Gotrek and Felix: The Anthology

by Various

  Gustav ignored him, leaning forwards to flick an errant ember from the table.

  Ernot withdrew his hand, annoyance flashing across his face before his practiced showman’s demeanour reasserted itself. ‘Surely, dear captain, you wouldn’t see a fellow servant of the Empire go–’

  Gustav was on his feet, his sword at Ernot’s throat before the wizard could finish. ‘Do not dishonour the men who have died to protect these lands with your slander. You are an aberration, a deviant who is not so far removed from the devils we fight. It is only by Ulric’s grace that you are allowed to march beside your betters.’ Gustav poked a jabbing finger into Ernot’s forehead. ‘Now be gone and bother me no more.’

  Ernot’s humour fell away, his eyes turning to smouldering coals, set alight by some unseen fire. Smoke began to rise from the captain’s blade.

  ‘Sit down, friend.’ Heinrich spoke to Gustav, but his crossbow pistol was pointed at Ernot.

  ‘Enough.’ Faulkstein held out a hand to silence Fredric. ‘I’ve seen the wizard already.’ The watchman flicked a finger towards the two priests of Morr stooped over Ernot’s body.

  Faulkstein ruffled his nose at the pungent incense wafting from the iron censers attached to their belts, and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. ‘You two,’ the watchman turned from Fredric, waving his arm in irritation at the priests, ‘can’t you wait until I’m finished here? They aren’t going anywhere.’ Faulkstein swept his arm around the room to indicate the mass of corpses littering the bar.

  ‘No, we cannot,’ one of the priests answered without looking up. ‘They belong to Morr now and he will not be kept waiting. No, that wouldn’t do at all.’ The priest stopped and angled his head up at Faulkstein. ‘That is, of course, unless you’d rather invite plague, or worse.’ The priest paused to touch the silver talisman dangling around his neck, ‘the curse of undeath upon us?’

  Faulkstein uttered a curse under his breath and returned his attention to Fredric. ‘Enough prattle. I don’t have time to hear about every wolf-gnawed drunkard that stumbled across your path tonight. Tell me about the outlaws.’

  Fredric looked confused, and for good reason. Not that he would have told them to their faces, but most of the Dragon’s patrons would have been considered scum by anyone in the Empire with even a breath of honour. Almost to a man, they were wanted by someone for something. You didn’t drink in a back alley sump unless you had little other choice or, as was the case with Gustav, liked a good fight.

  ‘Outlaws?’ Fredric repeated the watchman’s question, turning his palms face up and trying to sound casual.

  Faulkstein clicked his tongue in annoyance. ‘The dwarf and the human.’

  ‘The dwarf and the human? Watch officer, sir. This is Middenheim, there are as many dwarfs and humans drowning their sorrows in taverns as there are rats in the street.’

  Faulkstein sighed hard, gripping the table in an effort to calm himself, ‘The poet, Felix Jaeger and that Slayer, Gotrek Gunnison.’

  ‘Felix Jae–’

  ‘Yes,’ interrupted Faulkstein, his hand raised as if to strike Fredric. ‘Jaeger and the Slayer.’ The watchman locked eyes with the barkeep. ‘I know they were here.’

  ‘Ah, yes, them,’ Fredric nodded, sitting back in his chair in an effort to distance himself from the seething watchman. ‘The dwarf and the human. Adventurers.’ Fredric swatted a fly away from his face. The creature persisted until he glared at it. ‘Yes, I remember,’ his brow knotted as he thought back. ‘They came straight to the bar...’

  ‘Ale!’ The dwarf banged his fist on the counter top, the numerous gold rings covering his fingers rattling. ‘And whatever watered-down filth my companion fancies.’

  ‘Coin first.’ Fredric made it a rule never to serve a dwarf before he’d paid. For all their fabled powers of recollection and their tiring ability to hang onto grudges long past the point of reason, dwarfs were as forgetful as halflings when it came to settling up.

  ‘You’d do well to serve me now, manling.’ The irate dwarf thumped the bar again. ‘I am thirsty. Keep me waiting at–’

  ‘Forgive my friend, it’s been a long night,’ a man cut in and tossed a bag of coins to Fredric. ‘This should see us through till morning.’ The man took a seat at the bar next to the dwarf, and ran his hand through the thick of his blond hair.

  Satisfied by the weight of the purse, Fredric filled two flagons and slid them along the bar to the dwarf.

  ‘And for my companion?’ the dwarf said mid quaff, ale foaming over his red beard.

  Fredric bit down a reply, filled a third tankard and handed it to the man. ‘Is he always this–’

  ‘Grungni’s beard,’ the dwarf interrupted, spitting out a mouthful of ale in disgust. ‘This, this sewage that you’ve deemed to call ale, tastes like a minotaur’s arse.’

  Fredric gritted his teeth; the dwarf was pushing his luck. The barkeep thought about reaching under the bar and retrieving his sword. About reaching over and cutting the impudent short-arse’s tongue out. He eyed the swirls of runic tattoos that snaked up the dwarf’s neck and disappeared beneath his iron helm, and the muscled forearms that were no doubt the result of a lifetime wielding the monstrous axe slung across the dwarf’s broad back.

  Fredric took a breath and thought better of his fantasies. ‘I’ll fetch you another.’

  ‘Don’t insult me, boy. Get me a fresh one from your cellar. Something worthy of a son of Grungni.’ The dwarf shook his fist at Fredric and knocked the flagon to the ground. ‘Best ye pray to your god that it’s better than this rat-piss or I’ll carve you up and drink your blood instead.’

  Fredric had never heard of a dwarf who drank blood; as a rule they drank ale. Still, no sense in risking that the dwarf glaring murderously at him was the exception to the rule.

  ‘Pieter,’ Fredric called to the aged vagrant holding up the end of the bar, and tossed him the beer-sodden towel of his office. ‘Watch the bar for me.’ He pulled back the oak sideboard covering the entrance to the cellar. ‘And Pieter, try not to drink more than the customers.’

  Fredric ducked inside the opening behind the bar and fished a candle from a barrel filled with sand. Straightening the wick, the barkeep held it up so that its wick kissed the brazier burning overhead and caught alight. Cupping his free hand around the flame, Fredric descended the stone incline to the basement, taking care not to slip on the slimy fungus that clung to the well-worn cobbles. At the bottom, he turned right towards the barrel room and–

  ‘Ulric!’ Fredric let out a shriek and dropped the candle. He’d collided with someone.

  ‘Watch where you’re going!’

  ‘Who’s there?’ asked Fredric, trying to keep his voice level.

  ‘Turn out the light!’

  Reflexively, Fredric stomped out the flame. An act he immediately regretted. ‘Who’s there?’ he asked again, his hand moving to the knife on his belt.

  ‘It’s Luipold.’

  ‘The rat catcher?’

  ‘Yes, you fool. Who were you expecting? A flower-wreathed maiden of the court?’

  Fredric relaxed the grip on his knife and scolded himself for his foolishness. He’d allowed too many tales of murder on Geheimnisnacht to fuddle his senses. ‘Luipold, you’re still down here?’ Fredric had commissioned the catcher after several casks of ale had gone sour, and he’d heard scratching behind the wine racks.

  ‘Yes, these things take time, Herr Fredric.’ Luipold appeared from the darkness his face within a breath of the barkeep’s.

  Fredric winced, the man stank of sulphur. ‘Ah, Luipold, you frightened me there. I thought you’d be long done.’ Fredric fought down the urge to gag under the pungent assault of the rat catcher’s breath. ‘What has it been? Two days now?’

  ‘You have quite the infestation,’ Luipold pressed a dead rat into Fredric’s hand, ‘and I fear the light from your candle has scared them back into their holes.’ The rat catcher put his arm around Fredric’s shoulders. ‘Please, get w
hat you came for and trouble me no more until my work is complete.’ Luipold left the rat in Fredric’s palm, turned and disappeared into the gloom.

  Fredric realised he was holding his breath and exhaled. He was glad to be rid of the man. ‘Just the rat catcher,’ he said, steadying himself. Dropping the rat at his feet, the barkeep wiped his hands on his trousers, and continued to the barrel room. In the darkness, Fredric was forced to feel his way past the wine racks to the ale caskets, his searching hands demolishing the thick cobwebs that coated the wine bottles like skin: superfluous proof that the Dragon’s patrons weren’t big on wine. His fingers traced the familiar iron band that bound the wood of the ale barrels, and he stopped. It felt sticky. Withdrawing his hand, Fredric rubbed his fingers together; there was some sort of wet powder coating the barrel. He brought his hand up to his nose to sniff it, but quickly changed his mind. The rat catcher had likely coated the place in poison, inhaling it was sure to be unwise. Fredric shuddered.

  Pushing the creepy encounter with Luipold from his mind, Fredric bent over and pressed his ear to each of the ale barrels in turn until he heard the familiar gurgling of Gutrot XI. A particularly potent brew, Gutrot continued to ferment until drunk, and would eat through any cask or tankard if left standing long enough. ‘This’ll sort that Ulric-damned, knee-biter out,’ he muttered, satisfied the XI would placate the dwarf, and save him from a beating. He dragged the barrel from the rack and made to roll it up the slope.

  ‘I’m heading up now,’ Fredric called into the darkness. Luipold didn’t respond.

  ‘Get back on the other side there,’ Fredric said, securing the Gutrot to one of the ale taps and shooing Pieter away from another. He cursed; the skin on his hands felt tight and irritable. He glanced down at the sticky, white mire that clung to them despite his best efforts to rub it off. It didn’t look like any poison he’d ever seen, more like chalk mixed with gunpowder, and something else; something thick and wet. He shrugged. Thinking too much about something never led you to a good place. Wiping his hands on Pieter’s back, Fredric pushed the vagabond out from behind the bar.

  The barkeep slid a double-thick, forged tankard under the ale tap, and filled it with Gutrot. ‘Now then, master dwarf...’ Fredric looked round to find the dwarf and his human companion lost in a press of leering drunkards. He felt his shoulders tighten in expectation of a fight.

  ‘And you were all alone? With no means of escape?’ one of the crowd asked, throwing his arms into the air and the contents of his flagon over those around him.

  ‘Aye!’ said the dwarf as he pushed his way to the bar. ‘It was a close call but they were no match for dwarfish steel.’ The dwarf grinned, pointing a thumb over his shoulder at his axe. ‘We sent them all to their gods with our boots on their backs and defeat in their guts.’ The crowd cheered as the dwarf finished his tale. Retaking his seat at the bar, the dwarf turned to Fredric and pointed to the XI. ‘My nose says that’s the good stuff.’

  ‘The very best.’ Fredric felt his shoulders relax, and he slid the dwarf his drink. The stunty warrior’s ill humour and furnace-like temper had seemingly been cooled by his audience’s adulation.

  The barkeep poured himself a carafe of ale and settled behind the bar, joining the crowd as they listened to the adventurers recount their exploits. Between quaffs of Gutrot, the dwarf told a tale of how they had slain a nest of trolls in the ruins of Karak Eight Peaks, of how together they had journeyed to the world’s end and battled daemon lizards that walked upright like men. Then it was the dwarf’s floppy-haired companion’s turn to speak.

  ‘Just this very night,’ he began in hushed tones, ‘we came upon a shadowy cult in the Drakwald.’

  The crowd cheered at the Drakwald’s mention, many of them having lost friend and kin to the accursed forest and its foul denizens.

  The adventurer, an accomplished storyteller, waited for the crowd to settle before continuing. ‘At first we thought them to be no more than errant villagers practicing a heathen ritual beneath the moons, but when they threw back their dark cloaks it was neither men nor women whose sinister eyes stared back at us...’

  A hush fell over the crowd as the adventurer polished off his drink.

  ‘Well who was it?’ one of the crowd ventured, the anticipation too much for him. The man’s cheeks flushed red as he looked around, embarrassed. ‘Who was it?’ he asked, quieter this time, proffering the adventurer another ale by way of encouragement.

  The adventured smiled and took the drink, ‘They were neither man nor beast but a vile mix of the two,’ he continued, curling his fingers and narrowing his brow with practised theatre. ‘They had bestial faces, clawed hands and cloven hooves–’

  Tumult at the rear of the huddle drew the adventurer’s attention as his audience stumbled into one another, shouldered aside by a lumbering newcomer who was as broad as he was tall. An angular forehead chiselled from hardened bedrock sat above a thicket beard. Dozens of animal pelts hung over his immense shoulders. Bound by cords of sinew and tendon, and stinking of blood and faeces, they were as much a testament to the hunter’s prowess as they were proof against the winter’s cold.

  Fredric looked up at the broken horn of ivory protruding from the iron plate that armoured the hunter’s massive gut, and felt his mouth go dry. He knew an ogre when he saw one. This would not end well.

  ‘Jaeger.’ The ogre locked eyes with the adventurer and growled.

  The adventurer’s mouth fell open without riposte, his handsome features marred with dread.

  The ogre snarled and smashed his forehead into the human’s nose, which broke with a sickening crunch. The adventurer fell backwards, blood spraying from his nose, and crashed over a stool onto his arse. Throwing out his arms, the ogre knocked back the crowd, clearing a space for him to stare down the dwarf. A hammer appeared in one of the hunter’s muscled hands, a jagged blade in the other.

  The dwarf swallowed heavily, dropped down from the bar stool, and reached for his axe.

  The ogre’s hammer swung into the side of the dwarf’s head, ringing off his helm moments before the hunter’s foot connected with his chest, shooting him backwards through two onlookers and into the back of the wizard Ansgar Ernot. Mid parlour trick, Ernot stumbled, thrusting one of the flames he’d summoned onto his would-be patron. The flame devoured the man even before he could scream. Engulfing him in an eldritch fire, the aberrant conflagration burned away his innards, leaving behind only a charred husk that flaked apart and tumbled to the floor like morbid snowflakes. The other flare landed on Heinrich’s table, setting it ablaze.

  ‘Ulric damn you!’ The witch hunter scrambled hastily to his feet, drawing his crossbow.

  With that the bar erupted. Emboldened by an evening of ale and the dwarf’s rousing tales of adventure, the men of the Dragon became warrior legends in their own minds. Curses sworn and steel unsheathed, they attacked one another with vigour, seeking to hack and slash their way to glory.

  Fredric reached under the bar to grab his blade–

  The ogre smashed the blond adventurer’s head into the counter top inches from Fredric’s own panic-stricken face. The barkeep recoiled in fright, scrambling back against the wall as fast as his jellied limbs would allow. Fredric watched as the ogre reversed his grip on his hammer and stamped it down on the adventurer’s head. The man’s skull cracked like an egg, spilling bloody matter onto the bar. The hunter looked at Fredric and snarled, though whether in derision or amusement, the barkeep couldn’t tell. Gripping the adventurer by the pulped remains of his head, the ogre pivoted on the spot and tossed the human’s corpse into the dwarf who was struggling to his feet. Unable to move, the dwarf raised his arms to shield himself but was sent crashing back to the ground by his former companion’s momentum.

  His curiosity outweighing his fear, Fredric shuffled forwards and peered over the bar.

  The ogre was closing on the dwarf.

  An idiot with too much courage and too little sense attacked the hunter from th
e rear, breaking a chair over his broad back. The blow barely registered. The ogre continued forwards, gutting the man with a casual back-handed swipe of his blade, before slamming a fist into a wounded soul unlucky enough to be in the way.

  The ogre reached the dwarf.

  The hunter loomed over him like a vengeful effigy, grunting as the dwarf tried in vain to free himself from under the man’s corpse. Placing an armoured foot on top of the dwarf’s chest, the ogre sealed the adventurer’s fate.

  ‘No! Wait!’ The dwarf cried out in panic, one handing scrabbling for a weapon while the other came up to shield his face.

  The ogre ignored him, bringing his hammer down in an over-handed swing that caved in the top of the dwarf’s skull and shattered the vertebra in his back.

  Despite the horror of the situation, Fredric chuckled. Had the dwarf survived, he’d have been even shorter than before.

  Faulkstein rolled a measure of smokeweed between his thumb and forefingers. ‘So then…’ The watchman took another pace forwards, side-stepping a body that had a sword planted in its back like an errant road sign, towards a dense pile of bodies. Popular place to die, he thought. ‘That would put them about here?’ Faulkstein kicked the nearest body.