03 - The Hour of Shadows

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

  The craggy slopes of the Grey Mountains dominated the view from the mouth of the tunnel. Towering far into the cloudy sky, it was difficult to tell exactly where mountain ended and cloud began. Coils of mist and fog rolled down the sides of the mountains, choking the deep valleys and isolating the tall pines clinging to the rocky heights. The smells of granite and sap, pine needle and snow wafted down, seeping into the tunnel and almost masking the dank reek of rodent fur rising from the army of skaven lurking within the subterranean darkness.

  Grey Seer Nashrik glared balefully at the mountains, the instinctive agoraphobia of his race closing an icy talon of fear about his heart. A skaven’s place was deep inside such mountains where he could hide in the foetid dark and feel solid stone against his whiskers. No sane skaven would scurry about in the open, where his scent might carry for miles.

  The grey seer gnashed his fangs as he reflected that the creature he had journeyed so very far to find was hardly sane.

  Many frightening reports had been brought back to Skavenblight about Huskk Gnawbone. For dozens of generations, spies had been bringing accounts of the infamous Black Seer to the Council of Thirteen. Huskk was said to be a mighty sorcerer versed in the terrifying bone magic of the Accursed One. It was claimed that he had slaughtered his entire clan, taking the name of his clan for his own. There were accounts that he’d animated the corpses of Clan Gnawbone to form an army of the walking dead, using his undead horde to exterminate the warrens of many small clans and seize their meagre resources for his own.

  Whatever the truth of such stories, it could not be doubted that Huskk possessed some sort of power and the ambition to match. Even if some other enemy were responsible for the destruction of the starveling clans beyond the Blighted Marshes, Huskk’s conquest of Clan Grubrr was undeniable. Whatever secret allies and hidden traitors might have supported him, it was Huskk who had led an army into the burrows of Clan Grubrr’s main warren of Blackscratch and in a single night enslaved its entire population.

  True, Clan Grubrr might have been able to muster a counter-attack had its other far-flung settlements not been appropriated by other opportunistic clans. And it had to be admitted that the murder of Grubrr’s warlord by an assassin in the employ of Clan Rictus was woefully ill-timed. Then there was the little accident of Clan Sleekit misdirecting the original relief force dispatched from Skavenblight to reclaim Blackscratch. Still, the fault for Clan Grubrr’s destruction was entirely on the heretical head of Huskk Gnawbone. Once the cowardly rat who had dared proclaim himself “Black Seer” was exterminated, a vile affront to the dignity and grace of the Horned One would be expunged from the Under-Empire.

  Nashrik squinted at the landscape before him. Once, he’d been sent to investigate the wild schemes of Warpscratch Snaggle, one of Clan Skryre’s half-mad warlock-engineers. Snaggle had been trying to appropriate resources to construct an enormous cannon with which he intended to fire skaven explorers towards the darkling moon Morrslieb. The justification for his scheme was his belief that the moon was made of warpstone. He’d tried to make his case to Nashrik by allowing the grey seer to study the moon in detail through a gigantic lens array he called his “star-sniffer”.

  What Nashrik now gazed upon looked something like that bleak moonscape he’d seen through the star-sniffer. The ground was worn and lifeless, pockmarked with gaping craters and ugly gashes. Streams of muddy water oozed through the desolation, cloudy and grey.

  It was a simple thing to follow the flow of water back to its source, a great system of hoses and pumps, each hose manned by a crew of dozens of skaven. The hoses were trained upon the great slopes of the mountains, pressurised water blasting into the rocks, pulverising them until they collapsed in jumbled rubble. A vast horde of scrawny labourers swarmed through the rubble, dragging away most of it. Sometimes an emaciated slave would cry out, brandishing a sliver of black stone. Instantly, a swarm of guards would descend upon the slave, snatching the prize from him and bearing it away to a series of iron lockboxes.

  The reason for the brutal strip-mining operation was evident. The skaven of Clan Grubrr had long profited from the warpstone deposits buried inside the Grey Mountains. However, there were limits to what they could safely extract from their caverns inside the mountains. So another way had been brought into use to reach the warpstone buried in the upper slopes.

  Nashrik watched the savage display for a time, impressed despite himself by the scope of the operation. There were thousands of slaves toiling away on the slopes, hundreds of technicians operating the hoses and a veritable army of armed guards supervising the whole thing. The very audacity of such a scheme, gnawing away at the walls of the mountain, using its own mountain streams to force it to render up its treasures!

  The grey seer shook his head, peering malignantly at the slaves and their overseers. He was here with a purpose. He was here because these skaven had forgotten their place in the grand scheme of things, had forgotten that they were beholden to the Horned Rat and the Council of Thirteen. They had neglected the tribute which was the due of their masters in Skavenblight and they had failed to render the proper devotion to the prophets of their god. These were crimes that none of the Under-Empire’s subjects could be allowed to get away with. The very fabric of skaven civilization would collapse if any ratman thought he could simply do as he liked.

  Yes, there must be consequences, severe, fast and violent. Nashrik turned his horned head and smirked as he considered the army he commanded. From the sacred walls of holy Skavenblight, his soldiers had followed him. Hundreds of stalwart clanrats, scores of ferocious stormvermin, dozens of Clan Skryre weaponeers with their deadly instruments of death!

  And, of course, there was the mighty Grey Seer Nashrik the Terrifying, favoured disciple of Seerlord Kritislik! Sword of the Council! Herald of the Horned One! Chewer of Enemy Spleens! His magic alone was enough to wipe out the puny slaves and their ridiculous guards.

  Nashrik stroked his whiskers. Black Seer indeed! If this was all that Huskk’s magic could summon, then the renegade heretic heathen was already dead! Nashrik would make sport with the outlaw’s pelt after he peeled it from the rat’s flesh. The skin of Huskk Gnawbone would make an amusing gift for Seerlord Kritislik, one that would impress him with the courage and efficiency of Nashrik the Dependable.

  The grey seer snapped his claws. Instantly, a wiry young skaven scrambled to his side. Like Nashrik, the smaller ratman had pale fur and wore a robe of grey, but the horns upon his head were low nubs of bone not yet matured into the impressive array of a skaven sorcerer-priest. Adept Weekil was Nashrik’s apprentice, the latest in a long line of disciples who had been mentored by the older grey seer. Weekil’s position made him more than just student, however. He was valet, servant and general dogsbody to Nashrik, undertaking all of the duties too insignificant or too dangerous for his master’s attention. At present, that meant acting as liaison between Nashrik and the pompous Fangmaster Vermitt, general of the army under Nashrik’s command.

  “Tell Vermitt to begin his attack. Surround the mine. Kill-slay all who resist,” Nashrik growled.

  “He will want-know where Tyrannical Nashrik is-is,” Weekil whined, bobbing his head in an annoyingly unctuous manner. “Worry-fear for Dread Nashrik’s safety,” the apprentice added lamely.

  The craven maggot! Vermitt wasn’t concerned about the grey seer’s safety! The parasite was hoping to use Nashrik’s sorcery to do his fighting for him, to let the grey seer exhaust himself withering the enemy ranks with his spells. Then Vermitt would mop up the survivors with hardly a loss among his own troops. Or perhaps the bloodworm had loftier ambitions. An exhausted Nashrik would be easy prey for the blades of his warriors and he could always claim that the grey seer had fallen in battle. That would leave only Vermitt to be lauded as a hero when the expedition returned to Skavenblight.

  “Tell-say that I will remain here,” Nashrik told Weekil. “I must-must commune with the Horned One and ensure that his blessing is upon t
he efforts of our army. You will act as my proxy in my absence. Render Vermitt such aid as you can with your magic.”

  The smell of musk seeped from Weekil’s glands. “But most malignant of masters, you have taught me so little of your magic. I am not strong-mighty like you…”

  Nashrik bared his fangs in a threatening snarl. “Then I suggest you don’t overexert yourself,” he cautioned. “If you would ever become a full grey seer, it is important to learn the limits of your abilities. And your ambitions.”

  Nashrik pulled at his whiskers as he prowled through the captured mine. Vermitt’s warriors had made quick work of Huskk’s pathetic retinue. Only a dozen or so of the expedition had fallen in the battle, most of them when an over-excited team of globadiers had become confused and tossed poison wind bombs into the ranks of one of the clanrat regiments. It had been prudent to accept the incident as an accident rather than rise to rumours about gambling debts. The services of weapon teams were expensive and clanrats were easily replaced.

  The grey seer paused, looking out across the shivering mass of prisoners that his army had captured. Realising the hopelessness of their situation, the slaves and their guards had surrendered almost immediately, grovelling before Nashrik in a pathetic display of begging and snivelling. More of the wretches had been killed because of their captors’ brutality than had perished in the actual fighting. The death toll might have been higher had Vermitt’s troops not discovered the mine’s food supplies and gorged themselves upon its contents. The losses didn’t upset Nashrik. These fools were either willing accomplices or hapless tools of a degenerate sorcerer who had refused to accede to the authority of the Council. One way or another, they were already fated for a violent death, whether they died here or as an example to the teeming hordes of skavendom on the sands of Skavenblight’s Arena of Calamitous Doom.

  Nashrik savoured the image of his triumphant return to Skavenblight. Only the failure to find Huskk himself tainted his victory, but he could easily pass the blame for that failing onto the incompetence of Vermitt and his troops. If there was one thing a skaven commander could not abide more than treachery, it was stupidity. Vermitt would suffer for the failures of the expedition while Nashrik profited from its successes. If Vermitt had been smarter, their roles might have been reversed. But, of course, if Nashrik had even suspected such cunning, he would have arranged an accident for Vermitt long ago.

  Contemplating his erstwhile ally, Nashrik was surprised to see Vermitt and a pack of his black-furred stormvermin marching towards the cave that the grey seer had made into his temporary lair. He cast a suspicious glance at the iron chests of warpstone he’d confiscated from the strip-mine. Nashrik’s eyes narrowed with avarice. If Vermitt thought he was going to claim any portion of the treasure destined for the coffers of the Temple of the Horned Rat, then he was every bit as deluded as Huskk’s wretched followers. Nashrik would unleash a spell so terrible that the only thing left of Vermitt and his warriors would be a greasy smear on the mountainside.

  Nashrik was just popping a small sliver of warpstone into his mouth to fuel such malignant magic when his ears perked up. Vermitt’s skaven weren’t alone. They were leading a scrawny, withered little ratman with mangy fur and a tattered robe. Nashrik stifled a squeak of excitement. Had these dolts finally tracked down Huskk and pulled him from his hiding place?

  Alas, their incompetence proved to be total. The scrawny skaven wasn’t the renegade sorcerer, only a lone lurker whom the sentries had discovered prowling about the edge of the mine. He claimed to be a messenger bearing tidings from his master, Huskk Gnawbone.

  “Grey Seer Nashrik of Skavenblight,” the messenger said, his voice a dry whisper and his words conveying all the vitality of an open grave. “Black Seer Huskk Gnawbone desires to make-take council with you. He want-like squeak-speak about tribute and surrender.”

  Nashrik’s attention fixated upon the word “tribute”. “Surrender” and “council” didn’t interest him greatly. If Huskk thought that anything he could say would make the Lords of Decay pardon his heresies, then he was a bigger idiot than Vermitt.

  However, it had to be conceded that Huskk’s mining efforts had yielded a noticeable amount of warpstone. He might have a fair deal more hidden away in whatever hole he’d buried himself in. When his messenger spoke to Nashrik of “tribute” what he really meant was a bribe, an offering to make the grey seer look aside while Huskk slipped away and escaped. Naturally, Nashrik had no intention of risking his own neck by allowing so notorious an enemy of the Council to escape, but Huskk didn’t need to know that.

  At least not until after the grey seer had accepted the bribe.

  “Take me to Huskk the Heretical,” Nashrik declared, jabbing his claw at the messenger’s nose. “I will hear his confession and if he is truly contrite, I shall ask the Horned Rat to be merciful.”

  The messenger made a deep bow, baring his throat to Nashrik in the age-old gesture of obedience and submission. The grey seer squinted and sniffed, trying to read any hint of treachery or deception from the skinny ratman’s posture and scent. He could find none. That fact instantly put his nerves on edge. A skaven was always more at ease when he knew he was being lied to.

  “We go catch-take Black Seer, yes-yes?” Vermitt asked, unable to contain his excitement over the messenger’s words. Nashrik couldn’t miss the greedy glint in the chieftain’s eyes. Apparently the mention of tribute hadn’t gone unnoticed.

  The grey seer weighed his options. If he took Vermitt along, he’d have to be wary not only of treachery from Huskk, but betrayal from the warlord as well. From what he had seen of the Black Seer’s domain, Huskk’s vaunted magic seemed far from impressive, certainly nothing a grey seer couldn’t handle. It would be easier and safer if he confronted the renegade alone. Not only would it allow him to obscure the size and nature of Huskk’s tribute, but it would allow him to concoct as heroic an account of his battle with the Black Seer as he liked without any witnesses around to contradict him.

  “This may be a trap,” Nashrik told Vermitt, enjoying the way the warlord’s enthusiasm flickered and died. “The Black Seer has mighty magic. Only the protection of the Horned One will defend against such dark powers. I will go-go and face Huskk alone.”

  Vermitt lashed his tail in annoyance, a trace of disquiet in his scent. The general was debating whether he should listen to his greed or his fear. Nashrik didn’t like the way Vermitt’s posture suddenly changed, becoming servile and meek. He’d caught the warlord’s momentary glance at the iron boxes strewn about the pit.

  “Adept Weekil,” Nashrik snarled at his apprentice. The young seer perked up, scrambling to his mentor’s side with cringing deference. “I go to squeak-speak with the heretic. You will stay-watch the Horned One’s treasure. Any who think to take-steal from the Horned One will suffer his wrath.”

  “Yes-yes, wise and terrible Nashrik,” Weekil said, his head bobbing up and down. As a rule, skaven were a fearful and superstitious race. The threat of their god’s displeasure would be enough to dissuade them for a time. Whenever they did manage to rationalise away such religious inhibitions, they would still have Weekil to deal with. The adept had learned enough magic that he could make things ugly if Vermitt’s troops made an attempt to seize the boxes.

  Nashrik would have to hedge his bets against the cowardly greed of Fangmaster Vermitt. Besides, there was every reason to think Huskk’s tribute would be greater than what the expedition had seized from the mine. Enough to make it worth the risk involved.

  “Lead me to the heretic,” the grey seer growled at the messenger.

  The mounted elves broke through the bushes, pressing their stallions into a gallop as they sighted their quarry far ahead of them. Spites flitted across the path, alternately jeering and applauding the two hunters. The elves carefully ignored the mischievous spirits. The hunt was difficult enough without provoking the interest of the fey. The trees sometimes found it amusing to make a horse stumble over one of their ro
ots or to snag a rider with their branches.

  Ahead of them, the great stag hesitated, its head turning to regard the path before it. While it paused, the trees leaned back, opening a new trail beside the path. The stag glanced at the narrow little trail then darted into the space between the trees.

  “Hurry!” Thalos Stormsword cried. “The fey have taken a hand in our hunt! If they close the trail behind our quarry, we will never catch him!”

  The highborn urged his steed to greater effort, lunging down the path and charging down the newly opened trail. His companion galloped close behind him, rushing to close the distance between hunters and prey. The winding trail curled through the forest, wrapping itself around poplars and pines. Wizened faces peered at the elves from the trunks of the trees, seeming to study the chase with mocking disdain.

  Faster and faster the chase became, the trail twisting upon itself at such intervals that neither elf was able to loose an arrow at the stag before the animal would vanish around the next bend. The creaky voices of the fey groaned through the trees about them, the forest echoing with strange knocks and bangs. The spirits were showing more interest in this hunt than any other the elves had been on. The thought of turning back occurred to each of them, but always the stag would appear suddenly just ahead with the promise of a speedy end to the lengthy chase.

  Finally, Thalos drove his horse through a tangle of ferns and found himself in a small glade. The stag stood panting beside a little brook, its sides heaving as it gasped air into its lungs. In one fluid motion, the highborn raised his bow and nocked an arrow to the string. Before he could shoot, however, his arm froze. It was not sight of the stag which arrested his aim, but recognition of the animal’s surroundings.

  An arrow whistled across the glade, striking the stag through the eye. The animal was dead before it hit the ground, slain almost instantly by the unerring aim of an elf hunter.