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Voices

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VOICES

by David Guymer

‘Mighty-great Queek,’ whined the voice. ‘Over-master asked you be wait-still.’

The warlord hissed angrily, writhing in his dilapidated throne like a viper. At last he settled, his legs hanging over the granite armrest, his long serpentine tail coiled like a noose around the tall dwarf-like form of the chair’s high back. Huffing with boredom, he arched his spine, stretching back and down and beyond the throne’s hard edge to collect the sword that lay amidst the shattered bones of conquest strewn about his warren. Idly, he bounced the flat of the blade against his nose.

‘Queek wait-wait,’ he grumbled, kicking his loose footpaws at imaginary foes, watching them bleed. He closed his eyes. He could almost taste the blood, almost hear the screams.

‘Grey seer come soon-soon, for certain-sure,’ reasoned the voice. ‘Best not anger grey-ones. Scary even for Queek, yes?’

‘Is that what they say?’ Queek snarled, his eyelids snapping violently open. ‘Is that what you squeak-talk when you think Queek not listen-hear? Well Queek always listen-hear, and Queek hate-hate grey seers!’

The speaker didn’t answer.

Wise, Queek thought.

Nudging himself upright onto his elbows he glared dead ahead to where, hunched beneath the low ceiling, loomed the near-complete skeleton of a troll. Queek stared at it for a long moment before shaking his head. No, it could not have been that. Boredom and paranoia were obviously making him crazy. The troll had no head, so how could he speak?

Not the troll then, so who? Which of these voices insisted on plaguing him?

His gaze washed over the four walls. From every direction, faces looked upon him, wide-eyed and open-mouthed. He basked in their chorus of approval, an awed susurrus that was always pleasing to his ears. They hung from great spikes driven into the earthen walls, and for every race that walked, crawled, or bled in this part of the world, there was a fragment of it on these walls. Here hung the tall, reedy skull of an elf, keeping company with a thick-browed orc. Over there, suspended above his entryway on a dozen spikes, mouldered the chitinous claw of a giant scorpion. Every single one of them had fallen by his paw and every one had earned their place on his wall. Still more miscellaneous scraps of bone littered the floor. Queek’s attention span was short, but nothing was thrown away.

His gaze lingered on the elf. Darthurian was his name, a ranger who had thought to delve into Queek’s dominion. Queek grinned, prodding his tongue with his blade until the sharp point summoned a bead of blood. He swallowed it greedily, the metallic taste taking him right back to the moment when it had been Darthurian’s blood welling in his mouth. The elf had been quicker than most – but not as fast as Queek.

‘Elf blood tasty-sweet like honey, yes-yes?’ He tittered as Darthurian glared silently, empty eyes void with rage. He sighed when the elf would still not answer. A pity. Darthurian normally had such a sharp tongue. ‘Too bad you have no little elf-friends,’ he continued. ‘Queek so bored without dwarf-thing or orc-thing to fight. If more elf-thing here too then maybe Queek have meat to kill.’ Wistfully, he licked at his paw with his bloody tongue, using the dampened claws to preen the hard black fur behind his ears, his eyes thoughtful and far away. ‘Queek hear-tells of whole island of elf-things. A magic place far over the sea.’

Darthurian remained defiant in his silence.

‘Yes-yes!’ Queek snapped, leaping from his throne in a sudden fit of energy. ‘Queek sail-go to elf-place. He conquer all elf-things and all will know the glory of Queek!’ He snarled at the obstinate elf, daring him to disagree.

‘But… what of grey seer?’

‘Hah!’ Queek squeaked, pressing his snout against Darthurian’s arrogant face. ‘Queek think-smell you not like-like. Queek kill all elf-things, then maybe Queek not speak to you any more. Maybe find better elf-thing, maybe you live on floor with others.’ His paw swept across the broken shards that littered the warren. Every so often, one of them shifted with the burrowing of the many rats that laired beneath the carpet of bone. ‘What you think of that?’

‘Is masterful plan, most cunning-wise of generals. Is just… no skaven ever go-seek elf-place. How we get there?’

‘How?’ shrieked Queek as he tore the skull of Darthurian from its mount. His eyes burned into its vacant orbs. White foam dripped from his fangs, coursing down Darthurian’s gaunt cheeks like tears as though the claws stabbing into his cranium caused him pain. ‘Queek sail. In boat. Stupid-slow elf-thing, Queek hate elf-thing!’

‘Elf-thing? I–’

With a shrill squeal, Queek flung the skull from his paw. It travelled barely a foot before shattering against the stone-carved dwarf face that glowered from the head of his throne, tiny white pieces of bone raining down onto the seat. From a standing leap, Queek sprung on to the throne, his claws gripping the grey rock back as his footpaws ground the delicately-boned Darthurian into powder. All the while, he whispered into his whiskers like a bitter chant. ‘Stupid-slow elf-thing…’

Movement from behind the throne made his eyes narrow. How long had that been lurking there? He squinted around the high back, his claws gouging ever deeper into the granite face as the shape came into focus. A word arose, surfacing from the red flood of madness. A name.

‘Ska,’ he whispered, uttering the name of his lieutenant.

In response, the huge, black-furred warrior bobbed his head low, his hunched shoulders and wrung paws contriving to make the otherwise imposing fangleader seem small. ‘Grey Seer Razzel be here soon-soon. Certain sure, he bring orders for fighting.’

Queek released his grip and jumped down, bone crunching beneath his footpaws. He played his feet through the mess of bones and skulls, enjoying the clacking and chattering of their unquiet voices. He brought up his paw as if seeing for the first time the sword that was held there, its serrated edge still wet with black blood.

Yes, he remembered, from the green-thing raid about an hour ago.

His heart sank. A whole hour.

‘Come-come,’ he said, sweeping past his terrified underling. ‘Fetch-find Queek’s armour, we find dwarf-meat to kill!’ The warlord thumped his chest, his mad eyes gleaming like fiery jewels. ‘Stupid-slow elf-thing, Queek wait for no rat, they wait on Queek!’

Ska’s lips twitched nervously. ‘Er, yes-yes, most perceptive of masters, stupid-slow elf-thing…’

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

It has been many long years since David Guymer first succumbed to the Curse of the Horned Rat. In that time, he has appeased his dark master by devoting his energies to the study of the plagues of mankind. By the hours of daylight he prods hopefully at bacterial strains until they bend to his diseased will, but with the coming of darkness he retreats to his burrow to write stories of magic and chaos as he plots the downfall of the surface-dwellers.

A BLACK LIBRARY PUBLICATION

Published in 2012 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd., Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK

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ISBN 978-0-85787-660-7

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