Gotrek & Felix- the First Omnibus - William King
Page 94
Gotrek turned and glared at Felix. ‘It’s not about the money, manling,’ he rasped. The haft of his axe creaked as his grip tightened. Felix stepped back.
‘Gotrek, this–’ he began. Gotrek turned and stamped away, his fiery crest of hair marking his path as effectively as a shark’s fin. His massive hands, elbows and shoulders cleared his way through the crowd.
‘Is perhaps not the wisest course,’ Felix finished lamely. He looked down at the betting slip in his hand and shrugged. If the Slayer was determined to pit himself against the beast, there was little the poet could do to stop him.
They had been on their way to Bretonnia when the first stories of the so-called ‘King of the Gap’ had reached them. Beast-baiting, distasteful as it was, was quite common on both sides of the Gap and the long-evity of the beast in question was measured in days, if not hours.
The King of the Gap had survived for three years.
The hippogryph squalled again and leapt into the air, striking the net that kept it trapped. It was a magnificent beast, despite the chaotic amalgamation of equine, avian and feline qualities. Old scars covered its once-glossy coat and the vibrant crimson plumage was dulled by age and grime. It dropped low and drove a massive shoulder into the heavy boards that separated it from the stands, snarling and squawking.
Long hunting spears were jabbed through the boards, driving the beast back. It sank to the arena and galloped around the circumference, trumpeting a challenge. That cry was answered by the blast of a hunting horn as the wooden portcullis was raised and Gotrek stalked into the ring.
Hippogryph and Slayer eyed each other for a moment. Gotrek raised his axe. The beast broke into a gallop. Gotrek dodged to the side, far quicker than his heavy frame would seem to allow, as the hippogryph’s claws gouged the stone. A wing snapped out, nearly bowling the dwarf over. Gotrek’s axe chopped down, shaving a tuft of hair from the monster’s tail. A hoof shot out, catching Gotrek on the shoulder and Felix winced as he heard an audible ‘pop’. The crowd bayed.
Gotrek grabbed his dislocated shoulder and snapped it back into place with barely a glimmer of effort. The hard-faced guards who worked for the trading post began to look unhappy. The outcome wasn’t in doubt, but Felix wondered whether he and Gotrek would live to collect their winnings. The beast had made the owners of this trading post money for three years. They weren’t going to be happy when Gotrek butchered it. He loosened his sword in its sheath.
The hippogryph shrieked and spun, lunging for the Slayer. Again Gotrek ducked, throwing himself between its legs. He popped up behind it, and Felix tensed. This was it.
Except that it wasn’t.
Gotrek grabbed a handful of the hippogryph’s feathers and jerked himself up onto its back. It began to thrash and buck, screaming wildly. Gotrek clung tightly to it. The crowd didn’t seem to know what to make of it. Neither did Felix. His heart leapt into his throat when the hippogryph thrust itself into the air. Its wings beat like thunder as it rolled upwards. Gotrek held on with stoic determination.
The creature smashed itself into the nets and began to squall. Gotrek, trapped between the beast and the net, struggled to free his axe. The betting slip crumpled in Felix’s hand and his mouth was dry. Gotrek’s axe sprang free… and sliced through the net.
The crowd gave a collective moan as the hippogryph hurtled into the sky with a triumphant scream. Gotrek tumbled to the arena floor. Felix drew his sword and sliced through the boards separating it from the stands. He leapt down, rushing forwards as the Slayer struggled to his feet. The crowd was in chaos as the guards struggled to regain control, and a number of the latter were hurrying towards them, murder stamped on their faces. It looked like all bets were off.
‘Gotrek, what did you do?’ Felix said, as he and the dwarf faced the approaching guards.
‘We should all be free to seek our own doom, manling.’ Gotrek ran his thumb across his axe and squeezed a drop of blood from his thumb, flicking it at the approaching guards as he grinned wildly. ‘Now, let’s go help these fools with theirs, eh?’
KINEATER
Jordan Ellinger
An outraged shriek pierced the chill night air, and Felix looked up from where he sat by the caravan’s cook-fire. From the pitch of the shriek, he guessed it was Talia, and not her older sister. The two Kislevite women had been at each other’s throats since their carriage joined Zayed al Mahrak’s caravan in Skabrand.
Anya flung open the carriage door and stormed into the snow. Slim as a rail, and with none of the feminine curves Felix had come to associate with northern women since his time with Ulrika, Anya was only slightly less beautiful than Talia, who pursued with her hands outstretched almost into claws, her face twisted into a snarl.
Anya stomped away from her sister, then lost her footing on the icy ground and nearly fell. Picking herself up, she suddenly noticed the ring of drovers and guards who regarded her from around the fire, many cradling wooden bowls filled with an aromatic Arabyan stew. Most stared, but big Akmal – no stranger to the serving wenches and harlots of Pigbarter – hooted lewdly. Embarrassed, she straightened and assumed a regal pose only to be bowled over moments later by her sister.
‘This should be interesting,’ muttered Gotrek from where he sat next to Felix. Much to old Zayed’s distress, the dwarf had broached a half-keg of Pigbarter ale – a brew that the Slayer had pronounced weak but palatable – and was well on his way to finishing it.
It was good to see him take an interest in anything beyond the bottom of his stein, thought Felix. They had seen virtually no action since Zayed had hired ogre mercenaries as additional escorts in Skabrand, and Gotrek had fallen into something of a depression. Notorious places like Deathgate Pass and the Fallen City had passed without so much as a goblin raid, and the Slayer had begun to believe that the gods were conspiring against him. As much as Felix was embarrassed for the two Kislevite noblewomen who howled and scratched at each other like alley cats, he was glad to see his friend shake the cloud that had been hanging over him.
‘How dare you write that, you bitch,’ cried Talia, wrestling with her sister like a common street urchin. She gathered a double handful of snow from the ground nearby and mashed it into Anya’s face. ‘You daughter of a whore!’
‘She’s your mother too, you drunken fool,’ Anya sputtered. Sliding on the snow, she shoved her sister aside and then regained her footing.
Talia clumsily rolled to her feet, swaying slightly. Apparently, Felix mused, Gotrek was not the only one deep in his cups. The younger sister’s cheeks were as red as those of a brewmeister at the Festival of Sonnstill. She cursed richly in the Kislev language, then snatched up several wooden bowls from the food table and made as if to throw them.
Anya had come to her feet nearly as fast as Talia, but instead of shielding herself, she paled and simply stared open-mouthed at the mountainous shadow which loomed behind her sister.
Noting her surprise, Talia turned as well.
Vork Kineater, one of the few ogres that Felix could identify on sight, watched them from the shadows just beyond the firelight. A mountain of flesh nearly ten feet tall, he dwarfed a nearby caravan wagon. Thickly muscled arms bristling with coarse hairs were folded over his chest. A plate of crude metal the size of a man was secured to his torso by leather straps that girded his grossly distended belly. Kineater was apparently the leader of the ogre mercenaries, a position Felix suspected he’d earned through sheer bulk.
The brutes hadn’t been with the caravan long, and old Zayed had given them strict orders to camp well away from the wagons so that they would not be tempted by the thought of a midnight snack of horseflesh. That an ogre – their leader no less! – had approached this close was a dangerous sign.
Felix rose, his hand instinctively finding Karaghul in its sheath, and sent a quick prayer to Sigmar that the ogre had merely wandered into this area of the camp by mistake. He was about as willing to fight an ogre as he was to have a double helping of Zayed’s stew.
Talia darkened like a storm and screeched, upending the bubbling stew pot with a two-handed push. The effort unbalanced her and she stumbled backwards, hitting Kineater’s prodigious belly, and collapsed. She coughed once, and then retched all over the ogre’s sandaled foot.
Nearly every man present winced. No one made a sound.
Kineater backed away, a confused expression on his face. He lifted his foot and shook it, unable to see beyond his gut plate, but clearly feeling the warm vomit slide between his toes. Another of the mountainous creatures had come up behind him, and Kineater turned, pointing at his foot.
‘She shared food!’
Anya rushed to her sister’s aid. The ogre turned back towards them, leaning down with a snot-encrusted face, a string of saliva hanging from his grizzled jaw. To her credit, Anya stood steadfastly before him, supporting her sister with an arm around her waist. Her refusal to cower before him seemed to anger Kineater.
‘She shared food!’ he roared.
‘Enough!’ Gotrek snatched up his axe and stomped across the campfire until he was standing in front of the ogre. The dwarf was many times smaller than the huge brute, but a tattooed Slayer with axe in hand was intimidating enough to give an avalanche pause. ‘How can a dwarf drink with all this noise? You’re souring my ale!’
Felix sighed, then drew his sword and joined the Slayer. It was rare for Gotrek to display a sense of chivalry; rare enough that Felix suspected that the Slayer was merely using the women as an opportunity to test his mettle against an ogre. Of course, even if Gotrek defeated Kineater, the rest of his troops would seek revenge and the Slayer could not fight them all.
What a way to end an epic! Gotrek Gurnisson, slayer of daemons, killed by a hired ogre in the middle of nowhere. Of course, Felix wouldn’t have to worry about writing said epic, since he would probably suffer the same fate.
Kineater’s gaze darted between Talia and Gotrek. For a moment he tensed in readiness for combat, but seemed to think better of it. He struck the ground with his club, then turned and disappeared into the darkness with the rest of his band at his heels.
Felix let out an audible breath and lowered his blade. Around the Slayer, even mealtimes could be deadly. He looked over at the two sisters, but Anya was already halfway to her carriage, her sister’s arm draped around her shoulders. Some thanks, but Felix had to admit that, with the state Talia was in, it made sense for Anya to hustle her back to their carriage as soon as possible.
Gotrek glared at the retreating ogres, and spat on the ground in disgust. ‘Come, manling,’ he said, returning to his spot by the fire. ‘That ale won’t drink itself.’
Felix had difficulty sleeping that night. The possibility of dying in a pointless brawl had reminded him how far he really was from home. Gotrek was obsessed with driving ever eastwards and Felix was honour-bound to follow, but he had never once thought his quest might take him as far as the Kingdom of the Dragon. The thought of leaving the Empire behind, perhaps never to return, was disquieting.
Mannslieb rode high in the night sky, and the full moon provided adequate light for writing, so he rose from his cot and stepped into the cool night air with his journal tucked under one arm. He found a spot near the fire, now no more than glowing embers in a pile of ash, and nodded to Hansur, the dark-skinned man from southern Ind who’d drawn first watch. The rest of the guards slept under dark woollen blankets, as close to the fire as they could get, so Felix picked a spot near the edge of the circle to avoid disturbing them. He had just opened his precious vial of iron gall ink and sharpened his quill when a shadow fell across his page.
‘My thanks to you and the Slayer for standing up to Kineater,’ said Anya. She raised her voice and looked meaningfully at Hansur. ‘Especially when none of these dogs would.’
Hansur shrugged dismissively, then wandered off towards the rear of the camp, leaving them alone. A few of the men snored or turned in their sleep, but Felix was not surprised that, after a hard day’s slog, they did not awaken.
‘It was nothing,’ he replied. Indeed, Gotrek had been the one to intervene. Felix had merely covered the Slayer’s back, as he always did. On the other hand, none of it would have been necessary had Anya’s sister not gone berserk. ‘Your sister is quite… spirited.’
Anya made a sour face, then crossed her arms and looked towards the fire, though Felix got the impression she was staring at something far away.
‘Spirited is not the word for it, I’m afraid. She’s a real hellion. Some years ago, she fell from the balcony of our rooms at the Golden Horn. She had deep bruising around her temples and blood ran from her eyes and ears. My family’s doktors claimed that, though there was no sign of mutation, the Ruinous Powers had claimed her. Her behaviour, much the same as you saw tonight, seemed to bear out those suspicions.’
Anya shuddered and drew her shawl close around her shoulders. ‘I had heard of a small sect of Cathayan monks who were said to specialise in just such injuries as my sister suffered. Rather than give her up to damnation or the pyre, I volunteered to bring her to them. Perhaps they can help her to master whatever daemon possesses her, and my sister will be returned to me.’
Felix had experience with the doktors of Praag, when he and Gotrek had helped to defend the walls during the great siege. If they had failed to treat Talia, he saw little chance that Cathayan monks would succeed. Still, were he in Anya’s place he too might have grasped at straws.
‘Please, join me,’ he said with a polite smile. He dragged another log close by, anchored it in the snow and then brushed it off with his sleeve. ‘I don’t think we’ve been introduced. My name is Felix Jaeger.’
She held out a hand. It was a formal gesture, but the corners of her mouth curled into a smile.
‘Anya Nitikin.’
Felix’s eyes widened. ‘Nitikin? The Anya Nitikin? Author of Call of the South?’
‘The same.’
Felix rose quickly, embarrassed to find himself still seated. He had never expected to meet one of the finest writers in the Empire; though she was Kislevite, Anya Nitikin wrote in Reikspiel and not Kislevarin, and the people of the Empire had come to think of her as one of their own.
‘I’m sorry, I had no idea. We used to study your work in Altdorf. I thought–’
He stopped himself quickly.
‘…that I would be older?’ she said, completing his sentence. ‘I’ve heard that before.’ She tucked her dress under her legs and sat, then adjusted her pleats. ‘You used to study my work?’ she asked. ‘Are you a writer?’
‘A poet actually, though it’s been years since I’ve published.’ He realised he was still holding his quill, and blushed. ‘Please excuse me while I put these things away.’
She nodded, so he quickly stoppered the ink vial and placed it alongside his quill in the velvet case that, after Karaghul, was his most treasured possession.
‘Why did you stop publishing?’ she asked.
Felix smiled wryly. ‘I swore an oath to record the death of an unkillable dwarf in an epic poem.’
‘Unkillable?’
‘So far.’ He shrugged, looking over at Gotrek. In spite of the cold, the Slayer slept bare-chested on top of his bedroll. He snorted in his sleep, then rubbed the side of his nose and turned over. ‘It has been years,’ Felix continued. ‘I fear that whatever promise I might once have shown has long since faded.’
‘Is that your work?’ asked Anya, indicating the small, leather-bound journal he had set aside. ‘May I read it?’
‘It’s just notes, really,’ said Felix. ‘After so many years I feared that I was forgetting some of the important details of the Slayer’s journey.’
She held out her hand. ‘I wo
uld love to take a look.’
Reluctantly, Felix handed her the journal. It was prose, not poetry, and rough at that... But on the other hand he hadn’t thought about literature in so many years that he found himself looking forward to a little recognition from a fellow artist.
‘Well,’ said Anya dryly, after leafing through a few pages, ‘I didn’t expect that. It’s really nothing more than a penny dreadful.’ Her finger stabbed down onto a page. ‘Here, you have a giant six times the height of a man, despite the fact that any such creature would collapse under its own weight. And “ratmen”? They’re nothing more than a myth!’
Felix stiffened.
A penny dreadful? From his lofty perch as a poet in Altdorf he’d looked down on those books, filled as they were with nothing but lurid stories, scandalously illustrated on cheap paper. Now Anya Nitikin, one of the most popular authors in the Empire, was looking down on him. His cheeks burned with shame and he snatched back the journal.
‘They’re just notes…’ he muttered.
Any further artistic debate they might have had was cut short by a distant scream, followed by a deep and rumbling belch. Several more belches echoed from elsewhere in the middle-distance, deep and loud enough that not even Gotrek on his drunkest day could have produced them.
The ogres were signalling to each other.
His anger forgotten, Felix hastily slid the journal into his pack and pushed Anya behind him. There were very few reasons for ogres to signal in the dead of night: either something was attacking the caravan, or it was the ogres themselves who were attacking.
A hunk of twisted flesh and rags flew over the stacked barrels at the edge of the clearing, landing in the embers of the fire. Felix knew, even before the reek of scorching hair reached him, that it was Hansur. ‘Gotrek!’ he cried. ‘The ogres are attacking!’
As he turned, a dark shape loomed up behind the barrels. Roaring a challenge, an ogre emerged into the flickering light of the campfire and uprooted a dead tree with a single tug. Swinging it like a club in an almost casual arc, he struck the stack, and a heavy barrel bounced through the campsite, crushing two men before they’d even had a chance to rise from their cots.