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Warlord Geshtik was twitchy. Perpetually so. He had not maintained power for the last decade and a half by being complacent. His clan, Clan Vosskabak, were preparing for the battle in the surrounding warrens. The Clan had seen many sucesses lately. The dwarves were hemmed in.
The Cave- in set by the Miners had slown them down, but not for long. The rat-ogres had torn down the gromril gate and taken the first hall. The dwarves had set up a defensive ring in the far hallway. It would take some effort to shift them.
The master plan was in place. The slaves would charge and absorb the grapeshot and tire the dwarves. The clanrats would form a spear shape with stormvermin at the head. Geshtik would be at the head of that spear.
Most Skaven preferred to hide in the back ranks. Geshtik was slightly different. He was tall for a skaven, quite powerfully built. It was not his strenght that made him a survivor. It was three other things. He was in posetion of a set of enchanted armour. It was of dwarven gromril and had been marinated in warpstone. His right paw gripped a magical blade which gave him the strength of an ogre, his left a poisoned dagger. His tail was grafted into a sharp point. And last of all was his mind.
He was a rodent genius. He had a viciously sharp mind. He could asses a combat situation in an instant and had a mind boggling web of plots established. There were many potential traitors.
The first was Brutus, his right paw rat. He was fangleader and a lethal fighter. He was too succesful. And he was widely feared, almost on a par with Geshtik himself.
The second suspect was a chieften named Stab-qwik. He was a shifty little rat. Too obedient for his own good. He would be delt with soon. The two of them would be leading the assault. And if they both survived then... well there was always plan B.
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Brutus the fangleader was in a tent three hundred meters away. He was poring over the maps of the cave ahead. He was leading the strike alongside Geshtik. He would be right near him. The plan was flawless. He would race alongside the warlord, and when a cannonball inevitably soared towards them, he would shove the warlord to the ground. He would then bury a knife in his back. It would look as if the cannonball killed him. No one would be able to prove it.
His fur was black, his teeth sharp. He was a stormvermin. And he was the rat who would be king.
He had eighteen of the others on his side. They would support him. He would replace Geshtik and be warlord. It was all so perfect.
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Thane Grimgald wiped his mouth and shoved his mug back into his bag. Ale for breakfast. Beautiful. He shouldered his way through his Hammerer retinue. He, as always, wore an unreadable expression. He looked at his other granite faced warriors. They had held for a fortnight. They would hold for another thousand. He was sure.
He had the high ground. His lads had formed a circle. He had cannons on the steps behind. The halls were lined with gromril. There would be no surprises.
The rat men had assembled opposite this formation. They were a seething mass of dank fur and stinging rags. They were shoddy and disorganised and honourless. They made Grimgald sick.
There was a great screech and the rat men surged forward. Grimgald turned and yelled to the cannon crews. “CANNONS! SEND THEM BACK TO THE DEPTHS!”
The cannons barked out a response. The cavern was lit up with a flash of light and sections of the skaven line disintegrated into bloody mist.
The slaves charged, screeching a blood curdling scream. The Thunderers opened fire, filling the air with acrid smoke and raking the line with shot. The lines collided.
Grimgald rose his shield up and blocked a spear thrist. He swung his axe round in an ark and struck off the slave’s head. With a downward swing his split open another head. A stab of pain blossomed in his left hip as a sneaky dagger slashed at his weak side. “Damn Bergdaer! Why wasn’t he covering my flank?” he cursed. He shouldered a hissing rat to the ground and crushed his head with a heavy boot. Around him, blood flowed as the slaves were decimated. The dwarves sustained a few flesh wounds. The slaves broke off and fled in a panicked state. Grimgald tied a tourniquet around his leg and doused the wound with strong ale. Skaven daggers could be fatal, even scratches. He recalled a drinking croney of his, Duremar, who received a slight scratch on his chin from a cornered clan rat. He died in agony two days later. Filthy beasts.
The second wave was composed of clanrats and stormvermin. The latter were large, taller than even Big Murt. They had some discipline at least. Grimgald lay his good eye on the head of the formation. There were two rat men, taller than the rest. One had the usual black fur and armour of a stormvermin, he was just talled and had a more ornate helmet. The other however, had armour of shining silver and finely crafted weaponry. The contrast between the dirty fur and the armour was disconcerting.
The screeching line surged forward, howling with malice. A warrior to Grimgald’s left spoke up. “Oh dear. Here we go ag-“ his words were cut off. The back of his head ruptured and he collapsed dead. “JEZZAILS! VISORS AND SHIELDS UP!” . Damn snipers! Have these scum no honour?
Brutus was racing along. To his flanks, the masses matched his pace. The spear was going to strike. Any second now a cannon ball would strike and he would have his opportunity.
A cannon crew were thinking the same thing. They lined up the shot and fired. The solid ball flew forward and struck the ground beneath the front rank. The big rat was launched into the air.
Brutus saw his chance. He leapt at the flying body of Geshtik. “Warlord, get-rise up!” he squeeked. The dagger was drawn and he was ready to plunge it into his neck. “ You too, Brutus?” asked the fallen warlord with a calm voice. Brutus was taken aback by this . Geshtik whipped his sharpened tail up and sliced at the traitor’s face. Brutus squealed in pain. He stood some feet away , growling with indignant anger. Geshtik swung his blade around and cut down the traitorous fangleader, the body catching fire with magical heat and cauterising the neck stump.
Catching his breath, Geshtik surveyed the scene. His rats had driven back the dwarves, but it was not enough. He needed to win now.
He looked towards the cavern roof. “Eshin! Now!” he screamed. Several rocks moved and plunged down into the bloody melee. Gutter runners. The Thunderers balked in surprise as they were cut down, the cannon crews fell to precise and practised knife work.
The Gutter Runners then clambered up the walls, too fast for their stocky opponents. With their ranged weapons down, the dwarves were sitting ducks.
“Teams! Shoot-shoot them!” cried the warlord in triumph. The clanrats pulled back, retreating back to were they began. The plan worked. The dwarves were wounded, had lost their artillery and now were trapped. The ratling guns opened up. The warriors on the flanks were cut down and the hammerers also fell. The standard bearer, having bawled and cried curses and words of encouragement for the whole battle was his by a warpstone bullet and collapsed, his head missing its right side.
“Bugger this lads.” murmered Grimgald. “Form up in a ring! We will give these furry rodent bastards a reckoning!” he yelled out to the survivors. As they did, several green globes flew into the air. The explosion of gas was devastating.
Grimgald felt pure agony, The gas was causing his skin to dissolve and he could no longer breath well. He keeled over, coughing up and acidic pus that his lungs had apparently stored for a special occasion. After several more seconds his eyes began to lose all sight and he went blind. He could hear an accursed chittering. He screamed over and over as the ratmen consumed his prone body alive.
When the Ironbreakers entered the isolated hall two weeks later, they found a great mass of stripped bone and skeletons strewn in a rough circle. Above the hall, on the far cavern wall, was the symbol of the Horned Rat. The Underempire had gained another victo
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The Emperor Protects
