19 Dec 2006
This is just something I started writing. I don't know if I care to continue it, just curious what you guys think. I think that if I do continue, I'll be scrapping Chapter 3 and the last half of Chapter 2; I mixed my genres and strayed off topic. Usually I write horror in the Lovecraftian vein of things. Altogether, what I have so far comes out to about 6 pages, so take your time.
Chapter 1
Lerchik raised the puny mug to his mouth, injesting the frothy contents in a single swill. Verchik nudged the other ogre with a powerful elbow, leaning and speaking over the raucous chorus within the tavern. "Now der's a woman brother. Got nice dimenshuns she has." Lerchik raised his head, simultaneously gesturing for the bartender to pour him another drink. Squinting with his good eye, Lerchik followed Verchik's fat finger to an able human waitress, her hourglass figure swayed side to side as she carried drinks throughout the tavern.
"I ain't never gonna understand yer obsession with them human ladies." Lerchik gripped the new mug of ale and raised it to his lips. "They just ain't got any meat on their bones!"
Verchik laughed, "Well der ain't been many o' our kind to oggle lately! Ya work wit what you got..." He grinned, exposing three golden crowns on the left side of his mouth.
Lerchik snorted and shook his head, finishing the mug of ale in a few seconds before ordering another one. The tavern was packed with humans, laughing and roaring at their own jokes, swaying, heavy with drink. The waitresses were having a time of it, unable to walk past a table without a pinch or a wandering hand being attracted to their wide hips and low shirts. Those women shook off the crude advances and kept on going, powering their way through the mosh of drunken parties with a tray held high on one hand, laden with more ale and mead. It was some sort of a miracle that they managed to avoid spilling any of the various drinks, while still keeping track of the bills.
The ogre and his brother were the only non-humans in the bar and most knew to steer clear of them. They were both more or less of the same height, the higher end of seven feet to be certain, the lower end of eight to be sure. Verchik's face was no more recognizable than that of any other ogre, Lerchik posessed a knot of black hair tied at the base on what might have been his bald spot, were he human. It whipped about as he moved his head and a black leather eye patch covered his right eye. He had also a rough black beard growing that gave him that quality seemingly bred into every seafaring Captain's genes. Verchik was completely bald and his jaw had been roughly shaved in the manner of the humans. His three gold-tipped teeth lent a twinkle to his smile that found the women in an agreeable mood. Lerchik wore featureless olive trousers with heavy black boots, his gut was wrapped with straps of leather, topped off by a mighty black belt with a gleaming silver buckle. From these folds of leather protruded the handles of four handguns, obviously specially made for the ogre. The actual barrels of the guns remained hidden, the remainder of his chest did not, covered only by a black cloth vest, carrying two pockets on the inside, the familiar lump of his coin purse resting easily in one. Sheathed at his side was a straight-edged blade of Cathayan make, a five-foot long Katana, precisely held within its black scabbard. Verchik's brown trousers and boots mirrored his brother's, but protecting his gut was a more substantial steel plate of gold and black coloring. His only other pieces of clothing were two leather-strapped bracers, their outward-facing edges adorned with an inch thick plate of metal. At his side rested his club, massive by human standards, yet easily wielded in the ogre's one hand.
Laying his mug back on the countertop, Lerchik shook his head again, "Ain't no respect fer da women round 'ere."
"Sure ain't da Mountains o' Mourn." Verchik nodded.
"Speakin' of..."
"Yeh?"
Lerchik gnashed his teeth. "I heard 'dat old Goldtooth is figurin' to take charge."
Verchik gave his brother a lopsided stare. "Like how?"
"Y'know, like da Empire, an' he'll be the king."
"Who'd you hear dat from?"
Lerchik waved his hand forward absently. "Y'know him, Baldut."
"Baldut dat headed back to da Mountains?"
"You know anudder Baldut?"
Verchik shook his head.
Lerchik scooped up another drink and downed it in a few great gulps. "Yup. Jes' like da humans. Dat's old Goldtooth's philosophy." His eye roamed the chaotic tavern, its visitors swooning in their drunken stupor. Somewhere on the other side of the building, something caught his eye. It was not a specific person, but a wave of movement that seemed to spread out like an earthquake, sweeping all up in its broken tremors. Verchik's eyes were dashing across the wave, carefully sizing it up and determining its nature. After a few seconds he grinned.
"Pay up." Lerchik pulled his coin purse from his pocket and opened it, pouring ten gold pieces onto the counter. The bartender scooped them up before ducking behind the bar.
The brawl spread through the tavern like wildfire, catching each man and his mug in turn. They fell to, beating eachother with whatever they could lay hands on. The waitresses scattered like roaches beneath a light, wizzing toward the safety buffer of the bar, leaping behind it, their skirts flying as they dove to take refuge from the drunken fight. The ogre brothers stood, Verchik grabbing up a stool and nodding to Lerchik. The latter went first, swinging his stool as a club, crushing feeble human limbs, sending bodies flying like a murder of crows to the air. Behind him Lerchik swung his might fists, knocking humans to the floor left and right, fragile bones snapped as the ogre's palms slapped them down. Within thirty seconds, the brothers burst from the door of the tavern, careful to stoop to accomodate its human proportions. Stepping into the night air, Verchik threw the remains of his makeshift weapon to the dirt and the pair walked south and east along the road.
Chapter 2
Stroking his gut thoughtfully, Lerchik spoke. "Ten an' Twenny!"
The human's shrewd face squinted scornfully at the ogre. "Ten and Fifteen."
"Ten an' Sixteen!"
"Nine and Seventeen." The little man curled his lip at the ogre, but Lerchik's eye remained focused at the caravan, sizing it up, judging its ability.
Lerchik squinted a little, stroked his beard, and then said, "Nine an' Eighteen."
The little man looked upward, as though counting the numbers in the sky before nodding his head. "Aye. That'll do." He smiled cooly, apparently satisfied with the deal. Verchik watched silently as the man walked back toward the covered wagons. Their construction varied from wagon to wagon, but inevitably they all accomplished the same task. There were at least five scores of these wagons, forming a line facing eastward. The man whistled at the driver of the foremost wagon, who started, and called out something that couldn't quite be heard to the driver behind him, who called it to the one behind him, and so on and so on. After another five minutes, Verchik and Lerchik were walking stoically beside the caravan at a swift pace, what might have been a jog for a human, but was merely a slightly accelerated walk for the long-legged ogres. There was no conversation, the Caravan utterly silent, the better to hear alarm of any attack. For the bulk of four hours they continued in that manner. As they trekked onward, they came to a mountain pace, comparatively low set to its other relatives further north. As they arrived at the very cusp of the cliffs, the caravan stopped, seemingly without a signal. The various passengers disembarked from their wheels, carrying with them food, drink, and other less pressing entertainments. Lerchik's eye roved hungrily until he sighted their employer's group. The two ogres went and sat with the other elements of his entourage, who totalled twelve in all, including the ogres themselves. The other men made room for the brothers, eyeing them warily, but offering them food without complaint. They made small talk, mainly about the Empire, certain going ons taking place within the kingdom.
"I hear there's another chaos invasion takin' place up north." Said one man.
Another responded, "That'd be the third this month. Barbarians must be damn pissed."
"You would be to if you had to live in the northern wastes!"
There was a round of laughter following that comment. The ogres sat at ease, listening, speaking surprisingly little. During his travels, Lerchik had learned the value of holding one's tongue at an opportune moment, and Verchik followed suit. One of the guards fingered the handle of his straight sword nervously, and looked at Lerchik.
"So, you boys, which of them clans out east are you belongin' to?"
Verchik grinned, flashing his golden teeth at the men. "None."
The man squinted at him in disbelief. "You don't belong to any of the tribes?"
"Nope." Verchik took a mighty bite of the loaf of bread, fully devouring half of it in a single bite. "Formerly of Mountaineater's, but we got tired of that."
Lerchik leaned forward, looking each man hard in the face with his good eye, cutting off further questions. "Any of you been through the Mountains of Mourn recently?"
The guard who spoke before nodded. "This'll be my third trip this year."
"What you know about Greasus Goldtooth?"
The guard smiled, his mustache moving with his face. "Greasus Goldtooth... Well, I'll tell you this much for sure, he's rich. Damn rich." The man leaned backward, sighing. "Word around the caravans is that Goldtooth is lookin' to bring all the tribes together. He's got the gold and the will to do it too, plus his position on the Ivory Road makes him very... influential." The human rubbed his finger and thumb together.
Lerchik nodded, Verchik turned to him. "So, Baldut huh?"
"Yeh. Baldut."
The other men looked at the ogres, confused. One of the finer dressed ones opened his mouth to question the two, but at that moment their employer whistled. The high sound carried easily, the pass acting as a natural amplifier. The humans got up and returned to their wagons while the brothers stood and waited for the caravan to resume moving again. Soon they were underway once more, the sun high overhead, adding a little warmth to the chill of the World's Edge Mountains. As they travelled again in silence, the pass grew darker and more sinister with each step. Shades of purple and gray were impossibly present in the evening sun. With each hour, the sun dipped a little lower, threatening to be lost from sight altogether, obscured as it was by the peaks. And then, as they ventured forward yet further, the sun vanished and there was night in the pass.
As they walked eastward with the Caravan, a chill grew in the hearts of the brothers. Ogres are well insulated against the elements, yet the cold seemed to bypass their guts and seep straight into their hearts, their lungs, each breath oozed from their mouths with a sapped sort of energy, ghostly white against the darkened stone cliffs. Each breath of life seemed to glow in the absolute blackness of the pass. The humans were fairing no better, their gaunt faces leaned from the wagons, desperately looking ahead for some end to the icy despair. Their faces, so pale and depressed, it seemed as though they were not really alive, but rather a caravan of dead souls on the final leg of their journey to the underworld. Onward they trod, seemingly for hours, for days, within that place time seemed to move in strange ways. There was none with the ability to reckon how much time passed as they pushed their way through Death Pass. Lerchik plodded forward, focusing on each step, staring downward at his feet, focusing, focusing on how he might move his feet to escape the terrible agony that seemed to swim all around. The air of the pass was full of it, suffering, misery, and melancholy. It seeped into every soul who walked their way along that path and the caravan grew heavy with its burden of sorrow.
The path wound more and more, becoming akin to a labyrinth. After what seemed an eternity of following the shadow route of the caravan, the wagons came to a halt, and the small man dismounted from his wagon. His hard face seemed impervious to the chill effects of the pass, he walked with an upright quality and called out into the darkness. The same shout was carried from wagon to wagon, and the humans began to dismount and make camp for the night. They started fires, carrying stocks of wood from the wagons and throwing them in rough piles before igniting them with flint and tinder. Lerchik and Verchik sat with the men they had before, warming their hands against the fire. The guard they had been speaking with earlier leaned over the fire and spoke in a voice barely above a whisper.
"The name's Flannigan. Bill Flannigan."
Lerchik spoke without the man's hushed tones, the others visibly wincing as his baritone voice echoed across the pass's stone walls. "Lerchik and my brother, Verchik."
Flannigan hissed at him, "Keep it down! They say this pass is haunted y'know... evil things come out at night." He eyed their surroundings warily, carefully examining the shadow and gloom for signs of any evil. All light had faded except the fire, and what was beyond its aura of radiance was little more than a wall of blackness. The feeling of isolation was absolute, though as one looked down the caravan, more fires could be seen, flickering in the night like vague spirits cast upon the winds of magic. Verchik nudged Lerchik with his elbow. Flannigan introduced each of the other ten men at the fire one at a time. There were four other guards like himself, Samuel, Mikael, Allister, and Perriman. Van Olandraf was a young nobleman who seemed particularly cowardly and pale in the fire's light, next to him sat Halvdan, a trader from the far north of the Empire who was bedecked in furs and spoke with a curving accent. Besides them there was a scholar named Yurodan, a sold sword called Vance, and a rather wealthy merchant named Meracus. They learned the name of their employer, Lerus. Lerchik scrutinized each of them while Verchik grinned, his three gleaming teeth catching every man's eye in turn.
Flannigan pointed up towards the eyepatch. "So, what earned you that beauty?"
Verchik was already chuckling as Lerchik sighed and began the story. "We were workin' a job protectin' goods on the north side of the Empire, was chaos raiders."
"Aye, bastard stuck his pike right in Lerchik's eye!" Verchik slapped his knee, the great comedy of the story having yet to have worked itself upon the other members of the conversation.
Lerchik nodded at Verchik. "Well, somethin' had to go sometime..."
Halvdan nodded, his bald head and mighty beard lent a sort of evilness to his face that belied his jovial manner. "So, how many of them went the way of your eye?"
"Seven."
"I got eight without a scratch."
Lerchik shook his head at his brother.
Meracus's mass of jewlery clinked as he shifted forward in his seat, golden rings catching the light of the flame as he curled his fingers. "Fifteen! I have seen the savage men of the north, they are not ill warriors. I suppose it is true when they say that an ogre is worth his weight in gold."
The guard Samuel nodded. "I've seen 'em enough on this road." He slapped his fist into his palm. "Rip a man clean in half with their bare hands!"
There was a murmur of agreement from the other guards and a chuckle from Verchik.
"I've known some ogres that'd eat a man whole if they could." He grinned. "An' I seen some do it too."
Van Olandraf moaned piteously and became rather limp in his seat, which only prompted further laughter from the other, more hardened members of the group. Lerchik straightened up, gazing somewhere into the black night.
Yurodan spoke next. "Really?" His amazement was not concealed, his wide eyes gazed at Verchik who nodded vehemently.
"Aye aye! Broke his weapons picked him up an' shoved him head first down his throat. That was old Garrick, you c'uld hear the human's screams for an hour after he ate him. You remember Garrick dont'cha Lerchik?"
Lerchik rose from his seat and slid his blade from its sheathe, squinting into the darkness ahead. The others turned their eyes in the same direction, carefully recognizing the shape of a figure as it approached the caravan. They fell silent as it came closer, its features becoming recognizable as it stalked forward on lithe legs. The thing's mouth hung open, cavernous, yet posessed by a mewling kind of moisture that caused it to undulate with absolute smoothness. Above this mouth there was no face, no nose, ears, or eyes, its ashen gray skin possessed the same "moving" quality of its mouth, slick and seeping. Strands of dirty black hair clung about its cranium, spreading more like some sickened disease than any innate quality the creature was meant to possess. Its body was emaciated and it curved like a whip with each step, its legs were grotesque with a sort of warped muscle that swerved and bent, that sloshed about within like a thousand serpents. Its thin arms mounted giant, grasping hands whose breadth was not to be believed, each finger lingering more than half a foot in length. Most terrible was the sound it made as it limberly sloughed forward, a sort of sucking intake of air, such as a fish out of water. It wound forward like nothing of this world, its step as immesurable as it was profound. It grew closer and closer, Van Olandraf cowered as Flannigan and his men moved forward to form a front with Lerchik. The horses carrying the wagon whined, turning the heads away from the thing's disturbing gait. Verchik and Vance stayed closer to the other members of their group, Yurodan, Meracus, and Halvdan. As it came closer the men instinctively attempted to shrink away from it, their ears tightening in response to the sucking gasps. Lerchik remained stone-faced as he passed his cathayan long sword to his left hand and pulled a pistol from his leather wrappings. He held his arm straight, holding the two-barreled gun out toward the advancing thing. Lerchik cocked the gun with his thumb before pulling the trigger.
The shot rang out in the quiet night, breaking any measure of peace that had previously existed within. The slug rocketed from the barrel and smashed into the thing's face, it bent backwards and the slosh of some unknown liquid hitting the ground was obvious in the otherwise silent surroundings. Their employer Lerus lept from the wagon in an instant, rushing forward to the ogre, whose arm was still extended in firing position. The terrible thing lay nearly twenty feet from his barrel, its body moving without will. The small man barked at Lerchik.
"What was that? What's going on?"
The ogre pointed with his sword toward the thing, Lerus's eyes followed and fixated on it. They stared at the corpse and were amazed as it began to disintegrate. The flesh bubbled and puked, becoming liquid, the thing's very being slithered into the dark stone of the pass, squirming into inconceivable cracks and crevices of existence. Flannigan gasped as there was nothing left of the thing, the visitor in the night. Their eyes scanned the darkness for the coming of any similar monstrosities, but if they were advancing, nothing of them could be seen due to the night's impenetrable curtain. The fire was growing low, and Lerchik went for more wood, tossing it to the hungry flames. None of the men spoke as they all sat back in the previous positions at the fire, each man staring at the shadows and the fire in turn. Their eyes searched the darkness fearfully for another creature. For an eternity they sat quietly, none daring to speak. An eternity after Lerchik's shot, it grew noticably lighter within the pass as the sun reached upward into the sky. The gloom of the peaks was not altogether extinguished, but as gray light filtered in from the clouds, the caravan began under way, the path clear once more.
The path's maze-like quality was not vanquished by the light, for it wound even more as they walked beside the wagons. The heavyness of the day before returned, the caravan seemed to slow to a crawl and every minute was an hour in the passing. They walked, venturing onward in spite of the pass's debilitating effect, and a few minute-hours later the mountains become less and less frequent on either side, until they were left behind entirely. The land before the brothers was not bare, for it contained many shrubs and trees with bone branches, but it was bleak. A gray hue possessed the light and the dirt seemed malnourished, taking on an ashen aspect. The caravan continued onward, the enclosed pass was gone, a fact that raised their spirits a little, making the journey much easier. As they walked along, they would see strange figures in the distance, raising their hands in greeting and staring, staring with an unearthly hunger. Far to the south Mount Grimfang was visible, great black smoke billowing from its peak as well as its base. Light dimmed as the trek continued until night finally fell. Its darkness was much the same as that in the pass and as the caravan came to a halt, there was no time wasted in lighting the fires. They ate a plain meal of stew provided by Halvdan and Lerus, and sat around the camp fire for a few hours before they began to drift into sleep.
Chapter 3
Mount Thug laughed at him, a howling whirlwind of snow and mirth. Lerchik hauled himself upward yet another armlength, finding new holds within the face even as he made the slow ascent. The winter chill broke itself across his uncovered gut, cutting like razor wire into the muscled tissue. His skin had already become pale from the cold's icey grip, though it had become pink and rosy at first, the chill had completely rooted itself within his body. Lerchik reached forward, clutching at the barest of ledges within Thug's face and pulled himself upward, defying the mountain yet again. As he snarled, he felt his icey lip cracking and breaking. His mighty muscles flexed as he reached forward once more.
Lerchik awoke with a start, instantly drawing his longsword and rising to his feet. He immediately wheeled on his foot to find Van Olandraf within the clutches of the thing that had haunted them the night before. In the dark he could not be sure, the fire had gone out long ago, but he discerned that same whiplash shape atop the young nobleman. As he attempted to scream for help, the thing lowered its face to his and its maw met with his lips. The thing sucked, the noises audible as Van Olandraf's stomach folded in on itself and worked its way up the esophagus. Lerchik lunged forward, his great hand clapping down upon the thing's leg and ripping it from the young nobleman. Van Olandraf's skin visibly stretched, pulling away from his skull like a thin white glove. Lerchik twisted and threw the thing, it impacted on the ground, but no sooner had it done so than its terrible shape stood by some manner of inconceivable body. The nobleman was in the fits of a panicked sort of sucking as his lungs fought for air while his stomach, a fleshy orb of gastulent green flesh, clogged his mouth. The thing, not deterred by Lerchik's attack, reached forward, moving in its same slithering manner as the night before. Lerchik snarled and roared, bringing his blade to bear upon its body, the master-crafted blade slid through its gray matter with ease, severing the torso in half. As the thing thrashed about upon the ground, the other men jumped to action, swords drawn. Verchik could be heard rising and there was some voice calling for a fire.
There were some sparks and suddenly the fire began anew, burning low, yet providing enough light by which to see Van Olandraf's bulbous stomach half-hanging from his mouth, attached to a fleshy tube that must have been his esophagus. The man was thrashing about upon the ground, his asphyxiation nearly complete, the others watched as his body arched and shuddered in his death throes. Meanwhile, the severed corpse of the thing vanished once more in the same manner it had the previous night. In time, Van Olandraf became still, shuddering a few more times before his death. The gathered men did not stare long at the corpse, repulsed by its utter hideousness, before they began searching the dark for some form of attack. Even as they discerned nothing within the shadows, there came that sound, the sucking of the thing, but this time multiplied many-fold. As they peered into the dark, on all sides the things closed in, no less than twenty of them whipping toward the men and ogres. Van Olandraf's corpse visibly quivered as they grew closer, their leering shapes moving with lean hunger, their maws sucking wetly into the dark. The guards grew closer together as Yuradon, Meracus, and Halvdan took cover behind them. Flannigan swore quietly, while the other guards could be heard making their various prayers to Sigmar. Verchik hefted his club in front of him, taking an exposed flank of the humans while Lerchik did likewise. The things reached their long, groping fingers out towards the men and stumbled forward, their pace becoming quick and aggrivated.
The night filled with a howl as Verchik swung his club, lifting one thing from the ground and into the air. Even as it flew he repeated the process, swinging his club madly, dashing some to the ground, while sending others the way of the first. Lerchik's blade reflected the dimming light of the fire as he remained by the humans' sides, shielding them from a fate similar to Van Olandraf's. Flannigan and his men shrank from the things, their very presence instilled a fear within, but the prospect of touching one was terrifying. Until at last they could evade combat no more, the men shrunk from the groping hands of their foes. Then, at once, as a well-ordered wall they struck, blades flashing in unison, cutting each thing to pieces as it advanced. Verchik's bloodcalls continued as he sweeped into his enemies, abandoning whatever semblance of defense he had earlier provided, contenting himself to attacking his enemy without mitigation. Lerchik pulled a pistol and twisted backwards, firing off the remaining shot, which scored a solid hit into the torso of another of the things. Vance, the more quiet of their members conducted himself with the same sort of cold detachment that seperated from any real conversation. His rapier whipped out with unerring accuracy, cutting the legs from the things before finally impaling itself within their eyes. Each man in his turn struggled with the foe, but in the end their combined might of arms defeated the horrors. Their quivering corpses devolved and slushed into the ground, and the men stood about wide-eyed, ready for more foes. Verchik's bellows were audible for miles around, challenging the beasts to yet another fight. Lerchik rolled his eyes and sheathed his sword, returning to the wagon, pulling more wood from it and throwing it on the fire. As he did so, he had yet another thought and returned to the wagon, peering into it. His eyes adjusted quickly, discerning Lerus sleeping soundly within his bed, the hard little man unharmed. Lerchik smirked and returned to the fire to sit with the other men.
Chapter 1
Lerchik raised the puny mug to his mouth, injesting the frothy contents in a single swill. Verchik nudged the other ogre with a powerful elbow, leaning and speaking over the raucous chorus within the tavern. "Now der's a woman brother. Got nice dimenshuns she has." Lerchik raised his head, simultaneously gesturing for the bartender to pour him another drink. Squinting with his good eye, Lerchik followed Verchik's fat finger to an able human waitress, her hourglass figure swayed side to side as she carried drinks throughout the tavern.
"I ain't never gonna understand yer obsession with them human ladies." Lerchik gripped the new mug of ale and raised it to his lips. "They just ain't got any meat on their bones!"
Verchik laughed, "Well der ain't been many o' our kind to oggle lately! Ya work wit what you got..." He grinned, exposing three golden crowns on the left side of his mouth.
Lerchik snorted and shook his head, finishing the mug of ale in a few seconds before ordering another one. The tavern was packed with humans, laughing and roaring at their own jokes, swaying, heavy with drink. The waitresses were having a time of it, unable to walk past a table without a pinch or a wandering hand being attracted to their wide hips and low shirts. Those women shook off the crude advances and kept on going, powering their way through the mosh of drunken parties with a tray held high on one hand, laden with more ale and mead. It was some sort of a miracle that they managed to avoid spilling any of the various drinks, while still keeping track of the bills.
The ogre and his brother were the only non-humans in the bar and most knew to steer clear of them. They were both more or less of the same height, the higher end of seven feet to be certain, the lower end of eight to be sure. Verchik's face was no more recognizable than that of any other ogre, Lerchik posessed a knot of black hair tied at the base on what might have been his bald spot, were he human. It whipped about as he moved his head and a black leather eye patch covered his right eye. He had also a rough black beard growing that gave him that quality seemingly bred into every seafaring Captain's genes. Verchik was completely bald and his jaw had been roughly shaved in the manner of the humans. His three gold-tipped teeth lent a twinkle to his smile that found the women in an agreeable mood. Lerchik wore featureless olive trousers with heavy black boots, his gut was wrapped with straps of leather, topped off by a mighty black belt with a gleaming silver buckle. From these folds of leather protruded the handles of four handguns, obviously specially made for the ogre. The actual barrels of the guns remained hidden, the remainder of his chest did not, covered only by a black cloth vest, carrying two pockets on the inside, the familiar lump of his coin purse resting easily in one. Sheathed at his side was a straight-edged blade of Cathayan make, a five-foot long Katana, precisely held within its black scabbard. Verchik's brown trousers and boots mirrored his brother's, but protecting his gut was a more substantial steel plate of gold and black coloring. His only other pieces of clothing were two leather-strapped bracers, their outward-facing edges adorned with an inch thick plate of metal. At his side rested his club, massive by human standards, yet easily wielded in the ogre's one hand.
Laying his mug back on the countertop, Lerchik shook his head again, "Ain't no respect fer da women round 'ere."
"Sure ain't da Mountains o' Mourn." Verchik nodded.
"Speakin' of..."
"Yeh?"
Lerchik gnashed his teeth. "I heard 'dat old Goldtooth is figurin' to take charge."
Verchik gave his brother a lopsided stare. "Like how?"
"Y'know, like da Empire, an' he'll be the king."
"Who'd you hear dat from?"
Lerchik waved his hand forward absently. "Y'know him, Baldut."
"Baldut dat headed back to da Mountains?"
"You know anudder Baldut?"
Verchik shook his head.
Lerchik scooped up another drink and downed it in a few great gulps. "Yup. Jes' like da humans. Dat's old Goldtooth's philosophy." His eye roamed the chaotic tavern, its visitors swooning in their drunken stupor. Somewhere on the other side of the building, something caught his eye. It was not a specific person, but a wave of movement that seemed to spread out like an earthquake, sweeping all up in its broken tremors. Verchik's eyes were dashing across the wave, carefully sizing it up and determining its nature. After a few seconds he grinned.
"Pay up." Lerchik pulled his coin purse from his pocket and opened it, pouring ten gold pieces onto the counter. The bartender scooped them up before ducking behind the bar.
The brawl spread through the tavern like wildfire, catching each man and his mug in turn. They fell to, beating eachother with whatever they could lay hands on. The waitresses scattered like roaches beneath a light, wizzing toward the safety buffer of the bar, leaping behind it, their skirts flying as they dove to take refuge from the drunken fight. The ogre brothers stood, Verchik grabbing up a stool and nodding to Lerchik. The latter went first, swinging his stool as a club, crushing feeble human limbs, sending bodies flying like a murder of crows to the air. Behind him Lerchik swung his might fists, knocking humans to the floor left and right, fragile bones snapped as the ogre's palms slapped them down. Within thirty seconds, the brothers burst from the door of the tavern, careful to stoop to accomodate its human proportions. Stepping into the night air, Verchik threw the remains of his makeshift weapon to the dirt and the pair walked south and east along the road.
Chapter 2
Stroking his gut thoughtfully, Lerchik spoke. "Ten an' Twenny!"
The human's shrewd face squinted scornfully at the ogre. "Ten and Fifteen."
"Ten an' Sixteen!"
"Nine and Seventeen." The little man curled his lip at the ogre, but Lerchik's eye remained focused at the caravan, sizing it up, judging its ability.
Lerchik squinted a little, stroked his beard, and then said, "Nine an' Eighteen."
The little man looked upward, as though counting the numbers in the sky before nodding his head. "Aye. That'll do." He smiled cooly, apparently satisfied with the deal. Verchik watched silently as the man walked back toward the covered wagons. Their construction varied from wagon to wagon, but inevitably they all accomplished the same task. There were at least five scores of these wagons, forming a line facing eastward. The man whistled at the driver of the foremost wagon, who started, and called out something that couldn't quite be heard to the driver behind him, who called it to the one behind him, and so on and so on. After another five minutes, Verchik and Lerchik were walking stoically beside the caravan at a swift pace, what might have been a jog for a human, but was merely a slightly accelerated walk for the long-legged ogres. There was no conversation, the Caravan utterly silent, the better to hear alarm of any attack. For the bulk of four hours they continued in that manner. As they trekked onward, they came to a mountain pace, comparatively low set to its other relatives further north. As they arrived at the very cusp of the cliffs, the caravan stopped, seemingly without a signal. The various passengers disembarked from their wheels, carrying with them food, drink, and other less pressing entertainments. Lerchik's eye roved hungrily until he sighted their employer's group. The two ogres went and sat with the other elements of his entourage, who totalled twelve in all, including the ogres themselves. The other men made room for the brothers, eyeing them warily, but offering them food without complaint. They made small talk, mainly about the Empire, certain going ons taking place within the kingdom.
"I hear there's another chaos invasion takin' place up north." Said one man.
Another responded, "That'd be the third this month. Barbarians must be damn pissed."
"You would be to if you had to live in the northern wastes!"
There was a round of laughter following that comment. The ogres sat at ease, listening, speaking surprisingly little. During his travels, Lerchik had learned the value of holding one's tongue at an opportune moment, and Verchik followed suit. One of the guards fingered the handle of his straight sword nervously, and looked at Lerchik.
"So, you boys, which of them clans out east are you belongin' to?"
Verchik grinned, flashing his golden teeth at the men. "None."
The man squinted at him in disbelief. "You don't belong to any of the tribes?"
"Nope." Verchik took a mighty bite of the loaf of bread, fully devouring half of it in a single bite. "Formerly of Mountaineater's, but we got tired of that."
Lerchik leaned forward, looking each man hard in the face with his good eye, cutting off further questions. "Any of you been through the Mountains of Mourn recently?"
The guard who spoke before nodded. "This'll be my third trip this year."
"What you know about Greasus Goldtooth?"
The guard smiled, his mustache moving with his face. "Greasus Goldtooth... Well, I'll tell you this much for sure, he's rich. Damn rich." The man leaned backward, sighing. "Word around the caravans is that Goldtooth is lookin' to bring all the tribes together. He's got the gold and the will to do it too, plus his position on the Ivory Road makes him very... influential." The human rubbed his finger and thumb together.
Lerchik nodded, Verchik turned to him. "So, Baldut huh?"
"Yeh. Baldut."
The other men looked at the ogres, confused. One of the finer dressed ones opened his mouth to question the two, but at that moment their employer whistled. The high sound carried easily, the pass acting as a natural amplifier. The humans got up and returned to their wagons while the brothers stood and waited for the caravan to resume moving again. Soon they were underway once more, the sun high overhead, adding a little warmth to the chill of the World's Edge Mountains. As they travelled again in silence, the pass grew darker and more sinister with each step. Shades of purple and gray were impossibly present in the evening sun. With each hour, the sun dipped a little lower, threatening to be lost from sight altogether, obscured as it was by the peaks. And then, as they ventured forward yet further, the sun vanished and there was night in the pass.
As they walked eastward with the Caravan, a chill grew in the hearts of the brothers. Ogres are well insulated against the elements, yet the cold seemed to bypass their guts and seep straight into their hearts, their lungs, each breath oozed from their mouths with a sapped sort of energy, ghostly white against the darkened stone cliffs. Each breath of life seemed to glow in the absolute blackness of the pass. The humans were fairing no better, their gaunt faces leaned from the wagons, desperately looking ahead for some end to the icy despair. Their faces, so pale and depressed, it seemed as though they were not really alive, but rather a caravan of dead souls on the final leg of their journey to the underworld. Onward they trod, seemingly for hours, for days, within that place time seemed to move in strange ways. There was none with the ability to reckon how much time passed as they pushed their way through Death Pass. Lerchik plodded forward, focusing on each step, staring downward at his feet, focusing, focusing on how he might move his feet to escape the terrible agony that seemed to swim all around. The air of the pass was full of it, suffering, misery, and melancholy. It seeped into every soul who walked their way along that path and the caravan grew heavy with its burden of sorrow.
The path wound more and more, becoming akin to a labyrinth. After what seemed an eternity of following the shadow route of the caravan, the wagons came to a halt, and the small man dismounted from his wagon. His hard face seemed impervious to the chill effects of the pass, he walked with an upright quality and called out into the darkness. The same shout was carried from wagon to wagon, and the humans began to dismount and make camp for the night. They started fires, carrying stocks of wood from the wagons and throwing them in rough piles before igniting them with flint and tinder. Lerchik and Verchik sat with the men they had before, warming their hands against the fire. The guard they had been speaking with earlier leaned over the fire and spoke in a voice barely above a whisper.
"The name's Flannigan. Bill Flannigan."
Lerchik spoke without the man's hushed tones, the others visibly wincing as his baritone voice echoed across the pass's stone walls. "Lerchik and my brother, Verchik."
Flannigan hissed at him, "Keep it down! They say this pass is haunted y'know... evil things come out at night." He eyed their surroundings warily, carefully examining the shadow and gloom for signs of any evil. All light had faded except the fire, and what was beyond its aura of radiance was little more than a wall of blackness. The feeling of isolation was absolute, though as one looked down the caravan, more fires could be seen, flickering in the night like vague spirits cast upon the winds of magic. Verchik nudged Lerchik with his elbow. Flannigan introduced each of the other ten men at the fire one at a time. There were four other guards like himself, Samuel, Mikael, Allister, and Perriman. Van Olandraf was a young nobleman who seemed particularly cowardly and pale in the fire's light, next to him sat Halvdan, a trader from the far north of the Empire who was bedecked in furs and spoke with a curving accent. Besides them there was a scholar named Yurodan, a sold sword called Vance, and a rather wealthy merchant named Meracus. They learned the name of their employer, Lerus. Lerchik scrutinized each of them while Verchik grinned, his three gleaming teeth catching every man's eye in turn.
Flannigan pointed up towards the eyepatch. "So, what earned you that beauty?"
Verchik was already chuckling as Lerchik sighed and began the story. "We were workin' a job protectin' goods on the north side of the Empire, was chaos raiders."
"Aye, bastard stuck his pike right in Lerchik's eye!" Verchik slapped his knee, the great comedy of the story having yet to have worked itself upon the other members of the conversation.
Lerchik nodded at Verchik. "Well, somethin' had to go sometime..."
Halvdan nodded, his bald head and mighty beard lent a sort of evilness to his face that belied his jovial manner. "So, how many of them went the way of your eye?"
"Seven."
"I got eight without a scratch."
Lerchik shook his head at his brother.
Meracus's mass of jewlery clinked as he shifted forward in his seat, golden rings catching the light of the flame as he curled his fingers. "Fifteen! I have seen the savage men of the north, they are not ill warriors. I suppose it is true when they say that an ogre is worth his weight in gold."
The guard Samuel nodded. "I've seen 'em enough on this road." He slapped his fist into his palm. "Rip a man clean in half with their bare hands!"
There was a murmur of agreement from the other guards and a chuckle from Verchik.
"I've known some ogres that'd eat a man whole if they could." He grinned. "An' I seen some do it too."
Van Olandraf moaned piteously and became rather limp in his seat, which only prompted further laughter from the other, more hardened members of the group. Lerchik straightened up, gazing somewhere into the black night.
Yurodan spoke next. "Really?" His amazement was not concealed, his wide eyes gazed at Verchik who nodded vehemently.
"Aye aye! Broke his weapons picked him up an' shoved him head first down his throat. That was old Garrick, you c'uld hear the human's screams for an hour after he ate him. You remember Garrick dont'cha Lerchik?"
Lerchik rose from his seat and slid his blade from its sheathe, squinting into the darkness ahead. The others turned their eyes in the same direction, carefully recognizing the shape of a figure as it approached the caravan. They fell silent as it came closer, its features becoming recognizable as it stalked forward on lithe legs. The thing's mouth hung open, cavernous, yet posessed by a mewling kind of moisture that caused it to undulate with absolute smoothness. Above this mouth there was no face, no nose, ears, or eyes, its ashen gray skin possessed the same "moving" quality of its mouth, slick and seeping. Strands of dirty black hair clung about its cranium, spreading more like some sickened disease than any innate quality the creature was meant to possess. Its body was emaciated and it curved like a whip with each step, its legs were grotesque with a sort of warped muscle that swerved and bent, that sloshed about within like a thousand serpents. Its thin arms mounted giant, grasping hands whose breadth was not to be believed, each finger lingering more than half a foot in length. Most terrible was the sound it made as it limberly sloughed forward, a sort of sucking intake of air, such as a fish out of water. It wound forward like nothing of this world, its step as immesurable as it was profound. It grew closer and closer, Van Olandraf cowered as Flannigan and his men moved forward to form a front with Lerchik. The horses carrying the wagon whined, turning the heads away from the thing's disturbing gait. Verchik and Vance stayed closer to the other members of their group, Yurodan, Meracus, and Halvdan. As it came closer the men instinctively attempted to shrink away from it, their ears tightening in response to the sucking gasps. Lerchik remained stone-faced as he passed his cathayan long sword to his left hand and pulled a pistol from his leather wrappings. He held his arm straight, holding the two-barreled gun out toward the advancing thing. Lerchik cocked the gun with his thumb before pulling the trigger.
The shot rang out in the quiet night, breaking any measure of peace that had previously existed within. The slug rocketed from the barrel and smashed into the thing's face, it bent backwards and the slosh of some unknown liquid hitting the ground was obvious in the otherwise silent surroundings. Their employer Lerus lept from the wagon in an instant, rushing forward to the ogre, whose arm was still extended in firing position. The terrible thing lay nearly twenty feet from his barrel, its body moving without will. The small man barked at Lerchik.
"What was that? What's going on?"
The ogre pointed with his sword toward the thing, Lerus's eyes followed and fixated on it. They stared at the corpse and were amazed as it began to disintegrate. The flesh bubbled and puked, becoming liquid, the thing's very being slithered into the dark stone of the pass, squirming into inconceivable cracks and crevices of existence. Flannigan gasped as there was nothing left of the thing, the visitor in the night. Their eyes scanned the darkness for the coming of any similar monstrosities, but if they were advancing, nothing of them could be seen due to the night's impenetrable curtain. The fire was growing low, and Lerchik went for more wood, tossing it to the hungry flames. None of the men spoke as they all sat back in the previous positions at the fire, each man staring at the shadows and the fire in turn. Their eyes searched the darkness fearfully for another creature. For an eternity they sat quietly, none daring to speak. An eternity after Lerchik's shot, it grew noticably lighter within the pass as the sun reached upward into the sky. The gloom of the peaks was not altogether extinguished, but as gray light filtered in from the clouds, the caravan began under way, the path clear once more.
The path's maze-like quality was not vanquished by the light, for it wound even more as they walked beside the wagons. The heavyness of the day before returned, the caravan seemed to slow to a crawl and every minute was an hour in the passing. They walked, venturing onward in spite of the pass's debilitating effect, and a few minute-hours later the mountains become less and less frequent on either side, until they were left behind entirely. The land before the brothers was not bare, for it contained many shrubs and trees with bone branches, but it was bleak. A gray hue possessed the light and the dirt seemed malnourished, taking on an ashen aspect. The caravan continued onward, the enclosed pass was gone, a fact that raised their spirits a little, making the journey much easier. As they walked along, they would see strange figures in the distance, raising their hands in greeting and staring, staring with an unearthly hunger. Far to the south Mount Grimfang was visible, great black smoke billowing from its peak as well as its base. Light dimmed as the trek continued until night finally fell. Its darkness was much the same as that in the pass and as the caravan came to a halt, there was no time wasted in lighting the fires. They ate a plain meal of stew provided by Halvdan and Lerus, and sat around the camp fire for a few hours before they began to drift into sleep.
Chapter 3
Mount Thug laughed at him, a howling whirlwind of snow and mirth. Lerchik hauled himself upward yet another armlength, finding new holds within the face even as he made the slow ascent. The winter chill broke itself across his uncovered gut, cutting like razor wire into the muscled tissue. His skin had already become pale from the cold's icey grip, though it had become pink and rosy at first, the chill had completely rooted itself within his body. Lerchik reached forward, clutching at the barest of ledges within Thug's face and pulled himself upward, defying the mountain yet again. As he snarled, he felt his icey lip cracking and breaking. His mighty muscles flexed as he reached forward once more.
Lerchik awoke with a start, instantly drawing his longsword and rising to his feet. He immediately wheeled on his foot to find Van Olandraf within the clutches of the thing that had haunted them the night before. In the dark he could not be sure, the fire had gone out long ago, but he discerned that same whiplash shape atop the young nobleman. As he attempted to scream for help, the thing lowered its face to his and its maw met with his lips. The thing sucked, the noises audible as Van Olandraf's stomach folded in on itself and worked its way up the esophagus. Lerchik lunged forward, his great hand clapping down upon the thing's leg and ripping it from the young nobleman. Van Olandraf's skin visibly stretched, pulling away from his skull like a thin white glove. Lerchik twisted and threw the thing, it impacted on the ground, but no sooner had it done so than its terrible shape stood by some manner of inconceivable body. The nobleman was in the fits of a panicked sort of sucking as his lungs fought for air while his stomach, a fleshy orb of gastulent green flesh, clogged his mouth. The thing, not deterred by Lerchik's attack, reached forward, moving in its same slithering manner as the night before. Lerchik snarled and roared, bringing his blade to bear upon its body, the master-crafted blade slid through its gray matter with ease, severing the torso in half. As the thing thrashed about upon the ground, the other men jumped to action, swords drawn. Verchik could be heard rising and there was some voice calling for a fire.
There were some sparks and suddenly the fire began anew, burning low, yet providing enough light by which to see Van Olandraf's bulbous stomach half-hanging from his mouth, attached to a fleshy tube that must have been his esophagus. The man was thrashing about upon the ground, his asphyxiation nearly complete, the others watched as his body arched and shuddered in his death throes. Meanwhile, the severed corpse of the thing vanished once more in the same manner it had the previous night. In time, Van Olandraf became still, shuddering a few more times before his death. The gathered men did not stare long at the corpse, repulsed by its utter hideousness, before they began searching the dark for some form of attack. Even as they discerned nothing within the shadows, there came that sound, the sucking of the thing, but this time multiplied many-fold. As they peered into the dark, on all sides the things closed in, no less than twenty of them whipping toward the men and ogres. Van Olandraf's corpse visibly quivered as they grew closer, their leering shapes moving with lean hunger, their maws sucking wetly into the dark. The guards grew closer together as Yuradon, Meracus, and Halvdan took cover behind them. Flannigan swore quietly, while the other guards could be heard making their various prayers to Sigmar. Verchik hefted his club in front of him, taking an exposed flank of the humans while Lerchik did likewise. The things reached their long, groping fingers out towards the men and stumbled forward, their pace becoming quick and aggrivated.
The night filled with a howl as Verchik swung his club, lifting one thing from the ground and into the air. Even as it flew he repeated the process, swinging his club madly, dashing some to the ground, while sending others the way of the first. Lerchik's blade reflected the dimming light of the fire as he remained by the humans' sides, shielding them from a fate similar to Van Olandraf's. Flannigan and his men shrank from the things, their very presence instilled a fear within, but the prospect of touching one was terrifying. Until at last they could evade combat no more, the men shrunk from the groping hands of their foes. Then, at once, as a well-ordered wall they struck, blades flashing in unison, cutting each thing to pieces as it advanced. Verchik's bloodcalls continued as he sweeped into his enemies, abandoning whatever semblance of defense he had earlier provided, contenting himself to attacking his enemy without mitigation. Lerchik pulled a pistol and twisted backwards, firing off the remaining shot, which scored a solid hit into the torso of another of the things. Vance, the more quiet of their members conducted himself with the same sort of cold detachment that seperated from any real conversation. His rapier whipped out with unerring accuracy, cutting the legs from the things before finally impaling itself within their eyes. Each man in his turn struggled with the foe, but in the end their combined might of arms defeated the horrors. Their quivering corpses devolved and slushed into the ground, and the men stood about wide-eyed, ready for more foes. Verchik's bellows were audible for miles around, challenging the beasts to yet another fight. Lerchik rolled his eyes and sheathed his sword, returning to the wagon, pulling more wood from it and throwing it on the fire. As he did so, he had yet another thought and returned to the wagon, peering into it. His eyes adjusted quickly, discerning Lerus sleeping soundly within his bed, the hard little man unharmed. Lerchik smirked and returned to the fire to sit with the other men.