The bands separated themselves and flowed around the messenger, swimming through the air in the way that eels swim through water, with a horrible sinuous wriggling. After a few moments, the bands of energy lunged inwards, stabbing through the skaven’s body, boring through the flesh and emerging darker on the other side.

Again and again they stabbed inwards, stripping away flesh and muscle and sinew. Again and again the messenger let out high-pitched, agonising screams. The smell of the musk of fear mingled with the scent of blood and the ozone taint of the spell. In a matter of seconds only a stripped skeleton stood before Thanquol. After a heartbeat it collapsed into a pile of bone. The ribbons of magical energy flowed together, somehow consuming each other as they did so, until there was nothing left of them. The whole assembled skaven host let out a great sigh of wonder and disbelief at seeing their grey seer demonstrating his power in this satisfying manner.

Thanquol raised his paw and gestured for silence. In a moment all was calm, save for a few coughs from the back rows.

“Lament, skaven! Tragic news!” Thanquol said, and even the coughing stopped. “Mighty Warlord Vermek Skab is dead, killed in a terrible accident involving a loaded crossbow and an exploding donkey. We will have the traditional ten heartbeats of silence to mark the return of his soul to the Horned Rat.”

Immediately all the skaven started to talk among themselves. The chitter of conversation only fell silent when Thanquol raised his paw again and let the warning glow reappear around his talons. All of them sensed the menace in the gesture and went quiet. None of them wanted to be the next to be consumed by those terrible wiggling bands of energy.

“Now we will prepare for the next phase of the master plan,” Thanquol said. “In the sad absence of Lord Skab, I must reassume control of the army of conquest.”

“With great respectfulness, Grey Seer Thanquol, such is not the case. As senior skaven here, my duty it is to assume command.” The booming voice of Izak Grottle filled the chamber. “Clan Moulder had provided many warptokens to finance this expedition and I must see that they are spent wisely.”

“What nonsense is this?” Vilebroth Null inquired. The words bubbled phlegmishly from his ruined throat. “If any is to command here, it should be me. To Clan Pestilens will go the honour of overthrowing the mancity. We have great plans! Great plans! It is our secret weapon that will destroy the human city!”

“No! No! I disagree,” chittered the reedy, high-pitched voice of Heskit One Eye. “The siege machines of Skryre will make victory possible and so to Skryre should fall the leadership. Naturally, as the ranking representative of Clan Skryre I will now assume my duties as supreme commander.”

“This is a vile usurpation of Clan Moulder’s privileges,” Izak Grottle roared. The rat-ogres, hearing the anger in his voice, bellowed with barely suppressed fury. The sound of their wrath echoed around the cavern. “Mutinous behaviour cannot be tolerated! No! For the good of the force, warn you I must that one more word of such treachery and my warriors will execute you instantaneously.”

The jezzail teams around Heskit swiftly brought their weapons to bear on Izak Grottle. “Your warriors? Your warriors? There speaks a mad skaven. By what right do you name the warriors of my command your troops?”

“Both of you are trying my patience,” Vilebroth Null burbled. “Seeing my two senior lackeys bickering in such a runtish manner cannot help but demoralise my army. Cease such treacherous behaviour at once or face the hideous and inevitably fatal consequences.”

Null flexed his paws menacingly and suddenly there was a package of filthy stuff in his hands.