The troggoths rose from the darkness in a blood-maddened frenzy. Their gnarled claws cut divots in the stone, rock flowing like thick mud. Thunas-Grimnir’s bellowed commands were lost amidst the roars of the enraged trogghorde.
No sooner had massed duardin fire brought down one troggoth, than another would heave itself from the jagged mouth of The Pit. A lucky blast of magma burned away one troggoth’s face, but the beast seemed not to notice. Blindly lumbering forward, it scattered duardin like pebbles with swings of its massive stone club.
Another troggoth was engaged by half a dozen fyreslayers, the runes on their heavy axes flashing red in the gloom. They cut at the troggoth’s legs while it growled and stomped, but duardin steel proved no protection against the full weight of the enormous beast, and the stunties were crushed to bloody ruin.
Thunas-Grimnir charged into the fray. Dire oaths on his lips, he leapt to bury his axes in the stomach of a huge troggoth, scaling the beast’s chest as it reeled back. Stony hands closed about his chest, but the runefather tore his axes free in a spray of gore and hacked down at the troggoth’s wrist.
Ratgob made a sour face as Thunas-Grimnir’s blade bit deep into the troggoth’s rocky flesh. It snatched its hand back, yowling like a scalded squig, but the runefather only shifted to hack the beast’s head from its scabby shoulders.
Fortunately, several of the troggoths the duardin had downed earlier slowly staggered to their feet, flesh knitting around bones the colour of wet shale, and the runefather was forced back.
A flash of brilliant light made Ratgob wince as one of the stunty’s rune-pounders joined the battle. Chant cutting through the din, the duardin raised his smoking staff, the beginnings of a fiery sigil etching itself into the air.
A troggoth loomed behind the duardin. It frowned down at the jabbering stunty, then leaned over and smashed him flat with the palm of its hand. Light streamed between the troggoth’s fingers, making the beast squint. With a frown of intense concentration, it scooped up a great handful of stone and simply folded it over the unfortunate stunty.
Ratgob could not restrain his delight as the fyreslayers retreated before the furious trogghorde. He could see Thunas-Grimnir waving his axes, but even the runefather seemed unable to deal with the onslaught. Troggoths kicked through the fleeing duardin, occasionally stooping to cram a screaming stunty into their mouths.
Ratgob should have known it was too good to last.
As the duardin scattered, so did the troggoths. Some pursued knots of running stunties, while others lumbered into the darkness beyond; a few even turned to climb back down into The Pit, blinking sleepily.
‘Zoggin’ idiots!’ Ratgob slammed the butt of his moonslicer against the ground.
‘Boss.’ Krudgit nudged Ratgob, pointing to where a few hulking troggoth shadows were making their way around the chamber towards where the grots stood.
With a disgusted curse, Ratgob turned away from the slaughter. His plan had been perfect, but bigger was not always better.
‘What the Bad Moon tellin’ you now?’ Spookfinger’s words dripped with scorn.
‘Never you mind.’
‘Sure, boss.’ The shaman spoke the last word like a curse.
Ratgob caught the slightest glint in the corner of his vision. Through reflex alone, the loonboss spun away just in time to avoid Spookfinger’s dagger.
‘A knife inna back?’ Contempt iced Ratgob’s words.
The shaman grinned. ‘Well, it is poisoned.’
‘You, too?’ Ratgob glanced at Krudgit.
The poisoner offered an apologetic shrug, then tossed a vial to Ratgob. ‘Plenty to go ’round.’
Ratgob snatched the poison from the air, then dropped flat as the shaman crooked a knobby finger at him. With a fizzling crack, a bolt of sickly-green lightning flashed above his head, leaving blackened streaks on the tunnel wall. Before the shaman could conjure another blast, Ratgob scrambled to his feet and leapt at Spookfinger.
‘Enuf of yer lies! Touched by the Clammy Hand? Touched by lungrot, more likely!’ Spookfinger met the loonboss’ charge, his dagger darting like an angry blisterwasp.
‘I’ve got dose stunties right where I want ’em!’ This close, Ratgob could not bring the blade of his moonslicer to bear, so he gave Spookfinger’s face a good thwap with the handle.
‘Oh, come off it!’ The shaman staggered back, eyes watering as he dabbed at his bloody nose. ‘Shriekstone’s lost – there ain’t no future for you, not ’ere, not anywhere.’
Ratgob didn’t bother with a response – the shaman was right, but it hardly mattered. Only stunties worried about the future, gits took things as they came.
The hook of Ratgob’s moonslicer opened a wide gash on Spookfinger’s leg. The shaman toppled with a shriek, hands clamped on his oozing calf.
‘So, dis is it, boss?’ Spookfinger looked up at Ratgob. ‘After everyfing, you jus’ gonna cut me up?’
‘Not me,’ Ratgob said, with a nod at the approaching troggoths. ‘But I reckon dey might ’ave different plans.’
Ratgob scurried back into the shadows, Spookfinger’s despairing cry lifting his spirits. He eyed Krudgit. ‘I should feed you to the trogs, too.’
The poisoner spread his hands wide. ‘Don’t fink they’d bite, boss – I’m too bitter.’
Ratgob snorted out a laugh. Krudgit had betrayed him, true, but a little double-cross now and again was only natural. Besides, he still might need the poisoner.
Ratgob nodded at Krudgit. ‘C’mon den.’
The two grots scurried down the hall. Spookfinger’s screams were little relief to the heaviness threading Ratgob’s chest. He was as good as shanked – if not by Krudgit then by some other canny git. Ratgob was done as High Creeper. Finished. Not even worth a glance from the Bad Moon.
Now, was definitely the time to run. But first, Ratgob just needed to grab a little something for the journey.
‘You are not going anywhere, skaz.’ Runefather Thunas-Grimnir the Unflinching stepped from the shadows of the treasure vault, one axe pointed at Ratgob’s chest. The loonboss could see scores of stunties ranged in the glittering dark behind the runefather. All that remained of the fyreslayer host. Beaten, bloodied, their axes were chipped and their runes guttered like dying candles, but the hateful
