“The box,” the wizard’s voice cut through the eerie scene.
A long-fingered hand shrouded in black was stabbing across the room, pointing at the metal casket. But the smouldering eyes of the wizard were fixed upon Loew, burning into his own. The alchemist knew he could not defy the commanding presence.
However, as he picked up the casket, Loew’s old greed returned. The wizard had returned his attention to the rat-beast, using his arcane might to bind the creature even tighter in coils of shadow. For the moment, Loew was unobserved, an opportunity he knew might not arise again. Quickly his fingers worked the hidden latch on the box, his hand plunging inside to close about the treasure he now knew both monster and magister coveted.
The instant the box was opened, the scent of what it contained was released into the air of the workroom. No longer the faint, old odour the stone had left behind on table and scale, but the fresh smell of its own substance. The scent burst through the rat-beast’s primitive brain like an explosion, sending Shockwaves rippling into every muscle and tendon. Even the shadowy coils wrapped about it were not enough to bind its frenzied might. Roaring, shrieking, the rat-beast ripped itself free from all fetters, physical and magical. The partition was torn apart by its fury, splinters sent hurtling through the room like gnarled skewers. The shadowy tendrils snapped, seeping into the floorboards as they lost their phantom substance.
Quickly the wizard’s dark hands were in motion, fingers splayed and curled into arcane gestures, arms crossed before his cloaked body. A wave of freezing shadow swept before him, smashing into the rat-beast with a pulse of withering force. The monster was bowled over by the mystic energy, thrown across the workroom as though it were a child’s doll. Furniture shattered beneath its weight, floorboards cracked and splintered. A dozen new wounds opened across the monster’s vile shape as the wizard’s spell drove it smashing through everything and anything in its way. Its bestial bulk slammed into the far wall, crumpled beneath a heap of debris.
Even for the sombre emissary of darkness, the magic of his last spell had been taxing. Cloaked shoulders sagged, the hooded head nodded weakly against a chest shrouded in grey. For the first time since setting eyes upon the magister, Loew’s stunned awe of him was disrupted. The alchemist was reminded that for all his spells and sorcery, the wizard was nothing more than a man. A man who would rob him of the precious wyrdstone.
Loew turned his head, snatching a heavy iron flask from the floor beside him. A murderous grin spread over the alchemist’s face as he unfastened the stopper and spun back towards the recovering wizard. The Colleges of Magic had many arcane spells and rituals that could visit horrific death upon their enemies, but so too did the ancient and eldritch Alchemists’ Guild. Among the oldest and most closely guarded of their secrets was that of nafaalm, the terrible mixture known as Nehekharan Fire.
As Loew turned to deal death to his rescuer, the wizard’s face turned towards him. Grim and judgemental was the grey gaze of the magister, his strange eyes biting into Loew like knives of hoarfrost. The alchemist almost faltered, but the realisation that he had already removed the flask’s stopper decided him. The muscles in his arm tensed as he prepared to dash the nafaalm against the wizard’s body.
Before Loew could move, the wizard’s hand shot forward. Something dark and sharp and thin shot from the black-swathed hand. Loew felt a blade of icy pain flash through his gut, spilling him to the floor. Too late he realised that what covered the magister’s hands were not gloves but an arcane skin of shadow, enslaved darkness that only awaited the merest gesture from the wizard to do his bidding. Faced with Loew’s treachery, the wizard had sent a portion of that darkness speeding into the alchemist’s body with the precision and deadliness of a throwing knife.
Crumpling to the floor, Loew could only groan in horror as the iron flask rolled from his fingers. The gooey, syrup-like nafaalm was already eating away at its iron prison now that it had been exposed to the open air. Weakened to the point of brittleness, the flask shattered as it struck the floor.
Instantly the back corner of the workroom exploded into flame. Loew shrieked as he was immolated by the blast. The entire building shook like a rowboat in a gale, plaster and dust raining from the ceiling. A roar like that of some caged beast swept through the alchemist’s shop, bringing with it a withering burst of heat that banished even the wizard’s unnatural aura of cold.
The grey-cloaked magister was sent reeling by the explosion, knocked from his feet, thrown out the alcove and dashed against one of the heavy shelves in the shop beyond with bone-jarring force. The wizard braced himself for the crushing impact, coiling like a serpent within his sombre robes, gathering the darkness around him to cushion his body. Knocking the shelf down with the force of his velocity, sending clouds of powder and dust billowing into the gloom as hundreds of vials and bottles shattered, the wizard rose from the tangled debris. His stern gaze pierced the smoky shadow of the shop, watching as flames greedily devoured Loew’s workroom. Before the room was lost within a wall of fire, he could see the immense shape of the rat-beast, risen from its own jumble of wreckage, madly forcing its way through the smoke and fire, its dull mind still fixated upon the alchemist’s box and what it contained.
From behind him, a dull crash sounded. The wizard faded into the darkness of the shop, blending his substance into that of the shadows. Another crash and the front door of the shop burst inwards. Men rushed inside, men wearing the livery of the Altdorf city watch. In command of them was Theodor Baer. Contacted by the agitator Ludwig Rothfels, who had lingered outside the shop, Theodor had employed his own initiative rushing to his master’s aid when the same shop had been rocked by an explosion. Now he raged through the smoke-filled shop, trying to fight his way into the flames beyond.
“Instructions,” a low voice hissed from the smoke. Theodor spun about, trying vainly to find the source of words only he could hear.
“Have your men withdraw,” the voice continued. “Evacuate surrounding buildings. Contain the fire. Allow Loew’s shop to burn. Be watchful for anything trying to escape the flames.”
Theodor could see several of his men already trying to fight the spreading fire with blankets and tools hastily salvaged from the shelves of the shop. The sharp, shrieking cries of someone trapped in the fire rang out, agony twisting them into something bestial and inhuman. It sickened Theodor to abandon someone to such a fate. All the same, he knew what duty demanded of him. “I obey,” the sergeant said, almost choking on the words.
“Search the ashes of this building,” the master’s voice whispered. “Recover a small metal casket. Do not open it. Do not touch what is inside.”
Theodor was calling back his men from their futile efforts against the fire, using every bit of his authority to compel them away from the source of such miserable screams. Only dimly was he aware of a lightening of the darkness around him, as though the smoke and shadow had withdrawn from the shop, drawn elsewhere by the presence they shrouded.
What was asked of him, he knew. What was expected of him, he knew. The why behind his orders, however, was something Theodor could not fathom. Another in an endless chain of riddles and mysteries he knew were beyond his ability to resolve. Like so many times before, he had to trust the wisdom and intentions of the man who he knew as Jeremias Scrivner.
The sharp squeals rising from the sunken pit were ghastly, so eloquent in their suggestion of unspeakable pain and terror that even Grey Seer Thanquol felt a thrill of fear race along his spine. It was like a choir of damned souls as the flames of Chaos licked their naked flesh. For all the horror in the screams, Thanquol felt a sense of immense power. The knowledge that he and he alone was able to induce such a hideous fate upon other creatures made him feel bigger than Boneripper, more powerful than the Lords of Decay. Stronger than the Horned Rat!
Thanquol quickly glanced about the cavern-like chamber, guilty eyes staring at each of his minions in their turn, grinding his teeth as he wondered if any of the sp
ying sneaks had guessed the impious turn his thoughts had taken. He fingered the amulet he wore, muttering apologies and renewed oaths of loyalty and service to his god. He had enemies enough to go around, he did not need to add the Horned Rat’s wrath to his worries.
The incident in the skrawl was foremost among Thanquol’s concerns. First Clan Eshin, then Clan Moulder had made an attempt against him. Who would be next? Which of Under-Altdorf’s clans was after his blood, or perhaps it was all of them working together? Grey Seer Thratquee had certainly woven a web of intrigue around the other council members long enough to draw upon the resources of each in turn.
Perhaps the senile old priest-sorcerer had sense enough to regret the injudicious discussion he had shared with Thanquol beneath the temple of the Horned Rat.
Thanquol did not like being thrust into a situation he could not dominate. The schemers and manipulators of Under-Altdorf were better at their game than some rustic warlord clan-hold in some forgotten hinterland of skavendom. He did not have the time or effort to spend trying to ferret out their secret alliances and rivalries to gain the leverage he needed to truly control them. His only hold over them was the talisman he had been given by the Council of Thirteen, and that wasn’t enough to dissuade whichever of the clan leaders had decided they wanted Thanquol dead.
Or was it Thanquol they wanted? The grey seer’s pride was such that he didn’t like to consider the possibility, but perhaps it was the Wormstone the killers were after. He cast a suspicious look at Viskitt Burnfang as the warlock engineer and his technicians scurried about the work tables, studying a bewildering array of rusty machinery and grimy alembics as they experimented upon the slivers of Wormstone that had been recovered from the warren of Clan Mawrl. The warlock engineer was attacking the task Thanquol had set him with a good deal too much enthusiasm as far as the grey seer was concerned. Not the enthusiasm of a dutiful servant doing his master’s bidding. No, it was more the enthusiasm of someone intending to keep his discoveries for himself. Thanquol had seen such base treachery many times. He would keep Burnfang only as long as the Clan Skryre engineer was useful, then it would be time for a little accident. He’d let Kratch handle that when the time came.
The grey seer shifted his attention to his apprentice. The young adept was trudging through the chamber, buckets of slop and offal swinging from his shoulders. Thanquol had given his apprentice the humiliating duty of feeding the dozens of slaves he had purchased. It would keep Kratch too busy to concoct any new halfwitted schemes to usurp his mentor’s position and authority. Thanquol hadn’t forgotten the “accidental” shove from Kratch that had knocked the warpstone from his paws just as the wolf-rats were nearly upon him.
Thanquol smiled evilly. A little while longer, just long enough to be certain his usefulness was at an end and it would be Kratch’s turn to suffer an “accidental” push. Straight into Boneripper’s mouth. The rat ogre would probably appreciate the light snack.
Looking away from Kratch, Thanquol turned his attention instead to the nearest test-pit. He stalked towards the depression like a hungry jackal, rubbing his paws together in greedy anticipation. The immense Boneripper lumbered beside him, his massive weight causing the earthen floor to shiver. Thanquol had been right to secure such a brute for his bodyguard. No skaven in his right mind would dare try anything if it meant confronting such a monster. During his spending frenzy in the skrawl, Thanquol had lavished his new pet with armour and weapons from the forges of Clan Mors. A thick skin of chainmail protected the monster’s head, sheets of the metal falling about his neck and cheeks. Boneripper’s huge horn had been sheathed with steel to improve both its impressiveness and lethality. A huge bronze shoulder guard was strapped to Boneripper’s left shoulder, protecting its solitary arm. On a whim, Thanquol had fitted the shoulder guard with a steel spike bigger than his own leg. Woe-betide any slinking enemy who was charged by his bodyguard now! Finally a glove of mail covered Boneripper’s extra hand, the tightly-woven links of metal in turn fitted with fist-spikes fashioned from sword blades. It pleased Thanquol to picture what would happen to anything Boneripper punched with that paw!
Thanquol had not been lax in seeing to his own protection, however. As impressive and fearsome as his new Boneripper was, he could not shake the nightmare image of that vile dwarf dropping the first Boneripper with a single blow to the head. He could not depend upon a bodyguard alone to preserve himself against his enemies. Thanquol had purchased an elaborate bronze helmet from a Clan Skab armourer, arranging with the artisan to alter the helm to accommodate the grey seer’s curling horns. From a Clan Sleekit trader, Thanquol had secured a warpsteel blade, its blackened edge engraved with deathly runes that glowed faintly with arcane energies. A collar of boiled leather reinforced with iron studs and a lining of chain nestled between layers of fur had been provided by a one-pawed Clan Skaul merchant. To protect against more magical threats, Thanquol had secured a riotous array of charms and talismans. Little shards of warpstone engraved with protective sigils, rat skulls taken from the sacred vermin of the temple, little bronze icons of the Horned Rat, an elfskin mojo bag filled with sacred powders and bones—all of these dangled from Thanquol’s belt and the head of his staff.
A pair of scrolls, written upon the flayed skin of slaves and marked with the scratch-script of the Queekish language, marked the most expensive of Thanquol’s protective measures. Each scroll bore the secret words of a mighty spell: bound into the simple markings and skaven-skin vellum was an awful magic. Only the wealthiest and most powerful of ratmen could afford such potent artefacts, but Thanquol had found a few disreputable dealers in the alleyways of the skrawl who had been able to provide what he needed. The white stormvermin from Skavenblight had seen to it that neither of the dealers would tell anyone what they had sold and to whom. Altogether, Thanquol felt much more secure in his security. Though it would still be prudent to keep some lack-wit lackeys close at hand to put between himself and any sniff of danger.
There was danger enough to go around, and the most potent of them all was the one Thanquol could not afford to spare himself from: the Wormstone. For days now, the grey seer had been experimenting on the subjects he had secured in the slave markets of Under-Altdorf. The results had been as terrifying as they were enticing. To think that Clan Pestilens could have developed such a powerful weapon was unsettling. If the diseased plague lords who ruled the heretical sect had pursued their experiments, they might easily have conquered the entire Under-Empire. It was fortunate that their decayed brains had not seized upon the promise of their creation, leaving it abandoned and forgotten until a skaven of Thanquol’s vision and genius should find it.
Down in the pit, Thanquol watched the results of his latest test. A half-dozen skavenslaves and a few humans had been dropped into the smooth-walled pit, then exposed to slivers of the Wormstone. It had been Burnfang’s fiendish idea on how to effect the exposure, securing the shards to thick ropes and then swinging them through the pit like pendulums. It was entertaining to watch the wretches try to escape the swinging ropes. Once a few of them had been hit by the blackish-green rock, there was no need to strike the others. The exposed victims would see to the infection of the rest.
It was remarkable, the way the infection worked. Once exposed to the Wormstone, a skaven’s fur began to become mangy, filthy wormlike growths sprouting from his skin. In a matter of minutes, the skaven would become insensible from the pain, a twitching, grovelling thing. Fat green worms would begin to drop away from the ratman’s body, slithering across the pit, drawn to other skaven like iron to a magnet. A single worm would be enough to infect a ratman, the filthy things burning their way into the fur of their victims. Most dramatic of all was the final stage of the infection, when the skull and organs of the skaven would burst into a writhing mass of worms. This could take anywhere from minutes to hours, a process Burnfang had not yet been able to fully understand.
Humans were not immune to the infection, though they were much more re
sistant to it. Where a skaven would show signs of his corruption in a matter of minutes, a human might endure for days before becoming sick from his exposure. The end was, if anything, even more loathsome than the fate of the ratmen as the human’s body corroded into a syrupy mush. It was a curious fact that the body of a human did not yield nearly so many of the fat green worms as that of a skaven; another puzzle Burnfang had not yet solved.
The implication was not lost upon Thanquol, that the Wormstone would make a much more efficient weapon against his fellow skaven than it would the furless hordes of mankind. It gave the grey seer pause, exciting both his paranoia and his ambition. What did the Lords of Decay want with such a horrible thing and could he trust their gratitude that he was the agent of its delivery to them? At the other end of the spectrum, Thanquol saw himself stalking through the streets of a humbled Skavenblight, supreme among the ratkin, power such as no lone skaven had ever held clenched tightly in his iron paw. It was a vision that made him almost forget his fears.
“Most gracious-kind despot,” a snivelling voice squeaked nearby. Thanquol did not need to turn to recognise the decrepit scent of Skrim Gnawtail, the Clan Skaul sneak. He waved his paw, motioning for Boneripper to allow the aged ratman to approach. Even so, Skrim kept his eyes fixed upon the hulking rat ogre as he scurried around the imposing monster.
“Speak-squeak, underling,” Thanquol commanded. Whatever Skrim was peddling, it was interrupting the grey seer’s observation of the slave-subjects. One of the ratmen was about to burst and Thanquol didn’t want to miss the grisly sight. “Quick-quick!” he snapped, displaying his fangs.
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