Tales of the Old World Read online

  The sounds of battle began to fade and Leofric saw the undead horde begin to collapse before the walls of Derrevin Libre as the dark magic that empowered them faded from their long-dead bones.

  He sighed in relief and felt his spirits rise as he realised that the night’s horror was over.

  The Battle for Derrevin Libre had been won.

  “So what will you tell the duke of us, Leofric?” asked Carlomax as Leofric and Havelock prepared to ride from the village the following morning. Havelock’s horse had been lost in the depths of the forest, but he had been furnished with one of the previous master of the village’s prize steeds.

  With the defeat of the undead, Leofric felt that the sky was clearer and he could smell the scent of wild flowers carried on the back of a delightfully crisp breeze.

  Leofric considered the question for a moment before answering. “I will tell him the truth.”

  “And what is that?”

  “That Derrevin Libre has no lord,” said Leofric. “And that it might be better were it to be allowed to go on without one for a while.”

  Carlomax nodded. “Thank you, that is more than I would have asked for.”

  “It won’t change anything though,” warned Leofric. “They will come with bared swords.”

  “I know,” agreed Carlomax. “But now we have a few battles under our belts and even if they do kill us all, what we achieved here will be spoken of for years. Even the mightiest forest fire begins with but a single spark…”

  Leofric shook his head. “Then Derrevin Libre will be freedom’s home or glory’s grave.”

  He turned Aeneor for the southern horizon and said, “And I do not know which one I fear the most.”

  ANCESTRAL HONOUR

  Gav Thorpe

  Thick, blue-grey pipe smoke drifted lazily around the low rafters of the tavern, stirred into swirls and eddies by the dwarfs sat at the long benches in the main room. Grimli, known as the Blacktooth to many, hauled another keg of Bugman’s Firestarter onto the bar with grunt. It wasn’t even noon and already the tavern’s patrons had guzzled their way through four barrels of ale. The thirsty dwarf miners were now banging their tankards in unison as one of their number tried to recite as many different names of beer as he could remember. The record, Grimli knew, was held by Oransson Brakkur and stood at three hundred and seventy-eight all told. The tavern owner, Skorri Weritaz, had a standing wager that if someone named more beers than Oransson they would get a free tankard of each that they named. The miner was already beginning to falter at a hundred and sixty-three, and even Grimli could think of twenty others he had not mentioned yet.

  “Stop daydreaming, lad, and serve,” Skorri muttered as he walked past carrying a platter of steaming roast meat almost as large as himself. He saw Dangar, one of the mine overseers, at the far end of the bar gazing around with an empty tankard hanging limply in his hand. Wiping his hands on his apron, Grimli hurried over.

  “Mug of Old Reliable’s, Dangar?” Grimli offered, plucking the tankard from the other dwarf’s grasp.

  “I’ll wait for Skorri to serve me, if you don’t mind,” grunted Dangar, snatching back his drinking mug with a fierce scowl. “Oathbreakers spoil the head.”

  Skorri appeared at that moment and shooed Grimli away with a waved rag, turning to Dangar and taking the proffered tankard. Grimli wandered back to the Firestarter keg and picked the tapping hammer from his pocket. Placing a tap three fingers’ breadth above the lower hoop, he delivered a swift crack with the hammer and the tap drove neatly into the small barrel. Positioning the slops bucket under the keg, he poured off the first half-pint, to make sure there were no splinters and that the beer had started to settle.

  As he wandered around the benches, picking up empty plates, discarded bones and wiping the tables with his cloth, Grimli sighed. Not a single dwarf met his eye, and many openly turned their back on him as he approached. Sighing again, he returned to the bar. A shrill steam whistle blew signalling a change of shift, and as the incumbent miners filed out, a new crowd entered, shouting for ale and food.

  And so the afternoon passed, the miners openly shunning Grimli, Skorri bad tempered and Grimli miserable. Just as the last ten years had been. Nothing had changed in all that time. No matter how diligently he worked, how polite and respectful he was, Grimli had been born a Skrundigor, and the stigma of the clan stayed with him. Here, in Karaz-a-Karak, home of the High King himself, Grimli was lucky he was even allowed to stay. He could have been cast out, doomed to wander in foreign lands until he died.

  Well, Grimli thought to himself, as he washed the dishes in the kitchen at the back of the tavern, perhaps that would be better than the half-life he was leading now. Even Skorri, who was half mad, from when a cave-in dropped a tunnel roof on his head, could barely say three words to him, and Grimli considered him the closest thing he had to a friend. In truth, Skorri put up with having the Blacktooth in his bar because no other dwarf would lower themselves to work for the mad old bartender. No one else would listen to his constant muttering day after day, week after week, year after year. No one except Grimli, who had no other choice. He wasn’t allowed in the mines because it would bring bad luck, he’d never been taken as an apprentice and so knew nothing of smithying, stonemasonry or carpentry. And as for anything to do with the treasuries and armouries, well no one would let an oathbreaker by birth within three tunnels of those areas. And so, bottle washer and tankard cleaner he was, and bottle washer and tankard cleaner he would stay for the rest of his life, perhaps only two hundred years more if he was lucky.

  That thought started a chain of others in Grimli’s mind. Dishonoured and desperate for release, from this living prison of disdain and hatred, the dwarf’s thoughts turned to the Slayer shrine just two levels above his head. He was neither an experienced nor naturally talented fighter. Perhaps if he joined the Slayers, if he swore to seek out an honourable death against the toughest foe he could find, then he would find peace. If not, then his less than ample skills at battle would see him dead within the year, he was sure of it. Grimli had seen a few Slayers; some of them came to Karaz-a-Karak on their journeys and drank in Skorri’s tavern. He liked them because they would talk to him, as they knew nothing about his family’s past. They would never talk about their own dishonour, of course, and Grimli didn’t want to hear it; he was still a dwarf after all and such things were for oneself not open conversation even with friends and family. But they had talked about the places outside of Karaz-a-Karak, of deadly battles, strange beasts and mighty foes. As a life, it would be better than picking up scraps for a few meagre copper coins.

  He was decided. When his shift finished that evening, he would go up to the shrine of Grimnir and swear the Slayer oath.

  As he stepped through the large stone archway into the shrine, Grimli steeled himself. For the rest of the day he had questioned his decision, looking at it from every possible angle, seeing if there was some other solution than this desperate measure. But no other answer had come to him, and here he was, reciting the words of the Slayer oath in his mind. He took a deep breath and stared steadily at the massive gold-embossed face of Grimnir, the Ancestor God of Battle. In the stylised form of the shrine’s decoration, his beard was long and full, his eyes steely and menacing, his demeanour proud and stern.

  I am a dwarf, Grimli recited to himself in his head, my honour is my life and without it, I am nothing. He took another deep breath. I shall become a Slayer, I shall seek redemption in the eyes of my ancestors. The lines came clearly to Grimli’s keen mind.

  “I shall become as death to my enemies until I face he that takes my life and my shame,” a gravely voice continued next to him. Turning with a start, Grimli was face-to-face with a Slayer. He had heard no one enter, but perhaps he had been so intent on the oath he had not noticed. He was sure that no one else had been here when he came in.

  “How do you know what I’m doing?” asked Grimli suspiciously. “I might have come here for other reasons.”
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  “You are Grimli Blacktooth Skrundigor,” the Slayer boomed in his harsh voice. “You and all your family have been accused of cowardice and cursed by the High King for seventeen generations. You are a serving lad in a tavern. Why else would you come to Grimnir’s shrine other than to forsake your previous life and become as I?”

  “How do you know so much about me, Slayer?” Grimli eyed the stranger with caution. He looked vaguely familiar, but even if Grimli had once known him, his transformation into a Slayer made him unrecognisable now. The Slayer was just a little taller than he was; though he seemed much more for his hair was spiked with orange-dyed lime and stood another foot higher than Grimli. His beard was long and lustrous, similarly dyed and woven with bronze and gold beads and bands, which sparkled in the lantern light of the shrine. Upon his face were numerous swirling tattoos—runes and patterns of Grungni and Valaya, to ward away evil. In his hand, the Slayer carried a great axe, fully as tall as the Slayer himself. Its head gleamed with a bluish light and even Grimli could recognise rune work when he saw it. The double-headed blade was etched with signs of cutting and cleaving, and Grimli had no doubt that many a troll, orc or skaven had felt its indelicate bite.

  “Call me Dammaz,” the Slayer told Grimli, extending a hand in friendship with a grin. Grimli noticed with a quiver of fear that the Slayer’s teeth were filed to points, and somewhat reddened. He shuddered when he realised they were bloodstained.

  Dammaz, he thought. One of the oldest dwarf words, it meant “grudge” or “grievance”. Not such a strange name for a Slayer.

  He took the offered hand gingerly and felt his fingers in a fierce grip which almost crushed his hand. Dammaz’s forearms and biceps bulged with corded muscles and veins as they shook hands, and it was then Grimli noticed just how broad the other dwarf was. His shoulders were like piles of boulders, honed with many long years of swinging that massive axe. His chest was similarly bulged; the harsh white of many scars cut across the deep tan of the Slayer’s bare flesh.

  “Do you want me to accompany you after I’ve sworn the oath?” guessed Grimli, wondering why this mighty warrior was taking such an interest in him.

  “No, lad,” Dammaz replied, releasing his bone-splintering grip. “I want you to come with me to Karak Azgal, and see what I have to show you. If, after that, you want to return here and be a Slayer, then you can do so.”

  “Why Karak Azgal?” Grimli’s suspicions were still roused.

  “You of anyone should know that,” Dammaz told him sternly.

  “Because that is… was where…” Grimli started, but he found he couldn’t say the words. He couldn’t talk about it, not here, not with this dwarf who he had just met. He could barely let the words enter his own head let alone speak them. It was too much to ask, and part of the reason he wanted to become a Slayer.

  “Yes, that is why,” nodded Dammaz with a sad smile. “Easy, lad, you don’t have to tell me anything. Just answer yes or no. Will you come with me to Karak Azgal and see what I have to show you?”

  Grimli looked into the hard eyes of the Slayer and saw nothing there but tiny reflections of himself. “I will come,” he said, and for some reason his spirits lifted.

  It wasn’t exactly a fond farewell when Grimli told Skorri that he was leaving. The old dwarf looked him up and down and then took his arm and led him into the small room next to the kitchen which served as the tavern owner’s bed chamber, store room and office. He pulled a battered chest from under the bed and opened the lid on creaking hinges. Delving inside, he pulled out a hammer which he laid reverentially on the bed, followed by a glistening coat of chain-mail. He then unhooked the shield that hung above the fireplace and added it to the pile.

  “Take ’em,” he said gruffly, pointing to the armour and hammer. “Did me good, killed plenty grobi and such with them, I did. Figure you need ’em more ’n me now, and you do the right thing now. It’s good. Maybe you come back, maybe you don’t, but you won’t come back the same, I reckon.”

  Grimli opened his mouth to thank Skorri, but the old dwarf had turned and stomped from the room, muttering to himself again. Grimli stood there for a moment, staring absently out of the door at Skorri’s receding back, before turning to the bed. He took off his apron and hung it neatly over the chair by the fire. Lifting the mail coat, he slipped it over his head and shoulders where it settled neatly. It was lighter than he had imagined, and fitted him almost perfectly. The shield had a long strap and he hooked it over one shoulder, settling it across his back.

  Finally, he took up the hammer. The haft was bound in worn leather, moulded over the years into a grip that his short fingers could hold comfortably. The weight was good, the balance slightly towards the head but not ungainly. Hefting it in his hand a couple of times, Grimli smiled to himself. Putting the hammer through his belt, he strode out into the busy tavern room. The conversation died immediately and a still calm settled. Everyone was looking at him.

  “Goin’ somewhere, are ye?” asked a miner from over by the bar. “Off to fight, perhaps?”

  “Perhaps,” agreed Grimli. “I’m going to Karak Azgal, to find my honour.”

  With that he walked slowly, confidently across the room. A few of the dwarfs actually met his gaze, a couple nodded in understanding. As he was about to cross the threshold he heard Dangar call out from behind him.

  “When you find it lad, I’ll be the first to buy you a drink.”

  With a lightness in his step he had never felt before, Grimli walked out of the tavern.

  For many weeks the pair travelled south, using the long underway beneath the World’s Edge Mountains when possible, climbing to the surface where collapses and disrepair made the underground highway impassable. For the most part they journeyed in silence; Grimli used to keeping his own company, the Slayer unwilling or unable to take part in idle conversation. The night before they were due to enter Karak Azgal they sat camped in the ruins of an old wayhouse just off the main underway. By the firelight, the stone reliefs that adorned the walls and ceiling of the low, wide room flickered in ruddy shadow. Scenes from the great dwarf history surrounded Grimli, and he felt reassured by the weight of the ancient stones around him. He felt a little trepidation about the coming day, for Karak Azgal was one of the fallen Holds, now a nest of goblins, trolls, skaven and many other foul creatures. During the nights they had shared in each other’s company, Dammaz had taught him a little of fighting. Grimli was not so much afraid for his own life, he was surprised and gladdened to realise, but that he would fail Dammaz. He had little doubt that the hardened Slayer would not need his help, but he fancied that the old dwarf might do something reckless if he needed protecting and Grimli did not want that on his conscience.

  “Worried, lad?” asked Dammaz, appearing out of the gloom. He had disappeared frequently in the last week, returning sometimes with a blood-slicked axe. Grimli knew better than to ask.

  “A little,” Grimli admitted with a shrug.

  “Take heart then,” Dammaz told him, squatting down on the opposite side of the fire, the flames dancing in bright reflections off his burnished jewellery. “For fear makes us strong. Use it, lad, and it won’t use you. You’ll be fine. Remember, strike with confidence and you’ll strike with strength. Aim low and keep your head high.”

  They sat for a while longer in quiet contemplation. Clearing his throat, Grimli broke the silence.

  “We are about to enter Karak Azgal, and I’d like to know something,” Grimli spoke. “If you don’t want to answer, I’ll understand but it’ll set my mind at rest.”

  “Ask away, lad. I can only say no,” Dammaz reassured him.

  “What’s your interest in me, what do you know about the Skrundigor curse?” Grimli asked before he changed his mind.

  Dammaz stayed silent for a long while and Grimli thought he wasn’t going to get an answer. The old dwarf eventually looked him in the eye and Grimli meant his gaze.

  “Your distant forefather Okrinok Skrundigor failed in
his duty many centuries ago, for which the High King cursed him and all his line,” Dammaz told him. “The name of Skrundigor is inscribed into the Dammaz Kron. Until such time as the honour of the clan is restored, the curse will bring great pain, ill fortune and the scorn of others onto Okrinok’s entire heritage. This I know. But, do you know why the High King cursed you so?”

  “I do,” Grimli replied solemnly. Like Dammaz, he did not speak straight away, but considered his reply before answering. “Okrinok was a coward. He fled from a fight. He broke his oaths to protect the High King’s daughter from harm, and for that he can never be forgiven. His selfishness and betrayal has brought misery to seventeen generations of my clan and I am last of his line. Accidents and mishaps have killed all my kin at early ages. Many left in self-exile, others became Slayers before me.”

  “That is right,” agreed Dammaz. “But do you know exactly what happened, Grimli?”

  “For my shame, I do,” Grimli replied. “Okrinok was sworn to protect Frammi Sunlocks, the High King’s daughter, when she travelled to Karak Azgal to meet her betrothed, Prince Gorgnir. She wished to see something of her new home, and Prince Gorgnir, accompanied by Okrinok and the royal bodyguard, took her to the treasuries, the forges, the armouries and the many other great wonders of Karak Azgal. Being of good dwarf blood, she was interested in the mines. One day they travelled to the depths of the hold so that she could see the miners labouring. It was an ill-chosen day, for that very day vile goblins broke through into the mines. They had been tunnelling for Grungni knows how long, and of all the days that their sprawling den had to meet the wide-hewn corridors of Karak Azgal it was that one which fate decreed.”

  Grimli stopped and shook his head with disbelief. A day earlier or a day later, and the entire history of the Skrundigors may have been completely different; a glorious heritage of battles won and loyal service to the High King. But it had not been so.