by David Guymer
Thordun pressed his face against the wall. Sounds filtered through the stonework, a rumble reminiscent of the dawn carts on the cobbles of Nuln, imbued by his imagination with the thunder of battle, the clamour of skaven steel on sturdy dwarfish shields. The battle was being fought many miles deep, far too great a distance, but it was being fought nonetheless, whether he heard it or not.
‘More haste, youngling,’ Rorrick pressed. ‘Others march to their doom and I’d like to find mine.’
Fastening the warhammer to his back, Thordun drew its much smaller cousin from his tool belt. His nails probed for cracks in the mortar between the stones.
‘Then let’s get this girl open.’
Sharpwit squealed and ducked beneath a falling stanchion. Deadclaw was coming apart around his ears. There were screams coming from everywhere, bodies darting between the supporting joists, the musky scent of terror all his nose would report. He snatched at the relative solidity of a bleached beam, risking a backward glance, and moaned in fright. Lame as he was, he could still outrun a dwarf, but the long traverse to Deadclaw had tired him. And the dwarfs were relentless. He scrambled along the beam, landing in a heap of weary bones, paws clasped to his racing heart. He gasped for breath. His chest felt filled with acid.
A series of cracks rent the air, amplified and magnified by the enclosed cavern into a thunder that Sharpwit felt convinced must bring the whole cavern down. He watched fearfully from his hiding place. Skaven swarmed the rat-runs that criss-crossed Deadclaw’s leaning towers. Some bore warplock jezzails, bulky barrels rested on crooked handrails or window ledges, maddened bodies jostling them, fangs clenched in concentration as they opened fire on the dwarfs below. Sharpwit’s heart beat against his back teeth. He counted the muzzle flashes, arriving at twice thirteen. An auspicious number. He shuffled around, wrapped his claws over the pathetic wooden barrier and drew himself up so his one working eye poked over its gnawed frame just as another volley rang out from above. The dwarfs advanced through the hail of warpstone shells as though it were merely that. Hail. The pinnacle of skaven weapons-craft bouncing harmlessly off impervious gromril hides.
The respite had not eased the tightening pain in his chest. In fact the sight of those murderous metal suits clanking ever closer did him little good at all. They were now so close that the terrified wails of his worthless brother skaven were drowned under the metallic pounding of their boots. Deciding that Deadclaw would probably manage just fine without him, he steadied himself against the support of the diagonal beam, tail looping to gather his crutches and deposit them in his paws.
He started from cover just as an axe bit into the tower at his back. Skaven wailed in terror as the ground lurched beneath them. Like ambitious ratkin, the giant platforms fell on the weakness of those below. The whole construct appeared to collapse in stages, tearing down the maze of gantries and rat-runs, shedding screeching bodies like black seed to the wind as they fell.
Sharpwit ran from the falling giant, glancing over his shoulder as the thing came down only for a furry corpse, malicious even in death, to catch his footpaw and send him sprawling. He hugged the body to his, rolling beneath it as a swarm of splinters cast out from the tower’s crushed foundations buzzed through the air, shredding the hide from the body right down to Sharpwit’s trembling paws. The whole world seemed enveloped by its howling, as though obliterated by a ravenous swarm of daemonic hornets. He coughed, his throat irritated by the dust, dreading to think what a mess it would make of his lungs. He gave a bloody cackle. As if it weren’t already too late for that. The dwarfs crunched through it all, undaunted by the warped wood crashing over their sealed helms.
Coughing blood, Sharpwit cast off the lacerated corpse. At least some skaven were now fighting back, but it was the last spiteful act of cornered beasts. The wretches went down under the axes of the dwarfs with the most pitiful of screams. Others battled for the dubious safety of the towers while those already in the surviving towers struggled desperately to get down.
A unit of spear-rats shuffled unwilling into the fray, goaded forward by a warlock engineer holding a pair of warplock pistols at their backs. The dwarfs tore into the reluctant ranks like the fist of vengeance. Rusted spear points sundered on starmetal plates, skaven throwing themselves on the dwarfs’ axes with knives and claws and a ferocity born of terror. They didn’t make a scratch. Fangs sprayed from a skaven jaw as it bit down on a gromril coif just as a wayward pistol shot blasted the clanrat’s brains over his unflustered victim. Squealing in panic, the engineer hurled his warplock into the melee and scampered for whatever dark hole he hoped to find before death could pursue.
The mass of rats had at least slowed the dwarfs down.
Good, Sharpwit thought, they bought him some time. Frantically he tried to think. It was no good simply running deeper into Deadclaw. That was exactly where the dwarfs would follow. He cast about for something familiar. The place was riddled with bolt-holes and forgotten tunnels. Could it really be that he couldn’t find one now, precisely when he needed one most?
Think!
He scurried through the mat of trampled skaven bodies to a confluence of alleyways. Furry bodies littered the crumbling streets, forcing Sharpwit to slow to keep from tripping again. Three towers loomed over him, swarming with terrified clanrats. The shrill note of their terror was only marginally more comforting than that of their kin dying beneath dwarfish axes. He recognised this place. He struggled to quell the urgency of flight and forced his brain to work. There was a way out here. Quickly, he scanned the three towers. One of them was constructed of old larch wood at the base. Red paint peeled off in the heat. It looked like it might have come from a boat, though the Horned Rat alone knew how it had come to rot so far beneath the Worlds Edge Mountains. That was it. He dived inside.
The interior was packed with musky skaven bodies, many of them in the copper plate and red robes of Clan Skryre. Within the anxious crowd, two score sweating clanrats were working, without great success, to force a large wooden crate into a tunnel. Those not directly involved in the work cast longing glances at the tunnel mouth that seduced with its promise of salvation. Sharpwit wondered who could be so obsessed with the contents of a box that they would risk their hide beneath the stampeding footpaws of their own minions.
‘Sharpwit!’ squeaked a shrill voice.
He scanned the crowded darkness. Every face looked alike to his dim sight, even scent rendered homogeneous by the cloud of fear. Movement caught his eye and he focused on it. A skaven hopped up and down on the roof of the crate, a whirring copper helm cupped around his ears, a gigantic warplock cradled in his paws. ‘Fizqwik,’ he called back. ‘It is great-good to find you.’ And he meant it. The more bodies between himself and those dwarfs the better.
Sharpwit struggled deeper into the press of bodies, taking small solace in the frightened warmth and familiar scents, but even the nervous chittering couldn’t deafen him to the crunch of splintered wood, the plaintive squeals of the trapped and the dying, the remorseless thump of dwarfish boots coming nearer, nearer.
Fizqwik screamed at his lackeys to hurry, aiming his warplock to make a bloody brain-blasted example of one. The clanrat cowered and redoubled his efforts. Sharpwit was glad, not that he overly cared for the Skryre clanrats, but there were few enough left as it was and, more pertinently, the dwarfs might have heard the shot. Queek had known this would happen, Sharpwit realised. Why else leave a rival with his power base intact? He couldn’t help but feel admiration for the base cunning. Mad he may be, but Queek was not stupid, there was no longer any doubt of that.
‘Dig around the edges, stupid-meat.’ This last was directed at the sweating clanrats, followed by a furious tirade of threats and abuse.
‘Nothing could be so precious, if you forgive this Old-thing. Think of the loss-harm to Skavendom if the great Fizqwik were killed in this unworthy place.’
Fizqwik spun around mid-expletive. His lips pulled up into a snarl and his paw slowly rose t
o his muzzle to adjust the dial on his green-lensed ocular. ‘You will see when it is ready,’ was the engineer’s cryptic response. Sharpwit shrank before the unyielding stare as the wheel clicked around. He wondered what it did. He fervently hoped it did nothing.
His mayfly mind distracted by more pressing concerns, Fizqwik spun around to lambast his lazy minions, bashing one tawny-furred clanrat between the ears with his weapon stock as it tried to dig. Realising that the warlock probably would rather they all perish than sacrifice his damnable box, Sharpwit limped to the wall. Lifting one crutch in both paws, he half thrust, half fell against it, levering it violently up and down to shake loose a clod of earth. As he did so, he imagined it was Fizqwik’s head coming off his shoulders, but he kept his head down just in case the warlock’s strange eye really could capture his murderous thoughts.
A moan of anguish passed through the gathered dwarfs as a familiar figure crunched over the wreckage of the Underdeep. Familiar, but now so very different, chest bare but for fresh tattoos, grey hair streaked with orange. They lowered their axes from their butcher’s work, and all eyes followed the path of the Slayer and those few that followed in his footsteps.
‘Dreng tromm,’ they cried, tearing off their helms and tugging savagely at their beards as they wept. ‘Dreng tromm.’
Handrik spared none of them a glance as he strode between them. He didn’t trust his composure that far. These were dwarfs he had known all their lives, taught them as youngsters to wield axe and shield, watched them grow into proud longbeards he was honoured to fight alongside. Even the sight of a skaven lair reduced to so much matchwood failed to lift his spirits. Shattered kindling lay in mountainous piles throughout the cavern, controlled fires blazing wherever the rotten heaps rose highest. A pair of miners, visible by their dark silhouette against the flames, shovelled skaven corpses onto a growing fire. The scent of roasted meat reached Handrik’s nostrils and he inhaled deeply, turning to face the dwarfs just as their captain burst through his grieving soldiers.
Lothgrim ripped free his helmet, hurling it down before he too followed it to the ground. ‘Why, Handrik? I’d hoped I heard wrong. This wasn’t necessary.’
‘Aye, it was. And I should’ve had the guts to do it long ago.’
‘Then we will fight with you!’ Lothgrim shouted, and the dwarfs chorused their approval. Ironbreakers, miners and engineers, dawi all, united in courage and honour.
Handrik waved down their appeals and turned to share a glance with those dwarfs that had followed him from the light of Karak Azul into this fallen place. The hermit, Gunngeir, offered an irreverent wink, uncaring for Handrik’s scowl, while the anonymous Slayer, a grim slab of grudgement by his side, afforded a grave nod. He craned his neck over the other shoulder to where Keldur and Narfi flanked a third dwarf, head down, cloaked and hooded in black robes of similar cut to Grimnir’s priest. But this dwarf was a fighter; that much alone was plain in his bearing, if nothing else. The two Hammerers stuck to him like wasps in mead and, though Handrik had been unable to pry the stranger’s name from their lips, he’d been assured that their friend had a greater grudge against the squatter king than any dwarf still living. That had been enough for Handrik.
Handrik bent painfully to offer Lothgrim his hand. The captain took it at the wrist and Handrik hauled him to his feet. ‘I’ll take any that volunteer,’ he barked, whipping up a finger to stifle Lothgrim’s immediate offer. ‘But none of your lot, lad. You’ve a duty down here, and I’ll not see the lot of you following me to Grimnir’s shrine.’
Lothgrim scowled but didn’t argue.
‘Who here remembers what happened fifteen years ago?’ Handrik roared.
There was a grumbled chorus of ‘Ayes’ from the gathered dwarfs. A few of the Ironbreakers shuffled and cursed.
‘Who here feels vengeance has waited far too long?’
The dwarfs growled, remembering blood-soaked halls, looted treasures, absent kinsdwarfs.
‘Who here wants a queen restored to her throne and to her king?’
‘Aye, I do!’ shouted a bleak-faced miner, face and beard choked in soot from feeding the funeral pyres. His expression remained one of rigid disgruntlement, even as his neighbours roared him on, slapping his back with approval.
‘With me then, lads!’ Handrik bellowed. ‘For the honour of Azul! And the tearing of a few shades of green off the squatter king!’ He thrust his axe high above his head, reflected flames finding their mirror in the hearts of the watching dwarfs, fuelling their hunger to inflict the same and more on their enemies. ‘Khazuk!’ he screamed, the ancient battle-cry of the dwarfs.
The throng erupted with the anger of the karag, fists and voices raised as one, braceleted wrists and eager blades ignited with shared fire. Their cries joined with his, shouting themselves hoarse with the long-resisted urge to vengeance.
‘Khazuk!’
They were few.
‘Khazuk!’
But they were dwarfs. Numbers had seldom been their friend.
‘Khazuk!’
Handrik felt their determination lift him, pain a bleak memory. It could be done. It would be done.
The dwarfs were coming.
Chapter Thirteen
Skiblit grinned broadly, dagger teeth pale white in the light of the single torch, and threw down his cards. Curses and groans passed round the circle of goblin faces as he reached forward to draw in the pile of beans and pebbles.
A sound like a coming storm filtered through the thick granite walls of the old stuntie watchtower. Even down here in the cellar, with its grey walls and warped barrels slimy with pale fungus, the big boss’s war band was impossible to avoid. He frowned, trying not to think about it. Safer all round that way really. He doubted anyone would miss him and his crew and he was perfectly happy keeping his head down and letting the whole thing blow over. There’d be plenty more than beans and pebbles lying around for the picking when the Red Fang tribe were through bashing heads.
‘It’s not fair,’ complained Leekey, crossing his knobbly arms about his chest in a huff. ‘You win every time.’
A loud clank sounded from the sewer grating behind Leekey’s back. Apart from Skiblit, who spared an annoyed looked over the cross-legged circle of his crew, nobody paid it any mind.
‘That’s ’coz I’m the chief.’
‘Yeah but–’
‘Are you sayin’ I’m cheatin’?’
‘No!’
Skiblit eyed the scrawny goblin, unconvinced. ‘Well, alright then. Another hand?’ He was answered by an unenthusiastic mumbling of assent. ‘Good.’ He snatched the cards from the others’ hands and shuffled them into the deck. The game was simpler when only one player was cheating.
‘Do you reckon they’re done fightin’ yet?’ asked Codgrub as a pile of cards appeared beneath his long nose. He swept them up and studied them nearsightedly, his nose hooking over the top as though hiding from his fish-faced ugliness.
‘Dunno,’ Skiblit muttered through gritted teeth, continuing to dole out cards with a particularly vicious toss in Codgrub’s direction.
‘I hear the big boss has everybody out,’ Codgrub persisted, as ever unable to let a thing go.
‘Shut up and play,’ said Skiblit.
‘Wakgob said he saw ratties, thousands of ’em. Said he saw the banner of…’ He paused, his audience captivated. Even Skiblit leant forward, mentally kicking himself all the same. ‘The Headtaker.’
A murmur of fear passed from mouth to mouth. Leekey trembled like an orphaned nutcracker chick, suddenly screaming his lumpy little face off as Codgrub stabbed his fingers under his armpits, shouted ‘Boo!’ and fell about laughing. Gumrot and Thiknut cackled in delight, singing ‘Headtaker’ and lobbing their precious beans.
‘Shut it, the lot o’ you, ’fore someone ’ears.’ Skiblit snarled. Judging from the smell, Leekey had just pissed himself. The name was earned. ‘Nuthin’ to worry about, Leekey.’ He shifted about to the sour-faced goblin that stood sentry
on the heavy oak door. ‘No one’s comin’ lookin’ for us, ain’t that right, Gumrot?’
Gumrot gave the bolt a disinterested rattle. It didn’t budge. ‘Prob’ly.’
Skiblit shot him an annoyed glare. That was likely as good as it got. ‘See,’ he said, turning back to Leekey.
‘I bet this Headtaker int all that anyway.’
‘Shut yer gob, Thiknut. Ain’t nobody asked you.’
‘Yeah,’ Codgrub nodded, as though Skiblit had just waved the red flag to pipe up. ‘Remember what he did to Boss Blacktooth? And after? Shoulda seen the state o’ the place when the ratties got shoved out. I was moppin’ that floor for a month.’
‘Heads,’ Leekey whimpered. ‘Heads everywhere. Starin’ at me…’
Skiblit leant forward and cuffed Codgrub across the ear. The smaller goblin yelped in surprise, rubbing the side of his head with a resentful look at his boss.
‘See what yer did? Yer set ’im off again. Ain’t our problem now is it? Besides, it ain’t Morglum Blacktooth he’s up against this time. Nah, he’s riled up the big boss ’isself. Let’s ’ang tough and see what Gorfang makes o’ the Headtaker, eh?’
‘Headtaker…’ Leekey murmured, rocking on his haunches.
Ignoring his cracked subordinate, Skiblit looked down at his cards, just as another deep clank sounded from the old iron grille. He looked up again, more than annoyed this time. The corroded bars sat within the walls like rotten teeth in a stumproot addict’s mouth, brown flecks peeling off the gums. The bang came again, a solid smash, tolling once and then shuddering to quiet like a struck shield.
How was a goblin supposed to concentrate with this racket?
‘It’s still goin’ on,’ Skiblit hinted, shoving at the arch of Leekey’s foot with his toes