On top of the pyramid, Keanu’s likeness, or something approaching it, stared back at the barbarian. If he squinted hard, the entire village had a distinctly Norse look. Keanu sighed contentedly. If only it were nice and cold.
The Reaver burped loudly. “Fang, da Legend vunce more, ’f ya pleez.” Keanu gestured languidly at the black-skinned shaman, who stood in his ceremonial place beside the throne. He had named all the skinks in his “hearth-guard” after his wolf hounds back home in Norsca.
Keanu fondly thought of the band of heavily-armed reptilian warriors as his very own Berserkers, although none of them had, as yet, betrayed any leanings towards going berserk at all. “Not got the temperament fer it,” Grimcrag had explained at the last banquet, whilst Jiriki maintained that it was something to do with their blood being cold, or some such typical elf nonsense.
On a cue from Fang the shaman, a bigger lizard creature, stripped down to a loincloth, banged heartily on a brass gong strung up on sturdy wooden poles beside the throne.
Within minutes, the clearing was alive with skinks, all jostling for places from where they could hear the story again. Being a Norse barbarian himself, Keanu appreciated good tales. In his consideration, like a good wine, they improved with age. Not that any wine which came Keanu’s way got the chance to enjoy its autumn years, but the principle was, he felt, a sound one.
After a while, the hubbub in the small square died down. Fang cleared his throat to speak the story on which the skink island civilisation was founded. With an imperious wave of his massive arms, Keanu bade Fang be silent. Standing, the barbarian addressed the assembled throng. Agog, they listened intently.
“Today,” Keanu began, his eyes sweeping the appreciative crowd, “today I’m tellink da Saga, ja?”
“Ya, yesssss, ya!” the lizards chorused, rocking backwards and forward in delight. Fang smiled benignly and nodded his crested head.
“I’m keepink ’im short, koz nearly Dinna time,” the barbarian continued, striding to the front of the crowd. Already, a bunch of skinks stood ready to perform the odd ritualistic actions which always accompanied the story.
Keanu grinned: what a stupid bunch of lizards. He’d heard the story enough times that he knew it off by heart, almost felt it was of his doing. He’d give them a story to remember. He began, his voice echoing loud and strong across the clearing.
“Und so beginz da Saga of da Voyage of Erik da Lost, Great God Warrior of Norsca, und how he brought Kulture und Beer to Paradise.”
The miming lizards were ahead of Keanu already, making rowing actions as they envisaged the ship of Eric the Lost ploughing across the mighty oceans to this small island. Looking around, Keanu could see that the majority of the lizards had their eyes closed, broad grins of contentment splitting their leathery faces.
And so, at least for a few minutes, Keanu escaped from the real world of reaving and death, as he told the age-old story of Eric, great warrior king, and his voyage across the sea. He told of mighty storms and huge sea monsters (several mimers became carried away and bit each other at this point), of treacherous rocks and wicked pirates. He told of strange lands populated by strange creatures, of mighty heroes and deeds of wonder. And he told of how, after many years of travelling, Eric arrived at this fair land, which he took to be the fabled land of Lustria, and named it Ericland.
Keanu looked around the band of skinks and almost laughed aloud. He still couldn’t really believe the next part of the story himself, although there was proof enough for anyone. The skinks doing the actions were confused by Keanu’s expression: normally the story didn’t stop here, and they were repeatedly miming planting a flag in the earth. Keanu hastily drew a breath and continued.
Eric and his wise heroes had stormed the island, killing all of the great lizard monsters who had once lived here. (Fang had showed Keanu the cave full of bones, and the barbarian had been truly impressed—Eric had certainly known how to fight judging by the size of some of the skeletons.) He liberated the skinks to true civilisation: true speech, freedom… and beer.
The next part of the story almost stuck in the barbarian’s throat, such was the enormity of the lie. Now he told of how Eric and his noble followers had revealed the true horror of that evil and glittering substance known as “Golt”, and how those brave and selfless Norsemen had liberated the skinks from the horrid material of which they had so much, and hidden it in a far distant cave, never to trouble their idyllic lives again.
And finally, Keanu told of how the day dawned when Eric and his band of warriors had proven the true depths of their selfless love, by setting sail away from the island in their ship full of the hated gold, simply to get rid of it once and for all. Several of the skinks were weeping great salty tears at this part of the story, and not for the first time, Keanu marvelled at their gullible nature.
“Ja, but too much Golt was there for vun Schip, so as he vent avay, Eric was makink da Promise, ja?” Keanu shouted the words at the throng. They were all staring, a hundred pairs of unblinking eyes fixed on his face, hanging on every syllable. “Und vot was dat Promise?” Keanu implored, secretly pleased with his performance.
As one voice, the skinks shrieked the words which ended the story every time it was told. Their voices echoed around the jungle, and several flocks of multi coloured birds took flight in terror. “I VILL BE BACK FOR DA GOLD—SSSO DON’T TOUCH, JA?”
Exhausted, the assembly fell silent, and Keanu fell back onto his throne, gesturing for beer. The crowd abruptly erupted into applause, as they hooted and hissed and slapped their tails on the ground.
Fang smiled. His prophecies over the years had been borne out. He was the true priest of Erikkk. Everyone now knew that Eric had kept his promise, even if his warriors had changed a bit over the years. Especially the short, grubby, bearded one.
At that moment, the spell was broken as Johan, Froggo, Jiriki and Grimcrag rushed into the village square, panting and out of breath.
“Kean—Eric!” Johan shouted. “We’ve got to go!”
“Vot? Going vere?”
“Forty-five minutes now!” Jiriki added.
The skinks were somewhat agitated, for they were not used to such an abrupt ending. Usually, when Fang was telling it, they got a good hour’s sun bathing after such an energetic story, or at last half an hour in the cool water of the pond.
Jiriki ran over to the bemused barbarian, and whispered in his ear. The effect was electrifying. Like a scalded cat, Keanu was on his feet, weapons grabbed and running across the clearing in one fluid motion. The throng of skinks blinked and hissed uncertainly. Fang frowned, unsure as to what his lord was doing.
Jiriki ran after Keanu, shoving him in the back to keep him moving. Grimcrag and the others had already vanished down the path to the cave, the dwarf showing a surprising turn of speed.
Shaking himself free of the elf’s grasp, Keanu glared at Jiriki and turned to face his villagers. “Not Vurryink,” he hissed at Jiriki, before turning and bellowing at the hundred or so lizards. “Now is da Time!” he began, raising his sword to the air. “My Berserkers—Volf pack, Bear soldiers, Schnow Leopards, now is your Time to fight!”
The most inappropriately named groups of skinks scuttled off to collect weapons, growling and snapping at each other. A nimbus of blue fire already played around the tip of Fang’s ceremonial staff.
“What are you doing?” Jiriki snapped, dancing agitatedly from foot to foot. “We don’t have time for this.” Keanu pushed the elf away and faced the skinks again.
“Now ve must be goink!” Keanu stabbed himself in the chest with his forefinger. “Me, Erik, und my Varriors!” He grinned, showing sharp white teeth. The lizards were starting to look crestfallen. “But not to be Vorryink! No! Ve take all da nasti Golt vith us to da land beyont da sea!”
At this, the skinks looked mightily relieved, and his “Berserkers” started to look worried that there might be nothing to fight about after all. Keanu put them right, as he backed slowly away f
rom them down the trail.
“A ship full of evil men is Komink, friends of, er, da big dead Lizart Monsters,” the barbarian improvised magnificently. “Ya! S’right! Lizart friends komink to take you away! You stop them, ja? Stop them, my friend Fank! Lead skinkz to victor, ja?”
At this, Jiriki and Keanu turned tail and fled along the jungle path, heading to the boat and hopefully a slim chance at escape. Behind them, they heard growing chanting and shouting as the skinks prepared to fight for their island.
“You certainly got them going,” Jiriki gasped as they plunged down the muddy trail, vines whipping their faces as they ran.
“I’m makink da Divershun—they’ll have to get everyvun ashore from da ship for da fight!” Keanu answered. “Vot’s da Hurri?”
“Diversion? Excellent plan!” Jiriki abruptly darted down a side trail. “This way, Keanu. Tide’s rising fast and we still have to get the boat out of the cave!”
A few minutes later and they burst onto the stony path which led to the cave. Hearts pounding, they had covered the distance to the mooring harbour in a scant five minutes. Ahead, Jiriki could see Johan dashing into the entry tunnel, and he knew it was a fair bet that Grimcrag was there already. Despite his bulk and shape, the dwarf could put on a ferocious burst of speed when need be. Particularly if time was of the essence, and the reward might be escape to freedom with a vast fortune in pure gold.
They plunged into the darkness of the cave, and headed for the heavily loaded boat. If Jiriki was right, and if they were very lucky, six months of not too arduous captivity were shortly about to end.
“Avast that bilge, mister mate. Bring the mains’l forr’ard and main-brace the spinnaker!” Looking through the fine bronze telescope with his one good eye, Hook Black Pugh could see the plume of smoke rising from the island. As he studied the idyllic looking landscape, he shouted his orders over his braid-encrusted shoulder. As usual, old Yin-Tuan, first mate and veteran of a hundred such voyages, sighed resignedly and did nothing of the sort. Instead, the hulking first mate gave out a string of clipped, near-intelligible orders to the cut-throats who leaned eagerly over the port bulwark. As if already stung by the barbed whip hanging at Yin-Tuan’s belt, the pirates brought the vessel around with a speed and efficiency which belied their ragged looks.
Pugh turned to his second officer, “Teachy” Bligh, and sighed loudly. “Aaargh, Bligh me lad, as fine an island fer a-plunderin as I ever did see!”
Bligh, hailing from Sartosa, was a nasty piece of work, all muscle and psychopathic intent. A grim smile split his normally emotionless face, and a familiar glitter came to his black eyes. “Only island we’ve seen this past six month, sir. Lads need a bit of pillagin’.” He half-pulled his cutlass from its orcskin scabbard and looked around as if intending to pillage something right here, right now.
Pugh grabbed Bligh’s hand and tutted. “Now, now, Teachy boy, there baint none o’them Cathay slaves left to a-play with, you’ve bin and pillaged ’em all.” The pirate captain held his hook under Pugh’s nose. The spike glittered menacingly in the sunlight. “Yer don’t want to go a-makin’ me cross again, does yer?” Hook Black made a thrusting, twisting action with the hook. “Or it might be spiky time fer you again!”
Bligh blanched visibly and clenched his legs tightly together. With a disconsolate grunt, he pushed his cutlass back into its scabbard. “Okay boss, okay. I din’t mean nowt. S’just…” Bligh’s voice died away and a cunning animal gleam came into his black, dead eyes. “The lads needs a good pillage, is all—they say it’s bad luck as kept us away from land or plunder for the past six month, bad luck of that there Bretonnian gold we stole!”
Bligh stepped back, ready to make a run for it. After a moment’s silence, however, his captain began rocking to and fro, giggling to himself merrily. The braid on his salt-stained jacket swayed with his rocking, and the faded medals on his once-red sash jangled in the sunshine. Throwing his black bearded head backwards, the pirate captain gave out a huge bellow of laugher.
“Curse o’ the Grunsonns, is it?” he guffawed.
“Yer, that’s right!” Bligh affirmed, looking around the rest of the crew for moral support. None was to be had: they all seemed to be busy swabbing decks or preparing cannons. A good few of them had climbed the rigging of the mainmast and were studiously making long needed repairs to the tattered expanse of a hundred bits of ancient stitched canvas that passed for the sail on the Dirty Dog.
Pugh’s laughter abruptly stopped, and he stomped his iron tipped peg leg hard on the wooden planking of his bridge. When next he spoke, it was with the deathly calm he usually reserved for the last words his victim was destined to hear. He pointed his hook down at Bligh, who grinned nervously and held up his hands in something approaching an attitude of apology.
“Lissen, Mister Bligh, and lissen good!” Hook Black Pugh pulled his shabby tricorn down over his forehead, and glowered the length of the ship. “And that goes double fer you lot of scurvy blaggards. Even you, Mr. Yin-Tin-Tong or whatever your name is!” He swept the fearful crew with his steely eye. “You might be better sailors than I’ll ever be…”
The pirates all exchanged confused looks at this frank admission, most unlike their hated captain.
“But!” Pugh turned back to face his crew, and there was fire in his voice. “Tis my ship! My letter of marque from our Tilean Lords—” at this, all the pirates, including Pugh, made elaborate mock bows to one another, “—and my leadership what’s got us an ’old full o’gold to take ’ome.”
Pugh paused to let the truth sink in. “And now, me hearties, we have discovered a new island for our gracious lords.” (More mock bowing.) Pugh shook his right hand at the island, fast hoving into full view, his filthy lace cuffs dropping crumbs of bread and other detritus onto the floor.
“So break out the rum, me lads, and make it a double, fer today we makes our fortunes from our proud and noble patrons!” This time the pirates’ bows were most sincere. Pugh held a finger to his lips as the cheers began to swell, “ain’t finished yet.”
He turned and pointed once more at the island. “We’ll call it Pugh-land, and it’ll be a most profitable watering ’ole and stop off point for the fleets of Tilea, Bretonnia, Estalia, maybe even the Empire toffs.” He closed his eyes and a blissful smile split his raggedly bearded chin. “Oh yes, me lads, and a bounty we will collect from each and every one. So no more bloody yellow talk of bad luck! That dwarf is dead and gone this six month back!”
The ship erupted into cheers and whoops as the avaricious gang envisioned the glories and riches to come. Bligh smiled menacingly and wondered how he could get rid of Pugh for good.
At that moment, the foppish voice of keen-eye Dando in the crow’s nest rang out: “War canoes, loads of ’em… and they’re full o’bloomin’ frogs!”
As one, the pirates rushed to the side of the ship and peered towards the island. Sure enough, a score or more slender canoes were heading straight for them. As Pugh focused on the lead vessel, he could make out a dozen or so fiercely betoothed lizards working hard at the paddles. Standing in the prow of the boat was a mean looking black-skinned lizard, wielding a large staff, about which a nimbus of light flickered ominously.
Hook Black Pugh snapped his telescope closed and turned to face his crew. He grinned maliciously. “Tides a’risin’ fast! Yin-Tin, turn her about. Grog-boy, open the gun ports. Teachy, get ready fer boardin’. Looks like we got us a fight!”
Like a well oiled machine, the pirates went straight to battle stations, the Dirty Dog heeling around so that her port guns faced the oncoming canoes. In short order, the barrels were run out of the gun ports, ten lethal iron-cast eyes staring grimly out at the frail craft of the lizardmen.
Pugh raised his scimitar, sunlight glinting off the oiled blade. On the foredeck, Yin-Tuan frowned and gestured with a brawny arm.
“Cap’n—”
“Not now, Yin-Tin!”
“But the elevation—”
&
nbsp; “FIRE!” Pugh’s blade swept down, and the world erupted in a roaring cloud of smoke and fire, as ten cannon balls hurtled towards the hapless lizardmen. Already several canoes were turning about to head back towards the relative safety of the cove.
They need not have worried. As the wily Yin-Tuan had realised, the small canoes were already inside the arc of fire of the great cannons, and their deadly cargo crashed over the heads of the desperately paddling skinks to turn the sea beyond into a welter of threshing foam.
“Fire lower, you idiots!” Pugh screamed, but the great cannons were already at their lowest elevation.
“Cap’n, no need to waste any more shot—the toads is runnin’ away!” Yin-Tuan grinned toothlessly, his scrawny arm gesticulating excitedly over the side of the ship.
Pugh spun around, telescope raised to his eye. “Aaargh, it be so!” The captain continued staring down the tube, scratching his beard with his hook. “And they be putting a fair old distance between us and them ’hall… are we a-driftin’ with the tide, Mr. Mate?”
With a timeworn sigh, Yin-Tuan gently prised his captain’s fingers from the telescope and turned the brass tube around. Pugh visibly started, and his hat fell off, revealing a balding pate surrounded by a scraggy mop of stringy black hair.
“Aaargh! We can catch the scurvy frogs!” Pugh folded the telescope and secreted it in the voluminous folds of his jacket. Grabbing hold of a bell rope, he gestured with his hook over the port side of the galleon. As the action stations bell rang loud and clear over the still waters of the lagoon, Pugh squinted at the receding canoes. The manic glint which normally preceded grand slaughter was in the pirate’s eye, and his thin lips were wet with spittle. “Aaargh, me brave lads! Lower the boats, drop anchor, boarding all crew, women and children first, take no prisoners!” His cut-throat crew made for the boats, carrying marlin spikes, muskets and cutlasses.
Tales of the Old World Page 25
