“Well?” asked Spinetail, as Ratchitt bowed low before him. “Did the old fool bite?”
“Of course. As your lordship predicted. He has no inkling of my true allegiance.”
Spinetail clapped his paws together in excitement and began pacing around the glittering chamber. As he neared the gurgling water, the lights revealed the full extent of his deformity. Almost all of his fur had fallen away to reveal a patchwork of scabs and bleeding, open sores. Most of his diseased skin was hidden under battered plate armour, but his hairless snout was clearly visible, wrinkled and twitching beneath his serrated helmet. One whole side of his face was layered with angry, red scars and the eye he turned on the grovelling warlock engineer was twisted into a permanent squint. “You’re sure-sure?” he gurgled, with a voice like a blocked drain. He grinned at the soldiers nearest to him. “Skreet may be stupid, but he’ll be on the lookout for some kind of trick.”
“I’m sure,” replied Ratchitt, raising his voice to be heard over the rushing water. “He thinks he’s the only one that knows about the map, and my device. I told him that your rebellion was doom-cursed. I begged him for a place by his side.”
Spinetail let out a low, bubbling moan of delight. “Good-good! Good-good! He’ll drop dead of shock when he finds me waiting on the island for him.”
“No!” yelled Ratchitt. Then he lowered his voice to a more respectful level and held out his paws in supplication. “No. Your glorious eminence must wait. I’ve instructed the warlord to meet me at the coast at midnight but your lordship must not arrive until an hour later—it’s crucial to the success of the plan. There are dozens of ancient tunnels that lead from the mainland, under the sea and out to the island. They’ve been blocked for centuries, to keep us safe from the elf-things’ magic, but with my machine in place, we’re safe to open them up and invade! The tunnels are huge-big.” He waved back to the Hall of the Great Wheel. “Even Klaw’s new war machines will fit through. I’ll direct Verminkin through the tunnels first—and then by the time you’re ready to follow, he’ll already be halfway across the island.”
Spinetail scurried across the chamber and peered anxiously into the engineer’s face. “But is that wise-safe?” he hissed. “What if he reaches the stone first? What if he gets his paws on the weapon before I do?”
The engineer shook his head. “Remember, master: the statues aren’t the only guardians of the island.”
Spinetail’s face broke into a sallow, pockmarked grin. “The elf-things.”
“Yes-yes. They keep a small force there, just in case the Ulthane were ever to fail. Why should you face them in battle?”
Spinetail chuckled and snaked his deformed tail around Ratchitt’s neck. “When we could let the old brute stumble into them first.”
Ratchitt nodded eagerly. “Yes-yes. He won’t be expecting them, but he’ll have so many ratkin with him, they’ll probably wipe out most of the garrison before they die. They may even kill all of the elf-things before we arrive.”
Spinetail groaned with pleasure, throwing his head back with such enthusiasm that several of his boils burst. “And then we arrive to butcher the survivors and claim the stone!”
“His lordship is wise-wise,” said Ratchitt, with another fawning bow. “Your plan is perfect. Why risk your new army, if Warlord Verminkin can do the fighting for you?”
“Exactly,” replied Spinetail, tightening his grip around Ratchitt’s throat. “My plan will work, Ratchitt, but are you sure your machine will?” He ran a paw over the thick crust that covered his scalp. “Is the device definitely stable? If we were trapped on the island…”
Ratchitt puffed out his chest and flared his nostrils with pride. “My Lord Spinetail has nothing to fear—it’s perfectly safe.”
Spinetail gave a sly nod and placed a paw on the sword in his belt. “Then you will be too, Ratchitt.”
As Ratchitt rushed back down towards the lower warrens, he congratulated himself on his genius. With the two halves of Clan Klaw busy butchering themselves, it would be all too easy for him to slip past the defeated elf-things and grab the Phoenix Stone. By the time they realised the treachery, he would have deactivated the machine and left them in the hands of the monstrous Ulthane. He giggled as he ran. What could possibly go wrong?
Upon entering his laboratory, he realised immediately that something was not right. The lamps had been turned off, plunging the cave into darkness, and his nose informed him quite clearly that he had visitors. Even the smell of his assistants’ charred flesh could not disguise the thick musk of strangers, lurking somewhere in the shadows.
He felt a cold chill of fear as he thought of Skreet Verminkin. Had the old warlord sent his guards to steal the machine? Or maybe Spinetail’s diseased mind had finally led him to the truth? Had he taken the device? The thought so terrified him that he let out a little squeak of fear. He dashed to the wall and pulled a lever. There was a crackling sound as warpstone lanterns flooded the laboratory with pale green light. The glow washed over dozens of jars and crucibles and mounds of discarded scientific equipment and, to Ratchitt’s delight, the machine. His relief was shortlived, however. Two crook-backed figures were standing right next to it, watching him with calm disdain. Skulls and warpstone fetishes dangled from their tattered robes and thick, gnarled horns curled up from their crudely stitched hoods. Their fur was a strange grey colour and each of them carried a twisted staff, topped with a fist-sized chunk of warpstone.
Ratchitt dropped to his knees with a whimper.
The grey seers watched the engineer’s squirming in silence for a few moments, giving no response to his fawning pleas for mercy. Then one of them stepped forwards. His lower canines were grotesquely enlarged and curled up around the sides of his snout like a boar’s. As a result, when he spoke it was in a slurred whisper. “Does it work, Ratchitt?”
Ratchitt’s pride overcame his fear and he rose to his knees, looking imploringly up at the priests. “Yes-yes,” he cried, trembling with excitement. “Nothing like it has ever existed before.” He climbed to his feet and tapped a claw against the large pressure gauge in the centre of the brass cabinet. “It can suppress even the most powerful magic.” He rummaged in his robes and drew out the key, holding it up proudly to the grey seers. “If you want me to, I—”
“When were you going to tell us?” hissed the second grey seer, with a dangerous tremble in his voice.
Ratchitt flinched at his venomous tone. He lowered the key and began to edge back towards the entrance.
“Have you forgotten who your true masters are, engineer?” came a voice from behind him.
Ratchitt whirled around and squealed as he saw a third figure, blocking his exit. He threw himself to the floor, covering his head with his paws and whimpering pitifully. “It wasn’t finished,” he cried. “I had to be sure it was safe!” He looked up and waved at the blackened remains that covered the floor. “I couldn’t risk this happening to you. I couldn’t harm emissaries of the Horned Rat. I had to finish the tests.”
The first priest stepped forwards and ground his staff down between Ratchitt’s shoulder blades, flattening him against the floor. “But you were happy to share your news with others.”
Ratchitt froze. “What does his magnificence mean?”
The stone at the head of the grey seer’s staff flashed with an inner fire and a thin spiral of smoke snaked up from Ratchitt’s back. He gasped with pain and tried to crawl away, but the grey seer pressed the staff down even harder. Small green flames began to flicker around the shaft and the smell of cooking meat filled the cave.
“I was going to tell you,” screamed Ratchitt. “I needed to prepare a report that I could bring to the Shattered Tower. I knew you wouldn’t want to bother the Lords of Decay until my plans were sure of success.”
“Plans?” barked the grey seer. He lifted the staff from Ratchitt’s back and hammered it into his face, sending the engineer rolling across the floor of the cave. “What business have you making plans?�
� He strode after the whimpering engineer and cracked the head of the staff across his snout. “We employed you to use your fingers, not that rotten walnut you call a brain.”
Ratchitt’s thin, whining voice rose to a piercing shriek. “But my lords, it was just a final test. I wouldn’t dream of troubling you with these technical details. I thought I could do one last experiment, and at the same time rid you of a clan that I know has been troubling you.” Ratchitt rose slowly to his feet, being careful to make no sudden movements. He held his paws up in a placatory gesture. Blood was rushing from his muzzle, but the excitement was back in his scarlet eyes. “I was going to present you with wonderful gifts, my lords: the destruction of Clan Klaw, an incredible new machine and an elf-thing artefact of unimaginable power.”
“And why should we wish the destruction of Skreet Verminkin?” asked the figure by the door.
Ratchitt gave him a sly look. “Because Clan Klaw has grown far too powerful for your liking. But my plan will ensure they destroy themselves on the elf-thing island, without any suspicion falling on the Cult of the Horned Rat.”
The three grey seers looked at each other in silence for a few seconds and Ratchitt had the unnerving sense that they were exchanging more than just meaningful glances.
The priest with the deformed fangs grabbed Ratchitt by the throat and slammed him against the crudely soldered metal of the machine. “Talk,” he said, pressing a knife against Ratchitt’s trembling belly. “Quick-quick.”
CHAPTER TWO
“They’re judging me,” gasped Kortharion, giving up on sleep and climbing wearily from his bed. He stood naked at a tall window, letting the torpid breeze crawl over him; but there was no relief for his sweat-drenched flesh. Whatever the season, whatever the hour, the temperature was always the same: the temperature of his own blood. In the silence of his room, he could feel his pulse throbbing quickly, drumming tirelessly in his ears and clouding his thoughts. His chamber was perched way up at the top of the temple, but even from here it was hard to see much of the island. The unnatural fog gave everything such a shifting, ghostlike quality that as he peered out into the darkness the landscape seemed as twisted as his dreams. Gnarled, serpentine limbs of rock covered the whole island and vile, pallid flora crawled from beneath every twisted stone. He shook his head. For nearly fifteen years he had girded his thoughts against the corruption that surrounded him, but finally an end was in sight. In just a few months another would be sent to replace him and he could return home to nurse his wounded soul. So why did he not feel any relief?
The temple sat at the end of a small peninsula that jutted out from the south coast of the island. Its architects were long forgotten, but deep within its crypts lay the prize that they were tasked with protecting—the Phoenix Stone. Kortharion had never seen the amulet himself, but he knew its worth. He felt its presence constantly at the back of his thoughts. He knew it was the only thing that stood between them and all the screaming horrors of Chaos. The burden weighed heavily on the whole garrison. Kortharion knew he was not the only one with haunted dreams.
The mage sighed as he looked across the narrow bridge of rock that linked them to the rest of the island. “What do you want from me?” he murmured, looking at the distant red beacons that circled the coast. They were as insubstantial as everything else, staining the fog with their sanguine light, but he felt their eyes burning into him. “I’ve served my duty. Why do you stare at me like that? What more can I do?”
He pulled on his ceremonial robes and stepped softly out into a narrow, gloomy hallway. Even the most beautiful Sapherian drapes could not hide the grotesque nature of the elves’ adopted home. Despite all their efforts, the temple wilfully asserted its unnatural origins. As Kortharion rushed towards the stairs, he had to dodge several limbs of jagged stone that jutted from the walls and tread carefully across the rippling, uneven floor.
He nodded at the mail-clad guards as he made his way out into the cloying heat and left the temple grounds. As he stepped onto the slender isthmus that joined the temple to the rest of the island, Kortharion paused. The booming of waves, crashing against the rocks far below, finally drowned out the thudding of his heart and enabled him to think. As a fine mist of sea spray needled his face, Kortharion realised what he must do. He wiped the saltwater from his eyes and looked down the coast towards the distant beacons. “I must commune with them,” he muttered. “I must know what I’ve done wrong before I leave. I won’t endure this any longer.” He hurried back across the peninsula and made his way to the stables.
Silvermane grew skittish as he approached, rattling her delicate halter and clattering her hooves on the cobbled floor. Her excitement quickly spread amongst the other horses and Kortharion placed a hand on the mare’s trembling neck to calm her down. He allowed her to nuzzle against him for a few seconds then signalled for one of the grooms to saddle her up.
“Kortharion?” came a voice from outside.
The mage turned to see a willowy figure, wearing a coat of gleaming mail and a tall helmet of filigreed silver. Moonlight washed over the old warrior’s face as he approached, revealing the concern in his almond-shaped eyes.
Kortharion smiled softly as he mounted the horse. “Just once I’d like to hear your approach, Kalaer. Couldn’t you at least pretend to be as clumsy as the rest of us?”
The warrior did not return the smile, but placed a hand on Silvermane’s flank and looked up at his friend. “What drags you from your chambers at this unholy hour? It’s nearly midnight. Is it the dreams again?”
Kortharion held his smile for a little longer, but failed to hide the slight tremor at the edges of his mouth. “I could say the same to you, Kalaer. Do you ever sleep?”
Kalaer tapped the hilt of his sword. “I felt restless, so I thought I would run through some exercises. I was still not tired though, so I decided to take a stroll around the walls and make sure the guards were all still awake.”
Kortharion studied the beautiful, two-handed weapon. The red light of the beacons traced down along the blade, like trails of blood. He shivered and looked away. “Yes. It is the dreams again. I thought a ride might clear my head.”
Kalaer frowned and followed the mage’s gaze to the distant lights. “A ride alone? Now? Is that wise? The island is treacherous enough by daylight. Let me accompany you, if you really must go.”
Kortharion closed his eyes and ran a hand across his brow. “It’s the Ulthane, Kalaer; they haunt me. I see their faces when I’m trying to sleep. Even during my waking hours I can feel their disapproval. They look at me as though I’ve failed them somehow.”
Kalaer shook his head. “Failed them? How could you? They’re here to serve us, not the other way around. Remember what the Loremasters said: they’re our only allies on this hellish island. Why should they disapprove of you?” Kalaer moved his hand onto the horse’s reins. “You worry too much. Don’t leave in this frame of mind. Stay. Try to sleep.”
Kortharion shook his head and gently removed Kalaer’s hand. “I won’t go far,” he said with an unconvincing smile. “I just feel the need to be near one of the guardians.” He laughed at his own ridiculousness. “I’ve no idea why, but I feel it is somehow important that I go now.”
“Then let me come with you,” insisted the swordmaster, gesturing for the groom to saddle up his own horse. “I could do with some exercise.”
“No, Kalaer, I beg you. I feel foolish enough without dragging you away from your duty.”
“Some of the guards then?”
The mage shook his head angrily. “That would be even more absurd. I won’t have the temple left half-defended just to help me sleep.”
Kalaer shrugged and mounted his horse. “Just you and me then,” he said, riding out towards the narrow bridge of rock.
The mage sighed with frustration. Then he shook his head, smiling to himself as he rode after the stiff-backed swordmaster.
CHAPTER THREE
“By the Horned Rat,” cried Ratchitt, �
�hold on to the wretched thing!”
He was standing several feet away from the device, but even at that distance the heat was immense. Incandescent cords of power were lashing across the clifftop, sparking and crackling from the brass cabinet and making jerking, screaming candles of Ratchitt’s terrified slaves. Dozens of them were already dead; their pitiful, twitching corpses were huddled around the flashing device like an excited audience, fixed in place by the energy rippling through their blackened bodies. A few were still alive though, and as Ratchitt screamed at them from the safety of a rocky outcrop, they made another desperate attempt to screw the contraption back together. There was a crump of folding metal and the machine jerked backwards, causing the glass sphere to roll in its cage of brass rings and flash even brighter than before. The slaves were briefly silhouetted by the emerald glare, before collapsing into piles of ash and cinder.
Ratchitt screamed with dismay. “Traitors!” he cried, leaping up from the outcrop and pulling at his fur in panic.
“The warlord will be here any minute!” He looked anxiously out across the crashing waves to the island. It was almost a mile from the mainland, and as ever, it was obscured by a thick haze of unnatural fog; but there was no disguising the angry, red glow of its guardians. They glared defiantly back at him across the tumultuous sea, seeming to revel in his failure. Ratchitt looked from the red sentinels to the sparking machine and then back out at the island again. Fury finally overcame his fear. He pulled his leather mask a little tighter and snapped down the eyepieces. Then he dropped from the outcrop and scampered over the scorched grass, dodging the blasts of power that danced across the ground. As he neared the cabinet, he reached for a bundle of copper tubes strapped to his back and snapped down a small lever. A green light rippled from the pipes and spread across his fur, until his body was as luminous as the machine.
The Island of Blood Page 2
