Headtaker Page 8

  Not for the first time, Queek missed the presence of his heads – their reassuring presence watching his back, their wise counsel in his ear. They would know where White-fur was hiding. Queek glared furiously into every furtive pair of eyes, daring them to defy him. Ska had always been accomplished at sniffing out treachery. His voice had always squeaked in harmony with Queek’s others. And now he was gone. Spittle leaked from his gaping maw. His vision swirled, frightened clanrats condensing into one homogeneous mass and bursting into a thousand bleeding pieces as he sought a focus for his rage. Which of these had conspired with White-fur to betray him? Queek did not know, so he challenged them to step forward and face him if they dared. None did, and he headed on with a wordless snarl, dragging his weakly struggling victim along behind.

  He started as he passed one of the yawing towers. He looked again, only for the figure he had thought he’d seen to duck behind the back of another and skulk under the rotting frame of a doorway. Queek snarled and headed that way. He was in no mood for games. One by one, the skinny, patch-furred skaven melted from his path until just one unfortunate remained. The crippled old skaven clutched the beetle-infested elm of the doorframe for dear life, holding up a crutch as if to ward him off.

  Queek slapped down the stick with the back of his paw. ‘Old-thing,’ he hissed, looking down at the tremulous creature. ‘Where is White-fur? Tell Queek or he rip-tears arms from body!’

  The old rat stared beyond him at the beaten body of the would-be assassin. He whimpered and cowered back behind the doorframe. ‘Don’t know. I swear I don’t. All my life I serve our clan. I would never betray, never-never.’

  Queek shoved the old skaven roughly through the door and followed him into the hovel. At once, his nose wrinkled at the musk and dung stench of the generations of degenerate inbreds that had laired here. He cupped paws over his welling eyes and backed hurriedly out. He doubted whether even fear of the Headtaker could compel a grey seer to hide in such a place. Much as the decrepit one tried him, Old-thing was probably telling the truth. ‘Come-come, Old-thing,’ he snapped over his shoulder as he turned to leave, paw tightening around the ankle of his now-unconscious prisoner.

  ‘Most merciful and understanding of tyrants,’ Sharpwit grovelled, scurrying from the grimy hovel in a hopping, spider-ish gait as he recovered his fallen crutch.

  ‘White-fur will turn up. Queek does better things than hunt little lone White-fur.’ His gaze tracked the extent of the great cannibalised city below ground. It was nothing, driftwood deposited on a beach, rotten spars settling where they may. Queek had no wish to insert his nose under every crab hole and stinking mound of kelp. ‘He has no army. Is Queek’s army. Queek’s skaven always loyal to Queek. Stupid-dumb White-fur, he forgets that.’

  ‘Yes-yes,’ Sharpwit agreed, hobbling after the warlord as quickly as he could manage. ‘But where do we go?’

  ‘Queek surprised Old-thing forgets. Queek remembers Old-thing as most insistent.’ His eyes rolled upward and he extended a claw to the ceiling. ‘We are here, Old-thing. Azul-Place. Queek goes to destroy.’

  Thordun felt weak at the knees. He was glad he was sitting down. And not just sitting down, but sitting on a dwarfish stool at a dwarfish table with a foaming tankard of golden dwarfish ale in his hand. He raised the vessel to his lips and gulped down half in one go. He set down the tankard and covered a belch with his hand. It was not that you couldn’t get dwarfish beer in Nuln, you could. It was just… not the same.

  He looked around, unable in just one glance to take in the full measure of the hall’s splendour. Grungni’s shrine in Karak Azul was the largest, and quite easily the grandest, to be found anywhere in the Karaz Ankor. The lord of mining was said to have dwelt within these halls – said by the dwarfs of Karak Azul in any case – and thus the primacy of that most revered of ancestors was doubly pronounced in this, his home. Row after row of long, low-slung tables filled the hall, groaning under the weight of platters of roasted meat and tankards of ale. Between them ran flushed-looking shortbeards in greasy smocks. They looked younger even than Thordun, diligently replenishing flagons of ale from great pitchers and removing teetering trays of picked-clean bones.

  The dwarfs chewed purposefully in silence, paying rapt heed only to their own platter. It was astonishing that so many dwarfs could generate so little noise. Aside from the rattle of animal bones tossed into pewter bowls, the cough of a dwarf taking too deep a draw of his pipe and the occasional crash of a dropped tankard, the atmosphere could easily have been mistaken for the Nuln public library.

  Thordun followed suit and kept his mouth shut.

  He gazed in wonderment at the high ceiling, its dazzling frescoes depicting seven thousand years of dwarfish history, and with equal awe at the great ribbed vaults that held the weight of the hold without need for columns. Set into the vertiginous granite walls, more ancestor statues sat in states of repose upon marble plinths bearing the names and great deeds of the worthies depicted in immortal stone upon them. The statues themselves had been festooned with ornate mining lanterns, the ancestors of Azul casting a homely glow upon their feasting kin and gifting it with the evocative aroma of burning oil. Between such statues, and they were numerous, rich hangings were draped bearing the runes and accumulated history of the clans of Karak Azul from carpenters to kings. Across the many bowed heads, about as distant from Thordun’s table as could be, the king and his thanes feasted beneath a vast statue of Grungni. The stone colossus was taller than five dwarfs, its beard speckled with silver, its body clad in iron and gromril plate finer than that worn by any living prince of Karak Azul.

  The contemplative air was infectious, and Thordun’s mind began to wander. It had been many months since he had departed the Empire, far too long to plan such things, but he had secretly hoped to arrive at the home of his ancestors in good time for the Feast of Grungni. To arrive on the very day itself could surely only speak of providence. In his excitement, he had shared the thought with Bernard, but the Bretonnian had been less enthusiastic. ‘Fishing a corpse from the Aver and finding a pfennig still sewn into its jerkin, that’s providence. This is just lucky.’

  Thordun hoped that Bernard and the others were keeping clear of trouble. Unlike more cosmopolitan strongholds such as Zhufbar or Barak Varr, Karak Azul was far to the south and with too grim a reputation to lay claim to any great human populace. But humans, it seemed, got everywhere, and there were always a few pirates and ruffians prepared to risk the Old Dwarf Road for Arabayan gold or a mercenary’s wage in the Border Princes. They had even encountered a couple of bands who, like Thordun, fancied a tilt at Kazador’s fabled reward. He had overheard that, on Grungni’s night, those men would gather in one of the taverns of the First Deep where they could see the open sky and drink in the new day; there to carouse to their own gods and any other deity that could be named – provided they not be dwarf – with free ale to he who could cite the most. Thordun rubbed his chin nervously. Throwing Bernard into that drunken mix seemed a recipe for blood on the stones and a very brief stay for Thordun in the home of his ancestors.

  Even so, he was glad that men were not welcome in the Feasting Hall this night. The feast was a night for dwarfs, and he did not want Bernard to spoil it for him. This night had always been the highlight of his calendar, even as he had spurned most dwarfish things in his youth. It had been an excuse to get drunk, to sing loud songs, to dance with girls, to stay up all night and not annoy his father in doing it.

  The thought of his father had him reaching again for his ale. He had been so lost in thought he hadn’t even noticed some kindly soul refill it. He sat back, regarding the silent throng with a shrug. Maybe this was how true dwarfs celebrated Grungni’s Day, with quiet reflection and personal enjoyment of the mountain’s bounty. He raised his tankard in silent salute. He would drink to that.

  ‘Put your drink down, lad. A fly’ll land in it.’

  Startled, Thordun looked across the table to where an apple-cheeked ol
d dwarf, evidently somewhat the worse for wear, downed the last dregs of his ale. He smacked the empty tankard on the table, seemingly blind to the poisonous looks shot him by his neighbours, and used his sleeve to wipe his grey beard of suds.

  ‘There are flies down here?’ Thordun asked, still a little stunned that anybody had spoken to him at all.

  The old dwarf grunted in laughter. ‘There’s always flies, lad.’ He reached across the table, offering a hand, which Thordun took in a firm shake. ‘Handrik Hallgakrin, beardling. What brings you to the Iron Peak on this cheeriest of nights?’

  ‘I’m not a beardling,’ said Thordun, offended. ‘I’ve passed my fiftieth year.’

  ‘Have you now?’ Handrik chuckled.

  ‘My name is Thordun Locksplitter.’

  Handrik sat back, smoothing the braids of his beard as if in deep thought. He flagged down a passing server who poured fresh ale into his tankard, and only when his cup was overflowing once more did he speak again. ‘You wouldn’t be kin of Thordred Locksplitter?’

  Thordun sighed. He hadn’t expected his name to be recognised after so many years. ‘Thordred was my father.’

  Handrik raised a bushy silver brow. ‘Was…?’

  ‘He died in the skaven attack on Nuln,’ he said, setting his mug on the table. He gripped it with both hands, his eyes growing distant. ‘You’ve never seen such evil. Plague, famine, rats under everything. It was darkness as you can’t imagine. And that was before the skaven came. Half the city was destroyed in a single night, everyone who survived lost someone. Most more than one.’

  ‘Thaggoraki,’ Handrik muttered darkly after a fortifying sip of ale. ‘He was a stout lad, your father. The best of lads, the sort you don’t find nowadays. I’m sure he died well and has his feet in front of a roaring fire in the Ancestors’ Hall.’ Handrik’s broad smile did little to banish the spectre that had settled over both their shoulders.

  Thordun cleared his throat nervously. ‘Actually, that’s why I’m here–’

  ‘Hush lad,’ hissed Handrik, cutting him off. ‘Time for the speech.’

  As if on cue, a horn sounded a deep bass note, and the hall filled with the scraping of stools as the gathered dwarfs rose as one. Thordun stood on tiptoe to gaze over the intervening heads to the far end of the hall. A proud white-bearded figure in royal vestments clambered onto his table.

  ‘That’s King Kazador,’ observed Handrik.

  Thordun grunted an affirmative.

  As he watched, the king raised the rune-carved ivory horn to his lips once more and sounded a long clear note that brought the hall to total silence. The king was garbed in heavy robes of blue wool and animal furs, layered over his armour as though girded for war, his simple crown affixed to a spectacular winged helm. His beard was carefully braided, plaited between five heavy golden clasps. With the reverence due a timeless heirloom, the king hung the horn from his belt, clasped his hands behind his back and prepared to address his people.

  ‘On this day,’ Kazador intoned in a rich baritone that carried with ease to the far reaches of the shrine, ‘we give thanks.’

  The king paused and Thordun looked around. He’d expected a cheer or a round of applause, but the dwarfs looked as if they were here to suffer rather than celebrate. Behind him Handrik stood head down, eyes closed like a Sigmarite sister in prayer.

  The king turned to face the image of Grungni. ‘And for what do we offer our thanks? We thank him for iron and for gromril and for gold. We thank him for copper and lead and tin.’ He shook his head with a grim laugh, shunning the face of his ancestor. ‘We could. If such things alone had value. Perhaps we thank him for teaching us to dig, that we may bury our heads beneath the stone of the karak while above a world is consumed by darkness? Or perhaps we should give thanks for the protection of walls of marble and granite? Ha!’ he barked, startling those who stood closest to him. ‘So we instead offer praise for kith and kin, safe within our mountain’s warmth.’ Kazador’s voice broke, and Thordun feared the king might weep, but the king’s eyes were dry and his face wrathful. The king stamped his heel on the table top, gesturing angrily to one of his blue-liveried servants. ‘Ale! Pass me ale, you beardless bozdok!’

  Ale was hurriedly pressed into the king’s hand, and he thrust out the tankard to the grimly observant throng. ‘Thank you, Grungni, ancestor of Karak Azul, lord of mining. We offer our thanks for all that you deign to give.’ There was a rippled muttering from the dwarfs in reply. Kazador brought the ale to his lips. ‘And,’ he growled, ‘for that which you take away.’

  Thordun joined his fellow dwarfs in reciprocating the king’s ‘toast’, wetting his throat with ale and retaking his seat amidst much shuffling and scraping as others did likewise.

  Handrik puffed out his cheeks, noisily expelling the air between his lips. With a sigh, he downed the remnants of his ale and signalled for more. ‘And they say oratory is a fading art.’

  Thordun nodded. This was definitely not the way the Feast of Grungni was observed in Nuln. The distant strains of a heated argument made him twist in his stool. The king was remonstrating with a fearsome-looking dwarf. Even from a distance, Thordun recoiled from the hard steel in the longbeard’s stare.

  ‘That’s Runelord Thorek Ironbrow,’ observed Handrik, following the younger dwarf’s look.

  ‘That’s impossible! My father told me stories of Thorek’s deeds. He must be long dead for half of them to be true.’

  ‘I’d wager they’re all true and then some, lad. Thorek was old when I was young and I’m no beardling myself.’ His good humour faded as he followed the distant argument. ‘I don’t envy the king. Thorek has a hammer for a tongue.’

  ‘Handrik, why does a venerable longbeard like you seat himself with rootless wanderers like me? Surely you should be up there at the king’s own table.’

  The longbeard belched and eyed Thordun blearily. ‘You’re a young and impertinent beardling. I would have expected Thordred to impart better manners.’ He sighed, pushing his freshly refilled ale away. ‘This is my first feast in fifteen years. I would always volunteer for duty in the Underdeep on this night. It has not been the same since… since the dishonour. It happened just before Grungni’s Day you know, lad. Urk and grobi, plundering and killing. You thought Nuln was bad?’ He shook his head, laughing without humour. ‘You haven’t experienced true evil, lad. I missed the lot too. I was patrolling the Underdeep when the greenskin savages broke into the Fifth Deep. It was all done and dusted by the time word got down. To come back and see what I saw. Pray you never see the like, lad, pray you never do.’

  At the royal table, Thorek was gesticulating angrily, hissing through his beard and jabbing a beringed finger into the king’s chest. Kazador, for his part, bore the runelord’s tirade in grim-faced silence until, without a word and abandoning the old dwarf mid-sentence, he turned his back and walked away. Thorek’s jaw clenched, but the venerable runelord managed to sit without doing himself the dishonour of giving vent to his fury. Kazador stalked through the seated ranks of his people with an expression set in obsidian. Not a single face looked up to note his passing, and Kazador offered less in turn as he swept from the Hall. The disapproving grumbles of a nearby table of longbeards were swiftly tempered by the brooding proximity of Runelord Thorek.

  Handrik leant across the table and pulled his ale back towards him. ‘Kazador is a good king, lad.’ He took a sip and set it back. ‘A great king. You should’ve seen him before. There was none stronger. He could lift a laden ore pony, one in each hand, and outdrink any dawi in the kingdom. His tally in the grobkull is the greatest since the Golden Age and unbettered since. Aye, he was a fine king.’ His expression soured as he stared at Thordun. ‘What’s been done to him would change anybody, don’t you forget that. You can’t imagine true loss, not at your age. And then… then there is the prince.’

  ‘What happened to the prince?’

  Handrik stiffened. ‘Enough of your questions! Let me ask one of you. What brings
a son of Azul back home?’

  ‘I come with a company of men to recover Kazador’s lost kin.’

  ‘And help yourself to the reward no doubt,’ Handrik barked gruffly, but Thordun saw from the sparkle in his eyes that the old dwarf was joking. ‘Good for you, lad,’ he laughed and the two dwarfs struck tankards together and drank.

  ‘Tell me, Thordun Locksplitter,’ Handrik began earnestly. ‘Tell me what you will do with half the wealth of Kazador once you have earned it.’

  Thordun sighed as he joined his elder in envisaging such a mountain of gold.

  ‘And are you ready to do battle with the squatter king, himself? He is the largest orc in these mountains and old as far as such foul beasts measure such things. Some of these beardlings say he’s as strong as Kazador in his prime, but younglings today seem quick to such judgements and half wouldn’t remember their king’s feats in any case. Present the king with the head of Gorfang Rotgut, lad, and you’re entitled to your pick of the king’s treasury.’ The old dwarf slouched, his eyes glazed, almost glittering with the heaped gold he pictured behind them. He started to laugh, a girlish giggle unbecoming so grizzled a veteran. ‘Did your father ever tell you of the time I caught him breaking into the king’s vault? Not to steal of course, just to prove that he could.’

  Smiling, Thordun shook his head.

  ‘Well, listen up then, it’s a good story…’

  Sharpwit stood in the entryway to the warlord’s newly appropriated burrow, uncertain whether to go or to stay, or if Queek even realised he was there. The chamber was large and, judging by the even grooves scoured into the rock, dug by machine rather than by skaven paws. Ratskin parchments scratched with wireframe diagrams of unrecognisable machines littered the floor space. Long bronze-plated shelves ran the length of the burrow at waist height, packed with strange, many-pronged instruments and alchemical apparatuses that bubbled and spat, filling the small burrow with a vinegar sharpness.