Tales of the Old World (43 page)

“Ahem!” The dwarf cleared his throat after a moment’s thought. “Johan, the
Finger if you please!”

All eyes were on the table as Johan Anstein, ex-Imperial envoy and latest
accidental addition to Grunsonn’s Marauders, unwrapped the prize for which they
had fought so hard.

The wizard gasped. Johan thought that they’d been tumbled. But no, the wizard
was enraptured by the burned and charred chicken leg that sat before him. “May I
take it?” he whispered, reaching out a scrawny hand. “Oh, it’s a beauty!”

Privately doubting his aesthetic judgement, the Marauders nevertheless nodded
in concert. The wizard was almost in their trap. So far so good.

Then, with a speedy move which they would not have dreamed of witnessing from
one so apparently old, the ancient wizard swept aloft the “Finger” and
simultaneously gave a loud and triumphantly sinister laugh.

“Mine, it is mine at last!” he roared, holding the chicken leg above his
head. As the Marauders looked on in shocked disbelief, the old sorcerer leapt
onto the table, scattering maps, charts and wizardly tomes onto the floor of the
tower. Discarding his grey robe with a dramatic flourish, the wizard was
revealed in a jet black gown, covered in unmistakably necromantic symbols.

“Vot?” Keanu began, backing away. It had taken enough beer to get the
Barbarian into the wizard’s tower in the first place, and seeing their patron
revealed as a foul necromancer did nothing for his nerves.

Fully aware that the evil wizard was wielding anything but a potent magical
item, Grimcrag and Jiriki remained seated, grinning to themselves. Johan, a
little unnerved, tried to follow their example, and managed an idiotic
teeth-clamping grimace.

With a face like thunder, the dark wizard looked down at them. He regarded
them balefully. “Idiots!” he hissed. “Now you see the truth!” Glancing at the
Finger, the sorcerer grinned wickedly. Snake-like eyes glittered in his long,
bony face.

“This,” he continued, “this is one of the long-lost fingers of the Dread
King, foul lieutenant of Nagash himself.” He capered in delight on the tabletop.
Johan recognised insanity when he saw it, and by anyone’s book this was a whole
chapter to itself.

“You doubt me?” shrieked the sorcerer, regarding their placid expressions.
“Why should I lie? I have searched for this for ages. I am old beyond my mortal
span, and now, with this, I gain ultimate power and immortality!” Spittle flew
from his foam-flecked lips as he ranted.

“Why didn’t you retrieve it yourself, old man?” Jiriki asked quietly. “You’ve
obviously known about it for years.”

The sorcerer threw back his head and cackled maniacally. “That’s the joke,
you see, that’s the joke.” Doubled up in laughter, tears rolled down his hollow
cheeks. Suddenly his squawking laughter stopped, and he stood straight,
regarding the warriors with a baleful glare. Pointing at Jiriki, he laughed
derisively. “Your kin, ages past, locked the claw away beyond my reach. Sealed
it so that none like me could enter the chamber. Guarded it with twelve mighty
elf lords for all eternity.” He spat on the floor to mark his disgust. “But I
waited. Oh yes, I was patient. I tracked the resting place of the Finger and I
plotted and planned. Many tried and failed whilst I brooded long in my tower.
Then you arrived and all was clear. I needed you as pawns to do my bidding, just
as my great undead armies will do!”

He studied the warriors as if they were mindless vermin, all but unworthy of
his gaze. “I needed you to go, unwitting, where I could not. You would
unknowingly breach the defences set up by your own kind, and retrieve that which
was rightfully mine.” The sorcerer laughed. “Your lot ever was to be lured by
greed and avarice.”

“And now?” Grimcrag asked, nodding for the others to stand up. “What happens
now?”

The sorcerer paused for a moment, head cocked to one side. “Ah yes, what
happens now…” He coughed to clear his throat, and solemnly adjusted his robe
about his scrawny body.

“Now I must kill you all. You have been a great help, and it is a great shame
of course, but really you have to die!” The wizard chuckled ruefully, and
brought the claw down to point at the Marauders. “Doubtless you will later join
my hordes of undeath which will march across the world, but now YOU—MUST—DIE!”

As he finished his speech, he closed his eyes, and portentously threw out his
arms, waving the claw at Grimcrag and the Marauders.

Despite knowing the impotence of the device, Johan found himself flinching.
He need not have worried.

The sorcerer opened his eyes and frowned, puzzled. The Marauders watched him,
transfixed by his performance. The wizard drew in a deep breath and tried the
ending again: “MUST… DIEEEEE!”

When this didn’t work, and he noticed the grins on the warriors’ faces, he
began to suspect that all was not well. Tapping the claw on the palm of his
other hand, he jumped off the table and quickly found himself backed up against
the turret wall. “Die…?” he whimpered feebly.

“We weren’t born yesterday, mate!” Grimcrag grunted. “Eh, Johan?” The
Marauders closed in on the pathetic, misguided and evil old man.

The white radiance faded and vanished as the great stone door slid into place
once more. This time around, the Marauders had taken the precaution of bringing
two other long-standing sorcerous acquaintances to supervise the resealing of
the runes protecting the vault, and to work out how the secret door could be
brought back into place. Then, and only then, could they really forget about the
whole affair.

There wasn’t much Johan could do except stand by with a torch and a sword.
Keanu was doing the same: torch to illuminate the others’ work, sword to deter
any would-be intruders. Johan was mightily relieved that no monsters of any
description had turned up yet. In contrast, the barbarian was staring intently
down the rough hewn passageway, and Johan was sure that the Reaver did not share
his sentiments.

The two wizards—one bald and portly with fiery red gown and ruddy cheeks,
the other tall and gaunt with flowing and sombre purple robes—stood back from
the doors to admire their handiwork. After a few minor runic readjustments, they
proclaimed their task completed.

Jiriki had already declared that the elf sigils were largely unbroken, and
should stand the test of another few thousand years without any strain.

Grimcrag had enquired, checking over the dwarf runes on the portal, if that
was really the best that could be expected from shoddy elf work? “Aha!” he
declared, stubby fingers probing the recesses around the stone-wrought door
frame. “I’ve found the catch to young Anstein’s secret portal.” As far as his
stout build would allow, Grimcrag pressed himself flat to the surface of the
door, and reached his hand into a dark crack at one side. His eyes were closed
to mere slits and his tongue protruded from between his compressed lips in
concentration.

“Votch for Skorpion, Grimcrak!” Keanu whispered, all too familiar with the
sorts of creatures to be found simply by probing one’s fingers into the myriad
small nooks and crannies to be found in any hostile dungeon.

“Thanks, musclehead, that’s just what I don’t need to hear!” grunted
Grimcrag. “This thing was built by dwarfs, so it must be set up to… ahhh,
that’ll do it!”

With a muted grating sound, a sheet of roughly surfaced rock began to slide
slowly down over the rune-encrusted doorway. In a few minutes the secret chamber
would be invisible to all but the keenest search. As they stood and watched the
monumental slab descend, they all heard the unmistakable sound of scrabbling
coming from within.

“Ee’s Voken up then,” the barbarian stated impassionately. “Looks that way,”
Grimcrag added.

A barely discernible voice reached them through the stone door, which was
already at least halfway covered by the descending slab. Grimcrag strode forward
and listened to catch the words.

“Don’t leave me here… The light it pains me so… My powers are nothing in
here… Please, I implore you!”

Grimcrag rapped on the stone door. “Hush now, you’ll wake ’em up—and I’ll
wager you don’t want that!”

The scrabbling redoubled, but was soon blocked out as the massive slab
slotted into its final resting place with a solid booming thud and a cloud of
dust.

When the air cleared, they were standing in a nondescript and gloomy passage
once more.

Grimcrag rubbed his hands together. “There now, a job well done.”

“Many thanks to you, Marius, Hollochi,” Jiriki added gracefully, bowing to
the two wizards.

“Least we could do after that nasty business with the Crown of Implacable
Woe,” replied the Bright wizard cheerily, whilst the Amethyst mage simply gave a
single, sombre inclination of his head.

“Ja, tanks a lot!” the Reaver added. “Now ve’re getting to da Alehaus.”

Without further ado, the party of adventurers set off towards daylight and a
well-earned tankard or two.

Grimcrag hung behind and walked alongside Johan, filling the latest addition
to the Marauders with pride. “Well, lad, it could’ve turned out worse,” the
dwarf stated. “At least we’ve done a good service to folk hereabouts.”

“Oh yes, Grimcrag, all-told a jolly successful quest, eh?” Johan agreed
happily.

“Well, I wouldn’t go that far. We’re not dead, and he—” Grimcrag cocked a
grubby thumb over his shoulder. “He’s locked up for good’n’all, but…” The dwarf
sighed sadly. “Not even a snifter of any gold.” His shoulders sagged as far as
his battered armour would allow.

Johan grinned and reached into his pack, retrieving a large bundle of keys.
They jangled comfortably.

“Oh I don’t know about that, Grimcrag. Whilst you lot were busy bundling him
up, I took the liberty of borrowing these.”

Recognising the keys, the dwarf’s jaw dropped in surprise. “I’ll be blowed!”
he exclaimed. Further up the passageway, heads turned to see what the commotion
was about.

Johan lifted up the keys and jangled them merrily above his head. “It’s a big
tower, I know, but somewhere there’s a heck of a lot of gold going begging—and
the way I see it, he still owes us for the job!”

Relieved and uproarious laughter filled the dingy tunnel. In a moment the
buoyant adventurers burst into song, Grimcrag leading and the others taking up
the refrain:

“Gold gold gold gold!

Gold gold gold gold!

Wonderful gold!

Delectable gold…”

As they marched along, Grimcrag patted Johan paternally on the shoulder. “Yer
one of us now, lad,” he said between verses. “Ain’t it grand when a brilliant
plan of mine comes together!”

If Sam Warble had anything which might be described as a philosophy of life,
it could best be summed up as “Don’t go looking for trouble.” Not that he had
any need to; trouble had a habit of looking for him, which, on the whole, he was
prepared to tolerate. Other people’s trouble tended to be lucrative, and his own
even more so. Like most halflings he had a strong affinity for life’s little
comforts, and prising him away from them was an expensive undertaking for anyone
wishing to engage his somewhat specialised services.

This evening, however, trouble seemed conspicuous by its absence. Sam was
settled comfortably in his favourite seat in Esmeralda’s Apron, a halfling-owned
tavern on the fringes of Marienburg’s elven quarter, quietly contemplating the
remains of a light seven-course supper, the most pressing matter on his mind the
one of whether to order a Bretonnian brandy or Kislevan aquavit to wash it down
with. The food in the Apron was widely renowned, so it wasn’t that uncommon to
see human customers squeezing themselves uncomfortably onto the halfling-sized
benches, but he was mildly surprised when one of them approached his table and
sat down opposite, staring at him morosely between a pair of knees clad in
crimson hose.

“Alfons. It’s been a while.” He nodded a cordial greeting, and gestured to
the serving maid who’d been hovering nearby, flirting with a party of customers
from the Kleinmoot. He might as well order the brandy, as it looked like someone
else would be paying. “Or am I supposed to call you Mineer de Wit now you’re an
alderman?” He looked thoughtful for a moment. “You’re a long way from the
Winkelmarkt, so I’m guessing this isn’t a social call.”

“I thought I might find you here,” the man confirmed, ordering a second
brandy for himself. He waited until it had arrived, and sipped appreciatively at
it before continuing. “I have a problem. One better discussed away from home.”

“I see.” Sam nodded thoughtfully, savouring his own drink. It was smooth and
fragrant, and knowing the proprietor of the Apron, undoubtedly smuggled into the
city to evade the excise duty. “So who’s blackmailing you?”

“What makes you say that?” de Wit asked, a little too casually, and Sam
nodded, his guess confirmed.

“You’re a politician. With a lot of goodwill in your home ward, after that
business with Luther van Groot, and that means influence.”

“Which in Marienburg meant the chance to make money; here in the
mercantile
capital of the Old World, wealth and power were almost synonymous. A little fish
tells me you’re in line for a seat in the Burgerhof too.”

“People say these things,” de Wit said, his air of modesty about as
convincing as a streetwalker’s protestations of virginity. Sam nodded again. The
Stadsraad, Marienburg’s parliament, was little more than a puppet show put on by
the cabal of merchant houses which really took all the policy decisions, but a
seat in the lower house would open up all kinds of valuable contacts to a man as
ambitious as de Wit.

“So I’m guessing someone wants their own slice of the pie, and thinks you’re
just the man to get it for them. With the right inducement, of course.”