First
there was nothing. Nothing but an
eternity of cold darkness. Then a clear
golden light. With the light came
warmth, and with the warmth, awareness.
With awareness came a sensation which at first seemed remote, but became
more and more urgent and proximate. The
sensation was a sound. A stricken,
keening wail. As Bob became more aware,
he realized that the sound had meaning.
The sound had words.
"Waaa-aa-aaah! Brain Freeze!
Brain Freeze! Waaaaah!"
Bob snapped to full alertness. With his vision restored he could perceive that the sound was coming from Joe. Joe was kneeling clutching his head. The scene was bathed in golden light, but Bob could not determine the source of the glow. Bob found that he had a voice.
"Shut
up, Joe." Bob considered the words
he had spoken. They were good
words. He tried them again, louder. "Shut up, Joe!"
The
wail subsided to a whimper.
"All
back to normal!" reassured a deep rumbling voice. An enormous, four fingered hand reached down
and set Joe on his wobbly feet.
Bob
shielded his lidless eyes. Joe's giant
benefactor was bedecked with all manner of gold ornamentation from crest to
scaly feet. Every facet reflected
flashes of light which were brighter than the noon day sun.
"Mahtis?"
Bob enquired.
The
kroxigor's massive face split into a toothy grin. "Bob is okay, too!"
"Great!
I'll just....give me a second...."
Bob
tried to turn to see the other speaker but he was blinded again by the light
streaming from that direction. Moments
later the radiance faded to a warm glow which Bob saw emanated from a weird
contraption which was strapped to the rocklike hide of a towering bastiladon.
"What
is happening?" Bob implored.
"Good
girl, Bessie!" Rychek clambered
down and gave the armoured dinosaur a scratch between her head and thoracic
plates. The beast snuffled in pleasure
and nuzzled the little skink affectionately, knocking him flying.
A bastiladon
of Lustria is as heavily armoured as a rock.
It is also as stubborn as a rock.
It looks like a cross between a tortoise, a lizard and a rock. Its tail is tipped with a rock-like knob of
rocky scales, which it will happily apply to friend or foe alike. Generally the only two safe places to be are
far away, or on its back.
Bessie
was a bastiladon of Los'tmabo'tl. She
was unusually sweet natured, and had an appreciation of fine music. With the Spawning of Bob, anything is
possible.
Rychek
explained the situation to Bob and Joe. "The
Legions of Los'tmabo'tl are frozen. Everything
is covered in ice for a league in every direction."
"Why
aren't you and Mahtis frozen too?"
Joe asked.
The
kroxigor beamed at Bessie, "Bessie
found us. Good girl!" The monster whiffled at the sound of her
name.
"Bessie
slipped her halter in the monster pits and found us. She likes Mahtis because he gives her treats
when the Beast Master Chief isn't watching.
She had the solar engine on her back and it thawed us out."
"The
solo what?" puzzled Bob.
"Climb
up and see. Steady Bessie!" Rychek led the pair of saurus up for a tour
of Bessie's enormous back. Secured to
her back were a series of rails surmounted by wood decking. The howdah was not strapped about her
girth. Rather, the rails were anchored
with metal spikes which were driven directly into her rocky armoured plates.
At
the centre of the platform was the Solar Engine. Its sturdy frame was plated in gold. Icons representing the sun-aspected Old One,
Chotec, covered the stanchions at each corner.
The superstructure was comprised of four glistening triangular
mirrors. Closer inspection revealed no
blemish or flaw upon the polished white metal, despite the fact that this
device of the Old Ones had existed for at least the eight thousand years.
The
centre piece of the apparatus was a cube of some opaque material. The forward surface emitted a warm yellow
glow. The other five planes were
dim. It was held in place by five metal
claws.
Below
the front most reflector was a crystal lens fitted into a rotating gimbal. This allowed the lens to be pivoted around
any axis to focus anywhere within the device's forward arc.
On
the rear panel was the imprint of a curious hand with five fingers. "When you put your hand there, the
square glows brighter and hotter. The
curved crystal catches the glow and directs it.
That's how we warmed you up."
Bob
carefully tallied his own digits, then got Joe to check his calculations. "That's weird. Five fingers.
What use is five fingers?"
Joe
considered. "If you had five, you
could grip your weapon with the usual four, and use the centre one for
signalling."
Bob
scoffed, "Don't be stupid. Four
fingers is better."
"Five
fingers!"
"Four!"
"Five!"
"Four!"
"Five!"
"Four!"
"Shut
up both of you! We need to chase the
ogres!"
"Wha....ogres?"
"The
ogres have kidnapped Slann Lord Taisteslaikch'ken. We weren't fully thawed when they dragged his
palanquin out of the city."
"He's
old enough to look after himself," sniggered Joe. He was remembering the Slann's twenty
thousandth birthday celebration last solar cycle, which he and Bob had ruined
by polarizing the entire city in the catastrophic 'savoury versus sweet' party
food debate.
"He
can't. He's sleeping." Mahtis intoned.
"We
must rescue him!" Rychek implored.
"We
are on picket duty. We are meant to stop
enemies getting in. These ones are
clearly going out. Someone else's
problem I'm afraid" Bob folded his
arms resolutely.
"They
are taking him away! We need to get
after them."
"I'm
sorry, I agree with Bob here..." Joe began.
"So
you agree with me. Four fingers is
better!" Bob smirked.
Joe
signalled to him with an imaginary middle finger and continued, "....we
cannot abandon our post.
Again." He rubbed his scaly
backside, the memory of the most recent kick he had received from his C.O.
brought tears to his lidless eyes.
"So
there is no way that I can convince you to give chase? They are abducting our exalted lord, you
know." Rychek had a devious smile
on his face.
"No,
sorry. Under no circumstance will we
abandon our standing orders." Bob
rested his hand weapon on his shoulder and turned away.
"They
are...FLEEING...with our Slann,"
Rychek murmured.
Bob
stiffened. "What?"
Mahtis
brayed with rage, "They flee?"
"We
must pursue!" Joe screeched and
sprinted into the jungle brandishing his spear, closely followed by Bob and the
mighty Mahtis.
Rychek
allowed himself a self indulgent smirk.
"Come
on, Bessie." He led the lumbering
beast in their wake.
On
the after deck of his vessel, Welhung Thunderloin muttered an obscenity and
picked a feathered sting from his nose.
It was a parting gift from the accursed Lustrian bees.
They
had renewed their attack on the tyrant as soon as the ogre band had moved out
of the zone of ice surrounding the temple city.
The harassment had continued for the entire trek through the jungle, and
ceased only when he had escaped to the safety of his ship.
Unseen
by all, within the fringe of the jungle, D’an, the most skillful of Lustrian
chameleon skinks muttered an obscenity and placed another poisoned dart into
his blow pipe. The previous dart had
been a parting gift to the accursed ogre barbarian.
D'an
had renewed his attack on the tyrant as soon as the ogre band had moved out of
the zone of ice surrounding the temple city.
The harassment had continued for the entire trek through the jungle, and
ceased only when the warm blooded brute had escaped to the safety of his ship.
An
unfortunate juvenile terradon flapped lazily overhead. There was a high pitched buzz, then the
saurian flyer emitted a startled croak and fell dead from the sky. With his test completed, D’an cursed again.
There
was no problem with his legendary marksmanship, nor with the jungle poisons he
had lovingly concocted. The boorish oaf
must have developed immunity to poison from his enforced diet of venomous
jungle reptiles.
D’an
broke his blow pipe over his knee and faded into the mottled shade. His once trusted weapon had betrayed
him. If he was to protect his beloved
homeland he would need to change his doctrine of warfare. He would learn from his foes and adapt. In the future there would be no failure, or
mercy.
With
a gleam of murderous hate in his eyes, he brandished a pair of bamboo sticks and
vanished back into the jungle.
“
‘Oist sail! Ship oars, you ‘orrible
lumps of porridge!”
After
the torment of the gloomy jungle, Welhung could feel the life flowing back into
him now that his feet were firmly planted on the deck his beloved ship. Here he was the master. And there were no bees.
The
operation to refloat the Maw’s Jaws had been performed with practiced
ease. She had then been rowed out beyond
the lee of the cape to find a south easterly breeze.
Once
the billowing sails were reefed, the ship heeled well to port and she gathered
way with the setting sun to her stern, and a pair of full moons on her
starboard bow.
“Oi! Rodekhil!
Lash down the frog. I don’t want
‘im sliding all over the deck in a swell”
“Aye
aye, Chief!” Rodekhil waved a hand in
reply.
“What? What in Lunch’s name is that?”
Rodekhil
started in surprise and looked at his clenched fist. In it was grasped something that resembled a
limp blue lettuce leaf, except for the baleful golden eyes which glared back at
him.
Welhung
prodded it with a meaty finger, and recoiled when arms and legs twitched
fitfully.
With
a glimmer of recognition he said, “That’s one of them skinky priest things from
the temple. Why the ‘ell is it ‘ere?”
“Oh,
yaa, right,” Rodekhil remembered. “Well,
when you said, 'Get the Chef out of my way' I thought to myself, since I’d
eaten Cookie, maybe a new Chef would come in ‘andy!”
“Maw
give Buttered Scones! I said, 'Get the
chaff out of my way,' you melon!”
Welhung leaned in close to inspect the lizardman. The ogre was so near that the smell of his
rancid breath made the little priest’s stomach churn.
“
‘Ave you been carrying ‘im ‘alfway across Lustria?”
Rodekhil
nodded.
The
tyrant locked Caneghem’s flashing eyes.
“ ‘E’d better be able to cook…..”
The
headlong pursuit by the predatory fighters did not last long. The further the trio strayed from the warmth
of the solar engine, the slower they became.
One by one they were overhauled by the plodding bastiladon. One by one they sheepishly climbed onto the
howdah.
It
took no special skill to track the ogre party.
They had crushed a wide avenue through the forest understory with their
ironbound boots and iron hooped wheels.
Here and there would be a cracked bone with the marrow sucked out, or a
scrap of grey fur, but no sign of the fate of the slann could be found. The
ogres had at least two days lead, but Bessie could continue her inexorable pace
day and night, pausing only to crunch up the large tasty flowers which were scattered
in the gloom.
The
heroes passed the time discussing the finer points of the tactical disposition
and effectiveness of the many units deployed by the Armies of Lustria.
“Razordons!”
“Salamanders!”
“Razordons!”
“Salamanders!”
“Razordons!”
“Salamanders!”
“Shut
up you two ! Don’t make me come
back there!”
After
what seemed like an intolerably long time, Bessie burst through the curtain of
trees and stood upon a wide strand near an abandoned fortified camp. Off shore they heard the boom of sails
filling with wind and saw a squat and ugly barge slide towards the
horizon. The Slann was slipping out of
their reach.
Upon
the howdah Bob howled in impotent rage and flung his hand weapon towards the
retreating vessel. This was a token gesture
considering the range and his total lack of ballistic skill. Rychek and Joe cursed and swore. Beneath them, Bessie absorbed the ill temper
of her riders and became agitated.
Only
Mahtis kept his composure. He began to
remove the golden bracelets, torques and other adornments which he was
wearing. “Swim time!”
Joe
looked at him suspiciously, “I don’t swim.”
“I
only dog paddle,” Bob pantomimed an ineffectual stroke with his hands.
“How
did you two get out of the spawning pool?”
Rychek wondered aloud. “Anyway,
Bessie is not aquatic. There is nothing
we can do.”
“Rats!”
blurted Bob.
Bessie
thudded her club-like tail on the ground to show her empathy with her upset
pasengers.
Clan
Catarrh was ascendant. Soon it would
reach its zenith and eclipse even the great Clan Skryre in terms of power and
warp-token wealth. Its warlord would
have a permanent place on the secretive Council of Thirteen, not as first among
equals, but as supreme Lord of all Rat-kind.
He would be envied, feared and worshipped in equal measure.
This
was the kind of irrational belief that most people would be put away for
having. For a long, long time.
But Under
Lord Pickit Raw was not most people.
Although he had wisely abandoned his plans for the conquest of Lustria,
he did not want to slink back to the skaven haunts of the Old World without a
single victory.
To
this end he led his few faithful remaining rats from their shallow tunnel
beneath the sand. The beast and her crew
had their attention fixed out to sea. In
a few more seconds he would plunge the warpstone Sword of Abstinence through
the back of the lizard-ogre-thing.
He
had learnt from bitter experience that appearing in front of his enemies put
them at an unfair advantage. Far better
to have a fair fight with he and his cutthroats approaching from the rear. Much safer this way.
Suddenly
one of the proposed victims shouted, “Rats!”
“Wee-ee
are reevea-ee-eeled! Flee-…..” Pickit
was cut off in the middle of his warning by a bony lump the size of a cart
horse which was propelled like a thunderous bludgeon by eighteen tons of
agitated bastiladon.
First
there was nothing but darkness. Then a
clear golden light. With the light came
awareness. With awareness came a
sensation which at first seemed remote, but became more and more urgent and
proximate. The sensation was a
sound. A stricken, keening wail. As Bob became more aware, he realized that
the sound had meaning. The sound had
words.
"Waaa-aa-aaah! My tail!
My tail! Waaaaah!"
Bob snapped to full alertness. He was in an echoing tunnel, illuminated by a beam of light which shone like a lance from the back of a massive beast. The tunnel sloped away as far as the light would carry. Bob found that he had a voice.
"Shut
up, Joe." Bob considered the words
he had spoken. They were good
words. He tried them again, louder. "Shut up, Joe!"
The
wail subsided to a whimper.
"All
back to normal!" reassured a deep rumbling voice. An enormous, four fingered hand reached down
and set Joe on his wobbly feet.
"Mahtis?"
Bob enquired. “What just happened?”
The
kroxigor's massive face split into a toothy grin. "Bob is okay, too!"
“The
roof of this tunnel collapsed and we fell in when Bessie thumped her tail,”
Rychek explained. “We can’t get back up,
but the tunnel goes the same way as the ship.
It must come out somewhere. We
can still rescue Taisteslaikch’ken!”
“I
can’t rescue anyone. I’ve dropped my
hand weapon.” Bob moaned
Joe
sniggered at him, "Spears are
better," he mouthed.
“Why
not use this hand weapon?” Mahtis picked
up an odd looking sword from beside a moist pile of rags and grey fur.
“That
will have to do! Now climb on!” Rychek was already scrambling back onto the
howdah. Bessie grumbled impatiently as
the others resumed their places on her back.
When they were safely aboard she continued her dogged march.
“You
know, Joe, just before the tunnel collapse, there was a squeaking sound.”
“No
there wasn’t.”
“Yes,
there was.”
“Wasn’t!”
“Was!”
“Wasn’t!”
“Was!”
to Chapter 6: The Maw's Jaws, coming soon.
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