Ratgob dodged into a side-tunnel and crawled along its twisted length, eventually spilling out into a nest of tangled pipes further ahead of the advancing duardin. Shriekstone gave voice to an echoing scream. A low vibration rippled through the mountain causing him to lose his footing. The tremors were coming more often and lasting longer, but Ratgob had bigger things to worry about than a little magma.
‘They’re almost to the vents.’ The loonboss stood, hands on knees as he panted. ‘Is the loonmist ready?’
‘S’jammed.’ Krudgit banged on a large bronze pipe, knocking loose showers of blue-green verdigris.
‘No time for malingerin’.’ Ratgob straightened, ignoring the poisoner’s irritated glare. The loonboss clambered from the network of pipes and further down the passage, to where a knot of lads were doing their best to restrain a dozen wild-eyed loons. Green foam dribbled from around the mad grots’ gags, the ropes creaking and bulging as they struggled to break free.
‘Dey comin’?’ Rankfish staggered up. The foregit looked harried, and Ratgob noticed he was sporting a fresh black eye.
Ratgob nodded at the distant lantern flicker, broad-shouldered shadows crowding the gloom. ‘Get ’em ready.’
Heavy chains were pressed into hands of the thrashing gits.
‘Now, boss?’ Rankfish asked.
Ratgob frowned. ‘Hold.’
He could hear the stunties clattering down the tunnel, all boots and bluster.
Hold.
Their bestial helms glittered in the half-light: gryphons, bears, cliff snatchers, steelcats and more, the crests casting huge, ferocious shadows on the tunnel wall. At Ratgob’s side, the foregit shifted from foot to foot, muttering.
Hold.
Ratgob could smell the oil on their weapons, hear the creak of harnesses, the miserable pant of stunty breathing.
‘Cut ’em loose!’ At Ratgob’s scream, the lads cut the loons’ bindings, sprinting away down the tunnel as the madcap-addled fanatics began to spin.
Ratgob scrambled back into the pipes before the loons could work up speed. He crouched behind a bronze tube to watch the fun.
The lead stunty raised a fist, the red-bearded ranks behind it grinding to a halt. Silence descended on the tunnel. The big duardin cocked its head to listen as a mad giggle echoed from the gloom. Eyes wide, he drew in breath for a bellow, already turning.
A huge iron ball swept him aside as if he’d been made of scrap. Seeming not even to notice, the fanatic continued on into the duardin formation. Stunties tumbled through the air, bowled from their feet or crushed wetly against the tunnel wall. Those in the front shouted for a withdrawal, but the air was too full of screams and laughter. Fyreslayers threw themselves to the floor or pressed tight against the walls to avoid the spinning loons, but, in the tight confines of the tunnel, there was nowhere to go.
A fyreslayer with a helm shaped like a snarling cave bear dived under one of the whirling chains to cut the legs from one of the loons, and the fanatic’s huge ball went ricocheting down the tunnel, crushing another half a dozen stunties before rolling to a stop.
Further down the tunnel, a pair of duardin had become entangled in a chain. Although they struggled and swore, with each revolution the heavy chain grew tighter, until blood flowed between the links. With delight, Ratgob saw them slump and fall still before the fanatic spun off down the passage.
But there was only so much loons could do against so many. Two fanatics collided, their chains crushing them into a pulpy embrace. Another rebounded from the wall and was buried in the resulting avalanche of stone. More fell to blasts of magma, or were hacked down by stunties who seemed not to care it was death to charge the spinning loons.
Bloodied but undaunted, the surviving fyreslayers staggered to their feet. More than half their number lay spread across the tunnel floor, but the losses seemed only to make the stunties angrier.
‘Shank me, dey’z still comin’,’ Krudgit said. ‘An’ more from behind.’
Ratgob glanced down the tunnel, feeling his throat tighten at the sight of faint lantern light advancing from the other direction.
‘We’d better bolt, boss.’ Panic threaded the poisoner’s voice.
‘What ’bout the pipes?’
Krudgit gave the ancient duardin ventilation one last bang. ‘S’no use.’
Ratgob shouldered past to peer up the corroded pipe, the clash of duardin blades sharp in his ears. This close, he could smell the musty scent of rotten fungus, hear the faint hiss as the overtaxed ventilation system tried to work air past the blockage.
With a curse, he shoved his moonslicer into the grate. The hooked blade rasped on ancient bronze as Ratgob stretched as far as he could. He felt the moonslicer sink into something soft.
The loonboss heard the boom of a magmapike, and a blast of hot lava splattered the stone a handspan from Ratgob’s nose. He gritted his fangs as a scalding fleck burned a line across his cheek, and scraped with all his might.
‘Zog dis.’ Krudgit clambered back down the hole as a scowling, bearded face appeared beyond the pipes. Ratgob kicked at it, but the stunty ignored his shattered nose to grab the loonboss’ ankle.
With a wet slurp, the mass blocking the pipe finally gave way, deluging Ratgob and the stunty with hundreds of dead snotlings.
The fyreslayers fell back with a curse as Ratgob clambered through the avalanche of tiny, putrefied corpses. The stupid blighters must have crawled in there to hide, or maybe some clever git had sent them up there to gum up Ratgob’s plan. He shook his head as the rattle and chuff of duardin pumps echoed down the tunnel.
Thick, dark mist poured from the grates. Ratgob scrambled down the grot tunnel as mist flowed down into the old duardin passage. He heard shouting from below, stunties hacking in the clouds of Krudgit’s loonmist. The fyreslayers seemed dazed at first. They called to one another, but cries to dress ranks soon became confused shouts.
‘Grobi, in the tunnels!’
‘By Grimnir, they’re behind us!’
‘Kill the filthy skaz!’
Some duardin began blowing their horns while others pounded on drums, the rhythms sharp and erratic.
