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Shriekstone - Evan Dicken
About the Author
An Extract from ‘Gloomspite’
A Black Library Publication
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Shriekstone
Evan Dicken
‘Oi! Tell the Loonking, you gits skulking by,
That here, rotting in the gloom, we lie.’
– Author Unknown (Wilvar Bowrisson translation)
‘Grimnir will avenge me.’ The fyreslayer died laughing, wheezing through a grin gone wet and crimson as Ratgob worked his moonslicer deeper into the stunty’s miserable guts.
The loonboss scowled down at the red-bearded corpse. In his reign as High Creeper of Shriekstone he’d gutted plenty of duardin – heard everything from screams to death oaths.
Never laughter, though.
With a grunt, Ratgob tugged his moonslicer free and scuttled over to watch the slaughter.
His lads were doing the Bad Moon’s work. Mobs of black-robed grots surrounded the surviving fyreslayers, poking with rusty blades as the stunties bellowed in their ugly, hard-edged tongue. Ratgob had spied the nasty brutes earlier in the evening, climbing the switchback that led to Shriekstone’s corroded gates. The fyreslayers had been careful, but the mountain had eyes. Ratgob caught the fools in a double ambush, letting them slaughter a mob of malingerers while he crept from one of the many secret passages that honeycombed Shriekstone.
The thought made the loonboss smile – no one out-creeped the High Creeper.
‘Spook! Spook!’ The call went up, and Ratgob’s glee curdled as the shaman was borne forward by staggering slaves. Festooned with bells and clacking bones, Vishuz Spookfinger perched precariously upon the skull of a giant cave squig, jabbering and howling. The lads parted before him, shrieking as they crawled over one another in their hurry to escape the shaman’s ire.
Unarmed and bloodied, the last stunty struggled to its feet to glare up at Spookfinger.
‘Stab ’im!’ The shaman crooked a knobby hand at the fyreslayer. ‘Saw off his filthy beard!’
One of Spookfinger’s loons charged from the mob, mouth foaming with madcap as he raised his notched spear.
Ratgob’s moonslicer took the lad’s head clean off.
‘You ain’t the Creeper.’ Ratgob stepped from the gloom. ‘I say who gets shanked and who don’t.’
For a moment, Ratgob thought the shaman would leap from the skull and rip him apart. The air between them hung thick as the spore fields in the lower vaults of Shriekstone.
At last, the shaman gave a mocking bow. ‘You’re da boss.’
Ratgob regarded him through narrowed eyes. Give a git a big skull and he starts getting big ideas. Wouldn’t be long, now. When the time came, Ratgob only hoped Spookfinger tried something more original than a knife in the back.
The loonboss turned back to the surviving stunty. ‘Why you creeping ’round my mountain?’
‘You speak our tongue?’ The fyreslayer’s face twisted into a look of disgust.
Ratgob shrugged. ‘How else am I gonna boss my slaves ’round?’
The stunty looked like it was about to get surly, so Ratgob set it straight with a good poke. Once the worst of the bleeding had stopped, the loonboss asked his question again.
‘Grobi filth, we shall stomp your miserable bones to powder.’ The fyreslayer gave a wracking cough, spattering his beard with dark blood. ‘By Grimnir’s fist, the ur-gold of Lachad shall be ours again!’
‘Lachad?’ Ratgob ran his tongue across his jagged teeth. ‘Never ’eard of it.’
‘We stand in the Magmahold’s very shadow.’ The stunty gestured at Shriekstone’s summit. ‘Foolish skaz, flee back to your wretched holes. Runefather Thunas-Grimnir the Unflinching has summoned the Lachad Lodge. Our Lofnir brothers stand with us. A dozen fyrds have sworn vengeance before the Oathflame.’
Ratgob scratched his ear. ‘Y’wot?’
‘A host the likes of which Ghur has not seen in an age!’ The runes embedded in the stunty’s miserable hide shone as it jabbered at the surrounding mob. ‘We will come in our thousands, our tens of thousands. There will be no place to hide, no hole safe from our axes. Flee! Before the Lachad Lodge crushes–’
‘Enough of dat.’ Ratgob dragged his moonslicer across the stunty’s throat. Grinning, the loonboss spun on his heel, arms spread wide. ‘All right, lads, let’s get this lot dressed for dinner.’
Although the gits set to with a will, Ratgob could not help but notice the mutters and sideways glances. It was a safe bet none of them understood the stunty’s words, but all the shouting had them spooked.
To be fair, it had spooked Ratgob, too.
He glanced at the sky, empty but for a few racing clouds. Stars moved against the flat black as the beastly constellations of Ghur fought their endless, nightly battles. Still, he could feel it out there, like an itch at the base of his skull, a jabbering buzz so faint Ratgob couldn’t be sure if he had imagined it.
Some bosses claimed to feel the touch of the Clammy Hand, the buzz rising to a scream as the Bad Moon spoke to them. Surely it would have something to say about the stunty warhost stumping towards Shriekstone.
Ratgob cocked his head. Nothing.
‘Yer done for.’
‘Wuzzat?’ Ratgob spun, moonslicer coming up. Spookfinger had hopped down from his squig skull to creep closer while the loonboss was thinking.
‘Nuffin’, boss.’ Spookfinger raised his hands. Face-to-face, the shaman was just a weedy git, all bony and squint-eyed. ‘Just wonderin’ what yer gonna do ’bout thathorde of stunties?’
‘Never you mind that.’ Ratgob should have known the shaman spoke duardin. A glance at the mob showed the lads had almost finished stripping the dead stunties. Ratgob headed for the scuffle, wanting to get stuck in before they nicked all the best shinies and choicest chewy bits.
‘Seems important s’all.’ Spookfinger trailed behind. ‘Our bones gettin’ stomped to dust.’
‘Only nutters believe stunty gab,’ Ratgob snarled back. ‘They always lie.’
‘Shank me, dey must’ve brought every bearded nutter in Ghur.’ Ratgob squinted into the scryeball and gave a low whistle. There had been other stunties – small raiding parties filled with fools bound for Shriekstone’s slave pits and stewpots – but this was different.
The bristling Bruteplains beyond Shriekstone crawled with red-crested fyreslayers, formations of half-naked stunties marching in a column that seemed to stretch to the horizon. At the fore roamed packs of frenzied, jabbering brutes, their spiked hair
