by David Guymer
Kazador.
He stared into the flowing darkness. He could just make out the outline of the king. The winged helm made him obvious even to an eye as dim as Sharpwit’s, even in silhouette. The king was stooped and haggard, a reluctant avenger, a battle-weary titan.
Sharpwit turned to Fang Dao. The assassin was rigid, terror marshalled into poised readiness. Sharpwit grinned, warplight leaking from his fangs as he studied the assassin. He had just had the most delicious idea. Queek would not like it, but that was just going to be tough on Queek.
‘Come-come slow-meat,’ said Sharpwit, snapping his claws under the assassin’s nose. ‘Time we are away.’
Dao flinched as the battering ram crunched home once again. Its iron head gouged through the oak panelling. ‘There is another way out?’
The ram was dropped with a clatter, its place claimed by axes that vengefully chewed into the hole it had created. A quarrel sliced through it and took a gutter runner through the shoulder. The point-blank shot hoisted the skaven from the ground, footpaws scurrying as if to regain their footing, and slammed it into the body of a cannon. The skaven returned fire. A throwing knife opened the gullet of one of the axe-dwarfs. His body slumped through the sundered doorway, rapidly emptying his blood onto the skaven’s makeshift barricade until his comrades hauled him back and stubbornly filled his place.
Sharpwit stepped away from the firing platform and started towards the passage to the next battery in line. There were many more, a dozen at least, running several thousand tail-lengths around the circumference of a half-circle that jutted out from the Ninth Deep stair. He cackled despite the chaos. Much too far to service with only a single elevator platform. ‘There is always another way out.’
The skaven army lay in tatters. Licking its collective wounds, it skulked in shared misery in every dark alcove and hot, foul-smelling scrap of shadow in Deadclaw.
Queek stormed past quivering clanrats, kicking out at those too slow to move aside for his greatness. Even the dying found enough energy to drag their hides from his path. Even at the very precipice of death, skaven minds were sharp enough and would choose a lingering demise rather than a screaming end at the ravenous claws of the Headtaker’s wrath.
Queek growled inchoate rage. Defeat to a dwarf-thing? It was inconceivable.
Treachery, murmured Ikit Slash. Is the only possibility.
Yes. It surely had nothing to do with his forewarning of the dwarfs. Queek’s army was vast, and they were led by Queek the Undefeated. And he was still undefeated. This one didn’t count. Not when the fault clearly lay with the traitorous incompetence of jealous scheming underlings.
Why did he even trouble himself with such worthless ingrates ?
Azul-Place would be a cindered ruin by now, murmured Ikit Slash. If not for the feeble limits of lesser skaven, Kazador would be happy-safe with us on a spike of his own.
Yes, Queek agreed. It was all his worthless minions’ fault.
Skaven swarmed the narrows of Deadclaw, a thick soup of brown fur and russet rags. He fixed one in his sights; a wiry clanrat with a broken shield and a tarnished silver nose ring. He would be the first.
Go ahead, Krug encouraged. Kill them all.
The massed skaven, sensing the murder in his scent, scurried to flee his path. They clawed at the walls and they clawed at each other. Blood ran in rivers of catharsis as the bodies of the weak dropped to make way for the fleeing shapes of the strong. Queek breathed a deep sigh of satisfaction. Krug was right. He did feel better.
He bounded after them, the passage so dense with warriors that his footpaws never felt bare ground in his pursuit. He ran on a carpet of corpses. Crushed by their stampeding kin they lay three deep in places, forcing him into a four-legged scramble across the warmth of their matted fur.
His whiskers twitched at a subtle alteration in pressure, the minor lessening of staleness that bespoke the tunnel’s widening into a cavern ahead. War drums pounded and their echoes rebounded off the cavern walls, a pulsing thunder in his ears. Taking a firm grip on Dwarf Gouger, he pounced from the charnel passage. He landed on all fours, his maul gouging deeply into the trampled rock. The cavern was vast. Igneous rocks blasted into being in the forges of a younger and hotter world swirled white and brown in contorted patterns, trapped in the agonised throes of their creation. Driven by heat and pressure to ever greater extremes of self-preservation, skaven scampered for the relic lava tubes that led from the primeval chamber.
Even more skaven looked on in confusion, crammed around tinder-dry constructs of baked mud and wood. Faces seemed to swim together, coagulating into a synthesis like the coming together of living fluids from orc and dwarf and skaven. Was it the heat that contorted his vision so or did he suffer from some deeper ailment of the senses? Or was he really confronted by a monstrosity of a hundred petrified eyes and a thousand tearing claws? He stepped back, catching his breath at the sight of such horror. Shaking his muzzle, he blinked away the dreadful vision and the myriad faces settled into distinct shapes. He studied the maul in his paw, surprised to see it and to realise that it was as yet unbloodied, before rehousing it to its clasp on his thigh. The pounding in his ears died down, his recovering senses threatened instead by the shrill screams of the skaven multitudes still struggling for escape.
A number of the skaven already in the cavern attempted to join those who were in flight, but another, dark-furred and massive, restrained them with a snarl rich with the promise of what to expect should they disobey.
Now Queek remembered. He was come to confer with his chieftains. ‘Stupid dwarf-thing,’ he hissed at Krug’s leering skull. ‘Queek has no time to kill-kill all himself.’
The larger skaven broke from the group and jogged towards him.
Queek recognised him. At least he thought he did. But he was convinced he was dead. He recalled blood, murder, White-fur’s treachery, cannon, death roaring like thunder, squeals of agony and piety and terror, armour shards and ropey guts spilled like libations to the Horned Rat’s glory.
Could it be?
‘Ska?’ he hissed, trusting to this new visitation even less than he had to that of the thousand claws.
The hulking stormvermin was unarmoured and bare-chested, garbed in nothing but a ruddy skirt of mud-begrimed wool. His torso was girdled in a stinking wrap of yellow-brown bandages, knotted above the left shoulder and pressed tight over the collar and under the right arm. Skalm and other pungent ameliorators oozed from beneath their tight embrace, congealing amidst the skaven’s coarse fur. Queek’s whiskers recoiled from the thick cloud of menthol and eucalyptus incense that followed the giant fangleader like a malodorous avatar of healing.
‘Why are you here?’ Queek demanded, as Ska dropped his muzzle to an acceptable degree of prostration. ‘Why are you not killing dwarf-things where you are useful?’
Ska cringed, picking nervously at his bandaging. ‘Ska help-saved the great Queek. Do you not remember, most grateful of warlords? Ska was good.’
Now that he thought, he did remember something – a fight in a tunnel, a knife in the chest. A Clan Rictus thug squealing for a mercy he was never going to receive. He preened at the happy recollection, glancing up at his trophies for confirmation. It was no use, however. They had not been there. The memory summoned afresh the pain of Blacktooth’s absence. It reminded him as surely as the orc-thing’s own voice of what he was here for.
‘No. Ska is not good. Stupid-lazy Ska let traitor-meats steal Queek’s victory. It is all Ska’s fault!’
‘It is not his fault,’ another voice insisted. Queek glared up at his trophies, convinced it had been Krug again, but the voice went on, accompanied by the tinkling of discordant chimes. ‘The Great Horned Rat punishes you for your lack of faith. Defeat at the hands of simple-meat dwarf-things is warning from him that you lack his favour. Perhaps you should humble yourself before him by passing leadership to one more worthy, say, his prophet, hmmm?’
Grey Seer Razzel leant forward on h
is staff, the warpstone effigy of the Dark Under-Father glaring balefully from his wutroth throne. Bells and amulets cascaded from the seer’s horns, jangling discordantly as he moved.
Queek met the sorcerer’s stare. ‘You say it was the Horned Rat that robbed Queek of glory? Queek kill-kill!’
Razzel gaped. ‘What? No!’
‘Yes-yes,’ Queek hissed, eyes burning with a fervour that dwelt in the dark corners left abandoned by piety. He looked from face to face over the assembled ratkin, the leaders of Deadclaw and the strongest of Clan Mors. Where he looked, muzzles dropped and shoulders sagged in supplication.
Only Razzel dared meet him eye to eye and even the grey seer trembled to control the clenching of his glands. ‘Your impiety corrupts us all, and I suffer it only so long.’
Ska stepped in front of his warlord, blocking the sorcerer’s line of sight. He flexed his muscles menacingly and dropped his muzzle in a warning snarl.
Razzel bared his teeth. ‘Apparently I saved your life.’ He shook his horns in mock dismay. ‘Is this how you show gratitude for the Horned One’s clemency?’
Queek eyed the sorcerer warily, keeping the bulk of Ska Bloodtail firmly between himself and danger. He was not so consumed by his own glory that he would risk a blast of warp lightning from a deranged grey seer.
‘You warned the dwarf-things. That is how they were ready for us. I want you to admit before the Horned Rat and all who listen. Admit you did this just so that Queek could try his paw at Kazador-King.’
‘Lies,’ Queek hissed. He turned to address the onlookers. The skaven were huddled well clear, uncertain who to fear more, the mad warlord or the wild-eyed scorcerer-priest. ‘It is not Queek that does this thing. It is Stikslash, White-fur’s own rat.’
Razzel threw up his paws in exasperation. ‘He is mute, you idiot fool. And he was dead.’
‘Is true, he confides in Queek.’
‘Queek-Warlord is mad!’ Razzel shrieked at the top of his lungs, pointing an accusing finger across the charged gulf between them. ‘He listens to dead-things.’
‘Fool-fool White-fur wrong. Queek not hear-listen dead-things.’ He shoved Ska aside to stand before the grey seer unguarded, arms spread invitingly. His voice dropped to a growl. ‘Dead-things listen-hear Queek.’
Razzel gripped his staff in both paws. The idol at its crown began to glow as the sorcerer’s eyes turned dark. Winds unfelt by those who stood by played an evil melody on his unholy chimes. ‘Maybe they squeak-talk more sense when you are together-joined in the Horned One’s damnation, hmmm?’
Where is Fizqwik? Ikit Slash urgently interrupted.
‘Tinker-rat?’ Queek asked.
‘What do you squeak-say now, Mad-Queek? You think a Clan Skryre cog-botherer can save you from me?’ Power flared, a black gift from the bottomless soul of the Horned Rat that erupted about the seer’s ankles, tugging at his robes and blazing from the effigy atop his staff like a beacon of blackness sent from some hell to presage the night.
Queek ignored it.
Where was Tinker-rat? All his other most annoying underlings were present: White-fur, Bloodtail, even Old-thing. The aged skaven had arrived late and exhausted, skulking at the back in the hope that nobody would notice him in the company of a black-cloaked skaven that could only be a hireling from Clan Eshin. He ignored them too. Where was Tinker-rat?
The traitor, Ikit hissed. He tremble-hides from the omnipotence of Queek.
‘Yes-yes!’ Queek yelled, louder even than the grey seer’s sorcerous summoning. ‘Tinker-rat betrays us and now, knowing Queek knows, he hide-cowers from his mighty warlord.’
There was a chittering among the gathered chieftains as they confirmed that the warlock was not present. A look of confusion crossed Razzel’s face. The aurora of power sputtered but was not extinguished. ‘And just how did he betray us?’
But Queek was no longer listening. He spun away, raging at his swaying trophies, and at Ska, for not spotting such flagrant treachery sooner.
‘Come-come, fool-Ska. We teach the punishment for traitor-meat.’
The gathered chieftains blinked unbelievingly, like whelps emerging from their burrows into the light. Razzel himself stood in a state of utter perplexity. He watched as Queek disappeared into one of the lava tubes, still struggling through his mind’s version of what had just transpired as the last dregs of aetheric power fled his paws to the winds of change.
‘What…?’
‘Great Prophet Razzel,’ spoke a voice from behind his back. The tone was submissive, humble, but the seer spun nevertheless, his staff raised in preparedness to brain anyone foolhardy enough to sneak up behind the chosen of the Horned One.
Sharpwit cringed, cradling his muzzle in his paws. ‘I change my mind. Razzel, the most auspicious of apostles, is a far worthier beneficiary of the Council’s favour than stupid-mad Queek-Warlord.’
‘You are too late,’ Razzel snapped. ‘We have not the numbers to threaten Azul-Place now and we will never smell opportunity like we just had.’
‘You forget the bulk of Queek’s horde is still in the City of Pillars, untouched. For once, his foolishness works for us.’ He leaned closer, lowering his voice to a whisper that the other skaven nearby could not hear. ‘And we still have an opportunity. The dwarf-things are already beaten. They just don’t know.’
‘How?’
Sharpwit paused, shooting a suspicious glance at the curious clawleaders. He shared a look with the lurking shape of Fang Dao. ‘Not here, most prudent one. I know a place where none can disturb us. We will speak there of victory.’
Chapter Nine
The grim statuary of the Third Deep cast long shadows, flickering like those of a haunted forest by moonlight. The guttering torchlight illuminated luxurious tapestries. They depicted epic battles between dwarf and elf, scenes of triumph from the War of Vengeance. The wan light rendered such fabulous scenes humble and the rich fabrics, picked out in silver filigree and gold brocade, austere. The sound of Thordun’s boots on the cold slabs returned to him threefold. More than once he glanced over his shoulder, convinced he was being followed. It likely didn’t help that he walked halls he shouldn’t but, for him, a locked door had always proven a temptation too great.
He bent to examine the inscription on a statue. The light quivered, straining his eyes and dappling the delicate carving with shadow. Cursing, he removed one of the flaming brands from its sconce. The nearness of its heat brought a dampness to his forehead and infused his sweating beard with the smoky scent of burning cedar. He lowered the torch to better make out the words.
Kazgar. King of Karak Azul.
This was Kazador’s father. The statue was greater than life size, slightly taller than a man and of correspondingly magnified girth. His features were stern, cold. Thordun could see the resemblance.
Burning torch in hand, he picked his way further down the passageway. At first the crackling flame at his ear was a welcome distraction from the soulless echoes of his own footfalls, but the spectre of his own imaginings made him nervous. His backward glances redoubled in urgency and his pace quickened.
He cursed himself for a fool, helpless before a sealed treasure as a moth to a flame. Could he not pass his final nights in the place of his father’s birth without finding trouble? To him, the compulsion was akin to gold fever, that peculiarly dwarfish malady that could render insensible the most staid of longbeards, and his fingers had worked of their own accord. He had expected the king’s chambers to be blessed with doughtier locks, but that did not lessen the pride he felt in their breaking.
He suspected this was how his father had felt as he entered Kazador’s treasury all those years ago; the wild pulse of danger, the thrill of accomplishment. Would the old dwarf be proud of Thordun now? Did he look on with a drunken glow from the warmth of the Ancestors’ Hall? Thordun frowned. It was one matter to pledge a thing, quite another to ascertain whether it had been accomplished.
He paused in his reverie. He could have
sworn he had heard something. In the city, he might have mistaken it for a gust of wind or a distant bird. But here, in the heart of the mountain? He pressed an ear to the wall. It seemed to shudder and moan, as if the stone itself were in pain.
Suddenly a scream tore through the silence of the passage. Thordun leapt from the wall. His heart thumped, pulse pounding at his temples like a madman against the walls of his gaol cell. He stepped back warily, watching the wall as though expecting it to come to life. The scream sounded again, this time breaking into a laugh of such unrepentant mania that Thordun felt unmanned simply to hear it. It came in short barks, each wilder and more disturbing than the last, ringing from every statue and column as though it truly was the madness of the mountain he heard.
As abruptly as it had begun, the laughter ceased, leaving Thordun alone but for his own breaths. With an effort he gathered himself, calming his heaving chest and willing his heart to follow suit. He edged further on, uncertain why he desired to know what or who it was that suffered so, except perhaps to dispel the frightful visions conjured in his own mind: nightmares of wraiths and daemons and the restless spirits of dishonoured dawi denied the succour of the Ancestors’ Hall.
He heard weeping now, deep ragged sobs that bespoke an anguish so deep it didn’t care who knew, or know who cared. The fact that none did but a dwarf who trod where he should not made it only more tragic. After a time the weeping ceased, bitten off by a brutish, almost orcish, howl of fury and the crunch of splintered wood that repeated over and over until its wooden component disappeared altogether and all that remained was naked rage and a thumping reminiscent of bloodied fists on bare rock. Distracted by the pain of that hidden soul, Thordun had unconsciously traversed the passage to its end when the sobbing ceased. His palms brushed solid rock.
He leapt back, startled, as the wall shuddered, something heavy smashing as if from the other side. A secret door. His fingers twitched for his tools as though they were the master and his conscious mind the appendage. Taking a slender copper rod and a small mallet from his tool belt, he pressed his beard to the rune-hidden doorway and set to work.