Tales of the Old World (8 page)

He turned Aeneor for the southern horizon and said, “And I do not know which
one I fear the most.”

Thick, blue-grey pipe smoke drifted lazily around the low rafters of the
tavern, stirred into swirls and eddies by the dwarfs sat at the long benches in
the main room. Grimli, known as the Blacktooth to many, hauled another keg of
Bugman’s Firestarter onto the bar with grunt. It wasn’t even noon and already
the tavern’s patrons had guzzled their way through four barrels of ale. The
thirsty dwarf miners were now banging their tankards in unison as one of their
number tried to recite as many different names of beer as he could remember. The
record, Grimli knew, was held by Oransson Brakkur and stood at three hundred and
seventy-eight all told. The tavern owner, Skorri Weritaz, had a standing wager
that if someone named more beers than Oransson they would get a free tankard of
each that they named. The miner was already beginning to falter at a hundred and
sixty-three, and even Grimli could think of twenty others he had not mentioned
yet.

“Stop daydreaming, lad, and serve,” Skorri muttered as he walked past
carrying a platter of steaming roast meat almost as large as himself. He saw
Dangar, one of the mine overseers, at the far end of the bar gazing around with
an empty tankard hanging limply in his hand. Wiping his hands on his apron,
Grimli hurried over.

“Mug of Old Reliable’s, Dangar?” Grimli offered, plucking the tankard from
the other dwarf’s grasp.

“I’ll wait for Skorri to serve me, if you don’t mind,” grunted Dangar,
snatching back his drinking mug with a fierce scowl. “Oathbreakers spoil the
head.”

Skorri appeared at that moment and shooed Grimli away with a waved rag,
turning to Dangar and taking the proffered tankard. Grimli wandered back to the
Firestarter keg and picked the tapping hammer from his pocket. Placing a tap
three fingers’ breadth above the lower hoop, he delivered a swift crack with the
hammer and the tap drove neatly into the small barrel. Positioning the slops
bucket under the keg, he poured off the first half-pint, to make sure there were
no splinters and that the beer had started to settle.

As he wandered around the benches, picking up empty plates, discarded bones
and wiping the tables with his cloth, Grimli sighed. Not a single dwarf met his
eye, and many openly turned their back on him as he approached. Sighing again,
he returned to the bar. A shrill steam whistle blew signalling a change of
shift, and as the incumbent miners filed out, a new crowd entered, shouting for
ale and food.

And so the afternoon passed, the miners openly shunning Grimli, Skorri bad
tempered and Grimli miserable. Just as the last ten years had been. Nothing had
changed in all that time. No matter how diligently he worked, how polite and
respectful he was, Grimli had been born a Skrundigor, and the stigma of the clan
stayed with him. Here, in Karaz-a-Karak, home of the High King himself, Grimli
was lucky he was even allowed to stay. He could have been cast out, doomed to
wander in foreign lands until he died.

Well, Grimli thought to himself, as he washed the dishes in the kitchen at
the back of the tavern, perhaps that would be better than the half-life he was
leading now. Even Skorri, who was half mad, from when a cave-in dropped a tunnel
roof on his head, could barely say three words to him, and Grimli considered him
the closest thing he had to a friend. In truth, Skorri put up with having the
Blacktooth in his bar because no other dwarf would lower themselves to work for
the mad old bartender. No one else would listen to his constant muttering day
after day, week after week, year after year. No one except Grimli, who had no
other choice. He wasn’t allowed in the mines because it would bring bad luck,
he’d never been taken as an apprentice and so knew nothing of smithying,
stonemasonry or carpentry. And as for anything to do with the treasuries and
armouries, well no one would let an oathbreaker by birth within three tunnels of
those areas. And so, bottle washer and tankard cleaner he was, and bottle washer
and tankard cleaner he would stay for the rest of his life, perhaps only two
hundred years more if he was lucky.

That thought started a chain of others in Grimli’s mind. Dishonoured and
desperate for release, from this living prison of disdain and hatred, the
dwarf’s thoughts turned to the Slayer shrine just two levels above his head. He
was neither an experienced nor naturally talented fighter. Perhaps if he joined
the Slayers, if he swore to seek out an honourable death against the toughest
foe he could find, then he would find peace. If not, then his less than ample
skills at battle would see him dead within the year, he was sure of it. Grimli
had seen a few Slayers; some of them came to Karaz-a-Karak on their journeys and
drank in Skorri’s tavern. He liked them because they would talk to him, as they
knew nothing about his family’s past. They would never talk about their own
dishonour, of course, and Grimli didn’t want to hear it; he was still a dwarf
after all and such things were for oneself not open conversation even with
friends and family. But they had talked about the places outside of
Karaz-a-Karak, of deadly battles, strange beasts and mighty foes. As a life, it
would be better than picking up scraps for a few meagre copper coins.

He was decided. When his shift finished that evening, he would go up to the
shrine of Grimnir and swear the Slayer oath.

As he stepped through the large stone archway into the shrine, Grimli steeled
himself. For the rest of the day he had questioned his decision, looking at it
from every possible angle, seeing if there was some other solution than this
desperate measure. But no other answer had come to him, and here he was,
reciting the words of the Slayer oath in his mind. He took a deep breath and
stared steadily at the massive gold-embossed face of Grimnir, the Ancestor God
of Battle. In the stylised form of the shrine’s decoration, his beard was long
and full, his eyes steely and menacing, his demeanour proud and stern.

I am a dwarf,
Grimli recited to himself in his head,
my honour is my
life and without it, I am nothing.
He took another deep breath.
I
shall become a Slayer, I shall seek redemption in the eyes of my ancestors.
The lines came clearly to Grimli’s keen mind.

“I shall become as death to my enemies until I face he that takes my life and
my shame,” a gravely voice continued next to him. Turning with a start, Grimli
was face-to-face with a Slayer. He had heard no one enter, but perhaps he had
been so intent on the oath he had not noticed. He was sure that no one else had
been here when he came in.

“How do you know what I’m doing?” asked Grimli suspiciously. “I might have
come here for other reasons.”

“You are Grimli Blacktooth Skrundigor,” the Slayer boomed in his harsh voice.
“You and all your family have been accused of cowardice and cursed by the High
King for seventeen generations. You are a serving lad in a tavern. Why else
would you come to Grimnir’s shrine other than to forsake your previous life and
become as I?”

“How do you know so much about me, Slayer?” Grimli eyed the stranger with
caution. He looked vaguely familiar, but even if Grimli had once known him, his
transformation into a Slayer made him unrecognisable now. The Slayer was just a
little taller than he was; though he seemed much more for his hair was spiked
with orange-dyed lime and stood another foot higher than Grimli. His beard was
long and lustrous, similarly dyed and woven with bronze and gold beads and
bands, which sparkled in the lantern light of the shrine. Upon his face were
numerous swirling tattoos—runes and patterns of Grungni and Valaya, to ward
away evil. In his hand, the Slayer carried a great axe, fully as tall as the
Slayer himself. Its head gleamed with a bluish light and even Grimli could
recognise rune work when he saw it. The double-headed blade was etched with
signs of cutting and cleaving, and Grimli had no doubt that many a troll, orc or
skaven had felt its indelicate bite.

“Call me Dammaz,” the Slayer told Grimli, extending a hand in friendship with
a grin. Grimli noticed with a quiver of fear that the Slayer’s teeth were filed
to points, and somewhat reddened. He shuddered when he realised they were
bloodstained.

Dammaz,
he thought. One of the oldest dwarf words, it meant “grudge” or
“grievance”. Not such a strange name for a Slayer.

He took the offered hand gingerly and felt his fingers in a fierce grip which
almost crushed his hand. Dammaz’s forearms and biceps bulged with corded muscles
and veins as they shook hands, and it was then Grimli noticed just how broad the
other dwarf was. His shoulders were like piles of boulders, honed with many long
years of swinging that massive axe. His chest was similarly bulged; the harsh
white of many scars cut across the deep tan of the Slayer’s bare flesh.

“Do you want me to accompany you after I’ve sworn the oath?” guessed Grimli,
wondering why this mighty warrior was taking such an interest in him.

“No, lad,” Dammaz replied, releasing his bone-splintering grip. “I want you
to come with me to Karak Azgal, and see what I have to show you. If, after that,
you want to return here and be a Slayer, then you can do so.”

“Why Karak Azgal?” Grimli’s suspicions were still roused.

“You of anyone should know that,” Dammaz told him sternly.

“Because that is… was where…” Grimli started, but he found he couldn’t say
the words. He couldn’t talk about it, not here, not with this dwarf who he had
just met. He could barely let the words enter his own head let alone speak them.
It was too much to ask, and part of the reason he wanted to become a Slayer.

“Yes, that is why,” nodded Dammaz with a sad smile. “Easy, lad, you don’t
have to tell me anything. Just answer yes or no. Will you come with me to Karak
Azgal and see what I have to show you?”

Grimli looked into the hard eyes of the Slayer and saw nothing there but tiny
reflections of himself. “I will come,” he said, and for some reason his spirits
lifted.

It wasn’t exactly a fond farewell when Grimli told Skorri that he was
leaving. The old dwarf looked him up and down and then took his arm and led him
into the small room next to the kitchen which served as the tavern owner’s bed
chamber, store room and office. He pulled a battered chest from under the bed
and opened the lid on creaking hinges. Delving inside, he pulled out a hammer
which he laid reverentially on the bed, followed by a glistening coat of
chain-mail. He then unhooked the shield that hung above the fireplace and added
it to the pile.

“Take ’em,” he said gruffly, pointing to the armour and hammer. “Did me good,
killed plenty grobi and such with them, I did. Figure you need ’em more ’n me
now, and you do the right thing now. It’s good. Maybe you come back, maybe you
don’t, but you won’t come back the same, I reckon.”

Grimli opened his mouth to thank Skorri, but the old dwarf had turned and
stomped from the room, muttering to himself again. Grimli stood there for a
moment, staring absently out of the door at Skorri’s receding back, before
turning to the bed. He took off his apron and hung it neatly over the chair by
the fire. Lifting the mail coat, he slipped it over his head and shoulders where
it settled neatly. It was lighter than he had imagined, and fitted him almost
perfectly. The shield had a long strap and he hooked it over one shoulder,
settling it across his back.

Finally, he took up the hammer. The haft was bound in worn leather, moulded
over the years into a grip that his short fingers could hold comfortably. The
weight was good, the balance slightly towards the head but not ungainly. Hefting
it in his hand a couple of times, Grimli smiled to himself. Putting the hammer
through his belt, he strode out into the busy tavern room. The conversation died
immediately and a still calm settled. Everyone was looking at him.

“Goin’ somewhere, are ye?” asked a miner from over by the bar. “Off to fight,
perhaps?”

“Perhaps,” agreed Grimli. “I’m going to Karak Azgal, to find my honour.”

With that he walked slowly, confidently across the room. A few of the dwarfs
actually met his gaze, a couple nodded in understanding. As he was about to
cross the threshold he heard Dangar call out from behind him.

“When you find it lad, I’ll be the first to buy you a drink.”

With a lightness in his step he had never felt before, Grimli walked out of
the tavern.

For many weeks the pair travelled south, using the long underway beneath the
World’s Edge Mountains when possible, climbing to the surface where collapses
and disrepair made the underground highway impassable. For the most part they
journeyed in silence; Grimli used to keeping his own company, the Slayer
unwilling or unable to take part in idle conversation. The night before they
were due to enter Karak Azgal they sat camped in the ruins of an old wayhouse
just off the main underway. By the firelight, the stone reliefs that adorned the
walls and ceiling of the low, wide room flickered in ruddy shadow. Scenes from
the great dwarf history surrounded Grimli, and he felt reassured by the weight
of the ancient stones around him. He felt a little trepidation about the coming
day, for Karak Azgal was one of the fallen Holds, now a nest of goblins, trolls,
skaven and many other foul creatures. During the nights they had shared in each
other’s company, Dammaz had taught him a little of fighting. Grimli was not so
much afraid for his own life, he was surprised and gladdened to realise, but
that he would fail Dammaz. He had little doubt that the hardened Slayer would
not need his help, but he fancied that the old dwarf might do something reckless
if he needed protecting and Grimli did not want that on his conscience.