Warlord Verminkin dived out of the way just in time, and the beast’s talons sliced into the ground. “Attack!” he howled, unhooking his halberd and pointing it at the rearing griffon. As he crawled to safety, he grabbed the warpstone talisman swinging round his neck and stuffed it safely behind his breastplate, muttering a quick prayer to the Horned Rat as he did so.
Crowds of skaven rushed forwards to protect Verminkin, but as the monster reared over them, they eyed each other nervously and paused. None of them were keen to be the first to strike against such a fearsome creature.
The choice was taken from them as the griffon pounced forwards again, screeching and snarling as it crashed down onto the confused mass of struggling figures. As the skaven raised a forest of spears and halberds, trying desperately to defend themselves from the griffon, they were too busy to stop the lithe, golden figure that leapt from the monster’s back and sprinted towards their warlord.
The prince drew back his sword as he ran and muttered a bitter oath of vengeance as he swung it at Verminkin’s head.
The warlord rose up to his full height and hissed with rage, blocking the elf’s sword with his halberd and shoving him back down the slope.
The prince rolled gracefully back onto his feet and lashed out again, leaping up at the warlord with an undulating war cry.
Ratchitt steadied himself against a rock and grinned. His legs felt as though they might buckle beneath him at any moment and his head was clouded with pain, but once again he saw that fate was with him. He felt the powerful gaze of the Horned Rat watching over him, willing him to succeed. “Quick-quick,” he muttered to himself and scrambled awkwardly down the slope. “Only Ratchitt’s toys can save us now,” he giggled as he rushed past the two duelling figures and headed back towards the main skaven force.
As he climbed down the slope he saw that the griffon was already surrounded by a pile of gored flesh and twitching limbs; but the skaven were crowding forwards in such huge numbers that they were gradually penning it in with their jagged weapons.
One of the larger skaven—a heavily-armoured brute in a crested helmet—climbed up on the back of his ratkin and raised a triumphant fist. “We have it surrounded,” he screeched, preparing to thrust his halberd at the thrashing animal. But before he could strike, an arrowhead burst through his cuirass. He clutched the arrow in shock for a few seconds, looking down in confusion at the blood that rushed from his chest; then he toppled forwards into the welcoming claws of the griffon.
The other skaven howled in dismay and confusion and the circle of halberds faltered as they turned to see who else was attacking them.
Such a brief hesitation was enough to seal their fate, as the griffon pounced forwards and tore into its attackers with armour-shredding ferocity.
Ratchitt scurried up onto a rock and looked down the slope. Further down the hill, a column of white and blue figures was slicing its way up through the vanguard of Verminkin’s army. “Elf-things,” Ratchitt hissed, dropping down behind the stone and hiding from view. As he hunkered against the rock, the engineer giggled again. “Yes-yes,” he muttered. “Only Ratchitt’s toys will save Verminkin now. Then he will have to listen.” Still chuckling to himself, the engineer dashed from behind the rock and scrambled down the slope, forgetting the pain of his injuries at the prospect of utilising one of his inventions.
With the warlord still locked in battle and the rest of the skaven either fending off the griffon or struggling with the approaching elves, no one paid much attention to Ratchitt as he rushed over to one of the carts he had persuaded Verminkin to bring. As he approached, he ordered his slaves to unfasten the canvas roof and unload the cart’s contents.
The slaves wheezed and grunted with exertion as they shoved a strange-looking machine down a small ramp onto the hillside. It looked like a squat mortar of some kind, but the barrel was covered with rune-engraved plates of metal and gleaming pistons.
Ratchitt flinched as a familiar roar echoed around the rocks. Despite being massively outnumbered, the elves had already cut deep into the skaven army and were now only a few minutes away from Warlord Verminkin. The warlord had seen their inexorable approach, but was powerless to escape the lightning-fast sword strikes of Prince Stormrider. His snout was glistening with blood as he struggled to defend himself and all he could do was howl in frustration as the elves advanced towards him.
“Quick-quick,” snapped Ratchitt, clouting his slaves around the head as they struggled with the cumbersome machine. “Where are they?”
One of the slaves leapt back onto the cart and dragged a large chest towards Ratchitt, bowing repeatedly as he flipped back the lid.
Ratchitt groaned with ecstasy as he saw the contents, dozens of glass balls, encased in riveted copper cages and filled with luminous green, virulent-looking liquid. “Ratchitt is far too clever-clever to be treated so badly,” he whispered, rubbing his paws together. “Load her up!”
The slaves rushed to obey, with an elaborate series of bows. They gingerly carried some of the glass balls over to the machine and lowered them carefully down into the barrel.
As soon as he saw that the balls were safely in place, Ratchitt elbowed the slaves out of the way and clambered onto the machine. He unclasped a wire hoop fixed above the muzzle and peered through it at the chaos below. Then he frowned and muttered a brief incantation under his breath, tapping a small brass cylinder on the side of the weapon as he did so. “To the left,” he snapped, summoning for the slaves to approach again. They rushed forwards and shoved the machine slightly. “Not so much!” cried Ratchitt, punching the nearest slave and sending the scrawny wretch tumbling down the slope. The other slaves quickly dragged the machine back a couple of inches and looked expectantly at their master. He peered through the wire again and gave a nod of satisfaction. Then he stepped back a few feet and waved to a fuse on the side of the weapon.
The slaves looked nervously at each other.
“Fire it!” screamed Ratchitt, drawing his odd-looking pistol and pointing it at the head of the nearest slave.
As the others scampered out of harm’s way, the slave muttered a quick prayer to the Horned Rat and lit the fuse.
Nothing happened.
Ratchitt frowned in confusion for a few seconds, still pointing his pistol at the trembling slave’s head. “Wrong,” he muttered and pulled the trigger. The recoil threw his arm back and filled his eyes with smoke. When the haze had cleared, the other skaven gasped in horror.
The hapless slave was lying twitching and headless next to the machine.
“Quick-quick,” said Ratchitt, cheerfully waving his gun at another one of the slaves. “Try again.”
The chosen slave edged towards the machine and crouched next to the scorched fuse. As Ratchitt peered suspiciously over his shoulder the slave carefully examined the mechanism. With a nod of satisfaction, the slave noticed that several of the screws had come loose. He quickly tightened them with one of his long talons and dragged a lever back. Then he looked nervously at the headless corpse at his feet and turned back to Ratchitt.
Ratchitt curled his lips back, revealing a row of cruel yellow fangs.
The slave closed his eyes and lit the fuse.
Ratchitt squealed in delight as a bolt snapped forwards with a loud crack and the mortar fired its contents down the hill.
Down below, the rocks erupted into a huge mushroom of green fire. The blast echoed over the whole hillside, scattering skaven and elves before it like leaves in a storm.
The prince and the warlord stayed their blows and looked down at the battle in shock. As the plumes of emerald smoke cleared, the full extent of the damage was revealed. A large, blackened crater had appeared on the side of the hill and it was piled high with charred corpses. Most of the dead were skaven, but there were several elves in the crater too and the prince howled in dismay.
As the prince staggered towards his fallen soldiers, white-faced with shock, Verminkin saw his chance and lashed out with his me
at cleaver.
The prince saw the danger just in time to shield his face, but the blade cut straight through his vambrace and bit deep into his forearm. He stumbled backwards with a curse and toppled down the slope towards the skaven army.
“Fire-fire! Fire-fire!” cried Ratchitt, skipping back and forth as his slaves carefully loaded more of the glass spheres into the machine. There was no need to prompt them this time; before Ratchitt could even raise his pistol, one of the slaves lit the fuse and sent the balls whizzing through the air.
Another green explosion rocked the hillside. This one was even bigger than the first and almost all of the figures hurled into the air were elves.
The prince scrambled to his feet just in time to fend off the wall of halberds and swords that were hurtling towards him. The skaven that crowded around him were driven into a frenzy by the smell of the blood pouring down his arm. “Sharpclaw,” he gasped, as he crawled back up the slope.
The griffon was only a few feet away. There was a ragged cut in its flank and a halberd embedded deep in its thick neck, but at the sound of its master’s voice, the beast reared up on its hind legs and let out a deafening screech. The skaven that surrounded the monster baulked at the sheer size of the creature and once more it took the opportunity to plough into them, scattering limbs and weapons as it charged to the prince’s side.
As it lunged towards him, the prince wrapped his arm around the griffon’s neck and swung up onto its back. With the skaven pressing around it, the griffon reared again and this time the prince howled in unison with the creature’s deafening cry as he looked down on his slaughtered brothers.
Even such a fierce display could not hide the elves’ defeat, however, and the skaven circled victoriously around the creature, swarming over the gulleys and peaks in vast, unstoppable numbers.
“Follow me,” cried the prince to the remainder of his troops, clutching his bloody arm as the griffon launched itself into the sky. “We must withdraw to the temple.”
The second blast had given the skaven new reserves of courage, and less than half of the sea guard remained to hear the prince’s cry. Those that were able to, turned and fled after him, sprinting into the eddying mists with swarms of screaming skaven close on their heels.
“In the name of Aenarion,” cried the prince as the griffon soared up into the sky. “Head for the temple.”
“Fire-fire!” cried Ratchitt again, laughing hysterically at the destruction he had created, and ignoring the fact that there were now only skaven left on the hillside. The slaves were giggling too, and they jostled each other aside in their eagerness to load the spheres onto the weapon. In their excitement, two of the slaves collided with a crack of breaking glass.
Another deafening blast rang out and the machine vanished in a cloud of spinning wood, vaporised rock and roiling green smoke.
Ratchitt found himself lying against a rock, several feet away, looking at an upside down world that was fragmented into dozens of tiny diamonds. There was a shrill whistling in his ears and he wondered if he had somehow dislodged his brain. Then, as he slid to the ground, the shattered glass fell from his goggles and his vision returned to something approaching normality.
An upside down Warlord Verminkin loomed over him, covered in blood and limping as a result of a deep gash in his thigh. He drew back his meat cleaver with a furious snarl.
“Wait!” cried the engineer, clambering back onto his feet and backing away from Verminkin. “I just saved your life! The least you can do is let me show you what I’ve found.”
“The least I can do is nothing,” growled Verminkin, lunging forwards with such speed that blood and drool flew from his trembling muzzle. “But I think I still have the energy to skin your worthless hide.”
“Wait!” cried Ratchitt again, levelling his pistol at the warlord’s face.
Verminkin stumbled to a halt. He knew that the gun was as likely to backfire as work properly, but at this range either result might leave him without a face. He looked back over his shoulder. His army were rushing towards him, led by the triumphant stormvermin, but they were still a few minutes away. He shrugged, and lowered the blade. “Show me,” he grunted. “Then die.”
Ratchitt waved Verminkin back up to the top of the precipice with his gun and scrambled quickly after him. As they reached the edge, he rummaged beneath his armour and pulled out another cylindrical copper box. As before, he unlatched it, gave it a tap and extended it towards the floor with a series of clicks. Then he handed the ornate tube to the warlord and gestured across to the other side of the valley.
Verminkin wiped the drool from his snout with a contemptuous sneer and raised the looking glass to his eye. “What am I supposed to—” He paused and stepped forwards, leaning dangerously out over the steep drop below. “What is that?” he hissed, lowering the device and turning to Ratchitt.
Ratchitt took the looking glass and peered through it himself. On the far side of the valley was the south coast of the island, and jutting out from it was a narrow neck of land. At the end of the isthmus, rearing up from the mist-shrouded rocks, was a towering, teetering mass of black skulls. It was hundreds of feet tall and obviously intended as a temple of some kind, but the architecture was like nothing either of them had ever seen before. The stone skulls leaned up to the heaving sky in an impossible jumble of gables, cupolas and parapets. Ratchitt had no doubt that this twisted, lunatic building was the heart of the whole island. “That, oh sagacious one,” he answered, “is our prize.”
CHAPTER TEN
As Bladelord Kalaer looked up from his broad, ivory desk the candlelight washed over his face, revealing an intricate network of scars, both old and new. One wall of his spartan study was lined with ancient sword manuals and tactical treatises, but it was the scars that spoke most eloquently of his past. His long, elven frame was knotted and hardened by centuries of warfare and self-denial and as his guests approached, he glared up at them from his chair like a cornered beast, as though waiting for the right moment to pounce.
“There’s no chance he could have survived,” he snapped. His eyes were blank, but the tremor in his voice revealed a barely suppressed fury. He rose from the desk and looked down at the huge greatsword that lay across it. Like the swordmaster’s face, it had obviously seen recent battle, but the battered steel had been cleaned and polished as lovingly as a holy relic. “I had the enemy in my grasp,” he continued, looking up at his guests defiantly, as though daring them to contradict him. “In a few more minutes I would have finished them, but Kortharion…” he paused, and shook his head in disbelief. “Kortharion decided that the best course would be to immolate himself. He destroyed the creatures with his own funeral pyre.”
The small delegation gathered in Kalaer’s study turned to look at the young mage waiting near the doorway. At the swordmaster’s words, Caladris leant heavily on his staff and his youth seemed to abandon him, weighing down his narrow shoulders and drawing lines of anguish on his slender face. “Why would he do such a thing?” he muttered.
As Kalaer looked back at Caladris, the tremor in his voice became even more pronounced. “It’s not my place to question the logic of mages,” he snapped. “Kortharion had been on the island for a long time. He’d begun to suffer from the most awful nightmares. It’s possible that lack of sleep clouded his judgement.” He shook his head. “Maybe he had simply lost his stomach for the fight.”
Caladris stiffened at Kalaer’s words. “I’m sure he wouldn’t have abandoned you if he thought there was any other way.”
Colour rushed into Kalaer’s cheeks and he fixed the young mage with a withering stare. “Kortharion has taken his reasons with him to the grave. We must deal with this inconvenience without his help.” For a moment it seemed his mask of calm might slip. Then he turned away from Caladris and addressed the knight stood next to him, a proud-looking veteran, carrying a tall shield decorated with a beautiful image of a sea drake. “How many soldiers came with you on the prince’s ship, Ca
ptain Althin?”
The captain looked briefly at Caladris, but the ashen-faced mage waved dismissively and backed away to the corner of the room, so Althin answered the swordmaster’s question. “There’s my own detachment of sea guard and also,” he gestured to another armour-clad figure stood behind him, “Eltheus and his knights.”
Eltheus stepped forwards with a slight bow. His helmet bore the pale grey plumes of an Ellyrian noble and his weathered skin spoke of a lifetime spent in the saddle.
Kalaer took in the knight’s light, supple armour and his long, rune-engraved spear. “We’re a long way from the plains of Ellyrion, my friend,” he said, with a wry smile. “You may find yourself riding a little slower here.”
The knight lifted his chin and tapped his spear on the stone floor. “Speed isn’t the only weapon in our arsenal, swordmaster.”
Kalaer nodded vaguely and looked back down at his sword.
An awkward silence filled the room.
“And your prince has more soldiers with him too?” asked Kalaer eventually.
“Aye,” replied Althin with a nod. “Prince Stormrider should be here soon, with the rest of the sea guard. And more will be on the way, when the rest of our fleet arrive.”
The swordmaster let out a bitter laugh. “Fleet, you say? Well, well…” he muttered, being careful to avoid Caladris’ eye. “I don’t think these skaven will pose half the threat Kortharion imagined. It sounds like we have an entire army at our disposal.” He picked up his sword and gestured to the door. “I see no need to delay. Let’s ride out now and send the miserable creatures back to the cursed earth that spawned them.”
The elves filed out of Kalaer’s study and into a wide, domed hall, with long Sapherian banners hanging from its ribbed ceiling. As in the rest of the temple, the elves had been unable to fully disguise the odd, undulating design of the architecture and the newcomers trod carefully as they crossed the room, feeling as though they were crawling through the bowels of some awful, dusty leviathan.
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