Tales of the Old World (31 page)

Grimcrag was still rumbling about “All that sixth senses nonsense!” and
snorting derisively to himself. He made no attempt at quietness, clattering
along in his trusty armour, the clanks and hangings interspersed with frequent
hearty belches. This disregard of any possible danger, to Johan’s way of
thinking, made something of a nonsense of the others’ theatrical movements.

“Let me tell you, young Anstein,” bellowed the dwarf, receiving a
recriminating stare from Jiriki and a muffled “Qviet!” from a nearby bush.
“There’s some senses what is ’stremely useful, and others,” the dwarf pointed at
Jiriki’s frozen form, “what isn’t.” Johan noticed that for all his brevity, the
second part of Grimcrag’s utterance was little more than a whisper. The dwarf
belched, shrugging apologetically. “Pardon me, lad, sea monster. Always repeats
something awful, in my ’sperience.” The dwarf pushed his warhelm back and
scratched vigorously at his grizzled scalp. “Hot, innit?”

Johan nodded, peering cautiously into the gloomy canopy on either side.
Everywhere, things were moving; unseen things that flapped, or scrabbled, or
crawled, or just made atonal cooing noises in the distance. Sword drawn, the
envoy felt decidedly uncomfortable as they made their way down the beaten track.
He didn’t want to go first, as that way lay almost certain first contact with
them, and he didn’t want to go last, as that way he was almost certain to be
picked off without anyone else noticing. In actual fact, he didn’t much like the
idea of being on the track at all, as it was such an obvious place to set a trap
(even the words trap and track were strangely similar), and the very thought of
plunging off into the forest, as Keanu had, filled the young man with queasy
unease.

“Anyhow,” Grimcrag carried on, waving his axe vaguely at the vegetation,
“what’s the use of being able to creep about in the jungle?” Johan was about to
enter a plea on behalf of forest lore, tracking, hunting and so on, but Grimcrag
was in full flow. “No, heightened and truly useful senses relate to real things,
things you can touch…” The dwarf’s voice tailed off, and Johan had a pretty good
idea what he was contemplating, and it wasn’t dusky maidens from Araby.

“Such as… gold?” He ventured, prodding Grimcrag from his reverie.

“Well, I s’pose that’s as good an example as any,” Grimcrag whispered
hoarsely. “My senses can detect gold—and beer too, for that matter—from a
distance of…” The dwarf stopped in his tracks and frowned.

Johan looked puzzled. Surely Grimcrag was not about to be overcome by a fit
of honesty regarding his claims? Looking over his shoulder at the dwarf, Johan
almost bumped into Jiriki. The elf had stopped dead still, managing to meld
almost invisibly into the background. Only his bright red jerkin gave him away,
and the best the elf could manage under the circumstances was to vanish to the
extent that it looked as though someone had left their shirt out to dry on the
bole of a tree. Of Keanu there was no sign.

Over his shoulder, Johan could see Grimcrag standing still as stone, eyes
closed, nostrils dilated as he sniffed the leaden air. Sending darting glances
all around in search of trouble, all Johan saw was further evidence of paradise.
Yellow-white shards of sunlight flashed through the greenery, catching the heavy
moisture in the laden air like glittering gemstones. Nearby, unseen, a stream
trickled and gurgled seductively. A multi-coloured bird with huge wings sang
sweetly as it glided between treetops far overhead. Water trickled off the mound
of stark white skulls sitting by the bend in the pathway.

“Skulls?”

“A village!”

“Qviet, dammit!”

“BEER!”

The settlement appeared deserted—a collection of thatched mud huts, of
curiously familiar design, situated in the middle of a sun-drenched clearing.
Ringed by palm trees bearing coconuts as big as Johan’s head, the village
certainly looked idyllic. The tinkling burble of fresh, flowing water sounded
from behind the furthest hut, and the only other sounds came from the jungle.

Stepping around the pile of skulls, which on close inspection seemed to
belong to an assortment of creatures of all shapes and sizes, Johan peered at
the dwellings laid out before him. Squinting in the harsh sunlight, the tatters
of his sweat-soaked shirt sticking uncomfortably to his back, he stood stock
still and watched for any sign of movement.

Having wisely discarded his scarlet blouse, Jiriki was a shadow amongst
shadows. The last Johan had seen of him the elf had been somewhere to the left,
behind a cluster of wooden, shed-like buildings. That had been at least ten
minutes ago. Of Keanu there was no sign at all.

“Come on then, lad, no point in hanging about when there’s beer to be drunk,”
Grimcrag said cheerily. “Sides, there’s obviously no one at home.” With that,
the dwarf strode into the village, his heavy boots kicking up little dust motes
in the clearing. Somewhat more hesitantly, Johan followed in his footsteps.

In the centre of the duster of huts, a small and overgrown pyramid thrust
uncertainly towards the sky. Overhead, the palm trees which ringed the clearing
sent branches scurrying as if to try and close off the immodest gap carved in
the jungle canopy. Johan approached the structure for a closer look. He was
troubled by the red-brown stains which marked the age-worn stone. Nonetheless,
he tugged at the covering of lianas and vines, a twisted that of root and leaf
which conspired to convince the casual observer that this pyramid was, in fact,
simply a strangely shaped bush or tree. Undeterred, the envoy pressed on,
ripping and tugging at the tenacious growth. Johan had spotted something which
he thought be of considerable interest, and wasn’t to be put off easily.

So had Grimcrag, pulling aside a hastily thrown-together shield of palm
fronds from alongside of one of the buildings. What he saw positioned in the
cool dark of the side alley made the old dwarf gasp in surprise.

At that moment, a commotion on the far side of the clearing announced
Jiriki’s arrival, as the elf marched a captive lizard-creature into the
clearing.

“Writing on stone!”

“Gentlemen, we have a captive.”

“Beer!”

The three adventurers all exclaimed at the same time. Jiriki’s prisoner took
advantage of the confusion by trying to scuttle off to the safety of a pond on
the edge of the clearing. The elf hauled it back quickly with a tug on the rope
which he had tied around its stomach. The creature sank down onto its haunches
beside the elf, looking disconsolate. A long tongue shot out to grab a passing
fly, but after a moment the bizarre reptile-man sat still, blinking its big eyes
in the harsh sunlight.

“Not so fast, froggie. Stay where you are!” The elf tied the other end of the
rope around a sturdy post which supported one of the huts, then turned to the
others. “Now, what did you say?”

“Writing!” Johan shouted, scraping furiously at the pyramid.

“Beer!” Grimcrag exclaimed, gesturing at the unmistakable shape of a large
vat sitting in the cool shadows of the side alley. The dwarf had found a supply
of hollowed coconut shells that obviously served as mugs, and held one beneath a
cork bung on the side of the wooden vat. Removing the bung, the dwarf was
showered in a dark brown liquid. A hoppy smell filled the warm and humid air.
Filling the shell, he replaced the stopper, grinning happily.

“See, beer!” Grunsonn chuckled, downing the shell full in one capacious gulp.
“Good too, but maybe could have done with standing f’ra bit longer.”

“Never mind that, come and look at this lot!” Johan was beside himself. He
had climbed almost to the very top of the pyramid, where a large clump of vines
concealed some kind of ornate stonework.

The others walked over, Grimcrag slurping beer. The elf shook a warning
finger at the lizard thing, which had crawled into the shade offered by the
canopy of a nearby hut.

“Rik!” The creature gave a croaking burp, but made no attempt to untie
itself, apparently resigned to its fate.

“Did that thing call you ‘Rick’?” Grimcrag asked, throwing the empty
coconut shell away. The dwarf stood at the base of the pyramid, clenched fists
on hips, staring belligerently up at the young man atop the construction. Bits
of vine and moss floated down towards the dwarf. “Wotcha doing, Anstein? This
thing doesn’t look too safe!”

“Rik! LsssRik!” said the lizard.

“And you can shut up n’all.”

Jiriki was peering intently at the base of the pyramid, where Johan had
uncovered a patch of bare stone. Using a silk kerchief, the elf dusted some
smaller fragments away from the surface, peered for a moment, then stood back in
surprise. A clod of earth hit the elf on the head, but he made no indication of
noticing.

“How?” Jiriki began, brows furrowing in surprise and consternation. “What?”

“See, I told you, and that’s just the start!” Johan’s voice wavered with
excitement.

“LsssRIK! LSSSRIKK!” In the shelter of the hut, the lizard thing was getting
quite animated.

“Wot?” Grimcrag called, stomping over to where the elf stood mesmerised. The
dwarf peered at the stonework. “Wot is all the fuss ab-eh?” The dwarf stood as
if frozen, a thick and stubby finger repeatedly tracing a carved line in the
exposed stonework.

“RIKKRIKKRIKK!! LSSSRIKKK!”

“I… vill… Return…” whispered Grimcrag, reading the words inscribed on the
base of the pyramid. A large clump of vines descended upon him, and he looked
up, the spell broken. “Unh?” grunted the dwarf, dropping his axe in surprise.

Jiriki was staring, mouth open, pointing at the top of the structure with a
slender finger.

Johan Anstein, ex-Imperial envoy, was kneeling unmoving in front of the
statue he had revealed at the very pinnacle of the pyramid.

“I’ll be blowed!” declared the dwarf. “Looks like a statue of one of them
Norsey types.” He scratched his head, puzzled, leaving streaks of soil smeared
across his brow. “How’d that get ’ere then?”

Staring down at them from atop the small pyramid was the unmistakable form of
a Norseman.

“Actually,” Johan began, “don’t you think it looks a little like—”

A spear thumped into the ground inches from Jiriki’s boot, making the elf
jump in shocked surprise.

“LSSSRIK! LSSSRIK! LSSSRIK!” This time, the croak was a chorus of many
voices.

Very slowly, the Marauders turned round. They were completely surrounded by
perhaps a hundred angry and agitated lizard creatures, all wielding spears, bows
or blowpipes.

“Poisoned, like as not,” Grimcrag exclaimed, reaching for Old Slaughterer. A
cruelly barbed arrow shot into the sand, a mere hair’s breadth away from the
dwarf’s reaching fingers. He hurriedly snatched his hand back, and a glassy grin
crept over his face. For the first time in years, Grimcrag Grunsonn faced a
multitude of foes without his trusty axe in his hand. In his heart of hearts,
Grimcrag knew that this did nothing good for their odds of winning. It also made
him horribly embarrassed. Caught short, he flushed bright red.

The lizards advanced, hissing noisily and brandishing their impressively
sharp-looking weapons.

“Don’t worry, Grimcrag, I won’t tell anyone… even if this whole tragic mess
is your fault!” Jiriki whispered, nodding at the dwarf’s axe.

Their captive lizard nodded knowledgeably and burped almost to itself.
“S’Rikkitiz!”

Inexorably the Marauders were being forced up to the top of the pyramid,
where Johan stood swaying in the intense heat of the sun. Grimcrag could see his
axe at the base of the pyramid, apparently of little interest to the lizard
creatures which ringed the pyramid, gesturing with their spears and bows. Their
hissed chanting was all but deafening. The Marauders glanced nervously about
them, hoping to spy some way out of their hopeless predicament.

“A pretty pickle you’ve got us into, lad, and no mistake,” Grunsonn grumbled,
sitting down on the top step. “And us with no weapons ’n’all.”

Johan gasped in indignant surprise. “What do you mean, Grimcrag? It was you
who said the place was deserted. It was you that drank their beer.” The young
man pointed at the axe the dwarf clutched. “And what do you call that thing, a
toothpick?”

Grimcrag was clutching his spare axe, Orcflayer, in one scarred paw, but his
miserable countenance spoke volumes. “It’s not the same. Just don’t feel right.
It’s all in the runes, y’see.” The dwarf gestured vaguely with the deadly
looking axe at the throng of lizards before them. “If them things kill me while
I’m not using Ole Slaughterer, I’ll, I’ll…” His voice choked, and a tear crept
into the old dwarf’s eye. Grimcrag cast a shamefaced gaze at his boots. When he
spoke again, it was with a small and tremulous voice. “Well, I’ll just never
live it down.”

Jiriki slapped the dwarf on the back of his head, knocking his helm down over
his eyes. “Stop being so pathetic, Grunsonn; we’ve been through worse that this,
just.” The elf stood steely-eyed beside young Anstein, an arrow nocked in his
fine elven bow.

At that moment, their attention was drawn to a commotion on the edge of the
clearing. A huge lizardman, bigger than the others and bedecked in all manner of
feathers, bones and other dubious finery, strode towards the pyramid. The
creature had almost blue-black skin, and in one scaly clawed hand it wielded a
long staff. As the Marauders watched, lightning-blue flames glittered balefully
around its tip.

“Uh oh, they’ve got magic.” Johan manoeuvred himself behind the statue.

A crackling bolt of blue energy surged towards them, but even though it was
lying at the base of the pyramid, the potent runes on Old Slaughterer drew and
earthed the seething forces emanating from the shaman’s staff. After a moment,
the lizardman stopped trying to immolate the Marauders and stood nonplussed, its
head cocked on one side like a bird. It studied them intently for a minute or
so, then squawked something at its fawning retinue. They scuttled off and
returned moments later, bearing some heavy-duty nets. The Shaman nodded up at
the warriors, and licked its thin lips expectantly.