The same thought occurred to Kratch. The young adept hesitated in his quick approach to the mob of skaven, instead creeping back to rejoin Thanquol and his stormvermin. Kratch kept his head low in deference to his master. “Grim tormentor of the unworthy,” the apprentice squeaked, “should you not stop the Skryre heretics from displaying their perverse science?” Kratch glanced nervously at the gloom around them, his head cocked in a peculiar listening gesture. “Something might see them and do them harm.”
Thanquol snickered at Kratch’s feigned concern. If the apprentice was ever going to amount to more than a snack for the bone chewers, he would need to learn how to lie better. “If Burnfang selflessly offers to present us with warning of any lurking danger, it would be inconsiderate to question his generosity.” Thanquol interrupted Kratch’s raspy laughter with a cuff across his snout. “Now why not tell your gracious and beneficent mentor what kind of danger you think will spring from the darkness to seize our friend Burnfang?” The grey seer’s lips pulled back, his fangs gleaming from the darkness. “It wouldn’t be the same thing that happened to Skabritt, would it?”
Kratch backed away, grinding his fangs together nervously. “Most mighty of magicians, dread sire of warlords and chieftains, it was a simple collapse of these miserable and neglected tunnels that crushed the life from my poor old master.” Kratch’s nervousness abated and he warmed to the subject Thanquol had forced from him. “The same fate was almost mine as I tried to save Grey Seer Skabritt from the falling earth. Only by the grace of the Horned Rat was this humble servant spared to bring word of Skabritt’s discovery to you, great and terrible liege.”
Thanquol considered cracking Kratch’s skull with his staff to stifle the stream of ingratiating flattery and calculated self-abasement, but decided he could make better use of his apprentice. Kratch was the only one who had escaped this place the last time. That made him someone worth keeping around and keeping close.
The musky scent of fear rose from the throng ahead, a scratchy chorus of frightened voices drifting down the tunnel from some point ahead of Burnfang and the glow of his lanterns. Thanquol waited, his ears pricked to detect any sound of battle, one eye watching Kratch. After a moment, without hearing screams or the crash of steel, Thanquol decided that whatever had frightened the scouts wasn’t fighting back. He motioned to his bodyguards and straightened his posture as he marched down the tunnel to take direct command of his minions and discover for himself what they had found. Stalking past Viskitt Burnfang and his warlock engineers, Thanquol relieved the Clan Skryre leader of one of his lanterns, glaring at Burnfang, daring him to challenge the grey seer’s confiscation of the apparatus.
Instead of defiance, Burnfang sketched an insincere bow. Thanquol decided to ignore the insubordination, at least until a more opportune time. He discovered the source of Burnfang’s smirking humour a moment later as he continued down the tunnel and the lantern was nearly pulled from his paw. Stumbling and tripping after him, dragged by the thick wires that connected the lantern to a bulky contrivance lashed across its back, one of the warlock engineers was pulled along behind the grey seer. Thanquol scowled, glaring at the smirking Clan Skryre contingent, daring any of them to find humour in what was, after all, a slight oversight.
Still dragging the warlock engineer and his battery after him, Thanquol found himself approaching a section of tunnel that broadened into a wide opening. Warriors from Clan Mors and Clan Skab stood around the opening, sniffing at the air, staring suspiciously at the walls. One side of the tunnel was choked by a mass of freshly collapsed earth, from which the stink of decaying skaven rose. The same smell was even more potent ahead, however, but Thanquol hesitated to press past his warriors.
It was only when one of the Clan Eshin gutter runners, the slithery scouts supplied to the expedition by Skrattch Skarpaw, crept back down the passage to report to the grey seer that Thanquol felt the imperative to advance.
“Tunnel-burrow go into chamber-cave ahead, dread master,” the gutter runner wheezed, his breath as stagnant and foul as the linen rags he wore around his snout and across his face. Dyed black like the rest of the scout’s ragged raiment, the skaven was almost invisible in the gloom of the passage, only his distinct scent picking him out from the darkness. “Chantor Pusskab find-snatch something,” the scout added in a subdued whisper, nervously looking over his shoulder.
Thanquol bristled at the words. Clan Pestilens! The diseased plague monks and their heretical perversion of the Horned Rat’s religion! Too many times had those vile abominations stood between him and the glory that was his right! Nurglitch probably knew full well what sort of artefact the Wormstone was, and had sent word ahead to Under-Altdorf and his followers in the city to keep the device from Thanquol and the Council of Thirteen.
“We’ll see about this!” Thanquol hissed through clenched fangs. “Follow me,” he snapped, pushing his stormvermin into the passageway ahead of him. He’d feel a bit more confident confronting the plague monks with the two albinos between his own pelt and the diseased curses of the chantor. Noting that the clanrat warriors of Mors and Skab weren’t displaying any initiative to join him, Thanquol scowled. He’d remember such faithlessness!
The tunnel opened into a larger cavern. Instantly, Thanquol was impressed by the carrion stink. The glow from his warp-lantern disturbed a swarm of starveling vermin gnawing at bones that still bore scraps of flesh. The rats chittered angrily, but refused to abandon their meal. Across the floor of the cave was a litter of other bones, much older bones, which converged into a great heap at the centre of the chamber. Thanquol was quick to notice the way Kratch’s attention instantly flashed to the heap and the sharp disappointment that flickered through his posture.
“Something wrong?” Thanquol hissed in his most menacing whisper, low enough that only Kratch and the unfortunate warlock engineer he continued to drag behind him could hear.
“The Wormstone…” Kratch whined. “It is gone, master!”
Thanquol’s fangs ground together, his fur standing straight on his arms as he heard the adept speak. If his hands weren’t filled with his staff and the warp-lantern, he probably would have strangled the whining apprentice. What did he mean it was gone! Thanquol shuffled the staff into the crook of his other arm and locked a paw about Kratch’s throat anyway.
“What do you mean ‘it’s gone’?” the grey seer demanded. “Are you telling me that I came all the way up here, to this miserable pit, this human-reeking backwater, for nothing!” Thanquol’s clutch tightened. Kratch clawed feebly at the choking hand, even as he tried to gasp out apologetic protests. “Am I supposed to go back to Skavenblight and tell the seerlord that the weapon he wanted is just gone?” A feral fire burned in Thanquol’s eyes now. Even the warlock engineer was spurting musk when the grey seer snarled at his apprentice. “Gone! You slack-witted, turd-sniffing tick! How am I supposed to tell the Lords of Decay their weapon is gone!”
Kratch’s eyes were starting to roll into the back of his skull, his tongue lolling from his jaws. Suddenly, Thanquol relented, letting the adept slump to the earth at his feet. The grey seer turned, remembering what the gutter runner had told him. There were others here more deserving of his wrath than the snivelling Kratch!
There were several distinct groups of skaven in the chamber, an old warren-nest of the vanquished Clan Mawrl. Thanquol could see the Clan Skaul scouts, a dishevelled gang of scrawny runts sniffing about the old collapsed exits to the cavern, pawing about the rubble for any trace of plunder. He could see the Clan Moulder contingent, warriors in vivid yellow and blue cloaks following the erratic movements of the beastmaster and his warp bat as they prowled about the cavern. There were the Clan Eshin gutter runners, sinister in their blackened rags, doing their best to fade into the gloom of the cavern walls.
Thanquol paid scant attention to any of these. His ire was directed against the last group occupying the chamber; the green-clad plague monks of Clan Pestilens and their crook-backed leader, C
hantor Pusskab. The plague monks were pawing about among the bones, picking through them with exaggerated care. Thanquol was not tricked by the pretended search. He knew Pusskab had already found what he was looking for. Clan Pestilens had already swiped the Wormstone.
“Looking for something?” Thanquol challenged, his words slashing through the darkness. Every skaven in the cavern turned when he heard the grey seer speak, hoping the fierce snarl wasn’t directed at him. Chantor Pusskab’s first instinct was to cower, but the plague priest quickly composed himself. The green-clad ratman snuffled and coughed, spitting a blob of phlegm into the bone field.
“Look-seek?” Pusskab’s dripping voice oozed. “No-no, find-find, yes-yes.” The plague priest opened his paw, displaying for Thanquol’s eyes something that looked like a fat green-black worm.
Before Pusskab could explain the importance of what he had found, another voice echoed through the cave. Sharp and shrill, the voice resounded from the walls, its frantic cry sending a thrill of fear down the spine of every ratman who heard it.
“Die-die, traitor-meat!”
The gutter runners who had so carefully manoeuvred to positions in the shadows against the walls now sprang from the darkness in a concentrated mass of violence and savagery. Thanquol saw green-clad plague monks dragged down beneath the stabbing, clawing bodies of the black-clad scouts, crushed against the floor until flashing daggers did their gruesome work.
Only for an instant was Thanquol able to watch the havoc the gutter runners made of Pusskab’s minions. Even as the grey seer’s heart swelled with pride at this display of loyalty and appreciation for his leadership, he saw something leap towards him from the corner of his eye. A gutter runner, its fur showing black beneath its leather rags and linen wrappings, sprang towards him, a wicked-looking knife gripped in both its paws. Thanquol could smell the burning taint of poison rising from the blades.
No mere gutter runner; the skaven leaping for him was one of Clan Eshin’s expert killers! The war cry, the attack on the plague monks, these were a distraction to cover the activities of an assassin!
Thanquol’s reaction was instant, instinctual. He spun about, diving away from the leaping killer. Still holding the warp-lantern, Thanquol’s dive was spoiled by the weight of the warlock engineer on the other end. Stumbling, struggling to maintain his balance, the warlock engineer toppled after the reeling grey seer. Thanquol heard the murderous snicker of the assassin as the black-cloaked skaven struck at him with envenomed blades.
Thanquol felt a heavy weight smash into him, crushing him into the ground. For an instant, he thought the assassin’s blow had landed, that some insidious Clan Eshin poison was even now pumping through his body. An agonised squeal in his ear, magnified by a mask of metal, told the grey seer what had happened. The warlock engineer, hurtling after Thanquol, had blundered into the path of the leaping assassin. Instead of striking the grey seer, the killer’s blades had stabbed into the body of the unfortunate engineer!
Thanquol’s fingers scurried into the folds of his grey robes, pulling a small piece of warpstone from a hidden pocket. Without hesitating to consider consequences, Thanquol popped the nugget between his fangs and bit down on it, grinding the little rock into powder with the frenzied action of his teeth.
Screams of battle raged all through the cavern. From the floor, Thanquol could see other assassins rushing to support the first killer. The albino stormvermin intercepted one of them, slashing at him with their halberds. The pouncing killer dived under the blade of one stormvermin, then leapt high over the blade of the second, slashing an ear from the bodyguard’s head as he passed him. The injured stormvermin spun about to confront his attacker, but the assassin was already darting away. While the two bodyguards fretted over the one assassin, the second raced unimpeded towards his target.
Blazing light swept through Thanquol’s vision, banishing the less than magnificent display of his bodyguards as the power of the warpstone surged through his body. The grey seer felt the warlock engineer’s body being rolled off of him. The assassin had recovered one of his blades and was struggling to pull the second from the battery lashed across the corpse’s back. He turned his face to snarl at Thanquol, but his expression quickly changed as he saw the glow behind the grey seer’s eyes. Like most of his kind, the assassin’s glands had been removed so that his scent might not betray him. There was no musk of fear to tease Thanquol’s nose, but the grey seer could see the mark of terror in his would-be murderer’s eyes. If the power of the warpstone was not intoxicating enough, the fear of his foe was.
Crackling yellow fire seared from the blazing head of Thanquol’s staff as he pulled himself from the floor. The assassin’s amazing reflexes allowed him to drop beneath the blast of arcane power with only a scorched cowl to speak of the nearness of his escape. In dodging the attack, however, the assassin was not prepared for a simultaneous strike. Swinging the warp-lantern about with his other hand, Thanquol brought the heavy metal instrument cracking into the assassin’s skull. The killer was thrown back, black blood and broken fangs spraying from the side of his mouth. Thanquol sneered at the stricken killer as he rolled through the dirt.
The grey seer’s sorcerously enhanced senses did not allow him to savour the wounding of his enemy, however. Even as the first assassin’s body came to rest, Thanquol was turning away from him, turning upon the killer springing at him from behind. In mid-air, the assassin was unable to twist his body completely away from the crackling fire Thanquol sent searing at him from the head of his staff. The magical fire bit through the ratman’s side like a red-hot sword, adding the reek of burnt entrails to the foulness of the cavern. The assassin flopped against the wall, his paws caked in his sizzling blood as he tried to push his belly back into his body.
There was an adage among the skaven: a dying enemy has the worst bite. It was a proverb that Thanquol had seen to be true far too many times. A dying enemy had nothing left to fear. Before the maimed assassin could make that realisation, Thanquol sent a second bolt of arcane power blasting into his head, leaving only a dripping mass of charred gristle above his shoulders.
To his credit, the third assassin showed an almost un-skaven degree of determination and courage. Bolstered by some strange combat-brew that increased his cunning and ferocity, the assassin used the gory demise of his brother as an opening to exploit. Eschewing the pouncing charge of his unfortunate comrade, the killer struck low, seeking to gut Thanquol with a wickedly curved short sword. The blade’s serrated edge slashed through the grey seer’s robe and shredded several scrolls tucked beneath Thanquol’s belt. By only a breath did the poisoned metal miss the flesh beneath Thanquol’s fur. The assassin twisted away, spinning his entire body around as though to retreat. Instead of running, however, he turned the motion into a reverse dive, thrusting his sword once more at his target.
If the grey seer’s senses were not aflame with the power of the warpstone, the assassin’s attack would have been a blinding blur, like a flash of lightning allowing no chance of escape. But Thanquol’s body did pulse with that sorcerous power, the corrupting foulness that only the skaven were daring enough to draw into themselves. Everything around him seemed to move as though mired in the bogs of the Blighted Marshes. The assassin was like a ratling whelp, blind and naked, pathetic in its efforts to crawl upon its little pink nubs! Thanquol’s sharpened mind had the leisure to consider a dozen ways to destroy this maggot, this faithless flea who had the temerity to dare strike the mighty Grey Seer Thanquol! He bared his fangs in sadistic appreciation for what he would do to this filth.
The blast of fire that lashed out from Thanquol’s staff struck the assassin’s arm, tearing it from his body at the shoulder, sending the severed limb dancing off in the gloom. The assassin shrieked and crumpled, then struggled to rise, the instinct to escape overcoming the agony of his mutilation. A second blast of crackling flame severed the ratman’s leg, spilling him back to the floor. Thanquol turned his back on the squirming wretch, lea
ving him to the vengeful blades of the stormvermin. It was the ultimate sign of contempt, ignoring the oldest of skaven adages, the sort of recklessness that only the most powerful skaven—or those lost in the grip of warpstone—indulged in.
Thanquol’s eyes stared back towards the entrance of the chamber, looking for the first assassin. When he did not immediately see the black-clad killer, he brought the butt of his staff crashing against the floor in annoyance. A brilliant, blinding burst of light filled the cavern, washing out every shadow in a glowing haze. Only Thanquol, his eyes already aglow in the ecstasy of warpsight, was not stricken by the magical brilliance. He savoured the frightened squeals of the skaven around him, giving little care to the fact that the terror was given voice by friend as well as foe. He was much too busy sneering at the figure revealed by the light, the slithery shape that had tried to creep up on the grey seer to make another attack. Slinking along on his belly, the first assassin had come within a foot of Thanquol before being struck blind by the grey seer’s sorcery.
The assassin covered his eyes with one paw, hurling his dagger at Thanquol with the other. The spinning blade seemed to move in slow motion as it flew towards the grey seer. Thanquol contemptuously shifted away from its path, only dimly registering an agonised squeal rise from behind him. He had no time for other distractions. He had a killer to deal with first.
The warp-lantern came cracking down into the blinded assassin with the same brutality and strength as before. The ratman was sent tumbling by the impact against his skull. Even as he rolled back down the entranceway, the assassin hurled his other dagger at Thanquol. The Staff of the Horned Rat burned with power once more, sending a spectral green light to surround the flying blade. The weapon darkened within that light, withering with each instant. It splashed against the breast of Thanquol’s robe, reduced to nothing more than a greasy smudge by the grey seer’s magic.
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