Tales of the Old World (11 page)

Several times he ran into parties of goblins, and every time he threw himself
at them with righteous fury, exacting vengeance with every blow of his hammer.
Soon his wanderings took him into a gigantic cavern, the same one where he now
stood again. Ahead of him the darkness was filled with glittering red eyes, the
goblins mustered in their hundreds. He stood alone, his hammer in his hands,
waiting for them. The goblins were bold at first, rushing him with spears and
short swords, but when ten of their number lay dead at Okrinok’s feet within the
space of a dozen heartbeats, they became more cautious. But Okrinok was too
clever to allow that and sprang at the grobi, plunging into the thick of his
foes, his hammer rising and falling with near perfect strokes, every attack
crushing the life from a murderous greenskin.

To Okrinok the battle seemed to rage for an eternity, until it seemed he’d
done nothing but slaughter goblins since the day was born. The dead were beyond
counting, and he stood upon a mound of his foes, caked head-to-foot in their
blood. His helmet had been knocked loose by an arrow, and several others now
pierced his stomach and back, but still he fought on. Then, from out of the
bodies behind him rose a goblin. He heard a scrape of metal and turned, but too
slowly, the goblin’s spearshaft punching into him. With blood bubbling into his
breath, Okrinok spat his final words of defiance and brought his hammer down
onto his killer’s head.

“I am a dwarf! My honour is my life! Without it I am nothing!” bellowed
Okrinok, before death took him.

Tears streamed down Grimli’s face as he looked at Okrinok, his expression
grim.

“And so I swore in death, and in death I have fulfilled that oath,” Okrinok
told Grimli. “Many centuries have the Skrundigor been blamed for my act, and I
have allowed it to happen. The shame for the deaths of Gorgnir and Frammi was
real, and the High King was owed his curse. But no longer shall we be remembered
as cowards and oathbreakers. The goblin king was so impressed that he ordered
his shamans to draw great magic and create this monument to my last battle. But
in trapping my flesh they freed my soul. For many years my spirit wandered these
tunnels and halls and brought death to any grobi I met, but I am weary and wish
to die finally. Thus, I sought you out, last of the Skrundigor, who must be
father to our new line, in honour and in life.”

“But how do I get the High King to lift the curse, to strike our name from
the Dammaz Kron?” asked Grimli.

“If you can’t bring the king under the mountain, lad, bring the mountain over
the king, as we used to say,” Okrinok told him. He pointed to his preserved
body. “Take my hammer, take it to the High King and tell him what you have seen
here. He will know, lad, for that hammer is famed and shall become more so when
my tale is told.”

“I will do as you say,” swore Grimli solemnly. Turning, he took the haft of
the weapon in both hands and pulled. Grimli’s tired muscles protested but after
heaving with all his strength, the dwarf managed to pull the hammer clear.

He turned to thank Okrinok, but the ghost was gone. Clambering awkwardly down
the mound of bodies, Grimli’s thoughts were clear. He would return to
Karaz-a-Karak and present the hammer and his service to the current High King,
to serve him as Okrinok once did. It was then up to the High King whether honour
was restored or not. As he planted his feet onto the rock floor once more, with
no small amount of relief, Grimli felt a change in the air. Turning, he saw the
mound was being enveloped by a shimmering green glow. Before his eyes, the mound
began to shudder, and saw flesh stripping from bones and the bones crumble to
dust as the centuries finally did their work. Soon there was nothing left except
a greenish-tinged haze.

Hefting Okrinok’s hammer, Grimli turned to leave. Out in the darkness dozens
of red eyes regarded him balefully. Grimli grinned viciously to himself. He
strode towards the waiting goblins, his heart hammering in his chest, his
advance quickening until he was running at full charge.

“For Frammi and Gorgnir!” he bellowed.

The sun beat down relentlessly. Otto von Eisenkopf felt the back of his neck
burning. He dare not shift the position in which he had secreted himself though,
he thought, as his neck burnt even hotter—this time with shame as he
remembered the ants’ nest. His first action with this confounded crew and he had
to try and conceal himself on an ants’ nest! That huge fellow—Lutyens, or
whatever his name was—he hadn’t laughed, he hadn’t made a single sound, in
fact, adhering to thrice-cursed Captain Molders’ silence order! The man may not
have laughed aloud, but Otto had seen the mirth in his eyes all right. Bah! A
pox on all of them!

By Sigmar, what was he doing lying here like a bandit, the rocks digging
through his padded brigandine as the distant hoofbeats came closer? A mere
brigandine! Where was his own armour? And his scalp itched enough to drive him
insane. Only the gods knew what manner of lice were in the lining of the
battered arming cap he’d been given. A steel arming cap! So much for the fine
armet which his squire, Henryk, had polished until it shone. So much for the
wonderful plumes, all the way from Araby, which his sister had carefully dyed in
the family colours. How proud of them he had been, even wearing them in his hat
as he travelled up to join his father. Where was the glorious war he was
promised?

Despite the faint sounds of the approaching enemy, Otto risked a slight
movement, in quest of comfort alone of course, but a dislodged pebble clicked
against another. He sensed the hidden eyes of Lutyens boring into him. By the
Hammer, this wasn’t what he had prepared for!

His mind drifted back to that journey of just two days ago. How different his
mood had been then! He remembered the final stretch especially. They had
travelled up and across open moor country, so very different from the fields and
forests of his home. It had been like chancing upon a new land, bathed in
sunshine, ringing with unfamiliar, haunting bird calls and the continual chatter
of water over countless rocky stream beds. Water, to his mind, far sweeter and
cooler than anything he had ever drunk at home. His heart had been as high and
as bubbling as the larks that rose to sing as their horses had passed. He
remembered that he had sung too, the old war ballads of the Empire. They had
made Otto swell with pride, as he had thought he would soon be joining those
illustrious ranks of legend. He had imagined himself charging head-to-head with
the knightly orders.

So much for that! Here he was, baking on hot stones like a flat cake.
Lurking, lurking with a tattered handful of mercenary pistoliers, fully half of
them from outside the Empire. Even that fellow, Molders, the captain, had an
accent which sounded more than half Bretonnian. How could his father trust such
men? Trust them to reliably scout out which route the invading Bretonnian
scoundrels would take?

Otto reflected that the Graf must be under terrible stress. His father had
been made ill, perhaps, by the strain of having to defend their glorious
homeland with only men such as these. Not a single knight! By Sigmar, what an
insult! He resolved to himself to strive all the harder to not let his father
down, to at least be a reliable pair of eyes and ears on this confounded
mission. He was certainly confident he was more trustworthy than that scurvy
Captain Molders. What manner of upstart was he to consider ambushing a
Bretonnian noble like this? Lurking to trap a man whose code of honour would not
permit him to flee even if outnumbered and who, if bested in fair combat, would
certainly graciously submit to honourable capture and ransom.

Otto’s anger began to rise. No, by Sigmar the Blessed, he would not permit
this! It was his first combat and he was not going to enter it like a bandit. He
would behave honourably, even if these low sell-swords would not. He could hear
the hoof beats of the approaching Bretonnian party coming nearer. Abruptly he
rose to his feet and crashed through the shrubs to stand on the path.

He stood straight and proud, sweeping the path with his eyes. The Bretonnian
knight was just down the track, the scarlet of his horse’s caparison dazzling in
the sunlight. Riding beside him on a shaggy pony was a rough, leather-clad man
with an eye patch, clutching a light crossbow, undoubtedly a local enlisted as a
guide.

Otto raised his hand. “Ho, sir knight,” he began. The Bretonnian reined in,
his hatchet face looking startled. But it was the blur of movement to one side
which caught Otto’s eye. Just in time he ducked, and a crossbow bolt hissed past
him. The guide, still holding the bow, had now swept out his sword with his free
hand and was charging him. Otto struggled to draw his own blade. The knight was
shouting something. Otto cursed and stepped smartly to one side, only narrowly
avoiding the guide’s murderous sword swipe. His own sword now in his hand, the
young nobleman whirled to face the horseman who, rearing his mount, had turned
with incredible speed to attack him again. His gaze locked by his enemy’s one
blazing eye, Otto desperately prepared to dodge again but suddenly the guide
fell as Lutyens burst from the scrub and discharged a pistol into the side of
his head.

Otto’s mind reeled. The huge, rather slow pistolier had transformed into a
raging colossus of action. He didn’t seem to pause, even as he coolly dropped
the knight’s war-horse with his other pistol. Blonde hair streaming from under
his burgonet, he charged to where the squires were riding up to protect their
fallen master. He glanced back at Otto and shouted, “Get at them, fool!”

Otto hesitated. He was staring aghast at his borrowed brigandine, splattered
with blood from the slain guide. He looked up as a squire charged him. Gasping
aloud, Otto just managed to roll behind the dead guide’s horse. He barely
parried a spear thrust from the Bretonnian and luckily managed to seize the
weapon with his free hand. He stared up at the face of the squire: a grizzled,
scarred man who hissed with exertion as he tried to wrest the weapon from the
young noble’s hand.

Otto stepped forward, trying to jab his sword at the Bretonnian’s arm but he
stumbled over the body of the dead guide, which was hanging, one foot trapped in
the stirrups. Frantically, Otto tried to pull himself upright using his enemy’s
spear but he fell, twisting, amongst the horses’ hooves. Through the stamping
legs and dust, he stared into the scarred face as the squire grinned and stabbed
down with his spear. Otto writhed but once more a pistol discharged close by and
the Bretonnian, grin still fixed in place, toppled from his horse. His killer, a
wiry pistolier in a dented helmet, paused just long enough to seize the horse’s
bridle and pull the beast away from the young noble, before running towards the
main body of the Bretonnians. Otto, panting aloud, struggled to his feet and
stumbled after him.

The knight, protected by a close knot of squires, was on his feet and
ordering his men to the attack. Standing screened by his warriors, with one hand
the Bretonnian attempted to beat the dust from his crimson surcoat, while with
the other he held his sword aloft. “They are only brigand dogs!” he yelled.
“Kill them!”

Charging forward, Otto almost screeched as he shouted with indignation, “I am
no brigand, but Otto von Eisenkopf of Barhaus! Defend yourself, insolent
knight.”

Dimly, Otto was aware that there seemed to be very few pistoliers on the road
or moving through the shrubs and boulders, but now his attention was fixed on
the tight group of men immediately facing him. The squires hesitated, looking to
their master for guidance. Slowly the knight gestured them aside and stepped
forward. “Very well,” the Bretonnian hissed, “whatever honour you have, von
Eisenkopf, prepare to test its mettle.”

The knight stood before him, looking almost warily at his young opponent. He
held his sword—a fine, jewel-hiked affair—loosely by his side while his free
hand toyed with a corner of his silk jupon. Otto sized his opponent up. The man
was older and taller, very tall in fact, but sparsely built, with a thin face
and hawk nose.

His reach would be long, Otto thought, but he himself had inherited his
father’s bull-like physique and he reckoned that, young though he was, he
himself was perhaps the stronger. They were both shieldless but the Bretonnian
was well armoured while Otto had only his brigandine. Otto smoothly raised his
sword and took up his stance. He felt calmer now, on familiar ground. Just like
the fencing hall, he thought to himself.

“A swordsman, eh?” Was there surprise in the thin features of the
Bretonnian’s face, or even hesitancy? Then the knight seemed to compose himself
and took up his own stance and immediately attacked. It was not the speed of the
thrust that caught Otto off guard, but its clumsiness. He parried, almost, and,
had he not been so startled, could have finished the fight there and then. The
knight lunged again and this time Otto was ready. Smoothly parrying and
riposting, driving the knight back so quickly that he tripped, falling backwards
with a grunt.

“Rise, sir,” Otto said, stepping back graciously and preparing for another
bout. The knight rose slowly, but when he bent to retrieve his sword he lifted
it by the blade, not the hilt.

“I yield, von Eisenkopf. You have bested me.” The knight’s words were drowned
out in a sudden crashing of pistol and arquebus fire. Otto looked up. Molders
must have sent men from further down the track up and over the outcrop to the
north of the path. Now the pistoliers were firing down on the squires who were
attacking their few, hard-pressed comrades around the track. Otto could hear the
captain’s voice booming, even through the gunfire. “The horses, shoot the
horses! Don’t let them away, lads.”