Headtaker Page 5

  ‘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-furre
d 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.