After a long pause, the voice spoke again. ‘I could protect you, little Kranskritt, but there must be no more attempts to bind me.’
Kranskritt stamped his footpaw in frustration and threw down his stylus. ‘You tell me not to be scared of Queek. I not scared of Queek, but Queek almost kill this poor, stupid-meat. Then potion wear off and I am plenty-scared! Why did you not tell me how bad I would feel?’
‘But I did,’ which was true, ‘and you were not scared, little horned one,’ which was also true.
Kranskritt drew a breath in to whine and dissemble, but he stopped, puzzled. ‘No. I was not scared.’
‘And so you are still alive. My potion worked. Stop-Fear! No gland will betray you. Fear is weakness. When will you learn-understand that what I say is truth?’
Whenever you start telling the truth consistently, and not only when it suits you, thought Kranskritt, though he did not say it. He cringed. How did he know the verminlord could not read his mind? He hurriedly composed a fawning apology in his head.
A mist gathered in the centre of the circle, coalescing into the form of a verminlord with white fur and many horns sprouting from its bare skull. Soothgnawer stepped daintily over the bounds of the binding circle, eliciting a squeak of annoyance from the grey seer. ‘I did say you were doing it wrong.’
Kranskritt slumped into a sulk, arms crossed. The first time he had seen the verminlord, taking shape in the magical fumes of the Temple of the Grey Seers in Skavenblight, he had collapsed in fear and adulation. He had been even more frightened when Soothgnawer had chosen him as the catspaw for his schemes. Not any more. Familiarity really did breed contempt. Now what he felt mostly was petulant, the verminlord treated him like a favourite slave. From under its impressive rack of horns, it gazed down at him with a wholly infuriating mixture of indulgence and smugness, like it knew it knew far more than Kranskritt ever could, and although it kept most of its knowledge to itself, it was secretly pleased when Kranskritt figured out a part of the greater picture. Most patronising, most infuriating!
‘Queek is angry, little seer,’ the verminlord said. ‘He travels repeatedly from clan to clan, despite his irritation with the role. Soon he will visit you – you cannot hide from him forever.’
Kranskritt’s tail twitched. His glands clenched. ‘Queek has his paws full. Many clans, all together. Bad recipe for big trouble. He is a mad-thing, always talking to himself.’
‘His name is enough to quell any revolt, little seer. He is not as mad-crazed as he pretends to be. When he talks, voices answer him.’
‘Whose? Who speak-squeaks to Queek?’
Soothgnawer laughed, a velvety evil sound. ‘That I will not tell you, for you do not need to know.’
‘Then what do I need to know?’ whined Kranskritt, and he threw himself flat on the floor, his forehead and the full length of his muzzle flat against the stone. ‘O great and powerful malicious one! Give-tell humble servant of the Horned Rat instructions so he might further great verminlord’s master’s schemings.’
‘Hush! Hush!’ said the verminlord. It reached out a massive claw. Kranskritt forbore to be tickled between the horns. ‘Be calm, little seer. You must keep Queek on your side, for now. Do as he says until I instruct-command otherwise.’
Kranskritt looked up into the currently skeletal face of Soothgnawer. His appearance was inconstant, and changed worryingly.
‘Do not fear, little seer. Soon there will be opportunity for Clan Scruten to regain influence. That is what we both want-desire, yes-yes?’
‘Of course, of course,’ said Kranskritt.
‘Your fellows labour upon the Great Spell in Skavenblight. Already they draw the Chaos moon nearer to this world. This has been revealed to the remaining eleven Lords of Decay. The disturbance its presence will have upon the earth will be the signal to attack.’
‘But the tinker-rats? What if they are successful with their rocket and our spell is not?’
‘Clan Skryre attempt the construction of their rocket to destroy the moon. This contest between the clans becomes heated. Much turmoil in Skavenblight, many assassinations.’ Soothgnawer paused. ‘And Grey Seer Thanquol helps Clan Skryre.’
‘Thanquol?’ said Kranskritt in surprise.
Soothgnawer nodded. ‘It is not my doing. He has proven his lack of worth time and again. He is deservedly outcast. You are my preferred instrument to restore the fortunes of Clan Scruten.’
Kranskritt grovelled in appreciation.
‘The head of our Council has plans for him, as I have plans for you, little seer. Thanquol will succeed in his venture, but Clan Skryre will fail. The Great Spell must succeed!’
‘Why cannot Kranskritt join in this most holy of sorceries, great one?’ said Kranskritt, who really would have been anywhere else but near Queek.
‘Because, little seer, there is more than one task to be done. The beard-things must die. All of them.’
Kranskritt, still abased on the floor, felt the air stir the fur on his neck as Soothgnawer bent low. ‘And do you really think,’ the verminlord said, his hot breath washing over the seer, ‘that we can trust a mad-thing like Queek to accomplish that? No.’ Soothgnawer often answered his own questions. ‘Without you, he will fail. And without you, he might survive.’ Soothgnawer’s fleshless smile grew wider on his skull. ‘And we can’t have that, can we, little seer?’
SIX
The Breaking of the Mountains
Morrslieb loomed, bigger than it had ever been, peering over Karag Nar like a glutton eyeing a honey cake. Sickly light shed from its mournful face reflected from the snow, painting the world a disturbing green.
‘As you see,’ said Drakki Throngton, loremaster of Vala-Azrilungol, ‘the Chaos moon waxes huge, my lord.’
‘What does this all mean?’ whispered Belegar. ‘Other than it’s got bigger,’ he said sharply, remembering Drakki’s endless lectures on precise speech during his youth.
‘I do not know,’ admitted Drakki sorrowfully. His breath misted his half-moon spectacles in the cold night air. ‘All I can do is check the measurements of our ancestors against our own observations.’
‘And?’ said Belegar.
‘Technically, my lord?’
‘Aye! Technically. I’m no beardling.’
‘I apologise, my lord,’ said Drakki. ‘Well, see here.’ He flopped open a book over his forearm. The moonlight, cursed though it was, was ample illumination for a dwarf to read by. ‘The Chaos moon waxes and wanes according to its own whim. Sometimes there is a pattern, often there is not. It has grown larger and smaller in the past.’ He licked an ink-stained finger and flicked back a couple of hundred pages, two centuries’ worth of measurements. The handwriting was the same as in the recent pages. Drakki was old. ‘Such as here. That was when it was at its largest.’
Belegar glanced up from the page. ‘The years of the Great War Against Chaos.’
‘Indeed, my king.’
‘And the numbers?’
‘Well, my liege. There we have the most troubling news. These indicate that this is the largest it has ever been. Diameter, illumination, frequency of transit…’ His voice trailed away. ‘All higher numbers even than during the Great War.’
‘Hmph,’ said Belegar. He leaned against the parapet. In the city in the Great Vale, greenskin campfires burned insolently. ‘And what if I were to request the non-technical version?’
Drakki shut the book with finality. ‘Then I would say we were in a great deal of trouble, my liege. And not just us. Everybody.’