03 - Thanquol's Doom

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

  The automaton’s skull creaked around, staring at its master with glowing eyes. Obediently, Boneripper emerged from behind the rocks. Thanquol hopped about in glee as the monster turned about to face the terrified warpfire throwers. He could almost smell the fear spurting from their glands as the rat-ogre lifted its third arm and pointed the nozzle of its own fire-thrower at them.

  Instead of burning and dying, instead of fleeing and screaming, the warpfire throwers just stood and laughed. Thanquol blinked in disbelief. Boneripper just stood there, its arm raised to deal fiery death to his enemies. The grey seer scurried to the edge of his refuge, trying to goad his metal-brained bodyguard into action.

  “Boneripper! Burn-burn!” he shrieked. “Burn them! Burn them with fire!” he elaborated.

  The hulking machine-monster just stood its ground. Contemptuously the weapon teams ignored it and began to fire on Thanquol’s refuge once more.

  Reluctantly, Thanquol realised his bodyguard wasn’t going to help him. Gripped by a mixture of terror and fury, he began pawing at his robes for a sliver of warpstone. He didn’t like employing the magic that would allow him to slip into the immaterial Realm of Chaos, but at the moment the threat of being ripped asunder by daemons seemed preferable to being roasted alive. His only consolation was that Kaskitt and Skraekual were certain to be doomed once he abandoned them to their own feeble resources.

  A metal scratch of a voice rumbled across the tunnel. The sheets of flame billowing about Thanquol’s refuge suddenly abated. The grey seer popped a finger-sized nugget of warpstone into his mouth, but hesitated to grind it between his fangs. Carefully, he peered around the rubble.

  The ambushers were falling back, adopting a wary posture, their weapons at the ready. Emerging from the mound of rubble that had concealed them was a ghastly-looking skaven clad in slick robes of ratgut and leather. Half of the ratman’s head was locked inside a grisly metal mask; what part of his face was exposed was burned and scarred in an especially hideous fashion. Wisps of white fur emerged from the grey mess of scar tissue to form a long mane running down the side of his face. A gigantic steel claw was fitted about his left arm, a confusion of wires and tubes running from the metal hand to a cylindrical device fitted to the forearm behind it, uncomfortably reminiscent of the warpfire projector fastened to Boneripper’s arm. A brace of warplock pistols were holstered at the ratman’s belt and in his right hand he bore a black sword that stank of warpstone. The blade was bolted to a long metal pole and about it was fastened all manner of curious mechanisms. From the skaven’s back, a tall rod supported a tattered banner upon which was displayed the image of the Horned Rat blasphemously merged with the hatchet symbol of Clan Skryre.

  Again, the metal snarl of the skaven’s voice echoed through the tunnel, confirming for Thanquol what his ears had thought they’d heard the first time.

  “Submit-live,” the snarl spoke. “Only Kaskitt Scrapface needs to die-die!”

  Thanquol cast a hopeful look towards the statue where Kaskitt was hiding. If he could contrive to eliminate the warlock-engineer, then he’d be able to ingratiate himself with this new, terrifying personage.

  Skraekual, unfortunately, had the same idea. Before Thanquol could act, the underhanded sorcerer unleashed a blast of magic against Kaskitt that sent the warlock-engineer tumbling from his sanctuary. He ended his tumble in a helpless sprawl, his fur smoking and his body quivering from the fury of Skraekual’s magic.

  The metal-faced skaven chuckled, a sound not unlike a knife grinding against stone. The sound of his enemy’s amusement seemed to revive Kaskitt. The stricken ratman scrambled back onto his feet, slapping at some contraption hidden under his coat. Instantly the wires wrapped about his head began to blaze with energy, crackling fingers of electricity running through the strange framework. The lenses of Kaskitt’s goggles began to darken. Raising his paw, Kaskitt now displayed a strange armature of steel tipped with a globe of polished warpstone. The speed of its deployment made Thanquol wonder if Kaskitt had conjured the weapon into being or if it had been concealed under his robes and deployed by some spring-loaded mechanism.

  Whatever the source of Kaskitt’s weapon, Thanquol was genuinely shocked when he saw the warlock-engineer dispatch a bolt of warp-lightning from the glowing green globe. It was impossible! There had been no smell of magic about Kaskitt, yet here he was unleashing what was unquestionably a manifestation of aethyric energy! Thanquol gnashed his fangs at the heretical thought of a skaven exploiting magic without the wisdom of the Horned Rat behind him.

  Much like Thanquol’s own spell, Kaskitt’s warp lightning crackled across the tunnel, streaking straight towards its target. Unlike the grey seer’s magic, however, Kaskitt’s lightning failed to find its victim. With an almost casual flick of his metal claw, the steel-faced ratman caused the warp lightning to dissipate, to shatter as though it had struck an unseen wall. Little sparks of energy cascaded down to the floor, scorching the flagstones of the old dwarf road.

  More sorcery! A counter-spell conjured with an ease that made Thanquol’s heart tremble with jealousy and his glands clench with fear.

  Kaskitt shrieked in horror as he saw his intended victim unharmed. The warlock-engineer turned to flee, but as he did so, the steel-faced skaven raised the black sword in his hand, thrusting it out before him on its long pole. The machinery connected to the warpstone blade whirred into life, energy quickly crackling across the black sword, the symbols scratched along its edge glowing with power. Before Kaskitt could run more than a few paces, a beam of dark energy snaked outwards from the sword, striking the warlock-engineer in the back.

  Thanquol could feel the awful power of the coruscating black energy. It was like the harnessed soul of raw warpstone, a thing terrible in its potency and awful in its potential. He expected to see Kaskitt’s body ripped in half by the blast. Instead the energy writhed across the warlock-engineer, racing about the weapon fastened to his arm.

  The warpstone globe shattered in a burst of malignant green fire that sent Kaskitt’s charred arm dancing across the floor. Streams of energy crackled away from the broken weapon, converging upon the network of wires wound about Kaskitt’s head. For a moment, it seemed as though Kaskitt had gained a dark halo. Then the moment passed and the warlock-engineer’s head burst like an overripe melon.

  “This fight-fray is done-over,” the steely scrape of the metal-faced skaven declared. “Squeak-swear to serve me or join that fool-meat in death.”

  The gruesome ratman swept his fiery gaze across the tunnel.

  “Ikit Claw now commands this expedition.”

  Chapter VI

  The skaven were quick to bare their throats in submission to Ikit Claw, scrambling out from their refuges and stumbling over themselves in their eagerness to surrender. For their part, Ikit Claw’s ratmen took petty revenge on each former enemy as he presented himself. The filching of warp-tokens and food was the rule, even among these clan-kin, but a few went so far as to pull whiskers and cut ears.

  From his own hiding place, Thanquol watched as the ambushers took charge of Skraekual. They treated the decrepit grey seer with a great amount of reverence, sparing him the indignity of robbery and abuse. A few even chittered their gratitude to the rot-nosed traitor. Clearly Skraekual’s opportunistic and utterly craven betrayal of Kaskitt hadn’t gone unnoticed.

  Thanquol ground his teeth in frustration. His hated rival was insinuating himself with the victors while he was left cringing alone in the dark with no one to help him except a bony rat-ogre with a touch of the stupids! Betraying Kaskitt was something Thanquol had planned from the start! It was criminal that Skraekual should reap the benefits of Thanquol’s subtle plot!

  A cunning gleam crept into Thanquol’s eyes. Skraekual wouldn’t profit from trying to undermine his own position. Indeed, the mouse-livered weasel was acting to the benefit of Thanquol, even if he was too warp-witted to know it! Let him flatter and whine his way into the good graces of Ikit Claw! The fool would sa
ve Thanquol the trouble of doing it himself.

  The grey seer turned his attention away from Skraekual and focused on the real threat. Ikit Claw, Chief Warlock of Clan Skryre, the right fang of Warplord Morskittar himself. Ikit Claw was a name held in envy and fear throughout skavendom. Rumours claimed he was old enough to have helped Morskittar try to seize control of the Under-Empire in the dark days before the Great Summoning when the Horned Rat had manifested himself before the Shattered Tower and imposed the foundation of the Council of Thirteen upon his squabbling children. Thanquol didn’t believe such nonsense, of course, for that would make Ikit Claw thousands of birth-cycles old and only dwarf-things and elf-meat lived that long. He was prepared to accept, however, that the Claw shared his master’s ability to extend his lifespan through the techno-sorcery of Clan Skryre. There were dark rumours that the upper echelons of Clan Skryre maintained kennels of specially reared and extravagantly pampered skavenslaves which they harvested once every few birth-cycles to replace their own corrupt organs with fresh healthy ones.

  Thanquol cringed in disgust at the thought. A skaven should accept the years bestowed upon him by the Horned Rat. Or else try and find some magic trinkets that would improve his longevity.

  Still, that wasn’t entirely an impossibility where Ikit Claw was concerned. It was said he’d penetrated the secrets of countless wizards and sorcerers. The warren of Spitespittle was still haunted by the liche priest the Claw brought back from the Dead Lands and tortured into revealing the black art of necromancy. Ratkin in Grabkeep still spoke of his terrific battle with the sorcerer Nostramus after his theft of the human’s scrying stone. There were even stories that he’d infiltrated the polluted lands of the black-fur dwarf-things and discovered how they made their hideous daemon-machines.

  Reluctantly, Thanquol decided that it would be in his best interest to keep on the right side of so formidable a personage. The Claw could even protect him from Kritislik should eluding the Seerlord’s displeasure become a problem.

  First, of course, he’d wait and see if Ikit Claw blasted Skraekual. If the sly, double-dealing warp-brain could manage to talk Claw out of incinerating him with the flame projector built into his metal arm, then Thanquol would take that as a good sign. Though he’d be sorry not to watch the other grey seer burned alive, there’d be time to work towards that end later.

  Thanquol held his breath as he watched Skraekual approach Ikit Claw. He felt a twinge of disgust at the way the other grey seer abased himself before the warlock-engineer, a disgust made all the more profound because it seemed to work. Cheated out of the prospect of seeing his rival summarily exterminated, he decided it was time to act.

  Resisting the impulse to take a pinch of snuff to fortify his convictions, Thanquol emerged from behind the pile of rubble. He could feel his fur crawl as he saw patches of liquid warpfire still burning on the floor. As he rounded the immobile bulk of Boneripper, he delivered a vindictive crack of his staff against the skeletal brute’s leg.

  The resounding impact was louder than Thanquol had expected, the smacking report of his staff echoing through the tunnel. At once, hundreds of skaven eyes fastened onto him, fingers flying to the triggers of pistols and jezzails, paws wrapping about the hafts of swords and spears. The two warpfire throwers came scuttling back into view, frantically trying to ready their cumbersome weapons.

  The temptation to dart back behind the rocks was sore upon Thanquol, but his pride fought down millions of birth-cycles of skaven instinct. As he looked down upon Ikit Claw’s warriors, as he drew in their scent, Thanquol felt his heart pounding with ferocity. They knew who he was. And they were afraid. Even the warlock-engineers recognised the awful power of Grey Seer Thanquol and even they were afraid.

  It did not dawn upon Thanquol that the reason for their fear might lie in their belief and the warpfire teams’ repeated insistence that he was dead. With such a dramatic entrance, with everyone concentrated upon the task of looting their vanquished clan-kin, Thanquol’s sudden reappearance seemed nothing less than a visitation by the Horned Rat himself.

  “Good-good,” Thanquol said, straightening his back and marching in his most magnificent manner towards the horrified ratmen. “Kaskitt Steelgrin was traitor-meat. You all act-serve the Horned One when you kill-slay traitor-meat.” His eyes narrowed as he looked over at Skraekual. “I told my servantling to make certain Clan Skryre had the chance-time to take-finish Kaskitt themselves.”

  A subdued murmur spread among the ratmen. Thanquol tried to retain his dictatorial bearing, but felt his imperious tendencies shrivel as Ikit Claw fixed his terrible gaze on the grey seer.

  “I… I had to… make-look like I… with Kaskitt watch-sniffing…” Thanquol winced as he saw Ikit draw back some of the burned skin from his muzzle and expose his scarred teeth. “Look-sniff!” Thanquol whined, gesturing behind him. “I tell-say for Boneripper to stop-stand, not to kill-smash loyal-true skaven!”

  Ikit Claw continued to glare at Thanquol for a moment, then a strange and hideous noise rattled through the warlock-engineer’s throat. It took a little time before the grey seer understood it was the Claw’s laughter.

  “You told rat-ogre to stop?” Ikit Claw cackled. The laughter was taken up by his minions and even the subjugated skaven who had so recently served Kaskitt Steelgrin.

  “You told-say for bone-thing not to stomp-slay?” There was a very nasty note in Ikit Claw’s mirth that had Thanquol glancing back to his abandoned refuge. A pox on that duplicitous rat Skraekual for not standing his ground and getting himself burned to a crisp! That maggot had tricked Thanquol into thinking everything was safe!

  “Yes-yes!” Thanquol squeaked, fingering his staff and wondering if he would be able to cast an escape spell faster than Ikit Claw could have him shot. “I tell-say for Boneripper not to hurt-hurt Great and Powerful Ikit Claw… or any noble-mighty skaven who help-aid him. By the Horned One, I squeak-speak true-straight!”

  The last comment brought a peal of blasphemous laughter chittering from every skaven throat. Thanquol felt a surge of outrage course through him. How dare they mock a grey seer invoking the name of their god? How dare they find amusement in a grey seer making a sacred oath before his divine master that he was not trying to trick them? If it wasn’t complete suicide, Thanquol would have liked to wring every one of their scrawny necks! Of course, it was suicide to do anything like that, so Thanquol just stood still and tried to join in on the laughter, but his voice sounded hollow even to himself.

  Ikit Claw raised his huge metal hand, motioning the other skaven to silence. He marched towards Thanquol, his teeth bared in a fierce smile. “Thanquol,” he hissed. “That machine-thing stopped because it has a safety valve. It didn’t smash-crush my ratkin because it can’t smash-crush anything that carries Clan Skryre’s scent.”

  The explanation provoked another burst of laughter. Thanquol felt his insides wither. It wasn’t the humiliation of being caught in an impious lie, but rather the likelihood that he was about to be burned to a crisp that bothered him.

  “I still make-tell Skraekual to help kill-slay Kaskitt,” Thanquol insisted. “Ask him,” he said, then considered better of pressing that particular point when he got a good look at Skraekual’s rotten face. “Ask any of Kaskitt’s tinker-rats! They will speak-squeak that Skraekual is my helper, that he does what I tell-say!”

  Ikit Claw continued to glower at Thanquol, lashing his tail as he weighed the grey seer’s words. “I know all about Kaskitt’s plan-plot,” he said at length. “I know what he planned for you.” The way he said it made Thanquol’s glands clench, but the grey seer didn’t say anything. “It was-is good scheme. We will go to Bonestash and help Rikkit Snapfang fight-kill dwarf-things. Clan Mors will keep their noses turned your way, Thanquol. That will make it easy for me to do what I need-want in Karak Angkul.”

  Thanquol breathed a little easier when it became obvious that Ikit Claw wasn’t going to order his immediate destruction. Instead, the Chief Warlock
ordered some of his tinker-rats to attend Boneripper and get the rat-ogre moving again before the locked safety valve caused it to explode. The grey seer could only mutter his thanks and watch as his new ally stalked off to inspect the survivors of Kaskitt’s troop.

  Let Ikit Claw savour his small triumph, Thanquol thought. There would be a long way to Bonestash and an even longer tunnel back to Skavenblight. More than enough time for the Horned One to visit a terrible judgement upon the prideful tinker-rat and his abominable entourage.

  The skaven expedition, now under new leadership, soon resumed its journey through the desolation of the Ungdrin Ankor. In their wake, the ratmen left little behind, stripping the dead of anything of value and butchering all but the scrawniest of their bodies to supplement their rations.

  The skaven were brutally thorough in their scavenging, moving with a speed and skill honed by lives spent trying to survive in the merciless Under-Empire. Even in victory, the ratmen were cautious, watching every shadow, flinching at every unexplained sound, jumping at every unexpected smell. They did not like to linger in a place that smelled of battle, knowing only too well that the odour would draw scavengers bigger and nastier than themselves.

  In their vigilance, however, the skaven missed one pair of hostile eyes that watched them from the darkness of a milestone. The pure hate shining in those eyes would have sent many a ratman spurting the musk of fear, but harsh experience had taught the mind behind those eyes to keep to the downwind darkness where his enemies could neither see nor smell him.

  The red-bearded dwarf pounded his fist against his side. It grated upon every fibre of his being to act like this, creeping about in the dark following a bunch of filthy skaven. Every time their loathsome stink filled his nose, every time their shrill voices cut his ears, he wanted to leap out and kill them with his bare hands.