by Warhammer
‘As you say, most murderous one,’ Quell said, bobbing his head subserviently. Privately, he considered the verminlord’s grasp of any strategy more complex than ‘scurry-hurry’ to be tenuous at best. But one couldn’t be picky when it came to patrons. Especially patrons as generous – and as stupid – as Skewerax.
He glanced at the gift in question, checking to make sure it was where it was supposed to be. The spear still hung in its chains, its black tip hungrily soaking up the light.
The image of Skewerax leaned forwards. ‘Give it to me.’
Quell’s snout twitched. ‘As you command, most assiduous of assaulters.’ He paused. ‘Did you mean now?’
The daemon’s eyes narrowed. ‘Yesss.’
Quell hesitated. ‘It will take some time.’
‘No. Throw it.’ Skewerax bristled. His bifurcated tail lashed. ‘Throw it, fool-fool.’
‘At you, oh most puissant potentate of pain?’
Quell pre-emptively flinched, knowing what was coming next. Skewerax shrieked, baring his fangs in a grimace of frustration. He reached out, as if to throttle Quell. The daemon lacked Warpfang’s patience. The old warlord was the soul of serenity compared to the Frenzy that Walked. Quell didn’t particularly like either one of them, but he knew which he preferred.
But still – one couldn’t afford to sneer at a daemonic patron. It was only by the good graces of Skewerax that Quell had managed to survive this long. The world was a dangerous place for a renegade skaven; even more so when one took his various crimes into account. He inhaled another lump of powdered warpstone.
He hissed in pleasure, eyelids fluttering. It wasn’t his fault that the explosives he’d used to eliminate his rivals had collapsed an entire district of Blight City. And set the remains on fire. And then left it adrift in the void. There had been any number of unforeseen elements at play. Shoddy masonry. Substandard materials. Sabotage. It was obvious to anyone with half a brain that he was a victim of circumstance.
‘Quell!’
Quell blinked and looked up. The verminlord had finished screeching. Skewerax held a struggling skaven dressed in gaudy armour in one paw. Quell didn’t bother to wonder where the newcomer had come from. Skewerax had a tendency to wander into burrows and take command. The wriggling captive was likely one of old Warpfang’s unlucky warlords. ‘Yes, oh savage one?’
‘You will hurl-throw the spear at this one – what is your name, fool-fool?’ Skewerax snarled, shaking his captive with bone-rattling force. The skaven whimpered something, twitched, and expired. Skewerax blinked and glared at the carcass dangling from his grip. ‘Wait a moment – I will find another one,’ the daemon grumbled, after what might have been an embarrassed silence.
‘Or I could bring it to you in person,’ Quell interjected. The powdered warpstone was singing in his veins now, crackling through him, lending him courage and cunning in equal measure. ‘It will take some time, but you will be pleased, yes-yes.’
Skewerax peered at him. The daemon had only a dim grasp of the concept of time. ‘Why?’ he growled. Ropes of slaver dangled from his narrow jaws.
Quell gestured to the spear. ‘See, oh mighty lord of war – by my genius have we made this infernal weapon into a source of power!’ He threw back his head and cackled. ‘Its realm-bending abilities have been bent to my – our, our – will.’ He raised his fists and hopped from one paw to the other, excited.
‘What?’
Quell paused, one paw lifted. ‘We can throw it – and follow it,’ he said, gesturing. ‘The spear tears a – a hole of sorts in the membrane between realms, yes-yes? Which we can then roll through, mulching anything in our path!’ Another cackle, wilder than the first. ‘No fortress can stand before us, no mystical barrier or warded gateway! I – we, we – shall be supreme!’
‘We can already gnaw holes, Quell,’ Skewerax said heavily. ‘Why do we need a new way to gnaw the holes?’
Quell twitched. ‘Bigger holes,’ he said hesitantly. Then, with a more certain tone, ‘Bigger and more startling holes, yes-yes. In uncomfortable places, for the enemy.’
Skewerax stared at him. Then, ‘I will find a new warlord. You will throw the spear at him. Then I will have the spear, yes-yes?’
‘Or we could just bring it, and then you could see for yourself. I shall use it to crack the very walls of Excelsis.’ Quell shook his fists at the sky, snout thrown back, whiskers a-tingle with righteous indignation and warpstone. ‘The warp-wheel shall ride-crush the man-thing city, mighty Skewerax, and you shall be there to seize victory from their unworthy, hairless paws, yes-yes!’
‘What is a warp-wheel?’
Quell twitched. ‘A… weapon?’
‘Another weapon? You have two weapons?’ Skewerax’s features swelled, and the rats shuddered in their cages. ‘Give me the weapons!’
‘I will bring them to you post-haste, oh mighty colossus of war,’ Quell said, flailing in what he hoped was a placatory manner. ‘Just as soon as we finish the de-infestation procedures. Any time now, yes-yes, quick-soon.’ He hesitated. ‘Relatively.’
‘Relatively?’ Skewerax snarled.
‘Just as soon as we finish killing all of the spiders.’
Skewerax’s reply was lost to the aether, as one by one the rats making up the farsquealer burst in their cages. Quell wiped blood from his robes and sighed in relief. Hopefully they’d be on the move by the time a new connection was established.
Outside the comforting confines of the warp-wheel, Lion Crag was a-buzz with activity. Repairs were being made to the outer hull, even as the last of the stowaway grot corpses were mulched and fed to the rat-ogres who operated the great bellows that kept the forge-fires burning. Smoke billowed from hidden vents as the warp-wheel was repaired, restocked and rearmed for the campaign to come. Soon enough, they’d be ready to leave.
Quell rubbed his paws together in excitement as he gazed up at the spear. ‘Soon-soon, yes-yes, you will take us to the killing ground. And then my genius shall be obvious to all.’ He bared his teeth.
‘Even to stupid-stupid daemons and impatient warlords.’
‘Tell me then, sorcerer, how badly did you lose your last fight?’ Ahazian Kel stared across the steppes towards Lion Crag. The shock of stone rose high above the surrounding grasslands, vomiting smoke from its various hollows and crannies. ‘Must’ve been very badly indeed, given the state of your armour and robes. Was it the skaven, then?’
‘No.’
Ahazian nodded. ‘Good. I’d hate to think you were as weak as that.’
‘Weakness is in the eye of the beholder.’
‘Yes. And I say you look weak.’
One of the ravens croaked warningly. Ahazian glanced at them. The flock studied him watchfully; Ahazian returned the favour. ‘Are there really ninety-nine of them?’
‘You know, I’ve never actually counted,’ Yuhdak said. He turned, head cocked. ‘I suppose I should, at some point, just to make sure I’m not being cheated.’
‘But there might be more of them,’ Ahazian said. ‘Best not to, unless you fancy being held to account for all those extra blades.’
Yuhdak stared at him. ‘Yes, thank you. Might I trouble you for your opinion on our enemy?’
‘There are a lot of them.’
‘You can count. Well done.’
Ahazian chuckled. ‘Careful, sorcerer. I might take offence one day, and then where would you be?’
‘Right back where I started, I expect.’
Still chuckling, Ahazian sank to his haunches and peered again at the distant crag. It was a jagged fang of rock, shaped like an animal’s tooth. It had been called Wolf Crag once, though how and why the name had changed, Ahazian couldn’t say, and didn’t care.
The crag rose over smaller hillocks of rough stone, an island amid the sea of grass that stretched out around it. The skaven had not attempted to hide their
presence – the stony slopes had become riddled with tunnel mouths and bore holes. Smoke gouted from unseen vents, curling through webs consisting of rickety walkways and bridges strung between the natural turrets of the crag.
A heavy palisade of sloppily assembled wood and stone occupied one slope, but there was an open, black path right into the heart of the fortress. Something big had gone that way, likely the great war-machine he could see crouched among the highest cliffs. The ratkin had an appalling fascination for such devices, as if right weaponry would make up for their numerous shortcomings. ‘It’s a nest,’ he said, finally. ‘Probably a staging post, from the look of that machine. The skaven are fond of such things. Useless vermin with their useless schemes.’
‘You mean like supply lines?’
‘Exactly. What good’s killing an enemy if you don’t then eat his food and children?’ Ahazian gestured dismissively. ‘No sense of tradition, the ratkin.’
Yuhdak nodded. ‘So I gather. What are your thoughts?’
Ahazian peered up at the sun, sniffed, and spat. ‘Frontal assault would be easiest.’
Yuhdak waited, saying nothing. The deathbringer chuckled. ‘No, didn’t think you’d like that one.’ He tapped the ground with the edge of his axe. ‘But it’s the most efficient means of accomplishing our goal. I can draw their attention, and you can swoop in and make the kill.’
‘Where is the spear?’
Ahazian reached up to clasp the fragment. The song had grown louder and now echoed through every bone in his body. A murder song, enthralling and divine. The spear was shouting to him, demanding that he find it, and wield it properly. He shook his head. ‘Close. It’s down there somewhere. I suppose you’ll just have to follow me to find it, eh?’
Yuhdak nodded slowly. ‘I suppose so.’
Ahazian stood and approached his steed. The coal-black stallion whickered in anticipation. It snapped at him, in friendly fashion. ‘One last ride, my friend,’ Ahazian said, stroking its neck. ‘And then, perhaps, I shall set you free, to gallop these steppes and feast to your heart’s content.’ Or perhaps not. When a man found a horse worthy of him, it was foolish to let it go.
He swung himself into the saddle. ‘Be quick, sorcerer. Or I shall kill them all before you get a chance to wet that growling blade on your hip.’
Yuhdak spread his hands. ‘It will be as it will be, barbarian. I shall come on wings of shadow, with an army at my back.’ He began to gesture, murmuring softly, and Ahazian felt the air grow stale and thick. Vague shapes became visible, capering silently all about them. Neverborn, drawn by the scent of fates aligning and opportunities seized.
Ahazian frowned and spat, then kicked his steed into a trot. Let the sorcerer play with daemons, if he liked. Ahazian preferred his own tools. He rode down the incline and turned his horse towards Lion Crag. The song of the spear rose riotously, drowning out all thought. He drew his skullhammer and kicked his horse into a gallop. The black horse flung itself forwards, racing flat out, moving faster than any normal animal ought. The horses of the dead ran swiftly. Ahazian laughed.
He was still laughing when he passed through the first picket of skaven sentries, camped out in the blackened, crushed grasses. The ratkin gaped at him as he rode them down. Great gongs sounded, somewhere on the outer slopes of the crag, as someone noticed his approach. He bent low in the saddle and leaned left, sweeping his hammer out to catch a skaven warrior in the chest. The vermin tumbled through the air and fell with a crunch as Ahazian galloped past. He removed the head of another with a casual swipe of his axe.
Ratkin swarmed into view, scampering across the slopes and ledges of the crag as he reached the rocks. Gongs sounded and horns blew. Ahazian clashed his weapons together and bellowed a wordless challenge, drawing every eye.
As he passed through the shadow of the crag, he saw the first of the ravens dart down, swooping towards the ledges and caves. He smashed aside a barbed spear as it was thrust at him. His steed reared, shrieking in fury. Skaven raced towards him, chittering vilely. A dozen, two, a hundred. A tide of hairy bodies, boiling out of their warrens.
There was nothing to see then, but blood and slaughter.
‘We’re making good time,’ Volker said, leaning over the rail. The trail below was as evident as it had been since they’d left Gorch. The skaven were not subtle creatures, for all their cunning. Their war-machine had burned a black swathe across the steppes, setting fires in its wake that choked the horizon with smoke. Wild fires roared below, engulfing the grasslands. It would take them days to burn out.
‘We’d be a damn sight faster if the endrin wasn’t on its last legs.’ Brondt sounded gloomy. ‘Took me a decade to hoard enough to pay for this heap. All gone now.’
‘Grungni will make good on his debts, Brondt. He always does.’ Zana ran a stone across the edge of her sword. She sat on the rail, balanced against a strut. ‘Trust me.’
‘I’d rather trust the leech,’ Brondt said.
Zana laughed, then coughed, as the aether-vessel passed through a column of smoke.
Volker eyed them, wondering, not for the first time, how they’d met. He said nothing, though. Oken joined him at the rail, still wrapped in his furs. He looked old and frail. ‘A fine crew, lad. I bet you’re starting to regret not staying in Azyr, eh?’
Volker smiled. ‘Not yet.’
Oken chuckled. ‘It’ll happen.’ He sighed. ‘I regret it myself, sometimes.’ He leaned against the rail, eyes half-closed. ‘I’m worn out, lad. Rubbed thin and raw by this life.’
‘But you’re alive,’ Volker said softly. ‘Grungni sent me after you.’
‘Grungni sent you after the spear,’ Oken said flatly. He looked at Volker, his gaze hard. ‘Never mistake pragmatism for compassion. The gods have an excess of one and precious little of the other, I’ve found.’
Volker touched the amulet around his neck. ‘If they did not have compassion, they would not be fighting for us now. And they would not inspire us to fight for them.’
Oken shook his head. ‘Stubborn. Like your mother.’
‘You’re as much at fault as she is.’
Oken laughed. ‘True enough.’ He shook his head. ‘Perhaps I shouldn’t have taught you so many of our ways.’ He patted Volker on the arm. ‘Ruined you, probably. Fragile minds and bodies, you humans.’
Volker smiled. ‘You kept me from becoming someone neither of us would have liked, I suspect. Another spoiled Azyrite brat, looking to carve his name on the heart of the world.’ He laughed. ‘And now, I am in service to a god.’
‘As are we all,’ Nyoka said, from behind them. She smiled down at Oken. ‘I am pleased that you survived, Oken. This harsh realm would be poorer for the loss of a scholar such as yourself.’
‘And a fine compliment that is, from yourself.’ Oken grunted suddenly, and staggered. His face was white and worn. Volker moved to catch him, but the duardin waved him back. ‘I’m fine, boy. No need to fuss.’
‘You are still weak, from the arachnarok’s venom. You should rest.’ Nyoka spoke firmly. Oken frowned at her.
‘Not you as well. I am no beardling. I need no nursemaids.’ He pushed past them. ‘I’m going below. Not because you said, mind. Just because I’m tired of the view.’ He pulled the furs tight about himself and stumped off.
‘He is strong. He will recover, in time.’
‘If there’s time.’ He looked at her. ‘Do you hear Sigmar’s voice?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘Now?’
‘No.’ She looked away. ‘I hear him in my dreams, I think. A great voice, tolling down like the peal of a bell, made from starlight and thunder. He showed me things, in my dreams. Showed me what must be, and what will be.’
‘Aren’t those the same thing?’
‘Not always,’ she said. She rubbed at her eye, as if it pained her. ‘That is why I came, I think
. He spoke to me, before your arrival, and told me that I must go. That if I did not, what must be would be rewritten. That I must be prepared for what was to come, and ready to do what must be done.’
‘I don’t think I understand.’
‘Nor do I. But I have faith.’ She gave him another placid smile. ‘You are worried.’
‘Aren’t you?’
‘No.’ She lifted her hammer and held it up to the light. Volker saw a worm coiled there, with the face of a god; Sigmar’s face, on the body of a great worm. He shivered – it was no wonder Calva was as upset as he was. Nyoka continued, seemingly unaware of his unease. ‘Worry is for those who lack faith, Owain. My faith guides me in all things. That Sahg’mahr does not speak, does not mean that he does not show me the way. Even when the realms were sealed away from one another and caught in the chains of Chaos, he was with us.’ She brought the hammer to her lips and kissed the face emblazoned on it. ‘We have but to listen, and hold fast to our faith.’
‘Easier said than done,’ Volker said.
‘If it were easy it would not be a matter of faith.’ Nyoka tapped the head of her hammer against his chest. ‘Always remember that.’ She smiled again, widely. ‘Faith is the road on which the righteous march to victory.’
‘That one I’ve heard before,’ he said. She laughed, as alarm bells sounded. Someone had spotted something. Volker saw a looming rock formation, sharp and jagged, rising from the grasslands ahead. He looked for Brondt. ‘Captain…?’
‘Ha! I thought so.’ Brondt stood nearby, leaning over the rail. ‘They’ve repopulated Lion Crag, the vermin. I knew the Azyrites hadn’t dug deep enough. The one thing about the ratkin you can count on, there’re always more of them than you expect.’
‘Lion Crag,’ Volker muttered. He hadn’t been there, but he’d heard the stories of the fang-like splinters of rock rising from the steppes. The free-standing tower-like mesa resembled nothing so much as the jaw of a beast, with crooked turrets of stone, in place of teeth. It was hollowed through by curving tunnels, worn smooth by the passage of feet. It had been occupied, in one form or another, since the Age of Myth, its name changing to suit its owners.
