03 - Thanquol's Doom

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

  The warehouse had been cobbled together from old planks and timbers scavenged by Clan Skurvy from wrecked man-thing ships and barges. The rickety structure had been assembled in a crude, haphazard fashion, with extra storage rooms and slave pens slapped on seemingly at random, many of them sagging out over the black water of the river.

  A great press of skaven surrounded the warehouse, clustering about the pier in a shoving, shouting mob of verminous flesh. Thanquol could see a long, flat-bottomed barge moored at the end of the pier. It did not take any deductive genius to figure out the reason for all the ratmen clamouring for attention. Like himself, they were trying to get out of Skabreach by means of the river, desperately waiting for even the worst scow to put in a rare appearance at the pier.

  Perched atop an upended barrel, the outlandish colours of his vest and breeches making a stark contrast to the drabness of the mob, Weezil Gutgnaw, potentate of the local water-rats, was auctioning spots on the barge to the highest bidders. A pair of glowering black skaven who looked as though they’d been sired by rat-ogres flanked the flamboyant Weezil, while another gang of black-furred killers, each armed with a curved cutlass, guarded the narrow entrance to the pier.

  “No-no!” Weezil was snarling at a grotesque-looking brown ratman. “Sick-smell,” he added with a tap to his nose. “No sick-smell on board!” Weezil kicked the miserable skaven away, at the same time slipping the paltry bribe of warp-tokens he had been offered beneath the bright red sash that girdled his waist.

  The grotesque skaven lunged at Weezil, intending to recover his money. In mid-leap, the wretch was cut down by a guard’s cutlass. Black blood sprayed across the mob. An excited squeal rose from the throng, dozens of skaven rushing at the corpse and scrabbling among its clothing for any wealth the dead ratman might have hidden. By the time a pair of piebald scavengers armed with flesh-hooks pushed their way through to drag the body away, the mob’s frenzy had reduced the corpse to an unrecognisable mess of naked meat.

  Thanquol watched the gory mass being dragged away, then pushed his way towards Weezil’s barrel. He felt a great wave of satisfaction when he saw the wharf-rat wince at his approach.

  “You were supposed to say-tell when a ship came in,” Thanquol hissed through clenched fangs, his red eyes glaring into Weezil’s frightened yellow ones. The grey seer cocked his horned head to one side, a fierce grin splitting his face. “Perhaps you-you mistake-forget?”

  The menace in the grey seer’s voice silenced the throng gathered about the pier. Nervously, the skaven fell back, clearing the space around Thanquol and Weezil. Even the black-furred bodyguards drew away, distancing themselves from their patron and the infamous sorcerer.

  Weezil licked his fangs and tugged anxiously at the warpstone earring he wore. “G-great and g-glorious Thanquol, mightiest of g-grey seers,” Weezil stammered. “I… I… I was just-soon to send-fetch…” Weezil tugged even more fiercely at his earring, casting an angry look at his bodyguards. The black skaven ignored his signal, finding more interesting things to look at on the cavern ceiling.

  “I told-ordered you to find-fetch me a ship!” Thanquol growled. He gestured furiously at the barge tied to the pier. “What-what do you think-see that is!”

  Weezil turned and squinted at the barge where skaven sailors were making fast the meagre cargo Skabreach had provided them. “Oh! But that is too poor-poor a vessel to carry-take Mighty Thanquol!” the wharf-rat tried to explain.

  The lame excuse only provoked Thanquol’s anger. With callous brutality, he brought the heavy metal head of his staff smacking into Weezil’s leg. The wharf-rat spilled from his perch atop the barrel, smashing into the bloody ground in a tangle of curses and flailing limbs.

  “I’d sail-scurry from this dung-hole in the hollowed carcass of a cave beetle!” Thanquol raged. He jabbed the end of his staff into Weezil’s chin, splintering some of the ratman’s fangs. “Now listen-hear, tick-sucking tail-sniffer! Tell-say the captain-chief of that wormy scow I am leaving this filthy midden-mound!”

  Weezil pressed his nose into the mud, cowering before the grey seer’s wrath. “Calamitous lord! Please… listen-hear… it-it not my fault! Warlord Ibkikk say-order make-keep you here-here!”

  The wharf-rat’s words came in a frightened squeal, whistling through his broken fangs, but they were enough to arouse a twinge of fear along Thanquol’s spine. Was it possible that cringing, pathetic warlord would actually have the gall to detain someone of his power and importance? Certainly the lick-spittle had made a few fawning requests for his help in ridding the area of the knights who so plagued Skabreach. But certainly the maggot wasn’t so deranged as to think such an enterprise was worth Thanquol’s time?

  “You-you stay-stay!” a savage voice growled from behind Thanquol. There was such a note of ferocity and such a lack of deference in the voice, that the grey seer didn’t at once connect it with Ibkikk. Only the warlord’s scent convinced him that his ears weren’t playing tricks on him.

  Thanquol turned slowly. At the mouth of one of the runs he could see Ibkikk, his bulk now encased in a rough suit of armour crafted from human shields laced into a vest of mail. The warlord’s lips were curled back from a mouth of gleaming fangs. Around him, a score of armoured clanrats stood with bared weapons.

  “I ask-speak before,” Ibkikk snarled. “Now I say-tell! Thanquol will-will use his magic-power against steel-men! Thanquol will-will fight-kill for Skabreach!”

  The grey seer listened to the warlord’s tirade, but found his attention constantly shifting back to the barge. The crew had erupted into a positive frenzy of activity. It wasn’t difficult to guess their intentions. They were making ready to debark as fast as they could.

  “Mighty Grey Seer Thanquol!” Ibkikk scoffed, spitting a blob of phlegm into the mud. “We-we feed-treat you for many day-night! Now you-you return-pay! You kill-slay steel-men! Or I gut-stab you and let-leave rats to eat-feast!”

  As he hissed the threat, Ibkikk drew his notched sword from his ratskin belt. The warlord ran one of his fingers along the blade, drawing a thin bead of blood from his finger.

  Sight of the gesture sent a spasm of terror coursing through Thanquol’s body. The image of a homicidal ginger-furred dwarf-thing running his thumb along the edge of his enormous axe flared through the grey seer’s mind.

  Before he was fully aware of what he was doing, Thanquol tongued the last bit of warpstone he had hidden in his cheek-pouch and crushed the tiny pebble between his teeth. A pulse of raw magical energy rippled through his body, burning away his fear and enflaming his mind with visions of destruction and havoc.

  Ibkikk squirted the musk of fear as he saw Thanquol’s eyes suddenly erupt with a green glow. The same magical light gathered about the head of the grey seer’s staff. The warlord had just enough time to drop his sword and turn to flee before his enemy raised one of his paws and pointed a claw at him.

  “Burn-rot!” Thanquol snapped. As he spat the words, a stream of crackling green lightning leapt from his finger to strike Ibkikk squarely in the back. The warlord shrieked as the magical energy scorched a hole clean through his body, shrivelling his flesh and blackening his bones. The charred husk smashed to the floor, burned bones scattering across the narrow street.

  The sight of their leader’s instant destruction killed any enthusiasm his warriors had for confronting the sorcerer-seer. They glanced anxiously at one another, each waiting for one of the other clanrats to make the first move.

  Thanquol glared contemptuously at the cringing vermin. It would be so easy to burn them all down where they stood. He started to raise his paw to do just that when simple practicality quenched the warpstone-fuelled impulse. This scum was nothing to him. All that mattered now was getting to the barge.

  Thanquol brought his staff smashing down, obliterating the charred skull of Ibkikk which had bounced across the ground to land nearly at his feet. “I think-say Skabreach need-wants a new warlord,” he growled, letting his menacing gaze linger on the
cowering clanrats before turning and marching down the pier towards the barge.

  The black-furred guards of Clan Skurvy didn’t even dare to look at him as he stormed past them.

  “A good-safe journey, dread Thanquol!” Weezil’s whistling voice called out from behind the barrel.

  Briefly, the grey seer considered turning back and attending to the double-dealing wharf-rat.

  A few hours out from port, Thanquol was beginning to question allowing Ibkikk Snatchclaw to goad him into embarking upon such an unseemly vessel as the leaky old barge he now found himself on. Staring at the black waters of the underground river, he recalled the nightmarish horrors of his ocean voyage. The only difference being that at least the longboat had been seaworthy! His current conveyance seemed designed for no other purpose than to drown him and leave his body to be picked at by whatever noxious things slithered in these lightless waterways.

  Paranoid thoughts swirled about in Thanquol’s mind. It was all a plot, of course! Ibkikk pushing him to leave Skabreach so that Clan Skab could have its revenge on him! What better way than to drown him on the river, with no one any the wiser about his fate. They could tell the Council they had never seen him and everyone would assume he had perished in Lustria!

  Or was it Clan Skab at all? It wasn’t the brightest or most subtle of the warlord clans. Such a cunning plot would have to have a more cunning mind behind it. Clan Eshin! Nothing was secret from Nightlord Sneek’s spies! He would have learned of Thanquol’s return and the success of his mission. The famed assassins wouldn’t want it getting around that he had succeeded where they had failed.

  Thanquol studied the deck of the barge with a new suspicion, inspecting every pile of mushrooms or crate of chow-rats for any lurking shape. His nose twitched as he drew the smells of his fellow voyagers into his senses, trying to detect any skaven that didn’t smell right. After his terrifying encounter with the Deathmaster in Skavenblight, he almost expected Snikch to be hiding among the huddle of grubby passengers or the mass of naked slaves chained to the foredeck. Most of these were skaven, wretches sold by the ratmen of Skabreach, but a few were dwarfs captured by the more prosperous skaven of Stabfall, deep beneath the Iranna Mountains.

  The barge itself was a leaky mass of planks soaked in pitch and lashed together with a mishmash of chains, ropes and crossbeams. Water slopped across the deck every time the vessel hit even the most minor spot of rough water. A ratgut lantern suspended from a pole at the stern and another at the bow provided the only illumination. A gang of villainous ratmen dressed in the same sort of colourful rags as Weezil Gutgnaw served the dingy ship as its crew, languishing under the tyrannical voice of their captain. This worthy was a whip-wielding despot with cold green eyes and a tuft of white fur sprouting from his chin, resembling nothing so much as the dainty face-hair sometimes worn by prosperous humans.

  Lynsh Blacktail snarled a stream of orders to his crew and stalked across the rolling deck to stand beside Thanquol. The vicious captain doffed the battered black hat crushed down about his ears and bobbed his head in deference to the grey seer’s eminence.

  “No fear about follow-track now, Terrible Thanquol,” Lynsh told him, the iron fangs in his mouth rasping against his lips as he spoke. “Nobody swim-sneak this far-long down the river.” A chitter of amusement coursed through the barge-rat’s voice. “Skabreach better-nice with no-none Ibkikk!”

  Thanquol glared at the captain. Did the slime really think he was worth speaking to simply because he was the captain of this wreck? Or was the wretch trying to distract him? The grey seer’s eyes narrowed with new suspicion. He didn’t have any more warpstone, but in a pinch he could certainly call up a spell on his own. Certainly one strong enough to send this tub to the bottom and ensure his enemies followed him to a watery grave.

  Lynsh noted the shift in Thanquol’s attitude. Seeming to guess the turn in the grey seer’s thoughts, he pulled his tail upwards, displaying it for Thanquol to see. Only about six inches of the captain’s real tail was left; the rest of the extremity had been replaced with a length of black leather studded with a sadistic array of spikes and blades.

  “Pretty-pretty,” Lynsh cooed, stroking the artificial tail. “Big-hungry lurker take-snatch real one,” he explained, jabbing a claw towards the black water. “Snick-snap! No more tail! Eat it all up!”

  Thanquol winced in disgust at the image of some loathsome water beast waiting just under this leaky barge to snap off his tail. For an instant, his attention turned from Lynsh to the dark surface of the river. The jab of a blade against his ribs reminded him that he didn’t need to look to the river for danger.

  “One word I don’t like-like and I tickle-stab your lung,” Lynsh hissed into Thanquol’s ear. He put emphasis on the threat by pressing the blade a little closer, evoking a whine of pain from his captive. The captain raised his voice, shouting new orders to his crew.

  “Alright you bilge-worms! Sort the passenger-meat!”

  At their captain’s command, the barge-rats abandoned their other duties and swarmed over the passengers who had embarked on the barge at Skabreach. Most of the skaven were taken completely by surprise by the sudden treachery and the few who did put up a fight were quickly put down. The triumphant pirates herded their prisoners to the middle of the deck, searching them with expert skill for any valuables they had hidden about them.

  “Steal-fetch all of it!” Lynsh bellowed. “Put any rat-meat we can sell-trade with the slaves! The rest can swim-sink!”

  Thanquol watched as the skaven pirates brutally carried out their orders. The healthiest of the prisoners were herded towards the chained slaves. The others, shrieking and squealing in terror, whining for mercy, were callously thrown into the river. Some made a desperate effort to swim back to the barge, but these were savagely driven away by jabs from the crew’s spears.

  “Enterprising,” Thanquol told Lynsh, hoping to use flattery to ingratiate himself into the pirate’s good graces. “The Horned One smiles on clever-smart skaven.”

  “Good-good,” chittered Lynsh. “Now we see-take what Great Thanquol has to give-leave.”

  “No-no!” shrieked one of the crew, a dusky creature with notched ears and a tangle of talismans about his neck. “We-we not rob-take from grey seer!”

  “Who say-squeak we don’t?” demanded Lynsh.

  “I say-squeak!” the indignant pirate snarled. “Bring-find curse of Horned One…”

  Before he could finish, the pirate’s head exploded in a gory mess. In one smooth motion, without ever removing the knife from Thanquol’s ribs, Lynsh had drawn a heavy warplock pistol from his belt and sent a ball of hardened warpstone smashing through the ratman’s skull.

  The shot had unexpected consequences, however. Hurled back by the impact of the deadly bullet, the pirate was flung into the mass of chained slaves. While the skavenslaves cowered, the dwarf prisoners surged towards the body, seizing the dead pirate’s weapons. In a matter of seconds, the dwarfs used the ratman’s cutlass to smash open the rusty lock restraining the single chain which ran through the manacles each of them wore and which linked all of them together.

  Several of the pirates leapt forwards to subdue the dwarfs, but it was already too late. Two of the bearded prisoners had weapons now and were in no mind to fall captive to the scheming ratmen a second time. The brawny, red-haired dwarf who had taken the cutlass now plied it about in a murderous arc. Grim determination was etched upon his face as he opened the throat of one pirate, then hacked the paw from a second. A younger dwarf, armed with a knife and protecting his kinsman’s flank, finished the wounded pirate with a quick stab through the eye.

  “Belay that row!” Lynsh thundered. “Get-take that slave-meat!”

  The captain’s distraction was only momentary, but it was enough for Thanquol. The instant he felt the pressure of Lynsh’s knife against his ribs lessen, the grey seer spun into action. Viciously, he smashed the head of his staff full into the pirate’s face. Something broke inside L
ynsh’s snout, black blood streaming from his nose. Stunned, the captain reeled back, his knife clattering to the deck as he clapped both hands to his mangled muzzle.

  Thanquol did not give Lynsh time to recover. Drawing his own sword, he pursued the staggered captain. A swipe of his staff cracked against the side of Lynsh’s head, a slash of his blade opened the ratman’s thigh. Before he could deal the pirate further damage, Thanquol was forced back by Lynsh’s flailing tail. The bladed appendage gouged splinters from the deck as the grey seer retreated from its deadly thrashings.

  “Your bones will make good-nice chum, prayer-spitter!” Lynsh howled, slashing at Thanquol with another sweep of his gruesome tail. For good measure, the pirate pulled his whip from his belt, adding the lash to his vengeful assault against the grey seer.

  A flick of the whip set the lash coiling about Thanquol’s staff, a swipe of the tail smacked against his chest, knocking him flat. Lynsh gloated as he used his brawn to rip the staff from his enemy’s paws. His tail came slamming down against the grey seer’s head, only Thanquol’s horns saving him from the murderous blow.

  Before Lynsh could attack again, the captain was suddenly confronted by a very different foe. Roaring a fierce dwarf battle-cry, the escaped slaves came lunging across the deck, breaking through the ragged line of pirates trying to subdue them. The red-bearded dwarf with the cutlass charged straight into Lynsh.

  For the second time, the captain was caught by surprise. He turned to deal with the enraged dwarf, but the cutlass easily chopped through Lynsh’s whip, taking three of his fingers in the same stroke. The embattled captain recoiled in agony, howling for help from his crew.