The answer would never come. The Fangleader had an instant in which he could have reacted as pain blossomed in his chest, and then a second, stronger thrust shoved the blade between two ribs and into his heart and he knew no more. The watching Skaven did not see the wound, as the chestplate the Fangleader wore blocked their gaze even as it posed no obstacle to the summoned dagger. All they saw was their leader crumple.
"Eshin!" came the whisper from a dozen mouths, and fear arced through the air, but none ran, not yet. They were Clan Mors, and they were destined to rule the Under-Empire. One of the few remaining Stormvermin approached cautiously, sniffing at the air, halberd swinging slowly back and forth as if searching for an invisible assailant.
"No," said the Stormvermin at last, eyes locked on the Fangleader's plumes. "No Eshin. Traitor-coward must have got lucky stab with spare knife."
A second later when he too crumpled to the ground, the remaining Skaven needed no further encouragement to give in to the overwhelming desire to flee.