Rikkit Snapfang was still out of sorts because he had petitioned Clan Skryre for a few warlock-engineers to help him clear away these shooting machines that were causing him such trouble. The Chief Warlock himself was a bit more Clan Skryre than he had bargained for and he was openly afraid of Ikit Claw’s presence in his warren. The sub-chiefs and clawleaders under Rikkit were no better, alternately fawning over and cowering before the fearsome Claw.
Ikit Claw, of course, conducted himself with the iron tyranny of a petty despot, pillaging Bonestash of its resources. Not for the coming battle with the dwarfs, though. Oh no, the Claw needed everything for whatever experiment he was conducting in the old brood-chamber. So much for the bravery of Clan Skryre!
That left Thanquol to pursue the campaign against the dwarfs. At the meeting, it was decided that the grey seer would lead a scouting party into the mines and investigate the new defences the dwarfs had been constructing over the past weeks. Rikkit pledged a few hundred of his “best warriors” for Thanquol to lead, while the Claw had given him a dozen of his “finest sharpshooters”.
The Claw’s sharpshooters had deserted as soon as they were out of smell of Bonestash, slipping into the dark with the skill of an Eshin deathmaster. Rikkit’s “best warriors” were too pathetic and dull-witted to manage even that much cunning. Thanquol wondered who those armoured stormvermin belonged to if this rabble was Rikkit’s “best warriors”. No doubt, the black-furred brutes were just fungus-farmers in disguise!
Lashing his tail in annoyance, Thanquol cursed once more the names of his duplicitous allies. One of them should be leading this suicide run, not him! They were just petty warlords and tinker-rats, but he was a grey seer and above such grubby dealings. He should be back in the warren helping plot the next phase in the campaign. And he would be too if that warp-wit Skraekual hadn’t been so debilitated by an excess of warp-weed that he couldn’t even twitch a whisker much less stand on his feet. It had taken a supreme effort of will (and sight of that cursed black ring) to keep from bashing in the wretch’s head then and there.
The scent of skaven musk gradually lessened, replaced by the smell of dwarfs and metal. Thanquol could tell from the way the passageway was sloping upwards that they would soon be quit of the ratruns dug by Clan Mors and must then enter the mines of the dwarfs. If he was going to escape this fool’s exercise, then he would have to do it soon.
Thanquol looked back over his shoulder at the skeletal bulk of Boneripper. With the desertion of the skirmishers, every skaven in the scouting party was from Clan Mors. He could tell the rat-ogre to turn on them, roast them alive with its warpfire projector. Afterwards he could claim the brute had malfunctioned, or better yet try to insinuate that Boneripper had somehow been acting upon some treacherous instruction from Ikit Claw. Would he be able to make Rikkit buy that? More importantly, could he be sure there wouldn’t be any survivors to tell the warlord otherwise?
Tugging at his whiskers, the grey seer made the depressing conclusion that he’d need to wait until the clanrats were actually locked in battle to be sure his plan would work. Caught between the dwarfs and Boneripper, there’d be only the smallest chance anybody would get back alive. Except himself, of course, but that would clearly be a sign of the esteem in which the Horned Rat held him.
A sound from one of the side passages connecting onto the main shaft brought Thanquol up short. He gnashed his fangs in outrage as the clanrats scattered, leaving their horned commander dangerously exposed to whatever was sneaking about in the gloom. The grey seer quickly spun around, putting the solid mass of Boneripper’s leg between himself and whatever was creeping towards his patrol.
“Boneripper!” Thanquol hissed. “Burn-slay! Burn-slay!” Kill first and find out what it was later had been a good rule of claw as far as the grey seer was concerned.
With a whir of gears and a rumble of pistons, Boneripper raised its warpfire projector, directing the nozzle at the connecting passage. Then the automaton froze, becoming as still as a statue.
“Burn-slay!” Thanquol shouted, smacking his staff against the rat-ogre’s ribcage, wincing as the unyielding metal and bone sent a shudder through his arm. He knew it! Safety valve indeed! The damnable abomination didn’t work! It was all a trick to get him killed depending on a faulty rat-ogre!
An instant later, the grey seer smelled the distinct scent of Clan Skryre ratmen. He glared through narrowed eyes as a pair of cloaked skaven emerged from the shadows. If their clan-scent hadn’t betrayed them, the crazed array of pneumatic arms fastened to the harnesses they wore would have. The visage of each ratman was hidden behind a weird metal helmet, pipes and hoses running from the iron masks into a series of cylinders fastened to the harnesses they wore. Warlock-engineers! Thanquol was really coming to despise that cursed safety valve!
“Stop-safe,” Thanquol growled, calling off his bodyguard before Boneripper could overheat or blow up or whatever it was the lummox would do unless he told it to back down.
The warlock-engineers looked about, inspecting the cluster of trembling clanrats. Thanquol could hear the breath of the tinker-rats gurgling through their respirators.
“Where-where are shooters?” one of the warlock-engineers demanded.
“Gone,” Thanquol hissed. “Scurried off at the first sniff of dwarf-smell!”
The answer obviously didn’t please the warlock-engineers. Whatever they were up to, they looked of a mind to forget it and head back to Bonestash. They might have, too, had it not been for the ratman who had come with them, carefully hiding behind the Clan Skryre tinker-rats until Boneripper had been called off.
“Ikit Claw will be displeased with them,” the third skaven said. Thanquol ground his fangs as he recognised the voice. Grey Seer Skraekual loped out from the gloom, bowing his horned head in sneering deference to Thanquol.
“We felt-thought you could use some help,” Skraekual explained. There was no hint of debility about the other grey seer now. Indeed, Thanquol hadn’t even recognised Skraekual’s scent, lacking the usual stink of warp-weed and brain-dust.
A horrible thought came creeping into Thanquol’s mind as he stared at Skraekual. He was standing so straight and tall, without a sniff of addiction and weakness about him that if Thanquol didn’t know better he’d swear Skraekual was one of those zealots who never touched anything stronger than mole-milk for fear of tainting their connection to the Horned One.
It was impossible that he could have been deceived by the scurvy warp-wit! Nobody could fool a skaven of his perception and guile! Besides, if it had been a trick, why had Skraekual chosen this moment to scurry out from behind his mask?
“I have all the help I need-want,” Thanquol said. He gestured with his staff at the motley pack of clanrats. “These are best-fiercest fighters in Bonestash,” he said. “Worth-equal twenty dwarf-things!” The clanrats seemed to take the compliment with a mix of stupid pride and craven anxiety—no doubt wondering if Thanquol really expected them to take on twenty dwarfs.
Skraekual grinned at the obvious lie, displaying his rotten teeth. “Then we should be safe accompanying you,” the grey seer said. “Surely nothing to worry-fear with great Grey Seer Thanquol and his brave-strong war-rats to protect us!”
It wasn’t so much the fact that Skraekual and the warlock-engineers started laughing that got under Thanquol’s fur, it was the way the ungracious vermin did it.
Angrily, Thanquol turned to his clanrats. “Onward!” he snarled. “Hurry-scurry! I’ll feed the slowest fool-meat to my rat-ogre!”
The clanrats set off at an admirably frantic pace, not hesitating to wonder why a warp-powered skeleton would want to eat them. Thanquol preened his whiskers as he watched them race off down the tunnel. If he couldn’t demand the respect of his peers, at least he could still command the fear of his subordinates.
The scouting party was soon deep within the no-rat’s-land between the mines Rikkit’s warriors had been able to secure and the upper deeps still held by the dwarfs.
The stink of fear rising from Thanquol’s warriors was obscene. It took a fresh tirade of curses and threats to get them moving again every dozen yards. The clanrats just about jumped out of their fur every time they heard a beam creak or a common rat kick up some dust. It vexed the grey seer to think these maggot-munchers thought they had something more terrible than his own anger to worry about. He was sorely tempted to wither a few of them with a violent display of magic just to get the point across.
Instead, Thanquol just grabbed the handiest of the skaven by his throat.
“What-why are you coward-flesh afraid?” Thanquol growled, making a full display of his fangs. “I am here. The might of my magic is great-better than any dwarf-thing!”
The frightened ratman went limp in Thanquol’s grip. “Mercy-pity, Horrific One!” he whined. “We survive-escape first attack-raid on dwarf-things! Seen-saw nasty-mean gun-things! Many skaven die-die from shooty-kill!”
Thanquol felt a little tingle of fear run through him as he heard the description of what might be waiting for him just around the next bend. He quickly got control of himself, angered that this craven little parasite was trying to infect him with his cowardice. “The Horned One will protect-guard you!” he snarled angrily. “No-none dwarf-thing can-will match the magic of Grey Seer Thanquol! You will be safe-safe with my power watching over you!”
Well, at least maybe the other skaven would be safe. In his fury Thanquol had put a bit too much pressure on the clanrat’s neck and strangled the wretch. He dropped the body to the ground and prodded it against the wall with his staff, trying to make its presence as inconspicuous as possible. Raising his head, he glared at the other skaven, daring any of them to comment.
“Fast-quick,” he growled at the clanrats. “I want to get this over-done quick-quick!” Thanquol slammed the butt of his staff against the floor, causing the many talismans tied to it to rattle and jangle. The clanrats didn’t need any further display of his impatience. With indecent haste, they began scrambling through the mine shaft. Thanquol lashed his tail in amusement. Who would have thought strangling one of the fleas would be as effective as immolating them with a spell?
“Thanquol,” Skraekual hissed. The other grey seer was developing an annoying habit of getting around behind him. It made Thanquol’s fur crawl to know the conniving Skraekual could exploit even the most momentary distraction to put himself into such position.
“What do you want?” Thanquol growled, in no mood for the warp-wit’s pompous demands. Ever since joining the scouting party, the tick-tongued pizzle-drinker had been trying to assume command. He kept referring to some mangy old ratskin map and giving Thanquol directions. It was a situation Thanquol was getting very tired of.
“At the next gallery we need turn-go left,” Skraekual directed after inspecting his map. Thanquol tried to sneak a look at whatever was written on the old ratskin, but as soon as he did, Skraekual pressed it close against his chest and bared his fangs.
“Not another step until you say-squeak what this is about,” Thanquol growled.
Skraekual gestured with one of his paws, displaying the black ring circling one of his fingers. “Think-think,” the grey seer snarled. “I am leader-chief, not you. Seerlord Kritislik chose-charge me with…” Skraekual scratched at his rotted nose and lashed his tail, irritated that he’d almost told Thanquol what he wanted to know despite himself. “Just do what I say-tell!”
Glaring at the ring, Thanquol backed down. Sometime the treacherous toad-spittle would make a wrong move and then it would just be too bad for Kritislik’s little toe-licker! Looking past Skraekual, Thanquol found another source of annoyance. The warlock-engineers were dawdling far behind the rest of the scouts… again! He bruxed his fangs angrily. If it came to a fight, those two tinker-rats would bolt without lifting a paw to oppose the enemy!
“You two!” Thanquol yelled. “Keep-stay with the rest!”
He almost expected the two tinker-rats to yell back at him. Instead they jumped in surprise, then came scurrying up the shaft, the contraptions fitted to their harnesses rattling and clanking as they ran. Thanquol thought he detected something sneaky and furtive about the way they avoided looking at him as they passed. As if he’d caught them doing something he shouldn’t have seen. It seemed even tinker-rats didn’t like to have others spot their cowardly streak.
“Next left,” Skraekual hissed in Thanquol’s ear.
Thanquol gritted his teeth. “Next left,” he agreed, forcing the words through his fangs.
The roar of guns boomed through the stone-walled gallery, making it seem as if a thunderstorm had been unleashed within the mine. Unlike the raw earth of the narrow shafts, the gallery was a broad chamber with thick stone walls and a high ceiling. Pulleys hung from archways high overhead, connecting to platforms which in turn connected to other mine shafts. Across the floor ran a rail-system, upon which several abandoned mine carts still stood. Piles of raw ore were scattered about the ground, the odd pick and hammer attesting to how quickly the dwarfs had fled this gallery during the initial skaven assault.
They had come back, however, recovering their dead and leaving something behind that would ensure the destruction of any second attack.
“Stop dying!” Thanquol bellowed from behind the corner of the mine shaft. It was just like the worthless stew-meat Rikkit had foisted upon him to ignore his order. While he watched, two more of the useless maggots were cut to shreds by the unrelenting fire.
It made the grey seer’s fur crawl to look at their attacker. It was no living thing, but rather a boxy contraption of pipes and belts and gears and pistons. From its front projected an array of gun barrels, each belching forth a thunderous burst of flame and smoke. The huge bullets the guns sent flying across the gallery might not be made of warpstone, but they struck the clanrats like the fist of a giant, splitting their bodies in a gory holocaust. Ten skaven were already strewn about the floor, the rest had either fallen back into the tunnel with Thanquol or were scurrying madly about the gallery trying to find cover.
While he watched, the sentry gun swivelled on some pivot and sent another volley of lead chasing Thanquol’s terrified warriors. It made for an eerie sight, these mindless machines following his troops with such uncanny precision.
“If you don’t take a paw, we’ll never get through,” Skraekual whined.
Thanquol studied the hellish gun array. He could see no sign of an operator. That was how the damnable thing had taken them by such surprise. There had been no dwarf scent. The thrice-damned dwarfs had made certain to cover the tell-tale stink of their hands and gunpowder when they’d set the diabolic thing up.
Given the way the sentry gun was ripping up his clanrats, Thanquol didn’t think he wanted to try his hand at knocking it out, magic or no.
“We’ll find-take another way,” the grey seer decided. The surviving clanrats chittered their eager agreement to this idea.
Skraekual stared at the ratskin map, then bared his fangs. “Seerlord Kritislik won’t like-like if we go around.”
Thanquol ground his fangs together. Of all the impertinence! “You’re a grey seer!” he snapped. “You take a paw and get us through!”
The other grey seer pointed his claw at Thanquol, the black ring gleaming evilly in the light of the dwarf glowstones set into the walls of the gallery. “I will if you can’t,” Skraekual threatened.
Glaring at the other grey seer, Thanquol wondered if he’d be able to get behind Boneripper before Skraekual could unleash the magic of the ring. A quick glance at the bony rat-ogre made him question the efficacy it would make as a shelter from enchanted dragon-fire.
Thanquol smoothed his whiskers as a similar thought came to him. He risked a quick glance at the gallery where the sentry gun was picking off the last clanrats scampering about among the mine carts. He watched the bullets pinging off the sides of the steel carts. A cunning gleam crept into the grey seer’s eyes as he looked at his bodyguard once more, taking especial notice of the reinf
orced ribcage.
A plan was forming in the horned sorcerer’s mind. It wasn’t the sort of plan he would normally think he should play any part in beside that of spectator, but Skraekual had made it a bit necessary. Damn the thieving flea’s spleen anyway!
Snapping commands to Boneripper, Thanquol got the automaton to crouch down beside him. Forgetting the indignity of his position (at least until he could get a good shot at Skraekual’s back) the grey seer scrambled up onto Boneripper’s back, fitting his feet between the rat-ogre’s ribs to ensure a secure hold.
Dutifully, Boneripper lumbered out into the gallery. The sentry gun pivoted and directed its murderous fire at the brute, bullets glancing from the rat-ogre’s armoured chest. Thanquol shivered against his bodyguard’s back, scarcely daring to breath. Clenching his staff between his teeth, he frantically dug into his robes and seized his snuff-box.
Just a little pinch of warp-snuff, he promised himself. Just a little something to take the edge off his precarious situation.
The intoxicating rush of burning madness flowed through the grey seer’s body. All the terror drained out of him, replaced by a bold fury that made him peep his head over Boneripper’s shoulder. Thanquol glowered down at the sentry gun. What was this puny contraption to dare pit itself against the greatest wizard in all skavendom! It was a gnat, a flea, something to be crushed with a snap of his claws!
Using Boneripper’s fleshless ribs like the rungs of a ladder, Thanquol climbed up onto his bodyguard’s shoulder, heedless of his exposed position. The grey seer’s eyes glowed, burning green as he drew aethyric energies into his body.
He was Grey Seer Thanquol! The Paw of the Horned Rat! Greatest Magician in all the Under-Empire! He’d blast this filthy dwarf-thing contraption into a thousand bits and feed them to whatever scruffy beard-meat built the ridiculous thing!
Bullets clattered against Boneripper’s chest, gradually climbing up the brute’s armoured body as the sentry gun sought out the new target perched on the rat-ogre’s shoulder. Crazed fires blazing through his brain, Thanquol ignored the certain death creeping towards him. Pointing his staff at the sentry gun, the grey seer poured all of the magic he had drawn into his body into a spell that would annihilate the infernal machine.
[Thanquol & Boneripper 03] - Thanquol's Doom Page 14
