[Thanquol & Boneripper 03] - Thanquol's Doom

by C. L. Werner - (ebook by Undead)

  Ahead of him, King Logan could see Thane Erkii and a throng of miners digging away at a rubble-choked hole in the floor. An enormous grinding machine, steam venting from its pipes, chewed into the blockage, sending a spray of dirt and rock shooting behind it. The machine was another of Klarak Bronzehammer’s inventions, one that the engineer had offered to the Miners’ Guild over the protests of the Engineers’ Guild who maintained that the machine needed a few more decades of tests before it was deemed stable enough for development.

  Guildmaster Thori cursed into his beard when he saw the forbidden machine in operation. “By Morgrim! The reckless debaz goes too far!” He pointed a jewelled spanner at the mechanised drill, gesturing angrily at the machine. “That contraption isn’t authorised! It isn’t safe!”

  A lone dwarf turned away from the dig at the sound of Thori’s voice. There was a menacing intensity in Klarak’s eyes as he approached the Guildmaster. “My rockchewer is the fastest way to excavate the ratkin tunnel,” he told the older dwarf. “Authorised by the Guild or not. Unless maybe you think it would be safer to leave Ikit Claw down there undisturbed.”

  Thori’s face pulled back into a scowl of disapproval. “You’ll be expelled from the Guild,” he warned, tapping Klarak’s chest with the end of his spanner. “Cogged and tossed out on your ear! If you would have followed accepted traditions, obeyed the proprieties of invention, none of this would have happened!” Thori waved his arms wide, indicating the damage the smelthall had suffered. “The ratkin came because of your new metal!”

  “Give thanks to Grungni that he did,” Klarak said. “Because that has given us our only chance to stop him.”

  “Stop him?” Thori gasped. “Look around you! The thaggoraki has come and gone, and taken your barazhunk with him!” The Guildmaster’s eyes hardened into chips of ice. “Tell me, without your metal, could this ratkin have any hope of completing his machine? No! It would have blown up in his face and saved us the problem of digging him out!”

  Klarak shook his head. “Ikit Claw would have found a way to make his own,” he insisted. “He would have slunk off to some hole far away and finished his Doomsphere where we would never find it.” He shook his fist at the hole the miners were excavating. “At least now we have a chance of following him and stopping him.”

  “Stopping him from building a weapon with your new alloy,” Thori reminded, spite rolling off his tongue.

  “Enough,” King Logan ordered. “There is blame to spare. I still think Klarak had the right of it in trying to entice the ratkin out and trap him here.” A hard edge crept into the king’s voice. “But the trap failed. That responsibility can be placed on no one’s head except that of the dwarf who made the plan. Klarak Bronzehammer, I am compelled to record grudge against you for the death of my subjects and the defilement of my smelthall.” The king stared into Klarak’s gold eyes. “Recompense for this grudge is set as five hundred rat-tails and the head of Ikit Claw.”

  Klarak bowed his head as he heard his king pronounce judgement upon him. “I accept this burden as just and fair,” he said. “Let my spirit never walk the Halls of the Ancestors if I fail to balance the debt I owe to Karak Angkul and King Logan Longblade.”

  Guildmaster Thori smiled to see the bold Klarak humbled. “Now you must drag that unproved contraption away from the dig,” he ordered.

  Klarak fixed the older engineer with a withering stare. “Guilt and responsibility don’t change reality,” he said. “The rockchewer is still the fastest way to follow Ikit Claw. As you’ve pointed out, he has my metal now, so we need to catch him before he can finish his machine.”

  “Maybe you won’t have to.” The interrupting words came from Horgar. The hammerer’s gait was unsteady as he came marching towards them, his head wrapped in bandages, his steam-harness shuddering at every step. He bowed respectfully to King Logan, cast a hostile glance at Guildmaster Thori, then faced Klarak.

  “You should be letting Kimril and the healers tend your wounds,” Klarak admonished his bodyguard.

  Horgar’s face spread in a lopsided grin. “Since when have I ever done the sensible thing?” he asked. “Besides, most of my problems are with this steam-harness you made me, not my battered bones.” The hammerer’s face grew serious. “Kurgaz spoke to me before he died. He wanted me to tell you that he finished what you wanted him to do.”

  Horgar’s words had the effect of lightning on the engineer. From morbid melancholy, Klarak became energised with determination. Hastily, he drew a set of goggles from his belt, the lenses possessed of a curious purple hue. Staring through the goggles, Klarak hastened to the small pile of recovered barazhunk, examining each piece in rapid succession. The other dwarfs watched him in confusion, wondering if the loss of his friends had addled the adventurer’s wits.

  Klarak turned away from his labours, shouting hasty words to Thane Erkii and his miners. “Be careful to recover each piece of barazhunk,” he told them. “Set each aside for me to inspect.” The engineer turned back to his confused sovereign.

  “When I was first warned about Grey Seer Thanquol,” Klarak told King Logan, “I conceived a plan to guard my inventions from the skaven.” King Logan nodded, aware of this part of the story. It had been his assistance that had given Kurgaz access to the secret lore of the runemasters. “At the time, I believed the danger lay with the theft of my inventions. Kurgaz agreed to help me by learning one of the Master Runes and using its magic to prevent my devices from falling into the wrong hands.

  “When Mordin brought us word that Ikit Claw was involved, and when Thane Erkii reported the theft of barazhunk from the mines, I saw a different way to employ the knowledge Kurgaz had gained.” Klarak paused, holding up the burin the runesmith had used. “This burin was treated with a chemical that leaves a residue behind. Each plate Kurgaz tried to inscribe will have a trace of the chemical upon it.” He tapped the goggles. “With these, I can tell which plates have been treated and which have not.”

  “More foolishness,” Thori scoffed. “What does it matter if the ratkin have taken inscribed metal or plain metal?”

  Klarak favoured the Guildmaster with a grim smile. “Because if Ikit Claw uses the plate Kurgaz inscribed the Master Rune on, then the skaven will do our work for us.”

  King Logan sighed, glancing back at the rows of dwarf dead. “We can’t trust that he will.”

  “No,” Klarak agreed. “That’s why it’s doubly important we excavate the tunnel. We have to find Ikit Claw’s lair and make sure he’s used the inscribed plate. We have to follow his trail back to the Doomsphere and see that it is destroyed.”

  “Hurry-scurry, fool-flesh!” Ikit Claw glared at the horde of skavenslaves and clanrats rushing through the tunnels. He had lost a lot of the dwarf-metal when the tunnel into the smelthall had collapsed. The thought that he’d sacrificed too much of the metal was one that vexed the warlock-engineer and he was impatient to have this particular fear dispelled. Once back in his workshop, he’d be able to make certain exactly how much of the stuff he’d acquired.

  The skaven poured into the now quiet tunnels of Bonestash. Between his attack on the smelthall and the diversion attack on the Sixth Deep, the warren had been almost completely depopulated. Except for the most vital sections of the warren, not a ratman had been left behind. Troops of stormvermin had ensured a complete muster of the settlement’s strength. The ratmen of Clan Mors weren’t particularly bright, but Ikit Claw had to admit their efficiency was useful. It had been almost a pity to send them out to be slaughtered. But a device like the Doomsphere wasn’t built without a few sacrifices.

  The Chief Warlock rubbed his hands together in greedy anticipation. Once the Doomsphere was completed, he would be reckoned the most brilliant mind in all skavendom. Even Warplord Morskittar would acknowledge the genius of his chief acolyte. A weapon the likes of which no skaven had dared contemplate in thousands of generations! Soon it would be his! The Doomsphere of Ikit Claw!

  Allowing he’d managed to s
teal enough of the dwarf metal. Ikit bruxed his fangs in annoyance at that thought. It might take him years to fabricate any of the stuff on his own and the stupid dwarf-things would be on their guard to keep him from stealing any more. The stone-witted scum had nearly foiled his plans already, coming alarmingly close to snuffing out the Under-Empire’s greatest mind. Gingerly he probed the rent in his iron frame with his paw, wincing as he felt blood spurt over his fingers. The wound would need seeing to, but he wasn’t so sure he could trust any of his apprentices. The short-sighted maggots had been getting uppity since his injury. One of them even had the audacity to suggest if there wasn’t enough dwarf-metal that he should downsize the Doomsphere! If not for his injuries, he would have had the rat roasted alive for such insolence!

  But it would be enough! It had to be! Destiny would not cheat the mighty Ikit Claw!

  Ahead, the sprawl of the old storage cavern opened before Ikit Claw’s triumphant horde. The Chief Warlock pushed his way to the forefront, eager to behold his magnificent weapon. Once he saw its unfinished beauty, he knew he could confidently say that he had enough dwarf-metal to complete it.

  Ikit Claw’s eyes lingered on the Doomsphere for only a moment, then his gaze was drawn downwards. Like every member of his entourage, he found himself staring at the horned figure standing upon the Doomsphere’s platform.

  Grey Seer Thanquol glared down at him, the priest’s tail lashing back and forth. What was the prayer-gnawing parasite doing here! The idiot should be lying somewhere in the dwarfhold with an axe in his chest or a bullet in his brain! Part of being a decoy meant getting killed by the thing you were supposed to be decoying!

  A bell clanged, its discordant notes ringing out across the workshop. Thanquol cast a smug look at the scrawny clanrat bellringer perched beside him, then turned his snarling face back towards Ikit Claw.

  “Off-flee!” the Chief Warlock growled. “Away-away! Get away from my Doomsphere!”

  An evil light shone in Thanquol’s eyes. “My Doomsphere,” the horned ratman hissed.

  Ikit Claw’s lips pulled back in a feral snarl. “Kill-kill!” he shouted, pointing with his metal claw at the grey seer.

  A pack of warriors drew swords and rushed towards the platform. Skaven of Clan Skryre, they chittered with amusement when they saw Boneripper’s skeletal bulk lurch into their path. They knew the measures the warlock-engineers had taken to ensure their creation didn’t turn against them.

  “Boneripper!” Thanquol’s voice snapped like a whip. “Burn-kill!”

  The clanrats weren’t laughing when a gout of warpfire erupted from the rat-ogre’s third arm. Five of the ratmen were immolated instantly. Six others raced about the cavern, their burning fur making them into living torches. A squeal of horror rose from the rest of Ikit Claw’s minions. Somehow Thanquol had disabled his bodyguard’s safety valve.

  Ikit Claw didn’t care. Rat-ogre or no, he wasn’t about to hand over his invention to some corrupt sorcerer-priest! Angrily, he ripped Storm Daemon from the warlock-engineer carrying it. The broken warp generator had stopped venting corrosive gas, making the halberd reasonably safe to handle. The weapon wouldn’t be able to shoot lightning at his enemies, but that didn’t bother Ikit. He would prefer chopping Thanquol’s treacherous head from his scrawny neck.

  Thanquol took a step back when he saw Ikit Claw advance from the horde of Clan Skryre skaven. There was a note of fear in the grey seer’s eyes, a momentary softening of his posture. Then the horned ratman reached beneath the folds of his robe, drawing forth a severed skaven paw. Ikit Claw stared in alarm at the gruesome talisman, his sorcerously attuned eyes able to see the magical energies swirling about the desiccated paw.

  “Behold!” Thanquol crowed. “The Hand of Vecteek!”

  To every other skaven in the cavern, the name meant nothing. But to Ikit Claw, it spelled doom. He was familiar with the legacy of the artefact, the paw of Clan Rictus’ feared war-chief. In the possession of a murder-minded traitor like Thanquol, such a potent talisman could unleash untold havoc and destruction. Thanquol had demonstrated a callous disregard for his fellow skaven and wouldn’t care how many died in any duel between himself and the Chief Warlock. For the good of his minions, Ikit Claw couldn’t afford to provoke the weasel-spleened traitor.

  “Wise-mighty Thanquol,” Ikit Claw said, lowering Storm Daemon. “Happy-glad am I that you escaped the dwarf-things. I had worry-fear something happened to you.”

  Thanquol grinned down at the suddenly unctuous warlock. “Save your worry-fear for yourself,” he advised. The grey seer turned his head, raising his snout as he smelled the dwarf-metal Ikit’s slaves carried. He licked his fangs.

  “You were going to finish your weapon,” Thanquol said. He grimaced as his standard bearer punctuated the statement with an especially frenzied burst of bell ringing. Grinding his fangs together, the grey seer continued. “It is my wish-order that you will finish it. If it works, the Horned One tells me that I may spare your lives.”

  Thanquol brandished the Hand of Vecteek so all of the skaven could see it. Even those who didn’t know what it was understood the menace it posed after seeing the way Thanquol had threatened their own terrifying master with it.

  “Work fast! Work hard! Work accurately!” Thanquol cried. “If anything goes wrong with my Doomsphere, I’ll flay the fur from your skins!”

  Chapter XV

  The warlock-engineer’s pathetic mewing was silenced when Boneripper crushed the craven little weasel’s skull. Thanquol wasn’t certain the wretch had really been up to anything, but it was prudent not to take any chances. Besides, the only one of the parasites he needed to keep around was Ikit Claw himself. The rest of the Clan Skryre tinker-rats were a liability. The Claw might forget his place if he started believing he had strength in numbers on his side. Thinking it over, Thanquol was of the opinion he should probably exact a few more object lessons to put his new minions in a more pious and obedient frame of mind.

  The grey seer leaned back in the throne he’d ordered brought down from Rikkit Snapfang’s abandoned lair. It was a remarkably comfortable seat, crafted from dwarf bones and upholstered in only the softest whelp fur. A pair of exceedingly energetic skavenslaves were crouched at the foot of the throne trimming Thanquol’s claws while another rubbed a sweet-smelling liniment into the grey seer’s scaly tail. Standing beside the throne, Nikkrit rang the holy bell, sending the dolorous voice of the Horned One racing through the cavern. Knowledge that their god was watching them would help spur Thanquol’s henchlings to better effort.

  Thanquol’s eyes gleamed evilly in the green light cast by warp lanterns. The Doomsphere was quickly taking shape. Already the exposed mechanisms and supports were covered by plates of tough dwarf-metal. Teams of workers were crawling all over the shell, ensuring that each plate was firmly in place with no gaps or weaknesses. Other teams of workers inspected the inspectors, ensuring there were no mistakes or sabotage. Third and fourth teams continued the routine of inspection. For all his submission to Thanquol, Ikit Claw was proving a most methodical and zealous overseer.

  It made Thanquol nervous to watch the fearsome Chief Warlock accepting his new role as lackey and servant with such graciousness. The Claw was up to something, Thanquol was certain of it. He felt a great temptation to err on the side of caution and blast the warlock with a bolt of magic every time his back was turned—or better yet, have Boneripper do the job while Thanquol watched from a safe distance.

  Only Ikit’s repeated claims that he was the only one that could complete the Doomsphere kept Thanquol from acting upon his murderous impulses. If there was only one thing the Chief Warlock said that the grey seer believed completely, it was that the Claw hadn’t trusted the secret of his superweapon to anyone else. It was easy to believe because in the same position, Thanquol would certainly have done the same. The secret of such a weapon was too important to trust to any minion.

  And that was why Ikit Claw would have to die once the Doomsphere was c
omplete. Thanquol couldn’t take the chance that the Chief Warlock might betray him and make a second Doomsphere. That would upset all of the grey seer’s plans. The threat of one Doomsphere would make him the unquestioned tyrant of all skavendom, but if someone else had an identical weapon it would confuse the issue. The teeming hordes of the Under-Empire wouldn’t know which way to present their throats. Worse, the threat of the Doomsphere would be diminished if Thanquol’s enemies had their own weapon which they could threaten to detonate if he used his. Mutually assured destruction would dull the menace of the Doomsphere, rendering it impotent and almost inconsequential.

  No! Thanquol would not be denied! He would be the unquestioned ruler of skavendom, the Horned Emperor, Scourge of Skavenblight, Lord of the Ratkin, Master of the Underearth! He was the beloved of the Horned Rat, most favoured and powerful of the rat-god’s servants. It was the will of the Horned One that he should be present to seize the product of Ikit Claw’s heretical genius. It was the Horned One’s decree that the power of the Doomsphere should be entrusted into the claws of the one ratman who would use it for the betterment of the Under-Empire. It took a skaven of Thanquol’s humble and unassuming nature to be trusted with a weapon like the Doomsphere.

  Stroking his whiskers, Thanquol watched the treacherous Ikit Claw snapping orders to the scurrying warlock-engineers and skavenslaves. Only a raticidal lunatic would dare try to recreate a weapon that had nearly obliterated Skavenblight. The Claw was a danger to all skaven everywhere! It was the duty of any right-minded ratman to exterminate the threat he posed! As soon as the Doomsphere was finished, Thanquol would have the Chief Warlock killed. It was his civic responsibility as a servant of the Lords of Decay to get rid of this threat to their power.