[Thanquol & Boneripper 03] - Thanquol's Doom

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

  Klarak Bronzehammer drew the steam pistol from his belt, unleashing a barrage of bullets at the grey seer. Only Thanquol’s twitchy reflexes preserved him from the fusillade, the skaven sorcerer flinging himself to the floor the very moment the dwarf fired at him. Scurrying across the ground on all fours, squeaking in terror, he watched in mounting horror as more dwarfs emerged from the hole in the wall.

  The army he had thought safely lost in the maze of Bonestash was back!

  Before Klarak could reload his weapon and fire again, Thanquol picked himself up and raced for the safety offered by Queek’s massed warriors. Pushing and shoving, biting and clawing, he forced his way through the horde. The more of them he put between himself and the revenge-crazed dwarfs, the better. Especially that gold-furred maniac! That one seemed unnaturally obsessed with killing the grey seer. Thanquol was beginning to think the creature had been set on his tail by some jealous rival. Or perhaps a scheming superior. Or maybe even some uppity underling.

  Thanquol’s passage through the teeming stormvermin and clanrats became a maddened dash when the sounds of battle began to sound from the area of the ramp. Klarak and his warriors were attacking the rear of Queek’s force, trying to cut their way through the press of bodies in their vindictive persecution of the grey seer. His one hope was that Queek’s mob had managed to hack their way through the rest of the dwarfs blocking the way into the Fourth Deep. Once clear of the dwarfs, Thanquol would have an entire level of their stronghold to hide himself in.

  Abruptly, Thanquol found himself free from the press of bodies. His paws almost slipped out from under him as he discovered a pool of dwarf blood underfoot. Glancing around, he saw a mass of butchered dwarfs and skaven. Some distance away, a small, ragged group of dwarfs was trying to form a shield wall. Thanquol could see them rallying around some elaborately armoured dwarf standing on a ridiculous-looking block of stone. It seemed the dwarfs had lost their taste for battle.

  Or maybe they were just trying to keep the skaven from escaping now that their full army was coming out of the wall. It was an unpleasant thought, but one that Thanquol was forced to consider as he looked at the grimly defiant faces of the dwarf-things.

  “Fight-die, coward-meat!” Queek cursed the distant dwarfs, hurling the severed head of his last victim at the withdrawing enemy. Something, perhaps a cry, perhaps the smell of death, made the warlord suddenly turn. His eyes went wide when he saw the throng of dwarfs rushing from the wall and attacking the rear of his horde. His nose twitched, singling out the scent of the ratman who had told him the dwarf army was gone.

  Queek pounced upon Thanquol, smashing the grey seer to the floor. “Traitor-meat! Snivel-scat!” the warlord raged, fury in his eyes, froth falling from his fangs.

  Thanquol scrambled out from under the warlord just as Queek’s sword came flashing down. “No-no!” the grey seer whined. “Not my fault! Dwarf-trick! Sneaky dwarf-things!”

  Queek’s fangs glistened as he brought Dwarf Gouger smashing down, missing Thanquol by the breadth of a whisker. The grey seer cringed away, his head darting from one side to the other. Either end of the hall was blocked by a wall of angry dwarfs. If he stayed where he was, the deranged Queek would either gut him like a mouse or smash his skull like an egg.

  There was only one thing left. The Hand of Vecteek! He had to use its power. If he could impress Queek, if he could drive away the dwarfs, then he might still snatch victory from the paws of disaster.

  “Wait-listen!” Thanquol pleaded. “Hand of Vecteek! I can-can make mighty spell! Kill-kill all dwarf-things!”

  The words had lost their ability to impress Queek. The warlord’s sword flashed so close to Thanquol’s neck that he felt his fur bristle. Thanquol needed to cast a spell and cast it quick. He needed to evoke such an impressive feat of sorcery that even the crazed Queek wouldn’t dare lift a claw against him.

  More than that, he needed an ally who would stand by him against Queek should the warlord refuse to see reason. Thanquol grinned as he considered the perfect solution. Vecteek. In life, he’d been Supreme Warmonger of Clan Rictus, chief rival of Clan Mors. Vecteek would have no love for Queek and his ilk.

  The Horned Rat sometimes rewarded his most powerful servants. When a mighty skaven died, his spirit was reborn as one of the Horned One’s sacred harbingers, one of the dread Vermin Lords. A skaven of such might and power as Vecteek, whose very paw had become a profane relic, was certain to be numbered among the Horned One’s daemons.

  Ordinarily, Thanquol would be loath to call upon a Vermin Lord. It was a humbling experience to be in the presence of such a divine manifestation. Cowards might even describe the experience as terrifying.

  The proper procedure to summon a Vermin Lord from the Horned Rat’s domain was through a lengthy ritual involving complex sacrifices and elaborate ceremonies. Thanquol didn’t have the time for all that. What he did have was a part of Vecteek’s mortal remains. There was no surer way to summon a daemon than possessing a part of it.

  Thanquol gnashed a sliver of refined warpstone between his fangs and drew the dark energies of the aethyr into his mind. He muttered an appeal to the Horned One that he might lend his divine assistance in the grey seer’s endeavour to summon one of his Harbingers of Doom.

  Queek backed away as Thanquol’s entire body began to glow with unholy energies. Bullets from a few dwarf marksmen glanced away from the coruscating shell of energy that rippled about the sorcerer. A dull, keening moan began to whistle through the hall, the shriek of an invisible veil being torn asunder.

  Thanquol focused his entire mind upon the relic he held in his paws. The slightest stray thought, the merest hint of doubt, and the spell would be broken; the energies would snap back and sear his body to a cinder. Only by using the Hand of Vecteek as a focus was Thanquol able to keep his concentration. He merged his own power with that vested in the artefact.

  In his mind, Thanquol could see the wall between the mortal and immortal worlds crumble, fracturing as surely as the wall the dwarfs had broken through. He could smell the electric tang of the void, hear the shrieks of the damned, the hungry howls of hunting daemons. Swiftly, he blotted out the impressions, fixing his mind solely upon the powers of the Hand.

  “Vecteek,” Thanquol snarled. “Mighty Vermin Lord. Prince of Ruin and Desolation. Heed the summons of Grey Seer Thanquol. Harken to the Voice of the Horned One’s Prophet.”

  An icy chill swept through the hall as the void poured through the rent in the veil. Thanquol felt fear hammer at his heart, a terror greater than anything he had ever known.

  “Vecteek!” he cried. “I, Thanquol, servant of the Horned Rat, demand you to pass through this tunnel between worlds! Obey!”

  Now Thanquol could see something, a black essence, pouring through the torn veil. His glands clenched, the musk of fear dripping from his fur. There was a stench in his nose, a foul mixture of blood and steel, the smell of a dozen wars smashed together into a single reek. The sound of laughter rolled through his mind—deep and booming and utterly malignant.

  Vecteek couldn’t come, a voice like fire blazed through the grey seer’s brain. So I came instead.

  Images swirled through Thanquol’s mind. He could see the old grey seer sealed away inside Festerhole by the dwarfs. He could see the bitter old priest slowly starving away in his lair, his every thought turned against the Under-Empire which had forgotten and abandoned him. He could see the villain setting the Hand of Vecteek upon the table before him. He watched in disbelief as the long-dead sorcerer sank his fangs into the mummified artefact. In a few moments, the Hand was no more, consumed utterly by the starving grey seer.

  The entire hall shook, trembling as though a titan lumbered across its floor. Embattled skaven and dwarfs broke away from their foes to stare in bewilderment at the shuddering walls, the quivering ceiling. An intense dread passed through them, drawing colour from faces, scent from glands. Swords faltered, axes lowered as a nameless terror swept through the hall.

/>   In Thanquol’s mind, other images presented themselves. He could see Grey Seer Thratsnik, his body ablaze with magical energies from his consumption of Vecteek’s paw, leaning across the table once more. The grey seer laid his hand upon the table. Gradually, the power burning through him began to seep down his arm, gathering in his outstretched hand. Thratsnik raised his knife…

  Now the thunder of footsteps sounded through the hall, the tromp of monstrous feet. Eyes lifted as an immense shadow began to form, wisps of smoke billowing from nothingness to slowly coalesce into something with shape and substance.

  “Is… is that-that Mighty Lord Vecteek?” Queek stammered, even his hate of the dwarfs forgotten as worms of terror raced down his spine and through his glands.

  Thanquol barely heard the question. In his mind’s eye, he was watching Thratsnik put the final touch to the trap he had left behind, the snare for any who would seek to recover the Hand of Vecteek. The grey seer’s own dismembered paw lay before him on the table, saturated with magical energy. It might still serve as a potent talisman for anyone with the knowledge to tap into its energies. But Thratsnik had planned his revenge too well for that. He set his knife against the severed hand. Across the palm, so faintly that it might be overlooked, he made a mark, scratched a symbol which no sorcerer could gaze upon without a feeling of terror.

  “Squeak-say!” Queek shrieked. “Is that Lord Vecteek?”

  Thanquol slowly raised his head, staring up at the gathering shadow. The smell of blood and havoc was even more pronounced now, threatening to choke the breath from his lungs.

  You have called and I have answered. You sought the Harbinger of Doom. I am he, little sorcerer. I am your Doom.

  I am Skarbrand.

  I am your death.

  Chapter XVIII

  Thanquol’s body quivered as though gripped by a seizure, pain shot through his bowels as his empty glands continued trying to spray the musk of fear. With an effort of supreme will, he forced his eyes away from the shadowy manifestation spilling out through the door his magic had opened. He felt something wet dripping down his claws. The Hand of Thratsnik was dissolving, turning into runny streamers of blood, losing all shape as it oozed to the floor. Only the symbol cut into the palm remained intact, mockingly defying the dissolution of its surroundings.

  Disgusted, Thanquol threw the cursed artefact away. It landed on the floor, palm upwards, the Skull Rune glowing balefully from its setting of corroded flesh.

  The Skull Rune! Emblem of the Blood God of Chaos, Khorne, Lord of War and Slaughter! Well had the vengeful Thratsnik set his trap! The wrathful Khorne was a god of warriors and murderers, the patron of sword and claw. For all sorcerers, all who would ply the craft of spell and hex, the Skull Lord was their bane. Khorne had nothing but loathing and scorn for magicians and wizards—only an insane fool would use magic to draw the Blood God’s attention.

  Thanquol wasn’t particularly happy to think of himself as an insane fool. Yet as he watched the Hand of Thratsnik dissolve into a puddle of crimson muck, he understood how completely he had been taken in. By his own actions he’d opened the gateway into the Blood God’s realm and drawn the attention of one of his great daemons.

  Given enough time, Thanquol was certain he would figure out exactly how everything was Skraekual’s fault, but just now, he had more pressing concerns. For instance, there was the nasty matter of a giant shadow that was becoming less shadowy with each passing breath. He could see shoulders now, and great black wings. Horns and claws, and terrible pounding hooves.

  “Did… did… you-you call-summon… that?” Queek’s voice was as soft and mewing as that of a whelp torn from a breeder’s teat. The warlord’s eyes were immense pools of terror as he cringed beside Thanquol.

  You have called, and I have come.

  The voice of Skarbrand thundered through Thanquol’s mind. Raw terror pulsed through his body. He glanced at Queek, then back at the horrifying manifestation. There was really only one thing to do.

  “Keep it busy while I get help!” Thanquol snarled at Queek, shoving the warlord towards the manifestation. The grey seer didn’t even wait to hear Queek’s angry snarls, but spun about on his heel and scurried across the hall. Darting and weaving between awestruck dwarfs and shivering skaven, he drove straight towards the inner gate, certain he could find some small opening to squirm through. He’d feel a lot better putting a big thick dwarf wall between himself and Skarbrand.

  A coward dies a thousand deaths. All of them slow and very painful.

  Thanquol clapped his paws against his ears, trying to block out the daemon’s growl. Maybe he’d keep going once he was through the gate. If one wall between himself and the daemon was good, then two would be better. Actually, it might be nice to have seven or eight. In fact, Thanquol was feeling a decidedly un-skavenlike desire to be out in the open sky and well away from tunnels and dwarfhalls.

  Run, fleshling! You cannot hide!

  Thanquol cried out in horror as he caught sight of the Ruby Gate. The way was shut! The treacherous, cowardly dwarfs had closed the gate already!

  Some of the dwarfs around him began to stir from their horrified stupor. An axe flashed past Thanquol’s ear, a hammer smashed against the floor beside his foot. The grey seer’s staff smacked out, cracking into the hairy face of a dwarf guard, splitting his lip and breaking his teeth.

  The insufferable idiots! Death itself was marching through their burrows and the moron dwarfs had the gall to bother about a lone, defenceless little skaven! If Thanquol escaped from this indignity, he’d come back with an entire army and put every one of these bearded fools to the sword!

  Thanquol ducked and dodged, scurrying on all fours between the legs of his attackers. The very numbers of the dwarfs around him played against the efforts of his enemies to catch him. They couldn’t swing a hammer without the risk of hitting a comrade. It was a moral failing with the dwarf-things that they were too timid to pursue an enemy if it meant hurting one of their own.

  For his part, Thanquol missed no opportunity to lash out at his confused foes. He smashed toes and bit fingers, used his tail to trip legs and his staff to bludgeon anything else that had the misfortune to come within reach. His scurrying progress through the dwarf throng was easily tracked by the trail of cursing, hopping warriors he left behind.

  A voice suddenly roared out across the hall, sounding out above the frightened squeaks of the skaven and the angry snarls of the dwarfs. “The grey ratkin is the focus!” the voice was shouting and Thanquol recognised the voice of his gold-bearded tormentor. “Kill him before the daemon takes form! Kill Thanquol!”

  Hearing his own name spoken by a lowly dwarf-thing caused Thanquol to freeze. He spun about, glaring across the hall, fixing his malignant gaze on the gold-bearded dwarf. How had that creature learned his name? It was a question that vexed the grey seer, a question that made his mind turn to thoughts of betrayal and corruption. No crude dwarf-thing was smart enough to bedevil him the way this gold-fur had!

  Eyes narrowed with hate, Thanquol looked for Queek, his suspicions turning instantly to the only ratman present crazy enough to betray him. He bared his fangs as he saw the warlord and his bodyguard cutting a path through the dwarfs, retreating back to the ramp and the darkness of the lower deeps. It was too late for Thanquol to share the warlord’s escape route. There was the small matter of a gigantic daemon standing between himself and the ramp leading back into the lower deeps.

  Conspiracy! Thanquol writhed out from beneath the clutching fingers of a dwarf warrior and slashed his claws across the nose of a second dwarf who was trying to catch the ratman’s legs. The grey seer kicked and squirmed out from the press of his foes.

  Treachery! Queek had launched this attack solely to destroy the mighty Grey Seer Thanquol! The scheming maggot had forced this chaos upon him, forced him to draw upon the malignant power of Thratsnik’s cursed relic! Now the cowardly Headtaker was fleeing, running off into the darkness, abandoning Thanquol to fa
ce the dwarfs and the daemon alone.

  The daemon. Thanquol could feel Skarbrand’s malignance growing, swelling, expanding. He could smell the stench of the bloodthirster’s wrath, hear the fires of its hate. The grey seer felt very small beside that infinite wellspring of atrocity and carnage. His heart banged against his ribs, threatening to burst from sheer terror. The pain of his clenching glands made him want to scream.

  But he would not scream. Not now. Not when the daemon was so near. Not when Skarbrand was so close and so hungry.

  Thanquol dodged the butt of a dwarf’s gun as the thunderer tried to club him down. The grey seer’s staff smashed up between his attacker’s legs, doubling the wretch over in pain. Without hesitation, he sprang over the body of his stunned opponent, scurrying from the flailing hammers and axes of his enemies.

  No longer did the dwarfs hesitate, but targeted the ratmen with enraged abandon. Warriors cried out in agony as the blades of their comrades missed Thanquol and gouged their flesh. A crazed light burning in their eyes, the stricken dwarfs fell upon their former friends, tearing at them with clawed hands, cutting at them with knives and hatchets, gnashing their teeth as they snapped at the throats of their kinsmen.

  Thanquol scrambled away from the fratricidal fray. Even wracked by the black hunger, he had never seen skaven overcome by such bloodthirsty madness. The dwarfs attacked one another with the mindless ferocity of a cornered wolf-rat. The grey seer watched as one old longbeard continued to strangle the life from his younger enemy despite the axe stroke that had disembowelled him. A leather-cloaked engineer drove a heavy mattock into whatever came near him, uncaring of the red ruin dripping from his gouged eyes.

  The grey seer could feel the same madness trying to snake its way into his own mind, trying to seduce him into berserk self-destruction. He drew upon every scrap of his occult knowledge to drive back the tempting cries of the daemon, clinging to the tatters of his sanity as Chaos tried to consume him.