Sadly, Kritislik had a deceitful mind that trusted no one, however loyal they had proven themselves in the past. “Skraekual knows what he must do,” the Seerlord growled. “It is enough for you to keep Kaskitt and Rikkit from interfering with him. Do you think you can manage that, Grey Seer Thanquol?”
Thanquol felt a mad urge to lunge at the Seerlord and make him eat his words, but he knew that was just Lynsh’s snuff trying to make him commit suicide. Instead, he bowed his head and tried to keep from coughing as he waited for Kritislik to dismiss him.
Klarak Bronzehammer stood alone before the Silver Throne of Karak Angkul. Carved from living rock and silver ore, the immense seat stood as tall as any four dwarfs and was as broad as a mine cart. The great hall in which the Silver Throne sat had been constructed around the seat, for the stone of which it was made had never been moved since its discovery by miners four thousand years ago when the great hold was still being cut from the roots of the mountains. Tradition held that if the Silver Throne were ever moved, then the ancestor gods would turn their faces from Karak Angkul and the stronghold would fade into ruin.
The hall around the throne was gigantic in its proportions, with enormous fluted pillars supporting its tiled ceiling and the crystal mirrors which brought the light and warmth of the sun down deep into the mountain. The tiles depicted the sagas of the ancestor gods, of Grimnir’s doomed exodus into the Realm of Chaos, of Valaya founding the great dwarfholds of legend, of Grungni leading his people deep beneath the earth to mine gromril from the black depths. Each of the ancestor gods was depicted in marble with a halo of gold surrounding them and the weapons they bore had heads of pure gromril.
The frescoes covering the walls were of equally superb craftsmanship, though of more humble subjects. They depicted the founding of Karak Angkul, the heroic history of the dwarfs who called the stronghold home. Sections of wall were dedicated to the Goblin Wars, showing the dwarfs waging their unending battle against the wretched greenskins for control of the mountains. A section dozens of yards long showed the dwarfs of Karak Angkul making war against the arrogant elves during the War of the Beard, artillerists from the stronghold maiming the dreaded wyrm Malok at the Battle of Burned Blades. A smaller tableau showed the dwarfs marching to the aid of the fledgling Empire, cutting off the advance of the undead warlord Zahaak the Usurper before he could join the horde of his unholy master Nagash against the outnumbered army of the manling emperor Sigmar.
Trophies adorned the sides of the pillars, mementoes of the victories of Karak Angkul. The mummified husk of the devil-spider Togrildam hung from chains against one column, the gigantic beast’s carapace still showing the marks of King Glorin Thornefinger’s hammer. The immense war-axe of the orc warlord Ghazagruff, its cleaver-like blade split where it had broken against the runeshield of King Uldrik Blackhand. The armour of Lord Corirthar Swiftsword, slain by Nimbrindil Ironfoot at the Battle of Fellwind Dale. Two crimson scales as big as shields that had been ripped from the hide of the dragon Malok by Skalfri Brandbeard with his bolt-thrower during the War of the Beard.
The glory of Karak Angkul was on display all around him and Klarak felt a swelling of pride to belong to such a proud heritage. Reflecting upon his ancestors always gave him a redoubled sense of purpose, a fierce determination to bend his sharp mind towards the service of his people. It did not matter if he received acclaim and recognition for his works. What mattered was that he helped ensure the continuance of Karak Angkul and its rich history.
“Your sentinel guns took a formidable toll on the enemy.” The statement came from the grey-bearded dwarf seated upon the Silver Throne. Well into his fourth century of life, King Logan Longblade still cut an imposing figure. The stamp of time had been merciful to the old king, though the swords of enemies had not. The king had lost three sons in battle against the many enemies who threatened Karak Angkul. His last son, the youngest, he had dispatched as ambassador to Karaz-a-Karak some two decades past, ostensibly to represent the stronghold at the court of the High King, though many whispered he had sent him away in an effort to protect his bloodline from complete extinction.
Perhaps it was the personal tragedies he had suffered which made King Logan such a forward-thinking ruler, uncommonly open to new ideas and innovations. Without his complicity, Klarak knew that most of his inventions would have languished unused and unseen within the isolated halls of the Engineers’ Guild.
“The contraptions performed adequately,” the crackly voice of Guildmaster Thori admitted. If time had been kindly to King Logan, the same could not be said of Thori. The engineer was wizened, his long grey beard the only thing about him that still looked healthy. His body was withered, his skin shrivelled, his eyes bleary behind the thick crystal lenses of his spectacles. Thori’s legs would barely support him, forcing the engineer to employ a gold-tipped staff as an elegant kind of crutch.
“Guildmaster Thori is too kind,” Klarak said in his most diplomatic tone, bowing to the old dwarf. “I am troubled by the malfunction of one of the weapons. It should not have happened.”
King Logan smiled behind his beard. He was too old a hand at the game Klarak was forced to play with the Engineers’ Guild to be fooled by the verbal duelling. “The sentinel guns broke the back of that damned horde of ratkin filth,” Logan declared. “There was barely anything left for the axes of our warriors.”
“The skaven still control the lower mines,” Thori pointed out. “Never before have they penetrated so far into our domains.”
“Perhaps we should have posted a few of Klarak’s guns in the lower mines,” Logan replied, his tone sharp.
Klarak intervened before an argument could erupt. “The sentinel guns are still unproven. One marginally successful test in combat does not mean they are proven to be dependable.” His words brought a frown to Logan’s face and a confident gleam to Thori’s eye. His next words reversed the expressions the two dwarfs wore. “I should like to experiment further, Highness. I should like to post my sentinel guns at the approaches to the lower mines. With the ironbreakers overrun by the ratkin, we will need a new line of defence against them when they make another assault on the upper halls.”
Thori pounced on the idea, his voice dripping with scorn. “And who will watch these contraptions of yours? Do you mean to risk the lives of valiant dwarfs defending unproven…”
“There will be no need for anyone to watch the guns,” Klarak stated. He reached to his belt and removed a length of leather hose. “This is the key to making the guns completely independent. Under pressure, this hose will remain taut. Break the pressure and it will go limp.”
“Any apprentice could make such a claim,” Thori grumbled.
“It is a simple concept,” Klarak agreed. “But what I propose is a new way of using this simple concept. A pressurised hose will be connected to each sentinel gun, the other length trailing into a central watchpost. Each hose will be numbered and the location of each corresponding gun recorded on a map. If any gun is damaged—as it is sure to be should an enemy overwhelm it—then the hose attached to it will lose pressure. In that way, we will know where the enemy has struck and can react accordingly.”
Thori threw up his hands. “Of all the…”
“A bold idea, Klarak,” King Logan interrupted. “Whatever you need to implement your plan, you shall have it.” The dwarf king glowered at the fuming Thori. “I am sure Guildmaster Thori will show you every courtesy.”
“I look forward to working with my fellow engineers,” Klarak said, bowing in turn to each of the dwarf leaders before turning on his heel and marching swiftly from the great hall.
As he left his audience with King Logan, Klarak’s mind was troubled. It was not the performance of his sentinel guns which worried him, nor even the obvious displeasure of Guildmaster Thori. His eyes had fallen upon the flayed pelt of a ratman stretched across the side of a pillar, a grey pelt which still sported ivory horns.
After the battle in the lower mines, Klarak had fou
nd a messenger awaiting him in his chambers, a messenger from the human city of Altdorf. The letter the Imperial dwarf delivered had been brief, but alarming. It had been written with a special ink and in a special script that would not make itself intelligible unless a certain incantation was spoken over it. There were few outside the cadre of operatives who served the wizard Jeremias Scrivner who had ever been made privy to that secret. Klarak Bronzehammer was one of those few.
The shadowmancer’s message had been brief. It was a warning, a prophecy of great disaster looming over Karak Angkul and Klarak Bronzehammer. Central to the warning was a horned ratman, one of the abominable grey seers.
Thanquol, the skaven was called, and he would unleash a hideous doom upon Karak Angkul unless Klarak could stop him in time.
Megalithic in its proportions, the immense tunnel known as Swampscratch wormed its way deep beneath the Blighted Marshes, connecting the festering city of Skavenblight with its far-flung subterranean empire. Armies of slaves tended the tunnel day and night, labouring under the lashes of snarling ratmen to shore up the sagging ceiling with a motley array of wooden beams, stone columns, and brick pillars. Patches of masonry dripped from the walls, steel plates bulged from the roof, timbers groaned under the strain of archways. Everywhere, the stink of the swamp oozed into the tunnel, stagnant black water sweating out from every inch of exposed earth. Pools of filth formed in every footprint that marred the floor.
In many places, heaps of mud and earth formed obstructions, great yawning pits in the ceiling letting swamp water and sunlight stream into the tunnel. Sometimes the crushed bodies of skaven poked out from beneath the slimy rubble. Occasionally, a muffled whine rose from some wretch trapped within the muck.
The teeming hordes of skaven scurrying through the tunnel ignored the cries of their less fortunate kin. Carefully they navigated around the obstructions, snarling and cursing the slaves who were tasked to clear the rubble away. The seemingly endless tide of vermin swarmed along the monstrous passage, wheeling about the confused array of pillars and columns keeping the swamp from crashing down about their heads. Many of the skaven pushed carts or carried great baskets lashed to their backs, struggling beneath burdens of goods plundered from across the world. Tribute for the Lords of Decay from their scattered vassals.
Grey Seer Thanquol glared malevolently at the dripping ceiling as a stream of stinking swamp water splashed across him. Irritably, he wiped his paw across the front of his fouled robe.
“Where-where is that tick-licking wire-chewer?” Thanquol growled. He tapped his claws on the little rat-skull snuff-box, restraining the urge to take a little sniff of the crushed warpstone to ease his nerves.
“The Horned One will provide-give when it is time,” the scabby voice of Skraekual hissed. The decayed grey seer skirted around another stream of swamp water, his rheumy eyes fixed on Thanquol’s. “Only fool-meat hurries to find trouble.”
A low rumble shook the tunnel. Skraekual quickly skipped forwards, his eyes narrowing into sly little slits. Thanquol’s hackles rose in suspicion. It was more instinct than thought which moved him to leap ahead and join his fellow sorcerer-priest. Behind them, a part of the ceiling came crashing down, smashing a knot of hurrying skaven beneath a morass of mud and stagnant water.
“Fool-meat!” Thanquol snarled, his tail curled about his ankles. “Why did you not warn-cry?”
Skraekual grinned back at Thanquol, exposing his yellow fangs, pitted from over-use of warpstone and clinging to gums that were riddled with cankers. “The Horned One saves who he will save.”
Thanquol’s fingers closed about the heft of his staff. He wondered if he could get away with bashing the dust-addict’s brains out. A quick glance about reminded him there were far too many witnesses.
“Next time, give the Horned One some help,” Thanquol grumbled.
Skraekual just kept grinning at him. The noseless grey seer raised a claw, pointing at the amulet around Thanquol’s throat. “I like-like talisman,” Skraekual gibbered. “I might find-take if Thanquol has accident. Kritislik won’t mind.”
Thanquol’s paw closed about the talisman. It was an ancient artefact, dating from back before there was a Council of Thirteen, back to the time when the Under-Empire was ruled by bickering Grey Lords. It was hoary with eldritch magic, endowed with powers even Thanquol had never fully explored. The Amulet of the Horned One had been the prize possession of his old mentor, Grey Seer Sleekit, a badge of honour bestowed upon him by Seerlord Kritislik.
Thanquol felt his glands clench as he thought of the tyrannical Master Sleekit. Only a few of the villainous old rat’s pupils had survived to become grey seers. He chuckled to himself as he considered the fates of the few who had been initiated into the Order alongside him. Tisquik, Seerlord Kritislik’s favourite, had been murdered by an assassin’s blade shortly after he’d been caught meeting with Seerlord Tisqueek, Kritislik’s greatest rival within the Order of Grey Seers. Thanquol sometimes wondered if the meeting had really happened or if Kritislik had just suddenly developed some unreasoning paranoia over the similarity between the names of his prot�g� and his most hated enemy. Whatever the reason, the elimination of Tisquik had been a happy accident as far as Thanquol was concerned. He was only sorry he hadn’t thought of helping such a fate along sooner.
He had been less happy with the fate of Bokha. Really too weak-willed to make a good grey seer, Bokha would have proven an easily manipulated ally for Thanquol to exploit. Sadly, the idiot devoured too much warpstone while leading a skaven army against orcs in the Black Mountains. The concentration of warpstone had unbalanced the humours in Bokha’s body, causing the ratman to degenerate into an almost formless mess of lashing tentacles and snapping fangs. To his credit, the Bokha-spawn had killed a lot of orcs before he was finally crushed under a boulder. Unfortunately, the monster also killed half of his own army before he was finished.
The last of his comrades had been the ambitious Squiktat. Of them all, Squiktat had been the only serious rival to Thanquol’s genius. Squiktat had had a genuine aptitude for sorcery that made him the star pupil of old Sleekit. The scheming little maggot had been able to unleash the most devastating spells without even taking a tiny sniff of warpstone to help him master the raw power of the Horned Rat. It had troubled Thanquol greatly to know Squiktat might possess more power than himself. He’d intended to give himself a head start on his rival by sneaking a look at Master Sleekit’s collection of magic tomes. Word of his plan must have been betrayed to Squiktat, however, for the other grey seer tried to cheat Thanquol and steal Sleekit’s books first.
The result was another happy accident. Thanquol never knew what it was Squiktat had read in those books, but whatever it was had driven the sneaking little thief out of his mind. The mad, gibbering wretch was last seen wandering into the depths of the Blighted Marshes.
It was only natural that, with all his fellow apprentices gone, Thanquol should inherit Master Sleekit’s prize possessions when his revered mentor should suffer a significantly fatal accident. The Amulet of the Horned One was chief among the treasures Thanquol filched before anyone could question Sleekit’s demise too closely.
It had powers. Thanquol had never failed to feel the invigorating influence of the Amulet. His already considerable endurance was expanded to fittingly heroic levels by the power of his talisman. Inconveniences like bug bites and the odd knife wound healed with supernatural quickness. He could even brave a meeting with the diseased disciples of Clan Pestilens without getting sick.
Thanquol looked away from his amulet and back at Skraekual with his rotten face and drug-ravaged body. Did that mass of loathsomeness have any idea of the Amulet’s powers? What would that hedonistic hophead give to possess the restorative powers of such a relic? Under such magic, the maggot might undo the havoc his addictions had wrought. He would be reborn as a virile, healthy skaven at the prime of his powers even as Thanquol himself!
Thanquol bruxed his fangs together as another
idea came to him. Was it Kritislik who had concocted the unscrupulous idea of using him as a decoy, or had that wormy thought originated with Skraekual? He could see in the addict’s bleary eyes the avarice scurrying about in his brain! There was no real mission at all! This was nothing more than some crazy plot by Skraekual to get Thanquol out into some forsaken corner of skavendom and then steal his Amulet!
Fur bristling, Thanquol tongued a little sliver of warpstone from his cheek-pouch. So that was the game then! Well, he would soon finish it! He’d blast Skraekual into a pool of pudding and then report the slime’s deception to Seerlord Kritislik!
Even as Thanquol’s mind began to focus upon the spell that would send Skraekual to his traitor’s reward, a sharp shout brought him about. The spell died unformed in his mind as he found himself being encircled by a pack of leather-coated Clan Skryre skirmishers.
“Grey Seer Thanquol,” Kaskitt Steelgrin’s shrill voice called out. The warlock-engineer emerged from behind the ring of skirmishers, scratching at the wires curling around his face. “I see-scent you are timely.” The eyes behind the lenses of Kaskitt’s face-wrappings narrowed with suspicion as he noted Skraekual. “What-who is that?” he growled.
Thanquol lashed his tail in annoyance. Was Kaskitt actually trying to accuse him of bringing along Skraekual as some sort of plot against the warlock-engineer? Had the rattle-brained mouse-squeezer spent so much time in his laboratory that he couldn’t recognise pure hate between two skaven when it was right under his nose?
A cunning gleam crept into Thanquol’s eye. Why dispose of Skraekual himself and risk the ire of Seerlord Kritislik when he could have Kaskitt do the job for him? All it would take would be a little cautious encouragement of the warlock-engineer’s already existing suspicions.
“Grey Seer Skraekual help-work great and tyrannical Thanquol,” Skraekual’s unctuous voice chimed in. The wretched priest was pawing at the rotten stump of his nose, his bleary eyes making a feeble attempt to focus upon Kaskitt. The stink of warpstone snuff, blackroot and ratnip was pronounced as he shuffled closer towards the Clan Skryre skaven.
03 - Thanquol's Doom Page 7
