Resistance (10 page)

07

Thresh squatted at the bottom of the pit, occasionally shifting its weight from one haunch to the other in a vain attempt to get at least partly away from the burning heat of the iron trapdoor on which it rested. Although, thought thresh, it was not so much resting as squirming and scraping and moving constantly to keep as small an area of its hide in contact with the hot metal grate as possible. It could endure the discomfort only so long before it had to move again, but moving was not easy in the cramped confines of the pit. Indeed, its mostly futile attempts to avoid the slow building agony of roasting in its own skin entailed almost as much pain from scraping its raw and bloodied flanks against jagged spikes of rusting spearheads and shattered Tümor bones set into the rock wall. Not a lovely, smooth rock wall of river stones and mortared pebble of the like enjoyed by the human captives in the larger, more commodious pits which commanded the better part of the Inquisitor Grymm’s principal chamber either. No. Those urmin squirts were held in luxury while thresh was jammed into a tube of volcanic spikestone which tore and dragged at its wounded hide almost as often as the barbs buried in the wall.

Oh woe was thresh.

Its many eyestalks lifted up as it contemplated this wretched situation. There was no climbing out of the pit. Even if it could, even if it were possible to scale the narrow volcanic funnel without being torn to shreds, to haul itself over the fixed circle of sharpened wulfin teeth which ringed the open mouth of the pit so far above, to crawl broken and bleeding onto the stone floor of the main chamber and evade the blades and slings and arrakh-mi bolts of the guards, the snapping, drooling jaws of the Fangr, and to somehow escape into the wider Realm
. . .
even if all those things were possible, they were not conceivable.

Thresh had failed. Thresh was disgrace. Thresh was shame upon unutterable shame.

Its place was down here in the worst of the pits, waiting for the trap to open, for the long drop into the feeding fires of
dar Drakon
. Or its place was dangling and shrieking at the end of hook and chain as the Inquisitor Grymm, or more likely one of his underlings, dragged thresh up out of confinement and threw it into the blood pot to bulk out the rations for the guards and their Fangr. Already thresh had heard many of the remnants of Urspite’s command go this way. Some willingly, almost enthusiastically, as if to purge the scrolls of their nest from the failure they’d dragged back from Above. And, shamefully
. . .
oh so shamefully
. . .
some had gone to their fate fighting and cursing and struggling against what would be. What could only be, for creatures which had so signally failed She of the Horde.

Thresh grimaced and bit down on a snarl as it heaved itself into a slightly more comfortable position by way of tearing two great gouges out of its backside on the vicious prongs of a pair of Tümor bones. They seemed to have been fixed into the mortar with just such a purpose in mind. Thresh squeezed all of its eyes closed at the end of its stalks and tried to settle its deeply unsettled thinkings on a more agreeable think. It recalled the taste and texture of the man meat it had enjoyed in the Above. So much stronger and yet so much more delicate than even the ancient legends hinted at. Thresh recalled its summons to the receiving chamber of Her Majesty and the audience it had enjoyed there; honour enough for any creature of the Horde to be satisfied. Even to remember its thinkings when it led the Queen’s Vengeance through the break in the capstone – the rift that it, thresh, had discovered – even those thinkings came tinted with just enough remembrance of how significant, how very, very important thresh had felt itself.

Until it all turned to urmin squirt, of course.

Even now thresh did not know what went wrong. Oh, it certainly recalled all the terrible and humiliating details. The confusing lines of the human settlement, the way the village they thought they were to overrun went on and on appearing to grow ever larger the further it was from the eyestalk. The vexing way in which the calflings themselves did not immediately flee in the face of their natural predators. The deeply disturbing and impenetrable magicks they appeared to wield, not just their wizards, but all of them. Glowing amulets, beastless chariots, Drakon of steel that seemed to be leashed to their warriors
. . .
To
human
warriors. The very memory was an abomination of such mesmerising power that thresh remained too long hunched down in one spot, suddenly yelping when it realised that the pain it felt was not a memory of human fire scorching its ass, but the glowing iron grate burning a cross weave pattern into its ass right then and there.

Thresh squealed in a most undignified fashion and gouged a couple more furrows in its hide as it struggled to quickly change position.

Oh yes, it remembered the details. It remembered the pain and confusion and fear. Most of all it remembered the Dave. The human champion who had challenged and humiliated Urspite Scaroth ur Hunn before his thrall. There was as little explanation for the mystery of the Dave as there was for any of the many, many myriad mysteries and embarrassments of their failed sortie into the human realm.

Thresh could recall every detail, every slight, every insult offered by the calflings, and of course thresh well remembered their treachery when the Dave had challenged Scaroth and bested him in single combat. Safe passage they had been promised back to the UnderRealms. Treachery and ambush were all the Dave delivered.

None of it made any sense.

Except the treachery, perhaps. You had to give the Dave some credit for the treachery. As treacherous as it had been, it was a stroke worthy of a BattleMaster. Not at all the sort of thing one would expect from a calfling.

Thresh grunted and shifted again, wondering when its moment would come, when the trap door would drop away beneath it, or one of the Inquisitors Grymm would appear far above to shoot a snatching hook down to drag Thresh up for dinner.

‘Thresh, attend.’

The latter, it seemed.

Thresh lowered its eyestalks and bared its neck for the hook. It tried to clear its tiny mind of all thinkings and feelings as it waited for the end. Best not to go dwelling on its many failures and fathomless disgrace lest it be taunted by the spirits of the nest forever in the AfterRealm.

‘Thresh, ATTEND!’

The stentorian roar echoing down the volcanic throat in which Thresh lay like an undigested lump of calfling meat was loud enough and fierce enough to jolt thresh from its morbid revelry. Slowly, fearfully thresh turned its eyestalks upward. Expecting to find an Inquisitor guard and leashed Fangr, all rational thinkings deserted it upon discovering the squat and massive form of Lord Guyuk ur Grymm himself.

‘My
. . .
My Lord
. . .
thresh
. . .
thresh
. . .’

‘Yes, yes, thresh has no idea of what is happening or what to do. Nor does the Lord Commander of Her Majesty’s Grymm, thresh. None of us do. But you are going to help me change all that.’

*

‘Be careful, Captain,’ growled Guyuk. ‘We don’t want it coming apart like the last one.’

The Captain Inquisitor of the Night had the good sense to look abashed at the rebuke, but relieved as well. It was not so long ago that the Grymm lord’s predecessor would have thrown the clumsy oaf down into the pits for his incompetence in killing a captive before they had extracted any useful confessions. The irony of wasting a perfectly good Inquisitor for wasting a perfectly good prisoner had not been lost on Lord Guyuk, however, and under his enlightened rule summary executions had largely been replaced with vicious floggings and the threat of vicious floggings, with the occasional execution thrown in to keep everyone up on their claws.

Having pulled the head off the last prisoner he’d attempted to haul up, the good captain made a studied effort to be more careful, even gentle in presenting this one to his lordship. He didn’t even use a hook, instead lowering down a knotted rope after removing the guard ring of wulfin fangs from the pit mouth.

‘He might be a bit messy, my Lord,’ the captain said by way of apology. ‘I’ll do my best but this is one of our pointier sinkholes. Tenderises the prisoners, you know. For the pot.’

‘Well he’s not going into the pot, Captain. The pot is full. They all are full, thanks to your efforts.’

Guyuk allowed enough displeasure to creep into his voice to imply that more pots could be dragged down here if he found it necessary to put a certain captain on the menu for the barracks.

‘Take care, thresh,’ the captain called down the hole. ‘Watch out for that next pointy bit.’

Slowly, by degrees and by inches the tiny empath daemon was drawn out of the hole. It emerged torn and oozing, with great flaps of its hide hanging loose and one eyestalk completely broken. Pus and blood dripped from fresh ruptures while older bruises and scars were still livid and green. The Captain Inquisitor stood full three times its height and had to crouch at the knees to gather up the tiny thresh and carry it to a waiting litter.

‘Here, give it this,’ said Guyuk, passing across a goblet of bloodwine. The captain held the cup to its lips and let the creature sip. The effect was not immediate, but it was soon noticeable. The thresh struggled to rise so that it might prostrate itself before its betters.

‘Save your strength, thresh,’ said the Grymm lord. ‘You will need it.’

The commander of Her Majesty’s elite forces indicated to the Captain Inquisitor of the Night that he should not spare the bloodwine.

‘Nothing better for an injured warrior,’ said Guyuk. That brought a response from the thresh, all of its functioning eyestalks turned on him. ‘Oh yes, you are a warrior, thresh. And a valued one. We Grymm are of the Horde but don’t imagine that I share the prejudices of those fool Hunn. You didn’t lead Her Majesty’s Vengeance into ignominy and shame. You did all that was asked of you, all that could be expected of one so puny. And more.’

The Lord Commander of the Grymm patted the coarse scaled armour of the creature’s neck ridges.

‘You brought us an account of the rout that was admirable in its honesty. You did not try to dissemble or distract, to apportion or even to lay blame. Nor can we overlook your original discovery of the breach in the capstone. As much trouble as it has brought upon certain individuals within the Horde, it remains of epochal importance.’

Guyuk leaned in close and held the goblet up to the creature’s lips again.

‘You have ended eons of banishment, thresh. But your work is not done.’

The creature’s eyestalks quivered.

‘I
. . .
I
. . .
thresh
. . .’

‘We understand,’ said Guyuk. ‘This has all been very unsettling for all of us. Would that this affair had been left to the Grymm alone. There need have been no embarrassment to Her Majesty, to the Horde. Alas, it was not. And even now, thresh, I struggle to restrain the stupidity of the Hunn. I wonder if I might call on you to assist me
. . .’

He regarded the empath as one would a new tool of doubtful provenance and utility.

‘. . . or whether I should just toss you back in the hole.’

‘Thresh can assist! Thresh can always
. . .
always assist my Lord.’

‘Excellent,’ said Guyuk. ‘Come, hobble with me, if you will.’

It rolled off the litter, licking the last of the bloodwine from the goblet and shambling along after him.

‘Can you sense them, thresh? The calflings?’

The empath stopped and sniffed the thick, sulphurous air. Its sensory stalks, the ones that still worked anyway, seemed to test some humour that floated on the air but which the Grymm lord could not see.

‘There are many of them, my Lord,’ it croaked, still weak. ‘Two, three score.’

‘Indeed,’ said Guyuk.

‘I feel their fear and their pain and
. . .
a great confusion and
. . .
mourning. A sort of mourning. But mostly pain and fear.’

The creature seemed to grow a little in strength as it fed on whatever it could taste in the air.

‘Would my Lord have me encourage their terrors?’ it asked.

‘Not yet. I have something else I want of you. Something the Scolari Grymm have advised might be possible.’

Thresh looked from the Grymm lord to the captain with no great certainty.

‘The Scolari, my Lord. But I
. . .
I am merely thresh. I
. . .’

‘We know what you are, thresh. And the Scolari insist you try.’

Guyuk leaned forward as if to impart a great secret, or some terrible blasphemy. The latter, as it happened.

‘They believe they know the seat of the human thinkings.’

‘The cattle, my Lord? But
. . .
but
. . .
they are cattle. They do not
. . .’

‘Thresh!’ he barked. ‘You are no longer under Scaroth’s yoke here. You serve the Grymm now and we do not hold with the
wilful
ignorance of the Hunn. If the Scolari Grymm tell me they have located the seat of human thinkings, then I do not rage and rake against the profane. I simply do as I will to fight the greater profanity it promises. As must you.’

The creature dipped its stalks in a show of obeisance.

‘Come, Thresh,’ rumbled Lord Guyuk, inflecting the tone in which he addressed the creature with a slight, but noticeable guttural emphasis that raised it in his consideration from object to subject.

‘Of course, of course, my Lord,’ babbled the creature, all but undone by the recognition it had just been paid.

Guyuk was not being generous or indulgent. He needed this creature at its best. Of all the
Hordem
who had so far ventured to the surface only this creature had done so twice and survived. The confessions of the remnants of Scaroth’s thrall also spoke of the Thresh endeavouring to advise the disgraced BattleMaster more than once that caution should be his watchword. Advice the wretched brute had ignored at great cost to Her Majesty. Already the Grymm lord’s spies across the realms whispered of her rivals making due preparations not just to swarm their own forces Above, but to press on the borders of his monarch, who had lost standing as word of Scaroth’s incompetence spread.