seemed he’d
done nothing but slaughter goblins since the day was born. The dead were beyond
counting, and he stood upon a mound of his foes, caked head-to-foot in their
blood. His helmet had been knocked loose by an arrow, and several others now
pierced his stomach and back, but still he fought on. Then, from out of the
bodies behind him rose a goblin. He heard a scrape of metal and turned, but too
slowly, the goblin’s spearshaft punching into him. With blood bubbling into his
breath, Okrinok spat his final words of defiance and brought his hammer down
onto his killer’s head.
“I am a dwarf! My honour is my life! Without it I am nothing!” bellowed
Okrinok, before death took him.
Tears streamed down Grimli’s face as he looked at Okrinok, his expression
grim.
“And so I swore in death, and in death I have fulfilled that oath,” Okrinok
told Grimli. “Many centuries have the Skrundigor been blamed for my act, and I
have allowed it to happen. The shame for the deaths of Gorgnir and Frammi was
real, and the High King was owed his curse. But no longer shall we be remembered
as cowards and oathbreakers. The goblin king was so impressed that he ordered
his shamans to draw great magic and create this monument to my last battle. But
in trapping my flesh they freed my soul. For many years my spirit wandered these
tunnels and halls and brought death to any grobi I met, but I am weary and wish
to die finally. Thus, I sought you out, last of the Skrundigor, who must be
father to our new line, in honour and in life.”
“But how do I get the High King to lift the curse, to strike our name from
the Dammaz Kron?” asked Grimli.
“If you can’t bring the king under the mountain, lad, bring the mountain over
the king, as we used to say,” Okrinok told him. He pointed to his preserved
body. “Take my hammer, take it to the High King and tell him what you have seen
here. He will know, lad, for that hammer is famed and shall become more so when
my tale is told.”
“I will do as you say,” swore Grimli solemnly. Turning, he took the haft of
the weapon in both hands and pulled. Grimli’s tired muscles protested but after
heaving with all his strength, the dwarf managed to pull the hammer clear.
He turned to thank Okrinok, but the ghost was gone. Clambering awkwardly down
the mound of bodies, Grimli’s thoughts were clear. He would return to
Karaz-a-Karak and present the hammer and his service to the current High King,
to serve him as Okrinok once did. It was then up to the High King whether honour
was restored or not. As he planted his feet onto the rock floor once more, with
no small amount of relief, Grimli felt a change in the air. Turning, he saw the
mound was being enveloped by a shimmering green glow. Before his eyes, the mound
began to shudder, and saw flesh stripping from bones and the bones crumble to
dust as the centuries finally did their work. Soon there was nothing left except
a greenish-tinged haze.
Hefting Okrinok’s hammer, Grimli turned to leave. Out in the darkness dozens
of red eyes regarded him balefully. Grimli grinned viciously to himself. He
strode towards the waiting goblins, his heart hammering in his chest, his
advance quickening until he was running at full charge.
“For Frammi and Gorgnir!” he bellowed.
A GENTLEMAN’S WAR
Neil Rutledge
The sun beat down relentlessly. Otto von Eisenkopf felt the back of his neck
burning. He dare not shift the position in which he had secreted himself though,
he thought, as his neck burnt even hotter—this time with shame as he
remembered the ants’ nest. His first action with this confounded crew and he had
to try and conceal himself on an ants’ nest! That huge fellow—Lutyens, or
whatever his name was—he hadn’t laughed, he hadn’t made a single sound, in
fact, adhering to thrice-cursed Captain Molders’ silence order! The man may not
have laughed aloud, but Otto had seen the mirth in his eyes all
done nothing but slaughter goblins since the day was born. The dead were beyond
counting, and he stood upon a mound of his foes, caked head-to-foot in their
blood. His helmet had been knocked loose by an arrow, and several others now
pierced his stomach and back, but still he fought on. Then, from out of the
bodies behind him rose a goblin. He heard a scrape of metal and turned, but too
slowly, the goblin’s spearshaft punching into him. With blood bubbling into his
breath, Okrinok spat his final words of defiance and brought his hammer down
onto his killer’s head.
“I am a dwarf! My honour is my life! Without it I am nothing!” bellowed
Okrinok, before death took him.
Tears streamed down Grimli’s face as he looked at Okrinok, his expression
grim.
“And so I swore in death, and in death I have fulfilled that oath,” Okrinok
told Grimli. “Many centuries have the Skrundigor been blamed for my act, and I
have allowed it to happen. The shame for the deaths of Gorgnir and Frammi was
real, and the High King was owed his curse. But no longer shall we be remembered
as cowards and oathbreakers. The goblin king was so impressed that he ordered
his shamans to draw great magic and create this monument to my last battle. But
in trapping my flesh they freed my soul. For many years my spirit wandered these
tunnels and halls and brought death to any grobi I met, but I am weary and wish
to die finally. Thus, I sought you out, last of the Skrundigor, who must be
father to our new line, in honour and in life.”
“But how do I get the High King to lift the curse, to strike our name from
the Dammaz Kron?” asked Grimli.
“If you can’t bring the king under the mountain, lad, bring the mountain over
the king, as we used to say,” Okrinok told him. He pointed to his preserved
body. “Take my hammer, take it to the High King and tell him what you have seen
here. He will know, lad, for that hammer is famed and shall become more so when
my tale is told.”
“I will do as you say,” swore Grimli solemnly. Turning, he took the haft of
the weapon in both hands and pulled. Grimli’s tired muscles protested but after
heaving with all his strength, the dwarf managed to pull the hammer clear.
He turned to thank Okrinok, but the ghost was gone. Clambering awkwardly down
the mound of bodies, Grimli’s thoughts were clear. He would return to
Karaz-a-Karak and present the hammer and his service to the current High King,
to serve him as Okrinok once did. It was then up to the High King whether honour
was restored or not. As he planted his feet onto the rock floor once more, with
no small amount of relief, Grimli felt a change in the air. Turning, he saw the
mound was being enveloped by a shimmering green glow. Before his eyes, the mound
began to shudder, and saw flesh stripping from bones and the bones crumble to
dust as the centuries finally did their work. Soon there was nothing left except
a greenish-tinged haze.
Hefting Okrinok’s hammer, Grimli turned to leave. Out in the darkness dozens
of red eyes regarded him balefully. Grimli grinned viciously to himself. He
strode towards the waiting goblins, his heart hammering in his chest, his
advance quickening until he was running at full charge.
“For Frammi and Gorgnir!” he bellowed.
A GENTLEMAN’S WAR
Neil Rutledge
The sun beat down relentlessly. Otto von Eisenkopf felt the back of his neck
burning. He dare not shift the position in which he had secreted himself though,
he thought, as his neck burnt even hotter—this time with shame as he
remembered the ants’ nest. His first action with this confounded crew and he had
to try and conceal himself on an ants’ nest! That huge fellow—Lutyens, or
whatever his name was—he hadn’t laughed, he hadn’t made a single sound, in
fact, adhering to thrice-cursed Captain Molders’ silence order! The man may not
have laughed aloud, but Otto had seen the mirth in his eyes all
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