The Assassin’s Dilemma David Earle The first sentry died when a three-pointed shard of metal pierced his neck, delivering a lethal mix of filth and poisons into his bloodstream. The second sentry had a jagged-edged sword driven through his back and into his lungs. Blood burbled from his lips when the sword was withdrawn, and his legs gave way and carried him to the ground. When he came to the third sentry, Sneeq Foulblade simply sliced the manthing’s head off in a single stroke. The head flew up as the body collapsed, and the skaven assassin caught it on the point of his blade, regarding the confused expression on its face with a malicious mixture of amusement and disgust. Sneeq’s gutter runners remained a respectful distance away from him. It was unusual for the assassin to sully his talents with pathetic targets such as these, and they recognised from the twitch of his tail and the red gleam in his eye that he was in a most foul mood. Eventually Qit Rin, the most senior of Sneeq’s underlings, stepped forward and coughed meaningfully. ‘Our way is clear,’ Sneeq snapped, answering the unspoken question. ‘We move to the ridge and scout the manthings’ camp. Hurry-scurry!’ His gutter runners obeyed with commendable haste, swarming up the hill towards the ridgeline. Sneeq glared at the sentry’s head one last time. With a snarl he ripped an eye from its socket and popped it into his mouth, then shook the head from his sword and made his ascent. The Eshin killers were already crouched at the edge of the ridge. Sneeq shoved Skulk Fellpaw, his most expendable underling, out of his way and crept to the edge, taking in the camp below and picking out likely avenues of approach with a practiced eye. The main body of the camp was situated at the entrance to a narrow valley. The manthing dwellings were laid out with monotonous uniformity, although nestled within the valley itself was a set of mismatched tents arranged in a more disorderly fashion. A pall of blue and grey smoke hung over this section of the camp, smelling of the black powder the manthings used in their war machines. ‘Foolish manthings,’ Qit Rin sneered, scratching irritably at the brass patch that covered his left eye. ‘Too stupid to watch their own backs, yes-yes.’ Sneeq agreed. The sentries they’d killed might have been enough to spot an army of any size, but against the stealth and cunning of Clan Eshin they had been useless. Better still, the humans had left the land between the ridge and the camp laughably unguarded. Had he wanted to, Sneeq knew that he could infiltrate the camp and complete his mission long before the manthings knew something was amiss. Surely, Sneeq could steal into the camp without being detected. Of a certainty, he could slit his target’s throat before he felt the kiss of Sneeq’s blades. And without question, Sneeq would suffer a far kinder death if he cut his own throat immediately after. For if he did not, it was all but assured that he would be roasted alive for his success. Not that Sneeq had known this when he had first arrived at the warren of Clan Famin. The clan’s Warlord, Glut, had hired the services of Clan Eshin to pave the way for an assault on the human encampment. Clan Famin had come to control a number of human agents in Nuln some time ago, following Grey Seer Thanquol’s disastrous assault on the city, and years later these spies had finally provided their masters with useful information. ‘The manthings have made a hidden lair in the mountains, to test their most deadly weapons. Terrible they are!’ Glut had said. The warlord had spoken around a hunk of meat torn from the shoulder of a still-living slave. Its pitiful squeaking had made it difficult to hear anything else, and Glut had snapped its neck in annoyance before he continued. ‘These new weapons must be ours. Yes! Yes! To Clan Skryre we will bring them, so that they may unlock their secrets for the good of the Skaven race!’ And so that they may pay you a great many warptokens, Sneeq had thought. ‘A brilliant plan indeed, massive one.’ ‘To another did the Council first give this task,’ Glut had said. ‘Failed wretchedly, he has! The manthings are few in number, but entrenched behind their weapons they may yet defy us. Already, I fear they have sent for reinforcements. We must kill them all quick-quick or our chance will be lost!’ Sneeq had bowed his head, seeing at last why Glut had contacted Clan Eshin. ‘Who would you have me kill, most corpulent one?’ The warlord had reached behind his throne and tossed Sneeq a badly stained parchment. On it, Sneeq found a crude drawing of a white-furred manthing wearing strange goggles on its head. ‘That is the engineer who defies us,’ Glut said. ‘With him dead, the manthing weapons will fail and they will die-die swiftly beneath our blades.’ ‘You will have his head before this night is ended, Warlord,’ Sneeq had assured him. ‘Excellent.’ Glut had licked his lips, and gestured for his stormvermin to bring him a fresh slave as Sneeq took his leave. He had not gotten far before another skaven stepped out of a side tunnel to block his way. Sneeq’s blades were halfway out of their scabbards before he fully took in the skaven’s appearance and stopped dead. The skaven wore blue robes with a hood that masked his face in shadow, but left exposed the two great horns jutting from his skull. From within the robes, a green warpmist rose from the place where the skaven’s right eye should be, matching that which drifted around the stone top of the staff carried in the figure’s gnarled paws. ‘Most excellent Grey Seer Qik,’ Sneeq had said, bowing low to the ground. It never hurt to flatter someone who could kill you with a word. His clan’s spies had mentioned that the seer was here, although they’d been strangely reticent to explain why he was present. ‘I am honoured to stand before so powerful a prophet of the Horned Rat.’ ‘Do not seek to flatter me, Foulblade,’ Qik had snarled. ‘Warlord Glut has sent you to kill the human engineer, has he not?’ Sneeq hesitated, but decided that revealing his assignment was less risky than displeasing the grey seer. ‘He has, great one.’ ‘Just as I thought. Look at me, assassin.’ Sneeq had looked up, and even he had flinched at the sight before him. Qik had pulled back his hood, revealing hideous burns that covered the right half of his face. Flesh and muscle had been melted away, leaving the blackened bone beneath exposed. A rounded shard of warpstone had been situated within the empty socket, and it glowed with a terrible green fire that promised torment, suffering and death. ‘Not a pretty-pretty sight, is it?’ Qik had said. ‘A reminder from the Horned Rat to never underestimate the ingenuity of the manthings… or the treachery of so-called allies.’ The green eye glowed brighter then, and Sneeq had tensed, fearing that the seer might somehow be referring to him. ‘Allies, your magnificence?’ ‘It was I who learned of the manthing camp, and I who requested troops from Glut to take it for the glory of the Horned Rat,’ Qik had said. ‘But he provided me with nothing but slaves and fodder! These so-called troops failed me utterly, and thanks to their cowardice I am deformed. Now Glut seeks to usurp my authority and take the manthing weapons for himself,’ Qik snarled. ‘But he shall not have them.’ The grey seer’s voice had grown deeper and more menacing as he spoke, and a nimbus of green fire began to play around his body as he stepped towards Sneeq. The assassin had leapt away, and found himself backed into a corner as the mad sorcerer approached. ‘Glut seeks to slay my enemy and complete my failure. He thinks he can take the credit for my inevitable victory,’ Qik had said. ‘He is wrong! You will spare the wretched engineer’s life, assassin, until I can flay-scrape the flesh from his bones myself. If you fail me in this, I will personally visit torments unending on your miserable flesh. And neither Glut, nor your clan, nor the Council itself will save you from my wrath!’ The flames had burned incandescent around Qik, and with a clap of thunder and a noxious burning odour, the grey seer was gone. Sneeq shuddered as he recalled that encounter. He had spent several minutes crouched against the wall, emptying his musk glands and feverishly plotting how best he could preserve his life. He had first thought to simply withdraw, and let Glut and Qik settle their differences without him. Unfortunately, it was all too likely that the petty warlord would seek revenge on Sneeq if the assassin abandoned his contract. Not that he feared the warlord, of course, but Glut still commanded hundreds of clanrats, and Sneeq’s allies in Skavenblight were very far away. It was simple prudence to at least appear to carry out his mission. From his vantage point atop the valley’s eastern ridge, Sneeq looked down and bared his teeth at the fires blazing in the night. Stupid manthings, to come so far from their pathetic cities. Sneeq bit his tail in frustration. It was their fault he found himself in this mess. ‘What are your orders, Master Foulblade?’ Skulk Fellpaw asked nervously. The assassin started, then glared at his henchthing. The wretch scratched nervously at a hairless patch behind his ear, and kept casting sour glances over his shoulder at Qit Rin. Sneeq’s lieutenant faced the other direction, studiously paying no attention at all to their conversation. ‘Question me, do you? Perhaps you think I must be prodded to act, like some witless rat-ogre?’ Sneeq ran a claw down the blade of his sword, and bared his teeth at his lackey. ‘No, no, master!’ Skulk squeaked, holding up both paws and shaking his head. ‘Eager I am, is all, to shed the manthings’ blood!’ Sneeq almost laughed aloud at the weakling’s words. ‘Then you will have your chance. Minions!’ he cried. The other gutter runners stopped chuckling at Skulk’s misfortune and fell silent. ‘We were sent to seize the manthing weapons. Qit Rin, choose half of the team and lead them to the other side of the valley. Ensure Skulk Fellpaw goes with you,’ he said. ‘Stay far-far from their burrows! Signal when you are in place, and we will run-race to their weapons and take them for the warlord. Go! Go!’ The one-eyed skaven bowed with all proper obeisance. Qit Rin chittered at the rest of the gutter runners, and led half of them away down the slope. Skulk Fellpaw gave Sneeq a curious look as he passed, almost defiant. The assassin made a mental note to punish his lackey even more harshly at the next opportunity. The gutter runners moved stealthily through the night, with only the most essential squeaks, and soon they were a black stain flowing into the broader shadows within the valley. Sneeq watched them go, certain of his plan’s success. By seizing the weapons himself, he could deliver them to Qik directly, bypassing the warlord. The seer could claim credit for the victory, and his protection would prevent Glut from making any reprisals before the assassin was safely back in his clan’s territory. It was only a matter of time now. Of all of his underlings, Qit Rin was by far the most competent and deadly. Together they had slain the fearsome ogre brothers of Rotgut Peak, and beheaded the five clawleaders of the treacherous Clan Skitr. Their current task would be like taking a femur from a pup. Sneeq leaned out over the ridge, and eagerly awaited the signal of his inevitable triumph. Werner Grunhelm took another pull from the flask of Kislevite vodka he kept in a fireproof canister on his belt, and ordered the volley gun crew to give the crank another three turns. The crew complied with aggrieved moans, still bitter at being roused from their tents for a live firing exercise in the middle of the night. On the last turn one of the crew lost his grip, causing the pawl to slip and launching the gun decks into a series of wild gyrations that nearly tore the weapon apart. ‘You incompetent scum!’ Grunhelm bellowed. The engineer pulled his repeater rifle from the holster on his back, and fired a volley into the air. ‘Get the damned mainspring wound properly, or I’ll lash you to the barrels as an example to the next damned crew!’ Seeing the way the reflected torchlight burned in the engineer’s eyes, the crew threw themselves back into turning the crank. Grunhelm shook his head, muttering curses under his breath. He’d never had such trouble with the crews back in Nuln, that much he was sure of. The very thought of his home city was enough to make the engineer take another drink of vodka. Even now, his peers were drowning the progress of Imperial science in a tide of mediocrity and ignorance, while he had been relegated to this backwater campsite, trying to improve designs that had been obsolete a century ago while he kept the so-called crew from banging on the damned guns with large rocks. At least they seemed competent enough to fire the guns in battle. The camp had been attacked by beastmen twice recently, and both times the guns had managed to see their attackers off before they could reach the camp proper. Despite this, most of the camp was in a state of near panic. Although they had more than enough supplies and ammunition to hold out until reinforcements arrived, the sheer number of the monsters had everyone worried. There had been whispers in the camp that the attackers were not beastmen at all. Some dared to claim that they were skaven, vile ratmen that dwelled underneath the Empire in a twisted mockery of mankind. Most dismissed these claims as lunatic heresy, but the rat-like appearance of their foes had leant the idea a great deal of strength. Grunhelm did his best to ignore the rumours and keep drinking. He’d been at the Battle of Nuln, twenty years ago, defending the College of Engineers from the monsters that had swarmed over the city. When he dreamed, he could still recall the red gleam in their eyes, and the sharp, yellowed incisors that had torn out old Luftig’s throat… Grunhelm dismissed the memories with a long swig from his flask. ‘Right, lower the elevation, five degrees,’ he said. ‘Look sharp, damn you, we haven’t got all night.’ The crew adjusted the device quickly, and moved a respectful distance away from the weapon as Grunhelm inspected their work. Satisfied, the engineer nodded. ‘Good enough,’ he acknowledged. ‘You, light the taper. The rest of you, five steps back. Quickly now!’ One of the crewmen nervously put a torch to the fuse as Grunhelm and the others jogged a short distance away. In moments, the torch carrier joined them at a somewhat quicker pace. Behind him, the mainspring engaged and turned the barrels of the Helblaster in a lazy arc as the fuse burned down towards the gun. A loud roar echoed through the valley as the Helblaster fired, sending up a bright plume of flame and smoke. Grunhelm grinned in spite of himself as he saw the barrels continue to turn, without any hint of slowing, warping or jamming. ‘Take a good look, you lot,’ he told the crew, as the second rack of barrels turned into place. ‘That’s what proper engineering looks like.’ Another roar of the volley gun, and another turn of the barrels. This time, as the barrels turned, Grunhelm thought he heard a high-pitched noise coming from the targeting range. It sounded like someone screaming in agony, but in too high a pitch: like a child, or a rat… The barrels locked into place a final time, and the Helblaster discharged its final salvo. When the echoes died down, Grunhelm strained his ears, but could detect nothing. ‘Are you all right, sir?’ a crewman asked. Grunhelm silenced him with a swift motion of his fingers. After another ten heartbeats spent listening, Grunhelm drew his rifle and motioned for the crew to follow him. He’d only heard the cries for a few moments, he told himself. They couldn’t possibly be what he feared they were. Still, he had to be sure. The engineer and his crew crept down the valley, keeping low to the ground. The deeper they went, the more sinister the shadows around them became. They walked over the shredded remains of target dummies, straw guts and wooden bones strewn across the landscape by the Helblaster’s fury. Finally, after they’d almost reached the outer limits of the gun’s range, Grunhelm called a halt, feeling thoroughly relieved that they had found nothing. He took another drink from his flask, and was about to have the men return to the volley gun when one of the crewmen cried out. ‘Yeugh,’ he said, lifting his boot off the ground with a disgusted expression on his face. He had stepped in a puddle of black tar, of a consistency and odour both foul and unfamiliar to the engineer. Grunhelm bent to make a closer inspection of the substance. As he did so, he caught a flicker of movement in the corner of his eye, and spun sharply towards the eastern slope of the valley. He saw nothing there, save shadows. A light breeze drifted through the valley, and Grunhelm watched the scrub along the valley’s slopes sway in response. Surely that was all the movement there was. The engineer felt an uncomfortable heaviness in his stomach that had nothing to do with the vodka. ‘Back to the camp, all of you,’ he said. ‘Sir, what–’ ‘Just move,’ Grunhelm snapped, casting one last wary glance along the valley walls as they turned to go. ‘And watch the shadows as you go, if you value your lives.’ Sneeq sat on a rock at the edge of the valley, gnawing his tail impatiently. Qit Rin’s signal was long overdue. The foolish vermin had likely run off at the first scent of danger. Admittedly, Sneeq had nearly done so himself when the manthings had fired their weapons. Only the knowledge of a certain, painful death should he do so had kept him in place. The assassin spotted movement below, and was about to take the figure in the neck with a throwing star before he recognised Skulk Fellpaw. The diminutive skaven made his way quickly up the side of the valley, carrying a lumpy parcel under one arm. As he approached, Sneeq noticed that the gutter runner smelled strongly of black powder and the musk of fear. ‘Report now!’ Sneeq said. ‘Where is Qit Rin’s signal? Why does he delay my triumph? Speak!’ ‘Forgive me, most murderous master, but Qit Rin cannot signal anyone. The humans somehow discovered our approach, and…’ Skulk opened his bag and let its contents spill out onto the ground. Sneeq recognised Qit Rin’s brass eyepatch within the puddle of black slime, as well as a round lead ball that he suspected was the cause of his minion’s demise. Sneeq let out a loud squeak of frustration, snatched up Qit Rin’s eyepatch and hurled it back down the valley. He had never trusted the stupid vermin, and now his incompetence had cost him many warptokens worth of minions. No, worse than that! With only half a team of gutter runners left, he could not hope to carry the manthing weapons back to the warren before they were missed. ‘What should we do now, Master Foulblade?’ Skulk asked. Sneeq fixed him with a baleful glare, and considered killing the impudent skaven on the spot. But no, he might need all of his remaining gutter runners if he was to have any hope of success. ‘The cannons, where are the manthings that fired them?’ he asked. Skulk pointed back into the valley, between the weapons and the manthing tents. Sneeq reached into his cloak and pulled out a warpstone-lensed telescope. He’d acquired the device along with the head of a Clan Skryre warlock who had tried to cheat him on a fulfilled contract. Looking through the tube, Sneeq saw the valley floor through the green haze of the warp lenses. Each living thing was picked out in a vibrant white outline, making them as obvious as if he could scent them himself. He could see a strangely-dressed human walking out of the valley and towards a large tent, followed at a discreet distance by what he assumed were crew slaves. They were moving without haste; presumably they believed that all of their attackers were dead. The human in the lead wore heavy goggles, and carried a variety of small mechanical devices that reminded Sneeq of the trinkets that the warlock had carried around with him. With an adjustment of the lenses, Sneeq could pick out the manthing’s white facial fur, and recognised his target from the crude drawing Glut had presented him with. The assassin’s eyes began to sting and water, as they always did when he looked through the telescope too long. He saw the human’s features blur through his tears, and felt his tail stiffen at the sight. The assassin stuffed the telescope back into his cloak and turned to Skulk. ‘If you wish me to spare your miserable life, Fellpaw, find a white-furred sentrything and bring me its head.’ Skulk nodded quickly, obscenely pleased to be forgiven so easily. ‘And what will you do, most merciful of masters?’ Sneeq bared his fangs in a wicked grin. ‘I will take the rest of the gutter runners into the manthing camp,’ he said. ‘There’s more than one way to skin a pup. Now begone!’ Skulk scuttled away with gratifying haste. Sneeq gathered the remaining gutter runners, and soon they were in the camp, running swiftly from tent to tent. The humans had retired for the night, although Sneeq still kept his minions at a prudent distance from the large tent that the engineer and his crew slaves had entered. He had no desire to bring his gutter runners anywhere near the engineer, lest they slay him before he could order otherwise. As he passed each tent, Sneeq would creep up to the entrance, listening and sniffing for the telltale signs of an occupied burrow. Those he discovered to be empty he searched, looking for the specific devices that would identify his goal. The first three tents he looked into lacked anything of interest. The fourth was a provisions tent, containing bread and meat and the rotted, yellow milk that the manthings seemed to enjoy so much. Sneeq stuffed a handful of the meat into his mouth and moved on. Sneeq found what he’d been looking for in the fifth tent. This one was set apart from the others, and contained a variety of odd trinkets wrought in metal and wood, many of which moved seemingly of their own volition. A voluminous shelf contained heaps of papers covered in harsh scribblings. As Sneeq watched, what looked like a bird made of sheet metal craned its head back and let out a thin, high-pitched wisp of steam through a slit in its neck. The assassin doused the torch burning just outside the tent’s entrance. ‘Stay on guard!’ Sneeq ordered his gutter runners, and he entered the tent, closing the flap behind him before he began rummaging through the engineer’s possessions, searching for anything a manthing engineer might conceivably wear. Glut had given Sneeq a description of the engineer, but he had likely never seen the human in person, relying instead on second-hand descriptions from spies in Qik’s surviving forces. It was unlikely that the warlord would recognise a fake. Sneeq gnashed his teeth, and restrained himself from simply smashing the manthing’s possessions. He hated the deception, mainly because it was unlikely to fool Glut for long. Still, he only had to deceive the warlord long enough to be far away when the truth was discovered. And it wouldn’t really be his fault if Glut accepted the wrong head. Clearly the warlord should have provided a better description. Sneeq opened a large drawer and began tossing its contents onto the floor. He suspected he would have little time to find what he needed. Grunhelm sat in one corner of the common tent, nursing his flask carefully and poring over his notebook of the day’s tests. The crewmen had opted to sit on the opposite side of the tent. Grunhelm suspected they thought he’d gone somewhat mad after the attacks, which suited him fine. Generally the engineer preferred to avoid company, having found no one in the camp who could speak intelligently on any subject of interest to him. Granted, it had mostly been the same in Nuln, but there at least he could take some satisfaction from stumping his so-called learned colleagues. The tent was crowded with off-shift sentries, nursing mugs of ale and a sense of companionship before they had to go and relieve the men currently watching the perimeter. Even with artillery-deadened ears, Grunhelm could hear the drift the conversations were taking: I saw one of the beasts go running into a great rathole… One that tried to stab me had whiskers and a tail, on my oath… Heard they almost sacked Nuln years back, but the Countess’s men hushed it up… That last came up more often than Grunhelm cared to hear. If he’d wished, he could have told the men a great deal more about that battle than they would want to hear. But then, that was the last thing he would ever wish to talk about. Skaven, he thought. Why did it have to be skaven? He’d never understood before why the ratmen’s invasion of Nuln had been forgotten, chalked up to a mutant uprising supported by beastmen. He had even, for a time, spoken out about the matter publicly, until a senior professor had taken him aside and told him in no uncertain terms that any further talk of skaven would land him in one of the Countess’s dungeons. ‘The people of the Empire have enough to fear,’ the old lecturer had told him. ‘Elven reavers, orcish incursions, marauding beastmen, not to mention the Northern barbarians. Talk of rats gnawing away at the Empire’s foundations can only lead to panic and civil unrest.’ ‘But we all saw the damned things!’ Grunhelm had protested. The professor had smiled rather sadly at that. ‘We saw what the Countess says we saw. Or else,’ he added. Grunhelm had understood the words well enough, but never the reasoning behind them. And so he had lost himself in his work, and when that hadn’t been enough he had lost himself in drink as well, until he’d finally caused enough trouble that the senior faculty had sent him out here, where he could rot without bringing undue shame upon the college. Only fitting, he supposed, that the skaven had followed him here. The engineer stood up on unsteady legs and left the tent. He’d had enough of bad memories for one evening. Best to return to his tent and wait for morning to come. Skulk Fellpaw crept into the camp at last. In one paw he carried his notched and rusty blade; in the other, a dirty sack containing the head of one of the manthing sentries. None of the sentries they’d killed had possessed the correct colour fur, and he’d finally been forced to kill another one to carry out Sneeq’s orders. At the thought of the assassin, Skulk’s fur bristled. His master had neglected his obvious talents for years, passing him over for reward and advancement time and time again. Granted, he had suffered more than most skaven from the jealousy of his rivals. He had repeatedly been given tasks that would be certain death to any lesser being. But he had survived! Wasn’t that a truer measure of his prowess than success? Warlord Glut, at least, had seen his potential. The warlord had called him into his thronechamber shortly before the mission. On first seeing the obese skaven, Skulk had feared that he would simply be devoured alive. Instead, Glut had shared with him a most surprising revelation. ‘Your master is a traitor!’ Glut had snarled, spraying chunks of slave through his teeth. ‘He seeks to abandon his assigned task to save his own worthless hide. He is a coward and a dishonour to his clan!’ Skulk had barely believed his ears. Despite his hatred of the assassin, Skulk had to grudgingly admit that he had never failed to complete a contract. ‘My spies have told me of you, Fellpaw,’ Glut had continued. ‘Foulblade has treated you as poorly as he seeks to treat me. Watch him close-close! Ensure the manthing dies, and I will see that you gain the prestige you so wrongfully lack.’ How could Skulk refuse such an offer? Of course, he’d seen no reason to move against the assassin if he didn’t have to. It had been a stroke of luck that he’d led Qit Rin’s team into the range of the manthings’ weapons, spoiling Sneeq’s attempt to avoid the engineer. Unfortunately the damnable assassin had thought of another way to wriggle out of the contract with Glut. Skulk idly hefted the sentry’s head, wondering what he should do next. As he did so, he looked to his left and nearly squeaked out loud in alarm. It was the manthing engineer! The gutter runner froze in alarm, but he needn’t have worried. The engineer was heading away from him. Skulk traced the human’s path with his eyes, and saw at the end of it a darkened tent. His keen eyes picked out the shrouded forms of gutter runners pacing around the tent, keeping watch. Skulk’s face twisted in a feral grin. He tossed the head to the ground. This was perfect. Most likely one of the other gutter runners would kill the manthing, and Skulk could take the credit. Or if the manthing escaped somehow, Skulk could kill it after the other gutter runners left. Either way, Sneeq would know nothing until it was too late. The gutter runner drew his second blade. He was going to enjoy this. Grunhelm swayed through the camp, and the flames from the torches around him swayed as well, casting menacing shadows on the canvas. In Grunhelm’s mind, the shadows took the shape of sneaking figures creeping through the camp. He imagined shining red eyes staring at his back, and high-pitched, chittering laughter coming from either side. Grunhelm fumbled at his belt for his flask, which slipped through his fingers and tumbled into the grass at his feet. The engineer knelt to retrieve it, and as he grasped it he looked up towards his tent, frowning as he saw that the torch at the entrance to it had gone out. His eyes narrowed. The torch had had hours left to burn. As he peered at his tent, he thought he saw the shadows around it writhing, swirls of true black rippling through the darkness. A soft breeze drifted towards him, bringing a faint yet familiar musk to the engineer’s nostrils. The scent reminded him of burning buildings and cracked, yellowed incisors. Grunhelm felt a cold shiver run up both arms. The vodka seemed to evaporate with each short breath he took, leaving his mind clear. The skaven were here. There was no question of it. He considered his options. He could try to fight them, and be killed. He could call for help, and be killed before any arrived. He could sneak away and gather the soldiers, and be ignored. After all, how could ignorant beastmen breach the camp’s perimeter so completely? The engineer looked at the barrels of gunpowder sitting next to his tent. Slowly, he unslung his repeater rifle from his back, took careful aim, and exercised his fourth option. Inside the tent, Sneeq was lifted off his feet and thrown to the ground. The assassin blinked, shook his head in a futile attempt to stop his ears from ringing, and scrambled to his feet. The contents of the tent were ruined. Half of it was smouldering, and most of the devices inside had been shattered or damaged. Through the ringing, Sneeq could hear manthings shouting outside, and steel clashing on steel. The assassin had to gnaw on his tail for a moment to get his rage under control. His wretched henchthings had failed him again! Once he’d somewhat calmed himself, Sneeq moved to the edge of the tent, cut a small hole in the fabric, and peered outside. His gutter runners, or most likely what was left of them, had gathered together in a small group, blades drawn. Manthing soldiers were charging forward, shouting and summoning reinforcements from all corners of the camp. Sneeq quickly calculated the odds against them and decided to leave his incompetent servants to their fate. They deserved nothing less. Sneeq moved to the other side of the tent, cut his way out, and quickly distanced himself from the melee. The assassin darted through the tents of the camp, his eyes constantly scanning for soldiers. As he passed one tent, a group of three soldiers ran around it, swords drawn. The assassin hissed a curse, reaching into his cloak and pulling out a throwing star that he flung into the chest of the lead human. The manthing clutched at the star and collapsed, green froth bubbling from his lips. The assassin drew his blades and raised them in a guard just as the second manthing brought his sword down in an overhead arc. Sneeq absorbed the force of the blow on both blades, then twisted to the left, using the sword in his right paw to pin the manthing’s blade to the ground. He ran his second blade through the human’s stomach, and when its sword went slack he drove the first blade up under its jaw and into its brain. The third soldier approached more cautiously, testing Sneeq’s defences with a series of feints. Ordinarily Sneeq would enjoy taking his time cutting the manthing to pieces, but he needed to move quickly. The assassin drove at his opponent with one, two, three quick strikes, then curled his tail around the human’s ankle and tugged. The human’s mouth dropped in surprise as he fell onto his back. Sneeq ran forward, thrust a blade into the manthing’s chest, and continued his flight. Sneeq had reached the edge of the camp and was just about to escape into the night when a loud shot rang out, and the ground in front of him erupted in a spray of dust. Sneeq instantly fell into a low crouch, a poisoned throwing star in his hand, and looked around wildly until he spotted the engineer. The human was levelling a strange gun at Sneeq. It reminded him of a jezzail, but was much shorter and had six smoking barrels arranged in a ring. Sneeq felt his stomach sink when he noticed that only five of the barrels were smoking. ‘Stay right where you are, abomination,’ the engineer said. ‘Move one muscle, even twitch your tail, and I’ll kill you where you stand.’ Sneeq snarled. His command of the human tongue was imperfect at best. ‘Go away, stupid manthing,’ he said. ‘I have no wish to kill-slay you.’ The engineer cocked his head. ‘You can talk? Then you can understand that I’m not letting you go.’ The human’s lips spread in a wide grin. ‘They’re going to listen to me this time.’ The human didn’t move. Sneeq could think of fifteen different ways to kill the manthing, but could think of no attack that would disarm him without significant risk to himself. Sneeq was still running through his options when the engineer froze in place, his eyes bulging from their sockets. A moment later, the end of a notched blade burst out of the manthing’s chest, and the engineer collapsed onto the ground. Behind it stood Skulk Fellpaw, holding his bloodied blade and grinning smugly at Sneeq’s shocked expression. ‘Should have obeyed the warlord’s orders, “master”,’ Skulk sniggered. ‘Now you die-die!’ Sneeq dropped his throwing star, threw his head back and screamed, his voice a shrill expression of his frustration. He could feel the killing rage descend, and let it fuel his wiry muscles as he charged at the treacherous gutter runner. Skulk leapt for the engineer’s dropped rifle, picked it up, and took aim at the assassin. Sneeq didn’t deviate from his path in the slightest. He was too angry to care. Skulk pulled the trigger, and the click as the gun fired on an empty chamber was deafening in the night. Skulk had time for one surprised squeak before Sneeq was on him, twin blades lashing out and carving the gutter runner’s body into chunks of wet meat. Eventually the red faded from his vision, and Sneeq stood panting over Skulk’s remains, gasping for air. In his exhaustion, he remembered what the engineer’s death meant for him and felt his musk glands contract painfully as they emptied themselves. He wanted to simply curl up into a ball and tremble for a while, but he could hear shouts coming from the human camp, and knew that he didn’t have much time. Even worse, the humans would most likely scour the surrounding area searching for him, and he would have to return to the Famin warren if he wanted to avoid detection. Sneeq used one of his blades to quickly sever the engineer’s head from its body, and used the goggles to strap it to his belt. The head’s mouth gaped open, and as he looked at it, a scheme suddenly blazed in Sneeq’s brain. It was risky, and would leave him horribly exposed if things went wrong. Still, he was an assassin of Clan Eshin, and death held no fear for him. He told himself that many times as he scurried back to the warren. Sneeq strode back into Warlord Glut’s thronechamber, confident that he looked every inch the deadly assassin that all Eshin adepts aspired to be. Most of Clan Famin’s clanrats had assembled in the chamber, and Sneeq would not show cowardice in front of a lesser clan. He hoped that no one in the chamber noticed his twitching tail, or his efforts to keep himself from squirting the musk of fear. Warlord Glut sat on his throne, picking his teeth with a rib and feigning disinterest in the approaching assassin. Grey Seer Qik stood next to the warlord’s throne, watching Sneeq with considerably more interest. Sneeq could see the green glint of the seer’s warpstone eye tracking him from within the folds of his hood. ‘Welcome back, Sneeq Foulblade,’ Glut said, flicking a piece of meat from his incisors. ‘I trust you have returned to report complete success, yes-yes?’ ‘I have, most massive one,’ Sneeq said. Getting down on one knee, he produced the engineer’s head, and held it out in the palms of both paws. ‘Proof of the manthing’s death, I have.’ ‘Let me see it!’ Glut cried, all pretence of nonchalance gone. He rose from his throne and waddled down to Sneeq, snatching the head from his paws and holding it up where Qik could see it. ‘Confirm, most potent seer,’ Glut said, his voice dripping with sarcasm, ‘that this is the manthing who gave you so much trouble?’ Qik paused for a long moment before answering. His hands twisted his staff in frustration. ‘That is the one, your corpulence,’ the seer said. ‘Excellent!’ Glut said, clambering back up to his throne. Without turning, he said, ‘You have done your duty well, assassin, and will be rewarded as such.’ Sneeq nodded, ignoring the slight. He had to maintain his composure. If Glut was a particularly paranoid skaven, his plan might yet fall apart. Every hair on the assassin’s body seemed to stand on end as he awaited the warlord’s next move. Glut raised the head where all of the assembled skaven could see it. He licked his lips, swallowed the engineer’s head in one massive gulp, and belched contentedly. Sneeq allowed his muscles to relax, but kept himself perfectly still. He must not be seen to move in the next few moments. ‘My worthy minions!’ Glut bellowed. ‘Now that my enemy is dead, I, the mighty Glut, shall lead you all to inevitable victory!’ The assembled clanrats let loose with a high-pitched cheer for their leader. The green warpfire within Qik’s hood grew brighter, which Sneeq did his best to ignore. ‘We will strike immediately, drive the manthings from their camp, and take their weapons for ourselves! Much riches will be brought to our clan, and the manthings will know to fear the invincible–’ Glut belched, interrupting his own speech. Somewhere in the crowd a skaven tittered in the sudden silence. Glut belched again, and grasped his ample stomach with his paws. The warlord let out a long, low moan that rose to a piercing cry of agony as green foam began pouring from his mouth. Slowly, painfully, the warlord collapsed to the floor of his thronechamber. He twitched a few times, and then lay still. Through all of this, Sneeq had not even flicked his tail. Now he looked at the grey seer, and once Qik’s stunned gaze fell on him, he subtly twitched his whiskers towards Glut’s corpse. ‘Treachery!’ Qik shrieked, catching on at once. ‘Even in death, the manthing has slain your warlord! But we will not permit this insult to the skaven race to go unchallenged! Rally your troops, and I will lead you as we swift-slay the cowardly humans!’ The clanrats scattered quickly, their leaders rushing to gather their strength and prove themselves worthy of taking Glut’s place. In the confusion, none of the skaven noticed the grey seer approach Sneeq. ‘Impressive work, assassin,’ Qik muttered. Sneeq nodded, keeping his expression humble. ‘A poisoned star is secreted in the manthing’s jaw,’ he said. ‘You will need to remove it quickly, before the poison eats through his flesh.’ ‘My slaves will see to it,’ Qik said. ‘And I will see that your clan receives a… suitable share of Clan Skryre’s payment for the manthing weapons.’ Sneeq bowed deeply, and watched the seer as he departed to take command of the mustering army. He then rose to his feet and began making his way quickly to the underway’s entrance. Sneeq fingered the bundle of scrolls he’d taken from the engineer’s tent and grinned wickedly to himself. He was certain he would get a most substantial portion of Clan Skryre’s payment indeed.