01 - Grey Seer

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

  Slowly, agonisingly slowly, the sapphire-lights were creeping across the roof. Now Thanquol could see that they weren’t merely set amid the rocky growths, they were fixed to a big projection of stone. Only it wasn’t stone, just something that blended itself with the stone, the better to hunt prey.

  Terrors from whelp-hood rose up fresh in Thanquol’s mind. All the bogey stories told by vindictive skavenslaves to frighten their charges. Tales of the Under-Empire and the lightless miles of empty tunnel between burrow and warren. Gruesome fables about what haunted those tunnels, ready to reach out and snatch the unwary skaven who dared the dark alone.

  The thing on the ceiling was one such myth. Until this moment, Thanquol had not believed such a thing to be any more than the crazed imagining of the insect-obsessed Clan Verms. Still, there was no mistaking the monster for aught but what it was. Now that he was aware of it, Thanquol could pick out the shape of its many spindly legs, the long abdomen and the armoured thorax. He could see the angular head with its jewel-like eyes of sapphire and its hideous mouth of serrated plates. Two arched shadows dangling down from it were certainly the monster’s claws, great ripping things designed to catch and hold prey while the monster’s mandibles tore slivers of meat from its screaming victim.

  A tregara, the panther of the underworld, a monstrous mantis-like predator that found no prey quite as much to its liking as skaven. Even now, staring back at its sapphire eyes, Thanquol found it difficult to believe the thing was real. He ransacked his mind for every half-remembered story he had been told about the creatures. Above him, slowly and silently, the tregara continued to creep forwards.

  Blind! Yes, that was something he remembered. Thanquol prided himself on recalling such an old and seemingly useless bit of memory. There was more, it wasn’t able to scent prey any more than a skaven could catch a scent from the insect’s own pale, rocky body. How then did it hunt?

  The tregara was almost directly above the plinth now. Thanquol shuddered as he saw how immense it was, at least twice his own weight and coated in thick plates of chitin. As he trembled, the insect rotated its head, seeming to fix its blind gaze on the grey seer. Thanquol knew it was not his imagination when the tregara’s lethargic stalk across the ceiling quickened.

  Movement! That was how the tregara hunted its prey! Even the slightest motion would betray Thanquol to the monster. The skaven struggled to calm himself, to still his lashing tail and quivering limbs. He forced himself to look away from the gigantic insect, only too aware that while he looked at it, any effort to calm himself was doomed.

  Long moments passed. Thanquol expected the scythelike claws to come sweeping down to snatch him at any moment. When nothing happened, he risked raising his face from the floor.

  The tregara was almost directly over him. He could see the stone-like markings on its back now, could hear the scrape of its body against the rock as it moved. The sight was too much for Thanquol’s self-control. Screaming into his gag, the grey seer scurried across the floor on hands and feet, racing away from the sinister predator with all the grace and terror of some mammoth rat. Dignity and decorum were the furthest things from his mind as the grey seer darted back into the tunnel, like a giant mouse disappearing into its hole.

  Down the narrow, winding tunnels Thanquol ran, his replenished glands venting themselves. Only once did he risk a look back. Two sapphire-lights shone from the roof of the tunnel, the tregara’s clawed legs stabbing into the black rock as it hurtled after its fleeing prey. The insect’s grim silence disturbed Thanquol more than the hiss of a serpent or the snarl of a cat, lending the tregara an unnatural, almost elemental aura of inevitability.

  Thanquol was not about to submit to the inevitable, whatever shape it assumed. There was always a way, a deception to work, a minion to blame, a superior to flatter. He had survived many things over his life, from the black arts of the necromancer Vorghun of Praag to the vile poxes of the Plague Lord Skratsquik and the mutated warriors of Arek Daemonclaw. Even that hell-spawned dwarf had proven incapable of besting the mighty Grey Seer Thanquol. To end as fodder for some mindless tunnel-lurker was too much for him to countenance.

  Now Thanquol was back at the intersection. Once more there were five tunnels branching away. Close behind him came the tregara. He hesitated for only a moment, then quickly darted into the centre tunnel. Thanquol threw himself against the floor, crushing his body against the earth. For a terrible instant, he wondered if the trap mechanism had reset, or if the tunnel was indeed the right one.

  Suddenly, green fire roared overhead. A sickly, satisfying smell of burnt meat struck Thanquol’s senses. He looked overhead and watched as a long, scythe-like claw dropped away from the charred husk of the tregara, its sapphire-lights dimmed forever by the scorching blast of warpfire.

  The tunnel began to rumble once more. This time Thanquol was too slow to retreat, instead being carried away as the entire corridor rotated. As it finished its cycle, the grey seer found himself blinking in the harsh glare of warpstone lanterns. He could hear the grind of machinery all around him and could dimly perceive a massive treadwheel powered by skavenslaves looming in the distance.

  Thanquol’s heart hammered against his ribs. He wasn’t going to die! He hadn’t been cast into the Maze of Inescapable Death, but rather into the Maze of Merciless Penance! The Horned Rat had not abandoned his favoured instrument! He was being given another chance to prove himself. His masters had not consigned him to destruction.

  Much closer than the slaves was a large cluster of armoured skaven, their pallid fur taking on a greenish hue in the warplight. They were big, slavering brutes with breastplates of steel and wickedly hooked halberds clutched tightly in their paws. Thanquol knew their scent: albino stormvermin, the elite guards of the Council of Thirteen.

  In their midst was another figure, nearly as tall as the hulking stormvermin. His fur was a murky grey that contrasted with the iron hue of his long, flowing robes. Sigils picked out in black rat-hair thread formed intricate patterns on the skaven’s garments. Huge horns as black as the thread rose from the skaven’s skull, curling into spiral antlers of bone. The face beneath the horns was pinched and drawn and filled with such timeless malice as to make even the fiercest giant seem small and vulnerable.

  Thanquol abased himself before Seerlord Kritislik, baring his throat to the elder priest-sorcerer. If there was anything left in his glands, Thanquol would have vented them in deference to his master, but all the musk had already been used during the horrible chase by the tregara.

  Kritislik’s face pulled back in a fang-ridden smile of challenge, annoyed by the lack of respectful scent from Thanquol. After a moment, however, Kritislik divined the reason for such impropriety. The seerlord chuckled darkly.

  “You survive the maze, Grey Seer Thanquol,” Kritislik hissed. “Good-good. The Horned One still like-favour you.” Kritislik gestured with his paw and two of the stormvermin advanced to the captive. Roughly, but quickly, they removed the muzzle from Thanquol’s snout and the fetters from his paws.

  Coughing, Thanquol spat the iron bit from his mouth and tried to work feeling back into his jaw. He became aware of Kritislik’s impatient gaze upon him, and threw himself back to the floor.

  “I serve only the will-desire of the Horned One,” Thanquol whined. “The word of the most terrifying-magnificent seerlord is my sacred commandment, oh benevolent tyrant,” he added, deciding a display of fawning devotion might keep him from being returned to the maze.

  Kritislik seemed to ponder Thanquol’s flattery, then a cruel light crept into the ratman’s eyes. “You have been a capable servant, Grey Seer Thanquol,” Kritislik said. “The Council finds itself in need of a dispo—a competent servant for a matter of the utmost delicacy.”

  Kritislik gestured again and the white stormvermin grabbed Thanquol by the shoulders and started to lead him away. The grey seer knew better than to struggle or protest. A less keen mind might have thought there was nothing worse that could be i
nflicted on him than the ordeal of the maze and that there was nothing to be risked by resisting.

  Thanquol knew better. Where the insidious imaginations of the Lords of Decay were concerned, there was always something worse.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Worms and Rats

  The hideout, as Hans Dietrich called it, was nothing more than a disused cellar beneath the Orc and Axe. The little gang paid Ulgrin Shatterhand, the proprietor of the tavern, a tidy sum to keep the cellar that way. There was a hidden door in the small foyer between bar and kitchen that allowed the smugglers entry to their secret storehouse. It was a vital element of their operation to have a safe place to store merchandise when immediate delivery proved impractical. The Orc and Axe, infamous as one of the most violent dens of vice and drunkenness on all the waterfront, made a perfect disguise for their activities. The place was so notorious there wasn’t a watchman in all Altdorf who would look beneath the surface for more crime. The panderers, weirdroot addicts, river pirates, mobsmen, thieves and murderers who patronised the tavern’s taproom were more than enough to meet any thief-taker’s quota. If there was one thing that had impressed itself upon Hans over the years it was the fact that the only person stupider and lazier than a watchman was the common outlaw.

  Staying out of Mundsen Keep or Reiksfang Prison wasn’t a question of being a genius, only a matter of being cleverer than the next thief and keeping quiet when he took the fall. It was a philosophy that had kept Hans clean so far as the magistrates were concerned, despite over a decade of larceny. His brother, Johann, had violated the precept of not meddling in somebody else’s fight. He’d been tossed into the Reiksfang for three years after getting caught up in the Window Tax riots. Perhaps it would have been better had he spent a few more years in the dungeons of the Reiksfang, the extra time might have knocked a bit more sense into Johann’s thick skull. As it was, the younger Dietrich still had disturbing displays of idealism from time to time.

  At least he was a dependable lieutenant, a vital asset when the gang included slippery weasels like Kempf among their numbers. Watching the diminished gang move through the narrow, garbage-ridden back-alleys of the waterfront, Hans realised he’d need to recruit some new muscle, sooner rather than later with Gustav Volk on the prowl for them.

  Hans slipped in the side door of the tavern after making sure no one was about. He was always cautious about government informants and watchmen keeping a low profile, and tonight he was doubly so. If what they found in the sewers was really what Kempf claimed it to be, they’d make back what they had lost with the wine and then some. He held the rickety door, nothing more than a few planks fitted to a hinge, as the rest of his gang shuffled out of the shadows and darted inside. Johann brought up the rear, his dagger drawn, following close behind Kleiner as the big man shuffled his way down the alley, his arms wrapped about the strange stone. Even with an oilskin draped over it, the rock gave off a faint green glow in the darkness. Hans wrinkled his nose. The last thing they needed was somebody spotting that and getting the witch hunters involved!

  The rumble of voices and bawdy songs from the tavern’s main room covered the entrance of the smugglers. The only one watching the side door was Greta, a plain-faced serving wench with a body like an over-sexed cow. She had a thing for one of the gang and always hung around the door when she could to watch their comings and goings.

  “Evening, Greta,” Hans said as he slipped inside. The girl grinned at him, then craned her head, looking slightly disappointed that only Kleiner and Johann were still outside.

  “Is Krebs not with you?” she asked, a dejected note in her voice.

  “Sorry, love, the Dockwatch nabbed him. You won’t see him until they let him out of Mundsen Keep,” Hans lied. Johann gave his brother a sour look. They had both seen Krebs spitted like a fish on Gustav Volk’s sword. The only way Greta would be seeing him again was with the help of a necromancer.

  “He was just a bit too slow tonight,” Hans continued, returning his brother’s sour look. There was no sense telling the girl the truth and spending half the night trying to console a bawling female. “Nobody’s fault, really. Sometimes the blasted griffons get lucky is all.”

  Greta’s eyes were starting to turn red and damp, a flush rising in her plump face. Hans patted her shoulder.

  “Don’t fret none, poppet,” he told her. “Me and the lads will see the bribe gets doled out. He’ll be back knocking at your window in no time.”

  Hans didn’t have time to wipe the smile off his face before Johann was pushing him into the pantry and down the steps to the hidden cellar.

  “Anyone ever tell you that you’re a worm?” Johann growled.

  “You think telling her that her darling swain is a notch on Volk’s sword would make her feel any better?” Hans retorted. “I have to say, brother, sometimes I think dear old mum did our father wrong when you get all stupid on me.”

  Hans ignored the ugly stream of invective his turn of phrase provoked and descended into the cellar. It was a rude, dilapidated affair, plaster walls bulging with the Altdorf damp, a timber ceiling that creaked every time anyone headed out the tavern’s back entrance to use the privy, spider webs so thick they could choke an ogre. Still, what it lacked in the niceties, it made up for in discretion. A smuggler had to choose inconspicuous over luxury every time.

  The rest of the depleted gang was clustered around the only lantern in the place, a glass-faced storm lantern they’d somehow acquired from the ship of a Marienburg trader. The glass was cracked, throwing weird shadows across the floor, but at least it was better than sitting in the dark and far less stifling than a smoke-belching torch.

  Hans did another quick head count. Mueller, Kleiner, that rat Kempf, Wilhelm and Johann. No doubt about it, but Volk’s little ambush had cost them a lot of manpower.

  “You can set that thing down now,” Hans told Kleiner. The big oaf was still holding the glowing rock against his chest, even with sweat dripping down his forehead and veins bulging from the sides of his neck. He let the rock crash to the floor and crumpled into a gasping wreck. The other smugglers cursed at the loud noise and instantly trained their eyes on the ceiling, trying to decide if they had been heard.

  Hans shook his head. With all the racket rising from the taproom, they could be murdering the Emperor’s mistress down here and nobody would hear it. He smacked his hands together to draw the men’s attention back to him.

  “Well boys, we had a bad night of it,” Hans said.

  “Bad night?” Wilhelm snarled. He waved his bandaged hand at the gang chief. “They cut off two of my fingers!”

  “Next time you’ll get out of the way,” Hans quipped. Johann stepped beside his brother, a menacing reminder to Wilhelm that he would get much worse than a few missing fingers if he started anything.

  “Khaine’s black hells, Hans!” cursed Kempf. “That wasn’t the Dockwatch or sewerjacks that rumbled onto us, that was Gustav Volk! In case you forgot, he works for Klasst! Those people don’t throw you into Mundsen Keep, they bury you under it!”

  “And they don’t never stop lookin’ for you either!” Wilhelm added. “Never!”

  Hans shook his head. “So you’d prefer that we were working for Volk all this time? Funny, I don’t remember anybody complaining about splitting the forty-percent that leech would have taken off every job.”

  “Yeah, well now’s different,” Kempf spat. “Now Volk’s onto us!”

  “So what do you want to do? Everybody wants to quit and bottle out because the big bad Volk is after them?”

  Hans was a bit annoyed by all the nodding heads that greeted the suggestion.

  “We’ve enough stashed from the last few jobs to get good and far from Altdorf,” Mueller told him. “I’m thinking Wurtbad might be far enough to stay out of Volk’s grasp.”

  “If it’s just Volk,” Johann interrupted. “If it’s his boss looking for you, Kislev isn’t far enough away.”

  His brother’s sobering remark
brought a decidedly depressing chill to the air, like a schoolroom bully letting all the air out of a pig’s bladder. Hans decided to play the card he had been holding back. He fished in his tunic and pulled out a sack of coins. With a flourish he threw the bag onto the floor, making sure everyone could hear the clatter of metal against metal.

  “There’s all the swag from the last three jobs,” Hans said, smiling as the men pounced on the bag. “Divide it up any way you like, and may Ranald’s favour go with you.” Hans paused, letting a sly twinkle into his eye. “Of course, if you leave now, you don’t get a share.”

  That remark made some heads turn. Suspicious eyes fixed on Hans.

  “Share in what?” Mueller demanded.

  Hans patted the oilskin-draped stone, letting his fingers tap against its sides, letting the drumming noise echo across the cellar. “If this is wyrdstone, Kempf, how much would it be worth?”

  “You wouldn’t cut us out of that!” Kempf snarled, more than ever resembling some, cornered rodent.

  “But you men all want to leave Altdorf,” Hans said. “Those who stay behind to sell this… commodity… should reap the rewards. What have we always said? An equal share of the risk, an equal share of the swag. That simple rule has kept us honest so far, I see no reason why it shouldn’t still apply.”

  The men looked at Hans as if he’d spat in their beer. Kleiner rose from the floor, looking for a moment as if he’d like to rip the sneering rogue limb from limb. Wilhelm fingered his knife, a gruesome thing that looked like it was made for gutting sharks. Mueller just stood and glared. Kempf muttered to himself, chewing on his moustache.