Chapter 2: Tilea

The land beneath Skyseeker’s paw-feet changed with every scuttle. What was once malleable ground of the marshes began to solidify, turning islands of soft soil into mangled formations of rock. Where the nature in the marshes was withered, now the plants were blooming healthily between cracks in the granite. The hills of stone almost like natural defences to her, blocking the influence of the blightlands from spreading any further.

Climbing one of the taller outcrops, Skyseeker shielded her goggles with a paw as she surveyed the way forward, the explosion of colour almost dazzling her right off her perch. Grey gave way to green and brown, the rugged terrain lushed with carpets of green stalk-looking things that waved in the breeze.

Even the gnarled-things that had permeated the quagmire had changed. They rose up healthily into the air like towers of wood, their branches furred over with leaves, as though some magical force had bestowed a curse of colour upon them. Snow-capped mountains put a stop to the stretches of green eventually, the land sloping into peaks so tall they rivalled the Shattered Tower in terms of height.

To say Skyseeker despised the change in scenery was an understatement. The marshes were a chore to navigate, true, but at least they didn’t make her eyes want to bleed. It was only thanks to the goggles that she didn’t have to forgo her sense of sight on this leg of her journey.

She descended into the beginnings of the rolling meadows, her heart thumping against her chest as the mist that had draped over the quagmire began to wane. From out of the overcast, the heavens took on a striking shade of blue, her mind struggling to balance her curiosity of the sky, and the pervasive sense of exposure it instilled in her chest. What kinds of creatures could stand all this sun and breeze and soft plants? They must be horribly mutilated if they could thrive in such a distracting ecosystem.

Skyseeker had heard descriptions of the surface-dwellers, savage-things with skin instead of fur, towering over even the largest of Skaven. They wielded weapons of steel and fire, rather than the clearly superior artform of Warpstone. Skavenkind greatly outnumbered the surface-dwellers, but what they lacked in numbers that made up for with cunning tactics and unwavering faith, fighting to the bitter end all in the name of their false Gods.

How much of this was true or not was hard to tell, and she pleaded to the Horned Rat she didn’t get the chance to find out. To kill Skaven was one thing, but to fight creatures bigger than Lord Gnawdwell…

She shook these thoughts from her mind. A Mors assassin like herself would have no trouble avoiding creatures that needed so much sunlight. Just like in the Warrens, she would cling to the shadows wherever they lurked, slipping right between the legs of those who stupidly thought they could seek her out.

As she pressed on through the hills, she started to believe the lands might be abandoned. She expected the surface-dwellers to have constructed fortifications against the marshes, to have assembled armies to patrol the roads and hinder her progress, but there was nothing. A few crumbling ruins dotted the area, but they looked as decrepit as Skavenblight’s tunnels, perhaps Lord Gnawdwell had exaggerated their threat? No doubt a calculated move to keep her on her toes.

A few more hours of walking proved her wrong. Strange constructs came into the limits of her view as she weaved between two hills, Skyseeker scrambling onto higher ground for a better look at them. Placing a paw on her goggles, she zoomed in on the objects, and after a few moments, she was looking upon what appeared to resemble a city, though she could be wrong.

The buildings were leaning against each other at peculiar angles, the quality of the masonry varying wildly from building to building. The clusters of buildings were separated by dozens of tiny islands, canals full of green water snaking between them. It appeared a little too much of a juicy target for artillery in Skyseeker’s opinion, but perhaps the true city lay below, and this eyesore was just a decoy. Whatever her opinions of the surface-dwellers, their engineering was commendable.

Just before she prepared to move on, something moved through the meadows between her and the city, something big. She brought her goggles back one magnification, tweaking the dials randomly until she cleared up the image.

She glazed over a sea of gnarled-things growing across the land like scab over a wound, snivelling in annoyance as she tried to relocate what she’d seen. There! A group of her kin scuttled from hill to hill, turning their pink noses up as they scented the strange smells of this place. Skyseeker put their warband in the hundreds, and that was only the ratmen that she could see from this angle.

Rubbing her chin in thought, Skyseeker drafted up a plan in her head. Her Lord had said the Great Clans were already moving ahead of her, perhaps she could use them to her advantage? It was risky, but she’d rather travel this strange land with an army as opposed to being a lone-rat.

Glancing warily at the city, she headed in their direction, eager to relish in the feeling of safety in numbers once again.

-xXx-

The riveted plates of his sabatons squeaked as he raised a foot onto the raised lip of earth, shaking out his portable telescope and peering through it at the countryside. Great mountain ranges encircled the province of Tilea, rising up like monstrous teeth to the north and east. The Vaults were sturdy fortifications against the threats lying beyond them, but they were not impassible. There were many routes squiggling through the ranges, some well-known, some not, the stretching shadows playing tricks on his eyes as he searched the slopes.

“You up here again, Cap’n?”

He lowered his device with an annoyed click of his teeth, looking back to see a young man climbing up the path. He was dressed in a creamy-coloured gambeson with the Tilean coat of arms stitched over his vest. He vaguely recognised the scout from prior encounters, but couldn’t recall his name.

“Expectin’ trouble from the north or somethin’?” the scout continued, his eyes following the path of his telescope to the Vaults. “Can’t rightly see the point of watching the passes like a hawk, sir. Dwarves are sittin’ pretty in their mountains, and the greenskins are more interested in the Border Princes than us.”

“Attacks often come from where we least expect, lad,” he replied, pushing the two ends of his telescope together with his gauntlets. “What news do you bring?”

“The Commander sent for you,” the scout answered. “he’s in the war tent.”

He nodded, stopping to pick his decorated helmet off a nearby rock. Feathers the colour of blood plumed out of the apex of the metal, plucked from an exotic animal not native to this province. Tucking the helmet under his arm, he gestured for the scout to lead on, the two moving down the path.

As they descended, the camp came into view. The band had set up next to a running stream that hugged the base of the hill, hundreds of tents bearing blue and white colours stretching out and below in uneven rings. Barricades of wooden stakes pointed out from the very edges of the camp, the perimeter lined with trenches to ward off any potential attack.

Scattered about the bustling camp were cleared spaces, where swordsman flourished their weapons in synchronocity as they went over basic stances. There were also fenced off areas penning in the livestock and the horses, as well as smithing areas devoted to the sharpening and tinkering of wargear, the sound of weapons scraping against whetstones present at all hours of the day.

The Captain dodged out of the way as a pair of soldiers marched some rowdy horses off the beaten track, the handlers stopping to salute as he passed them by. Campfires were sprinkled between the tents here and there, adding a pleasant scent of roast to the body odour and blood tainting the air. The men gathered around said fires were laughing and chatting as they ate their rations. The last few days had been mostly absent of warfare, resulting in a busier camp than normal.

After navigating the maze of tents a few minutes, the Captain stood before the larger tents that made up the heart of camp. Visually, the headquarters looked the same as the rest of the camp tents, but upscaled appropriately to mark its importance, and crowned with the Tilean coat of arms – a pair of crossed swords

The scout waited outside while the Captain pushed the flap aside, blinking his eyes as he adjusted to the gloomy interior. Carpet had been rolled out to give the war tent some decorum, parts of the sheet interrupted by the wooden beams keeping the structure erect. A round table took up most of the floorspace, candles casting wavering lights across a map of the immediate region, red and blue figurines placed upon some of the landmarks

Leaning over the maps was an older, but certainly not feeble man, dressed from feet to neck in silver plate armour. He pinched at his combed moustache as he slid one of the figurines across the map with a frown, his expression not changing as he looked up at the Captain.

“Ah, Captain Roderick, good morning.”

“You wished to see me, Commander?” Roderick asked, nodding respectfully as he stopped beside the table, waiting patiently as the Commander moved one of the blue pieces further inland.

“Indeed. I have received a troubling report from our scouts watching the western flank. Yet another warband has slunk into the province, and is crossing the fields to Miragliano’s immediate north.

“More rodents?” Roderick scoffed. He’d spit in disgust if not for the carpet. “That’s the second Vermintide to cross the border this week alone.”

“And more crawl out of the Blighted Marshes every day,” the Commander continued, scratching in chin in thought. “Tilea has always been besieged by those blasted lands, but to this degree? I fear whatever it is that has the Skaven so riled up.”

“Rats are opportunistic things,” Roderick replied, waving a dismissive glove. “Even the slightest whiff of weakness can set them off. Do they plan on attacking the city?”

“Not according to their latest movements,” the Commander explained, placing a hand on the northern half of Tilea. “This warband circles Miragliano from north to east, using the forests for cover, ignoring every inn and town they possibly can. Whatever their goal is, it is not here in the North. I’d put my money on them hitting one of the southern cities if I were a betting man.”

“Has no one intercepted them?” Roderick asked, looking to the other figurines placed on the map. “What about the other mercenary bands?”

“They are more interested in butchering each other than to face external threats,” the Commander replied with a shake of his head.

As usual, Roderick thought, but instead he said: “Then, it falls upon us to rid these lands of infestation. What are their numbers?”

“One thousand strong, perhaps more. Compared to the last Vermintide, this one seems to favour more weapon teams than shock troopers. They will make perfect targets for your cavalry, but we must lure them away from their infantry first.”

“A sound plan,” Roderick said. “What do you propose?”

The Commander explained the plan in detail, and when he was done, Roderick nodded in supressed enthusiasm. Whatever his opinions of the Tilean Commander, he was a born strategist. “We must move swiftly, however,” the Commander continued. “lest the Skaven cross further afield and cause untold chaos to my lands.”

“I’ll assemble the knights immediately,” Roderick said. He was about to turn away when the Commander held up a hand.

“Before you go, some good news. I’ve come to the conclusion that your service to the company has exceeded my expectations as of late. Bring Tilea victory this day, Captain, and I’ll consider your debt repaid in full. You have my word.”

Roderick’s brow furrowed. In these lands, it was more convenient to trust a man’s purse than his word, but he had little choice, and the Commander seemed an honest sort so far.

“The rodents are as good as dead,” Roderick declared.

“One last thing,” the Commander added.

“Yes, sir?” he replied, the prospect of freedom leaving him eager.

“I wish to know what these ratmen are doing,” the Commander mused. “Why they pick now of all times to march east. This request may strike you as… unusual, impossible even, but if you can bring one of these Skaven back alive, you would be doing Tilea a great service. Do not compromise the lives of your men for this task, but if it’s at all possible, bring one to me.”

“I… I will make it so,” Roderick replied after hesitating. The Commander didn’t add any more, and he took that as a sign of dismissal, donning his helmet with a look of determination.

-xXx-

It wasn’t very difficult to infiltrate the warband.

Right before making her move, Skyseeker had rolled around in a pool of mud for a few minutes, making sure each individual strand of her dark fur was caked in filth, setting aside her goggles and daggers so they stayed clean. They were gifts from the Lord himself, and she’d treat them as such.

Once she was sure her bredder-musk was hidden beneath the horrid stench of earth, she retrieved her gear, and stumbled through the underbush towards the warband’s rearguard ranks. She’d watched the Skaven column for long while, waiting until they delved into the dense forests before making her move. The broken sightlines would make her incursion even easier.

She soon spotted a group of gutter-runners, stumbling over the many protruding roots as they struggled to stay in formation, Skyseeker hurrying towards them. She rushed a little too hard and fell clumsily onto her front as she tripped on a root, purely to help sell the image of course, but when she piled into the ranks, none of the ratmen even batted an eye in her direction, her relief palpable as she quickly absorbed herself into the masses. They probably thought her goggles were scavenged off some other dead Skaven, and as long as her prized daggers stayed hidden under her cloak, none would be the wiser. Another outstanding victory for Skyseeker.

While sneaking into the ranks was easy, maintaining her composure was not. Clanrats with authority over the slaves ensured that the stragglers kept pace with the warband, and her unit of gutter-runners was full of lazy welps. Whips were flailed across the scurrying Skaven, the resulting cracks bringing her straight back to the marshes when she’d killed that slaver. She had to fight the urge to sever the paws of the Skaven lashing the gutter-runners into shape. While her confidence had been boosted since the marshes, killing now would just draw more attention to herself.

With a resigned sigh, she swallowed her pride, flinching as one or two whips were sent her way, drawing stinging cuts on her back and arms. All for the mission, she told herself as she clutched her wounds, the pain would be worth it once she succeeded in her task.

Skyseeker couldn’t get a good look at the warband’s numbers until many hours of marching passed, when the procession crested a hill, leaving the rearguard at a higher elevation while the rest of the Skaven extended out and over the meadows like a furry stain of fecal matter. She could see scores of ratling gunners and jazzails composing the middle of the column, with a smaller, but no less numerous amount of clanrats heading the procession. Here and there, banners poked up from the army, the symbol of Clan Skryre catching her eye. That explained why there was so much ranged weaponry.

Doing a double-take, she realised this wasn’t the only Great Clan banner she could see. There was also one of Clan Pestilens, even the Eshin symbol if she wasn’t mistaken (which she never was). Her Lord had warned her about this, but actually seeing the Great Clans working together troubled her greatly. Mors was a powerful Clan, but not nearly enough to challenge an alliance on this scale, however fickle it might be…

Many hours of lashing and marching passed, the skies starting to darken, until finally word travelled up the column for an order to halt. Skyseeker collapsed alongside her fellow heaving gutter-runners, noting that even the Skaven flogging the ranks with their whips looked tired, though that was likely because they had hardly ever let up all day.

Minutes passed with no movement from the idling warband, Skyseeker taking the opportunity to shut her eyes. She tried imaging herself in her personal burrow in the warrens below Skavenblight, how her favourite stone felt so comfortable if she laid on it at just the right angle.

She was snapped out of her fatigue by the stomping of heavy footfalls, she and the other Skaven darting their heads round in search of the source. Something big was coming up from the forward ranks, she could see the heads of the ratmen part like water as a hulking figure stalked through the troops, the sound of a pained howl reaching her ears. Some of the more fearful gutter-runners whimpered as they turned their heads away, as though readying themselves for punishment. She would have asked them what was going on, if she wasn’t shaking beneath her cloak as well.

The waiting was terrible, but soon the hulking figure was mere paces away, and she watched with a hanging jaw as what appeared to be a hand made of plates and gears shoved a pair of ratling gunners aside, the sound of cranks and winches very loud as a hush fell over the warband.

The figure looked like a Skaven in the most basic sense, as she could not see a strand of fur on it, save for the few whiskers protruding from beneath its sloped helmet. Out of the collar of its armoured neck, tubes snaked out to connect to a harness that probably weighed more than she did. The wargear was covered in all manners of valves and dials, the suit constantly squeaking and hissing as wisps of unknown gasses slipped out of the seams in its armoured limbs.

Mounted on its back was a giant tank, similar in design to the packs worn by the warpfire-throwers, the signature green glow of technomancy seen through the many eyepieces covering the machinery. It was big enough she could have crawled comfortably inside it, but the hulking figure showed no signs of discomfort.

One of its arms wasn’t an arm, but a warp-blade, protruding from the spot where a Skaven’s paw would be, the weapon linked to the harness by more pipes and devices she couldn’t begin to guess the function of. The other arm, while somewhat the familiar shape of a paw, was instead entirely metal, ending in three flexible grippers tipped with dagger-sized claws. It was anyone’s guess as to whether the Skaven’s limbs were hidden beneath all the equipment, or completely replaced by these mechanical counterparts.

“Listen to my greatness, stupid minions!” a low, powerful voice called out, its owner obvious enough. The Warlock Engineer bobbed its helmet as it spoke, the grill fixed over its muzzle giving its voice a menacing effect. “The enemies of Clan Skryre are many in these tainted lands. They shall all die-die for the glory of Great Horned Rat. But first!” the machine added, warp-lightning travelling along a circuit wrapped over its harness. “Nap time!”

The exhausted warband’s cries were equal parts pain and joy, the Warlock waving a mechanical arm as he ordered camp to be made, Skyseeker relaxing as he turned his back on her. The Warlock was so imposing, the blending of machine and magic as strange as it was unsettling.

Axes were handed out, the copious amounts of slaves taking them to the surrounding forests, hacking away at the tall wood-things. A few unfortunate ratmen were caught in the path of the felled plants, their shouts of alarm cut short as they were squashed. The sigh elicited much laughter from the rest of the warband – morale always spiked when food offered itself to the ration piles.

Skyseeker joined her fellow runners, hacking away at the wood-things with a handaxe and hauling the pieces towards the firepits, the Warlock casting a spell to ignite the wood once enough was gathered. The blazing fires fought back the encroaching darkness, Skyseeker looking out across the forest to see many other pits blooming across the area – there must be other spellcasters supporting the warband.

Cradling her rumbling stomach, Skyseeker made her way to the ration piles, and for the first time in her journey, nobody tried to steal from her. The warband had an abundance of rations, so all she had to do was wait until everyone else had eaten, then gather up her scraps.

After eating her fill of corn and a few strips of unrecognisable meat, Skyseeker searched for a spot to rest. The slaves were retiring to their freshly-dug burrows in drives, Skyseeker already hearing hundreds of snoring noises from the many holes in the earth. Skaven slept in piles to share warmth when they weren’t killing each other, and while sleeping underground was an appealing prospect, Skyseeker wasn’t about to trap herself beneath a hundred horny ratmen for the sake of driving off the cold.

She picked a spot far enough away that she wouldn’t be disturbed, but close enough that she could run back to the safety of the warband if some nocturnal creature happened upon her. She could already feel numbness spreading down her limbs as she distanced herself from the fires, but nobody said her undercover mission would be easy.

As she crawled into the cover of a patch of ferns, she noticed that the sky had changed at some point. The bright blues she’d seen in the day had turned to black, though not quite as black as her fur. All across this new, vast canvas were points of glittering light, the sight enrapturing her. There had to be thousands of them, sprinkled throughout the heavens with seemingly no pattern or order. She wondered what they were, magical flares? Comets of Warpstone?

It felt odd to lay there and just… stare at the sky, but in a pleasing sort of way. She could almost forget she was in the nightmarish hellscape of the surface world, forget her rearing paranoia for a few brief moments, and just let her thoughts wander to nothing in particular. She tried to touch these twinkling points with her paw, but she couldn’t reach them. Perhaps if she climbed that wood-thing over there she might be able to…

Despite her protests, fatigue crept over her, and she curled into a ball, the afterimage of the sky burned into her eyes as sleep took her.

-xXx-

The warband marched through the forests, armour and weapons clanking, paws skittering across the many pools of light painting the ground where the sun penetrated the dense canopy. Wood-things and ferns, that was all the surface world had to offer, the monotonous landscape quickly boring Skyseeker as the hours blended together.

Fortunately, it wasn’t long before a landmark appeared, changing up the scenery. The land dipped into a vast trench, stretching from left to right, and sitting at its lowest point was a bubbling river. The water wasn’t green like the underground ponds in Skavenblight, nor murky-brown like those of the marshes, but as clear as crystal, transparent enough that one could see the moss covering the submerged rocks. Did that mean it was poisoned? The skavenslaves leading the warband didn’t seem affected as they crossed it, perhaps its contamination didn’t affect her kind.

As her and the gutter-runners descended the slope, she spotted a Skaven running the other way from where they were marching, moving up the column’s flank. He seemed to hold some measure of rank on account of the whip in his paw, but he looked as spooked as a slave, his beady eyes stretching out of their sockets as he threw his hands out.

“Man-things!” he shrieked, his limbs darting about like he was in the midst of a stroke. “Man-things on hill-mound! Warlock say make-form line here-now!”

The ratling gunner pairs hoisted their weapons above their wastes, their loaders keeping the machinery clear of the water as they formed ranks. At the front, the skavenslaves fanned out, creating a wall of bodies on the far bank, spears and swords aimed up the incline. Skyseeker could see the Warlock Engineer at the forefront, waving his mechanical arms as he shouted orders at his minions. She couldn’t hear him, but in typical Skryre fashion, it was probably a rousing speech about how he’d kill them if the man-things didn’t do it first.

Her and the gutter-runners were ordered to hold the left flank of the formation, her legs kicking up splashes of water as they took up position in the winding river. She peered up the slope, where maybe fifty paces of open ground separated the shore of the river and the top of the hill, the crest obscured behind dense clusters of wood-things.

Every rustle of leaves and creak of wood filled her with anxiety, her eyes flicking about as she scanned for her enemy. The urgency of the messenger implied an immediate attack, but there was nothing, and there continued to be nothing. She counted the seconds until they reached the hundreds, the tension in her chest reaching a boiling point when she counted to the thousands and then lost count.

“Where-where man-things?” she asked, trying to sound as male as possible and failing miserably to her own ears. She was asking no one in particular, but the runner on her left answered her.

“Patience!” he chided, tossing his knife from paw to paw and dropping it on the third throw. “Man-things always make us wait for attack-charge.”

“They scared of Skavenblight-might!” another added, yowling in pain as a ranked ratman hit him with his whip.

“Silence!” the ratman snarled. “No talk, more wait-wait!”

And wait she did. She could feel the sun switch directions as more time passed, her feet freezing as she held her ground in the water, her face hot as the sun bleached her fur. This was no warband! All the tales she’d been told of Skryre’s vast schemes of war involved overwhelming numbers and firepower, not standing around and doing nothing. She wanted to charge in and hunt the man-things down, but this was their territory, it would be easy to fall into a trap with no warrens or tunnels to fall back to if things went wrong.

The runner that told her to be patient eventually decided it was nap time, Skyseeker wincing as he had to be beaten awake. He wasn’t the only one beginning to tire. The ratling gunners had nothing to brace their heavy weapons against, their thin arms trembling as they tracked the hill for targets. The warplock jezzails sitting far to the rear faired a little better, as they could rest their long rifles on their pavise shields and dose off when nobody was looking, but it was clear that restlessness was giving way to faituge, perhaps an intentional move on the man-things part.

Skyseeker lifted her head, exposing her teeth in a yawn, watching a flock of feathered-things flapped their wings overhead, soaring down to perch on a branch down the river to her left. As her boredom began to outgrow her lingering anxiety, it happened, and it happened quickly.

A low-pitched wail rang out over the forest, the noise coming from seemingly all directions. The uneasy sound soared in volume until it reached its pitch, oddly musical to her ears, and then as it deceased, gruff shouts from the undergrowth rose up to continue the foreboding call.

Skyseeker turned her eyes to the line of wood-things up the slope, watching figures emerge from between the roots. They were dressed in striking, bright colours that matched the sky, their wargear contrasting against the oppressively green surroundings. Some of their faces were covered in fur, while others were clean and naked, Skyseeker able to make out pink, soft-looking skin covering flat faces.

The man-things raised swords and shields, their war-cries making her fur stand on end as they charged out of cover and descend the slope. Some of the skavenslaves bounced on the spot, blibbering and crying, while others turned tail, batting aside their counterparts as they made to retreat. The latter of which were quick to be punished by the ranked Skaven, which helped to keep the former in check as their fellow ratmen were beaten for their cowardice.

“Ahead-forward!” a guttural voice called out somewhere to the right, one belonging to the Warlock. “Throw your pathetic tails onto them, minions! Quick-quick!”

Unleashing a call of their own, the skavenslaves advanced, thousands of scurrying feet leaving the water to meet the charge. The man-things were halfway across the open ground now, and more still were coming from out of the forest. They just kept coming, dozens reaching the hundreds, but the skavenslaves still vastly outnumbered them.

The crank of winding gears drew Skyseeker’s gaze to the back ranks, the ratling gunners bringing their chain-guns to bear, their loaders begining to crank the warp-stream tanks. Dozens of rotary barrels began to spin, spewing bullets that started off slow, before gradually building up into unbroken streams of warpstone.

The firepower arced over the skavenslave ranks, splashing into the paths of the oncoming man-things. She watched as one of the surface-dwellers took a burst of warpstone to his chest, his war-cry cut short as he rolled to the ground, tens of the man-things forefronting the charge succumbing to the warp-hell.

The other man-things didn’t falter, instead raising their shields over their heads, the warpstone barrage ricocheting off their concave surfaces. The ratling guns accuracy was much to be desired, so the weapon teams couldn’t target their exposed legs reliably, only saturate the hill with overbearing firepower and hope for a lucky hit.

Skyseeker watched with glee as scores of the man-things were cut down, the ones lagging behind forced to lead over their fallen kinsman, but the charge didn’t stop, the mass of blue and white figures spearing into the oncoming skavenslaves. As the two sides met, the clash of metal on metal was almost as loud as the barking of the chain-guns, Skyseeker’s fear-musk spraying as a cluster of slaves was swept off their feet by a man-thing wielding a hammer the size of the average clanrat.

More of the man-things survived the warpstone suppression, hitting the skavenslave line with devastating force, their tall frames slightly obscured behind the scurrying troops. Skyseeker thought the ratling guns would cease fire, but that was not the case. The gunners angled their barrels lower, bringing their fields of fire over the skavenslaves, catching dozens of Skaven troops in the crossfire. She waited for the Warlock to order them to halt, but none came, a look of horror on her face as the warband suffered more casualties than the man-things did. Skyseeker knew that sacrifice was a way of life for her kind, but to see this display troubled her, and she thanked the Horned Rat that she belonged to the noble Clan Mors.

The butchering only stopped when the ratling guns needed to reload, the weapon teams slapping fresh tanks of warpstone into the ammo packs. Some of the teams of two started arguing about how slow the other was being, resulting in a few short, but significant delays, as Clan Skryre relied upon their guns more than anything when it came to combat.

The skavenslave line began to visibly bulge inwards, as swords and spears flashed through the air, the towering surface-dwellers threatening to split the warband right down the centre. Skyseeker clutched her daggers until her paws hurt, she wanted to get in there, take her first man-thing kill, but no order to advance was given. There must be some tactical advantage having the runners stay put, but she’d never been in a warband before, and had no idea what that could be. All she and the other gutter-runners could do was watch the fight and slowly lose their nerves.

She was momentarily drawn away from the battle by a chirping sound, flicking her head round to spy the flock of feathered-things she’d noticed before. They’d flitted from their perch, the sounds of war failing to spook the tiny creatures until now. Strange. She glanced below their perch, her eyes widening as she caught movement from further down the river.

Emerging from the forests was another wave of man-things, carrying themselves upon the backs of strange creatures. Their mounts had four legs that ended in hooves, with elongated faces perched upon equally long necks, their manes of fur shaking as they galloped through the ankle-deep water. There were dozens of them, fifty at the least, their riders brandishing a mix of rifles and spears.

Skyseeker’s mouth formed a little ‘o’ of surprise as the mounts carried their riders swiftly into the flank, close enough that she could make out the eyes of the man-thing at the head of the riders. He was dressed in a suit of armour the colour of silver, the clanking sound of the plates overlapping the thunderous pounding of the charge. His helmet was the same colour as his suit, except for the top of it, where it extended into a blossoming trio of feathers as red as blood. Most of his face was obscured behind a grill, all save for his eyes, peering out of a sideways-angled visor.

His arm extended out, a pistol in his grip, his limb snapping upwards as the top of it seemed to explode. This weapon wasn’t like those the Skaven used, there was simply a spark of fire, a whoosh of air, and the gutter-runner to her left was dead, a bullet between his eyes.

Time seemed to slow as the rest of the riders raised their handguns, many of the gutter-runners still preoccupied watching the front to notice their approach. She thought she could feel the lead-rider’s eyes meet hers for a second as he raised a spear with his other arm, angling it towards the closest Skaven.

Skyseeker flopped to the ground, choking on dirty riverwater as she clutched her head in her arms, the thunderous report of a volley making her ears ring. Gutter-runners toppled around her by the dozens, dead before they even hit the ground, blood darkening the water. Those that survived the guns finally noticed the new threat, readying their weapons, but knives and daggers didn’t stand a chance against descending riders, the man-things trampling into the Skaven in a wave of sharp spears and stomping hooves.

Scrambling out the path of an oncoming rider, Skyseeker crawled out of the river on all fours, the wet gravel pinching her elbows and knees. The ground was quaking, like a Vermintide was burrowing up from below the earth, the hooves of the man-thing mounts shaking the earth with their ferocious charge. Everywhere she looked, crisscrossing legs of the mounts filled her vision, some close enough she could have reached out and touched them. Through the dozens of blurred legs she could see her fellow runners being skewered on spears, lifted off their feet by thrown javelins, crushed beneath the weight of the mounts, or a few morbid combinations of the three.

Fear threatened to paralyse her, but she summoned up the willpower to keep crawling, the forest and the underbrush that hugged the riverbank promising cover and safety. Darting her head to the right, she watched with a look of horror as a rider was moving straight towards her, the man-thing pulling the reigns of his mount so that she would be trampled in mere seconds.

Rising into a crouch, she leapt to the side, brandishing a weeping dagger as her feet touched the ground. Holding it out sideways, she slashed the abominable mount across the flank as it passed by, drawing a cut across its smooth, brown hide. The creature wailed, tossing its head back as its thin legs gave out beneath it, its rider flung from his saddle as it came crashing down. He hit the ground hard enough that the impact dented his plate armour, but the tough man-thing started to get back up, pushing his gloved hands into the silt.

Her tail flicking in anger, Skyseeker jumped on top of him, the man-thing grunting as she put her insubstantial weight on his legs. Keeping her dagger in the reverse-grip, she angled the blade down, and drove it into his back with a snarl. The armour barely resisted the corrosive power of the enchanted blade, Skyseeker feeling a soft crunch as her weapon tasted his flesh.

The man-thing jerked, then relaxed, as limp as his dead mount. She ripped her weapon free, blood sprouting from the pierced point, jumping on the spot as she tried to cover all her angles. The rest of the charging man-things raced around her, giving her a wide berth, and at first she thought this was because she’d shown them how a breeder fought, but this was not the case at all.

As the stampede tore through the gutter-runners, rather than turn around for another charge, the man-things spurred their mounts on, rebuilding their momentum as they prepared their weapons.

The runners had been butchered in mere seconds, and the occupied ratling gunners stood no chance, the man-things crashing into the rear ranks in a heartbeat. The riders pummeled furiously into their ranks, ratmen keeling over with spears sprouting from their chests, cries of dismay carrying across the battlefield.

A great ball of green flame erupted as one of the riders fired at an ammo pack, the flimsy machinery obliterating every Skaven and man-thing in a large radius around it. A few of the more fortunate gunners had managed to reload in time, Skyseeker seeing a pair of riders be caught in a cone of warpfire, but the man-things prioritised their targets, turning the powerful rear ranks into a group of unarmed, fleeing ratmen in seconds, the pride of Skryre reduced to a cowering mess.

She heard the call to flee rise above the sounds of battle, as well as those ordering the Skaven to hold, Skyseeker watching as two opposing ratmen voicing these orders began to fight each other, while riders dashed from left to right all around them. Like a disease, the confusion spread to other nearby Skaven, the warband turning on each other while the man-things continued to press the attack.

Seeing no point in giving her life to a Great Clan that couldn’t hold itself together, Skyseeker chose to make for the cover of the forest, along with the rest of her fleeing kin. She was paces away from the protection of the underbrush when the crack of a dangerously close shot rang out, followed by the worst pain she ever felt travelling down her arm. Crying out, she tumbled to the ground, rolling a few times before her momentum brought her to a stop.

Skyseeker nursed her ruined shoulder as she propped herself up, looking behind her to see the lead-rider ten or so paces away, his pistol trailing a wisp of smoke. The man-thing began to reload, Skyseeker baring her teeth at him as she drew her daggers out of their sheaths, holding them above her head in preparation for a throw.

The man-thing was almost done loading his handgun, when a metallic, hulking figure stood between the two, swiping a giant warp-blade over its shoulder. It was the Warlock Engineer, his harness whistling as the internal clockworks powered the swing of the strike.

The plumes on the man-thing’s helmet bobbing, the rider reared its mount back, the creature shrieking as the warp-blade missed its legs by a whisker, slamming into the ground it had been standing on a second ago.

“Eat-taste my warp-lightning!” the Warlock snarled, punching a switch on his harness. His arm-blade began to glow, streaks of lightning cocooning along the length of the weapon from hilt to tip. The man-thing shot him in the face, chips of armour falling away as the Warlock cradled his mask.

Instead of doing as the Warlock requested, the man-thing steered his mount away, narrowly dodging an electrified swipe of the empowered warp-blade. The man thing brandished his own sword, a pitiful lump steel compared to the Warlock’s weaponry, holding it aloft as the Warlock moved in to cut him down.

It looked like the two were about to duel, when the man-thing kicked the flanks of his mount, riding out of the Warlock’s reach. He began to shout something, drawing circles with the tip of his sword in a strange gesture, starting to ride back down the length of the river.

The other riders began to follow suit, cutting down a few Skaven on their way to rejoin their leader. Were they retreating? Did they not want to face a breeder and a Warlock head-on? She couldn’t blame them.

As quickly as they had arrived, the riders departed the battlefield, following the water until they vanished out of sight into the forest. The man-things engaging the slaves were also falling back now, most of the cowardly skavenslaves too afraid to take advantage and run them down. The warplock jezzails, free from the harassing riders, picked off the straggling man-things as they retreated, picking them off with musket shots to the backs. With one final volley of warpstone, the last man-thing was slain, the rest of them shuffling into the trees and out of sight.

“Another pitiful enemy destroyed by the mighty Clan Skryre!” the Warlock cheered, raising his mechanical arms in victory. The surviving Skaven cheered with varying degrees of enthusiasm, but the battle didn’t appear like a win to Skyseeker. For every dead man-thing, there were ten slain Skaven, and the weapon teams were all but decimated in that charge.

“Reequip yourselves, minions!” the Warlock shouted. “Clan Skryre will destroy these insolent man-things, make an example of them, yes-yes! All part of the Great Plan!”

The survivors of the warband began to pick over the corpses, Skyseeker joining them as she kneeled in the dirt. She had looted her dead foes her whole life, so she held no pity as she turned over the dead gutter-runners, looting their knives and stashing them in her belt. One could never have too many knives.

When she was loaded down with as many weapons as she could carry, she turned her attention to her wound. The stupid man-thing’s bullet was still rolling around inside her flesh, the amount of blood rolling down her fur making her head dizzy. Washing it as best she could in the rover – the water thick with more blood – she bit off a part of her cloak, wrapping it around her shoulder and tying the two ends together. The pain was worse than any stab or cut she’d felt in her life, but at least the bleeding was slowing down.

“Time’s up!” the Warlock shouted, his voice somehow amplified by his obscuring mask. “Sprint-march, minions! Find the man-things! The Horned Rat demands retribution!”

The Warlock ordered the warband to assemble, and Skyseeker took up her spot in the depleted rearguard, her thoughts drifting to that man-thing with the feathered helmet. His mount had been so swift despite its immense size, and it gave her an idea. Such a speedy mount could cut down her travel time to the south significantly, all she had to do was get her paws on one – the lead rider’s would do. Of course, she didn’t know how to control a mount, but she had a tried and tested solution that always worked whenever she needed something to go her way – threaten it with death.

“Follow their man-stink!” the Warlock ordered, smacking a skavenslave that wandered out of formation. “But do not fight-attack until I say so! I am hatching a brilliant scheme, and it requires complete discretion! If I hear so much as a squeak, you will all die-die!”