by Guy Haley
‘But you have been here for fifty years, my lord. You are successful.’ Notrigar had never dreamed to see his lord and kin in such poor temper, or to confide in him in such an open and upsetting manner. He did not know quite what to say. Reassurance did not come naturally to a dwarf.
‘Right. Here I am in my glorious castle,’ Belegar said sarcastically. ‘I came here hoping to take it all back. I came hoping to look upon the far deeps, on the ancestor statues of the Abyss of Iron’s Dream. I dreamed of opening up the Ungdrin again, so that armies might freely march between my, Kazador’s and Thorgrim’s realms. I dreamed of reopening the mines, of filling the coffers of our clan with gold and jewels.’
They both became a little misty-eyed at this image.
‘But no. A few weapons hordes, a few treasure rooms and a lot of failure. We can’t even keep our master brewer safe,’ he said, referring to one of the more recent entries in Karak Eight Peaks’s Book of Grudges. ‘Six months since the damn furskins took Yorrik and I’ve not had a decent pint since.’
‘We have the will and the resolve, my–’
‘You’ve not read the reports, have you?’ said Belegar. ‘Not seen what the rangers are saying, or what those new-fangled machines of Brakki Barakarson are saying.’
‘The seismic indicators, my lord?’
‘Aye, that’s them. Scratchy needles. Thought it was all a lot of modern rubbish, to tell you the truth. But he’s been right more than he’s been wrong. There’s a lot going on underground, down in the lower deeps. Never did get very far on the way to the bottom. Grungni alone knows how many tunnels the thaggoraki have chiselled out down there. Gyrocopters coming in, telling me every inch of Mad Dog Pass is crawling with ogres, grobi and urk. No message from half the holds in months, no safe road out, and no safe road in. I’ll bet that little green kruti Skarsnik is out there right now too, standing on the parapets of Karag Zilfin looking over at us as we look over at him. It’s been that way for far too long. If it only weren’t for that little bloody…’ He trailed off into a guttural collection of strong dwarfish oaths. ‘One enemy,’ he said, holding up a finger. ‘I think I could have handled one. If it weren’t for him I’d have driven the grobi off years ago and cleared the skaven out of the top deeps. Trust me to get saddled with the sneakiest little green bozdok who ever walked the earth.’ He sighed, pursing his lips so that his beard and moustaches bristled. ‘And now it’s all gone quiet. Too bloody quiet. I’ll tell you what this silence is, Notrigar.’
‘What is it, my lord?’ said Notrigar, for Belegar was waiting to be prompted.
‘It’s the beginning of the end, that’s what it is. Or so those thaggoraki probably think.’
Notrigar looked around for help. The ironbreakers, hammerers and thunderers manning the ramparts were staring studiously off into the middle distance. He raised a hand, started to speak, then thought better of it. To Notrigar’s dismay, the king began to hiccup, his chest heaving.
‘My lord?’ said Notrigar. Oh Grungni, thought the thane, please don’t let him be… crying? Belegar’s shoulders heaved, and he turned away. Notrigar reached an uncertain hand out for his kinsman.
He leapt back as Belegar burst out laughing, a sound as sudden and surprising as an avalanche, and to the unnerved Notrigar, just as terrifying. The king’s mirth rolled out from the ramparts, wildly bellicose, as if it could retake Vala-Azrilungol all on its own.
‘That’s right, you green bozdoks! King Belegar is laughing at you, and you, you vicious thaggoraki! I am laughing at you too!’ he bellowed. His shout was blunted by the snow, the lack of echo unsettling to Notrigar, but Belegar did not care. The king wiped a tear of mirth from his eye, flicking it and a finger’s worth of snow crystals away from his moustache. He clapped his arm around his cousin, his face creased with a grim smile. ‘Oh don’t look so glum, lad. I’ve always been a sucker for a lost cause, me. We’ll show them, eh? We can hold out. We always have, keeping our heads down until more reinforcements come and the bloody fun can start all over again. They’ll never get through the fortifications we’re planning, no matter how many of the little furry grunkati come – there’ll be a trap for each and every one of them, eh, lad? Don’t worry, I haven’t gone zaki. You see, lad, you have to know what you’re fighting, and be certain you’re not underestimating it before you can crush it. Once you know what’s what, nothing is impossible, and you can shout your cries of victory right in the face of your enemy. Furry or green, or in our case both, it doesn’t matter, lad. This is the Eternal Realm. We’ll never fall.’
‘Yes, my lord.’ The other dwarfs were chuckling at their king’s good humour, laughing at Notrigar for not seeing the joke. Belegar’s arm was like a stone lintel on his shoulders. Notrigar had a sudden urge for an ale. A strong one.
‘That’s right!’ Belegar bawled, making Notrigar’s ears ring. ‘I’ll be ready for you, Skarsnik! Send everything you’ve got. It will never, ever be enough. Cheer up, Notrigar. Why,’ said Belegar, ‘I’m just beginning to enjoy meself.’
FOUR
The City of Pillars
The upper deeps of Karak Eight Peaks were heaving with warm fur. Every corner, every cranny, from the Trench at the very bottom to the Hall of a Thousand Pillars once inhabited by Skarsnik and his lackeys. The noise of so many ratmen’s squeaks and pattering feet close together merged into a sussuration so pervasive the very rocks seemed to be speaking with skaven voices.
Within the Hall of a Thousand Pillars, atop the pinnacle that had once housed the dwarf king’s throne, and for fifty years until recently that of Skarsnik, Queek inspected the first clawpack of the warhost of Clan Mors, and he was not happy about it.
Queek paced up and down as block after block after block of skaven marched out of the tunnels around the base of the soaring throne pinnacle, wove their way through the forest of pillars and went back out again, banners waving, their leaders proudly bringing up the rear.
‘How long this going to take? Queek bored,’ said Queek. ‘This boring!’
Thaxx Redclaw twitched his armoured neck, briefly exposing a patch of fur at his throat. He was the leader of the first clawpack, and appointed ruler of the City of Pillars in Queek’s absence. With such overlap between their roles, Thaxx felt especially vulnerable. ‘Great and deadly Queek, you are best and most perspicacious general! A cunning and mighty war-leader such as the incomparable Queek would want to inspect-smell troops?’ Thaxx nodded eagerly, inviting agreement. He received a cold stare.
‘There are many,’ added Warlord Skrikk, Queek’s supposed right claw. ‘How glorious for your gloriousness to feast nose and eye on such an army, all gathered solely for you, O great and deadly, violent Queek!’
‘Dull! Boring! Queek see hundreds of thousands of millions of skaven in his life,’ snapped Queek. ‘They all the same. Furry faces, pink noses. Some die, all die. There are always more. What need mighty Queek see all rat-faces?’
Thaxx snickered and bobbed his head, a poor attempt to hide his fear. The other clanlords atop the dais, out of Queek’s sight, backed away until they ran into Queek’s Red Guard and the massive body of Queek’s chief lieutenant, Ska Bloodtail. He stared down at them and shook his head.
‘But mighty Queek, O most cunning and stabby of all ratkin, how will stupid warrior-things know how to follow mighty Queek’s orders if glorious warlord is not there? See how their faces look upon your most awesome countenance with fear and, er, awe,’ said Thaxx.
‘You speak-squeak badly, Thaxx. Too long running this city without mighty Queek to keep you in your place. All things scared of Queek! Why is this useful for Queek to see-smell what he already knows?’
Skrikk and Thaxx glanced at each other.
‘There are questions of strategy and disposition, great fierce one,’ ventured Warlord Skrikk.
‘Oh? Oh? Strategy and disposition for Queek. Forgive ignorant Queek for asking, what use i
s there for you in this case?’ said Queek. ‘Gnawdwell say you Queek’s right claw.’ Queek narrowed his eyes. ‘Gnawdwell write-say “Take Skrikk! He your right claw!” Queek says he already has right claw. It good for holding Dwarf Gouger!’ He held up his paw and clenched it. ‘And Queek has Ska! Loyal, good Ska! So, Queek has two right claws. One for Dwarf Gouger, one for punching enemies. But Gnawdwell order Queek needs another right claw, so Queek obey. Queek think, maybe Skrikk good! Maybe Skrikk good for boring things, boring things that tire Queek and make him angry. Boring things like counting skaven clanrats.’ He leaned in close to the clanlords and twisted his head to regard them one at a time, causing them both to flinch. ‘But now Skrikk squeak-says, “Queek must think strategy!” What? Queek fight. Queek command. Queek does not count stupid-meat.’
Skrikk hunched over, looking sideways at Queek nervously.
‘Who Skrikk think he is? Queek does think strategy, stupid-meat. Queek greatest warlord there is! Queek think-scheme peerless battle plans. Queek the best strategist you will ever meet, weak-meat. You will see. But what does Queek need to know colours of every stupid-meat rat-flag for if he has Skrikk? Too much pointless knowing clouds Queek’s mind.’ He leaned back with a dangerous look in his eyes. He greatly relished the fear in Skrikk’s. ‘If Skrikk can’t count or Skrikk can’t see-smell clan banners and tell Queek how many rats, how many slaves, how many clan-things and Moulder-things left before Queek run out of battle-meat for victory, perhaps Queek not need Skrikk after all? Queek be very unhappy if Queek has to do all counting and scritch-scratching himself.’
‘O mighty one is correct!’ squeaked Skrikk, far more shrilly than he had intended. ‘Skrikk count. Skrikk has counted very well! I have noted all banners and numbers. See-read!’ He beckoned a slave bearing a pile of dwarf-skin scrolls forward. The warlords at least had the will to clench their musk glands, terrified of Queek as they were. But the slave shook uncontrollably, and the fear-stink was heavy on his fur. ‘See-look. Skrikk make all these himself. All is in order. I have everything written down so I know, mighty Queek. And what humble, unworthy Skrikk knows, most cunning Queek can know too! By asking! By asking!’ he added in a panic. ‘Of course you should not weary your piercing eyes reading such dull-tedious reports.’ He shooed the skavenslave away and bowed repeatedly.
Something big in the parade let out a long, mournful low. There were many Moulder-things in the army.
‘Battle-meat, battle-meat to get Queek close to the beard-things. Five thousand, ten thousand, one hundred thousand, it not matter to Queek,’ Queek muttered. He stared at the skaven tramping by and became suddenly still. He no longer saw the troops. In his mind, he watched images of past slaughter.
The others cringed, each subtly trying to be the rat at the back of the crowd, but not too close to the giant Ska. When Queek’s constant twitching stilled, someone usually died.
Queek clenched his fists and rounded on them all. ‘Bah! This place still stink-smell of goblin-thing. Queek hate it. Queek still smell Skarsnik-thing squatting on his throne.’ He pointed to where Skarsnik’s throne had once been. ‘It so strong, Queek see him!’ His quick red eyes darted about, taking in the goblin’s defacement of the giant statues lining the walls of the Hall of a Thousand Pillars. The goblins’ shanty had been cleared, but signs of the greenskins were everywhere. What wreckage had not already been scavenged was still piled along the walls. Every inch of the place stank of goblin. He longed to kill green-things. He stared at the great dwarf gates to the surface city, opening mechanisms improved with skaven engines by the tinker-rats. On the other side of the doors were thousands and thousands of greenskins. One word would open the gates and the relief of battle could be his. Somewhere out there was Skarsnik, and he hated Skarsnik more than anything else in the world. Killing dwarfs was business, but his feud with the green-thing king was personal. His muzzle quivered with temptation.
‘Gnawdwell’s orders, remember Gnawdwell’s orders!’ squeaked the voice of Ikit Scratch from his skeleton impaled upon Queek’s back. ‘Kill beard-things first, green-things later.’
‘Queek go now,’ he said quietly, ‘before he choke on Skarsnik stink. What new boring thing has Thaxx and Skrikk to show mighty Queek?’
They had more of the same to show him, but neither dared say. ‘To the fourth and fifth deeps, O wicked and savage Queek,’ said Thaxx, spreading his arms and bowing low. ‘To the second and third clawpacks, who await your merciless majesty with much fear and anticipation.’
‘Yes-yes,’ added Skrikk, not to be outdone. ‘They are rightwise awestruck.’ The three-week journey here from Skavenblight had been somewhat detrimental to his nerves, and he jumped every time he thought Thaxx bettered him in flattery.
Three days it took to see the next two clawpacks. Queek only stopped to eat – which he did savagely and messily – or to sleep, which he did in short, rapid-breathed bursts. The finest burrows were set aside for him, the best flesh-meat. He did not care.
Much to his annoyance, nobody tried to kill him. His legs spasmed with impatience when he lay down. His hands itched to hold Dwarf Gouger. Everyone around him feared his fury. Murder was imminent, they were sure. Each warlord and clan chief he greeted showed their necks and squeaked in most pitiable homage. Each one half expected to die. Thaxx and Skrikk had it worst by far, for they had to accompany Queek everywhere. They were both sure it was only a matter of time before Queek killed one or the other, and their attempts to outdo each other in their obsequiousness became more outrageous by the hour. Their wheedling only angered Queek more.
But no one did die. They could all see-smell Queek was bursting with the need to kill, but he raised a paw against no one.
‘Steady, steady,’ said the dead beard-thing Krug to Queek. ‘You muff this up, lad, and you’ll not be getting Gnawdwell’s potion.’
‘The beard-thing is correct, mad-thing,’ added Sleek Sharpwit’s annoying voice. ‘Be careful, or you will perish.’
Queek shot Sleek’s fleshless skull a murderous glare. ‘Do not call Queek mad-thing, dead Old-thing!’
‘Steady!’ said Krug. ‘Steady.’
‘Yes-yes,’ mumbled Queek, cradling the dwarf king’s skull to his chest one sleep. ‘Krug right, Krug wise! Time only enemy Queek cannot kill. Only Gnawdwell help with that.’
‘And so the mad-thing listens to the dead dwarf, but not to the wisdom of the living. You are a poor warlord, Queek, no match for me at my peak,’ said Sleek.
‘I alive, you dead. I better,’ said Queek acidly.
And so Queek set all his will to restraining his considerable temper, resolving to add Thaxx and Skrikk’s heads to his trophy rack in due course.
Clawpacks two and three were led by Skrak and Ikk Hackflay, ex-lieutenants from Queek’s Red Guard. These stormvermin were known to him, and respected by him as much as he could respect any skaven. They were braver than most, and Queek was almost civil to them, bringing much prestige to their names. For all his hatred of machination, he changed the status of skaven simply by looking at them wherever he went. This in turn upset alliances and friendships, led to back-stabbings and new pledge-bonds. His passage through the ancient dwarf city rippled outwards, rewriting the architecture of treachery and false promises that underpinned any skaven society.
He was aware of it, but tried his best not to think about it. It only made him angrier.
Clawpacks two and three were much like the first. The second bigger than the third, half of each made up of Clan Mors warriors, the rest a selection of scruffy rabble clans.
‘Queek not see-smell slaves. Where slaves?’ he demanded shortly after visiting the third clawpack.
‘This way, O most terrible one!’ said Thaxx.
They cut across the city in the fourth deep, emerging below the stone-pile the beard-things called Karag Rhyn, and the goblins White Fang. There were many long tubular caves deep below this mountain, e
ach carpeted with bones, some full to the ceiling with brittle skeletons. Queek looked repeatedly to the curved roof. Up there, somewhere, was Skarsnik. The imp had taken refuge in the northern range after finally, finally being chased out from the deeps. Queek sighed happily as he imagined gnawing his way up through the rock, to emerge in the imp-thing’s own room, where he would bite him to death. He tittered to himself, but his amusement turned to anger as the scenario’s impossibility rudely intruded. Queek’s tail flicked in agitation.
Laired in the bone caves were so many skavenslaves that Queek could not count them. He was dizzy on their scent. They shrank back into side tunnels at his approach, tripping over their chains to get out of his way, their eyes downcast.
‘There is many-many slave-meat?’ he asked, peering into a tunnel packed full of eyes glinting as they looked away.
Thaxx and Skrikk fought to be the one to deliver the information.
‘Over one hundred thousand, O lordly Queek!’ said Thaxx, cutting Skrikk dead. ‘We have bred them especially quickly, raising them in unprecedented time with black–’
‘Many are from Thaxx’s breeding pits, masterful Queek,’ butted in Skrikk. ‘He must be so proud, to make so many weak-meat for Queek. Poor, lowly Skrikk only provide clanrat warriors and stormvermin for Queek’s armies. Skrikk sorry!’
Thaxx scowled at his colleague. Skrikk returned a cocky smile.
‘Many weak-meat?’