Tales of the Old World (29 page)

“That head,” he couldn’t help asking. “Is it real?”

“Yes, of course,” said Lafayette as the servants began to serve his guests.
“I always insist on having the head sent up with the meat. You can always tell
the freshness of the animal by the gold of its eyeballs. See how they shine even
after having been roasted?”

“Yes,” said Griston miserably. He tasted a forkful of the meat, and his
misery deepened. It was superb. Unique.

But the Harbour Master had other concerns.

“Where did you get that thing?” he asked, staring at the scaled head with
something approaching panic.

Lafayette shifted uncomfortably until his wife saved him.

“I couldn’t possibly reveal my sources,” she said, smiling sweetly. “I’m just
glad that Monsieur d’Artaud got rid of all those thieves at the dock, aren’t
you? They might have stolen it from our importer.”

The Harbour Master met her gaze, understanding. Then he shrugged, and tasted
a sliver of the white flesh. It melted on his tongue.

“I propose a toast,” he said. “To our host, Count Lafayette, and to the
excellence of his table. This delicacy is certainly a rare treat. Shallya
willing.”

The diners clinked their glasses, and returned to the succulence of
Lafayette’s triumph.

“Well, Johan, y’see, it’s like this…” The gruff dwarf voice hung for long
moments in the hot tropical air. “Sometimes yer has to take the big chance…” The
voice trailed off. “Ain’t half hot, though.”

“Snowkapt Mountinz, I see Snowkapt Mountinz.” Indecipherable babble escaped
from Keanu the Reaver like steam from a leaky kettle. “Ja, und schtreams, und
kold, kold fountinz…” Even the barbarian’s delirium was thickly accented.

Johan Anstein, ex-Imperial envoy, groaned inwardly and manoeuvred a fragment
of sailcloth to shade himself from the merciless ravages of the sun. The young,
would-be warrior peered with squinting eyes at the dwarf sitting stoically at
the rowlocks.

“But Grimcrag, what are we going to do?” Anstein’s voice was little more than
a croak, his tongue thick and furred in his mouth. He could feel the sun
hammering down on his head, even through the thick tarpaulin he had draped
across his blistered shoulders.

The young man pointed what was (to his mind at least) quickly becoming a
skeletally thin arm at the recumbent elf lying in the bilges. Jiriki rolled
softly with the swell of the sea. “He hasn’t moved all day, and Keanu thinks
he’s back home in Norsca.”

Johan studied the barbarian lolling in the steersman’s seat. Wearing nothing
but a loin cloth and horned helmet, the Reaver glistened menacingly.

“Take mich Home, Momma!” the barbarian gargled, his teeth chattering
uncontrollably.

“Don’t you be worryin’ about yon elf, lad,” Grimcrag interjected. “He’s
always doin’ that suspendered animalation trick of his when things get tricky.”
The dwarf deftly prodded the comatose Jiriki with a boat hook. “See, nothing!”

Grimcrag scratched at his beard and spat overboard. “It’s old
musclehead I’m
worried about. I don’t think he can take many more days without anything to
drink. He’s getting beerhydrated, and it’ll be the end of him, mark my words.”

“No sign of land?” Johan asked hopelessly.

The dwarf performed what under normal circumstances would have been an almost
comical double take. “Oh yes, didn’t I mention it? We’re about thirty yards away
from a lovely landing berth. I can see the tavern from here… OF COURSE THERE’S
NO BLOODY LAND!” Grimcrag snorted in derision, and continued scratching
despondently at his beard.

Johan slumped back under the tarpaulin. “That’s it then, we’re done for.”

Minutes later, he had drifted off into a restless, sun-driven daydream.

“Gold, lad, gold! More than you can imagine!” The dwarf voice resonated with
barely controlled excitement.

“Yes, but it’s not Lustrian, or from the Lost Kingdoms at all: it’s in a
storm-wrecked Bretonnian galleon.”

“Never mind that, it’s ours for keeps now.”

“It’s sinking fast!”

“We’ve got time, lad, and this boat can hold plenty.”

“Wouldn’t we be better scavenging water and food?”

“VOT? S’YOU MAD?”

A madly canted deck, so far down in the water that it was not much of a climb
at all even in their weakened state. Crazy angles, creaking hawsers, the
desolate flapping of ripped and tattered sailcloth. Not so different from their
own recent fate.

Keanu barging the others aside impatiently, muscles straining as he pulled at
the iron ring on the deck hatch. Nothing… then the screech of swollen wood on
rusted metal.

A black square leading down into nothingness. The stench of stagnant death
and decay. The slap of lazy waters in the dark bilges below.

Heat-bloated bodies gently bumping against him in the darkness. Foetid water
climbing quickly over their waists. Fish swimming blindly about their legs. The
discomforting feel of being ghoulish carrion, unwelcome visitors intruding upon
the rest of the dead. Heavy crates. A race against time and the horror of
joining the bodies in the hold forever.

A portion saved. Exhaustion. The sad sight of a once-noble vessel slipping
ignominiously below the waves, leaving at its last nothing more than bubbling
froth and a few shards of timber.

The endless sun by day and the chill blackness of night. Day after day after
day in a boat piled high with nothing but gold. Death’s shadow never seemed far
away. Who would succumb first?

“Sail ahoy!”

Hope!

“You sure, elfy?”

“Yes, it’s some kind of corsair.”

“Wave everything! We’re saved!”

“Hide the gold, lad!”

“Where, for heaven’s sake?”

“Halloo! Halloo!”

A brine- and barnacle-encrusted tramp. A patchwork of old repairs over older
repairs. A grimy grey sail. Tar and smoke-blackened timbers. A ruined figurehead
jutting like a broken tooth. The most beautiful ship Johan had ever seen.

A grizzled, suspicious face. A toothless grin, a hooked hand. A swarthy bunch
of no-hopers. Angels in disguise, no doubt.

“Well ’pon my soul, if it ain’t the great mister lardy-dardy
I-wouldn’t-hire-your-ship-if-I-was-in-the-middle-of-the-Great-Ocean-on-a-tea-chest
Grunsonn himself…”

“Vot?”

“Grimcrag, you didn’t?”

“Not exactly, lad… I think he missed out the bit about the tea chest
leaking…”

A diplomatic elvish voice: “Look here, Black Hook Pugh Beard or whatever your
name is, are you going to help us or not?”

“Depends, eh, lads? Shall we help the hoity-toities?” A chorus of despicable
cheers and catcalls.

“Dependink on vot, ’zactly?”

“Got’ny gold in those boxes?”

“Ja!”

“No!”

“For heaven’s sake, Grimcrag. Yes, yes, yes, just get us off this blasted
boat!”

“You’ll be wantin’ water then?”

“Ja.”

“Yes.”

“Mmph!”

“Definitely.”

Ropes and grapples snaking down. Chests brim full of Bretonnian gold hauled
up on board. A fishermen’s net lowered. Salvation in sight. Four sun-bleached
souls about to end their week-long torment. Heaven is nigh.

Johan stirred in his heat-drenched half-sleep. He already knew the ending of
this particular dream. He’d seen it for real, and dreamed it a hundred times a
day since. His eyes opened a crack, as he wondered yet again if maybe, somehow,
this was all a dream, a very bad one. Perhaps he was really lying on silk sheets
at home in Castle Baltenkopf? Pitiful hope seized his heart.

But no, here was the boat, and there sat the disconsolate form of the
renowned Grimcrag Grunsonn, unceremoniously stripped down to filthy grey vest
and long Johns. The lugubrious dwarf still wore his iron-shod boots and his
helmet, but his armour and precious axe were tucked under his bench for
safe-keeping. Johan blearily noticed that today the dwarf had rolled his sleeves
up. Perhaps the sun was finally getting to even him.

Johan turned over and quickly drifted off into fitful sleep again, the
endless monotony of the slap-slapping of the sea against the boat’s flimsy side
a familiar lullaby. After a few hours of blissful oblivion, the dream came on
again.

They are scrambling up the net, grinning madly to one another. Even Grimcrag
has forgotten the thought of his gold in the joy of rescue. Fresh water? A bath?
Food? What it is to have friends!

Halfway up and disaster strikes—the net falls away, plunging them down into
the sea. Uproarious laughter from above.

When they surface, the ship is already drifting away. Their small, sorry boat
is dragged alongside by the current for a moment, as if forlornly hoping for a
tow.

The corsairs laugh cruelly, jeering at the Marauders from the safety of the
gunwale.

“Come back!” Johan gurgles.

“MY GOLD!” shrieks Grimcrag.

Jiriki and Keanu swim with strong, accomplished strokes towards the boat.

The pirates throw down some water skins and a few barrels of salted fish.

The Marauders clamber, exhausted, into their floating prison cell once more.
Ironically enough, there is more room without all the gold. At least Johan can
stretch his long legs.

Grimcrag is inconsolable, shouting curses southwards long after the pirates’
sail has dipped below the distant horizon. The sharks circle. In the boat they
all know they are doomed.

Johan woke with a start, a sharp stabbing pain in his heart warning him that
finally his time was nigh. He had hoped that he would not be the last to die. He
didn’t think he could stand that. At least they hadn’t eaten each other. They
still had their honour.

It was so hot he could barely breathe. Eyes closed, he groaned softly. What a
way to go. The stabbing pain intensified, followed by a repetitive dull thumping
ache in his head. After a moment, Anstein opened his eyes.

Grimcrag stood over him, staring open-mouthed at the horizon. Waking up to
the view of a dwarf’s badly-sewn long Johns crotch revealed secrets to the young
adventurer that lesser men had died for merely talking about in casual
conversation. The dwarf was absent-mindedly stabbing him in the chest with a
marlin spike, whilst simultaneously stomping nervously up and down on the
ex-envoy’s head with a heavily booted foot.

“Pack it in, Grimcrag,” Johan croaked through sun-dried lips. “Just lie down
and die quietly like the rest of us.”

The dwarf mumbled something through his salt-encrusted beard.

Johan thought he had misheard. He painfully raised his head, and pawed feebly
at the dwarf’s long Johns. His breath came in rasping sobs. “What did you say?”
He was surprised to see that the dwarf was weeping. Must be a delayed reaction
to the loss of so much gold.

Salty tears ran down the grizzled dwarf’s cheeks, mingling with that already
tangling his beard. Johan strained to hear his cracked whisper. “Land, lad.
Marvellous, green, grassy, diggable bloody LAND!”

Keanu was mostly awake and rowing hard by the time they approached the beach,
rounding the rugged headland into the sheltered cove beyond. So far, the island
had seemed an impenetrable fortress, with cliffs on every side, but the sight of
this sheltered cove took Johan’s breath away. A strip of white, white sand
stretched for perhaps a quarter of a mile, with projecting horns of rock
sheltering the cove from the open ocean. Coral reefs made bizarre living
citadels in the clear water, and also created a natural barrier against any
heavier swells.

Negotiating towards a gap in the reef, Keanu muttered something about
catching a chill, and Johan could see whisps of steam escaping from beneath the
barbarian’s helm. Clearly the man needed rest soon.

“See all that green, lad?” Grimcrag shouted, pulling on an oar. “That shows
there must be water on the island somewhere.” The dwarf was wearing a relieved
grin along with his boots and underclothes, and had obviously heroically put the
matter of his gold to the back of his mind for a while.

Despite Johan’s best efforts, and the crazed shouting and whooping of them
all, they had failed to rouse Jiriki from his deep slumber. Grimcrag had
explained that it sometimes happened like that—and the Reaver had grunted
something about “Vontink a lie in, praps”—but Johan could see that the dwarf
was concerned.

Johan trailed a finger in the clear waters, watching the myriad schools of
fish flash in the sunlight beneath him. He had taken an hour at the oars, rowing
around what looked to be a huge lump of jungle-covered rock, and now he was
taking a well earned rest. So many fish.

Then Grimcrag shouted for him to grab a boat hook and be ready to fend off.
“We’re going through the gap in the reef, lad, and we don’t want to hole her.”

As they navigated safely through, the elf slept on, snoring softly, his feet
at the tiller and his head just behind Grimcrag’s seat.

A few moments later and they were into the lagoon, five hundred feet or so
from the white sands of the beach. Johan had once read a book from Araby about
exotic fruits. Surely what he was seeing now were indeed the fabled, erm,
barnarnowls or something; the exact name eluded him.

“Looks like we’re in for a sojourn in paradise, eh, Grimcrag?” he shouted
excitedly, pointing shorewards. “See, corker nuts.”

The dwarf grinned deliriously, “Yes, and jimjam trees too!”

Johan sighed contentedly, sat back at the tiller and peered at the fish
again.

A moment later, Anstein, Grimcrag and Keanu made simultaneous exclamations.

“Grimcrag, there’s no fish at all in the lagoon! Why d’you think that might
be?”

“Hell, lad, what’s that coming from the jungle?”

“Achtung! Valkink Lizarts!”

Johan’s question was forgotten as all eyes swung forwards. All, that is,
except for Jiriki, who was facing the wrong way and asleep anyway. A strange
procession was making its way through the jungle and onto the beach. What indeed
looked to be four- to five-foot tall, walking lizards were emerging in small
groups, carrying bows, blow pipes and crude swords. Others were throwing
quantities of fruit and flowers into the lagoon, while slightly larger lizards
began blowing on trumpets fashioned from polished shells.