He missed his runesmiths more than anything then. Kragg the Grim had died months ago during the Battle of the Undermines there at Karaz-a-Karak. The only other who had exceeded his knowledge had been Thorek Ironbrow, and he was also dead, slain years before. No other had their knowledge. He considered asking the younger runesmiths, or the runepriests of Valaya, or the priests of the ancestor gods, but that was a risky course of action. They would likely be as baffled as he, and the tidings would get out. In that time of threat and upheaval, there was only so much more the dwarfs could take. The last thing Thorgrim wanted were whisperings of fell powers in their king’s throne, or, perhaps more damaging, wild hopes of the ancestor gods’ return. Was this not Grungni’s own rune? Did it not guarantee the persistence of the dawi race while it was still whole? Thorgrim felt the first stirrings of such hope himself.
No one was coming. He could not risk the crash in morale that could follow the revelation of this hope being false.
He would wait and see. That was the proper dwarf way. Only when he was satisfied would he reveal this new development.
His mind made up, he wearily got into the throne. He sighed. He supposed he had better apologise to the longbeards. Tork at least needed to know what was happening.
Before he could summon his servants, a long, mournful blaring filtered down sounding shafts into the hall. Thorgrim sat forwards, listening intently. Up on the tops of Everpeak’s great ramparts, the karak horns were sounding. The immense tusks of some ancient monster, the twinned horns were blown whenever danger threatened. From the notes played by the hornmasters, the entire city could be informed of the nature and size of the enemy force.
They played ominously long and low.
The doors at the end of the hall cracked open. A messenger huffed his way up the long granite pavement to the foot of the throne. Red-faced, he executed a quick bow and began to speak.
‘My king, a fresh force of thaggoraki is moving to reinforce the besieging ratkin outside the gates.’
‘Who brings this news?’
‘Gyrocopter patrols, my liege. They report a massive horde on its way.’ The messenger’s face creased with worry. ‘They fill the Silver Road with their numbers for twenty miles and more. Clans Mors is here, Queek Headtaker at their head. Banners of the warlock clans and their beastmasters also. Clan Rictus too. They have many hundreds of war engines, my lord. Also in the deeps, my king. Traps give forewarning. Mining teams report much stealthy movement.’
‘This is it,’ said Thorgrim, clenching his hand. ‘This is it! Bring me my axe! Thronebearers! Everguard! Marshall of the Throngs, call out the dawi of Karaz-a-Karak! We skulk no longer behind our gates! Open the Great Armoury. Take out the weapons of our ancestors. Let them sit in prideful peace no longer! Dawi and treasures both to war! To war!’
As the king lifted his voice, more horns played out their alarms from the many galleries of the Hall of Kings. Within minutes, the entire city was abustle, called to the final battle.
The electric flea-prickle of the skitterleap tormented Thanquol from horn curl to tail tip, and then the sensation was gone. He clutched his robes about him with the sudden chill.
From Nuln to Lustria to the man-thing place of Middenheim, Thanquol had followed Lord Verminking. He had been dragged about the world only half willingly, skitterleaping unimaginable distances. He did not trust the verminlord, because he was not a fool. Thanquol knew he was being used. He was arrogant enough to think initially that he was the master in his relationship with the Verminking, but wise enough to quickly reach the correct conclusion. Thanquol was merely a pawn in the mighty daemon’s game.
Once he had accepted that, everything did not seem so bad. Surely it was no bad thing to serve the most powerful rat in existence after the Great Horned One? And he was learning a great deal from the creature. More, perhaps, than Verminking intended to teach.
He examined their new location. It was an unusual place for a meeting, thought Thanquol, but the symbolism was hard to miss.
Even with its head blasted to rubble, the statue of the ancient dwarf-thing was enormous. Once this great stone king would have watched over the Silver Road Pass, an image of the strength of the dwarf kingdom. Now, in its ruin, it made rather the opposite statement.
‘They come,’ hissed Verminking. ‘Be silent, be deferential, or even I will not be able to protect-keep you!’
Clouds of shadows blossomed all around Thanquol and Lord Skreech. Ten more verminlords towered over him, gazing down, their ancient eyes gleaming with malice.
‘Why-tell the little horned one here?’ asked one of two diseased Lords of Contagion among their number.
Not knowing what to do, Thanquol gave the sign of the Horned Rat and bowed low before each. This seemed well received by the entities. Only the two foulest-looking of them gave tail flicks of displeasure.
‘You know why, Throxstraggle,’ answered Verminking, his own twin tails flickering menacingly. He glared intently at the greasy rat-daemon for a long moment before continuing, addressing the circle of verminlords. ‘We asked-bid you here so that we all agree. The Council of Thirteen decree is that the clan that delivers the dwarf-king’s head name-picks the last Lord of Decay. We are as one on this agreement, yes-yes?’
This was news to Thanquol. From Verminking’s feet he tried to gauge the reaction around the circle. Most of the verminlords bowed their heads in assent. A few of them looked irritated and abstained. It was with some pride that he noticed that none of the verminlords had horns as twisted or as magnificent as did the mighty Lord Skreech.
‘We are but eleven in number – where-tell is Lurklox?’ asked one, a grossly inflated parody of a skaven warlord.
‘Here,’ said a voice from behind them. Thanquol startled, but was pleased not to have leaked out anything regrettable.
A black-shaded Lord of Deception joined the circle, its face masked and body hidden in curling shadows. ‘As we anticipated,’ it said in a whispering voice, ‘the end of the dwarf-things approaches.’
‘All goes to plan-intention?’ asked Verminking.
‘What plan-intention?’ said a white-furred verminlord of inconstant appearance. ‘We agree-pledge that Clan Scruten will be reselected to the Council. This is our plan.’
Again, general indications of assent from the circle, with some dissension.
‘Quite right, we all declared it to be so. Why fret-fear?’ said Verminking reasonably.
‘My candidate is ready. Tell-inform me how the head will be won, and how it will be delivered to Kranskritt.’
‘You doubt our purpose?’ said Lurklox.
‘Lord Skreech takes new-pet Thanquol with him everywhere. He is a grey seer. I suspect-think Lord Skreech intends to gift-give the head of the long-face-fur to him.’
Verminking bristled. ‘You doubt my word, Soothgnawer?’
Soothgnawer laughed. ‘I would be a fool weak-meat to give any credence to your words at all.’
Verminking dipped his head in appreciation of the compliment. ‘Be easy. Thanquol has been very useful, very cunning. He will win great reward for his efforts, but…’ He looked down. ‘His place is not to be on the Council. We need his many talents elsewhere.’