[Thanquol & Boneripper 03] - Thanquol's Doom

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

  Thanquol bruxed his fangs as he contemplated the manner in which he would be welcomed back to Skavenblight. He would be the hero who had saved skavendom from the machinations of a mad scientist! The Council of Thirteen would be falling over themselves in their efforts to reward him. And if they didn’t, Thanquol would still have the threat of the Doomsphere to get them in line. They would proclaim him Horned Emperor of All Skavendom! He would sit upon the thirteenth throne, symbolically kept vacant for the Horned Rat himself. Well, such superstition would have no place under Thanquol’s reign. What better way to show that he was superior to the Lords of Decay than by claiming the throne they dared not touch? He would be venerated as the living manifestation of the Horned Rat, adored and feared throughout the world!

  Thanquol sneezed as a little fleck of warp-snuff caught in his nose dislodged itself. He really was sorry he’d been manipulated into killing Lynsh Blacktail by the pirate’s mutinous crew. He’d really like to know where the yellow-spined buccaneer had come upon such a fine grade of snuff.

  “Most Abhorrent One,” the wheezing voice of a warlock-engineer interrupted Thanquol’s ruminations. The grey seer looked up, glaring at the snivelling tinker-rat. He glanced over at Boneripper, motioning for the rat-ogre to squash this annoyance. Then he reflected that he should probably hear what the weasel had to say first. Squishing might prove too kindly a death if the vexing little flea had something particularly repellent to tell him.

  “Squeak-speak,” Thanquol hissed, putting an impatient and threatening gleam of teeth behind his words.

  The tinker-rat scratched at some of the wires bolted into his scalp, then cast a nervous look over his shoulder at the Doomsphere and particularly at the spot where Ikit Claw was acting as supervisor. “Great and Horrible Thanquol, Wondrous Smiter of the Impious, Most Dread Bane of…”

  Thanquol kicked his foot out, his newly cleansed claws scratching across the warlock’s snout. “Before I lose my patience,” he snarled.

  “Great Thanquol,” the warlock-engineer said, dropping his voice to a barely audible squeak. “I have watched the work. The Doomsphere is finished. Ikit Claw is trying to trick you by insisting it isn’t ready.”

  Thanquol’s eyes narrowed. He should have expected such a ploy. Ikit Claw was no fool, for all of his heretical ideas about science. He knew that as soon as the Doomsphere was finished, Thanquol would have no reason to keep him alive. The treacherous rat was playing for time, waiting for the opportunity to hatch some plot against his beneficent master. Well, Thanquol wasn’t about to give the maggot the chance!

  Snapping his claws, Thanquol dismissed his attendants. A wave of his paw had Boneripper smashing its foot down upon the warlock-engineer’s neck. Thanquol had no sentiment for spies and traitors, especially when they turned on their own masters, most certainly when they could be of no further use. The squashed tinker-rat died without uttering a shriek, so sudden was his demise.

  One traitor down, one to go. Thanquol reached into his robe, bringing forth the Hand of Vecteek. He was still loath to use the hideous artefact, but Ikit Claw wouldn’t know that. While the stupid warlock was worrying about the Hand, he’d never see Boneripper until the rat-ogre sent a blast of warpfire scorching through his scabby hide.

  The clatter of his standard followed Thanquol as he crossed the cavern to where the Doomsphere was being constructed. Had been constructed, the grey seer corrected himself. His informant had said the weapon was finished.

  The sound of Nikkrit’s bell caught Ikit Claw’s attention. The metal-faced warlock turned, staring down at Thanquol as the grey seer approached.

  The grey seer cast a look of fury upon the bell-ringer, a look that promised nasty things for Nikkrit in the not-too-distant future. So wrapped up in his own thoughts of power, Thanquol hadn’t bothered to consider that the clatter of his standard would betray his approach. The grey seer returned his attention to the Claw. Thanquol felt a flush of annoyance as he noted the Claw’s position high above him on the wooden platform. It wasn’t proper for an underling to stand higher than his master. If for no other reason, that impudence marked Ikit as worthy of death.

  “Stay your paw, Thanquol,” Ikit Claw called out, mockery in his voice. He gestured with his metal claw, sweeping it across the shell of the Doomsphere. “It would be unwise to kill me before the weapon is finished.”

  “The weapon is finished,” Thanquol growled. “And so are you!” He raised the Hand of Vecteek, pointing its dead claws at the warlock. From the corner of his eye, Thanquol could see Boneripper circling to one side. Just a few more steps and the rat-ogre would be in position to burn the Claw to a crisp.

  Ignorant of his peril, Ikit Claw continued to mock Thanquol. “Finished? Who says it is finished?” The warlock tapped the metal shell with his claw. “The outside is complete, but the weapon is not operational. It needs power.”

  Thanquol lashed his tail in annoyance. He didn’t like the turn this conversation had taken. “You take-make fuel!” he accused. “Crush-grind much-much warpstone!”

  Ikit Claw’s eyes were cold as he glowered down at the grey seer. “But it wasn’t enough,” he said. “The Doomsphere won’t work without more warpstone.”

  Panic started to seep into Thanquol’s belly. It wasn’t possible, the Claw was just lying again, playing for time! Unless… maybe the informant had been trying to betray Thanquol as well as Ikit Claw! Maybe the villain had been a secret spy for the Council of Thirteen! The idea of it! A spy from the Council trying to trick a loyal servant of the Council!

  “I wouldn’t kill me, Thanquol,” the Claw was saying. “Don’t think you can make the Doomsphere work without me. If it has too little warpstone, the machinery will be ruined. Too much…” The Chief Warlock flexed the metal blades of his claw open, evoking the image of a mighty explosion. “Only I know the correct measure. Without me, you have nothing.”

  Thanquol ground his fangs. There was too much assurance in Ikit Claw’s posture for it to all be a bluff. The scheming tinker-rat had tricked him! Now there wasn’t a chance for him to simply execute the rat!

  Thanquol groaned in horror as he saw Boneripper lurch into position. The rat-ogre levelled its warpfire projector straight at Ikit Claw. Before the grey seer could howl a countermand, the automaton sent a sheet of searing green flame shooting across the platform. Skavenslaves and warlock-engineers hurtled from the walkways, their bodies transformed into blazing torches. For a moment, Ikit Claw vanished behind a curtain of fire.

  Cursing the Horned Rat, Thanquol leapt towards the inferno. This close to achieving his wildest dreams of power and domination, he wasn’t about to be cheated! Not because some brainless rat-ogre had taken it into its mind to attack his valuable ally just when their plans were coming to fruition! He ignored the flames that licked about him as he scrambled onto the platform. Somewhere amid the inferno, his great friend and loyal comrade Ikit Claw was in peril!

  “Ikit Claw!” the grey seer cried out. “Don’t die-die! My magic heal-fix all burn-hurt!” After all, Ikit Claw had survived a worse fire in his own laboratory, surely he’d be able to escape a stupid accident like this! Thanquol glanced down as his paws broke through the charred husk of a skavenslave, the body crumbling into ash beneath his toes. “Ikit Claw!” he cried out, panic hammering at his heart. “Good-good friend! Don’t die-die!” What was the use, the grey seer thought, of being Chief Warlock of Clan Skryre if you let yourself get killed by some brainless rat-ogre!

  A shape stepped out from the smoke, its metal mask and iron frame glowing red from the heat of the warpfire. It seemed to Thanquol that even more of Ikit Claw’s white fur was burned away than he remembered, but at least the Chief Warlock looked mostly intact. Clearly the warlock’s magic had been great enough to preserve him from Boneripper’s idiotic attack.

  “Ikit Claw!” Thanquol squealed in relief. “Are you hurt?”

  There was an ugly look in Ikit Claw’s eyes. “Not-not as bad-hurt as you will be!” the warlock sn
arled. Ikit pounced towards Thanquol, his huge metal claw raking against the Doomsphere’s shell as he tried to disembowel the grey seer.

  Squeaking in terror, Thanquol leapt back. His jump carried him too far, bringing him past the edge of the platform. The grey seer’s arms waved frantically as he fell to the floor of the cavern some dozen feet below. Crashing on his backside, he yelped in pain as something in his tail broke. He didn’t have long to consider his injury, however. Ikit Claw loomed above him, a warplock pistol in his hand. Savagely, the Chief Warlock squeezed the trigger.

  Thanquol blinked in disbelief as Ikit Claw’s pistol exploded in his hand, misfiring in the most dramatic fashion. That would teach the faithless flea the folly of pointing his heathen weapons at a priest of the Horned Rat! Before the grey seer could crow about his escape, he was scrambling across the cavern floor, fleeing as Ikit Claw discharged the warpfire projector built into the palm of his metal hand. The green flames pursued Thanquol as he scrambled for cover.

  “Peace-friend!” Thanquol cried out. It occurred to him that while he needed Ikit Claw, the Claw didn’t need him. That gave the Chief Warlock the edge. Glancing about the cavern, Thanquol also came to the ugly realisation that almost all of the watching skaven were cheering his adversary. The only ones who didn’t seem to share that sentiment were Boneripper and Nikkrit, the latter still ringing his bell as though it were the most important job in the Under-Empire. Thanquol was beginning to think his standard-bearer wasn’t quite right in the head.

  Upon the platform, Ikit Claw snarled orders at the other skaven. From dozens of hidden caches, a veritable arsenal of pistols, jezzails and even stranger weapons emerged. One of the warlock-engineers scurried towards the Doomsphere, the menacing Storm Daemon clutched in his paws. Chittering with malicious mirth, Ikit Claw snatched the magic blade from his underling. A gang of ratmen were already crawling over Boneripper, pulling the rat-ogre to the ground. Without receiving orders from its master, the machine didn’t even move to defend itself.

  “Now, Thanquol-meat die-burn!” Ikit Claw screeched, raising Storm Daemon overhead. A bolt of crackling black energy erupted from the halberd, the new warp generator fastened to the weapon shuddering as it fed power into the blade. Thanquol spurted the musk of fear as the malignant energy scorched a hole through the pile of scrap he was sheltering behind.

  “Hand of Vecteek!” Thanquol shouted, waving the artefact through the air, trying to remind Ikit Claw of the power he still possessed.

  Ikit Claw laughed again. The Chief Warlock slapped his metal hand against the shell of the Doomsphere. “Kill me and you lose the Doomsphere!”

  Thanquol rolled his eyes. The damn litter-runt! By the Horned One, he’d suffer for this! After the Doomsphere was finished, of course. The grey seer wracked his brain for some way to extricate himself from the situation without hurting Ikit Claw. Almost choking on the words, he called out, “I let-allow you to share the Doomsphere.”

  His answer was a fusillade that blasted the scrap pile and sent shards of metal flying about the cavern. Thanquol was forced to hug the ground, cringing as warpstone bullets whistled over his head and Poison Wind globes shattered against the wall behind him.

  Clenching his eyes closed, Thanquol prayed to the Horned Rat. Surely his god could see the trouble he was in. These deluded, misbegotten heretic tinker-rats were standing in the way of progress, obstructing the natural order of dominance that had maintained the Under-Empire for thousands of years. They were trying to upset the careful structure of leadership the Horned Rat himself had established at the Great Summoning. If they weren’t stopped, the cruel warlocks of Clan Skryre would seize control of the Under-Empire for themselves and initiate an unprecedented age of despotism and wickedness! Thanquol was the only chance there was to stop Ikit Claw’s monstrous machine from being put to such a villainous purpose! Surely the wise and beneficent Horned One could see that!

  Squeaks of fright suddenly sounded through the cavern. Thanquol opened his eyes. For a moment he expected to see a legion of the Horned Rat’s daemons come to rescue him from the treachery of Clan Skryre. He was a bit dismayed to see the source of the disturbance was just a pack of grubby skaven, leftovers from Bonestash’s resident population. His ears pricked up when he caught the nature of their whines.

  Dwarfs! There were dwarfs in the tunnels! Somehow the fur-faced rabble had tracked Ikit Claw down, using a great boring machine to chew their way into the skaven warren. Thanquol chittered happily to himself. All he had to do now was sit back and let his enemies annihilate each other!

  The dwarfs rushed through the dirty, ramshackle tunnels, their fierce war-cries echoing through the warren. Despite the ferocity of their cries and the gleaming axes in their hands, the warriors made no effort to attack the verminous creatures that came scurrying out from every dark passageway and black cave. The orders they had been given had been blunt in their directness. They were after big prey and the quickest way to find that prey was to follow the stragglers.

  Any dwarf with experience fighting the ratkin knew of their natural cowardice. Confronted by a foe, the skaven would flee unless they far outnumbered their enemy. And where would they run? To someplace where they felt they would be safe. Such as the lair of the despotic monsters who ruled over them.

  Klarak Bronzehammer was thankful the warriors were so disciplined. The skaven nest was a confusing labyrinth of boltholes and ratruns, dark and narrow, a place where an army might lose itself for weeks. There was no rhyme or reason behind the layout of the warren, new tunnels and chambers appearing wherever space allowed. Klarak suspected the ratkin themselves didn’t know the layout of their home, using scent rather than memory to guide them through the confusion. One thing a dwarf lacked was the keenness of a skaven’s nose, but by flushing the ratmen out from their holes and following them, they could still exploit the olfactory advantage of their enemy.

  Four hundred dwarfs marched with Klarak, as many warriors and miners as Karak Angkul could muster without sacrificing the guards watching the surface gates or those still hunting skaven in the lower deeps. Among the company were King Logan and his hammerers as well as Runelord Morag, a company of longbeards carrying the hold’s Anvil of Doom through the skaven tunnels. It was a testament to just how seriously Klarak’s warnings about Ikit Claw and his weapon had been taken. The Anvil was one of the dwarfhold’s most prized relics. To risk its loss in the murk and slime of a skaven burrow was not the sort of chance any dwarf would take lightly.

  “They’re all scurrying in the same direction,” Horgar Horgarsson observed. He had stubbornly refused to be left behind in the smelthall, insisting that he was fine after Klarak made a few spot repairs to his steam-harness. By long experience, Klarak knew it was useless to argue with his friend.

  “So now you’re the tracker?” scoffed Thorlek, the ranger’s furs oddly bulky. The oddity was caused by the wire vest Klarak had compelled his surviving aides to wear. The deaths of Kurgaz and Azram had struck the inventor especially hard. He wanted to take no chances of losing any more of his Iron Throng.

  “Never mind following them,” snarled Mordin Grimstone. Like Horgar, the slayer had flatly refused to be left behind. Unlike Horgar, however, there was no question about the gravity of Mordin’s wounds. Kimril’s hasty surgery might have stopped most of the bleeding, but the slayer’s body still looked like a piece of chewed meat. “When do we start killing them?” Mordin fingered his axe, a murderous gleam in his eyes.

  “A bit more patience,” Klarak cautioned. “The ratkin lead us to their leaders.” The engineer felt a twinge of dread as he spoke. The warning from Altdorf rose clear in his mind. Morag and the others who had fought in the Sixth Deep were certain they had seen a horned priest among the skaven. They were equally certain the creature had escaped. That meant Thanquol was alive and likely still helping Ikit Claw with his hellish weapon.

  It was not too late. Klarak could still turn back, leave the destruction of Ikit Claw and the Doomspher
e to King Logan. The engineer sighed. Even with the warning, he couldn’t turn back. Ikit Claw had to be stopped and his presence in the battle could mean the difference between victory and disaster. If Thanquol was there, then Klarak had to take his chances.

  Sometimes, even prophecies went wrong.

  Klarak had to be there, had to make certain that, one way or another, the Doomsphere was destroyed. If the dwarfs had to, they would demolish the infernal machine themselves.

  The increased sound of skaven squeals and squeaks was the first warning the dwarfs had that they were near their goal. The cramped tunnel gradually opened outwards, linking to a network of broader tunnels. Klarak drew his steam pistol, warning those with him to likewise get their weapons ready. The fight the dwarfs had been spoiling for was almost upon them.

  “You should keep back,” Horgar advised as they watched the last pack of skaven scuttle down the tunnel and around the corner all the noise was coming from. “There could be almost anything in there.”

  Klarak patted his bodyguard’s shoulder. “If anyone has to be up front, it’s me,” he said. He produced the special goggles, slipping them down over his head, leaving them on his forehead so they could be dropped over his eyes when needed. “I have to see if the ratkin have used the treated plates. I have to know that the Master Rune has been fitted to the Doomsphere.”

  “One of us can do that just as easily,” objected Thorlek.

  The gold-bearded engineer shook his head. “My plan, my neck,” he said. “Just keep the ratkin off me long enough to make sure.” He cocked his head to one side, listening as the squeaks of the skaven suddenly took on an angry tone. Some leader, probably Ikit Claw, was trying to whip the frightened mob into some sort of defence. If the dwarfs were going to strike, the best time was before the ratmen got themselves organised.