‘Many slaves, much plunder-spoils,’ said Kratch Doomclaw, warlord of Clan Rictus. ‘All is going to plan. Soon the man-things will fall. Listen to the white-fur.’
‘No!’ said one, huge and deep voiced. He was black as night and unconquerable as the mountains. Lord Gnawdwell of Clan Mors. ‘You take-steal too much, far beyond your scavenge rights. You test my patience, thief-thief, sneaker. I will not listen to your prattling one heartbeat longer.’
‘My clanrats, my victory,’ said Kratch, making an effort to keep his voice low and slow. ‘Where is Lord Gnawdwell’s trophy-prize? I shall squeak you where – still in the hands of the dwarf-things, who you have not yet defeated.’
Squeaking laughter came from several of the others, including, most irksomely for Gnawdwell, Lord Paskrit, the obese warlord-general of all Skavendom.
The lords of the four greater clans scowled at this display of indiscipline among the warlord clans. Lord Morskittar of Clan Skryre, emperor of warlocks and tinkerer in chief, was not impressed.
‘Many devices, many weapons, many warptokens’ worth of new machines you of the warlord clans were given-granted in aid of the Great Uprising. What have we to show-see for it? Yes-yes, very good. Tilea-place and Estalia-place gone-destroyed.’
General noises of approval interrupted him. Morskittar held his paws up, palms flat, and bared his teeth in disapproval. ‘Fools to cheer like stupid slave-meat! The weakest human-lands destroyed only. Frog-things still in their stone temple-homes. Dwarf-things still in the mountains. And Empire-place not yet destroyed!’ He shook his head, his tail lashing back and forth behind him. ‘Disappointing.’
‘What you squeak-say? Where are your armies?’ said Lord Griznekt Mancarver of Clan Skab. ‘Guns no good without paw-fingers to pull triggers.’
More uproar and shouted accusations. All around the room, the elite Albino Guard of the Council stiffened, ready to intervene on the winning side should open conflict erupt.
‘No! No!’ said Morskittar. ‘I will speak! I will speak!’ He slammed a skull carved of pure warpstone down onto the table. It banged like a cannon, the report buying him silence. ‘Why point-indicate me with paw of blame?’ said Morskittar slyly. ‘I say the grey seers are the ones who shoulder responsibility. Clan Scruten are those who bring everything to ruin.’ He pointed at Kritislik.
‘Yes-yes!’ chittered the others immediately, all of whom had their own reasons for loathing the priest-magicians. ‘The seers, Clan Scruten!’
‘Outrage! Outrage!’ squealed Kritislik. ‘I have led this council long ages-time! I led great summoning many breedings ago! I speak for the Horned Rat!’
‘You speak for yourself,’ said Paskrit the Vast, gruffly. Sensing weakness, he heaved his bulk up to face Kritislik on his footpaws. ‘You speak for Clan Scruten. Always scheming, always plotting. Always say do this, do that! Why is it Clan Mors find itself fighting Clan Rictus? Why Clan Skurvy lose half of thrall clans the day before sea-battle of Sartosa-place?’
‘Grey seer is why, Clan Scruten! Clan Scruten are to blame,’ croaked Arch-Plaguelord Nurglitch.
They all shouted then, except for the inscrutable Nightlord Sneek, master of Clan Eshin, who watched it all with hooded eyes half hidden by his mask and no scent to betray his thoughts.
‘It is not our fault! Your incompetence and greed-grasping stops the obeying of our rightful orders! We are the horned rats. We are the chosen-best of the Great Horned One! You fight-fight, scrapping like common rat-things on human middens. Listen to us, or suffer,’ shouted Kritislik.
‘No! Lies-deceit. You pit us against one another when all we wish to do is work in harmony for the betterment of all skavenkind!’ said Lord Gnawdwell.
The others nodded solemnly. ‘Truth-word!’ they said. ‘We would conquer, but for you. Grey seers make us fight-fight!’ They would all happily have knifed each other in the back at the least provocation, whether a grey seer was pulling the strings or not. That the grey seers usually were pulling the strings complicated matters enormously.
The Council of Thirteen erupted into a cacophony of squeaked accusations. The scent of aggression grew strong.
The Shadow Lords looked on with growing disapproval.
‘See-see,’ said Verminking. ‘Great victories they have, and now they fall to fighting.’
‘They are what they are, and no more,’ said Vermalanx disinterestedly. ‘Children yet, but mastery shall come to them. Then true greatness we shall see-smell in due course. I care not for this – my Nurglitch’s plans are well advanced.’
‘Yes-yes,’ said Throxstraggle, Vermalanx’s ally and fellow plaguelord. ‘What care we for these pup squeakings?’
‘Your grave error to set aside Clan Pestilens from the doing-aims of the others. You are not apart from this, poxlords,’ said Verminking. ‘You and yours distance yourselves, but Clan Pestilens is nothing alone. You think-remember that.’
Vermalanx chirred angrily.
‘No mastery will come. They fail! They fail!’ spat Basqueak. ‘Fool-things! Squabbling while the world slips from their paws. Always the same, civil war comes again. Skavenblight will ring to the sound of blade on blade. Man-things and dwarf-things will recover, and skaven stay in the shadows. Always the same.’
‘Yes-yes,’ said Verminking. ‘They fail. But watch…’
In the mortal realm, Kritislik stood, waving a fist at the other Lords of Decay, admonishing them for their stupidity. From the look on his face, he thought it was working, for the others suddenly fell silent and shrank back in their seats, eyes wide. A few bared their throats in submission before they could catch themselves. Someone shamefully let spray the musk of fear. It hung heavy over the crowd, an accusation of cowardice.
Kritislik began to crow. The mightiest lords of Skavendom, and he had them in the palm of his paw. Now was his chance to stamp his authority all over this rabble again!
Or maybe not. Kritislik was so taken by his own oratory that he had completely failed to notice the shape growing behind him.
Black smoke jetted from the seat of the Horned Rat. The wisps of shadow built into a cloud that writhed and began to take the form of something huge and malevolent.
‘Ah! Now! Order, is good, yes! You listen-hear good, you…’ Kritislik stopped mid-sentence. His nose twitched. ‘You are not listening to me, are you? You do not hear-smell me good?’ he said. He was answered by eleven shaking heads, the owners of which were all trying to look inconspicuous.
He turned around to see a horned head forming from darkness more complete than that found in the deepest places of the world.
Kritislik threw himself to the floor in outright obeisance as the manifested Horned Rat opened eyes that flooded the room with sickly green light. Words of power rumbled from some other place, the voice underpinned by hideous chittering – the deathsqueaks of every rat and skaven ever to have drawn breath.
‘Children of the Horned Rat,’ he said, his voice as final as a tunnel collapse, ‘how you disappoint your father.’
‘O Great One! O Horned One! Once more I welcome you to the–’
‘No one summon-bids I, Kritislik. I come, I go, wherever I please. I have no master.’
‘I… I…’
‘You squabble pathetically. This will cease now. Your plans are sound, your alliances are not. I will not countenance another failure. Long have Clan Scruten had my blessing. I have given you my mark, great power, and long life.’ The head bore down on Kritislik, lips parting to show teeth made of crackling light. ‘You have wasted my favour.’
Without warning, a hand formed from the smoke, scrabbling as if seeking purchase on an unseen barrier. Fingers and claws pointed forwards. The air warped as the hand pushed against an unseen skin, then burst its way into common reality and reached down.