Mahtep had sent scuttling creations of bone and sinew, their carven fangs loaded with poison, to kill W’soran as he meditated. W’soran had returned the favour with the gift of a bellicose serpent-thing composed of a hundred human spinal columns and the head of Mahtep’s favourite skeletal steed. Mahtep had been dragged into the northern barrows by the thing; no one had seen him come back up yet. W’soran wasn’t concerned. If he survived, he’d know better than to try again. And if he didn’t, well, surely Nagash would thank him for removing a weak link amongst his disciples.
‘Something stinking of grave-mould and whatever bastard elixir you call blood attacked me in the mines,’ Arkhan said, striding towards W’soran. ‘It nearly tore my head off.’
‘Perhaps it was a singularly ferocious ghoul,’ W’soran said, raising an eyebrow.
‘Or perhaps it was one of these jackals you call apprentices,’ Arkhan rasped.
‘Or maybe it is something else,’ W’soran said. He paused, considering. ‘Several of the others have reported that there is a — ah — “stirring” in the warrens of the corpse-eaters below us. They’re growing bold, without Nagash’s will to hold them in check, and attacking the corpses in the mines, feasting on them.’
‘Then we will slaughter them,’ Arkhan said. He was silent for a moment. Then, ‘What do you suspect, blood-drinker?’
‘I think someone — something — is plotting to take Nagashizzar by force.’
‘The skaven,’ Arkhan said.
W’soran shook his head. ‘No. It’s something else, something more cunning than any ratkin. If Nagash were paying attention, I do not think it would dare…’
‘But he is not,’ Arkhan said. His empty eye sockets flared suddenly with a weird light.
‘No,’ W’soran said. He smiled crookedly. ‘But we are.’
Crookback Mountain
(Year -325 Imperial Calendar)
‘Drive them back!’ Vorag roared. With a bellow worthy of a bull-ape, he wrenched the rat ogre’s head from its massive shoulders and sent it sailing back into the mass of skaven that sought to push the undead out of the cramped and crooked tunnel. The two forces met and fought beneath the light of the large, eerily glowing green censer spheres that had been strung from the roof of the tunnel. The skaven had fortified the tunnel and were in the process of sealing it off when Vorag’s forces had attacked.
The Bloodytooth was at the forefront, as always. He disdained the use of weapons, relying instead on his own claws, fangs and strength to carry him through. At his side, Stregga screeched like an angry wildcat and beheaded a spear-wielding skaven with a single fluid movement. Together, the two of them formed the point of the spear. The tunnel was barely wide enough for a dozen men to move shoulder-to-shoulder, and it was up to the Strigoi to dismantle the crude barricades that the skaven had constructed.
W’soran watched it all from a safe distance. There were ten ranks of skeletal troops between him and the Strigoi, marching forward blindly. He followed them, shrouded in his robes, Melkhior to one side and Zoar to the other. ‘The skaven are falling back,’ Zoar murmured.
‘You doubted it?’ Melkhior snorted.
‘I was merely making an observation,’ Zoar said mildly. ‘It seemed strange, given their persistence earlier…’ He looked at his rival with a hooded gaze. Zoar had made a game of provoking his fellow disciple. Melkhior, for his part, rose to the bait every time. It was yet another reason that W’soran despaired of the Strigoi ever achieving his full potential. There was too much pride there. Melkhior would never be anything more than what he was. Neither would Zoar, but the Yaghur had had longer to get used to the fact, and his ambition was ashes and embers. Melkhior’s blazed like fire.
‘Maybe they simply know when they are beaten,’ Melkhior said.
‘Unlike some people,’ Zoar said.
Melkhior rounded on him with a snarl. ‘What is that supposed to mean?’
‘I thought you were supposed to be intelligent, Strigoi. Figure it out.’
Melkhior leaned close to Zoar and growled. Zoar yawned into his face. W’soran ignored them, and instead concentrated on the shard of abn-i-khat balanced on his palm. The wyrdstone, as the Strigoi had taken to calling it, had a particular resonance; each piece called to its fellows, growing warmer as it drew closer if one exerted the slightest touch of magic to it. W’soran had several more shards slung around his neck, and each glowed with a strange light. He was using the lot as lodestones, trying to find the quickest, most direct route to the main warren of their enemy, or at the very least, wherever it was that they were keeping their store of the stone and constructing their weapons. Sanzak and the other Strigoi were leading similar assaults in the tunnels running parallel to the one they found themselves in, pressing the skaven back on multiple fronts. They were accompanied by W’soran’s other apprentices. With the dead from the previous battles added to their ranks and the discovery of the food stores, consisting mainly of the stacked and gnawed bodies of skaven and greenskins, in the upper reaches, Vorag’s army had swelled to a significant size.
Nonetheless, it had taken almost a year to reach this point. Months had been wasted, crashing through pits and hidden caverns, burning and slaughtering the seemingly numberless creatures. They had faced only one more war-engine in that time, and the skaven, with prescience that was as frustrating as it was startling, had destroyed it when they realised that the vampires were after it. The vermin had been retreating steadily since then, squirming deeper and deeper into the darkness, fighting only to delay or harry the undead, rather than defeat them. They had even taken to collecting their dead, or burning them, in an attempt to wage a war of attrition.
Vorag roared and heaved the body of the rat ogre towards the barricades, shattering them and sending skaven tumbling. The vampire vaulted the still-twitching body and fell upon the fleeing ratkin. Stregga was right behind him, as were his personal guard. The vampires moved so quickly, they outpaced the dead marching behind them. W’soran snorted in disgust. Foolishness… why bother with an army if you were going to abandon them at the first whiff of blood?
His eye caught a quick, furtive movement from above. W’soran looked up, and his good eye widened. ‘Usirian’s jowls,’ he snarled, throwing up a hand bristling with necromantic power. ‘They’re above us!’
There were dozens of stunted, black-clad bodies clinging to the roof of the tunnel. Their black rags were covered in cave-dusts and their fur was slick with something vile that W’soran knew had served to kill their scent. Each was armed with a bandolier of clay flasks. Even as W’soran raised his hand, one of the skaven plunged its claw into its rags and extracted a handful of flat, metal disks.
The disks hissed as the ratkin sent them spinning through the air. They sank home into W’soran’s palm and forearm, eliciting a shriek of anger as his spell was disrupted. He staggered back, clutching his arm. ‘Kill them!’ he snapped.