Skarpaw could feel the burning sensation leaving his chest, but his limbs still felt like granite weights. The assassin glared murderously at the seated plague priest. “Tell-speak Pontifex Poxtix he will suffer-suffer for this!”
The seated plague priest laughed, a bubbling chortle that made Skarpaw cringe. “I shall tell-speak nothing to Poxtix,” the skaven pronounced. “That is why I need-take you, Skrattch. You serve-obey me and speak-tell nothing to Poxtix.” The decayed lips pulled back, displaying the ratman’s blackened teeth in a broken snarl. The plague priest pulled the chain of one of the tiny bells dangling from the head of his staff. Metal plates slid down, cutting off the glowing green light of the censer ball and its infectious fumes. The plague priest’s eyes shone in the darkness and Skarpaw could hear the other plague monks shuffling forwards through the water now that the dangerous fog was cut off.
“I am Lord Skrolk,” the skaven on the throne said in a guttural hiss. “You will be my sniffer-spotter, my knife-fang. Otherwise I will not give-gift you more of my antidote. Think-ponder, Skrattch, then give-gift me your allegiance.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Knives in the Dark
The lair of Grey Seer Thratquee was a resplendent, vault-like hall buried deep beneath Under-Altdorf’s temple of the Horned Rat. Thick walls of stone reinforced with bars of steel ensured that even the largest burrower bred by the diseased flesh-shapers of Clan Moulder would not be able to penetrate the skaven priest’s sanctuary. The flagstones upon the floor were massive blocks of granite plundered from the sewers and cellars of the human city above. Green light flickered from warpstone lanterns set high into the ceiling, crafted from the mangled remains of chandeliers and candelabra. Mouldering rugs and tapestries, their colours faded by skaven excretions, their finery frayed and tattered by the gnawing of rats, covered much of the floor. At the centre of the hall, a monstrous heap of soiled pillows rose, heavy with the stink of ratkin musk. In a shocking display of wealth, decadence and power, the heap of pillows was occupied by a pair of immense, bloated masses of fur and fat, the swollen bulks of a pair of skaven females, the nearly mindless brood-mothers of the ratkin. Steel collars circled their swollen necks, thick chains fixing the huge creatures to metal rings set into the floor.
Thanquol was unable to decide what he should feel as he stalked into the hall; envy, fear or disgust. He settled on a mix of the three. Thratquee was clearly trying to impress his guest with this show of opulence and power, yet Thanquol could not help but see in the elder grey seer’s lair a vivid display of the priest’s own decadence and corruption. Like the rest of Under-Altdorf, Thratquee had pretensions of grandeur, imagining himself some manner of petty seerlord. For someone who had only recently grovelled before Kritislik, there was something shabby, laughable, in such a display.
An emasculated human slave rose from a small kennel at the side of the hall and approached as Thanquol entered the chamber. The temple guards who had conducted him through the temple into Thratquee’s sanctum withdrew, casting a few jealous looks over their shoulders as they stalked back up the stairs. His own stormvermin, the matched set of albino mutes from Skavenblight, had been left in the temple, but Thanquol’s persistence had forced the temple adepts to allow him to bring Kratch with him to this private audience with Thratquee. It was comforting to know he had at least one underling to throw between himself and any treachery Thratquee might be plotting.
The slave bowed before Thanquol, making the gesture a strange hybrid of human and skaven by twisting his head to expose his throat to the grey seer. Thanquol paid scant notice to the wretch, instead sniffing at the platter of delicacies he carried. An array of cheeses and sweetmeats teased his senses, setting his stomach growling. Whatever his other faults, Thratquee had certainly cultivated an expensive taste for human cuisine.
Thanquol started to reach for the platter, then his paw froze, thoughts of treachery reasserting themselves. He glowered at Kratch, nudging the apprentice forwards. The young adept hesitated, twitching nervously as he felt Thanquol’s impatience grow. With a shivering paw, Kratch timidly retrieved a wedge of cheese from the platter. Thanquol continued to watch him as the apprentice took slight, dainty nibbles of the food.
“Grey Seer Thanquol,” the voice of Thratquee rose from the midst of the pillow nest. The elder grey seer peered from the mess of feathers and lace, eyes glazed with the effects of warpdust and human liquors. Thratquee had made no effort to disguise the smell of his vices, something that made Thanquol decide the old villain was far less impaired by them than he would like his guest to believe. “I am humble-honoured that so terrible and magnificent a visitor should grace my meagre nest.”
Thanquol’s tail twitched with annoyance. After visiting the other members of Under-Altdorf’s ruling council for private audiences, even his ego had grown weary of empty flattery and hollow praise. Again, the grey seer’s eyes prowled across the walls, looking for any sign of secret doors or hidden guards.
The old skaven nestled among the pillows chittered a peal of manic laughter. “No-no, my friend, there is no-no trick-trap. I have all the protection I need right here.” Thratquee’s paws reached out to either side of him, patting the furry flanks of the brood-mothers. At his touch, the swollen females reared up, like living pillars, their whiskers brushing the ceiling. Thanquol could see that what he had mistaken for layers of fat were in fact knots of muscle. Thratquee’s consorts were built more like rat ogres than proper females. Some sick adjustment to their diet, perhaps, or some perverse misuse of his magic, but whatever the cause, the feral ferocity smouldering in the eyes of the breeders was enough to chill any would-be assassin.
After a moment, the brood-mothers subsided, flopping lazily down beside their master once more. Thanquol calmed his pulse and recovered the paces he had retreated when the females had reared. He could appreciate what fine guardians such monsters would make. No skaven would find anything menacing in the scent of a female. The worst traps were those that did not need to be hidden. But why had Thratquee deigned to disclose this secret?
“A gesture of trust,” Thratquee answered the unspoken question. “We are both disciples of the Horned Rat. We must have faith-trust in ourselves.”
Thanquol looked aside at Kratch. The apprentice was showing no sign of poisoning and was attacking a second wedge of cheese with anything but his earlier timidity. Thanquol brought the edge of his staff smacking into Kratch’s snout, knocking the young adept back. Seizing one of the sweetmeats for himself, the grey seer made a bold spectacle of himself as he approached the nest of Thratquee.
“There are suspicion-stories in Skavenblight,” Thanquol said between mouthfuls of food. The human slave struggled to keep pace with the advancing grey seer. “The Lords of Decay question-doubt the loyalty of Under-Altdorf.”
“Some would say-squeak that the Lords of Decay lack vision,” Thratquee replied in a scratchy whisper. It was a shockingly rebellious comment to make, especially to one who had been sent as a representative of the Council. Was the remark a sign of Thratquee’s opinion of his own power and position, or was it a mark of the old skaven’s madness?
“Perhaps Skavenblight should step aside and allow those with vision to guide our people,” Thratquee continued, his words whispering into the stunned silence. “They talk of destroying the humans, endless plots to conquer and despoil! Why? Why bother to seize with fang and claw what can so easily be taken with craft and cunning? Why conquer when we can rule from the shadows? The humans make so much for us already, never bothering to discover what happens to all that we steal and seize. Why would we wish to jeopardise everything they give us without even knowing?”
“Some would say-squeak that such words are heresy,” Thanquol warned, his claws tightening about the heft of his staff. “It is the destiny of the skaven to inherit the world of men. This is the sacred promise of the Horned Rat.”
Thratquee chittered his laughter once more. “The best slaves are those who do not know they are
slaves. Look at Under-Altdorf. This city has grown to be the most powerful in all the Under-Empire… except for Skavenblight itself, of course. It has prospered so not by fighting the humans, but by using them, growing fat off their labour and industry. The Horned Rat favours cunning, favours those with vision. Skaven such as me, and you, Grey Seer Thanquol.”
Thanquol bruxed his teeth together, hearing his name associated with the deranged “vision” of Thratquee. If the Council had any spies listening, his life would not be worth a waterlogged mouse when he returned to Skavenblight. The grey seer lifted his snout, trying to assert his lack of subservience to the corrupt heretic lounging on the pillows.
“I am a loyal servant of the Council and the Horned Rat…” he began, his words sharp as knives. If the Council did have any spies listening, such a display might save his skin when he returned to Skavenblight.
“Do you understand what it is they have sent you to find, grey seer?” Thratquee interrupted. The question took Thanquol off his guard. He blinked at the old priest, waiting for him to continue. Instead, Thratquee pointed a shrivelled claw at Kratch. “Tell him what it is Skabritt thought to find,” Thratquee ordered. “Tell him more than you told those fools in Skavenblight,” he added with a display of his fangs.
Kratch’s body was trembling as he felt the eyes of both grey seers fasten upon him. He scratched anxiously at his pelt, his glands dripping scent into the rug beneath his feet. It was almost on his tongue to deny Thratquee’s assertion, but a look at the massive shapes of the grey seer’s consorts and their immense fangs made the adept reconsider.
“I would have told-told when it was safe-alone,” Kratch began, apologising to Thanquol. His tone became more wheedling and his posture lower to the floor when he saw the disbelief in Thanquol’s eyes. “I did not want anyone to cheat-steal from your glory, most omnipotent of despots, most ravenous of killers, most…”
Thanquol swatted Kratch’s muzzle with the end of his staff, almost knocking the fawning apprentice from his feet. “Say-squeak something interesting,” he warned.
“Skabritt… the Wormstone…” Kratch winced as he saw Thanquol start to raise his staff again. “It is a weapon!”
Thanquol bared his fangs in a threatening smile. “I already know that,” he snapped.
“You don’t know-think what kind-type weapon!” protested Kratch, holding up his paws to protect his snout. “Clan Pestilens make-bring to use against Under-Altdorf not manling Altdorf!”
Thanquol looked from Kratch to the seated Thratquee. The old skaven was almost smirking among his nest of pillows.
“Skabritt tunnelled deep in the archives of Under-Altdorf to learn of the Wormstone, and I follow-find his trail,” Thratquee explained. “He learned of Clan Mawrl and its fate. How Clan Mawrl entered into alliance with Clan Pestilens during the Second Plague War and was given the Wormstone as tribute for their loyalty to the plague lords.”
“But it was not a gift,” Kratch said. “It was death that Nurglitch gave to Clan Mawrl. The Wormstone’s power infected the clan, destroying it from the lowliest whelp to the most powerful warlord. Before the infection could spread to the rest of Under-Altdorf, the other clans banded together and collapsed all the entrances to Mawrl burrows before any of them could escape.”
Thanquol leaned against his staff, digesting the account. He could well understand why the Council had kept this from him. It was one thing to send him after a weapon that would be used against the humans, it was quite another to trust him with a weapon that could decimate an entire clan.
“You understand-see the possibilities?” Thratquee asked. “The power of the Wormstone can makes us masters of skavendom! Every stronghold in the Under-Empire will tremble before the one who holds the Wormstone! Even the Council will bow to such a menace. We shall cast down the Lords of Decay, replace them with the sort of easily-manipulated fools I have contrived to seat upon the council of Under-Altdorf. With the power of the Wormstone, I can make myself seerlord, and you, Grey Seer Thanquol, shall be my most exalted and trusted lieutenant, the claw of a new Council of Thirteen!”
Thanquol’s tail twitched as he listened to the old skaven spout his mad ambitions, the insane scheming of a mind grown foul with corruption and intrigue. The hidden lord of Under-Altdorf, now Thratquee dared to reach even higher. Thanquol wondered just how deeply Skabritt had been entangled in the old rat’s plotting. Clearly Thratquee expected to use Thanquol to succeed where his predecessor had failed.
The thought brought a flash of scorn rushing through Thanquol’s brain. Perhaps Thratquee was right, perhaps the Wormstone was powerful enough to do everything he said. But as he looked at the bleary-eyed skaven nestled among his pillows, Thanquol knew that if there was a new seerlord it would not be the high priest of Under-Altdorf.
Professor Adelstein sat at his desk, a black-feathered quill fairly racing across a browned piece of parchment. This part of the university was deserted at this hour and only the scratching of his pen against the sheet disturbed the eerie silence that filled the darkened building. Beads of sweat dripped from the professor’s brow, his breathing short and sharp. It was not merely the grisly nature of what he was committing to the parchment that caused him such distress, though the ghastly carcass of the hound had been horrible enough.
It was the strange quill and the thin, smelly ink he employed to write his report that preyed upon Professor Adelstein’s mind. No clean thing, this pen and ink, but the stuff of sorcery and darkness. He lifted his eyes from the page to stare again at the macabre inkpot, a thing seemingly crafted from a piece of frozen fire, glowing with an unclean light in the black of his office. However many reports he was called upon to write with the strange ink contained in the weird vessel, the pot never went dry. The fact was the least of its unearthly qualities, however. Looking back at the page, he could see the words he had written writhing and slithering like a nest of serpents, rearranging themselves into new and unfathomable designs. They would remain that way, Adelstein knew, until a certain word was spoken above the parchment and the words reformed from the squirming mess of lines and splotches.
Adelstein had received the quill and inkpot long ago, under circumstances he did not care to ponder in the dark hours of the night. He had received many messages written by another who possessed the same sinister ink. A word, a whispered sibilant that was more like the rasp of a jungle snake than anything related to a human tongue; this would unlock the orders that came to Adelstein from his hidden master. Such a message had led to his examination of the dog carcass. Leni Kleifoth, he knew, had received a similar message. Neither knew what they were expected to find, or what the importance of their examination was. They did not need to understand. It was enough that they obeyed.
The quill stopped moving as Adelstein hastily completed his report. He watched as the last words he had written slithered into a meaningless jumble, then tightly rolled the pages together, tying a string about the bundle.
The professor was breathing even more heavily as he walked across his darkened office, navigating between tables strewn with books and shelves groaning beneath the weight of pickled specimens in glass jars. He pushed a chair against the wall, climbing up onto its seat. Adelstein stretched his hand above him, pushing open the window set high in the wall. He stretched his other hand to the opening, holding the roll of parchment through the open window.
Since the message had reached him, Adelstein knew his office was being watched. Somewhere in the darkness, something was waiting for his report. The distinct, pungent smell of the ink would reach out to it, carrying to it even through the fog of Altdorf’s night.
Adelstein felt something cold briefly brush against his hand, scales brushing against his flesh. The parchment was tugged from his fingers by a firm, powerful grip. Faintly, Adelstein could hear something flutter into the night. He hurriedly closed the window again and dropped down from the chair. Adelstein stepped to one of the specimen shelves and reached behind a pickled pig foetus t
o retrieve a hidden bottle of schnapps. The professor took a quick pull from the bottle, feeling a warm flush pulse through his quivering body.
He’d contrived to see what retrieved his reports once, when he had not known better. Scaly and hideous, he had been careful never to look at the strange courier again. There were books in the university with illustrations of the fauna of distant Lustria. What he had seen was not unlike the Lustrian lizard-bat, but there was none of the scholarly detachment of looking at an illustration in an old book when one saw such a thing fluttering outside his window in the dead of night.
The professor shuddered and took another drink. The creature was frightening enough, but his memory was clear enough to know it was nothing beside the master it served. The same whom Adelstein himself obeyed.
Grey Seer Thanquol took up the position of honour well to the rear of the mass of skaven who stalked through the dripping sewers of Altdorf. It was a motley gathering of warriors and specialists bestowed upon him by the clans of Under-Altdorf; swordrats from the warlord clans, scouts from Clan Eshin and Clan Skaul, sharpshooters and globadiers from Clan Skryre, and green-garbed monks from Clan Pestilens. At the head of the procession, flanked by hulking warriors twisted by unnameable experiments, one of Clan Moulder’s beast-masters led the way, a pale, twisted thing hopping through the sludge ahead of him. The beastmaster’s charge was a warp bat, weird denizen of the underworld’s deepest caverns and tunnels, a massive flightless bat with an uncanny facility for sniffing out concentrations of warpstone. The creatures were the most prized possessions of skaven miners and convincing Clan Moulder to lend the animal to Thanquol’s expedition had involved making promises even the grey seer’s lying tongue hesitated to agree to.
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