It was proof of the lads’ unease that only a few tussles had broken out among the mess of bosses, foregits, nutters, loonchiefs, spikers, eviscerators and fraudmarshals that crowded the mossy treasure vault deep within the bowels of Shriekstone. They clustered in a tight knot near the entrance, well out of reach of the giant cave squigs chained to the walls.
Dirty gold winked in the torchlight, piles and piles of the stuff scraped from every wall, statue and cranny over generations – all the dosh in Shriekstone, or at least all the dosh the High Creepers had managed to nab. Ratgob enjoyed dragging stunty slaves down to the vault, letting them see all the gold so he could watch the mad hunger in their eyes become terror as he fed them, one by one, to the guard squigs.
Ratgob took a deep breath. This was it – he either convinced the bosses to stay and fight or they ate him. Simple, really.
‘I’m High Creeper!’ Ratgob pushed from the wall, spreading his arms as if to gather the treasure close. ‘You fink I’m just gonna scamper and let the stunties nab all dis?’
There were some mutters from the crowd. Grot eyes glittered in the darkness, gazes sharp as knives.
‘Krudgit.’ Ratgob gestured at the poisoner. ‘You gonna just leave your venomenagerie? Pull up your deff garden and take it wiv you?’
All eyes went to the poisoner, who shuffled from foot to foot, nervous at the attention. ‘No, boss.’
‘An’ you, Rankfish.’ Ratgob nodded at a scarred foregit standing near the front of the pack. ‘Spent yer life cuttin’ tunnels into this mountain. What you fink the stunties gonna do wiv all that?’
Rankfish scowled, knuckles whitening on the haft of his sharpened shovel.
‘Dey gonna knock ’em in.’ Ratgob clanged his moonslicer against the wall, and the mountain gave a delightful screech. ‘Ruin everyfing!’
‘No stunty is settin’ one greasy boot in my ’oles!’ Rankfish shouted back, the other foregits shaking picks and cracking their whips.
‘Magrot, Filthmiser, Throttle!’ Ratgob shouted over the noise, picking the three nastiest bosses from among the mob. ‘You scrapped hard for everyfing you got – big names, bigger knives.’
The bosses grinned as laughter rippled through the crowd of grots.
‘Fancy skulking back down to the tunnels?’ Ratgob asked. ‘Tusslin’ wiv other mobs for scraps? Gettin’ kicked around by ratsneaks and orruks?’
That earned snarls from the bosses, many spitting at the mention of orruks.
‘We gots it good ’ere, real good. Dis mountain is ours.’ Ratgob scraped the blade of his moonslicer along the wall, and the stone gave a low, pained moan. ‘It’s ours. An’ no zoggin’ stunty is gonna take it away!’
Ratgob slapped his chest for emphasis, but instead of cheers a hush fell over the crowd. He glanced over to see Spookfinger standing atop his squig skull.
‘Lot of stunties out there, boss.’ The shaman cocked his head. ‘Lot of axes, lot of guns, lot of beards. Maybe too many, I fink.’
Ratgob considered giving Spookfinger a good poke. Instead, he smiled. ‘I’ve got a plan to sort those stunties.’
‘Mind sharing it, boss?’
‘So youz can steal it? I fink not.’ The loonboss gave a nasty grin as a stroke of genius hit. ‘Bad Moon told me just what to do.’
‘The Moon…’ Spookfinger’s eyes narrowed, ‘spoke to you?’
‘Course it did.’ Ratgob lifted his moonslicer to point at the ceiling. ‘It told me what to do – wiv the stunties, wiv you.’
The shaman crossed his arms. ‘You ’spect us to believe you’z been touched by the Clammy Hand?’
Ratgob tried not to snicker as he gave a solemn nod. ‘It also told me it was sending us a treasure trove! Erry one of dose stunties is a walkin’ pile of shiny bits. You lot will be up to your necks in dosh!’
‘We gets to keep it all?’ Krudgit glanced at the other bosses, yellowed fangs bared in a half-snarl.
Ratgob shrugged. ‘Dat’s what it said.’
‘You ’eard the Creeper!’ Rankfish raised his pick. ‘Get out dere and nab every git still skulking ’round Shriekstone.’
Krudgit started the cheer, but it was not long until the others joined in, grinning as they looked at the treasure, short-sighted as stunty slaves. Shouting and jostling, the bosses charged from the chamber.
‘Clammy Hand?’ Shaking his head, Spookfinger watched them go. ‘Pack of nutters, all of ’em.’
‘Go on, run.’ Ratgob let his grin turn ugly. ‘See how far you get.’
‘I’m stayin’.’ Spookfinger gestured at his slaves to heft the squig skull, then shook a bony finger at Ratgob. ‘But only cuz I hate stunties more’n I hate you.’
Scowling, the shaman was carried from the vault. It was only when the flap of running feet had faded that Ratgob allowed himself to sag against the wall. He had won over the lads, but what he really needed now was a cunnin’ plan – more than one, actually.
There were a lot of stunties outside.
Shriekstone’s clammy gates shook from the impact of skycannon and volley gun shot, raining bits of scrap on the unfortunate gits who had been ‘volunteered’ to defend the entrance. The rock lobbers and bolt flingers the lads had managed to drag over had been unable to do more than keep the small fleet of airships that bombarded the gate from drawing too close. Ratgob’s best archers sat farther back in the cavern, ready to feather any grot who tried to run.
The loonboss would have preferred to fling open the gates, but then the stunties would know it was a trap.
‘Why ’aven’t dey trotted out big guns?’ Krudgit scratched behind one floppy ear, nodding at the huge, silent siege cannons silhouetted in the twilight – far larger than the airship guns.
‘S’like I said.’ Ratgob glanced back at the mob of sneaks crouched in the darkness of the secret tunnel. ‘Shriekstone used to be a nasty, burny place – one good blast might get the magma flowin’, melt all dat gold the
