Beady black eyes slid away from his own bulging, red-veined ones, and the stink of nervous musk filled the immediate air as his warriors bunched together and the front ranks shuffled back. Snikrat knew that he cut an imposing figure. He was bigger than any two of his Bonehides put together, and clad in the finest armour warpstone could purchase. His blade had belonged to a dwarf thane, once upon a time, and though it had changed hands and owners several times since, it was still a deadly looking weapon, covered in dolorous runes and smeared with several foul-smelling unguents, which, to Snikrat’s knowledge, did nothing – but better safe than sorry.
He spat and looked down at the messenger. ‘Search the man-thing there on the ground and the clothes that he wears for anything of value, by which I mean things of gold and or conspicuous shininess, and then give them to me, your leader, Snikrat the Magnificent, yes-yes.’ He kicked the body towards his followers, the closest of whom immediately fell upon it in a frenzy of looting. A squealing squabble broke out. Snikrat turned away as the first punch was thrown.
He scrambled back up the tree he’d been hunched in before the messenger had disturbed his well-deserved meditation. From its uppermost branches, he could take in most of the forest, as well as the distant stone towers and wooden palisades that dotted the region. The lands the man-things called the Border Princes was cramped with duchies and fiefdoms, most no bigger than a common clanrat’s burrow. The messenger had likely been heading for one of them, sent out to bring aid to the keep the rest of Clan Mordkin was, at the moment, busily sacking.
Snikrat hissed softly as he thought of the slaughter he was missing. Warlord Feskit had led the assault personally, from the rear, and he had wanted Snikrat around while he did it. Snikrat grunted in grudging admiration – no one had ever accused Feskit of being stupid. Indeed, the leader of Clan Mordkin was anything but, and under his beneficent rule, the clan had recovered much of the wealth and prestige it had lost over the centuries since its ousting from Cripple Peak. Though he was growing older and less impressive with every year, he had managed to avoid every serious challenge and assassination attempt made on him.
Perched on a branch, anchored by his hairless tail, Snikrat hauled a flap of tanned and inked flesh out from within his cuirass and carefully unfolded it. The map wasn’t much, but it served its purpose. Carefully, his pink tongue pinched between his fangs, he used a stub of charcoal to draw an ‘x’ over the keep they’d just come from. There were still six more between them and Mad Dog Pass, which meant plenty of chances for him to add to his own meagre pile of campaign spoils. Idly, he reached up and plucked an egg from the bird’s nest that sat in the branches above. He’d eaten the mother earlier, and it seemed a shame to let the eggs go to waste. As he crunched on the delicate shell, and eyed the map, he considered his fortunes, such as they were.
It was a time of great happenings and glories, from the perspective of an ambitious chieftain, such as he, himself, Snikrat the Magnificent. The sky wept green meteors and the ground vomited up volcanoes as unnatural storms swept the land. It was as if the great Horned Rat himself had opened the door to the world and whispered to his children, ‘Go forth and take it, with my compliments.’
Granted, that was easier said than done. True, the man-thing kingdoms of Tilea and Estalia, as factitious in their own way as the skaven themselves, had fallen quickly enough to the numberless hordes that had surged upwards from the network of subterranean tunnels. Every city between Magritta and Sartosa was now a blasted ruin, over which the ragged banner of one clan or another flew. But there were other victories that proved more elusive.
Snikrat scratched at the barely healed mark on his throat. A gift from Feskit, and a sign of his mercy. Snikrat hunched forward and ate another egg. It had been his own fault, and he, Snikrat, was pragmatic enough to admit that, in private, in his own head. He had thought that the omens were a sign that he, Snikrat, should attempt to tear out Feskit’s wattle throat. Instead, it was he who felt his rival’s teeth on his neck.
Still, there was plenty of time. The world was the skaven’s for the taking, even as Clan Mordkin was for his, Snikrat’s. And then, the greatest treasures of the clan would be his… Including the Weapon – that oh-so-beautiful sword of glistening black warpstone that Feskit kept hidden behind lock and chain. Even he, Snikrat, had heard of the Fellblade, the slayer of kings and worse than kings, on whose edge the fortunes of Clan Mordkin had been honed. With a weapon like that in hand, there would be no stopping him, and he, Snikrat, would be a power to be reckoned with in the Under-Empire.
Snikrat chattered happily to himself and ate another egg.
FIVE
The woman who knelt before Mannfred von Carstein was pale and beautiful, and deceit oozed out of her every pampered pore. She claimed to speak for the Queen of the Silver Pinnacle, but so too did half a dozen other similar women, all of whom were mingling with his guests in a manner he found somewhat amusing. He accepted the scroll and waved a hand. She rose gracefully and retreated, leaving the garden behind. As she left, the guards crossed their blades, blocking any further entry.
Mannfred tapped the scroll against his lips. His eyes slid to his cousin, Markos, as the latter refilled his goblet from a jug of magically warmed blood. ‘Where is the liche? He practically demanded that I include him in these meetings. I find myself slightly disappointed that he chose not to show up.’
Markos hesitated. His eyes went unfocused for a moment, and then snapped back to their usual keenness. He finished filling his goblet. ‘He’s in the old library in the west wing, poring over those books and scrolls you lent him.’
Mannfred frowned. It had been weeks since the battle at Valsborg Bridge and its inconclusive climax. He had played the part of the dutiful aristocratic host, inviting his new… ally back to Castle Sternieste. Arkhan had accepted the offer with grating sincerity, and had been as good as his word. He had made no attempt at treachery, asking only that he be allowed to see those relics he had come for, and that he be included in any councils of war, as befitted an ally. Mannfred had yet to grant the former request, both out of suspicion and a perverse urge to see how far he could push the liche’s magnanimity.
The line between ally and enemy was often only the thickness of ambition’s edge, and could be crossed as a consequence of the smallest act of disrespect or discourtesy. Thus far, Arkhan had given no obvious notice to the passing of time, or Mannfred’s attempts to evade his request. He wondered if the liche’s absence was a subtle thrust of his own. ‘And his creatures?’ he said, studying the scroll of papyrus the Lahmian had given him. Arkhan’s coterie of necromancers were as untrustworthy as their master, but they had enough raw power between them to be useful. ‘What of them?’
‘They’ve settled in nicely. Several of their fellows reached us weeks ago.’ Markos tapped his chin. ‘We have quite the little colloquium of necromancers now. Enough to raise a host or six, I should think.’
‘You shouldn’t, cousin,’ Mannfred said. He hefted the scroll and it curled and blackened in his hand, reduced to ashes.
‘Shouldn’t what?’ Markos asked.
‘Think,’ Mannfred said. He ignored Markos’s glare and looked at Elize. He gestured to the ash that swirled through the air. ‘What of the handmaidens of the mistress of the Silver Pinnacle? Can they be trusted, or will they seek to sabotage my efforts for lack of anything else to do, if they haven’t already?’
Elize blew an errant crimson lock out of her face and said, ‘They’re cunning, but cautious. Overly so, in my opinion. Without word from their queen, they seem content to watch and nothing more.’ She frowned. ‘If the barrier of faith falters, even for a moment, they’ll make for the mountains as quickly as possible. We may want to inhume them somewhere out of the way, if for no other reason than to deny the Queen of Mysteries what they know.’