Prince Maesa, page 13
I was there for nine years. Eventually, in a wing dedicated to the history of a lost world, I found history after history concerning the ratkin. These are not selective works as written by men, but the tiniest details of every life that was ever lived and every thought ever had. It is maddening to read the lives of skaven. They do not think like us, and the echoes of their souls scratched madly inside my skull, but my obsession drove me on, until I happened on a book detailing a place unlike any other.
I had found the realm of the skaven after death. It is called the Realm of Ruin.
There were several books on Aturathi that hinted at the great secrets of the realms. Had I wished to follow the trail of those references, I would be the most learned man alive. But I was intent. I needed to know where the eye was. I had to have it, and free myself from my oath. Another year passed, until I found that too: the jewel was in the tower of a rat daemon whose name I dare not say aloud. I was tempted again to abandon my quest and remain, for anything that has been known is there, and more than once I came across the remains of scholars who had entered the library, and died drunk on knowledge. Little by little, day by day, the light of Hysh in me dimmed, but it never died. Had it guttered out, I would still be there, but my obsession saved me. I found a map to where I must go, and prepared to depart.
From the library I learned spells of the direst sort that would allow me to make my way to this Realm of Ruin. I prepared for the journey, forging a dagger of the kind the skaven use to cut their way through time and space. My essence was still too bright for the place I had to go, so one half of my soul I burned out with fire stolen from a daemon I lured into the library. The last stages required sacrifices I could not bear to make. I needed magic, lots of it, and it was there in the person of my horses. They knew what was coming. I could not bring myself to do it for weeks, until brave Solios gave himself nobly to the cause. I shed my last tears when I plunged this sword through his noble heart. Those things done, I was ready. With the dagger of Chaos-tainted realmstone I cut a slit in the world, mounted Rados, and plunged into the secret ways of the ratkin.
I left the realms entirely, galloping through a place between. I was not in the heavens that we see in the night skies of every realm, but some other place. The underside of the sky, that is the only way I can describe it. From my vantage I could see each of the realms floating by, gargantuan islands in oceans of magic, and other places beyond – most dread of all a glow, far away, where evil gods dwell. It was inverted: a sky of light, with stars black, but it was at the same time a swirl of sorcerous colour, an ocean of possibility. I tell you gravely all, my friends, that the skaven riddle the place between the realms. Their burrows stretch nets to snare the cosmos in every direction.
I followed a tunnel unlike the others, which are used by living ratkin. It was separate from their network, accessible in few places, and once entered vast and black, full of streaming shades, uncountable millions of them, a tide of rats running before a flood, all heading down, down, to one place.
‘The Realm of Ruin!’ squeaked Shattercap.
‘Indeed,’ said Quasque. ‘The shades were skaven dead, scurrying to whatever fate awaits their kind. The numbers were staggering, an infinity of rat-souls, pouring on, on, down the great tunnel, which grew and grew, becoming the throat of a vortex marbled with green and crackles of purple lightning. The rushing swarms filled every surface.’
‘Didn’t they attack you?’ asked Ninian.
‘They were ghosts, hardly aware of me, and they recoiled from the light of Rados, so we passed untroubled,’ said Quasque.
‘The end came suddenly. We appeared over a grey sea covered with rubbish of every conceivable kind. The rat-souls tumbled from the tunnel into the water, where they squealed and thrashed, until forced under by the torrent of others following them. I saw only a little of the opening, which was huge and shaped like the bell of a black trumpet, for Rados bore us away quickly, his glowing skin a glare in that benighted place. We reached the shore, and he set down, his light illuminating a desolate beach crammed with mounds and mounds of refuse.
‘I patted my horse’s steaming neck. Alarmingly, his light was fading. Flight was a gift to him from my father, as Rados and Solios were his gifts to me, but I had pushed him too far, and without the magic of our sacred realm, there was no way to refresh his strength. I did not have much time. As we rode across the desolate land, he grew dimmer, and for the first time in my life, I saw shadows on his golden coat. He grew dull, like unpolished brass. He was dying.’
‘You didn’t come with your horse, master. I did not stable him for you,’ said Barnabus.
‘Quiet now,’ said Horrin softly.
Quasque gave Barnabus a sorrowful look, and drank some more.
The Realm of Ruin is a terrible place. Piles of stinking refuse are heaped as far as the eye can see. Every rise is a mound of rubbish. Distant mountains reveal themselves to be yet more rubbish. The water was scummy, and had an oily, chemical scent. It was gloomy, but never truly dark, the clouds being lit by green bale-lights.
The worst thing about the refuse is its nature. It appears of uniformly brown, midden shades, but look closer and riches can be discerned. Once seen, they are everywhere. In that place are the broken glories of thousands of races, millions of nations; perhaps, even, the gnawed loot of entire worlds. Huge rat daemons stalk the valleys between the mounds and sometimes, with no predictability, a vision of a sprawling city appears in the sky. Its appearance lights up the Realm of Ruin starkly green, then just as quickly as it arrives, it is gone, plunging the land back into the dark.
So it was we came in time to the tower the book said held the eye of Aturathi. I rode up onto a hill, and spied the tower situated close to the shore. Half its considerable height was buried in stinking rubbish. I saw a swarming around off to the tower’s west, inland, away from the sea. My eyes were drawn towards it, and I beheld the flash of magic between the yawn of twin realmgates – small as coins at that distance, but large of scale, I thought. The clash of metal and discharge of great guns sounded on the edge of hearing. War had come to the Realm of Ruin.
I dithered a little. My path would take us close to the battle. I had no choice. I urged the faltering Rados on towards the tower, my eyes always on the battle. One realmgate was of seething amethyst magic, the other a ragged tear green with skaven sorcery. From the skaven side poured a legion of armoured ratkin, urged on by the scourges of their daemons into a horde of undead I cannot properly describe. Vast armies of skeletal remains animated by the will of the Great Necromancer. Huge clouds of spirits soaring over them. Opposing the rat daemons were giant constructs of bone and flesh, and the corpses of monsters raised to a semblance of life. The forces on each side appeared to be limitless, and as I watched, the front lines of the battle stretched outward, engulfing more of the piles of rubbish. My path took me up a rise made almost entirely of potsherds of dizzying variety. From there I watched.
There were dread generals of the deathless legions riding the sky over the dead. They cast magic from their wands. Squadrons of vampire knights charged freakish beasts with rodent’s heads. Skirmishing ghouls loped ahead of lines of skeletal archers who fired without tiring. Protected by phalanxes of armoured skeletal guardians, syphons fashioned from the bones of godbeasts extended fleshless jaws, racks of lead pipes sucking up the souls of the skaven as they died. I was witnessing a war not over territory, but spirits. The Lord of Death regards all dead things as his by rights, and it seems even the souls of so mean and tainted a race as the skaven lie within his claim.
On their side, the skaven responded with alchemical cannons and strange machines. Monstrous beasts waded into the armies of the undead. Warpstone-powered weapons scythed down swathes of the foe. Both sides suffered terrible casualties, but more warriors poured from the holes in space to join the fight. I would have been noticed were the two sides not so absorbed in each other’s destruction. Certain I would not remain undetected for long, I rode down the slithering pot heap, towards the tower by the sea.
I reached a grey beach. The battle was out of sight. Though the clamour continued loud enough to hear, it was not sufficient to drown out the rush of the dirty surf. Bright pollutants swirled in the water, and all along the beach, foam made extravagant, quivering heaps between lines of tide-washed refuse. I urged the dying Rados up the slopes of refuse clinging to the tower, hoping that if I were quick, I would be able to leave that terrible place and save his life. It was not to be. I dismounted to search for a way in, the entrance being hopelessly buried. The sound of Rados falling had me rush back. At my return he opened his eyes a final time and whickered softly. The last of the light left him, his body heaved and his coat dulled to mundane flesh. I stroked his muzzle as he breathed his last, whispering that his trials were over.
If only that were true! I was in an uncanny realm, and so witnessed his gallant soul rise from his body. It shone with a measure of the light he had in his life, and he climbed upward, heading, I was sure, to a just rest in shining fields.
A tear slipped down Quasque’s nose, and into his wine.
‘Something grabbed at him and yanked him ferociously across the sky towards the battle. His soul, so serene a second before, screamed in terror, then he was gone behind the mountains of filth, certainly consumed by the spirit syphons of the undead.’
Quasque’s narrative ceased. He broke down, and wept silently, his back heaving with sobs. Ninian put her hand on his. Horrin got up, and rubbed his shoulder.
‘This one is on the house, good sir,’ Horrin said, refilling Quasque’s goblet. But Quasque would not be consoled, and the party had to wait for his weeping to subside before the tale continued. The wind began to blow again, and the rain fell harder. Lightning flashed around the shutters, followed by a boom of thunder, very loud, that came close behind. Shattercap squealed and scampered up Prince Maesa’s arm, fidgeting around the aelf’s neck until Maesa plucked him up and set him back on the table. The fire bellied in the grate. Wind shrieked, then again, before settling once more to a constant moaning.
‘The eye of the storm is passing over,’ said Maesa. ‘That is all, Shattercap. The wind returns.’
‘Don’t like it, oh wicked prince,’ growled the spite. He sniffed. ‘Smells wrong.’
At this, Quasque recovered his dignity, and said, ‘Then I should be quick and finish.’ He drained his cup again, and continued.
The tower was made of iron, and though it was heavily rusted, its walls were unbroken. Dark apertures high above I took to be windows, but they were beyond my reach. I thought myself defeated at the final hurdle, until, on the very far side overlooking the sea, I found a balcony. It was above my head, and I was obliged to haul myself up to gain access. In this way I arrived within the tower, covered in filth and streaked orange with rust.
I expected resistance in the tower, and primed my battle magic, but there was no sign of souls, living or dead, only the sickly smell of decay and the crash of waves on the beach.
The centre of the tower was taken up by a spiral stair. On each level was a single room. I peeked into them as I passed upward. They were all empty, save one, wherein lay sprawled the immense skeleton of a rat creature crowned with horns and dressed in tarnished armour. Beneath an outstretched claw a second skeleton was pinned, this one human and armoured in a style I did not recognise. Everything in there was rusty, covered in dust, except the sword, still bright with magic, jammed in the ribs of the creature, and the obvious cause of its death. This must have been the owner of the tower, slain by a hero long ago. I had not read the story of this encounter in the library. A terrible thought took me, that Aturathi’s eye was gone, and I hurried on to the uppermost room.
In a chamber lit by thirteen tall windows was a chest of greened bronze between two thrones. In the thrones sat the mummified remains of skaven warlords aglow with magic. I dismembered these quickly with my sword, threw their limbs out of the windows and placed their heads away from their bodies. This done, I turned my attentions to the chest. It was locked, but nothing to the magic I had learned, and I opened it with a minor cantrip. Immediately the heads began to chatter their jaws, and the bodies roll about. Had I not dealt with these things first, I would have had to fight them.
Inside the chest was a rotting leather pouch that fell apart the moment I lifted it. Out tumbled a single drop of exquisitely carved aetherquartz, yellow as a tiger’s eye. I sobbed with relief, but could not delay. I heard the battle’s roar coming closer to the tower. Neither undead nor skaven would forgive my taking the treasure.
There was too much iron around me for me to flee magically, certainly the builder’s purpose in using the material, so I ran down the stairs to the balcony and back out onto the grim shoreline. I believe my opening of the chest had alerted the death lords to the eye’s presence, and I had the terrifying notion their armies had come to seize that very jewel. From over the horizon came the moaning of phantoms. A charge of phantom cavalry galloped soundlessly up and over the mountains of refuse. I had but moments to escape. I sliced at the weft of reality with the tainted knife. The edges of the beach sucked inward, and a hole opened onto a tunnel. I had no clue where it headed, but threw myself headlong within. The gap closed over my head. I had escaped.
Quasque took a shaking breath. The storm built in ferocity, approaching the power it had shown earlier in the evening.
‘I was lucky,’ said Quasque. ‘I was able to cut an exit from the tunnel before I was discovered by the ratkin. Luckier still, the place I emerged was in the gentler parts of Shyish, many thousands of leagues away from the terrible places of the realm. Though alive, I was alone and impoverished. My horses were dead. My possessions were lost. The dagger disintegrated with the last cut. All I had left you see here, these clothes, my sword, a tiny amount of realmstone. My troubles were far from over.’ He smiled. ‘But I finally had this.’
He reached for a pouch by his side, and reverently withdrew a large yellow gem. He set it on the table with a click. Golden light shone into the inn, soft as a summer’s day.
Shattercap’s eyes widened. Involuntarily he reached for the gem, then self-consciously snatched his hands back. The company leaned in, except for Maesa, who remained impassive.
‘Now that is a pretty stone, and no mistake,’ said Stonbrak greedily, his eyes glittering.
‘The eye of Aturathi. Pure realmstone of Hysh, beloved of the Lumineth,’ said Quasque. ‘With this, I could purchase a duchy. It is a shame I will not have the chance to fulfil my promise.’ He picked up the stone and put it back into the pouch.
‘What do you mean?’ said Stonbrak. The wind shrieked outside. The inn trembled.
Quasque looked up defiantly. ‘I regret to tell you that since retrieving the eye, I have been pursued across Shyish by the agents of the Lord of Death. I took it from a realm of the dead, and all those places, and all things within them, the God of Undeath deems his by right. Nagash!’ Thunder boomed at the speaking of the name. ‘I thought I had finally managed to outrun them. From the Argent Gate in Ghur one can go to Irb and the realmgate to Hysh there, but this storm.’ He smiled bitterly and waved his hand over his head. ‘The sky-ship’s early departure… It has delayed me just long enough. It cannot be natural. He knows everything. Nagash…’ His voice dwindled to a whisper.
A shriek came from outside.
‘That was not the wind,’ said Maesa. He was on his feet, sword in hand, before the next scream blasted around the inn. Shattercap scampered up his arm.
The amulets above the bar jumped, and set up a constant jangling.
‘By the gods!’ breathed Horrin. ‘What have you brought upon us?’
‘I am sorry,’ said Quasque, ‘they are here.’ His smile became crazed. ‘The Hounds of Nagash have come.’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE HOUNDS OF NAGASH
Manic light gleamed in Pludu Quasque’s eyes, and he sat down hard.
‘They are here,’ he whispered again. His fingers fluttered nervously against each other. Screaming blended with the wind’s music, adding wordless lyrics of misery.
Stonbrak got to his feet, drew his axe, and joined Maesa facing the entrance. The aelf hurriedly strung his bow. Something heavy slammed into the other side of the door, shaking it in the frame. Ninian screamed. Barnabus gripped her waist and whimpered.
The door leapt again. There was a deafening cry. Sharp nails scraped against the wood, scratching and scratching; there was a moment of silence, then the soft creak of timbers tested by inhuman strength. Grave-cold seeped into the room, chilling the air to mist and spreading a web of frost up the walls. Iron nails and studs gathered small thickets of ice. Over the bar, Horrin’s warding charms swung out from the wood and strained towards the door.
Maesa watched in silence. The wooden edge of the Song of Thorns gleamed with the magic of Ghyran.
‘Curse you, mage, for what you have done!’ growled Idenkor Stonbrak. He hefted his axe. The runemarks upon the head glowed with cold fires.
‘It’s not my fault, I was a boy, a foolish boy!’ Quasque collapsed into tears.
Shattercap scampered onto Maesa’s shoulder, craned his neck and sniffed deeply. ‘The dead, master. Thou knowest it is the dead at the door!’
