The False Moon War: Chapter 14

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Chapter 14.  The Escape

Bessie's headlong flight took them beyond the bounds of Rychek's map.  For a time he guided her in what he hoped was the right direction, but in one chamber he was confronted by two identical arches and had to admit that he was totally lost.

A deep voice called from behind,   "May we play through?"

A party of nine adventurers squeezed past the bastiladon.  Their leader, a tall gray wizard with a pointy hat and a glowing staff called a brief halt.  "I have no memory of this place..." He murmured.

"Don't go that way," offered Mahtis helpfully as he pointed to the way they had come.

The wizard ignored him.  "The dwarves have delved too deep, and awakened a terrifying horror."

An excessively well groomed blonde elf with a bow gasped, "....not split ends!"

"No, you vain idiot!  Come along, we must not tarry!"  the wizard led his motley followers through one of the arches.

Rychek was about to lead Bessie after them when he heard the slap-slap sound of bare feet on stone.  From the darkness behind he could see a pair of pale green lamp-like eyes appear.

"Gollum! Gollum!  Did you see a tricksy Bagginses pass by, Preciousss?"

The voice belonged to a small, cadaverous creature with pointed ears.  His disproportionately large hands and feet terminated in froglike digits.

"No.......We didn't see any.... tricksy Bagginses....." advanced Joe cautiously.

"He must be wearing the Preciousss!"  hissed the wretch, and he sprang into the gloom in pursuit of the nine walkers.

"While we are stopped," said Mahtis, "you guys should look at this.  One of the drums from the marching band got stuck up here."

He tucked the bass drum under one arm and began to beat it rhythmlessly with his fist.

Seconds later, there were answering drumbeats and whooping war cries.  A party of cave goblins scuttled up like heavily armed crustaceans.

"If you are looking for a wizard with a hat, a vain elf, a grumpy dwarf, two men, four halflings and a large frog, they went that way."  Rychek indicated with Gork-on-a-Stick.

The goblin chief touched his brow and led his ululating warriors into the darkness.

Rychek shook his head and made ready to follow when the sound of pounding strides and clanking chains made him pause again.  A cave troll caromed into view and stopped, blinking at them.

"That way!"  Four lizardman voices chorused, as they pointed down the increasingly undeserted tunnel.

"Fanks!"  the troll grunted as he ricocheted away brandishing a large stone club.

"Let's not go that way," Rychek decided.  "It's too crowded."

They took the other path.

As they continued over a flaming crack and approached a narrow bridge, Rychek took stock of their situation.  "We've no gold left, we don't know where we are, and we may have caused some slight offense to the local population.  How can things get any worse?" he moaned.

A tremendous roar like the sound of two rough boulders being scraped together in the heart of a volcano emanated from the tunnel behind them.  The startled lizards saw a great shadow, in the middle of which was a dark form, of man-shape maybe, yet greater; and a power and a terror seemed to be in it and to go before it.

With a rush, it leaped across the fissure.  The flames roared up to greet it, and wreathed about it; and a black smoke swirled in the air.  It's streaming mane kindled and blazed behind it.  In its right hand was a blade like a stabbing tongue of fire; in its left it held a whip of many thongs.

"Over the bridge!" cried Rychek.  He dismounted and stood his ground.  The others halted just within a doorway at the hall's end, and turned, unable to leave their leader to face the enemy alone.

The monster reached the bridge.  Rychek stood in the middle of the span,  leaning on Gork-on-a-Stick in his left hand.  The creature halted again, facing him, and the shadow wreathed about it reached out like two vast wings.  It raised the whip, and the thongs whined and cracked.  Fire came from its nostrils. 

But Rychek stood firm.  "You cannot pass, Flame of Udun!  Go back to the shadow!  About five hundred metres back, then take the second left!  They went that way!"

The monster suddenly drew itself up to a great height, and its wings were spread from wall to wall.  From out of the shadow a thunderous voice grated, "Much obliged!" 

The Balrog of Morgoth furled its wings and trotted back the way it had come.

Rychek had no idea where they were.  Rather than take a guess at the next fork in their path, he called to Bob and Joe.  "Go in there and ask for directions."  They were pulled up outside another tavern with the ubiquitous tankard sign out front.

"It doesn't say "Ladies Night" again does it?"  Bob ventured cautiously.

"No.  It says "The Blue Oyster."  It should be OK."

Bob and Joe pushed through the swinging doors and waited for their eyes to adjust to the dim lighting.  As the pair threaded their way between the rough, beer stained tables, they became aware that something was wrong.  These dwarves had well groomed moustaches and wore just a bit too much leather.  It seemed that every second pair of beady eyes winked at them over the top of a non-alcoholic guava daiquiri with an umbrella and strawberry on the edge of the glass.

As Bob and Joe sat on a vacant pair of stools at the bar and attempted to attract the attention of the barkeep, one of the dwarves minced over and perched beside Joe.  "Hello, Darrling.  Yee're new aroond heere. Can I buy ye a drrink?"  He fluttered his mascara laden eyelashes.

Rychek gasped in surprise as Bob and Joe burst through the saloon doors leaving them flapping on their hinges.  They leapt for the howdah.

"Go! Go! Get us out of here!"  Joe jumped off again and started pushing Bessie's rump to get her moving.

"Which way?" asked the baffled Rychek.

"I don't care!  Just go!"  Joe cried as a score of faerie dwarves spilled out of the pub.

"Coome back, Sweetie!"  The dwarves were pursuing as fast as they could, but even Bessie's slow plod outpaced them.  Dwarf feet are very....not well suited to high heels.

The party eventually halted.  There was no point going on.  They had reached a gallery which offered them five alternative and equally unpromising paths.  They agreed that they would each explore a tunnel, then return to compare notes.

Rychek jogged along his tunnel.  Could this be the way out?  There was a warm yellow light, like sunlight, flickering weakly around the next bend.  He stepped around the corner to be greeted by a shout.

"Thay'res the blue daevil who drove puir wee Kenny MacLavatory o' Esse Bend to sobriety!"  A mob of dwarves wearing white hats and coats were before him, some with burning torches, some with brushes.

"Come tae us ye fiend!  We'll shoo ye that the Guild of the Regular Stool make poowerful enemas!"

The skink turned and fled.

Bob did not get far up his chosen path before being confronted by none other than Randa MacTavi o' Lence and her screeching pack of she-dwarves.

"I've a grudge 'gin ye, Lazard!  Noow try to kell me short, with nae teeth!"  She raised the chair leg she had carried with her from the far side of the mountains.

Mahtis had explored only a short way up his tunnel before he was assailed by a dreadful sound.  The din was like a banshee wail.  The sheer physical force of the cacophony would surely have killed him, had he not been spawned earless.  What remained of the Karak Andstick Combined Pipes and Drums had reformed, with a vengeance.

Joe crept stealthily into his dim tunnel.  He stuck to the shadows, sliding his back along the wall.  Even taking these precautions, he was unable to escape detection.

"Yoohoo!  Is that ye, Darrling?  Aboot that drrink?"

The four breathless explorers arrived back simultaneously.  "That way!" they shouted in unison and urged Bessie into the yawning mouth of the one remaining passage.

In time, this passage widened and led upwards.  The smell of stale beer and unwashed beards which they had grown used to in the dwarf hold began to fade as a point of light grew ahead of them.  The light grew in size and intensity until they could see that it was framed by a huge stone arch which was blocked by a flimsy orange and white barrier.

A dwarf stood behind the barrier with his chin resting on the haft of a large hammer. His eyes glinted as he appraised the group and their beast.

The party dismounted and stood in front of Bessie.  Rychek stepped forward,  "Erm," he said glancing back up the tunnel nervously,  "Could you please remove the rune of magic binding from our solar engine. Please?"

"There is,"  the dwarf solemnly declared, "a wee fee."

"No, no, that's all taken care of!  I kept the receipt, see?"  Rychek held up a square of paper with a brown smear on it.

The dwarfs knuckles whitened as he gripped his hammer all the tighter.

Bob pulled Rychek back, "Let me handle this!" he hissed.  To the dwarf he said,  "Look, it turns out we are short on time and short on money.  Short e...."

He had been about the say "short even on food and water," but had paused because he fancied that he had heard a shrill voice call "Lazard!" up the echoing passage.

The dwarf's eyes nearly popped out of his head and he stormed around the barrier.  "Shorty is it?  Ai knew ye were coming.  Mae cousin runed me aboot yeer soily manners and yeer magicky beastie."

The dwarf pushed between Bob and Joe to confront Rychek, who stood half a pace in front of Mahtis.  "And ye.  If ye've no means to pay the fee, then yon beastie and yon magicky doodad are forfeit to the hold of Karak Andstick.  And ye can get yeer halfwit brother oot mae way!"

"He ain't my brother.  He's my heavy."  Rychek stepped aside.

The dwarf, following the skink with his eyes, did not even see the approach of a large scaly fist.  He must certainly have felt the crunching impact on the side of his head, but made no further comment as he slumped to the ground.

"Bob and Joe, get the gate!  Mahtis, take the Rune Hammer o' Anti Magic!"  Rychek urgently organized his troop.  "Toss the dwarf out of the way!"

"Nae one tosses a dwaaaa.a..a..a...a......." a weak voice protested as Mahtis flung the border guard into a convenient chasm.

Rychek did not unclench his bottom until Karak Andstick was many, many dwarfish miles behind.  An enema of the guild never feels comfortable.

"Those lady dwarves were terrifying!"

"There are worse things!"

"Bob, Joe.  Can I join your argument?"

"Oh, this isn't an argument."

"Yes it is."

"No it isn't."

"Yes it is!"

"An argument isn't just contradiction."

"Well! It CAN be!"

"No it can't!"

"An argument is a connected series of statements intended to establish a proposition."

"No it isn't!"

"Yes it is! 'tisn't just contradiction."

"Look, if I "argue" with you, I must take up a contrary position!"

"Yes but it isn't just saying 'no it isn't'."

"Yes it is!"

"No it isn't!"

"Yes it is!"

"No it isn't!"

Mahtis wisely decided to leave the masters to their work.

Chapter 15: The Dark Lands

The False Moon War: Chapter 13

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Chapter 13.  Beneath the World's Edge

Bessie's decorations lasted only as long as it took to wash them away at the first mountain stream. The collection of skulls and sundry other bones were left high in the foothills of the World's Edge Mountains to excite and confuse future archaeologists.

The heroes found themselves on a rough, foot worn path which spiralled inexorably upwards.  At different times the trail would traverse steep ridges, dark silent stands of conifers or narrow ledges teetering on the edge of ravines.  Bessie plodded stolidly higher.

"The best Lustrian monster for combat is surely the carnosaur."

"Actually it has to be the ancient stegadon with sharpened horns"

"No, it's definitely the carnosaur."

"Ancient stegadon!"

"Carnosaur!"

"Ancient stegadon!"

"Carnosaur!"

"Troglodon!"

"Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!"

The entire crew dissolved in fits of laughter.

"No, but seriously now Mahtis....."



The trail finally led them to a hanging valley surrounded by unscaleable walls of granite.  The remnants of a glacial moraine had trapped a sizable lake of dark, still water.  As they picked around the rough path at the edge of the pool, the lizardmen could see an interesting scene unfold across the water.

A tall arch had been hewn from the mountain side. The arch framed a tunnel which disappeared back under the mountains.  At the opening was a guard house which attended a flimsy orange and white barrier.  The barrier was contrived to swing up and down to permit or deny passage.

At the barrier were a dwarf, an elf and a dragon. The dwarf was dressed for battle. The only parts visible under the matted hair, beard and gleaming armour were a pair of glittering eyes and a red, bulbous nose.  He leaned casually on a tremendous war hammer which was embossed with a glowing golden rune on one face.  His other hand he held out towards the elf, palm upwards.

The elf was clearly a elven princeling of great wealth and rank. His cloak was brocaded with platinum thread. On his brow he wore a circlet made of the same metal which was surmounted with an enormous ruby. Not one golden hair on his ageless head was out of place. On his face was an expression of unconcealed disgust.

The star dragon was also a splendid specimen.  Its jeweled scales caught the light and reflected it back in dazzling rainbows.  Around its mighty jaws was a glowing band sealed with a dwarfish rune.  Muzzled in this way, the dragon could use neither its hypnotic voice, nor its fiery breath.

The elven prince dropped a heavy purse onto the dwarf's grubby hand.  The contents of the purse clinked.

As the dwarf weighed the payment in his hand, the High Elf vented his displeasure. "This is wobbery, you wascally wogue!  Now welease Bwian!"

The dwarf snorted in amusement as he hefted his hammer and tapped the rune which bound the dragon's snout.  The band flashed briefly and disappeared in a puff of smoke.  With an overly gracious bow, the dwarf lifted the barrier and swept his arm to indicate that the elf was welcome to go about his haughty business.

The elf leapt upon his draconic steed with flashing eyes and wordlessly spurred his mount to fly away from the den of dwarfish crooks.

Eventually, the bastiladon completed its circumnavigation of the inky mere.  The four lizardmen stowed their weapons and dismounted. The dwarf stood behind the barrier with his chin resting on the haft of the rune hammer. His eyes glinted greedily as he appraised the group and their beast.

Rychek stepped up to the boom gate. "We seek free passage through your mighty dwarf hold, to the lands beyond the mountains."

The Dwarf snorted again. "Free passage?  Theere's naught free in Karrak Andstick.  E'en the airre isn'ae free!  Have ye means to pay?"

Mahtis went over to Bessie and returned with a wicker creel. From it, he withdrew two dried ixti grubs and a large beetle which he proffered to the dwarf.

The dwarf gasped and seized Mahtis' statuesque wrist.  Upon Mahtis's it was a heavy gold bracelet inscribed with Lustrian glyphs.  It was twin to the one on his other wrist.  Snake like torques spiralled around the kroxigor's bulging biceps.  He wore a broad collar of enamelled gold and bands of the same metal about his ankles.  Gold also adorned every spike which ran in a glittering row from his neck to the tip of his tail.

Beyond its decorative appearance, gold has no particular value to the lizardmen. In Lustria it is too common to be considered precious, and too soft to be useful in making tools.

On the morning that the Slann Lord Taisteslaikch’ken had been abducted, Rychek had insisted that Mahtis put on all of his golden adornments and get a clean pocket handkerchief.  He reasoned that if they were going on a quest, his little brother should at least look smart, and keep his nose clean.

The dwarf recovered his breath.

"Weel, in that case, ye'll have enough for the wee deposit."  He indicated a bracelet, which Mahtis removed and dropped onto the dwarf's shaking hand.

As Mahtis negotiated, Joe picked up a large stone to throw at a twisted snag out in the middle of the lake. 

"Do nae disturb the water!"  the dwarf called urgently. "It costs extra!

"Noow, let's inspect yon beastie!"  The dwarf looked in Bessie's mouth and tut-tutted. He lifted her tail with his hammer and clucked.  When he climbed onto her howdah he ran his eyes over the gold and silver frame of the solar engine, noting the glowing cube.

"Yon'll ne'er doo!  I'll need to smite a wee rune on yon magicky contraption.  Wee'll have none such in Karak Andstick!"

"What?  It's rather valuable, and the Old Ones might still need it for the Great Plan...."  Rychek fussed.

"Doo Nae Fret.  Did ye nae see the pointy eared laird's dragon beastie?  I smite on a rune of magic binding wi' ma Rune Hammer o' Anti Magic heere, and on t'other side o' the peaks, Gathrin MacLevy o' Customs Anexcise (he's mae cousin) will smite it awa' wi' his Rune Hammer o' Anti Magic.  After ye pays the fee.  Ye'll hae yer magicky thingy working quicker than twae shakes o' a dwarfish whotsit.  I'll send a wee rune to mae cousin to warrn him ye'll be coming."

"Could you please repeat that, slowly?"

"Nae need, nae need!" the dwarf tapped the solar engine with his hammer and a glowing, runed band encircled it. The glow of the solar cube instantly faded, and Chotec's great treasure became an inert lump of metal and glass. The dwarf scampered down, raised the boom gate and waved them through.

"What is your name, that we may thank you" asked Rychek.

"Aye, it is Fergus MacTithe o' Border Control."

"May we call you Fergus for short?"

Fergus MacTithe o' Border Control suddenly glowered at Rychek. "Ye'll be wanting to avoid that naasty worrd while ye be our guest under yon peaks.  Ye've been warrned." He turned and stomped back into the gatehouse.

Bessie proceeded up the tunnel and passed a garishly painted sign.

"Welcome to Karak Andstick.  Let Cousin Balin's Gift Shop give you a kingly welcome!  And they call this a Mine!" the sign declared.

As they rounded the next bend Rychek gasped in horror. "This is no Mine!" he declared, "It is a Mall!"


Karak Andstick was like a diabolical machine which was designed to extract gold, either from the bosom of the mountains or from unwitting visitors.  The halls and galleries were of much greater scale than the scratchings of the Skaven Under Empire.  Strip Malls alternated with Strip Mines to exploit visitors and the earth itself.

Every way the lizards turned, brightly lit booths beckoned them to spend their coin. A cloud of sales dwarves immediately descended on them to try to sell useless products.

Rychek decided that they should take the shortest route through the dwarven realm. The only map he could acquire, at a price, was of limited use, but it did show that the markets and entertainments were mostly clustered on this side of the hold.  If they could escape this hotbed of exploitation they may make it to the far side of the mountains in relative peace.

Whenever they paused for Rychek to consult the map, even if only for an minute, more sales dwarves would appear.  They had marked Mahtis as the one with gold and a lack of business acumen.  It seemed that every time Rychek looked back at Mahtis in his place at the rear of the howdah, the kroxigor had a little less by way of golden decoration, and a little more by way of mass produced, runed dwarven trash.

Bob and Joe were discussed these goings on by quietly arguing about whether it was better to be robbed blind and die penniless in a skaven tunnel or to be robbed blind and die penniless in a dwarfish mansion.

Mahtis occasionally interrupted to show them his acquisitions.  "I've got a bargain with this Thirty Seven Piece Beard Grooming Kit with Rune of Smoothness, and the Illustrious Runed Sporks of Potato Flinging will empower my attacks with supernaturally improved accuracy of mashed potato flinging!"

Bob stared at him for a long moment.  "What's a spork?"

Joe asked,  "What's a potato?"

"You don't have a beard or ballistic skill!"  barked Rychek,  "come and sit up front with me and keep your hands in your pockets."

"What are pockets?"

image

Time passed slowly in the dwarven realm.  By contrast, distance seemed to scream by.  They passed an ale house with a sign declaring, "Last Bugman's XXXXX for thirty-seven dwarfish miles!"

As they passed the next bend, barely five minutes later, another tavern hove into view. "It's been thirty-seven dwarfish miles!  Quench your Thirst!" screamed the placard.

Either the obvious length of the journey, or the subliminal message concealed on the sign started Bob and Joe thinking about the long thirsty stretches they had travelled thus far, first under the Great Ocean and then later through the Arabyan deserts and Lands of the Dead.  They changed their discussion to one about the relative merits of dying of thirst in a skaven tunnel or a dwarfish mansion. 

Mahtis was called on to be devil's advocate and speak on behalf of dying of thirst in the desert.

"Rathole!"

"Dwarf Hold!"

"Dying of thirst in the desert is better!"

"No, no, no Mahtis!  We are arguing about where it is worse to die from thirst.  Can you see that you just came perilously close to AGREEING with somebody."  Joe gently corrected his friend.

"Rookie error!"  Bob observed, "I'm sure you'll get the hang of it before we get to the other side of these mountains.  If we ever do so, on account of us dying of thirst!"

"Shut up all of you!  If you're so thirsty go in there and get a drink."  Rychek pointed to an establishment with the icon of a foaming tankard hanging from a davit.  A smaller chit covered in runes hung below the larger sign.  He whispered to Bessie and brought her to a stop.

Bob and Joe pushed through the swinging doors and waited for their eyes to adjust to the dim lighting.  This was surely the scruffiest, smelliest and surliest collection of dwarves they had yet encountered.  As soon as they entered, the conversation in the room lulled.  It seemed that every beady pair of eyes was studying them over the top of a tankard.

As the pair threaded their way between the rough, beer stained tables, they became aware that some of the dwarves had risen from their chairs and began shadowing their steps towards the bar.  Bob and Joe sat on a vacant pair of stools and attracted the attention of the barkeep, who had his back turned.

"Two non-alcoholic guava daiquiris, please.  With little umbrellas and strawberries on the side of the glass."

The barkeep span around with a look of horror on his face.  "Och, the Ancestors!  Not agaen!" he yelped and started removing all breakable items from the bar top. 

A stumpy hand grabbed Bob's shoulder and spun him round.  Bob looked down into a furious bristly glare.  "Can ye nae read?"

"What...?"

"Yon sign oot front!  Can ye nae read?  Tis Ladies Night!"

"We're terribly sorry.....madam...."  Bob peered at her intently.  He could honestly not tell the difference between these specimens and the presumably male dwarves they had interacted with thus far,  "…we were short on time, and stepped in without reading......"

"Hark that lasses?  Yon Lazard is kellen me short!"  She turned her bearded face back towards Bob and Joe.  "We'll sort this oot now, or mae name is'nae Randa MacTavi o' Lence!"

As Rychek kept watch over the doors of the drinking establishment, Mahtis negotiated with yet another travelling sales dwarf.  Eventually he exchanged a solid gold arm torque for the promise of shipment of a set of cunningly wrought mystic cubes.

"Thank-you Merrick MacKinsky o' Aylasker" called Mahtis, as the dwarf shyster slipped into the shadows with the Lustrian gold.  "Are you sure you got my address right?  That's Los'tmabo'tl with two apostrophes....."

Rychek gasped in surprise as Joe sprinted out the door of the tavern.  Bob followed soon after, hurled out through a front window.  He picked himself up and leapt for the howdah.

"Go go go!  Dying of thirst is better!" he cried as a score of dwarfish maidens spilled out of the pub clutching broken bottles and chair legs.

Mahtis swept him up in an enormous (cold blooded) hug.  "You agreed with me, Bob!  Dying of thirst IS better!"

"Mmph, Mmmph!"  Bob gestured wildly at Rychek, who set Bessie moving again.

"I've a grudge 'gin ye, Lazard!  I'll nae forget!"  Randa MacTavi o' Lence and her cronies were pursuing as fast as they could, but even Bessie's slow plod outpaced them.  Dwarf legs are very....not long.  Soon the pursuers could only be heard, and finally the echoes of their curses and screeches faded into the distance.

After another vast distance and short time of travel, Rychek called out, “Stop, wait, wait. I need to go to the bathroom.”

Bessie grumbled to a halt beside a dwarf wearing a clean white coat and cap  The cap bore the icon of a three legged stool.  He was supervising two doors which had identical bearded images on them.

“Mahtis, give me some of the gold spine decorations.”  Rychek debarked and approached the dwarf who was reading the latest edition of "Washrooms Monthly".

“I need a wee.”

The dwarf carefully closed the centerfold.  “Ye need a wee what, laddie?”

“No, I need... to wee.”

“Aye,” said the dwarf slowly, “Ye need two wee…two wee what's, lad?  Spit it oot.”

“I need to do a wee wee!”

“Och, I see ye noo! Hoowever, there is a wee fee….”

“That’s a relief! I thought it might be expensive.”

“Nae…weell, it is wee bit expensive, especially if ye need to do two, see?”

“And what if I need to do a number two, too?”

“Ach! If ye pay the wee number two fee, ye can wee for free!”

“Four? I don’t need to do a number four….”

“Nae, nae, nae laddie. Not four. FOR free.”

“For three…to…?”

“One more time laddie.  If ye pay the wee two fee, ye can wee for free, see?”

“I…I think so.  What is the wee two fee?”

“Ye can two for three.”

“For free! That’s generous…”

"Nae, there’s naught in Karak Andstick that’s free.  Ye can do a two for three pieces of gold.”

Gold exchanged hands.

“I’ll do ye up a wee too free receipt for two at three.” The dwarf tore a square of paper off a roll.

“It’s not a very wee two three receipt four two at three,” said Rychek holding up the square of paper. “It’s quite large.”

The dwarf was getting frustrated. “Nae, nae, laddie. It’s a Laarge wee too free receipt for two at three! When ye pay the fee of three and ye do a two ye're entitled to do a wee too, for free!”

The dwarf shook his head in aggravation and Rychek entered the stall.

A short time later he called, “Excuse me, there’s no paper in here!”

The dwarf exploded, “Did’nae ye keep the larrge wee too free receipt for two at three? That's what it’s FOR!”

“Four? No…..you only gave me the ONE large wee two three receipt four two at three, see?" Rychek posted the document back under the door.

The dwarf was still banging his head against the wall long after Rychek had finished his business, washed his hands, and ridden contentedly out of sight.

It seemed that they had escaped into an unpopulated section of the mine when the sound began, softly at first.  There was a rhythmic pounding, and rattle like a huge bag of bones being shaken.  Most disturbing was the banshee like wailing.  The unearthly sounds were becoming louder.

The riders looked about in alarm.  The tunnel they were in was straight, with no junctions.  The only alternatives were to go back, or towards the bestial screeching.

Bessie decided on a third option.  Her eyes rolled in distress and she hunkered down, trying to pull her spiky head under her armoured back, like a tortoise.  Having failed in this, she lowered her head to the stone floor and drew her mighty front legs over her head.  No entreaties or goading would move her.

When it seemed that the vile cacophony could go no louder without shaking down the mountain, the source of the torment came into sight bearing flaming torches.

The Karak Andstick Combined Pipers and Drummers.

Under the command of their smartly turned out drum major, they wheezed to a merciful halt in front of the cringing monster.

"This'll nae do!  Turrn yeer'e wee beastie aroond.  Wee'll strike up a meery jig to lift yeer'e spirrits as ye get oot the way!"

He raised his baton and signalled the drummers to commence.  The pipers, who had only just quelled the multi-legged shrieking horrors they carried enthusiastically administered CPR, and the awful things came back to life.

It was too much for Bessie.  She gathered her sturdy legs underneath her and lowered her head.  With a bellow she was off, gathering momentum as she went.  She scattered the Karak Andstick Combined Pipes and Drums like ninepins.  Before anyone could react, she was gone, hurtling down the dark tunnel.

Chapter 14: The Escape  - due out soon

The False Moon War: Chapter 12

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Chapter 12.  Waaagh!

Waaagh!  Warhuh appeared to be ready.  The hordes were poised like a green tsunami which would scour the unsuspecting empire.  The gibbering Shamen agreed that the time was auspicious, and that Gork, and possibly Mork too, would bless the expedition.  The savage Warboss would be able to unleash his dogs of war as soon as a few kompliance issues were  resolved.

It is not clear when Da Bureaukratz rose to positions of influence in greenskin society.  This obscure subclass of orc had nevertheless wound the choking blood-weed of regulation around the necks of all orc and goblin leaders in a tangle of red tape-like fronds.

Worhuh was as ready as his adherents. "Where'z me Bean Kowntah?" he snarled.

Although he didn't fear the puny akkountant, he knew that his Waaagh! could founder if there were too many night goblin fanatics, too few herders for the squigs, or a lack of choppahs.

In addition, no Warboss in his right mind (or out of it) wants to be subjected to an awdit.

The Bean Kowntah scurried forward.  He was an unimpressive specimen.  His pasty green skin indicated that he did not spend much time in the light of the sun, and his thin, hairless arms were not well adapted to lifting anything heavier than a quill.

The bureaukrat clutched a board which had clipped to it dozens of sheets of dwarf-skin parchment.  Uninterpretable script crowded the pages.  Two functionaries set up a large wooden frame in front of him.  The uprights of the frame were linked by horizontal metal rods which were festooned with the skulls of unfortunate Tacks Avoidahs.

After a quick reference to his Klipboard, the Bean Kowntah started frenetically clacking the skulls back and forth on his abacurse, all the while muttering mysterious incantations such as "CEN Artikle 153, Sayfty and Healf Regs," and "Statuet 1985.c72, Metrifikation of Chaaarge Distanse."  Eventually he fell silent and turned to face the warboss.

"Not enuff gobblinz,"  he declared.

"Dere's plenty!" protested Warhuh.

"Yor' not kompliant wif da new regs."  The akkountant folded his weedy arms.

"Aaargh!"  The warboss spun on his heel and addressed Epididimoh Orkitis, a trusted black orc deputy.

Wot is da contribution from da Hawkhatz Gobbos?" asked

Warhuh Wotsitgudfaw.

"Absolootley nuffin."

"Say it again......" Warhuh Wotsitgudfaw

demanded.

"Absolootley nuffin."

"Take sum Boyz back to da snots and parform a merit selektion process!"

The warboss stomped back to find someone small and weak to kick the snot out of.

Epididimoh Orkitis led his rekrootment panel of a dozen heavily armed orc boyz into the centre of the Hawkhatz shanty town.  As they neared the shrine, they became aware that the goblins they sought to recruit were gathering in the shadows around their hovels and silently following the boyz.

The Orc Big'un cleared his throat and recited the standard contrakt terms.  "Righ' ya little snots!  War Boss Warhuh Wotsitgudfaw is gatherin' the tribes for a Waaagh! on da Empyre Humies!  He needs you filthy gobbos to do sum dyin' for da Caaause!" 

He paused until the last echoes of his thunderous voice had faded away.  "You lot are rekruited!  Welkum to da Corpse!"

As he spoke, the goblins inched forward until they formed an unbroken ring around the selektion panel.  Four unusual specimens stepped closer still.  Each seemed to have been painted from head to toe in Lukky Bloo war paint.

One was clearly a shaman.  His tattered cloak was made of the hide of a dwarf, with the beard part turned inside out to make a scratchy but warm lining.  From his waist hung several shrunken heads.  His sinewy legs were bound with strips of rag which continued down swathe his clawed feet like bandages.  About his wrists and upper arms were fetishes made of the scraggly feathers of long dead vultures.  He had wide grinning mouth and bright crest of skin atop his head.  Clutched in his fist was Gork-or-possibly-Mork-on-a-stick.  His most alarming features were his unblinking, maniacal eyes.

The shamans body was twitching as if to the beat of unheard drums.  A large brute stood behind the shaman, firmly holding his shoulders.  The other two were tall, for goblins.  They were also unusually scaly, had a row of spines which ran down from their backs to the tip of their tails.  Tails was a bit unusual, too. 

The one wearing an impressive totemic hat cleared his throat,  "I speak for the Bloo Shaman and his brothers.  The Hawkhatz will not join your little war."

Epididimoh Orkitis guffawed.  "Sorry, did I fawget to menshun da dental plan in da contrakt?  Yoo sign up and I doezn't smash ya teef in."

He loomed forward, menacingly.  "Youse gobbos do wot we say.  We is bigga dan yoo are!"

"Size isn't everything," the goblin spokesperson sniffed. 

The throng of goblins around the tableau echoed his words, "Size izn't evryting."

The orc bully grunted and motioned to two of his band to disarm the two Lukky Bloo painted warriors.  The first henchman snatched a black bladed spear from the speaker and broke it over his knee.  The other bloo warrior, the one with the white helmet, snorted in amusement before being disarmed by the second thug.

As soon as the unfortunate orc took the green glowing weapon he felt an unusual sensation about his nethers.  His armoured codpiece felt unusually empty.  He took a peek down his breeches to investigate.  "Size i-i-izn't evryting, Rite?" he squeaked.

"Yer, it iz!"  Epididimoh Orkitis was losing patience.  "Yoo lot iz coming wif us, becoz we iz bigger dan yoo are!"

"But we are more numerous than you are."  Joe observed.

The recently bereft orc rekrooter stared intently at the orc band, then at the goblin hedge of spears.

"E-e-e'z Rite!" he squeaked and then sidled around so that he was standing more WITH the goblin negotiating team than against them.

"Size izn't evryting, Size izn't evryting, Size izn't evryting, Size izn't evryting."  The Hawkhatz goblins chanted menacingly as they tightened their cordon like a noose.

Tidings of the revolt and the four bloo brothers spread swiftly throughout the Badlands.  The news spread quickly, in no small part due to the speedy legs of the smallest night goblin, who happened to be the fastest runner to ever wear a green hide. Inevitably, Warhuh Wotsitgudfaw's Waaagh! encampment became aware of the intrigue.

"Size izn't evryting."

Wherever goblins gathered, the words were on every set of lips.  Soon, in twos and threes, and later whole platoons, the goblins ghosted away from Warhuh's camp to join the rebels.

In truth, losing the goblins would have little effect on the potency of the Waaagh!  The loss of numbers did not equate a corresponding loss of mass, or belligerence.  In fact, with fewer gobbo backsides to kick, the orcs started to accumulate animosity.  If the invasion of the Empire did not commence soon, the entire orcish army would explode in a conflagration of self destructive violence.

Warhuh hovered expectantly as the Bean Kowntah finished clacking the skulls of his infernal abacurse.

"I've chekked da figurs."  The akkountant held up his balance sheet.  There was rather a lot of red ink.  In his other hand he held a bound copy of da regz.  "Orkforce skill mix claws firty-nine A:  'A Waaagh! shall comprize no less dan twenty-five poynt wun percent goblinz'......"

Warhuh's shoulders slumped.  "Doze bloo bruvvers 'ave rooined me."

The Bean Kowntah looked shiftily around, ".... but listen to firty-nine B: '.....where such goblinz are available'.  Not havin' enuff IN is da same az havin' too many OWT.  Ya need ta tighten da labour market ta balance da books."

"Balance da books?  Ow?"

"Da eeziest way is..."  The akkountant flicked the balance sheet.  The red ink slid off the page and dripped to the earth.  He ground the pool of blood into the soil with his heel.  "...ya jus' need ta spill some red."

Warhuh Wotsitgudfaw's demeanor brightened considerably.  "Send owt a memo, 'Use ov unnecassary violunce in da apprahenshun ov da Bloo Bruvvers haz been approoved'."

Bessie had been well cared for back in the beast pens of Los'tmabo'tl.  Teams of beast class skinks kept her scales oiled and her toenails trimmed.  That was practically neglectful compared to the treatment she had received  at the hands of the goblins of da Bloo Shaman Waaagh!   

Her drab horny plates were daubed with red ochre in the profane symbols of the greenskins.  Unblinking eyes peered intimidatingly from all angles, and representations of the snarling sun and the malevolent moons covered the spaces in between.

Almost illegible goblin script made dire statements such as "Garglerinse woz 'ere" and "Gobboez Rulez".  So many skulls were strung across her flanks that she looked like a moving ossuary.

Mahtis and Bob were perched on her howdah, ostensibly to check her harness, but really to avoid proximity with the smelly, cackling rabble of emancipated goblins.

There was  a definite carnival atmosphere to the whole tableau.  The little greenskins could maintain ranks for no more than five minutes before someone would snigger, "Size izn't evryting...." and everyone within earshot would collapse in fits of giggles.

The only troops taking the whole Waaagh! seriously, in their own fashion, were the Night Goblin Fanatics.  Armed with massive iron balls tethered by lengths of chain, their previous pinnacles of suicidal lunacy were but mild eccentricity when compared with the antics of the erratic Rychek.

To honour the inspiring Bloo Shaman, each fanatic had found every last skerrick of Lukky Bloo warpaint, and plastered themselves from head to toe with the greasy lotion.

The fanatics were making a special effort to rehearse with their wrecking balls to make ready for battle.  Unfortunately, Lukky Bloo, while serving a decorative function, does nothing to enhance one's grip on a length of stout chain.

What had been conceived as a boldly choreographed reinterpretation of Da Nut-Krakka Suite" inevitably resulted in a number of the dance troupe losing their balls.

Through the middle of this maelstrom of Kultcha, twirled the Bloo Shaman, as if he were dancing to music that he alone could hear.

Joe and Len cast two pairs of disconsolate eyes at the Hawkhatz Horde, then compared them with Warhuh's Waaagh! which had marshalled opposite them across a broad valley.

Orc Boyz and Black Orcs were formed up in spiky regiments.  Their black iron armour did not glint in the pale sunlight.  Their tarnished weapons did not glitter, but they looked effective nonetheless.  These  troops were not here for show.  They had but one purpose: to rush into combat before the slavering hordes of Savage Orcs behind them got in front and obliterated the foe.

The savage orcs, in their turn, were eager to krump a few heads with their flint bladed choppers before the menagerie of trolls and giants on the flanks devoured or squished any stragglers who might have endured the initial charges.

In front of the orcish lines was a squad of heavily armed and armoured black orcs.  Each of the tank-like troopers brandished cruel, rusty weapons.  Any victim who didn't immediately die from wounds from these cleavers must surely succumb to tetanus soon afterwards.  At their head was Warhuh Wotsitgudfaw himself.

The mighty Warboss had crude iron plates strapped to every part of his body.  His enormous double headed axe, which he swung in lazy arcs, was an exquisite piece of battle engineering.  It was said that if this axe was carefully placed upon the head of a dwarf, it would neatly part the dwarf's wiry, matted hair.  If the axe was placed even more carefully, it would part hair AND beard to approximately navel level.

For Warhuh, such matters were hypothetical.  Even if a throng of dwarves presented themselves, he would have some trouble performing such a public service because he was mounted high up on his vicious wyvern, Owleggoleggo.

Wyverns are distant cousins of the dragons.  Through a mishap of the family tree which involved too few branches intertwining a few too many times, the wyverns lost the forelimbs and fabled intelligence of the dragons.  As if to compensate, the scaly horrors had developed a vicious streak a mile wide.

This particular beast's naming ceremony was officiated by none other than "Stumpy" Khulghaz, the most famous of greenskin monster handlers.

Joe felt a tap on his wrist.  He recognized Neehai Tuacrikket, the goblin chief.

"Me an' da ladz alwayz fight betta afta a speech.  Seeing as how yoo is wot speaks for Da Bloo Shaman, I waz wundring if yar could do da onnahs."

Joe turned around and cleared his throat loudly.  Finally the goblin shambles shut up.  The saurus leader opened his mouth, but no inspiring words came out.  He closed his mouth again.  Mahtis nodded encouragingly and Joe had another try.

"Well, umm.....  you've put in a good preparation all season, and....  you just need to believe in yourself, and, and, your team mates.  I know that you will try your very hardest because you are so proud to wear the green... and Bloo colours of the umm...  Hawk err, thingy...."

The goblins stood with their long arms drooping by their sides, blinking in silent confusion.  Joe breathed a silent prayer and opened his mouth again.

"I just want you all to know that however you perform today, I'll......Waa-aaa-aaah!!!!!!"

Rychek had waltzed past and stamped on Joe's tail.  The goblins were warming to the speech.

"That is...I mean....Waaagh.....in the name of, in the name of...."

Len pecked Joe vigorously on the snout, "Gawk!"

" Waaa aaaa aaaaah!.... In the Name of Gork!!!" 

With these words the goblin horde erupted in a terrifying clamour of war cries and shrieks. 

"In Da Name of Gork, an possibly Mork!"

 "Size izn't evryting!"

"'As anywun seen my spidah?  He waz just hear a secund ago!"

"For Da Bloo Shaman!"

"Waaagh!"

Owleggoleggo strutted toward the screeching Hawkhatz with the black orc honour guard keeping time and pace with his thunderous strides by loudly clashing their weapons against their shields.  The snarling platoon advanced to within forty yards of the goblin lines before Warhuh halted them with a gesture of his mighty axe.  The warboss goaded the wyvern further forward to halve the distance between the adversaries.

"Me, and me Good Ole Boyz..." thundered Warhuh, gesturing at his black orc escort.  "....'ave a skore to settle wif da Bloo Bruvvers!"

The goblin force courageously took a step backwards leaving Bessie, Bob, Mahtis, Joe, Len and the capering Rychek to face the scrutiny of the warboss.  Joe unlimbered the flint tipped spear he had acquired and strode forward.  Len spread his pinions menacingly.

Owleggoleggo stretched out his own leathery wings and roared his displeasure at the ibis's challenge.  The Wyvern' wings could easily span a cathedral.

"Gawk!" grated Len threateningly.  The wyvern recoiled slightly, no longer quite so sure of his supremacy.

"Is this a challenge then?" Joe punctuated the word challenge with a thrust of his spear.

"Yar.  But not wif yoo.  Wif him!"  Warhuh indicated da Bloo Shaman with a grubby finger.  The warboss had chosen the smallest foe in order to make a demonstration that size actually did matter.

A lot.

Before any of the other lizardmen could restrain him, Rychek skittered out to jiggle in front of the wyvern.  He waved Gork-on-a-Stick enthusiastically.  "Challenge, challenge, challenge!"

Warhuh boggled at the lunacy of the insignificant shaman and drew his axe back in preparation for a sweeping blow.  Joe averted his eyes as the axe swished through the air.  There was an agonizing silence.

"Swish!  Swishshwishshwishshwish!"  When Joe looked back he saw Rychek pirouetting with his sceptre in a parody of the blow which he had inexplicably avoided.  "Wot tha....!" snarled Warhuh as he swung again with his axe.  The steps of the skink's jig carried him out of reach of harm again.

So began the dance of Rychek's life.  He bobbed and twisted, span and bowed away from certain death as blades, claws, fangs and orcish curses rained down around him.  The warboss and his mount became more and more frustrated until both were fairly foaming with rage.

It did not help that the goblins had started to jeer and heckle with every air swing.  "Laydeez, take a look at my ginormous weapun!" they would hoot, or "Work on yar Teckneek!" and "don' wurry - keep yar pekkah up!"

Finally after another clumsy and impotent swing with his enormous choppa, Warhuh lost balance and slipped from his saddle atop the frenzied wyvern.  He landed heavily on the ground.

When he lifted his head, his gaze locked on the maniacal eyes of the shaman, who was bobbing on the spot.  Owleggoleggo was creeping up behind Rychek just as stealthily as only a house sized, slavering, homicidal monster can.  Warhuh managed a grim smile as he clambered to his feet.  He realized that as long as he held the shaman's eyes, the bloo idiot jiggled less erratically.  Without turning away, Warhuh groped for the haft of his battle axe.  If the shaman stayed still enough, he was confident that he could cut the impertinent fool down to size.

Rychek was almost still, but for the occasional twitch, and he was about to be pincered by a frenzied monster and a belligerent warrior.

"Gawk!" Len unfroze the tableau with a warning cry.

"Gork?"  Rychek snapped his gaze away from the warboss and threw his arms in the air.

Owleggoleggo was looming over the skink shaman, ready to chomp.  Instead of a satisfying crunch and a spurt of blood, the wyvern was rewarded with Gork-on-a-Stick up his left nostril.  The sceptre did no harm, but the feathers did tickle somewhat.  The monster lurched back, curling his lips and drawing a sharp breath.

Grunting with effort, Warhuh swiped with his axe, putting all of his frustration and malice into one last mighty blow.  Rychek fell like a puppet which had had its strings cut, a split second before the blade whistled past.  At the same instant, Owleggoleggo released his breath in a colossal flaming sneeze.

The draconic release of pressure enveloped Warhuh Wotsitgudfaw in a gout of flames and melted the green flesh from his crackling bones.

The wyvern recovered its composure and lunged forward, desiring to crunch the crumpled blue form of the shaman when suddenly, seemingly out of nowhere, swooped a murderous curved blade.

Len had launched from his perch on Joe's head like some kind of avenging angel, buffeting Owleggoleggo's face with beating wings and slashing at his beady eyes with his savage hooked beak.

"Gawk! Gawk! GAWK!"

The wyvern could not endure this terrifying onslaught.  He bounded into the air and wheeled towards the nearby World's Edge Mountains with Len in vengeful pursuit.

The trio of lizard men rushed to the fallen body of their comrade as the whole mass of goblins surged forward to lash out with blade and tooth and ball at the black orcs before them.

The orcs, who had witnessed the immolation of their leader and a Hork Hat coming alive to spook a deadly wyvern, drew two hasty conclusions.  Firstly, the Hawkhatz Gobbos had the favour of the gods, and secondly that size, while providing some advantages in certain social situations, was clearly NOT everything.  To the last orc they turned tail and fled towards the main orc battle line.

"They flee!" bellowed Mahtis.

"We must pursue!  Again!" chorused Bob and Joe.

"Wait....wait!  Restrain pursuit!" a weak voice piped from near their feet.  The three predatory fighters paused in puzzlement as Rychek struggled to his feet.

"What? Why?"

"Have you noticed that they," he gestured towards the wall of iron and muscle which constituted the late warboss's Waaagh!, the vast majority of whom were not fleeing, "is bigger than they are."

He nodded towards the rabble of diminutive goblins streaming across the valley.  The goblins, although numerous, were clearly about to meet a sticky end.

"E's right!" Bob observed.

Rychek ushered them back to climb onto Bessie's howdah, and stopped with his mouth agape.  The decorated Bastiladon shivered her broad hips which set all of her skulls clacking together with a sound like an avalanche of coconut shells.

"What happened to Bessie?  Where is Len?  Why have I got a doll on a stick?  Why is my neck itchy?  Urgh!"  Rychek stripped off his dwarf skin and other trappings and prodded them suspiciously with the sceptre as if they might suddenly crawl away.

"Let's explain later," Bob cringed at the terrified screeching of the doomed goblins and turned Bessie's painted head away towards the foothills of the mountains.

Eventually they crossed a ridge and left the greenskins to finish settling their philosophical differences unobserved.

Joe kept looking anxiously into the sky.

"What?" Bob demanded.

"I'm worried about what happened to Len.  The wyvern flew off this way."

"It doesn't matter"

"If I don't look for him, his feelings will be hurt."

"He's a bird.  He doesn't have feelings."

"Yes he does!"

"No he doesn't!"

"Does!"

"Doesn't!"

"Does!"

"Doesn't!"

"What's that?"  Mahtis was pointing at a fleet shadow in the sky.  An triumphant ibis swooped above the party, like some kind of avenging angel.

With an earsplitting "Gawk!" it released a single dropping which plopped into Bob's eye.  Without so much as a backward glance the bird continued unwaveringly south, back to friends and family.

"Touchy little fellow, isn't he?" observed Bob as he wiped the gift from his eye.

Chapter 13: Beneath the World's Edge  - due out soon