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COPYRIGHT © 1998 Lorekeeper (A. Ferguson)

Chapter One

Fikit scanned the small courtyard after the skirmish settled, his beady eyes narrowed, seeking any survivors. There shouldn't have been, as anyone foolish enough not to have fled the villa after the globadiers cast their bombs should have died from the poisonous fumes, but he couldn't be too careful. His nose twitched, his ears perked. Someone among the humans of the household lived still.

He drew a jagged-edged sword with his left paw, the artificial one the great Grey Seer Thanquol had made for him from precious, magical--and highly dangerous--Warpstone. Fikit had lost his forearm from his paw halfway to his elbow in battle when a particularly large Orc had slammed a particularly large axe down on him while the rat was lying injured in the mud. Ordinarily, a clanrat like himself--even a boss--would not have been deemed worthy of receiving a gift as rare and expensive as a Warpstone arm, but Fikit was a champion, and one of Thanquol's favorites. He was a sly rat with keen senses and excellent swordsmanship, and was as loyal to Thanquol as could be expected of a member of a race as distrustful as Skaven.

The Warpstone arm wasn't just a gift--it was also a means of retaining his loyalty to the Grey Seer. The dear gift had placed the clanrat in deep debt to Thanquol. Not that Skaven habored feelings of gratitude--it was simply that Fikit had plans, plans that would benefit from Thanquol's support.

The gift had not only restored his valuable talent of ambidexterity, but had given him additional powers. A wound made with the claws of that paw did far more damage than ordinary claws, and he was better able to deflect opponents' blows as well.

So he carried his weapon in his left paw and crept toward the house, a house that held the corpses of the family of a human who had displeased Thanquol. Apparently, the human was supposed to have acted as a go-between in the business of procurring Warpstone, but had betrayed Thanquol. But none of that was Fikit's concern.

Peering into the doorway, half-hidden by the broken door hanging from one hinge (the result of a rat ogre's bashing), he caught a glimpse of movement, heard the sound of sandaled human feet across the floor.

Fikit leaped into the room, shoving the door aside with his sword. To his left he heard a soft cry, almost like a frightened young rat. Turning his head, he saw a young human woman who had attempted to hide by flattening herself against the wall. She was obviously not a member of the family, as her eyes and long hair were dark, and her skin olive complected, as opposed to the fair-colored humans who dwelled in this land. Her tattered dress and the dirt on her face made clear that the girl was a house slave.

The clanrat lowered his sword, seeing that the weaponless girl was no threat. "Slave," he said, an idea forming in his mind. "They didn't treat you well, did they?" he asked, noting her bruises and obvious malnourishment.

The slave shook her head, her eyes wide with fear.

"Then you have no loyalty to them?"

The look of fear in the girl's eyes changed to hatred. "The master and his followers slaughtered my people some years ago. They left only the children alive to bring back as slaves."

Good-good, Fikit thought to himself. "I see you want revenge on these people. We Skaven want to wipe them out as well. We could use you as a spy, if you would take an oath of loyalty to my master Thanquol." Skaven did not bother with such oaths, knowing nearly all would be either broken without a second thought or outright lies to begin with, but humans were different.

The girl looked the Skaven in the eye. "Absolutely," she said with ice in her voice.

Thanquol was a bit surprised to see Fikit return a few days later leading what appeared to be a useless, weak human female down the tunnels of Skavenblight, but he knew Fikit to be more intelligent than most of his fellow clanrats-- clever enough to become a clanlord someday--and understood that Fikit must have a good reason.

"We destroyed the traitor and his household, Thanquol. And I have brought you a spy," Fikit said as he removed the girl's blindfold.

"What-what?"

"She hates her captors enough to join us. I thought she would make a good spy. Who would suspect a little human slave?"

Thanquol scratched his chin. Among Skaven, the enemy of your enemy was often also your enemy, but among humans this was less often true. He could see by the way the girl seethed when Fikit mentioned her captors that she hungered for revenge on the people who had enslaved her. Had Thanquol thought the girl to be of a simple mind, he would have accepted her as his slave and found some menial but useful task for her. But behind the various expressions that passed through the girl's eyes he saw an uncanny intelligence, a cunning. She would be useful only if she could be trusted, and Thanquol, ordinarily an excellent judge of character, was unsure about this one.

"Thanquol?" Fikit asked with a puzzled look, as if he were now unsure he'd done well to bring this girl along.

"Leave the girl here with me and run along for now," the Grey Seer said finally.

Run along! As if Fikit were a small ratling! But he kept his annoyance hidden and did as Thanquol bid him. It would not do to anger the powerful rat. Even if Fikit survived the wrath that would inevitably follow, angering Thanquol would destroy his chances of having the magician's support when he enacted his plan to become a clanlord.

Thanquol watched, amused, as Fikit left, almost smiling to himself at the clanrat's obvious displeasure. He then turned to the girl. "What is your name?"

"Kyasha," the girl said simply.

An odd name, Thanquol thought. The human's coloring made clear that she was not from any of the northern areas of the Old World, yet the name did not sound like it belonged to one born in the Southlands. It didn't sound like it came from any place the well-traveled Thanquol was familiar with, except possibly Sylvania or maybe Kislev. But there was nothing about this girl that suggested such origins.

"Where are you from?" Thanquol ventured.

The girl shrugged. "Nowhere. Everywhere. My people have been wanderers for a long, long time. We fled Nehekhara in the time of Nagash. We have been fleeing the plague of the Undead ever since. Everywhere we go, it seems, Undead follow. It is as if we are cursed. We settled for a time in Sylvania, but the Undead followed us still, and filled the land with vampires. Now we travel wherever our paths lead."

Thanquol felt uneasy for a moment. Suppose the Undead followed Kyasha to the tunnels of his warren? Zombies had dwelled in the swamps just south of Skavenblight for longer than anyone could remember; it would be a simple matter for them to approach the city if they really were drawn to the presence of one of Kyasha's people.

The Grey Seer quickly dismissed this feeling. If the zombies were going to attack the city, they would have done it long before now. And with no necromancer, liche or vampire to lead the mindless creatures, the guards of Skavenblight should be able to make short work of any Undead that did try to enter.

"My group was attacked by Bretonnians a few years ago," Kyasha continued. "They killed off all the adults and took the children for slaves. They claimed they had to kill us for fear we'd lead the Undead to them, of course. They couldn't bear to tarnish that lie of theirs about honor."

"Kyasha, is there--is there a possibility the Undead might follow you here? There are some in the swamps not far from here, you know."

"I never saw a single one the whole time I was a slave of the Bretonnians. I think it takes more than just one of my people to bring them. . . ." She looked away as she trailed off, as if some memory made it impossible for her to continue.

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