Tales of the Old World Read online

  “Wotcha, stunties! Are we cumfurtabble? Do yooze knows what I’m gonna do wiv yooze lot? Dere’s lots of fings we can do togewer, and it’ll be a lorra fun. We ’ad a lorra fun wiv yer mates!”

  To illustrate his point, the warlord let rip with an enormous belch, spattering Kurgan with spittle. The stench of charred dwarf flesh and fungus beer was nauseating and the dwarf king felt his stomach lurch uncontrollably. With some effort, Kurgan quelled the bile rising in his throat and grimaced at the warlord.

  “Course, we woz ’ungry den, so we ’ad to be pretty quick wiv da butcherin’. Yooze fellas, we’s gonna take our time over, ain’t we lads?”

  The warlord turned to his ragtag army, his cavernous mouth yawning open to display an impressive set of yellowing, cracked fangs in what Kurgan assumed was the orc equivalent of a grin. This time the mob cheered on cue, laughing heartily. Kurgan tried once more to loosen his bonds, without success.

  “Da furst fing we’s gonna do is put yer feet inna fire. Dat’ll warm yer up fer sure. Den we can stick fings in yer eyes, so’s you don’t see no more. Den we’s gonna chop off yer fingas and toes and ears and noses and hack off yer luwerly beards. I fink yer king’s beard will go well wiv me uwer mates.”

  The orc stretched and grabbed a handful of Kurgan’s hair, dragging his head forward until it was level with the vile decaying decorations on the orc’s belt. The stench of rotting blood and filth emanating from the warlord’s unwashed fur leggings made Kurgan want to retch, and he had to muster every ounce of self-control not to heave up his breakfast. The warlord released his grip and continued.

  “Den I fink we’ll start boilin’ bits of yer inna pot, and we’ll feed ’em to yer so’s yer don’t go ’ungry. Yooze stunties are tough ’uns, no mistake, and I reckon dere’ll still be plenty of life left in yer after dat. So den we start peelin’ yer skin off an’ feedin’ it to da boarz. Da last fing we’s gonna do is cut out yer tongues, cos by dat time yer’ll be screamin’ really loud and musical, beggin’ us ta stop ’avin so much fun.”

  Kurgan spat again, and raised his head to stare straight at the old orc. Clearing his throat of smoke and ash, the dwarf king’s voice rang clearly out over the camp.

  “You have plagued us for many years, Vagraz Head-Stomper, and we have never been afraid of you. You don’t frighten us now! You will never get me to beg anything from you, you worthless dung-head! I’d bite off my tongue before I would give you that pleasure. You can torture us, but you’ll never break our spirits.”

  The warlord frowned at the interruption. With a non-committal grunt, the orc delivered a short punch to Kurgan’s jaw, smashing his head back against the post and splitting his lip.

  “You mite not fink I’m very smart, but I knows a few fings about yooze stunties. F’rinstance, I knows dat da worst fing for you is gonna be to watch yer mates gettin’ it furst.” Gazing at the roaring fire and then back to the dwarfs, Vagraz gave an evil chuckle. “Enough words. Let’s get started!”

  With that he spun and delivered a mighty kick to Snorri’s midriff. The ancient counsellor fell to his knees, doubled up with pain. Another kick from the iron-capped boots knocked Snorri sideways, spiralling down the pole until he was left choking in the mud. Eager to regain his lost standing, the burly orc with the scimitar pushed forwards again, two swift hacks severing through the ropes binding Snorri. As a goblin darted forward to wind more cord around the dwarf’s wrists, the orc subordinate leant down and snarled into Snorri’s ear.

  “Lucky you, da boss wants yer furst!”

  The moons broke from the cloud and the party halted briefly by a swift-running brook. The men sat down in the undergrowth along the bank, splashing the cold water onto their faces, swallowing a few gulps of the cool, refreshing liquid and chewing on the odd meat twist or fruit they had brought along. Soon they were moving again. Slipping silently into the darkness, disturbing the bushes and branches less than the touch of a breeze, the scouts ran off ahead.

  Soon the first of them returned, melting back from the shadowy darkness. They gathered around the hunt lord to report. The oldest of them, Lando, spoke first.

  “It’s an orc camp, lord. It’s difficult to say how many, they keep moving around, but by my reckoning it’s odds of at least four to one in their favour. They’ve got a few guards, but they’re all drunk. We could slit their throats without any problems. From the trails they seem to be heading westward, from the mountains.”

  Frodewin carved a picture of the scene in the dirt. “The most sheltered approach is from the west. We can circle round the Korburg and move up Aelfric’s Vale to attack. The moons are almost set; soon it’ll be completely dark. With that massive fire they’ve got burning, their night vision is going to be worthless. We should be able to pick off half of them before they realise there’s anything amiss.”

  The blond curly hair of Ringolf bobbed up and down with excitement as the young lad pushed his way to the front to add his news.

  “They’ve captured somebody, but I couldn’t get close enough to find out who.” The young man gulped a breath. “There’s a whole horde of them. Maybe we should wait for the others to arrive.”

  Steel-eye sighed and looked at each of his men. Without a word, he turned and started off towards the orc camp at a run. The others exchanged confused glances and then followed without protest. The going was easy, following a deer track to the west through the ferns that studded the base of the mound known as Korburg. The scouts slipped ahead once more, spreading out to silence the slumbering sentries they had located. The main party continued around the tor, breaking to the north when it reached a small stream which splashed down the steep slope from a high spring.

  Quickly and carefully, the hunters passed through the woods without a sound. The twin moons dipped out of sight and the forest was plunged into blackness. Steel-eye signalled a stop and then moved forward, tapping Ansgar and Eginolf to indicate they should accompany him. They half crouched, half ran towards the clearing. Ansgar could hear the drums and the chants of the orcs quite clearly now—and smell the stench of burning flesh on the breeze. The old huntsman uttered a whispered curse and Eginolf placed a warning finger to his lips. He pointed towards a small thicket where a dozing orc leant against a tree, its crude club lying next to it.

  Without a sound, Eginolf drew his long hunting knife and slipped into the trees. A moment later he was rising out of the bushes behind the orc. His hand clamped around its long jaw and the knife flashed down in one swift stroke. Eginolf laid his prey down carefully before rejoining his fellow huntsmen who lay in a clump of ferns at the edge of the clearing. From here they could clearly see four dwarf prisoners tied to stakes, two of them pretty badly wounded. As they watched, an immense black orc walked over to the dwarfs, followed by almost the entirety of his warband. There was a brief exchange, during which the chieftain was knocked sprawling by a head butt from one of the captives. All three of the humans grinned in appreciation of this act of defiance, and both Eginolf and Ansgar nodded when their lord started to string his bow and gestured for them to fetch the other warriors. Before long, the whole war party was hiding along the western face of the clearing. In the centre of their line, Ansgar and Eginolf flanked the hunt lord. One of the dwarfs was being dragged from his post and they watched as he started to fight with his captors before being savagely beaten into acquiescence. Ansgar spat and whispered another curse, before shooting an inquiring look at his master.

  “As much as it riles me to see such creatures on our lands,” he whispered urgently, “why should we risk ourselves for the stunted beardlings? They’ve never offered a hand to us.”

  Steel-eye spoke for the first time that evening. His voice was strong but quiet. It had an authoritative ring to it which forestalled any quarrel.

  “I don’t like orcs. Any being, man or dwarf, who can still put up a fight when bound certainly earns my respect.” He pulled an arrow from his quiver and rose to one knee.

  Snorri was hauled roughly
to his feet. As the orcs jostled him towards their leader, the venerable dwarf lashed out with his foot, smashing the knee of one of his guards. As the other orcs grabbed him, Snorri stamped on the fallen orc’s neck, producing an audible crack. He was bundled to the ground, the orcs kicking him and jabbing him with the butts of their spears. Throughout the cruel, mocking laughter of the warlord cackled out over the roar of the fire. Bloodied, smeared with mud and half-fainting from pain, Snorri was dragged across the camp towards the fire. The orc mob gathered around, whooping and cheering, eager for blood.

  The air was suddenly thick with black-feathered arrows, each picking out a separate target with lethal accuracy. The orcs had no time to scream before they were dead. Even as the others in the camp looked around with dumbfounded disbelief, a second hail of shafts picked off another swathe of greenskins. The air was filled with startled, raucous cries. The drunken orcs fumbled to get their weapons ready, stumbling over their dead companions and tripping over the stashes of loot that littered the clearing. Another deadly volley poured from the dark trees, followed by a series of whooping cries as a band of humans broke from their cover, dropping their bows and drawing long knives and swords from their belts.

  Kurgan strained again at his bonds, then looked up at Thorin’s yell.

  “This is our chance, uncle! Let’s try to get out of here while the greenskins are diverted by these primitives.”

  A glance to his right confirmed to Kurgan that Borris was still unconscious, hanging from the ropes like a tattered rag doll. The massive bruise on Borris’ head was as dark as coal and dried blood stained the whole side of his face. Escape didn’t look very likely, but Kurgan was not one to look a gift pony in the mouth. He clenched his teeth and wrenched at the ropes once again.

  The orcs had now recovered from their initial surprise and had started to organise themselves. Compared to the mass of greenskins, Kurgan thought the humans looked pitifully few. Gnashing his teeth in frustration, he strained at his bonds until his arms went numb, but there was no give in the ropes. Despite their lack of numbers, the humans were taking a heavy toll of the stunned, drunken orcs. One young man in particular was cutting a bloody path through the horde, slaying another orc with every swing of his sword. The greenskins were beginning to surround their attackers though, and Kurgan feared the reprieve from the orcs’ bloody attentions would be shortlived.

  Ansgar was grinning with the rush of battle, even as he parried another serrated orc sword. Lunging forward with his left hand he buried his hunting knife in the savage’s midriff. As the orc dropped gurgling to the floor another stepped forward, only to be felled by a blow from Eginolf, who fought to his brother’s right. The twins looked around for more foes. Their hunt lord was surrounded by a throng of greenskins, but even if they’d been sober the orcs would have been poor match for the mighty human lord. Although covered in a dozen light scratches and bruises, he paid no heed to his wounds and fought with the ferocity of a bear. Roaring the tribe’s battle cry, he plunged his sword through the neck of a goblin and, with a backhand blow of his knife, disembowelled another.

  Most of the goblins were dead or fleeing into the welcoming darkness of the forest, and no few orcs too. Nevertheless, Ansgar could see that the surprise attack would peter out unless they could break the main orc horde. Suddenly his attention was drawn to Steel-eye. Screaming in anger, the youth leapt over the heads of his attackers to come crashing down in the middle of their impromptu shield-wall. Ansgar lost sight of him behind a wall of green bodies and flailing swords.

  Concerned for his lord, Ansgar shouted for his trusted veterans to follow him. He set off through the throng, hacking his way towards the youth. Ansgar’s worry was short-lived. The muscled young man burst into view, rearing up from a tangle of corpses to hack at the exposed backs of his would-be attackers. Breaking in panic, the orcs tried to run, only to be cut down as Ansgar and Eginolf led their seasoned fighters to support their leader. There was an open route to the captives now, and Ansgar directed some of the men to act as a rearguard while the rest followed Steel-eye as he hurried towards the dwarf prisoners.

  Kurgan couldn’t help but be awed by the fighting prowess of the young human, obviously their leader from the way the savages clustered around him. Even as the dwarf king watched, the youngster effortlessly dodged a clumsy spear thrust, before stunning his attacker with the pommel of his sword. Ducking beneath a wild axe swing to slash the hamstrings of another greenskin, the youth stabbed upwards with his knife, showering himself in a fountain of orc blood. Kurgan almost felt like a spectator at some macabre dance, watching carefully choreographed moves executed with grim precision. The young man was constantly moving, weaving between the blows of his adversaries while his own weapons bit deep with every strike. A powerful kick to the spine sent a black orc crumpling to the ground, while the lad headbutted another adversary, snapping the orc’s spiked helmet back with a jarring crack.

  Kurgan noted that the other humans weren’t faring badly either. A few had fallen, but nowhere near as many as the orcs. The lithe huntsmen darted through the throng in pairs and trios, singling out a foe to gang up on. After dispatching one individual they would find another, and so on, moving through the orc camp with ruthless efficiency. For all their primal savagery, the humans were brave fighters.

  Kurgan heard Thorin spit a curse and he turned to see his nephew glaring angrily at the approaching humans.

  “What’s wrong, lad?”

  “Those damned pinkskin humans. They’re fighting over us with the orcs. I don’t know which of them is worse. With orcs you know they’re a bunch of cut-throat scum, but these humans are all falsehoods and backstabbing. They’ve probably come to cart us off to whatever foul pit they call a home. And they’ll take the treasure too, I’ll warrant.”

  “Mayhap, lad. Whatever their reasons, as long as they’re killing greenskins I’ve no quarrel with them. I’ll give them their dues, they know how to swing a sword when the going gets tough. Quit bellyaching and try to get free!”

  Kurgan turned his attention back to the battle. Some of the humans had broken through the orc line and their leader now led a small group of their oldest warriors towards the dwarf king. Seeing their painted faces, foam-flecked lips and wild, bloodthirsty eyes, Kurgan was unsure he wanted to be the object of their attentions. Still, these stupid humans might unwittingly provide him and the others with some chance of getting away. Without a word, one of the youngest warriors ran behind the posts and Kurgan winced as he anticipated a dagger thrust to his kidneys.

  It never came. Instead, Kurgan felt the rasping of a knife against his ropes. They were wound loosely around the pole itself, looped many times over and the lad was having difficulty cutting through them as they slipped and slithered up and down the rain-slicked pole. Kurgan exerted all his strength in one last mighty effort. With a snap the ropes parted and he pitched forward into the mud. In another few moments his legs were free and he looked up to see how the battle was progressing.

  A quick glance showed Kurgan all he needed to know. Despite the casualties inflicted on the orcs, things still looked grim. Skill and speed was one thing, but in this battle raw muscles and numbers counted for more and the pressure was beginning to tell on the men. Almost half the humans had fallen; now only the toughest and most skilful fighters remained. Hoarse war cries were drowned out by the clash of metal on metal and the screams of the wounded and dying. Foot by foot, the humans were being pushed back.

  Thorin was free now, but the humans were having trouble cutting loose the bonds on the unconscious Borris. With a snarl, their blood-drenched leader sheathed his sword and grabbed the stake itself. He heaved upwards, muscles bulging under the pressure. His legs were slowly straightening, even while his booted feet sank into the mud. Kurgan looked on in astonishment as the top of the pole begin to rock from side to side, first only a few inches, and then a foot, and then it was swaying wildly. With a grunt and a twist, the stake came free and toppled to
the ground. A tall human with plaited hair and a drooping moustache stepped forward, slipped off the ropes holding Borris to the stake and draped the inert dwarf over one shoulder.

  The young human leader was about to start back towards the fight, but Kurgan grabbed his cloak. He formed the unfamiliar words of the human language with difficulty, speaking in a thick accent.

  “You not hold them off by your own. Thorin and I can help. Ancient dwarf weapons here, lots of runes. Magic. Understand me?”

  The young man stepped back in astonishment, then grinned widely. Kurgan was surprised by the calm strength in his voice, even though his chest was rising and falling rapidly from his recent exertions.

  “You’ve got magic weapons here? Why are we standing talking? Let’s go get them!”

  They set off at a run towards the warlord’s ramshackle tent, even as the human line began to falter under the constant onslaught of the orcs. A few of the greenskins broke through and raced across the muddy clearing, eager to intercept the freed prisoners. Kurgan and Thorin both looked around for something to fight with, stopping to grab a couple of axes and shields from the piles of loot left over from the orcs’ ambush.

  By now the main fight was raging around the part of the camp given over to the warlord, and the humans were being pressed back to within an arm’s reach of the tent. Vagraz wasn’t about to give up the treasure and prisoners he had already fought for once that day. The humans around Kurgan shouted their battle-cry once more and charged into the fray. The human leader was leaping amongst the orcs, sweat gleaming off his rippling muscles in the flickering firelight. He moved with a grace rarely found in one of his size, darting through the crowd and hacking down a mountain of foes.

  Now Vagraz himself led the greenskins, a mob of black orcs around him. They were fearsome foes and the heavily armoured orcs smashed into the humans with terrible ferocity. The warlord cleaved through a handful of humans with a single blow from his massive axe. Vagraz’s backswing beheaded another unfortunate before the orc strode forward to deal more death. The humans fell back before him.