Karag Durak Grudge

  KARAG DURAK GRUDGE

  David Guymer

  Let it be known that on this day a great grudge is laid upon the vile rat-kin of Karak Eight Peaks – Grungni curse their debasing paws! Twenty-four brave dwarfs of the Ironbeard clan did fall in stalwart defiance of the verminous host that did seek to overrun the Karag Durak watch post. They will be remembered. Four-score tails are demanded in recompense for this outrage. Also on this day did Grimnar Ironbeard personally defeat the rat-king of the Eight Peaks, and his scampering foe did cause the rest of the cowardly host to flee for their lice-ridden holes. The thaggoraki show their true mettle! This bold act did allow fifty-five clansmen, including Grimnar himself, to bring word of these fell deeds that they may be recorded for all time. A thousand curses upon the rat-king that, before his craven flight, he did maim bold Grimnar’s hand. May the halls of Karak Eight Peaks flow with rat-kin blood for this act. Grimnar does take the name ‘Halfhanded’, and forever shall he thus be known to his ancestors until the debt is repaid in full – a thousand vermin tails and the head of the Headtaker himself.

  from the Karak Kadrin Book of Grudges

  The damp earthen floor shook to the pounding of a thousand clawed paws, the narrow passage filled with the panting squeals of skaven warriors as they shoved and fought through the press of their brethren.

  Ska Bloodtail ran amongst them, keeping the flagging rat-men moving with the judicious application of the flat of his sword. His belly growled as a particularly plump specimen wheezing under the weight of its rusted chain hauberk struggled by. The clanrat stumbled, his footpaws tangling in knots as he fell. The skaven had barely hit the ground before those following after were diving onto his prone form. His agonised wails were short-lived as starving comrades ripped the flesh from his bones.

  The other skaven nearby chittered angrily, their own bellies clenching in envy.

  Ska took advantage of the distraction to slip a paw into the leather satchel he wore over his ancient and punished gromril coat. Tearing a thin sliver of goblin meat from the rations, he popped it into his mouth, swallowing without chewing as he looked around suspiciously. It had been wise of the warlord to entrust him with the rations; it was important that the fangleader kept his strength up. Who else would keep these lazy meat-sacks running?

  The press of warriors ahead of him grew tighter, and even slashing their wiry backs to bloody ribbons could not force them to move. Ska felt his famed strength falter, his gromril chain spattered with gore when, suddenly, he spotted the reason for their slowing.

  They had arrived at last. The gates of Karak Varn were within sight.

  Biting and shoving, he bullied his way through the massed ranks, ignoring their squabbling as he barged to the front.

  Ska slowed to a standstill as he came upon the giant gateway, gazing up towards the distant ceiling, the two great marble blocks towering into the hidden blackness. Each had once been adorned with glittering runic script but millennia of rot had eaten at their proud surfaces until all that lingered was the sad glint of gold beside dank slime and corroded stone. One giant block sat uncomfortably across the other, affording Ska a narrow view of four frightened red eyes on the other side.

  ‘Go away,’ hissed a voice from the darkness. ‘Fisk-Warlord say none enter Varn-lair. Not unless he say-say.’ The voice paused for a moment. ‘And he not say-say.’

  Ska growled, pressing his muzzle against the gap to peer into the impenetrable gloom beyond. He listened with approval as the gate-rats scurried back. Just in case.

  ‘You open! You open now-now. Warlord comes and you no-no want cross. He skin you alive and feed you to each other.’

  This time there was an extended pause, a faint chittering of tense conversation just below Ska’s hearing. After a few moments, one of the gate-rats hesitantly piped up.

  ‘But, Fisk-Warlord say...’

  ‘Grah!’ Ska head-butted the gate in a rage, taking little pleasure in the way the insolent vermin squeaked aloud in fright. He rolled his head sorrowfully against the cool surface. What was he to do now? It was so unfair that he should suffer for the stupidity of others.

  His brain was running on nothing but warpstone fumes and adrenaline, but he desperately trawled it for some fresh ploy to coax the idiot gate-rats into opening up, before a bitter scent excited his nostrils.

  His heart leapt into his throat.

  Hurriedly Ska spun from the gate, collapsing to the damp loam in the most obscene demonstration of obsequiousness his aching limbs could achieve. He didn’t look up. He didn’t dare. But he could sense the mass of skaven warriors around him doing likewise. He tried to close his nose to that bitter scent, but the musk of fear rose from the assembled masses, blending with the foul moisture that clung to the fractured walls, the miasma descending over the throng like the none-too gentle paw of a vengeful god.

  A terrified voice filtered through the tremulous thunder behind his ears and into his brain.

  ‘Open gate! He comes. Open now-now! Hurry-hurry. Fast-quick!’

  A chittering wave of obeisance rolled from the far end of the chamber, crashing over his hunched shoulders as he lifted his voice to add to it, straining to out-squeak the voices of his rivals. But still, he hadn’t the courage to raise his muzzle from the dirt.

  A footpaw squelched into the mud by his nose.

  Suppressing a whimper, he cracked open one eye. His gaze tracked upward past the chainmail skirt to the scarlet plate where sigils of skaven supremacy had been roughly carved into the metal. Ska fancied he could could still scent the lingering traces of warp-dust from the chisel’s passing in the ensorcelled armour.

  He lifted his eyes higher still and quailed. The warlord was a black-furred vision of death. A terror incarnate. From within a scarlet helm, eyes blazed with an inner fury, like fire agate drenched in the blood of a man-thing daemon. Those eyes commanded submission but, even so, Ska couldn’t stop his panicked gaze from flicking over the grisly array of trophies held aloft on the warlord’s shoulders, suspended on a wooden frame like half of a morbidly spoked wheel.

  The decaying heads rocked with Warlord Queek’s twitching movements, the creaking of the wooden spikes like the spoken words of the dead. Queek cocked his head first one way, then the other, offering his ear to the shrivelled lips of the dead things as if heeding their council.

  ‘Yes-yes,’ he hissed. ‘Queek make fool-meat suffer.’ His eyes suddenly focused on Ska, his displeasure evident. ‘Why is gate not open for Great Queek?’

  ‘Is not my fault, most vicious of tyrants. Is stupid gate-rats. Their small minds fill-fill with mould, I think. They not open door for your mighty passing.’

  Queek’s lip twitched, exposing the faintest display of glistening fangs as a snarl erupted from deep within the warlord’s gullet.

  A fresh wail of terror streamed through the gateway, pitched to a level of horror far beyond anything Ska could have engendered himself. A panicked command was heeded with the whip-crack of a lash that drew a tortured moan, building in pitching to a squeal of rusted metal. Brackish water fell from the ceiling, drenching the massed skaven who eyed the trembling walls with mounting alarm.

  His knees slowly sinking into the mud, Ska watched as Queek stalked amongst his warriors, baring his fangs and banging muzzles together to keep order as the metallic shriek rose to an ear-splitting crescendo that seemed to snap the gates in two. Protesting every inch, the great doors retreated, dragged inwards by what smelled like at least two-hundred skavenslaves to each mighty slab. Straining in despairing silence, the slaves hauled on thick, corroded chains that looped up through vast iron hoops and disappeared into the dripping darkness. />
  Ska felt the vibrations running up his paws as the marble doors slammed against the far walls, bringing a fresh shower of foul smelling rain onto the heads of the assembled warriors. He hurried to his feet, turning to inspect the open gate as a wave of damp, cankerous air washed his whiskers. Feeling pleased with himself for overcoming the obdurate gate-rats to fulfil his warlord’s instructions so masterfully, he waited expectantly for the high praise that would soon be heaped upon his tireless shoulders.

  ‘Fool-fool!’ yelled Queek, mere inches from Ska’s ears. ‘What use are you that cannot open simple door? Time wastes. Get worthless meat moving or I take every minute’s delay from your lice-ridden hide.’

  Ska’s head bobbed enthusiastically. ‘Yes-yes, I obey. Perhaps if you explain the rush-hurry that pulls so many warriors from battles with–’

  The fangleader never finished his sentence as Queek’s fist tightened around his throat.

  Ska watched through bulging eyes as the corded mass of black-furred muscle that was the warlord’s neck grew taut, dragging his kicking footpaws from the ground. Ska struggled to calm the urge to fight – an urge that would surely see him killed – as the warlord pulled him close, almost until his own blood-red eyeball pressed against that of his fearsome master.

  ‘A little knowledge is most perilous thing. Is a thing for warlords. Does Ska think to be warlord today?’

  ‘No-no,’ he croaked. His vision began to blur but still he bit down on the impulse to fight back. ‘I just... I just... I...’

  With a snort of contempt, Queek dropped him, kicking him back into the milling ranks of warriors. Each one, to a rat, looked studiously elsewhere. With any other warlord, such a spectacle would have drawn a baying crowd looking to curry favour with the victor and, with luck, take a bite of their own from the loser. But the warriors of Clan Mors knew better.

  Queek’s temper was a force best avoided.

  ‘Get them moving. I want away gone soon-soon. If not...’

  There was no need for Queek to elaborate. Ska’s eyes widened as he thrust too-slow skaven from his path, roaring until his throat was hoarse to hurry the malingering rats to their feet.

  He didn’t spare any notice as his warlord spun gracefully on his footpaws, stalking like a hungry predator towards the open threshold to Karak Varn.

  Queek stood alone in the cavernous chamber, staring after the gate-rats’ fleeing silhouettes. He doubted they would have ran as fast had it been an army of stone trolls at their back.

  ‘Indeed,’ whispered the sepulchral voice from behind his shoulder. ‘Where is the troll that could equal the might of Queek?’

  Queek didn’t turn to answer. The voices always listened when he spoke.

  ‘I like to meet this troll, I think. This troll that think it equal of Queek. Queek tear its chest and eat its beating heart.’ He hissed with amusement. His trophy heads jerked on their poles, laughing with him. ‘Stupid-dumb rock-thing. I am Queek Headtaker! I have no equal!’

  His laughter faded as he looked around. The chamber was vast, shaped like an enormous inverted bowl to house the gateway’s gargantuan opening mechanism. A noisome ooze glazed the crumbling walls. It made the rock clammy to the touch, like being inside the churning stomach of a giant made of stone. Massed banks of skavenslaves huddled in fearful silence mere paces away to either side, although such was the sickly damp that seemed to smother his senses that he almost failed to notice.

  A damp rustle from behind made him turn. He was the most feared warlord in skavendom, but some instincts existed for a reason. He relaxed – slightly – when he saw it was just Ska with a group of clanrats who had followed him in. Ska had a strange look. His gaze was vacant, animal, his breath coming in ragged gasps that heaved on his ogreish chest. Looking across at the others, Queek noticed many of them in a similar state. He had driven them hard, he realised, almost into the ground.

  More skaven piled in through the gate, eyes glinting red and hungry in the blackness, their dark craving focused on the terrified ranks of helpless slaves. Seeing the madness in the warriors’ eyes, the manacled slaves thrashed and screamed, some even attempting to gnaw through their own paws to flee the butchery they knew would come.

  Queek could not have restrained them, even if he had felt compelled to try.

  As one chittering mass, the skaven surged forward, their vicious squeals melding with the wails of the dying, echoing grimly through the dripping halls of Karak Varn.

  The army raced through the warrens of Karak Varn, groups splintering off to drag individual skaven kicking and screaming from their dens to be eaten alive by the frenzied warriors. Like the walls they cowered behind, the rat-men of Varn seemed wasted and decayed, the foul air mouldering the scrawny creature’s very bones. They fled before the army’s rampage, scurrying for soaked and sodden burrows that were sunk into the dank earth.

  Queek rode the river, directing it as best he could, but even he was not immune to his nature. Watching his minion’s feasting had stirred the Black Hunger within his own gut; the insatiable agony of the Horned Rat himself gnawing at his innards.

  And the Black Hunger could not be fought. Only fed.

  ‘Eat-feed, Queek-Warlord. We hunger!’

  Queek snarled, foam flying from his lips. That was the whining voice of Ikit Slash. The long dead skaven warlord of Fester Spike had always been weak.

  ‘Is only one skaven in Varn-lair fit for belly of Queek. He learn fast-quick not to bar path of the Headtaker!’ Queek shrieked his own bloodlust and hunger as his starving warriors surged past. He tried to focus their death frenzy, to channel it. He would make an example of Warlord Fisk that would test the fortitude of even the blackest of skaven hearts.

  He guided his army down what he judged to be the lair’s main thoroughfare. Tunnels punctured the walls of the cavern like the worm-ridden core of a particularly vile apple, skaven swarming over every opening like flies. The armoured mass of rabid warriors drove the skittish locals squelching for their holes – those too slow of foot or wit were quickly hacked to pieces, with Queek’s warriors tearing each other apart to get at the remains.

  The sound of a goblin-skin drum pounding to the rhythm of armoured footpaws slowly became audible over the chittering hoard. Summoning every reserve of authority his fearsome reputation bestowed, Queek squealed a sharp command, the sound rebounding from the walls of the cavern. In ones and twos at first the orgy of blood-letting eased, the effect gradually spreading through his army as dripping weapons were lowered and crazed minds cleared of crimson mist.

  Queek gave his musician an angry shove. The scarlet-armoured stormvermin took his cue, striking the great brass bell he bore suspended from the cross-bar of a worm-eaten stave. Thrice the dissonant bell tolled, sounding the order to reform. Responding to the command, his warriors fell in to disordered ranks, lowering a corroded ensemble of halberds, cutlasses, spears, daggers and everything in between, and issuing a barrage of coarse, challenging squeaks into the approaching darkness.

  The drumming grew louder. It seemed that even the drum itself was slave to the foul, malodorous damp that infested this place, every beat conjuring images of stagnation and decay. Just as the full emptiness of the hall seemed to tremble in sympathy to its beating, a mob of skaven spewed from the mouth of one of the many side tunnels, charging down the walls in an unruly swarm towards Queek’s depleted force.

  The charge slowed to a halt about a dozen strides back, the two blocks of skaven warriors snapping and snarling as they quickly worked out whether the force to their front was stronger or weaker than the one at their back.

  Ensconced within that protective shell of rusted steel and furred flesh, Queek saw a hulking giant in silver plate scoured to an impossible shine. A pair of segmented horns spiralled down from the sides of his helm, red eyes gleaming from beneath the thick, iron brow with undisguised malice.

  Queek kne
w Warlord Fisk of Karak Varn only by reputation. The warlord’s fur carried an unhealthy green-tinge, lending him the repulsive appearance of a hulking orc-thing, something he only compounded with his fondness for large and noisy weaponry. From the corner of his eye, Queek spied a number of ratling gun teams taking positions in the tunnel mouths flanking his force. He watched as the loaders fed belts of ammunition from casks on their backs into the long-barrelled contraptions, the gunner’s paws hovering over their cranks with a terrible, optimistic glee. The whisper on the Underway was that Fisk liked to coffle his prisoners before strafing the lines with warpstone shells, not letting up until the weapon detonated in its unfortunate handler’s paws.

  Fisk was a disgrace to the skaven race. Clan Skyre charged a fortune for their weapons, and almost as much for their operators.

  Ignoring the pitiful sight of Fisk’s so-called warriors, Queek stabbed a claw towards the craven warlord, hissing his challenge. The gesture pitched forward his gruesome array of trophies, setting the bones to rattling. ‘Beware,’ they seemed to chatter in chorus. ‘Beware Queek!’

  Queek grinned as he saw Fisk attempt a backward step, only to be blocked by the press of his own warriors, smashing the pommel of his sword into the snout of one of his clanrats as he attempted to cover his own obvious fear. Scowling at his underlings, the silver-helmed warlord barged forward, his bulk scattering his minions as he came to stand toe-to-toe before Queek. In a show of disdain, the warlord spun away from him to face his warriors, slamming a fist into his breast plate and screeching at the top of his lungs. His warriors responded in kind with a thumping of spear butts into soft earth and rusted blades upon shields.

  Queek watched the peacock posturing without concern. The weak always felt the need to show off.

  ‘You come to fight-die with great Queek? Is your mind slow-soft? Run-hide to your burrow. Queek has no match.’

  Fisk flourished his blade, a nicked and rusted bastard sword. Queek broke into a snicker of laughter as he drew his own weapons – the spiked maul, Dwarf-Gouger, and his own tried and tested blade. His heart thumped. He had denied himself too long. Soon his tongue would taste blood!