[Gotrek & Felix 03] - Daemonslayer

  DAEMONSLAYER

  Gotrek & Felix - 03

  William King

  “After the dire events in Nuln we travelled northwards, for the most part following back roads, lest the Emperor’s roadwardens come upon us. The arrival of the dwarf-borne letter had filled my companion with a strange anticipation. He seemed almost happy as we made our weary way to our goal. Neither all the long weeks of journeying, nor the threat of bandits or mutants or beastmen ever served to daunt him. He would barely stop for meat or. more unusually, drink, and would answer my questions only with muttered references to destiny, doom and old debts.

  “For myself. I was filled with anxiety and recrimination. I wondered what had happened to Elissa and I was saddened by my parting with my brother. Little did I guess how long it would be before I would meet him again, and under what strange circumstances. And little, too. did I guess how far the journey which began in Nuln was to take us, and how dreadful our eventual destination was to be.”

  —From My Travels With Gotrek, Vol. III, by Herr Felix Jaeger (Altdorf Press, 2505)

  ONE

  THE MESSAGE

  “You spilled my beer,” Gotrek Gurnisson said.

  If the man who had just knocked over the flagon possessed any sense, Felix Jaeger thought, the menacing tone of the dwarfs flat gravelly voice would have caused him to back off immediately. But the mercenary was drunk, he had half a dozen rough-looking mates back at his table and a giggling tavern girl to impress. He was not going to back down from anybody who only came up to his shoulders, even if that person was nearly twice as broad as he.

  “So? What are you going to do about it, stuntie?” the mercenary replied with a sneer.

  The dwarf eyed the spreading puddle of ale on the table for a moment with a mixture of regret and annoyance. Then he turned in his seat to look at the mercenary and ran his hand through the huge crest of red-dyed hair which towered over his shaven and tattooed head. The gold chain that ran from his nose to his ear jingled. With the elaborate care of one very drunk, Gotrek rubbed the patch covering his left eye socket, interlocked his fingers, cracked his knuckles—then suddenly lashed out with his right hand.

  It wasn’t the best punch Felix had ever seen Gotrek throw. In truth, it was clumsy and unscientific. Still, the Trollslayer’s fist was as large as a ham, and the arm that fist was attached to was as thick as a tree-trunk. Whatever it hit was going to suffer. There was a sickening crack as the man’s nose broke. The mercenary went flying back towards his own table. He sprawled unconscious on the sawdust covered floor. Red blood gushed from his nostrils.

  On considered reflection, Felix decided through his own drunken haze, as punches went it had certainly served its purpose. Given the amount of ale the Slayer had consumed it had been pretty good, in fact.

  “Anybody else want a taste of fist?” Gotrek inquired, giving the mercenary’s half-dozen comrades an evil glare. “Or are you all as soft as you look?”

  The soldier’s comrades rose from their benches, spilling foaming ale onto the table and tavern wenches from their knees. Not waiting for them to come at him, the Slayer swayed to his feet and bounded towards them. He grabbed the nearest mercenary by the throat, pulled his head forward and head-butted him. The man went down like a pole-axed ox.

  Felix took another sip of the inn’s sour Tilean wine to aid his reflections. He was already several goblets south of sober, but so what? It had been a long, hard trek all the way here to Guntersbad. They had been moving constantly ever since Gotrek had received the mysterious letter summoning them to this tavern. For a moment, Felix considered reaching into the Slayer’s pack and examining it again but he already knew that it would be a useless effort. The message had been penned in the strange runes favoured by dwarfs. By the standards of the Empire, Felix was a well-educated man but there was no way he could read that alien language. Foiled by his own ignorance, Felix stretched his long legs, yawned and gave his attention back to the brawl.

  It had been brewing all night. Ever since they had entered the Dog and Donkey, the local hard boys had been staring at them. They had started by making nasty remarks about the Slayer’s appearance. For once, Gotrek had paid not the slightest attention, which was very unusual. Usually he was as touchy as a penniless Tilean duke and as short-tempered as a wolverine with toothache. Since receiving the message, however, he had become withdrawn, oblivious to anything but his own excitement. All he had done all evening was watch the door as if expecting somebody he knew to arrive.

  At first Felix had been quite worried by the prospect of a brawl but several flagons of the Tilean red had soon helped settle his nerves. He had doubted that anybody would be stupid enough to pick a fight with the Trollslayer. He had reckoned without the sheer native ignorance of the locals. After all, this was a small town on the road to Talabheim. How could they be expected to know what Gotrek was?

  Even Felix, who had studied at the University of Altdorf, had never heard of the dwarfs” Cult of Slayers until the long-ago night when Gotrek had pulled him from under the hooves of the Emperor’s elite cavalry during the Window Tax riots back in Altdorf. On the mad drunken spree which followed, he had discovered that Gotrek was sworn to seek death in combat with the fiercest of monsters to atone for some past crime. Felix had been so impressed by the Slayer’s tale—and to tell the truth, so drunk—that he had sworn to accompany the dwarf and record his doom in an epic poem. The fact that Gotrek had not yet found his doom, despite some heroic efforts, had done nothing to reduce Felix’s respect for his toughness.

  Gotrek slammed a fist into another man’s stomach. His opponent doubled over as the air whooshed out of his lungs. Gotrek took him by the hair and slammed his jaw down hard onto the table edge. Noticing that the mercenary still moved, the Slayer repeatedly banged his groaning victim’s head on the table edge until he lay still, looking strangely rested, in a pool of blood, spit-de, beer and broken teeth.

  Two big burly warriors threw themselves forward, grabbing the Slayer by an arm each. Gotrek braced himself, roaring defiance, and hurled one of them to the ground. While he was down there, the Slayer planted his heavy boot into the man’s groin. A high-pitched wailing shriek filled the tavern. Felix winced.

  Gotrek turned his attention to the other warrior and they grappled. Slowly, even though the man was more than half-again Gotrek’s height, the dwarfs enormous strength began to tell. He pushed his opponent onto the ground, straddled his chest, and then slowly and methodically punched his head until he was unconscious. The last mercenary scuttled for the door—but as he did so he slammed into another dwarf. The newcomer took a step back, then dropped him with one well-aimed punch.

  Felix did a double-take, at first convinced he was hallucinating. It seemed unlikely that there could be another Slayer in this part of the world. But Gotrek was now looking at the stranger as well.

  The recent arrival was, if anything, bigger and more muscular than Gotrek. His head was shaved and his beard cropped short. He had no crest of hair; instead it looked for all the world like nails had been driven into his skull to make a crest and then painted in different colours. His nose had been broken so many times it was shapeless. One ear was cauliflowered; the other had actually been ripped clean away, leaving only a hole in the side of his head. A huge ring was set in his nose. Where his body was not criss-crossed with scars it was covered in tattoos. In one hand he held an enormous hammer and thrust in his belt was a short-hafted, broad-bladed axe.

  Behind this new Slayer stood another dwarf, shorter, fatter and altogether more civilised looking. He was about half Felix’s height, but very broad. His well-groomed beard reached almost to the ground. His wide eyes blinked owlishly from be
hind enormously thick glasses. In his ink-stained fingers he carried a large brass-bound book.

  “Snorri Nosebiter, as I live and breathe!” Gotrek roared, his nasty smile revealing missing teeth. “It’s been awhile! What are you doing here?”

  “Snorri’s here for the same reason as you, Gotrek Gurnisson. Snorri got a letter from old Borek the Scholar, telling Snorri to come to the Lonely Tower.”

  “Don’t try and fool me. I know you can’t read, Snorri. All the words were bashed out of your head when those nails were bashed in.”

  “Hogan Longbeard translated it for Snorri,” Snorri said, looking as embarrassed as it was possible for such a hulking Trollslayer to look. He glanced around him, obviously wanting to change the subject.

  “Snorri thinks he missed a good fight,” the dwarf said, eyeing the scene of terrible violence with the same sort of wistful regret that Gotrek had expended on his spilled ale. “Snorri thinks he’d better have a beer then. Snorri has a bit of a thirst!”

  “Ten beers for Snorri Nosebiter!” Gotrek roared. “And better make that ten for me as well. Snorri hates to drink alone.”

  An appalled silence filled the room. The other patrons looked at the scene of the battle then at the two dwarfs as if they were kegs of gunpowder with a burning fuse. Slowly, in ones and twos, they got up and left, until only Gotrek, Felix, Snorri and the other dwarf were left.

  “First to ten?” Snorri enquired, knuckling his eye and looking up at Gotrek cunningly.

  “First to ten,” Gotrek agreed.

  The other dwarf waddled towards them and bowed, politely in the dwarfish fashion, raising his beard with one hand to keep it from dragging on the ground as he leaned forward.

  “Varek Varigsson of the Clan Grimnar at your service,” he said in a mild, pleasant voice. “I see you got my uncle’s message.”

  Snorri and Gotrek looked at him, seemingly astonished by his politeness, then began to laugh. Varek flushed with embarrassment.

  “Better get this youth a beer as well!” Gotrek shouted. “He looks like he could use being loosened up a little. Now stand aside, youngling, Snorri and I have a bet to settle.”

  The landlord smiled ingratiatingly. A look of relief passed over his face. It looked like the dwarfs were set on more than making up for all the custom they had driven away.

  The landlord lined the beers up along the low counter. Ten sat in front of Gotrek, ten in front of Snorri. The dwarfs inspected them the way a man might inspect an opponent before a wrestling match. Snorri looked over at Gotrek, then looked back at the beer again. A swift lunge brought him within range of his chosen target. He grabbed the flagon, lifted it to his lips, tilted back his head and swallowed. Gotrek was a fraction slower to the draw. His jack of ale reached his lips a second after Snorri’s. There was a long silence, broken only by the sound of dwarfs glugging, then Snorri slammed his flagon back on the table a fraction of a second before Gotrek slammed his. Felix looked over in astonishment. Both flagons had been drained to the last drop.

  “First one’s easiest,” Gotrek said. Snorri seized another flagon, grabbed a second with his other hand and repeated the performance. Gotrek did the same. He snatched up one in each hand, raised one to his lips, drained it, then drained the other. This time it was Gotrek who put down his beers fractionally before Snorri. Felix was staggered, particularly when he considered how much beer Gotrek had already drunk before Snorri had arrived. It looked like the two Slayers were entering into a well practiced ritual. Felix wondered if they really intended to drink all that beer.

  “I’m embarrassed to be seen drinking with you, Snorri. A girly elf could do three in time it took you to down those,” Gotrek said.

  Snorri gave him a disgusted look, reached for another ale and tipped it back so fast that suds erupted from his mouth and frothed over his beard. He wiped his mouth with the back of one tattooed forearm. This time he finished before Gotrek.

  “At least all my beer went in my mouth,” Gotrek said, nodding his head until his nose chain jingled.

  “Are you talking or drinking?” Snorri challenged.

  Five, six, seven beers went down in quick succession. Gotrek looked at the ceiling, smacked his lips and let out an enormous cavernous belch. Snorri swiftly echoed it. Felix exchanged glances with Varek. The scholarly young dwarf looked back at him and shrugged his shoulders. In less than a minute the two Slayers had put back more beer than Felix would normally drink in one night. Gotrek blinked and his eyes looked slightly glassy, but this was the only sign he gave of the enormous amount of alcohol he had just consumed. Snorri looked not the slightest worse for wear, but then he had not been drinking all night already.

  Gotrek reached out and downed number eight, but by that time Snorri was already half way through number nine. As he set down the flagon, he said, “Looks like you’ll be paying for the beer.”

  Gotrek didn’t answer. He picked up two flagons at once, one in each hand, tilted back his head, opened his gullet and poured. There was no sound of gulping. He was not swallowing, just letting the beer run straight down his throat. Snorri was so impressed by the feat that he forgot to pick up his own last pint before Gotrek had finished.

  Gotrek stood there swaying slightly. He belched, hiccupped and sat down on his stool.

  “The day you can out-drink me, Snorri Nosebiter, is the day Hell freezes over.”

  “That will be the day after the day you pay for a beer, Gotrek Gurnisson,” Snorri said, sitting down beside his fellow Trollslayer.

  “Well, so much for starters,” he continued. “Let’s get down to some serious drinking then. Looks like Snorri has some catching up to do.”

  “Is that proper World’s Edge tabac you have there, Snorri?” Gotrek asked, looking hungrily at the stuff Snorri was tamping into his pipe. They had all settled down by the roaring fire in the best seats in the house.

  “Aye, “tis old Mouldy Leaf. Snorri picked it up in the mountains afore coming here.”

  “Give some here!”

  Snorri tossed the pouch over to Gotrek, who produced a pipe and started filling it. The Slayer glared over at the scholarly young dwarf with his one good eye.

  “So, youth,” Gotrek growled What is the mighty doom your Uncle Borek has promised me? And why is old Snorri here?”

  Felix leaned forward interestedly. He wanted to know more about this himself. He was intrigued by the thought of a summons which could excite even the normally morose and taciturn Slayer.

  Varek looked at Felix warningly. Gotrek shook his head and took a sip of beer. He leaned forward, lighted a spill of wood in the fire then lit his pipe. Once the pipe was burning well, he leaned back in his chair and spoke earnestly.

  “Anything you want to say to me, you can say in front of the man-ling. He is a Dwarf Friend and an Oathkeeper.”

  Snorri looked up at Felix. Surprise and something like respect showed in his dull, brutish eyes. Varek’s smile showed sincere interest and he turned to Felix and bowed once more, almost falling out of his chair.

  “I’m sure there is a tale there,” he said. “I’d be most interested in hearing it.”

  “Don’t try and change the subject,” Gotrek said. “What is this doom your kinsman has promised me? His letter dragged me halfway across the Empire and I want to hear about it.”

  “I wasn’t trying to change the subject, Herr Gurnisson. I simply wanted to get the information for my book.”

  “There will be time enough for that later. Now speak!”

  Varek sighed, leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers over his ample stomach. “I can tell you little enough. My uncle has all the facts and will share them with you in his own time and fashion. What I can tell you is this is possibly the mightiest quest since the time of Sigmar Hammerbearer—and it concerns Karag Dum.”

  “The Lost Dwarfhold of the North!” Gotrek roared drunkenly, then suddenly fell silent. He looked around, as if fearing that spies might have overheard him.

  “The very
same!”

  “Then your Uncle has found a way to get there! I thought he was mad when he claimed he would.” Felix had never heard such an undercurrent of excitement in the dwarfs voice. It was contagious. Gotrek looked over at Felix.

  It was Snorri who interrupted. “Call Snorri stupid if you like, but even Snorri knows Karag Dum was lost in the Chaos Wastes.” He looked directly at Gotrek and shivered. “Remember the last time!”

  “Be that as it may, my uncle has found a way of getting there.”

  A sudden trepidation filled Felix. Finding the location of the place was one thing. Having a method of getting there was another. It meant that this wasn’t simply a fascinating academic exercise but a possible journey. He had a terrible sinking feeling that he knew where all this was going to end up, and he knew that he wanted no part of it.

  “There is no way across the Wastes,” Gotrek said. Something more than mere caution was in his voice. “I have been there. So has Snorri. So has your uncle. It is insanity to attempt to cross them. Madness and mutation wait for those who would go there. Hell has touched the world in that accursed place.”

  Felix looked at Gotrek with new respect. Few people had ever travelled so far and returned to tell the tale. To him, as to all folk of the Empire, the Chaos Wastes were but a dire rumour, a hellish land in the far north, from which the terrible armies of the four Ruinous Powers of Chaos emerged to reave and plunder and slay. He had never heard the dwarf speak of having been there, but then he knew little of the Slayer’s adventures in the days before they had met. Gotrek did not speak of his past. He seemed ashamed of it. If anything, the dwarfs obvious fear made the place seem even more daunting. There was little enough in this world which dismayed the Slayer, as Felix well knew, so anything that did was to be feared indeed.

  “Nonetheless, I believe that is where my uncle wants to go, and he wants you to with him. He has need of your axe.”