[Thanquol & Boneripper 03] - Thanquol's Doom Read online

  Wondering what Ikit Claw was hiding had plagued Thanquol ever since he’d been persuaded to join the reformed Clan Skryre expedition. He was mindful of the old wisdom that curiosity killed the rat, but it was like an itch he couldn’t scratch, only growing worse the more he tried to ignore it.

  Finally he had hit upon a clever scheme to draw attention away from the sledge. He ordered Boneripper to behave as though it were going berserk, being careful to stipulate that the rat-ogre wasn’t to actually harm any of Ikit Claw’s tinker-rats. It wasn’t that he cared a pellet about the heretical Skryrelings, but he didn’t want to run the risk of the monster’s safety valve locking up and spoiling his plan.

  There was one constant, dependable quality among the maddening array of crackpot machines Clan Skryre foisted upon the teeming masses of skavendom. That was their unpredictability. The ratmen might have installed a safety valve to keep Boneripper from turning on them, but Thanquol was certain they wouldn’t be so smug as to think the device was fail-proof.

  True enough, Boneripper’s amok antics drew the guards away from Ikit’s mysterious sledge, leaving Thanquol with a free paw to inspect the Claw’s secret cargo.

  Unfortunately, it seemed Ikit Claw had guessed the reason for the commotion.

  Thanquol lowered his head submissively as he found the Chief Warlock glaring at him, a warplock pistol clenched in his paw. “I was worry-feared that Boneripper might…”

  “You told-say the machine-ogre to start trouble-fear so you could look-sniff,” Ikit Claw accused. He drew back the hammer of his pistol. “Call back-off your bodyguard.”

  “I’ll see-smell what I can do-say,” Thanquol said, wearing his most innocent look. Ikit Claw lowered his pistol and snapped orders to his wayward guards, berating them for leaving their posts and threatening a particularly gory end should they ever do such a thing again.

  Thanquol picked his way through the rubble Boneripper had torn from the stone walls and the litter of gear abandoned by the skaven the rat-ogre had seemingly threatened. “Stop-stop!” he cried out to the hulking brute. The skeletal monster froze in mid-motion, a thousand-pound dwarf statue held above it. The grey seer could hear the machinery inside Boneripper whining and shuddering beneath the tremendous weight. The monster couldn’t hold such a burden for long, yet it just mindlessly stood there, waiting for its next order. If not for that cursed fail-safe, the brute would have made the perfect bodyguard.

  “Drop it!” Thanquol snapped irritably, then leapt out of the way of the statue as it came smashing down where he had been standing. Coughing on the cloud of stone dust that rose from the impact, Thanquol glared at his moronic protector. It was just like Clan Skryre not to include harming its master among the things that would lock-up Boneripper’s safety valve!

  The rat-ogre’s skeletal head stared back at its master, oblivious to the destruction it had nearly wrought. The beady red eyes glowed evilly in the darkness, sending a tinge of fear crawling through Thanquol’s glands. For a moment he wondered if there wasn’t some glimmer of awareness back there in that ruined skull. Maybe Boneripper somehow remembered its previous life and meeting its violent end beneath the axe of the thrice-damned Gotrek Gurnisson. Maybe it resented obeying once more the master who had gotten it killed deep beneath the streets of Nuln.

  Thanquol gnashed his fangs, dismissing the idiotic idea. “Come along, fool-meat,” he growled, whacking Boneripper’s side with his staff. There wasn’t anything inside the rat-ogre’s head but a bunch of cogs and gears. It didn’t think anything except what it was told to think, and even then it had a hard time.

  Plodding through the dark, Thanquol and Boneripper put some distance between themselves and Ikit Claw’s sledge. It would be wise to keep clear of the Chief Warlock until his temper cooled a bit. Just now, he was exhibiting a good deal of utterly foundless suspicion regarding his stalwart companion and ally. Thanquol would wait until the Claw was a bit less emotional before making another try at seeing what the warlock-engineer was being so secretive about.

  “Don’t think-try that again.”

  It was the second time Thanquol had received the same warning in the last few minutes. This time his accoster wasn’t the fearsome Ikit but the pathetic, drug-wracked mess of fur and bones called Grey Seer Skraekual.

  Thanquol’s lips pulled back in a fang-ridden grin, his claws tightening about the haft of his staff. “I’m in a bad mood, warp-wit,” he hissed. “I’ll be in a much better one if I have Boneripper twist that ugly-nasty head off your shoulders.”

  The bleariness faded from Skraekual’s eyes as he glanced in alarm at the looming rat-ogre. “You brave-dare not-not kill-slay Skraekual,” he whined, cringing back against the cavern wall. A flash of anger suddenly flashed across the grey seer’s rotten face as he remembered the magic ring he wore. The cringing posture was abandoned and he leered back at Thanquol. “Do what I say-tell!” he snapped, pointing the ring at his rival. “Kritislik put me on top. You do what I say-tell.”

  Thanquol glowered at the degenerate sorcerer-priest. How he would like to crush the maggot and leave his carcass for the beetles. But he’d seen old Master Sleekit’s ring in action and wasn’t of a mind to risk ending up a charred smear on the floor. Besides, he reflected, Skraekual would be a useful scapegoat should anything go wrong. Perhaps it would be wise to confer with his fellow grey seer and gain his collusion against Ikit Claw.

  “That tinker-rat is hiding something,” Thanquol said, his voice a low and conspiratorial whisper.

  “Not interested,” Skraekual said, his tone making it clear that he spoke for both of them.

  Thanquol’s fur bristled. The arrogant flea! Daring to talk down to the greatest mind in the Under-Empire! He’d pull out the rat’s liver and feed it to him!

  “It must be something powerful the way he guards it,” Thanquol explained in what he considered his most convincing tone.

  Skraekual coughed, spitting a broken tooth against the wall. “Tinker-rat heresy!” he growled. “The only real-true power comes from the Horned One!”

  “That’s because you don’t know how tinker-rat machines work,” Thanquol pressed.

  “And you do?” Skraekual scoffed, directing a sly look at Boneripper.

  Thanquol ground his fangs at the subtle reminder of his bodyguard’s spectacular failure during Ikit’s ambush. He forced himself to ignore the irritation of Skraekual’s words. Now that he’d started to form his plan, he had decided Skraekual should be a part of it. After all, if things went bad, Seerlord Kritislik did place him in charge.

  “No, I don’t,” Thanquol admitted. He tilted his head ever so slightly, twitching his whiskers at the distant figure of Ikit Claw. “But he does. All we have to do is make the Claw work for us.”

  Skraekual peered suspiciously at the Chief Warlock as he made his inspection of the sledge and whatever was hidden under the tarp. “For the Horned One,” he hissed, correcting Thanquol’s statement.

  “Of course,” Thanquol agreed, a gleam in his eye. “That is what I meant-said. We’ll make him work for the Horned One.”

  The skaven settlement of Bonestash opened directly upon the Ungdrin Ankor, connected to the ancient dwarf tunnels by a series of narrow passageways. All of the openings had been clawed from the earth by skaven labour, the walls still bearing the scars of their digging. A litter of bones and pellets made it obvious which of the tunnels were in use and which were nothing more than booby-trapped blinds to snare the unwary goblin and the odd subterranean predator.

  Ikit Claw ordered his entourage towards the largest of the active tunnels, the only one broad enough to accommodate the sledge his slaves had been dragging. The tunnel was situated between the legs of an enormous statue, the decapitated figure of some ancient dwarf lord. The stone head glared fiercely from the floor, its nose broken and its teeth pitted by the marks of blades. As they approached within scenting distance, a pack of sentries scrambled down from the statue’s head and scurried off into the tunnel. The
sound of rattling chains and the groan of a heavy gate echoed down the passageway.

  Jezzails and warpfire teams scuttled into positions facing towards the tunnel, arming their weapons on the run. Other skirmishers began struggling into cumbersome harnesses and covering their faces with garish masks. Thanquol felt his fur crawl when he saw these ratmen, recognising their gear as that of a globadier, wielders of the hideous Poison Wind, one of Clan Skryre’s most fiendish inventions.

  He did not, however, recognise some of the other strange devices Ikit Claw’s minions were readying. One was a bulky mass of metal that looked as though a half-dozen muskets had been soldered together and then bound in copper wire. The brawny ratman who carried it was followed by a brown-furred helper who laboured beneath the weight of a portable furnace lashed to his back. A long hose of ratgut connected the mechanism of the strange gun to the side of the furnace. Thanquol could smell warpstone in the tiny puffs of steam venting from the furnace as it shuddered into life.

  The second new weapon was even more bizarre and unsettling. Ikit Claw was renowned through the Under-Empire as inventor of the warp-lightning cannon, a mighty war machine capable of burning a hole through a mountain. Thanquol had seen that weapon displayed for the benefit of the Lords of Decay in Skavenblight, though his attention had been more focused on the huge chunk of raw warpstone the cannon derived its power from than the intricacies of the contraption itself.

  What he gazed upon now seemed a smaller, more compact sort of warp-lightning cannon, carried upon the back of a single massive warrior. The skaven wore a weird sort of quilted armour over his black fur and his eyes were covered by a set of almost-black lenses. The gun itself was a long, slender tube of metal down the length of which a series of coloured lenses were fitted at intervals. The mechanism of the lightning-rifle was still a chunk of raw warpstone, much smaller than that employed on the cannon Thanquol had seen. It was housed in a mirrored box built into the back of the rifle, directly behind the end of the barrel and the focusing lenses.

  While his attention was distracted by the preparations of Clan Skryre, Thanquol failed to notice that Ikit Claw had turned towards him. He cursed under his breath when he realised the Chief Warlock was staring straight at him. No doubt the vermin was expecting him to lead the attack while the brave Ikit kept himself well away from the fighting.

  “Grey Seer!” the Claw’s steel voice rasped.

  Thanquol glanced about in a vain hope that perhaps he was addressing Skraekual, but the worthless warp-wit had scurried off to some hiding spot. Grinding his fangs in annoyance, he saw no choice but to answer Ikit and excuse himself from the dubious honour he was about to bestow upon him.

  “I fear-think I cannot lead-guide the attack,” Thanquol said. “I am only a poor priest who speaks-squeaks with the Horned Rat. I don’t learn-know Clan Skryre’s most magnificent weapons. I wouldn’t know how-when to use them in the attack. So you see-scent that I’m the wrong-bad choice to lead-guide the attack.”

  “I don’t want you to lead my troops,” Ikit Claw told Thanquol. The grey seer blinked at him in momentary confusion. A scratchy chitter of laughter hissed up Ikit’s ruined throat. “I wouldn’t trust-leave you with my troops.” The Claw flexed his massive metal hand meaningfully, displaying the warpfire thrower built into its palm and the sword-like blades fitted to each steel finger.

  “What-what do you want-need?” Thanquol asked, not bothering to hide the fear in his posture. The warlock-engineers were an impious, secular breed and Ikit Claw was the worst of the litter. He’d think no more of killing a grey seer than he would popping a tick.

  “Clan Mors was expecting Kaskitt,” the Claw explained, gesturing towards the dwarf head so recently vacated by the sentries. “Rikkit Snapfang may not receive us as warmly as he would my unfortunate clan-flesh.” The burned skin pulled back from Ikit’s lip, exposing his scarred teeth. “Your job is to go in there and let him know the deal has changed.”

  Thanquol felt his glands clench. Going alone into a dark tunnel that was probably crawling with hostile warriors from the fiercest clan in all skavendom was hardly his idea of the duties of a grey seer. Then again, getting incinerated by a crazed tinker-rat wasn’t much of an alternative.

  “What should I squeak-speak?” Thanquol asked.

  Ikit Claw’s ghastly laughter sounded once more. “Tell-say that Ikit Claw, Chief Warlock of Clan Skryre, Master of the Warpstorm, Flayer of Forgemaster Gharhakk Bloodtongue, Butcher of Chicomecoatl, Gutter of Jarl Alfhild Daemonkin, Burner of Magister Klaus von Doenhoff, Razer of Helwigstadt…”

  The warlock-engineer was still giving himself titles when Thanquol started his reluctant dash into the black mouth of the tunnel.

  The tunnel was as black as the inside of a snake—not the most pleasant of images for the grey seer to think of, but appropriate. If there had been any torches or warp-lamps in the tunnel, the sentries had doused them. Thanquol found himself hugging the right-paw wall, keeping his whiskers in constant contact with the reassuring presence of earth and rock.

  Darkness alone didn’t overly bother a skaven. Indeed, they usually found it comforting. If they couldn’t see, then at least they couldn’t be seen either. No, what had Thanquol’s glands clenching was the smell. A skaven was more disturbed by an inability to smell than an inability to see, and some twisted sadist had decided to eliminate that key sense for any ratmen entering the tunnel.

  When he entered the tunnel, at first there had been the expected smells of fur and dung and musk… and a tantalising hint of warpstone. The sorts of smells anyone would expect to find in a skaven warren. But only a few yards into the passageway, all of these smells had been blotted out by the overwhelming stink of ratbane, a noxious weed that dulled the usually keen senses of a skaven to a point where he could barely function. Some craven fiend was burning a bushel of the filth somewhere down the tunnel and fanning it directly towards Thanquol.

  The grey seer couldn’t help pawing at his nose, the horrible smell seeming to clog his nasal passages. Only a few steps of such vexing treatment was all he was going to put up with. Extracting his rat-skull snuff-box, he took a pinch of Lynsh’s weed to clear the reek from his nose.

  Immediately, the stench vanished as the fiery blast of warpsnuff sizzled through his body. Thanquol shook in the grip of the intoxicating rush, forcing him to stumble back and lean on Boneripper’s skeletal frame for support. Little pixie-lights twinkled across his vision, flittering about in the gloom. Irritably, Thanquol swatted his paw through the air, trying to disperse the annoying phantoms.

  He felt himself propelled forwards by the lumbering Boneripper. The brute would keep going until doomsday unless it was given the order to stop. Such brainless obedience was admirable—up to a point. Thanquol had no great desire to be trampled by his own bodyguard.

  Truthfully, he couldn’t remember just now why he needed a bodyguard anyway. He was, after all, Grey Seer Thanquol, the most feared sorcerer in skavendom. No—the world! What did he need some hulking idiot about for? It was insulting actually. The very suggestion that a mage of his powers should need protection! He should blast Boneripper into bits for having the impertinence of thinking he needed it to guard him!

  Thanquol shook his head. That was the warpsnuff talking. He wasn’t going to blast anything. Not without being able to see what he was blasting. It wouldn’t do to hit a support beam and bring the whole mountain falling on top of him. Even his magic powers would be incommoded by such a happenstance.

  Muttering a quick spell, Thanquol lifted his staff. The metal head blazed with luminance, as though a piece of the sun had been dragged down into the tunnel. The grey seer shut his eyes at the blinding brilliance, finding it quite a bit more than he had been planning on. A bit more restraint, perhaps, was in order.

  Pained squeals sounded from further down the tunnel. Sneaks lying in wait, their scent obscured by the ratbane!

  Thanquol didn’t wait for his vision to clear. Stretching forth his paw,
he unleashed a stream of warp-lightning in the direction of the cries. He could hear earth sizzle as the magical force slammed against the wall. Rocks burst like boiled ticks as he continued to play the lightning about in a wild arc. His vicious assault was rewarded with an anguished howl and the scent of smouldering fur and scorched flesh.

  Baring his fangs, Thanquol drew more power into his spell, feeling the aethyric energies blazing across his mind. He could see now, could see the slinking black-furred ratmen who had thought they could ambush him. Each of them carried a crooked sword and their noses were damp with some sort of salve—a provision against the ratbane, undoubtedly. Well, the vermin would have worse things to worry about than ratbane!

  The warp-lightning crackled into another of the skaven, scorching him into a charred huddle of burnt fur and shrivelled flesh. Several of the ratmen tried to flee, drawing Thanquol’s ire. Redirecting his energies, he blasted a hole through the spine of the foremost of the runners, splitting him nearly in two. The lashing energy continued on, ripping across the stone lintel that braced the roof of the passage. A deep groove was gouged into the lintel and the earth overhead groaned angrily.

  Let the mountain try to kill him! He was Thanquol the Mighty! He would show it the folly of daring to trifle with him! When he was through with it, there’d be nothing but pebbles left!

  Thanquol dropped his staff and clapped a paw to his horned head. A thrill of terror coursed through him, beating down the crazed fury of the warpsnuff. The stream of warp-lightning faded as he willed the surge of magical energies coursing into his body to abate. The madness past, he wilted to the floor, gasping for breath. Every bone in his body felt as though it had been gnawed on by ratlings and then used to swat mosquitoes. Exhausted, he couldn’t even maintain the light that still glowed upon the end of his staff.