Chapter Text
Lord Gnawdwell had summoned her to his tower.
This meant one of two things. Either she would be showered with praise and rewarded for her dedication to the Great Clan, or he would smite her down with his majestic staff for stealing that bearded-thing bread this morning. She was leaning more towards the latter on this one, as a healthy dose of suspicion had saved her life on almost thirteen occasions.
The steps leading to Gnawdwell’s antichamber almost reached her knees, forcing her to swing her legs up first in a sort of vaulting motion, the fine layer of moisture clinging to the black stone making her grip slippery. Mounted sconces illuminated the way up the twisting staircase, casting the charred stonework in acrid green hues. The dark, silky fur on her arms reflected the green lights as she passed them, the sheen of sweat clinging to her coat making her appear to shine. The malevolent colours were soothing, but her heart still hammered inside her chest as she made the climb.
It was hard to tell how high exactly the tower reached, but the corkscrewing staircase must have brushed the very limits of the surface world. She could have examined the tower on her way in, but she’d kept her eyes downcast the entire trip. Not out of fear of dying, of course, to be flattened by the Lord’s most unholiest of staffs would be a great end for any aspirant, but to quote the Lord himself - there were far worse punishments than mere death.
At the peak of the staircase, a landing gave way to a momentous door, its surface reinforced with iron brackets and cruel spikes. If she were to triple her height, she would still be able to walk through it with room to spare. A pair of stormvermin stood guard on either side, the filthy ratmen leaning on their halberds as they peered at her from behind their horned helmets.
Standing at just over six feet, they were an intimidating sight. The finest wargear the Clan possessed covered them from head to tail, their heavy pauldrons creaking as one of them turned round, shoving his weight into the door. Despite its sheer size, it swung inward on creaking hinges, and she slipped through the gap, tugging her hood higher to avoid making eye contact as much as possible.
She emerged into a vast, circular chamber, vertical slots in the walls revealing the sprawling burrows of the under-empire that thrived beneath the tower. Tomes and scrolls lay stacked from floor to ceiling everywhere she looked, a few of the columns leaning unnaturally against one other, seeming to defy basic physics. She almost gave herself whiplash as her gaze flitted about the room, such a vast amount of written knowledge gathered in one place was an amazingly disgusting sight, but quite rare.
She bent her head backwards over her body as the door slammed shut behind her, one of the stormvermin meeting her upside-down gaze through the sliver before closing her in, the sound of a turning lock twisting her chest into a knot. Her eyes darted to the narrow window on her left, and she briefly wondered if she could survive the fall if she opted to jump.
“Come closer, my little gutter-runner. My patience is finite, yes-yes.”
All immediate thoughts of escape left her mind as she straightened up, the firm tone of the voice drawing her across the chamber. She weaved around a pile of books, spying an ornate throne decorating the far side of the room. Metal and wood were moulded and bent into the approximation of a chair, with flowing red sheets providing some approximation of cushioning. The fabrics were patterned with runes that looked like they’d been scratched on rather than weaved, the tapestries draped over the bones of Skaven and surface-dwellers alike.
In front of the throne was a table, its surface messy with scrolls and frayed parchments. Standing over it was Lord Gnawdwell, his striking, emerald eyes lifting from a manuscript to meet her gaze. He wore a long, blue robe that bagged around his wrists and ankles, exposing his gnarled hands and feet, his hairy skin sucking up against his bones. A string tied around his waist sported all manners of charms and fetishes, and around his neck he wore a necklace, the rotting teeth decorating it jangling noisily with each subtle movement he made.
He radiated magic, the wisps of power trailing off his frame like a bad odour, the tendrils burning into her warpsight with vivid brightness. Despite his withered appearance, he stood tall and proud, moving with an ease that was at once powerful and relaxed.
Two more stormvermin stood vigilantly beside the throne, and Lord Gnawdwell raised a paw at them, curtly gesturing in their direction. Was that a sign to seize her? Cut off her head, maybe? The guards exchanged curious glances, but retreated without a word towards a balcony projecting out of the wall to the right. She sighed under her breath as they slunk out of sight, drawing up the courage to break the following silence.
“You bid-summon me, great one?” she chittered, snorting through her muzzle. She lowered herself to her knees, dipping her head in unfiltered reverence to appear as meek as possible. It wasn’t a hard outcome, considering he was over twice her size at eight feet tall. When Lord Gnawdwell opened his hairy lips to reply, he spoke with much greater diction than anyone she knew, which she found both disturbing but inspiring at the same time.
“Clan Mors has need of you, little runner,” he began, pacing around the table towards her. “Even one such as you must have seen the signs. Warbands assemble in the tunnels, the warp-forges burn all day. The Great Clans are on the move.”
“What for-for?” she asked, her muscles constricting beneath her fur as he stood before her.
“One of the Council members was given a vision,” he replied, emphasising the last word by spitting out flecks of warpdust. “I’m not precisely sure who it was, as the Clans failed to acknowledge the Mors seat and assembled without me, as they so often do. Cowards.” His muzzle twitched as he snorted, his chapped lips turning up in a grin. “Of course, I was privy to the meeting regardless, I wouldn’t let such petty creatures stop me from serving the Horned Rat so easily.”
Lord Gnawdwell had spies in the Council that he was a part of? Truly his genius knew no bounds.
“What vision say?” she asked, failing to suppress her giddiness. Was she about to finally get her chance to serve the great Horned Rat too?
Though she’d kept her eyes locked to the floor, she could feel him regard her with his cold green eyes. “There was a time the Under-Father’s ambitions were not for the ears of a lowly gutter-runner, especially one that is a breeder, no less.”
Her glands squeezed until she felt a draining sensation prick her fur. She had kept her gender her most closely guarded secret, slaughtering those who’d found her out and thought she’d make an easy mark. Logic demanded that she kill the Lord now, but he was twice her size, wreathed in magics that were more felt in the air than seen with the eye. He would smite her down before she could even lift a whisker. How did Lord Gnawdwell know? It took her a second to realise she’d answered her own question. This was the Lord of Clan Mors, he didn’t need any further explanation than that.
“I can smell your fear-musk,” he grumbled, closing his eyes as he leered closer, his muzzle twitching as he breathed her in. She wanted to flee, but just like in one of her nightmares, her body wouldn’t obey her thoughts, and she could only close her eyes impotently as he gripped her by her shoulder.
“Your scent betrays you,” he continued, and she winced as she felt his tail slide up her leg from somewhere behind her. “You are fortunate that very few are as attuned to the scent of a female as I am. Yes, I know what you are, breeder, I’ve been watching your strange journey through our ranks for some time now, right from when you escaped the breeding pits with the help of…. well, that hardly matters now.”
He lifted away from her, his tail stroking her thigh a little before departing. She released the breath she’d been holding in, her fear replaced with a kind of weary caution as he returned to the table.
“You’re afraid I shall throw you back in with the other breeders, as you should be,” he started, rummaging through his many parchments with his long fingers. “And yet, your ability to avoid detection for as long as you have speaks of your cunning. You may yet be as valuable to me outside of the breeding pits, as you would be inside them.”
“M-My tail is yours, great one,” she squeaked, bowing her head until it practically touched the floor. She wanted to plead with him not to discard her with the other females, but making requests of the Lord would just make things worse than they already were.
“It is the Horned Rat’s tail,” he corrected. “But, your loyalty to the Clan is recognised, and is one of the reasons I shall entrust to you the details of this vision. The Horned One spoke of an ancient weapon, hidden in the deserts of the not-man-things. Our kind would benefit greatly if such an artifact was to return here to Skavenblight. Get up.”
She did as commanded, Lord Gnawdwell gesturing for her to come closer as he cleared space on the table. She slunk over, peering round his bulky arm as he smoothed out the edges of a large scroll.
A bunch of mismatched shapes were etched onto the parchment, and she couldn’t make sense of what she was looking at. There were words engraved between the shapes, the letters so flowing and curvy that they hurt her eyes. Why the surface-dwellers didn’t just adopt simple Skaven script, she did not know.
“This map shows the landmasses of the surface world surrounding Skavenblight, which is here in the middle. The not-man-things lands are here.”
She followed his finger as he dragged it down the map, the land giving way to a large body of water. The continent wrapped around it to the right, the lands first giving way to wastelands, then to deserts.
“The Horned Rat told the Council of a temple located somewhere in this province,” he continued, tapping at a spot near the heart of the barren wilderness. “Very few Skaven have travelled so far and lived, so our information on the area must rely on scavenged maps like this, and the foresight of the Seers.”
“Am I to go-move there?” she asked.
“Of course you are, don’t be stupid,” he grumbled. “The Great Clans are already preparing their forces for the journey, and you will join this advance. However,” he added, holding up a paw. “it is imperative that Clan Mors be the ones to lay claim to the weapon. The other clans, they see only a relic capable of furthering their own petty standing, and not as a fountain of power that would see the Vermintides wash across the entirety of the surface world. They would misuse its potential. Clan Mors must be victorious in this gambit, or we all face stagnation.”
“We leave now-now?”
“We?” he scoffed. “No, you must face this task alone. The Great Clans have made a point that none from Clan Mors may join their forward groups. The Council knows if I were to gain possession of this weapon, they fear Mors would finally be recognised as a Great Clan ourselves. Their pettiness in this case is not unfounded.”
“Will we finally get-take recognition from Council?” she asked, Gnawdwell replying with a nod. “Then I will do this, great one. Work better alone, yes-yes.”
“That is one of the reasons why I have chosen you,” he replied. “Of course, alone does not mean you will be short of company. I have no doubt the other Clans have sent their own spies and assassins to get to the temple first. I had considered smuggling you onto one of the Clan Skurvy fleets gathering at the port, but in such confined spaces, your breeder-musk would reveal you. You must travel by land, keep the sea to your right as you journey south, and you will reach the not-man-things lands in time.”
“What relic-thing look like?” she asked, daring to glance up at him. He went to speak, then hesitated, scratching one of his curved horns idly.
“That is where my knowledge becomes… limited. The Seers perceive it as a staff, while the other Great Clans claim it to be a sword or knife. I have no doubt you will know the relic when you see it, its influence on the winds of magic will draw you, among others, to its location.”
“Others?” she echoed, Lord Gnawdwell giving her a weary glance.
“It is not just the Skaven who are aware of the weapon’s emergence from the sands,” he explained. “Man-things, green-things, strange-things and dead-things, we would be fools to think we are the only ones who are aware of this resurgence.”
“Then, I have no time to lose-waste,” she answered.
“Indeed not,” he replied, giving her an approving nod. “Yet, it would be unwise of me to set you loose without first preparing you. Two gifts do I have for you. Hold out your paws.”
He shifted through more scrolls, and when he turned around, he was clutching a case to his chest. He placed it in her outstretched arms, and after she flashed him a questioning look, she pried the lid open with a claw.
The inside of the case was laced with a horribly soft material, and resting upon it were two of the finest daggers she’d ever laid eyes on. The handles were wrapped in dark leather, the black material contrasting with the silver blades. At the tips of their harsh points, the metal glowed a sickly shade of green, not unlike the torches that lit this very chamber. A glowing rune was pressed into the blades just above the handguards, the hum of magic weaving itself through all her senses.
“Weeping daggers, plucked from the latest Eshin assassin who tried to infiltrate my tower,” Lord Gnawdwell explained, watching her lift one of the weapons. It was practically weightless, her paw wrapping comfortably over the handle. “No amount of armour can withstand their bite. They should prove much better than what you’re used to.”
He handed her a pair of scabbards, and she slotted the weapons inside them, the sound of metal scraping on metal filling the chamber. She stowed them on her belt, watching the Lord turn around once again.
“Next, something for your journey across the surface.”
“Already gave two gifts,” she stated. He turned on her, opening his muzzle to speak, pausing when he saw she was holding out the pair of daggers to him.
“Those are… a collective one,” he explained. The next item he gave to her was two circles connected by a strap, her cloaked reflection peering back at her in their glass surfaces.
“The sun is hard on the eyes, especially in the following seasons,” Gnawdwell continued. “These goggles will shield you from the elements, among other benefits I will let you discover on your own.”
She pushed the elastic strap over her furry ears, resting the lenses against her eyes, the world taking on a baleful acrid quality, the edges of the lenses making everything in her peripherals stretch. She had a little fun using them to distort Lord Gnawdwell’s face for a few moments, then settled them on her brow.
“There is one last boon I can grant you,” he added. “You need a name. Not the one the ratwives or your mother gave you, but a title befitting of your new station as my newest Champion. What to call you, what to call you…”
She squirmed with barely contained excitement as he paced left to right. To be granted a title from the Lord himself was an unthinkable gift, but she couldn’t help but feel a bit of shame at being so eager to replace the one she currently had. Her earliest memory was of her name being whispered into her ear, and forsaking her parent’s gift felt... wrong.
Perhaps she didn’t have to get rid of it for good. She could take both names, and use one or the other depending on her whims. She supressed a grin upon recognising her own ingenuity, and at managing to outwit the great Lord Gnawdwell. But then she remembered he could read minds and her glands vented with fear-musk again.
“You will be called… Skyseeker,” Gnawdwell announced in a very non mind-reading tone. “On account of your insistence on escaping the way of the breeder. Rise, she-blade, and bring Clan Mors its deserved prize.”
Her heart welling with anticipation, she rose to her fullest height, baring her teeth in a grin. This mission would be nothing like the warrens, where she’d spent her life butchering her way to some semblance of freedom. The very Horned Rat himself would speak of her exploits when she returned, the name Skyseeker would be chanted by all the Clans. It would be glorious.
“I will not fail-lose, great one,” she assured.
“See that you don’t,” Lord Gnawdwell replied, turning his back on her. “the breeding pits have been… underperforming as of late, and we need more luscious mates if we are to keep our numbers stable for the wars to come.”
She trembled on the spot as he walked to his throne, laying his arms across the boned armrests as he leaned back, fixing her with a commanding look.
“I shall have someone bring you provisions, and escort you to the surface,” he continued. “Remember, tell no one of your mission, slay anyone who gets in your way. The Great Clans, even your fellow Mors brothers, must not discover you. Your life, and your success, depends upon your secrecy.”
She cocked her head in confusion, but nodded her understanding at the Lord. Infighting among Clan Mors didn’t happen often, except for the times when it did. It was one of the many reasons the Great Clans saw Mors as weak, but her Lord saw through that twisted logic, choosing his pawleaders based off their loyalty and cunning, rather than let his subjects fight it out themselves.
“The next time I see you, Skyseeker, I expect you to be climbing my tower, weapon in paw.”
The Lord called for his guards to return, one of them escorting her from the chamber. Skyseeker gave Lord Gnawdwell one last nod before the doors sealed behind her, she and the stormvermin clambering down the oversized steps of his tower.
-xXx-
The under-empire was livelier than Skyseeker had ever seen before. Through every shaft and cavern she scuttled through, she would be greeted by the sight of thousands of toiling skavenslaves, ferrying minerals in their pitiful arms to the factories and workshops, the chimneys and exhaust ports spewing satisfying amounts of soot. Ominous lights flickered above and beyond the burrows surrounding the Mors district, the sprawling grottos pockmarked with holes and dens from which the fuelling fires of warpstone spewed forth.
To travel through Skavenblight was to cling to the shadows, using any jutting piece of stone as cover from the merciless Overseers that prowled the tunnels, flogging and abducting anyone they came across into their workforces, but today the streets of the under-city were packed shoulder-to-shoulder with Skaven. Clanrats stood in giant lines leading into the byways, filing into burrows with nothing but loincloths, and then emerging with basic, but sturdy wargear strapped to their shoulders. Skaven with some measure of authority whipped groups numbering in the hundreds into staggered formations, while the firing ranges were abused by marksmen practising their awful aim.
Gnawdwell was right, in his ever-infinite wisdom. The Vermintides were being readied.
Skyseeker knew which tunnel networks led out of the city, despite the narrow caverns being incorrectly marked by illiterate skavenslaves. Paths that led towards the lower levels were marked UP, while side passages that led to suspicious dead-ends promised FREE FOODS. Skyseeker was too clever to fall for these masterfully-crafted traps, this was why Lord Gnawdwell had chosen her for this mission, after all.
While most of Skavenblight was protected by natural barriers of earth and rock, fortifications still rose to protect the districts making up the heart of the under-city. Warp lightning cannons stood vigilant over the main passages that approached the districts, covered by battlements draped with banners displaying the symbols of the various Great Clans. Skyseeker and her accompanying stormvermin passed between one of the main gates, one of the gunners posted up on the towers scoping down at them with his long rifle as they made their way into the outer-city, where the caverns opened up hundreds of feet wide and tall, the occasional polluted lake obstructing the sprawling shantytowns that hugged their coasts.
The clanging of metal and the beating of wardrums filled the stenchful airs of the vaulted galleries, the ground riddled with the pawprints of the millions of Skaven who used these city limits to flood the rest of the world. Smiths handed out swords and pikes to the gathering armies, their blades still hot from the forge, while the marksmen raced back and forth, checking their cartridges and swapping out damaged or mismatched parts of their guns. Soon the full might of Skavendom would flood the world of the surface-dwellers, but being surrounded by such vast forces did little to comfort Skyseeker. None of these ratmen belonged to Clan Mors, they were her adversaries in her mission, and the fact their guns weren’t turned in her direction was only a temporary reprieve.
Eventually her progress through the winding passages brought the sounds of war to a low hum, then to a gentle background buzz as the tunnels trailed higher and further from the under-city. As she passed the last handful of nests that clung to the very limits of Skavenblight, her bodyguard stopped, his armour creaking as he shuffled on the spot.
“This as far as I go-go,” the stormvermin grumbled, pointing the tip of his halberd down the passage ahead. “This way take you to surface. Great Clans leave many float-things you take-steal.”
It annoyed her that her protection was leaving so soon, but she would have to learn to survive on her own eventually. “Our Lord promised me food for mission,” she muttered. “You have?”
Something flashed in the stormvermin’s eyes, but she missed it as he avoided her gaze, reaching for his belt, and withdrawing the smallest slice of cheese she’d ever seen. Such an amount could hardly feed a pup for an hour, let alone a fully grown she-blade like herself.
“Where is rest?” she demanded, darting her eyes about the ground, thinking the guard might have dropped it. “Need more for journey-mission!”
“You insult great Gnawdwell’s greater-er offer,” he snapped back, making a show of angling his halberd in her direction, the blade glinting in the low light. As if the Horned One was watching their exchange, a distinct grumbling noise filled the tense air between her and the stormvermin, Skyseeker cocking her head towards its source – the guard’s stomach.
“You greedy-thing!” she snarled, regretting ever feeling protected in this stormvermin’s presence. “You eat Skyseeker’s food!”
“N-Needed it for walk here!” the stormvermin defended. “Left you your half! We make good bargain, yes-yes?”
She didn’t know how much half would be, but it had to be more than one pawful of mouldy cheese. “You give food back, now-now,” she said. “Or I-”
“Or you what-what?” he snarled, swinging his halberd with practiced ease, pressing it against her neck. “I guard great one, kill many sneaky-things like you. I already eat-eat, you take half and go now.”
Skyseeker shied away from the blade, feeling a drip of blood pour from her flesh as he held it against her fur. She was about to crawl onto her knees and plead for forgiveness when she hesitated. Was she stupid? Lord Gnawdwell had prepared her for this dangerously important journey, she couldn’t let him down before even leaving the caverns of Skavenblight!
“Wait-wait!” she said, holding up one paw pleadingly as the other reached for her belt. “I take half, that fair trade.”
For a moment she thought the stormvermin was onto her ploy, but he nodded his agreement, holding his halberd one-handed as he prepared to throw her the food. When he was at his most distracted, she seized her moment, grabbing the haft of the polearm and shoving it away, withdrawing one of her weeping daggers at the same time. The small blade made a sinister whistle as she swung it in an upward strike, cleaving the halberd in twain without even the faintest hint of resistance.
The stormvermin watched with a confused expression as he held up his half of the halberd-turned stick, his eyes bugging out as Skyseeker rushed him down, drawing her other dagger out of its sheath. The war-snarl she loosed was cut short as the stormvermin brought his broken weapon down on her head, her skull throbbing with pain as she spun on the spot. She quickly recovered from her daze, knocking aside the stormvermin’s halberd as he batted at her again, her hood flittering as he forced her to retreat.
She couldn’t let herself be kept at a distance like this, so she ducked underneath the next blow, her elbows and knees touching the ground as she scurried into dagger-distance. Speed had been her ally since birth, and she wasn’t weighed down by armour like he was, she could out pace him as long as she was careful.
She felt the air rustle her fur as the stormvermin swiped at her while backing up, Skyseeker ducking out of the way as she lunged at him. She flipped a dagger into a reverse-grip, and sliced the ratman across the belly. The corrosive point of her weapon shimmered as it pierced his wargear, dark blood dribbling out of the fresh crack in his armour.
“You give back food now!” she snarled over the ratman’s pained cry. “Or I cut-slice it out!”
“Stupid sneaky-thing!” the stormvermin shot back. He swung his halberd, but too late did she realise it was a feint, and she felt a furred fist smash her across her muzzle. Holding her throbbing face in one paw, she swung the other out wildly, hoping to catch the stormvermin on her corrosive blade again, but he stepped out of the way, planting a foot on her ribs and sending her reeling.
Her ankle caught on a protruding rock, and she tumbled onto her rear, warding the stormvermin off with her knives when he advanced on her. When he made to strike at her again, he faltered, clutching at his wounded stomach as he shot her a dirty look.
She took the opportunity to turn tail, scuttling into the shadows of the cavern, slipping her weeping blades into their sheaths so their green blades didn’t give her away. Her dark fur melded into the shadwos, and she took cover behind a rock, peering over its jagged surface as the stormvermin taunted her, telling her to stop hiding as he jabbed his halberd in random directions like he was chasing off ghosts. He came dangerously close to her hiding place at one point, but he soon grew tired of searching, the wound she’d cut into his stomach bleeding more and more as the minutes passed.
Struggling to keep his guts from spilling, he turned around, rushing back in the direction of the city, vanishing from sight as he rounded the corner. When she was sure he was gone, Skyseeker took a moment to run a paw down her face, catching her breath. She knew the dangers of this mission would be many, but to be attacked so early, and by a fellow Mors clan member no less... Just how was she supposed to survive this journey? Had Lord Gnawdwell made a mistake choosing her as his champion?
No. He was never wrong. Everything he did was a calculated move, and having this gluttonous stormvermin escort her was no different. This was a trial! A trial to test her will and ability, and she had succeeded by living through an assassination attempt! All for practice, surely, though it felt very real to her…
Whatever. She had passed the Great Gnawdwell’s test, and was all the stronger for it. She was ready for anything now. Commending the Lord’s limitless wisdom, she stalked back to where she and the stormvermin had fought, spying something colourful on the ground nearby. In their practice bout, the stormvermin had dropped the pitiful hunk of cheese. She stooped down to pick it up, wiping the dirt and filth off, and stuffing it greedily into her mouth. The rancid taste made her tongue sting, but she didn’t care, the walk and the resulting fight had drained her stamina to its limits.
Once she swallowed the tiny meal down, she checked she had all her belongings, kicking the broken half of the halberd away as she continued up the sloping passage.
-xXx-
Skyseeker felt the surface world before she saw it. What seemed like a soft caress touched her from the front, making her dark fur roil like warpfire flames as the barest of breezes filtered down the tunnel, cooling her muscles that still burned from her fight with the stormvermin.
She hated the sensation.
She also hated how the air was unusually free of the normal fumes that laced the scents of Skavenblight – sulphur, carrion, faeces – instead the stench of wet soil invaded her senses, and it was only through rasping out quick breaths through her mouth was she able to withstand it.
As if it couldn’t get any worse, a pinprick of light made her eyes water, the end of the sloping tunnel finally coming into sight. The white dot contrasted with the black rocky walls, slowly growing in size until she neared a yawning maw of daylight. Steeling herself, she crawled closer, poking her head out from below a lip of earth, exposing her face to the sun.
Her urge to convulse was forced back as she beheld the sky, for reasons that should be obvious. While she detested the way the light made her eyes itch and her fur itchier, she couldn’t deny the sheer openness of the heavens intrigued her. It simply had no limit, stretching on and on to the limits of her vision, blocked only by the mountains lining the horizon, as silver as Lord Gnawdwell’s flawless fur. It wasn’t uncommon for Skaven to behold the surface world, as armies could only travel for so long underground before they must attack the surface-dwellers directly, but for a female, whose breeding pits resided in the lowest levels of the under-cities, it was a rare privilege indeed.
She finally managed to pull her gaze down from the heavens, noticing a dirty shimmering effect rising from the bumpy ground, the image reminding her a little of the smoke that billowed from the factories below. Where the world around Skavenblight was rock and ash, instead the surface was riddled with strips of filthy water and banks of dirt that resembled bubbles, a few stubborn thickets desperately clinging to life on these tiny islands. Skyseeker was dumbfounded that anything could live under the harshness of the sun. The sky was doing its best to hide the yellow ball behind its protective layer, but its harsh rays still managed to filter through the haze overhanging the landscape.
She could spy a few gnarled-looking things sprouting up from the patches of land on the other islands, plants that resembled fingers rising four or five Skyseeker’s high, but the glare of the light made seeing anything in the distance an effort, even when she squinted. Then with a start she remembered the goggles, digging incessantly into her brow this entire time!
Commending her mighty Lord for his foresight, she pulled the lenses over her eyes, her vision tinting into the subtlest of greens as she adjusted the straps, the filter bringing the light down to a tolerable level. She could feel buttons built into the sides of the goggles, but decided to leave their functions untested for now, she needed to do more scurrying, and less ogling.
The sound of wood knocking together drew her attention to the right, and she spied a fleet of odd constructs tied to a stake driven into the dirt nearby. They bobbed lazily in the murky water, the constructs shaped like bowls, but longer than they were wider, made up of long, wooden logs that looked like they’d been ripped off the battlements below.
These must be the float-things the stormvermin mentioned. There was maybe a dozen of these shantycraft moored to the island, Skyseeker hopping over to the smallest craft, picking the one that was only leaking a little bit. The knot tying it to the stake was too complicated to unwind, so she just cut the rope off with a dagger, the craft rocking back and forth as she flopped clumsily on board.
She took up a paddle, and proceeded to use the wrong end to draw the craft out into the river, her head corkscrewing around as she tracked the islands for enemies. When she was a safe distance from the burrow she’d emerged from, she decided to test the depth of the river, her paddle, and her paw, disappearing beneath the water line before she felt the bottom. When she pulled her arm back, her fur was sticky with filth that was darker than her fur. What sorts of creatures might call these marshlands home? Perhaps she shouldn’t put her paw in anymore…
Skyseeker paddled further up the snaking river, stopping when a sinister ringing sound carried over the bog, loud and powerful. She turned her head, seeing a collection of pointy shapes reach up into the mists in the distance. Their profiles reminded her of fingers, and as though they were bowing in reverence, each one was angled towards the broadest shape in their centre – a tower so impossibly tall it touched, then pierced the very skies themselves, its peak capped by a giant brass bell.
She watched as the Bell of the Horned Rat swung from side to side, so agonisingly slow there was almost a minute’s pause between each ring. When the capper clashed with the Bell, Skyseeker could see the air itself tremble upon the sound, the cheers of hundreds of her fellow Skaven carrying on the wind shortly after.
She paused as she watched the Shattered Tower for a few moments longer, knowing it would be a long time before she looked upon its maddening greatness again.
She resumed her paddling, already missing the tight, protective walls of the under-city.
-xXx-
The hours ticked by as Skyseeker paddled through the marshlands, weaving her craft between the bubble-like islands that poked up through the muck-ridden water. Besides the Shattered Tower at her back, she could see structures dotting the quagmire’s horizons – iron mills that churned in lazy half-circles, the creaking of wood very loud in the still air. It was hard to tell if they were ruins from ancient times or were being operated by some unseen group, but she didn’t want to waste time detouring to find out.
Dead leaves and wilted branches littered the snaking riverbed she travelled, Skyseeker crushing them with her paddle as she navigated the marsh. The vegetation here consisted of spiky thickets that reached no higher than her knees, and twisting branches that looked sharp enough to be daggers in their own right, but as she moved further from the heart of the bog, she began to notice a new addition to the plantlife. From the clusters of reed beds clinging to the islands, tougher bushels rose higher, their bleached bodies contrasting with the black stumps nestled between their colourless leaves.
Curious, she pushed her boat in the direction of one of these strange plants, her craft groaning as it knocked against the shore. Glancing over her shoulder, she reached out, chopping part of the plant away, turning it over in her other paw. Recognition flashed in her eyes, this was black corn, a deplorably tasteless but bountiful foodstuff found all over Skavenblight. Was this where it came from? It was surface world, plant food? How disgusting!
She wanted to toss it in the marsh where it belonged, but thanks to that stormvermin, it was either eat or starve. Making sure she wasn’t being watched, she sank her teeth into it, chewing wetly on the cob as she worked the corn from end to end, rotating it until she’d devoured the entire thing.
She tossed the spent cob over her shoulder, where it splashed into the water noisily, then brandished the dagger again, slicing off another piece, then two more. Then she decided to just decapitate the whole plant and dump it on the craft. She scoured another bed of reeds for more, culling the land until she had so much corn that the craft’s rear half visibly sagged. The extra weight made the already difficult task of rowing even harder, but at least now she could grab a snack whenever she wanted.
She snickered at her newfound fortune, patting her bounty with one paw and paddling the craft deeper into the bog with the other.
-xXx-
It was around the time the sun had risen to its highest point, that Skyseeker encountered fellow Skaven. They were manning shantycraft not unlike her own, maybe ten or so vessels at a glance, rowing between the banks and harvesting any piece of black corn they could find. Strangely, not one of them consumed a single kernel, despite appearing so malnourished that she could see the shapes of their bones through their fur.
The slaves, for they had to be slaves if they wore nothing but loincloths to preserve their modesty, gave her strange glances as she rowed between them. She must be quite the sight, having a craft all to herself while they had to share their crafts with up to a dozen other Skaven. Skyseeker placed a paw on a dagger as they leered at her, expecting them to attack at any moment. She relaxed as they returned to their crop-picking, occasionally chittering and pointing in her direction.
She turned her gaze to the other groups of grain-slaves as she paddled. The bounty of corn on some of the craft was so tall they overflowed into the water, Skyseeker lifting a brow as one of the shantycraft drifted away from the reeds, one of the paddlers telling his companions that it was time to return.
Wanting to know more, Skyseeker cruised in their direction, watching the overcrowded raft slip behind one of the many desolate islands. They seemed to be in a hurry. Keeping at a safe distance, she paddled in their wake, seeing some strange shape creep over the rise of the island, obscured by more reeds.
As she rounded the island for a better look, the sight made her fur crawl. She was rowing into the shadow of a truly massive ship, but it was no shantycraft. It stretched at least a hundred feet from bow to stern, sporting giant sails that flickered as they caught on the wind. The ship was tiered, three levels of windows working their way up from the sloped hull to the deck, where she saw dozens, maybe hundreds of ratmen flooding this way and that. Some pulled on ropes and spun cranks, others ferried armfuls of corn towards the hatches that presumably led to the cargo hold.
The great slave-hulk didn’t even shake when the shantycraft she was following crashed against the hull, Skyseeker watching as ratmen on the deck threw down a wide spool of netting. At the behest of the pawleaders, skavenslaves climbed and leapt off the deck, taking the shantycraft’s cargo and hauling it back up. Any of the slaves who dropped a single cob were beaten and then tossed to the waters.
Her initial shock of the sight morphed into fear as she noticed the flag dangling off the nose of the ship. Printed upon the flayed sheet of cloth was a Skaven pup, surrounded by a blood-red ring that resembled the walls of a pit-fight arena.
She knew this symbol, not just because she was incredibly intelligent, but because the flag of Clan Gritus was known to all as the ultimate slave-masters of Skavendom. They abducted thousands every day, and she was right in the shadow of one of their hulks.
Her glands squashing with anxiety, she ran to the other end of her craft, nearly tripping over her bounty in her haste, her arms blurring as she started paddling back the way she’d come. She felt so exposed beneath the curious sky, and turning her back on the ship made it worse.
“YOU, CLOAKED-THING! Stop-stop boaty-thing!”
Skyseeker jumped out of her skin, tilting her head over her back to see another shantycraft was sailing towards her. Like the others, this one was packed with slaves maybe a dozen strong, but one of their number stood head and shoulders above the rest. He was draped in a red, sleeveless tunic, his brown fur matted with grime and ugly scars. He lifted one of his paws at her, while with the other he brandished a giant black whip.
“Where slave think it go-goes?” he shouted. “Think it can scurry and eat-eat Gritus food? Greedy-thing not know its place!”
Skyseeker found herself paralysed with fear. She had used the shadows to escape the stormvermin before, but it was a clear day out here, and her only avenue of retreat was the water, but she didn’t know how to swim. What should she do?
“No take-take food-things,” the slaver snarled, his raft drawing closer as his ratmen paddled. “Slave must be punished! Throw it in Gritus pits to teach lesson!”
“I-I am no slave-thing!” she squeaked, terror making her voice tremble. The stupid slaver must have thought her a grain-collector with all the black corn she was laden with. Why was food always getting her into trouble?
“It is now-now!” the slaver answered. “Slave-thing don’t move one paw, or I cut it off!”
His craft was so close she could feel the waves rock the wood beneath her feet. Willing her glands to stop spraying, she spurred into action, jamming her paddle into the river and frantically rowing herself away. She was an assassin, not a slave, no matter what this stupid Gritus-thing said!
Her ears twitched as the air around her snapped, Skyseeker daring to glance back at the slaver vessel. The slaver was dragging the tail of his whip over the muddy water, her craft having just managed to stay out of his range.
“Faster, faster!” the slaver yelled, Skyseeker mumbling the exact same words. “Flay your filthy hides if you don’t hurry-hurry!”
The slaver drove his foot into one of the slaves paddling his craft, the ratman tumbling into the river with a squeak. The other ratmen redoubled their efforts at the sight, though the loss of their comrade just meant more work for the rest of them.
“Food not for you, greedy-thing!” the slaver taunted. Skyseeker threw a cob of corn that smacked off one of his eyes, making him yowl as he brought a paw to his face. He flailed his whip again, and she flinched reflexively as the air above her head snapped with such force she could almost feel it.
The slaver vented his frustration on another poor slave, grabbing him by the shoulders and tossing him to the marsh in an underpaw throw. With their numbers dwindling, some of the other slaves started using their paws to contribute, but the mirky waters dragged on their furs, their efforts having the exact opposite effect. Skyseeker needed every advantage she could get, but she was but one Skaven, and they were gaining on her. She needed to go faster, or she’d be caught. But how?
She formulated a plan in record time. Setting her paddle aside, she drew a dagger from her belt, and sliced a portion of wood off the bow. Then, she sharped one end of the wood until it became a deadly point. Now the boat was smaller, thus its weight was smaller, plus she had a new weapon. The Horned Rat was undoubtedly praising her craftiness right now.
Inspired, she raised the improvised stake above her head, and chucked it in the slaver’s direction. The burly ratman ducked out of the way, and the stake found its mark in one of his rowers instead, the slave slinking into the river without a sound.
Skyseeker chopped off another section of her craft, her spirits lifting as she could feel the vessel already beginning to lose its weightiness. She sharpened the severed parts and tossed them at the other craft like javelins, scoring another kill and sewing chaos in the slaver’s crew as they scurried around the limited space, trying to throw off her aim.
Their speed almost came to a halt as they shouted and wailed, fear-musk thick in the air, but her relief came to a quick end when the slaver rallied them, issuing new orders.
“SWIM!” he commanded, shoving a pair of ratmen off the bow. “Don’t let slave-thing escape-leave!”
Petrified faces peered up at her from the water as the slaves were tossed overboard, dragging themselves reluctantly towards her craft. She cut off yet another of the boards that made up her boat, then swung it across the snout of the closest swimmer, feeling a satisfying crunch travel up the wood. She must have lost half of the craft’s mass by now, excellent! She should be able to outpace the bigger slaver craft in no time.
She brandished the wooden pole at the other slaves, who bobbed and sputtered between the two vessels. It was obvious they feared their master, but seeing a craft-wielding assassin like her was giving them pause for thought.
“Move your tails! Now-now!” the slaver shouted, swinging his whip into the water, more interested in punishing his crew than chasing her down. Skyseeker could probably clear off and he wouldn’t notice, but she’d had enough of this stupid Gritus-thing, unsheathing a weeping dagger and throwing it, the slaver too busy flogging his whip to notice her weapon sail into his chest.
Before he had even dropped, Skyseeker was moving. She launched off her craft, her paws digging into the skull of a slave bobbing in the water between the two crafts, using his cranium to launch herself a second time. Her tail scraped the water, but otherwise she landed on the slaver’s craft completely dry, standing over her adversary with a satisfied expression on her face.
“I am not slave-thing,” she repeated, gripping the handle of her dagger that jutted from his broad chest. The slaver reached to grab his whip, but Skyseeker planted a paw on his arm to stop him. “I am… assassin-thing!”
The slaver opened his mouth, but she twisted the weeping dagger before he could speak, a wet gurgle leaving his muzzle before he went still. After pulling her weapon free, she rolled his body unceremoniously overboard, planting her paws on her wide hips as she watched him sink. She’d done it! She’d taken on a group of her enemies in broad, exposed daylight and lived! With her brilliant – no, masterful tactics now proven, she felt confident that she just might complete this mission Gnawdwell had entrusted to her.
Her smile faltered as she heard something crack, turning round just in time to see her original craft collapse in on itself. Her left eye experienced a twitch as she watched her black corn bounty sink beneath the waterline, swallowed up by the blighted mush. She might be a master assassin, but she had to admit her foresight could use some work.
At least she wasn’t without transport, the irony of the situation not lost on Skyseeker as she took up a spare paddle, rowing her new shantycraft away. What few slaves that had survived the skirmish scrabbled over the wreckage of her former craft, and she hesitated as she watched one struggle to keep his head above the cloudy fluid. A group of slaves could prove useful on her journey, but Gnawdwell had told her not trust anyone, and she’d be a fool to not follow his astute advice.
Shaking her head, she continued on her way, but not before tossing the drowning ratman a spare paddle.
-xXx-
Skyseeker sailed until exhaustion, her head constantly twisting and turning as she checked her surroundings for threats. It had taken many hours of sneaky paddling, but she’d managed to avoid confronting any more of the slave-hulk’s crew, the massive Gritus ship vanishing from her sight as she continued her eastward journey.
To further her good fortune, the sun’s harsh glare had finally begun to abate, Skyseeker stretching her muzzle out in a yawn. Sleeping was a thing she constantly struggled to suppress, as the warrens of Skavenblight were even more perilous when one couldn’t defend themselves. The marshes were no different. Even if she hadn’t seen any wildlife so far, these bogs weren’t uninhabited, who knew what would come after her once night settled.
Only when her exhaustion reached desperate levels, did she scour the riverbanks for shelter, finding that only the reed beds provided even a measure of cover, and she didn’t fancy resting in the dirty waters. What she wouldn’t give for a dank, Skyseeker-sized crevice to slink into for the night.
The thought gave her an idea, and she steered her craft to one of the many islands. Hopping off the craft, she kneeled in the muddy shore, beginning to claw at the earth. While her arms were sore from all the day’s rowing, the land was as soft as mush, her claws carving out a burrow that should conceal her, as long as nothing looked too carefully. By the time she was finished, her body was burning with exhaustion, but at least she uncovered a worm during her digging, which she promptly consumed.
Her spirits slightly lifted, she squeezed into her burrow, having to curl into a ball to fit inside. Her energy was too depleted for her to clear out more room, but she liked the feeling of tight spaces anyway.
Checking to make sure no one had stolen her craft, she draped her cloak over herself, a sudden biting cold making her shiver. Strange noises carried on the wind from some unseen location, confirming her suspicion that at least something other than Skaven called these marshes home. She would need all the energy she could get on this quest, but in these unfamiliar, flooded lands, her imagination conjured up horrible monstrosities lurking in the waters, making the already troublesome task of resting even more difficult.
Stretching onto her back, she pulled her goggles off her face, wiping the grime off the lenses with her thumb. Perhaps now would be a good time to explore those buttons she discovered before. She pressed one at random, a noisy click startling her. She peered out into the marsh, holding her breath as she waited to see if some nocturnal creature would investigate.
When nothing came to eat her, she peered through the lenses, opening her muzzle in awe. The goggles had expanded the view, the rocks in the ceiling of her burrow ballooning in size. She wiggled her fingers in front of her face, her vision so magnified she could tell the shape of each fleck of dirt beneath her claws.
More buttons enhanced the filter even further, Skyseeker taking the goggles off to examine the wonderful device in more detail. It seemed that the buttons caused even smaller lenses to flick out from the side, each one shrinking until they were smaller than the pads of her fingers. How strange. A switch on the underside of one eye caused the frames to take on a brighter hue, fighting back the shades of darkness and replacing them with clearer whites and blues. She could see perfectly well in the dark, but perhaps pairing this with the zoom function, she would be able to spot threats from even further away now.
Confident her goggles would give her an edge in the days to come, she settled deeper into her crevice, feeling fatigue wash over her. This time her fear of the marshes could fight it back no longer, and she held her daggers close as it forced her eyes shut, sleep soon taking her.
-xXx-
It took several long days of rowing, but eventually Skyseeker could proceed no further on her shantycraft. The dirty riverbeds gradually began to recede until they were only knee-deep, the islands turning into long stretches of land, isolated tide pools breaking them up in places. She had reached the border of the marshlands.
The river she’d followed since her encounter with the slave-hulk came to an abrupt end, Skyseeker drawing her craft up to the bank on its far side. She discarded her paddle, surveying the landscape with the help of her goggles’ new abilities. Before her, the blighted lands continued for a while, until a wall of fog blocked her sight. The lands of the man-things lay beyond this obscuring haze, according to the map Lord Gnawdwell had shown her. Drawing up her flawless memory, she remembered the province was called… something beginning with a T. Or was it an E? No matter, it was a land belonging to savage surface-dwellers, she would have to be extra careful from here on out.
Although Skyseeker had never seen the marshes with her own eyes until now, they sheltered the home she had always known, and she felt a disconcerting sense of nostalgia as she readied to press on. She looked back the way she’d come, finding that the Shattered Tower that marked Skavenblight’s location was far beyond her sight now, even with the aid of the goggles.
She gave the marsh one final glance, then stepped off the craft.