A WARHAMMER NOVEL
TEMPLE OF THE SERPENT
Thanquol & Boneripper - 02
C.L. Werner
(An Undead Scan v1.0)
For Emily—who will appreciate the lizards,
snakes and dinosaurs if not the rats.
This is a dark age, a bloody age, an age of daemons and of sorcery. It is an age of battle and death, and of the world’s ending. Amidst all of the fire, flame and fury it is a time, too, of mighty heroes, of bold deeds and great courage.
At the heart of the Old World sprawls the Empire, the largest and most powerful of the human realms. Known for its engineers, sorcerers, traders and soldiers, it is a land of great mountains, mighty rivers, dark forests and vast cities. And from his throne in Altdorf reigns the Emperor Karl Franz, sacred descendant of the founder of these lands, Sigmar, and wielder of his magical warhammer.
But these are far from civilised times. Across the length and breadth of the Old World, from the knightly palaces of Bretonnia to ice-bound Kislev in the far north, come rumblings of war. In the towering Worlds Edge Mountains, the orc tribes are gathering for another assault. Bandits and renegades harry the wild southern lands of the Border Princes. There are rumours of rat-things, the skaven, emerging from the sewers and swamps across the land. And from the northern wildernesses there is the ever-present threat of Chaos, of daemons and beastmen corrupted by the foul powers of the Dark Gods.
As the time of battle draws ever nearer, the Empire needs heroes like never before.
PROLOGUE
Unblinking eyes stared with cold, emotionless intensity at the bloated bulk that sprawled in the half-light of a subterranean chamber. The cloying stench of reptilian musk mixed with the pungent humidity of the air to create an almost tangible fug within the buried grotto. Insects buzzed about the surface of a scum-covered pool while creeping things crawled along the damp walls to bask in the few beams of daylight stabbing through the cracked tiles of the ceiling, drawing the heat of the sun to warm their cold bodies.
The eyes of the watchers ignored the small lizards basking on the walls, their bodies bobbing upwards in little displays of bravado to warn away the other reptiles. Tiny snakes, their bright bodies like ribbons of black and crimson, writhed between the carvings that covered the stone walls, sometimes pausing to taste the foetid air with their flickering tongues. In the darkness, wiry grey spiders mended their webs, shaking shimmering beads of dew from the strands so that their gossamer traps would not be betrayed.
It was something more subtle than the chores of spiders that caused the slit-like pupils of the watchers to widen with interest. From dagger-thin slivers of black, the pupils expanded to nearly overwhelm the amber puddles of their eyes. Leathery crests of scaly skin undulated upon the blunt, wedge-like heads of the watchers in silent expression of the concern that intruded upon their vigil.
The watchers surrounded a bloated, slimy mass, a thing of scummy green and festering yellow, mottled with patches of black dots and stripes. Under their gaze, the pattern of blotches was shifting, fading and changing, assuming new patterns almost faster than the minds of the watchers could follow.
The largest of the watchers straightened its body from where it had crouched upon the damp floor. The crest atop its reptilian head flapped open, a brilliant flash of scarlet that contrasted with the blue-grey scales that covered its wiry body. In response to the skink’s display, several of the smaller watchers set little thimble-like contrivances over their claws. The tools gleamed in the dim light like tiny stars as they slid into place over the reptilian hands, diamonds reflecting the fiery brilliance of the sun.
Other skinks came forward and set stone tablets in the laps of the diamond-fingered watchers, who then began scratching their claws into the faces of the tablets. Everything was conducted with a deliberate, but somehow calm, haste. The skinks studied the shifting patterns of the slimy body, recording each change in stone.
The amphibian shape soaking within its hibernation pool was oblivious to the hurried labours of the skinks. The golden, bulging eyes of the creature were open, but there was neither sight nor intelligence behind the slumbering gaze. The frog-like slann was as oblivious to the skinks as they were to the lizards and insects that scurried around them. Only its dreams were real to it as it slumbered, dreams that engulfed its mind and caused its skin to shift colour and pattern.
There were many dimensions beyond the physical, many that no brain could ever perceive, much less imagine. Lord Tlaco’amoxtli’ueman was among the oldest of his kind, a being that had been spawned by the Old Ones to understand these dimensions, to see the vectors of the Great Math and their impact upon the higher phases. The harmonies of the equations became increasingly complex as the labours of the Old Ones brought existence further and farther from the universal null towards which all things decayed.
Perhaps the Old Ones had needed things of flesh to appreciate the impact of their algebra upon the lower phases, or perhaps they had needed beings such as the slann to understand how the lower dimensions could cast fractions of themselves into the higher in an effort to escape final decay. Whatever their logic, the brains of the slann had been engineered to see the arithmetic behind all existence that they might keep the equations of the Old Ones balanced.
But things had gone wrong. In their experiments the Old Ones had created low phase creatures with the potential for devastating impact upon the higher phases of order. The essences of these beings expressed themselves in simple algorithms, but of immense numerical size, as though in defiance of their inevitable decay and negation. Too late did the slann understand the impact of these arrays upon the higher dimensions. Too late did the Old Ones understand the illogic that had infected their carefully plotted vectors.
The design of the Old Ones collapsed under the corruption of persistent fractals, fractals that were not merely echoes of life, but things that existed in multidimensional displacements. Their numerical values did not decay, but swelled by adding into themselves the algorithms of the low phase creatures. Under the madness of these persistent fractals, the equations of the Old Ones were unbalanced, broken by a perverse arithmetic.
The Old Ones had faded from the malignance of the persistent fractals, incapable of enduring within their broken vectors. Sometimes, Lord Tlaco could almost perceive the lingering shades of the shattered vectors, recast into persistent fractals themselves. It was a disharmony that even a mage-priest could not fully comprehend. Were these shards of the masters or simply new fractals cast into the semblance of the old vectors?
The slann considered one of these persistent fractals. It was a repugnance of irrational numbers and unbalanced singularities. Yet, at the very core, Lord Tlaco could almost sense a string of the ancient harmonies. It troubled the slann’s thoughts. Was this simply another creation of the low phase algorithms coalescing in the higher dimensions, or was it an expression of the broken vectors trying to reassert itself? Could the equation be balanced by the addition of yet another persistent fractal? Would even the Old Ones dare to work in such a reckless manner?
There were no easy answers. The slann knew that this particular fractal had expressed itself in a way that made many of the low phase minions of the mage-priests venerate it. The fractal had manifested as a low phase being and routed the infestation of corrupted algorithms that had once threatened to return the slann and all of their minions to the universal null.
Lord Tlaco’s mind focused upon the discordant memory of those corrupted algorithms. Like so many of the unbalancing influences, they were warm-quick, emotional and illogical. To contemplate them was to contemplate the square root of negation. More so than any other beings, they
were the product of persistent fractals, the spawn of debased mathematics and disordered equations. Of all the pollution befouling the patterns of the Old Ones, they were the most debased.
Yet might they not serve to further the vision of the Old Ones? Might they not be used to balance the equation?
The slann shivered in his slumber and considered the dangers of inviting such terrible potentialities into the ordered math of his own domain.
CHAPTER ONE
Shadows of Skavenblight
“We have listened to your report, Grey Seer Thanquol.”
The voice was like the snap of a whip lashing out from the darkness of the immense chamber. The speaker himself was lost in the cloying darkness that filled the hall, nothing more than a shadow and a whisper.
Grey Seer Thanquol stood at the centre of the cavernous chamber, bathed in a sickly green spotlight that all but blinded his sensitive eyes. He could feel the pit below the trap creak and groan beneath him, could smell the faint scent of stagnant water and reptilian musk wafting up from the pit beneath the trap door. It was muttered among the inhabitants of Skavenblight that their tyrannical masters, the Lords of Decay, used the pit to execute those who had displeased them. At a sign from one of the sinister overlords of the skaven race a lever would be thrown and the offending ratman would be dropped into the watery depths far below, there to have his flesh devoured by obscene hybrids of rat and alligator, mutant creations of Clan Moulder.
Thanquol swallowed the knot growing in his throat and controlled the urge to leap from the trap door at the centre of the room. To do so would be to invite certain death. He knew the shadows concealed any number of the Council’s elite bodyguard, mute albino stormvermin chosen for their strength and relative fearlessness. Then there were the members of the Council themselves to consider, a dozen of the most vicious villains ever bred by the teeming hordes of skavendom. Challenging them on their own ground would be an act of lunacy Thanquol doubted if even the accursed crimson-furred dwarf who had interfered with so many of his past schemes would be mad enough to attempt.
The numbing scent of smouldering warpstone made it difficult for Thanquol to concentrate, to focus his senses on the raised dais at the far end of the chamber and the sinister figures hidden behind it in the dark. He knew that if the need arose, it would be all but impossible to conjure a spell with the warpstone vapours befuddling his thoughts. Ancient and evil, the despotic Council of Thirteen was taking no chances with him. Backed into a corner, even the lowest skaven would show his fangs. When that skaven could command the powerful-magic of the Horned Rat, even the Lords of Decay preferred to take no chances.
“The loss of the Wormstone causes us great concern.” This voice was oily and foul, the slobbering lisp of a thawing swamp. Thanquol shuddered as he recognised the decayed tones of Arch-Plaguelord Nurglitch, supreme leader of the plague monks of Clan Pestilens. The Council had sent Thanquol as their representative to secure the Wormstone from beneath the man-thing city of Altdorf, but there had been a rival expedition dispatched to steal it from him when he had found it. Thanquol wasn’t sure how many of the Council were behind the plot, but since his rivals had been plague monks led by the ghastly Lord Skrolk, there was no question that Nurglitch had been a prominent patron of the scheme.
Thanquol bruxed his fangs together, grinding his teeth in a fit of nervous anxiety. It would be like Nurglitch to be the first of the Council to express his anger over the loss of the Wormstone, even if it was the self-serving treachery of Clan Pestilens that had resulted in its loss. What lies had Nurglitch told the other Lords of Decay, and what bribes and pacts had he made to ensure they were believed? There was no love between Clan Pestilens and the grey seers, and even less between the plague monks and Thanquol himself. But did Thanquol dare to try and exploit that fissure of mutual hate and distrust? Could he depend on the support of Seerlord Kritislik and his allies on the Council if he accused Nurglitch of treachery? More importantly, if he did so would he be able to scramble off the trap door before Nurglitch had the switch thrown and sent him plummeting into an unclimbable pit of death?
The grey seer squinted into the harsh green spotlight. He couldn’t see any of the Lords of Decay, not even his master Kritislik. Faintly, he could make out the outline of the huge empty seat at the centre of the dais, the one kept empty and waiting for the presence of the Horned Rat himself. Kritislik, as Seerlord, was counted the voice of the skaven god and was allowed to interpret the Horned Rat’s will whenever the Council debated a subject. Thanquol doubted if even the effective double vote this gave Kritislik would be enough to sway the Council into open hostility with Clan Pestilens. The last time the other clans made war with Clan Pestilens, the entire Under-Empire had been ravaged. Worse, Clan Pestilens had nearly succeeded in overcoming the combined might of the other great clans! Only the timely re-appearance of Clan Eshin from the distant lands of Grand Cathay had prevented Clan Pestilens from overthrowing the Council of Thirteen. Even so, their power was such that they could not be denied a position on the Council and a place among the great clans.
No, Thanquol decided, Kritislik won’t put his neck out by openly provoking Nurglitch, and if he does, the other great clans won’t support him.
A decision reached, Thanquol stared at the spot in the darkness where he thought Nurglitch’s voice had spoken. “Great and putrescent Plaguelord,” he said, careful to keep his tone the proper mix of fawning respect and cowering fear. “The Wormstone has indeed been lost to us. The cowardice and stupidity of the Under-Altdorf leaders made it impossible to recover the artefact from the man-things that stole it.”
Thanquol coughed and tried not to choke on the next words that hissed past his fangs. “Even the timely assistance of Clan Pestilens and your brave champion Lord Skrolk was not enough to undo the treachery of the Under-Altdorf leaders.”
There was a grotesque rumble from the darkness, like an ogre being sucked down into a bog. It took Thanquol several breaths to realise that it was the sound of Nurglitch laughing.
“The loss of our brave kin from Clan Pestilens is to be lamented,” the thin snarl of Kritislik cut through the boiling exuberance of Nurglitch’s laughter. “But how is it that the Wormstone was placed in such jeopardy in the first place?”
Thanquol cringed as he heard the Seerlord make his accusation. Kritislik clearly wasn’t happy with the way he had appealed to Nurglitch by ignoring the grab the plague monks had made for the Wormstone. His mind fought through the numbing confusion of the incense, racing to find a new scapegoat for the Seerlord’s ire.
“It was Grey Seer Thratquee,” Thanquol said, mentioning the first name that occurred to him. Thratquee was the ancient, corrupt grey seer who led the council of Under-Altdorf. As he thought it over, everything had been Thratquee’s fault. If he’d been more aware of what was going on in Under-Altdorf, there was no way Lord Skrolk would have been able to subvert some of its inhabitants and use them in several attempts to murder Thanquol and steal the artefact. Besides, Thanquol didn’t like the old priest anyway. “It was his idea to grind up the Wormstone and use it to poison the humans. Every moment I was in Under-Altdorf, I was under the watch-sniff of his minions. At no time could I get away from my guards and return to tell this most terrible Council of Thratquee’s plans. I tried-wanted to stop him…”
“We must congratulate Grey Seer Thratquee for his most keen foresight,” the brutal snap of General Paskrit’s voice growled. “My agents tell me that a tenth of Under-Altdorf’s population was killed in the flooding of their warrens, that the damage inflicted upon that upstart burrow will cripple its growth for generations. It will be a long time before they dare think themselves as mighty as Skavenblight!”
“…from executing his plan in a way that would cause the loss of the Wormstone…” Thanquol hurried to elaborate as he heard Paskrit speak.
“The Wormstone would have been most useful to us,” came the unctuous voice of Doomclaw, warlord of Clan Rictus. “However, perha
ps it is better lost where it cannot be found again and used against us.”
“…because I believed there was a better-better way to lose-hide the Wormstone.” Thanquol bruxed his fangs again as he spoke. It was unfair that the Council was prepared to give Thratquee the acclaim and reward that was rightfully his own!
“It is to be regretted that the Wormstone has been lost,” the metallic groan of Warlock Lord Morskittar’s voice echoed through the Chamber of Thirteen. After centuries of unnatural life, the leader of Clan Skryre was more arcane machine than flesh and blood skaven. “However, its very existence would have been a threat to the stability of the Under-Empire. Grey Seer Thratquee has done this Council a great service by removing such a tempting morsel from the plate of any ambitious upstarts.”
There was an angry wheeze from the shadows where Nurglitch sat as Morskittar spoke. Hatred of Clan Skryre was probably the only common ground that Clan Pestilens and the grey seers shared.
“The humbling of Under-Altdorf at the same time shows a skaven who knows where his loyalties lie,” mused the shrill chittering voice of Packlord Verminkin, master of Clan Moulder.
Thanquol’s eyes narrowed with hate. This was ridiculous! The mad old Thratquee had done nothing but sit in his decadent burrow with his breeders and rot his brain with warpdust! Thanquol had been the one who took all the risks! He had been the one who dared the corruption of touching the Wormstone by having his minions experiment with it! He had been the one who had braved the treacherous blades of assassins and the putrid magic of Lord Skrolk! It was his brilliance that had concocted the plan to poison the reservoir beneath Altdorf and doom both the human city and the upstart skaven metropolis beneath it to a lingering death! It was his bravery that had nearly won the day, defying both the treason of Clan Pestilens and the frightful magic of the human wizard-thing! If not for the cowardice of his minions, if not for the betrayal of his adored apprentice Kratch, if not for the brainless stupidity of his rat ogre bodyguard Boneripper, he would have succeeded! The Council of Thirteen would be showering him with praises and honours!
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