Two of the seats bore no banner, however. Instead there was a metal icon, the crooked crossbars that represented the Horned Rat. One of the seats would be occupied by the seerlord, the voice of the skaven god and his chosen prophet. The other stood above the centremost seat, a seat that was always kept vacant, kept waiting for the presence of the Horned Rat himself. The seerlord would interpret the will of the Horned Rat whenever the Council was called upon to vote upon some matter of policy. In effect, the tradition gave the seerlord a double vote, but no skaven was bold enough to challenge the connection between Kritislik and their merciless god.
“Grey Seer Thanquol,” a growling voice echoed from the shadowy podium. Some trick of acoustics made it impossible to pinpoint from which seat the voice emanated, magnifying and distorting it beyond any semblance of mortal speech. Thanquol tried to identify the voice, unable to decide if it belonged to General Paskrit or Warlord Gnawdwell. “The stink of fear is in your fur.”
Thanquol lowered his head and exposed his throat in abasement, trying to leave no question about his humility before the forbidding masters of his race. The warpstone braziers made it impossible for him to catch the scent of the seated warlords, but clearly the same disadvantage was not shared by the ratmen upon the dais. “Only a fool does not cower-grovel before the magnificent terror of the Council, oh mighty tyrant.”
Scratchy laughter chittered from the darkness. “Save your flattery and your lies for those witless enough to listen, mouse-bellied offal,” a knife-thin voice, possibly that of Nightlord Sneek, snickered.
“Come forward, wretched one,” the voice of Nurglitch, stagnant and slobbering, oozed from the shadows. Thanquol’s glands clenched. “Stand where the Council can see you.”
Thanquol quivered. Even the trickery of the chamber could not disguise that voice. Nurglitch, the decayed master of Clan Pestilens and its plague priests. One of Thanquol’s earliest successes had been at the expense of the plague priests, orchestrating the assassination of Plague Lord Skratsquik before the disease-worshipping ratman could finish his improved strain of Yellow Pox. Nurglitch had been forced to decry Skratsquik as a renegade after the fact to save face with his fellow Lords of Decay, but it was convenience more than belief that moved his fellow skaven to accept the story. The bloated old plague rat was not one to forget any slight against his clan.
“Come forward,” the command came again, this time from a voice fairly creaking with age and brittle with wickedness. Thanquol had no difficulty identifying his own master, the Seerlord Kritislik. “The Council does not ask twice,” Kritislik added with both menace and irony.
Thanquol forced himself upright and timidly approached the dais. His heart was hammering in his chest now, only a supreme effort kept his scent glands clenched. What game was Kritislik playing with him? Had the seerlord released him from the maze simply to destroy him before the entire Council? It was just the sort of grandiose display that would appeal to Kritislik. The horrible thought came to him: maybe the seerlord was looking to earn some good will with Clan Pestilens! Killing Thanquol in some gruesome manner before the eyes of Nurglitch would certainly accomplish that. The grey seer’s eyes narrowed, darting from side to side, looking for some route of escape. Nurglitch wasn’t the only member of the Council who might welcome his death. Clan Moulder was among the more recent enemies he had unjustly acquired, blaming him for their own incompetence and inadequacy.
Now Thanquol stood within a little ring of light, the exact centre of the warpstone braziers. The smell of the smoke was intoxicating, almost euphoric. He could feel the fumes dulling his senses, clouding his wit. He tried to shake off the effect, trying to claw his way free of the pleasant sensation. He needed every speck of his brilliance and cunning if he was going to leave the chamber alive. However seductive, the numbing draw of the smoke was threatening his chances to escape this audience alive.
“That is far enough, grey seer,” a scornful voice wheezed from the darkness. Even this close, Thanquol could not see a shape upon any of the seats, nor pick out the chair from which the speaker spoke. The grey seer’s fur stood on end, knowing the eerie absence to be a display of Nightlord Sneek’s terrible skill.
Through the fog of warpstone smoke, Thanquol could pick out other smells now. Faint, distant, but reeking of horror. He detected the faint tang of stagnant water and the thick musk of reptiles. He shifted his feet and felt the floor beneath him creak ever so slightly. Thanquol struggled to keep from bruxing his teeth together in an overt display of terror. No skaven in Skavenblight had failed to hear the stories of the execution pit, the long, cold drop into an unclimbable well, its depths filled with the most horrid of Clan Moulder’s creations. Things, it was said, that swallowed their victims whole and alive, that left their prey breathing and screaming even as they were dissolved in their bellies.
“You have failed the Council, Grey Seer Thanquol,” the grating voice of Kritislik spoke. There was no room for question or argument in the tone, only accusation and condemnation.
Thanquol abased himself upon the floor, grovelling against the symbol of the Horned Rat picked out upon the tiled mosaic in luminous green stones. “I was betrayed by my most worthless and cowardly minions,” he said. “If they had followed-obeyed my plans…”
“Your plans!” snarled one of the voices. “Then you admit it was your strategy that cheated Clan Skryre of the airship!”
Thanquol shivered before the voice. Distorted, almost fleshless, like the tones were drawn from a steel pipe instead of a living throat. The grey seer could easily suspect which of the Lords of Decay it was who spoke: Lord Morskittar, master of the warlock engineers of Clan Skryre. He could readily guess how eagerly the scientist-sorcerers of the clan had been waiting to study the dwarf airship and learn its secrets. Such a weapon would have been a potent addition to the arsenal of the Under-Empire and a monstrous boost to the prestige and power of Clan Skryre.
“We are not here to whine about the past,” a shrill, sharp voice interrupted. Thanquol tried to identify the voice, shuddering as he decided it might be that of Packlord Verminkin, overlord of Clan Moulder and its obscene science. “The failures of the past do not concern this Council. It is the promise of the future that is our focus.”
A faint tremor of hope whispered through Thanquol’s mind. He dared to lift his face from the floor. “How may this most unworthy one serve the great and mighty Council of Thirteen, oh ravenous despots?”
“Still your tongue and you shall hear, Thanquol,” Verminkin snapped. Thanquol abased himself once more and the packlord continued. “It has been brought to the Council’s attention that a potent artefact long thought lost has been discovered in our settlement of Under-Altdorf.”
“You will recover this artefact,” the growling Paskrit/Gnawdwell continued. “You will recover it and you will bring it back here, to the Council of Thirteen.”
“You will act as our agent,” Kritislik said. “You will have the full authority of this Council behind you. The council of Under-Altdorf will submit to that authority in every way.”
Something came hurtling out of the shadows, clattering against the flagstones near Thanquol’s bowed head.
The grey seer shifted his gaze, observing that it was a thick black pendant upon which the symbol of the Horned Rat was picked out in crushed ruby. It was a talisman of the Lords of Decay, entrusted only to those they sent upon the most vital of missions. Suddenly the thrill of hope shrivelled inside him. Anything vital to the Council was also bound to be grotesquely dangerous, dangerous enough that none of the clans felt safe pursuing it on their own.
“If… if this wretched one might speak…” Thanquol asked, lifting his head ever so slightly, careful to keep his lips over his fangs lest anything he do be interpreted as a challenge. When no voice snarled from the shadows to silence him, the grey seer proceeded. “Just one small question, oh virile sires of stormvermin. This artefact which you would have this most unworthy of servants retrieve for you.”
Nurglitch’s oozing voice rose from the darkness. “It is the Wormstone,” the plaguelord declared. “Lost for a thousand breedings in the collapsed burrows beneath the man-nest of Altdorf. A potent weapon crafted by Clan Pestilens for the greater glory of the Horned Rat and the skaven race. Stolen before it could be presented as a gift to the Council.”
It didn’t take a faint hint of Nurglitch’s putrid breath to smell his words, but Thanquol knew better than to challenge the lie. Skaven politics was built upon letting adversaries and rivals spew whatever inanity they liked and pretending to accept it as something more than rubbish. If the Council saw fit to accept Nurglitch’s story for the time being, Thanquol wasn’t about to stick his own neck out.
“The Wormstone is a masterpiece of alchemical creation,” this time it was the metallic voice of Morskittar that spoke. “A block of pure warpstone endowed with new properties through a process now lost and forgotten.”
“The Wormstone is the key to tearing down the decaying kingdoms of men and dwarfs,” said Nightlord Sneek. “With it, we can unleash such plagues as the soft races have never imagined even in their darkest nightmares!” The statement ended with another peal of chittering laughter.
“Your colleague, Grey Seer Skabritt discovered the location of the Wormstone,” said Kritislik. “He was killed in the attempt to recover it, but his apprentice, Kratch, escaped to bring word of his find to us. You will succeed where Skabritt failed, Grey Seer Thanquol. You will return to Under-Altdorf with Kratch. You will recover the Wormstone and you will bring it back.”
Thanquol nearly leapt out of his fur as a pair of armoured white stormvermin appeared silently beside him. One of the stormvermin held a tall wooden staff in its paw, a staff tipped with a bronze icon of the Horned Rat. The other held an ornate amulet, a solid piece of pure warpstone engraved with the symbol of Thanquol’s god. The Staff and Amulet of the Horned One, the potent magic devices that had been confiscated from Thanquol upon his return to Skavenblight. The grey seer lashed his tail in delight just seeing them again.
“These two will accompany you,” General Paskrit said. It took Thanquol a moment to understand that he meant the two stormvermin, not the objects they held. “They will be another reminder to the leaders of Under-Altdorf that you are the representative of this Council.”
Thanquol nodded his head in agreement, though he easily saw through the deception. The warriors wouldn’t be simply protecting him, they would be the eyes and ears of the Lords of Decay, watching and waiting for any sign of treachery or duplicity on Thanquol’s part. It was another example of how much importance they placed on the recovery of the Wormstone.
“I will leave at once, most grim and terrible of potentates,” Thanquol said, abasing himself before the dais once more. He could hear a murmur of conversation in the shadows.
“One last thing,” Kritislik said. “Do not divulge anything of your mission to any within Under-Altdorf. This Council has been aware of a growing trend of independence and willfulness among the faithless tail-lickers of that city. Under no circumstance are they to be made aware of the Wormstone.”
“Fail us in this, Thanquol,” came the bubbling voice of Nurglitch, “at your most dreadful peril.”
Thanquol tried to keep a trace of dignity in his speedy withdrawal from the chamber as the black doors creaked open once more. After standing before the Lords of Decay, even the giant rat ogre in the corridor outside was a friendly sight.
Kleiner was holding his sides, trying to push his ribs together, trying to squeeze out the pain. His insides felt as if they were on fire, as though little flickers of flame were dancing beneath his skin. The scratching had become maddening, his fingers were caked in blood. The coughing had become even worse, filth bubbling up from his throat that was too greasy to be blood and phlegm.
After retiring from the Orc and Axe, Kleiner had withdrawn to his lodgings, an attic apartment in a rundown hovel overlooking the Imperial shipyards. He was certain he had become the victim of some ill humour he had been exposed to in the sewers. He could feel it gnawing at his body. Kleiner had seldom prayed to any of the gods, even Ranald the patron of thieves, but now he found himself begging Shallya the goddess of mercy to make the pain go away. If only she would show him that small grace, he would abandon his wicked ways. This time he wouldn’t let Hans talk him back into a life of crime either.
Kleiner stuffed a rag into his mouth as another burst of violent coughing seized him. He couldn’t let his landlady discover that he was sick. The best he could expect would be to be thrown into the street. He could also imagine the paranoid old bat killing him in his sleep and dumping him in the Reik to keep any rumour of plague away from her boarding house.
The big smuggler rose from the straw-covered pallet that served as his bed, kicking old bottles from his path as he hobbled across the dingy room. He picked a few stained rags from the floor, feeling his stomach churn as he saw ugly green worms slither away when he moved them. For hours now, he’d been picking the loathsome things from his skin, dumping them in a copper slop-bucket. Kleiner almost gagged at the smell rising from the bucket, then dropped the bundle of rags into it. A vicious attack of coughing seized him and the big man fell to his knees beside the reeking can.
Lifting himself from the floor, Kleiner found the strength to carry the nauseating bucket to the tiny window that was the only ventilation in his room. He brushed aside the strip of canvas acting as a curtain. A blast of cold early morning air struck him and he blinked in the starlight. The city lay still and silent below. Summoning another reserve of strength, Kleiner dumped the bucket’s contents out the window. He watched as the rags and waste splashed into the gutter far below, then felt his gorge rise again. A pack of scrawny mongrels darted from the nearest alley, enthusiastically lapping up the filth he had cast below.
Kleiner lurched away from the disquieting sight, letting the bucket drop to the floor. Another attack of coughing seized him. As he reached up to stifle the sound, he plucked something fat and squirming from his cheek. The worm resisted his effort to pull it free, its slimy dampness twisting away from his touch.
The horror taxed the last reserves of the smuggler’s strength. He tried to make it back to his pallet before he collapsed.
Kleiner didn’t make it.
The agonised scream echoed from the alleyway, ripping Theodor Baer from his sombre thoughts. Immediately the sergeant was dashing down the lonely, darkened street, two of his soldiers close behind him. It was simple circumstance that caused the men to be patrolling such a lonely stretch of street. Theodor had been hoping to locate members of Gustav Volk’s gang out hunting for Hans Dietrich and his smugglers. When he heard the cry, his first reaction was to connect it to the brutal gang leader’s vendetta.
The scream, however, had not come from an adult. It was the shrill voice of a child. Rounding the darkened corner at a run, trying to avoid the muck and garbage heaped in the gutters, Theodor saw that the victim of the outrage was no cocksure smuggler getting more than he bargained for. Nor was the perpetrator some wharf rat ruffian out for revenge.
Instead the watchmen found a little girl, probably a bonepicker or dung gatherer judging by the smelly goatskin bag slung over her back, crouched in a corner trying to defend herself with a broken chair leg. Her attacker was a large mangy dog, so thin Theodor could count every rib, its hackles raised and its jaws foaming. Theodor shouted at the cur, thinking to scare the maddened beast. The shout didn’t frighten the mongrel. With lightning speed, the dog spun about, snapping and snarling at the would-be rescuers.
That was when things took a strange turn. In the dim starlight, Theodor could see the dog’s eyes glowing with a weird green luminance. The cur’s tan pelt was thin and rubbed raw, but Theodor could see things moving across it, like ripples in the river. It was with horror that the sergeant realised the effect of motion was caused by hundreds of wriggling worms burrowing up from beneath the dog’s skin.
The slaverin
g mongrel did not wait for the watchmen to recover from their disgust. Snarling, it leapt at them, snapping its foam-flecked fangs at each of them in turn. One of the watchmen stabbed the animal with his sword, gouging a grisly wound in its flank. What bubbled up from the injury was too putrid to be called blood and the man recoiled from the rancid stench. As the dog turned to focus on the man who had struck it, Theodor’s own blade licked out, slashing it across the back, severing its spine. The brute flopped to the street, twitching, trying to pull itself upright with only its front paws. Even half-paralysed, the dog’s instinct was to kill, its jaws snapping at Theodor as the sergeant moved towards it.
Theodor’s second blow finished the animal, a quick sharp thrust through one of the weirdly glowing eyes and into the stricken mongrel’s brain. A stench, even fouler than before, erupted from the dog as it slumped across the sergeant’s steel. The soldier drew a kerchief from his tunic to wipe the blood from his sword, then cast the rag from him when he was finished.
“Check the girl,” Theodor told his men. The two soldiers had been staring in amazement at the gruesome carcass of the dog. Now they remembered the little girl whose screams had drawn them into an encounter with the strange beast. She was still pressed into the corner of the alley, seeming as though she was trying to push herself through the plaster wall. As the watchmen came for her, in her terror, the girl struck at them with the chair leg. One of the soldiers took a blow against his forearm, then relieved the child of the crude weapon.
“I don’t think she’s been bitten,” one of the watchmen called to his sergeant after a cursory examination of the frightened waif.
“Take her to the hospice just to be sure,” Theodor said. With something as unclean as the dog he had killed, it wouldn’t do to take any chances. The gods only knew what evil might arise from even a small cut delivered by such a wretched beast. The Shallyan sisters would know what to look for better than some overworked, underpaid Altdorf watchmen.
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