Doc Morgrim's Vow Read online

‘Don’t worry, I can replace them,’ Fiducci said. ‘As long as we don’t lose them. Everyone keep an eye out. Nothing more frustrating than a missing digit.’ He peered at the ground for emphasis.

  A set of massive double doors occupied an immense archway in the far wall of the crater. The archway had been carved to resemble the brooding countenance of the creature which gave the hold its name. As Morgrim and the others made their way towards it, the great doors ground open with a thunderous whine of ancient hinges. Morgrim stopped, and Bundt ran into him.

  The doors swung outwards ponderously, releasing a gust of relatively warm air from within the mountain. The faint sounds of industry reverberated up from within. A dwarf city sounded like any other, just a bit louder due to the echoing effects of the mountain’s interior. A group of dwarfs trooped out. They carried handguns and wore mail beneath their vibrantly dyed furs. At their head marched a heavily armoured dwarf, his face hidden behind a helmet, and a massive hammer braced on his shoulder.

  The newcomers came to a stolid halt before the astonished Manglers, and lowered their handguns from their shoulders. While the gesture wasn’t entirely hostile, it wasn’t friendly either. ‘What’s going on?’ Bundt hissed. ‘I thought they knew we were coming.’

  ‘They did.’

  ‘Is this a welcoming party?’

  ‘Of sorts,’ Morgrim said, tersely. He eyed the Thunderers with suspicion. He’d been afraid of this. He’d hoped to avoid it until after the tournament, but some people had no patience.

  ‘Morgrim,’ the armoured dwarf said. The Ironbreaker was shorter than Morgrim, but twice as broad, with shoulders thick enough to support a cannon barrel. His heavy armour was adorned with gold and silver, and his war mask was chased with bronze and sapphires.

  ‘Gazak,’ Morgrim said, fists clenching. He had an axe stuffed through his belt, but the Thunderers arrayed behind the Ironbreaker would fire if he so much as twitched towards it. Gazak Thunorsson nodded, as if reading Morgrim’s mind.

  ‘You won’t make it.’

  ‘I know,’ Morgrim said. ‘And I wouldn’t give you the satisfaction anyway.’

  ‘You always were disagreeable.’

  ‘How’s your sister?’

  ‘Better, now that you’re here.’ Gazak’s eyes glittered icily behind his war mask. ‘She insisted we provide you a proper honour guard upon your arrival. Our father agreed.’

  ‘Of course he did,’ Morgrim said, sourly. An image wavered across the surface of his mind – the face of the woman he’d loved and then left behind when he fled Norsca, never to look back. Or so he’d thought. The old guilt came back, bringing with it its boon companions, shame and anger.

  Bundt leaned over. ‘Something you want to tell me?’

  ‘Yes. This is a mistake.’

  ‘You’re married?’ Bundt said, staring at him. His voice carried strangely. As a group, they had been herded into an antechamber just inside the doors. The antechamber was open on three sides, looking out over the hollowed-out interior of the mountain, and the civilisation that had taken root in its depths. Reinforced flues over their heads allowed for the open flow of air and free-standing steps descended from the antechamber plateau into the depths of the hold. Wide, tall pillars, marked with runes and intricate carvings, rose along the edges of the antechamber, marking its borders.

  ‘Yes,’ Morgrim said. Gazak had departed to summon whoever had asked him to take the Manglers into custody. But the Thunderers were still there, stationed in ones and twos throughout the antechamber. Bundt and the others remained clumped together, looking variously worried, calm, annoyed or, in the case of the zombies, vacant. Blood Bowl players, as a rule, took a lot of scaring. A few dwarf handguns pointed in their general direction wasn’t going to do much more than make them wonder what was going on.

  ‘You?’ Bundt said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Married.’

  Morgrim sighed and tugged on his beard. Behind him, he heard the tromp of feet on the ancient slab steps. ‘Engaged, actually. I swore no oath of marriage.’ He’d made sure to leave well before that.

  ‘Merely an oath to swear an oath, which you broke.’

  Morgrim turned. ‘Hrulda,’ he said, hoarsely. Hrulda Thunorsdottir was as lovely as he remembered, with shoulders you could crack stones on, and a round face that put him in mind of a perfectly formed dumpling. But there was something different about her. He blinked. ‘Are you doing something different with your hair?’

  The yellow plaits he remembered had been replaced by a stiffened coif, dyed a vibrant orange and arranged in artful spikes. His heart sank. ‘You took the Slayer oath,’ he said. ‘Are you mad, woman? Why would you do something so foolish?’

  ‘Why, he asks,’ Hrulda said. ‘Why do you think, husband?’ She looked around fiercely. Nearby Thunderers edged back, grips tightening surreptitiously on their weapons. The roster of the Dragon’s Hold Drakeslayers was made up exclusively of the mad, the bad and the dangerous to know. Every player had to take the Slayer oath at the shrine of Grimnir before being allowed to don the blue and gold.

  ‘Technically, we were never married.’

  ‘Technically, we weren’t not married either,’ she growled. For the first time, he noticed that she wore not robes or even ceremonial armour, but instead the war-plate of a Blood Bowl player. It had seen much use. Too much. ‘In the eyes of the gods, it’s all the same. You deserted me. Dishonoured me. And now… you’re back.’

  Morgrim hesitated. Then, weakly, ‘Surprise?’

  A second later, he was staring up at the ceiling, wondering how he’d gone from vertical to horizontal. The pain caught up with him soon enough. ‘Ouch.’

  Bundt looked down at him. ‘In fairness, you deserved that.’

  ‘Shut up and help me.’ Bundt, Fiducci and Horst helped him to his feet. He saw Hrulda eyeing him balefully from the other side of a Manglers wall, composed of Sora and Mimi. He rubbed his mouth. His fingers came away bloody. ‘You always could throw a punch, Hrulda.’

  ‘I’ll do worse than that,’ she began. She took a step, and Mimi hummed a trill of warning. Morgrim winced. The sound made his molars ache. Hrulda shook her head and stepped back. ‘Why did you come back, Morgrim?’

  He glared at Bundt. ‘It wasn’t my idea.’

  ‘If you’d said something,’ Bundt began.

  ‘Would it have mattered?’

  Bundt opened his mouth. Closed it. He shrugged. Morgrim snorted. ‘That’s what I thought.’ He looked at Hrulda. ‘You’re wearing Blood Bowl colours.’

  ‘So are you.’

  ‘I don’t play anymore, Hrulda. These days, I just put players back together.’

  Hrulda laughed. ‘Safer on the sidelines, is it? Why am I not surprised?’

  Morgrim shrugged. ‘I didn’t expect you to be. Just like I didn’t expect your father and your brother to let you join the Drakeslayers.’

  ‘We didn’t let her do anything,’ Gazak said, as he entered the antechamber, followed by a second, older dwarf. Gazak clutched his helmet under one arm, revealing a stern visage, partially obscured by a thick flare of black beard. ‘I tried to stop her and she broke my arm in three places.’

  ‘Takes after her mother,’ the older dwarf said, as he pushed past Gazak and stumped towards the Manglers. ‘I told you not to come here, girl. Not until I had spoken with the oathbreaker.’

  ‘It was my dishonour, father. I have a right…’ Hrulda began. The old dwarf waved her to silence and fixed a steady glare on Morgrim.

  Morgrim eyed him right back.

  ‘You look well, Thane Thunorsson,’ he said.

  Thunor Thunorsson, second of his name and Delvemaster of the Deep Tunnels, was as imposing as Morgrim remembered. He was as broad as two boulders, with the muscles to match. His battered features peered out of a well-groomed hedge of ice-white hair and beard. He w
ore Drakeslayers colours like his daughter, which was only fitting, given his position as coach. He looked Morgrim up and down, his gaze lingering on Morgrim’s hair. ‘And you look as foolish as ever, Ironbane.’

  ‘Who’s Ironbane?’ Bundt said, looking back and forth between them.

  ‘Me,’ Morgrim said.

  ‘Your name is Ironbane? Why didn’t I know that?’

  ‘You never asked.’ Morgrim inclined his head towards Thunor. ‘And you are as perceptive as always, Thunor Thunorsson.’ He straightened. ‘Tyros Bundt, coach of the Middenplatz Manglers, might I introduce Thunor Thunorsson, coach of the Dragon’s Hold Drakeslayers.’

  ‘Always a pleasure to meet a peer.’ Bundt offered his hand. Thunor looked at it as if it were spillage from a pump. Morgrim pushed Bundt’s hand down, even as the coach’s eye began to twitch. As bad as things were, they would only get worse if Bundt punted Thunor out of the antechamber.

  ‘If you wanted to join a team, Ironbane, I would have welcomed you into the ranks of the Drakeslayers. You didn’t have to foreswear yourself and flee south.’ Thunor eyed Morgrim’s smock with distaste.

  ‘Oh, I think I did,’ Morgrim said. ‘Why did you detain us?’

  ‘You have much to answer for,’ Thunor said.

  ‘But we just got here,’ Bundt said.

  Morgrim waved him to silence and said, ‘I demand to see the king.’

  ‘It is my clan you have shamed. And my right to clear the grudge. The king agrees.’ Thunor spoke confidently, but Morgrim knew that wasn’t the whole of it. It never was, with thanes like Thunor.

  ‘Does he?’

  ‘When I ask him, I’m sure he will,’ Thunor replied, grudgingly. As coach of the Drakeslayers, and the thane of one of the hold’s largest and most influential clans, he could get away with that sort of thing. Thunor had done plenty worse in his time. ‘Until then, this affair will be kept private.’ He looked at Bundt and the others. ‘You lot are free to go. I have no quarrel with you.’

  Bundt hesitated. Then, with a sigh, he dropped his hand onto Morgrim’s shoulder. ‘You have a problem with one Mangler, you have a problem with the whole team.’ He smiled. ‘Besides, we’re here to play a game.’

  ‘Game?’

  Morgrim peered at the thane. ‘The Tournament of a Hundred Woes. Someone invited us.’ He’d assumed it had been the king, or the council of thanes. But if Thunor didn’t know… He realised the truth, just as Thunor did. They both turned towards Hrulda. ‘Hrulda…?’

  ‘What did you do, girl?’ Thunor demanded.

  Hrulda frowned. ‘We needed an opponent. It’s getting harder to find decent challengers. They’re all afraid of us.’ She glanced at Morgrim. ‘I caught the Manglers’ last game on the Necromancers Broadcasting Circle. Living men might fear us, but dead ones…’

  ‘So you went behind my back?’

  ‘If it helps, my people go behind my back all the time,’ Bundt interjected.

  Thunor glared at him and Bundt stepped back, hands raised. ‘Guess not.’

  ‘That wasn’t the only reason, was it?’ Morgrim said. Hrulda looked away.

  ‘It doesn’t matter. What’s done is done.’ Thunor slashed the air with his hands. ‘There will be no game. You will be wed, and that will be that. Honour will be satisfied.’

  ‘Wed? That’s why you detained us?’ Morgrim laughed. ‘I doubt either of us would be happy with a forced marriage.’

  ‘Your happiness is immaterial,’ Thunor growled. ‘You will be wed. And the grudge will be satisfied.’

  ‘What grudge?’ Morgrim snarled. Always the oaths and grudges. They were part of the reason he’d fled. Thanes like Thunor were another reason. Blood Bowl was more honest, even if Morgrim didn’t play anymore. The rules were clear and simple. ‘I made no oath.’ He looked at Hrulda. ‘Tell him!’

  ‘I have,’ she said, sourly. Morgrim blinked. She didn’t sound like a woman interested in marriage. He looked at Thunor. The thane glowered at him. Like many dwarfs, he’d set his mind on the world working a certain way and he’d be damned if he wasn’t going to make it do what he wanted.

  Morgrim met Thunor’s glare. ‘I won’t be bullied into marriage.’

  Gazak tapped the floor with his hammer. ‘Then you’ll be buried, oathbreaker.’

  Morgrim felt, rather than saw, the other Manglers stiffen. Sora stepped forward, thumping her fist into her palm. Marius stirred in his chains, as if excited by the scent of impending violence. Morgrim’s hand dropped to his axe.

  Bundt, red faced, eye twitching, said softly, ‘I told you – mess with one of us, mess with all of us.’

  Gazak stepped back, an order on his lips. Incipient violence hummed on the air.

  ‘Wait,’ Hrulda said. All eyes turned towards her.

  ‘Girl, I told you…’ Thunor began.

  ‘I’m team captain, father, whether you like it or not. And I have as much say in how and when we play as you do. And I say we play the Manglers.’ She met her father’s gaze and held it. Thunor looked away.

  ‘Enough of this foolishness. Gazak, take them…’

  This time, Morgrim interrupted. ‘We came in good faith, Thunor Thunorsson. Would you now break one oath, in order to avenge another?’

  Thunor whirled, face darkening, fist raised. ‘You talk to me of oaths?’

  ‘I talk to you of honour. Yours and ours. I know a way to keep both intact,’ Morgrim said, talking fast. Thunor grunted, eyes narrowed.

  ‘Speak.’

  ‘If the Drakeslayers win, I will wed Hrulda. If they lose, I am free of all oaths, real or imagined.’ He spread his hands. ‘Either way, the dishonour is expunged.’

  Hrulda stared at him, in what he thought might be consternation. She glanced at Gazak, who shook his head. Then at her father, who gave no sign of what he felt either way. Then Thunor smiled without humour and nodded. ‘So be it. The Tournament of a Hundred Woes will commence at daybreak.’

  Dawn found Morgrim standing in a makeshift dugout on the mountain’s northern slope. A strange wind was blowing in off the Sea of Claws, and the air tasted of warpstone. At any other time, he might have thought that it was the perfect weather for a match.

  ‘You look sour, Morgrim.’

  He turned. ‘Shouldn’t you be over there, Hrulda?’ He gestured to the mountain’s summit, where the Drakeslayers’ dugout sat on a high crag, overlooking the ruins.

  ‘I will go there directly. But until then, I am here.’ Hrulda was dressed for war, or the closest facsimile thereof. She had even daubed her round features in ash, as was the tradition. She carried her helmet in one hand, letting it bounce against her leg. ‘Will you really stay?’

  ‘Despite what you might think, I am a dwarf of my word.’

  She laughed. He couldn’t help but smile. It was a lovely sound, like hammers ringing on an anvil of silver and gold. ‘Perhaps I don’t want you to.’

  ‘No?’

  She didn’t answer. Morgrim sighed. ‘Why did you invite the Manglers here?’

  ‘I told you,’ she said. ‘We’re running short of decent opponents. And sponsors.’ She grimaced. There was more going on beneath the surface, Morgrim thought, than was immediately obvious. When he’d left, the Drakeslayers had been in a relatively stable position. But if interest were flagging, it was no wonder Hrulda had gone looking for a different calibre of opponent. Blood Bowl teams, especially small, isolated ones, lived or died by their sponsorships. ‘And… perhaps, yes, I wanted to see you once more.’ She tugged at a spike of hair. ‘When I saw you in the dugout during the Doom Bowl broadcast, I knew I had to bring you here. To ask you…’ She trailed off.

  ‘Ask me what?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter now.’

  Morgrim was silent for a moment. Then, ‘Thunor looked as if he wanted to kill me. Gazak too. They might have, if you hadn’t int
erfered.’

  She frowned. ‘That interference saved your life. We take oaths seriously, here. When you broke yours–’

  ‘I broke nothing,’ Morgrim said, firmly. ‘I wasn’t ready to be married. I wanted more than to sit in this hold forever, petrifying.’

  ‘Even if it was with me?’

  He looked at her. ‘You weren’t any readier than I was. Thunor only started up with the whole scheme because you decided you wanted to play Blood Bowl, and he was against it. Not proper, for a rinn.’

  She sighed and looked at her helmet. It had a hole cut lengthwise along the top, so that her crest of hair could stand upright. ‘Father has always been a traditionalist. Especially when it comes to Blood Bowl.’

  ‘And you’ve never met a tradition you didn’t want to pulverise.’

  Morgrim looked away, out over the snow and rock. Ruins climbed towards the mountain’s summit, following the curve of the peak. There were hundreds of semi-collapsed buildings, broken bridges and shattered statues littering the slope. He looked back at her. ‘Admit it… My leaving was the only way for both of us to achieve our dreams. I saw the world. And you get to pummel all the players you like.’

  She laughed, not unkindly. ‘Maybe so, Morgrim Ironbane. But it looks as if our dreams have come to an end.’ She put on her helmet. ‘The Drakeslayers have never lost a tournament, and I don’t intend to start now.’

  ‘If it must be done, let it be done well,’ Morgrim said, softly.

  She smiled, briefly. ‘That is the only way to do anything.’ She turned towards the steps. ‘I will see you when this is done… husband.’

  Morgrim didn’t reply. He watched her trudge across the field and sighed. Some days, he wondered what it might have been like, if he’d just accepted his fate. And on other days, he knew. From behind him came a polite cough.

  ‘Everything all right?’ Bundt said.

  ‘Is it ever?’ Morgrim glanced at Fiducci, as the necromancer sat cross-legged on the hard stone floor. ‘Things will be starting soon.’ The rest of the team soon joined them. They were in their away-game gear, which was, if anything, more brutal than their normal uniforms. Spike-studded pauldrons and helmets, heavy gauntlets and boots, all reinforced to the barest edge of what was considered legal. The Manglers had a reputation for casual violence to uphold. Besides, it wasn’t really Blood Bowl unless you had someone’s brains on the bottom of your cleats.