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Shallow Pockets, Deep Waters – R.S. Moule

About the Author

An Extract from ‘Darkoath’

A Black Library Publication

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Shallow Pockets, Deep Waters

R S Moule

Beneath Misthåvn’s inky sky and the wan light of Shadrac’s Gleam, a bleak mist hung over the city of ships, clinging to their bare masts as barnacles clung to their hulls beneath the water. Dark waves lapped grey surf against their keels, while a gloomy wind from the Penumbral Sea rattled the deserted rigging and set ancient timbers creaking. Along fog-swaddled waterways, cowled men of the Seapath Guild steered their small craft, their lights casting swirling shadows and reflecting in the black depths.

At the edge of the city, deep in the cavernous bowels of the Grey Whisper, Endrac leaned against the bulkhead, eyeing the hatch for any late arrivals, listening to the waves and watching the backs of the several dozen assembled patrons standing against the balcony rail overlooking what had once been the ship’s hold. His arms were folded across his chest, hiding his gloved hands from any who might notice the anxious tremor to his fingers. He itched to touch the knife hidden in his cloak, but to those who knew where he kept his blade that would only betray his nerves.

Under his feet, a growl from the hold rumbled through the planks. A man at the rail started at the noise, casting a worried glance to the floorboards, and Endrac allowed himself a small smile. The knots in his bunched shoulders loosened slightly – his doubts were natural, but unwarranted. Tonight, he would give the denizens of Misthåvn something they had never seen before, a spectacle that would spread along the decks and through the armadas like arcane fire. There were fewer perhaps than he might have hoped for, but Horgath the Shank had promised him two nights in which to prove his idea. By tomorrow evening, the only thing stopping the Murkers from raking coin in every night would be the supply of defaulters willing to risk their lives for the sake of clearing their debts to the gang.

‘You look a little too pleased with yourself,’ came a soft voice at Endrac’s right.

In the dim light of the overhead lamps, Endrac had not sensed their approach, but he knew the voice well enough. ‘Cyntia,’ he replied, not even turning to look at her. ‘You’re a long way from port.’ Cyntia ran the Murkers’ operation in Barak-Mhornar, checking the purity of freshly delivered contraband before it was loaded onto airships to be spread to every corner of Ulgu. There were few who Horgath the Shank was prepared to place such faith in, but Endrac had little doubt he would soon be adding himself to the list.

‘I could hardly miss this.’ Cyntia gestured with an arm to the assembled spectators, and beneath her cloak Endrac caught a flash of steel at her belt. Another measure of the Shank’s faith in her, that she was allowed to bear a naked blade in the presence of their notoriously mistrustful boss. Her mocking smile stretched the bone-white scar that ran from her eye to her jawline. ‘We had more patience in my day – the Shank must be going soft to entertain this idiocy.’ Another growl rumbled from below, but Cyntia was unmoved by it. ‘Still, I’m looking forward to discovering what fierce creature you’ve brought for us this time. A leopard eel to poison us all? Or perhaps a rhinox, with horns capable of breaching the hull and drowning the whole ship?’

‘Only one of those happened,’ said Endrac icily. ‘And it wasn’t me who was transporting the eel – that was Darshan.’

‘And look what the Shank did to him.’ Cyntia’s smile was sharp as a knife. ‘At least you seem to be more competent than he was. Word of advice, Endrac, from somebody who’s climbed the pole. Stop giving the boss reasons to notice you. The more he sees of someone, the less he likes them.’

Cyntia flashed Endrac a wink, and before he had the chance to reply she sauntered away and was lost among the crowd.

Endrac bit down on his irritation, and resumed his lean against the bulkhead, affecting nonchalance for anyone who happened to be watching. Cyntia always seemed able to find the right words to rile him. It was fine for her, with her cushy position in Barak-Mhornar. Endrac, though, was tired of travelling, the endless realmgates and the constant struggle to stay ahead of the Great Cities’ constabularies and any rival gangs who happened to take an interest in his activities. For two years now, he had been in the business of smuggling exotic beasts for the Murkers, and Endrac was under no illusion that eventually his good luck would run out and he would be caught with the wrong creature by the wrong person. It was time for him to put down roots, and for all its grim mists, black waters, and the lack of solid ground beneath a man’s feet, Misthåvn was as good a place as any. He could serve Horgath and the gang just as well here; then maybe in a few years he would have enough money to disappear.

That was the trouble with the Murkers. Once you were in, the only honest escape was death.

The sound of clapping shook Endrac from his reverie. A murmur rippled through the crowd, and one by one they fell silent. Endrac craned his neck over the throng towards the disturbance.

Horgath the Shank had arrived. The shaven-headed leader of the Murkers towered over everyone, his neck and shoulders thick as prime joints of meat, yet though he was built like a back-alley brawler he was dressed as richly as a merchant-prince. He gave a warm wave to the assembly, but the smile never reached his eyes, which remained as cold as a sawfang’s.

‘Friends, acquaintances, clients,’ Horgath began. ‘Welcome.’ His voice was as soft and dangerous as the drawing of a blade, yet the crowd heard every word. ‘I, and all of you, have been bestowed with the rare courage to survive the terrors of the Penumbral Sea. But you will know as well as I that Misthåvn does not stoop to cater to those not born with such good fortune. To the unprepared, our fair City of Scoundrels is as dangerous as any Dawnbringer Crusade.’

Endrac caught the warning beneath Horgath’s words: cross the Murkers, and you would be next.

‘This evening, you will have the pleasure of witnessing ten volunteers in a fight to the death.’ The Shank’s eyes glittered with anticipation. ‘Against a beast so horrific that only the bravest dare to speak its name. Alone, our bold participants will step into the arena below, and armed only with a knife will attempt to slay a vile fiend seen before only in their nightmares.’

As Horgath continued, Endrac detached himself from the wall to seek out a better vantage point. Volunteers was an interesting term for those with debts owed to the Murkers being given one last opportunity to clear their account by taking part in this spectacle. Endrac had not troubled himself with such people; he had simply had the idea and provided their opponent. He found a spot at the corner of the rail where the crowd was thinner, shouldering aside several spectators to lean against the barrier. Below, the first of Horgath’s volunteers was slinking into the arena. A young man, stripped to the waist, glancing nervously up at the crowd, the knife in his hand shaking like a leaf. Across the arena, an ear-quaking growl thundered from behind the gate, and the man almost dropped his blade in horror.

Horgath was still going. ‘Without further ado, I give you this evening’s entertainment.’ He signalled to the two Murkers standing against the rail opposite him, at the ship’s stern end.

The two men began hauling on twin winches, and the double gate below began to creak open. The young man in the arena was trembling, a pool of liquid forming between his legs. The gate came halfway open, and a blur of fury surged forth, its jaws slathering with remorseless hunger.

Though Endrac had known what to expect, his heart quickened. A horror of pale, rotting flesh, stretched over misshapen bones that had broken the skin along the beast’s spine, protruding like a hideous rock formation. Stained teeth, dripping with viscid saliva. Hands that were halfway to being claws, tipped with talons sharp and strong enough to cleave a man from neck to navel. Its yellow eyes fixed on the youth with the knife, and with a bloodcurdling howl it rampaged towards him.

Endrac’s mouth was too dry. All around him, the crowd was screaming for the boy to fight, but instead he threw the knife aside and ran for the arena’s edge, scrabbling and leaping at the wall and pleading uselessly for somebody to help him.

Endrac sensed some commotion behind him, and a moment later Cyntia was at his side. ‘A ghoul?’ she hissed. ‘Are you mad?’

‘The beast is most secure, I assure you,’ Endrac replied, his bravado overcoming his rising horror. Below, the ghoul’s talons had torn the young man’s back to strips and had dragged him away from the wall. It ripped open his stomach and began to feast on his entrails, and the young man’s screams reached a horrifying crescendo before falling silent. The spectacle gave Endrac no pleasure, but this was the sort of bold move required if he was going to work his way up the Murkers and make the money he needed to get free of the gang. ‘Did I mention this was my idea? Horgath was most enthusiastic.’

‘He would be,’ murmured Cyntia. ‘Wish I thought you knew what you were doing. That thing’s not some animal to be tamed – that’s a mordant, a cannibalistic flesh-eater. If it gets free–’

‘It’s chained,’ said Endrac, pointing to the length of iron links running from the ghoul’s ankle back to its prison beyond the double gate. ‘Nothing to be concerned about.’ His stomach flipped over as the creature turned its attention to its victim’s skull, ripping it open by the eye socket and beginning to feast on his brain.

Some of the crowd were beginning to look slightly queasy, but most were chattering excitedly or calling for more. Endrac was glad to have been right about the denizens of Misthåvn’s appetite for blood sport. At the stern, four burly men were struggling with a vast winch, slowly dragging the crypt ghoul’s chain back towards its enclosure. The creature shrieked in protest, as blood leaked from its jaws and its talons left scores in the floorboards.

When the ghoul had been pulled back as far as the gate, the door at the bow end was opened and a second man shoved inside. This one fared slightly better. Unmoved by the broken corpse on the floor, he made to attack, and so died quickly, the ghoul ripping his throat out with one swipe of its claw.

A succession of men followed. Most fell as the first had, fleeing in fear. Others were bolder and received the mercy of a swift death. The penultimate debtor almost made a fight of it – a brawny man in his forties, falling back on instincts perhaps honed as a soldier to dodge the ghoul’s claws and teeth while landing ineffectual glancing blows with his knife, until his foot caught a loose floorboard and the creature leapt onto his back and tore out his spine. The final victim fell to his knees pleading, as if he might bargain with the beast, and died most hideously of all, as the ghoul lost interest and left the man supine on the floor, fighting to stop his guts spilling from the gash in his belly and crying for his mother.

And all the while the crowd cheered for more, and Endrac tried to stop the contents of his stomach escaping. He had earned a stiff drink after this, many of them. It would all be worth it, though – the crowd were still howling for more, and Horgath looked impressed.

‘You’re a little green, Endrac,’ muttered Cyntia. ‘You sure you’ve got the stones for this?’

Below, the ghoul had been dragged back to its lair, and the process of removing the bodies had begun. Before Endrac could reply, a meaty hand slapped down on his shoulder, sending a wave of numbness down to his elbow.

‘Endrac, my boy!’ The vast frame of Horgath shunted Cyntia aside. ‘A good show, a good show indeed! Let’s retire to my office and talk business.’

Endrac flashed Cyntia a triumphant grin as he and Horgath departed.

The location of the Shank’s office aboard the Grey Whisper was shrouded in secrecy. Horgath led him away from the main exit to a concealed door in the bulkhead, checked to make sure no one was looking, then slipped inside. Endrac hurried to follow him through a series of corridors and up a flight of stairs, leading to a stained and splintered wooden door.

Horgath’s key clicked in the lock. A small, simple room greeted them: two chairs framing a battered desk, one porthole with no glass in, and a single lamp on a side table. It was not quite what Endrac had expected.

‘Own nothing and it can never be used to hurt you,’ said Horgath, his beady eyes glinting in the lamplight as he took in Endrac’s surprise. ‘Though tonight shows the real danger is reaching for things that don’t belong to us.’ He lowered himself into the far seat. ‘Sit down.

‘You’ve done well setting this up,’ the Shank said as Endrac seated himself. ‘Punished the stinking misers who were fool enough to try and cheat me out of my due and earnt the money back in one fell swoop. I expect there’ll be double turning up tomorrow when we do this again, and there’s a never-ending supply of folk wishing to impose on my generous spirit.’ He flashed a cold smile. ‘Shame that generosity never seems to run in return.’ He produced two cracked clay cups and a bottle of something foul-smelling and poured them each a measure.

‘Anyway,’ he continued, taking a sip of his drink. The smell of Endrac’s own cup made his eyes water. ‘Got a new task for you. There’s a brace of blood vultures I’ve arranged to purchase in Ghur. Already got a buyer we can sell them on to, private collector. Want you on the way there tomorrow morning. Got a contact who’ll meet you on the other side.’

Endrac tried to mask his dismay. ‘I thought I might stay here and run the ghoul fight,’ he said carefully. ‘Seeing as it was my idea.’ Maybe he could do that for a bit and work his way up to something else, prove he was more than just an errand boy.

Horgath’s lip curled with displeasure. He said nothing, letting the silence lengthen between them, as if to give the other man the chance to retract his words, but Endrac held strong.

‘I was watching you, while it was happening,’ said Horgath finally, just as Endrac had been on the verge of breaking. ‘Looked like you were about to lose your dinner.’ He placed his muscular forearms on the table and leaned forward towards Endrac. ‘Two years you’ve been running goods for me, generous pay, chance to travel, and this is the thanks I get. Think you’re too good for it, do you? You going to start telling me what others should be doing as well? Perhaps you think you’re better placed than me to run the whole organisation.’ The Shank pulled back an inch. ‘No. I like you in transport. You’ve done well at it. I see a future there for you.’

Endrac took a steadying breath. If he didn’t stand up for himself now, he was doomed to die doing Horgath’s bidding. ‘I want to do something else,’ he replied. ‘I’ve given you two years. If it doesn’t work out, I’ll go back to transport.’

Horgath stared back at him. He rose to his feet and nodded towards the door in dismissal. ‘Go to Ghur, and we’ll talk about it when you get back.’

Endrac could not fail to see the warning in his eyes, but that was almost to the word what Horgath had told him the last time he had plucked up the courage to ask for a move. He had to show Horgath he was serious.

‘I’m not going,’ he said, standing to his full height, around the level of Horgath’s chin. ‘I’m the one that found the ghoul, risked my neck to get it, and I want the reward that’s due to me.’ Endrac could feel blood coursing hot through his veins. He folded his arms.

Horgath stepped forward, using his taller stature to lean over Endrac. An ominous pause stretched between them. ‘Do you remember,’ said Horgath, ‘when I first met you, what I told you was the most important quality in someone looking to work for me?’

Endrac forced himself to hold the larger man’s glare. He had captured a ghoul; he could face down Horgath if he had to. ‘Loyalty.’

‘Loyalty!’ Without warning, Horgath seized Endrac round the collar and lifted him up onto his tiptoes. ‘Fortunately for you, we’ve a new way to deal with treachery. You’re not going to Ghur any more. Tomorrow, you’ll fight the ghoul.’

Horgath dropped him, and Endrac collapsed in a heap. ‘Now, hold on, Shank,’ he said, rising to his knees and lifting his hands in supplication. ‘I was–’

‘No.’ Horgath stared down at him, the beginnings of a smile forming on his lips. ‘As you said, it was your idea. Seems strange that you’d let other men face the ghoul but not be willing to try it yourself. Downright cowardly, some might say, unworthy of being a Murker. You said you wanted a new role, didn’t you? Well, here it is – why just run the fights when you could really get your hands dirty? You’ve shown bravery today, speaking to me like this. Would be a shame to waste it. And if you run, be sure that I’ll find you.’

Without warning, Horgath seized Endrac by the collar again, hauled him to the door, and threw him down the stairs.

Endrac landed heavily with a grunt of pain, tasting blood as his teeth came down on his tongue. He grabbed the wall to pull himself to his feet and staggered around the corner, wanting nothing more than to escape the Grey Whisper as fast as possible. He couldn’t face the ghoul! He could run, somewhere Horgath would never find him, maybe even take the Coin Malleus; there was every chance that going on crusade had a higher chance of survival than facing the ghoul armed only with a knife, and there Horgath couldn’t touch him.

‘Heard you’re fighting the ghoul.’

Endrac looked up from his boots into the smirking face of Cyntia. He wiped away the blood running from his mouth. ‘Eavesdropping, were you?’

‘Wanted to hear how much trouble you could talk yourself into.’ She shook her head. ‘I warned you.’

‘You have to help me,’ whimpered Endrac. A cold, fearful sweat was already prickling on his skin. ‘Talk to Horgath, tell him I made a mistake, tell him–’

‘I’ll do no such thing.’ Endrac hated how delighted Cyntia seemed. ‘I’d have more hope trying to persuade the ghoul not to eat you.’

‘Please, Cyntia.’ Endrac did not care how pathetic he sounded. ‘I’m begging you! I can’t fight that thing! No one could!’

‘By Sigmar, Endrac, pull yourself together.’ Cyntia slapped him so hard that he almost fell over. ‘Fine, just stop wailing. It’s almost making me feel sorry for you. You ever heard of Thenrig the Cowl?’

Endrac shook his head.

‘He’s a grey wizard. Used to serve on Misthåvn’s Grand Conclave, until he was thrown out for overindulging in glatch ink. Now he lives in a half-scuttled ship on the other side of the city.’

Endrac paused, his mind whirring. He doubted he could obtain any glatch ink, but there were other substances the wizard might be interested in. It was worth a try. He would need to be careful, though; the grey wizards of Misthåvn were famed for their trickery. One who had been cast out of the Grand Conclave might be the worst of the lot.

‘Thanks,’ he muttered, but Cyntia was already striding away down the corridor.

‘I’ll be here tomorrow,’ Cyntia called back to him. ‘Be sure to put on a good show for us!’

It was long past midnight by the time Endrac had readied himself to track down Thenrig the Cowl. With a cloak full of contraband, he made his way across the various armadas that formed the City of Scoundrels, up and down gangplanks, creeping across mist-soaked decks. When he was close to where he had heard he might find the Cowl, he asked a man of the Seapath Guild for directions, which he received in exchange for two drops of his blood dripped into a vial. What use the guildsman had for his blood, Endrac did not know, but if it kept the rest of it inside his body it was a price worth paying. It was wiser not to question the ways of the guild.

The boat Endrac arrived at had once been a fine, three-masted galley. Now though, it listed to starboard, with gaping holes in the hull just above the waterline and two of the masts snapped off. Carefully, Endrac went aboard, crawling on his hands and knees through a hole and into the ship’s forecastle. The tilt of the deck made it slow going, but he edged his way towards the stern and the captain’s cabin.

‘Thenrig?’ Endrac knocked hesitantly on the door, and it swung open so abruptly that he almost overbalanced.

Within, a cowled figure sat hunched on the floor with their back to Endrac, surrounded by candles, casting shadows on the moss-covered walls that seemed to rearrange themselves every time the ship rocked. Endrac suddenly felt very cold.

‘Thenrig?’ he asked again.

‘I am Thenrig,’ the figure croaked, keeping their back to Endrac. ‘Be gone. The secrets of the Grey Order may not be bought like mere trinkets.’

‘I have some things I thought you might like.’ Endrac hefted his sack, containing every mote of Misthåvn’s illicit substances he had been able to obtain at short notice – vials of synesthalcum, a pot of skiffer’s salve, even some sawfang dust crystals. ‘I’ll trade you for them.’

‘I have nothing to barter, nor anything I wish to barter for,’ the figure hissed. The boat rocked violently, forcing Endrac a few steps further into the room. ‘My order takes a vow of poverty. I may have disgraced myself every other way it is possible for a wizard to disgrace themselves, but I will keep that vow.’

Against his better judgement, Endrac stepped closer, catching sight of a long nose half-shadowed beneath the cowl. He held his sack out towards Thenrig. ‘I have synesthalcum, skiffer’s salve–’

‘I told you I’m not interested.’ Thenrig unrolled his spindly body to its full height, so tall he almost brushed the ceiling. A pair of piercing blue eyes set in an alarmingly gaunt face stared down at Endrac, who wondered briefly if he ought to run. Thenrig sniffed at him through two huge nostrils. The wizard paused. ‘What do I smell in your pocket?’

‘I don’t have–’ Endrac slipped his hand inside his cloak, and felt something small, smooth, and cool against his skin, pulsing under his touch. He felt another, then several more. He grasped his hand around the collection and withdrew the items from his pocket.

Glimmerings shone against his palm – mineral, glassy shards sparkling in the light of Thenrig’s candles. Endrac had forgotten he had them, leftovers from his most recent visit to Excelsis.

Thenrig stared down at the glimmerings, his eyes rapt, wide as twin moons. He thrust out a vein-riddled hand. ‘Give them to me.’

Endrac curled his fingers protectively over the stash. Using the crystals to prophesy was said to be addictive. ‘You can have them if you help me.’

The wizard hissed and bared two rows of pointed, yellowed teeth protruding from blackened gums. ‘What help would you have of me?’

‘I have to fight a ghoul tomorrow.’ Just saying it set Endrac’s stomach churning. ‘I was hoping… Is there some… spell, or something, that might be able to help me?’

‘The glimmerings.’ Thenrig shoved out his hand again. ‘Give them to me, and I will tell you of your tomorrow.’

Endrac cupped his other hand protectively over the glimmerings. ‘Save me and they’re yours.’

Thenrig gave a chilling smile. ‘How can I know how to save you without seeing what will happen? Magic is rarely so precise, Endrac Ordasi.’

A sharp wind from the Penumbral Sea rattled through the cabin, and every hair on Endrac’s body seemed to stand on end. ‘How do you know my name?’ he whispered.

‘Consider it proof of my expertise.’ The wizard bent his long frame down towards him. ‘The glimmerings. I will share my vision, and then we can discuss your salvation.’

Endrac hesitated for several moments, Thenrig staring at him expectantly. Slowly, silently, Endrac uncurled his fingers, and in a flash the wizard swept up the crystals.

Thenrig abruptly turned away and returned to his candles. He sat down cross-legged, facing Endrac, and hungrily imbibed the glimmerings in one go.

Endrac watched as the candles began to flicker violently, then had to steady himself against the wall as the ship lurched. Seawater sprayed in through the window, splattering across the floor and plunging them into semi-darkness as most of the candles were snuffed out.

‘I see,’ said the wizard, his voice strange and faraway. When Endrac’s eyes adjusted, he was shocked to realise that Thenrig was floating an inch off the floor. ‘I see a ship, shrouded in mist, and a great beast, dead on the decks with a knife in its throat.’ Thenrig’s whole body seemed to be shaking. ‘And a figure, arms spread in triumph, surrounded by a screaming crowd.’

Endrac’s heart lurched. ‘Is it–’

‘It is you.’ Thenrig’s eyes flew open, shining bright white.

Endrac could hardly believe it. Unless he was mistaken, Thenrig was prophesying his victory over the ghoul. ‘How?’ he asked.

Abruptly, Thenrig sank back to the floor, his eyes retaking their previous hue. ‘I can say only what I saw, Endrac.’ There was a sheen of feverish sweat on his forehead, and he was breathing heavily. ‘Use my foretelling as you will.’

Endrac could already picture it in his mind: the hideous ghoul dying at his feet as he basked in the adulation of the crowd. Cyntia’s amazement. Horgath’s fury. He did not know how he would do it, but if that was what Thenrig had seen–

‘Thank you,’ he said breathlessly. He dropped the sack on the floor, and raced from the room, elated with the news and eager to return to his own berth.

Just as he reached the door, the wizard spoke again. ‘Remember, those who trade in dead flesh will not live to prosper from it.’

Endrac hardly heard him, turning on his heel and rushing into the Misthåvn night.

The following evening, it was as Horgath had predicted. Word had spread, and the Grey Whisper was busier than ever, the crowd unconcerned by the thicker-than-usual mist that gripped every hull and mooring of the city like a ghostly hand. The ship’s bowels echoed with chatter and eager anticipation, and beneath it all the rumbling rage of the ghoul, pacing its lair and sniffing for the blood of its latest prey.

With his feet planted on the hull, Endrac felt every lapping wave and gust of wind that swayed the ship. It was colder here, below the waterline, and his bare torso shivered with fearful anticipation.

He glanced up to the gallery, and found the hard, glassy gaze of Horgath. If he had ever believed that the Shank might change his mind, the indifference in his eyes would have been enough to correct him. Horgath was as merciless as the ghoul. The Murker chief raised a finger to the men over the gate. The hinges began to creak, the crowd’s chatter fell to an attentive hush.

Endrac’s heart began to beat deafeningly fast. His elation at Thenrig’s prophecy seemed a long time ago now, if it had happened at all. The knife shaking in his hand was little better than a blunted spoon; there was no comfort to be had in something that had failed to provide the ten who had gone before him even a scrap of resistance. What foolishness had made him think a wizard could solve his problems? He wanted to run, to beg the crowd to help him, to–

The ship’s rapt silence was broken by the shattering of timber, and then a single shriek, soon joined by others in a rising chorus of terror.

Before Endrac could grasp what was happening, a pale, taloned fist punched through the hull to his left, followed by a second, and as water began to spill in through the breach, a second hand appeared, and then a snarling, slavering skull.

And amidst the shrieking chaos in the gallery, Endrac did not even hear his own scream.

Ghouls were pouring aboard the Grey Whisper, dozens of them, tearing apart timbers and overwhelming the ship like an irresistible tide. The gate had stopped, leaving the imprisoned ghoul gnashing its jaws and tearing at the heavy wood as it sought to reach Endrac. More were forcing their way through the hull to either side of him, dripping water and bellowing their hunger. The flooding sea was already up to Endrac’s ankles.

Being within reach of one caged ghoul was better than facing several. Endrac shoved the knife into his belt and raced towards the stern. He leapt, and driven by terror hauled himself atop the gate by his fingertips, heedless of the spitting creature and the other ghouls that were tearing after him as the ship began to fill with water.

He leapt again for the balcony rail, heaved himself over, and then immediately almost wished he hadn’t.

The gallery was slippery with blood. The ghouls had ripped through the crowd like a vengeful storm, leaving torn-out throats and half-eaten entrails in their wake. The survivors had rushed for the only exit, creating a bottleneck, falling over their own dead as they sought to flee. The ghouls were not just coming at them from their rear either; Endrac could see more through the crowd, the people at the front being driven onto the monsters’ talons by the terror of those trying to escape the gallery.

There was only one way out. Endrac raced towards the hidden door, hooked the knot in the wood, slipped inside and slammed it shut, plunging himself into darkness.

He leaned back against the timber, gasping and whimpering, then shrieked as a snarl sounded from behind him and a clawed fist punched through the wood. He raced down the lampless corridor, making his best guesses in the dark at the route to Horgath’s office. The porthole – he could escape through the porthole.

His ankle struck the first stair painfully, but Endrac did not stop. He threw himself up the remaining steps and burst through the door into the office.

He was not alone.

Horgath was there already, trying and failing to squeeze himself through the porthole. He turned at the sound of the door.

‘Endrac.’ The Shank could not cover his surprise. ‘You’re alive.’

Endrac had to hold himself steady against the doorframe. ‘No thanks to you.’

Horgath withdrew from the porthole. ‘So, turns out ghouls are pack creatures. Your idea might have doomed the whole city. For that, you can drown with the rest.’

Horgath stalked towards him. Endrac raised his fists in defence, but the Shank shoved them aside, smashed an elbow into Endrac’s face, then wrapped his huge fists around Endrac’s throat.

Endrac batted at them with his hands, but Horgath’s grip was hard as sigmarite. He kicked out at the bigger man’s shins, but the Shank hardly seemed to feel it. Endrac gulped uselessly for air, his throat like a reed, black spots appearing at the edge of his vision.

It’s not fair, he thought. He had already survived the ghouls; he couldn’t die now. Suddenly, he recalled the knife. He scrabbled at his belt, trying to get his tremoring fingers to grasp the hilt. He pulled it free, almost dropped it, and plunged it into Horgath’s gut.

The Shank wheezed, his eyes widening in shock. Endrac groped for the hilt to pull it free and stick Horgath again, but his fingers would not obey him. Horgath’s grip on his throat was loosening, but he still couldn’t breathe–

Horgath let him go, and Endrac collapsed to the floor, gasping for breath as tears ran down his cheeks. He stumbled to his feet, grabbing the table for support and almost pulling it over. He leaned against it with his head in his hands, trying to get his lungs to draw down air again.

Horgath lay at his feet, convulsing like a beached whale, the blade’s hilt jutting from his stomach. For a moment, Endrac considered letting him suffer, but freeing himself from the Shank felt like too good an opportunity to miss. He pulled the knife free and plunged it into Horgath’s neck in a spray of blood.

Thenrig’s retelling of his glimmerings vision flashed in Endrac’s memory. He recalled the wizard’s final warning – those who trade in dead flesh will not live to prosper from it. Perhaps this was what he had meant.

A blood-chilling shriek from the corridor spurred Endrac to action. He raced across the room and, heedless of what waited for him outside, threw himself headfirst out of the porthole.

He landed in the water, and spasmed with shock at the iciness of the Penumbral Sea. He trod water, searching for somewhere to haul himself out, trying to put distance between himself and the Grey Whisper.

The ship’s stern was beginning to dip as the vessel took on water, the bow end rising into the air. Still ghouls were swarming up the sides and onto the rigging. A few fortunate souls had reached the deck, but they went down screaming as the beasts launched themselves from the mast onto the escapees’ backs. Endrac thought he saw Cyntia among a handful of people leaping from the raised bow to the next ship, but he could have been mistaken.

None of the ghouls paid Endrac any mind. Despite the chill seeping into his bones, he could not help smiling. The wizard had been right. Now he was free of Horgath and free of the Murkers, free to escape Misthåvn – staying in the city no longer seemed like such an appealing prospect. Find somewhere to spend the night, then head for the realmgate at first light, get back in the creatures trade. No ghouls this time. There were safer ways to make a living; if he could get in touch with some of Horgath’s old contacts–

From the unknowable depths below, there came a thunderous roar, seeming to shake the whole of the Penumbral Sea, setting every ship in Misthåvn bobbing violently. A wave tossed Endrac, almost dragging him under, filling his mouth with saltwater.

Had the sea not already been freezing, Endrac’s blood would have run cold. There was a shadow below, impossibly vast, rising and growing larger by the moment.

He knew half a moment of abject terror, before something rose from the water and dragged the Grey Whisper to the depths, sucking him down with it. The last sensation Endrac knew was the light of Shadrac’s Gleam, and the weight of the black water dragging him to the bottom of the ocean.

About the Author

R S Moule is the author of fantasy trilogy The Erland Saga. He lives in London with his wife and their cat. ‘Shallow Pockets, Deep Waters’ is his first story for Black Library.

An extract from Darkoath.

RUN-RUN-RUN!

These were the thoughts of Skitterdeek, black-clad swift-killer, blade in hand. His grip on his punch-knife tightened, but there was no murder-boldness in him. Fear squeezed his muscles, flattened his dampening fur, and widened his eyes. He scampered between trees aglow with red fire, seeking the sanctuary of cold shadow, seeking darkness, finding none.

The burning forest was thick with skaven-shriek, and his nostrils burned with ash and terror-musk. Death crashed through the brush behind him – the woods-birthed monstrosity that had been the end of Deathmaster Zenyk.

DEATH-DEATH-DEATH!

Once, Skitterdeek had treasured the thought of his master’s demise. It was something to be wished in secret, private and precious. He dreamed often of his knife slipping quick-sharp into the gap between Zenyk’s shoulders. It would be a gasping, quiet, silent, clever slaying, in Skitterdeek’s imaginings. He would be feared, when the deed was discovered, and then they – his Night Runners – would call him Deathmaster Skitterdeek, and they would follow him.

Skitterdeek no longer wished to be followed.

A roar shook the trees and rattled through Skitterdeek’s skull. The worst doings of the hellpits of Moulder could not create such a noise as this. It was hot anger and beast-rage, the wrath of a realm defiled.

Skitterdeek had been there, when the cleverness of the Great Horned Rat had snapped the spine of the cosmos. He had felt the Mortal Realms buck and quake. The skein of unreality that encased the hidden domain of the skaven had split, sending its blighted innards erupting upwards, shuddering into the night sky of sundered Aqshy.

Blight City was hidden no more. Blight City had declared itself: Here I am, here I am! Know me in terror, know me in ruin!

On that day Skitterdeek had joined teeming others surging quick-quick beyond the shattered territories of the domain called the Gnaw, which burned warp-green and belched corruption. The fell touch of the Gnaw extended to grasp greedily at the realm, snatching away the territories of preening city-dweller and brutish marauder alike. The Great Horned Rat had done what no other god of Ruin could do, would do, and broken the world. Quick-cruel Skitterdeek was his clever blade, his servile supplicant, his scheming inheritor. One of many, one of millions.

Skitterdeek had performed much knife-work in the days and weeks since. As the Deathmaster directed, so he struck. He and his kin stole into the holdfasts of those who had stood against the skaven, and into the shelters and hiding places of those who were simply in the way. They made play of murder. They exalted in it, for the thirteenth hour had come. For the first time, Skitterdeek dared to ply his trade openly. For the first time, he met the gaze of those whose throats he slit. Skitterdeek thrilled at what it was to be witnessed, to be seen.

Skitterdeek no longer wished to be seen.

There were hunters in these burning forests, loping warriors who dared trespass closer to the fringe of the Gnaw than any other of their ilk. Deathmaster Zenyk and his killers had stalked them in turn. Then, in the darkest part of the night, they had lost them. This was an impossible thing. The Night Runners had split for the shadows, seeking the scent of sweat and blood in the air, but had not found it. Skitterdeek roamed a short distance from the others, taking advantage of their distraction, keeping his eyes on Zenyk. It was no small thing to track a Deathmaster in the dark, but Skitterdeek did so. Perhaps this would be his moment, after all.

Zenyk had slipped razor-quick between two thick trees and scampered up a sheer-sided boulder, seeking vantage. He sniffed. Something whistled against the ash and sulphur in the air; the Deathmaster twitched, caught its scent, and twisted to the side. An iron-tipped javelin missed his head by inches and dug deep into the rock at his back. Zenyk hunched, red eyes narrowing along the course of the javelin’s flight, keen senses reversing the path of the projectile to the hand that threw it. He found the place where his assailant had concealed themselves, and slunk low. The Deathmaster palmed a whisper-sharp throwing star and tensed in anticipation of the wrist-flick that would send it scything into the lurking human’s jugular.

The Deathmaster permitted himself a chitter of satisfaction – a cruel murmur, scarcely audible above the tremble of the burning forest.

But Skitterdeek heard it, and so did something else.

Something above them.

The sound it made was little more than an exhalation, but the malevolence in it froze Zenyk stiff and had much the same effect on hidden Skitterdeek. Zenyk inched forward and made to leap down from the boulder, eyes downturned, blind to the slender limb that grasped towards him from the smouldering canopy.

Skitterdeek saw it soon enough to catch its shape, but not soon enough to warn the Deathmaster. The limb was pale and slender, serpentine but jointed in too many places, jagged like frozen lightning, ragged like bird bones. It twitched as it descended, splaying into seven slender fingers, widening until it had the aspect of a slow-grasping hand. It had no means of sight that Skitterdeek could see, but the uncanny creature tracked the movement of the Deathmaster with unerring surety.

Zenyk, star in hand, set on his own kill, sensed the danger at the last moment. The fur on his shoulders bristled into spines. He twitched, spun, and the creature grabbed for him, thin fingers closing about his neck. With violence it wrenched the Deathmaster into the air, piercing his flesh, forcing his head back, fixing his gaze upward. Zenyk scrambled with claw and tail for his daggers, but what his eyes saw in the canopy squeezed the fear-musk from him. He shrieked, and began to struggle like a trapped animal.

Skitterdeek, somewhat curious, somewhat compelled, crept a step forward. His fellow Night Runners were not so subtle. Cloaked skaven dashed from their hiding-spots and scampered to assist the Deathmaster. Skitterdeek saw grey-furred Kryllyk, craven-loyal, in the lead. He mounted the boulder and leapt, slashing for the predator that had their master in its grasp–

Death came for Kryllyk in the shape of another iron-tipped javelin, which caught him beneath his ribs and punched down through his guts. He flew away into the shadows, and instinct compelled the others to turn their attention to these new assailants and prepare to defend themselves. Night Runners were ambushers and trapmakers by trade, and it was a rare foe that could turn these same tricks against them. Those they hunted encircled them now in the trees, and Skitterdeek realised the precarity of his own, isolated position. He found his boldness, dashing for the shelter of the pack–

It was then that death truly came for the Deathmaster. Bad death, madness of the wild. The canopy started to shake as it birthed terror. Zenyk was hauled upwards with a juddering motion as the creature in the trees descended. No slender, serpentine hunter this, but a spawn of Ruin, multi-limbed and muscular. Skitterdeek froze. The limb that had seized up the Deathmaster was not a limb at all.

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