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

  “Why the need for haste?” wondered Guildmaster Thori.

  “Because I was right to doubt my sabotage was enough to destroy the Doomsphere,” Klarak told him. “It was a design flaw that caused the machine to destroy itself. The steel plating wasn’t tough enough to contain the energies of the Doomsphere as it started to power-up.”

  Klarak slammed his fist against the table, knocking over some of the iron statues. “That is why Ikit Claw has come here! He means to make another Doomsphere and this time he intends to use a tougher metal to contain it.

  “He’s come here for my barazhunk!”

  The tunnels of Bonestash were in turmoil. The air reeked of blood and musk, but beneath these there was the tang of warpstone, a scent that had not been quite so prominent the last time Thanquol had passed through the warren. Ratmen scurried about in confused packs, squeaking their agitation at anyone and anything that came too close to them. Clan Skryre skirmishers, heavy warplock pistols gripped in their paws, kept vigil at the mouth of every tunnel. Skaven bodies were scattered through the rat-runs, some of them scorched by what had obviously been an application of warp-lightning, others lying with their skulls shattered by warpstone bullets.

  It gave Thanquol pause to return to such confusion. Unrest meant uncertainty, and that was the last thing any skaven wanted to walk into. Briefly he thought about simply turning around and making his way back to Skavenblight without putting in an appearance at Bonestash. He lashed his tail in annoyance at the idea of retreating before he found out what was going on. Besides, he now had the Hand of Vecteek. With that artefact in his possession, he was more than a match for anything Ikit Claw or Rikkit Snapfang could throw at him.

  He patted the breast of his robe, ensuring that the artefact was still where he’d hidden it. Yes, it was still there, clammy and cold. Thanquol tugged at his whiskers. Did he dare use its power? He was still mindful of the maniacal madness that had settled upon Skraekual. If there was some curse on the relic, he certainly didn’t want to risk bringing it down upon himself. Then again, he didn’t have to actually use the Hand to browbeat the other skaven. He could merely threaten to use it to get them in line.

  Pleased with this train of thought, Thanquol strode boldly through the tunnels, shoving aside those ratmen too slow to get out of his way. Boneripper dutifully followed in Thanquol’s wake, the rat-ogre’s damaged mechanics venting steam at every step. Squeals of protest and pain wailed as the steam scalded some of the closely-packed ratmen. Boneripper’s gait displayed an almost tipsy quality as its rattled cognisance struggled to regain its centre of balance. The brute’s battle with Skraekual had left its marks.

  Two Clan Skryre skirmishers stepped out into the mouth of the tunnel, moving to block the passage. Thanquol simply glared at the two skaven until they bobbed their heads in a suitably subservient manner.

  “Where is the Claw?” Thanquol demanded, baring his fangs in a threatening display.

  “Chief Warlock Ikit Claw makes big-big squeak-speak with Clan Mors,” one of the skirmishers answered.

  Given the state of things, it made sense that Ikit Claw would be trying to coordinate with Rikkit Snapfang to restore order in Bonestash. Thanquol wondered what had caused the breakdown. Likely some sort of dwarf attack, one that threatened the warren itself. Again, the impulse to flee coursed through his mind. Fighting a bunch of dwarfs was something he wasn’t eager to do, at least not without some substantial gain waiting for him at the end of the battle.

  Still, it might be worth it to see the exact lay of the land first. Thanquol wouldn’t want to scurry back to Skavenblight and then find out the skaven of Bonestash had managed to pull out some zero-hour victory.

  Following the directions given to him by the skirmishers, Thanquol headed for the central storage burrow. It was an odd sort of place for the leaders of Bonestash to be holding a meeting, though Thanquol imagined it must be among the most secure caves in the entire warren. As he proceeded through the cramped tunnels, he began to notice an increase in the Clan Skryre guard posts. Armoured stormvermin were now in evidence too, racing through the tunnels in vicious packs, brutalising just about every skaven they came across. Behind each gang of stormvermin, Thanquol saw mobs of shackled slaves, each slave laden down with a variety of foodstuffs and other supplies.

  While he watched, a pack of brown-furred clanrats set upon the stormvermin, trying to get past them to the slaves and the supplies they carried. Two of the armoured ratmen were dragged down before the rest of them could fend off their attackers. Snarling and displaying their fangs, the defeated clanrats withdrew, but from their attitude, Thanquol felt they wouldn’t go far before making another attempt to steal the supplies.

  Disorder was quickly consuming the warren, upsetting the strict social hierarchy. The downtrodden masses were forgetting their obligations to their superiors. Worse, they were forgetting their fear of their superiors.

  At least the vermin hadn’t forgotten their fear of the Horned Rat. Thanquol went unmolested as he prowled the tunnels, rampaging clanrats and escaped skavenslaves taking one sniff of the grey seer’s scent and then quickly scrambling out of his way. Those who dared to stare at him for too long, Thanquol clubbed down with the head of his staff. If he once showed any sign of timidity, he knew the rioters would fall upon him like starving wolf-rats.

  Deeper into the warren now, Thanquol could see how far the unrest had gone. He saw a pack of skavenslaves, chains still looped about their necks, munching on a clutch of squealing grey meat while behind them a gang of clanrats were trying to herd brood-mothers away from their birthing nests. The immense, almost brainless female skaven would waddle out a few steps, then swing about and try to retreat back to the familiar smells of their nests. More than a few of the rustlers had been crushed beneath the flabby paws of the breeders, their comrades callously indifferent to the fate of the stricken thieves.

  A group of piebald ratmen came scampering down the tunnel, their backs bent almost horizontal by the heavy sacks of mushrooms they carried. These were hotly pursued by a squealing mob demanding a share in the loot.

  Another pack of brown-furred skaven emerged from one of the side-passages. These bore an array of weapons and wore bits of bloodied armour. At their head marched a skinny white-faced ratman who carried a long spear, the head of a black-furred stormvermin spitted upon its tip like some gruesome standard.

  Thanquol skirted well clear of the marching brown-furs and their snarling leader. He ducked down a side-tunnel, then frowned as he discovered it was choked with shivering ratmen, scrawny little wretches too timid to take part in the general looting. Angrily, the grey seer ordered Boneripper forwards. The hulking rat-ogre seized two of the cowering skaven in its bony claws, crushing them in its steely grip.

  Thanquol bared his fangs at the rest of the cringing ratmen. “Out-out!” he growled. The skaven didn’t need to be told twice, rushing past Thanquol and Boneripper in a terrified river of fur and musk. Pushing his way through the fleeing verminkin, the grey seer stalked down the tunnel. There was a scent of warpstone in the air. If Rikkit Snapfang was anywhere, the warlord would be with his warpstone, protecting it from the rampaging rat-packs that would steal it.

  The scent led Thanquol into the vast cavern that had served Bonestash as a central supply cache. There were gangs of stormvermin posted everywhere, their halberds and swords at the ready, their armour stained with black skaven blood. Mobs of slaves, under the stern supervision of warriors, continued to emerge from the cavern with bundles of food. The sound of hammers, the smell of hot metal, the shriek of drills against stone, all of these drifted out to welcome the grey seer as he forced his way past the sentinels and into the cavern.

  What he saw froze Thanquol in his tracks. The vast cavern was being emptied of its stores by a veritable army of slaves. While they hurried to clear the area, a second horde of slaves was bringing in a wild assortment of machinery the function of which he couldn’t even begin to guess. Wooden scaffolds
and gantries were being erected all about the cavern. Teams with warp-powered drills were gouging great pits in the floor while other skaven hurried about transforming the holes into crude forges and smelters.

  At the very centre of the activity, Thanquol saw an immense ovoid machine, a great sphere of exposed gears and levers. At the heart of the machine was some sort of furnace from which billowed a quantity of green smoke. The grey seer felt his heart flutter in shock as he saw a pair of ratmen in strange metal coveralls shovelling warpstone into the furnace. He couldn’t know how long they’d been feeding the machine, but just from a moment’s observation, he saw them cast a small fortune into the flames.

  The sight was such a wasteful outrage that Thanquol roared at the vandals, demanding them to stop. He lifted his staff, fully prepared to visit the wrath of the Horned One upon these heretic maggots.

  “Grey Seer Thanquol,” the steel scratch of Ikit Claw’s voice rose from across the cavern, arresting the sorcerer’s spell. Thanquol shifted his gaze to find the Chief Warlock watching him. The Claw was situated beside one of the forges. Thanquol was surprised to find the two warlock-engineers who had deserted his patrol standing to either side of the Claw. On the ground between them rested one of the strange metal beams Thanquol had seen in the dwarf mines.

  “Have you considered what would happen if you sent a bolt of warp-lightning into such a large quantity of warpstone?” Ikit Claw demanded. The Chief Warlock made a sidewise motion with his metal claw, the scythe-like digits snapping together with a grinding click.

  Slowly, Thanquol lowered his staff. Truthfully, he wasn’t sure what would happen if a stray spark of warp-lightning were to strike the cart of warpstone Ikit’s minions were feeding into the furnace. He also wasn’t willing to gamble that the Claw was bluffing when he claimed that he did know.

  “They-they destroy-ruin warpstone!” Thanquol shrieked, pointing angrily at the furnace-tenders.

  Ikit Claw stepped away from the forge. His head bobbed in a gloating manner. “Yes-yes,” he hissed. “The essence of the warpstone feeds my machine. To create, one must-must destroy! To destroy, one must-must create!” The warlock-engineer waved his monstrous claw towards the smoking, shuddering machine. “This will-will be great-best invention!” he explained, his metal hiss becoming slurred and debased in his excitement. “Make-force all skaven bow-grovel! Destroy-kill all-all enemies!”

  Thanquol bruxed his fangs. There was the fanatical gleam in Ikit’s eyes that reminded him uncomfortably of the plague monks of Clan Pestilens. The grey seer patted the breast of his robe, reassured by the dead touch of Vecteek’s hand. For all of the Claw’s posturing, the tinker-rat’s invention was just a toy beside the power Thanquol had at his fingertips.

  “Mad-crazy!” squealed Rikkit Snapfang. The warlord of Bonestash came scurrying to Thanquol’s side, leaving the tangle of clawleaders supervising the removal of the warren’s supplies. “The Claw is mad-crazy!” he repeated. “Speak-squeak that all must be moved! Speak-squeak that breeder-nest not big enough!”

  In an instant, Thanquol saw why the warren had been thrown into such chaos. The removal of the food stores hadn’t been an organised affair, but rather one hastily imposed upon Rikkit by the Clan Skryre skaven. Without proper preparation and warning, the inhabitants of the warren had been thrown into a panic, believing as Thanquol had that the dwarfs were on their way. They saw the removal of the supplies as a sign that their leaders were abandoning the warren—and them along with it! No wonder the ratmen were rioting, trying to take for themselves whatever they could lay their paws on.

  Thanquol’s lip curled in contempt for Clan Skryre’s foolishness. Their tunnel vision had provoked disorder in the warren at a time when they would need every available skaven to fight the dwarfs! It was like being handed a gift from the Horned Rat himself! He could head back for Skavenblight and lay all of the blame on Ikit Claw, but now he could do so and know he would be backed by Clan Mors when he made his allegations!

  “Great-mighty Grey Seer,” Rikkit was saying, exposing his throat in a gesture of submission to Thanquol’s authority. “Make-stop the Claw. Tell-say the Horned One will-will smite-smash him if he won’t stop-stop.”

  “Don’t presume what the Horned One will do,” Thanquol upbraided Rikkit for his blasphemous presumption. The grey seer’s eyes narrowed. He was planning on leaving Bonestash anyway, but now that Rikkit had begged for his help, he had to make a token gesture of publicly disapproving of Ikit Claw’s antics. He’d spew out a bit of mumbo jumbo about the Horned Rat and curses and such, then scurry off in a huff. He chuckled, patting the morbid artefact once more. When he returned to Skavenblight, he’d force Seerlord Kritislik to elevate him to the rank of seerlord, maybe even replace Tisqueek. From there he’d be only one convenient accident from becoming the Supreme Seerlord and occupying Kritislik’s seat on the Council of Thirteen.

  Ikit Claw was still prancing about his invention, squeaking and babbling about it like a man-thing with a new pup. It was a revolting display, but at the same time made Thanquol uneasy. He dug out his snuff-box and took a little pinch to fortify himself against the coming unpleasantness.

  “Mad-meat!” Thanquol snarled at the Chief Warlock. “You’ve wrecked—”

  Ikit Claw spun about, baring his fangs in a feral snarl. “Mad? Mad? You squeak-say I am mad-mad?” The warlock-engineer chittered, his laughter sounding like a knife being sharpened. “Yes-yes! Only mad-mad would make-bring the Doomsphere!”

  Thanquol stood still, as rigid as a statue. Had the Chief Warlock really just said he was making another Doomsphere? The first had been built ages past by the sorcerer-engineers of Clan Skryre to crack open the roots of the mountains and annihilate the kingdoms of the dwarfs in one fell swoop. It hadn’t worked out quite the way they had planned. While the dwarf kingdoms had suffered immense destruction, the rampant energies unleashed by the Doomsphere had rebounded against the skaven. Skavenblight had been cast into ruins, the plain around it flooded by the sea to become the Blighted Marshes. In the wake of this destruction, the despots who had ruled skavendom up until that point had been overthrown and replaced by the Grey Lords, predecessors of the current Lords of Decay.

  The Doomsphere! Here was a weapon that could, as Ikit Claw claimed, exterminate the enemies of the Under-Empire and bring the bickering clans to their knees! From fear of the Doomsphere, all skavendom could be united, forced to set aside their petty intrigues and work towards the fulfilment of the Great Ascendancy! They would answer to one voice! One will! One vision! No longer would there be a Council of Thirteen, no Lords of Decay! The skaven would answer to the Horned Emperor!

  The magnitude of the glorious vision sent an icy thrill of fear coursing through Thanquol’s mind. Reason struggled against the enormity of such ambition, pleading with him that such thoughts were but the delusions conjured up by a bad batch of warp-snuff.

  The grey seer grimaced. He did not need warp-snuff to tell him his destiny! His glory was foreordained by the Horned One! The very fact that he was here, present to witness the construction of Ikit Claw’s weapon, and that he did so armed with the tools to seize control of it—these were incontrovertible signs of the Horned Rat’s favour!

  Yes! All skavendom would grovel before Thanquol the First! No, Thanquol the Only, for there would be no other Horned Emperor! By magic or through the arcane technology of Clan Skryre, Thanquol would ensure the Under-Empire would never be deprived of his selfless leadership. He’d use the Doomsphere and blast skavendom to smithereens first!

  The grey seer stroked his whiskers and chuckled to himself. It didn’t even matter if Ikit Claw’s contraption worked or not. Simply the threat that it would work would be enough to bring the Council to its knees. The Hand of Vecteek! Bah! A worthless bit of carrion beside the awesome power the Claw now offered him!

  “Feared Thanquol, you must stop-stop this insanity!” Rikkit Snapfang pleaded.

  Thanquol glanced aside at the desperate warlord. “Sh
ut up,” he ordered before scurrying across the cavern to confer with the most noble and brilliant visionary Ikit Claw.

  “You think-want make-make new-better Doomsphere?” Thanquol asked, unable to keep a trickle of drool from dripping off his fangs.

  Ikit Claw’s eyes narrowed behind his metal mask. He scratched at his white fur with his good hand. “This time-time all be good-perfect!” he hissed. “No-none mistake-trouble!” The Chief Warlock reached down, lifting the stolen beam from the ground with his steel claw, holding it as effortlessly as an old mouse bone. “Last experiment-test, housing-skin was weak-bad. Now use-take new-better dwarf-metal!”

  That was the reason Ikit Claw had come to Bonestash! One of the mercenaries Clan Mors had hired before must have been a spy for the Chief Warlock. The spy had discovered the dwarf-metal and reported it to his master. The Claw must have had most of his Doomsphere already constructed, waiting only for a housing strong enough to restrain its immense energies until they were needed. That was what the Claw’s minions had been dragging through the Underway—the partially assembled apparatus of his weapon!

  “Thanquol stop-stop him!” Rikkit protested. “He will ruin-wreck Bonestash!”

  The grey seer swatted the grovelling warlord with his staff. There were far bigger things to consider now than one idiot and his three-flea warren. Conquest of the Under-Empire, for a start. The complete genocide of the dwarf race for another.

  Thanquol looked around the cavern, nodding in approval at the frantic pace of work. However, they could certainly do better with more labourers. “Good-smart plan-plot,” the grey seer said, his words clipped and excited. With an effort he forced a bit of dignified reserve into his voice. He didn’t want to seem too eager to exploit Ikit Claw’s invention. He would need to adopt the poise of a wise old grey seer who saw an opportunity to better skavendom through the Claw’s genius. That way the Claw wouldn’t see it coming when fate caught up with him and left Thanquol with a free paw to claim the Doomsphere as his own.