ANCESTRAL HONOUR
Gav Thorpe
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.
“Worried, lad?” asked Dammaz, appearing out of the gloom. He had disappeared frequently in the last week, returning sometimes with a blood-slicked axe. Grimli knew better than to ask.
“A little,” Grimli admitted with a shrug.
“Take heart then,” Dammaz told him, squatting down on the opposite side of the fire, the flames dancing in bright reflections off his burnished jewellery. “For fear makes us strong. Use it, lad, and it won’t use you. You’ll be fine. Remember, strike with confidence and you’ll strike with strength. Aim low and keep your head high.”
They sat for a while longer in quiet contemplation. Clearing his throat, Grimli broke the silence.
“We are about to enter Karak Azgal, and I’d like to know something,” Grimli spoke. “If you don’t want to answer, I’ll understand but it’ll set my mind at rest.”
“Ask away, lad. I can only say no,” Dammaz reassured him.
“What’s your interest in me, what do you know about the Skrundigor curse?” Grimli asked before he changed his mind.
Dammaz stayed silent for a long while and Grimli thought he wasn’t going to get an answer. The old dwarf eventually looked him in the eye and Grimli meant his gaze.
“Your distant forefather Okrinok Skrundigor failed in his duty many centuries ago, for which the High King cursed him and all his line,” Dammaz told him. “The name of Skrundigor is inscribed into the Dammaz Kron. Until such time as the honour of the clan is restored, the curse will bring great pain, ill fortune and the scorn of others onto Okrinok’s entire heritage. This I know. But, do you know why the High King cursed you so?”
“I do,” Grimli replied solemnly. Like Dammaz, he did not speak straight away, but considered his reply before answering. “Okrinok was a coward. He fled from a fight. He broke his oaths to protect the High King’s daughter from harm, and for that he can never be forgiven. His selfishness and betrayal has brought misery to seventeen generations of my clan and I am last of his line. Accidents and mishaps have killed all my kin at early ages. Many left in self-exile, others became Slayers before me.”
“That is right,” agreed Dammaz. “But do you know exactly what happened, Grimli?”
“For my shame, I do,” Grimli replied. “Okrinok was sworn to protect Frammi Sunlocks, the High King’s daughter, when she travelled to Karak Azgal to meet her betrothed, Prince Gorgnir. She wished to see something of her new home, and Prince Gorgnir, accompanied by Okrinok and the royal bodyguard, took her to the treasuries, the forges, the armouries and the many other great wonders of Karak Azgal. Being of good dwarf blood, she was interested in the mines. One day they travelled to the depths of the hold so that she could see the miners labouring. It was an ill-chosen day, for that very day vile goblins broke through into the mines. They had been tunnelling for Grungni knows how long, and of all the days that their sprawling den had to meet the wide-hewn corridors of Karak Azgal it was that one which fate decreed.”
Grimli stopped and shook his head with disbelief. A day earlier or a day later, and the entire history of the Skrundigors may have been completely different; a glorious heritage of battles won and loyal service to the High King. But it had not been so.
“The grobi set upon the royal household,” continued Grimli. “Hard fought was the battle, and bodyguard and miners clashed with a countless horde of greenskins. But there were too many of them, and their wicked knives caught Frammi and Gorgnir and slew them. One of the bodyguards, left for dead by the grobi, survived to recount the tale to the High King and much was the woe of all the dwarf realm. Yet greater still was the hardship for as the survivor told the High King with his dying breath, Okrinok Skrundigor, upon seeing the princess and prince to be slain, had fled the fight and his body was never found. Righteous and furious was the High King’s anger and we have been cursed since.”
“Told as it has been to each generation of Skrundigor since that day,” Dammaz nodded thoughtfully. “And was the High King just in his anger?”
“I have thought of it quite a lot, and I reckon he was,” admitted Grimli, poking at the fire as it began to die down. “Many a king would have had us cast out or even slain for such oathbreaking and so I think he was merciful.”
“We will speak of this again soon,” Dammaz said as he stood up. “I go to Kargun Skalfson now, to seek permission to enter Karak Azgal come tomorrow.”
With that the Slayer was gone into the gloom once more, leaving Grimli to his dour thoughts.
The stench of the troll sickened Grimli’s stomach as it lurched through the doorway towards him. It gave a guttural bellow as it broke into a loping run. Grimli was rooted to the spot. In his mind’s eye he could see himself casually stepping to one side, blocking its claw with his shield as Dammaz had taught him; in reality his muscles were bunched and tense and his arm shook. Then the Slayer was there, between him and the approaching monster. In the darkness, Grimli could clearly see the blazing axe head as it swung towards the troll, cleaving through its midriff, spraying foul blood across the flagged floor as the blade continued on its course and shattered its backbone before swinging clear. Grimli stood in dumbfounded amazement. One blow had sheared the troll cleanly in two. Dammaz stood over the rank corpse and beheaded it with another strike before spitting on the body.
“Can never be too sure with trolls. Always cut the head off, lad,” Dammaz told him matter-of-factly as he strolled back to stand in front of Grimli.
“I’m sorry,” Grimli lowered his head in shame. “I wanted to fight it, but I couldn’t.”
“Calm yourself, lad,” Dammaz laid a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Next time you’ll try harder, won’t you?”
“Yes, I will,” Grimli replied, meeting the Slayer’s gaze.
For two days and two nights they had been in Karak Azgal. The night before, Grimli had slain his first troll, crushing its head with his hammer after breaking one of its legs. He had already lost count of the number of goblins whose last vision had been his hammer swinging towards them. Over twenty at least, possibly nearer thirty, he realised. Of course, Dammaz had slain twice, even thrice that number, but Grimli felt comfortable that he was holding his own.
Dammaz had been right, it did get easier. Trolls still scared Grimli, but he had worked out how to turn that fear into anger, imbuing his limbs with extra strength and honing his reflexes. And most of all, it had taught Grimli that it felt good to kill grobi. It was in his blood, by race and by clan, and he now relished each fight, every battle a chance to exact a small measure of revenge on the foul creatures whose kind had ruined his clan so many centuries before.
They were just breaking camp in what used to be the forges, so Dammaz informed him. Everything had been stripped bare by the evacuating dwarfs and centuries of bestial looters and other treasure hunters. But the firepits could still clearly be seen, twenty of them in all, spread evenly across the large hall. Grungni, God of Smithing, was represented by a great anvil carved into the floor, his stern but kindly face embossed at its centre. Dammaz told him that the lines of the anvil used to run with molten metal so that its light illuminated the whole chamber with fiery beauty.
Grimli would have liked to have seen that, like so many other things from the days when the dwarf realms stretched unbroken from one end of the World’s Edge Mountains to the other. Such a great past, so many treasures and wonders, now all lost, perhaps never to be regained and certainly never to be surpassed. Centuries of treachery, volcanoes, earthquakes and the attacks of grobi and skaven had almost brought the dwarfs to their knees. They had survived though; the dwarfs were at their fiercest when hardest pressed. The southern holds may have fallen, but the northern holds still stood strong. In his heart, Grimli knew that the day would come when once more the mountains would resound along their length to the clatter of dwarf boots marching to war and the pound of hammers on dwarfish anvils. Already Karak Eight Peaks was being reclaimed, and others would follow.
“Dreaming of the golden age, lad?” Dammaz asked, and Grimli realised he had been stood staring at the carving of Grungni for several minutes.
“And the glory days to come,” replied Grimli which brought forth a rare smile from the Slayer.
“Aye, that’s the spirit, Grimli, that’s the spirit,” Dammaz agreed. “When we’re done here, you’ll be a new dwarf, I reckon.”
“I’m already…” started Grimli but Dammaz silenced him with a finger raised to his lips. The Slayer tapped his nose and Grimli sniffed deeply. At first he could smell nothing, but as he concentrated, his nostrils detected a whiff of something unclean, something rotten and oily.
“That’s the stink of skaven,” whispered Dammaz, his eyes peering into the darkness. Grimli closed his eyes and focused his thoughts on his senses of smell and hearing. There was breeze coming from behind him, where the odour of rats was strongest, and he thought he could hear the odd scratch, as of clawed feet on bare stone, to his right. Opening his eyes he looked in that direction, noting that Dammaz was looking the same way. The Slayer glanced at him and gave a single nod of agreement, and Grimli stepped up beside him, slipping his hammer from his belt and unslinging his shield from his back.
Without warning, the skaven attacked. Humanoid rats, no taller than Grimli, scuttled and ran out of the gloom, their red eyes intent on the two dwarfs. Dammaz did not wait a moment longer, launching himself at the ratmen with a wordless bellow. The first went down with its head lopped from its shoulders; the second was carved from groin to chest by the return blow. One of the skaven managed to dodge aside from Dammaz’s attack and ran hissing at Grimli. He felt no fear now; had he not slain a troll single-handedly? He suddenly realised the peril of overconfidence as the skaven lashed out with a crudely sharpened blade, the speed of the attack taking him by surprise so that he had to step back to block the blow with his shield. The skaven were not as strong as trolls, but they were a lot faster.
Grimli batted away the second attack, his shield ringing dully with the clang of metal on metal, and swung his hammer upwards to connect with the skaven’s head, but the creature jumped back before the blow landed. Its breath was foetid and its matted fur was balding around open sores in places. Grimli knew that if he was cut, the infection that surrounded the pestilential scavengers might kill him even if the wound did not. He desperately parried another blow, realising that other skaven were circling quickly behind him. He took another step back and then launched himself forward as his foe advanced after him, smashing the ratman to the ground with his shield. He stomped on its chest with his heavy boot, pinning it to the ground as he brought his hammer smashing into its face. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Dammaz was still fighting, as he’d expected, a growing pile of furry bodies at his feet.
Two skaven then attacked Grimli at once, one thrusting at him with a poorly constructed spear, the other slashing with a wide-bladed knife. He let his shield drop slightly and the skaven with the spear lunged at the opportunity. Prepared for the attack, Grimli deflected the spearhead to his right, stepped forward and smashed his hammer into the skaven’s chest, audibly splintering ribs and crushing its internal organs. He spun on the other skaven but not fast enough, its knife thankfully scraping without harm along the links of his chainmail. He slammed the edge of the shield up into the skaven’s long jaw, dazing it, and then smashed its legs from underneath it with a wide swing of his hammer. The creature gave a keening, agonised cry as it lay there on the ground and he stoved its head in with a casual backswing.
The air was filled with a musky scent, which stuck in Grimli’s nostrils, distracting him, and it was a moment before he realised that the rest of the skaven had fled. Joining Dammaz he counted thirteen skaven corpses on the ground around the Slayer, many of them dismembered or beheaded.
“Skaven are all cowards,” Dammaz told him. He pointed at a darker-furred corpse, both its legs missing. “Once I killed their leader they had no stomach for the fight.”
“Kill the leader, I’ll remember that,” Grimli said as he swung his shield back over his shoulder.
For the rest of the day Grimli felt the presence of the skaven shadowing him and the Slayer, but no further attack came. They passed out of the forges and strong rooms down into the mines. The wondrously carved hallways and corridors led them into lower and more basically hewn tunnels, the ceiling supported now by pit props and not pillars engraved with ancient runes. The stench of skaven became stronger for a while, their spoor was littered across the floor or of the mineshafts, but after another hour’s travel it faded quickly.
“This is grobi territory, lad. The skaven don’t come down these ways,” Dammaz informed Grimli when he commented on this phenomenon.
As they continued their journey Grimli noticed even rougher, smaller tunnels branching off the workings of the dwarfs, and guessed them to be goblin tunnels, dug out after the hold fell. There was a shoddiness about the chips and cuts of the goblin holes that set them apart from the unadorned but neatly hewn walls of dwarf workmanship, even to Grimli’s untrained eye. As he absorbed this knowledge, Dammaz led him down a side-tunnel into what was obviously once a chamber of some kind. It was wide, though not high, and seemed similar to the dorm-chambers of Karaz-a-Karak.
“This is where it happened,” Grimli said. It was a statement, not a question. He realised this was where Dammaz had been leading him.
“Aye, that it is, lad,” the Slayer confirmed with a nod that shook his bright crest from side to side. “This is where Okrinok Skrundigor was ambushed. Here it was that Frammi and Gorgnir were slain by the grobi. How did you know?”
“I’m not sure as I know,” Grimli replied with a frown. “I can feel what happened here, in my blood, I reckon. It’s like it’s written in the stone somehow.”
“Aye, the mountain remembers, you can be sure of that,” Dammaz agreed solemnly. “You can rest here tonight. Tomorrow will be a hard day.”
“What happens tomorrow?” asked Grimli, unburdening himself of his shield and pack.
“Nothing comes to those who hurry, lad, you should know that,” Dammaz warned him with a stern but almost fatherly wag of his finger.
That night, Grimli’s dreams were troubled, and he tossed and turned beneath his blanket. In his mind he was there, at the betrayal so many centuries before. He could see Frammi and Gorgnir clearly, inspecting the bunks of the wide dormitory, protected by ten bodyguards. Gorgnir was wide of girth, even for a dwarf, and his beard was as black as coal and shone with a deep lustre. His dark eyes were intelligent and keen, but he was quick to laugh at some jest made by Frammi. The princess, to Grimli’s sleeping eye at least, was beautiful; her blonde hair tied up in two tresses that flowed down her back to her knees. Her pallor was ruddy and healthy, her hips wide. Clad in a russet gown, a small circlet of gold holding her hair back, she was unmistakably the daughter of a High King.
In his dream-state, Grimli sighed. The lineage of those two would have been fine and strong, he thought glumly, had they but been given the chance to wed. At the thought, the deadly attack happened.
It seemed as if the goblins sprang from nowhere, rushing through the door with wicked cackles and grinning, yellowed teeth. Their pale green skin was tinged yellow in the lamplight, their robes and hoods crudely woven from dark material that seemed to absorb the light. The bodyguards reacted instantly, drawing their hammers and shields, forming a circle around the royal couple. The goblins crashed against the shieldwall like a wave against a cliff, and momentarily they were smashed back by the swings of the bodyguard’s hammers, like the tide receding. But the press of goblins was too much and those at the front were forced forward into the determined dwarfs, crushed and battered mercilessly as they fought to get at the prince and princess. Soon they were climbing over their own dead, howling with glee as one then another and another of the bodyguard fell beneath the endless onslaught. The shield wall broke for a moment, but that was all that was needed. The goblins rushed the gap, pushing the breach wider with their weight of numbers.
This was it, the dark moment of the Skrundigor clan. It was Gorgnir who fell first, bellowing a curse on the grobi even as his axe lodged in one of their skulls and he was swarmed over by the small greenskins. Frammi wrenched the axe free and gutted three of the goblins before she too was overwhelmed; one of her tresses flew through the air as a sword blade slashed across her neck.
Almost as one the three remaining bodyguards howled with grief and rage, hurling themselves at the goblins with renewed ferocity. One in particular, a massive ruby inset into his hammer’s head, smashed a bloody path into the grobi, every blow sweeping one of the tunnel-dwellers off its scampering feet. His helm was chased with swirling designs in bronze and gold and he had the faceplate drawn down, showing a fierce snarling visage of Grimnir in battle. The knives and short swords of the goblins rang harmlessly off his mail and plate armour with a relentless dull chiming, but they could not stop him and he burst clear through the door.
The other two bodyguards fell swiftly, and the goblins descended upon the dead like a pack of wild dogs, stripping them of every item of armour, weapon, jewellery and clothing. They bickered and fought with one another over the spoils, but soon the pillaging was complete and the goblins deserted the room in search of fresh prey. For what seemed an eternity, the looted bodies lay where they had been left, but eventually a low groan resounded across the room and one of the bodies sat up, blood streaming from a dozen wounds across his body. Groggily he stood up, leaning on one of the bunks, and shook his head, causing fresh blood to ooze from a gash across his forehead. He staggered for a moment and then seemed to steady.
“Skrundigorrrr!” his voice reverberated from the walls and floor in a low growl.
The dream was still vivid when Grimli was woken by a chill draught, and he saw that the fire was all but dead embers. He added more sticks from the bundle strapped to his travelling pack and stoked the ashes until the fire caught once again. As it grew it size, its light fell upon the face of Dammaz who was sitting against the far wall, wide awake, his eyes staring intently at Grimli.
“Did you see it, lad?” he asked softly, his low whisper barely carrying across the room.
“I did,” Grimli replied, his voice as muted, his heart in his throat from what he had witnessed.
“So, lad, speak your mind, you look troubled,” Dammaz insisted.
“I saw them slain, and I saw Okrinok fight his way free instead of defending their bodies,” Grimli told the Slayer, turning his gaze from Dammaz to the heart of the fire. The deep red reminded Grimli of the ruby set upon Okrinok’s hammer.
“Aye, that was a terrible mistake, you can be sure of that,” Dammaz grimaced as he spoke. The two fell into a sullen silence.
“There is no honour to be found here,” Grimli declared suddenly. “The curse cannot be lifted from these enduring stones, not while mighty Karaz-a-Karak endures. I shall return there, swear the Slayer oath and come back to Karak Azgal to meet my death fighting in the caverns that witnessed my ancestor’s treachery.”
“Is that so?” Dammaz asked quietly, his expression a mixture of surprise and admiration.
“It is so,” Grimli assured the Slayer.
“I told you not to be hasty, beardling,” scowled Dammaz. “Stay with me one more day before you leave this place. You promised you would come with me, and I haven’t shown you everything you need to see yet.”
“One more day then, as I promised,” Grimli agreed, picking up his pack.
They entered the goblin tunnels not far from the chamber where Grimli had slept, following the sloping corridor deeper and deeper beneath the World’s Edge Mountains. They had perhaps travelled for half a day when they ran into their first goblins. There were no more than a handful, and the fight was bloody and quick, two of the grobi falling to Grimli’s hammer, the other three carved apart by the baleful blade of Dammaz’s axe.
“The goblins don’t live down here much. They prefer to live in the better-crafted halls of Karak Azgal itself,” Dammaz told Grimli when he mentioned the lack of greenskins. “But there are still plenty enough to kill,” the Slayer added with a fierce grin.
True enough, they had not travelled more than another half mile before they ran into a small crowd of greenskins moving up the tunnel in the opposite direction. The goblins shrieked their shrill war cries and charged, only to be met head-on by the vengeful dwarfs. In the confines of the goblin-mined cavern, the grobi’s weight of numbers counted for little, and one-on-one they were no match for even Grimli. As he smashed apart the skull of the tenth goblin, the others turned and ran, disappearing into the darkness with the patter of bare feet. Grimli was all for going after them, but Dammaz laid a hand on his shoulder.
“Our way lies down a different path, but there will be more to fight soon enough,” he told Grimli. “They will head up into Karak Azgal and fetch more of their kind, and perhaps lie in wait for us somewhere in one of the wider spaces where they can overwhelm us.”
“That’s why we should catch them and stop them,” declared Grimli hotly.
“Even if we could run as fast as they, which we can’t, lad, the grobi will lead us a merry chase up and down. They know these tunnels by every inch, and you do not,” Dammaz countered with a longing look in the direction the goblins had fled. “Besides, if we go chasing willy-nilly after every grobi we meet, you’ll never get to see what I have to show you.”
With that the Slayer turned away and continued down the passage. After a moment, Grimli followed behind, his shield and hammer ready.
* * *
Grimli was surprised a little when the winding path Dammaz followed led them into a great cavern.
“I did not think the grobi could dig anything like this,” he said, perplexed.
“Grobi didn’t dig this, you numbskull,” laughed Dammaz, pointing at the ceiling. Grimli followed the gesture and saw that long stalactites hung down from the cave’s roof. The cavern had been formed naturally millennia ago when the Ancestor Gods had fashioned the mountains. Something caught the young dwarf’s eye, and he looked further into the hall-like cave. A massive mound, perhaps a great stalagmite as old as the world itself, rose from the centre of the cavern.
Grimli walked closer to the heap, and as he approached his eyes made out the shape of a small arm stuck out. And there was a tiny leg, just below it. Hurrying closer still, he suddenly stopped in his tracks. The mound was not rock at all, but built from the bodies of dozens, even scores of goblins, heaped upon one another a good ten yards above his head. Walking forward again, amazed at the sight, Grimli saw that each goblin bore at least one wound, crashed and mangled by what was obviously a heavy hammer blow. He looked over his shoulder at Dammaz, who was walking towards Grimli, axe carried easily in one hand.
“You recognise the handiwork, lad?” Dammaz asked as he drew level with Grimli and looked up at the monumental pile of greenskin corpses.
“Okrinok did this?” Grimli gaped at the Slayer, wondering that he could be even more astounded than he was before.
“Climb with me,” Dammaz commanded him, stepping up onto the battered skull of a goblin.
Grimli reached for a handhold and as his fingers closed around the shattered arm of a goblin, it felt as hard as rock beneath his touch. There was no give in the dead flesh at all and his skin prickled at the thought of the magic that obviously was the cause. Pulling himself up the macabre monument, Grimli could almost believe it had been fashioned from the stone, so unyielding were the bodies beneath his hands and feet. It was a laborious process, hauling himself up inch by inch, yard by yard for several minutes, following the glow of Dammaz’s axe above him. Panting and sweating, he pulled himself to the top and stood there for a moment catching his breath.
As he recovered from his exertions, Grimli saw what was located at the very height of the mound. There stood Okrinok. He was unmistakable; his ruby-encrusted hammer was still in his grasp, lodged into the head of a goblin that was thrusting a spear through the dwarf’s chest. The two had killed each other, and now stood together in death’s embrace. Grimli approached the ancient dwarf slowly, almost reverentially. When he was stood an arm’s length away, he reached out and laid a trembling hand upon his ancestor’s shoulder. It was then that Grimli looked at Okrinok’s face.
His helmet had been knocked off in the fight, and his long, shaggy hair hung free. His mouth was contorted into a bellow, his scowl more ferocious than any Grimli had seen before. Even in death Okrinok looked awesome. His beard was fully down to his knees, bound by many bronze and gold bands and beads, intricately braided in places. Turning his attention back to his ancestor’s face, he noted the familiar ancestral features, some of which he had himself. But there was something else, something more than a vague recognition. Okrinok reminded him of someone in particular. For a moment Grimli thought it must be his own father, but with a shiver along his spine he realised it was someone a lot closer. Turning slowly, he looked at Dammaz, who was stood just to his right, leaning forward with his arms crossed atop his axe haft.
“O-Okrinok?” stuttered Grimli, letting his hammer drop from limp fingers as shock ran through him. He staggered for a moment before falling backwards, sitting down on the goblin mound with a thump.
“Aye, lad, it is,” Dammaz smiled warmly.
“B-but, how?” was all Grimli could ask. Pushing himself to his feet, he tottered over to stand in front of Okrinok. The Slayer proffered a gnarled hand, the short fingers splayed. Grimli hesitated for a moment, but Okrinok nodded reassuringly and he grasped the hand, wrist-to-wrist in warriors’ greeting. At the touch of the Slayer, Grimli felt a surge of power flood through him, suffusing him from his toes to the tips of his hair.
Grimli felt like he had just woken up, and his senses were befuddled. As they cleared he realised he was once again in the mine chamber, witnessing the fight with the goblins. But this time it was different—he was somehow inside the fight, the goblins were attacking him. Panic fluttered in his heart for a moment before he realised that this was just a dream or vision too. He was seeing the battle through Okrinok’s eyes. He saw Frammi and Gorgnir once more fall to the blades of the goblins and felt the surge of unparalleled shame and rage explode within his ancestor. He felt the burning strength of hatred fuelling every blow as Okrinok hurled himself at the goblins. There were no thoughts of safety, no desire to escape. All Grimli could feel was an incandescent need to crush the grobi, to slaughter each and every one of them for what they had done that day.
Okrinok bellowed with rage as he swung his hammer, no hint of fatigue in his powerful arms. One goblin was smashed clear from his feet and slammed against the wall. The backswing bludgeoned the head of a second; the third blow snapped the neck of yet another. And so Okrinok’s advance continued, his hammer cutting a swathe of pulped and bloodied destruction through the goblins. It was with a shock that Okrinok realised he had no more foes to fight, and looking about him he found himself in an unfamiliar tunnel, scraped from the rock by goblin hands. He had a choice; he could return up the tunnel to Karak Azgal and face the shame of having failed in his sacred duty. Or he could keep going down, into the lair of the goblins, to slay those who had done this to him. His anger and loathing surged again as he remembered the knives plunging into Gorgnir and he set off down the tunnel, heading deeper into the mountain.
Several times he ran into parties of goblins, and every time he threw himself at them with righteous fury, exacting vengeance with every blow of his hammer. Soon his wanderings took him into a gigantic cavern, the same one where he now stood again. Ahead of him the darkness was filled with glittering red eyes, the goblins mustered in their hundreds. He stood alone, his hammer in his hands, waiting for them. The goblins were bold at first, rushing him with spears and short swords, but when ten of their number lay dead at Okrinok’s feet within the space of a dozen heartbeats, they became more cautious. But Okrinok was too clever to allow that and sprang at the grobi, plunging into the thick of his foes, his hammer rising and falling with near perfect strokes, every attack crushing the life from a murderous greenskin.
To Okrinok the battle seemed to rage for an eternity, until it seemed he’d done nothing but slaughter goblins since the day was born. The dead were beyond counting, and he stood upon a mound of his foes, caked head-to-foot in their blood. His helmet had been knocked loose by an arrow, and several others now pierced his stomach and back, but still he fought on. Then, from out of the bodies behind him rose a goblin. He heard a scrape of metal and turned, but too slowly, the goblin’s spearshaft punching into him. With blood bubbling into his breath, Okrinok spat his final words of defiance and brought his hammer down onto his killer’s head.
“I am a dwarf! My honour is my life! Without it I am nothing!” bellowed Okrinok, before death took him.
Tears streamed down Grimli’s face as he looked at Okrinok, his expression grim.
“And so I swore in death, and in death I have fulfilled that oath,” Okrinok told Grimli. “Many centuries have the Skrundigor been blamed for my act, and I have allowed it to happen. The shame for the deaths of Gorgnir and Frammi was real, and the High King was owed his curse. But no longer shall we be remembered as cowards and oathbreakers. The goblin king was so impressed that he ordered his shamans to draw great magic and create this monument to my last battle. But in trapping my flesh they freed my soul. For many years my spirit wandered these tunnels and halls and brought death to any grobi I met, but I am weary and wish to die finally. Thus, I sought you out, last of the Skrundigor, who must be father to our new line, in honour and in life.”
“But how do I get the High King to lift the curse, to strike our name from the Dammaz Kron?” asked Grimli.
“If you can’t bring the king under the mountain, lad, bring the mountain over the king, as we used to say,” Okrinok told him. He pointed to his preserved body. “Take my hammer, take it to the High King and tell him what you have seen here. He will know, lad, for that hammer is famed and shall become more so when my tale is told.”
“I will do as you say,” swore Grimli solemnly. Turning, he took the haft of the weapon in both hands and pulled. Grimli’s tired muscles protested but after heaving with all his strength, the dwarf managed to pull the hammer clear.
He turned to thank Okrinok, but the ghost was gone. Clambering awkwardly down the mound of bodies, Grimli’s thoughts were clear. He would return to Karaz-a-Karak and present the hammer and his service to the current High King, to serve him as Okrinok once did. It was then up to the High King whether honour was restored or not. As he planted his feet onto the rock floor once more, with no small amount of relief, Grimli felt a change in the air. Turning, he saw the mound was being enveloped by a shimmering green glow. Before his eyes, the mound began to shudder, and saw flesh stripping from bones and the bones crumble to dust as the centuries finally did their work. Soon there was nothing left except a greenish-tinged haze.
Hefting Okrinok’s hammer, Grimli turned to leave. Out in the darkness dozens of red eyes regarded him balefully. Grimli grinned viciously to himself. He strode towards the waiting goblins, his heart hammering in his chest, his advance quickening until he was running at full charge.
“For Frammi and Gorgnir!” he bellowed.