Clan Moulder, however, specialised in skavenslaves, miserable ratmen whose clans had been conquered and vanquished, the survivors becoming a commodity to be traded and abused by the victors. In his audience with the council, Thanquol had explained he would need a control group of skaven to test the Wormstone on and to see what safeguards would be required to make it safe for the ratmen to handle. Skavenslaves represented the cheapest and most expendable way to conduct controlled exposures and develop countermeasures. Viskitt Burnfang was even now ransacking the shops of Clan Skryre’s engineers for the equipment Thanquol would need to make his experiments. He knew he would not need to fear any subterfuge from Burnfang: the warlock engineer would be heading the experiments himself and any sabotage would strike down him before the grey seer. No skaven, however large the bribe or threat, could be bullied into sacrificing himself.
Of course, Thanquol’s real motive in testing the skavenslaves was not to find a way to protect against the Wormstone, but to see how potent it was against his own kind. Some of Thratquee’s grandiose scheming hadn’t sounded completely insane to Thanquol. As a weapon against the humans, the Wormstone would represent power for the Council of Thirteen. As a weapon against skaven, the Wormstone would represent the might of Grey Seer Thanquol.
The tunnels of Clan Moulder’s section of the skrawl were wider than those elsewhere, the ceilings stretching higher than the comforting closeness of the other trader districts. Thanquol knew it was practicality rather than aesthetics that had caused such a divergence in construction. Many of the strange beasts bred by the master moulders were much larger than even the biggest skaven and such lumbering brutes needed the extra space if they were not to become lodged in the passages.
A thousand new smells assaulted Thanquol’s senses, odours of corruption and suffering, bestial stenches and the reek of raw meat. The shops that loomed from the walls of the tunnel were larger than elsewhere, expanded to accommodate the living wares of the merchants. Iron cages and wattle pens were everywhere, smashed into each nook and cranny, wherever a beast-master or slaver could squeeze his property and set up an auction block. The gloating, bullying voices of the merchants chittered through the passages, alternately whining and threatening, using a bizarre combination of enticement and intimidation to draw custom their way.
The throng that packed the tunnel was a motley array from all across Under-Altdorf. Clan Sleekit bargemasters scurried through the press, eagerly negotiating for more slaves. Fat hedonists of Clan Skaul bartered in the shadows for weird, mind-warping elixirs and powders from garishly robed beast-breakers, warlock engineers prowled through the crowds, their bodies bent beneath masses of strange machinery, little strings of servants scurrying after them with baskets bulging with recently purchased rats. Towering above the mob, immense rat ogres stalked along the passages like walking mounds of muscle and claw, doggedly following in the tracks of their colourfully cloaked masters.
Sight of the huge monsters brought a new thought to Thanquol. His eyes narrowed as he looked at his white-furred guards. Their performance against the assassins had been less than zealous and he could not forget that however much they might fear him now, their loyalties still ultimately rested with the Lords of Decay. He needed protection of a more dependable sort, the kind that didn’t scheme behind its master’s back or plot intrigue with his enemies. He turned his eyes away from the tunnel ahead, instead training his attention on the shops and pens they were passing, sniffing at the air and trying to pick from it the scent he was looking for. After a dozen twists and turns of the tunnel, a feral smile came to the grey seer as he found what he was seeking.
Raising his staff, Thanquol motioned to his underlings to precede him into a cave-like shop that gaped in the wall of the passage. The reek of beasts and meat was overpowering as the skaven stepped from the corridor and into the dimly-lit shop. Metal cages hung from the ceiling, displaying a variety of oversized rats with an outrageous array of mutations twisting their verminous bodies. A big wooden mew stretched across one of the shop’s walls, its cramped interior filled with a colourful collection of bats, a popular pet and status symbol for affluent skaven.
Thanquol ignored the bats and rats, turning instead to the far side of the store. Here a deep pit had been excavated, lined with wickedly barbed iron spikes. A thick, brutish smell rose from the hole and he could hear the rumbling breath of some gigantic creature.
“Greetings-greetings, holy one,” the proprietor of the shop chittered as he crept towards Thanquol. He was a small, large-fanged ratman with strange streaks of red in his fur. A variety of whips and leashes dangled from the copper belt that straddled the merchant’s paunch, clattering against his belly with each waddling step. “How may humble-honoured Schafwitt be of service to terrible Grey Seer Thanquol?”
The stormvermin bared their fangs when they heard Schafwitt address the grey seer, lowering their blades menacingly. Thanquol waved them back. As much as he approved of this display of paranoid caution, it was not surprising that the merchant should recognise him. Word of the presence of so renowned and respected a personage as himself would have spread to even the lowest levels of Under-Altdorf by this time. Moreover, the frightened scent and submissive posture of Schafwitt was too compelling to be trickery. An old hand at deceit, Thanquol knew an amateur’s smell.
Thanquol did not answer the merchant, instead pushing past the runtish ratman, stalking towards the pit. He peered over the side, his beady eyes narrowing with greed as he saw the thing below. A thrill of fear rushed through the grey seer’s body, teasing at his glands. His muzzle spread in a fierce smile. The fear he felt would be nothing beside that which would grip the craven hearts of his enemies.
Kratch slithered up beside his master, his conniving curiosity pulling him after Thanquol. The adept peered down into the pit, cringing back as the thing below looked back. The apprentice’s feeble valour abandoned him and he began to creep away. “Perhaps, grim and horrible biter of throats, this one should scurry-seek the slave-meat for your studies. If great master Thanquol will allow-favour poor Kratch with a few hundred warpstone tokens to make-take from the slavers…”
“Still your tongue and your feet, Kratch,” Thanquol snarled. “Or I will nail both to the floor.” He gave his apprentice a glower that ensured there was no doubting the sincerity of his threat. Turning away from the subdued apprentice, Thanquol rested his paws against the fence of metal spikes and grinned down at the occupant of the pit.
It was a colossus of bone and muscle, every inch of its massive frame boiling with barely restrained violence and bloodlust. Taller than three skaven, six feet across at its broad shoulders, weighing as much as the barge he had travelled to Under-Altdorf on, the thing in the pit seemed more like some elemental force than a beast of flesh and blood. Its leathery flesh was pale and pitted with vicious scars, the visible heritage of a brutal and savage life. Patches of stringy black hair dripped from the huge body, its scaly tail dangling behind it, as thick around as one of Thanquol’s legs. A massive head filled with yellowed fangs the size of daggers sprouted from the broad shoulders, bestial and rat-like with a dull, murderous intelligence shining in its bloodshot eyes. The beast’s arms were enormous concentrations of knotted muscle and thick bone, each ending in a fist bigger than a skaven’s head, each fat finger tipped with a sword-like claw. The imposing limbs were made even more menacing by their disparity: a mutant, the thing sported a third arm, its right shoulder splitting to accommodate the extra extremity.
It was, quite simply, the most monstrous rat ogre Thanquol had ever seen and when he saw the giant, spear-like horn growing between the brute’s eyes, he knew the creature was meant to be his. It was a sign, an omen from the Horned Rat. A sacred protector to guard the god of vermin’s favourite and most devout servant. Thanquol had used rat ogres to protect him from his enemies in the past, the first having loyally and fearlessly sacrificed itself upon the axe of that thrice-damned slayer in order that its master might escape.
In need of a dependable guardian, Thanquol had come to the skrawl foremost to procure a rat ogre bodyguard. After one look at the hulk in the pit, he knew no other beast would do.
“What price for the beast?” Thanquol asked, his eyes locked on those of the monster in the pit.
“Dread-mighty Thanquol,” Schafwitt whined, “…expensive-expensive. Much-much cost to unlucky Schafwitt to feed and keep such fearsome stock.”
Thanquol’s eyes narrowed, his fangs gleamed in a challenging smile. “How much?”
“It kill-eat Schafwitt’s other rat ogres,” the merchant explained, spreading his paws in a helpless gesture.
The irritating habit of Under-Altdorf skaven to adopt human mannerisms set Thanquol’s fur bristling, darkening his mood and collapsing his already fragile patience. “Name a price while there is still a tongue inside your snout,” he warned in a low snarl.
“F… four-hun… hundred warp-t… t… tokens, merciful and fearsome Thanquol,” Schafwitt stammered.
Thanquol turned his head away from the merchant, looking instead at the white stormvermin. He gave a twist of his horned head and the two warriors seized Schafwitt, pushing the merchant to the lip of the pit, pressing his body over the spikes. Below, the mutant rat ogre watched the spectacle with rapt—and hungry—attention.
“Th… three… three-hundred seventy warpstone tokens,” Schafwitt pleaded. A flick of Thanquol’s claw had the stormvermin push the merchant a little farther over the edge. “Three… three-hundred fifty four warpstone tokens… three-hundred thirty three… three-hundred twenty!”
Grey Seer Thanquol listened to the merchant rattle off prices. Eventually he would reach a fee that reflected the proper amount of respect and admiration for Thanquol’s position and prestige. Until then, Thanquol returned his attention to the pit. The rat ogre looked back at him, the smell of Schafwitt’s fear provoking a rope of drool to fall from its immense mouth.
“Twenty! Twenty warpstone tokens!” Schafwitt shrieked.
Thanquol chuckled, motioning for his mute stormvermin to pull the merchant up from the pit. It was a miserable-looking Schafwitt that grovelled and fawned before the grey seer.
“Pay the wretch!” Thanquol barked at Kratch.
Looking almost as miserable as Schafwitt, Kratch dug a pawful of coins from his ratskin purse. Scowling at his miserly master, Kratch threw the coins at Schafwitt, the little discs of warpstone scattering across the floor. The merchant dived after them, scrambling about on all fours to recover his money.
The albino stormvermin used their wiry strength to drag a heavy beam from one corner of the shop and tip it over the side of the pit. They glanced down into the depression, then hurriedly retreated, scurrying after the halberds they had set leaning against the wall with almost as much indecent haste as Schafwitt scrabbled after his coins. Behind them, the beam groaned and shook as something immense clawed its way up from the darkness.
The horned rat ogre’s head just peeked above the lip of the pit, all three of its immense claws dug into the wood of the beam, streamers of drool dangling from its fangs. Thanquol felt a tremor of fear as he felt the rat ogre’s beady eyes stare at him, but the monster had small interest in his new owner. It was the sight of Schafwitt, still scurrying about the floor for his fee, that seemed to incense the monster. With a tremendous bellow, it exerted the massive strength of its powerful frame. The beam splintered and cracked as the rat ogre lunged from its perch, clearing the pit and crashing to the floor of the shop. Schafwitt had just enough time to recognise the vengeful paw that came smashing down to grind his skull into the ground.
The other skaven backed away from the monster as it continued to pull slivers of meat from the merchant’s corpse, flinging them from its claws with an almost noble contempt as it continued its bestial retribution. Thanquol saw the indecision in the eyes of his bodyguards, their halberds shaking in their paws. The longing look they gave to the doorway was eloquent in its expression of cowardly treachery. Thanquol lashed his tail in spiteful annoyance, his anger only swelling when he heard Kratch yelp as his master slapped him across the snout. Thanquol turned a baleful eye on his apprentice, furious at the temerity of any minion to cower behind his master in a crisis.
Anger (and a good pinch of warpstone snuff) fuelled the grey seer’s contempt for all and everything around him. He straightened his back and stormed across the shambles of Schafwitt’s shop, being careful to step over the spreading pools of the merchant’s blood. Thanquol stalked directly towards the raging rat ogre. Angrily, he brought the head of his staff smacking into the monster’s snout.
The brute reared back, a deafening roar rumbling from its lungs, all three arms raised over its head in readiness to crush and maim. Thanquol just glared back at the beast, no suggestion of fear seeping into his scent. The monster stared into Thanquol’s glowing eyes. The arms drooped slowly to its sides, jaws snapped close as the rat ogre’s expression faded from one of exultant rage to cowed timidity. A subservient scent poured from the beast’s glands.
Thanquol turned from the subdued rat ogre and snarled at his own cowering minions. Let them fear, he was better than them. That was why he was destined to be the greatest skaven who ever lived. Even a dumb brute like a rat ogre recognised the might of Grey Seer Thanquol!
With their own heads lowered in humility, the stormvermin crept forwards. Kratch, with one eye still fixed on the rat ogre, began to paw among the mangled meat that was the remains of Schafwitt looking for warpstone tokens. Thanquol drank in their fear as though it were a sweet perfume. It was not the rat ogre they feared, but the skaven who was able to command such a beast’s loyalty through force of will alone.
He would name his new property Boneripper, Thanquol decided. No matter how many times he used it, the grey seer felt there was an appealing menace to the name, a promise of the horrific savagery his guard would unleash on his command.
The Black Bat was one of the many establishments on Altdorf’s notorious Street of 100 Taverns. It was well outside of Theodor Baer’s normal hunting grounds, being close to the university and well away from the docks. However, swathed in a heavy leather coat and with his pectoral stuffed inside an inner pocket, Theodor wasn’t on official business and didn’t need to worry about stepping on the pride of the local watch house responsible for this stretch of the capital. He was not visiting the Black Bat in his capacity as a sergeant of the city watch.
His visit here was more important than his normal duties, orders not from his captain but from the invisible being to whom he owed his ultimate loyalty.
The tavern was crowded, even at midday. The long beer hall that was the Black Bat’s common room was bisected by a rectangular counter of sombre Drakwald timber polished to a remarkable shine. The counter formed a little island amid a sea of oak tables and beech wood benches from which the barmen could minister spirits and beer to the thirsty throngs who rolled around them like crashing waves. A trapdoor behind the beer barrels led to the cellar beneath the tavern, allowing the workers to replenish supplies without pushing their way through the masses of patrons.
Most of the clientele of the Black Bat were labourers; teamsters and muleskinners, stonemasons and carpenters, roofers and plasterers. Odd pockets of students from the university, slumming from their usual haunts, were scattered among the tables, keeping as much to themselves as was possible in such crowded conditions. At a glance, Theodor could see the styles of Marienburg and Nuln, the rich fabrics of Estalian pantaloons and the frilly extravagance of Tilean shirts, threadbare wool tunics from Wissenland and wolfskin boots from Middenland. Long Kislevite beards mingled with swarthy Miragelan complexions. At one table, Theodor could see a dusky Arabyan horse trader boisterously arguing with a Bretonnian sea captain. All roads lead to Altdorf was a common saying in the Empire, and nowhere could the truth of such an assertion be better displayed than in the city’s taverns.
Theodor turned away from the noise of the hall, looking instead to the stairs that rose fr
om the tiled floor. These led up to a wooden deck that circled and overlooked the hall below. Climbing the stairs, he found the upper floor divided into small booths separated by partitions, affording each occupant a level of privacy impossible in the room below. Each of the niches held a table and several straight-backed chairs. A candle provided each alcove with illumination, dispelling the shadows that threatened to consume them. Theodor marched past the alcoves, studying each face he passed. The occupants, mostly wealthy businessmen and buxom wenches too young to be their wives, ignored the sergeant as he stalked along the walkway.
At the end of the walkway, just as the raised floor made a turn to the right, Theodor noticed an anomaly, an alcove that seemed somehow out of place. Appointed just as the others, the light of the candle was somehow weaker than those elsewhere. Where the other private booths had been bathed in light, this one was lost in shadow. The sergeant felt the hairs on his neck prickle as he stepped towards the niche, his mind suddenly gripped by a thrill of alarm and uneasiness. The air felt colder as he leaned into the alcove, his breath misting before his face.
“Be seated,” a low, whispering voice spoke from the gloom of the apparently empty alcove.
Startled, Theodor could do nothing except obey the commanding tone. As he started to settle in one of the chairs, a long-fingered hand swathed in charcoal-grey gloves emerged from the shadows, gesturing for him to take the chair to his left. Theodor turned and sat where the pointing finger indicated. He glanced at the hall below, noticing that his original position would have obscured the speaker’s view of the Black Bat’s main entryway.
The gloved hand vanished back into darkness. Straining his eyes, Theodor could not make out so much as a silhouette amid the patch of shadowy blackness. An instant later, the hand reappeared, tossing a token down on the table before him. Theodor heard the clank of metal against wood, looking down to find that the token was a coin-like square of metal, its face engraved with strange, squirming characters and a device he could liken only to a snake skull wearing a feathered headdress. His eyes had only a moment to register the weird talisman before the gloved hand dragged it back into the shadows. Even so, he knew it to be the sign he had been instructed to look for.
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