“We need more workers,” Thanquol said. He pressed his claw against his breast, making a half-bow towards the metal-faced warlock-engineer. “I shall go out into the tunnels and bring order among the Horned One’s misguided children. I will make them see-scent that the Horned One expects them all to devote themselves to this grand endeavour. They will know that they can aspire to no greater thing than to help Mighty Ikit Claw the Great in his noble work.”
The grey seer bared his fangs in a vicious snarl. “And any of the flea-bitten scratch-sniffers that don’t listen to me will have their bones blasted into ash and fed to the whelps!”
Chapter XII
Thanquol’s eyes gleamed as he stared out across the vast horde of skaven who had been assembled in the tunnels of Bonestash. Here was mustered the might of the warren, thousands of clanrats and skavenslaves, hundreds of armoured stormvermin. He could smell the odour of refined warpstone rising from the skirmishers of Clan Skryre. Warplock jezzails, Poison Wind globadiers, ratling guns and warpfire throwers. The malignant power of skavendom was spread before him, anxiously awaiting his every command.
He found the spectacle invigorating, even if it was but a taste of the authority he would soon possess. Once Ikit Claw completed his devilish machine, Thanquol would be able to bring all the Under-Empire to its knees. He wondered if it would be possible to employ the Doomsphere in a limited capacity. He’d use it to smash a few warrens for a start. Destroy the holdings of a few lesser clans, perhaps even annihilate the city of one of the greater clans, just to show that he made no distinction. Then he’d turn the Doomsphere loose against the dwarfs. He’d break their miserable little kingdom like a rotten tooth, bury the whole lot of the fur-faced scum in their own halls. That would be a fair recompense for all the trouble that ginger-furred maniac and his man-pet had caused him. Never again would anyone have the temerity to trifle with Thanquol the Tyrannical!
The grey seer sneezed, shaking his head as a stray bit of warpsnuff was dislodged. He had to keep a clear head now. It was important to ensure his wits were sharp when the inevitable time came to separate Ikit Claw from his new toy. And the Chief Warlock’s head from his shoulders.
The time of the Claw’s usefulness would soon be over. This raid would bring the warlock-engineer everything he needed to complete the Doomsphere. That would be the moment when he would be at his most vulnerable. While Ikit was gloating over his invention, Thanquol would strike. Afterwards, he would say a dwarf assassin had caught the Chief Warlock unawares. He would be able to find plenty of witnesses to back him up, especially once he controlled the Doomsphere.
Thanquol bruxed his fangs. He was being foolish. Once he had the Doomsphere, he’d never need to worry about what another skaven thought ever again. He’d tell the vermin what to think! He’d tell them what to say! The entire Under-Empire would be his plaything to gnaw and abuse as he wished!
Wiping the drool from his mouth, Thanquol turned and stared down at Fangleader Frothrend. Normally, the black-furred stormvermin would have towered over the grey seer, but out of deference to Thanquol’s dominance, he’d kept his posture appropriately hunched and submissive. Since the cowardly desertion of Warlord Rikkit Snapfang, Frothrend had become de facto leader of Bonestash. Or, at least as much of a leader as Ikit Claw’s demands for labour and resources allowed. Frothrend probably had expected more power when he’d linked his ambition to that of Clan Skryre. His defection placed him in a bad spot if things didn’t work out. Clan Mors would learn of his betrayal and seek retribution, sooner than later if Rikkit had scurried off to tattle, as Thanquol was fairly certain the craven flea had.
In the short term, however, it meant Frothrend was as loyal and dependable as any skaven could be. His only hope of escaping the wrath of Clan Mors was for Clan Skryre to protect him. Unless, of course, he fell under the protection of an even mightier skaven than Ikit Claw. Frothrend had a wonderfully over-developed sense of religious fervour. It stemmed from an incident when he’d been shot by a dwarf jezzail. The bullet had barely singed the fur on his breast, something Frothrend had taken as nothing less than the Horned Rat reaching up from the depths of the earth to protect him. Thanquol found the story puerile, as though the divinity had nothing better to do than bother about the pelt of some inconsequential fangleader. Still, it made Frothrend especially tractable where the grey seer was concerned.
“Are all my warriors here-here?” Thanquol asked.
“Yes-yes, Blessed Gnawer of Heaven,” Frothrend said. “All-many skaven ready-wait for wisdom of Wise-holy Thanquol.”
The grey seer smoothed down his whiskers. Frothrend had a tongue for flattery that might yet serve him well. It was pleasant to have underlings who were so vocal in their appreciation of their master’s genius.
“Strong-smart Thanquol, greatest of grey seers,” crowed Twitchtail Burnpaw, his simpering voice rasping from behind the steel mask of his helmet, his beady little eyes gleaming from the shadows of his goggles. The warlock-engineer had been specifically appointed to obey Thanquol and execute the grey seer’s orders without question. A situation which made his loyalty all the more suspect in Thanquol’s eyes. Twitchtail had been one of Kaskitt’s pack before Ikit Claw took over the expedition. There was probably little the weasel wouldn’t do to get into the good graces of his new overlord. Thanquol would have to keep an eye on him, or at least have Boneripper ready to accidentally step on him.
“Most murderous one!” Twitchtail continued, deciding he needed to add more grovelling to his efforts to ingratiate himself. “Clan Skryre stand-wait for your blessing-command. All dwarf-things burn-die for glory of the Horned One!” Twitchtail bobbed his head in enthusiasm as he spoke. Noting the surly look on Thanquol’s face, he hastily added, “and for the glory of most-dread Thanquol!”
Yes, Thanquol thought to himself, he’d have to arrange something nasty for Twitchtail before things went much farther. Any warlock-engineer who started to show a religious streak and expected a grey seer to take it at face value was simply too stupid to be allowed to breed.
Waving aside all thoughts of Twitchtail and any secret plans for treachery the Claw had given him, Thanquol stepped out from the little circle of chieftains and warlock-engineers to address the teeming masses of skaven soldiers packed in the tunnels. The ratmen were wonderfully simple, with a pup-like, unquestioning faith in the Horned Rat and his prophets. They were so utterly unlike the cynical, scheming skaven who ruled them. The faith of the ratmen in their god was the one joy in their miserable lives, the knowledge that one day they would scamper among the Horned Rat’s burrows and feast from the cornucopia which he would provide them. Never again would they know hunger or fear once they became one with their god.
It was pathetic superstition, but one the grey seers encouraged. There were times—such as now—when such beliefs could be manipulated. The Horned One would understand. He liked nothing better than watching the feebleminded being exploited by those with craftier minds.
The ringing of a bell brought the squeaking horde of ratmen to silence. Thanquol shook his head, trying to clear the clamour from his ears. He glared balefully at Nikkrit Twistear, the brown-furred clanrat who had been chosen to bear the grey seer’s standard. Affixed to the iron pole was a cage crafted from dwarf bones, a large bronze bell suspended inside. Nikkrit happily swung the standard from side to side, causing the clapper to bang against the insides of the bell. Thanquol couldn’t decide if it was religious zeal or a simpleton’s fascination with a new sound that made the clanrat attack his new duties with such over-exuberance, but he was certain he’d wring the scum’s neck if he kept ringing the bell.
Delivering a savage thrust of his staff against Nikkrit’s foot ended the problem. In the soothing silence that followed the clatter of the bell, Thanquol bestowed his pious wisdom upon the warriors who would follow his lead and precede him into battle against the hated dwarf-things.
“My bold-strong litter-kin!” Thanquol shouted, using a small measure of
his magic to project his voice deep into the tunnels. “Shame-disgrace has been the ruin-wreck of Bonestash! Too long have traitor-meat led the warriors of your warren astray! They have allowed the dwarf-things to oppress you and keep you from the great halls and tunnels that have been promise-gifted you by the Great Horned One! No more! Rikkit Snapfang is gone-fled and now the blessing of the Horned One is allowed to preen you once again. Coward-traitors are no more and once again the strong-strength of Clan Mors shall bring terror-fear to the dwarf-meat!”
Thanquol leaned on his staff, enjoying the rapt attention of his audience. He savoured the moment, rolling it over on his tongue like a choice bit of spiced toad-flesh. “My bold-strong litter-kin! Thank-praise that you have been chosen to redeem the glory-might of Bonestash! We have borne-suffered much-much, but all is past-gone! Now there are no more traitor-meat among us! Now we march-fight against dwarf-meat! With the blessing of the Horned One, we shall overcome! We shall be victorious! Long-long have I wanted to tell the Horned One that Karak Angkul belongs to him. Now I squeak-say to the Horned One that my litter-kin have made it so!”
A roar of squeaking applause echoed through the tunnels, the chittering cacophony of an excited horde. Thanquol bruxed his fangs, pleased at this reception to his words. Ikit Claw might know a thing or two about slapping a few bits of metal together and calling it a weapon, but he knew nothing about how to stir the hearts of his fellow skaven and mould them into a living tide of destruction.
“My bold-strong litter-kin! The hard-long battle will be difficult. Many-many will sacrifice for the glory of the Horned One! Never will their scent be forgotten! Though the dwarf-things use fire and lightning, though they cut you down in your hundreds with steel and iron, you will-will overcome! Those who die-fall will be martyrs to skavendom! They will…”
Thanquol glanced aside in irritation as Twitchtail started tugging at his sleeve. The grey seer glared at him, ripping his robe from the warlock’s hand.
“Maybe tell-say there’s food up there,” Twitchtail suggested.
Thanquol scowled at the impertinent flunky. How dare the maggot suggest a grey seer needed prompting! He knew exactly what the warriors of Bonestash needed to hear! If Twitchtail thought he was going to sabotage Thanquol’s speech…
Sniffing at the air, Thanquol detected the sour musk of fear. Straining his ears, he could hear the pad of feet retreating down the tunnels.
“Dwarf-things have much-much flesh-food!” Thanquol exclaimed. “Much-much corn and grain and goats and ponies and chickens and crickets and octopuses and…” The grey seer put a bit more magic into his voice, letting it carry even further through the tunnels as his ears told him more skaven were starting to desert his command. “All gift-gift from the Horned One! All for my litter-kin when they slay-kill coward-sick dwarf-things!” Thanquol’s mind raced, picking about for a lie that would keep any more of the skaven from slinking away into the darkness. “Clan Skryre make-make dwarf-water bad. Poison-sick all dwarf-things!”
Twitchtail grabbed at Thanquol’s paw as he spoke. The grey seer could hear some excited squeaks again and there seemed to be a more positive smell now. He glanced at the warlock-engineer.
“We didn’t…” Twitchtail started to whisper.
“Finish that sentence and you’ll have the nasty pleasure of seeing what your intestines look like wrapped around your neck,” Thanquol threatened in a low hiss, the sound almost blasting Twitchtail off his feet. Thanquol rolled his eyes, having forgotten the magic magnifying the power of his voice.
Fortunately, it seemed none of the other ratmen understood the importance of his last words. Their attention was fixated upon the promise of food and loot and enemies already half dead from poisoned water.
Lifting his voice again, Thanquol made a hasty conclusion to his speech. “Squeak-swear to the Horned Rat to be faith-loyal to Grey Seer Thanquol! Rise! Rise from tunnels and kill-slay! Kill-slay all dwarf-meat! Kill-kill! Kill-kill!”
Thanquol dissipated the spell he had conjured, revelling in the fury he had whipped up among the credulous idiots of Clan Mors. They were frothing at the mouth, goaded into a bloodthirsty frenzy by their priest-prophet. With such a horde, Thanquol would sweep aside the puny dwarf defenders, even if they hadn’t really been poisoned.
It would just cost a few hundred extra skaven to get rid of them, but that was a sacrifice Thanquol was prepared to make. So long as he secured the dwarf-metal Ikit Claw needed to finish the Doomsphere, then there wasn’t a skaven in Bonestash Thanquol wouldn’t send into the enemy axes.
The dwarfs were waiting when the skaven emerged from their tunnels to assault the Sixth Deep. On the way up from the bowels of the earth, the ratmen had encountered several of the unmanned sentry guns. Dozens of slaves had been lost before Twitchtail’s engineers and skirmishers could blast the dwarfish contraptions apart with their own arcane weaponry. After his own encounter with a sentry gun, Thanquol was perfectly willing to let the warlock-engineers take all the risks. At this stage in the campaign, it would be disastrous for the army to be denied his leadership because of some reckless display of battlefield valour. Besides, he needed to husband his magic powers for the inevitable confrontation with Ikit Claw.
Entering into the Sixth Deep, however, the skaven found their progress blocked by more than a few automated guns. An entire dwarf army was waiting for them, rank upon rank of armoured warriors with broad shields and shiny axes. There were war engines too, a number of cannon and crude fire-throwers and ranks of dwarfish jezzails. A roaring mob of half-naked dwarfs with red fur and swirling tattoos caused Thanquol to spurt the musk of fear, his nose straining to detect the hated scent of the one-eyed madman who had dogged his track ever since Nuln.
It was with some relief that Thanquol failed to detect the scent of his hated foe among the trollslayers, but even so he found his gaze constantly wandering back to them, watching to make sure none of the crazed dwarfs had a human tagging along with him. He muttered a quiet prayer to the Horned One and reached beneath his robe to caress the Hand of Vecteek. The artefact made him feel a little safer.
A moment later, Thanquol’s assurance faltered. He caught the smell of magic rising from the dwarfs. Under his gaze, he saw the dwarfs lift a large altar up onto their shoulders. A grizzled old dwarf wearing scaly armour stood upon the altar, clutching an ornate hammer in his hands. An anvil rested before him on the altar, exuding an aura of malignance that made the grey seer cringe. Seldom had he ever seen such a dwarf, one who possessed an affinity with the world of sorcery. He gnashed his fangs at the thought that this was one of the high priests of the despicable bone-cult of the dwarf-things, the insane coven that made the dwarf-things lock their dead inside tombs to rot instead of employing their meat towards more practical uses.
A growl rattled through Thanquol’s teeth. His nose twitched again. Treachery! He could scent it! An entire dwarf army waiting for him here, and one of their exceedingly rare bone-mages with them! It could only mean they had been warned, told of his impending advance! That back-stabbing rat Ikit Claw had never intended to share the Doomsphere with anyone! He’d betrayed Thanquol and his entire expedition to the dwarfs!
The dwarf throng bellowed a fierce war-cry, the sound rumbling through the great hall like thunder. “Dwarfs got axes”, or some such nonsense, but it sounded imposing enough to dampen some of the fighting spirit of Thanquol’s horde. The grey seer glared at his minions.
“Fight-kill!” he snarled, trying to work them back into a frenzy. The unexpected sight of hundreds of dwarf warriors waiting for them had slowed the initial charge up into the Sixth Deep. The dwarf war-cry threatened to turn it into a rout. The crack-boom of a dwarf marksman’s musket and the sudden gory death of a slave pawleader was the spark that almost sent the whole horde scurrying back into the mines.
“Fight-kill!” Thanquol screeched. Selecting a nearby ratman, he drew a portion of the Horned Rat’s malignance into his body, unleashing the magic in a burst of destruc
tion. His victim shrieked in agony, collapsing in a shrivelled husk, black smoke rising from the twitching carcass. “I’ll flay the fur from all coward-flesh!” the grey seer promised.
The threat had its desired effect. The skaven horde surged forwards, the scrawny slaves pushed across the great hall by the better fed and better armed clanrats behind them. Fangleader Frothrend and his brawny stormvermin began to march after the clanrats, but a sharp snarl from Thanquol brought him up sharp.
“Wait-see,” Thanquol hissed. “Dwarf-things might have trick-trap. Let fool-meat spring it.” The grey seer glanced over at Twitchtail and the small teams of Clan Skryre skirmishers with him. “Go help brave-strong war-pack,” he ordered the warlock-engineer.
Twitchtail blinked at him in shock and confusion. “But you said…”
Fangs gleaming in a threatening smile, Thanquol pointed his claw at Twitchtail’s nose. “Are you coward-flesh?” the grey seer asked.
Twitchtail didn’t need to be asked again. Turning about, he snapped orders to the other Clan Skryre ratmen, sending them scampering after the packs of clanrats. A lingering glance at Thanquol, a dejected look towards the tunnel leading back to the mines, and Twitchtail made a half-hearted effort to catch up to his skirmishers.
From the dwarf lines, the thunder of guns sounded. The dwarf marksmen with their ridiculously oversized jezzails sent a withering shower of bullets smacking into the front ranks of the skaven horde. The stink of gunpowder was quickly overwhelmed by the stench of fear-musk. Dead and wounded skavenslaves crumpled under the fusillade, their black blood staining the granite floor. Forced forwards by the crush of bodies behind them, the surviving slaves trampled their dead and dying kin.
Now the great hall shook with the bellow of dwarf cannons. The gunners loaded their artillery with chain-shot, small iron cannonballs linked by lengths of stout chain. The result was a whirling scythe of death and destruction, cutting down dozens more of the weakened skavenslaves. The shrieks and squeaks of the scrawny ratmen rose to a sickening wail, some of them flinging themselves back upon the swords of the clanrats in their terror. Mercilessly, the clanrats cut down the unfortunate skaven, knowing that if the slaves fled they would lose the living shield which protected them.
[Thanquol & Boneripper 03] - Thanquol's Doom Page 20
