[Thanquol & Boneripper 02] - Temple of the Serpent Read online

  “How did you do that?” Adalwolf asked. “I thought your powers relied upon the sea?”

  Diethelm brushed dirt and leaves from his robes and nodded. “Indeed, my connection to mighty Manann is feeble here, so far from the ocean. I can only faintly feel his presence in this place, for it is a land removed from the gods we know. To call upon Manann’s strength here would be a fruitless effort.”

  “Then how were you able to tame the serpent?” Hiltrude wondered.

  The priest smiled. “Do not think I have journeyed upon the seas for most of my life without learning a few tricks of my own. There are mystics in Araby who specialise in mesmerising snakes. They use them to clear rats from their homes in that arid land, you know. Once, when I was aboard an Estalian galleon, we made port in Copher. It was there I learned the skill.” Diethelm flushed with embarrassment. “I admit, I only learned it because I thought it would allow me to charm eels. Try as I might, however, I’ve never been able to get a snake-fish to stare me in the eye long enough to get it to work.”

  Seven days of marching along the path and the travellers came upon a strange sight. Previously, the jungle had bordered the strange pathway like a great wall of green. Indeed, they had been forced to cut and chop their way through to hunt and gather fruit.

  Now they came upon an enormous gash in the wall, a giant hole where something huge had torn its way through the jungle. The bare earth of the path was scarred and pitted where mammoth claws had gouged the ground. There was a coppery tang in the air and with it the heavy musk of reptiles.

  The men eyed the torn ground with fright, horrified by the size of the clawed footprints they saw. A fearful murmur passed among the crew, some of the men starting to edge back down the path.

  “What do we do?” Schachter asked van Sommerhaus. After the incident with the carnivorous plants, the patroon had been forced to become quite liberal with his money to return to the good graces of the captain and his crew. Few of the sailors did not hold a scrip to be drawn from the van Sommerhaus coffers upon their return to Marienburg.

  Van Sommerhaus considered the torn ground, then cast a nervous eye on the hole gouged through the trees. He stroked the soggy ruffles of his shirt as he considered the question. “This might have happened any time,” he decided. “Whatever did this could be leagues away by now. I say we stick to the path.”

  “And what if you’re wrong?” challenged Marjus. “What if this thing is still lurking around here someplace?”

  “More reason to stay on the path,” Adalwolf interjected. “Our only other course is to take to the jungle. I don’t know about you, but I’d prefer to face this thing out in the open where I can at least see it coming.”

  It was hardly a reassuring sentiment, but it did quiet the grumblings of Marjus and the others. The tired men set out again, trudging across the broken ground, avoiding the shattered trees that had been cast down by the giant’s passage. Everyone helped lift the sledge and the remaining barrels of water over the worst of the debris. It was hot, back-breaking work for the weakened crew and demanded all of their attention.

  Perhaps that was why no one could say when the ghastly crunching noises began. They seemed to manifest out of nowhere as the sailors set down the last of the barrels. The sounds were gruesome, slobbering noises, like a dog nuzzling its nose in a pile of offal. Everyone stopped and listened for a time, trying to fix the sounds in their mind. But though they grew louder, the deceit of the jungle and its echoes made it impossible to say from which direction they came.

  “I’m not sticking around here to find out what’s making that!” exclaimed one of the sailors. The man dashed off, racing around the bend in the path ahead. Others quickly followed his example, van Sommerhaus among them as the infectious fear claimed him. Schachter called his men back, but they were beyond listening to him. Reluctantly, those who had stayed behind took up the chase, knowing that their only hope of survival lay in keeping together.

  The fleeing sailors did not go far. They froze as they rounded the bend in the path, colour draining from their faces, their hearts hammering against their chests. Fleeing from the ghastly noises, the men had instead discovered their source.

  Gigantic, bigger than a burgher’s town house, the creature stood in the path, its scaly back glistening in the sun. In shape it was something like a plucked hawk, though with little clawed arms instead of wings. By contrast its legs were immense, thicker around than a ship’s mainmast and powerfully muscled. The claws that tipped the thing’s feet were huge, bigger than halberds. A thick tail, easily as long as the Cobra of Khemri’s hull, slashed through the air behind the creature, balancing its giant body. The head was monstrous, heavy like the skull of a bulldog and supported by a short, broad neck. The thing’s face was squashed like that of a toad, and its mouth was a great gash beneath the tiny slits of its nostrils and the amber pits of its eyes. Enormous fangs, each more like a sword than a tooth, filled the monster’s maw. In colour, it was a dull green striped with brown and possessing a distinct diamond pattern of orange scales running along its back. About its jaws, the scaly skin was painted red and from its fangs long ribbons of gore dangled.

  Beneath the titanic reptile sprawled a behemoth even larger than itself. It was built not unlike an Arabyan elephant, but far more massive and covered in scaly hide rather than leathery skin. The head attached to the giant’s long neck seemed too small in proportion to its immense body and the teeth that filled its jaws were dull and flat, not unlike those of a cow. A great wound gaped in the beast’s neck, and here its throat had been crushed almost flat by the pressure of powerful jaws.

  The great predator-lizard pressed its snout into the yawning hole it had chewed into the belly of the behemoth. Noisily, it worked its jaws to rip bloody slivers of flesh from the carcass.

  Suddenly, the towering lizard-monster turned, its eyes narrowed, its fat pale tongue licking at the air. The men stood transfixed as the immense creature stared at them. No man moved, each desperately hoping the monster’s attention would fix on one of his comrades.

  Van Sommerhaus croaked in horror as he felt the carnosaur’s eyes studying him. The sudden sound aroused the monster and the giant lizard-beast reared back. Men screamed and turned to run, casting aside their weapons in their horror.

  Instead of attacking, the huge reptile sank its jaws into the neck of the dead thunder lizard and dragged the carcass a dozen yards down the path. Soon it was again tearing strips of meat from the carcass.

  “I think he’s afraid you’re going to steal his dinner,” Adalwolf laughed, clapping van Sommerhaus on the back. The patroon bristled at his humour and pulled away, glaring daggers at the mercenary.

  The humour, however, had the desired effect on the other men. Gradually the sailors came back, retrieving their weapons from the ground. They pointed at the feeding monster and joked nervously among themselves at both their fear and the beast’s timidity. The sound of their laughter disturbed the carnosaur. Sinking its fangs into the carcass, the huge reptile dragged its kill closer to the jungle.

  Abruptly the huge predator moved again, this time dragging its prey away from the edge of the jungle. It glared at the trees, ignoring completely the puzzled men watching it.

  The reason for the carnosaur’s actions quickly showed themselves. A half-dozen lean, scaly creatures hopped out from among the trees. In shape they were not unlike the carnosaur, though their arms were not quite as scrawny and their legs were far less muscled. The creatures were deep blue in colour with mottled black markings running along their sides. The reptiles circled the carnosaur and its kill. Whenever the big beast focused on one of them, others would dart in and try to rip shreds of meat from the carcass. Always the bigger monster was too quick for the smaller ones and they leapt away as the carnosaur’s huge jaws snapped at them.

  “Like jackals annoying a lion,” Adalwolf observed.

  Hiltrude shuddered at his observation. “Even those jackals are bigger than we are,” she warned
him. Adalwolf nodded grimly and turned to advise Schachter that they should be moving on.

  Even as the group began to carefully make their way around the quarrelling reptiles, disaster came upon them. The sledge carrying the water became caught against the projecting root of a mangrove. In trying to force the sledge forward, the men pulling it upset one of the barrels, which toppled and crashed to the ground.

  The sound upset the reptiles. The jackal-lizards and the carnosaur swung their heads around, staring at the retreating humans. The big predator-lizard again sank his jaws into the behemoth’s neck and began to drag its kill away. The smaller scavengers, however, became tense, their fleshy tongues licking the air.

  When the cold ones came, they came at once in a hissing, snarling pack. The men with the sledge made a last futile effort to free it, then threw down the ropes and started to run. They were too slow. Leaping at them, pouncing on them like leopards upon sheep, two of the cold ones smashed them against the ground. Piteous screams rose from the sailors as the reptiles began to rip them apart with their clawed feet and fanged jaws.

  There was no thought given to helping the lost men. The other survivors were already racing down the path as the rest of the reptiles pursued them. Their attention drawn away from the carnosaur’s kill, the scavenger lizards had decided the humans would make easier prey and now hunted them down the path, snapping at their very heels. One man rebelled against the instinctive terror that sent them fleeing before the hungry reptiles. He turned to chop at the cold one chasing him. His axe sank into its shoulder, syrupy blood spurting from the wound. The lizard took no notice of its wound, but instead closed its jaws about the man’s head and crushed his skull. It would be several minutes before the sensation of pain registered in the cold one’s tiny brain, and by then its victim would be little more than bones.

  The success of the other reptiles goaded the rest of the pack to greater effort. Several of them sprang at the fleeing men, leaping clear over their prey to land in snapping coils of scales and fangs. Another seaman was crushed beneath a pouncing cold one, smashed into a lifeless mush beneath its weight. The reptile sniffed at him, jostling his broken neck with its muzzle before uttering a huff of annoyance and springing back to its feet in search of livelier prey.

  For those being driven before the pack, the chase assumed the dimensions of a nightmare. The shrieks and hisses of the cold ones were a deafening clamour in their ears, broken only by the agonised screams of those who fell beneath their claws. The air was a smothering miasma, making the very act of forcing air into their panting chests an ordeal. There seemed no escape, their only hope being that the cold ones would abandon the hunt once they had eaten their fill.

  A thunderous crack sounded from the trees looming over the path. Men risked their lives to glance up at the natural archway above them. One look was enough to spur them onwards. The trees were falling, crashing down like the talons of an angry god. They slammed into the ground with such impact that the men could feel tremors beneath their feet. Again and again trees came smashing down and it took every effort for the tired, desperate men to stay clear of them. Sometimes a shrill, bestial shriek would sound from somewhere behind them, but no one took the chance of being crushed to look back and see what had made the noise.

  Soon the exhausted survivors could run no further, even if it meant falling to the claws and fangs of the reptiles or being crushed beneath the falling trees. Their breath was now nothing short of utter agony, their clothes clung to them in dripping tatters. Adalwolf and a few of the others made feeble displays of drawing their weapons, though each doubted he had the strength to use them.

  “Look!” Hiltrude shouted between gasps. She pointed at the trees. The men followed her gesture. The trees had fallen still again, as still as the pillars of a cathedral.

  Adalwolf turned and stared at the path behind them. There was no sign of the pursuing lizards now, only a great jumble of fallen trees. He remembered the bestial shrieks they had heard and could only imagine the predators to be crushed somewhere beneath the log.

  “Something,” Diethelm said, “seems interested in keeping us alive.”

  Despite the heat of the jungle, the priest’s dour words sent a chill rushing up each man’s spine.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The Lost City

  Grey Seer Thanquol gnashed his teeth together as he stubbed his foot against the gnarled root of a mangrove tree. Spitefully he swatted the root with the butt of his staff. It was a sore temptation to draw upon his sorcery to wither the offensive plant, but reason quelled the vengeful instinct. He had to be very careful about over-exerting himself. There was no telling when he would need his powers. He certainly couldn’t rely upon his supposed allies for any help.

  After the fight with the zombies, the skaven had regrouped. Thanquol had been fortunate to catch up to them, but as soon as he made his appearance, Shen Tsinge started weaving all kinds of lies about how Thanquol had allowed them to walk into a trap and telling Shiwan Stalkscent that the grey seer was not to be trusted. Thanquol wanted to rip out the lying mage-rat’s tongue for spewing such falsehoods, but the way Goji glared at him made the grey seer keep quiet.

  It was an example of how gullible Shiwan was that he accepted Shen’s story. With the master assassin’s knife at his throat, Thanquol was forced to stand still while Shen searched him for any warpstone. The cursed sorcerer was most thorough, ripping open the secret pockets sewn into Thanquol’s robes. He even put his paws in Thanquol’s mouth to fish out the little pebble of warpstone hidden in his cheek pouch.

  Thanquol endured the humiliating treatment, holding himself proud and superior even as the Eshin leaders threatened and bullied him. For the good of the mission, he agreed to take the point and lead the way. It would prove to their unreasonable, paranoid brains that he was completely innocent of Shen’s outrageous claims against him. After all, from up front, if he led them into any kind of trouble, then he would be the first to suffer its effects.

  He strode boldly through the jungle, preceded only by the scrawny gutter runners who cleared the worst of the vines and branches. Often he would pause to stare contemptuously at the Eshin leaders cringing at the back of the column, sheltering behind the spears of Kong’s fighter-rats. Such craven display was repulsive coming from skaven of such standing as Shiwan Stalkscent and Shen Tsinge! These were the mighty leaders of the expedition! Thanquol lashed his tail in frustration that such snivelling curs could begin to think they were fit to give him orders!

  “Thanquol, see-scent city yet?” Shiwan’s grating voice called out to him in a demanding shout.

  The grey seer turned and genuflected in the master assassin’s direction as he had seen the Eshin clanrats do when addressing their leader. “Nothing yet-yet, bold and mighty slitter of throats!” Thanquol said. He glanced down at the map Shiwan had given him. Assuring the master assassin he could read the illegible scrawl of the plague priests was one of the things that had kept Shiwan from killing him after the incident with the zombies. Thanquol dearly hoped he wasn’t looking at it upside down.

  “Thanquol-meat try trick-fool Eshin!” snapped Tsang Kweek, leader of the gutter runners. Tsang was a malicious, sadistic rodent, a slinking thug who enjoyed nothing more than inflicting as much pain as possible upon anything he thought weaker than himself. Right now, the gutter runner considered Thanquol to fall into that category. Thanquol wondered if perhaps it had been one of Tsang’s scouts and not one of Shiwan’s assassins that had lingered behind to ambush him in the swamp.

  “Does honourable Backstabber Kweek speak-squeak true-true?” Shiwan growled. The skaven around him bared their fangs as the master assassin spoke.

  “No-no!” Thanquol assured Shiwan, trying to keep panic out of his voice. Discreetly he turned the map around and stared at it, making an elaborate show of studying it. The skaven around him just glared at him suspiciously. “Soon-soon we find-find scaly-meat city!”

  Shiwan drew a long dagger from the
folds of his cloak. Shen Tsinge chittered with amusement as he saw Thanquol flinch at the assassin’s approach. “Find Quetza!” Shiwan growled again. “Find or I feed-feed Goji your spleen!”

  Thanquol’s glands clenched as the assassin snarled his threat. He shivered as he heard the rat ogre’s belly grumble when he heard Shiwan speak his name.

  “Soon-soon!” Thanquol reassured Shiwan. Quickly he turned back around and scurried to the front of the trail, snapping quick commands to the gutter runners chopping through the brush.

  The other skaven snickered at his predicament, but none more-so than the cloaked assassin with the missing ear. Chang Fang had been fortunate to escape the swamp, he could still feel the filth of the mire in his fur. More than before, he was determined to settle things with Thanquol. He only hoped he would get his chance before Shiwan’s patience ran out.

  For his part, Thanquol was unaware his enemy from the swamp had returned. The Eshin practice of removing the scent glands from their assassins made it difficult for other skaven to recognise them. He already had enough enemies at his back, however, that even Chang Fang’s presence could not have increased his fright. He knew that he was quickly running out of time to squirm his way back into the good graces of Shiwan Stalkscent.

  If only he could make sense of the accursed map! Why couldn’t the diseased minds of Clan Pestilens write like normal skaven? How was he supposed to make sense of a bunch of scratches and spit-stains? Nurglitch sneezes on a scrap of rat-hide and the plague monks call it a map!

  It was unfair that his life should depend upon such a ridiculous, idiotic thing! The slinking murderers of Clan Eshin were clearly as mad as the plague monks to put any trust in such a mess of scribbles! Was that green slash supposed to be a hill or a river? And what by the Horned Rat’s tyrannical tail was this thing that looked like a ball of snot!