Kratch scrambled from the mass of plague monks, grovelling at the feet of Lord Skrolk. He kissed the plague lord’s decaying tail, rubbed his forehead against the monk’s leprous foot, anything to make his show of abasement and devotion more convincing than that of the assassin. “Terrible bringer of suffering!” Kratch wheezed. “Your humble servant did not know the wizard-thing still lived! I did not know…”
Lord Skrolk’s laugh was an obscene gurgle, like heart-blood slopping from a wound. “We will follow the wizard-thing,” he croaked.
“But if the wizard-thing finds Thanquol first…” Kratch started to protest. Skrolk seized the cringing adept in his paw.
“Do you think Thanquol will simply hand the Wormstone to the human?” the plague lord growled. Kratch’s tongue lolled from his mouth as he felt the claw around his throat tighten. “We will let the human find the traitor first. They will fight over the Wormstone. Then Clan Pestilens will destroy the exhausted victor and recover what belongs to us!”
Lord Skrolk tossed Kratch aside like a piece of refuse. The adept rubbed his injured throat, sickened to find that one of Skrolk’s decayed claws had broken off in his skin.
“The Wormstone will be mine!” Skrolk chittered. “Then shall all the Under-Empire tremble once more before the might of Clan Pestilens and the true face of the Horned One!”
Grey Seer Thanquol lashed his tail in annoyance as he stepped onto the stone ledge overlooking the enormous Kaiserschwalbe. Once, many centuries ago, it had been a natural cavern, an underground lake fed by springs and subterranean streams. Under the patronage of Altdorf’s princes and emperors, however, dwarf artisans and engineers had transformed the cavern into a mammoth edifice of marble and granite. Huge pillars rose from the depths of the lake, their fluted columns reaching up like the fingers of drowned giants until they merged with the tiled ceiling of the cavern, the elaborate frescos shimmering with the reflection of the water beneath them. Massive pumps of steel and bronze hugged the columns. Operating upon an ingenious system of pressure valves, the pumps employed the volume of the reservoir itself to send water up into the city above. Everywhere, from the dam-like restraining wall of the reservoir to the stone walkways that crisscrossed over the aquifer, elegant sculptures and magnificent bas-reliefs lent the place a majesty that made the grey seer’s heart seethe with contemptuous envy. That men would squander such time and effort into something they could hardly expect many of their kind to ever see was beyond Thanquol’s ability to understand. Of what use was grandeur if it was not used to inspire fear and awe in subordinates?
The grey seer was still chewing over that quandary when his sharp eyes noticed movement on the cavern floor. Restrained by the dam, there was a section of the old cavern that had been left relatively dry except for a deep channel that allowed the reservoir’s excess to escape back into the dark of the underworld. It was this stream that provided much of Under-Altdorf’s water, the decadent council of the city far too miserly to pay tolls to Clan Sleekit for use of regular river water. Sight of the stream made a fierce smile grow on Thanquol’s face, final confirmation that his plot to poison the man-things of Altdorf would also spell doom for his enemies in Under-Altdorf.
Thanquol shook his head, his eyes narrowing as he again focused upon the creatures moving around the reservoir. A work crew of humans, performing some manner of maintenance upon the dam, scrambling up wooden scaffolds with what a skaven could describe as only the most wretched clumsiness. One of the humans gave a shout, a trembling hand pointing up at Thanquol. The other humans turned, tools dropping from their hands, jaws dropping open in shocked silence.
The grey seer’s tail lashed in annoyance again, glaring at the stupid animals, awestruck by his magnificence and their own superstitious terror. It was almost insulting that these pathetic dregs should be the final obstacle between himself and ultimate glory.
“Skrim,” Thanquol snarled. “Have your slinking thief-rats kill those animals!” It would be an abuse of his powers and far beneath his dignity to partake in the slaughter of such a sorry mob. Thanquol would leave that to base creatures like Skrim and his sneaks. Besides, even the most wretched enemy sometimes got lucky.
Thanquol watched the Clan Skaul ratmen scamper down from the ledge, leaping onto the scaffolds and gantries with apelike agility. The men closest to the ledge were already dead before their comrades started to run. Thanquol laughed as he watched Skrim’s sneaks do their bloody work. Laughter turned to a snarl of anger as he heard the sharp crack of a warplock pistol. A worker pitched and fell, smashing against the side of the dam before bouncing to the cavern floor hundreds of feet below. Another pistol barked in the darkness, this time blasting a worker off a stone causeway and into the reservoir itself. The wounded man thrashed in the water, desperately trying to keep his mangled frame afloat. The warlock engineer who had shot him rushed to the edge of the causeway directly above him and hurriedly reloaded his pistol, snickering at his flailing victim all the while.
Thanquol stamped his feet, his fur bristling, his fangs grinding together. What were the fools doing! He hadn’t sent Burnfang’s pack into the fray! He wasn’t about to risk what they carried by fighting a miserable lot of defenceless humans!
Grey Seer Thanquol rounded on Viskitt Burnfang. He wanted to crack his staff against the idiot’s snout, but he was too far away. Instead, Thanquol contented himself with a very vicious string of obscenities and staff-rattling. “Fool-meat! Flea-brained mouse-fondler! Did I squeak-say send your tinker-rats into battle! If they lose one bottle of Wormstone…”
Burnfang grinned at Thanquol, a savage, fang-ridden smile that spread from cheek-pouch to cheek-pouch.
“They won’t lose the Wormstone,” Burnfang snapped. “But you will, priest-dolt!” Before Thanquol could even blink, Burnfang whipped his own pistol from his belt, aiming the muzzle between the grey seer’s eyes. A deep growl and a heavy footfall told of Boneripper’s reaction to this sudden threat against his master. Burnfang didn’t even glance at the rat ogre. “Call him off, Thanquol,” he snarled. “He couldn’t reach me before I pulled this trigger and exploded your skull like an egg.”
Thanquol turned his head, noticing for the first time that he was alone upon the ledge with Burnfang. That was why he had sent his minions down to help Skrim. The warlock engineer wanted no witnesses to his treachery. That thought puzzled Thanquol and occupied his thoughts even as he snapped commands to Boneripper.
The rat ogre sullenly sank to his haunches, head lowered like that of a scolded child. Boneripper could not understand why his master had called him back, his simple mind unable to reconcile the contradiction between the threat in Burnfang’s scent and Thanquol’s command to sit and stay away from the warlock engineer. The confusion made him rock from side to side, his instinct to obey the grey seer warring with his instinct to tear apart his master’s enemies.
“What is your scheme, Burnfang?” Thanquol snarled. “If you think the council in Under-Altdorf will reward you for bringing me to them, I can promise-swear the Lords of Decay will reward you much-much more.”
“I know that they will,” Burnfang hissed through his fang-ridden grin. He slapped his chest with his paw. “Skavenblight does not care about you, grey seer. It is the Wormstone they want. They shall have it, but it will be Warp-Master Viskitt Burnfang who presents it to the Council of Thirteen, not Grey Seer Thanquol!”
Burnfang’s paw reached to his belt, removing a glass orb from a leather bag. It resembled the gas bombs employed by Clan Skryre, but its contents were a murky liquid. Thanquol instinctively took a step back as he saw Burnfang’s bomb and caught the scent of its contents. He flailed at the lip of the ledge, nearly pitching to the floor below. Instead, Thanquol threw himself forwards, landing in a sprawl before Burnfang’s feet.
The warlock engineer started to laugh at the grey seer’s antics, but the roar of Boneripper stifled any amusement Burnfang felt. The warlock engineer fired his pistol into the charging brute, blasting a
fist-sized chunk of flesh from his side. The rat ogre gave a snarl of pain, but kept coming, storming after Burnfang like a hate-maddened juggernaut. Burnfang flung the spent weapon full into the charging rat ogre’s face, but succeeded only in cracking one of the monster’s fangs. The warlock engineer leapt away as Boneripper’s thick arms reached for him, shrieking in fright. Narrowly, he missed hurtling to the floor hundreds of feet below, landing instead on a scaffold. The wooden structure swayed and groaned beneath the abrupt addition of Burnfang’s weight.
Boneripper started after the warlock engineer, several ropes snapping as he took a step onto the scaffold. A shrill command from Thanquol called his bodyguard back. Still glaring at Burnfang, the rat ogre lurched back onto the ledge. The grey seer joined him, watching as the treacherous warlock engineer scrambled to the next scaffold, putting a further twenty feet between himself and his enemies.
“An impasse, grey-fool!” Burnfang snarled. “I don’t dare come after you while you have your monster, you don’t dare come for me while I hold this!” Again, the warlock engineer brandished the dusky globe of glass. Even in the extremes of his terrified retreat, he had had sense enough to keep a firm grip on the deadly object.
Thanquol did not respond to Burnfang’s baiting. Too late did the warlock engineer observe the green glow in the depths of the grey seer’s eyes. Too late did he see Thanquol’s paw stretch out, his fingers splayed wide apart. With a savage gesture, Thanquol closed his fingers into a fist. In sympathy with the grey seer’s motion, without any conscious thought from their owner, Burnfang’s fingers did likewise.
Viskitt Burnfang screamed as the glass globe shattered beneath the tightening pressure of his rebellious hand. Howls of terror became shrieks of agony as the lethal contents of the orb saturated his flesh and seeped into his fur. The warlock engineer pawed wildly at his poisoned body, trying to claw the sorcerous venom away. Almost instantly, fur began to drip off his skin, fat green worms began to erupt from his flesh. When, at last, in a fit of panic and suffering, Burnfang threw himself into the cavern, his decaying body was little more than a mass of squirming filth.
“So suffer all who defy the destiny of Thanquol,” the grey seer snarled as he watched Burnfang’s writhing carcass burst upon the cavern floor. Thanquol looked up to find the eyes of Skaul sneaks and the remaining warlock engineers fixed upon him. Burnfang’s treachery had drawn an audience after all. He glowered back at the frightened skaven, straightening into his most imperious posture. “So end all traitors!” he growled, slamming the butt of his staff against the ledge. The watching skaven bowed and grovelled, spurting the musk of fear. Thanquol snickered, relishing their terrified devotion.
Boneripper’s low growl drew the grey seer away from the adulation of his minions. It was on Thanquol’s tongue to chastise the rat ogre, but movement at the mouth of the tunnel that opened onto the ledge made him hesitate. The grey seer’s eyes narrowed as he saw something big crawl into the fitful light of the reservoir cavern. He recoiled as he saw the rat-beast pull itself into the chamber, the monster’s mangled body leaving a bloody slick behind it.
That anything should survive the punishment the rat-beast had suffered was incredible to the grey seer. Disturbing memories of the necromancer Vorghun of Praag and his lifeless creations sent a pulse of terror rushing through Thanquol’s glands.
“Boneripper!” he shouted at his hulking bodyguard. “Kill-kill! Kill-kill!” Thanquol gestured frantically at the rat-beast with his staff.
Boneripper smacked one meaty fist into another and rushed towards the rat-beast. The monster caught the rat ogre’s scent, pushing itself awkwardly from the floor with its forepaws. It snarled at the charging rat ogre, its own blood slobbering from its broken jaw. Boneripper swung at the creature with his armoured third arm, but the rat-beast dropped beneath the blow, crashing lifelessly at the rat ogre’s feet.
Thanquol stared incredulously as Boneripper stubbornly poked and prodded the dead hulk, vainly trying to get the lifeless beast to fight him. Whatever monstrous strength had allowed the rat-beast to chase after him, it had abandoned the thing at the very moment when it at last gained upon its quarry. Thanquol’s chittering laughter echoed across the reservoir as he considered the cruel irony of the dumb brute’s fate.
Cold, mocking laughter, like the whisper of an enormous serpent, stifled Thanquol’s own. The grey seer drew a pinch of warp-snuff from the ratskull box as he backed away, retreating onto the stone causeway. He knew that laughter.
A dark figure slowly manifested upon the ledge, seemingly bleeding into substance from thin air. Shadows swirled and crawled about the cloaked wizard, his grey eyes boring into the beady orbs of Thanquol. The grey seer trembled with outrage more than fear. The reservoir was here, beneath his very feet! All he had to do was pour the Wormstone into the water and all his enemies, human and skaven, were doomed to die in excruciating pain! Skavenblight would herald him the greatest grey seer since Gnawdoom recovered the Black Ark!
Thanquol snarled at the sinister wizard. One claw closed about a protective talisman, he thrust his staff towards Jeremias Scrivner. Thanquol snickered as he saw clouds of darkness leap from Scrivner’s pointing hands. He felt the talisman in his paw crumble into powder as it absorbed the wizard’s spell, drawing the baleful energies into itself to protect its wearer.
The head of his staff erupted into a scintillating sphere of phosphorescence, like some diseased echo of an aurora. Thanquol roared as he flung the dazzling light at the shadowmancer. A blanket of green luminance engulfed the ledge as Thanquol’s spell struck. Thanquol had seen how capably Scrivner could protect himself; this time the grey seer chose to attack not the man, but everything around him. What power, he wondered, could a shadowmancer wield if there were no shadows to command!
The grey seer snickered as he saw Scrivner staggering in the spectral glow. Again, Thanquol’s shrill voice cried out, his clawed finger stabbing at the reeling wizard.
“Boneripper!” the grey seer cried. “Kill-kill! Kill-kill!”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
War of the Rats
Bellowing like a blood-mad bull, Boneripper thundered towards the staggering wizard, his shoulder lowered to impale Scrivner upon his spiked armour. Still stunned by Thanquol’s blinding sorcery, the magister was oblivious to his peril.
Others were not. From the mouth of the tunnel, a voice cried out a hasty command. It was Boneripper who staggered as a volley of shots rang out and his leathery hide tore beneath the impact of bullets. The rat ogre howled in pain, dropping onto all five paws and scrambling away from the fusillade, blood streaming from his wounds. A cheer went up from Scrivner’s men as they saw the monster flee.
“Press the attack!” Theodor Baer cried out. “Keep the ratmen from the reservoir!”
Thanquol heard the watchman’s shout, grinding his fangs as he saw the men rush across the ledge. Lightning crackled about the metal head of his staff. Snarling, the grey seer sent a bolt of withering energy to strike down the would-be hero. Sizzling warp energy crackled through the air, like a thin finger of glowing death. Thanquol’s beady eyes gleamed as he watched the corrupt power crash down upon the human.
Even as the warp lightning struck at the man, however, Theodor’s body was engulfed in darkness, fading, blinking into the shadows. When the grey seer’s attack landed, all its fury accomplished was to sear the stones where the man had stood.
Thanquol growled in frustration, glaring at the cloaked wizard. Jeremias Scrivner glared back at him. Recovered from the grey seer’s blinding spell, now it was the wizard’s turn to frustrate the rat-mage’s sorcery. Thanquol squealed, diving behind the nearest of the marble columns as Scrivner gestured at the skaven with his black-coated hand. Knives of shadow given substance slashed through the cavern, slicing into the column and tearing through the ancient dwarf-built pump bolted to its side. Streams of water erupted from the pitted metal, spraying in every direction.
Thanquol snarled from behind hi
s refuge, glaring at his cowering minions. “Skrim!” the grey seer raged. “You and your thief-rats! Kill the man-things!”
The Clan Skaul spy hesitated, but a second glance at Thanquol’s glowing eyes and snarling face decided him. The crook-backed old skaven snapped orders to his sneaks. The ratmen surged forwards, scrambling along the sides and bottoms of the scaffolds and gantries to frustrate the fire of the humans rushing to oppose them. One skaven lost his grip, scrabbling desperately at the carved face of the dam before plummeting into the cavern. The rest kept scurrying onwards, swiftly closing the distance between themselves and the men rushing onto the causeways.
“Not you! Idiot-meat!” Thanquol howled in disgust. He watched in dismay as the surviving warlock engineers scurried forward to support Skrim’s sneaks once more. One of the Clan Skryre engineers heard the grey seer’s roar, giving Thanquol a puzzled look. “You are carrying Wormstone!” the grey seer shrieked. The ratman gave an embarrassed nod. Thanquol’s blood was already boiling, and the human gesture made him lose all control. He sent a bolt of warp-lightning scorching through the warlock engineer, turning him into a tiny torch as he bounced down the layers of scaffolding and into the cavern.
Thanquol slapped his forehead at his own stupid loss of control, grinding his teeth at yet another human gesture. He’d been among the man-rats of Under-Altdorf too long, he was picking up their decadent habits. Certainly he had been infected by their stupidity. If he had to make an example of someone, an underling carrying Wormstone was not the one to choose!
There was at least one benefit from his tantrum, however; he’d gained the attention of the other warlock engineers. Thanquol glowered at the masked ratmen.
[Thanquol & Boneripper 01] - Grey Seer Page 31