A Cask of Wynters

 	Josh Reynolds


 	‘Snorri is working up a thirst!’ Snorri Nosebiter shouted as he gleefully brought his hammer down on the pointed skull of a goblin. The goblin made a sound like mud squelching underfoot and dropped to the forest floor. It spasmed as Snorri stepped over it and wrenched his hatchet out of its companion. The second goblin toppled forwards from where Snorri’s thrown axe had impaled it against a scrub pine. Wiping the blade against his breeches, he took in the scene.

 	The goblins had sprung their ambush with all the cunning of born backstabbers. A full thirty of the stunted humanoids had raced from concealment the moment Snorri and his companions had begun their ascent of the slope. Clad in filthy cloaks and hoods covered in branches and leaves, the goblins were obviously old hands at ambushing merchants brave enough to use a route other than the Old Dwarf Road through Black Fire Pass.

 	Unfortunately for them, Snorri and his companions were anything but merchants. Case in point, Volg Staahl of Averheim, the leader of the impromptu expedition. Staahl was sometimes called ‘the Voluminous’; he was a big man with an even bigger voice. Clad in battered plate-mail, he roared out a bawdy drinking song as he swept three goblins off their feet with one swing of his massive sword.

 	‘Haha! Hurry up, Slayer. Winner buys the drinks!’ Staahl bellowed, his ginger beard coated with goblin blood. Near to him, all three of his fellow knights were giving a good account of themselves. But then, the templars of the Order of the Black Bear had had plenty of practice fighting goblins. Indeed, other than halfling coursing, it was their favourite pastime. Staahl and his brother knights had left the warm alehouses of Averheim for the cold peaks of Black Fire Pass on a mission of honour, as well as by the request of the final member of their party.

 	A few feet away from the knights, the individual in question drove the wicked hook that had replaced his left hand into a goblin’s ear and broke the creature’s scrawny neck with a vicious jerk. He was a dwarf and, like Snorri, a Slayer, though his crest was a small thing yet and his beard had yet to recover fully from its ritual shearing in the Temple of Grimnir. He called himself Grudi Halfhand, though the brothers of the Black Bear knew him by a different name.

 	Once, Grudi had been Grudi Wynters, son of Olgep Wynters, Master-Brewer and personal friend of Caspian Rodor, former Grandmaster of the Order of the Black Bear. Now, both Rodor and Wynters were dead, and the brewery with them. That was why they were all here today, fighting goblins on the scrub slopes of the Black Mountains.

 	Whistling cheerfully, Snorri trotted towards the melee, the fading sunlight glinting off the trio of nails hammered into the crown of his skull. ‘Save some for Snorri, fatty!’ he said, picking up speed. The Slayer catapulted himself at the last moment, hurling himself into the goblin ranks like a thunderbolt, his hatchet and hammer swinging.

 	‘Don’t call me fatty, stumpy!’ Staahl growled, plucking a goblin up and snapping its neck. He tossed the carcass at Snorri and it bounced off the Slayer’s massive shoulders. Snorri laughed unapologetically and stamped on a goblin.

 	The goblin gave a strangled squeak, and then silence fell on the slope. Snorri looked around, disappointment settling on him like a cloak. ‘Oh. Are they all dead then?’

 	‘No. Some of them buggered off,’ one of the knights said wearily, sinking into a sitting position on a dry log. He removed his helmet and ran a hand through his sweaty hair. Big and blond, Angmar of Nordland was a novice of the order, though his sour expression spoke of a man with more than his share of experiences, and most of those bad. ‘Still alive, brothers?’ he continued. The other two knights answered back, one after the next. They were a motley duo, even among the less than orderly ranks of the Knights of the Black Bear.

 	‘I yet live, and the ladies of Averheim can rest easy,’ said Flanders Drahl, a beautifully moustachioed student of the Marienburg school of duelling for fun and profit. He carried not a longsword but a rapier, and wore only a light hauberk of leather and ringmail. Near him was Grim Hogan, a Kislevite with a face like a stormcloud and a heavy mace that was stained with blood.

 	‘Pah. Goblins. They are no threat,’ he grunted. ‘They flee like rats at the slightest sign of resistance.’

 	‘And why wouldn’t they flee? We are mighty warriors, are we not?’ Grudi Halfhand barked, thumping his bare chest with his hook. He blanched a moment later, and spent a tense few seconds trying to extricate the tip of his prosthesis from the meat of his tattooed chest. Snorri chuckled and the other Slayer glared at him. ‘Well, some of us are mighty warriors,’ he said nastily. ‘Others are just senile old rust-skulls!’

 	‘Right now Snorri doesn’t feel mighty so much as thirsty,’ Snorri said, ignoring the jibe. ‘Where is this brewery of yours, Grudi Halfhand? Where is the cask of Wynters you promised Snorri?’

 	‘It is here, Nosebiter. Just up the slope,’ Grudi said, running the curve of his hook across his bristly crest. ‘Right where I left–’ He stopped and flushed. ‘Right where I last saw it.’

 	Snorri grunted. The two Slayers were as different as night and day: Grudi was young and eager to die, while Snorri was… Snorri.

 	Bigger and wider than most dwarfs, Snorri Nosebiter was a barrel of muscle covered in equal parts scar-tissue and tattoos. His crest, composed of three orange nails, had once been brightly painted, but it had since become tarnished, chipped and rusty. Grudi wondered whether the latter was at least partially responsible for Snorri’s distinct lack of precociousness. Rust on the brain couldn’t be anything other than harmful. But then, the same could be said of the nails.

 	‘Snorri thinks we should find that beer, Grudi Halfhand,’ Snorri continued, slapping one tree-trunk thigh with his hammer. ‘Killing goblins makes Snorri thirsty.’

 	‘Everything makes Snorri thirsty!’ Grudi said, waving his hook under Snorri’s nose. ‘Breathing makes Snorri thirsty! If Snorri needed a drink so badly, he should have stayed in Averheim!’

 	‘And what fun would that have been, when all of Snorri’s friends were here?’ Snorri said.

 	‘We’re glad to have old Snorri aren’t we, lads?’ Staahl said, clapping a hand on Snorri’s shoulder. ‘Anyone who can outdrink twelve cubs of the order in a single night is a worthy companion on this quest!’

 	‘I still say he cheated,’ Hogan said. ‘A hollow leg, perhaps.’

 	‘The only thing hollow on Snorri is his head,’ Grudi said, his hook still waving under Snorri’s nose.

 	‘Don’t make fun of Snorri,’ Snorri said gently, pushing the hook away. ‘You haven’t earned the right.’ Grudi hesitated, and then drew his hook back. He swallowed thoughtfully. It was easy to forget that the old Slayer had survived more than his share of battles, even as dim as he was. They said Snorri had fought a daemon once, or at least survived an encounter with one. Grudi, in contrast, had had his hand bitten off by an orc. It had been a big orc, but still… Not quite so glorious, all things considered. ‘Only Snorri’s friends can make fun of him,’ Snorri continued, looking around.

 	‘Snorri must have plenty of friends then,’ Grudi muttered.

 	‘One or two,’ Snorri said, giving Grudi a gap-toothed grin. The grin faded as the Slayer recalled the last time he had seen Gotrek Gurnisson and Felix Jaeger. He had been dragged into a glowing portal by a hurricane of daemonic tendrils, and Gotrek had, unfortunately, rescued him. Catapulted out of the portal, he had collided with the wizard Max Schreiber and been knocked unconscious. When he and the wizard had come to, both Gotrek and Felix were gone and the portal had been dark.

 	Where the duo had gone, or what their eventual fate had been, Snorri did not know. Schreiber’s magic could not find them, and though Snorri had made a pilgrimage of Gotrek’s old haunts, no one had heard from the one-eyed Slayer. It had been three years since then, and Snorri was coming to think that Gotrek had just possibly met his doom at last.

 	Which would be just like Gotrek as well: selfish to the last, hogging a mighty doom and leaving poor Snorri to settle for something more boring. Because whatever else you could say about Gurnisson, it was a certainty that he was destined for an end worthy of at least two sagas; possibly three. ‘Though Snorri would like a saga too,’ he muttered. ‘Just a little one.’

 	‘What?’ Grudi said, looking askance at him.

 	‘Snorri was saying that he hates goblins. They give Snorri the runs something awful.’

 	Grudi turned with his mouth open to ask the obvious question. Seeing the look of innocent obliviousness on Snorri’s face, he stopped short and drove past it. ‘We all hate grobi,’ he said. ‘Even other grobi hate grobi.’

 	‘These goblins were foragers,’ Drahl said, kicking one of the bodies. ‘Orcs will send them out to catch game of one size or another.’

 	‘Then they’re still up there,’ Hogan said. ‘How many was it again, Halfhand? A hundred? Three?’ He looked at the younger Slayer, his eyes as hard as flint. ‘How many took the brewery?’

 	‘No more than a dozen after we got through with them!’ Grudi protested.

 	‘Snorri will take the first six then,’ Snorri said, scratching at his head with his hatchet. ‘You lot can split the rest.’

 	‘Hardly fair,’ Staahl rumbled. ‘One for each?’

 	‘Have them all, if you like. My only concern is the honour of our order,’ Angmar said. ‘I intend to see that we get what is ours.’ He stood and replaced his helmet. ‘Come on. If we’re going to fight orcs, I’d rather not do it in the dark.’

 	‘Spoilsport,’ Snorri said, stuffing his weapons into his belt. ‘Snorri once fought an orc with both eyes covered in dung.’

 	‘Was this before or after you routed a daemon horde in the Chaos Wastes?’ Grudi said, waggling his eyebrows. ‘Or was it around the time you crawled down a dragon’s gullet and killed it with its own fangs?’

 	‘After. And before,’ Snorri said, peering hard at the other dwarf. ‘Are you making fun of Snorri again?’

 	‘No,’ Grudi said firmly, resting his axe on his shoulder. He looked at the knights. ‘If we hurry, we can reach the brewery by dusk.’

 	‘Perfect!’ Staahl said, rubbing his hands together. ‘Just in time for a drink, eh, Snorri?’ he continued, nudging the Slayer. ‘We’ll drink to old Rodor’s memory. Him and mad, bad Leitdorf!’ Grandmaster Rodor had fallen in battle alongside the former Elector Count of Averland, Marius Leitdorf, battling an orc invasion the previous year.

 	It was the dregs of that same invasion that had caused the death of Olgep Wynters and taken the second-best brewery ever produced by the elder race for themselves. Snorri shuddered slightly, thinking of all that ale and beer going to waste in grobi gullets. If that wasn’t a crime worthy of a grudge he didn’t know what was.

 	‘Snorri doesn’t just want a drink. He wants Wynters,’ he said, rubbing his palm over the flat heads of his nail crest. The knights murmured in agreement. As a friend of their order, Wynters had supplied them with enough drink to drown a village, a gift the boisterous knights never took for granted. There were few enough places that would serve them in Averheim these days thanks to their penchant for un-knightly behaviour, and a ready supply of alcohol was considered a necessity by the members of the order.

 	But Wynters’ Own was special. It was rumoured to be the perfect blend of tastes and ingredients, a drink that even the dwarf gods themselves would fall to fighting over.

 	Grudi made a face. ‘And if the greenskins have left any, you’re welcome to it. It’ll be the last of it, and likely all the sweeter because of that,’ the young Slayer said grimly. ‘I’m the last of my clan, and I’ll brew no more.’ He gestured uphill. ‘Let us go.’

 	As the group set off, Snorri ambled alongside Staahl. The big knight looked down at Snorri and said, ‘Is it really as good as they say?’

 	‘Better, Snorri thinks,’ Snorri said, smacking his lips. ‘Wynters was almost as good as Bugman’s Best. Makes Snorri’s mouth tingle just to think of it.’

 	‘No wonder old Rodor had himself sealed inside a cask of it when he popped off,’ Staahl said, shaking his head. ‘Should have seen the party we had to celebrate his passing, my friend. It was a glorious thing. Glorious!’ This last was said in a roar that set the birds to flying from the trees.

 	Angmar whirled. ‘Quiet, you great oaf!’

 	‘Is that any way to talk to your Grandmaster?’ Staahl blustered.

 	‘When that Grandmaster is you? Yes!’

 	‘He’s loud,’ Snorri said.

 	Staahl nodded. ‘And unpleasant. You’d think he’d show me a bit of respect, considering my august status.’ Staahl had been voted into position as head of the diminutive order after a drinking contest that had lasted for forty-eight hours. As the last man with seniority standing (or swaying), he’d taken Rodor’s seat for his own.

 	It was during this same contest that Rodor’s body had been ceremoniously stuffed into a cask of Wynters XVI in a ritual overseen by the old brew-master himself. On the anniversary of Rodor’s death, every man in the order was to take a ceremonial drink from the grave-cask of Caspian Rodor. No man alive had ever tasted such a batch, it being reserved for dwarf kings and heroes. There were many stories as to how Rodor had warranted such treatment, but as to which was true, no one could say save Olgep Wynters, and he was dead.

 	Unfortunately, when the brewery had fallen to the greenskins, the grave-cask had fallen with it. A fact that the notoriously inobservant order had been unaware of until the newly shorn and christened Grudi Halfhand had shown up on the very day his father was due to escort the cask to the Averheim chapter-house and told his sad tale.

 	Now, the Grandmaster of the order and his chosen honour-guard (or, rather, those sober enough to make the trip) intended to get both the body and the beer back, though not necessarily in that order. And if they happened to help Grudi Halfhand free his father’s brewery from the clutches of its new owners, so much the better.

 	‘Would the both of you be quiet?’ Angmar said, glaring at them both. ‘I’d rather not wade through orcs unless we have to.’

 	‘Snorri thinks that perhaps he doesn’t understand much about being a knight,’ Snorri said, frowning. Staahl gave another booming laugh.

 	‘Certainly not my kind of knight, no!’ He threw back his head and began to sing a bawdy song. One by one, the other knights joined him, as did Snorri, who sang with more energy than rhythm. Angmar and Grudi exchanged a look. The young knight shrugged. He had acted as an aide to Rodor, before he’d got his skull pulped by a troll, and had functioned in the same capacity for Staahl ever since. He well knew his elder’s quirks and peculiarities.

 	Grudi, on the other hand, had only been travelling with Snorri Nosebiter for a few weeks. The older Slayer had joined him as he travelled down the Old Dwarf Road towards Averheim, fresh from his oath-taking at the Shrine of Grimnir. So far, despite Snorri’s relative infamy, the young dwarf was unimpressed.

 	‘This is not an occasion for singing,’ he said, glaring at the group. ‘Not unless it’s a dirge,’ he amended.

 	‘You are sourer than Snorri’s old friend Gotrek,’ Snorri said. ‘He once scowled so hard his eye popped out.’

 	‘What?’

 	Snorri mimed his eye popping out of the socket and flashed his worn teeth in a grin. ‘Snorri saw it happen.’

 	‘I’ve read one of Herr Jaeger’s pamphlets,’ Drahl said. The handsome knight stroked his moustaches speculatively. ‘I thought Gurnisson lost his eye fighting wolf riders.’

 	‘Felix Jaeger is – was – a good man. Good fighter. Bad poet,’ Snorri said, shaking his head. ‘Granted, Gotrek put his eye back after Snorri saw it pop out, so he could have lost it later…’ He shot a glance at Grudi. ‘Grudi Halfhand is still sour, though.’

 	‘And don’t I have reason to be?’ Grudi snarled, his patchy beard bristling with rage. He thrust his hook at the sky. ‘The grobi took my hand, my home and my honour! You may not take your vows seriously, rust-skull, but I do!’

 	It was Snorri’s turn to bristle. He squinted at the other Slayer and rested his hands on his weapons. ‘Snorri takes his vows very seriously, beardling,’ he said quietly, his eyes dark with old memories. Grudi suddenly recalled the other stories about Snorri Nosebiter: not the ones about his deeds, but about his shame. About how Snorri had been so determined to make right his wrongs that he had taken three nails from the Shrine of Grimnir and hammered them into his own head in order to hold the memory of his shame forever foremost in his thoughts. It took a determined dwarf to shear his beard; it took a mad one to perforate his own skull.

 	‘I never said you didn’t,’ Grudi said, keenly aware of the knights gathered around. He raised his hand in a placating manner and stepped back. Snorri relaxed instantly, his grin returning and his shoulders slumping.

 	‘Oh. Well, in that case, Snorri thinks we should keep going.’

 	The slope grew steeper as they continued on, and the scrub trees grew thicker. They pressed together so closely that what sunlight was left in the sky had to fight fiercely to squeeze through the branches. The knights had the hardest time of it, clad in their heavy armour. Even Drahl, who was wearing the lightest mail, was puffing slightly. The order, like all warriors of their ilk, usually rode horses. Averland was known for the quality of its horseflesh, and the Knights of the Black Bear got their pick. Unfortunately, the mountains were no place for horses.

 	As such, the knights had been forced to forgo their dwarf-forged plate mail in favour of less refined heavy cuirasses and helms that had been crafted by the foremost Averheim blacksmiths. However, it was still a load to carry, even for a strong man. In contrast, the dwarfs marched clad only in ragged trousers and jerkins, like true Slayers. Armour would have only prevented them from reaching their ultimate goal: their doom.

 	It was a goal that Grudi seemed eager for, even above and beyond his oath. Snorri watched the younger Slayer and felt a vague sense of annoyance at the downright suicidal eagerness the other dwarf displayed as he stumped along. Grudi Halfhand was on a mission to find a specific doom, at a specific time, and as they drew ever closer to their goal, his pace increased and his eyes grew ever-madder.

 	It was a madness Snorri recognised, however dimly. He had possessed it once himself, before one drink or one blow to the head too many had put a soft blanket of dullness over his wits and memories. Nowadays he could only recall the vaguest of sensations, and the phantom presences of a dwarf woman and a child haunted his all too frequent bouts of sobriety, when he couldn’t exorcise them with drink or pain.

 	Blunt fingers stroked the largest of the pale scars that curled across his massive chest. He couldn’t for the life of him remember where they had come from, though he recalled that Gotrek had been there. And a daemon… A big, red one. Snorri shook his head and hurried to catch up with Grudi. It wouldn’t do to be beaten to his doom by a beardling.

 	‘Tell us about it,’ Drahl said suddenly.

 	‘What?’ Grudi said, glancing at the knight.

 	‘The brewery. What happened? You didn’t really say…’

 	‘Not that he needed to. Orcs happened, popinjay,’ Hogan grunted, thumping his mace against his thigh. ‘We all know what that’s like well enough.’

 	Grudi frowned and scratched at his crest. ‘We saw the goblins first. They crept through the tunnels beneath the brewery like vermin. We thought it was just an isolated raid… The grobi love beer and ale.’

 	‘Considering the fungus-squeezings they usually drink, I don’t blame them,’ Staahl said. He tugged at his beard. ‘I’d attack a brewery for a good beer after a diet of that rot.’

 	‘It wasn’t just goblins, though,’ Grudi went on. ‘As they fell on us from within, the orcs assaulted our walls from without. Not many of them, but enough. We were only forty dwarfs, good and true, and they were three times our number.’

 	‘Sound like good odds to Snorri,’ Snorri said.

 	Grudi shot him a poisonous look. ‘It would. But we weren’t Slayers. Not then, anyway,’ he continued, looking slightly embarrassed. ‘We weren’t warriors. We were brewers and vintners. Merchants.’ He looked helpless for a moment, and Staahl cleared his throat.

 	‘Never mind that. We will teach them the error of their ways, young master dwarf.’ Staahl slapped him on the shoulder, causing the unprepared Grudi to nearly lose his balance. ‘And we will get our grave-cask back as well!’

 	Despite the momentary boost in morale, by the time the sun drifted over the rim of the tallest mountain peaks, disappearing in a burst of orange radiance, the knights were wheezing and staggering. Angmar called a halt, his pale features flushed crimson and his blond locks plastered to his skull with sweat.

 	‘We must stop,’ he said.

 	Grudi spun, his eyes bulging. ‘No! We’re almost there!’

 	‘And a load of bollocks that’ll do us if we’re too tired to stand when we get there!’ Staahl said, gasping like a beached fish. He squatted, his hands on his knees, his head bent. ‘I was not meant to march, but to fight.’

 	‘But–’ Grudi began.

 	‘We will scout ahead,’ Snorri said. He caught the other Slayer by the shoulder. ‘Let the manlings rest, Grudi Halfhand.’ He tapped his nose. ‘Snorri thinks dwarf noses are more useful for finding beer than the eyes of men anyway, eh?’

 	The other Slayer allowed himself to be pulled away. ‘We are so close,’ he muttered.

 	‘Aye. But men tire quickly. Snorri has fought beside them often and he knows this to be true,’ Snorri said genially. ‘Let them rest. We will kill the grobi who have been following us since we crested the rise.’

 	‘What?’ Grudi said, looking alarmed.

 	‘You didn’t know?’ Snorri shook his head and pulled on a ragged earlobe. ‘You need to learn to listen, beardling, or else you’ll never earn a mighty doom.’ He yanked his weapons from his belt and slammed the heads together. ‘Listen.’

 	From between the trees echoed the gentle padding of heavy paws. Grudi’s nostrils flared as he caught a whiff of wolf-musk. ‘Grobi are smart,’ Snorri said. ‘Sneaky-smart, not dwarf-smart, but smart. They watch and learn. They were waiting for us to make camp. If an ambush doesn’t work in the light, try it again in the dark.’

 	The first wolf lunged out from between the trees, its foaming muzzle closing on Grudi’s prosthesis with a loud clang. Mounted precariously on its back, a goblin thrust a spear at the dwarf. Grudi yelped and grabbed the spear, hauling it and its wielder off the wolf and tossing them away.

 	‘Get it off! Get it off!’ Grudi said, trying to shake the wolf from his hook. For its part, the animal scrabbled at Grudi’s arm and chest, its claws scraping red lines across his flesh.

 	‘Snorri is busy, do it yourself,’ Snorri said, as two more wolves leapt at him out of the darkness. His hammer sang out, crushing the skull of one and sending its green-skinned rider spilling off. His hatchet skimmed the head of the second and sent the goblin rider flying back, its intestines trailing after it like a ragged cloak.

 	Shrill cries split the night as more wolves bounded forwards. Snorri grabbed the scruff of the second wolf’s neck and sent the beast hurtling into the newcomers. All of the animals went down in a snapping, snarling tangle. Snorri spun as the goblin whom he’d forcibly de-wolfed sprang up, a crude spear in its knobbly fingers. The blade carved a thin trench in Snorri’s cheek as it went past. Growling, Snorri slapped it aside and brought both his weapons around, pulping the goblin’s skull.

 	Grudi, meanwhile, had finally dislodged the wolf and had snapped its neck, though it had gnawed his fingers bloody. Flexing his hand, he lashed out with his hook, decapitating a goblin that got too close. He drew his axe and made ready as more wolves rushed out of the trees. They loped around him, their riders glaring at him with hatefully glittering eyes. There were a dozen of them.

 	Then, suddenly, three fewer as a longsword flashed, lopping off a trio of bat-eared heads. ‘Ho Averheim! Ho Leitdorf!’ Staahl bellowed, stomping on a wolf that was too slow to get out of the way. Red-faced and sweating, Staahl kicked wildly at another wolf as he swung his sword over his head in an undignified manner.

 	‘Feeling rested, fatty?’ Snorri said, head-butting a wolf and sending fangs flying.

 	‘Just didn’t want you to meet your doom before you poured me that beer you owed me,’ Staahl said. From behind him came the battle-cries of the other knights as they joined the fray. Hogan’s mace crushed skulls as Drahl’s sword danced across scrawny bodies, and Angmar’s own, rather more blunt, blade-work did for the rest.

 	The remaining wolves scattered a few moments later, racing off into the night with mournful howls, their riders either dead or dying. ‘Wonderful,’ Angmar said. ‘They know we’re coming now!’

 	‘Doubtful,’ Staahl wheezed. ‘And so what if they do?’

 	‘There’ll be an army on our heads, that’s what!’ Angmar snapped. ‘How will we get Rodor’s body then, eh?’

 	‘Well, if we stand here yammering it’s not going to make much difference,’ Grudi said, wrenching his axe out of a wolf’s head. ‘If you delicate manlings are rested, we can go.’

 	‘In the dark?’ Drahl said.

 	‘Brighter than a tunnel lit by candles,’ Snorri said. ‘Trust our noses, manlings.’

 	The two Slayers started off through the trees, following a trail only they could see. Soon enough, the sound of running water reached even the ears of the knights. Angmar silently motioned for a halt. The Slayers crouched and Snorri reached out with his hammer and pushed aside a thorn bush.

 	Below them, a sturdy, three-storey building rose out from the rock of the mountain-side. It crouched over a softly rushing mountain stream, and the stink of goblins hung heavy on the air. ‘The secret of a good brew is in the water, my father said,’ Grudi murmured, his face stiff with anguish. ‘One of many secrets that will be lost tonight.’

 	‘You sound certain of your doom,’ Angmar said, shuffling up to join them. ‘Maybe you’ll survive, like Snorri here.’

 	Snorri glanced at Angmar, a stricken expression on his face. ‘What has Snorri ever done to you, manling?’

 	‘I just meant–’

 	‘You lack politesse, Angmar. This is why I’m Grandmaster, by the by,’ Staahl rumbled. He patted Snorri awkwardly on the shoulder. ‘I’m sure you’ll get your brains dashed out, my stumpy companion.’

 	‘Truly?’ Snorri said, brightening.

 	‘Of course! We’re all likely to die, after all,’ Staahl said. ‘But at least we won’t die sober. Break out the Bear’s Milk!’ he continued, turning to his men. The other knights began to rummage in their packs or at their belts, and one by one they extracted wineskins and miniature casks.

 	Angmar sighed and did the same, unstoppering a clay bottle. ‘Must we?’

 	‘Tradition,’ Staahl said. ‘I brought plenty,’ he went on, tossing two more skins to Snorri. ‘One for each of our stunted brothers.’

 	Grudi bristled at the comment on his height, but Snorri slapped the skin into his arms before he could comment. The dwarf looked down at the skin curiously. ‘What is it?’

 	‘Tradition!’ Staahl said again.

 	‘Fermented bear’s milk and vodka,’ Angmar said, upending his bottle.

 	‘Tradition,’ the other knights said in unison, swigging from their various containers.

 	‘Pah!’ Staahl said, dragging the back of his hand across his mouth. ‘Now, let us see what there is to see.’ He leaned over the dwarfs and peered at the darkened brewery. It had been, for lack of a better term, corrupted. Orcish graffiti was splashed across the walls in substances too foul to name, and crude wooden sigils were nailed to the shutters and doors. Huts made of mud and stone had been built up against the brewery as the orcs’ numbers swelled. In the darkness, a number of cooking fires gleamed and heavy shapes moved through and around the building.

 	‘Orcs,’ Snorri said. ‘Good.’

 	‘There are more of them than I thought there’d be. Why are they all still here?’ Drahl said.

 	‘Who can say?’ Hogan said. ‘Maybe they’ve taken up brewing.’ Grudi stared at him in horror.

 	‘Orcs know a good thing when they see it,’ Staahl said. He frowned and took another swig of Bear’s Milk. ‘I’d wager your father had a century’s worth of beer and ale stored in there, wouldn’t you say?’

 	‘More. We had the largest stores this side of Barak Varr,’ Grudi said proudly. ‘That stream runs underneath the brewery and into the guts of the mountains. We sank hundreds of kegs and casks into the silt to stay cool. They’re all still there.’

 	‘If the orcs haven’t gotten to them,’ Angmar said. He burped and shook his head. ‘No. There’s something going on down there. Listen.’

 	They did so, and were rewarded with the sound of squabbling. It echoed from the rocks and soon enough there came the sound of weapons clashing. A wolf yelped piteously somewhere as something heavy crashed to the ground. Then there was a roar that shook them all down to the soles of their boots.

 	‘What is it?’ Grudi said, trying to make out what was happening. ‘What’s going on?’

 	‘It’s been almost a year since they took the brewery. Like as not the brutes are having a falling out. Let’s get down there before they kill each other,’ Staahl said.

 	‘Surely you mean “after”,’ Angmar said.

 	‘Definitely the other one,’ Snorri said, hopping to his feet. He threw himself down the slope, his weapons in his hands. The knights gave a drunken cheer and, at Staahl’s bellowed command, followed the Slayer.

 	The orcs had no sentries as such: a few goblins roamed the outskirts of the camp, but they turned and fled, squealing the alarm as Snorri thundered towards them. The first orc to exit its hut got a clout with the Slayer’s hammer that crushed its skull. The second, more swift than its predecessor, locked axes with Snorri and the two strained against one another as battle was joined.

 	Snorri smashed his head into the orc’s own and the brute staggered. Then, with a growl, it reciprocated. Snorri shook his head to clear it and grabbed the orc by its filthy hauberk and gave it another headbutt. Tusks flew and the brute slumped in Snorri’s hands. Dropping it, he wiped blood off his brow and turned. A third orc brought a heavy maul down and Snorri was forced to hurl himself aside as it pulverised the orc he’d knocked out. Dragging the weapon up for another blow, the orc turned to follow Snorri and ran right into his axe. Grinning, Snorri jammed it in further and then extricated it, covering himself in green blood in the process.

 	Snatching the maul before it could hit the ground, he spun in a circle and let it fly. It caught an orc on the run and sent it flying into the stream. Snorri picked up his own hammer and looked around for more opponents.

 	Nearby, Grudi was methodically driving his hook into what had been the throat of the orc he straddled. Staahl and his knights had crashed into the few orcs that had tried to make an organised stand, and as Snorri watched, the big man swept his sword through his opponent’s belly. Surprised, and without the advantage of numbers, the orcs were proving little match for the men.

 	‘This doesn’t make sense,’ Drahl said, kicking a twitching orc off his blade. ‘Where are the others? This camp should have three times this number of the monsters.’ He looked around. ‘Where are the alarms? What’s going on?’

 	‘Maybe they heard us coming and fled,’ Staahl said.

 	As the last of the creatures fell, Grudi bounded towards the great doors of the brewery. They had been smashed off their hinges and then repaired in the primitive fashion common to orc buildings. Without pausing, he snatched up an orc and crashed into the doors, using the body as a battering ram.

 	‘Father! I have returned!’ he cried.

 	‘Snorri thinks that was perhaps a bad idea,’ Snorri said.

 	‘Oh?’ said Staahl.

 	There was another roar, louder than the one they’d heard earlier, and then the young Slayer came hurtling back out of the doors, his limp body bouncing off a pine and tumbling to the ground. Snorri nodded thoughtfully. ‘Yes.’

 	‘Troll!’ Angmar cried, gesturing with his sword. And it was. Something big and foul that stank of stagnant water and mouldy stone shouldered its way out of the doors, a ragged harness dangling from its bloated body.

 	‘Big troll,’ Hogan said, gripping his mace tightly.

 	‘River troll,’ Snorri said, grinning eagerly. He trotted towards the beast, rotating his wrists as if warming up for the fight to come. He leapt forwards, embedding his axe deep into the meat of the creature’s side. It shrieked and clawed at him with webbed talons. Using his axe as a makeshift piton, Snorri swung himself onto the troll’s back and grabbed a handful of the harness it wore.

 	‘Snorri would like to play you a melody,’ he said, cocking his hammer back. He brought it down between the troll’s flared ears with every ounce of strength he could muster. The beast stumbled and shook its head. Snorri hit it again and again. Each blow gave the creature pause, but none put it down. Grunting in frustration, Snorri reached down and ripped his axe free and chopped down on the troll’s thick neck. Talons tore at him as he whipped the hammer back and struck the head of the axe, driving it deeper into the troll’s flesh. The monster gargled as it wobbled in a circle, trying to pull Snorri off.

 	The others had shaken off their shock at the sight of the troll and were moving to help. Soon enough a ring of swords encircled the beast. But Staahl stopped them from doing anything more. ‘Hold! Let the Slayer find his doom, if he’s able,’ the big man said.

 	‘Thanks, fatty,’ Snorri said, grabbing one of the troll’s ears. He turned until he was squatting on its skull and whacked the axe again. The troll reached up and grabbed him, yanking him off and slamming him to the ground. Gasping, Snorri fought to pry its fingers off as it opened its mouth and the smell of bile washed over him.

 	Then, the troll made a comical sound, halfway between a burp and a whimper, and its head popped off its axe-weakened neck, propelled on a stream of boiling vomit. Snorri scrambled aside as the head crashed down where he’d lain only moments earlier.

 	He got to his feet and kicked the head aside. ‘That was fun. Snorri has worked up quite a thirst,’ he said, yanking his axe free of the troll’s bulk and walking towards the brewery. ‘Someone get Grudi Halfhand up. Snorri wants his Wynters!’

 	‘There is no Wynters!’ Grudi snarled as Angmar helped him to his feet. The younger Slayer’s face was consumed by a purple bruise, and he was missing several teeth. ‘There’s nothing left. They’ve taken it all!’

 	‘Taken it? How?’ Staahl said, his disbelief evident in his tone.

 	‘See for yourself!’ Grudi flailed his hook towards the shattered doors. ‘All gone,’ he groaned.

 	Snorri and the others stepped inside and saw that Grudi hadn’t been exaggerating. The brewery’s central hall was as bare as a pauper’s grave, unless you counted the foetid piles of orc and troll dung clinging to the corners.

 	Snorri ambled forwards, scanning the empty spots where, until recently, kegs and casks and barrels had rested, piled one atop the other. He stopped at a set of stone steps and crouched, resting his palm on the top step.

 	‘What is it?’ Staahl said, handing him a skin of Bear’s Milk. Snorri took the skin and rinsed his mouth out before answering.

 	‘Snorri feels water.’

 	‘Staahl hears water,’ Staahl said, flicking an earlobe. ‘Didn’t your friend say that the river runs beneath this building?’

 	‘Aye,’ Snorri said. He rubbed the head of his hammer across his crest carelessly. ‘There weren’t many of them out there, were there?’ he said slowly, his eyes crossing slightly with the effort of stringing his thoughts together. ‘Grobi like groups, the bigger the better.’

 	‘So where were all of them, eh?’ Staahl pulled on his lower lip. The two of them stared down into the darkness at the bottom of the steps, one tapping on the nails in his head, the other scratching his nose.

 	Snorri blinked. ‘Harness.’

 	‘What?’

 	‘Harness. The troll was wearing a harness. Snorri used to use harnesses like that, with mine ponies.’

 	‘The troll was a pony?’

 	‘Yes. No.’ Snorri shook his head. ‘Snorri is going downstairs. Are you coming, fatty?’

 	‘Try and stop me, stumpy.’

 	The two warriors descended the steps, Snorri in the lead. The orc-stink grew stronger, as did the troll-smell. Broken barrels and straps littered the steps and the floor at the bottom. The sound of the stream grew louder, becoming an almost thunderous roar.

 	‘Can’t see a blasted thing,’ Staahl said. In answer, Snorri stamped on a stone at the bottom of the steps. Instantly, a network of similar stones lit up with a soft glow. Staahl blinked in the sudden flush of light. ‘What…’

 	‘Light-runes. Very costly. Wynters was doing well, Snorri thinks.’ Snorri tapped a rune emblazoned on a floor stone with his foot.

 	‘He supplied most of the taverns in Averland.’ Staahl shrugged. ‘We drink a bit more than most.’

 	‘Snorri thinks perhaps a bit more than a bit.’

 	‘Was that a joke?’ Staahl said, a bit goggle-eyed.

 	‘Was what a joke?’ Snorri said blankly. ‘Snorri has found the river.’ He gestured with his hammer, and Staahl whistled in awe.

 	‘The little buggers built an entire wharf down here,’ he said.

 	And they had. Stone jetties and platforms filled the cavernous cellar. Bigger by far than the brewery above, with all manner of industrial achievement the likes of which the knight had never before seen. Snorri moved carefully across the wharf, his bald head swinging this way and that. He sniffed the damp air.

 	‘Goblins,’ he said.

 	‘Where goblins?’ Staahl said, drawing his sword.

 	The arrow skipped off the foremost nail in Snorri’s crest and clattered to the ground. He gestured with his hammer. ‘There goblins,’ he said. Small, black-robed shapes scuttled across the upper viewing platforms that extended over the wharf. More arrows peppered the ground around the duo. Staahl hopped back, his sword swiping an arrow out of the air.

 	‘How many, do you think?’ Staahl said.

 	‘Barely a mouthful,’ Snorri replied, charging towards the loading pulleys and ropes that hung over the wharf. Stuffing his axe through his belt and clutching his hammer in his teeth, Snorri grabbed a rope and swung out over the river.

 	As the dwarf made his move, Staahl found himself on the pointy end of a number of spears. The goblins crept out from between the kegs and crates. They were paler than the others, and clad in mouldy black robes, their beady red eyes shining in the faint light. As one, they charged towards the knight, uttering falsetto screeches.

 	‘Ho Averheim!’ Staahl roared, his voice echoing throughout the cellar. He charged forwards, meeting the spears with his sword. Meanwhile, Snorri had reached the apex of his swing and he let go of the one rope and threw himself towards the next. In that fashion he swung across the gap and crashed belly-first into the closest platform.

 	Wheezing, he pulled himself up even as an arrow skimmed across his shoulder. Ignoring the burning sensation it imparted, he charged towards the archers, scattering them with a series of wild blows. The goblins screamed as they fell towards the river below. Snorri watched them tumble into the water in frustration. ‘Get back here! Snorri wasn’t done killing you yet!’ he bellowed.

 	Down below, Staahl’s shout had summoned the others. Grudi crashed into the goblins with a wild yell, killing three in a flurry of savage eagerness. The others tried to flee, going in every direction as the Knights of the Black Bear set to with a vengeance.

 	After a few moments, the last of the goblins had fallen. Angmar kicked it contemptuously and looked around. ‘It’s as if they were trying to delay us.’

 	‘Funny, I thought they were trying to kill us,’ Staahl said, wiping dark blood off his blade.

 	His aide looked at him. ‘That too, but what would this ambush have accomplished?’

 	‘Beyond killing us?’

 	‘Yes,’ Angmar said.

 	‘Snorri thinks it was a distraction,’ Snorri said. ‘Snorri thinks they took the beer somewhere.’

 	‘How?’ Angmar said, looking around. ‘I see no way they could–’

 	‘The boats,’ Grudi said, wiping blood off his battered face. The two knights looked at him. ‘The boats!’ Grudi said, gesturing. ‘They’re gone!’

 	‘Boats?’

 	‘Paddleboats. Steam engines. We used them to make deliveries to Zhufbar, Karak Hirn and the Everpeak via this river. It runs all through the Black Mountains and even into the Worlds Edge Mountains,’ he said, stumping towards the wharf. He peered at the river, his face contorting in fury and sudden realisation. ‘Trolls. They’re using trolls to pull them! First they take our lives, then they take our ale, and now they’ve taken our boats. And they’re not even using them properly! What next?’

 	‘Not all the boats,’ Snorri said, dropping to the wharf. He nodded at a bobbing shape covered in a heavy tarp. ‘Unless Snorri is mistaken. Which is possible.’

 	‘That’s not a boat,’ Grudi said darkly. ‘It’s a menace. Even the grobi were smart enough to realise that.’

 	‘Looks like a boat to Snorri,’ Snorri said, whipping the canvas off and revealing what sat below. It was shaped like a skiff – flat bottomed with a narrow prow – but on its rear was an odd contraption that looked like equal parts cannon and propeller.

 	‘What is it?’ Drahl murmured.

 	‘A debt owed,’ Grudi said. He glared at the skiff. ‘An engineer of my father’s acquaintance offered to design a better distillation device for him. Unfortunately, it distilled liquor into explosives and blew itself, and part of the brewery, up. In recompense, Makaisson–’

 	‘Malakai Makaisson?’ Snorri said, his eyes widening.

 	‘Yes,’ Grudi grated. ‘Yes, Malakai Makaisson, the maniac!’ He shook himself. ‘He gave that...that monstrosity to my father in payment of his debt. Said it would help us make deliveries in record time.’

 	‘And did it?’ Staahl said.

 	‘Oh yes. Record time, as he promised. Too bad it moved too fast for us to keep the cargo from flying off!’ Grudi gesticulated. ‘And not just cargo. We lost three couriers the last time we used it!’

 	‘Sounds like just what we need, Snorri thinks,’ Snorri said, climbing aboard. ‘Unless Grudi Halfhand didn’t intend to catch the grobi?’

 	‘Catch–’ Grudi blinked. Then his face hardened. ‘Of course I intend to catch them! I will fulfil my oath or find my doom in the process!’ He stomped towards the skiff. ‘One side, Nosebiter… I’m the only one here who knows how to pilot this craft!’

 	‘Wait for us,’ Staahl said, hurrying forwards. The other knights hesitated and the Grandmaster whirled on them, his face flushing. ‘Are you cowards coming or not? We have a Grandmaster to reclaim! Not to mention the beer he’s floating in!’

 	The knights climbed aboard sheepishly. Staahl glared at them for a moment and then transferred the look to Grudi. ‘Well? What are we waiting for?’

 	Grudi looked at Snorri. ‘Nosebiter… Start the engine.’

 	Snorri stumped to the back of the skiff and glared at the strange propeller contraption. Then, with a grunt, he whacked the central plate of the construct. It depressed with a hiss of long-dormant hydraulics and there was a growl worthy of a dragon. The skiff shifted in the water, and then it was moving.

 	The sudden thrust caused Snorri to fall, and the knights hastily grabbed the rails as Grudi battled the steering mechanism, his lips peeled back from his teeth and pressed tight. Such was their speed that his nascent crest was flattened against his skull and one of the knights lost his helm.

 	The boat jerked from side to side as Grudi fought the controls. True to his claim, the vessel wasn’t the gentlest of its kind. In fact, it was positively murderous. It moved too fast, and jerked too wildly to be anything other than a last resort. With the Bear’s Milk sloshing in their bellies, the knights began to look as green as the orcs they were hunting. Snorri, however, was enjoying himself. Crouched in the prow, he beat the flat of his axe against the side of the boat and howled out an overly cheerful dirge.

 	They rounded a bend only minutes after setting out, and suddenly a large shape sprang into view. It was a paddleboat, moving so slowly that the skiff and its passengers shot past it, leaving the irregularly spaced torches lining its sides doused in their wake.

 	The vessel was large and square-shaped, with a boat-house at its aft-section, and a towering pyramid of kegs at its bow. The kegs had been haphazardly tied down with lengths of leather, chain and cloth. Goblins crawled over the pyramid like red-eyed ants, and orcs with whips and axes supervised their efforts to keep the pyramid shipshape.

 	Grudi howled a war-song and twisted the wheel, spinning the skiff around for a second pass. Snorri clambered up onto the rail as they shot forwards. As they closed in on the front of the paddleboat, Snorri could see that his suspicions had indeed been correct: the boat was being pulled by teams of river trolls. Two of the brutes strained at the prow, pulling against thick harnesses and hauling the boat bodily through the water.

 	As the skiff shot back towards the boat, Snorri leapt onto the team of trolls, using the head of one to springboard onto the other. He brought his hammer down between his feet as he landed. The troll immediately sank below the water, nearly taking Snorri with it. Using his axe like a grapple, he scurried up the prow onto the paddleboat.

 	Heaving himself over the rail, he came face-to-face with a shield-wall of black-clad goblins. Several orcs loomed behind them, and one of the brutes cracked a whip over the goblins’ heads, sending them rushing forwards. Snorri swept his axe out and beheaded the spears that darted for his flesh. Then, with a roar, he bulled into the goblins, his weapons leaving a mangled trail of greenskins in his wake.

 	Meanwhile, Grudi had spun the skiff again and was charging towards the aft section of the paddleboat, which, thanks to Snorri’s impetuous assault, had slowed to a crawl. ‘Hold on, manlings!’ he roared, not looking back at his passengers. He wrenched the wheel and the skiff bounced up and smashed full-tilt into the boathouse, splintering wood and glass and sending green bodies flying.

 	After a few moments of stunned silence, Staahl kicked his way free of the wreckage, his sword in one hand and his skin of Bear’s Milk in the other. Pulling the stopper with his teeth, he poured the skin haphazardly into his mouth and roared out a daring approximation of a bear’s snarl as he charged towards the nearest orc. Uttering their own cries, his knights followed suit, hacking and slashing at the bewildered goblinoids.

 	Grudi was the last to free himself. Spitting blood and splinters, he crawled out of the wreckage and shook himself. Then, freeing his axe, he charged towards the pyramid of barrels.

 	Snorri reached it at the same time, albeit on the opposite side. At the apex, a massive orc squatted, overseeing the battle and occasionally uttering incomprehensible orders to his underlings. Clad in patchwork gromril armour that had quite obviously been stripped from dead dwarfs and strung together to make something that would fit, the orc was an imposing sight. Knotted beards had been tied to its belt and it gestured with a dwarfish axe.

 	Berserk, Grudi began to climb the pyramid. Foaming and cursing, he chopped at goblins and barrels alike. Snorri began to climb the other side, and shouted up taunts at the orc, who looked back and forth between them with what appeared to be indecisive eagerness.

 	‘He’s mine, Nosebiter!’ Grudi howled, lopping off a goblin’s head and booting the body at Snorri. ‘That’s the one who took my hand and the life of my kin! He’s mine! My doom!’

 	‘Only if Snorri doesn’t get there first, Grudi Halfhand!’ Snorri said, selfish desire propelling him to climb faster.

 	‘Back off!’ Snarling, Grudi lashed out at the makeshift straps that held the pyramid to its shape. The straps parted with a shriek and the barrels began to shift. Snorri nearly lost his footing and lashed out with his axe, hoping to anchor himself. Instead, the axe sank into an already rolling barrel and the Slayer was yanked off the pyramid as the barrel bounced down towards the deck. Snorri screamed in frustration as the orc boss receded into the distance.

 	The barrel struck the deck and shattered. Snorri bounced once and slammed into the hideous face of a troll as it began to pull itself up out of the water. Instinctively Snorri struck out, burying his axe in the monster’s shoulder. It reared back, hauling him over the rail.

 	A strong hand fastened on his ankle as Staahl rushed to his aid. ‘Hold on, stunty!’ the big man said.

 	‘Let Snorri go, fatty!’ Snorri said, kicking at his would-be rescuer. ‘Snorri is going to his doom!’ The troll, in pain, buried its talons in the Slayer’s shoulders. Staahl lost his grip as dwarf and troll toppled into the water.

 	‘’Ware!’ someone shouted. Staahl whirled and saw the barrel pyramid beginning to wobble and dissolve into a crashing mess of wood and alcohol. At the tip of the disintegrating pyramid, the orc boss and Grudi Halfhand fought a savage duel atop an ever-rotating cask. Axe crashed against axe for several moments, until, inevitably, their duelling ground dropped out from under them. Orc and dwarf disappeared beneath the avalanche of barrels. The knights scrambled for cover even as the barrels crashed to the deck in a chaotic cacophony. The paddleboat dipped with the force of the collapse, and several knights were almost thrown overboard, including Staahl.

 	As silence returned, the last surviving cask bounced down the pile of shattered barrels and rolled towards the rail. As it struck it, the top popped off, spilling out a familiar shape. Staahl, pulling himself back on board, looked down at it and grinned. ‘Hello, Rodor, you old lush! Have a nice time?’

 	The ex-Grandmaster didn’t answer, but Staahl took the rictus grin for assent. Stepping over the body, he joined the other knights in staring at the pile. Angmar shook his head.

 	‘What a waste,’ he said softly. Staahl put an arm around his shoulders.

 	‘I know. That’s an awful lot of good beer gone.’

 	‘I meant Grudi!’ Angmar snapped. He crouched and hauled aside a chunk of wood, revealing an arm ending in a hook extending from within the pile. The knights watched silently as Angmar and Staahl pulled the limp body of the Slayer from out of the debris.

 	‘He died as he lived,’ Angmar said softly.

 	‘Aye. Covered in blood and liquor,’ Staahl said piously. ‘Sigmar bless the stunted little madman. And Snorri as well, wherever he–’

 	A troll’s head slid across the deck and bounced over Grudi’s body. The knights turned as Snorri hauled himself over the rail, dripping wet and covered in black blood. He looked at them, then at the body at their feet. And then at the now-empty cask of Wynters.

 	‘Is that the Wynters?’

 	‘Unfortunately,’ Staahl said.

 	‘Is he dead?’ Snorri said, pointing at Grudi.

 	‘Ah… yes,’ Angmar said.

 	‘Lucky bastard,’ Snorri said. ‘Got his doom when Snorri doesn’t even have a drink.’ He sighed and sat down on a dead orc. He looked around and sighed again, rubbing his palm over his crest of nails. ‘Snorri begins to understand why his friend Gotrek Gurnisson is so sour.’