Marriage of Moment

by Josh Reynolds

  The gatehouse was, like the greater part of the walls, made of heavy wooden logs, piled one atop the next and the gaps had been filled with clay, mud and what Felix thought was likely animal dung to hold it all together. Wooden stakes lined the outside of the stockade, rising from a shallow ditch in the stony ground, and more than one of them had dark stains marking their lengths.

  As they drew close, Felix realised with a start that the fortress had seemingly been built up against the mouth of a vast gouge in the side of the crag, and was, as such, much larger than he’d first thought. When he said as much, Metternich nodded. ‘The interior of the keep extends a fair bit into the mountain, though not so deep as you’d think. From what I can tell, they found a cave and built their fortress inside it. Over time, it got too big, and spilled out onto the slope. They’ve been working at it for a fair few centuries, so the damn thing’s a maze, as you’d expect.’

  ‘I’ve seen bigger,’ Gotrek said. The wood and stone barbican looked as if it had been grown rather than built, so encrusted with mould and moss that it looked less like a structure than a piece of the mountain and the portcullis, which was more rust than metal, rose with a screech that caused his teeth to shiver in his gums. The only part of the barbican that wasn’t crusted over with moss or rust was the gargoyle-like stone carving which marked the top. It was a horrid face, with all the vilest aspects of a variety of animals mingled into something that was uniquely hideous. As the wagon passed beneath it, Felix shuddered. Gotrek grunted. ‘Not dwarfish work, this,’ he said.

  ‘Dwarfs aren’t the only stonemasons in the world,’ Felix said.

  ‘They’re the only ones who count,’ Gotrek said. He made a face. ‘This is shoddy stonework. The whole structure was sloppily built. I can hear the mortar powdering from here. And the weight is distributed all wrong. A stiff northern breeze would knock this thing over.’

  ‘Lucky we’re not in the north then, eh?’ Felix said.

  Gotrek squinted at him, before nodding. ‘Aye,’ he grunted.

  The wagon rolled through the gatehouse and into the outer courtyard. A squawking flock of chickens scattered in front of the plodding mules and several fat hogs wallowed in the lee of the walls, grunting and filling the air with unwelcome flatulence. There were men in the courtyard, all armed. Felix knew mercenaries when he saw them: they were a motley lot – one wore the hauberk and pot helm of a Bretonnian man-at-arms, while another had quite clearly served in the Empire militia. They wore thick woollen cloaks, much like Metternich, that appeared to be as close as they came to a proper uniform. All of them eyed Gotrek with a healthy amount of caution. Even hardened sell-swords knew better than to provoke a Slayer. One, a dark-complexioned Estalian, raised a hand in a gesture of recognition. ‘Metternich, late as usual,’ he called out, in heavily accented Reikspiel.

  ‘Rodrigo, as ever your mastery of the obvious is impressive,’ Metternich shot back.

  ‘Have you found one, then?’ Rodrigo said, ignoring Metternich’s jibe.

  ‘Right here,’ Metternich said, flapping a hand.

  ‘The dwarf,’ Rodrigo said, his eyes widening.

  ‘No! Are you mad? The other one.’

  Rodrigo’s dark eyes flickered over Felix like a man examining a horse. ‘Sort of… tall, isn’t he?’

  ‘Is there a height requirement to get married?’ Felix said blandly. As the guard shook his head, Felix jabbed Gotrek with an elbow and pointed. ‘Gotrek, look,’ he said. Gotrek followed his gesture and his good eye widened as he saw the other wagons and the small group of loudly conversing individuals standing near them, under the watchful eyes of the closest guards. To a man, they were halflings – eleven halflings, in fact. Eleven halflings, dressed in a variety of fashions and styles, from Marienburg to the Moot. All of the stubby, chubby figures were armed and were arguing loudly, save one, who was seemingly occupied filching foodstuffs from a wagon while it was being unloaded.

  ‘Why are all of those hairy-toed egg-sucking Moot-rats here?’ Gotrek growled, reaching for his axe, and casting a fiery glare at Metternich, who cringed back.

  ‘Did I not mention that?’ he said.

  ‘No,’ Gotrek rasped.

  ‘I’m certain I did.’

  ‘Are you?’ Gotrek said, lifting his axe so that the keen edge just barely scraped a patch of bristles off the man’s unshaven chin.

  ‘Maybe not,’ Metternich said. ‘I shall rectify that at once.’ His eyes darted to Felix. ‘You’re possibly not the only suitor to come a-courting the Lady Esme?’

  ‘Why are they all halflings?’ Felix said. He’d seen the stout folk of the Moot often enough in Altdorf, and more than once since, though Gotrek despised them. Most dwarfs did, though for no clear reason that Felix could discern. True, they had the tendency to pilfer, and were greedy, bawdy and obnoxious, but aside from the pilfering, so were dwarfs.

  ‘Are they? I hadn’t noticed,’ Metternich said.

  ‘If you’re playing us false,’ Gotrek growled, grabbing a handful of Metternich’s cloak, ‘I’ll have your skull for a drinking cup and your lungs for mittens.’

  ‘I’m not, I swear!’ Metternich yelped. More than a few pairs of eyes turned towards the altercation and Felix grabbed Gotrek’s arm.

  ‘Put him down, Gotrek. Let’s not make this more of an ordeal than it already is,’ he hissed.

  Gotrek gave a wordless growl and released Metternich. He swept the courtyard with his gaze and snorted. ‘I’ve seen prettier privies.’

  The courtyard was larger than Felix had first thought, and full of more halflings than just the suitors. Halflings were laughing and talking on the parapets and in doorways, halflings were overseeing humans who were taking the supplies out of the back of the wagons, and halflings were looking at him curiously. A chill scraped across his neck. ‘They’re all halflings,’ he said. ‘The only men here are hired swords or servants, aren’t they?’

  Gotrek blinked. Then, surprisingly, the Slayer guffawed. Wheezing with laughter, he hunched forward and slapped his knee. Felix looked at him in astonishment until the reason for Gotrek’s humour became apparent. ‘Oh,’ he said. He looked at the locket. ‘Oh, Sigmar damn me.’

  ‘You’re going to marry a halfling!’ Gotrek bellowed, laughing.

  ‘Courting, not married, not yet,’ Metternich said. He climbed down off the wagon. ‘But he will, if you want to see that gold.’

  ‘You can’t be serious,’ Felix protested as he climbed down as well.

  ‘There’s no law against it,’ Metternich said.

  Felix glared at Gotrek, who swatted him on the back hard enough to nearly propel him from his seat. ‘Cheer up, manling,’ Gotrek said. ‘Think of the gold.’

  ‘The gold – really, Gotrek,’ Felix said, ‘is that all you can think about? I don’t suppose you’ve come up with a brilliant plan to get me out of this yet?’ Gotrek didn’t reply. Felix snorted. ‘I thought not,’ he said, and climbed down.

  He looked around. The courtyard didn’t look any better from the ground. It was a sty, and its inhabitants were equally unpleasant looking. Halflings had a reputation for bucolic slovenliness, but these had taken it to extremes, seemingly leaving anything that required effort to their human servants.

  ‘It’s not a pretty sight, is it?’ a voice said, at his elbow.

  He turned and then looked down. The face he’d so recently admired in miniature looked up at him with the air of a horse-dealer examining a new acquisition. ‘Hunh,’ Esme Shandeux said. ‘He’s a bit tall, Metternich. But pretty,’ she added.

  ‘Thank you?’ Felix said, not certain how to reply. She was imposing, for a woman less than half his height. She was dressed in an archaic dress, long out of fashion and altered to fit halfling proportions, with a wimple covering her head. She wore a profusion of golden jewellery carelessly which she fiddled with constantly.

  ‘I endeavour to serve, Lady Esme,’ Metternich said, crossing his arms and leaning against the wagon. ‘And he’s exactly what yo
u need. Him and his friend here,’ he added, indicating Gotrek, who dropped off the wagon like a boulder rolling downhill.

  ‘He’s not quite so pretty,’ Esme said.

  ‘The feeling is mutual,’ Gotrek rumbled, showing his square, yellow teeth in something that wasn’t quite a smile. Esme’s eyes narrowed and Felix stepped between them, bowing obsequiously. He took her hand and brushed his lips across her knuckles.

  ‘It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, my lady,’ he said. ‘Am I correct in assuming that you concocted this scheme, then?’

  ‘Very gentlemanly, highboots,’ Esme said, reaching up to pat his cheek. ‘And I wouldn’t call it a scheme, really, so much as a desperate gamble.’

  ‘Best kind, I’m given to understand,’ Felix said, straightening. ‘My name is Felix Jaeger. My companion is–’

  ‘Rude?’ Esme interjected.

  ‘Gotrek Gurnisson,’ Felix said smoothly. ‘We’re at your service.’

  ‘I bet you are,’ Esme said. ‘And I’ll bet the gold has nothing to do with it, eh?’

  ‘What do you know about it?’ Gotrek said. He cast a glare at Metternich, who shrugged.

  ‘We have an arrangement, Metternich and I,’ Esme said pugnaciously.

  ‘It seems Herr Metternich has made quite a few arrangements,’ Felix said. Gotrek’s glare could have cut stone.

  Metternich raised his hands.

  ‘I make deals, Jaeger, that’s how a man survives in the Border Princes. Esme wants out of here, preferably well-funded. Gurnisson wants the gold. We can all help each other,’ he said soothingly.

  ‘And you, Metternich – what are you getting out of this?’ Felix demanded.

  ‘None of your business,’ Metternich said. His hand dropped to the polished pommels of his daggers. But before he could draw one, Gotrek’s big hand clamped down on his, and Felix pulled his own poniard from its sheath. He pressed the tip to Metternich’s codpiece, while Gotrek held his pinned hand.

  ‘Last chance,’ Felix said. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘I’d like to know that myself,’ a new voice cut in. The noise level in the courtyard dropped suddenly and as Felix turned he saw a strange sight – two brawny men had stepped out of the keep, a heavy shield of strange design balanced on their shoulders, and atop the shield, a stumpy, cloak-clad figure glared at him and Gotrek. ‘Who are these fools, Metternich, and why have you brought them here?’

  ‘I was simply following your orders, Lord Shandeux,’ Metternich said, sweeping out his arms and bowing low. ‘I found a suitor, to complete the dozen required for the contest. He’s a bit tall, but keen nonetheless.’ Metternich gestured to Felix, who hesitated for a moment, wondering what Metternich meant by ‘contest’, but then stepped forward after hastily sheathing his dagger. Esme had slipped away. There was more going on here than either he or Gotrek had realised. He had the unpleasant feeling that they were bit characters in someone else’s play, and he didn’t like it.

  ‘He’s human. I sent you out for a halfling, Metternich,’ Shandeux said. He was broad, but not fat, as many halflings became when they reached a certain age, and somehow crooked, as if his limbs weren’t correctly proportioned. There was an ugly cast to his pinched, petulant features that Felix found disconcerting.

  ‘So you did,’ Metternich said hurriedly. ‘What about the dwarf? We could split the difference?’

  ‘Dwarf,’ Shandeux said, seemingly noticing Gotrek for the first time. His lip curled as he looked down at the Slayer. ‘I thought I smelled something. Can’t abide dwarfs, me. Greedy buggers, always scrounging in the dirt, so they are,’ he said. ‘Have you come to steal my gold, dwarf? Come to pinch some Shandy gold? What about you, eh, tall fellow?’ The halfling squatted on his shield and peered down at Felix with bloodshot eyes. Up close, he was unpleasant to look at: he had a wonky eye, an off-centre nose, blotchy skin and his crooked fingers played ceaselessly with an amulet. It was an ugly thing, with a fierce face carved into its flat surface. Felix felt a thrill of disgust as he got a better look at it. He hoped never to meet anything with a face like that in the flesh. ‘Come to wed a Shandy beauty? Come to try your luck in the god’s bowels?’

  ‘I should hope not,’ a halfling – one of the other potential suitors – barked, as Felix tried to figure out what Shandeux had meant by his last statement. They had drawn quite a crowd. The speaker was dressed like a dandy, with a huge, wide-brimmed hat perched at a rakish angle on his head, an immense feather sprouting from its hat-band and a halfling-sized pistol with an ivory grip holstered on one round hip.

  Another halfling, this one dressed like a country elder of means, pulled a pipe out of his mouth and said, ‘It isn’t proper, not at all. Look at those arms and legs, like stretched giblets.’ The other nine would-be suitors joined in, displaying their distaste for Felix’s presence. Shandeux didn’t look at them. Instead, his eyes never left Felix’s face.

  Gotrek’s elbow nudged Felix. ‘I have,’ Felix said, with a sigh.

  ‘Good. Dwarf, man or halfling, it’s all the same to me.’ Shandeux straightened and raised his amulet. ‘Jabas has blessed this day. Twelve is an auspicious number. Come, my fine, fat, gentles… a welcoming feast has been laid out, and while we eat I shall speak of Shandy tradition and what awaits you in the god’s bowels.’

  ‘I don’t like the sound of that,’ Felix said, as Gotrek joined him. He looked around for Metternich, but the man had joined Rodrigo and the other sell-swords. Gotrek didn’t reply. They filed into the keep with the others. He noticed that the Shandeux halflings seemed subdued, and the human guards fell in around the newcomers as if to prevent any of them from having second thoughts, though they kept their distance from Gotrek.

  The inner keep was as badly laid out as the outer, but the deeper they moved into the keep, the more things had changed. Sloppiness had given way to a more sturdy, albeit cruder design. There was another structure here, buried beneath the slapdash construction that comprised the Shandy citadel. When he mentioned it to Gotrek, the Slayer said, ‘This keep has been built atop another, older keep, from a time before your Empire was even a glimmer in dwarfish eyes.’

  As he listened, Felix noticed Metternich’s eyes on them. The mercenary had a speculative look on his face, and Felix wondered what he was thinking. Gotrek wasn’t exactly whispering, so there was every chance that Metternich had overheard him.

  There were more mercenary guards, here and there, as well as more halflings, many of them clad in robes. Felix knew that many strange religions could be found in the Border Princes; strange practices and rites from across the Old World flourished on the fertile, if blood-drenched, soil of these lands. Perhaps the halflings had taken to one of these, rather than their own, native gods.

  When they reached the feast-hall, Felix saw that it had, so far as he could tell, been decorated to resemble the communal feast-halls of the Moot. Though he’d spent little time there, the rustic style was easily recognisable. Despite the decoration, however, he noticed tiny signs that it had once been something quite different. Long benches – the right size for halflings and dwarfs, but most assuredly not for humans, he noted with some chagrin – lined the hall in two rows and soon enough, after everyone had filed in and taken a seat, human servants moved up and down the rows, filling the cups of laughing halflings. The air was already thick with pipe smoke and the smell of roasting meat, but beneath it all was another smell, like damp stone. Remembering how he’d gotten into this situation in the first place, Felix drank sparingly, and ate little.

  Shandy appeared to be sparing no expense in feeding his guests. Given how much the average halfling appeared to be able to put away, Felix wondered just how much of the fabled Shandeux hoard was still around. The tables were groaning with the weight of it all – bowls of fruits from Tilea and Bretonnia, trays wet with grease from the portions of cooked duck and ham, rashers of bacon heaped on plates, portions of stag and boar and goose mounted still smoking on skewers, small mountains of pies vied
for space with unsteady pyramids of freshly baked bread and, interspersed through it all, cakes of all sizes and shapes. The halflings ate, stuffing their faces with so much meat and pastry that Felix felt slightly ill on their behalf.

  Despite the apparent jocularity of the gathering, Felix felt that there was a definite undercurrent of tension to the proceedings that only grew more oppressive as course after course slid across the table. The suitors ate with gusto, and Shandeux sat in his overlarge chair like a monarch-in-miniature, his expression as that of a farmer choosing a beast for slaughter as he watched them. Esme, on the other hand, looked alternately worried and impatient. She was turning this way and that, as if looking for someone. Yes, there was definitely something going on that he didn’t like the feel of. Gotrek seemed to be of the same mind, for as he held out his mug for a refill, he said, ‘We’re being played for fools, manling.’

  ‘You’re just now realising that?’ Felix said, trying to get comfortable. He was bent almost double on his bench and his knees were entirely too close to his chin for his liking.

  Gotrek drained his mug again and held it up for another refill. ‘Where did these Moot-rats get such a treasure?’ Before Felix could reply Shandeux stood on the table, his hands held up. The celebrants began to fall quiet.

  ‘We Shandy have a storied history,’ he said, his voice slithering about the hall. ‘Like all of our folk, we once tilled the fields and stoked the hearths of the Moot. We were happy then and ignorant in that happiness.’ His lips wrenched back from his teeth in a leer. ‘And then the Beast came. Konrad Von Carstein, who butchered six in ten of our folk, and set the rest into flight, after glutting himself on their blood. Five hundred years ago, the first Shandy, elder of his village, led his people away from the ravages of the beast and into these lands, in search of safety. He led his folk away from the easy life they had known and into these rocky lands, where they grew strong. They found new gods, since the soft gods of the Moot had failed to protect them…’