Headtaker Page 3

  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 s
kaven. 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 oa
f. 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.