Dwarf Gouger
While clearing out my drawers in preparation for leaving my day job for the final time (see last month's blog), I found something a little unexpected in amongst the usual junk. It was a commissioning form for a short story that I never actually wrote on account of being sorely pressed for time to deliver Thorgrim (Historical Note – this was itself originally meant to be a full-length novel). The story was called Dwarf Gouger and it was set to a follow on directly from Headtaker.
Finding the form reminded me that I had actually started writing before the story was pulled and so, as a gift to the readers of this blog, here are 2000 words of never-before-seen Queek Headtaker fan-fiction, the opening scene of Dwarf Gouger.
Enjoy.
Dwarf Gouger, by David Guymer
The red-furred man-thing twisted away from the warlord’s prodding claw and retreated to the length of its chain. There was a clank, the language of futility spoken as only rusted metal could say it, and the iron collar bit into its throat. A trickle of red, flakes of rust inching from its collar and down its chest in the most delicious of falls. Queek snickered and moved onto the next.
A hunched black-fur with a broken arm.
Next.
A cringing man-thing with claw-scratch marks all over its face and shredded finery ripe with its own soil.
Next.
Natural light streamed through cracks in the vaulted ceiling. The heaped rubble that had once stood between the halls of Karak Eight Peaks and the mountainside were now podiums for the biggest, richest, or bravest of slavemasters to hawk their wares. Crook-winged crows roosted amongst the high arches of a crumbling race, ruffled their feathers and cawed, depositing splatters of oily white onto the pathetic creatures below. Slave-meat of every age, breed and tone of hide were paraded for those with warptokens in their pouches, their status evidenced by the thickness of their armour and by the number and girth of their bodyguards. Accreting to these knots of wealth and power as if in accordance to some physical law of attraction, rat-men shrilled in barter, accusation, submission, threat, the sordid wealth of the skaven heart on loud display.
Queek moved on the next. This one was a child. That or a dwarf-thing.
Its smell is not dwarf-meat, mad-thing.
Queek masked his grin behind one paw as he looked up towards the half dozen skulls sat atop their bloodied thrones of wood and sinew. The gnawed skull of a skaven, fresher than some of the others that were beginning to yellow, followed his gaze. He snickered, watching the skull bounce as if nodding agreement of the warlord’s sublime cleverness. Dwarf-thing, child-meat; either way, good value. He snapped his claws.
‘The great warlord’s nose is as certain-sharp as his infamous weapon-maul,’ squeaked the slaver.
‘Take this one away. Place it with Queek’s things.’
The slaver preened, running his claws through the already sparse tuft of a goatee as he summoned an underling to carry out the warlord’s bidding. A gaggle of others took the opening to compete for their master’s attention, but the brisk wave of a beringed paw practically squealed ‘not now!’ He spread his arm down the coffle and offered an absurdly obsequious bow. ‘Lots-many equally fine slave-meats, wealthiest of warlords.’
Queek’s black lips withdrew from his gums, parting ranks for the charge of fangs. The slaver shut up and hurriedly took a step back lest the warlord consider him crowding. And yet the other slavers regarded this one with envy. Queek was the mightiest. His armour was thick as a skaven’s claw and, forged of a hellish alloy of warsptone steel, worth more than all the chattels in Scab Hollow.
Or was it Sump Hole?
Queek’s memory – never renowned for its permanence – wasn’t helped by the fact that he couldn’t care less. Nor was he particularly interested in the rumours that green-things had been buying and selling their own wares from its markets. This far from the City of Pillars territory changed hands daily. Too quick even for skaven minds to keep pace.
It would have a new name before the week was out.
But it was more diverting than picking dried blood from his fur and listening to his trophies’ prattle.
‘We are not here to buy, most vicious one.’
The blending of terror and respect made the voice soft, but Ska Bloodtail, even with shoulders stooped in a submissive hunch, was anything but. He was a boulder mossed with coarse black fur and clad in a motley of beaten gromril and lichen-encrusted mail. The lowest green-thing knew enough to dread the name ‘Headtaker’, but it never hurt to have a brute like Bloodtail around. Queek only had two paws. And always there were rats whose minds were soft and noses feeble. With a grin he glanced up to the now silent skull, then past the hulking fangleader to where – his tongue thunked dumb arithmetic against his palate – some clanrats watched the under-slavers that fussed about them.
Queek glared until his underling cast his eyes to his footpaws. Then, satisfied, he moved on to the next slave in line. A frightened murmur greeted his attention’s return and rippled down the coffle. This one was big and bruised with tawny fur sprouting from its face and arms. The musk of its fear sent a buzz through Queek’s nostrils like warpstone snuff. He stared hard, reached forward to stick a claw through the mewling wretch’s ribs, took a longer draw of its scent, then moved on.
Something didn’t smell right.
Behind him, Ska and the slavemaster had descended to squabbling, but Queek ignored them both, eyes only for the skaven’s wares as face after pale face passed by. ‘It looks like a man-thing,’ Queek breathed, moving on to the next, giving it a prod and listening to its moan. ‘It quacks like a man-thing.’ At the end of the row he paused. The last in line was slimmer than the others, but not through sickness for its scent was like springwater. Golden fur spilled over narrow shoulders garbed in satin banyan with amethyst brocade. The thick iron collar, as though in deference to its fine porcelain beauty, seemed lighter than that worn by its kith. As if in ambush, the slave waited his approach. Eyes like splinters of bluestone met his wandering gaze, and that of the half dozen pairs of unseeing sockets suspended above his shoulders.
‘The terrible-great Queek is insightful as he is feared,’ the slavemaster whispered from the level of the warlord’s navel. Queek ignored him, head cocked in fascination, long enough for the slaver’s spine to stiffen and force him from his subservient crouch. The rat adopted an uncertain fidget, tugging on its tawny goatee as a dwarf-thing might attend its beard. He glanced back, clearly wishing he had been less fastidious in demanding this customer to himself and then, each paw taking a firm grip upon the other, twitched forward. He offered an obsequious cringe, then repeated the maneuver until he had covered sufficient distance to reach out a caress down man-thing’s cheek. ‘One of my best-freshest breeder-things,’ he hissed. ‘Feel how soft-smooth. Smell how clean. Fifteen years in her, I squeak-say. Ten at lowest-least.’
‘Female?’ Queek whispered. The creature’s gaze had not left his. ‘How do you know-tell?’
The slavemaster puffed out his breast. Buttons migrated crazily across his buff jerkin. ‘Much-much experience in man-thing ways, great warlord.’
Queek’s smile grew deadlier still. ‘This is a black duck.’
The slavemaster’s eyes crossed, but he was thrown only a moment. ‘Yes-yes, great warlord. See how she-’
‘Where do you lair, black duck?’
The slave said nothing. The intensity of its needle stare was actually starting to make him squirm. He rather enjoyed the novelty.
‘She was found in the upper burrows,’ said the slavemaster, eager to complete the sale and no doubt get this fearsome thing off his ledger. ‘Near the peaks where green-things scavenge-hunt for eagle eggs.’
Haughtily, the woman straightened, the pointed tip of an ear striking through the golden falls. ‘You are the one they call Headtaker,’ she said, her Khazalid stilted yet proud. It was difficult to tell if she had intended it as a question or an accusation.
Queek tittered, bringing paws to his muzzle as if he were a child presented with his first foal, only to then discover that it recited verse in the High Elven tongue. The slavemaster, who had been stealing himself to beat the woman of her impertinence, hastily hid his paw behind his back.
‘You know of mighty-great Queek, elf-thing?’
Like a windup doll that’s course was run, the slave looked away, tightlipped. Queek hissed irritation, but he was both delighted and intrigued. He had seen an elf-thing once, killed it naturally and mounted its skull on his wall, but he’d never before seen an elf-thing slave. Preening distractedly, he imagined the possibilities.
He’d be the envy of skavendom!
‘Queek wants,’ he snapped, surprising himself with the lust in his voice. The slavemaster certainly took note, eyes gleaming with the reflection of the warptokens he was mentally counting. The slave saw it too. For some reason it made its lips curl. ‘Ska! Cut this one loose.’
The fangleader nodded, threw the slaver a viperous glare, then unhitched his dwarf-made axe. The slavemaster squirmed, but didn’t stop him as, with a single two-handed stroke, Ska hacked through the chain shackling the elf-thing to the others. The giant stormvermin switched his axe to his off-paw, then reached down and hauled her up by the iron ring of her collar. To Ska’s clear annoyance, she neither cried out nor stumbled and remained effortlessly erect as he withdrew his paw from her throat, even when a growl rumbled from his throat. His claws tightened around the neck of his axe.
‘Upper burrows, you squeak-say?’ said Queek.
The slavemaster’s jaw hung open, paws clenched around his goatee as though pulling it wider. ‘T-twelve warptokens,’ he squeaked as Ska shoved the elf-thing in amongst Queek’s clanrats. ‘Nine.’ The clanrats closed ranks. ‘F-five? I mean four!’
Queek turned his mad gaze onto the simpering slaver. 'Tell him, Ska!'
'We are not here to buy,' the fangleader mumbled.
The slaver’s half-spirited protests already sinking into the squeaks and bluster of the crowd, Queek clawed his way towards the vaulted arch that marked the doorway to the upper burrows. From ten tails ahead, skaven scented his approach, yelped, and scurried from his path. The arch loomed large as he passed under it. There was something engraved upon its stone. Some dwarf-thing nonsense. The walls of the City of Pillars were covered with the stuff. He turned, impatient, dim eyes picking out Ska.
‘Hurry-scurry, slow-thing, while elf-meat still there.’
Ska Bloodtail gave the slave markets one last sniff, then lowered his snout to the Horned Rat’s earth and, with a resigned shrug, waved the warriors on after their warlord. He handed the elf’s chain to an underling, his glare leaving the clanrat in no uncertainty as to the fate that awaited should the precious thing fall to misfortune.
Finding the form reminded me that I had actually started writing before the story was pulled and so, as a gift to the readers of this blog, here are 2000 words of never-before-seen Queek Headtaker fan-fiction, the opening scene of Dwarf Gouger.
Enjoy.
Dwarf Gouger, by David Guymer
The red-furred man-thing twisted away from the warlord’s prodding claw and retreated to the length of its chain. There was a clank, the language of futility spoken as only rusted metal could say it, and the iron collar bit into its throat. A trickle of red, flakes of rust inching from its collar and down its chest in the most delicious of falls. Queek snickered and moved onto the next.
A hunched black-fur with a broken arm.
Next.
A cringing man-thing with claw-scratch marks all over its face and shredded finery ripe with its own soil.
Next.
Natural light streamed through cracks in the vaulted ceiling. The heaped rubble that had once stood between the halls of Karak Eight Peaks and the mountainside were now podiums for the biggest, richest, or bravest of slavemasters to hawk their wares. Crook-winged crows roosted amongst the high arches of a crumbling race, ruffled their feathers and cawed, depositing splatters of oily white onto the pathetic creatures below. Slave-meat of every age, breed and tone of hide were paraded for those with warptokens in their pouches, their status evidenced by the thickness of their armour and by the number and girth of their bodyguards. Accreting to these knots of wealth and power as if in accordance to some physical law of attraction, rat-men shrilled in barter, accusation, submission, threat, the sordid wealth of the skaven heart on loud display.
Queek moved on the next. This one was a child. That or a dwarf-thing.
Its smell is not dwarf-meat, mad-thing.
Queek masked his grin behind one paw as he looked up towards the half dozen skulls sat atop their bloodied thrones of wood and sinew. The gnawed skull of a skaven, fresher than some of the others that were beginning to yellow, followed his gaze. He snickered, watching the skull bounce as if nodding agreement of the warlord’s sublime cleverness. Dwarf-thing, child-meat; either way, good value. He snapped his claws.
‘The great warlord’s nose is as certain-sharp as his infamous weapon-maul,’ squeaked the slaver.
‘Take this one away. Place it with Queek’s things.’
The slaver preened, running his claws through the already sparse tuft of a goatee as he summoned an underling to carry out the warlord’s bidding. A gaggle of others took the opening to compete for their master’s attention, but the brisk wave of a beringed paw practically squealed ‘not now!’ He spread his arm down the coffle and offered an absurdly obsequious bow. ‘Lots-many equally fine slave-meats, wealthiest of warlords.’
Queek’s black lips withdrew from his gums, parting ranks for the charge of fangs. The slaver shut up and hurriedly took a step back lest the warlord consider him crowding. And yet the other slavers regarded this one with envy. Queek was the mightiest. His armour was thick as a skaven’s claw and, forged of a hellish alloy of warsptone steel, worth more than all the chattels in Scab Hollow.
Or was it Sump Hole?
Queek’s memory – never renowned for its permanence – wasn’t helped by the fact that he couldn’t care less. Nor was he particularly interested in the rumours that green-things had been buying and selling their own wares from its markets. This far from the City of Pillars territory changed hands daily. Too quick even for skaven minds to keep pace.
It would have a new name before the week was out.
But it was more diverting than picking dried blood from his fur and listening to his trophies’ prattle.
‘We are not here to buy, most vicious one.’
The blending of terror and respect made the voice soft, but Ska Bloodtail, even with shoulders stooped in a submissive hunch, was anything but. He was a boulder mossed with coarse black fur and clad in a motley of beaten gromril and lichen-encrusted mail. The lowest green-thing knew enough to dread the name ‘Headtaker’, but it never hurt to have a brute like Bloodtail around. Queek only had two paws. And always there were rats whose minds were soft and noses feeble. With a grin he glanced up to the now silent skull, then past the hulking fangleader to where – his tongue thunked dumb arithmetic against his palate – some clanrats watched the under-slavers that fussed about them.
Queek glared until his underling cast his eyes to his footpaws. Then, satisfied, he moved on to the next slave in line. A frightened murmur greeted his attention’s return and rippled down the coffle. This one was big and bruised with tawny fur sprouting from its face and arms. The musk of its fear sent a buzz through Queek’s nostrils like warpstone snuff. He stared hard, reached forward to stick a claw through the mewling wretch’s ribs, took a longer draw of its scent, then moved on.
Something didn’t smell right.
Behind him, Ska and the slavemaster had descended to squabbling, but Queek ignored them both, eyes only for the skaven’s wares as face after pale face passed by. ‘It looks like a man-thing,’ Queek breathed, moving on to the next, giving it a prod and listening to its moan. ‘It quacks like a man-thing.’ At the end of the row he paused. The last in line was slimmer than the others, but not through sickness for its scent was like springwater. Golden fur spilled over narrow shoulders garbed in satin banyan with amethyst brocade. The thick iron collar, as though in deference to its fine porcelain beauty, seemed lighter than that worn by its kith. As if in ambush, the slave waited his approach. Eyes like splinters of bluestone met his wandering gaze, and that of the half dozen pairs of unseeing sockets suspended above his shoulders.
‘The terrible-great Queek is insightful as he is feared,’ the slavemaster whispered from the level of the warlord’s navel. Queek ignored him, head cocked in fascination, long enough for the slaver’s spine to stiffen and force him from his subservient crouch. The rat adopted an uncertain fidget, tugging on its tawny goatee as a dwarf-thing might attend its beard. He glanced back, clearly wishing he had been less fastidious in demanding this customer to himself and then, each paw taking a firm grip upon the other, twitched forward. He offered an obsequious cringe, then repeated the maneuver until he had covered sufficient distance to reach out a caress down man-thing’s cheek. ‘One of my best-freshest breeder-things,’ he hissed. ‘Feel how soft-smooth. Smell how clean. Fifteen years in her, I squeak-say. Ten at lowest-least.’
‘Female?’ Queek whispered. The creature’s gaze had not left his. ‘How do you know-tell?’
The slavemaster puffed out his breast. Buttons migrated crazily across his buff jerkin. ‘Much-much experience in man-thing ways, great warlord.’
Queek’s smile grew deadlier still. ‘This is a black duck.’
The slavemaster’s eyes crossed, but he was thrown only a moment. ‘Yes-yes, great warlord. See how she-’
‘Where do you lair, black duck?’
The slave said nothing. The intensity of its needle stare was actually starting to make him squirm. He rather enjoyed the novelty.
‘She was found in the upper burrows,’ said the slavemaster, eager to complete the sale and no doubt get this fearsome thing off his ledger. ‘Near the peaks where green-things scavenge-hunt for eagle eggs.’
Haughtily, the woman straightened, the pointed tip of an ear striking through the golden falls. ‘You are the one they call Headtaker,’ she said, her Khazalid stilted yet proud. It was difficult to tell if she had intended it as a question or an accusation.
Queek tittered, bringing paws to his muzzle as if he were a child presented with his first foal, only to then discover that it recited verse in the High Elven tongue. The slavemaster, who had been stealing himself to beat the woman of her impertinence, hastily hid his paw behind his back.
‘You know of mighty-great Queek, elf-thing?’
Like a windup doll that’s course was run, the slave looked away, tightlipped. Queek hissed irritation, but he was both delighted and intrigued. He had seen an elf-thing once, killed it naturally and mounted its skull on his wall, but he’d never before seen an elf-thing slave. Preening distractedly, he imagined the possibilities.
He’d be the envy of skavendom!
‘Queek wants,’ he snapped, surprising himself with the lust in his voice. The slavemaster certainly took note, eyes gleaming with the reflection of the warptokens he was mentally counting. The slave saw it too. For some reason it made its lips curl. ‘Ska! Cut this one loose.’
The fangleader nodded, threw the slaver a viperous glare, then unhitched his dwarf-made axe. The slavemaster squirmed, but didn’t stop him as, with a single two-handed stroke, Ska hacked through the chain shackling the elf-thing to the others. The giant stormvermin switched his axe to his off-paw, then reached down and hauled her up by the iron ring of her collar. To Ska’s clear annoyance, she neither cried out nor stumbled and remained effortlessly erect as he withdrew his paw from her throat, even when a growl rumbled from his throat. His claws tightened around the neck of his axe.
‘Upper burrows, you squeak-say?’ said Queek.
The slavemaster’s jaw hung open, paws clenched around his goatee as though pulling it wider. ‘T-twelve warptokens,’ he squeaked as Ska shoved the elf-thing in amongst Queek’s clanrats. ‘Nine.’ The clanrats closed ranks. ‘F-five? I mean four!’
Queek turned his mad gaze onto the simpering slaver. 'Tell him, Ska!'
'We are not here to buy,' the fangleader mumbled.
The slaver’s half-spirited protests already sinking into the squeaks and bluster of the crowd, Queek clawed his way towards the vaulted arch that marked the doorway to the upper burrows. From ten tails ahead, skaven scented his approach, yelped, and scurried from his path. The arch loomed large as he passed under it. There was something engraved upon its stone. Some dwarf-thing nonsense. The walls of the City of Pillars were covered with the stuff. He turned, impatient, dim eyes picking out Ska.
‘Hurry-scurry, slow-thing, while elf-meat still there.’
Ska Bloodtail gave the slave markets one last sniff, then lowered his snout to the Horned Rat’s earth and, with a resigned shrug, waved the warriors on after their warlord. He handed the elf’s chain to an underling, his glare leaving the clanrat in no uncertainty as to the fate that awaited should the precious thing fall to misfortune.
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