The End Times: The Return of Nagash
- Автор: Рейнольдс Джош
- Год: 2014
- Язык: английский
- Год: Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd.
- Жанр: Боевая фантастика
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‘No-no, Snikrat the Magni– Snikrat the Loyal came to warn you, mighty Feskit,’ Snikrat chittered. He knelt before the throne, his loyal Bonehides arrayed behind him – far behind him – and gestured towards Feskit imploringly. ‘They seek to invade our lair, oh perspicacious one, by which I mean our tunnels, the very heart of our fortress, this place here,’ he continued, sweeping his arms out. ‘That they followed me is only incidental, by which I mean unrelated, to my own headlong plunge to assure myself of your wellbeing, because you are my warlord and I am your loyal champion.’
In truth, Snikrat had no idea whether or not the dead had followed him. It was certainly possible, but he suspected otherwise, given his cunning and the stealthy nature of his retreat across the plains, back to the mountains. He had seen other clans attempt to match claw and blade with the undead, and he had, briefly, considered lending aid. But it was imperative that he warn Feskit about the enemy; and if that enemy was destroyed before he got back… Well, the credit would be ripe for the claiming, wouldn’t it?
As it happened, he had managed to lead what was left of his warband past the undead at the entrance to Mad Dog Pass, while the charnel horde was otherwise occupied with the Iron Claw orcs. The greenskins hadn’t been faring particularly well, the last Snikrat had seen. He decided not to mention it. Clan Mordkin and the Iron Claws had waged a war for control of the pass for decades, and Feskit respected their strength inasmuch as he respected anything. If he knew that they had been beaten, he might decide to abandon the lair, rather than fight, and Snikrat’s continued survival hinged on the latter.
‘Hrr,’ Feskit grunted. He sat back, his eyes narrowed to mere slits. Snikrat tensed. He glanced at the armoured stormvermin, who crouched or stood arrayed about Feskit’s dais, ready to lunge forward to slaughter at their claw-leader’s command. The Mordrat Guard were Feskit’s personal clawband and they were loyal to a fault, thanks mostly to Feskit’s generous patronage, which ensured that they saw little in the way of actual combat while claiming the bulk of the loot. Feskit was too smart to risk them in open combat, where they couldn’t protect him from treacherous rivals, or, in certain cases, each other. They were also indolent, lazy and far from as skilled as most thought them.
Snikrat knew all of this because he had, once upon a time, been the commander of the Mordrat Guard. He had profited from Feskit’s indulgence, and then, when he had climbed as high as he could, he had made the obvious decision. Granted, it had been the wrong decision, and it had ended with him flat on his back and Feskit’s teeth in his throat, but it had seemed obvious at the time. Snikrat rubbed his throat nervously. Feskit had spared him that day, though he’d never said why.
Snikrat thought – Snikrat hoped – that it was because Feskit was canny enough to know that he was getting old, and that if Clan Mordkin were to continue to flourish, it would need a suitable skaven to lead it. A magnificent skaven, a great warrior and cunning to boot. But that skaven had to prove himself worthy of Feskit’s patronage. He had to acquire victories, follow orders and serve the clan in all those ways that most skaven simply could not, whether due to their inherent untrustworthiness or simple weakness.
As Feskit stroked his whiskers, deep in thought, Snikrat surreptitiously took in the gathered chieftains. Those Feskit considered the most loyal sat near the dais, surrounded by their bodyguards. The rest were scattered throughout the great cavern or hadn’t been invited. There were more than a dozen missing. Some were likely still out plundering the Border Princes, he suspected. Which was just as well – more opportunities for him. He needed to reclaim his place at the foot of the throne, if he was to have any chance of successfully challenging Feskit a second time. He scratched at his throat again. Unless Feskit simply had him executed.
A sudden, discordant clamour of bells echoed through the caverns. The upper tunnels had been breached, Snikrat knew. A wave of relief washed aside his worries. He’d timed his return perfectly. Death shrieks drifted down from the vaulted roof of the cavern, slithering through the numerous flue holes that marked the rock. They echoed and re-echoed about the cavern, and a nervous murmur swept through the gathered chieftains. Snikrat, who was already far too familiar with the enemy even now bearing down on them for his liking, shivered slightly.
Feskit glared at him. Then he waved a paw at the knot of trembling slaves who cowered at the foot of his throne. ‘Bring me my armour and weapons.’ He gestured to the black-clad gutter runners who lurked nearby, waiting to carry forth Feskit’s decrees to all of the small clans within his realm. ‘Summon the conclave of chieftains. The burrow must be defended.’ His eyes found Snikrat again, and his lips peeled back from his fangs. ‘It is lucky that you returned when you did, Snikrat. Where would I be without my greatest champion?’
Snikrat stood, his chest swelling. ‘Snikrat the Magnificent lives only to ensure the greater glory of Clan Mordkin, mighty chieftain,’ he said.
‘Of that I am certain, yes-yes,’ Feskit said. He flung out a paw. ‘Go then! Defend our lair from these intruders, Snikrat. Prove yourself worthy of my faith, yes,’ he chittered.
Snikrat hissed in pleasure and whirled, gesturing to the gathered chieftains. ‘You heard our most merciful and wise clan-leader! Gather your warriors and war engines. Awaken the beasts,’ he snarled. ‘It is time to drive these dead-things from the lair of Mordkin!’
Anthelme slumped in his saddle, aching, exhausted beyond all measure, burdened by tragedy and fear alike. Nonetheless, the newest, and perhaps last, Duke of Quenelles led his companions north, to war.
He closed his eyes as he rode. His cousin’s face swam to the surface of his thoughts, and he banished it with a curse. He had failed Tancred. It hadn’t been for lack of trying, but it had been a failure regardless. At the battle’s height, his steed had been struck with terror and had fled, taking him with it. By the time he’d brought the beast under control, Tancred was dead, and his muster shattered and shoved aside by the undead host as it made its way north.
Anthelme had made his way to Castle Brenache, where he’d found Fastric Ghoulslayer and Gioffre of Anglaron and the rest of the Companions of Quenelles attempting to rally the remaining knights. Their joyful greetings as he’d ridden shame-faced into the castle courtyard had torn his heart worse than any blade. They’d thought him dead; he wished that were so. More, he wished that Tancred were alive and that he had fallen in his cousin’s place.
Instead, Quenelles was his, and the weight of it felt as if it would snap his spine. The province was in ruins – beset by beastmen and worse things. Calls for aid came every hour, and Anthelme was inundated with inherited troubles. He did not know what to do. Would the defences of the abbey hold, or would aid be required? He had sought the counsel of the Lady of Brenache, the Dowager of Charnorte. She had warned Tancred so many months before, and he’d hoped that she might help him now. And she’d tried.
Her scrying had proven a troublesome affair, marred by what he could only describe as daemonic interference. Anthelme shivered in his saddle as he remembered how the clear waters of her scrying bowl became as dark as a storm cloud, and leering faces formed in the ripples. Fell cries had echoed from the stones and the Lady’s voice had been drowned out by the laughter of the Dark Gods.