out? Destroy every village and town? Turn every last one of us into one of those
undead abominations?’
A shiver ran across Grog’s shoulders. He had the feeling that this was exactly what
the invading dwarves had in mind.
‘We don’t have time right now to discuss it further,’ Thethem said, an edge of
anger creeping into his voice. ‘I’m taking the king back to the citadel, Grog’s heading
north right now and you’d better turn your mind towards the defense of Longdale for
tonight.’
‘I shall aid you with that, burgomaster,’ Brotun said, ‘and if we make it through the
night alive, I’ll leave in the morning for realm one, there to consult with the High
King.’
‘Thank you, Lore Keeper,’ said the burgomaster, whose eyes were bulging with
fear.
‘Wait a second,’ Grog said, as his sluggish brain finally caught up with the
implications of Thethem’s words. ‘What do you mean heading north right now? Do
you mean like …’ Grog gestured vaguely around the room, ‘like now?’
‘Would you rather stay in Longdale tonight to help fight off another attack?’ asked
Major Hammerbuckle. ‘The southern realms report that the first night of attacks there
were exploratory strikes – the second night was far worse.’
‘The quicker you leave, my friend,’ the king said, grabbing Grog by both shoulders
and making him spill his whisky, ‘the quicker you’ll bring back a legion of armour-
plated paladins who can help us drive these evil bastards back to wherever the fuck
they came from!’
‘We need to travel fast,’ said Major Hammerbuckle, ‘so I’ve put together only a
small party. They’re preparing for the expedition not far from here. And don’t worry,
General, I know you’re hurt, so we’ve got all manner of … medicine packed and
ready for use if need be.’
‘I’m not a general anymore,’ Grog mumbled, before forgetting that he didn’t want
any more whisky and taking several scalding swallows.
‘No, but you will be our guide,’ the major said. ‘You do know the way to the
northern priory, yes?’
‘Yeah,’ Grog said into his mug, ‘pretty much.’
‘He knows,’ Brotun said. ‘There’s few dwarves that know these mountains better
than Grog.’
‘Why aren’t you coming with me?’ Grog pointed an unsteady finger at Brotun.
‘Because I’ve got a broken arm, you stupid bastard. Not the best for mountain
climbing.’
Grog searched for a retort, but the king spoke first. ‘We’re all set then? May the
Ancient Ones be with us all. Strength and fortitude dwarves!’
Everyone echoed back the king’s words – strength and fortitude, except for Grog
who was too busy grabbing pastries from the table of food.
‘We have packed provisions, Mowgrog,’ Major Hammerbuckle said through gritted
teeth.
‘You got any of these?’ Grog held up the last of the custard nut pastries.
The major closed his eyes, clearly trying to fight down his annoyance.
‘Thethem,’ Grog said, ‘Blade Blunter’s in the saddlebag on your goat.’
‘We’ll get it on the way out,’ said Thethem.
All the dwarves began moving towards the door.
‘Mowgrog,’ said the king, putting an arm around his shoulders and holding out a
small scroll with his other hand, ‘I entrust this to you.’
‘Oh no,’ Grog tried to wave the scroll away with pastry-covered fingers. ‘Give it to
Major Hammerbroken,’
‘Hammerbuckle!’ came the angry correction from behind Grog.
‘No, I want you to take it,’ the king said, his voice suddenly grave and sombre.
Oahn trusted you for a reason, and I trust you too.’
Grog’s first impulse was to shove the king away from himself, but instead he bit
down on his lip so hard that he tasted blood.
‘You need to bring back these faithbound bastards, Mowgrog,’ the king pressed the
scroll into Grog’s chest. ‘You won’t let us down, will you?’
Grog felt quite certain that he would let everybody down, in fact placing one foot in
front of the other and getting from the food table to the door was proving a bit of a
struggle, however, he didn’t think this information would inspire confidence in the
king, so he just nodded, grunted, finished his mug of whisky and accepted the scroll –
along with the hopes and expectations of every dwarf in all the thirteen realms.
- CHAPTER 7 -
The First Step
After sombre farewells and much clasping of forearms on the steps of the
burgomaster’s house, Grog retrieved Blade Blunter from a saddlebag strapped to
Thethem’s Ram and set out on foot with Brotun and Major Hammerbuckle. Halfway
up the graveled path, he turned and looked back at the house. Thethem was barking
orders at a group of King’s Guards and the Burgomaster was eating a chicken leg. The
king was staring directly at Grog. When their eyes met, the king gave Grog a slow
regal wave which seemed to convey the words – don’t screw this up, Mowgrog!
After leaving the estate, Brotun and the major walked briskly through the streets of
Longdale, talking to one another in low serious voices.
Grog trailed behind, staggering and weaving all over the cobblestones.
‘Keep up, Grog!’ Brotun shouted back at him.
Grog quickened his pace like a scolded child and wished that he hadn’t indulged
quite so enthusiastically in the Burgomaster’s whisky and weed supplies. He couldn’t
feel his headache anymore, but then again – he couldn’t feel much of anything else
either.
Thankfully, it was not long before Major Hammerbuckle was beating on the door
of a two-story, timber house with one of his huge fists.
‘Krordous!’ the major shouted at the grimy upstairs windows. ‘Krordous, where are
you?’
There was the sound of a bolt being drawn back and the door swung slowly open.
A pair of glowing amber eyes looked out at them from the gloom.
‘I’m here,’ the dwarf said in a deep rumbling voice, ‘no need to knock my door
down.’
Brotun and the major made their way inside. Grog stood rooted to the spot, swaying
slightly and staring stupidly at the dwarf named Krordous. He had a dark grey beard
and rich brown skin. Around his shoulders was a fine, light-blue cloak, studded with a
glittering amethyst gem. It was the eyes which stopped Grog in his tracks though –
they blazed with an internal fire, and, in this moment, they were blazing directly at
Grog.
‘You coming in?’ Krordous asked.
‘Course I am.’ Grog strode forward as confidently as he could, and almost managed
to walk a straight line to the door.
Krordous raised his bushy eyebrows ‘You alright?’
‘Injured in the battle last night,’ Grog said gravely. ‘Still a little unsteady on my
feet.’
Krordous’ eyebrows rose a little higher, disappearing beneath the rim of his golden
helm.
Grog didn’t bother taking affront to Krordous’ incredulity. He smelled like a
distillery and he knew it.
He stepped into the house and followed the sound of Brotun’s voice to a small cosy
parlour where there was a crackling fire and a couple of dwarves, busily packing
supplies into sturdy leather and canvas backpacks.
‘Ah, here he is,’ Brotun swept his non-broken arm towards Grog. ‘Here’s your
fearless guide – Mowgrog Ironheart, long time member of the Northern Mountain
Battalion and former general of the High King’s armies.’
The dwarves ceased their preparations long enough to look Grog up and down, pull
dubious disappointed faces and go back to their work.
Grog glared at Brotun and was contemplating sidling up to him and whispering a
few choice expletives, when a female voice spoke from the staircase above him.
‘You’re telling me, that this is the dwarf who supposedly marched alone into the
Shadow Forest and rescued a family kidnapped by an entire tribe of centaurs?’
Grog turned, ready to insist that he was that dwarf, but when his eyes fell upon the
kvinna advancing slowly down the staircase, all he could manage was an awed exhale.
‘You’re telling me,’ the kvinna continued, ‘that this is General Ironheart – the
dwarf who threw a spear a hundred paces and skewered the heart of Vrazoul the
swamp ogre?’
It had been more like twenty paces, but Grog had never actively prevented the
exaggerated version of the story from spreading.
‘You’re telling me,’ the kvinna reached the bottom of the stairs and walked up to
Grog until they were almost eye-to-eye, ‘that this is Grog the unkillable, who charged
naked into battle against an army of fire imps in the Burning Peaks and lived to tell
the tale?’
‘I was wearing my chainmail shirt,’ Grog said. ‘They surprised us in the middle of
the night you see, and I had no pants on because…’
Grog trailed off, suddenly realizing that he had no desire to tell the rest of that tale
to the extraordinary-looking warrior standing in front of him.
She was a kvinna of war. The right side of her face was painted white, the left was
grey, with the addition of a deep red circle around her eye. Grog had no idea how
many kvinna held this rare and admirable rank, but across the entire thirteen realms, it
couldn’t have been more than four or five.
As if that wasn’t enough to make an impression, her left eye was green and her
right was a piercing blue.
‘Grog,’ Brotun said, coming to stand next to the kvinna, ‘this is Tarian Slatechisel
of realm six. She was here last night for the Telling, and a bloody good thing she was
too. She’s a sight to behold in battle and I don’t think I’d here today if it wasn’t for her
– which means you wouldn’t either. She’s agreed, at my request, to accompany you
into the mountains and keep you safe until you reach the Faithbound.’
‘Oh…’ Grog tried to think of something dignified and profound to say, but found
himself withering under the intense green and blue of Tarian’s irises, ‘that’s good.’
‘You heading up the mountains like that?’ Tarian asked, gesturing at Grog’s ragged
night pants and thin brown tunic. ‘Dressed like a beggar and smelling like a
tavernkeeper’s rag?’
‘Well, no … I mean, I’ve got Blade Blunter – that’s my chainmail – and I had a
nice mace called Arse Ripper … but I lost that last night and…’
‘Why don’t you come with me, General?’ Krordous said, his voice so low that
Grog felt it in his chest. ‘I’ll get you kitted out.’
‘Make it quick,’ barked Major Hammerbuckle, I want us on the move in ten
minutes!’
Krordous took Grog upstairs to his bed chamber and wordlessly set about finding
him some travelling gear. The grey woolen shirt, brown leather breeches and green
travelling cloak that Krordous presented to Grog were all of excellent quality,
however, he could tell just by looking at them that they were going to be extremely
snug.
‘Weapon?’ Krordous asked.
‘If you’ve got one to spare, that’d be great.’
Krordous opened a large wooden cupboard. Mounted inside it was a remarkable
collection of daggers, swords, axes and maces.
‘Is that all you’ve got?’ Grog asked with a smile.
Krordous didn’t smile back.
Grog cleared his throat awkwardly and approached the small arsenal. He grabbed
one of the hatchets and gave it a couple of swings. It felt heavy in his sweaty, slightly
trembling hand.
‘Balance is a bit off on that one,’ he said, shaking his head sadly and placing it back
on its custom-crafted rack. ‘These short swords look good though.’ He took one of the
blades and pretended to squint expertly along its length, whilst deciding whether he
could carry a pair of them up a mountainside. ‘Yes, a finely-smithed weapon,’ he said,
satisfied with the weight.
Krordous pulled open a large drawer to the left of the weapon rack and picked out a
belt and a pair of stiff leather scabbards.
‘I’ll repay your generosity someday,’ Grog said, taking the latest of Krordous’
offerings. ‘I promise.’
‘You can repay it,’ Krordous said, as he crossed the room, ‘by getting us safely and
quickly to the Faithbound.’ At the top of the staircase, he turned and fixed Grog with
his burning eyes. ‘I’ll leave you to get changed.’ The faintest hint of a grin tugged at
the corner of the sombre dwarf’s mouth as he looked back and forth between Grog
and the clothes laid out on bed. ‘Good luck.’
Grog stripped down to his tattered undergarments and began trying to squeeze into
the travelling clothes. It soon became evident, however, that Krordous’ well wishes
had not been sufficient to bestow him with luck. It required an exhausting amount of
tugging, jumping, heaving and grunting just to get the breeches on. The woolen shirt
wasn’t much easier and even Blade Blunter took a good deal of convincing before it
would make its way down over his belly.
‘Beards of the Ancient Ones I’ve gotten fat,’ Grog panted as he reached for the
travelling cloak. Thankfully that fell over his shoulders without an issue and the soft
leather boots fit well enough.
He strapped on the belt and scabbards, then picked up the pair of swords. A
familiar and not unpleasant sensation swept over him as he slid the weapons home
with a satisfying clunk. He hadn’t been properly dressed and equipped for adventure
and combat in well over a year. He couldn’t say that he felt comfortable in this
moment, but he felt … something.
‘Ironheart!’ came Major Hammerbuckle’s roaring voice from downstairs. ‘What
the fuck are you doing up there? It’s time to leave!’
Grog made his way downstairs. As he entered the parlour, the faint wisps of
something that had arisen inside him when he’d finished dressing were blasted away
by a gale of laughter.
Major Hammerbuckle was laughing, some bastard dwarf in titanium chainmail that
Grog hadn’t met yet was laughing and pointing at Grog’s uncomfortably tight
breeches. Tarian was at least hiding her laughter behind her hand. Even Brotun and
Krordous were smirking.
‘Don’t know what you’re all laughing at,’ Grog said. ‘Everything fits perfect.’
Major Hammerbuckle wiped a tear from his eye. ‘Ancient Ones help us. You going
to be alright climbing mountains like that?’
‘Probably not.’ Grog dropped all the humour from his voice. ‘Maybe I shouldn’t
go?’
‘Keep your beard on, Mowgrog,’ Brotun said, stepping in front of the major. ‘Some
of the realm’s finest warriors are in this room, but that won’t help any of them find
their way to the Faithbound, right Major?’
‘Right,’ the major straightened his azure cap. ‘Sorry, Mowgrog. Okay everyone
let’s get going.’
As Tarian and the gathered dwarves filed out of the room, Brotun pulled Grog
aside. ‘Farewell then, old friend, and good luck.’
‘Yeah, farewell you bastard,’ Grog said, giving Brotun a good-natured punch to the
chest. ‘Thanks again for roping me into this mess.’
‘We’re all in a mess, Grog – the whole of the thirteen realms are in a mess, which
means you’re in one too, whether you like it or not.’
‘I know, I know.’
‘Are you sure that you do?’ Brotun asked, his dark eyes boring into Grog. ‘Are you
really aware of how important your mission is?’
‘I’m aware! Thrandür’s tits, Brotun, I don’t need a big stirring speech or anything.
I’m going aren’t I?’
‘But which version of you is going?’
Grog frowned. ‘This version. What are you talking about?’
‘I’m trying to penetrate the layers of ale-soaked fat, self-loathing and guilt that
you’ve wrapped yourself up this last year. I’m trying to get through to the version of
you that’s going to take this seriously and realise that this is your opportunity to help
save the kingdoms, but also maybe save yourself.’
‘Fine! Great! I’m off to save the world and myself. Bloody fantastic. I’ll see you
when I get back.’ Grog turned and headed for the door.
‘Strength and fortitude, old friend,’ Brotun called after him.
‘Yeah yeah,’ Grog mumbled, waving a floppy hand in Brotun’s general direction.
‘Strength and bloody fortitude to you too, old pal. Try not to die.’
***
The sun was setting in the west, and the streets of Longdale were falling into shadow
when Grog stepped onto Krordous’ doormat and looked up the street at the already
departing group of warriors and heroes. Major Hammerbuckle had taken the lead.
Behind him were Tarian and the dwarf in the titanium chainmail. Krordous and a
young blonde dwarf brought up the rear. All of them were carrying large backpacks.
All of them were striding off at a pace that made Grog wince.
‘Okay,’ he said, blowing out a long breath of resignation, ‘here we go then.’ He
extended a booted foot, let it fall onto the grey cobbles … and felt a little twinge of
pain shoot up his calf from the back of his ankle. ‘Oh this is going to be fucking great,
this is,’ he growled. Then he pulled his cloak around himself, let out a hearty belch
and trotted off to catch up with the rest of the party.
- CHAPTER 8 -
The Hall of Legends
The quickest and most direct way for Grog and his companions to begin an ascent into
the mountains north of Longdale was to climb the colossal staircase which led to The
Hall of Legends. Having rock-hewn stairs to climb made things easier, but – as Grog
had been explaining since about the third step – that wasn’t the same thing as easy.
‘It’s my injuries,’ he panted to the young blonde dwarf, who sat waiting for him
about halfway up, ‘that’s the problem.’
The blonde dwarf – who’d introduced himself to Grog as Bemroc – said nothing.
He just watched Grog approach with a thoroughly unimpressed expression on his face
and took a sip from a large copper water canister.
It wasn’t a total lie – Grog’s head and buttock were beginning to hurt again, but he
knew this didn’t really explain why he was drenched in sweat, or wheezing like a
lungpox-ridden dwarf on his deathbed.
Bemroc offered the water canister to Grog, who held up a declining hand.
‘No thanks lad, never touch the stuff. So…’ he placed a hand on his chest and took
a couple of heaving breaths, ‘the others have gone on ahead, eh?’
Bemroc followed Grog’s gaze up the staircase. The others were distant shapes in
the last red rays of sunlight which lanced across the southern slope of the mountain.
‘The major wanted to look in on the Hall of Legends,’ Bemroc said. ‘Apparently
there’s a few families taking refuge there. He asked me to wait for you … make sure
you made it up alright.’
‘He’s so caring,’ Grog said, before doubling over and having a quick coughing fit.
Bemroc hoisted his massive backpack and settled it over his shoulders. ‘Let’s go
then.’ He turned and began powering up the stairs.
Grog hadn’t been given a backpack, but hadn’t bothered questioning the others
about this, as it wasn’t something he’d been particularly keen to draw attention to. He
just presumed that the rest of the group was carrying everything he might need,
probably on account of his serious injuries…
‘Right behind you, lad,’ Grog said, despite the fact that Bemroc was already ten
steps ahead of him.
…
By the time Grog reached the top of the gigantic staircase, his legs felt like they’d
been run over by an oxen-drawn wagon and he was puffing harder than a blacksmith’s
bellows. He stood, hunched over, with his hands on his knees, gasping for air and
taking in the scene in front of him.
There was a lot of activity around the entrance to the Hall of Legends. Dozens of
dwarves and kvinna – including those in Grog’s party – were busily constructing a
wall of stone just inside the open doors. Children were playing on the flat concourse in
front of the hall and yet more dwarves were working on the mountain slope, just
above the entrance, filling some kind of timber enclosure with small boulders.
Grog shuffled towards the vast oak doors, trying carefully not to step on children.
‘You’re just in time,’ said Major Hammerbuckle, barely glancing at Grog as he
passed a rock the size of a watermelon up to a waiting Krordous with a single hand. ‘I
was about to send Bemroc to go and drag you up here by your beard.’
‘What’s all this about?’ Grog waved a hand towards the constructions.
‘There should be a whole battalion of reinforcements arriving tomorrow from realm
one,’ the major said, dusting his hands off and stepping towards Grog. ‘Their job is to
escort all the refugees – all the families, anyone that wants to go and seek shelter in
the High King’s domain, but until then,’ he jerked a thumb towards the cavernous
torchlit hall, ‘this lot just have to survive one more night, and there’s no better place to
hole-up than here.’
Grog peered through the dwarf-sized gap in the thick, towering wall of stone, and a
heavy breath that had nothing to do with climbing a staircase up a mountain, rushed
past his lips. There were scores of families inside, maybe even several hundred. They
were clumped and clustered together. Meals were being cooked in iron pots over
glowing fires, more children were scampering about, and a group of kvinna were
building a secondary barricade of rocks and long spears behind the main stone wall.
‘So we’ll be here tonight,’ Grog said. ‘We’ll stay and help defend this place.’
Major Hammerbuckle shook his head. ‘Believe me, I want to, but I have my orders
from King Brewblade – we’re to push on as far and as fast as possible. We can’t get
caught up in the fighting, our mission is too important.’
‘With all due respect to the king,’ Grog said, not taking his eyes off the families
inside the hall, ‘that’s some cowardly bullshit.’
Krordous dropped down from his place on the stone wall and glared at Major
Hammerbuckle with his glowing amber eyes. ‘I agree with the general. We should
stay.’
‘Three things!’ the major said, as he rounded on Krordous. ‘One – he’s not a
fucking general anymore, he’s just a regular dwarf. Two – when Brotun asked you to
go on this quest, you agreed to follow my orders, and three…’ the major looked back
and forth between Grog and Krordous, and all the anger seemed to drain out of his
eyes. ‘I know why turning your back and walking away from … from everyone here
would be particularly unpalatable for you, but try and remember that there are tens of
thousands of children across the thirteen realms whose lives may well depend on the
success of our mission. We need the Faithbound Krordous, and if we’re going to get
them, we need to go now.’
Grog watched Krordous work his jaw, the tendons in his neck flexed and strained
… and then he relaxed – his blazing eyes falling downcast to the rubble-covered floor.
‘As you say,’ he grunted, then he pushed past Grog and strode out onto the
concourse.
‘Okay, Mowgrog,’ the major said, ‘we’re in your hands from here on. You be ready
to lead us further up the mountain in five minutes, yes?’
Before Grog could answer, the major turned and started calling for the rest of the
party to abandon their wall-building efforts.
‘Well well,’ came a voice from behind Grog, ‘I heard you were on your way up
here, but I didn’t believe it.’
Grog turned, saw the dwarf that had spoken and felt like his insides had turned to
water. He staggered a little and closed his eyes … but there was no un-seeing the
white-bearded old dwarf who was limping towards him, leaning heavily on a stick and
leading a little kvinna girl across the concourse towards him with his other hand.
Oh no no no! Grog shouted inside his mind. He knew that the Ancient Ones had
every right to want to punish him, but this latest kick to the gonads was definite proof
that those ancient bastards truly hated his guts!
‘Look here, Greten,’ said the old dwarf, pointing his makeshift walking stick
squarely at Grog’s chest, ‘this is the dwarf I’ve told you so much about. This is
Mowgrog Ironheart. We were in the army together a long time ago, but after I left, he
went on to become a general! In fact, he was the general who bravely led your parents
into the fog, along with thousands of other soldiers.’
Grog had stared down plague wolves and gone toe-to-toe with a frost drake, but
he’d never in his life wanted to hide from anyone or anything as much as he wanted to
hide away from the mousy little kvinna who was peeking out shyly from behind her
grandfather’s ebony striped cloak.
‘Grourhat, I…’ Grog’s mouth had gone so dry that his words were little more than
a croaky whisper. ‘It’s good to see you.’
‘Thankfully the general here made it out alive,’ Grourhat said. ‘I guess that your
parents were…’ Grourhat swallowed hard, ‘just too slow to make their way out of the
fog.’
I’m sorry! Grog screamed the words inside his head. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m
sorry! He imagined himself dropping to his knees in front of the little kvinna and
bursting into tears. Instead, he balled his fists, ground his teeth together and waited for
the torture to end.
‘I’ve been looking after little Greten here ever since her parents passed,’ Grourhat
said, limping a little closer to Grog. ‘I do my best, but we sure do miss mummy and
daddy, don’t we, Greten?’
Greten nodded, never taking her glistening eyes off Grog.
‘What happened to your leg?’ Grog asked, seeing the blood-stained bandages above
Grourhat’s right knee and absolutely desperate to change the subject.
‘Last night was pretty wild,’ Grourhat said with a shrug. ‘Hopefully you managed
to steer clear of it.’
‘No, I didn’t. I went into town to help actually.’
‘See, Greten,’ the old dwarf pointed at Grog with mock awe on his face. ‘Just like I
said – a very brave dwarf.’
Hot anger rose in Grog’s chest and it was good, it burned away some of the guilt
and pain. ‘As much as I’m loving this little chat,’ Grog said, ‘I’m afraid I have to go
now. Me and some others are about to head deep into the northern mountains. We’re
going to bring back the Faithbound. We’re going to help save the thirteen realms.’
‘Sounds exciting,’ Grourhat said, removing his burgundy cap and scratching his
bald head. ‘I’ll be sealed off inside the Hall of Legends with little Greten here, praying
that our defenses hold against the undead hordes.’
‘Well, Ancient Ones protect you then,’ Grog said.
He began turning away, but Grourhat’s gnarled old hand shot out like a striking
snake and grabbed a handful of Grog’s cape and mail shirt. ‘I know what happened,’
the old dwarf hissed through clenched teeth. I know your secret! I know why Oahn
sent my son to his death!’
Grog tried to pull away, but Grourhat held him fast. ‘Look at her!’ Grourhat
inclined his head towards his granddaughter. ‘Every time you close your eyes from
now on, I want you to see this little orphan’s face.’
‘I already do!’ Grog shouted, then he sagged, dropping to his knees, his palms
pressed against his forehead. ‘I see her, Grourhat,’ he said, his voice thick and
trembling, ‘her and a thousand others, and all their parents. I see them in my dreams, I
see them when I’m awake. I see them … I hear them, I…’ Grog looked up at the old
dwarf’s stern face. ‘If what you want is a life of absolute misery for me, then you
should rejoice – because that’s what I have.’
‘Your misery won’t bring my son back,’ Grourhat said, then he let go of Grog’s
cloak and extended his hand to his granddaughter. ‘Let’s go Greten. Let’s get into the
hall.’
Grog was still on his knees, so as Greten walked past him, her face passed close by
his. Grog looked fleetingly into her eyes and saw – not anger; maybe pity, maybe just
sadness.
‘Grandfather,’ the kvinna’s sweet little voice came from a few paces behind Grog,
‘he doesn’t seem like a bad dwarf.’
Grog closed his eyes.
He doesn’t seem like a bad dwarf.
‘Come on, child,’ Grourhat snapped.
The footsteps grew more distant, but Grog stayed kneeling on the stone concourse,
letting the words echo over and over again in his head … he doesn’t seem like a bad
dwarf.
‘What the fuck are you doing, Ironheart?’
Grog looked over his shoulder. Major Hammerbuckle was striding towards him,
followed by the rest of the party.
‘Just saying a little prayer,’ Grog said, getting to his feet and wiping the wetness
from his eyes as subtly as he could. ‘Don’t you always say a good prayer to the
Ancient Ones before embarking on a big quest?’
‘I don’t have time for prayers,’ the major said. ‘There’ll be enough light for at least
an hour or two of marching. Bemroc!’
The young blonde dwarf ambled forward and held his huge backpack out towards
Grog.
‘Generous of you wanting to share,’ said Grog, ‘but you can hang onto it, lad. I’m
still dealing with some injuries you know.’
‘He’s not going any further,’ said the major. ‘He carried it up the steps for you, but
this is as far as he goes. This is your pack now, Mowgrog.’
Grog glared at Major Hammerbuckle, but he reached out and grabbed the pack
without a word.
‘No excuses?’ Tarian said, arching an eyebrow. ‘No complaints?’
Grog settled the pack across his shoulders. It was even heavier than it looked and
one of the straps fell right over the bruise he’d gotten from an undead bone club the
night before. ‘I don’t have time for excuses,’ he said. Then he gave Bemroc a farewell
nod and struck out towards the barely visible trail which started just above the great
doors of the Hall of Legends and led up into the mountains beyond.
****
He doesn’t seem like a bad dwarf.
These words sustained Grog as he led the others up the flank of the mountain. They
picked him up when he stumbled over rocks and low shrubs in the deep twilight. They
were louder than the rasping of his breath and the pounding of his heart. They kept
him going for well over an hour until finally, he stopped and looked out over the
moonlit valley far below.
The others stopped too – dropping their packs, as Grog had, and looking back the
way they’d come.
No one spoke.
They all just stood … and listened to the distant sound that was drifting up to them
from the town of Longdale.
It was the sound of a horn, blowing long and urgent, stabbing icicles of dread into
the very marrow of Grog’s bones.
‘What do we do?’ Krordous asked eventually, his orange eyes burning in the
darkness. ‘Shall we go back?’
He doesn’t seem like a bad dwarf…
‘No,’ Grog said, ‘we have to go on.’ He picked up his pack, turned and resumed his
exhausting trek up the mountainside. ‘Come on,’ he called to the others. ‘Follow me.’
- CHAPTER 9 -
Trolls
The small cave where Grog and his companions spent the night had been used as a
shelter by members of the Mountain Battalion on many occasions. Most of the
uncomfortable rocks had been removed from the floor and there was even a table and
chairs made from whittled pine where the party ate a meagre dinner of bread, dried
pork and cheese.
But despite the fact that Grog was able to lay out his canvas swag and woolen
blanket on flat dry earth, and had been given a small flask of whisky by Major
Hammerbuckle that he took to bed with him… he was still unable to sleep.
It wasn’t the sound of the watchtower horn that kept him awake this time – in fact it
was the absence of it. It was possible that they were just too far away to hear it,
however, Grog suspected that the sound had stopped because the dwarves and kvinna
on the watchtower had once again been overwhelmed by the horrible vengeful
dwarves and their undead minions. Either way, the only sounds Grogs had to keep him
company as he lay in the thick darkness of the cave were the ringing of his own ears
and the screams and cries of panic and pain which had echoed in his mind every night
since the battle of Algan’s Pass more than a year ago.
He imagined what might be happening in Longdale, where Brotun was organizing
the defense of the town. He imagined scores of grotesque undead, hurling themselves
against the doors of the Hall of Legends while little Greten cowered inside, clinging to
her grandfather. He imagined all the wonderful towns and taverns he’d visited across
the thirteen realms during his time in the army – all under attack, all burning, all
desperately needing help to come charging down from the mountaintops…
‘Mowgrog!’
Krordous’ deep voice and an accompanying nudge from the toe of his boot brought
Grog back to consciousness.
Grog looked up. Krordous was standing over him. He was already dressed for
travel, with his light blue cape wrapped around his shoulders and his amber eyes
glowing faintly from beneath the rim of his gold helmet.
‘I’ve made breakfast,’ Krordous said, before turning away and making for the
mouth of the cave, where dawn light was painting the walls a pale grey.
Grog sat up, rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and sniffed. The smell of smoke and
fried eggs was wafting into the cave and Grog wasted no time in disentangling himself
from his blankets and seeking out the source of the smell.
Tarian and the dwarf in titanium chainmail – who’d finally introduced himself to
Grog the previous evening as Orifam Warbraids – were sitting on rocks next to a
crackling campfire. Krordous was crouched down, scraping eggs off an iron skillet
and onto some enamel plates. Major Hammerbuckle was standing on a boulder
nearby, silhouetted against the rising sun and looking north, towards the mountain’s
summit.
‘And here he is everybody,’ Tarian said, an open hand pointed towards Grog, ‘the
loudest snoring dwarf in all the thirteen realms.’
‘I can’t have been snoring that much,’ Grog protested. ‘I hardly slept a wink.’
‘Oh, you got a wink or two,’ Tarian assured him. ‘I was on last watch this morning
and it was like there was a dire bear choking to death in the cave.’
‘Sorry,’ Grog said with a sheepish shrug. ‘Not much I can do about it really.’
‘How’s your head?’ Krordous asked, as he passed Grog a plate of fried bread and
eggs.
‘Sore,’ Grog gingerly touched a finger to his cranium, ‘but on the mend. Thanks for
breakfast.’
Krordous gave Grog a stiff nod and handed a plate to Orifam.
‘You see any sign of … anything down there?’ Grog asked Orifam as he sat down
next to him.
Orifam, who’d been squinting back towards Longdale, shook his head. ‘Too dark,
too misty. Can’t see a thing.’
Grog took a bite of his egg-covered bread and let out a little grunt of satisfaction.
‘Oh, Krordous, what did you put on this?’
‘Just some dried herbs and salt. Is it alright?’
‘Fucking delicious,’ Grog said, taking another huge bite and wiping yolk from his
bushy black moustache.
‘You know you’ve just damned yourself to be the cook for the rest of this quest,
don’t you?’ Orifam said, licking his fingertips.
‘That’s alright,’ Krordous said, ‘I like cooking. You can wash the dishes.’
Orifam looked like he was about to reject this proposal, but at that moment, Major
Hammerbuckle came striding out of the gloom. ‘Grog, I want to talk to you about the
route you said we should take.’
‘Mmmbh?’ Grog mumbled – his mouth completely full of egg and bread.
The major held up a map he’d taken from the burgomaster’s library. He’d made
Grog look at it with him by moonlight before they’d attempted sleep; now he was
shaking it in Grog’s direction and looking even more angry than usual.
‘The way I see it,’ the major said, stepping around the fire and squatting down next
to Grog, ‘if we head northwest along this valley,’ he stabbed the map with a calloused
finger, ‘then travel directly north across the tundra of realm thirteen, that’s the
quickest way to get to Mount Vaelkain.’
‘It’s the shortest distance,’ Grog said, ‘but it’s not a good idea.’
Major Hammerbuckle’s eyes narrowed, the black striped war paint across his
cheekbones creasing. ‘Why not? Because it’s rough terrain? Because it’s cold? I’m
not scared of a few hills and a little snow, and I’m sure no one else is here … except
maybe you, Mowgrog. Maybe you just want to go east and take the long way round
because it’s easier?’
‘No,’ Grog wiped his greasy fingers on his grey woolen shirt and reached for the
map, ‘it’s because the only way to get into realm thirteen from here – unless you want
to climb right over the top of this mountain range – is through this valley and –’
‘That’s what I said!’ Major Hammerbuckle snatched the map back. ‘We go through
this valley, then it’s a clear run north.’
Grog mopped up some yolk with his last piece of bread, popped it in his mouth and
chewed slowly while the major fumed. ‘No, Major,’ he said eventually, ‘what happens
if we go that way is we enter the valley, then we get attacked by mountain trolls, then
we all get eaten. Then no one ever reaches Mount Vaelkain and the Faithbound never
even hear about our troubles.’
‘Mountain trolls?’ Major Hammerbuckle’s voice was thick with skepticism.
‘The great goat herds use that valley to migrate north into realm thirteen in the
spring,’ Grog explained. ‘They go to eat the grasses coming up beneath the snowmelt,
and the trolls come down from the high mountains to eat the goats.’
‘And you think we can’t handle a few trolls?’ the major asked. ‘It’ll save us days,
maybe weeks!’
Grog shrugged. ‘It might, or we might end up as troll shit.’
‘If there’s a chance to make this journey significantly shorter,’ the major said,
folding the map and stowing it away beneath his mustard cape, ‘and the only thing
standing in our way is a few mangy trolls, then we’re going that way!’
Grog knew there was no point in arguing. ‘Fine,’ he said, standing up and dusting
the crumbs off his night pants. ‘Now, nobody come in the cave for a minute. I need to
try and squeeze into this skinny bastard’s clothes again,’ he inclined his head towards
Krordous, ‘and that’s not something anyone needs to witness.’
***
A short while later, the party was travelling north-west across the face of the
mountain. Major Hammerbuckle was leading the way and setting a cracking pace.
Grog was bringing up the rear, smoking a pipe as he walked and stopping every thirty
or forty paces to adjust Krordous’ leather breeches – which kept uncomfortably riding
up around his groin and buttocks. Grog had sensibly packed the pipe with a mixture of
nesin weed and regular shortbelly leaf. It was taking the edge off his various aches and
pains, but he wasn’t hallucinating or craving honey nut pastries.
The sun at Grog’s back had only just emerged from beneath the dark blanket of the
world and – as they began descending into the valley – the air was becoming thick
with morning mist. Grog tripped and stumbled in the feeble light, but wasn’t the only
one. Orifam, Tarian and Major Hammerbuckle all took turns at swearing and roaring
as they stubbed their toes or turned their ankles. Only Krordous seemed immune to
any mishaps, and Grog began to suspect that the quiet dwarf’s fiery eyes allowed him
to see in the dark.
It wasn’t until after the sun had passed overhead and they’d reached the valley
floor, that the major allowed the party to stop for a rest. Sweat was dripping from the
end of Grog’s bulbous nose, and – nesin weed or no nesin weed – he was still
suffering from a rotten headache, a throbbing buttock and some rather nasty chaffing
of the inner thighs. But he didn’t complain, he just flopped down on a patch of clover,
and began digging around in his backpack for his flask of whisky.
‘Are you sure you wouldn’t be better off with just some water?’ Krordous asked
after Grog had found his flask and taken several burning gulps.
Grog looked around at the others. Orifam and the major were drinking greedily
from large leather waterskins – the water trickling down their beards in glittering
droplets. Tarian was taking delicate sips, being careful not to smear the grey and white
layers of paint which intersected at her chin.
‘Maybe just a mouthful,’ Grog said, unclipping his own waterskin from his
backpack. ‘I always used to lecture my troops about keeping their water up on long
marches – stop the buggers from fainting.’ He drank.
‘Better than ale, yes?’ Krordous suggested.
‘Better than…’ Grog’s words temporarily failed him. ‘This?’ Grog held up the
waterskin. ‘You think this lukewarm, goat leather-tasting piss is better than a cold
foamy tankard of delicious ale?’
‘Better for you at least.’
‘Aye,’ Grog pressed the wooden stopper back into the mouth of his waterskin, ‘and
they say walking’s good for you too, and yet here I am, feeling like someone’s poured
acid down the insides of my bloody legs!’
‘No time for whining, Mowgrog,’ Major Hammerbuckle said, shouldering his pack.
‘Let’s keep going.’
Grog swallowed his anger and stood up, stifling a groan of pain. ‘Maybe we could
ride some of these,’ he looked past the major to the steady stream of large goats that
was making their way west along the valley floor. ‘That way the trolls can get their
dinner and dessert all in one go.’
The major followed Grog’s gaze. ‘Oh yes, the trolls. And where exactly might
these monsters be hiding? There’s no caves, hardly any trees; no place to hide at all
really. It just looks like lovely grass all the way from here to realm thirteen.’
‘I really hope you’re right,’ Grog said. ‘I haven’t been this way in a while, maybe
there won’t be trolls.’ He shared a lame smile with the rest of the party and was
slightly bewildered to see a definite look of disappointment crumple Tarian’s face.
‘But there probably will be,’ he added.
Tarian’s mismatched eyes lit up. This was one strange kvinna.
***
The attack came at sunset, which was the worst possible time of day for three
enormous trolls to come lumbering up the valley from the west. The sun was shining
directly into Grog’s eyes, so the shapes of the trolls were nothing more than dark
smudges in the distance at first, but the thunderous roars and snarls which echoed
progressively louder off the rocky walls of the valley made it clear that the trolls
weren’t out for a casual evening stroll.
‘They’ve smelled us,’ Grog said, shrugging off his pack and sliding his two
shortswords out of their sheathes.
‘Fuck!’ Major Hammerbuckle growled as he dumped his own pack onto the grass
and began unclipping his two-handed battle axe from its side. ‘Come on then, Grog –
say it. Say I told you so.’
‘There’ll be time for that after,’ Grog said loudly, then he muttered under his
breath, ‘if we survive, you stupid bastard.’
‘Any way out of this other than a fight?’ Krordous asked, looking back at Grog.’
‘Not really, pal,’ Grog made a show of looking at their surroundings. The valley
was wide and open with a gushing stream cutting through the middle of it. There were
scattered trees and some fairly sizable boulders around, but there’d be no hiding from
the keen noses of the trolls, and certainly no outrunning their long, knobble-kneed
legs. ‘I’m afraid it’s us or them.’
‘It’s gonna be them!’ Orifam bellowed as he clambered onto a boulder with a hefty
axe in his hands.
Krordous sighed and unslung the two hatchets that he kept strapped to his
backpack.
The trolls were closing fast. They were close enough already for Grog to see the
mottled grey skin of their legs and torsos and their dismally inadequate goat-hide
loincloths flapping around their dangling nether regions.
Tarian undid the clasp of her garnet-coloured cape. She unhurriedly folded it and
placed it on top of her backpack.
‘Spread out a bit!’ Major Hammerbuckle shouted, advancing towards the trolls.
‘Try and flank them.’
The tall lanky beasts were fifty paces away. One was carrying a club that was little
more than a stripped tree branch, another had no weapons apart from its long sinewy
arms and mouth full of jagged teeth. The third was brandishing what could only be
described as half a dead goat.
Tarian pulled a lethal-looking chain mace from her backpack. The solid steel ball
which dropped by her side as she stood up was studded with large spikes. She began
running towards the trolls.
The battle cries of the attacking monsters reached a climax as they bore down on
Major Hammerbuckle. The leading troll raised the club over his head.
Grog squeezed the grips of his shortswords and followed Tarian.
Then there was nothing but blurred movement, roaring, shouting, swinging
weapons and the pounding of Grog’s heart.
Major Hammerbuckle threw himself forwards as the club descended. He avoided
the crushing blow and came out of his roll with his axe swinging. It sliced across the
lead troll’s thigh. The creature screamed in pain and buckled to its knees.
Grog had time to think, a good start, as the mustard-caped major drew back his
axe, ready to take the head off the now-kneeling troll, but then half a goat slammed
into the major, sending him sprawling to the ground.
The troll holding the dead goat by one of its horns lifted a massive foot, ready to
stomp the prone dwarf into oblivion. Instead, it suddenly staggered backwards, its
yellow eyes wide with surprise as a hatchet thudded into its gut.
Grog vaguely registered that this weapon must have been thrown by Krordous, but
didn’t have time to congratulate his companion, as the unarmed troll had picked up a
rock that was half the size of a dwarf and was preparing to hurl it. Grog altered course,
making for the cover of the large boulder that Orifam had been standing on. He hadn’t
seen where the titanium-clad warrior had gone, but he could hear him shouting.
The troll heaved the rock, not at Grog – who was preparing to dive behind the
boulder – but at Tarian, who was closing to within striking distance. She didn’t break
stride, but merely leaned her head slightly to one side. The rock hurtled over her left
shoulder, missing her by a finger’s width and plowing harmlessly into the ground.
Then she attacked.
And Grog saw at once why this kvinna had been painted with the markings of an
ultimate warrior. He understood why she’d attained the rank that was granted to only a
handful of dwarves and kvinna every generation.
She moved with the speed of a cat, the ferocity of a rabid cave demon and the
precision of a royal surgeon. Her mace was a devastating blur which whipped down
and pulverized the toes of the unarmed troll, then flicked up to crack it under its chin
as it reached for her. As the troll reeled back, hopping and clutching its shattered
bloody chin with both hands, Tarian swung her mace at its non-injured leg … and tore
away its kneecap.
The troll toppled like a felled tree. Tarian spun out of the way, then jumped onto
the back of the stricken creature, already whirling her mace over her head – building
up speed and power as she prepared to finish the job.
She’s got him, Grog thought … and I’m just standing here like an idiot.
Realising that he’d been watching Tarian, transfixed, for more than a few precious
seconds, Grog shifted his attention to the other combatants and saw that the rest of his
party wasn’t faring quite so well.
Orifam was lying unmoving on the grass in front of the goat-wielding troll – who
was still holding the goat in one hand, but was clutching at a gruesome wound in its
side with the other. Black blood was spurting from beneath its fingers.
Major Hammerbuckle had regained his feet, but was staggering backwards, away
from the troll whose leg he’d sliced open. He held his great battle axe awkwardly in
his left hand. His right arm dangled uselessly by his side.
The troll was limping after him, raising its club.
Grog leapt towards the troll. The flash of a gold helmet in the corner of his eye, and
a deep dwarvish bellow told him that Krordous was beside him.
The two dwarves attacked together.
The troll changed the angle of its club and swept it sideways in a wide arc – trying
to take out both of them in a single blow.
Krordous dropped, and the club whooshed over him.
Grog considered flattening himself on the ground, but decided that he might not be
able to get quite flat enough. His next idea was to leap backwards, but there was no
way he was going to change direction in time. These thoughts whizzed through his
mind in less than an instant. Unfortunately for Grog, less than an instant was all the
time the troll needed to smack him fair on the ribs with its tree branch.
He flew sideways, crashing to the ground and coming to rest next to the senseless
body of Orifam. Every particle of breath had been knocked from Grog’s body and
pain blazed like fire through his torso, but, thanks to Blade Blunter, he was alive and,
miraculously, still had hold of one of the shortswords.
He rolled onto his back in time to see the goat-wielding troll lifting something from
the grass. It was Orifam’s battle axe. The blade was slicked with black blood … and it
was also being raised directly above Grog and Orifam.
This time, Grog didn’t hesitate. He lunged and stabbed upwards with his sword –
right into the dangling and woefully unprotected genitals of the unfortunate troll. Hot
blood – and possibly other fluids – washed over Grog’s forearm.
The troll dropped both goat and axe and staggered backwards, its ear-splitting
screams filling the valley.
Grog flicked the worst of the gunk off his arm and turned back towards the troll
with the club. It was bearing down on Krordous, who was doing his best to dodge,
duck and generally avoid the wild swipes of the giant club.
Major Hammerbuckle was leaning against the boulder just behind Krordous. He’d
dropped his axe and was pressing his mustard-coloured cloak against the bicep on his
right arm. Grog had time to register the dark stain spreading across the cloak, before a
roar from the last troll grabbed his attention.
The creature was on its knees. Tarian stood behind it with a bloody dagger in one
hand and her fearsome mace whirling in the other. Grog closed his eyes just before the
mace made contact with the side of the troll’s head. The wet CRUNCH he heard an
instant later was all the sensory information he needed to know that Tarian’s blow had
landed. He made the mistake of opening his eyes in time to see Tarian making sure of
her kill by bringing her mace down again and again on the back of the prone
creature’s cranium, splattering bits of skull and brain across the grass.
The other troll that Tarian had engaged was in a similar state of unquestionable
deadness. The troll that Grog had so mercilessly stabbed in the gonads, however, was
still very-much alive. It was curled in a fetal position howling pitifully.
‘For the love of all that’s holy!’ Krordous shouted. ‘Put it out of its misery!’
Grog hesitated, Tarian didn’t. She jumped off the back of the dead troll and headed
for its tortured comrade. As he watched her go, Grog was greatly relieved to see
Orifam sitting up, clutching his head, but apparently not mortally wounded.
‘Oh no! Major!’ The trembling quiver in Krordous’ deep voice sent a shiver of fear
creeping across Grog’s shoulders. He turned his head slowly, not wanting to see what
had rattled the amber-eyed warrior so badly, but suspecting that he already knew.
Major Hammerbuckle had now slumped to the ground, his head and shoulder were
rested against the boulder. His left hand was still pressed against his right bicep. His
eyes were drooping shut. He was completely soaked in blood.
‘Brachial artery!’ Krordous said, dropping his hatchet and squatting down beside
the major. ‘Fuck!’ He began unclasping his blue cape. ‘We need a torniquet!’
‘Leave it,’ Major Hammerbuckle said, his voice a husky gasp. ‘Let me go.’
Krordous pressed his palms against his forehead and Grog was surprised to see
tears streaming down the face of the stern and stalwart dwarf.
Grog knelt down in front of the major. He’d seen injuries like this before and knew
the major was right – it was too late. This dwarf’s life was soaked into his clothes,
smeared across the boulder and pooling on the grassy earth in the golden rays of
sunset.
‘Last requests?’ Grog asked, keeping his words as quick and simple as possible.
‘Give all my stuff to my sister, except this,’ the major tapped a blood-covered
thumb against the obsidian gem on his cloak. ‘This goes to my uncle Dagiv.’
Grog nodded. ‘We will.’
The screaming of the final troll stopped, and the valley was plunged into an abrupt
and tranquil silence.
‘And…’ the major’s eyes rolled in their sockets and his head flopped onto his
chest. ‘Win,’ his voice was a slurred whisper. ‘Fucking win.’
‘We will,’ Grog said, as the major’s body sagged lifeless and still against the blood-
drenched stone.
‘We will.’
- CHAPTER 10 -
Getting Along
They buried Major Hammerbuckle under a willow tree, close to the small stream
which ran through the centre of the valley. Krordous insisted on building a small cairn
to mark the site, but Grog only managed to gather a few stones before needing to sit
down and smoke a packed pipeful of nesin weed. His torso was bruised purple from
his left armpit down to his hip and every movement caused him pain.
When night fell, they rolled out their swags and slept beneath the stars – or at least
Orifam slept. Grog dozed on and off, but was too sore, miserable and worried about
trolls to properly fall asleep. Krordous continued working on the cairn by moonlight.
Once he was satisfied with his work, he sat in front of the pile of stones, murmuring
low and quiet to himself or to the gods. Tarian sat on a boulder, keeping watch all
night with her fearsome mace by her side.
By the time the sun’s light began spilling into the valley, Krordous had already lit a
fire, extracted some eggs from deep within some soft fabric wrappings and begun
cooking breakfast.
‘So, what do we do now?’ Orifam asked, wincing as he lowered himself slowly
down by the fire. A troll had hammered its fist into the top of his head after Orifam
had sunk an axe into its side. The titanium-clad dwarf was suffering from the sort of
headache that Grog was only too familiar with, but seemed to have suffered no
permanent damage.
Grog stared down at his plate and waited for Krordous or Tarian to answer
Orifam’s question, but nobody spoke. When Grog looked up, he saw that all three of
them were looking expectantly at him.
‘What?’ Grog asked. ‘You’re the heroes of this mission, I’m just –’
‘You’re our guide,’ Tarian said.
‘Yeah well, I’ve done a fucking bang-up job of that so far, haven’t I?’ Grog said,
glancing sideways at Major Hammerbuckle’s cairn.
‘That wasn’t your fault,’ Tarian said. ‘Hammerbuckle insisted on coming this way;
we all heard it.’
‘It is best not to speak ill of the dead,’ Krordous said, without looking up from his
frying pan.
Tarian glared down at Krordous. ‘I’m not speaking ill of him; I’m just stating a
fact. Speaking ill of him would be saying that he was a stupid, stubborn fool who
should have listened to Grog.’
Krordous looked up at Tarian, his amber eyes blazing. ‘And now he lies dead in the
cold earth. Is that not punishment enough for his folly? Must he also be insulted and
ridiculed?’
‘He’s dead, Krordous,’ Tarian said. ‘I don’t think he’s going to give a shit what I
say.’
‘Well I do,’ Krordous said, his voice rumbling in his chest like distant thunder.
‘Krordous,’ Grog interjected, desperate to slice into the tension building between
the two warriors, ‘your eggs are burning, brother!’
Krordous lowered his eyes to attend to his frying pan.
‘And fine,’ Grog continued, ‘if you want me to guide you, I’ll guide you.’
‘So, which way do we go?’ Orifam asked. ‘All the way back along the valley, back
over the spine of the mountain and into realm six – the way you wanted to go?’
Grog considered. He looked northwest – the direction they’d been travelling, and
he looked back to the southeast. ‘I say from here, our best bet is to keep going. It
really will be at least a week longer if we go back now.’
‘But what about the trolls?’ Orifam asked, his eyes darting to the recently erected
cairn. ‘There’s only four of us now and neither you or I are in the best fighting shape.’
Grog ran his hand over the place where the black iron rings of Blade Blunter
covered his bruised ribs. ‘No, I’m definitely not, but by my reckoning, we’re not much
more than ten miles from the mouth of this valley. A troll can smell you from about
five miles off, so if there was any of the buggers nearby, we’d know about it. That
leaves just the final five miles of valley where there might be trolls.’
‘You can get plenty killed in five miles,’ Orifam said.
Grog took his plate of fried bread and eggs from Krordous with a nod of thanks and
went back to staring northwest. ‘Yeah, you can, but something’s different this year…’
He bit into a slice of bread and chewed pensively. ‘Normally there’d be troll shit all
up and down the valley this time of year.’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t know why, but
they’re just not here this year – apart from them,’ he jerked a thumb back towards the
corpses of the three trolls which lay some distance behind them.
‘So you think it’s safe to make for realm thirteen?’ Orifam asked.
‘Well, I never said it was safe,’ Grog said. ‘I just said I thought it was probably our
best option. For all I know, there’s forty bloody trolls waiting for us just up ahead, but
then again, now I’ve seen this one in action,’ he pointed a piece of toast at Tarian,
‘I’m not quite as worried as I was before.’
‘Don’t you go counting on me to save your fat arse,’ Tarian said, with a faint smile.
‘I’m just a humble kvinna.’
‘You’re the living reincarnation of Sigelda the Slayer is what you are!’ Grog said.
‘Where did you learn to fight like that?’
All the mirth drained from Tarian’s mismatched eyes, and Grog suddenly found
swallowing his mouthful of toast very difficult. ‘Let’s just say, I started young,’ she
said, then turned her attention to her own plate.
***
The weather was fine and the grassy valley floor sloped gently downwards as they
made their way northwest, but progress was still extremely slow.
Grog and Orifam had shared a pipeful of nesin weed before they’d set out, but even
with the weed numbing the pain, Grog still walked slow and stiff, and Orifam was
moving like a veritable frost slug. He trailed behind, stopping at intervals to closely
inspect various rocks, trees or wildflowers. Grog suspected that the titanium warrior
had little experience with the wonderfully medicinal, but also moderately psychedelic
herb, and was experiencing rather too much of the wonders of nature than was
appropriate for a realm-saving mission.
‘He shouldn’t have smoked so much,’ Krordous grumbled as he, Grog and Tarian
sat eating a meagre lunch and watching Orifam meandering up the valley behind
them. ‘He’s slowing us down.’
‘Well, he was thumped right on the noggin by a troll yesterday,’ Grog said,
pinching a rogue cheese crumb out of his beard and popping it in his mouth. ‘He’s
doing well to be moving at all to be honest.’
‘At least he made it,’ Krordous said, his eyes downcast.
Grog shot a look at Tarian. Whilst naturally upset and unsettled by the death of
Major Hammerbuckle, Grog wasn’t in the depths of despair like Krordous seemed to
be.
‘Did you know him well?’ Grog asked, ‘the major.’
‘I met him three days ago,’ Krordous said, ‘during the attack on Longdale.’
‘Oh, so you didn’t really…’ Grog had no idea what the right thing to say was, so he
decided to give his undivided attention to the hunk of cheese in his hand.
‘He was a good brave dwarf,’ Tarian said, clearly not suffering from the same
awkwardness as Grog. ‘But pig-headed and inflexible, like so many of the higher-
ranking military types.’
‘You’re a military type!’ Krordous growled. ‘And I thought I asked you not to
speak ill of the dead.’
‘You did,’ Tarian relied, her voice as cool as a glacier. ‘But you asking for a thing
doesn’t necessarily mean you’re going to get it.’
Grog saw Krordous’ shoulders stiffen and his right hand clench tightly around the
handle of his frying pan.
‘In terms of me being a military type though,’ Tarian continued, seeming not to
notice Krordous’ mounting anger, ‘I exist outside the rank and file. I’m no officer. I’m
not like a major, or – Ancient Ones forbid – a general!’ she raised an eyebrow at
Grog. ‘I’m just a…’ She looked skywards as she searched for the words.
‘A weapon,’ Krordous said; his voice a low rumble. ‘A killer!’
‘Yes,’ Tarian nodded, seemingly satisfied with the suggestions, ‘something like
that.’
‘Hey, Orifam’s here!’ Grog said, trying lamely for the second time that day to hack
his way through a solid block of tension. ‘How you feeling, pal? How’s the head?’
‘Light as dandelion seed,’ Orifam said. ‘Oh, and we’re having lunch I see!’ He took
the five fastest steps he’d taken all day, as he rushed towards the bread, cheese and
dried meat.
***
By mid-afternoon, Grog and his travelling companions were clambering down the
steep slope which led from the mouth of the valley, to the vast frost-covered plains of
realm thirteen. The stream which had accompanied them on their journey, crashed
down rocky rapids and spilled over numerous waterfalls as it hurried on its way to join
the wide shimmering waters of the northern Oglan River. Scores of sure-footed goats
trotted past them as they descended, but despite this glut of fresh meat, they saw no
further sign of trolls. Grog knew he should have been nothing but pleased about this
fact, but there was something troubling about the almost complete lack of the giant
beasts in the mountain pass. There were worse things for mountain trolls to be doing
than skulking around in remote valleys and eating goats, and Grog wasn’t looking
forward to finding out exactly what those things might be.
Despite the fact that Grog had made the descent into realm thirteen numerous times
during his time in the Northern Mountain Battalion, he still managed to be shocked by
how much colder the air became as they reached the base of the mountains and set out
across the tundra. No living dwarf knew what kind of lands existed to the northwest of
the great mountain ranges which encircled the thirteen realms, but both wise dwarves
and stupid ones all agreed that those lands must be absolutely fucking freezing. The
winds that blasted and howled through every crack, crevice, valley and pass to the
north of realm thirteen were enough to snap a dwarf’s beard in half and make his balls
flee in terror for the warmth of his lower abdomen.
‘Can we stop for a minute?’ Orifam called from behind Grog after they’d been
slogging their way through mud and melting snow for an hour. ‘I think I’m ready for
another one of those pipes of yours, Grog.’
Grog felt like giving Orifam a hug. His ribs had been hurting for quite some time,
but he’d feared that if he’d broken out the nesin weed and shared it with Orifam, he
would have faced the steely disapproval of Krordous, and maybe even Tarian as well.
A pain in the side was preferable to the combined glares of both amber and
mismatched blue and green eyes alike. Grog had been taking sneaky sips from his
whisky flask, but that had done little to numb the ache, although it had beaten back the
cold somewhat.
‘We’ll be stopping before too long,’ Krordous said. ‘Can’t you tough it out a little
longer?’
‘Ancient Ones, Krordous, don’t be cruel!’ Orifam said, rubbing the back of his
neck and wincing. ‘I just need a little puff. It’s alright for you to say “tough it out”,
you’re not in horrible pain like me and Grog are.’
Grog thought for a second that Krordous was going to attack Orifam. His orange
eyes flared with rage and his chest rose and fell in a great shuddering breath. ‘You
don’t…’ Krordous closed his eyes and bowed his head for a moment. ‘Fine,’ he
looked back and forth between Orifam and Grog, the fire in his eyes suddenly
extinguished. ‘Just a little bit – I don’t want you slowing us down again.’ He turned
and continued north across the slushy ground.
‘He’s got issues that one,’ Tarian said once Krordous was out of earshot. ‘Good
cook though.’
Grog looked up from his weed pouches and pipe. ‘Do you know anything about
him?’
Tarian shrugged. ‘Not really. Brotun seemed to know him quite well. I got the
sense that he’d served in some kind of special secret unit before becoming a King’s
Guard.’
Grog struck a match and held it above the chamber of the mahogany pipe that had
been included with his pack. He’d barely gotten the chamber glowing before Orifam
was at his side, looking at the pipe with eager eyes.
‘It’s mostly shortbelly leaf,’ Grog said, handing the pipe over. ‘I don’t want you
stopping to investigate every snowflake. Krordous has one hatchet for each of us if we
slow him down.’
They put their packs back on – Grog and Orifam both grunting with discomfort as
they did so – and set off after Krordous.
‘Tarian, did you want any?’ Grog asked, offering the pipe to the kvinna of war.
She shook her head. ‘No thanks. I need to stay sharp. When this is all done though;
when the faithbound come charging down from their mountaintops and help us
massacre every last one of these accursed invaders, then, General Ironheart, we can sit
in some tavern together and tell our tales to a merry crowd while I drink you under the
table.’
‘I like the sound of that,’ Grog said, grinning at Tarian, ‘but I’m telling you now
that there’s no way in the endless pit of darkness that you are drinking me under
anything.’
‘We’ll see.’
Grog was about to explain exactly how they would see, when a deep and desperate
cry for help came bellowing across the frozen plain. It was Krordous – repeatedly and
ever-more frantically roaring for help!
But Grog couldn’t see him. The enigmatic warrior had done the impossible and
managed to disappear completely, despite the tundra being dead-flat and virtually
featureless for miles in every direction.
‘Help! Help! He –’ The urgent shouts died suddenly, and Grog knew what had
happened.
He dropped the pipe, dumped his pack and began sprinting towards the place where
Krordous had been only moments before, hoping against hope that he was not too late.
- CHAPTER 11 -
Secrets in the Snow
The frozen pond that Krordous had fallen into was only about fifty paces wide, but it
was clearly deep enough to drown a dwarf. The dark water that had been exposed at
the centre of the pond churned and seethed as Krordous desperately grabbed for the
edges of the ice, but he kept breaking more away, and repeatedly sinking beneath the
surface – dragged down by his huge backpack.
‘Rope!’ Grog shouted, as he lowered himself onto his hands and knees and began
crawling across the ice. ‘Throw it out to me!’
The ice burned, stung and stuck to Grog’s hands as he crawled towards Krordous.
Sheets of skin tore away from his palm and fingertips, but there was no time for an
alternate plan – Krordous was choking, retching … and weakening; he’d clearly gone
into shock and taken a reflexive breath whilst underwater, Grog had seen it before,
and knew that he didn’t have long before the amber-eyed warrior lost consciousness
and was dragged into the depths by the weight of his pack – crammed as it was full of
cooking gear and weapons.
‘Grog!’ Tarian’s shout came a moment before a length of rope slapped down on the
ice beside him.
He grabbed hold of it, dropped onto his belly and began sliding the last few feet
before the ice gave way to water.
‘Krordous!’ Grog shouted. ‘Grab hold!’ He gathered a bunch of the rope in his
hand and flicked it into the hole.
The stricken warrior reached for the rope, missed, and disappeared beneath the
frigid swirling water.
‘Krordous!’ Grog roared, daring to slide a little closer to the hole. He heard the
sound of ice cracking. ‘Krordous!’
Suddenly the rope went taut.
‘Pull!’ Grog shouted back at Tarian and Orifam. ‘Pull as hard as you can!’
It turned out that this was very hard indeed. The rope slithered back across the
surface of the pond like an ice-flecked serpent, carving a furrow into the side of the
hole until the golden helm of Krordous breached the surface and smashed into the ice.
‘Woah! Easy now,’ Grog shouted. ‘Ease him back.’
Tarian and Orifam pulled. Krordous gasped and coughed and continued to break
more ice away with a flailing arm. Grog backed up a little.
‘Stop thrashing about you great loon!’ Grog bellowed. ‘Just hold the rope and lay
your other arm flat on the ice.’
Krordous’ soggy left arm flopped onto the ice.
Grog reached out, grabbed the unfortunate dwarf’s frosty hand and heaved.
After a good deal of thrashing, splashing, tugging and cursing, Grog, Tarian and
Orifam were finally able to land their catch. Krordous was dragged – sliding like some
kind of miserable saturated toboggan – across the ice to the edge of the pond, where
he lay on the snowy ground, coughing and shivering.
‘Get his clothes off,’ Grog said to Orifam as he clambered to his feet, sticking his
frozen and torn hands under his armpits.
‘You get his clothes off,’ Orifam said, looking warily down at Krordous.
‘Oh for the love of the Ancient Ones!’ Tarian exclaimed, dropping to her knees
beside Krordous. ‘I’m adventuring with fucking children.’ She freed Krordous from
his backpack and began unclasping his dripping cloak.’
‘N-n-no!’ Krordous protested through chattering teeth. He raised a quivering hand
to try and stop Tarian, but she batted it away like she was shooing a fly.
‘You’d rather freeze to death than let us see you naked, would you?’ Tarian asked,
finishing with the cloak and beginning to peel Krordous’ waterlogged woolen shirt up
off his belly.
Krordous reached out again and tried to push Tarian away. ‘Please … d-d-don’t!
Don’t!’ His words were punctuated by hyperventilating breaths, and filled with a
strange and deep desperation.
Tarian remained on her knees, but straightened up and glared down at Krordous.
‘This is taking prudish to a whole new level you damn fool! You’ve got to get out of
these wet clothes! I’ll be buggered if I’m going to help dig the second grave in two
days.’
Krordous shook his head and tried to move away from Tarian, but his body was
shaking so violently that he was barely able to roll onto his side.
Tarian rolled her eyes and pulled a dagger from the sheathe at her belt. ‘Come and
help me with him!’ she snapped at Orifam.
‘N-n-n-no…’ Krordous moaned, but he had no strength to resist as Orifam pinned
the freezing dwarf’s arm by his side and Tarian cut through the back of his sodden
shirt from bottom to collar. She tore away the flaps of material … and reeled back, a
look of horror in her mismatched eyes.
From where Grog stood – behind Orifam and looking at Krordous’ anguished face
– he couldn’t see what Tarian had seen, but as Orifam pulled at the mangled shirt and
wrenched it free from Krordous’ frozen fingers, he saw the stricken dwarf’s naked
torso … and guessed that he and Tarian were seeing something similar.
Grog had seen some battle-scarred bodies in his time, but he’d never seen anything
like the gruesome canvas that Krordous’ body had been turned into. His dark brown
skin was absolutely covered in pale scars of varying lengths and widths. There were
long thin scars and short jagged scars. There were wide circles and sunken, wrinkled
gashes. But Grog’s eyes flicked over all of these – barely registering them. His gaze
was drawn irresistibly to the scar that covered Krordous’ broad chest…
The shape of an eye wearing a crown had been carved into Krordous’ flesh. It
spanned his chest from armpit to armpit, with the top of the crown’s spikes reaching to
the underside of his collarbone.
Of all the dwarves that walked the thirteen realms, Grog knew that he was one of
the very few who knew what that symbol represented. His head swam as he tried to
process the implications of why that mark might have been gouged into Krordous’
living flesh.
It seemed that Tarian also recognized the mark, for Grog doubted she would have
been so rattled by the scarring alone.
Orifam, however, had not been rendered quite as hopelessly stunned as the others.
‘Does one of you want to grab him a fucking blanket then?’ he shouted, as he began
pulling off Krordous’ ice-crusted pants.
Grog snapped out of stupor and rushed for his backpack.
Tarian helped strip Krordous down to his undergarments.
Krordous lay on his side on the muddy earth with his eyes tightly closed, shivering
uncontrollably and breathing in loud rapid gasps.
***
It took a considerable effort, but a short while later, they had Krordous wrapped in
every dry blanket the party possessed and lying on a canvas swag. Orifam and Tarian
were gathering wood for a fire, and Grog was trying to get Krordous to drink some
smoulder whisky.
‘Come on you stubborn bugger,’ Grog said, shaking the bottle close to Krordous’
mouth in what he felt was a tempting manner.
Krordous didn’t drink. He also hadn’t spoken or moved since they’d taken his shirt
off. He just lay on his side, curled up and shaking worse than a wagon full of sows
going down a pot-holed lane.
Grog made sure Tarian and Orifam weren’t looking before he stole a large gulp of
the whisky for himself. ‘Oh, that’s good stuff,’ he said, smacking his lips, ‘warms you
right up that does.’
Krordous continued to tremble in silence.
I’m saying it, Grog thought to himself as he took another swig from the flask.
‘Krordous, I’m sorry we saw your scars, but … I know what that is on your chest and
back.’
Krordous opened his eyes, although they remained staring determinedly away from
Grog.
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