The Island of Blood

by Darius Hinks - (ebook by Undead)

  A WARHAMMER NOVEL

  THE ISLAND OF BLOOD

  Darius Hinks

  (An Undead Scan v1.0)

  This is a dark age, a bloody age, an age of daemons and of sorcery. It is an age of battle and death, and of the world’s ending. Amidst all of the fire, flame and fury it is a time, too, of mighty heroes, of bold deeds and great courage.

  At the heart of the Old World sprawls the Empire, the largest and most powerful of the human realms. Known for its engineers, sorcerers, traders and soldiers, it is a land of great mountains, mighty rivers, dark forests and vast cities. And from his throne in Altdorf reigns the Emperor Karl Franz, sacred descendant of the founder of these lands, Sigmar, and wielder of his magical warhammer.

  But these are far from civilised times. Across the length and breadth of the Old World, from the knightly palaces of Bretonnia to ice-bound Kislev in the far north, come rumblings of war. In the towering Worlds Edge Mountains, the orc tribes are gathering for another assault. Bandits and renegades harry the wild southern lands of the Border Princes. There are rumours of rat-things, the skaven, emerging from the sewers and swamps across the land. And from the northern wildernesses there is the ever-present threat of Chaos, of daemons and beastmen corrupted by the foul powers of the Dark Gods.

  As the time of battle draws ever nearer, the Empire needs heroes like never before.

  CHAPTER ONE

  “It lives,” gasped Ratchitt, backing nervously away from the machine.

  One by one the warpstone lanterns flickered and died, until all that remained was the infernal glow of the device, growing more powerful with every wheeze of its ratskin bellows. “It lives,” repeated the trembling skaven, grabbing the nearest slave and shaking him violently by the shoulders. The creature flopped lifelessly back and forth in his grip and gave no reply. Ratchitt dropped him to the ground with a snarl of disgust and peered into the flickering shadows. The machine’s light flashed in the goggles of his long leather mask, creating the illusion of two perfectly circular green eyes. The soot that covered the lenses was so thick that he had to flip them back to properly view the chaotic scene. Smouldering corpses lay everywhere: slumped across the workbenches, crumpled against the furnace and spreadeagled across the oily ground. “Useless,” he snarled. “My greatest triumph and no one’s alive-left to see it.”

  A grinding clatter came from the base of the machine’s tall, brass cabinet and emerald sparks began to spit across the floor.

  “No!” cried Ratchitt, rushing back towards his creation. He stroked the glass sphere that crowned the cabinet, ignoring the fierce heat radiating through the glass and muttering a string of soothing incantations. Once the clanging noise had dropped to a low rumble, he stepped back to admire his handiwork. “Now they’ll respect Ratchitt,” he chuckled. “Now things will be different.”

  He rattled a large key in the cabinet door and silenced the machine, extinguishing its green light. Almost immediately, the lanterns that lined the chamber walls leapt back into life, swelling with renewed brilliance as the glow from the sphere faded away. Ratchitt secreted the key deep inside his filthy robes and sighed with satisfaction. Then, treading heedlessly over the charred remains of his assistants, he strode from his lair.

  Once outside, Ratchitt lifted his leather mask and sniffed the dank air, relishing the myriad smells that flooded his twitching nostrils. Skavenblight rushed by in a torrent of fur and teeth, blind to his genius; blind to the emergent god in its midst. He studied the verminous horde with disdain. Every size and shape of ratkin was scampering past, pouring through the city’s maze of tunnels and clambering along its narrow, twisting streets. All around him the shadows were alive with movement; wheels rattled, forges hissed and pulleys groaned, with the endless, frantic industry of skavenkind.

  He sniffed again. “Good-good,” he muttered, baring his fangs in a broad smile. “I smell change.”

  He pulled his cowl low over his face and slipped into the chittering masses.

  Qretch Toothsnapper slammed into the wall and dropped to the floor with a whimper. He wiped fresh blood from his muzzle and climbed back to his feet, tilting his head subserviently as he rose. “But, your glorious magnificence,” he whined, gesturing to the tattered banners and brutal weapons that decorated the walls of the cave, “what hope could such a wretched traitor have against the mighty Warlord Verminkin?”

  “Idiot!” screamed the massive figure looming over him. “Half the clan are nesting with that worm.”

  “Only the worst half,” snivelled Toothsnapper, pawing at his master’s powerful frame. “We’re better off without them!”

  Toothsnapper’s fawning supplications were silenced by a brutal kick. He rolled across the throne room and came face to face with one of the warlord’s other advisers, Scratch Bloodfang. Bloodfang’s reassurances had met with even less success. His whole head was badly bruised. It was also lying several feet away from the rest of his body. Toothsnapper decided to keep silent for a moment.

  “I taught that whelp everything!” howled Warlord Skreet Verminkin, stomping around the chamber and pounding his paw against the breastplate of his thick, brass armour. “Everything!” He rose up to his full height and roared at the ceiling. “I’ll wear his guts as a necklace!” He began to swing a meat cleaver around his head, hacking and lunging at the filthy banners that decorated the walls, surrounding himself in a cloud of dust and cloth.

  Toothsnapper eased himself carefully back into an alcove, relieved to be forgotten for the moment. Then he paused. On the far side of the chamber, a hooded figure was watching the warlord’s furious display. The newcomer’s face was hidden in shadow, but his red eyes were clearly visible, glittering with excitement as they followed Skreet’s spasmodic rampage. Only the warlord’s closest advisers were admitted to this inner sanctum and they were all accounted for—their shattered bones and glistening innards had already been used to decorate the room.

  “Master,” he gasped, pointing at the shadowy figure.

  Skreet rounded on Toothsnapper with a spray of drool. “Where are you going?” he screamed, striding towards the alcove with his cleaver raised above his head. “To grovel your way into that traitor’s stronghold?”

  Toothsnapper let out a terrified screech as the warlord loomed over him. “No! Look,” he cried, pointing desperately at the stranger.

  Skreet’s bulky frame was twitching with rage as he turned to look in the direction of Toothsnapper’s trembling claw.

  His eyes flashed when he saw the hooded shape.

  “Spinetail?” he roared.

  “No. A friend,” replied the stranger in a thin, nasal drone.

  The figure that stepped out from the shadows made a strange sight. His armour was laden with a bizarre array of pistons and obscure mechanical devices and even his matted fur was threaded with engine parts and bundles of copper piping. As he moved closer, the glow of the warp-stone lanterns flashed along the side of a short metal tube he was clutching tightly in his paws.

  “An engineer?” snarled the warlord, baring his long teeth as he strode back into the centre of the throne room. “What do Clan Skryre want here?” He waved to the rows of corpses that cluttered the shadows. “Tell them Clan Klaw isn’t defeated yet. I still have—”

  “I said I was a friend,” interrupted the stranger. “I’m Warlock Engineer Ratchitt. I’m here to offer my help.”

  The warlord’s eyes rolled back in their sockets and he let out a strangled bellow of rage. “Help? Do you think I can’t deal with a miserable turncoat like Spinetail?” He dashed across the chamber at Ratchitt, raising his cleaver above his head. “Help this!” he cried, swinging the weapon at the engineer’s face.

  T
here was a brief flash of light and the warlord cried out, dropping his weapon to the floor with a clatter. He clutched his empty paw and backed away in confusion as a muffled humming sound filled the room.

  The engineer was unharmed, but now there was something even more odd about him. The lines of his face were blurred and vague, as though the shadows had reached out to protect him. For a moment, the warlord seemed to be facing a ghost. Then, with a click of a dial on his arm, Ratchitt silenced the humming sound and snapped back into focus. His small eyes glittered with fear. “Warlord Verminkin, please understand me,” he said quickly. “I’m here to help.” He tapped the metal tube in his paw. “I have something you need.”

  The warlord eyed the clockwork dial suspiciously, unsure what had just happened. Then he took a slow, juddering breath in an attempt to calm himself. He scraped his cleaver from the floor and scowled at Ratchitt, but the rage in his eyes was now mixed with something else. “What is that?” he hissed, nodding towards the tube.

  Ratchitt sighed with relief and gave a low bow. “I’ve heard of Warlord Verminkin’s power, but now I see that he is also wise-wise beyond—”

  “Stop fawning, whelp,” snarled Skreet, brandishing his cleaver. “Just tell me what it is. I have a clan to rebuild and a traitor to skin.”

  “Yes,” replied Ratchitt. “That’s why I’m here. You need to crush the traitor quick-quick. You need to kill Spinetail before the rest of Clan Klaw joins him.”

  Skreet’s fur bristled. “How do you know so much about Clan Klaw?”

  “The streets of Skavenblight are clogged with your dead, lordship. Word of the battle has spread fast-far. I know all about Spinetail’s treachery.”

  “Don’t mention that filth-runt,” roared Skreet. He headbutted a nearby stalactite and the column exploded, sending rocks clattering across the floor of the throne room. “I’ll wear his face as a hat.”

  “Yes-yes, of course you will, but what if you had a great-powerful weapon to aid you?” Ratchitt edged closer to the warlord and lowered his droning voice into a conspiratorial whisper. “Why play fair? He has half your clan with him now.”

  Skreet was grinding a chunk of the stalactite between his powerful jaws, grinning to himself as he imagined eating the head of his former minion. “What?” he said. “Did you say a weapon?” He spat the fragments of rock to the floor and stooped until his face was level with the engineer’s. “What kind of weapon?” He looked suspiciously at the dial on Ratchitt’s arm. “Clan Skryre warp-magic?”

  Ratchitt stifled a grin. “No, lord. An ancient magical amulet. So priceless and powerful, the elf-things have kept it hidden away for centuries on a secret island. They call it the Phoenix Stone.”

  The warlord’s advisor, Toothsnapper, loomed out of the shadows. He was still wiping blood from his snout as he cowered next to his master. “So what’s that?” he asked, pointing a splintered claw at the small tube.

  Skreet glared at his underling, then turned back to the engineer. “Yes-yes—what’s that?”

  Ratchitt began to unclasp the tube. “Have you ever heard of the Island of Blood?” he asked, sliding out a piece of bleached ratskin.

  Skreet snorted. “The Island of Blood?” He narrowed his eyes. “Is this what you’ve come to waste my time with? That old whelp-tale? You warp-addled runt. No one knows what’s on that island, because no one’s ever returned from it.”

  Ratchitt nodded eagerly and gave another low bow. “His lordship’s words are wise-wise. It’s true that the island is blight-cursed.” The engineer’s tail twitched with excitement. “But,” he unrolled the ratskin to reveal a bloodstained map, “for those with the correct knowledge, it contains great power. Power enough to rival-match even the Lords of Decay.”

  Skreet and Toothsnapper stooped over the engineer’s map, peering at the crudely scribbled lines. Toothsnapper strained to see round the bulk of his master and frowned. “What use is a map? I’ve heard the legends. Massive, red daemons guard the Island of Blood.” He looked nervously around the gloomy cave, as though he expected to see one of them watching him from the shadows. “They see everything with elf-thing sorcery. And they burn anything that gets too close. We wouldn’t live long enough to dry our fur, never mind follow your directions.”

  Ratchitt dragged one of his long, curved talons along the ratskin. “These are the daemons,” he whined, pointing out a series of circles dotted around the coastline. “The elf-things call them the Ulthane. They’re not living creatures. They’re statues that have stood there since the great wars at the start of time. Their power comes from the far side of the ocean—from old stones that, guard the elf-things’ homeland. It’s true that they’re full of red fire though. They kill anyone who isn’t meant to be on the island.”

  “So, anyone like us, then?” said Toothsnapper, shaking his head in confusion.

  Ratchitt’s narrow chest swelled with pride. “No,” he said, stuffing the map back in its tube, “not you. Not Clan Klaw. I guarantee it. After all these ages I, Ratchitt, have found a way to defeat the Ulthane. I’ve built a device even more powerful than elf-thing magic: the Warp-Diffusion and Discontinuity Escapement Chamber.”

  “The wha—?” began Skreet, before shaking his head. “Can it kill the red daemons?”

  “Not exactly, but it will send them to sleep. Opening up the whole island to anyone with a map.”

  The warlord took a deep breath and scratched at his scarred snout. “And this elf-jewel—this Phoenix Stone—it’s a powerful weapon, you say?”

  “Powerful enough that the elf-things have kept it hidden all this time. Unnatural fogs surround the entire island. What could be worth such great magic, other than a weapon?”

  Skreet looked closely at the engineer. “Why would you lead me to this stone?”

  Ratchitt raised his paws innocently. “I just want to help you rebuild—”

  Skreet lifted the engineer off the floor and pressed the bloody cleaver up into his throat. “Don’t treat me like a fool, Ratchitt.”

  Ratchitt squirmed and giggled in the warlord’s grip. “Well, of course, my work is expensive. If the wise-kind Verminkin could share some of the wealth generated by the stone…”

  Skreet nodded, but before loosing the engineer he pressed the blade a little harder. “And what’s to stop me slitting your throat the second we reach the island?”

  The engineer licked his teeth nervously and tried to pull his head back from the blade. “Warlord Verminkin would do well to keep me alive. I can supply Clan Klaw with the most incredible weapons.” He shrugged. “And I know where to find the elf-thing amulet.”

  Skreet frowned and looked at the map lying at their feet. “I thought you said—”

  “The map only shows the locations of the Ulthane. I need it to work my device, but it doesn’t show the stone.”

  Skreet’s muzzle trembled and his lips curled back from his long, vicious fangs. When he spoke, his voice was little more than a growl. “Then how will we find it?”

  Ratchitt finally dared to smile. He tapped a claw against his forehead. “It’s all in here, Warlord Verminkin. I spent hours with the elf-thing who was carrying the map. He didn’t want to talk, but my inventions have many uses. It was hard to understand his final screams.” His smile grew. “But I managed.”

  Skreet gave a grudging nod of respect, but kept the blade in place. “If this turns out to be some kind of trick, Ratchitt, I’ll sew your face to your belly and tickle your brains with a pickaxe.”

  Ratchitt hurried eagerly towards his new master’s chamber, accompanied by a chorus of moans and gnashing teeth. Hundreds of clanrats clogged the surrounding tunnels: tending to some of the injured and feasting on the rest. The birth of Clan Klaw had been unplanned and messy. It had splintered from an even larger clan—Clan Mors—in a frenzy of bloodlust and backstabbing. The traitorous chieftain, Spinetail, had been one of Skreet’s closest advisers and his betrayal had come just as the clan was becoming a powerful new force in Skavenblig
ht. The stakes were high. Whoever managed to wrestle control of this nascent, sprawling horde would become one of the Under-Empire’s most powerful warlords, rivalling even the might of the four great clans.

  Sentries nodded briefly at Ratchitt as he scampered into the Hall of the Great Wheel. An impressive force was mustered beneath the arches of the ancient, domed cave. The engineer shook his head in wonder as he saw several thousand figures milling around in the shadows. Every kind of skaven was gathered there: from scrabbling, wretched slaves, to muscular, armour-clad stormvermin; even the lumbering, mindless behemoths known as rat ogres. As he approached the crowd Ratchitt winced at the awful screaming sound that filled the cave. A colossal wooden wheel was turning slowly at the centre of the hall, shedding screws, planks and screaming slaves as it ground inexorably on its axis, heaving at countless pulleys and dragging tiny scraps of warpstone from the mines below. The thing was so big that it scraped the distant ceiling of the cave, sending dust and rocks tumbling down onto the army massing beneath it. All around the wheel, engineers were hammering together great war machines. As they worked they babbled and chattered—singing vile liturgies as they infused the weapons with the power of the warpstone. Ratchitt stood to watch for a few minutes, chuckling as he considered what a powerful force he had allied himself to. Then he ducked down a side passage and headed for the command chamber.

  He blinked as he entered the warren’s innermost cave. The walls were lurching and swaying with light. A fast-flowing underground stream poured down through the ceiling and the water was pulsating with a whole rainbow of virulent colours; lurid greens and pinks that flickered in the current and flashed across the armour of the assembled skaven. At the head of the creatures was a figure even more twisted and hunched than the others. His flesh seemed to warp and undulate in time with the water and the same evil light flashed in his eyes. His tail was unnaturally long and bristled with a forest of vicious barbs.