Daughters and Sons of the Horned Rat,
I pray you to forgive me, I had some minor annoyances in recent weeks. Nothing serious, don't worry about that, but what to delay somewhat my work. No doubt the effect of Geheimnisnacht...
Anyway, I didn't stop the writing, on the contrary. I admit that this chapter has caused me some problems of "white page syndrome". I hope the fanfiction won't lose in quality, and that I won't lose your kind attention.
Thank you for your loyalty, the adventure continues and won't definitively stop too early.
Glory to the Horned Rat!
Morrslieb was high in the sky, while Mannslieb was declining. For the people of the Old World, this alignment was a bad omen. Every citizen of the Empire, every inhabitant of the country of the High Elves, Norsca, Lustria, to the icy and mortal mountains of Naggaroth, everyone knew the harmful influence of the warpstone moon. Only the Feral Skaven didn't curse its sight. And so, the guards patrolling the streets, around Steinerburg and on the castle walls, were always more vigilant during this period, even if they were not always aware of it. Superstitions often generate contradictory or beneficial behaviours. Who could say?
Larn, in any case, tried to keep this idea in mind. For him, as for his people, Morrslieb bore good luck.
Larn of Clan Eshin was about to accomplish the greatest of all exploits, and make all his peers die of envy and admiration. He had prepared himself for six long moons, had concocted the most violent poisons, grinded his sharpest knives. Then there was the journey to the hideout of the infamous Psody, the greatest traitor of the Sons of the Horned Rat, the Blasphemous One, before finally reaching his hutch.
While delicately sharpening the blade of his dagger in the darkness one more time, the dark grey Skaven recalled the previous few nights.
His Nightleader had declared it in front of all the members of Clan Eshin of the community: the whole Country of the Apostates to the Horned Rat was a trap. These false brothers had been removed out of their legitimate burrows when they were mere pups, and more, had also been deprived of the future of the Skaven race. The men-things had violated their domains, and then captured the Sons of the Horned Rat.
These could have been forgiven by the Skaven god if they had just been loosely eliminated, before they were old enough to defend themselves. But the worst had happened: the men-things had turned them to larvae, poor soft slugs, unable to fully feel the luck they had to be the instruments of a god as fair and perfect as the Horned Rat. The Nightleader had said it in a voice tensed with anger and sorrow: the Skaven had fallen to become men-things.
Larn couldn't bring himself to believe such an aberration. How could real Skaven show such cowardice, such weakness, such ingratitude? No, the Nightleader couldn't have told the truth. He had lied. Or he had been lied to. But when the dark grey-haired Skaven had been volunteer to leave the burrow to end the life of the Blasphemous One, he had sunk into this province of the surface that was nicknamed the "Rat Kingdom". And he had seen with his own eyes the true horror.
Thus, tamed by the men-things Skaven behaved like them! They dressed with the same clothes, spoke the same language, and on top of that, had the nerve to fully live this way! None seemed ready to break his chains, regain the Under-Empire and claim what was his right. None seemed unhappy at the idea of being reduced to the status of poor, harmless sheep.
Everything was the fault of the Blasphemous One. He would pay very soon. And the price would be his life.
Larn didn't have much difficulty in reaching the main city where men-things and traitors used to coexist. The hardest thing was to move in the open air. These miserable false Skaven didn't have tunnels. They were therefore forced to bear the offensive light of the sun. He had moved only at night, and had taken care to quickly dig a burrow to hide as soon as the horizon cleared. But he had taken the time to observe the false Skaven. These didn't seem at all bothered by the celestial, hated by the Sons of the Horned Rat fireball. On the contrary, they laughed, they lived without thinking of fighting to determinate who the strongest was. They were all softened, unable to honour their Clan in any way. Anyway, they didn't have any Clan. No Skryre technology, no Eshin trick and intelligence, no Moulder flesh improvements, and no Pestilens concoctions. And above all, no spiritual guide chosen by the Horned Rat to guide them. Once, in a hamlet, he had even seen from a distance a gathering of men-things around a small altar dedicated to one of their shabby gods, and the Skaven had sat in the service with the same passion as the men-things had shown!
All were really doomed to be roaches, happy to be exploited by men-things. And the main culprit was the worst of all the traitors: a White Skaven!
Just by thinking of such ingratitude, Larn felt his blood boiling. Thousands of Skaven were ready to kill to be born with the Grace of the Horned Rat. No, in fact, all the Skaven were ready to kill, except for the weak and the foolish. And this one proved the latest ingratitude by thus disdaining the most sacred gift of the only true God.
It was time for all this sacrilegious folly to stop.
The great city of men-things where the Blasphemous One was hidden was equipped with a sewerage system. Everything was new, it was work crafted by dwarf-things, no doubt. They had first brought vital water through a huge aqueduct and then built this network to allow it to circulate. A lot of work that had probably mobilized a lot of labourers.
Larn didn't know it, but the Dwarves who had developed this system had to work "quickly", and content themselves with doing the essentials, without any decoration. They had not been particularly pleased with the result, but Steiner had given them enough money to lull their pride. The people of Steinerburg had wanted solid, practical and efficient sewers quickly, they were not as demanding as the Karak people.
This network had allowed the Skaven of Clan Eshin to sneak up safely to the edge of the traitor's property. Thick grills encased in the ducts had prevented him from going further, but he was determined not to let himself be stopped. He had waited for the night to slip out of the sewers and lead into a dark impasse a few yards from the entrance.
It was time to take action. The sight of Morrslieb's green glow warmed his heart. He was going to fill his Clan with pride and admiration.
First, he had to get inside. Piece of cheese cake for the Gutter Runner. After three jumps, he was on the roof of the large building facing the perimeter wall that circled the estate. He quickly spotted three sentinels patrolling each one of its side. He smiled cruelly; his plan just gained a new possibility.
He took momentum, and made an immense leap to receive himself with suppleness on the rampart. He slipped silently to the porch of one of the turrets crossed by the walkway. Quickly, he jumped to hide under a big support beam. Then he waited, ordering his heart to slow down. It only took a handful of seconds to it to beat the measure as if nothing had happened.
The sound of footsteps increased, louder and louder. The shadow of a softened Skaven stood out under the semicircle of the porch. By the time it was right under the Gutter Runner, its life stopped. Larn slumped down on it, and in the movement slapped a hand over its mouth, before slitting its throat with a jerk of his curved dagger with his other hand. The prey didn't have time to understand that it was already dead, and flaccid on the arms of the Eshin Skaven. Larn hurriedly took off its chainmail and its helmet to put them on. He glanced over the parapet, inward. A huge park surrounded the property where the Blasphemous One was miserably hiding. With bushes.
Larn had to hold back a sneer. He made sure to be out of sight of the other guards, then dropped the body of his new victim in a big bush. The remains disappeared in a rustle of foliage.
That was almost too easy.
Larn observed for a long minute the other guards, thus assimilating their way. Then, he tried to keep himself upright, as man-things did needlessly. This piece of armour forced him to do it, anyway. He picked up the spear that fell on the carved stone, threw up his chest, and took the path that probably the freshly dead sentry should have followed. He entered the field of view of the other guards. Now was the moment of truth. His helmet concealed his features, and he managed to walk back to the green moon as much as he could. His heart was pounding at once with apprehension and excitement when he was within earshot of a traitor-Skaven.
He crossed it.
This one didn't react.
One step further, then two, then three...
Still no reaction.
This time, victory was ineluctable.
Of course, he couldn't enter frankly in the property, his belonging to the Under-Empire, and therefore his physical and mental superiority, would be noticed. Which would cause the Blasphemous One to hide behind his army and his magic. But he wouldn't continue playing the traitor-Skaven game for long.
He spotted a dark corner in a backyard, next to the property. He could go there, get rid of the stuff made by men-things, then reach the Blasphemous One window, and put an end to his miserable existence.
He paused for a brief moment, to find the round wall staircase which was the closest to the big house, visualised the path to take, the one that would allow him to stay as much as possible in the shade, and set off, the slight clatter of his outfit partially concealed by the distant singing of an owl.
While approaching, he took care especially not to slow down the pace of his steps, nor accelerate. The guards were on the lookout for the slightest suspicious movement, the least unusual attitude. He had to be invisible. Stay upright, and stay calm. The small insects that usually fled the burrows streaked the night with their unpleasant buzz, which tickled Larn's sensitive eardrums. But he had heard worse. Above him, a bat flew, and even gave a little cry echoing the owl's ululation. That was a good omen more.
Larn felt his ear spin as the night bird burst the silence with its characteristic sound again. The Gutter Runner was more accustomed to scraping caverns, noisy rattling of huge tregaras, or subterranean rivers water flow. He nevertheless found with relief this particular sound. Men-things made water flow by statues bearing the image of their feeble deities and their pathetic heroes. He precisely distinguished some of these weak idols.
Finally, he found himself in the backyard. The owls continued their choir, it became almost annoying. One of them even sang not far from his position, so much so that he slipped in a moment behind a pile of bundles of wood, faster than a snake.
He let a long minute pass, then when he decided that there was definitely nothing to fear, he put down his spear, let his chainmail slip to the ground, then his helmet. Finally, he looked at the big building.
Lots of glazed openings. Only one leads to the Blasphemous One. I must not be wrong-wrong!
And to avoid that, there was a simple and effective way.
Larn took out of his pocket a fragment of cloth that his Nightleader had given him. In its fibres was impregnated the smell of the Blasphemous One. He stuck the silky piece of fabric in his nostrils, and inhaled frankly several times. Once he was sure of himself, he took the fabric off his muzzle and ate it in one bite. Then he concentrated, and soon the smell was as clear to him as if a cloud of fireflies had materialized in front of the right window.
Fourth floor!
And as if the Horned Rat himself wanted to help him, a thick, black cloud passed in front of Morrslieb. A shadow engulfed irresistibly the surroundings. It was now or never.
Larn leaped from hiding secretly to the foot of the wall. The rough stones and the timbering were so many catches that facilitated his ascent. He glanced at the park. Nobody seemed to have spotted him. The sentinels were still patrolling. He reached the window.
The Eshin assassin had already killed men-things in full sleep. He had all the necessary tools to clear any obstacle in silence, including the windows. First, we had to open the shutters. He fumbled in his satchel, took out a small iron bar with a hook, and tried to lift the latch that held the shutters. He slowly turned one of the wooden panels. Then he gently grasped between his fingers a small piece of diamond, and cut cleanly a hole in the glass panel with. He was able to pass his hand through the opening, and open the window. Then he entered the room, making sure to receive himself as lightly as possible on the wooden floor.
The room was still dark, but Larn could analyse it. It was spacious, included some furniture. A tissue carpet insulated his toes from the floorboards. And a few yards away, no more than half a dozen, the Gutter Runner spotted a bed.
However, the sense that reacted mostly was not his sight, but his sense of smell.
No mistake.
The characteristic odour of the Blasphemous One floated in the room.
He's there! Don't know precisely-precisely where, but he is there! You're dead-dead!
Larn looked at the bed. He knew that men-things slept on mattresses laid on this kind of wooden frame. The traitor had adopted the same custom, without any doubt. He distinctly saw a shape nestled under the sheets, and his smile stretched into a frightful grimace when he spotted two long horns that protruded to rest on the pillow. He put his hand on his belt, closed his fingers on the handle of his dagger, and took it out of its scabbard, inch after inch. When the blade of iron covered with dried blood was at the height of his muzzle, he drew a small vial from one of his pockets with his free hand, uncorked it, and poured over the whole length of his weapon the poison that he had concocted. Manticore venom mixed with warp bat blood, with some glitter of warpstone. No chance of survival for whoever received even a drop in its heart.
Larn carefully wrapped his tail around the dagger's handle, slowly flexed his legs, and concentrated. He mentally calculated the energy he would have to put in his legs to make a jump long enough to land next to the bed. In the swing, he would take a turn on himself, and whip down his dagger on his target. The Blasphemous One would only take a few seconds to die. He would take his head, and bring it back to Skavenblight, and win the finest reward a Skaven could dream. Dozens of breeders, mountains of warpstone, and perhaps a place in the Council of Thirteen? Everything was at hand.
Once he was sure of it, he took a deep breath and started. The poisoned blade zinged to the bed. But instead of the short, dry noise that usually sounded when a knife was stuck in a piece of meat, there was a loud bang and a disturbing hiss, while a cloud of gas escaped from the bed and rose quickly to the nostrils of the Gutter Runner. Distraught, Larn felt his legs wobbling under his weight. The whole world twisted around him. He felt dizzy. It was then that he saw a silhouette bending over him, the figure of a Skaven with its face covered with a metal mask resembling those of Clan Skryre globadiers. He just had time to notice two horns above the mask, then the world collapsed around him.
An icy slap woke up the Eshin with a start.
- So, you really thought you could carve me so easily?
Larn shook vigorously his head. He had such a headache that for a moment he was afraid of having his head split in two. He opened widely his eyes, and saw two Skaven. The first, the closest to him, was a Stormvermin. Much taller and stronger than he was, it still held in its hands the bucket of water from which it had just cast the contents on his face. It wore a tunic with puffed sleeves, like those of men-things. But its figure seemed bulky under the coloured stuffs. Its gaze didn't suggest any compassion. The Eshin quickly focused on the second, and his blood just boiled.
The Blasphemous One was in front of him. He was ridiculously small, and skinny. Really, the Horned Rat had doubly a strange idea in granting his most sacred blessing to an individual as weak physically and with such treacherous ideas. Really, he was not terrifying, he was just a shabby little ingrate.
And yet there was in his pink eyes a determination Larn had never seen anywhere, not even in his Nightleader's or Warlord. How could someone so inconsistent demonstrate such assurance? His only small, weakling body was a great reason to be ashamed to live.
The slightly faint tone of his voice translated more frankly this inner strength.
- You're pretty talented-talented, Eshin. Good equipment, a certain ability to have managed to go up to my apartments... Your Nightleader has trained you well. But not enough. And now, you are our prisoner-prisoner, in the back of the best kept barracks in the whole Rat Kingdom. You have no chance of escaping, so forget-give up your hopes straight away.
The Gutter Runner lowered his muzzle, and fully realized the situation in which he was: tied to a torture easel, completely naked, his ankles and wrists tight to hurt by thick metal bracelets. The White Skaven continued:
- I understand your purpose. You have been sent to reduce me to silence-silence. And you almost succeeded. I expected it, and for that, I'm not angry-furious. I would almost like to congratulate you, if you had not killed a brave soldier and put the life of my family-kindred in danger. Normally, my wife sleeps by my side. If I had been in this bed with her, I suppose you would have killed her, too? No annoying witness, and anyway, the Eshin love to see the blood squirt-flow. You threatened my love. And that, for me, is unforgivable.
Larn was appalled, but like all the Skaven that were caught, he wouldn't let his fear appear.
- You're the Blasphemous One, Psody! Traitor-impostor!
Psody advanced calmly, stood beside the easel, and whispered in a honeyed voice:
- Ah, I'm a traitor-impostor? And you, you think you're better than I am? Do you know how we use to call you guys from the Under-Empire? "Feral Skaven". For us, you are brutes-assassins, rapist-devourers, a wretched vermin we vowed to exterminate. That's right-right, I'm a traitor, and I turned my back on all of this when I realised it wouldn't lead us anywhere-anywhere. The more I obeyed my master, the more I was proud to serve him. The more I was proud to serve him, the more he hated me. Until the day he ordered my execution! I escaped his anger-jealousy. And I understood that all that stimulates the Skaven of the Under-Empire is only fear-hate! But it leads to destruction, nothing else! If they continue like this, the members of your kindred will eventually destroy themselves! But it's something you're not close to understand, are you? Your Nightleader doesn't see it, neither your Warlord, nor the Grey Seer of your burrow! Even the Council of Thirteen did not understand it. Otherwise, they would have stopped everything for a long time! But their inability to question themselves will cause the doom-doom of the Under-Empire!
The Gutter Runner was shaken. It was then that he remembered the advice of his Nightleader: "Beware, the Blasphemous One is able to bewitch you with poisonous-toxic words! Above all, do not listen, because it will make you doubt the Horned Rat!" The Horned Rat... Yes! He absolutely had to cling to the only true Skaven guide. Also, he yelped:
- The Horned Rat is furious with you!
- Are you sure?
- He told me!
- Did he? To a common Eshin? Don't make me laugh-laugh!
The White Skaven knew the psychology of his former peers as well. His trick worked. The prisoner spat:
- My master told me!
Larn realised what he just had done, and panicked again. He closed his mouth, and didn't emit any sound more.
- Who is your master?
- ...
- Do not force him to repeat! Sigmund barked.
Larn jumped when he heard the voice of the Black Skaven for the first time. He loosened his teeth to defend himself:
- I saw how the Skaven behave here, filthy traitor! You turned them to poor sheep! Miserable slugs unable to defend themselves or to honour the Horned Rat! You have deceived them.
- I deceived no one. If they really want to live in the Under-Empire, let them go. But they won't, because they know what they will become if they integrate-integrate it.
- They will be true Sons of the Horned Rat! For now, they are weak-shabby!
- Wrong. They are happy-fulfilled. It makes them much stronger. Skaven people have every interest in collaborating-harmonizing with the Human people if they want to live. This Rat Kingdom is the proof of it. What you saw is only the beginning, Eshin. One day, we'll be an entire people, big enough to subdue you and force you to change-change. You shall all live, but no more Council of Thirteen, no more Clans, no more warpstone, and no more violence. Whatever you think, we'll do it. Now, for the last time: who is your master?
Larn no longer pronounced a syllable. Psody leaned toward the prisoner, taking care not to be within range of his fangs. He narrowed his eyes, and murmured:
- You know that before being this "Blasphemous One", I was a Grey Seer. A Chosen-Chosen One of the Horned Rat. My master was Grey Seer Vellux. He used to boast of being Thanquol's son. You know Thanquol, don't you? The whole Under-Empire knows Thanquol. All that Thanquol knew, he transmitted it to Vellux. And Vellux taught me everything he had learned from Thanquol. And I was a very skilled student. I killed my first slave when I was only two seasons old.
Sigmund was jubilant. He knew there were a lot of lies in what his father had just said. But for a Feral Skaven, it was credible. Moreover, he had put such a conviction in his words that someone who knew him only by reputation couldn't deny it.
- I know Clan Eshin Skaven are trained to resist pain-pain. My blood brother Klur was one of them. He was gifted, but my other blood brother Chitik killed him. I don't know how he did, but he did indeed. And if a Black Skaven tied to me by blood can kill another Skaven tied to himself by blood, can you imagine what I can do to a Skaven who doesn't even have a blood tie with me? Come on, you're smarter than that, Eshin. I want to know what your name is, who your Nightleader is, what is the name of the Warlord who rules your burrow, and the location of the place where your bunch is hiding. If you tell me all this right now-now, I may be willing to let you go without too much pain. Otherwise, you'll have very big problems, and that's for sure-certain! So?
As his answer, Larn inhaled, and spat with all his might to the Blasphemous One. The White Skaven didn't lose his calm so far. He wiped his cheek worthily, and murmured:
- Siggy?
The Black Skaven advanced as well, and inflicted the assassin a violent slap that stunned him. The whole world fell around Larn, who heard nothing more. He nevertheless perceived the voice of the traitor to the Horned Rat who articulated:
- Very well. If you want to play-play whoever will crack up first, we will play-play.
- This fellow is definitively so obstinate!
- He was trained to, Father.
- Maybe, but now...
Ludwig Steiner didn't really know what to think of the show that was offered to him. He could see through the bars the prisoner, still attached to the easel. Near it, a musician was playing flute, under the watchful eye of Sigmund who was standing near the Feral Skaven, his arms crossed. The Human played a rather merry air, and tried to stay focused despite the prisoner's grunts, hisses, and screeches.
- It's been over an hour since this concert lasts!
The Prince spoke to the minstrel.
- Sorry to impose you such a bad audience, my friend!
- Your Majesty may be reassured, a real artist must be able to exercise his art in any circumstance! And then, it's not every day that I get paid for a simple rehearsal!
And he resumed his music more beautifully, and the prisoner Eshin moaned more. Sigmund displayed a scornful grin. On the other hand, his grandfather had some doubts:
- Are you sure this to work?
- Feral Skaven hate the sound of flute, you know it. It reminds them of the legend of this flutist who vanquished an entire army by hypnotizing them with his bewitched music.
- Maybe, but even if he's an enemy and he's trying to kill you, I do not particularly like to see him suffer. It's still torture, Psody.
- The only thing tortured is his superstition-naivety. If I wanted, I could torture him in a way that would be far more violent-brutal than that. Vellux was a good teacher. And don't forget he could have hurt your daughter.
- Yeah... Anyway, I don't want to question your knowledge of the inhabitants of the Under-Empire, but it seems to me to remain impervious to this attempt.
- Alas, I'm afraid you're right-right, maybe it's time to change the method?
Psody entered the cage, and stared at the prisoner with a stern eye. He applied to stretch his mouth in a disturbing smile.
- Rather thick-headed-thick-headed, huh? Never mind! Let's try the next step, shall we?
Larn was detached and pushed to the deepest cellar in the barracks. It was a big low ceiling room. For all furniture, there was a forged metal throne attached to the centre, with wrist, ankle and neck bracelets. Sigmund firmly forced the Feral Skaven to sit down, then tied him unceremoniously. The handcuffs clicked coldly as the Blasphemous One explained, still an ugly smile on his lips:
- This room was designed for the most recalcitrant Sons of the Horned Rat. I can assure you that you'll tell us your whole life since the day you left the nursery when we have finished-finished.
Two men-things, one of them had its chin covered with an impressive tuft of hair, brought a pot with a strong odour emanating from. The two Skaven recoiled, and the two men-things swayed the contents of the pot on Larn. The Feral Skaven was covered with a thick mash that exhaled an awful smell that reminded him of the day he had ventured into the Pestilens Pit. The two men-things took care of spreading the odious mixture over his whole body with the help of large brushes, and then withdrew.
The Blasphemous One leaned toward Larn.
- I leave you. You may have survived music, but you won't be able to resist-endure them.
And he hurried away to the door, followed by the Stormvermin. The door slammed shut, the key was turned in the lock. Larn felt his heart beat so strongly it was about to break his ribs. What would those cursed traitors to the Horned Rat be preparing for him?
A small hinge gnashing caught his attention. He turned his head painfully, and saw at the foot of the wall a small trap, two feet high, which had just risen, revealing a dark opening.
Larn then heard a slight snoring. Then a short, sharp, whiny sound echoed through the cellar. Instinctively, he understood without believing that it was one of the worst dangers that the valiant Skaven people could fear. And his worst suspicions blazed into a terrifying certainty when he saw the glimmers of little wicked eyes watching him. A pair of eyes. No, two, three, four...
By the Horned Rat! NO!
A small hairy creature with a long, wavy tail, entered the room. Its four legs didn't emit the slightest sound as it moved over the cold stone. It raised its head, revealing two big eyes that looked at him with greed. It licked its lips, eager to snatch a finger or an ear from the Eshin. A second creature sprang up, and advanced towards the chair. Larn felt his bladder empty at the sight of three other striped monsters. The Skaven moaned at the sight of the quivering whiskers, the small, pointed like needles teeth, and the claws concealed in the legs of these ignoble beasts.
- Ah... Oh... No! Stop! Go away! Get out-out!
He moved with all his strength on his chair, despite the shackles. He yelped, foamed, tried to spit on the little furry horrors. But these monstrous things were not afraid of him. Or rather, they seemed too hungry to give up such a feast.
One of them then uttered a long, high yowl, which was echoed by the others. Larn's blood froze, his opened so widely eyes threatened to fall to the ground. Mad with horror, the Eshin writhed with all his strength, so much so that the iron of the handcuffs that held him scratched his skin.
- Help-help! Mercy-mercy, get me out of there!
The door opened, and the voice of the White Skaven rang out in the room:
- What is your name?
- Larn! Larn of Clan Eshin!
- Who is your chief, Larn of Clan Eshin?
- I… must not…
- Tell me his name, or my faithful pets will eat you alive!
The Eshin didn't think more. His survival instinct triumphed over his Gutter Runner pride.
- Dalwos! Dalwos! It's Lord Dalwos!
There was no answer. One of the vicious creatures climbed onto Larn's lap, which shook himself to make it away.
- It's Dalwos of Clan Skab! Dalwos of Clan Skab!
The Stormvermin spoke in turn:
- What about Blokfiste of Clan Moulder? Where is Blokfiste?
- Don't know! Don't know any Blokfiste! Don't like Moulder!
- And your Nightleader? Who is your Nightleader?
- Don't know his name! Strong-scary! Cruelty without limit! Scares even demons!
It was again the Blasphemous One who questioned him.
- And your burrow? Where is it?
- I don't know!
- Don't bullshit-screw me! You have not reached my home by flying from Skavenblight! Where is your colony?
- Can not say! I... was... brought by... other Skaven. Have brought me... to a point... where I have to find them! But... do not know... way between terrier... and this place!
Larn squeaked again when one of the monsters poked his tail.
On the other side of the door, the two Skavens and the Prince concerted. Steiner, indisposed by the screaming of the prisoner, grumbled:
- Are you sure we can believe him?
- Given the state in which he is, I think so. The Eshin are careful not to divulge-reveal too much information to their goons, so if they get caught, they'll talk less. His Nightleader may hide his name to his own minions.
- And on the fact that he does not know where his lair is?
- It is very possible that a group of Feral Skaven put him blindfolded a few days walk from here. He would have come back to the same place with my head so he could have been picked up.
- It is a possibility. Hey, but what if this Dalwos of Clan Skab had decided to abandon him?
- And lose any chance to get the prize-reward? Feral Skaven are pitiless to their weak-losers, Father, but they are not all stupid.
- What's so special about this Clan Skab? asked Marjan.
- It's a minor Clan, one of the most important with Clan Mors. Its members are mainly well-trained and sturdy warriors. They produce more Stormvermin than the others, and sell them willingly to whoever can pay.
- Mercenaries? Jochen wondered. They know the concept of dogs of war?
The White Skaven stared at the young man with a little cynical look.
- It seems you're forgetting Feral Skaven make use of anything-anyone.
Marjan rubbed her chin.
- Your Highness, we should perhaps convince him to take us to this rendezvous spot?
- Um... Maybe, indeed. But I have to think about it.
Sigmund felt more and more embarrassed by the ordeal the poor Eshin was enduring. The cries and tears eroded his eardrums.
- In the meantime, if he really said everything, I guess we scared him enough!
- Father? asked the White Skaven.
The Prince waved his hand.
- Come on, that's enough. Put him back in a cell.
Larn was scared to death. He cried without restraint, and begged the Horned Rat to grant him a quick death. Suddenly, the door opened. The two men-things entered, followed by the Stormvermin. The two men-things clapped their hands, whistled, and yelled to ward off the monsters. The Gutter Runner expected them to jump on the big Black Skaven and cut it to pieces. But no smell of fear oozed from it. On the contrary, it remained very calm. The terror of the Eshin gradually turned into a supreme stupefaction when he saw the Mighty walk among the hungry creatures without the least hesitation, and without being attacked. Worse, it leaned forward and took one in each hand to drop them out of the room. It evacuated a good half-dozen of them so.
When there was only one cursed creature left, The Stormvermin picked it up gently and presented it under Larn's nose. He no longer knew what to think. Fascinated by the glittering eyes, he jumped when the voice of the Black Skaven said:
- A good lesson for you, idiot-moron: cats do not represent the least danger for rats sized like you.
Fear quickly gave way to a terrible anger. Furious at having been fooled in this way, Larn burst into angry sobs again, and a torrent of insults, all more colourful, spurt out of his mouth. It was intense, but brief: a punch of Jochen on his neck stopped at once his invectives.