“RIKKRIKKRIKK!! LSSSRIKKK!”
“I… vill… Return…” whispered Grimcrag, reading the words inscribed on the base of the pyramid. A large clump of vines descended upon him, and he looked up, the spell broken. “Unh?” grunted the dwarf, dropping his axe in surprise.
Jiriki was staring, mouth open, pointing at the top of the structure with a slender finger.
Johan Anstein, ex-Imperial envoy, was kneeling unmoving in front of the statue he had revealed at the very pinnacle of the pyramid.
“I’ll be blowed!” declared the dwarf. “Looks like a statue of one of them Norsey types.” He scratched his head, puzzled, leaving streaks of soil smeared across his brow. “How’d that get ’ere then?”
Staring down at them from atop the small pyramid was the unmistakable form of a Norseman.
“Actually,” Johan began, “don’t you think it looks a little like—”
A spear thumped into the ground inches from Jiriki’s boot, making the elf jump in shocked surprise.
“LSSSRIK! LSSSRIK! LSSSRIK!” This time, the croak was a chorus of many voices.
Very slowly, the Marauders turned round. They were completely surrounded by perhaps a hundred angry and agitated lizard creatures, all wielding spears, bows or blowpipes.
“Poisoned, like as not,” Grimcrag exclaimed, reaching for Old Slaughterer. A cruelly barbed arrow shot into the sand, a mere hair’s breadth away from the dwarf’s reaching fingers. He hurriedly snatched his hand back, and a glassy grin crept over his face. For the first time in years, Grimcrag Grunsonn faced a multitude of foes without his trusty axe in his hand. In his heart of hearts, Grimcrag knew that this did nothing good for their odds of winning. It also made him horribly embarrassed. Caught short, he flushed bright red.
The lizards advanced, hissing noisily and brandishing their impressively sharp-looking weapons.
“Don’t worry, Grimcrag, I won’t tell anyone… even if this whole tragic mess is your fault!” Jiriki whispered, nodding at the dwarf’s axe.
Their captive lizard nodded knowledgeably and burped almost to itself. “S’Rikkitiz!”
Inexorably the Marauders were being forced up to the top of the pyramid, where Johan stood swaying in the intense heat of the sun. Grimcrag could see his axe at the base of the pyramid, apparently of little interest to the lizard creatures which ringed the pyramid, gesturing with their spears and bows. Their hissed chanting was all but deafening. The Marauders glanced nervously about them, hoping to spy some way out of their hopeless predicament.
“A pretty pickle you’ve got us into, lad, and no mistake,” Grunsonn grumbled, sitting down on the top step. “And us with no weapons ’n’all.”
Johan gasped in indignant surprise. “What do you mean, Grimcrag? It was you who said the place was deserted. It was you that drank their beer.” The young man pointed at the axe the dwarf clutched. “And what do you call that thing, a toothpick?”
Grimcrag was clutching his spare axe, Orcflayer, in one scarred paw, but his miserable countenance spoke volumes. “It’s not the same. Just don’t feel right. It’s all in the runes, y’see.” The dwarf gestured vaguely with the deadly looking axe at the throng of lizards before them. “If them things kill me while I’m not using Ole Slaughterer, I’ll, I’ll…” His voice choked, and a tear crept into the old dwarf’s eye. Grimcrag cast a shamefaced gaze at his boots. When he spoke again, it was with a small and tremulous voice. “Well, I’ll just never live it down.”
Jiriki slapped the dwarf on the back of his head, knocking his helm down over his eyes. “Stop being so pathetic, Grunsonn; we’ve been through worse that this, just.” The elf stood steely-eyed beside young Anstein, an arrow nocked in his fine elven bow.
At that moment, their attention was drawn to a commotion on the edge of the clearing. A huge lizardman, bigger than the others and bedecked in all manner of feathers, bones and other dubious finery, strode towards the pyramid. The creature had almost blue-black skin, and in one scaly clawed hand it wielded a long staff. As the Marauders watched, lightning-blue flames glittered balefully around its tip.
“Uh oh, they’ve got magic.” Johan manoeuvred himself behind the statue.
A crackling bolt of blue energy surged towards them, but even though it was lying at the base of the pyramid, the potent runes on Old Slaughterer drew and earthed the seething forces emanating from the shaman’s staff. After a moment, the lizardman stopped trying to immolate the Marauders and stood nonplussed, its head cocked on one side like a bird. It studied them intently for a minute or so, then squawked something at its fawning retinue. They scuttled off and returned moments later, bearing some heavy-duty nets. The Shaman nodded up at the warriors, and licked its thin lips expectantly.
On top of the pyramid, Grimcrag stood up and set his lips in a stern pout. “Ain’t going in no net. Sharn’t. Ain’t no fish!” The dwarf looked at Johan and Jiriki, and grinned his familiar grin. “Dunno what came over me, lads!” Setting his helm to its correct angle, he whispered quietly to himself. “Me old dad always said ‘It’s not the axe as makes the dwarf’, and ’appen he was right.”
“I hear you, my friend. Now is not the time for carping,” Jiriki agreed. “Let’s do it!”
“Oh heavens, there are hundreds of them, with magic and nets. We’re bound to die now, aren’t we?” muttered Johan, more in anger than fear. The deathly confidence exuded by Grimcrag and Jiriki was strangely infectious, and the two older Marauders were heartened by the sound of Johan’s sword scraping clear from its scabbard.
At the base of the pyramid, twenty feet of very steep steps below them, the lizard things gathered. Looking up, they obviously weren’t too keen to climb the steps, nets or no, not into the waiting blades of three belligerent warriors who had such an obvious height advantage over them. They rasped and burped amongst themselves, and a few launched arrows up to skitter and skip on the flagstones of the pyramid.
“Come on then, frog spawn!” Johan shouted. “Come and get your legs chopped.” He turned to Grimcrag. “Shame old Grail-mad Pierre isn’t here, he loves frogs’ legs.”
Grimcrag guffawed. Jiriki smirked.
“LSSSRIKK!” the lizards croaked as one, but they did not advance. The shaman reached the bottom of the pyramid with bounding steps, and squinted up at the warriors. “Nrssssssss?” it hissed angrily at them, then rounded on its cowardly compatriots. After a few minutes of frantic hissing and croaking, the black lizard threw off its headdress in apparent disgust, and shook its mottled head resignedly. It shrugged its shoulders and pointed up beyond the pyramid top. The other lizards followed its’ gaze, and immediately went into a frenzy of excitement, hopping up and down and hissing enthusiastically.
Atop the pyramid, the Marauders watched, transfixed.
“Now what?” Grimcrag grunted.
“They seem excited about something,” Johan muttered, confused.
Jiriki turned to face the way the lizards were looking. “Sun’s going down. They’ll wait for the dark.”
The others turned and looked. There was no denying the fact that the sun was sinking fast. Already its ruddy red globe fondly touched the top most branches of the trees, and soon it would drop out of sight completely.
“It sinks so fast in these climes,” began Johan.
“No wonder neither, it puts such an effort in all day. It’s prob’ly ’zausted.”
“So what shall we do?” the elf asked.
“Do?” Grimcrag snorted. “What d’ya think we’re going to do?”
“Well,” began Johan, “I, for one do not intend being butchered in the dark.”
“That’s the spirit, young ’un. Let’s go get ’em, eh?”
“Yes, well… oh hell, why not!”
Drawing themselves to their full respective heights, the Marauders prepared for battle.
At the base of the pyramid, the lizards realised that something was about to happen, and they began to form formal ranks of shield, spear and bow.
&nbs
p; If still undecided in their hearts (and not one of them would ever admit that such was the case) the Marauders atop the pyramid had their minds made up by a familiar heavily-muscled figure who appeared in the dusk light around the path to the village. His voice reached them as a heavily accented bellow.
“Vot you vaitink for—Marauders or Mauses?” The barbarian was already at a run towards the lizards, the glitter of his sword a deadly sliver of malice in the dying rays of the sun.
“CHAAARGE!!!!” roared Grimcrag, leaping down towards the waiting lizard horde. He didn’t even turn to see if the others were following. Battle cries to the fore and now to their rear threw the lizards into total panic. Despite the entreaties of their shaman, Anstein saw them turn to flee. Their path was blocked by a charging barbarian. A barbarian who wielded a two handed sword in his right hand and a heavily scarred iron shield on his left arm. A barbarian who howled like a wolf as he charged towards the assembled hordes of reptiledom with no apparent concern for his own safety.
Tumbling down the pyramid towards the lizards’ backs, Anstein could see that this was going to get very bloody very fast. They obviously didn’t take very well to surprises.
Then something very strange happened.
Seeing the charging barbarian, the lizards flung their weapons aside, dropped to their knees and buried their heads in the sand.
Grimcrag, Jiriki and Johan came to a halt at the bottom of the pyramid. A carpet of lizard backs stretched away from them.
Grimcrag shrugged and raised his axe. “Hardly seems fair! Still, never look a gift coin and all that,” he grunted, decapitating three lizards in one blow. Jiriki stopped the slaughter by adroitly tripping the dwarf over. Black blood was splattered everywhere, but the remaining lizards sat motionless.
“Oi!” exclaimed the dwarf, dragging himself to his feet. He made for the security of Old Slaughterer.
“Leave it, Grimcrag,” Johan hissed. “Something’s happening.”
Berserk, Keanu charged onwards, dimly wondering where the enemy had gone and why the floor was all lumpy. He slowed to a loping trot, then a walk, then finally stopped. He could see Jiriki, Grimcrag and Anstein all right, but he could have sworn that there was a whole horde of… Jiriki was gesturing at his boots.
“Vot?” he bellowed, still partly berserk, peering down. He was standing on the chest of a large lizard creature, a black-skinned one bedecked in feathers and bone. He raised his sword to strike.
The lizard’s eyes bulged, but it managed to croak loudly. Keanu dropped his sword in surprise; the other Marauders did likewise. They all clearly heard the lizard shaman speak words—understandable words.
“Velkomsss God LosssErikkk. Long haff ve Vaited innit yessssss.”
The living carpet whispered at Keanu with the rustling, hissing squeak of a hundred lizard voices: “LSSSRIKKK! LSSSSSRIKKK! LSSSS-RIKKK!”
Grimcrag patted Johan on the shoulder. “I’ll be blowed! Maybe this isn’t going to be so bad after all!”
Six months in paradise was probably enough for anyone. It was certainly enough for Johan Anstein. Much as he enjoyed lying on a beach being feted as a god by proxy—just knowing Keanu seemed to be enough to get you in the club—Johan knew that there was a whole world out there over the horizon, just waiting for the unique influence of Grunsonn’s Marauders.
Still, he had had time to write up their adventures in his journal, the food was good, the natives friendly (except for the odd hostile glare from the extended families of those accidentally killed by Grimcrag and Keanu) and the weather beyond compare. As he curled his toes lazily in the warm sand, Johan pondered on his companions.
Grimcrag, certainly, was unusually happy, what with his beer and the cave full of gold which the dwarf was lovingly transferring to their patched-up and extended rowing boat in his secret cove. Johan sighed contentedly.
Only Jiriki was unhappy with the situation, his wanderlust frustrated by the confines of the small island. The elf had become quite solitary of late, taking to long sojourns along the cliff-tops on the lookout for ships. He had even built some warning beacons out of dead brushwood. He had meticulously timed the tides, how long it took to get a fire going, run to the boat and get out to sea. Johan really couldn’t see the point, and hoped that Jiriki would perhaps relax a little when he realised that they truly were in the lap of the gods regarding rescue. They had not had so much as a sniff of a sail since their arrival six months ago.
Still, it was sunny and warm every day of the week… maybe they could stay awhile longer yet. Actually, it wasn’t as if they had any real choice in the matter. Jiriki should jolly well wake up and—
His thoughts were interrupted by a familiar rasping voice.
“Ansssstein, ’vake?” The voice was that of Froggo, Johan’s adopted lizardman. The young creature—apparently they called themselves ‘skinkz’ in their native tongue—followed Anstein everywhere, eager to learn as much as it could of the big, wide world beyond its island home.
“Yes, Froggo, me lad, I’m awake. Just musing.” Johan turned to look at the skink, which as usual sat a respectful distance away from its adopted mentor. On matters of gender, when pressed, the creatures had been ambiguous to say the least, and Johan was none too sure if Froggo was in fact a boy or a girl, or even whether they made such distinctions. Johan had pigeon-holed Froggo (he had quickly realised that he had no way in this world of being able to pronounce the creature’s real name, which sounded like a cistern being flushed) as being a boy, for neatness’ sake more than anything else.
“Musink?” the skink enquired, blinking its toad-like eyes and scratching a leathery patch of skin under its long chin. “Vot meaninksss?”
“Another word for thinking, sort of… You know, your accent is terrible, Froggo; abominable, in fact!” Johan turned over and lazily threw a small stick at the reptile, which dodged nimbly out of the way. In return, it cheekily threw a small pebble which hit Johan square on the forehead.
“But better zan yoursss in my ssspeaks yessssss?” the lizard creature quipped, making the loud hissing noise in the back of its throat that Johan had learned passed for laughter in skink.
Johan jumped to his feet and chased the small scampering creature back to the village. It was nearly time for lunch.
Behind them, on the furthest visible reach of the ocean, the small black speck of a sail hove into view over the horizon. On a nearby cliff-top, a thin plume of black smoke clawed its way upwards into the heavy air.
In his cave, Grimcrag worked tirelessly, piling yet more gold artefacts into the boat and tying them securely down. As he worked, he endlessly muttered to himself under his breath: “Can’t last, got to be a catch. Can’t last, got to be a catch.”
The dwarf’s arms and armour were stacked neatly to one side of the cave, glittering from the sparkling reflections cast by the clear water. The mouth of the cave was perhaps a hundred feet distant, a patch of white heat against the shadowy black of the cave. The slap-slap of water kept a constant rhythm by which the dwarf worked, stacking the gold items one at a time in a strange looking boat which was moored beside a natural stone jetty.
The boat was an odd mongrel contraption, new wood gleaming against older, more battered timbers. Its prow bore a proud dragon head, and there was provision for a small mast. Four old and rusted shields lined each side of the vessel, one to protect each of the oars which dipped into the cool waters of the cave. A bigger, steering oar was mounted at the higher stern, and the boat looked to be just what it was—a mix between the wreck of their rowing boat and a much older Norse longboat.
The soft pattering of booted feet disturbed the dwarf, and he instinctively reached for his trusty axe. A moment later and Jiriki’s sun-tanned face peered into the cave. The elf had taken the most naturally to the tropical climate, and now looked healthier than the dwarf had ever seen him. “Grimcrag?” he called, and from his tone, the dwarf knew that something was of grave concern. He stepped from the shadows. “Here, Jiriki�
��what’s up, old friend?”
The elf strode into the cave, grinning at the boat despite himself. He pointed at Grimcrag’s construction and tapped a foot impatiently. “Will that thing really float out of there?” The elf nodded towards the cave mouth. “Weighed down by so much gold?”
Grimcrag spat on the floor, disgusted by the temerity of such a question. “Course it will! What do you take me for?” The dwarf stomped up to the elf and prodded him with a stubby callused finger. “While you lot’ve bin living it up with yer froggy friends,” Grimcrag’s arm swept around the cave as evidence of his industry, “some of us ’ave bin working blimming hard!”
The elf clapped Grimcrag on the shoulder and smiled. “Splendid, my industrious friend, splendid. You know that, of all of us, I am least happy with our predicament, and now, we may have… an opportunity.” Jiriki headed back to the rear entrance to the cave, before turning once more to face the bemused dwarf. “Come on, Grimcrag. We’ll be using that boat of yours sooner than you’d imagine, I’ll wager!”
“What do you mean?” Grimcrag began. “I’m not using it for fishing, nor joyrides neither—look what happened last time…”
Jiriki winked conspiratorially as he stepped out into the daylight. His lilting voice drifted back into the cave. “Come on, Grimcrag, grab your axe too—the tide’s rising, the beacon’s lit. By my estimation we have no more than an hour!”
“It’s the sun, isn’t it?” The dwarf frowned as he grabbed his axe. “That, and all the time you’ve spent moping around those cliff-tops.”
But Jiriki was off and running. His last words, echoing around the cavern, persuaded the old dwarf that something important was happening: “I’ve spied a sail. We have company!”
Keanu sat on his bamboo throne, two skinks fanning him with the feathers of some particularly large and gaudily-plumaged bird. Swathed in garlands of exotic flowers, the barbarian drank warm beer from his helmet; his feet rested in a bowl of cool water, which was replenished regularly by more scurrying minions. He faced out onto the village square, where the now spotlessly clean pyramid reared up into the sky.
Tales of the Old World Page 24
