Tales of the Old World (33 page)

The Reaver burped loudly. “Fang, da Legend vunce more, ’f ya pleez.” Keanu
gestured languidly at the black-skinned shaman, who stood in his ceremonial
place beside the throne. He had named all the skinks in his “hearth-guard”
after his wolf hounds back home in Norsca.

Keanu fondly thought of the band of heavily-armed reptilian warriors as his
very own Berserkers, although none of them had, as yet, betrayed any leanings
towards going berserk at all. “Not got the temperament fer it,” Grimcrag had
explained at the last banquet, whilst Jiriki maintained that it was something to
do with their blood being cold, or some such typical elf nonsense.

On a cue from Fang the shaman, a bigger lizard creature, stripped down to a
loincloth, banged heartily on a brass gong strung up on sturdy wooden poles
beside the throne.

Within minutes, the clearing was alive with skinks, all jostling for places
from where they could hear the story again. Being a Norse barbarian himself,
Keanu appreciated good tales. In his consideration, like a good wine, they
improved with age. Not that any wine which came Keanu’s way got the chance to
enjoy its autumn years, but the principle was, he felt, a sound one.

After a while, the hubbub in the small square died down. Fang cleared his
throat to speak the story on which the skink island civilisation was founded.
With an imperious wave of his massive arms, Keanu bade Fang be silent. Standing,
the barbarian addressed the assembled throng. Agog, they listened intently.

“Today,” Keanu began, his eyes sweeping the appreciative crowd, “today I’m
tellink da Saga, ja?”

“Ya, yesssss, ya!” the lizards chorused, rocking backwards and forward in
delight. Fang smiled benignly and nodded his crested head.

“I’m keepink ’im short, koz nearly Dinna time,” the barbarian continued,
striding to the front of the crowd. Already, a bunch of skinks stood ready to
perform the odd ritualistic actions which always accompanied the story.

Keanu grinned: what a stupid bunch of lizards. He’d heard the story enough
times that he knew it off by heart, almost felt it was of his doing. He’d give
them a story to remember. He began, his voice echoing loud and strong across the
clearing.

“Und so beginz da Saga of da Voyage of Erik da Lost, Great God Warrior of
Norsca, und how he brought Kulture und Beer to Paradise.”

The miming lizards were ahead of Keanu already, making rowing actions as they
envisaged the ship of Eric the Lost ploughing across the mighty oceans to this
small island. Looking around, Keanu could see that the majority of the lizards
had their eyes closed, broad grins of contentment splitting their leathery
faces.

And so, at least for a few minutes, Keanu escaped from the real world of
reaving and death, as he told the age-old story of Eric, great warrior king, and
his voyage across the sea. He told of mighty storms and huge sea monsters
(several mimers became carried away and bit each other at this point), of
treacherous rocks and wicked pirates. He told of strange lands populated by
strange creatures, of mighty heroes and deeds of wonder. And he told of how,
after many years of travelling, Eric arrived at this fair land, which he took to
be the fabled land of Lustria, and named it Ericland.

Keanu looked around the band of skinks and almost laughed aloud. He still
couldn’t really believe the next part of the story himself, although there was
proof enough for anyone. The skinks doing the actions were confused by Keanu’s
expression: normally the story didn’t stop here, and they were repeatedly miming
planting a flag in the earth. Keanu hastily drew a breath and continued.

Eric and his wise heroes had stormed the island, killing all of the great
lizard monsters who had once lived here. (Fang had showed Keanu the cave full of
bones, and the barbarian had been truly impressed—Eric had certainly known how
to fight judging by the size of some of the skeletons.) He liberated the skinks
to true civilisation: true speech, freedom… and beer.

The next part of the story almost stuck in the barbarian’s throat, such was
the enormity of the lie. Now he told of how Eric and his noble followers had
revealed the true horror of that evil and glittering substance known as
“Golt”, and how those brave and selfless Norsemen had liberated the skinks
from the horrid material of which they had so much, and hidden it in a far
distant cave, never to trouble their idyllic lives again.

And finally, Keanu told of how the day dawned when Eric and his band of
warriors had proven the true depths of their selfless love, by setting sail away
from the island in their ship full of the hated gold, simply to get rid of it
once and for all. Several of the skinks were weeping great salty tears at this
part of the story, and not for the first time, Keanu marvelled at their gullible
nature.

“Ja, but too much Golt was there for vun Schip, so as he vent avay, Eric was
makink da Promise, ja?” Keanu shouted the words at the throng. They were all
staring, a hundred pairs of unblinking eyes fixed on his face, hanging on every
syllable. “Und vot was dat Promise?” Keanu implored, secretly pleased with his
performance.

As one voice, the skinks shrieked the words which ended the story every time
it was told. Their voices echoed around the jungle, and several flocks of multi
coloured birds took flight in terror. “I VILL BE BACK FOR DA GOLD—SSSO DON’T
TOUCH, JA?”

Exhausted, the assembly fell silent, and Keanu fell back onto his throne,
gesturing for beer. The crowd abruptly erupted into applause, as they hooted and
hissed and slapped their tails on the ground.

Fang smiled. His prophecies over the years had been borne out. He was the
true priest of Erikkk. Everyone now knew that Eric had kept his promise, even if
his warriors had changed a bit over the years. Especially the short, grubby,
bearded one.

At that moment, the spell was broken as Johan, Froggo, Jiriki and Grimcrag
rushed into the village square, panting and out of breath.

“Kean—Eric!” Johan shouted. “We’ve got to go!”

“Vot? Going vere?”

“Forty-five minutes now!” Jiriki added.

The skinks were somewhat agitated, for they were not used to such an abrupt
ending. Usually, when Fang was telling it, they got a good hour’s sun bathing
after such an energetic story, or at last half an hour in the cool water of the
pond.

Jiriki ran over to the bemused barbarian, and whispered in his ear. The
effect was electrifying. Like a scalded cat, Keanu was on his feet, weapons
grabbed and running across the clearing in one fluid motion. The throng of
skinks blinked and hissed uncertainly. Fang frowned, unsure as to what his lord
was doing.

Jiriki ran after Keanu, shoving him in the back to keep him moving. Grimcrag
and the others had already vanished down the path to the cave, the dwarf showing
a surprising turn of speed.

Shaking himself free of the elf’s grasp, Keanu glared at Jiriki and turned to
face his villagers. “Not Vurryink,” he hissed at Jiriki, before turning and
bellowing at the hundred or so lizards. “Now is da Time!” he began, raising his
sword to the air. “My Berserkers—Volf pack, Bear soldiers, Schnow Leopards,
now is your Time to fight!”

The most inappropriately named groups of skinks scuttled off to collect
weapons, growling and snapping at each other. A nimbus of blue fire already
played around the tip of Fang’s ceremonial staff.

“What are you doing?” Jiriki snapped, dancing agitatedly from foot to foot.
“We don’t have time for this.” Keanu pushed the elf away and faced the skinks
again.

“Now ve must be goink!” Keanu stabbed himself in the chest with his
forefinger. “Me, Erik, und my Varriors!” He grinned, showing sharp white teeth.
The lizards were starting to look crestfallen. “But not to be Vorryink! No! Ve
take all da nasti Golt vith us to da land beyont da sea!”

At this, the skinks looked mightily relieved, and his “Berserkers” started
to look worried that there might be nothing to fight about after all. Keanu put
them right, as he backed slowly away from them down the trail.

“A ship full of evil men is Komink, friends of, er, da big dead Lizart
Monsters,” the barbarian improvised magnificently. “Ya! S’right! Lizart friends
komink to take you away! You stop them, ja? Stop them, my friend Fank! Lead
skinkz to victor, ja?”

At this, Jiriki and Keanu turned tail and fled along the jungle path, heading
to the boat and hopefully a slim chance at escape. Behind them, they heard
growing chanting and shouting as the skinks prepared to fight for their island.

“You certainly got them going,” Jiriki gasped as they plunged down the muddy
trail, vines whipping their faces as they ran.

“I’m makink da Divershun—they’ll have to get everyvun ashore from da ship
for da fight!” Keanu answered. “Vot’s da Hurri?”

“Diversion? Excellent plan!” Jiriki abruptly darted down a side trail. “This
way, Keanu. Tide’s rising fast and we still have to get the boat out of the
cave!”

A few minutes later and they burst onto the stony path which led to the cave.
Hearts pounding, they had covered the distance to the mooring harbour in a scant
five minutes. Ahead, Jiriki could see Johan dashing into the entry tunnel, and
he knew it was a fair bet that Grimcrag was there already. Despite his bulk and
shape, the dwarf could put on a ferocious burst of speed when need be.
Particularly if time was of the essence, and the reward might be escape to
freedom with a vast fortune in pure gold.

They plunged into the darkness of the cave, and headed for the heavily loaded
boat. If Jiriki was right, and if they were very lucky, six months of not too
arduous captivity were shortly about to end.

“Avast that bilge, mister mate. Bring the mains’l forr’ard and main-brace the
spinnaker!” Looking through the fine bronze telescope with his one good eye,
Hook Black Pugh could see the plume of smoke rising from the island. As he
studied the idyllic looking landscape, he shouted his orders over his
braid-encrusted shoulder. As usual, old Yin-Tuan, first mate and veteran of a
hundred such voyages, sighed resignedly and did nothing of the sort. Instead,
the hulking first mate gave out a string of clipped, near-intelligible orders to
the cut-throats who leaned eagerly over the port bulwark. As if already stung by
the barbed whip hanging at Yin-Tuan’s belt, the pirates brought the vessel
around with a speed and efficiency which belied their ragged looks.

Pugh turned to his second officer, “Teachy” Bligh, and sighed loudly. “Aaargh,
Bligh me lad, as fine an island fer a-plunderin as I ever did see!”

Bligh, hailing from Sartosa, was a nasty piece of work, all muscle and
psychopathic intent. A grim smile split his normally emotionless face, and a
familiar glitter came to his black eyes. “Only island we’ve seen this past six
month, sir. Lads need a bit of pillagin’.” He half-pulled his cutlass from its
orcskin scabbard and looked around as if intending to pillage something right
here, right now.

Pugh grabbed Bligh’s hand and tutted. “Now, now, Teachy boy, there baint none
o’them Cathay slaves left to a-play with, you’ve bin and pillaged ’em all.” The
pirate captain held his hook under Pugh’s nose. The spike glittered menacingly
in the sunlight. “Yer don’t want to go a-makin’ me cross again, does yer?” Hook
Black made a thrusting, twisting action with the hook. “Or it might be spiky
time fer you again!”

Bligh blanched visibly and clenched his legs tightly together. With a
disconsolate grunt, he pushed his cutlass back into its scabbard. “Okay boss,
okay. I din’t mean nowt. S’just…” Bligh’s voice died away and a cunning animal
gleam came into his black, dead eyes. “The lads needs a good pillage, is all—they say it’s bad luck as kept us away from land or plunder for the past six
month, bad luck of that there Bretonnian gold we stole!”

Bligh stepped back, ready to make a run for it. After a moment’s silence,
however, his captain began rocking to and fro, giggling to himself merrily. The
braid on his salt-stained jacket swayed with his rocking, and the faded medals
on his once-red sash jangled in the sunshine. Throwing his black bearded head
backwards, the pirate captain gave out a huge bellow of laugher.

“Curse o’ the Grunsonns, is it?” he guffawed.

“Yer, that’s right!” Bligh affirmed, looking around the rest of the crew for
moral support. None was to be had: they all seemed to be busy swabbing decks or
preparing cannons. A good few of them had climbed the rigging of the mainmast
and were studiously making long needed repairs to the tattered expanse of a
hundred bits of ancient stitched canvas that passed for the sail on the Dirty
Dog.

Pugh’s laughter abruptly stopped, and he stomped his iron tipped peg leg hard
on the wooden planking of his bridge. When next he spoke, it was with the
deathly calm he usually reserved for the last words his victim was destined to
hear. He pointed his hook down at Bligh, who grinned nervously and held up his
hands in something approaching an attitude of apology.

“Lissen, Mister Bligh, and lissen good!” Hook Black Pugh pulled his shabby
tricorn down over his forehead, and glowered the length of the ship. “And that
goes double fer you lot of scurvy blaggards. Even you, Mr. Yin-Tin-Tong or
whatever your name is!” He swept the fearful crew with his steely eye. “You might
be better sailors than I’ll ever be…”

The pirates all exchanged confused looks at this frank admission, most unlike
their hated captain.

“But!” Pugh turned back to face his crew, and there was fire in his voice.
“Tis my ship! My letter of marque from our Tilean Lords—” at this, all the
pirates, including Pugh, made elaborate mock bows to one another, “—and my
leadership what’s got us an ’old full o’gold to take ’ome.”

Pugh paused to let the truth sink in. “And now, me hearties, we have
discovered a new island for our gracious lords.” (More mock bowing.) Pugh shook
his right hand at the island, fast hoving into full view, his filthy lace cuffs
dropping crumbs of bread and other detritus onto the floor.