—<SEVEN>—

Unwelcome Conclusions

Nagashizzar, in the 99th year of Ualatp the Patient
(-1290 Imperial Reckoning)

 

 

“Hsst!” The scout-assassin raised a clawed paw and lashed his tail sharply. One ear was pressed against the rough, weeping stone of the tunnel, and his eyes were shut in concentration as he listened to the faint sounds vibrating through the rock.

A chorus of shrill, serpentine hisses echoed up and down the narrow passage, and the dust-covered sappers at the far end froze in place. Bits of broken stone spilled from their clenched fingers, the noise magnified a thousandfold in the tense air. Down the length of the tunnel, the rest of the skaven silently readied their weapons. They were close now; the sappers had been digging underneath the foundations of the tower for more than an hour and the last of the supports were nearly exposed. This was the point where things most often went wrong.

The scout-assassin held himself absolutely still as he waited for the sound to repeat itself. It might have been nothing more than wagon wheels rumbling across a paved roadway, just a few dozen feet above them—or it might have been a sudden fall of stone from a counter-sapping tunnel heading their way. A breach could fill the tunnel with roiling clouds of poison gas and spear-wielding skeletons—or worse, packs of howling, frenzied flesh-eaters. The campaign against the creatures’ foetid nests had driven the flesh-eaters to new depths of savagery against the invaders—especially the distinctive, black-robed scouts. Better a swift death than to be captured by the monsters and dragged back to their hilltop lairs.

Long moments passed. Pink noses twitched nervously in the gloom. Clouds of fine, grey dust drifted through the air, stirred by the faint exhalations of the sappers and their guardians. One of the skaven stirred, ever so slightly, drawing savage looks from his companions.

By degrees, the scout-assassin relaxed. His paw lowered and the skaven let out a collective hiss of relief. Moments later, the soft sound of claws on stone resumed at the far end of the passageway.

Eekrit straightened as the sappers continued their work. “That’s the fifth one in the last ten minutes,” he muttered. The warlord grimaced as he tried to work a cramp from between his scarred shoulderblades.

Lord Eshreegar coughed faintly—the closest sound to laughter he could manage. “Better than the alternative,” the Master of Treacheries answered. Five years after the inferno in mine shaft seven, his voice was still little better than a whispering rasp. “The last time we had a breach, the flesh-eaters nearly made off with you.”

The warlord snorted in derision. “They never laid a hand on me. Not that you noticed, of course.” Eekrit’s sword paw clenched at the memory of the vicious, close-quarters fight. It had been a nearer thing than he cared to admit. He attempted a dismissive shrug, wincing as the scar tissue across his shoulders drew tight. “I’m more like to die of a heart rupture from all these false alarms.” He bared his long teeth at the sharp-eared sentry, several dozen paces down the tunnel. “I’m starting to think Velsquee’s put him up to it.”

Eshreegar gave the warlord a sidelong glance. He had to turn his head to do it; the left side of his face was a patchwork of bald, pinkish scar tissue, and a golden skull gleamed in the ravaged pit where his eye used to be. “We’ve been pulling down the burning man’s towers for the last eight months,” the Master of Treacheries replied. “We’re outnumbered a thousand to one, and his warriors are getting better at catching us with every passing night. You think the Grey Lord needs to go to all the trouble of bribing an assassin to kill you?”

Eekrit glowered at Eshreegar. “He might,” the warlord muttered darkly. “It’s been five years since we brought down mine shaft seven, and we’re still alive. He could be getting impatient.”

There was no doubt in anyone’s mind that Lord Velsquee certainly wanted Eekrit dead. By all reports, the Grey Lord had been near apoplectic when he’d learned of the mine shaft’s collapse and the attendant destruction that had followed. The levels around shaft number seven had grown so honeycombed with side-passages and murder holes that the collapse touched off a wave of secondary cave-ins for more than a week afterwards. The aftershocks reverberated as far down as the under-fortress itself, and only the desperate efforts of the army’s engineers prevented the loss of mine shaft eight as well. How the raiding party managed to escape the destruction and reach the safety of the lower levels, only the Horned God himself knew.

Had Eshreegar and a couple of his scouts not pulled Eekrit from the collapsing mine shaft, he would not have survived at all. As it was, both he and the Master of Treacheries nearly succumbed to their burns during the long weeks that followed. Eekrit’s clan spent large sums on his behalf, summoning chirurgeons from as far away as the Great City to tend his injuries. Eshreegar’s wounds were even more severe; the scout-assassins closed ranks around their leader and kept him in seclusion for more than a month until they were certain that he would survive. All the while, Velsquee seethed, wanting nothing more than to drag them before a summary trial and lay the entire blame for the disaster at their feet.

The Grey Lord was eager to divert attention onto Eekrit and the destruction of mine shaft seven and away from the disaster of his would-be ambush of the kreekar-gan. The enemy’s poison cloud had decimated the army’s best troops, including Velsquee’s own storm-walkers, and sent the rest in a panicked retreat that the Grey Lord himself had been hard-pressed to stop. Mine shaft eight had fallen to the burning man’s warriors and hasty defences around mine shaft nine, comprised of shattered warrior packs and terrified slave mobs, likely wouldn’t have held for long, even with Velsquee and Qweeqwol personally in command. Though stories of Velsquee’s heroic stand were now an established part of the lore surrounding the desperate fight, the truth was that the army had been pushed to the brink of defeat, and the lines had stabilised only after the collapse of the mine shaft had thrown the enemy advance into disarray.

Velsquee had gambled mightily and lost. The near-destruction of the heechigar and the severe losses suffered by many of the army’s more powerful clans placed the Grey Lord in a precarious position, and it wasn’t long before he was forced to abandon the notion of a show trial and focus on the intrigues of the army’s many factions. The balance of power among the skaven lords shifted many times during the weeks that followed. It was only after concluding a hasty alliance with Clan Morbus—and a particularly brutal campaign of assassinations—that the Grey Lord was able to secure his position and restore order.

What mystified Eekrit for a long time afterwards was why Velsquee never made the obvious move of stripping him of command. The Grey Lord scarcely needed any real justification to do it, and no doubt Lord Hiirc thought that the alliance with his clan entitled him to the position. Eekrit could only surmise that he was being kept around to hold Clan Morbus in check. So long as he remained warlord, Morbus would have to contend with Clan Rikek first and foremost if they meant to claim the mountain for their own—but even now, five years after the army’s near-defeat, neither clan had the strength to hold a clear advantage over the other.

As soon as Eekrit was fit enough to fight, Velsquee “advised” that he resume his dangerous raids against the enemy—only this time, instead of striking relatively defenceless villages or flesh-eater nests, the warlord and his raiders were aimed straight at the enemy’s heart. They struck at the towers and storehouses of the fortress itself, undermining their foundations or kindling fires in their bowels. From a purely military standpoint, the raids were a bold, aggressive strategy, meant to keep the foe on the back foot while the skaven army rebuilt its strength. They were also extremely dangerous. One in three of the sappers’ tunnels were discovered by enemy search parties and losses among the skaven were heavy, but Eekrit couldn’t deny that the tactic had proven successful. It also served to keep him far away from the corridors of power in the under-fortress, where his presence would lead to a number of awkward questions that Velsquee and Qweeqwol could ill afford.

At the far end of the tunnel, the master sapper paused and made a series of paw- and tail-signals. The message was relayed down the line, and within moments a handful of scout-assassins were creeping forwards with oil bladders to douse the sappers’ temporary supports. Eekrit watched them pass and fought down a shudder at the sharp smell of the lamp oil.

“Any word from the under-fortress?” Eekrit asked in a low voice.

The Master of Treacheries folded his arms. His head shifted this way and that, making sure none of the sappers were within earshot. “More reinforcements have arrived,” he answered in a low voice. “Velsquee sent them straight to the upper levels. Mercenaries from the lesser clans plus another pack of monstrosities from Clan Moulder, and several large packs of slaves.”

“All bought and paid for by Lord Hiirc, no doubt,” Eekrit muttered. The alliance between Velsquee and Hiirc had opened Morbus’ coffers and the clan had spent huge sums to replenish the army’s decimated ranks. Most of the replacement troops were sell-swords from the lesser clans, lured to the killing grounds by the promise of coin and a share of the plunder from the mountain’s vast store of god-stone. Others, like the bizarre beast-masters of Clan Moulder, or the fanatics of Clan Pestilens, joined the expeditionary force in hopes of enhancing their status amid the ever-shifting currents of skaven politics. They were a far cry from the fierce, well-armed packs of clanrats that had marched with the army at the beginning of the war. Most were dead within a few months, hurled against the enemy’s defensive lines in one bloody assault after another, while Eekrit’s raiders continued to gnaw away at the foe’s sources of supply.

So far, Velsquee’s two-pronged strategy seemed to be working. The enemy remained on the defensive, unable to replenish its losses, while the skaven managed to scrape together enough warm bodies to sustain a slow but relentless offensive. Much of mine shaft seven had been cleared over the past few years, and the skaven had pushed beyond it into levels that they hadn’t reached since the beginning of the war. No one had seen the kreekar-gan at all since Velsquee’s abortive ambush, and there hadn’t been a major enemy attack for years. Victory now seemed inevitable, and the skaven lords were already manoeuvring to take full advantage of the aftermath. Between the mercenary companies and the slave troops, nearly half of the army had been bought with Morbus gold, and Velsquee couldn’t kill them fast enough to blunt Lord Hiirc’s growing influence. Eshreegar thought it was only a matter of time before the raiders were pulled from the front lines and his assassins put to work by the scheming clan lords.

“What of Velsquee’s troops?” the warlord inquired.

The Master of Treacheries gave Eekrit a meaningful look. “Another pack of heechigar arrived late last week,” he replied. “They’re still laired up with Lord Vittrik’s engineers on the far side of the main cavern.”

Eekrit’s eyes narrowed as he tallied the numbers. Velsquee had been quietly rebuilding his cadre of elite troops since the disaster, bringing them in a pack at a time and quartering them in the one place where they would be certain to avoid prying eyes—among the unpredictable and deadly engines of Clan Skryre.

“That brings Velsquee nearly back to full strength,” the warlord mused. “And they’re still working closely with the warlocks?”

“Nearly every day,” Eshreegar confirmed. “There’s no telling what tricks they’ve got up their sleeves now. You can bet that the kreekar-gan won’t be able to slaughter them like he did last time.”

“Do you think the other clan lords suspect how many warriors Velsquee’s got?”

Eshreegar shook his head. “Unlikely. The Grey Lord’s been careful, and the others are too focussed on positioning themselves for the end game.” His tail flicked thoughtfully. “I still don’t understand why Velsquee’s hiding his true strength. A show of force by the storm-walkers would secure his position and make the other lords think twice about siding with Hiirc.”

“That’s true enough in the short term,” Eekrit agreed, “but then it would only be a matter of time before Hiirc and the other clan lords began pressuring Velsquee to send them into action, and that’s the last thing the Grey Lord wants. The heechigar are being saved for one task and one task only.”

“The destruction of the kreekar-gan.”

Eekrit nodded. “Velsquee overplayed his hand last time. He had good reason to believe that the burning man was about to fall into his paws, and nearly lost everything as a result. This time, he’s being much more careful.” The warlord’s lip curled in irritation. “I just wish I knew where he was getting his information from. Or who.”

The Master of Treacheries sighed irritably. “He does have a grey seer at his beck and call, does he not?”

Eekrit’s tail lashed angrily across the tunnel floor, loudly enough to draw apprehensive glances from the scouts. “It’s not Qweeqwol,” he replied. “Velsquee would have killed him for failing to predict the poison cloud. No, the Grey Lord is getting his information from someone else.”

“Well, it’s none of my rats,” Eshreegar declared.

“Of that I have little doubt,” Eekrit replied, his whiskers twitching sarcastically.

“Then who…” Eshreegar began. His good eye narrowed thoughtfully. “It would have to be a traitor. Someone within the enemy’s own ranks.”

The warlord nodded. “And privy to the enemy’s senior councils. Someone who has likely been close to the kreekar-gan all along.”

“But how?”

“I don’t know for sure,” Eekrit admitted, “but I’d bet Qweeqwol knows. He’s been feeding Velsquee information since the beginning. How else does one explain the timing of the Grey Lord’s arrival?”

The idea made Eshreegar’s ears lie flat. “But, that means—”

“That means Velsquee and Qweeqwol knew about the burning man from the very beginning,” Eekrit said.

“Then why not tell us?” said the Master of Treacheries. “They want the god-stone just as much as the rest of us.”

The warlord sighed impatiently. “Of course they do,” he snapped. “They want all of it. You think it was an accident that Velsquee was the primary architect of the expeditionary force?”

Eshreegar frowned. “I thought the grey seers were behind the alliance?”

The warlord raised a clawed finger. “Yes, but Velsquee was their chief advocate among the Grey Lords. They came to him first, because he had the most influence on the Council. No doubt they agreed to split the riches of the mountain between them, once the rest of the clans had been bled white against the kreekar-gan’s horde.” The warlord shook his head ruefully. “In fact, it wouldn’t surprise me if the grey seers were behind the scouts who ‘discovered’ the mountain in the first place, acting on information supplied by the traitor.”

Eshreegar folded his arms and considered what he’d been told. “A brilliant scheme,” he admitted. “Cunning and ruthless beyond belief.”

“Indeed,” Eekrit snarled irritably. “I couldn’t have done better myself.”

There was the sound of movement from the far end of the tunnel. The scouts were withdrawing back the way they’d come, followed closely by the sappers. They filed past Eekrit and Eshreegar quickly and quietly, eager to return to the relative safety of the lower levels.

The master sapper and his chief assistant were the last in line. “It’s-it’s ready,” the grizzled veteran hissed. At a nod from Eekrit, the sappers knelt and began fishing a pair of torches from their shoulder bags. Within seconds they were striking fat, orange sparks from their flints. Eshreegar and Eekrit watched the hungry flickers of light with expressions of sick unease.

“So now you know Velsquee’s plan,” Eshreegar said faintly. “What do you propose to do about it?”

One of the torches sputtered to life in a flare of crackling flame. Eekrit all but flinched at the sight. His teeth clenched in disgust at the smell of fear-musk in the close confines of the tunnel. The scars along his paws and shoulders itched and ached. He could still remember the searing pain gnawing at his limbs; still feel the smoke clawing at his eyes and throat. The memories were as vivid now as they’d been five years ago.

Abruptly, the master sapper straightened, raising his blazing torch over his head. The flame made a fearful whoosh and flared angrily as it passed through the air only a few feet from Eekrit’s face. Eshreegar made a choking sound and flinched a bit himself, haunted by his own memories of the inferno.

Angrily, the warlord reached out and snatched the torch from the master sapper’s grip. The scar tissue on the back of his paw tightened painfully, but Eekrit forced himself to hold the brand steady.

“There is-is nothing to be done,” he said in a grim voice. The warlord stared hatefully into the hissing flame. “Velsquee believes us powerless. With the support of Lord Hiirc, the Grey Lord no doubt thinks he has-has the upper hand.”

The master sapper and his assistant looked on worriedly as Eekrit left them, heading up the tunnel towards the oil-soaked supports. At a dozen paces from the tower’s foundations he stopped, holding the fire before him like a naked blade.

“For now, we-we wait,” he said, staring into the fire. “Sooner or later, Velsquee will have his reckoning with the kreekar-gan.” He drew back his arm, and with a snarl he hurled the torch through the air. The brand spun end-over-end and struck the closest support. With a baleful whoosh the wooden support was engulfed in a pillar of seething flame. Eekrit forced himself to stand still as the bloom of heat washed over him. He closed his eyes and counted slowly to five, then let out a slow breath and turned to face Eshreegar and his warriors.

“Let the burning man come. We shall see who survives the flames.”

 

The war-witch’s song was all but lost amid the deafening cacophony of the fight. Across the mine shaft, four companies of northmen stood shoulder-to-shoulder, roaring oaths and hacking away with their blades in the face of a howling tide of wide-eyed rat-creatures. The enemy were un-armoured and carried little more than crude daggers or heavy rocks, but they attacked the towering barbarians with fearless abandon. Their eyes shone a pale green and phosphorescent foam flecked their gaping mouths. Whatever they’d been fed, it had driven them into a berserker fury that disdained all but the most terrible injuries. Even in death, the monsters seized the arms and legs of the northmen and tried to pull them to the tunnel floor. The barbarians had learned that to fall was to die; if they lost their feet they would be seized by a dozen pairs of hands and dragged into the mob. Those that did so were never seen again.

Standing at the opposite side of the mine shaft, Nagash could see that the barbarian formations were already dangerously close to breaking. For more than six hours the enemy had launched one wave after another against his defensive lines. Once they’d found the points guarded by his living troops, they had focussed their efforts on them and increased the pressure. Skeletons had no need for food or rest, but flesh and blood did, and now the lack was beginning to tell.

It galled Nagash that he had to depend upon the barbarians at all. When the war began, the northmen comprised little more than a third of his vast forces. Now, decades later, nearly half of the army was flesh and blood. He was forced to position his companies with great care these days, and to stand ready to lend his own power when the situation became desperate.

A figure in battered scale armour staggered away from the raging fight and hurried across the tunnel towards Nagash. It was Thestus, his heavy sword notched and red-stained and every inch of his exposed skin covered in cuts and scratches. His pale face was worn and deeply lined; it had been more than a month since he’d last been given a draught of the necromancer’s elixir and the hunger was taking its toll.

Thestus pushed his way through ranks of yellowed skeletons massed in reserve behind the main battle-line and came to a lurching halt before the baleful stares of the necromancer’s wight guard. “The line won’t hold!” he said, shouting tonelessly over the din. “Bragadh has fallen and the warriors are at their breaking point! If you would strike, master, strike now!”

For a long moment, Nagash did not stir. Tattered grey robes hung across the bony planes of his shoulderblades. The deep hood, stained by old soot and frayed along the hem, hung listlessly around his skull. His arms hung loosely across his waist, hands hidden within the depths of his long sleeves. An aura of power still crackled invisibly about his withered frame, but to Thestus the necromancer somehow seemed less substantial than the wights surrounding him.

There was a strange ripple of motion beneath the layers of rotting cloth; first the right shoulder, then the upper arm, then down through the elbow and the bones of the hand. Nagash’s arm rose, sweeping in an arc to encompass the low-slung figures that crouched beside him. The air grew dense with sorcerous energies, plucking at the decaying raiment of the necromancer’s bodyguards.

There was a dry, rustling sound in the shadows by Nagash’s side, like the sound of old bones being stirred in a fortune-teller’s bowl. Sharp points scraped against stone and a rising chorus of ominous, clicking sounds swelled at the necromancer’s command. Clusters of small, oval green orbs glimmered balefully out of the darkness.

A single word slithered like a serpent across Thestus’ mind, resonant with the tones of Nagash’s sepulchral voice.

Go.

With a manic scuttling of bony limbs, a dozen fearsome-looking shapes burst into murderous life, like a pack of hounds unleashed by their master. They raced from the shadows with unsettling speed; gleaming figures of polished bone and thin plates of bronze, each as big around as a northman’s shield. They raced across the tunnel floor on six segmented legs, their small, armoured heads swivelling left and right in search of prey. Their mandibles, each as long as a desert warrior’s khopesh, trembled at the prospect of rending living flesh.

Had he been a denizen of distant Nehekhara, Thestus would have recognised them at once: they were monstrous replicas of tomb beetles, cunningly shaped from bits of broken bone and curved metal and animated with hideous unlife by the power of the burning stone. But while real tomb beetles were scavengers, feasting on the rotting flesh of the dead, these constructs had been built for war.

Directed by the necromancer’s hateful will, the constructs’ carapaces opened on cunning hinges, revealing thin, wing-like armatures made of metal and tanned human hide. They cracked like sailcloth as rope-like musculature shook them out and caused them to beat in a growing, bone-chilling hum. The constructs raced forwards, gathering speed, then, with a kick of their powerful hind legs, they leapt into the air and plunged like catapult stones into the midst of the enemy warriors. They landed in a welter of blood and broken bones, knocking the frenzied rat-creatures to the ground and slicing them apart with swift, scissor-like blows from their mandibles. Within moments, all was confusion behind the enemy lines, as the berserk rat-creatures turned on the scarab constructs instead of the thinly-stretched line of northmen.

The carnage was incredible. The scarabs severed legs and arms with terrible ease, and their razor-edged carapaces sliced through flesh and muscle as though it were old parchment. The constructs had no brain to speak of—only a series of commands carved into the inside of their skulls and animated by the necromancer’s will. A small piece of abn-i-khat was lodged deep inside the thorax of each of the beetles, providing them with enough murderous energy to function for the length of a short fight. Nagash had envisioned them as shock troops, meant to carve their way through the enemy’s defensive lines and open the way for his advancing companies. With enough time and resources, he could have built hundreds of the war machines; as it was now, he could manage barely a score, and those were being hurled into battle in a last-ditch attempt to stem the enemy advance.

He had come close to victory, five years past—bitterly, tantalisingly close. The poison vapour had slaughtered the enemy in the tens of thousands and sowed terror and confusion in their ranks. His undead warriors had pursued the fleeing ratmen into the very roots of the mountain, seizing rich mine shafts that he had not possessed in decades. Sensing that the enemy lay upon the brink of defeat, he pressed them closely with his skeletons, and it had proved to be his undoing. When the rat-creatures launched a desperate counter-thrust into mine shaft seven, Nagash had precious few reserves on hand to stop them. The collapse of the mine shaft had taken him entirely by surprise; it was by luck alone that he had escaped being ground to powder beneath tons of collapsing stone.

Cut off from reinforcements, his advancing troops were eventually stopped at mine shaft eight and destroyed over the course of several days by repeated enemy counter-attacks. The loss in resources had been staggering, so much so that when the enemy struck back the following week, the ratmen quickly regained mine shafts five and six, leaving Nagash in even worse shape than before.

Furious, he had lashed out at the enemy with a campaign of sorcerous attacks over the next few years, searching for the perfect weapon that would finally drive them from the mountain, but the damned rat-creatures adapted swiftly to every new tactic he employed, from poison vapours to blood-boiling plagues. The ratmen suffered terribly, and occasionally one of the upper mine shafts would temporarily fall to his warriors, but every time his forces lacked the strength to consolidate his gains, and in short order they were lost once again. And all the while, his supply of the precious abn-i-khat was dwindling away. Where once he’d thought himself secure for millennia thanks to the riches of the great mountain, now he was forced to hoard each and every particle of the glowing rock, spending it only when he must.

Nagash had grown so attuned to the ebb and flow of the sorcerous power in his bones that he could feel it trickling away while he directed the actions of the tomb beetles. Such exacting focus was necessary, because more than ever his existence depended on ingesting the stone. After so many centuries, his leathery flesh was all but gone, consumed by the rigours of time and the strain of countless sorcerous rituals. His bones, permeated by layers of stone dust, were held together now by pure sorcery and the necromancer’s implacable will. At first, the amount of power required was negligible, but it had grown fractionally with each passing year.

Nagash directed the movement of his right arm once more, reaching into the depths of his left-hand sleeve. He found what he sought by virtue of the power it exuded against the bones of his fingers. Grasping the pieces of abn-i-khat, he drew them free and raised them to his hooded face. The faded sleeve fell away to reveal the bones of hand and forearm, blackened with age and centuries of arcane ritual. A faint green aura flickered about the outlines of his bones and glowed sullenly in the narrow joints.

There were two pieces of stone resting in his skeletal palm, shaped into thin discs like Nehekharan coins so that they lay flat against the bones. Angrily, Nagash closed his fingers about the stones and mentally intoned a swift incantation. There was a hissing sound as the abn-i-khat dissolved, its power leaching into his bones.

Faint impurities curled from the gaps between his finger bones in thin wisps of smoke. Sorcerous energy flowed through him like molten metal, but its potency dissipated all too quickly. It flowed through him and was drawn away almost at once by the demands of his army, like water poured onto the desert sands.

Across the tunnel, Nagash saw Diarid force his way out of the press of barbarians. Though sorely wounded himself, the champion dragged the limp form of his master, Bragadh, behind him. From the necromancer’s left, Akatha’s war-song faltered as the witch caught sight of the wounded chieftain. Without asking for Nagash’s leave, she pushed through the circle of the necromancer’s bodyguard and rushed to Bragadh’s side. For a moment, Nagash thought to force her to return to her place, but his resources were stretched too thin as it was to risk a battle of wills with the barbarian witch.

Nagash’s hooded head shifted fractionally, focussing on Thestus. Without lungs to draw air, or flesh to shape words, he used still more of his precious energy to impose his will on the barbarian. Rally the northmen, he commanded. Restore the line.

Thestus recoiled at the lash of the necromancer’s will. “But… what of the reserves?” he stammered. “We must commit the spear companies, master! The men are exhausted; they cannot continue much longer—”

Obey, Thestus!

The barbarian cried out at the fury in Nagash’s unspoken command. Black ichor welled up at the corners of his eyes and mouth. He staggered backwards, pressing a hand to his face, then turned away and stumbled towards the still-struggling barbarians.

Beyond the battle-line, the enemy’s foothold in mine shaft four was shrinking fast. The maddened ratmen proved their own worst enemy against the armoured scarabs, hurling themselves into the path of their snapping mandibles or slicing themselves to pieces against the scarabs’ carapaces. The gore-streaked constructs scuttled nimbly over heaps of ravaged corpses, driving ever deeper into the enemy ranks.

Nagash poured his rage into his sorcerous engines, doubling, then tripling their speed and strength. Still more wild-eyed ratmen poured from the branch-tunnels and hurled themselves fearlessly into the path of the scarabs, only to be cut down in turn by the buzzing, snapping war engines. The enemy assault had been stopped in its tracks, and for the first time in years, was being driven back upon itself.

The necromancer relished the sight of the slaughter. He drove the scarabs onwards, pushing for the branch-tunnels, eager to drive the knife deeper into the enemy’s line. There was no way to tell what lay behind the hordes of drugged ratmen; could there be a flaw in the enemy line that he could exploit? If he could push even as far as mine shaft five and hold it for a day or so, he might be able to seize enough raw stone to turn the counter-attack into a general offensive. After five years of punishing retreats, the urge to strike back was almost unbearable.

Thestus’ dreadful voice rose above the tumult, shouting orders to the exhausted northmen. The companies ordered their ranks and slowly pushed forwards over the heaped bodies of the ratmen. The constructs had nearly reached the mouths of the branch-tunnels; they had been designed with the cramped confines of the passageways in mind and would be at an even greater advantage over the enemy.

Nagash considered the waiting ranks of skeletons before him. He had five hundred spearmen immediately at hand, plus his fearsome wights. They could pass through the barbarian lines and push into the tunnels behind the scarabs. If they cut deeply enough, quickly enough, they might be able to cut off a large part of the enemy’s troops…

Just then, the necromancer caught sight of movement out of the corner of his eye. A bloodied barbarian warrior had come running out of one of the branch-tunnels and was gasping out a report to Akatha and Diarid. The witch rose from beside Bragadh’s unconscious form and reluctantly returned to Nagash’s side. Her expression was grim.

“There is news from the interior,” she said, referring to the end of the defensive line anchored at the deepest part of the mine shaft. “The ratmen have tunnelled around our warriors and emerged behind them. Our forces there have been thrown into confusion.”

Nagash rounded on the witch, his skeleton warping unnaturally with the sudden movement before reasserting itself. Rally them, he seethed. The line must hold!

Akatha groaned at the savage pressure inside her skull, but the witch did not falter. “Bragadh himself might have been able to turn the tide, but now…” she shrugged. “His wounds are deep. He requires a fresh infusion of your elixir before he can fight again.”

There is none to give! Nagash raged. Thestus will go in Bragadh’s place. The companies will follow him, or I will slay them myself!

Akatha did not reply. Her cold stare was answer enough. Of all his servants, she understood best how precarious their situation had become.

Nagash turned back to the fight at the far side of the tunnel. The advantage he’d seen there had been an illusion; the bloody assault had been but a diversion to distract him from the enemy’s flanking attack. He had been outmanoeuvred again.

A stream of deadly curses stained the aether. Once again, his position had become untenable. He could continue to fight, and possibly even repulse the new attack, but the cost in troops would be great. Caught between two axes of attack, it was even possible that the barbarians would collapse under the strain, and he might find himself cut off from the surface.

The enemy war leader was cautious and cunning, Nagash had to admit. His slow and steady advance was crushing the necromancer’s troops, like the suffocating coils of a river python. The more he fought, the weaker he inevitably became. The only viable tactic left to him was to avoid battle as much as possible, but even that played into the enemy’s hands.

Somehow, the enemy understood that the burning stone was the key to victory. Every day brought his forces closer to defeat, as the store of abn-i-khat dwindled. Before much longer, he would need to hoard the last remaining bits of stone not to fight, but to stave off his own extinction.

Trembling with fury, Nagash brought the bone scarabs to a halt at the edge of the branch-tunnels. He had to conserve his strength, to wait for his enemy to make a mistake. Then he would strike and he would not stop until he held the enemy war leader’s beating heart in his hands.

Until then, he had no choice but to retreat.