Something big in the parade let out a long, mournful low. There were many Moulder-things in the army.
‘Battle-meat, battle-meat to get Queek close to the beard-things. Five thousand, ten thousand, one hundred thousand, it not matter to Queek,’ Queek muttered. He stared at the skaven tramping by and became suddenly still. He no longer saw the troops. In his mind, he watched images of past slaughter.
The others cringed, each subtly trying to be the rat at the back of the crowd, but not too close to the giant Ska. When Queek’s constant twitching stilled, someone usually died.
Queek clenched his fists and rounded on them all. ‘Bah! This place still stink-smell of goblin-thing. Queek hate it. Queek still smell Skarsnik-thing squatting on his throne.’ He pointed to where Skarsnik’s throne had once been. ‘It so strong, Queek see him!’ His quick red eyes darted about, taking in the goblin’s defacement of the giant statues lining the walls of the Hall of a Thousand Pillars. The goblins’ shanty had been cleared, but signs of the greenskins were everywhere. What wreckage had not already been scavenged was still piled along the walls. Every inch of the place stank of goblin. He longed to kill green-things. He stared at the great dwarf gates to the surface city, opening mechanisms improved with skaven engines by the tinker-rats. On the other side of the doors were thousands and thousands of greenskins. One word would open the gates and the relief of battle could be his. Somewhere out there was Skarsnik, and he hated Skarsnik more than anything else in the world. Killing dwarfs was business, but his feud with the green-thing king was personal. His muzzle quivered with temptation.
‘Gnawdwell’s orders, remember Gnawdwell’s orders!’ squeaked the voice of Ikit Scratch from his skeleton impaled upon Queek’s back. ‘Kill beard-things first, green-things later.’
‘Queek go now,’ he said quietly, ‘before he choke on Skarsnik stink. What new boring thing has Thaxx and Skrikk to show mighty Queek?’
They had more of the same to show him, but neither dared say. ‘To the fourth and fifth deeps, O wicked and savage Queek,’ said Thaxx, spreading his arms and bowing low. ‘To the second and third clawpacks, who await your merciless majesty with much fear and anticipation.’
‘Yes-yes,’ added Skrikk, not to be outdone. ‘They are rightwise awestruck.’ The three-week journey here from Skavenblight had been somewhat detrimental to his nerves, and he jumped every time he thought Thaxx bettered him in flattery.
Three days it took to see the next two clawpacks. Queek only stopped to eat – which he did savagely and messily – or to sleep, which he did in short, rapid-breathed bursts. The finest burrows were set aside for him, the best flesh-meat. He did not care.
Much to his annoyance, nobody tried to kill him. His legs spasmed with impatience when he lay down. His hands itched to hold Dwarf Gouger. Everyone around him feared his fury. Murder was imminent, they were sure. Each warlord and clan chief he greeted showed their necks and squeaked in most pitiable homage. Each one half expected to die. Thaxx and Skrikk had it worst by far, for they had to accompany Queek everywhere. They were both sure it was only a matter of time before Queek killed one or the other, and their attempts to outdo each other in their obsequiousness became more outrageous by the hour. Their wheedling only angered Queek more.
But no one did die. They could all see-smell Queek was bursting with the need to kill, but he raised a paw against no one.
‘Steady, steady,’ said the dead beard-thing Krug to Queek. ‘You muff this up, lad, and you’ll not be getting Gnawdwell’s potion.’
‘The beard-thing is correct, mad-thing,’ added Sleek Sharpwit’s annoying voice. ‘Be careful, or you will perish.’
Queek shot Sleek’s fleshless skull a murderous glare. ‘Do not call Queek mad-thing, dead Old-thing!’
‘Steady!’ said Krug. ‘Steady.’
‘Yes-yes,’ mumbled Queek, cradling the dwarf king’s skull to his chest one sleep. ‘Krug right, Krug wise! Time only enemy Queek cannot kill. Only Gnawdwell help with that.’
‘And so the mad-thing listens to the dead dwarf, but not to the wisdom of the living. You are a poor warlord, Queek, no match for me at my peak,’ said Sleek.
‘I alive, you dead. I better,’ said Queek acidly.
And so Queek set all his will to restraining his considerable temper, resolving to add Thaxx and Skrikk’s heads to his trophy rack in due course.
Clawpacks two and three were led by Skrak and Ikk Hackflay, ex-lieutenants from Queek’s Red Guard. These stormvermin were known to him, and respected by him as much as he could respect any skaven. They were braver than most, and Queek was almost civil to them, bringing much prestige to their names. For all his hatred of machination, he changed the status of skaven simply by looking at them wherever he went. This in turn upset alliances and friendships, led to back-stabbings and new pledge-bonds. His passage through the ancient dwarf city rippled outwards, rewriting the architecture of treachery and false promises that underpinned any skaven society.
He was aware of it, but tried his best not to think about it. It only made him angrier.
Clawpacks two and three were much like the first. The second bigger than the third, half of each made up of Clan Mors warriors, the rest a selection of scruffy rabble clans.
‘Queek not see-smell slaves. Where slaves?’ he demanded shortly after visiting the third clawpack.
‘This way, O most terrible one!’ said Thaxx.
They cut across the city in the fourth deep, emerging below the stone-pile the beard-things called Karag Rhyn, and the goblins White Fang. There were many long tubular caves deep below this mountain, each carpeted with bones, some full to the ceiling with brittle skeletons. Queek looked repeatedly to the curved roof. Up there, somewhere, was Skarsnik. The imp had taken refuge in the northern range after finally, finally being chased out from the deeps. Queek sighed happily as he imagined gnawing his way up through the rock, to emerge in the imp-thing’s own room, where he would bite him to death. He tittered to himself, but his amusement turned to anger as the scenario’s impossibility rudely intruded. Queek’s tail flicked in agitation.
Laired in the bone caves were so many skavenslaves that Queek could not count them. He was dizzy on their scent. They shrank back into side tunnels at his approach, tripping over their chains to get out of his way, their eyes downcast.
‘There is many-many slave-meat?’ he asked, peering into a tunnel packed full of eyes glinting as they looked away.
Thaxx and Skrikk fought to be the one to deliver the information.
‘Over one hundred thousand, O lordly Queek!’ said Thaxx, cutting Skrikk dead. ‘We have bred them especially quickly, raising them in unprecedented time with black–’
‘Many are from Thaxx’s breeding pits, masterful Queek,’ butted in Skrikk. ‘He must be so proud, to make so many weak-meat for Queek. Poor, lowly Skrikk only provide clanrat warriors and stormvermin for Queek’s armies. Skrikk sorry!’
Thaxx scowled at his colleague. Skrikk returned a cocky smile.
‘Many weak-meat?’
‘Many-many!’ said Thaxx through gritted chisel-teeth.
‘Good-good!’ said Queek. ‘Then Thaxx not miss these.’