwards. The grey seer gave the skaven sailors only glancing notice. He continued his scrutiny of the barge, looking across at the piled sacks of grain and metal slag that formed the bulk of the barge’s cargo, even a small barrel of the black corn grown in the Blighted Marshes. A little taste of Skavenblight’s only crop was a mark of status anywhere else in the Under-Empire, and many a warlord and clanmaster paid many warpstone tokens to boast that he dined upon such fare. Thanquol little understood the practice: black corn was all but inedible, even for a skaven. It was the staple of Skavenblight’s diet out of necessity rather than choice. Having survived on such fare too often in the past, he felt his stomach clench every time the scent from the barrel struck his snout.

  Chained to the deck, just out of reach of the cargo, was a line of scrawny skavenslaves, their pelts branded with the mark of Clan Sleekit. The bargerats didn’t trust their slaves with the delicate task of navigating the ship, however rough and demanding the work might become. They would leave the slaves in their fetters throughout the voyage, sometimes lashing the huddled wretches out of spite. When the barge reached its port of call, things would change. Then the slaves would be pressed into action, unloading the cargo their masters had brought so very far.

  The grey seer turned his gaze away from the huddled mass of skavenslaves. Away from them, looming near the prow of the barge, were his “bodyguards”, a pair of hulking white ratmen in red steel armour. Garrisoned within the Shattered Tower itself, the white stormvermin were an enigma even Thanquol’s keen, perceptive mind had failed to penetrate. Mute, gigantic in proportions and possessed of a distinctly unskavenlike incorruptibility, Thanquol wondered about their origins. The two that had been sent along with him as overseers and spies—for he did not believe for an instant the Council’s claim they were really his protectors—were so alike they could only be from the same litter. Was that possibly the secret, some hidden clutch of brood-mothers kept by the Council that only produced these hulking, white-furred specimens? It would not be the first instance of skaven using warpstone and other substances to influence the ratlings forming in the bellies of the brood-mothers. Clan Skaul in particular was known for the high numbers of horned skaven born to its litters, while Clan Skab’s ratmothers produced inordinate numbers of ferocious black skaven. If that were the case, Thanquol would give much to learn the Council’s secret of instilling such incorruptible loyalty in their warriors.

  Thoughts of loyalty shifted Thanquol’s attention away from the white ratkin to a grey one. As he glanced in the direction of Adept Kratch, the apprentice grey seer quickly turned his head. Thanquol’s lip curled in a fang-ridden sneer. Kratch knew a good deal more about the Wormstone than he had told the Council. Certainly more than he had told Thanquol! The grey seer lashed his tail in annoyance. What plot was the young seer hatching within that scheming little brain? Thanquol had studiously avoided taking on any apprentices; the fate of his own mentor, that trusting old fool Sleekit, was a bit too vivid for him to have any ambitious young whelps nipping at his tail.

  An ugly idea occurred to Thanquol, and not for the first time. He wasn’t the first master Kratch had served. It was rather convenient for the apprentice that he alone had escaped the death that had overtaken Grey Seer Skabritt and his entourage. Already raised far beyond his station by the Council, made apprentice to the famous, renowned Grey Seer Thanquol, allowed the fabulous opportunity to learn from the most brilliant mind in all skavendom, Thanquol suspected that Kratch was still not content. The adept would require some careful watching… or perhaps a convenient accident when the time was right. “Grey Seer Thanquol.”

  Thanquol turned about as he heard himself addressed, his name spoken with the right mixture of fear and respect his position warranted. The bargemaster, a pot-bellied, one-eyed ratman with piebald fur and oversized incisors, bowed on the deck before him, head tilted to the side to expose his throat. Thanquol flicked his claw, motioning for the skaven to speak.

  “Under-Altdorf, merciless and beneficent master,” the bargerat said. “City scent is strong-strong, close-near.”

  A clawed foot kicked out, striking the bargerat’s head. The skaven reared away from the blow, flattening its muzzle against the deck.

  “Fattongue flea!” Thanquol snapped, annoyed by the grovelling bargemaster. He slapped a claw against his own muzzle. “Think-think I did not smell city-scent?” The grey seer’s foot kicked out again, but this time the bargerat was quick enough to duck. “Sail this flotsam, leave thinking to those with wits.”

  The bargemaster scurried away on all fours, waiting until he was well out of kicking distance before straightening. He turned, prowling over to the nearest knot of bargerats, swatting and swiping at them with his claws, allegations of slothfulness and other misdeeds flying from his tongue like little daggers. He threw one of the bargerats from the pole and assumed the duty for himself. The displaced bargerat skulked across the deck, stopping when he reached the shackled slaves. He didn’t bother concocting an excuse as he drew the ratgut whip from his belt and began to lash the skavenslaves.

  Thanquol licked his fangs hungrily as the smell of fresh blood rose from the slaves. He was rather tired of cave fish and grain after so many days trapped on the rickety barge. A flank of fresh slave would do wonders relieving the tedium of the voyage.

  Culinary considerations quickly faded as Thanquol’s sharp eyes detected the glow of torches in the distance. Rounding a bend in the underground river, the channel widened, opening into a cavernous expanse. The expanse slowly sloped upward from one side of the cave wall. It was from here that the flickering glow of torches shone. As they came nearer, the city-scent increased. Thanquol could see ramshackle wharfs projecting out into the water, crudely cobbled together from splintered planks and lumber stolen from the surface. The wharfs were swarming with ratmen of many sizes and colours, hurrying to unload sacks of grain, coffles of skavenslaves, boxes of warpstone and other cargo from a small flotilla of Clan Sleekit barges. Others were busy loading cargo onto empty barges: blocks of masonry, cords of lumber, baskets of steel, bundles of cloth, the plunder and loot from hundreds of midnight forays into the nest of humans above Under-Altdorf. Thanquol snickered as he saw coffles of pale, shivering humans being led onto some of the barges. After his recent misfortunes, his contempt for the furless breed had only grown. He wished the humans ill fortune in their new lives as slaves. Perhaps they would find themselves being sold to Clan Moulder to use in their ghastly experiments. With the recent slave revolt in Hell Pit, the master moulders would be needing a new supply of subjects for their studies.

  The barge slowly manoeuvred through the press of ships clustered about the wharfs. The bargemaster snapped orders to his crew and the boat shifted about, making for an empty dock that had just been vacated by a ship loaded with bolts of brightly dyed cloth. Another ship tried to slip into the position, nearly colliding with the barge. Angry squeaks of accusation from the other ship quickly died when the bargerats saw Thanquol’s imposing figure standing upon the deck. With indecent haste, the other ship pulled away, not caring how many other barges it jostled as it made its retreat.

  Thanquol straightened his posture, tightening his grip on the staff clutched in his claws, as the barge slid into place beside the ramshackle dock. Activity around the wharf came to a standstill as skaven paused in their tracks to stare at the sinister grey-clad priest. The scent of fear-musk rose from the most timid, others hurriedly averted their eyes and quickly remembered reasons why they should be elsewhere. An unnatural hush fell across the waterfront, and for the first time the sloshing rush of the river was not drowned out by the squabbling squeaks of the ratkin.

  A big brown skaven, its scarred body pressed into a tattered collection of rags bearing the sign of Clan Skab, emerged from the awe that suppressed t
he rest of the waterfront. Brandishing a thick iron rod, he savagely struck at a huddle of emaciated humans, their bodies even more scarred than that of the ratman. The wasted slaves shuffled to the wharf, casting ropes to the bargerats on Thanquol’s ship. The skaven snatched the ropes from the cowed humans, swiftly tying off their vessel to the rickety dock.

  Thanquol waited until the brown slavemaster encouraged his charges to place a gangplank between the deck and the dock before thinking about disembarking. He was relishing the respect and fear he smelled rising from the ratmen all around him. News of his coming had preceded him. Despite the Council’s unjust blaming of him for his recent setbacks, the numberless masses of the Under-Empire remembered him as the great and mighty Grey Seer Thanquol. They remembered, and they shivered in his presence.

  The bargerats started to release their own skavenslaves to unload the cargo. Thanquol shot a malicious glare at the bargemaster as he noticed the activity. The ratman wilted before the grey seer’s fiery gaze. Did the idiot really intend to put his petty business before Thanquol’s disembarking? The wretch should be praising the Horned Rat with his every breath that he’d been allowed the unrivalled honour of conveying a personage so esteemed upon his dilapidated scow! Thanquol stalked towards the cringing bargemaster, whose terror only swelled when the red-armoured stormvermin fell in to either side of the grey seer, murderous smiles on their muzzles. Thanquol raised his staff, gripping it close beneath the metal icon. It hung poised above the bargemaster’s head like the iron bludgeon of the waterfront slavemaster.

  Instead of dashing in the bargerat’s skull, Thanquol brought the staff crashing down into an iron-banded barrel, splintering its lid. The grey seer sneered at the bargemaster and dug a paw into the barrel. He made a point of popping a few kernels of black corn into his mouth as he strode away. The vile taste still made his stomach clench, but there was a deep satisfaction in the humiliation of the thoughtless bargemaster.