—<ELEVEN>—
Into the Trap
Nagashizzar, in the 99th
year of Usirian the Dreadful
(-1285 Imperial Reckoning)
“Out of the way, damn you! Move-move!” Eekrit laid about with the flat of his blade, striking shoulders and backsides. The clanrats yelped and snarled, glaring back at the warlord with pure murder in their eyes—then lowering their heads and squeezing against the walls of the narrow tunnel once they realised who he was.
Eekrit drove onwards, shouldering his way through the press of armoured bodies. The journey from the lower levels of the fortress had taken nearly twice as long as expected. After successfully dodging enemy patrols and slipping past the kreekar-gan’s barricades, they’d emerged into a scene of utter pandemonium at mine shaft one. Some kind of massive troop movement was under way, with the army’s assault troops being pulled from the battle-line and replaced with yowling mobs of slaves. Every passageway to the lower levels was packed tight with snarling, cursing skaven going in one direction or the other, slowing movement to little better than a crawl. Eekrit was exhausted already from fighting his way through one crowded passageway after another. His arms ached and his patience had long since worn thin. The only thing preventing him from using the sharp end of his blade was the fact that the maddened clanrats would likely turn on him in an instant. The army had enough problems already without touching off a bloody melee within its own ranks.
The warlord shoved his way to the front of the pack, with Eshreegar and the rest of his raiders close at his heels. The leader of the clanrats started to hiss a curse as Eekrit stalked past, but a glare from the Master of Treacheries left the warrior cowering in a cloud of fear-musk.
Just past the clanrats was yet another shuffling mass of stinking fur and rustling armour, but this time Eekrit pulled up short. It was a pack of the Grey Lord’s heechigar, standing shoulder-to-shoulder and probably thirty rats deep. The warlord paused, his narrow chest heaving. His whiskers twitched, sensing the movement of air currents up ahead. They had to be close to their goal now, he reckoned, and the storm-walkers were moving along at something approaching a slow march. At the moment, that was good enough for him. Eekrit fumbled for his scabbard twice before he finally managed to put away his sword.
“How long?” he asked, as Eshreegar came up beside him.
The Master of Treacheries took a deep breath, focussing his tired mind. “Seven hours,” he replied. “Maybe a bit more.”
Eekrit spat a sulphurous curse. “The kreekar-gan’s probably on the move right now. The attack could begin at any minute.”
Eshreegar cocked his head at the warlord. “How can you be so sure?”
“Because it’s the worst possible thing that could happen,” Eekrit growled. “That’s been the one constant in this whole, miserable war.”
They followed the heechigar for several minutes before a bone whistle blew up ahead, and the storm-walkers surged ahead at a loping, rattling trot. Moments later, Eekrit found himself standing at the mouth of the branch-tunnel leading into mine shaft four.
The army’s base camp had expanded dramatically in the weeks since the raiders had last been there. Huge piles of food and supplies, separated by clan and guarded by anxious packs of warriors, stretched from one end of the long tunnel to the other. Smoke from cook-fires and hissing furnaces created a bluish-black haze along the roof of the mine shaft; the air was hot and reeking from the copper stink of the swordsmiths’ forges. The slave pens that he could see had been emptied and units of heavily armed warriors were hastening down the narrow lanes to the call of screeching bone whistles or the bark of clan chiefs.
Eshreegar surveyed the chaos and scowled. “What in the Horned God’s name is going on?” he said.
Eekrit wasn’t quite sure what to make of it himself. “We’ll know soon enough,” he replied, and set off at a trot for the Grey Lord’s pavilion.
They made better time cutting across the mine shaft and reached the sprawling collection of wood-and-hide enclosures within a matter of minutes. A pair of heechigar stood watch at the pavilion’s main entrance, nervously clutching the hafts of their fearsome-looking polearms. Their hackles bristled as Eekrit and the raiders approached.
Eekrit was in no mood for displays of dominance. “I must speak with Lord Velsquee at once,” he said without preamble.
“Lord Velsquee is meeting with the war council,” rasped one of the storm-walkers.
The warlord glared up at the broad-shouldered warrior. “How convenient,” he replied. “I’m on the war council.”
The two heechigar exchanged sly looks. “That’s not what we were told, black-robe,” the burly guard said, baring his teeth in a lopsided sneer. “Aren’t you supposed to be past the barricades, sniffing up the kreekar-gan’s bony arse?”
“You shut your teeth,” Eshreegar warned, his voice low and full of menace.
The storm-walker’s smile broadened. “Do your worst, one-eye.”
Eshreegar stepped forwards, a pair of cruel-looking knives appearing in his paws as if by magic. His answering smile was wicked and cold. “You asked for this,” he told the storm-walker. “I want you to remember that once I’m finished with you.”
“Enough,” Eekrit snapped, and the tone of his voice was enough to get even the heechigars’ attention. “We don’t have time for this.” The warlord stepped up to the towering guard. “You listen to me,” he told the storm-walker. “The leader of the army’s scouts has an urgent message for the Grey Lord and the council. If he doesn’t get that message immediately, then Velsquee will hold the both of you responsible. Do you care to take the blame for the army’s defeat?”
The guard’s eyes narrowed, searching Eekrit’s face for signs he was bluffing. Finally, the storm-walker shrugged. “No need for that,” he muttered, and then sent his companion into the pavilion with a jerk of his head.
Eekrit and Eshreegar fumed in silence, tails twitching, for what felt like an eternity. Finally, the second guard returned. “All right,” he said, with no sign of deference. “You two come with me.”
The Master of Treacheries tensed again at the guard’s insolent tone, but Eekrit forestalled him with an upraised paw. “Lead on.”
They followed the storm-walker past the hanging hide flap and into the noisome darkness of the pavilion. Foul-smelling incense—some acrid swamp fungus that was currently fashionable in the Great City—curled listlessly about the ceiling of the narrow antechamber beyond. Slaves from a number of the army’s prominent clans abased themselves as Eekrit passed by.
The heechigar led them down a maze of twisting, close-set passageways, fashioned to suit skaven sensibilities and confound would-be assassins. After several minutes, they emerged into a slightly larger antechamber, this one laid with expensive rugs and stinking of slightly less acrid smoke. More slaves, these belonging exclusively to Velsquee, crouched silently in the far corners of the chamber as they awaited their master’s summons. Another passageway opposite led deeper into the pavilion. From somewhere beyond came the faint murmur of voices.
As they entered the chamber, the hide flap across the room was pulled aside. Eekrit came to a sudden halt as he caught sight of the skaven lord who’d come to meet them.
Lord Hiirc was clad in rich robes embroidered with gold and silver thread. Tokens of burning stone gleamed balefully from fine chains around his neck. Like Eekrit, the lord of Clan Morbus could afford the best charms and potions that money could buy back at the Great City. He looked like a skaven barely half his true age, Eekrit noted irritably. Hiirc’s gold-capped teeth glinted coldly as he spoke.
“What in the-the Horned God’s name are the two of you doing here?” he said. His voice was thin and shrill, like a poorly tuned whistle. The lord’s fur was tangled and unkempt, and his ears twitched apprehensively.
Eekrit wondered at his appearance, but then realised that it was very early in the morning for the clan lords, who were accustomed to the luxuries of camp life.
“There’s going to be an attack, Hiirc,” Eekrit snapped. “The kreekar-gan has led us into an ambush.”
Hiirc’s ears folded back against his skull. “Is that so?” he hissed. “And how exactly do you know this?”
Eekrit growled under his breath and took a step towards Hiirc. His paw drifted to his sword hilt. He wanted nothing more than to bury his blade between the fool’s beady eyes. The heechigar sensed this at once and let out a warning snarl, moving to place himself partially between the two lords. Eshreegar shifted slightly, paws at his sides.
The warlord caught himself at the last moment. However much he wanted it, painting the hide walls with Hiirc’s blood would only complicate things with Velsquee. Eekrit paused, took a deep breath, and told his erstwhile second-in-command what he’d learned.
Hiirc listened carefully to the story, even nodding thoughtfully at the description of the tunnel mouth and the captured clan chief. When Eekrit had finished his report, the Morbus clan lord snapped his fingers. Instantly a slave appeared, bearing a bowl of wine on a silver tray. Hiirc took the bowl and sipped its contents.
“Is that all?” he asked.
Eekrit stared at Hiirc. Even the heechigar seemed shocked.
“Isn’t that enough?” the warlord snarled. “What is-is so hard to understand, Hiirc? The burning man and his warriors are likely moving through the tunnels even as we speak. They could attack at-at any moment—”
“We know,” Hiirc replied, his tail lashing smugly. “We’ve known for hours, in fact.”
“You know?” Then, suddenly, Eekrit understood. “The spy. Of course.”
Hiirc shifted uncomfortably. “I-I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Eekrit cut him off with an upraised claw. “Don’t be more of an idiot than you have to be, Hiirc,” he snapped. “There’s been a traitor in the enemy’s ranks all along. How in the Horned God’s name did you get the warning so quickly?”
Hiirc finished the wine and tossed the bowl back onto the slave’s tray. “That’s none of your concern,” he shot back. “Velsquee’s summoned our best troops. When the burning man attacks, he’ll walk right into a trap. In an hour, two at most, the war will be over,” he said. Hiirc bared his golden teeth in a malicious smile. “Which means your services to the army are no longer required.”
Before Eekrit could reply, Hiirc snapped his fingers once again. This time the hide flap behind him was drawn aside and twelve more storm-walkers filed ponderously into the room.
Eekrit glared at the broad-shouldered warriors. “What is the meaning of this?”
Hiirc turned to the leader of the heechigar. “Escort Lords Eekrit and Eshreegar to the under-fortress,” he commanded. “Confine them to the warlord’s lair and guard them closely.”
The storm-walkers surrounded the two skaven. Eekrit bared his teeth, furious that he’d allowed Hiirc to trap him so easily. With the rest of the scout-assassins behind him he might have made a fight of it. But now…
Eekrit folded his arms in resignation. “Lord Velsquee will hear of this.”
Hiirc’s ears fluttered with amusement. “It was the Grey Lord himself who ordered this.” He waved a paw in dismissal to the guards. “Remove them by one of the side entrances,” he ordered. “If you even think they might give you trouble, hack them to bits.”
The heechigar leader grunted in assent and nodded to his warriors. Lowering their polearms, they herded their two prisoners past Hiirc and back the way they’d come, past the hide flap and into another adjoining room connected by three branching corridors. Down a side-corridor they went, passing into another labyrinthine set of passageways that finally led them to an exit on the far side of the pavilion.
Outside the enclosure the air still rang with shouted orders and the shrill cry of whistles as the storm-walkers and the army’s veteran clanrats prepared their hasty ambush. Eekrit paused, surveying the scene. The rest of the scout-assassins were nowhere in sight, and with so much noise there was no way to call for aid.
A sharp bronze point jabbed the warlord in the shoulderblade. “Move,” said the storm-walker behind him.
The phalanx of guards started off towards the opposite side of the mine shaft. Eshreegar fell into step beside Eekrit. He gave the warlord a sidelong look.
“Any brilliant ideas?” he asked.
“I’m thinking,” Eekrit muttered.
The Master of Treacheries leaned closer. “There’s a slave trader in the under-fortress who owes me some favours,” he whispered. “If we can get to him, he’ll smuggle us back to the Great City for a price.”
Eekrit walked along in silence, considering his options. After a moment, he looked up and considered the hulking forms of the storm-walkers.
The warlord took a deep breath. “Eshreegar, how much gold have you got?”
The preparations for the attack took hours to complete. Swift messengers carried orders to the barbarian companies, withdrawing them from the barricades and assembling them in four large contingents along the deserted storage chambers close to the approach tunnels. Large packs of flesh-eaters—nearly all that remained of the debased Yaghur tribes—prowled the tunnels around the assembled warriors, hunting for enemy scouts who might spoil their master’s plans. The northmen, some four thousand strong, left behind a mere thousand skeletal warriors to man the barricades and hold the enemy at bay.
As the warriors gathered, Nagash went to the secret vault that contained the last of the abn-i-khat. The windowless stone chamber, carved from the very bedrock of the mountain, was large enough to rival the vast treasure houses of the kings of old Khemri; now its shelves and marble plinths sat empty but for a single, small table at the far end of the vault. There, flickering like a pair of baleful eyes, sat two fist-sized lumps of burning stone.
Nagash paused but a moment at the threshold, surveying the dark, empty place. Once a measure of Nagashizzar’s wealth and power, now it spoke only of defeat and a long, bitter decline.
At length he entered the echoing vault, his bony footsteps making faint, scraping sounds upon the stone. His body moved with an unnatural gait more akin to a beast or a reptile than to a man. His arms and legs, unmoored by muscle or sinew, moved like serpents beneath the parchment-like folds of his ancient robe. His wight bodyguard followed at his heels, ghostly green fire flickering across their tarnished armour and down the length of their deadly blades.
The macabre procession halted before the table and Nagash spread his skeletal hands possessively above it. The magical stone seemed to respond to the necromancer’s desires, flaring like coals in a furnace. The light of the burning stone played across the surface of the bronze and leather breastplate that they rested upon and the long, straight, double-edged blade that lay before it. The armour had been wrought by the smiths of the northmen and enchanted by Nagash’s own hand; each scale had been inscribed with a rune of protection to turn aside the spells and blades of his foes. The blade had been taken from an ancient northern barrow during the long war of subjugation, and had been wrought from obsidian in the days before men knew how to shape metal. The art of its making was a mystery even to Nagash; there was terrible power coiled within, a hunger for life that was depthless and cold as the abyss itself.
Nagash plucked the stone orbs from their resting place and weighed them in his hands. At once, the left-hand orb was wreathed with a shimmering green mist that soaked into the necromancer’s blackened bones. At once, he stood straighter, his skeletal frame drawing together tightly as the arcane energies leapt from joint to joint. He craved more, but with an effort of supreme will he put his hunger aside. He had measured out each and every ounce according to his battle plan. Nothing would be held back. Either he would defeat the ratmen once and for all, or be destroyed in the process.
At his command, the wights gathered around him. For the first time in more than a century, they set aside their bared blades and reached for the wargear resting upon the table.
Slowly, with unspoken ceremony, the risen dead garbed Nagash for war. The weight of the armour upon his chest reminded him of ancient times, of past glories won beneath Nehekhara’s burning sun, but the memories filled him with a strange sense of foreboding. As the champions went about their work, cinching cords and fastening ties, the necromancer found himself studying the vault’s shadows for pale figures and ghostly, accusing faces.
* * *
“I should not be here,” Akatha said, her voice echoing hollowly in the confined space of the tunnel. “I belong with Bragadh. It is an ill-omened thing to send a chieftain to battle without a witch to sing for him.”
Nagash said nothing. Rock bubbled and hissed beneath his fingertip as he traced a magical circle on the floor. The tunnel had no exit—it merely ended at a rough-hewn wall of granite, some three feet thick. Magical runes had been etched into the surface of the rock and inlaid with abn-i-khat years ago; they formed a tall, wide arch, broad enough for two men standing abreast. His wight bodyguard formed a protective barrier between him and the archway, their dark blades held ready.
Behind the necromancer came the muted rattle of weapons and armour as his warriors awaited the call to battle. The tunnel was, in truth, a long, spiralling ramp that bored down through the bedrock and terminated at the far end of the mine shaft. Three others like it had been sunk through the stone on the opposite side of the shaft, each packed with a thousand northmen and led by Bragadh, Diarid and Thestus. A fifth tunnel, which had been opened months ago to allow his constructs to enter the mine shaft in search of useful prisoners, had been quietly sealed up just a few hours before to maintain the element of surprise.
Akatha stood with folded arms to Nagash’s right, her expression hidden behind a fall of ash-stained hair. Her pale skin shone with unnatural vigour, throwing her ghostly blue tattoos into sharp relief. She had drunk deep from the necromancer’s cup, along with Bragadh and the other immortals, just before joining their mortal kinsmen in the fortress depths. The necromancer had been generous with his elixir, restoring his lieutenants to their former might. The witch radiated arcane power, like the churning clouds of a fierce desert storm.
“What is it you wish me to do?” she asked. “If I am not to sing the war-song, then what?”
Nagash finished inscribing the last of the ritual symbols. Kneeling amid them, he reached past the runes and etched a glowing green circle in the rock. He had consumed the most burning stone of all, and the sensation of raw, unbridled power filled him with a terrible, mirthless joy. The cold hilt of the obsidian blade fairly trembled in his hand, its ancient spirit stirring at the prospect of battle.
The necromancer straightened, calling to mind the words of the ritual he’d created years ago and held in reserve in anticipation of this very moment.
Bear witness, he said to her. Behold the vengeance of Nagash.
The incantation reverberated through the necromancer’s brain, fuelled by the power of the burning stone, and the runes carved into the rock blazed with light. Within moments, thin wisps of smoke rose from the sigils carved into the rock wall, and the temperature in the crowded tunnel began to rise. The northmen closest to Nagash began to shift uneasily and mutter blasphemous prayers as the wall began to blacken and a malevolent hissing sound filled the air.
Focussing his will, Nagash raised his left hand and slowly made a fist. The air shimmered with heat. When he reached the end of the incantation he punched his fist at the wall and unleashed a fraction of his pent-up energy; the iron-hard granite contained within the arch exploded outwards in a furious crack of thunder.
Hundreds of razor-edged fragments scythed through the mine shaft around the breach, followed by a roiling wall of blinding dust, heat and rushing air. The few ratmen unlucky enough to be caught within the blast were killed instantly; their pulverised bodies were caught by the Shockwave and hurled dozens of feet through the air. Stacked crates and wicker baskets were torn apart, their contents scattered across the mine shaft and in some cases ignited by the searing air.
A string of three more blasts ripped through the lower end of the mine shaft as the runic arches inset into the remaining assault tunnels detonated as well. A cyclone of dust and howling, furnace-like air roared up the shaft towards the ratmen’s pavilion, punctuated by the roaring war cries of the northmen.
Attack!
Nagash’s command echoed in the minds of his bodyguards and lieutenants. The wights swept forwards in a silent, deadly wave, their movements lent unearthly speed by another of the necromancer’s incantations. Nagash followed them, his burning gaze searching the battlefield for foes, and the barbarians came charging in his wake.
The necromancer glided like a ghost through the heat and the swirling smoke. Ahead of him ranged the wights, moving so swiftly their feet scarcely seemed to touch the ground. Shouts and screams filled the air. Nagash could hear the charge of Diarid’s barbarian warriors off to his right and the shouts of Bragadh’s barbarians to his left. Thestus and his men were somewhat ahead and to Bragadh’s left; his lieutenants were entrusted with blocking any would-be rescuers advancing from the enemy forces in the upper and lower mine shafts. They would protect his flanks while he and his warriors raced to the pavilion and killed every rat-creature he found there.
For the first few minutes, the only ratmen Nagash found were the twisted and torn bodies of those caught by the initial blast. Shrill cries and panicked screeches sounded ahead and to either side of him, lost behind mounds of supplies and churning wisps of dust. His wight bodyguards had caught up to the rear edge of the smoke cloud he’d created; they were nothing more than wavering silhouettes, tinged by faint haloes of green grave-light. The undead warriors raced on without pause through the scalding cloud, driven by the hateful will of their master.
Nagash charged into the whirlwind after them. The hot dust filled his hood and blew it back from his blackened skull. It sang against his stone blade, causing it to utter a low, crystalline moan. His robes and the thick leather underlayment of his armour began to smoulder in the superheated air, but the necromancer scarcely felt its touch. He could dimly sense Akatha and the barbarians some distance behind him, loping like wolves in the dust cloud’s wake.
They were some three hundred yards from the assault tunnels when Nagash heard screams and shouts in the dust clouds up ahead. Corpse-light flickered in sweeping, deadly arcs, and the cries of the ratmen were cut short. A heartbeat later he came upon the first of the corpses. The ratmen had been cut down in mid-stride as they stumbled blindly through the dust. Their fur had been burnt away, along with their ears and their deep-set eyes. Many were still toppling to the ground as the necromancer rushed past.
And then, without warning, there were ratmen everywhere. They came screaming out of the veil of dust from all sides, their snouts blistered and bleeding and their chisel teeth bared. Wight blades flickered through the air, slicing through armour and sinking into flesh. The blades froze the blood and silenced the hearts of those they touched; Nagash watched ratmen stagger beneath the blows, their last breaths billowing in jets of glittering vapour as they fell.
Still more of the creatures charged Nagash from left and right. Those that had managed to avoid being blinded by the storm rushed directly at him, their swords raised to strike.
He met them with a cruel laugh and a blasphemous incantation. Streaks of green fire burst from the skeletal fingers of his free hand, scything through the ratmen on his left. The creatures collapsed, shrieking in agony as their bodies boiled from the inside out.
No sooner had the sorcerous bolts sped from his hand than Nagash was turning to face the ratmen charging from his right. Roaring, exultant, he raised his obsidian blade and fell upon them. His sword flashed in blurring arcs, biting into armour, flesh and bone and snuffing out the life within. Their blows turned aside from his enchanted armour, or shattered against its scales. He beckoned to the wretched rat-things, daring them to do their worst, his burning eyes mocking them as they died beneath his blade. When there were no foes left to kill, he spun about and stalked back through the dust clouds, hunting down stumbling, blinded ratmen and slaying every one he could find.
The fight lasted barely a minute. One moment Nagash was lost in an ecstasy of slaughter and the next he was standing amid piles of lifeless bodies, watching the surviving ratmen fleeing deeper into the dust cloud, towards the distant pavilion. The necromancer’s bloodthirsty howl shook the aether as he and his wights set off after the retreating ratmen.
Nothing could stop him now.
Velsquee nervously fingered one of the god-stone tokens hanging from his neck as he watched the oncoming dust cloud. It filled the wide mine shaft from one side to the other, roiling up from the depths and swallowing everything it touched. A hot wind, dry as bone and reeking of charred flesh, blew full into the Grey Lord’s face. Around him, the heechigar hunched their shoulders and eyed one another apprehensively.
They’d all known to expect an attack, but nothing quite like this.
At the far end of the killing ground they’d established around the former pavilion, a black-robed scout-assassin emerged from one of the camp’s narrow lanes. Wisps of smoke rose from his scorched clothing and blood dripped from his blistered tail. The young skaven paused, chest heaving, and searched for the Grey Lord among the tightly packed ranks of storm-walkers. Velsquee let go of the token, took a deep breath, and beckoned to him.
The scout dashed over, making only the most cursory obeisance before the Grey Lord. Up close, Velsquee could smell the skaven’s burned flesh and the bitter reek of fear-musk.
“He is-is coming!” the scout gasped in a ragged voice. “The kreekar-gan comes!”
“I can see that, Shireep!” Velsquee snapped. “Tell me something useful! How many does he have with him?”
“A-a few thousand,” the scout replied. “No more. Two-two columns on the left, one column on the right. Humans. No bone-men.”
The Grey Lord nodded. It was more or less what he expected. “How far away?”
The scout pointed back the way he’d come with a trembling paw. “Just-just the other side of the cloud. Two hundred yards, maybe less.” Eyes wide with terror, Shireep reached out and grabbed Velsquee’s sleeve. “We can’t-can’t stay here! The cloud, it-it burns! By the Horned One, it burns! We have to get out of here!”
With a snarl, Velsquee tore his paw from Shireep’s grip. In one swift move, he drew his sword from its sheath and slashed at the terrified scout. The enchanted blade sank into Shireep’s chest, and the skaven collapsed with a groan.
“There will be no retreat!” Velsquee screeched, brandishing his gore-stained blade for all the storm-walkers to see. “The kreekar-gan’s magic cannot harm us. The trap has been set, and he is marching to his doom! This is our moment of victory!”
As one, the heechigar cheered the Grey Lord, their lusty shouts echoing from the walls. Velsquee passed between the ranks of storm-walkers and beckoned for a messenger. The young clanrat scampered over and cowered at the Grey Lord’s feet.
“Tell Lord Vittrik and Lord Qweeqwol that it’s time,” Velsquee said. “And pass the word to the left and right flanks to close in.”
The messenger repeated what he’d been told in a high-pitched voice, and then raced back in the direction of the former pavilion.
Velsquee returned to the font ranks of the heechigar, his rune-etched sword held at his side. The dust cloud was much closer now, the screams within louder and more distinct. In a few more minutes it would be upon them.
The Grey Lord reached again for the god-stone token around his neck.
Nagash’s sword chopped into the edge of the ratman’s shield, carving through the bronze rim and splitting the wood beneath, before lodging in the bones of the warrior’s forearm. The creature stiffened and let out an agonised shriek as the ancient weapon consumed his life essence.
A spear dug into the necromancer’s side but could find no purchase among the enchanted scales. A sword struck his right shoulderblade and snapped in two with a discordant clang. The ratmen attacked from every direction, clambering over the bodies of the slain to try and reach him. Many were half-blinded by the searing dust cloud, but still they came on, their raw faces twisted into masks of hatred and rage.
Nagash’s bodyguards fought in a loose semicircle around their master, each one beset by a half-dozen foes. They had pursued the retreating ratmen through the veil of dust, overtaking and killing nearly a score of the wretches before stumbling into another, much larger mob of the creatures just a hundred yards or so from the pavilion. These ratmen were just as ravaged by the dust cloud as the others, but they were far from panicked. Indeed, they almost seemed to be laying in wait for Nagash’s arrival. They swarmed the wights and quickly isolated them; then the rest of the mob turned their attention on the necromancer himself.
Cursing the ratmen in ancient Nehekharan, Nagash swept his left hand in a wide arc, unleashing a storm of sizzling green bolts into the multitude. A dozen of the creatures fell screaming, but still more closed in to take their place. Snarling, he put a skeletal foot on the fallen skaven’s shield and tore his weapon free. An enemy dagger slipped beneath the heavy sleeve of his armour and scored his upper arm. An axe crashed into his chest and was turned aside in a fan of sorcerous sparks. Nagash caught the axe-arm a glancing blow with his sword, slicing off the ratman’s thumb and snuffing out his life like a candle.
A two-handed spear thrust struck Nagash in the back, and this time the blade found a chink in his armour. The triangular point punched between the bonze scales and through the leather underlayment, lodging fast between his ribs. Snarling, the necromancer tried to turn and reach his attacker, but the canny ratman dug in his heels and held on fast, effectively trapping Nagash like an insect impaled on a pin.
Sensing their opportunity, the ratmen closed in. A sword chopped into his upper thigh, carving a notch into the ancient, blackened bone. Nagash stabbed the sword-wielder through the throat, but another of the enemy leapt upon his outstretched sword arm and clung there, effectively trapping it. More blows rained upon his torso and back. Then the tip of another axe blade clipped his spine, just beneath his skull, and he realised how dangerous his situation had become. He threw off the creature that had grabbed him and swung his sword in a wide arc, catching one ratman as he leapt forwards and slicing open his throat, while mentally forming the words of another incantation.
Suddenly, the dust clouds immediately surrounding Nagash changed their course, rushing towards him and spiralling around his body in ever-swifter circles, until he was entirely hidden within a howling, opaque column of pulverised stone. With a crack of thunder, the column collapsed—only to reappear again a dozen yards back. The ratman who’d impaled the necromancer found himself staring at his bare spear-point, while Nagash emerged from the smaller column of dust directly behind him.
Laughing, the necromancer unleashed another storm of sorcerous bolts that wrought havoc among the mob of rat-creatures. A score of his attackers died where they stood, and the rest turned and fled. The retreating ratmen sowed panic among their fellows and within moments the entire mob was in full flight, disappearing into the swirling dust cloud.
Nagash paused a moment to assess his strength. He still possessed sizable reserves of power, though he’d spent far more than expected since the attack began. His wights awaited him, tireless and deadly as ever, though their armour was badly battered and their bones had been chipped and scored in dozens of places by enemy blades. What was more, he could hear more sounds of fighting off to his left and right. His flanking columns had come under concerted attack. What should have been a swift, devastating raid on the enemy camp was rapidly turning into a pitched battle. The question was whether or not the ratmen were present in sufficient numbers to save their leaders from destruction.
Onwards. Quickly! The swifter they reached the pavilion, the greater the chance that the plan would succeed.
The wights turned without hesitation and fell in alongside Nagash as he rushed through the swirling dust. He could still hear the panicked cries of the ratmen somewhere ahead. Just a few dozen yards more…
Nagash didn’t notice the sudden thickening of the dust clouds until he was well within it. An instant later he felt the unmistakeable sensation of passing through a membrane of magical energy—and then he and his wights burst through the gritty cloud and into open air.
They were standing at the edge of a wide, cleared space possibly two hundred paces square, its edges clearly defined by the churning walls of dust held at bay by a powerful magic ward. A hundred paces away, safe from the dust’s touch, stood hundreds of hulking, heavily armoured ratmen, arrayed in ranks eight warriors deep and holding heavy bronze polearms at the ready. Standing at the centre of this powerful formation stood a tall ratman in gold-chased armour. Tokens of burning stone glittered like a constellation of stars around his dark-furred neck and a larger, oval stone blazed from the hilt of his curved sword.
Yet it wasn’t the fearsome sight of the waiting enemy warriors, or the baleful figure of the enemy warlord that gave Nagash pause. It was the forest of bare, wooden stakes that spread across the cleared ground a few dozen paces beyond the ratmen. The hide walls of the vast pavilion, Nagash saw, had been taken down, and the furniture within had been cleared away. All that remained was a high, broad dais, at what would have been the centre of the enclosure. More ratmen moved atop the platform; Nagash could not make out what they were doing, but there was no mistaking the seething aura of magical energy gathered there. This was the source of the magical ward protecting the enemy leader and his warriors.
Raising his sword in challenge, Nagash drew upon the power of the abn-i-khat. Sorcerous thunder rolled in counterpoint to the incantation that reverberated in the necromancer’s mind. The air about him crackled with energy, gaining intensity until arcs of green lightning lashed angrily all around him. Nagash stoked the power of the magical storm until its fury threatened to consume him, then flung out his hand and unleashed it on the enemy warriors.
Faster than thought, the curtain of lightning raced across the open ground, its arcs of fire carving channels in the bare rock—and then Nagash felt the power atop the dais flare into life. Invisible energies attacked his spell, unravelling its weave with a deftness that the necromancer never thought possible. The arcs of lightning paled, diminishing swiftly from one moment to the next, until finally fading from existence just a few feet from their intended target.
Incredulous, Nagash roared a second incantation. Arcs of sorcerous power burst from his extended hand and sped at the dais, but the bolts detonated harmlessly against a second, smaller ward that surrounded part of the platform.
Reflexively, the necromancer summoned up a portion of his power to guard himself from a counter-blow from the dais. When no such attack came, he hurled another volley of bolts, this time aimed at the enemy warlord. Once again, the wizard atop the dais deflected the attack. Whoever the ratman was, his mastery of the burning stone’s power was impressive; not as great as Nagash’s own, to be sure, but countering a spell required far less power and control than it did to cast one.
The ratmen had once again surprised him. Here was a skilfully prepared defence that would cost him dearly to overcome, and he was left with no other choice but to assault it. The leaders of the enemy army were finally within his grasp. Here was the victory he’d sought for nearly a hundred years.
Nagash gathered his wights to him and then turned his attention to the dust storm raging about the square. He dispelled the magic holding the burning cloud together and scattered it with a wave of his hand. The veil parted, revealing Akatha and the thousand northmen who had been following along behind him. They were less than twenty yards away, and when they saw the waiting ratmen they charged forwards, filling the air with their war cries.
The necromancer turned his gaze back to the enemy warlord. He let the power of the burning stone flow along his limbs and levelled his sword in challenge at the distant figure.
Attack!
“Here they come!” Velsquee snarled. “Get back in line, damn you! Stand fast!”
Pack leaders repeated the Grey Lord’s orders along the length of the formation, shoving and cursing recalcitrant warriors back into their proper place. Discipline reasserted itself swiftly: backs straightened, tails uncurled and ears unfolded as the northmen came charging across the killing ground. The sight of the kreekar-gan and his champions had been bad enough, but the sorcerous duel that had raged over the storm-walkers’ heads had left them badly shaken. The sight of a flesh-and-blood enemy did much to restore the veteran warriors’ resolve.
Velsquee took a deep breath and tried to calm his racing heart. The thunderous magical barrage had shaken him as well, even though he’d known that Qweeqwol was ready to counter whatever the burning man threw at them. He’d heard all the stories about the ferocity of the kreekar-gan’s magic, but actually experiencing it was something else entirely. The grey seer had assured Velsquee that he was up to the task of countering the burning man’s sorcery. At the time, the Grey Lord had no reason to doubt the master wizard. Now, however, he wasn’t so sure. He suspected it would come down to whoever ran out of power first. In that, at least, he was certain that they held the upper hand.
The humans were a mere thirty paces away now. The air shook with their howling battle cries. Nagash’s terrifying lieutenants led them; green fire blazed malevolently from their eye sockets and leaked from rents in their ancient, tattered armour. Their bony jaws gaped in a macabre echo of the howling northmen that flanked them.
He couldn’t see the burning man any longer, but a rattle of detonations over the heads of the heechigar told Velsquee that he was still close by. Qweeqwol was going to have his paws full holding the kreekar-gan at bay, but that would be enough. In a battle of flesh and blood, sword and polearm, the skaven were certain to win, because he had an advantage that the burning man didn’t.
The northmen were nearly upon them. The rock floor trembled beneath their tread, and the air shook with their savage cries. Velsquee planted his heels and brought up his enchanted blade. One of Nagash’s wights was running directly at him, its movements swift and fluid as a serpent’s. The black blade in the skeletal lord’s hand shone like polished midnight.
Vittrik’s aim had better be good, the Grey Lord hoped.
* * *
The two sides came together in a rolling crash of metal, flesh and bone. The northmen in the front rank struck the wall of polearms and were killed almost immediately, cut down by the storm-walkers’ heavy blades. The second rank of barbarians suffered a similar fate, but now Nagash’s lieutenants were past the enemy’s long-hafted weapons and striking at the ratmen with their fearsome blades. The northmen quickly followed suit, hacking with sword and axe at the wooden hafts of the enemy’s weapons and forcing their way deeper into the opposing formation. The clangour of battle became punctuated by the thudding of metal against flesh and the screams of the maimed and the dying. Northmen and rat-creatures fell by the score. The enemy line bowed backwards at the fury of the barbarians’ charge, but refused to give way.
Nagash unleashed another storm of magical bolts, this time aimed at raking the top of the dais. The streaks of fire arced over the melee, falling like thunderbolts, but once again they were dispelled before they could find their mark. Again and again he struck at the foe, but each time the enemy sorcerer was able to counter the spell. The battle raged back and forth across the killing ground, with neither side able to claim the upper hand. Frustrated, the necromancer switched tacks and turned his magic on his bodyguards. He added to their vigour, increasing the wights’ speed and strength, and this time the enemy made no move to counter him. His lieutenants tore into the ranks of the ratmen, toppling enemy warriors left and right, but he knew that they were too few in number to carry the fight alone. Beside the necromancer, Akatha sang the war-song of the northmen, stoking the bloodlust of the barbarian warriors.
As the battle raged, a lone figure appeared to the left of the killing ground. It was one of Bragadh’s northmen, his armour battered and bloody and his right arm useless at his side. He caught sight of Nagash and Akatha and ran to them, his expression grim.
“Master!” the warrior shouted. “Master! Lord Bragadh says that the ratmen are attacking from the tunnels in great numbers! Thestus has been driven back, and Bragadh is hard-pressed! He asks for Diarid to lend his strength to them, or else they cannot hold!”
Nagash turned and glared at the messenger. There will be no retreat! The power of his thoughts was such that even the barbarian’s living mind could not help but feel its weight. Bragadh must hold to the last! To the last!
The wounded northman staggered beneath the lash of the necromancer’s black thoughts. “But… Diarid…” he stammered.
Diarid had problems of his own. Nagash could hear the sounds of battle off to his right clearly enough. Both flanks were being hard pressed. Before he could reply, however, a chorus of dry, crackling hisses echoed across the killing field, followed by a drumbeat of hollow detonations and a chorus of agonised screams.
The necromancer whirled, just in time to see a trio of small green globes loft into the air from the dais. They flew high overhead, trailing thin plumes of smoke and a crackling hiss, before plunging into the ranks of the northmen. They struck with a flash of greenish light and a whump of hot air, bathing the warriors around the impact point with a gout of sorcerous fire. The ravening flame scoured its victims down to bone in seconds and sowed panic among the barbarians close by. The northmen wavered under the onslaught, and with a hoarse shout the ratmen began to push back, forcing the barbarians and wights onto the defensive.
At once, Nagash saw the full scope of the trap the ratmen had laid for him. The tide of battle was shifting quickly; in another few moments the ratmen would have a decisive advantage.
The moment of truth had come.
Nagash turned to Akatha. This ends now, he told her. I will kill the warlord of the ratmen myself.
The necromancer raised his obsidian blade and strode forwards. Barely a dozen yards separated him from the rear ranks of the northmen. Another three yards past that, and he would be in the thick of battle. He oriented himself on the last place he saw the enemy leader, and headed that way. From the dais, another volley of fire-globes lofted into the air on hissing streaks of fire. Nagash prepared a counter-spell, thinking that he might be able to at least dissipate the sorcerous power of the flames.
He did not sense the death-bolt until it was already upon him.
The spear of magical energy struck Nagash squarely between the shoulderblades. The protective wards woven into his armour flared to life, attempting to turn aside the blow, but the power behind the spell was too great. Bronze scales glowed red-hot as the bolt transfixed the necromancer, tearing through his body and erupting from the front of his scale breastplate.
Nagash howled in anger and pain. The impact of the bolt spun the necromancer halfway about and threw him to the ground. Such a blow would have turned a living man to ash; as it was, Nagash’s spine and ribcage had been shattered, and his access to the power he’d consumed was suddenly disrupted. For the first time in centuries, the necromancer felt a moment of horror as his vision blurred and the blackness of oblivion yawned before him. It was only by a supreme effort of will that he was able to claw his way back from the brink.
The vision of darkness faded just as Akatha launched a second attack. The bolt of power sped from her fingers like an arrow; Nagash uttered a counter-spell, but there was little power behind it. He deflected enough of the witch’s attack that his armour absorbed the rest, leaving behind a palm-sized patch of melted bronze scales across his chest.
Instinctively, Nagash flung out his hand and unleashed a stream of glowing darts at Akatha, but again, there was little power behind the spell; once again, the unseen rat-wizard atop the dais wove a counter-spell to nullify it. The darts flashed and popped harmlessly about the witch’s body. Akatha threw back her head and laughed.
Nagash struggled to regain his feet. His limbs wavered, threatening to collapse beneath him, but with an angry cry he forced himself upright. His voice echoed hollowly in Akatha’s mind.
The traitor reveals herself at last.
That gave Akatha pause. She studied him intently from behind her fall of hair. “You knew?”
There were too many coincidences. No enemy is so lucky in war. He took a step towards her. You were careful, and clever. I suspected, but I could never be certain. Until now.
Nagash reached out his hand. His skeletal fingers made a fist, as though closing around the witch’s heart. Body and soul, you are mine to command, witch. You have broken your oath to me, and thus your life is forfeit.
He reached into her, seizing upon the potency of the elixir that gave Akatha her power—but when he tried to wrest it from her, nothing happened. A magical ward, subtle but potent, prevented him from draining her vitality.
The witch laughed again, a sound both joyous and full of contempt.
“Did you imagine I’d forgotten?” Akatha replied. “You damned fiend. The witches of the north forget nothing.” Her fingers brushed a small token of burning stone hanging about her neck. “I’ve had centuries to plan your demise, Nagash of the Wastes. Nothing has been left to chance.”
She swept her hand in a vicious arc, hurling another bolt of power his way. His weak counterspell did little to deflect it. The spell bored into his midsection, disrupting his spiritual corpus even further. Darkness, cold and empty, began to seep into the corners of his vision. Nagash staggered, but did not fall.
It was you who brought the ratmen here.
Akatha’s pale lips curved in a mirthless smile. “Their love of the burning stone was well known to us,” she hissed. “I began sending visions to their seers from the first night I set foot in these accursed halls. It took years, but eventually they came.” The witch chuckled cruelly. “How sweet it was, watching the vermin undo everything you’d built.”
Nagash struggled to regain his strength. The darkness ebbed from his sight, but did not vanish completely. Akatha stood alone; Bragadh’s messenger had fled when the witch unleashed her first spell. Behind him, the sounds of fighting had grown desperate. The northmen were on the verge of breaking. The necromancer began a new incantation, feeding it power a bit at a time.
When you heard my plan to attack the pavilion, you believed that your time had come.
The witch raised her hand, preparing to cast another spell. “At first, I thought that I had been found out,” she said. “Why else go to all the trouble to dig the tunnels in secret? Then, when you ordered me to accompany you, I wondered if perhaps you were leading me into a trap.”
Nagash’s burning eyes narrowed on Akatha. I was.
They lurched and staggered from the darkness and the smoke behind the barbarian witch, eyes flickering with green fire. The corpses of dozens of ratmen, their bodies covered in black blood from the bite of the wights’ killing blades. Akatha didn’t hear their halting steps over the tumult of battle until their hands were reaching for her throat.
They seized the witch, dragging her nearly off her feet. Akatha screamed in fury, struggling in their grip. The bolt she’d meant for Nagash ripped through their ranks instead, turning many of them to ash. Claws and fangs tore at her pale skin. She struck back with an immortal’s supernatural strength, breaking bones and crushing skulls with her fists. The witch fought like a desert lion, but the undead were implacable. They kept coming for her, reaching for her, until finally a hand closed about the magical token around her neck and ripped it free. Akatha’s body went rigid in an instant, gripped by Nagash’s hateful will.
I knew that the enemy would be forewarned, he said to her. His voice was cold and cruel. I counted upon it. Now the enemy’s best troops are here, facing me, instead of at the barricades.
Laughter filled Akatha’s mind. Darkness waits for you, witch. Darkness eternal. Go there, knowing that your life—and your treachery—have given me the final victory.
Nagash reached inside the witch’s undead body and took that which belonged to him. Akatha, last witch of the northlands, uttered one final scream, then was gone. The ratmen pulled down her shrivelled husk and began to tear it limb from limb.
High above, in the dark vaults of the fortress, a stir went through the ranks of the undead manning the barricades. Obeying their master’s command, the spear companies began to pull aside the barriers that separated them from the tunnels below.
The going was slow at first, but before long the sounds of movement began to echo down the passageways from the levels above. One company of spearmen after another began to file into the vaults, their bones wreathed in cobwebs and the dust of decades. Long had they waited in secret, marshalled in great halls far from the eyes of the northmen or the spies of the invaders. They were Nagash’s reserves, clad in the best weapons and armour the foundries of Nagashizzar could make and held ready for the last battle, whether it was fought within the mine shafts, or the great hall of the necromancer himself.
Behind the spear companies came a score of fearsome, armoured war engines, shaped in the guise of scarabs, or scorpions, or swift desert spiders. Some were the size of round shields, while others were larger than chariots. As the barriers were pulled aside they clattered without pause into the dark tunnels and began to hunt.
The slave-rats opposite the barricades were caught entirely unprepared. They had been rushed into position to take the place of their betters, and the slave masters had been told that they would not be sent into battle. A counter-attack from the enemy was the very last thing they expected.
The constructs attacked without warning, leaping from the shadows or falling from the ceiling into the midst of the slaves. Scores were dead before the slave masters understood what was happening. Most reacted as best they could, trying to rally the terrified slaves with curses, threats and the touch of the lash. Others panicked and ran, and their slaves fled moments after.
By the time the spear companies struck, there were already gaps in the enemy battle-line. Runners were sent to the lower levels, begging for reinforcements, but by then it was already too late. The relentless slaughter broke the slaves, who turned on their masters and ran, desperate to escape the oncoming skeletons. Nagash’s warriors followed, tireless and implacable, heeding their master’s call.
The energy of the reclaimed elixir replaced a portion of the power that Nagash had lost. It was not enough to restore his shattered bones, but it lent strength to his limbs and allowed him to focus once more.
The necromancer turned back to the battle. Between the ratmen and the globes of fire, his warriors had been reduced to little more than two hundred men. The wights alone were keeping the ratmen from driving the barbarians back, but now there were less than a handful left. Two of them were trading blows with the enemy warlord, whose armour appeared to be proof against the effects of the wights’ deadly blades.
Nagash ordered the undead ratmen into the battle, directing them to work their way around the flanks of the enemy formation. Then he spread his arms and spent another portion of his waning power to raise the bodies of the northmen who’d been slain. The necromancer sensed a flare of power upon the dais as the rat-sorcerer grasped what Nagash was doing, but his attempts to counter the spell were feeble at best. Hundreds of bodies stirred fitfully, then began to climb back to their feet. At the same time, more globes of fire arced over the struggling warriors and plunged into the ranks of the newly raised undead. Scores of the slow-moving corpses were caught in the detonations; seconds later their charred bones collapsed to the ground and did not rise again.
Nagash glared at the far-off dais. Between the rat-sorcerer and their damned fire globes, the enemy could withstand anything he threw at them. They had to be destroyed, and quickly. The enemy would move to counter any further attempt to raise more undead warriors, and the northmen would not last much longer.
The necromancer called upon his fading reserves of power once more. The incantation reverberated through his mind. From the dais, he sensed a surge of power as the enemy began his counter-spell, but the move was a fraction of a second too late.
Streamers of dust raced across the killing ground and entwined themselves about Nagash. They swallowed him up like a desert whirlwind; then he vanished from sight.
The rat-sorcerer was still casting his counter-spell when the necromancer emerged from the veil of dust onto the centre of the dais. Nagash found himself standing in the midst of a score of slave rats, who screeched in panic and scattered in all directions when they saw the terrifying figure in their midst. He saw the enemy sorcerer at once, standing close to the edge of the dais and raising a gnarled wooden staff over his head as he cast his spell. To the necromancer’s left, a large group of ratmen was lifting fire-globes from straw-filled wooden boxes and loading them into the baskets of a trio of small metal catapults. Standing to one side of the catapult crews was an old, bent-backed ratman whose shrivelled frame seemed two sizes too small for the ornate bronze armour that he wore. A multitude of strange metal devices and glowing tokens of burning stone festooned the ratman’s war harness, reminding Nagash somewhat of the engineer-scholars of far-off Lybaras. The ratman turned at the panicked cries of the slaves and his one eye widened in shock.
Nagash wasted no time with elaborate spells. As the one-eyed rat-creature let out a warning screech, the necromancer seized a slow-moving slave rat by the scruff of his neck and hurled him at the nearest crate of fire-globes. The impact upended the crate, sending three glowing, glass orbs bouncing across the stone. The catapult crew screeched in terror; the quicker ones leapt for the bouncing globes, while the rest fled for their lives. None of them were quite fast enough.
One of the globes bounced high and came down with a thin, brittle crack. There was a malevolent hiss as the mixture inside mixed with the open air and then the globe detonated. Half a dozen ratmen disappeared in an expanding ball of fire that touched off the remaining globes in a cacophonic drumbeat of explosions.
Velsquee had just about convinced himself that they had the upper hand when the air around him was suffused with bright green light and the noise of the battle was drowned out by a flurry of angry blasts emanating from the dais. The Grey Lord felt a wave of heat prickle the back of his head and neck; on reflex he cast a quick glance over his shoulder at the source. What he saw stunned him. One entire corner of the dais, including Vittrik’s catapults and their crews, had vanished in an expanding ball of flame. Molten shrapnel from the war engines buzzed through the air, trailing glowing arcs of green fire.
The momentary lapse in concentration nearly cost him his life. The kreekar-gan’s skeletal champions were uninterested in explosions or balls of fire. They took advantage of the distraction, though, and pressed their attack against Velsquee. One blade slipped easily past the Grey Lord’s guard and was only just turned aside by the plates of his enchanted armour. The second wight’s sword sliced at his neck and it was only the Horned God’s luck that it failed to kill him. Instead of slicing through his neck, the blade glanced off the rim of his thick gorget and tore a long, cold gash from his right jawbone to just behind his ear.
Velsquee staggered from the blow, screeching in pain at the sword’s icy touch. The last of his god-stone tokens went dark, its power vanishing in a puff of smoke as it deflected the blade’s deadly magic. The battle against the two enemy champions had been the hardest fight of his life; the wights were fast as serpents and ferociously skilled. He’d managed to land a number of blows against them that would have killed a living man, but the wights took little notice. In return, he’d been wounded several times, and only the quality of his wargear had saved him from certain death. As it was, an ominous sensation of cold was spreading through his body and sapping his strength. Sooner or later, his guard was going to slip, and the fight would be over.
There was nowhere to run, even if Velsquee wished it. The enemy had driven a wedge partway into the storm-walkers formation, its point aimed squarely at him. To his left and right, the heechigar were locked in combat with the northmen, and more storm-walkers formed a jostling wall of flesh behind him. The hafts of their polearms battered his shoulders as the heechigar struggled to bring them to bear.
The wights surged forwards, preparing to strike again. Suddenly, Velsquee had an idea. As the enemy champions lunged at him, the Grey Lord dropped into a crouch. The movement didn’t faze the wights in the least; they simply shifted their aim and lowered the points of their blades. But now the storm-walkers behind the Grey Lord had room to bring their heavy weapons to bear, and they began hacking desperately at the skeletal warriors. The wights shifted targets effortlessly, bringing their swords up to deflect the fearsome polearms—and giving Velsquee the opportunity to attack their spindly legs.
The burning stone set in the pommel of Velsquee’s blade flashed angrily as he chopped through the knees of the champion to his left. The wight toppled, still slashing and stabbing at his foes. Its black blade struck the Grey Lord’s right shoulder at the same time Velsquee’s sword swept down and crushed its skull. The wight’s spirit uttered a despairing wail and its body collapsed into a heap of mouldering bones.
Now the tables were turned. The remaining wight was beset by three attackers, and no amount of speed and skill was enough to hold them all at bay. The skeletal warrior’s blade stabbed one heechigar through the throat, but the second warrior’s polearm crashed through the wight’s left shoulder, severing the arm and shattering ribs like kindling. Velsquee surged upwards, slicing off the wight’s sword arm and then chopping off the champion’s head. In a fit of pure spite, he grabbed the bouncing skull with his free paw and flung it at the barbarians with a curse. The northmen immediately opposite him recoiled at the sight of their fallen champions, giving the Grey Lord a moment’s respite.
The battle still raged unabated. Velsquee reckoned that the northmen had suffered the worst, but they were still stubbornly hanging on. The Grey Lord glanced about, searching for the kreekar-gan, but the enemy sorcerer was nowhere to be seen.
Behind him, the explosions had ceased, but part of the wooden dais was still ablaze. Velsquee spat a bitter curse at Vittrik and his damned inventions. The Skryre lord had assured him there would be no accidents. There was no sign of Vittrik or Qweeqwol from where Velsquee stood. If the human witch had failed and the old seer had fallen, the army was in dire peril indeed.
The Grey Lord turned back to the second rank of storm-walkers and grabbed the arm of one of his lieutenants. “Push forwards!” he told the warrior. “The northmen must be close to breaking!” He pointed to the dais. “I’m going up there to find Lord Qweeqwol!”
The heechigar nodded curtly and reached for the bone whistle hanging about his neck. Velsquee pushed past the burly warrior and began working his way back through the formation. A grim sense of foreboding quickened his steps. Despite all their careful planning, something had gone terribly wrong.
Nagash focussed his will and reached for the power of the abn-i-khat. Slowly, cautiously, he took stock of his battered body. The chain of explosions had struck him like an invisible wall of stone, smashing bones and flinging him like a child’s doll to the far side of the dais. Once again, his armour had spared him from the full force of the blasts, or else his body would have most likely been torn apart.
As it was, the damage was still great. His bronze armour was scorched nearly black, and was pierced in more than a dozen places with jagged pieces of metal from the enemy’s wrecked catapults. The red-hot shrapnel had wounded his corpus in ways a mere blade could not, costing him much of his magical reserves.
Slowly, unsteadily, Nagash rose to his feet. Thin tendrils of smoke curled about his ravaged frame. Flames licked at the corner of the dais where the catapults once stood. The war engines were gone; their frames had melted in the heat and the tension of their own tightly-wound springs had ripped them apart. Nothing remained of the old rat-engineer and his crews except smears of ash and a few blackened chunks of bone.
The rest of the dais was covered in smouldering bodies and melted pieces of bronze. Nagash searched among them for the rat-sorcerer. After several long minutes, the necromancer found him.
The wizard’s body lay sprawled on the steps of the dais, opposite where the catapults had been sited. He was by far the oldest ratman Nagash had ever seen, with patchy white fur and a face covered in a patchwork of deep wrinkles. Like Nagash, the rat-sorcerer had been caught in a storm of red-hot shrapnel from the exploding catapults. Despite the many protective talismans wrapped about his robed body, a single piece of metal about a foot long had penetrated the sorcerer’s wards and lodged in his neck. His blood spread like a crimson carpet down the dais’ wooden steps. The sorcerer’s eyes, made from polished orbs of burning stone, fixed Nagash with twin pinpoints of cold green light. Hungrily, the necromancer reached for one.
A scuff of claws on wood brought Nagash’s head around just in time to see the enemy warlord rushing at him, his curved sword held high. The necromancer surged to his feet, bringing up his obsidian sword just in time to block the ratman’s downwards blow. The force of the impact drove Nagash back a step, nearly sending him tumbling down the steps of the dais.
The enemy warlord was a fearsome figure at close quarters, his fine bronze armour streaked with blood and hung with a half-dozen charred magic tokens. His scarred face was contorted in a mask of pure, bestial rage as he unleashed a storm of terrible blows against Nagash’s head and upper chest. The warlord’s skill with the blade was great, and the necromancer, in his weakened state, was hard-pressed to match him.
Nagash tried to drive the ratman back, feinting at his face and then slashing quickly at his legs. The obsidian blade rang against the warlord’s armour but its magic turned the sword aside. The ratman refused to give ground, however. With a vicious curse he took the blow on his leg and chopped down with his sword. The magic blade sheared through the necromancer’s weakened armour and buried itself in his left shoulder.
The necromancer reeled from the blow. Darkness seeped back into the corners of his eyes. Without thinking, he reached up with his left hand and seized the warlord’s sword wrist. Snarling, he turned in place, pulling the warlord off his feet and throwing him down the steps of the dais. The ratman lost his grip on his sword and landed hard, sprawling onto his back.
Nagash reached up and pulled the warlord’s blade free from his shoulder. Casting it contemptuously aside, the necromancer glared coldly at his foe. The ratman was struggling to stand, though it was clear that he was in terrible pain.
It was a pity there wasn’t time to savour the moment. Nagash raised his hand, calling upon one last mote of power. At the bottom of the dais, the warlord looked up at the necromancer. An expression of shock registered on the ratman’s face, and then he ducked, covering his head with his arms.
Nagash laughed at the warlord’s futile attempt to save himself. He was still laughing when the glowing green orb struck the dais just behind him.
Green flames were spreading swiftly along the wooden steps by the time Eekrit and Eshreegar reached the edge of the dais. Shielding his face against the heat, Eekrit squinted into the blaze in search of the kreekar-gan’s body. Other than some scraps of charred leather and some blobs of molten bronze, there was no sign of him. The burning man had vanished.
“You missed!” the warlord snarled.
The Master of Treacheries scowled at Eekrit. “I tried to tell you those orbs are heavier than they look, but you wouldn’t listen.”
Around them, the heechigar were skirting the flames and rushing to Velsquee’s side. Off in the distance, towards the upper branch-tunnels, the sounds of battle were growing more intense.
“See if you can find the rest of our raiders and get them heading into the lower levels,” Eekrit said. “Be quick. We don’t have much time.”
Eshreegar nodded and vanished silently into the shadows. Moments later the storm-walkers returned, carrying Velsquee on a makeshift stretcher made from the Grey Lord’s cloak and two polearm hafts. Despite his pain, when he caught sight of Eekrit he tried vainly to pull himself upright.
“What in the Horned God’s name are you doing here?” Velsquee rasped. “You’re under-under arrest!”
“It’s well for you that I’m not, my lord,” Eekrit answered coolly. “Another moment and you would have been dead.”
The Grey Lord glared at him. “You were guarded by a dozen heechigar. How did you possibly escape?”
Eekrit flicked his tail smugly. “How else? I bribed them with more gold than they’d earn in a lifetime,” he answered. “Storm-walkers or no, they were still skaven and every child of the Horned God has his price.” He folded his arms. “We had to fight our way through a barbarian warband that was blocking the lower branch-tunnels. We finally drove them back, but by then it was too late. We saw the explosions and ran to the dais as fast as we could.”
“What happened to the kreekar-gan? Did-did you destroy him?”
Reluctantly, Eekrit shook his head. “When Eshreegar found an unbroken fire-globe at the bottom of the far side of the dais, we thought we had our chance. I’ve no doubt we hurt him, but somehow he escaped.”
“How-how can you be so sure?” Velsquee demanded.
“Because the damned corpses are still fighting,” Eekrit snapped. “They’re all over the mine shaft. Our warriors are in full retreat. If we don’t get out of here right now, we’re going to be cut off from the under-fortress.”
“No!” Velsquee protested. “We-we can hold them here!”
“That’s exactly what the burning man wants you to think,” Eekrit shot back. “We have to withdraw, while we can still salvage this situation. Otherwise, the kreekar-gan could drive us from the mountain entirely.”
For a moment, Velsquee looked as though he was going to argue further, but then his body was wracked with a spasm of pain that left him gasping and semiconscious. The Grey Lord lay back against the stretcher. It was a few moments before he could master himself enough to speak.
“The army is yours, Warlord Eekrit,” Velsquee told him. “Do as you see fit.”
Eekrit drew a deep breath. From this moment forwards, the decision to retreat would be laid squarely on his shoulders. Even half-delirious from pain, Velsquee was careful to cover his own tail. Gritting his teeth, he bowed to the Grey Lord, then turned to the storm-walkers.
“You,” he said to one of them. “Find a pack leader with a whistle and tell him to sound the retreat. The rest of you carry Lord Velsquee to the under-fortress and find him a healer. Go!”
The heechigar obeyed with gratifying speed. In moments, Eekrit was alone on the burning dais, tasting ashes on his tongue. The battle was lost and possibly the war as well. Much depended on how steep a price the burning man had paid for his victory.
Thinking bitter thoughts, the warlord turned to leave. Just as he did so, something stirred beneath a pile of dead slave rats just a few feet to his right.
Eekrit’s paw flew to the hilt of his sword. There was a high-pitched moan from the pile of corpses, then a pair of bodies rolled away to reveal the burnt and bloody face of Lord Hiirc.
“Is-is he gone?” Hiirc asked. The skaven lord clawed his way out from under the pile of bodies, his eyes darting frantically around the dais. “The-the burning man. Is he gone?”
The warlord stared at Hiirc in surprise. Slowly, his eyes narrowed. “Oh, yes,” he said. “The kreekar-gan has fled. There’s no one here now but you and I.”
“Thank the Horned One,” Hiirc exclaimed, too rattled to recognise Eekrit’s voice. He let out a fearful groan as he turned away from the warlord and took in the devastation around him.
“Listen carefully,” he said to Eekrit. “When we get back to the under-fortress, you must tell everyone that I fought the burning man.” Hiirc nodded to himself. “Yes. I fought him, and-and I was winning. But then that fool Vittrik dropped one of the fire-globes, and the blast knocked me out.” He turned back to Eekrit. “You can remember that, can’t you?”
The skaven lord froze. His eyes widened as he recognised at last whom he was speaking to.
Eekrit smiled cruelly. “Oh, yes. I’ll remember every word.” He took a step towards Hiirc, his blade rising slowly. “By the time I’m done, they’ll be talking about your heroic death from here all the way back to the Great City.”