Skaven Chronicles Part 3

Few things are constant among the Skaven, but their scheming and plotting is one of them. While our Heroes may have foiled Rasknitt, there’s plenty other vermin are eager to hatch their own devious plans. The farsqueaker, a verminous piece of Skryre engineering, allows some of these would-be masterminds to instantly communicate across vast distances with their networks of agents and spies.

Good news, master!

The warlocks have devised a new means of powering the farsqueaker. It runs now on warp energy harnessed directly from the collapsed Skittergate, with only the tiniest of chances of an explosion. Less than one in five! It is better than the scamper wheel they used before, they say, and I am minded to agree as listening to their huffing and whining at the controls while I try to think-speak was growing most tiresome.

But this is not the good news. No-no. The Gutter Runners we hired from Clan Eshin have finally made good on their promise to find-find the Furless Five.

Their leader, a treacherous shadow of a rat who calls himself Sly Scarpaw, claims to have followed two of the brigands’ number, the man-thing, Kruber, and his mulish companion, Bardin, to a drinking place in the nearby man-burrow of Bögenhafen. Naturally, I demanded to know what progress he had made in locating this ‘Taal’s Horn Keep’ that the locals we torture squeal so excitedly about, but he made his usual excuses.

‘It is home to a powerful magician.’

‘Illusions and shadows keep it from being found.’

And other such chitterings.

I sense your skepticism, master, and I share it. Clearly, Sly Scarpaw over-promised and now makes excuses for his failures (behaviour that would shame the tail off an honest skaven), but better a mouse in the hand than two in the burrow as my litter-mother used to say. So I found-sniffed my sword and my shield and gathered thirty of your fiercest clanrats and scurried off to Bögenhafen-place to see-smell for myself if Scarpaw squeaked true.

There, indeed, were Bardin and Kruber, engaged in the ritual consumption of weakly poisonous beverages and bouts of play-fighting that the furless races seem to find pleasurable. This was even better than I dared hope, master! Not only were the hapless duo separated by many miles from their mighty allies, but they were intoxicated to boot. I ordered the clanrats to secrete themselves around the tavern, ready to heroically slaughter any who dared stagger from its doors.

My plan was foolproof!

But if there is one thing I learned from the late, unlamented Skarrik Spinemanglr, it is to never underestimate a fool.

It is truly a testament to the visionary nature of your plan, master, the sheer audacity of it, the genius, that it occurred to quite a lot of other skaven as well.

It was while we were bravely seeking out hiding places that we found ourselves, in my case literally, treading on the tails of a second skaven war-party who had got there just ahead of us. These skaven followed a chieftain called Snifh Weeviltongue, who had with him a not-inconsequential host numbering well over hundred clanrats – did I say a hundred? I meant three hundred – supplemented by two dozen hulking stormvermin and a veritable arsenal of Clan Skryre weaponry.

To this moment, I am unsure if this was not some elaborate ploy of Sly Scarpaw to sell us out, for no sooner had a poisoned throwing star left his paw on its way to Snifh Weeviltongue’s left eyeball than a ratling gun started up from somewhere across the street and there were several hundred clanrat warriors squealing murder and going for it claw and tooth.

The tavern caught fire, I am not certain how, and before a rat could squeak Pestilent Brotherhood there was the Ubersreik Two with axe and halberd, carving their way through fearless skaven warriors still more intent on murdering each other.

I had, of course, bravely and selflessly distanced myself from the worst of the fighting, the better to report the good news to you, most demanding of despots.

The Furless Five live! To be kill-stabbed by you at some later time.

While they sleep, maybe.

Just a thought.

Your tireless and ever-loyal servant, Skratch Dirtnose…