by David Guymer
Bernard growled, raising his knee to plant his boot against the wall. The second Hammerer winced. He ignored it, withdrawing a set of three throwing knives and adding them to the pile.
‘Are you happy now?’
The guard smiled grimly and stepped aside.
‘Happy? This is Karak Azul.’
‘No-no,’ Sharpwit insisted. ‘Man-thing is not there to kill-kill. Kazador is the mightiest of dwarf-things. It would take a warrior of Queek’s unrivalled deadliness to defeat him.’
Queek preened. ‘And Kazador will say, “Here is Queek, see-smell his greatness,“ and all skaven will tremble like Old-thing.’
Sharpwit clamped his jaw to keep his fangs from chattering. He was a proud skaven, his accomplishments were legion, but there was something about Queek that terrified him, made him want to cast aside his crutches and limp back to Skavenblight to throw himself on Clanlord Gnawdwell’s merciless sympathy. Anything but spend another moment in the company of the Headtaker.
‘Long ago, Kazador built a trap for himself, a cage of promises and words. The man-thing is the bait that will see the dwarf-king step inside it.’
Queek sat back, thoughtfully scratching blood from his ear. Mad as he was, no skaven could resist a victory achieved by cunning. It appealed to the superior ratkin intellect.
‘Then how? What could a simple man-thing say to bring down Azul-Place?’
Sharpwit grinned. His fangs pulsed dully. ‘A most clever question, oh wise warlord.’
Bernard marched into the Throne Hall, flanked on each side by an expressionless Hammerer garbed in gleaming helmet and mail. Gigantic statues loomed majestic. More than once his steps faltered, and he was forced to drag back his gaze to focus on the task of placing one foot before the other. The limestone flags were strewn with the pelts of mountain lions and bears. Bernard stepped over them where possible, unsure whether doing otherwise might be seen as disrespectful.
If the vestibule had been a sight to inspire reverence, the Throne Hall itself was fit for the abode of a god. And well-deserving of his own place among that pantheon of ancestors was Kazador himself. His great iron throne was the focus of the room, the point upon which the assembled deities of stone directed their notice. It stood tall upon a marble dais, its hard edges in stark contrast to the opulence that surrounded it. Kazador was a fitting resident for such a grim piece of furniture. His brow was harder than the iron upon which he sat, his expression darker than the lightless deeps.
Two iron grips on each shoulder stopped Bernard just shy of the dais and he lowered himself to his knees without reservation. This was not a lord of the perfumed kind to which he was accustomed. Here was a king who would tear the limbs from an orc and bludgeon it to death with them. His mouth felt suddenly dry, the words he had practised over and over firmly in the grip of some stubborn corner of his mind.
The Hammerer to his left cleared his throat pointedly.
‘Do you come for some purpose, human?’ Kazador asked.
Bernard licked his lips.
Kazador looked down from his dais. His thin circlet glinted dully in the torchlight, but Bernard found his avarice drawn by the thick golden bracers clasped about the dwarf-king’s massive forearms. Together, they must have weighed as much as a small child. One last payday. That’s what Splitter had promised, but the dwarf had lurched from one change of plan to the next. Mercenary work was for younger men, and he would get what he was owed.
‘Yes, your… er… majesty,’ he began. His voice broke, intimidated by the vastness of the hall and its mighty king.
He closed his eyes and tried to recall exactly what the shrivelled old ratman had said. The wizened creature had snuck up on him as he’d left Thordun’s chamber to relieve himself behind a statue. He recalled the stench of it, like half-decayed meat and stale piss. He’d expected to die, had felt the stream of spreading warmth down his thigh as he’d prepared for it, but instead of a knife in the back the ratman had given him something almost too good to be true: the riches of Karak Azul. And all he had to do was attend the Throne Hall and present himself with an offer to the king. The ratman had been insistent about that last part, made him repeat its instructions word for word.
‘Yes, your majesty,’ he continued with renewed confidence. Soon all this would be his, and people like Kazador would be kneeling before him. ‘I offer my services to journey to the Black Crag and retrieve your long lost kin…’
‘What care has Queek for litter-mates of Kazador?’ Queek asked after a tortuous period of thought. ‘If Queek had litter-brothers lost, he would not want them back.’ He tittered at a sudden thought but said no more, seemingly content to keep the joke between himself and whatever passing madness had his ear.
‘Dwarf-things care for such things,’ said Sharpwit, ‘and the king pledges half his wealth to any that save his blood-kin.’ In actual fact, only a dwarf could claim a half. For a human the offer was a mere third, but Sharpwit saw no purpose in belabouring the point. Queek’s simple mind would only be confused by details. ‘None are better than skaven for finding lost things, and Kazador will deal with the man-thing where he would not with us. But we will find his blood-kin and we will take his gold.’
‘This not destroy dwarf forges as Council wants. And what use has Queek for silly-soft gold-metal?’
Sharpwit bashed his forehead against his crutches despairingly. Now Queek cared about the dwarf-things’ weapons! ‘Azul-Place will be impoverished and most terrifying Queek will be enriched. Think-dream what can be done with such fortune. There are lots-many ways to bring a dwarf-place to its knees.’
‘It won’t work.’
Sharpwit squealed at the unexpected voice from behind. He twisted on the spot and quailed before the monstrous bulk of Ska Bloodtail. The fangleader, frighteningly close to a full recovery, lounged against a wall. He wore a grubby scarlet loincloth and his black fur blended almost seamlessly into the dry earth wall. The scent of death was so pervasive that he had not even detected the presence of another. Sharpwit glanced back at the madly grinning warlord, an inkling of respect and a healthy dose of renewed suspicion colouring his monochromatic worldview. Was this deliberate, the blood, the heads, the decaying corpses strewn over every surface? Was it possible the Headtaker merely played the mad-thing to disarm and disorient? Surely, Queek was not nearly so cunning. Nevertheless, the thought bothered him, the niggling fear that he had somehow been tricked without really knowing why or how.
‘The dwarf-king abandons hirelings to chase litter-brothers himself,’ Ska said. ‘He will not gnaw at your bone.’
The oaf spoke with a measure of satisfaction of which Sharpwit did not approve. Perhaps he needed reminding just who it was he owed his worthless life to. He hissed warningly at the giant warrior and turned back to Queek. ‘Ska is not well-versed in dwarf-thing ways. He is not sent by the Council to advise on such things.’ He fingered the sacred seal of the Thirteen within the pocket of his jerkin, drawing assurance from its touch. ‘With his forces depleted by the mighty Queek, Kazador will be desperate. He will not suspect the man-thing come to exploit him in his grief. He will say yes-yes.’
Sharpwit shrank from Queek’s stare. The warlord’s eyes, soulless as blood-red stars, seemed to swell to fill his world. He floundered in the depths of madness within. He found himself counting off the heartbeats to the moment’s relief when the mad-thing would blink. But he did not. He simply stared and Sharpwit wilted still further.
Say yes, Sharpwit prayed. For once, see sense and say yes.
‘And Thordun Locksplitter,’ said Kazador. ‘Does he intend to join this quest?’
‘Splitter?’ Bernard laughed. ‘No, he’s far too excited by his voyage to the Everpeak. But I’ve not forgotten what I was dragged across the Worlds Edge for.’
His laughter echoed back to him. The king regarded him soberly, his Hammerer guard wearing expressions of profound disapproval. He cleared his throat and cast his eyes down at the dense rug under his knees.
‘Very well. You come with the good word of one of our own, and since the throng of Karak Azul requires yet more time to muster…’ Kazador shifted in his throne, positioning himself to better address the azure-robed scribe who stood hunched over a weighty ledger that, even lying open, rose above the marble lectern to the height of the dwarf’s fat red nose. ‘Loga… forgive me, Boric, please make the following entry in the record.’
The scribe grunted but did not look up. He scribbled away furiously, chewing determinedly on his lower lip as sweat beaded the craggy furrows of his brow.
‘Let it be recorded that Bernard Servat, friend of the dwarfs, is granted permission to venture into Black Crag, the protectorate of Karak Azul. Should he return,’ and here, Kazador hesitated only briefly before continuing, even his grey stone mask unable to conceal how highly he rated such hopes, ‘then the reward of one third of my treasury shall be owed to him…’
Queek seemed to consider for an inordinate length of time. Sharpwit watched him anxiously, his tail whipping to and fro of its own will as it was always in the habit of doing when he was nervous. He could almost hear the wheels grinding within the warlord’s strange and upsetting mind.
‘Very well, Old-thing. We do this your way.’
‘W-we do? Really?’
‘Yes-yes, is a good plan.’ Queek leant forward menacingly. ‘Old-thing thinks Queek not recognise good plans when he smells one?’
‘Of course not, most devious of despots! This humble slave-thing simply did not realise how good-good was his plan. But if Queek thinks so then it must be true.’
‘Is that so?’ Queek snickered, leaving Sharpwit once again with the disconcerting sense that he was only the second cleverest skaven in this warren. It was not a feeling to which he was accustomed. ‘Ska, rouse these lazy-meats for marching on Black Crag. I want gone now.’
‘Your army?’ spluttered Sharpwit. ‘You misunderstand my plan.’
‘Do I now?’
Sharpwit hesitated. He suppressed a shiver at the not-so-latent hunger in the warlord’s eyes, the challenge and the promise they threatened. He scrunched his eye tight and sought to remind himself why he was here. He was the chosen of Clanlord Gnawdwell, his favoured agent when wits and cunning were favoured over idiot brawn, the one whose experience and knowledge of the dwarf-things surpassed that of any skaven. His paw tightened around the Council’s seal and he withdrew it from his pocket, clutching it to his breast.
‘You do,’ he said and immediately flinched from the expected blow. From wherever it came. But neither Queek nor Ska had moved. ‘Queek’s army will do no better than lumbering dwarf-meat. We have Clan Eshin adepts in your pay. Send Fang Dao, most perspicacious of potentates, let him sneak-sneak as assassin-things do best. He find-brings what we need. Azul-Place will still need to fall,’ he continued in his most reasonable tone. ‘Queek will still have his chance at the great Kazador.’
Sharpwit offered his unguarded throat nervously. He desperately needed to cough, an unbearable tickle like ants crawling from his lungs. He fought down his old body’s failings, knowing that to show weakness now would mean death. Still Queek offered nothing. The warlord lifted his muzzle to peer over Sharpwit’s shoulder. He felt the powerful shape behind him shift.
‘Does Old-thing not squeak-tell the rest?’
‘The rest?’
‘Old-thing brain filled with worms, Queek thinks. Ska, tell him the rest.’
‘Kazador-King offers a bigger prize,’ Ska said. ‘Kill Gorfang orc-meat and claim choice-pick of dwarf-thing treasures.’
‘Imagine not knowing that.’ Queek shook his gore-slickened muzzle sadly. ‘Queek will demand Kazador’s head!
He not care for other dwarf-thing treasures.’
Somehow, Sharpwit doubted that even a dwarf would feel compelled to surrender his own head in payment of a debt. As much as he undoubtedly did treasure it, it seemed a rather loose interpretation of Kazador’s promise. Not that he intended to share such doubts with Queek. Instead, he endeavoured to prostrate himself still further but, even in the prime of youth, there were limits to the contortions the skaven body could achieve. How did Ska know so much anyway? He was a cretin! Wasn’t he?
‘I did not mention it, most terrifying of tyrants, as Eshin-things obviously can do that too.’
‘No,’ Queek snarled. ‘Big-meat is mine. This will teach him to consort with Queek’s enemies. To send his warriors to Skarsnik while Queek’s back is turned.’ He looked across to Ska, who nodded.
‘So squeak my spies, great warlord. Weakening Belegar’s allies in Azul-Place helps Skarsnik as much as us, and we are not there to take-steal the advantage. Sources say that orc-things showing the red fang joined with Skarsnik to attack the City of Pillars just after we left and take-grab many dwarf-thing places too.’
‘Yes-yes,’ Queek murmured absently. ‘Skarsnik is a tricky one.’
Sharpwit bit his tongue. It did not take the finest mind in Skavendom to sense that disagreement on this point would be a deeply stupid move. ‘But what of Kazador?’ he suggested, hoping to coax the warlord back to the course of sanity.
‘Queek will have Big-meat’s head,’ Queek insisted. ‘He will sit on Blacktooth’s spike. With him gone, Ikit and Krug do nothing but argue.’ Queek bared his fangs and snarled in the direction of the dwarf skull. ‘It drives Queek crazy.’
‘What of Deadclaw? Gnawdwell will be most unhappy if you abandon it.’
Queek dismissed the concern with a wave of his paw. ‘Give-leave to Tinker-rat. That idiot-meat deserves his hot-stink hole.’
Sharpwit lifted his chin from the floor and eyed afresh the volume of blood that clung to the warlord’s hide. ‘Fizqwik still lives?’
Queek considered the question. Looking down, he seemed to see the blood for the first time. He slowly rotated his paws as though enthralled by every bloody hair.
‘Queek thinks so. Forge place had so many, is hard to know.’
Sharpwit limped purposefully from the warlord’s burrow. Finally free, he crumpled to his knees and hacked up blood-flecked phlegm. His chest calmed and the waves of pain gradually subsided. He drew in grateful breaths, his lungs crackling like ancient parchment. The air was hot and heavy with lizard musk. How he hated it here.
‘You are late,’ said Razzel.
‘I know I am!’ Sharpwit spat back. ‘Is hardly my fault, that ridiculous mad-thing…’
‘Did he agree to our plan? Do we move-go as we decided?’
Sharpwit glared malevolently at the grey seer. Resigned to receiving no aid from a brother skaven, he clawed his crutches into the tinder-dry earth and levered himself upright. He noisily cleared a wad of bloody tissue from the back of his throat and spat it out. When did the grey seer decide to claim Sharpwit’s cunning scheme as theirs? At what point would he decide that it was his? Much as he would gladly let Razzel handle such audiences with Queek in future, somehow he saw the only outcome to that being Razzel’s head on a spike. He shuddered. And then who knew what truths the grey seer might whisper into his new master’s ear. He consoled himself with the certainty that even Queek would one day outlive his usefulness and Gnawdwell would not be unduly moved by his passing. Like all of the Council of Thirteen, Gnawdwell was practically immortal, imbued with life by the will of the Horned One for as long as he deemed fit. Queek was not the clanlord’s first favourite, and he would not be the last.
‘What did Queek say?’ asked Razzel.
‘There is a change of plan. Come-come, we must hurry.’
Bernard left the Throne Hall behind him, his face plastered with an enormous grin. Everything was going exactly as the ratman had said it would.
He recalled the fables his grandmother had told him when he’d been a boy in Brionne. The old woman had been tough as cured leather and had loved terrifying her eldest grandson witless with stories of the mythical underfolk… or not so mythical, as he had since learned. He recalled one tale in particular, about a Prince Karsten of Wa
ldenhof, who petitioned the underfolk to destroy his enemies. True to their deal, the underfolk brought down the impregnable walls of Castle Siegried and slaughtered its people to the last wailing babe. The underfolk returned to Waldenhof for their payment only for the prince, flushed with success, to refuse them their due. The ratmen retreated to their Underworld, leaving Waldenhof for a time at peace, only to return one month later by the full light of the witch moon to steal away every child as payment in kind.
His grandmother had oft promised she would offer him to the underfolk, but perhaps the tale was not fanciful after all. Real or not, he’d not make the same mistake. If he played right by this old ratman, he felt certain it would honour their deal.
‘You look improperly pleased, manling.’
A particularly old and timeworn dwarf stood in his way. Long hair, grey as weathered stone, swept over his massive shoulders to fall against an impressive beard. What impressed Bernard most about it was the wealth of golden beads through which it had been braided. He had seen this dwarf before, he knew, but all these longbeards looked very much alike.
‘Is there some reason I should not? Must I be as grim as everyone here?’
‘Mind your tone, manling.’
Bernard had never minded anything, and he wasn’t about to start now, not flushed as he was with the vision of wealth and glory that was now close enough to be almost tangible. ‘Maybe you should be the one showing some respect. I’m the one who will get your lost dwarfs back from Black Crag.’ He laughed drily. ‘Maybe that’ll cheer you all up.’
‘I doubt that.’
‘No, I suspect you secretly enjoy being so damned joyless.’
‘I was speaking of returning our kinsdwarfs. It’s been tried before, by stout-hearted dwarfs and by better men than you.’
Bernard leered down at the sullen ancient, so noble, so bloody superior. ‘I’m late, greybeard, and you’re in my way.’ He shouldered his way past, turning briefly to snipe back. ‘So I reckon we’ll just see, won’t we?’
Handrik’s eyes narrowed suspiciously as he watched him leave. ‘Aye, manling. That we will.’