‘If you say so.’ Spookfinger took a sip from a questionable-looking bottle, smacking his lips loudly.
Ratgob hissed the shaman to silence. It was unlikely anyone would hear them over the gunfire, but fyreslayers had a way with stone, a sensitivity to tips and taps echoing through the rock. It was only a matter of time until the invaders found the secret tunnels; best to use them first. Leading to the lower plateau, the tunnels would let Ratgob’s lads slip behind the stunty camp. All they needed to do was stay quiet until nightfall.
As if to mock Ratgob, Ghur’s hateful sun dawdled on the horizon. Even at dusk, the brightness was almost too much to bear, but Ratgob made himself look. The fyreslayer camp was a riot of activity. The stunties were digging in for a siege, throwing up walls with contemptuous ease. Teams of red-bearded brutes levered great boulders into place, while others filled the gaps with unmortared stone. Great tents stood near where Ratgob’s tunnel let out, a seemingly endless train of wagons unloaded barrels and crates.
After an eternity, the light faded. And still Ratgob waited.
The scheme was to strike before the stunties had fully dug in, the lads charging while Ratgob’s sneaks spiked the fyreslayers’ supplies. Ratgob figured on good odds something would go wrong, but was pleasantly surprised when loons burst from dozens of holes around the mountain, desperately clinging to the backs of bouncing, jabbering squigs.
The fyreslayers reacted quickly, but there was only so much they could do to halt the hoppers’ mad charge. Ratgob clapped a hand over his mouth to stifle a laugh as he watched a squig snap the head from a bellowing stunty, its rider hurling a lit torch at a nearby powder keg. The barrel ignited with a muffled whomp, consuming the squig, its rider and a dozen stunties in a ball of red-orange flame. Caught off guard, fyreslayers fought with axe and pick, rune-etched blades flickering as they carved squig flesh.
‘C’mon, lads, while they’re proper muddled.’ Ratgob levered open the concealed door and slipped into the gloom, his sneaks close behind. Faces masked, their weapons blackened with soot, they crept along the shadow of the half-built wall, breaking into smaller groups as they approached the provision tents.
A pair of axe-armed stunties stood outside the nearest tent, weapons drawn, their pained gazes focused on distant fires.
Spookfinger leapt from the gloom, jabbering and hooting, and a plume of greasy smoke billowed from his outstretched hand to wreathe the stunties and set them coughing and retching.
Ratgob’s moonslicer caught the first fyreslayer in the neck, and sheared through flesh before getting stuck in the stunty’s thick neck bone. The other guard turned, axe slicing down as Ratgob struggled to free his weapon.
The axe cut Ratgob’s billowing sleeve. The stunty pulled back for another slice, but a glass vial tumbled from the dark to shatter on its bare chest. A cloud of inky fog billowed around the guard’s face. The fyreslayer took a surprised breath, pupils going wide as it glanced around, mouth hanging open.
‘Raiders!’ Krudgit shouted at the stunty, then gestured at the distant battle. ‘In the camp!’
The guard blinked at him for a moment and gave a quick nod. ‘For Lachad!’
Ratgob watched, open-mouthed, as the stunty charged off into the darkness.
‘Toldja, boss.’ Krudgit flashed him a jagged grin. ‘Double-strength.’
Ratgob sucked air through his fangs, the beginnings of a scheme tickling his thoughts. ‘You gots more of dat loonmist?’
‘I could make more.’ The poisoner winked. ‘A lot more.’
Ratgob nodded. ‘Good to know.’
They slipped into the tent. The interior was filled with barrels, each stamped with the symbol of a flaming bearded skull with ‘XXXX’ etched upon its forehead.
Spookfinger paused, frowning. ‘Dis isn’t food.’
‘Stunties’ll fight wivout food, dey’ll fight wivout water, dey’ll even fight wivout weapons.’ Ratgob gestured for the other sneaks to spread out, then scuttled over to pry the top off a barrel and tip a vial of fizzing liquid into the contents. ‘But wivout ale?’
For once, Spookfinger’s nasty grin was not pointed at Ratgob.
They moved among the barrels, the tent silent but for the sounds of creaking wood and the occasional soft giggle. By the time the sounds of distant fighting had begun to fade, they had tainted most of the beer.
With a snarl, Ratgob gestured the sneaks out of the tent, and they skulked quickly back to the cave.
The loonboss gnawed at his cracked lips, smiling as he closed the secret door behind them. His sneaks hadn’t killed many stunties, not directly, but, like a fine patch of fungus, a good plan needed to be cultivated.
Ratgob had spread the spores. Now it was time to watch them grow.
Even from the far end of Shriekstone’s great entrance hall, Ratgob could see tears of fury glitter in the runefather’s eyes. It seemed impossible, but the loonboss thought he heard a shift in the mountain’s ululating cries, a strange warbling note that sounded almost hopeful.
‘By Grimnir, what have those monsters done to you?’ Runefather Thunas-Grimnir kicked the twitching git from his grandaxe as he reined in his snorting magmadroth to gaze around the vast cavern.
Led by more stunty lords on hateful, spitting magmadroths, ranks of fyreslayers poured through the shattered gates, their war chants drowning the shrieks of the fleeing gits. Many of the stunties looked unsteady on their feet, skin sheened in sickly sweat, wracked by coughs that produced small puffs of yellow spores. More than a few of the brutes seemed to be kept upright by fury alone. Even if the fyreslayers were too stubborn to die, Ratgob’s poisoned brew had done its work.
A few of the loonier lads stopped to fire at the approaching wall of blazing steel, only to have their arrows swept aside by the raging stunties.
‘Now, boss?’ Spookfinger asked from the darkness behind Ratgob.
The loonboss could almost feel the heat of the oncoming magmadroths. He squinted at the floor, judging distance as the fyreslayers charged across the hall. By the
