“The signal fire proves that my spy is still active,” Rambrecht declared, “still with the Wissenlanders and still marking their trail for us. All we have to do is follow them and they will lead us to the treasure.” He glanced aside at Baldur and sneered. “Or we can do as your chief here suggests: turn tail and leave the treasure to Count Eberfeld. Which will it be?”
Rambrecht already knew which way the brigands would vote; he could see it in the avarice shining in their eyes. A babble of excited voices rose in a confused chorus as the bandits stumbled over each other to agree with the aristocrat. Rambrecht pounced on their excitement. “I’ll pay any man who stays with me three hundred gold crowns against an equal share of the treasure,” he bellowed, struggling to make his voice rise above the din.
“Thank you, Rambrecht.” The aristocrat swung around, confused to find Baldur smiling at him. “You’ve allowed me to wash my hands of these men with a clear conscience.”
“I didn’t think you were a coward,” Rambrecht said. “Stick with me and you’ll still get your commission.”
“You and these fools can commit suicide,” Baldur snapped. “I’ll pass, if it’s all the same to you.” The ex-captain turned and stalked away, his hand resting against the hilt of his sword.
“Don’t send anybody after me, Rambrecht,” he warned as he vanished into the night. “You’ve already lost enough men.”
* * *
The sheer sides of the canyon loomed above Kessler like the walls of a tomb, pressing in upon him with their enormity. Only a thin sliver of sky snaked its way overhead, reminding the swordsman that he still walked the earth, that he was not entombed deep within it. This, so Skanir told them, was Drung-a-Uzkul, the site of the ancient conflict that had seen the ruin of Zahaak the Usurper. Of that long ago battle there was little sign, patches of corrosion lying forgotten among the rocks and dust of the canyon, the sorry echoes of iron weapons and bronze armour.
Of more recent violence, there was ample evidence. The sheer walls of the canyon had been lovingly adorned with runes and carvings, by the dwarfs, to commemorate their dead, lost in the battle with Zahaak. Most of them were defiled, defaced and disfigured. Crude goblin glyphs were scratched over the dwarf runes, the bearded faces of bas-reliefs smashed into oblivion. Skanir’s mood became still darker as he studied the havoc that centuries of goblin vandals had worked upon the monuments, his eyes burning as they glared across the canyon. Dwarfs held their ancestors and their history in the deepest reverence, and this was more than destruction to Skanir, it was desecration. Kessler could well imagine the vengeful thoughts stirring in the dwarf’s heart. The way his eyes glowered at the landscape, it seemed as if Skanir was begging the mountain to produce a horde of greenskins for him to smash into pulp with his hammer.
A light tug on his sleeve pulled Kessler from his contemplation of Skanir. The swordsman glanced in the direction of the summons. He found himself staring into Ghrum’s enormous gut. The tugging continued and he lowered his gaze to find Theodo’s nimble fingers coiled around his arm. The halfling was a miserable sight, one side of his face swollen and discoloured where he had been struck by a horse’s hoof, his once resplendent clothes frayed and tattered, his curly hair tangled and matted. Seeing that he had Kessler’s attention, the halfling quickly glanced around, a furtive quality in the motion. When his turn brought him around to where his vision was filled with the ogre’s leg, Theodo shrugged. There was little chance of being inconspicuous when his bodyguard was the biggest thing within a league, excepting perhaps the mountains.
“I need to have words with you, Herr Kessler,” Theodo said. “We have a spy in our midst.”
Kessler copied the halfling’s quick glance around the canyon, trying to note if anyone was paying attention to their discussion. Ottmar and the surviving soldiers were up near Skanir, and Valdner and his troop were somewhat behind Kessler’s current position. Eugen and Gerhard were across from Kessler, inspecting some carving on the far wall. The swordsman looked back at Theodo and nodded for him to continue. The halfling reached into the breast pocket of his vest, producing a folded square of tanned hide. Kessler didn’t need to look at it for long to recognise it as another of the cryptic notes.
“Where did you get this?” Kessler demanded, his voice a low growl.
“I found it in the woods, the morning after we buried your boss,” Theodo answered. He saw the anger flare in Kessler’s eyes. “I didn’t tell you sooner because, well, I wasn’t about to stick my neck out without knowing who would be looking to cut it.” He felt there was no need to inform Kessler about his ambitions to make some easy gold by blackmailing the spy.
“And have you figured out who the spy is?”
Theodo’s smile became hard, his eyes narrowing with spite. “Your friend over there,” the halfling said, thrusting a thumb over his shoulder, “the old knight, Eugen. I’ve been suspicious of him for a while now. In Fritzstadt, I decided to confront him about my suspicions.” Theodo put a hand to his swollen face. “Curious that a knight, a cavalryman, should completely lose control of his horse like that. You’d almost think he was intentionally trying to stamp me out.”
Kessler shook his head. It was too outrageous to consider. He knew knights, knew the rigid codes of honour and conduct they lived by, which were more important to them than their lives. To believe a knight guilty of such subterfuge and treachery… No, Kessler couldn’t accept it. Yet there was no denying that Eugen’s horse had attacked the halfling. Theodo wore the evidence across his face. Still, Kessler resisted the implication. He stared hard at the halfling. He’d heard about the cook’s crooked ways and his reputation as a card sharp and scoundrel. It was easier to believe that Theodo was the spy than Eugen.
“If you believe what you’re telling me, why haven’t you taken action?” Kessler pointed at Ghrum’s colossal figure. “It would have been easy enough to have your ogre toss him off the mountain when we were climbing up here.”
“I’m sure that would have gone over quite well with the rest of you,” Theodo said. “Ghrum isn’t exactly subtle, certainly less so than the knight. Why, you might even get the idea that I’m the spy.” Theodo’s face twisted into a scowl when he saw the expression Kessler wore as he spoke. “So that’s how it stands, is it? You don’t believe it’s the knight? Just like the tall folk, pin the blame on the halfling! You think I imagined his horse trying to pound me into the dirt!”
Before Kessler could answer, a sharp cry caused him to turn away from Theodo. Ottmar and the soldiers had strayed ahead down the canyon, taking the front position. The men were clustered in the centre of the passage, their faces flush as they laughed nervously among themselves. The source of their anxiety was readily apparent, a curved loop of iron having erupted from the earth, its convex surface riddled with ugly spikes. In their advance, the men had sprung the trap. Only the decay of its mechanism had spared them as it had frozen in mid-strike. The soldiers pointed at the trap, chattering about their near escape. Then one of them stepped forward for a closer look. Every eye in the canyon had been drawn to the clamour, but it was Skanir’s hardened gaze that saw a situation still rife with danger.
“Stay away from there!” the dwarf bellowed, rushing forward. It was too late. The soldier had nearly reached the faulty trap when the ground beneath him fell away. The man’s howl of terror exploded into an agonised wail. Skanir roared at the men who ran forwards to discover the fate of their comrade, snarling at them to keep back. The violence in the dwarf’s voice and the horror of the burbling moans that rose from the exposed pit caused emotion to retreat before caution.
Skanir carefully made his way towards the pit, probing the ground with the butt of his hammer. Once, the ground he tested collapsed, uncovering a second pit. Kessler understood the diabolical ingenuity of the diseased minds that had constructed the traps. The iron loop had been a blind, never intended to inflict harm. It was bait, bait to draw the curious into the real trap, the pits that pock-marked the canyon
floor.
At length, the dwarf reached the edge of the hole that had claimed the soldier. In his approach, Skanir had revealed half a dozen other pits, each wide enough to swallow a man. He scowled as he stared down at the hole, muttering into his beard as painful moans continued to rise. He looked back at the men watching him.
“Come up if you like,” the dwarf called, “but it ain’t pretty. Follow my footprints in the dust. Don’t stray from the path.”
After several tense minutes, a small crowd had joined Skanir at the pit. Below, they saw the moaning soldier, his body pierced in a dozen places by the spikes that lined the floor of the hole. It was a sight that sickened even a veteran killer like Max Kessler.
“See that yellow crust on the spears?” Skanir asked, pointing to the few spikes the soldier’s body had failed to hit in his fall. “Grobi poison. They boil it down into a resin so it sticks better and lasts longer.”
“Then this is a goblin trap?” Ottmar asked, resolutely keeping his face turned from the hideous sight in the pit.
“If there’s one thing grobi find more amusing than graffiti, it’s setting traps,” Skanir said. “The more fiendish the better. They make them good, too,” the dwarf reluctantly conceded. “This arrangement might have been sitting here for a hundred years waiting for somebody to stumble into it.”
Kessler barely heard Skanir’s words as he studied the walls of the pit, looking for hand holds, anything that would carry him down to the trap’s victim. The dwarf noted the swordsman’s efforts. He closed his thick arm around Kessler’s shoulder, pulling him back.
“Better to forget it,” the dwarf said sombrely.
“We have to do something for him,” Kessler snapped. The sentiment was echoed by the other men standing around the pit. Skanir shook his head.
“You can’t help your friend,” he said. “The grobi poison is already running through him. They make some nasty poisons, things that make you die by inches rather than all at once. Goblins think suffering is funny, and they like to watch things take a long time to die.” Skanir set down his hammer, drawing the pistol from his belt. He aimed the firearm down into the pit. “The only thing you can do for him is make the end quick.” Skanir hesitated for a moment as he made the pronouncement, waiting for any protest to find voice. None came and the agony from the pit was silenced by the boom of the dwarf’s weapon.
Skanir turned away from the hole, shoving his pistol back into its holster. “From here on, everyone follows my lead. You can bet the grobi have left plenty more surprises around. Anybody stumbles into one,” he paused and stared hard at the men around him, “just hope it finishes you quick.”
The stench of roasting flesh seared its way into Baldur’s pain-wracked senses, oozing past the red wall of agony that filled his vision. The man’s eyes flickered open, fighting to focus through a film of tears. A leering, toothy-green face slavered over him, its inhuman visage made all the more monstrous by its evil mirth. The creature leaned over him, its long pointy nose hovering above his, its rodentlike eyes staring into his own. A thin, knobby fist cracked against Baldur’s face, splitting his lip. The bandit scarcely felt the blow through the pulsating agony that already filled him, but his body reacted reflexively to the hit. Wicked, wispy laughter tittered from the goblin and the creature spun around.
“Hey, boss! The humie’s wakin’ up!” the goblin hissed, sadistic anticipation in the monster’s voice.
Hulking shapes loomed from the darkness, their massive bodies swollen with muscle, and their leathery hides pitted with scars. Scraps of armour hung from their massive frames, huge blades tied to their broad belts by strips of sinew and chain. Their faces were brutish and thick, huge lantern jaws drooping beneath their heads, weighed down by the yellowing tusks that protruded over their lips. Tiny, piggish eyes shone from the deep recesses of their skulls, glaring at the world around them with scarcely restrained malevolence. Clawed fists clenched in savage anticipation, eager to feel flesh tear beneath naked fingers. They stomped forward at the goblin’s goading cries, only too ready to glut their primitive need for violence.
A still larger figure emerged from among the mob of orcs, pushing his way through the inhuman warriors, smashing the heads of those too slow to clear a path for him, crushing ears beneath a fist that struck like a steel bludgeon. Those stricken cringed away, glaring hatred at the brutal master who had maimed them. The warlord paid no heed to the loathing of his minions. An orc ruled its fellows through fear and cruelty, the simple concept of loyalty alien to their savage brains. So long as he remained stronger and more vicious than those who followed him, he would remain warboss. The moment he showed the first sign of weakness, they would fall on him like a pack of wolves and sate the malice they nursed against their warlord. Until that time, they would obey their master. At least, they would if they knew what was good for them. There was not a knight in all the Empire who had killed more orcs than Uhrghul Skullcracker had.
The huge warlord marched from the ranks of his warband, his dark hide black in the shadowy night. The orc held a hunk of charred meat in one giant fist, gnawing at it as he approached the goblin and the prisoner whose body the malicious greenskin straddled. At Uhrghul’s approach, the goblin sprang away, bowing and grovelling in deference to the warlord.
“He say anything?” Uhrghul demanded, his teeth ripping a ribbon of flesh from the meat clenched in his hand.
“No, boss,” the goblin fawned. “He just woke up.”
Uhrghul’s eyes blazed with annoyance, his mouth freezing in mid-chew. He glowered at the goblin, shreds of unchewed meat falling from his face as he snarled at the smaller greenskin. “Start making the words then!” the orc snapped. “I want to know where the humie’s friends got to! The boys’ll want something to kill soon.”
The goblin decided it didn’t like the subtle threat behind those words. Barely a dozen of its kin were still following Uhrghul’s warband, far too few to do anything should the orcs decide to slake their boredom on the goblins who followed them.
The goblin slapped Baldur’s face again, its clawed fingers ripping open his cheek. The bandit groaned into full awareness, eyes widening with horror. The man’s fright brought another laugh from the goblin, but a sharp bark from Uhrghul cut the creature’s humour short. Quickly, the goblin forced its scratchy voice into the complexities of Reikspiel, putting questions to the prisoner in his own tongue.
Uhrghul watched the exchange carefully. Unable to follow much of what the goblin was saying, the orc struggled to read the creature’s face for any sign of craft or deception. They had their uses, goblins, but it was a stupid orc indeed who trusted one. That was an easy way to wake up with a slit throat or a bellyful of poison. Still, there were times when the cowardly sneaks were handy. It had been goblins who had captured the bandit, falling upon him while they had been away from camp hunting. Uhrghul was pleased enough by the capture that he had ignored the more probable reason for the goblins being abroad: that the craven creatures were deserting and slinking back to their caves. It was probably time to kill a few of them and remind the others why he was boss.
The orc warlord snapped back from his murderous thoughts, focusing his attention back on the goblin interrogator. He saw the goblin’s leathery face pull back into a grin as the captive told it something. Instantly, Uhrghul lurched forward, grabbing the goblin by the scruff of its fur tunic. The creature flailed wildly as the orc lifted it off the ground. Uhrghul held the goblin inches from his face, glaring into its sneaky little eyes.
“Well, what the humie say?” Uhrghul growled.
“He says his pals are headin’ into the mountains, boss,” the goblin hissed in its most servile tone. Uhrghul mulled that over for a time, and then shook both his head and the goblin he held.
“No, don’t sound right,” Uhrghul said. “Ain’t no humies dumb enough for doing that. They’d be scurrying back to one of their towns, not headin’ where they’ll find more orcs!” Uhrghul’s heavy brow bunched forwa
rd as the orc strained to make sense of the problem. He saw the flicker of a grin play on the goblin’s sharp face. The orc shook the little greenskin viciously, rattling its small body like a rag doll.
“What else the humie say?” he demanded. A few moments passed before he realised he would need to stop shaking the goblin if he expected an answer.
“He… he say his… his pals’re lookin’ for somethin’,” the goblin stammered, trying to recollect its rattled wits. Uhrghul’s face stretched into a menacing scowl.
“What’re they lookin’ for?” the orc snapped.
“He ain’t telled me yet,” the goblin whined, throwing up its hands in appeal to the huge brute who held it. “Honest, boss, he ain’t said a word about it!” A cunning quality slipped past the fear in the goblin’s eyes. “You figure it’s treasure, boss? Gold, rubies maybe?”
Uhrghul unceremoniously dropped the goblin, ignoring the squeal of pain that accompanied the creature’s fall. Instead, he lumbered over to Baldur, sneering down at the captive. The man’s arms were lashed to pegs by strips of dried sinew, his torso similarly bound. Only the man’s head was free to move. He struggled to lift himself, spitting at his tormentor. Uhrghul dismissed the man’s defiance, taking another bite of meat.
“Ask the humie again,” Uhrghul commanded the goblin interrogator. The smaller greenskin scrambled forwards, clutching an arm that had been bruised in its fall. “Ask the humie how his legs feel,” the orc added, pulling another bite of flesh from the bone in his hand.
Baldur groaned in agony as the goblin pressed him once more with questions. Under the greenskin’s goading, he lifted his head, staring not at his captors but at his own body tied to the ground. A piercing, tortured scream slashed through the night as his eyes saw the horror that had been visited on his flesh. His screams intensified as he noted the charred toes that protruded from Uhrghul’s meal.
The orc warlord nodded, pleased by the prisoner’s terror.
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