Kyasha watched the two rats leave, then turned and slipped quietly deeper into the Seer's warren. She was forced to feel her way, for the ensconced torches that served to illuminate the passage for rat eyes did very little for the eyes of a human. She stepped delicately, trying to avoid stepping on any of the little wet slimy things she came across occasionally, which tried to crawl into her sandals.
She recalled another time she had travelled through tunnels such as these. She had been much younger at the time, and the memory was faint. Yet, faint as it was, it brought salty tears to sting her eyes.
Nobody understood what was happening. All they knew was that people were sickening and dying of no apparent cause. This happened to the scholar who taught her older brothers, as well as her favorite nurse. And then she was bundled up, hidden away in a grain sack, and carried away, never to see her home again.
It was not long before she reached an open chamber, hewn by tireless rat claws into the soft swampy earth. Here she found what she had been looking for.
Most Skaven kept an odd assortment of things scattered around their homes, but Thanquol's inner chamber was unusually tidy. In one corner lay the pile of dead grass and leaves the Seer used for a bed, and in another corner sat a neat stack of books. Kyasha snatched one of these books the way a greedy child snatches cake, and hurried with it to the wall next to a torch. Slowly, almost afraid, she opened the dusty tome. The parchment within was browned and wrinkled. She must take care not to damage the brittle pages. Holding the book up to the light, she prepared to look upon the words of magic.
She saw only scratchy scrawlings. She had seen Skaven letters on their banners, but she had thought of them as being merely symbols to distinguish one group from another. She did not realize that the scrawls were in fact an alphabet, and that, as such, would be gibberish to her. So much for sneaking a look at Skaven magic.
With narrowed eyes, she first thought to cast the book from her in disgust. But that would not do. She must take care to replace the book on the stack just the way she had found it. Thanquol would surely notice otherwise.
She wondered, as she returned the book to its rightful spot, where the magician kept his Warpstone. Surely he would have some on hand. She recalled what he had said about what Warpstone would do to anyone who wasn't Skaven, but who was to say he hadn't said that just to make her keep away from it? Yet she wasn't entirely at ease with the prospect of handling a substance the Moulder rats used for "experiments."
Sighing, she returned to the outer chamber and set about contriving a way to make the suspicious Grey Seer trust her, at least enough to tell her more about his magic.
Fikit led Thanquol down the twisting tunnels of Skavenblight until at last they reached a remote set of tunnels. Thanquol frowned. He knew now where Fikit was taking him. He just didn't know why. They came to the end of the tunnel, which stopped at a door.
As Thanquol's head emerged from the tunnel, he squeezed his eyes shut until they were ready for sunlight. Although the swamp surrounding the rat city was always overcast, the dim sunlight was at first too much for one who spent nearly all his life underground. When he opened his eyes a crack, what he saw forced his eyes open wide with disbelief.
Zombies had infested the swamps south of Skavenblight for longer than anyone could remember. Slaves sent to gather the black swamp corn that fed the city's masses would occasionally see one of these mindless walking dead. Usually the zombies fed on carrion, thus posing no threat to the rats. Usually.
Dozens of decaying forms crept stiffly toward the openings of the rat city. Fetid, blackened pieces of flesh dropped from the animated corpses as they made their way forward, slow but unwavering. Many had leathery, mummified skin from having lain in the peat moss, which tended to stay the hand of putrification. But all were nightmarish.
Quickly, Thanquol scanned the undead and saw they had no leader--no necromancer, liche or vampire commanded them. So why were they descending on Skavenblight? It was outside their nature. It was the doing of that accursed human girl!
"They should not be difficult to cut down," Thanquol told Fikit. "Arm some slaves with spears, and send out some clanrats. Also someone to lead them, someone who can keep them from all running off. And seal the openings behind them." Thanquol turned and scurried away.
He found the girl curled up into a ball in a corner of the warren, weeping. "I didn't mean for them to attack your city! I didn't think they would follow me."
Thanquol's tail lashed about. "How did you know they were here?"
"I can always tell. I feel it in the marrow of my bones."
Thanquol dropped to the ground and shoved his nose into the girl's face. "What are you?" he demanded. "What are you and where did you really come from? And tell me how to stop those things or I will give you to them! Have you any idea how many hundreds of zombies there may be in those swamps? Their graves are peat! They hardly decay!"
"I don't know!" Kyasha protested. "Everything I told you was true. I don't know why the Undead follow my people, and I don't know how to stop them. Don't you think if I did I would have told you?"
"I think I know how to stop them." Thanquol rose, grabbing the girl's arms to jerk her up with him. "It's simple. We'll give them what they came for."
Kyasha dug her feet into the floor. "No!" she screamed. "You don't know what you're doing! If they kill me, I'll become an Undead even more vile than them! You will not be able to destroy me with sword or magic. If they kill me I will come back and destroy you all! I will have no control."
She was shaking violently in Thanquol's grip. The rat grabbed her shoulders to still her, but as he did his claws caught on her shabby dress, exposing a small talisman embedded in her chest just below her collarbone. It glowed with a dark light.
"What is that?" he asked, eyes wide, as he stepped backward.
"It's been there all my life. All my people had them, but no one was sure how they came to be there. I've tried to pry mine out, but it's too strongly attached."
"What does it do?" Thanquol asked, intrigued by the obviously magical item.
"It seems to keep us from getting older, and it makes us nearly immortal. The only thing that can kill us is the Undead, and then we come right back again, Undead ourselves."
Thanquol's eyes narrowed. "You said the Bretonnians killed your parents."
"They weren't really my parents."
Thanquol didn't know whether to believe the girl or not. She had misled him before. But at that moment, he wasn't inclined to test what she had said, especially what she'd said about becoming the worst of the Undead.
"Come with me," the Grey Seer said as he almost gently took the girl by the wrist.
"I don't think we's goin' where we's s'post ta be goin'," Notbob griped in a shrill, I-told-you-so voice.
The company's commander, an Orcish general who was at least as big as Skullbasha, paid no attention. But the Goblin boss over Notbob fell out and stormed over to the little Goblin. "Ya get yer teeth ta think? No. So shudup, ya lil twerp excuse for a Gobbo. An' if I hear ya 'gin, I'm gonna shove that nailed stick a yours up yer pickle nose!"
At that moment, the group came to a dead halt as the Orcish general stopped to ponder a strange odor in the air. The Goblin boss, who was still shouting at Notbob and was not paying attention, ran directly into the standard bearer, who had his helmet on backwards--again. The two fell into the peat.
The Goblin boss stood slowly with a sour look on his face, glaring at everyone who laughed at him, but especially at Notbob.
The standard bearer took longer to pull himself out of the peat, but when he did he screamed and flailed. "It a'most got me!" he screeched.
"What a'most got ya?" the Goblin boss demanded.
"Th' hand under th' water! Tried ta drag me down!"
"Hand under wadder?" Skul-Basha asked, puzzled.
"I knew we was goin' the wrong way," Notbob grumbled to himself.
He had little time to grouch, however, Several hands and more than hands began to emerge from the murk.
"Zombies!" shrieked the Goblin boss. "Run away!"
"Who in charge here?" the Orcish general bellowed. "Attack!"
The Goblins were beginning to panic, but drew their weapons, red eyes darting this way and that as the peat-preserved corpses dragged themselves from the swamp. The Orcish general knew his troops harbored thoughts of desertion, but he also knew he could not allow this. He had not become a general by being a fool. Orcs were never brilliant, but the one thing they were very, very good at was war. He knew that the zombies would be crawling from all corners of the murk, and that for the Greenskins to desert would be for them to sign their own death warrants. For as surely as they ran through the swamp, zombies would emerge to drag them down. The life and death of Goblins did not concern him too much, but with a group as small as his, they must stay together if they were to survive.
"No magic man here to lead them!" he yelled. "Cut 'em down! They a'ready dead, can't hardly fight!"
The nine Snotlings, following the general, charged the nearest zombies, too dumb to be much affected by fear. Mobbing up, they made an effective, if foolish-looking, foe for the zombies, who were indeed utterly mindless. Even more so than the Snotlings.
Encouraged, the Goblins took up the battle. Notbob, weilding his spiked club, hurried after Skullbasha, who easily sliced through creature after creature with his enormous scimitar-like sword. Notbob covered the Orc's back, swinging his weapon at any zombies that approached but mainly helping by alerting Skullbasha to danger.
"HELP!" he squeaked.
The Greenskins fought well, but the Undead masses proved overwhelming. Any thought of fleeing escaped the Goblins' minds when they saw countless zombies rising from the swamp. To run would be to face even more Undead--and face them alone.
Notbob scanned the swamp. The only Greenskin who did not dash about shaking a weapon nervously was the Night Goblin shaman, who stood calmly in the midst of the screaming swirling battle around him contemplating a mushroom. Notbob became distracted by a shrivel-skinned, slimy ragged-haired thing with puss-filled yellow eyes lumbering toward him. Having no option to call on Skullbasha, who was busy holding off three zombies, Notbob had to fend for himself. He closed his eyes and swung the club. He opened his eyes to see the zombie gazing dully at the spike embedded between its ribs. Slowly a bony hand grabbed the end of the club to draw the spike out.
As the hand touched the club, Notbob felt a dead, clammy chill course through the weapon. He was overcome by uncontrollable chilling and pure dread. The zombie lunged for the little Goblin. Notbob shrieked. His hands flew over his eyes. The zombie impaled itself on a small dagger Notbob forgot he'd been carrying. Only mildly annoyed, the zombie came at him again.
Suddenly Notbob was aware of several other zombies, attracted by the action, creeping in his direction. At the same moment, he felt an odd tingling running down his spine. His heart quickened even more than it had at the initial sight of the Undead. His blood began to flow so fast he could feel it. The adrenaline rushed to his brain, warm and stinging like ale. Notbob flung himself at the corpse, five times his size, and tore into it with his "nail on a stick." He chopped away at the zombie's head until all that was left was rags of flesh hanging loosely from the bone. The zombie kept coming. Undaunted, the goblin attacked again. Bit by bit he hacked at the Undead until finally it fell, in silent pieces, and began slowly to sink back into the swamp.
Luckily for Notbob, the shaman's magic had also instilled Skullbasha with a rage. The Orc destroyed all other zombies surrounding the Goblin.
Notbob didn't really notice that, however. He was thirsty for blood. He stalked off to find more zombies to chop up. Adrenaline filled him until it clouded his mind. Only one thought remained--to defeat his enemy. He expressed the thought in the battle cry: "WAAGH!"
When clarity of mind returned to him, he saw that his enemies had all fallen. Panting, he wiped the sweat from his green brow and looked around for his companions. Only half the company remained.
He found the Orcish general. Tugging at his chainmail, Notbob wearily asked for Skullbasha. The general frowned and pointed. Following the finger, Notbob saw a large Orc corpse beginning to sink facedown into the mire.
His heart sank. He felt as if he might be sick. His eyes welled up as he staggered toward the fallen Orc. Sinking to his knees beside the body, he began to weep bitterly, his narrow little shoulders shuddering with every breath. Orcs and Goblins were warriors, everyone knew that. It was their fate to make war and sometimes fall in battle. Everyone knew that, too. Greenskins did not fear death. Notbob knew every time he went into battle he might die, and the knowledge did not trouble him. It was only against terrifying creatures like zombies he became afraid. Death did not really bother him--when it was his own death you were talking about. Or some member of the company.
But Skullbasha wasn't just another member of the company. Skullbasha was his friend. They'd known each other for years. In a society based on size, the huge Orc, dumb ox that he was, had noticed Notbob's brains and took him along on his travels because he relied on the Goblin's good advice. They'd had good times together, worked as a team, devised effective strategies, told jokes around campfires during campaigns' many cold nights.
But Skullbasha was dead.
His eyes narrowed. Even though the zombies had no leader, there had to be some reason the Undeads had attacked so violently. Zombies were things a bunch of Greenskins should be able to run off, if forced into the situation, with no casualties. No one had seen a necromancer or anything like that, but the Goblin knew someone had to be behind this. He was going to find out who, and make them pay.