It was tough going, trying to keep up with the Undead while being dogged by two Snotties in the unfamiliar and unstable swamp. The further he walked, the higher the water rose, and it became more and more difficult to pull his feet out of the mud. He was cold and wet, and goosebumps were forming on his green skin. But he pressed on.
Coming through a tangled cluster of trees, Notbob happened upon a small round boat, abandoned in the murky water. The Goblin didn't know whose boat it was, or why they had left it, but it was his now. He and the little guys climbed over the side and, grabbing dead branches for crude paddles, they made their way through the mists. The mist was not thick; it was fairly easy to see the hulking forms of the lumbering Undead before them. As he came closer, it dawned on Notbob that there were far more zombies here than he had remembered doing battle with. It seemed they were all bent on one destination: a ruined tower that inexplicably rose above the swamp.
Fikit chased a number of slaves up the tunnel, assisted by several other rats he had recruited. The huge black Stormvermin, sly Assassins, Warpfire Throwers and Clanrats Fikit had recruited would join the battle to defend Skavenblight, shielded by the slaves. The thought of the Undead struck a chill into the hearts of the bravest Skaven, but if they did not hurry to the battle, they would be fending off zombies from inside the tunnels--a far more terrifying prospect.
Fikit led the small army--most of them Thanquol's minions--to the door leading out, but remained behind to close and lock the door. The Grey Seer had told him to bar the exit, after all. He was not troubled by feelings of cowardice. He knew how to survive.
The meeting of Warlocks and Clan Moulder rats was interupted by a cowering slave. He shuddered miserably in his gray rags as he approached the Grey Seer. "Thanquol," he muttered timidly. "Fikit sends me to tell you he has sent out your army. He says the Undead are getting close to the doors."
The arguing and theorizing stopped silent. The other rats in the room stopped in the middle of their planning and turned and glared at Kyasha. Her presence would destroy their home.
"To the Council with her!" someone suggested. "They will make short work of her, and the zombies will leave!"
"No!" Thanquol said, he whiskers twitching nervously. He had to take care of this himself. If he had to bother the Council, they would see to it he was sorely sorry for it. He would be blamed for the trouble the human had caused, though it was that blasted Fikit who brought the girl to Skavenblight.
He grabbed Kyasha her by the arm. "If you are hiding anything, tell me now," he hissed, his eyes burning and his whiskers quivering. "Otherwise I shall squeeze it from you!"
"If I knew anything to break this curse, I would have done something about it three thousand years ago!" Kyasha countered, refusing to be intimidated. "The only thing I can tell you is, find some way to kill me. Some way that I cannot come back from. Once I'm dead, tear me to pieces and burn me to ash! I've lived this miserable life long enough." It seemed all strength drained from her as she said this, and she hung limp in Thanquol's grasp. "I'm so tired."
Thanquol loosened his grip on Kyasha. He did not like the thought of killing this girl--or old woman, as she actually was. He wanted to study her, learn more of the powers contained within the talisman in her chest.
"Please, Thanquol," she said softly, "help me. If you do that, you will save yourself and the rest of your people. We will each get what we want." She had learned to bargain like a Skaven.
A Packmaster drew his sword. "Wise-wise plan," he said. Before anyone could react, he snatched Kyasha from Thanquol and ran his sword through her gut. She doubled over in pain, but did not even bleed. With effort, she disloged the sword. As she did, the wound sealed itself. Not a trace of crimson sullied the blade. "There must be a better way than that," she grunted, still cradling her gut.
"Hold still," the Packmaster said, "and I will behead you."
Kyasha held her head high to better expose her neck as the rat attempted to sever her head. The sword passed through the girl's neck easily, yet didn't leave so much as a mark.
The Packmaster's whiskers quivered in annoyance. "She regenerates like a troll," he spat in disgust. "I might as well swing my sword at a ghost."
"Enough of this foolishness," Thanquol said. He had remained silent throughout the ordeal, thinking his own thoughts. "It is clear we cannot kill her by ordinary means. I think it is time we tried another plan, one to deal with the more pressing matter at hand." His gaze turned in the direction of the battle above.
"Do you have one?" asked a Warlock.
Thanquol nodded gravely. "There is one way we can ensure we will not lose," he said.
Several of the other rats gasped. "The Black Ark?" one squeaked. "We cannot use it now! Too-too close to the city. We would lose too many of our own."
"We will lose all of our own if we do not use it!" Thanquol snapped, his tail lashing fiercely behind him. "Bring it forth. I shall ride with it myself."
The greenskins moved more quickly now in the small, half-rotted coracle that had once been used by slaves to gather the strange black corn that fed the rats of Skavenblight. Notbob steered toward the creeping hoards of zombies. Every minute that passed brought more of the decaying beings, though they seemed to take no notice of the Goblin and Snotlings. Instead they seemed focused on the tall, slender structure that lie some distance away, obscured by the mists and poisonous gases of the swamp.
It looked to Notbob like a tower, a menacing cylindrical tower ending in a sharp spire that reached above the clouds as though seeking to pollute the clean air with its foulness. Notbob did not know what the thing was, nor did he particularly care. If the zombies were intent on reaching this tower, so much the better. It would mean they would all be in one place when he annihilated them.
As they paddled closer to the tower, he heard a familiar sound--the din of battle. Notbob paddled more quickly to see who was fighting. If the zombies were being destroyed, he wanted to make certain he did some of the destroying.
Thanquol sat atop the carriage, his loose-fitting magician's robe fluttering in the air current created by the motion of the vehicle. His small black eyes glittered.
Two other Warlocks stood ready to operate the pulley and winch that controlled the Black Ark--a massive thing of some strange kind of wood indiginous to the swamp carved to resemble a giant rat skull. Indeed, the skull was big enough to fit the head of the Horned Rat himself.
A team of more than a dozen clanrats and slaves drew the carriage, surrounded on either side by other ranks. Just ahead of the carriage marched a unit of clanrats led by Fikit--his reward for his cowardice. Thanquol laughed softly as he watched Fikit reluctantly lead the way. "This is good for you, Fikit," the Grey Seer told the clanrat telepathically. "After all, if you ever want to be a clanlord, you must prove yourself." Privately, Thanquol was enraged with Fikit for bringing that accursed girl into their midst. But he would deal with that later.
He turned his head to look upon the monster that lumbered along to the right and slightly behind the carriage and felt better. Boneripper would not even blink at the thought of battling the Undead. Of course, Boneripper really didn't think much at all, but that was just as well. Something as powerful as a massive triple-armed Rat Ogre need not think. He might become clever.
Fikit, meanwhile, was muttering under his breath. It wasn't the Undead that got to him, he thought, so much as the fact that he was stuck between the Undead and the Black Ark, which was just as deadly to Skaven as it was to the Skaven's enemies. But it wasn't the Black Ark that bothered him so much as the fact that Thanquol was in charge of the Black Ark, and he knew the Grey Seer was displeased with him at the moment. He would think nothing of reducing the clanrat to ash or perhaps something worse.
Fikit tried to put these thoughts out of his mind. They were fast approaching the walking dead, which brandished rusty swords and called out with chilling moans and shrieks.