Tales of the Old World (41 page)

“Spose that’s magic-locked too?” Grimcrag had asked with grudging admiration.

“Not at all, not all,” the twinkly-eyed wizard beamed from deep inside his
grey hood. “You can’t beat a good set of locks and a strong door. In my
experience, ostentatious displays of magic just seem to make the wrong sort…
inquisitive, if you know what I mean.” With that, and the jangling of a hefty
bunch of keys, they were in.

The tower was gloomy and dusty inside, betraying the fact that it had not
really been occupied for some time now. Most of the doors up to the fifth floor
were boarded over and nailed shut, and Johan couldn’t help being intrigued and
curious. He’d never been in a wizard’s den before, not a real one.

Keanu had stayed outside “To be keeping Guard” but Johan knew that, for all
his muscles, the hulking barbarian didn’t much trust the powers of magic, and
stayed well clear unless he couldn’t help it. If the stories were to be
believed, the only way Keanu liked to deal with wizards was with a sharp blade.
However, gold was gold, a job was a job, so the Reaver was “Votchink for
Troubles” outside.

“A wizard’s tower, eh, Grimcrag, Jiriki?” Johan’s voice was a muted,
awe-struck whisper.

“Poor decor, very dusty, not much of a colour scheme,” the elf muttered,
mostly to himself.

“Badly built, needs repointing, I’ve knocked down better,” Grimcrag added
from up ahead. “Hold on a minute—how come Keanu had five tens anyway?”

“Yes, but still… oh, never mind!”

Eventually they had reached the top level and emerged breathless into the
wizard’s chamber. There, seated amidst the bubbling vats, stuffed animals,
astrolabes, ancient books and all the other accoutrements of his trade, the
wizard had explained the mission.

It seemed that he had spent his whole life searching for the Finger of Life,
a powerful magical artefact, crafted when the world was young and death but a
dream.

“Read that somewhere,” Grimcrag interjected at that point. “Go on.”

The wizard explained that this item was a power to heal, to restore, and
unspecified Dark Forces had conspired for years to keep it from his grasp. Now
he had pinpointed where it rested, yet he was too old to go and wrest it from
the powers of darkness. He needed heroes, mighty warriors of great renown, to go
and retrieve the Finger of Life for him. He had heard of the great deeds of
Grunsonn’s Marauders, and knew that it was Fate which had brought them to this
small backwater, south of the Grey Mountains.

“The way will be hard, but think of the greater good! Think of the children
to be healed, the starving to be fed!”

“It’s really that good, is it?” Jiriki inquired languidly as he peered out of
the window in the tower. “Hey, Grimcrag, I can see into young Miss Epstan’s
boudoir from here.”

“That good and better, young man!” exclaimed the kindly old wizard, ignoring
the elf and concentrating on Johan. “You see these boxes?” He threw a stout
chest open, so that sunlight glinted on the contents within. Johan gasped: he’d
never seen so much gold all in one place. The wizard noticed his shock and
grinned. “All as nothing compared to the Finger of Life, believe me.”

Grimcrag coughed and tried to maintain his composure, but when he spoke his
voice shook a little. “Take it off your hands if you like, I can see it’s, erm,
cluttering the place, and filling all your nice boxes too. If you like, that
is…” His voice trailed off as the wizard flung open another chest containing a
myriad assortment of gemstones. “Gggn-ngh…”

“A pretty speech, Grimcrag, but motivated by gold-lust rather than concern
for my storage facilities I fear, eh?” The old man laughed at the dwarf’s
obvious discomfort.

“Well, I just thought—”

The wizard swept his arm dismissively around the chamber. “The Finger sits in
such company as makes this little lot worthless, and you, my friends, may have
it all. All I want is the Finger.”

“Lots of treasure then?” Grimcrag had that pensive look that usually preceded
a new adventure. Johan crossed his fingers behind his back. It looked as if
Grimcrag was on board at least. The wizard nodded.

“Plenty of orcs and other hellspawn to test the mettle of my Ulthuan-crafted
blade?” Jiriki leant out of the window, looking straight downwards, his words a
careless whisper. The wizard nodded. Johan exhaled with relief; he’d thought
that the elf would be the hardest to convince. Jiriki looked over his shoulder,
staring the wizard straight in the eye. The old man nodded again. After a
moment, the elf shrugged and looked out of the window once more. This time he
shouted: “Hey, Keanu, can you hear me down there?”

“Ja! Vot’s happenink?” The unmistakable voice drifted faintly upwards. “Is
jung Anstein turning into a Toad yet?”

“No, my friend. We just wondered if you fancied liberating a fortune in
jewels and gold from some of the greenskins you hate so much?”

There was a brief pause.

“Ja! Of course! Vot schtupid Qvestion!”

The minotaur bellowed and roared as it charged down the narrow underground
passageway. Johan backed away fast, holding his sword in front of him. During
his years of schooling to be an Imperial Envoy, he’d obviously missed the
“Minotaurs: Etiquette and Handling Thereof” lessons. His sword looked
ridiculously puny, even to himself. Still, if he was going to die, he might as
well go down in a way worthy of one of Grunsonn’s Marauders.

“Come on then, come on then!” he shouted, inwardly preparing for a painful
demise.

The minotaur grunted and slowed to a stop. Its head swung slowly to and fro
as it sniffed the air warily. Its teeth were still bared, but it obviously
wasn’t quite so keen to face Johan as a few seconds previously.

Anstein blinked, and regarded his sword with new respect. Perhaps Grimcrag
had given him a magic one by mistake. He waved it at the minotaur again for good
effect. “You want some? YOU WANT SOME?”

The minotaur growled loudly and backed off towards the darkness from where it
had emerged scant seconds earlier. To the young adventurer, it already seemed as
if hours had passed since he’d first seen the beast. Time moved like glue.

“Urrr… you craven coward, come taste my blade!” Johan took a step forward,
much emboldened.

This was obviously too much for the massive beast, as it turned tail and fled
into the darkness. Johan heard its cloven hoofs beating a rapid tattoo on the
rough stone floor. He was just sheathing his sword, in pride and relief, when
Grimcrag, Jiriki and Keanu came hurtling around the corridor.

“Hey, did you see that, I just…” Johan’s voice tailed off in terror.

The Marauders were looking at him with open horror and revulsion, and Johan
could see what was coming—these were trained warriors who reacted first and
regretted their actions later. Well, sometimes.

“No, it’s all right. It’s me—Johan!” he shrieked, wondering if somehow he
had been enchanted to look like a fearsome creature. This was crazy. It was also
much too late. As if in slow motion, Johan saw two arrows flash from Jiriki’s
bow, even as Keanu hurled a wickedly barbed spear, and Grimcrag’s massive axe
hurtled through the air. Even under the circumstances, Johan had to admire their
reactions.

Still in slow motion, he backed away, dropping his sword in abject terror.
The missiles crossed the short space between them. Johan mouthed silent curses.
The axe glinted in the air.

Johan’s improvised escape stopped abruptly as he backed into something big
and hard. Something that growled. Something whose foetid breath touched him for
a split second. Something whose beady red eyes regarded him balefully in the
instant before it was simultaneously decapitated by a large axe, pinioned by a
spear and spitted by two arrows to its black heart.

With a growling gurgle and a fountain of viscous black blood, the immense
troll collapsed and died, one viciously clawed hand dragging Johan down with it.
His desperately flailing arms caught a knobbly projection of rock, which came
away in his hand. Hitting his head hard on the granite floor, the last thing
Johan heard was a dull grating, rumbling sound. Even as he passed out it
occurred to him that they may well all be about to die.

A booted foot prodded Johan Anstein in the ribs. Callused fingers tugged
roughly at his jerkin. Foul, caustic liquid was forced down his throat. A harsh
voice shouted at him in a barely understandable tongue, as powerful and (from
the smell) none-too-recently washed arms wrenched him moaning to his feet. Even
in his groggy haze, and with his head smarting badly, Johan knew that something
awful was about to happen. Maybe everyone else was dead. Maybe he was the last
of the Marauders.

He blinked and tried to stand unaided, swaying dizzily but determined not to
give his captors the satisfaction of seeing his weakness.

“Vot you think, Grimcrak, not holt his Liquor?”

“He’ll be alright, had a nasty knock on the head. Go easy on the lad,” Jiriki
said.

“Knock some sense into him perhaps.”

“Not now, Grimcrag, the lad’s done fine by us so far, give him credit,” the
elf chided. “We’d not have found the concealed door otherwise.”

Waving away another slug of the noxious brew Grimcrag was toting, Anstein
looked slowly about him. He quickly ran his hands over his bruised body,
checking that nothing was missing. Apparently not. A thought trickled sluggishly
through his battered brain. It eventually came to rest.

“What concealed door?”

As one, the Marauders stepped aside to reveal a large portal, where before
there had been only a rock wall. Evidently the piece of stone Johan had grabbed
as he fell had been some kind of hidden trigger mechanism.

“Are you sure it’s the right one?” Anstein asked nervously. “I’ve seen what
happens when you lot go poking around for treasure behind secret doors.”

“You’ve got the map, young ’un,” Grimcrag grunted, still affronted that Johan
didn’t want any of his beer, “and all the other stuff from the wizard too.”

“Let’s just open da verdamten Door, ja?” Keanu enthused, drawing his sword.

Grimcrag began to smile, and a split-second later he had his savage axe
firmly gripped in both hands. “OK! Let’s maraud!”

“Hold it, hold it!” The elven voice cut the air. “Johan’s right for once.”
Jiriki was squinting at the inscriptions on the doorway. “These are very old and
powerful runes, and we don’t want to break them without good reason.” He traced
their shapes with a slender finger. “Very good reason indeed.”

Grimcrag peered at the symbols, muttering under his breath. “Good workmanship
this. Old. Powerful.” The dwarf turned to Johan. “OK, young ’un, get the stuff
out, let’s be ’aving you. Who knows what’ll be along in a minute?”

“Ja, Monsters, Dragonz even!” the Reaver chipped in enthusiastically, looking
at the dark recesses in the narrow passage, perhaps to spot any lurking
behemoths they had missed earlier.

Johan reached into his backpack and pulled out a selection of objects given
them by the wizard. One was an old map, which Johan rolled out on the stone
floor and weighted down with some bits of troll. The warriors hunched over the
map, illuminated by the flickering light of their torch.

Johan carefully packed the objects away again one at a time. He had a bag to
hold the Finger of Life when they found it. There was also a simulacrum of the
artefact, to be placed exactly in the spot where the Finger rested. Apparently
it contained enough power to paralyse the guardians whilst the Marauders made
their getaway. This bit had worried Johan a great deal, nervous as he was about
powerful artefacts and cursed guardians, but he feared to say anything as the
other warriors had taken the announcement in their stride.

Johan had also been given a magical talisman, which would re-seal the runes
on the doorway—if the accompanying instructions were closely followed. That
bit had worried him too, but the others had pointed out that if push came to
shove even Grimcrag could run pretty fast. Finally, there was the agreement
signed by the wizard that any other treasure they liberated was theirs to keep:
all he wanted was the Finger.

“OK, this is definitely the place, I’ve got the gear. Let’s do it.”

“Vot’s da plan then?”

Grimcrag scratched his bearded chin thoughtfully. “Well, in my experience,
places with secret doors—ones which are magically locked by old and powerful
runes, mind—spell two things.” He paused a moment and counted on his stubby
fingers. “The main one is treasure. Gold.” At the thought, his eyes closed
wistfully for a few moments.

“And the second?” Johan prompted.

“Ah, the second…” Grimcrag scowled and looked fierce. “That’ll be all the
hideous monsters defending the gold, all destined to die by my blade!”

“Und mine also!”

Jiriki looked heavenwards, arms folded. He tapped his foot impatiently. “And
the plan is?”

Grimcrag beamed. Jiriki began to grin. The Reaver’s barking laugh cut the
dank air.

“We all know the plan, don’t we? It’s the same one we’ve always used,”
Grimcrag said politely, before lowering his voice to a rumbling, menacing rasp.
“We goes in, we kills ’em all, we takes the loot, we legs it. Gottit?”

“Clear as a bell, my friend.”

“Ja, Kunnink!”

Johan blanched in terror. “Is that it? Shouldn’t we at least—”

But it was too late. Grimcrag and Keanu rolled back the great stone doors,
ready to rush the inevitable horde of monsters. Jiriki had an arrow nocked, the
string on his fine elf bow pulled taut.

A moment later and they were all reeling back in shocked surprise. Rather
than the expected flood of zombies, Chaos creatures, orcs or worse, they were
completely blinded by a burst of pure white light. The brightness threw the
tunnel into stark whiteness, and the Marauders fell to their knees, their hands
covering their eyes. The torches they carried were dropped, to gutter and die on
the floor, but no one noticed, such was the intensity of the light streaming
from the long-sealed cavern.