‘Yeah, right. Shall we give it a little try? I reckon a blast of Mork magic’d put a very big hole in you, you… you… ratfing. Don’t you?’
‘This is no stand-off, green-thing. I mighty-powerful. I show you mercy. If I wanted you dead, tiny and most vexing imp, dead you would be.’
‘Who’s showing who mercy? You want to test?’ He jiggled the prodder. ‘Fzapp!’ it went, very quietly but menacingly. Skarsnik sniffed at the sharp smell of discharged magic. ‘What is it you want, anyhow? Not seen one of your like for a while.’
‘I am verminlord! Master of skaven. You have glimpsed-seen my kind?’ said Lurklox, catching his surprise just a moment too late.
Skarnsik nodded the tip of his pointy hat to a large skull mounted over the fireplace. ‘Yeah. You could say that. Bagged that one about fifteen winters back.’
Lurklox looked at the yellowing skull then back at the prodder. Skarsnik grinned evilly.
‘So now we got that out of the way, what do you want, then? Get on with it, I haven’t got all day. Just lost a battle, and I need to do something about it.’
Skarsnik’s bravado rather put Lurklox off his stride, and spoiled his grand entrance. He stood taller, but the goblin would not be intimidated.
‘Green-thing!’ said Lurklox portentously. ‘You are beaten-defeated. The indefatigable Queek has smashed your army for the last time.’
Skarsnik looked off at his heaped stuff, disinterested. ‘Has he now? There’s a lot more where those boys came from.’
‘Lie-lie! Green-things like strength. You beaten, you not strong. They leave soon, and you die-die.’
‘Right,’ said Skarsnik. ‘I’m no quitter though, and I’ve won a lot more battles than I have lost.’
‘Already your large and bouncing beast-thing is no more.’ Lurklox pointed at the broken chain still manacled to Skarsnik’s ankle. ‘We kill-slay it, we kill-slay you.’
‘You wait a minute,’ said Skarsnik with sudden and dangerous anger. ‘The fight ain’t gone out of me yet, you big horned rat… rat… What was it you said you was?’
‘I great verminlord!’ shrieked Lurklox.
‘I don’t care what you are, you’re in my bedroom and I’m not happy about it!’
Lurklox sniffed the air and made a disgusted noise. ‘Neither of us are. To business, then! I come offer-give with mighty gift-offer for green-thing Skarsnik! In possession of Ikit Claw, arch-tinker rat, is a very powerful bomb.’
‘A bomb?’ said Skarsnik.
‘A bomb! The greatest bomb ever made by rat-paw and skaven ingenuity.’
Lurklox waved a paw, and a scene wreathed in warpstone-green smoke shimmered in the air before Skarsnik. It showed a vast and busy workshop. Skaven in strange armour worked at cluttered benches. Atop one of these was an intricate brass device the size of a troll’s head.
‘Yeah?’ said Skarsnik, careful to hide his surprise at the workshop, the likes of which he’d never seen before. He rapidly factored its existence into his calculations, allowing for it being an illusion, but he reckoned it probably wasn’t. ‘So what? Why are you telling me this? Gloating, are we? Going to blow me up? Didn’t work last time, did it?’ He decided the towering rat god wasn’t going to kill him just yet, and he sat down on his filthy bed with a groan. It had been a testing day.
‘No-no! I give-bring to goblin warlord! A fitting gift-prize for worthy foe.’
‘And what the zog exactly am I supposed to do with this giant metal egg, eh?’
‘There are many dwarf-places left. See!’ Lurklox brandished his shadowed claws again. An image of a strong dwarf citadel surrounded by a siege camp. ‘Zhufbar-place! Impregnable, undefeated. Many skaven die here. Perhaps you could win great glory for yourself by bringing it low?’
‘Looks like you’ve got plenty of furboys there right now. What do you need me for? And come to think of it, why not just get one of your sneaky pink-nosed little pals to do it? You don’t need me at all.’ Skarsnik’s eyes narrowed. ‘Why not just off me now? I’m not buying this at all.’ Skarsnik emphasised his words with the prodder.
‘You are as much boon-thing as problem-trouble, green-thing. Many pieces on the board-game. I prefer to keep you alive. The skaven at Zhufbar-place are weak. You are strong. Dependable.’
‘That’s nice to know,’ said Skarsnik.
‘You do as I squeak-say, green-thing?’
Some of the defiance went out of Skarsnik. He felt older than ever. He was tired. Outside a sea of rats awaited him, Queek wanted his head and might just get it this time, he’d lost his only useful advisor, and then there was Gobbla. The next time this big rat paid him a visit, he might not survive. Skarsnik slumped a little, it was time to face facts. ‘I don’t see I got much choice,’ he said quietly. ‘But it’s going to cost you more than the big boom boom,’ he added sharply.
‘Yes-yes?’
‘If I can’t kill Queek,’ he spat the name, ‘I’ll not be happy leaving both them gits alive. Bring me Belegar’s head for me collection, and I’ll do as you say. Skarsnik will leave the Eight Peaks,’ he smiled. ‘Although it’s more like six and a half peaks now, ain’t it?’
‘You swear-swear, and you go to Zhufbar? Lead your mighty armies there?’
‘And then I’ll never come back. I swear it. Although you know that means nothing, right?’
Lurklox’s masked face appeared for a moment in the swirling green-black fog surrounding his form. Something like a smile wrinkled the skin visible around his eyes.
‘I see why we have not beaten you yet. You are almost like a skaven.’
‘Oi!’ said Skarsnik. ‘There’s no need to be rude.’
There was much to be done upon the surface. Queek’s desire to see the green-things’ shanty totally demolished and their burrows stopped up bested his patience, and it was growing dark before Queek, still besmirched and begrimed with the filth of battle, marched back towards the comforting darkness of the underworld. His troops lined every street on his route, squeaking out his name. He went slowly, letting them see him, his head held high and chest puffed out, his trophy rack bloody with new heads. Ska went behind him, his Red Guard marching in perfect step after Ska.
‘Another victory!’ Queek said. ‘Another victory for mighty Queek! Queek brings Clan Mors only victory!’
‘All hail mighty Queek!’ shouted Ska.
His guard clashed their halberds on their shields and shouted. The army cheered, bowing and fawning over their leader as he walked past them.
Once inside, Queek made straight for the burrows he had requisitioned as his base for this war on the surface. His servants awaited his coming. Blind, weak and castrated, they were feeble examples of the skaven breed, and that suited Queek perfectly.
He went to be cleaned, allowing the quaking slaves to unstrap his armour. They licked blood from his fur, bit out tangles and scabs, and gingerly cleaned his few scratches. His armour was given the same attention. Once upon a time, Queek had been lax in his hygiene, allowing the muck of battle to cake his armour for weeks at a time until he stank. Not any longer. He had resolved not to go abroad filthy as a plague monk. He told himself it was all about appearances, but deeper down, and as Sleek Sharpwit’s head kept telling him, it was because the smell of death reminded him that he was getting old.
As his servants worked on him, he relaxed. Some of the murderous tension went from his muscles. To his followers he had delivered a great victory, but all he could think about was the green-thing retreating back through his gates to the safety of the Howlpeak. Queek’s lip curled, his fists clenched. Belegar was easy-meat now, dead-meat weak-meat, but his extermination of the dwarfs would give the imp time to retrench, and Queek had not slain as many of his goblins as he had hoped.