“But you can’t just let such monsters go free!” protested Johann. He gestured to Ludwig and the other men in the room. “They tell me that you are some manner of champion, a fighter against evil. What could be more evil than these ratmen! You must fight them!”
A flicker of approval seemed to pass through Scrivner’s colourless eyes. The wizard lifted a long-fingered hand, halting Johann’s impassioned words. “I will fight them. You and your friends brought a terrible thing into this city. In doing so, you have placed Altdorf in great peril. At the same time, you may have saved all who dwell between its walls.”
Every eye was on the wizard as he swept across the dimly lit room. His hands were beneath his cloak, and when they emerged there was a little lead box gripped between his fingers. Carefully he set the box down and stepped back. A muffled incantation hissed from Scrivner’s hidden lips and an invisible hand opened the catch on the box. The lid sprang back, exposing a little shard of greenish-black rock that glowed evilly in the darkness. “Wyrdstone,” gasped Johann.
“So book-foolish men would say,” Scrivner said. He pointed at the box. “What is in there is more dangerous than warpstone—what ignorant scholars once named wyrdstone to deceive themselves and cloak their own fears. This is poison and pestilence cast into stone by the foulest of magics. To touch this is to touch death.”
“Kleiner! And my… my brother!”
Scrivner nodded grimly. “They handled the stone and its evil seeped into their veins. Even the grace of Shallya could not stave off the taint which ravaged Hans Dietrich.”
Johann’s face became pale, his entire body seeming to wilt as he heard the wizard pronounce his brother’s doom. Hans was dead then? Taken by the horrible disease that had ravaged him. No, not a disease, but some kind of abominable poison created by the ratmen!
“I will not accept this!” Johann snarled. “Kempf handled the rock more than my brother, you saw him in the cellar chipping pieces from it to steal for himself! If it was poisonous, he would have fallen ill long before Hans!”
“Kempf was an addict of a substance called black dust, a foul derivative of warpstone sold to human distributors by opportunistic skaven,” Scrivner said. “Use of the drug caused the thief’s body to build a greater tolerance to the poison, though he too would have succumbed in time. Your brother, lacking Kempf’s vice, was more susceptible to even a slight exposure to the stone.”
Johann slumped against the table, holding his head in his hands, his last desperate defiance of Scrivner’s words crushed by the wizard’s cold logic. Accepting his explanation, Johann was also forced to accept the news that his brother was dead.
“The stone works upon a simple principle,” Scrivner continued, this time his words intended for all within the room. “It could be likened to a lodestone, only drawn to warpstone instead of metal and operating in far more horrible fashion. It feeds upon warpstone residue trapped within living bodies, drawing it together into tubular, worm-like growths. Warpstone dust is everywhere and in everything, but seldom in concentrations pronounced enough to do harm. This stone,” the wizard pointed again at the box. With his gesture, the lid snapped closed once more. “This stone draws those harmless traces of warpstone dust into deadly knots of corruption and mutation. I suspect that the stone is even more deadly to the ratkin, whose entire metabolism is saturated with warpstone.”
“Then why would the ratkin create such a thing?” asked Ludwig.
“Because they do not value the lives of their own,” the wizard said. “To the skaven there is nothing so cheap as the life of a ratman. If they must lose ten of their own to kill a single enemy, then they count it a bargain so long as they are not one of the ten.”
“We cannot let the ratkin get away with plot! They make of Altdorf what they do to Miragliano!” Amando raged.
“There are agents and powers already seeking the stone,” Scrivner said. “If the skaven have taken it anywhere in the city, I shall learn of it.”
Johann lifted his head from the table, hate smouldering in his eyes. “They have to be destroyed,” he growled, his voice cold as a winter grave. “Every last one of them.”
The wizard nodded his hooded head, his grey eyes burning in the darkness. “You will get your opportunity, Johann Dietrich,” he said.
Scrivner reached to the table, collecting the little lead box. As he removed it, Johann was surprised to see that something had been left in its place. It was a small, flat rectangle of strangely-hued gold like nothing he had ever seen before. The surface of the token was richly engraved with writhing serpents and crawling lizards, a stylised sun peering from between two eclipsing moons forming the centrepiece of the engraving.
“My talisman,” the wizard said, motioning for Johann to collect the token. “All who serve me bear such a coin,” he continued, watching as the smuggler’s fingers lifted the gold rectangle to his face that he might inspect it more closely. “By accepting it, you become one of my servants. You agree to follow my orders without question or hesitation. You agree to place no loyalty above that which you shall render to me, not that of family, gods or Empire.”
“If I refuse?” Johann asked, his eyes never leaving the strange coin.
“Then you will forget about avenging your brother’s death.” The wizard’s cold words cut through the air like a knife.
Johann looked again at the grey-shrouded apparition, trying to fathom the mind that regarded him from behind those sinister, colourless eyes. At last he nodded and slipped the coin into his pocket. It did not matter to him anymore what Scrivner’s motives were, what the wizard’s intentions were. It was enough that he promised Johann revenge. For that, Johann would follow the magister into the Mouth of Chaos if he demanded it.
Suddenly there was a sound from the chimney, a rustling, scratching noise that set every man in the room on edge. Valkoinen’s hands whisked daggers from his belt in a blinding flash, the coachman had an ugly-looking mace in his hand almost before Johann was aware the man had started to move. Amando drew pistol and rapier while Ludwig backed away, a knife clenched in his fist. Every man stood ready for action, their morbid imaginations fired by talk of ratkin and underfolk.
Only Scrivner remained as he had been, unperturbed by the sounds descending the chimney. The wizard turned slowly as the noise reached the bottom of the shaft, one hand gesturing at the hearth. Johann saw something dark slip from the opening, dropping onto the hearth with a wet flop. The dark shape shook itself, then, to the smuggler’s alarm, it seemed to expand, growing in size and distorting its shape. Scrivner swung his pointing hand around, gesturing to the table. The thing in the hearth hissed at him, a low serpentine noise that made Johann’s skin crawl. The dark shape launched itself into the air, gliding across the room to land atop the table.
Johann recoiled from the gruesome thing. It was coated from beak to talon in soot, so he could make no guess as to its true colour, but its shape and nature were far too apparent. What was under the soot was not feathers but reptilian scales, the long beak was filled with sharp little teeth, the wings were leathery and batlike. A long tail stretched behind the thing, lending it even greater resemblance to some nightmarish union of snake and falcon.
The flying lizard’s yellow eyes stared at Johann and it took a shuffling hop towards him. Then, suddenly, Scrivner’s voice drew its attention away from the smuggler. Johann could not understand the slithering, hideous noises that rose from the magister’s muffled face; if they were words then they were such words as did not belong on the tongues of men. His horror increased when he observed the ghastly lizard-hawk bobbing its head and fluttering its wings seemingly in response to Scrivner’s hissing speech, as though the hideous thing were conversing with him!
Scrivner turned away from the lizard-hawk, again sweeping his gaze across the room. “The stone has been found,” he said. He stared at the coachman, fixing the burly man with his stormy gaze. “Take word to all who participated in operations at the Orc and Axe. Bring Grim
bold Silverbeard; his knowledge is vital if the foe goes to ground. All operatives are to await me at the old di Argentisso house in the Reikhoch Prachstrasse.”
The coachman sketched a deep bow and hurried to carry out his orders. Scrivner watched him go, then considered his remaining minions. “The rest of you will accompany me,” he said. His grey eyes drifted back to Johann, this time with a terrible scrutiny that made the smuggler even more uncomfortable than the renewed interest the lizard-hawk had displayed in him.
“Perhaps we will even be in time for Herr Dietrich to have his revenge,” Scrivner said, a trace of heaviness in his tone.
Grey Seer Thanquol watched as the last of the subjects twitched and writhed on the floor of their cage. It turned out that Burnfang hadn’t needed as many subjects as the pool of Thanquol’s less useful minions had provided. He was pragmatic about the situation. Even if there was nothing worthwhile to be learned by exposing the ratmen to the Wormstone, it made for a most effective method for exterminating individuals who would certainly be looking for some chance at revenge if Thanquol allowed them to live. No, it was better not to risk their petty and vindictive treachery and simply get rid of them along with the others.
Burnfang and his warlock engineers were scurrying about the kitchen-laboratory, grinding down the last of the Wormstone and pouring the contents into the wine bottles. Thanquol remembered the way the thieving humans had used vinegar to mask the smell of the Wormstone from the skaven. He thought the sour wine from the cellar might do the same, though whether it could deceive something like the warp bats of Clan Moulder or some of Skrattch Skarpaw’s slinking back-stabbers, Thanquol was uncertain. The less consideration he gave to Grey Seer Thratquee using magic to find the Wormstone—and himself—the more comfortable he was. The sooner he eliminated the threat of that corrupt old rat and the entire treasonous council of Under-Altdorf, the better.
Thinking of Under-Altdorf, and the doom that would soon descend upon it, Thanquol abandoned his morbid observation of the corroding captives. He strode across the kitchen to the small parlour beyond, Boneripper trudging after him like a faithful hound. He had made the parlour into his command nest, filling it with such opulence as the mouldering furnishings of the abandoned townhouse could provide. A small entryway beyond the parlour opened upon the street. One of Skrim’s sneaks was posted there, watching through the grimy windows, waiting to give warning should any human invaders descend upon Thanquol’s refuge.
Similar lurkers were posted in the cellar and basement of the townhouse. These were separate rooms beneath the structure, the cellar connected to the kitchen, the basement reached only by a hidden door in what had been the study. Tunnels connected both of the subterranean rooms to the underworld of the skaven. If attackers came from beneath the townhouse rather than from outside, then Thanquol would use whichever tunnel his ratkin enemies didn’t to make his escape. And if they somehow discovered both entrances…
Thanquol patted the remaining ratskin scroll tied to his belt. He’d inspected the document very carefully, assuring himself that the magic it professed to evoke was no forgery. To use such magic would mean abandoning his minions, but that was a sacrifice that didn’t cause a second of doubt. It was, after all, the duty of the common ratman to give his life that the brilliance and fortitude of their betters should endure. Why, if they had the intelligence to see it, creatures like Skrim Gnawtail and Viskitt Burnfang could not fail to understand that the greatest accomplishment they could hope for in their dreary, scrabbling little lives would be to die for the glory of Grey Seer Thanquol!
Sadly, the wretches did not have such vision. As he entered the parlour, Thanquol found Skrim leaning over the teakwood chest upon which the grey seer had set the stolen maps and diagrams. There was a furtive, suspicious quality about the spy’s manner that made Thanquol’s lip curl. Boneripper sensed his master’s disquiet and a threatening growl rumbled through the rat ogre’s barrel chest.
Skrim scrambled away from the chest, claws clutching the badly-chewed stump of his tail. Age had dulled the spy’s senses, allowing even something of Boneripper’s size to steal upon him unawares. Any skaven in such a state was near the end of his race, the ravages of time leaving him easy prey to younger, faster upstarts.
“Find-smell anything interesting?” Thanquol challenged as he stepped to the chest and peered down at the maps. Boneripper lurched around the parlour, placing his bulk between the cowering spy and the doorways leading into the hallway proper and the old study. The grey seer chuckled at his monster’s initiative. With himself between Skrim and the kitchen and the rat ogre placed where he was, the only path of retreat left open to the spy was a quick dash into the street outside. Allowing of course that the lurker at the threshold chose helping Skrim over incurring the wrath of the grey seer.
“No-no, mighty one!” Skrim insisted, dipping his head in deference to Thanquol. “I was merely…”
“Spying?” Thanquol growled. Skrim was so taken aback by the fury with which the grey seer spoke the word that he actually started to nod his head. Thanquol glared at Skrim, taking a menacing step closer, flickers of power burning in his eyes. “And what did we see-find, crook-backed sneak?”
“Nothing! Nothing most baleful holiness!” Skrim insisted, wringing his hands together. “Skrim not-not read dwarf letters!”
Thanquol’s fangs gleamed in the dingy light of the parlour. Skrim shivered as Boneripper’s colossal shadow fell across him.
“Then how did you know they were dwarf runes if you could not read them?” Thanquol’s paw rose, a nimbus of green energy gathering about his claws like a nest of swirling fireflies.
Skrim collapsed to the floor, fear-musk spurting from his glands, his mind trying to find some combination of falsehood and flattery that would appease the grey seer’s rage. More realistically, he prayed to the Horned Rat for mercy.
Sharp squeals of terror and pain sounded from the kitchen. The glow faded from Thanquol’s paw as the grey seer spun about, his body a confusion of anger and alarm. Wet, ripping sounds and bestial snarls thundered from the makeshift laboratory as Burnfang and his attendants burst through the door and spilled into the parlour. The Clan Skryre ratmen scrambled through the command nest, spilling furnishings and tearing tapestries in their headlong flight. One warlock engineer crashed into Thanquol, then careened onwards to upset the teakwood chest and spill the stolen maps across the floor. Before Thanquol could hurl a curse against the skaven who had knocked him over, Boneripper’s fist closed about the coward’s head, crushing both his iron helm and the skull inside it like an egg.
A familiar scent snapped Thanquol’s attention from his bodyguard’s gruesome work. It was a smell the grey seer had hoped to never encounter again, the stench of a beast that should be lying cooked, charred and very dead somewhere in the man-thing scat-streams. Instead, the burnt, ravaged, skull-like head of the rat-beast glared at him from the doorway of the kitchen, the badly chewed torso of the Clan Skaul sneak delegated to watch the cellar tunnel lodged in its exposed cheek-pouch. The monster chittered hungrily, its eyes more like pools of blood than things capable of vision. Thanquol scuttled away from the thing’s approach, keeping on all fours so as not to arouse its interest by rising from the floor.
The grey seer needn’t have bothered. The rat-beast lifted its mangled snout and sniffed at the air. It snarled, then with a savage leap it propelled its immense body into the nearest warlock engineer. The skaven shrieked as half the bones in his body were shattered by the rat-beast’s bulk. It perched above him like a lion with its prey and its dripping jaws began ripping at the ratman’s leather smock and man-gut harness.
Fresh screams from the skaven beneath the rat-beast’s paws brought Thanquol leaping to his feet. The other skaven were watching the gory spectacle with terrified fascination. Thanquol snarled at them, trying to snap the fools back to their senses. While the monster was eating the clumsy fool the rest of them could escape! They could use the basement tunnel—t
here was no need to fight past the brute to reach the cellar tunnel. Before the creature was half-finished with its meal, they could all of them be many rest-stops away!
It was a sound plan until Thanquol glanced back at the monster savaging Burnfang’s minion. The beast was not eating the ratman, it was tearing open the leather bag he carried. Wine bottles rolled free and the monster lost interest in the crushed skaven. It scurried after the bottles. With a shriek of horror, Thanquol and the other skaven watched as it raised one immense paw and brought it smashing down into one of the bottles, exposing the syrupy mix of Wormstone dust and wine. Almost before the suicidal madness of such action could register with the onlookers, the rat-beast brought its muzzle close to the foul mixture. A scabby tongue flicked from its snout, lapping up the poisonous concoction.
Where a moment before Thanquol had been eager for escape, now his blood boiled with outrage! The dumb animal was eating the Wormstone! It was actually eating the grey seer’s chance for glory and revenge!
Thanquol spun about on his heels, his staff raised over his head. He glared at Boneripper. The rat ogre still stood between the hall and study archways, the dead warlock engineer dangling from his hand. The dull-witted monster was fully occupied batting the dead ratman with his other hands, fascinated by the way the broken body swayed back and forth when he hit it.
“Lumbering, witless flea-food!” Thanquol snarled, slamming his staff against Boneripper’s thigh. The huge rat ogre cringed from the blow, fear clouding his beady little eyes. Thanquol ignored the brute’s reaction, instead pointing a claw at the feeding rat-beast. “Kill that filthy beast, you brainless oaf-thing! Kill-kill! Kill-kill!”
Each command enflamed Boneripper’s aggression, each snarl from Thanquol’s voice brought the fur on the rat ogre’s neck bristling. Drool dripped from Boneripper’s jaws as the monster let loose with an ear-shattering roar. The rat-beast looked up from its frantic feeding just in time to be bowled over as Boneripper flung the carcass of the warlock engineer into its face.
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