An Opportunity in Death

Grey Seer Retchnik drummed his claws on the arm of his throne. He glared at the entrance to his audience-burrow as though he could summon the Eshin delegation by force of will. Keeping a prophet of the Horned Rat waiting was intolerable!

Retchnik glanced at the hulking albino Stormvermin flanking his throne. He toyed with the idea of sending them out to find the envoys, and to bring him their severed heads. A tempting notion, but the Grey Seer needed his Eshin pawns.

There was movement outside the burrow as challenges were chittered and answers hissed.

At last, thought Retchnik, sitting up from his foul-tempered slump.

First to enter were a quartet of black-robed Gutter Runners. The Eshin warriors stalked into the burrow, poised on the balls of their footclaws, beady eyes darting for signs of ambush.

After them came a wizened old skaven, his grey fur straggling from robes of black and warpstone green. One of his eyes was missing, replaced by a carved brass globe, while the other stared at Retchnik with gleaming intensity.

An old skaven was unusual enough, thought the seer – few of their race survived one another’s scheming long enough to see their third decade – but the figure at the old envoy’s shoulder was stranger still. A Deathrunner by his garb, he was freakishly tall for a skaven. His black eyes were marbled with veins of gold and electric blue. There was something about the Deathrunner’s aura that raised Retchnik’s hackles. Then his concentration was broken as the ancient envoy spoke.

‘Retchnik summons us and we listen-hear. But did most-mighty Grey Seer bring us here so he could gaze-gaze upon Deathrunner Spark-eye?’

Retchnik favoured the envoy with a suitably withering stare. The envoy returned his gaze with maddening patience and a glint of amusement.

‘I have summoned you, Kriktail of Clan Slynk, to offer-tell of a plan most cunning. You would be wise-wise to show respect and listen, shadow-crawler.’

Retchnik caught the subtle tightening of the envoy’s features, the twitch of his tail. It was a crude insult, but it had hit the mark. Still, the envoy said nothing, and only gestured with a wizened claw for Retchnik to proceed.

Retchnik sat back and stared down his muzzle at the Eshin agents.

‘You know-know of the disaster after that fool Snitterskritch burrowed a gnawhole into the Realm of Death?’

‘And usher-brought the Year of the Drowned Rat,’ said Kriktail. ‘All know this, seer. It is hard to miss-miss the Floodwarrens.’

Retchnik wafted a claw airily.

‘Of course, I would not impugn the observational skills of the great Clan Slynk,’ he sneered. ‘And you have heard the tell-speak, that the tunnel was destroyed in the flood?’

‘So said the Council of Thirteen,’ replied Kriktail slowly. ‘What do you know, seer?’

Retchnik leaned forward.

‘Lies-lies!’ he chittered triumphantly. ‘The Council said the Floodwarrens were impassable, the tunnel blocked. But I have scried the deeps, yes, and I have seen. There is a way through the waters to lands near Nagashizzar, if your operatives have the sneak-wit to exploit it!’

Kriktail stood very still, only the twitching of his whiskers betraying his thoughts.

‘Why summon us, seer? Why speak-tell your secret to Clan Slynk?’

‘I have had the… opportunity… to see-see your agents’ skills first hand,’ said Retchnik, his tone dry. Let this old gnarl-talon know that he was onto them, that he could have mustered a swarm and sent it to crush Clan Slynk after they had aided his rivals in sabotaging his plans.

That he hadn’t.

Yet.

‘Our assassins are swift and kill-skilled. They have mastered Form of Smoke and Shade,’ allowed Kriktail. Retchnik heard the implicit counter-threat loud and clear. He smirked.

‘The Great Necromancer creates a… device-thing… of black realmstone in his dead city,’ said Retchnik, hoping Kriktail hadn’t caught his slight pause. The portents had been infuriatingly vague; it was part of why he had no intention of risking the journey himself.

‘Retchnik wants the black realmstone at the device’s heart for himself, yes-yes?’ asked Kriktail. The Grey Seer merely stared in answer, eyes alight and tail lashing. ‘And why would Clan Slynk fetch-get this for you, seer?’ asked the envoy. ‘It would be a dangerous undertaking. Many claws would have to be sent. Many would not return.’

‘Perhaps Clan Slynk are less-less mighty than I thought?’ asked Retchnik.

Kriktail wouldn’t be baited. ‘Speak-tell me why we do not slay you to keep this secret and then send our claws regardless?’ he asked.

Retchnik had been waiting for this, but still he bristled at the sheer audacity. ‘I am one of the Horned One’s chosen!’ he shrieked. ‘To lift-raise a claw to me is to strike at the Great Horned Rat himself!’

Kriktail gave him a flat stare. Retchnik controlled his fear-glands as he saw Spark-eye and the Gutter Runners tense for murder.

‘And because,’ he continued, ‘if you fetch-do this thing for me, I will reward Clan Slynk. I will pay ten thousand warp tokens, and use my influence in Blight City to gather a great swarm and aid-help you to crush the she-aelfs you war with in Ulgu.’

Kriktail’s wrinkled snout twisted into an ugly leer and he offered a bent-backed bow of subservience.

‘I listen, seer,’ he said, and the negotiations began in earnest.

An hour later, the Eshin delegation withdrew from Retchnik’s audience burrow. Plans were in place for their claws to assemble and follow the route he had mapped for them through the dangerous Floodwarrens and the half-collapsed gnawhole beyond.

With a snigger, Retchnik had his guards sweep his burrow for lurking killers and spying devices. Once he was satisfied that Kriktail had left no unpleasant surprises in his wake, he sent the Stormvermin outside to stand watch over the burrow, ordering them to seal the door. He had scryings to make, to ready himself for the next step in his brilliant plan. And for no reason he could set a claw on, he felt uneasy. He would feel better with the door barred.

Retiring to a shadowy antechamber, Retchnik busied himself at the brass controls of his seeing-engine. Despite his sense of triumph, something prickled at him, a feeling of disquiet that made his tail twitch.

‘Fool-fool, this is a moment of triumph,’ he chittered to himself. ‘If they get seen-caught, then Clan Slynk are butchered and I am revenged. If they fetch-bring the black realmstone from the pyramid’s heart, then my powers become even greater, and when they march against the aelf-things they will learn-learn too late that my wrath cannot be bought off. Let Slynk try to fight aelfs to their front and my swarms to their back.’

Retchnik snickered another laugh, but it felt forced. He shot a wary glance over his shoulder, twitching, but saw nothing amidst the shadows. Blinking quickly, chiding himself for his needless nerves, the Grey Seer spun around and conjured a clawful of warp lightning that crackled as it illuminated the burrow.

‘See-see, fool, he whispered to himself, ‘there is no–’

The Grey Seer’s words choked off as icy pain shot through his body. It radiated out from the base of his spine, and he felt his body going numb. A black-swathed muzzle slid into his peripheral vision as the killer behind him leaned forward. Retchnik squirted the musk of fear as he stared into a glinting eye marbled with blue and gold.

‘How?’ croaked the Grey Seer, his limbs shaking as they went cold.

‘Deathrunner,’ hissed Spark-eye. ‘One is two and two are one. Master Kriktail gratefully accepts your gift-gift of information, but must sorrowfully decline your offer of an alliance.’

With that, the Deathrunner stepped back and the shadows swallowed him. His ghostly disappearance was the last thing Retchnik saw as he toppled sideways, and the numbness seeped its way into his brain.

PRODUCED BY GAMES WORKSHOP IN NOTTINGHAM

An Opportunity in Death © Copyright Games Workshop Limited 2018. An Opportunity in Death, Malign Portents, GW, Games Workshop, Warhammer, Stormcast Eternals, and all associated logos, illustrations, images, names, creatures, races, vehicles, locations, weapons, characters, and the distinctive likenesses thereof, are either ® or TM, and/or © Games Workshop Limited, variably registered around the world. All Rights Reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

Certain Citadel products may be dangerous if used incorrectly and Games Workshop does not recommend them for use by children under the age of 16 without adult supervision.
Whatever your age, be careful when using glues, bladed equipment and sprays and make sure that you read and follow the instructions on the packaging.

Games Workshop Ltd., Willow Road, Lenton, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, United Kingdom

games-workshop.com