Warbeast, p.7
Warbeast, page 7
‘Nowhere yet,’ said Felk, turning away. Somewhere in the Realm of Life, that much the Poxmaster knew. It mattered not. A realmgate would give him access, the power to move far more swiftly than the gnaw-ways allowed. ‘More dig-dig, whole gate must be open.’
He signalled to his troupe to turn around and follow him back to the upper chambers. As they left, the spitevermin withdrew, leaving the surviving overseers to lash the slaves back into action.
The route back to the main skaven city took them through a mixture of gnawed burrows and duardin-delved corridors and halls. There was filth everywhere, including half-eaten carcasses of animals and slaves, though anything of use had been stripped from the bodies. In the larger halls, where once duardin lords had held court over their followers, nests crowded around the walls, ramshackle conglomerations of stones, mud, sticks, furs, bones and other materials.
Felk knew his city well and could navigate its byways and tunnels by smell alone in the places there were no luminous fungi or warp-lamps to light the way. Fresher draughts of air from the Whiteworld Above signalled their arrival at the uppermost level, dug from the ruins of a human city. The ground had swallowed the buildings whole in times past, though most had collapsed, scattered into a litter of broken pieces of once brightly coloured temple domes and age-worn bricks.
The Great Shrine, centre of Felk’s domain, had been raised out of the combined duardin and human detritus. Built onto the remains of a palatial complex of buildings and towers, it resembled a gigantic termite mound more than anything. Packed earth, broken duardin mortar, human-crafted bricks, all had been thrown together for floor after floor. Haphazard bridges, walkways and stairs circled its girth, held together by frayed rope and rotting sinew. In many places it was shored up with ramshackle buttresses, cracks and slides in its surface caused by the frequent tremors. It looked as though it might collapse with the smallest shudder of the earth, but in reality was solidly built within and had withstood some of the fiercest quakes since Felk’s predecessors had erected it.
From chimneys and smokeholes issued a dozen columns of fumes, ranging from thick black smoke to misty green vapours. The effluence of the plague furnaces within spilled down pipes and rusted gutters, a spew of noxious liquids that pooled and spattered across the splintered remains of royal chambers and courtly cloisters.
At the summit stood a towering framework of rotted timbers and chain, from which hung the great gong of the Withering Canker. Lit from above by weak sunlight coming through a great crack in the roof of the cavern, at first it looked to be made of simple copper stained by verdigris, but the surface shimmered with something like oil. On a rope-bound arm next to it was a warpstone-headed hammer. A network of wheels, belts and tackle descended into the Great Shrine to a capstan where three hundred slaves waited for the command to work the hammer.
The approach to the Great Shrine was joined by smaller temples that housed the plague monks, and a warren-like mess of barracks that held the spitevermin regiments. A causeway zigzagged up from the huddled abodes, joining with a stained arch that might have once been the vault of an immense cathedral, but was now the last bridge to the gate of Felk’s inner domain.
The gate was made of overlapping planks and boards nailed and bolted together, reinforced by bars of untreated tree trunks and rusting rivets. It hung on two tusks that formed the entry arch, each higher than the duardin gate in the depths.
Felk started his ascent, dismissing his plague monks with a waved claw, though his priests and bodyguard remained close at hand. As he passed under the shadow of a broken human tower he felt a presence beside him that had not been there a moment earlier.
He suppressed a squeal, turning his fear to anger.
‘You approach unannounced, Eshin lackey,’ he snarled at the black-clad scout who had materialised at his left hand. The gutter runner cocked an emerald eye towards him, showing no fear or apology. The spitevermin belatedly dashed forwards but Felk stayed their attack with a sneer and a dismissive gesture.
‘Come, quick-quick!’ whispered the assassin-scout. ‘Very important news. Come see!’
‘Tell me,’ said Felk. ‘What news?’
Thriss, the agent Felk had hired from Clan Darkclaw, glanced warily at the nearby plague priests and shook his head.
‘Come see. Alone.’
‘Not mad,’ snapped Felk, fearing duplicity. ‘Tell me!’
The assassin’s tail twitched twice, the blade attached to its end glinting. He shook his head again.
‘Must see for self. Not let others see yet. Big problem.’ These last words were delivered sotto voce, so vehemently that Felk stopped in his tracks, every nerve taut. He had never heard the gutter runner speak in such a way.
‘Prepare for dismal feast,’ Felk commanded his underlings, affecting an imperious stature to glare at them. ‘I return soon.’
Before any of them could offer complaint or question, Felk directed Thriss to lead the way with a quick glance. The spitevermin split at their approach, uncertain what to do. Their fangleader, a hulking one-eyed blackfur called Skarth, moved to block his master’s route, the tip of his halberd moving towards Thriss.
‘What orders, Poxmaster?’ His one good eye fixed on the assassin, the words issued as though he were chewing a gristly remnant of a victim. Foaming saliva wetted balding fur. ‘We spill blood-blood?’
‘Not now, fangleader.’ Felk considered Thriss’ short but worrying report. ‘Soon-soon. Very soon. Guard Great Shrine ready for dismal feast. None but priests to enter.’
With a last surly glare at Thriss, Skarth moved aside, bringing up his wickedly bladed halberd. Felk hurried past, his thoughts a sudden whirl. It was enough to balance the contesting loyalties and usefulness of his own priests and monks, without worrying about developing rivalries between Thriss and his hired elites from the Savage Fang. The success at the realmgate and the dismal feast he had ordered in celebration were fast becoming overshadowed in his mind.
He made no complaint when Thriss set a brisk pace, leading the Poxmaster down through the barracks and into the widespread skaven dwellings beyond.
Along tunnels and alleys they sped, Felk feeling more and more out of his element with every step. Much of the city was deserted, its inhabitants hunting and scavenging in the Whiteworld Above during the last sunlight – the skaven disliked the sun, but knew better than to venture at night when all manner of monstrous beasts and birds searched for prey on the mountain slopes. The twilight of dawn and dusk was their domain.
They travelled for some time, leaving behind the dropping-strewn streets and passageways, coming into a poorly explored part of the duardin ruins that had only recently been uncovered by a quake.
‘Must climb,’ said Thriss, stopping beside a crack opened in the side of a broad, smooth-hewn tunnel. Without another word he disappeared into the fissure, claws scraping on rock.
It had been some time since Felk had needed to perform such physical activity. He tightened his rope belt and tucked in the hem of his robe to free his legs. Wedging his staff into a safe crevice, he started the ascent, finding easy purchase in the jagged break.
To his relief the climb did not last long, the split rock chimney taking them to a columned gallery somewhere in the mountainside. Clambering over the edge, Felk found himself on a neatly tiled floor, the colour faded but a duardin design just about visible in the dusk glow. The long balcony stretched for dozens of paces to the left and right, archways in both directions blocked by debris or overgrown by roots from trees in the soil above.
Thriss was at the edge, looking down over the low stone balustrade.
‘There!’ He pointed to the right, jabbing a claw repeatedly at something below. ‘There-there! Quick-quick!’
Felk approached cautiously, not wishing to give Thriss the opportunity to throw him over the edge if that was his intent. Staying far out of reach, he risked a glance into the valley below.
At first he was not sure what he could see. Something shone in the light of the setting sun, a ribbon of white winding along the valley floor. He thought it was a river at first, but as his eyes adjusted he saw that there was a column of figures picking their way between the rocks and broken remnants of duardin architecture.
From this height it was hard to make out details, but Felk could see that the armoured warriors were gigantic, almost as large as the rat ogres of the Moulder clans. They bore unsheathed weapons and many had broad shields decorated with a design: a stylised golden star with a long tail.
‘What-what is it?’ snapped Thriss. ‘Not tribes. Not human.’
‘Not human,’ Felk murmured, caught between intrigue and dread. They might have been warriors of Chaos, but he saw no mark or icon that indicated which power they served.
‘Back-back!’
Thriss threw himself at Felk, snatching hold of the Poxmaster’s robe to drag him away from the edge of the gallery. Felk thrashed from the assassin’s grip in time to see more of the giants swooping past on shining wings. He slithered back across the tiles, worming his way into the dark shadows where Thriss had already taken shelter.
Eyes wide, teeth bared, they watched in trembling silence while five of the winged soldiers peeled away, wheeling through the sky towards the gallery. It seemed as though their leader looked directly at him, the red eyes of the masked helm blank and pitiless. A moment later the strange warriors changed trajectory, descending out of sight.
‘Bad-bad,’ he said. They were so close to unearthing the realmgate. The imminence of that victory, a few timely decapitations by Skarth and a couple of accidents engineered by Thriss had stayed off the worst of his underlings’ latest efforts to grab power, but an outside threat could provoke a coup more dangerous than the daily infighting of skaven politics. ‘Bad-bad. Bad-bad.’
Thriss had earned his warpstone payment twice over. Felk turned to say as much to the agent, only to find the assassin had already fled back down the crack.
Alone and exposed on the balcony, the Poxmaster quickly followed.
Chapter Nine
The crunch of the snow sounded impossibly loud. The creak of armour was an assault on Arkas’ senses. The blustering wind skirled and hooted in fantastical melodies, every gust carving swirls in the snow. He could hear breathing, fast and heaving, distorted by a helm. He had thought it was Dolmetis, but realised it was his own. He fixed his eyes ahead, seeing vague silhouettes through the blizzard that had descended moments after they had started up the ridgeline. Even vision made perfect by the artifice of Sigmar could not penetrate the white veil ahead.
With every stride he expected the ground to give way and he knew he should proceed with more caution, but his blood was still fired from the fight with the Chaos warriors. The spirit of Ursungorod, the magic-infused air, drove him on as much as memories of the oath he had sworn.
The wind surged for a moment, clearing away the fog, and then stillness enveloped the ridge. He heard Dolmetis take in a sharp breath as the darker shadows materialised into the shapes of men, women and beasts. Like Arkas, the Knight-Vexillor already had his sword in hand, but the Lord-Celestant caught a glimpse of the blade as Dolmetis drew it up in readiness.
‘Calm yourself,’ Arkas said quietly. ‘These foes are beyond our wrath.’
As they neared the figures Arkas could see what he had already suspected – each was clad in a faceted sheath of translucent ice. Like blue-tinted glass it covered them, a layer of frozen water no thicker than his finger. There were fighters in the garb of the Ursungoran tribes, most with expressions forever locked in fear or pain, eyes wide and glittering with crystals, the spittle on their tongues like air bubbles. Amongst them were men and women showing various signs of Chaos mutation – extra limbs, lizard-scaled skin, cat-like eyes, a profusion of horns, tusks and fangs.
There were snow tigers and cave bears too, and larger beasts also warped by Chaos – manticores, hippogryphs, hydras and others, towering twice as tall as the Stormcast Eternals, some even larger still. A squid-like bekevic had been drawn from its watery home, or forced out by some mortal hand. A few of the monsters still carried riders clad in armour of Chaotic origin, made of bone or whorled with strange devices, or etched with runes that continued to shift and writhe even within the ice bonds.
‘What bizarre display have we discovered?’ whispered Dolmetis. The muttering of the Decimators sounded dully from further back.
‘Touch nothing,’ Arkas reminded them, stepping around a frozen hound skulking close to the ground, its legs buried in the snow, ears back as it whimpered at something unseen ahead. ‘These are the trophies of the Queen of the Peak. Disturb them and we risk joining their ranks.’
He stopped when he realised Dolmetis was no longer at his shoulder. Arkas turned in time to see the Knight-Vexillor approaching a statue-like woman, her hands upraised as if to protect her face, locks flowing from beneath a tall helm like a frozen waterfall.
‘What enchantment slew them?’ asked Dolmetis, slowly circling the female warrior. ‘Why did she kill them?’
Arkas stepped up next to the standard bearer as he completed his circuit and stopped in front of the woman, bent slightly to peer into her face.
‘Why do you assume they are dead?’ asked Arkas. He could imagine Dolmetis’ look of surprise inside his helm as he twisted sharply to look at his lord.
‘They live? Inside this frost-born casing?’
‘So legend speaks,’ replied Arkas. ‘For a time, at least, until the Queen of the Peak grows weary of their company, or forgives them, or otherwise releases them from torment.’
‘There have been survivors?’
Arkas shook his head.
‘You misunderstand me, Dolmetis.’ He pointed to the woman’s chest. The ice was darker, denser in the slight hollow her breasts formed in the mail shirt. ‘She spares them further suffering by lancing an icicle through their hearts. The bodies remain.’
‘I do not think it is wise to risk this venture.’ Dolmetis straightened and looked back along the ridge towards the Icemere, though it was far from view. ‘Let us lead the army to the rendezvous and begin the attack on the skaven. We have no need of this hag’s aid.’
‘I think we do,’ said Arkas, stepping away a few paces. He indicated something further ahead, gesturing for Dolmetis to look.
The Knight-Vexillor adjusted his position to see what Arkas intended. Two dozen paces ahead, just within the retreating bank of fog, stood the unmistakable shape of a skaven. Three, in fact, huddled close together, hunched over, their rags stiff in a breeze that no longer blew, their serrated daggers held in frozen hands and prehensile tails.
Arkas set forth with long strides, Dolmetis following after the briefest hesitation. On closer inspection they found that the skaven were clad in brown and black, the garb of thieves and silent killers, their ratty faces wrapped with dark bandages. Something greenish-black shimmered on the edges of their weapons.
‘Weeping blades,’ said Dolmetis. ‘Assassins. They meant harm to the Queen of the Peak.’
‘There is another skaven, over there,’ said Arkas. He pointed at a frozen vermin figure cowled in thick robes, a staff in its hands. ‘They tried to send an emissary and when that failed they dispatched would-be killers. When that also failed, they had the approaches barred by their tame tribesmen. I think that none have approached in many years, decades or perhaps centuries even.’
‘The Queen of the Peak is probably mad with loneliness too? Any other good news, Lord-Celestant?’
Arkas grinned inside his helm and pointed with his hammer. A much larger shadow rose from the ridge, curving away to the left. It looked like a bridge composed of a single arc, though its far end was lost in the mists. Something moved above, coming closer.
‘We draw close to our goal,’ said Arkas. ‘And here comes Hastor to accompany us on the last stretch.’
The Lord-Celestant spoke truthfully and the flying shape quickly resolved into the Knight-Venator, gliding down towards the ridge with vortices of snow trailing from his shimmering wings. He landed a short distance away and met Arkas halfway.
‘You seem unsettled, Hastor,’ said Arkas, feeling a wash of agitation from the commander of his Angelos Conclave. ‘I hope you did not pass the gate as I commanded.’
‘In truth, my lord, only a direct command to step over the threshold would have forced me beneath that arch,’ confessed the Knight-Venator. He turned his attention to Dolmetis. ‘I trust all went well on the lake.’
‘Righteous bloodshed is its own reward,’ replied the Knight-Vexillor. ‘I find myself on more uncertain ground at the moment.’
‘The way ahead is free of foes?’ said Arkas, cutting across Hastor’s next words. ‘None approached the tower?’
‘None dared try.’ Hastor indicated the sharp slopes to either side of the ridge. ‘A few attempted to negotiate the snows below, but the storm took them.’
‘We shall push on.’
The going was quicker from then on. The mists parted before them, revealing more and more of the frozen statues as the ridge widened to a plateau from which rose the bridge Arkas had seen. Like before, the Queen of the Peak’s victims were a mix of human, Chaos-tainted, skaven and beast. The ice covering betrayed the greater age of many of them, frosted, chipped and cracked in places, though the screaming, terrified faces within showed no sign of decay.
The bridge itself was of duardin construction, perfectly fitted and mortared stones creating a span ten paces wide with a low parapet at each edge. Though the skills of the old duardin mason and engineers had been magnificent, it was the enchantment of the Queen of the Peak that had protected the bridge from the decline that had ruined the rest of Ursungorod’s ancient cityscape – the snow did not settle here, but a thin veneer of ice covered every intricately carved block and thread of mortar.
