The Shattered Axe .4

- CHAPTER 1 -



Grog






Mowgrog Ironheart woke to the sound of a horn blowing in the distance. He grunted,


rolled over in his bed and pulled a scratchy woolen blanket over his head. This

muffled the sound, but the horrible horn-blower seemed determined to torment him,


and continued blasting away.


‘Bugger off!’ Mowgrog growled, curling up into a ball and squeezing his eyes

tightly shut, but it was no good – he was now awake.


‘Bastard!’ Mowgrog cursed through gritted teeth. ‘Horn-blowing bastard!’


The last thing Mowgrog wanted was to be conscious. Consciousness meant that the


pounding headache he usually didn’t feel until sunrise had a chance to assault him

now – in the middle of the night. Consciousness meant he could feel how full his


bladder was – a knowledge that carried with it an onerous obligation to actually do


something about it. Above all, consciousness meant memories … and memories were


less welcome than plague rats in Mowgrog’s ramshackle excuse for a shack.

The furious dwarf took out his frustration on the blankets – kicking the


unsuspecting coverings off himself in a sudden fit of wild violence.


‘Bastard! Bloody bloody bastard!’


He set his large hairy feet upon the wooden floor and stood up. He waited patiently

for the room to finish its annoying habit of spinning crazily whenever he stood, then


he shuffled forward, feeling his way in the darkness like a blind dwarf.

Mowgrog’s headache had leapt at the chance to kick-in early and was already


bashing merrily away at the insides of his eyeballs with little war hammers. Luckily,

his kitchen bench was almost completely covered with restorative fluids in large glass


bottles. After knocking a few of these over and hurling an empty one into the corner


of his shack, he finally came across a full bottle.


‘There you are,’ he said affectionately, before he raised the bottle to his lips and

drank.


The ale was warm, stale and flat, but Mowgrog chugged it down like a starving calf


at its mother’s teat.

When the bottle had been drained, he placed it on the bench, belched enormously


and struck out for the front door. All he needed to do now was take a piss, kill that


horn-blowing bastard, and go back to sleep again.


He emerged into his front yard and navigated his way by moonlight through waist-

high weeds and piles of rubbish, to his favourite pissing corner.


It was as Mowgrog stood there, groaning with relief and looking up at the stars, that


a very troubling thought began to push its way through the half-drunk, half-asleep


cloudiness of his mind…

That horn – that stupid annoying horn – it wasn’t just some arsehole dwarf


trumpeting away for a laugh; those were warning blasts coming from Longdale’s


watchtower.


‘You utter bastards!’ Mowgrog swore up at the stars and whatever half-witted gods

had created them. ‘I’m not going!’

He finished his business, tied up the drawstring on his baggy night pants and


stomped determinedly towards his front door. He even managed to wrap his fingers

around the handle before he turned and squinted back towards the town.


From his front yard, on the absolute outskirts of Longdale, Mowgrog could see


nothing out of the ordinary, but now that he was really focusing, he could faintly hear


some other noises. The unmistakable clang of swords falling upon shields resonated in

the far distance, shouts of fury and pain wended their way to his fleshy ears on the


night breeze, and high-pitched screams of terror cut through it all.


Mowgrog opened his front door and stepped into his shack. He was all-too familiar

with the sounds that were coming from the centre of Longdale and wasn’t in any


particular hurry to reacquaint himself with the sights that generally accompanied


them.


He stumbled back to the kitchen bench and groped around for another bottle of ale.

When he came across a full one, he found that his hands were shaking so badly he


could barely raise the damn thing to his mouth. Mowgrog stubbornly persevered and


managed to spill only half the contents down his chin and into his wild black beard as


he drank.

The horn continued to blow.


‘Bollocks!’ Mowgrog threw the empty bottle against a wall.


The shouts and screams were growing louder.


‘Hairy fucking balls of the Ancient Ones!’ Mowgrog turned and stormed back out

into his front yard. Halfway to the gap in the fence where his gate used to be, he


stopped dead. He swiveled on the spot, returned to his shack to retrieve his axe,

remembered that he’d sold it several weeks ago to pay for beer, and stormed back


outside again.

The skyline above the city of Longdale was now flushed with a faint red glow.


Mowgrog knew this sure-as-shit wasn’t the beginnings of a lovely sunrise – the city


lay to the west of him. Nope, that was fire … a lot of fire.


‘Perfect!’ Mowgrog exclaimed to no one at all. ‘That’s bloody perfect.’

The inebriated dwarf set off down the narrow dirt path which led to a slightly wider


path, which led the outermost houses and streets of Longdale. He cursed as he walked,


cursed and wheezed. He hadn’t marched this briskly since leaving the army, and his

fitness levels were worse than those of a pregnant sow, his talent for cursing, however,


was still prolific.


‘Grog!’ A husky whisper from Mowgrog’s right interrupted a particularly creative


string of vulgarity.

‘Who’s that?’ he hissed back.


‘It’s me, Hemmeg.’


‘Hemmeg, go inside!’ Mowgrog said, squinting at the single lantern which was


bobbing its way towards him from the front of the old dwarven woman’s house.

‘There’s some kind of trouble happening in town!’


‘Oh, is there, Grog?’ Hemmeg’s raspy voice was coated thickly with sarcasm. ‘And


here was me thinking the watchtower horn and all that screaming was nothing to


worry about.’

‘Alright, fine, you’ve heard it,’ said Grog. ‘So, what are you doing out here?’

‘What are you doing is more the question?’ Hemmeg said as she held the lantern up


to his face.

Grog recoiled from the blinding light. ‘Thrandür’s tits woman! Put that that thing


down!’


Hemmeg lowered the lantern to her side. It threw an unflattering combination of


light and shadow on her wrinkled old face. ‘So, where are you going?’

‘Well, I’m…’ Grog trailed off, gesturing weakly down the road. ‘I’m going to


help.’


The darkness didn’t hide how vigorously Hemmeg’s eyes rolled beneath her bushy

brows. ‘Help?’ she scoffed. ‘You’re drunk off your noggin, you fat fool. You were at


the Goblin’s Head from open till close today.’


‘So were you,’ Grog protested.


‘Yeah, but I’m not lurching down the street in nothing but a pair of grotty

underpants trying to be a hero.’


Grog looked down, but was unable to confirm or deny the state of his


undergarments because his prodigious – and admittedly naked – stomach got in the


way.

‘And how do you plan on helping?’ Hemmeg continued. ‘I’m not a great ex-general


like you, but that’s the sound of steel-on-steel if I’m not mistaken. What were you


planning on fighting with? Your bad breath?’


The ridiculousness of Grog’s semi-naked, unarmed stroll into town crystalized into

embarrassment – which was further exaggerated when he looked around and saw that


a few other dwarves had emerged from their houses to observe Hemmeg telling him

off. At least eight dwarves were now standing in their doorways with candles or


lanterns in their hands and terrified expressions on their faces.

The watchtower horn – which had been blaring away the entire time – suddenly


died mid-blast. Hope flared in Grog’s chest that this signaled the end of the


mysterious disturbance, but that hope was snuffed out almost instantly, as the sounds


of battle rushed in to fill the sonic void – seeming suddenly to grow louder … and

closer.


‘We need to go!’ Hemmeg shouted to the gathering crowd of dwarves. ‘Come on,


Grog, you ale-soaked sausage, let’s make for the woods.’

‘You mean run away?’ Grog asked.


‘Of course run away,’ Hemmeg said, ‘let me grab some things and we’ll go.’


‘No!’ The anger in Grog’s shout clearly startled Hemmeg, but it startled Grog even


more. ‘I mean … I can’t, but you should.’

Hemmeg sighed and gave Grog a slow nod, ‘I understand. Just wait here a moment


then.’ She turned and tottered back towards her house. ‘I need to give you something,’


she said over her shoulder.


Grog waited, trying to avoid the stares of curious children standing in doorways

while the silhouettes of their parents could be seen through candle-lit windows,


frantically grabbing meagre possessions.


‘Here!’ Hemmeg came bustling back down her garden path. She had her lantern in


one hand, a large battle axe in the other and a steel helm perched atop her head.

‘These belonged to my Davig. I’ve kept them all these years.’ She passed over the axe

almost reluctantly, then squished the helm down over Grog’s mass of wild black hair,


pressing the nose guard painfully against the bridge of his nose.

‘Thanks, Hemmeg,’ Grog muttered, ‘I’ll take good care of them.’


‘Aye, you’d better,’ Hemmeg said, ‘and while you’re at it, you can take good care


of yourself too you silly fat bastard.’ She gave him an affectionate pat on the stomach


then headed back to her house.

Grog adjusted the uncomfortable helmet, gripped the battle axe with both hands


and continued on up the street.

- CHAPTER 2 -



The Rusty Axe






Two sounds grew louder as Grog jogged towards the centre of Longdale; the clang of


weapons hitting shields and the rasping rattle of his own laboured breathing. Grog

genuinely wondered what was more likely to kill him first – the blade of some


unknown assailant, or a sudden explosive heart attack?


Despite the pain in his body and the fear in his mind, Grog was still finding plenty

of space in his brain for a sudden bout of serious self-loathing. Since leaving the army


just over a year ago he’d willfully let himself get completely out of shape, but he


hadn’t realised just how bad things had gotten until tonight. The battle axe felt heavy


in his once-mighty arms, his stomach bounced and flopped embarrassingly, and sweat

gushed from what seemed like every pore. It was as though Grog’s bodily fluids knew


the fate that was about to befall him, and were making good their escape before they


were dragged into any further foolishness.


He was deciding whether to stop for a quick vomit before he reached the fighting,

when a young dwarven woman cornered the houses at the end of the street and came


running towards him.


She was clutching a toddler in her arms and shouting wildly. Grog couldn’t make


out her words over his wheezing breath, the sounds of nearby fighting and the blood

pounding in his ears, but he was sure it wasn’t a cheerful greeting.

He placed the head of the battle axe on the cobbles, leaned heavily on the haft and


took a couple of deep breaths. As the woman drew close, he held up a hand up in a

halting gesture. ‘Lass,’ He gasped. ‘What’s happening?’


‘Run you chubby bastard!’ she yelled.



‘Hey, I’m here to….’ Grog turned and watched as the woman ran past him and

disappeared into the darkness, ‘…to help.’


Pretty bloody rude, Grog thought to himself as he turned back towards the centre of


town … but then the woman’s pursuers came tearing around the corner, and he


immediately wished he’d taken her wise and excellent advice.


They were dwarves … sort of. They were the same height and build as dwarves,

but most dwarves Grog knew didn’t have glowing purple eyes or pale ashen skin, nor


did they growl and gurgle madly like a pack of rabid dogs. These ones did. They also


carried a variety of clubs, spears and maces, and were headed straight for him.

Grog felt like he’d been dropped into a frozen lake. His muscles contracted and his


breath caught in his lungs. The creatures that had decimated his army during the War


of Endless Fog and plagued his nightmares for the last fourteen months were no


longer confined to mist-filled valleys deep in the mountains, or even to his own

tormented memories; they were here – deep inside the thirteen realms– and this time


…there was nowhere to run.


‘You bastards,’ Grog whispered, tightening his trembling fingers around the haft of


his axe.

‘You utter bastards!’ he shouted as the abominations slowed and formed a semi-


circle around him.

There were six of them. They snarled as they closed in.


‘Come on then!’ Grog lifted his axe and set his feet.

The ghoulish dwarves charged.


Grog spun, his axe cleaving the air in a wide circle. It kept his attackers at bay for a


moment, but then one of them thrust forward with an obsidian-tipped spear. Grog


threw himself sideways, hitting the cobblestones hard. As he rolled to his feet, a bone

club caught him a glancing blow across the back of his shoulder.


Roaring with rage and pain, Grog lashed out with his axe. It was a wild strike


which missed his assailant by a mile. It also left him wide open to the particularly-

nasty looking spiked mace which was being swung at his ribcage by a dwarf with


deep bloodless gashes across its unliving face.


Grog threw himself to the street again, this time dropping his axe in the process and


also failing to completely avoid the blow. The spikes of the mace tore across the side

of his buttock as he fell, gouging channels of agony into his unprotected flesh.


He rolled away from a stabbing spear, looking desperately for his weapon, but the


hideous dwarves advanced on him and he was forced to scramble backwards like a


wounded shell-less crab across the cold cobblestones.

It’ll be over soon, Grog thought, as he backed into the side of a house. I’m ready to


go.


The evil dwarves raised their weapons. Grog had time to feel ashamed that after all


he’d done, and all he’d once been … these were his final thoughts.

He closed his eyes.

A brief chorus of high-pitched whining noises sang in his ears, followed by a series


of wet crunching sounds … followed by the clatter of weapons hitting the ground in

front of him and six dwarf-sized thuds.


Grog opened his eyes. The abominations were all lying face-down on the road with


arrows protruding from the backs of their necks. A squad of Longdale guards were


running towards him with bows in their hands.

‘You alright?’ their leader asked, holding out a hand towards Grog.


‘I’ve been better,’ Grog said, reaching up and grasping the extended hand.


With a grunt of considerable effort, the dwarf hauled Grog to his feet. He was an

imposing figure, with a thick black beard, war paint covering half his face and a


jagged scar cutting across his milky-white left eye.


‘You’re a King’s Guard,’ Grog blurted.


‘I am,’ said the scar-faced dwarf, ‘and you’re a lucky bastard. Are you injured?’

‘Caught me right on the arse!’ Grog said, twisting and shoving his gut out of the


way as he tried to inspect his right buttock.


The King’s Guard sucked in a sharp breath. ‘Ooow, that’s going to leave a lovely


scar.’

‘And on my finest feature too,’ Grog said, gingerly touching a finger to the wound.


It came away covered in blood.


‘Anyway, friend, hop out the way while we deal with this lot,’ the King’s Guard


gestured towards the six bodies on the ground.

‘I’d say you’ve already dealt with them,’ said Grog.


The King’s Guard shook his head. ‘Nope, afraid not. Look.’

Grog turned, looked and was horrified to see the fiendish dwarf creatures beginning


to move. Most were slowly reaching back for the arrows stuck in their necks. One was

already clambering to its knees.


‘Hold this would you, pal,’ the King’s Guard held out his bow.


Grog grabbed it as the guards stepped past him, unclasping sturdy axes from their


belts. ‘You’ve got to take their heads off,’ the King’s Guard explained matter-of-

factly.


While the scar-faced dwarf and his squad hacked away, Grog limped over to


retrieve Hemmeg’s battle axe. Take off their heads, Grog thought, trying to fight down

the waves of shame and regret rising up from his guts. We never even knew…


‘Alight dwarves,’ the king’s guard shouted, ‘let’s keep going.’


‘Where are you headed?’ Grog asked.


‘We’re to take news of this attack to the High King.’ The King’s Guard looked

almost longingly back towards the centre of the town, where flames were leaping into


the night sky. ‘We wanted to stay but … Guard Commander’s orders.’


‘Ancient Ones go with you then,’ Grog said. ‘I’ll…’ he gestured towards the


sounds of battle that emanated from just a few streets over, ‘I’ll do what I can.’

‘Don’t be stupid,’ said a female guard with a large gold septum ring protruding


from her nostrils. ‘You smell like a brewery, and that’s not just a scratch on your arse.


You’re in no state to fight, big guy. You’ll just get yourself killed.’


‘Pixidus is right,’ the King’s Guard said, sheathing his axe. ‘Try and get clear of the

city. Maybe find a place to hide.’


‘I’m not running away. I’m never…’ Grog trailed off. ‘I’ll be alright.’

There was a look of extreme doubt on the face of the King’s Guard as he looked


Grog up and down, then he shrugged. ‘Suit yourself, mate, we don’t have time to

argue. Let’s move out!’


‘What’s your name?’ Grog asked, as he handed the bow back to the King’s Guard,


‘I need to know the name of the dwarf that saved my life.’


‘Coppermantle,’ the scar-faced dwarf said, clasping Grog’s forearm with an iron

grip, ‘Duristral Coppermantle.’ Then he turned and jogged off down the street.


Grog watched them go, then he lifted Hemmeg’s axe and tried giving it an


exploratory swing. As he’d suspected, his left shoulder protested with a surge of pain

from where the bone club had hit him. The battle axe was no longer an option. On the


bright side, the agony in his shoulder briefly made him forget about the searing fire in


his buttock.


He limped over to the headless corpses, averting his gaze as best he could, while

looking around for a weapon.


‘You,’ he said to the spiked mace which had injured his bottom, ‘I’ll take you.’


He leaned Hemmeg’s axe against the wall of a house and picked up the mace. He


gave it a swing with his good arm. ‘I’m calling you arse-ripper,’ he said to the

weapon, then he rested its handle comfortably across his good shoulder, adjusted his


steel helm and began limping towards the sounds of battle.

- CHAPTER 3 -



The Town Square






It was clear to Grog that the worst of the bloodshed and chaos was taking place in and


around Longdale’s large town square. This seemed to be the epicentre of the fires that

were spreading throughout the town, and it was definitely where most of the horribly


ominous noises were coming from.


He approached the square from a dark laneway and – in what he felt was his first

sensible decision of the evening – he didn’t go charging straight out into the centre of


the square with arse-ripper raised over his head, but stayed flattened against the


smooth stone wall of the town’s central post office and peered around the corner of


the building.

It became immediately evident that things were not going well for the dwarves of


Longdale. At least fifty of the ghastly undead dwarves were gathered in the square –


their hideous faces illuminated by the flames which leapt from dozens of burning


buildings. Some of these dwarves were continuing to set buildings aflame, some were

hurling spears and throwing axes at the few brave defenders who remained, perched


on rooftops and firing arrows into the howling mob, but most of the undead dwarves


were gathered in front of the town hall and were bashing upon its mighty doors with


maces, clubs and fists.

Grog could hear screams coming from inside the hall. Even above the roaring of


the flames and the guttural snarling of the undead, these high-pitched wails of terror


cut through the cacophony and knifed into his guts like shards of ice, for these were

the screams of children, and if the only help coming was a fat, drunk, injured fool like


Grog, then these little ones were as good as dead.

Grog cast his eyes around the square, searching desperately for a solution. What he


saw instead were the scattered bodies of town guards and other unfortunate dwarves


sprawled on the bloodied cobblestones. He also saw a dwarf in a black hooded cloak,


stooped over one of the corpses furthest from the town hall. The hooded dwarf was

moving the glowing amethyst head of a staff back and forth over the inert body.


No. Not inert…


The dead dwarf was rising, its head and shoulders lifting off the ground as though

pulled by invisible hooks.


Grog pressed a fist against his mouth and fought down the hot bile that surged up


his throat as the reanimated dwarf gained its feet and opened its eyes; even from


across the square, Grog could see them glowing with a sickly purple light. The

creature turned its head towards the town hall, paused for a long moment and then


staggered away to join the attack on the doomed families of Longdale.


The black-robed necromancer moved on to the next corpse. As soon as he’d knelt


down with his back to Grog and extended his staff over another body, Grog emerged

from the inky blackness of the lane.


He didn’t run. He didn’t bellow a war cry or issue an honorable challenge, he just


walked with brisk and even steps towards the robed figure. His bare feet made no


sound. He wore no armour to rattle or creak, he just walked with his jaw set and his

weapon slung over his shoulder.

Despite Grog’s stealth, the robed dwarf turned and looked up when Grog was just a


few paces away.

Perhaps it was some wizard’s sixth sense, that had alerted the evil dwarf to Grog’s


presence? Perhaps it had been Grog’s leaping shadow – painted across the


cobblestones by flickering flames? Whatever it was, the warning came too late for the


necromancer, who had just enough time to open his eyes in stunned surprise before

arse-ripper fell and caved his skull in.


‘There’ll be no more of that!’ Grog shouted, gesturing with arse-ripper towards the


fallen guard. ‘Now,’ Grog turned towards the town hall, ready to die at the hands of

the fifty fiends that were now doubtlessly aware of his existence, ‘who’s next?’


The undead dwarves didn’t answer. They didn’t raise their weapons or start


sprinting towards him. What they did do was collapse like boneless puppets cut from


their strings.

All of them.


‘Well,’ Grog looked down at arse-ripper, then back up at the mass of inanimate


bodies crumpled in front of the town hall, ‘that was fucking easy.’


Shouts of jubilation echoed in the far distance and, through the billowing smoke,

Grog could make out the shapes of dwarves standing on rooftops behind the town hall.


They were jumping up and down and cheering.


This doesn’t make up for anything, a voice in Grog’s head informed him. This was


nothing.

The bastard voice in Grog’s head wasn’t quite enough to ruin the moment all by


itself, but it soon had help from another sound – one that was external and coming

from the opposite side of the square, one that had previously been drowned out by the


gurgling and groaning of the undead abominations, but now grew louder with each

passing moment. It was the sound of boots on cobblestones.


Lots of boots.


Grog turned and immediately realised just how right the bastard voice in his head


had been. His efforts had amounted to nothing. Everyone in Longdale was still going

to die.


Scores of grim-looking dwarves were marching towards the square. Not glowing-


eyed undead, but dwarves – real, living, armoured and cloaked, armed to the teeth,

murderous-looking, scary-as-fuck dwarves.


Grog began backing away. The surge of hatred and fury which had overwhelmed


him and driven him out of his hiding place in the alley was subsiding. Now his


survival instincts were being given a chance to have a say, and they were telling him

to put as much distance as dwarvenly possible between himself and the small army


that was bearing down on him.


‘No!’ he shouted aloud at no one in-particular. His cowardly legs stopped retreating


and – as ridiculously futile as it was – he settled into a fighting stance, spat in the

general direction of the advancing dwarves and gave arse-ripper a satisfying little


flourish.


Then something happened that made Grog wish he’d just charged straight into the


mob of advancing dwarves and died quickly. At least then he wouldn’t have seen a

few of the advancing dwarves enter the square and break away from the main group.

He wouldn’t have seen them raise their purple-headed staffs and point them at the


mass of bodies sprawled in front of the town hall.

He wouldn’t have seen every last one of those bodies begin to twitch, spasm … and


rise again.


‘Now that,’ Grog muttered, almost dropping his weapon, ‘is some bullshit.’


‘Time to die, surface scum!’ These words were shouted by the dwarf leading the

attackers into the square. He had an obsidian helm perched atop his bald head and a


trio of jagged scars raked across his malevolent face. ‘But do not despair, for soon you


will rise again and join us.’ The evil dwarf grinned.

‘Or,’ Grog countered, ‘perhaps we could just sit down and talk this all out over a


pint?’


The scarred dwarf’s smile widened as he raised a commanding hand and pointed at


Grog.

I have to keep him talking, Grog thought, trying not to let his eyes flick to what


he’d just seen in the street behind the evil dwarves. Keep their attention on me. ‘Well,


if you kill me now,’ he blustered, ‘you’ll never find out where all the gold is hidden!’


Four dwarves in black leather armour advanced on Grog with maces and clubs at

the ready.


‘You think we’re here for gold?’ the dwarf scoffed.


‘Well why the fuck are you here?’ Grog shouted, trying to drown out the sound of


more dwarven boots hammering on cobblestones.’ What do you want?’

‘Revenge!’ the dwarf hissed, ‘nothing more, nothing less; just revenge.’

‘You want revenge?’ Grog roared. ‘Well, that makes two of us pal!’ He raised arse-


ripper above his head and roared as long and loud as he could.

It did the trick.


The dwarves in black leather hesitated, just for a moment, and in that moment one


of the most fearsome warriors Grog had ever known exploded out of the dark street


behind the cluster of evil dwarves.

His name was Brotun Gruntlog. His face was covered in the white full-moon war


paint which marked the finest warriors of the thirteen realms, his beard and cloak were


already splattered with blood, and in his hands was a Direforge sword – one of the

most singularly devastating weapons ever devised by dwarvenkind.


The evil dwarf closest to Brotun was given the privilege of a close-up – albeit brief


– look at the legendary blade as it cleaved him in half at the waist – slicing through his


leather armour as though it was water.

A robed dwarf suffered a similar fate on the backswing.


More dwarves were rushing down the street behind Brotun.


Shouts broke out amongst the invaders. The four brutes bearing down on Grog


turned to see what was happening.

Two years ago, he could have killed them all before they’d known what had hit


them, but the lunging strike he now aimed at the nearest target was slow and clumsy.


The leather-clad dwarf turned in time to dodge the attack. He then kicked Grog in


the stomach, punched him in the face, and swung his weapon.

Grog cleverly blocked the blow … with his head.

There was an unholy clang as the enemy’s mace caught Grog on the side of his


steel helm, then the world tilted sideways and grey cobblestones came rushing up to

meet him as Grog plunged down.


Down.


Down.


Into total darkness and painless oblivion.

- CHAPTER 4 -



A Pal with a Pipe






When it came to headaches, Grog was an experienced connoisseur; in fact, he’d


woken up with some kind of headache almost every morning since quitting the army

and hitting the bottle. He’d had dull headaches and throbbing headaches, headaches


that sat behind his eyes and ones which dug into the back of his cranium, ones that


went away when he drank … and ones which didn’t. Grog had long-believed that he’d

experienced every sort of headache a dwarf could feel. This belief evaporated when he


regained consciousness in a dim unfamiliar room and felt like the sharp side of an


invisible axe was being pressed into the side of his skull by an invisible mountain


giant.

‘Oh gods,’ he groaned, as morning sunlight snuck in through the slits of his barely-


opened eyes and stabbed him in the brain


‘Oh shit!’ he moaned as the ruthless non-existent giant shoved the invisible axe


through the bandages that enveloped Grog’s noggin.

‘Take it slow, Grog,’ a vaguely familiar voice said from somewhere nearby, ‘no


sudden movements.’


Grog wanted to tell whoever this stupid dwarf was, that he couldn’t have made a


sudden movement for all the ale in the thirteen realms, but all he managed was a pitiful

moan.


‘You’re one lucky dwarf, Ironheart,’ the deep voice said. ‘If I’d arrived one


moment later, you’d have been a goner.’

Being a goner sounded far preferable to the torture Grog was currently enduring.


Apart from his headache – which was almost all-consuming – his left shoulder hurt

and a searing hot pain sliced across his right buttock.


Why? Why did his bum hurt so much?


Grog tried to remember.


‘Invaders!’ he cried, as images of undead dwarves and memories of battle flooded

his mind.


He sat up abruptly. He had time to notice that he was seated on a low cot in a small


room and that there were no evil dwarves in sight, then he leaned over the edge of the

bed and vomited onto the straw-covered floor.


‘What did I say about sudden movements?’ chided the smart-arsed voice.


‘Piss off,’ Grog said, spitting on the floor, wiping his beard with the back of a


ragged sleeve and gingerly lowering himself back down onto the bed.

His headache was now even worse.


‘Well, if you’re going to be rude, I won’t let you have any of this...’


Despite the extra pain he knew it would cause him, Grog opened his eyes a fraction


and tried to locate the source of the voice.

A small spot of red blossomed in a shadowy corner. Grog focused on it, and the


spot resolved into the hot glowing chamber of a long walnut pipe. The owner of the


pipe exhaled a languid cloud of smoke, and through that cloud, Grog made out a pair


of onyx eyes set in a white-painted face.

‘Brotun?’


‘Welcome back, old friend. I was worried about you.’

‘Is that nesin weed?’ Grog asked hopefully.


‘It is.’ Brotun stood up, walked across the room and held out the smouldering pipe.

‘I expect you’d appreciate a bit?’


‘You’re a fucking paragon,’ Grog said, taking the pipe and turning its mouthpiece


towards his lips.


‘Go easy on it,’ Brotun said. ‘That’s from the town healer’s physic garden;

medicinal grade – very strong.’


Go easy my arse, Grog thought, as he sucked mightily on the lip of the pipe. He


filled his lungs with smoke, held it there a moment, then exhaled with a long blissful

sigh. ‘Oh, that’s the stuff,’ he said as his hands and face began to tingle, and a warm


pleasant melting feeling crept through his arms and legs.


‘It certainly does the job,’ Brotun agreed, his voice strangely rueful.


Grog looked up. With the nesin weed already numbing his headache, he was able to

open his eyes more than a crack and saw for the first time that beneath his moss-green


cape, Brotun’s left arm was supported in a sling and heavily bandaged.


‘Hog’s balls, Brotun! What happened to you?’


‘Same thing that happened to you, except I wasn’t lucky enough to take the blow to

my head and spend the rest of the fight snoozing peacefully.’


A small wave of embarrassment washed over Grog. He lowered his eyes and


suddenly became very interested in the walnut pipe. He took another pull while


Brotun continued speaking.

‘I took the heavy end of a particularly nasty mace right here,’ the old Lore Keeper


patted the bandages over his tricep. ‘Shattered the bone, pulverized the muscle.’

Grog kept his eyes downcast as smoke billowed out of his nostrils. ‘I’m sorry I


wasn’t more helpful. I…’ He shook his head. ‘I’m not the dwarf I once was.’

‘You’ve certainly changed since I saw you last,’ Brotun said.


‘That’s a nice way of saying I’ve turned into a fat bastard,’ Grog took a final hit


from the pipe and offered it back to Brotun.


‘Aye, you’ve gotten fat,’ Brotun took the pipe and wiped the lip clean with a white

handkerchief, ‘but that’s not the change I mean.’


‘Well, I’ve got a few more grays in my beard and –’


‘You know I’m not talking about your beard, Mowgrog.’

‘Well who gives a rat’s rectum about me anyway,’ Grog said, rolling his virtually


pain-free head around on his now strangely elastic-feeling neck. ‘Tell me what


happened last night. Tell me every single detail. What are those things, Brotun?


Where did they come from? You know they’re the same things that attacked us in the

fog!’


‘We thought as much,’ Brotun said, taking a thoughtful puff on his pipe, ‘they


certainly fit the descriptions given by all the survivors from the Battle of Algan’s


Pass.’

‘It was no battle.’


‘As for what they are,’ Brotun continued, ignoring Grog’s interjection, ‘and where


they come from – that’s something we’re hoping to ascertain in the very near future.


We have prisoners, although it’s proving rather difficult to loosen their tongues.’

‘And where did you come from?’ Grog asked, as more and more questions bubbled


up in his mind. ‘What the shit were you doing in Longdale last night? And how did

we win? We were outnumbered twenty to one.’


‘I was here for the Telling,’ Brotun said, his voice laced with disapproval. ‘You


know, dwarves travel from all across the thirteen realms to celebrate our story, but you


– not only did you not bother to haul your arse up to the Hall of Legends for this

sacred ritual, but you didn’t even know it was taking place.’


‘Alright, sorry, I forgot about the Telling, but I’m here now, so maybe you could


tell me a little story about what happened last night?’

‘Do you think you could walk now?’


‘Maybe,’ Grog stretched his hairy legs and felt no twangs of pain, ‘but I’m pretty


comfortable. Why don’t you pull up that stool and tell me what happened?’


‘Because it reeks of chunder in here you great pillock. Is there something wrong

with that big red nose of yours?’


‘I thought the nesin smoke was sort of – covering it up,’ Grog said sheepishly.


‘No, Grog, it isn’t.’ Brotun walked to the door and pulled it open. ‘Come on, let’s


get some air.’

Grog wasn’t sure whether it was because of the town healer’s ultra-strong nesin


weed, or his nasty head injury, but standing up proved to be a formidable challenge.


As he sat on the edge of the bed, he was dismayed to see that both his feet had grown


to an enormous size and were rhythmically pulsing like a frog’s throat sac. Despite

their great size, however, he was unable to place them on the floor, since its straw-


covered surface kept impertinently moving further and further away from him.

‘What in the thirteen realms are you doing?’ Brotun asked.


Grog looked up to see his friend’s white face creased with frustration.

‘It’s the floor!’ Grog protested. ‘It keeps on moving. And my feet are…’ he trailed


off. ‘Oh, I think I might have had too much of that pipe.’


Brotun looked down at the pipe in his hand. ‘Ancient Ones, save me.’ He walked


over to Grog and grabbed him by the upper arm. ‘Come on you ridiculous dwarf.’

Grog was hauled to his feet and Brotun guided him across the room.


They emerged into a long, enclosed walkway which was also covered in straw, and


as Grog looked around, he realised where he was.

‘You put me in the stables? Like a common boar!’


‘Should we have left you half-naked and bleeding in the middle of the town


square?’


‘Yes.’ Grog said, haughtily pulling his arm free from Brotun’s guiding grip. ‘I’m a

very dignified dwarf, don’t you know?’ He walked toward the sunlight, trying to


ignore the fact that the straw all around him had made the odd and rather off-putting


decision to turn itself into a million little wriggling yellow worms.


Grog’s hope that he’d feel better once he was outdoors and away from the

immaturely behaving straw was dashed as he stepped out into the town square and


was faced with a scene of utter carnage. Collapsed buildings still smouldered on the


opposite side of the square. Grim-faced, soot-covered dwarves were picking through


the rubble and passing buckets along a line from a large water wagon. Other wagons

dotted the square, these ones were loaded with a far grislier cargo. Clouds of fat


mountain flies were already buzzing above them, and above the few remaining dwarf-

sized shapes that lay – covered by sacks and sheets on the cobbled ground. Thin


columns of smoke still rose from a number of places in the distance.

‘It wasn’t just Longdale.’ Brotun had come to stand beside Grog and was looking


around the square. ‘Riders arrived this morning from the south and from Hembrook in


the east. No word at all from the west…


‘I need a drink,’ Grog said. ‘Let’s go find some ale, then you can tell me how in the

netherworlds you managed to win this little dust up.


‘Lore Keeper!’ The shout came from Grog’s right and he looked over to see a


young dwarf wearing a clean grey jerkin striding towards them. ‘We’ve been looking

everywhere for you, sir. Burgomaster Adrig, requests the honour of your presence


immediately.’


Brotun glared at the young dwarf, took a long pull on his walnut pipe and exhaled


slowly. ‘Does he now?’

Grog enjoyed watching every ounce of pomp and self-importance drain from the


young messenger’s face, like spilled beer squeezed out of a tavern mop.


‘Well … yes, I’m sorry, but he does.’ The dwarf’s looked back and forth between


Brotun and Grog. ‘You see we’ve received word that the king is on his way here

and –’


‘The king?’ Brotun asked, taking a step towards the now-trembling dwarf.


‘Yes sir.’


‘Well why didn’t you say? Let’s go.’

The messenger took off across the square. Brotun followed, then turned around


when he realised that Grog hadn’t moved.

‘Come on, Mowgrog! What are you doing?’


‘I’m not going to see the bloody burgomaster,’ Grog said. ‘Look at the state of me.’

He indicated his ripped and filthy night pants, the shapeless brown tunic someone had


kindly put on him while he was unconscious and the bandages wrapped around his


skull. ‘I’m off home to bed, via the pub I reckon.’


‘Oh no you’re not,’ Brotun said, and his obsidian-dark eyes flashed with anger.

‘You’re coming with me. The kingdom needs you, Grog.’


‘It needs a fat, concussed old fool who’s off his head on nesin weed?’ Grog blurted.


‘That’s who it needs does it?’

‘No,’ Brotun closed the distance between them and reached out with his unbroken


arm. He grasped Grog’s shoulder with a strong hand and gave him a little shake. ‘No,


we need Mowgrog Ironheart – chosen champion of High King Oahn the Wise and


general of his armies.’

Grog looked down at the cobblestones and tried to keep the trembling out of his


voice. ‘Oahn’s gone, and the least wise thing he ever did was make me a general.’


‘Grog, no one blames you for –’


‘I said no, Brotun!’ Grog shook his shoulder free from the Lore Keeper’s grasp. ‘If

there’s fighting, I’ll be there, but I don’t want to talk to a Burgomaster or a king, I


don’t want to be part of any decisions. I don’t want to lead,’ he began storming across


the square, towards the road that would lead him to his home, ‘I just want to be left in


peace!’ he called over his shoulder.

‘I know what you want, Mowgrog,’ Brotun shouted after him, ‘and you won’t find


it in the bottom of a bottle.’

‘Wanna bet,’ Grog muttered under his breath as he passed a cart full of dead


bodies.

‘Redemption!’ Brotun’s shout echoed around the smokey square, causing many


dwarves to stop what they were doing and look up. ‘Come and find me when you’re


ready to seek it!’


You can take your redemption you white-faced bastard, Grog thought as, he entered

the welcoming shadows of a side alley, and you can shove it up your arse.