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  ‘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 t
hrough 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.