by C. L. Werner
Mandred burst from the fog like some phantom nemesis from the gardens of Morr. He was back on the street he had originally fled, but his diversion had brought his command around behind the skaven fire-thrower. He glared at the wagon, at the shackled ratmen pushing it forwards, at the chittering engineers operating its murderous mechanisms. The vermin were gloating in their fiendish massacre of human horsemen, frantically trying to bring their weapon forwards to slaughter the cavalry filling the street beyond those they had already immolated.
Clenching his teeth, Mandred galloped into the skaven war machine. Legbiter carved a gory path along the slaves chained to the left side of the wagon. Across from him, he could hear Beck’s blade at work on those to the right. The leather-cloaked ratman at the fore of the wagon spun around, eyes going wide behind the goggles it wore. Frantically, the beast aimed the nozzle of its weapon at Mandred and the knights galloping behind him. Oblivious to the way its spin had twisted the hose behind it, the skaven drew back the lever fitted to the top of the metal nozzle.
The ratman shrieked as the twisted hose burst behind it, showering it in an oozing green demi-fluid. The leather coating it wore resisted the splash for a moment, then greasy smoke rose from its body. The skaven flailed about frantically as the caustic filth burnt through the leather and sizzled into the fur and flesh beneath. Mandred reined back his warhorse, content to watch this monster experience the same agony it had visited upon the men it had slaughtered. Around him, Beck and the other knights massacred the other skaven engineers, working their own vengeance upon the vermin.
‘To me, men of Middenheim! To me, men of Nordland!’ Mandred shouted into the closing fog, calling out to the horsemen he had left behind. ‘We have but sipped from the chalice of slaughter! There is much work ere the cup be drained!’
There was much slaughter, as Mandred had vowed. Every street, every corner was infested with skaven. The momentum of the human assault was blunted by the fear that following the vermin too closely would lead them into the waiting mouth of another fire-thrower. Twice, they saw the grisly glow of green fire shining behind the fog as the skaven turned their war machines against their own. Each time, Mandred took his knights down a side street and led his men against the flank or rear of their foe.
There were other horrors waiting in the fog. Packs of jezzails, unable to snipe their targets from afar, instead emptied their weapons in withering fusillades before scampering back into the concealing mist. Mandred’s horse was shot from under him in one such attack, a replacement drawn for him from among the chargers of his knights. More perilous were the grisly, almost insect-like ratmen who carried huge casks strapped to their backs and sent plumes of green smoke spilling from the hoses they carried. The fog seemed to catch the smoke, depriving it of the impetus it needed to reach any but the nearest of foes. After watching one knight coughing up flecks of his own lungs after inhaling the green vapour, Mandred gave a prayer of thanks that the fiendish weapons were denied their full potential.
Such obstacles weren’t enough to turn the battle. Street by street, the humans were cleansing Dietershafen. When their advance brought them to the canals separating the Old City from the New City, they herded hundreds of routed skaven before them. The panicked creatures shrieked and whined as they were pushed into the canal. Men looked on as the brutes were swept away by the current or dragged under by their own arms and armour. Many of the creatures were drowned by their own flailing comrades, shoved under by panicked ratmen trying to pull themselves clear of the water.
It was a grim spectacle, but one that Mandred watched with a feeling of vindictive satisfaction. The sensation was spoiled, however, by the sight of some ratmen managing to drag themselves onto the docks on the far side of the canal, scrabbling up the steps into the New City. Sternly, the graf gave the order that sent his knights galloping across the bridges into the New City. The skaven rout was such that the bridges were undefended. That alone was enough to tell Mandred his enemy was beaten.
Victory, however, wasn’t enough. The skaven had to be exterminated. He couldn’t claim the day to be won until he had seen the last of the beasts put to the sword.
Spurring his own horse onwards, Mandred charged into the New City. Here, even more than in the Old City, the marks of skaven defilement were everywhere. Houses had been gutted, plundered of wood and thatch until only the stones of their foundations remained. Plaster walls were gnawed and stained with the scratch slashes that served the skaven as script. Human bones hung from dead trees on cords of rat-gut, a grisly warning to the slaves of the ratmen. Mandred vowed that for the skull of every man hanging from those trees, the heads of a dozen skaven would be spitted on the harbour wall.
Those ratmen who were caught in the streets of the New City were dispatched with the rekindled ruthlessness of an avenging scourge. The soldiers and knights who now roved the streets had their rage rekindled with every mark of skaven defilement. They forgot their fatigue and their wounds in their lust to see the enemy destroyed.
It was then, in the midst of overwhelming triumph, that a new terror descended upon the human army. From within the fog came a great whirring sound, the shriek of metal grinding against metal. Then, from some corner of the New City, a deafening crash, the obscene sound of wood and stone being crushed. Screams of men and horses and even skaven wailed through the streets.
Mandred spurred his horse towards this calamitous sound, urging the men behind him to new effort against whatever outrage the skaven now loosed upon them. Whatever he had expected, he was stunned when he galloped through the fog and his horse stumbled into a great crater. The graf was rattled by his fall, landing hard on his side. His destrier snorted and thrashed, struggling to regain its feet. The beast had slid a dozen feet along the side of the pit, its sideward twist sparing it from crashing headlong to the bottom another dozen feet below.
‘Your highness!’ Beck cried, leaping from his saddle and hurrying down to render what aid he could to his master.
Mandred struggled free from his horse, the loose earth beneath him allowing him to slide clear as the animal tried to right itself. He started to wave Beck back, to let his bodyguard know that he was all right. Words and gesture were lost, however, when his eyes strayed upwards.
Through the fog, a horrific sight was descending. Impossibly gigantic, vaster than any dragon or giant told of in the most outrageous legend, a great claw came hurtling downwards to rip at the streets of Dietershafen and bring destruction to Mandred and his army.
Skavenblight, 1121
The enormous warp-lantern cast its green glow across the Grey Chapel, the masked Luminary attending the device leaping frantically about the confusion of controls littering the contraption. It was a matter of life or death for the warlock-engineer that this invention function as it should: a shining example to the Lords of Decay that the techno-sorcery of Clan Skryre would light the way to skavendom’s future.
There had been over a dozen Luminaries of the Shattered Tower since the embarrassing defeat of Warpmaster Sythar Doom in the man-thing warren of Altdorf. The Grand Technorat of Skryre had been vicious enough following that humiliation, killing underlings in especially gruesome fashion for even the least provocation. The failure to achieve the victory entrusted to him by the late Supreme Despot Vecteek had resulted in a serious loss of face for Clan Skryre at a time when the warlock-engineers could least afford it. Their cold science was losing the fight for the minds of skavendom, beaten back by the promises of Clan Pestilens and their diseased superstitions.
The Luminary risked a quick glance across the chamber, easily spotting his dread master sitting among the villainous Lords of Decay. Sythar Doom’s mechanical jaws flashed as sparks rippled about his fangs, the enchanted rubies that served him for eyes glowed from the shadows. A ghoulish glow shone beneath the folds of his black robes, the dull susurrus of the power plant wired to his heart wheezing in time to his pulse. The arcane bionics
had suffered from the latest tragedy to afflict Clan Skryre. Aiding the ship-rats of Skurvy to secure a man-thing port and their shipbuilding facilities, the warlock-engineers had been routed by the army of a creature whose name was being heard more and more in the halls of the Shattered Tower. A king-thing called Man-dread, the same king-thing that had slain Vecteek and Deathmaster Silke. Now the king-thing was making war against the skaven, driving them from the surface lands they had won by right of conquest.
Sythar Doom drummed his claws against the cold stone council table, barely heeding the schemes and intrigues of his fellow Grey Lords. He was brooding on the falling fortunes of his clan and the diminution of his own power. He was thinking of who was to blame, who he should take vengeance upon. When he raised his head and sniffed in the direction of the warp-lantern, the Luminary made certain to look as busy and indispensable as possible, careful to keep his breathing soft and shallow. His predecessor had perished for no greater slight than that of breathing too loud.
To the Luminary’s relief, Sythar Doom soon forgot his flunky, turning instead to regard the Grey Lord now addressing the rest of the Council. His paws folded together, the Warpmaster turned a careful ear as Seerlord Queekual spoke. Like Skryre, the fortunes of the grey seers had suffered from the rapid advancement of Clan Pestilens. With the death of Seerlord Skrittar, the ancient prophets of the Horned Rat were in a position of vulnerability for the first time in living memory. Unable to defy the heretical dogma of the plague monks, unable to overcome the great treasure brought back by Plaguelord Vrask Bilebroth, unable to deny the efficacy of Poxmaster Puskab Foulfur’s Black Plague, the grey seers were a waning power. It was only a matter of time before Arch-Plaguelord Nurglitch petitioned for himself to assume the Seerseat beside the vacant throne reserved for the Horned Rat Himself, only a question of when the plague monks would declare themselves the true voice of the skaven god.
Seerlord Queekual was in an even less enviable position than Sythar Doom. The question that rose to the Luminary’s mind was whether the Grand Technorat would seek to join his resources with those of the grey seers in alliance against the plague monks or if he would pounce on the weakened sorcerer-priests and take from them what power they still possessed.
Knowing his fearsome master as he did, the Luminary imagined Sythar Doom might be scheming to do both.
‘This Man-dread is a warning, a portent of doom visited upon us by the Mighty Horned Rat! He is a scourge sent to remind all skaven that they have strayed from the true faith,’ Seerlord Queekual paused in his pronouncement, letting his gaze linger on the three green-robed heretics sitting at the other side of the crescent-shaped table. ‘We have allowed strange ideas and alien beliefs to pollute us. At the very moment when the Horned Rat offers us our inheritance, we spurn him and chase after the diseased delusions of lunatics.’
‘Those diseased delusions have done more to further our conquests than all your prayers stacked from snout to tail!’ growled Bonelord Nekrot, his sepulchral moan sending a chill through the Grey Chapel. ‘Prayers did not bring Skrittar victory against the dead-things! Prayers did not burn the wyrm-wings out of the sky!’ Nekrot gnashed his fangs, flecks of foam dripping to the floor. ‘Tell me, Queekual, will prayers bring back my dead warriors? Will they call back their corpses from the mage-things that now enslave them?’
Seerlord Queekual glared at the grisly Nekrot, the warlord’s bleached fur and bone armour showing stark amid the shadows. Only a few years ago the Bonelord of Mordkin would never have dared speak to a grey seer in such a manner, much less the Supreme Seerlord. Queekual could understand Nekrot’s misguided resentment, blaming the entire Order of Grey Seers for the tragic miscalculations of Skrittar. What he couldn’t understand was the morbid rodent’s boldness. After the Battle of the Plague Dragons, the cream of Mordkin’s fighting strength had been decimated. The grave-rats weren’t prolific enough to have bred back that strength already and Queekual had heard no rumours of Nekrot enslaving weaker clans to replace the difference.
A quick glance towards the three plaguelords made Queekual lash his tail in fury. He saw the wicked gleam in Vrask’s eyes, the momentary arrogance of his posture. Pestilens was behind Nekrot’s boldness, offering Mordkin some hellish alliance. Perhaps even now Mordkin was being initiated into the pestiferous Pestilent Brotherhood, that assemblage of deluded clans who believed themselves equal partners in the fortunes of Pestilens when in truth all they shared were the diseases and heresies of their new masters.
It was a ghastly thought, Mordkin in thrall to Pestilens. The plague monks would then control a third of the seats on the Council – more if Warmonger Vrrmik decided to allow Nurglitch to sit upon the Seerseat and interpret the will of the Horned Rat!
Queekual stilled the tremor of panic pounding in his heart. Let the heretics have their moment. The higher they climbed, the more inevitable their fall. Nothing nurtured hatred, envy and fear so much as success. Once the rest of skavendom saw the plague monks exposed for what they were, once they appreciated that they would have no share in the triumph of Pestilens, the whole rotten burrow would come crashing down!
The Seerlord twitched his whiskers and turned away from Nekrot. ‘It was the cowardly, treacherous lack of faith in the Horned Rat on the part of Mordkin that brought disaster upon Skrittar. Your dalliance with the strange beliefs that have been allowed to take root in the Grey Chapel.’ Again, he made a point of drawing attention to the three plaguelords.
Great Warlord Vrrmik leaned across the table from the Tyrant’s Chair at the left hand of the Black Throne, his eyes glistening with malice. He was a hulking, brutish skaven, black warpstone armour guarding a pelt that was white as snow. With the decline of Rictus and the death of Vecteek, it was Mors and Vrrmik who were ascendant now, dominating the Council in much the way his predecessor had. Queekual had spent great wealth on Eshin spies trying to learn which way Vrrmik would lean in a contest between the grey seers and Pestilens. Like Vecteek, Vrrmik was proving too cunning to fall into any direct alliance, preferring to work through puppets and proxies.
‘The Black Plague has brought the kingdoms of men low,’ Vrrmik hissed. ‘Even the grey seers must admit the service Poxmaster Puskab has provided the Under-Empire. My armies range across the surface, seizing food and slaves. My loyal subjects prosper as never before.’
Queekual was silent a moment, studying the other Grey Lords before continuing. ‘The clans grow too attached to their conquest. They act like man-things, carving out fiefdoms and dominions on the surface.’
‘There is much-much meat above,’ Rattnak Vile chortled, rubbing his paws together in a display of unashamed greed.
‘We are breaking the man-things to our will,’ Murderlord Raksheed Deathclaw snarled through the red cloth hiding much of his face. Warlord of Clan Skully’s legions of killers, ‘The Old Rat Under the Mountain’ was the deadly rival of Shadowmaster Kreep and the assassins of Clan Eshin. The loyalty of Eshin always brought with it the enmity of Skully. ‘They till their fields, grow their crops for us now. Would the grey seers have us eat mushrooms and mice?’
Queekual leaned back in his chair. ‘I would have you remember the misfortune of Clan Verms. Remember the price paid by those who dally with heresy. The power that conquers may also destroy.’
Poxtifex Nurglitch stirred from his seat. ‘It is only the enemies of the Horned One who need fear the power of Pestilens.’ The plaguelords seated to either side of him quickly echoed the thinly veiled threat.
The Seerlord didn’t answer Nurglitch. Instead he cocked his head towards the Black Throne. He waited until the murmur of conversation dropped away, until the tension in the Grey Chapel was thick enough to gnaw. He waited until he was certain every member of the Council was watching him commune with the Horned Rat. For all their antagonism and hatred, none of them was certain that the grey seers weren’t touched by their god.
Queekual let the silence drag on
. Abruptly he bobbed his head in deference and tilted his neck to expose his throat to the Black Throne. It was a gesture of abject submission, the sort of thing expected of a slave, not a Lord of Decay. The impact of such a sight didn’t go unappreciated by the Seerlord’s audience.
Rising from the Seerseat, Queekual cast his condemning gaze across the ranks of the Council. ‘Persist in your confusion at your peril,’ he declared. ‘We have given you our warning.’
As he turned his back to the Council and marched from the Grey Chapel, Queekual knew the Lords of Decay would remember this prophecy of doom. They might doubt his intentions, question his ambitions. But it wasn’t the Seerlord they were watching. Their eyes were on the empty Black Throne.
And in their minds the Council of Thirteen wondered if the Horned Rat had truly spoken to His High Prophet.
It was the first seed of doubt. Soon that seed would grow into a mighty tree and its roots would stretch throughout the Under-Empire.
Chapter X
Dietershafen, 1119
Like the talon of a rampaging god, the claw reached down from the fog. There was another ear-splitting cacophony of destruction as it obliterated another street, as it crushed men and horses between its mammoth extremities.
