With the arriving of the Ur-kot, or Promised Time, the Under-Kingdom boldly stepped into the light, launching its gauntlet of challenge to the nightmarish Under-Empire. Under-King Lantheus, Chosen of the Mother Goddess, launched a proclamation that shook the mountains and the under world, bouncing across the entirety of Skavendom. He called the Horned Rat a liar and a tyrant and proclaimed the return of the merciful Goddess, Mother of the Skaven and the only worthy of their worship. These words hit all Skaven that heard them like a thundershock. None in the long history of Skavendom had ever even dared to suggest such a thing without an immediate and deadly ripercussion by the vengeful Skaven deity and never on such a scale. And still, words were the least of the changes that fell upon the under world.
Clans considered faithful suddenly raised banners proclaiming their loyalty to the Under-King, while entire fortress-burrows fell to intercine warfare as armies of defectors rose in revolt. Even worse, entire armies of Deepkin, or the Deviant Ones, as they came to be known by their corrupted counterparts, suddenly appeared in multiple points of the World's Edge Mountains. As one, they fell upon major holdings in highly organized assaults, often helped from the inside. Layers of traps and defence that had survived centuries of intercine war between clans were destroyed or bypassed with shocking speed, important warlords and chieftains that had ruled for decades were butchered in their scores alongside their retainers. The momentum of the attack had such an extension and intensity that almost half of the World's Edge Mountains, from the Land of the Dead up to the Black Water, fell to complete chaos almost overnight.
For months, the Council of Thirteen floundered in panic and confusion, uncapable to obtain a picture of the situation. They were swamped daily by confused reports arriving from a corner to the other of the mountains, each depicting chaos and the sudden appearance of unknown enemies, but clear information of what was actually happening could not be obtained. A copy of the declaration of Lantheus had been brought to the Council soon after the beginning of the chaos, dutifully carried by a shaved Warlord to whom the paper had been stuck to the whiskers, but nobody was ready to take it to face value. No information about a thing called Under-Kingdom existed in any archive, and the simple idea of a competitor to the Council for supreme authority amongst the Skaven or, even worse, another God rivaling the Horned One was simply too ludicrous to even consider it. It was easier to fall back upon the usual inter-clan scheming, and many accusations were flung, even while the Lords frantically tried to obtain resolutive informations.
Eventually, the findings were shared and somewhat of a complete picture of the situation was formed.
To say that it was shocking was the greatest of understatement.
The entire region of the Mountains between the Black Water and Doom Mountain, a gigantic stretch of land that rivaled in size with the Empire of the Man-things, had been lost. Dozen of Clans had been slaughtered or had switched side. Strongholds, burrows, nests, even the most hidden lairs of Eshin, they had all been overhelmed, every contact lost. Karak Azgal, previously contended with the night goblins, had been lost to an army of Deviants. Karak Eight Peaks, the City of Pillars, had been attacked and now Warlord Queek Headtaker was locked into a hard battle of attrition with the invaders. Even more disconcenting, Crookback Mountain, the central stronghold of Clan Rictus, didn't exist anymore. The Mountain that held control over the back end of Mad Dog Pass had been ripped apart by a titanic explosion that had taken the legions of Stormvermin stationed inside and reduced the once mighty peak to a smouldering wreck.
The situation improved, even if only slightly, getting farther from the mountains. The majority of the holdings in the Soutlands had fallen or capitulated, but many clans still held their grounds, especially those belonging to the Pestilent Brotherhood. The Deviants had emerged as far as Ekrund and Araby, pouncing with pinpoint accuracy, and where they hadn't obtained a swift victory, the fight was hard and vicious, with the skaven remained loyal hard-pressed.
The news couldn't have been more disastrous. Incalculable resources in slaves, soldiers, warpstone and breeders had been lost and the grip of the Council over large swathes of territory was, for all means, gone. Rictus, a Warlord Clan that could rival in might with the Great Clans, was essentially crippled. It was from the time of the Second Skaven Civil War that the Under-Empire hadn't suffered such losses.
And all of this was to be charged upon these Deviants appeared from the depths, an entire Kingdom that claimed independence from the Council. They were no wayward Clan, the reports insisted, but entire armies of well-equipped, well-trained skaven that moved in coordination and attacked with deadly effect. They had not to be understimated, and treated like a first-class enemy, of the cut of the dwarf-things or the men-things.
When the first shock passed, the declaration sent by the so-called Under-King was brought and read again to the presence of all Lords of Decay, this time with the utmost attention. The full weight of that piece of paper finally hit home. This was more than a rebellion, this was a challenge to all the Skaven had ever stood for, to the Under-Empire as a concept itself!
The irony of having a hidden enemy jump on them when they were the ones supposed to be the hidden enemy wasn't lost on the Lords, but none raised the point. Instead, many fearful gazes were sneaked on the Thirteen Seat, the one traditionally held by the Horned Rat himself. A shadowy figure was seated on it, its eyes smoldering with green fire. The message was quickly understood: none had changed, the Horned Rat was still surpreme and retribution would fall upon any who dared to oppose Him. His servants were expected to work against this insolence as it deserved.
The Lords of Decay needed only partially the encouragement. None of them was keen to lose their standing to unknown upstarts. It still curbed the most traitorous tendecies, though.
The first motion passed by the Council was, predictably enough, to expel Kratch Doomclaw from the Council. His Clan Rictus laid in ruins now and what remained didn't warrant him protection from his old rivals, especially Gnawdwell of Mors. The Warlord accepted the motion, was forced to, and stormed out of the Council hall like a fury. He would return.
The Great Clans threw their greedy gazes over the empty seat, but in this moment of crisis, the unifying presence of the Gray Seers was ascendant. The seat was assigned to a Seerlord, raising the influence of the rat-mages to an all new level. No Lord was happy about it, but to raise questions right now would mean to show themselves as enemy of much needed unity and so the motion passed without problems.
Next, came the question about how to react at this invasion, and about this topic the debate was fierce. Lord Gnawdwell of Mors pressed vehemently for a campaign to relieve the siege of the City of Pillars. Karak Eight Peaks was an all-important nexus for the power of his clan and he feared the loss of prestige should it be lost. The other major Lords - Skyre, Moulder, Eshin, Gray Seers and Pestilens - weren't as keen to the idea. Only Mors would benefit from the relieving of the ex-Karak, as their own core territories were distant from the warzones. They would have preferred to shift into a defensive stance, both hoping into a further weakening of Mors and to look into their own internal affairs. After all, who said that these traitors couldn't be hidden into other clans or, worse, their own?
Distrust was to an all time high, as well as ambitions and concerns. Motions were put forward just to be vetoed by opposing factions, and debates stretched themselves uselessly. The Council activities grinded to a discorcenting halt. Once again, the disunity of the Skaven proved to be their greatest adversary.
While politics in Skavenblight ran their course, the Under-Kingdom kept its momentum going forward.
Lantheus was grimly pleased. The first wave had completed almost all of its objectives. The resistance opposed to the invasion had remained inside expected levels and the various previsions had been generally met. All in all, the first phase of the offensive had been a marvelous success, demolishing Council dominance over an enormous swathe of land. Now, they had to press the advantage.
Engineer corps were unleashed all across the newly conquered territory. Fortifications were dismantled, entire fortresses broken down into scraps that were then carried away. These materials, and more brought from the lands of the Under-Kingdom, were used to reinforce determinated points, usually major strongholds of Clans and to build new ones. With breath-taking speed, the Deepkin dismantled the network of fortresses, lairs and burrows that had dotted the Mountains and went to replace it with their own.
It was nothing to be surprised of and Lantheus avoided being impressed by the efficency of his subjects. The Under-Kingdom had built its strenght only for this invasion, in fact, it could be argued that it existed only in function of it. The Kings and Lords of the Deepkin had planned this attack for centuries, down to the smallest detail. Perfection of execution was only to be expected.
Still, a deeply sore point existed.
As expected, a great mass of corrupted Skaven had been captured or had surrendered during the invasion.
Down the centuries, the Deepkin had endlessly argued about what should be done with their corrupted kin. Half-victims, half-monsters, what to do with them? Various solutions had emerged, none of them simple. But war didn't allow for complications, a lesson that Lantheus and his predecessors had learned with heavy heart. And, with heavy heart, the orders were given and carried out.
The majority of the captured Skaven would be herded deeper underground, where they would be dispatched, as quickly and painlessly as possible. The rest, menials all, would be used as workers and given rations and medical attentions. It was all the Under-King could do for them. The Under-Kingdom simply didn't have the resources to deal with such a large number of mouths to feed, let alone with so many potential traitors.
It was a necessity. A painful, terrible necessity that Lantheus locked into his heart and held, together with all his responsabilities, forever.
The Deepkin warmachine trudged on.
While workers built or fortified fortresses, engineers modified the network of tunnels. Many were just destroyed while others were enlarged, that task alone made herculean by the sheer immensity of the Skaven tunnels. Still, the Deepkin went to it, working as fast and as extensively as possible, making ample use of the enormous wealth of information they had accumulated during the centuries.
Supply lines were stabilished, while food sources were immediately seized. The warp-tainted mushrooms used to feed the Under-Empire were fed to the flames, and farmers come from the Under-Kingdom spread the seeds and spores of new coltivations, as well as bringing cattles with them.
While the new infrastructure system took shape, Lantheus charged his generals with completing the subjugation of the Southern Lands. As the corrupted Skaven were taken away, further reinforcements were directed to the zones where war still ran strong.
While the suddeness, organization and strenght of the invasion had made for a quick conquest, and the great majority of the seized territory was on its way to be pacified, there remained three main points of contention: the South-east, where the Clans of the Pestilent Brotherood still resisted, the City of Pillars and the Mines of Ekrund. Some skirmish flared there and then but none was of size big enough to warrant concern.
Of those three points, the Pestilent Brotherhood was the most pressing concern. With its relocation to Lustria, Pestilens had brought the majority of its strenght away from the Southlands, but the Clans that had remained, the Plaguelords counted on returning, were still strong. Their rabid zealotry had made difficult infiltrating them, since only by sincerity of faith one could survive the tremendous maladies they infected themselves with. For this reason, they had been pushed back and humbled, but not completely destroyed, and the battle was still fierce.
These clans made for a dangerous enemy lurking to the flanks and had to be dealt with. Lantheus wanted no distraction from the south for when the counter-attack of the Under-Empire came. For this task, he appointed Depthlord Truzor, and gave him a strong army taken by the second wave. He was to annihilate the Pestilent Brotherhood, torch their holdings and then build a strong defence toward the sea. Should Pestilens arrive from Lustria, they could not be allowed to gain a foothold in the area once again.
The Depthlord dutifully obeyed. He took his new army and, travelling by the Deeproad, the steam-powered trasport developed by the Leagues, he reached the Land of the Assassins, far west and facing the sea. This was a land of forests and savannas, self-contained between low mountains and the massive delta of the Tarouz River. A civilization of humans had flourished here, but its time had long passed and now only a few cities remained on the coast, living off the bounty of the sea and tha trade with the fleets of far-away Ulthuan.
Here, in this sheltered land, the Deepkin didn't have to fear to be discovered. They had built Burrows under the mountains and inside the forests, forming their own off-shoot of the Under-Kingdom. The Under-Kings, foreseeing its value as a base for the Ur-Kot, had made settlers and funding flow into it. By continued effort, the few Beastmen infesting the forests were hunted down and exterminated, while the Under-Empire was kept away or appeased in turn. Now, this was a pure Deepkin province, with no claim of the Corrupted Kin upon it. Unburdened by internal problems, the Deepkin living here had sent contingents to other areas, focusing the best of their efforts against the Pestilent Brotherhood to the south and north. They were the pillar of the war that was being waged against those pestilential armies, and their armies were well-adept to fight pestilence and crazed faith.
To this land Truzor arrived and, strong of his royal mandate, immediately took overall command. That didn't sit overly well with the lords of that land, but the best of the grumbling was appeased by the quick distribution of autonomous field commands by the Depthlord.
Protests quelled, Truzor set to work, starting with making the point of the situation.
With the Ur-Kot, many clans of hidden Deepkin of the Southlands had risen in revolt, alongside the armies that had surged from the deeps. Many of the clans affiliated with Pestilens had been overran, but many more had hold out the first assault. In fact, the Deepkin infiltration had managed to reach deep only in those hall clans that hadn't embraced in full the rot. That had left plenty of Plague Monks and now all the parts of the Southlands where the Skaven had put roots, from the Land of Dervishes to Araby were a chaotic map of battles, pacified zones and zones still to pacify.
It was a hornet's nest to say the least, and that Truzor was put in charge of it demonstrated the faith that the Under-King put in him. The chest swelling with honour, the Depthlord set to single out the points of major resistance and where to send his fresh forces. A second trust had to be brought, hopefully bringing a quick end to the war, so that the full strenght of the Under-Kingdom could be focused against north, against Skavenblight, when the unevitable counter-attack came.
Truzor was deep in this work, when a sudden new was brought to him.
To the north of the Lands of Assassins, where the Tarouz flowed into the large Bay of Corsairs, a High Elves fleet had been sighted.
This was concerning. Truzor had enough problems dealing with Pestilens. The last thing he needed now was a new adversary, let alone one as mighty as the Ulthuani. Of course, it wasn't surprising. Ulthuan was a trade empire first and foremost and entertained a profitable relationship with human cities of the coast, to which, at least in theory, provided military support in exchange of advantageous prices for their wares. The Ur-Kot had been nothing but unsubtle and it wasn't nothing to be surprised if the High Elves had decided to keep an eye over their commercial partners for the time being.
And still, this was not the moment to take risks.
The Depthlord summoned a powerful leader of the region, Warlord Zholk, and gave him an army and orders: keep an eye over the High Elves and ascertain their intentions. If they were not hostile, stay clear from them as much as possible, if they tried something that could put Deepkin plans in jeopardy, search for a contact and have them see that the Under-Kingdom had no business with them. If they didn't listen, use any mean necessary to stop them from interfering.
Truzor wasn't happy to see an entire army go, not when he saw a hundred ways to have it better used, but he simply couldn't take the risk. The High Elves had commanders that were ready to take any change in the status quo to try and bring some blow to their perceived enemies and recover their lost power. If he had to focus over the various campaigns across the Southlands, he needed the Land of Assassins out of danger. And if to secure that, he needed to send an army, then so be it. It was better than have Burrows assailed by deadly elves in search of revenge and precious supply lines disrupted.
Acting on the Depthlord's orders, Zholk marched north. He was determinated on making sure than no pointy-eared men-thing interfered with the long-waited moment of rebellion.
Warlord Zholk
Born and bred to lead, Zholk hadn't been overtly enthusiastic at being given a command post into the Lands of Assassins, and even less at being assigned to the second wave of the Ur-Kot. He would have much preferred to lead an assault on a stronghold of the Corrupted, with his premiere choice being the fabled Karak Eight Peaks. For these reasons, the instructions to wait while the first wave went in has been wearing his patience thin and he has welcomed Truzor's order with fierce relief.
Zholk is an experienced commander, having refined his talents through dozen of battles against the Beastmen of the South and decades of military studies. Aggressive and capable, he's well known amongst the Deepkin for his stubborn streak and wrath-like ways, preferring to take an active role in warfare rather than sit and wait. Especially renowed are his piercing offensives that, backed by an iron will, have shattered shieldwalls and enemy defences in their scores.
Physically speaking, Zholk is a towering Deepkin, renowed even amongst the Oathsworns for his massive size and martial might. He's loud, fierce and fanatically loyal to the Under-King, so much that he has tried to copy some of Lantheus's habits, like the legendary scalding baths that the Under-King is said to take to relax. His rambuctious and amicable ways have made him loved by his subordinates, and he has the skill of a rabble rouser, being able to rouse his soldiers' spirits to great heights, another reason of the might of his shattering attacks.
Rather than for his attitude, Truzor has chosen him for his stubborness. To estabilish non-hostile relationships with the High Elves would be good, but what it matters now is that the Ur-Kot proceeds as planned. The Depthlord has no faith in the Ulthuani's width of views and prefers a commander that will bring them to battle rather than back down and risk having them disrupt the Land of Assassins. Diplomacy will run its course, but another time. Still, he has not lacked to send the Shaskar Zzkrit as an advisor to his rambuctious Warlord, just in case the need to curb Zholk's more war-like tendencies present itself.
On his part, Zholk is more than ready to meet the expectations of his superior. He and his Warlords comrades have been given extensive training about the High Elves's methods of war, just for such a case, and he feels more than up to the challenge of fighting them. Sure, he will do his best to resolve the matter as bloodslessly as possible, if just for his soldiers's sakes, but if the pointy ears don't back off, they will feel the spears of the Deep Ones!
Moving northward toward the Bay of Corsairs, Zhulk dispatched emissaries to the city of Abu Hamed. Barely a medium-sized settlement, it still was the largest of the Land of Assassins. Its rulers knew well the Skaven, with which entertained trade, that then continued with the High Elves. The humans had tried their best to keep the fact hidden from their sea-faring trade partners, but, considering the High Elves diplomatic prowess and spy network, it was considered highly unlikely that they didn't know where part of the merchandise they bought came from. Still, lumber, iron and such don't stink, no matter who handles them, and the elven merchants preferred to keep their eyes closed, if only for the big discounts they were given.
The messengers talked to the rulers of the city, asking that they act as intermediaries with the High Elves. The Skaven, they explained, were in the middle of a campaign and wanted to avoid bloodshed. They were Deepkin, sons and daughters of the Goddess, enemies of the Horned Rat, and were ready to pledge themselves as allies to the people of Ulthuan, in exchange for being left alone.
The rulers of Abu Hamed accepted in earnest. They knew the Deepkin as peaceful and helpful folk and the last thing they wanted was for their trading partners to start and tear to each other. Commerce was the lifeblood of their city, and the end of it would mean a disaster. They only asked for the oaths of neutrality that the Deepkin had already given them to be renewed, an act that was done immediately.
Both parts satisfied, messages were dispatched to the elven merchants already into the city, that, in turn, passed them to their compatriots on the ships. While waiting for an answer, Zholk moved his army closer to the city, but remained underground, only sending a contingent of scouts to take first-hand informations on the fleet.
This remained into the bay, with only a handful of ships having docked to Abu Hamed's harbor.
Hidden on the coast, Deepkin scouts watched as the graceful elven ships bobbed gently into the bay, a small forest of sleek forms and golden masts. It wasn't large enough for a true army, but was still enough for a strong contingent of soldiers, an exploratory force sent to take stock of the situation and maybe try to seize a chance. The flags that it hoisted were carefully jotted down: the colours of Cothique and Eataine were prevalent, with the odd one bearing the rampant dragon of Caledor. Remarkable, the people of the Dragon Kingdom weren't exactly known for their diplomacy, but still not a fount of strong concerns. There were only a few of them.
While they observed, a smaller ship came out from the port of the city and sailed gracefully into the waves. It stopped beside the greatest ship, a magnificent specimen of gold and silver bearing the colours of Eataine. That was a relief, the people of Lothern were the most accomodating of their kind.
After a while, the ship detached itself by its elder sister and returned to the harbor.
Messages were exchanged between humans and elves, and then the same messages were brought from the humans to the Skaven, with various reactions.
"Bullcrap."
The Warlord's single word felt like someone had dropped a boulder into the room.
Mage-Engineer Truax sneaked a glance to the rest of the war-council. Nobody looked ready to argue. Even the Shaskar remained silent, her eyes closed as she leaned against her staff.
The Mage-Engineer cleared her throat. Well, it looked like it fell to her.
"I feel that… might be somewhat of a rash judgment, Warlord." She failed to keep the point out of her tone. She wouldn't ever get used to the Warlord's preference for words like those, especially in the presence of the revered Shaskar.
Zholk threw her a narrow glance, but said nothing. Instead, he raised the richly-decorated parchment to his eyes and started to read.
"We, Sea Helm Terillian, speaking for the Phoenix King, Chosen of Asuryan blablabla, in under standing of our long-time allies, the people of the city of Abu Hamed, blablabla, we don't put our trust into the Skaven, as they have proved themselves to be treacherous, but in accordance to King Finubar's wishes, we are ready to lease to said Skaven a lenght of trust, if they accept to not harm the human people of Abu Hamed and offer assurances that they won't harm the subjects of the Phoenix King that will disembark from His Glorious Majesty's fleet. Stamped, signed and all." The Warlord stopped reading, and crumpled the parchment in his fist. "This motherfucker."
Truax flinched a bit, but avoided reprimands. Not like they would change something. "But, Warlord… they show themselves to be understanding…"
"Puah!" Zholt threw the crumpled message to the floor. "Understanding my ass. This motherfurcker doesn't trust us one damn jolt. He has called for reinforcements and now he's just stalling for time. Also, did he ask for permission to disembark? No, he's just going to put down as many soldiers as he want from those damn ships."
The rough, coughing laughter of the Shaskar cut Truax's reply, attracting the general attention.
"I told you that to wait would have been more prudent, young Oathsworn." The ancient priestess raised her heavy brows toward the sullen Warlord, a somewhat ironic expression on her features. "If we had stayed hidden, maybe there would have not been necessity for all of this."
Zholk hit the armrest of his throne with a fist, eyes blazing. "And i repeat you that you were wrong!" He exclaimed irritably. "If we stayed hidden, they would have disembarked and seen how weak we are in this zone right now! Must i remind you that this army is all what stand between them and half of the Burrows of this Land? If they disembarked without opposition, their scouts would have seen how easy it is to march to them! And then who knew where they could have hit? No, i want them to know that this Land is out of their reach, that the Deepkin's grip is so strong that they will get just a bunch of dead elves if they try to take it!" He rose from the throne and started to stalk back and forth, his heavy cape flowing behind him.
"And still…" Replied the Shaskar. "You tried to reach to them, knowing full well that they won't trust any word that comes from our mouth. And now you disregard their own words, knowing that Elves reply to Skaven's words only with lies."
"Of course!" The Warlord replied with anger. "Elves believing the assurances of Skaven? Never! Elves asking of Skaven to be peaceful? Pah! I only wanted for them to see that we are here, and that we see what they do! They may believe what they want of our words, but they will be forced to believe in our vigilance and our strenght! They must see that this is our land, and that we guard it!"
"It's more than this." The heavy brows of the Shaskar rose, her little eyes sparkling beneath. "You want them to see us. That they begin to understand that we stand apart by the Corrupted. That we aren't Them."
The Warlord stopped, all the tension of rage standing for a moment still, before being replaced by solemnity. "Yes, i want that." He murmured.
A moment of silence fell.
The Shaskar's quiet voice broke it. "If you're right, they will return with an army." Her little eyes sparked with mischief. "What are your orders, Warlord?"
Zholk's massive body remained still for a moment, then he turned to his war council. Truax was surprised by the fierce authority that the Warlord seemed to emanate.
Zholk smirked. "Get the engineers ready. We dig in."
Soon after the first contact, the Deepkin army made its appearance. Masses of Kinrats emerged from underground, ranks upon ranks of heavily armored soldiers marching in disciplinated formations. Great contingents of Underunners and Gunrats followed, as well as strong groups of Support teams, Molers and Runters.
To the nervousness of the people of Abu Hamed, this army set camp not much far from the city, in a large savannah plain that ended with the forest to the west and the Bay of Corsairs to the north. Large contingents of engineers built wooden walls, reinforced by strange, mechanical contraptions, dug trenches and set up gun emplacements, while the soldiery raised tents and hovels, and the logistical corps set up their own buildings. In a short time, an entire new city had sprouted, with its own shops and means of supplying.
Warlord Zholk intentions of intimidating the Elves gave life to imposing preparations, with entire Brigades marching daily across the savannah in training exercises. Meanwhile, the Shaskar had a great place of worship set up and started to hold massive ceremonies honoring the Goddess, as well as processions and rituals of detestation, all in an attempt to show that the Deepkin didn't worship the Horned Rat.
None really believed that it would be enough to assuage an age of mutual distrust, but still they worked and marched and prayed. They had to begin somewhere.
If they were impressed, the Elves didn't show it. With the approvation from the Skaven, their ships docked into the port of Abu Hamed and disembarked a contingent of silvery-armored soldiers. A minority lodged into taverns or pitched tents into the city square, while the rest set camp farther north and close to the coast, where they enjoyed protection by their ships' artillery.
Zholk thought about keeping his own contingent to house into the city - he had no illusions; that was an occupation and nothing less - but was convinced otherwise by his advisors, and pulled his soldiers out. Instead, he had his engineers build a series of forts close to Abu Hamed and had the new spread that the humans were free to come and trade with Deepkin merchants whenever they wanted. After a bit of uncertainty, the elves allowed for it, but the doors of Abu Hamed were firmly closed after twilight, a clear sign of who was in command of the city now.
For a time, the High Elves busied themselves fortificating their new encapment while the Deepkin informed with the humans come to trade about the situation inside the city. It had turned out that the Ulthuani had aquainted themselves as good-mannered, if cold, guests, giving off the little-hidden impression that the humans of Abu Hamed had let themselves be bought by the Skaven, or were held in thrall by some foul mean. Assurances on the contrary had been given, but the Elves had remained unconvinced. They had said that they would remain until "they had a clear view of the entire situation", a phrase nobody held any illusion about.
Still, nothing could be done, for now.
Things threatened to change when the elven fortifications were complete. Under cover of night, a small army of keen-eyed elven scouts swarmed out to explore the land.
Despite having foreseen it, Zholk knew that his soldiers couldn't match the Ulthuani when it came to stealth and reconaissance. Still, he intended to make up for it. Abu Hamed stood in a small peninsula, and the elven camp was even further north in it. The Warlord had formed a noose around its opening with his line of forts, and now he went to reinforce it. He had a first line of surveillance made up of over-sized patrols that acted in shift, without ever letting up the control. After it, a second line was formed by riders that moved in loose formations and followed the same, costant effort. Third, another line, this one mixed and reinforced with mages. For this task, he didn't spare his veteran Underrunners and Underdwellers, experts in stealth and tracking, be it by eye or nose.
So, it started a sort of a secret war, with the elves trying to sneak out and then back in without getting caught, and the Deepkin that sought to intercept them. The Ulthuani had the edge when it came to skill, and, testament to it, managed to pull up an impressive string of succesful missions, but the Skaven replied by sheer numbers and commitment.
Eventually, something that Zholk had hoped for happened: an Elven scout was captured.
Grok watched the elf with a mix of curiosity and distaste. No matter how many times he saw their kind, he couldn't bring himself to stop disliking them. No whiskers, no tail, no fur, no hunch. And, worst of all, that horrible, expressionless flat face that he always struggled to understand. Yuck, ugly. Ugly ugly ugly.
If the elf perceived his thoughts, she didn't show it. Well, he thought the elf was a she. She had the tiny bumps on her chest - only two? Yuck! - and somewhat softer features than the males. At least in this, they strayed a bit toward the normal. Nasty beasties.
"Hey, elf!" He greeted, deciding that the quicker he was done with this, the better.
The she-elf said nothing, her face an expressionless mask as she glared at him. Swathed in the mimetic garb of the elven scout, she stood tall and defiant, apparently unconcerned by the Skaven sorrounding her.
Grok couldn't but smirk a bit. She had fight in her, this one. Now, that was something he could get on.
"I don't know if you understand me, but here's the deal." He waved his spear to emphasize. "We aren't going to roast you or anything, we are going to let you go." The elf's posture stiffened of the smallest it, making Grok's grin grow larger. Ah, so she understand, did she? "But in exchange you bring this to your bosses." He gestured to a Skaven soldier that, eying warily the she-elf, carried a sealed parchment, stamped with the claw-mark of Zholk. "My bosses want to pick up the conversation with your bosses. They left it a bit in the middle, eh?"
The she-elf watched the parchment being offered to her, but, apart from clenching her fists, didn't move.
Grok rolled his eyes. "Boys, get on with it."
The she-elf didn't look very much pleased after the Deepkin let her go, the elven encampment on sight on the horizon. Well, Grok had to admit, he also wouldn't be happy if someone took away his bow, arrows and weapons - boy, that girl had a lot of weapons -, tied him like a chicken, put a parchment on his back and sent him marching away alone in the night. Still, she was alive, wasn't she? That had to be worth something.
The message explained the Deepkin's position in a way that left no room for misunderstandings.
This was their land, they said, and they were more than ready to defend it with blade and magic against any threat. But, they were also ready to be accomodating. They would give the Elves commercial privileges, respect the neutrality of the people of Abu Hamed, not interfere in any way with trade and even allow the High Elves to mantain a garrison in the territory of the city. The Elves had only to keep their forces in the region under a threshold of one thousand soldiers and twenty ships, not build any stone-type fortification and not send their troops more than twenty miles in-land. The tone of the letter was firm, but also hopeful for a possible understanding that, maybe, could become the beginning of a mutual cooperation.
Zholk, that had stamped its claw-mark only grudgingly, didn't share the optimism of the majority of his advisors. Not by words, he felt, that mistrust would be ended, but by facts and shed blood.
Still, surprisingly enough, two days later a human from the city presented himself to one of the forts, carrying a reply.
The Elves declared that they were inclined to accept, but that they needed the approvation from their superiors back on Ulthuan before. A magical comunication had been sent already, and they were only waiting for the reply. Still, they requested insurances that the Skaven would not return on their word.
Zholk wasn't pleased by how the Elves kept referring to them only as Skaven, while he kept insisting on the Deepkin. Nor he missed the implicit threat: the elves were in costant communication with their homeland, they could bring out the big guns whenever they felt.
Chewing on bitterness, he made the human messenger carry the reply. The Deepkin, Deepkin!, would send hostages to the Elves, and allow a minor Burrow, the closer to the city, to be put under elven tutelage. It was an enormous concession, and one that Zholk was not keen at all to give, but his advisors had managed to convince him. The Elves, they said, wouldn't trust them without at least such a concession.
The Elves accepted, and it was so that a contingent of hostages was sent toward Abu Hamed. The Shaskar Zzkrit led them, the ancient Deepkin, too old to walk, carried by a small litter. To see the Shaskar go was a heavy blow for the Deepkin, but it was a sign of hope too. How could the Elves doubt the Deepkin, after seeing the holiness of the Shaskar? Many consoled themselves with that thought, even while their hearts ached for the loss.
Indications for the Burrow were exchanged, and a contingent of elven scouts was allowed to pass the Deepkin lines. They reached the settlement, hidden deep in the forest. Many worried gazes were thrown by the inhabitants toward that silent line of garbed figures, but the elves didn't remain. They stalked back as quick as they had come, returning to their encampment.
His advisors pushed him to give a show of trust, maybe retreating further back from the sea, but Zholk didn't let himself be convinced this time. The elves had to do their part before he allowed for more concessions.
Despite the Warlord's own attitude, for the following week optimism was at an all-time high.
The elves had stopped their exploratory runs and the people of Abu Hamed said that they seemed to have somewhat relaxed. Even the hostages were allowed, from time to time and only in small groups, to return to camp. Sure, the elves didn't show any trace of wanting to pull back yet, but, hey, it wasn't an easy feat. Maybe they had their own back and forth with their bosses back in Ulthuan, trying to decide what to do. And anyway, even if they decided to go for it and an army showed up, the Deepkin were securely entrenched and fortified. Military discipline was never let up and every soldier slept with his weapons close at hand. The Ulthuani would see that to try violence was to run toward disaster.
To many, it seemed that the diplomatic approach was going to give good fruit.
Then the dragons came.
It was deep in the night and fog blanketed everything. Fires burned low and, in their postations in the forts, sentries squinted into the foggy dark.
A cry came, powerful and reverberating. Soldiers in guard duty jumped and looked around, trying to understand where it had come from.
"What is happening?" Shouted a Spearchief, but none knew the answer. Soldiers rushed to their positions. Eyes peered into the night sky, fingers closed around spears's handles.
Suddenly, a shadow covered the stars.
The soldiers managed to widen their eyes, but not to shout. Flame washed over them, and everything was death and destruction.
Mighty wings into the night, the brilliant light of the angry flames, and the roars, the horrible roars, rising high into the sky. And the fire feasted, over mangled bodies and crumblimg wood.
The line of forts that the Deepkin had built to block the access to the peninsula was burst apart. Five dragons, having come unseen into the night, fell upon it like birds of prey. They burned the wooden walls and the soldiers manning them, then fell upon what remained with fangs and claws.
Taken by surprise, overhelmed by the titanic beasts, the Deepkin fell to chaos. They broke and ran, searching desperately to escape. Hundreds of them were killed, burned by flame, ripped apart by claws, hunted into the darknened savannah for all night.
Only a few, the ones that had managed to keep their wits, managed tor reach the main encampment, bringing frantic word of what was happening.
The wrath of Zholk was terrible, but he couldn't do nothing. He couldn't ran into the night wihout preparation, risking to have his own soldiers become prey to elven ambushers.
Almost foaming at the mouth, he ordered the defences manned and that none leave them until order came. The Deepkin obeyed, and for them a night of nightmare passed as, huddling in their trenches and behind their cannons, they had to listen to the roars of monsters and the screams of their unfortunate comrades, coming from the unpenetrable darkness that stood beyond the light of their torches.
Eventually, dawn arrived, and the savannah showed its face once more. A face that had become ghastly.
Where the forts stood, there were only ruins of burned wood, while the mangled bodies of the fugitives dotted the countryside. A group of them stood barely outside of the circle of light projected by the torches, reached by doom a step away from safety.
Blinking blearily into the foggy air of morning, the Deepkin were still trying to come to terms with the tragedy, when the call of a clarion pierced the silence, cristalline and clear.
An army of elven soldiers advanced into the countryside, a sea of glittering silver bristling with spears. The banners of Eataine and Cothique billowed into the rising wind of the morning, out-numbered by the rampant dragon of Caledor. Above the host, the five dragons flew, their roars filling the sky.
Looking at that army, Zholk felt immense wrath, but knew that he couldn't give battle, not now that his soldiers were demoralised and exhausted by an entire night without sleeping. Biting back his emotions, he ordered a general retreat.
The Deepkin camp was connected to the underground by large openings, and it was to these now that the soldiers, barely held into a cohesive formation by their Chiefs, streamed to. The elves didn't give chase, limiting themselves to just watch as the ratmen disappeared underground.
Zholk was the last to retreat from the rising sun, his thoughts a mix of hatred for the elves and of deep, deep anguish for his lost soldiers and those that he had given away as hostages.
Shaskar Zzkrit closed the eyes of the unmoving soldier. There was sadness in her chest, like a stone lodged there. Poor child, poor Thruk, he had fought so hard to defend her.
She turned her eyes up, to the assassin, towering over her.
"Imrik of Caledor." She said, that name seeming to burn her tongue with the fire of volcans and mighty reptils.
Imrik was like a dragon would be in human form. Imposing like doom, lofty like the burning mountains. Fierce light burned in his eyes, the smouldering of flame.
Zzkrit felt his disdain, his pride, his strenght; it pushed over her like the heat from an open furnace. She had seen Thruk rip apart a Troll, and still the head of his guards had been but a child before the Dragon King of Caledor.
"You are indeed a fearsome warrior, the scourge of your enemies." She said, holding that smouldering gaze. She didn't fear death, she had lived enough, but the sadness in her breast was immense. "But you are also a fool."
Imrik raised his sword for a killing strike.
Zzkrit never turned to look the falling blade. "I am Zzkrit. Remember my name. You'll hear it again."
The sword fell.
Abu Hamed had been cleansed of the Skaven taint.
With the arrival of Imrik, the situation had been completely changed. The proud lord of Caledor had received news of the empasse in the Land of Assassins by his own subjects into the fleet, and had been appaled. Sons and daughters of Ulthuan, lowering themselves to negotiate with vermin? That would not stand.
He had put together an army and, leading it personally, took to the sea, determinated to put an end to the humiliating charade. In a way, the news had been almost welcomed. Ulthuan was at peace for far too long for his taste, and he had been itching for a fight.
Riding on his comrade, the great dragon Minaithnir, he had flown across the ocean, other four dragons at his side.
Taken contact with the elven fleet, he had immediately dismissed the Sea Helm in command and had him thrown in jail. The fool had actually allowed himself to be impressed by the lies of the Skaven, and wavered from the rightful proposition of just slaughtering them wholesale, instead losing time in bumbling discussions. If not for treason, he deserved to be jailed for his idiocy alone.
The rest of the command staff, wavering morons of Cothique and Eataine that had shared their commander's lack of character, were put aside and the command was given to proper Caledorian nobles.
Then, Imrik had set himself to work.
The fools had let themselves to be bottled up into the small peninsula, allowing the Skaven to erect a series of fortifications. If the elves were to resume freedom of movement, they had to be destroyed.
Caledor had his mages raise a magical fog, and, under its protective pall, the fleet he had brought from Ulthuan entered into harbour. Abu Hamed had been seized immediately, its inhabitants stopped from betraying the elves to the foul Skaven, while the rest of the army disembarked north, joining with the troops already on the ground.
Then, with the fall of night, the dragons had attacked.
The strike had been quick and devastating, and, as expected, the Skaven broke and ran as the cowards they were. Imrik had his dragons keep up their hunt for all night, a fitting refreshment after the long boredom of peace, and a good tool to spread further terror.
It had worked, so much that the Skaven had abandoned the rest of the fortifications, retreating underground.
Imrik hadn't given chase - the under world was a treacherous place, and the Skaven weren't to be thrusted -, but it didn't matter. The region was ripe for the taking now.
Bands of outsider were unleashed, tasked with attacking the Burrow that the Skaven had revealed - Imrik was appaled by the carelessness with which they sold each other's lives, but what could be expected by vermin? -. Still, the ratmen had vacated the area already. The outsiders burned filthy hovels and tore down flimsy buildings, but that was that.
Imrik didn't think much about it, he had more urgent things to care about.
After a careful consideration, he decided to adopt a defensive stance. He was loath to let the ratmen think him scared, but it played all to his advantage. He could take control of the Land of Assassins, but he didn't have with him the numbers to keep it, and the Skaven would bring guerrilla against his out-stretched forces, with mounting casualties and no gains. On the other side, these filthy rats seemed very keen to keep the place for themselves. Probably, the turmoil in the mountains had to do with some very important campaign of them, and they wanted their flank to be secured. If he gave them time to overcome their craven insticts, it was likely they would return in force to try and push him out. And then, he woud crush them all in a single swoop, freeing that land from their taint for decades to come. Ulthuan would have been freed to estabilish colonies to make use of its resources.
Yes, that was the right approach.
Set on his course of action, Imrik gathered his war-council, and started to hand out his orders.
Meanwhile, deep underground, Zholk's rage simmered.
The air in the war-council was heavy. The loss of the Shaskar had been a heavy blow for everybody, like someone had snatched away the light that led their steps, leaving only cold darkness in its stead.
It didn't help that everybody know that they were the only one to blame for what had happened. They had been the one to trust the elves, and their brothers and sisters had paid for it.
And still, the atmosphere in the room wasn't one of surrender, nor of resignation. They were past those by now. Now, officers snapped at the air like angry dogs, or stood as still as ice statues. Those that earlier had called for peace now passed tongues over chisel-like teeth and caressed the hilts of weapons. And all the presents shared the same, smouldering eyes.
The war-council thrummed with barely contained anger, destructive energy just teetering out of sight. Truax could feel it, almost taste it, an electric discharge dancing over the tongue, like when she worked with caged lightning. She knew that her eyes were just the same as those, and she didn't care.
At the center of that surging energy, the Warlord towered, a mass of brooding shadows, unmoving, like someone had sculpted a hulking Deepkin out of iron.
The Oathsworn guards kneeled before their lord in a half-circle. Hands gripped sheated weapons, jaws were clenched, shoulders tensed.
Truax couldn't bring herself to understand the depth of the bond that tied Warlords to their Oathsworns, it was a thing moulded by birth and unrelenting dedication, nor she could understand what to fail meant for those that had made of victory for their race reason of their existence. And still, in that smouldering energy that she felt in her in that moment, she felt to have seized upon at least a flicker of that flame.
"We have sent them our light." The voice of the Warlord was like a knife in the tense air. Deep, brooding, it had a growl to it that made Truax's fur stand on an end. "And they have smothered it. They have robbed us of it." The Warlord didn't turn to assess their determination, didn't hesitate, he just asked. "Will you follow me into vengeance and retribution?"
None in the council said nothing. They just kneeled before their Warlord, offering him their weapons, offering themselves to follow him into the jaws of hell itself.
And just like that, the decision for bloody battle was taken.
In his corner, Grok thumped a hand over his paunch and let out a fierce laughter.
The betrayals of the pacts and the murder of the Shaskar, which new was brought by a soldier that ha managed to escape from the city, plunged the Deepkin into dejection, then, into bloody anger.
The time for diplomacy was gone. Now, they would throw the elves back into the sea by force of arms and avenge their fallen comrades and prophet with the blood of Ulthuan.
To the sound of drums and war-horns, the Deepkin emerged. Rank after rank of Kinrats, Underrunners and Gunrats, tens of thousands of ratmen soldiers thirsty for revenge. With them, clanking machines rolled forward, pushed by gears and pistons and chugging steam.
This time, Zholk didn't seek to set camp nor to stall. He deployed right at the center of the Land of the Assassins, where the savannah was an uninterrupted expanse. He showed Imrik that he wasn't going to hide, he threw the gauntlet to the Dragon King, challenging him to come forward.
And Imrik came.
The Lord of Dragons didn't think that the Skaven attacked out of revenge or challenge. For him, they weren't enough to conceive such notions. Even now, he thought they came to battle only out of hunger and foolish spite. What else could be pushing them to face the mighty dragons?
It didn't matter. They had offered themselves on a silver plate. He only had to reach and take victory now.
At his order, the Elves left their encampment and marched south to meet the invaders. Their host made for a marvelous sight in the morning light, the silver of Eataine mixing with flaming red of Caledor into a glittering whole. As one the Elves marched, like a beast of legend came to slay its enemies.
The two armies met into a wide savannah plain, with no natural obstacle in sight but grass and bushes burned by the sun.
Imrik could be arrogant and prideful like only a Dragon Lord could be, but he was all but an unexperienced commander. He instantly recognized that the Skaven before him were of quality uncommon, and reacted accordingly.
His army was composed of roughly twelve thousands soldiers, of which nine thousands was infantry.
Imrik had his spearmen form up into a checkerboard formation, with the spaces between the first line filled with masses of archers. The second line was formed instead by Sea Guards. Dozens of Lothern Sky Cutters floated above the infantry lines, ready to offer support. The strengh of this formation was spread evenly, as Imrik counted on using it only as an anvil with which to hold the enemy force. The true hammer of his army was the cavalry, three thousands proud Ulthuan knights, of which one thousand Ellyran Reavers, one thousand and four hundred Silver Helms, resplendant in their Ithilmar liveries, and the rest a small but powerful core of elite Dragon Princes, haughty princes enclosed by superb armors and wielding powerful lances, whose charge could shatter any defence. He had them form up on both flanks, holding the Dragon Princes in reserve.
And still, the element upon which Imrik put all of his trust was in the sky. Five Dragons, three of which were Sun Dragons, one a Moon Dragon, upon which the Dragon Mage Calandrias rode, and the last his own steed, mighty Minaithnir. The Dragon King had little experience fighting Skaven, having passed the great part of his carrer battling Dark Elves, but believed that little could stand in the way of such a force.
He also had a number of Eagle Bolt Throwers, that he had positioned in the rear, and a contingent of some hundreds scouts, soldiers trained to fight as Shadow Warriors, but he held them in little esteem. No true warrior would fight in such cowardly way. Still, under the insistence of the chief scout, whose sister had suffered some kind of insult by the ratmen, he allowed them to try and disable the warmachines that the Skaven would presumibly make use of. Imrik doubted that they could prove much of a problem, but still.
His forces set, the Dragon King vaulted over his comrade's back and flew on the sky, thirst for battle burning in his chest.
On the other side, Zholk was making his own preparations.
Differently from Imrik, he had extensive knowledge of the High Elves's ways. After the failed Invasion of Eataine by Clan Scrab, the lords of the Under-Kingdom, worried by the might of the Ulthuani, had started a thorough reasearch about how they made war. The Deepkin had bought elven weapons and armors, heard reports of spies and witnesses, used magical scrying and funded Errant Lodges's researches. That knowledge had been accumulated, conservated and then passed to Warlords like Zholk.
Now, for example, Zholk knew that elven bows outranged those of the Deepkin, arriving to surpass even Ratmuskets, as well as a bunch of other things that could be vital on the battlefield.
The Warlord was knee-deep in anger, but he didn't forget what he knew, and acted accordingly.
His army outnumbered the Elves considerably, consisting of a grand total of forty-five thousands battle-ready soldiers, of which thirty-five thousands were infantry and the rest cavarly and other types.
He had his Kinrat form up into two lines, with a strong center made up of Storm Rats and Red Bands forming into a double wedge. This formation opened to give space to three Juggernauts. Behind, Zholk had Underrunners armed with bows and slings, and Gunrats, muskets and Thumpers. On the flanks, he positioned his Warmolers and Runters, behind them contingents of Underrunners armed with pikes and his Hailshots. In the rear, he had his numerous cannons and mortars. Finally, behind the second line, his own command post. He stood sorrounded by his Oathsworn guards, the few Patriarchs he had with him, a battery of cannons, all his Mage-Engineers and acolytes and all of his Underdwellers. His standard was raised for all to see, a great banner depicting two claws breaking a curved horn. Beside it, another banner stood, the claw-mark representing the name of Zzkrit.
When the deployement was complete, the sun already in its way to ascend into the sky, Zholk advanced into the savannah. He watched his soldiers, controlling their arrangement, then the elven army into the distance, glittering beneath the light.
He turned to his mages and guards. They nodded or just gave him determinated glares, words unnecessary.
Zholk nodded on turn, then turned to look forward. For a moment, he enjoyed the morning breeze, the refresh it brought from the hot air of the south. Then, he gestured to his herald.
The Oathsworn brought the horn to his lips and blew, drawing a long and prolunged sound that rose high into the morning sky. The Deepkin clenched their weapons harder at hearing it. The Elves, wavered a little. Those of Eataine and Cothique, they had seen the Shaskar, heard her words. In their hearts, they doubted.
Atop his dragon, Imrik didn't doubt. He looked upon the army arrayed against him, then on the banner of its commander, raised for all those that owned the sky to see. He felt the gaze of the one standing underneath, felt the weight of his anger, his challenge.
A rat dared to challenge a dragon?
With a snarl, Imrik launched a cry. Rallying to his call, the dragons followed him and Minaithnir as they soared forward.
The dragons attacked directly the postation of the Warlord.
Author's notes: I am usually a follower of the politics of "Authors don't talk", but, eh, what the hell. With this, i'm starting a bit of a chronicle of the Ur-Kot, the rising of the Deepkin. It will be a string of battles against various races, interspersed with the rest of the Codex. For a change, i'd like to talk of the present instead of the past. Them boys of GW talked of the past for thirty something years and when they talked of the present, they blew out the world. So, yeah, let's talk of the present, but let's keep the world there. Goddammit, i don't like Age of Sigmar. Also, Imrik is a moron. And i am talking about the Canon Imrik. I hate him. Fuck dragons.
Anyway, in this chapter i have given more space to negotiation nonsense and number nonsense, part because i felt that the High Elves deserve a bit of brain-twisting diplomacy around them, and the rest because i am a filthy nerd. But Warhammer is a bad place and so battle and doom for all at the end of the day. Or just maybe.
A big thanks for all those that left and will leave a review. I love to hear about you guys' opinions on this little project, it really makes my day. So, if you have something you want to say, opinions, ideas, making me notice mistakes, don't hesitate to go ahead and say it. Do it, or rats will post a really unimpressed review of your house on the internet.
Peace.