03 - Thanquol's Doom

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

  At the same time, the young dwarf who had armed himself with a knife came around the side of Lynsh. Intent upon helping his comrade and believing the pirate had finished Thanquol with the brutal sweep of his bladed tail, the dwarf made the mistake of placing his back to the prone grey seer.

  Seething with indignation and the fury of a cornered rat, Thanquol pounced upon the unwary dwarf, stabbing his sword into the prisoner’s back. The blade erupted in a welter of gore from the dwarf’s chest. Thanquol’s victim was dead before he slumped to the ramshackle deck.

  The red-bearded dwarf turned away from the cowering Lynsh. His eyes went wide with shock as he saw his comrade fall to the deck. An instant later, they became narrow slits of hate.

  “That is my brother you’ve killed, vermin!” the dwarf roared, brandishing his bloodied cutlass.

  “Your birthkin was in my way, dwarf-thing,” Thanquol snapped. The grey seer’s eyes burned with unholy energies as he drew the power of the Horned Rat into himself. Without the aid of warpstone, magic was a fatiguing effort, one that didn’t really appeal to any grey seer. At the moment, however, Thanquol was too angry to care about exerting his affinity with the aethyr.

  “You’re in my way too,” the grey seer announced, raising his paw and pointing a claw at the enraged dwarf. Before the prisoner could rush him, Thanquol sent a globe of searing green light smashing into him. The magic crashed into the dwarf with the kick of a mastodon, flinging him across the deck of the barge as though he had been shot from a cannon, pitching him out into the river where his hurtling form was lost in the darkness. Thanquol flicked his ears in cruel amusement as he heard a faint splash.

  Now it was time to deal with his real enemy. Turning towards Lynsh, however, Thanquol found that the fight had gone out of the pirate. The captain came crawling towards him, whining and pleading for mercy. The grey seer lifted a paw to his forehead where one of the spikes on the pirate’s tail had cut him.

  The other pirate-rats came scurrying towards the two foes. With the vanquishing of their armed leaders, the rest of the dwarf captives had been quickly subdued. Now, however, the crew found themselves uncertain which of the two leaders it was safer to support. They knew the viciousness of Lynsh Blacktail, but they did not know what other fell magic Grey Seer Thanquol might unleash upon them.

  Thanquol could smell the fear and doubt in the scent of the other pirates. Gloatingly he turned towards them. “I think-say this scow needs a new-better captain.” No voices rose in objection and Thanquol knew then that none would. Imperiously he pointed a claw at Lynsh. “My first command is that you get rid of the old captain.”

  Thanquol stepped back as the crew surged forwards. Eagerly they seized Lynsh and in a matter of moments pitched him into the river. Thanquol wondered if that lurker was somewhere about. If so, it might finish the meal it had started long ago.

  Looking out over the crew, Thanquol tugged at his whiskers and considered his next move. “I don’t know how much-little Lynsh claimed-took as captain, but I’ll settle for half.” He could see from the way the pirates glared at him that whatever Lynsh’s cut had been, it was a good deal less than half.

  Thanquol bared his teeth and flexed the fingers of his hand, the hand that had so lately dealt sorcerous death to the crazed dwarf. The threat was not lost on the crew.

  “If there are no objections, I want a course laid for Skavenblight,” Thanquol told the barge-rats.

  There were no objections.

  Chapter II

  Black with the heavy darkness of the underworld, cold with the chill of the forsaken deep, the tunnels coursed their way beneath the mountains, writhing like worms in the corpse of a shattered kingdom. Long ago, these passages had echoed with the clamour of hammers and the scrape of picks, the roar of explosives and the hiss of steam-drills. Miners and engineers, architects and prospectors; once these halls had been filled with the clatter of their heavy boots and the sound of their gruff voices as they laboured to wrest from the darkness the treasures of the earth and carve for themselves a kingdom of steel and stone.

  Now, the old tunnels were abandoned by those who had gouged them from the rock. They were a relic of a bygone time, a time when the dwarf kingdoms dared to dream of glories that would never be. A relic of the days before the dwarfs were beset from above and below by their merciless enemies. A relic of an age that now lingered only in the ancient Book of Grudges.

  Like worms burrowing through a corpse, the black tunnels writhed beneath the remaining strongholds of the dwarfs. Abandoned to the darkness. Left to the creatures that had risen to inherit much of the dwarfs’ ancient realm.

  Miner and architect no longer dared to brave the old dark of the underworld, but the dwarfs could not completely ignore the leavings of their past glories. The things that had crept into their abandoned holdings were not content to steal what had been left to them. They would use the old tunnels to besiege what little the dwarfs still had the strength to maintain. Goblin and orc, troll and ogre, the dwarfs had to remain vigilant against their rapacious enemies.

  In the darkness, a group of dour figures kept that vigil. Armoured from head to toe in extensively engraved plates of gromril, their flowing beards locked behind iron beard-sheaths, the dwarfs maintained their unending watch upon the tunnels. Silent as the rock walls, knowing that the least sound might betray them to the ears of a lurking goblin, the sentinels communicated by touch and gesture rather than by spoken word. Among a race accustomed to labouring in the darkness, the eyes of these lonely warriors were especially keen, able to see in almost pitch blackness. For in these forsaken tunnels, light, even more than sound, would betray a dwarf to his enemies.

  These were the ironbreakers, an elite cadre of warriors with brothers throughout the scattered strongholds of the dwarf kingdom. Theirs was the role of watchman and sentinel, the first line of defence for their people against the horrors of the deeps. Against the monsters of the underworld, the ironbreakers pitted their selfless valour and martial prowess. Armed with the best weapons to emerge from the forges of their warsmiths, encased in armour crafted from indestructible gromril, many a foe had met its end before these unbreakable warriors.

  Among the dozen armoured dwarfs spread across the opening of the tunnel, one of their number stood close against the wall. The lone dwarf had removed one of his gauntlets. His bare hand was closed about a length of wire fastened to the wall, his sensitive fingers pinching the copper thread between them. His role was one of especial vigilance, so much so that he did not engage in such silent banter as the gesture-speak allowed the other ironbreakers. He knew that the thin little wire held the only advanced warning they could expect in the case of an approaching enemy.

  Strung across the floor of the tunnels, the wire would brush against the feet of any invader, sending a vibration along its length which the monitoring ironbreaker could feel with his fingers. Many times, by such a ruse, the dwarfs had been warned of things creeping through the tunnels. Their foreknowledge had been the difference between victory and disaster on more than one occasion. Goblins, cave squigs, even a basilisk, had all been repulsed before they could enter the inhabited halls of Karak Angkul.

  Now, the wire again pulsed with the step of an enemy. The monitor reached out with his armoured right hand, closing his fingers about the shoulder of the dwarf standing beside him. The touch of the monitor’s hand was all that was needed. The meaning was clear. Without a word being spoken, the alarm was passed among the ironbreakers. One of their number, the youngest and most junior of their company, was dispatched back into the passages of Karak Angkul proper to warn their people of potential danger. The other warriors drew axes and hammers from their belts. Closing ranks, standing shoulder to shoulder, they formed an unbroken wall of armour across the mouth of the tunnel.

  Long minutes, the dwarfs waited for their foes. The monitor continued to clap the shoulder of his comrade, indicating that their enemy was no lone straggler from the deep. The continued vibration of
the wire meant a large group of adversaries, many feet trampling the concealed wires.

  Before the sharp-eyed dwarfs could see or even hear the coming foe the loathsome stink of the enemy struck them. Not one of the ironbreakers could forget that smell. Memories of battle and fallen comrades rose within each dwarf’s mind, litanies of ancient grudges made speechless lips move in silent whispers. Ancestral hate, the heritage of centuries of unending war, caused hands to tighten about the grips of weapons. Yes, the ironbreakers knew this smell, the reek of their most despised enemy: the verminous skaven!

  “Fast-quick, dung-scum! Smash-kill all dwarf-things!”

  Rikkit Snapfang added a bit of emphasis to his snarled command by lopping off the ear of a skaven who had the misfortune of standing too close to him. The stricken ratman squealed in agony, clapping a paw to his bleeding head and cringing his way into the teeming horde of furry bodies scurrying down the tunnel. Rikkit raised his sword to his mouth and licked the blood from his blade. The faint trace of warpstone in the black ooze sent a thrill coursing through him. There was nothing like the taste of blood to stir a warrior’s heart before battle.

  “Scurry-hurry, maggot-suckers!” Rikkit growled, making a menacing sweep of his blade. It would be just like the treacherous lice to malinger in the tunnels and allow the dwarfs to escape. Worse, they might be so slothful that there would still be dwarfs alive when he reached the battlefield. Rikkit had all the ferocity and valour of a true skaven warrior, but very little appetite for engaging an enemy able to fight back. That was the duty of slaves and clanrats, to take all the danger out of the enemy before important skaven such as himself entered the fray. As a warlord of Clan Mors, Rikkit Snapfang would see that his underlings didn’t shirk that duty. Even if it meant killing a few dozen of them to keep the others moving.

  Not for the first time, Rikkit cursed the craven hearts of his minions. But for their cowardice, he would have risen to prominence within the hierarchy of Clan Mors, gaining the notice of Clanlord Gnawdwell, perhaps even joining the Supreme and Merciless War-king Tyrant-General in Skavenblight. Instead, Rikkit was rotting away as warlord of a single warren, the fortress-burrow of Bonestash, a three-mouse hole some three miles beneath the stronghold of Karak Angkul.

  Long had the skaven of Bonestash coveted the halls of the dwarfs above them, dreaming their vicious dreams of the hoarded wealth so near they could smell it. Many a warlord had tried to batter his way into Karak Angkul, each expedition ending in disaster. Rikkit Snapfang, however, was smarter than his predecessors. He knew that it took wealth to gain greater wealth. He had shunned the tactics of his stupid precursors, the massed charge of half-naked slaves straight into the waiting axes of the foe. His was a far more crafty and subtle mind. It had cost him almost half the treasury of Bonestash and much of the riches he had skimmed for himself, but he was certain he had spent his warp-tokens well.

  Baring his fangs, Rikkit Snapfang shrieked his final command, urging the horde of nearly naked skavenslaves to charge into the ranks of their enemy. The dwarfs might be able to kill their lights and hold their tongues, but they could not mask the scent of their skin. In the pitch darkness, the skaven would still be able to find their enemies and destroy them.

  The terrified slaves, urged forwards by the brutal lashes of Rikkit’s clanrat soldiers, swept up the tunnel in a tidal wave of stinking fur and flashing fangs. Rusty swords, stone clubs, splintered spears and corroded maces lashed out as the scrawny ratmen crashed against the armoured wall of their enemies.

  The ironbreakers met the first wave of the attack with stony discipline. Unmovable, the dwarfs absorbed the crush of frenzied skaven. Rusted blades shattered against gromril plate, stone clubs chipped and cracked as they rebounded from the rune-etched armour. Squealing in terror, the foremost skaven tried to flee from their invulnerable enemies, only to be pressed back into the fight by the multitudes swarming up the tunnel behind them.

  With the need to keep silent gone, the ironbreakers gave voice to a great shout. Their roar thundered through the tunnel, like the grumble of an angry mountain. They swept their axes into the press of clawing, stabbing bodies before them. In such quarters, every blow the dwarfs dealt split open a skull or slashed through a ribcage. Arms and legs and tails were lopped from the frantic ratmen as they alternately tried to escape or vainly strove to break through the formation of their enemies.

  Rikkit listened to the carnage and a twinkle came into his beady eyes. The ironbreakers had taken the bait. They were committed to the fight now. There would be no escape for the hated dwarfs this time. No doubt they thought he was just another idiot warlord squandering his troops on the same suicidal attacks that had been tried so many times before.

  Lashing his tail in amusement, Rikkit gestured to the mass of brown-furred skaven gathered at the foot of the tunnel. These ratmen were of a finer breed than the scabby slaves he had sent so callously to be slaughtered. Better fed, with sleek pelts and wearing long leather aprons, they formed a marked contrast to Rikkit’s abused minions. The warlord felt better just smelling the cold assurance they exuded in their scent, the encouraging odour of warpstone and gunpowder and the exotic oils these skaven used to maintain their weaponry.

  Such weaponry! Great muskets with barrels longer than the ratmen who used them, each fitted with a glass eye to magnify their victims and ensure a killing shot! Pouches of refined gunpowder, little ratskin bags filled with bullets crafted from shards of warpstone! Grimy little skavenslaves bearing metal crooks upon which to rest the muzzle of each jezzail and ensure the steadiness of the shot! Rikkit had spent a small fortune hiring these mercenaries from Clan Skryre, but when they smashed the vaunted defenders of Karak Angkul, he would count the warp-tokens as well spent.

  Climbing onto a ramshackle wooden platform Rikkit’s clanrats had erected, the jezzail teams loaded their weapons and took their positions. With the added height of the platform, the skaven sharpshooters would be able to fire over the heads of the slave horde and into the dwarfs beyond. Not that Rikkit was overly concerned by the accidental shooting of his worthless slave-troops, but when each bullet was costing him three warp-tokens, there was no sense in wasting ammunition.

  The jezzails took aim, crouching over the barrels of their muskets, squinting through the telescopic lenses until they could draw a bead on their targets. A chittered peal of laughter rose from the first shooter as he pulled the trigger and sent a shard of warpstone rocketing towards one of the ironbreakers.

  The bullet struck one of the skavenslaves, punching through his spine and tearing out of his chest in a welter of gore. Passage through the ratman’s body hardly diminished the terrible velocity of the bullet. The round ploughed onwards, smashing into the armoured breast of the ironbreaker.

  The sharpshooter cursed under his breath, fear creeping into his scent. Through the sights of his jezzail he was able to see his bullet shatter as it crashed into the dwarf’s gromril breastplate. The dwarf was knocked back a few steps, but when he recovered, there wasn’t even a scratch to show where he had been hit.

  The stunned sharpshooter snarled at the other jezzails. Instantly there was unleashed a full fusillade against the dwarfs. The shrieks of skaven caught in the path of the deadly bullets rang through the tunnel, but the enchanted armour of the ironbreakers again proved too much for the skaven weapons to penetrate.

  Although he could not see the inefficacy of the jezzails, Rikkit could still hear the sounds of battle coming from the mouth of the tunnel. If the weapons had performed as they should have, then the dwarfs would be in no condition to put up a fight. Tugging at his whiskers in his agitation, Rikkit glared up at the sharpshooters as they reloaded their weapons. Quickly, the warlord began to calculate how much this fiasco was costing him.

  “Stop-stop!” Rikkit howled. He didn’t wait to see if his mercenaries were going to obey. Gesturing to his dependable clanrat warriors, Rikkit ordered them to knock down the firing platform. Before they could shoot again, the jezz
ail teams found their perch tipped over and themselves sprawled across the floor.

  Rikkit glared at the worthless sharpshooters. If he didn’t have to pay Clan Skryre extra for every one of their warriors who perished while fighting for him, he would have each of the mangy parasites skinned alive and fed to the squigs! They had proven useless. Worse, they were expensive and useless! Fortunately, he had been too clever to stake all of his ambitions upon a bunch of cowardly snipers who couldn’t shoot straight.

  “Bad-air! Bad-air!” the clanrats were squealing now. A half-dozen ratmen came slinking up the tunnel. They formed a strange and sinister sight, their bodies covered from crown to tail in heavy ratskin cloaks soaked in preservative unguents and chemical solutions. Bulky, grotesque devices were slung to their backs, deranged contraptions of pipes and tubes that groaned and shuddered as they circulated air through their frames. Ugly masks enclosed the faces of each of the ratmen, giving them an almost insect-like look. At their sides, each of the skaven carried a heavy bag filled with glass globes, a sinister green mist swirling within each of the spheres. As the globadiers made their way towards the massed slaves, the wretched verminkin struggled to flee from their approach. The clanrats at the rear of the slave horde were more pressed than ever to keep the mob from turning tail and stampeding back down the tunnel.

  Rikkit grinned savagely as he watched the globadiers force their way along the flanks of the packed slaves. The Poison Wind was one of the most hideous weapons known to skavendom, a vapour so toxic it could eat through iron and would melt the lungs of those who inhaled it. Even the most reckless warlord did not employ such a weapon without severe consideration, but the jezzails had failed to eliminate the ironbreakers for him. Now it was time to set aside his scruples and give the dwarfs the death their stubborn refusal to die had earned them.

  Unseen by the ironbreakers, the globadiers drew closer to the fray. The hideous skaven in their gas masks and protective cloaks hesitated when they came within twenty feet of the embattled dwarfs. Heedless of their fellow ratmen who were still braving the enemy axes, the globadiers thrust their gloved hands into the bags slung at their sides. Chittering maliciously within their masks, the murderous skaven hurled the fragile glass globes into the raging melee.