Deep in thought, Thorgrim never saw the black shadow unfold from the rocky peak. Spider-like, it crawled down a cliff face before letting go.
‘Assassin!’ squealed Thanquol in his nowhere place.
‘Hsst!’ warned Verminking. ‘Do not let your excitement alert the king to our presence. We are in his mind!’ Then, more gently, he continued, ‘This is the culmination of many scheme-plans. Deathmaster Snikch delivers the final blow to the dwarf-thing’s empire. It has taken him long-long to work his way to the top of Beard-Thing Mountain-place. No other but he and Lurklox could have achieved it.’
‘The king’s armour…’ began Thanquol doubtfully.
‘He bears new knives, they are warpforged, each triple blessed by the retchings of the Verminlord Lurklox, Master of All Deceptions. They can slice through gromril as easily as incisors sink into a corpse. He will not fail, now hush, and watch!’
In mid-air, the dark shape somersaulted and drew forth its three blades – one in each hand and a third in its tail. With all the momentum of his fall, Snikch drove all three blades into his target.
Thorgrim staggered forwards, great stabs of pain coursing through him. Thanquol gasped, sharing a sliver of his agony. As the king fell to his knees, Thanquol fell to his. Through Thorgrim’s eyes he could see the points of three blades jutting out of his chest, and for a gut-churning second, Thanquol thought it his own.
Thorgrim’s last thoughts were for his people. Like a damned fool beardling he had left the door open behind him. There were so many grudges left unanswered. His last thought crystallised with painful clarity – of course, the hateful cowards had stabbed him in the back.
Thanquol’s consciousness retreated from the dead king, and he observed the scene once again through the scrying-orb.
Tail lashing with excitement, Thanquol watched Snikch saw off the king’s head with his tailblade. The Deathmaster kept watch on the open runic door, his tail performing the grisly deed by its own volition.
‘That head will come to you, little horned one,’ purred Verminking behind him. ‘You must take-show it before the Council of Thirteen, Reclaim the grey seers’ rightful place.’
‘But… but… you told Verminlord Soothgnawer, many praises be upon him, that…’
Verminking chittered, half in amusement, half in exasperation. ‘I had not expected such naivete from you, little seer.’
Thanquol, who had long anticipated himself on the Council of Thirteen, let his mind race with possibilities.
In the orb, the asssassin was scrawling runes upon the stone.
Verminking explained. ‘He is summoning Lurklox. Dwarf scratch-magic prevents skitterleaping, but his scratch-markings will overcome them. Soon an army of gutter runners will be inside Karaz-a-Karak. They will open the gates for our rabble army. Clan Mors has been all but destroyed, but the lesser warlord clans wait in the deep tunnels, and they will be inside before the dwarf-things know. The dwarf realm will be utterly broken!’
‘Then we have won, yes-yes?’ asked Thanquol in surprise. The thought of it seemed… odd.
Verminking shook his head solemnly, his majestic horns swaying. ‘We have won much, but not all. The lizard-things and their lands are dead-gone – but Clan Pestilens is broken. I sense Vermalanx and Throxstraggle’s fury. Although,’ he mused, ‘we must not forget Skrolk, or the Seventh Plaguelord, for he is hidden within the Under-Empire even from my eyes. Clan Skryre has been humbled, but Ikit Claw just survived and will be dangerous. While more goes on in the minds of the Moulders than you know.’
Verminking looked down upon the grey seer, his enormous claw-hand patting Thanquol’s head.
‘And our new allies – the Everchosen, Chaos. They are most powerful of all, yes-yes. We need-must not tell you. Yet we, you and us, we will bide our time. One day it will all be ours.’
Thanquol smiled faithfully up at Verminking. The answer to how to conceal his true thoughts had been simple, when it came to him. As he guarded his words, he must guard his thoughts. All day he had been practising at obscuring his intentions from the verminlord behind a wall of sycophantic loyalty he built across his mind. Once he was certain of the method, he had thought the most treacherous thoughts he could. And Verminking did not hear! All through the battle he had done so without repercussion. He was growing in power.
Shielded by this mental redoubt, Thanquol plotted how he would rid himself of the verminlord for good, and use what he had learned to his greater advantage. He was Thanquol! The most cunning skaven who had ever lived. Lord Skreech Verminking would come to regret forgetting that.
‘Yes-yes, O great one,’ said Thanquol. His eyes narrowed. Soon he would be the master. Soon he would sit upon the Council of Thirteen in the mortal world. But why should he stop there? Unwittingly, the verminlord had opened endless worlds of opportunity to him.
Thanquol’s face betrayed even less than his mind did. ‘Your wishes are my commands,’ he said, and meant not a word of it.
About The Author
A prolific freelance author and journalist, Guy Haley is the author of Space Marine Battles: Death of Integrity, the Warhammer 40,000 novels Valedor and Baneblade, and the novellas The Eternal Crusader, The Last Days of Ector and Broken Sword, for Damocles. His enthusiasm for all things greenskin has also led him to pen the eponymous Warhammer novel Skarsnik. He lives in Yorkshire with his wife and son.