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‘That is not a good idea, great Queek,’ said Ska cautiously.

‘Stupid giant-meat Ska! Queek know this! Queek make joke! Queek only wish for sim–’

A tremendous rumble cut their conversation dead. The roof caved in, and a tumble of boulders rushed from the ceiling, clacking one atop the other until they filled the way. Ska pushed Queek aside, but his Red Guard were not so lucky. They squealed in pain and fear as three of them were crushed, and the rest cut off from their master.

Queek rolled with Ska’s shove and was back on his footpaws instantly, sniffing the air. Fear musk, blood, the sharp scent of rock dust, registered on his sensitive nose.

‘Where Ska?’

‘Here, mighty Queek!’ said his henchman from the ground. He lay with his feet trapped by rocks.

‘Ska better not be hurt – big rat with crushed feet no good to Queek!’

Ska grunted. ‘I am not hurt, only trapped. I will dig myself– Queek! Look out!’

Queek was moving before Ska had finished squeaking. He somersaulted backwards as three razored blurs sliced through the air where he had been standing – throwing stars, which clanged from the rock fall leaving smears of bitter-smelling poison on the raw stone.

Queek landed sure-footedly on a boulder. He drew his weapons as he leapt, pushing himself off with his back paws and tail. Ahead of him, a black shape detached itself from the tunnel wall. Its cloak was patterned to match the stone and no name-scent came from it. An assassin. They had their glands removed as part of their initiation. Only they among the skaven carried no smell.

‘Die-die!’ squealed Queek. He landed in front of the assassin, who promptly flipped backwards, hurling two more stars from quick paws at the apex of his jump. Queek’s sword moved left then right, sparking as it deflected the missiles. Queek jumped after his attacker, bounding on all fours, the knuckles of his clenched fists hitting the floor painfully. The assassin turned to face him, brandishing a pair of daggers that wept a deadly venom.

Queek lashed his tail from side to side, aiming to wrap it around the assassin’s ankle, but the killer stepped over it as easily as if it were a jumping rope and came in, daggers weaving. Queek parried rapidly, his and the assassin’s blades making a network of steel between the skaven. Ska watched his master helplessly, moaning and tugging desperately at his feet. Metal sparked and rang. Suddenly, it stopped.

The assassin’s arms sagged, his blades fell to the tunnel floor. Queek dropped Dwarf Gouger and grabbed the assassin by the throat. He struggled feebly in Queek’s grip, his pathetic choking noises making Queek smile until they stopped.

The assassin’s body followed his daggers to the floor as Queek withdrew his sword from his chest.

‘Stupid-meat! No one beat Queek! Queek the best!’ He licked his sword clean with a long pink tongue, working out chunks of gore from its serrated edge with his gnawing teeth. He smacked his lips and frowned at his friend. ‘What Ska doing there, lying around? Lazy Ska! Come-come! Help Red Guard dig through. Hurry-scurry.’

‘Yes, great Queek,’ said Ska resignedly, and recommenced tugging at the lumps of rock trapping his legs.

* * *

Queek waited in his trophy den for his minions to arrive. Racks where runic axes and dwarf mail coats had once hung displayed skulls and battered armour. Piles of smashed objects and trinkets were heaped all over the floor, a chieftain’s spoils gathered over a lifetime of war. He was ten! Ten years! He could not believe it. Time had gone so fast. His muscles twitched, setting his fur quivering. Not from fear, no, never that. But soon he would be old, and he did not like to think about it.

Queek had not been in his trophy room for over thirteen moons. He was gratified that it remained untouched. ‘Queek the best,’ whispered Ikit Scratch in the back of his head. ‘Everyone fear Queek!’

‘Yes-yes!’ Queek said. ‘No one dare touch Queek’s trophies.’ He ran his hands over a manticore skull, enjoying the memory of the beast’s death. ‘No one touch Queek’s trophies but Queek.’ He licked the skull and chirred with delight.

Krug Ironhand, Sleek Sharpwit and Ikit Scratch’s eyeless skulls looked on from their shelf of honour. The pickled hands of Baron Albrecht Kraus of Averland had joined his head next to them. This had not been preserved and had mummified in the chamber’s dry air, its browned flesh dried into a perpetual, lopsided grin.

‘I must say that it is good to have my hands with me,’ the baron said. ‘You know, I always say that you should have my head with you. Do I not say that, chaps? When the mighty Queek is not here?’

A chorus of ghostly groans came from Queek’s trophy collection.

‘Yes-yes! Others right! It because you always say “I always say” that your head stays here and is not with Queek and hands are!’ snapped Queek. ‘“I must say this,” and “did you know” and “I suggest”! Very boring. Hands not talk. Hands come with Queek, head stay here.’

‘My dear fellow…’

‘Silence!’ Queek was more irritable than ever. He rapidly read the source of his annoyance again, a parchment lately arrived from Skavenblight. On it were direct orders from Gnawdwell. Here he said that Queek should engage the dwarfs in a war of attrition, wear them out with the slave legions of Thaxx Redclaw.

He bared his teeth at it. The hand looked to be that of Gnawdwell, but it made no mention of their earlier conversation and Gnawdwell’s orders to finish the beard-things quickly. He held it up to his nose. The scent mark was right too.

‘This not right,’ he said for the third time. ‘Forgery. Must be trick.’

‘Trick-trap!’ suggested Ikit.

‘Maybe,’ Queek shrugged. ‘Maybe Gnawdwell change his mind, not want Queek to go to other clans.’ He sniffed the parchment again. ‘Name-smell is Gnawdwell’s,’ he reassured himself.

‘Your kind are traitorous vermin,’ suggested Krug. ‘Anything is possible. I’d watch out if I were you.’

‘Yes-yes, true,’ said Queek. ‘Maybe Gnawdwell sick of Queek. Maybe Gnawdwell send white-fur to check my power.’

‘Yes-yes!’ agreed the ghost of Ikit Scratch. ‘White-furs have no power. Someone else is behind this happening. Why not Gnawdwell?’

Queek stopped pacing, his tail swishing back and forth metronomically as he thought. The orders were contradictory, but in contradiction was latitude, freedom to act as he saw fit.

‘Very useful. Very useful indeed. Queek…’ He stopped and raised his nose into the air. ‘Shhh,’ said Queek, holding up his paw. ‘Everyone silent! Someone coming.’

Even with his back turned, Queek knew who it was. He smelt them before they came. One of the reasons he had chosen this old armoury was that the prevailing air currents blew in, not out. One of the approaching skaven had a heavy reek of beasts and skalm, the other very little scent at all. Their footsteps gave them away in any case – the light pad of a stabber-killer from Clan Eshin and the heavier tread of a hulking beast-handler.

‘Greetings, O most malevolent of potentates, O sovereign of mighty Mors. I have hurried quick-quick at your summons,’ said Gritch, his cloak whispering as he bowed. ‘My watch-spies have already told me much-much. So sorry for cave-in. Assassin not one of mine.’

‘Hail, great Headtaker,’ said Grotoose.

Queek smiled. Grotoose was gruff, to the point, and a deadly fighter – the qualities Queek admired the most. He almost trusted him. Gritch was a useful spy, but as with any Clan Eshin member, he favoured intrigue and was likely to be playing more angles than he had claws. Queek pointedly kept his back to them for a moment, showing he had no fear of a dagger between the shoulder blades. Besides, he could rely on the dead-things to warn him.