Should we not attack now? Maimslay the man-things while they are in confusion?” Clawleader Gazat asked.

Tzarkual shook his head. Gazat had showed his true lack of understanding of the finer points of strategy. He thought it better to simply attack rather than wait for the correct moment when their foes were paralysed with fear.

The hostleader twitched his tail indulgently. “No-no. Let them know fear. When they spray musk and know hopelessness then we shall charge-charge.”

Tzarkual could see that Gazat was dubious. Well, let him be. Soon he would see the superiority of his leader’s tactical knowledge for himself.

“Hostleader! They come back to our path.”

“Doubtless they flee in panicked terror. Prepare to meet them with fixed weapons.” The ledge here was wide enough for two skaven abreast. The stormvermin took up position, their polearms braced to meet the charge. Tzarkual waited expectantly.

Triumph filled his heart as the terror-struck man-things confronted his elite warriors. So full of fear were they that they did not even stop their headlong rush. Blind panic drove them to throw themselves onto the blades.

Surely it was only luck that allowed the sweep of the dwarf’s hatchet to chop though both weapons. Yes, he could see more clearly now. The dwarf was so scared that he frothed at the mouth like a clanrat with rabies. He howled fearful prayers to whatever gods he worshipped. He knew he was doomed.

Still, in his terror he was doing terrible damage, as panic-stricken brutes often did. One blind swing clove the head of a trooper. The frantic thrashing of his axe knocked two trusty stormvermin into the channel of the sewer.

If Tzarkual had not known better he would have sworn that the skaven had leapt into the filth to avoid the blade. Surely not! A tall blond-tufted man-thing had joined the dwarf. He fought with a certain precision. A thrust from his shortsword took another skaven in the throat.

No! This wasn’t happening. Four of his best warriors had gone down and the man-things had not even taken a casualty. The furless ones had been lucky. He was filled with pride as more brave stormvermin leapt into the fray.

Now, he felt certain that victory would be his. The man-things just didn’t know it. They kept coming. More worthless vermin fell before their weapons. Tzarkual knew that he had been betrayed! Instead of elite stormvermin, he had been sent useless clanrats. Some cunning enemy back in Skavenblight must have arranged it to discredit him.

It was the only explanation of how two puny surface-dwellers could chop through half a dozen skaven so-called warriors without taking a cut.