‘You wait-wait, green-thing. Today you die-die!’
Queek leapt onto a pile of rubble, and from there threw himself into the melee swirling around its base. He cleared himself a space, slaughtering combatants from both sides. An ogre was close, isolated from his fellows a few yards further on. Queek launched himself at it, slamming his pick’s spike into the creature’s forehead. He used this to arrest his leap – curving over the ogre’s back, he yanked Dwarf Gouger out in a spray of blood and brains. Landing nimbly, he found himself alone on bare rock, as skaven, goblins and the ogre’s comrades fled from him.
The way to Skarsnik was clear.
Queek gathered himself for another leap, tittering evilly.
The ground shook. Light blasted around him and he fell to the floor, Dwarf Gouger clattering from his grasp. His ears rang from the blast. When he looked up, goblin and skaven corpses smoked all around him.
At first he thought he had been hit by Skarsnik, but the goblin was gone from his rock pile. Away to the right of where Skarsnik had capered, Queek caught a glimpse of pale grey fur, almost white.
‘White-fur!’ hissed Queek. ‘You pay for this with your head!’
Kranskritt rose from a tunnel in the centre of the cavern, arcane power crackling around him, and came to rest on the side of a toppled pillar. He snarled imperiously and flung out one hand-paw. The ground rumbled. Fissures opened like hungry mouths, swallowing creatures of all kinds indiscriminately. Queek started, meaning to run-scurry at the white-fur and strike him dead. But there was something else with him, a shadow behind him, half hidden by the black glare of Kranskritt’s magic.
Verminlord. Queek snarled. At first he thought it the same one as had come to him, but it was not. The horns were different, for one, and it was less hidden in the shadows than the other.
‘Two verminlords in the City of Pillars?’ he whispered to himself, ill at ease. ‘Unprecedented.’
The ground shook regularly as Kranskritt and his master – for the verminlord was almost certainly the weak-willed sorcerer’s ruler – unleashed a storm of earthquakes, sending even the agile Queek staggering. Snarling, he ran towards Kranskritt.
‘Fool-fool! Stop-stop!’ shouted Queek.
To his surprise, Kranskritt heard him and looked down. An expression of pure, malicious calculation crossed his face. His hands rose. Queek tensed, ready to dodge. His warpstone amulet pulsed with protective magics.
The moment passed and Kranskritt performed a deep bow. One without any sign of submission, the sort of acknowledgement given to an equal! Kranskritt was getting too confident. Another reason to kill him.
‘Do not despair, mighty Queek!’ the sorcerer shouted over the noise of his patron’s continuing magical barrage. ‘I came from my hunt in the mountains as quick-quick as I could. Clan Scruten will aid mighty Queek and save the day from green-thing treachery!’
The verminlord loomed over Kranskritt. The grey seer’s tail swished easily, given confidence by the proximity of the daemon. Queek snarled. His mind worked fast. If he killed Kranskritt now, it would be in front of everyone at a time when the sorcerer was helping turn the battle. Furthermore, he had a verminlord stood right behind him. Queek fleetingly considered matching his blades against it, but wisely decided not to.
He shouted instead. ‘Fool weak-meat! You send the green-imp scurrying away from mighty Queek’s blade! You will pay for this!’
‘And mighty Queek was doing so well without me,’ said Kranskritt sarcastically. ‘See! The goblin tunnels collapse. They are trapped! You win-win, mighty Queek. You are correct – I should be paid for this. I should be paid many-much warptokens, not with unkind bite of steel.’
Queek bared his fangs and held his serrated sword up in challenge to the seer. Then with a swift turn he sprang away, seeking others to vent his anger upon.
He would kill Kranskritt later. He promised himself that he would.
A great tremor ran through the ground as the skaven daemon and his pet sorcerer unleashed another earthquake. The goblins’ tunnels fell in, opening long trenches in the floor. Warriors from all sides fell into the gaping pits.
Belegar’s plans were in tatters.
‘A thousand times a thousand curses on Golgfag and his honourless ogres,’ said one of his bodyguards.
‘Yes,’ said Belegar absently. He watched the skaven sorcerer. He was troubled anew. Daemons were abroad in Vala-Azrilungol.
‘They are ogres. It was a gamble, a poor roll of the dice, no more, my lord,’ said another.
Belegar shook with anger. ‘It’s not that. I don’t understand,’ said Belegar. ‘How did Skarsnik know? How did he speak with them?’
Behind his back, the hammerers shared glances. This was an oft-repeated story: bold King Belegar outwitted by a goblin.
The abomination was finally dead, for good this time, but the price had been high. The crushed corpse of Brok Gandsson leaked its life-fluids onto the bare rock, pinned under the bulk of the twice-living monster. Only thirty or so of Belegar’s elite hammerers remained.
Belegar looked at the disaster unfolding in the hall. Durggan’s battery was shattered; all his men and those set to guard him were dead. The sorry remnants of the flank the artillery had anchored were surrounded on all sides, cut off and beyond hope. The horns sounded the retreat time and again, but many of the dwarfs of Karak Eight Peaks were mired in battle with one faction or the other and could not retreat. Either that or they had fallen into all-consuming fits of hatred, desperate to bury their axes in their despised foes. These dawi had lost all reason and did not heed the signals. Worst of all, the path to the doors of Clan Skalfdon was thick with goblins.
‘Sire, sire!’ said a familiar voice.
‘Drakki?’ Belegar said flatly. ‘Why aren’t you with the rearguard, recording our…’ He wanted to say defeat, he should have said defeat, but somehow he couldn’t. He was bone weary, not merely from today, but from fifty years of chasing an impossible dream. Defeat was too big a word to fit into his mouth.
‘The rearguard are with you, my king. The lines have collapsed. We have been pushed together.’ He gestured at the shrinking knot of dwarfs, units fighting back to back. ‘Bold dawi await your command, my king.’
Belegar was dazed. ‘I…’
Drakki grabbed the king’s shoulder and squeezed. ‘Do something,’ he whispered.
It was thanks to the mercy of Valaya, Belegar supposed, that the ogres were leaving the hall, killing anyone of whatever army who got in their way. He blinked. The fuddle of emotion clouding his mind receded.
‘Blow the charges,’ he said.
‘My king?’ said Drakki.
‘I said, blow the charges,’ Belegar repeated, more clearly. He hefted his hammer. His warriors breathed easier seeing their lord return to them.
‘Are you sure this is wise?’ said Drakki.
‘No. But they are rigged to collapse the hall to the south. If Durggan did his work well – and when did he ever not? – we should be able to retreat through the gate.’
‘Dawi of Karak Eight Peaks! Dawi of Vala-Azrilungol that was! To arms to arms! Make for the gate!’ called their thanes.
Horns blew loudly. The dwarfs checked their aggression, forming up into squares and blocks.