by David Guymer
The warlord kicked through the sheets of ratskin towards the vat of acidic fluid that rattled against the rivets sealing it to the shelf. Sharpwit cringed in anticipation.
‘Great warlord, might I urge–’
Sharpwit squeaked in alarm, ducking as the warlord hurled something his way. It was made of brass and gold, some manner of clockwork contraption with spindly arms around a central sphere. It flew over his head and clattered into the pile of similar junk that was taking shape in the tunnel outside the burrow. Sharpwit sucked in a sharp breath. That had looked valuable.
The warlord had soon become distracted from his plans for the immediate annihilation of Karak Azul. Sharpwit felt he deserved no small measure of thanks for that fact: a statue in warpstone before the gateway to the Shattered Tower, perhaps? As obvious as it had appeared to Sharpwit to await the arrival of one’s army before attacking, Queek would not see it. The warlord’s madness seemed limitless. Even now, Queek muttered to himself as he sorted through the objects and treasures of the skaven that had previously called this burrow theirs, studying them before invariably tossing them out, keeping only the most innocuous of things. A clockwork timepiece clad in brass. A rat skull with glowing ingots of warpstone set into its tiny eyes. A ghostly white moth pinned to a vellum sheet. Queek plucked the insect from its page and, with a lunatic grin, pinned it into the fur behind his ears, whispering as though it listened. And perhaps, in Queek’s broken mind, it did.
‘Queek-Warlord. Maybe it is time we prepared. Your army will be here soon.’
Sharpwit squealed, ducking again as the warlord changed his mind over the rat skull. He watched it soar, striking the roof of the tunnel. The precious warpstone slipped from its sockets and rolled away down the tunnel’s incline towards Deadclaw. Sharpwit sniffed in dismay. Such waste.
‘Queek not run after little rats,’ Queek whispered after a time. ‘Is that what Old-thing thinks? He thinks little rats call on Queek and he go?’ He tittered, muffling his laughter behind a paw. His eyes flared and without warning the warlord suddenly pounced.
Sharpwit jerked into motion but too late. Queek grabbed him by the throat and hauled him from the ground. The old skaven swung like a stalled pendulum in his grip.
‘Is that what Old-thing thinks?’ Queek asked again.
‘No-no,’ Sharpwit croaked. ‘Queek’s clawleaders come here. Of course they come here.’
Queek dropped him and Sharpwit gasped, his tail twitching in time to his ragged breathing.
‘Clever-smart. Now be away-gone. Queek very busy.’
Again the warlord broke into a fit of laughter, and Sharpwit glanced nervously at the room’s third occupant. The brutalised warrior of Clan Rictus moaned in agony, lying at the rear of the burrow in a space that the warlord had cleared for him. The skaven looked at him, beseeching. As if Sharpwit could help. As if he would.
Sharpwit’s tail lashed. ‘Queek-Warlord is too important for such tasks. Allow humble Sharpwit to interrogate this traitor-meat. Glorious Queek then… then…’ he trailed off before adding desperately. ‘Then he find-catch dwarf-things to kill.’
‘Deadclaw has rats and it has dry wood-stuff, but it has no dwarf-things.’ Queek turned his back, his attention riveted on his mewling captive. ‘Now leave. Before Queek does something unpleasant.’
The heat of the Clan Skryre foundry beneath Deadclaw was an almost tangible thing, a physical presence that made walking like a wade through boiling mud. Long before Sharpwit had set paws over the threshold, the acrid stench of its industry had assaulted him from the tunnels. It flowed from the airless chamber like semi-molten rock. His nose recoiled from it, a hot acid burn of a smell that forced tears from his single eye. He pressed on, the grinding of rusted metal evolving from a bass rumble that sent vibrations tingling through his feet to a perpetual percussive thunder that rattled his teeth in their diseased gums. Mammoth wheels, the source of the ungodly din, ground slowly through the smog.
He coughed, bringing up a clot of bloody phlegm. The air was dense with dust, vaporised warpstone and simple lung-darkening ash. Suppressing another cough that threatened to become a fit, he smothered his snout with his sleeve and looked about. Between the ever-turning wheels, wiry figures hurried about on inscrutable errands. Bubbling vats of molten iron for casting glowed white hot, swaying precariously from bowing rods embedded in vast, pyramidal, iron stanchions. Steam rose from the vats to turn the wheels, the motion transduced down a chain of cogs and ratchets into the smog-clouded distance of the foundry’s core.
Sharpwit tried to pick out individuals through the haze as he fingered the strange mechanical device in his paws. He examined it again. It was the spinning-armed device that Queek had thrown out of his newly claimed burrow. Of all the burrows Queek could have claimed, must it have been that of Warlock Fizqwik? The warlord had no notion of diplomacy. Only the most devious of skaven could have laid claim to the burrow Queek had simply taken for his own. It was an oasis of cool amidst the teeming firepit of Deadclaw, and a skaven strong enough to hold such a prize was unlikely to take his eviction gracefully. He turned again to the object in his paws. The maltreatment had caused it to stall. The two little spheres that orbited the larger central body jerked like a freshly animated cadaver. The property of a warlock, whatever its function, he thought as he tucked the contraption inside his jerkin.
Creeping deeper into the forge, an object that didn’t seem to belong attracted his notice and he limped towards it. It was a box, taller than Sharpwit and twice as deep. From between its crudely nailed slats came the occasional flash of warp lightning, painting Sharpwit in alternating patterns of eerie green light and shadow. Stepping closer, he could hear sounds above the endless metallic grinding. It sounded like the chittering of many hundreds of rats, furry bodies rustling against their cramped confinement. He pressed his good eye to the space between two boards and was convinced he saw hundreds of beady red dots glaring hungrily back.
‘You-there, away-back!’
Jolted by surprise, Sharpwit stepped hurriedly back, raising open paws in the air and dropping his muzzle in a general gesture of deference.
The hunched shape of a warlock engineer broke through the grasping black tendrils of smog. His piebald fur was swaddled in thick leather overalls with little regard for the unbearable heat. The ratkin’s head was enclosed in a copper helm from which sprouted an array of delicate and unfathomable protuberances. He leant in close, taking a deep sniff of Sharpwit’s scent before satisfying himself that the intruder’s fear was genuine. The warlock straightened, adjusting one of his helm’s devices: a multi-segmented arm that held a green-lensed ocular attachment over his right eye. The warlock struggled with the appendage, its stiff joints uncooperatively tugging it from his face. In the end, he held it in place with his paw, focusing on Sharpwit as though analysing a specimen for dissection.
‘What you want-seek?’ he asked suspiciously.
Sharpwit bobbed again, for safety’s sake. From the corner of his eye, he watched a pair of skavenslaves feed dripping hunks of red meat between the boards of the mysterious crate. The box jolted and erupted with wild screams. The slaves scurried clear, thankful for their fingers, before an unconcerned warlock with an electric goad encouraged them back to their task, a red-sodden wicker basket on the ground between them still heaped with fresh meat.
‘I come-search for the great and knowledgeable warlock of Clan Skryre who has so skilfully readied Deadclaw for the glorious conquest of Azul-Place.’
‘I am Fizqwik,’ the warlock muttered cautiously. ‘What old-thing wants to know?’ The warlock leant in closer, all evasion forsaken. He adjusted a clicking dial around the circumference of his ocular lens. ‘Just how old are you, Old-thing? Twenty? How are you still living?’
Sharpwit squirmed under the warlock’s scrutiny. ‘The dwarf-thing’s fall is soon-quick and you, most skilful and loyal servant of the Council, have been relieved of your most hard-heavy duties.’
‘What
?’ Fizqwik spluttered, suddenly paying attention. ‘Fizqwik is in charge here! What two-warptoken warlord do they send to replace me?’ Sharpwit opened his mouth but the warlock wasn’t listening. He sniffed, genuinely hurt. ‘After all this time that I battle dwarf-thing hordes. Almost single-pawed! No warlord steals from Clan Skryre! Come-come!’ This last was snapped in Sharpwit’s direction as the warlock swept past him towards the Deadclaw tunnels. ‘Are lots-many nasty surprises hidden in my burrow. I teach the little warlord not to trifle with Fizqwik!’
‘Your burrow?’ Sharpwit asked, feeling his stomach drop. Of course, the warlock wanted to go to his burrow. ‘Hold-wait! Queek-Warlord should come here. Yes-yes! Show you are an important skaven of much distinction.’
The warlock paused. ‘You say Queek? The Headtaker is here?’
Sharpwit nodded eagerly. He knew from his dealings in Skavenblight that the threat of the Headtaker was worth a thousand warriors. The choking smog and metallic fumes did little to hide the clenching of the warlock’s musk glands at the name of the most notorious warlord in the Worlds Edge Mountains. Fizqwik shuffled in an agony of indecision. Appearing to arrive at a solution, he barked a summons into the smog and a junior warlock came running, a stunted creature with golden-brown fur and bright orange eyes.
‘Peekrit,’ Fizqwik ordered. ‘My weapon!’
The apprentice engineer bobbed acquiescence and scurried away into the din of the foundry.
‘Most smart and considered–’
‘Come-come, Old-thing!’
Surrendering to the sinking feeling, Sharpwit limped after the departing warlock. He shook his head in despair. Could these spoiled whelps not cooperate for just a little while?
The keen-eyed young warlock came running out of the smog at the head of a rabble of slaves, and pressed a long-barrelled musket into his master’s paws. The smooth walnut stock bulged with whirring accoutrements of brass and chrome. The engineer grinned cruelly as he took it, sliding open the flash pan and filing it with blackpowder, then stuffing a smooth warpstone bullet down the barrel. A puff of warpstone fume vented from a miniature chimney stack in the weapon’s side as it accepted the new load. Fizqwik bounced excitedly, the power in his paws and its heady warpstone emissions filling him with a bloodthirsty eagerness. He stroked the barrel.
‘I show fool-Queek why Clan Skryre is greatest of the clans!’ He squeaked a command to the slaves and they fell in around him.
The warlock marched into the teeming tunnels of Deadclaw, the skaven they passed swift to press their muzzles to the dirt. Fizqwik lapped up the adulation like spilt cream, acknowledging the fawning vermin with a triumphal gesture, pumping his bulbous warplock in both paws over his head as he walked.
‘Fizqwik!’ Sharpwit snapped, neglecting in his impatience to properly gild his words with flattery. ‘There are things you do not know.’
‘What does Fizqwik not know? I am the most skilful of warlocks. No mysteries to Fizqwik.’
Sharpwit nodded obligingly, cursing through clenched teeth the general ineptitude of the skaven race. Without pausing in their progress through the narrow tunnels and wide, scale-scraped caverns of Deadclaw, Sharpwit tried to explain that Queek Headtaker was the chosen leader of the Thirteen and then finally, his exasperation transparent, that Queek had claimed Fizqwik’s precious burrow as his own.
Fizqwik glowered. ‘They say Queek is a mad-thing. Must be true-talk. None other would take-steal from Fizqwik of Clan Skryre.’ The warlock glared angrily at Peekrit who quickly nodded.
‘Yes-yes,’ the young engineer nodded in eager agreement. ‘Fizqwik is the most famed and terrible of all warlocks.’
Sharpwit rolled his eye and muttered a silent curse.
The party turned from the main tunnel into an upward-sloping passageway. It was littered with metallic debris: springs, cogs and a splayed mess of copper wiring. It resembled a trail of corpses, bleeding and disembowelled, all of them victims of Queek’s disfavour. Fizqwik’s eyes widened as he took stock of the extent of Queek’s vandalism. The warlock’s lips pulled back over black gums, a low snarl rattling from his throat. He clutched his warplock musket to his aproned chest in a grip so tight that his claws screamed across the chrome panelling along the barrel.
‘Clan Mors will compensate me for this,’ Fizqwik hissed. ‘Queek’s head will not be enough.’
They proceeded through the wreckage of the warlock’s former belongings to the burrow’s entrance. The pile of junk was deeper here, a dragon’s treasure in platinum and palladium and copper and silver. Warpstone power cells glowed dimly, fading towards a slow death beneath the weight of rare and precious elements. Rising above the mound of dubious treasures like volcanic isles, a quintet of dusty elmwood barrels seemed quite innocuous. Beneath the layering of grime, Sharpwit could discern the markings of the klinkarhun carved into the wood.
He picked his way through the sharp and probably toxic mess to the nearest barrel. His claws traced the chiselled lettering, lips moving as he translated the dwarfish writing. ‘Grumbold’s…’ He paused, taking an involuntary step back. He took up his crutch and wedged its sharpened point under the lid. It was dwarfish design and the seal was good, but after a breath-stealing moment of effort he was able to lever the lid from the barrel and drink deep of the scent of hops. ‘Speckled Green-thing,’ he whispered with a touch of awe. He turned on Fizqwik. ‘Brewed in Azgal-Place. Unique. A gift to the kings of Azul-Place. Why did you steal this? Your job was to ready Deadclaw, not to steal from dwarf-things. They are not to know we are coming!’
The warlock clutched his musket defensively. ‘Fizqwik is too smart-clever. Dwarf-things too slow to follow here.’
‘Fizqwik is an imbecile! Dwarf-things are not stupid. And they always remember.’
‘Fizqwik is not an imbecile. Fizqwik is cunningest and most wise of warlocks. Everyone knows dwarf-things are slow of paw and thought. Now,’ he said, addressing Peekrit, ‘we show Queek-Warlord the cleverness of Clan Skryre.’ The warlock waited impatiently until it dawned on the young skaven that his master expected him to go first.
‘But surely,’ Peekrit whined, ‘you should make it certain-clear that you are not afraid.’
Fizqwik bared his fangs, jabbing his apprentice in the behind with the barrel of his loaded musket. Peekrit yelped and finally hurried ahead. Under Fizqwik’s baleful glare, the slaves streamed after him. The warlock turned on Sharpwit, gesturing down the burrow with his musket. Shooting the warlock an evil look, he did as he was directed.
Sharpwit found little comfort in the scent of so many fellow skaven. And it had little to do with one of them pointing a loaded warplock at his back. There was something disturbing about this tunnel. As if it were haunted. As if the Headtaker had somehow infected it with his madness.
‘Hurry-scurry,’ Fizqwik agitated from behind him. ‘The others get ahead.’
Sharpwit took a deep breath and threw his shoulder into his crutches to pick up his pace. He hobbled from the tunnel mouth into the cool dark of the warlord’s burrow. Almost immediately he gagged on the sour musk of fear. Peekrit and the slaves stared in horror at the brutal mess that the warlord, in his insane inspiration, had created. A reel of copper wire had been unwound along the ceiling from corner to corner. Severed paws, threaded through their palms, hung from the wire as morbid decoration. Sharpwit could smell their freshness. Blood still drizzled from their wrists. They had belonged to the slaves that had borne the Headtaker’s trophies from the City of Pillars. Those trophies stared down from the four corners of the room. There was an orc and a dwarf – the two races that Queek despised most of all – but also the skull, spine and ribcage of a skaven which lay draped across a stretch of shelving, and the pickled hands and feet of a human hanging by a cord from one end of the grisly wire. In any other place, Sharpwit might have mocked the way their attention made his skin crawl, but here, in this place, he felt them watching.
‘What is this?’ breathed Fizqwik.
Sharpwi
t limped forward. Something had caught his nose. Unnoticed beneath the bleeding madness that hung from the ceiling a shattered corpse lay forgotten. He caught a glimpse of black fur. He prodded it with the tip of his crutch. Unexpectedly, it gave a piteous moan and Sharpwit squealed in fright, tottering back towards Fizqwik. The warlock had still not noticed the body on the floor. His horrified gaze shot across the room from skull to skull.
‘Queek sees rats, yes-yes. Why are so many rats here?’
Sharpwit, Fizqwik, Peekrit and a dozen skavenslaves yelped in unison, each seeking to cower behind the other as Queek Headtaker emerged from one of the burrow’s secondary tunnels. Behind him, irrelevant in the warlord’s shadow, a large black-furred skaven scuttled, bent low under a stack of ratskin papers.
Ignoring the slaves, Queek fixed the three skaven in his sights one by one. He grinned manically as he held their stares. Sharpwit was last. He yearned to look away, but it felt like turning his back on an ambitious rival with a knife.
‘Queek hears so-so many voices.’ The warlord’s muzzle drifted to the room’s corners where his trophies waited and watched. Sharpwit felt their eyes like needles in his soul. ‘Why does Queek not hear your voices? Why in Queek’s burrow?’
‘Queek’s?’ Fizqwik squealed, resentment briefly overriding good sense. As soon as the words escaped he cowered back behind his slaves, emitting a shrill whine as Queek’s wild eyes tracked lazily towards his.
‘Tinker-rat squeak-talk?’
Fizqwik’s jaw worked soundlessly for a moment, finally managing a strangled squeak. ‘Queek’s… burrow… very… nice?’ Fizqwik paused to catch breath, hugging his musket to his chest. Nervously he cleared his throat, struggling to recover some dignity even as he wilted under Queek’s mad stare. ‘I came to… er… welcome-greet and… um…’