01 - Grey Seer

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

  Instead of fleeing, the warlock engineers who had circled the entire reservoir to avoid Scrivner and join Thanquol pulled pistols and fired into the oncoming plague monks. The foremost of the fanatics shrieked and fell into the icy waters; those behind hesitated, unwilling to be the next to die from a sudden barrage.

  Thanquol snarled at the two warlock engineers. Killing the plague monks was all fine and good, but the vermin had more important work to do. He pointed a talon at one masked ratman, gesturing at the leather bag slung from his left shoulder. “Leave the Wormstone,” Thanquol snapped through clenched fangs. He pointed to an almost identical leather bag hanging from the engineer’s other shoulder. “Keep-keep the heretic-maggots back-away while I do what needs to be done!”

  The warlock engineer nodded his head in almost eager fashion and dropped the heavy leather bag down beside his comrade. His gloved paws rummaged in the other bag, producing a globe of smoky glass. Tightening valves on the sides of his mask, the skaven scurried forwards and hurled the globe at the lurking plague monks. The glass grenade shattered on the stone of the causeway, spewing an acidic fog that corroded the flesh from the plague monks caught in the mephitic cloud. Shrieking in agony, the wounded skaven leapt into the reservoir, but the cold waters did nothing to stifle their burning flesh. Other plague monks, killed outright, lay sprawled upon the causeway, foul steam rising from their smouldering carcasses.

  The warlock engineer chittered madly as he saw the terror on the faces of the other plague monks and pulled a second poison wind globe from his bag.

  Grey Seer Thanquol turned his attention away from the globadier, fixing his gaze instead upon the engineer beside him. He gestured at the bag the globadier had discarded and at the similar one the warlock engineer held. “You, dump-pour Wormstone into pool-pool, quick-quick!” The grey seer put a growl into his voice to spur the hesitant engineer onwards. Thanquol had no intention of getting any closer to the Wormstone than he already was, that risk he was perfectly content to leave to his underling. Once the reservoir was safely contaminated, he’d then be free to use the escape scroll, secure in knowing that his victory was complete.

  The warlock engineer drew heavy gloves of chain and copper from his belt before opening either of the bags. Gingerly, he started to lift one of the wine bottles from the bag. Thanquol glanced away for only an instant, checking that the globadier was still holding the plague monks back. When he looked again at the engineer, he found the skaven sprawled across the causeway, his throat slashed from ear to ear. Standing over him, dripping wet from his swim in the reservoir, was old Skrim Gnawtail. The Clan Skaul spy glared at Thanquol, fangs bared in a contemptuous snarl.

  “Thanquol-meat is finished!” Skrim snapped. The spy’s grin broadened as his claws closed around the strap of the leather bag holding the bottles of Wormstone. “I scent-see your treachery, grey-flea! I shall be hero of Under-Altdorf when they learn I saved them from your poison!”

  The old ratman grunted with effort as he lifted the heavy burden. His crooked back trembled as he tried to straighten. For an instant, his attention was away from Thanquol. It was a mistake Skrim would never have made in his younger days, but those days were long past. Crippled by age, instincts dulled by time, the spy could not concentrate upon both the grey seer and the heavy bag.

  Thanquol sprang at the spy, smashing the metal head of his staff into Skrim’s grey head. The spy uttered a shrill gasp, then crumpled to the floor, blood spurting from his cracked skull. Thanquol scrambled to grab the bag of Wormstone, but the satchel was already slipping from Skrim’s dead clutch. The grey seer gave voice to a furious wail as he watched the leather bag drop from Skrim’s fingers and sink into the black depths of the reservoir, its lethal contents harmless and inert inside their bottles.

  Scowling, Thanquol kicked Skrim’s lifeless body, the ferocity of his vindictive rage snapping the spy’s neck as his foot smashed against the side of his head. Still not content, Thanquol swatted the twitching corpse with his staff, sending it rolling into the icy reservoir.

  Turning, the grey seer smiled as he saw the second bag of Wormstone bottles. There would still be enough to poison the reservoir and kill his enemies! Thanquol reached his paw towards the leather bag. Suddenly, he cringed away from his objective. Standing just beyond the grey seer, between himself and the lone globadier holding back the crazed hordes of Clan Pestilens, was a figure draped in a charcoal-grey cloak and hood. Once more, Thanquol felt the wizard’s intense gaze bore down upon him.

  Thanquol fought down the fear Scrivner’s abrupt appearance provoked. The grey seer fingered his protective talismans, wondering if any of them would be potent enough to dispel the magister’s magic. He did not display his fear, however. Instead he screwed his body up into his most imperious posture.

  “Leave-go,” Thanquol pronounced. “You may warn-tell the humans not to drink-taste the water. It is the traitor-rats of Under-Altdorf I will destroy! You go tell-warn the Emperor, be good hero for all man-things! This does generous Thanquol offer his worthy enemy!”

  Mocking laughter rewarded the grey seer’s proposal. Slowly, his stormy eyes still fixed upon Thanquol’s beady orbs, Scrivner drew his sword from its sheath. “Your sorcery has fled-betrayed you,” the wizard’s chilling hiss sounded, forming the words in perfect Queekish. “Draw-take your blade, Grey Seer, and meet-find your death with spleen!”

  Thanquol backed away from the wizard’s challenge. His paw fell to his belt, but it was not his sword he fingered but rather the escape scroll. Would he have enough time, he wondered, to invoke the spell before Scrivner could run him through with his sword. Suddenly, Thanquol found himself with more pressing concerns.

  Peering past the wizard, Thanquol could see the globadier engulfed by a stream of burning green filth. The warlock engineer’s leather garments dissolved in the vile spray, his fur and flesh dripping off his bones as the corrosive consumed him utterly. His dripping skeleton made a loathsomely squishy sound as it collapsed to the floor.

  Beyond the globadier’s steaming wreckage, Thanquol could see the ratman’s killer. Lord Skrolk wiped a paw across his dripping jaws, wiping away little burning bits of residue from his mouth. Like the fabled plague dragon Bubos, Skrolk had used his magic to spit searing death at the warlock engineer. The plague lord chuckled grotesquely as he plodded forwards, pestilential vapours rising from the bowl of his censer-staff. The fanatic’s decayed paw caressed the ratskin binding of the massive book that swung from a chain on his belt. Thanquol’s fur bristled with horrified recognition: the book was the Liber Bubonicus, an abominable artefact stolen from the disciples of the horrific Dark God Nurgle by Clan Pestilens long ago. Thanquol, and indeed all the grey seers, had thought the abomination long since destroyed. Knowing that Skrolk had studied the book’s spells of plague and destruction, the grey seer found himself more eager than ever to evoke his escape spell.

  Scrivner saw the horror in Thanquol’s eyes. The wizard knew that, for now at least, the grey seer could not draw upon his own magic, his body still recovering from the rampant excess of the spell that had obliterated Kratch. If he was still confident in his own powers, he would hardly have tried to wheedle a deal from the wizard. Scrivner had sensed the discharge of Skrolk’s black magic, knew that there was another foe who was not so drained as the grey seer. For Thanquol to find terror rather than rescue in such magecraft, Scrivner knew the perpetrator could only be one of the plague priests, creatures he had already determined were an even greater threat than the grey seer.

  The grey-cloaked wizard spun about, glaring at Skrolk just as the plague lord opened his rotten mouth once more. A spew of maggot-ridden broth exploded from the decayed skaven’s jaws, a burning stream of noxious putrescence that glowed with the filthy light of unclean gods. Such a breath of rotting disease had destroyed the globadier, now Lord Skrolk evoked the same magic to settle with the meddling wizard and the cringing Thanquol.

  Talons of shadow swept down from the ceiling a
nd up from beneath the causeway, intercepting the stream of plague-magic, swirling about the filth in a complex pattern that echoed the motions of Scrivner’s wildly gesturing hands. Thanquol blinked in disbelief as he saw Skrolk’s ghastly sorcery scattered by the magister’s arcane powers. Skrolk, however, was far from finished. Snarling, the plague lord reached to his rotten face, tearing one of his blemished eyes from his decayed skull. Thanquol realised with horror that Skrolk’s staring eyes were not real, simply cleverly painted chips of warpstone!

  The plague lord uttered another croak of laughter as he popped his false eye into his mouth. Skrolk seemed to swell with power as the weird energies of the warpstone rushed through him.

  Scrivner’s voice came in a low hiss, forming slithering words that seemed to charge the very air. He was drawing upon the last reserves of his own power to ward off what was coming, tapping spells and energies that would drive most men mad. He invoked cold gods, ancient and strange, called to the slithering forces of lost worlds. Secret words, forbidden before the first man crawled from the slime, rasped past the magister’s hidden lips. His fingers cracked as he forced them into gestures nearly impossible for human anatomy to mimic. He only prayed it would be enough to stop the surging malignity of Skrolk’s arcane might.

  Thanquol was less hopeful. He opened the escape scroll, his mouth started to form the first words of the incantation. Then his eyes darted to the bottles of Wormstone lying on the causeway. He looked up, grinning as he saw Skrolk and Scrivner locked in their wizard’s duel. Focused upon each other, there was nothing either of his enemies could do to stop him now!

  Thanquol the mighty reached into the leather bag, snickering contentedly as he pulled the first bottle into the dim light.

  Jeremias Scrivner struggled to maintain his sorcerous shield against the noxious spellcraft of Lord Skrolk. Foul spell after foul spell smashed against the arcane defences he had erected, splattering against the shadowy folds of his magic like waves battering a shore. Skrolk did not throw his warpstone-fuelled power into a single burst of havoc. Instead the plague lord used it to craft a barrage of deathly magic that taxed Scrivner’s powers to their limit. Beads of blood dripped from the wizard’s pores as he struggled to maintain his focus and his strength. Inch by ghastly inch, he could feel Skrolk’s malignity prevailing.

  The plague lord could smell the weakness of his foe, and croaked with bubbling laughter. Skrolk’s false eye saw the world in waves of purple and green; it had been many years since he had clawed his natural eyes from his face after beholding the wondrous putrescence of Arch-Plaguelord Nurglitch. Sorcery gave him sight, the same sorcery that now allowed him to crush the grey wizard and the grey seer like a pair of gnats. Slow and persistent as the holy poxes of the Horned Rat, Skrolk brought his insidious magic of corruption and decay gnawing at Scrivner’s defences.

  A bellow snapped Skrolk’s attention from the wizard. Scrivner wilted to the floor of the causeway as the plague lord’s barrage of spells abruptly ceased, completely drained by his desperate efforts to hold back the monster’s power.

  It was a different sort of monster and a different sort of power that threatened Lord Skrolk. Towering over the plague lord, his body torn and gashed, Boneripper glowered at this festering toad of a rat who thought to kill his master. The severed head of Nox hung from one of the rat ogre’s claws, the better part of Pox’s belly was skewered on the brute’s horn.

  “Boneripper! Kill-kill!” came a frantic shout from further along the causeway. The rat ogre, only a moment before looking as though he might pass out from fatigue and injury, abruptly rallied at the sound of Thanquol’s shriek. Snarling, he slapped his chest with Nox’s mangled head.

  Lord Skrolk glared back at the beast with his last eye. The plague lord did not need spells to deal with such a brute. He tightened his hold on his staff, flicking a pinch of yellow powder into the smouldering bowl of the censer. “Boneripper, die-die!” Skrolk snarled, lunging at the hulking brute before he could attack.

  Boneripper swatted at the plague lord with his claw. Skrolk ducked beneath the wounded rat ogre’s swipe, striking at him in turn with his sinister staff. The rod of corruption sank through the meat of Boneripper’s arm as though it were butter, blisters and maggots spreading from the grisly, gangrenous wound. Boneripper howled in pain, lifting his injured arm to his face, sucking at the putrid wound in a futile effort to ease the pain.

  “No-no! Stupid brute! Kill Skrolk! Kill-kill!”

  But it was already too late for Thanquol to command his bodyguard. Boneripper had drawn a lungful of the foul fumes spilling from Skrolk’s censer into his body when he voiced his painful howl. Coupled with the vileness he drew into his belly when he sucked at his wound, the rat ogre’s body was beset by the supernatural poxes of Clan Pestilens and their most abominable plague priest. Boneripper slumped to his knees as his flesh became pallid. His eyes rolled back in his skull as pus began dripping from his ears. The rat ogre’s horns and claws became brittle, crumbling like clay. Boneripper opened his mouth to snap at the gloating plague lord, but his fangs fell out of his bleeding gums.

  Whining like a whipped cur, Boneripper crashed onto his face, his skull bursting like a crushed egg as he struck.

  Skrolk licked the rat ogre’s blood from his face as he turned back to his other foes. “Where-where were we?” the plague lord snarled. “Oh yes-yes! First the wizard, then the fool!”

  Lord Skrolk lifted his paw, the claws glowing with foul energies. Scrivner could only watch as the plague lord began to work his magic. Thanquol fingered his protective charms, but knew that they would be useless. He could still smell the warpstone fuelling Skrolk’s malignant sorcery.

  Before Skrolk could unleash his death spell, he was again beset by an enemy from behind. The plague lord’s followers, faced with Boneripper’s rage and the dire magics being unleashed by their own prophet, had abandoned Skrolk, diving into the reservoir in their bid to find safety. In deserting their master, they had left the path open for Boneripper. In destroying Boneripper, Skrolk had left the path open for a different kind of adversary.

  Johann did not shout or roar challenge to the decayed monster, he did not announce himself in some honourable call to battle. What he did was climb onto Boneripper’s lifeless mass and leap down upon Skrolk, locking one arm about the skaven’s waist, another about his throat.

  Skrolk flailed in Johann’s grasp, slithering and squirming like an eel in that clutch. Then the plague lord’s diseased sight focused upon the state of the arm that was wrapped about his neck. He saw the ugly green-black worm growths squirming up from the man’s skin. Johann Dietrich—last victim of the Wormstone!

  Even the decayed face of Lord Skrolk was capable of expressing the horror the sight of those writhing worms evoked. He knew what sort of death the worms would bring, and knew they were empting from the man’s body, being drawn into his own by the scent of warpstone in his blood! Skrolk redoubled his efforts to break free, clawing at the face of his captor, but Johann would not relent.

  Johann met the silent gaze of Scrivner’s grey eyes. He saw a respect in those eyes, something approaching admiration beneath the swirling storm of shadow and fog. The wizard gave the slightest nod of his head. The smuggler tightened his hold upon the struggling Skrolk and launched himself into the icy waters of the reservoir, dragging the squealing monster with him into the dark depths.

  Scrivner looked back at the last of the skaven. Thanquol was perched at the edge of the causeway, upended wine bottles in each paw. More bottles lay empty all around the grey seer’s feet.

  The wizard glared coldly at the laughing skaven. His own icy smile was hidden beneath the folds of his scarf. He turned his head and shouted across the reservoir to a little shape lying upon the causeway nearest the restraining wall. His words were thick and harsh, the stony tones of Khazalid, the ancient tongue of the dwarfs.

  “Honour your ancestors, Grimbold Silverbeard, and tell the gods the way of your death!” />
  The shape on the causeway shifted slightly, then plunged into the black embrace of the reservoir. An instant later, the entire cavern shook with such a roar as made even Thanquol’s rage-filled spell seem the babble of a child. The shaking tremor spread, the roar intensified and the entire restraining wall seemed to lift up, then come crashing down again!

  Grey Seer Thanquol stared in mute horror as the reservoir rushed from the ruptured wall, hurtling down into the chasm, rushing into the darkness. The cataract of water bore with it the Wormstone powder, speeding its poisonous taint far from where it would wreak havoc upon the people of Altdorf. Even the traitors of Under-Altdorf would be spared; such a torrent would hardly stop at the pools and streams the skaven used, it would rage onwards until it reached the sunken ocean beneath the world, far beyond the reach of men or dwarfs or goblins or even skaven.

  It was not fair! Just as he had accomplished his victory, Thanquol had been cheated of his triumph! The glory and power, the authority and riches that the Lords of Decay would have showered upon him! All of it lost, lost because of that heretic Skrolk and those traitors Burnfang and Gnawtail, Skarpaw and Kratch! Stolen from him by that damn meddling human mage-thing!

  Thanquol saw the cloaked wizard rise weakly to his feet. Now it was Scrivner who was the weak one! The grey seer drew his sword, the foul rune engraved upon the black blade glowing evilly in the shadows. He wanted to test Thanquol’s blade, did he? Well, the grey seer was going to show him how much courage there was in his spleen!

  Scrivner stared back at Thanquol as the grey seer stalked towards him. This time it was the wizard’s turn to look at something just beyond his enemy. A hiss of laughter rasped from the magister’s muffled face.

  Thanquol spun about, his eyes narrowing with outrage as he saw the wizard’s men rushing at him from the far side of the causeway. Having escaped across the now destroyed scaffold, they were returning, rushing to their master’s aid.