PARADISE LOST

Andy Jones

 

 

“Well, Johan, y’see, it’s like this…” The gruff dwarf voice hung for long moments in the hot tropical air. “Sometimes yer has to take the big chance…” The voice trailed off. “Ain’t half hot, though.”

“Snowkapt Mountinz, I see Snowkapt Mountinz.” Indecipherable babble escaped from Keanu the Reaver like steam from a leaky kettle. “Ja, und schtreams, und kold, kold fountinz…” Even the barbarian’s delirium was thickly accented.

Johan Anstein, ex-Imperial envoy, groaned inwardly and manoeuvred a fragment of sailcloth to shade himself from the merciless ravages of the sun. The young, would-be warrior peered with squinting eyes at the dwarf sitting stoically at the rowlocks.

“But Grimcrag, what are we going to do?” Anstein’s voice was little more than a croak, his tongue thick and furred in his mouth. He could feel the sun hammering down on his head, even through the thick tarpaulin he had draped across his blistered shoulders.

The young man pointed what was (to his mind at least) quickly becoming a skeletally thin arm at the recumbent elf lying in the bilges. Jiriki rolled softly with the swell of the sea. “He hasn’t moved all day, and Keanu thinks he’s back home in Norsca.”

Johan studied the barbarian lolling in the steersman’s seat. Wearing nothing but a loin cloth and horned helmet, the Reaver glistened menacingly.

“Take mich Home, Momma!” the barbarian gargled, his teeth chattering uncontrollably.

“Don’t you be worryin’ about yon elf, lad,” Grimcrag interjected. “He’s always doin’ that suspendered animalation trick of his when things get tricky.” The dwarf deftly prodded the comatose Jiriki with a boat hook. “See, nothing!”

Grimcrag scratched at his beard and spat overboard. “It’s old musclehead I’m worried about. I don’t think he can take many more days without anything to drink. He’s getting beerhydrated, and it’ll be the end of him, mark my words.”

“No sign of land?” Johan asked hopelessly.

The dwarf performed what under normal circumstances would have been an almost comical double take. “Oh yes, didn’t I mention it? We’re about thirty yards away from a lovely landing berth. I can see the tavern from here… OF COURSE THERE’S NO BLOODY LAND!” Grimcrag snorted in derision, and continued scratching despondently at his beard.

Johan slumped back under the tarpaulin. “That’s it then, we’re done for.”

Minutes later, he had drifted off into a restless, sun-driven daydream.

 

“Gold, lad, gold! More than you can imagine!” The dwarf voice resonated with barely controlled excitement.

“Yes, but it’s not Lustrian, or from the Lost Kingdoms at all: it’s in a storm-wrecked Bretonnian galleon.”

“Never mind that, it’s ours for keeps now.”

“It’s sinking fast!”

“We’ve got time, lad, and this boat can hold plenty.”

“Wouldn’t we be better scavenging water and food?”

“VOT? S’YOU MAD?”

A madly canted deck, so far down in the water that it was not much of a climb at all even in their weakened state. Crazy angles, creaking hawsers, the desolate flapping of ripped and tattered sailcloth. Not so different from their own recent fate.

Keanu barging the others aside impatiently, muscles straining as he pulled at the iron ring on the deck hatch. Nothing… then the screech of swollen wood on rusted metal.

A black square leading down into nothingness. The stench of stagnant death and decay. The slap of lazy waters in the dark bilges below.

Heat-bloated bodies gently bumping against him in the darkness. Foetid water climbing quickly over their waists. Fish swimming blindly about their legs. The discomforting feel of being ghoulish carrion, unwelcome visitors intruding upon the rest of the dead. Heavy crates. A race against time and the horror of joining the bodies in the hold forever.

A portion saved. Exhaustion. The sad sight of a once-noble vessel slipping ignominiously below the waves, leaving at its last nothing more than bubbling froth and a few shards of timber.

The endless sun by day and the chill blackness of night. Day after day after day in a boat piled high with nothing but gold. Death’s shadow never seemed far away. Who would succumb first?

“Sail ahoy!”

Hope!

“You sure, elfy?”

“Yes, it’s some kind of corsair.”

“Wave everything! We’re saved!”

“Hide the gold, lad!”

“Where, for heaven’s sake?”

“Halloo! Halloo!”

A brine- and barnacle-encrusted tramp. A patchwork of old repairs over older repairs. A grimy grey sail. Tar and smoke-blackened timbers. A ruined figurehead jutting like a broken tooth. The most beautiful ship Johan had ever seen.

A grizzled, suspicious face. A toothless grin, a hooked hand. A swarthy bunch of no-hopers. Angels in disguise, no doubt.

“Well ’pon my soul, if it ain’t the great mister lardy-dardy I-wouldn’t-hire-your-ship-if-I-was-in-the-middle-of-the-Great-Ocean-on-a-tea-chest Grunsonn himself…”

“Vot?”

“Grimcrag, you didn’t?”

“Not exactly, lad… I think he missed out the bit about the tea chest leaking…”

A diplomatic elvish voice: “Look here, Black Hook Pugh Beard or whatever your name is, are you going to help us or not?”

“Depends, eh, lads? Shall we help the hoity-toities?” A chorus of despicable cheers and catcalls.

“Dependink on vot, ’zactly?”

“Got’ny gold in those boxes?”

“Ja!”

“No!”

“For heaven’s sake, Grimcrag. Yes, yes, yes, just get us off this blasted boat!”

“You’ll be wantin’ water then?”

“Ja.”

“Yes.”

“Mmph!”

“Definitely.”

Ropes and grapples snaking down. Chests brim full of Bretonnian gold hauled up on board. A fishermen’s net lowered. Salvation in sight. Four sun-bleached souls about to end their week-long torment. Heaven is nigh.

 

Johan stirred in his heat-drenched half-sleep. He already knew the ending of this particular dream. He’d seen it for real, and dreamed it a hundred times a day since. His eyes opened a crack, as he wondered yet again if maybe, somehow, this was all a dream, a very bad one. Perhaps he was really lying on silk sheets at home in Castle Baltenkopf? Pitiful hope seized his heart.

But no, here was the boat, and there sat the disconsolate form of the renowned Grimcrag Grunsonn, unceremoniously stripped down to filthy grey vest and long Johns. The lugubrious dwarf still wore his iron-shod boots and his helmet, but his armour and precious axe were tucked under his bench for safe-keeping. Johan blearily noticed that today the dwarf had rolled his sleeves up. Perhaps the sun was finally getting to even him.

Johan turned over and quickly drifted off into fitful sleep again, the endless monotony of the slap-slapping of the sea against the boat’s flimsy side a familiar lullaby. After a few hours of blissful oblivion, the dream came on again.

 

They are scrambling up the net, grinning madly to one another. Even Grimcrag has forgotten the thought of his gold in the joy of rescue. Fresh water? A bath? Food? What it is to have friends!

Halfway up and disaster strikes—the net falls away, plunging them down into the sea. Uproarious laughter from above.

When they surface, the ship is already drifting away. Their small, sorry boat is dragged alongside by the current for a moment, as if forlornly hoping for a tow.

The corsairs laugh cruelly, jeering at the Marauders from the safety of the gunwale.

“Come back!” Johan gurgles.

“MY GOLD!” shrieks Grimcrag.

Jiriki and Keanu swim with strong, accomplished strokes towards the boat.

The pirates throw down some water skins and a few barrels of salted fish.

The Marauders clamber, exhausted, into their floating prison cell once more. Ironically enough, there is more room without all the gold. At least Johan can stretch his long legs.

Grimcrag is inconsolable, shouting curses southwards long after the pirates’ sail has dipped below the distant horizon. The sharks circle. In the boat they all know they are doomed.

 

Johan woke with a start, a sharp stabbing pain in his heart warning him that finally his time was nigh. He had hoped that he would not be the last to die. He didn’t think he could stand that. At least they hadn’t eaten each other. They still had their honour.

It was so hot he could barely breathe. Eyes closed, he groaned softly. What a way to go. The stabbing pain intensified, followed by a repetitive dull thumping ache in his head. After a moment, Anstein opened his eyes.

Grimcrag stood over him, staring open-mouthed at the horizon. Waking up to the view of a dwarf’s badly-sewn long Johns crotch revealed secrets to the young adventurer that lesser men had died for merely talking about in casual conversation. The dwarf was absent-mindedly stabbing him in the chest with a marlin spike, whilst simultaneously stomping nervously up and down on the ex-envoy’s head with a heavily booted foot.

“Pack it in, Grimcrag,” Johan croaked through sun-dried lips. “Just lie down and die quietly like the rest of us.”

The dwarf mumbled something through his salt-encrusted beard.

Johan thought he had misheard. He painfully raised his head, and pawed feebly at the dwarf’s long Johns. His breath came in rasping sobs. “What did you say?” He was surprised to see that the dwarf was weeping. Must be a delayed reaction to the loss of so much gold.

Salty tears ran down the grizzled dwarf’s cheeks, mingling with that already tangling his beard. Johan strained to hear his cracked whisper. “Land, lad. Marvellous, green, grassy, diggable bloody LAND!”

 

Keanu was mostly awake and rowing hard by the time they approached the beach, rounding the rugged headland into the sheltered cove beyond. So far, the island had seemed an impenetrable fortress, with cliffs on every side, but the sight of this sheltered cove took Johan’s breath away. A strip of white, white sand stretched for perhaps a quarter of a mile, with projecting horns of rock sheltering the cove from the open ocean. Coral reefs made bizarre living citadels in the clear water, and also created a natural barrier against any heavier swells.

Negotiating towards a gap in the reef, Keanu muttered something about catching a chill, and Johan could see whisps of steam escaping from beneath the barbarian’s helm. Clearly the man needed rest soon.

“See all that green, lad?” Grimcrag shouted, pulling on an oar. “That shows there must be water on the island somewhere.” The dwarf was wearing a relieved grin along with his boots and underclothes, and had obviously heroically put the matter of his gold to the back of his mind for a while.

Despite Johan’s best efforts, and the crazed shouting and whooping of them all, they had failed to rouse Jiriki from his deep slumber. Grimcrag had explained that it sometimes happened like that—and the Reaver had grunted something about “Vontink a lie in, praps”—but Johan could see that the dwarf was concerned.

Johan trailed a finger in the clear waters, watching the myriad schools of fish flash in the sunlight beneath him. He had taken an hour at the oars, rowing around what looked to be a huge lump of jungle-covered rock, and now he was taking a well earned rest. So many fish.

Then Grimcrag shouted for him to grab a boat hook and be ready to fend off. “We’re going through the gap in the reef, lad, and we don’t want to hole her.”

As they navigated safely through, the elf slept on, snoring softly, his feet at the tiller and his head just behind Grimcrag’s seat.

A few moments later and they were into the lagoon, five hundred feet or so from the white sands of the beach. Johan had once read a book from Araby about exotic fruits. Surely what he was seeing now were indeed the fabled, erm, barnarnowls or something; the exact name eluded him.

“Looks like we’re in for a sojourn in paradise, eh, Grimcrag?” he shouted excitedly, pointing shorewards. “See, corker nuts.”

The dwarf grinned deliriously, “Yes, and jimjam trees too!”

Johan sighed contentedly, sat back at the tiller and peered at the fish again.

A moment later, Anstein, Grimcrag and Keanu made simultaneous exclamations.

“Grimcrag, there’s no fish at all in the lagoon! Why d’you think that might be?”

“Hell, lad, what’s that coming from the jungle?”

“Achtung! Valkink Lizarts!”

Johan’s question was forgotten as all eyes swung forwards. All, that is, except for Jiriki, who was facing the wrong way and asleep anyway. A strange procession was making its way through the jungle and onto the beach. What indeed looked to be four- to five-foot tall, walking lizards were emerging in small groups, carrying bows, blow pipes and crude swords. Others were throwing quantities of fruit and flowers into the lagoon, while slightly larger lizards began blowing on trumpets fashioned from polished shells.

In all, Johan soon estimated there to be upwards of a hundred lizardmen on the beach. So engrossed were the reptilians, that they didn’t seem to have noticed the intruding boat. In fact, and Johan thought this most peculiar, they seemed to be studiously avoiding looking up or out to sea at all, as if terrified of what they might see.

“They won’t be expecting us, make no mistake,” giggled Johan, his fish spotting momentarily forgotten.

“Vot is dey?” Keanu asked. “Never seeink nothink like dat before.”

“Dunno, Keanu, but best be on the safe side,” Grimcrag growled, reaching instinctively for Old Slaughterer, his trusty axe. Only once the mighty blade was wedged firmly between his stumpy legs did he recommence rowing. “Johan, you’re an envoy, this should be right up your street,” the dwarf grunted over his shoulder. “Do something useful for a change.”

“Ja, Usevul.”

Johan looked at the throng of lizardmen they were fast approaching, and racked his brain for the appropriate phrase or saying. Visiting ambassadors he was fine with, or representatives of the merchants’ guild, but a hundred apparently semi-civilised lizards throwing fruit into a lagoon on a desert island was something different altogether.

“Well?”

“Ja, say Somzink.”

Feeling that his talents were obviously being called into question, Johan stood up and made his way to the front of the boat with what he hoped was an air of quiet confidence. From the way Grimcrag beamed toothily and nudged the steaming barbarian, he had succeeded so far.

Standing at the very prow, Johan cupped his hands to his mouth.

“HALLOO! HALLOO! DONT KILL US—WE, ER, COME IN PEACE!”

Judging by the collective intake of breath from behind him, his speech had a dramatic effect on Grimcrag and Keanu. The lizards on the beach were immediately thrown into a state of high panic. Some buried their heads in the sand, others ran off into the jungle. Others feverishly threw more and more fruit into the lagoon. Johan saw one of them biting large chunks out his trumpet. A few braver souls, who unfortunately all seemed to carry bows, stood uncertainly on the shoreline, arrows knocked and ready.

“Now you’ve gorn and done it, lad,” Grimcrag muttered. “At least try and smile, nice, like.”

Johan fixed his best diplomatic grin as Keanu and Grimcrag continued to row.

A moment later, something triggered the lizards into even more frenzied behaviour. Within a few seconds all save a dozen or so lonely warriors had vanished into the jungle. The creatures raised their bows uncertainly. Johan could see that they were still trying to avoid looking directly out to sea, which couldn’t do much for their chances of hitting anything.

“Bound to be poison-tipped. I heard once that…” Grimcrag was rudely interrupted by an unmistakable elven shriek from the rear of the boat.

“AAAAAARGH! What in Tiranoc and the sunken realms is that!!!??”

“Oh good, Jiriki, you’ve woke—” began Johan as he turned, but the words died on his lips.

Perhaps fifty feet behind the boat, approaching them in a huge welter of spume and spray, was the biggest, most fearsome looking beast he had ever seen.

 

Consciousness slowly seeped back into Johan Anstein’s wiry frame, like reluctant treacle leaching through the stygian depths of an old gravel bed. Something was tickling his face.

“Two sugars in mine, Grimcrag,” Johan groaned, keeping his eyes screwed firmly shut as he clutched his head to stop it falling off. Johan’s skull felt as if the dwarf was enthusiastically excavating for gold somewhere behind his frontal lobe. “Must have been some party,” he thought, groggy from what could only have been last night’s excesses of ale. Cosy in his blanket, Johan desperately tried to let sleep reclaim him.

Something slimy and cold began wriggling up into Johan’s nose. It was only then it occurred to a sluggish Anstein that he hadn’t been to a party for weeks, not since three days before they set sail on that accursed boat. “Boat…”

Johan frowned inadvertently in his slumber, as dislocated thoughts fell like dominoes through his drowsy brain: “Boat… shipwreck… pirates… island… lizards… MONSTER!!!”

A swift moment later, Johan was very much awake and cautiously opening an eye, whilst keeping the other screwed firmly shut, just in case. He sneezed to clear his nose of what could only be an inquisitive worm, and blinked his one open eye. Total darkness. Either he was blind, or somewhere black and smelling of sandy earth. Somewhere black, sandy and with worms. Johan briefly wondered if maybe it was better to imagine he was blind.

Cautiously he edged onto his back, immediately encountering another problem. He seemed to be roughly wrapped in some sort of coarse material. It enveloped him in a manner most unlike a blanket. The word “shroud” drifted through the backwaters of Anstein’s stunned mind, on an unavoidable collision course with his conscious thoughts. Struggling free of his “blanket”, Johan gingerly reached upwards with his right hand. Almost immediately his nails scraped rough wooden planks in the dark. Panic struck as quickly as the Dwarf Mineworker’s Guild when the pit-head bar ran out of Bugman’s.

“Buried alive!” Johan gasped, thrashing out wildly about him in the inky blackness. In every direction he hit wood almost immediately. “Oh No Oh No Oh No!” he shrieked, before lying very still, like a desperate and cornered beast. “Think, Anstein, think!” he muttered, teeth chattering uncontrollably. A terrible fear gnawed at his innards, threatening to return the blind panic which had all but overwhelmed him a moment ago.

Johan recapped the situation aloud, in a vain attempt to calm his pounding heart. “The monster—that’s why there were no fish in the lagoon. That’s what the strange lizardy men were making offerings to.” Johan stopped for a moment as a violent trembling fit seized his frame. It passed.

“We almost reached the beach, then it was upon us,” Johan whispered slowly to himself, as the recollection of the dread fanged monstrosity which had assaulted their tiny boat flooded back into his memory.

He remembered it roaring in insensate fury. He remembered its tiny, bestial eyes, staring fixedly at him from a cart-sized head atop a mast-high neck. He remembered the water streaming in frothy torrents from its crustacean-encrusted back. Johan remembered Jiriki loosing arrow after arrow at the beast. He smiled as he remembered Grimcrag’s axe, a whistling arc of gold and red in the bright sunlight. He remembered the barbarian’s war cry as the Reaver struck again and again with his wicked longsword. He remembered the moment when the beast began to know fear. He even recalled his own blade—a cold sliver of silver pricking at the gargantuan monster’s side.

Johan gulped in the darkness of his tomb as he recalled what must have been seen as the moment of his own death. Tears welled in his eyes, tears of sadness and frustration. At least he would be remembered as a hero, killed fighting a great beast. And they had slain it, of that he had no doubt at all.

Even buried alive, on a far distant isle, for that he surely was, Johan allowed himself a grim smile as he remembered the sea monster’s death throes. Bleeding from a hundred or more wounds, it had threshed the water to a pinky red froth. Its cries had echoed around the cove over which it must have been undisputed lord for many years.

And Johan remembered its massive tail swinging round as if time had slowed, clearing the water like a fifty-foot yard arm. The others had instinctively ducked just in time, but Johan could clearly see in his mind’s eye that he, alone, had not. He could remember a flash of pain and a great many stars, then nothing more, but now he nursed the bump on his head and silently wept salty tears of pain, fear and frustration. Buried alive! Johan desperately hoped he had been given a good send off at least…

Mad, blind panic swept over Johan again, carrying him like a broken twig before a mountain river in flood. He screamed, he yelled, he cried insanities at the darkness as he hammered and clawed weakly at his coffin lid for what seemed like hours.

Eventually he was exhausted, and lay panting in the darkness. It was no good. He was surely doomed to die, probably of asphyxiation when the air in the foetid hole ran out.

Johan slumped, beaten and dispirited in the cool blackness. He was ready, at last, to die. As one of Grunsonn’s Marauders.

 

On the beach, the Marauders sat around a small fire and devoured chunks of half-cooked sea monster with gusto, as the eventful day drew to a close. On the distant horizon, the sun sank beneath the waves, its angry red orb extinguished for another day.

“Marooned in the middle of nowhere!” Jiriki muttered, picking delicately at a tender morsel.

Grimcrag stared wistfully out to sea, hot fat running down his bearded chin. “Reckon that was as good a fight as any I’ve had for a while—thought it had us fer a moment or two.”

“Nah!” spat the barbarian through stringy haunch, black eyes gleaming in the firelight. “Ve voss just Veak, dat’s all, uddervise ve’re killink it pretty damm Qvick, ja?!”

“S’pose so,” Grimcrag answered after a moment’s chewing, before shaking his shaggy head as if to clear cobwebs away. “Eeh, though, we’re gettin’ all maudlin and no mistake, aren’t we?” The dwarf’s eyebrows furrowed and he gestured with stubby fingers at the feast which lay before them. “Look at this lot, ’nough to keep us going for weeks.” He turned to the others and smiled his broken-toothed, bearded grin. “S’not all that bad, is it lads? Old Grimcrag saw you right in the end.”

Jiriki threw back his head and laughed sarcastically. The silvery note rang clear across the cove. He wagged a slender finger reproachfully. “Oh yes, Grimcrag, everything’s just fine!” The elf looked around them pointedly. “Here we are, stuck in the middle of nowhere, with no boat, no hope of rescue, not even a map!” It wasn’t often that the elf betrayed much emotion at all.

At this sudden outburst Keanu and Grimcrag sat open-mouthed, fat and saliva dribbling from their chins in equal measure. Jiriki sighed and kicked languidly at the sand before looking up and smiling sadly. “Oh what’s the use, we’re stuck here!” Looking stern, the elf continued in an admonishing tone. “Bear in mind though, Grimcrag, it’s no use trying that ‘I’m your caring father’ routine with us anymore, you sneaky old miscreant, we’ve known you far too long for any of that nonsense to work—we’re not young Anstein, you know.”

At the mention of Johan, the conversation ground to a halt. Keanu reached a ham-sized fist into the fire and lugged out a huge, crisped slab of meat, sizzling hot and dripping fatty juices onto the sand.

“Johan would like that bit, I’ll wager,” Grimcrag grunted, nodding at the hunk of flesh. “He always did like a nice bit of crackling.”

They paused in unison, the unspoken bond of untold shared adventures and brushes with death uniting the Marauders’ thoughts.

A dull thumping and muffled shrieking intruded upon their reverie, and Keanu stood up, rack of monster in hand. He padded lithely across the beach to the spot where their battered rowing boat lay overturned on the sand. The thudding and shouting quite clearly came from beneath the upturned hull. Keanu reached down and carefully lifted up one side of the boat, peering underneath through the small firelit crack. A pair of wild and staring eyes greeted him, accompanied by animalistic growls and mewlings.

 

Johan’s panic was rudely interrupted by one edge of his coffin being lifted away. Ruddy light seeped through the crack. A hulking shape awaited, accompanied by the unmistakable smell of charred and burning flesh.

“This is it then, Hell it is for me,” Johan burbled, terrified and miserable. At least he wouldn’t be stuck in the dark forever, which perhaps was some small consolation.

“Avake, jung ’un?” The unmistakable voice ripped through Johan’s mind, and reality rapidly readjusted itself in his brain.

“Gghhh?” the ex-envoy burbled, wondering how Keanu came to be down in Hell too. Perhaps he had a visitor’s day-pass.

“Head betta? Hungry?” Keanu’s voice cajoled, but Anstein knew that devils and daemons could be very convincing if they wanted. He backed off to the far side of his coffin, trying to remember suitable holy signs or gestures. Something outside sighed patiently.

“Kom on out, you’re Schleepink too long, ja? Nitemares also, by da look of it. All tangled unda da tarpaulin you are.”

The delicious tang of roasting meat reached Johan’s nostrils and his grumbling stomach decided the matter in lieu of his concussed mind.

“Keanu?” he whimpered hopefully, “Is it really you?”

Whatever stood beyond the coffin seemed to pause and ponder the question.

“Ja, ’f Korse, schtupid!” With one mighty heave, the barbarian lifted the boat away from Johan, who lay revealed, blinking in the firelight.

Johan shivered uncontrollably, wrapped in his tarpaulin-shroud, dazed and confused. An all-important question rose to the fore of his battered mind, back as he was, from the dead. Before he could stop them, his cracked and swollen lips had formed the fateful words.

“Can I smell… crackling?”

 

The pathway from the beach into the jungle was obviously well trodden, but the Marauders trod it with exceptional care. As they wound onwards through leafy glades, one moment they were drenched in tropical sunlight, the next they were plunged into the greeny darkness of the humid forest canopy.

Jiriki took the lead, gliding with silky footfall along the jungle track. The elf sniffed the air, listening intently at every turn. It was a source of some contention between Keanu the hulking barbarian and Jiriki the elf as to which had the most highly attuned senses. No one would argue that in the natural state, an elf’s senses were keener than those of man or dwarf, but the Reaver had long proven himself to be something of an exception. His ability to pinpoint danger was second to none (except maybe Jiriki on a very good day), and he too moved catlike in the jungle, but staying perhaps ten feet from the path itself.

Grimcrag was still rumbling about “All that sixth senses nonsense!” and snorting derisively to himself. He made no attempt at quietness, clattering along in his trusty armour, the clanks and hangings interspersed with frequent hearty belches. This disregard of any possible danger, to Johan’s way of thinking, made something of a nonsense of the others’ theatrical movements.

“Let me tell you, young Anstein,” bellowed the dwarf, receiving a recriminating stare from Jiriki and a muffled “Qviet!” from a nearby bush. “There’s some senses what is ’stremely useful, and others,” the dwarf pointed at Jiriki’s frozen form, “what isn’t.” Johan noticed that for all his brevity, the second part of Grimcrag’s utterance was little more than a whisper. The dwarf belched, shrugging apologetically. “Pardon me, lad, sea monster. Always repeats something awful, in my ’sperience.” The dwarf pushed his warhelm back and scratched vigorously at his grizzled scalp. “Hot, innit?”

Johan nodded, peering cautiously into the gloomy canopy on either side. Everywhere, things were moving; unseen things that flapped, or scrabbled, or crawled, or just made atonal cooing noises in the distance. Sword drawn, the envoy felt decidedly uncomfortable as they made their way down the beaten track. He didn’t want to go first, as that way lay almost certain first contact with them, and he didn’t want to go last, as that way he was almost certain to be picked off without anyone else noticing. In actual fact, he didn’t much like the idea of being on the track at all, as it was such an obvious place to set a trap (even the words trap and track were strangely similar), and the very thought of plunging off into the forest, as Keanu had, filled the young man with queasy unease.

“Anyhow,” Grimcrag carried on, waving his axe vaguely at the vegetation, “what’s the use of being able to creep about in the jungle?” Johan was about to enter a plea on behalf of forest lore, tracking, hunting and so on, but Grimcrag was in full flow. “No, heightened and truly useful senses relate to real things, things you can touch…” The dwarf’s voice tailed off, and Johan had a pretty good idea what he was contemplating, and it wasn’t dusky maidens from Araby.

“Such as… gold?” He ventured, prodding Grimcrag from his reverie.

“Well, I s’pose that’s as good an example as any,” Grimcrag whispered hoarsely. “My senses can detect gold—and beer too, for that matter—from a distance of…” The dwarf stopped in his tracks and frowned.

Johan looked puzzled. Surely Grimcrag was not about to be overcome by a fit of honesty regarding his claims? Looking over his shoulder at the dwarf, Johan almost bumped into Jiriki. The elf had stopped dead still, managing to meld almost invisibly into the background. Only his bright red jerkin gave him away, and the best the elf could manage under the circumstances was to vanish to the extent that it looked as though someone had left their shirt out to dry on the bole of a tree. Of Keanu there was no sign.

Over his shoulder, Johan could see Grimcrag standing still as stone, eyes closed, nostrils dilated as he sniffed the leaden air. Sending darting glances all around in search of trouble, all Johan saw was further evidence of paradise. Yellow-white shards of sunlight flashed through the greenery, catching the heavy moisture in the laden air like glittering gemstones. Nearby, unseen, a stream trickled and gurgled seductively. A multi-coloured bird with huge wings sang sweetly as it glided between treetops far overhead. Water trickled off the mound of stark white skulls sitting by the bend in the pathway.

“Skulls?”

“A village!”

“Qviet, dammit!”

“BEER!”

 

The settlement appeared deserted—a collection of thatched mud huts, of curiously familiar design, situated in the middle of a sun-drenched clearing. Ringed by palm trees bearing coconuts as big as Johan’s head, the village certainly looked idyllic. The tinkling burble of fresh, flowing water sounded from behind the furthest hut, and the only other sounds came from the jungle.

Stepping around the pile of skulls, which on close inspection seemed to belong to an assortment of creatures of all shapes and sizes, Johan peered at the dwellings laid out before him. Squinting in the harsh sunlight, the tatters of his sweat-soaked shirt sticking uncomfortably to his back, he stood stock still and watched for any sign of movement.

Having wisely discarded his scarlet blouse, Jiriki was a shadow amongst shadows. The last Johan had seen of him the elf had been somewhere to the left, behind a cluster of wooden, shed-like buildings. That had been at least ten minutes ago. Of Keanu there was no sign at all.

“Come on then, lad, no point in hanging about when there’s beer to be drunk,” Grimcrag said cheerily. “Sides, there’s obviously no one at home.” With that, the dwarf strode into the village, his heavy boots kicking up little dust motes in the clearing. Somewhat more hesitantly, Johan followed in his footsteps.

In the centre of the duster of huts, a small and overgrown pyramid thrust uncertainly towards the sky. Overhead, the palm trees which ringed the clearing sent branches scurrying as if to try and close off the immodest gap carved in the jungle canopy. Johan approached the structure for a closer look. He was troubled by the red-brown stains which marked the age-worn stone. Nonetheless, he tugged at the covering of lianas and vines, a twisted that of root and leaf which conspired to convince the casual observer that this pyramid was, in fact, simply a strangely shaped bush or tree. Undeterred, the envoy pressed on, ripping and tugging at the tenacious growth. Johan had spotted something which he thought be of considerable interest, and wasn’t to be put off easily.

So had Grimcrag, pulling aside a hastily thrown-together shield of palm fronds from alongside of one of the buildings. What he saw positioned in the cool dark of the side alley made the old dwarf gasp in surprise.

At that moment, a commotion on the far side of the clearing announced Jiriki’s arrival, as the elf marched a captive lizard-creature into the clearing.

“Writing on stone!”

“Gentlemen, we have a captive.”

“Beer!”

The three adventurers all exclaimed at the same time. Jiriki’s prisoner took advantage of the confusion by trying to scuttle off to the safety of a pond on the edge of the clearing. The elf hauled it back quickly with a tug on the rope which he had tied around its stomach. The creature sank down onto its haunches beside the elf, looking disconsolate. A long tongue shot out to grab a passing fly, but after a moment the bizarre reptile-man sat still, blinking its big eyes in the harsh sunlight.

“Not so fast, froggie. Stay where you are!” The elf tied the other end of the rope around a sturdy post which supported one of the huts, then turned to the others. “Now, what did you say?”

“Writing!” Johan shouted, scraping furiously at the pyramid.

“Beer!” Grimcrag exclaimed, gesturing at the unmistakable shape of a large vat sitting in the cool shadows of the side alley. The dwarf had found a supply of hollowed coconut shells that obviously served as mugs, and held one beneath a cork bung on the side of the wooden vat. Removing the bung, the dwarf was showered in a dark brown liquid. A hoppy smell filled the warm and humid air. Filling the shell, he replaced the stopper, grinning happily.

“See, beer!” Grunsonn chuckled, downing the shell full in one capacious gulp. “Good too, but maybe could have done with standing f’ra bit longer.”

“Never mind that, come and look at this lot!” Johan was beside himself. He had climbed almost to the very top of the pyramid, where a large clump of vines concealed some kind of ornate stonework.

The others walked over, Grimcrag slurping beer. The elf shook a warning finger at the lizard thing, which had crawled into the shade offered by the canopy of a nearby hut.

“Rik!” The creature gave a croaking burp, but made no attempt to untie itself, apparently resigned to its fate.

“Did that thing call you ‘Rick’?” Grimcrag asked, throwing the empty coconut shell away. The dwarf stood at the base of the pyramid, clenched fists on hips, staring belligerently up at the young man atop the construction. Bits of vine and moss floated down towards the dwarf. “Wotcha doing, Anstein? This thing doesn’t look too safe!”

“Rik! LsssRik!” said the lizard.

“And you can shut up n’all.”

Jiriki was peering intently at the base of the pyramid, where Johan had uncovered a patch of bare stone. Using a silk kerchief, the elf dusted some smaller fragments away from the surface, peered for a moment, then stood back in surprise. A clod of earth hit the elf on the head, but he made no indication of noticing.

“How?” Jiriki began, brows furrowing in surprise and consternation. “What?”

“See, I told you, and that’s just the start!” Johan’s voice wavered with excitement.

“LsssRIK! LSSSRIKK!” In the shelter of the hut, the lizard thing was getting quite animated.

“Wot?” Grimcrag called, stomping over to where the elf stood mesmerised. The dwarf peered at the stonework. “Wot is all the fuss ab-eh?” The dwarf stood as if frozen, a thick and stubby finger repeatedly tracing a carved line in the exposed stonework.

“RIKKRIKKRIKK!! LSSSRIKKK!”

“I… vill… Return…” whispered Grimcrag, reading the words inscribed on the base of the pyramid. A large clump of vines descended upon him, and he looked up, the spell broken. “Unh?” grunted the dwarf, dropping his axe in surprise.

Jiriki was staring, mouth open, pointing at the top of the structure with a slender finger.

Johan Anstein, ex-Imperial envoy, was kneeling unmoving in front of the statue he had revealed at the very pinnacle of the pyramid.

“I’ll be blowed!” declared the dwarf. “Looks like a statue of one of them Norsey types.” He scratched his head, puzzled, leaving streaks of soil smeared across his brow. “How’d that get ’ere then?”

Staring down at them from atop the small pyramid was the unmistakable form of a Norseman.

“Actually,” Johan began, “don’t you think it looks a little like—”

A spear thumped into the ground inches from Jiriki’s boot, making the elf jump in shocked surprise.

“LSSSRIK! LSSSRIK! LSSSRIK!” This time, the croak was a chorus of many voices.

Very slowly, the Marauders turned round. They were completely surrounded by perhaps a hundred angry and agitated lizard creatures, all wielding spears, bows or blowpipes.

“Poisoned, like as not,” Grimcrag exclaimed, reaching for Old Slaughterer. A cruelly barbed arrow shot into the sand, a mere hair’s breadth away from the dwarf’s reaching fingers. He hurriedly snatched his hand back, and a glassy grin crept over his face. For the first time in years, Grimcrag Grunsonn faced a multitude of foes without his trusty axe in his hand. In his heart of hearts, Grimcrag knew that this did nothing good for their odds of winning. It also made him horribly embarrassed. Caught short, he flushed bright red.

The lizards advanced, hissing noisily and brandishing their impressively sharp-looking weapons.

“Don’t worry, Grimcrag, I won’t tell anyone… even if this whole tragic mess is your fault!” Jiriki whispered, nodding at the dwarf’s axe.

Their captive lizard nodded knowledgeably and burped almost to itself. “S’Rikkitiz!”

 

Inexorably the Marauders were being forced up to the top of the pyramid, where Johan stood swaying in the intense heat of the sun. Grimcrag could see his axe at the base of the pyramid, apparently of little interest to the lizard creatures which ringed the pyramid, gesturing with their spears and bows. Their hissed chanting was all but deafening. The Marauders glanced nervously about them, hoping to spy some way out of their hopeless predicament.

“A pretty pickle you’ve got us into, lad, and no mistake,” Grunsonn grumbled, sitting down on the top step. “And us with no weapons ’n’all.”

Johan gasped in indignant surprise. “What do you mean, Grimcrag? It was you who said the place was deserted. It was you that drank their beer.” The young man pointed at the axe the dwarf clutched. “And what do you call that thing, a toothpick?”

Grimcrag was clutching his spare axe, Orcflayer, in one scarred paw, but his miserable countenance spoke volumes. “It’s not the same. Just don’t feel right. It’s all in the runes, y’see.” The dwarf gestured vaguely with the deadly looking axe at the throng of lizards before them. “If them things kill me while I’m not using Ole Slaughterer, I’ll, I’ll…” His voice choked, and a tear crept into the old dwarf’s eye. Grimcrag cast a shamefaced gaze at his boots. When he spoke again, it was with a small and tremulous voice. “Well, I’ll just never live it down.”

Jiriki slapped the dwarf on the back of his head, knocking his helm down over his eyes. “Stop being so pathetic, Grunsonn; we’ve been through worse that this, just.” The elf stood steely-eyed beside young Anstein, an arrow nocked in his fine elven bow.

At that moment, their attention was drawn to a commotion on the edge of the clearing. A huge lizardman, bigger than the others and bedecked in all manner of feathers, bones and other dubious finery, strode towards the pyramid. The creature had almost blue-black skin, and in one scaly clawed hand it wielded a long staff. As the Marauders watched, lightning-blue flames glittered balefully around its tip.

“Uh oh, they’ve got magic.” Johan manoeuvred himself behind the statue.

A crackling bolt of blue energy surged towards them, but even though it was lying at the base of the pyramid, the potent runes on Old Slaughterer drew and earthed the seething forces emanating from the shaman’s staff. After a moment, the lizardman stopped trying to immolate the Marauders and stood nonplussed, its head cocked on one side like a bird. It studied them intently for a minute or so, then squawked something at its fawning retinue. They scuttled off and returned moments later, bearing some heavy-duty nets. The Shaman nodded up at the warriors, and licked its thin lips expectantly.

On top of the pyramid, Grimcrag stood up and set his lips in a stern pout. “Ain’t going in no net. Sharn’t. Ain’t no fish!” The dwarf looked at Johan and Jiriki, and grinned his familiar grin. “Dunno what came over me, lads!” Setting his helm to its correct angle, he whispered quietly to himself. “Me old dad always said ‘It’s not the axe as makes the dwarf’, and ’appen he was right.”

“I hear you, my friend. Now is not the time for carping,” Jiriki agreed. “Let’s do it!”

“Oh heavens, there are hundreds of them, with magic and nets. We’re bound to die now, aren’t we?” muttered Johan, more in anger than fear. The deathly confidence exuded by Grimcrag and Jiriki was strangely infectious, and the two older Marauders were heartened by the sound of Johan’s sword scraping clear from its scabbard.

At the base of the pyramid, twenty feet of very steep steps below them, the lizard things gathered. Looking up, they obviously weren’t too keen to climb the steps, nets or no, not into the waiting blades of three belligerent warriors who had such an obvious height advantage over them. They rasped and burped amongst themselves, and a few launched arrows up to skitter and skip on the flagstones of the pyramid.

“Come on then, frog spawn!” Johan shouted. “Come and get your legs chopped.” He turned to Grimcrag. “Shame old Grail-mad Pierre isn’t here, he loves frogs’ legs.”

Grimcrag guffawed. Jiriki smirked.

“LSSSRIKK!” the lizards croaked as one, but they did not advance. The shaman reached the bottom of the pyramid with bounding steps, and squinted up at the warriors. “Nrssssssss?” it hissed angrily at them, then rounded on its cowardly compatriots. After a few minutes of frantic hissing and croaking, the black lizard threw off its headdress in apparent disgust, and shook its mottled head resignedly. It shrugged its shoulders and pointed up beyond the pyramid top. The other lizards followed its’ gaze, and immediately went into a frenzy of excitement, hopping up and down and hissing enthusiastically.

Atop the pyramid, the Marauders watched, transfixed.

“Now what?” Grimcrag grunted.

“They seem excited about something,” Johan muttered, confused.

Jiriki turned to face the way the lizards were looking. “Sun’s going down. They’ll wait for the dark.”

The others turned and looked. There was no denying the fact that the sun was sinking fast. Already its ruddy red globe fondly touched the top most branches of the trees, and soon it would drop out of sight completely.

“It sinks so fast in these climes,” began Johan.

“No wonder neither, it puts such an effort in all day. It’s prob’ly ’zausted.”

“So what shall we do?” the elf asked.

“Do?” Grimcrag snorted. “What d’ya think we’re going to do?”

“Well,” began Johan, “I, for one do not intend being butchered in the dark.”

“That’s the spirit, young ’un. Let’s go get ’em, eh?”

“Yes, well… oh hell, why not!”

Drawing themselves to their full respective heights, the Marauders prepared for battle.

At the base of the pyramid, the lizards realised that something was about to happen, and they began to form formal ranks of shield, spear and bow.

If still undecided in their hearts (and not one of them would ever admit that such was the case) the Marauders atop the pyramid had their minds made up by a familiar heavily-muscled figure who appeared in the dusk light around the path to the village. His voice reached them as a heavily accented bellow.

“Vot you vaitink for—Marauders or Mauses?” The barbarian was already at a run towards the lizards, the glitter of his sword a deadly sliver of malice in the dying rays of the sun.

“CHAAARGE!!!!” roared Grimcrag, leaping down towards the waiting lizard horde. He didn’t even turn to see if the others were following. Battle cries to the fore and now to their rear threw the lizards into total panic. Despite the entreaties of their shaman, Anstein saw them turn to flee. Their path was blocked by a charging barbarian. A barbarian who wielded a two handed sword in his right hand and a heavily scarred iron shield on his left arm. A barbarian who howled like a wolf as he charged towards the assembled hordes of reptiledom with no apparent concern for his own safety.

Tumbling down the pyramid towards the lizards’ backs, Anstein could see that this was going to get very bloody very fast. They obviously didn’t take very well to surprises.

Then something very strange happened.

 

Seeing the charging barbarian, the lizards flung their weapons aside, dropped to their knees and buried their heads in the sand.

Grimcrag, Jiriki and Johan came to a halt at the bottom of the pyramid. A carpet of lizard backs stretched away from them.

Grimcrag shrugged and raised his axe. “Hardly seems fair! Still, never look a gift coin and all that,” he grunted, decapitating three lizards in one blow. Jiriki stopped the slaughter by adroitly tripping the dwarf over. Black blood was splattered everywhere, but the remaining lizards sat motionless.

“Oi!” exclaimed the dwarf, dragging himself to his feet. He made for the security of Old Slaughterer.

“Leave it, Grimcrag,” Johan hissed. “Something’s happening.”

Berserk, Keanu charged onwards, dimly wondering where the enemy had gone and why the floor was all lumpy. He slowed to a loping trot, then a walk, then finally stopped. He could see Jiriki, Grimcrag and Anstein all right, but he could have sworn that there was a whole horde of… Jiriki was gesturing at his boots.

“Vot?” he bellowed, still partly berserk, peering down. He was standing on the chest of a large lizard creature, a black-skinned one bedecked in feathers and bone. He raised his sword to strike.

The lizard’s eyes bulged, but it managed to croak loudly. Keanu dropped his sword in surprise; the other Marauders did likewise. They all clearly heard the lizard shaman speak words—understandable words.

“Velkomsss God LosssErikkk. Long haff ve Vaited innit yessssss.”

The living carpet whispered at Keanu with the rustling, hissing squeak of a hundred lizard voices: “LSSSRIKKK! LSSSSSRIKKK! LSSSS-RIKKK!”

Grimcrag patted Johan on the shoulder. “I’ll be blowed! Maybe this isn’t going to be so bad after all!”

 

Six months in paradise was probably enough for anyone. It was certainly enough for Johan Anstein. Much as he enjoyed lying on a beach being feted as a god by proxy—just knowing Keanu seemed to be enough to get you in the club—Johan knew that there was a whole world out there over the horizon, just waiting for the unique influence of Grunsonn’s Marauders.

Still, he had had time to write up their adventures in his journal, the food was good, the natives friendly (except for the odd hostile glare from the extended families of those accidentally killed by Grimcrag and Keanu) and the weather beyond compare. As he curled his toes lazily in the warm sand, Johan pondered on his companions.

Grimcrag, certainly, was unusually happy, what with his beer and the cave full of gold which the dwarf was lovingly transferring to their patched-up and extended rowing boat in his secret cove. Johan sighed contentedly.

Only Jiriki was unhappy with the situation, his wanderlust frustrated by the confines of the small island. The elf had become quite solitary of late, taking to long sojourns along the cliff-tops on the lookout for ships. He had even built some warning beacons out of dead brushwood. He had meticulously timed the tides, how long it took to get a fire going, run to the boat and get out to sea. Johan really couldn’t see the point, and hoped that Jiriki would perhaps relax a little when he realised that they truly were in the lap of the gods regarding rescue. They had not had so much as a sniff of a sail since their arrival six months ago.

Still, it was sunny and warm every day of the week… maybe they could stay awhile longer yet. Actually, it wasn’t as if they had any real choice in the matter. Jiriki should jolly well wake up and—

His thoughts were interrupted by a familiar rasping voice.

“Ansssstein, ’vake?” The voice was that of Froggo, Johan’s adopted lizardman. The young creature—apparently they called themselves ‘skinkz’ in their native tongue—followed Anstein everywhere, eager to learn as much as it could of the big, wide world beyond its island home.

“Yes, Froggo, me lad, I’m awake. Just musing.” Johan turned to look at the skink, which as usual sat a respectful distance away from its adopted mentor. On matters of gender, when pressed, the creatures had been ambiguous to say the least, and Johan was none too sure if Froggo was in fact a boy or a girl, or even whether they made such distinctions. Johan had pigeon-holed Froggo (he had quickly realised that he had no way in this world of being able to pronounce the creature’s real name, which sounded like a cistern being flushed) as being a boy, for neatness’ sake more than anything else.

“Musink?” the skink enquired, blinking its toad-like eyes and scratching a leathery patch of skin under its long chin. “Vot meaninksss?”

“Another word for thinking, sort of… You know, your accent is terrible, Froggo; abominable, in fact!” Johan turned over and lazily threw a small stick at the reptile, which dodged nimbly out of the way. In return, it cheekily threw a small pebble which hit Johan square on the forehead.

“But better zan yoursss in my ssspeaks yessssss?” the lizard creature quipped, making the loud hissing noise in the back of its throat that Johan had learned passed for laughter in skink.

Johan jumped to his feet and chased the small scampering creature back to the village. It was nearly time for lunch.

Behind them, on the furthest visible reach of the ocean, the small black speck of a sail hove into view over the horizon. On a nearby cliff-top, a thin plume of black smoke clawed its way upwards into the heavy air.

 

In his cave, Grimcrag worked tirelessly, piling yet more gold artefacts into the boat and tying them securely down. As he worked, he endlessly muttered to himself under his breath: “Can’t last, got to be a catch. Can’t last, got to be a catch.”

The dwarf’s arms and armour were stacked neatly to one side of the cave, glittering from the sparkling reflections cast by the clear water. The mouth of the cave was perhaps a hundred feet distant, a patch of white heat against the shadowy black of the cave. The slap-slap of water kept a constant rhythm by which the dwarf worked, stacking the gold items one at a time in a strange looking boat which was moored beside a natural stone jetty.

The boat was an odd mongrel contraption, new wood gleaming against older, more battered timbers. Its prow bore a proud dragon head, and there was provision for a small mast. Four old and rusted shields lined each side of the vessel, one to protect each of the oars which dipped into the cool waters of the cave. A bigger, steering oar was mounted at the higher stern, and the boat looked to be just what it was—a mix between the wreck of their rowing boat and a much older Norse longboat.

The soft pattering of booted feet disturbed the dwarf, and he instinctively reached for his trusty axe. A moment later and Jiriki’s sun-tanned face peered into the cave. The elf had taken the most naturally to the tropical climate, and now looked healthier than the dwarf had ever seen him. “Grimcrag?” he called, and from his tone, the dwarf knew that something was of grave concern. He stepped from the shadows. “Here, Jiriki—what’s up, old friend?”

The elf strode into the cave, grinning at the boat despite himself. He pointed at Grimcrag’s construction and tapped a foot impatiently. “Will that thing really float out of there?” The elf nodded towards the cave mouth. “Weighed down by so much gold?”

Grimcrag spat on the floor, disgusted by the temerity of such a question. “Course it will! What do you take me for?” The dwarf stomped up to the elf and prodded him with a stubby callused finger. “While you lot’ve bin living it up with yer froggy friends,” Grimcrag’s arm swept around the cave as evidence of his industry, “some of us ’ave bin working blimming hard!”

The elf clapped Grimcrag on the shoulder and smiled. “Splendid, my industrious friend, splendid. You know that, of all of us, I am least happy with our predicament, and now, we may have… an opportunity.” Jiriki headed back to the rear entrance to the cave, before turning once more to face the bemused dwarf. “Come on, Grimcrag. We’ll be using that boat of yours sooner than you’d imagine, I’ll wager!”

“What do you mean?” Grimcrag began. “I’m not using it for fishing, nor joyrides neither—look what happened last time…”

Jiriki winked conspiratorially as he stepped out into the daylight. His lilting voice drifted back into the cave. “Come on, Grimcrag, grab your axe too—the tide’s rising, the beacon’s lit. By my estimation we have no more than an hour!”

“It’s the sun, isn’t it?” The dwarf frowned as he grabbed his axe. “That, and all the time you’ve spent moping around those cliff-tops.”

But Jiriki was off and running. His last words, echoing around the cavern, persuaded the old dwarf that something important was happening: “I’ve spied a sail. We have company!”

 

Keanu sat on his bamboo throne, two skinks fanning him with the feathers of some particularly large and gaudily-plumaged bird. Swathed in garlands of exotic flowers, the barbarian drank warm beer from his helmet; his feet rested in a bowl of cool water, which was replenished regularly by more scurrying minions. He faced out onto the village square, where the now spotlessly clean pyramid reared up into the sky.

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 from 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—”

“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.

Pugh shoved with a spur-booted foot to encourage any laggards to embark in the boats. “Last one ashore is the lily-livered son of a toothless bar-crone from Marienburg!”

“So you’ll be last aboard then, sir—shall I save you a seat?”

“Less of that, me lad or you’ll feel the business end of me ’ook!”

“Err, are we all going?” Yin-Tuan frowned.

“Aaargh! That be so—not fair to deny some of me fine crew the pillagin’ they deserve!” Pugh grinned, showing surprisingly white teeth. “But all of—”

“Don’t be so wet, Yin-Tong, it’s not like the Bretonnian navy is about to show up, is it?” Pugh made a great show of scanning the horizon with his telescope. “We ain’t seen another sail for months!”

“But—”

“Get in that there boat NOW!”

Moments later and the long rowing boats splashed down into the warm, clear waters. Moments after that, some fifty cut-throats were rowing hard for the beach amidst much shouting and jeering. In the lead boat, Pugh could see that the lizard things had already disembarked, and the last few were disappearing into the jungle, leaving their canoes on the beach.

“Lily-livered sons of frogs!” he shouted. “We’ll be eating thee afore sundown!” Turning to face his crew, he grinned maliciously at Belly Fat Dave, the ship’s cook, his tongue licking his lips in eager anticipation. “I hope you’ve got that there Tilean mustard you’re so keen on, Mr. Cook. I foretell a grand feast in a few hours’ time!”

The fat and sweating cook was already sharpening several deadly-looking cleavers on a whetstone he always carried with him. “Cap’n, theys going to taste bootiful!”

The pirates’ boats surged towards the prey, like hunting dogs hot on the scent of a wounded beast. In Pugh’s estimation, the isle was not so large, and once the lizards’ canoes were burnt, the things would have nowhere to go, except into the pirates’ waiting cooking pot.

“Faster, me lads, faster—I’ll warrant there’s gold an’ jewels fer the pickin’ too!” As one voice, Hook Black Pugh’s scurvy crew cheered lustily and pulled harder on the oars. A few moments later, the prow of the lead boat ground against the soft sand of the beach, and a dozen hard-bitten pirates leapt eagerly ashore. They were confident that their great captain was going to deliver booty, treasure and grog in abundance to the dark holds of the Dirty Dog. He always did.

One way or another.

 

“AnSSstein, ssssstop!” A sibilant hissing filled the cave as the Marauders rushed into the welcoming darkness, Johan in front and just a little out of breath. He almost ran into a spear in the darkness, and they skidded to an abrupt halt, scant twenty paces from their boat.

“Go easy!” Grimcrag grunted, nearly tripping over his axe. “Is that our friendly reptile?”

“Froggo?” Johan asked, confused by the flinty point which dug sharply at his chest. “What’s all this about?”

As his eyes grew accustomed the dark, Johan could make out perhaps a dozen shadowy figures, dappled reflections flickering on the wall in the dim light from the cave mouth. Lizardmen, hand-picked “Berserkers” by the look of it—wielding spears and other dangerous-looking weapons. This felt an odd time for a goodbye committee, and the lizards’ general demeanour suggested agitation.

“Maybe quarter of an hour left, Anstein. Look at the water level: the cave mouth will soon be impassable!” Jiriki’s silky voice was edged with impatience, sounding like it was emerging despite clenched jaw and grated teeth. “I—will—not—miss—this—chance!” The threat in the elf’s voice was clear.

“Well, Froggo?” Johan demanded, trying to size up the situation. Glancing ahead, he could see that the rising tide had indeed already ensured that it would be a tight fit getting their outlandish boat out of the cave; in a few minutes the task would be impossible. He knew that they had very little time if they wanted their plan to work, otherwise they would be stuck on the island in the middle of a war between pirates and lizards, with no means of escape. The clock was ticking, and Johan knew that the last thing they could afford now was an unexpected run in with their lizard “subjects” over some misinformed breach of tribal etiquette. Johan could see that the other Marauders had already made their decisions, and were imperceptibly moving into full combat readiness. More hissing and angry spear-gesturing, however, stopped them in their tracks.

From the shadows, Froggo stepped forward, with what passed for a sinister grin on his reptilian features. “Ansstein, you teach too well. I lissssten yessss, lissssten welll…” The creature bared sharp teeth and brought up its spear to point accusingly at the Marauders.

“What’s it mean, Johan?” Grimcrag demanded gruffly. “We haven’t time for this…”

“SSSSHUTTUP!!” one of the Berserkers barked at the dwarf, whose stubby fingers were already twisting restlessly at the haft of his axe.

Froggo upended his spear and prodded Johan hard in the chest with the haft. “Not godsssss no!” He prodded again for emphasis and Johan stepped back a pace. “Not freindssss no! Not LossRikk no!”

A faint ripple of “Losssrikklosssrikk” echoed around the cave. Froggo nodded and continued.

“Robbersss yes! Liarssss yes! Thieves yesssss!” the lizardman hissed, pointing at the boat. “Gold! Richesssss in ressst of world!”

Johan rubbed his chest and sighed. “Look Froggo, you really don’t understand—”

“Yessssss, do underssssstand!” the creature interrupted, tongue flicking rapidly in and out. “Undersssstand too well!” Froggo took a step forwards and gestured towards the Marauders. His fellows shuffled forwards after their leader, not looking too sure of themselves but taking comfort in their superior numbers. Spears and dart guns were levelled at the Marauders, and a dozen pairs of reptilian eyes stared with unblinking ferocity.

The tide rose implacably in the watery cave. The atmosphere of urgency was almost tangible in the cool damp air.

Johan instinctively knew that this could get very nasty, very fast. Even under the situation, he briefly marvelled to himself that a few months ago he wouldn’t have known anything instinctively at all, except perhaps how to serve wine to a visiting burgomeister or Tilean ambassador. Danger is a marvellous teacher, and Johan had recently been undergoing some very practical remedial tuition at one of the most infamous cramming schools around.

“Now, Froggo,” he began, backing leisurely in the direction of what looked to be a fairly safe alcove in the cave wall, arms raised in supplication. “Don’t do anything rash…”

“Noo, Ansssstein, this isss the time of Firssst Lord Froggo!” The lizard expanded its throat sac and croaked emphatically. If lizards are capable of a mad glint in their eyes, Johan rather fancied that he could see one right at this moment. “King Frogggo!” the skink croaked, raising its spear above its head as the others nodded and bobbed enthusiastically.

“Eh?” Grimcrag muttered, axe half-raised.

“Vot?” scowled Keanu, his sword somehow mysteriously out of its scabbard.

Jiriki seemed to have vanished completely, to the surprise of the lizards. Maybe the cold of the cave was getting to them, but compared to the lithe movements of the Marauders, they seemed to be distinctly slow. Then again, Grunsonn’s Marauders in action did seem to have the ability to make time run like treacle. Whatever, there were a dozen of the enemy, so Johan decided to take no chances and quietly slid behind the rocks in his alcove.

“Yeses! You go! Now! Leave disss boat! Go and fight piiiratessss!”

Froggo seemed to be getting quite agitated, and Grimcrag seemed to be getting the drift of what the skink was suggesting.

“You what?” the dwarf grunted, a dangerous edge creeping into his voice. Clearly Froggo wasn’t listening too carefully.

“Leave now and live, meeesssssta Grimcrag,” he hissed, and his retinue prodded angry spears towards the dwarf’s rock solid and disconcertingly squat frame. “You go! We takessss da gold and ssship, and ssssail away yesss!”

The lizards hissed and burped appreciatively, clearly pleased at the prospect of sailing the high seas in their new found ship full of gold.

“What?” Grimcrag bellowed. “Did I hear you right? Did you say ‘take the gold’?”

Blinded by his recently acquired confidence, Froggo nodded and licked his lips. “Yesss!”

A moment’s silence descended upon the cave, broken only by an urgent elf voice whispering, “Do them, do them now!”

The skinks shuffled in the sand. Grimcrag looked like he might be about to explode. Johan peered at the scene through his fingers, almost daring not to look. Beyond the gaggle of lizardmen, the cave mouth looked awfully small. Water was lapping over the top of the jetty, and Johan doubted whether the bow or stern of the boat would clear the entrance already.

“We’re going to be too late,” he mumbled to himself, aghast, “and it’s all my fault!”

In the event, Froggo decided the matter. The lizard hissed at Grimcrag and pointed to the tunnel at the back of the cave. “You are not ssso tough! Take your beard and go!”

“Right, that’s enough of that! That’s enough of that! That’s fighting talk and I’m your dwarf!”

The cave abruptly exploded into violent and bloody action, largely composed of a swinging axe, a lunging sword, a flurry of deadly arrows and a dozen screaming lizardmen.

Johan closed his eyes tightly, and covered his ears too, just for good measure. This of course meant that he completely missed the arrival of another twenty or so hand-picked and heavily armed lizardmen via the back tunnel to the cave.

 

“Go easy, lads, they’ll be around here somewhere.” The pirates edged through the jungle, following the path from the beach. So far they had quickly despatched the few lizard creatures who they had caught. They hadn’t had it all their own way, though, three of their number falling to poisoned darts, and one being dragged into the jungle by something big which roared and hissed as it carried the screaming man away into the undergrowth. Four dead pirates for a half dozen dead lizards seemed poor trade to Pugh’s boys, used as they were to attacking ships carrying nothing more hostile than a few easily-bribed guards and a hold full of shackled slaves. They were getting nervous. They knew the island wasn’t very big, yet they had been marching for what seemed like hours. And they had left their ship completely deserted in their bravado and eagerness to kill.

Pugh recognised the restlessness amongst his men, and knew that he had to think of something fast. He knew that his lads weren’t above following his own past example of slitting the captain’s throat and making a quick getaway, no doubt led by a new leader rapidly self-promoted from the ranks. Pugh licked his lips and fidgeted with his hook, beady eyes scouring the jungle for signs of life. The path was well trodden, that was sure enough, but whether it actually went anywhere…

“Cap’n, here!” Yin-Tuan’s excited voice broke the oppressive silence. Pugh spat on the sand and smiled, wiping a grimy cuff across his sweaty brow. He hurried up to where the first mate and “Teachy” Bligh stood at a bend in the path with swords drawn and wolfish grins. A small stream could be heard running over rocks somewhere close by, and a pile of skulls indicated some kind of warning. The pirates ignored it, staring ahead around the bend.

“Aaargh!” exclaimed Pugh, beaming roundly and slapping his first mate on the back. Yin-Tuan coughed and swallowed a chunk of chewing tobacco, grimacing at the vile taste. “Aaargh! Didn’t I say as how we would catch em?”

Yin-Tuan and Bligh nodded, raising cruel swords as their captain gestured for the rest of the pirates to catch up. Soon a gaggle of cruel-eyed thieves and cut-throats peered around the corner, grinning and chuckling at the sight of the lizardman village laid out undefended before them. The pyramid in the centre of the village did not attract a second glance as the pirates spread out to begin the looting.

“Lets burn it to the ground, boys!” shouted Pugh. “That’ll bring the newts a-runnin’, I’ll warrant!”

Within a few minutes the first huts were burning, black smoke rising straight into the still dead air, no wind to disperse or blow it away. A few minutes later, the pirates discovered the beer vat, to evil cheers of great delight.

Amidst the carnage, Pugh stood on the bottom step of the pyramid with Yin-Tuan and Bligh. “Very good, me lads, this’ll do nicely! Reckon they’ll be back any minute now, eh?”

Bligh just grinned wickedly and held up a razor-sharp cutlass until its silver blade glinted in the sunlight, reflecting the warm blue of the sea behind them through a break in the jungle canopy. Something caught his eye, and he suddenly looked away, across the clearing. “What the—” he began, well-honed murderous instincts immediately to the fore, but his fears were quashed as a multi-coloured bird broke cover with a raucous atonal squawk which belied its beautiful red plumage. It fluttered and flapped clumsily to another tree, where it perched nervously on a topmost branch, obviously readying itself for more prolonged flight.

“Losing yer nerve, Mr. Bligh?” Pugh enquired, and all the pirates in earshot laughed appreciatively. Pugh secretly thought that perhaps Mr. Bligh was getting a little too big for his stolen gentry boots, and it wouldn’t hurt if they were one less officer when they rejoined the ship. He grinned condescendingly at his second officer, who scowled back at him. Hook Black Pugh was happy. Things looked to be turning out just right after all.

 

Johan ducked down, both so that his head would not scrape against the roof, and also to avoid the slashing blade of the sword wielded by a lizard who was frothing at the mouth with uncontrolled rage. Keanu had taught the skinks only too well “Da Vay off da Berzerka”. The boat rocked alarmingly, and Johan grabbed at the bulwark to stop himself going overboard into the cold water.

The hissing groans of dead and dying lizards reverberated chillingly around the cave as the Marauders desperately tried to cast off. Blow-darts, spears and arrows hissed through the air all around them, and several struck the boat with dull thunks as they splintered the wood.

Grimcrag held the stern, his axe carving a glittering figure of eight in the damp air, an arc which no lizardman had so far stepped into and survived. Jiriki was at the dragon prow, shooting with deadly precision into the mass of reptiles which heaved around the small dock where the boat’s stern was still tethered. Every so often, the elf turned and squinted at the diminishing arch of light which was the cave mouth.

“Cast off, for pity’s sake, Keanu, cast off now!” Jiriki screamed, loosing another arrow into the throng. “I have few arrows left, and we have no time at all!”

In the stern, ducking to avoid spears and darts, Keanu fumbled with the knot with which Grimcrag had secured the boat. “Left unta Right und through… nyet, dammit! Right ova Left und bak… Nyet!”

Glancing down from his position at the stern, Grimcrag sighed as he saw the mess Keanu was making. “For heavens sake, meathead, it’s a simple bendshank!” The dwarf tried swinging his axe one-handed and leaning back to undo the rope, but his gnarled and stubby fingers could not quite reach. As the dwarf looked away, momentarily distracted, the skinks took their chances and swarmed towards the stern. Three were instantly decapitated, the glowing runes on Old Slaughterer hissing and flashing as the awful blade did its bloody work. The blade snagged on bone deep in the fourth lizardman’s body, and Grimcrag almost toppled over as his momentum was abruptly stopped. Blood boiled from the lizardman’s mouth as it collapsed on the killing blade.

“Bugger!”

“Kill them yessssss!” the lizards screamed as they swarmed up the side of the boat. There were so many of them now that they threatened to overturn the small craft, overloaded as it was with carefully boxed-up gold and jewels.

Grimcrag tried desperately to fend them off from his kneeling position in the bilges, as Keanu redoubled his efforts with the knots. The fight was now too close in for arrow work, and Jiriki’s blade was a cold streak in the dappled light.

“By all the gods let’s go!”

“Unnh! These floorboards ain’t well made, them’s all splinters. Not so quick, frogface!”

“Left unda Right unda back unda dammit dammit DAMMIT!”

Without really thinking what he was doing, Johan plunged into the fray, sword stabbing to left and right. Needle teeth snapped at him, scant inches from his face, and he seemed to be surrounded by a wall of steel and claws and sharpened stone axe-heads. The sharp smell of lizard washed over him, a mix of rubber and fish-heads, and scaly arms reached out to drag him from the boat.

Not to be stopped, Johan stabbed and thrust, peering into the gloom until he saw what he sought—the rope at the point where it passed over the rim of the boat side. His sword raised over his head before descending in a flashing arc. A burly lizardman blinked in comprehension and tried to stop the wicked blade, only to have his arm severed cleanly below the elbow. Black-blue blood fountained over Johan. The sword parted the rope and thwacked into the bulwark with such force that it was stuck fast. Even with a two-handed grip, Johan could not drag it free.

All around him, lizards hung onto the boat to prevent it drifting into the cave, and cold eyes stared at the ex-Imperial envoy. A forest of blades inclined towards him, and time slowed to a standstill. A face he recognised grinned evilly, twisted into a malevolent parody of the creature he had once counted as a friend. It wielded a spear in both hands, and as it thrust forward, Johan saw his death in the glittering black orbs of its eyes.

“Froggo, nooooo!”

“Ansssssstein oh yesssssss!”

At the last moment, Johan felt himself thrown backwards by the scruff of the neck by what could only be described as heavily muscled fingers. A massive sword cleaved the air, barely slowing as it cleaved Froggo too. In the same gracefully deadly movement, and with barely a shift in his stance, Keanu reversed the blade and swept its razor edge along the side of the boat. A great hissing wail resounded, and a moment later the boat began to drift into the middle of the cave. Sitting up in the bilges, Johan was almost sick as he saw the row of perhaps a dozen clawed lizard paws still clutching the side of the boat like the broken sutures of a macabre wound.

“Get rowing!” Jiriki yelled, and Johan grabbed vaguely at an oar. Grimcrag was already pulling with a vengeance, and the heavily laden boat surged gamely towards the rapidly diminishing entrance. Even Johan could see that the water in the cave was almost at the high tide mark, and he doubted whether there was already any room for the miniature Norse longboat to clear the cave.

A rasping, scraping grinding sound assured him that he was right, when the proud dragon prow caught on the craggy rock of the cave roof. The boat ground to a halt immediately, throwing Keanu hard onto a heavy crate and ripping the oar from Jiriki’s hands.

The elf lowered his head and closed his eyes. “We’ve lost!” he whispered. “We’re really stuck here now… and even we can’t beat all the lizards on this forsaken island.”

Johan looked around wildly. Jiriki was right, there was no way that the boat was going any further. The cave roof sloped down towards the entrance, and their boat was firmly wedged in place by the ornate dragon headed prow. Glancing shoreward, he could see that the water was boiling as the lizardmen hurled themselves into the water and began swimming towards their frail craft. Johan knew in his heart what the skinks intended: they would turn the boat over and drown the Marauders by sheer weight of numbers and their superior aquatic fighting skills.

“It can’t end like this!” Johan shouted, looking around for some way of escape, there was none. Despair clutched at his heart.

“Unngh!” grunted Keanu, clutching weakly at his sword, the wind knocked from his lungs by the impact with the heavy crate.

“Heads down, everyone!” Grimcrag shouted cheerfully, leaving barely a second for the Marauders to act on his sage advice, as once more Old Slaughterer was pulled back for a mighty swing. As he dove for the deck, Johan could see the sheer, grim, bloody minded expression which belied the dwarf’s easy words. As the blade swung back, Johan could have sworn that he caught the words, “Shan’t—have—me—gold!” expelled through gritted dwarf teeth, and then the axe was hurtling towards its target. And Johan understood Grimcrag’s intent the split second before the axe ripped through the proud dragon prow, sundering four feet of very solid and seasoned wood as though it was the pulpy flesh of an overripe fruit.

From his position on the crate, Keanu could only gulp appreciatively, heaving air into his lungs as he recovered his breath.

“That’ll do nicely, eh?” Grimcrag gasped, gesturing over his shoulder with a callused thumb. “Now we’d best get a move on, as we have company on the way!”

Johan and Jiriki needed no second bidding, and were already at their oars, pulling for all their might. Together, their efforts just matched those of Keanu, who heaved mightily on the opposite oar, corded muscles standing out on his neck and shoulders. Freed from the grip of the rocky roof, the boat leapt forwards almost eagerly, and Johan reckoned that with their lower profile, they might make it after all. Just. If they ducked.

“Pity; that figurehead was the best bit of the boat I reckon, good solid timber crafted by a skilled carpenter!” Grimcrag’s voice drifted wistfully across the cave.

“Shut up and grab an oar!” came the chorus back.

 

“Aaargh! Yes, me lads!” Hook Black Pugh beamed, surveying the burning village. “This’ll do very nicely indeed!” Well satisfied with the pillaging so far, Pugh grinned broadly, scratching at his stubbled chin with the business end of his hook.

A few yards away, invisibly merged with the jungle, several hundred skinks looked on with murder in their cold eyes, sharp daggers, spears, bows and poisoned darts awaited the signal, for they were determined that none would escape. “When red bird flysssss away…” a feather-bedecked lizardman with blue-black skin hissed ominously.

If Bligh had not been so distracted by the flight of the brightly coloured bird, he might have noticed movement in the reflection in his highly polished blade. But even if he had seen it, he would probably have thought he was seeing things. For who could believe a smallish, makeshift mongrel boat, piled up with crates and so low in the water that it looked near to sinking… or the tiny reflection of the dwarf waving rudely at him from the tiller?

As it was, he saw nothing but an ugly red bird which caused his mates to laugh at him. And if there was one thing he hated, it was being made fun of. So he just stood at the base of the pyramid and fomented murderous plans for his captain. “No one makes fun of Arbuthnot Bligh,” he muttered, and death was in his eyes.

With an ungainly flapping of scarlet wings, the strange bird took flight.

 

“You know,” began Grimcrag, lounging on a hammock strung up on the poop deck of what was up until very recently an abandoned pirate ship, “I don’t think this could have worked out much better if I’d planned it.”

“You mean you didn’t?” Jiriki chided in mock surprise, from his place in the shade of the mainmast.

Grimcrag ignored the elf and continued ticking off their successes on the callused fingers of his left hand. “We’ve got a ship, lizard gold, our Bretonnian gold back, had a holiday…” The dwarf glanced around the poop deck. “Have I forgotten anything?”

“Vot ’bout da Frogmeat stew?” Keanu shouted from the crow’s nest. “Dat vas gut!”

“I still can’t believe you actually cooked him,” Johan muttered sulkily. “Just ’cos he tried to force you to crew the ship with lizards.”

“You saw what he was going to do with that there spear, lad, let’s not forget, eh?” He wagged a finger remonstratively at the ex-Imperial envoy. “Him or us lad, him or us. And you do like a bit of crackling as much as the next man!”

Johan brightened up a little at the mention of crackling, and looked over the stern of the vessel. The sun glittered on the wake of the ship, and seagulls danced in the air, no doubt hoping for any detritus from the Marauders’ last meal. “You won’t find any crackling!” Johan shouted through cupped hands, but his voice was lost in the wind in the sails.

The Dirty Dog sailed serenely away from the island into the setting sun, and a new chapter in the legend that is Grunsonn’s Marauders drew to a close. Well, almost…

 

On top of the small pyramid, grouped around the noble statue, Hook Black Pugh and the remaining pirates nervously eyed the throng of angry lizard kind gathered menacingly below them. To the pirates’ consternation, the leading lizards were wearing what looked like Norse helmets. At least one of them was frothing at the mouth and rolling its eyes in its scaly head. A disconcerting bellowing and hooting reached the ears of the beleaguered pirates, as arrows clattered about the pirates’ booted feet. “Getting dark.”

“They’re… berserks, ain’ts they?”

“Can’t be—can they?”

“Remember, their arrers is poisoned.”

“Looks like that one’s got some kind of magic.”

“We’re doomed and no mistake.”

“Aaargh! I’m sorry, me lads, looks like me luck’s run its course this time.”

“Hold on, what’s this ’ere statue?” Pugh’s deafening shout of pure frustration and despair echoed across the clearing.

“I don’t believe it! It’s that accursed barbarian! I knew THEY had to be at the bottom of this somewhere! Aaaaargh!”