‘I was once…’ Grog paused to swallow the lump that had formed in his throat, ‘I
was close with High King Oahn. There weren’t many secrets he kept from me. He told
me about The Sovereign Shadows.’
Krordous looked up at Grog.
‘By the Ancient Ones, Krordous, what happened to you?’
Grog could tell that the pain that flooded into Krordous’ eyes and crumpled his face
had nothing to do with the cold. The scarred dwarf bit his lip, closed his eyes, and –
with a groan of pain and effort – he rolled onto his other side, turning his back on
Grog.
Fine, be that way, Grog thought as he raised the flask to his mouth and downed the
remaining contents. He was very-much in the mood to get drunk. He had a pair of red-
raw frostbitten hands to add to his long – and ever-growing – list of injuries. He was
also tired, filthy, freezing and more than a little shaken-up by the death of Major
Hammerbuckle, and the bizarre and horrific scarring he’d just seen etched into the
skin of Krordous.
He made his way over to his pack, intending to fish out the large glass bottle of
whisky that he’d found amongst Major Hammerbuckle’s belongings. He was just
wondering whether he should bother refilling the metal flask, or whether he might just
start drinking directly from the bottle, when he noticed something that made him very
angry.
‘You bastards!’ he yelled at the sky. ‘You cruel heartless bastards!’
Looming large on the western horizon were the jagged, mountain-sized rocks
known as Kalian’s Teeth, and drifting over those towering rocks was an ominous bank
of dark clouds. A spring storm was rolling in. Grog guessed they had less than an hour
to find some kind of shelter before the cursed Ancient Ones attacked them with
lightning bolts and blasting rain. If they weren’t able to keep Krordous dry and
relatively warm … he really might die.
‘Tarian!’ Grog yelled. ‘Orifam! Look!’
The others looked up and followed his pointing finger.
The string of expletives that Tarian let loose was enough to make even Grog wince.
‘We need to find some shelter,’ she said as she trudged back towards Grog and
Krordous, dumping her armful of damp twigs.
‘Oh, you think so?’ Grog asked, emboldened by his gutful of smoulder whisky.
‘Cos I was just drawing your attention to those storm clouds so you could admire how
lovely they look as they come hurtling towards us.’
Tarian wiped her hands on her breeches and gave Grog a look that might have
made a troll cry. ‘Have you ever wanted to know what your intestines look like?’ she
asked in a conversational tone, ‘because I could help you with that.’
‘Save your strength, love,’ Grog said, ‘you’re going to need it to help me drag this
frozen lump over to those foothills.’ He jutted his chin towards the east, and the
mountain ranges they’d only just climbed down from.
And then his chin was jerked violently down. Tarian had leapt forward, grabbed
hold of Grog’s bushy black beard with both hands and yanked his face to within
inches of her deadly glare.
‘Don’t call me love! You got that? My name’s Tarian.’
‘Gawt it!’ Grog mumbled, barely able to move his jaw to form the words.
Tarian released him. ‘You’ve been drinking,’ she said, wrinkling up her nose. ‘At a
time like this, you’re fucking drinking.’
‘Seems to me like this is the perfect time to be drinking,’ Grog said, rubbing his
chin. ‘It’s been a tough day.’
‘Well, it’s about to get even tougher,’ Tarian looked down at Krordous, who
remained curled up and shivering on the strip of canvas. ‘There’s no way he’s walking
that far in this state. Are you sure there’s some caves, or somewhere to ride this out
over there?’
‘Maybe not a cave, but those cliffs are absolutely riddled with old mines.’
‘We do have tents,’ Orifam said from behind Grog.
‘I’ve seen them,’ Grog said, ‘but I don’t much like their chances against that.’ He
gestured towards the roiling black clouds tumbling over the spiked peaks of Kalian’s
Teeth, and the streaks of lighting which were now ripping across the horizon. ‘I’d
much rather solid stone over my head when that hits, wouldn’t you?’
‘Fine,’ Orifam said with a sigh of resignation, ‘but if we’re about to carry four
packs and a solidly-frozen dwarf a full mile or two, I’m going to need you to relight
this.’ He held up the pipe which Grog had dropped when Krordous had fallen into the
pond.
Much to Tarian’s annoyance, Grog and Orifam shared the rest of pipe and more
than a few slugs of whisky while they bundled Krordous and his backpack onto the
spread-out canvas of one of the tents. Once everything was secured, the three of them
grabbed a couple of fistfuls of the edge each, and began to drag their quivering
companion eastward.
‘So,’ Orifam puffed after they’d been dragging for a few minutes, ‘does one of you
want to tell me what in the name of the Ancient Ones we all just saw back there?’
‘Storm,’ Tarian said.
‘Pond,’ Grog added.
‘You know that’s not what I’m talking about.’
‘We know,’ Grog confirmed.
‘Just save your breath for pulling,’ Tarian added.
And so they laboured in silence, sliding their strange cargo across the melting
snow, listening to the rumbling thunder growing louder behind them, and feeling the
wind gathering strength.
***
The first frigid drops of rain began to fall when they were still a few hundred paces
from the rocky cliff walls. Grog could already make out the entrance to one of the
many dwarven mines which burrowed into the solid rock, but progress had slowed to
almost a standstill.
Grog was utterly exhausted, and his companions weren’t doing much better. Even
Tarian – who’d definitely taken the dragon’s share of the weight – was struggling to
haul the damp canvas over the now-sloping ground. When the deep – but still shaky –
voice of Krordous reached his ears, Grog could have turned around and hugged him.
‘I can walk,’ Krordous said. ‘Where are my boots?’
‘Here,’ Tarian retrieved them from behind Krordous’ backpack.
Grog knew they should be saying things like, “oh, are you sure, Krordous?” but the
wind was now buffeting them with gusts of ever-increasing force and the gigantic
grey curtain of rain that was sweeping across the tundra was almost upon them.
They helped the blanket-wrapped dwarf to get to his feet and put his boots on,
Tarian picked up his pack and they took off for the cliffs as fast as their aching legs
could carry them, which – in Krordous’ case – was as slow as a crippled tortoise.
‘Come on Pal!’ Grog yelled as Krordous staggered up the muddy slush-covered
slope. ‘Nearly there!’
Whatever bastard god was in charge of rain decided to hold back the full force of
the storm until the party had almost reached the entrance to the mine. This was just
long enough for Grog to kindle a glimmer of hope that they might just make it inside
without getting too wet. Then, with a deafening blast of thunder, the skies opened up
and within seconds, all four of them were soaked to the core.
‘Well that’s fucking brilliant,’ Orifam said, dumping his pack on the floor of the
mine as soon as they’d entered. ‘Now we’ve got no dry blankets to put this bugger in!’
He pointed at Krordous who’d entered last and was dripping prodigiously all over the
stone floor.
‘Stop whining and look in the packs,’ Tarian said.
‘You do that,’ Orifam unclasped his battle axe from his pack. ‘I’m going to chop
some timber from those beams back there.’ He began walking deeper into the tunnel.
‘We’ve got to have a fire.’
Grog dropped his pack and knelt down beside it, searching inside for dry clothing.
‘You’re going to have to get out of those blankets,’ he said to Krordous. ‘Don’t worry,
me and Tarian will look the other way.’
Krordous said nothing, he just stood close to the mouth of the tunnel, shivering and
staring out at the torrential rain.
A shout from Orifam echoed down the tunnel.
‘Orifam!’ Grog called, getting to his feet and placing his hands on the hilts of his
two short swords.
There was muffled thud and the sound of something hard clattering on stone.
‘Orifam!’ Grog yelled again, drawing his weapons and breaking into a run.
Tarian was beside him. Together they sprinted deeper into the mine. Together they
raised their weapons as Grog saw Orifam’s boots slide into the darkness of an alcove
some distance ahead – as though their titanium-clad companion was being dragged
away. Together they roared an impotent cry of anguish as a slab of stone began to
slide across the opening.
The last thing Grog saw in the shadows before the stone door shut was the face of a
dwarf – painted in a combination of dark and mustard-coloured paints, grinning out at
him like a hideous skull.
The stone crashed into place, leaving nothing but the thinnest outline around it to
show that it was ever there.
Grog and Tarian arrived at the door and began throwing themselves against it. They
screamed Orifam’s name. They broke their fingernails trying to wrench it back. Tarian
picked up Orifam’s battle axe from where it lay on the floor and tried to pry the door
open. Nothing they did had the slightest effect.
‘Where is he?’
Grog turned to see Krordous standing behind them. He was holding his hatchets
and wearing nothing but wet undergarments and a multitude of pale scars.
‘He’s gone,’ Grog said, pressing his palm against the cold unyielding stone. ‘The
bastards have taken him.’
- CHAPTER 12 -
Realm of the Frost King
Grog and Krordous helped Tarian in her efforts to open the secret door until it became
obvious that it was impossible. This fact did nothing to discourage Tarian, who
continued to bash, scratch and pull at the unmoving slab of rock until her fingers were
bleeding. Grog, however, decided that his time would be far better spent helping
Krordous to light a fire – which he did – and then getting utterly and hopelessly drunk
– which he also did.
By the time night had fallen and the storm had dissipated, Tarian had given up on
the door and now stood in front of it with her mace in her hand and vengeance in her
eyes. Krordous was huddled close to the small fire, staring into the flames and looking
grim. Grog was pacing back and forth in front of the mine’s entrance, cursing the
Ancient Ones and sucking the last few drops from the bottle of smoulder whisky.
‘I’m not a bad dwarf,’ he mumbled, pointing an accusatory finger at the few stars
he could see through the breaking clouds. ‘That little kvinna said it, so why’ve you
gotta punish me so bad?’
Receiving no answer from the gods, Grog raised the bottle to his lips, but found –
to his dismay – that there was nothing left to swig. He hurled the empty bottle through
the mouth of the mine. ‘Take that ya bastards!’ he roared.
Much to Grog’s surprise, the gods answered.
‘Aah! What the fuck?’ an angry voice growled from outside.
Grog barely had the time – or the sobriety – to register that this may not have been
a god, before a dozen heavily-armed dwarves and kvinna stepped close enough to the
mine’s entrance for him to see their shapes in the flickering firelight.
‘Shit! Krord..Tarian! Look!’ Grog reached for the swords on his belt, then
remembered he’d taken his belt off and left it by the fire because it was
uncomfortable. He staggered towards it.
‘Stay where you are!’ a swarthy voice yelled from the darkness. ‘Unless you want
an arrow through your throat.’
Grog froze. He definitely didn’t want that. His throat was already on fire from
drinking more than half-a-bottle of straight whisky, adding an arrow to the mix really
would have been just a bit too much.
Krordous had at least managed to grab hold of one of his hatchets, but he too had
frozen at the sound of the gruff threat. He remained in a half-crouch by the fire, his
orange eyes peering out of the mine.
Tarian – somewhat predictably – had not frozen, in fact the threatening voice had
ironically been the one thing that had roused her from her silent vigil. She was now
marching towards the front of the mine with her mace clasped in her hand.
‘That’s far enough, sister,’ came the voice from the darkness, and – despite his
extreme state of inebriation – Grog recognized the twang of a northern accent. The
spark of hope that this realization kindled in him was fanned into a blaze of relief as
the dwarves and kvinna stepped further within the reaches of the fire’s light. These
were not undead monsters or skeleton-faced cave-dwellers, these were regular
dwarves, pointing a whole bunch of regular arrows right at Grog and his companions.
‘I said that’s far enough!’ the lead dwarf shouted at Tarian. He was wearing a
leather eyepatch over his left eye, but at this range, Grog didn’t think it would matter.
The dwarf drew his bowstring back a little tauter.
Tarian slowed, but didn’t stop. Her wrist moved in little circles, keeping the head of
her fearsome mace moving a rhythmic ellipse close to the stone floor. ‘You’ve got
five seconds to lower your bows and tell me who you are before I kill you all,’ she
said in a husky whisper.
‘We’ve got five seconds?’ the northern dwarf blurted incredulously.
‘Tarian that’s enough!’ Krordous roared, his deep voice reverberating off the walls
of the mine. ‘I’m Krordous Bittergrip, member of the King’s Guard,’ he said to
eyepatch. ‘That’s Mowgrog Ironheart, former general of High King Oahn’s armies,
and this,’ Krordous scowled sideways at Tarian, ‘is Tarian Slatechisel – a kvinna of
war who needs to calm down.’
‘Interesting names and titles,’ eyepatch said, keeping his arrow aimed roughly at
Tarian’s heart, ‘and what exactly might three such esteemed people be doing skulking
in an abandoned mine on a night like this?’
‘Look, pal,’ Grog said, raising what he hoped was a pacifying hand, and staggering
slightly to one side. ‘It’s a long and fascinating story, but I don’t want to tell it with an
arrow pointed in my face. Why don’t you put those things down and Tarian will put
her fucking thing down and you can share whatever food you might have with us and
we’ll all just sit by the fire and … you know, work this all out like shivilized
dwarves.’
‘You’re drunk,’ eyepatch observed.
‘I am my friend,’ Grog confirmed. ‘And you’re a northern dwarf, aren’t you? A
realm thirteener? I can tell from your accent. You’re not some bastard evil
underground dwarf, right?’
‘No,’ eyepatch lowered his bow a little, ‘and I’m thinking you’re not either. But are
you really Grog the Unkillable? And if so, what in the name of the Ancient Ones are
you doing here?’
‘None of your fucking business!’ Tarian snapped, still scanning the semicircle of
dwarves like a falcon deciding which rabbit to eat first.
‘Oh but it absolutely is my business,’ said eyepatch, stepping fully into the mine.
The firelight glinted off a large ruby pinned against his mustard-coloured cape. His
beard was as black as Grog’s, but not nearly as bushy, and he had the same smudges
of black warpaint under his eyes that Major Hammerbuckle had worn. ‘My name is
Hourrarlug Gravelbane, but most folks just call me Lug. I’m a loyal servant of King
Thorgrim Frosthammer and sworn to protect the Thirteenth Realm from all who may
trespass within its borders.’
‘Just put your mace away, Tarian,’ Krordous said, making a show of dropping his
own weapon. ‘Haven’t we had enough trouble with trolls and underground dwarves
and frozen bloody ponds without fighting amongst ourselves?’
‘If they are who they say they are,’ Tarian said, although Grog noticed that her
mace now hung still by her side. ‘How did they find us in this particular mine? There
must be hundreds of them dug into these mountains.’
‘But only one with a fire blazing cheerily by its entrance,’ Lug said, pointing an
arrow at the fire, ‘kind of stands out like dog’s balls. We came to see whether there
were some accursed dwarves here that needed killing, not that they’ve been
announcing themselves with fire these last few nights.’
‘I like this dwarf,’ Grog said, waggling a finger at Lug. ‘He’s a clever dwarf, and I
like his eye-patch and – oh!’ Grog tilted his head to the side, ‘and he’s got some gold
earrings. I like his gold earrings.’
Lug grinned. ‘I think we can put our weapons away,’ he said to his squad, ‘and
grab out some of that salted venison to share with our new friend, Grog the
Unkillable.’
‘You’ve had trouble the last few nights?’ Tarian asked, the edge of menace now
absent from her voice.
Lug nodded. ‘We have, but not as bad as I hear it’s been in all the other realms. It
seems these underground bastards don’t much care for our cold climate.’ As though
the words reminded him of the freezing darkness he’d just emerged from, Lug pulled
his mustard cape tightly around his shoulders and walked towards the fire, extending
his hands towards its warmth. ‘Why don’t we share our tales,’ he suggested. ‘It sounds
like you have a good one to tell. What’s that you were saying about trolls?’
They gathered around the fire and swapped stories. Lug seemed at ease, although
Grog noticed that most of his squad kept their eyes on Tarian and their hands close to
their weapons.
Lug explained that undead and evil dwarves had been spilling out of the old mines
all along the eastern borders of Realm Thirteen and pillaging farms and small
settlements. The large city of Wolfgaärd in the northwest, however, had not been
attacked.
Grog enthusiastically told the first part of his tale, even acting out his heroic
encounters with the undead dwarves in Longdale with a variety of drunken
embellishments, but, by the time he got up to the part where he met Krordous and
Tarian, the warmth of the fire and the bellyful of whisky and meat got the better of
him. He suggested that one of his companions take over while he rested his eyes for a
moment. As he drifted off, Tarian was insisting that Lug must know a way to breach
the stone door through which Orifam had been dragged, and Lug was insisting that he
didn’t.
***
When Grog woke the next morning, he was far too hungover to bother feeling
surprised that he was lying on his back in some kind of cart or carriage. He didn’t
even have the will or inclination to care that this cart was clearly moving at speed over
bumpy ground, or that the sky was already turning from pink to pale blue. All his
throbbing brain could really manage was a feeble, oh shit, and a distinctly pessimistic
hope that he wasn’t going to vomit.
‘Good morning fearless guide.’ Tarian’s voice came from close by.
Grog risked a miniscule head movement, found that the contents of his stomach
didn’t try for an immediate escape, and turned his head a little more, looking for the
source of Tarian’s sarcastic voice.
She was sitting almost directly above him on a long, leather-covered seat. Krordous
was beside her. The toes of their boots were digging into his side. Grog realised that
he was lying on the foot board of some kind of wagon.
‘What…’ Grog croaked and took a moment to try and work some moisture into his
sandy mouth, ‘what are we doing?’
‘We’re going to Wolfgaärd,’ Tarian said. ‘We’ll be there in a few hours.’
‘Why … what?’ Grog reached out to grab hold of the seat so he could pull himself
up, but his hand accidentally landed on Tarian’s knee. He pulled it away like a dwarf
who’d touched a hot kettle.
Tarian gave him a look that was filled with far more pity than he would have liked,
then grabbed him by the hand and hauled him into a sitting position.
Grog took a moment to concentrate on not vomiting, then raised his head and
looked around. They were moving at speed across a landscape of wet grass, mud and
sludgy snow drifts. There was another long leather seat in front of him where two
northern dwarves sat next to a kvinna who was holding the reins of the wagon. At the
other end of these were six enormous white and brown reindeer. Two similar wagons
were rumbling across the tundra behind them on a muddy track, carrying the rest of
Lug’s squad.
It was a lot to take in.
‘Why are we going to Wolfgaärd?’ Grog asked. ‘It’s out of our way.’
‘Walking through this muck in a straight line to Mt Vaelkain would have taken
what – twenty-four hours?’ Tarian asked. ‘Not to mention all our gear and rations are
wet.’
‘All the eggs were broken,’ Krordous added dolefully.
‘Or,’ Tarian continued, ‘Lug said he could get us to Wolfgaärd in five hours by
cart. There we should be able to get properly cleaned up and resupplied in a couple of
hours – we might even get someone to take a look at those ribs of yours.’
Grog was surprised that Tarian had even given a thought to Grog’s ribs.
‘Then we’re back on a cart and reaching the base of Mt Vaelkain in just another
three hours or so.’
Grog had lost track of the math somewhere early in Tarian’s explanation, but it
definitely sounded as though this was a quicker – and much more comfortable –
option.
‘What about Orifam?’ Grog asked. ‘Just … no luck?’
‘He’s gone,’ Tarian said, looking straight ahead with her jaw as tense as a bear trap.
‘And … no attacks? No evil bastard dwarves?’
‘None where we were,’ Krordous said. ‘We stayed in the mine until a few hours
before dawn and then we started out for Wolfgaärd.’
No further questions leapt to Grog’s mind, so he just lay back down on the floor of
the wagon and rested his head on the small bundle of canvas that someone had so
thoughtfully placed there for him.
‘You don’t want to sit up here, Grog?’ Krordous asked. ‘The breeze is very
invigorating.’
‘No thanks, mate,’ Grog said, closing his eyes, ‘just wake me when we get there.’
***
The view as one approaches the city of Wolfgaärd is famed as one of the most
breathtaking in all of dwarven civilization. The white turrets and bastions of the
mighty northern citadel rise like the candles of gods directly from the granite cliffs on
the eastern slopes of Oahn’s Ridge. With the snowcapped peaks and the immense
citadel as its backdrop, the city sprawls outwards towards the encircling hills in a
complex web of well-paved roads and houses with sharply-slanted rooves and
constantly-billowing chimneys.
Grog missed seeing all of this, in fact by the time Tarian and Krordous kicked him
awake, the wagons had stopped at the bottom of the wide stone staircase which led up
to the citadel and Lug was already making arrangements for a meeting with the
realm’s king.
‘Get up you bloody drunk,’ Tarian was hissing at him. ‘We’re about to meet a
king.’
‘Thorgrim,’ Grog sat up, wincing at the myriad aches and pains which wracked his
body, ‘me and him are old chums. I’ve been here a hundred times, although not since
… oh fuck.’ Grog put his head in his hands as a terrible realization stuck him.
‘What?’ Tarian asked. ‘Not since what?’
‘Not since his brother…’ Grog paused. He never quite knew the right word to use,
‘disappeared.’
‘You mean High King Oahn?’ Krordous asked, his voice a reverent baritone.
Grog nodded.
‘You think King Frosthammer will be mad about Algan’s Pass?’ Tarian asked.
‘Mad you and your army couldn’t fight back the fog and those who wrought it?
‘I think,’ Grog looked up at the towering citadel, ‘I think I’ll just wait with the cart
while you go and, you know, get supplies and stuff.’
‘You know that’s not happening,’ Krordous reached out and surprised the snot out
of Grog by laying a firm hand on his shoulder. ‘We all have things in our past that
we’d prefer not to think about, Mowgrog. Things we’d prefer that others didn’t
discuss or … see.’
Grog looked at the Amethyst gemstone pinned to Krordous’ blue cape and
imagined the ravaged skin beneath.
‘I haven’t thanked you yet for saving my life yesterday, both of you,’ Krordous
looked back and forth between Tarian and Grog. ‘Now come on, King Frosthammer
will surely not think less of you for what happened at Algan’s Pass.’ He gave Grog a
couple of reassuring slaps on the shoulder and climbed out of the wagon.
‘There’s more to this, isn’t there?’ Tarian asked, scrutinizing Grog with narrowed
mismatched eyes.
If only you knew, Grog thought as he looked from Tarian to the white towers of the
citadel he knew he must enter. If only everyone knew…
- CHAPTER 13 -
Ogrem Frosthammer
Ten stern-faced King’s Guards escorted Grog and his companions into the citadel.
Krordous and Tarian walked behind Lug with their necks craned – taking in the
magnificent grandeur of the towering columns and vaulted ceilings. Grog
concentrated on the polished granite floor – more specifically, he concentrated on not
chundering all over it.
The guards led them straight past the entrance to the throne room and
administrative chambers – as Grog had suspected they would – and made their way
out into the citadel’s massive internal courtyard. This rectangular expanse was paved
with dark grey slate and covered with training warriors. Some were sparring, some
were repeatedly lifting large stones or sections of hewn tree trunks, and others were
hurling spears and throwing axes at round targets.
It was towards these ranged specialists that the guards walked.
Grog began to take deep calming breaths as he saw the silverlink crown of King
Ogrem Frosthammer rising head and shoulders above the cluster of dwarves and
kvinna waiting for their turn to throw their weapons.
‘Wait here,’ Lug said, raising a halting hand. ‘I’ll announce you to the king.’
Before Grog could say, please, for the love of all the Ancient Ones, don’t! Lug
marched away and began pushing through the crowd.
‘Okay,’ Grog blew out a loud steadying breath, ‘it’s fine.’
Tarian shot him one of her pitying looks, Krordous straightened his golden helm
and Grog swallowed down the hot bile that had risen in his throat.
‘Fucking who?’ the king’s voice boomed.
Grog closed his eyes. It’s fine, maybe he’s surprised that there’s a kvinna of war
here…
‘Fucking Mowgrog Ironheart!’
So … not the kvinna of war then.
Grog opened his eyes and tried to force some kind of easy smile onto his face.
King Ogrem Frosthammer turned, locked eyes on Grog and began striding towards
him.
The crowd parted before the king like mice before a giant cat.
‘Grog, you son of a cave hag! What in the name of Thrandür’s tits are you doing
here?’
The fact that the king was grinning broadly, probably saved Grog from the
indignity of running away, or emptying his stomach all over the wet slate ... or both.
Even with a joyful smile spread across his white-bearded face, Ogrem was still one
of the most intimidating dwarves Grog had ever known. He was huge – almost as big
as his brother Oahn had been. He was almost a full head taller than most dwarves,
standing at just over five foot tall, and age had done nothing to reduce his muscularity
– Ogrem was built like a bull. His half-moon grey face paint and glowing acid green
eyes did little to soften his appearance.
‘I’m running an errand for the High King,’ Grog said. ‘I’m on my way to try and
get the Faithbound to come and help out with this mess.’
‘Yes, I received a raven saying my nephew wanted to try and recruit those pious
bastards, but how did you end up becoming Ruenthor’s messenger boy?’
‘Well –’
‘And where’ve you been hiding this past year?’
‘Well I’ve –’
‘And why have you gotten so fat?’
With this last question, Ogrem let out a blast of laughter and slapped Grog on the
shoulder that had been whacked with a bone mace just a few days earlier.
Grog flinched away, grimacing in pain.
‘Sorry, old friend. What’s wrong?’ the king asked.
‘One of those undead bastards caught me with a mace,’ Grog said. He saw concern
in the king’s blazing green eyes, and not a shred of anger. He doesn’t know, Grog
thought. He has no idea.
‘You’ve seen them then?’ the king asked, absently reaching up and stroking the
diamond pinned to his ivory cape. ‘You’ve come face to face with them?’
Grog nodded. ‘It’s bad, Ogrem. Lug told us that your realm hasn’t been hit too
hard, but elsewhere … it’s really bad.’
‘Oh I know, that’s why we’re training so hard,’ the king looked around the
courtyard. ‘We must be ready to defend Wolfgaärd against any attack, or, if the
bastards prove too cowardly to come at us here, we’ll march out to aid the other
realms.’
Despite the gravity of the king’s words, Grog couldn’t help but smirk a little.
‘Ogrem, when are you ever not training? I’ve known you for nearly thirty years, and I
don’t think I’ve ever seen you without a weapon in your hand.’
The king did indeed still have a throwing axe clasped in his left hand. He held it up.
‘And why do you think these underground dwarves are so reluctant to attack
Wolfgaärd, eh? Do you think that somehow they know what would happen to them?
Stand aside!’ he yelled, squaring up to the circular targets which were at least forty-
five paces away from where they stood.
Dwarves and kvinna scurried out of the way as Ogrem transferred the axe to his
right hand and raised it over his shoulder. ‘I think they know that coming to
Wolfgaärd would be a bad idea,’ he said to Grog, then he hurled the axe. It flew
through the air, spinning end over end until it thudded into the target – just a few
inches to the right of the centre.
There was some cheering and a smattering of applause from the gathered warriors.
Ogrem turned back to face Grog. He was looking very pleased with himself. ‘Still
got it.’
‘Aye, your grace, you’ve still got it.’
‘And what about you?’ Ogrem asked, raising his white-painted eyebrow at Grog.
‘You still got that mean spear-throwing arm?’
‘I’m retired,’ Grog said, looking uncomfortably at his feet. ‘I’m too old.’
‘Too old?’ Ogrem made a loud farting sound with his lips. ‘Too fat more like. How
old are you?’
‘I think I’m about sixty-four.’
‘Well I’m seventy-seven and you don’t see me making excuses,’ Ogrem extended
an open hand towards one of his subjects who was holding a spear. The dwarf hurried
forwards and passed his weapon to the king. ‘Go on,’ Ogrem held the spear out
towards Grog.
‘Ogrem, it’s been a rough few days. My ribs are –’
‘It’s a king’s command,’ Ogrem growled, a look of mischief flashing in his acid
eyes.
Grog took the spear with a sigh and stepped a couple of paces towards the circular
targets. You old bastard, he thought, as he hoisted the spear – acutely conscious of the
dozens of dwarves and kvinna watching his every move. He moved his arm back and
forth a couple of times, getting a feel for the spear’s weight and balance. It was fine
weapon, with a smooth hickory shaft and a long, beautifully-forged iron point.
The same part of Grog that had stirred when he'd first slid Krordous’ short swords
into the scabbards on his belt stirred again, and this time he recognized it for what it
was … it was the same part of him that’d taken over when he’d crept across the town
square in Longdale and brained that necromancer, the same part of him that had stood
resolute before six undead. The same part that had plunged a blade into a dangling
pair of troll’s balls.
It was the warrior in him, the soldier … the general. Long-dormant. Deliberately-
suppressed, but still there, and apparently eager to resurface.
Fine, Grog thought, looking intently at the distant target. You want a spear throw?
I’ll give you a spear throw!
He leaned back, lunged into a couple of momentum-gaining steps and threw.
The spear sailed straight and true … right into the ground, just short of the target
and well to the left. It clattered across the slate and lodged itself sideways across the
wooden base of the target Grog hadn’t been aiming for.
Ogrem frowned. ‘What was that?’
The warrior inside Grog slunk ashamedly away to hide again in the deepest darkest
recesses of his soul.
‘I’m hungover,’ Grog said petulantly, ‘and I got clobbered on the ribs by a fucking
troll two days ago. I tried to tell you.’
‘I see,’ Ogrem looked doubtfully at Grog. ‘And my nephew thought you were the
dwarf to send to the top of Mount Vaelkain did he? He thought you were the dwarf
most likely to survive scraps with snow wolves, trolls and underground dwarves?’
‘It was Brotun that asked me to do this, not the High King,’ Grog said, ‘and
besides, I’m just the guide; I’ve got Tarian and Krordous here to help with the survival
part.’ Grog gestured towards the remaining members of his party.
Ogrem looked past Grog to where Tarian and Krordous stood, almost concealed
amongst the crowd. ‘A kvinna of war,’ he said, his face lighting up with approval.
‘Welcome sister! Welcome to Wolfgaärd, and to my humble training grounds.’
Tarian dipped her head in a slight bow. ‘I’m honoured, your grace.’
‘And you look like a dwarf that can handle himself. Krorgish was it?’
‘Krordous, your grace.’
‘And Brotun tasked just the two of you with keeping this fat old bastard alive?’
Ogrem asked, giving Grog another painful pat on the back.
‘There were two others in our party,’ Krordous said solemnly, but … they were lost
along the way.’
‘I’m sorry to hear it,’ the king said. ‘We’ll take a meal together in a moment and
you can tell me what happened, but first, you must both throw.’ He looked back
towards the targets. ‘I cannot have a kvinna of war step onto my training grounds
without her showing my troops how it’s done, and you,’ Ogrem pointed to the two
hatchets strapped to Krordous’ back. I want to see what you can do with those.’
‘Go easy on Krordous,’ Grog said. ‘He fell through the ice into one of the tundra
ponds yesterday. He might not –’
‘Aren’t you supposed to be the guide?’ the king asked, giving Grog another
withering frown. ‘You know these lands. How did that happen?’
‘Well…’ Grog scratched his neck and searched for a convincing story.
‘He was smoking nesin weed,’ Tarian said helpfully.
‘What?’ A terrifying hint of real anger flashed across the king’s face.
‘To numb the pain,’ Grog said protested. ‘I only took my eyes off him for half-a-
minute.’
‘It wasn’t Grog’s fault, your grace,’ Krordous said in his low rumbling voice. ‘I
walked ahead and wasn’t watching where I was going, and of course I will do my best
not to disgrace your hallowed training ground with my efforts.’ He pulled one of the
hatchets free from its clasp and cast his eyes towards the targets.
Thanks, Krordous, Grog thought. I owe you one pal!
Krordous drew back his arm and flung his hatchet with incredible force. Its blade
gouged into the target – slightly wide of the king’s axe.
‘An excellent throw,’ Ogrem said. ‘You didn’t do that on purpose did you?’ he
asked with a smirk. ‘Let the king stay closest to the middle?’
‘I gave it my best, your grace.’
‘I hope so,’ Ogrem said, ‘and you can stop with the “your grace” formalities. You
can call me Ogrem, my friend. We’re fellow dwarves of the axe – you and I.’
A wave of sadness washed over Grog as he watched Krordous smile for the first
time since they’d left Longdale. Like his older brother Oahn, Ogrem radiated strength,
confidence and charisma, and, just like Oahn, he’d always been able to win people
over almost instantly. Ogrem was a great dwarf … but he was not Oahn.
Oahn was gone.
The best dwarf Grog – and maybe the world – had ever known, was gone.
And it was all Grog’s fault.
‘Your turn, Kvinna of War,’ Ogrem said, beckoning Tarian forward. ‘Axe? Spear?
Bow?’
‘Doesn’t matter,’ Tarian said with a nonchalant shrug, ‘you choose.’
‘Ho ho, I like that,’ Ogrem chuckled. ‘Let’s see a proper spear throw then – see if
you can’t make up for your pudgy guide’s feeble showing.’
Grog was only vaguely aware of someone passing a spear to Tarian, since he was
busily looking at his feet again.
‘And don’t you dare try and spare my feelings,’ Ogrem said to Tarian. ‘If you can
hit the centre – you do it.’
‘As you command, your majesty.’
Grog looked up just as Tarian took a couple of light stutter steps and flung the
spear. He would have bet everything he owned that the weapon was going to slam into
the dead centre of the target … and he would have won the bet.
‘And that’s why she’s a kvinna of war!’ Ogrem shouted, clapping his massive
hands together. ‘Absolute perfection.’
Tarian gave a dignified nod.
‘Well, that’s enough fun,’ Ogrem said, looking genuinely disappointed. ‘I suppose
we’d better go and sit down somewhere for a chat. I need Lug’s report, and you lot
can tell me all about your travels over some lunch and a couple of pints of ale.’
Grog’s ears pricked up. ‘Yes, I’m afraid we had better get on with it. We need to be
on the move again before too long. Lead on Ogrem.’
‘Someone seems hungry,’ Ogrem said, misconstruing Grog’s sudden eagerness.
‘Come on then, old friend, let’s go and see whether I’ve got enough food in my larder
to fill that belly of yours.’ With that, he gave Grog a playful nudge in the ribs which
nearly made him scream, and strode off towards the southern staircase leading out of
the courtyard.
***
The lunch was large and sumptuous. There were plates of sizzling venison and pork
chops seasoned with herbs, there were trays laden with baked potatoes and some of
the more exotic northern root vegetables. There were also servants standing by, ready
to refill Grog’s tankard with cold frothy ale whenever he shook it in their general
direction – which he did with great regularity.
While Grog was busy gorging himself, Lug, Tarian and Krordous filled the king in
on all that had been happening in realm thirteen and beyond.
Once all the tales had been told and most of the food had been eaten, Ogrem sent
Grog and his companions away with a small army of attendants.
The first stop was the bathhouse where Grog scrubbed three days’ worth of sweat,
blood and mud from his skin in a steaming hot bath. From there he was led to the
infirmary where a skilled physician diagnosed him with badly bruised – but not
broken – ribs, and said that the injuries to his head, shoulder, hands and arse were all
‘manageable.’ The elderly dwarf applied a few ointments and medicinal liniments,
secured a white cotton pad against Grog’s ribcage with some bandages and sent him
on his way.
The final stop was the armoury where Grog was delighted to be offered a selection
of well-fitting clothing. The shirt, breeches and boots that he chose were clean, brown
and sturdy. In addition to these, he was given all the items necessary for the ascent of
Mount Vaelkain including a pair of goat leather gloves, a heavy cloak made from
snow fox fur and some goggles with dark glass that covered the eyes.
He deliberated for a while in front of the endless racks of weapons. The
shortswords he’d borrowed from Krordous were perfectly fine, but Grog couldn’t pass
up the opportunity to take his pick from the gleaming, masterfully-forged swords and
axes of the royal armoury. There were maces, mauls, spears and polearms as well, but
Grog still wasn’t keen on the idea of carrying something too heavy or cumbersome up
the mountain.
In the end, he chose a matching pair of short-handled double-bladed axes. They
were slightly heavier than the swords he’d been carrying, but they were just too
beautiful to pass over, besides, Grog felt that he might have regained some of his old
strength and endurance after the last few days of constant exercise … if only a
miniscule crumb of it.
***
‘Well, Ancient Ones go with you,’ Ogrem said to Grog once they were standing at the
base of the wide staircase leading into the citadel. ‘You certainly look more prepared
to tackle Mount Vaelkain than you did when you arrived.’
‘And feel it too,’ Grog said, stroking the snow fox fur that covered his chest.
‘Thanks Ogrem.’
Ogrem waved off Grog’s words. ‘No thanks required; we’re all doing what we can
to help sort out this mess. If my nephew thinks we need to resort to begging those
goat-fucking mountain-dwellers for help, so be it.’
‘You don’t think a thousand paladins in full plate armour might come in handy?’
Grog asked.
Ogrem’s acid green eyes narrowed. ‘They might, if they come at all, but even if
they do … I don’t know, Grog. I haven’t had much to do with the Faithbound, but
they’ve always made me … uneasy.’
‘Which reminds me of something I was thinking about in the bath,’ Grog said.
‘Why didn’t Ruenthor ask some of your people to go and talk to the Faithbound?
You’re a lot closer than I was when I started out.’
‘He did ask, but,’ Ogrem shook his head, ‘no one here knows the way. I could have
sent a hundred of my best warriors, and the lot of them would probably have perished
on some freezing ridge, or fallen down a crevasse, but you – you’re one of the only
dwarves in the thirteen realms that knows the way, right?’
‘Right,’ Grog said unhappily. ‘Lucky me.’
‘Lucky you,’ Ogrem echoed. ‘Now get your lucky fat arse up into that cart and get
going. I’m missing out on my afternoon wrestling practice, and you’ve got some
monks that need talking to.’
They clasped forearms, and Grog clambered up onto the cart to take his place next
to Tarian and Krordous.
Lug gave the reins a flick and the six enormous reindeer surged forwards.
King Ogrem Frosthammer raised his hand in farewell, then turned and began
climbing the stairs.
By the time Grog and his companions had cleared the walls of Wolfgaärd, the sun
was beginning to dip below the highest peaks of Oahn’s Ridge behind them. Directly
ahead, rising up from the tundra and disappearing into a ceiling of menacing grey
clouds, was a gargantuan mass of rock and snow.
‘Mount Vaelkain,’ Lug said. ‘Tallest mountain known to dwarves.’
‘Aye,’ Grog grumbled. ‘Lucky lucky me.’
- CHAPTER 14 -
In Darkness
Orifam was ready to die. He wanted to die. But his torturers were masters of their
craft; they’d been careful not to inflict mortal wounds upon his chained and naked
body. They hadn’t even inflicted enough pain to cause him to fall into the blissful
oblivion of unconsciousness. They’d just hurt him and asked him questions … and
hurt him again.
No help was coming. Orifam knew this with absolute certainty. The mustard skull
dwarves that had ambushed him in the abandoned mine had bound him with ropes,
blindfolded him, then dragged and carried him for what had felt like hours. He was
deep underground now, chained to the wall in a room carved from solid rock. The oil
burning in the few hanging lamps smelt like rotten meat. The two dwarves that
tortured him had eyes surrounded by streaks of black and purple skin, and strange
markings on their foreheads. He was beyond help and totally alone. He would never
see the sun again.
And yet, he had told them nothing.
Nothing true anyway.
He’d made up plenty of stories, told plenty of lies about the defensive capabilities
of the realms and their plans to defend the kingdoms against attack. He’d even given a
dozen different reasons why he and his companions had been in the mine. The
torturers had made him talk, but every word out of mouth had been a lie … and his
torturers knew it.
At first, they’d been frustrated, but as time passed and Orifam continued to resist,
his captors had begun to exhibit a different emotion.
Fear.
His torturers were afraid.
Even now, as Orifam watched them whispering to each other in the far corner of
the room and casting venomous looks at him with their yellow eyes, he could see that
their fear was growing.
A moment later, the iron door to the room banged open, and he understood why.
The first two dwarves to enter held gnarled staffs with headpieces of amethyst. The
faint glow given off by these gems fell upon almost identical patterns of scarring that
both dwarves had on the left sides of their faces. Their skin was creased and shriveled,
as though it had been burned. Both of them had black empty sockets where their left
eyes should have been.
But as unsettling as they looked – it was not these dwarves that caused the two
torturers to drop to their knees, as though in worship.
It was not these dwarves that caused Orifam to recoil in terror, his heart suddenly
slamming against the inside of his chest, his breath suddenly coming in constricted
gasps.
It was the dwarf that followed…
The skin on this dwarf’s face did not look like he’d been burned, it looked like he
was dead. It was an unnatural mass of rotting withered flesh, covered almost entirely
with snaking purple veins and broken red capillaries. But this was no mindless undead
slave. This dwarf radiated power. This dwarf wore black leather armour which glinted
in the flickering lamplight. This dwarf wore a helm wrought of gold and pure
obsidian, with the biggest diamond Orifam had ever seen set above the brow.
This was a leader – maybe even a king?
This was the enemy.
‘Dark Lord,’ one of the torturers said, rising to their feet. ‘What an honour. We …
weren’t expecting you so soon.’
The dark lord did not look at his subject. His bottomless black eyes were fixed on
Orifam. When he spoke, his voice was a croaky, guttural monotone.
‘What have you found out?’
‘We…’ the torturer flashed a look at his counterpart who was still cowering on the
floor. ‘Nothing of substance yet, my Lord, but we’re close. It won’t be long before we
–’
‘Enough,’ the dark lord raised a gloved hand. A black mist seemed to seep from
beneath the cuff at his wrist. ‘I am here now. I have no need of you.’
The torturers cast uncertain looks at one another, then scuttled from the room,
bowing as they went.
‘Now,’ the dark lord advanced towards Orifam, blocking out the light from the
guttering lamps with his leather-clad bulk, ‘you will tell me everything I need to
know.’
Before Orifam could speak, before he could brace himself for pain or begin
thinking of the lies he could tell, the dark lord reached out and cupped his face with
both gloved hands.
It was like having icicles stabbed into his jaw and cheekbones.
‘You will tell me everything I need to know.’
The diamond in the dark lord’s helm seemed to throb and pulse. Some kind of
smoke or vapour was curling out from inside his mouth and from beneath his gloves
and even from the corners of his terrifying dead eyes.
Orifam began to choke. His legs thrashed and spasmed. He closed his eyes, but still
darkness and light still blazed and flashed and seared into his brain. He was freezing
to death, but on fire at the same time.
‘You will tell me everything I need to know.’
The chaos and pain subsided. Orifam went limp. Of course, he thought, as a
wonderful peaceful calmness flooded through every part of his body.
‘Of course I will.’
- CHAPTER 15 -
The Miner
Night had fallen by the time Grog and his companions reached the foothills of Mount
Vaelkain. Luckily, Lug and the other warrior King Ogrem had sent with them seemed
to be very experienced at erecting the tents they’d brought, and began doing so in the
dark. Tarian and Krordous tried to help, but Grog suspected he’d just get in the way,
so he kindly let them get on with it while he went and began testing the freshly-
replenished whisky supplies behind a large rock.
They broke camp at first light. Lug drove the cart a little further up a winding dirt
track, but when the road ended abruptly, he and his six magnificent reindeer could go
no further.
‘There used to be a bunch of mines all through these hills,’ Lug said as he handed
the reins to the other warrior and jumped down from the cart, ‘but they’re all dried up
now, so after this landslide,’ he pointed at the cascade of dirt and rubble covering the
road, ‘there didn’t seem much point rebuilding.’
Lug began unloading the packs from the back of the wagon. At King Ogrem’s
command, he was joining Grog and the others on their mission. Having seen his tent-
building prowess, Grog was more than happy to have the one-eyed dwarf along for the
journey.
The other warrior turned the cart around, gave them a wave of farewell and flicked
the reins. As the reindeer began trotting back down the narrow trail, all eyes turned to
Grog.
‘Well, wise and noble guide,’ Tarian said, ‘which way do we go?’
Grog took a moment to get his bearings, then pointed towards a valley to the east.
‘Down there.’
‘Ah, no disrespect, General,’ Lug said, giving his black beard a sheepish scratch,
but isn’t that the mountain there?’ He pointed directly north.
‘It is,’ Grog confirmed. ‘You ever climbed it?’
‘Well, no, but –’
‘You can come at Vaelkain from this direction if you like,’ Grog cut in, ‘but you’ll
have to scale a sheer granite cliff about two-hundred feet high. My way’s longer, but
hardly any cliff-climbing.’
‘Fair enough,’ Lug said. ‘Let’s go your way.’
‘Excellent,’ Grog said, ‘and please remember – I’m not a general anymore.’
They shouldered their packs and set off with Grog leading the way.
***
Despite the fact that the survival of the thirteen realms was at stake, Grog couldn’t
help but enjoy the day’s trek. It was a cloudless spring day. The sky was that
impossibly light and perfect shade of blue that Grog had only ever experienced in the
mountains and the air was cool and crisp. The foothills were covered in swathes of
verdant green grass dotted with patches of wildflowers, and the few streams that
Grog’s route took them past were swollen with snowmelt and glittered like millions of
diamonds as they rushed towards the plains below.
In addition to the natural beauty of their surroundings, Grog was also extremely
grateful for the new set of clothes that didn’t chaff his thighs or strangulate his
testicles, and and for the various healing balms and bandages that Ogrem’s physician
had applied to his body. He was far from one hundred percent, but he was definitely
feeling slightly fitter than he’d been when they’d set out from Longdale, and the pain
was – as the physician had commented – “manageable”.
They made good progress, stopping only twice throughout the day; once to enjoy
some of the excellent cheese, pickle and smoked ham rolls that Ogrem’s chefs had
prepared for their journey, and once in the late afternoon when Grog said he had some
‘business to attend to’ and ducked off into a thicket of bushes to gulp down smoulder
whisky.
Just before nightfall, Tarian and Krordous began helping Lug to put up the three
tents. Grog – lamenting the poor timing – was suddenly struck with the need to attend
to more ‘business.’ He went and sat behind a towering redwood, where he drank
whisky and watched the stars come out.
Grog and Tarian had tents all to themselves. Krordous and Lug had to share. Grog
wasn’t sure whether it was because of his size, or some regrettable odour that he may
be unconsciously emitting, but didn’t particularly care. He was utterly exhausted and
pleased to be able to spread out and snore as much as he liked without feeling
awkward about it.
The next day they became their assault on the mountain itself. Grass and ferns gave
way to bare rock and the occasional pine. The air became noticeably colder, the wind
stronger, and the amount of snow coverage more prevalent.
Grog had no trouble remembering the way. He led them over narrow ridges and
long-forgotten precarious paths, he knew how to bypass slopes covered in sharp
shifting shale, and when to take shortcuts through natural caves.
‘I must admit, I’m impressed, Grog,’ Tarian said as they sat down on some rocks to
take their lunch. ‘I honestly thought you’d be a useless guide, but I see now…’ she
looked around, gesturing vaguely,’ without you we never would have got anywhere.’
‘You know I was in the northern mountain battalion for fifteen years,’ Grog said,
feigning offence.
In truth, Grog was as surprised as Tarian. He’d had also suspected that he’d be a
useless guide, but now that they were there on the mountain, it was all coming back to
him.
‘I never doubted you for a moment,’ Krordous said.
‘Krordous…’ Grog looked curiously at his sombre companion, ‘you didn’t just
make a joke, did you?’
The corner of Krordous’ mouth twitched, forming the merest of smiles. ‘I don’t do
jokes,’ he said. Then the smile faded, replaced immediately with the same melancholy
expression that had covered his face ever since the frozen pond.
Shortly after lunch they entered a steeply-sloping gully. ‘It’s called Wyverns Way,’
Grog called back to the others as they began to climb, ‘but we never saw any wyverns.
Keep an eye out for giant eagles though, those bastards are vicious.’
Grog had never seen any giant eagles on the mountain either, but he was not above
childish pranks, and chuckled to himself as his companions all looked warily skyward.
Rock and dirt had given way entirely to snow and ice, and the shadows of late
afternoon were creeping across the gully when Grog heard a faint but familiar sound.
‘That’s a pickaxe,’ Lug said, putting words to Grog’s exact thought. ‘That’s a
pickaxe striking rock.’
‘There,’ Krordous said, pointing up the gully, his keen amber eyes squinting.
Grog squinted himself, and was just able to make out a distant opening in the right-
hand side of the gully. They’d passed about a dozen abandoned mines since beginning
their ascent, but it was obvious that this mine was still very-much occupied.
‘Could it be the Faithbound?’ Tarian asked.
‘Maybe,’ Grog said. ‘They do burrow into the mountain, but I’ve never known
them to do so down here.’
‘Shall we say hello?’ Lug asked, dropping his backpack and pulling out his bow.
‘Maybe we could shelter in there for the night?
‘Well, it would save the hassle of putting those blasted tents up,’ Grog said gravely.
His companions gave him withering looks.
Grog chuckled to himself as he turned and began trudging up towards the mine.
As they drew closer, Grog saw that the entrance was tiny – only slightly taller than
a dwarf and barely six feet wide, but that huge amounts of dirt and rocked had been
dumped outside into the snowy gully.
‘This looks like a one dwarf operation,’ he whispered. ‘I think we’ve got an old-
fashioned prospector in here.’
The clang of steel on stone rang over and over again from inside.
‘I’ll go first,’ Lug said, stepping forward and nocking an arrow. ‘Just in case.’
Before any of them could object, Lug stepped into the mine.
Grog and his companions dropped their packs, grabbed their weapons and
followed.
It was dim inside, but not totally dark. A couple of oil lamps hung from the wall,
illuminating a surprisingly large space containing a mass of worn and broken tools, a
few oak barrels, ragged piles of clothing and blankets, and a wooden table and chair
next to the ashes of an unlit fire.
Further inside, the mine split into two passageways. The one going left was
swallowed up by darkness, the one going right had another lamp at its mouth, and it
was into that tunnel that Lug was disappearing as Grog entered the mine.
As Grog navigated the clutter strewn across the floor, the sound of the pickaxe
stopped.
‘Now wait a minute, pal,’ Lug’s voice sounded slightly panicked. ‘We’re not here
for trouble!’
‘Well you’ve fucking got trouble!’ came the angry shout of an unfamiliar dwarf.
‘Get the fuck out of my mine or I’ll rip your other eye out, you great nancy!’
Lug came back around the corner. His bow was raised and he had an arrow
pointing at the furious dwarf that followed, but the dwarf didn’t seem to care. He was
brandishing a pickaxe in his filthy hands and seemed about to attack.
It wasn’t until the dwarf saw Grog, Tarian and Krordous, that he stopped pursuing
Lug and stood with his gold mail shirt gleaming in the lamplight and his fiery amber
eyes looking intently at them from within a dirt-covered face. ‘Kvinna of war!’ he
blurted. ‘Dark skin, and fat…’ he trailed off. ‘You … you’re not here to rob me?’
‘We’re not!’ insisted Lug, still pointing an arrow at the dwarf’s face. ‘I tried to tell
you.’
The miner didn’t even look at him, he was staring at Tarian and at the mace
hanging from her hand. ‘You’re … not bandits? You don’t want to rob me?’
‘No mate,’ Grog said. ‘We’re just passing through. Thought we might pop in and
see what was going on here, maybe see if we could shelter here tonight, but I can see
you’re very busy, so we don’t want to trouble you, and we’ll just be on our way.’
‘No no! It’s alright.’ The miner set down his pickaxe, leaning it against the wall of
the mine. ‘It’ll be getting real cold soon. You should stay. It’ll be nice to have the
company.’ He smiled, showing a mouthful of brown and broken teeth.
‘Maybe we should just move along,’ Tarian said, not doing a great job at keeping
the disgust out of her voice.
‘No please!’ the miner said, wringing his hands. ‘Stay … I, I’m sorry I got angry,
it’s just … you must understand – I don’t see many people. You startled me. I thought
you were after my gold.’
‘If I was after your gold,’ Lug said, lowering his bow, ‘I would have just shot you
in the face, wouldn’t I?’
‘Yes, you would. Of course. I’m sorry. Forgive me. I’ll…’ the miner looked around
the ramshackle space that was clearly his home, ‘I’ll light a fire. I have some big
mountain rabbits that I trapped just yesterday. They’re buried in the snow,’ he pointed
past them to the entrance. ‘I can cook you a hot meal. A nice stew. You all can sleep
out of the cold.’
‘Well…’ Grog looked around at the others who all gave their own variations of a
fine, we’ll stay, sort of a shrug. ‘Who are we to say no to rabbit stew?’
‘Good,’ the miner nodded vigorously, ‘that’s good.’
‘What’s your name, friend?’ Krordous asked, his deep voice echoing in the
enclosed space.
‘Notgrin Anvilsword, and what about you … friend? ’Notgrin’s lips curled
strangely around the word “friend” – as though it had gotten stuck in his pitiful teeth.
They introduced themselves, grabbed their packs and made themselves as
comfortable as possible while Notgrin lit a fire, placed a blackened old iron pot over it
and began preparing a meal.
‘So how long have you been here?’ Grog asked as he removed a broken shovel
handle from beneath his arse. ‘It’s obviously been a good spot for you.’
‘Couple of years. It’s away from everyone, well almost everyone.’ Notgrin said,
retrieving a jug full of water from one of the large barrels and pouring it over the
skinned rabbits in the pot. ‘That’s the main thing.’
‘You mean the Faithbound?’ Lug asked.
Notgrin frowned. ‘Yes, the Faithbound … that’s who I mean. I hardly ever see ‘em.
They leave me alone mostly, so long as I give them all the Amethyst I find.’
‘They take gems from you?’ Krordous asked, sounding annoyed.
‘Well I give ‘em. I don’t much care for amethyst or obsidian or most of the other
things I find. I go down to Kärstal Town a few times a year and trade any other gems I
found for supplies and such.’ He grabbed a pinch of dried herbs from a leather pouch
and sprinkled them into the pot.
‘I’m guessing your main interest is in gold then?’ Lug asked, pointing the
mouthpiece of the pipe he was smoking at Notgrin’s golden mail shirt.
‘My interest is in gold,’ Notgrin said, his amber eyes burning with a sudden
passion. ‘It’s calling to me inside this mountain … I can hear it.’
‘And you’ve obviously found a good bit of it already?’ Lug asked. ‘You almost
caved my head in with that pickaxe of yours when you thought I was here to steal it.’
‘Yes,’ Notgrin nodded. ‘Yes, that’s right, I dug it out myself and,’ his eyes flicked
to the blackness of the lefthand tunnel, ‘I’ve got it hidden.’
The conversation continued, but Grog wasn’t paying much attention. He was far
more preoccupied with the huge gulps of smoulder whisky he hadn’t been able to have
yet without Tarian and the others seeing.
When Notgrin began handing out mugs and promising drinks of the purest glacier
water from one of his barrels, Grog mumbled something about needing to relieve
himself and stepped out of the mine.
‘Water my arse,’ he said, as he pulled a flask full of whisky out of his pocket. He
stood for a while taking scalding swallows and enjoying the feeling of warmth that
spread through his body as he looked down over the foothills and the vast plain below.
When he re-entered the mine, Tarian was explaining – in vivid detail – exactly how
she was going to wreak terrible vengeance on the underground dwarves for what
they’d most likely done to poor Orifam. Notgrin was nowhere to be seen.
‘Where’s our host?’ Grog asked, careful to aim his whisky breath away from
Tarian.
‘He said he’s got some onions and potatoes down there,’ Lug pointed at the dark
tunnel. ‘Here, he wanted me to give you this.’ He picked a chipped earthenware mug
full of water up off the floor and handed it to Grog. ‘He says it’s the best water in the
world.’
‘Oh delicious.’ Grog backed up a couple of steps and flicked the water out of the
mouth of the mine. ‘Why couldn’t he have had a barrel full of ale? Now that I would
have drunk.’
‘Water’s better for you,’ Krordous said, taking another sip of his.
‘Although I don’t know how “glacier pure” this stuff really is,’ Tarian said. ‘Tastes
bitter to me.’
‘Well, that barrel’s not pure,’ Lug said, stifling a huge yawn, ‘that’s for sure.’
Notgrin returned a short while later. He was carrying a filthy sack which was
clearly empty.
‘No veggies?’ Grog asked as he sat and warmed his hands by the fire.
‘No I … I thought I had some, but I must have eaten them. Did you drink your
water?’ he pointed to the empty mug sitting on the floor next to Grog. ‘It’s good yes?
Pure mountain water.’
‘Oh yes,’ Grog smacked his lips together, ‘very refreshing.’
‘Good,’ Notgrin nodded and smiled, ‘that’s good.’
Grog reminded himself not to say anything further which might inspire the strange
miner to smile and show his awful teeth.
‘Your friends are weary,’ Notgrin said, pointing at the others. ‘A big day’s
climbing is very tiring, yes.’
The others were indeed looking very sleepy: Lug was leaning back against the wall
of the mine, his one visible eye closed. Krordous was sitting with his forehead resting
against his palms – the light from his luminous eyes flickering as his eyelids drooped.
Tarian was leaning against her pack and yawning.
‘You feel free to rest too, friend,’ Notgrin said. ‘I’ll wake you all up when the stew
is ready.’
‘No,’ Grog said as a serious feeling of unease rose in his gut. ‘No … I’m fine. I’ll
stay up and chat with you. I’d like to hear all about your life up here in the
mountains.’
‘Oh, you’re not too tired?’
‘Not at all,’ Grog said, getting to his feet. He looked around the chamber, then right
at Notgrin. ‘Should I be feeling sleepy, friend?’
‘Well,’ Notgrin shifted uncomfortably, ‘only because you’ve had a hard day’s
climbing.’
‘You’re right,’ Grog said, stepping past the cookpot with shivers creeping across
his shoulders and scurrying down his tensed arms. ‘Look at poor Lug here –
completely unconscious.’ Grog stood beside Lug’s prone body and prepared for his
move.
‘Well, he obviously doesn’t have your strong constitution,’ Notgrin said, but the
smile was gone from his face now and Grog saw him glance sideways at his pickaxe.
‘Oh, I’m the fittest of the group for sure,’ Grog said, not taking his eyes off
Notgrin. ‘I mean look at poor Tarian, she’s a kvinna of war, and yet there she goes,
just … passing out right before dinner. So typical of her.’
Notgrin dropped his façade. He smirked at Grog – a hideous toothy grin of genuine
glee. His eyes flared from within his putrid face, and he moved towards the pickaxe.
‘You didn’t drink that water did you, you fat fuck?’
Grog leaned down, grabbed Lug’s bow and an arrow, straightened and nocked. ‘I
don’t touch the stuff.’ He pulled the bowstring taut as Notgrin’s hand closed around
the handle of his pickaxe.
Notgrin froze.
‘Leave it, or you get an arrow in the face!’ Grog shouted.
Tarian stirred and moaned in her sleep, but didn’t wake.
Notgrin made a show of putting his hands up, but he was still smiling.
‘What’s the drug?’ Grog asked, keeping the arrow pointed at Notgrin.
‘It’s just hredler’s kiss,’ Notgrin said with a shrug. ‘Not harmful. I take it myself
almost every night. They’ll be fine, well…’ the gleam in Notgrin’s eyes intensified,
‘probably not.’
‘What do you mean?’
Notgrin said nothing, and in that moment of silence, Grog heard the faint and
distant echo of boots falling on stone.
‘What did you do?’ Grog whispered.
‘If I give them every scrap of obsidian I find, and every piece of information I
learn, they leave me alone,’ Notgrin was actually giggling now. ‘But for the kvinna of
war, dark-skinned dwarf with amber eyes and the fat, black-bearded fool they’re
looking for, they’re going to give me what this mountain has been hiding from me
these last two years.’
‘You sold us out for gold?’ Grog pulled the bowstring a little further.
‘Gold!’ Notgrin said, his hands forming dirt-covered claws.
Grog shot him in the chest.
The arrow didn’t penetrate the chainmail, but it must have hurt like mad, because
Notgrin roared and doubled over in pain … at which point Grog leapt forwards,
swung the bow in a wide arc and smashed it into the side of the treacherous miner’s
filthy bald head.
Notgrin dropped to the floor, bleeding and unconscious.
Grog began running around, shaking and slapping his companions. ‘Wake up! Get
up!’
They stirred and groaned, their eyes fluttering, but they all remained slumped
dazedly on the floor.
The footsteps were growing closer.
Grog grabbed the jug from next to the water barrel, dipped it into the cold water
and flung the contents into Tarian’s face.
That did the trick. She sat up spluttering with her fists clenched.
‘You’ve been drugged!’ Grog yelled. ‘Enemies coming! Help me with the others!’
‘Whaa…’ Tarian groaned and shook her head.
‘Come on!’ he yelled as he refilled the jug.
She looked past him at Notgrin’s body. ‘He … drugged us?’ she slurred.
‘He drugged you!’ Grog tipped the jug full of icy water over Krordous, who
actually leapt to his feet with a panicked yell.
As Krordous stood there, looking around in shock, with water dripping from his
beard, it occurred to Grog that this had been a particularly cruel way to wake someone
who’d only just survived a near-death experience in a frozen body of water.
But Grog didn’t have time to be polite.
‘Krordous, that bastard miner drugged you! And we’re about to be attacked! Grab
your hatchets!’
While Krordous stood there processing his words, Grog filled the jug one final time
and woke Lug.
With his companions now coming to their senses, Grog took a moment to look
deeper into the mine, at the dark tunnel leading away to the left … only it wasn’t
completely dark anymore – the glow of approaching lanterns emanated from within.
Shadows leapt and stretched along the tunnel walls, and the footfalls were fast and
close.
Very close.
‘We have to go!’ Grog shouted.
Lug reached sluggishly for his pack.
‘Leave it!’ Grog grabbed Lug and began pushing him out of the mine.
‘But … Grog.’ Krordous gestured weakly at the packs on the floor.
‘Go!’ Grog gave Lug a shove towards the exit, then ran over to one of the hanging
oil lamps. He lifted it off its hook and hurled it towards the opening of the left-hand
tunnel. It smashed, and burning sheets of flame spewed out over the floor as the
paraffin oil ignited.
Grog ran across the chamber and began unhooking the other lantern.
‘Look out, Grog!’ Tarian yelled from the mouth of the mine.
Grog turned and saw Notgrin staggering to his feet, a calloused hand already
reaching for his pickaxe.
‘Oh no you don’t!’ Grog stepped into a solid left hook that caught Notgrin right on
the mouth and sent him flailing backwards onto the stone floor. While he was spitting
blood, Grog grabbed the other oil lamp and threw it.
The resulting explosion of flame left no gaps for the approaching attackers. The
entire opening to the left-hand tunnel was wreathed in flame.
‘You bastard!’ Notgrin bellowed, and Grog noticed with satisfaction that a couple
of his unsightly teeth were missing.
Grog stepped over to where his axes lay on the floor. He was just thinking of
something appropriately insulting to say to the treacherous miner before he departed,
when he saw the shapes of many dwarves approaching the fire, their skull-painted
faces flickering hideously in the light of the orange flames. He grabbed his axes and
sprinted for the exit.
The first thing Grog saw as he stepped out into the cold twilight air, was Tarian
holding the front of Lug’s mustard cape with one hand, and pressing a handful of
snow into his face with the other. Lug was thrashing about and growling, but he was
also decidedly more alert-looking than he’d been a few moments ago. Tarian already
had snow dripping from her face and hair, and Krordous was actually shoving his face
into a snowdrift.
‘Let’s go!’ Grog shouted. ‘Climb now, as fast as you can!’
‘Wait, my bow!’ Lug took a step towards the mine.
‘Forget it!’ Grog roared, stepping sideways and blocking his path. ‘We just need to
… oh no! The whisky!’ Grog also turned towards the mine.
Tarian grabbed them both by their collars and pulled. ‘Whisky and bows are no
good to dead dwarves,’ she said. ‘That fire won’t last long. Lead us, Mowgrog!’
So Grog did.
They charged up Wyverns Way, struggling through the snow, tripping over rocks in
the dim light, panting and wheezing and pushing their fatigued bodies to exhaustion
and beyond.
They’d only been climbing for a couple of minutes when a rage-filled scream came
from behind them.
Notgrin was standing in the gully; his golden mail glinting in the moonlight, his
grimy finger pointed directly at Grog and his companions. ‘There!’ he shouted. ‘Just
up there!’
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