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

  Thanquol ground his fangs together as he imagined the depth of Skrolk’s intrigues. The diseased monk was a victim of his own wicked scheming, Thanquol was blameless for whatever had befallen him beneath Altdorf! It was senseless persecution for the plague lord to turn his dear, close friend Sneek against him!

  “You can use the protection of Clan Skryre,” Kaskitt repeated. “Great things are stirring, the fortunes of Clan Skryre are on the rise. We will be generous to our friends.”

  Thanquol scratched at his ear as he considered the engineer’s words. There was no love lost between the grey seers and Clan Skryre. Except for the heretics of Clan Pestilens, the science-obsessed tinker-rats of Clan Skryre were the biggest thorn in Seerlord Kritislik’s side. The warlock-engineers were woefully lacking in piety towards the Horned One and his servants. Indeed, sometimes Thanquol wondered if any of the treacherous tinker-rats even believed in the Horned One. If they were not so powerful a force on the Council, if their inventions had not done so much to advance skaven society, the vermin would have been wiped out long ago in a holy war. Perhaps they still would. It was something to aspire towards, anyway.

  With such a state of affairs, Thanquol had to wonder why Kaskitt wanted a grey seer involved in whatever crazy scheme he was about to propose. Particularly, why would he want the mightiest and most renowned grey seer in all the Under-Empire?

  “What-what is it you want-need?” Thanquol asked, straightening into his most imperious posture.

  Kaskitt rubbed at his eye-pieces, his steely smile growing impossibly wider. “A warlord of Clan Mors, one Rikkit Snapfang, needs help to drive the dwarf-things from their burrow of Karak Angkul. The skaven who help him will be paid well.” Kaskitt gnashed his steel teeth together, as though biting into a chunk of warpstone.

  Thanquol wasn’t fooled by Kaskitt’s performance. He wasn’t interested in any reward from Rikkit Snapfang, at least not directly. He was scheming to bring a better relationship between Mors and Skryre by helping Mors take the old dwarf stronghold. Clan Skryre’s great weakness was its lack of warriors. An alliance with Clan Mors would solve that problem for them. Indeed, such an alliance would be strong enough to challenge the rest of the Council, even more threatening than an alliance between Eshin and Pestilens!

  Once again, Thanquol felt himself being dragged down into the treacherous world of inter-clan politics with himself caught squarely in the middle.

  Still, there was the little question of why Kaskitt wanted him along. Glancing over his shoulder, Thanquol saw the reason. The two bruisers who had snatched him off the street weren’t from Clan Skryre, they were warriors of Clan Mors and they had their eyes fixed firmly on the grey seer. He could guess why. Over the years of his selfless service to skavendom, he had gained a completely ill-deserved notoriety for being an opportunist who would betray his fellow ratmen to further his own career. It was a wholly fallacious rumour, but one that had spread. Kaskitt was playing on that deception. With Thanquol along, Clan Mors would be keeping such a close watch on him that they wouldn’t be paying attention to what the warlock-engineer was up to.

  That left only one question: what was Warlock Kaskitt Steelgrin up to?

  It was early morning before Thanquol was able to extricate himself from his meeting with Kaskitt. The more he heard about the scheme, the less inclined he was to risk his neck. There was the rather obvious problem that his primary role in Kaskitt’s plans was to act as a decoy for whatever his real plans were. Clan Mors numbered some of the strongest and fiercest warriors in all the Under-Empire among its ranks. The last thing Thanquol needed was to get himself involved in anything likely to provoke them. Especially when it was something he wasn’t certain he’d be able to use for himself, even when he discovered whatever it was.

  Then there were the dwarfs to take into account. The beardy maggots were hardly just going to lie down and hand over their stronghold to the skaven. Thanquol knew from past experience exactly how tenacious and terrifying the dwarfs could be. That ginger-furred maniac who had single-handedly destroyed some of Thanquol’s most intricate schemes immediately came to mind.

  The dwarfs of Karak Angkul had been described as a particularly tough and sneaky sort. Clan Mors had lost a good many warriors to their tricks and traps, and Rikkit Snapfang had spent a small fortune buying slaves to make up their numbers. Even if the skaven managed to take the dwarfhold, they might not have enough warriors left to keep it.

  Even if they did, a strengthening of the bonds between Clan Skryre and Clan Mors was hardly in the best interests of skavendom. The warlock-engineers were a godless batch of secular progressives who were woefully lax in their veneration of the Horned Rat and the respect due his holy priests, the grey seers. A powerful warlord clan like Mors certainly didn’t need the pernicious influence of such vermin upon them. The order of grey seers was quite capable of bestowing all the helpful guidance Mors could ever want. They didn’t need a bunch of self-serving tinker-rats confusing the easily-manipulated warlord clans.

  Besides, a closer union between Skryre and Mors and the resultant weakening of the position of the grey seers wouldn’t exactly help Thanquol’s own prospects. No, he had every reason to run as fast and as far from Kaskitt’s proposal as he could. Not that he’d told the warlock-engineer anything of the sort. Thanquol was shrewd enough to understand that if Kaskitt thought he wasn’t interested, then he would have left their little meeting with a few dozen bullets in his body. Instead, he’d managed a very enthusiastic show of support and agreed to meet Kaskitt’s expedition when they set out in the morning.

  Hurrying through the maze of Skavenblight’s crowded streets, Thanquol scurried to his own burrow. There was just a chance that another grey seer hadn’t taken over his lodgings while he’d been away—Seerlord Kritislik wouldn’t have wanted any obvious signs of Thanquol’s absence unless he was sure Thanquol wasn’t coming back.

  Allowing that his home was intact, he’d have to be fast gathering his belongings and he’d have to be quite severe in deciding what to take and what to abandon. Some of his prize books and scrolls would have to go, of course, and his priceless collection of bottled breeder scent. A few of his most potent talismans, one or two of his snuff-boxes, a couple of extra robes. It wasn’t much to show for his years of faithful service to the Council, but it was better than losing his pelt to a bunch of upset warlock-engineers and their Clan Mors bully-rats.

  The tunnel leading into the complex of caves and pits where many of the grey seers kept their nests was lined with flagstones plundered from throughout the city and supported by marble columns looted from the palazzos of Miragliano. A gang of white-furred stormvermin guarded the entrance, their pink eyes glaring balefully at every skaven who came too close to the tunnel, their clawed fingers wrapped about the hafts of axe-headed halberds.

  The guards stiffened as Thanquol came near them, two of them even crossing their weapons to bar his way. The sergeant in command of them crept forwards, his nose twitching as he sniffed Thanquol’s scent.

  Lashing his tail impatiently, Thanquol waited for the dull-witted albino to recognise the grey seer’s spoor.

  Unfortunately, the sergeant did. Snapping his jaws in a silent howl, the burly stormvermin seized Thanquol by the arm. Instinctively, Thanquol smashed the head of his staff into the ratman’s face, sending blood spraying across his white fur.

  “Do you know-think who I am?” the furious grey seer demanded, heedless of the fact that the mute skaven couldn’t answer him.

  Instead other guards rushed forwards to help their injured fangleader. Seizing Thanquol, the stormvermin ripped his staff from his fingers. A rush of panic flooded through the grey seer’s brain as he felt himself being overwhelmed. Desperately he flailed about in the grip of his captors, raking his horns across their snouts, biting their fingers with his fangs.

  A trap! And one he had allowed himself to scurry straight into! It was all that scheming weasel Kaskitt’s doing! The warlock-engineer had goad
ed him into such recklessness through his wild talk of schemes and alliances! He wasn’t sure how Clan Skryre had gone about bribing the elite stormvermin, but he was sure nobody would believe such a thing possible. Whatever happened to him, Clan Skryre would never be suspected!

  The mute stormvermin lifted Thanquol from the ground, a different warrior holding each of his thrashing arms and legs. Thanquol began to shriek for help, but the louder his cries, the more resolutely the skaven in the street turned away. Everyone knew the white stormvermin were the private troops of the Council of Thirteen. If Thanquol had run afoul of them, then clearly he had evoked the wrath of the Lords of Decay.

  Still struggling and squealing, Thanquol was carried off through the crumbling streets of Skavenblight.

  Carried to the Shattered Tower.

  Chapter IV

  Heavy, cloying incense filled the air, creating an almost smothering fug that seeped clear down into the lungs of those forced to breathe it. For a skaven, the sensation was as frightening and disorientating as being blindfolded. The noxious fumes provoked fits of coughing that left a ratman almost doubled over in pain. Even if he could smell an enemy coming, he wouldn’t be able to do anything about it.

  The stone-walled chamber had an alarmingly high ceiling, the faded ruin of a fresco peeking out through layers of soot and dirt. Great bronze sconces stood scattered all about the floor, green light glowing from their bowls where chunks of refined warpstone smouldered. The great symbol of the Horned One was painted upon the floor with a skill and precision that denoted the most diligent of care. Probably slave work, with a most violent penalty for any mistakes. Upon one wall, a great stone rat-head with double horns leered malignantly, its ruby eyes twinkling in the light.

  Beneath the stone head, standing atop a small dais, his back to a long marble altar, stood one of the most powerful skaven in the Under-Empire. Seerlord Kritislik, the Grand Grey Seer of all Skavendom, Ipsissimus of the Entire Order of Grey Seers, Keeper of the Temple and the Faith of the Temple, Lord Exalted of the Shattered Tower, Ringmaster of the Black Bell, First Member of the Council of Thirteen and Voice of the Horned Rat.

  The villainous old ratman held a brass pomander under his nose, sniffing liberally from the black vapour rising from its vents. Whatever the vapour was, it seemed to nullify the effects of the incense filling the room. Kritislik grinned down at his rumpled guest as the guards tossed Thanquol onto the hard floor.

  “You smell-look well, Grey Seer Thanquol,” Kritislik announced, his eyes watching as the grey seer curled into a little wheezing ball as the incense overwhelmed him. “I am pleased you have not died,” he added. The show of compassion chilled Thanquol to the marrow. A skaven was never more menacing than when he professed kindness and sympathy.

  Thanquol blinked back tears as the incense began to burn his eyes. He struggled to right himself, but was careful not to make eye contact with his superior. The last thing he needed was for the megalomaniacal and thoroughly unbalanced Kritislik to mistake an innocent whisker twitch as some gesture of challenge.

  “Most-most magnificent Seerlord, Favourite Spawnling of the Horned One,” Thanquol wheezed between coughs.

  Kritislik made an impatient flick of his paws. “Hold-keep that fawning tongue, Thanquol,” he snapped. “I don’t know how you survived Lustria…”

  Thanquol’s glands clenched, spurting the musk of fear. Kritislik knew about his journey? How much more did he know? Did he think Thanquol had tried to betray the grey seers by helping Clan Eshin try to secure an alliance with the plague monks?

  “Great Devourer of Unbelievers,” Thanquol whined. “I have served you and the Horned One faithfully without think-thought of myself. Bravely I have penetrated the crooked plot-scheme of Nightlord Sneek…”

  “Nightlord Sneek was the one who told me you were back,” Kritislik said, taking a deep sniff of his pomander. “Since their recent unpleasantness with Pestilens, Eshin has been quite zealous in serving the Temple of the Horned One.” There was a malicious smile on Kritislik’s face that made Thanquol wonder just how much of Eshin’s problems with the plague monks had been orchestrated by the Seerlord. Kritislik could not abide another grey seer upstaging him and was envious of Thanquol’s brilliant mind. It was just like the slippery old priest to go and poison the relationship between the two clans before Thanquol could claim the reward and recognition which was his due.

  Kritislik turned away, toying with an array of knives laid out across the top of the altar. The Seerlord’s nonchalance didn’t fool Thanquol. He knew the scheming rat would have guards hidden somewhere about or some sort of spell ready and waiting to be unleashed. Perhaps there was a trapdoor in the floor between Thanquol and the altar. The grey seer’s glands clenched as he recalled the ghastly mutant crocodiles the Lords of Decay were said to keep in pits below the tower to dispose of unwanted minions.

  The Seerlord gave Thanquol another toothy smile, then set down the warpstone knife he had been fondling. “Killing the Prophet of Sotek was inconvenient,” Kritislik stated. “Ever since Xiuhcoatl’s death was discovered, Nurglitch has been trying to sell-tell the rest of the Council on a re-conquest of Lustria.”

  “Most-most Vicious Pontiff,” Thanquol sputtered. “I did not-not slay-kill Xiuhcoatl. A man-thing shot him and ruined all of my plans to make sure-certain the Prophet was live-safe.” The grey seer coughed as the incense continued to assail him, the little bells on his horns tinkling in time to his convulsions. “The lizard-meat was a good enemy of Nurglitch and useful to us.”

  “Yes-yes,” Kritislik agreed. “The scaly little pest was a useful threat to keep Pestilens in line. But now that Nurglitch is determined to try to restore Pestilens’ burrows in lizard-land, things are changed. The expedition is sure to fail and Pestilens will lose many plague monks fighting the lizardmen. Their power will be diminished for some time.”

  Thanquol perked up, straining to keep himself erect even as another fit of coughing wracked his body. “It is well-good that I told the man-thing to shoot-slay Xiuhcoatl,” he stated.

  Kritislik wasn’t really listening anymore. Instead, he had removed a strip of tanned ratskin from under the belt of his robe. He read the hash-mark letters stained into the hide, then fixed his gaze back on Thanquol. “You have a talent-gift for setting our enemies against each other,” Kritislik said. He tapped a claw against the scroll he had just read. “Some of Sneek’s spies tell me you have been squeaking with Kaskitt Steelgrin. He has some plan-plot to make an alliance between Skryre and Mors.”

  Thanquol’s empty glands tried to squirt, sending a wave of pain flashing through his innards. “Lies! Not-trues!” Thanquol whined. “I am a loyal servant of the Horned One! I would never betray the temple and the Council of Thirteen!”

  Kritislik bruxed his fangs, the sound of his teeth grinding together echoing through the stone chamber. “Stop grovelling, Thanquol,” the Seerlord commanded. “I want you to join Kaskitt and hurry-scurry to Karak Angkul. Let-make Kaskitt think you are helping his plan. But what you will really be doing is working for me.”

  The Seerlord snapped his fingers together. From behind one of the heavy curtains, a pot-bellied old grey seer scuttled into view. The sorcerer-priest had limbs that were as thin as a rail and part of his nose had been eaten away. Combined with his paunch, Thanquol recognised all of the marks of a degenerate snuff-user. The ratman’s scent reeked of unrefined warpstone and his eyes had the unfocused look of the inveterate addict. A surge of disgust welled up in Thanquol’s belly as the other grey seer stared down at him. How such a morally repugnant and weak-willed creature could be numbered among the Horned One’s priesthood was a mystery to him.

  “Skraekual will go with you,” Kritislik pronounced. “Tell-say he is your helper.”

  “I don’t need-want a helper,” Thanquol said, remembering the last apprentice Kritislik had foisted upon him. Adept Kratch had come very close to killing his mentor several times with his selfish treacheries. Thanquol wasn’t
about to repeat that experience, certainly not with the memory of what he’d done to his own mentor still fresh in his mind.

  Kritislik began to chitter with amusement, the bleary-eyed Skraekual soon joining in the Seerlord’s laughter. “Skraekual is not your helper,” Kritislik informed Thanquol. “You are his, but only the two of you will-will know that.”

  It was Thanquol’s turn to brux his teeth together in annoyance. Kritislik intended to use him the same way Kaskitt intended to: as some sort of damned decoy! He was going to exploit the fame and renown of skavendom’s greatest hero so some drug-addled half-wit could blunder about on one of Kritislik’s insipid ploys!

  The Seerlord glowered back at Thanquol, irritated that his minion would dare show distemper in his presence. The malignant stare had its effect. Thanquol cowered back down to the floor, oozing support for Kritislik’s genius and silently cursing the exotic snuff that continued to have a pernicious effect on his normally cautious judgement.

  “Mighty and Wise Squeaker of the Law,” Thanquol whined. “It is a stroke of genius to use your humble servant as a cover-cloak for my noble colleague Skraekual.” The grey seer coughed, almost choking on the words, a reaction that had nothing to do with the incense filling the room. Suddenly a cunning gleam came into his eye. “What sort of mission is it you wish me to conceal?”

  There might still be a way to twist the intrigues of his scheming superior around towards his own benefit. If Thanquol could learn what it was Kritislik and Skraekual were up to, then he might be able to beat them to the scratch. Or at least make sure Skraekual wasn’t in any condition to finish the job, thereby making it essential that Thanquol take over for him.