Gotrek and Felix: The Anthology (16 page)

The veins in Gotrek’s neck were throbbing, and his face was turning a dangerous red. Felix stepped ahead of him, speaking quickly.

‘It is nothing from Karak Azgal. We took it from Lanquin. Gold coins. His profits from the Grail, I would guess.’

‘No doubt,’ said Thorgrin. ‘And you are welcome to it, b-but–’ He stuttered as Gotrek fixed him with his blazing single eye, then continued. ‘But, you seem to be under a misapprehension about the boundaries of Karak Azgal. It is not just the deeps, but also Skalf’s Keep and Deadgate. The tax applies to treasures found here as well. If you would allow us to count–’

Gotrek exploded. ‘You cheap chiseller! I came here to seek my doom, not to hunt treasure.’ He ripped open the saddlebags, then snatched Felix’s from his shoulder and did the same to them. ‘If you want your ten per cent, take it.’

And with that he hurled the open saddlebags over the heads of the thane and the constables and into the crowd. The gold coins flew everywhere, and the mob immediately cried out and dropped to their knees to scrabble in the mud for them.

As the constables strode into the confusion, bellowing for everyone to stop, Gotrek picked up the trunks carrying the ancient crowns and axes and armour and threw them too, spilling the ‘important relics’ into the muck, to the horror of Thorgrin, but the wild delight of the crowd.

Felix laughed as the thane sputtered and gaped. It was worth the loss of the gold to see the look on his face.

‘Slayer!’ Thorgrin cried. ‘This is an outrage! You have deprived the council of its rightful–’

Gotrek pulled Agnar’s axe off his back, and the thane stepped backwards, wary.

‘Will you attack me now?’ he cried. ‘What do you want?’

Gotrek slashed down with the axe and planted its blade in the mud at Thorgrin’s feet. ‘I want you to bury that with the body of Slayer Agnar Arvastsson, the only dwarf or man I met in this cesspit who wasn’t a thief.’

The slayer turned away from the stricken thane and started for the town gate.

‘Come on, manling. This place stinks.’

Josh Reynolds

‘Snorri is working
up a thirst!’ Snorri Nosebiter shouted as he gleefully brought his hammer down on the pointed skull of a goblin. The goblin made a sound like mud squelching underfoot and dropped to the forest floor. It spasmed as Snorri stepped over it and wrenched his hatchet out of its companion. The second goblin toppled forwards from where Snorri’s thrown axe had impaled it against a scrub pine. Wiping the blade against his breeches, he took in the scene.

The goblins had sprung their ambush with all the cunning of born backstabbers. A full thirty of the stunted humanoids had raced from concealment the moment Snorri and his companions had begun their ascent of the slope. Clad in filthy cloaks and hoods covered in branches and leaves, the goblins were obviously old hands at ambushing merchants brave enough to use a route other than the Old Dwarf Road through Black Fire Pass.

Unfortunately for them, Snorri and his companions were anything but merchants. Case in point, Volg Staahl of Averheim, the leader of the impromptu expedition. Staahl was sometimes called ‘the Voluminous’; he was a big man with an even bigger voice. Clad in battered plate-mail, he roared out a bawdy drinking song as he swept three goblins off their feet with one swing of his massive sword.

‘Haha! Hurry up, Slayer. Winner buys the drinks!’ Staahl bellowed, his ginger beard coated with goblin blood. Near to him, all three of his fellow knights were giving a good account of themselves. But then, the templars of the Order of the Black Bear had had plenty of practice fighting goblins. Indeed, other than halfling coursing, it was their favourite pastime. Staahl and his brother knights had left the warm alehouses of Averheim for the cold peaks of Black Fire Pass on a mission of honour, as well as by the request of the final member of their party.

A few feet away from the knights, the individual in question drove the wicked hook that had replaced his left hand into a goblin’s ear and broke the creature’s scrawny neck with a vicious jerk. He was a dwarf and, like Snorri, a Slayer, though his crest was a small thing yet and his beard had yet to recover fully from its ritual shearing in the Temple of Grimnir. He called himself Grudi Halfhand, though the brothers of the Black Bear knew him by a different name.

Once, Grudi had been Grudi Wynters, son of Olgep Wynters, Master-Brewer and personal friend of Caspian Rodor, former Grandmaster of the Order of the Black Bear. Now, both Rodor and Wynters were dead, and the brewery with them. That was why they were all here today, fighting goblins on the scrub slopes of the Black Mountains.

Whistling cheerfully, Snorri trotted towards the melee, the fading sunlight glinting off the trio of nails hammered into the crown of his skull. ‘Save some for Snorri, fatty!’ he said, picking up speed. The Slayer catapulted himself at the last moment, hurling himself into the goblin ranks like a thunderbolt, his hatchet and hammer swinging.

‘Don’t call me fatty, stumpy!’ Staahl growled, plucking a goblin up and snapping its neck. He tossed the carcass at Snorri and it bounced off the Slayer’s massive shoulders. Snorri laughed unapologetically and stamped on a goblin.

The goblin gave a strangled squeak, and then silence fell on the slope. Snorri looked around, disappointment settling on him like a cloak. ‘Oh. Are they all dead then?’

‘No. Some of them buggered off,’ one of the knights said wearily, sinking into a sitting position on a dry log. He removed his helmet and ran a hand through his sweaty hair. Big and blond, Angmar of Nordland was a novice of the order, though his sour expression spoke of a man with more than his share of experiences, and most of those bad. ‘Still alive, brothers?’ he continued. The other two knights answered back, one after the next. They were a motley duo, even among the less than orderly ranks of the Knights of the Black Bear.

‘I yet live, and the ladies of Averheim can rest easy,’ said Flanders Drahl, a beautifully moustachioed student of the Marienburg school of duelling for fun and profit. He carried not a longsword but a rapier, and wore only a light hauberk of leather and ringmail. Near him was Grim Hogan, a Kislevite with a face like a stormcloud and a heavy mace that was stained with blood.

‘Pah. Goblins. They are no threat,’ he grunted. ‘They flee like rats at the slightest sign of resistance.’

‘And why wouldn’t they flee? We are mighty warriors, are we not?’ Grudi Halfhand barked, thumping his bare chest with his hook. He blanched a moment later, and spent a tense few seconds trying to extricate the tip of his prosthesis from the meat of his tattooed chest. Snorri chuckled and the other Slayer glared at him. ‘Well, some of us are mighty warriors,’ he said nastily. ‘Others are just senile old rust-skulls!’

‘Right now Snorri doesn’t feel mighty so much as thirsty,’ Snorri said, ignoring the jibe. ‘Where is this brewery of yours, Grudi Halfhand? Where is the cask of Wynters you promised Snorri?’

‘It is here, Nosebiter. Just up the slope,’ Grudi said, running the curve of his hook across his bristly crest. ‘Right where I left–’ He stopped and flushed. ‘Right where I last saw it.’

Snorri grunted. The two Slayers were as different as night and day: Grudi was young and eager to die, while Snorri was… Snorri.

Bigger and wider than most dwarfs, Snorri Nosebiter was a barrel of muscle covered in equal parts scar-tissue and tattoos. His crest, composed of three orange nails, had once been brightly painted, but it had since become tarnished, chipped and rusty. Grudi wondered whether the latter was at least partially responsible for Snorri’s distinct lack of precociousness. Rust on the brain couldn’t be anything other than harmful. But then, the same could be said of the nails.

‘Snorri thinks we should find that beer, Grudi Halfhand,’ Snorri continued, slapping one tree-trunk thigh with his hammer. ‘Killing goblins makes Snorri thirsty.’

‘Everything makes Snorri thirsty!’ Grudi said, waving his hook under Snorri’s nose. ‘Breathing makes Snorri thirsty! If Snorri needed a drink so badly, he should have stayed in Averheim!’

‘And what fun would that have been, when all of Snorri’s friends were here?’ Snorri said.

‘We’re glad to have old Snorri aren’t we, lads?’ Staahl said, clapping a hand on Snorri’s shoulder. ‘Anyone who can outdrink twelve cubs of the order in a single night is a worthy companion on this quest!’

‘I still say he cheated,’ Hogan said. ‘A hollow leg, perhaps.’

‘The only thing hollow on Snorri is his head,’ Grudi said, his hook still waving under Snorri’s nose.

‘Don’t make fun of Snorri,’ Snorri said gently, pushing the hook away. ‘You haven’t earned the right.’ Grudi hesitated, and then drew his hook back. He swallowed thoughtfully. It was easy to forget that the old Slayer had survived more than his share of battles, even as dim as he was. They said Snorri had fought a daemon once, or at least survived an encounter with one. Grudi, in contrast, had had his hand bitten off by an orc. It had been a big orc, but still… Not quite so glorious, all things considered. ‘Only Snorri’s friends can make fun of him,’ Snorri continued, looking around.

‘Snorri must have plenty of friends then,’ Grudi muttered.

‘One or two,’ Snorri said, giving Grudi a gap-toothed grin. The grin faded as the Slayer recalled the last time he had seen Gotrek Gurnisson and Felix Jaeger. He had been dragged into a glowing portal by a hurricane of daemonic tendrils, and Gotrek had, unfortunately, rescued him. Catapulted out of the portal, he had collided with the wizard Max Schreiber and been knocked unconscious. When he and the wizard had come to, both Gotrek and Felix were gone and the portal had been dark.

Where the duo had gone, or what their eventual fate had been, Snorri did not know. Schreiber’s magic could not find them, and though Snorri had made a pilgrimage of Gotrek’s old haunts, no one had heard from the one-eyed Slayer. It had been three years since then, and Snorri was coming to think that Gotrek had just possibly met his doom at last.

Which would be just like Gotrek as well: selfish to the last, hogging a mighty doom and leaving poor Snorri to settle for something more boring. Because whatever else you could say about Gurnisson, it was a certainty that he was destined for an end worthy of at least two sagas; possibly three. ‘Though Snorri would like a saga too,’ he muttered. ‘Just a little one.’

‘What?’ Grudi said, looking askance at him.

‘Snorri was saying that he hates goblins. They give Snorri the runs something awful.’

Grudi turned with his mouth open to ask the obvious question. Seeing the look of innocent obliviousness on Snorri’s face, he stopped short and drove past it. ‘We all hate grobi,’ he said. ‘Even other grobi hate grobi.’

‘These goblins were foragers,’ Drahl said, kicking one of the bodies. ‘Orcs will send them out to catch game of one size or another.’

‘Then they’re still up there,’ Hogan said. ‘How many was it again, Halfhand? A hundred? Three?’ He looked at the younger Slayer, his eyes as hard as flint. ‘How many took the brewery?’

‘No more than a dozen after we got through with them!’ Grudi protested.

‘Snorri will take the first six then,’ Snorri said, scratching at his head with his hatchet. ‘You lot can split the rest.’

‘Hardly fair,’ Staahl rumbled. ‘One for each?’

‘Have them all, if you like. My only concern is the honour of our order,’ Angmar said. ‘I intend to see that we get what is ours.’ He stood and replaced his helmet. ‘Come on. If we’re going to fight orcs, I’d rather not do it in the dark.’

‘Spoilsport,’ Snorri said, stuffing his weapons into his belt. ‘Snorri once fought an orc with both eyes covered in dung.’

‘Was this before or after you routed a daemon horde in the Chaos Wastes?’ Grudi said, waggling his eyebrows. ‘Or was it around the time you crawled down a dragon’s gullet and killed it with its own fangs?’

‘After. And before,’ Snorri said, peering hard at the other dwarf. ‘Are you making fun of Snorri again?’

‘No,’ Grudi said firmly, resting his axe on his shoulder. He looked at the knights. ‘If we hurry, we can reach the brewery by dusk.’

‘Perfect!’ Staahl said, rubbing his hands together. ‘Just in time for a drink, eh, Snorri?’ he continued, nudging the Slayer. ‘We’ll drink to old Rodor’s memory. Him and mad, bad Leitdorf!’ Grandmaster Rodor had fallen in battle alongside the former Elector Count of Averland, Marius Leitdorf, battling an orc invasion the previous year.

It was the dregs of that same invasion that had caused the death of Olgep Wynters and taken the second-best brewery ever produced by the elder race for themselves. Snorri shuddered slightly, thinking of all that ale and beer going to waste in grobi
gullets. If that wasn’t a crime worthy of a grudge he didn’t know what was.

‘Snorri doesn’t just want a drink. He wants Wynters,’ he said, rubbing his palm over the flat heads of his nail crest. The knights murmured in agreement. As a friend of their order, Wynters had supplied them with enough drink to drown a village, a gift the boisterous knights never took for granted. There were few enough places that would serve them in Averheim these days thanks to their penchant for un-knightly behaviour, and a ready supply of alcohol was considered a necessity by the members of the order.

But Wynters’ Own was special. It was rumoured to be the perfect blend of tastes and ingredients, a drink that even the dwarf gods themselves would fall to fighting over.

Grudi made a face. ‘And if the greenskins have left any, you’re welcome to it. It’ll be the last of it, and likely all the sweeter because of that,’ the young Slayer said grimly. ‘I’m the last of my clan, and I’ll brew no more.’ He gestured uphill. ‘Let us go.’

As the group set off, Snorri ambled alongside Staahl. The big knight looked down at Snorri and said, ‘Is it really as good as they say?’

‘Better, Snorri thinks,’ Snorri said, smacking his lips. ‘Wynters was almost as good as Bugman’s Best. Makes Snorri’s mouth tingle just to think of it.’

‘No wonder old Rodor had himself sealed inside a cask of it when he popped off,’ Staahl said, shaking his head. ‘Should have seen the party we had to celebrate his passing, my friend. It was a glorious thing. Glorious!’ This last was said in a roar that set the birds to flying from the trees.

Angmar whirled. ‘Quiet, you great oaf!’

‘Is that any way to talk to your Grandmaster?’ Staahl blustered.

‘When that Grandmaster is you? Yes!’

‘He’s loud,’ Snorri said.

Staahl nodded. ‘And unpleasant. You’d think he’d show me a bit of respect, considering my august status.’ Staahl had been voted into position as head of the diminutive order after a drinking contest that had lasted for forty-eight hours. As the last man with seniority standing (or swaying), he’d taken Rodor’s seat for his own.