Gotrek and Felix: The Anthology (2 page)

‘Then who would do your remembering for you?’ asked Henrik.

Agnar just chuckled and had another drink. Gotrek eyed him with an expression halfway between pity and disgust. Felix felt a similar emotion, and was going to make his excuses when Henrik turned to him again.

‘And what brings you to Karak Azgal?’ he asked. ‘Going after some horror of the deeps?’

‘A spider called the White Widow,’ said Felix. ‘We heard rumour of it in Ekrund. As big as a steam tank, they said.’

‘You’re here for the same?’ asked Gotrek.

Henrik laughed. ‘Fear not, Slayer. There are dooms for all in the halls of the Dragon Crag. No, we came hoping to fight a monster of Chaos it is said lurks in the very deepest part of the mines, but another menace has risen that prevents us from descending.’

‘What’s that?’ asked Felix.

‘Orcs,’ said Agnar.

‘Did you not hear old Thorgrin’s criers in the street as you came in?’ asked Henrik.

‘“Make your fortune and save the hold”?’ asked Felix.

‘That’s the one,’ said Henrik. ‘And it needs saving. Thorgrin is desperate. Apparently, a warboss by the name of Gutgob Stinkfoot has conquered all the orcs that live in the lower depths, and is stirring them up to make war on the hold above. Thorgrin fears Gutgob has the numbers to wipe out Karak Azgal and Deadgate both and he’s recruiting everyone who can hold a weapon to help him make a stand.’

‘The orcs stand between us and our dooms?’ asked Gotrek.

‘And Thorgrin,’ said Henrik. ‘He has forbidden entry into the hold until the greenskins are dealt with. The only way to get in is to sign up with his throng.’

Gotrek snorted. ‘Let me hunt this spider, and I’ll kill any orcs I find on the way.’

‘He wants an army,’ said Agnar, shaking his head. ‘Anyone acting alone lessens the troops he can field.’

Gotrek growled and took another drink.

‘But he’ll let anyone who fights into the depths afterwards, without paying the treasure hunting licence?’ asked Felix.

Henrik nodded. ‘It’s not a bad deal. But I know a better one.’

‘What’s that?’ asked Gotrek.

Henrik jerked his thumb at the bar. ‘Louis Lanquin, who owns this place, has got Thorgrin’s go-ahead to raise a regiment of his own, to fight alongside the dwarfs. He’s paying twice what Thorgrin is paying, and he’ll pay the licence fee for any who are in at the kill.’

‘And why would he spend all this coin?’

‘A simple matter of economics, friend dwarf,’ said an accented voice behind Felix.

Felix turned and saw a richly dressed man with oiled blond hair and lace at his throat and cuffs stepping towards the table. He had a paunch and a double chin, but the breadth of his shoulders and the scar that crossed his nose at the bridge spoke of a more vigorous past. His eyes too had the keen alertness of a fighting man, no matter that he tried to hide it with a merry twinkle.

‘I am Louis Lanquin of Quenelles, at your service,’ he said, bowing with a flourish of his hand.

Felix inclined his head politely. ‘Felix Jaeger and Gotrek Gurnisson, at yours,’ he said. ‘And my compliments to your cellar. We were surprised to find Bugman’s here.’

Lanquin quirked a smile. ‘Another enticement to woo men – and dwarfs – to my cause. Those who sign with me will drink free in my establishment for the rest of their lives.’

‘Why?’ asked Gotrek again.

Lanquin put his hand to his breast. ‘Thane Thorgrin is not the only one to have a stake in the survival of this town. The dwarfs may rob the treasure seekers coming and going with their tolls for entry and their taxes on what is taken from the hold, but there is still enough left in their pockets afterwards for a poor innkeeper to make a living. I do well here, and I would like to continue to do well, and I do not have the confidence that Thorgrin’s few recruits will guarantee that. Thus–’ He produced a stack of four gold coins between his fingers as if by magic, then set it on the table. ‘I am willing to make a substantial outlay now, in order to assure continued return in the years to come.’

He divided the stack in two and slid two gold coins towards Gotrek, and two towards Felix. ‘Monsieurs Agnar and Henrik have signed on. What say you join them? With warriors of your calibre in our ranks, we are sure to win.’

Felix looked to Gotrek. This was his to answer.

The Slayer stared at the gold with a dwarf’s usual reverence, but at last he shook his head. ‘A Slayer who finds his doom needs neither gold nor ale afterwards. Your reward is meaningless.’

Agnar blinked at this statement, as if he hadn’t considered it that way before, and Lanquin looked as if he were going to make another argument, but finally he shrugged and took back his gold.

‘As you will, friend dwarf,’ he said. ‘Perhaps you will change your mind. Until then, drink your fill. It is on the house.’

Felix groaned. Giving free beer to a Slayer was sure to lead to fighting and property damage, and the prospect of paying more gold to Lanquin than he had offered in order to repair tables, chairs and broken windows loomed large before him, but to his surprise, Gotrek was practically abstemious for the rest of the night. He only drank ten mugs of Bugman’s, and did little more than exchange war stories with Agnar. Felix did the same with Henrik, enjoying himself despite the mocking tone the man put into every tale he told. Henrik might be a blowhard, but he knew Felix’s every concern and complaint. He laughed at jokes and stories that only another rememberer would understand. He had known the loneliness and the homesickness and the cold nights in the middle of nowhere. He had suffered through the rages and black moods of his companion. He had made the hair’s breadth escapes and survived the wounds and fevers that were an inescapable part of following a Slayer. Henrik might not be Felix’s friend, but he was his brother. That could not be denied.

3

After sleeping the
night at the Grail, Gotrek and Felix woke to a light but steady rain that soaked them to the skin as they trudged up the muddy zigzag path to Skalf’s Hold, the dwarfs’ above-ground settlement built upon the ruins of Karak Azgal.

Walking with Gotrek through the dragon-mouthed gate in the thick stone walls at the top of the broad plateau, Felix was struck with wonder. There could not have been a greater contrast between the town on the hill and the town in the valley. Within the hold’s walls was a tidy grid of neatly paved, rain-washed streets, all lined with squat stone houses and commercial buildings of dwarfish design, and all immaculately cared for. There was no trash in the gutters, and the only smell was that of someone baking bread. Felix had seen dwarf riches before – vast, gilded chambers deep underground – but this modest holdfast in the middle of the moonscape of the Worlds Edge Mountains struck him as more ostentatious than the most lavish guild hall. It was as if some nobleman had allowed his beautiful daughter to walk naked and unescorted through the worst slums of Altdorf. She might not show any outward display of wealth, but the noble’s confidence in her safety spoke of great reserves of hidden power.

Gotrek grumbled under his breath as they walked towards the keep that rose in the centre of the town. ‘Not proper. A dressed-up defeat.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Felix.

Gotrek snorted. ‘The kin of Skalf Dragonslayer lost Karak Azgal, and couldn’t win it back. Instead they built a town on top of it and charged others to do their fighting for them.’ He flashed a thick-fingered hand at the prosperous houses. ‘All this was built not on mining or smithing. It was built on fees and taxes taken from the fools who come to seek their fortune below.’

Felix looked around again, seeing it in a new light. ‘So it’s no different than Deadgate.’

‘Aye,’ said Gotrek. ‘A marble-walled cesspit instead of a clapboard one.’

The streets around
the town’s central keep were filled with heavily armed dwarfs with the dragon of Karak Azgal on their shields, as well as a more motley collection of mercenaries, adventurers and fighting men, all hunching stoically in the rain. The square to the north of the keep had been turned into a makeshift military camp, with tents of all shapes and descriptions lined up in ragged rows. Recruiters were out in force, offering Thane Thorgrin’s coin to fight the greenskins, and ale and food sellers were carting their wares around in barrows and doing brisk business with the troops and applicants.

Gotrek ignored it all and strode through the open doors of the keep itself. A table had been set up under a tent in the middle of the courtyard, and would-be warriors were lined up to make their mark in the recruitment book. Gotrek ignored this too and stumped towards a door that led into the keep itself. The dwarf guards who stood on either side of it stepped in his way, and a dwarf sergeant crossed to him, his hand on his axe.

‘What’s your business here, Slayer?’

‘I want a licence to enter the hold,’ said Gotrek. ‘I seek the cave spider.’

‘Licences are not being issued,’ said the sergeant. ‘Not until Stinkfoot’s been dealt with. You want to go down, join up. You’ll have plenty of fighting.’

‘I don’t care about your fight. I go to my doom.’

The sergeant’s eyes went cold. ‘You don’t want to help your race? You don’t want to help your brothers save their hold?’

Gotrek spat at his feet. ‘You don’t want to save the hold. You want to save your little sky-bare surface town so you can go on selling licences and candle stubs.’

‘
What
did you say?’ The sergeant’s eyes had gone from ice to fire in a blink.

Felix swallowed and dropped his hand to his hilt. If this came to blows it would be bad. Gotrek might find his doom at the hands of fellow dwarfs, or worse, he might slaughter half the settlement.

‘If you saved the hold,’ continued Gotrek. ‘You’d lose all your business. You’d have to work for a living.’

‘Get out,’ said the sergeant through clenched teeth. ‘Before I throw you out. We don’t want help from the likes of you.’

‘On the contrary,’ said a voice from behind him. ‘A Slayer is just what I need.’

The sergeant looked around as a white-bearded dwarf in gromril plate stepped through the door into the rain, followed by a retinue of dwarf Hammerers. The sergeant and the guards saluted him but he looked only at Gotrek. He had a bulging gut beneath a breastplate that had been custom-made to accommodate it, and a round, pink face under his white beard. He looked like a shop keep, but the fine armour and the deference of the guards said otherwise.

‘Thane Thorgrin,’ said the sergeant. ‘I was just removing this–’

‘Stand down, Sergeant Holdborn,’ said the thane, then nodded to Gotrek. ‘Your assessment of the situation is harsh but accurate, Slayer. We have profited from the loss of the hold, but better that than abandon it altogether. The sale of all those candle stubs will one day allow us to raise an army strong enough to purge the depths once and for all.’

‘And meanwhile you let greenskins nest in the halls of your ancestors and grant licences to fools to be eaten by them.’

The rotund thane smiled. ‘I have often thought that it was much easier for a dwarf to be uncompromising when he intended to die at his earlier opportunity.’

Gotrek snorted and turned back towards the gates. ‘I’ll go back to the Bretonnian. At least he’s an honest thief.’

‘Go if you wish,’ said Thorgrin as Felix started after the Slayer. ‘But I can give you one thing the innkeeper can’t.’

Gotrek kept walking.

‘The lair of the White Widow,’ called the thane. ‘My scouts have found its location.’

Gotrek stopped, then turned back.

‘Help us defeat the greenskins,’ said Thorgrin. ‘And I will tell you where it lives.’

‘Where do I sign?’ said Gotrek.

By the time
Gotrek and Felix had penned their names in Thorgrin’s book and received his coin, and been told to report back to the keep the next morning before sunrise for the thane’s big push into the hold, the earlier light rain had become a downpour. It came straight down in sheets so thick it was impossible to see more than five paces in any direction, and the gutters of Skalf’s Hold’s cobbled streets were swift-running streams a foot deep.

Deadgate had no cobbled streets or gutters, and was consequently a swamp. By the time Gotrek and Felix had made their way down the zigzag path and passed through the settlement’s eastern gate, they were slogging through knee-high mud, and the streets had emptied completely, the doors and shutters of the ramshackle inns and houses closed tight against the torrent. The place might have been a ghost town.