This is a dark age, a bloody age, an age of daemons and of sorcery. It is an age of battle and death, and of the world’s ending. Amidst all of the fire, flame and fury it is a time, too, of mighty heroes, of bold deeds and great courage.

At the heart of the Old World sprawls the Empire, the largest and most powerful of the human realms. Known for its engineers, sorcerers, traders and soldiers, it isa land of great mountains, mighty rivers, dark forestsand vast cities. And from his throne in Altdorf reignsthe Emperor Karl Franz, sacred descendant of thefounder of these lands, Sigmar, and wielder of his magical warhammer.

But these are far from civilised times. Across the length and breadth of the Old World, from the knightly palaces of Bretonnia to ice-bound Kislev in the far north, come rumblings of war. In the towering Worlds Edge Mountains, the orc tribes are gathering for another assault. Bandits and renegades harry the wild southern lands ofthe Border Princes. There are rumours of rat-things, the skaven, emerging from the sewers and swamps across the land. And from the northern wildernesses there is the ever-present threat of Chaos, of daemons and beastmen corrupted by the foul powers of the Dark Gods. As the time of battle draws ever nearer, the Empire needs heroes like never before.

Prologue

It had been a good trap.

Despite the simplicity of its conception – which was only to be expected from simple minds – it had not lacked a certain ham-fisted elegance in its execution, and now the grand Feasting Hall of Karak Azul was transformed into an arena of death. Blood slicked the roughly worked basalt tiles like warm mead. Trophies of war and peace had been torn from their wall mounts and lay strewn about. Some were spattered with blood, ancient weapons and wooden plaques still embedded in the shattered skulls of the dwarfs they had slain. Others lay chipped and broken, battered by orcish hands into the carved reliefs that ringed the hall until they all fell shattered about the dead.

The screams of dying dwarfs mingled with the cries of their vengeful kin, those few still battling to be heard above the animalistic grunts of the encircling orcs. The struggling torchlight threw the brutish warriors in and out of darkness and cast skeletal shadows of the upturned and sundered remains of wooden furnishings onto the carved walls. From those same walls looked back the broken faces of grim ancestors, patterned with wavering stripes of dark and light like the strokes of a lash.

‘For Kazrik!’ bawled one of the dwarfs, crushing an orc skull with a swing of his improvised weapon, a wooden pin more suited to rolling pastry than battling greenskins. ‘For Karak Azul!’ he cried again, as an orc scimitar impaled him through his unarmoured, flour-dusted chest.

The dwindling circle of dwarfs tightened still further, as hard and resolute as rocks before the remorselessly rising green tide. The orcs bellowed with bellicose joy, every grunt and shout edged with their impatience to hurl themselves against the faltering dwarfs. Those in the front ranks laughed as they threw themselves into the fray. They continued to grin, even as repurposed kitchen knives and blacksmiths’ hammers stove in heads and ribs and hacked limbs from powerfully muscled bodies, all while those caught behind hollered and roared, desperate for their turn. The din rang through the vast hall, circling the one-sided contest like a jackal, harrying at the scrap of shadow that clung to the extinguished torches of the north wall.

It was as if it could smell the skaven that trembled there.

Sleek watched the bloodletting, his upper lip twitching with every fractured bone and bloodied hammer. The scent of death was appalling and heady: spilled blood and warm meat, voided bowels and sweat. His tail swept the basalt flags of its own accord as it was wont to do when he was anxious. And, by the cruel grace of the Horned Rat, was he anxious!

The stupidity of these dwarfs!

He stamped his paw, trying to funnel his helpless panic towards anger, claws scraping pale tracks in the dark rock.

It was common knowledge that the dwarf-things were a race of limited intelligence, possessed of a rudimentary cunning perhaps, a base instinct with metals and stone, but lacking true intellect, and here was the proof of it. No skaven would ever have been duped by such a blatant ploy. He had wisely hidden himself at the first scent of the green-things. He had watched as they dragged in kettle drums made from beaten breastplates before setting about them with bronze-headed mallets and a bestial enthusiasm to create an unholy din from which his ears were yet to recover.

He didn’t know what the dwarfs had been thinking, or whether thoughts had ever intruded into their flat, stubby heads, but in they had charged with scarcely a weapon between them. They had even had the temerity to look surprised as a horde of green-things spilled from behind pillars and vandalised statues to smash into their rear.

Yes, he thought bitterly, it had been a good trap.

Another dwarf fell, turning a graceless pirouette as a black-fletched arrow ripped through his leather skullcap.

Sleek shuffled anxiously on the spot, torn between the desire to flee and the need to hide. Why couldn’t the selfish dwarf-things just hurry up and die, and then the green-things would move on? They were beaten. He knew it. They knew it, yet on they fought, as though their own lives meant nothing. Sleek knew this was yet more evidence of the turgid thinking of the dwarfs, their inability to feel such decent skaven emotions as fear or its drive to honest self-interest. He knew this, yet part of him couldn’t help but admire them for their stalwart refusal to panic and die as they should.

A particularly barbaric roar assaulted his still-tender ears, followed by the metallic crunch of a dwarf breastplate crumpling beneath an orc mace.

Sleek winced. Time to move.

‘Hurry-scurry, quick-quick,’ he squeaked, comforted by the sound of his own voice as he sidled along the length of wall. Sleek pressed close to the wall, as if by proximity and effort alone he might force his way into the mortar and between the hard dark stones. His wet snout misted the stone with each panicked breath, a visual reminder, if any were needed, of the heart that pounded within his chest. It raced a little faster as he spotted the bulging cloth sack that lay undisturbed at the edge of the battle.

Good. He would not want to survive the green-things, only to return to the City of Pillars without the warlord’s treasures.

The sack lay unattended in the middle of the floor, exactly where he had dropped it in his fright. He sniffed nervously at the battle that raged around it. He would have felt better about reaching out to lay his paws on the Chaos moon. Gripping hold of the wall with both trembling paws behind him, Sleek sank to the floor, lying flat on his back and stretching out a leg towards the bag, but it was just out of reach. His snaking tail strained to coil itself about the shoulder strap but to no avail.

Thwarted, he scrambled back against the wall. He stared longingly at the heavy sack, willing it closer. Sleek started as the nearest green-thing received a crossbow bolt between the eyes. He gave a short scream, ducking from cover as the orc-thing’s heavy body crashed against the wall where he had just been, squealing again as he looked beyond its fallen bulk at the bloody-bearded dwarf sighting right for him down the track of his crossbow. His claws skittered horrifyingly loudly on the hard floor as he scurried through the fray to his treasure’s side. He heaved the sack over his shoulders, swaying unsteadily under the sudden weight. Nose twitching in the thick fug, he glanced about, but the dwarf he had spotted had disappeared into the riot of bodies and nobody else seemed to be paying any attention to the dark-furred skulker in their midst. He risked a nervous titter.

He had always been a lucky rat.

Keeping on all fours, he scrambled for the great colonnaded hallway he had arrived by. The entry was not far, he could see it behind the hulking shoulders of the crazed orc-things. He paid no heed to stealth now, escape was his only desire, the taste of freedom like nectar on his whiskers. Heart in his mouth, Sleek abandoned the charnel chamber at a sprint. Closing his eyes, he fled the hall as though a pack of howling daemons were on his tail. Broken columns and vandalised statues passed in a blur. Screams pursued him as if they blamed him personally, their death cries seeming to issue from the very walls themselves.

Throughout Karak Azul, the dwarf-things were dying.

He scrambled to a halt at a junction marked by a towering stature of a dwarf-thing queen. Frantically, Sleek commanded his memory into some kind of order.

Left at the breeder-thing.

He stared at the statue. Was this the one he had passed? It looked different; its sceptre was missing, its eyes crudely gouged from an impassive face, its limestone crown riddled with holes.

Curse these orc-things. They are like children. They can leave nothing alone!

Still cursing he hurried left, on down a widening corridor. The statuary was becoming larger and ever more ornate, sculpted from finer rock with eyes picked out in precious stones and very real rune-encrusted axes in their stony grips. Sleek cringed impulsively, feeling the weight of their combined stares on his back. Instinctively, he gravitated towards one wing of the passage, weaving between the giant pillar-like legs of the colossal statues as he ran.

He scampered towards a doorway. Like everything else here, it was vast, towering upward in reach of a ceiling he could not even see. The gate was ajar and firelight flickered intermittently on the other side, throwing wavering shafts of light that grasped at the marble flags like a tortured soul. Foam flecking his lips from exhaustion and terror, he crashed bodily into the wooden frame. His claws scrambled at the reassuringly solid thing as he wheezed. Pressing his muzzle close, he smelt red paint and rich pine, his claws seeking solace in the strong bands of iron that crossed it.

The door shook with a violent tremor and Sleek squealed softly. He didn’t even want to be warlord of Eight Peaks. It was a foolish ambition. He just wanted to go home. He’d even give the warlord all of the treasure instead of keeping the best for himself.

He recoiled from a sudden uproar as the chamber beyond erupted with brutish snorts and cries, a hundred orcs or more howling in approval and stamping their heavy feet into the stone floor. Sleek sank to the floor with paws clutched to his ears as the din grew impossibly louder. The orcs were working themselves into some kind of frenzy, brutal cheers working their way through coarse, animal throats accompanied by the pounding of weapons on shields.

A single dwarf screamed, the sound of his agony rising above the din like a struck bell pealing above an angry crowd.

Unable to resist a look, Sleek poked his snout around the gate, blinking in the sudden glare. The vision that greeted him almost made him choke and he jerked back. The afterglow left purple stars swimming before his eyes. Numbly, he blinked them away as his heart, unheeded, threatened to leap from his throat and skitter across the floor.

No way out that way.

‘Away-run!’

Without a backward glance, he hurtled back the way he had come, trying not to think of what he had seen. Hulking orcs in thick black armour with weeping red fangs daubed in blood. A throne and… Sleek shook the vision from his head. The very memory made his paws quiver and his pace unsteady. The image returned. He couldn’t help himself. It had been, quite simply, the largest orc he had ever seen, and easily the most terrifying. The monster had had his back to him, fixated on the throne and whatever broken dwarf-thing he had glimpsed upon it. Another scream sounded. It echoed through the cavernous passage as the giant beings of stone took up the call as their own. Sleek picked up his pace. Flattening his ears against the rising screams, he hastened on, returning at last to the ruined breeder-thing.

That left only one way.

He took the last passage that was open to him, hoping against hope that his luck still held and that it might lead him to a way out.

He accelerated into a terrified gallop, not noticing until far too late the pale, worm-like thing that snaked out from behind one of the massive grey pillars. It wrapped around his ankle and, with a deft tug, yanked his flying feet from the ground. He fell heavily, his pack tearing open as his snout ploughed into the ground, haemorrhaging coins and jewels and the looted treasures of Karak Azul as he skidded and rolled across the flags. His back slammed into a pillar, forcing a moan of pain.

Dizzily, he sat upright, clutching his empty pack to his ribs like a salve. His vision swam, coalescing around a leering brown-furred face, a rusted dirk held perilously close to Sleek’s throat.

‘Sneaky-Sleek. Thought you lost-dead.’

‘Fast-quick you run-flee from orc-things, Tiklisp. You make a terrible-poor sentry-rat.’

Tiklisp looked unrepentant. ‘You know the old saying. The rat who runs away…’

‘Calm-still, Tiklisp,’ squeaked another voice. ‘Warlord say-squeak no kill-kill. Dwarf-things not to know we come-steal.’

Fangleader Ratklett stole from the shadows with a paranoid gait, freezing and looking over his shoulder with every distant scream.

‘Warlord not need know. Think-think. More reward for us, yes?’

‘No-no!’ hissed Ratklett, planting a heavy, black-furred paw on the slighter skaven’s shoulder and dragging him firmly back. ‘Warlord says no kill-kill.’

Tiklisp bared his fangs in annoyance, toying with the dagger in his paws before evidently realising the foolishness of challenging two skaven twice his size. He lowered the knife and treated Ratklett to his most contrite expression before turning to grovel at Sleek’s feet. ‘Tiklisp did not mean for Sleek to get lost. Tiklisp simply try-make a distraction for scary orc-things. Lucky Sleek-sneak always Tiklisp’s favourite.’

Sleek growled, too anxious even for the flattery of his lessers to soothe his nerves. He shoved the whining ratman off him and hauled himself to his feet. ‘Just help-help gather gold-treasure, or I tell-squeak the warlord that coward-meat Tiklisp lost it.’

The wiry skaven leapt to obey. Even Ratklett momentarily dropped his guard to help gather dwarfish riches in his paws and speed them on their way. In no time, Sleek’s pack was bulging once again and the three of them were padding through desolate hallways. The screams came infrequently now, ringing hollowly from distant halls. Sleek hoped this was a good sign. Articles of clothing lay where they had been dropped, ledgers sat open in creeping puddles of ink, bowls of steaming broth rested untouched on abandoned trestles.

The dwarfs had rushed to the defence of their kin. They had dropped everything to go to their deaths.

Sleek looked about nervously. Karak Azul was a veritable labyrinth and he was assuredly lost. Only the confidence of Ratklett reassured him as the larger skaven hurried down the darkened corridor, tapping his claws periodically against the walls while silently counting off paw-steps under his breath. Sleek suffered a pang of searing jealousy. Ratklett was always much deeper in the warlord’s confidence. It was so unfair, particularly when Sleek was evidently the more loyal and trustworthy skaven. Yet another reason why he deserved to be warlord.

Ratklett paused at a section of wall, pressing his ear against the stone as he tapped out a fractured melody with his claws. A smug look lit up his eyes as he felt around the stretch of wall. Evidently finding what he sought, Ratklett slammed his fist into the wall, and the block beneath his paw depressed. There was a mechanical whir and Sleek jolted back as the whole section of wall suddenly recessed. A grinding of ancient gears followed as the secret door rose unsteadily up into the wall.

Sleek breathed deeply of the stale air that gusted from the opening.

Home.

He glanced at Ratklett, who glared back, challenging, ‘You first-first.’

He bobbed his head, indicating subservience, and turned to Tiklisp, shoving him in ahead. Sleek followed as Ratklett claimed the place of honour at the rear. Sleek sensed Ratklett hanging back, striking the wall with a different routine to bring the door crashing back down.

The passage angled downward into the heart of the mountain. The darkness was absolute, not even a glimmer of illumination escaping the seals of the door to Karak Azul. Sleek followed Tiklisp’s colour-bleached outline as the smaller skaven scurried ahead. These tunnels were unfamiliar, and the dwarfish a klinkarhun markings that were carved with a precise regularity into the stone walls were of no use whatsoever to one who could not read them.

The dwarfs had abandoned this tunnel long ago; that much was plain. It was unfinished, and he knew that no dwarf-thing would ever leave their works in such disrepair. No matter. The rock beneath Karak Azul was a veritable ant’s nest of tunnel-ways, not to mention the ancient dragon caves that sprawled even deeper still. They all connected somewhere, if a skaven was clever enough to find his way. Somewhere down here was the trail to Black Crag, and then home.

Already, Sleek found himself breathing more easily.

‘Tiklisp. Hold-wait.’

The brown-furred clanrat turned and then gasped, looking down in mute surprise at a dwarfish short sword buried in his chest, angular runes pulsing with a baleful blue light in time to the skaven’s fading heartbeat. He looked up, his mouth working frantically to frame words. ‘But, the warlord says–’

Sleek twisted the hilt, enjoying the lesser rat’s piteous moans. ‘We are not in Azul-Place any more.’

Tiklisp pawed weakly at the ensorcelled blade until his arms went limp. The body slid from Sleek’s sword with a satisfyingly wet note.

He bent down to collect the small skaven’s bag of loot. It was smaller and lighter than his own, and he could easily carry both. He turned to watch Ratklett’s approach, careful to conceal the stolen dwarfish weapon. The fangleader would undoubtedly demand it for himself if he should see it, and Sleek was going to need it if he truly wished to become warlord someday.

The larger skaven looked as though he would protest Tiklisp’s killing, but in the end he merely shrugged. ‘More-more for us,’ said the fangleader, echoing the unlamented Tiklisp’s earlier sentiments.

Sleek nodded excitedly, turning to hurry on his way. Passages branched off to left and right, both rising upward and sinking down. At each junction he paused briefly and sniffed, ignoring some, scampering down others, deep instinct and distant ratkin spoor drawing him ever further into the earth. Behind him, like a shadow in the dark, Ratklett said nothing. Sleek was thankful for the heavy pack across his shoulders that shielded him from a blade in the back. Nevertheless, he felt his fur itch, the mound of treasure piled atop his shoulders rattling invitingly before Ratklett’s following eyes like a red rag to an Estalian bull.

He just needed a little longer. And then everything would be different. The Eight Peaks would have a mighty warlord, and generations of whelps would be taught to fear the name Sleek.

His eyes roved the blackness, gleaming red pinpricks unravelling the shadow as though it were day. These were familiar tunnels again. They had come this way. He searched the ground in a panic. What if some green-thing had found it? It would be so typical of them to have stumbled upon it with their magpie eyes and moved it and…

And there it was, nestling in the loose earth where he had left it like a golden egg.

‘Wait-stop,’ he squeaked, waving to Ratklett to slow as he stooped to pick the object from the ground.

‘What is it? What do you find-smell? Give-give. Ratklett is leader, I get the good-best to give the warlord.’

Sleek tried to hide his pleasure as he thumbed the sliding switch in the object’s side before planting it in his superior’s paw.

Irritably, Ratklett brushed his subordinate’s paw from his and raised the object to his snout. It was a brass orb, smooth and perfectly spherical, seeming to twist in his paw as interlocking cogs whirred in opposing directions. Curious, he gave the device a shake. It gave off a faint, tantalising whisper of warpstone, and it seemed to be ticking.

He lowered his paw, glancing up to witness the rapidly receding shape of Sleek’s back, his waving tail offering an un-fond farewell.

He looked back down as the ticking stopped. It was the last he saw before reality screamed apart in his paws and the world turned black.

Let it be known to all that on this day the blackest of marks is made against the squatter king of Black Crag. By the most heinous of urk treachery did he breach the forgotten ways of Karak Azul to perpetrate the most egregious of crimes against King Kazador and the dawi of the Iron Peak. No oaths, no deeds, no acts of vengeance shall ever efface this shame. The king does brood, night and day, refusing both ale and rest, to the point where one less vigorous must surely wither. Even the rune-sealment of the last of those lost tunnels by Handrik Hallgakrin, captain of his Ironbreakers, summoned naught but outright prohibition of celebration until these wounds were repaid in the black blood of the urk.

The king does seal himself from his subjects and will not speak on such matters, but the Grudge price must be set and so it shall be.

For the desecration of the Third Deep: one thousand urk heads.

For the lost lives of two hundred and thirteen dawi in defiance of such barbarism: two thousand urk heads.

For the abduction of Queen Morga, the lustre of Azul, and those others of King Kazador’s blood: their safe return with five thousand urk heads, or the restoration of their remains to the Ancestor Chambers of Karak Azul and no fewer than six thousand of the greenskin dead.

Of Kazador’s son, the king does forbid our speaking beyond the pages of the kron. The prince is no longer of sound mind and the king does command his confinement until he can be found recovered. Let it be known that that for the brutal shaming of brave Prince Kazrik upon the very seat of the Iron Throne itself, King Kazador will accept no price. May this grudge against the urk of Black Crag stand forevermore.

The greatly wronged king did then rouse from his grief to issue one mighty decree: half his wealth to any that returns his lost kin, and the pick of his own treasures to any that can avenge his son’s torture upon the squatter king. The thanes did each raise voice against so rash and unprecedented an oath, but the king, so mined of passion that even the wealth of Karak Azul could afford him no joy, was resolute.

Thus is it recorded, and by Grimnir let it soon be done.

– The Karak Azul Book of Grudges
By Logan, Loremaster of Karak Azul, on behalf of King Kazador

Chapter One

Sharpwit was annoyed, and growing more so by the moment. He doubted the dolt knew who he was, but that just incensed him all the more. He should know. All skaven should. He fixed the mouse-faced functionary with his most intimidating stare.

‘What do you mean-say he is not here? He was sent messages every day since our leaving Skavenblight. He knows full well to meet-greet at this place at this time.’ To his increasing irritation the wiry, brown-furred skaven merely shrugged, betraying an infuriating lack of humility towards his betters.

All around him, skaven pushed and jostled, filling the hall to overflowing with scrambling, biting, backstabbing bodies, their susurrant chittering an ocean of noise. This was one of the busiest routes in the entirety of the Underway, that vast tangled nest of tunnels that festered within the crust of the world. At its heart were the ancient routes of the dwarfs’ Ungdrin road, but since that race’s fall it had spread far and wide like an organic, cancerous thing. No skaven truly knew how many lairs and warrens could be reached by the Underway, for new routes opened every day while old ones – and some not so old – collapsed with equal regularity. Sharpwit would not mourn the countless lives snuffed out every moment in such incidents but, gazing upward at the monolithic pillars and vaulted ceiling that stood as sturdy today as they had seven thousand years ago, he was thankful that his life was currently in the hands of good dwarfish engineering.

Taking a tight hold on the splintered grip of his crutches, he wove his head from side to side, striving for a good look at the damnable skaven, but the pest kept dodging away from his sole remaining eye. Sharpwit had long since resigned himself to losing what little sight he had left and the creature was blurrily lost in shadow. No matter. He would recall the creature’s scent and exact the most satisfying of reprisals at his leisure. He sighed, breaking into a fit of coughing that spattered the back of his balding paw with flecks of blood and gobbets of mysterious fleshy tissue. When the fit passed he flicked out his tongue to reclaim the lost flesh from his fur.

Squeaking a muffled curse at the indolence of all skaven, he buried his paws in the pockets of his jerkin. A stunning azure trimmed with scarlet and black brocade, it was cut from the finest fabrics of dwarf and elf and human design and amended to skaven needs by the most talented slaves in Skavenblight. That alone should have alerted this dullard to his rank, but evidently Clan Mors bred them for brawn over brains these days. His ferreting paws settled on the object he sought. If the idiot would not respond to threats, he would respond to this!

He withdrew the pendant and displayed it smugly to the skaven guard. It was a jet black disc with twelve claw-scratch symbols set into the outer circumference. Each denoted one of the mighty Lords of Decay and at its centre, shaped from ruby, was the thirteenth symbol, that of the Horned Rat himself. It symbolised the Council’s authority and should have had simple-minded cretins like this one begging to learn how they might please him. Instead, the skaven licked his lips with unchecked avarice, glancing shiftily at his companions in the rickety guard shack, the sole purpose of which seemed to be to extort outrageously inflated excise on the endless stream of traffic headed into the City of Pillars.

Sharpwit felt their eyes on him, assessing his worth. He noticed a shift in the skaven around him as ratkin who had been trying to look inconspicuous admiring the architecture took full advantage of the guards’ distraction to make a break for the tunnels beyond their shack. The excise-rats squeaked threats and scrambled after them, the whole system descending into anarchy as those skaven more cautious still swarmed the gaps left by the busy tariff-takers. The brown-furred excise-rat ignored the snarling riot at his back as though it were all in a day’s work, which it likely was, and shuffled closer to Sharpwit.

Sharpwit’s heart thudded arrhythmically. He knew what he looked like: a haggard hunchback with one eye gouged from his face amidst a mess of scar tissue, the other clouded with cataracts. He limped with the aid of a pair of worm-eaten crutches and had barely enough brittle, bleached fur on his withered frame to clothe the skinniest of whelps. He was old, but he was still an agent of the Council of Thirteen. He was their chosen. He bore their mark.

Young skaven today, he thought disdainfully.

He lashed out with one crutch, catching the guard a crunching blow to the kneecap. The skaven squealed in agony and toppled to the earth at Sharpwit’s paws. Hobbling closer to the mewling ratman, he allowed his full weight to be borne by one crutch, using the other to stab vindictively at the guard’s shattered knee. Weeping with pain and contrition, the skaven tried to roll away, to shield his knee with his body, but Sharpwit would not let him, maintaining the pressure and forcing the penitent skaven’s knee into the ground. The guard howled, begging mercy, his cries working like magic to open an expanding hole in the otherwise unbroken press of dodging and hurrying bodies.

From the corner of his eye he scanned for the other excise-rats, in case any fool should consider coming to their comrade’s aid, but they were nowhere to be seen. They had blended so successfully into the continually flowing masses of furry bodies that it was almost as if they had never been.

He grinned cruelly, illuminating his face in the shadow-light of the warpstone prostheses that stabbed from his diseased gums, rising like menhirs above the blackened ruins he could not yet afford to replace. The injured rat jabbered unintelligible remorse, quailing like a man-thing child stolen from its mother. Good. That would be one more worthless rat taught to respect his elders.

‘Tell-squeak again where Queek is.’

Queek gripped the haft of Dwarf Gouger tightly as the weapon smashed home. The impact thumped up his arm, a beautiful electricity that sent sparks of delirium flying through his mind. He watched the dwarf’s eyes go dark and savoured the moment. He squealed his triumph and wrenched back, heavy gauntlets of warpstone and scarlet steel grinding around the grip of the spiked maul that had embedded in the dwarf’s helm. His biceps strained, muscles rippling beneath coarse black fur. The dwarf rose partway off the ground, feet dangling, arms flapping like the wings of some overweight flightless bird before the gore-slickened spike at last came free. The lifeless body crashed to the ground between his footpaws.

It was so beautiful.

A scream dragged him from his reverie.

Another dwarf fell, guts drooling over the blade of a halberd. He snarled at the unwanted interruption, hissing at a stormvermin as the dark-furred warrior tugged his weapon loose. The stormvermin slunk back and Queek glared after him. For an instant of confusion he forgot where he was, reality reasserting itself in a riot of colours and sounds; screams, blood, shattered armour, the scavenged, russet-dyed livery of his warriors as they ducked and flowed around the dour, grey-cloaked dwarfs, the ripple and crack of warplock jezzails. Of course, he reminded himself, another of the dwarfs’ mine workings.

How many holes into the Eight Peaks would Belegar and his dwarfs burrow before learning that there was no hiding place from Queek?

He could smell them.

He took a deep breath, relishing the scent of blood and fear, all of it mingled with the delicious tang of warpstone. Rusted chains hung from the ceiling, swaying with the ebb and flow of battle, the corroded metal gleaming darkly with the reflected glow of a dozen fires. Great stacks of coal burned in pyres, although whether they had caught a stray warpstone shell or been deliberately set alight to upset skaven dark vision and cloud keen skaven noses was a mystery.

The dwarfs had certainly been prepared this time. Rocks and scree and upturned carts had been piled into barricades, channelling the skaven hordes into killing zones and choke points to die by the axe and by the quarrel. Queek watched as a score of clanrats attempted to surmount one such barricade. Rather than defend their position, the dwarfs leapt clear and an instant later, just as the skaven were trilling their triumph, that section of barricade erupted in a geyser of rock shards and dirty flame. The explosive force of the concealed blackpowder device fired still-celebrating skaven high into the air. Body parts mingled with blasted rock, plummeting to earth like rain.

Even standing a hundred tail-lengths from the blast, Queek staggered under the shockwave. The aftershock sounded thunderously through the ancient mine, echoing through arterial tunnels and buried shafts like a systolic rhythm.

Queek took it all in and grinned. Yes, it was good to be Queek.

His gaze returned to the ruined corpse at his footpaws with an expression almost of love. He crouched down, reaching out to paw at the auburn beard that had become tangled and knotted with blood. The gooey blood came away in his claws and he licked at it hungrily as he whispered: ‘Who kills you, dwarf-thing?’

Lowering his head, he pressed his ear to the dead dwarf’s lips. He smiled at the words he heard, crooning with delight as he gathered the dwarf’s limp head into the crook of his arm, rocking the bloody thing like a fretful child. ‘That’s right, dwarf-thing. You kill-slay by Queek Headtaker!’

The warlord bared his fangs and plunged them into the dwarf’s throat, spitting out ringlets from its gorget as he gnawed down to the spine. There was a snap of bone and Queek felt the head fall slack in his lap. Gripping it with both hands, he tugged, twisting from side to side as it fought wetly against his strength, strands of flesh and ligament sucking loose as it came free.

Queek stood, raising the dripping head so it was level with his own. Its eyes stared emptily into his and he returned its gaze, tracing a claw over the contours of its face. He held his newly claimed trophy aloft, showing it the battle that raged around him. ‘Tell them, dwarf-thing!’ he yelled. ‘Tell the Eight Peaks that invincible Queek comes for them!’

An insistent whisper worried at his ear, and he cocked his head to listen. He reached up with his sword paw to offer a reassuring pat to the three gnawed skulls that followed proceedings. From atop wooden spars affixed to a stanchion on his pauldrons, the skulls followed the battle with keen interest. ‘Yes-yes, you are right. Dwarf-thing falls too easy. Only strongest-best can come-stay.’

Opening his fist, he allowed the fresh head to roll free, already forgotten as it bounced clear, rolling between a clanrat’s legs and out towards the continuing carnage. Queek shoved the skaven warrior out of his way. ‘What do you wait for, coward-meat? Queek shows how dwarf-meat die-die!’

Perhaps two dozen dwarfs, barely a third of what they had once been, stood shoulder to shoulder, shields locked into a wall of iron. Axes and hammers flashed over the shield wall as spear-rats ventured too close. Furry bodies and broken spears fell in pieces at the dwarfs’ feet as the line edged ever backward, the rhythmic beat of dwarfish boots on rock like a drumbeat in time to the dwarfs’ retreat.

Queek barged his way through the milling skaven, those too craven or too wily for the front ranks, and, with a shrill challenge, flung himself bodily onto the shield wall. He saw a pair of eyes widen as he shot from the press of clanrats: icy blue gimlet stars beneath an iron helm, white beard frothing from the open face. The dwarf ducked and angled his shield to meet Queek’s strike. The warlord’s spiked maul drove hard into its steel boss, cleaving through the shield as if it were ratskin parchment, the steel rim buckling around the old dwarf’s pulped fist. The longbeard gritted his teeth in dour defiance and spat in Queek’s face as the warlord followed through, running his serrated blade through his belly.

He had the nagging thought that there was somewhere else he was supposed to be, but he buried the thought along with Dwarf Gouger in the helm of another dwarf.

He was Queek, and he was always exactly where he wanted to be.

Sharpwit stepped away from the squirming functionary at the sound of armoured paw-steps clanking from his rear. The instinct to spin around and grovel was immediate, but he suppressed it with a great effort. He struggled to ignore the seep of musk down his inside leg, cursing aged glands and wizened sphincters both. The flesh between his shoulder blades crawled, seeking sensibly to cower from imagined blades beneath what scraps of fur remained.

But he held firm, with only the barest shiver of effort. It was important they remember who he was.

At the last moment, point made, he turned, his milky eye appraising the three muscular skaven. Even after several days on the Underway, Sharpwit struggled to tell them apart. Their fur was as white as the hides of tunnel-bred man-thing slaves; their ears, paws and tails an anaemic pink. They were albino stormvermin, the elite warriors of the Thirteen, the best of the very best, their presence as much a seal of authority as the token he carried in his paw. The warriors were mute, the better to keep their masters’ secrets, but they bore with them a wordless ferocity that would have had Sharpwit quivering with glee at the power at his command.

Would have, he thought resentfully, had they been at his command.

Behind the broad shoulders of the albinos, Sharpwit noted the approach of the extravagant palanquin of their glorious leader. From Sharpwit’s vantage it seemed to ride the skaven masses like an ocean barge, swaying with the footsteps of its bearers. The effort of eight wiry skavenslaves bore it aloft and two score more trailed with bowed heads in its wake. The bare-furred chattels dragged behind them great mats woven from the black bulrush stalks of the Blighted Marshes, bearing crates heaped with warptokens, weapons, supplies and other assorted sundries required by the Council’s emissaries.

As discouragement to prying eyes and loose paws, the supply train was flanked by surly black-furred warriors in mismatched armour bearing a host of fearsome-looking, if not entirely practical, weapons. Sharpwit caught the eye of the broadest of the bunch, a scar-faced skaven called Toskitt who led this band of Clan Rictus thugs. Toskitt had the good sense to look away rather than meet Sharpwit’s gaze. Toskitt, at least, knew who he was, who he’d been, and who he now served. He knew enough to be afraid. He watched with amusement as Toskitt covered his own discomfiture by slamming the haft of his poleaxe onto a passing skaven’s paws, loudly accusing the poor creature of stealing.

Sharpwit looked away, content to let the Clan Rictus clawleader have his moment, allowing the gurgling squeals of the clanrat to wash over him as he focused his rheumy eye on the palanquin. He’d heard it said that the curtains were of purple satin, weighted with gold and platinum thread and picked out with tiny pins of jade, resembling the phosphorescent algae in the bottomless warpstone wells of Karak Varn. No matter how hard he squinted, he could see nothing but grey, as if colour had fled the world, its borders beset by an encircling legion of shadow. The slaves set it down carefully before scurrying back to hide themselves among the other slaves. None wanted to be present to suffer for any sores their master had endured on the journey here.

Sharpwit scratched his muzzle irritably as he waited for the skaven to emerge. He had hoped to get to Queek first, to prepare him in some way for this encounter. He suppressed the urge to sigh. Some things could not be prepared for.

The curtain of the palanquin was tossed aside by the brass-banded ash of a sorcerer’s staff. The albinos knelt down and pressed their muzzles to the dirt. Sharpwit, whimpering at the fiery needles from his arthritic knees, struggled to do likewise. He was a proud skaven. He had seen much in his long life and achieved more, not that any now remembered, but he was not above a tremor of fear at the chilling aspect of the skaven that climbed free of its palanquin.

His fur was pure white. Not in the colourless sense of the albino stormvermin, but rather like the radiant glare of a furnace that burned with the heat of a fanatic’s devotion, marred only by the black sigil of the Great Horned One that the zealot had branded into his own cheek. His robes, also white, were cinched at the waist and wrists with golden circlets, each inscribed with insidious scratchings bearing the thirteen secret names of the Horned Rat. His black horns, a sure sign of his god’s favour, were bedecked with tinkling chimes, while his gaunt neck was hung with yet more talismans and charms both magical and mundane.

The grey seer planted his staff firmly into the earth, leaning on it with both paws as he glared down at his minions, Sharpwit included.

With every ounce of willpower, Sharpwit tried to meet the seer’s gaze, but couldn’t. His eye seemed dragged away by those of the Horned Rat himself, his likeness rendered in pure warpstone atop the sorcerer’s staff.

‘You are quick-quick for such an old-thing. I shall keep eyes on you. What business could you have that demands I not hear-smell, hmmm?’

‘Grey Seer Razzel, most-wise prophet of the Horned Rat. The divine glory of his chosen should not sully paws in such inauspicious of tunnel-ways.’

Razzel preened under the blatant flattery. ‘Where then is Queek? Did you not send-send runners-rats as you were told-bid?’

‘Yes-yes. One each day as I was, in your wisdom, commanded.’

The grey seer shook his head, sorrowfully. ‘Is so sad. That one so high in the Council’s graces as Queek can fall-fall so far from the Horned Rat’s smelling.’

Heaving himself up on his crutches, Sharpwit struggled to his feet, wheezing heavily as he leant on their support. Razzel regarded him with an expression of amusement as he recovered himself.

‘Queek… remains the favoured of… of the clanlord. You would do… do well to remember that, Razzel.’

‘Grey Seer Razzel.’

Sharpwit inclined his head.

‘I still don’t see-smell what you bring to this expedition. What purpose-use could a cripple-rat like you serve?’

Sharpwit glowered. He yearned to tear the flesh from the arrogant zealot’s bones and send his soul screaming to his beloved god. But the seer was powerful, in magic and in standing, so he bit his tongue. ‘My patron is mighty, Razzel, and his business is his own. Remember that too. Even you would not cross-cross Gnawdwell.’

Razzel paled. The telling twitch of his lips exposed the limits of his faith.

And rightly so.

Even one as insane as Grey Seer Razzel would scurry far from the wrath of Clanlord Gnawdwell. Lord of Decay.

The grey seer sneered, unholy iconography tinkling about his person as he shifted. ‘What now then, Old-thing? Sharpwit know-sees so much, where then is Queek?’

Sharpwit glanced thoughtfully down at his feet. The excise-rat had ceased his whimpering and stared in dumb horror, tear-stained eyes flicking nervously between the chilling grey seer and his three giant albino guards. With a vengeful jab at the guard’s ruined knee, Sharpwit summoned a fresh howl of pain, drawing the skaven’s dread back where it belonged.

Young skaven today. No respect.

Leaning his weight on the writhing vermin’s knee, Sharp-wit took a moment to enjoy his suffering, only easing up when it appeared the guard-rat might pass out. ‘You take us to Queek now. Hurry-scurry.’

Razzel licked his lips in agreement. ‘Grey Seer Razzel commands this on pain of your immortal soul.’ The seer leant closer. Amulets hovered above the terrified ratman like portents of doom. ‘Bring-take to Queek!’

Two of the powerful albinos hauled the ratman up between them and dragged the protesting skaven in the direction of the City of Pillars, the teeming stronghold of Clan Mors. Razzel and his remaining bodyguard chased after them with an eager, youthful, pace.

Sharpwit heaved a deep breath. He could not find Queek soon enough. Events were already well in motion, and if there was one thing that many long years of experience had taught him, it was that no plan was so perfect that somewhere, somehow, some scheming ratkin wasn’t going to bring it all crashing down on his head.

The sooner he was in Karak Azul in person, the better every-
thing would be.

All around, clanrats in russet-coloured cloaks bustled over the reclaimed mine. They snuffled at the fallen in search of valuables – and in this, so-called ‘friends’ received no preferential treatment over foe – before piling the carcasses themselves into rusted mine carts converted to this purpose. Queek caught sight of one as it made ready to leave. He thought he could see the latest of Grey Seer… Something’s… messengers buried under a heap of bodies. He saw its limp limb wave. He snickered and offered a wave in return.

Sat atop the precarious mound of bodies, the cart’s driver cringed, obviously under the delusion that a rat so worthless warranted the attention of Queek. The skaven was plump, evidently accustomed to gorging on his stock as soon as the warlord was out of sight, his paunch spilling out from beneath a straining jerkin. The driver snapped his gaze away and lashed his whip over the backs of the two giant rats yoked to the cart’s front and, with a squeal of rusted iron, the cart was away, crunching through the gravel-strewn mine towards the City of Pillars. Fresh grist for the mills.

He bit his tongue thoughtfully as he surveyed the meaningless pit that his unrivalled ferocity had wrested from unworthy dwarf-thing paws. The heaped coal still burned and the thought now occurred that perhaps the act was one of deliberate sabotage rather than some clever new tactic. Not that that was any discouragement to the more entrepreneurial scavengers who circled the bonfire, stabbing into it with long iron poles to send white-hot stones tumbling loose to be swaddled in piss-soaked rags and swept through a cloud of stinking steam to the fences of the City of Pillars. Clanrats swarmed down the newly conquered mineshafts in search of machine parts, good timber, freshly hewn ore. Anything light enough to be carried away was dragged into the open and bickered over by snarling skaven. He didn’t think he’d had so many warriors during the battle itself as there now appeared to be. Thinking about it, he should probably have fewer. He was still mulling over this imponderable when he caught sight of his lieutenant, Ska Bloodtail, weaving his way between the busy clanrats and their indecipherable industry.

Queek looked up at his underling’s approach and felt an immediate annoyance at the lack of proper deference. Ska, for his part, recognised the error almost at once. A look of panic crossed the giant fangleader’s gore-spattered muzzle before he dropped his massive shoulders into an obeisant hunch, offering the warlord his unguarded throat. For a brief moment, Queek was tempted to tear it out with his bare claws. That would teach the insubordinate wretch a lesson! He decided to be merciful this one time. He was in a good mood and Ska was usually so well behaved. Ska Bloodtail was most unnatural in his devotion to his better. It would have been perverse had he been anyone else’s underling, but Queek Headtaker knew that he deserved no less.

Sensing his master’s approval, Ska rose ever so slightly, careful to maintain a respectful crouch. Even hunched, Ska Bloodtail was huge. He stood almost a head taller than Queek himself, with a neck like a felled log, and he was built into an almost geological immensity by the overlapping plates of gromril he wore. The giant warrior had pieced together the scavenged parts of dwarfish rune-metal himself in order to fit them around his monstrous frame.

‘A glorious battle, yes-yes?’ Queek said. ‘Only thing better than watching dwarf-things run is watching dwarf-things die and we see both.’

‘Unkillable Queek-Warlord is a most-fierce fighter,’ agreed Ska.

Queek’s eyes narrowed as he was struck by a sudden thought. ‘And where is Ska Bloodtail as Queek kills dwarf-things?’

Ska cringed, dropping his head ever lower. ‘Queek is too fast and too strong. Humble Ska is unable to keep up with mighty fast-quick warlord.’

Queek eyed the cringing warrior distrustfully. This was the problem when underlings managed to survive so long. It got to the point where they always knew what to say. ‘Fine-good,’ muttered Queek, barely placated. ‘What do you want anyway?’

The fangleader swung his muzzle over the serried ranks of dwarf-things that still awaited transport. ‘Dwarf-things grow bold. This is the second mine they try to reclaim in as many days. And look.’ For the first time, Queek noticed that, in addition to his usual long sword, Ska was carrying a long-handled axe that he had no doubt pilfered from one of the corpses before it was carted away. Ska laid the weapon across both paws for Queek’s inspection.

The warlord gave it the briefest of glances, unsure of what he was expected to see. With a scowl, he knocked the axe aside, following up with a swipe across the side of his unsuspecting underling’s helmet. ‘Is an axe! Fool-fool! How many dwarf-things you fight and not see an axe before?’

‘These axes are different. Better. Cut sharper. I think the dwarf-things are getting good weapons from somewhere. Look.’ He flipped the axe in his massive paws as though it were weightless, presenting the blade for Queek to see. ‘They have special scent-marks, like this one. Pretty gold-thing, see?’

Queek frowned and snatched the weapon from Ska’s paw. He hefted it, feeling its weight before giving it an experimental swing. The blade was perfection. It keened through the air like a ghost. He halted his swing and inspected the axe again, this time more carefully. On each side of the blade was a golden rune. It was shiny, but he gave it no further thought. It looked exactly like every other dwarfish symbol he’d ever seen: hammers, crowns, anvils. So dull, so boring.

‘Bah!’ he squeaked, shoving the axe back into Ska’s trembling paws. ‘Queek does not care anyway. Axe is an axe. Keep it, eat it, melt it, feed-shove down plague priest throats. Queek does not care.’

Already the thrilling distraction of battle was waning. Much as it pained him, there was more to being warlord than gorging himself on dwarf-meat and a grey seer dispatched from the Council of Thirteen could be ignored only so long. Maybe the sorcerer-priest came with something interesting, but he doubted it. Sometimes he wished someone else could be warlord. If only for a bit.

But that was ridiculous. There was none mightier than Queek. It was more realistic to wish for more numerous enemies. Then, perhaps he could justly excuse himself from suffering the inanities of grey seers and their games. Cursing the purgatory of his existence and the dearth of worthy foes, Queek trudged for the City of Pillars. His tail trailed limp in his despondent wake.

Forgotten, Ska studied the axe in his paw, pressing his nose thoughtfully to the shiny golden rune, marvelling at how the blazing coal fires summoned dazzling reflections from its keen-edged blade. It was a good axe. He would keep it.

Sitting cross-legged before an ancient doorway far beneath the deepest levels of Karak Eight Peaks, Thordun Locksplitter brought the runehammer to his lips. He planted a kiss on the golden rune as he offered a prayer to Grungni and to the humans’ god of thieves, Ranald. The rune was of ancient design, depicting twinned hammers crossed over an anvil and, above it, a crown. The circlet was decorated with minute characters of the klinkarhun, a true masterpiece of the engraver’s art, and too fine for Thordun’s eyes to read. It was the seal of Thorek Ironbrow, Runelord of Karak Azul, and his one piece of home. His heart fluttered at the thought.

Home.

He wasn’t even sure what that meant. What would he find in Karak Azul once he arrived? Would it be the earth-defying work of ancient genius that the very name conjured in his mind? Would it steal his breath and still his thoughts as his father’s rapt remembrances had once done when he had been naught but a beardling on the old dwarf’s knee?

He saw it when he closed his eyes, the passing shadow of a dream. He saw walls of rock, impenetrable, enduring, testing the sky with the rugged strength of the mountain itself. Towering above its neighbours, the mighty karak casts a long shadow over the Worlds Edge Mountains, the sun reflecting in rainbow hues from its frosted peak. As the sun rises above the mountains, he sees himself on the road to Karak Azul, the Iron Peak. The rising sun glints from gun barrels that bristle from the guard towers that pepper the mountains. And then he sees the gate itself; five hundred feet high and wrought of iron ten feet thick. Runes taller than a dwarf blaze with their own brilliance, shining all the brighter for the sight of the sun and standing as eternal testament to the strength and immutability of the Karaz Ankor.

Thordun let the hammer drop as the dream faded, as all dreams must.

Or would it be like the Ungdrin Way? He looked around. It had been a long journey through these forgotten ways since first joining the Ungdrin at Black Fire Pass, within sight of the crumbling majesty of Karak Varn. As a triumph of dwarfish mastery over stone it must surely rank alongside other such wonders as the great ancestor guardians carved into the gates of Karak Hirn, or the vertiginous skyways that once linked the pinnacles of Karak Eight Peaks, great bridges blazing golden in undiluted sunlight, arcing over white clouds and frost-bitten mountain tops like precious rainbows.

Now it was a ruin; a haunt of ratmen and goblins and unsafe even for a dwarf to travel alone. A miracle of ages gone, plunged into the bitterness of decay and the memory of lost glories. Retracting the steel pin from the lock that was the subject of his attention, he set it between his lips while he rummaged in his belt pouch for another. His golden beard was soggy with perspiration, his woollen vest itchy beneath his mail hauberk. He grunted as his fingers brushed the tool he sought, inserting it carefully into the door’s lock.

‘Can I help?’ inquired the deeply accented voice of Bernard Servat. The Bretonnian was one of the nine soldiers of fortune that accompanied him. He held up a flickering torch to illuminate Thordun’s work.

‘You can sod off,’ muttered Thordun around the metal wire between his lips. ‘That’d help no end.’

Thordun cursed, exploiting his limited grasp of his ancestral tongue to its fullest as the door began to sink into shadow. ‘Get back here, you oversized oaf. I need that light.’

‘I thought dwarfs could see in the dark.’

‘Just hold still.’ Quietly, he bent back to his task, hoping the grizzled Bretonnian would take the hint.

‘I remember back in Nuln, something like this would be sprung in a blink.’

Thordun scowled. ‘We never had to crack dwarfish locks. If this were regular human craft we’d be on our way already.’

‘You sure that’s all? I heard you’d gone straight. I thought you must’ve missed the old days when you turned up in the Blind Pig with this job. Le bon vieux temps. But it’s been a long time. Maybe you’ve lost that famous Splitter edge. The old Splitter wouldn’t have trod on a dead block, brought that wall down, and got us all trapped in a satané tunnel.’

He heard the muted mutterings of the other men, their faces buried in darkness bar the occasional glimmer of reflected torchlight from teeth, eyes, and silver rings.

‘What do you suggest then?’ Thordun struggled for calm, but couldn’t keep the flint from his voice. ‘You think if you got rid of me now you’d ever see daylight again? Shut up and calm down. There’s no lock I can’t break.’

I hope, he added to himself. He thought it best not to mention where exactly they were; likely only a few hundred feet of rock between themselves and the uncounted thousands that laired under the Eight Peaks. He swallowed heavily. They had passed a good dozen sealed doors to reach this point, avoided every trap and dead end bar this one. It was impossible that the skaven could have made it this far. And yet he couldn’t help but notice the bite marks on the angular reliefs that were carved into the walls, couldn’t stop himself imagining some vile rat creature using the icons of his ancestors as some kind of gnawing post. He suppressed a shudder and tried to concentrate.

Dwarf locks were a cut above the standard that Thordun had routinely broken in the wealthy houses of Nuln. He had enjoyed little experience of dwarf-made things, save those which his father had borne with him from Karak Azul. It was that same inexperience that had sealed them here. A true son of Grungni would have seen the trap. He shook his head to clear it of self-pity and got back to work.

Bernard laughed without humour, looking to salvage some face in front of the other hired swords. ‘Don’t forget, I used to pay you to do this sort of work. And I don’t remember you being such an uptight piece of–’

The human’s colourful language fell on deaf ears as Thordun felt the mechanism click under the applied torque. The dwarf whooped in triumph as the door edged marginally outward. The mercenaries glanced over in surprise, having never witnessed such an outburst of emotion from their usually taciturn paymaster.

Thordun stood up, dusting grit from his breeches and shaking out his cloak. He turned to Bernard with a broad grin. He didn’t have to speak a word.

Grumbling in his own tongue, Bernard turned and stomped back towards the waiting mercenaries.

‘Que pensez-vous de cela?’ Thordun shouted at his back, with a grin.

Bernard tensed. Thordun knew full well how much it annoyed him to be spoken to in his own language. If Thordun hadn’t known the Bretonnian for as long as he had, he might have suspected that to be his primary reason for opting for the delights of Nuln over his native Brionne, and dismissed rumours of the murder of Châtelain Rémy and the abduction of his horse and daughter as mere tavern talk. Unfortunately Thordun knew Bernard all too well. Since before the big man had stubble on his chin. Now, the man’s dense black beard was speckled silver and his hard face riven by deep lines. To the human’s eyes, Thordun would not have aged a day.

‘Get your men on their feet. That’s enough rest.’

The men complained as they always did but decamped with professional efficiency, seeing first to their weapons before gathering up bedrolls and baggage packs.

Thordun brushed grit from the doorframe he had just opened, his fingernails excavating the ancient runic marks from the stone. He shook his head sadly. A fuller grasp of the klinkarhun was not the only lesson of his father’s he had failed to heed. He started at a distant pattering, like clawed feet, seeking reassurance in the ivory-gripped brace of pistols holstered at his belt. Much as he treasured his father’s hammer, he knew which he’d prefer to have in his hands in a fight.

‘We’d best hurry,’ he whispered. Keeping one hand at his holster, he knelt to gather up his wide-brimmed leather hat, blowing off the grime before setting it on his head. ‘We are passing under Black Crag and the Eight Peaks. There is probably nowhere in the Old World more dangerous.’

‘Black Crag?’ Bernard asked, eyeing the ceiling as if goblins might spring from it in ambush. ‘Isn’t this where we were headed for?’

‘Karak Azul first. We need the king’s consent if we are to claim his reward.’

‘This prize of yours better be worth it,’ Bernard muttered.

‘It will be. I promise you that. Kazador is wealthy as only dwarfish royalty can be.’ Thordun’s eyes unfocused, his fears momentarily forgotten at the vision of the mountain of gold that would be his. Theirs, he grudgingly corrected himself. ‘Even with half his wealth split ten ways, all the kings of men will be paupers beside us.’

Bernard grinned, readjusting the flail that was wrapped under his left arm, prodding into his armpit despite the stained padding of old wool.

‘In that case, mon vieil ami, lead on.’

Chapter Two

It had been so long. Aside from the immense granite columns that lent the lair its name, little remained of the City of Pillars that was familiar. This had been a glorious place once, its beauty the envy of a beauteous empire, and the great pillars stood eternal testament to that lost grandeur. They extended far beyond what Sharpwit’s clouded vision could report, towering hundreds of feet above the petty masses and skaven shanties like uncaring gods among their flawed creations. They were bones of constancy within a decaying husk of change.

Sharpwit could not see well, but he could smell the sour musk of fear as it seeped from ten thousand glands. The rancid stink had permeated the very stones, infecting the air where it hung like a maleficent presence, perhaps later even to condense into nebulous clouds of dread that would rain down on the seething masses in a twisted parody of natural cycles. The City of Pillars offered no hiding places. Every crawlspace, every cranny, was a battlefield that had been contested for three thousand years and showed little sign of being won any time soon. It was a place where death came from the walls, the ceiling, from up between a cautious ratkin’s own footpaws, as often as it ever did from a foe that could be smelt, heard or fled. The goblin warlord Skarsnik loved ambushes and trickery, and his cunning, allied to the brute strength of his sometime ally Gorfang Rotgut, had left a trail of corpses and terror halfway to Skavenblight. The dwarfs were troublesome too, as if these skaven hadn’t woes aplenty. The descendants of those who once ruled this mountain were fortified in the upper levels and, now emboldened by warriors and armaments from Karak Azul, continually sought to reclaim more of what had once been theirs.

And then there was the Headtaker.

He did not need his sight to see the haunted looks in these skavens’ eyes.

Sharpwit stood in the midst of it all with the whimpering excise-rat and the three albinos around a hole in the ground, right in the pulsing black heart of the City of Pillars. He twisted round to take in the teeming multitudes of Skavendom and tried, with some difficulty, to imagine what kind of masochistic imbecile would choose to lair in a place so exposed. A pair of heads had been staked into the bloodied gravel by the entrance, their leaking fluids crusted around the swollen wood. The rats’ muzzles were frozen in snarling rictuses, brown fur coming away in clumps. Their eyes had dulled to a pinkish white, and Sharpwit shifted nervously under their unseeing attention. He took another tentative sniff of the air with its reek of dank fur and old death and grimaced. He had the unpleasant sensation that these two were Queek’s idea of guards.

And it was working. He was quite happy to let Razzel explore the warlord’s burrow alone.

As he thought of the grey seer, Razzel scrambled on all fours up the angled shaft. He snarled angrily, beating grime and dark scabs from his fur with the flat length of his staff, raising a hellish cacophony from the bells and chimes that clamoured from its idolatrous head. ‘Where is Queek?’ he squealed. ‘If not here then where does he hide-cower from the Horned One’s prophet?’

The grey seer snapped his claws and gestured at the albinos. The warriors leapt to obey, dragging the protesting excise-rat between them and depositing him roughly at their master’s feet.

‘You say-squeak this is Queek’s lair,’ Razzel said. ‘Then where is Queek, hmmm? Maybe Queek is invisible. Maybe he skins himself and hide-hide under those bone-skulls.’

‘Queek’s trophies? You did not… paw-touch?’

‘I speak-squeak now,’ squealed Razzel.

The excise-rat trembled, four paws buried in the dirt. He raised one to rub tears from his eyes. ‘Queek-Warlord, he… he hate-hate when others paw his trophy-prize.’

With a snarl, Razzel extended a claw towards the snivelling ratman. Sharpwit took a measured step back as the grey seer chittered secret words. A gust of wind disturbed the seer’s horn chimes, the brass cylinders tinkling madly as black laces of power traced around the sorcerer’s arm like a mesh.

The excise-rat clasped his paws before him and wept. ‘Most wisest of prophets, please save-spare–’

Whatever the skaven had hoped to express was swiftly forgotten as dark magic arced from the grey seer’s outstretched paw. The skaven screamed as power enveloped him like a fly in a web. The spell ignited in green sparks and his fur caught alight, green-black flames spreading rapidly to engulf his entire body. The unfortunate ratkin shrieked and convulsed, writhing in the dirt, but there was no extinguishing those sorcerous flames. He continued to jerk even as fur gave way to flesh and then to bone, which itself crumbled into dust. In just a few seconds, the excise-rat had been reduced to a scattering of ash and the dying echo of his screams.

The grey seer cackled as he kicked the mound of cinders into the passing masses. The clanrats lowered their eyes and bared their throats as they passed. Only the oblivious press of ratkin at their backs prevented them from grovelling in unrestrained obeisance right there. Still snickering, Razzel turned to face Sharpwit, evidently content to have inflicted as much pain as possible on just the one skaven – for now.

‘I do not think the guard-rat squeaks lies. I believe this is Queek’s home-lair.’

Sharpwit nodded low, bowing and scraping. This was not the time for a show of pride, not while the seer’s eyes still burned with warpfire. He did not want to learn what the seer would have done had he believed the excise-rat was lying. ‘Yes-yes, most attuned of divine servants. Agreed, this is a most odd-strange place for a warlord’s burrow but, from what I hear-squeak, Queek is a most odd-strange warlord.’

The grey seer’s paw swept the watchful heads that flanked the passage to Queek’s lair. ‘Our first two message-rats. Do you not recognise them, Old-thing?’

Sharpwit peered closer, but without their distinctive musk to aid his failing vision, they could have been anyone.

‘Queek will pay for this… this… this sacrilege.’ The seer held out his free paw and shook his head. Sharpwit suspected he was talking to himself now. ‘In striking the paws of the Horned Rat, he strikes at the Great One himself. It shall not be tolerated!’ At last the seer began to settle down, returning his paw to his staff. ‘That condemned soul must return here eventually. We wait-stay.’

Sharpwit bowed in acknowledgement of the grey seer’s divine wisdom as Razzel squeaked at one of the albinos to fetch his palanquin. An expression that was almost relief crossed the stern warrior’s muzzle as he was granted permission to flee the seer’s twitchy impatience.

Convinced that the stormvermin had the right idea, Sharpwit edged back, keeping the seer’s back firmly within his narrow circle of clear vision. When the swirling mass of furry bodies swallowed him and snatched the grey seer from view, he heaved a sigh of relief, the weight of Karak Eight Peaks itself seemingly lifting from his shoulders. He would make his excuses later, once the grey seer had calmed down.

A hurrying skaven blundered into his side, causing him to squeak in alarm. He raised one crutch, ready to exact vengeance on the careless rat’s hide, but the coward-meat was already on his way, hunched low beneath a worm-eaten crate of rotten fruit. Bloated flies droned hungrily in its wake as he hurried through the press. Sharpwit cried out again as another heedless clanrat bundled into him from behind, shoving him aside and tramping on his tail as he steamed by.

Ten years ago these lowly vermin would not have dared lift their sycophantic muzzles in his presence, much less knock their bodies against his as though he were just another worthless clanrat. He snarled angrily.

He had called this place home once. The urge to taste it again was overpowering. But it was foolishness; it would not make him young again. He blinked myopically at the shadowy vastness that filled his sight. Stallholders and scrap-peddlers hung their wares from poles above their burrows where passing shoppers might sample their scent. The smell of cooking meats, spice, warpstone and stale urine permeated the space, mingling with the musky scent of the ratmen like a noisome perfume. Among the bustling masses, fat, sharply dressed skaven with sleek fur squeaked over the noise of the crowd and each other. Sharpwit squeezed by. His darkly glowing maw and rich attire served largely to discourage blundering paws. Sharpwit sensed the calculation behind every pair of eyes, considering his weakness. He coughed loudly, making a deliberate show of spraying the surrounding clanrats with bloody sputum. He smirked as the watching skaven slunk away, wary of whatever terrible contagion it was that blighted him. Infirmity had its uses.

He bit and shoved his way deeper into the under-city, starting suddenly as a brown paper bag was thrust under his snout. It was clutched in the paws of a gritty-furred creature who gave the bag a hopeful shake. Sharpwit peered inside. It was filled with earthworms.

‘Super-secret warpworms. One warptoken for them all if you not squeak-tell how Cripkit smuggles them from Clan Moulder quarter.’ The seller took one between thumb and foreclaw and let it dangle as though it were a prize catch. ‘Worms burrow for warpstone. Double your outlay. No-no, treble! Yes-yes?’

Sharpwit shooed the charlatan away with the snap of a crutch across his shins and barged past to where a bored-looking piebald slouched against one of the monolithic pillars. The skaven bore a clapboard sign with words in poorly rendered Queekish and a faded arrow, pointing towards the promise of all the cave fungus a skaven with two warptokens could eat.

Sharpwit limped by and ducked beneath an awning, the tanned orc-hide faded with age and maltreatment. Smoke lingered under the low roof like a drugged serpent, coiling around mouldering wooden joists as it slithered languidly for fresher air. He coughed chestily. The space beneath the faded canopy was crammed with skaven, clustered around a bar constructed of a scavenged sheet of pressed tin across a pair of barrels. Rats scuttled across the surface without a care, their tapping claws a strangely appropriate corruption of music. The skaven drank flat ale from leaking flagons, baring fangs to defend cracked pipes stuffed with maggot-infested pipe-weed from their jealous fellows. It was as if some crazed artist had stared into the eye of Chaos and rendered a perversion of dwarfish life. The product of a naïve god that sought to undo the work of entropy and restore this world to how it had once been. But now the ratmen ruled as thanes and kings, supping ale and smoking tobacco as they squatted in the husk of the great civilisation they unwittingly sought to emulate.

The bar-rat looked up from the stein he was polishing with an oily rag. He was a stocky black-furred bruiser with a squashed nose, a torn ear and an eyepatch. He set down his cloth on the bar and shot Sharpwit an evil look, implying the old skaven should either pay for something or get lost.

Sharpwit glanced warily over the bar-rat’s shoulder at the heavy clay kiln from which belched the smoky aroma of roasted meat – no doubt stuffed with the last poor rat that couldn’t pay his tab. Struck with a sudden desire to get back to Grey Seer Razzel, Sharpwit scurried back into the open.

He lifted his nose to the musk-ridden air, inhaling a lungful of the familiar scents before hacking it all back up in a fit of coughing. He smacked his spasming ribs as the attack passed. He sniffed again. The acrid odour of fear musk had grown palpably more intense, spreading like ripples in a disturbed pond through the densely packed skaven. The strains of angry voices filtered through the chittering horde. One of them was the familiar squeal of Grey Seer Razzel, but the other he did not recognise. It was unusually deep for a skaven and cold as a dark night on the Chaos Wastes.

Sharpwit’s blood turned frigid.

He was here.

‘Please, your majesty. All we request is understanding.’

Kazador sat motionless as a stone-carved ancestor as he regarded the envoy of King Belegar. ‘My understanding, Hrathgar of the Hammerhand clan, is that Karak Eight Peaks is pledged to offer no fewer than five hundred warriors, yet you arrive here with a mere fifty. And this, despite increasing exports from our armouries while asking nothing in return bar support in this.’

‘With respect, our defence pact was agreed when the Eight Peaks could command such forces. Fifty warriors is all King Belegar can spare and commensurate with our… temporarily… diminished circumstances. My king believed this fair–’

‘Fair,’ Kazador spluttered, rising unsteadily from his throne and the thick pile of skins thrown over its seat. He started down the steps of its high dais, catching himself before he’d taken his second step. The glittering crown of Karak Azul rested uneasily on a furrowed brow. Tired grey eyes regarded an unkind world from the haggard depths of sleeplessness and sorrow. He sank back into the coarse furs. ‘Shall I tell you of fair?’

Hrathgar stayed silent, head bowed, his grey beard scooped into his hands lest it brush the furs covering the king’s floor.

Kazador scowled, as much at his own loss of temper as at the visiting dwarf’s impertinence. He felt the disapproving looks of the assembled thanes on him as he sank back into his throne. More engine of war than seat of kingship, the high-backed edifice was wrought wholly of iron. Some holds flaunted their prosperity with grand thrones of gold and silver, encrusted with a dragon’s hoard of precious stones so that they glittered like stars in an open sky. Not so the Iron Peak. The might of Karak Azul had always lain with its ironsmiths and weaponmasters, and the throne of its kings reflected that ancient balance of power. Banded knots of matt grey alloy wrapped its frame, inscribed with tiny, masterfully rendered runes extolling the ageless triumphs of Karak Azul.

Kazador’s fingertips traced the depressions where nails had once been driven, where a proud prince’s mind had been torn from this world. His fists closed over the arms in a wrathful grip, and Kazador was thankful his ancestors had not bequeathed him a throne of gold. The soft metal would have yielded long ago before the strength in his arm and the grief in his heart. The skill still existed to repair the wounds inflicted on his throne, but Kazador lived as truly as any dwarf could by the old maxim: Never forget, never forgive.

Kazador sat back, reclaiming his hands and his self-control. He crossed his thickly muscled arms over his thick snow-white beard and shifted his gaze from the dwarf of Karak Eight Peaks to the frail old form of Loremaster Logan. The ancient dwarf’s salt and pepper beard was wrapped around his waist three times over, a pair of half-moon quartz spectacles sitting unevenly on his crooked nose. He stood beside the Iron Throne behind a marble lectern on which rested the open pages of Karak Azul’s Book of Grudges. The loremaster held a stylus in one liver-spotted hand, the instrument hanging motionless above the blank page as he followed the king’s exchange.

‘Have I lost my wits, loremaster?’

Logan blinked in confusion but the king continued without him.

‘Because I do not recall instructing you to stop writing.’

The loremaster bowed low. ‘My sincerest apologies, your majesty.’

The old dwarf dipped his stylus into a pool of blood-red ink and, giving it a moment to dry, bent his head over the empty page. Clearing his throat, he addressed the gathered dignitaries. ‘On this day does Kazador of the Donarkhun clan, monarch of Karak Azul and its surrounds, declare himself grudgesworn against Belegar Ironhammer, king of Karak Eight Peaks. It is hereby recorded that Belegar did fail to honour his oathsworn pledge and support his honourable ally and kin, Kazador – may his beard grow ever longer – in time of war. Reparation is demanded of no fewer than forty carts of galaz or other ore of similar value…’

Hrathgar Hammerhand remained silent as the loremaster droned on through a lengthy appendix of further particulars. As the recitation ceased, he rose with a stiff bow and turned to leave.

‘Hold, Hammerhand,’ said Kazador.

‘Yes, sire?’

‘An oath is an oath and without them we would be naught more than men, grubbing beneath the mountains and feuding over what scraps remain. Belegar has broken his, one made by his ancestor long ago, but an oath just the same. But you, Hrathgar Hammerhand; whether you bring five warriors or five thousand I would find use for every one. If you stay and fight, I would hold the gesture as a high measure of your king’s honour.’

A cursory inspection of the Throne Hall would have told Hrathgar he was in good company. Beneath monolithic carvings of the ancestor gods and proud kings of past ages, there hung the banners of dwarfs from the length and breadth of the Karaz Ankor. There were thanes from nearby Ekrund, and from the Everpeak, from Zhufbar, Barak Varr, Karak Hirn, Karak Norn, Karak Izor, Karak Kadrin and even the wild tangled beards and fiercely roving eyes of their kin from Kraka Drak. Nor were they the only ones enticed by the coming war on Gorfang Rotgut and his stronghold of Black Crag. Among the proud lords stood a handful of bare-muscled and vividly tattooed representatives of the Slayer cult. They gathered in a corner around a scruffy dwarf in thinning black robes. Gunngeir was his name, a nomadic priest of Grimnir known to wander the southern Worlds Edge Mountains. The thanes gave the hermit a wide berth, as though poverty were catching.

Thane Hrathgar bowed again. ‘I would be ashamed to be left behind, your highness.’

Kazador nodded once, no hint of a smile from a face that had long ago forgotten how.

Loremaster Logan coughed pointedly. ‘There remains one other item of business, my king. That of the skaven. They grow ever bolder and their numbers swell. Poor Handrik, the captain of your own Ironbreakers,’ and here the loremaster’s voice broke, for the two venerable elders were long-time friends and drinking partners. ‘Poor Handrik was merely the latest to fall foul.’

‘You know how the skaven are, majesty,’ spoke up Snorri Bogbeater, thane and treasurer of the Stonecutters’ Guild and a dwarf who knew how to put a price on things. ‘All we have they covet. It is not just ambushes but thefts.’ He looked around, garnering support from the slight nods afforded him by his fellow thanes. ‘We are all suffering this menace. It’ll not be long before we’re knee-deep in ratmen, mark my words.’

‘Aye,’ agreed Brewmaster Thengeln Dunrakin. ‘Five barrels they took from the ancestor cellar for lost ales. Old Handrik was tracking the pests when he was ambushed.’ The brewmaster looked earthwards despairingly. ‘Speckled Grobi from Grumbold’s brewery, it was.’ He took a deep breath that shook his jowls to quivering. ‘Irreplaceable.’

There was a general muttering of agreement.

Nervously, Logan wound his beard around his forefinger. ‘Your thanes propose a postponement of the campaign on Black Crag. Just for another season. Until the skaven menace is dealt with.’

With a roar, the king slammed his fist into the arms of his throne, stunning the gathered thanes to silence. ‘For fifteen years my thanes have begged me wait. Do priests and paupers and dawi from distant kingdoms pledge their shields when my own kin dare not?’

He glared at the assembled thanes.

‘You would risk the hold itself, the lifeblood of your ancestors, to sate your own vengeance, Kazador? What would your father say if he still walked among us?’

Like a glowing blade thrust into cold water, Kazador felt his wrath cool. Even kings sometimes bowed to the living ancestor, Thorek Ironbrow. He slumped against the iron back of his throne. ‘And what would you have me do, Thorek? Accept this disgrace? Let the squatter king live out his years in the comfort of Black Crag?’

‘It is our patience, as much as our oaths, that make us children of Grungni,’ said Thorek. ‘What is fifteen years?’

‘Enough, Thorek,’ Kazador breathed. ‘When your kin, when your queen, endures such a time in an urk dungeon I will accept your lectures.’

‘If Morga does still live, she would not thank you for discarding everything to rescue her.’ Thorek turned to the assembled lords, addressing them as much as he did his king. ‘The same goes for every other brave dawi captured with her. We simply cannot consider an assault on Black Crag. Not while the skaven nip at our heels.’

To the astonishment of all, the king began to laugh. It was a hollow sound, like a remembrance of laughter, something from a forgotten age. It chased the warmth from the Throne Hall like a ghost. ‘And when will that ever be? There will always be enemies at our gates. We will never, in this fallen age, be rid of fell creatures in the deeps.’ He leant forward, fists clasped to the rests of the Iron Throne. ‘You speak as an old woman, Thorek, frightened of what might be when what is remains little worthy of preservation.’

The ancient runelord’s craggy face turned thunderous. ‘Kazador, you–’

‘Enough!’ he bellowed, rising to his feet once more. ‘Get out, all of you. Out!’

Thorek threw his king a disapproving glare as the dwarfs filed sullenly out, before he too vanished under the great archway and left the king to his thoughts.

Only one dwarf remained behind. Hair as grey as stone cascaded onto broad shoulders, settling over a long beard of the same shade which had been braided through with four hundred and one glittering golden rings – one for each and every year that the longbeard had witnessed to its inevitable end.

‘That was good,’ said the old dwarf. ‘I’ve been waiting all my years to see Thorek’s face turn that shade of purple.’

‘You too, Handrik. I’m in no mood.’

‘Aye, well. In your own words, when will you ever be?’

The king’s lips twitched despite himself, something of the sparkle of old migrating to his eyes.

Handrik clapped his hands, the sound echoing through the emptied chamber. ‘Hah! I knew it. I knew my king could still smile.’

‘Did I tell you how glad I am the thaggoraki didn’t kill you, old friend?’

Grimacing, the old dwarf separated himself from the wall he had been using for support and tottered unevenly for the king’s dais. ‘I’m not,’ he complained. ‘My back hurts like bloody hell. And I can’t look these youngsters in the eye. They know I just walked into a skaven trap like some wide-eyed fifty-year-old. Oh yes, and some damned king retired me!’

‘These “youngsters” speak of nothing but how the fierce Handrik Hallgakrin will never die, how even an honest burial under a ton of rock cannot kill him. You survived a cave-in and got your charges out alive. Be proud of that. Logan tells me that the story of how you braced the passage with your own body is already the stuff of taproom legend.’

‘The furry beggars got away with the Grumbold though, didn’t they?’ He gave a dismissive wave of his thick-fingered hand. ‘Logan is too easily impressed. A fine trait in a lore-
master.’ The old dwarf winced at a particularly cruel spasm from his lower back. ‘But he should know better. We were made of firmer stuff in our day.’

‘But to bear such a weight and live.’ Kazador shook his head, taking the steps down from the Iron Throne and wrapping a supportive arm about the old dwarf’s shoulder. ‘The priestesses assured me you would never walk again.’

Handrik blew a raspberry, brushing the king’s hand irritably from his shoulder. ‘Get off, you big grumbaki. A mere swelling on the spine or some nonsense. They tell me to rest it off, but the day this dwarf can’t stand on his own two feet is the day he shaves his beard and calls himself an elf.’

Kazador sighed and withdrew his arm. Neither dwarf knew what to say so they said nothing, shuffling in embarrassment as they looked up to the ceiling. The great skydome glittered down on them with the stars of Athel Maraya, jewels of a once great elven city. Standing there, his old comrade-in-arms at his side, it was almost as if he were there in the boots of his ancestor, standing beneath younger stars amidst the ruins of fallen towers and scattered jewels, the debris of an arrogant civilisation crunching beneath his boots as he walked the ancestral memories of a world where dwarfish might ruled unchallenged.

He looked down again, sundering himself from the memories. He knew how that tale ended. Which was worse, he wondered? To stand on the precipice of your own downfall, knowing you would never again stand so high, or to be the one left presiding over those last days, reigning over an empty hold rich with faded triumphs.

‘What do you say, longbeard?’ the king asked at long last. ‘You have suffered more at the paws of these skaven than any thane or lorekeeper. What would Handrik Hallgakrin do if he were king?’

‘I am not king,’ Handrik answered formally. ‘You are. If you asked me, I’d march over water on Lothern herself, and make no complaint. If you’d reinstate me to the Ironbreakers, of course.’

‘Handrik–’

‘Without me those tunnels will be overrun in a week. Lothgrim’s scarce a hundred. The beardling isn’t ready for such a burden.’

‘Enough, Handrik. Advise me. You know those tunnels better than any. Are the skaven a threat? Should I spare the squatter king and his urk their due vengeance?’

Handrik’s expression hardened. He smoothed his gold-plaited beard in fierce remembrance. His nephew, Hallar, had been among the first to fall fifteen years ago. The unavenged wrong was a hurt that grew ever more acute with each passing year. ‘No, your majesty. Never forget, never forgive.’

Warlord Queek towered over the white-furred sorcerer from Skavenblight. He regarded him warily. They were untrustworthy, treacherous liars all. He struggled to recall the grey seer’s name, but it was already lost to the seas of madness. He let it drown. He only remembered Ska’s name because his otherwise brilliant underling had somehow managed to survive this long.

The white-fur studied him impatiently, the tinkling of the chimes on his horns like torn mail grating against a serrated blade. He scratched at the fur between gauntlet and vambrace, already dreaming back to the battle with the dwarf-things. His black fur was unwashed and crusted with the dried blood and congealed tissue of countless slaughters, while still-warm blood oozed between the joints in his heavy scarlet plates like bile. He pulled away a tendrilly clot and pinched it between his claws, studying it intently in the hope that White-fur might get bored and find some other warlord to harass. His heart sank as the sorcerer-priest wittered on. He didn’t suppose he could kill him too.

‘Answer me, you imbecilic fool-warlord. I will not be ignored.’

Queek snarled and tossed the scrap of tissue aside. ‘No.’

Grey Seer Razzel simply gaped. ‘No?’

Queek tittered, making his heads break into fits of clicking laughter as they danced atop their poles. ‘When Queek says no, he means no. Queek fights who he likes, where he likes, how he likes. Why go-scurry to Azul-Place when there are plenty-many dwarf-things here?’

The grey seer regarded him as though he, most terrifyingly successful of Skavendom’s generals, was a tick on a slave’s back. ‘If Queek-Warlord were to open his eyes and sniff-scent the wind he would already know.’ He squeaked a command and one of the scrawny slaves hurried forward bearing something long and heavy wrapped up in sackcloth. The grey seer flung open the sacking to reveal a double-bladed battleaxe, exquisitely forged. Each silver blade bore the golden rune of twin hammers crossed over an anvil and surmounted by a runic crown.

Queek sniffed it lazily. ‘Queek sees these already. Queek doesn’t care.’

‘Queek cares now!’ shrilled the grey seer, dismissing the terrified skavenslave with a shove that sent both him and the axe tumbling. ‘Is not just Eight Peaks but in dwarf-places everywhere. In Varn-Lair we find these. Clan Moulder beast-hunters in the Darklands squeak-tell of dwarf-thing raiders with gold rune-axes. Is time it end-stops.’

‘Why?’ Queek shrugged.

Razzel snarled, twitching forward as if to strike him but evidently thinking better of it. ‘Think, fool-fool! No weapons for dwarf-things means dwarf-things die-die easy. Means Queek-Warlord undisputed ruler of all of Eight Peaks!’

Queek’s face wrinkled in disgust.

No dwarf-things to kill? Queek’s eyes riveted the seer unblinking as he listened to the funereal voice of the long dead skaven warlord, Ikit Slash. What will Queek do-kill with no dwarf-things? Queek would go mad!

‘Pay attention, Queek,’ said Razzel. ‘I am sent by the Council of Thirteen, the representatives of the Horned Rat on this world and I am his chosen. He squeaks through me. Yours is not to question. Yours is to go to Azul-Place as you are told. Skaven more wise-clever than you trace these weapons there, and the Council orders it destroyed by righteous skaven paws. No more weapons for dwarf-things. It will be a great victory that all skaven will celebrate. They will submit their throats to Queek and Razzel and celebrate the day that Azul-Place was destroyed to bring the ruin of the dwarf-things and the Horned Rat’s return one step closer.’ The grey seer paused for breath. He was practically foaming at the mouth, his eyes afire with zealous fury. ‘Who is Queek that says no?’

‘Who is Queek?’ Queek hissed, incredulous. ‘Queek is warlord here, not grey ones from far away. He claim he come from Council. He claims his good intent, but Queek is not stupid-slow, Queek know grey seers and their treacherous ways.’ Queek drew himself to his full and impressive height. His grisly trophies creaked ominously on his shoulder rack as they glared at the asinine seer with angry eyes. Traitorous White-fur, they whispered. He comes to take-steal what is yours. Queek stabbed his claw into the seer’s collar, feeling a rush of pleasure as the sorcerer stumbled, a brief flash of panic spreading across his face. ‘White-fur will never be warlord here!’ His waving claws took in the gruesome heads that followed him. They creaked as if in answer to a summons ‘He is never free of Queek’s sight. Queek sees him always.’

Razzel smoothed his robes and tried to conjure what remained of his authority. He glanced about for support, but found his supposed bodyguards keeping well back. He snarled in fervent outrage as he returned his attention to the warlord. ‘Many are the vermin that scurry blindly in light, denied the blessed shadow of the Horned Rat by their faithlessness. I am his prophet-seer. Through me, you will obey his will.’

‘I make the Horned Rat fat with the souls of dwarf-thing and green-thing. He is awed by the greatness of Queek!’

Razzel gasped in disbelief, his jaw working to no avail until he managed to splutter a single word. ‘Heresy!’

Queek licked his maul hungrily. ‘The Horned Rat knows where to find Queek, yes-yes?’

Razzel shrieked, foam flying from his lips as his eyes caught light with unfettered fury. ‘I am an instrument of the Horned One’s will. I will punish-flay on his behalf for such apostasy.’ The grey seer slammed his staff into the earth. The warpstone idol at its pinnacle blazed with unholy fire as it thrummed with the heartbeat of a god. A cacophony of terrified squeals erupted from the teeming masses that filled the vast interior of the City of Pillars. They burst outwards, as though the sorcerer were the epicentre of some explosion of rat-furred fury, trampling over their own twitching kin in their hunger to escape. Razzel snickered at the unfolding devastation. ‘Music to his ears, hmmm?’

Queek watched the fleeing hordes without concern. A complex of wooden shacks that had once been a tannery collapsed under the press, burying hundreds of clanrats beneath rotted beams and worm-infested thatch. He looked away. There were more. There were always more. As he looked on, the unlikeliest of shapes emerged from the terror-stricken multitudes. It was as if the mutators of Clan Moulder had crossed a skaven with a lizard. Its bald and withered shape hunched over a pair of wooden crutches. Queek clapped his paws in delight at this strange thing. Stranger still, it hobbled towards him while all around it others more sensible fled. The odd creature somehow managed to keep standing amidst the panic, employing its walking aids like bludgeons to keep the horde at bay.

‘No-no!’ it screamed at the sorcerer. ‘The Council demands Queek. They task Queek-Warlord to wage this war.’

Razzel turned to the newcomer. His eyes, blackened by the magic coursing through his fur, were bottomless pits of disdain. ‘What do you know of the Council’s will? Does the Horned Rat squeak-share his wisdom to you, hmmm? I think he does not.’

The sorcerer returned his attention to Queek, ignorant of the immense shadow that fell across his back.

‘White-fur,’ said Queek with a grin. ‘Meet-greet Ska Bloodtail.’

The grey seer yelped as a monstrous black-furred paw wrapped his wrist in a vice-like grip. The seer’s staff snapped from his paws and Razzel watched helplessly as it clattered to the floor and went dark even as another paw wrapped around his throat from behind and hoisted him effortlessly from the ground. The seer kicked at empty air, continuing to squeak threats and promises of damnation as Ska choked the breath from him.

The three albinos made to rush the hulking stormvermin, but a glare from Queek discouraged them. He snickered, doing a little dance as he watched the grey seer gasp for air like a fish.

‘Stop now,’ shouted the old-thing, bashing Ska’s gromril back-plate with his crutch. ‘I come-scurry from Clanlord Gnawdwell and you will listen.’

Queek snarled, stamping his armoured footpaw like a child in a tantrum. ‘Queek does not want to go Azul-Place.’

‘A pity,’ the old-thing responded, coming over all sly with his own cleverness. ‘Is already a big-strong garrison in Deadclaw beneath Azul. They are led by a warlock of Clan Skryre. But Fizqwik is not the Council’s choice. Queek is. Only Queek is strong enough.’

‘Strong enough for what?’

The old-thing spread his palms in a gesture of humility, speaking as though what he said should be obvious to one as great as Queek. ‘To defeat the mighty king of Azul, of course. They say Kazador has the strength of a daemon-thing, that even the orc-things fear to face him. It is squeak-said that he is too strong to be bested.’

Kazador. Ikit’s voice whispered in his ear like an echo in time. A challenge.

‘Yes-yes!’ Queek squealed. His paw twitched reflexively for Dwarf Gouger. It was already overlong since it had tasted blood.

‘My name is Sharpwit,’ said the old-thing. ‘I know Azul-Place and smell the weapons as Azul-made. The Council sends me as help-guide.’

Queek waved him away distractedly.

‘I am sure others will manage here with you away,’ Sharpwit went on. ‘The word in Skavenblight is that the dwarf-things have been driven almost to the surface and that Belegar refuses to fight you in person. I hear also that Skarsnik and his green-things tremble and hide from battles with the all-conquering Queek. It must be most frustrating for a great warrior with such zeal for purging the world of lesser races…’

Queek was not listening.

Kazador-King thinks himself strongest. He thinks himself best.

‘Kazador is wrong.’

‘Say again, most wrathful of warlords?’

‘Ska,’ he shouted. ‘Put White-fur down. We go to Azul-Place.’

Chapter Three

Queek crouched amidst the ruins of the City of Pillars. The city had been levelled. At the limits of his vision hulking rat ogres, misshapen grotesques of rippling muscle and blade-like claws, made short work of what remained of the ramshackle constructions. The crack of their handlers’ whips carried over the space like the first thunder of a coming storm. In place of the living hubbub that there had once been, vast blocks of scarlet-liveried warriors scurried to the discordant ringing of cracked bells and the flat percussion of perforated drums. Black-furred chieftains snapped at their charges, weeding out the slow and the weak with sadistic precision. The hall trembled to the pounding of thousands of clawed feet, the warriors’ chittering voices resounding between the great pillars as though Queek stood at the lapping shores of a blood sea. His hackles rose and quivered with vibrant electricity. He tasted excitement. And he liked it.

None destroys a city like Queek, a voice whispered, a note of awe in its sepulchral speech. Soon Azul-Place will follow. What hope the dwarf-things faced with the might of Queek!

Old-thing had regarded him sadly as Queek had ordered what still stood pulled down, as though the warlord had eaten his favourite slave. The City of Pillars was a dead thing of wood and rot. It had been built once, it could be built again. And he didn’t want to have to walk far from his burrow to garrison his army. He looked across the seething host to where the rat ogres continued their destructive toil. He could probably have them stop now, but it was more effort than simply leaving them to it.

‘Raise an army,’ Old-thing had said. He wondered how an army was supposed to be raised. Somehow there had always been an army when he needed one.

Small details for smaller vermin.

Queek conceded the point. If he didn’t know it, it didn’t need knowing. He didn’t much care for Azul-Place and its weapons anyway. They could send Belegar all the axes in the Under-Empire and he would not care. An armed dwarf was just that much closer to offering its head to the Headtaker.

Queek’s army biggest-best. Queek’s army is unstoppable. Queek raises the biggest-best army ever seen.

He preened at the praise.

There must be thousands. No, tens of thousands. Ska told him that more arrived every day from Clan Mors lairs throughout the Worlds Edge, as well as hirelings from other clans. The rat ogres of Clan Moulder had already been put to good use, and Queek thought he saw the occasional splash of black against the otherwise unbroken sea of scarlet-plated stormvermin and russet-liveried clanrats. Clan Eshin.

Queek scowled.

He hated the night-crawlers of Clan Eshin.

‘Is a mighty-great host fitting of most gland-clenching of warlords,’ spoke a familiar voice.

Queek’s vision swam. The sea of vermin parted and blurred, depositing him on the shores of awareness like so much flotsam. Queek looked up into the worried features of Ska Bloodtail. Queek panted heavily. He was hungry. He was angry. His paws thirsted for blood.

‘Will be a hundred thousand paws at least when we arrive at Deadclaw.’

‘A hundred thousand?’ Queek asked

‘At least!’

Queek drew himself up from his crouch and regarded his underling suspiciously. Ska had stated it proudly, as though it were his army.

Ska is not strong-great like Queek. Soon the head of Kazador will prove it.

It did sound like a lot. Lots was good. The sudden inkling of doubt made him freeze. What if it was too big? It would be just like his jealous lackeys to assemble a host of such implausible magnitude that others would doubt the rightful glory of Queek when inevitable victory was his.

‘It will not be nearly so many,’ said Sharpwit.

Queek’s attention shifted to Old-thing, standing at his lieutenant’s shoulder. The white-fur sorcerer stood with him with his two albino guards. They would have leapt from their pale fur, leaving their halberds to stand by their own inertia, were they not sealed within their heavy silver plate. For a short heartbeat, he was confused. Two?

He glanced down at his paws. They were covered in dark spatters. A residue of memory. Suddenly he smiled. Measuring himself against one of the Council of Thirteen’s prized elite was an opportunity too rare to pass up. He had expected so much more.

‘We must stop-wait. Clan Rictus promises warriors from Crookback Mountain and they will be here soon-soon. Clanlord Doomclaw already take-take Gnawdwell’s warptokens.’

‘Queek bored-tired of being wait-still. Enough here to kill all dwarf-things, Queek thinks.’

Sharpwit prostrated himself lower. ‘Nearly, most fearless and enthusiastic of the Council’s servants, but not quite.’

‘Yes-yes quite,’ Queek insisted. ‘No more stop-wait.’

‘Queek has many challenging responsibilities,’ Grey Seer Razzel interceded smoothly. ‘If it would help-help the mighty warlord with his important tasks, perhaps the mundane duty of leading this army to Azul-Place might be delegated to me?’

With a snarl, Queek flung out an arm, grabbing the seer by the collar of his robe and dragging him closer. Before the sorcerer could move, Queek’s other paw was at his throat and squeezing. His tongue lolled absently from his jaw as he watched White-fur turn slowly blue.

Dat’s right. Choke da stinkin’ white fing wizard. Don’t fink he’s ever gonna give up on dis. I know da sort.

Queek’s grip tightened. Morglum Blacktooth was always right about these things. He was the oldest, the smartest. He had fallen to Queek’s sword in Black Crag, his first great victory. He had feasted on orc-meat and taken his head, rotten fangs and all. Morglum’s voice had guided him to Dwarf Gouger, and the orc had watched, satisfied, as Queek’s paws tore the throat from the long-unlamented skaven who had found it first. As he watched now.

‘Razzel want-lead army?’ he asked. ‘What makes Razzel think he such a good-smart leader?’

Queek’s ears twitched at the rattle of steel. The albino stormvermin stepped forward, eyes bulging with terror. Evidently Razzel had expressed his displeasure over their not coming to his aid the last time.

The seer squeaked, air rattling ineffectually from his gasping muzzle.

Queek marginally loosened his grip.

‘I am blessed with guidance from the Great Horned One,’ he gasped. ‘My paw-steps follow his great plan. With me as general we cannot lose-fail.’

Queek tossed the whimpering sorcerer to his bodyguards in a muted jangling of muffled chimes and drew his sword. Strings of flesh and a scrap of albino fur still stuck between its teeth. ‘Maybe if you so special, Horned Rat not let Queek kill-kill. Maybe sword bounces off your coward-hide. Shall Queek test-see?’

‘Cease-stop,’ Sharpwit squealed. Old-thing was livid with rage. His crutches shivered in his paws. ‘Behave like emissaries of Skavenblight, both of you.’

Queek lowered his blade.

Lying prostrate, Razzel traced the sigil of the Horned Rat through the air above his chest. ‘The Horned Rat, he scheme in many cunning ways, hmmm?’

Sharpwit glowered at them both.

‘The Council of Thirteen gift-give Grey Seer Razzel three stormvermin for his protection but now he has two. What do you know about that, great warlord?’

The Headtaker grinned, offering the most unconvincing shrug, daring the grey seer to make an issue of it.

Razzel rose, rubbing at his neck and muttering darkly. He cast Queek an evil look before flicking out his tail and storming away. He disappeared into the scurrying mass of bodies, a patch of white fur like foam on a muddy stream. The two albinos edged back, their halberds still levelled at him. Queek could see the blades wavering as the paws that held them shook. He tittered as they decided they had withdrawn far enough and turned tail in pursuit of their master.

The sight of Old-thing, his expression one of deep disapproval, made his mirth run cold. ‘Always under Queek’s tail, Old-thing. You spoil all Queek’s fun.’

‘You are not here to have fun. You are here to lead an army to stop Azul-Place’s weapons reaching Eight Peaks and other dwarf-thing places. Grey Seer Razzel can be dangerous if provoked. You should not goad him. He is an asset. He can be useful.’

‘White-fur? Seers are not to be trusted. Everywhere they scurry, hoarding their secrets, spreading their lies. Who knows what they whisper in distant ears. Is it same as were told to say-squeak? Is it what they squeak in other ears? Queek thinks no.’

Queek watched the old-thing think. Yes, he did like to think, that one. Every so often the cavern would groan under the pounding of so many paws and the old skaven would throw frightened looks to the ceiling as if expecting it to collapse and snuff him out right there. Queek had always assumed death would be less frightening for things so old. They should be expecting it. He had always assumed this was the reason that dwarfs, as old and grey as the rocks themselves, so seldom ran from a fight – even from one with Queek. But maybe death was more akin to a fearsome monster, like a gorgon or a cockatrice, and only more terrifying the closer one came.

‘The albinos at least you should not kill-slay. They are sacred warriors of the Council. It will annoy Clanlord Gnawdwell.’

Queek tittered. ‘Queek is not afraid of Gnawdwell, or of the Council. Old-thing thinks mad thoughts!’

Sharpwit looked about suspiciously, as though the bleak stone had ears. ‘You say such things only because you don’t know. You meet Gnawdwell when you were only a whelp. He takes you and raises you high.’ Sharpwit hobbled closer, until their snouts almost touched. ‘But you catch scent of the likes of Morskittar or Kritislik and I promise you, your glands will loosen like any rat.’

Queek snarled, uncertain whether he’d just been insulted. ‘Run-hide back to White-fur. Make nice if you want. Queek does not need White-fur to kill Kazador. Queek does not need any rat.’

Sharpwit bobbed ingratiatingly, but Queek saw the withered muscles of his paws tightening around his crutches as he fought to control his anger. ‘You are not here to kill Kazador. Your goal, your only goal, is to kill-slay every dwarf-thing we find, to pull down their foundries and demolish their mines and ensure weaponmasters of Azul never smelt another sword. Do you understand?’

Queek shrugged. He was enjoying watching Old-thing’s little struggles. He was curious what he might do next.

The old rat shook his head sadly as he turned away, his crutches stabbing the dirt as though administering mercy kills to a bleeding trail of goblins. Before the endless tide of warriors claimed him as it had Razzel, he craned his neck to address the warlord once more. ‘Kazador can die-die if he must, but remember what you are told. Gnawdwell is watching.’

Queek watched him depart. His claws itched to tear out the old-thing’s spleen and shove it in his milky eye. He doubted Gnawdwell favoured this rat so highly that he would miss him if he were gone. He’d do it too, just as soon as Kazador’s head was on his pole. He wanted him to share the joy.

Rubbing his paws in happy anticipation, Queek gazed affectionately into the faces of his trophies, his battle-brothers.

‘Kazador-King join you, yes-yes. He tell all Queek meet-see that Queek unrivalled in the world. That no one is mightier than Queek!’

By the fell paws of the Horned Rat, he was tired.

His paws and crutches blurred as he struggled to keep pace with the great surge of clanrat warriors that scurried six abreast and many thousands deep. He felt like he was drowning, sinking in a sea of fur. He came up for air, snatching a breath as the horde slowed to navigate a partial collapse. The ceiling, encrusted with rot, had crumbled away like cheese. Hunks of masonry littered the passageway, and the clanrats surged over it like swarming roaches, passing through the hanging smog of white fungal spores without pause. Sharpwit sneezed, expending valuable oxygen. His lungs sloshed with fluid.

He gripped his crutches a little tighter. He would not die here. Not like this.

How had Queek ever risen so high in Gnawdwell’s graces? He knew the story, of course. Queek had been the largest and most vicious of a particularly aggressive breed and had killed and eaten his litter-brothers before his eyes had opened and black fur begun to sprout from his pink body. From then on, the clanlord had practically hand-reared him, providing him only the very best, and he had risen swiftly. Queek could not be more than four years old, yet he already boasted an impressive string of victories.

Still, Sharpwit thought, as he vaulted a fallen support beam, bracing his crutches and swinging both legs over to land in a stumble on the other side, the warlord seemed content to rise no further. Perhaps that was why the clanlord suffered his inadequacies. It was obviously not due to any particular brilliance on Queek’s own part. What could be more rare and precious than an underling that did not covet your position?

Sharpwit grimaced. That was all well and good for the clanlord, but it was Sharpwit who had been tasked with keeping the mad-thing on track. Wearily, he dredged his thoughts for every rumour he had ever heard of Queek. The clanlord himself mentioned him rarely, except as a stick to exact more favourable terms from warlord clans unfortunate enough to lair within striking distance of the City of Pillars. And they always capitulated. There wasn’t a warlord in Skavendom that fancied going claw to claw with the Headtaker.

It was said that the warlord was mad, that he spoke to shades and listened to voices in his head. Once Sharpwit had discounted this as hearsay, but now he had witnessed the truth of those rumours for himself. He had since been forced to reassess many of the other, even more outlandish, claims previously dismissed as the malicious slanders of jealous rivals. It was said that Queek could not be bribed, that he didn’t care for threats and that he led armies fearlessly from the front.

Perhaps Queek truly was mad. He wondered whether the clanlord even knew.

He was so deep in thought that he barely noticed the tide slowing to a crawl. Hemmed in on all sides by taller clanrats, he couldn’t see what was going on. Muttering his annoyance at inconsiderate young minions, he hoisted himself up on his crutches. His feet dangled as his bent spine stretched painfully out for him to peer above the milling heads.

The passage ahead had collapsed, more seriously than any they had passed so far. One wall had completely fallen in, occluding the tunnel with chunks of rotten granite and limestone and checking the skaven tide like a dam.

Sharpwit bit his lip in worried thought. The skaven of Deadclaw were supposed to be maintaining this stretch of the Underway for them. It would be just like the small minds that infested that place to have alerted the dwarfs of Karak Azul to their presence with some pointless skirmish or other and got themselves wiped out. Was it so much to ask that the teeming millions of Skavendom might produce a pawful with sufficient ability to truly serve the interests of their betters? He lashed his tail in frustration. A foolish question and one to which he had long ago learned the answer.

Lashing out with the sharpened tips of his crutches and his glowing fangs, he squeezed through to the front of the pack. It wasn’t as bad as it had first looked. There was a small opening at the lower left corner where the angular strength of the keystone from one of the tunnel’s support arches had wedged in. He watched clanrats load their gear onto their backs, spears and shields and bundled food jabbing from all angles as the skaven squirmed on all fours and in single file through the narrow opening.

‘This will stop-slow,’ Razzel hissed, making Sharpwit yelp as the seer seemed to materialise at his side, taking advantage of his missing eye to blindside him. ‘Will anger Queek-Warlord.’

‘Yes-yes,’ he agreed after he had recovered sufficient nerve to speak. ‘It will.’

Razzel stood with arms crossed as he watched his two albinos lend their strength to the swarming clanrats that were trying to burrow a fresh path through the blockage.

It was typical skaven thinking. With an hour or two, Sharpwit could have this tunnel properly cleared and with a temporary ceiling properly supported that would hold long enough to allow Queek’s army through. But skaven cannot wait. Much easier to dig and dig and dig and hope you are not one of those to be crushed into bloody paste by secondary collapses.

‘So,’ Razzel began, as lesser skaven continued their toil, picking his words with care. ‘Do you still believe-think that Queek-Warlord should lead this army? He has never had such a host at his paws. You think that mad-thing can command such a horde to victory?’

Sharpwit cast his eye over his shoulder nervously. ‘Queek has won many great victories,’ he declared loudly. ‘He is a most-fierce warlord.’

Tugging him aside, Razzel ushered him from the busy clanrats. ‘You know what I squeak-say. You know-see he had Ska gather this army for him. That Bloodtail could not outthink a green-thing with a head-wound, and he is practically warlord.’ The seer slammed his staff into the ground. The brass base struck sparks from the rubble. ‘Such an important mission-quest cannot rest on such shoulders.’

Sharpwit fidgeted anxiously. It didn’t matter that the grey seer was correct, not if some sharp-eared opportunist overheard such plotting. He didn’t care how insane Queek was, nobody became warlord or, more importantly, stayed warlord, without their spies. ‘Queek is a mighty war-leader,’ he said again, even more volubly. ‘Our most holy mission–’

‘Is imperilled!’ interrupted Razzel. ‘Yes-yes, it cannot stand!’ The grey seer spun away, paws clenching and unclenching at his side, itching to exact pious vengeance. Razzel squealed in fury and thrust his staff at the cave-in. His red eyes turned dark, his brilliant fur conjuring tiny green-black sparks as power flooded into the unholy artefact.

Sharpwit’s ears flattened against his head and he ducked behind the grey seer as his age-loosened glands clenched in terror. The nearby skaven dropped weapons and tools and stared in alarm as powerful sorcery drew bursts of static from their quivering hackles, filling the crammed passage with the musk of their fear and the shrill panic of their voices.

Green-tinged arcs of power splayed from the seer’s staff and the tunnel ahead suddenly erupted into dazzling warplight. Sharpwit squealed at the flare of pain in his eye and ducked as shrapnel and bits of skaven rained down, covering his ears from the howl of the warpstorm that the sorcerer had unleashed within the tunnel. Viridian lightning clawed the walls with vivid burns, shattering loose rubble to glowing dust while reducing nearby skaven to slag. Convinced that this time he was going to die, Sharpwit dropped his crutches and curled himself tightly into a ball.

Razzel’s high-pitched laughter roused him. He carefully opened one eye, expecting to see them all buried beneath a ton of earth.

‘Come-come,’ said Razzel. ‘We must reach Deadclaw before Queek if we want to prepare a good surprise for him.’ The seer hurried off with a spring in his step, bullying his shell-shocked guardians into following him.

Wincing at the pain flaring in his joints, Sharpwit struggled upright. All around, skaven picked themselves up and sniffed warily at the newly reopened tunnel. The occasional burst of warplight arced from wall to wall, earthing itself with a crack and the lingering fizz of ozone. Gingerly, he rapped the wall with his knuckles. He flinched, but a drizzle of mortar over his ears was the worst he suffered. It seemed stable enough – at least for now.

Noisily, he cleared his throat of dust and mucus and hobbled after the grey seer. He was eager to be long gone before this tunnel collapsed again, as it inevitably would. Sick with worry, he felt his guts knot. Between Grey Seer Razzel and Warlord Queek, who needed concern themselves with the dwarfs of Karak Azul?

Ska shoved his way through the gaggle of chieftains and clawleaders. Feeling rough paws on their backs, the war leaders turned, fangs bared and ready to snap, only to freeze in horrified recognition at the sight of Queek’s imposing right paw.

Only the Headtaker himself could clear a space faster than Ska Bloodtail.

Queek had been cornered by a trio of his most prominent lieutenants and the four of them scratched crude diagrams into the hard soil of the tunnel floor. Out of respect, Ska held back. They were discussing arrangements for accommodating and feeding so many warriors on the stop-over to Deadclaw. Ska couldn’t help the tingle of delight at the thought of Queek Headtaker suffering through such tasks. It was a small betrayal, but all the more satisfying for it. Queek stabbed impatiently at the claw-scratch pictograms before finally succumbing to his temper. His gaze shot up. Ska’s blood froze, instantly terrified that some voice had whispered to the warlord the disloyal thread of his thoughts. He dropped to the ground and grovelled unreservedly.

‘What do you need-want?’ Queek asked. He dismissed the unwanted lackeys with more pleasure than his fierce countenance betrayed.

‘Is nothing, most fearsome slayer of traitor-meats. A little thing.’

‘Does Ska bother Queek with little things?’ He asked. His claws scratched a line of gore from his armour, which he proceeded to swallow with relish. ‘Ska knows what Queek makes of little things?’

‘Not so little, most important and busy master, not so little.’ Ska fidgeted nervously. He threw frightened glances around the grim section of tunnel but any faint hope of a friendly face was soon extinguished. Those traitorous vermin, he thought. They had always been jealous of him. ‘Is Grey Seer Razzel,’ he began.

Queek leant in close, his voice low and menacing. ‘What about White-fur?’

‘He’s… gone.’

Queek stalked through the milling warriors like the eye of a cyclone. Clanrats and heavily armoured stormvermin scurried from his path, sensing the destruction he would wreak if they did not.

He felt naked, like he was missing an arm or a leg. The passages had grown too low and tight to accommodate his trophy rack, and it had been with great heaviness of heart that he had ordered its disassembly. His tail quivered, ramrod straight with furious energy. It was like watching Ska being taken apart piece by piece and borne behind him like some grisly parade. He glared down the line of slaves. Each held one of his treasured friends in their worthless paws. Even though he strained his ears, he could not hear their voices. They were offended by this treatment. He would have the paws of those slaves cut off as soon as they reached Deadclaw.

Nobody touched Queek’s trophies but Queek.

‘Tell again Ska, tell-squeak what you listen-hear.’

‘I hear Razzel took all the warriors on the other side of the roof-fall and took them to Deadclaw. He says you die-dead under cave-in and now Razzel has charge.’

‘Where did you hear this?’

‘Loyal skaven,’ Ska said before hurriedly adding, ‘loyal to Queek.’

‘Good-good,’ muttered Queek, patting his lieutenant’s arm. ‘Is it cleared yet?’

‘Partly,’ answered Ska as Queek broke into a run, forcing him into a scramble to keep pace. ‘But still only narrow, not big enough for Queek’s mighty army.’

‘Queek does not need an army. Queek never gets full on traitor-meat.’

‘But if Razzel has half Queek’s army…?’

‘They would never dare turn on Queek!’

Queek slowed as they neared the site of the collapse. Chained gangs of naked skavenslaves slapped bleeding paws against the well-packed rubble. Others ferried lumps of masonry from the worksite or lifted lengths of rotten timber to shore the crumbling ceiling as it was exposed. All worked with bent and bleeding backs under the watchful gaze of a lanky, brown-furred overseer. The skaven cracked the barbed tip of his whip across a line of slaves carting away gravel in a cavalcade of one-wheeled barrows, inciting them to greater feats of celerity.

Among the slaves worked Clan Skryre engineers. They bore long-handled implements that resembled pikes but, in place of a blade, they were topped with a spinning, crackling disc that summoned a noise like the death-bellow of worlds as it tore into the wall of rock. Shrapnel shot back at the warlocks like hail, ricocheting off the hardened glass of the face shields they wore. The green flashes from the growling engines were enough to illuminate the mad faces beneath the visors. Drunk on the power in their paws, fat tongues lolled from lips in a rictus of pleasure. Scurrying unnoticed between their feet, more slaves collected the rubble as it piled around them. Queek saw one of the slaves collapse poleaxed as a shard of flying debris tore out his jugular. He lay twitching in his death throes before he too was loaded into a barrow and dragged away.

The warlord crouched down on four paws and sniffed at the opening that had already been made. He could see the silent flashes of warp lightning that bespoke more work at the far end. He squeezed the metal bulk of one pauldron in after his head, jigging his shoulders to make it fit. The tunnel was perhaps twenty or twenty-five tail-lengths long and stank of musk and warpstone. It was all tight jagged walls and an unforgiving floor. Already the palms of his paws were bleeding where tiny stones had burrowed into his skin. Overhead, the rubble shifted and groaned under the ministrations of the engineers and their warp-grinders.

Maybe this wasn’t such a smart idea after all. What could a fool like Razzel hope to accomplish with only a few thousand warriors anyway? Nothing that couldn’t wait. He tried to draw himself back but the edges of his pauldron seemed wedged in front of an overhanging spar. He shook himself, trying to free the offending article, but he seemed to be stuck. Panic wrenched his bowels as he threw himself against the dratted rock. Fear musk rose unexpectedly from his glands to add his own contribution to the already noisome stench. He forced himself to be calm.

Queek the Fearless was not to be slighted by a tunnel.

He stretched out his arms, grabbing a clawful of gravel, and hauled himself forward. The complaints of his armour screamed in his ears as it scraped across the tunnel walls. He pulled himself forward again, leaving a trail of warpdust, scarlet paint and year-old blood as proof of his passing.

He stopped to catch his breath before shouting back. ‘What do you wait for, Bloodtail lazy-meat?’

There was a pause before the answer filtered through, tinny and distant. ‘Hole is tiny-small. Ska not fit.’

‘Ska better find a way to fit or Queek cuts him into smaller bits that do fit!’

He didn’t stop to wait and see if Ska was doing as he was told. Ska always did as he was told.

Paw over paw, skin shredded and weeping bloody tears, Queek dragged himself slowly and painfully to the far side of the tunnel. Some of the flickering light from beyond the opening began to reach him, carrying with it the chittering voices and musky scent of his warriors. Already feeling his spirits lift, he hauled himself the last few inches.

He poked his snout into the open. Blinking in the light, he squinted up at something shiny rushing down to greet him.

He squealed in shock, snapping his head back into the hole as the spiked head of a poleaxe came crashing down where his head had been. The heavy weapon split the crusty sandstone flag in two and wedged there. Queek heard his attacker curse as he tried to pull his weapon free.

He tried to draw himself further back but he had gone as far as he could. He saw the poleaxe shift in the block that held it, beginning to loosen, and gave a furious snarl. It seemed the traitor-meat barred his one way out. Unlucky for him. He thrust out on his hind legs, bursting from the hole and clamping claws and fangs over the assassin’s ankle. His mouth suddenly filled with blood. The skaven squealed in pain and released his heavy weapon, instead bashing at Queek’s ears with his fists. Ears ringing under the onslaught, Queek released his bite and shoved his attacker back. The skaven stumbled and fell onto his tail as Queek wriggled the rest of his body free.

He pulled himself upright and drew his weapons. Facing him were eight muscle-bound stormvermin bearing an assortment of large and intimidating weaponry. Their leader, treading tenderly on a bleeding foot, bent to collect his poleaxe. He wore an earring made from twisted steel pins, bent into a crude rendition of the mark of Clan Rictus. He looked nervous, but took courage from his obvious advantage of numbers.

Queek risked a quick glance behind his back to where a handful of slaves and a single warlock engineer cowered from the fight. The engineer’s warp-grinder revved down noisily as Queek returned his attention where it belonged

‘Rictus thug-meat. I see-smell you coming from Skavenblight with White-fur. He sends you to kill me? Kill Queek?’ He bared his fangs and hissed a challenge. ‘No one can kill Queek!’

He dived forward, the first slash of his sword clattering harmlessly off the steel haft of the leader’s poleaxe. The vibration buzzed through his palm. A naval cutlass hissed for his throat, but Queek was already spinning away, knocking the blade aside with the flat of his own and following through with an irresistible downward stroke of Dwarf Gouger. The magically empowered maul clove through the stormvermin’s helm as though it wasn’t there. Its long spike pulverised the skaven’s skull and issued from his throat in a bubbling foam of gore. Queek shifted his weight, swiftly parrying a pair of probing blades as he yanked his maul free and kicked the ruined body to the floor.

Despite their advantage, his foes held back, weapons lowered as though attempting to herd some wild beast.

Snarling with contempt, Queek threw himself into their number, bearing two of them to the ground beneath his weight. Dropped weapons and armour clattered as they all fell together in a heap. The first was gutted on his sword. The second he doubled over in gasping agony with an armour-plated elbow to the throat before rolling clear in a flash of scarlet and steel.

Five remained. Queek’s lips twitched, thrilled by the bloody traitor taste. Of those, two moved unsteadily. Their leader moved in half-hops on a savaged footpaw while a second held his sword in one paw, employing the other to massage his bruised throat.

‘I tell you,’ he tittered. ‘I tell you none beat Queek.’

The limping leader snarled instructions to the others, hanging back and turning his poleaxe parallel to the ground to use its long haft to push his warriors forward.

‘Yes-yes. Come to Queek.’

He ducked beneath the crude swipe of the first to come near, flicking out with his sword, but the point merely grazed the skaven’s leather hauberk. A halberd flashed from the corner of his eye and he quickly scurried back. The recurved blade struck his shoulder guard in a shower of warpdust. Queek hissed and dived back in, but his foes fought cagily. They sought to use their numbers against him, pressing too close for him to get real power behind his attacks, but not committing to the killing blow themselves. They were waiting for him to tire.

One of the black-furs leered, dropping into a crouch and weaving his falchion menacingly like the head of a serpent. A string of rusted rings jangled loudly along the back of the blade. His confident expression did not falter, even as his head separated from his body and smacked against the near wall. Headless, blood sprayed at the ceiling by its witlessly pumping heart, the body folded over to reveal the panting, scratched and bleeding hulk that was Ska Bloodtail. The skaven had shed his armour to squeeze after his warlord and from snout to claw he was scored with tiny cuts. He blinked away blood as it dripped from a gash above his right eye. He came forward on unsteady feet, the bloody dwarfish rune-axe hanging heavy in both paws.

Seeing the hesitation in his attacker’s eyes at the sudden slashing of their odds, Queek spun and dashed aside the halberd of the nearest stormvermin before following through with an uppercut from Dwarf Gouger that smashed bone shards from its jaw to shred the creature’s brain. The blow carried the foe-rat from the ground and it flew, turning halfway along its own axis before crashing head first into a cart of rubble. Beside him, he felt the arrival of Ska as two more crushing blows sent two mutilated bodies tumbling to their open graves.

A flash of instinct made him spin. Too late he saw the leader. His earring blazed in the residual warplight from the digging machines, a rusted knife clenched in one fist as it drove for Queek’s unarmoured throat. A powerful force flung him aside, snatching the curse from his lips as it dashed him against the wall. Winded and coated in dust, he rolled onto his back just in time to see Ska take the blade. The giant was bigger than Queek. A strike intended for the warlord’s throat drank deeply of his heart.

Ska gasped as the knife entered him, pain shuddering through his entire body as it was clumsily withdrawn. He angled a punch but it missed by a mile. He fell, gasping and clutching clumsily at his ruptured chest.

The Clan Rictus assassin licked his blade clean and took one look at Queek. His tongue froze. His eyes widened in horror.

Shrugging loose the insignificant mountain that sought to slow him, Warlord Queek rose to his feet. Breath roared from his lungs like balefire. He saw nothing, felt nothing – nothing but rage, his innards devoured as fuel for its terrible fire. Blood trickled from his palms to paint the earth at his feet, his weapons gripped so tightly that his claws drew blood where they met. The pain didn’t even register. The red liquid ran as he stared down the fool that had cut the right paw from the Headtaker.

With a squeal of terror, the black-fur dropped his dagger and fled.

Chapter Four

So this was Deadclaw. He was not impressed.

Old-thing had told him that a dragon had once laired in the caverns beneath Azul, and he could still smell it. The place smelt hot – of ash and cinders and reptilian musk. And it felt too open. Glimmering red eyes marked his every step, their owners clustered over every mouldering plank of the vast timber towers that scaled the great cavern. The towers leant inward with the curvature of the walls, grappling one another in a frenzy of gangplanks and splitting hawsers. The scent of meat wafted from above to contend with the lizard stench, wet rags hanging from perilous-looking balconies to steam dry in the heat. The skaven of Deadclaw clung to the gangrails of their precarious dwellings and looked down. They were sparsely furred and skinny, adapted to the dry heat, and swarmed over the creaking edifices like beetles over a rotten log. They watched in silence as he passed beneath them, dragging a brutalised warrior behind him by a bleeding foot. The skaven was barely conscious, emitting a feeble stream of moans that were pointedly ignored. Its arms were broken and it was missing an eye. Its remaining eye was hidden in a swollen mass of pink tissue that had enveloped the left side of his face. Both ears had been ripped clean away and the ragged wounds leaked in twin tracks like scarlet rails in the dirt.

Not for the first time, Queek missed the presence of his heads – their reassuring presence watching his back, their wise counsel in his ear. They would know where White-fur was hiding. Queek glared furiously into every furtive pair of eyes, daring them to defy him. Ska had always been accomplished at sniffing out treachery. His voice had always squeaked in harmony with Queek’s others. And now he was gone. Spittle leaked from his gaping maw. His vision swirled, frightened clanrats condensing into one homogeneous mass and bursting into a thousand bleeding pieces as he sought a focus for his rage. Which of these had conspired with White-fur to betray him? Queek did not know, so he challenged them to step forward and face him if they dared. None did, and he headed on with a wordless snarl, dragging his weakly struggling victim along behind.

He started as he passed one of the yawing towers. He looked again, only for the figure he had thought he’d seen to duck behind the back of another and skulk under the rotting frame of a doorway. Queek snarled and headed that way. He was in no mood for games. One by one, the skinny, patch-furred skaven melted from his path until just one unfortunate remained. The crippled old skaven clutched the beetle-infested elm of the doorframe for dear life, holding up a crutch as if to ward him off.

Queek slapped down the stick with the back of his paw. ‘Old-thing,’ he hissed, looking down at the tremulous creature. ‘Where is White-fur? Tell Queek or he rip-tears arms from body!’

The old rat stared beyond him at the beaten body of the would-be assassin. He whimpered and cowered back behind the doorframe. ‘Don’t know. I swear I don’t. All my life I serve our clan. I would never betray, never-never.’

Queek shoved the old skaven roughly through the door and followed him into the hovel. At once, his nose wrinkled at the musk and dung stench of the generations of degenerate inbreds that had laired here. He cupped paws over his welling eyes and backed hurriedly out. He doubted whether even fear of the Headtaker could compel a grey seer to hide in such a place. Much as the decrepit one tried him, Old-thing was probably telling the truth. ‘Come-come, Old-thing,’ he snapped over his shoulder as he turned to leave, paw tightening around the ankle of his now-unconscious prisoner.

‘Most merciful and understanding of tyrants,’ Sharpwit grovelled, scurrying from the grimy hovel in a hopping, spider-ish gait as he recovered his fallen crutch.

‘White-fur will turn up. Queek does better things than hunt little lone White-fur.’ His gaze tracked the extent of the great cannibalised city below ground. It was nothing, driftwood deposited on a beach, rotten spars settling where they may. Queek had no wish to insert his nose under every crab hole and stinking mound of kelp. ‘He has no army. Is Queek’s army. Queek’s skaven always loyal to Queek. Stupid-dumb White-fur, he forgets that.’

‘Yes-yes,’ Sharpwit agreed, hobbling after the warlord as quickly as he could manage. ‘But where do we go?’

‘Queek surprised Old-thing forgets. Queek remembers Old-thing as most insistent.’ His eyes rolled upward and he extended a claw to the ceiling. ‘We are here, Old-thing. Azul-Place. Queek goes to destroy.’

Thordun felt weak at the knees. He was glad he was sitting down. And not just sitting down, but sitting on a dwarfish stool at a dwarfish table with a foaming tankard of golden dwarfish ale in his hand. He raised the vessel to his lips and gulped down half in one go. He set down the tankard and covered a belch with his hand. It was not that you couldn’t get dwarfish beer in Nuln, you could. It was just… not the same.

He looked around, unable in just one glance to take in the full measure of the hall’s splendour. Grungni’s shrine in Karak Azul was the largest, and quite easily the grandest, to be found anywhere in the Karaz Ankor. The lord of mining was said to have dwelt within these halls – said by the dwarfs of Karak Azul in any case – and thus the primacy of that most revered of ancestors was doubly pronounced in this, his home. Row after row of long, low-slung tables filled the hall, groaning under the weight of platters of roasted meat and tankards of ale. Between them ran flushed-looking shortbeards in greasy smocks. They looked younger even than Thordun, diligently replenishing flagons of ale from great pitchers and removing teetering trays of picked-clean bones.

The dwarfs chewed purposefully in silence, paying rapt heed only to their own platter. It was astonishing that so many dwarfs could generate so little noise. Aside from the rattle of animal bones tossed into pewter bowls, the cough of a dwarf taking too deep a draw of his pipe and the occasional crash of a dropped tankard, the atmosphere could easily have been mistaken for the Nuln public library.

Thordun followed suit and kept his mouth shut.

He gazed in wonderment at the high ceiling, its dazzling frescoes depicting seven thousand years of dwarfish history, and with equal awe at the great ribbed vaults that held the weight of the hold without need for columns. Set into the vertiginous granite walls, more ancestor statues sat in states of repose upon marble plinths bearing the names and great deeds of the worthies depicted in immortal stone upon them. The statues themselves had been festooned with ornate mining lanterns, the ancestors of Azul casting a homely glow upon their feasting kin and gifting it with the evocative aroma of burning oil. Between such statues, and they were numerous, rich hangings were draped bearing the runes and accumulated history of the clans of Karak Azul from carpenters to kings. Across the many bowed heads, about as distant from Thordun’s table as could be, the king and his thanes feasted beneath a vast statue of Grungni. The stone colossus was taller than five dwarfs, its beard speckled with silver, its body clad in iron and gromril plate finer than that worn by any living prince of Karak Azul.

The contemplative air was infectious, and Thordun’s mind began to wander. It had been many months since he had departed the Empire, far too long to plan such things, but he had secretly hoped to arrive at the home of his ancestors in good time for the Feast of Grungni. To arrive on the very day itself could surely only speak of providence. In his excitement, he had shared the thought with Bernard, but the Bretonnian had been less enthusiastic. ‘Fishing a corpse from the Aver and finding a pfennig still sewn into its jerkin, that’s providence. This is just lucky.’

Thordun hoped that Bernard and the others were keeping clear of trouble. Unlike more cosmopolitan strongholds such as Zhufbar or Barak Varr, Karak Azul was far to the south and with too grim a reputation to lay claim to any great human populace. But humans, it seemed, got everywhere, and there were always a few pirates and ruffians prepared to risk the Old Dwarf Road for Arabayan gold or a mercenary’s wage in the Border Princes. They had even encountered a couple of bands who, like Thordun, fancied a tilt at Kazador’s fabled reward. He had overheard that, on Grungni’s night, those men would gather in one of the taverns of the First Deep where they could see the open sky and drink in the new day; there to carouse to their own gods and any other deity that could be named – provided they not be dwarf – with free ale to he who could cite the most. Thordun rubbed his chin nervously. Throwing Bernard into that drunken mix seemed a recipe for blood on the stones and a very brief stay for Thordun in the home of his ancestors.

Even so, he was glad that men were not welcome in the Feasting Hall this night. The feast was a night for dwarfs, and he did not want Bernard to spoil it for him. This night had always been the highlight of his calendar, even as he had spurned most dwarfish things in his youth. It had been an excuse to get drunk, to sing loud songs, to dance with girls, to stay up all night and not annoy his father in doing it.

The thought of his father had him reaching again for his ale. He had been so lost in thought he hadn’t even noticed some kindly soul refill it. He sat back, regarding the silent throng with a shrug. Maybe this was how true dwarfs celebrated Grungni’s Day, with quiet reflection and personal enjoyment of the mountain’s bounty. He raised his tankard in silent salute. He would drink to that.

‘Put your drink down, lad. A fly’ll land in it.’

Startled, Thordun looked across the table to where an apple-cheeked old dwarf, evidently somewhat the worse for wear, downed the last dregs of his ale. He smacked the empty tankard on the table, seemingly blind to the poisonous looks shot him by his neighbours, and used his sleeve to wipe his grey beard of suds.

‘There are flies down here?’ Thordun asked, still a little stunned that anybody had spoken to him at all.

The old dwarf grunted in laughter. ‘There’s always flies, lad.’ He reached across the table, offering a hand, which Thordun took in a firm shake. ‘Handrik Hallgakrin, beardling. What brings you to the Iron Peak on this cheeriest of nights?’

‘I’m not a beardling,’ said Thordun, offended. ‘I’ve passed my fiftieth year.’

‘Have you now?’ Handrik chuckled.

‘My name is Thordun Locksplitter.’

Handrik sat back, smoothing the braids of his beard as if in deep thought. He flagged down a passing server who poured fresh ale into his tankard, and only when his cup was overflowing once more did he speak again. ‘You wouldn’t be kin of Thordred Locksplitter?’

Thordun sighed. He hadn’t expected his name to be recognised after so many years. ‘Thordred was my father.’

Handrik raised a bushy silver brow. ‘Was…?’

‘He died in the skaven attack on Nuln,’ he said, setting his mug on the table. He gripped it with both hands, his eyes growing distant. ‘You’ve never seen such evil. Plague, famine, rats under everything. It was darkness as you can’t imagine. And that was before the skaven came. Half the city was destroyed in a single night, everyone who survived lost someone. Most more than one.’

‘Thaggoraki,’ Handrik muttered darkly after a fortifying sip of ale. ‘He was a stout lad, your father. The best of lads, the sort you don’t find nowadays. I’m sure he died well and has his feet in front of a roaring fire in the Ancestors’ Hall.’ Handrik’s broad smile did little to banish the spectre that had settled over both their shoulders.

Thordun cleared his throat nervously. ‘Actually, that’s why I’m here–’

‘Hush lad,’ hissed Handrik, cutting him off. ‘Time for the speech.’

As if on cue, a horn sounded a deep bass note, and the hall filled with the scraping of stools as the gathered dwarfs rose as one. Thordun stood on tiptoe to gaze over the intervening heads to the far end of the hall. A proud white-bearded figure in royal vestments clambered onto his table.

‘That’s King Kazador,’ observed Handrik.

Thordun grunted an affirmative.

As he watched, the king raised the rune-carved ivory horn to his lips once more and sounded a long clear note that brought the hall to total silence. The king was garbed in heavy robes of blue wool and animal furs, layered over his armour as though girded for war, his simple crown affixed to a spectacular winged helm. His beard was carefully braided, plaited between five heavy golden clasps. With the reverence due a timeless heirloom, the king hung the horn from his belt, clasped his hands behind his back and prepared to address his people.

‘On this day,’ Kazador intoned in a rich baritone that carried with ease to the far reaches of the shrine, ‘we give thanks.’

The king paused and Thordun looked around. He’d expected a cheer or a round of applause, but the dwarfs looked as if they were here to suffer rather than celebrate. Behind him Handrik stood head down, eyes closed like a Sigmarite sister in prayer.

The king turned to face the image of Grungni. ‘And for what do we offer our thanks? We thank him for iron and for gromril and for gold. We thank him for copper and lead and tin.’ He shook his head with a grim laugh, shunning the face of his ancestor. ‘We could. If such things alone had value. Perhaps we thank him for teaching us to dig, that we may bury our heads beneath the stone of the karak while above a world is consumed by darkness? Or perhaps we should give thanks for the protection of walls of marble and granite? Ha!’ he barked, startling those who stood closest to him. ‘So we instead offer praise for kith and kin, safe within our mountain’s warmth.’ Kazador’s voice broke, and Thordun feared the king might weep, but the king’s eyes were dry and his face wrathful. The king stamped his heel on the table top, gesturing angrily to one of his blue-liveried servants. ‘Ale! Pass me ale, you beardless bozdok!’

Ale was hurriedly pressed into the king’s hand, and he thrust out the tankard to the grimly observant throng. ‘Thank you, Grungni, ancestor of Karak Azul, lord of mining. We offer our thanks for all that you deign to give.’ There was a rippled muttering from the dwarfs in reply. Kazador brought the ale to his lips. ‘And,’ he growled, ‘for that which you take away.’

Thordun joined his fellow dwarfs in reciprocating the king’s ‘toast’, wetting his throat with ale and retaking his seat amidst much shuffling and scraping as others did likewise.

Handrik puffed out his cheeks, noisily expelling the air between his lips. With a sigh, he downed the remnants of his ale and signalled for more. ‘And they say oratory is a fading art.’

Thordun nodded. This was definitely not the way the Feast of Grungni was observed in Nuln. The distant strains of a heated argument made him twist in his stool. The king was remonstrating with a fearsome-looking dwarf. Even from a distance, Thordun recoiled from the hard steel in the longbeard’s stare.

‘That’s Runelord Thorek Ironbrow,’ observed Handrik, following the younger dwarf’s look.

‘That’s impossible! My father told me stories of Thorek’s deeds. He must be long dead for half of them to be true.’

‘I’d wager they’re all true and then some, lad. Thorek was old when I was young and I’m no beardling myself.’ His good humour faded as he followed the distant argument. ‘I don’t envy the king. Thorek has a hammer for a tongue.’

‘Handrik, why does a venerable longbeard like you seat himself with rootless wanderers like me? Surely you should be up there at the king’s own table.’

The longbeard belched and eyed Thordun blearily. ‘You’re a young and impertinent beardling. I would have expected Thordred to impart better manners.’ He sighed, pushing his freshly refilled ale away. ‘This is my first feast in fifteen years. I would always volunteer for duty in the Underdeep on this night. It has not been the same since… since the dishonour. It happened just before Grungni’s Day you know, lad. Urk and grobi, plundering and killing. You thought Nuln was bad?’ He shook his head, laughing without humour. ‘You haven’t experienced true evil, lad. I missed the lot too. I was patrolling the Underdeep when the greenskin savages broke into the Fifth Deep. It was all done and dusted by the time word got down. To come back and see what I saw. Pray you never see the like, lad, pray you never do.’

At the royal table, Thorek was gesticulating angrily, hissing through his beard and jabbing a beringed finger into the king’s chest. Kazador, for his part, bore the runelord’s tirade in grim-faced silence until, without a word and abandoning the old dwarf mid-sentence, he turned his back and walked away. Thorek’s jaw clenched, but the venerable runelord managed to sit without doing himself the dishonour of giving vent to his fury. Kazador stalked through the seated ranks of his people with an expression set in obsidian. Not a single face looked up to note his passing, and Kazador offered less in turn as he swept from the Hall. The disapproving grumbles of a nearby table of longbeards were swiftly tempered by the brooding proximity of Runelord Thorek.

Handrik leant across the table and pulled his ale back towards him. ‘Kazador is a good king, lad.’ He took a sip and set it back. ‘A great king. You should’ve seen him before. There was none stronger. He could lift a laden ore pony, one in each hand, and outdrink any dawi in the kingdom. His tally in the grobkull is the greatest since the Golden Age and unbettered since. Aye, he was a fine king.’ His expression soured as he stared at Thordun. ‘What’s been done to him would change anybody, don’t you forget that. You can’t imagine true loss, not at your age. And then… then there is the prince.’

‘What happened to the prince?’

Handrik stiffened. ‘Enough of your questions! Let me ask one of you. What brings a son of Azul back home?’

‘I come with a company of men to recover Kazador’s lost kin.’

‘And help yourself to the reward no doubt,’ Handrik barked gruffly, but Thordun saw from the sparkle in his eyes that the old dwarf was joking. ‘Good for you, lad,’ he laughed and the two dwarfs struck tankards together and drank.

‘Tell me, Thordun Locksplitter,’ Handrik began earnestly. ‘Tell me what you will do with half the wealth of Kazador once you have earned it.’

Thordun sighed as he joined his elder in envisaging such a mountain of gold.

‘And are you ready to do battle with the squatter king, himself? He is the largest orc in these mountains and old as far as such foul beasts measure such things. Some of these beardlings say he’s as strong as Kazador in his prime, but younglings today seem quick to such judgements and half wouldn’t remember their king’s feats in any case. Present the king with the head of Gorfang Rotgut, lad, and you’re entitled to your pick of the king’s treasury.’ The old dwarf slouched, his eyes glazed, almost glittering with the heaped gold he pictured behind them. He started to laugh, a girlish giggle unbecoming so grizzled a veteran. ‘Did your father ever tell you of the time I caught him breaking into the king’s vault? Not to steal of course, just to prove that he could.’

Smiling, Thordun shook his head.

‘Well, listen up then, it’s a good story…’

Sharpwit stood in the entryway to the warlord’s newly appropriated burrow, uncertain whether to go or to stay, or if Queek even realised he was there. The chamber was large and, judging by the even grooves scoured into the rock, dug by machine rather than by skaven paws. Ratskin parchments scratched with wireframe diagrams of unrecognisable machines littered the floor space. Long bronze-plated shelves ran the length of the burrow at waist height, packed with strange, many-pronged instruments and alchemical apparatuses that bubbled and spat, filling the small burrow with a vinegar sharpness.

The warlord kicked through the sheets of ratskin towards the vat of acidic fluid that rattled against the rivets sealing it to the shelf. Sharpwit cringed in anticipation.

‘Great warlord, might I urge–’

Sharpwit squeaked in alarm, ducking as the warlord hurled something his way. It was made of brass and gold, some manner of clockwork contraption with spindly arms around a central sphere. It flew over his head and clattered into the pile of similar junk that was taking shape in the tunnel outside the burrow. Sharpwit sucked in a sharp breath. That had looked valuable.

The warlord had soon become distracted from his plans for the immediate annihilation of Karak Azul. Sharpwit felt he deserved no small measure of thanks for that fact: a statue in warpstone before the gateway to the Shattered Tower, perhaps? As obvious as it had appeared to Sharpwit to await the arrival of one’s army before attacking, Queek would not see it. The warlord’s madness seemed limitless. Even now, Queek muttered to himself as he sorted through the objects and treasures of the skaven that had previously called this burrow theirs, studying them before invariably tossing them out, keeping only the most innocuous of things. A clockwork timepiece clad in brass. A rat skull with glowing ingots of warpstone set into its tiny eyes. A ghostly white moth pinned to a vellum sheet. Queek plucked the insect from its page and, with a lunatic grin, pinned it into the fur behind his ears, whispering as though it listened. And perhaps, in Queek’s broken mind, it did.

‘Queek-Warlord. Maybe it is time we prepared. Your army will be here soon.’

Sharpwit squealed, ducking again as the warlord changed his mind over the rat skull. He watched it soar, striking the roof of the tunnel. The precious warpstone slipped from its sockets and rolled away down the tunnel’s incline towards Deadclaw. Sharpwit sniffed in dismay. Such waste.

‘Queek not run after little rats,’ Queek whispered after a time. ‘Is that what Old-thing thinks? He thinks little rats call on Queek and he go?’ He tittered, muffling his laughter behind a paw. His eyes flared and without warning the warlord suddenly pounced.

Sharpwit jerked into motion but too late. Queek grabbed him by the throat and hauled him from the ground. The old skaven swung like a stalled pendulum in his grip.

‘Is that what Old-thing thinks?’ Queek asked again.

‘No-no,’ Sharpwit croaked. ‘Queek’s clawleaders come here. Of course they come here.’

Queek dropped him and Sharpwit gasped, his tail twitching in time to his ragged breathing.

‘Clever-smart. Now be away-gone. Queek very busy.’

Again the warlord broke into a fit of laughter, and Sharpwit glanced nervously at the room’s third occupant. The brutalised warrior of Clan Rictus moaned in agony, lying at the rear of the burrow in a space that the warlord had cleared for him. The skaven looked at him, beseeching. As if Sharpwit could help. As if he would.

Sharpwit’s tail lashed. ‘Queek-Warlord is too important for such tasks. Allow humble Sharpwit to interrogate this traitor-meat. Glorious Queek then… then…’ he trailed off before adding desperately. ‘Then he find-catch dwarf-things to kill.’

‘Deadclaw has rats and it has dry wood-stuff, but it has no dwarf-things.’ Queek turned his back, his attention riveted on his mewling captive. ‘Now leave. Before Queek does something unpleasant.’

The heat of the Clan Skryre foundry beneath Deadclaw was an almost tangible thing, a physical presence that made walking like a wade through boiling mud. Long before Sharpwit had set paws over the threshold, the acrid stench of its industry had assaulted him from the tunnels. It flowed from the airless chamber like semi-molten rock. His nose recoiled from it, a hot acid burn of a smell that forced tears from his single eye. He pressed on, the grinding of rusted metal evolving from a bass rumble that sent vibrations tingling through his feet to a perpetual percussive thunder that rattled his teeth in their diseased gums. Mammoth wheels, the source of the ungodly din, ground slowly through the smog.

He coughed, bringing up a clot of bloody phlegm. The air was dense with dust, vaporised warpstone and simple lung-darkening ash. Suppressing another cough that threatened to become a fit, he smothered his snout with his sleeve and looked about. Between the ever-turning wheels, wiry figures hurried about on inscrutable errands. Bubbling vats of molten iron for casting glowed white hot, swaying precariously from bowing rods embedded in vast, pyramidal, iron stanchions. Steam rose from the vats to turn the wheels, the motion transduced down a chain of cogs and ratchets into the smog-clouded distance of the foundry’s core.

Sharpwit tried to pick out individuals through the haze as he fingered the strange mechanical device in his paws. He examined it again. It was the spinning-armed device that Queek had thrown out of his newly claimed burrow. Of all the burrows Queek could have claimed, must it have been that of Warlock Fizqwik? The warlord had no notion of diplomacy. Only the most devious of skaven could have laid claim to the burrow Queek had simply taken for his own. It was an oasis of cool amidst the teeming firepit of Deadclaw, and a skaven strong enough to hold such a prize was unlikely to take his eviction gracefully. He turned again to the object in his paws. The maltreatment had caused it to stall. The two little spheres that orbited the larger central body jerked like a freshly animated cadaver. The property of a warlock, whatever its function, he thought as he tucked the contraption inside his jerkin.

Creeping deeper into the forge, an object that didn’t seem to belong attracted his notice and he limped towards it. It was a box, taller than Sharpwit and twice as deep. From between its crudely nailed slats came the occasional flash of warp lightning, painting Sharpwit in alternating patterns of eerie green light and shadow. Stepping closer, he could hear sounds above the endless metallic grinding. It sounded like the chittering of many hundreds of rats, furry bodies rustling against their cramped confinement. He pressed his good eye to the space between two boards and was convinced he saw hundreds of beady red dots glaring hungrily back.

‘You-there, away-back!’

Jolted by surprise, Sharpwit stepped hurriedly back, raising open paws in the air and dropping his muzzle in a general gesture of deference.

The hunched shape of a warlock engineer broke through the grasping black tendrils of smog. His piebald fur was swaddled in thick leather overalls with little regard for the unbearable heat. The ratkin’s head was enclosed in a copper helm from which sprouted an array of delicate and unfathomable protuberances. He leant in close, taking a deep sniff of Sharpwit’s scent before satisfying himself that the intruder’s fear was genuine. The warlock straightened, adjusting one of his helm’s devices: a multi-segmented arm that held a green-lensed ocular attachment over his right eye. The warlock struggled with the appendage, its stiff joints uncooperatively tugging it from his face. In the end, he held it in place with his paw, focusing on Sharpwit as though analysing a specimen for dissection.

‘What you want-seek?’ he asked suspiciously.

Sharpwit bobbed again, for safety’s sake. From the corner of his eye, he watched a pair of skavenslaves feed dripping hunks of red meat between the boards of the mysterious crate. The box jolted and erupted with wild screams. The slaves scurried clear, thankful for their fingers, before an unconcerned warlock with an electric goad encouraged them back to their task, a red-sodden wicker basket on the ground between them still heaped with fresh meat.

‘I come-search for the great and knowledgeable warlock of Clan Skryre who has so skilfully readied Deadclaw for the glorious conquest of Azul-Place.’

‘I am Fizqwik,’ the warlock muttered cautiously. ‘What old-thing wants to know?’ The warlock leant in closer, all evasion forsaken. He adjusted a clicking dial around the circumference of his ocular lens. ‘Just how old are you, Old-thing? Twenty? How are you still living?’

Sharpwit squirmed under the warlock’s scrutiny. ‘The dwarf-thing’s fall is soon-quick and you, most skilful and loyal servant of the Council, have been relieved of your most hard-heavy duties.’

‘What?’ Fizqwik spluttered, suddenly paying attention. ‘Fizqwik is in charge here! What two-warptoken warlord do they send to replace me?’ Sharpwit opened his mouth but the warlock wasn’t listening. He sniffed, genuinely hurt. ‘After all this time that I battle dwarf-thing hordes. Almost single-pawed! No warlord steals from Clan Skryre! Come-come!’ This last was snapped in Sharpwit’s direction as the warlock swept past him towards the Deadclaw tunnels. ‘Are lots-many nasty surprises hidden in my burrow. I teach the little warlord not to trifle with Fizqwik!’

‘Your burrow?’ Sharpwit asked, feeling his stomach drop. Of course, the warlock wanted to go to his burrow. ‘Hold-wait! Queek-Warlord should come here. Yes-yes! Show you are an important skaven of much distinction.’

The warlock paused. ‘You say Queek? The Headtaker is here?’

Sharpwit nodded eagerly. He knew from his dealings in Skavenblight that the threat of the Headtaker was worth a thousand warriors. The choking smog and metallic fumes did little to hide the clenching of the warlock’s musk glands at the name of the most notorious warlord in the Worlds Edge Mountains. Fizqwik shuffled in an agony of indecision. Appearing to arrive at a solution, he barked a summons into the smog and a junior warlock came running, a stunted creature with golden-brown fur and bright orange eyes.

‘Peekrit,’ Fizqwik ordered. ‘My weapon!’

The apprentice engineer bobbed acquiescence and scurried away into the din of the foundry.

‘Most smart and considered–’

‘Come-come, Old-thing!’

Surrendering to the sinking feeling, Sharpwit limped after the departing warlock. He shook his head in despair. Could these spoiled whelps not cooperate for just a little while?

The keen-eyed young warlock came running out of the smog at the head of a rabble of slaves, and pressed a long-barrelled musket into his master’s paws. The smooth walnut stock bulged with whirring accoutrements of brass and chrome. The engineer grinned cruelly as he took it, sliding open the flash pan and filing it with blackpowder, then stuffing a smooth warpstone bullet down the barrel. A puff of warpstone fume vented from a miniature chimney stack in the weapon’s side as it accepted the new load. Fizqwik bounced excitedly, the power in his paws and its heady warpstone emissions filling him with a bloodthirsty eagerness. He stroked the barrel.

‘I show fool-Queek why Clan Skryre is greatest of the clans!’ He squeaked a command to the slaves and they fell in around him.

The warlock marched into the teeming tunnels of Deadclaw, the skaven they passed swift to press their muzzles to the dirt. Fizqwik lapped up the adulation like spilt cream, acknowledging the fawning vermin with a triumphal gesture, pumping his bulbous warplock in both paws over his head as he walked.

‘Fizqwik!’ Sharpwit snapped, neglecting in his impatience to properly gild his words with flattery. ‘There are things you do not know.’

‘What does Fizqwik not know? I am the most skilful of warlocks. No mysteries to Fizqwik.’

Sharpwit nodded obligingly, cursing through clenched teeth the general ineptitude of the skaven race. Without pausing in their progress through the narrow tunnels and wide, scale-scraped caverns of Deadclaw, Sharpwit tried to explain that Queek Headtaker was the chosen leader of the Thirteen and then finally, his exasperation transparent, that Queek had claimed Fizqwik’s precious burrow as his own.

Fizqwik glowered. ‘They say Queek is a mad-thing. Must be true-talk. None other would take-steal from Fizqwik of Clan Skryre.’ The warlock glared angrily at Peekrit who quickly nodded.

‘Yes-yes,’ the young engineer nodded in eager agreement. ‘Fizqwik is the most famed and terrible of all warlocks.’

Sharpwit rolled his eye and muttered a silent curse.

The party turned from the main tunnel into an upward-sloping passageway. It was littered with metallic debris: springs, cogs and a splayed mess of copper wiring. It resembled a trail of corpses, bleeding and disembowelled, all of them victims of Queek’s disfavour. Fizqwik’s eyes widened as he took stock of the extent of Queek’s vandalism. The warlock’s lips pulled back over black gums, a low snarl rattling from his throat. He clutched his warplock musket to his aproned chest in a grip so tight that his claws screamed across the chrome panelling along the barrel.

‘Clan Mors will compensate me for this,’ Fizqwik hissed. ‘Queek’s head will not be enough.’

They proceeded through the wreckage of the warlock’s former belongings to the burrow’s entrance. The pile of junk was deeper here, a dragon’s treasure in platinum and palladium and copper and silver. Warpstone power cells glowed dimly, fading towards a slow death beneath the weight of rare and precious elements. Rising above the mound of dubious treasures like volcanic isles, a quintet of dusty elmwood barrels seemed quite innocuous. Beneath the layering of grime, Sharpwit could discern the markings of the klinkarhun carved into the wood.

He picked his way through the sharp and probably toxic mess to the nearest barrel. His claws traced the chiselled lettering, lips moving as he translated the dwarfish writing. ‘Grumbold’s…’ He paused, taking an involuntary step back. He took up his crutch and wedged its sharpened point under the lid. It was dwarfish design and the seal was good, but after a breath-stealing moment of effort he was able to lever the lid from the barrel and drink deep of the scent of hops. ‘Speckled Green-thing,’ he whispered with a touch of awe. He turned on Fizqwik. ‘Brewed in Azgal-Place. Unique. A gift to the kings of Azul-Place. Why did you steal this? Your job was to ready Deadclaw, not to steal from dwarf-things. They are not to know we are coming!’

The warlock clutched his musket defensively. ‘Fizqwik is too smart-clever. Dwarf-things too slow to follow here.’

‘Fizqwik is an imbecile! Dwarf-things are not stupid. And they always remember.’

‘Fizqwik is not an imbecile. Fizqwik is cunningest and most wise of warlocks. Everyone knows dwarf-things are slow of paw and thought. Now,’ he said, addressing Peekrit, ‘we show Queek-Warlord the cleverness of Clan Skryre.’ The warlock waited impatiently until it dawned on the young skaven that his master expected him to go first.

‘But surely,’ Peekrit whined, ‘you should make it certain-clear that you are not afraid.’

Fizqwik bared his fangs, jabbing his apprentice in the behind with the barrel of his loaded musket. Peekrit yelped and finally hurried ahead. Under Fizqwik’s baleful glare, the slaves streamed after him. The warlock turned on Sharpwit, gesturing down the burrow with his musket. Shooting the warlock an evil look, he did as he was directed.

Sharpwit found little comfort in the scent of so many fellow skaven. And it had little to do with one of them pointing a loaded warplock at his back. There was something disturbing about this tunnel. As if it were haunted. As if the Headtaker had somehow infected it with his madness.

‘Hurry-scurry,’ Fizqwik agitated from behind him. ‘The others get ahead.’

Sharpwit took a deep breath and threw his shoulder into his crutches to pick up his pace. He hobbled from the tunnel mouth into the cool dark of the warlord’s burrow. Almost immediately he gagged on the sour musk of fear. Peekrit and the slaves stared in horror at the brutal mess that the warlord, in his insane inspiration, had created. A reel of copper wire had been unwound along the ceiling from corner to corner. Severed paws, threaded through their palms, hung from the wire as morbid decoration. Sharpwit could smell their freshness. Blood still drizzled from their wrists. They had belonged to the slaves that had borne the Headtaker’s trophies from the City of Pillars. Those trophies stared down from the four corners of the room. There was an orc and a dwarf – the two races that Queek despised most of all – but also the skull, spine and ribcage of a skaven which lay draped across a stretch of shelving, and the pickled hands and feet of a human hanging by a cord from one end of the grisly wire. In any other place, Sharpwit might have mocked the way their attention made his skin crawl, but here, in this place, he felt them watching.

‘What is this?’ breathed Fizqwik.

Sharpwit limped forward. Something had caught his nose. Unnoticed beneath the bleeding madness that hung from the ceiling a shattered corpse lay forgotten. He caught a glimpse of black fur. He prodded it with the tip of his crutch. Unexpectedly, it gave a piteous moan and Sharpwit squealed in fright, tottering back towards Fizqwik. The warlock had still not noticed the body on the floor. His horrified gaze shot across the room from skull to skull.

‘Queek sees rats, yes-yes. Why are so many rats here?’

Sharpwit, Fizqwik, Peekrit and a dozen skavenslaves yelped in unison, each seeking to cower behind the other as Queek Headtaker emerged from one of the burrow’s secondary tunnels. Behind him, irrelevant in the warlord’s shadow, a large black-furred skaven scuttled, bent low under a stack of ratskin papers.

Ignoring the slaves, Queek fixed the three skaven in his sights one by one. He grinned manically as he held their stares. Sharpwit was last. He yearned to look away, but it felt like turning his back on an ambitious rival with a knife.

‘Queek hears so-so many voices.’ The warlord’s muzzle drifted to the room’s corners where his trophies waited and watched. Sharpwit felt their eyes like needles in his soul. ‘Why does Queek not hear your voices? Why in Queek’s burrow?’

‘Queek’s?’ Fizqwik squealed, resentment briefly overriding good sense. As soon as the words escaped he cowered back behind his slaves, emitting a shrill whine as Queek’s wild eyes tracked lazily towards his.

‘Tinker-rat squeak-talk?’

Fizqwik’s jaw worked soundlessly for a moment, finally managing a strangled squeak. ‘Queek’s… burrow… very… nice?’ Fizqwik paused to catch breath, hugging his musket to his chest. Nervously he cleared his throat, struggling to recover some dignity even as he wilted under Queek’s mad stare. ‘I came to… er… welcome-greet and… um…’

‘Is Tinker-rat done with squeak-talk?’

‘Um… yes.’

‘Then go away now.’

The warlock gaped, frozen. A gentle shove in the back from Peekrit made him start, and he suddenly remembered himself, grovelling low. His snout scraped a shallow furrow into the dirt as he backed away until, pride gone, he turned tail and pelted for all his fur was worth. Peekrit and the skavenslaves hurried after him, the sounds of an anxious scuffle breaking out as soon as the fleeing skaven were out of sight as each battled not to be the last to flee the lair of the Headtaker.

Sharpwit’s lip twitched nervously. It was below his station to scurry and hide with the rest of the rabble, but that didn’t keep his tail from twitching with terror as the warlord’s undiluted attention now fixed on him. His knees weakened in an unconscious desire to show humility but he restrained them, instead leaning forward onto his crutches.

‘Good-useful you stay, Old-thing. Queek itches to feast on dwarf-meat and is lots-much to do.’

Sharpwit lowered his muzzle, willing servility to radiate from every gland. ‘Anything, warlord.’

Queek gestured at the black-furred skaven that had followed him in. The muscular warrior wore a haunted expression, the look of one who has traced the path fate has laid before him and numbed himself to the horrors that await.

‘New-Ska,’ Queek ordered. ‘Go through paper-stuff with Old-thing. It is boring, like Old-thing.’

‘New-Ska?’ Sharpwit asked.

‘Yes-yes,’ Queek muttered, returning to Sharpwit after apparently listening to something the dwarf skull in the near corner had to whisper. ‘New-Ska is faithful-strong friend of Queek.’

The skaven looked hopelessly towards Sharpwit. His broad shoulders sagged despairingly and he offered a glum nod.

Sharpwit studied Queek’s hapless attendant carefully. Queek was obviously so attached to his muscle-bound brute of a subordinate that his mind couldn’t fully accommodate the loss. Well, that just made the next little titbit he had to wave in front of the lion’s jaw all the more tantalising.

‘Does almighty Queek not know that Ska Bloodtail still lives?’

‘He what?’ Queek stood stock still. The madness in his eyes momentarily coalesced into a single point of focused clarity. Sharpwit quailed before its intensity. Queek bounded forward, dragging the bent old skaven from his feet to meet the warlord muzzle to muzzle. ‘You say-squeak Ska alive?’ The warlord took his shoulders in his paws and shook them roughly, as though truth were a thing that could be shaken free. ‘Where is he? Where is Ska?’

Sharpwit squeaked, tasting blood where he had bitten his tongue. ‘I hear-say Grey Seer Razzel found him. He rests in the stormvermin barracks in Deadclaw.’

Queek let Sharpwit drop. He threw his gaze from side to side as though seeking counsel on this unexpected development. ‘White-fur?’

Sharpwit nodded stiffly. ‘He is safe-well and awake. You should go-see.’ Sharpwit cringed, worried he had pushed too hard.

Queek barely noticed, nodding absently. He turned to New-Ska as if seeing him for the very first time. ‘Who are you? Give-give papers to Old-thing!’

The black-furred warrior bowed gratefully, dropping the stack of papers at Sharpwit’s feet and dashing for the tunnel before the warlord could change his mind. Sharpwit bent to pick up one of the documents, a ratskin parchment that was thick with the claw-scratch writings of the skaven language. Sharpwit sneered. It would surprise him to learn that Queek could read, much less write.

He looked up to find that Queek was gone. Either the warlord didn’t think Sharpwit worthy of a dismissal or, more likely, he had simply forgotten he was there. He let the parchment fall. Sharpwit would attend to them later.

The trembling mound of muscle and hanging flesh that had once been a fierce warrior of Clan Rictus whimpered softly through broken teeth. Sharpwit started towards it. The rhythmic clatter of his sticks on dusty ground resounded between the gruesome assembly of totems and trophies. The thing raised a shredded stump, the evidence that it had once been a skaven’s head becoming apparent only when it opened to reveal a row of cratered, bleeding gums. A whisper of hot air passed its lips. Sharpwit’s stomach turned, unable to avoid a spasm of sympathetic pain in his own jaw. Still grimacing, he leant closer, realising that the poor creature was trying to speak. He strained his hearing but the wet babble could not quite congeal into words. It might have been…

‘Help me.’

‘Toskitt very brave. Sharpwit is here, Toskitt. Tell me what you tell to Queek.’

Toskitt moaned, trying to shake his head even as the action caused him pain. ‘Nothing,’ he whispered.

Sharpwit grinned cruelly and, such was the way the skaven recoiled, he fancied the evil glow of his warpstone fangs was perceived even by Toskitt’s sightless eye sockets. ‘Why do I not believe you? It hardly matters. Queek knows you would say anything. You probably point a claw at everyone before Queek finished. He won’t know what to think.’

Toskitt struggled to reach out for him. Flesh hung from his arm as though it had been savaged by wolves.

‘But if Queek leaves you alone with me and he comes back and finds you dead? Well, maybe then it be easy-clear who sent you.’

‘Please–’

‘Hsssh, Toskitt,’ Sharpwit soothed. ‘Queek must trust Razzel, then maybe Razzel can have faith in Queek. Azul-Place will fall. You die for the greater good of Skavendom, brave Toskitt.’

Sharpwit stepped back, lifting one crutch so it rested on Toskitt’s heart. The skaven sobbed, begging and pleading, as Sharpwit pressed forward. Even at this point, the skaven clung desperately to life. Death would be deliverance. And how many skaven could claim to have made such a contribution in their short, frantic lives as Toskitt would in death?

The stake-like point burrowed into the skaven’s trembling hide. It wasn’t quick and it wasn’t painless. Toskitt’s feeble screams didn’t die until well after the spear reached the end of its slow journey and perforated the walls of his desperately beating heart. Sharpwit wheezed as Toskitt’s body relaxed into death’s embrace. He tugged his stick free and rested on it wearily. He wasn’t a young rat any more.

An itch beneath his spine made him turn. Three pairs of sightless eyes followed his progress – watching, judging, remembering. He shivered. With cold reason, he sought to exorcise the queasiness settling in his gut.

He was being a fool. The Headtaker was mad.

He could not truly share the secrets of the dead.

Chapter Five

Handrik sat on the lip of a two-wheeled cart hitched to a pair of sturdy pit mules. Everywhere, hurrying dwarfs struggled into their armour, many still bleary eyed from the festivities of the previous night as they ran for their musters. The halls rang to the pounding of hobnailed boots and the remnant echoes of the last great blast from the Thunderhorn. The thrill of excitement was palpable. But, thought Handrik, no excuse for shoddiness.

‘Call that axe sharp, lad?’

The young clansdwarf who had been targeted for Handrik’s ire pulled up sharply at the rebuke. The royal blue of Karak Azul was worn with pride over tough, dwarf-forged chainmail. ‘What’s your name, lad?’

‘My name is Bagrin, sir. Bagrin Threkkson.’

‘Pass up that excuse for a weapon, Bagrin.’

The clansdwarf did so, and Handrik lifted it to the light. The illumination cast by the ceiling glimstones trembled with the thundering of so many feet and Handrik studied the reflected light as it played across the axe’s edge before experimentally shearing a grey hair from his beard. He frowned.

‘I’ve suffered the butts of thaggoraki spears with a keener edge than this. I’ll be keeping an eye out for you later. I expect to find this axe sharp enough to take the head off a troll by the time we reach Black Crag.’

‘Yes, venerable elder.’

Handrik shooed him away, and the dwarf stowed his axe at his belt as he hurried off to join his clan’s muster.

Handrik kicked his legs, wincing at the pain induced by that simple movement. He shifted about, the cart’s undercarriage creaking almost as loudly his spine. The cart was loaded with that most essential of campaign supplies, forty-eight kegs of Ekrund Brown, lashed with thick rope and covered in a tarpaulin. It was a stout brew to put fire in a dwarf’s belly and iron in his heart. One keg had already been tapped, and Handrik poured himself a pint to replenish the one he had just finished. His skull still ached from the previous night’s drinking, and he watched with a disapproving eye as the mighty throng of Karak Azul assembled. He took a long swallow of ale.

The day after the Feast of Grungni: a damned poor day to go to war.

But he couldn’t help but share a measure of excitement. For fifteen years now, the peerless industry of the Iron Peak had been bent towards this one goal. The Black Crag would be purged and vengeance exacted on the squatter king. Cannon had been cast, axes forged by the thousand, beardlings tempered by battle into hardened warriors. Today was the day of grudgement. Karak Azul stood ready, and Handrik Hallgakrin was not about to let a sore head and some trifling wound keep him from a battle that would be remembered until long after the mountains themselves crumbled to the wind.

‘Handrik!’ cried a voice in oddly accented Khazalid.

Handrik glanced over his pint’s foaming head to see Thordun easing his way between the purposefully flowing clansdwarfs. The young dwarf waved his wide leather hat over his head in a bid to attract his attention.

‘What is it, young Thordun?’ he asked. The dwarf’s grim look was enough to know that his news would not be good.

‘The king refused me permission to go to Black Crag. The loremaster tells me no more hired swords will be sent after the king’s family.’

‘I suspected he might,’ Handrik sighed, waving down Thordun’s angry retort as it formed. He drew another sup of ale before deigning to proceed. ‘My hopes were with you, truly they were. You’re a dwarf of these halls, and you seemed keen. I’d hoped Kazador might be moved by your passion.’ He grunted and took a sip of his tankard. ‘A fool’s hope I suppose, but you can’t fault an old greybeard for trying. You’re just too late. Kazador’s patience with sell-swords and glory hunters has run thin. And now the throng of the Iron Peak will be settling its own scores.’ He nodded approvingly. ‘As it should.’

From his high vantage, Handrik’s gaze swept the gathered throng. In his youth, he had lived through the Great War. He had been an Ironbreaker, oathsworn to the defence of the hold, and it had been his lot to be left behind, but he still remembered. It had been a time of trial, but also one of triumph. A time when whole pages were torn from books of grudges, and when new volumes needed binding simply to keep pace with the accumulated wrongs. It had been the greatest coming together of the dwarf kingdoms since the War of Vengeance and, even though the throng of Karak Azul claimed allies from throughout the Karaz Ankor, the comparison was unfavourable.

He sighed. Such was the way of things.

Thordun appeared disconsolate. ‘I’ve come so far. To fail now, without even making it to Black Crag…’

‘Chin up, lad. I seem to recall a fresh-faced beardling trying to impress on me how he’d come for honour rather than gold. Was that true, or just the ale talking?’

‘It’s true,’ Thordun said firmly. ‘It’s just… I doubt the men I travel with will be so charitable.’

‘Umgi,’ Handrik scoffed, spitting out the word like a curse. ‘Never trust them, lad. I’ve yet to meet the man who could hold an oath any better than they hold their ale. Scant better than elves in my book. But if you’re that worried about them, know that Kazador is staying true to his promised reward. He intends to split the prize between all who bring warriors to his cause. Nine men will not put the fear of their foul gods into grobi hearts, but they’ll earn you your share. It’ll be yours to split as you wish.’

Thordun looked about, pinching his lips in thought. The icons of fourscore clans and more waved above the helmeted heads of the dwarfs, stern faces forged in gold and iron and bronze. ‘It’ll not be the king’s ransom I promised, but I’m sure they’ll agree. It’s better than nothing to show for such a journey.’

‘Good on you, lad. Now hurry. We wait only on the king.’ He gestured to a rune-banner held aloft above a silver sea, the warlike countenance of the ancestor, King Lunn, fashioned in bloody copper. He raised his voice to shout over the growing din. ‘Gather your men and seek out Thane Hrathgar of Karak Eight Peaks. He could use a strong body or two.’ He made the twinned axe of Grimnir across his chest. ‘Grimnir lend your arm strength.’

‘And yours, Handrik,’ Thordun returned, bowing hurriedly before dashing away.

Handrik leant back to refill his cup a second time. The Ekrund brewery wasn’t what it used to be. Must be all those grobi pissing in the aquifers. There was a time when three pints of Ekrund Brown would have had his head spinning, but it hadn’t so much as blunted the edges of the pain in his spine. Downing the ale in one go, he gritted his teeth and leapt from the back of the cart. Nothing more than willpower kept him from collapsing to his knees. He gripped the haft of his battleaxe with white-knuckled steel and wiped his beard of spilled ale. He tossed the empty flagon into the back of the cart. He heard it rattle like a stone dropped down a shaft. Handrik Hallgakrin would not be wheeled into battle like spare cannon shot or a trenching shovel.

For Hallar, for Kazrik, for all the others.

And no pain would compare to that.

Grey Seer Razzel almost leapt clean out of his fur as Sharpwit’s scratched and wrinkled nose emerged from the tunnel and into his burrow. Seeing who it was, the grey seer settled back onto his stool. His tail coiled nervously about the leg of the dark wooden table he sat behind. Drumming his claws on the hard surface, he strained to peer over Sharpwit’s head, breathing a deep sigh of relief at the reassuring sight of his albino guard. The giant warrior could have been more inspiring, but the recent disappearance of the second and last of his comrades from Skavenblight had bequeathed him an expression of perpetually paranoid anxiety. Razzel barked at the albino warrior as it glanced over its shoulder for the fiftieth time. It straightened as though stung, shuffling from the entryway and glaring balefully around the room with the safety of a dirt wall at its back.

Sharpwit smirked, taking in the grey seer’s less than salubrious abode. The table at which he sat was cracked down the middle and spotted black with insect dung. The burrow itself, already cramped without the addition of three skaven bodies, was possessed of a perplexing and not at all pleasant odour that almost certainly arose from the black beans that spilled from the mould-ridden sacks piled up against the bare earth walls. Perched between the sacking, rats followed him with warily glittering eyes.

‘So, this is where the great Razzel tremble-hides?’

Razzel snarled, but didn’t move. His stillness was uncanny, his myriad charms and chimes muffled to a whisper by the lack of motion. ‘The prophet-seer of the Horned Rat does not hide.’

‘Do not pout-sulk, chosen one,’ Sharpwit sneered. ‘You tried to rid the world of Queek and you failed. This time you are one lucky traitor-rat. By now you should be walking dead-meat but, like my patron, I do not discard useful things. I fix-mend for you. Can Razzel forget his little games and be useful?’

‘The Council chose me to lead, not you! How dare you–’

‘Be silent!’ Sharpwit squeaked and the easy authority in his tone had the grey seer doing precisely that.

The silence stretched before Razzel asked sulkily: ‘How do you fix-mend?’

‘No matter.’ Sharpwit limped forward, taking the second stool at Razzel’s table. The grey seer had arranged his meagre furnishings to ensure his guests exposed their backs to the entrance. Sharpwit tried to appear comfortable, but his skin crawled in protest. ‘But if ever you are asked then squeak-say that, in kindness and contrition for your grave misunderstanding with Queek, it was you that help-healed Ska Bloodtail.’

‘Why would I help that worm-brain offal-meat? I kill-kill if I can.’

‘You will not!’ Sharpwit snapped. ‘And your other storm-vermin stands watch-guard to be certain-sure no other has same idea.’

Back to the wall, the albino noticeably relaxed. He sagged into his halberd as the crippling tension released his muscles.

‘You order my guards?’

‘Yes-yes,’ Sharpwit hissed. ‘They are not Razzel’s playthings. They are gifts of the Council and protecting Ska will help. Queek-Warlord has an… unhealthy attachment. He will be easier to control with Ska alive.’

Unable to help himself, Sharpwit twisted on his stool to peer back into the tunnel. No dark shape swam through his mist-shrouded sight and he could hear nothing but the comforting babble of thousands of skaven living out their short, pointless lives. Reassured, he turned back to Razzel. The grey seer was nervously flicking his claws at the brass chimes that fell in bunches like rotten fruit from his horns, listening to their dull notes.

‘I ask again, Razzel. Can you be useful?’

‘Grey Seer Razzel!’

‘I find-sniff your hiding hole, Razzel. You want Queek to come-find, also?’

Razzel paled even further than natural as he considered. He smiled slyly and Sharpwit was abruptly reminded of how unstable and perilous an ally the grey seer could be. ‘I know things. Things you and Queek do not. Things you find most useful to hear, hmmm?’

‘Yes-yes? What do you learn-smell?’

Razzel tittered, setting his chimes to jangling. ‘Why would I tell mangy Old-fur? Razzel finds a tasty-treat, why should I share, hmmm? Maybe I just tell Queek and have no need for you.’

‘You could try. But maybe Queek would kill-slay on sight. Maybe a clever grey seer would get on the warlord’s good side first.’

The grey seer looked sullen, but only for the briefest of spans before the obvious excitement at his information beset him again and he burst into a fit of manic laughter, leaning across the table to confront Sharpwit with his mad eyes. ‘The dwarf-things, they leave. Even now their armies move.’ He laughed again, his mind basking in the darkness of his god’s favour. ‘We will kill-smash with ease. Even the warriors mad-Queek left behind will not be needed. Easily they will die-die. Their souls will strengthen the Great Horned Rat for his return.’

Intently, Sharpwit leant forward too, meeting the grey seer halfway. ‘How do you know this?’

Razzel sat back, preening his claws through his lustrous white fur. ‘Like the Great Horned One himself, his chosen sees all.’

‘Squeak-tell,’ Sharpwit growled.

Razzel eyed the older skaven for a moment before extracting a small statuette from within the folds of his robes. It was carved of wutroth wood into the likeness of a slinking rat, its fangs rendered with glass, its eyes picked out with tiny ingots of glowing warpstone. A long tail looped around its feet to form a base. Razzel placed it on the table, his paws making about it a possessive wall.

‘Even dwarf-thing places have rats.’ The grey seer stroked his carving, and the manner of its posture, body and snout rising into his paw, made it appear as if the creature gnashed its teeth in pleasure at the sorcerer’s touch. ‘This catalyst helps them hear the Horned Rat’s call. Lets a skilful user of his gifts use their body to hear and smell. Spy-rats show me the dwarf-thing army gathering, show me their secret councils. Good-lucky for us as the army is vast. Good-lucky for Sharp-wit,’ he added, pointedly. ‘Much mightier than Sharpwit squeak-tells before Council.’

‘I always was a lucky rat,’ he murmured, not rising to the bait. ‘Where does this army go?’

‘Does it matter?’ Razzel shrugged. ‘Away-gone.’

‘Show me. Show me what you saw.’ Sharpwit reached for the carving but the grey seer snatched it away, clutching it jealously to his breast.

‘No,’ he said.

‘Why not?’ Sharpwit snarled.

‘Because Prophet-Seer Razzel, chosen of the Horned One, is not yours to command. And because I do not want to.’

Sharpwit growled but held his tongue. It was likely that the act of splitting his consciousness across the aether rendered the seer helpless, and no amount of cajoling would convince him to place himself at Sharpwit’s mercy. He filed the knowledge away for later use.

He shuffled around on his stool at the sound of a disturbance from outside the seer’s burrow. It was a minor thing, no more than a scuffle, but enough to make his hackles rise.

Across the table, Razzel sat up and snarled at the albino. ‘Fool-fool! The Council sends you to hide in corners? Go look-smell what is happening.’

The stormvermin gave a slight nod and, flipping his resting halberd between his paws, strode into the tunnel to beat the fear of the Horned One into whoever was unfortunate enough to start a fight within hearing of Grey Seer Razzel.

Razzel leant across the table, snapping his claws under Sharpwit’s nose. ‘Do not think to try-test. You remember who is in charge here.’

Sharpwit gave an irritated nod, opening his mouth to speak just at the instant that an albino body smacked into the table between them. Razzel squealed and fell backwards from his stool into the rancid sacks, sending startled rats streaming across the floor. Sharpwit swivelled on his stool as the albino’s halberd followed its wielder’s earlier trajectory, the flat of the shaft smacking into the stormvermin’s side to elicit a fresh cry of pain.

Sharpwit coughed, drawing in an intoxicating measure of warpstone dust. But not enough to completely obscure the scent of freshly spilled blood that clung like a vengeful spirit to the Headtaker. The warlord was in full armour but for his absent trophy rack. He dragged the groaning albino from the table, but otherwise paid the creature no heed. One paw remained firmly hidden behind his back as he stalked around the edge of the table, studying Sharpwit and Razzel as a cat might be intrigued by a pair of oddly behaving mice.

‘White-fur and Old-thing,’ Queek whispered. ‘Watch them plot. Watch them scheme.’

‘No-no, most understanding and wicked of warlords,’ Sharpwit began. ‘Razzel finds most crucial information. He knows his burrow too drab for great warlords and find-seeks humble Sharpwit to bring to the attention of the illustrious Queek.’

Razzel nodded eagerly, climbing back up to the table. His chimes filled the burrow with broken music.

Queek remained impassive, stalking slowly towards where Sharpwit sat and Razzel, his stool forgotten, now stood, nervous claws drumming on the table’s top. Sharpwit flinched as Queek came up behind him. He felt his hot, vile breath on the side of his face before the warlord moved on, circling around behind Razzel.

All this time, the warlord hadn’t once removed his paw from behind his back.

Sharpwit tried to sneak a peek around his shoulders but Queek angled himself to thwart him. Queek leant forward so his muzzle rested on the grey seer’s shoulder. The shivering sorcerer jangled with disharmonious terror.

‘Lies, these voices squeak. Lies. Queek sees poison on little rat-thing lips.’

‘No,’ Razzel stammered. ‘It is all true.’

Queek frowned as he straightened, granting Razzel the briefest of moments of relief before he struck. His arm was a crimson blur, so fast that neither skaven had moved until it was too late.

The warlord’s gauntleted fist smacked wetly against the table top, the impact spraying blood over the horror-stricken faces of the watching skaven. Sharpwit’s jaw hung open as the severed head being gently crushed beneath the warlord’s paw oozed the last of its life onto Razzel’s table. Its eyes had rolled up into their sockets, but Sharpwit still felt their gaze on his and he shuffled, ill at ease. The creature’s fur was white, its waxen hide rendered even more so as Queek squeezed the blood from its veins like juice from a soft fruit. Razzel stared at the remains of his former bodyguard in mute horror. The last surviving albino, having collected himself from the floor, covered his nose and looked away.

‘Lies,’ Queek hissed again. He gathered the head in both paws and faced it towards him. Blood flowed down his arms from its gaping neck, tendrils of muscle and ligament clinging to the metal of his armour as they swayed. ‘You tell truth to Queek, don’t you,’ he crooned, addressing the flaccid muzzle and blank eyes in his paw. ‘Tell White-fur what you tell Queek.’ He pressed the head’s cold lips to his ear, his expression enraptured. ‘Yes-yes,’ he nodded, the dead thing still whispering into his ear. ‘White-fur plots. White-fur covets.’

‘No-no,’ squealed Razzel, frantic. ‘He squeak-tells wicked-lies.’

The warlord lowered the head, his eyes burning into Razzel with blistering malice. ‘His name is Stikslash. Queek finds him spying on Ska. He tells Queek where White-fur hide-cowers, where he cooks his plots.’

‘But they are mute. They don’t squeak-talk to anyone!’

‘All squeak-talk to Queek!’ The warlord calmed himself, resetting the head on the table, positioning it deliberately to keep Sharpwit and Razzel both in its vacant sights. Queek sat cross-legged on the floor, holding the head firmly between both paws and lowering his muzzle to its level as if to see through its eyes, to sense odours from beyond the veil.

‘Queek comes to tell White-fur and Old-thing that he does not care about their plots. They will fail.’ His voice was a whisper, seemingly intended for the unreceptive ears of Stikslash rather than any living audience. ‘White-fur and Old-thing plot all they like and they will never be mightier than Queek. Tomorrow we fight and dwarf-things die-die. Maybe White-fur also die-die,’ he suggested, to a squirm of discomfort from the grey seer. ‘But not Queek. No dwarf-thing ever bests Queek. Not even Kazador.’

‘You speak-squeak truth, most ferocious of warlords,’ Razzel stammered. ‘When we fight the dwarf-things, Queek will win an easy triumph.’

‘Easy? Easy how?’

‘Tell him, Razzel,’ Sharpwit said. ‘Tell Queek what you squeak-tell me.’

Razzel nodded eagerly, his chimes sounding his excitement. ‘The dwarf-things leave. They leave! Kazador-King leads them away. The dwarf-place will be empty when we attack, and it will fall like stacks of hay in a gale. The Horned Rat favours this quest and greatly potent Queek, his champion, hmmm?’

‘Is this true?’

Sharpwit hesitated. He saw the madness flicker behind Queek’s eyes, but Razzel was blind to it.

‘True-true,’ Razzel said. ‘I see it.’

The warlord erupted with a snarl. His gauntlet hammered the table top, making the staring head dance. ‘Kazador must not leave! How soon can Queek’s army be ready?’

Razzel’s mouth worked as he thought, but Sharpwit beat him to it. ‘By the end of tomorrow, perhaps. Not before the thirteenth bell at the earliest.’

‘Not good enough. We attack at first bell tomorrow and Kazador will fall by my paw.’ The warlord was on his feet now, pacing the burrow in a rage, kicking and slashing with his claws at the rotten bean sacks, spilling their odious contents in a stream at his feet. He spun about. ‘Why are you waiting? White-fur and Old-thing will watch each other die if Queek’s army is not ready by then.’

Nervously, Sharpwit cleared his throat. ‘With the greatest of subservience to the mightiest and most despotic of warlords, we are not here to kill-slay one dwarf-thing. We are here to smash-burn the entire dwarf-place.’

‘Yes-yes,’ Queek muttered. ‘Smash-burn.’ Suddenly remembering something, he snatched up the head of Stikslash and planted its muzzle back against his ear. ‘Yes-yes, little friend-thing. We burn-dead in pyres so high that all the world sees the might of Queek and trembles and Kazador, he watches, he watches from my paws.’ He stalked for the tunnel before, in a moment of lucidity, he glared back at Sharpwit and Razzel.

‘First bell, hurry-scurry!’

Queek’s mind worked fast.

He raised Stikslash to his eyes, studying him grimly. ‘First bell too late, dead-thing. Kazador might already be away-gone. Who then will tell-squeak of Queek’s strength? Who?’ The albino had no reassurance to offer and Queek let his arm drop, his claws buried in the bloodless flesh of the dead creature’s scalp. Somehow he had to stop the dwarf-things from leaving, to keep them within Azul-Place until he could strike at their king.

He swept through the tunnels of Deadclaw. The heat was unbearable, but thoughts came easier when accompanied by actions.

He was the strongest warrior, the mightiest of skaven. But the world was large and, strange as it might seem, there were peoples within it that had yet to quaver at the name of Queek Headtaker. It was not to be borne! He would claw-scratch his glory into the heavens with the blood of Kazador-King such that all under the stars would see it and lower their muzzles in dread and awe.

It was deathly quiet and no other skaven sought to share his thoughts. It was amusing how space could always be found when skaven desperately desired some other place to be. Amusing, but hardly useful. Instinctively he made to summon Ska, only realising after he had bellowed the name into the cavernous belly of Deadclaw that his worthless lackey still rested like the indolent breeder-thing he was in the stormvermin barracks, a foul-smelling smear of skalm daubed over the filthy bruise that concealed two cracked ribs and a punctured lung.

Queek would have to figure this one out alone.

He glanced at the head in his paw and grinned.

Not alone.

Thordun stood proudly within a stern phalanx of dwarfish shields. To left and right, bearded clansdwarfs in crimson-tinted mail were arrayed in grim-faced order. Thordun carried no shield with which to form a shield wall and had been positioned at the back of the block of infantry. At least he hoped that was the reason. He had heard the mutterings of Thane Hrathgar when the dwarf thought he was out of earshot about being forced to ‘babysit’.

Hrathgar Hammerhand was a dour and joyless individual, grumbling commands as if the need to issue them at all was a source of grievous disappointment to him. The thane stood in the front rank. His tall helm was clearly visible above the intervening heads. Baleful runes glowed red on its gromril surface, horns like those of a minotaur striking from its temples. His ancestral weapon, a massive warhammer engraved with the clenched fist and the hammer of the Hammerhands, rested in quiescent readiness across one broad, armour-plated shoulder.

The anticipation was palpable. The time that every dwarf of Karak Azul had awaited for fifteen years had come. Thordun hoped he was ready. He checked his handgun for the tenth time.

‘I feel ridiculous,’ said Bernard, towering with the other men over the dwarfs they were ranked beside. ‘Every greenskin’s going to be shooting at me.’

Thordun chose to ignore the man’s griping. He was sick of it. The man’s annoyance hadn’t stopped him, or any of the others, from signing their names into Loremaster Logan’s great war ledger and accepting the king’s coin. Gold was gold and while less gold was less, it was still gold.

‘What’s happening, Bernard, what can you see?’

The big Bretonnian swung his bearded face from right to left, nodding in hard-faced satisfaction, the way Thordun had seen him appraise a wealthy home with a weak door. ‘A decent number. And they look tough. We might actually get paid at last.’

‘Give it up already. Is the king here yet? Are we ready to march?’

‘I don’t see him. But then maybe I just don’t recognise him. Some of us didn’t get the chance to meet him yester–’ His voice broke. Raising a hand to shield his eyes from the glare reflected off the casual wealth of starmetal axe blades and gold-embossed helms he stared at some point across to the left. If Thordun recalled correctly, to the left was the stairwell down to the Fourth Deep. ‘Attendez,’ he said. ‘I think I see something.’

‘What is?’ Thordun asked, pointedly. ‘Is it the king?’

‘No it’s…’ Bernard tailed off, sketching the sign of the Grail. ‘Par la dame.’

Without further explanation, Bernard broke ranks and sprinted in the direction of the stairwell.

Thane Hrathgar turned irritably. ‘Control your sell-swords, beardling. I’m sure you can get away with this sort of thing in the Empire, but when dawi are told to stand, they stand. Until released or the sun freezes and falls from the sky.’

‘I’ll fetch him, Thane Hrathgar,’ Thordun said, with a swift nod.

The grey-bearded thane turned away, grumbling loudly to his icon bearer over the unreliability of the young.

Thordun excused himself, easing his way clear of his regiment. He ignored the disapproving looks and subtle shakes of the head from the dwarfs he hurried past, finding Bernard half a turn down the stairwell. The big man cast a deep shadow on the gleaming marble stones.

‘What is it?’ Thordun asked irritably. ‘I think Hrathgar already dislikes me.’

‘Ratman,’ Bernard rumbled, his fist tightening around the leather grip of his morning star. ‘Like in Nuln. A big one – black fur, red plate. Saw him on the stairs. Caught my eye and the thing just waved and then scarpered.’ He turned around, his face white. He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. ‘He left this.’

Thordun peered around Bernard’s broad shoulders and choked. Hurriedly, he traced the rune of Valaya across his chest. Pinioned to the wall by a rusted blade wedged into the joint between two marble blocks was a pale skaven head. It appeared to be choking, gagging on the sword that had been rammed deep into the back of its throat. Swaying in the gentle breeze rising up from the Fourth Deep, a sickly brown scrap of parchment fluttered from the weapon’s box hilt. Retching at the sight of the thing, Thordun reached for the note. His fingers recoiled from the touch. It was not paper, nor parchment, nor any other writing material he was familiar with. It felt like dead flesh, and his fingertips crawled at the memory of its touch as though infected.

‘What’s going on here?’ Hrathgar bellowed. ‘What are you up to in there, you umgi-sired kruti?’

The thane’s insults ran dry as he saw what Thordun and Bernard had found. He reached past unsqueamishly and, not wishing to damage the parchment in his heavy gauntlets, carefully teased it free. It resembled a mad child’s scrawl, random lines and scores scratched into dead meat. Hrathgar’s eyes roved across the page. The language was Queekish, the claw-scratch form of the skaven tongue and well familiar to the thane of Karak Eight Peaks. No dwarf would ever admit it but, deep in his stubborn heart, even Hrathgar understood that the rats were now the true rulers of the Eight Peaks.

The thane muttered aloud as he read, teasing out the dense and childishly rendered words. ‘Old grey fur… Kazador-King… forever squeak-tell of the glory… assault on the Ninth Deep… face if you dare… find doom at the paws of…’

Numbly, the thane’s arm dropped, his face turning as white as the dead albino.

‘What is it, Thane Hrathgar?’ Thordun asked. ‘Do the skaven intend to attack? It is a trick, surely. Who would be mad enough to first warn their enemy?’

Hrathgar studied the ratskin parchment again, staring at the name scratched into the bottom. He hoped that if he stared hard enough it might blur into some other shape. But it did not. It remained as blindly defiant as the warlord to whom it belonged. A name inscribed into the dammaz kron of Karak Eight Peaks a hundred times in the blood of kings, his manifold crimes recorded until the end of days.

Dwarf-bane. Defiler of the Eight Peaks.

Headtaker.

Kazador would have his war, though not the one he intended.

Queek was in Karak Azul.

Chapter Six

The Ninth Deep was the lowest level of Karak Azul. There were deeper delvings, test shafts, drainage channels that flowed deep into the porous underbelly of the mountain, but this was as far into the earth as the dwarfs had come before the earth pushed back. The cataclysmic chain of quakes that had brought the Karaz Ankor to its knees and presaged the ending of the Golden Age of the dwarfs had not been kind to the Ninth Deep. Deep fissures split the grime-covered flagstones, occasionally venting steam as the heat and pressure from beneath grew untenable.

Yet it was not in the nature of dwarfs to forget, and certain key structures had been diligently maintained by the guilds to whom that thankless duty had been entrusted. Or thankless it had seemed. Now craftsmasters of the Masons’ Guild puffed out their chests with pride as cannon and ballistae were installed in the towering basilica, accepting with beaming modesty the compliments of the engineers and work crews sent to bed in their engines.

A dwarf hold was impregnable. Everyone who knew anything knew that. Holds had fallen in the past, but only by the most exceptional of circumstance and the vilest of treachery. The foes of the dwarfs were legion as the dwarfs themselves were not, but prepared, fortified, the dwarfs were resolute as stone and hard as iron, and not one inch of Grungni’s earth would be surrendered this day. Miners, carvers and sappers worked in teams to construct defences, tearing up paving stones to dig trenches and piling the resultant rubble into earthworks from which long-barrelled cannon snarled like beasts of brass awoken prematurely from slumber.

The throng of Karak Azul was arrayed into a semicircular formation, concentric curtain walls of bearded steel in defence of the single stairwell to the Upper Deeps. The stair itself was a fortress, its ramparts bristling with Thunderers and weapon emplacements. A heavy iron portcullis hovered above the open gateway, ready to drop like a guillotine at a moment’s notice. More dwarfs trooped beneath the murder-holes and crossbow slits of the massive gatehouse, their heavy boots thundering on the wooden bridge that spanned the deep crevasse between the keep and the gathering throng. Some dwarfs bore with them great oathstones, carved blocks of ancient rock. The ranks parted before these relics, nodding solemnly as they passed. Eyes bulging and cheeks reddening, the honoured bearers set down their burdens with the utmost reverence. Clan leaders and thanes climbed atop the stones to the cheers of their warriors. No dwarf would abandon their oathstone. It was a symbol on which the blood of generations of enemies had been spilt, and it was a warning: the line that no foe might cross.

Surrounded by an elite company of Hammerers, Handrik stood with Kazador and Runelord Thorek in the centre of the front line, the point any invader intending to reach the keep must pass. Loremaster Logan stood with them, legs braced against the great weight of the tome in his hands. He read aloud, hard words of hate shouted from the pages for the ears of the entire Deep.

‘…on this day, the three thousand two hundred and fifty-first since the reclamation of Hirn Mingol, did the rat-king of the Eight Peaks…’

Handrik felt bitter hatred swell in his breast as the manifold crimes of the one that called himself the Headtaker were recounted from the great book. Who would have thought the achievements of so many could be undone in so short a span of years?

‘…and Argrin, may his beard forever lengthen, did fall in steadfast defiance…’

He clutched his axe to his breastplate. The gleaming gromril, hardened with runes of protection and stone, was a physical reminder of his lessened station. That the king had acceded to Handrik’s request to fight by his side might in other circumstances have been deemed an honour, but today it smacked of pity. And Handrik didn’t care to be pitied.

‘…did fall bravely while seeking vengeance on the Headtaker for his capture of Karag Durak…’

The king stood glorious in the Armour of Kings, the resplendent glory of aeons past rendered with timeless honour in gromril and a hundred varieties of gold. Heavy bracers girdled his thickset arms, straining against his taut muscles as he relived the ancestral hate bound in the pages of the dammaz kron. His arms were crossed over his neatly braided beard, ham-like fists joining around the long haft of the Hammer of Azul, a heavy anvil-shaped club of unleavened gromril capable of shattering rock and bone with equal ease.

‘… twenty-seven stout warriors of the Dourback clan did fall, the rat-king Queek, foremost in the numberless ranks of their slayers…’

The Hammerers clutched their mighty weapons in silence, their eyes hooded in fierce remembrance. All around, dwarfs stood with bowed heads, some similarly in silence, others muttering personal oaths and pledges of grudgement. The sense of hatred was palpable. The Headtaker would find no quarter here.

There was a shuffling of feet and much vehement muttering as the kron was slammed shut. ‘They will be remembered,’ Logan intoned, passing the book to an aide who bound it reverently in blue cloth. The loremaster reset his spectacles as another junior lorekeeper handed him his warhammer and attended to tightening the straps of his armour.

‘My thanks, loremaster,’ said Kazador, his wrath barely constrained. ‘All those wrongs will be righted this day.’

‘Agreed,’ Thorek added. The two dwarfs had set aside their feud of the previous night. Thorek was iron-willed, as unyielding as an anvil, and their confrontation at the Feast of Grungni was far from the first of their clashes. It was not forgiven, and certainly not forgotten, but it was studiously ignored for now.

‘Will the earthworks slow them?’

At the king’s question, Thorek and Handrik looked at the steeply sloping bulwark of granite blocks bristling with spear points that lay at the confluence of the hurriedly excavated trenches directly in front of their own position.

‘I imagine they will,’ said Thorek

‘I don’t like them,’ Handrik grumbled.

‘I’m sure neither will the thaggoraki,’ Thorek said stiffly.

‘We never needed such contraptions in the past.’

‘They’ve been proven many times,’ said Thorek. ‘Before the time of Grungni, our most distant ancestors tilled the earth like men without knowledge of delving or smelting. What’s new is not always to be shunned, if its worth is proven.’

Handrik grumbled, but offered no contradiction.

‘I oversaw every step of their assembly and smote the runes myself. Have no doubt, Handrik, they will function as they should. Today, the thaggoraki will suffer a taste of their own trickery, and our ancestors who had not such weapons will weep at the justness of it.’

‘Do I see men in my line?’ Kazador asked.

Handrik glanced up, his heart still roiling with the bound wrath of the kron. ‘They are with Thordun Locksplitter. His father is an ancestor of Karak Azul.’ Handrik pointed out the cloaked dwarf in his wide-brimmed hat, standing behind the ranks of the Hammerhand clansdwarfs.

Kazador followed the longbeard’s gesture. ‘What’s that thing in his hand?’

‘I believe it one of the new repeater handguns the humans have devised,’ said Thorek

‘Will wonders never cease,’ Handrik grunted with a sour laugh.

Thorek levelled a withering glare at the old longbeard. He turned to Kazador, with the slightest of bows. ‘It’s time I was about my own duties. Fight well, Kazador.’

‘And die hard, Runelord,’ Kazador returned as the pair clasped wrists.

Thorek departed for his own place in the battle-line. Flanked by quarrellers, Karak Azul’s Anvil of Doom had been wheeled into position between the infantry and wooden blocks were being hammered under its wheels. His apprentice, Kraggi, stood overseeing the work, and Thorek immediately set about the ritual preparations to awaken its potent runes of destruction for battle.

‘They’re late,’ Kazador growled.

‘Maybe,’ said Handrik. ‘The note said “at first bell”. According to Hrathgar, skaven split their days by thirteen bells, but he doesn’t know exactly when they start. We measured from dawn and hoped for the best, but I wouldn’t be surprised if the thaggoraki make it up as they go along.’

The king spat, venom still poisoning his veins at the mere mention of the verminous ratmen. ‘If they come at all.’

Handrik nodded. The host assembled on the Ninth Deep was not the full throng of Karak Azul. The possibility of a trap could not be ignored, and clansdwarfs, grumbling bitterly, had been garrisoned to key points throughout the hold. The strength of the Ironbreakers had been split between the tunnel-ways of the Upper Deeps and the cramped battlegrounds of the stairwells where the veteran tunnel fighters would excel. Only a handpicked detachment of Ironbreakers had been deployed to the Ninth Deep. A dozen of their oldest and most experienced warriors stood guard before the gatehouse, an extension of the fort’s unyielding rock. Their new captain, Lothgrim, stood with them in his first duty since assuming Handrik’s command. He looked nervous.

‘You’d better not mess this up,’ Handrik muttered.

‘What was that?’ Kazador asked.

‘Just thinking aloud,’ said Handrik, embarrassed. He nodded, relieved, to a pair of blue-cloaked dwarfs as they appeared by the king’s side. The Hammerers parted before them with nods and murmured greetings. They bore between them a massive shield, wrought of iron and swirling with runes and angular heraldic motifs that blended together into a single elaborate design. ‘Your shieldbearers, your majesty.’

Kazador did not turn. ‘I have no need. No dawi is so lowly that they should suffer the weight of the accursed king of Karak Azul.’ The king scoffed. ‘Perhaps it is I who bring such misfortune upon my hold, I who cannot avenge even my own kin.’

‘You are the best of kings,’ said Handrik stiffly. But this was neither the time nor the place to convince his king of that statement’s truth. ‘You will have your vengeance, if vengeance is what your kin need.’

Kazador might have wept, had his pride allowed, his sorrow suddenly rekindling into anger. ‘This Headtaker will pay, Handrik. On the line of all my ancestors, I swear to you that he will pay. I will exact full vengeance and demand tenfold again for every hour he keeps my boots from the halls of Karak Drazh.’

Handrik bowed his head. It had been too long since he had heard the Black Crag referred to by its true, dawi-given, name.

‘Shieldbearers!’ Kazador bellowed. ‘Shieldbearers to me!’

The two dwarfs moved forward, dropping to their knees as one. Kazador swept his long blue cloak over one shoulder and accepted Handrik’s offered hand as he clambered atop his shield.

Handrik winced, suppressing the agony that erupted in his back as the king let go, enduring in silence as only a dwarf could.

Kazador reached to his belt and unhooked the clasp of the Thunderhorn. The instrument was as old as time. It had been carved by masters of long-forgotten holds from the ivory tusks of the beasts of the southern plains and its golden ancestor runes were unblemished by the passing millennia. He pursed his lips to the mouthpiece and blasted a note of such clarity and purpose that it cast back the shadows, rendering insubstantial the din of the Ninth Deep. It was a sound to uplift the spirit, like the sight of dawn rays on the icy crown of the karak, a vision to true-hearted dawi of all that was everlasting. Always, the enemies of the dwarfs harried and probed. Always they dreamt of the day when the last dwarf faltered and permitted them to feast on the carcass of the Karaz Ankor. But it would not be this day. And not for ten thousand years hereafter.

Kazador lowered the Thunderhorn from his lips. The throng regarded him attentively.

‘Hear me, children of Grungni,’ he roared, his deep voice pitched to stir the distant corners of the Deep. ‘How many times have the ratkin come here? Or urk, grobi and drakk? How many times has our strength thrown them back?’ He turned slowly on his shield to meet every pair of eyes. ‘Every time!

‘And yet back they always come, like a tide of evil that cannot know when it is beaten. And always they will come back. Because this is Karak Azul, and there is no mightier prize. Grungni dwelt here. By the skill of his craft and the sweat of his toil were these halls carved. I see his work in every stone. I feel his blood in my veins. It boils at the presence of trespassers, and by that same blood I swear that not one inch of Grungni’s soil will be forsaken unto thaggoraki paws this day.

‘Here we stand, rock and earth. Here we fight and spill vermin blood. This is the line we hold to our final breath, until the Iron Peak falls to rust and ruin!’

The Deep erupted with angry yells, but Kazador shouted them down. ‘What say you then, descendants of Grungni? When will Karak Azul fall?’

‘Never!’

‘Tell me when!’

‘Never!’

‘Let your defiance echo through the ages!’

‘Never!’

The king tightened his grip on his hammer. ‘Let the ratkin gnaw on this!’ He thrust the Hammer of Azul upwards amidst a rapturous chorus of oaths and pledges of undying resolve that made the very roots of the Deep tremble with shared purpose.

Handrik, no tender beardling, felt the goose bumps rising on his skin.

This was his king, the Kazador he had thought forever lost. He roared his approval with the others.

Karak Azul would never fall.

The thunder of dwarf-thing voices thrilled through his heart. He felt it pump harder, louder. The hatred in their cries was palpable, a wave of near-solid fury. It crashed against his own in a bitter spray of bile and rage. His pulse quickened. He was stronger, he was mightier, his hatred more intense, his claws tingled at its heat.

Queek quivered with barely restrained desire, dancing an effervescent jig under the shelter of a half-collapsed mineshaft, twitching with impatient hunger. Compulsively, he examined the smooth brass contraption in his paw, sniffing it suspiciously as it continued its persistent ticking. Some mechanism beneath its tarnished surface clicked, and the warlord flinched involuntarily before the brass horn that curled along the outside of the disc-shaped device sprang inward, chiming the first bell.

Time to kill-slay, whispered the bone-dry voice of Ikit Slash, his fleshless torso draped across his trophy rack where he belonged. His fellows nodded, the movement almost imperceptible except to eyes as attuned as Queek’s. Dwarf-things die-die!

‘Yes-yes, they all die-die. Kazador-King die-die. Yes. Yes!’

Queek bounced and hissed, working himself into a frenzy.

Somehow, within the tunnel’s confines, the two score of Queek’s hand-trained stormvermin found room to edge away.

‘Please think,’ Sharpwit begged, entreating to reason, against all reason, one last time. ‘Dwarf-things cannot be beaten by frontal assault alone. Look-see. They are ready and wait for us. I blame stupid-fool Fizqwik and his thieving. I warned him–’

‘Enough,’ Queek hissed. ‘Enough chatter from this voice. It bores me.’

‘Let us flank them. I know tunnels that dwarf-things never use. I take out their guns and attack from inside the fort-thing. Then Queek charge.’

Queek grinned. Let the voice twitter away. There were other voices. The stone and metal banners of the dwarfs bobbed and swayed over their short, bearded heads. They taunted like fleas.

Queek yearned to scratch. And claw. And make bleed.

His breath caught. Raised above the throng on an iron shield stood a single dwarf-thing, white of fur, a thin crown welded to a winged helm, a lumpen cudgel wielded high above his head in foul disregard for the might of Queek.

Queek charge. Queek kill-kill. Show dwarf-king Queek is strongest!

‘Queek is strongest!’ he shrieked. ‘None laugh-mock Queek!’ Screaming a battle-cry, Queek sprinted from the cover of the shaft and into the open killing ground of the Ninth Deep. A moment later, the stormvermin followed, issuing shrill cries of their own as they gripped halberds and pounded after the warlord they feared more than the guns and axes of the dwarfs.

Sharpwit punched the wall in frustration. The Horned Rat take this blasted warlord!

Clanrats poured forth from other shafts, a sputtering flow where there should have been a deluge. Sharpwit picked out pockets of order as snarling chieftains marshalled their warriors into ranks and sent them through the tunnels with promises of death and pain to whoever was the last one through. He memorised their scents. They would make useful warlords if Queek should suffer an ‘accident’ in the wake of this debacle.

A horde of clanrats lingered, confused, at Sharpwit’s back.

‘Go,’ he snarled. ‘Go, go, go!’ He waved them past, speeding them on their way with a sweeping flash of claws.

Drawing confidence from his authority and finding assurance in the thousands of blood-hungry ratkin pressed into the tunnels at their sides, skaven without number surged ahead as a mass.

Sharpwit shrugged with resignation.

In for one, in for thirteen.

Thordun placed his hand over his heart. It beat hard enough for two, and even under layers of steel, leather and flesh it seemed improbable that Hrathgar and the others would not hear and judge. In numbers beyond imagination, the vermin boiled up through the rents in the floor and spilled from previously unnoticed splits in the distant walls, the disparate masses seething into one that came surging forward like a maddened swarm. He snapped up his handgun in readiness. The range was still too great, but they were closing fast. So, so fast. How could anything so numerous move so fast?

He forced himself to take a breath, then swept the coming storm with the barrel of his weapon. His throat clamped down over that prized breath, his gaze landing on the ratkin that charged well ahead of its pursuing hoard. It was tall, armoured red, the bones swaying from its trophy rack rattling with every step so swiftly stolen into the Karak Azul.

Hrathgar had seen it too. The dwarf muttered some dark oath, as did his icon bearer, Rorrick, beside him. Soon all the Eight Peaks dwarfs had taken up the lament. A single word: ‘Headtaker.’

Musket-fire crackled into life across the dwarf line, the sharp reports soon joined by the crump of cannon, flaring briefly red within their emplacements like the maws of devils, belching black smoke that hung in ashen clouds as well-drilled crews scrambled to reload. Skaven jerked back by the hundred, falling under the paws of ten thousand more of their onrushing brethren. Chain-shot from one of the fort’s smaller cannon scythed into the front rank of the skaven horde. The two half-balls spun in a vicious arc of death on a length of chain, severing arms and heads and even armoured torsos in an eruption of pulped flesh and liberated fluids.

But still the Headtaker came, his eyes only for the thin line of dwarfs.

‘Hold fast,’ bawled Kazador. ‘Let the ratmen break upon our shields!’

A crack split the air and the king staggered back, his shieldbearers quickly tilting the shield forward to check his fall. His fingers probed the charring on his armour, looking up to see a dozen or so ratmen with long-barrelled warplock jezzails taking up position on a toppled statue that overlooked the battlefield. They unleashed a volley, two score muzzles flashing sickly green. Their aim was dire, but a warrior of the Orgrin clan fell, a wound the size of a fist in his shield and likewise its shadow in the chainmail beneath. Blood polluted with glowing shrapnel pumped from the dying dwarf’s chest. Thunderers and quarrellers shifted their aim but the distance was too great. Those few that struck true impacted harmlessly against the broad pavise shields of the jezzail teams.

A hunched figure stalked behind the protection of his fellow rats as the jezzails settled into a continuous, but irregular, pattern of fire. The skaven was swaddled in thick leather armour, tufts of piebald fur escaping from the confines of a copper helm, a green lens hovering over one eye as he closed the other and took aim at Kazador with a grossly oversized musket.

Handrik roared a warning but the expected impact never fell. He looked to see the warlock waving his paw through a plume of green smoke. The creature’s eyepiece had swung clear on truculent joints and the shot had fired wild. Handrik saw him turn to berate an underling, hidden behind the back of a pin-cushioned pavise.

Handrik hissed in recognition. He’d remember those eyes until he closed his own for the last time. ‘That’s the sticky-pawed beggar who made off with the Grumbold.’ He gave Kazador a worried glance. ‘You’re a mighty tempting target up there.’

‘Let them aim their infernal guns on me, my friend. My skull is thick.’

Behind them, a chorus of cannon fired. The smog shrouding the fort smudged red as the cavern shook to their furious report.

Kazador clutched his hammer two-handed and shouted into the din. ‘Come to me, vermin. Come to the sons of Grungni!’

The tunnel rumbled as if in the grip of an earthquake. Sharpwit threw himself aside as a monstrous rat ogre blundered past, its tiny brain uncaring of the mewling clanrats pulped into jelly beneath its paws. Its huge hunched shoulders scraped dirt from the ceiling as it forced its way through the passage towards the bloodshed for which it was bred.

His lungs spasmed in fright, throwing him into a coughing fit as dust lodged at the back of his throat. He hobbled across the flattened, bleeding mess left in the rat ogre’s wake and into the chaos of the Ninth Deep. Smoke hung over everything. The fort defending the stairwell to the Upper Deeps was invisible behind the black shroud, evidenced only by the simultaneous smear of fiery red light as cannon crew loaded and fired almost as one. The thunder came a moment later, rumbling over the battlefield like the wrath of gods to whom mutilated skaven screamed for mercy.

Sharpwit escaped the tunnel just in time as another seven rat ogres bounded from the passage after the first. The last to emerge, a particularly hulking brute, tore out the roof from the tunnel with his passing. It snapped, confused, with viciously oversized fangs at the spray of grit it produced. A team of Clan Moulder packmasters followed their creations, cracking barbed whips over their massive backs, drawing syrupy blood from the truculent beasts. The rat ogres roared. The big bonebreaker hammered its fists against its chest and barked a challenge, loping towards the scent of dwarf-meat that its twisted mind could not resist. Its smaller kin followed in its wake, charging into the fusillade as though it were a light rain.

Assured by the monstrous creatures between him and his enemy, Sharpwit limped forwards.

Blood.

Queek raised his nose and breathed it in, a stream of life and death that made his heart palpate with ecstasy. He no longer knew where he was. All he saw was Kazador held high above his shield. He beckoned. They belonged together.

He urged his warriors deeper into the enfilading fire. Lead shot from cannon and musket tore across the disordered skaven ranks, laying into them from somewhere in the smoke-shrouded distance, or wailing above their heads like a banshee to bring death upon those further back. He pushed himself to pull even further ahead of the front rank, braving the hail of shot with the arrogance of the insane and yelling his challenge in the vain hope that Kazador might hear.

The king made no move, but no matter. Queek was close, so close he could smell the fear that surely matted his white fur at the nearness of the Headtaker. Just a little closer. Just one more charge.

‘Kill-kill,’ Queek shrieked and the stormvermin and clanrats that had kept pace and survived took up the cry.

‘Kill-kill!’

‘We charge,’ Queek yelled. ‘We kill.’

Ahead lay a patch of rough ground. Piles of rock had been mounded around a low wall of sandbags and jutting spears, all surrounded by a shallow ditch. They hoped to slow the Headtaker, but even weighed down by armour, he and his warriors were swift and nimble and it would take more than that simple bulwark to slow his charge. Queek pointed his sword at Kazador and charged after it with a yell. His warriors, demented by terror into blood frenzy, flowed as a crimson wave in his wake.

As the charge closed with the earthworks, the air behind it shimmered. Light bent, broke and re-annealed, disappearing like blood into the vortex of a whirlpool as a pair of squat four-barrelled shapes materialised from behind runes of cloaking. In unison, the crew of the two guns lit fuses and the eight barrels bloomed in deadly, concussive sequence.

A stormvermin squealed, knocking the warlord aside as he threw himself to the ground. A bouncing cannon shot took him in the chest, smashing breastplate and ribcage into one pulped mess. Queek had no time to move before the force of his underling’s death threw the ruined body into his own. He felt bone shatter and the pair of them were flung back, ploughing into the following ranks of vermin, sowing death and destruction as thoroughly as any cannonball.

As the last barrel released its load there was a sudden calm. The squeals of the maimed and the dying filled it before a hard voice overshadowed them all.

‘Reload!’

Darkness had descended on the Ninth Deep, a smothering blanket of bloody ash and gunpowder that choked the eyes and burned the hairs of delicate skaven noses. Sheet lightning flared within the storm as the blasted runemaker continued to wreak havoc, granting visions like daemon-sent portents of the world’s end. The giant shapes of rat ogres jerked between the strobing pulses of electric light, their twisted skeletons, suddenly as luminous as moon-rock in a papyrus wrap, writhing in unimaginable torment. All the while muted cannon-fire rumbled sporadically like distant thunder.

Sharpwit held a scrap of scarlet fabric torn from a fallen battle standard to his snout. His ribs still hurt and he drew slow, cautious breaths through the cloth.

A brown-furred sword-rat in tatty rags, the red dye slowly giving way to the green beneath, fidgeted anxiously as he waited for Sharpwit to recover.

Sharpwit withdrew the cloth from his muzzle long enough to speak. ‘You saw Queek fall?’

‘Tragic end, wiliest and most cunning of skaven. He shot-hit and fall-dead fast-quick.’ A staccato sequence of booms rippled through the storm and the sword-rat ducked, covering his paws over his ears.

Sharpwit replaced the cloth over his snout and considered. So Queek was dead? Good. It couldn’t have happened to a madder warlord. Of those that remained, Fizqwik was a fool promoted far beyond his skills, while Razzel had disappeared faster than a slave tossed into a Clan Moulder breeding pit the moment the fighting had started. The sorcerer’s cowardice was truly of epic proportions. Even for a skaven. That left him. He straightened, back clicking as he savoured a taste he had long ago forsaken.

Power.

He closed his eye and pictured the battlefield, summoning a mental image from the scraps of scent and sound that filtered through the murk. The charge in the centre had stalled before the organ guns, while the flanks suffered under a withering barrage from the emplacements within the fortress stair. Sharpwit got no sense of a rout, despite Queek’s death, but the guns continued to pound and there was little to be gained from throwing yet more bodies onto the problem.

And bodies he had to spare. Clanrats milled about him, wide-eyed with confusion and terror. Some, Sharpwit suspected, were deliberately hanging back, while others appeared genuinely to have no idea what they were supposed to be doing.

‘Clawleaders!’ he squeaked, clamping the cloth over his nose for a deep breath before shouting again. ‘Clawleaders come-scurry to me.’

The clawleaders clustered round him to take their orders as though he handed out favours. Not one of the ruthless back-stabbers questioned his right to command. Sharpwit’s paws tingled, a latent memory of the power of youth. He had forgotten how it felt to be feared. It felt good. The clawleaders scurried to their assigned tasks, each eager to appear the bravest and most zealous in their persecution of the new warlord’s enemies. Shrill commands cut through the din as the rabble amalgamated into an approximation of order as only a skaven army could.

‘Go,’ he squeaked. ‘Go now, for glory and dwarf-meat!’

The horde surged forward. Spears rattled and rusted mail shook, the senses maddeningly overwhelmed by the excited chittering of a thousand clanrats intent on murder and the pounding of their fleet-footed paws. In the midst of such numbers, defeat suddenly did not seem such a foregone conclusion after all.

As the vast host of ratkin swept by, he caught a glimpse of black-cloaked gutter runners loitering between the charging clanrats. Their leader, garbed like the rest of his number in black, had his claws and teeth discoloured and the pale flesh of his paws and snout bound in dark silk. Only the red of his eyes gave the assassin’s presence away. The night-clad killers of Clan Eshin had their musk glands removed in some quasi-ceremonial rite of passage, and the assassin’s scent predictably betrayed nothing, but his posture radiated a confusion that was obvious even to Sharpwit’s dim eye. Where once feckless clanrats would have trampled him without a care, now they avoided him like a leprous plague monk. His crutches bore him unhurriedly through his hordes. He recognised the Clan Eshin hireling and struggled to recall his name as he limped through the crush.

‘Fang Dao,’ he said, remembering just as he arrived at the skaven’s side.

The assassin responded with a faintly submissive display of unguarded throat. He glared at the stampeding clanrats with thinly veiled loathing. ‘Bloodtail hires me to stalk-slay dwarf-thing leaders. But Queek forgets, I think.’

‘Fool-Queek not warlord any more.’

‘So I hear, but Bloodtail’s warptokens aren’t enough to throw Eshin onto dwarf-thing shields. Sharpwit-Warlord has lots-many clanrats for that, I think.’

Sharpwit grinned. He did like the ring of Sharpwit-Warlord. ‘You squeak correct-true.’ He brushed past the assassin, gesturing that he and his gutter runners should follow.

The Clan Eshin adept hissed to his underlings in their clandestine dialect. Dark-garbed shapes bled from the seething body of the clanrat horde in answer, streaming in the wake of their master and the old skaven that led them from the carnage and back towards the burrows.

‘Where do we go-sneak?’

‘Azul-Place is sick with hidden passages and secret stairs. Sharpwit knows them better than any, better even than dwarf-things. Follow me, Fang Dao. Queek was too stupid. But I will win this war.’

Warlord Queek disentangled his limbs from the pile of shattered bodies. The air was clouded with smoke and the reek of death. He groaned, the world spinning, as he tried to sit. He felt broken bones. He opened his paws, bone fragments spilling between the fingers of his gauntlets like withered petals.

Frantically, his gaze shot to where his trophies swayed on their poles. Krug was there. Ikit was unhurt. But there was an empty pole, an epitaph to the lost. Its quiet poignancy broke his black heart. He screamed. Pain and loss unimagined howled from the depths of his soul as he clutched the bone fragments in his paws. He struggled upright, rattling the few pieces he still held. A vicious black incisor bounced between palm and fingers amidst the bleached yellow shards.

‘Blacktooth,’ he whimpered, snuffling at the bony mess, pressing his ear to his paws and praying to gods he held in scant regard for an answer. ‘Speak-squeak to Queek, orc-thing.’

His only answer was the pounding of guns hidden behind black smoke and the wails of the injured. They cried like the dispossessed spirits of the battlefield slain. Queek let the pieces fall, scattering them like ashes. They had silenced him as death alone could not. Blacktooth was gone.

Shaking off the clinging paws that lay draped across his lap, Queek staggered to his feet. Bodies in varying states of brutal dismemberment lay strewn. He ignored their silent pleas, the despairing looks in their blank eyes.

He glared into the smoke. It coiled into beckoning shapes. Dwarf-things are here, it seemed to insinuate, the killers of Blacktooth.

Queek ground his fangs, a fierce snarl ripping from his throat. He flung his arms above his head, crashing Dwarf Gouger against the blade of his sword as he bayed a challenge into the smog.

The Headtaker had a spike to fill.

The dwarfish left bore the brunt of the skaven charge.

Suddenly organised, the massed hordes of clanrat warriors came at them like a wave. The front rank stepped forward to meet the charge, each warrior overlapping his shield with that of the dwarf to his left to form an unbroken wall of oak and steel on which the ratmen broke. The foremost skaven rank thrashed and screamed as the surge crushed them against dwarfish shields. Axes slashed over the shield wall, hewing into already dead flesh held upright by the sheer volume of ratkin behind.

The skaven pressed forward and the dwarfs braced and pushed back. The clanrats were numberless, but these were dwarfs of the Iron Peak. If so tasked they would hold back the march of glaciers, and they did not yield.

Bulky shapes moved among the skaven horde. Ratmen in tatty leather overalls with faces hidden beneath long-snouted copper rebreathers stuffed with charcoal filters. They reached begloved paws into bulging knapsacks, withdrawing small glass spheres filled with writhing green gas.

‘Gas!’ The alarm raced down the line to the blaring of warning horns. Along the front ranks dwarfs hawked spit down their chins, cupping beards with shield-hands and pressing them to their faces. The tinkling of shattered glass rose above the riot of melee. The green-black fumes of the dreaded poisoned wind coiled about struggling legs and crawled ever upwards with corrosive intent towards waists, beards, and breathing lips.

Handrik swore and tore his gaze from the scene. It was a death he had seen too often. An excruciating torment of poison-flayed lungs and raving blindness as acrid gas burned the fluid from one’s eyes.

‘It’s time we got stuck in, majesty.’

‘Not yet.’

‘They are dying!’

‘They will be remembered.’

The air cracked, a warpstone shell zipping overhead. He ducked on impulse. That was close. And he didn’t care to think just how close, nor how the damned sniper could still draw a bead through such choking blackness.

Kazador’s deep baritone rose steadily above the encroaching slaughter. Astonished, Handrik realised the king was singing. It was a paean to the lost and the dishonoured; a tragedy of a dwarf without wealth or kin, with nothing to lose but his ancestors’ pride. It had no place on the battlefield, but it felt right, and Loremaster Logan, on Kazador’s opposite flank took up the tune while the Hammerers themselves soon joined in, stamping their feet in time to the dirge.

Handrik maintained his stoic silence. In his many years he had seen plenty of villains like this Headtaker, and they seldom fell with easiness of grace or timeliness of virtue.

The regiment to his immediate left was the Hammerhand clansdwarfs of Karak Eight Peaks. He offered Thane Hrathgar a thumbs-up, but the dwarf did not heed the gesture. The thane stared darkly towards the battle that raged mere feet to his left, his bespittled beard pressed tight to his mouth. The young lad, Thordun, consigned to the rear ranks where he could do least harm, hid his frustrations less well. The beardling fiddled with the stock of his handgun, scratching in anguish at his golden beard.

He winced at a keening wail, audible over the chaos like feral claws to the ears.

Kazador broke from his lament, the dreadful howl growing ever louder as the Hammerers’ mournful voices trailed away.

‘What in the Gates of Gazul!’ Handrik bellowed as the scream grew louder.

‘The earthworks!’ Logan cried. ‘It’s coming from the earthworks.’

The engineer attached to the organ gun crews looked up from his work, the inhuman sound pervading the ash like a shrieking cloud of bats. To the dwarf’s enduring credit, it did not distract him or the crews under his charge, as the gunners brought torch to fuses. The stubby muzzles of the organ guns flared. Thunder and fire rent the night, birthing its own terror, Queek Headtaker, scarlet armour ablaze as he fell through the conflagration of its conception.

The creature was abominably fast.

A blow from a spiked maul came down on a loader’s head even as the thing’s feet found solid ground. The spike erupted through the back of the dwarf’s spine, the skaven ducking beneath his own buried weapon to impale the engineer on a sword held in the other paw. The engineer was still working a pistol from his belt as the blade ripped though his mail, entering through the collar and tunnelling deep into his belly.

The engineer still lived, still fumbling at the buckle of his holster as the skaven pulled and jerked on his blade to free it. The dwarf screamed, puking blood as serrated teeth chewed at his guts before the skaven lost patience, leaving the blade in place and putting the dwarf down with a fierce backhand.

Handrik gawped as the skaven continued his lone rampage. For the first time, he noted the swaying trophy rack like half of a morbidly spoked wheel above the skaven’s shoulders. He saw the trophies that nestled atop it like vultures – a dawi skull among them. His heart turned to stone at such a violation of an honoured ancestor.

So this was the infamous Headtaker. His reputation served him well.

The surviving gun crew abandoned their machine, turning to flee for the safety of the dwarfish line. The Headtaker pounced on the back of the slowest. The claws of one paw burrowed into the screaming dwarf’s scalp as the other sank into the unguarded flesh of his armpit. The skaven warlord heaved the struggling dwarf from his feet before clamping its fangs around his neck.

‘Valaya shield her children,’ Logan breathed as the dwarf’s spine snapped, blood running in rivulets down the warlord’s muzzle. Still, the Headtaker thrashed his head from side to side with the dead dwarf in his bloodied jaws like the prize of a hunt. Handrik was compelled to look away as the Headtaker’s efforts finally ripped the dwarf’s head from his shoulders. Blood fountained, dappling the abandoned organ guns with its dark blessing as the warlord opened his jaws to lap at the sticky rain.

‘Attack,’ Handrik shouted. ‘Attack now, before he profanes the body of a dawi any further!’

‘We hold,’ Kazador growled. ‘Look.’

Beyond the Headtaker’s back, scarlet-armoured stormvermin picked their way over the piled rocks. They clutched fearfully at their halberds, forming up into ranks at the warlord’s back as he let the brutalised remnants of his victim fall.

‘Hold the line!’ Kazador yelled. ‘Iron hearts, sons of Grungni!’

‘Majesty, wait.’

Kazador started at Handrik’s voice, his face darkening as he followed the longbeard’s gaze. Hrathgar and the host of Karak Eight Peaks had broken formation and already skaven streamed into the gap they had left in the lines. A clansdwarf went down with a spear in his throat before he had time to raise his shield. The frayed ends of the shield wall turned to meet this new threat but in so doing, loosened their pressure on the hordes to their front. Scenting victory, the skaven surged forward anew.

‘Get back, Hammerhand. Hold the line!’

Handrik knew that the Eight Peaks thane heard. He saw the tightening of the dwarf’s jaw at the king’s words, but he pressed on regardless, his eyes only for the rat-king of the Eight Peaks.

‘Curse you, Hrathgar,’ Kazador screamed, red-faced with fury. ‘May your ancestors turn their faces from you in shame! Loremaster!’ This last was a roar directed to Logan. ‘Fetch me the kron. There is a grudge I would see inscribed.’

Logan clutched his hammer, eyeing the tide of vermin spilling between the dwarfish lines. ‘Is this really the time, majesty?’

Handrik followed the loremaster’s horrified expression. Only Thordun and his band of hirelings stood before the skaven charge. They looked like pale islets in a sea of dusky brown fur. He saw a large black-bearded man swing a flail twice about his shoulders before messily beheading a spear-rat in a spray of teeth and brain. A war-cry thundered over the din of struck metal and screams and Hrathgar charged, his great hammer held high, bounding ahead of his throng to smash into the disordered ranks of the Headtaker. One of the stormvermin went down with a sound like a thunderclap as the thane’s runehammer blasted its breastplate into smithereens. A moment later, his clansdwarfs were at his side and the whole area around the earthworks descended into a turbulent melee of pained cries and flashing blades.

‘Aye,’ he said. ‘This is the perfect time.’

Chapter Seven

Thordun squeezed the trigger of his handgun. He roared as the spinning barrel of the repeater sprayed indiscriminate death into the verminous hordes. The mechanism clicked empty, the overheated metal of the barrel glowing hot in the smoky pall. It was so thick he could no longer see anything else. The illumination from the stalled weapon conjured horrors of memory and shadow, transient flashes of filthy rags, the reflected gleam of sinister red eyes. Screaming, he rammed the burning barrel like a spear into the next shape to streak past. It screamed as though gelded. Thordun nearly choked on the waft of burned fur.

He had been a thief, not a killer. There had been times, of course, times when fate had forced his hand, when dark gods laughed at the mockery of dwarfish kind they had made of him.

Throwing down his handgun, he drew his brace of pistols. He spun at a noise and aimed into the smog but the shape was gone. He checked his breathing. This was not Nuln, it was the Ninth Deep of Karak Azul, but the swirling shadows of ratkin shapes haunted him like shades of his past. He spun again at a fresh noise and fired, propelling a lead bullet through the cheek of a charging clanrat. It fell with a whimper and Thordun finished it off, smashing the ivory butt of his emptied pistol into the back of its skull.

Its struggles ceased. In the skaven’s place, he saw the weeping crown of a night watchman, blood smearing his pistol and staining the sleeves of his jerkin. The man lay face down, blood streaming into the gutter in the rain. It was dark, moonless beneath banks of cloud. Rain drenched Thordun’s beard, hiding his tears. He crouched by the body. It was a boy. He rose with a curse, wiping blood from his pistol and reholstering it. There was no time to reload. He drew his father’s hammer in its place, kissing the rune inscribed into its head as he regarded the skaven corpse.

‘One more to the scales, father. I will see you pass Gazul’s Gate yet.’

‘Speaking with the dead, Splitter? You were always an odd one.’

Thordun spun, lowering his weapon fractionally when he saw it was not a giant black-furred ratman but the hairy bulk of Bernard Servat. The man was breathing heavily, betraying his years. The right side of his face was slick with blood and lumps of gristle stuck to the head of his flail. The Bretonnian’s eyebrow arched warily at the continuing suspicion in the dwarf’s regard.

‘What’s your problem?’ he asked.

‘Just considering my mistakes.’

Bernard leered. Suddenly he struck, his off hand flashing for Thordun’s head. Thordun ducked aside, and Bernard’s short sword skewered a charging clanrat through the chest. The creature’s scream pierced the din as its own momentum thrust itself right down to the hilt of his blade. ‘Speaking of mistakes.’

‘This is not the time!’ Thordun shouted, firing his last pistol round into the murk and cursing when it failed to repay him with a scream. ‘I am a dwarf. I accepted Kazador’s coin and gave my oath. This is where Thordun Locksplitter makes his stand.’

‘I don’t see your beloved king risking his royal derriere down here and I’ll not give my neck for the sake of one measly coin.’

‘Then away with you, Bernard. Flee. Keep your life, and I will keep my honour.’

‘You’ve changed, Splitter,’ the man spat. ‘It’s your grave, and I’ll not lie in it with you.’

Thordun turned away, his swinging hammer smashing the teeth from a scarlet-garbed skaven warrior. He had no oathstone, but he felt its weight on his heart. The same compulsion that drove him to his ancestral home was what bade him stand, to fight, and never yield.

He hadn’t lived as a dwarf, but by Grungni he would die as one.

This was where the last of the Locksplitters would reclaim his honour.

With a low swing of his axe, Handrik took the legs from a clanrat warrior, pivoting on the ball of his foot to slam the heavy iron head onto the struggling creature’s ribcage. He had the barest of moments to register his triumph before three more stinking, dirt-caked warriors jumped him. He roared, smashing one aside mid-leap before the other two were on him. A spear point shattered on the rune-hard gromril of his breastplate and, acting on pure instinct, he twisted his waist to swat aside the other’s sword on his elbow. The off-balance warrior stumbled, and Handrik encouraged him on his way to the ground with a thrust between the shoulder blades with the haft of his axe.

A lance of pain seared up his spine as he turned. He cried out and dropped to one knee. His lower back burned like a furnace, and he realised he could no longer move it. Stubbornly, he attempted to stand, but the intensity of pain blacked his vision and he fell.

‘Handrik has fallen!’ he heard one of the Hammerers cry, and he redoubled his efforts to stand. He would not permit the king to see him so.

He felt hands grip under his arms and drag him back. Trunk-legged figures stepped into the breach, laying into the skaven horde with immense hammers flying.

‘I’m fine. Just winded is all.’

A face appeared beside him. It was Loremaster Logan. He was missing a lens from his glasses and his face was messed with skaven blood.

‘If you aren’t the stubbornest wattock I ever met. No wonder Kazador had to force you from your duties.’

‘Damn you. No Valayan priestess will tell me whether I can fight. I’ll not be left at home with pipe and slippers when there’s killing to be done.’

‘Rest, Handrik. None will think less of you for it.’

‘Bah,’ Handrik grumbled. Forcing through the pain until his face turned red, he managed to get up onto his elbows. He glared at the old loremaster, chest heaving. ‘A quick sup of ale and I’ll be on my feet again. Pass my skin, old friend.’ He gestured with his eyes to a bulging ale-skin tied at his waist.

‘I thought you’d been a little deeper into your tankard than usual these past weeks. Is this how you’ve kept on your feet, Handrik? Neck deep in ale?’

‘Grimnir take your beard! Can’t an old longbeard savour a fortifying brew without being spied on by so-called friends?’

‘I’ll pretend you’re insensible with agony and didn’t say that. We should get you away and get that armour off you. The weight must be killing you.’

‘This old thing?’ said Handrik, shrugging his inch-thick gromril pauldrons. ‘I scarcely feel it. And when did you become a priestess anyway?’

‘Handrik!’

‘Enough! Fine!’ Handrik sagged. Suddenly he felt very tired. ‘But I’ll make my own way back. You should be at the king’s side, who else will record his deeds in battle?’

The loremaster looked as though he might weep, such was the depth of sadness in his eyes as he regarded his old friend, as if he had in some way applied the crippling blow himself. ‘You should see him. He fights with the strength of Grimnir. Iron in his heart and in his veins. No thaggoraki can stand before the Hammer of Azul when wielded with such fury.’

Handrik grimaced. ‘You read like a tale of the Ancestor Ages. Too many inkspots and too few bloodstains. Get yourself to Kazador before I carve your own bloody name into the history books.’

Logan stood and bowed.

Handrik saw the old dwarf smile just as heavy feet crunched into the hard earth, transmitting its tremors through Handrik’s prone back. A nightmarish creature of pale flesh and brawn shouldered its way through the dwarfish line. Shrieking a twisted amalgam of brute power and self-loathing, a sweep of its ape-like arms tossed aside a pair of Hammerers as if they weighed nothing. The rat ogre stood fully twelve feet tall at its hunched, monstrously powerful shoulders. Pus wept freely from open sores, its thick hide puckered with quarrels and blackened by electric burns. Its verminous head was almost swallowed by musculature, its tiny red eyes glowing with a simple hatred that left no room for pain. It loped forward on mismatched legs, charging blindly at the elderly dwarf in his path.

The loremaster turned, eyes widening as the giant rat ogre bore down on him. Too slowly he hefted his hammer as the rat ogre reared up on its hind legs, bunching one boulder-like fist and bringing it crashing down like a mace.

‘No!’ Handrik screamed.

Logan’s hammer fell hard, like a stone.

Grief-stricken, Handrik tried to rise, almost choking on pain. Instead, he took up his axe in both hands and hacked blindly at the mutant obscenity’s scabrous foot. A misshapen toe flew off at the knuckle, pustulent blood oozing from the stump. The beast howled, instinctively clobbering Handrik with its tail as it leapt back. He turned his face away as it came in, the cable-like lash cutting across his cheek and slicking his beard with blood.

The rat ogre towered above the stricken dwarf like a mountain. It lowered its head to Handrik and roared, beating its great fists against its chest. Handrik gripped his axe in both hands and roared back.

‘Come on then! What are you waiting for?’

Bunching its muscles to spring, the rat ogre was suddenly distracted as one of the king’s Hammerers burst through the cloying smoke over the bodies of his kin. Blood stained the azure of Karak Azul as he came, swinging his massive hammer in both hands. The weapon crunched under the beast’s ribs, the sounds of splintering bone audible even over the thunder of cannon-fire. The rat ogre skittered back, rat-like, the injury giving it pause but little more.

Again, Handrik tried to draw himself up, managing, through sheer stubborn force of will, to drag himself to his knees. His head swayed. ‘Leave the beardling be, rat-beast. You’re not done with me yet!’

The rat ogre ignored him as it prepared to charge the tiny creature that had caused it pain.

‘Ahead!’ commanded a royal voice. ‘May your blood feed the roots of Karak Azul, monster.’

Kazador emerged from the smog. His anvil-headed hammer held aloft like the prow of a warship, his bearers cut through the squall of battle towards their prey. The brilliance of the Armour of Kings was undimmed by the spatters of skaven blood. Even to Kazador, borne aloft and with his great winged helm sweeping proud like a battle standard, the rat ogre loomed gigantic. It roared, sweeping its blade-like claws at his face. Drilled beyond excellence over the centuries, Kazador’s shieldbearers stepped back, carrying their king from the blow before charging back in at the unbalanced beast. The Hammer of Azul descended like punishment from the heavens, first crushing the rat ogre’s shoulder before drawing back and smashing the teeth from its jaw with a well-placed blow to the snout.

The giant beast screamed and cowered away. Unmoved, Kazador beat relentlessly at the mewling creature’s hunched back, bone crumbling under every blow, while his bearers set to work with hand-axes on the rat ogre’s thick hide.

At last, the beast’s cries ceased and it lay still.

Kazador lowered his hammer and turned to face Handrik. His gaze swept over Logan’s body without hint of emotion. His eyes were cold, his heart so swollen by sorrow he could physically feel no more. ‘Can you still fight?’

Handrik took in the fallen Hammerers, the shattered armour of his oldest friend. They had died because of him, because of his weakness. ‘Until I can no longer hold an axe, majesty.’

‘Good. There’s plenty more to kill.’ The king looked across the melee. The Hammerers were a knot of order amidst a swirling sea of chaos. He squinted into the murk where, just visible within the ashen shroud, a rack of severed heads danced above the battle like vengeful spirits. ‘Headtaker,’ he cursed. ‘Thaggoraki hordes are all the same. We cut off its head and stamp down hard on its plague-ridden body until the tail stops twitching.’

‘Go on without me, majesty. I will not allow the ratkin to feast on Logan’s body. Let me die at his–’

He paused, unnerved by something he could not place.

‘What is it, Handrik?’

Something was wrong. Finally it struck him. Something that had so overwhelmed his senses that its absence was like suddenly noticing the sky was green or the mountains inverted.

‘The guns have stopped.’

Sharpwit crouched at an intersection, where his smaller tunnel joined another, much larger one. The walls were smoothly carved granite. Angular faces stared gravely from the stone. They seemed to grumble and curse with the echoes of distant cannon-fire. He poked his muzzle out of his hiding place, drawing a careful sniff of the tepid air and finding it barren of dwarf scent.

‘This way,’ he whispered.

Fang Dao hissed acknowledgement, turning to his gutter runners and forming his paw through a sequence of shapes. They bobbed silently in understanding. Sharpwit hobbling in the lead, the skaven swept down the tunnel. The booming maledictions of the stone-carved figures grew louder as they drew closer to their goal. The floor of the passage vibrated under foot with every rumble.

The dwarfs had been clever, as dwarfs were wont to be. There was no easy access to the Ninth Deep fortifications. Not from the Ninth Deep, anyway. They could only be reached by a network of passages connecting to stairwells from the Upper Deeps, thus forcing any attacker either to submit to a barrage of death they could not answer, or to assault the hold from many points at once. Even then, total victory would be far from certain, as the dwarfs had left many blind tunnels and traps for the uninvited and the entrances to their most important passageways were barred by the most adroit of dwarfish runecraft. They were an ingenious race, cunning when they chose to be, and skilled in the arts of obfuscation. It had taken ten generations and peerless skaven guile to finally wrest Karak Eight Peaks from their grasp. Its ruins were testament to what the skaven could accomplish when selfishness was set aside for the greater interests of Skavendom. Karak Azul was no less formidable than the Eight Peaks of old, but the Council of Thirteen was too divided to bend their full will to its capture. That was why Gnawdwell had put his trust in Sharpwit – wisest and cleverest of all the skaven.

They must be almost directly above the dwarfish fortifications now, somewhere between the Eighth and Ninth Deeps.

‘Ahh,’ he breathed. ‘Here it is.’

The passage opened out into a huge black maw, too wide for even skaven night vision to perceive the far wall. The sounds of battle rang from its depths like echoes from a well. Clutching the stone wall, Sharpwit leant over the yawning gulf and peered up into what his lurching gut insisted was infinity. His head calmly told him that the shaft ran to the foundries and workshops of the Fifth Deep, running an elevator platform for weapons and munitions down to the endless battlegrounds of the Lower Deeps.

He got down stiffly onto all fours and sniffed over the edge. A brisk breeze played at the soft hairs of his throat, carrying on it the sharp scent of fire and gunpowder. Their destination was not far. Dao and his nimble-footed adepts would likely not balk at such a climb, but Sharpwit’s joints ached at the mere prospect. Fortunately, there was always another way.

‘Dao, send half your sneaks ahead-down. We go right into the dwarf-thing’s heart and will find no more unguarded tunnels.’

The assassin peered over the edge, pointing out individuals from the group and directing them down. Wordlessly, they obeyed, spooling out rope from coils beneath their black cloaks. The first to go wrapped the rope under his left thigh and over his right shoulder and backed towards the ledge as Dao himself checked the line was secure. The gutter runner snarled, possibly in prayer, and threw himself tail first from the precipice and rappelled down the sheer chasm.

Sharpwit watched approvingly as the remainder of the advance team followed suit. It was said that the training Clan Eshin agents received was intended to instill loyalty and fellowship as well as martial skill. They were a model that all Skavendom should follow.

‘How far do they fall-drop?’ Dao asked.

‘Far. Likely they need climb the last by paw.’

Dao nodded as though he had expected as much but revealed nothing of his thoughts. Mental discipline was said to be another trait of the Eshin.

‘Come-come,’ said Sharpwit. ‘Now we find our way down.’

‘You will not be joining us down the hole?’ Dao asked, innocently.

Sharpwit sneered. ‘You are no fool-fool, Dao. Do not try-seek and test me. I play these games far longer than you.’ He laid his paws against the walls, seemingly at random, and began sliding his touch along their cold length. These passages had not been trodden in an age.

‘You could wait-rest here. Let Dao do what he does well-best and keep clever Warlord Sharpwit from danger.’

Smiling to himself, his back to the assassin, Sharpwit’s paws didn’t cease their questing. ‘You try to frighten me? I have the ear of Nightlord Sneak, I treat with Deathmasters. What could Fang Dao say to frighten me?’ He turned, treating the assassin to a grin filled with fell black fangs.

The assassin met his gaze, sizing him up as perhaps only an adept of Clan Eshin could. ‘You are not as feeble as you seem, are you?’

Sharpwit smiled but said nothing. He pressed his muzzle back to the wall. Trembles from distant cannon-fire passed through the stone like ripples.

‘What do you find-seek?’ asked the humbled assassin.

‘A way down. I squeak-say already.’

‘Through solid rock?’

‘I thought you were expert on dwarf-things.’ Sharpwit broke into a laugh. ‘But then Razzel says that too. I weep for the skaven race.’ His paw passed over a patch of wall that felt different to the rest. It looked identical, but it had been years since Sharpwit had trusted to his sight. ‘Watch, Dao. Maybe learn something.’

With that, Sharpwit pushed forward, the rock giving way beneath his paw until his arm was buried within the wall up to the shoulder. He cackled. ‘Dwarf-things think themselves so clever. Clever enough perhaps, but not to fool Sharpwit.’ He grasped about until his paw settled on what he sought: a metal lever, cool to the touch and as long as his wiry forearm. He tugged but it was locked. Spitting a curse, he gave it another yank but the lever didn’t shift. He withdrew his paw. The lever had been designed for stronger arms than his.

‘Dao. Pull the lever.’

The assassin stared at the depression as though he expected it to sear the flesh from his bones on contact. He cast about for an underling to perform the task.

‘Now!’

Dao squirmed in discomfort, looking first at the wall and then at Sharpwit before finally reaching a decision. He sidled closer to the wall, throwing one last imploring look at Sharpwit and receiving short shrift before daintily sinking one claw into the aperture.

Sharpwit thwacked the assassin across the rump with his crutch. ‘Quick-quick! Or I tell Sneak that Dao is a coward-rat scared of holes in walls.’

Holding his breath, Dao drove his arm deeper, finally relaxing as his paw found the lever head.

‘Yes-yes, good. Be convinced-sure you have the proper lever. One to left is to summon. It is longer. One to right is to send up or down.’

‘I have it.’

‘Good-good. Now, pull-pull.’

Thick muscles pulled taut beneath black fur. The assassin grimaced as he fought against the stubborn lever.

‘Pull-pull, pull hard.’

Dao grunted, feeling the arm shift the merest inch. He pulled back his dye-blackened lips into a snarl and gave everything to haul the damnable thing until it could go no further. There was a throaty clank, as of metal being withdrawn into metal, and a whir of machinery as Dao collapsed, panting.

Sharpwit stepped away from the wall as the sound rattled on. Somewhere, deep within the clever masonry of the dwarfs, wheels were spinning and heavy-duty chains older than the Under-Empire rumbled towards the Fifth Deep bearing a lead counterweight – forged undoubtedly into the stern countenance of an ancestor, for all that none would ever see it – in their wake. He moved closer to the shaft and peered cautiously upwards. He took a sniff. The cry of sheared stone and overworked metal ricocheted down the walls of the shaft.

‘Away-back from the ledge,’ he squeaked, obeying his own command. ‘Away-back.’

An enormous stone platform, at least three feet thick and too vast in diameter to discern, hove into view, its descent grinding to a shuddering halt. It locked smoothly into place and Sharpwit couldn’t help but marvel. If he hadn’t just witnessed the floor appear, he would never have believed that it hadn’t been present all long. The joint with the rest of the passage was seamless, the tall statues that ringed the platform aligning perfectly with the faces in the accompanying hall.

Sharpwit shook his head. So very clever.

With this contraption in his paws, he could have positioned warriors on every level of Karak Azul as high as the Fifth Deep. The dwarfs would not have folded, he knew that. They were a stubborn race who almost revelled in adversity, but the skaven would not have been forced to assault an entrenched line and Kazador would have seen his forces split. Would he have defended the ancestor shrines on the Sixth Deep? Or would he have dispatched his finest to the burial chambers of the Eighth or the treasuries of the Seventh? It was all moot now. He cursed Queek and his childish thinking, rejoicing in the same breath that the Headtaker was no longer his problem. He hoped the Horned Rat choked on that one.

‘Onto the platform,’ he commanded, waving the slinking skaven forward. ‘Dao, one must stay to work the lever.’

Dao dropped his muzzle, pointing out a scrawny ratkin stood nearest to him. ‘You. Go work the lever for Sharpwit-Warlord.’

The skaven scurried from the platform with a posture that bespoke profound relief. Sharpwit stabbed his claw at another of the gutter runners, a silent and brooding presence with a heavy hemp net over his broad shoulders. ‘And you. Make sure he does not run-scurry.’

Sharpwit, Dao and the remainder of the gutter runners assembled around the lip of the platform. The adepts fidgeted nervously, but Dao himself had regained his composure. The assassin crouched low, legs braced like willow saplings so he would not be unbalanced by any sudden movement of the floor. His ears and eyes roved ceaselessly in search of danger.

Sharpwit snarled at the gutter runners they had left behind. ‘Twist the right-paw lever, quarter turn to right and then pull-pull.’

The gutter runner did so, twisting the lever clockwise before pulling it back down. Sharpwit looked sideways at Dao.

Dao bared his fangs. ‘I loosened for him.’

The platform lurched, spilling all but Dao from their feet. Sharpwit swore as the level began to descend noisily. He stabbed his crutches into the trembling floor and pushed himself onto his feet. None of the gutter runners offered a paw in aid.

Grey walls ground upward, twinkling with baubles of quartz, pyrite and feldspar as the mineral seam smeared lazily across his vision. The gutter runners gripped the floor on all fours. Dao stood hunched, his body seemingly motionless as he swayed in perfect harmony with the vibrations of the platform. Sharpwit turned his back on them all, resting on the support of his crutches. Not far now.

The platform crashed into its Ninth Deep terminus. This time Sharpwit kept his feet, but the shockwave shook his insides like jelly. A team of hunched, black-clad shapes greeted them as Sharpwit hobbled gladly from the shaft. The tunnel was almost identical to the previous. Perhaps the dwarfs themselves could tell the different ancestor statues apart, but he could not.

One of the gutter runners from the advance party came to prostrate himself before Sharpwit and Dao. His slender blade was bloody. Sharpwit ignored the skaven and pressed deeper into the tunnel. It seemed the statues here were possessed of two shadows. Gutter runners slunk behind them in watchful positions of wariness.

He sensed Dao and the remainder of the Clan Eshin team on his tail. The tunnel ran only a short way before ending in a stout, iron-banded portal. The last gutter runner sat cross-legged before it, tail coiled about his waist and twitching in time to the actions of his paws which fished a multi-pronged instrument into the door’s locking mechanism. Either side of the working ratkin lay two dead dwarfs. One lay face down, a stab wound in the back, while the other sat upright against the wall. His head lolled to one side, tubes showing glistening and white where the dwarf’s throat had been slit.

The sounds of battle came through most clearly now. He could hear screams and war-cries, the chittering of skaven multitudes whipped into death frenzy. Above it all, cannon roared like dragons in an ancient sky.

And Sharpwit had his paws in their nest.

‘Fast-quick Eshin-thing. Is time we take the Ninth Deep for the glory of Skavendom.’

Fizqwik ventured his snout from the crater that had been the site of his warplock jezzails. The cannonball hadn’t left a scrap of fur. Even the spume of eviscerated skaven remains had never fallen back to earth. Every drop had been mopped up by the cloud of ash that hung over the battlefield. He stared upwards, lost in a momentary fascination of this alchemical phenomenon and how he might turn it to the removal of bloodstains from his workshop floor.

It had been quick thinking of a paramount degree that had concluded in his hasty relocation to the rear once the cannonade had diverted its aim from Queek’s mad charge through the centre towards his own position. It was hardly his own fault if lesser minds could not keep up. He crawled a little way further over the lip of the earthen parapet and set his precious warplock musket under his body. His ears still screamed to the whistle of phantom shells, but there were no more explosions, no plumes of pulverised rock or short-lived screams. He stuck a claw in one ear and wiggled it.

He began to laugh. The guns had stopped.

He scurried the rest of the way from the hole and snatched his weapon from the ground. All around him, shell-shocked clanrats emerged blinking from their own pits and furrows. Through supreme cleverness and guile he had survived where the idiot Queek had not. And now it would be Fizqwik who delivered the Council of Thirteen a famous victory.

‘Forward, brave minions! Kill-kill!’

Queek squealed, exultant, mashing the face of the prone dwarf into paste, striking over and over with the spike of Dwarf Gouger until the flattened mess above its neck had combined inseparably with the pulverised rock upon which it had breathed its last.

‘Queek greatest!’ he screamed. ‘Squeak-tell who is greatest, dwarf-thing!’

The dwarf said nothing and Queek screamed once more as Dwarf Gouger struck again, its ensorcelled spike splitting deep into the rock. Dwarf-things with hand-axes and shields fought back to back, all cohesion abandoned to the chaos of battle as their numbers thinned and scarlet-armoured stormvermin swept to envelope them. He had been so close. Even now he could see Kazador’s garlanded white fur. He saw him look his way.

Face me if you dare.

‘Ska! Cut a path. See-hear how Kazador challenges Queek.’ He scowled as stormvermin continued to streak by him, thrusting the serrated blades of their halberds at the dwarfs, and not one of them paying heed to their warlord. ‘Ska!’ he yelled again. Damn that worthless underling and his ineptitude. Queek would do it himself.

‘Rat-king! Headtaker! Stand and meet your doom.’

A dwarf strode towards him. A grey beard spilled from the face of a tall horned helm from which ruby-red runes glowered with quiet power. A huge warhammer crackled blue-white in his heavy iron gauntlets. The horns reminded him of White-fur.

‘Queek hate-hate stupid White-fur!’

‘Your madness will trouble Karak Eight Peaks no longer. Face me if you dare.’

Queek hissed. Hearing those words spoken aloud jarred his senses, as though two disparate realities had suddenly collided into one, imbuing both with hyper-realism. Colours became vivid as though shackled before hidden stars, scents sharpened, and the clatter and roar of battle pitched to crystal clarity. He could see every whisker on the dwarf-thing’s face, smell the oil on his armour and the rank hatred that crusted in its pores like salt from old sweat.

He tittered. ‘What you think, dwarf-thing, should Queek kill-kill?’

The dwarf scowled. ‘If you believe you can. Come meet the Hammerhand.’

‘Queek does not speak-squeak to you, dwarf-thing.’

Moving with ferocious alacrity, he leapt in for the quick kill. He revelled in the sudden panic in the dwarf-thing’s eyes as he witnessed his speed, the painful realisation of the mighty warlord that he faced. The foreplay was almost as joyful as the final ecstatic eruption of life, that little death that preceded the greater, the bloody finality of defeat.

His sword clanged against the dwarf’s hammer. Electric sparks flared as Queek measured his strength against that of his foe. Shoving the dwarf’s weapon aside, he spun in its wake, Dwarf Gouger arcing for the greybeard’s head. The dwarf jerked back just in time, Queek’s maul shearing a horn from his helm like a hot wire through cheese.

Growling, the dwarf reset his helm. Queek tittered mercilessly at his earnestness. ‘What is the matter, dwarf-thing? Queek thinks you want-wish to join dwarf-kin Krug on Queek’s spike, yes-yes?’

‘Damn you and your abominations, Headtaker.’

The dwarf came swinging, his hammer leaving a train of sparking blue afterimages as it fizzed through the air. Queek skipped away, parrying and dancing as the dwarf came stubbornly on, always missing by a whisker. Queek felt his hairs tingle and stand erect as they absorbed the charge imparted by the dwarf’s wildly swinging hammer. Queek tittered as though tickled. The sensation was arresting, as if he were being pulled into the sky by tiny blue faeries. He snapped his jaws at one of the dancing lights, the sparking mote popping delightfully on his tongue.

The dwarf saw little to amuse him, storm clouds settling over his eyes as he lunged with an upward swing. Queek curved his spine back as the mallet whisked beneath his snout, his tail catching his falling weight before uncoiling like a spring to fling him back at his enemy. The dwarf swore as he shifted his hammer to block Queek’s strike, but he was slow as a corpse from the grave and Dwarf Gouger bored deep into dwarfish rune-plate and drank deeply of the blood that issued forth, spilling in runnels to the ground. His weapons blurred as they reaped a bloody harvest of dwarf flesh.

‘Make fae-things dance for Queek, dwarf-thing!’

The dwarf panted raggedly, his hammer held resolute even as the life ebbed from him. He shook his head grimly. ‘All that has been lost. To you. A mad rat. Do you even realise what you do?’

Queek spread his arms as if offering an embrace. ‘Come-come. Be with Queek.’

The dwarf studied the mad skaven, beginning to laugh even as Queek sprang with a velocity that blurred action and reaction into a single scarlet blur and strangled his gallows mirth in a cry of horror. His hammer swung too late, catching the warlord on the edge of his pauldron with the wooden shaft as he was borne to the ground. The pair rolled through the earth as clawed skaven footpaws and iron dwarf boots stomped around them, locked in their own private struggles. Queek didn’t see. They were distant things, small and lacking in consequence.

He felt the dwarf-thing fading and clutched him tightly to his breast, forcing his bearded and bloodied face into his breastplate.

‘There, there, dwarf-thing. You are with Queek now.’

The dwarf struggled, coughing harshly as he inhaled a lungful of warpdust shaken loose from Queek’s armour. Suddenly, his struggles grew more acute. He thrashed and jerked in Queek’s hold, green-black foam spilling from his nose and mouth, choking his cries to an agonised gargle before that too drowned in the mucilage of his melted lungs. The dwarf’s body shuddered one last time and went still, his eyes rolling white into his sockets.

Queek lifted back the dwarf’s head. He was peaceful, content, sublime.

He lowered his muzzle to the dwarf’s lips. ‘Now Queek will kill-slay Kazador. You watch-like very much, Queek thinks, yes-yes.’

He looked up.

The dwarfs were advancing, shields interleaved into a milling engine of death. At the centre came Kazador atop his iron shield, armour and wide helm gleaming like a full moon in a fire-choked sky. His hammer smote down skaven by the dozen as his ranks advanced with iron discipline by his side. The king bestrode the conflict like a colossus, more machine than mortal; cold, hard and utterly beyond death.

Queek shrieked his challenge. He would prove that that was not so!

His cry was lost in the scrum as the vengeful dwarfs closed to the blast of horns and trumpets, the ground between them and Queek turning into a slaughterhouse. Ratkin were still charging unawares, even as others attempted to flee. The survivors of Hrathgar’s clansdwarfs stood like solitary islands in that churning sea, arms that didn’t know the meaning of weariness hacking out at newcomers and lategoers both.

Queek threw his gaze about in a rage, settling on a burly pair of brown-furred rats that bore between them a great sloshing barrel connected by a hose and bellows apparatus to a bulky cannon in the paws of the foremost skaven. Their fur was lank with the effort of jogging all the way from the strike tunnels with their cumbersome equipment and heavy, flame-retardant overalls.

‘Flame-burn,’ Queek hissed, gesturing at the skaven and dwarf-things alike that stood between him and Kazador. ‘Fire. Quick-now.’

The gunner grinned excitedly, chittering instructions to the fuel-bearer as he pressed down on the trigger.

The intensity of the explosion knocked Queek off his feet as the fuel-bearer rocketed skyward on a pillar of warpflame, exploding far above the battlefield in firework fury. Queek gasped for breath as gobbets of warpfire rained down, sinking through dwarfish armour and igniting skaven fur. Panicked skaven bolted in every direction, setting fresh ratkin ablaze as they blundered through the crazed press or simply, mercifully, ended their short lives on the axes of the still advancing dwarfs.

A quartet of ratling guns arrived behind him, breathless and exhausted as had been the late warpfire team. ‘Fire, fire, fire!’ he squealed as panic threatened to become a rout.

Victory would be his. Kazador would be his. He was Queek. Fearsome. Undefeatable.

The gunners cranked the handles of their weapons and the muzzles of their fearsome guns chittered and spun, but spat nothing more deadly than warpstone-smeared oil. One of the skaven shook his weapon angrily. Another, surveying the destruction of the warpfire team, released a stale waft of relieved musk.

‘No!’ Queek wailed, stamping his footpaws in fury. Blurred ratkin shapes ran by in full flight. ‘No, no, no, no!’

He glared at Kazador with undisguised hate.

Next time, Kazador.

Next time.

Chapter Eight

There was little cheer to be found among the throng of Karak Azul as the ratkin fled the Deep in rout. The skaven were scattered to the depths but, like the verminous weeds of the Underworld they were, every last one needed to be purged by blade and flame down to the very root before there could be any rest. Units of Ironbreakers, escorted by rangers and experienced miners, already pursued the foul creatures to their lair.

Sensing the blackness of their king’s mood, the throng joined him in giving expression to the sombreness in their hearts. There was little chance now of a war on the Black Crag. The clansdwarfs would return to their trades, the warriors from foreign holds would trickle back to their homes and the moment when restitution came agonisingly within their collective grasp would have passed. Grudgement would be forced to wait – another fifteen years or more.

The sound of fighting continued to filter from distant quarters. The sharp report of a Thunderer’s handgun sounded strange after the sense-deadening cacophony of the battle just fought, a shrill note suddenly silenced, like the shriek of a fowl snared in the depth of darkness before the dawn chorus. From somewhere lost in smoke came the rumour of steel clashing against steel, likely skaven hold-outs unaware their battle was lost. But there was little glory in such slaughter. Even the sound of it faded to insignificance beneath the rumbling industry of the Eighth Deep, audible once again at the battle’s death, immutable as the grinding drift of continents.

The area around the fort had become the last focus of activity. In an unexpected reversal of roles, besieged had become besieger, and ranks of Thunderers knelt behind hurriedly fashioned palisades of skaven corpses and scree as they took potshots at the grey-walled basilica. A group of skaven, fleetingly visible through the slitted openings in the rock face, had somehow gained access to silence the artillery station there. The wooden footbridge spanning the chasm before the fort shook to the tread of boots as clansdwarfs quick-marched back the way they had come. A continuous stream of missiles rained down upon them, from poison darts to cannonballs, hauled to the window slits between pairs of slender paws and dropped onto the heads of the dwarfs like rocks.

Some distance from the continuing actions, not far from the spot where Kazador had crushed the skaven centre, the wounded and the slain lay in grisly array, a battalion of the broken laid out in parade order. Lorekeepers with iron-bound ledgers walked the files, grimly recording the names of the slain. Priestesses and their assistants bustled by them. For many, there was naught to be done but cleanse bloody flesh and comb knotted beards that they might be presentable for their arrival in the Ancestors’ Hall. Those that lived awaited stolidly the ministry of the daughters of Valaya. The hermit priest, Gunngeir, followed more slowly in their wake, offering Grimnir’s quite different balm to the wounds of the dishonoured. There was no weeping, no gnashing of teeth. They bore their suffering like dwarfs.

Handrik resented his own place in that unlucky number. These dawi were heroes undeserving of his company. They had laid their bodies down in defence of the karak, whereas he hadn’t suffered so much as a splinter from a thaggoraki shield. He lay face down in the ground, the millennia-old stone fractured and bloodstained from the murder mill that had passed over it mere hours before. He had been helped out of his armour and his goat wool undershirt, his densely muscled shoulders straddled by the sturdy thighs of a Valayan priestess. Handrik bore her ministrations, red-faced. That any should see him in such a condition was intolerable.

Handrik grumbled, wincing as the priestess cut into the flesh of his back. He felt blood spill from a lanced swelling and stream down his sides. He ground his teeth as the woman cut deeper. A shadow fell across his face and he squirmed under the priestess’s hold to look up, a curse pre-formed on his lips.

‘That’s right, come take a good gawp at…’ Handrik coughed, embarrassed as the approaching figure turned out to be that of Kazador. ‘I… erm… Forgive me, majesty.’

The king came on foot, whether out of humility born of misplaced respect, or simple consideration for his bearer’s aching limbs. He held himself back, eyes fixed upon the hanging fog, glassy and unseeing as a sleepwalker’s in their modest aversion.

‘How do you fare, old friend?’

‘Don’t ask such stupid questions,’ Handrik snapped, before he could rein in his wayward tongue. He forced a laugh, but it was half-hearted, devoid of his usual cheer. ‘There’s a keg of Bugman’s in it for you if you’d have this harpy from my back.’

‘Almost done, you big baby. Stop fidgeting.’

Handrik spluttered in outrage. ‘Baby?’

‘Peace, Handrik,’ Kazador intoned. ‘Leave Grimhildur be.’ The king regarded him sorrowfully. ‘Know that no blame is apportioned to you over Logan’s death. It is my own fault. I should never have permitted you to take up arms at my side, but I couldn’t deny you one last battle.’ His expression hardened. ‘The fault is mine. I was warned against it.’

‘You were,’ the priestess added.

‘No! Logan fell on my account.’

‘Silence, Handrik,’ Kazador threatened. ‘The grudge is set. I can only hope one day to find the good fortune to atone. Logan’s memory deserves no less.’

Handrik softened in surrender. It was already written.

‘The loremaster will be interred with full glory tomorrow morning. You were friends. I’d ask you to join me in bearing his body to the Burial Hall.’

‘I’ll allow that,’ Grimhildur interrupted, ‘but only that,’ she finished firmly.

‘Aye, majesty,’ Handrik whispered.

‘It is done,’ said Grimhildur, patting him on the rump. The priestess clambered off Handrik’s back, wiping her bloodied hands on a rag. ‘The swelling is lessened, but you must rest. And I mean really rest this time.’ She regarded him sternly. ‘So if I hear so much as a whisper of you donning that armour again, it’ll be an inch from your beard.’

Handrik grunted, downcast, not troubling himself to rise at the scuff of fresh boots. He was not some performing beast to make a spectacle of himself for the amusement of every ill-mannered gruntitroggi that passed his way.

Kazador, for his part, noted the new arrival with the slightest of nods. He might have smiled had his frown not been immortalised in stone. ‘A pleasure to meet you again,’ he said, ‘Quite the hero of the hour if what I hear is to be believed.’ But the king’s countenance and tone of voice remained grim.

Grimhildur nodded to the newcomer and offered a bow to the king, turning to leave them be before fixing on Handrik one last time. ‘If I don’t find you right here when I get back–’

‘I know, I know. Away with you, woman.’

The stranger laughed, and the sound of his voice removed any mystery as to his identity, for Handrik knew no other whose Khazalid was so polluted with Imperial accenting. ‘I’d do as she says, longbeard. She strikes me most fearsome.’

‘What do you want, beardling?’ he asked, tersely.

‘Speak well to friends or hold your tongue,’ Kazador barked. ‘I summoned the boy. May dawi in my kingdom travel only where Handrik Hallgakrin deems fit?’

‘Of course not, majesty. Forgive me.’ He struggled to rise. He could feel his legs better now, frigid needles prickling his extremities, but he was still horrifically sore. His body felt beaten, wrung out. And he had a dire thirst. A gentle hand, gloved and unarmoured on his shoulders, bade him stay still and, to no benefit to his temper, he was too weak to do anything but comply. He glared into the youthful, golden-haired face of Thordun Locksplitter. ‘You look bloody pleased with yourself.’

‘As well he might,’ said Kazador. ‘It is scarcely commonplace for the actions of one so young to save a kingdom, old friend. Single-handedly, he plugged the hole left in the line by that traitorous umgaki, Hrathgar, may his beard be shorn and his chin lie forever fallow. He held the thaggoraki long enough for Lothgrim to drive them back with reinforcements from the citadel.’

Forgetting his ire against Thordun, he snapped back at the king, red-faced and indignant, ‘I told you. I said that Lothgrim was too sparse on the chin. He was tasked with guarding the stair. It wasn’t for him to decide what’s best. What if the skaven had got in behind him, they could have made it anywhere in the hold?’

‘But they didn’t.’

‘I hear there are skaven even now inside the fort, how do you explain that? Without the barrage to keep them down, the thaggoraki nearly overran our entire left flank. How many dawi fell because the guns went quiet?’

‘Lothgrim’s actions were decisive and bold. Without his Ironbreakers we would almost certainly not be having this conversation now. He is to be commended, and that is all I need to explain to you.’

Handrik grumbled, but said no more, taking a sudden interest in the grain on the stone beneath his cheek.

‘Thordun,’ Kazador continued. ‘It is only right that I offer you some reward for your deeds.’

‘That is unnecessary, your majesty,’ Thordun said, beaming. ‘It was my honour.’

‘It is necessary. In Karak Azul, we honour our debts in full. But if you prefer, consider it further service to me. I need to send an emissary to Karak Eight Peaks. Belegar must be informed of the treachery perpetrated in his name, and of the debt already owed for his failure to honour his alliances. And Hrathgar’s heir must be notified as well. His father’s grudge debt is now his to repay.’

‘This seems an unhappy duty.’

‘Does it?’ Kazador asked, surprise briefly threatening his grim mask of apathy and pain. ‘Ours is an unhappy world, beardling. You will learn this as the centuries add grey to your beard.’

‘I will serve proudly, majesty.’

‘Good. Then when that is done, you will bear record of these grudges to the high loremaster of the Karaz Ankor in Karaz-a-Karak. I am told it would be on your way home.’

Thordun bowed low, nervously clearing his throat. ‘With respect, majesty, you are mistaken. This is my home, if you will have me.’

Kazador barked with hollow laughter. The gesture was a half-remembered habit, an impulse from another life, and his lifeless visage was unmoved. ‘Then let us clear your home of thaggoraki. You should have a hearth worth returning to after your trek to the Everpeak.’

‘I can help,’ said Handrik. He rolled to his feet in brazen defiance of his own body, swaying but refusing to fall. His legs bent and quivered as he came forward. ‘My axe hand still works.’

‘Handrik,’ said Kazador, sorrowfully. ‘Do as Grimhildur says.’

‘Mother of mercy be damned!’ he roared, fists clenched in frustration. Kazador did not flinch, his stony façade unyielding before the heat of Handrik’s glare.

Thordun placed a calming arm around his shoulder. He shook it off and shot him a warning scowl. He had anger sufficient for Thordun and Kazador both.

The young dwarf held up his hands. ‘Please rest. Just for a time. The battle is won and now we just mop up the dregs. I’m sure you’ll be fighting fit in no time.’

Handrik lowered his head. Un-helmed, his mane of grey hair spilled down over his shoulders. He knew his body better than any priestess, and certainly better than any beardling from the Empire. ‘Aye, lad. Miracles do happen, I suppose.’

Thordun lowered his hands, choosing to offer one in friendship. ‘Perhaps when I return we can share an ale again? I would love to hear more tales of the glories of Azul.’

Handrik merely stared at the proffered digits until Thordun withdrew them. Turning his back, he sank to the bloodstained stone, hoping none saw how the stone of his legs had turned molten. He just wanted to be alone.

‘Leave me in peace, beardling.’

‘Handrik–’

‘And take your wretched umgi with you when you leave.’

Sharpwit paced the choked confines of the dwarfish battery. The cannon themselves lay calm at his side, panting and hot like hounds summoned to heel. His plan had worked as perfectly as he had known it would, but for what?

The door leading back to the elevator shaft shook to the punishment of a ram, a momentary spear of illumination shafting by its bowing hinges. The floor around the doorway had been piled with cannonballs, corpses, powder kegs, anything not chained down and readily hoisted by skaven paws. A terrified-looking adept braced the failing door with his body; arms, legs and tail spread-eagled against the stone frame as though his life depended on it.

Gutter runners hovered at the angular muzzle slits overlooking the Ninth Deep and the rear of the dwarfish line, hurling throwing stars down after the distant targets. The waspish steel buzzed through the smoke with Clan Eshin poison dripping from their stings. Iron bolts fired back in fitful exchange struck the imposing granite frontage of the fort.

Sharpwit looked over the five cannon at the wide corridor that cut deeper into the fortress stair and its batteries, each now as dead as this one. He lost himself to a fit of coughing. The smoke wormed its way into his lungs. It stung his good eye and flushed his nostrils with the scent of gunpowder and terror. He ceased his pacing and ground his crutch angrily into the flagstones. He would not die here.

He looked up as Fang Dao materialised from the smoke that masked the service tunnel, his lithe physique conditioned unconsciously to stealth. The rictus of panic shadowing his features only marginally ruined the effect. Two gutter runners crept after him, their movements obvious only by comparison

‘All dwarf-things are dead-dead,’ reported Dao, half an eye looking behind Sharpwit to the door as it suffered another crunching blow.

Sharpwit snarled. The assassin’s efficiency made Queek’s wretched efforts all the more infuriating. Victory had been within his paw and, while failure was bad enough, what truly caught in his gullet was the discovery that the mad warlord still lived. The ferocity with which he gripped his crutches left splinters in his paws. He had seen the warlord charge down Kazador’s throat. He had seen him repulsed just as swiftly. Perhaps it would teach the whelp some humility, but he doubted it. Queek lacked the requisite mental acuity for anything as refined as ‘learning’.

Sharpwit gestured at the cannon that had formed this battery. He would have dearly loved to claim such fine engines for the glory of Skavendom but there was no way to get them out, and some half-wit tinkerer like Fizqwik would only insist on ‘improving’ them to the point of ruination in any case.

‘See these are destroyed. These weapons at least will be lost-taken from Azul-Place.’ He tittered sarcastically. ‘Such glorious victories. Azul-place will never recover from such completeness of sabotage. What are the workshops of weaponmasters and the forges of runemakers compared to five big scary cannon like these?’ Overcome with fury, he kicked out at the closest war machine. The hollow barrel tolled like the Thirteenth Bell and Sharpwit’s ankle exploded in pain. He hopped on one footpaw, his crutches making vengeful stabs at the floor as he waited for the throbbing to cease. He coughed, loudly clearing a bloody gob from his throat, which he spat from the cannon slits and onto the dwarfs below.

‘What are you waiting for? Is Clan Eshin in the habit of receiving invitations from those they kill-slay? Do it now!’

Dao bobbed to obey, calling a pawful of his charges from their positions to assist in sabotaging the ancient machines.

Another crunch of splintering oak. Wood shards sprayed from the door’s centre. The riveted iron bands running across its top and bottom began to buckle. A gutter runner dashed to aid his comrade in holding together the tortured wood. Another pair tried to drag one of the cannon to add to the ramshackle barricade, so possessed by panic that they hadn’t realised the thing was chained to wooden tracks to check its massive recoil. Frantically, they kept on tugging regardless.

A gutter runner jerked back from one of the cannon slits with a bloody crater in his chest, his tail jerking like the decapitated body of a worm. The booming report of a musket shot resounded through the choking miasma. A lucky shot.

Again, the door shuddered in its death throes. The panelling began to come apart. Sharpwit could see fierce brown-furred faces through the ever-widening cracks in the dead oak.

Fang Dao cast about in a desperate search for an escape route. His eyes lingered on the cannon slits. They were wide enough and tall enough, and a sheer climb down seamless granite was no obstacle to a master of Clan Eshin – if a skaven fancied escaping the dragon’s maw by fleeing into its flaming belly.

‘Do not be a fool-fool,’ Sharpwit hissed, limping towards the narrow opening. ‘No way out that way.’ The smoke swirled and coiled, sauntered and writhed; it had currents and tides like a deep ocean of ash. The cry of the Thunderhorn keened through the Deep, mournful and solitary as whale song.

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 his 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.

Sharpwit paced the perimeter of the grime-shrouded antechamber. He trod delicately, careful not to disturb a single mote of dust, sniffing with wary suspicion at every cobweb and forgotten furnishing. A set of high-backed chairs had been pushed against one wall and covered with mouldering throws that were themselves covered with a layer of moth eggs and grime. The skeletal frame of a table descended into slow decay in the centre of the room.

‘You make me nervous, Sharpwit,’ Razzel complained. The grey seer kept to one corner, the better to scrutinise the entire room. He tinkled mildly, the faintest of breezes from Sharpwit’s secret passage, now concealed anew, sufficent to give muted voice to his chimes.

‘Dwarf-things do not use this place. Sealed since… since long ago. Yet the Horned Rat watches over those that watch their own backs.’

‘And stick-stab knife in backs of skaven as do not,’ Razzel snarled. ‘I read-learn the teachings of the Horned One, old-meat.’

Sharpwit bowed with a mock flourish. ‘Forgive this most humble servant of the Council.’

‘Not so humble, I think, hmmm?’

Sharpwit merely grinned, his fangs glowering like the face of the Chaos moon.

‘What you try-think you find?’

Sharpwit frowned, pressing his ear to the wall and rapping experimentally on the stone with his claws. ‘Think-certain I heard a noise. Dwarf-things do come this way sometimes. Replace torches. Ensure all is safe-well.’

‘Why, if they never use?’

‘They keep-hide something in these halls. A precious thing, but broken. Something Kazador values more highly than gold.’

‘Gold,’ Razzel tittered dismissively. ‘True-sure sign of dwarf-thing stupidity.’

Satisfied that they were secure, Sharpwit swung around. ‘I grow tired-bored of telling you experts, but dwarf-things win because Queek underestimates them. I do not. Look-smell where we are, see what dwarf-things build. Different, yes-yes, but not stupid.’

Razzel did as Sharpwit suggested and looked. He took in the faded hangings, the table laid out beneath a sheet of dust. His keen ears caught the tiny patter of a cockroach scuttling from hiding. He returned his attention to Sharpwit, unimpressed. ‘This a royal chamber once, hmmm? Decay is king here now. When the Horned Rat visits ruination upon the heads of the dwarf-things and make-render all they build like this, will Sharpwit rejoice like a true child of darkness, or will he cry like a man-thing whelp at his glorious work?’

Sharpwit cringed, consciously placing the table between the grey seer and himself. ‘I serve truly. But do you not wonder what skaven will do and how skaven will eat when those that farm and build and throw away are gone? I do. I wonder.’

Razzel bluntly ignored him, continuing to look around with a faint air of disgust. ‘Why are we in this hole-place? There plenty-many quiet places in Deadclaw.’

Sharpwit’s tail lashed as he thought of the answer to that question, disturbing the carpet of dust he had been so careful to leave be. Queek. He coughed hard, spattering his balding paw with blood. Still coughing, his ribs brittle bars to imprison his pain, he inhaled deeply through the silk filter of his sleeve. All the while he glared at Razzel, annoyed by his comfortable smugness.

‘Like your burrow? Queek finds us there. He should not, but he did. How? I don’t want-think to know. Queek is mad-thing, but he knows things…’

‘Hah,’ Razzel scoffed. ‘Sharpwit is a scared-rat.’

Sharpwit toyed with confronting the seer with his own so-called courage. He hadn’t forgotten Razzel’s absence from the battle. Perhaps if the grey seer could have prevented that blasted runemaker from wreaking such havoc they might even have won. He swallowed the urge. Razzel would have his excuses ready, and it would achieve nothing. Sharpwit knew how the great game was played and, much as he despised it, he played it better than most. A skaven did not live as long as he if he did not.

‘Then why is Queek not already dead if the mighty Razzel does not fear him?’ Razzel chewed his lip, his silence testimony enough to the truth, and Sharpwit went on. ‘He know-learns the name of your bodyguard when even we did not.’

‘Maybe he makes up.’

‘Maybe,’ he relented. ‘But how then did he find us? And other things too. Little things. He is mad-thing, for certain, but perhaps he is so far past madness that he looks back and from such distance he see things all laid out, hidden things, things lost under the noses of those too close.’

‘The Horned Rat, he gift-gives such visions to his prophets, not to mad-thing warlords.’

Sharpwit scratched his ear anxiously. He was yet to be entirely convinced that Queek would not somehow find them even here. ‘We agree though he is a mad-thing. That it is time to think about completing the task set us without Queek.’

Razzel nodded to the accompaniment of discordant music. The seer tightened his grip on his dark wood staff, his eyes distant and unseeing as they conjured dreams of power. ‘Old-thing should have listened before. Razzel knew this would happen. The Horned Rat, he squeak-tells truths to his chosen.’

Sharpwit spread his open paws. ‘Queek is a mighty war-leader, paw-picked by Gnawdwell to lead.’ He regarded the grey seer carefully. ‘Did you know-hear of how Queek crushed Warlord Slash and the traitor-rats of Fester Spike?’

Razzel shook his head.

‘Queek-Warlord spent great-many days burrowing tunnels all under the lair to attack at once from many sides.’

‘Simple plan,’ Razzel scoffed.

‘Might seem so, yes-yes. Ikit Slash thought so. He sent warriors to guard every one because Queek made certain he learned of them. You know why?’

Razzel leant forward dangerously onto his staff. ‘Because he is a stupid mad-thing.’

‘They were decoys. Queek comes through one tunnel only, himself, in frontal assault with his strongest warriors.’

Razzel looked aghast. ‘He led himself? Like common slave-meat?’

‘Slash’s warriors were spread thin and killed-dead piecemeal. He kill-slay Slash himself and keep-take as trophy-meat. Then he crashes the place to the ground. He take-smash everything. Even,’ and here he paused, ensuring the seer was fully attentive before continuing, ‘toppling idol of the Horned Rat. And then he beheads it. Dead-dead.’ He mimed the action with a downward sweep of his crutch.

The grey seer’s mouth hung open like a griffon chick awaiting feeding. Eventually he gathered enough wit to speak. ‘How is such heretic heathen-meat allowed to live, much less to lead a glorious army in the Horned Rat’s name? This quest is cursed to fail-die so long as Queek is warlord.’

Sharpwit grinned as the grey seer spun away, paws clenching and unclenching at his side as they itched to exact pious vengeance. Razzel was a coward, but he just needed the proper levers pulling. It hardly mattered that it was all without a scrap of truth. It was the sort of thing Queek might have done, and truth really was whatever the beholder wished it to be.

‘Then there is the time he feuds with Grey Seer Thanquol…’

‘I hear enough. Queek is clearly unfit.’

‘As you say, most sagacious of seers.’

‘We destroy Queek!’ Razzel squealed. The warpstone idol atop his staff began to throb as the sorcerer worked himself into a zealous fury. Its dark glow traced shifting shadows between the cobwebs, scratching at the walls like the claws of the Horned Rat, burrowing from the bowels of the earth to embrace his wayward children.

‘And what will the Council say?’ Sharpwit interceded. ‘What will Gnawdwell do? He raises Queek high and treats him like a precious thing.’ Razzel paused in thought and Sharpwit went on. ‘No. First give the Council their prize. First we cripple Azul-Place, and then get rid of Queek. There are lots-many ways for crazy-meat warlords to perish without bloodying our paws.’

‘But Queek is a problem. We will not succeed as long as he lives.’

Sharpwit tittered, edging around the table towards Razzel, bobbing obsequiously as he shuffled closer. ‘Queek thinks he is in charge, but it will be the most shrewd of sorcerers, Razzel, who pulls strings and claims glory.’

Razzel preened, scratching the unholy brand on his face with the horns of his warpstone idol. ‘How do we do this thing?’

Sharpwit grinned slyly. ‘You did not ask what mighty treasure Kazador hides here. Kazador is a broken king, weak in heart, and we skaven, we like to kill-stab where our enemies are weak. Kazador will gift-give the wealth of Azul-Place to me.’ He held out his paw, the pale flesh wrinkled and old. ‘He will place it here in Sharpwit’s paw.’

‘Tell me how!’

Sharpwit froze as he made to answer. This time he had definitely heard something. Again, he pressed his ear to the wall and listened. It sounded like footsteps. It would help if the idiot grey seer could stop jangling like a one-skaven bell-ringing troupe and be quiet. He turned back to Razzel, nothing but eagerness to please. ‘Leave the details to me, most prodigious of prophets. You must return to Deadclaw. None will miss a tired old-thing, but the loss of your peerless leadership will be noted.’

Razzel nodded thoughtfully. ‘Yes-yes. I imagine it will. Come speak-squeak with me when all is done. We plot-plan what must come next.’

‘I keenly anticipate your insights, most subtle of schemers.’

He suppressed a sigh of longing. Razzel might be a one-dimensional moron, but for now he was his moron. That wasn’t to say there wouldn’t come a time in the hopefully-not-too-distant future when he outlived his value. The thought made him feel warm inside. It made the insufferable genuflecting almost bearable. He sought out the pressure pads behind one of the hangings and the hidden door glided outwards. Razzel departed with an imperious sweep of his robes, and Sharpwit quietly pulled closed the door and heard it click into place. He leant back against it and breathed a sigh of relief.

He snickered softly. ‘Fool-fool.’

Hobbling around the table back to the opposite wall, he flattened his better ear against it. He tried to still his breathing. It was definitely footsteps. Two pairs in fact, with a heavy tread. And he could hear gruff voices, although they were too muffled for him to make out their words.

Perfect, he thought, as he swiftly sought out the mechanism to the chamber’s second concealed door.

He always had been a lucky rat.

Handrik wandered the halls alone. A sombre mood had settled over the corridors of Karak Azul. He recalled victories from ages past. The carousing would stretch well into the following morning, and Handrik would have been hard pressed to find a passage not occupied by cherry-faced dwarfs intent on drinking the great hold dry.

His fondest such instance had been two hundred years ago, after King Kazgar had crushed a Black Orc warlord on the plains of Zharr. It had been one of the last actions of the Great War, and the throng had returned to a heroes’ welcome. Handrik had been among the eldest left behind. Half of the hold’s Ironbreakers had departed for the war in the north, the oldest and the best but for himself. He hadn’t earned his command; it had been foisted on him, like a chain around a guard dog’s neck. Kazador had been but a beardling, but already a strong lad, and mighty had been the tantrum he’d thrown when the king bade him remain under Handrik’s regency rather than join him in war. Handrik had been enamoured with it still less, but was not nearly so sparse on the chin to let it show.

Kazgar was ultimately proven right, as he almost always was, and their victorious return would swift become the stuff of legend.

Kazador had been pursued from the gates by his Hammerer guard, their blushes as much from the shame of allowing their charge from their sights as from the effort of pursuit. For the prince who would be king was ever the peerless athlete, with an uncommon fleetness of foot even when gleaming from head to foot in gromril. He had shone in the sun of the new day, a beacon of hope that shone all the brighter for the defeat of the Ruinous Powers. Handrik still recalled the young dwarf’s indecision, uncertain who to embrace first: Handrik, or his father. The memory gladdened him even now. He had never married, never considered marrying. But had he ever had a son, or indeed a daughter, of his own, he could have loved them no more deeply.

Such had been the occasion’s joy that the celebrations had taken place right there in the valley beneath the naked sun and, later, the stars. And then the sun again. Roast boar and warm ale had been carted up from the kitchens with huge platters of vegetables and sweet breads all laid out on the bare earth where kings and thanes mingled freely with potboys and goatherds. Kazador himself out-drank and out-competed all comers and did it with the broadest of smiles that bespoke no triumphalism. During the impromptu feast, the famous Karak Azul miners’ brass band set up amidst great anticipation and played through to midnight, the peaks resounding to the joyous blasts of horns and trumpets, and there had been as much dancing and singing as there had been hard drinking.

Handrik sighed deeply. This time there was no such sense of triumph. Only in Karak Azul could victory taste so bitterly of defeat. They had crushed a skaven force many times their own number, but it was a battle no one wanted. The victory was a token one. One that brought the purging of Black Crag no closer.

And then there was Logan.

Handrik missed him already, more than he thought he would. Whatever Kazador’s decree, Handrik knew Logan’s death was his own fault – because of his own stubbornness. In the hours after the battle he had considered shaving his head and swearing the Slayer Oath, but had immediately dismissed the idea as laughable. Who ever heard of one of the cult of Grimnir who could scarce walk, much less pick a fight? Some glorious end that would be.

He would have to find some other way to atone. He simply did not know how.

Without any further guidance to the contrary, his feet bore him on.

He looked up from his memories as a door swung open. One of the ancient carved oak portals stylistically banded with gold and gromril that led to Kazador’s own rooms. Handrik checked his steps. Maybe whoever it was would turn the other way and miss him. He desired nothing but solitude.

A pair of Hammerers emerged from the open doorway. Keldur and Narfi were their names and he knew them well. They were brothers, inseparable since birth and strong warriors, although he still saw in them the fearless beardlings he had once known. Their mighty weapons were strapped across their backs, and between them they dragged a struggling figure across the lacquered flagstones.

Handrik got a good look. ‘Merciful Valaya,’ he mouthed, breaking into a trot to intercept the guards and their prisoner.

The dwarfs looked over up over their shoulders at Handrik’s approach. Both offered a respectful nod without letting go of their captive. ‘Longbeard,’ they intoned in unison.

Handrik shook his head disapprovingly at the dishevelled young dwarf in his scuffed breeches and jerkin that sat on his behind between the two Hammerers.

Thordun looked up and offered a nervous smile, evidently none too reassured by the sight of this particular familiar face. ‘I didn’t steal anything, I swear it.’

Handrik forced a smile he did not feel. ‘This one’s with me, lads.’ He offered a helpless shrug. ‘Thordred’s boy.’

The revelation elicited smiles. Narfi, ever the more avuncular, broke into a chuckle. His mail vest rustled against his ample girth. ‘Well there’s a name I’ve not heard in a good while.’ He offered Thordun his hand, which the younger dwarf took, and hauled him to his feet. ‘The ore hasn’t fallen far from the seam, eh? You’ve inherited the old Locksplitter sticky fingers.’

Keldur, broader and less well padded than his younger sibling, soon gave up the pretence of appearing stern. His auburn beard parted into a grin and he jabbed Thordun with a comradely elbow in the ribs. ‘Has Handrik told you of the time we caught your father in the king’s vault?’

‘He didn’t try to deny it,’ Narfi added. ‘But then being neck deep in the king’s gold would’ve taken some explaining.’

‘A terrible liar your father. Always an honest dawi.’

The chuckling Hammerers shared a look and their mirth dried up. Their heads shook sadly. ‘Happier times.’

‘Aye,’ Handrik agreed. ‘That they were.’

Keldur held Thordun’s shoulder with a fist like a ham. There was no amusement in his eyes now and he regarded the young dwarf with steel. ‘Stay away from these corridors, beardling. For Handrik, and for Thordred, we’ll let this pass just one time.’ He turned to his brother for confirmation. The other dwarf simply nodded. ‘If Kazador were to hear you’d been here…’ He trailed off.

There was no need to continue. Handrik could see in Thordun’s face that he realised the consequences, a fate worse than any but the most sadistic of kings might devise. He really does want to be accepted here, Handrik realised, surprised and more than a little ashamed to have doubted it. His heart broke a little to see the young dwarf’s distress, but the most important lessons were ever the hardest.

‘Chin up, lad. No harm done.’

Gently, he eased the beardling on his way. The Hammerers bowed as he passed. He swore silently as he returned their farewells. He resented their pity, no less than he wished to shun their ill-placed respect. He warranted neither.

‘Best get you back to your own quarters where you can’t find trouble,’ he said after he and Thordun had walked some distance in silence.

‘Who is in there, Handrik?’ Thordun blurted the question, tactless as usual. ‘Who does Kazador keep imprisoned there?’

Handrik studied the face of the young dwarf of the Empire. Could he understand? Was the lad dawi enough for that?

‘He’s nobody’s prisoner, lad.’

‘Then why–’

‘It’s Prince Kazrik, damn it!’ Handrik roared. He winced as he realised how loud he’d shouted. He rubbed the back of his hand across his lips as though the words could be scrubbed away in retrospect. ‘It’s the king’s son,’ he hissed.

‘The prince,’ Thordun gasped. ‘Then why? I heard his screams. It sounded like torture.’

Handrik scrunched his eyes tight. If Kazgar’s return from the north had been the happiest moment in Handrik’s long life then the most ignoble was recalled with equal, if less welcome, clarity; right down to the stink of blood and excrement and foul orcish corpses that had somehow absorbed into the stones of Karak Azul to endure to this day. Something had broken in the king that day. His heir and only son brutalised upon his own throne, shaven and nailed into the iron. A challenge from the squatter king of Karak Drazh wrought in Kazador’s own blood.

‘Aye,’ he whispered, opening his eyes. ‘Prince Zaki, I’ve heard him called. Clever wordplay, eh?’

‘Zaki… but doesn’t that mean–’

‘Mad. Aye lad, and Kazrik is mad. He’s tough as his father and stubborn as his grandfather. He should rightfully have perished that day, but no dwarf could endure what he did and not suffer… scars.’

‘Can he not be helped?’

‘You think we didn’t try? You think Kazador’s heart is stone? We dwarfs are hardy, lad, but some wounds even we can’t abide.’ Handrik stiffened. The truth cut a little too close to the bone. ‘He’s kept away as much for his own safety as for Kazador’s pride.’

‘The king’s pride–’

‘Is everything! If you can’t accept that, then I suggest you not return from your journey to Karaz-a-Karak. And I wouldn’t tarry overlong either, for Thorgrim Grudgebearer is a very proud king.’

Thordun looked at his feet, suitably chastened. ‘I understand.’ He seemed to notice for the first time that they’d stopped walking. He looked up and examined the door they stood beside. The sounds of drunken revelry filtered through the sturdy wood. His face dropped at the strains of a bawdy Bretonnian drinking song. ‘We’re here,’ he observed sadly.

‘Aye, and I suggest you stay here if you know what’s good for you.’

Thordun opened the door a fraction, a warm glow slicing across his golden beard. The boisterous clamour escalated in volume. He spun around, just as Handrik made to leave. ‘Handrik, why did my father leave Karak Azul?’

Handrik answered with a shrug. ‘You never knew your mother, did you? Let’s just say a dwarf doesn’t have it in him to forget. But that’s not to stop him trying.’ He gave a sad sigh and cocked his head towards the door. ‘Get some sleep. If you can. Grungni alone knows what the umgi have done to earn such celebration.’

‘I will try.’

‘The road to the Eight Peaks is short but perilous.’

‘I’ll be careful Handrik, and thank you.’

‘For what?’

Now it was Thordun’s turn to be embarrassed. ‘After the battle I… I thought I had offended you somehow. I would not have expected you to help me.’ He smiled and bowed once before leaving, easing the door closed behind him.

Handrik grumbled as the dwarf vanished into his quarters, muttering under his breath at the strange ways of the young. Dwarfs had never used to have such bleeding hearts.

A prickling at the nape of his neck bade him turn. Three centuries immersed in the forsaken places of the Underdeep had honed an intuition that only an Ironbreaker could understand. His gaze swept the corridor, scrutinising every crack and cranny. It was possible he had heard another dwarf, perhaps even the Hammerers continuing their patrol. This area of the Third Deep was well frequented. But a dwarf wandering his own halls would not go to such lengths to remain unnoticed.

There was nothing there. And yet he felt the attentions of another.

Deciding that something trying to hide wasn’t about to reveal itself with Handrik looking right at it, he turned and shuffled for his own bed. The prickling unease lessened as he walked and he relented that his disquiet must have been misplaced. Evidently, his vaunted intuition wasn’t what it used to be.

‘Grimnir take you then,’ he muttered.

It was high time that Handrik Hallgakrin hang up his axe.

Sharpwit sank into the shadow of an alcove, hidden from prying eyes by the imposing thighs of a dwarf-thing breeder-queen. He sat with his back to the statue, tail coiled around his waist and crutches set stacked over his crossed legs.

He still buzzed with the residual charge of power, his blood singing with the electric thrill of it. It was all so brazenly unfair. He had been and would be a far better warlord; instead his brief rise and public fall had made him fair game, every glance from all but the lowest of slaves accompanied by a calculated licking of covetous lips. For all his treacherous words to Razzel, he needed Queek. Fear of the Headtaker rather than of the Council had spared his hide so far and he needed that protection back, however unwittingly or begrudgingly it was bestowed.

He listened quietly as the long-furred dwarf-thing departed, rubbing his paws together in delight of his own irresistible genius. The ancient dwarf-thing was never going to spot him behind the statue. Sharpwit, on the other paw, could smell the old sweat on his goat wool undergarments, the ale on his breath and even the lingering trace of wax from the gold-furred dwarf-thing’s cloak. Truly, he was the luckiest of rats. And while he was old enough to appreciate the notion that it was better to be lucky than good, a fair dose of brilliance never went amiss. Sometimes, he supposed, it helped to be lucky and good.

For who else but Sharpwit would have dared to shadow such fearsome dwarf-thing warriors as the two hammer-dwarfs? Padding silently in their footsteps, he had heard them stumble upon the younger, gold-furred dwarf-thing at the mad prince’s cell. He had considered and swiftly abandoned the idea of co-opting Kazrik into his scheme. He had suffered quite enough of mad-things. And besides, even a dwarf-thing as unhinged as Kazrik would likely tear Sharpwit’s head from his shoulders before he could open his mouth. A lesser skaven mind might have abandoned his fruitless quest there. But Sharpwit knew himself to be a skaven of rare insight and purpose. Who else, besides Sharpwit, would have been clever enough to follow the gold-furred dwarf-thing to his burrow? True, he hadn’t known exactly what he was looking for, but he knew a skaven of his perceptiveness would recognise it when it fell into his paws.

And it had. And he did. Man-things.

He had had few dealings with the tall furless race that tilled the fields of the surface world, but from his general gleanings, he understood them to be the closest among all the world’s races to emulating the purest majesty of the skaven. Such notions were deeply heretical, but dogmatic principle was something else for which Sharpwit had little time. Particularly as it was plainly true, at least to anyone able to recognise the man-thing capacity for self-interest, treachery and deceit. Such concepts he could understand. And exploit.

His keen ears twitched to the unfamiliar syllables of their speech. He estimated between five and ten man-things. Eventually one of them must leave.

All he had to do was wait.

‘This is the tinker-place?’

‘Yes-yes, most vengeful of victors,’ said Ska, following his warlord into the booming underbelly of the Clan Skryre foundry.

The air was thick with fumes and stifling in a way that even the aridity of Deadclaw had not prepared them for. The heat pawed at him, abasing itself at his all-conquering footpaws. Little shapes scurried through the cloying cloud. From vats suspended just above head height between iron pylons erupted silvery jets of molten steel, the eructations throwing off great bodies of steam that turned titanic wheels. It was this that caused the numbing din. Queek was fascinated despite himself, that something so insubstantial could generate force enough to drive something so huge as the great chain of toothed wheels that traversed the ceiling.

‘What is all this?’ Queek asked, perplexed. ‘What is it for?’

‘I do not know, most mighty warlord.’

‘Pull it down,’ Queek ordered, making a ripping gesture as though he might rend iron with his own claws. ‘Tear-smash all. That teaches Tinker-rat to betray, yes-yes.’

Ska eyed the nearest such engine-pylon dubiously. It was five times his height, wrought of iron and who knew what else, and likely hot enough to sear the fur from an incautious skaven’s hide. ‘Maybe just pull down one?’ he asked hopefully. ‘Maybe just part way?’

‘Where is Tinker-rat?’ Queek asked, deaf to his lackey’s whining. He stabbed a claw at a hurrying shape. The target of his attention was a runtish creature with bright orange eyes, enwrapped in oversized leather overalls and cumbersome flame-retardant gloves. He squealed, releasing a squirt of fear musk, and hastened to abase himself at the footpaws of the Headtaker.

‘Where is Tinker-rat?’

The wiry skaven gawped, horrified. His eyes were blank of anything but reflected dread.

Ska prodded him with the haft of his axe. ‘What is your name-scent, Skryre-thing?’

‘No,’ Queek cut in. ‘Queek does not care. Where is Tinker-rat?’

‘Fizqwik?’

‘Where is he? Perhaps runt-thing hides him, perhaps he and Tinker-rat share in their plotting.’

‘No-no,’ the runt squealed, trying to wriggle even deeper into the soil at Queek’s footpaws. ‘Was all Fizqwik’s doing! He take-steals everything for fool-fool invention, even from dwarf-things, even when the old-thing tells him stop.’ The warlock unholstered his warplock pistol and passed it butt first to the warlord. Queek sniffed it warily but didn’t take it. The little-tinker jiggled it under his nose until it became apparent Queek was not going to take it. ‘See how light it is? Is hollow. Fizqwik steals even from his own hard-working and loyal apprentices.’ He looked around bitterly, pointing out the slag heaps littered with corroded gun barrels and engine parts. ‘Nothing here works.’

‘What does Tinker-rat build?’

‘I don’t know. He keeps it boxed and works on it only when nobody looks.’

‘Get out, runt-thing. You serve Queek good-well.’

The skaven’s skinny muzzle lit up and he scrabbled to his footpaws, hunching his body into the most wretched display of unworthiness. He scurried for the exit, spinning about to offer a last swift bow only to trip over a pipe and plunge loudly into a pile of scrap.

‘Ska!’ Queek yelled over the desperate clatter of displaced metal parts.

‘Yes-yes, mighty Queek.’

‘Step away from stupid wheel-thing. You are never where Queek needs you.’

‘Yes-yes,’ said Ska, looking relieved.

‘Follow runt-thing and let none other leave.’ Queek turned to face the smog-ridden blackness of the foundry. He interlocked his claws and pushed them apart, hearing his knuckles crack. ‘I find Tinker-rat.’

It had been over long since he had killed something. And Tinker-rat was bound to be in here somewhere.

Chapter Ten

Bernard Servat knuckled the crick from his neck. The great gate to the Throne Hall of Karak Azul was a grand sight to be sure and it was hard to not be impressed. The lords of Bretonnia went to extravagant lengths to inspire such awe without ever approaching a shadow of the monolithic constructions he had witnessed under the earth, far beneath the sight of men. The Ninth Deep fortifications alone made Chateau Brionne look like the hill fort of some mountain tribe savage.

He wished some of those perfumed lords could be here to see this.

The door alone was immense. The richly scented red pine was engraved with blockish dwarfish runes. The runes were embellished with gold paint and each row of script was offset from the next by heavy bands of iron polished to a high shine and interleaved with threads of gold into rigid, angular motifs. Bernard wondered how much gold was in this one door. Probably enough to buy himself a modest duchy. It glittered in the light of dozens of flickering torches, held immobile in the fists of the statues that lined the approach.

The casual display of wealth rankled. He wondered where the famed King Kazador concealed the serfs that built such wonders for him. Every kingdom depended on the dullards that kept its cellars full and their knees bent to their betters. Two weeks in Nuln had soon soured the dream that the Empire, or anywhere, was any different from his homeland. You were weak or you were strong, and the weak seldom enjoyed such grandeur.

But it was still hard not to be impressed.

A short line stretched behind him, the dwarfs grumbling softly in their flinty tongue. Some had brought ale and bided the wait with a tankard moistening their lips. Towards the back of the line, a scruffy dwarf with the look of a goatherd was being upbraided by a hook-nosed official with a long beard plaited through silver clasps. Despite the language barrier, Bernard found the exchange diverting enough. The nearby dwarfs shook their heads disapprovingly as the disagreement rumbled on, the bureaucrat evidently objecting to the newcomer tethering his mule to the leg of one of the statues.

He turned to the two Hammerers that stood watch on the gate. The grim-faced soldiers barely reached his chest, but they were broader than he and muscled like oxen. He rubbed the bruised knuckles of his right hand ruefully. An ill-advised arm wrestle with a dwarf miner in the alcohol-hazed aftermath of yesterday’s battle was testament to the brute power in those squat bodies.

‘How much longer?’

The two dwarfs looked up at him, mirror images of disdain.

‘Kazador won’t be rushed,’ grunted one.

He stared coldly at the dwarf, recalling every feature. His eyes were icy green and sombre, grim lines chiselled into a scarred face half-concealed by a thick brown beard that spilled down his broad chest in two plaits that were knotted behind his waist. A huge hammer was strapped across his shoulders. The head had been rouged, like a careless lady’s lips, the blood of ages polished ever deeper into the ancient metal. The dwarf stared back, unmoved and unrepentant.

The great door creaked open and the moment was broken. A dwarf in the austerely cut green robes of a journeyman lorekeeper squeezed his belly through the opening, carefully guiding a piled stack of tomes between hands and chin. He mumbled something incomprehensible to the Hammerer guards and made an expansive gesture with his eyebrows before hurrying off on his own errand.

The green-eyed dwarf jerked his thumb towards the open door. ‘In you go then, human.’

Sharpwit hobbled nervously into Queek’s burrow. The place was no less disturbing on a second visit. The scent of death was almost overpowering and his eyes gravitated of their own volition to where Toskitt’s corpse still lay. Twinkling eyes followed him hungrily, and he contrived to ignore the murderous chittering of rats with a taste for skaven meat. Insects marched in ordered columns across the gore-strewn floor, bearing aloft their scraps of flesh, but even their basic impulses steered them well clear of the Headtaker.

Queek lay flat along the floor, muzzle resting on his crossed arms, and watched the industrious insects, enraptured. He had shed his armour and lay naked, any modesty the feral creature might have possessed evidently satisfied by the thorough smearing of gore that pasted him from nose to tail.

‘Old-thing,’ Queek hissed dreamily. He did not look up. ‘You would not believe the wicked things this traitor-rat whispers.’

Sharpwit shrank back. How could the warlord even know it was him? He doubted Queek could smell a thing the way his snout was clotted with gore. His cloudy eye flicked left and right to where the skull of a dwarf and a skaven seemed to follow his every move.

Surely not.

A rat appeared from the dwarf’s eye socket and regarded him with a wary, alien intellect. He tightened his grip on his crutch to keep from striking it. If Razzel wanted so badly to know what was going on, he should have come himself rather than hide in the tunnel and send Sharpwit alone.

‘Toskitt squeaks seditious lies–’

‘Shhh.’ Queek raised a claw to bid him silent. ‘Traitor-meat is not finished.’

‘But, mighty Queek. I bring a plan to pick victory from the carcass of this defeat.’

Queek reached forward languorously. His paw hovered over the streaming insects before flashing down with impossible speed. He raised his paw and studied the helpless creature skewered upon his claw. A beetle the size of Sharpwit’s thumb scurried with impotent haste.

‘Queek is the Undefeated. He is the Terrible.’

‘Yes-yes, great Queek. It was all Fizqwik’s doing. But despite his treachery, we have a mission to accomplish.’

‘What then is Old-thing’s clever plot-scheme?’

‘I suggest a different way, a way less vulnerable to the many jealous rivals of mighty-great Queek. We can weaken Azul-Place without swinging another sword.’

Queek popped the struggling insect into his mouth and rolled into a crouch. His serpentine tail wavered threateningly above his head. ‘Queek’s sword likes being swung.’

Sharpwit waved his paws placatingly. ‘I have an agent in Azul-Place, a man-thing. He will bring us this prize.’

Queek leant forward until his muzzle, even in his crouch, was inches from Sharpwit’s. He flexed his claws and Sharpwit could not mistake the deadliness of his intent should he answer Queek’s next question incorrectly.

‘Does he kill-slay Kazador-King?’

Bernard started for the open door but the immovable bulk of the Hammerer barred his path.

‘Your weapon, human.’

Bernard glanced at the thick chain coiled about his left shoulder. The spike-studded head of his morning star lay cosseted against his back, enwrapped in half a dozen folds of an old fleece shawl.

‘I took your king’s coin. I can bear arms where I please.’

‘We wouldn’t allow a king before Kazador so armed. Either drop it or take your petition elsewhere.’

‘Fine,’ said Bernard, sliding the coiled chain from his arm and dropping it noisily at the dwarf’s feet. The guard made no move to pick it up.

‘And the rest.’

Cursing ripely in his mother tongue, Bernard unbuckled his belt, tossing it and the sheathed short sword on top of his flail.

Still the Hammerer would not move. The old dwarf’s face betrayed nothing but profound disapproval. His dour gaze flickered over the line at Bernard’s back.

‘We can wait all day, human.’

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 Waldenhof, 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.’

‘I hate this place,’ Razzel complained. ‘Can we not meet-treat with this man-thing elsewhere?’

‘And where would the chosen one suggest?’ Sharpwit asked sarcastically. He tittered softly when the grey seer did not answer. He surveyed the dim and dusty chamber, a fitting gaol for Kazador’s secret shame. ‘A secret room in the heart of Azul-Place. It is easy for the man-thing to find, it keeps us far-distant from mad-thing eyes, and dwarf-thing guards keep wandering footpaws from disturbing us. This place could be no more perfect.’

Razzel crossed his arms and settled into a huff.

‘Queek will soon have us leave, so we cannot keep eyes on this man-thing until we return.’

‘Why should this matter?’

Sharpwit stifled the impulse to throttle the sorcerer. That would teach him to be an idiot. ‘Would Grey Seer Razzel like to enter the Throne-Burrow of Azul-Place, present himself the recovered dwarf-things to Kazador, and claim the reward for Skavendom?’

Razzel flicked his chimes angrily. The sorcerer’s white-fanged snarl was all the answer he needed.

‘Then it will be on you to keep him safe-well.’

‘Why me? I will be on Queek’s mad errand too.’

‘With your possession magic, you can watch him, and we leave warriors behind just in case they are needed. Deadclaw will not be emptied and there will be enough coward-meat deserters that a pawful on our orders will not be missed.’

‘It seems you think of everything.’

‘This is why I am still alive.’

Razzel snickered.

‘Be quiet-still,’ Sharpwit hissed, concerned that an observant dwarf-thing might pick up the errant tinkling of the grey seer’s horn chimes. ‘We would not want to frighten-scare the man-thing.’

The sorcerer settled, and Sharpwit wished he could do the same. It was the curse of an intellect as keen as his that there could never be any respite from plots and schemes, his overactive brain continually plaguing him with every worst case scenario it could conjure, each successively more disastrous than the last. What if the man-thing had failed in his most simple of tasks and even now Kazador and a legion of dwarf-things marched on this place? What if Queek suspected his double-dealing and crept stealthily through the secret passageways? What if…?

Razzel brought him back. The grey seer’s eyes were eager as he lifted his snout to test the musty air.

‘Something comes.’

Handrik pressed his back to the wall and peered around the corner. The hall ahead was empty, but the human could not have gone far. Humans were an untrustworthy lot, and Thordun hadn’t painted the prettiest picture of those he’d brought with him. And that big one, Bernard, had looked the worst of the bunch. So he had followed him. The old instincts kicked in almost at once. It took more than a gromril coat to make an Ironbreaker and it could not be set aside as easily.

He peered down the corridor, picking out the scuffs the man’s boots had made on the tiles. He wondered what business could bring a human so far from the taverns and stores to the royal quarter. He waited a moment until it became evident that the human had definitely gone before pushing his leaden legs from the wall and dragging himself down the hall. He stomped his feet aggressively, giving his thighs a vigorous thumping as he did so. They were fine as long as he stayed active, but they sank swiftly into deadening pins and needles if he tarried overlong at a bench or even simply stood idle.

He walked some way down the corridor before pausing and doubling back. The signs of passage had ceased at an ornate doorway inset into the right-hand wall: the gold and gromril portal to Kazrik’s chambers. He felt a sickness in his gut as he reached out to grasp the solid gold handle. His heart sank as it twisted under the pressure of his wrist. It was improbable that the Hammerers had been negligent enough to leave this door unlocked after Thordun’s entry the previous night and even in the highly unlikely event that a human could match a dwarf at picking locks, Bernard had not had the time to do so.

The door swung open in his hand. It had been unlocked from the inside.

A gust of dry and musk-scented air greeted the open doorway, speaking of some other opening somewhere within. That in itself was disturbing. There were no other passages within this wing as far as Handrik knew, and for over three centuries it had been his duty to know them all. He stared into the deepest intensity of darkness. The human had definitely come this way, but why would he remove the torches from their brackets? Likely it had been the work of another, one who hoped to shield their meeting from prying eyes. Like all dwarfs, Handrik’s night vision was excellent, but even he could not see in total blackness. But there were other races that could, as well as those that deemed sight secondary to other senses, such as the thaggoraki.

For the briefest instant he hesitated. He was in defiance of the king simply by opening that door. By rights he should fetch the Hammerers and go no further, but even as he thought it he knew he would not. Whatever treachery this human was engaged in might be done by the time help arrived and, despite the previous night’s despair, Handrik Hallgakrin was not ready to put up his feet and spend his days lecturing beardlings on the proper way to stew thaggoraki.

Drawing a fortifying pull on his ale-skin, he crept deeper in. Whispered sounds brushed the grey hairs of his ears, muffled voices. One was the gruff voice of the human, Bernard, but the other was different, high-pitched and rapid.

Hugging close to the wall, he paused to listen, straining his ears in painful futility to catch their words. He scraped further along the passage before stopping again. The voices were clearer now. They conversed in heavily accented Reikspiel and he could just about make them out.

‘…we leave-go with Queek to Black Crag,’ said the chittering voice, the voice of a ratman.

‘That wasn’t the plan,’ Bernard returned. He sounded angry.

‘Is what is happening. We take precautions to keep you safe, man-thing. Just keep from sight until we return with the missing dwarf-things.’

Handrik’s mouth worked in silent horror. The man had thrown in his lot with the thaggoraki! A race renowned for backstabbing and treachery, even among their own. Even a man couldn’t be fool enough to expect a skaven to honour any deal they had made. Despite his already low opinions of humans, the idea of one acting as a skaven proxy to steal dwarfish gold still managed to enrage him. He trembled to think of what evil such a fortune might be turned to by those devious hands.

Well no matter, it would end right here.

Light flickered from an opening ahead. There was a door where his memory insisted there should be a wall. It was from there that the voices came. His hand closed instinctively about his belt, but his axe was not there. It hung on a wall in his quarters. He cursed in silent fury. The first time in three hundred years that he wasn’t carrying an axe and look what happens. He made up his mind.

It ended here.

Chapter Eleven

Handrik burst into the antechamber, bellowing a war-cry at the top of his lungs. The secret room was small, with a pair of old and dusty chairs stacked against the near wall and a large table set slightly off centre. What scant space remained was occupied by three figures standing beneath a tapestry on the far side of the table. The traitorous human, Bernard, stood between two of the vile skaven creatures, and hunched under a ceiling too low for his stature. One of the skaven was a wizened and balding creature in a glittering blue jerkin and looked older than any skaven he had ever seen, while the other was one of their horn-headed sorcerer-priests, white furred and immaculately robed.

All three looked up in shock. Bernard and the balding one shrank against the far wall but the grey seer retained its wits marginally better. The sorcerer slammed its staff against the ground and extended a claw towards him. The outstretched paw crackled with black-tinted lightning from the depths of the ratman’s dark hell. Aetheric winds jangled like the heralds of capricious gods.

Acting on impulse, Handrik grabbed an old high-backed chair in one fist and hurled it across the room. It sailed over the squat oak table, eliciting a squeal of shock from the grey seer as it shattered to splinters across his face. The seer shrieked and buried his snout in his robe, the dark magic he had summoned dissipating into the nothingness from which it had arisen.

Handrik turned his attention to Bernard. The sight of him made his blood boil. His heart thumped its fury, energising his shambling legs with a wrathful vigour. The human looked ashen at the realisation of his discovery, but the terrified guilt lasted only a moment before he realised that Handrik was both unarmed and outnumbered. Bernard chuckled as he drew his short stabbing sword, evidently judging his flail ill-suited to the cramped chamber.

‘Stop-back, man-thing,’ the old skaven ordered. ‘If you are hurt-killed then all is for nothing.’

The human did as he was told. His sword held ready, he dropped back behind the old skaven’s back.

‘Aye, hide behind your true master, human. My heart weeps for poor Thordun. Kazador will see him shorn for this betrayal.’

‘Splitter promised to make us rich,’ Bernard spat. ‘And now I will be, no thanks to him.’

‘You’re a fool, umgi, even by the standards of your kind. The day this vermin keeps its word is the day an elf gets down on his effeminate knees and begs the secret behind a well-made shelf.’

‘Enough talk-talk!’ the old one hissed. ‘Razzel, destroy this dwarf-thing. I help the man-thing escape.’

Handrik saw a calculating look cross the grey seer’s wounded muzzle. It eyed him hatefully, cruel splinters jutting from its sensitive nose. Then its red eyes turned on its companion. ‘That is one plan. Here is one other.’ The sorcerer flung both arms wide. Black light throbbed from the warpstone-headed staff in its right paw with frantically increasing frequency until the lull between light and dark was so brief that the strobing pained the eyes. Handrik was forced to raise a hand to shield his sight just as the grey seer shrilled a distended syllable in its own garbled tongue and vanished in a clap of warp lightning and a cloud of noxious green-black smoke.

Handrik coughed and waved a hand through the billowing fog. With a stab of rage he noticed that Bernard had vanished too. A hacking cough that was not his own summoned his attention. Despite having skill enough to take the human with him, the grey seer had obviously opted to leave the old one behind. It clasped a satin sleeve to its jaw, its chest heaving with uncontrollable spasms and its ghostly white eye filming with tears as it struggled to catch its breath.

‘Double crossed, eh?’ Handrik observed with a faint smile. ‘Would you ever credit it?’

The old skaven backed off, glaring at Handrik as though its current plight was entirely his fault.

Handrik advanced on the skaven. He was a longbeard: dense muscles strained against the weave of his goat wool vest, his skin was as hard as the stone beneath his boots. Even unarmed he’d have fancied his chances. But against one similarly without weapon, and as feeble as this decrepit creature, it would be only too easy. Maybe he’d even be able to capture it and return it to Kazador for answers.

The skaven retreated before him, its crutches clattering on the stone flags, but the room was painfully small and soon it had nowhere left to go. It lowered its head and spread its arms, a gesture he recognised as one of submission among its kind.

‘Do not kill-kill dwarf-thing. I help-help if you let-allow to live. I can give you mad-thing Queek.’

For a heartbeat, Handrik was stunned. The skaven had spoken Khazalid, a language supposedly known only to the dwarfs themselves and a select handful of dwarf-friends. But the skaven had spoken it perfectly. Better than Thordun even. Were it not for its rat-ish manner, it could easily have passed for a dwarf itself.

‘Where did you learn to speak like that?’

The ratman didn’t answer. It cowered low into the corner, its paws gripping its crutches for support, its blotched and wrinkled tail coiled protectively about its waist as though to soothe the tremors that still rippled between its ribs. It beckoned Handrik nearer. Realising that the creature was having too much difficulty breathing to answer his questions, he did as it bade him. The old skaven grinned, startling Handrik with a gaping maw broken by glowing fangs of warpstone.

‘I learn in Karak Azul.’

Too late Handrik realised his foolishness. The skaven suddenly did not seem so breathless after all, the desperate glaze in its milky orb taking on a deeply malicious glint.

‘Fool-fool, dwarf-thing!’

The skaven lunged, swifter than Handrik had thought possible. Maleficent fangs tore through the precious braids that threaded his beard and sank into his collar. The teeth pierced his thin shirt and tough flesh with ease, crunching through to the bone, where they splintered. Shards of evil, the very essence of mutation and madness, broke off into the hard muscle of his chest.

Vision faded. Awareness became a black-hazed swirl of colour and leering skaven faces sublimated under the stubborn pounding of his dwarfish heart. He heard shouting. He wondered if it was his ancestors welcoming him to the threshold of Gazul’s Gate. If it was, they must have been greatly distant as their efforts faded to insignificance beneath the power of that steadily slowing beat. Unnoticed, the skaven released its hold and he fell.

Handrik knew he was already as good as dead.

The only question was how bad it was going to be.

Bernard flopped to the floor and dry heaved. The cool stones were a wonder against his face. The ceiling turned like the night sky in nauseatingly accelerated motion. It was his room. He recognised the hangings as they swam on the wall and from the other side of the door came a babble of half-familiar voices. He struggled to lift himself, but it was as though his bones had been stuffed with cotton. His head sank back into delicious coolness. It felt twice as large as it should be, and impossibly heavy.

‘Easy, man-thing. The skitterleap is hard on us all the first time, hmmm?’

A nightmarish shape appeared before him, white fur and black horns swirling like oil colours around bleeding red eyes.

‘I must be away with Queek. You will rest-stay until my return.’

Bernard’s mouth lolled open. His tongue felt fat. It still tasted of the foul green gas that had swept him up and thrown him across black, daemon-haunted space before dropping him here.

‘Le… le… nain.’

The rat sorcerer tittered.

The dwarf, he wanted to scream, but his addled mind couldn’t find the words even if his tongue could form them.

‘Shhh,’ the horned rodent soothed over a somnolent chittering of its own alien speech. Bernard felt his hyper-sensitive skin tingle, then fall flaccid. His eyes fluttered closed. ‘Sleep, man-thing, and worry-fear no more. The Great Horned Rat, he takes care of all things.’

If it was true what they said, about life being pain, then Handrik was very much alive. Heat and unbearable pressure flared within his breast and he screamed. He gagged on vomit and bile bitterness and struggled to rise. Firm hands pinned him down.

‘Grungni’s gold! He lives.’

‘I see that, Narfi. Hold him still.’

‘I’m doing my best. Hurry up and get those fragments out before he goes under again.’

Again, pain exploded within him like a mining charge. Even in the unconscious grip of agony, his broken body clung to its pride as if it were a shield in the shield wall. To lose control would shame not only himself but all who held him in respect and trust. Through stubbornly clenched teeth, he screamed. He retched but his guts were empty, responding instead with agonised spasms. And all the while strong arms pinned him against the stone like a living dissection on the mortician’s slab.

‘All right Narfi, I think that’s most of it.’

Arms wrapped his shoulders and pulled him up, shuffling him back to rest against a wall. A bare hand slapped him none too gently across the jaw and his eyes flickered open. At first everything was a gummy blur. Two shadowed forms filled his vision. He ignored them. Something more pressing drew his attention and he looked down at his chest.

Breath shuddered through him, pain coming in pulsing waves in time to the beating of his heart as if to remind him with each stroke of life of the grim and painful realities of death. With fingers that felt wrapped in wool, he picked clumsily through his beard, removing the dried chunks of vomit that had stuck between the glittering braids. Even with one foot through Gazul’s Gate – especially then – there were standards.

His fingers settled on the shattered gold links above his collar. They burrowed between the cracked metal, questing beneath the silver hair. Calloused fingertips brushed his torn shirt. He gasped, only pride preventing him from crying out anew. The skin of his breast felt hard and dead, and strangely numb despite the agony his touch induced. His withdrawn hand came away bloody, but that was the least of it; his bloodied fingertips were speckled with tiny motes of glowing warpstone.

He gritted his teeth stubbornly against a shuddering wave of pain. He could feel the warpstone within him, the touch of its dark influence, its mutating power corrupting even his hardy dwarfish heart. There were worse fates than death in this world. He forced a smile. At least his legs didn’t hurt.

‘How do you feel?’ Keldur asked. The Hammerer looked sick with worry. The knife, still in his hand, was dark with Handrik’s blood. His brother, Narfi, released Handrik’s shoulders. The absence of a joke from the young soldier told him all he needed to know.

Handrik opened his mouth. It was dry and tasted foul, crusts of vomit stuck between his teeth. When finally he felt able to speak, he barely recognised his own voice. It was feeble and hoarse. ‘I look that bad, do I lad?’

‘Not at all,’ Keldur assured him. ‘I’d wager on you in a pony lift against anyone in Karak Azul.’

‘Don’t insult me, lad. You’re poorer than a snotling and barred from every gambling den in the Karaz Ankor.’ He managed a chuckle that soon broke off into a grimace as a fresh wave of dark magic emanating from his wound broke agonisingly on his chest. ‘I feel like death just choked on me.’

Narfi laughed then. ‘I’m sure he’ll always rue the day he tried to take Handrik Hallgakrin!’

‘He’ll have his chance to redeem himself soon, I fear.’

‘Longbeard, don’t say–’

‘Enough of that. I need no coddling. Tell me what became of the skaven? Did you kill it?’

The two dwarfs regarded him blankly. It was Keldur that answered. ‘We saw nothing. We assumed you had already avenged yourself on whatever creature did this to you.’

Handrik swore. Then the old skaven had fled. That could only mean there was another tunnel here. It would not be the first time a dwarf had been surprised within his own hold from tunnels thought lost to time. It was not the fault of his ancestors for concealing their masterworks so thoroughly. The failing lay with those now living, this lesser generation, unable to retain the skills of a more illuminated age.

‘Summon Lothgrim. The Ironbreakers must be brought here at once.’

‘Forget Lothgrim,’ Keldur said, turning to his brother. ‘Find Sister Grimhildur at the Valayan temple. There must be more that can be done for him.’

‘No,’ Handrik said, weakly but firmly. ‘Get me Lothgrim.’ Suddenly, he remembered Bernard. The skaven needed dealing with, but the problem of the human turncoat needed resolving first. ‘And fetch Thordun Locksplitter.’

Sharpwit seethed. Betrayed. By Razzel!

He limped along the roughly cut stone passage, granite blocks soon giving way to bare earth crudely gouged by skaven claws. The last dwarf-thing statue had been left behind some way back. Sharpwit missed it. You knew where you stood in dwarf-thing tunnels. You did not have to check the ceiling every five paces.

In truth he was not so much angry as he was ashamed. The indignity of it burned. He shook his head and tried to concentrate. He wasn’t ready to surrender just yet, but thoughts of how he might have acted differently played continually through his mind. Over and over he relived the moment when Razzel turned, when he snatched his prize from his paw, opened and giving in the name of friendship and cooperation. Unable to hold it in any longer, he smashed his crutch into the wall and gave a long shriek of fury.

Damn him. Damn his unholier-than-thou hide!

He summoned a deep breath and forced himself to be calm. He listened to the fading echo of his rage, imagined it as his bitterness receding into the rock. Someone like Razzel did not get the better of a mind as brilliant as his without a helping hand. He had been too distracted. He felt like he carried overflowing pails in each paw, one on his head and another in his tail. No matter what he did to spare one, another would spill and whatever corrective measures he took always made matters worse.

Never in all the years since his patron, Gnawdwell, had plucked him from the City of Pillars to serve as his aide had he considered life in Skavenblight as simple. Yes, he had acclimatised. There was no time to be disarmed by the open sky of Skavendom’s prehistoric capital, not if one intended to survive long in the Under-Empire’s dark and rat-infested heart, where poison floated in every bowl and a knife hid beneath every cloak, where even the simple necessity of closing one’s eyes in sleep became an act of daring. In Skavenblight, no plot was as it seemed. Even the lowliest functionaries had schemes wrapped within schemes hidden behind schemes. And then there were the Lords of Decay themselves. He trembled slightly at the recollection of his audiences within their chambers.

He had welcomed the opportunity to return home. Advising Queek had appealed as the antithesis to that cesspit of rumour and betrayal. And it was true, there were no secrets with Queek, no half-truths or cunningly layered deceptions. At least none he had yet unravelled, which meant much the same thing. His behaviour was inexplicable. Even looking back, he could not quite believe the warlord’s actions, much less try to explain them. Why could he not await the gathering of the full horde that he and Ska had assembled for him? Why would he insist on attacking Kazador head on even when the full strength of Karak Azul was arrayed against him? And given his earlier obsessions, why would he then abandon his quest for Kazador’s head to charge so readily after a new rival in Gorfang Rotgut? Fickle didn’t quite seem to cover it!

On balance, he would gladly crawl back into his burrow in Skavenblight right now. Despite his initial misgivings, the sky had never fallen in, even if he did have to sleep with his one eye open and a paw on his dagger.

But he wasn’t in Skavenblight. He was trapped beneath Karak Azul and it was time to disregard the distractions and focus on essentials. He was here to stem the flow of weapons from Karak Azul. He could forget Queek. The mad warlord was beyond irrelevance now. He would enter Black Crag and recover the captive dwarf-things himself. Let Queek hurl himself against the walls of that impregnable fortress until the day he dies, assuming Gnawdwell would allow him that long. The clanlord was going to receive a less than flattering portrait of his soon-to-be-former favourite when Sharpwit made his victorious return to the Clan Mors quarter of Skavenblight.

There remained one snag, however intently he tried to simplify things. The man-thing Bernard Servat simply had to be kept alive. There was no way around it, not without trying to persuade another man-thing, and Kazador might find that suspicious. And he needed Grey Seer Razzel to do that. It really was as simple as that. Perhaps the Horned Rat truly did watch over his craven priest. He could think of no other reason for the inordinate degree of good fortune that seemed to come his way. He swiftly stifled his resentment at the unpropitious apportionment of the Horned One’s blessings, ever reluctant to attract his god’s disfavour with such blasphemous sentiments.

Dry musk tickled his whiskers and he quickened his pace now he was certain nobody was watching.

‘Poor pathetic Sharpwit,’ he cackled, the taste of dwarf-meat still rich in his mouth. It was no surprise that Queek and Razzel had fallen for it so readily, but he had really expected better of a dwarf.

From beneath Azul there would be other tunnels to join with those for Black Crag. Razzel didn’t know them. Queek certainly didn’t know them. Sharpwit would beat them both.

He grinned. The warplight guided his way to glory. Perhaps he was the lucky one after all.

Even with Narfi by his side to legitimise his presence, Thordun’s skin prickled as though he had crossed a runic barrier. His stomach churned as though with molten lead, his feet dragging as if wilfully numb.

‘You are certain it’s fine for me to be here,’ he asked for what must have been the fifth time since passing the rune-engraved threshold.

Narfi eyed him coldly.

Thordun resented the Hammerer’s manner. The royal guard couldn’t have too many decades on him yet looked down as though he were a venerable elder. He wanted to say as much, but instead bowed his head, meekly accepting his admonishment.

‘What has happened? Has it to do with Kazrik?’

‘The prince is undisturbed. By Grungni’s mercy we can at least be thankful for that.’

‘Tell me something!’

‘See for yourself.’

Narfi had led him to an opening in the hall. It was not one he could remember seeing from his earlier visit. A perfect square of stone seemed simply to have vanished into the air. There was no rough edge to indicate the prior existence of anything other than that which remained, no scars in the rock to evidence a door that might previously have covered it. The Hammerer held his position and turned his back on the opening. He jerked his head to indicate that Thordun should go through.

As Thordun moved past, Narfi’s hand shot out and squeezed his shoulder. An unexpected kindness that bore no relation to the grim look in his eyes. ‘Steel yourself. It’s not pretty.’ The Hammerer withdrew his hand and locked it behind his back. He cleared his throat and gestured again that Thordun should pass.

The first thing that struck him was the smell. It immediately evoked unwelcome memories of Nuln. The homes of the sick had been boarded up in the dead of night, their occupants consigned to swelter and die, and then to rot in the summer heat. Entire districts had been abandoned to the plague, bloated bodies lying untended on the streets among the rats and the roaches. The memory was an ill one. His dwarfish constitution had spared him the disease, but not the grief of the many good men less fortunate in their birth. And disease had ultimately proven the least of their woes.

He girded himself and stepped inside. The small room resembled the interior of the Blind Pig after Bernard had lost at dice. A stout table had been upended, a torn tapestry hanging draped about one projecting leg like an abject symbol of surrender. The floor was strewn with splinters and short spears of broken wood, while dust, inches thick in places, blanketed every surface. In the far corner, at the epicentre of destruction, Narfi’s elder brother Keldur helped a very sick-looking Handrik remain upright while the longbeard spoke softly but firmly to a fierce-looking dwarf Thordun did not recognise.

The stranger was short and broad, even for a dwarf, and almost perfectly round in his encasing suit of runic gromril plate, a sphere of spiked death, tough as the head of a mace.

‘This skaven wasn’t just swallowed up by the mountain, Lothgrim,’ Handrik said, his voice cracked and weak. ‘Somewhere, perhaps in this very room, there’s a way to the skaven lair.’

The dwarf Lothgrim bowed deeply and long, and Thordun needed no familiarity with the customs of his people to read the esteem in which Handrik was held.

‘It will be done. I’ll scour every inch of these halls.’

‘Discreetly,’ Keldur insisted. ‘Remember where we are. Bring only those that can keep their mouths shut.’

Handrik and Lothgrim both frowned, offended by the very notion that any Ironbreaker could not be trusted with Kazador’s secret.

Grudgingly, Handrik nodded. ‘That’s fair.’ He turned to Lothgrim. ‘Get your oldest up here to find that tunnel. Bring along a runesmith. Not Thorek,’ he hastened to add. ‘Old Snaggi knows his secret doors as well as any and he owes me more than one favour. Have the rest of your lads suit up and marching on the Underdeep within the hour. It’s high time we dredged that hole for thaggoraki and time presses already.’

He looked up and spotted Thordun. He dismissed Lothgrim and Keldur with a nod.

‘Dreng Tromm,’ Lothgrim said, stepping back and offering another low bow before spinning on his heel and marching into the hall.

Keldur released Handrik gently. His hands hovered over the longbeard’s shoulders, ready to grasp him again should the old dwarf fall. Handrik slapped them down testily.

‘Out I said, you irritating dongliz.’

Keldur’s jaw tightened but he did as he was bid. ‘What should I tell Kazador?’ he asked.

A pained look crossed Handrik’s face. He reached out a well-muscled arm to steady himself against the wall. ‘Tell him nothing. Kazrik remains safe. The threat is passed. There is nothing here with which to trouble him.’

Keldur’s lips pinched dubiously, but he nodded agreement. Thordun wondered whether the dwarf could be trusted to keep his word, but Handrik seemed to harbour no such doubts and returned the younger dwarf’s gesture gratefully. The Hammerer gave Thordun a pat on the shoulder and turned to depart, leaving him and Handrik alone.

The longbeard looked old, the way humans employed the term, his skin clammy and pale, his green eyes listless and lacking their usual lustre. The elder began to pace, his movements spasmodic. Being one of the few dwarfs within Karak Azul to understand the nature of Handrik’s old injury, Thordun realised he moved simply to keep his back from seizing up.

‘When did you last see that big hairy umgi you keep for company?’ Handrik asked suddenly.

‘Bernard? In his room barely a moment ago. It was the strangest thing, but I hadn’t even realised he was there. Must have been there a time though, looked like he’d drunk himself out cold.’

Handrik cursed, some bitter invocation growled into his ruined beard, and ceased in his pacing. He set his forehead against the wall and closed his eyes.

‘Handrik, are you well?’

Handrik pushed himself away from the wall and shuffled back around to Thordun. He gestured towards the open door. ‘Are we alone?’

Throwing his elder a curious look, Thordun edged back to the opening and peered out. There was nobody there. If he strained, he could make out the murmuring of a distant conversation which he assumed must be Keldur and Narfi. He pulled his head back inside. Curiosity had always been his curse, and by now he was deadly curious as to what Handrik could want that demanded such secrecy.

‘Yes. Nobody can hear us.’

‘Good.’ Handrik looked down, uncertain how to continue. ‘I don’t how to break this, so I’ll just be right out with it. The manling has betrayed you. The fool has thrown in his lot with the skaven for a fistful of gold.’

Thordun staggered as though struck. His questing hand found the back of a wooden chair that had somehow survived the devastation and he steadied himself against the chair’s solidity. He had known Bernard to be ruthless. He had known him to be an amoral thief and murderer, the very lowest of men. But he had seen goodness in him. They had drunk together, fought together, and never would he have imagined he could fall this low.

‘Why?’ a voice breathed and it took him a moment to realise it was his own. He swallowed the lump that blockaded his throat and asked again. ‘Why?’

‘Who really cares why, lad? And who knows what the skaven hope to gain from it. All we need know is that whatever they want, they shan’t have.’

Without looking up, not trusting his broken heart to face the honoured longbeard he had dared to call friend, he gave a nod. He felt numb, like this was an event observed at a remove, the nightmare of another related through a drunken fugue. He had come seeking honour and redemption. And look what he had brought on himself instead. What among his prior misdeeds could approach the damage he had now wrought?

A powerful grip on his chin snapped his face upwards, forcing his eyes to meet Handrik’s.

‘Snap out of it, beardling. Look at me. If I’m not yet beaten then neither are you.’

‘What can we do?’

‘We fix it, that’s what. We find everything we can from the gutter-dealing umgi, we rescue Kazador’s kin ourselves and we make those skaven regret the day their stinking paws ever scratched the flagstones of Karak Azul!’ Handrik’s shoulders heaved with the effort of controlling his wrath.

Thordun shuddered as some of the bound tension released its grip. ‘How?’

‘Enough of that later. We must move fast and in secret. I’ll not allow Kazador to know he has been tricked by a skaven flunkey. The shame would surely break him.’

‘But if we act without his consent–’

‘Curb your honourless tongue, skaz. A better dwarf than you would already have sworn the Slayer Oath.’

Thordun’s arms trembled and he grasped both hands to the back of the chair that supported him. He should not have been so surprised that one so old as Handrik had seen through him so easily. He was a skaz. A thief.

Handrik reached out and gave his biceps a squeeze. It was comforting, fatherly, and he looked up, determined not to weep.

‘Aye lad. The king may disavow us, even should we succeed. But honour demands no less of us. I’ll make that sacrifice but I cannot do this alone. I’ll need help, if not yours then the help of another, and would you truly set your own honour higher than another’s?’

Thordun considered a moment and offered his hand with a resigned shrug. Handrik slapped it angrily down. ‘Let’s try that again shall we. We are dwarfs. Our word is not some trinket to be thoughtlessly bestowed on a whim. It is a solemn trade, an oath for an oath, and our oaths are iron. Think on it, mean it. Give me your word and you shall have mine.’

‘You have it,’ Thordun said, this time with an intensity that surprised even him. ‘I will help you undo my disgrace.’

Handrik took his wrist in his, gripping tightly enough to make him wince.

Thordun shook it solemnly, gratefully, but still something left him troubled. ‘Handrik,’ he began, hesitantly. ‘Do you believe that good deeds can expunge bad?’

Handrik stroked his beard, his eyes taking on a distant glaze of remembrance. ‘I hope so, lad.’ The longbeard smiled grimly and ushered him from the despoiled chamber. ‘Come on, there’s much to prepare.’

Thordun looked at the old dwarf, the most incongruous ally for an honourless thief. Despite Handrik’s great age and granite solidity, he couldn’t help but feel a measure of protectiveness. He didn’t know what the dwarf had in mind. Surely he could not expect to be doing any fighting himself. ‘Whatever would Grimhildur say?’

He had intended the question as a joke, but Handrik received it in all seriousness. He considered it gravely. ‘Tell her I’ll not be wearing the damned armour.’

Chapter Twelve

Queek lifted his snout and sniffed. Curious. It was wet like blood, except icy cold and clear, falling in speeding droplets from above as though fleeing the gutted corpse of some cold-hearted leviathan. The barrage made gazing upwards difficult, but if he squinted hard enough he saw it, black on black, a monstrous visage of bulbous fins and bloated misshapen heads. A mutated behemoth such as was purported to lurk within the poisoned depths of Karak Varn, prolonging their tortured existence with the flesh of skaven and other, darker, beasts.

It is called rain, said Krug, his voice perilously close to patronising. It is water that falls from the sky. It happens often out here on the surface.

Queek ignored the dwarf-thing and his so-called wisdom. Water could not fly.

So far he had seen little of the surface world to justify the terror it evoked in the hearts of his minions. They scurried timidly over the rain-lashed peaks, fur slicked flat to their shivering bodies. A scouring wind howled across the exposed mountain face, whipping freezing torrents into downcast faces to rob them of both scent and sound. The skaven hunched low, running in unbroken files, each keeping close to the comfort of the warm body in front of them and never once risking an upward glance at the stomach-upending infinity of emptiness that soared above their heads.

It was as if they feared that the sky-titan would sweep down to crush them into bloody paste beneath its swollen many-headed hide. Queek stared into its churning body. He wondered what it would be like to slay such a beast. No doubt its great size and the fact he would have to fight it so high above the ground would disadvantage him greatly, but that could only increase the adulation that would come with his inevitable victory. Idly he wondered which of those shapeless heads he would keep as a trophy and where he would find a spike large enough to display it.

It is a cloud. You cannot kill it.

As if on cue, the dark sky was suddenly rent apart by searing light. It was followed an instant later by the bellow of the sky-beast, a challenge voiced in thunder that shook the ground beneath Queek’s feet. Queek threw back his head in defiance. He exulted in the tremors the storm evoked beneath his fur. Queek could kill anything.

As terrified by the raging storm as they were by the open sky, the massed hordes huddled ever closer together. The sheer number of them cloaked every shallow defile and rainswept promontory with mangy fur and ragged hoods from which cheap scarlet dye had already begun to leach away to reveal a jumbled assortment of greys and browns and sodden, threadbare cloaks. They were pathetic. He wondered which scheming rival he could blame for bestowing on him such insipid troops.

Mighty-great Queek has no rival, Ikit assured him.

That much was certainly undeniable. These blunt-fanged lowlifes were fortunate to have as renowned a leader as Queek to inspire them by example to the greatness that was required.

It is down to Queek, said Ikit. He must destroy the orc-things himself and leave these others to eat-feed on the corpses he leaves.

Queek grunted silent acknowledgement. He would tear apart every orc-thing that crossed his path and hunt down every other that dared not. He would amass a pile of skulls to contest the mountains themselves for their dominion of the clouds, and from its pinnacle he would face down a world and make it concede the might of Queek. But still, more warriors were always desirable. Useful for digging holes and carrying things and for doing all those other menial things that were too far beneath Queek’s notice to even bother himself becoming aware of. With that in mind, he had ordered Ska to send scurriers with written instructions to the City of Pillars. The ratskins were sealed with Queek’s own claw-scratch seal, scratched in the blood of dwarf-thing slaves. He knew it wouldn’t stop a furtive reading of its contents by every paw it passed through, but he consoled himself that the dread of the Headtaker would cross their craven hearts as they did so. The orders were for the reinforcements he had cunningly left in the City of Pillars.

He would see the lair emptied before he would personally admit defeat. The Eight Peaks, Azul-Place, they were just places. Why could none but Queek see that? He was glad that Old-thing had been keeping out of sight. The half-dead half-wit would have thrown a fit, not that Queek cared a single mouse dropping for what he thought.

He carved a path through the quivering masses, clambering on all fours towards a high ridge. As he ascended the rise, the wind struck with even greater force. His trophies moaned in the wind, scraping and shuffling as they clung grimly to their stanchion. They had grown so annoying since Blacktooth had left them. The sooner Big-meat joined their number, the happier he would be. Queek hissed a warning in their direction and pawed water from his eyes, turning his gaze back to the subterranean passages that still gushed clanrat warriors like brackish water from a broken pipe. The skaven emerged blinking from the shafts and into the downpour with a lamentable surfeit of indifference. Ska Bloodtail and a retinue of his stormvermin elite, paw-picked for their cruelty, patrolled the tunnel mouth, rewarding malingerers with broken snouts.

Ska himself stood a head taller than even his mightiest litter-brothers, rain pattering from his paw-beaten pauldrons and coursing in dark spirals along the chains that held the massive armoured suit around his barrel chest. The imposing fangleader sped the horde on its way, hoisting unwary laggards by the scruff of their necks and tossing them out into the rain. The skaven missiles shrieked after the tails of their hurrying kin, landing in crashing tumbles of rusted gear on rain-slickened rock. Some found their footpaws and hurried after their clanmates, others did not. Either way, Queek did not care.

A scrap of white fur emerged from the tunnels. Ska raised his axe to hustle the grey seer on his way as he had every other worthless rat before him. The sorcerer’s indignant squeal as he was dragged through the mud and into the rain was music to Queek’s ears. He squealed down at the drenched and seething horde, waving to indicate that the grey seer should join him.

Content in the conviction that a skaven would rather eat its own liver than disobey Queek’s orders, he turned his back and scrambled up the slippery rock to the very edge of the bluff. A sudden gust grabbed his shoulders, as if the elements sought to wrestle him from the precipice. He gripped more tightly to the ridge and snickered at their puny efforts, gazing out over the gloomy titans of the Worlds Edge Mountains.

Seldom in his short life had Queek had occasion to feel small, but being surrounded by such potent embodiments of nature’s might gave him the tiniest inkling of how that might feel. Nothing he had ever witnessed had prepared him for such a vista, and he was struck by a sudden appreciation of scale. The world was larger than he had given it credit for. A lesser skaven might have been humbled.

‘You summoned me, great warlord?’ The grey seer was forced to shout to contend with the gale that blasted across the peaks. He spoke words of flattery, but their blatant insincerity grated on Queek’s nerves.

Queek tore his gaze from the dominion that would be his and turned it grudgingly towards the sorcerer. Razzel’s white robes were splattered with mud and his accursed chimes clanked flat sodden notes in spiritual harmony with the seer’s general misery. The rain had mottled his white fur to grey and even the crooked three-barred brand of the Horned One on his cheek seemed lacking in fervour. Looking at his annoying lackey and then back out across the whispering gulf that opened out before him, Queek was struck by a sudden, near overwhelming temptation to grab hold of the grey seer and hurl him off the edge. The voices in the rain called to him, they begged for the white-furred soul. His paws twitched.

‘Do you serve faithfully the mighty Queek, White-fur?’

‘Always,’ asserted Razzel. ‘Who is this humble vessel to question the Horned One’s will?’

Queek snickered cruelly, the immediate impulse to slay subsiding into whatever shallow lair it had burrowed within his black heart. ‘It takes a great leader to squeak such flagrant lies. And White-fur is no great leader.’

Razzel bristled but the downpour had dampened even his zealous fire and the gesture was half-hearted at best. Thunder pealed and the grey seer squeaked fright, glancing fearfully into the blinding rain. ‘Why must we scurry under open skies?’ The sorcerer trembled, icy chills and cold dread permeating his skinny hide.

‘White-fur is troubled?’ Queek murmured, enjoying the irritant’s discomfort.

The grey seer didn’t even attempt a riposte. He crouched low, as if to tremble as far as feasible from that troubled sky. ‘I trust-gift my life into the Horned Rat’s keeping,’ he whimpered. Queek wondered if the seer convinced himself. ‘I merely fear-worry for the morale of Queek’s unworthy soldiers.’

There was something about the seer’s abject meekness that Queek found deeply trying. If he ceased to be entertaining, what was the point in keeping him around?

‘Queek can see that White-fur shivers only for warmth, but is faster this way. Faster is better.’

‘If Queek desires faster then there is another way, most open-minded of warlords. There are tunnels. Secret ways that the dwarf-things hid and sealed long ago. Tunnels that run all the way from Azul-Place into Black Crag. Quick and dry, hmmm?’

In a sudden flash of insight, Queek imagined tunnels, the deceptive comfort of their darkness. Dwarf-things did not simply leave such ways abandoned. He saw orc-thing corpses, sunken and decayed. They jutted from cold stone walls, hanging by their ribcages from great iron spikes. Others still living rotted within deep pits, their animalistic wails unheeded by any creature with life or mind to care as their green flesh became food for giant rats that grew ever more hungry and ever more bold. Their red eyes twinkled, murderous in the dark. He saw Old-thing and White-fur looking down from the lip of a pit, revelling in his mouldering corpse.

Traps, Krug hissed urgently. The tunnels were secret once. But dwarfs will not be stung twice.

This grey seer creep-sneak always, Ikit concurred.

‘Tunnels…’ Queek mused. ‘They rhyme with… treachery.’

Queek could feel the heat that radiated from the grey seer’s frightened body, waves of dread and awe and unwilling supplication that struck him as most appeasing. Razzel flicked his claws at his horn chimes. It was a nervous tic that Queek was becoming increasingly familiar with – and irritated by. The seer seemed oblivious to the lifeless notes his efforts produced.

‘How long before reaching Black Crag?’ Queek asked.

‘That… um… that depends.’

‘Tell Queek that White-fur at least knows the way.’

‘He does!’ Razzel squeaked. ‘I mean, I do. More or less. Is just… I just…’

‘For certain, Old-thing will know. Where is he?’

‘I do not know, greatest of great of warlords. He never did wish-want to leave Azul-Place. Maybe he abandons his rightful leader to claim Deadclaw for himself. He always smelt ill-favoured to this humble servant. Traitorous.’

Queek snarled, the explicit threat not lost on his jabbering underling who swiftly clamped his running jaw shut. The seer’s lies had grown no more accomplished during the course of their conversation. ‘Do not try Queek. Go fetch-find, or Queek shows him up close the face of his god.’

Razzel nodded weakly, fully and rightfully anticipating his imperious warlord’s wrath. He glanced up, his eyes affixing on something just over Queek’s shoulder.

Queek shook his muzzle disappointedly. That was the oldest trick in the book.

‘Master,’ Ska shouted from below, ‘look-see.’

Queek considered for a moment that this might all be an elaborate ploy Ska and White-fur had cooked up to stab him in the back and toss him off a mountain, but swiftly rejected it. His faithful fangleader held him in sufficient awe to prefer a knife in the chest to the risk of his disfavour. Conspiring with the likes of White-fur was the last thing he would do. He turned and flung up his paws impatiently. ‘Look-see what? Can idiot-Ska fool-meat not see Queek is busy?’

Ska cringed and pointed, across the bowed heads of the chittering hordes and over the ridgeline to the pinnacle of another, even higher peak beyond. Silhouetted against the black sky in the clouded light of the moon was a feral shape, four-legged and powerful with a long snout that Queek’s imagination unhurriedly peopled with long razor-sharp fangs. The shadow shortened its stance, raised its muzzle to the sky and howled. It had a power, that otherworldly wail, a potency that had Razzel quivering at his footpaws like a newly bonded slave in the front rank of a skaven horde. It lingered overlong, echoing between ground and sky as though the clouds themselves held it in the grip of primordial dread. The beast shifted position to look his way. He saw a smaller shape seated upon it, skinny with what looked like a spear or possibly a bow in its spindly arms.

‘Wolf-riders,’ hissed Razzel from his position on the ground, head buried beneath his paws.

‘Queek wants one.’

‘They are scouts for green-thing armies. Very-very fast-quick. We never catch it, even if we knew this land as well as it must. It may be prudent to return to Deadclaw. Gorfang will know we come before our full army is on the surface.’

Queek snickered cruelly. He was beginning to like the surface world. It was filled with so many exciting new things. He watched as the beast turned and loped from view to bear word of Queek’s glorious coming.

‘Good-good. See it followed.’

Sharpwit hobbled through the eerily quiet lair of Burnstash. It made Deadclaw look like the slave markets of Skavenblight. All but the most destitute still shunned the fierce womb of fire that the great dragon had once called home. It struck him as poignant that even skaven society could have something even lower: escaped slaves, the maimed and the diseased, the heretical and the mad, the dregs that gnawed on its roots, subsisting off its cast-off things.

Mouldering lean-tos were scattered across the cavern floor, little more than scraps of rag clinging to stakes, fluttering silently in the hellish breeze that emanated from the deep earth like flakes of char from a fire. Encircling them like some noisome moat, semi-solid skaven waste gurgled turgidly through ancient gouged channels, piling into stinking mounds as the heat gradually dried it out. He hurried on, dizzy in the heat, disoriented by the silence, the imprint of the god-lizard’s scales on the close ceiling sneering down on the passage of lesser beings. He hunched closer. Quiet was one thing, but the place was deserted.

The dragon had not nested here by accident. There was no stronghold of skaven, dwarf, orc or – such as they were in this part of the world – men, within fifty leagues that could not be breached from these tunnels. Intolerable as they were, in the right paws these tunnels were a more formidable tool than any weapon fashioned in a Clan Skryre workshop, or any pox bred in the vats of Clan Pestilens. If a skaven knew how to use it, of course.

He crossed a creaking length of clapboard that had been laid across the stinking moat like a bridge. It took his weight with an ominous groan, his crutches clattering loudly in the silence. The sticky flow beneath his footpaws slurped with unnerving gaiety, like the runtish survivor of a cave-in, able to squeak to his heart’s content. He looked around nervously. Wood too rotten even for Deadclaw lay in uneven stacks steaming with their absent owners’ scent markings, bones picked bare and left for the malnourished rats that regarded him with idle hunger, rags strewn between the lazily wafting door-flaps, scattered as though by footpaws in a hurry. And not a single skaven in sight. Nor a single weapon.

Anxiously, he moistened his lips. He had the dreadful feeling that his long-treasured luck was about to run out.

Grimnir’s shrine was dark and quiet, a place where the prayers of the dishonoured might be heard. In burnished copper and bronze, the ancestor god of battle stood slightly greater than life size, glaring balefully down upon his spartan shrine. Or perhaps Grimnir truly had been that large. Muscles mounded from his naked torso like the heights of the Karaz Ankor, every square inch rippling testament to martial pride. Here stood Grimnir the peerless warrior who had marched alone into the madness of Chaos to do battle with the Great Powers themselves and whose deeds, seven thousand years past, remained unmatched for glory and for sheer dwarfish bloody-mindedness. His beard was full and proud. Tattoos scored his godlike frame in glittering tracks of powdered zinc. His expression was judgemental, aggrieved by the fall of the dwarfs, angered by their squandering of his sacrifice.

Handrik found it impossible to meet his eyes. He’d become an Ironbreaker to defend his home, but aside from a handful of skirmishes with half-starved thaggoraki in the pitch dark of the Underdeep what had he achieved? It seemed he was doomed to sit out the greatest battles, one way or another to let others suffer in his stead. Well, not this time.

The sprightly splash of water filtered through the oak doors from the fountain in the outer courtyard, twinned like life and death to the hypnotic crack and slide rhythm of a whetstone dragged across the blade of an axe. Handrik turned through the lingering trace of incense. An ugly and horrifically scarred dwarf sat with whetstone in hand and a battleaxe across his lap, according it the same doting attention a spendthrift longbeard might bestow upon his last gold coin. The Slayer sat on a stone bench, a mural depicting Grimnir on his legendary quest prominent behind his broad shoulders. His powerful chest was bare but for spidery knots of scar-white tissue and a pair of spiked leather braces. Blue tattoos crawled up the Slayer’s arms to his waxed head. His scalp gleamed in the chequered light of incense burners. His dishonour was further consecrated with the mutilation of his beard, rendered into a sharp orange wedge that thrust down between his knees. He offered a curt nod to Handrik before returning at once to his blade, the scrape of stone on metal an angels’ chorus to the warrior Grimnir.

‘Is Gunngeir still about?’ Handrik asked.

If the Slayer heard or understood, he gave no clear indication, continuing to work with a steady unbroken pace on his already keen blade. Handrik wondered if the dwarf was damaged in more ways than the physical. Everyone had heard tales of dwarfs whose dishonour was so great as to leave them broken in mind.

‘Where are you from, Slayer? What’s your name?’ He waited a moment, but the dwarf still offered nothing. ‘You don’t say much, do you?’

The whetstone paused partway around the rim of the blade. The Slayer cracked a smirk and tilted his chin to better display his savaged throat.

‘Aye, I understand. Here’s hoping the next blow strikes harder.’

The anonymous Slayer nodded his thanks, crossing his arms over the butt of his axe blade and leaning on its haft. He jabbed a thumb back at his scarred visage before uncurling a finger to point at Handrik.

And you as well.

Handrik answered with a stiff nod, his hand reaching without thinking to the poisonous wound over his heart. To think that it must come to this, to become like this, to defy his oaths of fealty and render himself unto dishonour. But it was necessary. Kazador had practically handed the keys of Karak Azul to a skaven flunkey. What would the truth do to a dwarf who many, the king himself most of all, already considered the accursed king of Azul? Instead of Handrik, it might be Kazador on his knees pledging his life to Grimnir. What price did he set on his own honour in comparison? What would he not give to spare his beloved king that shame? He took a deep breath and marshalled his pride. He would do anything. Even betray him.

‘I had not expected to see you here.’

The voice gave Handrik a start, but centuries of training wouldn’t let him show it.

A tanned and weather-worn dwarf in black robes emerged from the shadowed wings of the shrine. The priest of Grimnir scratched his unkempt beard and eyed him thoughtfully. ‘Handrik,’ the priest welcomed with a wide grin. ‘What could one so proud have done to warrant a journey down Grimnir’s path?’

Handrik scowled. Gunngeir was a notorious gossip. ‘None of your business.’

‘I suppose not,’ Gunngeir sighed.

Handrik felt little sympathy for the homeless wanderer and his lonely service to the lord of death. His heart was already bled dry.

‘There is only one reason that dwarfs attend the shrine of Grimnir.’ Gunngeir said, his manner taking on a deadly seriousness. ‘You are here to swear the oath of the Slayer?’

‘I am.’

‘To forswear your home, your family, your name?’

Handrik glanced back at the silent Slayer. He had paused in his work and watched the exchange with interest. Handrik looked away with a scowl. He didn’t care to do this for an audience. ‘Aye.’

‘Do you know the oath?’

‘Of course,’ Handrik grumbled. ‘Everybody does.’

‘Then recite it.’

‘I am a dwarf,’ Handrik snarled, dropping stiffly to his knees before the statue of Grimnir. ‘My honour is my life and without it I am nothing. I shall become a Slayer.’ His voice caught over the rest, as if his throat refused to admit the words. He looked deep within himself for the strength to proceed, realising even as he did so that on some level he wanted this, had always wanted this. For his fallen nephew Hallar, for his old friend Logan, for Kazrik’s shame, for supping ale in the Underdeep while savages ransacked his home, for kneeling here nursing his own disgrace while youngsters like Thordun and Lothgrim bled at his behest.

‘And the rest,’ Gunngeir whispered softly.

‘I’ll do it in my own good time,’ Handrik snapped back. He took a deep breath and went on. ‘I shall seek redemption in the eyes of my ancestors. I shall become as death to my enemies. Until I face him that takes my life. And my shame.’

Handrik’s fingers felt for the golden beads braided into his beard. All four hundred and one of them. The first had been a gift from his grandfather on the passing of his first year and he had received sixty-seven more before the old dwarf had journeyed to the Ancestors’ Hall. His father had taken that same road just the year before, an urk bludgeon to the shoulder striking a loose link of his own mail into his heart. He recalled the face of the armourer’s apprentice who had sewn the shirt. As if it were yesterday. The boy had been no older than Thordun, same golden hair, same smooth skin, that selfsame intent to do right without the earned wisdom to know how. The lad had shorn his head and pledged the Slayer Oath right there. With a surprising stab of regret he realised he had no idea what had become of that dwarf. Couldn’t even remember his name. He sincerely hoped he had found a worthy doom. He would seek him out when he joined him in the Ancestors’ Hall. Share a pint or three and reminisce on the mightiness of their ends.

He removed the clasps one by one, placing them reverently into a glittering pile at Grimnir’s feet. He felt an overwhelming giddiness, his honour gone, his wealth gone, all his years reduced to this pile of gold. There was nothing left but his axe and a bitter scrap of pride. It was as if he floated, such was the sudden easing of his burden. It was not an altogether ill feeling. Gunngeir bade him remove his shirt and he did so. The priest gasped at the lurid wound above his heart. Some warpstone foulness kept it from closing, partially clotted blood oozing unceasingly from the ruptured flesh, the surrounding tissue crusted and black like that of an ancient corpse. Handrik spread his beard to obscure it, pointedly inviting no inquiry.

Gunngeir’s face dropped in disappointment and, grumbling, he disappeared into the darkened recesses of the shrine, reappearing with a cracked leather case and a bucket of orange lime. Handrik noticed the priest had donned an apron and an orange-stained leather gauntlet in which he held a grobi-bone comb, the teeth gummed together by thick lime. Handrik’s face twisted into a grimace, nose hairs shrivelling before the overpowering citrus reek.

‘Is there anyone I should pass these to?’ Gunngeir asked, indicating the jumbled heap of gold.

‘I’ve no family, the urk saw to that.’

‘A friend then?’

‘I’m old, priest. I’ve outlasted most of those I called friend. After today, I’ll have fewer still.’

‘A more distant relative perhaps?’

Handrik thought on that as the priest knelt before him, comb burrowing for his chin. His head yanked up and down as Gunngeir dragged the comb through his beard, the proud grey reduced streak by streak to a vivid orange. He grunted stoically at the needling pain. It was nothing. ‘See them given to Thordun Locksplitter.’

‘Thordun?’ the priest asked, surprised. ‘I hadn’t realised the two of you were close.’

‘Nor had I.’

‘I hear the boy is recently departed for the Black Crag.’

‘Gossip travels swiftly, I see.’

The priest produced a thin smile. Finishing with Handrik’s beard, he rose and circled to take up position at his back. Handrik felt the sticky teeth bite into his scalp as the comb tugged his thick mane of granite-grey hair.

‘You aren’t the first of the dishonoured I’ve tended today. I’ve not seen so many of one clan so close in succession since the year Snorri Stoutgirth lost the last brewery on the old Silverspear Road.’ The priest looked wistful, as though reminiscing over lost love. ‘The Hammerhands bear their share of Thane Hrathgar’s disgrace. They were already set on journeying together to Karak Eight Peaks and apparently Thordun offered an alternative that appealed to their new calling.’

Handrik snorted. ‘So much for secrecy. The boy worries too much.’

Gunngeir chuckled knowingly. ‘Regardless, perhaps you’d be advised to choose another heir for your wealth.’

‘No. Thordun will do just fine. I’ll just have to ensure he makes it back.’

‘So you’ll be accompanying the youngling on his errand?’ Handrik felt the priest nod approvingly. ‘There’ll be danger enough to share, I daresay.’

‘My thanks.’

‘We were heading that way ourselves,’ Gunngeir added conversationally, indicating the silent Slayer with a tilt of his head. ‘You need no special gift to see the dark wind blowing so many to their doom.’

‘We go to our ends. You’ll find few in need of your services in Karak Drazh.’

‘Perhaps, but where he goes I go.’

Handrik’s eyes swivelled in their sockets to take in the massive Slayer, his attention now riveted once again to sharpening his axe. ‘Who is he?’

‘Just a dwarf,’ Gunngeir shrugged. ‘I’ve followed him for many years now, since a chance encounter in the ruins of Karak Azgal–’

‘Karak Izril.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Her founders named her Izril, for the gold that shone like stars from her rocks. A few grobi can’t dim the brilliance of her stones, and a true dawi shouldn’t let the memory fade.’

‘Karak Izril then,’ Gunngeir smiled. He looked across at the anonymous Slayer. The dwarf did not look back. ‘I still don’t know his name, but his deeds are worthy of remembrance. Perhaps I can record your doom as well, Handrik, if I should be fortunate enough to survive it?’

‘Don’t get your hopes too high. Fortune’s in short supply of late.’ His eyes rolled up to follow the priest’s progress. ‘Could you work any slower? I’ve places to be, thaggoraki in need of my axe.’

‘A dwarf becomes a Slayer the moment he chooses to be,’ Gunngeir said with the faintest whisper of a smile. ‘If you were in such a damned rush, why come to me at all?’

‘There’s a right way and a wrong way for everything, priest,’ Handrik muttered. ‘Particularly now.’

Gunngeir chuckled, patting Handrik’s shoulder to indicate that he might rise.

Handrik’s beard was a vibrant orange, the lime paste crusting it into jagged points as though some sorcerer had employed a shard of crystal to capture a flame. His head was similarly dyed but unfinished, the lurid colouring broken by shocks of grey. His arms and bare chest were swollen hard with old muscle. Gunngeir regarded him, well satisfied. He bent to lay down the comb and opened the leather case that he had set upon the ground, withdrawing a long slender-bladed knife. The dagger’s hilt was shaped into a semblance of bones, the blade etched with black runes like the engravings on a tomb. The priest raised the weapon. Blue ink dripped from its razor tip.

‘Are you ready?’

Handrik nodded solemnly. ‘Aye.’

Sharpwit’s ears twitched to a half-heard sound. He stopped to listen. It was coming from the northbound tunnel to Black Crag on the far side of the shanty, a distant and growing growl. For a split second of irrational horror he feared a dragon had returned to its lair, but the rumble soon distinguished itself into something more mundane: the pounding of many pairs of paws, the panicked chittering of hundreds of fleeing skaven. The relief he felt was short-lived.

They were fleeing right towards him.

Sharpwit vented the musk of fear and cast about for something solid to hide behind but could see nothing sturdier than the hide wall of the nearest shack. Beggars not being choosers, he ducked behind it, his lone eye tightly closed, a murmured prayer that the Horned Rat spare his humble minion on his lips.

It seemed the Great Schemer heeded the prayers of cripples this day.

The cavern shook to the force of an explosion, a geyser of grey ash blasting from the tunnel mouth and scorching across the desolate town like a marauding dragon. Sharpwit buried his muzzle in his paws and whimpered as hot ash pummelled his pathetic shelter. The scrap of hide rippled under the onslaught, burning dust howling through the deserted streets to either side like looters, kicking open door-flaps, and claiming everything unrestrained.

As suddenly as it had erupted into life, the blast settled. The latent scent of dust tickled the back of his throat. He coughed sharply, struggling to suppress the fit that came snapping on its tail like a starving rat after a mouse, sleeve pressed tight to his snout. He scuttled from hiding on all fours. The explosion’s aftermath left a ringing silence. He strained until his ears throbbed with imagined perils, but there was nothing to hear but the groaning movement of rock and the occasional patter of loose rubble. The skaven had been cut off or killed. Sharpwit wheezed a sigh of relief. He pulled away his sleeve and sniffed at the air. The sulphurous bite of gunpowder was a lingering trace, as familiar as the bitterness of his own musk. His heart skipped a beat, racing into a frantic pace as though compensating for the lost effort. The strain on the aging muscle made him feel faint.

Divide and destroy. Classic dwarfish tactics when assaulting a more numerous foe. That could mean only one thing. The dwarfs were coming.

No. Worse. The dwarfs were here.

His gaze snapped towards one of the southbound tunnels, the one that had borne Queek’s army to Karak Azul. Vibrations passed through the rock in solid and unbroken rhythm, its tremors exciting his already skittish paws, urging them to flight only to find his limbs frozen. He sank back, deeper into his hiding place, his flushed glands straining in vain to emit fresh musk.

As he watched, the first Ironbreaker emerged from the darkness of the tunnel. Others followed, immensely armoured bodies in ranks of four that manoeuvred smoothly to become ranks of eight, broad shields locking remorselessly into an unbroken wall of gromril, hand-axes glinting in the glimstone torches some of the dwarfs carried affixed to their helms. Rather than move to avoid the ramshackle skaven dwellings as they came upon them, the lead dwarf simply put his gromril boot through the sidewall of a rotten shed-like building. The twice-scavenged plywood construct collapsed like a house of feathers without causing the dwarf to slow. He barged through the debris as though he felt nothing. And perhaps he did not. His face was sealed beneath a fearsome helm, even his beard sheathed in starmetal scales.

Sharpwit jerked into life as the ranks of dwarfs followed their leader, the far end of the cavern suddenly erupting in an explosion of wood splinters and cave rot spores. Even if they didn’t spot him, their blundering feet would surely crush him.

He spun away, overcome by a sudden longing to be in Deadclaw, surrounded by a host of his beloved brother skaven.

Thordun closed his eyes and kissed his hammer’s glowing blue rune. The act had become habit, and he persisted even though the hammer was not his. The Locksplitter heirloom would remain safe in Karak Azul, even if he could not.

He shrugged off the maudlin ritual, trying instead to concentrate on the map being unfurled against the wall by a fiercely crested Slayer. Somewhere beneath the bright orange mohawk and freshly scabrous tattoos, he recognised the craggy face of Thane Hrathgar’s icon bearer, Rorrick Hammerhand. Thordun studied the parchment until his vision blurred. It made no sense whatsoever, lines bisecting one another seemingly at random, triangles forming from nowhere, and the whole thing scattered with illegible runes. He would’ve happily cursed Handrik to eternity if not for the happy chance that Rorrick and his brethren were familiar with its coded markings. He glanced over his shoulder to where two more Slayers stood sullenly among his men. They had barely spoken to him before their disgrace, and they seemed to like him still less now.

Rorrick traced a fat finger along one of the lines. ‘Here’s the passage to Black Crag. It cuts down, joins in with others here.’ He tapped at an intersection. ‘Then it runs true all the way north.’ He picked out a number of cross symbols along the way. ‘These are where the Engineers’ Guild set traps after the last attack. They keep the blasted urk in their place, but we should get by no bother.’ The finger started moving again. ‘Then we climb steadily up, right to the Third Deep, out by the Throne Hall. Or what’s left of it. We’ll need to cross the Mordrekk Bridge. Could be tricky, that. I’d have it guarded, if I were a sensible orc.’

‘You think it will be?’

‘You ever met a sensible orc?’

‘I suppose not.’

‘Well there you are then. We’ll either walk it or have to fight for it. No way to know until we get there really, is there?’

‘How can you be certain this is where Kazador’s kinsdwarfs will be?’

‘Can’t be totally sure. But Gorfang would want his prisoners near his own wretched throne, and it’s where old Yorri Borkodin was convinced they’d be.’

‘Who?’

‘For shame, beardling.’ Rorrick shook his head disappointedly. ‘He was a dwarf of the Eight Peaks and a friend. He claimed descent from the Karak Drazh Borkodins, and had many maps of the hold’s interior thought long lost. He was the last honoured soul to make the journey from Black Crag to the Ancestors’ Hall. I’d pay more heed to my own history, were I in your place.’

Thordun bit his tongue and said instead, ‘Tell me about this bridge.’

‘Karak Drazh is split by the same fault that runs under Karak Azul. The Mordrekk is its Third Deep crossing. Very defensible, as I say, but a beautiful piece of stone-craft.’ A mournful look crossed the dwarf’s fearsome visage. ‘It’d be an honour to go to my doom on it.’ He smiled in grim anticipation and dragged his finger back across the chart, settling it over a black square. ‘And this is where the squatter king entered Karak Azul last time.’

‘Right here?’ Thordun asked.

Rorrick pulled down the map, folded it messily, and shoved it under his belt as they all looked at the unpropitious stretch of grey wall.

‘Right here.’

Thordun stepped forward, hands held palm open over the stones, almost fearful, as if to touch them would be to somehow share in the horrors they’d been party to.

‘To think your folk forgot this door was here,’ Rorrick snorted.

Thordun made no answer, though he felt sure the fallen glory of Karak Eight Peaks was by now a mad adder’s nest of forgotten ways and half-dug tunnels.

‘I hope someone took the Slayer Oath over this,’ Rorrick went on, grouchily ignorant that he was being ignored.

‘I’m sure they did,’ Thordun snapped, feeling a growing dislike for the judgemental Slayer, so like his late kinsdwarf. ‘And I believe it none of your business either way.’

Rorrick cleared his throat and looked down his beard, chastened.

From behind him, Bernard’s gruff chuckle came to further grate his nerves.

‘Told him, eh?’

‘You shut up too,’ he growled. The man looked drawn and swayed as though still drunk. Thordun felt nothing but contempt for him. He didn’t know why he had pressed Handrik for leniency when the longbeard had barged into their quarters ready to tear the man limb from limb. The old dwarf’s very graphic threats had done the trick though, and it would take just one word from Thordun to see those threats carried out. He glanced over at Rorrick and the other Slayers. He doubted that any of those three would be so accepting of the thagi in their midst. Suppressing the temptation, he looked up at the ceiling and pressed the hammer to his chest, hoping to draw from its strength.

‘Aren’t you supposed to be returning that?’ Bernard drawled, not taking the hint, without even the decency to sound ashamed of himself.

Thordun studied again the weapon he held, the hammer of Hrathgar Hammerhand. He had salvaged it from the thane’s body after the battle, having witnessed its potency from afar. It had seemed a shame to let it just lie there. ‘I will, as soon as we’re done.’

‘You can try Splitter, but you’ll never change. Once a thief, always a thief.’

‘I said I’ll return it,’ Thordun barked. ‘We’re just taking the long way around.’

‘Sure we are. As if you, me or that bloody hammer will see sunshine again.’

‘Come on, umgelski,’ Rorrick growled. Thordun hardened his face to the taunt. Man-lover. The Slayer glared at them, impatiently turning the spike atop his hammer to scratch the scabs from his cheek. ‘We have to beat the scourge of the Eight Peaks to his prize, am I right?’ The other Slayers nodded agreement. Even some of Thordun’s own seemed eager to be off, somehow touched by the dwarfs’ mania.

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 to 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

‘Aww, chief.’

‘Just sort it out, ’fore I sort you out.’

‘Yes chief,’ Leekey moaned, shuffling to his feet, Codgrub and Thiknut breaking into a squabble to peek at his abandoned cards. ‘Its nuffin’, chief.’

‘You ain’t even lookin’’ Skiblit returned, without bothering to look up.

Grumbling, Leekey tiptoed closer to the grille, as nervous as Skiblit about things that lurked in the dark.

The grille gave one more crash that had Leakey screaming and the rest of them in giggles. The mirth choked when, with one last calamitous note, the grille crashed inward. The flagstones split under the weight, only Leekey’s nervous reflexes sparing him a busted toe. The goblin hopped back and stared down at his feet, counting his blessings one to ten in the wriggling digits a snotling’s fart from a quarter ton of ancient metal. Rank air washed up from whatever dank hole that grating had fed. It stank of dead water and old sweaty rock, it smelt like wet rat.

‘Oh, crud!’

Leekey was still staring, struggling somewhere between five and six, most likely, when his upper body exploded, plastering the gaping goblins with sticky red gore. The blast was so loud it seemed to physically shake the walls. Leekey, living up to his name even in death, finally stopped spurting and toppled over. Skiblit vomited his breakfast onto the flagstones. The opening spewed green smoke like that from a shaman’s pipe, dancing devils shaping into snarling red-coloured ratties. Codgrub and Thiknut were down in a blink, still trying to draw their own steel as rusted blades carved them up faster than his eyes could follow. More were coming through. He caught the wink of copper in firelight, a black and white furred thing with a whirring hat. It noticed him notice it and flashed its teeth, brilliant white against the shadow like a shaman’s bones cast into a fire’s embers to prophesy blood. It sighted him down a monstrous gun barrel and he looked back, mesmerised by the weird green eye that spun of its own will in its copper socket.

He drew his gut-sticker, for all the good it was going to do. ‘What’re you waitin’ for?’ He turned to Gumrot, terror ratcheting his voice to an astonishing pitch. ‘Open that door!’

‘This does not look-smell like the City of Pillars.’

Sharpwit smirked. In his infinite wisdom, Fizqwik had entrusted Sharpwit to lead him to the safety of the Clan Mors stronghold. After his original guide had clumsily tripped, fallen and tragically impaled himself through the throat on Sharpwit’s crutch of course. ‘We must have taken a wrong turn somewhere,’ he replied straight-facedly.

‘If you are lost-lost, I will have-take you for weapon practice.’

‘Not lost,’ Sharpwit bowed. They had surfaced in an old ale cellar, though it might now quite easily be mistaken for one of the feeding pens of Hell Pit. Meat and gristle clung to the walls like ticks to a skaven’s fur, broken spears indistinguishable from severed arms, such was the indiscriminate lashing of blood. One of the goblins still lived, that much was apparent from its screams, although Sharpwit doubted it was overly thankful for that. Spindly green arms thrashed, its body hidden behind a pair of clanrat warriors, their muzzles ripping into its warm flesh, only spurred to greater heights of feeding frenzy by its tortured howls.

He limped through the green-tinged smog and coughed. He had explicitly told Fizqwik not to fire his weapon down here, but could the fool resist? No, no he could not. He took a deep, shuddering breath, euphoria rushing into his blood with the warpstone-tainted air. He felt young again, powerful. His claws clenched around his crutches, as if he could crush them with his bare paws, cast them down and walk. He gritted his fangs and fought the dulling effect of the warpstone fumes. The wave ebbed and he sagged against his crutches with the return of every momentarily forgotten ache. He groaned, hip audibly cracking as he attempted a forward step. Some of the trappings of age he had no need to exaggerate. Perhaps a little addlement would be no bad thing.

The goblin had stopped screaming. The last echoes of its death tingled in Sharpwit’s ears, clinging to life, to memory, to that last record of its pitiful, soon forgotten, existence. What was its name? What actions had it taken that had left the world changed? Did any still live that would remember? Or was every poor wretch that could have answered accounted for in this miasma of viscera? Life was so transient, so fragile.

He waved his paw through the cloying fumes and looked for Fizqwik, locating the engineer by the whirring sound of his helmet. ‘This is an old-lost dwarf-thing tower built-made to watch Death Pass. Many millennia old, but dwarf-things, they build to stay.’ He turned slowly around, getting his bearings, pointing an arm due east. ‘That way is the City of Pillars, and that way…’ He pointed in the opposite direction, coincidentally the position of a heavy oak door. He hobbled slowly towards it. ‘That way is Black Crag.’

Fizqwik snarled, but it was a belated cover. Sharpwit read the scent of his fear all too well. ‘How close-near is Black Crag?’

‘Close enough.’

‘Can you guide us back?’

Sharpwit shrugged. A corpse lay in the open doorway where it had tried to flee, the back of its head burst open like an egg. The skull was a mess of sticky black tendrils and indistinct pink mush. He could tell it was the back only because of the orientation of its arms and legs. He stepped over the body and out onto a staircase that spiralled upward, lichen sprouting tentatively from cracks in the ancient stonework. He drew a breath of cool uncorrupted air before the warpstone haze drifted out to claim that too. Glancing back over his shoulder, he saw Fizqwik amidst a milling crowd of his warriors. All of them were watching him, hanging on his next breath, the weak ever craving the paw of the strong, a natural law as inviolate as death. And what did the strong crave? He smiled grimly, pain crippling his chest as if the weight of years was a vice over his ribs. The clanrats cowered from the misinterpreted display of glowing fangs.

They wished to stay strong.

‘I can,’ he hissed. ‘But I won’t.’

Fizqwik stepped forward. ‘You take us away-back or I–’

‘Or what?’ Sharpwit snickered. ‘You think you find your own way back? Then go run-crawl. Maybe you distract the dwarf-things coming after us.’

‘I hear-scent no dwarf-things,’ said Fizqwik sulkily. ‘I think you lie.’

‘Of course they follow-chase,’ Sharpwit snapped. It was unlikely, but too much honesty was a poor trait in a leader. He had been careful, doubling back and leading them several times down side tunnels, ostensibly to throw off any pursuers but with the not inconsiderable dual benefit of ensuring Fizqwik and his lackeys were now thoroughly lost. After all, there was no such thing as being overly cautious. ‘Do as you are told and maybe you will come away safe-well.’

Fizqwik looked back into the sewer, anxiously nibbling his lower lip, his blurry outline hunched, defeated. ‘What do you want?’

Sharpwit snarled, warplight writhing through the poisonous cloud.

What did the strong want?

‘I want songs sung of my deeds. I want my name whispered with dread and loathing for a thousand years.’ Sharpwit coughed chestily, lungs coming apart like the hide of an ancient mummy. It had been a long trek from Karak Azul and his body trembled from the effort. He glared at the vermin of Clan Skryre, praying they couldn’t see it. ‘But that will not happen, will it? I must settle for glory for Skavendom and perhaps, centuries from now, when the immortal Council of Thirteen recalls the fall of Azul-Place, one may remember the name Sharpwit.’ He turned away, limping tiredly for the stairwell. ‘Come-come,’ he squeaked over his shoulder. ‘We go up-top. I want-need your eyes.’

The stairwell was a ruin, the crumbling masonry layered and re-layered with crude greenskin glyphs depicting claws, fists, skulls, whichever tribe enjoyed temporary dominance over the rest. For now, that was definitely Gorfang Rotgut’s Red Fangs, their symbol daubed in all sizes over every stretch of wall. Sharpwit moved slowly, his crutches seeking out unbroken ground with which to haul his frame painfully upwards. Mentally, he berated himself for not sending Fizqwik or one of his clanrats up first. Whether through weariness or the idiot engineer’s warp-fumes he’d neglected to consider that a greenskin or two might have escaped the massacre down below. It would be just like Fizqwik. If a goblin were to stab him now, the warlock would probably even protest it an accident. He was tempted to insist Fizqwik take the front, but the pebble-strewn staircase was too treacherous underfoot to manoeuvre one skaven past another – not without affording the warlock ample opportunity to engineer another ‘accident’. That left nothing for it but to press on and pretend he’d meant to take the lead all along.

After a few dozen turns, the stairs reached a once-grand threshold, the way framed by a pair of stern ancestors long surrendered to the weeds. Hardy nettles sprouted around their ankles; purple mosses crusted their lips and their eyes; roots opened fissures that ran their granite cheeks like tears. For the first time since departing Skavenblight, Sharpwit stepped out beneath an open sky. It felt oddly reassuring. The sky was the colour of charcoal and an aggressive wind struggled with his fur. The stones were damp, discoloured grey, holding close the scent of yesterday’s rain.

He limped to the ramparts of the dwarfish watchtower, permitting the ancient stone to share his footpaws’ burden with his blessing. The wind was cold and forceful as it swept down from the encircling peaks. Sharpwit shivered in its icy claws and gripped the ledge more tightly. Every instinct squealed at him to scurry back to the stairwell and hide. He felt as though some stone giant had him by the tail, dangling him over the howling immensity of the glacially carved valley of Death Pass. The great spire of Black Crag dominated the valley, standing alone as though shunned by nobler peaks of less black repute. Dark as shale, the orc stronghold rose, sinking its jagged fang into the roiling sky.

His stomach turned, and not through vertigo. The stronghold’s gates, reinforced and patched together in inimitable orcish fashion, were thrown wide, rowdy brutish warriors spilling from its black pits. Their guttural chants carried on the wind like the threat of thunder. The massive orcs shoved each other, shouted insults, only too happy to fight each other were it not for the even more massive chieftains that spat, snarled and smacked their charges into order. Behind them, the steep escarpment of the opposing face of the valley swarmed with scrawny, black-cowled figures, goblin archers squabbling over the most favourable spots as deep banks of spears marched down to join their larger kin.

He peered into the bellicose mob. Being prepared for the crush of disappointment made its advent no less welcome. On the orcs’ side of the pass, a clear sliver of shallow water trickled down the foothills, past the gates of Black Crag from a high mountain lake. It had been warm and sunny when Sharpwit had last seen it, long-haired ponies grazing on the rough grass, he and his kin fresh from the City of Pillars to scout the hidden passages beneath Black Crag. He had been unused to the surface then. The lack of walls and the sky’s vastness had been oppressive, but he had still found what he looked for: an old dwarf drainage shaft, barely wide enough for a skaven to slither through. But he had been bigger then, black-furred, sleek, proud as he was arrogant. He had little doubt he could get in that way again – until he saw it. The stream sprouted goblin spears like poisonous toadstools.

Sharpwit tore his gaze from the greenskin masses, ears pricking at some fevered activity, tracking back to the gates of Black Crag as something huge stooped to pass beneath it. Sharpwit closed his eye, convinced it had finally succumbed to senility. Now, at the most inopportune time conceivable! Leaning out, he opened his eye for a second look. It was enormous! A monster, albeit man-shaped, and garbed in patchwork clothing. It was heavily bearded with a circlet of black hair around a balding pate and a dark mat of hair prickling from the V-shaped collar around its neck. Sinking meekly behind the rampart, Sharpwit watched the giant move eastward up the pass, long legs carrying it deceptively swiftly without a care for those fleeing its path, its footfalls driving tremors into the earth and rudely gesticulating goblins higher into the foothills. He shuffled nervously to soothe the ache spreading from his clenched glands, grateful for the wind that blew the musk of his fear south and away from green-thing noses.

A loud twang reverberated between the slopes as a strangely garbed goblin with a long spiked helm was catapulted from the battlements of Black Crag. It flung out its arms and flapped, unconvincing red wings stitched between arms and body. It rose higher as it caught the wind coming in off the Worlds Edge Mountains. Its plaintive wail faded as, despite its furious efforts, the gust bore it west to the sea. Sharpwit tracked its flight some way, catching a smudge as it rose above a distant eyrie. He stared at it for a long moment, willing it into focus. It was no use. This was a seeing world, scents ripped clean on the wind, sounds strengthened and distorted by the mountain peaks. He could not have been more out of place if the trees sprouted claws and fire rained from the sky.

He summoned Fizqwik, the engineer scuttling from the stairwell to join him at the ledge. He looked queasy, peering down into the belly of Death Pass, or perhaps it was the thousands of bloodthirsty greenskin savages that had upset the warlock’s stomach. Sharpwit pointed out the dark shape. It hovered over the mountaintops like a dark cloud or a vast flock of black-winged birds, but neither struck Sharpwit as particularly likely.

‘A dwarf-thing flying machine.’ The engineer was practically salivating, a distinct look of longing erasing his earlier unease. ‘It moves away from us.’

A gyrocopter. A wonder of dwarfish machine-craft. It made sense that many of the dwarfs’ ancient observation posts and relay stations should still be in service, secure in their unbreachable bastions of sheer rock. The smudge receded into the distance. Probably to bear news of this greenskin army to Karak Azul, or possibly to Barak Varr, his directional sense up here was hopeless.

Sharpwit strained through the fog of his own eye onto the vastness of Black Crag. ‘What do the green-things aim at? Do they see us?’

He felt a tugging on his sleeve and turned to see Fizqwik gazing away from the greenskin army and into the clustering, snow-blown peaks to the south. Shrill, chittering voices blew north with the wind, the stamp of bare claws on rock, the scent of musk, of fear, a tantalising breath on Sharpwit’s whiskers before it was snatched away on the wind. He felt Fizqwik’s grip on his arm tighten.

‘Headtaker.’

Queek stood within a natural bowl of rock, shielded from the wind that whistled overhead. Green-thing corpses lay in various states of dismemberment around a campfire over which a pot was starting to boil over. Water spat over its sides to drop hissing into the flames. Queek regarded the dead contemptuously. Most had died before Queek’s stormvermin had even caught up with him.

‘Where is Big-meat, green-thing?’

The Headtaker bared his fangs at the blanched goblin head jigging on the point of a spear at the whim of his left paw. ‘He hides, green-thing,’ he replied in a lisping falsetto, answering on behalf of a second listing head on his right, this one spit on a reddened shaft from throat to eye socket. ‘He filled with fear-horror of Headtaker.’ The heads smacked together, duelling for Queek’s favour, offering little more amusement in death than they had in their last instants of life. He discarded them with a snarl, staring reproachfully at the bleeding skirt of greenskin heads, sewn into his mail by their pointy ears. They rustled, they slapped, they bickered and fought, they whispered appreciative words: Queek is greatest, Queek is strongest. But on this one matter they were stubbornly silent.

‘Ska! Where is Big-meat?’

Ska’s bulk descended onto one knee with a rustle of metal, surrounded by corpses as though he sowed green-things in hopes of a bumper crop in later seasons. Queek pondered that. He wondered if it would work.

‘I do not know, most unbeatable Queek.’

‘Find Queek more green-things. This cannot be all.’

‘Queek is most insightful,’ Ska grovelled. ‘A foraging party. No more.’

Queek drew his sword, suddenly captivated by the green-thing blood as it dried. ‘What do you wait for?’ he snarled. ‘Find Queek more!’

‘Scout-sneaks squeak of more,’ Ska said, pointing out across the feverishly ploughed field of beheaded corpses to a craggy rise. Grass clung to the dark, rain-smitten rock in tufts, yanked every which way in the wind. ‘Big-big army masses in the valley. Scouts say maybe it outnumbers ours.’

Queek sneered. ‘Frail-meat sneaks. They exaggerate always. They hope Queek will cower and run from little green-things. Is that what Ska thinks Queek will do?’

‘I think they do not exaggerate this time,’ said Ska, diplomatically. ‘They showed me. I never see so many.’

Queek peered into the distance, into a half imagined realm of blood and screams, home to all the green-things he could kill. Ska would never suggest Queek run away, but it was obvious he was thinking it.

This is good news, whispered Krug. Only Gorfang could have brought so many warring tribes together. He will be leading them. His head will be yours.

‘Queek does want-want Big-meat’s head,’ he mused. He chivvied his underling from his servile pose with his bloodied sword.

‘Show Queek these green-things.’

The clanrats of Skryre had been busy. While Sharpwit and Fizqwik had been bearing witness to the paucity of the Horned One’s favour, they had somehow extricated the warlock’s belongings from the sewer and dragged them up onto the sodden grass beside the tower. The skaven scurried to and fro with the apparent purpose of assembling stacks of rusted iron sheets so another could shift it elsewhere. Sparks flew from sputtering warp-torches, the hilltop thick with enthusiastic banging and the scent of solder.

A dark, lumpen form was already taking shape. A squat machine brooded between the petals of the torn open crate, like a wind-up flower of a warlock’s dreams, rusted nails scattered like pollen, nestling in the grass in ambush for unwary footpaws. At the centre of that assembly, a pair of giant wheels rose, a chaotic amalgam of wood and metal that scratched and chittered with the thousands of warp-addled rats imprisoned within its mighty frame. Warplight leaked between crude joints, plates of scrap iron compelled by the blackest of techno-sorceries into unholy union with bronze and other, stranger alloys: gleaming surfaces that offered no reflection; materials that seemed one moment in one position only on second glance to have moulded a claws-length to the left; metals that glowed with shifting spectra that unsettled even Sharpwit’s colour-blind eye. Pincer-like warp lightning projectors stabbed from the hubs, connected by thick bundles of naked cabling to a generator seated behind a padded seat that bristled with levers and controls high above the two wheels.

He had seen a doomwheel before. His knowledge of the dwarfs had proven invaluable to the great Claw’s original invention, coming as it did from a patchwork of dwarfish materials and experimental designs. But entropy was the essence of the skaven condition, its innovation was never static, and this device bore scant resemblance to its predecessor. A pressure release valve here, a great copper rod of mystifying purpose jutting like a flagpole from the generator there, a pair of oak barrels lashed together and crudely wedged between the pilot’s foot-pedals and the wheels. Sharpwit recognised the klinkarhun markings on the old wood. The stolen barrels of dwarfish ale. From drilled holes in the barrels’ flanks, transparent tubing fed the amber liquid down into the wheels. He doubted the dwarfs would approve. Their precious ale, brewed with care to ancient recipes and stored untouched for centuries, now just feed for rats.

The fate of us all, come the end.

Fizqwik scurried through the working clanrats and pressed himself to the wide frontage of the wheel, a loving sigh escaping his lips as he caressed its spiked surface.

‘This is… marvellous,’ said Sharpwit, desperately contriving a scheme to extract some credit for its creation. It seemed the engineer did know a thing or two after all. Hardly Sharpwit’s fault for missing it, not when he acted like such an idiot.

The engineer snickered and took hold of the wheel studs, using them as a ladder to scramble to the control chair. So enthroned, the warlock sank into the leather with a squeal of delight, immediately setting about pulling levers and twisting knobs like a whelp at play.

Sharpwit took a wary step from the warp lightning projector. Just in case.

‘Old-thing!’

Sharpwit yelped in fright, spinning around and planting his back to the hull of the Doomwheel as Queek Headtaker strode up the slope towards him, severed goblin heads smacking wetly at his thighs. Sharpwit stared at them, transfixed. Every time he thought he’d adjusted, Queek found a new level of horror to ascend…

‘Old-thing is alive. How sad.’ Queek glared past the wheel, roundly untouched by its genius. ‘And Tinker-rat too.’ The warlord looked furious, tiny white flecks darting across his blood-mad eyes. ‘What is this, Tinker-rat? Is this where Queek’s weapons go?’

The warlock laughed, a terribly false sense of security granted by his lordship over such an engine of power. Not much use when it wasn’t on yet, Sharpwit thought.

‘This is more useful-better than warpfire throwers and ratling guns. You are blessed-lucky. You get to be first to watch-see the Kwikwheel.’ The warlock laughed again, bouncing excitedly in his seat as he mashed another button on his control board.

Queek glared at the blissfully oblivious warlock, before turning the full force of his hatred upon Sharpwit. ‘Do you see the green-things? Or has age taken that sense from you?’

‘I see them,’ Sharpwit replied.

Queek licked his lips. ‘And does Old-thing hear them?’

Sharpwit listened, hearing nothing but guttural cries above the constant hammering.

‘You hear it? How bad-much they wish to die-die?’

‘Yes-yes,’ Sharpwit agreed carefully. He had learned something from Ska Bloodtail. ‘But there are lots-many.’

‘Queek also has lots-many. And he has Queek.’

Sharpwit looked out from their high vantage point. He took in the greenskin hordes, the drain that was his pass into Black Crag, the beginnings of a scheme to turn all of this to his needs creeping cautiously into his mind. All he needed was something mad enough to draw away a few thousand battle hungry orcs. He bobbed obsequiously. How fortunate…

‘I would advise a strike-charge from the east. That way,’ he added, pointing up the valley away from Black Crag. ‘Their numbers cannot then be turned all at once.’

Queek studied the layout of the opposing force. ‘A good plan, Old-thing.’ He turned back, mad face split by a hyena grin. ‘So many good plans. Be sure your head does not grow too full. It might come off.’

Sharpwit gulped. ‘Many thanks, most grateful one. Perhaps you lead the first charge from the east? A second force then waits to catch-trap their flank as they turn to you.’ Leaving the western approach empty for me to slink by and leave you to die, he almost yearned to add.

Queek looked east. His gaze tarried overlong on the giant. His expression remained neutral as his scent, but Sharpwit was convinced the mad warlord was feeling something a saner rat might recognise as fear.

‘White-fur will attack from the east,’ Queek said, slightly hoarser than usual. Sharpwit found the warlord’s natural trepidation reassuring. He was just another skaven after all. ‘I take flank charge. I take it where best-most fighting will be.’

‘As Queek says,’ Sharpwit replied.

‘And Old-thing will hold the tower.’

‘I will?’

‘Yes-yes,’ Queek said, menacing with every fang. ‘Queek not trust the new-meat of Clan Rictus. Fresh from City of Pillars and smelling all shiny. Queek holds them back with Old-thing. Old-thing likes Rictus-meat, yes-yes?’

Sharpwit cringed, seeing in Queek’s cunning smirk the pulped corpse of a Clan Rictus assassin. Why had he ever taken the blame for that? Razzel had hardly been worth it.

‘You look-watch from up high,’ said Queek. ‘When Queek says go you go, yes-yes?’

Sharpwit bowed low. Queek looked over his prostrate form to the tower top, his muzzle cocked to one side with an absent grin. Fascinated by wind on ivy or a shade of nothing it seemed, as usual.

‘Is windy up there, Old-thing. Be sure-safe you do not fall.’

Damp, snarling ratmen crowded the ridgeline. The filthy swarm bristled with swords, blunt spears and rusty implements of dubious utility, all intermingled with only a passing nod to any concept of order. Some bore shields, mouldered wood bossed with sigils of Clan Mors and the Great Horned Rat. Those few unfortunates were badgered to the front to face the greenskins charging up the slope towards them like a wave. The nervous chittering of the skaven warriors was overwhelmed by the roar of the oncoming greenskins.

Ska Bloodtail shoved his way through the back ranks, eyes firmly ahead on Queek’s banner, which was held, naturally, by Queek himself. A blood-smeared pole was locked in place on his back-plate, a scrap of dwarf-hide snapping at the mountain wind. The smell of the opposing army made him feel ill. He was many things, but fearless was not one of them, and neither was he stupid. A frontal assault in a pitched battle offended every sense he had. But he would sooner wrestle a daemon with his bare paws than disobey Warlord Queek.

‘Do you have it?’ Queek asked as he came near. The warlord was surrounded by a jostle of clawleaders, the lesser skaven moving respectfully aside as Ska joined their number.

‘Yes,’ he replied, handing over the odd metallic device in his paw. It was a flat rectangle, patterned with something akin to silver, tufts of wiring frayed from each end where he had torn it loose.

‘Did Tinker-rat see you take-snatch?’

‘No.’ He spread his paws to indicate his self-made armour. ‘I find my own way around a workbench.’

‘Good-good.’ Queek gripped the object in his gauntlet, turning to look up at the old bald-fur in his tower, the shadow of a smile playing over his lips. ‘Queek has had enough of these small rats and their scheming. Is time they learn why Queek is warlord.’ He spirited the object into the dark blood-soaked recesses beneath his warpshard breastplate. ‘Tell Tinker-rat attack at once.’

‘Yes-yes, mighty Queek.’

‘And Ska.’

‘Yes-yes?’

‘When Tinker-rat is away, join White-fur’s diversion. Make sure he does not run.’

‘I will,’ he said, pleased.

‘And Ska.’

‘Your will, most thorough one.’

‘Make sure he dies too.’

This time it was Ska’s chance to bare his fangs. ‘With pleasure.’

Chapter Fourteen

The valley was a crucible of thunder, filled to overflowing with cracked, raucous cries, the beat of drums, of feet, of steel. The heavens had parted and rain streamed down, slapping at hard edges and harder skulls. The scene was deadened beyond that grey veil, as though something preferred that Sharpwit not see. But he heard all. He felt almost godlike high up in his tower, the valley and all its creatures laid out for his pleasure. He had merely to raise one paw and watch his puppets dance.

At the far eastern end of the line skaven rushed down the hill like a flood. The tower trembled at the shock of so many paws scrambling by, the rustling of their squalid rags audible even at its top, their chittering rising to a crescendo of challenging squeals. Razzel and his albino guardian led from the rear, obvious as white lilies in a muddy field. The grey seer squeaked orders and encouragements, brandishing his staff and urging the sinning vermin to greater glory before the Horned Rat. The orcs, rather than awaiting the charge as a dwarf line would have, started to barrel forward themselves, racing up the slope to meet the skaven as quickly as their ape-like legs could carry them. Sharpwit shook the moisture from his fur, smiling as he watched.

Orcs. So delightfully simple.

Their mouths were wide, great pits of hate filled with jagged fangs, barbaric war-cries tearing from their throats, the whole din swallowed into one furious mess of screams and scampering claws. It might all have led a lesser schemer to miss the subtle shift of movement at his back, little but a shadow in the otherwise evenly pattering rain. Not turning, he snarled down through the rain. Queek was a speck of scarlet armour packed into a block of stormvermin. If Queek wanted him dead he should have seen to it himself. But then Sharpwit had always striven to be underestimated.

‘How long have you been there?’ For what felt like a long time there was no answer. He strained his ears. No breath, no heartbeat but his own, no unconscious rustle of fur on rag to betray an amateur out of their depth. Just that patter of cold rain on cold flesh.

‘Since you squeak-talk with Queek,’ came the answer at last, cold as death on the mountains. Sharpwit smiled grimly and slowly turned. He knew that voice.

The assassin, Fang Dao, stood with weapons drawn. A semicircular blade wept poison in each paw. His black cloak glistened wet, swept over his right shoulder to free his favoured left.

‘If it helps,’ Dao whispered in that same cold tone, ‘you were much-much better warlord than Queek.’

Sharpwit sidestepped from the battlement as the assassin came closer. He circled warily, crutches skittering loosely on the rain-slicked stone. The shrieks and thunder of battle faded, his world shrinking to this circle of rocks and weeds. ‘How does that help?’ he spat. ‘If you think that, do something about it.’

Dao cocked his head in a shrug. ‘Queek does not pay Clan Eshin to think.’

Sharpwit hissed at the killer. He had had enough. Enough of grovelling and playing the grateful weakling to these runtish waifs and mad-thing strays that would have been ill-deserving of a chain in his slave chattels when he had been young.

Fang Dao advanced with deadly assurance. He thought he scented a defenceless old-thing, the easiest warptokens he would ever earn his masters.

Fang Dao was wrong.

The assassin leapt, pouncing from a standing start like a striking adder. Weeping blades flashed through the rain for his chest. Sharpwit slid aside, a shard of black sweeping by. The assassin dropped into a roll, springing onto his forepaws and vaulting into the air. His tail whipped beneath his twisting body as it hung for a split second. A twinkle of gold. Sharpwit ducked as a throwing star whistled by his ear, just as Dao landed on all fours, blades clattering against stone, weeds shrivelling and turning black at the touch of Clan Eshin poison. Dao lingered for a whisker before driving to his feet and charging once again.

Weeping metal came in a blur of silver and black, a storm of death from every direction and none. Steel gouged splintered chunks from Sharpwit’s crutches as he fought to match the assassin blow for blow. He may have lost the speed and the strength of old but the years had, if anything, only added to a skill at arms that was already formidable. He fought with a precise economy of motion, wasting no more energy than was needed to ensure that he was simply never where his opponent’s swords fell. But he knew that it would still be him who tired first. Spotting the glimmer of an opening, he stabbed out instinctively, only for the assassin to jink aside at the last moment.

The assassin seemed to bend around the weapon, as if Sharpwit fought a shadow. The assassin hurdled his swinging crutch, body twisting mid-flight, black robes snapping like death’s jaws. Sharpwit saw the kick just as it flashed before his eyes. It smashed dead into his jaw, sending him flying with a broken squeal, blood spraying like a contrail. He crashed over the parapet, neck snapping into empty space, body careening after it only to be arrested at the very last by the reflexive looping of his tail between the crenellations. He slammed to a standstill, knocking the air from his lungs. His bloodied gums opened silently, miming pain, the protest of a freshly animated corpse. He watched, head hung upside down, left crutch pinwheeling down into the aptly named Valley of Death.

The rain had stopped.

His eyes widened in sudden horror at the black-clad shape that filled his sky.

Cloak ruffling in the wind, the assassin dropped.

Ska Bloodtail had never witnessed such brutality.

Clanrats beyond counting surged down the mountainside into the waiting, eager jaws of the orcs. They had wanted to stop. That much had been plain. Screams had torn across the line, the grim paw of realisation settling onto their shoulders as cunning, craven eyes saw up close the horror they charged into. They had dug in their claws, squealing for deliverance as the weight of bodies bore them to oblivion. The orcs roared with laughter as the skaven rushed them, laughing still as they hacked into their furry hides, laughing all the harder as they went down beneath a tide of claws, fighting until the last drop of blood fled their brutish bodies.

Ska stuck devoutly to the rearmost ranks – he had been instructed to keep close to Grey Seer Razzel, after all – but all concept of neat ranks and clever schemes had been obliterated in that first bloody instant of carnage. An orc thumped through the press, green hide beaded with rain, bellowing a war-cry in its animal tongue. Ska parried its cleaver on his rune-axe, its wild lunge leaving it unbalanced, and spun it around with a shove towards the grey seer. A halberd appeared between its shoulder blades as if conjured by the power of the Horned Rat. It grunted, powerfully muscled arms grasping forward for its killer before it finally acceded to death and fell. Ska snarled at the albino stormvermin, the strange-looking warrior withdrawing its blade and immediately casting about for fresh threats to its wellbeing.

Razzel peeked around the albino’s arm at the twitching corpse. ‘Kill-stab again. Better safe than dead-dead.’

The sorcerer extended a paw and unleashed a gout of warpflame over orcs and skaven both. Orcs screamed and beat at their chests as the flames devoured their unfeeling hides, their agonies a blessed gift to the Horned One.

And much appreciated as well by His humble servant, Ska Bloodtail. He backed away from the slaughter with all the courage the skaven of Clan Mors had the right to expect in their leaders. He would have given anything to be back in the City of Pillars. Compared to this madness, he’d take Skarsnik’s twisted little mind any time. The goblin warlord always struck where he was least expected and, given Queek’s hunger for that head over all others, that invariably meant someplace Ska Bloodtail was not.

A tremor passed beneath his footpaws, beaten gromril plates rattling at their chains. He looked up as the ground shook again. Louder. Closer. Razzel lowered his staff, gawping slack-jawed over his shoulder, face drawn with a horror that could not be faked. Ska turned, neck tilting back, further back, jaw hanging empty to the rain. He tried to shout a warning, managed a high-pitched whine that was quickly choked as if his own throat sought to do him a mercy.

Rain swirled around a massive form like seabirds at a cliff face, orcs squalling at its feet, rising so high into the grey that the phantom shape at its heights could only be inferred as shoulders and head. Ska swayed for balance as a foot came crashing down. The orcs slapped the massive foot with their weapon flats and jeered. Skaven slunk back, clinging on all fours to the mud as though expecting it to be snatched from under them. Trembling eyes darted from the screaming orcs to the oncoming behemoth, a creature in such defiance of logical scale that the thought hadn’t yet occurred to flee. But that was only a matter of time.

‘Run-flee and die!’ Ska squeaked, for his own benefit as much as the wavering clanrats. It was hardly inspiring. The mighty Bloodtail certainly didn’t look, or feel, nearly so fearsome now. ‘Razzel!’ he shouted. The sorcerer didn’t answer, stunned to insensibility. Ska summoned him back with a morale-boosting slap across the muzzle. ‘Grey Seer,’ he said again as the skaven nursed his jaw, eyes locked immovably on the coming giant.

‘We must flee,’ Razzel whimpered. He clutched at his staff as though hoping to hide behind it, tail laid flaccidly behind like a drugged worm.

‘Queek says you fight.’

‘Lunacy!’ Razzel hissed, something of the old self-assurance flickering in his eyes. ‘The Horned Rat commends his children for their cunning and guile. Forget the mad-thing. We find another way.’

‘Queek says kill-kill,’ he squealed, panic lending his snarl a manic pitch. ‘Kill-kill!’ He grabbed hold of the seer’s staff. The pair of them struggled over it like rats over a bone, wilfully ignorant of the circling polecat.

‘Let go,’ Razzel snarled, horn chimes jangling as he tried to shake loose Ska’s paws.

‘Use that magic and kill-kill!’

Both skaven froze, paws entwined, as orcs came bellowing through the rain, flooding out between the giant’s feet. Their war-cries came first, disembodied shrieks lancing through the mist as clanrats were torn apart, rangy bodies falling bloodlessly in the streaming grey, trampled under brawny, ill-defined shapes. Ska felt the mood about him shift as ghostly forms refined into muscular solidity, blood-spotted, soaking, uncaring, ploughing through the trembling skaven with howls of animal delight.

Razzel’s eyes roved, captive in their sockets, finally settling back on Ska and the staff in his paws. He let go, leaving it to Ska, holding up his paws as he backed away. ‘You kill-kill!’

Ska shoved him into the arms of his minion with a snarl and threw down the staff almost as an afterthought. Grimacing, Ska hefted his axe. Skaven were being hacked down all around, orcs battering their way through the brittle line like living rams. An axe took a clanrat in the jaw, arms splayed as it fell, blood spraying, body rolling to rest not a spear’s throw from where Ska dreamt of escape. Skaven squealed in panic, the fight almost beaten out of them, a heartbeat from the brink.

He didn’t want to do this, but there was nothing for it. There were things more bloodthirsty than orcs in this world; monsters more dreadful than giants. And the Headtaker was watching. Muttering a prayer that enough of his warriors would be dumb enough to follow, Ska dropped his shoulder and charged.

Fizqwik bounced in his seat, wind whipping his whiskers, pebbles dashing against his goggles as the doomwheel sped down the mountain side. The landscape blurred into a continuous smear of grey, the uneven ground pulverised beneath the monstrous weight of his machine. The doomwheel smashed through a rocky outcropping, sailing for a bowel-spinning moment through empty air before crashing back to earth and slamming Fizqwik into his seat.

The warlock grinned madly, spinning a handle on his right-paw control panel to initiate the warp-power generator, sliding forward a lever on his left to spike the rats, ale-feed with stimulants from a gurgling vat bolted between the barrels. The last thing he wanted was for the weak link in his creation to tire. The machine trembled, tossing him about in his chair, and he glanced up from his controls to notice he had smashed through the orc lines. Thick-headed brutes turned, axes chipping wood from the wheels as they disappeared under the machine. Scores of ugly, misshapen beings homogenised into a state more befitting such lowly creatures. He swivelled in his seat and smirked back at the bloody smear of devastation. Axe blades, shafts splintered into oblivion, spun out, glittering flakes in his dust trail.

The machine jerked again as a particularly large brute went down under the wheels. Fizqwik frowned as he was tossed about. Perhaps some kind of suspension was in order? Something for the new model. He really should write that down. Taking his paws from the controls, he scratched about under his seat. He came up clutching a sheaf of folded parchment tied together with string. He flicked through them, scribbling something onto the final page, before looking up, confused. The tenor of crushed and terrified insignificants had shifted to a higher, noticeably squishier, register. He raised himself off his seat and peered down, noting as one might a misaligned shelf that he had strayed into skaven ranks. Perhaps some kind of steering lock as well. He added that to his earlier scrawl before stuffing the notes back under his seat and returning his paws to the controls.

He broke into a fit of giggles as the immense form of a giant coalesced out of the rain. It towered many times over him, even in his high throne, and grew more massive by the moment as he hurtled towards it. Orcs burst from beneath its colossal stride, Skaven charging forward to meet them. The very definition of an exercise in futility. He would show them. A light on his panel switched from black to green. Minimum potential achieved. He grinned, reflected warp lightning flaring in the lens of his goggles. The triumph of skaven intellect over the most monstrous foes. The true face of the skaven future. His future.

He reached forward. Paws gripped a large black lever. And pulled.

Queek basked in the cold violence of the explosion. He watched with deep satisfaction as hissing sheets of blackened metal rained from the sky. Even here, close to a mile from the wreck, steaming bits of it clattered off skaven helms. Tendrils of warp lightning arced out from the stricken engine, searing great rents in the clouds, blasting molten furrows through rock and flesh without distinction. The black glare faded as the dying machine bled itself dry. Queek watched it sputter, a final satisfying act of death and pain for him to savour. In its fitful shadow, the giant swayed, legs charred black and releasing great torrents of steam at the touch of rain. To watch a thing so large fall was an unexpected bonus. It tumbled backwards in what seemed like slow motion, but apparently not nearly slow enough for those caught beneath. Its impact blew a hole in the greenskin horde, the hundreds hurled from their feet added to the scores crushed under its back. Even high up on the mountain, Queek felt it. His trophy rack creaked as the tremors passed through his body.

Well done, Ikit congratulated him. Clan Skryre devices always go wrong-bad. None will ever blame Queek.

‘Pity,’ Queek muttered, but he was in too good a mood to let the loss of Tinker-rat’s final instant of terror get him down. He scanned the shivering skaven survivors delicately pulling themselves to their footpaws. It looked like the blast might even have accounted for White-fur. Ska too, but no scheme was ever perfect. He sighed contentedly. He truly was the most vicious, cunning and deceitful of all skaven.

And the giant slain also. Ikit added, almost as an afterthought. Inspired, great one.

Queek probed under his vambrace to extract the odd little tile of fibres and wiring that Ska had stolen. It smelt of unnatural elements and, very faintly, of warpstone. He gave it a last wary sniff and tossed it into the grass. He wouldn’t need that any more.

A scream sounded from the top of the tower. He focused on a pair of struggling shapes lost in the rain haze. His grin widened further. Tinker-rat, White-fur and soon Old-thing.

It has been a good day.

‘All days good-good for Queek.’

As you squeak-say.

Queek looked down into the valley. Watching the orcs regroup, Queek felt a terrible longing to sink his fangs into their flesh, to tear those squat, lumpen heads from their necks and ram them still blinking onto stakes ranked a thousand deep. His claws clicked around the grip of Dwarf Gouger in anticipation. His orc-things would hang on his every utterance. They would clamour to praise him as their last, greatest, most terrifying foe. He loved killing dwarfs as dearly as putting down uppity underlings, but he wouldn’t want to do either every day.

‘Variety,’ Queek mused, eyeing the raucous hordes as a chieftain from a far-flung warren might regard a clanlord’s repast. ‘Truly, it is the secret to less boring lives, yes-yes.’

You are a mad-thing, Queek.

‘Yes-yes,’ Queek grinned. ‘But not for reasons others squeak-say.’

Go home. Your rivals are slain. The City of Pillars is second to Skavenblight only. The whole mountain could be yours if you want-try. Be content with that.

Queek snickered. His gaze swept his warriors, his finest, trained by his own paw. They stood to disciplined attention, paws tight to their halberds, rain beading in the joins of their thick red armour like blood.

‘And why does Queek want-seek your advice? You are a dead-thing, dead by Queek’s paw.’

Did it occur that I know-smell things you cannot?

‘No.’

More fool-fool you.

Queek smirked, raising his sword so his warriors could see it bleed. Metal scraped in answer, tension spreading to black-furred thighs, corded muscles readying for the downhill sprint and the murder to follow. Keeping his sword high, he glanced up at the tower once more. A length of wood fell from the sky, clattering once on the stone walls before spinning away and plunging into the thin soil at the tower’s base. It quivered slightly, as though in the grip of some invisible, dying paw.

‘Die-die painfully, Old-thing,’ he whispered, leaving the skaven to his bloody fate so he could enjoy his.

Yes. It was good to be Queek.

Sharpwit screamed as the weeping blade flashed for his throat, the impact shuddering down his wiry arms as the blade thudded into the gnarled wood of his surviving crutch. The assassin snarled over him, saliva dripping between his blackened fangs, poison oozing from the porous metal of his blade. Fang Dao struggled with his trapped blade, slashing for Sharpwit’s head with the other. Sharpwit writhed, pinned under the assassin’s weight, straining to twist his crutch to throw the assassin’s aim.

Exasperated, the assassin let his off-blade drop from the tower and wrapped both paws over the one embedded in Sharpwit’s crutch. He set his footpaws to the fractured wood and heaved, the weapon coming free in a spray of splinters. He spilled into a backward roll and came up hard, tail slapped rigidly against the stone, shadowed features bathed in the blue light emanating from the tear in Sharpwit’s crutch.

Sharpwit swallowed blood and spat out a black tooth worth more than the assassin’s life. He slithered from the battlement on his back like a worm, depositing himself on shaking paws. His crutch splintered further as it took his weight, more of the same eerie blue light streaming through the cracks traversing its length, like some hellish chrysalis about to rupture under the power of its maturing occupant. Sharpwit dashed the stave against the battlements. More wood went flying. A shape emerged from its cocoon, a blade, engraved with dwarfish runes of power, emblazoned at its hilt with the proud rune of Azul. The assassin took a step back, still watchful. He lowered gracefully into a crouch, blade-paw drifting to his snout so he sighted past the flat of the curved edge.

‘Whelp!’ Sharpwit shrilled, shaking the last splinters of wood from his sword. ‘Runt!’ he screamed, walking on unaided legs, empowered only by the fury that boiled beneath his fur. ‘Are you so stupid-blind you think yourself the first assassin I have killed-slain?’

Fang Dao bared his fangs in warning, backing off as Sharpwit came closer.

‘I had many rivals once. I remember their jealous, scheming faces. Their screams for clemency help me sleep through the days when I am troubled by all that was taken from me.’

The blade licked out for the assassin’s gut. Dao’s body curved around it, but the weapon shimmered and faded, projecting into a dozen ghostly mirages, each blurring back into a single dazzling edge as it returned to guard. Blue light burned through to sickly purple, blood dribbling from its tip. Dao clutched the torn silk at his belly, disbelieving.

‘Do you know how I found this sword?’ Sharpwit asked, surprised by how much the certainty of his assailant’s ignorance enraged him. ‘If skaven knew the value of history, you would. All would.’ He sighed, the blade again splitting like the barbed heads of a hydra to send the assassin sprawling. ‘I found it within Azul-Place. Long ago by our own terms. I protected it from jealous rivals and, when I was strong enough, used its power to kill-slay Warlord Rask and take the City of Pillars for my own.’ He laughed, throat crackling. ‘None remember Rask now. And none should. He was a fool. But Warlord Sleek Sharpwit.’ He spread his paws as if the gesture could encapsulate the scale of his former grandeur. ‘I was the scourge of the Worlds Edge. From Hell Pit to Cripple Peak my name was dread. I was undefeated, feared, peerless in battle, renowned for my cunning. The world rested in my paws.’

Dao scrambled backward until the battlements checked his retreat. ‘I did not know, mighty Sharpwit.’

Sharpwit advanced, sword scraping a furrow between the stones. ‘History is written by victors, if it is written at all. I was Gnawdwell’s favourite, but unlike Queek I earned it. And who remembers now? Who cares? Ten years since I left to serve my master in Skavenblight. Three generations of brainless meat husks that never knew enough to dread the name Sleek!’ He raised his sword to strike.

Dao threw out his arm. Rain smacked against an open palm. ‘Please-please, fabled and wrongfully forgotten Sleek-Warlord. I will serve as you ask-say.’

Sharpwit suppressed the desire to preen. So much for the nobler, blacker hearts of the Eshin. Thoughtfully, he lowered his glowing sword and limped to the battlements.

The battle raged, like a green tide rising to confront the muddy brown flow of an endless river in flood. Who was winning, who was losing, it was impossible to know. Were he not blessed with foreknowledge, he would have struggled even to guess who was fighting. Screams haunted the rain, guttural chants melded into an abusive roar that wrestled with the wind’s howl like a pair of warrior elementals. Occasionally, a clang of metal on metal rose above the lesser din, straddling it like a hero, before succumbing to the endless churn.

‘Will you help the true warlord of Eight Peaks to flee this pointless pride-whelp battle of Queek’s and take-find the dwarf-things we came for?’

The assassin set his weeping blade on the flat stone between them. Sharpwit doubted it was the last weapon secreted about the assassin’s person, but the gesture wasn’t wholly unappreciated. ‘The Nightlord sends me to help-help destroy Azul-Place. I will help do this thing.’

Sharpwit studied him for a moment. He itched to make an example of him. An example to whom was another matter, but the urge was a strong one. With an effort, he lowered his blade. An assassin might prove useful, after all. ‘Do you see out there, a stream to the west?’

‘I see.’

‘Fetch-find Grey Seer Razzel and bring him there.’

‘Excuse this minion, but did you not smell-see the blast? There is no chance-hope the grey one survived.’

Sharpwit pulled a face. ‘We should be so lucky. However great-big the apocalypse, rats like Razzel always come-crawl free. He will be alive, and he still has uses.’

Dao bowed low before turning and scurrying for the stairwell. Sharpwit watched him leave. Finally free of scrutinous minions, he collapsed, exhausted, against the crenellations. He forced himself to breathe and his heart to beat. He had only to manage a little longer, but it was so hard, and he felt so very weak. He cursed himself with the bitter benefit of hindsight for not having Dao fetch him his lost crutch. Hopefully it would still be there when he got down. He wasn’t keen on making his lone way across Death Pass without it.

He looked down. His paw tingled, a welcome sensation of cool creeping through his arm. He had been right to hide the sword. A half-blind old-thing could never have kept such a treasure from covetous paws, but he had missed it. Oh, how he had missed it. ‘Please, Queek,’ he whispered, trying to pick out the warlord from among so many. ‘Please stand in my way one last time.’

The rat fought as it died. That was good. He liked it when they fought. Eyes bulging, it gasped for breath, claws scratching feebly at a wrist as dark and hard as old wood. Armour crunched beneath his grip, tortured metal screaming, the rat jerking as its steel gorget buckled and scythed into its own soft little neck. He squeezed a little tighter, the rat twitching a couple times more like someone had just trod on its tail and then was still.

The orc gave a soft growl of pleasure as the rat’s neck snapped and flopped bonelessly over his fist. He shook it, the head swaying, meat slapping against his knuckles. Laughing, he looked around to make sure his mates were watching too. They were. Good. Good they remember who’s the toughest orc round here.

‘Nice one, boss. Da red ones is da toughest, I fink.’

The orc gave it one more shake, drawing it close to his one working eye, the other bolted shut behind a rusted iron patch. ‘Scrawny little fings int dey. Like gobbos.’ He grunted and let the thing drop. Something had caught his eye. Something out there, where a fat wedge of the red rats were fighting their way through his mob towards his fort. One of the rats charged ahead of the rest, fearless like an orc, fighting with a fury that had his chest aching with the desire to mash up that pretty red armour with his club. He clanked around a half-circle, massive armour plates grinding out dust as the biggest orc in the Worlds Edge forced a ton of mismatched metal to move.

‘Dat’s ’im init. Big bad king o’ da ratties!’

He lugged his club from the ground, its mashing end fat with turf where it had sunk into the mud. It had been the leg of a stone stuntie once, but they’d just left it standing around in Black Crag. And that was dumb, even for stupid stunties, since it was so useful for bashing out stuntie brains with. He smashed it against his own skull and, feeling nothing, laughed again, shoving his way in pursuit of the rat-king. He turned round to make sure his mates were following. They were. That was good. He wouldn’t want to have to break their legs.

He shouted back, his broken growl heard easily over the clamour. ‘None of you’z forget now. Da Headtaker belongs to Gorfang.’

Chapter Fifteen

Skiblit reached out, slender fingers curling around the double doors and pulling them to. He laid his palms against the varnished wood to ease it closed. He held his breath as it clicked shut. Eventually he overcame his terror sufficiently to shuffle the few inches back to the wall, hugging his knees to his chest as he slowly dried in breathless, terrified silence. The scramble through the stream hadn’t shifted the gore from his face, just made it sloppy and wet, set to quivering by his body’s shivers. He didn’t dare peel it off. He even tried to force his ribs to stop creaking with each breath as he just sat there with the scraps of Gumrot’s skull clinging to his forehead. He could still hear the boom as the gun had gone off, still see the colours as his lackey’s head exploded, still feel the blindness as his face was dashed with gore and he’d slipped, panicked, tumbling down the steps and out into the rain. He shivered.

His night vision fixed on the wafer of darkness between the two doors. It seemed to widen under the pressure of his stare, until it became impossible to imagine that the eyes of every creature in the Crag were not staring right back. He scrunched his eyes tight, shoving his fingers into his mouth to keep from screaming.

This was his special secret place.

The ratties would never find him here.

Thordun crept through the grim underbelly of the Black Crag. The hold reeked of ancient decay: dried dung daubed once proud murals, orc sweat so old it had manifested as a kind of misted foulness that lingered in the air. Crumbling statues flanked the hallway as it stretched on into the distant dark. He unbuckled his holster with exaggerated care as he turned, checking to ensure that the men still followed. He wouldn’t blame them for vanishing. The eviscerated remains of the orcs and goblins that had filled the passage from Karak Azul with their stench had tested even the Slayers’ stomachs. But where would they go? Thordun doubted whether even he could make it past the lethal traps that Rorrick had guided them through. His pistol slid free as a shudder passed through him. That stretch of the Ungdrin Road was one he’d not soon forget.

According to Rorrick’s map and those dwarfish markings left intact by orcish occupation, they had emerged into the Third Deep, exactly as the Eight Peaks dwarf had predicted they would. Giving his map a cursory glance, the Slayer had smugly determined that this passage would bear them to the Mordrekk Bridge, and then to the urk dungeons and treasuries on its far side. Thordun worried that they were putting great faith in a centuries-old map and a dwarf who had died following it, but the hour was far too late to be voicing such fears now. The Slayers had forged ahead, ostensibly to scout the bridge for greenskins, but more likely out of exasperation with Thordun’s caution and Bernard’s endless griping. Thordun could blame them for neither.

He tried to envisage the bustle that must once have reigned here alongside the dwarfs of old. Gilded emissaries from the breadth of the world, master craftsdwarfs carving works of enduring beauty, traders bearing goods from the greatest empire the world had known. Iron and masterwork weaponry from Karak Azul, exotic goods steamed up the Blood River from Barak Varr, wool and fresh produce from the human caravans that crossed the mountains at Death Pass. It would all have passed the halls of Karak Drazh. Looking at the grim faces of the statues that lined the walls, he wondered what forgotten ancestors these stones depicted. He wondered what they made of their eternal vigil, watching over the relic of what some, with admirable resilience to a fallen world, still referred as the Karaz Ankor: the Everlasting Realm.

His heart froze at what he swore was the patter of distant feet, an echo that, try as he might, could not be pinned on any of his own party. He forced himself to breathe and pressed on after the Slayers, consigning the scratching at the edge of hearing to the dungeons of his overworked imagination.

He felt a tug on his cloak and turned to meet Bernard’s worried face. The man looked pale, but perhaps it was simply a lie of the torchlight. He yanked his cloak irritably from the man’s grip and set his eyes forward. ‘What do you want?’ he whispered over his shoulder, not wishing to disturb the funereal atmosphere of these ancient ways.

‘Did you hear that?’ Bernard whispered, breath clammy on the nape of Thordun’s neck. ‘Footsteps. Don’t tell me you didn’t hear that.’

‘You’re getting hysterical,’ Thordun murmured, not wanting to admit he’d heard it too, that dwarfish ears were keener than men’s.

Bernard gave a nervous laugh that was fooling no one. ‘Me? You know me.’

‘That I do,’ Thordun answered coldly.

‘It’s just…’ Bernard coughed. ‘You know none of us are getting out of here, right? I say we cut our losses and get out.’

‘You were keen enough when we left Nuln.’

‘That was different.’

Thordun turned back, letting the man bear the full measure of his disgust. ‘Can your heart really be as grubby as your hands? Don’t you fear the fate you’ve earned? What awaits after death?’

‘I’ve not thought about it.’

Thordun snorted. ‘Look around. I think it’s high time.’

‘I’m sure Ranald will commend my spirit to some afterlife or other.’

‘Perhaps he will,’ Thordun ventured with a frown. He too had paid occasional respects to the god of thieves. He wondered whether that would be enough to stake a claim to his share of whatever rewards awaited Bernard Servat after death. He shook his head. ‘For dwarfs it is different. Our crimes deny the Ancestors’ Hall not just to ourselves but to all our kin. They don’t deserve casting out on my account. I’ll see them back in their place of honour.’ His jaw set, eyes gazing beyond the Slayers into a blood-shrouded distance only he could see. ‘If it’s the last act of my life.’

‘You’re making me well up, Splitter.’

‘Go if you want to,’ Thordun snarled, shooing the man with his pistol. ‘I’ve not forced you to anything. You followed me from Nuln for the gold. As if you would ever retire.’

‘I might’ve, if you’d kept your word.’

‘If I kept my word!’ Thordun spluttered. ‘You expect me to apologise to you?’

Bernard didn’t answer. His hand closed over the hilt of his short sword. Thordun swung up his pistol, thinking the man intended to strike, but Bernard wasn’t looking at him. In fact he wasn’t looking at anything much at all, his eyes roving in their sockets like canaries in a cage. Thordun heard his own shout as it echoed down the hall. He hunched his shoulders, wincing each time the words returned to taunt him. As if the immortal stone of his ancestors spoke out in judgement of his carelessness.

‘Nice one, Splitter,’ Bernard muttered, pulling the blade free. ‘Tres bien.’

As though Bernard’s movement was a signal, the hall shivered to the draw of steel and suddenly Thordun was ringed by resigned looks and dully reflected torchlight. As though his company had always suspected it would end this way. He pinched his lips worriedly. Karak Azul had infected them all.

An echo reached them, bouncing from statue to statue around the pool of firelight. Bernard turned to his motley crew. One by one they offered token shrugs, shaken heads. He puffed out his cheeks and let out the air in a nervous whistle. ‘I think we’ve got–’

‘Grungni’s hairy back, what’s keeping you?’ Rorrick thundered from the darkness of the tunnel ahead, hammer in the grip of one scabrously tattooed fist. The Slayer waved his hammer back the way he had come. It caught the light strangely. Thordun suspected it had already tasted blood. ‘A handful of grobi on the bridge,’ Rorrick gasped, catching his breath before continuing. ‘But it’s ours now.’

‘That’s good,’ growled Bernard, a wary eye on the passage behind them. ‘Why the fuss?’

Rorrick pulled at his scabs, looking far more anxious than a Slayer should. ‘We might not keep it long.’

Sharpwit’s head rose above the lip of the chipped marble basin, lifting further to peer into the darkness. Fifteen years and it had barely changed, the same stillness, the same faint smell of garlic that should surely have expired centuries ago. It had been fifteen years. Lives had been lived, schemes borne fruit, rivals crushed, yet where was the evidence of that, right here where it all begun? He wriggled further out, coming up between a pair of copper ladles and a whisk that nuzzled against his snout like whelps welcoming their mother’s return. Just as they had before. A nauseating sense of déjà vu flushed his bowels. He gave his head a violent shake to clear it, sending the whisk clattering to the floor. Reaching back into the passage, he drew up his crutch and sword.

His eye shrank from the sudden illumination. The blade’s blue glow threw the ancient kitchen into spectral light. Shadows chased after shadows, fleeing over pebbled surfaces and dark oak cabinets, gathering in resentful huddles behind the utensils that hung untouched from brass pegs.

Grasping the marble in his claws, he hauled himself up and over the lip, flopping gracelessly down onto the lacquered tiles in an aching heap. With a grimace, he reached under his back and extracted the whisk from where it dug into his kidney. The thing seemed destined to haunt him.

Claws scraped over stone from the sink behind him. A clank of metal echoed softly from the depths, like a bell trying to ring only to be silenced at the last. He crawled back as the well of shadow cupped within the marble sprouted a pair of obsidian-black horns, then a white-furred muzzle and a pair of frightened red eyes, bulging wide as though terrified by the ghost of the Horned Rat that he appeared to be.

‘Razzel.’ Sharpwit creaked upright as the grey seer set his claws to the stonework and ingloriously wiggled his backside free. ‘I am pleased-glad you arrived safe-well.’

Razzel’s tail whipped angrily above his horned crown, depositing the brass-bound ash of his staff into an impatient paw. Filthy water puddled beneath him. ‘Is that so, hmmm?’ He pounced, horn chimes making a weary effort at the Horned One’s praises as his claws scratched the tiles. ‘No thanks to that tin-headed, cog-eyed, tinker-fool, I think. Look-see.’ Razzel spun, showing Sharpwit the streak of charred cotton and blackened fur running – on his back, naturally – from the nape of his neck to his tail. He swung back, tail thrashing in anger. ‘Clan Skryre will pay through their copper-glazed eyeballs for this when we are safe-back in Skavenblight!’

‘First there is a victory to win, most malfeasant of messiahs.’ Sharpwit bobbed low, circling away from the sorcerer’s prideful temper. Razzel’s eyes followed him, narrowing as they settled on the sword.

‘Where did you find that?’

Sharpwit angled himself so the sword fell between them. ‘Not important.’

Razzel’s eyes darkened, snout flaring as though his skull would burst. ‘I squeak-say what is important!’ He thrust out a paw. ‘Let me hold-smell. The Council places me in charge, not you.’

‘Not this time,’ Sharpwit hissed, emboldened by the faintest scrabbling of paws from the tunnel behind the grey seer’s back. ‘You are a blind prophet. You lead your children to the cliff face. This time you will listen and do as I squeak-say.’

Razzel gawped, too stunned to react, but that wouldn’t last. He extended a hellfire-blackened claw as though to skewer a bug. ‘You… you…’

Sharpwit’s paw tightened around his sword’s grip. What was taking Fang Dao so long?

‘You…’

Razzel’s mind was still grasping for exactly which of the Horned One’s hells Sharpwit had condemned himself to when the basin at his back emitted a long drawn-out screech before wrenching clear of its fixture. Razzel shrieked, leaping back as some great force heaved the marble bowl out onto the tiles, the limestone shattering under the massive weight. Ska Bloodtail panted in the sink’s blown-out ruin. Foam flecked his muzzle from the effort of hauling his bulk through the narrow channel, black fur and dented armour splattered evenly with grime. Struggling and failing to draw his leg from the hole, he kicked furiously at what remained of the granite fitting until the stone finally crumbled and the giant storm-vermin staggered free.

‘Ska? What are you doing here?’

The fangleader shuffled from the ruined opening, hunched shoulders scraping streams of grey dust from the ancient dwarfs’ ceiling. He gestured wearily at the grey seer before his arm dropped back to his waist, both paws quivering on his hips, snatching every breath as though each was more urgent than the last. ‘Eshin-sneak, he say… he say Razzel to come here.’

‘And Queek tells you, look after, Grey Seer Razzel, yes-yes?’

Ska regarded him with suspicion. ‘Yes.’

Sharpwit waved his sword paw with false modesty. ‘Queek keeps few secrets from me.’ Even if he might intend to. He turned back to Razzel as two more figures emerged from the now gaping tunnel. The mute albino stepped to his master’s side, dripping wet and miserable but at least silent, his bulky halberd strapped by a scrap of cloth to his back. Fang Dao, damn his tardy hide, flowed from the darkness like a physical extension of the albino’s shadow.

‘Razzel,’ Sharpwit said, waving a paw over the grim stones. ‘We are in Black Crag. Tell me how is our man-thing.’

‘What man-thing?’ Razzel returned with apparently genuine confusion.

‘The man-thing,’ Sharpwit repeated sharply. ‘The man-thing from Azul-Place who you were explicitly told to follow and make sure comes to no harm.’ His voice grew shrill as he limped forward. The seer backed away and stumbled into the footpaws of his own bodyguard. ‘The man-thing that is central to everything, the man-thing we cannot afford to lose, the man-thing you stole before leaving me to die!’

Razzel spread his paws innocently. ‘I left you in the paws of the Horned Rat.’ He nodded enthusiastically as though exhorting a congregation to acts of piety. ‘All praise the Great Hor–’

The sorcerer’s praises ended in a crack and a squeal as Sharpwit’s crutch splintered against his shin. Tears sprang from the seer’s eyes, like spring water from the deserts of Araby in response to some miracle, and he collapsed whimpering into the arms of his albino guard.

‘One more time, Razzel. Can the chosen count to one? Let me demonstrate.’ He sheathed his glowing sword beneath his belt and held up a fist, one clawed finger upheld. ‘One more time only, I will ask. Where is the man-thing?’

‘I lost him,’ Razzel squeaked.

‘You lost him?’

‘Yes-yes, he leaves. He leaves with other man-things, I don’t know where. Is hardly my fault if stupid man-things cannot do as they are told.’

‘You lost him.’

Calmly Sharpwit bunched his finger back into his fist and spun around, pulling free his sword.

Razzel wrapped both paws around the albino’s biceps and struggled to pull himself up onto his broken leg, succeeding only in scrabbling on the tiles like a wounded blindfish hauled out from the deep. ‘The Horned Rat provides,’ he squealed, desperately. ‘Have faith in him, Sharpwit, in his chosen!’

‘Ska,’ he said, setting his crutch between them like some demarcation of neutral ground upon which to hammer out a truce. Standing before Queek’s right paw, Sharpwit was struck by how truly massive he was. He reached only up to Ska’s collar. Ska’s pieced-together gromril breastplate distended his already monstrous frame to such a degree it was an astonishing testament to his strength that he could even walk. ‘That thing that Queek-Warlord tells you to do.’ He tilted his head back towards the still-raving sorcerer. ‘Do it now.’

Ska looked over Sharpwit’s shoulder, then back down at Sharpwit himself. Sharpwit sensed muscles pull against bone, the way one feels the subtle precursors to an earthquake.

‘Now?’

Sharpwit nodded.

Pushing Sharpwit forcibly aside, Ska strode towards the grey seer. The sorcerer’s gibbering upped in urgency and he shoved out his staff as if to ward off a fox. Ska froze, expecting the fires of damnation, but received nothing more terrible than the metallic kiss of brass on gromril. He batted the staff aside, vambrace cracking it in two at the middle. Razzel shrieked in renewed terror and the albino let him flop from his arms, diving for the fangleader with a whistled snarl.

The albino’s teeth gnashed for Ska’s face, snapping down only inches from his snout with Ska’s paw gripped tightly around its jaw. Claws blunted on gromril plate as the albino drooled helplessly from its pinioned maw. The albino’s eyes widened as Ska’s other paw took a firm hold between his legs. The pale warrior gasped as Ska heaved, driving him up, head crashing through the stone ceiling. Ska roared as though his voice itself was a bludgeon, powdered rock drenching his shoulders as the albino slammed over and over into the hard rock of the Third Deep until its pale legs stopped twitching. He tossed the dusted corpse aside, sending it thumping into the wall, rolling back onto the floor tiles amidst a clatter of brass-handled utensils.

‘Ska!’ Sharpwit squealed. Razzel was scrambling across the ruined floor. Brushing aside the layering of dust, his paw found his staff. Sharpwit cast for something to hide behind, finding nothing more suitable than the hulking stormvermin himself.

Razzel tittered madly, power coursing through his body, and started to rise. The grey seer suddenly squealed in agony, the beginnings of a sorcerous chant coming apart like the bones of his broken paw as Ska Bloodtail leapt forward and stamped down on his fingers. The sorcerer mewled, pawing lamely at his staff. Ska shrugged off the masonry that had fallen about his shoulders and reached down with one paw to haul up the broken wizard by his neck.

‘Help-help any time, Dao,’ Sharpwit hissed.

The assassin materialised at his back. Sharpwit jumped and bit his tongue.

‘You seemed fine,’ the assassin whispered coldly.

Letting an angry snarl express his displeasure, he turned to Ska. ‘Bring-bring the great prophet-seer.’

Ska dragged the grey seer through the rubble, letting him dangle at Sharpwit’s level like a white-furred doll, footpaws hanging free, bleeding slowly out.

‘Grey Seer Razzel, most pretentious of prophets. Bland-fur, blank-mind, whatever is to be done with you?

The sorcerer whispered, his devotions beyond hearing, but then Sharpwit doubted they were meant for mortal ears.

‘I asked once whether you can be useful.’ The seer didn’t respond, didn’t let up in his prayers. ‘Do you remember what you squeak-said?’ Still nothing, unless one counted a feeble paw scratching at the arm about his throat. ‘Yes-yes, you said.’ He leant forward until his eye was almost touching Razzel’s. ‘Call me fool-fool, but I think you are still useful. Am I wrong?’

Razzel suddenly snapped back to life. ‘No-no! Not wrong, wisest and most forgiving of old ones.’

Sharpwit grinned nastily. ‘Queek never did like grey seers.’ He gestured to Ska who happily unburdened himself of his load, the unsupported sorcerer practically collapsing in upon himself at Sharpwit’s feet. He planted his crutch between the fingers of the seer’s crushed hand, levelling his sword to his nasal bridge, watching the seer’s eyes roll together to meet at its glowing point.

‘If you guess how long I have looked forward to this, I promise to make it fast-quick.’

Thordun’s lungs burned, legs pumping through the dark like pistons in a steam engine. Bernard and the other men raced ahead with the torchlight, shadow stick figures in the distance of the hall. It sounded like they ran to a fight, dwarfish war-cries and high-pitched screams reaching down the hall on a hot, sulphurous breeze. Compared to the howls from behind that had grown louder and louder until they practically snapped at his heels, it sounded almost welcoming. He huffed in a mouthful of rotten-egg air, trying to coax more speed from his legs.

The hall widened with painful slowness until, without warning, the walls fell away. Thordun’s eyes struggled to take in the awesome vista that opened out before him. An immense cavern soared up towards the mountain’s peak where fading glimstones glittered almost like true stars. High arched windows and balconies studded the rock face all the way up to the First Deep. They resembled the windows of noble houses in Nuln, but on a scale that left such residences resembling play castles on the sands of Barak Varr. Buttresses like giants hewn in the likeness of guardian ancestors strove against the walls.

Emerging from the hallway, Thordun puffed through ruined streets. Stone buildings had been broken open and remade as greenskin squats, wide boulevards strewn with litter. The street ahead widened towards a white-paved plaza. Bernard and his men sprinted over the exposed square for its far side and the sweeping immensity of the Mordrekk Bridge.

The Mordrekk was a colossus of white stone half a mile across, its sides stamped every few hundred yards with ancestor icons and runes of endurance. It glittered silver, arcing over the yawning river of emptiness, defiant as no product of mortal hands had any right to be in the face of such an abyss. Viewed against such wonders, whether carved by nature’s might or by ancient masters, the two Slayers swinging their bloodied hammers beneath the arched ceiling of its bridgehouse looked minuscule. Their hammers left a dark legacy of shattered skulls among the goblins that scrambled to reach them. Black-robed corpses piled themselves into a makeshift barricade, almost as if the dwarfs had willed it so.

A shot rang out over the clamour of steel on steel, and a goblin pitched over the chasm’s edge, a hole smoking in its chest. Smoke rose from a discharged handgun, cloaking the sprinting men like an exorcised spirit. The men charged, each with his own cry, Rorrick’s frustrated shouts fading into their tail as his shorter stride lagged behind. The goblins squawked in fright, dashing back to the ruins of their city, and, for the moment at least, the bridge remained theirs.

Thordun steeled himself for the last few hundred yards. Black-feathered arrows zipped down from the balconies. Rorrick turned his way and urged him on. Bernard bellowed an order and three of the four men with guns got down on one knee and fired a volley into the ruins. Smoke shrouded the bridge obscuring the fourth man, still running while struggling to empty his barrel to reload. Thordun didn’t see anything hit, but the smoke at least made life harder for the archers.

He risked a backward glance, cracking his toe on a rock and stumbling as a mob of black-hooded shapes poured from the hallway. Most had short stabbing swords, waving them above their heads and screaming as they surged forward, but some had bows. The archers scrambled over walls onto broken rooftops, drawing back their strings and taking aim.

Thordun dived into a gaping doorway as shafts peppered the stonework. One spun inwards, ripping a tear in his trousers. He hissed and pressed a palm to his thigh. He dabbed it with his cloak. The blue wool came away clean and he released a relieved wheeze.

‘Rapide, Splitter!’

Grinding his teeth in frustration, he freed his second pistol and drew back against the door frame. ‘Easy for you to say,’ he muttered between breaths, sheltering under the eaves as arrows dropped like hellish rain. To his surprise, he found himself wishing for Handrik. A seemingly invincible longbeard, whatever his opinions on the fallibility of young beardlings, would have been a most welcome sight right now.

He’d go on three. ‘One. Two.’

A crackling volley of shots rang over the screaming goblins, punctuated by squawks of pain. An arm like a bear’s lunged through the doorway and dragged him out by the collar. ‘Dépêchez-vous, Splitter.’ Ducking as an arrow zipped overhead, Bernard ran almost bent double for the bridgehouse. Thordun sped after, turning briefly to fire a lead slug through the brain of a goblin with longer legs than most.

‘Thank you, beardling,’ Rorrick roared in greeting, cheeks flushed as if from too much ale. ‘It’s everything I’d hoped it would be.’

‘Back!’ yelled Bernard, as a hail of arrows fell through the choking cloud. The big man took the steps to the bridgehouse four at a time. One of his company, a sandy-haired lad barely out of his teens, grabbed his musket and ran, halting as he realised he’d forgotten his powder bag, and took an arrow through the throat. He gurgled something Thordun feared must be deeply profound and let the musket fall, grasping the air with clawed hands as though he drowned.

‘Now! Move!’

Thordun realised he hadn’t moved an inch, that he was just stood there like a scarecrow on a granite field beneath the deadliest of storms. He made a grab for the boy’s gun. Remembering the powder and leaving a hurried prayer in trade, he dashed for the steps. A stocky man in dark cloak and polished mail shoved past as he made the top, sighted down the barrel of his handgun, one eye tight, and squeezed off a speculative shot. The aftershock boomed through the captive space under the arches and Thordun closed his eyes, the sheer volume threatening to pop them from his face.

Rorrick merely laughed all the harder.

Bernard tore the musket from his hands, thrusting it into the surprised arms of a raven-haired woman. A long face partitioned by an infected scar made a cratered no-man’s-land by a battle with pox. What was her name, Thordun thought? What had that boy’s name been? Who were these people, these umgi that Bernard had gathered to die on his account? He cursed himself for never bothering to ask. He vowed to track down every one. Their families would know they fell as heroes.

‘You can’t hit a damn thing anyway,’ Bernard explained, misinterpreting his expression.

‘You-you saved my life,’ Thordun said. The sentiment fell woefully short. Head desperately trying to speed up, heart direfully needing to slow down, tongue all caught up in the middle.

Bernard stood with one hand on the upward curve of a decorative arch, hunching underneath to keep an eye on the goblins that their gunfire was only barely forcing behind their walls. ‘Yes, well,’ he shouted above the continuing barrage. ‘For a bit, maybe.’

‘Thank you, anyway.’

Bernard grunted and kept his lookout. Beside them, Rorrick bounced behind the line of sweating men like a child trapped indoors, forbidden to play in the rain.

‘We can make it, Rorrick. We can do this.’

‘I think not, beardling. It’s a long way over the bridge, and a fair run to the squatter king’s dungeons after that. If we try and move now, this lot’ll be over our backs like a rash.’

At that moment, the bridge shook to a tremendous force, stone screaming as something crashed against the bridgehouse roof. Thordun cried out as the bridgehouse bucked beneath them, the dark-haired woman thrown from the top step just as she was setting her aim. Screaming, she spilled back onto the plaza in a shower of rock splinters, set upon by a screeching mob before she could rise.

Thordun looked away, flinching as the shot fired from her musket like a departing soul. He’d thought the city dead, but dormant was perhaps more apt, and it was awake now, alive with pale green shapes. On one of the upper galleries, a pair of hunched figures cranked back the arm of a catapult for a fresh load. He wondered how much more punishment the bridge could withstand. The Mordrekk was a marvel, but the Karaz Ankor abounded with the ruins of fallen marvels.

‘Go,’ Rorrick bellowed, elbowing Thordun aside, as if to face down the greenskin hordes with passion and hatred alone. ‘Bring back Kazador’s kin. We’ll hold your way out.’ He shrugged and grinned wildly. ‘It’s only grobi, after all.’

Thordun offered a quick bow. ‘Don’t die too soon.’

‘Chance’d be a fine thing, youngling!’

A terrible screech rent the vast cavern, dark-robed greenskins flooding from the ruins like a black river. Shots fired. A handful of wiry bodies danced their last, but the charge didn’t waver. Thordun palmed sweat onto his cloak and took aim.

‘Forget it, Splitter. Time to move!’

Moisture dripped from the cracked surfaces like fluids leeching from a corpse. Queek stood amid the destruction, one thought alone holding together the ruin of his fractured mind. Retribution.

Somehow Old-thing had survived. Somehow he thought to flee Queek’s battle and claim his glory. He believed he could take White-fur and Ska with him and get away with it. The fleshless one was so painfully wrong that even Queek was struggling to devise a fitting punishment. He would make Black Crag a tomb, a monument in dead flesh to the cruelty of Queek and blessed by the blood of thousands. Every creature to be found in these worthless mountains would bleed until the valley was a lake of blood upon which he would walk and lesser vermin drown. Then he would tear his own monument to the ground and see it burn, a claw in the eye to all that built to outlast the coming of Queek.

One vile betrayer at least would not live to suffer that day.

A pair of sodden white-furred bodies lay partially interred beneath a tumble of masonry. Lumps of granite rolled aside for Queek’s passing, gravel crunching beneath his bare footpaws. His lip curled at the appearance of the grey seer. His legs had been shredded, as though by wild dogs, but otherwise he appeared almost serene, blanketed in a funeral shroud of grey dust, white robes stiffened with ruby smears. Queek crouched at his side, taking his powdery muzzle in one gauntlet. The seer’s eyes were lifeless, tongue hanging slack to his palate. Queek let the head drop with a sneer.

Gravel crunched. Queek swung his muzzle back towards the tunnel and hissed. The stormvermin, long fur sopping wet and smeared over its eyes, cringed back into the passage with a submissive mewl. Queek held his glare until the skaven was out of sight.

‘Where is Ska?’ he hissed to himself ‘Is this him? Does he kill-kill for Queek? Or does he stab-slay to take-steal Queek’s prize himself?’

He started at the sound of a cough. The grey seer’s head had rolled to one side and was staring directly at him.

‘You are… a mad-thing fool.’

‘That is not what Queek asks.’

He cocked his head to one side, intrigued by a glimmer of water between the rubble, a footprint, a jarring order within the madness. It was pebbled with dust and relatively fresh and not the work of a skaven. He followed the pattern of prints, occasionally lost under larger skaven paw scratches or buried under a sheet of rock, but leading inexorably towards a cupboard fitted beneath the granite surface. There were fingerprints partially concealed by dust, one of them set into the grain in blood.

A predatory grin emerged unbidden as he threw back the doors.

‘What has Queek found here?’

A lone goblin shivered, wrapped up in its own arms and legs as though it might shield itself from the Headtaker.

‘This is a lucky green-thing, Queek thinks. Queek leaves so many with sad faces in mud, what is one more let to run, if it helps?’

At the word ‘Queek’, the goblin noticeably paled. One arm jerkily detached from the knot of limbs to wipe blood from its forehead. It made a flat squeaking sound, the free hand whipping over its mouth to suppress the useless stream of white noise. It stared wide-eyed at the gnawed skulls at his shoulder.

Queek’s claw drifted lazily into the goblin’s line of vision, reeling it in like a baited fish and down towards his skirt of bruised and waxen goblin heads. He ran a soothing claw along their brows. ‘Do not look-hope to poor Ikit, green-thing. The Headtaker has his tongue.’

‘Wh-what d’you want?’ it stammered through its fingers.

‘Do you see what happens here?’

The goblin nodded. ‘Yeah. Yeah I saw. A big black rattie, I mean… er… rat?’ It cringed, waiting to see if it had caused offence before babbling on. ‘A big black one, yeah. He puts ’em both down.’

Queek felt relief. He had always known Ska was loyal. But the goblin continued.

‘He does it at this old’un’s say-so.’

‘Old-thing?’ Queek hissed, snatching for his sword hilt. The sudden movement made the goblin squeal until a second set of fingers over its mouth killed the noise.

‘Yeah,’ the goblin said, voice muffled. ‘He finishes the job ’isself and takes the big-un to find the boss’s stuntie prisoners.’

Queek slowly rose. So Ska had been Old-thing’s puppet all along. That was why Old-thing had always been so interested in his underling, why the traitorous toad had allowed him to believe White-fur the true villain, even when Queek had always suspected him of being a mere smokescreen for Old-thing’s twisted plans. In fact, it would be boringly predictable to discern Gnawdwell’s jealous paw at work. Old-thing had always been slavishly loyal to the clanlord’s whims, even at the expense of Queek’s inevitable triumph. Azul-Place would be a pyre five miles high, fuelled by the copious fats of dwarf-things, were it not for Gnawdwell’s meddling. It was shameful, particularly from a rat like Old-thing who did so love to eulogise on the mutual profit of collusion. Well, Old-thing was about to collude with his own liver, and he’d toss in Ska’s for good measure. And Gnawdwell’s too? Why not? There were none mightier than Queek!

He looked up at Krug and snarled. ‘Did you know of this, dwarf-thing? Or you?’ He snapped round at Ikit Slash, the skeletal warlord spinning infuriatingly behind his back every time he tried to turn and face him.

‘You are nothing but a mad-thing.’ A wittering of laughter. ‘Bested by an old rat.’

Queek reached for his sword, upper lip rippling. ‘Queek tells you be quiet, White-fur. He not say again.’

Razzel coughed, bells clanking like the manacled paws of the damned, muzzle split by a death’s head grin.

Queek’s eyes narrowed. Something here was not right. ‘Do not think-think I not kill a dead-thing. You talk less with a fist in your mouth.’

To his surprise, the dead seer struggled into a sitting position, leaning against one of the waist-height oak cabinets and pulling a broken staff from the rubble. ‘You are madder than I think-dream. The Horned Rat, he tests me.’ The seer’s bells went quiet. ‘Stay back. I show you dead-dead, mad-thing.’

Queek grinned as though he’d been offered a gift. He spread his paws and took a slow step forward. Razzel waved the broken-off top of his staff as another paw slid through the rubble. Razzel squealed, digging under his robes as if an army were concealed there. Queek took another step.

‘White-fur want-wish to show Queek a thing?’

With a triumphant cry, the sorcerer pulled a thumb-sized nugget of warpstone from his robes. He took it between claw and forefinger, holding it threateningly over his open maw, staff outthrust like a torch to the dark.

‘No closer,’ he hissed. ‘One bite and Queek dead-gone. Not so arrogant when pasted to the walls, hmmm?

Queek dropped to his knees, the sorcerer’s warpstone-capped staff ringing off the underside of his helmet. ‘Do it,’ Queek grinned. ‘We see who is the big rat.’

Razzel’s paw twitched, jaw flexing, eyes rolling down as if willing his fingers to unclench and drop the glowing rock onto his tongue.

‘Queek always wonders why grey ones eat-chew the black-rock for magic. Is risky.’ His eyes drank in the stone’s throbbing warplight, offering nothing back. His voice lowered to a whisper. ‘Is White-fur not scared?’

Razzel pushed his staff harder into Queek’s throat, tongue snaking out as if making its own play for the prize but coming up short. ‘I’ll do it,’ he lisped.

‘Queek hears stories. Of grey-furs that eat too much. Yes-yes! Maybe black-rock instead eats White-fur from inside and makes him squishy-thing.’ His gauntlet closed around the seer’s paw, forcing it towards his mouth. The sorcerer resisted, but his arm was weak. Not like Queek. ‘Queek wants to see that. How much does god-thing love-favour, you think?’

‘Stop!’ Razzel squealed, twisting his head away. Queek grasped him by the cheeks and held firm. ‘Please! No! I do anything!’

‘Then open big-wide. And tell god-thing that Queek still waits!’

Razzel screamed, loud enough to announce his coming to the Underworld, as Queek sank his claws into the sorcerer’s palm and dug out the warpstone for himself. He shoved the seer onto his back and held up the warpstone between thumb and foreclaw, admiring its processed edges, the way light vanished into it as it struck.

‘Old-thing should have killed you,’ he murmured. ‘He ruins your legs but not your hands. He leaves your staff and precious black-rock.’ He tittered softly. ‘Always plots with that one, yes-yes. Always schemes. And thoughts, they fly from his mind and make nests.’

Razzel didn’t answer. He looked as though he might already have died again.

‘He knows Queek not like the grey ones and their whispering. He thinks Razzel maybe can kill-kill Queek, yes-yes?’ He looked down on the weakly gasping seer and tutted. ‘Silly Old-thing.’

He made a fist around the nugget of warpstone and shrieked back into the tunnel. ‘Why do you wait-hide? There are enemies of Queek to kill-slay.’ He spun on the open cupboard. The goblin squealed and buried its head between its knees. ‘Tell Queek where dwarf-things are kept and he promises not to eat-kill.’

‘What about… about me?’ Razzel asked. He flinched as soon as he spoke, as if he suspected the answer might yet be worse than the uncertainty.

Queek rapped the warpstone thoughtfully against his snout-piece. He knelt down. ‘Queek must be in a good mood. He lets you live too.’ He snickered, setting the pulsing rock back into the sorcerer’s palm. ‘If you escape-crawl from here, then maybe you are the chosen one.’

‘I see man-things.’

Sharpwit leant over the low rooftop wall and stared across the ruined city. There was a black smudge between two grey smudges. If he focused hard enough, he could almost imagine a slender wisp of grey running across the black smudge, perhaps even interpret the occasional darting shape as a figure involved in the battle he could hear all too well. He gave Fang Dao a prod with his crutch.

‘I want one special man-thing, blind-fool. He is big-tall, black-furred, do you see him?’

The assassin edged further along the rooftop, never a good indicator of positive news. ‘Is too far, most understanding one. All man-things look alike-same from distance.’

Ska Bloodtail nodded as though this were some well-established fact.

Fools. They were both of them fools.

‘It must be him,’ Sharpwit spoke to himself. ‘This is far-distant from man-thing places.’

‘What use is this man-thing?’ asked Ska.

‘He is crucial,’ Sharpwit spat, his voice a level hiss, careful even in anger not to attract any goblin attention. ‘Only he can claim the reward of Kazador. Without him we have nothing! Does that pass your thick skull?’

Fang Dao looked dubiously over the green-thing hordes that separated them from the bridge. His gaze settled on the bridge itself and the chasm it spanned, his sinking features fully anticipating the command that was coming. Perhaps Dao, at least, was not such an imbecile.

‘Follow those man-things to our prize, Dao. See no harm comes to the big black-fur.’

Dao snarled as though he’d just swallowed a bee, leaning over the low wall to size up the drop before vaulting over and skidding nimbly down.

‘What do we do here, Old-thing?’ Ska asked.

Sharpwit watched as Dao landed in a crouch, muzzle sweeping the alley left and right before scampering off in the direction of the bridge, his lithe figure fading into the darkness. ‘Queek wants the dwarf-things captured and that is what we do,’ said Sharpwit. He sat down, back to the wall, eye closed as he followed the battle, told to him in the crunch of bone and the shrieks of the maimed. He wasn’t accustomed to being lost, but he was lost now. There may have been a thousand and one ways over that bridge, but he knew none of them. He bared his fangs in agitation, his tail lashing as it was wont to do when he was anxious.

But he was a patient rat. He would wait until every last green-thing was dead. That should give him time to come up with something better.

The men sprinted full pelt for the far side of the bridge. Thordun struggled after, pounding up the rising arch, Bernard occasionally pausing to check he wasn’t lagging too far behind. Arrows fell in ones and twos, skittering off the stonework like the last hailstones of a storm or plummeting soundlessly into the chasm. He bared his teeth as Bernard looked his way again: he was a dwarf, he could run all day if he had to. But then he saw the man stagger, saw the black feathers sticking from his shoulder and the curse turned to dust in his mouth.

Bernard tried to keep on as if nothing had happened, face slack, legs going through the motions before giving way beneath him. His head smacked the stone, eliciting a howl of agony as the protruding arrowhead pulled against the muscle. Thordun’s legs found a level of speed they’d not previously been sharing, skidding to his knees by Bernard’s side. He dragged the man to the cover of the low parapet. His fingertips pincered the exit wound above his breast, sizing up the possibility of yanking the thing out. Bernard hissed.

‘Not on your… your bloody life.’

‘You’re not moving like this.’

Bernard offered a shrug that turned out more like a grimace and shuffled upright against the wall. ‘Then I guess I’m not moving.’

‘Don’t give me that,’ said Thordun, casting desperately around for someone to help carry him, but the other men hadn’t stopped running. ‘You’ve had worse.’

Bernard smirked, gums bloody. ‘You’re thinking of that mademoiselle in the Blind Pig?’ He started to chuckle, only to cease with a dull moan.

‘She never did like you,’ Thordun whispered, wrenching back a tear.

‘She was using you to get to me, Splitter. I’ll claim that to my… my…’ he broke into a chuckle again, this time gasping his way through the pain. ‘To my grave.’

Thordun looked back towards the bridgehouse. The Slayers battled shoulder to shoulder, refusing to yield a grudging inch, but they were overwhelmed. The enthusiastic living crowded out the dead, tipping them into the abyss for their own stab at the dwarfs. Still more crawled over the outer walls, spears needling through the windows, squabbling for the best handholds only to be dragged screaming down by the ankles so another could claim their place.

So much blood.

A snarling lump of purplish blubber thumped onto the bridge. The shock of landing rippled through its flesh. It snuffled at the mortar beneath its stubby feet, a creature seemingly all fangs and intense almond eyes. Its goblin rider twisted in its leather harness, jabbing its heels into the creature’s flanks to coax it round onto the dwarfs. The goblin plucked a javelin from a quiver on its back and hurled it hopefully into the fight. The missile whistled well clear, but one of the Slayers turned from his clansdwarfs and hefted his hammer, his hate-twisted visage a challenge made flesh. Thordun looked on, aghast, as the creature’s jaw distended, its rider yipping gleefully as it was lifted higher. The Slayer charged with a howl, the creature responded with a quiver of flesh and in a sudden rush of motion its fangs slammed together. Thordun blinked as though he’d just witnessed a trick. The dwarf was gone. His hammer struck ground, sliding onward alone until it finally came to rest some feet behind its intended target. The creature shuffled around to look at it. It released a self-satisfied belch, a rubbery pink tongue sweeping out to smear saliva from its fangs.

So much death.

Thordun took aim, his arm shaking so hard it was a miracle he could even pull the trigger. The bullet slammed through the creature’s flank and the monster shuddered as it deflated like a ruptured bladder. The goblin gagged on the foulness that whined from its mount.

What was it all for?

He looked down at Bernard. The man watched the squig’s death throes with a horrified fascination, wide eyes seemingly drinking in every last experience while they still could.

He’d not abandon his oldest friend to this.

He dropped to one knee and rolled the big man over his shoulders, grunting as he took the weight.

Bernard groaned. ‘Let go, you idiot. You can’t carry me.’

‘Don’t tempt me.’

Thighs burning, he drove himself upward, staggering a pace before setting himself. He tried to ignore the screams from the bridgehouse, the arrows spitting down, the growls of the hoppers and their riders’ ecstatic cries, dozens more fleshy impacts shuddering through the stones beneath his feet. He kept on running, Bernard gasping with every footfall.

He crested the rise of the bridge. Halfway.

Almost there.

Chapter Sixteen

Thordun took the steps of the Mordrekk as fast as he dared. Blood dribbled worryingly down his shoulder. He mouthed a prayer to Valaya and Shallya both – ladies of healing of dwarfs and men – in thanks for the periodic moans that told him his friend still lived.

Space, it seemed, was precious on this side of the bridge. The steps led down onto a tiny courtyard, closed in by grandiose manors of granite and black basalt that butted directly onto the rock face of the cavern and blocked out much of the ceiling’s glimlight. In their panic, the men held there, shaking firearms trained onto the horde that screamed over the bridge after them. They ignored the twin boulevards at the far corners of the square that angled deeper into the stronghold, the approaches guarded by headless torsos of cracked stone.

‘Fire, you dullards,’ Bernard groaned, managing to sound caustic despite being draped over a dwarf’s shoulders. ‘Those weapons work, you know.’

‘No,’ Thordun yelled as he huffed past them, through the courtyard, then on between the vandalised figures to the leftward alleyway. ‘Keep running.’

One of the men discharged his weapon anyway, bathing them all in choking fumes and the smell of saltpetre, before breaking off with the others. They caught up with Thordun easily, but this time kept pace. A shred of loyalty in their mercenary hearts? The maturing cynic in him considered it more likely that they merely tired as his dwarfish muscles would not. They flew by more broken statues. Some were little more than a stump of calf. They lined their way like a moribund guard of honour. A wake for the undying realm.

Jibbers and howls shrieked down every branch in the street. Thordun ground his teeth and prayed that they were nothing but echoes. If it turned out they were surrounded…

‘There!’ he cried. The street led to a gaping mouth in the cavern wall that looked to be straining to swallow the entire district whole. ‘That way! Go!’

The last man made the passage into the rock face just as the first of the greenskins surged around the corner and onto the street they had just cleared. Slingshots whirred like cicadas, bullets ricocheting off the stone walls several paces short. The echoes sounded after them, as though plummeting together into some bottomless well. Thordun felt a burn start up in his belly and kept on running. Doorways stretched into the far distance to left and right, some wood, some iron, painted in bloody fluids with the red fang, others hanging on their hinges like entrails from a gutted sow

‘Which of these doors is it?’ he wheezed to himself.

‘Tell me you joke, Splitter,’ said Bernard, lips almost touching his ear.

‘Because I’m renowned throughout Nuln for my jokes. Rorrick was the one with the map.’

Thordun looked left and right, biting his lip with worry as they ran past one door after another. ‘It’s all right. I think I remember.’ He twisted around, running backwards without breaking stride. Howling greenskins bounded after them. It was as if they sprouted from the walls like fungus.

‘And then what?’ asked Bernard, unavoidably looking the same way.

Thordun started to laugh. Right then, the question was so absurd, it seemed the only logical response to it. Still laughing, he turned back around to keep running.

And then he saw the door.

He pointed it out and shouted. The men chased after him as he ran for it. The door was of panelled oak with a grille at a dwarf’s face height, otherwise unadorned but for an iron plate just beneath the grille inscribed with angular runes. They glittered in the light of their torch. He recognised the lettering from the map. It was the Third Deep gaol. This had been where Yorri Borkodin had thought to find Kazador’s kinsdwarfs, where Rorrick Hammerhand had died trying to lead them now. They had made it at least as far as any before them. Surely it could not all end in failure now.

Thordun tried the handle and the door swung open easily. He dashed under the lintel, depositing Bernard as gently as haste allowed while the surviving men ducked their heads and streamed in after him. The last slammed the door closed, hand fisting over a bolt that was no longer there. He gave vent to something between a gargle and a scream.

This was not how Thordun had imagined it would be. Kazador’s grateful kin rescued, the rapturous welcome on his return, perhaps catching the eye of some attractive young rinn handily distracted from his chequered past by spectacular wealth and valour. In some of his mind’s more fanciful wanderings he had slain the fearsome Gorfang in personal combat, sundering his thick skull with a single blow of his father’s hammer. And that would be the moment, he had thought, the instant when everything he had yearned for would come to be, when Gazul’s scales tipped his way. After such daydreams he would awake with a fluttering heart and a tingling in his fingertips, and had come to imagine that that would be how it would feel, the sensation a message from the beyond that betokened his ancestors finally crossing Gazul’s threshold. But he didn’t even have the hammer. He felt like tearing out his beard in despair.

‘Brace that door with something.’ Bernard’s voice. The big man slouched against the wall. He looked ashen.

The man with the torch stabbed it down into an empty sconce and, for the first time, Thordun got a good look at the room that would mark their ends. It looked like a guard room. The floor and walls were of simple, rugged stone and, above an empty fireplace on the wall to the right of the door, a collection of axes and hammers still hung from a rack. Against the wall directly opposite the door, wooden crates had been stacked almost up to the ceiling.

The former torch-bearer hurried to aid his companion in dragging one of those crates to the door. Each hugged an opposing corner and strained, as if the pair were engaged in a bizarre drinking game that had taken an unexpectedly deadly turn. Thordun looked past the men, past the loose stacks of boxes and barrels. Something wasn’t right here. The runes had promised a cell of some kind, and if this room was for the gaoler’s watch, then where was the gaol itself? Where were the inmates? He shivered, as though a wight had just reached through his hauberk and touched his heart. Hidden behind that pile was a second door. There had to be.

‘Help me,’ he shouted, shoving aside the first chest without waiting to see who answered.

‘Whoah…’ Bernard breathed. ‘I think I might’ve just died.’ The men had all stopped what they were doing and were staring rapaciously at the ground by Thordun’s feet.

He looked down. The chest had broken open, its glittering contents cascading across the limestone flags.

Gold.

Thordun’s eyes widened as he drank in the sight, feeling his heart pound the first rush of gold fever through his veins. In that moment he couldn’t have cared less for the goblins at the door, or the men that stood to die at his side. All he wanted was to scoop that gold into his hands and rub the metal into his cheeks, to inhale it into his blood. He shook his head with a wry smile, the urge fading if not disappearing altogether. He always had been an odd dwarf. Too much imagination, for one thing. The reward had always proven less satisfying than the earning or – more often – the stealing of it.

He stretched out for the thing that had quickened his pulse more than gold ever could. Moving the chest had revealed a second door, this one of dark iron. It gave a dull rattle as he tried to open it. Locked. He closed his eyes, teetering on the cusp of ecstasy. It would have been irresistible at the least of times. But this was it. He knew it in his heart.

He heaved over a second crate to reveal a grille on this door too. It was covered by a sliding hatch. He was able to push it back a couple of inches before it struck the angle of another box. He pressed his left eye to the opening he had fashioned. It was pitch dark, but he was almost certain that he could see pale shapes lying on the ground inside. His dark vision was just beginning to acclimatise when something determined smashed into the outer door. He pulled away from the hatch and shoved aside another box to clear the lock.

Behind him, Bernard rasped instructions. Men nervously readied swords and pressed their backs to the wall either side of the shuddering door. Musketeers crouched behind a zig-zagged second line of boxes just behind Thordun’s back.

‘How’s it going?’ Bernard asked.

‘Hmm?’ Thordun murmured, so lost in sizing up the door’s lock that he’d barely heard the question. ‘What?’

‘You think you can bust those dwarfs out?’

A sword clove between the outer door’s oak panels before he could answer. It wiggled up and down for a moment before evidently becoming stuck. A harsh voice cursed in a barbaric tongue and the door shuddered anew as though thumped by a troll. Thordun rolled his eyes. Grungni’s tears, he hoped not.

‘Well, can you?’

Thordun just shrugged. There was really nothing more to say. Because it had become less about getting anyone out than getting themselves in some time ago.

‘Quiet, fool-fool,’ Sharpwit hissed. ‘And sit down.’

He slapped at the giant stormvermin’s elbow until the oaf sank his head back below the rooftop wall. Sharpwit twisted about, snout poking over the low granite parapet. He rose a little higher, eye focusing on a pawful of blurred shapes as they scythed into the rear of the greenskin horde. Queek stood proud in his misty vision, as if he had wished to be allowed to perceive just one thing with clarity and the smirking djinn had chosen for that thing to be Queek. The warlord’s trophies swayed as though struggling to keep up, two score, perhaps three, of armoured warriors sprinting after him. He doubted that the ragtag rabble of goblins, too cowardly or too lazy to pursue the humans with the rest of their kind, were going to stop Queek reaching the bridge.

Wary of being spotted, he sank back down beside Ska. He gave Ska one last slap. The big rat probably didn’t feel it under all that armour, but it made him feel better. He should be thankful that the gnat-brained moron hadn’t simply cried out for his mad-thing master from the off. Very thankful indeed.

‘Queek crosses the bridge,’ Ska rumbled. If that was his best effort at keeping quiet, then Sharpwit took note to leave him behind next time. ‘We should help-help his capturing the dwarf-things.’

He rested a calming paw on Ska’s knee. He’d gone for the shoulder, but that was too high up to achieve while still looking dignified. ‘Brave-bold Ska, Queek knows you as his most loyal of servants. This is why he trusts only you to watch his rear.’

Ska visibly puffed out, even in his armour. Idiot.

‘We watch-wait. This is what Queek sends us to do. Make sure none other comes to surprise him while he find-claims the prize.’

Sharpwit gnawed on the handle of his remaining crutch, plotting how exactly he was going to extract the dwarf-things from Queek if he returned, worrying whether Dao could protect the man-thing, wondering how it was that Queek was able to ruin everything. He glanced over at the great lunk of muscle and metal that sat chuffed as cheese beside him. If only Ska could be convinced to do the sensible thing. It shouldn’t be too hard. Stabbing a superior in the back should come as naturally to skaven as cowering in dark holes. And Queek trusted Ska like no skaven should ever trust another.

He grinned, hiding the telltale warplight behind his paws.

And Sleek Sharpwit could be very persuasive.

‘What’s going on out there?’

Something had changed. And it wasn’t just the men that were nervous. The goblins’ excited howls had become screams, the dark iron portal a slender barrier between Thordun and a world of shuffling feet, hacking metal and muffled slaughter. The men jumped, the door shuddering under a meaty blow.

Thordun gave the lock on the second door a thump. It retaliated with a stubborn rattle. He needed more time. Never enough time.

‘Muskets in staggered pairs,’ Bernard rasped over the hammering on the door. ‘Anything comes through that door, green or not, you shoot it.’

The ancient portal screamed off its hinges with a tearing of dead metal, driven over Thordun’s head like driftwood on a wave of green-black fire. Thordun threw himself down as it crashed into the wall above his head. His exposed cheek puckered in the heat.

Thordun barely had time to pick himself up before a scarlet outline formed out of the warpfire haze, as though murder and madness had been granted life and form by chemical synthesis and that insane heat. He drew hammer and pistol but already four men lay dead. Their spilled blood had already dried in the scorched air. The musketeers fired. One shot caught the daemonic creature square in the breastplate in a welter of glowing green dust and it went down, squealing. The surviving swordsman fell back. More of the ratmen poured through the smog like nightmares turned solid.

And this was just like his nightmares. Trapped in a burning shop, chittering ratmen flooding the streets outside, waiting for the fires to die, flesh devoured, remains defiled, calling for the son that should have been there. Was never there.

Thordun howled and squeezed the trigger of his pistol. Flint struck sparks from roughened steel and propelled a bullet through a skaven warrior’s scarlet plate. Before he had a chance to steal another breath, two of the fleet-footed devils charged him down. The first, he caught with an instinctive swipe of his pistol butt. The weighted ivory crushed into the side of its helm and pulped the screaming rodent’s eye. The second caught him a glancing blow with its halberd, blood seeping from a cut to his biceps. He gasped at the moment’s pain and tried to spin away, but the serrated blade had snagged his cloak. The skaven snickered, the expression frozen on its long face as the Hammerhand Hammer struck like a thunderclap, blasting its incinerated remains above the fray to snap against the far wall.

One of the skaven weapon-rats scuttled through the murk. Its orange eyes focused on Thordun and it lifted a paw clad in a huge leather gauntlet. A pair of silver-grey nozzles flared from the back of the gauntlet, flexible tubing encircling its arm like a pair of serpents connected to a sloshing container on its back. It clenched its fist, depressing a trigger in its palm, and punched. Thordun clenched his eyes and waited for the agony. He opened them again with the realisation that he wasn’t dead. The skaven shrilled in its strange tongue, shaking its paw as if it had just set it in something sticky.

Thordun raised his hammer, but a scarlet blur charged into the corner of his eye. He swung around with a roar, hammer passing clean over the screeching weapon-rat’s head. The red-plated skaven ducked, but Thordun was ready for it, checking his momentum and shoving the pistol in his left hand deep into the creature’s throat. There was a thrill of recognition. Headtaker.

He pulled the trigger. The flintlock sparked. And then nothing. There had been no time to reload. The skaven grinned around the gun barrel. It wrenched the pistol from his hand to study it and, to his astonishment, spoke. Its voice was deep but soft, absent even, employing a careless brutalisation of Khazalid, Reikspiel and even a little Tilean.

‘This keeps happening also to Queek.’ The skaven turned to look at the weapon-rat and tittered. He turned back and leant in conspiratorially. ‘Never trust tinker-makers, dwarf-thing.’

Thordun stumbled back from the Headtaker’s grinning muzzle, tripping over the bodies of men whose names he had never cared to learn. He looked frantically for Bernard but couldn’t find him among the sprawled dead, or the ghoulish creatures that ripped their claws through their bellies and sank fangs into glistening organs. He scrambled back, palms slipping on loose coin until his back struck stone. He felt the need to retch.

Queek reached down, soothing noises dripping from his fangs like saliva, and ran his claws over his golden head. ‘Do not be sorry-sad, dwarf-thing. You go home.’

‘Home?’

‘Yes-yes. Dwarf-thing goes back to brood-kin Kazador.’ The rat sneered. ‘Is Queek not the nicest?’

‘But I’m not–’

Thordun’s eyes flashed scarlet and then went black. A bolt of lightning seared through his skull for one moment of agony. And then nothing.

‘Bind it, Little-tinker.’

Queek was in an exceptionally buoyant mood. White-fur was probably dead. Tinker-rat was deader than any rat had ever been. He had Old-thing’s treasure, if not yet his head, and with this dwarf-thing he had Kazador by the throat.

The skinny warlock scurried past with a length of chain, lashing the dwarf-thing’s wrists behind its back before moving on to its feet. Queek watched, taking a nibble of the dwarf-thing’s pistol before pulling it out with a frown and tossing it away. He cast an envious look at his feasting minions and felt his own stomach kick. But he was saving himself for something special. There had been no scent of Ska, or of Old-thing. If they had come this way, they had hidden themselves well. It didn’t sound impossible. If Queek sought to hide from himself, he would be sure to do it well too.

‘What about that one, most vicious of vanquishers?’

The little engineer pointed to a large black-furred man-thing. Queek looked at it, wondering how something so big had managed to avoid being eaten. He poked it with his claw to make sure it was real. It groaned and spat on his arm, hawking up a glob of blood. Queek raised his wrist to his mouth and sucked it clean. He didn’t question what the creature was doing here. He kept slaves, why shouldn’t dwarf-things?

‘Bring it to Azul-Place. In case Queek gets hungry.’

‘And this?’ The tinkerer waved his paw over the yellow-metal that bled from splintered chests like the spilled guts of shiny yellow men.

‘Leave it.’

‘All of it?’

Queek eyed the glittering floor and grimaced. ‘Take Queek’s word. You cannot eat it.’

Handrik laid the second dwarf face up, placing the hammer he had found into a cold grip and laying it on the dwarf’s tattooed chest. He gave the dwarf’s hands a squeeze. ‘Tell Gazul to let you pass. You atoned today.’

A handful of cursing greenskins loosed arrows from the ruined city, but they were few enough that Handrik was content to ignore them for now. Keldur joined him under the cover of the bridgehouse.

‘What happened here?’

Handrik got to his feet, refusing the Hammerer’s hand without acknowledgement. The bridgehouse was littered with greenskin corpses. They stretched out over the bridge itself, draped over the walls and hanging over the jaws of oblivion like some morbid upholstery. There were so many. Torn apart, savaged, flesh so brutally undone it was impossible to tell where one flayed body ended and another began. The stench of freshly opened meat was overpowering.

Only a fool would imagine this was the work of dwarfs.

He picked a short way across the bridge, axe ready, drawn by a patch of crimson among the green flesh and black blood. He toed a goblin out of the way to expose the undying snarl of a skaven warrior, scarlet armour dented and scratched, black fur knotted thick with blood. He spat on its corpse.

‘Thaggoraki.’ The word tasted bitter. Like spoiled ale.

‘We’re too late.’ Keldur looked crestfallen. He laid a consoling hand on Handrik’s shoulder only for the old Slayer to shake it loose.

‘No we’re not. Not yet.’ He drew back to the bridgehouse, tapping out the steps with his axe against his palm. ‘Clear some ground, lads. If the Headtaker plans on returning with his prize, he’ll have to come through us. And Narfi,’ he added, wincing slightly as his back twinged. He nodded to the nearly full kilderkin of grobkull that the young Hammerer was just now beaching between the supporting columns of the bridgehouse. ‘Be a good lad, and fill a longbeard’s tankard.’

‘Now what’s happening?’

Ska peered across the distant bridge. ‘Queek is back.’ He leant forward as if that would vastly improve his view. For a moment Sharpwit was tempted to shove him off the roof. But only for a moment. The fall was not a long one. ‘I think he brings dwarf-thing prisoners.’

Sharpwit rubbed his paws with glee. It was almost too good to be true. As fierce as Queek was, he wasn’t getting across that bridge, not while it was held by an almost equal number of dwarfs. It would be easier to pull the stones from beneath the dwarfs’ feet than remove the dwarfs themselves by force. Sharpwit knew that better than any, but he also knew Queek to be just the fool to try.

And after that, Sharpwit’s life was sure to become simpler.

‘Do you have a plan to help-help Queek cross?’

Sharpwit’s paws suddenly clenched. He’d forgotten about Ska.

‘We are watching Queek’s back, yes-yes?’ Ska asked with an edge of menace to his tone.

‘Of course,’ Sharpwit muttered, not at all convincingly. ‘Fine,’ he hissed, all out of excuses. ‘You first.’

‘Steady lads,’ Handrik growled. There was an almost imperceptible shuffling of feet as the Headtaker led his warriors onto the bridge. He wished he could’ve had a couple of sharp-eyed rangers on the bridgehouse roof with crossbows or handguns. But he didn’t, and there was little point weeping over that broken tankard now.

‘Do we charge?’ asked Keldur, cheeks taut from the effort of restraining the urge to vengeance.

‘Easy lad. Let the beggar stretch his legs before we put him down.’

The young Hammerer grumbled with the vehemence of an oft-wronged longbeard and settled his grip on his weapon.

By unspoken consent, Handrik stood front and centre, the giant Slayer a muscular presence by his side while Keldur and Narfi with their great hammers took what space remained on their flanks. Gunngeir and the Hammerers’ hooded companion stood behind them with the miners, cramped into tight ranks under the bridgehouse and sweating with grim anticipation. Handrik turned to the Slayer. The miners had dubbed him Dhunk, after a particularly surly breed of pit mule, and it had stuck. Not that the Slayer seemed to care.

‘Die well,’ Handrik offered.

The Slayer grunted without moving his head. Handrik followed his stare. Had a blade been affixed to it, it would have led him to the gutted corpse of the Headtaker. The rat-king ran on unflustered by the two Slayers’ hatred. If anything he seemed goaded by it, shrieking hatred, drawn closer like a rat into a trap. He tightened his grip on his axe. He’d not underestimate this vermin, not after his last encounter. Two dwarfs cut down faster than it took Handrik to open his eyes and see it done. He doubted he was a match.

But when had the near-certainty of failure ever discouraged a dwarf?

He turned back to Dhunk. ‘The Headtaker’s mine.’ This time the Slayer did shift, treating him to a grin of broken teeth. ‘Aye well, we’ll see who can swing his axe fastest.’

The grin broadened, massive fists throttling the haft of his axe like thaggoraki throats. Handrik took a sliding step forward, shoulder just brushing in front of Dhunk’s, shifting his own grip at the same time.

‘Keldur, Narfi, keep an eye out for Kazador’s kin. Get them out if you can.’

Narfi gave a nervous cough, half an eye on the charging skaven. ‘We’d rather not be the ones to head back if it’s all the same.’

‘No time to bicker over the plum jobs now, lads.’

The two brothers looked across to each other and nodded.

The skaven streamed over the halfway mark, the Headtaker a good stride ahead of his flea-ridden kin. After four hundred years, Handrik was still astonished by their speed. Already the rat-king was close enough to see the delirium burn in his red eyes, the rabid froth flaring from his muzzle. Perhaps if the mad rat pulled much further ahead, they could bring him down with weight of numbers. Honour would forgive this one.

‘Show them dawi steel and dawi stone! For Kazador!’ he roared, skin prickling as the packed miners made the cry their own. ‘For Karak Azul!’

The Headtaker was a hammer strike away, fangs glistening, maw wide in a challenging cry. This was it, now or never. He struck, Dhunk’s larger weapon a split second behind. The Headtaker was already shifting, veering between the careening blades like an elvish dancer. Keldur’s warhammer swung past his head but the skaven ducked beneath as though privy to a choreography no other had practised. With a speed that left the Hammerer rooted in stone, the Headtaker turned, driving his serrated blade up under Keldur’s swinging arm, through the opening in his mail, and deep into the youngling’s unguarded armpit. The Hammerer gargled and fell away. Handrik registered Narfi’s furious roar in his peripheral hearing. He leapt forward, axe sweeping a path for the Headtaker’s skull.

The skaven caught the blow on his angled blade the moment the following stormvermin thundered into the dwarfs in a squeal of metal and ratkin cries. Handrik’s axe slid the pitted length of his opponent’s sword. He pressed his body to the trapped blades, hoping to make an advantage of his greater strength. The skaven thrashed like a caged beast, covering him in bites and scratches and painful caustic burns wherever the creature’s fell armour rubbed against his bare flesh. He groaned, feeling his strength dwindle. The dark wound in his chest shrank from the nearness of warpstone like a fresh burn shrivelling before an open flame. He held on with all the stubbornness of his kind, if only to gift his kin a moment more. Queek snarled, finally succeeding in wriggling free and lashing his vicious maul inches from Handrik’s belly.

Handrik held his ground. Queek parried his axe with embarrassing ease, spinning round to smash his maul through his face but murdering nothing but air. Handrik nodded sweat from his brow as the Headtaker came at him again, weapons blurring into one implacable wall of metal. He countered as best he could. He was fighting harder than he ever had in his life with nothing to show but the blood that streamed from a dozen cuts. Landing a blow was like clutching at smoke, as though he were a babe in the crib fumbling for coloured objects suspended just out of reach.

Skaven flooded by, swirling like ghosts in frosted glass. Like ghosts they ignored him, and he ignored them. Queek dodged his latest effort. He gritted his teeth in prideful frustration. Queek returned with a stab that Handrik rolled, but not before suffering another long nick across the chin, sending orange strands fluttering to the bloody ground.

‘Queek thinks this a good one. He might keep it.’

Handrik wheezed, heart thrumming out of tune. ‘Handrik thinks you’re a bloody loon.’

Queek tittered, sending him ducking beneath a teasing swing of his maul. ‘Everyone, they concerned for Queek’s sanity. Perhaps you worry less for what is in Queek’s head, and more on keeping what is in yours.’

Handrik managed a shrug. ‘I can do two things at once.’

Queek lunged forward with a strangled snarl. ‘Die-die, dwarf-thing!’

Handrik stumbled from the sword, turning his axe to catch the maul as it descended like a comet. His ancient axe blade shattered into three with an almighty crash of metal. He fell back with a cry, his bloodied hand clutching a splintered stump of axe-handle.

Handrik shook his head clear. The Headtaker stood over him, armoured footpaws stepping either side of his prone body, maul held high. He didn’t fear death as it came for him. His eyes opened wide in welcome.

The slender bridge heaved with death. The orange-furs and the hammer-dwarf held their own as Queek’s stormvermin squeezed between to get at the miners behind. If they hoped for an easier time of it, they were to be disappointed. The miners cursed in snarling, salivating faces, inviting the vermin onto them if they so badly wished to pass. And the skaven did, heavy halberds slashing with frenzied blood-hunger at the stolid dwarfs. The miners retaliated with their heavy picks and equal ferocity. If not for the bridge, the dwarfs might all already be dead. But there was a bridge, and so long as no ratkin fancied the climb that meant meeting the dwarfs claw to fist, blade to blade, one to one. And it was going badly for them.

Ska scurried towards the bloodbath, darting from the cover of a tumbled corner wall and into a doorway that faced onto the chasm. The bridge stretched far into the shaded distance of his weak skaven eyes. Queek stood over a fallen dwarf in the very midst of the melee, heedless of the peril that raged around him. Queek was unbeatable. Ska had learned that harsh lesson well enough. But he was just one, one that cared little for the finer nuances of conducting a battle. That was why he would always need Ska Bloodtail.

He raised his snout for a cautious sniff. Unsurprisingly, the place was filled with greenskin spoor, but it was too pervasive to tell if any were close. He emitted a nervous snarl, fear of green-thing arrows in the back warring with fear of Queek.

He shortened his grip on the long-handled dwarfish axe, holding it closer to the blade, and scurried across the open plaza. It seemed to go on forever, and he half-expected every pawstep to reward him with an arrow for the effort. But none came, and with a muffled sigh of relief he made the bottom of the bridgehouse steps. He crouched low, shuffling on all fours. He could see the backs of the rearmost miners. He wiped saliva from his jaw. Nothing tantalised like an axe in an enemy’s back. He let the haft run out through his paw, marking the dwarf that would be the first to die: the one standing right between himself and Queek, so his warlord might see.

A shock passed through his tensed muscles at a metallic stamp from behind. It sounded like a rat ogre treading on a steel barrel. He twisted back the way he had come and almost dropped his axe. At the head of about a dozen large, muscular orcs stomped the largest orc he had ever seen. Its ponderous armour gave it a rolling gait. Even from across the plaza, Ska could tell that the orc was bigger than him – a lot bigger. The same could also be said of the massive stone club held effortlessly in one fist.

Ska felt his musk glands try to clench but he fought down the urge with a hissed breath and a shudder. He rose to his full height, feeling almost as massive in his gromril armour. He took the axe in two paws and stared down at the oncoming orc. The orc broke into a run, leaving the lesser green-things behind and driving tiny cracks into the long-suffering stones. Ska tried to ignore the vibrations trembling through his footpaws. He was Ska Bloodtail, Queek’s mightiest champion.

He would win.

Queek held Dwarf Gouger at the beginnings of its killing stroke. A mighty crash sounded from the bottom of the steps and a shape bearing an uncanny similarity to Ska Bloodtail sailed into view and slammed off the underside of the ceiling. The skaven bounced once before falling into a clattering roll that carried him out onto the bridge, coming to rest not far from where Queek stood. The skaven didn’t rise. A great dent was beaten into its breastplate.

There was a momentary peace as the skaven backed off, in case whatever fate had befallen their fangleader prove catching. The dwarfs took the opportunity to catch their breath. A murmur passed around those standing nearest the steps. Heads turned. Queek could smell their hatred, ratcheted to a degree that even he could not evoke in their simple hearts. He stepped over the old orange-fur’s body, eager to see for himself what it was they saw.

But he heard it first.

‘Waaaaaaaggh! Gorfang!’

Chapter Seventeen

The orc advanced, immense shoulders swaying as it climbed the steps to the bridgehouse. ‘Dis is my place, ratty.’ The hugely armoured giant held its granite bludgeon in one steel fist. ‘So what yoo reckon?’ Metal clanged hollowly off metal as it whacked its breastplate. ‘Fink you’ze ’ard enough for some o’ dis?’

Queek ran his tongue down the bloody lip of Dwarf Gouger. The orc towered over him, a dark squat head squeezing free from the jaws of a metallic carnivorous plant. ‘Big-meat. You came.’

The orc broke into a laugh, or the head did, somehow disconnected from that bulbous steel chest. ‘I heard you woz cracked, ratty.’ The laughter faded from its squished-up cheeks as it drew back its club. ‘I like dat.’

The orc roared and Queek leapt back. The club crashed like a felled oak, throwing up shards from the fractured tiles where Queek had been and gouging through into the soft mortar beneath. Queek felt the tremors as a tickling in his footpaws, bloodthirsty spirits drawing him back to the fray by his claws. The orc was still yanking at its buried club, leaving itself open. Queek leapt in. His shriek of triumph tingled on his tongue with the sweet taste of orc-meat. Dwarf Gouger slammed into its groin, the ensorcelled spike cleaving through the thick metal like a knife through hot blood. His black spirit rose on euphoric wings as the spike cut deep. The maul’s rounded head rang home against punctured steel.

The orc erupted with a volcanic rumble of laughter. It let slip its club and took an unexpected step forward, sending Queek scurrying to avoid being crushed. Dwarf Gouger still swayed between its legs. ‘I got da fickest armour around, ratty.’ The orc made a crude thrusting motion, guffawing as the maul’s handle jiggled across its thighs. ‘Need a longer spike, maybe.’

‘Queek shows him spikes. His head goes on the biggest spike!’

The orc looked nonplussed ‘You wot?’

Queek sprang forward with a snarl. He grabbed hold of his swinging haft and made to pull his weapon free, only to find himself pinned by a fist that closed over his ears like an avalanche. Queek twisted and spat, pulling Dwarf Gouger from its prison and smacking it in futile fury about the brute’s midriff. The orc laughed him down, spare hand sweeping like a pendulum to deliver a backhand that sent him careening. Like a bleeding scythe of warpstone and black visions, his body cut through the press of warriors until the sheer mass of living flesh slowed him. He rolled off the broken back of a stormvermin and swayed onto his own footpaws.

He glared back across his short path of destruction. Bloodied dwarfs and skaven lined the way like supplicants to the throne of Queek. The orc lumbered down the middle of it, hefting its club with ease. Fury hazed Queek’s vision. He had never wanted to kill anything so badly. It was the arrogance of the creature that inflamed his hatred. The simple-minded savage clearly had no idea that he sought to challenge the Headtaker!

He was visualising shoving a sword through that ludicrously confident smirk when he felt the touch of a hand on his shoulders. He spun around, ready to unleash a foaming tirade on the rodent idiotic enough to lower their neck to the Headtaker. His muzzle dropped in shock at the sight of a dwarf. It just stood there and looked at him, hand on his shoulder as though they were old friends. The hood of a black cloak had been thrown back to reveal a dark-furred specimen with no neck and a scarred face set deep into its broad shoulders. Its face was oddly devoid of fur but for scraps of stubble between a set of ugly, uneven scars.

For a blinding moment he felt that blood was about to boil from his eyes. The dwarf regarded him blankly, as though it didn’t see him or, Queek suspected, thought him beneath notice. Queek snarled and shoved back against the dwarf’s arm. The dwarf didn’t move, shoulders rolling with the clumsy strike. Its lips twitched at one corner and, in an explosion of motion, its body lunged into his.

Queek cried out in shock as he was hurled aside, slammed into the bridge wall with force enough to blow the wind from his chest. He struggled upright as the dead-eyed dwarf pulled a pair of gleaming axes from a hidden belt beneath his cloak. Something flickered in the orc’s eyes, something that, if Queek were to credit it with intelligence, he might have called recognition.

Queek’s temper raged, soon outpacing his wrathfully racing heart. His grip tightened around the handle of Dwarf Gouger as he cast about for a fresh sword to replace the one he seemed to have lost.

He’d show these over-muscled, mouse-brained, stupid-furred fools the price of turning their backs on the Headtaker.

Handrik pushed himself from his belly. He turned and tried to catch a glimpse of the Headtaker, but the rat-king had disappeared into the shifting forest of tensed, struggling legs. A hand descended from that violently swaying canopy to grab his in a firm grip. He let it haul him up and practically fell into Narfi’s arms. He swallowed down a wave of nausea and shook warpstone dust from his beard.

Narfi took him by both shoulders, studying his face for any sign of addlement. The young dwarf’s own face was a mess of skaven blood and grief. ‘Are you injured, longbeard?’ the lad asked, voice strained, as though desirous of nothing other than to rail against the old fool that had led his elder brother to this doom.

‘More than you could ever know. But I’m not dead.’

The miners had retreated into a semicircle around him and Narfi, backs to the abyss, only just fending off the huge orcs that came laughing and killing in the wake of their leader. The miners fought back with stout hearts, their heavy picks a wall of death that smote blood from orc and skaven with indiscriminate relish.

Handrik threw down his own ruined weapon with a curse. It seemed the nature of the Headtaker to ruin that which was ancient and fine. In so doing, he caught the shine of gold against the grey wall and he made for it. He traced the sign of Grungni’s hammer as the glimmer resolved into the rune of Karak Azul. A long-handled axe bearing the hammers, anvil and crown of his home lay clutched in the unconscious paws of a giant thaggoraki. He grasped it by the handle and pulled.

The skaven’s paws suddenly tightened, as though Handrik’s presence had lent them life. Its eyes snapped open, responding with a full-fanged snarl. Handrik’s fist smashed against its snout. ‘It doesn’t belong to you.’ He tore the axe from its paws and stood. ‘It belongs to Karak Azul.’

Narfi wiped blood from his brow and looked on a scene from the imaginings of laughing gods. Some of the greenskins had driven the dwarfs from the bridgehouse. Others had found space around the periphery of their living wall to tear into the confused press of skaven. It was impossible to imagine prising anything of worth from such an immiscible interface of mayhem and death.

‘It’s over,’ said Narfi, voicing those same thoughts. ‘What can we do against so many?’

‘What we came for, that’s what.’ He pointed out into the melee. ‘Our kinsdwarfs are out there somewhere. Take this lot and find them. Get them all home if you can.’

Narfi offered a breathless nod. ‘What about you?’

Handrik turned the other way, looking back across the bridge. ‘What I came for.’ He pointed across the swamp of battling figures, eyes focusing on an unexpected face as its wearer duelled with the hated Gorfang. The orc bellowed, as if in greeting, tearing its club through a crushing arc that swept the full width of the bridge and beyond. The dwarf ducked. A pair of ratkin trying to sneak past caught its full force and were thrown squealing into the abyss. The dwarf hurled himself onto the laughing brute with a furious shout, his twin axes beating deep scars into his enemy’s armour. His was a face that Handrik had not seen in fifteen years, a face carved from the same stone as his father’s. For a moment he was too stunned to talk, then came a flush of warmth, the resurgent spring of an emotion he recalled only dimly. He might have called it… hope.

He started laughing. ‘Now I see why you didn’t want to go back and face Kazador.’

His vision blurred and with a start he realised tears were streaming down his face. Holding his axe aloft, he charged through the screaming vermin for the squatter king. A name rushed from his lips at the same moment as it did from every other dwarf who saw. ‘Kazrik!’

Thordun woke with a toe in his belly.

‘Ungh. Bernard, what the–’

Memory forced its way in with the riot assaulting his ears. Instinctively, he tried to curl into a ball, bringing an angry rattle from the chains binding his wrists to his ankles. He wriggled nearer to Bernard.

‘How are you feeling?’

Bernard grinned feebly, blood smearing his teeth and gums. ‘How do I look?’

Thordun’s head flopped into the big man’s lap. He looked around, head craning as far as his bonds allowed. The weapon-rat he’d seen before lay crushed, as though it had been trodden on by a warhorse. A foul-smelling chemical leaked from the burst vessel on its shoulders, Thordun’s chains flattened under one still-twitching paw. ‘I’ve seen worse.’

‘Don’t ask, Splitter.’ Thordun felt the man shudder, and not with pain. ‘You’ll be happier for it.’

Thordun fidgeted, trying to work his fingers through the amateurishly bolted chains. He exhaled in an effort to loosen his bonds and his muscles, gazing absently upwards as he wriggled against the constraints. He almost failed to notice the night-black shape that clung from the rafter’s shadow like a bat. His mouth formed a ring of surprise. The cloaked skaven pressed a claw to its muzzle as if bidding a co-conspirator be silent. The gesture was so incongruous he actually shut his mouth again.

The skaven grinned and released its pawholds, cloak snapping like black wings as it fell.

Sharpwit almost bit his tongue clean through as a shadow shot across his line of vision. The assassin landed on the human’s shoulders, eliciting a scream as his weight bent the man over onto the shaft that spitted his chest. Sharpwit hunched reflexively, but nobody here was about to notice one scream out of place. He huddled under the lee of the arches that curved against the ceiling of the bridgehouse, blade wrapped in cloth lest its dull light draw notice.

Dao’s long snout sought his hidden corner and he beamed. ‘A dwarf-thing and a man-thing. As the warlord demands.’

Sharpwit’s nose darted over the swirling combatants. He tried to work himself deeper into the wall, as if he could burrow inside and wrap himself in shadow. It was all too much. Skaven, dwarfs and hulking orcs all grunted and fought, weapons flashing where space allowed, otherwise resorting to choking, biting, scratching. Somewhere in that variegated carnage Gorfang bellowed his battle-lust, and all the while that cry. As if all the horrors of that long ago night had been distilled into a single heartbeat of madness.

‘Kazrik!’

Who could have suspected that the simple act of releasing a few orcs into Karak Azul so he could steal dwarfish treasure could have had such consequences? Likely nobody had cared. And why should they? Of all the skaven involved that day, only he was still alive. And he hoped to stay that way.

Dao hopped down from the moaning human and knelt beside the dwarf.

‘Fast-quick,’ Sharpwit hissed, detaching himself with some effort from the safety of his alcove. ‘Get them to their feet. Faster if we not have to carry.’ Dao shook his muzzle, paws spooling through the thick chain between the dwarf’s ankles and wrists.

‘Can you free it?’

‘No time!’ said Dao, ducking in as a dwarf blundered by.

‘Damnable Queek,’ he snarled bitterly. ‘We will have to carry. Back to the stream, the way we came and away. Get the man-thing up, quick-quick!’

Sharpwit crouched over the prone dwarf. ‘Be quiet-still, dwarf-thing,’ he whispered in Khazalid. For an instant he thought he recognised this dwarf’s scent. It was difficult to be sure when surrounded by such a dazzling horror show of smells. He hadn’t the time to dwell on it either way. It was only a matter of time before they attracted notice.

The dwarf fought against his touch, barking something in the human tongue.

‘I have just two paws, wise warlord,’ the assassin snarled. ‘I cannot help-move both. Pick one.’

‘One is useless without the other. We may as well leave both.’ Sharpwit struggled with the mechanics. It would be cruelty unparalleled to be thwarted at the very last, simply for the lack of an underling of sufficient wit to see a dwarf from danger. Like a gift from the aether, inspiration struck. ‘Wait-wait,’ he snapped at Dao before limping into the melee.

He looked around, struggling to get his bearings. Bodies packed so tightly he could hardly breathe for their stench. A dwarf came charging through the press, a huge hammer held high in two strong hands. Sharpwit squealed and ducked behind a stormvermin that was looking the other way as he fought to wrest his halberd from the grip of an orc twice his size. Sharpwit scampered between them, stabbing the orc through the foot with his crutch just as the stormvermin’s eyes rolled back, as if pulled magnetically towards the warhammer freshly embedded in his skull. The orc barked in surprise as the dwarf blundered into it. The two enemies fell together. Sharpwit left them to it, springing clear without a second glance and emerging breathlessly on the other side of the bridgehouse.

He dropped down beside the body of Ska Bloodtail. He gave his armour a shake. ‘Ska. Wake up Ska. Queek needs you.’

He was rewarded with a slight shift of the head and a murmur of half-dreamt words.

‘Ska,’ he said again, sparing a nervous glance over his shoulder.

‘No,’ the giant murmured. ‘Is rubbish-poor axe. Ska not want.’

‘Come-come, brave Ska,’ Sharpwit soothed, heaving his wiry frame against the fangleader’s uncooperative bulk. He cast about for any sign of Queek, but found none. Perhaps the warlord was dead. He shook his head anxiously. Even he couldn’t get that lucky. ‘Come-come. Is time clever skaven flee to plot another day.’

Sing, sing, sing. Dwarf-things do so like to sing.

Queek’s lips curled over his glistening fangs as he shoved his way through the frightened crowd of his finest. The air smelt rich with their musk, lining the back of his throat like honeyed liquor. The dwarf-things chanted a name, over and over, like the forgetful, vacant-headed simpletons they were.

‘Kazrik,’ he hissed in time, eyes burning onto the dwarf-thing that was the subject of such attention. It swept around the big orc’s legs, hammering down blows with what might have been mushroom stalks for all the damage they caused. The orc, for its part, wielded its gigantic club in both hands, trying and failing to smash it through its tiny foe’s head.

‘Kazrik,’ he growled. The strength of the chant made his belly shake. Dwarf Gouger felt light in his paw. He would show this dwarf-thing who was best. Then they would chant his name.

Queek! Queek! Queek!

He soaked in the adulation.

The orc caught the dwarf with its shin, then reared up and brought its club crashing down. The dwarf rolled clear, but Queek felt the bridge shudder. Tiny fissures crept through the stonework. The orc howled, stamping after the wriggling dwarf one massively armoured boot after another. Queek could almost hear the slender stone isthmus suffer. He scurried aside as the dwarf rolled his way, titanic tormentor in hot pursuit. Both continued on, ignoring him completely. For once, it didn’t bother him. His heart lurched, paws grabbing for the wall as he felt the bridge shudder, stomach spinning upside down at his brief glimpse of the bottomless void below.

He threw a brief, longing look at the passage back to the stream and the way out. He was the mighty and unbeatable Queek. He knew that. He had nothing to prove. He glared at the nearest warrior, a scrappy black-furred creature, and dared him to disagree, but the stormvermin had the infuriatingly good sense to look away.

‘That’s right!’ he squeaked for everyone to hear. ‘Queek can beat anyone!’

A handful of dwarfs were heading his way, led by an orange-fur that bore a remarkable semblance to one he had just killed. But then all dwarf-things did look alike. He took a last look back. The dwarf had regained his feet and the fight continued. Maybe he’d come back for them. Yes. That was what he would do. He would–

The thought never fully emerged. His throat rumbled with newborn fury as he caught wind of a familiar scent. His nose tracked it to its source. That’s where he had smelt it, fleeing for the passage back to the stream and the way out. The craven, weasel-spleened cowards! Ska. And Old-thing.

Not even strong enough to run away with dignity, they helped keep each other upright, scampering from the bridge and into the city like a three-legged, two headed coward-worm of some weakling god’s craven hell. His eyes narrowed at the golden-furred body slung over Ska’s shoulders. They helped themselves to Queek’s prize too. Fresh outrage burned through already white-hot veins.

Orcs and dwarfs would keep.

He had an old head to take.

Handrik’s axe tore through the ribcage of a frothing skaven warrior. He put his boot against its belly and kicked it clear. The ratmen streamed from the coming orcs only to find their escape thrown back against the collateral damage of Kazrik and Gorfang’s duel. They swirled between the two forces like a storm, biting and scratching in unthinking panic. Handrik waded into the midst of them towards his prince. He kneecapped another with the haft of his axe, then messily beheaded it. Blood rinsed his tattooed forearms.

Closing with Gorfang had proven tougher than he’d imagined. But then thaggoraki were ever their most savage when cornered. He saw a miner go down, torn to pieces by a mob of snarling ratmen. A brave dawi by his side who bore what could only be a familial resemblance gave an anguished howl and threw himself onto his kinsdwarf’s slayers, only to succumb himself as another of the ratkin pounced onto his back and sank fangs into his neck.

There were few of them left now. Most of the miners had gone with Narfi as he’d hoped they would, but too many had been caught behind. By his side, Dhunk issued a strangled warble from his ruined throat and almost split a ratkin up the middle with a rising blow from his battleaxe. Handrik stepped in behind the other Slayer and turned so they were back to back, bringing his axe up to parry as a foul orc swung its cleaver for his comrade’s back.

Dhunk grunted acknowledgement. The two Slayers courted death from all sides as the orcs flowed round them to encounter the remaining skaven, the dwarfs a harsh island of perpetuity in a torrent of decay. Handrik struggled blade to blade against an orc’s strength, finding time to scowl at the sight of the Headtaker butchering his own path through the orcs to safety. He turned the blade and shoved the orc clear. There was no time to administer the finishing blow before another green-skinned brute came bellowing for more.

He had failed. The Headtaker had escaped and he hadn’t seen so much as a scrap of beard of Thordun or of Kazador’s kinsdwarfs. Nor did he put great trust in the hope that Narfi might have found them and got them out. Fortune seldom favoured the doomed. And yet he was content. He could help earn a prince his vengeance, the grandson of his sentimental old heart; and the fall of Gorfang Rotgut would provide Handrik with a worthy doom indeed. The orc he faced went down from a meaty blow to the kidney. He mastered his surprise to deliver the killing stroke, axe severing its thick neck.

‘Priest,’ he grunted, as the follower of Grimnir spun about to set his own back to Handrik’s and Dhunk’s, a bloodied mace held at the ready. ‘You’re a welcome sight, I don’t mind saying.’

‘A fine doom you’ve found yourself, longbeard. A shame nobody will hear of it.’

‘We’ll tell them when they join us in the Ancestors’ Hall.’

The priest smiled his little smile. ‘Everybody will, eventually.’

‘Aye,’ he agreed, sending an orc to his maker in a dark spray of gore.

‘Shall we sing a song?’ Gunngeir suggested.

Handrik’s heart pounded, as though it had never truly worked before this moment. He was exhausted, but still the orcs came. He resolved to defy his doom until Gorfang was dead and Kazrik avenged. Only then would he permit himself to fall. He stood tall, realising that for the first time in days he felt no pain.

‘Aye. One of victory.’

Rain worried at Sharpwit’s snout as it emerged from his secret passage. The sky had darkened, a settling cloud lending the rocky slope a ghostly shade as day wore on into dusk. The clamour of battle from the valley below had grown fiercer as he had scurried through the tunnel. Now, standing here on the mountainside, peering down and blinded by whispering damp, even those violent sounds had become too disordered to pick apart. Like a single mist-shrouded beast almost close enough to reach out and bite.

‘Hurry-hurry,’ Dao urged behind him, voice muffled within the tunnel.

Queek was coming.

Sharpwit tried to remember how many of the bulky orc-things Queek had torn through, all the while screaming that appellation he so despised: Old-thing. He decided that he didn’t want to remember. It was making his knees shake, and he didn’t doubt that Dao would leave him behind if he slowed them any more than he already was. With a stab of panic he realised how much the assassin knew. Dao could accomplish everything without him if he wanted to.

Perhaps he was getting too old. Time could only be fended off for so long. And he was so very tired.

He tried to move faster, but he was finding it difficult to breathe. His exertions were beginning to tell. He reached up for the grassy overhang and swung his legs from the tunnel mouth. He landed in the fast-flowing shallows, his crutch scraping the hard stone bed for a purchase. He shivered as the stream splashed cold over his legs. Not bothering to help the assassin out, he drew his sword and worked his way across the stream.

With footpaws on firm ground he turned with an impatient tapping of his crutch on naked rock. ‘Fast-quick,’ Sharpwit murmured to himself, not even realising that he did it. Part of him – a big part – wanted nothing more than to be away. He could easily lose himself in these hills. And the rain would be a boon. Even the scent of ten thousand terrified ratkin in the valley below fell dead on his nose.

Dao crawled from the opening like a spider, scuttling onto the lip of the rocky outcropping that reached over the stream. His black cloak clung wetly to his lithe frame as he reached down to draw their human prisoner into the fresh air.

The human reached for the swaying arm but never caught it. He flew out into the sodden sky as though fired from a gun. He crashed face first into the stream with a moan of agony. He rolled onto his back and blinked up at the sky. Ska Bloodtail leapt after him, the golden-furred dwarf draped across one shoulder. Black water fled the impact of his footpaws and he reached with an impatient snarl to haul the human to his feet. The man gnashed his teeth in pain, working to cosset the already blackening wound in his chest while Ska uncaringly yanked him upright.

‘Leave him be,’ Sharpwit ordered. The man looked as near to death as Sharpwit felt, but it would help if he didn’t know it until after he had performed his role. ‘Come-come, Ska. Hurry-scurry, quick-quick.’

On the far side of the stream, half-hidden in mist, Dao rose and leapt. The assassin cleared the stream in a single bound, landing on all fours with a muddy squelch by Sharpwit’s side. His muzzle swept the fog for hidden dangers. He looked anxious to be away and he wasn’t the only one. Without another word spoken, they scurried away over the barren rocks. Sharpwit had good reason to fear. A reason he daren’t speak aloud, at least not while Ska was in range. Queek was coming.

‘Quick-quick, Old-thing,’ Dao hissed, giving his back a shove that almost put him on his snout.

‘Worry… about… yourself,’ he panted. His limbs felt heavy, his head light, his chest an iron band around his aching heart.

Dao suddenly had a knife in his paw. Sharpwit blinked. Now he knew his senses were failing. He would have sworn the assassin hadn’t so much as twitched. ‘I think you should wait here. We run-scurry much faster without you.’

The assassin took one step forward and then froze. His muzzle snapped as if on some reflex and angled down to the serrated blade that had burst through his chest. He gasped and dropped his knife, pawing the bloody puncture as though not believing it could be true until he saw red stain his own paws.

A pair of burning eyes drifted from the fog, settling on the assassin’s shoulder like embers onto a thatched roof. ‘Queek thinks you all should wait-rest here.’ Bone crunched in a spray of blood as he twisted the sword around its length, but Dao made no sound. He was already dead. Queek took hold of the assassin’s long snout and ripped the corpse from his blade. Sharpwit watched the body tumble into the mists, forgotten, filled with a terrible sense of premonition.

‘Queek waits for this, Old-thing. Queek burns for it.’ He licked blood from his sword as he advanced. ‘Traitor-meat has the sweetest taste.’ He grinned evilly. ‘Like honey.’

Ska moaned like a man-thing whelp terrified by the moon. The shackled dwarf-thing hit the ground with a meaty thud as Ska sank to his knees. ‘Ska is not traitor-meat. Ska is loyal-meat. I only pretended to follow. To learn his evil-rotten schemes and bring them to my great warlord.’

‘Lies!’ Sharpwit hissed, grasping desperately at his last hope, the most important ploy he’d ever had in his life. Queek had just fought an army single-handed and Ska was strong. Very strong. ‘Ska lies to you. He has always lied to you.’

‘No lies. No lies,’ Ska whimpered, scratching the warlord’s greaves in pathetic capitulation. ‘He lies.’

‘You are a mad-thing fool-fool,’ Sharpwit said, heart fluttering as his tongue finally shaped the words he had longed to utter. ‘You are incompetent and I betrayed you. For the glory of Skavendom.’ He pointed a paw towards the grovelling giant. ‘And he agreed with me. He helped me. I promised him great-great things. I promised him the Eight Peaks and kind whispers in the clanlord’s ears.’

‘Not true,’ Ska sobbed. ‘I would never betray my most fearsome, most terrible, most–’

‘Enough!’ Queek glared at them both. Sharpwit shuffled back. His heart raced away from him, like a stone dropped into a deep well. His paw bunched into a fist over his chest. He couldn’t help but wonder just how much life he’d bought himself. The warlord turned his sword on Ska. ‘Up-up, idiot-meat.’

Ska obeyed without question, wiping tears from his black fur with one massive fist. He loomed over his warlord, sniffling in the rain. ‘I didn’t–’

Queek whipped up a claw to seal the skaven’s babbling lips, uttering a soothing purr. ‘Queek knows.’

‘What?’ Sharpwit snapped. No skaven could be so forgiving. No spawn of the Horned Rat could be such a fool! ‘He is traitor-meat, you half-witted, soft-spleened excuse for a warlord. Kill-Kill!’

‘Queek does not listen to old-things.’

‘Fool! I was twice the warlord you were.’

The warlord turned to face him and Sharpwit shuffled further back, chasing pebbles from the heels of his footpaws.

‘Queek does not care.’

‘You would let this fool-rat live? Whether he meant it or not, he did betray you. The stupid do not deserve to survive.’

Queek lifted his sword and Sharpwit pulled up his own shimmering blue steel. The two points sang in unearthly greeting.

‘Stupid, you say? Stupid like plotting against the Headtaker?’

Sharpwit drove a darting feint past Queek’s ear, the blade beginning to split only to snap into one as he pulled it back. The blade felt heavy. Even breathing had become a trial by fire. His vision wavered and darkened, his heart thrumming with a distant, painful rhythm. Somehow he managed not to fall. ‘You think… you think any beyond your own scrap of hill knows or cares who you are? You think in fifty years any will remember?’

Queek nonchalantly nudged aside the magical blade on his own mundane steel. Dwarf Gouger spun menacingly through the fingers of his off-paw. ‘All fear Queek,’ he returned with conviction. ‘All will forever fear Queek.’

‘You are impossible, mad-thing,’ he screamed. ‘You do not know the meaning of forever. Look at me! I am still alive and already forgotten!’

Leading with Dwarf Gouger, Queek leapt forward. Sharpwit batted the maul aside, but his parry held no strength and the warlord barged through it, swinging an elbow that struck him under the jaw. His muzzle snapped up. He felt a tooth loosen and he staggered back, stabbing his crutch into the moist earth to steady himself. Swaying, but unbeaten, he wearily levelled his sword to guard once again.

Queek circled through the downpour. The warlord was in no hurry, intent on savouring every last moment of pain.

Snarling blood, Sharpwit’s tongue probed his broken tooth. Saliva fizzed like boiling sugar at the touch of warpstone. He had exhausted every avenue but the most desperate. Did he dare? Even now he doubted whether the risk was worth it. There were worse things in life than death.

Queek feinted left. Sharpwit shuffled back and snapped his jaw to ward him off, the fang loosening still further. He coughed, chest heaving, and made a tired lunge of his own that Queek rolled and beat aside on his vambrace with a carefree smirk.

Sharpwit snarled, mind suddenly made up. He would tempt any fate to wipe the smirk off that arrogant whelp’s face. He hastened back, enticing Queek to come after him, all the while sealing his lips tight and sucking hard. The tooth popped free and fell onto the back of his tongue. He bared his remaining fangs and snickered, rolling the refined lump of warpstone between his back teeth.

He would have a few minutes of strength at best, but he had been the fiercest warrior in Skavendom in his prime, and perhaps those few minutes would be enough.

‘You always were the trusting fool, Queek. You always underestimated me. Well no more.’

He bit down.

The warpstone cracked in his mouth. It scalded his tongue, and he had to force himself to swallow. Agony prised open his throat and forced its way into his belly. He closed his eyes, clenched his paws, stumbled blind, but he could feel the strength as it pumped through his veins. His heart raced. His gut roared like a warpstone furnace. This must be how the grey seers felt. No wonder some became addicted. His one eye snapped open to show him Queek truly for the first time. Colours long forgotten stormed into the eye that the dark magic had temporarily restored. The red of the warlord’s armour, the black of his fur, the white of his fangs; each the most vivid colour he could ever recall and each as stark against the grey sky as they were against each other. Sharpwit was still marvelling at this when he noticed he had dropped his crutch. His legs thrummed with willing strength. He flexed his paws as he looked down at it, then laughed, swinging his muzzle back to the bemused warlord.

‘No more.’

Queek lunged with a rising snarl and this time Sharpwit met it full on. Their blades clashed. For a split second they grappled, arms entwined, long enough for Sharpwit to enjoy the shock on Queek’s face before shoving the warlord back with a shriek of unshackled fury.

Queek took no time to settle, hurling himself back into battle with an outraged squeal. Sharpwit ducked, parried, retaliated, Queek’s twin weapons an impossible blur of speed and skill as he somehow kept the shifting blue blades at bay. To his annoyance, Queek started to snicker. It sounded genuine too; the mad creature was actually enjoying this.

Sharpwit threw himself onto the warlord’s weapons. Whether the fury he had waited so long to unleash had overcome him or whether it was simply the warpstone in his blood, at that moment he couldn’t care whether he lived. So long as Queek died. Perhaps this was the final distillation of the skaven condition, for a good skaven always made sure another went first.

He battered through the warlord’s defence, his own blade taking the worst of the damage, though not before Dwarf Gouger had opened a great rip down his biceps. Queek fell under him and he howled, stabbing at the warlord’s back before he could rise. He threw his strength into it, made it count, blade flaring blue as it responded to his murder-lust. The blade split, each shimmering point thrust into the joint between the plates guarding back and shoulder. The impact as ensorcelled blades met warpstone steel shuddered through his arm, seven blades vibrating as one. The weapons screamed together, giving off a dense vapour as green-black dust from Queek’s armour gnawed at its length, and he fell back. A mote landed on his paw and began to sizzle. He hissed in pain, but didn’t allow himself to let go. He wanted to scream at the unfairness.

Queek rolled to his feet, shaken but angry. He reached a paw around his back to feel the trench that Sharpwit’s weapon had gouged into his back-plate. The paw came back with glittering warpstone hissing at his claw. With a snarl, he started forward, sword sweeping up into a strike intended to split Sharpwit up the middle. Sharpwit moved to counter, only to find the flesh of his paw melted to the handle of his sword. He screamed, and Queek screamed with him, as the warlord’s blade sheared through his wrist. He fell back with a cry, his treasured weapon spinning clear with his paw still attached.

Queek snickered. Blood spattered his muzzle.

His blood, Sharpwit realised with a giddiness that could only be a consequence of the fluids streaming from the stump of his right arm. He clutched what was left of it to his chest, feeling his body empty, suddenly desperate to cling on to every last scrap of life. His legs were asleep. He slipped in a pool of his own blood and onto his back, not even feeling the punch of solid rock that greeted his fall. His head spun. Like an offering to the gods, his sword lay beside him. Strange that he should see so many blurring blades now that it lay still.

‘You are not… not nearly so good as you think, mad-thing.’

‘Does the dead-thing talk?’ asked Queek, twisting to display his ghastly trophies. The desiccated human hands strung from the trophy rack waved once in farewell. Or in welcome. ‘Squeak to fellow dead-things. Ask them how good is Queek.’

‘You have achieved nothing. Do you not see? Nothing. We scurry through time, like the rats in Fizqwik’s wheel. Over and over the same mistakes. I am glad to be done. I am sick of it.’

‘What was that, dead-thing? Queek was somewhere else. Somewhere interesting.’

‘We steal so much from the dwarf-things, more than any care to admit, but never that. Respect for what is past. I think the Horned Rat prefers his children blind or we would surely have the world now. And he knows we would betray even him if we could.’

‘You admire the dwarf-things.’

Sharpwit gave a shuddering sigh. ‘It would be nice… to be remembered.’

Queek knelt on the sparse earth and bent to gather Sharpwit’s sword. The warlord levelled it to his neck. Sharpwit held his breath, not daring to swallow, as Queek leant in close enough for their eyeballs to touch.

‘Queek will always remember you.’

Thunder rumbled.

Then again, many times magnified, a sequence of booming reports that raced through the hanging cloud like baying hounds. Fire bloomed dimly in the murky distance, and an instant later there was a shuddering beneath his footpaws as a series of titanic impacts punished the great walls of Black Crag. Queek looked up and through the fog that hung over Death Pass.

It was murky and indistinct, but Queek could always smell a dwarf. Ranks of deep blue and iron crested the rise where Queek would have sworn the reserves of his own army were supposed to be. He could see the stone tower where Sharpwit was meant to have died. The ground around it was studded with bronze icons and damp blue banners that snapped stiffly in the wind. Heart pumping with excitement, Queek tore Sharpwit’s head from his body. A swift claw scythed through its last glistening tether as he brought it to share this new spectacle. His trophies swaying and chattering in excitement, he ran to the lip of a natural embankment.

A pair of cannonballs sailed overhead and crashed through the huge iron gate of Black Crag. Splinters of red-painted metal sheared off the massive edifice like blood from a severed limb. More pummelled the green-thing positions on the battlements. Screams carried through the fog, of things living and things not. A steel ball punched through the swinging arm of a stone-thrower. The machine spat splinters high into the air as its payload tumbled back onto the heads of its crew.

Queek snickered at the sight of such carnage.

‘Ska! Get up here, lazy-meat. Fetch-bring Queek’s dwarf-thing.’

Ska lowered his muzzle submissively. He looked acutely worried. Queek took in the lengths of chain and the sprung lock in his underling’s paw and smothered a laugh. ‘Clever dwarf-thing. The man-thing?’

Ska gave a glum shake of the head.

‘Hah! No matter.’

‘No?’ Ska asked, not quite believing his luck. ‘What of the destruction of Azul-Place?’

More explosions came in swift succession. Fire rippled the length of the pass like a burning taper to unleash fresh pain on the Black Crag.

Queek ducked as a wall of noise descended from above. Misshapen eddies drove into the surrounding fog, rippling his lips, pulling at his fur, drowning out even the thunder of the guns. His muzzle swung to follow a squadron of dwarf-thing flying machines, his fur tugged in all directions by the ferocious downwash as they swooped overhead. On reaching the valley floor, they veered westwards, keeping in formation and trailing spumes of fire and ragged screams as they released their explosive payloads onto the hapless orcs and skaven beneath.

It was incandescently beautiful.

‘The Thirteen want no weapons from Azul-Place in Eight Peaks. Queek thinks there will be no more. It looks like they will need them for themselves.’

He looked down at the roughly severed head in his paw. Its eyes were wide, as though marvelling at Queek’s brilliance. Queek gave it a loving stroke, bringing its waxen lips to his ears with an occasional nod at its words. Pitching forward slightly, the head clasped gently between both paws, he reached up to ease Sleek Sharpwit onto Morglum Blacktooth’s spike. Blood dribbled down the spar, slowly congealing into gory stalactites where it dripped to his shoulders.

He sighed contentedly. Not only had he struck a blow against Belegar, dwarf-king of the Eight Peaks, by robbing him of the weapons of Azul, but he had hurt the green-thing, Skarsnik, too. So long as Kazador and Gorfang fought towards their hopefully mutual destruction, Skarsnik and Belegar would both find the Eight Peaks a far lonelier place. He couldn’t wait to return. If only to see the looks on their faces.

He spread his arms to the fires that engulfed the Valley of Death, a paternal embrace offered to the carnage he had sired. It was almost as if he had planned it.

Almost.

Chapter Eighteen

‘On this day does Kazador, king of Karak Azul, declare himself grudgesworn against Handrik, son of Hannar, Hallgakrin.’

Loremaster Boric continued with his recitation, the words dull beneath the continual crump and thunder of dwarfish artillery. His stylus trailed blood-red runes across the page of the great book in time with his speech. A short-bearded dwarf in the green robes of a junior lorekeeper stood over him with a shield upturned. Rain tapped against its ancestor boss, streaming from its rim and away from those precious pages.

‘The king being rightly aggrieved by the misappropriation of the subjects of Karak Azul and for the leading of his son and heir into peril most grave.’

The king stood unflinching atop the shield borne aloft by his bearers, wrathful as a winter storm, black clouds hooding his grey, hurt-filled eyes. Beads of dew clung to his beard and glistened on the wings of his magnificent helm like dark jewels.

The loremaster read on. ‘Keldur… Narfi… Lothgrim.’

More names that Thordun didn’t recognise. Good names. Good dwarfs. He hardened his spirit to the roll call of the dishonoured. Better dwarfs again denied the Ancestors’ Hall while he, the lowest of them all, still lived. This truly was a blighted time, when the likes of Bernard Servat were permitted to endure what Handrik Hallgakrin could not. He knelt on the damp earth and awaited his turn.

‘Recompense for this grave wrong begins at a thousand thaggoraki tails and fifty urk heads, but this debt shall remain forever unresolved until the vile heads of the squatter king of Black Crag and the rat-king of the Eight Peaks, are presented in full ignobility before the Iron Throne.’

Loremaster Boric took a deep breath and set down his stylus, grimly rolling out stiff fingers in the meat of his other palm.

Only a handful of thanes had gathered for the recording of these grudges, most being busy elsewhere with the prosecution of battle. There was no comfort there. Their faces were stony, their eyes as cold as the fog that greyed them. Even Boric, who had recorded Thordun’s brave deeds after the battle of the Ninth Deep, now regarded him as an unwelcome stranger.

‘Thordun Locksplitter,’ the king spoke at last. ‘What became of the Hammerhand Hammer?’ Thordun could only offer a shrug. At best it lay abandoned to the vaults of Black Crag. At worst it graced a ratkin’s paws. ‘You were honoured with the duty of delivering it to Karak Eight Peaks. Instead…’ The king’s shoulders tensed. Thordun imagined fists grinding behind his back. ‘Instead, you joined Handrik on this… this… absurdity.’

Thordun said nothing. This was not a trial. He made no protestations of innocence. He lowered his face to the bleak ground.

‘I welcomed you into the hall of your forefathers, received you with full honour.’ Somehow, the king’s face darkened still further. ‘And you repay my kindness with betrayal.’

This time Thordun did speak up. ‘Your majesty, with respect.’

‘Respect?’ Kazador retorted, turning to the loremaster as though seeking an explanation of a poor joke. ‘Did you show respect when you made a liar of me by stealing the heirloom of an ally? Or when you connived with my most trusted friend to abscond with a score of Karak Azul’s bravest? To abduct my son. To follow them on this fool’s errand, to leave their remains to the blackness of the Crag and achieve nothing.’

‘Yes, majesty,’ Thordun answered softly. ‘Nothing but.’

Kazador growled and dismissed the sentiment out of hand. He gestured that Thordun rise, and he did so, clearing his throat nervously.

‘Thordun Locksplitter,’ the king said again, this time in a voice like thunder. ‘You are banished from Karak Azul. You will find no welcome in the lands of the Karaz Ankor until these debts laid against you are repaid.’

Thordun felt his eyes begin to burn and he closed them tight to spare himself that final disgrace. All his hopes, all his dreams, naught but ash in the wind.

‘The Headtaker is a destroyer of dreams,’ said Kazador, as if reading his thoughts. But perhaps the king understood despair like weaponmasters knew metal. ‘He casts them down and burns them as surely as he does lives, dynasties. Whole kingdoms erased, if not for our own memories that defy him and his kind.’ The king’s face shifted, a momentary effort at a smile before the muscles at the corners of his lips abandoned the effort. He turned and gestured another dwarf forward. Thordun looked up as one of the king’s Hammerers approached with Thordun’s hammer. The dwarf offered it. He took it.

‘I told you that ours was an unkind world, youngling. I told you that you would learn this for yourself in time.’

‘You did,’ Thordun said, breath hot in his mouth. His fingers tightened around the haft of his father’s hammer. ‘And I have.’

Kazador nodded, offering the same to the loremaster to indicate that he record what came next. Thordun forced himself to hold the king’s gaze, but the wrathfulness of his expression was a sight to induce tremors even in those accustomed to horror. ‘The debt against you shall be considered repaid when the Hammerhand Hammer is duly returned to King Belegar and the head of the Headtaker adorns the Throne Hall of Karak Azul. May it stand there for all time as punishment for its crimes.’

Thordun rose, hammer in hand. He turned in the direction of Black Crag, the despoiled hold invisible but for sporadic eruptions of fire that revealed nothing but mist and shadow. He had a goal, a purpose, and he would see it done. He had nothing left to lose.

‘I will see it done.’

This time Kazador did smile, so strange and genuine a gesture Thordun was taken aback by it.

‘But first.’ Kazador’s voice swept the anarchy that roared its throes within the Valley of Death. ‘First we recover my son. Living or dead, my hope lies there. Find yours where you may, youngling, for now the Iron Peak will have its vengeance.’

Epilogue

The white-furred emissary quivered. He lay flat on the wooden flooring of this powerful being’s tower and grovelled, closing his eyes and waiting for the ancient to respond. His mind sorted his excuses, like clanrats ready to be thrown to their deaths to spare their master’s fur.

But nothing.

Just the continuing, casual, stroke of skewer and blade onto a wooden board, the occasional snap and swallow as something slippery disappeared down the ancient one’s throat. He opened one eye.

The ancient skaven regarded him impassively from behind a sturdy dwarf-made table laden with glistening seafood and pickled spawn. Black-furred and barrel-chested, his coat flecked with iron grey, there was an aura to him that age had enhanced rather than diminished. His paws stopped, partway through sawing at a brawny length of tentacle. They were paws that remembered how to hold a blade. They were killer’s paws.

The emissary gulped, then remembered how to speak. ‘Most ageless and eternal of great lords, if there is no more that the great Gnawdwell requires of this unworthy emissary–’

The clanlord held up a paw for silence, and the emissary’s jaw slammed shut. ‘You say that Sleek Sharpwit is dead.’ Gnawdwell’s sonorous voice creaked like ancient leather, but there was no mistaking the power that had defied the toll of years. ‘That is… regretful.’

‘Yes-yes, most omniscient of clanlords. It was Queek that–’

Another raised paw preceded another instantaneous silence. The clanlord smirked and resumed his knifework. ‘Sleek was a rare asset, but no good thing lasts forever. My spies in the City of Pillars tell me that Queek has won many victories since his return there. They say the dwarf-things are ready to buckle.’

‘But, Azul-Place–’

This time the emissary was able to stop himself from speaking just as the clanlord’s brow began to arch. Gnawdwell grinned viciously, a skewered tentacle halfway to his lips.

‘Fool-fool,’ Gnawdwell growled. He snapped at the tentacle, gulping it down whole and ramming the silver skewer into his wooden platter. ‘Do not think you could ever sense the world as I do, pale one. It is a long war we wage, three thousand years and still unfinished.’ He thumped his chest, the veneer of civilised self-discipline fracturing like ice over a black mere. ‘My clan struck first blood in Karak Eight Peaks. It will be mine that ends it. My clan. My glory.’ The clanlord clenched his jaw and sat back, wooden chair groaning under his bulk. He yanked his skewer free and brought the forked rod thrumming to his muzzle.

‘Do you care much for fish, Grey Seer?’

The emissary’s jaw flapped, startled by the sudden tangential shift. The thought arose that perhaps all of Clan Mors carried the same affliction of madness, but it floundered and drowned under Clanlord Gnawdwell’s red stare. The ancient seemed unsurprised by his guest’s silence and continued, paw spread to what was laid out on his table.

‘I see the slaves that go wading into the Blighted Marshes with spears for these creatures.’ He shrugged and tossed a live whelk from a bowl of saltwater into his mouth. It crunched as it went down. ‘Long ago, before I claimed Clan Mors’ place among the Thirteen, I witnessed the dwarf-thing way, hunting fish with blackpowder.’ He grinned coldly. ‘Queek is blackpowder. Sometimes you just have to throw him in.’ He mimicked the gesture, then grinned. ‘And see what bodies fall.’

He gestured with his long black snout and a pair of albino warriors hauled the grey seer up by the arms and started to drag his useless legs back towards the stairs.

‘B-b-but, great one,’ the grey seer stammered. He struggled against the firm grips around both wrists. His bells tinkled softly off his horns as he jerked to no avail. ‘Sharpwit did this to my legs. To me, precious prophet of the Horned One. And fool-Queek left me to die. The seerlord demands an example be made.’

The clanlord didn’t rise. ‘You are an irksome tick. Aren’t you, Razzel?’

‘I am the Horned One’s favoured. My survival proves it. Vengeance on the impious is only what is just, noblest and most fair of dark lords.’

Gnawdwell tittered quietly, evidently finding something of great amusement. ‘I have seen the Horned Rat with my own eyes, you petty creature, and he does not suffer favourites. So go tell Seerlord Kritislik.’ He laughed harder, black barrel chest rippling with mirth as his albino guards tossed the crippled seer down the stairs. Gnawdwell raised his voice so it would carry after him. ‘Tell him that if he so greatly wishes for an example, then he is most welcome to summon Queek to Skavenblight… and exact it himself.’

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

David Guymer is no stranger to the worlds of Warhammer, with exciting stories in Gotrek & Felix: The Anthology and Hammer and Bolter, and much more on the way. He is a freelance writer and occasional scientist based in the East Riding. When not writing, David can be found exorcising his disappointment at the gaming table and preparing for the ascension of the children of the Horned Rat.

A BLACK LIBRARY PUBLICATION

Published in 2013 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd., Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK

Cover illustration by Cheoljoo Lee.

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