‘Too much faith you have in him,’ said Basqueak. ‘Fool-thing, Throxstraggle is correct. We should slay-kill very slowly. Then find another.’
Verminking stroked the surface of the foetid pool, his long black claw sending ripples across its surface and the image shimmering above it. ‘No-no. It is he, it is he.’
‘Who make you decide-determine? Vote! Vote!’ screeched Verstirix.
‘Yes, vote-vote. Ten against two. You lose, Soothgnawer, Skreech,’ bubbled Vermalanx.
‘Not two against ten, not that at all. You count bad.’
‘Two! Two! I see only two, fool-things!’
‘Three against ten,’ said Verminking quietly. He looked meaningfully at the Horned Rat’s throne. It could have been a trick of the light, but it appeared that the warpstone eyes of the effigy atop it glowed more brightly.
A silence fell over the Council. Tails twitched. Beady eyes darted beneath horns that shook, just a little, with fear.
‘I say,’ said Poxparl calculatingly, ‘that we give Thanquol another chance. Mighty Lord Skreech has moved-touched my heart.’
‘Yes-yes,’ squeaked Basqueak very loudly, talking directly towards the vacant throne. ‘I vote yes-yes.’
‘I too,’ said Throxstraggle.
‘If it is so, it is so,’ muttered Vermalanx.
One by one, the verminlords voted. The motion was passed by a narrow margin – there had never yet been a unanimous vote on the Shadow Council. Verminking looked to Verstirix, challenging him to use his veto. The ex-warlord looked at the empty throne, then found something on the surface of the table that needed his urgent attention.
‘It is done, then,’ said Lord Skreech Verminking triumphantly. ‘Let us rip the veil between worlds. Let us stalk mortal lands again! Skitter-disperse, go to your favourites.’ He peered hungrily into the pool. ‘Go where you will, as quickly as you can. We shall go to Thanquol.’
Thanquol’s nose twitched, his famous sixth sense giving him the itchy feeling that he was being watched. He looked around the stinking alley, into crooked windows, along the skyline, black against the foggy night, into alleyways where sagging duckboards crossed open sewers. He saw no threat, but shivered nonetheless. His musk gland clenched.
‘Sssss! Jumping-fear at own shadow! At own shadow!’ he scolded himself. He jerked an angry paw at his bodyguard. ‘Boneripper, on-on!’
And so, unknowing of the attention focused upon him at that moment, Thanquol continued with his furtive passage through Skavenblight.
PART ONE
The Lords Of Ruin
Autumn - Winter 2523
ONE
Kingsmeet
The kingsmeet was over, and Belegar was glad. Soon he could go home.
The dwarf kings met in Karaz-a-Karak, Everpeak, home of the dwarf High King. Everpeak was the last place in the world where the ancient glory of the dwarfs shone undimmed. No matter that only half its halls were occupied, or that the works of its forges could never recapture the skill of the ancestors. The place teemed with dwarfs in such multitudes that one could be forgiven for thinking that they were still a numerous people.
Being there made Belegar miserable. In the distant past his own realm had been Karaz-a-Karak’s rival in riches and size. His inability to return it to glory filled him with shame.
He sat in an antechamber awaiting the High King, nursing a jewelled goblet of fine ale. He had been born and raised in Karaz-a-Karak, but half a century of dwelling in the dangerous ruins of Vala-Azrilungol had blunted his memory of its riches. The opulence on display was astounding – more value in gold and artefacts in this one, small waiting room than were in his own throne room. He felt decidedly shabby, as he had done all the way through the kingsmeet. Two months hard travelling and fighting to get here. He had to sneak out of his own hold, and he would have to sneak back in. Now here he was, kept behind like a naughty beardling after all the other kings had been sent to feast. Nothing Thorgrim would have to say to him would be good. The two of them had ceased to see eye to eye some time ago. Belegar steeled himself for another long rant about failed obligations and unpaid debt.
He rolled his eyes. What had he been thinking, telling the others he occupied a third of Karak Eight Peaks? From a strictly technical point of view, it could be deemed truthful. He had opened up mines, captured a good part of the upper deeps, and held a strong corridor between the surface city and the East Gate. But in reality his holdings were far less. The East Gate itself, the citadel, the mountain halls of Kvinn-wyr. Everything else had to be visited in strength. And he had promised military aid. With what?
Not for the first time, he cursed his pride.
The doors to the far end of the chamber opened wide. A dwarf in the livery of Thorgrim’s personal household bowed low, sweeping his hood from his head.
‘Majesty, the King of Kings is ready for you.’
Belegar slid from the rich coverings of the bench. A second servant appeared from nowhere, a fresh mug of ale on his silver tray. Belegar downed his first, until that moment untouched, and took the second.
‘This way,’ said the first dwarf, holding out his hand.
Belegar was shown into a chamber he knew only too well. One of Thorgrim’s private rooms high in the palace, it was large and impressive, and consequently used by the High King when he was going to dress down others of royal blood. It had grand views of the approach to Karaz-a-Karak, seven hundred feet below. Summer sunlight streamed in through the tall windows. A fire of logs burned in the huge hearth. A clock ticked on the wall.
‘Belegar,’ said Thorgrim levelly. The king wore his armour and his crown. Belegar tried to think of a time he had seen him without it, and failed. The latest volume of the Great Book of Grudges sat open on a lectern. A bleeding-knife and a quill rested in specially cut spaces by it. ‘Please, take a seat.’
Thorgrim gestured to one of a number of smartly dressed servants. They disappeared, returning moments later with a tall jug of beer and a platter piled high with roast meats.
Belegar sat down opposite the High King with resignation.
‘I do not mean to keep you from the feast. Please, help yourself, sharpen your appetite for when you join the others,’ he said.
Belegar did as asked. The kingsmeet had been long, and he was hungry. Both food and ale were delicious.
‘We’ll wait a moment before we get started,’ said Thorgrim. ‘There’s another I wish to speak with.’
The door opened again then. Belegar turned in his seat, his eyebrows rising in surprise at the sight of Ungrim Ironfist. The Slayer King strode in and took up a seat. He nodded at Belegar as he sat. His face was stony. Ungrim always had been angry. Belegar had no idea how he managed to survive caught between two oaths so contradictory. And he had just lost his son. Belegar felt a stab of sympathy for Ungrim. The safety of his own boy was never far from his thoughts.
Thorgrim pressed his hands on the desk before speaking, formulating his words with care. ‘All this business with the elgi and the walking dead has got me unsettled,’ said Thorgrim. ‘Things are happening of great portent, things that speak to me that…’ He shook his head. He looked even more tired than he had in the meeting. ‘We discussed all that. I am grateful for your support.’
‘Of course, my king,’ said Belegar.
‘Why wouldn’t I want to march out and destroy our enemies? You’ve heard all I have to say on this matter,’ said Ungrim.
‘I have,’ agreed Thorgrim. ‘Summoning the throngs will not be easy. You have heard Kazador and Thorek’s objections. They are not alone. The argument between attack and defence is one I have had all my life, and I fear it is too late to win it.’ Thorgrim paused. ‘I have asked you both here as you are, in your own ways, special cases. Ungrim,’ he said to the Slayer King, ‘to you I urge a little caution. Do not throw away your throng in the quest for vengeance for your son’s death, or in order to fulfil your Slayer’s oath.