The vault was a long, narrow room with a low ceiling and a rough floor of unworked stone. The walls were cut into little niches wherein the mouldering remains of coffins and human bones gave off a musty smell. There were other smells, too, that assailed Fylch’s senses as Krick pushed him through the secret door. Blood was one. Evil was another, a brooding malice so potent that it conveyed itself to the skaven’s sharp nose as a rank, desolate odour. It took Fylch only a heartbeat to detect where the smell was strongest – a huge obsidian sarcophagus that loomed at the far end of the vault.
The sarcophagus, Fylch knew, was where the cult kept the daemon-bell when it wasn’t needed for their rituals. Arcane spells guarded the obsidian vessel and for more mundane purposes there were a series of complex locks that might have befuddled a duardin craftsman. Fylch was relieved to see the sarcophagus standing open. That meant they had beaten the humans to the vault and the bell hadn’t been sealed away. It also meant Fylch would be able to skip the most dangerous role he would have played in Skowl’s plan.
‘Thieves! Ratkin desecraters!’ The cry rang out through the vault. Fylch spun around to see the under-priest and his entourage entering through the vault’s door. Four cultists bore the daemon-bell between them, and he could see the fanatical outrage that twisted their faces when their leader shouted. The armoured guards, however, were of far more immediate concern. They didn’t simply glare at the skaven. They came charging towards Fylch with axes and swords. He glanced around for Skowl and Krick, but the other ratmen had ducked back inside the hidden passage.
Fylch cringed away from the guards as they rushed him. As the first swung at him with a bronze axe, the ratman whipped around, lashing out with his curved sword. Thinking the skaven cowed, the axeman was taken completely by surprise when Fylch’s blade slashed across his arm and tore into his shoulder. The guard cried out as his useless limb lost its hold on the axe and the weight of the weapon dragged down his good arm. For an instant the man was exposed and vulnerable. It was all the opportunity the swift ratman needed. In a blur of fur and steel, Fylch stabbed the point of his sword into the warrior’s throat. The man fell and thrashed on the floor while he choked on his own blood.
Fylch darted around as one of the other guards came at him with a sword. There was no question of parrying the man’s blows. In a contest between human and skaven, the advantage of strength usually belonged to the man-thing. Even a comparative brute like Krick was merely able to hold his own against a human warrior. But the skaven had their own advantages over their enemies. If Fylch could not match the guard’s strength, then the guard could not match his speed. While ducking around the warrior’s blade, the ratman lashed out with his forked tail. Like a scaly whip it cracked against the man’s leg, stinging the exposed skin of his thigh. The sudden and unexpected pain provided a moment of distraction, one that Fylch was quick to exploit. He dived in towards the guard, rolling across the floor and raking his sword across the man’s side as he passed. The guard screamed in agony, a great gout of blood spilling from where the serrated edge of the skaven blade had ripped just above his hip, between the sections of his bronze armour.
Fylch darted a glance at the other cultists. Krick had finally rushed out from the tunnel. One guard was down with his head caved in while the other was trying to fend off the attentions of the spiked maul with his axe. The under-priest was shouting for help while at the same time forcing the cultists carrying the bell towards the obsidian sarcophagus. Fylch hissed a curse on the damnable humans. If they should make it…
One hand clutching his bleeding wound, the guard Fylch had injured chopped at him with his blade. Again, the wily skaven ducked the sweep of the sword and struck out with his own weapon. He had the satisfaction of feeling flesh rip under the steel, and saw a pair of fingers go bouncing across the floor. His hand maimed, the warrior staggered back, trying to recover his momentum. Fylch didn’t give him the chance. Thrusting forwards, he stabbed his blade into the gap in his armour where pauldron joined cuirass. He felt bones crack under the blow and savoured the sharp tang of blood that sprayed from the man’s torn flesh. Darting back from a desperate but unfocused sweep of the guard’s sword, Fylch watched his foe crumple to the ground.
‘The cult-men!’ Skowl roared as he deigned to emerge from the tunnel. ‘Stop-slay!’
Skowl acted on his own words; holding forth his metal glove he pointed the fingers at the cultists. Green energy crackled about the glove, sparks flying from the generator and the reservoir. Then streamers of jade lightning went shivering across the vault. Fylch threw himself to the ground as one of the green bolts hissed past his ears. Others smashed into the roof and walls, blasting little showers of pebbles from the stone.
Some of Skowl’s erratic warp lightning seared into his intended targets. Anguished screams rose from the cultists as the green energy burned through them. Robes and hair burst into flames, flesh blackened and cracked as the humans were flash-boiled.
The immolated cultists fell, and as they fell the daemon-bell crashed to the floor. Again, the dolorous, shivering tone pulsed through the air and trembled through Fylch’s bones.
The under-priest, half-cooked by Skowl’s attack, lurched to his feet, his face ashen where it had not been burned, his eyes wide with terror. In a Herculean effort, he wrapped his arms around the bell and flung it into the sarcophagus. The lid slammed shut as the man collapsed beside it.
If the human had thought to save himself by locking away the bell, he was to be disappointed. Fylch could see the dark, monstrous shape that had suddenly manifested in the vault. He felt its ravenous, malevolent eyes sweep across him and the other skaven. The under-priest was closer to it, however, and it was the cultist it chose for its victim. In a rapid, undulating motion, the daemon surged over the prostrate priest. Fylch had thought the earlier ritual was ghastly, but now he was afforded a close-up view of the proceedings.
It was enough to gag a rat.
As before, once it had claimed its meal, the daemon evaporated with the same swiftness with which it had manifested. The only evidence of its advent was the gory litter it left behind.
Skowl was the first of the skaven to recover his wits once the daemon was gone. He glanced at his still glowing glove, then at the dead cultists, and finally at the sealed sarcophagus. His lips peeled back from his fangs and he lashed his tail angrily from side to side. Turning towards Fylch, he seized him and pulled him within inches of the exposed fangs.
‘Fool-meat! Traitor-meat! Why Fylch not stop-slay man-things?’ Skowl dumped Fylch to the floor and continued to glare at him. ‘Now Fylch will open bell-box! Quick-quick!’ He turned his head towards Krick, who was standing over the body of the last guard. ‘Fail-falter and I will feed your spleen to Krick!’ The proposition brought a grisly leer from the black-furred skaven.
‘Yes-yes, bold-wise Skowl.’ Fylch bobbed his head in an unctuous display. He didn’t dare tell the warlock engineer that it was his fault the cultists had dropped the bell and called the daemon back. A skaven quickly learned it wasn’t smart to point out the mistakes of superiors.
Muttering curses under his breath, Fylch approached the sarcophagus. He was careful to keep away from the mangled mess that had been the under-priest. Closer to the obsidian vessel, he could feel the crackle of the protective wards cast upon it. The lid of the sarcophagus had been cut into the semblance of a human skeleton – a grim touch that he didn’t appreciate under the circumstances. He wasn’t certain what the wards would do to a thief and he wanted to keep things that way.
Fylch rummaged about the pouches sewn inside his tunic. He discarded a ball of twine, some rock-hard cheese, an empty moth cocoon, three azurite beads, a lizard fang… Finally his paws closed around the object he wanted. It was a long, smelly item: a severed skaven hand that had been pickled and then coated in paraffin. Each finger was upright with a little wick pinned to the claw. The mummer he had bought it from call
ed it a ‘paw of gory’ and claimed the magics invested into it would counteract any spell that tried to foil a thief. Fylch had used it before, as two singed fingers attested, but never to steal anything that he was absolutely certain had some kind of arcane protection.
‘Hurry-scurry! Quick-quick!’ Skowl snapped. The warlock engineer didn’t have much patience and what he did possess was wearing thin.
Gnashing his fangs and clenching his glands, Fylch set the paw of gory down on the floor. From another pocket he brought a duardin tinderbox and used it to light one of the wicks. He started to put it away, then reflected on the eerie sensation of the arcane wards. There was power here that might need more to oppose it. He hastily lit the other fingers so that all five were flickering with an ugly blue glow. Almost at once, he felt the uncanny crackle of the wards dissipate. As long as the wax-coated fingers burned, the arcane wards would be rendered impotent.
Fylch glanced back at Skowl and Krick, then swiftly set to work. There was no need to rummage around to find the intricate lock picks he carried. He kept them secure on his belt where they would always be in easy reach if he needed to get out of a tight spot quickly. Staring at the morbid sarcophagus, Fylch felt this was about as dangerous a place as he had ever been in.
With the paw of gory sputtering away, Fylch approached the mechanism the cult used to secure their relic. Previous inspection of it had convinced him it was going to be a tough bone to crack. Coupled with the wards, it was the reason he had persuaded Skowl that they should intercept the bell rather than try to steal it from the vault. Besides, the warlock engineer wanted to make sure the bell really summoned daemons before going through with the scheme.
Fylch now attacked the problem of the devilish locks. A pick gripped in each paw, two more clutched in the coils of his bifurcated tail, and a fifth clamped between his fangs, he set to work. Carefully, with the exacting caution only someone raised in the paranoid society of skaven could master, he manipulated the tumblers and teeth. There was a system to the mechanisms, forcing each to be opened in sequence before the whole would be overcome. Fylch experienced moments of panic as picks threatened to snap under the pressure of the teeth, and tumblers refused to budge. So intent was he on his task that he even ignored the demands and threats Skowl shouted at him. The locks would be finished when they were finished. Not before.
There was only one thing that could urge Fylch to reckless haste, and a chance glance back at the paw of gory provided it. Two of the fingers were already burned down to mere nubs while the others had less than half their length to go! Once they were all extinguished, whatever dread spell guarded the sarcophagus would be unleashed.
Fylch pried and prodded the locks with all five picks, juggling and jostling with abandon. Unable to think about what he was doing, he fell back to instinct and the innate sense of long experience. First one, then another of the locks sprang open. Soon it was Fylch’s turn to demand haste.
‘Fetch-take bell! Fast-quick!’ He swung open the lid of the vessel, exposing the sinister bell.
Skowl now turned his impatient ire on Krick. ‘Get-fetch! Help loyal-clever Fylch!’ he snarled at the brute. Pointing the glowing warp-glove towards the skaven motivated him to be quick.
Fylch helped Krick lift the bell away from the sarcophagus, trying to ensure that the clapper didn’t strike the sides. ‘Quick-quick,’ he hissed to the black-furred killer. He was watching the paw of gory burning down to its last knuckle. When it went out, the arcane wards would return.
‘Lift-carry, tick-sniffer,’ Krick cursed as he hefted the bell. Together the two ratmen managed to carry it away from the sarcophagus. Fylch felt the magical crackle of the restored wards as they scurried away. He was still happy not knowing what the spell would do to a thief.
‘Rest later,’ Skowl told them as they lugged the bell towards the tunnel. ‘We find-seek Teekritt. Use his bell-box to take-leave cult-nest.’
Fylch and Krick both bobbed their heads in agreement. Right now, anything that let them set down the heavy bell sounded like a good idea. It seemed to grow heavier with each step they took, but knowing what would happen if they dropped it made them persist.
It wasn’t particularly reassuring to Fylch to see Skowl keeping his distance as they trudged down the tunnels. If anything did happen, the warlock engineer was making sure it didn’t happen to him.
Fylch’s arms felt as though they were on fire by the time he and Krick finally reached the spot where Teekritt was waiting for them. Krick gave a happy squeak when he saw the cart and the big metal casket Teekritt had prepared to receive the bell. Fylch winced when he saw the ramshackle conveyance. It looked as if it would collapse under the bell’s weight when they loaded it. Skowl had been so meticulous in all his plotting and scheming, but this minor detail appeared to have escaped his devious cunning.
‘No-not drop-trip now!’ Fylch warned the black skaven.
Krick bared his fangs. If his hands weren’t around the bottom of the bell, he might have put them around Fylch’s neck. ‘If weasel-licking Fylch would hold-carry his end!’ he growled.
Teekritt squeaked in horror when the two skaven took a final stumble towards the cart. The clapper swayed perilously close to the side of the bell. All three of the ratmen froze and didn’t twitch so much as a whisker. Scrambling under the bell, Teekritt reached up and held the clapper still. Gesturing with his free paw he motioned the others forwards, keeping the bell silent while they pushed it onto the cart.
Fylch let out a deep breath once the bell was in place. ‘Good-glad to put down bell.’
Krick grimaced at the rickety cart Teekritt had brought. A spurt of fear musk wafted into the air. ‘Need better-good way to carry-take bell,’ he complained. He turned and looked at Skowl as the warlock engineer approached, finally deigning to join the others now that danger was no longer imminent. ‘Cart make bell shake-ring.’
Skowl bruxed his fangs and gave Krick a sharp look. ‘I already plan-plot. I need-want Krick carry bell. Now I need-want Krick keep bell quiet.’
Krick’s ears were folded back in puzzlement as he heard Skowl speak. He still had that confused look when Fylch drove his sword into the ratman’s back. Krick spun around, fangs bared, but Fylch’s blow had been delivered with the murderous skill of an assassin. Death silenced Krick’s fury before he could even raise a claw to his killer.
Skowl looked away from the corpse to Teekritt. ‘Get to work,’ he told the tinker-rat.
Teekritt scurried underneath the cart and dragged out a wooden skinning rack. In short order he had Krick’s body stretched out and was peeling away the ratman’s woolly hide with a flensing knife.
‘Krick will muffle-quiet the bell,’ Skowl declared. ‘Let sleeping daemons sleep.’ He turned to Fylch. ‘Grey Seer Nezslik pay much-much for magic bell, but not enough for Krick-share.’
Fylch bobbed his head in agreement, while trying to keep any sign of agitation from his posture. ‘Big-share better than little-share,’ he said.
Skowl displayed his fangs in a gruesome grin. ‘True-squeak,’ he agreed. Before he could continue, the sound of something running down the tunnel brought all three skaven spinning around. Their agitation relaxed slightly when they saw that it was only Brakkik returning to join them. The ratmaster looked even more ragged than before, breathing heavily and without his entourage of trained rodents scurrying about his feet.
‘Where are Haak and Ragbrat?’ Skowl wanted to know.
Brakkik dipped his head in apology to the warlock engineer. ‘Dead-die, ‘ he reported, though there wasn’t any regret in his tone. ‘Ragbrat shoot-kill man-priest, then Brakkik’s rats confuse-scare cult-things. Some cult-things see-find skaven. Chase-hunt! Ragbrat try to shoot-kill but jezzail-gun explode!’ Brakkik made a violent gesture with his hand. ‘Haak use Poison Wind globes to gas-kill, but poison get into mask!’
‘Then they are all dead,’ Skowl st
ated. He gave Fylch a knowing look.
Fylch fumbled among his pockets until he found the squirming bundle he wanted. He pulled out the rat, its back branded with the number four. A flick of his claws broke the tethers that bound its legs and jaws. He held the animal towards Brakkik. ‘Lose-drop,’ he said. ‘Fylch find-save.’
As Fylch released the rat it went scampering straight for Brakkik. The ratmaster squeaked in horror, all too aware of what kind of treachery was afoot. He frantically patted his clothes, trying to find the scented treat that was drawing the number four rat to him. It was a futile effort, Fylch had hidden it with the same dexterity that had allowed him to steal it in the first place. Brakkik realised this and turned to flee down the tunnel, but even as he did, the rat reached him. It scurried up his back and down the neck of his coat. An instant later there was a hideous scream and a bright plume of fire as the vermin found its deadly treat and the resulting conflagration consumed its master.
‘Then there were three,’ Skowl stated. ‘Clever-quick Fylch. Now we split all their shares.’
Fylch bobbed his head in agreement. Skowl watched as he rummaged in one of his pockets and brought out the screw he had removed from Ragbrat’s gun and the valve that had previously been attached to Haak’s respirator. ‘Skowl not need-want more?’ Fylch asked, backing away from the warlock engineer.
‘I did not need-want Brakkik and others,’ Skowl said. ‘They not-no useful. Clever-loyal Fylch is useful.’ He looked aside to Teekritt as the tinker-rat was stuffing Krick’s hide inside the bell to muffle its clapper. ‘Teekritt clever-loyal too,’ he added. ‘Both clever-loyal skaven put bell inside bell-box now.’
Inferno Volume 2 - Guy Haley Page 30
