Ratgob only wished he could see the slaughter. Instead, he crouched in the grot tunnel and listened, bobbing his head to the sounds of stunties murdering one another.
Then came a shout from beyond the melee, a booming voice chanting in a language Ratgob did not recognise. Impossibly, golden light shone through the gloom. Scintillating, like glow-squigs reflected in stagnant water, it burned away the mist.
‘Shake your madness, kinsmen!’ Thunas-Grimnir’s hateful voice rose above the clamour. ‘Let the ancestors light your way.’
Ratgob could see the runefather, now. Surrounded by stunties in glittering helms, the king stood silhouetted by a swirl of fiery sparks. The circle of stunties raised their glowing braziers and struck them against the ground. There was a burst of painful light, and Ratgob was forced to turn away, hissing as bright after-images of duardin runes danced across his vision.
Slowly, the sounds of fighting died.
With a shake of his head, the loonboss clambered back up the gnarled tunnel. Forget Ratgob’s lie about the Bad Moon; when he told the others how stunty tricks had dispersed the loonmist, he would be lucky to escape without a shank in his eye.
‘S’time for somefin’ big,’ he muttered to himself. ‘Somefin’ real big.’
The slaves shuffled down the uneven stairs that wound down into The Pit. Shaved and gaunt, the runes prised from their flesh, the wretches were barely recognisable as duardin, let alone fyreslayers.
‘Too slow.’ Ratgob chewed his lip. ‘Dose stunties’ll be knockin’ our ’eads in afore this lot gets in The Pit.’
Spookfinger peered over the lip of the old duardin cistern. ‘Give ’em a prod, den.’
‘And risk a scream?’ Krudgit tittered. ‘You wanna get et up?’
Spookfinger made a face, but offered no more advice.
‘We need the slaves in one piece.’ Ratgob paced across the gallery. ‘How else we gonna lure in dem stunties?’
A distant boom almost startled the loonboss over the lip of the cistern.
‘That’ll be the vault door.’ Spookfinger’s mutter was just loud enough to set the surviving lads shuffling.
‘This’ll work – Bad Moon told me so.’ Ratgob turned to glare at the few hundred grots gathered in the gloom of the tunnel – all that remained of his kingdom. ‘It also told me to gut the first git who tries to nip off.’
‘Not us, boss. Never.’ Krudgit popped a vial of something blue into his mouth, crunching happily as blood dribbled down his chin.
Ratgob turned his back on the nutter. The stunties had backed them into a corner, occupying all the hold’s central passages and collapsing every grot tunnel they could find – which, being duardin, meant most of them.
Still, the loonboss had one last knife up his sleeve.
Ratgob heard the stamp of boots in the outer hall, rising above the low, threatening rumble that had become almost constant in Shriekstone. The Bad Moon must have heard Ratgob’s pleas, because the halls had not filled with magma, yet. Still, the stunties were moving slowly, taking time to clear each hall before advancing. They would not be caught in another trap.
Fortunately, this one would come to them.
‘Dey’re down, boss.’ Throttle scurried around the edge of the cistern, Filthmiser close behind.
‘Should be a sight.’ Throttle flexed the long spidery fingers that had earned him his reputation as a master strangler. Behind him, Filthmiser chuckled wetly, the mushrooms growing through the holes in his rotted robes jiggling with each wheezing exhalation.
Ratgob peered into the mildewed darkness. He cocked his head, fluttering his fingers at the lads for quiet.
The Pit was quiet but for the occasional whisper of bare feet and the low rumble of snoring troggoths.
‘Won’t be long, now.’ Krudgit rubbed his hands together, squinting at the flickering light at the far end of the hall.
‘Get everyone back in the tunnel.’ Ratgob nodded. ‘S’time for the show.’
Duardin fanned out along the far side of the gallery, covering the various angles of attack, while teams of fyreslayers advanced cautiously towards the massive cistern, magmapikes at the ready. Fortunately, the light of their runelamps didn’t reach the far end of the massive cistern chamber.
Rankfish and the lads scampered back down the tunnel, but Ratgob lingered with Spookfinger and Krudgit at the edge of the gallery. He noticed Thunas-Grimnir near the front. The runefather had exchanged his grandaxe for two smaller hand axes etched to resemble leaping leogryphs.
A snort reverberated from the depths of the ancient cistern, followed by a grumbling mutter.
The duardin held back, confused. Some with magmapikes took cover behind fallen masonry as their brutish brethren clashed axes together.
‘Dey ain’t gonna fall for it.’ Spookfinger gave a low chuckle.
Ratgob hissed the shaman to silence. The loonboss gripped his moonslicer tighter to hide his shaking hands. If the stunties backed off, Ratgob was as good as shanked. This was it – his last scheme. If there was any time for the Bad Moon to extend its Clammy Hand, it was now.
The first screams echoed from below – voices, fyreslayer voices, crying out in pain and terror.
‘Stunties won’t abandon der own,’ Ratgob said with more conviction than he felt. ‘You’ll see.’
‘S’pose I will.’ Spookfinger’s grin held no humour at all.
Ratgob could see indecision in the runefather’s grim scowl. Thunas-Grimnir’s gaze flicked from The Pit to his warriors and back again. Finally, with a growling curse, the runefather pointed an axe forward.
Ratgob almost fainted from joy as the stunties advanced.
The first ranks lobbed torches into the cistern, falling back while the magmapikes took up positions around the edge and sighted down into the dark. There was a moment, quick as an indrawn gasp, as the duardin took in the terrifying sight below. The chamber seemed almost quiet as Ratgob revelled in the stunties’ horrified expressions.
A lumpy hand plucked one of the fyreslayers from the rim of the cistern.
The boom of a magmapike shattered the unnatural stillness. Everything seemed to happen at once – some duardin firing down into The Pit, others dodging back to reload as their axe-wielding companions pushed forward to provide
