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The Abominations of Kriik Weirdpaw – Extract

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The Abominations of Kriik Weirdpaw

C L Werner

Grey-furred vein-tappers buzzed through the air, their translucent wings gleaming in the sunlight, their needle-like proboscises jutting from their heads like tiny lances. The glottal calls of black-bellied grime-toads bellowed from yellowed strands of reeds and marsh grasses. The leafless branches of stunted swamp trees pawed at the sky as they slowly sank into the oozy ground.

Carsius glanced down at his arm as a particularly thirsty vein-tapper lighted on his wrist and started to crawl towards his elbow. The bloodsucking fly had been drawn by the motion of his arm, but it was finding nothing on which to feed. There was nothing of flesh or blood surrounding the bare bone, only the jewelled ornaments of his rank in the Legion of Dolorum, the accoutrements of a Mortisan Soulmason. Carsius observed the insect’s frustration for a moment and felt an echo of sympathy for it, then he sent it flying away with a shift of his skeletal arm.

The Soulmason ruminated on his thus-far fruitless expedition. Carsius and the troops under his command were gathering the bone tithe owed to the Ossiarchs by the mortals living in Dolorum. At least, such was his charter. When Carsius glanced back at the hulking Gothizzar Harvester, he felt a sense of mounting annoyance. The great basket behind the lumbering, saurian-skulled construct was nearly empty when by this point in their march it should have been almost a quarter-filled with bones. He didn’t like to muse upon the consequences for failing to meet the quota set for him by Orpheon Katakros. He could very well find his own bones pulverised to make up for the shortage.

But it was impossible to collect bones from people who simply weren’t in their villages. Carsius had just marched through the fourth in a sequence of abandoned settlements. In each there had been signs of violence, but never a trace of what had caused it, nor even so much as a single bone left behind as evidence of what had befallen the inhabitants.

‘The trail we picked up outside Oakhollow trends this way.’ The statement reverberated with the echo of four voices, resonating with a distinct and curious fusion. Carsius gazed up from his animated seat of creeping bones and fixed his attention upon the speaker. Quintus wasn’t as enormous as the Harvester, but he towered above the Mortek Guards around him. A Necropolis Stalker exactingly crafted from the skeletons and spectral essences of long-dead heroes, Quintus presented a formidable sight. Beyond the extra arms that sprouted from his shoulders and the baroque armour strapped to his bones was an oversized head with four skeletal visages, each facing in a different direction. The minds and memories of each mortal lingered on within Quintus, melded into a gestalt whole that existed as a fifth personality.

Carsius raised a bony hand to his chin and dragged a nail across his mandible, a habit carried over from one of his own mortal constituents. Even without anything there to scratch, the Soulmason wasn’t able to shake the compulsion when he was feeling agitated. ‘Your theory is that whatever has been attacking our tributaries has been concealing its tracks. I supported that theory because it was self-evident. You’ve yet to prove to me that this trail we’ve been following was overlooked by our adversary.’ He gestured with another hand at the swamp. ‘Nor is there any trail to follow here. You are certain we are still following their path?’

Quintus bowed his four-formed head. ‘Indeed, revered one. The route by which they entered Blytemoor was distinct enough, as were signs of great haste. They can only be striking for the island of Myrne, the sole solid ground of any consequence in this bog.’ One of the disparate voices grew more pronounced, causing the others to fade and become subdued. ‘When this region was afflicted by the Vyrkos, the mortals used the island as a refuge, knowing the swamps would befoul the vampires’ ability to track their scent.’

Carsius reflected on the ancient cairns that had been plundered to construct Quintus. One of those barrow-kings had passed into legend as a guerrilla fighter who’d led his people against the barbarous hordes of Chaos for years, staging attacks from the most inhospitable regions of Dolorum. If anyone could be reckoned an expert upon a place like Blytemoor, it was that facet of the Necropolis Stalker.

‘It has been many generations of mortals since the Vyrkos hunted these lands,’ Carsius said, acknowledging that it was a point Quintus knew quite well. ‘You were a Hekatos then as you are now, leading companies of Morteks into the thick of battle. You helped put an end to the vampires’ poaching of our tributaries.’ He made a dismissive wave of his hands. ‘You remember these things, but in the brief spans of their own existence, will any of these mortals recall those days? Will they believe the stories handed down to them by their ancestors?’

‘Some things are forgotten by men, others pass into legend and remain as long as there are voices to tell of them,’ Quintus replied. ‘The mere instance that the trail headed into the swamp is evidence that the island of Myrne has not been forgotten.’

‘Let us proceed then,’ Carsius said, swayed by the conviction with which Quintus made his case. ‘Deploy my warriors so that there can be no retreat from the island. These mortals may have fled whatever attacked their village, but they will not escape from me.’

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A Black Library Publication

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Cover illustrations by Nuala Kinrade.

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