‘Where you go?’ said Ska mildly. He arched an eyebrow. He enjoyed the effect Queek had on the warlords.
Queek laughed horribly. ‘White-fur, white-fur! What you squeak-say?’ He pointed the rusted blade of his sword at the grey seer, but Kranskritt walked directly towards Queek, his back straight, muzzle smooth and glands closed.
‘I say I am the chosen of the Horned Rat, his emissary here in the City of Pillars, and master of the fifth clawpack.’ He looked at Queek’s swordpoint, hovering inches from his nose. ‘I am not frightened of your sword.’
‘Oh? Why-tell? You have few heartbeats before I kill-slay. Give me entertainment with last pathetic breaths, stupid-meat. Scruten no longer have favour of Horned Rat. Horned Rat say so himself. I hear he squeak-say it very forcefully to white-fur Kritislik.’ Queek giggled a rapid, twittering series of squeaks.
The grey seer came fully into what little light there was. His eyes glowed a dull warpstone-green. He wore purple robes embroidered with arcane sigils. Bells were round his ankles, his horns and his wrists. They tocked and clonked with his every movement. Strangely, none of the skaven present had heard him approach.
‘I am not frightened, because we work together for greater quick-death of beard-things. Allies not be frightened of each other, foolish, yes?’ said the seer mildly. ‘And Gnawdwell, he tell you to work with all, to make quick work of beard-thing pathetic fort-place? It would be a big shame if you kill me for supposed insult and all Kranskritt’s warriors go home. Queek’s job is then so much harder.’ He shook his head sadly, rattling his ornaments.
‘Gnawdwell a long way away from here, white-fur. I chop-kill and no one know.’
‘Oh everyone will know, most indubitably dangerous and most martial Queek. I doubt-think you care much. But I will tell you a secret.’ Kranskritt leaned in close. ‘I not care either. You kill-slay me, I go to Horned Rat quick-fast. There perhaps I can explain why Clan Scruten has been wronged, and why Queek is a big danger to all his children. And then you can come too and tell him yourself, because without my clawpack, Queek not get what Gnawdwell promise. Big, big shame and sorrow for mighty Queek as age and time make him weak. And dead. Yes! Dead-dead!’ He laughed weirdly.
Queek was outraged. His eyes bulged and veins stood out on his neck. His heart hammered so quickly its beats blurred into one constant note. Equally swiftly, Dwarf Gouger was in his hand. Kranskritt’s lackeys shrank back on their bellies. But not Kranskritt.
Kranskritt tilted his head. ‘Ah, the real Queek. Kill me then, I do not care.’
Queek squeaked. A paw held back his arm.
‘Who dares touch Queek?’ said Queek, trembling with fury.
‘He is right,’ hissed Skrikk. ‘Gnawdwell. Remember what Gnawdwell said!’
Skrikk was shaking. Queek wondered what inducements their lord had given him to be so bold as to touch Queek’s fur! But this other, he was even more troubling. He exhibited no sign of fear at all, and in the face of the mighty Queek. Queek let his weapons drop and paced around the grey seer, examining and sniffing the stranger from every angle. The seer’s servants backed away, still on their bellies.
‘You very brave, white-fur. I respect that. But there are no seers on the Council now.’
‘We are being tested by the Horned One,’ said Kranskritt. ‘That is all. You will see. Observe the might I bring to your army!’ He swept his paw behind him at the masses in the Trench.
‘No power, no influence.’ Queek sniffed suspiciously. Warpstone, yes, name scent, yes. Food, old filth and fresh-licked fur. But no fear! No fear at all. ‘You are not scared! Why you not scared of Queek?’
‘Come and see. I will show you what I have brought, yes? Then Queek know why I know you will not kill-slay Kranskritt, and so Queek will know why I am not scared. Simple, yes?’
Kranskritt gestured to the skaven waiting in the canyon. ‘No seat on the Council for Clan Scruten, no-yes. But still have power and influence we do, yes? See! I have warriors from thirty-eight clans, and many-much Moulder-beasts.’
Queek looked sidelong at the grey seer. Still he was unafraid. He held up a delicate white paw and gongs sounded. The skaven below began to march in procession. The hubbub of their gathering became a roaring, the tramp of soft feet and rattle of weapons overwhelming, and the skaven lords struggled to be heard over it. Surely even Belegar high up above could hear this doom that approached him. Queek hid a smile under his scowl.
The fifth clawpack was vast. Kranskritt rattled off the names of units and clans as they went past and into their garrison-burrows, their leaders coming nervously forward from the back of the shelf to be introduced. Despite his avowed disinterest in military minutiae, Queek recognised most of the banners. Some of them were far from home: Clan Krizzor from the Dark Lands, Clan Volkn from the Fire Mountains, for example. He snarled as the banners of traitor-Clan Gritus wobbled past. Only recently they had turned on their Clan Mors masters. Their appearance there was a slight.
‘How white-fur get so many warriors?’ demanded Queek.
‘Have power! Have influence, many-mighty horde of ratkin, yes? See! Many-much veterans, scavenge-armed from sack of Tilea-place and Estalia-place,’ shouted Kranskritt.
Queek sneered. ‘Stupid man weapons. Stupid man armour. This boring! Ska Bloodtail!’
‘Yes, O Queek?’
‘We go-depart now. Skrikk will stay. He write down all clan-things. Thaxx stay-listen to stupid white-fur boast-squeaks too. Punishment for not say-squeaking about white-fur.’ Queek stepped in close. Thaxx stood his ground as best he could, quailing at the stench of old blood and death coming from Queek’s armour. ‘Queek bored. Queek go think.’
Skrikk and Thaxx bowed repeatedly.
As Queek swept irritably from the Trench, Kranskritt smiled at his back.
FIVE
Treachery in the Deeps
Queek, Ska and Queek’s Red Guard jogged upwards. The din of the fifth clawpack mustering in the Trench was amplified by the tunnel, hurting their sensitive ears. Time and distance diminished it, until the trumpets and stamping of feet joined with all the other mysterious echoes that haunted the City of Pillars, and they found they could talk again.
‘This not good-good,’ said Queek to Ska. The latter ran as fast as his master, but his great size – for he was a giant among his kind, as tall as a tall man, and bigger than the mighty Gnawdwell himself – made him seem plodding next to Queek’s swift movements.
‘No, great Queek,’ said Ska.
‘Thaxx and Skrikk sneaky-sneaks. Not like good and loyal Ska.’
‘Thank you, great Queek.’ Ska had fought by Queek’s side for many years and was of a similar age. Where his arms were visible between his plates of scavenged gromril, his black fur was spotted with patches of brilliant white. Many battles had left their mark upon his face in a pattern of pink scars. One of his ears had been torn off. Already intimidating, he was made fearsome by his war wounds.
They passed onto a wide dwarf-built way. Once a feeder road for the lower mines, it led directly back to the lower levels of the skaven stronghold. Even there, there was little space left, most of the width of the road taken up by sleeping clanrats atop unfolded nesting rolls. From top to bottom, Karak Eight Peaks heaved with vermin. They ran along this for a quarter of a mile, kicking skaven out of the way, then turned into a lesser-used tunnel.
‘If white-fur here, much scheming. Queek hate tittle-tattle squeak plots! Queek only wish to fight.’ He gnawed at his lower lip as he thought. ‘Send-bring me Grotoose, leader of Clan Moulder here, and master assassin Gritch of Clan Eshin. Queek question them both. I find out who behind this, who try to trick Queek.’ He squeaked with annoyance. ‘Queek happier if Queek bury Dwarf Gouger in Kranskritt’s stupid horned head.’