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  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 slowi
ng 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.