The Black Plague had struck almost immediately after the failed assassination of Arch-Plaguelord Nurglitch. Blight didn’t think that was a coincidence. Puskab’s theory that Nurglitch was using traitors to spread the disease among Clan Verms had been proven. But Clan Pestilens had been more subtle than Blight had given them credit for. Rather than move against Verms openly, rather than depend on the plague to wipe them out, Pestilens had instead turned the whole of skavendom against them!
Puskab scurried through the winding passages of the Hive, keeping pace with the mob of chieftains. He was careful to keep a particularly sharp eye on Nakkal Blackfinger, the Treasure Hoarder of Clan Verms. Charged with cataloguing and protecting the income from worm-oil, Nakkal was among the most important of Blight’s functionaries. Even more so since there was no question that the treasurer had skimmed a fair portion of the clan’s profits for himself and squirreled his loot someplace far from the Hive. Blight would want to get his paws on that plunder, but to do that he would need Nakkal alive. At least for a little while. If any of the Wormlord’s minions had been given accurate instructions for how to escape the destruction of the Hive, it would be Nakkal.
There were several groups of chieftains and warlords racing through the tunnels, abandoning their underlings to the cruel fate that awaited them. The others, however, had been given false trails to follow. Their escape routes ended in tunnels bristling with black-furred stormvermin and withering fusillades of jezzail fire. The shrieks of those who had been betrayed by Blight’s deception echoed through the doomed burrows.
Puskab was thankful for the Wormlord’s foresight, even as his glands clenched at the notion that his group might likewise be hurrying to its own massacre. The lesser skaven of Clan Verms were hardly content to sit back and wait for death to claim them. Those that had not thrown themselves into a mindless rampage of looting within the main warren had gathered in large packs, stalking after the refugee chieftains, hoping to join them in escape.
Few skaven followed Puskab’s group. The plague priest had been viewed with fear and suspicion from the first, but now he was shunned as the source of all their woes. Their panic hadn’t risen to the point where they would forget their fear and try to attack the horned sorcerer; there hadn’t been enough time for hate to put some mettle into their spines. Before it could, Puskab intended to be far away.
Down the cramped tunnels, the walls crawling with bugs of every size and shape, the skaven hastened. Sometimes their little group would dart into a side passage as a larger pack of refugees came rushing past. Once they waited while a gigantic scorpion, loosed from its cage, came scuttling down the tunnel, a half-eaten ratman clenched in its claws. Twice they were forced to retreat before the waddling bulk of a skaven brood-mother, an entourage of eunuchs and slaves trying to guide the brainless females to some place of imagined safety. The husky scent exuded by the frightened brood-mothers was enough to compel even a few of the chieftains to forget about safety and rush after the females, instinct driving them to protect the breeders despite their certain doom.
The crack of jezzails ahead announced that the refugees were nearing one of the dozens of egresses from the Hive. The sharp tang of skaven blood, the acrid smell of warp-powder and shot, the musky reek of fear-smell, all of these joined to form a stench peculiarly redolent of merciless despair.
The narrow tunnel widened as it climbed towards an archway of stone. Dozens of skaven bodies, some of them still twitching, lay strewn about the gateway. Beyond, a phalanx of Clan Rictus ratmen, hulking in their patchwork armour of plate and chain, stood with spears at the ready. Between the spear-rats, their red eyes shining maliciously in the flickering light of worm-oil lanterns, weedy Clan Skryre sharpshooters huddled. Each of them clutched a massive tube of steel in his paws, the front spitted upon a triangular firing rest which had been driven into the ground. The jezzails were taller than the ratmen who carried them and it took two skaven to pour powder and shot down their cavernous barrels.
Puskab’s eyes narrowed as he saw the formidable cordon that had been thrown about the Hive. His magic would be useless against such numbers. He might slay twenty or thirty with a ball of burning putrescence, but after that his body would be shattered by the jezzails. His only hope now lay in his usefulness to Blight and whether the Wormlord had spoken truly about a way out.
‘Tenscratch eat-slay traitor-meat!’ Nakkal barked out, his voice shrill and terrified. It was the password that had been arranged between Blight and the fangleaders he had bribed. If the treachery had been discovered, or if the guards had reconsidered the agreement…
A scar-faced stormvermin, a battered human helmet crushed down about his skull, a nugget of glowing warpstone dangling from the lobe of his ear, stepped slightly forwards, pushing aside the spears of his henchmen. ‘Late-late, fool-meat!’ the fangleader snarled. He cast an anxious look over his shoulder, then waved his arm in imperious fashion. ‘Hurry-scurry or stay-burn!’
The warning didn’t need to be given twice. Puskab scrambled along with the Verms chieftains, shoving Nakkal out of his way as he reached the gap that had opened between the stormvermin. His haste was quickly justified. A sharp squeal sounded from somewhere up the tunnel — the cry of some unseen sentinel. In response, the fangleader’s warriors closed ranks once more, blocking the escape of the slower chieftains. Callously, the fangleader growled a command. The stormvermin lashed out with their spears, skewering the refugees still before them. Those few who eluded the spears and tried to flee back into the Hive were shot in the back by the chittering sharpshooters.
Puskab could see the reason for the fangleader’s sudden sense of duty. From the broad tunnel beyond the archway a great mob of skaven was scurrying into view. Foremost among them were a number of huge cask-shaped carts pushed along by packs of emaciated slaves. Riding atop the carts were groups of leather-clad ratmen, their paws and forearms covered in thick oilskins, their heads encased in weird fur masks that had been soaked in something that was at least partly vinegar to judge by the smell. The scent of Clan Skryre lingered about the masked skaven and each of them fussed about a confusion of brass wheels and ratgut hoses.
‘Make way!’ the fangleader snarled, casting a warning look in Puskab’s direction. The plague priest did as he was told, scurrying aside as the weird carriages came trundling past him. A second pack of stormvermin followed, these bearing the red fur and scorched armour of Clan Volkyn. They fanned out as the bulky Clan Skryre carts passed through the archway and down the entrance into the Hive. Excited squeaks rose from the warriors as a ragged mob of skaven appeared at the far end of the tunnel. Anxiously they clashed swords against shields until the entire corridor boomed with the clamour.
The mob of Clan Verms skaven hesitated for only a moment, then gave voice to a savage howl. Like a crazed thing, the horde of desperate ratmen came charging down the passage. As they rushed towards the carts, the warlock-engineers mounted atop them began to work the machinery of their arcane contraptions. Some of them fiddled with pressure valves while others worked networks of pumps and windlasses. At the fore of each cart, a strongly-built ratman raised a heavy hose with a broad metal nozzle.
In response to the efforts of the warlock-engineers, smoke began to rise from the mouth of each hose. Then a tiny flicker of green flame sputtered into view. It danced about the metal nozzle for only an instant before it was drowned by a great rush of shimmering emerald fire.
The charging horde shrieked as the green flames washed over them. Ratmen leapt into the air, their fur blazing, their flesh melting from their bones. Dozens of them were reduced to piles of steaming meat in the blink of an eye. Scores more wailed in agony, trying to drag their mutilated bodies back into the darkness of the Hive.