A Sneak Peak at Queek
An extract from the forthcoming 'Headtaker' originally printed over at http://www.blacklibrary.com/Blog/a-sn...
Queek gripped the haft of Dwarf Gouger tightly as the weapon smashed home. The impact thumped up his arm, a beautiful electricity that sent sparks of delirium flying through his mind. He watched the dwarf’s eyes go dark and savoured the moment. He squealed his triumph and wrenched back, heavy gauntlets of warpstone and scarlet steel grinding around the grip of the spiked maul that had embedded in the dwarf’s helm. His biceps strained, muscles rippling beneath coarse black fur. The dwarf rose partway off the ground, feet dangling, arms flapping like the wings of some overweight flightless bird before the gore-slickened spike at last came free. The lifeless body crashed to the ground between his footpaws.
It was so beautiful.
A scream dragged him from his reverie.
Another dwarf fell, guts drooling over the blade of a halberd. He snarled at the unwanted interruption, hissing at a stormvermin as the dark-furred warrior tugged his weapon loose. The stormvermin slunk back and Queek glared after him. For an instant of confusion he forgot where he was, reality reasserting itself in a riot of colours and sounds; screams, blood, shattered armour, the scavenged, russet-dyed livery of his warriors as they ducked and flowed around the dour, grey-cloaked dwarfs, the ripple and crack of warplock jezzails. Of course, he reminded himself, another of the dwarfs’ mine workings.
How many holes into the Eight Peaks would Belegar and his dwarfs burrow before learning that there was no hiding place from Queek?
He could smell them.
He took a deep breath, relishing the scent of blood and fear, all of it mingled with the delicious tang of warpstone. Rusted chains hung from the ceiling, swaying with the ebb and flow of battle, the corroded metal gleaming darkly with the reflected glow of a dozen fires. Great stacks of coal burned in pyres, although whether they had caught a stray warpstone shell or been deliberately set alight to upset skaven dark vision and cloud keen skaven noses was a mystery.
The dwarfs had certainly been prepared this time. Rocks and scree and upturned carts had been piled into barricades, channelling the skaven hordes into killing zones and choke points to die by the axe and by the quarrel. Queek watched as a score of clanrats attempted to surmount one such barricade. Rather than defend their position, the dwarfs leapt clear and an instant later, just as the skaven were trilling their triumph, that section of barricade erupted in a geyser of rock shards and dirty flame. The explosive force of the concealed blackpowder device fired still-celebrating skaven high into the air. Body parts mingled with blasted rock, plummeting to earth like rain.
Even standing a hundred tail-lengths from the blast, Queek staggered under the shockwave. The aftershock sounded thunderously through the ancient mine, echoing through arterial tunnels and buried shafts like a systolic rhythm.
Queek took it all in and grinned. Yes, it was good to be Queek.
Queek gripped the haft of Dwarf Gouger tightly as the weapon smashed home. The impact thumped up his arm, a beautiful electricity that sent sparks of delirium flying through his mind. He watched the dwarf’s eyes go dark and savoured the moment. He squealed his triumph and wrenched back, heavy gauntlets of warpstone and scarlet steel grinding around the grip of the spiked maul that had embedded in the dwarf’s helm. His biceps strained, muscles rippling beneath coarse black fur. The dwarf rose partway off the ground, feet dangling, arms flapping like the wings of some overweight flightless bird before the gore-slickened spike at last came free. The lifeless body crashed to the ground between his footpaws.
It was so beautiful.
A scream dragged him from his reverie.
Another dwarf fell, guts drooling over the blade of a halberd. He snarled at the unwanted interruption, hissing at a stormvermin as the dark-furred warrior tugged his weapon loose. The stormvermin slunk back and Queek glared after him. For an instant of confusion he forgot where he was, reality reasserting itself in a riot of colours and sounds; screams, blood, shattered armour, the scavenged, russet-dyed livery of his warriors as they ducked and flowed around the dour, grey-cloaked dwarfs, the ripple and crack of warplock jezzails. Of course, he reminded himself, another of the dwarfs’ mine workings.
How many holes into the Eight Peaks would Belegar and his dwarfs burrow before learning that there was no hiding place from Queek?
He could smell them.
He took a deep breath, relishing the scent of blood and fear, all of it mingled with the delicious tang of warpstone. Rusted chains hung from the ceiling, swaying with the ebb and flow of battle, the corroded metal gleaming darkly with the reflected glow of a dozen fires. Great stacks of coal burned in pyres, although whether they had caught a stray warpstone shell or been deliberately set alight to upset skaven dark vision and cloud keen skaven noses was a mystery.
The dwarfs had certainly been prepared this time. Rocks and scree and upturned carts had been piled into barricades, channelling the skaven hordes into killing zones and choke points to die by the axe and by the quarrel. Queek watched as a score of clanrats attempted to surmount one such barricade. Rather than defend their position, the dwarfs leapt clear and an instant later, just as the skaven were trilling their triumph, that section of barricade erupted in a geyser of rock shards and dirty flame. The explosive force of the concealed blackpowder device fired still-celebrating skaven high into the air. Body parts mingled with blasted rock, plummeting to earth like rain.
Even standing a hundred tail-lengths from the blast, Queek staggered under the shockwave. The aftershock sounded thunderously through the ancient mine, echoing through arterial tunnels and buried shafts like a systolic rhythm.
Queek took it all in and grinned. Yes, it was good to be Queek.
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